The High King's Tomb (61 page)

W
hen the vision released Karigan, she was still screaming, thought she was still falling. The stallion exuded a blanket of peace from where he knelt beside her, and once she realized she stood on solid rock, her screams died.

“That’s what
will
happen,” Karigan said to the stallion, shaking all over. Despite the mayhem around her, the hill and castle had not collapsed. Yet. Her friends, her colleagues, they still lived; there was a chance to change the outcome. She licked her lips. “You showed me what will happen if I don’t mount.”

The stallion whickered. It came to her as a clear affirmative.

She did not want to submit herself to the will of the gods, to become their tool, but if Sacor City fell, the lord-governors would fight for power over the king’s corpse and Second Empire would take the opportunity to seize control. Nothing would stand in the way of Mornhavon the Black’s return. From that perspective her decision was simple. She would not, could not, allow Sacor City to fall.

She mounted the stallion.

And found herself clad in the splendor of star steel. She bore a great lance and a shield that displayed the device of the crescent moon, which shone with an ethereal pearlescent glow. Upon her head was a winged helm, and she knew its appearance without having to look at it in the same way she knew the armor she wore was forged by the smith god Belasser, the fire of the stars his furnace. The armor gleamed as though the light of those stars still resided in it, and it weighed nothing. Its surface crawled with winged symbols that changed shape so constantly she could not see their true form.

The stallion was likewise armored, and she sat upon a warhorse’s saddle, but he wore no bridle, just a chanfron of star steel to protect his face. The book she’d fought so hard to capture rested now in its own saddlebag of fine mesh mail.

With the armor came knowledge, the knowledge that not only would the castle and city fall if she did not act, but that the void in the middle of the chamber provided a doorway for spirits to leave the realm of death, malignant spirits that would torment and feed on the living.

This was why Salvistar became involved, and this was why she was chosen to act on behalf of his master: this rupture in the layers of the world violated the will of the gods and the laws of nature, and the heavens knew, literally, that she had interacted with the dead often enough.

Salvistar clip-clopped into the central chamber. Riding him was like riding the air. The destruction and shaking of the tombs paused as if all time stopped. The ghosts were clearer to Karigan’s vision than before, all the men, women, and children who had ruled over Sacoridia in life. They bowed to her and her steed, and backed out of the way.

The other spirits, those who had come from below, were not as clear. They remained smudges of darkness, but she had a sense of their more primitive natures, their desires were more basic. They hungered, lusted to penetrate the living world. Fear was their tool, souls would satiate them.

Salvistar halted at the void, tossed his head, and leaped into it.

Karigan wanted to scream as they plummeted through the pitch black, but like her knowledge that she was to speak for Westrion, and that the spirits would invade the lands above if not called back to their graves, she knew the stallion would not let her fall. Indeed, she had the impression of great gossamer wings guiding their course and her seat was secure.

Eventually Salvistar landed lightly on a ledge deep within the void. The glow of their star steel armor cast a vaporous light on skulls and bones tucked into hundreds of depressions in the walls of the crevice. Engraved on the walls were Delver drawings and offerings of crude pottery, moldering furs, and weapons and tools of chert littered the ledge.

“Come,” she said. The voice was hers, and it was not. She spoke Westrion’s words.

One by one spirits massed around her, transparent presences, shadows. Thousands of them. She felt their hostility. Their voices shrieked in disobedience, spoke of their thirst to feed on the living. She knew this even though their utterances were unintelligible. She knew also that though many of the spirits were benign, many of the evil of their kind had been tossed to the very bottom of the void, a form of posthumous justice. Even deeper in the void was a damaged seal between the worlds, and demons scratched at it hoping to escape their hell. This was an even greater threat than that of the spirits.

“Sleep,” she commanded the spirits.

They screeched and swirled in rebellion, and one who had been their chieftain in life appeared before her, standing on air. Wild hair floated about his head and he was clad in animal skins.

