The High King's Tomb by Kristen Britain




  ALSO BY KRISTEN BRITAIN:

  Green Rider

  First Rider’s Call

  The High King’s Tomb

  KRISTEN BRITAIN

  THE HIGH KING’S TOMB

  DAW BOOKS, INC.

  DONALD A. WOLLHEIM, FOUNDER

  375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014

  ELIZABETH R. WOLLHEIM

  SHEILA E. GILBERT

  PUBLISHERS

  http://www.dawbooks.com

  Copyright © 2007 by Kristen Britain.

  All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-1558-6

  All characters in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  In memory of Batwing

  my nasty boy, my true miracle

  for whom reams could be written

  about the power of love

  and the will to live,

  —and—

  In memory of Earl Grey

  my sweet boy and manuscript cozy

  a bright spirit

  who shone so brilliantly

  for too short a time.

  I miss you, boys. I really miss you.

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CROWN OF FLAME

  THE BLUE DRESS

  GRYPHON STREET

  THE MAN IN THE SILK MASK

  THE WALL SPEAKS

  ALTON AND THE WALL

  PATCHWORK PRIDE


  A NEW ASSIGNMENT

  KING ZACHARY’S TREASURE

  DEPARTURE

  TO THE HAWK’S TAIL

  THE KNACKER’S BOY

  A SHIMMERING IN THE WOODS

  WALKING THROUGH WALLS

  MEETING MERDIGEN

  THE GRANDGENT

  THE GOLDEN RUDDER

  MIRWELL PROVINCE

  FERGAL’S EXPLANATION

  ELETIANS

  KING AND PRINCE AND FUTURE QUEEN

  A QUEEN’S PLACE

  THE RAVEN MASK

  THE WALL SPEAKS

  THE STORM

  TO SELIUM

  MASTER RENDLE

  GREETING FRIENDS

  THE GOLDEN GUARDIAN

  INTO THE ARCHIVES

  TYING KNOTS

  MERDIGEN’S TALE

  SACRIFICES

  THE WALL SPEAKS

  MERDIGEN SETS OFF

  A RIDE IN THE COUNTRY

  FOG

  AUBRY CROSSING

  THE FROST PLACE

  DAMIAN’S HERD

  WILD HORSES

  SHAPER OF WIND

  WIND DREAMS

  THE WALL SPEAKS

  PATTERNS

  LIBERATING THE ARM

  ITHAROS

  SHIP IN A BOTTLE

  TO MIRWELLTON

  GOLD CHAINS

  AN UNEXPECTED MESSAGE

  THE WALL SPEAKS

  HEARTBEAT

  FLIGHT AND PURSUIT

  PIRATES

  A VOICE IN THE DARK

  KARIGAN’S PLAN

  BRAVE SOUL

  JAMETARI’S DESIRE

  THE WALL LAMENTS

  THE BLEEDING OF STONE

  HEAVEN’S EYE

  SARGE’S GIFT

  BLADES IN THE DARK

  FIGHTING THE HEAVENS

  HANDS

  ANSWERS

  NO ORDINARY MESSENGER

  CROSSING BRIDGES

  RIDER IN BLACK

  FOLLOWING THE CAT

  THE HOUSE OF SUN AND MOON

  KARIGAN HAUNTING

  AVENUES OF HILLANDER

  THE SILVER SPHERE

  AVATAR

  THE HIGH KING’S TOMB

  THE BOOK OF THEANDURIS SILVERWOOD

  THE WALL SCREAMS

  MERDIGEN’S RETURN

  SEEKING HARMONY

  MENDING

  HEARTSTONE

  RETURNINGS

  SECRETS

  KNIGHT OF THE REALM

  HUMILITY AND HONOR

  SLEEPERS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you to my readers for their support and enduring the long waits. (It’s been a long wait for me, too!)

  Thank you to Julie Czerneda, who deserves meadows full of irises for putting up with me, and Ruth Stuart also for listening, reading, and traveling.

  Many thanks to the Peninsulans, past and present, for hearing the thing through: Chris Barstow, Annaliese Jakimides, Cynthia Thayer, David Fickett, and Paul Markosian; and welcome to Martha Tod Dudman.

  As always, thank you to my editors, Betsy Wollheim and Debra Euler, and the whole DAW crew, as well as my agents, Anna Ghosh and Danny Baror.

  Thank you to my web mage, MT O’Shaughnessy, for keeping up www.kristenbritain.com—Baaah! and Todd Edgar for assistance with the machine and some graphics stuff—Meow!

  Thank you to Donato Giancola for the gorgeous painting which graces the cover of this book.

  There are a number of “characters” who taught me many lessons in life, and I’d like to acknowledge them here: Fox, Carefree, Tommy, Seymour, JackO, Roman, Virginia, and so many others. Most, if not all, are gone now, but forever remembered.

