The High King's Tomb
Page 167
He wanted her to ride with him into the storm? Was that it?
She shuddered out of the vision. Her hand slipped from Beryl’s sleeve and hastily she grabbed the Rider’s wrist. Beryl was shivering, or was it she herself who shivered?
I am lost, and it will be the death of us.
Beryl remained mute and had allowed herself to be led aimlessly around. It was wholly unlike the Rider Karigan remembered. She blinked into the gray dark and against the snow blowing into her eyes. Her surroundings were indistinguishable from any other part of the small mountain. She strained to hear sounds of pursuit, but only the wind sheared past her ears.
A shape loomed out of the gray ahead of her, and before she could move herself or Beryl, it tripped over them.
“What the—?” he said as he fell.
Karigan let go of Beryl, and before the man could say or do anything, Karigan launched herself on him, pounding her stiff, sore hands on him, but he threw her off, and when she hit the ground, the gray world darkened and closed in.
T he black stallion still waited for her on the snowy expanse of the plains. He gazed at her, waited for her to make some sort of decision.
“Whad you want?” she demanded of him. Her mouth felt full of cotton.
“What is she saying?” someone asked from afar.
“Don’t know. Hold her still until I finish.”
Something, a snowdrift, yes, a snowdrift, weighed her down. She could not move toward the stallion or walk away.
Prick.
“Ow!” The piercing of flesh seared through confusion.
“Don’t move, Karigan,” said the voice from afar. “I’ve got a few more stitches to go.”
Ty? Ty was there on the plains with her? Yes. His hands were busy above her head. Ty sewing. Of course. Ty was excellent at sewing. He always carried needles and thread with him in case a tear in his uniform required mending. He was Rider Perfect.
Prick, tug. The drawing of thread through her skin.
The stallion stood and shook his mane. His black hide against the white landscape was like an open window to the heavens. She saw the stars within him, celestial bodies in brilliant colors with dust clouds swirling in storms around them.
“You’re pulling me in!” she cried.
The snow held her down. She kicked and flung out her hands.
“Keep her still!” Ty said.
“I’ll sit on her legs,” someone, a third someone, offered.
“I don’t want to go,” Karigan said. “Salvistar wants me to go to the heavens.”
“For gods’ sakes,” Ty said, “you’re not dying. It’s the shock,” he told the others.
It was too hard to fight; too hard to fight the heavens, to keep from being sucked into the blackness amid the celestial bodies and their veils of sparkling dust. Where would she end up? Would she be allowed to return home?
“So many stars,” she murmured.
Prick, tug.
“I just want to go home.”
Prick, tug.
“There,” Ty said, “I’ve made the last knot.”
Amberhill slid wearily into the chair beside the woman’s cot. Ty asked that they take turns sitting through the night with her to keep watch lest her condition worsen, and Amberhill volunteered for the second watch.
At first he had not recognized her for all the blood that masked her face, but when Ty washed it away, he found a face he could not forget. Who could forget a lady who challenged him with a sword?
“Who is she?” he demanded of Ty.
“Green Rider,” was the simple reply.
It explained her actions that day in the museum and why no one among the aristocrats had known her, but it did not answer his question by half. He learned her name and of course knew of the G’ladheon merchanting clan. Lady, messenger, merchant. Even the Weapons seemed to regard her with some esteem. But who was she?
Obviously someone born with an insane sort of courage.
As he sat there in the dark, chin propped on hand, listening to her breathing, he found himself vexed by her, but he didn’t know why. Maybe it was because she had challenged him at the museum when all other ladies would have swooned in his presence or begged for his favors. Maybe he disliked being deceived. She was a lady, then was not. She was Estora Coutre, then was not. Frustrating!
He yawned, the debate simmering, then dying, as he fell asleep.
Muted daylight through canvas.
“Strange dreams,” she murmured.
“She’s coming around,” someone said.
With her awakening came awareness of pain, her throbbing head, the strained muscles, bruises, and lacerations.
“What?” she asked the light. “Am I home?”
“No.”
“Ty?”
He stood above her, looking down at her. “That’s right.” He smiled, but it was a tired smile. “What do you remember?”
An image of a gloating Immerez rushed into her mind, his hook slashing down, blood in her eyes. “I remember everything.” She went to touch her head and was surprised to find her hand, both hands, swaddled in bandages.
“Willis picked out all the gravel and dressed them,” Ty said.
“Willis?”
“At your service.” The Weapon stepped into her vision opposite Ty.
She had yet to make sense of where she was and what Ty was doing here, much less one of the king’s Weapons. Everything was fuzzy around the edges. “Where am I?”
