Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (26 page)

           
“They will find it harder still to
loose them,” Taws answered. “I will see to that.”

           
Hattim filled his goblet and
swallowed a measure of wine warmed by the heat of the cabin, not daring to
inquire—not really wanting an answer—how the mage proposed to ensure silence.

           
There were ways, of that he had no
doubt, but what they might be he preferred not to know. He had doubts about the
bargain he had struck now that he had had time to consider its implications,
but the thought of Taws ’s wrath should he endeavor to renege terrified him.
And his ambition remained a spur. Taws was—of this there could be no doubt
whatsoever—a formidable ally, but his methods put a chill in Hattim’s soul. By
night, he knew, the mage stalked the streets of the riverside settlements while
humankind slept, and in each one he left a carcass drained of more than life.
What other practices he might indulge Hattim chose not to think about, knowing
that he was now bound to Taws’s purpose.

           
“Do not doubt.” Hattim started,
spilling wine, at the words. Did the thaumaturgist read his mind? “I will give
you everything I promised, and it will not be long in the gaining. This waiting
is irksome, but we cannot risk swifter passage lest we arouse suspicions.”

           
“Will your presence not be
suspicious?” asked the Galichian. “There will be Sisters present in Andurel.”

           
Taws seemed to shrug beneath the
enveloping cloak, but it was hard to discern for his body seemed to articulate
in ways not quite human. “They will not see me. Nor sense my presence. I shall
enter the
White
Palace
changed, as I came to you.”

           
Hattim rubbed at his neck in reflex
action: Taws had explained how he had penetrated High Fort and although the
flea bites had almost faded, the memory still left Hattim a trifle queasy. He
had thought to further his ambition through cunning, not sorcery, and while he
realized that opposition to his claims might well have been such as to deny
them, he still adjusted to the notion of committing his fate to Ashar’s minion.

           
“Think of the
White
Palace
,” Taws suggested, the expression Hattim had
come to recognize as a smile angling his lipless mouth. “Think of power. Think
of Tamur and Kesh bowed beneath your heel. Remember that I can give you all
that.”

           
Hattim nodded and swallowed more
wine, hearing the threat implicit in the statement. He was committed now and
there was no turning back. He had given himself into Taws’s hands, and by
extension to Ashar: the Lady might forgive him, but the Lord of the Fires would
not if he attempted to turn his coat.

           
“I will work a glamour before we
dock at Andurel,” Taws said as though to reassure his puppet, “and your retinue
will remember nothing of my presence. You need only proceed as custom
dictates—find quarters in the
White
Palace
while you ply your suit with Ashrivelle and
I will do the rest. Before you know it you will sit in Darr’s place.”

           
He turned his ashen-maned head to
Hattim and the Lord of Ust-Galich found his gaze caught by the rubescent glow
of the deep-sunk eyes, held. They seemed to bum fiercer, as if some hellish
breath fanned magma to a fresh intensity, and Hattim felt his doubts ooze from
him as the sweat oozed from his pores. Confidence filled him and he raised his
goblet in a toast saying, “As you will it, Taws.”

           
“Aye,” the mage replied. “As I will
it.”

           
The road to the
Fedyn
Pass
was marked with way stops, villages and
crossroad inns that were able to accommodate the travelers, as those along the
road from High Fort had not been large enough to do for the more sizable party.
There were no more nights spent under canvas, the weather holding good and
Wynett’s equestrian ability proving equal to the swift pace Tepshen Lahl set.
They reached Amshold on the first night, riding in as the sun settled behind
the western horizon to find warm baths and hot food, comfortable beds and a
genial welcome from the villagers, who were delighted to host their prince and
his party. They left at sunrise and came to a hostelry on the Morfah road
before dusk, proceeding to Nigrand and Barshom, Forshold, Wyrath and on to
Quellom at the same swift pace. Between Quellom and Ram- shold, the last settlement
before the Lozin foothills, snow began to fall, slowing them, and they found
shelter in a lonely farm, throwing the holder’s wife into a fine tizzy at the
prospect of entertaining the Prince of Tamur. Fourteen days out from Caitin
Hold they arrived at Loswyth, with the high peaks of the Lozins towering above
them.

           
This close the mountains were
daunting, taller it seemed than at High Fort, great jagged buttresses of stone
that swooped upward as if they supported the sky. Above the winter-clad meadows
that surrounded the town the lower slopes were thick with snowdecked timber
that thrust from the sweeping whiteness, giving gradual way to bare rock, too
steep for snow to grip, like scars on the albescent vastness of the mountain
wall. Higher still the Lozins became lost in white mist, cloud and stone
merging so that it was impossible to discern where mountains ended and sky
began. It seemed equally impossible that they might be crossed, for no pass was
visible from Loswyth and it seemed the Lozins stood impenetrable, an
unbroachable barrier between Tamur and the Beltrevan.

           
Wynett and Kedryn walked hand in
hand through the streets of the town, snow crunching beneath their boots and
the air stinging their cheeks with its chill. The winter gear Yrla had provided
came into full use here and Wynett was grateful for its warmth, the very
magnitude of her surroundings chilling her with their awesome grandeur. Kedryn
seemed at ease, but he had been here before, and was Tamur-bred, accustomed to
the majesty of his kingdom and excited at the nearing of his quest’s
conclusion. He bowed, however, to Tepshen Lahl’s suggestion that they rest
their mounts before attempting the climb to the border fort and took the
opportunity to show Wynett the sights of Loswyth.

