Green Rider (63 page)

The soldiers murmured uncertainly and shrugged. Rory ran his hands over the portal and pushed on the glyph of Westrion. It swung open easily, with just a minimal scraping of iron on granite, thanks, no doubt, to the vigilance of the Weapons who guarded the tombs. A breath of cool air issued out, thick with the scent of earth and rock.

One by one they filed into the round opening wide enough for a coffin and pallbearers. The corridor they entered was tubelike. Although it was not lit, light shone at the far end, and it was enough for them to see by.

Miraculously the shaft was dry and the speckled grain of the granite walls smooth and uncracked. Although the underground world was not damp, a heavy cold penetrated through Karigan's coat and into her very bones.

"The craftmanship," the Horse Marshal murmured.

"It has never been matched," King Zachary said. "The tombs may have been delved before even the time of the Kmaernians."

The tube opened into a larger, low-ceilinged chamber lit by flickering lamps. To Karigan, it felt as if the earth above pressed down on them. The taller among them had to bow their heads in order not to bump them on the ceiling. Another coffin rest stood in the middle of the room, its base decorated with the now familiar glyphs and ancient Sacoridian script. Several corridors branched off from this chamber, but only one was lit.

Five black-clad Weapons dressed in padded tunics and trousers and fur-lined cloaks, awaited them there, and fell on their knees before the king.

"Rise," he told them. "What news have you?"

A woman stepped forward and inclined her head. "I am Sergeant Brienne Quinn, my lord," she said. "Weapon Fastion sent us to await you here. We are honored by your presence."

Zachary nodded. "Where is Fastion?"

"He keeps watch above at the main portal, guarding it lest Prince Amilton thinks to assault this place."

"And how many are with him?"

"Another ten, my lord."

"Excellent. No one will get past them."

Brienne beamed with pride. "It is our sacred duty to protect those who rest here."

"Let us go then. Lead on, Sergeant."

"Yes, my lord." Brienne turned smartly on her heel and walked to the front. One Weapon stayed with her, the other three dropped to the rear, much to the relief of the cavalry soldiers by the expressions on their faces. The Weapons seemed content to leave Rory as the king's personal guard. Though they would fight to the death for the king, their place was as tomb guards. Others cared for the living.

They followed another shaft, but this one was square with lamps fitted in alcoves along the way. The walls were a riot of colors, painted with battle scenes and heroic images. Armor-clad knights charged the field on battle horses, pennons rippling on lowered lances. Others, dressed in full mail, battled dark enemies with swords. Some stood at rest, their ringers shaped in the sign of the crescent moon.

"These walls could tell stories," Marshal Martel said. He shifted his helm beneath his arm. "I wouldn't be surprised if they held more knowledge than all the repositories of Selium."

The mention of the school Karigan had run away from was jarring. It had been a lifetime ago, her time at Selium. Perhaps it had been a different life altogether. She certainly felt like a different person, that schoolgirl who had run away for some petty reason she could hardly remember.

They emerged into another chamber, this one vast and wide, still maintaining the low ceiling which was supported by many square, granite pillars. There were rows of granite slabs. None were occupied.

"It seems no one has been interred for a while," Horse Marshal Martel said.

King Zachary overheard and replied, "We've been at peace for so long. We've had few heroes."

They passed into another such room, and another. Each was brightly lit, hardly the dark, shadowy tomb Karigan had envisioned. The stone floor was polished, no cobwebs hung in doorways, dust did not swirl about their feet. Though cold, the air was good and vented without the stench of decay or bones. The unused section of the castle Fastion had led her through was far gloomier, more funereal than this place.

Even so, Karigan felt tense. She felt as if someone watched their procession with unfriendly eyes. Sometimes she caught the movement of a shadow out of the corner of her own eye, but when she looked, it was gone. It was as if someone was flitting from behind one funeral slab to another. No one else seemed to notice, so she kept her peace for the time being. Tombs and lamplight and exhaustion could produce strange visions.

The next room was not empty. Shrouded forms lay like sleepers beneath gauzy linen sheets. Others, in full gleaming armor, lay with weapons drawn at their feet. Some were encased in sarcophagi with carved effigies on the lids.

In the next room, and the rooms after that, every slab was filled. There were rows upon rows of shrouded dead. Karigan kept her eyes to Horse Marshal Martel's back, or to the floor. Somehow, dealing with the spirits of the dead was easier than walking among their long-abandoned remains. She felt very mortal, very small.

Their path gradually shifted upward and it seemed they had walked miles.

"Sacoridia certainly has its share of heroes," the marshal remarked. Unlike Karigan, he did not have trouble looking around at his surroundings.

"Wars," King Zachary said. "Some date from the Long War and before." He smiled back at them. "Few know the magnitude of what Sacor City rests on."

"A good thing," Marshal Martel said.

Karigan sneaked a peek and saw the jutting angles of bones beneath one shroud. Another lumpy form was bound in linens.

The king paused, then whispered something to Brienne.

"Yes," she said, and pointed to a far corner.

King Zachary turned to Karigan and beckoned her to follow. He walked off among the slabs in the direction Brienne had pointed. Karigan hesitated with a sense of loathing to walk among those desiccated, brittle husks. With her jaw clenched, she plunged after him, avoiding direct contact with the slabs, and keeping her eyes to the floor.

