The High King's Tomb
Page 62
He tipped his cap. “Thank ye, sir. Good speed to ye.”
“You’re welcome. Ma’am.”
Cetchum blinked in surprise and scratched his head beneath his cap. Karigan and Fergal rode off to the sound of the oarsmen laughing heartily at their ferry master.
ELETIANS
One morning, without warning, the citizens of Sacor City awoke to a strange sight before the outermost wall and gate: tents of all sizes and deep coloration had bloomed in a fallow field overnight, like the plantings of a flower garden that suddenly emerge from the soil after having lain dormant all winter. The silken material of the tents rippled in the breeze and their hues called to mind the azure of the summer sky, the new green of spring leaves, and the deep red of roses shining with morning dew.
The sun glowed more golden on the grouping of tents, more warm, more gentle; a light like that of the elder days when the world was new. As if in response, the grasses of the field grew a richer green; too green if one took into account the time of year. The leaves of nearby trees brightened with renewed autumnal fire, and the stream that cut through the field and beneath the large blue tent chuckled more gaily and sparkled as though it were made of gems. Birds sang in the trees and hedges like spring reborn.
How odd it was, the city’s inhabitants thought. They climbed to the battlements of the outer wall, which was usually reserved for soldiers only, to peer down on the scene. They crowded at the gate to peer out, and the more courageous among them even stepped away from the wall’s protection to take a closer look.
This was no circus or fair come to town. There were no jesters, no exotic animals, no tumblers in bright costumes. The tents did not look like the gaudy pavilions of Wayfarers, who sometimes passed by the city to deal in horses and read fortunes.
No one emerged from the tents to pronounce this or that, or to reveal their identity or purpose. No one, not even the guards at the gate, had seen the tents go up. They weren’t there one day but appeared the next, revealed with the dawn. The only clue to their identity were banners hung on poles seemingly of ivory and emblazoned with a green birch leaf against a field of stunning, snowy white. Yet the banners told the city folk little, for the device had not been seen by mortals in a thousand years.
Who were the owners of the tents, people wondered. What designs did they hold against Sacor City? Were they hiding a force of invaders come to annihilate the city? Did the tents contain magicians ready to cast evil spells on them? The populace murmured uneasily for the disruptions of the summer were still fresh in their minds.
It was the talk in every quarter of the city, these tents, their mysterious inhabitants, and what they intended. It surpassed interest in the king’s forthcoming wedding, and rumors that the Raven Mask was again prowling the fine houses at night. Why, twice this week jewels had been removed from the rooms of prominent ladies!
The guards at the gate sent word at once to the castle. Captains and colonels and generals descended from the castle, trailed by steel-wielding soldiers and accompanied by king’s messengers in green.
One by one the officers attempted to parley with the tent dwellers, but none would answer or come forth. When they tried to enter the grouping of tents, they were turned around as though repelled by some unknown force, expressions of surprise on their faces.
“Magic,” some whispered, and a pulse of fear quickened through the crowds.
Yet the tent dwellers showed no sign of aggression or evil intent—they simply showed nothing of themselves at all. Even the king came down from his castle and, surrounded by his grim, black-clad bodyguards, called out to the tent dwellers, but none replied.
The king and his guards returned up the Winding Way and he was overheard mentioning to one of his advisors, “The Elt Wood…” and the folk of Sacor City spread the rumor that the Eletians had now come forth from their mysterious realm for unknown purposes.
For four days and four nights the soldiers kept vigil over the grouping of tents. They maintained their distance, but surrounded them in a half circle, and a king’s messenger was always with them in case a tent dweller should come forth.
On the fifth day, as the novelty of the tents began to diminish and folk of the city went about their daily lives, a flap in the blue tent creased open and a hand emerged to beckon forth the king’s messenger. The Green Rider nudged her gelding forward, one hand on the hilt of her saber. This was none other than the Green Rider captain, recognizable by her red hair and the gold knot at her shoulder.
She halted her horse before the tent and sat there for some time conversing with the mysterious visitor within. No one but the captain and the one to whom she spoke knew what words passed between them, but after a short conversation, she reined her horse around and headed up the Winding Way at a swift trot.
The light that streamed through the windows of the king’s study was bright, but not the same, not as pure or as authentic, as that which shone upon the grouping of tents outside the city.
Laren Mapstone shook her head trying to keep her attention in the here and now. The king sat behind his desk and they were joined by advisors Colin Dovekey and Castellan Sperren, as well as by General Harborough.
“I don’t like it,” the general was saying. “They’ve hidden in their woods these last thousand years and suddenly they’re camped out on our threshold?”
“I would not say they’ve been hiding,” the king replied.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the general said, “I remember well the Eletian who helped your brother in his attempt to usurp the throne, and considering that is our experience with these folk, we cannot trust them.” General Harborough was not a tall man, but his features and body were stocky and square, his neck thick, and face scarred. He was an excellent commander and oversaw the workings of all branches of Sacoridia’s military. Laren knew it was his duty to be suspicious of anything that might threaten his king or country.
