Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (56 page)

           
Hattim, flanked by Bedyr and Jarl,
dropped to one knee before the seated princess and said in ringing tones, “I
ask that you come with me now that this night we may be man and wife before the
eyes of the Lady and the good folk of the Kingdoms.”

           
And Ashrivelle replied, “I will come
with you and take you to be my husband.”

           
She rose then, her attendant women
about her as Hattim turned. Jarl and Bedyr beside him, and left the chamber,
striding through the corridors of the White Palace to the throne room, where
Dan- waited, dressed in purple and gold, the tripartite crown upon his grayed
head, the Palace Guard resplendent in burnished armor to either side of the
High Throne.

           
The high-vaulted rotunda was packed
as the lords brought Hattim in and left him standing alone before the king as
they took their places on the lesser thrones a step below the king’s on the
marble dais. Yrla and Arlynn came in with Ashrivelle, leaving her beside Hattim
as they joined their husbands. The Sisters of Andurel grouped behind the pair
as
Bethany
moved to take her place at the foot of the
dais and silence filled the room. She raised her hands, palms toward the two,
and invoked the blessing of the Lady, then Darr rose to ask, "Hattim
Sethiyan of Ust-Galich, do you in good faith and loyalty take this woman,
Ashrivelle, to be your wife?”

           
Hattim said, “I do,” and
Bethany
demanded, “in the name of the Lady, do you
cherish and respect her?” and again Hattim said, “Ido.”

           
The questions were repeated to Ashrivelle,
who answered firmly, her eyes alight with joy.

           
Then
Bethany
announced, “These two are joined as one
before the Lady. Let all here know that and ask her blessing on their union.”

           
Darr said, “These two are joined in
the eyes of the Kingdoms. Let all here know that.”

           
Hattim turned then to take
Ashrivelle in his arms and kiss her, chastely, his face solemn, as Darr and
Bethany in unison pronounced the ancient formula, “You are wed in the eyes of
the Lady and of the Kingdoms. Be you faithful one unto another from this day
hence.”

           
The Sisters invoked a prayer, and
when it was done the chamber rang with the shouting of Hattim’s Galichians as
their lord took his wife on his arm and led the way from the throne room to the
banquet that waited in the hall beyond. The triumphant smile that curved his
lips was, the celebrants assumed, because he had won so lovely a bride and now
stood in line to the High Throne when—might the Lady make it a long time
hence—King Dan should die.

           
Candlelight darkened the hollows of
Darr’s cheeks, etching deeper the lines that striated his forehead and pooling
shadow beneath his eyes. He caught a glimpse of his reflection as the
attendants eased off the heavy ceremonial robe that had seemed to become
increasingly burdensome as the wedding celebrations continued, and thought that
he looked old. He was long accustomed to the remorseless thinning of his hair,
and its graying he accepted, but as he studied his features they seemed for the
first time to assume the lineaments of venerability. Was this the price of the
tripartite crown that now sat in lonely splendor on its velvet cushion, this
acceleration of the aging process? Or would he have grown old just as quickly
had he not wed Morenna and come to the High Throne? Bedyr was his junior by
scant years, yet he still seemed young despite the streakings of gray that now
winged his brown locks; and Jarl, who was older, seemed ageless. Did the
burdens of kingship sit so heavily upon him that the years marked their
calendar passage more savagely? Or did more recent matters carve him with their
dolors?

           
He sighed, prompting an inquiring
look from the servant now working on the lacings of his stiff shirt that he
answered with a dismissive gesture, essaying a slight, wan smile, indicating
that the man should continue, shrugging into a sleeping robe as the trappings
of his kingship were carefully folded and settled into the wardrobe. If only he
could set aside his cares as easily But he could not, and he carried them with
him as he climbed into his bed and dismissed the attendants, who snuffed all
but the one candle standing beside his sleeping couch as they retreated from
the room.

           
Sleep, he knew, would come slowly
this night, for he had much to ponder, and none of it the happy concerns of a
father who had just seen a beloved daughter wed to the man of her choice. There
was the matter of the Galichian succession still to be decided; and the
dispersal of the Galichian army. Hattim had offered assurances on both items,
but no suggestions, and while Darr was thankful for the free hand the one
allowed him, he was mildly worried that no date was set for the disintegration
of the forces camped on Andurel’s doorstep. Hattim had proven vague on that
count, promising the cantonment would break up without setting an exact time,
and Darr was troubled by the thought of so large a body of armed men
concentrated so close to the city gates. Kemm, he knew, had obeyed his father’s
word and brought a striking force of Keshi to the banks of the Vortigen, but
their numbers, even allied with the Palace Guard, were less than the muster of
Galichians. Yet why should that disturb him? Hattim had offered no threat—
presumably had no need, now that he was legally heir to the throne—yet still
Darr did not trust the man. There was, making it all the worse, no valid reason
for his mistrust. He knew Hattim to be ambitious—it was something the Galichian
had never hidden— but surely not even Hattim Sethiyan would chance the wrath of
Tamur and Kesh by seeking to forcibly accelerate his ascension. That must come
automatically when Darr should die and marriage to Ashrivelle elevate Hattim to
the throne.

