The High King's Tomb

by Kristen Britain

  It was not inconceivable that among his collections of arcane objects and books that he had somehow acquired the book of Theanduris Silverwood. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more it made sense to her, that of anyplace the book could have been hidden, Seven Chimneys was the most perfect location. Professor Berry had collected objects of arcane interest when most others shunned them.

  Why hadn’t she thought of it to begin with? Why hadn’t she listened to Professor Berry’s message? She groaned. As much as she disliked dealing with the dead, she would do well not to dismiss their ghostly whispers as figments of her imagination in the future.

  “She’s doing it again,” Mara said.

  “Huh?” Karigan asked, glancing about.

  “I’d say it was more a groan than a sigh this time,” Captain Mapstone replied.

  Karigan furrowed her brow.

  “We were just talking about Fergal’s new ability,” the captain continued.

  Karigan sat up, now very attentive, wondering once again what she missed. “And?”

  The captain smiled. “It’s been about twenty years since an ability like his has surfaced, according to our records.”

  “What is his ability?” Karigan asked.

  The captain’s smile deepened, and Mara chuckled. “If you’d been listening—”

  “Please,” Karigan pleaded. “I’m listening now—I promise.”

  “Very well. His ability has to do with being able to read the aural energy around magic users. It was a more useful ability during the Long War when Riders could pick out enemy mages and detect the type of magic they wielded. After the Long War, when magic users died out with the Scourge, the ability was not as useful. Any Rider who had it pretty much saw only the auras of other Riders.

  “When Fergal saw the old woman in Mirwellton, he was definitely picking up on some nasty magic. If there are more magic users emerging now, I’d say that Fergal’s ability is going to prove quite useful.”

  Karigan wondered about what he detected when he looked at her—darkness. Did it simply represent her ability to fade, or something deeper? He’d mentioned “dark wings,” and she didn’t like the sound of that.

  Just then a knock came upon the door and a Green Foot runner entered the chamber. “My pardon, Captain,” he said, “but His Majesty summons you to the throne room.”

  A look of disappointment crept across the captain’s face as she set aside her cup. “Duty never takes tea,” she said.

  “I could go in your stead,” Mara offered.

  “Not in your nightgown,” the captain replied. “I trust you two will stay out of trouble?”

  “Yes,” Karigan said with fervor.

  “No,” Mara said. “Leastways, I wouldn’t mind a little trouble. Life has been so dull.”

  Chuckling and shaking her head, the captain left them.

  Had Karigan been confined as long as Mara, she’d go batty, too, but seeing as she had had more than her own share of trouble of late, she reveled in the rest both Master Mender Destarion and Captain Mapstone had ordered her to take. It looked like Mara did her best to amuse herself during her confinement—a pile of books towered on the table next to her bed and the captain had brought her a fresh stack of paperwork. Not to mention she was frequently visited by her friends, lately, mostly by Karigan.

  “Maybe we could switch places for a while,” Karigan mused.

  “I said I wanted a little trouble,” Mara replied. “Not a whole heap. For heavens sakes your stories have been wilder than any in those novels Tegan picked out for me. I want nothing to do with white worlds or icky tombs, or rescuing noble ladies, for that matter. Although,” she added, “I wouldn’t mind meeting Damian Frost. And Lady. Is that really her name? She’s not a noble? If it was her name and she was gentry, we’d have to call her Lady Lady. ‘Hello, Lady Lady. It’s so nice to meet you, Lady Lady.’” Mara had taken on a sophisticated tone and sat poised with teacup held with pinky raised. “‘Would you like one sugar or two, Lady Lady?’”

  Karigan almost snorted tea out her nose. When her laughter subsided to giggles, she had to wipe tears from her eyes. Mara looked vastly satisfied with herself.

  Karigan had not laughed like this since she was with Estral, and that seemed like ages ago. It was more healing than all the rest in the world.

