Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (19 page)

           
“It is,” Yrla nodded. “My dear, I
was of Estrevan once, my sole desire to follow the way of the Lady. I had not
taken the final vows, of course, but I can understand your dilemma—if dilemma
there is.”

           
She studied Wynett’s face with unconcealed
concern and Wynett felt a knot tie inside her and then unravel as her words
came in a flood that mingled anguish with relief in equal measure.

           
“There is,” she confirmed. “I cannot
deny the love I feel. But neither can I deny my vows! I would have remained in
High Fort had sight not manifested, for I knew that Kedryn would come
increasingly to rely on me; to want me with him. And I cannot give him what he
wants! I am so afraid of hurting him! And that I would not do. I would not see
him hurt further.”

           
“Poor child.” Yrla set down her
goblet and came to where

           
Wynett sat, sliding an arm about the
younger woman’s shoulders so that Wynett felt the sympathy she radiated and
could no longer hold in her emotions. She began to weep, clutching at Yrla as the
Lady of Tamur held her and stroked her hair and murmured, “Poor, poor child. It
is so hard for you.”

           
“What am I to do? What can I do?”

           
Wynett felt no embarrassment, for
there was something about the Lady Yrla that precluded so petty a concern, and
she felt that from her she might glean sound advice, perhaps better even than
that offered by her fellow Sisters.

           
“You have explained your position to
Kedryn?”

           
“That I am vowed to the Lady, yes,”
Wynett snuffled. “I have not told him that I love him.”

           
“That was wise,” Yrla confirmed.

           
“But what am I to
doT
asked Wynett.

           
“What
would
you do?” came the answer, surprising Wynett. “You need not go
on to Estrevan—whatever Bedyr thinks, 1 believe my son is man enough to make
that journey without you—and if you wish, you may remain here a while, then
return to High Fort. If that is what you want.”

           
Wynett stifled her sobs, shock
easing the flow of tears. “I made a promise,” she whispered. “Kedryn expects me
to go with him. Besides, these manifestations of sight come only when he is
with me—how could I desert him now?”

           
“Set that aside for now,” Yrla said
gently. “Kedryn
wants
you to go with
him. What do
you
want?”

           
“I?” Wynett looked up at the older
woman, her mind in turmoil from which a single fact emerged, slowly, as though
drawn out by the loving sympathy she saw in the calm gray eyes. “I ... I want
to go with him.”

           
“Then that is what you should do,”
smiled Yrla.

           
“Can it be that simple?” Wynett
wondered, doubtful.

           
“Sometimes,” Yrla smiled, “it can.
Sometimes the Lady speaks to us through our hearts, rather than in texts or
prophecies.”

           
“It was surely the Text that brought
you to Caitin Hold,” Wynett suggested.

           
“Alaria’s Text brought me to Tamur,”
Yrla said confidently. “It was Bedyr brought me to Caitin Hold.”

           
“But there is nothing in the Text to
guide me even so far,” said Wynett.

           
“Are you sure?” asked Yrla. “Have
you studied the Text?” “Not at length.” Wynett shook her head.

           
“Galina gave me a copy before I left
the
Sacred
City
,” said Yrla. “I still have it, and of late
I have read and reread it. There is a part I should like you to consider, but
first I wanted you to know your own heart.”

           
“I think I do,” said Wynett, “now. I
will go with Kedryn.” “Good,” smiled Yrla. “Now dry your eyes and ready
yourself for the banquet. I will show you the Text on the morrow. ”

           
Hattim Sethiyan’s southward journey
was met with more clement weather than greeted the westbound Tamurin. The
relentless downpour that marked their departure from High Fort did not catch up
with the Galichian’s barge save as squalls that his boat captain rode out in
safe harbors, anxious to avoid giving his lord cause to vent his increasingly
bad temper, and the snow that lay heavy on the uplands remained only a
diminishing threat to the north, where the sky was leaden colored. Along the
Idre, wintry sunshine sparkled from a metallic blue sky on the coruscating
surface of the river and although the air was chill, and the trees that lined
the banks bare of leaves, the harsh reality of winter did not yet strike the
southerly reaches.

           
Nonetheless, Hattim appeared gripped
by a spiritual cold that transcended any pleasure he felt at returning home and
set him, isolated, apart from those with him.

           
His barge was larger than the
Vashti
on which King Dan- traveled, and
considerably slower, a wide-bellied craft of shallow draft that he had had
portaged past the cascades dividing Idre from Ust-Idre, more suitable to the
gentler waters of Ust-Galich than the swift cunents of the upper waterway.
Sixty oarsmen manned the scoops thrusting from the sides and ten deckhands
serviced the double masts. A cabin rose above the stem thwarts to shelter the
boatmaster as he sat at the tiller and amidships there were quarters, small but
opulently appointed, for the Lord of Ust-Galich and whatever traveling
companions he chose to bring with him. These were more shelter from sun or rain
than real sleeping chambers, for the vessel docked at night to afford Hattim
the comfort of landbound bed and cuisine, prepared by the cook he included
among his retainers. There were, also, a handful of courtiers, five in number
and the most favored. Like the captain, they spent a large part of the journey
in dread of Hattim’s anger.

