The High King's Tomb (7 page)

The Tower of the Heavens possessed no windows, not even any arrow loops, to break up its impassive facade. And there was no door.

“Let’s try it,” Garth said in a hushed tone.

He grasped his gold winged horse brooch, emblem of the Green Riders and the device that enhanced their magical abilities, and reached with his other hand through stone
into
the tower.

Alton’s heart thudded. The stone molded around Garth’s wrist as though he reached into nothing more innocuous than water.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Garth said, and he plunged all the way into the tower leaving nary a ripple to indicate he had ever existed.

Alton was flummoxed. How in five hells had the wall admitted Garth so easily when it wouldn’t even respond to his touch? Maybe something had changed overnight—maybe the wall would let him pass now.

He fumbled for his brooch, the gold warm and oily smooth beneath his fingers, and pressed his other hand against the rough unyielding stone. He willed the wall to open for him, to allow him to enter the tower. He called upon his Rider magic, but to no avail. The tower remained impassible.

He found himself with fist clenched to hammer against the wall and stopped, recalling himself and the soreness of his bandaged hands. It wouldn’t do any good to injure himself again.

It was not easy waiting for Garth to return, and Alton paced madly. More than a moment had passed, much more, before the Rider poked his head out of the stone wall of the tower looking absurdly like a hunter’s mounted trophy. All Garth needed was a pair of antlers.

“Well?” Alton demanded.

“I’ve been speaking with Merdigen.” Garth rolled his eyes. “He’s been wondering why we abandoned him again—he’s been waiting for us to return and didn’t we know that the wall is growing more unstable as each day passes. When I told him you were trying, he checked with the guardians himself.” A strange expression fell over Garth’s face. “After he did so, he told me that the wall doesn’t like you very much. It doesn’t trust you.”

Alton stumbled backward, realizing how much sense it made. While under the influence of Mornhavon the Black, he had almost destroyed the wall, though at the time he believed he was strengthening it. And his cousin Pendric, his cousin who hated him, had merged with the wall and became a guardian. Could Pendric have influenced the other guardians against him?

“Damnation,” Alton muttered. How was he supposed to mend the wall if it wouldn’t trust him?

L
ady Estora Coutre slipped quietly into the corridor and eased her chamber door shut behind her, overcome by a sudden giddy sense of freedom. The morning was early yet, and none of her attendants had risen, nor had her mother or any of her numerous cousins, aunts, or siblings who had traveled over sea and land to be present during this momentous time in her life. The other unrelated noble ladies who clung to her like limpets to a rock would be abed for hours yet. They had not been born and raised on the sunrise coast as she had, where the days started much earlier.

Alone. She was finally alone.

Except for the Weapon who peeled away from the wall and followed her. She was growing rather accustomed to her shadow-clad guardians, and while their presence might jangle the nerves of her relations who were unused to them, to her they had become almost invisible. They stayed out of her way and remained silent unless addressed directly. They would not report her early morning sojourns unless she ordered them to, which, of course, she would not.

Trained to safeguard members of the royal family to the death, their code of honor held discretion sacred. It was not their place to comment on or question the actions of their wards, but to protect. She found it inconceivable, however, that they didn’t have the odd conversation or two among themselves about what happened in the course of their workday. In any case, she doubted she had given them much to gossip about thus far.

She drew a shawl over her head and walked along the corridor, hoping none would awaken and note her passage, or insist they accompany her, or try to redirect her, or fill her ears with inane chatter. It had been almost too much to bear these last couple months. Was this how her life would be from here on in? She feared it would be so.

Fortunately no one burst through a doorway to ruin her morning. It was as if the castle itself slumbered. The air did not stir and the corridors were dusky and quiet. Peaceful. Soon enough it would awaken, brimming with people hurrying from here to there on errands, appointments, and meetings, and there would be much tiresome activity. Best to enjoy the solitude while she could.

Zachary must be well used to always being in the company of others, though she sensed he liked it no more than she. In fact, the two of them were so constantly surrounded by others that they were rarely able to speak with each other, and certainly not privately. They would never get to know one another until their wedding night. If even then the throngs let them alone…

In their brief exchanges, Zachary had been kind and courtly, but distant, just as she supposed she had been herself. This matchmaking of nobles was an awkward tradition. It was, her mother informed her time and again, the way things had been done for hundreds and hundreds of years. Her mother hadn’t even looked upon her father until their wedding day. Over time her parents had grown fond of one another, and had even found mutual respect and love in their lengthy partnership. It would be the same for Estora and Zachary, her mother assured her.

