The High King's Tomb
Page 202

“Why?” Laren blurted, and she cleared her throat, embarrassed.
Graelalea smiled. “The days wane and grow cold, and we wish again to dwell beneath the boughs of our woods. My brother sees a frigid winter ahead, fiercer than in some years past, and so wishes to leave now.”
“So he is not sending you into Blackveil?” Zachary asked.
“Not yet,” Graelalea replied. “We shall bide our time in Eletia and, if I can, I will turn his mind against the idea over the winter. My feeling, however, is that you shall see us again in the spring, and that is when we’ll attempt entry into Blackveil.”
“Foolishness,” Colin said.
“Perhaps. And while I cannot always know the workings of my brother’s mind, he reveals only that which he wishes to be known. It may be that he sees something no one else can in attempting such an endeavor.” Graelalea shrugged and sunlight rippled down the folds of her cloak. “My brother bids you all a winter of warmth and fire glow. He is gladdened the book of the wall has been found, though he advises caution, for the building of the wall was accomplished with dark and arcane craft you may not be able to replicate. Nor wish to.”
“We will decide what to think of it once the book is translated,” Zachary said.
“That is as it should be. My brother, by the way, says the Galadheon averted a great disaster.”
“She is the one who captured the book from the enemy,” Laren said.
“Ah.” Light glinted in the Eletian’s eye and she smiled as if she knew something they did not. “For you, Firebrand, some final words from my brother: She comes.”
With that the Eletians bowed and turned and left the throne room, taking lightness with them.
HEARTSTONE
The Weapons kept up a relentless pace, but Goss was up to it, and the road was open and wide. It was no wild dash through the unbroken woods this time, and with a complement of deadly warriors all around, Amberhill had no fear of attack from hungry pirates or any other danger, human or not.
Hooves pounded on cobbles and across bridges and the company kept the Rivertown ferry busy with several crossings on the Grandgent. Though the town was sizeable, Willis did not pause, but led them onward, for it was hours before sunset.
When they did stop, whether at a campsite or in a village, there was always adequate provender, for which Amberhill was grateful. He did not starve on the return journey, and the Weapons did not spare wood when it came to building campfires. It was all a satisfactory improvement over his journey west, but he looked forward to returning to his house in Sacor City. Except it would be much emptier without Morry. He reiterated to himself his vow to properly bury and honor his friend, his father in spirit. When he got the chance, he’d retrieve Morry’s body and return with it to his estate and place it in the family vault. Morry deserved no less.
The Weapons rode in silence and spoke little when encamped. When they did speak, it usually was not to Amberhill, unless necessary. He did not take it as a personal affront, for he recognized it as their way; the black they wore was only a physical manifestation of the bond among the warriors and a barrier to outsiders that none but those within their circle could bypass. One of those who did not wear black but who appeared to be in that elite circle was Beryl Spencer.
The Weapons respected her Mirwellian rank and called her Major Spencer, though as Amberhill understood it, she was actually a Green Rider. In evenings she sparred with some of the Weapons, the clash of swords pure and musical to his ears as he watched the bouts from his side of the campfire. They moved between the flames engaged in the dance of steel and though graceful, the dance was without flourish. For one like himself who embodied grand gestures, their deadly precision and stark movements were a revelation. And the Rider-spy-major was on a level with the Weapons in ability.
Truth be told, the woman made his skin crawl. Though she was icy to him, indifferent, he couldn’t help being morbidly fascinated by her because she was the antithesis of the kind of woman he was accustomed to. Pliant warmth, softness, and curves, yes, that was what he knew well and desired. Not an icicle with an undercurrent of menace who would take as much delight in severing his hand as gazing at the most beautiful work of art. He shuddered.
The G’ladheon woman also made him shudder, but in a different way, with her unearthly powers.
Once he returned to Sacor City, he’d seek out the familiar warmth of the ordinary women he craved, which would melt away any frost remaining on him from being in Beryl Spencer’s presence and extinguish the memory of the G’ladheon woman vanishing into the night.
The next evening, when Willis called a halt, they found the field he wanted to camp in already occupied by a tent and a wagon overloaded with furniture and other household goods, all of fine quality, though some of it appeared water damaged. The two owners of the tent sat before a fire in chairs that would look more fit for a royal dining hall than in a field.
A kettle hung over their campfire and the two sipped out of teacups and nibbled on scones. Oddly, there was no team of horses for the wagon to be seen, nor any guards or servants tending the ladies who were elderly. Amberhill could not see how they’d managed to set up camp, much less traveled with their belongings with no team to pull the wagon. Unless some thugs had stolen the horses. But not their possessions? It did not make sense.
Willis must have thought it odd, too, for after a courteous greeting, he said, “Have you some trouble we could help you with? Are you stranded?”
Curious, Amberhill busied himself with his gear nearby so he could listen.