The High King's Tomb (59 page)

T
he main corridor was more brightly lit than Queen Lyra’s chamber, revealing the Halls of Kings and Queens in all its grandeur, reminding Karigan of the west wing of the castle where the king’s offices and private apartments were. Rich carpeting softened footfalls, paintings of battles and landscapes hung from the walls, and polished suits of armor stood at attention next to statues of carved marble. Finely crafted furniture that had probably never been used was clustered in comfortable groupings, as if awaiting a social gathering, and tapestries of exquisite embroidery depicting wars and victories, and legends and hunting triumphs, hung from ceiling to floor.

Where there was no other art or draperies covering the walls, glittering mosaics depicted the gods, and goose bumps raised along Karigan’s flesh as she took stock of a realistic depiction of Salvistar that looked ready to leap out of the stone.

They came to a library nook overflowing with books. A pair of cushioned chairs faced an unlit hearth.

“Queen Lyra insisted on a library,” Brienne told Karigan.

Karigan wished the fire was lit. The cold of the tombs, while not freezing, was penetrating, which accounted for the fur-lined cloaks the tomb Weapons wore year round.

Colorful banners and pennants hung from the barrel vaulted ceilings, blunting the effect of stone. This main corridor did not appear to house the dead, but glimpses down adjoining passageways and into chambers revealed sarcophagi and funerary slabs, or wall crypts both sealed and unsealed. The latter seemed to be found down more primitive, narrower corridors. And were fully occupied.

Everything, like Queen Lyra’s chamber, was immaculate—not a single spider had a chance here, and Karigan was sure the tomb cats took care of the rodent population. Just as on Heroes Avenue, the air did not smell of musty old bones or rot; fresh currents of air wisped into her face. Cold and dry. Good storage for corpses.

She marveled just at the lamps, trying to imagine how much of the population’s taxes went for whale oil to light the tombs for dead people who could not appreciate it while the Green Riders must be sparing in their use of the pittance they were allotted every year.

Not only that, but she couldn’t begin to fathom how much work it took to keep the lamp chimneys and ceilings above free of soot. For heavens sake, there were even chandeliers! She shook her head, boggled by it all.

They prowled the main corridor searching for trouble. The first sign they found was a bust of a king smashed on the floor, then the sound of weeping. Brienne charged down the corridor with Fastion swinging behind her. Karigan hurried to catch up.

The Weapons turned into a chamber filled with numerous, occupied funerary slabs, but Karigan’s gaze was not drawn to those desiccated corpses swathed in wraps, but to the fresh corpse on the floor lying in a pool of blood—he looked to have been killed by a sword thrust to the belly. A girl on her knees wept over the man. Both the girl and man were garbed in subdued grays and whites, their flesh unnaturally pale from never having seen the sun. Caretakers.

“Iris,” Brienne said, placing her hand on the girl’s heaving shoulder. “Did you see who did this to him?”

It took several moments to soothe the girl, who wasn’t more than twelve.

“I…I was coming to read to Queen Lyra,” the girl explained between sobs, “and I found Uncle Charles here.”

Brienne stroked the girl’s hair, then knelt beside the dead man, placing her hand against his face.

“He’s cool,” Brienne said, “but not cold enough to be long dead. The intruders are still here, somewhere.”

“What is this?” a voice demanded. “What’s happened?” They whirled at the sudden appearance of a caretaker in the chamber’s doorway. Karigan recognized the long white hair, the smooth face, and specs. Like the girl and dead man, he wore robes of muted colors.

“Agemon,” Brienne said.

“What has happened here?” He adjusted his specs in an agitated way, as if not believing what his eyes showed him. “What happened to Charles? I…I don’t understand.”

Brienne took his arm and said in a quiet but firm tone, “Agemon, there are intruders in the tombs.”

He wrung his hands. “I knew nothing good would come of it—I knew it!”

“Come of what?” Fastion asked.

“The king sending all our Black Shields above.” Agemon knelt by Charles and shook his head. “Preparations must be made. I must—”

“Not now, Agemon,” Brienne said. “Fastion and I need to ferret out the intruders so they can’t harm anyone else.”

“Yes, yes,” Agemon murmured. “Do what Black Shields do. I shall tend the dead.”

Brienne took a deep breath and exhaled slowly as though schooling her patience with the caretaker. “You will go to the House of Sun and Moon and remain there. Karigan will look after you till we return. Do you understand?”

Agemon finally took notice of Karigan. “She looks ready for the death surgeons,” he said. “The king should not have taken away our Black Shields.”

“Do you understand?” Brienne asked, with an edge to her voice.

Agemon waved her off. “Yes, yes. House of Sun and Moon. We’ll await you there.”

Brienne gazed at Karigan expectantly.

