Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (40 page)

           
“I would,” she said simply, her calm
impressive.

           
“I salute you!” Cord raised a bone
mug in toast, the beer leaving a frothy whiteness on his beard that he wiped
away with the back of one huge hand. “But to do this you must know the name of
the one you seek. Do you?”

           
Kedryn shook his head.

           
“He was Borsus,” said Cord. “He
brought the Messenger to us as Kalar and Wyll brought you. But there was
something else—wait. ”

           
He rose, quitting the inner sanctum
of the lodge and the waiting trio heard a muttered conversation before he returned,
a frown on his broad features.

           
“He had a woman.” The Ulan’s voice
was low and troubled, as though he doubted the wisdom of imparting this
information. “Her name was Sulya. She wore another’s torque and it is said the
Messenger gave her to Borsus. Then took her life to put the glamour in Borsus’s
blade. I do not know what weight this knowledge may carry, but it is
something.”

           
“Then you will aid us?” Kedryn
asked.

           
Cord nodded ponderously. “Because
you are the hef-Alador,” he said slowly, “and because of that I am Ulan of the
Drott. And because I hope—if you survive—that you will give me a mare to match
my stallion.”

           
“Done!” said Kedryn, without
hesitation.

           
“That is not the whole of it.” Cord
raised a hand. “I want your word, spoken before your champion that he may carry
it back, that if you die here your promises to me will be honored. That the
terms we agreed in your fort will remain. And that the Kingdoms will seek no
revenge.”

           
Kedryn placed a hand over his heart,
staring at the Drott. “As hef-Alador and as Prince of Tamur, I give you my
word, Cord. Whatever may transpire here you shall have your horses, and there
will be no gainsaying the accords we made at High Fort.”

           
“And you?” the dark face turned to
Tepshen Lahl. “You will carry this word if need be?”

           
“I will,” the kyo promised.

           
“Then I will do what I can to aid
you,” the Ulan said. “It is a thing for the shamans, but I will tell them to
prepare you and to open the way.”

           
Kedryn looked to Wynett. “You are
sure of this? I should not blame you were you to dissent.”

           
She answered his gaze with firm,
fond eyes and said, “I am sure.”

           
Kedryn squeezed her hand, the love
he felt tingeing his decision with fear. “So be it,” he announced. “When may it
be done?”

           
“I will summon the shamans now,”
Cord promised.

           
The walls of Caitin Hold were built
to withstand more than siege and even in the depths of such a wolfish winter as
now gripped Tamur they held out the worst of the cold. Fires blazed in hearths
and braziers stood strategically, giving the halls and chambers and corridors
of the keep an air of cheerful comfort.

           
It was not a feeling shared by Bedyr
Caitin as he lounged on the cushion-strewn bay of an embrasured window, idly
watching the activity in the courtyard below. Grooms exercised that spring’s
foals there, turning the eager young horses from the comfort of the stables,
watched by the mares, to gambol on the hard-packed snow. They were sturdy youngsters
for all their gangling legs, the hardiness of the indigenous Tamurin stock
mingled with Keshi bloodlines to combine endurance and speed, and they frisked
and raced with the carefree joy of all young things. They reminded Bedyr of his
son.

           
He turned to look toward his wife,
feeling as he always did that surge of pleasure as he studied her profile, bent
over a sampler. Yrla’s raven hair was unbound, falling smoothly over the
shoulders of her russet gown, gleaming in the light of the sun that shone
through the frost-rimed glass and the glow of the fire that heated the chamber.
Her hands were deft on the needlework, a tiny frown of concentration creasing
her unblemished brow. It was odd to think that she approached her middle years,
for time had marked her little, and while he knew that gray showed more
prominently in his own thick, brown hair, hers remained as he remembered it
from the first time he had seen her, stepping from the wagon in the Morfah
Pass, come from Estrevan to meet her destiny. He had loved her on the instant,
scarcely daring to hope she might return that love; overjoyed when the
attraction proved mutual. He had thought his life must approach its peak when
she agreed to marry him, and known it did when she presented him with a son. That
there had been no more children had mattered little to either of them, for
their delight in Kedryn was unalloyed, their pleasure in one another a source
of constant delight.

           
He felt a need to touch her, to
reassure himself with physical contact, and slid from the embrasure to cross to
where she sat, setting a gentle hand on her shoulder.

           
Yrla smiled at the contact, turning
her head to press a smooth cheek against his hand.

           
“You are worried.”

