Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (61 page)

           
“The
Vashti
is yours to command,” said the riverman.

           
“Then,” Kedryn rose, only to drop to
his knees before Wynett, “if my Lady consents to marry me, we sail as early as
we may.”

           
Wynett took the hand he offered,
smiling gravely. “I do accept, my Lord.”

           
Kedryn climbed to his feet and
turned to Rycol. “Will you arrange it, my friend? The sooner the better.”

           
“There are Sisters here and I have
civic right,” nodded the chatelain. “Do you but give me time to arrange a
wedding feast, it shall be done this day. ”

           
Kedryn nodded and High Fort’s
commander hurried from the room to begin the preparations. “It will be a poor
enough ceremony,” Kedryn murmured.

           
“It will be all the ceremony we
need,” Wynett smiled. “Now leave me to prepare myself.”

           
It was not the wedding either of
them had anticipated. There was none of the pomp that Ashrivelle and Hattim had
enjoyed, nor time for much ceremony beyond the simple declaration of the vows,
offered before Rycol and the Lady Marga, Wynett’s nurses representative of
Estrevan, Tepshen Lahl, Brannoc and Galen Sadreth the witnesses, but it was,
nonetheless, a marriage, binding them in formal declaration of the love that
had burgeoned through such hardship. The banquet that followed was marred by
the absence of Bedyr and Yrla, by the sad news of Darr’s death; but despite
those absences there was a feeling of joy in High Fort’s feasting hall, and
when they retired Kedryn knew a sense of completeness, of rectitude, that
filled him with delight.

           
He lay with his arms about Wynett in
a chamber overlooking the dark sweep of the Idre canyon, the faint glow of the
coals banked in the hearth washing the chamber with warm light, and felt a
happiness that overcame all trepidation, all fear of the task that lay ahead.

           
“In Andurel, when all is done,” he
promised, “we shall marry again, if you like. A ceremony befitting the daughter
of a king.”

           
Wynett stirred sleepily against him,
brushing his shoulder with her lips. “I am the wife of a king,” she murmured.
“I am your wife and I want nothing more than that.”

           
“I shall build a monument to Darr,”
he said into her hair.

           
“There is no need,” she replied. “I
grieve for my father, but death is a thing we must all accept and there is no
point to shedding needless tears. Let our life together be the monument.”

           
She turned then, presenting her
mouth, and they spoke no more.

           
The next day Galen repaired to the
dockside to supervise the refitting of his vessel while Kedryn sat in
conference with Rycol and the others, delineating a plan of campaign that
would, he hoped, forestall outright war. Somehow he was certain the Messenger
lay behind these alarming events, and he sensed that when he sailed south he
would be moving toward a confrontation with Ashar’s minion that must determine
the future of the Kingdoms. He felt that he prepared to face a power greater
than any he had known. It was an awesome thought, one that would, had he
allowed it, have filled him with dread, but he fought that fear, strengthened
by the certainty that he fought in the Lady’s cause.

           
The morning of their departure
dawned steel gray, an icy wind blowing skirls of snow down the river canyon,
lashing white froth from the surface of the Idre. The
Vashti
bobbed restlessly on her mooring lines, as if anxious to be
gone, and her crew, for all the complaints they hurled at their captain, turned
willingly enough to their tasks as Kedryn and Wynett, with Tepshen Lahl and
Brannoc close behind, came on board. Rycol and the Lady Marga stood on the
harborside as they had stood before to watch Bedyr and Yrla depart, though now
the chatelain had more to do than wait for Brannoc to emerge from the
Beltrevan, for Kedryn had left him with clear orders. He was to alert Tamur,
not to arm, but to stand ready for war should word to the contrary fail to come
out of Andurel, and already the signal towers were flashing messages to Low
Fort, informing Fengrif of the events unfolding far to the south so that Kesh,
too, should stand ready to march against the Galichian usurper.

           
“Shall we find peace some day?”
Kedryn wondered as the barque quit the harbor.

           
“Some day, surely,” said Wynett from
the circle of his arm. “Do we not follow the path of the Lady?”

           
“Aye.” Kedryn watched the figures on
the dockside diminish, fading in the wintry gray light as the
Vashti
found the current and the wind
bellied her refurbished sails. “But that path could lead to our death.”

           
“We have no other choice,” Wynett
said firmly, “save to turn our backs on all we hold dear, and that is no choice
at all.”

           
“No,” Kedryn agreed.

           
*
* *

           
For all the speed the steady wind
lent them, the journey seemed interminable and Kedryn grew impatient as they
scudded the roiling gray surface of the mighty river. Towns and villages swept
past, Galen docking only when conditions rendered night sailing overly
hazardous, and then their halts were brief as possible, their identities kept
secret from their hosts. No word had yet escaped of Hattim’s assumption of the
High Throne, the unusually severe winter locking the hamlets of Tamur in
isolation, and Kedryn began to wonder if he perceived a monstrous design behind
the usurper’s plan. By spring, when the roads opened again, the Galichian would
be firmly ensconced in the
White
Palace
, and if he held the Lords of Tamur and
Kesh, and their Ladies, hostage he would hold a terrifying advantage over any
counter action. It seemed too confident a stroke even for one so ambitious as
Hattim Sethiyan, and Kedryn felt the certainty that the Messenger’s hand lay
behind it all mount apace. He longed to reach the island city and uncover the
truth, no matter what the outcome.

