Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (44 page)

           
“Such doings,” husked Borsus,
“belong to the world of men. The world of the living. We are the dead here.”

           
“You do not find peace here,” Kedryn
said, “and in the world of men the power of Ashar is weakened. There is peace
between the forest folk and the Kingdoms. Give me back my sight and I shall
seek out Taws and slay him, and you will be revenged.”

           
“You promise much,” the cadaver
murmured drily, “and I lost much. Perhaps I will make a bargain with you.”

           
“What?” asked Kedryn.

           
Beyond the ghastly mummy the
advancing figures halted, closer now, but momentarily unmoving.

           
“I lost my woman,” Borsus said.
“Give me yours and I will give you back your sight.”

           
“No,” Kedryn replied without
hesitation.

           
“Then you shall remain here,” said
Borsus. “Give her to me and you shall return, sighted again.”

           
“I will not,” Kedryn said.

           
Wynett stepped past him then, her
face pale in the opalescent light of the cavern, set in grave lines, a hand
clasped firmly about her talisman.

           
“If I remain, you will return his
sight?” she demanded. “And send him safely back to the world of the living?”

           
“I will,” Borsus promised.

           
“No!” Kedryn shouted.

           
Woman and corpse ignored him. Borsus
said, “If you will stay and be my woman, I will do this.”

           
Kedryn reached out, fastening firm
hands on Wynett’s shoulders, thrusting her back. “This cannot be!” he yelled.
“/ will not agree to this! I had rather remain blind than condemn you to this
place.”

           
Wynett struggled in his grip, tears
in her eyes, though her jaw was set firm and fierce determination blazed in her
blue eyes, hot as the light that pulsed, unnoticed, from the two talismans.

           
“You are the Chosen One,” she said,
fighting to break loose, “and you have a duty, a destiny that you must fulfill.
You
must
regain your sight.”

           
“It is too great a price,” he
gasped, fighting a fear greater than any he had known. “Your life for my sight?
No! If my destiny demands that, I spurn it. I will not bargain you away. I love
you!”

           
“And I love you,” she said, the
tears welling now, spilling over her cheeks, though her voice remained firm. “I
love you with all my heart, and if I must, I will sacrifice myself, I am not
important—you are.”

           
“I am nothing without you,” he
groaned. “Without you there is nothing for me. I had sooner remain here with
you than live without you.”

           
He clutched her to him, pressing her
to his chest, his arms protective about her, his face haggard as he saw the
unacceptable enormity of the bargain offered. She clung to him, weeping and
shaking her head as he pressed his lips to her hair, her cheeks, her mouth,
turning so that he faced the wormy figure of Borsus again.

           
“I will not accept this bargain,” he
said. “Return Wynett to the living and keep me here.”

           
“No!” Wynett fought free of his
encircling arms, turning herself that she, too, might appeal to the shade of
the warrior. “Do not listen to him! I
will
remain if you will send him back.”

           
“Do you love him so much?” Borsus
asked, wonder in his grating tone.

           
“I do,” she said.

           
“And you,” the cadaver asked of
Kedryn, “would you truly condemn yourself to this netherworld for her sake?”

           
“Aye,” Kedryn answered,
unhesitating, “I would.”

           
“Such love,” Borsus murmured. “Taws
gave Sulya to me with a glamour, but I loved her for all of that. Would that I
had her now; whole. Would that we could love as do you.”

           
He paused, head lowered, so that the
rear of his neck split open, tumbling writhing grubs to the gravel at his feet.
Then, slowly, he raised his awful visage to fasten the wormy sockets on the two
before him.

           
“Go back,” he said hoarsely. “Such a
love deserves to live. Go back sighted, Kedryn Caitin, and take this woman to
you.”

           
He reached out then, savaged arm
extended toward Kedryn’s face, something that might have been a smile
stretching his withered lips as he touched fingers to Kedryn’s eyes.

           
As he did so the light of the
talismans pulsed fiercer, the blue radiance growing until it encompassed the
three figures standing on that bleak shore, surrounding them with its
effulgence. Kedryn held Wynett close, feeling something change within him,
conscious of the watching shades retreating into the fog even as a sense of
well-being filled him. The light grew brighter, driving back the gray shadows
until the three of them stood alone in an enclave of peace. Borsus lowered his
head, a rasping sigh escaping his cankered mouth, and for an instant Kedryn saw
him whole, full-fleshed and smiling through a thicket of beard. Then he was
gone and there was only the light, blue-bright as a summer sky, glad as
Wynett’s eyes.

