Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02

by The Usurper (v1. 1)

  “And I,” Darr announced. “I had thought to see a costly campaign and I am delighted the Prince of Tamur has succeeded in showing us a way to avoid such bloodshed. I thank you, Kedryn.”

  Kedryn bowed his head in acknowledgment, surprised at himself. He had entered the chamber with little more than the conviction that it was better to end the conflict than press the initial victory, and only a vague idea of how he might achieve that end. Yet when he had begun to speak he had felt himself possessed of a calm certainty that what he did was right, not only for the sake of the men whose lives would be lost in the fighting, but also for the unity of the Kingdoms, and that had gifted him with eloquence and determination. He had grown, he thought, from the battle- hungry youth who had first gone warlike into the forests in search of glory. Or perhaps that joining of minds against the Messenger’s darkness had endowed him with some part of Grania’s intellect, for it had been a talent of hers to predicate futures from the facts of the present and the assurance he felt was unfamiliar.

  “Let us then send word,” he heard Darr say, “and prepare for the meeting. Will you each ready your men, my Lords? And Brannoc—perhaps you are best suited to carry our suggestions to the forest folk.”

  There was a murmur of agreement and a scraping of chairs as they rose. Kedryn came to his feet, aware of Brannoc standing close by, then felt a hand upon his shoulder as his father asked, “Shall I escort you to your chamber?”

  “I would speak with Wynett,” he answered.

  “She tends the wounded,” Bedyr said. “Will you await her in the garden?”

  Kedryn nodded and allowed his father to steer him from the room, listening to Bedyr’s murmured warnings as they descended stairs and made their way through the yards of High Fort to the small garden surrounded by the walls of the hospital. Bedyr settled a cloak about his shoulders and left him there, promising to return once he had informed the Tamurin of the anticipated parley.

  Kedryn sat, feeling a breeze rustle his shoulder-length hair, chill with the first taste of winter. He could smell the dampness of the Idre on the draft and wondered how long it would be before snow fell. Over the pounding of the masons’ hammers and the muted sounds of soldiery going about their duties he heard birds singing and he smelled the soil where flower beds and herb gardens had been turned against the advent of the cold months. Absence of sight appeared to be heightening his sense of smell and his powers of hearing and he concentrated on identifying the stimuli that would have gone unremarked had he been able to see. He knew that Wynett approached, from the soft sound of her footfalls and the scent of her as she drew close, and he turned to greet her before she spoke.

  “Bedyr told me of your proposal,” she said, admiration in her voice, “and I am glad.”

  Kedryn reached out unthinking and found her hands, holding them in both of his as she settled herself beside him.

  “I remembered what Grania had done,” he said slowly, not sure how to put it, “and that persuaded me to speak. It was as though she communicated with me in some way. Does that sound foolish? I cannot explain it better. ”

  He felt Wynett’s grip tighten and sensed excitement even though her response was measured.

  “It does not sound foolish, but tell me more—tell me exactly how you felt the communication.”

  He shrugged, pursing his lips as he sought the inadequate words that might describe an essentially emotional experience.

  “I remembered how she gave her life, and when I did it seemed so . . . petty of me to sit bemoaning my fate. Then it came to me that I should seek a treaty of some kind. Persuade the Kingdoms to deal gently with the woodlanders, for I knew— though I cannot say how—that that was the best way for all of us. It was not a thing of words: I did not hear her voice, but it seemed that perhaps some part of her was with me.”

  “It may be,” Wynett said gently. “Perhaps a part of her remained with you after the joining.”

  “But you were part of that,” he frowned, “and you have not said anything.”

  “I have not felt it,” she answered. “At least, not in the same way. Grania was a Sister, and through that vocation she shared her being with me, so perhaps I cannot notice what has always been with me. For you it would be different because you have never known the ways of Estrevan. We are attuned to one another through our training and our talents, and we accept that just as you accept the weight of a sword on your belt without noticing it hangs there.”

  “Why do I not feel you in the same way?” he demanded.

  He could not see the blush that suffused Wynett’s cheeks then, or the way her blue eyes studied his face, but he heard the slight intake of her breath and felt the tension in her fingers.

