The High King's Tomb
Page 78
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
It was not her first visit to Selium since she ran away that spring day over two years ago. No, indeed. After completing F’ryan’s mission, she had returned to Selium to finish her schooling. When she finally answered the Rider call, she had carried messages to Selium on two occasions. More than being preoccupied by difficult school days, she looked forward to visiting with good friends.
Soon the campus atop its hill and the city clustered beneath it rose above the open farmland. Karigan clucked Condor into an easy lope with a smile, the breeze pressing against her face. She slowed to a jog when they reached the gate to accommodate others on the street. She waved to the gatekeeper and continued on through. No one stopped them or questioned them, for Selium was an open city, not a fortress. No wall surrounded it—the gate was merely a marker of the city’s boundary.
Almost as well known as the school that was also called Selium were the city’s hot springs, which drew tourists and the infirm from afar to bathe in one of the numerous bathhouses that lined the main thoroughfare. Steam vented from rooftops, and signs extolled the healing qualities of the springs and listed prices. There were public baths and private. Some were luxurious, and others less expensive to meet only basic needs. Today there were no lines, not this late in the season. The bathhouse operators would be more dependent now on local patrons. Some simply shut down for the winter.
“Who would wish to bathe in public?” Fergal asked, wrinkling his nose as they passed such an establishment.
“Who would want to throw himself into a freezing river?” Karigan countered, sounding more acerbic than she intended.
Fergal clamped his mouth shut.
Feeling a little guilty, Karigan explained, “The public baths are inexpensive compared to the private ones, and not all who come for the restorative powers of the hot springs are wealthy. Some are farmers and laborers.”
“Have you ever used them?” Fergal asked.
“The school taps into the springs. I never had to.” Almost as much as Karigan looked forward to seeing her friends, she looked forward to one of those baths. As king’s messengers, she and Fergal would be put up in the Guesting House, which, of course, had big tubs that could be filled with hot spring water.
The city felt subdued as they continued on, with only a few students sitting on the steps of the art museum. During the warmer months, outdoor eateries and vendors set up along the street, but now these were also closed for the season. There were some shoppers out and about, but no musicians looking for stray coppers played for them. Most students would be in classes at this hour.
As the main thoroughfare through the city, Guardian Avenue, traveled upward toward the campus, the buildings on either side were of older architecture, with columns and red clay roofs. Older still were the buildings of the school, for the city had grown up around it.
Guardian Avenue led beneath the ancient P’ehdrosian Arch onto the school grounds. The campus itself was an orderly “town” of well-laid paths and academic buildings, residences, and administrative offices. On the far side of campus were fields for athletics and arms practice, and stables with pasture, paddock, and outdoor riding ring.
Immediately inside campus loomed the main administrative building. This was where they’d find the offices of the Golden Guardian and the dean.
Karigan and Fergal rode up to the front steps of the administration building and handed over the reins of their horses to a stablehand.
“I’ll see your saddlebags to the Guesting House,” he said.
“Thank you,” Karigan replied, handing him a copper.
As Condor and Sunny were led away, Karigan turned to the great double doors before her. She straightened her shortcoat and message satchel, and took a deep breath. Fergal waited expectantly beside her. After a second and third deep breath, she pushed open the door and plunged inside.
MASTER RENDLE
They entered a rotunda lined with busts and statuary of deans and scholars and Guardians, their bronze and marble gazes falling coldly upon the Riders. The rotunda no doubt impressed wealthy parents into sending their children here for their education. It also intimidated the students. As one who was not particularly serious about her studies in her early years, and one who had also managed to get into her share of trouble, Karigan ended up having to cross this rotunda several times to face the assistant dean for her transgressions. She loathed the rotunda and the stern faces encountered here.
When she had returned for her final year, she applied herself to her studies and did not have to make this walk even once. Still, despite all she had seen and done since, the rotunda held its power over her.
She lifted her chin and walked across the marble floor resolutely. Even if she felt intimidated, she did not have to show it.
A student, dressed in the maroon of languages with a white apprentice knot affixed to his shoulder, sat at the clerk’s desk across the rotunda studying a book. When he saw them approach, he set his book aside and stood. “May I help you?”
“We’ve a message from the king for the Golden Guardian.”
“I am sorry, but he is away from the city. He may be back very soon but…it is often hard to know.”
Karigan nodded. She expected as much. “Dean Crosley?” she inquired.
The young man frowned. “I fear he is unavailable.”
