Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (25 page)

           
Kedryn’s rest, too, was unmarred by
nightmares for what remained of the dark hours, though when he woke he could
still recall with horrid clarity all the details of the dream, and felt the
sluggish pull of incomplete sleep. It was early yet and the hold was only just
waking as he drew on a robe and shouted for Vigrund to bring him to the
bathhouse, trusting in the waters to refresh him. He was not much surprised to
find Tepshen Lahl already there, for it was the habit of the easterner to bathe
on waking and before retiring.

           
“What kind of day is it?” he asked
as he eased himself into the steaming tub. “Barely light yet,” answered
Tepshen, “but it will be a fine day for a ride.”

           
Kedryn chuckled: it seemed so
typical of the kyo to refer to their journey as nothing more than “a ride.”
“How long will it take us to reach the
Fedyn
Pass
?” he inquired.

           
“The Sister will set our pace,”
Tepshen said. “Were we alone, perhaps twenty days, depending on the weather.
She may slow us—I do not laiow how well she sits a horse.”

           
Kedryn nodded; it had not occurred
to him to inquire of Wynett as to her standard of equestrianism. Then a thought
struck him and he asked, “Do you resent her presence?”

           
“How could I?” the kyo responded.
“You need her.”

           
“Aye,” he said softly, “I do.”

           
Tepshen Lahl heard the double
meaning in the statement and squinted through the steam at the young man he
looked on as a son. “W
^r
hat you attempt will not be easy,” he said
bluntly, “and it will be harder if your heart wanders. Regain your sight—then
think of other things.”

           
Kedryn smiled. “Your advice is sound
as ever, Tepshen, and I shall endeavor to take it. But it is not easy. ”

           
“Nothing worth having is won
easily,” said the kyo.

           
“No,” Kedryn agreed, wondering if he
heard some hidden meaning behind the words. He was about to ask, but Tepshen
climbed to his feet then saying, “Come, we should not delay,” and he followed
his friend from the tub into the cold pool, where the chilling water stung him
to full wakefulness.

           
Tepshen Lahl brought him back to his
chambers, where Vigrund had his traveling gear laid ready. He dressed, leaving the
carl to see to the packing of his saddlebags, and went cautiously along the
corridor, feeling his way, to Wynett’s door. He tapped and it opened, and he
heard Wynett ask, “Are you ready for a surprise?”

           
“Aye,” he said cautiously.

           
“Then look,” she giggled, and took
his hand.

           
Sight returned with her touch and he
smiled as he saw her. Her hair was drawn back from her face, fastened with a
twist of blue ribbon so that it hung in a thick tail at the nape of her slender
neck. A jerkin of chestnut brown edged with black fur bulked the upper part of
her body, drawn in at the waist by a wide leather belt from which a
silver-hilted Tamurin dagger hung. Her legs were encased in black hide riding
breeches that disappeared into tall boots, heeled for the stirrups, and she
seemed more warrior maid than Sister.

           
“Well?” She raised his hand that she
might pirouette. “Am I suitably accoutered?”

           
“You are lovely,” he said.

           
“I am hot,” she grinned.

           
“It will be cold enough on the
road,” he smiled back. “And Tepshen is anxious to be gone.”

           
They went down to the dining hall,
wnere the party was already assembling, Wynett’s appearance bringing a cheerful
barrage of praise from the Tamurin warriors. Bedyr and Yrla joined them and
they ate a hearty breakfast before adjourning to the stables where their mounts
were waiting, blowing plumes of steam into the chill air.

           
It was a bright morning, the sky a
hard blue-gray with no hint of cloud, the early sun sparkling on the frost that
rimed the rooftops and buttresses of the hole . They drew on their cloaks and
checked their animals, Kedryn holding Wynett’s hand that he might see the
lacings of his gear and ensure the security of the various buckles. Yrla hugged
him once more, murmuring a blessing, and Bedyr took his hand; Lavia appeared,
clad in a long cloak of Estrevan blue, 10 give formal blessing, and they
mounted.

           
The gates were open, anc’ those of
Caitin Hold not engaged in pressing duties clustered about the yard and
ramparts to shout farewells as they rode beneath the arch onto the hard-packed
snow beyond. Kedryn was flanked by Tepshen and Wynett and he took the Sister’s
hand as they passed out of the citadel, turning in his saddle to wave, seeing
his mother and father stand watching, Bedyr’s arm about Yrla’s shoulders as they
saw their son ride away. They returned his wave and he dropped his arm, turning
to smile at Wynett and Tepshen.

           
“May the Lady look with favor on
this quest,” he said.

           
“Amen to that,” Wynett answered
fervently, answering his smile.

           
“Let us ride,” said the kyo.

           
Kedryn released Wynett’s hand and
let the Keshi stallion match the easterner’s pace, hearing the drumming of
Wynett’s bay gelding beside him, grinning as he felt the wind-rush of their
passage strike his face, putting thoughts of home behind him as the excitement
of what lay ahead drove out regrets, filling him with a fine, wild optimism.

           
Mejas Celeruna clutched the
gold-lacquered gunwale of the
Vargalla
and frowned uncomfortably at the seething wake of the barge. Wind tore at his
thinning hair, tumbling the artfully teased ringlets in disarray and lashing
his plump cheeks with an icy sting that reddened them better than any rouge.
Around him the other members of Hattim Sethiyan’s retinue clustered in similar
discomfort, none daring to voice what lay heavy on their minds.