           
He had retired to his cabin as soon
as the barge, the
Vargalla
, cast off,
and had not emerged until they docked that night. The next morning he had
loosened three of his barber’s teeth for some imagined discomfort and shut
himself away again with only wine for company. As he descended the gangplank the
following evening, he had pitched a deckhand into the river when the man
crossed his path to secure a mooring line and ordered him flogged when he was
dragged, near-drowned, from the water. When he boarded again he had instructed
the drum-master to beat double time, the
Vargalla
leaving the accompanying retinue of smaller craft behind. Over the nervously
voiced warnings of the boatmaster he had held the pace until the oarsmen
flagged, their rhythm growing ragged as fatigue numbed their muscles, and only when
exhaustion threatened to make their progress erratic did he permit a return to
more normal speed. By then the
Vargalla
rode several leagues ahead of the vessels bearing those officers traveling by
water, and the Galichian Sisters, without chance of them catching up.

           
That night the exhausted crew
brought the barge wearily into the harborage of Nyrwan, and Hattim’s courtiers
hurried ahead to warn the owner of the fishing village’s sole tavern that the
Lord of Ust-Galich was about to favor his humble inn.

           
It was a modest hostelry, more
suited—and far more accustomed—to the entertainment of fishermen and river
traders than the patronage of High Blood, and the tavern keeper grew alarmed at
the prospect of quartering, let alone feeding and wining, the Lord Hattim
Sethiyan. His wife readily allowed the Galichian cook to take over her kitchen
and the innkeeper permitted the courtiers to arrange his best room with stuff
brought from the
Vargalla.
Disgruntled fishermen were cast out into the night by the barge’s crew as the
place became overrun by Galichians, their fear of Hattim’s temper outweighing
the consideration that they were on Tamurin soil and had no right to usurp the
regular clientele.

           
Hattim entered the low-ceilinged
room that occupied most of the ground floor with an expression of disdain on
his handsome face, paused, sniffed ostentatiously, and remarked too loudly that
the stink of fish pervaded the air. His courtiers laughed dutifully and ushered
their lord to a bench by the hearth. Hattim shed his cloak and sprawled in
gold-edged tunic and green breeks, his booted feet close to the flames,
refusing the plain earthenware mug the innkeeper offered him in favor of his
own chased silver goblet.

           
“You will try my wine, Lord?” the
innkeeper asked, thinking that this Galichian fop had no right to scorn honest
Tamurin ware, but simultaneously conscious of the gold his visitors might leave
in his purse, and of their numbers.

           
“I will,” Hattim announced, smiling
at his fawning courtiers as he added for their benefit, “We had best conserve
our good Galichian vintages for the journey. ”

           
The innkeeper filled the goblet and
waited for Hattim’s approval.

           
“It will do,” the Lord of Ust-Galich
declared. “You may leave the jug.”

           
Maintaining a blandly smiling
expression only with difficulty, the innkeeper retired behind his serving
counter, happier in the company of the barge’s crew than with the nobles. At
least the oarsmen and deckhands traded honest coin for the ale and evshan they
consumed.

           
Hattim drank prodigiously, and by
the time the meal was ready his face was flushed and his humor morose. His cook
produced a vast bowl of river clams, seethed in wine, with herbs adding a
delicate piquancy. It was met with the same scorn Hattim bestowed on the trout
that followed and the cheeses that formed the final course. The cook blamed the
paucity of the kitchen, but in private—and with much admonishment to secrecy—he
informed the landlord’s wife that her ingredients were as fine as any he had
used and that if Hattim failed to appreciate them, he had no understanding of
the culinary arts.

           
All about him were glad when the
Lord of Ust-Galich rose unsteadily to his feet and announced that he would
retire, though had they known what would happen that night their relief would
have become terror.

           
Hattim climbed the narrow stairs to
the upper level and paused by the door of his chamber. The incense burned to
cleanse the room filled the corridor with aromatic scent and the Galichian
nodded in approval, clutching at the jamb to steady himself.

           
“This Lady-forsaken hovel has
doxies?”

           
His voice was slurred, thick with
wine and the fiercer evshan, his eyes as they studied his hangers-on reddened.
When the landlord, who stood nervously at the rear of the group, nodded, Hattim
said, “Then have one cleaned and bring her to me.”

           
“My Lord,” murmured Mejas Celeruna,
who was a little braver than his fellow sycophants, “is that wise? There is the
danger of disease. And,” he coughed, discreetly lowering his voice, “you are
betokened to the Princess Ashrivelle.”

