The others did not understand what he was talking about, and he didn’t enlighten them other than to say, “It is another way in.”
When she told of the attack on the Anti-Monarchy Society, Zachary said, “My brother has turned into a despot of the worst sort. I fear that he will not confine his brutality to those within and around the castle. The city may be in peace right now, but how long before he extends his reach among ordinary citizens and into the provinces?”
While the king, the captain, and the others talked among themselves, Karigan dozed off. Their distant voices became the babble of ghosts, hanging on the fringes of the living world. Her dreams followed dark routes, dim passages of stone and earth. The ghost babbles shivered up and down the walls in whispery echoes. She entered a vaultlike room where pale blue light hovered over a stone slab. Glyphs and carvings of funerary rites on tablets covered the walls. Similar figures ornamented the base of the slab.
Karigan walked over to the slab, sat on it, swung her legs up onto it, and lay down. Disembodied hands pulled a gauzy shroud over her.
“No!” Karigan sat up, wincing at the soreness of her side.
“You’re all right,” said a soothing voice.
Karigan blinked. She felt the fresh air of night blowing through her hair and made out the outlines of branches against the starry night. The king was sitting beside her, pulling a blanket over her.
“I thought you might get cold,” he said.
Karigan pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Th-thanks. I had a dream. . . .”
He nodded. “You have been through a great many things today. I shouldn’t be surprised if you do have dreams.”
“Where are the others?”
“Major Spencer, Captain Mapstone, Connly, and Mirwell are preparing to enter the city.”
“What?”
The king absently ran his hands through his hair. His silver fillet was missing. Without it, he seemed an ordinary man with a shock of amber hair falling into his eyes, but he was a haggard man, tired and careworn. He seemed to have aged years over the course of a day.
“They are taking my head and crown to my brother.” He smiled impishly.
“What?”
“It is part of Beryl’s plan to infiltrate the throne room. My brother knows little of her true affiliations . . . as of yet. Captain Mapstone will be cloaked as the Eletian, and Connly volunteered to take the part of the Mirwellian guard. You see, with our outnumbered forces, our only hope is to win the castle from within.”
“But the lord-governor,” Karigan said, “how will he cooperate?”
“Beryl said she would see to it.”
“Is that it? I mean the whole plan?”
“Oh, no.” Zachary seemed to enjoy telling her the plan. Despite his haggard appearance, there was a light in his brown eyes. “Horse Marshal Martel, a good number of his soldiers, and I will enter the Heroes Portal and infiltrate the castle that way. Alas, unlike Connly and Captain Mapstone, we have no disguise. Upon reaching the throne room, I shall reclaim the crown, and Mirwell will order his troops to regroup and return home.”
“What about me?” Karigan asked.
“Hmm?”
“What part do I play?”
“You have already done more than your share,” he said. “You will rest here with the day’s other wounded and the remainder of Marshal Martel’s troops. Should we fail . . . well, I can depend on you to move these people out of harm’s way.”
“No,” Karigan said.
The king raised a brow. “No?”
Karigan shoved the blanket off and raised herself to her feet. “I’m going with you. King or not, you can’t stop me. My father is being held in the throne room.”
“You are wounded and exhausted,” Zachary said. “I don’t want you to slow us down.”
“You have a broken arm,” Karigan retorted. “Who will be slowing who?”
The king’s eyebrows shot up, and his mouth was quirked in a half smile he couldn’t quite hide. It was as if he wanted to laugh, but he knew better than to do so.
“I see,” he said.
Horse Marshal Martel appeared at the king’s side, his face impassive. “I told you, my lord, we should have left her while she was asleep.”
“I should have listened more closely,” he said.
“I suppose she would have followed us,” the marshal said. “Captain Mapstone tells me the girl operates on pure spunk, and from what I’ve seen, I cannot argue.”
