One evening she wandered campus pathways to stretch her legs, remembering school days when she used to sneak out of her dorm to visit Estral. The two would chat deep into the night, Karigan returning to her bed just in time for the morning bell. She’d then spend most of her day drifting from class to class in a sleepy haze.
She smiled and struck off for the Golden Guardian’s residence, which lay outside the grouping of academic buildings and looked over the city. She had no idea if Estral would be in, but she yearned for a chat with her friend, just like in the old days.
As befitting the Golden Guardian, the house was large with symmetrical columns lining its front facade. Mellow lamplight filled a few of the windows on the bottom floor. Karigan mounted the granite steps and jangled the bell at the large door, which was embedded with a brass plaque in the shape of a harp.
Presently the door opened and a gentleman, attired in a dark velvet longcoat and high collar wrapped with a silk cravat, peered out at her, a lamp in his hand. “Yes?” he asked.
“Good evening, Biersly,” Karigan said. “I’m wondering if Estral is in.”
He beckoned her into the entry hall and placed his lamp on a table. “Please wait here one moment.” He turned on his heel and retreated down the hall. Karigan shook her head. Biersly knew who she was—she’d been a frequent visitor during her school years, yet he did not seem to recognize her.
The entry hall remained as Karigan remembered. Familiar masterworks of art and tapestries hung on the walls, and the same furniture sat where it always had been. It was both stylish and impersonal, the way the houses of other nobles and officials tended to be. It was the public space for visitors and dignitaries to enter and business to be conducted. The family quarters, with their more personal touches and belongings, were usually located on an upper floor. It was true of this house.
With slow, deliberate strides, Biersly returned. “Mistress Andovian will see you. Please follow me.”
Karigan could not help but imitate the butler’s lilting gait and serious demeanor as she followed him. To her surprise they bypassed the marble staircase that wound to the upper floor and instead headed for the back of the house toward the kitchen. The house, as they passed through it, exuded silence, and Karigan thought it odd for a place that housed the musically oriented Golden Guardian and his minstrel daughter. Of course, the Golden Guardian was rarely home.
The kitchen, too, was quiet, but they found Estral sitting there at the long, rough table in the spill of lamplight, with papers, pen, and ink before her. Gentle heat radiated from the cook stove behind her. When Estral looked up, Biersly halted and bowed. “Rider G’ladheon to see you, mistress.”
Estral smiled. “Thank you, Biersly. You’re dismissed for the evening.”
“Thank you, mistress.” He bowed again and departed.
Estral watched after him, still smiling. “It’s gaming night,” she said.
“What?”
“All the butlers gather in their favorite pub down in town to dice and such. I think it’s just an excuse to get together to gossip about their masters and mistresses.”
“Biersly?” Karigan asked. “Gambling?” Then she laughed, envisioning that solemn, proper man with his sleeves rolled up and a tankard of ale at his elbow as he rolled dice.
“I’m glad you came over,” Estral said, shoving her papers aside. “We haven’t had a chance to visit properly.”
They raided the pantry for some gingerbread baked that afternoon, put water on the stove for tea, and proceeded to engage in some gossip of their own, about some of Karigan’s old classmates and instructors and Estral’s students. Without anyone around to overhear them, the talk was free, and at times loud, accompanied by much laughter.
Timbre, Estral’s gray tabby, leaped onto the table and butted his head against his mistress’ chin. A typical shipcat, he was huge, his long fur and plumed tail augmenting his size. Estral crumpled a piece of paper and threw it across the kitchen. Timbre clomped to the floor to chase it, and bore it back in his mouth. Shipcats were that way, sort of doglike.
After a few minutes of play, Timbre jumped back onto the table and flopped, purring loudly enough that Karigan swore she felt the table vibrate.
They finished the last crumbs of gingerbread and Estral cocked her head. “So, I assume that, aside from your delay here, your message errand is going well…”
Karigan sighed.