“Go away, avatar,” he said. “You are not our god. We shall do as we wish.”

Karigan thrust her lance through the chieftain and he evaporated from existence. The other spirits stilled.

The great voice of Westrion welled up inside her and emerged as a forceful compulsion:
“Sleep.”

The spirits scrambled for their niches like swarming insects and did not reemerge.

Salvistar launched himself from the ledge and spiraled down and down into sepulchral darkness, down to a place that had never known light. Karigan was not sure if it was even a physical place they traveled to or if they had transcended into some other existence.

Finally the stallion alighted and the glow of their armor revealed a dry, rocky landscape. The rocks were unweathered and of sharp and forbidding shapes. Embedded in the ground was a round shield of star steel. Like Karigan’s armor, symbols wriggled across its surface, but some did not move, were dead, and a portion of the seal was tarnished and had begun to buckle. She sensed the throng of demons on the other side pushing and scratching and beating the seal for release.

This was the greater threat. If the demons escaped, life on Earth would turn into a hell, a place of eternal strife and darkness, where the living must battle for their very existence or be enslaved and tormented unto eternity. Humans would become the live carrion for spirits and demons and the living world would be transformed into a realm of death.

She lowered the tip of the lance to the seal. Words of command poured from her lips, words she did not know, words that were not of any mortal speech. The seal brightened until she needed to cover her eyes.

Then all at once it faded to a silvery glow, the symbols restored, the tarnish banished, and the demons on the other side cast far away into the deeps where they belonged. With that, Salvistar surged upward, beating his great wings in the air. They climbed and climbed through the darkness until they emerged into the chamber of the Hillanders. Tremors no longer racked the tombs, though many ancient, dark spirits still flooded the avenues of the dead and the castle corridors above.

“Come,”
Karigan-Westrion commanded and pointed the lance at the void.

The dark spirits flocked into the chamber, a great cloud of them that obscured the light. Unable to disobey Westrion, they spiraled back into the crevice, into the realm beneath the tombs. When the last one vanished, the ground rumbled and moved and the crack closed.

To the spirits and corpses of royalty, the death god said, “Return to your byres and sleep.”

The dead receded from the chamber into what remained of the corridors.

The dust hanging in the air cleared, as though sucked away and rubble rose from the floor and reattached itself to ceilings and walls. Statues and armor righted and reassembled; cracks and chips and dents fixed themselves until no sign of damage remained. All the pieces of King Smidhe’s statue flew back together with such speed that suddenly it was in one perfect piece again, the proud king astride his horse of marble.

Karigan blinked, and found herself not sitting on the stallion, but hiding behind the column, where she had started, the book in her arms. There was no sign of the armor or the stallion, and she began to think it had all been part of a dream. Just as before, she watched the man who attacked her kneel beside her trail of blood.

“None of it happened,” she whispered, and she put her hand to her feverish temple.

“It happened,” said someone beside her.

She turned to find a ghost gazing at her and she almost exclaimed, but he drew his finger to his lips to silence her. This was the Rider of ancient times who had visited her in her dream and in the white world. His winged horse brooch glistened on his chest and her own warmed in reaction.

“Aye,” he said, “I was the third to wear this brooch, the same one you now wear.”

Karigan shivered with the weight of history, as she had when Lil Ambrioth revealed she was the first to possess the brooch.

The Rider ghost beckoned her deeper into the corridor. “I’ve seen you before,” she whispered.

“Aye,” he replied. “I am Siris Kiltyre, third captain of the Green Riders.”

As they continued down the corridor, the ghost walking but not touching the floor, everything appeared to be in its place.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“Do you remember the question I once asked you?”

Karigan was about to shake her head “no,” but then it came to her. “You asked me if I knew who—no,
what
—I was.”

“Do you know the answer?”

“I’m a Green Rider.”

“That is only the beginning,” he replied. “You are an avatar.”

Karigan stumbled to a halt.
“What?”

