The High King's Tomb
Page 34
For the remainder of the day, Fergal was in a sullen mood, speaking little and riding behind her. Karigan put his behavior down to adolescence and shrugged it off. If he didn’t want to talk, that was just fine with her. She would enjoy traveling in the company of her own thoughts.
She paced their ride with long stretches of walking interspersed with trotting. Fergal did not attempt any more gallops, not even a canter. Maybe his lessons with Riggs, and her reprimand, had finally sunk in. If they were to make any headway, maintaining the endurance of their horses was of the utmost importance.
Fortunately, the Kingway was an easy ride, a well-maintained road of level stretches and gentle rises. Trees shaded it, and they passed through villages where they watered the horses in public troughs. Villagers politely requested the latest news from the city, mostly about the king’s betrothal, much to Karigan’s chagrin. The brief rests also gave the Riders a chance to stretch and stamp out their stiff legs. If the prolonged riding was causing Fergal discomfort, he did not complain.
Villages and woodlands were interspersed with rolling farmland bordered by stone fence lines. Most of the crops had been hauled in by now and many activities centered around winter preparations: a pair of boys cutting through logs with a cross cut saw, their father splitting the wood with his ax while girls stacked the firewood in a neat pile near their little cot.
At another farm with many apple trees, children jostled the red fruit from the upper branches for their mother who caught them in her apron. Upon seeing the Riders, the farmwife and children presented them and the horses with some delicious samples.
Fergal’s sullen demeanor softened with the gift, and the children chattered at him in their excitement to see a real Green Rider. He gave them rides on Sunny, while Karigan traded predictions with the farmwife about the winter to come.
Farther on, others tended livestock and repaired shingles on roofs while a lucky hunter rumbled by with a stag in his cart. Squirrels scolded the Riders from the branches above and it seemed at times they purposely dropped spruce cones on their heads.
Karigan liked autumn, she decided, while crunching a tart apple. The air was sharp and fresh, not too warm and not too cold, and the sky clear. The deciduous trees of the countryside were afire with bright yellows, oranges, and reds, contrasting with the deep greens of spruce and pine. Blueberry bushes, now past their fruit-bearing season, were clumps of crimson along the road’s edges. The horses’ hoof falls were softened by rusty pine needles and colorful leaves matting the road.
Dusk was settling in by the time they reached the village of Deering. Despite Fergal’s transgressions of the morning, they made acceptable time. The village was carved out of the forest, this the southern fringe of the mighty Green Cloak. Mostly it served wayfarers and woodsmen with a mercantile, a farrier’s forge, a pair of inns, a wheelwright’s shop, and a humble chapel of the moon made of stone.
“We usually stay at the Hawk’s Tail,” Karigan said. The other inn, the Red Pony, was a little rougher, primarily serving woodsmen, while the Hawk’s Tail received more custom from wayfarers.
The Hawk’s Tail was a homely house with a sign hanging over the front door featuring a red-tailed hawk with open beak. Lanterns hanging outside on posts, and lamps lit within, made a cheery welcome that was augmented by the mixed scents of good things cooking and baking inside.
“Why don’t you check if they have rooms for us,” Karigan told Fergal, “and then you can meet me in the stables.”
Fergal’s eyes widened in surprise that she would allow him such a responsibility. She dug into her message satchel and passed him a seal bearing the winged horse insignia of the messenger service. Riders didn’t carry enough currency to pay for every lodging or each supply purchased, but instead sealed documents that the proprietors could present at tax time for redemption.
Fergal glanced at the seal in his hand, then clenched his fingers around it. He dismounted and clambered up the inn’s front steps and went inside. Karigan led both horses behind the inn and into the stable’s courtyard. A stablehand pointed out a couple stalls she could use. First she untacked the horses, and then started rubbing down Condor with her currycomb. He groaned with pleasure and leaned into her circular strokes. Soon the grime worked out of his hide and the sweat marks left by his saddle disappeared. She had kept their pace at a walk for the last mile or so, so they wouldn’t be overwarm when they reached the inn.
Next she checked up and down Condor’s legs, examining him for any signs of swelling or lameness. None. Then she picked out his hooves and inspected them. All was well, and she let him loose into the paddock for a good roll.
She turned to Sunny who gazed expectantly at her. Where was Fergal? He should have been out by now to tend his horse.
Karigan made a disparaging sound and started caring for Sunny as she had Condor. Once she released the mare into the paddock and instructed the stablehand on their feeding, she burdened herself with both her saddlebags and Fergal’s and entered the inn.
The innkeeper, Jolly Miles, greeted her courteously and said, “Your lad is in the common room.”
By now fuming, she clattered into the common room. A friendly fire crackled in a big stone hearth. Some merchants sat near it, smoking pipes and playing at Knights. Fergal sat at another table with a man and was sawing away at a hunk of bread to dip in the gravy slathered over his mutton and potatoes. He looked to be on his second tankard of ale.