           
It pulsed faster, filling his vision
until he was blind again and he blinked, aware of tears on his cheeks, aware of
a dully glowing brazier that was red, and of five masked figures hunched within
the confines of a smelly lodge. Aware of Wynett stirring beside him, lifting
her head from where it had fallen against his thigh, raising her face toward
him. Aware that he held her about the shoulders, their hands not touching. And
that he saw her. “Kedryn?” she asked wonderingly.

           
He raised his hands, deliberately
breaking the contact between them. And still he saw her.

           
“I see you,” he said. “I see you and
I love you.”

           
“And I,” she answered, almost
fearfully. “I love you. I cannot gainsay it—I love you, Kedryn.”

           
He took her face between his hands
then, staring into eyes blue as the radiance that still burned in his memory,
but lovelier, for in them he saw the confirmation of her words, the undeniable
promise, and that filled him with a soaring joy greater even than the regaining
of his vision.

           
He bent his head toward her and she
put her hands about his neck, drawing him closer, her lips parting as he kissed
her, the response of her mouth the final testament, and a promise of the
future.

           
The mehdri dispatched to bring word
to Caitin Hold was not privy to King Darr’s wish for procrastination and so
pressed on, as was the custom of his guild, with all speed. Nonetheless, he
found his going slowed by the rigors of winter, the more so the farther he
traveled from Andurel, He proceeded, at first, by river craft, embarking from
the city on a sleek brigantine christened the
Vallanna.
She tacked into a howling north wind that by the time
they reached Rostyth, a mere five days from Andurel, was threatening to shred
the brigantine’s sails. The mehdri stayed on the Idre another three days and
then opted to take his chances traveling overland, disembarking at Lams, where
he collected a horse from the guild stables and struck out for Amtyl. There he
exchanged his near-exhausted animal for a fresh mount and continued on in
stages to Kryst, Borwyth, Cadula and Norren. In the latter town he waited out a
blizzard that gusted down from the Geffyn, closing the roads for five days.
Then, fresh-mounted and equipped with a pack animal, he began the journey to
the foot of the plateau. He was almost frozen by the time he reached Ganthyl,
and spent two days easing the black threat of frostbite from his fingers and
toes before attempting the ascent of the Geffyn. He was gratified to find
sunlight awaiting him when he crested the massif and changed his mount and
packhorse in Wyrren. Four days later he reached Caitin Hold.

           
The Lord Bedyr and the Lady Yrla
were not there. They had received word, the mehdri learned, that their son,
Kedryn, had likely fallen victim to an avalanche while attempting entry into
the Beltrevan through the
Fedyn
Pass
, and had gone to High Fort to seek
information, and the help of the Forest Warden. The mehdri changed animals once
more and started east to High Fort. At least, he thought, as he crossed the
snow-shrouded plain, he would be able to take ship from the fort.

           
As he rode, Bedyr and Yrla were
ensconced with Rycol, chatelain of High Fort, and his wife, the Lady Marga
Cador na Rycol, in a chamber high above the great canyon of the Idre. It was
dark and the shutters were closed over the windows, rattling as the wind
blowing out of the Beltrevan gusted eerily about the tower. A fire blazed in
the hearth, lending the wood-paneled room a cosy air that was not reflected in
the faces of the occupants. Two rangy hunting dogs dozed restlessly by the
flames, the mood of the humans communicating so that the heavy-jawed heads rose
periodically to study them, the thick tails flicking. They were ignored, as was
the wine and sweetmeats the Lady Marga had brought in.

           
She, Yrla and Rycol sat in cushioned
chairs about a carved- legged table. Bedyr could not, and paced the room
restlessly, thumbs hooked in the dagger belt encircling his black leather
tunic. Crescents of shadow hung beneath his eyes and there was a gauntness to
his handsome features that was magnified by the careless combing of his long
brown hair. His wife appeared better composed, though visible to any who knew
her well was the fear that lurked in her seemingly calm gray gaze. She sat with
hands folded in her lap, still against the dark blue of her gown.

