Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (2 page)

           
It came with the first snow of the
encroaching winter. All day Taws had hidden within a circle of rocks close to
the Beltrevan road, his furs drawn close about his angular frame as he awaited
his opportunity. He watched the masons carve their blocks and manhandle them
onto carts that rumbled ponderously toward the fort; the archers and pikemen
huddle under winter cloaks, the bowmen holding their weapons close against them
for fear the snow might slacken strings; the horsemen canter past on the
treacherous surface. Dusk approached, deceptive behind the steady curtaining of
snow. He saw the masons stow their tools and start back under the watchful eyes
of the guards, and heard before he saw the clatter of a returning Keshi patrol.

           
The riders were swathed in
snow-dusted black, each cape emblazoned with the horsehead emblem of their
kingdom, sabers on their belts and lances upright in their hands. They appeared
less concerned with the danger of barbarian treaty-breakers than with a swift
return to the warmth of High Fort, where food and a measure of
evshan
would stave off the growing
chill. Taws did not know whether it was sheer good fortune or the will of his
master, still strong here in the last reaches of the Beltrevan, that afforded
him his chance, but when it came he took it with alacrity.

           
A shod hoof slipped on the churned
roadway and a horse went down with a scream of alarm. The rider sprang nimbly
from the saddle, tossing his lance to a companion as he urged his mount to its
feet, then cursed as the animal raised a sprained foreleg. Taws could not yet
understand the language of the Keshi cavalrymen, but the conversation explained
itself as the troop moved off into the dusk, leaving their comrade to walk his
horse in.

           
Taws came out from his hiding place
then, the snow that clung to his furs rendering him near-invisible until he was
almost on the Keshi. The horse nickered nervously and the man turned, a hand dropping
to his sword hilt as he saw the tall, white-maned figure approaching. His mouth
opened to shout a warning that failed to materialize because Taws’s hand
fastened about his wrist and the mage’s eyes burned redly into his, quelling
the cry stillborn. The horse shrilled and tore free of the slack-fingered grip,
running as best its injury allowed into the shrouding snow. Taws loomed above
the bowlegged rider, his rubescent gaze probing deep into the fear-filled eyes.
For long moments he stood facing the man, then nodded, murmuring a name:
“Hattim Sethiyan.” Then, as he had done with the wounded Caroc, he stooped to
kiss the Keshi, that awful caress draining the light from the man’s eyes, the
tension from his limbs, so that when the mage released him he crumpled slack to
the ground, his body seeming deflated, emptied.

           
Taws licked his fleshless lips and
bent to lift the man, raising the corpse as easily as he might a child. He
strode across the roadway and through the rocks beyond to the bank of the Idre.
The Keshi’s body splashed as it struck the surface of the river, turned twice
as the current caught it, and then was gone. Taws stood for a moment, staring
at the water, then turned about and strode toward the fort, toward the Three
Kingdoms.

           
The snow that had begun to mantle
the forests of the Beltrevan had not yet found footing south of the Lozins,
though winter sent chill feelers probing over the hills of Tamur and the
northern plains of Kesh, frosting the grasslands and crusting pools with
shining ice. To the west it remained a threat, the vast bowl formed by the
sweep of the Lozin range and the Gadrizels protected by the encircling peaks. In
time the wolf-weather would come, but as yet the fertile lands surrounding the
sacred city of Estrevan remained untouched. The harvest was gathered in and
thanks given to Kyrie for her bounty, the granaries of the city stocked against
the isolation of the cold time, larders hung with cured meat and thick winter
quilts brought out to air. The days still held a hint of mellow autumn, but the
nights grew chill, and on this particular night a wind had got up, blowing out
of the north to buffet the walls and tall towers of the city, prompting the
inhabitants to draw shutters against its onslaught and light fires in their
hearths.

           
At the center of the city stood the
halls of the Sisters of Kyrie, spreading from the single tower raised by the
founders just as the buildings of the lay population had spread about that
place of worship until the site chosen for its isolation had become a bustling
community. The styles of the buildings were varied, for all who sought
sanctuary in Estrevan were welcomed and the populace came from all of the
Kingdoms, bringing their own architectural patterns to create a diffusion of
fashions that somehow succeeded in blending together to form a homogenous
whole.

