Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (48 page)

           
The gangplank was run out and their
baggage transferred to the shore. There was little enough of it and within
moments Bedyr was thanking the master for their passage. Harbor officials came
from their offices to check the inbound vessel and one inquired of Bedyr what
business he and his lady had in Andurel.

           
“Lord Bedyr,” he gasped when he was
appraised of their identities, “Lady Yrla, forgive me. You are expected.
Please, follow me.”

           
Bedyr was surprised, for their
arrival could not have been timed, and he had anticipated no formal welcome
until they reached the palace. Yet in the warmth of the harbor office they found
a captain of the Royal Guard waiting.

           
He was a young man, burly beneath
his silver armor and purple cloak, a helm under his arm as he saluted. His hair
was short-cropped on a square skull, his nose broken. Bedyr recognized him
vaguely from the battle of the Lozin Gate but could not put a name to the
homely face.

           
“My Lord Bedyr, Lady Yrla,” the
captain said, “I am Corra- don. King Darr sent me to greet you.”

           
“How could you know when we might
arrive?” Bedyr asked. “I have been waiting some time,” said Corradon. “The king
is most anxious to speak with you. He bade me wait until such time as you did
arrive, then bring you instantly to the
White
Palace
.” Bedyr nodded, his sense of unease
growing. “Then let us not keep the king waiting longer,” he said.

           
Horses were brought from the shelter
of the harbor offices, a band of the Royal Guard rather than the customary
venta
forming about Bedyr and Yrla as
they rode through the bustle of the dock area to the quieter streets beyond.
Corradon took the lead, guiding them not to the avenue that led directly to the
palace, but through the maze of thoroughfares surrounding that broad roadway.
Cloaked against the cold they went largely unnoticed, arriving at one of the
lesser gates, where more silver-armored guardsmen waited to take their animals
while Corradon murmured an apology for the informality of their entrance and
hurried them to a small door that Bedyr recognized as leading to Darr’s
chambers by a circuitous route that avoided the more public areas of the White
Palace.

           
It seemed they came in the manner of
conspirators rather than honored guests and Bedyr found himself loosening his
sword in its scabbard, his ears attuned for sound of attack, his eyes scanning
the narrow corridors as if in anticipation of ambush. Yrla kept close to his
side, her eyes wide, a small frown wrinkling her brow, not speaking as they
traversed the ill-lit, empty passage.

           
No ambush came and Corradon halted
before a plain oak door, producing a key that he turned in the lock, offering
further apologies that served to heighten their sense of unease. He thrust the
door open and bowed them inside, a somewhat embarrassed smile on his lips as he
said. “King Darr will be with you shortly. Please wait for him here.”

           
They entered and the door closed
behind them, cutting off the sound of Corradon’s retreating footsteps as they
looked curiously around the deserted chamber. It was a place Bedyr had visited
seldom and Yrla never, the dust that lay on the ledge of the narrow window and
the bare flagstones of the floor attesting to its lack of use. Bedyr removed
his cloak and draped it over his left shoulder, his hand still on his sword
hilt.

           
“What intrigues go on?” Yrla
murmured, trailing a finger through the gray coating of a small table.

           
“I know not,” grunted Bedyr, “but
this secrecy troubles me. This chamber connects to Darr’s quarters and few know
of its existence: it would appear he does not wish Hattim to know of our
arrival.”

           
“Why not?” asked Yrla. “It must
eventually be made public.”

           
Bedyr shrugged and moved toward a
door in the far wall.

           
It opened before he reached it and
his sword was sliding from the scabbard as Darr appeared. The king wore his
favored robe, old and gray, with no sign of his office other than the token
about his neck. Yrla saw that his hair was completely gray now, and that his
face was deeper etched with lines of worry, though his eyes sparkled with
pleasure as he spread his hands and smiled at them.

           
“My friends,” he said, “Yrla—you are
lovelier than ever—and Bedyr—you will not need that blade—please forgive this
secrecy, but I am anxious to speak with you before Hattim Sethiyan presents
himself.”

