The High King's Tomb by Kristen Britain
In fact, the current lord-governor was having his portrait painted. He stood at the throne, a foot on the dais and one hand on the throne’s arm. He held a war hammer to his breast—no doubt the clan’s ancestral weapon from the Long War days. It was wood and iron, and unadorned, the handle darkened from centuries of use and, perhaps, blood.
Natural light streamed through a narrow window and onto his face. A velvet cloak of scarlet stitched with gold thread flowed off his shoulder and draped at his feet and beneath he wore the longcoat of a Mirwellian commander, dazzling with gold fringed epaulets, insignia, cords, gold piping, and elaborate oak leaf embroidery. Medals he certainly could not have earned in a single lifetime covered his breast and made his black silk baldric sag. At his hip he wore a smallsword that, in contrast to the plain war hammer, had a finely wrought swept hilt and a ruby set in the pommel and was sheathed in a jewel-encrusted scabbard.
Karigan took in that scene, then glanced over the artist’s shoulder to compare it with the painting. The painting was well along and depicted Timas, his attire, and his surroundings in a realistic way, and yet more so…Maybe it was how the artist captured the light. There was a strong romantic feel to the rendering. Timas’ face appeared more pure, as though he was blessed by the gods, and in fact the artist incorporated the crescent moon into the window leading, which was, in reality, made up of plain panels. Timas’ hair was shown as more raven, his flesh more full of color, and most important, the artist made him appear taller than he was.
Karigan wanted to laugh, wanted to laugh at how ridiculous Timas looked in his getup, and at how little he’d grown since their school days. He was still short. She wondered what people would think of him from that painting a hundred years from now. They’d think him tall, noble, and even heroic. Timas had chosen his artist well, but truly, only his deeds in life would determine whether or not he lived up to that image.
In addition to Timas and the artist, there was an officer sitting in a lesser chair to the side, looking through papers. He was a colonel, and he was not, Karigan was sorry to see, Beryl Spencer. Where was she?
“My lord,” Barrett said, “the G’ladheon bitch is here.”
Someone, Karigan thought, ought to drop Barrett out of a tower window. The receiving room turned to silence except for the artist’s brush swishing across the canvas. The colonel looked up. He was a hard man with those features—they appeared chiseled from ice. Unlike Timas, his scarlet uniform bore little decoration aside from his insignia, and his sword and sheath were not ornate but serviceable looking. This colonel was no fop but a genuine warrior.
“My Lord Barrett,” the colonel said in a deceptively mild voice, “that is not how we speak of the king’s messengers.”
“With this one it is,” Barrett said. “Besides, you can’t tell me what to do, Birch. I’m lord-steward, if you remember, and you answer to me.”
The colonel’s mouth became a thin line, and it was difficult to read what went on in his mind, but Karigan knew Barrett was making a mistake by speaking to him in such a manner. The colonel did not look like one to tolerate fools, no matter their title and status.
“Barrett.” It was Timas. The Noble One spoke, but did not alter his pose.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Shut up. Birch answers to me.”
“But—”
“Would you like me to order Colonel Birch to shut you up?”
Barrett clenched and unclenched his hands, but he obeyed and said nothing. The colonel’s mouth curved into a cold smile.
“Leastways,” Timas continued, “we do not speak of the king’s messengers in that manner while they are present.”
Barrett sniggered.
Karigan felt Fergal stiffen beside her. Back at the inn she’d lectured him about not drawing weapons in the presence of nobles; weapons were only a last recourse when one’s life was in danger. Insults did not count. She’d made sure he knew she appreciated his gesture of standing up for her yesterday, and in fact she’d been genuinely touched, but she needed him to understand that drawing a weapon in the face of mere words was not an option.
Barrett really could have imprisoned Fergal, and in prison he would have sat till she could obtain clemency from the king, which would have involved the journey all the way to Sacor City and back. Fergal, in the meantime, would be at the mercy of the Mirwellians. He had apologized and promised he wouldn’t draw steel on Barrett unless he had to kill him. Fergal had looked as though he hoped an opportunity would present itself.
“You must excuse my steward,” Timas said. “He is newly come to his position and has yet to learn discretion in public.” He turned so he could see them, which cast his face into half shadow. The artist emitted a strangled, frustrated sound. “You may approach the dais.”
Karigan had no choice but to bow to Timas, no matter how it rankled her, so she made it the most elaborate bow she could, bordering on mockery. A smirk grew on Timas’ face.
“I’d heard you became a Greenie,” he said, his voice quiet. “Seems fitting to finally see you bow to me.”
Karigan ignored the remark. “I’ve a message from the king for the lord-governor.” Saying it that way she did not acknowledge Timas was the lord-governor.
“Barrett,” Timas said, “bring me the message.”
He stood no more than a yard from Karigan, but would not take the message directly from her, as though her mere proximity would sully him.
Barrett appeared amused that Karigan had to give him the message after all. Karigan kept her expression cool. Barrett broke the seal, but before he could read the message, Colonel Birch stood with unexpected suddenness and swiped it from his hands.
Barrett scowled.
