Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (50 page)

           
“My friends, you drink to my future,
and I thank you for that, for with the Princess Ashrivelle at my side it can
only be joyous. I ask you now to raise your goblets in toast to the Lord and
Lady of Kesh, and to Lord Bedyr Caitin of Tamur and his Lady Yrla. Yet while
you do, let us not forget their son, Kedryn, whose sad plight denies us his
welcome presence.”

           
He turned, his goblet lifted first
to Jarl and Arlynn, then toward Bedyr and Yrla.

           
“Let us drink in hope that Kedryn
shall return.”

           
A great shout of approval met this
announcement and after he had drunk, Hattim turned to speak across Darr.

           
“We have had our . . . disagreements
... in the past,

           
Bedyr, but now I hope we may be
friends. My wish that Kedryn may return is sincere.”

           
Bedyr nodded, a rigid smile on his
lips. “My thanks, Hattim,” he answered.

           
“Is he not the most wonderful man?”
Ashrivelle asked Yrla.

           
The answering smile was
noncommittal, for like her husband, Yrla felt she detected the ring of
falsehood in the Galichian’s unctuous manner.

           
The toasting went on, great roasts
of venison and boar carved below the high table, fishes from the Idre and
delicate vegetables from the gardens of Ust-Galich and Andurel offered to the
feasters. The musicians worked busily, their tunes a selection from the three
Kingdoms. Dancing followed the feasting and it was late before Darr suggested
an end to the festivities. Ashrivelle protested, declaring her wish that so
congenial a gathering continue until at least dawn, but Hattim took her hand,
murmuring softly in her ear so that she affected a pout before kissing his
cheek and agreeing to find her bed.

           
“I would speak with you,” Darr
murmured, a hand restraining Hattim from following his betrothed. “There is
business we must discuss and it is best settled as soon as possible.”

           
“I am at your command,” Hattim
smiled.

           
“I will see you in my chambers,”
nodded the king. “With Bedyr and Jarl.”

           
Hattim’s smile remained firmly in
place; it was still there when he entered Darr’s rooms, offering formal salute
as the king motioned him to a chair. Lanterns cast warm yellow light over the
polished chairbacks set about the hearth, sparkling from the facets of the
crystal decanters resting on the low table. Jarl lounged with slippered feet
close to the fire, a goblet of Keshi
lyr
in his right hand, the left toying with the ornate hilt of the curve-bladed
dagger sheathed on his belt. Bedyr sat beside him, sipping evshan, his features
stem in the fireglow. Darr sighed and arranged his purple robe as he sat down,
selecting a pale wine of Andurel vintage. Hattim took evshan, looking from one
man to another with an open, facile smile.

           
“The wedding may now proceed,” Darr
began, “and if Ashrivelle has her way it will be within days.”

           
Hattim nodded without speaking,
attentive for all the wine he had consumed, seeming unaffected by the fierce
liquor he was now drinking.

           
Darr was somewhat nonplussed by his
calm, and did his best to hide it. “We must, therefore, agree on the matter of
your succession. That announcement needs be made before the wedding.”

           
“May I first speak on another
matter?” Hattim inquired.

           
Darr nodded his assent and the Lord
of Ust-Galich turned toward Bedyr.

           
“I ask your forgiveness for my
presumption in leaving my forces on Tamurin land. Our king has, perhaps,
explained it to you, but I would have you hear it from my own mouth—I offer no
threat, nor intend insult. The portage down the cascades is arduous and my
people expressed a desire to remain close by, wishing to celebrate my marriage.
Once that is done, they will escort my wife and me south to Tessoril and disband.
Meanwhile, we have accepted those terms good Darr suggested for our tenure. Do
you agree to this?”

           
Bedyr found himself taken aback by
such reasonableness from a man he knew as arrogant, overbearing. What Hattim
said was logical, and to respond in the negative would be to proffer insult. He
ducked his head.

           
“The cantonment will depart after
the wedding?”

           
“Of course,” said Hattim.

           
“Then I have no objection,” Bedyr
agreed.

           
“My thanks.” Hattim smiled afresh,
turning politely to Darr. “My apologies for interrupting you, my Lord King. You
spoke of the succession?”

           
“Aye.” Darr was as confused as
Bedyr. “I have spoken with our Lords Bedyr and Jarl and we are agreed on Chadyn
Hymet. I would suggest he be summoned here and informed of our decision. If he
is agreeable, then we may announce him as Lord of Ust-Galich, his assumption of
that post becoming effective in the moment you take Ashrivelle as your wife. Do
you agree?”

           
“Chadyn Hymet is a most excellent
choice,” said Hattim. “No one can dispute his loyalty to the Kingdoms; or claim
he is my man. I am in full agreement.”

           
So smooth was his acceptance that
Jarl could not stifle a gasp of surprise. Indeed, Bedyr found himself staring
at the Galichian with wonder in his eyes.

           
“Shall I send for him on the morrow?”
Hattim asked innocently. “Or shall the summons come from the
White
Palace
?”

           
“From,” Darr said slowly, “you, I
think.”

           
“So be it,” Hattim beamed.

           
They spoke then of ceremonies and
residencies, Hattim agreeing easily to all suggestions, offering no resistance
when asked that he voluntarily strip himself of all holdings in Ust-Galich, disassociate
himself from all political ties there, and make his home from henceforth in
Andurel. He agreed to the council, and that representatives of all three Kingdoms
be domiciled in the
White
Palace
to ensure fair and concerted government. He
was a very paragon of moderation, giving none cause to object or find fault. It
was so unlike him that when they were finally done he was the only man present
at ease. He was magnanimous in his promises and effusive in his assurances,
wishing them each a courtly good-night that sent them troubled to their beds.

