The High King's Tomb
Page 113
Condor’s ears wilted even more.
“He sometimes has a mind of his own.”
“Aye.”
Karigan ungloved her right hand and reached up. “I’m Karigan G’ladheon, and my companion is Fergal Duff. May I presume you are Damian Frost?”
The wiry man bent to his knee and grasped her hand to shake it. His hand felt rough and gnarly, like old tree roots, and his grip was firm. “I am Damian. Welcome, Riders.” He reached across Karigan to shake Fergal’s hand.
“You have any broken bones, lass?” Damian asked.
Karigan felt more undignified sprawled on her back than hurt, though she was sure that would change when her body realized what happened.
“I don’t think so,” she said. She rose gingerly to her elbows. Her head throbbed anew and her neck felt the strain. Tomorrow she’d really be in for it.
Damian and Fergal helped Karigan rise to her feet, the world tilting, and she patted dust off her trousers and adjusted her swordbelt to conceal her unsteadiness. Condor still hid behind Damian.
“Gus! Jericho!” Damian hollered into the house, making both Karigan and Fergal jump.
Two hulking youths emerged from the house. “My sons,” Damian said, jerking his thumb in their direction. They dwarfed their father. “Lads, take these horses out back and settle them in for the night.”
“Aye, Pop.”
Condor and Sunny were led away and Damian said, “Lady is just putting supper away, but I ’spect there is enough left over to warm two Rider bellies. Hungry?”
“Yes, sir!” Fergal said.
Damian laughed and slapped him on the back. “Still growing, aren’t you, lad? Just like my boys, the young giants they be.” He sprang onto the porch and bellowed, “Lady, my lady, we’ve got us some hungry guests!”
Fergal followed him eagerly into the house, Karigan coming along more slowly, trying to make her limbs work again, but each step sent a jolt of pain up between her shoulder blades and through her neck.
“The horse is dog meat,” she muttered.
Fergal glanced back at her in surprise. She scowled at him.
When she entered the Frost house, however, it was difficult to feel dark. Lamps bathed the walls and heavy timber rafters in a warm glow. The cooking area was to their immediate right, dominated by a long farm table that was lined with benches. The wood was smoothed and darkened by the touch of many hands over the years. A bowl of apples sat in the middle.
Beyond the table was the cooking hearth, counters, and cupboards. Dried herbs and flowers hung from the rafters by the thousands. As dazed as Karigan was, it was like looking at an upside down garden.
At the center of it all bearing a ladle was a woman attired in a homespun dress of vibrant blue with intricate designs of horses sewn onto it with crimson thread. As fine as the workmanship was, Karigan was drawn to the woman’s pure white hair and eyes of ice blue.
Damian Frost danced around her and gave her a twirl. “Lady, my lady, the Riders have come, on Condor and a war horse all dapple and gray.”
Lady Frost—Lady? Was her name really Lady, or were they faced with some unknown noble living the rustic life?—smiled, and despite her icy colored eyes, she did not seem at all cold.
“Welcome, Riders. If my husband would stop dancing ’round me, I would bring you ale and stew and cornbread.”
“Of course!” Damian said. “Where are my manners? Please be seated, Fergal and Karigan, and supper will commence immediately.”
Fergal wasted no time in seating himself on a bench. Karigan followed more slowly, and felt rather befuddled as Damian and Lady bustled around the kitchen as though performing an orchestrated dance. Damian held bowls while Lady ladled steaming stew into them and added a dollop of cream and he bore the bowls to the table and placed them before his guests with the gentility of a footman. Next came a basket of golden cornbread and a warmed crock of molasses to spread atop it. Damian lifted a trap door to the root cellar and descended with a stoneware pitcher. When he reappeared, foam oozed over the pitcher’s lip and he poured the ale into mugs for Karigan, Fergal, and himself. At some point Lady had brewed herself a cup of tea and now stirred it.
The stew, of course, was excellent and took the cold out of Karigan’s limbs and the ale warmed her cheeks. Her stomach, however, was uncertain about retaining the food, as though her fall off Condor had shaken it up. She sipped at the stew’s broth and avoided the larger bits of vegetables and beef. She could not drink more than half her mug of ale.
The Frosts asked the Riders about their journey and Karigan let Fergal do the talking around mouthfuls of food. The conversation became a distant noise to Karigan, like wind in the trees or the breeze brushing across vast grasslands. She imagined the plains and a dark horse surging through the grasses like a ship plowing through the sea, his mane and tail long and wild. He ran toward her.
“Red?” Fergal said.
Karigan shook herself as though awakening from a dream. She blinked at the lamplight.
“Aye,” Damian said, “young Red Mapstone.”
“The captain?” Fergal’s tone was incredulous.
Damian clapped his hands. “Aye, the captain. Usually she comes herself when the need for horses arises. Is she well?”
“Well, but overwhelmed,” Karigan murmured, surprised to hear herself answer.
“Nothing new there, I s’pose,” Damian said.
Damian continued to question Fergal, but Karigan found Lady gazing at her, unblinking, the teacup poised before her lips.