  “We ...” she paused. “Our relationship is different, Kedryn. Grania’s feelings for you were . . . those of an elder Sister. Her concern was solely for the Kingdoms, for the general good. Mine ...”

  She broke off and he heard the rustle of her hair as she shook her head, the scent of it intoxicating to his nostrils. She moved to withdraw her hands but he tightened his grip, refusing to release her.

  “Yours are?” he pressed.

  “I nursed you back to health when you were wounded.” He thought it sounded like an excuse. “That creates a bond.”

  “You have nursed others,” he said, cursing the blindness that denied him sight of her face; knowing at the same time that were he not blind she would likely not be saying these things.

  “But not like you,” she said quickly. “There is a difference to you. Are you not the one the Text foretold?”

  “It is more than that,” he insisted.

  “Kedryn, I am a Sister. I am vowed to celibacy.”

  Her voice was a curious mixture of determination and something he dared to hope was regret. He said, “And if you were not?”

  “Then it would be different. But I am of Estrevan.”

  “My mother was of Estrevan, yet she chose to wed my father.”

  “The Text foretold it. Besides, Yrla had not taken her final vows.”

  “Is there no dispensation?”

  Wynett sighed and said, “Of course. But I do not wish to forsake my vows.”

  Kedryn was tempted then to open his heart, to reveal the conviction that had been growing within and beg her to relinquish her promises to the Sorority, but he was afraid of her reaction, afraid that so open a declaration might drive her from him. Besides, he was blind and a poor match for any woman. So he remained silent.

  “Do you understand?” she asked him, her voice gentle.

  “Aye,” he murmured.

  “Thank you.”

  He felt her lean close, her breath sweet, her lips soft as they brushed his cheek. Then, as he turned his head, she pulled back, extricating her hands, setting an indefinable distance between them. He straightened his back, leaning against the cool, rough stone of the wall behind.

  “After,” he said, “when the parley is done, I will travel to Estrevan.”

  “And my Sisters there will find a way to regain your sight,” she promised.

  “Will you accompany me?”

  The question seemed to take her by surprise. “I do not think ... I have duties here,” she said. “I have done all I can.”

  “Consider it,” he urged. “It would be a great comfort to me. And I am, after all,” this with exaggerated melancholy, “a poor, blind warrior in great need of Sisterly care.”

  Wynett laughed at that, and he was pleased to have lightened the moment for her, though nonetheless determined to persuade her. Or, at least, continue trying. She cared for him, he knew; that was obvious from her kiss, from the time she spent with him, and he felt certain that were she not of the Sisterhood his advances would be welcomed. But, as she had reminded him, she was dedicated to Kyrie’s service and he must therefore tread a most delicate path. Were he to press his suit with the full weight of the emotion he could feel growing within him, he was afraid he might scare her into refusing all contact, and he dr
eaded that. Frustrating as it was to find himself so close to the woman he had come to desire above all others while not daring to touch her or speak out, to have no contact at all would be infinitely worse. He lived in hope that something might occur to change the situation, forcing himself meanwhile to rest content with what he had.

  “I shall consider it,” she promised, “and attend my duties now. Come, let me see what effect my latest efforts have had.”

  He heard her rise and climbed to his feet, grateful for the hand she gave him as he paced the flagged pathway of the little garden into the hospital.

  There she took him to the chamber where the artifacts of her talent were stored, seating him as she prepared to remove the bandage from his damaged eyes. He sat listening to the sounds of her preparations, sniffing the medicinal odors of the place until she murmured a warning and he felt her closeness. Her fingers were cool as they touched his temples and he felt a pressure as she slid a blade beneath the cloth that encircled his head. There was the faint rasping sound of steel against silk and he felt his eyelids lift automatically. His eyes were opened but saw nothing save the darkness that had clouded them since the ensorcelled blade struck him. He blinked, but it made no difference.

  “What do you see?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he replied as he felt the heat of the candle she raised before his face. “I can feel the flame. I see only blackness.” Wynett made a little tutting noise and the heat went away from his face.

