The High King's Tomb (54 page)

Karigan only half listened, trying to be alert to trouble outside the tent. Soldiers still shouted outside but they sounded more distant. She doused the lamp.

“What are…?” Beryl began.

“We have to leave,” Karigan said. “Something’s distracted the soldiers and we have to escape while we can.”

“But…but where are we?”

Karigan helped Beryl rise, which was a feat considering she could hardly stand herself. “Teligmar Hills. Immerez is in charge here.”

Beryl swayed and Karigan shook her. “That’s who…” Beryl whispered. “I couldn’t think, I couldn’t…”

“Never mind all that,” Karigan said. “We’re faded out. We’re leaving.”

The dark outside was immense enough that if they avoided fires and torches they’d be hard to see even without fading, but Karigan wasn’t taking chances. The wind swirled around them as they left the tent and Karigan felt something cold and sharp alight on her cheek.

Snow.

A
mberhill, feeling more like an assassin than a gentleman thief, eliminated three of the perimeter guards before they could cry out and raise the alarm in the encampment.

He planned to continue with the stealthy slayings, bide his time till he could aid the young woman, but he saw what the one-eyed man was going to do to her hand and he couldn’t let it happen. He needed to act.

So he positioned himself as well as he could, and as quickly as he could, but his best target was one of the cutthroats restraining the young woman, not their leader. His knife struck true.

From then on he lost track of what became of the young woman. In the pandemonium she disappeared and he had other things to worry about. His foes weren’t like the pirates he met in the woods—these were disciplined warriors. He could tell by the way they carried themselves and guarded the encampment and how immediately they sprang to once the alarm went up, all the while retaining order.

Unfortunately there were quite a lot of them. All the throwing knives in the world would not help him now. He ran into the brush, hoping to disappear into the night without breaking a leg on the uneven ground, but they pinpointed him like hounds after a fox and came howling after him.

He crashed through shrubs and branches, leaped from boulder to boulder and only his excellent balance saved him from a disastrous fall. And still they came rushing headlong after him.

Cold, wet drops pricked his skin, and at first he thought it was raining, then he saw the graying of the night. Snow.

As he descended the side of the small mountain, he realized he would never reach Goss in time. He’d have to turn and fight. He had made a mess of his “rescue”—a mess from the very beginning. He only hoped the young woman could escape while he provided a distraction.

Finally he stopped running, skidded to a stop. He drew his rapier and parrying dagger, took a deep breath, and turned around to face his fate. If he was destined to be sent to the hells this night, he was sure it was as he deserved, but he wouldn’t go down without taking as many of the cutthroats with him as he could.

The silhouettes of the men surged toward him through the dark and he saw the barest of gleaming light on their weapons. Their movement changed the pattern of the falling snow, made it swirl back into itself. He felt only stillness, could hear the snowflakes landing on his shoulders, his head, the branches of nearby trees.

When the cutthroats reached him, they almost plowed right into him. Perhaps he stood so still they thought him a tree. To his pleasure, the plainshield led them—the plainshield who had betrayed him, had betrayed Morry. He’d overheard the men call him Sarge.

“So here is the lady’s
hero,
” Sarge said. “You’re too late—someone else already rescued her.” He and his men laughed.

“A testament to your competency, I surmise,” Amberhill said in a mild tone.

Sarge growled and raised his sword.

“We’ve business, you and I,” Amberhill continued.

“That right? Do I know you?”

Amberhill dropped the purse of gold at Sarge’s feet. The clinking of coins was unmistakable.

“What’s this about?” Sarge asked.

The wind kicked up, making new patterns in the flurries, sending them this way and that, blowing the hair away from Amberhill’s face.

“It is,” he said, “the price of your death.”

Sarge backed a step and the men behind him grumbled.

“Kill ’im, Sarge!” one cried.

“Silence!”

Amberhill sensed Sarge’s disquiet, could see it in his stance and hear it in his voice.

“You speak in riddles,” Sarge said. “Maybe you are some madman, but it doesn’t matter, for you will be wolf fodder shortly.” His men laughed at this.