“He sometimes has a mind of his own.”
“Aye.”
Karigan ungloved her right hand and reached up. “I’m Karigan G’ladheon, and my companion is Fergal Duff. May I presume you are Damian Frost?”
The wiry man bent to his knee and grasped her hand to shake it. His hand felt rough and gnarly, like old tree roots, and his grip was firm. “I am Damian. Welcome, Riders.” He reached across Karigan to shake Fergal’s hand.
“You have any broken bones, lass?” Damian asked.
Karigan felt more undignified sprawled on her back than hurt, though she was sure that would change when her body realized what happened.
“I don’t think so,” she said. She rose gingerly to her elbows. Her head throbbed anew and her neck felt the strain. Tomorrow she’d really be in for it.
Damian and Fergal helped Karigan rise to her feet, the world tilting, and she patted dust off her trousers and adjusted her swordbelt to conceal her unsteadiness. Condor still hid behind Damian.
“Gus! Jericho!” Damian hollered into the house, making both Karigan and Fergal jump.
Two hulking youths emerged from the house. “My sons,” Damian said, jerking his thumb in their direction. They dwarfed their father. “Lads, take these horses out back and settle them in for the night.”
“Aye, Pop.”
Condor and Sunny were led away and Damian said, “Lady is just putting supper away, but I ’spect there is enough left over to warm two Rider bellies. Hungry?”
“Yes, sir!” Fergal said.
Damian laughed and slapped him on the back. “Still growing, aren’t you, lad? Just like my boys, the young giants they be.” He sprang onto the porch and bellowed, “Lady, my lady, we’ve got us some hungry guests!”
Fergal followed him eagerly into the house, Karigan coming along more slowly, trying to make her limbs work again, but each step sent a jolt of pain up between her shoulder blades and through her neck.
“The horse is dog meat,” she muttered.
Fergal glanced back at her in surprise. She scowled at him.
When she entered the Frost house, however, it was difficult to feel dark. Lamps bathed the walls and heavy timber rafters in a warm glow. The cooking area was to their immediate right, dominated by a long farm table that was lined with benches. The wood was smoothed and darkened by the touch of many hands over the years. A bowl of apples sat in the middle.
Beyond the table was the cooking hearth, counters, and cupboards. Dried herbs and flowers hung from the rafters by the thousands. As dazed as Karigan was, it was like looking at an upside down garden.
At the center of it all bearing a ladle was a woman attired in a homespun dress of vibrant blue with intricate designs of horses sewn onto it with crimson thread. As fine as the workmanship was, Karigan was drawn to the woman’s pure white hair and eyes of ice blue.
Damian Frost danced around her and gave her a twirl. “Lady, my lady, the Riders have come, on Condor and a war horse all dapple and gray.”
Lady Frost—Lady? Was her name really Lady, or were they faced with some unknown noble living the rustic life?—smiled, and despite her icy colored eyes, she did not seem at all cold.
“Welcome, Riders. If my husband would stop dancing ’round me, I would bring you ale and stew and cornbread.”
“Of course!” Damian said. “Where are my manners? Please be seated, Fergal and Karigan, and supper will commence immediately.”
Fergal wasted no time in seating himself on a bench. Karigan followed more slowly, and felt rather befuddled as Damian and Lady bustled around the kitchen as though performing an orchestrated dance. Damian held bowls while Lady ladled steaming stew into them and added a dollop of cream and he bore the bowls to the table and placed them before his guests with the gentility of a footman. Next came a basket of golden cornbread and a warmed crock of molasses to spread atop it. Damian lifted a trap door to the root cellar and descended with a stoneware pitcher. When he reappeared, foam oozed over the pitcher’s lip and he poured the ale into mugs for Karigan, Fergal, and himself. At some point Lady had brewed herself a cup of tea and now stirred it.
The stew, of course, was excellent and took the cold out of Karigan’s limbs and the ale warmed her cheeks. Her stomach, however, was uncertain about retaining the food, as though her fall off Condor had shaken it up. She sipped at the stew’s broth and avoided the larger bits of vegetables and beef. She could not drink more than half her mug of ale.
The Frosts asked the Riders about their journey and Karigan let Fergal do the talking around mouthfuls of food. The conversation became a distant noise to Karigan, like wind in the trees or the breeze brushing across vast grasslands. She imagined the plains and a dark horse surging through the grasses like a ship plowing through the sea, his mane and tail long and wild. He ran toward her.
“Red?” Fergal said.
Karigan shook herself as though awakening from a dream. She blinked at the lamplight.
“Aye,” Damian said, “young Red Mapstone.”
“The captain?” Fergal’s tone was incredulous.
Damian clapped his hands. “Aye, the captain. Usually she comes herself when the need for horses arises. Is she well?”
“Well, but overwhelmed,” Karigan murmured, surprised to hear herself answer.
“Nothing new there, I s’pose,” Damian said.
Damian continued to question Fergal, but Karigan found Lady gazing at her, unblinking, the teacup poised before her lips.