“Oh dear,” Estral said, passing her hand through Timbre’s luxurious fur. His purring grew louder. “That good, eh?”
Because of Estral’s sympathetic ear, Karigan opened up and the details of her journey tumbled from her mouth. It was a relief to tell her about Fergal’s intentional plunge into the Grandgent, and about the brothel and her father’s association with it.
“You have had a trying time of it, haven’t you?” Estral said.
“There are times when I want to throttle him.”
“Fergal or your father?”
“Both, I suppose, but at the moment Fergal is closer at hand.”
Estral propped her chin on her hand. “He seems terribly eager to prove himself, and judging from what you’ve said of his past, it’s no surprise. I do notice him in Mel’s company an awful lot.”
Karigan sighed. “I’ve noticed as well. I might be more amused if Mel weren’t the captain’s daughter.”
“Seems harmless enough. Look, Karigan, you can’t expect to control Fergal’s every move. People are, well, people, and they all have their own quirks and will do whatever they want to no matter what you would like them to do. At some point they are responsible for their own actions. You have created very high standards for yourself, but not everyone is going to adopt them just because you want them to. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
Karigan gazed at her friend, stunned. “And when did you become such a wise one, Old Mother?”
“Teaching. Teaching a hundred Fergals. Well, maybe not as challenging as your Fergal, but challenging nonetheless. Somewhere I’ve acquired vast amounts of patience.” She rolled her eyes. “It appears to me you’ve been doing your best with Fergal. He seems good-hearted, and I should think he’s learned quite a lot from you so far.” Estral paused, and chuckled. “I do sound like an old mother, don’t I?”
Karigan didn’t feel as confident about her ability as a mentor as Estral sounded. She was certain that if she were more patient, more instructorly like Ty, Fergal wouldn’t even have thought of jumping into the Grandgent, much less done it. But she wasn’t Ty, and she could only continue to do her best. Then she laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Estral asked.
“My high standards, as you called them,” Karigan replied, barely able to contain herself. “How did I get those? Surely not by skipping class and starting fights and—”
“By learning,” Estral said, “and by having a good heart. Like Fergal.”
Karigan stopped laughing, stilled by sudden revelation. “Oh, my,” she murmured. “I was a difficult child at times.” If she were to mentor a younger version of herself, her younger self would drive her current self batty. Fergal couldn’t hold a light to that! “I was…I was a brat.”
Estral patted her wrist. “Yes, at times, but we love you anyway, and you’ve turned out just fine.”
“Er, thanks.”
“My pleasure.”
Timbre, tired of being ignored, pawed at Estral’s pen and papers. She rescued the pen, but the papers fluttered off the table.
“You’re a big help,” she muttered at the cat, and she retrieved the papers, arranging them into a neat pile. “Exams I’m grading.” She then lifted Timbre onto her lap. He draped himself across her thighs in boneless fashion and resumed purring.
“So when does the journeyman go journeying?” Karigan asked her.
Estral grimaced. “I suppose I’ll have to do so by next year, but truth be told, I…I don’t feel inclined to travel much.”
“What? A minstrel who doesn’t want to travel?”
“I like teaching.” Estral stroked Timbre. “That’s a good thing because Selium will always need teachers. But to teach more than the youngest children and assist with some of the other classes, I have to become a master, and to become a master, I have to do my year of wandering.” Her expression grew mournful.
“Good thing you weren’t called into the messenger service,” Karigan said.
“I know.”
Estral’s response was so earnest they both laughed. Annoyed, Timbre jumped from Estral’s lap and slinked away to sit by the cook stove and lick his paw. Then he froze in mid-lick as if frightened by something, and darted out of the kitchen into the darkness of the house.
“What’s with him?” Karigan asked.
Estral shrugged. “He’s a cat.”
Then Karigan heard something, a stealthy noise somewhere in the house. The creaking of floorboards, which now, to her sensitized ears, was excruciating in the silence.
