The High King's Tomb
Page 4

“I must be quick now,” Grandmother said, feeling fevered herself. “Lala? There you are. The bowl, please.”
The bowl was made of nondescript earthenware, the spiderweb crackling of the glaze stained a rusty color. The vessel had always been used for the purpose for which Grandmother now employed it. It had been handed down her maternal line like the knowledge of how to tie the knots. Lala set the bowl in place.
“Good girl,” Grandmother said. She crouched beside Jeremiah. He may have tried to betray his people, but now he could give back and maybe God would forgive him, allow him into the eternal meadow. Really, she had done the young man a kindness—he now could sin no further and perhaps had not lost all chance of gaining entrance to paradise. She thrust her knife into the artery of his neck and held the bowl to catch his blood.
Captain Immerez hovered nearby while his men stayed clear of the grotesque scene of the bleeding of Jeremiah with his blackened, smoking head. “I’ve news for you, but thought it better to wait till this task was completed.”
Grandmother glanced over her shoulder at him. “Go ahead.”
He nodded. “I’ve had word that the parchment has been located.”
Grandmother grinned. “How wonderful!”
“Yes. Events have been set in motion in Sacor City just as you wished, and we should obtain the parchment very soon.”
Saddened as Grandmother was by Jeremiah’s betrayal and the necessity of his death, Immerez’s news buoyed her spirits.
It also pleased her that Jeremiah’s blood would not go to waste, but would aid her cause. Her ordinary looking bowl would keep the blood warm and fresh till she needed to use it. Her happiness grew even as crimson liquid filled the bowl to the brim.
THE BLUE DRESS
Tall grasses whipped against the Green Rider’s legs as he ran. He cast terrified glances over his shoulder, his breaths harsh and ragged, and punctuated by the thud of hoofbeats behind him. He caught his toe in a hole and plunged to the ground. Desperately he tore at grass stalks to pull himself upright and continue his flight.
And still the hoofbeats followed at a steady, measured pace, never faltering, never slowing, coming inexorably, unrelentingly behind him.
A strangled cry of triumph erupted from the Rider’s throat as safety appeared just ahead. He hurled himself between the rails of the fence, sprawling at his captain’s feet.
“Well, that didn’t go very well, did it?” Laren Mapstone said.
On the other side of the fence, the source of Ben’s terror gazed down at him with big brown eyes and snorted.
“And I suppose you’re pleased with yourself,” Laren told the gelding.
Robin flicked his ears and shook the reins, then dropped his nose into the grass to graze.
Laren gazed down at Ben who labored for breath, more from fright, she thought, than exertion. One day he’d have to get over his irrational fear of horses—he had to! What was a Green Rider without a mount? A Green Pedestrian? She had no idea from where the young man’s fear originated. As a mender, he tended the messiest and goriest of injuries without hesitation, but healthy, intelligent horses inspired terror in him. Most Riders loved horses.
Karigan strolled across the pasture, following Ben’s path and plucking at the tips of grasses as she went. When she reached Robin, she grabbed his reins and jerked his nose out of the grass. Green slobber dripped from his bit.
“We did better today,” Karigan said. “Ben actually got his toe in the stirrup to mount.”
Laren supposed it was progress, but she didn’t feel as optimistic as Karigan sounded. She was getting used to having Karigan around to help out while Mara, her recently promoted Chief Rider, continued to recover from the horrific burns she had received when fire had destroyed Rider barracks during the summer. Karigan took care of Rider accounts and scheduling, and lent a hand with settling in the new Riders that seemed to be appearing on her step weekly now—Laren couldn’t help but smile at the thought of more Riders to help fill their ranks.
“We were doing fine,” Karigan continued, giving Robin a stern look, “until this one decided to knock Ben off balance.”
Robin stamped when a fly alighted on his shoulder, his expression guileless. Laren squinted at him, not believing it for an instant. He looked like he had enjoyed himself while “chasing” Ben.
“I think you’re done here for the day,” Laren told Ben. “You may go report to Master Destarion for the afternoon.”
Ben’s relief was palpable. “Yes, Captain.” He patted some dust off his trousers and strode toward the castle, where he was due for a shift in the mending wing.
“What are we going to do with him?” Laren wondered, watching him go.
Karigan stroked Robin’s neck. “Give him time, I suppose. He dedicated himself to a life of mending the sick and injured, and he’s trained for years, only to have a wrinkle thrown into his plans, unforeseen and unasked for.”
Laren eyed Karigan sharply, knowing what a struggle it had been for her to leave behind her life as a merchant to answer the Rider call, and how much she had resented it. But Laren could find no resentment in Karigan’s demeanor now. She was merely stating fact.
Something behind Laren caught Karigan’s attention. Laren followed her gaze to find two finely dressed gentlemen approaching, one bearing packages wrapped in linen and secured with strings.
“We seek Karigan G’ladheon. Might you be she?” the first man, a stout fellow, asked. It was clear the other was a servant, for though his clothing was fine, it lacked the ornamentation of the lead fellow’s.