Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (52 page)

           
“You do not approve?”

           
The white-haired woman played for a
moment with the blue gem on her third finger. “I do not believe Hattim Sethiyan
to be the stuff of which kings are made. I had hoped Kedryn might find favor in
Ashrivelle’s eyes.”

           
Yrla smiled tautly and shook her
head. “Kedryn loves Wynett; he would not, I think, consider Ashrivelle.”

           
“Who appears besotted with the Lord
of Ust-Galich,”
Bethany
nodded. “Swiftly and totally.”

           
Yrla heard the doubt in her voice
and asked, “You suspect some deviousness?”

           
Bethany
shrugged. “There is nothing I can detect.
No taint of magic, and I can hardly ask to examine the princess for evidence of
love potions.”

           
“What of this Sister Hattim favors
so?” asked Yrla.

           
“Thera?”
Bethany
shrugged again. “I have had little contact
with Sister Thera of late so close does Hattim keep her. She is a Hospitaler
who attended him on his arrival—so well, it seems, that he requested her
permanent presence in his retinue. She was agreeable and I felt her proximity
would be a beneficial influence on the man.”

           
“Certainly he appears changed,” Yrla
murmured.

           
“Does he not?” said
Bethany
. “Do you not approve of the change?”

           
“If it is genuine,” Yrla said
carefully, “then yes. But I find it hard to credit so drastic a shift in
behavior.”

           
Bethany
nodded. “As do I. It is too unlike Hattim.”

           
“Think you that he plays some secret
game?” Yrla wondered.

           
“If so, it is well hidden,” answered
Bethany
. “He appears the very ideal of
reasonableness. He has given offense to no one and agreed to every measure
suggested by Darr. ”

           
“And in so doing given no one
opportunity to question him,” Yrla said. “My husband feels it is all, his word
for it was, too neat. ”

           
“Indeed,”
Bethany
agreed. “Do you think that part of this
pattern you sense?”

           
“I do not know.” It was Yrla’s turn
to shrug. “What I feel is so vague, so open to question.”

           
“Explain it to me,”
Bethany
asked, “as best you can.”

           
Yrla was silent for a moment, then:
“Estrevan believes the Messenger alive still, working Ashar’s design in some
way we do not yet comprehend. If Alaria’s Text is correct, then only Kedryn—as
the Lady’s Chosen One—may defeat him. The battle of the Lozin Gate left Kedryn
blind, yet that very blindness drew Wynett closer to him—she loves him, whether
she admits that to herself or not—and Wynett is Darr’s elder daughter and thus
a candidate for the High Throne. Did she renounce her vows in acceptance of her
love, then wed to Kedryn she would make him candidate for the
White
Palace
, rather than Hattim Sethiyan; and my son
would make a better king.

           
“Yet now it seems that Hattim will
take that prize with such alacrity that nothing can stand in his way, prevent
what many consider a succession detrimental to the Kingdoms.”

           
“Do you say that Hattim works
Ashar’s design?”
Bethany
demanded, her voice sharp with disbelief. “Surely not. Surely it cannot
be. Whatever his faults, Hattim Sethiyan is no acolyte of that evil god.”

           
“I do not know,” Yrla admitted. “I
do not see how it could be, and yet . . . ”

           
She broke off, helplessly, her
lovely face creased by a troubled frown.
Bethany
stared at her, her own stem features
worried. For long moments they sat with only the crackling of the fire burning
in the hearth to disturb the silence.

           
Then the Paramount Sister said, “You
were amongst the most promising of the acolytes, and you have studied the Text:
mayhap there is something in what you say. Certainly there seems, as you have put
it, some kind of pattern, though still I cannot credit this notion that Hattim
Sethiyan has sold his soul to Ashar. ”

           
Yrla shrugged again, shaking her
head. “Mayhap not. Mayhap the possible loss of my son confuses me. But I had
felt that so long a time together would surely clarify Wynett’s feelings, and
that such clarification would lead to marriage. And did that but happen, we
should not sit here speaking as we do.”

           
“No,” said
Bethany
, cautiously, “for we should celebrate the
ascendance of a most welcome heir. But Kedryn is not here, nor can we surmise
Wynett’s intentions.”

           
“And so we must accept Hattim
Sethiyan?” Yrla said softly. “Even though we doubt him? Even though he
might—knowingly or not—work Ashar’s design?”

           
“What other choice have we?”
Bethany
asked.

           
“To trust in the Lady,” said Yrla.
“And in Kedryn as the Chosen One, for if this pattern l sense is real, then
only Kedryn may break the web, and if Alaria’s prophecy is true, then Kedryn
cannot
be dead.”

