Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (3 page)

           
“I believe that Kedryn Caitin is the
Chosen One foretold in the Text and that only he—though he may not know it—has
the answer to the questions the Text raises.

           
“I side with Jara and Lavia in the
interpretation of the Text. I believe that the Messenger lives still, and that
Ashar will seek to send him against the Kingdoms again.

           
“His strength will be lessened south
of the Lozin wall, but it will remain potent. How he will go about his master’s
work I do not know, but I believe we must warn our Sisters in the Kingdoms of
this, and ourselves stand ready.

           
“I ask you to continue your studies
of the Text, for in time Kedryn Caitin will journey here, seeking to regain his
sight. 1 do not know if we shall be able to restore vision to him, but I
am
convinced that he is the only one
capable of ending Ashar’s threat and 1 hope that we may furnish him with the
answers he will doubtless seek.”

           
“
In
darkness shall he see
,
though blindness swathe him.
” Lavia
murmured, a finger tracing the line. “I had wondered about that.”

           
“I do not understand it,” said
Porelle, “though I bow to the wisdom of the Paramount Sister.”

           
“Are we then agreed?” asked Gerat
gently, looking from face to face. “Our studies must continue whilst we await
Kedryn’s coming?”

           
“And warn our Sisters in the east,”
nodded Jara.

           
“The mehdri will carry word,” Gerat
promised. “Sisters?”

           
“It is all we can do,” said Lavia.

           
“I am in accord,” Reena murmured.

           
“And I,” said Porelle, though a
trifle dubiously.

           
“Thank you,” said Gerat. “Now it is
late and I have kept you from the dining hall long enough. Let me delay you no
further.”

           
“Do you not join?” asked Reena. “I
should like to discuss those lines concerning his blindness.”

           
“In a little while,” promised Gerat
with a gentle smile. “For the moment I should like to be alone to think on
everything you have said.”

           
Reena nodded and rose with the
others, leaving the soft-lit room where the Paramount Sister sat, her features
composed.

           
Only when she was alone did Gerat
allow some measure of her own doubts to show. She stood, crossing to a carved
oak door that opened on to a narrow spiral stairway winding steeply up to the
roof of the tower. She shivered as she stepped out into the night and the wind
struck her, sending her long hair in a streaming pennant behind her as she
faced into it, setting her hands on the chilled stone of the surrounding wall
to stare out across the rooftops of Estrevan. She dismissed the cold,
instinctively adjusting her mind so that her body refused to recognize its
bite, letting her gaze wander from the star-scattered panoply above to the
kaleidoscope of twinkling lights that shone serene as grounded stars from the
streets of the Sacred City.

           
If only, she thought, the Text were
clearer. I have read it and reread it, and I have studied every word Galina
wrote, yet still I can only guess. If only I were sure. Can I guide properly
when so much of my advice is based on surmise? Or is that what Kyrie intended?
To advise without shaping our decisions for us. If so, 1 pray that what I do is
right.

           
She sighed and turned from her
contemplation of the City, returning to the warmth of the room, where she
banked the fire before making her way to the dining hall and the questions she
knew would await her there.

           
“ME? Why me? What do I know of such
things?” Kedryn’s voice was tinged with alarm, and a hint of bitterness. Bedyr
studied him, pain in his brown eyes as he saw the bandage that encircled his
son’s face, knowing that within the dark world the young man now inhabited fear
must be a constant companion: so far neither the blue-robed Sister Hospitaler
seated beside Kedryn nor those of King Darr’s entourage had found a cure for
his blindness, and in that, at least, Ashar’s Messenger had won a victory. He
glanced at Wynett, seeing his own pain reflected in her blue eyes, wondering if
the latest potions with which the young Sister had steeped the bandage might
prove effective, not sure whether to go on or leave Kedryn to his brooding. He
frowned a question and Wynett ducked the wheaten glory of her hair in
agreement, urging him to continue.

           
“Because you slew their leader,” he
said gently, “and it appears that only the man who defeated their hef-Ulan may
be accepted as spokesman for the Kingdoms.”

           
“Spokesman!” Kedryn spat the word,
his hands clenching into fists around the stem of the goblet he clutched as
though he sought to crush the receptacle. “I suppose I am good for little
else.”

           
“There is much for which you are
good,” Wynett said softly. “Is this not an opportunity?”

           
“How so?” Kedryn’s head turned as he
spoke, as though the absence of vision imparted by the ensorcelled sword
affected his hearing too. “They will laugh at a blind man. And what can I say
to them? I am—was,” he corrected bitterly, “—a warrior, not a diplomat.”