           
She set the frame of her needlework
aside, shifting in the high-backed chair to look up at her husband. He was so
handsome, this man she had chosen, tall and straight, the gray strands that
showed in his dark hair serving only to lend him an air of dignity that was
reinforced by the hawkish set of his features, the lines marking his tanned
skin those of character rather than advancing years. She took his hands so that
he stood before her, clad in simple shirt of thick linen, creamy, and plain
brown breeks, the dirk that was the emblem of all Tamurin warriors sheathed on
his belt. She looked into his eyes, seeing the hazel clouded as he smiled wryly
and nodded.

           
“It has not been that long. And
Tepshen rides with him. And the squadron.”

           
“I know.” Bedyr hooked a seat close
and settled himself in it, still holding her hands, his thumbs moving absently
to stroke the smooth flesh. “But I still fret.”

           
“Inaction was never your strongest
suit,” she murmured, “but there is nothing we can do save wait. ”

           
“Would I had been able to ride with
them,” he frowned.

           
“Leaving me alone again?” Yrla’s
coquettish smile stole years, making her girlish. “Do you tire of me so
swiftly?”

           
Bedyr laughed, shaking his head. “I
shall never tire of you, my love. But ...”

           
“But you had no other choice,” she
interposed. “You have a kingdom to govern and Kedryn is a man now.”

           
“A blind man,” he sighed.

           
“Aye, but not for long if Lavia
spoke aright.”

           
“Even so, he must enter the
Beltrevan.” Bedyr stretched back in his chair, craning his neck to study the
vaulting of the ceiling. “And for all the promises of peace made at High Fort I
cannot entirely trust the forest folk.”

           
“He is the hef-Alador,” she
murmured, “and they will respect that. Besides, do you think Tepshen would
allow harm to come to him?”

           
“Not whilst he lives,” Bedyr
answered, “but Tepshen cannot go with him into the netherworld.”

           
“Nor could you,” she said. “Only
Wynett may accompany him there, and then they will be protected by the
talismans.”

           
Bedyr nodded, smiling fondly. “Would
that I had your calm; your trust.”

           
“I was Estrevan-trained,” Yrla
reminded him, “and I believe the Lady watches over him. She must if he is the
Chosen One.”

           
“Aye,” Bedyr allowed, “but does the
Lady’s strength extend into the forests? The Beltrevan was ever the domain of
Ashar.”

           
“I think that power was weakened by
the Horde’s defeat,” she said thoughtfully. “The strength of gods depends to
large extent on the belief of men, and Kedryn slew Ashar’s chosen champion. No
sign was found of the Messenger, and the woodsfolk accepted peace. That, I am
confident, must sap the potency of their god.”

           
“But Lavia—Estrevan—is confident
the Messenger lives, still a threat,” Bedyr argued.

           
“And that is another reason Kedryn
had to go,” Yrla countered. “There is no other way, and so it is fruitless to
fret over that which is inevitable.”

           
Bedyr ducked his head in agreement,
loosing her hands that he might rise and go to the hearth, where a copper jug
seethed gently, the wine it held giving off an aromatic steam, redolent of lush
grapes, cinnamon and spices. He took the dipper and filled two plain clay mugs,
passing one to his wife, raising the other to his lips.

           
“Where is the Messenger?” he queried
rhetorically.

           
“I do not know.” Yrla sipped and
shrugged. “Lavia offers no insight, and there is no word from Estrevan.”

           
“Nor will be,” Bedyr grunted,
looking to the window. “This winter has closed the
Morfah
Pass
, and the plains beyond must be ice-bound. I
wonder sometimes if it had not been wiser of Kyrie to site her city in some
more accessible location.”

           
“Too easy,” Yrla said. “Too easy to
reach, too easy to influence. Those who would study the way of the Lady must
make an effort to reach the city, and those who would suborn Estrevan’s
influence must find it hard.”

           
“I know,” Bedyr grinned ruefully. “I
fret, and I cannot help it.”

           
“What news of Hattim’s army?” she
asked, seeking to divert his troubled mind.

           
“At last report it marched south,”
he replied. “Hattim, as you know, went ahead down the Idre. He is likely at
Andurel now, and plying his suit. The army had reached Arvenna when last I
heard, but reports are slow in this wolf-winter. ”

           
“Will Darr agree—should Ashrivelle
accept?” Yrla wondered.

           
“Darr spoke of Kedryn as a
prospective bridegroom,” said Bedyr, “but Hattim had already found favor in
Ashrivelle’s eyes; and he is there. As to Darr’s agreeing—he will have little
choice, I think, though adjustment will be required.”

