The High King's Tomb
Page 151
“I didn’t need to.”
“They’re that close by?”
Karigan nodded. “We cannot wait till cover of dark. They’ll find us before then. And in any case, I don’t…I don’t think I could make all of us fade out at once.”
“We’re trapped?” Estora asked, her voice sounding more shrill than she intended.
Karigan gazed at her with an expression that was oddly serene. “It won’t come to that.”
When she told them her plan, both Fergal and Estora begged her to consider otherwise, but she would not hear of it. Estora thought her mad, and told her so.
KARIGAN’S PLAN
“It’s the only way,” Karigan said, “and we have to move now. Before it’s too late.”
As if to augment their imminent peril, they heard a shout in the woods. Though distant, it was still too close for comfort. Karigan’s plan left Estora too stunned to move, but Karigan had no such qualms and swung into action.
“Fergal, keep watch,” she said, “and keep your eyes looking outward until I tell you otherwise.”
The young Rider shook off his blankets, grabbed his saber, and took up a position at the cave entrance. Karigan squatted down by her gear and started digging through a saddlebag. Estora stood by, simply watching and feeling helpless.
“Are you sure this is the way?” she asked.
Karigan paused. “Unless you can think of something better.”
Estora shook her head, and Karigan resumed her digging, pulling out and unrolling trousers and a shirt.
“These should be…hmmm…” Karigan sniffed them and smiled wryly. “They should be fresher than what I’ve got on. And I think they’ll fit.”
Estora could only stare in disbelief.
“I think my boots are too big for your feet, though,” Karigan continued. “We’ll have to keep our own footwear.”
“This is madness.”
“Better than being at the mercy of those thugs, I should think. Now please, I shall need your habit, and you may put on this uniform.”
“But I’m not a Green Rider,” Estora said.
“I wasn’t either when I first wore the uniform,” Karigan replied, “or at least I didn’t know I was. Now please, my lady, we must do this quickly.”
Karigan turned her back on Estora and started removing her shortcoat, unpinning something from the front of it that Estora couldn’t quite make out, then shed her waistcoat and boots. She started unbuttoning her shirt, but paused and turned toward Estora again.
“Please,” she said. “I’m going to get cold rather quickly.”
Estora shook herself. Madness! But she knew of no alternative. She turned around herself and started removing the layers of her habit.
When the exchange was complete, she looked down at herself in amazement, all in green. She feared Karigan’s uniform would prove too snug, and it was a tad, in the hips and breast, but she must have lost considerable weight as a captive. Karigan had even girded her with the sword to complete the illusion. When Estora protested that Karigan should retain it, Karigan said, “If all goes well, I will not need it.”
If Estora’s mother ever heard of this, she would faint. The unfamiliar weight of the sword banged her thigh with every movement. If she was careful, she would not trip over it. She experimented with walking about the cave.
“You are walking like a lady,” Karigan said. “Walk like you have business. Don’t flounce.”
“Flounce? I do not flounce.”
“Yes, you do. But you don’t have time to practice just now. You must help me with my hair.”
Karigan waited expectantly. The black habit made her look older, more severe, more mysterious, and somehow even more commanding than when in uniform.
Is that how I appear to others? Estora wondered. She didn’t think so, not precisely, anyway. Not so deadly serious. Karigan was going to place herself in the direct path of danger, and Estora read determination and a clear knowledge of what she was doing in her face. And it took her aback, for this was not a version of Karigan she often witnessed; this was not the Karigan with whom she had spent so much time sitting in the gardens gossiping, sharing dreams and fears. Those conversations in the safety of the castle walls were so far removed from where they were now that Estora wondered if they happened in another life.
This wouldn’t be the first time Karigan faced terrible danger, Estora knew. Karigan did not talk much about her exploits, but Estora had heard the stories from others, and when she helped Karigan with the corset, she glimpsed the scars on her ribs from old stab wounds.
“I think,” Estora said, “we can simply pin your braid up beneath the hat.” Somehow, her ridiculous hat with the pheasant feathers had survived its rough travel across country. She started to pull the pins from her own hair.
“How sharp are those?” Karigan asked. She took one from Estora and jabbed her finger with it. “Hmm. Fergal?”
The Rider turned and gaped at them, seeing them in their new attire for the first time.
“Fergal,” Karigan said, “please sharpen these hair pins for me.”
Sharpen the hair pins? Estora wondered. When Fergal completed the task, Estora coiled Karigan’s braid and neatly pinned it beneath the hat. Estora’s own hair was then braided into a long rope that fell between her shoulder blades. It felt strange, for she never wore her hair this way—not in public anyway, and the uniform! It was unnatural, but ever since Sarge had abducted her, nothing was as it should be. She could only think Karigan felt much the same but the Rider was busy helping Fergal clean up the evidence of their camp and tack the horses.