Birch scanned the message. “An invitation,” he said, “to a betrothal feast.” He handed it over to Timas and returned to his work as though the invitation was of no consequence.
Timas gave it a cursory glance and dropped it on the seat of the throne. “Betrothal feast, eh? We’ll see, we’ll see.”
Colonel Birch looked sharply at Timas. A warning? Karigan couldn’t tell. The dynamics in the room were strange, very unsettling. It occurred to her to wonder, in fact, who was actually in charge here.
“I’ll write a response later,” Timas said, and he took up his pose by the throne chair again. “I’ll have it delivered to your lodging. Dismissed.”
Dismissed? That was it? She was astonished, but before anyone could say another word, Karigan gave a shallow bow and swept out of the room, not waiting for Barrett to guide them. She and Fergal were hardly two steps through the door when she heard Timas and Barrett break out in laughter, no doubt at her. She couldn’t worry about it. In the scheme of the world, their opinion of her mattered little—she had more important things to concern herself with. It was clear Timas and Barrett were still stuck in childhood. And Timas’ getup! She found herself laughing as she strode down the corridor, Fergal giving her a sideways glance.
Outside the keep, Karigan and Fergal were directed to the stable to collect their horses. With each step across the courtyard, Karigan was increasingly glad to be done with the business and would be even happier to be on the road to Sacor City come morning. Once Timas’ response was delivered to them at The Fountain, they’d be free of all things Mirwell.
In the stable there were only a few horses besides Condor and Sunny. One, a bay mare, turned agitated circles in her box stall. Condor bobbed his head and whickered, as if picking up on the mare’s distress.
“What’s wrong with her?” Karigan asked the stablehand, who was sweeping.
“Her mistress hasn’t come around in a long while,” he said. “Out on maneuvers or some such. Usually she takes the mare with her.” He shrugged. “Luna Moth pines for her.”
Luna Moth! Beryl’s horse. Karigan had not recognized her. Why would Beryl go out on maneuvers without her? Separating a Rider from her mount was not done lightly.
“Is the horse sick or lame?” Karigan asked, wanting
“Nope,” the stablehand said. “Perfectly fit.”
Taking a chance, Karigan asked, “When is her owner due back?”
The stablehand shrugged again. “No one would tell the likes of me, but she’s been gone a good while this time.”
Karigan didn’t like the sound of that, not at all. Was Luna trying to convey something in her agitation? She went over to the mare’s stall and stroked her neck. She settled some, watching Karigan’s every move. “Don’t worry,” Karigan whispered. She gave the mare one last pat, and led Condor from the stable. There was nothing she could do for Luna without arousing suspicion. Even if Beryl was all right, Karigan could not risk exposing the Rider’s true affiliation as an operative of the king by seeming to know her or by asking injudicious questions.
She also had her orders. If Beryl could not be contacted, she was not to investigate further but to return to Sacor City and report to Captain Mapstone.
The common room of The Fountain was quiet as Karigan and Fergal finished their evening meal of stewed mutton. A few regulars sat by the hearth sipping their pints and tossing dice. Karigan mulled over the scene in Timas Mirwell’s receiving room and fretted over the missing Beryl. Beyond Barrett’s immature behavior and her natural loathing of Timas, she could not get over the feeling the one with the real power in the room was Colonel Birch. She wasn’t concerned with provincial politics, but when it came to a fellow Rider who should be accounted for, who should have been present in that receiving room…
Karigan had not been privy to the reports Beryl had sent to the king and Captain Mapstone after Timas assumed the governorship, nor had she ever heard mention of a Colonel Birch, but she had thought everything in the province was going well. Until the silence.
“Are we going to look for Rider Spencer?” Fergal asked.
“Our orders are to return if we don’t make contact,” Karigan replied. She was both relieved and frustrated she could not investigate further. Relieved that the responsibility would fall to her superiors, frustrated there were unanswered questions, and worried that Beryl might be in trouble. She tried to console herself with the knowledge that Beryl was tough. Very tough, in a way Karigan herself never would be.
The inn’s door opened, bringing in a draft of fresh night air and the sound of splashing water of the fountain. Everyone in the common room looked up, and in walked Barrett, followed by two scarlet-uniformed soldiers. Karigan sighed and the other patrons muttered among themselves.
Attired in fine silks and velvets, Barrett stood out like a rooster among sheep. He gave the common room a cursory glance, distaste on his face, and strode straight toward Karigan and Fergal once he spied them.
“I don’t know why Lord Mirwell has me running this trivial errand,” he said without greeting. “I am not accustomed to this.” He stopped before their table, reached into an inner pocket of his frock coat, and bent down close enough to Karigan to whisper, “He sent me because he trusts me. I tried to come alone, but Birch made those other two come along.” He barely nodded his head in the direction of the soldiers. “You will find more than one message here.”
He then straightened, produced an envelope, and slapped it on the table. Aloud he said, “That is Lord Mirwell’s reply to the king.” Barrett turned and swept from the common room to the square outside, the soldiers right behind him.
Fergal leaned toward her and asked in a low voice, “What was that about?”
