Bedyr watched them depart, thankful that his son had two such good friends, though when he turned toward Darr his face was somber.
“Come.” The king motioned for Bedyr to follow him out of the Council Chamber to the rooms set aside for his use. They were as regal as High Fort could offer, being a military' bastion rather than a palace, though Darr seemed perfectly at ease within the stone-walled chambers, the floor of the outer room strewn with rushes, a fire burning in a simple hearth before which stood two plain chairs, a low table between them carrying a flask of carved crystal and matching goblets.
“My bones begin to feel the chill,” Darr smiled, filling the goblets with rich Galichian wine. “Or is it age?”
“You are scarce older than I,” Bedyr replied. “Mayhap kingship puts the chill there.”
“Mayhap,” Darr agreed. “It is no easy task guiding this realm of ours, though Kedryn has proven mightily useful in that matter of late. He grows apace, my friend.”
“He has matured,” Bedyr nodded, stretching his booted feet toward the fire, “and it is his future I’d discuss.”
Darr indicated that he should continue, sipping the fruity vintage as he listened to Bedyr outline his earlier conversation with Kedryn, his face growing troubled as he heard of the young man’s declaration and Bedyr’s desire that Wynett should accompany him to Estrevan.
“What would you have me do?” he asked when Bedyr was finished. “I cannot command Wynett as a father, for such ties were set aside when she chose to follow Kyrie. And I do not think it a good idea to speak as a king. If she does accompany you, better it be of her own free will.”
“Of course,” Bedyr agreed, “I would not have it any other way. But as both king and father, might you not suggest?”
“Is that the wisest course?” Darr asked. “By the Lady, old friend, I’d do everything in my power to see Kedryn happy. Kyrie knows, we owe him enough; but I am uncertain that you see this clearly. I feel the ties of blood may cloud your vision.”
“Tepshen Lahl said much the same,” Bedyr admitted, “but I see Kedryn’s mood shift like the striker of a bell, each movement wringing his soul. If he continues in this matter, I fear for his sanity. I fear that if Wynett remains here he may sink into a darkness of the soul to match his blindness. At least if she went with him to Estrevan he would have that consolation along the way. ”
“But when he reached the Sacred City?” Darr wondered. “What then?”
“Then the chance of his regaining his sight becomes more probable,” Bedyr said. “And if he does not—and if Wynett should then opt to return here—there would at least be the counsels of the city to shore him up.”
“You have a point,” the king allowed, his voice thoughtful. “I shall discuss it with the Sisters of Andurel, and if they deem it best that Wynett go with you I shall ask her to consider the possibility. I cannot do more than that, my friend—you know as well as I the limitations of my authority.”
“I accept that and I thank you,” Bedyr nodded.
“It is little enough,” Darr murmured, stroking at his thinning hair, his eyes fixed thoughtfully on the fire, as if the flames might provide answers to the doubts Bedyr read on his face. “And while we talk of Kedryn, what thought have you given to his part in Alaria’s prophecy?”
Now Bedyr turned toward the flames, his features grave, the comers of his mouth tugging down as he contemplated the question. “I am not so conversant with the Text that I feel able to give valid answer,” he said at last, “but I believe we must accept that my son is the one foretold, and that alone persuades me I am right to seek your aid in persuading Wynett to accompany him. If the Messenger still lives then Kedryn must eventually face him, and he will be better equipped for that struggle if his mind is at peace.”
Darr grunted his assent and asked, “Do you think Wynett’s resolve might weaken in his company?”
Bedyr smiled briefly, admiring his friend’s perspicacity. “You see through me, Darr—Aye, I believe it might.”
“Were Ashrivelle to find favor with him ...” the king said softly.
“I had thought of that,” Bedyr said, “and tried to put the notion in his mind. But he is fixated on Wynett.”
“It would be so much easier,” Darr went on, almost to himself. “I’d be happy to see my younger daughter wed to the blood of Tamur. And it would resolve the problem of Hattim Sethiyan.”
“He presses his suit?” asked Bedyr, recognizing the concern in Darr’s tone.
“He does,” the king nodded, refilling his goblet, “and he finds favor in her eyes. There was an exchange of tokens on our departure.”
“He has the right,” Bedyr said, studying Darr’s features.
“And so I can do little to prevent the courtship,” the king said, a mixture of sadness and irritation in his voice, “even though I do not believe he loves her so much for herself as for what she represents.”
“He still harbors that ambition?” Bedyr asked.
“He would be king,” Darr confirmed, “and even though marriage to my daughter cannot guarantee that elevation, it would mightily enhance his claim.”
“You are not so old,” Bedyr set a hand to his friend’s arm, thinking even as he did so that Darr had aged greatly during his years as sovereign. “You will rule us long yet.”
“But not forever,” smiled Darr, his gray eyes weary. “The time must come when the Kingdoms choose a new ruler. And Hattim Sethiyan looks to that time.”
“He would not have my support,” Bedyr grunted, reaching for the wine flask. “Nor Jarl’s.”
“To whom would you lend your voice?” Darr asked, taking the Lord of Tamur by surprise. “The time must come to face the question of succession and I have but the two daughters. Let us assume for the moment that Wynett remains dedicated to the Lady, that leaves only Ashrivelle heir to the High Throne. Whoever marries her claims by all our customs first right to Andurel.”
“I had not thought much on it.” Bedyr shrugged, frowning. “I had assumed a nomination of candidates and a selection in the customary manner. The Sisterhood would have their usual say, and I doubt they would support a Sethiyan claimant.”
“Who, then?” asked Darr. “Jarl might well nominate his son.”
