The High King's Tomb by Kristen Britain
Alone. She was finally alone.
Except for the Weapon who peeled away from the wall and followed her. She was growing rather accustomed to her shadow-clad guardians, and while their presence might jangle the nerves of her relations who were unused to them, to her they had become almost invisible. They stayed out of her way and remained silent unless addressed directly. They would not report her early morning sojourns unless she ordered them to, which, of course, she would not.
Trained to safeguard members of the royal family to the death, their code of honor held discretion sacred. It was not their place to comment on or question the actions of their wards, but to protect. She found it inconceivable, however, that they didn’t have the odd conversation or two among themselves about what happened in the course of their workday. In any case, she doubted she had given them much to gossip about thus far.
She drew a shawl over her head and walked along the corridor, hoping none would awaken and note her passage, or insist they accompany her, or try to redirect her, or fill her ears with inane chatter. It had been almost too much to bear these last couple months. Was this how her life would be from here on in? She feared it would be so.
Fortunately no one burst through a doorway to ruin her morning. It was as if the castle itself slumbered. The air did not stir and the corridors were dusky and quiet. Peaceful. Soon enough it would awaken, brimming with people hurrying from here to there on errands, appointments, and meetings, and there would be much tiresome activity. Best to enjoy the solitude while she could.
Zachary must be well used to always being in the company of others, though she sensed he liked it no more than she. In fact, the two of them were so constantly surrounded by others that they were rarely able to speak with each other, and certainly not privately. They would never get to know one another until their wedding night. If even then the throngs let them alone…
In their brief exchanges, Zachary had been kind and courtly, but distant, just as she supposed she had been herself. This matchmaking of nobles was an awkward tradition. It was, her mother informed her time and again, the way things had been done for hundreds and hundreds of years. Her mother hadn’t even looked upon her father until their wedding day. Over time her parents had grown fond of one another, and had even found mutual respect and love in their lengthy partnership. It would be the same for Estora and Zachary, her mother assured her.
Estora had always known it would be this way. She had known since she was a little girl that she would be paired with a man not of her choosing. The knowing, however, was not the same as the reality.
Choice was never a part of my life.
No, this is what she had been born and bred for: to be the wife of some highborn man and to bear his children. Nothing more. Had she been born mindless, the outcome would have been the same.
Do any of us really have any choices, or are we all pieces on an Intrigue board, moved to action by someone else’s will?
The thought brought to mind a conversation she had with Karigan not so long ago. The two of them had been sitting together in the inner courtyard gardens and she had just revealed to Karigan that the king signed her father’s contract of marriage. Then without thinking, she had told Karigan that she envied her for her freedom, the freedom to do as she wished, and to marry whom she wanted.
It had been a mistake. Estora should have known better. No one chose to be a Green Rider, one was called to service. A magical calling, as she understood it. An irresistible, unyielding call that could break your mind if you failed to heed it. It did not matter what you were doing with your life—the call made you drop everything and come serve the king as one of his messengers. Choice was not involved.
She paused at an intersection of corridors, deciding she would head for the outdoors to listen to birds and breathe the free air. She turned down the corridor that led past the kitchens and to a servants’ entrance.
She tugged her shawl closer, and passed a servant pausing along the corridor to yawn. He rubbed his eyes and forged on in the opposite direction.
Pleased he hadn’t even noticed her, she continued on her way. It was odd, but the more people crowded around her, the lonelier she felt. The only reason they flocked to her was because she was to be queen with all of that rank’s attendant power, not because they cared about her as a person. Since that day in the garden, Karigan had behaved the opposite of everyone else by avoiding her, and it hurt. She’d turn in the other direction if by chance they met in a corridor, and she even declined formal invitations to join Estora for tea. Karigan had been the one person who offered Estora genuine friendship with no conditions attached, and she missed it.
If only F’ryan were still alive, she would not be so alone. She felt his loss as keenly as if it had happened just yesterday and not two years ago; and in the deep of night, when she was most lonely, she still wept for him. Wept for her lost love, wept for the emptiness in her heart. She held on to her memories of him as if they were the only things anchoring her to Earth; memories of his laughter, his touch, and the light shining in his eyes.
“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 no
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’s my pleasure to be of assistance,” he said with a bow. “If there is anything else I can do to further diminish your tears, I am at your service.” He magically produced a white rose from his sleeve.
Estora laughed in delight, and accepted it.
“See!” he said with a grin. “The sun is shining again. But now I fear I must be off for a breakfast appointment with my cousin, though I find your company more enjoyable.”
With another bow, he lightly trotted up the steps and through the kitchen entrance. She watched after him bemused, wondering if he were a kitchen servant, but despite the wear of his clothing, it was too rich for a servant and not far enough gone to be cast-off. And most servants did not leave behind fancy handkerchiefs with their initials embroidered on them.
X.P.A. Who is he? she wondered. And she brought the rose blossom to her nose, delighting in its scent.
Karigan was still shaking later that morning as she trudged toward the practice grounds for weapons training. Her confrontation with Estora left her feeling sick to her stomach, and she thought she’d lose her breakfast.