Siris Kiltyre gestured for her to keep moving. “I, too, rode as an avatar for Westrion,” he replied. “It is our gift to touch death.”

“No! My gift is to fade out, to disappear.”

The ghost of Siris Kiltyre glanced back at her, the motion a spectral blur. His eyes were the substance of midnight and deep wells of the infinite. She thought of the obsidian eyes of Salvistar.

“When we fade, we are actually standing on a threshold, the threshold between the layers of the world. That is our true ability: to pass through the layers, or it would be more so if we possessed the power of great mages. With our own simple abilities, we cannot cross that threshold, unless there is some outside influence. Like Salvistar. As avatar, you crossed into the realm of death. You’ve been elsewhere, too. Through time, even. Because of our ability, we are chosen to ride as Westrion’s messenger. We are attracted to death, and it is attracted to us.”

Karigan’s head throbbed with new ferocity. “You
are
dead,” she reminded him.

The ghost paused and faced her. “And you speak to me.”

“I asked for none of this,” she said. “I never wanted anything to do with the dead! And these…these tombs, and gods, and…and…I just want to go to bed.”

Did Siris Kiltyre smile? It was hard to tell, for he’d grown more transparent, his form being absorbed by the backdrop of the tombs. “You may never be asked to ride as avatar again,” he said. “Or you may be, but you will not remember.”

“What?” A wave of dizziness washed over Karigan. She just wanted to rest. Why did these dreams of ghosts keep plaguing her?

“You will not remember the destruction or the rising of the dead,” Siris Kiltyre continued. “No one will. These things were not part of the natural order and were reversed. Or maybe it will seem to you like images from a nightmare. You are, after all, injured and fevered.”

“Yes,” Karigan said, wiping sweat from her forehead. “Tired. Dreams. I knew it.”

“You will learn a necromancer walks the lands. Her abilities awakened over the summer.”

“Necromancer,” Karigan murmured, her eyelids heavy.

“And now you must hide, for the intruder has entered this corridor, following your trail.”

Karigan nodded, but to whom or what, she did not know, for no one was there. She needed to hide. She glanced about and discovered there were many empty sarcophagi lacking lids in this gallery. She did not take the time to puzzle out the why of it, but found a likely sarcophagus and climbed into it, clasping the book to her. Inside it was dark, good for hiding. She settled into its depths, thankful she wasn’t lying on anyone’s bones.

K
arigan roused from an uneasy doze at the sound of voices.

“That is
Durnesian
carpeting made by the hands of the Fifth House of Conover,” someone whined. “Over two hundred years old. How am I supposed to get the bloodstains out?”

Light glared between Karigan’s cracked eyelids. She buffered her eyes with her hand.

“Ah, there you are,” said a familiar voice. Brienne. “Not dead yet.”

“Are you sure?” Karigan’s voice came out as a croak.

“Pretty sure,” Brienne said.

Soon Karigan’s eyes adjusted to the light of the lamp Brienne bore. The Weapon, and Agemon, peered at her over the rim of the sarcophagus. It was really like being in an oversized bathtub.

“You are bleeding on the queen’s tomb,” Agemon said, his voice aggrieved.

“Queen? What queen?”

“The one-who-will-be,” he replied.

Brienne reached down to help her rise from the tomb. Suddenly there were other helping hands—Cera and Lennir and Fastion—and together they practically lifted her out of the sarcophagus. She carried the book out with her.

“You
are
bleeding,” Brienne said, looking at Karigan’s forearm. She directed Agemon to find some linen, which he did nearby, but not without some grumbling about having more blood to clean up.

“Looks like you’ll need stitches,” Fastion said as Brienne snugly wrapped the wound.

Karigan sighed.

“Cera,” Brienne said, “see if you can find one of the death surgeons.”

“Death surgeon?” Karigan asked in alarm. “What for?”

“To stitch you up. They’re good at it.”

When Brienne finished binding the wound, Karigan sank to the floor, her back against the sarcophagus she’d hidden in. Maybe it was all a dream. Death surgeons!