           
He stood back, beckoning them to the
stairway on which he stood and leading the way up to another door that gave
access to a more used chamber. He waited until they had entered and then closed
the door, its frame blending invisibly with the carved wooden paneling of the
walls. This room was banked with west-facing windows through which pale
sunlight streamed, rendering the parquet of the floor lustrous, glowing on the
spines of the books that filled the shelves lining all four walls. A fire
burned in a low-mantled hearth and six wooden chairs stood around a circular
table on which rested several decanters and five crystal goblets. Three were
already filled, as were two of the chairs.

           
Jarl of Kesh said, “Bedyr, Yrla,
welcome to our circle of intrigue,” in a sardonic tone.

           
Beside him, her gown an explosion of
color against the somber black of his robe, Arlynn smiled and said, “Hail, old
friends. Have you word of Kedryn?”

           
The expression on both their faces
alerted the others to the disturbance of expectations, Arlynn’s smile freezing
on her lips, Jarl’s eyes narrowing. Darr said, “What has happened?”

           
Bedyr took the cloak that Yrla
doffed and tossed it with his to the empty chair as she sat down. “He sought to
enter the Beltrevan,” he said hoarsely, “and Gann Resyth brought word the
Fedyn
Pass
fell about his ears. Brannoc has gone into
the forests in search of him.”

           
“Wynett was with him?” Darr asked,
his face abruptly paled.

           
Bedyr nodded, “Aye, and Tepshen.”

           
“They are . . Jarl hesitated
awkwardly, embarrassed for all his bluffness, “dead?”

           
“We do not know.” Bedyr dropped into
a chair, his features grim. “We know only that the
Fedyn
Pass
is blocked and the Sister there sensed
evil.”

           
“Ashar’s work,” Darr said softly.

           
Arlynn reached to take Yrla’s hand,
concern in her eyes. “You do not know for sure?”

           
“No,” murmured Yrla, shaking her
head, “Gann Resyth knew only that they entered the pass and that the pass fell.
We hope . . .”

           
Her voice trailed off and Bedyr
continued, “That they live. Somehow. We can only trust in the Lady—and hope
that Brannoc finds them.”

           
Darr poured wine, his hand trembling
so that droplets of the ruby liquid splashed onto the table. He passed the
goblets to Bedyr and Yrla and said, “Had I known, I would not have summoned
you.”

           
Bedyr squared his shoulders, smiling
sadly.

           
“Your message suggested some
urgency. As does the manner of our arrival.” He glanced at Yrla and said, “Let
us leave Kedryn for the moment. What transpires here that you wish to speak
with us so secretly?”

           
Darr swallowed wine, absorbing the
news, and said earnestly, “I pray that they all live—the Lady knows, Wynett is
of my blood, and Kedryn . . . Well, I spoke of my hopes.”

           
“There is no point to picking at
such a scab,” Yrla said, the firmness of her tone concealing the pain she felt.
“We place our faith in the Lady and for now can do no more. Let us, then, apply
ourselves to the immediate business.”

           
“Aye,” Bedyr echoed decisively.
“What of this impending wedding?”

           
The others looked at them in silence
for a moment, sharing their distress as they recognized behind the Tamurin
stoicism the grief they felt, respecting the solidarity that had brought them
south despite such calamitous news. Darr sighed.

           
“These are troubled times,” he
murmured, “would that winter did not cut us off from Estrevan, for the guidance
of the Sorority would be most useful now. ”

           
“There is some plot afoot?” Bedyr
demanded, grateful that the conversation moved from that painful, personal
ground.

           
Darr shrugged, stroking at his
beard. “I do not know. In all honesty I cannot say there is, but there is
something in me that screams it. I have consulted with
Bethany
, but she offers no great guidance other
than the political. She senses no magic abroad, yet I have the feeling I am
trapped in a web, with some malign creature drawing in the strands.”

           
“Hattim Sethiyan is malign enough,”
Jarl grunted.

           
“He employs sorcery?” Bedyr asked in
a shocked voice.