           
Hattim’s face twisted in a scowl and
his eyes seemed to bum a harsher red, as though anger fueled the glow put there
by the alcohol. “Will any here carry tales?” he demanded ominously. “Darr is no
longer present to cast that disapproving eye, and I have been too long faithful
to that icy virgin. Bring me a woman, damn you!”

           
Celeruna nodded dutifully and turned
to the innkeeper. “Your doxies are clean?”

           
“Of course.” The landlord was
offended. “Clean as the Idre herself. ”

           
“I will examine them,” announced the
courtier.

           
“Not too closely,” Hattim said, his
voice lewd. “You may take your pick of what’s left, but bring me the best.”

           
“Of course, my Lord.” Celeruna
joined the landlord in finding offense in his liege’s manner.

           
Hattim, still sniggering, stumbled
into the room and kicked the door closed on the watching faces. He crossed to
the bed and threw himself down, groaning as his head spun to transform the
beamed ceiling to a whirligig of revolving woodwork and torchlit plaster. He
sat up, splashing his face with water from the pitcher set beside the bed, and
glanced around. The room was not quite small, the bed, the table beside it, and
a cupboard built partly into the wall occupying most of the floor space. There
was a window that, when he threw it open and thrust his head out into the chill
night air, he saw looked toward the Idre, the masts of the
Vargalla
tossing in the frail light of a new-risen moon. From the
streets of the village a cat yowled. Hattim withdrew his head and fastened the
shutters. The room was warm, heated by the chimney that ran up from the hall
below, and he plucked clumsily at the lacings of his tunic. The jerkin fell to
the floor and Hattim began to work at the fastenings of his shirt. He opened
that and put a hand to his throat, rubbing. The flea bites had seemed more
virulent since his departure from High Fort and when he found a mirror and held
it to his neck, he saw a collar of angry flesh. Cursing, he hurled his shirt
aside and tugged off his boots. His breeks and underclothing followed, and
then, naked, he clambered beneath the sheets, waiting for the doxy.

           
Ellebriga was nervous. Her usual
clientele was comprised of the more successful fishermen of Nyrwan and
occasional river captains, and while she prided herself on her nocturnal
accomplishments the height of her ambition so far had been to find a captain—or
even a mate—willing to carry her to Andurel, where she was sure she could do
well in her chosen profession. She had never thought to find herself chosen by
a richly dressed nobleman to service the Lord of Ust-Galich, and the
opportunity raised her hopes and her sights.

           
Surrounded by her giggling
sisters-in-trade, she scrubbed herself vigorously in the tub old Emvar
provided—together with the admonishment that she perform her best and offer no
complaint, whatever the Lord Hattim might require of her—and applied liberal
quantities of her most costly perfume. Her favorite robe, a flimsy confection
of silk bought with payment in kind from a passing boatmaster, was drawn over
her lissome frame and her thick auburn hair dressed by her friends. She took as
much time as she dared applying cosmetics to lips and eyes, and set rings on
her fingers, a golden necklace about her throat, and the silver chains that denoted
her calling about her ankles. Finally she put little slippers of a crimson that
matched her robe on her feet and went out to suffer the inspection of the
portly courtier.

           
“You will do,” Mejas Celeruna
proclaimed, thinking that with those enormous eyes and lush mouth, she was,
indeed, a passable night’s entertainment. Youth still bloomed on her skin and
her figure, which was largely visible through the fine material of her cheap
robe, was engaging, if a fraction underendowed about the bosom. “Remember to
address him as my Lord, unless he instructs you otherwise. And do whatever he
asks—you will be well rewarded.”

           
It was on the tip of Ellebriga’s
tongue to ask that she be allowed to go with them downriver, but she thought
better of it: better to satisfy the Lord Hattim first and ask then, when he
would doubtless be so pleased with her that he would instantly grant her wish.
Optimism overcame her nervousness and she turned to the stairway, hips swaying
as she began to climb.

           
She paused at the door, smoothing
her robe and patting at her hair, then knocked. A hoarse voice called for her
to enter and she constructed a seductive smile as she went in.

           
The man on the bed favored her with
an appraising stare and she did her best to curtsy formally as she, in turn,
appraised him. He was younger than she had expected, and pleasing to the eye.
His tousled hair was yellow as the gold about her neck and although he clearly
suffered the effects of excess wine, he was rather handsome, albeit
softer-looking than her usual customers and suffering some unsightly infection
that set a ring of ugly marks about his throat. She hoped he had no disease.

           
“Come here,” he ordered, “and take
off that doxy’s gown.”

           
Ellebriga stilled the pout that
threatened to sour her smile at this insult and did as she was bade.

           
Hattim circled a finger and she
turned slowly, raising her arms to unclasp her hair and allow it to tumble
loose about her shoulders, pleased by the grunt of approval she heard.

           
“You will do,” he said, his voice
husky now rather than hoarse.

           
“Thank you, my Lord,” Ellebriga
murmured. “I am glad that I please you.”