           
The long winter stood at the
commencement of its decline before they came within striking distance of
Andurel. The north wind had softened and was bringing hail rather than snow,
the hours of daylight longer, the sun appearing more frequently, and warmer
when Galen announced that one more day’s sailing would bring them to the city
and Kedryn ordered him to bring the
Vashti
over to the east bank and find the mouth of the Vortigen.

           
They hugged the bank until nightfall
and then moved cautiously into the tributary river, anchoring when the lights
of Kemm’s encampment showed. Accompanied by Wynett, Tepshen Lahl and Brannoc,
Kedryn went ashore to find the Keshi prince.

           
Kemm was lounging on cushions,
restlessly listening to a poet recite tales of his kingdom’s past, when they
were ushered in. He rose to his feet with surprise writ large on his fleshy
features, staring at them as if they were the last folk in the Kingdoms he had
expected to see.

           
“Kedryn?” His dark eyes were
doubtful as he studied the Prince of Tamur, dredging old memories for
recognition.

           
“Aye,” Kedryn nodded, “we were boys
when last we met, Kemm.”

           
“And likely orphans soon,” the Keshi
announced dramatically. “Do you come with an army? It will do us little good,
unless we agree to see our parents butchered by that Galichian upstart.”

           
“I have no army,” Kedryn replied.
“Tell me what transpires.”

           
The same confidence that had gripped
him in High Fort showed now, prompting Kemm to submit to his authority even
before he learned that marriage had raised Kedryn. He called for food and wine,
dismissing the poet as he explained the events of the past months.

           
There was, indeed, a stalemate, for
when Kemm had learned of Darr’s death and found Galichian soldiery manning the
approaches to Andurel he had sought formally to cross into the city and been
turned back. Hattim himself had appeared to inform the Keshi that his parents
were held prisoner, hostage against his conduct and likely to die should he
engage in any attempt to free them or enter the city under arms.

           
“Yours, too,” he added mournfully.
“The Galichian holds them in the
White
Palace
; and the Sisters are confined to their
college. I have heard rumors that magic was employed against Darr.”

           
“Magic?” Wynett asked sharply.

           
“It is what I have heard,” Kemm
nodded. “Forgive me, Sister , . . Majesty! But that is what I hear.”

           
“It is what Galen suggested,” said
Kedryn. “Does the usurper employ advisers? Are there any close to him?”

           
Kemm shrugged, his black robe
rustling. “News is a commodity in short supply these days. I have seen nine of
my spies hanged from the Vortigen bridges, but what little word there is has it
that a Sister stands close to Hattim.”

           
“You said the Sisters were
confined,” Kedryn said.

           
“All, it seems, save the one,” Kemm
nodded. “I do not know her name, or even if what I hear is true.”

           
Kedryn turned to Wynett, his
expression doubtful. “Is it likely a Sister would accept him as king?”

           
“No,” she replied confidently, “not
if these rumors of magic are true; not with her fellows held under guard.”

           
“There is more,” said Kemm. “Many of
the Royal Guard opposed Hattim and were slaughtered on the spot. Those who
surrendered were executed. Their bodies rot on the palace walls. Sister Bethany
demanded the usurper remove the sentries from the college and was declared traitor
for her presumption.”

           
“No!” Wynett gasped. “I cannot
believe even Hattim would dare so open a declaration of heresy.”

           
Kedryn’s eyes were angry as he faced
her, his visage grim. “Does it not give proof of our suspicions?” he asked, his
voice harsh. “The Messenger would not balk at such measures.”

           
“No,” she agreed, “he would not.”

           
“This must change our plan,” said
Tepshen. “Gone thus far Hattim will not hesitate to kill you if you enter
Andurel. ”

           
Kedryn studied his friend’s face,
recognizing the truth in his words. Did Hattim thwart him so adroitly? He
touched the talisman, seeking again that inspiration the jewel seemed to
bestow, and felt its power fill him, calming the rage that threatened to erupt,
opening avenues of thought that revealed ways around the Galichian’s—or the
Messenger’s?-—design. He looked to Wynett, and saw that she, too, sought the
unspoken advice of the strange stones.

           
“It changes nothing,” he said
slowly, not sure the words were his, for they seemed to come not from his own
mind but from something greater, something that lay beyond the mortal plane.
“Hattim can slay me only at risk of announcing himself a regicide. Whatever
fell glamours were used against Darr he has succeeded in concealing. Should he
seek to employ those same gramaryes on me, he must stand openly condemned of
heresy. Should he seek to slay me by more mundane means, he rebels against the
king- elect.”

           
“Do you think that will stay his
hand?” demanded the kyo, concern making his voice angry.

           
“Aye, if he knows such measure must
bring all Tamur and Kesh against him,” Kedryn answered grimly, “and mayhap sway
Ust-Galich, too. To seize the High Throne in the confusion of Darr’s death is
one thing; to openly slay the rightful heir, another.”

           
“So what do you propose?” asked
Tepshen.

           
“I shall enter the city and confront
Hattim,” Kedryn said. “Before all the people of Andurel I shall announce my
right to the High Throne and demand that Hattim stand down.”

           
“There is another consideration,”
Brannoc suggested. “You believe the Messenger stands with Hattim—do you believe
he will stand idly by whilst you depose the Galichian?”

           
“No,” Kedryn answered, “I believe he
will reveal himself, and when he does he will show Hattim’s followers the
anathema they support. ”