Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (55 page)

           
“You are too kind,” said the Lord of
Kesh, his eyes cold as he studied the Galichian.

           
“He sleeps,” said Bedyr. “Let us
find our own beds.”

           
The others nodded and they quit the
chamber with instructions that servants watch over Hattim and send instantly
for Sister Thera should further seizures strike.

           
“I had best advise my daughter,”
Darr said, “and free your wives.”

           
They found Yrla and Arlynn
comforting Ashrivelle, who would not be mollified until she was allowed to
observe her sleeping lover, only then, after she was satisfied he slept and
nothing more could be done for him, permitting them to settle her in her own
bed, singing the praises of Sister Thera.

           
Indeed, when dawn broke, it seemed
the Sister Hospitaler had performed most excellently. Hattim and his courtiers
lived, albeit a trifle uncomfortable of digestion, refusing food but declaring
themselves recovered from whatever malady had struck so dramatically. They were
somewhat weakened, but when Darr, accompanied by the Lords of Tamur and Kesh,
attended him, Hattim expressed his resolve that the wedding should proceed as
planned. Ashrivelle was seated by his bedside as he gave this news, and she
smiled at his words, turning a grave face to her father as she asked, “Is he
not brave?”

           
“I would not disappoint you,” said
Hattim gallantly, his own smile wan. “And I am selfish—I would let nothing
stand in the way of my own happiness.”

           
Ashrivelle laughed with delight,
smoothing his hair. Dan- asked, “You are sure of this? The ceremony may be
easily delayed.”

           
“No,” Hattim shook his head, taking
Ashrivelle’s hand, “let nothing delay our union.”

           
Darr nodded. “Then we shall leave
you.”

           
“I am in most excellent hands,” said
Hattim, indicating with a gesture the solicitous Ashrivelle and the hovering
Sister Thera.

           
“A pity,” Jarl remarked as they quit
the chamber.

           
“Mayhap the Lady saves him for
greater things,” said Bedyr, clapping his disappointed friend on the shoulder.

           
Jarl’s disgruntlement was vastly
increased later that day when a servant brought urgent word that King Darr
required his presence in the quarters occupied by the Lord of Ust-Galich. At
first the Keshi’s spirits rose, thinking that Hattim had suffered some relapse
and the wedding might, after all, be transformed to a wake. He hurried to
answer the summons, allowing himself the luxury of optimism, only to find Bedyr
and Darr grave-faced by Hattim’s bed.

           
The Galichian was propped against a
mound of pillows, most of his natural color returned, but his own features set
in lines both stem and mournful that, to Jarl’s cynical eye, seemed utterly
false.

           
“There is disturbing news,” said
Darr, fidgeting with the medallion of his office in a manner that, to Jarl,
suggested acute discomfort.

           
“I have received word from the
army,” Hattim said when Dan- made no move to continue. “Chadyn Hymet is dead.”

           
“What?” Jarl barked, his mind
turning instantly to thoughts of poison.

           
“This malady,” Hattim gestured
vaguely in the direction of his stomach, his face solemn, “appears to stem from
the wine we drank in toast to his ascension. Lady forgive me, I chose that
vintage myself!”

           
He broke off, his lips clamped tight
together as if in prevention of some wail of grief, shaking his head as though
he could not believe what he had done.

           
“You cannot blame yourself,” Darr
murmured. “You, too, might have suffered that fate.”

           
“Had Sister Thera not attended me,”
Hattim nodded, his voice pitched low. “If only I had sent her to Chadyn.”

           
“You could not know,” said Darr,
“not then.”

           
Jarl frowned, confused by his own
suspicions. “Chadyn is dead? What is this talk of wine?”

           
“It would appear that Hattim
selected a tainted vintage,” Bedyr explained. “When he sent for Chadyn to
apprise him of his appointment they drank a toast. The wine was fouled.”

           
“Have Sisters examined it?” asked
Jarl, making little effort to conceal his suspicion.

           
“It was all drunk,” said Hattim, his
voice pitched low, “and the bottles destroyed. There were but two. The vintage
was ancient— the very reason I chose it.”

           
Jarl grunted without offering
comment.

           
“I have made inquiries,” said Darr,
sensing the drift of the Keshi’s thoughts, “and there can be no question of
foul play.”

           
“Who would wish to poison Chadyn?”
asked Hattim sadly. “Who would wish to poison so many?”

           
“All who drank fell ill last night,”
Bedyr expanded. “It would seem that only the prompt attendance of Sister Thera
saved Hattim’s entire court from death. Unfortunately there was no Sister to
attend Chadyn.”

           
“Poor Chadyn,” keened Hattim.

           
“This leaves us with a problem,”
Jarl said bluntly.

           
Hattim nodded listlessly, for all
the world a man stricken with grief. “You must select another to take my
place.”

           
“The wedding is tomorrow,” Jarl
said. “Shall it be postponed?”

           
Darr clutched his medallion in a
tight-locked fist and shook his head. “I think not,” he announced. “All is
ready and whilst we mourn the demise of the Lord Hymet I do not think we should
delay the ceremony, ”

           
“Would it not be disrespectful to
continue?” Hattim asked.

           
“I think not,” said Darr, “Things
have gone too far to halt them now. What we must do is choose another
candidate.”

           
“Who?” Jarl demanded.

           
Darr sighed. “I cannot readily offer
another.”

           
“We must debate the matter,”
suggested Bedyr.

           
“I shall, as before, accept your
nomination,” murmured Hattim. “Though for now I feel too weak to offer
suggestions. I leave it to you, my Lords.”