           
He sighed noisily, wondering if he
should summon a Sister Hospitaler and request a sleeping draft, then dismissed
the notion in favor of a small cup of evshan that he sipped as he cogitated,
thoughts drifting at random through his troubled mind. Had Chadyn Hymet not
fallen victim to that tainted wine matters would be less unsettled. Could that
have been planned? No, surely not, for had not Hattim and most of his court
fallen victim, saved only by the fortunate presence of Sister Thera? That was
an unworthy suspicion! Yet Yrla, in whose judgment and cognitive abilities he
had much faith, had spoken disturbingly of a pattern, albeit one she did not
clearly perceive. Yet he could not grant credence to her tentative suspicion
that Ashar worked somehow through Hattim, for that must surely have required
the presence of the Messenger—if, in the first place, one allowed the
blasphemous possibility that Hattim had sold his soul—and there was no sign of
Ashar’s minion. He had discussed the subject at length with Yrla and Bethany,
and the Paramount Sister had expressed her own doubts so eloquently that even
Yrla had admitted her suspicions might find their source in maternal concern
for Kedryn and Wynett.

           
He drank more evshan as the one
thought gave way to another, this of more personal concern. Did Wynett live? Or
did she lie with Kedryn beneath the tumbled wreckage of the Fedyn Pass?

           
And if she lived, what was her
relationship to the Prince of Tamur? That love burgeoned he had seen, as had
all who saw them together. Yet Wynett had always possessed a strength of
character greater than her sister’s, pursuing her dream of service to the Lady
despite all his blandishments, all his reminders of her place and heritage, so
perhaps she would—did she live still—refuse the calling of her heart for
continuance of the more abstract love. But if not . . . ? He raised the cup
again, thinking that if not, then likely Wynett and Kedryn would emerge from
the Beltrevan lovers, to marry. And as the elder sister, Wynett’s claim would
supersede Ashrivelle’s, rendering Kedryn heir to the White Palace. He sighed
afresh, aware that he dallied with
ifs
and
mayhaps
while the real problem
lay in the marriage chamber of Hattim Sethiyan on the level below, but
nonetheless unable to prevent himself reviewing those tempting alternatives.
If
Wynett and Kedryn lived, and
if
their unspoken love had come to
fruition;
if they
emerged safely from
the Beltrevan, and
if
they wed; then
Hattim, with no slight or insult to claim, must relinquish his ambition and
carry Ashrivelle back to Ust-Galich where, Dan- hoped, they would live happily,
leaving Wynett and Kedryn to possess the White Palace in due course, and
doubtless rule more wisely.

           
There were too many
ifs
, too many
mayhaps
. There was no news and it seemed Hattim must eventually
come to the throne. Consequently the more immediate problem was the selection
of his successor and Dan’s mind turned again to that; with as little success as
before. Weary now, his stomach tight with the weight of food eaten at the
banquet, he emptied the cup and snuffed the candle, composing himself for
sleep.

           
Outside, the wind had started up
again, rustling about the towers of the palace, rattling shutters and sighing
in chimneys. Dan listened to it, remembering that once it had seemed a restful
sound, a reminder that he slept snug, secure in the heart of the peaceful Kingdoms.
Now it seemed an omen, a threat of lurking discontent, as if some gusty beast
prowled the land, its very breath sowing the seeds of malcontent. He shivered
despite the warmth still imparted by the glowing hearth and drew the covers
higher about his ears.

           
Then pushed them down as he heard a
faint sound from the antechamber. He listened for a moment, then shook his
head, telling himself he was childish. Did Palace Guards not stand sentry at
his door? And servants sleep beyond? And who would offer him harm, here in the
heart of the
White
Palace
? He drew the covers up again, willing
himself to sleep.

           
And heard the door open, the hinges
soft on oiled bolts, dim light showing briefly the shape that entered.

           
“Who is it?” He sat up, the covers
falling from his chest. “Who are you?”

           
No answer came from the figure that
glided across the room, but in the red glow of the hearthfire he saw blue
robes, brown hair drawn back from a face not quite pretty.

