The High King's Tomb (3 page)

“Jeremiah,” she said, “I have no choice but to pronounce you a traitor.”

He did not protest, he did not say a word.

“Was anyone else involved in this heresy?” she asked the captain.

“The king’s men he talked to were ambushed and killed,” the captain replied. “There was no one else. We were thorough in our questioning.”

She nodded. The evidence of their thoroughness sat before her. “You have brought this upon yourself,” she told Jeremiah.

He bowed his head, accepting his doom.

Grandmother beckoned Lala forward and took her basket of yarn from the girl. “Now be a good girl and go fetch my bowl. You know the one.”

Lala nodded and trotted off.

Grandmother gazed into her basket at her yarn. There were skeins dyed deep red, indigo, and an earthy brown, and a small ball of sky blue. She chose the red, drawing out a strand about the length of her arm, and cut it with a sharp little knife that hung from her waist. She set the basket aside.

Jeremiah rocked back and forth at her feet, mumbling prayers to God. Even if he betrayed his people, at least he had not assimilated so far that he had abandoned the one true God in favor of the multitudes the heathen Sacoridians worshipped.

From then on she ignored Jeremiah and concentrated on the strand of yarn, which she started tying into knots. Intricate knots, knots that had been taught to her by her mother, as her mother’s mother had taught, and down the maternal line of her family through the millennia. Only since summer, however, had she been able to call the true power to the knots.

As Grandmother worked, sparks flew from her fingers, though they did not ignite the yarn. Cook fires around the encampment dwindled and sputtered as though the life had been sucked from them.

“Feed the fires,” she instructed Captain Immerez. She barely registered him passing the order along to his subordinates.

With each loop and tug of the yarn she worked the art, speaking words of power that were Arcosian in origin, but not of the Arcosian language. She bound the power as she tightened each knot.

The energy of the cook fires flowed through her and into the knots. She did not see red yarn woven about her fingers, but a golden strand of flame. It did not burn her.

When she finished, she held in her hands what looked a mass of snarled red yarn to those not gifted with the art. To Grandmother, it was a crown of fire. She placed it on Jeremiah’s head.

“Safir!”
she commanded, and it blazed.

There were easier, more direct ways to execute traitors, it was true, but this was uniquely Arcosian, and thus fitting. The annals of her people told of the crown of fire as one form of punishing a traitor. It also provided a graphic example to others who might harbor secret thoughts of rebellion. They could not help but recognize her power and authority when they witnessed nothing more than a harmless bit of yarn bring about an excruciating death.

Jeremiah’s hair smoldered and crackled, then burned away. The yarn sank into his skull, greedily feeding on flesh to fuel its flame of power. When Jeremiah began screaming, the captain stuffed a rag into his mouth that a soldier had been using to oil his sword.

Smoke rose from Jeremiah’s head and his body spasmed, his back arching. The skin of his face and skull blackened and bubbled with blisters as the flames burned from the inside out. With a final muffled scream, Jeremiah heaved over and died.

“I must be quick now,” Grandmother said, feeling fevered herself. “Lala? There you are. The bowl, please.”

The bowl was made of nondescript earthenware, the spiderweb crackling of the glaze stained a rusty color. The vessel had always been used for the purpose for which Grandmother now employed it. It had been handed down her maternal line like the knowledge of how to tie the knots. Lala set the bowl in place.

“Good girl,” Grandmother said. She crouched beside Jeremiah. He may have tried to betray his people, but now he could give back and maybe God would forgive him, allow him into the eternal meadow. Really, she had done the young man a kindness—he now could sin no further and perhaps had not lost all chance of gaining entrance to paradise. She thrust her knife into the artery of his neck and held the bowl to catch his blood.

Captain Immerez hovered nearby while his men stayed clear of the grotesque scene of the bleeding of Jeremiah with his blackened, smoking head. “I’ve news for you, but thought it better to wait till this task was completed.”

Grandmother glanced over her shoulder at him. “Go ahead.”

He nodded. “I’ve had word that the parchment has been located.”

Grandmother grinned. “How wonderful!”