  Thank you to those who offered support and information that have aided with the progress of this book (i.e. suturing and sidesaddle riding), and any of those whom I’ve failed to mention. I appreciate your help.

  Finally, thank you to my personal managers, to whom a percentage of my earnings do go: Percy and Gryphon. You make my monitor hairy and ensure I am walked regularly. Couldn’t have done this without you guys.

  Onward to the next book…

  CROWN OF FLAME

  In the autumn season, hawks, falcons, and eagles followed an ancient path through the sky on their journey south for the winter, the same path their ancestors had flown since the first took wing in ages long dark to memory. Their route swept down from the northlands, along the great frothing river that flowed from the glaciers to the sea, and over a cluster of small mountains. These were the Teligmar Hills of Mirwell Province, located on the western border of Sacoridia.

  Perhaps the raptors were relieved when they saw the hills bulging on the horizon, for they were landmarks that helped guide the way, and the rising north wind gave loft to wings that had many hundreds of miles yet to fly, easing the toil of the journey. They hovered on updrafts over the rounded, weathered summits, resting on air currents and keeping an eye out for prey, maybe a stray songbird intent on its own imperative to migrate, or an unwary rodent.

  This year, the raptors, with their sharp vision, spotted something new and curious among the mountains: humans. Numerous humans had taken up residence on one of the summits. There were clusters of tents and other structures among the trees and rocks, wood smoke wafting in the air, voices carried by the wind, and metal glinting in the morning sun. The raptors sensed a strange power down there, something their small bird minds could not grasp, but definitely something that ruffled their feathers.

  Whatever it was, the concerns of the raptors rested with their own journey south, not with the affairs of humans. They left behind the Teligmar Hills, and would soon leave the land of Sacoridia to its winter, the Earth wheeling beneath the trailing edges of their wings.

  As soon as the woman stepped out of her tent, she was greeted by the excited voices of children. They clustered around her, all chattering at once, tugging on her skirt for attention, showing her where a baby tooth wa
s newly missing, asking her to play games or tell stories. She laughed and patted heads, the crinkles around her eyes and mouth deepening.

  It was a mild autumn morning, but the cold breezes swept over the top of the small mountain’s summit as they always did, tumbling leaves about her feet in whorls, and loosening a lock of steel gray hair from her braid. She tired of the wind, but the children didn’t mind it, and she’d seen plenty of hawks using it as they passed south. The mountain her people camped on was aptly named Hawk Hill.

  “Now, now, my children,” she said. “There will be time to play games and tell stories later. Right now I need to see Ferdan. Ferdan? Where are you?”

  A towheaded boy raised his hand and the woman waded through the children to reach him. His face was drawn, with circles under his eyes and a smudge of dirt on his chin. His shirt was not buttoned correctly, as if he had dressed himself.

  “How is your mum today?” she asked. She knelt to rebutton his shirt and straighten it out.

  “Not too good,” the boy said. “Coughing real bad.”

  When the woman finished with his shirt, she stood and pressed a pouch fragrant with herbs into the boy’s small hand. “Tell her to take this with her tea, a pinch thrice daily, no more, no less. It will help clear her lungs. Keep water steaming in a pot nearby for her to breathe. It will make her easier. You understand? Be careful not to burn yourself.” When Ferdan’s expression of worry did not alter, she tousled his hair and said, “I’ll be along to visit her this afternoon. Now you go and see that your mum has some of that tea.”

  “Yes, Grandmother,” Ferdan said, and he darted off to a lean-to draped with a stained blanket used both for privacy and to keep out the weather, the pouch clutched to his breast.

  She would see to it his mother pulled through. It was a tragedy that any child should lose their mum. She shook her head and turned her attention to the rest of the children. “Isn’t it time you went to your lessons with Master Holdt?” There was whining and groaning from the children, but no real rebellion, and she shooed them away, chuckling.

  Only one child remained after all the others left, a little girl who was the woman’s true granddaughter, Lala. Lala was too simple in her mind for lessons and she did not like playing with the other children. Nor did she talk. So most of the time she shadowed her grandmother or played by herself.

  While the woman was Lala’s grandmother by blood, she was also known as Grandmother to all her people in the encampment. She birthed their babies, provided them with medicines when they were sick, cared for their wounds, and counseled them on matters of marriage and family. She also led them in their spiritual beliefs. When it came time to flee Sacor City and seek safe haven, it was her they had looked to; it was her they followed on the grueling journey across the country all the way west to Mirwell Province, sometimes traveling along roads, but more often than not making their way through the unforgiving wilderness of the Green Cloak Forest. It had not been easy, and not all survived the journey, but those who did expressed their gratitude for her foresight and wisdom.