“I understand,” Karigan said. She hoped Brienne and Fastion found the intruders quickly so this ordeal would soon end. The two melted down the main corridor, which left her with Agemon, Iris, and the fresh corpse. For some reason, fresh corpses did not bother her as much as the old ones.

Agemon turned to her. “I remember you. The black uniform does not fool me. Yes, you were in green. Yes, yes. Touched the First Rider’s sword. Defiled it, you did. I do not believe you are a Black Shield. It is not possible.”

“Now—” Karigan started.

“Oh, no. Just not possible. You will not leave the tombs this time. You have broken taboo.”

Karigan was so tired that she lacked Brienne’s patience. The last thing in the world she’d ever allow to happen to her was becoming a caretaker, stuck in the tombs for the rest of her life. “Wrong,” she said, and on a hunch, she drew Brienne’s sword just enough to clear a portion of the blade of the sheath.

Agemon looked down at the floor. “I’m…I’m sorry. I will not doubt you again.”

There was a band of black silk wrapped around the blade just below the guard, which designated the sword’s bearer as a swordmaster. Most swordmasters entered the king’s service as a Weapon, like Brienne, accepting duty either in the tombs or above ground. Without it, Karigan would be clearly identified as a fraud. She had hoped that since Brienne was a swordmaster, the extra sword she lent Karigan would have the silk and, to her vast relief, it did.

Karigan let the sword slide back into its sheath. “We are going to the House of Sun and Moon,” she said, “just as Sergeant Quinn ordered.”

“I…I just want to cover Charles,” Agemon said.

“Do so quickly.”

Agemon scurried to the back of the chamber and delved into a bureau. He withdrew a linen shroud.

Convenient,
Karigan thought.
But not surprising.

As it turned out, Agemon wanted not only to cover Charles’ body, but to position it just so and tuck the shroud neatly around him as though making a bed.

“We’ve no time,” Karigan said, tugging on his sleeve. “You will have to see to him later.”

Agemon looked upon the shrouded body with regret, adjusted his specs, and held out his hand for the girl, Iris. “Come, child. The Black Shield wants us to leave. We’ll come back later and care for him properly.”

Karigan swallowed hard at being called a Black Shield, feeling more than ever like a fraud.

Iris grasped Agemon’s hand and together they stepped out into the corridor, leading Karigan into a branching passage where there were yet other chambers of the dead. What a grim place for children to grow up in, she thought, but Iris strode beside Agemon unafraid and unaffected by her surroundings.

Where did the children play?
Did
they play? How were they schooled? Did everything in their lives center around the dead?

The last time Karigan was in the tombs, she was told that every now and then the Weapons attempted to move caretaker families above ground where they might carry on a normal life, but the families did not adjust well, for it went against everything they believed in about not seeing the sun. For them, death was part of everyday living, and it was ingrained in them to tend the dead.

“Will Uncle Charles go to the heavens?” Iris asked Agemon.

“Yes, child. The Birdman will take him. Once we’ve done the rites, all will be well.”

Iris brightened at this assurance. “I shall miss him, but I am glad he’ll be with the gods.”

“I wonder what music he would like at the ascension ceremony,” Agemon said.

Iris started giving him suggestions. It sounded like they were planning a party, not a funeral. Karigan rubbed her temple and tried to stay alert for the intruders, but nothing besides the three of them moved.

Soon Agemon halted at what looked like a chapel excavated right out of the bedrock. It was not large, but was carved with the signs of the gods and death and the heavens. Lamps glowed behind two stained glass windows, one depicting the rising sun and the other showing the crescent moon surrounded by stars. Statues of Aeryc and Aeryon gazed at one another across the doorway.

“Is this it?” Karigan asked. “The House of Sun and Moon?”

Agemon nodded.

“Stay here,” she said, and she stepped inside to make sure intruders were not hiding within, but she found only six curving benches of burnished oak and lit candles on the altar. Behind the altar was a mosaic of Aeryc and Aeryon holding hands, and throughout the chapel was the recurring motif of sun and moon. There were several wall crypts, the most prominent of them housing King Hardell the Third and Queen Auriette. All of the integrated Aeryc and Aeryon symbols made sense, for Queen Auriette had been a princess of Rhovanny before marrying King Hardell.

Karigan ushered Agemon and Iris inside and took up a position near the entry, dropping onto one of the benches. She was so weary. Agemon, on the other hand, produced a cloth from nowhere and started polishing the mosaic. He set Iris to work shining the silver and gold goblets on the altar—not that they didn’t already sparkle.

Let them work,
Karigan thought. It would keep them busy and out of trouble.

She leaned her head against the cold, smooth stone wall and dozed off.