“You’re welcome. Ma’am.”
Cetchum blinked in surprise and scratched his head beneath his cap. Karigan and Fergal rode off to the sound of the oarsmen laughing heartily at their ferry master.
ELETIANS
One morning, without warning, the citizens of Sacor City awoke to a strange sight before the outermost wall and gate: tents of all sizes and deep coloration had bloomed in a fallow field overnight, like the plantings of a flower garden that suddenly emerge from the soil after having lain dormant all winter. The silken material of the tents rippled in the breeze and their hues called to mind the azure of the summer sky, the new green of spring leaves, and the deep red of roses shining with morning dew.
The sun glowed more golden on the grouping of tents, more warm, more gentle; a light like that of the elder days when the world was new. As if in response, the grasses of the field grew a richer green; too green if one took into account the time of year. The leaves of nearby trees brightened with renewed autumnal fire, and the stream that cut through the field and beneath the large blue tent chuckled more gaily and sparkled as though it were made of gems. Birds sang in the trees and hedges like spring reborn.
How odd it was, the city’s inhabitants thought. They climbed to the battlements of the outer wall, which was usually reserved for soldiers only, to peer down on the scene. They crowded at the gate to peer out, and the more courageous among them even stepped away from the wall’s protection to take a closer look.
This was no circus or fair come to town. There were no jesters, no exotic animals, no tumblers in bright costumes. The tents did not look like the gaudy pavilions of Wayfarers, who sometimes passed by the city to deal in horses and read fortunes.
No one emerged from the tents to pronounce this or that, or to reveal their identity or purpose. No one, not even the guards at the gate, had seen the tents go up. They weren’t there one day but appeared the next, revealed with the dawn. The only clue to their identity were banners hung on poles seemingly of ivory and emblazoned with a green birch leaf against a field of stunning, snowy white. Yet the banners told the city folk little, for the device had not been seen by mortals in a thousand years.
Who were the owners of the tents, people wondered. What designs did they hold against Sacor City? Were they hiding a force of invaders come to annihilate the city? Did the tents contain magicians ready to cast evil spells on them? The populace murmured uneasily for the disruptions of the summer were still fresh in their minds.
It was the talk in every quarter of the city, these tents, their mysterious inhabitants, and what they intended. It surpassed interest in the king’s forthcoming wedding, and rumors that the Raven Mask was again prowling the fine houses at night. Why, twice this week jewels had been removed from the rooms of prominent ladies!
The guards at the gate sent word at once to the castle. Captains and colonels and generals descended from the castle, trailed by steel-wielding soldiers and accompanied by king’s messengers in green.
One by one the officers attempted to parley with the tent dwellers, but none would answer or come forth. When they tried to enter the grouping of tents, they were turned around as though repelled by some unknown force, expressions of surprise on their faces.
“Magic,” some whispered, and a pulse of fear quickened through the crowds.
Yet the tent dwellers showed no sign of aggression or evil intent—they simply showed nothing of themselves at all. Even the king came down from his castle and, surrounded by his grim, black-clad bodyguards, called out to the tent dwellers, but none replied.
The king and his guards returned up the Winding Way and he was overheard mentioning to one of his advisors, “The Elt Wood…” and the folk of Sacor City spread the rumor that the Eletians had now come forth from their mysterious realm for unknown purposes.
For four days and four nights the soldiers kept vigil over the grouping of tents. They maintained their distance, but surrounded them in a half circle, and a king’s messenger was always with them in case a tent dweller should come forth.
On the fifth day, as the novelty of the tents began to diminish and folk of the city went about their daily lives, a flap in the blue tent creased open and a hand emerged to beckon forth the king’s messenger. The Green Rider nudged her gelding forward, one hand on the hilt of her saber. This was none other than the Green Rider captain, recognizable by her red hair and the gold knot at her shoulder.
She halted her horse before the tent and sat there for some time conversing with the mysterious visitor within. No one but the captain and the one to whom she spoke knew what words passed between them, but after a short conversation, she reined her horse around and headed up the Winding Way at a swift trot.
The light that streamed through the windows of the king’s study was bright, but not the same, not as pure or as authentic, as that which shone upon the grouping of tents outside the city.
Laren Mapstone shook her head trying to keep her attention in the here and now. The king sat behind his desk and they were joined by advisors Colin Dovekey and Castellan Sperren, as well as by General Harborough.
“I don’t like it,” the general was saying. “They’ve hidden in their woods these last thousand years and suddenly they’re camped out on our threshold?”
“I would not say they’ve been hiding,” the king replied.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the general said, “I remember well the Eletian who helped your brother in his attempt to usurp the throne, and considering that is our experience with these folk, we cannot trust them.” General Harborough was not a tall man, but his features and body were stocky and square, his neck thick, and face scarred. He was an excellent commander and oversaw the workings of all branches of Sacoridia’s military. Laren knew it was his duty to be suspicious of anything that might threaten his king or country.