           
It was a spread of wooden buildings
flanking the forest that had provided the timber for the low, slope-roofed
houses, all overhung with balconies painted in bright colors and narrow streets
that wound among cowsheds and storage bams. In summer, Kedryn explained, the
upper meadows were clear of snow and the cattle grazed there, fattening through
the warm months before coming down to the shelter of the lower slopes when
winter covered their forage. There was a pond, frozen over, with children
sliding and screaming on the ice, and as they promenaded they heard the
tinkling of the bells that hung from the horse-drawn sleds that were the chief
means of winter transport. It was a pretty town, picturesque and welcoming, and
after the days on the trail—and the rigors ahead—their brief sojourn assumed
the mood of a holiday.

           
The inn in which they found quarters
was homely and cheerful, a fire roaring at all hours in the hearth of the
common room, cunningly arranged chimneys spreading the warmth to the sleeping
chambers so that even as snow drifted down outside, their rooms were snug. The
snowfalls came by night and each dawn the slopes above the village were painted
pink by the rising sun, a rosy red at sunset. Wynett thought that Loswyth must
be a pleasant place to live, brighter and less damp than the canyon of the Idre
containing High Fort. There were two Sisters resident in the settlement, one a
healer, the other a teacher, and they welcomed Wynett as both friend and
colleague. She was almost sorry when Tepshen Lahl announced that they had
rested long enough and should proceed before further snow blocked the pass.

           
“The going will be harder,” the kyo
warned, “the trail steeper and likely drifted. The Fedyn Fort stands at the
entrance, and past it we shall have the full weight of winter against us.”

           
“How long shall we be in the
mountains?” Wynett wondered.

           
“If we are not delayed, perhaps
eight or nine days,” Tepshen replied.

           
Wynett turned then to peer through
the window of the common room, looking to where a quarter moon shone on the
peaks. They seemed ominous in that light and she shivered at the thought of
traversing that vastness of snow and stone.

           
Kedryn squeezed her hand. “It will
be easier once we enter the Beltrevan,” he promised.

           
Wynett smiled, dismissing the
premonition of danger that seemed to emanate from the great white wall as
though she sensed the presence of Ashar beyond, pent behind the barrier the
Lady had created.

           
“Sleep,” Tepshen advised. “We depart
at sunrise.”

           
His suggestion was accepted and soon
after dawn the next day the travelers grouped in the courtyard of the inn. It
was another fine day, though the nightly snowfall seemed thicker, reminding
them that winter progressed apace, and threatened to bar their passage, so that
they mounted swiftly and rode out to a chorus of good wishes from the landlord
and his folk, the two sturdy pack ponies Tepshen had purchased trailing behind
on lead reins.

           
Kedryn’s blindness became more of an
encumbrance as they began the climb, for once past the easy going of the
meadows the trail wound through the timber, rising steadily steeper. It was
thick with snow, great drifts built up between the trees so that the horses
plunged through, raising great clouds of sunlit powder, the warriors taking it
in turns to break trail. Kedryn and Wynett stayed to the rear, the Keshi
stallion following the path made by the forerunners and the Sister calling
advice when hazards such as low branches or drops presented themselves. By
midmoming she saw how deceptive the view from Loswyth had been, for what had
appeared a smooth slope was, in fact, a perilously steep ascent, their path
often running alongside near-vertical gradients, or angling up ridges that
promised an ugly fall for the unwary. Several times Tepshen Lahl put a rope on
the stallion, ignoring the animal’s protests as he guided it upward, and by
dusk they seemed to have made little progress.

           
“We shall reach the fort on the
morrow,” Tepshen assured his charge when Kedryn grumbled at their lack of
speed, blaming himself. “We make good enough time. See?”

           
He pointed back the way they had
come and Wynett took Kedryn’s hand that he might follow the kyo’s direction.

           
They were halted on a shelf of the
mountains, protected on two sides by flanks of naked stone. The tents were up
and the animals tethered, munching the oats carried by the pack ponies. A fire
had been lit and the air was sweet with the savory odor of a cooking stew. Far
away to the west the sky was crimson flecked with gold, and the peaks above
them were brilliant in the dying rays, silver and blue and gilt, iridescent
colors glittering and sparkling in a rainbow farewell to the day. Below, the
timber lay dark and silent, stark back and white, and beyond, full night
already filled the land like a brimming midnight lake in which the tiny
pinpricks of light that showed where Loswyth lay marked the distance they had
come.

           
“It is lovely,” Wynett murmured,
moved by the vastness and tranquillity of the panoply spread out below her.

           
“It is Tamur,” Kedryn replied
simply.

           
“As an eagle might see it,” she
said.

           
“I wish I were an eagle.” He
grinned, turning to face her, thinking that even swathed in furs, hidden
beneath her bonnet, she was lovely. “Then I should fly into the Beltrevan and
not subject you to these rigors.”

           
“I chose to accompany you,” she
answered, “and I have not yet proven too great a burden, have I?”

           
“No.” He shook his head. “You could
never be a burden to me.

           
“You have done well.” Tepshen joined
them, presenting bowls of stew.

           
Kedryn laughed, even though he
needed to loose her hand to eat. “Did you but know Tepshen as well as I,” he
chuckled, “you would realize that is high praise indeed.”

           
“It is merited,” said the kyo
solemnly. “The Sister rides like a Tamurin.”

           
“Thank you,” Wynett said, studying
the impassive features.

           
“Gahn-vey”
Tepshen bowed from the waist. “In the tongue of my birthland that means
deserved praise requires no thanks.”