  “Tilt your head,” she ordered, “and keep your eyes open.”

  He did as she bade him and felt her hand smooth and soft upon his cheek, then the moist impact of liquid. He fought the impulse : to blink, feeling the drops she applied filling his lids to spill over onto his cheeks, like tears. Both of Wynett’s hands held his head back, resting against his temples and cheeks, her thumbs gently massaging the area directly behind his eyes.

  He gasped, unable to resist jerking his head forward as the blurred image of a window imposed itself on the darkness. There was an absence of color to the image, gray where he knew white plaster stood, the glass that filled the embrasure like winter ice, beyond it a darker grayness, as though he peered into a mist.

  “What is it?” she demanded, excitement in her voice, moving from behind him.

  As she moved, as the contact with her hands ceased, the image abruptly disappeared and he sighed.

  “I thought I saw the window.” He shook his head, laughing bitterly. “But perhaps I looked at a memory.”

  “Describe it,” she urged.

  He did so and she said, “The sky is dark. Mayhap your sight returns.”

  Kedryn grunted, cynical, afraid to permit himself too much hope even as he wished with a fervency so fierce it was almost painful that she was right.

  “Try again,” Wynett suggested.

  He did and there was nothing.

  “Wait,” she said, and moved behind him again, setting her hands to his temples once more, commencing the gentle massage, “Is there anything now?”

  He stared into the darkness, willing it to fade, constructing the image of the window in his mind. He saw it clearly in his imagination, but not with his eyes and after a while he sighed and said, “There is nothing.”

  “There is hope,” Wynett countered.

  “Blind hope,” he responded.

  “You must not give up.” She removed her hands and he heard her bustling about the room. “It may be these preparations of mine are taking effect.”

  He shrugged, his spirits sinking again in the aftermath of that moment of optimism, gloom overcoming him. He sat silently as she settled pads of cotton over his eyes, the unguent in which they were soaked tingling, then wound a fresh bandage about his head, smoothing his hair into place.

  “We shall try again,” she promised. “And we shall continue trying until your sight is restored.”

  Kedryn nodded dolefully, consoling himself with the thought that he would, at least, be guaranteed her company.

  “You must not give up hope,” she repeated. “If I cannot effect a cure, then Estrevan will find a way. You must believe that.”

  He nodded again, though he wondered how long he must wait, resenting his helplessness, knowing that if Estrevan should prove his only hope he faced a journey of several months’ duration, and that only after matters here were settled. The calm that had filled him was departed now and only his will kept him from shouting his anguish. He felt close to weeping, for all of Wynett’s assurances, and fought the impulse to reach for her, seeking comfort in her closeness, to hold her and sob out his frustration.

  But he was Tamurin so he nodded and said, “Aye.”

  Wynett heard the pain in his stoic reply and struggled with her own impulse to comfort him. There was a great temptation to cross the small distance that separated them and put her arms about his shoulders, draw his head to her bosom and murmur words of comfort. For an instant she wondered what it would feel like to stand inside his embrace, his lean body hard against hers, to give herself up to the caresses she knew he would welcome. Then she forced such thoughts away, reminding herself of her vows, that she was of Estrevan and sworn to the service of Kyrie, her talents needed—and lost should she forgo the celibacy that was their price. She was grateful for Bedyr’s entrance.

  The Lord of Tamur stood in the doorway with a question in his eyes. He looked the warrior his son might now never be, clad in leathern breeks and high riding boots, a simple jerkin with the clenched fist of his kingdom emblazoned on the left breast laced loose over a plain shirt. A longsword hung at his side, matched by the long dirk his people favored on his right hip. His thick brown hair was gathered off his face by a strand of leather, and in his physique and stance and gravely handsome features, Wynett saw what his son would one day become. Unless the glamour of the Messenger prevailed and Kedryn remained blind, for Bedyr’s eyes were clear and hazel; and greatly troubled.

  “Is there progress?” he asked.

  Before Wynett could reply, Kedryn said “No” and rose to his feet, moving awkwardly around the chair to grope his way to the door. He halted as he encountered Bedyr’s outthrust hand, turning slightly to bow and say, “I thank you. Sister Wynett. Please forgive my surliness.”

