Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (38 page)

           
The strumming of the balurs faded; a
dying note from the rebecs hung briefly on the air. Ashrivelle rose, blond and
beautiful in gown of aquamarine, a golden coronet in her hair. “My Lord,” she
said, her smile incandescent, “I accept your pledge, and thank you for it. And
should my father agree, I do most happily accept your suit.”

           
Both turned then to face Darr, and
the king knew that every eye in the hall was on him. I should feel happy, he
thought. My daughter loves the man: she radiates happiness and I should find
pleasure in that. But I do not, and if I could, I would halt this here. But I
cannot: I must take the path I feel safest for the future of these fragile
kingdoms.

           
He rose in turn, looking first to
Ashrivelle, then to Hattim, then out over the watching, waiting faces.

           
“I do agree,” he announced. “Let it
be known that my daughter, the Princess Ashrivelle, is now betrothed to the
Lord Hattim of Ust-Galich. And may the Lady bless their union.”

           
He took Ashrivelle’s hand and
Hattim’s, bringing them together across his chest, placing his own upon them as
they joined, oddly aware that the Galichian wore as many rings as his
bride-to-be.

           
“Thank you,” murmured Hattim.

           
“Father,” Ashrivelle beamed, “I am
so happy.”

           
Mejas Celeruna was the first to
cheer, but only by an instant, his shout drowned by the uproar from the
Galichian retinue, that by the hubbub that rattled throughout the hall. Goblets
were raised in toasts; dagger hilts thudded on tabletops; servants beat
platters; and the musicians promptly struck a lively tune.

           
“There are things we must discuss,”
Darr murmured through the shouting.

           
“A dowry is of no importance,”
Hattim smiled.

           
“Not that,” the king replied. “There
are certain . . . problems that we must resolve.”

           
“The succession?” Hattim’s smile was
guileless, so innocent that Darr knew instantly he had pondered this and found
his own solutions. “I shall be guided entirely by you, Darr.”

           
“Later,” said the king. “We shall
talk later.”

           
“As you wish,” Hattim agreed easily.

           
“A kiss!” Celeruna bellowed, face
flushed by wine and excitement. “A kiss to seal this joyous compact!”

           
Darr held his smile with an effort
as he motioned for a servant to draw back his chair and watched as Hattim
Sethiyan took Ashrivelle in his arms and kissed her soundly. He maintained the
expression throughout the remainder of the meal, accepting the congratulations
of all who presented themselves, seeing in many eyes the same doubts he held,
knowing that he would shortly be bombarded with objections. And knowing that he
must still them as he stilled his own: for the sake of the Three Kingdoms.

           
He endured the spontaneous
celebration until the night grew old and it seemed politically acceptable he
suggest they retire. Ashrivelle argued, but allowed herself to be persuaded by
Hattim, who took her arm to escort her to her chambers. After she was gone in
he turned to Darr.

           
“When would you discuss these
matters?” he asked, still polite.

           
“On the morrow, I think,” the king
responded.

           
“As you command,” Hattim nodded. “At
what hour?”

           
“I shall send word when I am ready.”
Darr could not resist that small reminder of authority, but it went
uncontested, running smooth as oil over Hattim’s satisfaction.

           
“Of course,” agreed the Galichian.
“I shall await your summons.”

           
Darr nodded and bade the man
good-night.

           
“Sleep well,” beamed Hattim.

           
Darr doubted that he would.

           
Hattim had no such doubts, nor cared
if he did not. It had gone far smoother than he had hoped, for he had been
unable to prevent himself wondering if the king might not trump up some
argument despite all Taws’s reassurances, knowing Darr to be a wily man and
well-versed in the art of diplomacy. But it had gone exactly as the mage had
prophesied, and Hattim’s spirits swelled to elation as he dismissed his retinue
and the servants with the final request that Sister Thera be sent for,
explaining that he was so excited he would require a sleeping draft were he to
sleep well enough to be ready for the royal summons.

           
Inside his quarters he filled a
goblet with wine and presented the draft to his reflection, admiring himself as
he imagined the tripartite crown upon his brow, the medallion about his neck.

           
He turned as the door hissed open
and the woman Taws had become appeared. She—or he, Hattim could not make up his
mind how he thought of the sorcerer—set down the satchel of unneeded curatives
and studied the Lord of Ust-Galich.

           
“I assume it went well?”

           
“As you told me it would.” Hattim
turned from the mirror, finding it far easier to face the mage in this form.
“Just as you told me it would.”

           
“Did you doubt?” Taws asked. “What
choice was there for Darr? He cannot risk offending you.”

           
“He spoke of problems,” Hattim
remarked. “That he will discuss on the morrow.”

           
“He will seek to deny you the
succession,” said Taws. “Or ask that you relinquish Ust-Galich. If the latter,
he will seek to subvert your choice of regent in favor of his own.”

           
“And how should I respond?” Hattim
wondered.

           
“Agree,” said Taws. “No matter what
conditions he may set, you will agree. Let him stipulate all the clauses he
wishes—they will make no difference.”

           
He paused, and Hattim saw the face
of Sister Thera contort, the muscles of the neck stiffening, the eyes widening
and rolling until white showed, the female form shuddering beneath its blue
robe. Then a strangled sigh escaped the wide-stretched lips and they smiled
again, the voice that came from them husky, as if possessor and natural owner
fought for control.