           
“Very well,” Darr nodded. “We shall
apprise you of our choice once it is made.”

           
Hattim ducked his head in agreement
as they turned from his bed, making their way from the chamber. Once they were
gone and he was alone he threw back the covers and rose to his feet, rubbing at
a belly still sore from the discomfort of the previous night, smiling as the
door opened to admit Sister Thera.

           
“Taws,” he chuckled, “your design is
masterly! They cannot suspect me—nor will they find a candidate so suitable as
Chadyn before the wedding.”

           
“Ashar’s will be done,” said the
mage. “You are fully recovered?”

           
“A somewhat painful stomach,”
shrugged Hattim, dismissing so small a price for so large a gain, “nothing
more.”

           
“That will remedy itself,” Taws
remarked. “It was needful you showed the signs of illness, lest any suspect.”

           
“And it worked!” Hattim shrugged
into a brocade dressing gown, his eyes alight with triumph. “They saw me
suffering— they heard the others. Jarl doubted—I saw that in his eyes!—but what
could he say? What accusation could any of them level against me when I lay so
sick? They could only offer me sympathy; and how that hurt them! They had
rather I died.”

           
He chuckled at the thought, shaking
his head in amusement. “And tomorrow,” said Taws softly, “you will be married.”

           
“Aye,” smiled Hattim, “too soon for
them to select another to take my place. I shall become heir to the High Throne
and remain Lord of Ust-Galich.” His smile faded as a thought intruded on his
jubilation: “When shall Darr die?”

           
The slight shoulders beneath the
blue robe shrugged as Taws said, “The same night, I think.”

           
“So soon?” Hattim’s eyes expressed
doubt. “Should we not wait a while longer?”

           
“To what purpose?” asked the mage. “That
they may decide upon another candidate? No, we strike while Ashar’s fires bum
bright still. You will wed your little princess and all Andurel will celebrate.
Your men will throng the city and that night Darr will die. The dawn will see
you king, with an army at your back to quell any who oppose you. The High
Throne and Ust-Galich both will be yours.”

           
“And the objections of Bedyr and
Jarl will brand them traitors,” Hattim nodded.

           
“As I have set it out,” agreed the
mage, his woman’s face smiling exultantly, “their incarceration will forestall
any move of the Keshi’s spawn, and if Kedryn Caitin lives still, his parents
will be bait in our snare.”

           
“If he does not?” Hattim inquired.

           
“When we know that, they die,”
smiled the mage.

           
Hattim burst into a fresh gale of
laughter. “Taws,” he declared, “we have them! We cannot lose now! The Kingdoms
are ours!”

           
“And Ashar’s,” said the mage
softly. “The time of the Lady’s bitches draws to a close. Soon our master shall
rule here.” Hattim swallowed, his face becoming serious, for still he felt some
trepidation at such open acceptance of the god, but he had come too far along
this path to turn back now, and he knew with an awful certainty what fate
awaited him should he renege on his apostasy, so he nodded, echoing the mage:
“And Ashar’s.”

           
The dawn that broke over Andurel on
the day of the wedding was a glory of gold and crimson that crept along the
edge of the eastern horizon as if a fire burned there, driving back the night.
The curtain of gloom that lingered still was steadily illuminated with a clear
blue effulgence that spread across the heavens as the sun rose, a great disk of
candescent citrine. There were no clouds and the north wind that had buffeted
the city dropped, swinging around to become a milder afflatus that set the
pennants and buntings decorating the streets and houses to rustling and
fluttering gaily, the boats moored along the wharfsides to bobbing on the
gentled sway of the Idre. Those abroad at that hour declared it a blessing of
the Lady on the union to be celebrated that day, and many who had doubted the
wisdom of the marriage revised their opinions, allowing themselves to be
persuaded that Hattim Sethiyan was, indeed, a suitable candidate for
Ashrivelle’s hand and the tenure of the White Palace.

           
Neither Bedyr nor Yrla was so easily
dissuaded, and there remained in their minds, as in those of Jarl and Arlynne,
and King Darr himself, lingering doubt concerning the untimely death of Chadyn
Hymet.

           
They had sat late, discussing the
selection of a fresh candidate for Hattim’s kingdom and finding themselves
unable to agree on a suitable nomination. This man was too old, that too young;
the one too loyal to the Sethiyan line, another too weak to oppose it; blood
relationships abrogated many claims, lack of support others. Their suspicions
were brought into the open, but none could lay valid accusations at Hattim’s
door, nor produce real reason for condemnation. Finally, still without a
decision, they had agreed to find their beds and continue their debate after
the wedding. Consequently they had had little sleep as they prepared for the
lengthy festivities for which not one of them could muster much enthusiasm.

           
As custom dictated, the betrothed
couple breakfasted alone before praying in company of a single Sister, Thera in
Hattinvs case, Bethany in Ashrivelle’s. Then they were dressed, the bride-to-be
in a gown of Estrevan blue, hemmed with gold, her hair bound up in a mesh of
silver threads, the groom in tunic and breeks of purest white, an overrobe of
silver with matching boots. At
noon
the Ladies of Tamur and Kesh, in company
with those of the High Blood able to attend, joined Ashrivelle, while then-
husbands went to fetch Hattim from his chambers. They escorted the Galichian to
the quarters of the princess, where Jarl, as the elder Lord, pounded thrice on
the door, demanding entry. Three times Sister Bethany called out, demanding
that Hattim be sure in his intent, and three times Jarl was required to answer
that he was. Then the door was flung open and
Bethany
granted them entry.