The High King's Tomb (16 page)

“But…what was it like?”

Karigan shrugged. “I didn’t feel any great change, and it took me a while to figure out what happened. When I became aware of it, I realized it was not so much the fog that dulled my vision, but the use of my new ability. I also get nasty headaches. Most Riders will tell you they suffer some ill effect from using their abilities. It’s like having to sacrifice something for the gift.”

“I don’t care,” Fergal said. “I just want mine.”

Karigan raised her eyebrows. Why did he make her feel ever so old? Only experience, she supposed, would show him the truth. Telling him of Captain Mapstone’s chronic joint pain or of Mara’s fevers—the costs of using their abilities—would not convince him there was a dark side to a Rider’s magic. He must fancy the idea of being able to walk through walls, or of molding fire in the palm of his hand, or even to fade from view as she could. She would ask him what he thought when his ability finally did emerge and he had a chance to use it.

Even if the subject made her uneasy, she was pleased he was at least willing to talk to her about it. He was looking at the logbook again, then glanced at her and handed it to her.

“An entry from F’ryan Coblebay,” he said.

Karigan took the book expecting to see nothing more than a date and his signature, but to her surprise, there was more:
I make good time on the road, yet farther west I must travel, across the Grandgent and skirting Selium northward to Mirwell Province. I know not what I may encounter, but I fear this errand is not without peril. So to you my good Riders, should I fail in my duty, I say ride well for your king and your country; and for she who awaits me and in the garden dwells, watch over her for me. Tell her I love her.

Somehow he had known. Somehow he had known he would not return from his errand, for this was dated just a month before Karigan encountered him dying on the road. And the one who awaited him? None other than Lady Estora. She still grieved for him, Karigan knew, but it was a secret grief that must be hidden from all but the Riders lest it become known she had loved a commoner. F’ryan was the bond that had created a friendship between Estora and Karigan. Karigan was the last to see him alive and now wore his brooch, and Estora had spoken to her as if she could bridge some chasm, somehow allow her words to connect with F’ryan beyond the veil of death.

Had Karigan betrayed more than friendship when she pushed Estora away? Had she betrayed F’ryan’s wishes? He had come to her after death in the form of a ghost on that long ago journey, and still his words reached her from beyond the grave.

She closed the logbook saddened that the line between commoner and noble, and that between life and death, kept apart those who loved one another. Life was such a fleeting thing, after all.

Over the days that followed, they rode into a stiff northwest wind that froze cheeks and nose tips, and portended the winter to come. Mostly they rode in silence, but it was a comfortable silence. In the evenings they practiced with the wooden swords, providing much entertainment for the children of one village. Fergal was beginning to get a better sense of rhythm with the drills Karigan put him through. When outside the confines of a village, Fergal tried to teach her to throw knives. While her efforts went wild less often, the knives still soared far off target. Karigan had to give Fergal credit for containing both his impatience with her and his laughter.

They encountered more and more farms and villages as they neared the Grandgent River. The Grandgent was the largest river in Sacoridia, and much commerce occurred along its shores. Her father’s river cogs sailed its water on trading missions all the way from Corsa Harbor to Adolind Province. Shipyards launched vessels along its banks, and river drivers sent rafts of logs down the currents destined for one of the many sawmills. Hundreds of feet of board then went on to the shipyards for the building of vessels of all sizes and types.

The Kingway split the boundaries of Penburn and L’Petrie provinces as it approached the river, and if Karigan hadn’t been duty bound on king’s business, she could steer southward to the coast and her home in Corsa. She might even obtain a berth on a riverboat heading downstream. She smiled at the thought of her aunts fussing over her and pushing more food before her than she could ever hope to eat. And of course there were her father’s hugs. Then once the initial greetings were over, she knew her aunts would bemoan her “decision” to “join” the messenger service. Even worse, the debacle of her outing with Braymer Coyle would have reached their ears by now via the merchants guild, and she would never hear the end of it. Better that she continue heading west than face the indignation of her strong-willed aunts.

Chicken,
she told herself, but the smile did not leave her face.

The road cut through the center of one of the busiest towns on the east bank of the Grandgent, called Rivertown. Here the road was well made, a reflection of the wealth the shipbuilders and timber merchants heaped on their town, and the hooves of Condor and Sunny clattered on broad paving stones. Along the road were grand houses with formal gardens. As they neared Rivertown’s center, buildings clustered closer together and there were interesting shops of all kinds, as well as inns and eateries. Despite the neat and clean appearance of the main street, Karigan knew that rougher neighborhoods existed but a block away.

They circled a fountain in the town’s center in which a statue of Nia, goddess of rivers, stood. In one hand she balanced a river cog, in the other, a cant dog, a common tool used by foresters and river drivers. No mistaking what this town was about. And while there were at least two chapels dedicated to Aeryc, Karigan espied a tiny chapel in Nia’s service. It wasn’t often one found a chapel devoted to the lesser gods these days.

Soon their first view of the river appeared as the street dipped down. Bookended by the facades of buildings on either side of the street, it shone a deep, royal blue with the sun glancing on it, and after the greens, browns, and rusts of the countryside, it proved a delight to the eye.

Karigan halted Condor in front of a mercantile. “This is our last big town before we reach Selium,” she said, “so I want to restock our provisions.”

Fergal chose to wait for her outside with the horses, and when she returned with her arms full of foodstuffs, she found him fingering his Rider brooch and staring at the river.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” she said. “My father always called it the grandfather of rivers, and he’s sailed up and down it quite a bit.”

“Oh.” Fergal tried to look interested in her words, but failed. Something about the river did hold his attention, but whatever it was, he did not say. Karigan dismissed it and they loaded the new provisions into their saddlebags.

