Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (45 page)

           
“Gann Resyth brought no bodies?”
Brannoc’s voice was flat, slightly accented.

           
“No.” Bedyr shook his head. “He saw
only a single horse. The fort’s Sister sensed evil—Resyth presumed Ashar’s
work.”

           
“The fire god has power there,”
Brannoc nodded. “It had been better they came here, that I might have escorted
them.”

           
“Estrevan deemed there was little
time to waste.” Bedyr clasped a chairback, frustrated by the need to explain.
“The
Sacred
City
believes the Messenger is abroad; that he
works Ashar’s design. And Kedryn is the only one able to defeat him.”

           
“Where?” asked Brannoc,
instinctively shaping the warding gesture of the tribes.

           
“That they could not surmise,” said
Bedyr, impatient. “They know only that he lives. For that reason it was
paramount Kedryn regain his sight.”

           
“And he went into the
Fedyn
Pass
,” said Brannoc as though digesting the
news, “and there was an avalanche that was likely Ashar’s doing, and you wish
me to inquire of the Drott whether he lives.”

           
He omitted, Or not, and Bedyr
nodded. “I would not chance the upset of our peace treaty by entering the
forest with the men we should need to find them.” Like Brannoc he did not speak
the alternative. “And you are likely to get word faster. Hence, Rycol’s summons.”

           
Brannoc ducked his head, tugging
thoughtfully on a braid. “The Drott territories are a long ride west and
north,” he murmured. “And it is the time of the Gathering—there will be little
intercourse between the tribes, so little hope of word filtering down. I had
best leave at dawn, alone. I shall travel faster without the encumbrance of an
escort, but even so it will take a while to reach the Drott. And return with
word.”

           
“At dawn?” Bedyr asked.

           
“I need a sound night’s sleep,” said
Brannoc. “1 have some hard riding ahead of me.”

           
“Thank you,” Bedyr said.

           
“Your son is my friend,” answered the
half-breed. “Now, I need a bed, and before that food and drink.”

           
Without further ado he settled
himself at the table and downed a glass of wine, rapidly followed by a second
as Rycol shouted for servants to bring victuals and prepare a bed.

           
Yrla and Marga returned while he was
eating, and he rose, bowing courteously.

           
“My wife, the Lady Yrla Belvanne na
Caitin. Yrla, this is Brannoc, Warden of the
Forest
. The Lady Marga you already know.”

           
Bedyr effected brief introduction
and Brannoc nodded, smiling at the two women. “Lady Marga, you are well, I
trust. And Lady Yrla—I regret the circumstances of our meeting, but assure you
I shall do all in my power to bring Kedryn safely to you.”

           
Yrla paused, somewhat taken aback by
so courtly a greeting from a man she had heard described as wolf’s-head, who
wore the appearance of some mixed-blood forester. Then she smiled and said,
“Good Warden, I thank you. My husband has spoken of you, as did my son, and
both in glowing terms.”

           
“I am flattered.” For all the gravity
of the situation Brannoc could not keep the bantering tone from his voice for
long. “But that weighty title sits a trifle heavily on my shoulders and I would
ask you to call me Brannoc, as do all my friends.”

           
Yrla nodded gravely and said, “Then
Brannoc it shall be, for I am glad to count you friend.”

           
“He leaves at dawn,” said Bedyr,
adding, as he saw the question in his wife’s eyes, “alone.”

           
“I shall travel faster that way,”
Brannoc explained, resuming his seat and continuing to eat with a gusto the others
could not muster. “The forest folk trust me and it is early yet to send armed
Tamurin into the Beltrevan.”

           
Yrla nodded, taking a chair across
from the Warden. “You have heard nothing from the woodsfolk?”

           
Brannoc shook his head. “It is the
time of Gathering, Yrla. The clans of each tribe come together and there is
little intercourse between them until First Day, when they return to their
hunting grounds.”

           
“How will you go?” Rycol demanded.

           
“Through the pass and then due
west,” said Brannoc. “Along the Lozin wall until I reach the Saran, then north
and west along the line of the river to Drul’s Mound. That is where the Drott
gather, and where Kedryn must go to find the quadi.”

           
“Do you think the shamans will agree
to help him?” asked Yrla.

           
Brannoc shrugged. “It is hard to
predict what a Drott shaman will do, but—yes. The defeat of the Horde weakened
their hold, and now Cord is Ulan, and he was never fond of the medicine men.
Kedryn is the hef-Alador and I think that Cord will respect that.”

           
“Is Ashar’s power weakened?” she
demanded.

           
Again Brannoc shrugged. “If his
power depends on worship, then it might well be. When the Horde broke and the
Messenger disappeared, there were many who felt they were betrayed by their
god.”

           
“Do you hear?” Yrla turned toward
Bedyr, fresh hope in her eyes.

           
“I hear,” Bedyr nodded. “But we
should not underestimate his strength. ”

           
“No,” Brannoc agreed. “Ashar is a
vengeful god and he will fight for what he considers his.”

           
A silence fell then and Brannoc
finished his meal, taking a last cup of wine before rising and asking that
Rycol indicate where he might sleep, “I shall do my best,” he promised.

           
“My thanks,” Yrla said.

           
Bedyr smiled grimly and nodded.