“What is it?” Estral asked.
Her voice low, but just loud enough so her friend could hear, Karigan replied, “Someone’s in the house.”
They looked at one another, Estral’s expression stricken, the break-in at the archives and assault upon the dean fresh in their minds.
THE GOLDEN GUARDIAN
“It can’t be Biersly,” Estral whispered, “he’ll be gone for hours still.”
“Shhh…” Karigan strained to listen, the silence complete and ominous. Had she imagined it? Then there it was again, a creaking floorboard, a shuffling noise. She had come to Estral’s house unarmed, believing there was no need to bring her saber on a friendly visit. She gazed about the kitchen and spotted a poker next to the cook stove. She stood as quietly as she could and grasped it.
“What are—” Estral began, but Karigan gestured her to stay quiet.
She crept out of the kitchen, motioning for Estral to stay put. She attempted to move as noiselessly as possible. It was likely the intruder would head for the kitchen once he saw the lamplight. Biersly left a lamp burning in the entry hall, making it obvious the house was occupied, and if an occupied house was not enough to deter the intruder, then Karigan must assume he was willing to harm those within, especially if it was the same person who broke into the archives and injured Dean Crosley.
The hall outside the kitchen fell into shadow and Karigan paused several moments to allow her eyes to adjust. It would do no good to go blundering into the intruder because she was light blind. She tamed her breathing and she listened. A door moaned open deeper in the house.
She set off slowly, poker clenched in her hand, aware of Estral hovering in the kitchen door behind her. She wished she knew the layout of the house better to help compensate for the darkness. She moved at a turtle’s pace, navigating furnishings and straining to hear the movements of the intruder. She should have told Estral to leave by the back entrance and seek help, but she hadn’t thought of that in time. Maybe Estral would think to do so herself.
Karigan licked her lips and pressed on. When she reached the front entry hall, Biersly’s lamp twisted and flickered wildly. The front door had been left ajar and the cold wind curled in and around Karigan’s ankles. She shivered.
Thunk.
The noises were concentrated toward the far end of the house. Karigan crept on, step by step. In daylight this walk would have taken mere seconds. Now it felt like a hundred year journey. In the parlor she smacked her knee into a chair. She covered her mouth to stop a stream of curses and hopped madly on one foot. When the pain subsided, she limped on, her senses raw to telltale sounds and to furnishings that might impede her way.
She rounded a corner in a side hall and found lamplight emanating from a doorway. The glow of light dimmed and brightened as someone moved around it.
If Karigan remembered correctly, this was the library. It made sense. If the thief couldn’t find what he wanted at the archives, then perhaps he’d find what he was looking for in the Golden Guardian’s personal library. She eased her way to the door and peered in. At first the light was too much after her eyes had become accustomed to the dark, but soon she could make out the scene.
The Fiori library was full of deep mahogany hues and rich fabrics on upholstered furniture. It was not a large library, but was filled to capacity by leather-bound volumes and scrolls. A marble-framed fireplace gaped dark and dormant. In the center of the room was the library table where a figure in a gray cloak bent over an open book. Saddlebags were strewn on the floor at his feet. Timbre the cat sat in the center of the table looking down at the open book as if he could read it, then he glanced at her with his green, slitted eyes and thumped his tail on the table. The cloaked intruder stiffened.
Karigan adjusted her grip on the poker. “Put your hands out to your sides where I can see them and turn around slowly.”
An agonizing amount of time passed in which the intruder stood where he was, unmoving. She wondered if he was considering his options, thinking of plans of attack and escape.
“In the name of the king—” Karigan began.
Immediately his stance relaxed. He obeyed and put his hands out. Hands empty of weapons. He turned around. The hood of his cloak shadowed the upper portions of his face. His chin was unshaven and golden bristles glinted in the lamplight. He was about to speak when something behind her caught his attention.