           
“He will arrive soon,” Rycol
promised, watching Bedyr turn before the door and retrace his steps. “Word is
out.”

           
“I know.” Bedyr smiled a wan
apology, his tension unrelieved. “You have done all you can, old friend,
but—Lady help me!—I cannot bear this waiting.”

           
“Sit down,” Yrla advised, her voice
weary, “your pacing serves only to disturb us all.”

           
Bedyr sighed and nodded, dropping
heavily into a chair. “Where might he be?” he asked.

           
“Brannoc comes and goes,” answered
Rycol, “and few know exactly where he might be at any given moment. But I have
dispatched riders to every known haunt, and they will have sent word on into
the forests. He will be here ere long.”

           
Bedyr grunted and reached for the
silvered jug of wine, raising it questioningly toward his wife, who shook her
head, before pouring himself a glass. He sipped and set the glass down, staring
moodily into the rich, red liquid.

           
“It has been six days.”

           
“And may be six more,” Yrla said
quietly. “We can do nothing but wait.”

           
“I should have gone with him,” Bedyr
muttered.

           
“And left me to wonder about you
both?” Yrla shook her head, reaching across the table to take his hand. “Gann
Resyth said an avalanche blocked the
Fedyn
Pass.
He had no proof Kedryn fell beneath it.”

           
“But we do not
know,”
Bedyr retorted miserably. “That is the rub of it.”

           
“Is that worse than confirmation?”
she inquired mildly, hiding her own fears. “Would you rather Gann Resyth had
brought us back a body?”

           
“No!” Bedyr’s answer was fierce,
startling the dogs into nervous watchfulness.

           
“Then we still have hope,” Yrla
said. “Hold on to that. Trust in the Lady, for she was surely with them.”

           
“In Ashar’s domain,” Bedyr grunted,
then shook his head, enfolding his wife’s hand between both of his. “Forgive
me, but I am more accustomed to action than this damnable waiting.”

           
“You waited well enough when we sat
in darkness, besieged,” the Lady Marga said mildly.

           
“I had my son with me then, and an
enemy I could face,” retorted Bedyr, sharper than he had intended, paling the
rosy cheeks of the plump little woman. He saw her smooth her grayed hair
nervously and smiled placatingly. “My apologies, Marga. It seems I can do
nothing but offer apologies for my fretting.”

           
Marga smiled, regaining her
composure. “There are none needed, Bedyr. I share your concern—we all do.”

           
“I know,” he said, and climbed to
his feet again, walking to the hearth, where he stroked absently at the two
brindle heads that rose inquiringly at his approach. “Would, though, that I had
word. Of whatever has transpired.”

           
Rycol rose, lean and hawkish, his
stem features set in carefully measured lines, and went to join Bedyr, setting
a hand to his friend’s shoulder.

           
“Is it not as it was then?” he
asked. “We could not see our enemy then, or know what he planned, but we rode
it out.”

           
“Aye, with Kedryn,” came the answer,
Bedyr’s gaze fixed on the flames that danced and fluttered within the confines
of the stone. “And for all the gramaryes of the Messenger we knew our enemy was
physical. We knew we should face warriors in the end. This is different.”

           
“It is another kind of waiting,”
Yrla said. “A kind you men know little of, and we women much. You ride off to
war whilst we wait behind, not knowing if you will return. Or if you will come
back maimed. When you rode into the Beltrevan with Kedryn, did you think of me
then? Did you think how I worried whilst you were gone? Not knowing if I should
see my husband and my son again? Now you share that unknowing, that woman’s
fear.” Bedyr’s head rose slowly from his contemplation of the flames. Yrla’s
voice had been mild, and he knew her well enough to know there was no
condemnation in her words, only truth, but that verity cut deep. He turned
toward her, his eyes moist, and when he spoke, his voice was grave and full of
love.

           
“You are right, my Lady, and I stand
guilty of selfishness. You and our son are the two most treasured things I
have, and I had not seen these matters from your side. I ask again that you
forgive me.

           
Yrla made a dismissive gesture. “We
need not speak of ; forgiveness for there is no accusation or guilt. We deal
with gods I and their ways are unguessable, implacable. We are caught in a web
of too complicated a pattern for our mortal eyes to discern, and we can do
nothing but hold to our faith and maintain our hope. Until such time as we know
beyond doubt that Kedryn is dead, we must believe he lives.” She smiled at her
husband and then said in a brisker tone, “Now, I shall go to the chapel to
pray.”

