The High King's Tomb

“Have you had breakfast yet?” She asked him. When he shook his head, she said, “Please go inside and get some, and wash up.”

She watched him as he shuffled off, looking decidedly beaten. Karigan was not gifted with Captain Mapstone’s ability to read truth or falsehood in another person’s words, but her years growing up in a merchant clan helped her judge character, a talent even King Zachary had made use of in his dealings with petitioners. As far as she could tell, Fergal was being honest with her and would not repeat his mistakes. That he had apologized unbidden was another point in his favor.

She also admired the amount of work he put into grooming Condor and Sunny. Not only did it result in a pair of gleaming horses that looked more ready for a parade than an ordinary message errand, but his efforts also served as a peace offering. A peace offering to her? To Sunny? Himself? Maybe all three. In any case, it was a gesture she appreciated very much.

She patted Condor on the rump. “I guess we’re stuck with him.”

A SHIMMERING IN THE WOODS

After breakfast when Karigan told Fergal that he was to continue riding west and that she was not going to return him to Sacor City, his relief was so palpable that she almost felt guilty about her previous plans.

He remained quiet as they rode, and followed her instructions to perfection, not pulling any of the previous day’s mischief. They continued at a steady rhythm, alternating long walks with long trots. It was a fine autumn day with golden leaves drifting down around them and chickadees fluttering in the branches along the road. Brassy blue jays could be heard bellowing above the clip-clop of hooves.

They encountered a few travelers heading east, the wheels of carts following well-established ruts in the road. During the reign of Queen Isen, major portions of the Kingway had been paved with cobbles, but since the work was left to local authorities, there were long stretches of road between towns and villages that remained dirt tracks through the woods.

By midday, Karigan called a halt so they could rest and have a bite to eat. She found a grassy carriage turn-around next to a stream and they dismounted. Fergal pleased her by immediately turning his attention to Sunny, loosening her girth, and replacing her bridle with a halter so she could graze and drink.

Karigan couldn’t say whether he cared for her out of growing affection or duty. She hoped he at least began to view the mare as something more than “meat,” but it was probably too soon to expect too much.

She tended Condor, then led him to the stream for a drink. When the horses were all settled, the Riders removed from their saddlebags strips of dried meat and fresh-baked bread Innkeeper Miles had supplied them with, and the apples given to them by the farmwife the previous day.

They sat in silence on boulders, the only immediate sounds that of the gurgling stream and the horses pulling at grass and swishing their tails. Karigan found she could no longer abide the silence, and after sloshing some water down her throat, she asked, “You feeling the long ride? Are you sore?”

“It’s not bad,” he mumbled.

“That’s good.” Karigan racked her brain for another way to initiate conversation. “Where are you from?”

“Arey Province.”

“That’s a long way.”

Fergal nodded.

Karigan waited for him to tell her of his travels, how he managed the journey from the northeast corner of Sacoridia and across the Wingsong Mountains, but he volunteered nothing.

She sighed and tore at her bread. It was clear he didn’t feel like talking.

They rode in silence until the evening hours set in. This time they were not near a village or an inn, nor were there any Rider waystations nearby. Populations ebbed and flowed over the eons, and Karigan guessed that during the era of waystation construction, there had been villages or farmsteads in the area that could house a Rider, but they had disappeared with time. It left stretches of road without shelter for wayfarers between villages.

Karigan searched the edge of the road for a trail leading to a campsite Ty once showed her. As time went on and she couldn’t find the signs, she feared she had missed it completely. Then they came upon a massive boulder with tongues of tripe lichen growing on it that looked like strips of peeling brown paint.

In the boulder’s shadow was a cairn of rocks marking the trail. She reined Condor onto it, ducking beneath low-hanging branches. The world muted around them as the woods closed in, the horses’ hoof falls muffled by a deep carpet of pine needles and moss. The air thickened with moldering leaf litter and the darkness deepened.

The horses picked their way over tree roots that arced and snaked across the trail, and clipped hooves on the occasional rock. The trail went on at length before opening up at the shore of a lake. The air freshened like a wave falling over them.

Karigan raised her hand so Fergal wouldn’t speak, and she pointed at a bull moose wading through the shallows. Water rippled away from his stiltlike legs, lighter lines against water that reflected the darkening sky.

The moose dipped his nose into the water after cattail tubers. The water poured off his muzzle when he raised his head. Chewing on vegetation, he shambled toward shore, a giant bearing a majestic crown, and vanished into the woods, never hurrying; regal despite his ungainly size.

Karigan glanced at Fergal, realizing that moose must be even more common in Arey and he undoubtedly saw them as…meat. His features fell in shadow and she could not read them.

“Probably looking for a mate,” she said quietly.

“Probably.”