           
“No.” Darr shook his head. “At
least, none that any can define or feel. But ...”

           
He paused, refilling his glass,
looking from one face to another before he continued.

           
“Hattim returned from the battle of
the Lozin Gate to woo Ashrivelle. She is utterly enamored. I had no choice but
to agree to the marriage—overtly I had no reason to object—and so Hattim stands
in line to the throne. Or will, once the ceremony is concluded. I raised the
matter of the succession with him and he assured me that he will abide by
whatever decision we make. His concern, he tells me, is solely for Ashrivelle
and the Kingdoms.” “That carries the ring of untruth,” said Bedyr.

           
“Aye,” Darr agreed, “yet I cannot
fault Hattim. His behavior so far has been impeccable.”

           
“Which is unlike our Lord of
Ust-Galich,” Jarl grunted, tapping his beaklike nose. “I smell something
rotten.”

           
“But cannot define it,” Darr said.
“Hattim has agreed to allow us three to decide his successor; or to relinquish
claim to the High Throne.”

           
“What?” Stark incredulity rang in
Bedyr’s voice. “Did I not hear this from you, I should not credit it.”

           
“Yet it is what he promises,” said
Darr. “He is the very paradigm of compromise. He will stand by any appointment
we make, or any disposition.”

           
“I believe him confident of the High
Throne,” Jarl offered. “He knows that Ashrivelle is the key—unless we change
the customs of our forefathers, Ashrivelle’s husband
must
become king.”

           
“Or Wynett’s,” Yrla said quietly,
her words drawing all their attention. “Wynett is the elder daughter.”

           
“Wynett is . . .” Jarl caught
himself in time, amending the sentence: “lost. And besides, she is sworn to
celibacy.”

           
“Perhaps not,” Yrla said. “If she
lives, then mayhap her mind will change on the matter of her celibacy. ”

           
Darr stared at her, his eyes
narrowed. “I saw them together in
^!

           
High Fort, but Wynett’s devotion
remained strong. Have you valid reason to suspect some alteration in that
situation?”

           
“Intuition,” Yrla murmured, her
shoulders rising in an almost imperceptible shrug. “Nothing more.”

           
“That,” said Darr sadly, “is not
enough. We are forced to deal with the immediate situation, and that is that
Hattim will wed Ashrivelle and become the rightful heir to the High Throne. Our
purpose—and this is why I sought to speak with you privately, that we might
decide and act in conclave—is to determine what safeguards we can place upon
that succession.”

           
“How we can draw Hattim’s teeth,”
said Jarl, blunt as ever, “He will accept whomever we suggest?” Bedyr asked.

           
“So he has said,” Darr confirmed.

           
“It needs be someone less ambitious
than Hattim,” said Bedyr, thoughtfully, “someone more concerned with the unity
of the Kingdoms than with personal advancement or the aggrandizement of
Ust-Galich.”

           
“Aye,” Darr nodded. “I had thought
of Hattim’s cousin, Chadyn Hymet.”

           
“A possibility,” Bedyr allowed. “Or
perhaps Hyjal Forwyn?”

           
“Too weak,” said Jarl. “He borrows
too much, and stands in debt to half the merchants of Ust-Galich.”

           
“I did not know,” Bedyr said.

           
“Naryl Domme might be a likely
candidate,” Jarl suggested.

           
Arlynn laughed. “You might as well
appoint that wife of his, for she controls him as if he were stringed. And she
is—or was—Hattim’s mistress. One of them, at least.”

           
Her husband’s bushy brows lifted at
this tidbit of gossip. “You had not told me that,” he complained.

           
“I do not tell you everything,”
Arlynn replied, archly innocent.

           
“Then neither Domme nor Forwyn are
acceptable,” said Darr. “Are there other candidates?”

           
“Lerwyn Chanyth is a sound man,”
Bedyr said, “and he commands the respect of the army. ”

           
“But is childless,” countered Darr,
“and if he were to become lord, would have no heirs. That would open the way to
Hattim’s appointee after his death.”