The High King's Tomb
Page 58
Besides, she was on king’s business, not her own, and she couldn’t afford the time a detour to Corsa would take. She sighed and crumpled up her latest and last version of the letter and fed it to the flames. She would have to see her father another time, or find another way to write her letter when her words were less fueled by anger.
Everyone seemed to sense her fury and stayed clear of her, even though it wasn’t really Silva or the inhabitants of the brothel that angered her. And while she was certainly upset with her father, she directed the worst of her rage at herself for having been so bloody naïve.
Her father had loved Kariny. She knew it with both her head and heart, but she’d been foolish to believe that their love had the power to trap him in time; to believe that memory was enough for him, that it quelled any need he might have for affection and physical release, even after so many years.
How stupid she’d been to expect her father to lead such an ascetic life.
But why, she wondered, did he have to buy affection? Why sully himself in such a way? Why disrespect what he had with her mother?
Karigan wasn’t sure if it was possible to understand. All she knew now was that she would never look at her father the same way again, and that he had shown her that her own ideals of love were little more than childish fantasies.
The strokes of the town bell drew her from her introspection. It was time for midmorning tea, which Rona made sure Karigan and Fergal enjoyed every day. Karigan left her room and strolled along the corridor, which was quite empty, and no surprise at that due to the nocturnal employment of those who lived here.
Downstairs she found the parlor, too, was empty, though a teapot, breads, cakes, and scones awaited her. She took a seat in a plush red velvet chair with an ornate cherrywood frame. Heavy drapes were tied back from the windows to reveal the dim autumn light on the street outside, and a fire crackled in the fireplace.
All the materials of the parlor were very fine, from the rich carpeting to the porcelain tea service. Karigan couldn’t help but check the maker’s mark on the bottom of a cup, only to discover it was made by Barden House, one of the finest producers of porcelain in L’Petrie Province, if not all of Sacoridia. There was even Barden porcelain in the king’s castle. She had looked.
Fine works of art adorned the walls, including a massive oil over the fireplace of the Grandgent in spring, lupine bursting with color along its banks and a fleet of sailing vessels on its waters. The artist was renowned across the provinces.
Karigan poured herself tea, and when Fergal hesitantly entered the room, she poured a second. For a change he was dressed in his uniform, and not the gentleman’s robe Silva had supplied him with. This was a good sign.
Karigan handed him his tea after he sat down. “How are you doing today?” she asked.
“Better.”
“Better enough to leave tomorrow?”
He nodded, and blew on his tea.
“Good.” Karigan exhaled with relief. The sooner they were away from the Golden Rudder, the better.
They sat in silence for a while, sipping tea and eating the sugary treats laid out before them. Finally Karigan decided to ask him about the incident.
“Fergal,” she said, “what do you remember about falling in the river? How did it happen?”
He stared morosely at his knees, a half-eaten scone in his hand.
“It’s all right,” Karigan reassured him, “we’ve all had accidents, done silly things. There’s no need to feel embarrassed about it. I could tell you a few stories myself.” She smiled, hoping her words would make him more comfortable.
“It didn’t rescue me.”
“What?”
“My Rider magic.”
“No,” she said, “it didn’t. Riders often have accidents and their special abilities don’t save them. It depends on the type of accident and the nature of their ability. Dale’s ability to find water, for instance, wouldn’t help her in a shipwreck.” She stopped then, hoping that what she was beginning to suspect was not true. He hadn’t jumped into the river on purpose, had he? Surely he wasn’t that stupid. Surely not. But judging by some of his other antics earlier on this journey…
“It wasn’t an accident, was it?”
He shook his head.
“You were hoping to force your ability to emerge by attempting to drown yourself.”
He nodded, still staring at his knees.
“You endangered your life and mine to do this.” Her voice was calm, but as cold as the river itself. “Your behavior also delayed king’s business and landed us in a brothel, which, if word ever gets out, will make the messenger service look foolish.” Then she laughed harshly. “I guess I’m the fool. I should have taken you back to Sacor City when I had the chance.”
Her teacup clattered into its saucer and she stood and strode out, not caring to see or hear Fergal’s reaction. She remembered how eager he had been for his ability to reveal itself. Becoming a Green Rider had started a whole new life for him, far from his father and the knacker’s shop, and it must have seemed to him he was not a full Rider without his ability. She applauded his desire to serve, but purposely throwing oneself into mortal danger and endangering others—namely herself—was inexcusable. She would not, could not, afford to be forgiving on this. There was plenty of danger in this line of work without inviting it.
She crossed the foyer and cut through the kitchen, brushing past a startled Rona, and headed for the inn’s stable and Condor’s stall. There she slipped on his bridle and mounted him bareback. She rode throughout the day, away from the brothel, away from Fergal, away from everything. She allayed her anger with exertion, riding hard up hill and down, weaving in and out of trees along woods trails, fording streams, following the river, riding till the sun began to set and her mind cleared like the sky after a storm.