           
That politic demeanor continued as
he at last made his way to his own chambers, where Mejas Celeruna and the other
courtiers waited eagerly to hear what had been agreed. Hattim told them of the
conversation and smoothly dismissed their sycophantic complaints that he should
remain Lord of Ust-Galich and king, both. He assured them of his continued
affection and sang Chadyn Hymet’s praises, knowing that reports of his words
would rapidly circulate throughout the
White
Palace
.

           
Only when they were gone did he
allow his delight to show.

           
He threw off his overrobe and filled
a cup with wine, standing before the balcony windows as his eyes roved over the
rooftops of Andurel, the smile already on his fleshy lips growing ever wider,
until it occupied the larger part of his face. He raised the cup high, his arm
flung out as though he would embrace all he saw, then drained it in a single
gulp and threw back his head, howling laughter. Tears ran down his cheeks and
the muscles of his jaws ached. Still laughing, a hand pressed to his belly, he
recrossed the room to tilt the decanter over his cup. It filled with wine, and
he was so consumed with self-satisfaction that the yellow liquid spilled over,
pooling on the table. Uncaring, he raised the cup again and drank deep, wine
trickling down his chin as he chuckled.

           
“It went well?”

           
Hattim turned, beaming at the Sister
who entered silently from the adjoining chamber, feeling no unease now at sight
of the possessed body.

           
“It went as you promised,” he
chortled, and raised his glass in toast. “I drink to you, Taws. I did all you
said and they were exactly as you told me they would be. Oh, it was delightful
to watch their unhappiness! They had their candidate ready to present and I
accepted him without demur. I apologized to Bedyr Caitin! I asked his
permission to leave my army on Tamurin soil and he could do naught but agree. I
thought Jarl might draw his dagger and seek to slay me, so amenable was I He
hated it! And Bedyr could do nothing save squirm and seek to conceal his
displeasure. It was just as you promised.”

           
“And Kedryn?” asked the transformed
mage. “What of Tamur’s prince?”

           
Hattim spun in a circle, his feet
moving in parody of a victory dance, wine slopping from the outthrust cup, the
alcohol he had drunk beginning to affect him now, combining with his joy to
slur his words.

           
“Prince Kedryn is lost, it seems. He
entered the
Fedyn
Pass
and was, so far as Bedyr knows, buried
beneath an avalanche. Was that your master’s work, Taws? Was that Ashar’s
doing?”

           
The physiognomy of the woman Taws
had possessed was not disposed to expression of anger, so the set of the
features became disapproving rather than vexed, but the eyes grew brighter,
firey, flashing an ominous red as they studied Hattim, the intensity of their
gaze stilling his drunken swirling.

           
“What?”

           
The voice was now entirely that of
the mage, icy as the north wind, sibilant as the threat of a serpent. Hattim
froze abruptly, wine dripping unnoticed to the carpet.

           
“He is lost in the Fedyn Pass, Taws.
Buried! Is that not what you want?”

           
“The
Fedyn
Pass
?” The words seemed as hoar frost in the
air, I chilling Hattim. “Why did he seek to enter the Beltrevan?”

           
“To regain his sight.” The
Galichian’s voice was no longer slurred: the mage’s rubescent stare impressed
sobriety on him. “It seems a Sister awaited him in Caitin Hold with word he
must seek his sight in the Beltrevan. Some necromancy was involved.”

           
“Borsus,” husked the mage, his tone
unreal from female lips. “He seeks the shade of Borsus.”

           
“But the pass fell down upon him,”
Hattim said, cautious now, choosing his words more carefully. “He must be
dead.”

           
“Must?”
snarled the blue-robed figure. “Do you know that? Was his body found?”

           
“He frightens you!” Hattim gasped
it, afraid of his own insight. “You fear Kedryn Caitin!”

           
The mage moved a step toward the man
and Hattim started back, rank fear in his eyes, his hands lifted as though to
ward off | whatever spell Taws might cast. His shoulders struck the mantle of i
the hearth and he shifted to remove his body from the heat, the cup ; dropping
unnoticed to shatter on the flags. Taws’s movement was - swift as a striking
snake, his strength not that of the woman’s frame he occupied but far greater,
supernatural. A hand fastened on the frontage of Hattim’s silken shirt and the
Galichian felt his feet leave the floor. He opened his mouth to scream for
help, but Taws’s gaze aborted the cry, drying it stillborn in his throat.
Crimson fire burned in that stare and then the thaumaturgist lowered his arm,
Hattim sighing with relief as he felt solid floor beneath him again. The sigh
became a cry of alarm as he was bent backward, his knees buckling as he
struggled to remain upright, his hands fastened on the slender wrist that
extended from the blue robe. He was no weakling, but against that force he was
powerless, helpless as a babe, Taws driving him down and backward until his
spine arched and he felt the heat of the flame lap at his head and shoulders,
his golden hair scorching, crackling and spitting, the stink of it in his
nostrils.

           
“Was his body found?” rasped the
unhuman voice.

           
“No!” Hattim wailed. “For the Lady’s
sake, Taws, let me up!”

           
“For the Lady’s sake?” the mage
snarled. “Do you not yet understand? You no longer serve that mistress, fool.
You have a new master now. ”