Karigan glowered at both men. “The appreciation I get for—”
The king bent close to her, and in a sober tone, he said, “I am indebted to you, brave lady, more times over than I can count. I did not wish to belittle your accomplishments. If you wish to join us, I will not deny you. But also know, I could be leading you to your death.”
Without his fillet, she had almost forgotten he was king. Just as seriously as he, she said, “I must go.”
The moon was at its apex and beginning to slide into the western sky as King Zachary, Karigan, Horse Marshal Martel, the Weapon Rory, and about twenty-five cavalry soldiers rode in a circumference around the outskirts of Sacor City, far enough to be out of eyeshot and hearing of guards on the walls. They rode in silence, and they rode without light save that cast by the moon.
High on its hill, the castle sat at the center of it all, its stony facade rotating, changing angles as they rode. Tiny lights twinkled about it, making it appear as some celestial palace of the night rather than a behemoth of granite constructed by mere humans and anchored firmly to the earth.
On the northeast side, they slowed their horses to a walk. The king and his Weapon Rory rode in front, quietly consulting with one another.
A single white obelisk, cracked and splotched by yellow lichens, marked the spot where an age-old road began. Horse hooves clicked and clattered on blocks of granite paving stones. Grasses and saplings grew up through the cracks between the stones. An ancient grove of hemlock bowed over the path, plunging it into an even deeper darkness than the bare night.
They came upon a stone slab set beside the path, and all at once, Karigan could feel the cold stone on her back, like the slab in the preparation room. Only this one was covered with thick mosses, lichens, and a layer of dead leaves. A fern grew from the base.
This was a coffin rest, the king explained. A rest for those who bore the one to be interred in Heroes Avenue.
The group rode on, like silent mourners until they came to a rock ledge that loomed above them and was overhung with dripping mosses. Another obelisk stood like an accusing finger next to a round portal of iron embedded in the ledge.
King Zachary faced those who followed him with a grim smile. “You follow the ancient path only the dead, royalty, and those who care for the dead are permitted. This entrance has been forgotten by most and has lain mostly unused for a century at least. The dead, alas, keep their own company.”
He sat without speaking for some moments as water trickled down the ledge to a puddle beside him. “When I was a boy, my grandmother, Queen Isen, brought me here so I could learn the stories of Sacoridia’s bravest heroes. I was terrified then, and I am none too comfortable now. To say the least, it is disturbing to see the inside of your tomb while you still live and breathe.”
Karigan shifted uneasily on Condor’s back. The night seemed to crackle with premonition: the accusatory obelisk telling them to turn back, the iron portal with the glyph of Westrion on it.
“Beyond this portal,” Zachary said, “lies the domain of the dead from which only members of the royal family and Weapons may re-emerge. All others who trespass must spend the remainder of their lives along its somber avenues tending the dead, never to see the light of the living day again.”
The cavalry soldiers exchanged worried glances and whispered among themselves.
“However,” the king said, “I am in a position to change the rules for one night under these circumstances in which we ride. It would be different, perhaps, if we were
entering the Halls of Kings and Queens where the royalty sleeps. Heroes Avenue is slightly more permissible; more forgiving to an intrusion of the living.” He looked at each person as if he could look right into their souls. Karigan was not warmed by his gaze. “Here we shall leave the horses.”
As one, the soldiers dismounted. They gathered together bundles of torches they had brought with them, and King Zachary smiled. “Leave them,” he said. “We enter a tomb, not a cave.”
The soldiers murmured uncertainly and shrugged. Rory ran his hands over the portal and pushed on the glyph of Westrion. It swung open easily, with just a minimal scraping of iron on granite, thanks, no doubt, to the vigilance of the Weapons who guarded the tombs. A breath of cool air issued out, thick with the scent of earth and rock.
One by one they filed into the round opening wide enough for a coffin and pallbearers. The corridor they entered was tubelike. Although it was not lit, light shone at the far end, and it was enough for them to see by.
Miraculously the shaft was dry and the speckled grain of the granite walls smooth and uncracked. Although the underground world was not damp, a heavy cold penetrated through Karigan’s coat and into her very bones.