Everyone seemed to sense her fury and stayed clear of her, even though it wasn’t really Silva or the inhabitants of the brothel that angered her. And while she was certainly upset with her father, she directed the worst of her rage at herself for having been so bloody naïve.
Her father had loved Kariny. She knew it with both her head and heart, but she’d been foolish to believe that their love had the power to trap him in time; to believe that memory was enough for him, that it quelled any need he might have for affection and physical release, even after so many years.
How stupid she’d been to expect her father to lead such an ascetic life.
But why, she wondered, did he have to buy affection? Why sully himself in such a way? Why disrespect what he had with her mother?
Karigan wasn’t sure if it was possible to understand. All she knew now was that she would never look at her father the same way again, and that he had shown her that her own ideals of love were little more than childish fantasies.
The strokes of the town bell drew her from her introspection. It was time for midmorning tea, which Rona made sure Karigan and Fergal enjoyed every day. Karigan left her room and strolled along the corridor, which was quite empty, and no surprise at that due to the nocturnal employment of those who lived here.
Downstairs she found the parlor, too, was empty, though a teapot, breads, cakes, and scones awaited her. She took a seat in a plush red velvet chair with an ornate cherrywood frame. Heavy drapes were tied back from the windows to reveal the dim autumn light on the street outside, and a fire crackled in the fireplace.
All the materials of the parlor were very fine, from the rich carpeting to the porcelain tea service. Karigan couldn’t help but check the maker’s mark on the bottom of a cup, only to discover it was made by Barden House, one of the finest producers of porcelain in L’Petrie Province, if not all of Sacoridia. There was even Barden porcelain in the king’s castle. She had looked.
Fine works of art adorned the walls, including a massive oil over the fireplace of the Grandgent in spring, lupine bursting with color along its banks and a fleet of sailing vessels on its waters. The artist was renowned across the provinces.
Karigan poured herself tea, and when Fergal hesitantly entered the room, she poured a second. For a change he was dressed in his uniform, and not the gentleman’s robe Silva had supplied him with. This was a good sign.
Karigan handed him his tea after he sat down. “How are you doing today?” she asked.
“Better.”
“Better enough to leave tomorrow?”
He nodded, and blew on his tea.
“Good.” Karigan exhaled with relief. The sooner they were away from the Golden Rudder, the better.
They sat in silence for a while, sipping tea and eating the sugary treats laid out before them. Finally Karigan decided to ask him about the incident.
“Fergal,” she said, “what do you remember about falling in the river? How did it happen?”
He stared morosely at his knees, a half-eaten scone in his hand.
“It’s all right,” Karigan reassured him, “we’ve all had accidents, done silly things. There’s no need to feel embarrassed about it. I could tell you a few stories myself.” She smiled, hoping her words would make him more comfortable.
“It didn’t rescue me.”
“What?”
“My Rider magic.”
“No,” she said, “it didn’t. Riders often have accidents and their special abilities don’t save them. It depends on the type of accident and the nature of their ability. Dale’s ability to find water, for instance, wouldn’t help her in a shipwreck.” She stopped then, hoping that what she was beginning to suspect was not true. He hadn’t jumped into the river on purpose, had he? Surely he wasn’t that stupid. Surely not. But judging by some of his other antics earlier on this journey…
“It wasn’t an accident, was it?”
He shook his head.
“You were hoping to force your ability to emerge by attempting to drown yourself.”
He nodded, still staring at his knees.
“You endangered your life and mine to do this.” Her voice was calm, but as cold as the river itself. “Your behavior also delayed king’s business and landed us in a brothel, which, if word ever gets out, will make the messenger service look foolish.” Then she laughed harshly. “I guess I’m the fool. I should have taken you back to Sacor City when I had the chance.”
Her teacup clattered into its saucer and she stood and strode out, not caring to see or hear Fergal’s reaction. She remembered how eager he had been for his ability to reveal itself. Becoming a Green Rider had started a whole new life for him, far from his father and the knacker’s shop, and it must have seemed to him he was not a full Rider without his ability. She applauded his desire to serve, but purposely throwing oneself into mortal danger and endangering others—namely herself—was inexcusable. She would not, could not, afford to be forgiving on this. There was plenty of danger in this line of work without inviting it.
She crossed the foyer and cut through the kitchen, brushing past a startled Rona, and headed for the inn’s stable and Condor’s stall. There she slipped on his bridle and mounted him bareback. She rode throughout the day, away from the brothel, away from Fergal, away from everything. She allayed her anger with exertion, riding hard up hill and down, weaving in and out of trees along woods trails, fording streams, following the river, riding till the sun began to set and her mind cleared like the sky after a storm.