Brienne squatted in front of her. “You did well. Agemon and Iris told us everything. Rather unconventional, but it worked.”

“Where were you?”
Karigan demanded.

“There were other intruders,” Fastion said, “guarding the entrances. They’d knocked out the Weapons on duty with a sleeping draught infused in their evening tea. The enemy’s resistance delayed us. We did intercept the one chasing you. All the intruders are dead or captured, and those alive will be interrogated and go for judgment before the king.”

“Good.” Karigan closed her eyes and leaned her head back against Queen Whoever’s sarcophagus. It was nice and cold. Maybe they should have left her inside so she could sleep. A blanket and pillow would make it comfortable. Seemed like she’d already done a considerable amount of napping if all her confused dreams of ghosts and Salvistar were any indication. Not surprising what she dreamed about when one took into account her resting place.

Resting place?
She frowned.

“I see you found the book,” Fastion said.

Karigan snapped her eyes open. The book! It sat on the floor beside her. She placed it on her lap and flipped through the pages, which were blank. Except for one page.

Karigan eagerly scanned the pretentious script:
One cup of sugar, one cup of blueberries…

Blueberry muffins? A recipe for blueberry muffins? Who would copy a recipe into a book of magic? If this were really the right book…

She struggled to stand and was able to do so with some assistance from Brienne and Lennir. “We need to find the high king’s tomb,” she said. “We can read it only in the light of the high king’s tomb.”

The Weapons gazed at one another, then at her. “Which one?” Brienne asked.

“Not Jonaeus,” Karigan said. “They tried him already. And probably not Smidhe.”

Agemon sniffed loudly.

“You have something to say?” Brienne demanded.

“The answer is easy,” he replied.

“That so?”

He raised his chin, looking supremely wise and dignified among such errant children. “There is only one high king.”

The Weapons again exchanged glances. “King Zachary?” Lennir ventured.

Agemon rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes. Of course, King Zachary. That is, unless something has changed up above that no one has told me about.”

Silence.

Then Karigan burst out, “But he’s not dead!” Paused, then in a small voice asked, “Is he?”

“No,” Brienne said.

Agemon looked down his nose and through his specs at Karigan. “The riddle stated the book could only be read in the light of the high king’s tomb. Correct?”

Karigan nodded.

“Does it say anything about the king having to be dead?”

Karigan shook her head and Agemon stepped aside, revealing a sarcophagus behind him. On the marble lid was carved a likeness of King Zachary, looking as though he were no more than asleep, a scepter clasped between his hands. A marble Hillander terrier lay across his feet. Karigan almost fell, felt like the ground shifted beneath her. Lennir grabbed her by the elbow and steadied her.

“But he’s not dead,” Karigan whispered.

“Preparations for the passing of the royal ones begin well before the great event,” Agemon said. “Yes, yes, we would not wish to be caught unprepared. Alas, we haven’t a lid carved yet for the queen-who-will-be.”

“The queen…” Karigan glanced at the empty sarcophagus behind her. She had hidden in Estora’s final resting place. This was truly bizarre.

“The book,” Fastion urged. “Let’s see if Agemon is right.”

The caretaker sniffed again and muttered, “Of course I’m right. Yes, of course I am.”

Karigan stepped up to King Zachary’s sarcophagus, indeed she had to step
up
on a raised platform of stone, and she gazed down on his likeness. The sculptor had captured his image truly—much better than the wax figure of him in the Sacor City War Museum. He lay at ease, noble and serene, and she wondered if the sculptor had created the likeness while King Zachary slept.

She ran her fingers down his arm, and she wanted to touch the smoothness of his cheekbone, the texture of his beard.

“Ahem.”
Fastion.

Karigan stiffened and hastily snatched her hand away, feeling a heat in her cheeks that wasn’t just her fever. Instead she placed the book on the king’s chest and opened it to somewhere in the middle.

At first, nothing happened.