The High King's Tomb
Page 7
Karigan sighed as she stepped into the Rider wing. It was part of a more ancient section of the castle, and here the stonework was rougher, the walls closer, and the arched ceiling lower. Long abandoned by the Green Riders, and by everyone else for that matter, it had cleaned up nicely, but it would never replace the old barracks that had housed the king’s messengers for two hundred years before fire demolished it.
Someone had seen to hanging bright tapestries along the corridor walls. She would have liked to enlarge the arrow slits that served as windows in each of the tiny chambers, but was unable to for reasons of defense. Overall, despite the improvements that had been made, it was still a dark, gloomy place, but she had to admit that it was getting better. Especially with all the life the new Riders brought to it.
Even now, Ty Newland stood with arms folded, overseeing Fergal Duff, a new Rider, and Yates Cardell, a not-so-new Rider, move an awkward and rather heavy wardrobe down the corridor. The two grunted with effort and sweated profusely, their rolled-up sleeves revealing tautly corded muscles. Ty in contrast, looked as cool and impeccable as usual. The others called him “Rider Perfect” behind his back, but Karigan suspected that if he knew, he’d be rather pleased.
“Good afternoon, Karigan,” Ty said.
“Hello.”
Fergal, upon seeing her, straightened, which shifted the load of the wardrobe onto Yates, who issued a garbled expletive.
“Hello, Rider G’ladheon,” Fergal said, oblivious to Yates’ strain.
He was maybe all of fifteen years old, and full of the bright innocence of one who had not been a Green Rider long. It amazed her how eager the novice Riders were about their new lives and the prospect of meeting danger in the course of their work. As part of their training, they heard about the legends and history of the king’s messengers—the little that was known, anyway. Quickly becoming part of the recent history were accounts of Karigan’s own exploits. She had caught more than one wide-eyed gaze cast in her direction from among the new Riders. Several even paused in their own weapons practice to watch her train with the fearsome Arms Master Drent.
Another male not high on Karigan’s happy list. He had insisted on continuing to train her, and unfortunately, Captain Mapstone agreed.
“Fergal!” Yates cried in a strangled tone. “Pay attention!”
“Yes, sir.” The young Rider again took on more of the weight of the wardrobe.
“Sir?” Karigan asked Ty.
“The young are impressionable, and at the moment, Fergal’s deference is keeping Yates cooperative.”
Karigan shook her head and ducked into her chamber. It just wasn’t the same as her old room at the barracks that had overlooked the green of pasture and grazing messenger horses, but it was quiet.
“Ow!” Yates howled. “That was, and I put the emphasis on was, my toe!”
Mostly quiet, she amended. She shut the door and hung her dress in the dark depths of her own monstrous wardrobe. Garth had found this, and other royal castoffs with which to furnish the new Rider wing, in a storage room somewhere in the castle.
The rich blue and tailoring of her dress looked odd hanging among all the green of her uniforms, like something from another place, another world. And she supposed it was. Her world was now that of the Green Riders, not that of a merchant, and certainly not that of a young woman caught up in more ordinary pursuits, such as attracting a profitable marriage alliance.
The world of the Green Riders was a dangerous one. Riders were not particularly long lived, and Karigan had come close to losing her own life more than once. She had lost count of how many Riders died violent deaths since she had been called. Her own brooch once belonged to a Rider she found impaled with two black arrows and dying in the road.
If she survived her tenure as a Rider, she knew that other world would be out there waiting for her, and that she’d have incredible tales to tell her grandchildren.
The bell down in the city rang out four hour, and she sat on the edge of her narrow bed, gazing into the open wardrobe. The silvery threads of her dress did not sparkle as brightly as the gold threads of the winged horse insignia on the sleeves of her uniform.
Not one to seek sanctuary, Karigan found it now in the dim light that filtered into her room through her narrow window. Here she heard no words about weddings, nor did she have to look upon preparations. No one was trying to kill her at the moment, and she hadn’t even seen the hint of a ghost in a couple months. More important, there was no sign of trouble at the wall. So far. Perhaps her days of danger were over, and some future Rider would deal with Mornhavon the Black. Maybe Alton would fix the wall before Mornhavon returned.
A sort of contentment blanketed her, and she fell asleep, dreaming of walking through a garden in a deep green velvet dress, which sparkled in the sunshine with threads of golden fire.
GRYPHON STREET
“Look at you,” Tegan said in a hushed voice. “Beautiful!”
She tilted the mirror so Karigan could get a better glimpse of herself, but it was too small for her to see a full view. She decided she’d just have to take Tegan’s word for it that she wasn’t about to embarrass herself.
Karigan had needed a great deal of help getting ready—this was not the simple attire of her girlhood, but a complicated system of undergarments, padding, layers of skirts, and the laces necessary to hold it all together. The worst part was the dratted whalebone corset Tegan had cinched tight, squishing all of Karigan’s innards and making the scar tissue of a not-so-old stab wound throb. It plumped up her unremarkable bosom into something…miraculous. Fortunately the seamstress in town had altered the bodice, with its swooping neckline, to perfection. A slight error in measurement would have been far too revealing.