  There were tears in Wynett’s eyes as she watched Bedyr lead him away. No one could see the tears that oozed from Kedryn’s, because they were hidden by his bandage.

  Bedyr sensed his son’s mood and forwent the questions he wanted to ask, explaining instead that he had passed word to Tepshen Lahl to prepare the Tamurin army for the parley, while Brannoc was even now leaving the fortress to bring word to the barbarian chieftains.

  “Your suggestions showed sound judgment,” he complimented as they crossed a courtyard, measuring his paces to Kedryn’s less confident steps. “You surprised us all. I think.”

  “I was guided,” Kedryn murmured.

  “Guided?” Bedyr glanced at his son. “By what?”

  “I am not sure. ” Kedryn reiterated what he had told Wynett. “It seemed the words came to me.”

  Bedyr grunted thoughtfully. “Your mother would understand it better than I, but did Wynett not have some explanation?”

  “She did,” said Kedryn, “She suggested that some part of Grania lives on in me. So I embarrassed her by asking why we do not share the same rapport.”

  “She is a Sister,” Bedyr said, understanding his son; sharing his pain. “Do you know what the Sandurkan call them?”

  “No.” Kedryn cursed as he stumbled against an uneven flagstone, clutching at his father’s shoulder for support.

  “Untouchables,” said Bedyr. “The Sandurkan have their own gods, but they respect the work the Sisters do and consequently leave them alone.”

  “Do you give me a lesson?” Kedryn asked, mouth curving in a bitter smile.

  “Do you need a lesson?” countered Bedyr.

  “I need my sight!” Kedryn could not prevent the anger that tainted his response.

  �
��And patience until it returns,” his father advised.

  “For a moment,” Kedryn broke off as Bedyr warned him of a step, and they entered the corridor that led to the great hall, “I thought l could see. Wynett put something in my eyes and massaged my temples and I thought I saw the window of her chamber. But it passed and I suppose it was merely my imagination,”

  “Was that Wynett’s opinion?” asked Bedyr.

  “She was not sure. She hopes her ministrations have an effect, but she did not see what I saw. Or imagined I saw. ”

  “Mayhap they do. You must not give up hope.”

  Kedryn snorted. “So everyone tells me.”

  “Or become bitter,” Bedyr admonished gently. “Even if Wynett is unable to restore your sight, once our business here is done we shall travel to Estrevan. Meanwhile, however, you are proving a most effective diplomat.”

  “I had thought to be a warrior,” Kedryn grunted, pausing as a door was opened, the guard there murmuring a respectful greeting that he answered with a curt nod.

  “You have proven yourself in battle,” Bedyr told him, “and as you will some day be Lord of Tamur, a measure of diplomacy is no bad thing to have.”

  “A blind lord?” inquired the younger man doubtfully. “How should a blind man rule Tamur?”

  “With justice and wisdom,” answered Bedyr. “Both of which you possess, as you demonstrated today.”

  “I think I should rather be a sighted warrior than a blind lord,” Kedryn murmured.

  “For now be a diplomat again,” Bedyr said. “We enter the hall, and Hattim may well seek some opportunity to belittle you.”

  “Does he resent me so much?” Kedryn wondered. “Surely he can no longer consider me either threat or rival.”

  “He remembers that you bested him with the kabah,” warned Bedyr, “and doubtless that Ashrivelle looked on you with favor.”

  In the months intervening between his encounter with the king’s daughter and the ending of the siege, Kedryn had almost forgotten the princess Ashrivelle. It was strange, he thought, as Bedyr led him toward the high table, that when first he had come to Andurel and seen her, he had considered Ashrivelle the loveliest woman imaginable. Then, in the heady confidence of his youth, he had allowed himself to imagine finding favor in her eyes; and—as Bedyr said—seen it there. Now he thought only of Wynett, whose beauty lay as much in her character as in her visage. Now he doubted that Ashrivelle would find much to please her in a blind man, and it seemed Wynett was, as the Sandurkan had it, untouchable. He was, he thought bitterly, denied everything he wanted.