           
“Hattim must relinquish one throne,”
Yrla nodded. “But which?”

           
“He wants the High Throne.” The
frown returned to Bedyr’s brow and the comers of his mouth descended in a
disapproving curve. “A council will be needed to decide the matter.”

           
“Would Hattim make so bad a king?”
asked Yrla.

           
“He is vain and ambitious,” Bedyr
shrugged, pouring more wine. “Were he to renounce the marriage-right it would
be no great problem, but the High Throne cannot stand empty and Darr has no
other heir, save Wynett.”

           
“And Wynett is of Estrevan,” said
Yrla, softly, wonderingly. “Unless ...”

           
“You think she may renounce her
vows?” Bedyr shook his head, his voice dubious. “She knows of Kedryn’s love—and
I know she reciprocates in some measure, at least—but she is a woman of great
will and her dream was always to serve the Lady. ” “Even so, they share so
much,” said Yrla, unconsciously echoing the thought that had passed through the
mind of Tepshen Lahl. “Hardship, danger—these things might well fan the flames
of that attraction. And it is not unknown for one dedicated to Estrevan to
change her mind.”

           
“Thank the Lady,” smiled Bedyr,
touching her cheek. “But you had not taken your final vows.”

           
“Even had I, you would have changed
my mind,” Yrla responded, turning her face into his hand that she might brush
his palm with her lips. “And for all the emphasis Estrevan places on free will,
there is a pattern to these things.”

           
“Do you say that Kedryn and Wynett
are brought together by some design of the Lady’s?” Bedyr asked, his voice
thoughtful now.

           
“Mayhap,” said Yrla, slowly, as if
she voiced thoughts gradually shaped and not yet defined clearly, “I do not
know. I do not believe Lavia knows, or Estrevan. But think on it—we are agreed
that Kedryn
is
the Chosen One, the
only one able to defeat the Messenger—wherever he may be now—and Wynett is the
only one able to grant him sight, albeit temporary. Had they traveled to
Estrevan I think Wynett’s determination to serve the Lady as a Hospitaler would
have been reinforced, but events guided her away. Was it not thus with me? I
intended to remain in the city until Galina showed me the Text, and then—of my
own free will—I chose to travel east. And met you. And wed you. And gave birth
to Kedryn. Now Wynett goes not to Estrevan, but with Kedryn—of her own choice,
mark you—and perhaps out of that comes a resolution.”

           
“Lavia intimated that Wynett was
necessary to Kedryn’s regaining sight,” Bedyr said, slowly as his wife, “but I
had assumed once that was achieved she would return to her analeptic duties.”

           
“Maybe she will,” nodded Yrla, “but
do you not see the possible shape of a pattern? Should Wynett find her love for
Kedryn—and I assure you it is there—stronger than her devotion to Estrevan, the
Sisterhood would not object and she would be free to marry him. Thus presenting
Darr with an alternative heir to the High Throne. Then Hattim could carry
Ashrivelle off to Ust- Galich whilst Kedryn and Wynett stood ready to occupy
the
White
Palace
on Darr’s death.”

           
“Do you think the Lady plans it this
way?” Bedyr asked wonderingly,

           
“I do not know,” Yrla told him, “but
remember my own talent was similar to poor Grania’s: that of foretelling. And
the Lady guards these Kingdoms, and her vision was and is far deeper than ours.
”

           
“My own Lady,” Bedyr raised his mug
to his wife, marveling at her ability to still surprise him, “I toast you.”

           
Yrla smiled serenely, setting down
her mug to resume her embroidery. “I may well be wrong,” she murmured, “but
there are possibilities.”

           
“Hattim would take it ill,” Bedyr
said quietly, enjoying the thought, “but it would resolve the problem of the
succession.”

           
“Indeed,” said Yrla. “Now will you
cease your fretting?”

           
Bedyr nodded, smiling, and settled
again in the chair, stretching his long legs toward the fire, content to watch
his wife as he contemplated the potential of her suggestion.

           
They sat like that as the afternoon
extended toward evening, conversing idly, happy in one another’s company,
Bedyr’s doubts stilled, at least for a while.

           
As the sun touched the western
ramparts of the hold, painting the cold, gray stone with fire, that calm ended.

           
A knocking rang loud on the
chamber’s door, something in its clamor starting Bedyr from his tranquillity so
that he was on his feet, left hand clamping instinctively on the sheath of his
dirk even as he called permission to enter. Yrla, too, felt it, setting down
her sampler as she turned toward the door.