In the far corner, the king stopped by a slab, and peered down at its occupant. Upon it rested a linen-wrapped form, covered by a shroud. A length of green-and-blue plaid fabric was draped over it from hips to toes. The head was tightly wrapped with sunken depressions where the eyes had been.

Mounted on the wall behind the remains were a two-handed great sword, a battle ax, and a saber. Above the corpse, painted on the ceiling, was the portrait of a woman astride a big bay stallion. She wore the plaid about her shoulders and carried the saber, and a shield bearing the gold winged horse on a field of green.

Warmth blossomed on Karigan's chest where her brooch was pinned. She touched it. It was hot and seemed to sing—not audibly—but she could feel it sing through her.

"The First Rider," King Zachary said. "She was a great hero of the Long War. I know such time has passed that Green Riders have lost some of their glory and few recognize their worth. But they come of great lineage."

Karigan's head spun. The walls seemed to close in even tighter. Hoofbeats drummed in her ears. She wanted to run away, she—

"I will likely have need of my sword before the night is over," the king was saying. He flexed his good arm. "I'm fortunate that groundmite broke my shield arm and not my sword arm."

"I, uh…" Karigan said, suddenly wondering why he wanted his sword now. She lifted the baldric over her head and handed it to him.

"I shouldn't think the First Rider would begrudge you borrowing one of her swords," the king said.

Karigan took a sharp intake of breath. "I can't!"

"Why not? She doesn't need it and you do."

"I—I…" She backed away until she bumped into another of the horrible slabs behind her. She jumped as if the corpse had pinched her.

"I don't want you to go up above unarmed," the king said. "Pick a sword."

Karigan hooked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I—" But the king's face was set. "Uh, all right," she said.

She edged around the slab and gazed at the weapons. The great sword was almost taller than she. The First Rider must have been a tall and powerful woman. She reached for the saber.

The thrum of hoofbeats intensified as she did so, as if urging her to take it. The brooch sang in resonance as Karigan's fingers closed around the hilt. The sword came off the wall easily and weighed well in her hand. The hoofbeats dissipated, and the vibrations of the brooch eased. She sighed in relief.

A bundle of gray-and-white robes, like a corpse springing to life, arose from behind one of the slabs and launched on her. They toppled to the hard granite floor and rolled. The creature tussled with her, grabbing for the sword. Karigan was so shocked she let it go. The mass of robes scurried away and huddled at the king's feet, cradling the sword.

Rory and Brienne were there in moments, towering over the quivering heap.

"Are you all right?" the king asked Karigan. He stretched out a hand to help her rise to her feet.

The wind had been knocked out of her and her side ached, but she suffered mostly from shock. She nodded, looking curiously at the creature that had attacked her.

Brienne's hands were on her hips and her expression was severe. "Agemon!" she said.

The ragged bundle quavered at her voice and she rolled her eyes in annoyance.

"Sheathe your sword," she told Rory.

He obeyed without question.

She addressed the bundle again. "Agemon, do not hinder the king."

The bundle shifted and whimpered.

"Nervous as a winter hare," Rory commented.

"He is a caretaker," Brienne said. "They are overwhelmed by the living."

"Yes, yes," the creature whined.

"Arise, Agemon," the king said in a commanding voice.

The quivering mass stood up and turned into an old man with long gray hair and a curiously pale, unwrinkled face. His robes, though not old or worn, were of muted and dusty tones, like that of the linen-wrapped dead. He held the sword possessively to his chest, and adjusted a pair of specs on the tip of his nose.

"You need not fear us," King Zachary said.

"Honored," the man squeaked. "Honored to have you, great king, and your Black Shield. But these others. These blues, this green. These do not belong in the presence of the great ones. These colors do not belong unless they be heroes. Unless they are dead."

"I tolerate their presence," King Zachary said. "And among them are heroes worthy of traveling these avenues."

"But they live," the man said desperately. "They breathe. They contaminate the dead."

Zachary placed his hand on the little man's shoulder. "I've the right to bring them here. I've broken no taboo."

"They must stay and be caretakers. They must never see the living sun again."

"No," Zachary said. "They come with me. They all protect me. They all protect the tombs."

"As you say, my lord. As you say." Agemon adjusted his specs again, his features full of despair. "But this one," and he pointed at Karigan, "has touched the great Ambriodhe's sword. She must stay."

"No," the king said. "You must give her the sword back, and she must leave with me. I promise the sword will be returned. I don't think the First Rider will mind."

"I don't know, I don't know." Agemon shook his head his expression of despair deepening.

"Give it to her," Brienne snapped.

Agemon jumped, then thrust the sword out to Karigan. Karigan took it and stepped back.

He gave her a wizened look, his eyes shifting from her head to her toes as if to deem whether or not she was worthy. "She is touched by the dead already, anyway. I guess I will not mind."

His pronouncement was like a cold hand on the back of Karigan's neck.

Agemon turned back to the king. "The Birdman will not be happy about this."

"Westrion understands," King Zachary said. He glanced at Brienne. "We haven't the time to debate it."

"Understood, my lord." She took Agemon's arm and pulled him aside. "Agemon, you must continue your duties. Do you understand?"

"Yes, yes." He waved her off and started ambling down the corridor. "I polish the great Heath's armor. Yes, yes. Heath the Ironhanded. I polish his armor."