           
“But we cannot know that,” said
Bethany
sadly.

           
“But if we do not believe it, then
we do not credit the Text,” Yrla said.

           
Bethany
sighed, toying again with her ring, her
expression one of grief and confusion. “The Lady leaves us the gift of choice,”
she said, very slowly, “and so no prophecy is binding. Alaria had a greater
gift than any other Sister, but even the Text is not a guarantee, it is not a
thing of certainty. It is possible that Ashar can circumvent its guidance.”

           
Yrla stared at her, then finally
said, “No, I must believe that Kedryn lives to save the Kingdoms.”

           
“I pray that you are right,” came
the quiet answer, “but I cannot share your confidence.”

           
When Ashrivelle at last quit his
chambers, eager to set in motion the preparations for their wedding, Hattim
dispatched a messenger to fetch Chadyn Hymet from the cantonment. Once that was
done and his rooms emptied, Sister Thera came in with two flasks of wine. One,
Taws explained, was envenomed, the other the antidote. The Lord of Ust-Galich
should toast his cousin’s appointment and after he was gone, administer the
remedy to those who remained. Hattim stared at the flasks, for all the world no
more than a particularly ancient Galichian vintage, suitable for so momentous
an occasion. He set the poisoned brew at the center of the table and awaited
Hymet’s arrival, somewhat surprised to find himself so calm as the closest of
his court gathered about him, anxious to curry favor with the lord-to-be and
the future king.

           
Hymet arrived a little after
noon
, wrapped in a heavy winter cloak. He was a
tall, homely man, his clothes drab in comparison with the finery sported by
Hattim and his sycophants, his brown hair severely cut, his jewelry limited to
a simple earring and a mere two finger rings. He saluted Hattim courteously
enough, though his expression suggested he had rather remained with his men. It
changed to one of surprise when Hattim told him that he was to become Lord of
Ust-Galich.

           
“Lord Hattim,” he gulped, “I had not
expected this. 1 do not deserve such favor.”

           
“He is modest,” lisped Mejas
Celeruna.

           
“Modesty becomes a lord,” beamed
Hattim, “and you will, I know, rule our Kingdom wisely, dear Chadyn.”

           
Hymet bowed, confused by his sudden
acceleration to so lofty a position.

           
“A toast!” Hattim cried. “I have
found a suitable vintage in which to drink your health.”

           
Smiling hugely he broke the seal of
the poisoned flask and began to fill goblets.

           
“To Chadyn Hymet, Lord of
Ust-Galich!”

           
He raised his cup, watching as the
others followed suit, echoing his toast, The wine sat smooth upon his tongue,
subtle as the vintage promised, with no hint of poison.

           
“To the Lord Hattim,” cried Mejas
Celeruna unctuously. “To our future king.”

           
Each cup was drained to the full.

           
Tepshen Lahl squatted beneath the
awning of Cord’s lodge throwing knuckle bones with the Ulan’s Gehrim, his
fulvous features impassive as he raked in his winnings. He had waited there for
three days, refusing invitations to hunt or engage in the combats that occupied
much of the Drott’s time, calmly declaring his intention of remaining until his
charges should emerge from the medicine tent, or be declared lost, and the
barbarians had given up their efforts to divert the solemn easterner, choosing
finally—to their occasional regret—to gamble with him. He had amassed a
selection of excellent furs and a handful of gold coins and held the bones
ready to throw when a movement from the small structure at the foot of Drul’s
Mound caught his eye and he sprang to his feet, the dice falling unnoticed,
though had anyone looked they would have seen he had won again.

           
The entrance flap was thrown back
and the shamans came out, the paint decorating their bodies and faces streaked
with sweat, their eyes wide with wonder. They formed a semicircle about the
entrance, their rattles chattering triumphantly. Then Kedryn and Wynett emerged
and the kyo saw that they were changed in ways both obvious and subtle. They
were smiling, joy shining radiant in their eyes, and their hands were entwined,
that physical proximity seeming to Tepshen symptomatic of a deeper closeness.
They lifted their faces to the afternoon sky, drinking in the Gathering’s
odoriferous air as if it were fine wine, and he knew as he studied them that
Kedryn could see again unaided, and that the linking of their hands, the
glances—almost secretive—that they gave one another, spoke of union, a joining
at last admitted openly. He walked down between the skull-hung poles to greet
them, his own lips curving in an expression of unalloyed pleasure.

           
“You can see,’’ he said, simply.