“Yes. Events have been set in motion in Sacor City just as you wished, and we should obtain the parchment very soon.”

Saddened as Grandmother was by Jeremiah’s betrayal and the necessity of his death, Immerez’s news buoyed her spirits.

It also pleased her that Jeremiah’s blood would not go to waste, but would aid her cause. Her ordinary looking bowl would keep the blood warm and fresh till she needed to use it. Her happiness grew even as crimson liquid filled the bowl to the brim.

T
all grasses whipped against the Green Rider’s legs as he ran. He cast terrified glances over his shoulder, his breaths harsh and ragged, and punctuated by the thud of hoofbeats behind him. He caught his toe in a hole and plunged to the ground. Desperately he tore at grass stalks to pull himself upright and continue his flight.

And still the hoofbeats followed at a steady, measured pace, never faltering, never slowing, coming inexorably, unrelentingly behind him.

A strangled cry of triumph erupted from the Rider’s throat as safety appeared just ahead. He hurled himself between the rails of the fence, sprawling at his captain’s feet.

“Well, that didn’t go very well, did it?” Laren Mapstone said.

On the other side of the fence, the source of Ben’s terror gazed down at him with big brown eyes and snorted.

“And I suppose you’re pleased with yourself,” Laren told the gelding.

Robin flicked his ears and shook the reins, then dropped his nose into the grass to graze.

Laren gazed down at Ben who labored for breath, more from fright, she thought, than exertion. One day he’d have to get over his irrational fear of horses—he had to! What was a Green Rider without a mount? A Green Pedestrian? She had no idea from where the young man’s fear originated. As a mender, he tended the messiest and goriest of injuries without hesitation, but healthy, intelligent horses inspired terror in him. Most Riders
loved
horses.

Karigan strolled across the pasture, following Ben’s path and plucking at the tips of grasses as she went. When she reached Robin, she grabbed his reins and jerked his nose out of the grass. Green slobber dripped from his bit.

“We did better today,” Karigan said. “Ben actually got his toe in the stirrup to mount.”

Laren supposed it was progress, but she didn’t feel as optimistic as Karigan sounded. She was getting used to having Karigan around to help out while Mara, her recently promoted Chief Rider, continued to recover from the horrific burns she had received when fire had destroyed Rider barracks during the summer. Karigan took care of Rider accounts and scheduling, and lent a hand with settling in the new Riders that seemed to be appearing on her step weekly now—Laren couldn’t help but smile at the thought of more Riders to help fill their ranks.

“We were doing fine,” Karigan continued, giving Robin a stern look, “until this one decided to knock Ben off balance.”

Robin stamped when a fly alighted on his shoulder, his expression guileless. Laren squinted at him, not believing it for an instant. He looked like he had enjoyed himself while “chasing” Ben.

“I think you’re done here for the day,” Laren told Ben. “You may go report to Master Destarion for the afternoon.”

Ben’s relief was palpable. “Yes, Captain.” He patted some dust off his trousers and strode toward the castle, where he was due for a shift in the mending wing.

“What are we going to do with him?” Laren wondered, watching him go.

Karigan stroked Robin’s neck. “Give him time, I suppose. He dedicated himself to a life of mending the sick and injured, and he’s trained for years, only to have a wrinkle thrown into his plans, unforeseen and unasked for.”

Laren eyed Karigan sharply, knowing what a struggle it had been for her to leave behind her life as a merchant to answer the Rider call, and how much she had resented it. But Laren could find no resentment in Karigan’s demeanor now. She was merely stating fact.

Something behind Laren caught Karigan’s attention. Laren followed her gaze to find two finely dressed gentlemen approaching, one bearing packages wrapped in linen and secured with strings.

“We seek Karigan G’ladheon. Might you be she?” the first man, a stout fellow, asked. It was clear the other was a servant, for though his clothing was fine, it lacked the ornamentation of the lead fellow’s.

“What is he up to now?” Karigan muttered under her breath. She cleared her throat and said more loudly, “I’m Karigan G’ladheon.”