  “So,” Mara said, “anything new for you? Have you been grilled about your adventures by the king yet?”

  “No,” Karigan said, and she had to admit she was surprised. She hadn’t even been summoned, though Lord Coutre had sought her out in the Rider wing to hear everything she had to say about his daughter. He was so caught up in his emotions that he had trouble thanking her for helping Estora. All he could do was pat her on her knee and swallow back tears. The encounter shocked Karigan, but she was gratified by how much he appeared to love his daughter and that he wasn’t just interested in how her abduction affected the marriage alliance with the king.

  As for the king, Karigan supposed Captain Mapstone and Fastion had given him all the pertinent details, and maybe he didn’t think it prudent to interrupt her healing rest for an interrogation. Had she expected him to come dashing to her bedside to hear all that had befallen her? She shook her head. He had greater things to worry about than her. Captain Mapstone brought general good wishes for her well-being from the king. Apparently Karigan’s time away had done the job of distancing them, but now she found herself annoyed by it, and even more annoyed at her annoyance. Wasn’t it what she wanted? She just wished he’d request to see her; wanted him to want to see her.

  Still, it was all for the best. There was no future for them and the sooner they put aside any feelings they had for each other, the better. The diversion of her message errand and subsequent adventures had helped distract her for a while, but returning to the castle with him so nearby did not. As soon as she was rested and all her hurts fully healed, she’d make sure Captain Mapstone knew she was ready to resume her duties. She’d request the long distance errands, even in the deep of winter. Who knew? Maybe she’d get sent to the Cloud Islands where she could bask in the tropical sun and eat fresh fruit while the castle stood icebound and braced against the northern winds.

  Laren Mapstone left the mending wing and set off for the throne room to answer the king’s summons. It pleased her to see both Karigan and Mara looking so well, though she was not certain she’d ever get over the shock of seeing Karigan emerge from the tombs dressed in the black of the Weapons when she was still expecting her to be somewhere in the west. At the time she wondered if this was really her Rider and not some illusion or a twin. But it was neither, and as Karigan’s story came out, it was no less remarkable than her past adventures.

  Laren also wouldn’t forget Zachary’s expression of astonishment when he had seen Karigan. The appearance of her in black turned her into something different—older, stern, dangerous. The Weapons had proved evasive when asked why they had permitted her to wear their garb. All she could figure was that they held her in some special regard. It wasn’t just the uniform, but something different in Karigan’s eyes. Something fathomless…Laren shook her head.

  She’d managed to restrain Zachary from seeing Karigan. Others would take care of her, she knew, and she would not allow emotions to rise between them. When Zachary expressed a desire to visit Karigan, or summon her, Laren put him off, told him Karigan did not wish to see visitors, did not wish to see him. He’d given her messages to deliver to Karigan, and she’d destroyed them, telling Karigan only the king had wished her well, as he would any of his Riders.

  She hated lying, hated having to destroy the emotional connection between them, but there was something much greater at stake—the unity of her country, and united it must stay if it was to fend off aggression from Blackveil. The sacrifice of romantic feelings between two individuals was nothing in comparison.

  She walked down corridors with determination in her step. She would do all she could to separate the two, and pray that Lady Esto
ra soon returned so wedding plans could resume. Of course, then she must deal with Lady Estora and the matter of the secret they shared. She shook her head. Nothing was ever easy.

  When Laren found herself at the threshold of the throne room, she was jarred from her thoughts when she looked inside and saw the long chamber cast in ethereal light by the presence of Eletians.

  She tugged her shortcoat straight and strode down the runner. The three stood before King Zachary cloaked in silvery white with subtle hues of light blue, like a wintry day with the sun glaring off snow.

  When she came abreast of them and bowed before the king, she recognized them as the same three who had come before, including Prince Jametari’s sister Graelalea at their head. Colin and Sperren both attended the king, and seemed to blink in the light of the Eletians.

  “Greetings, Laren Mapstone,” Graelalea said.