Karigan whirled and raised her poker just in time to turn a swordblade cutting out of the dark. How stupid she’d been to assume there was only one intruder in the house. A quick exchange of blows ensued, the assailant’s blade sparking against the coarse iron of the poker. She could not see him, caught as she was between the light of the library and the dark of the house. The assailant was also dressed in black and was absorbed by the formless shadows beyond.
The poker proved a crude sword, awkward to handle, poorly balanced, and lacking a guard to protect her hand. Her assailant was an expert swordsman and she knew she was in trouble with her clumsy weapon.
Clang-clang-clang-cling-clang!
Her best defense was to move quickly, to leap out of the way, to—She collided into a small side table and it smashed beneath her. She found herself sprawled atop the broken wood with a swordtip pressed against her neck. Desperately she groped for the poker, but it had rolled out of reach.
“Karigan?” the assailant said in disbelief.
“Master Rendle?”
The sword retracted into the shadows and a hand emerged in its place to help her rise. The side table was in shambles and Karigan felt rather bruised. Gratefully she accepted the hand up.
“Then who—?” She gestured at the man in the library.
She perceived Rendle’s sword up at guard more than saw it.
“My good Rendle,” the cloaked intruder said, “this is a fine way to welcome me home.”
The swordtip dropped to the floor. “My lord! I had no idea!” And Rendle knelt in obeisance, Karigan too startled to move. Their intruder was the Golden Guardian?
If there had been any question, it was dispelled by Estral, who flew from the darkness that Karigan had only inched through, and threw herself into the man’s wide open arms. “Father!”
When Estral broke away from him, the dark gray hood fell back and he undraped the cloak from his shoulders, revealing a lean man with faded blond hair and the same sea-green eyes as his daughter. Fine lines crinkled around his eyes as though he squinted too much in the sun or laughed a lot. Despite the lines, his age was difficult to determine, much the way it was with the Eletians. It was said that Eletian blood had intermingled with the Fiori line long ago, and Karigan believed it.
Aaron Fiori, Golden Guardian of Selium, cast them all a brilliant grin.
“If I didn’t know better, it would seem there was some conspiracy afoot—an arms master and a Green Rider sneaking about my house.”
“I’m…I’m sorry, sir,” Karigan said. Her bow was jerky, for she was still startled. “I didn’t realize—I didn’t—”
His laugh
was a deep sound that resonated around them, breaking the spell of silence. “That’s what I get for trying not to disturb anyone. At this hour I expect my daughter to be abed.”
“You wouldn’t have awakened me to let me know you were home?” Estral asked.
“Morning would have been soon enough, eh? But since you are up, hug me again.” And she did. “Come, come,” he said, beckoning his accidental visitors into the library.
Karigan winced as she gazed down at the table she had crushed. “Sir, I—”
“Never you mind that. It’s only Second Age, by one of the lesser known craftmasters.”
Second Age? That meant it was hundreds of years old and now she was more than sorry—she was mortified.
“Come,” Lord Fiori insisted. Then more gently he added, “I would never blame anyone who thought she was defending my daughter and home.” He placed his hand on her shoulder and guided her to a comfortable chair in front of the cold fireplace. When she was settled, he placed kindling on the hearth. Removing steel and flint from the mantel, he struck them together to spark a blaze. Timbre trotted over and planted himself on the hearth rug. After a few quick licks to his shoulder, he rolled and curled, his eyes fixed on the Golden Guardian.
“We are relieved you are back, my lord,” Rendle said. “There has been some trouble on campus.”
Lord Fiori leaned against the mantel, a stick of wood in his hand, his expression serious. “Yes, even from afar I heard news of the attack on Dean Crosley and of the theft.”
“The theft?” Karigan said. “Has it been determined what was taken?”
“Nothing of seeming significance,” Lord Fiori said. “But who is to say what significance it held for the thief?”
The High King's Tomb Page 27