Wouldn’t Drent love that…
Severing her friendship with Estora was one of the hardest things she ever had to do, but the alternative seemed so…difficult. How could she continue a friendship with a woman who was to marry the man she…she loved? How could she pretend nothing had passed between her and King Zachary? How could she pretend not to be jealous? And worst of all, how could she bear the inevitable conversations friends shared, with all the intimate details?
Distancing herself from Estora also meant distancing herself from King Zachary. It simplified matters, kept her feelings from twisting like a knife within her. It was safe.
When Karigan arrived at the practice grounds, she found Arms Master Drent waiting for her there with his meaty fists on his hips. The glower on his gargoylelike face emanated severe disapproval.
Uh oh. Her tangled thoughts of Estora evaporated and a tremor of fear quaked through her even though she knew full well Drent used sheer physical presence to intimidate his trainees. She wondered what sort of abuse she was in for today, and why.
“I’ve been training you these past months,” he said in an icy voice that was all the more frightening because it was not his usual bellow, “even though there was no reason I had to. I did it because I thought you showed promise in the weapons arts. And yet I hear all that training was for naught.”
“W–what?”
“The museum.”
Karigan’s mouth dropped open in surprise. How had he heard? “I—”
“Silence! I will not waste my time on trainees who lack the good sense not to confront a superior opponent over a trivial scrap of parchment. And if the confrontation takes place, the trainee should have fared better in the fight. No trainee of mine makes such a poor showing.”
“But—”
“You will no longer report to me for training. I will not waste my time with you.”
Karigan could only stare at him, flabbergasted.
“Dismissed.” He turned his back on her.
She watched that broad back as he marched away toward other trainees on the practice field going through daily exercises and clattering wooden practice swords together in bouts. She knew she should be jumping up and down for joy—no more brutal sessions with Drent. Sessions that had left her spent, blistered, and bruised, her ears ringing from his abusive ranting. Yet she only felt irritated, insulted, in fact. She could have bested that swordsman yesterday if she hadn’t been wearing that blasted dress. How would Drent fare against an expert swordsman were he attired in a corset and dress?
The image made her sputter with laughter. She left the practice grounds and headed for the castle, suddenly wondering what she would do with the novelty of free time.
By the time she entered the Rider wing, however, she was filled with a sense of failure. It was an honor, so she was told, to be chosen to work with Arms Master Drent. It was he who trained swordmasters and judged if they were worthy of becoming Weapons, and she had rather liked being classed among such elite warriors, even if she hated the training sessions themselves.
Drent wouldn’t even hear her side of the story. Instead of turning her away, he should have shown her how she could have done better. That’s what a good teacher would have done.
Just then, Tegan emerged from her room, and Karigan was struck by an idea.
“Hello, Tegan, do you have a few minutes?”
“Certainly.”
When Karigan returned to the practice field, she strode right up to Drent, or at least as best she could with Tegan’s slightly too small shoes rubbing blisters into her heels. They didn’t match the dress, but this was not about wearing the perfect ensemble.
When Drent saw her, he started to bow, then he realized who she was. Oh yes, she had Tegan cinch up the corset again and arrange her hair. Remarkably Drent’s cheeks bloomed with color and he cleared his throat, glancing away and shifting his stance.
“Your training has fallen short of my needs,” she announced. Her attire inspired a tone of arrogance in her voice that pleased her. “You have trained me on equal ground with others similarly equipped and prepared to fight. Yesterday, as you can see, I was not properly equipped or prepared to face an expert swordsman, yet I did so because I felt an artifact of Sacoridia?
Drent’s mouth worked like a fish’s, and he ran his hand over the top of his short, spiky hair. Karigan had never seen him at a loss for words before. Several of his trainees stopped what they were doing to peer at the unusual scene of a coiffed and dressed-up female staring down their hulking, fearsome arms master.
“Of course, my la–la—” He choked on words he had not meant to expel.
Karigan smiled darkly. She had won.
Drent growled and bristled, trying to look his usual mean and hideous self. “I see your point. Ordinary sword work is not necessarily the best option thus attired, but it does present opportunities. We’ll begin with your hair.”
Her hair? Was he going to teach her to strangle someone with her tresses? He made her remove the various pins and combs that held her hair in place atop her head.
“These,” he said, turning them over in his huge, calloused hand, “can be lethal, used to gouge out an assailant’s eye, for instance, during close combat. And if sharpened, they can be like tiny daggers.”
He returned them to her and looked her up and down. “Weapons of various sorts can be hidden elsewhere. Lift your skirts.”
“What?”
Drent blushed and swallowed. “Er, just to your knees.”
Under different circumstances, even this would have been scandalous, but she did as he asked.
The arms master grunted. “Sheaths for throwing knives can be fitted to your calves and, uh, elsewhere if you wish. They’d also fit in your boots when you are being a Green Rider.”
Karigan raised an eyebrow. “Being” a Green Rider? She’d like to know what Drent thought she was “being” right now.