“The craftmanship,” the horse marshal murmured.
“It has never been matched,” King Zachary said. “The tombs may have been delved before even the time of the Kmaernians.”
The tube opened into a larger, low-ceilinged chamber lit by flickering lamps. To Karigan, it felt as if the earth above pressed down on them. The taller among them had to bow their heads in order not to bump them on the ceiling. Another coffin rest stood in the middle of the room, its base decorated with the now familiar glyphs and ancient Sacoridian script. Several corridors branched off from this chamber, but only one was lit.
Five black-clad Weapons dressed in padded tunics and trousers and fur-lined cloaks, awaited them there, and fell on their knees before the king.
“Rise,” he told them. “What news have you?”
A woman stepped forward and inclined her head. “I am Sergeant Brienne Quinn, my lord,” she said. “Weapon Fastion sent us to await you here. We are honored by your presence.”
Zachary nodded. “Where is Fastion?”
“He keeps watch above at the main portal, guarding it lest Prince Amilton thinks to assault this place.”
“And how many are with him?”
“Another ten, my lord.”
“Excellent. No one will get past them.”
Brienne beamed with pride. “It is our sacred duty to protect those who rest here.”
“Let us go then. Lead on, Sergeant.”
“Yes, my lord.” Brienne turned smartly on her heel and walked to the front. One Weapon stayed with her, the other three dropped to the rear, much to the relief of the cavalry soldiers by the expressions on their faces. The Weapons seemed content to leave Rory as the king’s personal guard. Though they would fight to the death for the king, their place was as tomb guards. Others cared for the living.
They followed another shaft, but this one was square with lamps fitted in alcoves along the way. The walls were a riot of colors, painted with battle scenes and heroic images. Armor-clad knights charged the field on battle horses, pennons rippling on lowered lances. Others, dressed in full mail, battled dark enemies with swords. Some stood at rest, their fingers shaped in the sign of the crescent moon.
“These walls could tell stories,” Marshal Martel said. He shifted his helm beneath his arm. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they held more knowledge than all the repositories of Selium.”
The mention of the school Karigan had run away from was jarring. It had been a lifetime ago, her time at Selium. Perhaps it had been a different life altogether. She certainly felt like a different person from that schoolgirl who had run away for some petty reason she could hardly remember.
They emerged into another chamber, this one vast and wide, still maintaining the low ceiling which was supported by many square, granite pillars. There were rows of granite slabs. None were occupied.
“It seems no one has been interred for a while,” Horse Marshal Martel said.
King Zachary overheard and replied, “We’ve been at peace for so long. We’ve had few heroes.”
They passed into another such room, and another. Each was brightly lit, hardly the dark, shadowy tomb Karigan had envisioned. The stone floor was polished, no cobwebs hung in doorways, dust did not swirl about their feet. Though cold, the air was good and vented without the stench of decay or bones. The unused section of the castle Fastion had led her through was far gloomier, more funereal than this place.
Even so, Karigan felt tense. She felt as if someone watched their procession with unfriendly eyes. Sometimes she caught the movement of a shadow out of the corner of her own eye, but when she looked, it was gone. It was as if someone were flitting from behind one funeral slab to another. No one else seemed to notice, so she kept her peace for the time being. Tombs and lamplight and exhaustion could produce strange visions.
The next room was not empty. Shrouded forms lay like sleepers beneath gauzy linen sheets. Others, in full gleaming armor, lay with weapons drawn at their feet. Some were encased in sarcophagi with carved effigies on the lids.
In the next room, and the rooms after that, every slab was filled. There were rows upon rows of shrouded dead. Karigan kept her eyes to Horse Marshal Martel’s back, or to the floor. Somehow, dealing with the spirits of the dead was easier than walking among their long-abandoned remains. She felt very mortal, very small.
Their path gradually shifted upward and it seemed they had walked miles.
