Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (47 page)

           
“A mehdri with a message for Lord
Jarl,” the oldster announced, and turned away.

           
The mehdri found himself facing two
burly Keshi in flowing black pallia, the horsehead of their kingdom shaped in
silver against a green background on the left breasts. Sabers were sheathed at
their waists and as they turned to announce him, their voices in perfect
unison, he heard the faint chink of mail beneath their robes.

           
Beyond them he saw a chamber fine as
any in the
White
Palace
, grander than many. The floor was of
brilliantly polished wood, its sheen reflecting the glow of the lanterns hung
about the walls, rugs scattered casually, and cushions that served as seating.
The ceiling was vaulted, intricately carved arches swooping gently to a great
disk of colored glass that pooled a rainbow over and around the three musicians
squatted beneath. Two held Keshi flutes, the third a balur, its final note
lingering on the expectant air. Past them, sprawled on cushions, the mehdri
recognized Jarl of Kesh. He wore a simple robe, black as was the custom of his
people, the horsehead emblem silver against dark green, his beak-nosed face
alert as he swept strands of glossy black hair from his tanned forehead and
beckoned the mehdri toward him.

           
On his left sat a younger version of
himself, plumper, but unmistakably Jarl’s progeny, Kemm; on his right, four
women of varying ages, dressed in rich gowns, their fingers bright with rings,
the gold circles in the left nostrils of three declaring them concubines, the
fourth Arlynn, Lady of Kesh. She studied the mehdri and then glanced at her
husband, who raised a ringed hand, whereupon she rose in a swirl of colored
skirts and ushered the other women before her from the chamber, the musicians
following on their heels.

           
“Sit,” Jarl said. “Take wine with
us.”

           
The mehdri smiled his thanks but
made no move to accept the invitation, reaching instead to his pouch, from
which he took Darr’s message, handing it to Jarl. Only then did he settle on
the cushions and accept the jeweled goblet Kemm passed him.

           
Jarl broke the seals and read in
silence. Then thrust the parchment at his son.

           
“There is no other message?” he
asked.

           
“No, my Lord.”

           
Jarl nodded slowly, as if appraising
something in his mind, turning bird-bright eyes of a startling green to the
mehdri.

           
“Lord Hattim prepares for his
wedding?”

           
“He does, my Lord.”

           
“And his army?”

           
“Marches south. It had not reached
Andurel when I left the city.”

           
Jarl grunted, then: “You will wish
to bathe, no doubt. And eat.”

           
Recognizing polite dismissal, the
mehdri nodded. “Indeed, my Lord. A bath would be most welcome.”

           
Jarl motioned at the two doormen.
“Show this weary traveler to our baths and have food prepared for him. Ask my
wife to attend me.”

           
The mehdri rose, bowing his thanks,
and followed the guards from the chamber. When he was gone Jarl filled a goblet
with wine and drank deep. “Well?” he asked his son. “What do you make of it?”

           
“Hattim’s desire to wed Ashrivelle
is well known,” said Kemm.

           
Jarl sighed, staring at his son with
fond exasperation. “As is his ambition. ”

           
“He cannot be Lord of Ust-Galich and
take the High Throne, both,” Kemm said.

           
“No.”

           
Jarl paused as the door opened and
the Lady Arlynn came in. She was a woman in her middle years, still handsome,
but tending to plumpness. The gray that streaked her black hair was hidden by
dyes, and cosmetics concealed the lines on her face; the intelligence that
shone in her eyes could not be hidden. Jarl took the parchment from Kemm’s hand
and gave it to her,

           
“What do you think of this news?” he
demanded.

           
Arlynn studied the message and
clicked her tongue against her teeth.

           
“Hattim looks to the
White
Palace
. He will offer some protege as Lord of
Ust-Galich.”

           
“Is that so bad?” asked Kemm.

           
Jarl sighed, addressing himself to
Arlynn rather than his son: “He is so good with horses. Would that he
understood men as well.”

           
Arlynn smiled and patted Kemm’s
knee. “If Hattim Sethiyan is able to take the High Throne whilst some puppet
occupies Ust-Galich he will, for all effect, rule both Andurel and the southern
kingdom. He will control the heart of the Three Kingdoms, with greater power
than either your father or Bedyr Caitin. He will control the center of trade
and command both the Ust-Idre and the Vortigen—he will have a stranglehold on
the Kingdoms.”

           
“But he cannot lay claim to the High
Throne without the blessing of Kesh and Tamur,” Kemm said, frowning.

           
“Darr has no other child, save
Wynett,” Arlynn explained, “and she is sworn to service of the Lady. If
Ashrivelle chooses Hattim, Darr can neither refuse nor prevent Hattim’s claim
to right by marriage.” She turned to her husband. “You cannot prevent the
wedding.”

           
“No,” Jarl agreed, “that would be
tantamount to declaring war.”

           
“Nor—by custom-—with only Ashrivelle
in rightful line, can you prevent her husband from assuming the High Throne at
her side.”

           
“No,” Jarl said again.

           
“But mayhap you and Bedyr can find
some appointee to Hattim’s kingdom sympathetic to your wishes.”

           
“That is doubtless what Darr seeks,”
Jarl agreed.

           
“Surely Ust-Galich could not stand
against the union of Kesh and Tamur,” Kemm offered.

