“What are you doing?” Sevano whispered.
“I want to see if I can talk to that Jendara woman.” He paused a few paces from the remaining nobles.
Amilton’s attention was presently on Lady Estora. He twined his fingers through her shining gold hair. “Wine, my dear?”
In a soft but firm voice, she replied, “I am not your dear.”
Amilton’s face went white with rage. He grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her head close to his lips, and she screamed.
“You are,” he said, “whatever I tell you.” Then he pushed her away, and she curled up in her chair with a sob.
Amilton looked as if he were about to say more, but a soldier entered the throne room at a trot. He fell to his knee before Amilton.
“My lord,” he said, panting hard. “Lord-Governor Mirwell rides through the city. He brings you a great prize.”
Amilton stood, triumph shining on his face. “Sacoridia is mine,” he crowed. “They did it! They defeated my brother.”
Stevic’s shoulders drooped. He could feel it from the others, too, from Sevano and the old woman, Devon, from Lady Estora, and even the nobles who had sworn themselves to Amilton. He could sense their loss of hope.
Fastion clapped Karigan on the shoulder. “Good to see you again. Thank you for bringing the king.”
Karigan smiled weakly. “He brought himself.”
But Fastion did not hear. He was already talking to Brienne, the king, Marshal Martel, and about ten other Weapons. They had left behind the hundreds of slabs encumbered with the dead. She could see a row of slabs through the open doorway from where she sat in an anteroom. Several chairs and a coffin rest were the only pieces of furniture here. Glyphs and runes similar to those she had seen throughout Heroes Avenue ornamented the walls here as well. Some were covered by more recent tapestries depicting heroic events, or of Westrion carrying souls off to the heavens. A statuette of Aeryc holding the sickle moon stood by the fireplace.
The roaring fire felt good to Karigan. The penetrating cold of the underground tomb had clung relentlessly to her, and she wondered if she would ever be able to shake it off completely. She watched the blaze. The fire was alive and warm compared to the denizens of Heroes Avenue. The bare sword lying across her knees reflected dancing flames. She wished it was her old sword . . . F’ryan Coblebay’s. He had been hero enough. But to take the First Rider’s from her tomb? She shuddered, and this time not with the cold.
“We must go on,” King Zachary said to them all. “We must not miss our appointed time.”
They all waited by a set of double doors, again wide enough to admit the dead and pall bearers. Fastion and Brienne stepped through into a dark outer room. In moments, they returned.
“It is secured, my lord,” Fastion said.
One by one they slipped into the darkness of the outer room. The air was immediately warmer. It was as if Karigan had been released by the grips of the tomb and its dead. The ceiling vaulted into a high arch instead of pressing down on her, and she could breathe easier.
The room was a Chapel of the Moon with religious tapestries hung on the walls, and a coffin rest which must also serve as an altar. Wood benches faced the coffin rest. Unlike the tombs, there were no glyphs, no images of Westrion. The chapel must have been built long after the tombs, and it was not one used by the royal family. It was plain and lacked the heraldry of the ruling clans. Instead, there was a shield of black and silver upon the wall. A chapel for common soldiers and their families.
They had left the tombs behind, but in the glimmer of Brienne’s lamp, she saw four figures strewn on the floor and one slumped over a bench. They wore the colors of Mirwell. There had been no sounds of fighting or cries as the soldiers died. Weapons might not possess magical talents, but as Fastion had once said, they had their secrets.
“There will be more soldiers outside the chapel,” Fastion said.
“Then we shall not go that way,” King Zachary said.
Fastion nodded.
“My lord,” Brienne said, “we understand the dire situation you are going into, but we are sworn to protect the dead. I must leave a few Weapons at least to guard the entrance to the tombs.”
“I know,” he said. “I would not want to see the caretakers harmed, nor the sanctity of the tombs desecrated. Besides, there are relics of the past down there that should not be handled. Their disturbance should prove more disastrous than a simple coup.”
“My lord?” Marshal Martel queried. “A simple coup?”
Zachary smiled at the Horse Marshal. “You said yourself that the tombs must store more history than all the repositories of Selium.”
“I did say that.”
“There are artifacts in the tombs, Marshal, thousands of years old, that possess powers no longer understood.”
The Horse Marshal raised his eyebrows. “I see.”
And now so did Karigan. The Weapons did not simply guard the husks of old heroes and kings and their treasures, but protected objects of power in sacred trust, against those who might misuse them. Like Amilton.
Brienne picked four Weapons and sent them back to the tombs. Without another word, Fastion walked behind the coffin rest, lifted a tapestry, and pressed his hand against the wall. A new current of air, damp and musty, filled the chapel as a portion of the wall slid open.
“And I thought I knew the castle fairly well,” Marshal Martel said.
King Zachary grinned at him. “There is much, much more you don’t know. This is an old corridor once used by priests. It has since been abandoned and very few know of it. When my father brought me here, I was not one to remain idle. I explored the castle and the grounds while my brother played the dandy in court. My restlessness serves me now.”