Karigan placed her hand on her satchel and, thinking the apprentice was simply trying to prevent her from disturbing his master, said, “This is a message penned by the king himself. It would not please him for its delivery to be delayed.”
Soon the campus atop its hill and the city clustered beneath it rose above the open farmland. Karigan clucked Condor into an easy lope with a smile, the breeze pressing against her face. She slowed to a jog when they reached the gate to accommodate others on the street. She waved to the gatekeeper and continued on through. No one stopped them or questioned them, for Selium was an open city, not a fortress. No wall surrounded it—the gate was merely a marker of the city’s boundary.
Almost as well known as the school that was also called Selium were the city’s hot springs, which drew tourists and the infirm from afar to bathe in one of the numerous bathhouses that lined the main thoroughfare. Steam vented from rooftops, and signs extolled the healing qualities of the springs and listed prices. There were public baths and private. Some were luxurious, and others less expensive to meet only basic needs. Today there were no lines, not this late in the season. The bathhouse operators would be more dependent now on local patrons. Some simply shut down for the winter.
“Who would wish to bathe in public?” Fergal asked, wrinkling his nose as they passed such an establishment.
“Who would want to throw himself into a freezing river?” Karigan countered, sounding more acerbic than she intended.
Fergal clamped his mouth shut.
Feeling a little guilty, Karigan explained, “The public baths are inexpensive compared to the private ones, and not all who come for the restorative powers of the hot springs are wealthy. Some are farmers and laborers.”
“Have you ever used them?” Fergal asked.
“The school taps into the springs. I never had to.” Almost as much as Karigan looked forward to seeing her friends, she looked forward to one of those baths. As king’s messengers, she and Fergal would be put up in the Guesting House, which, of course, had big tubs that could be filled with hot spring water.
The city felt subdued as they continued on, with only a few students sitting on the steps of the art museum. During the warmer months, outdoor eateries and vendors set up along the street, but now these were also closed for the season. There were some shoppers out and about, but no musicians looking for stray coppers played for them. Most students would be in classes at this hour.
As the main thoroughfare through the city, Guardian Avenue, traveled upward toward the campus, the buildings on either side were of older architecture, with columns and red clay roofs. Older still were the buildings of the school, for the city had grown up around it.
Guardian Avenue led beneath the ancient P’ehdrosian Arch onto the school grounds. The campus itself was an orderly “town” of well-laid paths and academic buildings, residences, and administrative offices. On the far side of campus were fields for athletics and arms practice, and stables with pasture, paddock, and outdoor riding ring.
Immediately inside campus loomed the main administrative building. This was where they’d find the offices of the Golden Guardian and the dean.
Karigan and Fergal rode up to the front steps of the administration building and handed over the reins of their horses to a stablehand.
“I’ll see your saddlebags to the Guesting House,” he said.
“Thank you,” Karigan replied, handing him a copper.
As Condor and Sunny were led away, Karigan turned to the great double doors before her. She straightened her shortcoat and message satchel, and took a deep breath. Fergal waited expectantly beside her. After a second and third deep breath, she pushed open the door and plunged inside.
MASTER RENDLE
They entered a rotunda lined with busts and statuary of deans and scholars and Guardians, their bronze and marble gazes falling coldly upon the Riders. The rotunda no doubt impressed wealthy parents into sending their children here for their education. It also intimidated the students. As one who was not particularly serious about her studies in her early years, and one who had also managed to get into her share of trouble, Karigan ended up having to cross this rotunda several times to face the assistant dean for her transgressions. She loathed the rotunda and the stern faces encountered here.
When she had returned for her final year, she applied herself to her studies and did not have to make this walk even once. Still, despite all she had seen and done since, the rotunda held its power over her.
She lifted her chin and walked across the marble floor resolutely. Even if she felt intimidated, she did not have to show it.
A student, dressed in the maroon of languages with a white apprentice knot affixed to his shoulder, sat at the clerk’s desk across the rotunda studying a book. When he saw them approach, he set his book aside and stood. “May I help you?”
“We’ve a message from the king for the Golden Guardian.”
“I am sorry, but he is away from the city. He may be back very soon but…it is often hard to know.”
Karigan nodded. She expected as much. “Dean Crosley?” she inquired.
The young man frowned. “I fear he is unavailable.”
Karigan placed her hand on her satchel and, thinking the apprentice was simply trying to prevent her from disturbing his master, said, “This is a message penned by the king himself. It would not please him for its delivery to be delayed.”