           
There was something unnatural about
the wind, Celeruna decided, just as there was something unnatural about the
latest member of Hattim’s court. The two had seemed to arrive together, the
breeze freshening soon after the strange newcomer had arrived on board and
growing steadily stronger since, dying away only when the vessel put in for the
night and then rising again when they cast off in the mornings. The boatmaster
had told him it was no seasonal blow, indeed, that he had never experienced
such a draft so early in the season, though he had no complaints as it eased
the task of his oarsmen, filling the sails and speeding the barge southward at
such a rate they must surely reach Estrevan not long after the king’s vessel.
Celeruna was less complacent, and more than a little piqued.

           
They had quit Nyrwan with surprising
haste, Hattim appearing uncharacteristically early to summon his courtiers and
announce their imminent departure. There had been no sign of the doxy, though
Celeruna had left a few silver coins with the landlord, and Hattim had seemed
untypically active for one who had spent the night in such company. Then the
stranger had appeared on the wharfside, swathed in a voluminous cloak with the
hood drawn up so that none had clearly seen his features, and Hattim had
greeted him as though he were expected, ushering him to the cabin and shutting
out all others. From that day on the retinue was denied access to the Lord of
Ust-Galich's quarters, where Hattim remained alone with the stranger for all
the time they were on the water. He would appear at dusk, as they hove to, but
always alone, and as best the portly courtier could tell, the mysterious
newcomer stayed on board, neither eating nor venturing ashore. He knew better
than to press Hattim on the matter, but discreetly casual inquiries had brought
no further enlightenment and the courtiers were cast out onto the decks of the
barge to suffer the temper of the climate as best they might.

           
They did not enjoy their reduced status,
muttering irritably among themselves, but never daring to broach the subject
with their lord since Celeruna had requested shelter from a squall and suffered
a flung goblet for his effrontery, together with the threat that any who
complained of their condition might find their way to shore and travel south as
best they could.

           
It was the wiser course to find what
cover they might in the boatmaster’s small cabin, or even below decks among the
rowers, and bear the elements until they halted for the night, when fires and
warm food became available in the riverside taverns.

           
Celeruna did not enjoy it. He was no
riverman and had not anticipated spending the entire journey down the Idre on
deck, but more than that he was disturbed by Hattim’s behavior. The Lord of
Ust-Galich was customarily of variable humor, and his mood ever since the young
Prince of Tamur had gained such prominence had been black, but now Celeruna
sensed there was more to it. It was as though the ever-present wind put a chill
in his well-covered bones that winter alone could not account for, a feeling of
unease that went deeper than mere physical discomfort, and thwarted curiosity
did nothing to lessen his dissatisfaction. He longed to know who the mysterious
stranger was, and why Hattim kept him ensconced in the cabin.

           
He shook his head in weary
irritation and made his way clumsily across the deck to snatch a flagon from
Bajin Darlath, drinking deep as he stared moodily at the swirling gray water
and listened to the others keep up their endless musings.

           
“Who is he?”

           
“Where did he come from?”

           
“Why does he never come on deck?”

           
“Why are we shut out?”

           
“What power does he hold over
Hattim?”

           
“Why should he be so favored?”

           
“Who is he?”

           
“Mayhap he is some river demon who
had entranced Hattim,” snapped Celeruna, “and he is leading us all to our
doom.”

           
“Do you think so?”

           
Bajin’s question was serious,
Celeruna realized, as he passed back the flagon and looked into the troubled
eyes of the younger man. Lady help us, he thought, the fool’s wits are addled.
He shook his head.

           
“No, Bajin, I do not. I do not know
who he is, but I do not believe in river demons. Or sprites, or fetches, or
goblins.”

           
“The wind came with him,” said Bajin
obstinately, clutching at the idea put in his otherwise empty head.

           
“Then thank him, because it speeds
us homeward,” grunted Celeruna, wondering why Hattim surrounded himself with
such nincompoops and unwilling to admit his own unease. “And the swifter we
run, the sooner we shall be off this accursed river and comfortable in our own
homes again.”

           
“Unless he really is leading us to
doom,” muttered Bajin.

           
Celeruna stared at his fellow
courtier and considered a reply, then thought better of it and turned his back
with a most uncourtly display of rudeness, pacing over to the shelter of the
steering cabin, where at least he was out of the wind and the boatmaster went
about his duties in silence.

           
Within the cabin Hattim Sethiyan
sprawled on cushions, wiping at the sweat that beaded his chest in the stifling
atmosphere. The brazier that Taws insisted be kept lit filled the small chamber
with a heat too great even for the chill of winter on the Idre, and the
tight-latched shutters allowed no breath of air to disturb the dense miasma.
The mage seemed at ease, luxuriating in the turgid thickness, the cloak Hattim
had provided wrapped tight about him as he stared into the coals that twinned
his eyes.

           
“We must surely reach Andurel ere
long,” the Galichian ventured.

           
“In time,” the sorcerer agreed, his
voice a whisper that still raised a shudder of trepidation in the Lord of
Ust-Galich. “Your haste is no greater than mine.”

           
“They will likely spread tales.”
Hattim’s hand gestured beyond the walls, indicating the courtiers on deck.

           
“They will say nothing,” Taws
promised.

           
“How can you be sure?” Hattim
reached for the decanter set on the low table at his side, the motion a device
to avoid the mage’s glance. “Once ashore they will find it hard to hold their
tongues.”