  Laren nodded her head in respect.

  “The Eletians have come to bid us farewell,” Zachary said.

  The idea of the Eletians leaving saddened Laren, for they brought a touch of magic and mystery into the sometimes dour existence of castle and city, and it would be odd for their encampment, which had become such a fixture down at the city gates, to vanish. She hadn’t expected the Eletians to stay indefinitely, but she’d miss them nevertheless, and whatever their motivations for coming to Sacor City to sit on their doorstep, she did not think the people as a whole bad at heart. Just enigmatic.

  “Yes, by dawn tomorrow we shall be gone,” Graelalea said.

  “Why?” Laren blurted, and she cleared her throat, embarrassed.

  Graelalea smiled. “The days wane and grow cold, and we wish again to dwell beneath the boughs of our woods. My brother sees a frigid winter ahead, fiercer than in some years past, and so wishes to leave now.”

  “So he is not sending you into Blackveil?” Zachary asked.

  “Not yet,” Graelalea replied. “We shall bide our time in Eletia and, if I can, I will turn his mind against the idea over the winter. My feeling, however, is that you shall see us again in the spring, and that is when we’ll attempt entry into Blackveil.”

  “Foolishness,” Colin said.

  “Perhaps. And while I cannot always know the workings of my brother’s mind, he reveals only that which he wishes to be known. It may be that he sees something no one else can in attempting such an endeavor.” Graelalea shrugged and sunlight rippled down the folds of her cloak. “My brother bids you all a winter of warmth and fire glow. He is gladdened the book of the wall has been found, though he advises caution, for the building of the wall was accomplished with dark and arcane craft you may not be able to replicate. Nor wish to.”

  “We will decide what to think of it once the book is translated,” Zachary said.

  “That is as it should be. My brother, by the way, says the Galadheon averted a great disaster.”

  “She is the one who captured the book from the enemy,” Laren said.

  “Ah.” Light glinted in the Eletian’s eye and she smiled as if she knew something they did not. “For you, Firebrand, some final words from my brother: She comes.”

  With that the Eletians bowed and turned and left the throne room, taking lightness with them.

  HEARTSTONE

  The Weapons kept up a relentless pace, but Goss was up to it, and the road was open and wide. It was no wild dash through the unbroken woods this time, and with a complement of deadly warriors all around, Amberhill had no fear of attack from hungry pirates or any other danger, human or not.

  Hooves pounded on cobbles and across bridges and the company kept the Rivertown ferry busy with several crossings on the Grandgent. Though the town was sizeable, Willis did not pause, but led them onward, for it was hours before sunset.

  When they did stop, whether at a campsite or in a village, there was always adequate provender, for which Amberhill was grateful. He did not starve on the return journey, and the Weapons did not spare wood when it came to building campfires. It was all a satisfactory improvement over his journey west, but he looked forward to returning to his house in Sacor City. Except it would be much emptier without Morry. He reiterated to himself his vow to properly bury and honor his friend, his father in spirit. When he got the chance, he’d retrieve Morry’s body and return with it to his estate and place it in the family vault. Morry deserved no less.

  The Weapons rode in silence and spoke little when encamped. When they did speak, it usually was not to Amberhill, unless necessary. He did not take it as a personal affront, for he recognized it as their way; the black they wore was only a physical manifestation of the bond among the warriors and a barrier to outsiders that none but those within their circle could bypass. One of those who did not wear black but who appeared to be in that elite circle was Beryl Spencer.

  The Weapons respected her Mirwellian rank and called her Major Spencer, though as Amberhill understood it, she was actually a Green Rider. In evenings she sparred with some of the Weapons, the clash of swords pure and musical to his ears as he watched the bouts from his side of the campfire. They moved between the flames engaged in the dance of steel and though graceful, the dance was without flourish. For one like himself who embodied grand gestures, their deadly precision and stark movements were a revelation. And the Rider-spy-major was on a level with the Weapons in ability.