Estora had always known it would be this way. She had known since she was a little girl that she would be paired with a man not of her choosing. The knowing, however, was not the same as the reality.

Choice was never a part of my life.

No, this is what she had been born and bred for: to be the wife of some highborn man and to bear his children. Nothing more. Had she been born mindless, the outcome would have been the same.

Do any of us really have any choices, or are we all pieces on an Intrigue board, moved to action by someone else’s will?

The thought brought to mind a conversation she had with Karigan not so long ago. The two of them had been sitting together in the inner courtyard gardens and she had just revealed to Karigan that the king signed her father’s contract of marriage. Then without thinking, she had told Karigan that she envied her for her freedom, the freedom to do as she wished, and to marry whom she wanted.

It had been a mistake. Estora should have known better. No one
chose
to be a Green Rider, one was
called
to service. A magical calling, as she understood it. An irresistible, unyielding call that could break your mind if you failed to heed it. It did not matter what you were doing with your life—the call made you drop everything and come serve the king as one of his messengers. Choice was not involved.

She paused at an intersection of corridors, deciding she would head for the outdoors to listen to birds and breathe the free air. She turned down the corridor that led past the kitchens and to a servants’ entrance.

She tugged her shawl closer, and passed a servant pausing along the corridor to yawn. He rubbed his eyes and forged on in the opposite direction.

Pleased he hadn’t even noticed her, she continued on her way. It was odd, but the more people crowded around her, the lonelier she felt. The only reason they flocked to her was because she was to be queen with all of that rank’s attendant power, not because they cared about her as a person. Since that day in the garden, Karigan had behaved the opposite of everyone else by avoiding her, and it hurt. She’d turn in the other direction if by chance they met in a corridor, and she even declined formal invitations to join Estora for tea. Karigan had been the one person who offered Estora genuine friendship with no conditions attached, and she missed it.

If only F’ryan were still alive, she would not be so alone. She felt his loss as keenly as if it had happened just yesterday and not two years ago; and in the deep of night, when she was most lonely, she still wept for him. Wept for her lost love, wept for the emptiness in her heart. She held on to her memories of him as if they were the only things anchoring her to Earth; memories of his laughter, his touch, and the light shining in his eyes.

“Oh, F’ryan, I miss you,” she murmured.

It made Karigan’s avoidance of her all the more hurtful, for Karigan had been the last to see F’ryan alive and had taken his place among the Green Riders. She was, in a sense, Estora’s last connection to F’ryan.

Activity picked up near the kitchens. Cooks and bakers would have already been at work for hours now, and she smelled luscious breads and pastries baking. Bright lamplight spilled through the arched entryway of the kitchens, and cooks and servants bustled within, clattering dishware and chattering boisterously among themselves. The kitchens were cavernous with numerous ovens, hearths, and preparation tables. Feeding a castle full of soldiers, administrators, nobles, servants, and visitors was a huge undertaking, which the kitchen operations reflected.

Estora smiled and continued toward the servants’ entrance only to discover a certain Green Rider there with a pair of bulging saddlebags thrown over her shoulders and her hand on the door handle.

“Karigan?”

The Rider swung around, startled. Panic flickered across her features when she saw who addressed her.

“Good morning, my lady,” she said with a quick bob. “I’ve two Riders needing these provisions, so I must—”

“Oh, no, you don’t!” Estora strode forward and stood squarely before Karigan. “You will not run off on me again.”

Karigan opened her mouth as if to speak, but Estora cut her off. “I know I upset you in the past, but is it really a reason to avoid me each and every time I see you? I apologize if that will help. But really, avoiding me is not the most adult reaction.”

At first, unsettled emotions rippled across Karigan’s face, but then she took a deep breath, steadying her expression. It was not the open, friendly face Estora was accustomed to but closed and set.

“It may be perceived,” Karigan said, “as improper for a commoner to associate with the future queen in such a familiar manner.”

Where had that come from? Estora had to double-check that this was Karigan she was talking to. Never before had Karigan adopted so formal a tone with her.

“Karigan, I am still Estora, the same person as before. My marriage to the king changes nothing.”