When they quieted, Amberhill said, “You cannot kill a man twice.”

“You
are
mad. You speak nonsense.”

“No,” Amberhill said, a lightness filling him, a sense of not fearing death, “I am the Raven Mask.”

“But he’s—”

Before Sarge could say the word “dead,” Amberhill knocked his sword from his hand and even as it clattered on the rocks, Sarge collapsed to the ground with his throat slashed open. Amberhill’s nostrils flared with the scent of blood.

“Pity,” Amberhill told the corpse. “I’d hoped to feed you those coins.”

The other men backed off, a few crying out. They turned tail and fled in terror back the way they’d come.

Amberhill was aghast. “Huh. Guess they weren’t as tough as I feared. Not that I’m complaining, of course.”

He turned and almost fell from his rock. Gleaming sword blades bristled out of the dark, carried by shadows that passed by him in silence. Only the snow powdering their heads and shoulders, and the glint of their eyes, revealed they were living beings.

His legs weakened beneath him and he sat beside the corpse that was steadily accumulating snow and shuddered. None of the shadows stopped to speak to him, or even acknowledged his existence. They were on a mission and Sarge’s men were as good as dead already.

K
arigan staggered through the gray, swirling cloud she was caught in. She could not say where she was, or where she was going. She just kept trudging on.

She put her hand to her throbbing head and groaned. Blood loss and the abuses to her body weakened her, and the use of her special ability did not help. “I’ve got to sit,” she told Beryl, and she dropped to the ground where she was, not caring about the snow. Beryl sat beside her and said nothing, and Karigan held onto her arm as much to keep them both faded out as to remain grounded.

The black stallion awaited her on the plains. He lay on the ground with his legs tucked beneath him, but now the grasses were covered in snow. A storm was reflected in his eyes, a turmoil of snow squalls warring in shifting winds.

He wanted her to ride with him into the storm? Was that it?

She shuddered out of the vision. Her hand slipped from Beryl’s sleeve and hastily she grabbed the Rider’s wrist. Beryl was shivering, or was it she herself who shivered?

I am lost, and it will be the death of us.

Beryl remained mute and had allowed herself to be led aimlessly around. It was wholly unlike the Rider Karigan remembered. She blinked into the gray dark and against the snow blowing into her eyes. Her surroundings were indistinguishable from any other part of the small mountain. She strained to hear sounds of pursuit, but only the wind sheared past her ears.

A shape loomed out of the gray ahead of her, and before she could move herself or Beryl, it tripped over them.

“What the—?” he said as he fell.

Karigan let go of Beryl, and before the man could say or do anything, Karigan launched herself on him, pounding her stiff, sore hands on him, but he threw her off, and when she hit the ground, the gray world darkened and closed in.

T
he black stallion still waited for her on the snowy expanse of the plains. He gazed at her, waited for her to make some sort of decision.

“Whad you want?” she demanded of him. Her mouth felt full of cotton.

“What is she saying?” someone asked from afar.

“Don’t know. Hold her still until I finish.”

Something, a snowdrift, yes, a snowdrift, weighed her down. She could not move toward the stallion or walk away.

Prick.

“Ow!” The piercing of flesh seared through confusion.

“Don’t move, Karigan,” said the voice from afar. “I’ve got a few more stitches to go.”

Ty? Ty was there on the plains with her? Yes. His hands were busy above her head. Ty sewing. Of course. Ty was excellent at sewing. He always carried needles and thread with him in case a tear in his uniform required mending. He was Rider Perfect.

Prick, tug.
The drawing of thread through her skin.

The stallion stood and shook his mane. His black hide against the white landscape was like an open window to the heavens. She saw the stars within him, celestial bodies in brilliant colors with dust clouds swirling in storms around them.

“You’re pulling me in!” she cried.

The snow held her down. She kicked and flung out her hands.

“Keep her still!” Ty said.

“I’ll sit on her legs,” someone, a third someone, offered.

“I don’t want to go,” Karigan said. “Salvistar wants me to go to the heavens.”