The stout fellow, out of breath from the short walk across castle grounds, assessed Karigan for a moment with a raised eyebrow, then placed his hand over his heart and bowed. “Good day, mistress. I am Akle Mundoy, of Clan Mundoy, from the guild, at your service.”

Laren frowned. He could only mean the merchants guild. The “he” Karigan wondered about had to be her father, Stevic G’ladheon, one of the premier merchants of Sacoridia.

Karigan copied Mundoy’s bow. “And I’m at yours.”

Mundoy nodded. “I bring you a message from your esteemed father, and one from Bernardo Coyle, of the Coyle merchanting family in Rhovanny.”

Karigan stared in disbelief at the two envelopes Mundoy passed her, one sealed with a blue and purple ribbon Laren recognized immediately, having opened enough letters from Stevic G’ladheon herself.

“And there are gifts,” Mundoy added, gesturing at his servant. “My man Reston will bear them to your chambers, if you like.”

“Er, chamber,” Karigan corrected. “Thank you, no. I’ll—” Then she glanced at Robin.

“Let me take him,” Laren said, and Karigan gratefully handed over the reins and slipped through the fence rails.

Laren sensed some undercurrent here, that this merchant, Mundoy, was making judgment on Clan G’ladheon based on Karigan’s appearance and circumstances. Why was she uniformed? Where was her servant? Only one chamber? Appearances must be just as important to merchants as to nobles. If Karigan appeared anything less than prosperous, rumors would spread across the lands, perhaps damaging the clan’s image.

“You’ve a servant to convey these?” Mundoy asked.

Karigan retained a pleasant expression, though Laren could tell it was forced. “I will see to the packages personally.” She addressed the servant rather than his master.

“They are an armful, but not overly heavy, mistress,” Reston assured her.

Karigan took them into her arms and Mundoy said, “Reston will return tomorrow for your reply to Master Coyle’s message. Good day.”

Mundoy struck off, his faithful servant close on his heels, Karigan glowering after the pair.

“Fish merchant,” she muttered. Then she turned to Laren. “May I be excused?”

Laren nodded her assent and Karigan trotted off toward the castle. Absently she stroked Robin’s neck. “What do you suppose that was all about?”

“I
can’t believe it,” Karigan fumed a few hours later. She held the dress up to her shoulders so Mara could fully see it. It was made of deep, sapphire blue velvet patterned with leaves. Depending on the light and fold of the fabric, it took on the hue of midnight blue. The sleeves were puffed and slashed to reveal blue silk, and silver thread glistened in the sunlight beaming through the narrow window.

Mara, propped against a pile of pillows on her bed, smiled. “It brings out your eyes. It’s gorgeous.”

“But—” Karigan frowned, realizing how petty she must sound. It was deceptive to stand here next to Mara, for her near side appeared unchanged and unmarred, but when she gazed at Mara straight on, half her face looked like melted, puckered wax, and the hair on that side of her head grew back in crazy, curly patches. Much of the right side of her body had been burned. Only Ben’s intervention, the use of his magical healing ability, had helped Mara survive the wounds and her ensuing illness. In fact, the speed with which she was recovering was remarkable, and Ben’s ability had diminished some of the disfigurement.

“Yes, it’s gorgeous,” Karigan admitted. Her father had spared no expense on this dress and had sent along additional funds so she could have it properly fitted. It was more the intent behind the gift than the actual dress that concerned her. She fell into the chair next to Mara’s bed and let the dress blanket her legs.

“And so who is this Braymer Coyle?” Mara asked. “Is he handsome?”

Karigan sighed. “I’ve no idea. We were children last time we met. His father, like mine, is a textile merchant, but from Rhovanny; in fact he’s one of my father’s leading competitors. Braymer is the heir to the family business.”

Mara raised an eyebrow that no longer existed. “I see. So this is about more than two old friends getting their children together.”

Karigan nodded. “Yes. It’s about two middle-aged men concerned about their legacies and expanding their textile empires.” She rolled her eyes. “If Braymer and I get along, they are undoubtedly hoping for a–a marriage alliance.”

“And here I thought nobles were the only ones who worried about such things.”