           
“Neither Bedyr nor I wish to see the
Kingdoms descend to civil war,” Jarl said wearily, wishing that his son might
have inherited less of his skill with horses and more of his mother’s acumen.
“We, and our fathers before us—theirs before them—have worked too hard to bring
unity. Our armies are scattered and we stand in the grip of winter. Should we
give Hattim reason to find offense—to take up arms—his forces could seize
Andurel before we have hope of rallying our own warriors. And with Andurel in
his grip, and Ashrivelle at his side, Hattim would occupy a vastly strengthened
position.

           
“Such a war might last for years.
And while we fought, the forest folk might forget their vows of peace and come
down through the Lozin Gate; the Sandurkan move from the west. No, we cannot
risk war. We must do as your wise mother suggests and seek to find some
claimant to the Galichian throne of less ambitious a bent than Hattim. Or
circumvent his ascension by some means I cannot now foresee.”

           
“Toward which end we must journey to
Andurel,” said Arlynn. “And the sooner the better.”

           
“Aye,” said Jarl grumpily. “Though I
had looked to spend a quiet winter here.”

           
“It will be exciting,” said Kemm,
“to visit Andurel.”

           
Jarl glanced at him, then looked to
Arlynn, who nodded slightly, recognizing the question in his eyes.

           
“You will not accompany us,” he
said, stilling the smile on his son’s face. “You will remain here to tend the
affairs of Kesh.”

           
“Father!” Kemm protested.

           
“Kesh needs a lord,” said Jarl,
modulating his tone that Kemm might see the sense in his words, “and I may have
need of you. Should this affair ... let us say, go less smoothly than I hope,
then Kesh may have need of a rallying point.”

           
“You believe Hattim would attempt
such treachery?” Arlynn demanded, her voice suddenly sharp.

           
“I do not know,” said Jarl, “but I
had rather know my back protected and my kingdom secure.”

           
Should he harm you I will bring all
Kesh against him!” Kemm vowed loyally. “I shall bring down a storm about his
ears.”

           
Jarl smiled, nodding. “I do not
doubt it, my son. But avoid precipitate action. For now I had rather keep my
eggs in several baskets than bring them all to Andurel. Should aught befall us,
seek counsel with Tamur before you sound the war drums. I am, mayhap, overly
suspicious.”

           
“But none too cautious,” murmured
Arlynn.

           
Jarl took her hand, toying with the
rings that covered most of her fingers. “Darr has not pressed urgency upon us,
so shall we dally a while? Set out in a few days’ time? It will doubtless take
Bedyr longer to come south.”

           
Arlynn smiled her agreement. “And
meanwhile perhaps it would be as well to send scouts west, to see where the
Galichian army stands.”

           
“Do you hear your mother?” Jarl
laughed, turning to Kemm. “Is she not a wonder amongst women?”

           
The barque carrying Bedyr and Yrla
southward ran for three days before a storm that precluded docking. Then they
put in and spent a day repairing damage. Their passage was smoother after that,
though little to Bedyr’s liking, die Idre restless, her banks white with fallen
snow and her waters a forbidding gray. As they approached Andurel they saw the
tents of the Galichian army massed along the western shoreline and Bedyr
experienced both apprehension and a flush of anger.

           
“They occupy Tamurin land,” he
complained as he stood beside Yrla at the rail, “and doubtless consume Tamurin
food. Word should have been sent; permission asked.”

           
“Doubtless Hattim will claim winter
as an excuse,” Yrla suggested, holding her wind-streamered hair from her face.
“And say his men wait merely to celebrate his wedding.”

           
“Doubtless,” Bedyr agreed irritably,
“but still they could have gone over the Ust-Idre into his own kingdom. I do
not like it—from that position Hattim might take Andurel. His army commands the
western approaches, and if they seize the bridges the city is his.”

           
“He cannot have warriors in Kesh,”
Yrla said, “so surely Jarl’s men would oppose such a venture—should it come to
that.”

          
Bedyr shrugged, hugging his cloak
tighter about him. “Mayhap I see the worst,” he allowed, “but remember that
Jarl’s army, like ours, is disbanded. At this moment only Hattim has full
strength in the field.”

           
“And Dan’s forces?” she asked.

           
“Are not enough,” said Bedyr.
“Little more than a bodyguard. They might hold the
White
Palace
, but not the city.”

           
“Could it really come to that?” Yrla
shivered, prompting Bedyr to drape his cloak about her, an arm spanning her
shoulders.

           
“Likely not,” he sighed. “Likely I
fret too much. But I like none of this.”

           
“Nor I,” said Yrla, leaning against
him.

           
They turned then from their
observation of the Galichian encampment to study the island city swelling
before them. As ever, it impressed with its size and its beauty, sparkling
snowdecked in the afternoon sunlight, the bridges that connected the cantons
and the banks seeming, at this distance, miraculous webworks suspended above
the waters that swirled on the west side into the Idre cascades, and on the
east to the wider sweep of the Vortigen. The roads and avenues were dark
traceries against the whiteness, the parks and gardens lost, so that all
appeared some fairy-tale construction, rising in sweeps and undulations to the
simple grandeur of the
White
Palace
set atop the apex of the highest islet. The
horn mounted on the barque’s prow belled a warning and the river master shouted
for the sails to be furled, the oars brought out. The sweeps slowed their
approach and they came into the harbor area gentle as a falling snowflake, the
barque turning to come up against a mole, where longshoremen waited to take the
mooring lines.