The High King's Tomb by Kristen Britain
“That’s when it happened,” Miss Bunch said. “That’s when our lovely house, built by our father for our dear mother, was destroyed.”
Both sisters appeared on the verge of tears.
“How?” Willis asked.
“Well, it was the pirate ship, of course,” Miss Bay replied tartly.
“Pirate ship?”
“Nasty pirates.”
Miss Bay then described, with comments inserted by her sister, how the sea rose in their house despite its location far from the coast, and flooded it and poured out the windows, and how the ship materialized to full size inside the house, destroying it utterly.
“Not a chimney left standing!” said Miss Bunch with a mournful sniff. “It will be a long while before the house mends itself.”
“If it can, sister,” Miss Bay said. “It isn’t like the simple leak we had in the west gable roof last spring.”
“True, but I have faith. I must.”
A silence passed before Miss Bay said, “We had to hide from the pirates. We hid and hid. They would not have been in the bottle in the first place had they not been very bad.”
“Bottle?” Willis’ voice cracked as he asked the question.
“Why, yes,” Miss Bay said. “Weren’t you listening? We said it was an arcane object. Really, I thought the Black Shields grasped such concepts.”
“I—”
“In any case, young man,” Miss Bunch interrupted, “you will want to warn the king that pirates now infest his forest. This is why we are glad we met you, so you could warn the king.”
“Nasty pirates,” Miss Bay reemphasized.
“We don’t know how many, do we, Bay?” Miss Bunch said, and her sister shook her head.
If Amberhill had not slain the pirates himself, he’d have thought the two sisters seriously mad. He twisted the blood ruby ring on his finger.
“Pirates…” poor Willis muttered.
“Is he dense?” Miss Bay asked Amberhill.
“No, my lady,” he replied. “But I think you need not worry about the pirates anymore.”
Willis glanced sharply at him, and the ladies turned intent gazes on him.
“Is that so?” Miss Bunch asked.
“Look at the ring,” Miss Bay whispered, pointing.
Amberhill raised it into the light so they could get a better look at it. The fire made the ruby glow with red and orange flames, the dragon seeming to slither around his finger. He covered the ring with his other hand, withdrew it from the light.
The sisters stared at one another, then turned their gazes back on him.
“There are oddments of jewelry,” Miss Bunch began.
“And then,” her sister continued, “there are objects that take some responsibility to own.”
“If we are not mistaken,” Miss Bunch said, “that ring is one such object. If the wearer should own it for the sake of owning it, the consequences could be terrible. But if the wearer accepts the responsibility for whatever the object may represent, then the outcome may prove more beneficent.”
“It isn’t…just a ring?” Amberhill asked, already knowing the answer.
“Young man,” Miss Bay said, “that ruby is a heartstone, and only the most powerful of old owned them. Before the Black Ages, mind. Before Mornhavon. Long ago when the Sea Kings roamed the oceans and all the lands owed them allegiance, except those of the Eletians, of course.”
“Their symbol,” Miss Bunch said, “was the dragon. It is believed that such creatures once inhabited the Earth and filled the skies with their wings, and that only the Sea Kings were able to dominate or destroy them.”
Amberhill had seen some strange things on his journey, not the least of which were the pirates. But dragons? Surely they belonged to the realm of fairy tale only. He pressed his thumb against the contours of the gold dragon, trying to imagine the ring as something fashioned and worn by ancients. It was not easy to comprehend.
“If you are honorable, and accept the responsibility of owning a heartstone,” Miss Bunch said, “all should be well.”
Miss Bay nodded her agreement.
Amberhill did not think Willis had heard a bit of the discussion, for he looked uncharacteristically befuddled and still muttered about pirates.
“Now that you’ve no home,” Amberhill said, “and the winter is coming on, where will you go?”
“We’ve a cousin in the south,” Miss Bay said. “We shall bide our time with her till other arrangements can be made.”
Miss Bunch rolled her eyes. “And I say we should go to Rhovanny.”
“Now don’t you start—”
“But you don’t like Miss Poppy any better than I. She’s a witch!”
“Don’t you mean she’s a—”
“Bay! Don’t you dare say it. You’ll make Mother turn in her grave.”
Miss Bay chortled.
“In any case,” her sister said, “it’s only until the house mends itself.”
“That’ll be forever.”
“Oh, stop.”
Amberhill excused himself and left the ladies to their quarrel. He retrieved his gear and set up his bedroll and sat upon it for some time, gazing into the dark away from the camp. The words of the sisters disturbed him and he wondered just what the ring tied him into, what responsibility he’d taken on by claiming it.
The Amberhill of old—the one who believed honor abductions a quaint tradition before it nearly cost the country its queen—might have decided to sell the piece for as much currency as he could get, abdicating any responsibility required for owning such an object; but the Amberhill of now, as disturbed by the sisters’ words as he was, was willing to face any challenges the ring presented. He’d be an able guardian of it and would not allow it to fall into the wrong hands if it indeed held some form of power.
Most of all, however, he was simply intrigued by the mystery of it. The ring was beautiful, and ancient, and he just didn’t wish to give it up.
