Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (12 page)

           
“Those filthy barbarians have filled
the place with fleas!”

           
Hattim stretched in the heated
waters of High Fort’s bathhouse, dabbing irritably at the bites on his neck.

           
“I have not suffered.” Kedryn wished
that he had chosen another time to avail himself of the facilities, but he had
been unaware of Hattim’s presence until Tepshen Lahl murmured a warning, and by
then it was too late, courtesy preventing his departure. “Is it not late in the
year for such attacks?”

           
“Mayhap, but I am still bitten.
Look.”

           
There was a splashing as the
Galichian shifted position, then a grunt and, “Forgive me—I forget.”

           
The apology did not sound sincere,
but still Kedryn smiled his dismissal as Hattim added, “Take my word for it. I
am plagued with the accursed things.”

           
“You depart on the morrow, my Lord.
Mayhap they will quit you then.”

           
“I trust they will,” Hattim
retorted. “I trust they will remain in these Lady-forsaken climes.”

           
The insulting reference to Tamur
brought a hiss of disapproval from Tepshen Lahl and Kedryn gestured, indicating
the kyo should ignore the Galichian’s rudeness. He had come to the baths to
cleanse himself and think in peace, not seeking argument or company, for there
was much on his mind and he had hoped that solitude and the soothing water
might help him assemble his thoughts in some sensible manner.

           
Mostly they were concerned with
Wynett and his own imminent departure.

           
He had attended the hospital
regularly since the parley, dutifully submitting himself to the ministrations
of the Sister Hospitaler, although with increasingly less hope of her curing
his blindness than from a desire to spend as much time as possible in her
presence. Neither she nor the Sisters who had accompanied King Darr north had
succeeded in undoing the glamour that stole his sight and it was generally
accepted that only in Estrevan might he find Sisters possessed of the necessary
talents to lift the gramarye. Now, with the treaties agreed, there was no further
reason to linger in the north and Bedyr had voiced the opinion that departure
for Caitin Hold, and thence to Estrevan, was his wisest course of action. He
had spoken again to Wynett of her accompanying him, but she had proven evasive,
refusing to commit herself one way or the other. Sensing that this was a
dilemma for her, bom of what he hoped was growing affection, he had exercised
self-discipline and refrained from pressing her on the matter, even though he
longed to hold her and beg her to come with him. Now it could be only a matter
of days before he left, the Tamurin army already broken up and the warriors
marching back to homes and families they longed to see again, only a token
force remaining to escort their Lord and Prince home to Caitin Hold. He found
himself tom between the desire to revisit the familiar surroundings of his own
home, to hear his mother’s voice and then journey on to the Sacred City in hope
of regaining his sight and the painful ache of likely parting—perhaps
forever—with Wynett.

           
Already the bulk of Jarl’s Keshi
were transferred across the Idre, and on the morrow the king took ship with
Galen Sadreth on the
Vashti
for
distant Andurel. Hattim had announced that he would follow the river down too,
leaving his army to travel overland, and only Bedyr had so far failed to set a
date for the return journey. Kedryn was unsure of his father’s reasons, for
Bedyr had, uncharacteristically, proven as evasive as Wynett when questioned in
the matter. He sensed that his father had some plan afoot, but what it was he
had no idea, Bedyr merely advising him, when he pressed the matter, to bide his
time.

           
He felt that he had done all he
could in the matter of his love, short of openly declaring it to the
Sister—which was, he felt certain, the one thing that would guarantee her
refusal to accompany him—and he found himself in a quandary. He had come to the
bathhouse seeking the peace of mind that might aid him in resolving the
problem, and instead found Hattim Sethiyan complaining of fleas.

           
He lay back, letting the heated
water flow over him, blocking out the Galichian’s voice as he pondered his
dilemma. His departure could not be much longer delayed and he might be forced
to bid Wynett farewell. He could think of no means he had not already tried to
persuade her to come with him and he was forced to contemplate the future
without her. It frightened him: he had found happiness in her presence and he
did not like the thought of leaving her behind. Perhaps, whatever the Sisters
of Estrevan might accomplish, of never seeing her again. The calm he had hoped
to find faded, replaced with a black despair, through which Hattim’s words came
as no more than the gurgling of the water in the pipes that fed the massive
tub.

           
“I said your father delays your
departure.”

           
“No doubt he has his reasons.”

           
Hattim’s tone was petulant and
Kedryn answered in kind, shortly, uninterested in the Galichian’s observations.
It was curious enough that the southern lord should make conversation at all
for he mostly ignored Kedryn, and on those occasions he found himself forced to
speak with the younger man it was briefly and less than courteously. Kedryn, in
turn, did his best to avoid Hattim, which had been relatively easy, the
Galichian spending much time of late in his chambers while Kedryn, when not
able to commandeer Wynett’s company, passed the hours exercising with Tepshen
Lahl, who refused to accept blindness as a reason for sloth.

           
“No doubt,” Hattim snapped back,
“but why? I had thought you anxious to make your pilgrimage.”

           
“We shall depart in time,” Kedryn
replied tersely.

           
“For Caitin Hold and thence to
Estrevan?”

           
“Aye.” Kedryn wondered why Hattim
needed to ask the question, common knowledge that it was.

           
“And Sister Wynett will go with
you?”

           
Kedryn’s jaw dropped and then
clenched at the arrogant presumption of the query, intruding as it did on his
inmost thoughts.

           
“I do not know, my Lord,” he
responded formally. “It will be her decision.”