  She was a simple woman, glad to be of comfort to them and honored by their trust. Leaving Sacor City had meant a great deal of upheaval and sacrifice. They’d left behind trades, businesses, respectable posts in the community; farms, homesteads, and houses. She had worried most about the children in the beginning, but learned over the ensuing months just how resilient the young ones were. This was a grand adventure for them, camping and hiding out in the wilds of the countryside, and the older boys liked to play “outlaw,” which usually involved the “king” and his men running after the “outlaws” of Second Empire, and ending when the outlaws slew the enemy with the sticks they used for swords. The empire always prevailed, the lads cheering with gusto.

  The hiding and camping tended to be harder on the adults, who recognized what they had given up and left behind forever. Yes, they had lost much, but they still possessed their freedom and their lives, and here they could wear their pendants or tattoos of the black tree unhidden. One day, Grandmother believed, the black tree of Mornhavonia would bloom again, but in the meantime they would not be at the mercy of king’s law.

  When the king discovered the existence of Second Empire over the summer, the sect in Sacor City began to collapse almost immediately with the capture of their leader, Weldon Spurlock. It was not Weldon who had revealed them, but another of their group, Westley Uxton. Names had been given, which led to more arrests and someone else giving additional names, and so on. Grandmother managed to escape with little more than a hundred of the faithful.

  Others chose to remain in Sacor City on the chance they’d not be discovered, and so had those who were too elderly or unfit to travel. Some took their own lives lest they be used by the king to acquire information, and a few were operatives who knew how to evade capture.

  The refugees from Sacor City occupied one side of the gray granite summit, where children recited lessons with Master Holdt and their parents washed laundry, repaired household goods, tended chickens and goats, and prepared for stalking game along the flanks of the mountain. The soldiers camped across from them, where they currently sharpened blades, practiced swordplay, and ate breakfast. Their tents and sturdy lean-tos were tucked into clusters of boulders and against outcrops.

  The soldiers were not children of the empire, but had been equally persecuted by the king. Some were bandits, mercenaries, and deserters, but most were loyalists of the old Lord Mirwell, who had attempted to depose the king two years ago. The loyalists had been forced into hiding to avoid arrest and the inevitable execution.

  Grandmother was convinced it was God who had brought her people and the soldiers together, unlikely allies though they may be. Her people required protection, and she needed to start building an army, and blessing be, she found the leader of the soldiers at a crossroads during their exodus. She had no gold to pay the soldiers with, no position in life with which to reward them—at least not yet—but she had been able to give them purpose, for they shared a common enemy: the king and Sacoridia.

  When the time was right, she would expand their ranks with the devout of Second Empire. Already some of the men and older boys of her sect trained with the soldiers. Others remained embedded with their units in provincial and private militias, as well as the king’s own military. When she called, they would come to her well trained and ready to attend to whatever task she set before them.

  Her ancestors had been wise to melt into everyday Sacoridian society, spreading a network of sects across the provinces and into Rhovanny as well. They had infiltrated not only the military, but the trades and guilds. They ran farms and sold wares. They lived as any Sacoridian did, but secretly awaited the time when the empire would rise again.

  One day they would rule over those who had been their neighbors, control all trade and the military. The empire would finally conquer this land of heathens. This was the dream of the five who founded Second Empire in the aftermath of the Long War, and Grandmother did not think the fruition of that dream far off.

  Such thoughts always warmed her, made her proud of her people. Over a millennium they had endured, keeping their secrets, and waiting ever so patiently. Their day would come.

  The officer who commanded the soldiers made his way across the summit to where she stood taking in the morning and halted before her. They had an appointment.

  “Lala, dear,” she said, turning to her granddaughter, “fetch my basket, please.”

  The little girl ducked into the tent they shared, and reemerged almost instantly with a long-handled basket that contained skeins of Grandmother’s yarn.

  The soldier awaiting her pleasure was tall and broad-shouldered and moved with the grace of any well-trained, disciplined warrior. He wore tough fighting leathers and a serviceable longsword in a scarred sheath on his right hip. His flesh also bore the scars of battle, notably a patch over his eye and the hook on his right wrist that replaced his missing hand. He had once been a favorite of the o
ld lord-governor’s, and proved experienced and highly capable. Grandmother liked him very much.

  “Good morning, Captain Immerez,” she said.

  “Morning.” His voice was low and gravelly. “We’re ready for you.”

  She nodded and followed him across the summit. Without looking, she knew Lala tagged along carrying the basket. The girl was always interested, or perhaps entertained, by her grandmother’s activities, whether it was healing the sick or punishing transgressors. Since Lala did not speak or show much in the way of emotion, it was hard to say what she thought about anything. Still, she was biddable, and her silence did not bother Grandmother in the least, for she was used to it. She had cut the girl from the womb of her own dead daughter nine years ago, and even then, though the baby had survived, she uttered not a sound when she emerged into the world, and had not made a sound since.

 
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