She mounted Condor and reined him back onto the street.

“How long until we reach Selium?” Fergal asked.

“If we make good time this afternoon, it should be only a few more days.”

They descended the street to Rivertown Landing, and here the scent of dead fish and rotting river weed rose up from the shore and from the marshes across the river. If it weren’t so late in the season, they’d see all kinds of birds nesting, hovering, and wading, but the waters and sky were empty and the only bird Karigan espied was a lone gull winging southward.

Even the docks felt abandoned. Smaller boats were pulled up on the bank and turned over for the season, and along the shore, river sloops were on dry dock. Some cogs bobbed at the end of the town pier, but they were few compared to the confusion and congestion the summer trading season brought.

The ferry was tied up where the street met water. It wasn’t more than a barge with rails, large enough to carry horse-drawn wagons and carriages. It was propelled by oars, for a line and pulley system one might find on a smaller river was impractical due to the Grandgent’s breadth and the mast height of the vessels that needed to pass through the ferry crossing.

Karigan rang a brass bell that hung from a post beside the ferry and four burly, grubby rivermen emerged from the nearest tavern. These were the oarsmen. An older fellow with gray whiskers and a pipe sauntered out behind them, no doubt the ferry master.

“Weeell,” he drawled, “a pair o’ king’s men if my eyes don’ deceive me.”

Karigan wanted to tell him that, yes, his eyes did in fact deceive him, but she learned to restrain her sarcasm when on duty. At least most of the time. Now she had the added pressure of setting a good example of Rider comportment for Fergal.

“We require passage across the river,” she said.

“O’ course ye do,” he replied, taking his own time to amble up to her. “Two ’orses and two men. That’ll be a silver each.”

An internal struggle erupted within Karigan as she attempted to quell her outrage at such an appalling price. What was needed here was a bridge and not this thievery. Her merchant’s instinct took hold, and much to her own satisfaction, and to the ferry master’s astonishment, she backed him down to two coppers.

“You shouldn’t be wrongly charging the king’s servants,” she admonished him. “It’s people like you who take advantage and drive up taxes. The king shall hear of it.” It was a bit more heated than she intended, and not that perfect show of comportment she was trying to model for Fergal, but the ferry master blanched in a pleasing manner.

“Sorry, sir, sorry. Don’ tell the king! I swear I won’ overcharge his men again!”

Sir?
Karigan sighed.

The deal was struck and the ramp drawn down so the Riders could lead their mounts aboard. Condor loaded with no problem, having had his share of ferry crossings through his career. Sunny, however, was less sure and balked. She had to look the contraption over carefully before she allowed Fergal to lead her on board. Karigan was impressed by how he remained calm and patient with her, and even patted her neck and offered her praise once she stood solidly on board. He was learning, though she could not say he had warmed up to the mare, and she sensed his good care of her was inspired more by duty than affection. Once Sunny was loaded, he turned his attention back to the river, and fidgeted as they waited for the oarsmen to shove off.

In some places the river was half a mile wide, but in the far north where it originated, born of ice and snow in a jagged line of mountains, the river ran narrow, wild, and white, cascading down the landscape in unnavigable rapids, birthing other rivers that spread across the land like branching veins. Few adventurers traveled that far north for the land was icy and harsh and no one lived there. As the river flowed into Sacoridia, first through Adolind Province, it calmed and widened, though the spring melt created some fast-moving rapids. Here at the Rivertown crossing, the river was wide and comparatively placid.

The oarsmen took up their stations starboard and port, and the ferry master dropped his rudder and tiller into place. With strong, long strokes of the oars, they began the crossing. The northwest wind pushed at the ferry and curdled the surface of the river, but the ferry master leaning on the tiller kept them on course. Poor Sunny braced her legs to stand steady, the whites of her eyes showing.

As the ferry pulled out farther into the river, they left behind a shore littered with rank river weed and fish floating belly up in the shallows among snarled strands of netting and broken barrel staves. Rotten vegetables and refuse added to the stink of dead fish, and a boot was caught in the ribs of an abandoned dory. There was smashed crockery and tangled fishing gear stuck in the mud. The scene, Karigan thought, could belong to any busy harbor town.

The wind lifted spray from the oars in upstroke, which slapped her cheek in icy splashes.

“So’s it true the king has got hisself a woman?” the ferry master asked.

Karigan blinked, then almost laughed. It was the first time she had heard the betrothal referred to in such a way. “King Zachary has contracted to marry Lord-Governor Coutre’s daughter.”

“Aye, contracted. Whore games of the nobles that is.”

“Best to watch how you speak of our king and future queen,” Karigan warned, though she thought of it in much the same way.

“Well, that’s fine,” the ferry master said, puffing on his pipe. “Time the old boy took a wife.”

Karigan lifted her eyebrows.
Old boy?
King Zachary? She didn’t know whether to be perturbed or to laugh. King Zachary was older than she by twelve years, but “old boy”? She glanced at Fergal to see how he was taking the conversation, but he was leaning over the port rail, staring into the river’s depths as the ferrymen dipped and pulled on their oars in a hypnotic rhythm, the oarlocks groaning with each stroke.

The harsh wind blew down the river and nearly carried off the ferry master’s cap. He caught it in time and pulled it down securely over his head. The craft shuddered against the blast and more spray washed over the starboard side. Karigan shivered and stood in the lee of Condor to cut the wind.

“Aye,” said the ferry master when it died down, “it’s lookin’ like an early winter. Already had some ice floatin’ down from the north.”

If their business in the west took longer than expected and the river iced over, Karigan and Fergal would have to ride south to the nearest bridge for their return crossing. The river would not freeze smoothly like a lake; no, it would crack and buckle, and the layers would stack up in sharp angles, making the ice impassible.