           
“She makes a prettier nurse than
your bondsman.”

           
Kedryn heard Tepshen Lahl shift
position at this insult, water lapping against his chest as the easterner
tensed. Quickly he said, “Tepshen is not a bondsman, Lord Hattim. He is a
freeman who chooses to grace Tamur with his loyalty. ”

           
“My apologies,” Hattim offered
negligently. “Boredom renders me forgetful.”

           
“Then you must be pleased at the
imminence of your departure,” Kedryn retorted.

           
“I am,” Hattim agreed, an
indefinable undercurrent in his voice, “I am mightily pleased.”

           
Kedryn wondered what it was he heard
in the Galichian’s tone, or if he merely imagined it, his blindness denying him
the ability to read the expression on the man’s face. Perhaps Hattim was simply
anxious to depart the rude hospitality of High Fort, anxious to return to the
softer climes of Ust-Galich. Or was there something else?

           
He heard water slap against the
tiled confines of the bath as Hattim rose, the sucking sounds of a body
lifting.

           
“We shall meet again,” the Lord of
Ust-Galich declared. “Until then, farewell.”

           
Kedryn listened to bare feet pad
moistly across the floor and heard a door swing softly closed. “Has he gone?”
he asked quietly.

           
“Aye,” Tepshen Lahl confirmed. “Not
before time.”

           
“He lacks manners,” Kedryn observed.

           
Tepshen grunted, the sound
expressing his opinion of Hattim Sethiyan effectively as any words.

           
“But we shall not suffer his company
much longer,” Kedryn murmured.

           
“No,” said Tepshen, something in his
response prompting a fresh wave of curiosity.

           
“What is it?” Kedryn asked. “What
did you see?”

           
“Did you not hear it?” countered the
easterner.

           
“He sounded ...” Kedryn paused,
trying to pin down exactly what it was he had heard in Sethiyan’s tone, “. . .
different.”

           
“There was hate in his eyes,”
Tepshen declared. “He tried to hide it, but it was there.”

           
“Of me?” Kedryn shrugged, sending
wavelets across the pool. “The trajea is long behind us.”

           
“Perhaps there is something else,”
the kyo suggested. “Envy? I am not sure, but that man is your enemy and you had
best beware.”

           
“What threat can he offer?” asked
Kedryn. “He departs on the morrow for the south, and we shall soon return to
Caitin Hold. After that there will be the Gadrizels and all the Kormish Waste
between us.”

           
“Even so,” murmured Tepshen, leaving
the sentence unfinished.

           
“Even so,” Kedryn said firmly,
fighting the melancholy the statement induced, “I shall forget Hattim Sethiyan.
Now will you help me from this tub? I have soaked long enough.”

           
He rose, feeling Tepshen’s sinewy
arm descend about his shoulders, steering him toward the steps emerging from
the pool. They climbed out and stood gasping beneath the cascade of icy water
channeled from the same spring as fed the tub, its invigorating chill tingling
almost painfully on skin heated by the bath. Shivering, Kedryn took the towel
the kyo passed him and set to rubbing warmth back into his body. Then,
refreshed, he dressed and went looking for Wynett.

           
He could not find her, however, for
the Sister was then seated in King Darr’s private chambers, her face troubled
as she heard out Bedyr Caitin, eyes the hue of cornflowers in high summer
shifting from the serious, almost supplicatory visage of the Lord of Tamur to
the gentle features of her royal father and on to meet the calm gaze of
Bethany, paramount of the Andurel Sisters now that Grania was dead.

           
“I ask you to consider it for
Kedryn’s sake,” Bedyr urged.

           
“Do you ask me to place my vows in
jeopardy?” she countered, a blush suffusing her tanned face as she wrung her
hands.

           
“How should that be?” asked
Bethany
, softly.

           
“I find him attractive!” Wynett
said, the admission deepening the roseate glow decorating her cheeks. “And he
has all but declared his love for me. It is hopeless, Sister! I am sworn to the
Lady—and I
will not
break my vows.”

           
“It is your will alone that defends
your promise!”
Bethany
said. “I cannot believe that Kedryn would presume to force himself upon
you, so there can be no question of your reneging on your fealty unless you
choose it.”

           
“But the temptation will be there,”
Wynett retorted. “And what pain might I cause Kedryn? I would not inflict further
suffering on him.”

           
“He will suffer if he must leave you
behind,” Bedyr said.

           
“A brief pain,” answered Wynett. “To
accompany him to Estrevan can only protract his anguish.”

           
“Your presence would be a comfort,
not an anguish,” Bedyr declared. “His blindness brings him to the brink of
despair, and your company lifts him. I would not impose upon you, but I ask you
to consider that in deciding.”

           
“There is another consideration,”
Bethany
interjected. “Kedryn is the one foretold in
Alaria’s Text. ”

           
“I know that,” Wynett acknowledged,
“But how does that affect my decision?”

           
“He is the one—likely the only
one—able to defeat Ashar’s purpose,” the elder Sister said slowly. “We are
agreed the Messenger lives still—by all accounts he fled back into his master’s
domain when he saw the Horde defeated, but he was not destroyed—and while he
lives, the Kingdoms stand in danger. How he might next threaten us I do not
know, but the Text clearly indicates that only Kedryn may stand against him in
the final battle. Kedryn, however, stands in danger of sinking into despair. We
had not foreseen the glamour that robs him of sight, and that is presently a
mighty aid to Ashar, for loss of sight—as Bedyr says—robs Kedryn of hope.”