Besides, the sisters could be wrong about it. He wasn’t sure they were altogether sane. He resolved to find out more about the ring, to learn the truth of its origins—once he’d set his estate back in order, of course.
Satisfied by the plan, he rose and headed for the main fire where stew was warming. As he walked he felt a distinct pinch on his right buttock. He jumped several feet and whirled, his hand to the hilt of his rapier, but no one was near, though he swore he heard the faintest of feminine giggles fading away.
He shook his head, then realized several Weapons and Beryl Spencer had observed his odd behavior and watched him in curiosity. In a move he’d learned from cats, he pretended nothing happened and continued on his way with the utmost dignity in his step.
RETURNINGS
By the end of the first month of winter, all who’d been sent out in pursuit of Lady Estora and her captors returned. First came Ty to report the book the king sought had been acquired by Second Empire and that they intended to break into the tombs. His mouth dropped open when the captain told him Karigan had arrived with the news well ahead of him and had helped recapture the book and round up the culprits.
The next to arrive were Willis, his Weapons, Lord Amberhill, and Beryl Spencer. They were less surprised that Karigan had arrived ahead of them, but had been pleased to hear the outcome. Lord Amberhill disappeared after telling his side of events to take care of some business in the city and elsewhere. He gave no details.
King Zachary and Captain Mapstone agreed that Beryl would not return to Mirwell Province anytime soon and they doubted Lord Mirwell would welcome back a known spy. If they had other plans for her abilities, nothing was heard of it, but she exchanged the scarlet of Mirwell for Rider green and resumed swordmaster initiate training with Arms Master Drent.
Shortly afterward, the rest of the Weapons arrived with their prisoners, including Immerez, who still had all five fingers attached to his one hand. That said, no one knew how long he would retain his head once the king was through with him. Some Weapons h
Lord Mirwell had no idea as to where Birch had gone, but stated he was glad to be done with him. King Zachary would investigate Lord Mirwell’s connection to Second Empire further, but it sounded as if the young lord-governor had been an unwilling participant in their schemes.
The only ones still at large were Fergal, Lady Estora, and the Weapons who’d gone in search of them. Karigan fretted daily that she’d done the wrong thing in sending them on their way alone, no matter how much Captain Mapstone and her friends reassured her she’d made a wise and courageous decision. But whenever she saw Lord Coutre, who’d dropped considerable weight and whose face was constantly lined with worry, she wondered. Wondered if she could have done better.
And oh, how she missed her Condor.
One day, while the clouds sent sleet battering against the castle walls, Karigan glared at herself in the mirror to see how her hair was growing back. It was returning, but with a cowlick. Not only that, but the new hair was fine and blond, like a baby’s. She’d taken to parting her hair on the opposite side and combing a layer of it over the funny patch to obscure it. All her other hurts healed nicely and were fading, though there was an impressive scar down her forearm. Since it was usually covered, it did not bother her much.
Suddenly her door burst open and Yates strode into her room without knocking.
“Yates!” she cried, swinging around. “I could have been dressing or something!”
“But you weren’t,” he said with a mournful expression. “You were instead admiring your head.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “If you ever barge in here again without knocking, you’ll find yourself ‘admiring’ your head as well.”
He bowed. “My humblest of apologies. But I thought you’d want the news.”
“News? What news?”
Yates stood there with a smug grin on his face and said nothing.
“Tell me,” Karigan commanded, “or I’ll shake it out of you.” She reached for him but he hopped back just out of her grasp.
“I know you are quite capable of hanging me out the window by my ankles should you so wish,” he said, “but I’m not going to tell you. I will tell you the captain would like you to attend her in the throne room, and I’ll even escort you.” He proffered his arm.
“Scoundrel,” she said.
“The lady is harsh,” he said, feigning hurt. “But for her I shall endure the severest of tongue lashings.”
Karigan groaned and rolled her eyes.
“The sooner we go,” Yates added, “the sooner you can find out the news.”
She really wanted to swat him, but he had a point, so she grabbed his arm and practically dragged him down the corridor, not quite the same as when he escorted her one fairy tale day in autumn when she wore a blue gown and felt a princess. She remembered how the day ended. Not in the usual fairy tale fashion, but with the throwing of her shoe at the Raven Mask.
Both Tegan and Mara remarked upon how glum many aristocratic ladies had seemed upon hearing the news of the Raven Mask’s demise. Karigan felt little pity for them and their fantasies and thought of them as a bunch of silly clucks. Nor did she pity the Raven Mask for he had abducted and endangered Estora, threatening the unity of Sacoridia. Such a one as he was better off dead.
All the way to the throne room, Yates joked with her and treated her like a lady and he her obedient servant. She’d shake him if she weren’t laughing so hard. Though it wasn’t exactly the “Riderly” behavior Ty would insist on, no one paid them much attention. In fact, those they met in the corridor were in high spirits, despite the gloomy weather. Something was definitely afoot.
Then she caught snatches of conversation and Estora’s name.
Karigan grabbed Yates’ arm hard enough he yelped, and pivoted so she faced him squarely. “They’re back, aren’t they.”
