Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (57 page)

           
In the antechamber servants slept a
deep and dreamless slumber, beyond them, in the corridor outside, the guards,
still upright, sightless eyes staring at the shadows that flickered about the
candle sconces. Taws passed them unseen, moving silently toward the stairs that
descended to the lower level where Hattim Sethiyan consummated his marriage.

           
The mage went unnoticed down the stairs,
the red glow fading from his eyes until they were again the green that belonged
to Sister Thera. He entered his own chamber and piled fresh logs on the fire,
standing close to the flames as he contemplated the furor that must erupt when
servants went to rouse their king and found him dead. Before then—though only
the chosen should know it—Hattim would be ready, the most loyal of his officers
already in the palace, prepared to support their lord in his immediate
assumption of the throne.

           
Nothing, Taws thought, could now
stand in his way. Not the Sisters, or Tamur, or Kesh, not Kedryn Caitin;
nothing.

           
Bedyr and Yrla were roused from
slumber by the clamor that seemed to fill the corridors of the
White
Palace
. They heard feet pounding beyond their
chamber and the shouting of servants, the answering cries of guardsmen, weeping
women and grieving men. They rose swiftly, Bedyr delaying only long enough to
don shirt and breeks and boots, buckling his swordbelt about his waist as he
hurried to the door, accompanied by Yrla, who had merely thrown a robe over her
night attire.

           
All was confusion and Bedyr caught a
sergeant by the arm, forcing the man to halt as he demanded what was amiss.

           
“The king is dead!” the sergeant
gasped. “May the Lady preserve us, Lord Bedyr—King Darr is dead!”

           
Without further ado Bedyr took his
wife’s hand and began to run toward the royal chambers, thrusting servants and
soldiery aside, his features grim as they raced up the wide stairway and
hurried along the swarming corridor.

           
A crowd was bunched tight about the
doors of the king’s quarters, held back by guardsmen, their faces pale with
shock beneath the beaks of their helmets. Bedyr shouldered a way through and
was granted entry to an antechamber only slightly less populated with nobles
and Sisters and soldiers and servants. At the bedroom door two stem-featured
officers stood with drawn swords, hesitating before permitting Bedyr and Yrla
to enter, closing the door behind them on the babble that filled the outer
room.

           
Inside, a grim calm barely contained
the grief and anger of the figures grouped about Darr’s bed. Sister Bethany was
there, leaning over the supine form of the monarch, Corradon on the far side,
his homely features drawn tense, his left hand clenching rhythmically on the
hilt of his sword, Jarl, his chest bare beneath a black robe, his long hair
uncombed, at the foot. He turned as they entered, his eyes narrow with
suspicion.

           
“Darr is dead,” he said harshly.
“Murdered in his sleep.”

           
Bedyr looked past him to the corpse.
Darr was stretched back on his pillows, his body possessed of that slackness,
that total absence of muscular tension that announces death. His face was gray,
his mouth gaping wide, his eyes staring sightlessly, no light in them.

           
“Murdered?” Visions of chaos, of
war, roared in Bedyr’s mind. “How do you know?”

           
“How else?” Jarl grated. “He was not
sick, he was not old, but he is dead. This is Sethiyan’s work.”

           
“Guard your words.” Bedyr set a hand
on the older man’s arm, his voice urgent. “It is early yet to level
accusations.”

           
“Who else?” snapped Jarl. “Who else
benefits from this?”

           
“What killed him?”

           
Bedyr addressed the question to
Sister Bethany, stepping past Jarl to come close to the bed, gazing down at the
face of his friend with anguish filling him, a desire to weep moistening his
eyes even as he steeled himself, knowing that the stability of the Kingdoms
must rest tremulously on her verdict, on the events of the next few hours.

           
“I am not sure,” answered the
Sister, her voice careful, held in control by the disciplines of her training.
“His heart has burst, but . . .”

           
She touched the widespread lips,
indicating their pallor, the blueing of the surrounding flesh. Bedyr clamped
his teeth tight on the nausea that welled as he saw the swollen, blackened
tongue that protruded there.

           
“But?”

           
“I cannot be sure. I think . . .”

           
The Sister turned brown eyes in
which tears welled to the Lord of Tamur, confusion and disbelief in her voice.
“I think I sense magic.”

           
“The pattern!” It was Yrla who
spoke, her voice thick with grief and tinged with fear. “It is as I thought.”

           
“Yrla!” Bedyr turned to face his
wife. “Be sure of what you say. ”

           
Yrla nodded, dabbing at her eyes
with the sleeve of her robe. “Do you not see it now, Bethany? Hattim Sethiyan
is now king.”

           
“Not while I live!” Jarl roared.
“Not by means so foul.”

           
“Be still,” Bedyr ordered, motioning
the Keshi to silence. “Hattim will be here in a moment—do we accuse him? Risk
war?”

           
Jarl glared at him, turned to
Corradon: “When the murderer appears, arrest him.”

           
“My Lord?” Corradon stared in
confusion, transferring his gaze to Bedyr.

           
“No!” Bedyr shook his head. “We must
be sure of this. Yrla, you say this proves the pattern you sensed—how so?”

           
“Is it not a . . .” she hesitated to
use the word, “. . . natural conclusion? Hattim swept Ashrivelle off her feet
to become heir. Chadyn Hymet died most conveniently, leaving Hattim in command
of the Galichian forces. Now poor Darr is dead and Hattim has rightful claim to
the High Throne. Is that not a pattern?” “How say you?” Bedyr asked Bethany.