“For gods’ sakes,” Ty said, “you’re not dying. It’s the shock,” he told the others.

It was too hard to fight; too hard to fight the heavens, to keep from being sucked into the blackness amid the celestial bodies and their veils of sparkling dust. Where would she end up? Would she be allowed to return home?

“So many stars,” she murmured.

Prick, tug.

“I just want to go home.”

Prick, tug.

“There,” Ty said, “I’ve made the last knot.”

A
mberhill slid wearily into the chair beside the woman’s cot. Ty asked that they take turns sitting through the night with her to keep watch lest her condition worsen, and Amberhill volunteered for the second watch.

At first he had not recognized her for all the blood that masked her face, but when Ty washed it away, he found a face he could not forget. Who could forget a lady who challenged him with a sword?

“Who is she?”
he demanded of Ty.

“Green Rider,” was the simple reply.

It explained her actions that day in the museum and why no one among the aristocrats had known her, but it did not answer his question by half. He learned her name and of course knew of the G’ladheon merchanting clan. Lady, messenger, merchant. Even the Weapons seemed to regard her with some esteem. But
who
was she?

Obviously someone born with an insane sort of courage.

As he sat there in the dark, chin propped on hand, listening to her breathing, he found himself vexed by her, but he didn’t know why. Maybe it was because she had challenged him at the museum when all other ladies would have swooned in his presence or begged for his favors. Maybe he disliked being deceived. She was a lady, then was not. She was Estora Coutre, then was not. Frustrating!

He yawned, the debate simmering, then dying, as he fell asleep.

M
uted daylight through canvas.

“Strange dreams,” she murmured.

“She’s coming around,” someone said.

With her awakening came awareness of pain, her throbbing head, the strained muscles, bruises, and lacerations.

“What?” she asked the light. “Am I home?”

“No.”

“Ty?”

He stood above her, looking down at her. “That’s right.” He smiled, but it was a tired smile. “What do you remember?”

An image of a gloating Immerez rushed into her mind, his hook slashing down, blood in her eyes. “I remember everything.” She went to touch her head and was surprised to find her hand, both hands, swaddled in bandages.

“Willis picked out all the gravel and dressed them,” Ty said.

“Willis?”

“At your service.” The Weapon stepped into her vision opposite Ty.

She had yet to make sense of where she was and what Ty was doing here, much less one of the king’s Weapons. Everything was fuzzy around the edges. “Where am I?”

“You’re in the encampment,” Willis said. “One of the officer’s tents.”

“What…what are you doing here?” She started to take in more of her surroundings, the dim tent interior, the cot she lay on. She was covered in layers of blankets and it was then she realized she was very naked beneath the covers, except for bandages on her knees and elbows. She blushed and it made her head pound all the more.

“We came to rescue Lady Estora,” Willis said. “We found you and Rider Spencer instead.”

“Immerez—” Karigan said.

“He is under restraint,” Willis replied. “He will be questioned.”

“Tombs! Grandmother wanted the tombs beneath the castle emptied.”

“Grandmother? We haven’t seen any grandmothers here,” Ty said. “And what would anyone want with all those corpses?”

“Not the corpses,” Karigan said. “Emptied of
Weapons.
”

Both men fell silent and gazed at one another.

“The tomb Weapons are guarding the king while the rest of us are here,” Willis said in a quiet voice. “The tombs are essentially empty of Weapons but for a minimum contingent.”

“Why would this Grandmother want such a thing?” Ty asked.

“She’s Second Empire,” Karigan replied.

Silence again.

“Karigan,” Willis said, “you will have to tell us everything you know, both about Lady Estora and what Second Empire is up to.”

“First,” Ty said, “let her have this. Sit up carefully, Karigan.”

The banging in her head intensified as she did so. When she was securely propped up, Ty passed her a warm mug of broth and a hunk of bread to dip in it. The broth was heartening, and she hadn’t realized how famished she was until it was all gone. Ty fetched her another mugful and more bread, and as she finished this serving, someone else entered the tent. He stepped right up to the side of her cot beside Willis. His jaw was covered with stubble and he wore a shabby cloak. A lock of black hair fell over one of his eyes and through it he stared hard at her.