In her dream, spirits of kings and queens, princes and princesses, arose from their Earthly husks on funeral slabs and swirled down the corridors. Their forms seeped from crypts and coffins like formless smoke. Skeletal hands scraped against the lids of sarcophagi and pushed them aside.

The spirits marched and floated toward her, some remaining insubstantial, others in full royal regalia.

Join us, join us, join us,
they said to her.

Skeleton jaws clacked at her, and the spirits swirled around her in a ragged, wisping cyclone, their voices pitched like the whine of biters in her ears.

Avataaar…
they whispered.

Cat claws punctured her leather trousers and dug into her thighs.

“Ow!”

Details returned. Sore head against cool stone wall. Sore hands and knees, sore everything.

Tombs.

To her relief, the ghosts had been a dream, though her presence in the tombs was not. Nor was the cat. Ghost Kitty crouched on her lap, ears flat against his head. He emitted a low growl and glared out the doorway of the House of Sun and Moon.

Karigan rubbed her eyes and looked and heard voices. A man in the livery of a castle servant held a knife to Iris’s throat, while at least two others stood nearby confronting Agemon with swords.

“D
amnation,” Karigan whispered. When and how did this transpire? She detached the cat from her thighs and set him on the floor. With a hiss he scuttled into hiding beneath one of the benches. Agemon must have disobeyed Brienne’s orders and slipped out while Karigan napped.

“Tell us, old man,” said the intruder with the knife to Iris’s throat.

“You should not be here!” Agemon cried. “You have broken taboo—you are unclean. The Black Shields shall be very cross with you.”

The man snorted. “You mean the Weapons? We took care of them.”

At least Agemon had the good sense to keep quiet about Brienne and Fastion. Unless, of course, the thug
meant
Brienne and Fastion. In any case, Agemon just stood there wringing his hands in distress.

“You will tell us,” said a second man dressed in the uniform of a Sacoridian soldier, “which is the highest of the high kings here. Tell us or we cut the girl’s throat.”

Iris whimpered.

“Highest of the…? Who are you people? Why have you invaded these sacred avenues?”

“Second Empire, old man, and this place is not sacred to
us.
Disgusting and strange, perhaps, but not sacred.”

“Spooky,” said the third man with a shudder. He wore no disguise or device. He was a plainshield, much unkempt.

“Shut up, Thursgad,” the soldier said. Then self-importantly he drew himself up and proclaimed, “We are here in the name of the empire.”

Karigan thought Agemon would faint. He actually tottered a bit, but then he spoke a string of foreign words in a commanding voice and spat at the soldier’s feet.

The man holding Iris said, “Well, well. That was not a very nice thing to say.”

The other two intruders looked as perplexed as Karigan felt. What language did Agemon speak? What did he say? And
Thursgad!
She remembered that name—one of Immerez’s men.

Whatever Agemon said didn’t matter. She had to do something, but in her condition she could not hope to overcome three fit-looking, armed men.

Need another way.

Trying to think hurt her head. What could she possibly do?

Agemon was pulling on his hair and there was some exchange of words, and finally he acceded to whatever demands the cutthroats made. He led them away down the corridor.

“Damnation,” Karigan murmured.

She’d have to follow, but carefully. That was the only thing she could think of to do at the moment—follow and keep an eye on them. She would intervene if they looked ready to kill Iris or Agemon. In the meantime, she hoped they’d bump into Fastion and Brienne, or any of the other Weapons who came in with them. They’d know what to do, and could easily take on the three men, even Fastion with his injured leg.

Karigan allowed the intruders with their captives to get some distance on her, then she crept from the House of Sun and Moon after them, flitting behind columns and keeping to shadows. Her fading ability might prove useful so long as she evaded the lamplight, but she didn’t want to draw on it until she had to so she didn’t exhaust her reservoir of energy. She wouldn’t mind a whiff of stallion breath about now.

She extinguished lamps as she went, as much to signal the Weapons something was afoot as to provide extra darkness for her ability to fade. The downside was the intruders would realize they were being followed should they look behind them. Fortunately this was not yet the case, for they plunged on, intent on following Agemon.

Agemon turned down one of the more ancient corridors lined with open wall crypts. They were niches, really, chiseled out of the rock wall, and most filled with yellowed bones. There were some shrouded forms, as well as empty niches, everything neat and orderly, of course.

There was less decoration in this cavelike portion of the tombs, aside from sketchy murals, some so old she could barely make them out. They were full of death iconography and the gods, with whom she was becoming all too familiar. Some of the wall art, it appeared, was made to cover Delver drawings.

She maintained her guarded distance, but by some trick of the acoustics, she could hear snatches of conversation as if the men were speaking into her ear. Agemon spoke of doom to the men, about how they’d never see the living sun again.