           
The next morning dawned gray, the
sky leaden with threat of snow, the sun a faint promise behind the low cloud.
Wrapped in cloaks, Bedyr, Yrla and Rycol gathered to bid the Warden farewell.
Brannoc was mounted on a sturdy dun horse, built more for endurance than speed,
a piebald animal of similar physique laden with his supplies. Both animals wore
the red and white peace feathers woven into their bridles, and Brannoc had
fastened more into his braids, a cluster lashed to the hilt of the saber that
thrust up behind his shoulder. He was clad in his wolfskin cloak and heavy
boots covered his feet. A bow and quiver of arrows were sheathed on his saddle.
He smiled, white teeth flashing against the nut-brown of his skin.

           
“If they are with the Drott, I shall
find them and bring them back,” he said.

           
“May the Lady go with you,” said
Yrla.

           
“Be careful,” admonished Rycol, his
concern eliciting a grin from the half-breed.

           
“Find him,” said Bedyr. “Find them
for the sake of friendship.”

           
“I will,” Brannoc said, and without
further ado heeled the dun out through the postern, hooves clattering as he
cantered down the frosted surface of the Beltrevan road.

           
They watched until he was gone from
sight, and then there was nothing they could do save wait. Bedyr found
employment about the fort and Yrla spent much time in the company of Marga, or
in the chapel, praying. Time passed slowly, the days merging into one another.
Urstide came and went, its celebration dulled by the absence of knowledge, and
then, out of a flurry of windblown snow, confusion arrived.

           
It came in the form of a weary mehdri
on a tired horse.

           
He approached the gates of High Fort
with shoulders slumped, his stance indicative of too many days in the saddle,
riding through one of the worst winters Tamur had known. He straightened as he
crested the glacis, lifting his head with visible effort to call the
traditional demand of his guild.

           
“A mehdri asks entrance. I bear a
message.”

           
The gates were open but he halted
nonetheless, for so custom dictated, waiting until the captain of the watch
gave formal response.

           
“Enter and be welcome, mehdri.”

           
Soldiers came out to greet the rider
as he came through the gates, reaching to help him from the saddle. He shook
his head, waving them back as he kicked clear of the stirrups and swung to the
ground. His legs trembled then and he clutched at his saddlehom for support,
pushing himself upright as the captain inquired for whom the message was
intended.

           
“The Lord Bedyr Caitin of Tamur,”
the mehdri answered, “and the Lady Yrla Belvanne na Caitin.”

           
“I will bring you to them,” the
captain offered.

           
The mehdri stroked the bowed head of
his mount and asked, “You will see my animal stabled? Rubbed down and fed?”

           
“Of course,” the captain promised,
turning to bark orders at his sergeant.

           
“Tend him well.” the mehdri added,
“he deserves care.”

           
“He shall have it,” the sergeant
said, taking the bridle.

           
The mehdri straightened his soiled
blue cloak, adjusting the hang so that the tripartite crown emblazoned on the
thick material was spread for all to see and set a hand to the pouch secured to
his belt. “Lead on,” he nodded.

           
The captain set off across the
courtyard, studying the man as he turned to lead the way through a door and up
a winding stairwell that brought them to the labyrinthine interior of High
Fort.

           
“You have traveled far?”

           
“Andurel to Caitin Hold,” the mehdri
grunted. “Then on across the Geffyn to here.”

           
“A hard road in this winter,” the
captain murmured sympathetically.

           
The mehdri merely nodded: it was his
experience that few words were easy when traveled on the king’s business.

           
The captain halted outside a carven
door and tapped three times. A voice granted entry and he thrust the door open,
seeing Bedyr and Yrla seated either side of a cheerful fire, leather-bound
books in both their hands. It crossed his mind, briefly, to wonder what it
would be like to have such learning that time might be passed reading and,
although he was far too well-disciplined to express the thought, what message
the rider had for them.

           
He said, “A mehdri has arrived with
a message, Lord Bedyr,” and ushered the weary man inside, closing the door as
Bedyr rose.

           
“My Lord Bedyr, Lady Yrla,” the
mehdri said formally, “I bring word from King Darr in Andurel.”

           
Bedyr took in the man’s exhaustion
at a glance, gesturing at his vacated chair: “Sit down.”

           
Yrla reached to the dipper of the
jug set beside the hearth, filling a mug with the mulled wine.

           
“You have come far. Please, seat
yourself and take wine with us.”

           
The mehdri nodded gratefully and
eased himself stiffly into the chair. He took the cup that Yrla offered,
smiling his thanks, but set it down, reaching instead for his pouch.

           
He brought out a folded parchment,
sealed in three places with yellow wax in which the royal signet was imprinted.
Bedyr took the sheet from him, and only then did the mehdri lift the mug and
sip the spicy brew, his duty done.

           
Bedyr broke the seals and studied
the message, a frown forming. He passed it to Yrla. Her own features grew
disturbed as she read the words set there in Darr’s familiar hand and the
mehdri recognized concern, or fear, in her look. He pushed upright, wincing as
he straightened, and said carefully, “My Lord, my Lady, you will excuse me?”

           
Bedyr recognized his tact and smiled
thanks, nodding. “Of course. You have come far, and must be weary. A bath? or a
bed? Food first?”