           
“Aye,” Kedryn let go Wynett’s hand,
beaming at the kyo. studying him from head to toe as if for the first time. “We
found Borsus and he gave me back my sight. Gave me more than sight.” He reached
out taking the Sister’s hand again and Tepshen Lahl bowed in elaborate eastern
fashion, knowing what else it was the quadi had given them as Wynett, shyly,
pressed close to Kedryn’s side, her smile bright as the rising sun.

           
“You must be hungry,” Tepshen
remarked practically. “You have been gone four nights and three days.”

           
“So long?” Kedryn was surprised. “It
seems ... I do not know—it was hard to estimate time there.”

           
Cord emerged from his lodge then,
drawn by the rattles and the growing hubbub as news of the return spread
through the camp and the forest folk began to gather, gazing in awe at the
pair.

           
“You are truly the hef-Alador,” he
declared, his voice husky with respect. “Come, rest—you must be tired after so
long and I would hear what went on in the shadow land.”

           
Kedryn nodded and allowed the Ulan
to escort them, proprietorial, into his lodge as the shamans struck the
medicine tent and consigned its hides and poles to the flames of the great fire
that burned on the tumulus, the Gehrim forming a deferential honor guard about
them.

           
Inside Cord’s hogan wine was
brought, and beer, both in great quantities as the ala-Ulans crowded in, eager
as their chieftain to hear an account of the descent into the underworld. Food
appeared, and Kedryn and Wynett both realized, as their stomachs announced
vocal anticipation, that while their spirits seemed to possess no sense of
time, or require sustenance, their bodies did, indeed, crave food and drink.
They ate well, recounting between mouthfuls what had transpired, aware of the
growing reverence with which the barbarians regarded them, seeing in the dark
eyes the same awe that had possessed the common folk outside. It became a
feast, Cord’s thralls delivering an increasing variety of dishes, lingering
themselves to hear the story, the ala-Ulans shouting questions, demanding the
retelling, until at last the Ulan, himself more than a little the worse for his
celebrating, declared a triumphal progress in order. Kedryn protested, but was
shouted down, and found himself, an arm protective about Wynett’s shoulders,
hustled out of the lodge, where the Gehrim, as though they had been awaiting
just this event, raised their shields to form a platform onto which Kedryn and
Wynett were hoisted by the eager chieftains.

           
They crouched upon the overlapping
bucklers as Cord, his own arm companionably flung around Tepshen Lahl, strode
out in front, bellowing in the language of the Drott. The procession circled
Drul’s Mound three times, then wove among the massed ranks of lodges, the dense
throng of forest folk parting to give it way, the dark faces turned to observe
the wondrous couple, their voices rising in a tumult of congratulation, the
excitement communicating to the great hounds that freely roamed the Gathering
so that they, too, added their belling to the din. It seemed to Kedryn that all
the Beltrevan must ring with the clamor, the shouting carrying to the Kingdoms
themselves, and he smiled, delight filling him as his eyes roved, sighted, over
the beaming faces and the mushroomlike growths of the hogans. Up and down the
avenues they went, circling the outer perimeter of the camp, then down again
among the tents, at last returning to the tumulus and the entrance to Cord’s
lodge.

           
Afternoon had become dusk and that
turned into night before the procession ended and the Gehrim lowered their
shields, allowing the two to step down onto firm ground again. The fire on the
mound burned bright against the star-pricked sky, the great orb of the moon
that had heralded their entry into the netherworld flattening as time carved
slices from its girth. The crowd eased, shifting and departing, and Kedryn
experienced an unfamiliar nervousness as he took Wynett’s hand, leading her
back into the hogan.

           
The remnants of the feast were
cleared away and the hide curtains that gave access to the sleeping quarters
lifted. Cord was swaying on his feet, and when he downed a horn of beer in
toast, his eyes glazed and he shook his head like some troubled bear, grunting
an apology as he stumbled toward his furs and crashed face-down, snoring
instantly, oblivious of the slaves who came to undress him. Kedryn found
himself alone with Wynett and Tepshen Lahl, and felt the nervousness grow.

           
“Would that there were baths here,”
Wynett murmured, “Wait.”

           
Tepshen was gone on the word. Kedryn
drew Wynett close, holding her, and whispered, “I am ... I feel as I did before
my first battle. Afraid? I am not sure . . . but ...”

           
“I know,” she replied, her face
against his chest. “I, too. Let us bathe as best we can, and then ...”

           
Her voice tailed off into silence
and Kedryn held her, content to feel her in his arms, not speaking, still
filled with that sense of triumph mingled with almost frightened anticipation.

           
Tepshen returned then with thralls
in tow, dragging in a construction of hides and circular wands that rapidly
became a small tub. With equal rapidity it was filled with hot water, and the
kyo, a slight smile on his face, suggested that Wynett be allowed to lave herself,
discreetly removing Kedryn to the outer chambers of the tent.