Thursgad, she saw, clutched something to his chest. It must be the book. The book that would bring down the D’Yer Wall. He also seemed the most nervous of the three, jumping when he came too close to an occupied crypt, muttering to himself about spirits, glancing this way and that. It did not stop him, however, from plucking gold rings and necklaces and brooches from the dead and stuffing them into his pockets.

Karigan dampened another lamp. She couldn’t get every lamp, but she left a good deal of unsettling dark behind her.

The corridor dead-ended, and she was so tired she almost laughed at the pun in her mind. A shrouded form lay in a niche there with a crown upon its breast. Karigan could not read the Old Sacoridian script carved above the niche, except for the numeral one. Hairs stood up on the back of her neck.

“This is the first high king,” Agemon said. “He is King Jonaeus.” He bowed to the shrouded figure.

The intruders showed no such sign of respect. The one who pointed his knife into Iris’ back said, “The book, Thursgad!”

Due to the strange acoustics, Karigan could hear Thursgad’s nervous breaths as he fumbled with the book. This would be a good time, she thought, for the Weapons to arrive, or even for some ghosts to lend a hand. Ghosts had helped her in the past, but of course they couldn’t bother to show up in the one place you most expected to find them.

Figures.

Thursgad placed the book on the niche shelf next to the remains of King Jonaeus. He and the others stared at it. Nothing happened.

Karigan thought of ghosts again, this time the ones who appeared in her dream.
Join us,
they told her. Maybe it was a message; maybe joining them was a good idea…

“Open the book,” the man with the knife ordered Thursgad. “It probably has to be open.”

Thursgad reached for it with a trembling hand.

“Nooooooooo…”
Karigan said in a faint, withering voice from the shadows.

It must have filled the space around them for they looked all over for its origin. Thursgad stuck his hands under his armpits.

“Desecratoooooors…”
Karigan moaned.

“The lamps!” the soldier cried.

“I told ye there’d be ghosts,” Thursgad said, his voice high-pitched.

“Shut it,” the man with the knife said. “Some trick of the air. Now hurry, open the book.”

When Thursgad refused to budge, the soldier opened it. “Nothing,” he said.

The knife man jabbed the point of his blade into Iris’s back and she cried out. “This wasn’t the right high king, old man. You’d better show us the right one.”

Agemon pulled on his hair again. “But King Jonaeus was
the first.
He decimated your empire!”

Karigan had to give the caretaker credit for bravery. She hoped it didn’t get him killed.

“Try again,” the knife man said, “and take us to the right king this time.”

Agemon hemmed and hawed, then resolutely led the way down the corridor toward her. Thursgad and the soldier each grabbed lamps to light the way.

A good time to fade,
Karigan thought, and she turned and strode into the dark. She could not see well, but she couldn’t let the intruders catch up to her. Or could she?

She didn’t exactly like the idea, but she thought it might prove effective. She removed a shroud from a royal pile of bones and crinkled her nose, trying to remind herself of how fastidious the caretakers were.

T
hursgad did not like this, not one bit. It was wrong to be here. The spirits didn’t like it, either. Aye, he, Rol, and Gare were desecrators all right, and the memory of the spirit’s voice sent another chill spasming up his spine, yet Rol seemed determined to ignore it, and Gare, though clearly shaken, chose to imitate Rol and pretend nothing happened. The old caretaker had gotten a queer look in his eye when the spirit spoke. He was probably used to spirits. He probably encountered them all the time.

After this whole adventure, Thursgad was going to take the treasures in his pockets and head west to Rhovanny. No more of this, no more tombs, no more Second Empire. The crazy old ladies in the woods were bad enough to begin with. Let Sarge call him a rustic bastard and deserter all he wanted, but he was going to have no more of this. He’d take his treasures and buy himself a piece of land on one of the lakes in wine country. Maybe he’d buy himself a vineyard. That’s what he’d do. He’d become a prosperous wine farmer and no one would call him a rustic bastard ever again.

He hoped the jewels weren’t cursed.

He kept close to Rol and Gare, unsettled at how many lamps had been extinguished. But not all, not all…It could not have been a trick of the wind. The old caretaker walked into the dark as though he knew the path by memory and needed no light. Thursgad kept his gaze plastered on Rol’s back, as if that would prevent him from seeing spirits. He didn’t exactly like seeing the contents of the niches either.

Despite his precautions, he caught movement from the corner of his eye. There was the swish of a shroud and his worst nightmare came to life when one of the corpses rose from its shelf. Thursgad screamed and almost dropped his lamp, and the others whirled to see the shrouded figure behind them.

The spirit raised a linen-wrapped hand, blotched with dried blood, and pointed at them.
“Trespassersssss…”
it whispered.

Gare was on it in a second, swiping his sword through the shroud. The shroud drifted empty and formless to the floor, the spirit gone.