  Truth be told, the woman made his skin crawl. Though she was icy to him, indifferent, he couldn’t help being morbidly fascinated by her because she was the antithesis of the kind of woman he was accustomed to. Pliant warmth, softness, and curves, yes, that was what he knew well and desired. Not an icicle with an undercurrent of menace who would take as much delight in severing his hand as gazing at the most beautiful work of art. He shuddered.

  The G’ladheon woman also made him shudder, but in a different way, with her unearthly powers.

  Once he returned to Sacor City, he’d seek out the familiar warmth of the ordinary women he craved, which would melt away any frost remaining on him from being in Beryl Spencer’s presence and extinguish the memory of the G’ladheon woman vanishing into the night.

  The next evening, when Willis called a halt, they found the field he wanted to camp in already occupied by a tent and a wagon overloaded with furniture and other household goods, all of fine quality, though some of it appeared water damaged. The two owners of the tent sat before a fire in chairs that would look more fit for a royal dining hall than in a field.

  A kettle hung over their campfire and the two sipped out of teacups and nibbled on scones. Oddly, there was no team of horses for the wagon to be seen, nor any guards or servants tending the ladies who were elderly. Amberhill could not see how they’d managed to set up camp, much less traveled with their belongings with no team to pull the wagon. Unless some thugs had stolen the horses. But not their possessions? It did not make sense.

  Willis must have thought it odd, too, for after a courteous greeting, he said, “Have you some trouble we could help you with? Are you stranded?”

  Curious, Amberhill busied himself with his gear nearby so he could listen.

  “Trouble?” the plumper of the two asked, then she chuckled. “Young man, you can’t even begin to imagine the trouble we’ve had; could he, sister.”

  Her companion snorted in derision, then sipped from her teacup.

  “However,” the first continued, “we are well cared for, and certainly not stranded, but we do thank you for your concern. Perhaps you will join us for some tea?”

  At first Willis declined, but the lady said, “Surely the others can set up the camp without your help, can they not?”

  “Well—” Willis began.

  “Even a king’s Black Shield is permitted a tea break now and then, hmm? Sit down, young man. We cannot imagine what brings you all to be here along the Kingway, but it is propitious, isn’t it sister.”

  The thin one nodded. “An unexpected opportunity.”

  The way Willis cocked his head, Amberhill could tell he was too intrigued
now to refuse. With a slight bow to the ladies, he took a chair that appeared to be waiting just for him.

  “And you, too,” the thin one said, pointing her cane right at Amberhill.

  “Oh, yes,” the plump one said. “Come, young man, sit with us.”

  At first Amberhill was too startled to move, but he set his gear on the ground and sat next to Willis. The sisters poured tea and passed around scones, and introduced themselves. They called themselves Penelope and Isabelle Berry, or Miss Bunch and Miss Bay, respectively. They carried on the conversation quite well by themselves, speaking of the winter to come, their sudden need to move, and the rough paths they had to travel by.

  Amberhill found himself quite under their spell, feeling as though he were in some manor house’s parlor rather than out in the elements sitting before a campfire. By Willis’ transfixed expression, he could tell the Weapon was quite taken, too.

  “How, may I ask,” said Willis, “did you find yourselves on the road?”

  “You may ask,” Miss Bay said, “but it is an unusual story and the source of great woe.”

  Miss Bunch nodded fervently. “It began with a sneak thief that in our poor judgment we allowed into our home.”

  The clatter and voices of Weapons setting up camp fell away as the sisters told an incredible story of how the thief, whom they thought a hunter lost in the woods, was caught stealing a book from their father’s library by a servant named Letitia, and in his struggle to escape, he broke one of their father’s “things.”

  “An arcane object,” Miss Bay said. “Do you understand?”

  Willis nodded slowly, his eyebrows drawn together. Amberhill didn’t think the Weapon had taken more than one sip of his tea once the ladies began their tale.