The High King's Tomb

Fergal nodded.

Karigan’s head was throbbing more than ever, and an absurd image of Fergal saddled up on a giant prime roast came to mind. She shook her head—the evening had become surreal. “And here I thought you were riding a horse.”

Fergal shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Karigan rinsed her cloth in the bowl of cold water, listening to the drips and splashes, trying to gather her thoughts. “Perhaps,” she said, placing the cloth back against the lump, “you could try and explain it. Help me understand.”

Fergal’s expression darkened and she hoped he wasn’t about to explode with another violent outburst. Really, she didn’t know what to expect from him with these mood swings. Had Captain Mapstone known what he was like when she assigned him to her? Had any of them known?

“Fergal—”

“My da’s a knacker, all right? I watched him slaughter horses like Sunny all the time. Horses people got rid of quick ’cause they no longer were quite young enough, or pretty enough, or ’cause their owners needed money bad. Might not be anything wrong with ’em at all, and they were brought in every day. Meat. Meat my da used to throw to the dogs just to see them fight.” Tears formed around his eyes and he swiped at them with his sleeve.

Incredulous, Karigan didn’t know what to say.

“Cav horses ended up at my father’s all the time,” Fergal said. “Just a little old like Sunny, but nothing wrong with them. They’d end up as bits of meat, bone, and hair.” He gazed directly at her. “My da made me work for him.”

With that, he stood and ran from the room, slamming the door behind him. Karigan winced as the sound richocheted through her sore head. She pulled her legs onto the bed and lay down, staring at the cracked ceiling, dumbfounded.

How horrible to see that slaughter daily, she mused. Especially of healthy animals. She wondered how people could do such a thing to creatures that had served their human counterparts innocently and honestly. We repay them not with our gratitude, but with the slaughterhouse.

Would Sunny have been sent to the knacker if the messenger service hadn’t needed her? Karigan shuddered. She didn’t want to know. Messenger horses retired with their Riders, and it was up to each individual Rider what became of them. Considering the close partnership between horse and Rider, she could not imagine any messenger horse dying at the knacker’s. When the time came for retirement, she would provide Condor with the most comfortable life possible.

As for Fergal, at least she now understood his regard, or disregard, for Sunny. He had taught himself not to grow attached to animals because the only end for them he ever saw was slaughter. Karigan could not imagine growing up in such an environment.

The next morning Karigan ate a hearty breakfast of sausages and fry cakes in the inn’s common room, Fergal nowhere in sight. No matter, today they would return to Sacor City. She had thought it over through the night and had decided Fergal was not yet ready even for a training run, that he was just too volatile and could not yet represent the king properly.

Her decision was reinforced when she saw the sickly bruised bump on her temple in the mirror in the morning light. The bruise had spread in a half circle around her eye and looked just lovely.

She drank the last of her tea and grabbed her saddlebags from the floor. She supposed she would have to ready the horses by herself.

She stepped out into the courtyard between the inn and stables, her stride faltering when she saw two horses standing there, their coats shining in the morning sun. The sight took a moment to register—not only were their coats at high gloss, but their manes and tails were combed out, every snarl, every bit of straw, and every burr removed. Their tack had been thoroughly cleaned and oiled, and the silver polished so that it sparkled. Even the green saddle blankets had had the sweat and horsehair brushed out of them.

Karigan stepped closer and saw that fetlocks and whiskers were trimmed and eye goo wiped away. Condor arched his neck as though a parade horse showing off his good looks, and Sunny had a horsy look of contentment on her face. The intensive grooming had brought a glow to her coat that made her dapples gleam.

Karigan set aside her saddlebags and inspected Condor’s hooves. They’d been thoroughly cleaned and picked. She released his last hoof in astonishment.

The stablehand stood watching her.

“You do this?” she asked.

“Nope, the lad did.” He nodded his head toward the stable, and Karigan saw Fergal there, standing in the shadows, looking at the ground, hands in pockets. “Been here since dawn bathing and grooming and polishing. Did a good job.”

“Yes,” Karigan admitted, “he did.”

Fergal came out into the sun, still unable to look her in the eye. His shirttails flopped out of his trousers and his chin was smudged with dirt.

“I’m sorry. Last night…yesterday. I didn’t mean to hit you—I swear. I was just so angry at that old drunk. I’ll never do that again.” Finally their eyes did meet, and she saw the desperation in his. “Please don’t make me go back; please—I don’t want to be sent back to my da. I’ll do better, I promise.”

There was more than desperation in his eyes; there was fear.

Apparently Fergal didn’t understand the nature of the Rider call; that he couldn’t be forced to return to his father unless it released him. Karigan wasn’t sure she wanted to enlighten him, thinking she could use his fear to help keep him in line, if necessary, sparing her further trouble. She touched the tender bruising around her eye and winced, his explosive behavior all too fresh in her memory.