The High King's Tomb
Page 20
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“Oh, F’ryan, I miss you,” she murmured.
It made Karigan’s avoidance of her all the more hurtful, for Karigan had been the last to see F’ryan alive and had taken his place among the Green Riders. She was, in a sense, Estora’s last connection to F’ryan.
Activity picked up near the kitchens. Cooks and bakers would have already been at work for hours now, and she smelled luscious breads and pastries baking. Bright lamplight spilled through the arched entryway of the kitchens, and cooks and servants bustled within, clattering dishware and chattering boisterously among themselves. The kitchens were cavernous with numerous ovens, hearths, and preparation tables. Feeding a castle full of soldiers, administrators, nobles, servants, and visitors was a huge undertaking, which the kitchen operations reflected.
Estora smiled and continued toward the servants’ entrance only to discover a certain Green Rider there with a pair of bulging saddlebags thrown over her shoulders and her hand on the door handle.
“Karigan?”
The Rider swung around, startled. Panic flickered across her features when she saw who addressed her.
“Good morning, my lady,” she said with a quick bob. “I’ve two Riders needing these provisions, so I must—”
“Oh, no, you don’t!” Estora strode forward and stood squarely before Karigan. “You will not run off on me again.”
Karigan opened her mouth as if to speak, but Estora cut her off. “I know I upset you in the past, but is it really a reason to avoid me each and every time I see you? I apologize if that will help. But really, avoiding me is not the most adult reaction.”
At first, unsettled emotions rippled across Karigan’s face, but then she took a deep breath, steadying her expression. It was not the open, friendly face Estora was accustomed to but closed and set.
“It may be perceived,” Karigan said, “as improper for a commoner to associate with the future queen in such a familiar manner.”
Where had that come from? Estora had to double-check that this was Karigan she was talking to. Never before had Karigan adopted so formal a tone with her.
“Karigan, I am still Estora, the same person as before. My marriage to the king changes nothing.”
“It changes everything, my lady.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I—”
“I am a lowly messenger,” Karigan said without meeting her gaze. “Your servant. You are to be queen, and that is a barrier between us that cannot be casually crossed. I will serve you and the king to the best of my ability, and as duty requires, but the friendship we enjoyed in the past would be inappropriate for one of your station. That is all there is to it.”
No it wasn’t, Estora was sure of it. She narrowed her eyes, trying to discern what Karigan was hiding. Why was she pushing her away? “Let’s talk this out. Maybe—”
“As your future subject, I will talk with you if you command it, my lady, but I fear it would not change our circumstances. I do not believe we can continue to be friends.”
It was as though Estora had been struck in the face. Never had she known Karigan to be so cold, and her formal tone made it all the worse. All at once she realized what it meant to be queen—she’d never be regarded in the same light again, even by those she had counted among her friends. What came with being queen was a terrible power as well, a power to punish any who displeased her. That explained, at least in part, Karigan’s careful and proper choice of words, and it saddened Estora that Karigan would even consider her capable of carrying out a punishment against her. The worst part, however, was what lay beneath the words: utter rejection of their friendship, utter rejection of Estora.
Overcome by a sense of loss—loss of who she once was, and of Karigan’s friendship—tears filled her eyes. “You can’t mean it.”
“If you require nothing further of me, my lady,” Karigan said, “I need to take these saddlebags to Riders who must depart on the king’s business.” She bowed, turned on her heel, and strode out the door.
Estora blinked against the morning light that splashed across her face as the door opened and closed. After a moment’s hesitation, she flung the door open and rushed out after Karigan into the chill morning. She would shake the truth out of the Rider if she had to.
But Karigan was already halfway across the castle grounds making a straight line for the Rider stables. Estora lifted her skirts and followed the steps down to the pathway. She wanted to scream and cry. What had come over Karigan? Certainly their exchange in the gardens couldn’t have made Karigan hate her. What had she done to deserve such cold treatment?
Nothing.
Karigan’s behavior was so unusual, so unlike herself, that there must be some greater issue at hand, and it was just beyond Estora’s grasp. Still, this inner knowledge did nothing to lessen the hurt. She sniffled.
“My pardon. I simply thought the lady might like a handkerchief.”
Estora turned to find her Weapon blocking the approach of a gentleman.
“I thought I was the only one out and about this early in the morning,” he said, “only to find a beautiful face stricken with sorrow.” He waved the handkerchief like a sign of surrender.
Estora nodded to her Weapon that it was all right to allow the man to approach. She accepted his handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “Thank you.”
He smiled, which made his well-chiseled features all the more handsome. Black hair was drawn back in a ponytail, and he wore the clothing of a noble, though it showed some wear. The colors were slightly faded, the cuffs frayed, and there were signs of meticulous mending.