“It isn’t the first time my father has tried to find a suitable match for me, though he’d never force it on me the way some would. But this—” and she rumpled the dress in emphasis “—this is
serious
.”

An amused smile formed on Mara’s lips, and there was humor in her eyes Karigan had not seen in a long while. “Much more serious than adventures in Blackveil and visitations by spirits of the dead?”

“Thank you for putting it in perspective for me.”

“My pleasure. I should think an afternoon out in that beautiful dress, and on the arm of a wealthy man, a nice change of pace for you from cleaning out the new Rider wing. New faces, different sights.”

Karigan took Mara’s unburned hand into her own. “I’m sorry—I’m not thinking. Who am I to complain?” Mara had not left the mending wing since the night of the fire, and rarely left her room as she healed.

“Karigan G’ladheon, don’t be silly. Your visit here brightens my day, and gives me things to think about other than my treatments. Don’t worry about me—I’ll soon be out of here, and Captain Mapstone is already keeping me busy with paperwork.” She patted a pile on her bedside table. “You went through so much this summer, and you have seemed so sad of late. You deserve a rest day, an afternoon out, and I want you to come back and tell me
everything
.”

So Karigan hadn’t been able to hide anything from Mara after all. Yes, she had been sad, and angry, but for reasons she would never explain. Not even to Mara. “I can’t expect it will be very exciting. We’re going to a tea room down on Gryphon Street and then to the Sacor City War Museum.”

Karigan left the mending wing for one of the main castle corridors, the bundle of velvet dress spilling over her arms. Not so long ago all she had desired was to follow in her father’s footsteps as a merchant and she had resented the Rider call for changing the course of her life. And now she resented her father for trying to draw her back?

She thought he had finally understood that for the time being, she served as a Green Rider, a king’s messenger, and it left no room in her life for a role as a merchant. And now he was trying to marry her off? Not in so many words, of course. The pretense was that she was to welcome Braymer Coyle on his first excursion to Sacor City. This was reinforced by a polite request from Braymer’s father that she show his son the city, and the gift that had accompanied it—a delicate silver necklace that matched the silver threads of her new dress.

She snorted. Their fathers had been in cahoots.

Well, she would take Mara’s advice and just relax and enjoy the change of pace. A quiet change of pace, she decided. No uniform, no sword, no enemies.

And Mara was right: she had been sad.

Her progress was hampered by a gaggle of young noblewomen clogging the corridor. With the announcement of King Zachary’s betrothal to Lady Estora, Coutre relations had descended upon the castle from all directions and were still coming, undoubtedly emptying the whole of Coutre Province.

The women were laughing and in high spirits. Karigan marveled at how the announcement of a wedding could turn people into ninnies. The fact that it was the
king’s
wedding didn’t help matters—the foolishness extended across the entire country.

Moving at the core of the finery and laughter was one who outshone them all, with her sweep of golden hair and statuesque figure. Lady Estora Coutre did not come across as silly or foolish—far from it. Rather she was serene, and while others giggled, she gave only a distant smile. It was almost as if she moved in a different world than they did.

Lady Estora was reputed to be the greatest beauty of the lands, and many anxious suitors had come and gone, had been turned away by her father who had settled for nothing less than the high king as the bridegroom for his firstborn daughter.

At that moment, Estora turned, as if sensing Karigan’s gaze, and caught her eyes. Karigan clutched her dress to her chest and sucked in a breath.

“Karigan?” Estora said.

Some of the gaggle paused to see whom she addressed.

Karigan exhaled, turned on her heel, and struck off in the opposite direction.

“How rude,” one of the noblewomen loudly commented. “What do you want with a commoner of that ilk anyway?”

Karigan never heard Estora’s reply. They had been friends, but ever since the betrothal announcement, Karigan had been unable to speak with her, or even to face her.

She took a long, circuitous route through the servants’ quarter of the castle, bypassing cooks and laundresses and runners. Here she felt comfortable and inconspicuous among her own kind. There was no chance she would run into Estora again, and there was especially no chance of encountering King Zachary.