           
“I have it,” Taws declared. “She
fought me then, for she sees the way of it, but her knowledge is mine now. What
protocols appertain?”

           
“Those we have discussed,” Hattim
said, “though I have dispensed with a lengthy courtship—thanks to you.”

           
The figure of the Sister shook its
head impatiently. “No! How may Darr prevaricate?” Taws asked.

           
Hattim shrugged. “It is customary
for the liege lords of Tamur and Kesh to attend, and that may take time.” He
gasped, nodding.

           
“And Darr may seek their advice in
the matter of the succession. Yes! Of course.”

           
“Of course,” said Taws. “And custom
dictates you may not wed Ashrivelle until they attend.”

           
“Aye,” said Hattim, an expression of
lupine triumph creasing his lips. “But what matter? Kill Darr before they
arrive and I’ll greet them from the High Throne.”

           
“No,” said the mage, freezing the
triumphant smile on the Galichian’s face, “you will await their arrival. As I
have told you, you will agree to all Darr’s terms.”

           
“And have them gainsay me?”

           
The mage laughed at the chagrin on
the man’s face. Could he see no further than that? Were all these creatures so
shortsighted?

           
“They will find a man humble beyond
their belief,” he said. “A man willing to relinquish his kingdom or the High
Throne for love of the princess. That he is also a man with an army camped at
the gates of the city is by the way—it can scarcely be considered your fault
that the forces of Ust-Galich, marching south from their loyal duty, wish to
see their lord celebrate his wedding. They will witness the wedding, and after
that Darr will die. Then you will become king! And the lords of Kesh and Tamur
will find themselves prisoners.”

           
Hattim paled somewhat: “And
their
armies? Do you believe they will
stand idly by whilst their lords are imprisoned?”

           
“Given choice between that and the
death of their lords, aye,” said Taws. “Do you not see it? We bait a double
trap—first your wedding for those most able to oppose you, and then their
imprisonment for Kedryn Caitin.”

           
Hattim’s color returned and he began
to smile again. “I see it,” he murmured. “With his parents’ lives at stake,
Kedryn will doubtless come seeking to free them.”

           
“Indeed,” said Taws, “and when he
does, we have him.”

           
Hattim began to laugh then, the
sound triumphant.

           
When Darr sent for him late in the
morning of the following day, he appeared, as Taws had ordered, suitably
humble. He sat quietly as the king outlined the potential problems of an extant
ruler marrying his daughter, nodding his agreement as the grayhaired man suggested
the possible objections of Tamur and Kesh, indicating modestly that he would
accept the king’s decision in the matter.

           
“Were you a son of Ust-Galich there
would be no problem,” said Darr, surprised—and suspicious—at Hattim’s untypical
acquiescence. “Had I another son or daughter of marriageable age there would be
no problem.”

           
“Indeed,” murmured the Galichian,
laughing inwardly at the older man’s discomfort, “and how may we resolve this
dilemma?”

           
“I would suggest,” Darr said, toying
a trifle nervously with the medallion about his neck, “that you should
relinquish Ust-Galich. Should Ashrivelle forsake the
White
Palace
, the throne must stand empty on my death.
That cannot be, so it must fall to you to assume that seat by her side. Tamur
and Kesh must, of course, agree to this, but with the royal line ended at
Ashrivelle, I cannot foresee their refusal.”

           
“And to rule both Andurel and
Ust-Galich would be unthinkable,” said Hattim, unctuously.

           
“Quite,” Darr agreed, his agitation
growing at Hattim’s continued assent.

           
“So I must renounce all claim,”
Hattim smiled.

           
“But there can be no suggestion of
patronage,” said the king. “I intend no slur, but the man who succeeds you must
not be one of your choice, lest folk speak of puppets. Therefore, I would ask
that you abide by the decision of the lords in council—let Tamur and Kesh, and
me, choose the one who shall rule Ust-Galich in your stead.”

           
“As you will it,” nodded Hattim,
further surprising Darr. “The suggestion is eminently sensible.”

           
“You have no objection?” Darr asked,
finding it difficult to keep the disbelief he felt out of his voice.

           
“None,” Hattim confirmed equably. “I
shall willingly abide by whatever ruling my fellow lords may reach.”

           
“Then,” said Darr, wondering why he
felt no relief at this seemingly amicable compact, “we have little else to
discuss, save the details of the wedding itself. ”

           
Hattim smiled and nodded, stroking
idly at his earring as if he had not a care in the world.

           
When he was gone Darr sent for
Corradon and learned that the scouts had been dispatched, ordered to observe
the Galichian army and return without making contact. The king then composed
messages for Bedyr Caitin and Jarl of Kesh, advising them of Ashrivelle’s
betrothal and requesting their presence in Andurel with retinues suitable to a
wedding celebration. He added the suggestion that neither lord make undue
haste, and of Bedyr inquired as to Kedryn’s whereabouts. There seemed little
more he could do, save wait.

           
*
* *

           
Tepshen Lahl shared neither the trust
Kedryn and Wynett showed in the barbarians’ word nor their faith in the Lady.
He knew the forest folk as savage enemies and the Lady as a vague concept too
much given to forgiveness and good will. Consequently he rode with hand on
sword hilt as the two woodsfolk trotted before him, his cold, dark eyes never
leaving their backs lest they turn to reveal their true natures. At night he
slept with the blade cradled in his arms, lightly as a cat, his ears attuned to
sound of movement for fear the warriors should seek to flee or slit sleeping
throats.