“I don’t know,” Karigan replied. She had a dark thought that Timas and Barrett were playing some game with her, but Barrett’s manner was…different. And it confirmed what she was thinking in regard to Birch. Underneath the sealed message to the king, she found a folded piece of paper. She glanced around the common room. The other patrons were again absorbed in their games, but she made sure no one observed her placing the folded paper in her message satchel along with the official message to the king.
Only when she was back in her room did she dare look at the hidden message. It was short and mysterious.
“Well?” Fergal said.
Karigan glanced up at him. “It’s signed by Timas, in his own hand. He says that he knows why we’re really here, and that if we go to the Teligmar Crossroads at dawn, we will see something of interest to us.”
“What in five hells does he mean?” Fergal asked.
“I assume it has something to do with Beryl,” Karigan said, “though he could be playing some trick on me. But it just doesn’t feel like a trick.”
Fergal dropped into a chair. “So, are we going to this place?”
If it had something to do with Beryl, she could not ignore the note. “Yes,” she said, “we’re going to the crossroads. Now. I don’t dare wait till dawn. While I think this is genuine, I wouldn’t put it past Timas to have some unpleasant surprise awaiting us. If we go now, we can scout the area, then wait.”
THE WALL SPEAKS
We sing our will to strengthen and bind.
Defeat.
No!
Cracking. Bleeding.
No! Listen to me. Follow me.
You unravel.
Sing with me.
Disharmony. Discord.
He must hear us. He must help us. He must heal us.
Do not trust. Hate him!
Hate…Uncertainty.
The struggle weakens us.
We are tired.
If we fall we can rest.
No! I strengthen you. Us .
We are tired.
We are dying.
We feel his heartbeat.
HEARTBEAT
Over the course of weeks, Dale met the rest of the tower guardians east of the breach as each arrived: Cleodheris from Tower of the Clouds, a serene and ethereal woman who spoke little, even as Boreemadhe sniped at her for sending so many clouds to Tower of the Rains; Doreleon from Tower of the Rivers, who played a reed pipe and never tired of fish tales; Fresk from Tower of the Valleys, who appeared younger than the others, if youth was of any relevance among magical projections; and finally, Winthorpe, from Tower of the Summits, the elemental mage who had long ago created running water in each tower for the benefit of the wallkeepers.
Merdigen remained absent along with the three other guardians to the west, and Dale was beginning to worry, but in the meantime she had been obliged to tell, over and over, the story of the breach in the wall, and update each new arrival on the course of history over the last two hundred years or so. By the time Winthorpe had arrived, her tale was well-practiced.
After so many years of “sleep” and isolation, the tower guardians made up for lost time with parties. At any given moment, Dorleon might pull out his pipe and play a raucous tune on it, and Itharos would lead Boreemadhe around the chamber in a dance. Meanwhile, Fresk would take Winthorpe on in a drinking game in which both grew steadily more inebriated. Cleodheris presided over it all with extreme serenity.
One would never suspect, with all their carrying on, the wall was in fragile condition.
As practiced as Dale was in bringing the tower guardians to the present, she was equally rehearsed in telling Alton about each new arrival. He’d taken to recording notes in his journal, and often made her repeat certain details as he needed them, which was something of a trial. Once he’d actually followed her all the way to the latrine, peppering her with questions until she shooed him away.
Mostly Alton was interested in whatever she could glean from the guardians about their individual towers and what they knew of the construction of the wall, and what Dale received from them were variations of Merdigen’s tale, of lonely exile, the murder of their fellow mages on the mountain, and the choice King Jonaeus had offered them. Then serious discussion would disintegrate when someone suggested a game of Intrigue or speculated on the position of the stars and the meaning of their formations and that of the periodic appearances of other heavenly bodies. Inevitably someone would produce parchment and pen from
Above all, they preferred parties, and when the wine and ale started flowing—wine and ale that did not exist and that Dale could not therefore enjoy—it was impossible to get anything worthwhile out of them, so she gave up in disgust, ready to grab bunches of her hair and rip it out, and left the guardians to their own devices.
And then she’d have to give Alton the details, such as they were, and repeat them over and over.
One night Dale slept comfortably bundled in her blankets, dreaming she was floating over beautiful hills and valleys, the landscape rolling along beneath her. She was overcome by a sensation of lightness and freedom. Until Alton called to her.
“Dale? You awake?”
She dropped like an anchor and awoke with a snort.
“Dale?”
She blinked at candlelight only to find Alton leaning over her. Gone was the joy of the dream.
“What’s the hour?” she mumbled.
“Don’t know,” Alton said. “Late. Er, sorry to wake you, but…”
“I was flying,” she said, her voice mournful.
At first Alton remained silent, then said, “Flying?”
“In my dream.”
“Oh.”
“It was a beautiful dream.” She sighed. “What do you need?”
He wanted her to recall more of the equations the guardians had been drawing.
Dale raised herself on her elbow and regretted it as cold air seeped into the toasty regions beneath her blankets. “Whatever for?”
“Could be important,” he replied.
“It has to do with the stars, not the wall.” She fell into her pillow and pulled the covers up to her neck. “You know what I think? I think you should try to get more sleep.”