           
“You are the warrior who slew Niloc
Yarrum,” Wynett responded, her voice even, devoid of hurtful pity, “and they
know that. They respect you for it, no matter the wounds you sustained and they
will listen to you. You have an opportunity to do much good.”

           
Kedryn grunted doubtfully and swung
his sightless head in Bedyr’s direction.

           
“How say you, Father?”

           
“Wynett is right,” said the Lord of
Tamur. “We have a unique opportunity to forge a lasting peace with the forest
folk, and I believe that chance hinges on you.”

           
“The prophecy again?” Kedryn
murmured.

           
“Perhaps,” Bedyr nodded. “At the
very least, surely the Lady must look with favor on the one who brings peace
betwixt the Kingdoms and the Beltrevan.”

           
“And shall there be another price to
pay?” his son demanded. “Shall I give up some other part of myself to secure
another victory?”

           
Bedyr opened his mouth to speak, but
Wynett raised a hand, urging him to silence. “Look into your soul, Kedryn,” she
advised. “You will find the answers there.”

           
“I need an answer to this damnable
affliction,” he retorted. “Let the Lady restore my sight and I’ll gladly serve
her.”

           
“She will give you back your eyes,”
Wynett promised with complete confidence, “I have no doubt of that. Mayhap you
must travel to Estrevan, but there
will
be a cure.”

           
Kedryn let go the goblet and raised
his hands to his head, sinking fingers into long brown hair as he sighed, his
mouth downtumed.

           
“Forgive me, Wynett; Father. This cursed
darkness renders me irritable. Let me think on it. Leave me alone for a while.”

           
“Very well.” Bedyr rose, tall and
broad-shouldered, his sternly handsome features creased with a pity he knew his
son would not welcome. In that, as in appearance, they were alike: Tamurin were
proud; their suffering was done in silence, privately.

           
Wynett came with him as he quit the
chamber, stepping out into the stone-flagged corridor that tunneled through the
depths of High Fort, sighing as the door closed.

           
“There will be a cure,” she said
fiercely. “There must be. I cannot believe the Lady intends him to remain
blind.”

           
Bedyr studied her lovely face,
hearing in her voice more than he thought she was prepared to acknowledge. He
had watched them since the fighting ended with growing concern, for he could
see his son falling in love with the youthful Sister; and see in Wynett’s
responses a reciprocated affection that she could not admit for her vows of
celibacy. It was more than a dependency on the Sister, even though her
ministrations had inevitably thrown them closer together than would have been
possible had Kedryn soldierly duties to attend; and on Wynett’s part he could
see in her eyes, hear in her voice, a burgeoning feeling that must eventually
conflict with her promises to the Sisterhood. She was a dedicated hospitaler,
sworn since she had chosen to forgo her rank as King Darr’s daughter to the way
of the Lady; yet to maintain that promise she must remain celibate, or lose her
healing talent. He was uncertain how it all might end, and afraid that his son
might suffer a hurt as great as blindness in result.

           
“Once matters here are settled he
must go to Estrevan,” he said, not voicing the certainty that Kedryn would want
her to accompany him.

           
“Aye,” Wynett nodded. “In Estrevan
they must surely find a cure.”

           
“I pray so,” Bedyr murmured.

           
While they spoke Kedryn sat in
silence and darkness, fighting the fear that was never far from the surface.
Save, perhaps, when Wynett was with him and he could feel her hands in his or
smell the sun-scent of her hair. He would not admit it to anyone, but it was
always there like some lurking beast prowling about the edges of his
consciousness, seeking to rend his mind and drive it into the escape of
madness. He hardly dared admit it to himself, for to do so would be to
acknowledge that he was blind forever, and so he forced himself to cope as best
he could. To do as much as he was able alone, without assistance. But this—how
could he face the warlords of the defeated Horde and argue terms? A blind man?

           
“Lady,” he moaned, “how much more do
you ask of me?”

           
He stretched out a hand until he
found the table beside him, then spidered his fingers across the smoothly
polished surface until they touched the wine jug. Lifting it carefully, he filled
his goblet, cursing as the beverage overflowed, wetting his hand. He brought
the vintage to his lips and drank, and as he did so a random thought flitted
across his mind. Sister Grania had enjoyed this wine and Grania had given her
life to the defeating of Ashar. She had used her power to speed the
Vashti
north up to the Idre and then,
even though she knew that disruption of the natural order had weakened her
greatly, she had pitted herself against the glamour of the Messenger. And died
as the price of victory. She had done that unquestioningly, and in the moment
of her dying he had heard her voice speak inside his head. Now it seemed she
spoke again, not in words he might transcribe or repeat, but in emotions, in
certainties, and he knew suddenly what he must do.