Without a word she strode over to his table and glared down at him. A ripple of shame, and maybe a little fear, moved across his features. Karigan dumped his saddlebags at his feet. The noise made Fergal flinch and drew the attention of the merchants from their cards.
She paced their ride with long stretches of walking interspersed with trotting. Fergal did not attempt any more gallops, not even a canter. Maybe his lessons with Riggs, and her reprimand, had finally sunk in. If they were to make any headway, maintaining the endurance of their horses was of the utmost importance.
Fortunately, the Kingway was an easy ride, a well-maintained road of level stretches and gentle rises. Trees shaded it, and they passed through villages where they watered the horses in public troughs. Villagers politely requested the latest news from the city, mostly about the king’s betrothal, much to Karigan’s chagrin. The brief rests also gave the Riders a chance to stretch and stamp out their stiff legs. If the prolonged riding was causing Fergal discomfort, he did not complain.
Villages and woodlands were interspersed with rolling farmland bordered by stone fence lines. Most of the crops had been hauled in by now and many activities centered around winter preparations: a pair of boys cutting through logs with a cross cut saw, their father splitting the wood with his ax while girls stacked the firewood in a neat pile near their little cot.
At another farm with many apple trees, children jostled the red fruit from the upper branches for their mother who caught them in her apron. Upon seeing the Riders, the farmwife and children presented them and the horses with some delicious samples.
Fergal’s sullen demeanor softened with the gift, and the children chattered at him in their excitement to see a real Green Rider. He gave them rides on Sunny, while Karigan traded predictions with the farmwife about the winter to come.
Farther on, others tended livestock and repaired shingles on roofs while a lucky hunter rumbled by with a stag in his cart. Squirrels scolded the Riders from the branches above and it seemed at times they purposely dropped spruce cones on their heads.
Karigan liked autumn, she decided, while crunching a tart apple. The air was sharp and fresh, not too warm and not too cold, and the sky clear. The deciduous trees of the countryside were afire with bright yellows, oranges, and reds, contrasting with the deep greens of spruce and pine. Blueberry bushes, now past their fruit-bearing season, were clumps of crimson along the road’s edges. The horses’ hoof falls were softened by rusty pine needles and colorful leaves matting the road.
Dusk was settling in by the time they reached the village of Deering. Despite Fergal’s transgressions of the morning, they made acceptable time. The village was carved out of the forest, this the southern fringe of the mighty Green Cloak. Mostly it served wayfarers and woodsmen with a mercantile, a farrier’s forge, a pair of inns, a wheelwright’s shop, and a humble chapel of the moon made of stone.
“We usually stay at the Hawk’s Tail,” Karigan said. The other inn, the Red Pony, was a little rougher, primarily serving woodsmen, while the Hawk’s Tail received more custom from wayfarers.
The Hawk’s Tail was a homely house with a sign hanging over the front door featuring a red-tailed hawk with open beak. Lanterns hanging outside on posts, and lamps lit within, made a cheery welcome that was augmented by the mixed scents of good things cooking and baking inside.
“Why don’t you check if they have rooms for us,” Karigan told Fergal, “and then you can meet me in the stables.”
Fergal’s eyes widened in surprise that she would allow him such a responsibility. She dug into her message satchel and passed him a seal bearing the winged horse insignia of the messenger service. Riders didn’t carry enough currency to pay for every lodging or each supply purchased, but instead sealed documents that the proprietors could present at tax time for redemption.
Fergal glanced at the seal in his hand, then clenched his fingers around it. He dismounted and clambered up the inn’s front steps and went inside. Karigan led both horses behind the inn and into the stable’s courtyard. A stablehand pointed out a couple stalls she could use. First she untacked the horses, and then started rubbing down Condor with her currycomb. He groaned with pleasure and leaned into her circular strokes. Soon the grime worked out of his hide and the sweat marks left by his saddle disappeared. She had kept their pace at a walk for the last mile or so, so they wouldn’t be overwarm when they reached the inn.
Next she checked up and down Condor’s legs, examining him for any signs of swelling or lameness. None. Then she picked out his hooves and inspected them. All was well, and she let him loose into the paddock for a good roll.
She turned to Sunny who gazed expectantly at her. Where was Fergal? He should have been out by now to tend his horse.
Karigan made a disparaging sound and started caring for Sunny as she had Condor. Once she released the mare into the paddock and instructed the stablehand on their feeding, she burdened herself with both her saddlebags and Fergal’s and entered the inn.
The innkeeper, Jolly Miles, greeted her courteously and said, “Your lad is in the common room.”
By now fuming, she clattered into the common room. A friendly fire crackled in a big stone hearth. Some merchants sat near it, smoking pipes and playing at Knights. Fergal sat at another table with a man and was sawing away at a hunk of bread to dip in the gravy slathered over his mutton and potatoes. He looked to be on his second tankard of ale.
Without a word she strode over to his table and glared down at him. A ripple of shame, and maybe a little fear, moved across his features. Karigan dumped his saddlebags at his feet. The noise made Fergal flinch and drew the attention of the merchants from their cards.