“You’re in the encampment,” Willis said. “One of the officer’s tents.”
She shuddered out of the vision. Her hand slipped from Beryl’s sleeve and hastily she grabbed the Rider’s wrist. Beryl was shivering, or was it she herself who shivered?
I am lost, and it will be the death of us.
Beryl remained mute and had allowed herself to be led aimlessly around. It was wholly unlike the Rider Karigan remembered. She blinked into the gray dark and against the snow blowing into her eyes. Her surroundings were indistinguishable from any other part of the small mountain. She strained to hear sounds of pursuit, but only the wind sheared past her ears.
A shape loomed out of the gray ahead of her, and before she could move herself or Beryl, it tripped over them.
“What the—?” he said as he fell.
Karigan let go of Beryl, and before the man could say or do anything, Karigan launched herself on him, pounding her stiff, sore hands on him, but he threw her off, and when she hit the ground, the gray world darkened and closed in.
T he black stallion still waited for her on the snowy expanse of the plains. He gazed at her, waited for her to make some sort of decision.
“Whad you want?” she demanded of him. Her mouth felt full of cotton.
“What is she saying?” someone asked from afar.
“Don’t know. Hold her still until I finish.”
Something, a snowdrift, yes, a snowdrift, weighed her down. She could not move toward the stallion or walk away.
Prick.
“Ow!” The piercing of flesh seared through confusion.
“Don’t move, Karigan,” said the voice from afar. “I’ve got a few more stitches to go.”
Ty? Ty was there on the plains with her? Yes. His hands were busy above her head. Ty sewing. Of course. Ty was excellent at sewing. He always carried needles and thread with him in case a tear in his uniform required mending. He was Rider Perfect.
Prick, tug. The drawing of thread through her skin.
The stallion stood and shook his mane. His black hide against the white landscape was like an open window to the heavens. She saw the stars within him, celestial bodies in brilliant colors with dust clouds swirling in storms around them.
“You’re pulling me in!” she cried.
The snow held her down. She kicked and flung out her hands.
“Keep her still!” Ty said.
“I’ll sit on her legs,” someone, a third someone, offered.
“I don’t want to go,” Karigan said. “Salvistar wants me to go to the heavens.”
“For gods’ sakes,” Ty said, “you’re not dying. It’s the shock,” he told the others.
It was too hard to fight; too hard to fight the heavens, to keep from being sucked into the blackness amid the celestial bodies and their veils of sparkling dust. Where would she end up? Would she be allowed to return home?
“So many stars,” she murmured.
Prick, tug.
“I just want to go home.”
Prick, tug.
“There,” Ty said, “I’ve made the last knot.”
Amberhill slid wearily into the chair beside the woman’s cot. Ty asked that they take turns sitting through the night with her to keep watch lest her condition worsen, and Amberhill volunteered for the second watch.
At first he had not recognized her for all the blood that masked her face, but when Ty washed it away, he found a face he could not forget. Who could forget a lady who challenged him with a sword?
“Who is she?” he demanded of Ty.
“Green Rider,” was the simple reply.
It explained her actions that day in the museum and why no one among the aristocrats had known her, but it did not answer his question by half. He learned her name and of course knew of the G’ladheon merchanting clan. Lady, messenger, merchant. Even the Weapons seemed to regard her with some esteem. But who was she?
Obviously someone born with an insane sort of courage.
As he sat there in the dark, chin propped on hand, listening to her breathing, he found himself vexed by her, but he didn’t know why. Maybe it was because she had challenged him at the museum when all other ladies would have swooned in his presence or begged for his favors. Maybe he disliked being deceived. She was a lady, then was not. She was Estora Coutre, then was not. Frustrating!
He yawned, the debate simmering, then dying, as he fell asleep.
Muted daylight through canvas.
“Strange dreams,” she murmured.
“She’s coming around,” someone said.
With her awakening came awareness of pain, her throbbing head, the strained muscles, bruises, and lacerations.
“What?” she asked the light. “Am I home?”
“No.”
“Ty?”
He stood above her, looking down at her. “That’s right.” He smiled, but it was a tired smile. “What do you remember?”
An image of a gloating Immerez rushed into her mind, his hook slashing down, blood in her eyes. “I remember everything.” She went to touch her head and was surprised to find her hand, both hands, swaddled in bandages.
“Willis picked out all the gravel and dressed them,” Ty said.
“Willis?”
“At your service.” The Weapon stepped into her vision opposite Ty.
She had yet to make sense of where she was and what Ty was doing here, much less one of the king’s Weapons. Everything was fuzzy around the edges. “Where am I?”
“You’re in the encampment,” Willis said. “One of the officer’s tents.”