           
They sat at the table that had held
the feast and Tepshen filled two mugs with wine.

           
“You are changed,” he said. “As is
Wynett.”

           
Kedryn nodded: “She loves me. She
has said it.”

           
“At last,” murmured Tepshen. “It has
taken long enough.” “Was it so obvious, then?” asked Kedryn, frowning.

           
“To all who saw you,” smiled the
kyo, raising his mug in a toast. “I drink to your future.”

           
“She has not yet said she will forgo
her vows,” Kedryn said thoughtfully.

           
“She does not need to,” replied
Tepshen. “Do you not see it in her eyes?”

           
For a moment Kedryn looked mournful,
then he smiled wryly. “I do not have much experience of love. What should I
do?”

           
“Do?” Tepshen chuckled. “You are a
man and she is a woman—you will know what to do.”

           
“She is still a Sister,” argued
Kedryn. “And we are not yet wed.”

           
“You do not need to be wed,” Tepshen
responded, still chuckling. “And I do not think Wynett will remain a Sister for
long.”

           
“You think we should . . . ?” Kedryn
stared at his friend, who nodded .

           
“I do.”

           
“Before . . . ?"

           
Tepshen nodded again.

           
“I am not sure,” said Kedryn.

           
“Then let Wynett decide,” suggested
the kyo. “She is the one who must agree to loss; you, only to gain. Let her
decide.”

           
Kedryn nodded, then: “I am
nervous.”

           
“That is understandable,” said
Tepshen, his voice serious now, although the smile remained. “You will overcome
that.”

           
“If Wynett decides ...”

           
“Aye, if Wynett decides.”

           
Wynett called then that she had
vacated the tub and Kedryn rose.

           
“I will find quarters with the
Gehrim,” Tepshen said softly, smiling at the young man he loved so well. Kedryn
returned the smile and pushed aside the curtain.

           
He found a steaming tub in an empty
chamber and stripped off his clothing, climbing gratefully into the water. No
thralls appeared and he scrubbed himself clean, then dried himself and bundled
his clothing. The lodge was quiet, save for Cord’s soft snoring, and he took a
deep breath, aware of his heart pounding drumlike against his ribs.

           
Let
Wynett decide.

           
He licked his lips, his feet slow on
the fur-covered floor as he crossed to the flap concealing the sleeping
chamber.

           
Let
Wynett decide.

           
He pushed the flap aside and stepped
into darkness as it fell closed behind him. Sighted now, he was blind again,
dropping his gear to the floor as he fumbled his way to the mound of cushions
and furs that made his bed.

           
He slipped beneath the coverings
with his newfound vision adjusting to the absence of light. It seemed to him
that he held his breath while all his body tingled, each nerve ending alert,
anticipatory. He was not sure whether he wanted to find Wynett there, or
whether it would be easier were she beyond the dividing curtain. Perhaps it was
best they talk. Wait until they were returned to the Kingdoms. Wed formally.

           
He felt smooth skin, warm, brush his
thigh, and gasped, startled despite himself.

           
“Wynett?” he whispered.

           
“Kedryn,” she answered, and he felt
her hands upon his shoulders, his face, drawing him toward her.

           
“I love you,” he said.

           
And she said, “I love you.”

           
Then her lips were on his and he
held her hard against him, feeling all the length of her body soft and smooth
and warm, molding to him, her arms encircling him, the scent of her hair and
skin in his nostrils, the smell and touch of her driving away the nervousness
and replacing it with a soaring sense of joy, of triumph, greater by far than
any he had known.

           
“Your vows?” he husked against the
tenderness of her neck, feeling it arch beneath his caress.

           
“The Lady grants us choice,” she
gasped, her hands in his hair, pushing his lips lower until they were moving
with gentle excitement over the mounds of her breasts. “I have chosen.”

           
She moaned then, as his mouth
touched the apex of her bosom, and he said against the hardened nub, “I am
glad.”

           
They spoke no more after that, save
in wordless sounds of love and pleasure. They had no need, for they knew they
were joined, not only in physical mingling that lifted them to undreamed of
heights, but deeper, in private ways, with welcome bonds that could not be
severed.

           
For that night their world became
joyfully limited. The Gathering, the Beltrevan, the Kingdoms, did not exist:
there was only the darkened sleeping chamber, no Messenger, no malign god, no
danger or threat; only the two who gave themselves freely to one another,
wanting nothing save that commingling that was, for them, a truer marriage
night than any ceremony could bestow.