           
The central tower was a plain column
of bluish stone, set with windows and balconies, the apex flat and circled by a
wall from which the Paramount Sister might look out over the city and the
fertile lands beyond. At the topmost level of that tower a group of Sisters was
gathered in a small chamber.

           
Thick candles set within columns of
glass filled the room with mellow light. Shutters of dark wood were drawn over
the windows, their gloss reflecting the gleam of the candles, contrasting
pleasantly with the simplicity of the plain, rough-plastered walls. In one
comer, a hearth of hewn stone held a crackling fire that from time to time sent
flickering tongues of flame into the room as the wind blowing from the north
gusted and turned to penetrate the chimney. The blue-robed women seated about
the circular table at the room’s center ignored the sparking of the logs, their
attention focused on the woman seated in a low-backed chair close to the blaze.
She was a woman in her middle years, older than some of the listeners, younger
than others, unremarkable in appearance save for the intensity of hei eyes,
which, like her voice, was compelling.

           
“You have all studied Alaria’s Text,”
she said, “and you have all heard the news from the Lozin Gate. Now I would
hear your thoughts.”

           
There was a pause, a hesitation
marked by the soft rustling of gowns and an almost nervous clearing of throats,
then an old woman, her kindly features lined, her hair silver, said, “The Text
is vague, Gerat, but I do not believe the danger is ended yet.” “Surely it is,”
a younger woman objected, “and Alaria’s prophecy fulfilled—Kedryn Caitin is of
Tamur on his father’s side and of the Blood on his mother’s; he slew Niloc
Yarrum to win the day for the Kingdoms; die Horde is defeated. Does that not
fulfill the prophecy?”

           
“But Ashar’s Messenger was not
found, Porelle,” murmured the first speaker, “and consequently the danger still
exists.”

           
“The Horde is broken,” argued
Porelle, “the forest folk scattered. I think you fear shadows, Jara.”

           
Jara smiled fondly, shaking her
head. “I think my greater years endow me with greater patience, little Sister.
As I read it, the Text tells us the Messenger must be destroyed, not merely
defeated.” “He will rise again,” announced the woman to Jara’s left, opening
the thin, leather-bound book she held, “Listen:
And that poison shall sour the fruit that it shall taste bitter on the
tongue and ferment to bring forth pestilence.
What else can it mean?” “Was
the Horde not a pestilence, Lavia?” Porelle demanded. “Indeed it was,” Lavia
agreed, ducking a gray-streaked head, “but the poison that formed it exists
still.”

           
“Can we be sure of that?” asked the
other. “Our seekers find no trace of the Messenger and Darr’s
mehdri
tell us the barbarians spoke of
his disappearance. Perhaps his master called him back.”

           
“Perhaps,” said Lavia dubiously, “but
I do not think so. Save to foment some other design.”

           
“The Beltrevan is Ashar’s domain,”
offered a fresh speaker, the youngest there, “and surely the defeat of the
Horde must lessen his power. Kyrie bound him with the Lozin wall and without
the Horde how can he broach that confinement?”

           
“He created the Messenger for that
purpose,” said Lavia, “and Ashar is not one to accept defeat easily. ”

           
“There is a passage in the Text,”
Jara said, “a few lines after that talk of poisoned fruit . . . Lavia, your
eyes are better than mine.”

           
“Fire
shall consume the tree, is that the one?” Lavia asked, and when Jara nodded:
“Yet the roots that lay beneath shall remain and the ash of that burning shall
cloud the vision of men that they see not what is, nor hear what shall be.
Shall I go on?”

           
“No, thank you.” Jara shook her
head, “I believe that makes Lavia’s point, Reena—Ashar is, indeed, held beyond
the Lozin walk He cannot, himself, cross that barrier without the support of
his worshippers, but that does not prevent him from sending his Messenger.” She
paused as Lavia murmured agreement, then continued, “I believe the roots to
which Alaria referred are the many faces of Ashar, and the ash of the burning
the defeat of the Horde, which even now prompts a false belief in safety.”