           
“I will accompany you,” said Marga.

           
Bedyr crossed the room to hold
Yrla’s chair, and when she rose he took her hands, kissing her cheek. “Thank
you, my love,” he murmured. “You give me strength.”

           
Yrla reached to smooth his unkempt
hair. “He cannot be dead,” she said softly. “I do not believe the Lady would
allow that.” Bedyr nodded and watched her go from the chamber, the shorter Marga
bustling beside her. When the door was closed he turned to Rycol.

           
“No word from Fengrif?”

           
“The signal towers report nothing,”
answered the chatelain. “Fengrif has sent out riders from Low Fort, but ...”

           
He spread his hands helplessly and
Bedyr nodded, turning his back as he went to a window and threw open the
shutters. A blast i of winter-chilled air rustled his hair as he leaned against
the embrasure, staring into the darkness. Behind him the dogs j growled softly
at the intrusion of cold and Rycol murmured them to silence, pouring himself a
measure of wine that he sipped as he studied Bedyr’s back, seeing the tense set
of the broad shoulders, wishing there was more he could do than advise
patience; knowing there was nothing else, and that patience was the hardest
thing.

           
Bedyr found no answers in the night,
only the mockery of the 1 wind. The sky was clear, the orb of a full moon
pooling a tracery of pale light over the canyon walls, silvering the restless
surface of the river below, its lapping a counterpoint to the melancholy draft.
Watchfires sparkled crimson on the ramparts and occasionally through the
gusting he heard the chink of mail and the sound of voices, too windblown, too
far away, to be discernible. He envied Yrla the faith that gave her calm, his
own in more material things: the edge of a cared-for blade, the buckling of
sound armor, the strength of a good horse. Lady, he thought as the night air
chilled the tears that pressed from his eyes, forgive my lack of piety and hold
it not against my son. Let him live, I beg you.

           
As if in answer to the silent prayer
he heard a knocking at the door and spun about as the portal opened to reveal a
soldier swathed in heavy winter cloak, his hair windswept.

           
“My Lord Rycol, my Lord Bedyr,” the
man announced, “the Warden of the
Forest
requests an audience.”

           
“Brannoc? Send him in, man.
Quickly!” Rycol barked, startling the warrior so that he jumped back to reveal
the figure waiting behind him.

           
“Brannoc!” Bedyr echoed. “Where have
you been?”

           
“My Lords?” The Warden of the
Forest
stilled the elaborate salute he had been
about to execute, the smile on his tanned features dying stillborn. “What is
wrong?”

           
He entered the room and shucked off
his wolfskin cloak, tossing it carelessly to a chair as his
midnight
eyes studied their faces, the long lashes
rising in surprise. He ran a careless hand through his braided hair, setting
the feathers and shells that decorated the raven locks to fluttering. As was
his custom, he wore motley leather, a Keshi saber hung across his back, a
throwing knife at his hip, another revealed strapped to his left forearm. Rings
of Keshi origin shone on his left thumb and the third finger of his right hand,
and a hoop of silver hung from his left ear, a necklace of leather and beads
about his throat. He wore no badge of office, and to those who did not know him
he would have appeared what he was, and had been: a half-breed wolf’s-head,
part Keshi, part Tamurin. part barbarian.

           
“Kedryn,” Bedyr said.

           
“Kedryn?” Brannoc crossed to the
fire, absently dislodging the hounds that he might present himself closer to
the warmth. “Surely Kedryn travels to Estrevan with the lovely Sister?” “They
are in the Beltrevan.” Bedyr faced the former outlaw across the table, pausing
as he marshaled his thoughts, reminding himself that he was, in addition to a
distraught father, the Lord of Tamur. “Estrevan deemed it wiser he travel to
the Drott in search of his eyes. It seems only the shade of the warrior who
took his sight may restore it, so he went to the Drott. Wynett, Tepshen Lahl—a
squadron—accompanied him. Then Gann Resyth brought word from the
Fedyn
Pass
that an avalanche had buried them. The Lady
Yrla and I came here, to seek you out.”