“Sacoridia certainly has its share of heroes,” the marshal remarked. Unlike Karigan, he did not have trouble looking around at his surroundings.
“Wars,” King Zachary said. “Some date from the Long War and before.” He smiled back at them. “Few know the magnitude of what Sacor City rests on.”
“A good thing,” Marshal Martel said.
Karigan sneaked a peek and saw the jutting angles of bones beneath one shroud. Another lumpy form was bound in linens.
The king paused, then whispered something to Brienne.
“Yes,” she said, and pointed to a far corner.
King Zachary turned to Karigan and beckoned her to follow. He walked off among the slabs in the direction Brienne had pointed. Karigan hesitated with a sense of loathing to walk among those desiccated, brittle husks. With her jaw clenched, she plunged after him, avoiding direct contact with the slabs, and keeping her eyes to the floor.
In the far corner, the king stopped by a slab, and peered down at its occupant. Upon it rested a linen-wrapped form, covered by a shroud. A length of green-and-blue plaid fabric was draped over it from hips to toes. The head was tightly wrapped with sunken depressions where the eyes had been.
Mounted on the wall behind the remains were a two-handed great sword, a battle ax, and a saber.Above the corpse, painted on the ceiling, was the portrait of a woman astride a big bay stallion. She wore the plaid about her shoulders and carried the saber, and a shield bearing the gold winged horse on a field of green.
Warmth blossomed on Karigan’s chest where her brooch was pinned. She touched it. It was hot and seemed to sing—not audibly—but she could feel it sing through her.
“The First Rider,” King Zachary said. “She was a great hero of the Long War. I know such time has passed that Green Riders have lost some of their glory and few recognize their worth. But they come of great lineage.”
Karigan’s head spun. The walls seemed to close in even tighter. Hoofbeats drummed in her ears. She wanted to run away, she—
“I will likely have need of my sword before the night is over,” the king was saying. He flexed his good arm. “I’m fortunate that groundmite broke my shield arm and not my sword arm.”
“I, uh . . .” Karigan said, suddenly wondering why he wanted his sword now. She lifted the baldric over her head and handed it to him.
“I sho
uldn’t think the First Rider would begrudge you borrowing one of her swords,” the king said.
Karigan took a sharp intake of breath. “I can’t!”
“Why not? She doesn’t need it and you do.”
“I—I . . .” She backed away until she bumped into another of the horrible slabs behind her. She jumped as if the corpse had pinched her.
“I don’t want you to go up above unarmed,” the king said. “Pick a sword.”
Karigan hooked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I—” But the king’s face was set. “Uh, all right,” she said.
She edged around the slab and gazed at the weapons. The great sword was almost taller than she. The First Rider must have been a tall and powerful woman. She reached for the saber.
The thrum of hoofbeats intensified as she did so, as if urging her to take it. The brooch sang in resonance as Karigan’s fingers closed around the hilt. The sword came off the wall easily and weighed well in her hand. The hoofbeats dissipated, and the vibrations of the brooch eased. She sighed in relief.
A bundle of gray-and-white robes, like a corpse springing to life, arose from behind one of the slabs and launched on her. They toppled to the hard granite floor and rolled. The creature tussled with her, grabbing for the sword. Karigan was so shocked she let it go. The mass of robes scurried away and huddled at the king’s feet, cradling the sword.
Rory and Brienne were there in moments, towering over the quivering heap.
“Are you all right?” the king asked Karigan. He stretched out a hand to help her rise to her feet.
The wind had been knocked out of her and her side ached, but she suffered mostly from shock. She nodded, looking curiously at the creature that had attacked her.
Brienne’s hands were on her hips and her expression was severe. “Agemon!” she said.
The ragged bundle quavered at her voice and she rolled her eyes in annoyance.
“Sheathe your sword,” she told Rory.
He obeyed without question.
She addressed the bundle again. “Agemon, do not hinder the king.”
The bundle shifted and whimpered.
“Nervous as a winter hare,” Rory commented.
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