It made Karigan’s avoidance of her all the more hurtful, for Karigan had been the last to see F’ryan alive and had taken his place among the Green Riders. She was, in a sense, Estora’s last connection to F’ryan.
Activity picked up near the kitchens. Cooks and bakers would have already been at work for hours now, and she smelled luscious breads and pastries baking. Bright lamplight spilled through the arched entryway of the kitchens, and cooks and servants bustled within, clattering dishware and chattering boisterously among themselves. The kitchens were cavernous with numerous ovens, hearths, and preparation tables. Feeding a castle full of soldiers, administrators, nobles, servants, and visitors was a huge undertaking, which the kitchen operations reflected.
Estora smiled and continued toward the servants’ entrance only to discover a certain Green Rider there with a pair of bulging saddlebags thrown over her shoulders and her hand on the door handle.
“Karigan?”
The Rider swung around, startled. Panic flickered across her features when she saw who addressed her.
“Good morning, my lady,” she said with a quick bob. “I’ve two Riders needing these provisions, so I must—”
“Oh, no, you don’t!” Estora strode forward and stood squarely before Karigan. “You will not run off on me again.”
Karigan opened her mouth as if to speak, but Estora cut her off. “I know I upset you in the past, but is it really a reason to avoid me each and every time I see you? I apologize if that will help. But really, avoiding me is not the most adult reaction.”
At first, unsettled emotions rippled across Karigan’s face, but then she took a deep breath, steadying her expression. It was not the open, friendly face Estora was accustomed to but closed and set.
“It may be perceived,” Karigan said, “as improper for a commoner to associate with the future queen in such a familiar manner.”
Where had that come from? Estora had to double-check that this was Karigan she was talking to. Never before had Karigan adopted so formal a tone with her.
“Karigan, I am still Estora, the same person as before. My marriage to the king changes nothing.”
“It changes everything, my lady.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I—”
“I am a lowly messenger,” Karigan said without meeting her gaze. “Your servant. You are to be queen, and that is a barrier between us that cannot be casually crossed. I will serve you and the king to the best of my ability, and as duty requires, but the friendship we enjoyed in the past would be inappropriate for one of your station. That is all there is to it.”
No it wasn’t, Estora was sure of it. She narrowed her eyes, trying to discern what Karigan was hiding. Why was she pushing her away? “Let’s talk this out. Maybe—”
“As your future subject, I will talk with you if you command it, my lady, but I fear it would not change our circumstances. I do not believe we can continue to be friends.”
It was as though Estora had been struck in the face. Never had she known Karigan to be so cold, and her formal tone made it all the worse. All at once she realized what it meant to be queen—she’d never be regarded in the same light again, even by those she had counted among her friends. What came with being queen was a terrible power as well, a power to punish any who displeased her. That explained, at least in part, Karigan’s careful and proper choice of words, and it saddened Estora that Karigan would even consider her capable of carrying out a punishment against her. The worst part, however, was what lay beneath the words: utter rejection of their friendship, utter rejection of Estora.
Overcome by a sense of loss—loss of who she once was, and of Karigan’s friendship—tears filled her eyes. “You can’t mean it.”
“If you require nothing further of me, my lady,” Karigan said, “I need to take these saddlebags to Riders who must depart on the king’s business.” She bowed, turned on her heel, and strode out the door.
Estora blinked against the morning light that splashed across her face as the door opened and closed. After a moment’s hesitation, she flung the door open and rushed out after Karigan into the chill morning. She would shake the truth out of the Rider if she had to.
But Karigan was already halfway across the castle grounds making a straight line for the Rider stables. Estora lifted her skirts and followed the steps down to the pathway. She wanted to scream and cry. What had come over Karigan? Certainly their exchange in the gardens couldn’t have made Karigan hate her. What had she done to deserve such cold treatment?
Nothing.
Karigan’s behavior was so unusual, so unlike herself, that there must be some greater issue at hand, and it was just beyond Estora’s grasp. Still, this inner knowledge did nothing to lessen the hurt. She sniffled.
“My pardon. I simply thought the lady might like a handkerchief.”
Estora turned to find her Weapon blocking the approach of a gentleman.
“I thought I was the only one out and about this early in the morning,” he said, “only to find a beautiful face stricken with sorrow.” He waved the handkerchief like a sign of surrender.
Estora nodded to her Weapon that it was all right to allow the man to approach. She accepted his handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “Thank you.”
He smiled, which made his well-chiseled features all the more handsome. Black hair was drawn back in a ponytail, and he wore the clothing of a noble, though it showed some wear. The colors were slightly faded, the cuffs frayed, and there were signs of meticulous mending.