           
Reena looked to Porelle, who smiled
and shrugged, saying, “I do not think my belief is false, Jara. How could the
Messenger prosper within the boundaries of the Kingdoms? Tamur, Kesh,
Ust-Galich, all hold to Kyrie. Not even the Sandurkan follow Ashar. So what
power might the Messenger wield outside his master’s domain?”

           
“He needs only a foothold, and few
are pure,” answered the older woman. “From a tiny spark a fire may grow.”

           
“Do you say that Ashar might find
worshippers within the Kingdoms?” Reena’s plain features registered a mixture
of disgust and shock. “Surely not!”

           
“Not necessarily worshippers,” Jara
responded evenly, “but let us look beyond the immediacy of the deities; let us
consider them as concepts.”

           
Reena appeared more shocked at this
and Jara reached out to pat her hand reassuringly. “I intend no blasphemy,
Sister, but I am of less fundamental a bent than you. I mean that Ashar may not
require conscious worship to work his fell designs, but a turn of mind suitable
to his purpose. What, after all, does he represent?”

           
“Evil,” said Reena promptly. “Lust;
avarice.”

           
“Disorder, ambition, chaos,” added
Porelle.

           
“Indeed,” murmured Jara, “and are
there not ambitious men in the Kingdoms? Does greed not exist there? Do some
men not lust after power?”

           
“You suggest the Messenger may seek
out such men?” asked Lavia, seeing Jara’s point.

           
“I do,” confirmed the silver-haired
woman. “It is my belief the Messenger lives still, and that Ashar will send him
south to suborn to his foul cause. That is my interpretation of the Text.”

           
“Who would accept him?” demanded
Reena, outrage curling her somewhat fleshy lips.

           
“He would be recognized,” said
Porelle, “and slain.”

           
Jara bowed her head in partial
acknowledgment. “Perhaps,” she said to Porelle, “though I am not certain. As a
concept Ashar has many faces—might not his minion enjoy the same art of
subterfuge? I have no doubt he can disguise himself to confuse the eyes of men,
and his power may be such that if he forgoes the use of overt sorcery he may
even deceive our Sisters. Most of those within the Kingdoms are, after all,
possessed of practical talents. As for your doubt, Reena, I repeat that there
are some who might be tempted by his promises.”

           
“We cannot overlook that
possibility,” murmured Gerat. “For the sake of the Kingdoms and our Lady we
must not.”

           
Silence fell with the ending of the
sentence, broken for a while only by the soft thud of wind-battered shutters
and the crepitation of the fire. It seemed the wintry chill that gripped the
plain surrounding Estrevan had entered the room. Reena shivered, folding her
arms across her breast. Porelle stared at Jara as though unable to believe the
older Sister’s words. Lavia sighed, stroking the covers of the book she held as
if seeking reassurance there. Gerat studied their faces, her own calm despite
the unease that had grown since first Darr’s messengers had brought her word.
Finally she spoke, “You are the finest scholars in the
Sacred
City
—that is why I asked that each of you study
Alaria’s Text—and I had hoped we might finally unravel its complexities. But it
appears that is not to be, so let me add my own thoughts.

           
“We know that Alaria was gifted with
a vision sent by our Lady that we might prepare defenses against Ashar. To that
end the Paramount Sister Galina asked the acolyte Yrla to consider quitting her
studies here and contemplate marriage. No more than that, for—as you know—it is
not the way of the Lady to force decisions, but Yrla chose of her own free will
and left Estrevan after studying the Text, which convinced her of the path she
must take. She was wed to Bedyr Caitin of Tamur and their child. Kedryn, has
proven to be the one Alaria foretold.
From
western stone and river s core shall come that one who may oppose the fire.
As Porelle has pointed out, Kedryn Caitin
did
turn back the Horde when he slew Niloc Yarrum. Our Sister, Wynette, sent word
with Darr’s messengers that Kedryn was marked by Ashar’s minion; that when
Grania dispelled the glamour the Messenger brought against High Fort there was
a joining of minds that would appear to have imbued Kedryn w'ith a power I do
not pretend to comprehend. Suffice it to say that the Lady blessed him, that he
was able to defeat the leader of the Horde. And that a warrior, ensorcelled by
the Messenger, came against Kedryn and blinded him before he was dispatched.