           
He raised the goblet in a toast and
set it aside, his leather breeks rustling as he rose and walked warily across
the room, halting when his outthrust hands touched the cool stone of the wall.
He moved sideways until he found the door. Opened it and stepped into the
corridor.

           
“Prince Kedryn!”

           
The guard stationed there came
close, a hand cupping Kedryn’s elbow.

           
“Take me to my father,” he
commanded, and allowed the man to lead him slowly along the echoing corridor,
once again doing his best to memorize the route.

           
Bedyr was found in the chamber
Rycol, Chatelain of High Fort, had set aside for the planning of strategy. It
was a wide, low-ceilinged room, heated against the mounting chill by a great
hearth, the fire there augmenting the flambeaux that burned along the walls.
Ancient weapons decorated the stones and at the center was a long, oaken table
surrounded by high-backed chairs of carved, dark wood. King Darr sat at the
head, his pale, thinning hair bound by a simple coronet, his kindly features
lined with sympathy as Kedryn entered. To his left, the shield position a mark
of deference to his status as commander of the fort, sat the hawk-faced Rycol,
to his right, Bedyr. Jarl, Lord of Kesh, occupied the seat to Bedyr’s right,
his oiled black hair and hooked nose a contrast to the softly handsome features
of the goldenhaired Lord of Ust-Galich, Hattim Sethiyan, who faced him across
the table. It was Jari who rose bowlegged to drag back a seat and murmur,
“Here, Kedryn, at my side.”

           
“Thank you, my Lord,” Kedryn
responded, easing himself down. “Are all assembled?”

           
“We are,” confirmed the king, “and
we thank you for your presence, Prince of Tamur.”

           
“Brannoc?” Kedryn asked. “Is he
here?”

           
“The outlaw? What need have we of
him?” demanded Hattim.

           
Kedryn held his temper in check with
some difficulty as he heard the insolence in the Galichian’s voice. There was
no love lost between them since Kedryn had defeated Hattim in the duel that had
forced the ruler of the southernmost kingdom to commit to the expedition
against the Horde, and while he was prepared to forget the affair, Hattim was
ever mindful of his embarrassment.

           
“He knows the forest folk better
than any present,” Kedryn said.

           
“And proved himself a most valuable
ally in the siege,” added

           
Rycol, his own initial animosity
toward the half-breed wolf s-head long forgotten.

           
“Send for him,” Darr ordered the
soldier who had escorted Kedryn.

           
“Knowing the forest folk seems to me
of little moment,” Hattim grunted, his tone piqued. “We know we have beaten
them. What further knowledge do we require?”

           
“If I am to discuss peace terms with
them, my Lord, I must understand them,” Kedryn answered evenly.

           
“Discuss? Peace terms?” Hattim
laughed. “We are the victors—we dictate and they accede. Or we ride into the
Beltrevan and wipe them out.”

           
“To what end?” asked Kedryn,
carefully modulating his tone. “We should lose men in such a venture and have
no hope of destroying them all. That way would build nothing but resentment
that would fester until some new chieftain should rise to form the
Confederation afresh. Sooner than commit the Kingdoms to endless war, I would
argue for peace.”

           
“There speaks the voice of reason,”
King Darr remarked admiringly.

           
“Will they listen?” asked Jarl, his
own voice dubious.

           
“Brannoc can best advise us on
that,” Kedryn pointed out.

           
“Enough lives have been lost
already,” said Bedyr. “If Kedryn sees a way to bring a lasting peace, I say we
listen.”

           
“Tamur has two voices, the one
echoing the other.” Rancor put an edge to Hattim’s words. “I say we strike
while we have our full force in one place and end the threat of the Beltrevan
forever.”

           
“How long do you think such a
campaign might last, Hattim?” Bedyr demanded. “Corwyn built the forts to hold
the woodlanders out because that was the only way he saw to end the conflict.
We have seen the danger of that bottling—had Kedryn not slain the hef-Ulan the
Horde would likely have overrun us. If we go into the Beltrevan we can count on
years of warfare. And I, for one, would like to see my home again: I say we
listen to my son’s proposals.”

           
“Our Lord of Tamur speaks with
reason,” agreed Darr. “I would not see the Kingdoms in jeopardy, but I would
mightily like to see Andurel again.”

           
Hattim snorted, but before he was
able to bring forth a fresh argument Jarl said, “For all Lord Rycol’s
hospitality I cannot say I enjoy these northern climes, and the horses of Kesh
will soon stand in need of winter forage. I am not sure we
can
sustain a prolonged campaign in the Beltrevan.”

           
“Winters are harsh here,” murmured
Rycol, “and long. If Prince Kedryn has a way to bring about some acceptable and
binding peace, I say we hear him out.”

           
“That has my vote,” nodded Jarl.
“Providing the terms
are
binding.”