Someone had seen to hanging bright tapestries along the corridor walls. She would have liked to enlarge the arrow slits that served as windows in each of the tiny chambers, but was unable to for reasons of defense. Overall, despite the improvements that had been made, it was still a dark, gloomy place, but she had to admit that it was getting better. Especially with all the life the new Riders brought to it.
Even now, Ty Newland stood with arms folded, overseeing Fergal Duff, a new Rider, and Yates Cardell, a not-so-new Rider, move an awkward and rather heavy wardrobe down the corridor. The two grunted with effort and sweated profusely, their rolled-up sleeves revealing tautly corded muscles. Ty in contrast, looked as cool and impeccable as usual. The others called him “Rider Perfect” behind his back, but Karigan suspected that if he knew, he’d be rather pleased.
“Good afternoon, Karigan,” Ty said.
“Hello.”
Fergal, upon seeing her, straightened, which shifted the load of the wardrobe onto Yates, who issued a garbled expletive.
“Hello, Rider G’ladheon,” Fergal said, oblivious to Yates’ strain.
He was maybe all of fifteen years old, and full of the bright innocence of one who had not been a Green Rider long. It amazed her how eager the novice Riders were about their new lives and the prospect of meeting danger in the course of their work. As part of their training, they heard about the legends and history of the king’s messengers—the little that was known, anyway. Quickly becoming part of the recent history were accounts of Karigan’s own exploits. She had caught more than one wide-eyed gaze cast in her direction from among the new Riders. Several even paused in their own weapons practice to watch her train with the fearsome Arms Master Drent.
Another male not high on Karigan’s happy list. He had insisted on continuing to train her, and unfortunately, Captain Mapstone agreed.
“Fergal!” Yates cried in a strangled tone. “Pay attention!”
“Yes, sir.” The young Rider again took on more of the weight of the wardrobe.
“Sir?” Karigan asked Ty.
“The young are impressionable, and at the moment, Fergal’s deference is keeping Yates cooperative.”
Karigan shook her head and ducked into her chamber. It just wasn’t the same as her old room at the barracks that had overlooked the green of pasture and grazing messenger horses, but it was quiet.
“Ow!” Yates howled. “That was, and I put the emphasis on was, my toe!”
Mostly quiet, she amended. She shut the door and hung her dress in the dark depths of her own monstrous wardrobe. Garth had found this, and other royal castoffs with which to furnish the new Rider wing, in a storage room somewhere in the castle.
The rich blue and tailoring of her dress looked odd hanging among all the green of her uniforms, like something from another place, another world. And she supposed it was. Her world was now that of the Green Riders, not that of a merchant, and certainly not that of a young woman caught up in more ordinary pursuits, such as attracting a profitable marriage alliance.
The world of the Green Riders was a dangerous one. Riders were not particularly long lived, and Karigan had come close to losing her own life more than once. She had lost count of how many Riders died violent deaths since she had been called. Her own brooch once belonged to a Rider she found impaled with two black arrows and dying in the road.
If she survived her tenure as a Rider, she knew that other world would be out there waiting for her, and that she’d have incredible tales to tell her grandchildren.
The bell down in the city rang out four hour, and she sat on the edge of her narrow bed, gazing into the open wardrobe. The silvery threads of her dress did not sparkle as brightly as the gold threads of the winged horse insignia on the sleeves of her uniform.
Not one to seek sanctuary, Karigan found it now in the dim light that filtered into her room through her narrow window. Here she heard no words about weddings, nor did she have to look upon preparations. No one was trying to kill her at the moment, and she hadn’t even seen the hint of a ghost in a couple months. More important, there was no sign of trouble at the wall. So far. Perhaps her days of danger were over, and some future Rider would deal with Mornhavon the Black. Maybe Alton would fix the wall before Mornhavon returned.
A sort of contentment blanketed her, and she fell asleep, dreaming of walking through a garden in a deep green velvet dress, which sparkled in the sunshine with threads of golden fire.
GRYPHON STREET
“Look at you,” Tegan said in a hushed voice. “Beautiful!”
She tilted the mirror so Karigan could get a better glimpse of herself, but it was too small for her to see a full view. She decided she’d just have to take Tegan’s word for it that she wasn’t about to embarrass herself.
Karigan had needed a great deal of help getting ready—this was not the simple attire of her girlhood, but a complicated system of undergarments, padding, layers of skirts, and the laces necessary to hold it all together. The worst part was the dratted whalebone corset Tegan had cinched tight, squishing all of Karigan’s innards and making the scar tissue of a not-so-old stab wound throb. It plumped up her unremarkable bosom into something…miraculous. Fortunately the seamstress in town had altered the bodice, with its swooping neckline, to perfection. A slight error in measurement would have been far too revealing.