           
“There is logic in it,” the
white-haired Sister said slowly, “but it assumes Ashar’s hand, or rather that
of his Messenger.”

           
“If you are right,” Bedyr stared at
his wife, a fearful awe widening his eyes, “then the Messenger is in the
White
Palace
and Hattim Sethiyan has sold his soul.”

           
Yrla nodded tearfully.

           
“I do not believe Darr died of
natural causes,” said
Bethany
into the silence that followed, “and whilst I do believe I sense the
taint of magic here, it might still be poison.”

           
“Poison or magic,” Jarl rasped,
angry, “what matter? It was Hattim’s work and he must be brought to justice. If
the Messenger works with him, then we must hunt down the foul creature and slay
him, too.”

           
“Only Kedryn may do that,” said Yrla
softly, “and Kedryn is not here.”

           
The commotion beyond the door grew
louder and Bedyr said quickly, “If these suspicions are correct then we face a
most formidable adversary. Say nothing—yet—to Hattim or any other. We must meet
as soon as we may to talk of this and decide our battle plan. Do you
understand, Corradon? Do you agree, Jarl?”

           
The captain nodded, the Lord of Kesh
grunted furiously and said, “Very well.”

           
The door opened then to admit Hattim
and Ashrivelle, both disheveled, llie princess saw her father and threw
herself, wailing, upon the bed. Yrla and Bethany moved to comfort her, Hattim
stared at the dead king and turned to his fellow lords.

           
“What has happened here?”

           
Jarl made a sound like a snarl, deep
in his throat, and Bedyr cast a cautionary glance in his direction.

           
“The king is dead, Hattim.”

           
“How?”

           
Bedyr studied the Galichian’s face,
trying to read the expression there, seeing eyes that widened, a mouth that
slackened, wondering if the shock those movements suggested was genuine or if
Hattim was merely an excellent actor. “We are not yet certain,” he said.

           
“Sister Bethany?” Hattim looked to
the blue-robed woman as Bedyr tried to judge the tone of his voice. “What is
your prognosis?”

           
“A burst heart,” the Sister replied,
one arm about Ashrivelle’s shoulders. “Perhaps magic.”

           
“Magic?” Disbelief rang in the word.
“How magic? What do you say?”

           
“I am not sure yet,” Bethany
answered. “I require more time. There are touchstones to employ before I may be
sure. ”

           
Bedyr glanced at her, angry that she
had let this slip, then dubious at Hattim’s response.

           
“Touchstones?” said the Galichian.
“You would subject our late king’s remains to such indignity?”

           
“Our king is dead and we would
uncover the cause.” Jarl’s voice was cold as unsheathed steel, his dark eyes
burning as he glowered at the blond-haired southerner. “Would you seek to
obscure such revelation, Sethiyan?”

           
Hattim faced the dark-haired lord,
something close to contempt in his eyes, his response more in keeping with his
old arrogance than the newer, diplomatic man they had known of late.

           
“I find your tone offensive, Jarl of
Kesh.”

           
Jarl’s swarthy features suffused
with rage, his eyes bulging. Bedyr made a small, cautionary gesture that went
unnoticed or ignored, so furious was the Keshi.

           
“I care not how you find my tone,
Hattim. Our king is dead and we shall discover the cause. And let those
responsible beware.”

           
“You forget yourself,” said Hattim,
his own responsive anger icing his words. “You forget that you have a new king
now.”

           
“You?” Jarl filled the single word
with contempt, bringing a flush to the Galichian’s face that matched his own.

           
“Aye,” Hattim snapped.

           
“My Lords,” Bedyr said quickly,
moving between them as he saw that Jarl must soon spring at the Galichian,
“calm yourselves. King Darr is dead and we are distraught. I would suggest we
discuss the matter of investigation when we are more calm, but meanwhile,
Hattim, your wife grieves and has need of you.”

           
“Ever the moderator,” Hattim nodded,
“but you are right— Ashrivelle needs me. I shall summon you later; perhaps by
then you may have calmed our Lord of Kesh.”

           
He smiled tightly, crossing to the
weeping Ashrivelle and putting hands to her shoulders. She rose at his touch,
turning into his arms, her pretty face distorted, tears streaming from her blue
eyes. “Come,” he murmured into her hair, “Sister Thera will provide some potion
to calm you.”

           
Reluctantly, Ashrivelle allowed
herself to be led from the chamber, Hattim casting a final, scornful glance at
Jarl.

           
“Prepare your touchstones,” Bedyr
told Bethany when he was gone. “How long will it take?”

           
“I must return to the college,” the
Sister replied, “for the paraphernalia I need and Sisters to aid me. I can have
answers by dusk. ”

           
“Go,” said Bedyr. “Jarl, Corradon,
come with me. Corradon, leave guards on the king’s chambers—no one is to
enter.”

           
The young captain’s pugnacious
features creased in a frown. “My Lord Bedyr,” he asked, “what if Lord Hattim
demands entry?”

           
“He cannot be denied,” Bedyr
allowed.

           
Jarl snorted but said nothing and
Bedyr asked, “Where is Arlynn?”

           
“Waiting in our quarters,” said the
Keshi.

           
“Then we go there,” said Bedyr.