“It changes everything, my lady.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I—”

“I am a lowly messenger,” Karigan said without meeting her gaze. “Your servant. You are to be queen, and that is a barrier between us that cannot be casually crossed. I will serve you and the king to the best of my ability, and as duty requires, but the friendship we enjoyed in the past would be inappropriate for one of your station. That is all there is to it.”

No it wasn’t, Estora was sure of it. She narrowed her eyes, trying to discern what Karigan was hiding. Why was she pushing her away? “Let’s talk this out. Maybe—”

“As your future subject, I will talk with you if you command it, my lady, but I fear it would not change our circumstances. I do not believe we can continue to be friends.”

It was as though Estora had been struck in the face. Never had she known Karigan to be so cold, and her formal tone made it all the worse. All at once she realized what it meant to be queen—she’d never be regarded in the same light again, even by those she had counted among her friends. What came with being queen was a terrible power as well, a power to punish any who displeased her. That explained, at least in part, Karigan’s careful and proper choice of words, and it saddened Estora that Karigan would even consider her capable of carrying out a punishment against her. The worst part, however, was what lay beneath the words: utter rejection of their friendship, utter rejection of Estora.

Overcome by a sense of loss—loss of who she once was, and of Karigan’s friendship—tears filled her eyes. “You can’t mean it.”

“If you require nothing further of me, my lady,” Karigan said, “I need to take these saddlebags to Riders who must depart on the king’s business.” She bowed, turned on her heel, and strode out the door.

Estora blinked against the morning light that splashed across her face as the door opened and closed. After a moment’s hesitation, she flung the door open and rushed out after Karigan into the chill morning. She would shake the truth out of the Rider if she had to.

But Karigan was already halfway across the castle grounds making a straight line for the Rider stables. Estora lifted her skirts and followed the steps down to the pathway. She wanted to scream and cry. What had come over Karigan? Certainly their exchange in the gardens couldn’t have made Karigan
hate
her. What had she done to deserve such cold treatment?

Nothing.

Karigan’s behavior was so unusual, so unlike herself, that there must be some greater issue at hand, and it was just beyond Estora’s grasp. Still, this inner knowledge did nothing to lessen the hurt. She sniffled.

“My pardon. I simply thought the lady might like a handkerchief.”

Estora turned to find her Weapon blocking the approach of a gentleman.

“I thought I was the only one out and about this early in the morning,” he said, “only to find a beautiful face stricken with sorrow.” He waved the handkerchief like a sign of surrender.

Estora nodded to her Weapon that it was all right to allow the man to approach. She accepted his handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “Thank you.”

He smiled, which made his well-chiseled features all the more handsome. Black hair was drawn back in a ponytail, and he wore the clothing of a noble, though it showed some wear. The colors were slightly faded, the cuffs frayed, and there were signs of meticulous mending.

“It’s my pleasure to be of assistance,” he said with a bow. “If there is anything else I can do to further diminish your tears, I am at your service.” He magically produced a white rose from his sleeve.

Estora laughed in delight, and accepted it.

“See!” he said with a grin. “The sun is shining again. But now I fear I must be off for a breakfast appointment with my cousin, though I find your company more enjoyable.”

With another bow, he lightly trotted up the steps and through the kitchen entrance. She watched after him bemused, wondering if he were a kitchen servant, but despite the wear of his clothing, it was too rich for a servant and not far enough gone to be cast-off. And most servants did not leave behind fancy handkerchiefs with their initials embroidered on them.

X.P.A. Who is he?
she wondered. And she brought the rose blossom to her nose, delighting in its scent.

K
arigan was still shaking later that morning as she trudged toward the practice grounds for weapons training. Her confrontation with Estora left her feeling sick to her stomach, and she thought she’d lose her breakfast.

Wouldn’t Drent love that…

Severing her friendship with Estora was one of the hardest things she ever had to do, but the alternative seemed so…difficult. How could she continue a friendship with a woman who was to marry the man she…she loved? How could she pretend nothing had passed between her and King Zachary? How could she pretend not to be jealous? And worst of all, how could she bear the inevitable conversations friends shared, with all the intimate details?

Distancing herself from Estora also meant distancing herself from King Zachary. It simplified matters, kept her feelings from twisting like a knife within her. It was
safe.

When Karigan arrived at the practice grounds, she found Arms Master Drent waiting for her there with his meaty fists on his hips. The glower on his gargoylelike face emanated severe disapproval.