“They’re that close by?”
Karigan nodded. “We cannot wait till cover of dark. They’ll find us before then. And in any case, I don’t…I don’t think I could make all of us fade out at once.”
“We’re trapped?” Estora asked, her voice sounding more shrill than she intended.
Karigan gazed at her with an expression that was oddly serene. “It won’t come to that.”
When she told them her plan, both Fergal and Estora begged her to consider otherwise, but she would not hear of it. Estora thought her mad, and told her so.
KARIGAN’S PLAN
“It’s the only way,” Karigan said, “and we have to move now. Before it’s too late.”
As if to augment their imminent peril, they heard a shout in the woods. Though distant, it was still too close for comfort. Karigan’s plan left Estora too stunned to move, but Karigan had no such qualms and swung into action.
“Fergal, keep watch,” she said, “and keep your eyes looking outward until I tell you otherwise.”
The young Rider shook off his blankets, grabbed his saber, and took up a position at the cave entrance. Karigan squatted down by her gear and started digging through a saddlebag. Estora stood by, simply watching and feeling helpless.
“Are you sure this is the way?” she asked.
Karigan paused. “Unless you can think of something better.”
Estora shook her head, and Karigan resumed her digging, pulling out and unrolling trousers and a shirt.
“These should be…hmmm…” Karigan sniffed them and smiled wryly. “They should be fresher than what I’ve got on. And I think they’ll fit.”
Estora could only stare in disbelief.
“I think my boots are too big for your feet, though,” Karigan continued. “We’ll have to keep our own footwear.”
“This is madness.”
“Better than being at the mercy of those thugs, I should think. Now please, I shall need your habit, and you may put on this uniform.”
“But I’m not a Green Rider,” Estora said.
“I wasn’t either when I first wore the uniform,” Karigan replied, “or at least I didn’t know I was. Now please, my lady, we must do this quickly.”
Karigan turned her back on Estora and started removing her shortcoat, unpinning something from the front of it that Estora couldn’t quite make out, then shed her waistcoat and boots. She started unbuttoning her shirt, but paused and turned toward Estora again.
“Please,” she said. “I’m going to get cold rather quickly.”
Estora shook herself. Madness! But she knew of no alternative. She turned around herself and started removing the layers of her habit.
When the exchange was complete, she looked down at herself in amazement, all in green. She feared Karigan’s uniform would prove too snug, and it was a tad, in the hips and breast, but she must have lost considerable weight as a captive. Karigan had even girded her with the sword to complete the illusion. When Estora protested that Karigan should retain it, Karigan said, “If all goes well, I will not need it.”
If Estora’s mother ever heard of this, she would faint. The unfamiliar weight of the sword banged her thigh with every movement. If she was careful, she would not trip over it. She experimented with walking about the cave.
“You are walking like a lady,” Karigan said. “Walk like you have business. Don’t flounce.”
“Flounce? I do not flounce.”
“Yes, you do. But you don’t have time to practice just now. You must help me with my hair.”
Karigan waited expectantly. The black habit made her look older, more severe, more mysterious, and somehow even more commanding than when in uniform.
Is that how I appear to others? Estora wondered. She didn’t think so, not precisely, anyway. Not so deadly serious. Karigan was going to place herself in the direct path of danger, and Estora read determination and a clear knowledge of what she was doing in her face. And it took her aback, for this was not a version of Karigan she often witnessed; this was not the Karigan with whom she had spent so much time sitting in the gardens gossiping, sharing dreams and fears. Those conversations in the safety of the castle walls were so far removed from where they were now that Estora wondered if they happened in another life.
This wouldn’t be the first time Karigan faced terrible danger, Estora knew. Karigan did not talk much about her exploits, but Estora had heard the stories from others, and when she helped Karigan with the corset, she glimpsed the scars on her ribs from old stab wounds.
“I think,” Estora said, “we can simply pin your braid up beneath the hat.” Somehow, her ridiculous hat with the pheasant feathers had survived its rough travel across country. She started to pull the pins from her own hair.
“How sharp are those?” Karigan asked. She took one from Estora and jabbed her finger with it. “Hmm. Fergal?”
The Rider turned and gaped at them, seeing them in their new attire for the first time.
“Fergal,” Karigan said, “please sharpen these hair pins for me.”
Sharpen the hair pins? Estora wondered. When Fergal completed the task, Estora coiled Karigan’s braid and neatly pinned it beneath the hat. Estora’s own hair was then braided into a long rope that fell between her shoulder blades. It felt strange, for she never wore her hair this way—not in public anyway, and the uniform! It was unnatural, but ever since Sarge had abducted her, nothing was as it should be. She could only think Karigan felt much the same but the Rider was busy helping Fergal clean up the evidence of their camp and tack the horses.