“Who’s this?” Karigan asked Willis.

“Lord Amberhill,” he replied. “He was in Lady Estora’s party when it was attacked, and tracked her all this way. He’s the one who found you and Beryl.”

“Tripped over you,” the man said.

“Oh.” What else could Karigan say?

“How did you do it?” Lord Amberhill demanded, still gazing intensely at her. “How did you assume Lady Estora’s place? I followed her all the way to the crossroads, but then she became you.”

“Stand down, my lord,” Willis said. “Karigan was about to tell us everything, but she’s only just awakened.”

“Tea?” Ty asked her.

Karigan started to nod, but regretted it for the pain. “Yes, please,” she said.

Ty left and the tent remained in uneasy silence until he returned. While the tea cooled, Karigan recounted everything from her stop in Mirwellton to the point where Lord Amberhill tripped over her. She did not, in the presence of this unknown man, speak of her fading ability. She figured Ty and Willis guessed at her using it.

“You do not know where the lady is now?” Willis asked.

“No. All I know is that she and Fergal are heading east to Sacor City as secretly as possible. Lady Estora is riding under the name of Rider Esther.”

Willis placed his hand on her shoulder. “You are truly a sister-at-arms. You’ve done well.”

“Th–thank you,” Karigan said at the unexpected praise.

“I am now going to order half a dozen Weapons to search after them,” Willis said, and he left the tent.

“Beryl is anxious to question Immerez herself,” Ty said, “and once she finishes, Osric or I will ride east, as well, with the news.”

“Osric? How many of you are here?”

“Two Riders and a phalanx of Weapons. There wasn’t much of a battle,” Ty reflected. “Immerez’s men, those still alive, were quickly rounded up.”

Karigan could only imagine the scene of all those angry Weapons swarming the summit. It would have been terrifying.

“What is Second Empire?” Lord Amberhill asked.

“Descendants of Arcosians who came to this land with Mornhavon the Black,” Ty explained. “Through all these centuries, they have retained a secret society with the dream of eventually restoring the empire to power.”

“Madness,” Lord Amberhill said.

“That’s usually what it takes,” Ty replied.

Karigan sipped at her tea, her eyelids sagging, the weight of exhaustion settling back down upon her.

“I’m going to fetch some more linens to redress your head wound,” Ty said, “and a fresh poultice. I did a good job if I do say so myself, though, uh, I had to cut some of your hair. I’m afraid it will look odd for a while.”

Karigan was sure Ty’s stitching was very fine, and she was equally sure that beneath the bandage, her head looked terrible. It would be a while before she had any desire to look in a mirror.

Lord Amberhill cleared his throat and she jolted, spattering tea on her blankets. She’d forgotten he was there.

“There is more to your story,” he said. “I tripped over
nothing.
”

Karigan did not feel like speaking to this man. She was tired and did not possess the energy to fence around her special ability. “It was dark.”

“I know what I saw. Or didn’t see. I have excellent night vision.”

“Not excellent enough.” She yawned, wondering if Ty slipped something into her tea to help her rest.

“I thought you were a lady,” Lord Amberhill murmured.

“Excuse me?”

He scowled at her. “You’re a Green Rider and you deceived me. It explains a few things, but not your…your invisibility.”

Karigan wished she did not feel so vulnerable, tired and hurting, and naked beneath her covers. The air of superiority he exuded irritated her.

“I think I understand,” she told him, “what is bothering you.”

“And what would that be?”

“You were denied the rescue of Lady Estora by a common messenger. Your glory was stolen from you.”

His face reddened. She did not attribute it to embarrassment, but anger.

“I did not pursue the lady and her captors for glory,” he said. “And I didn’t climb this mount for the pleasure of a hiking excursion. I came to help the brave soul who effected the escape of Lady Estora.”

Heat warmed Karigan’s cheeks, and for her it
was
embarrassment. “That was your knife that took out Immerez’s man?”