He nodded, and she rushed off, leaving him behind.
When she reached the throne room, she found it mobbed with courtiers and Weapons. She slipped her way between bodies, angling for the dais. She discerned the king’s head rising above everyone else’s. Excited voices drowned out the sound of sleet hammering the tall throne room windows. To Karigan it all blended into one big roar.
The crowd actually thinned out near the dais, and she arrived just in time to find Fergal on his knee, extending messages to the king, while Captain Mapstone and Connly, and the king’s other advisors, looked on. She almost cried out Fergal’s name, but waited as the king reached for the messages. He said something she could not hear amid the clamor, but she thought his mouth formed the words, “Well done, Rider.”
Concern, pride, and exasperation filled Karigan as she gazed upon the scene. Concern over Fergal’s condition, pride at his safe return with the messages, no less, and exasperation because…well, because he was Fergal.
When he rose from his knee, he turned and smiled at her. She swept a critical gaze over him. His uniform was neat, clean, and looked in surprisingly good condition for one on the run. She noticed no illness or injury, and he looked, by all accounts, well fed.
Huh, she thought. Perhaps she had worried needlessly. But she was too overjoyed to worry about worry, and strode over to him and gave him a great hug, right there in front of captain and king and other important persons. Only later would Karigan learn that Fergal had followed her instructions so well that he confounded Immerez’s thugs who pursued him and Lady Estora, and even the Weapons who finally discovered them biding their time at an “inn” in Rivertown called the Golden Rudder. Later was soon enough for Karigan to throttle Fergal. Especially when he gave her a perfumed handkerchief as a remembrance from Trudy.
Captain Mapstone tapped Karigan on the shoulder and pointed across the room. When Karigan turned, she found Estora standing there in Rider green, looking as alive and healthy as Fergal. The two stared at one another for a moment or two, but then Estora left those friends, family members, and courtiers who thronged her and hugged Karigan. Lord Coutre came over and patted Karigan on the shoulder before moving on to pump Fergal’s hand in a hearty handshake.
The return of Estora marked the beginning of an endless stream of festivities as winter winds gusted in a fury around the castle turrets and leaked with icy fingers through windows, but despite Karigan’s involvement in Estora’s rescue, she managed to avoid a good deal of it, for there was a certain pre-wedding atmosphere to the proceedings, with both Estora and King Zachary presiding over affairs like the intended couple they were, and it all cut into Karigan’s gut no matter how she tried to dull the pain.
There were other matters vying for her attention, anyway. First, figuring was not one of Mara’s strong points and the Rider ledgers were badly in need of Karigan’s attention. Second, there was Condor who had returned from his journey as unscathed as Estora and Fergal. She spent many an hour grooming him and feeding him wrinkled apples, and even going riding on those days that were not so fiercely wintry.
And finally, there was the day all the Riders anticipated, both old and new: Mara’s release from the mending wing and official return to duty as Chief Rider. Yates escorted her from the mending wing to the Rider wing, which she had never seen before. Mara was met with applause from friends who had striven to make their quarters as warm and homey as one could make any section of an ancient castle, with bright tapestries and artwork.
Mara oohed and aahed at the appropriate moments as Yates showed her the decoration and the cozy common room, but Karigan detected a glistening in Mara’s eyes, likely of happiness, but also of loss over the Rider barracks that had been home for so long. For her, the Rider wing was a whole new experience.
When Yates took Mara to her room, he explained the trouble Garth had gone to in order to find just the right furnishings, and told her Garth was sorry he could not be there to show it all
Finally Mara’s tears flowed in full, and Karigan thought the deep healing of her friend had finally come full circle.
SECRETS
Laren stood before the door to Lady Coutre’s parlor. The Weapon Willis guarded it, so she knew Lady Estora was within. She’d not been looking forward to this conversation, but it was time. Time before anymore crises arose and this problem was once again brushed aside. She tugged her shortcoat straight and knocked.
After a brief moment, a maid opened the door and admitted her. She was greeted by the domestic scene of Lady Coutre sitting with her three daughters before the fire, engaged in needlework and sipping tea. Laren bowed.
“Good afternoon, Captain,” Lady Coutre said, looking up from her embroidery. “This is a surprise.”
“I apologize for the intrusion,” Laren said.
“Have you a message for us?”
Laren smiled. It was a long time since she had carried messages. The lady’s two younger daughters, focused on needle and thread, paid her scant attention, but Lady Estora’s regard was rapt, and even hopeful.
“No,” Laren said. “I bear no messages. However, I wonder if I might have some words with Lady Estora.”
“Certainly, Captain. Won’t you join us? I’ll have Priscilla fetch you some tea.”
Laren shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Thank you, but I wish to speak with your daughter alone. It is Rider business in regard to her forthcoming role as queen.” It was certainly the truth.
“I see,” said Lady Coutre. “We can—”
Lady Estora stood, setting her needlework aside. “No reason to trouble yourself, Mother,” she said. “Captain Mapstone and I can speak elsewhere. Besides, I feel a need to stretch a bit.”
Her mother looked ready to object, then smiled. “As you wish, dear.”