           
“Sister Thera? I did not summon
you.”

           
“No,” said a voice that hissed far
colder than the north wind, “but we have business, you and I.”

           
Darr stared, hair prickling on his
neck, cold dread chilling his very soul, for that voice could not have issued
from the slight frame of the Sister who now stood beside him, her lips
stretched wide in a smile that was a snarl of feral satisfaction. His mouth was
suddenly dry, although cold sweat burst upon his brow and chest as he stared
aghast into eyes that glowed red as the coals limning the figure, their
intensity sapping his strength, his will.

           
“What are you?” he choked, the words
coming slow and thick around a tongue that seemed to fill his mouth as if
swollen with the mortal dread he felt.

           
“Do you not know me?”

           
The question held a terrible
finality, terminal as the bite of gravedigger’s spade in earth, and as its
sibilance still rang in his ears Darr knew the answer, knew that Yrla had been
right, knew that an awful pattern unfolded, too late, before him. He opened his
mouth to shout, to summon guards, but that rubescent gaze flowered, burning
brighter, stilling the words unspoken in his throat.

           
“I am Taws,” said the creature. “You
know me as the Messenger. I am come to do my master’s work.”

           
Darr stared, his eyes trapped by
that horrendous glare, hearing the triumph in the declaration, the gloating
tone in the voice that had no right to issue from the lips of a Sister.

           
“So weak, so foolish.” A hand
stroked the king’s face and he groaned at the obscenity of its touch, the
hypnotic carmine eyes robbing him of will as the mage savored the moment.
“There are none can aid you, Darr. No guards will come, nor Kyrie’s bitches. We
are alone, you and I.”

           
“How?” Darr managed to gasp.

           
“How?” Taws chuckled, the sound dry
as long-dead, grating bones. “Easily. Into High Fort with those weakling
turncoats who gave up my master’s work and from them to the one who would
accept me. One of your own then, Ashar’s now.”

           
“Hattim!” Darr moaned, cursing
himself even in the depths of his terror for failing to recognize the veracity
of Yrla’s insight.

           
“Aye, Hattim Sethiyan,” the mage
confirmed. “A useful puppet; a soul ready for the plucking. And now Hattim
Sethiyan is your daughter’s husband and will soon be king—for you will soon be
dead.”

           
“You,” Darr said slowly, forcing the
words out through the numbing lassitude that gripped him, “shall . . . not . .
. win.”

           
“How can I not?” Taws chuckled
exultantly. “The future king is mine. Mine and through me my master’s. He is
Ashar’s creature now, Darr, and soon all the Kingdoms shall belong to Ashar. ”

           
“No!” Darr husked. “Kedryn . . .”

           
A hand clamped about his jaws,
covering his mouth, the face that was no longer quite that of Sister Thera but
something else, something infinitely older, infinitely evil, leaning closer to
gust breath that smelled rank with innate wickedness into his nostrils.

           
“Can do nothing! Be he the Chosen
One or not, he is lost now. Dawn shall see Hattim Sethiyan on the throne and my
master’s enemies in chains, pawns in my game. If Kedryn lives I shall have him
for a plaything, for a little while. And your daughter, Darr! Shall I have her,
too? Or shall I give her to Hattim? Shall he enjoy a harem, his claims
redoubled by the subservience of both your daughters?”

           
Darr’s eyes started from his head as
horror filled him and he struggled uselessly against the supernatural strength
of the mage’s grip. He could not break it and after a while his writhing
subsided.

           
“There is nothing you can do,” Taws
leered. “You are lost.”

           
“The Lady,” Darr mumbled against the
restraining hand. “The Lady ...”

           
“Can do nothing,” said Taws. “Her
day is over and Ashar’s night begins. Such a long night it shall be, Darr, with
my master supreme over all the Kingdoms. Such a night as this petty world of
yours has never known, with your death to mark its twilight.”

           
The hand left Darr’s mouth then, but
all he was able to utter was a single, rasping moan of despair, for Taws
gripped his shoulders and forced him back against the pillows as the distorted
face of Sister Thera descended, the lips parted, the visage of a succubus
filling the king’s final moments of life. He felt that ghastly mouth touch his
and in the instant of his dying screamed out to the Lady to forgive him, and to
save his soul. Then a swirling redness clouded his eyes and there was nothing.

           
Taws drank deep, luxuriating in the
stolen essence that tasted so fine after so long an abstinence, relishing the
moment of triumph, feeling Darr’s spirit strengthen him. He rose slowly from
the bed, leaving behind a husk, drained, more than life taken, and crossed
leisurely to the door.