“Kemm?”
Bedyr shook his head. “Kemm is no ruler. An excellent tender of horses—and I mean no disrespect—but not a king. He will ward Kesh well enough when Jarl dies, but I do not believe he could govern the Three Kingdoms.”
“Jarl might disagree,” Darr said.
“I wonder,” Bedyr shrugged. “Jarl left Kemm behind to tend the herds. Had he looked to put a crown on the lad’s head, he would surely have brought him north with the armies.”
“And Ashrivelle would not, I suspect, favor such an alliance,” Darr nodded. “It is a problem, my friend.”
“But one that we need not face for some time,” said Bedyr. “There are years in you yet, and who knows what the future holds?”
“Estrevan might afford us some guidance when the mehdri I sent return,” said Darr. “Meanwhile, I have no doubt that when Hattim marches south he will pursue Ashrivelle, and if she accepts as I believe she will, I shall have little alternative save to agree.” “But marriage alone does not ensure his ascendancy,” Bedyr repeated. “He would still require the agreement of myself and Jarl.”
“And you would withhold it,” Darr said, not asking a question.
“Hattim Sethiyan is not the man to take your place,” confirmed Bedyr.
“So we come full circle.” Darr smiled wanly, staring at his goblet. “Who is to succeed me? Were Kedryn to claim my daughter’s hand I should most happily announce him my heir. But if he loves Wynett, and is anyway gone to Estrevan . . . Mayhap I should declare a regency. ”
The suggestion took Bedyr by surprise and so for a moment he stared at his royal friend nonplussed. He had not known Darr so melancholy : it was as if the onslaught of winter set a pessimism on the king that turned his mind
to gloomy thoughts. He saw Dan- staring at him and shook his head vigorously. “ Tamur is my domain and I’d not leave her for Andurel.”
“Jarl would support you.” Darr’s voice was soft. “And Kemm would not object, I think.”
“But Hattim undoubtedly would,” Bedyr said quickly, not liking the direction the conversation had taken. He had sought the king’s help in persuading Wynett to accompany Kedryn to
Estrevan and not thought beyond that, but now he suddenly found himself caught up in the politics of the Kingdoms with Darr seemingly measuring his head for the crown. Devoid of such ambition, he found the prospect alarming.
“As would the Sisterhood,” continued Darr with what appeared to Bedyr a ruthless insistence.
“Darr,” he argued, “I am a warrior. I defend my borders and do what I can to govern my Tamurin wisely. I lack your foresight; your skills in handling people. I am not the stuff of which kings are made.”
“Nor is Hattim Sethiyan,” Darr countered.
“He cannot claim the White Palace without the support of Kesh and Tamur,” retorted Bedyr.
“But wed to Ashrivelle he strengthens the claim,” murmured the king. “And should no other contender offer himself ...”
“Marriage alone is not enough,” Bedyr insisted.
“But the throne must be filled,” Darr said. “And I have no son, so the crown must descend through the female line. Without a ruler in the White Palace, the Kingdoms will devolve back into disunity. Would you see chaos again?”
“No,” Bedyr said helplessly, “but . . .”
“Think on it,” urged Darr. “You would have my support.”
“And I thank you for that,” smiled Bedyr, “but I maintain that I am no king.”
“You may, though, have raised one,” Darr said softly. “Think on that, also.”
“Kedryn?” Bedyr frowned doubtfully. “He is too young.”
“As we agreed, he matures apace,” Darr rejoined. “And he demonstrates fine judgment. His victory over Niloc Yarrum has earned him the respect of all—and I do not speak of the morrow, but some years hence.”
“Many years hence, I hope.” Bedyr remarked loyally.
“Consider it.” Darr touched the medallion hung about his neck, turning it so that firelight glinted from the shining surface. “In time the succession will become vital to our hard-won unity, and when that time arrives Kedryn may well prove the one to take my place. I ask only that you think on it—and say nothing of this conversation. Save, perhaps, to your wife. But not to Kedryn or any other.”
“Kedryn has sufficient to think on,” nodded Bedyr. “Too much.”
“Indeed,” Darr agreed. “And were others to learn of my feelings there might well be the danger of assassination.”
“Hattim would not dare,” rasped Bedyr. “And Jarl would not stoop so low. ”
“Mayhap not,” shrugged the king, “but silence remains the safest course, and I must ask your word that this remains our secret, shared only with Yrla.”
Bedyr stared at the man who was both his friend and his king, seeking in the calm gray eyes some indication as to whether Darr spoke from natural caution or suspicion. Darr’s gaze remained, however, unfathomable, and the set of his careworn features suggested he did not wish to discuss the matter further.
“You have it,” Bedyr promised.
“Thank you,” smiled the monarch.
As his possible future was discussed, Kedryn sat drinking with Tepshen Lahl and Brannoc, the enthusiasm he had felt in the Council Chamber somewhat abated now that he had time to consider the implications of the task ahead.
“How shall I go to them?” he wondered. “Led by the hand? They will see a helpless blind man.”
“On horseback,” said Brannoc as if there were no debating it. “Horses are prized in the Beltrevan—few ride save the greatest of the ulans—and you will come to them as a conqueror.”
“But ...” Kedryn began, interrupted by Tepshen Lahl.
“Brannoc is right. And you can ride a horse.”
“Blind?” he demanded, dubiously.
“The horse has eyes,” said the kyo, “and you have ridden at night. We shall not be charging into battle, so the pace will be easy. You can do it.”
“Tepshen and I will flank you,” added Brannoc. “A word from either one of us will be sufficient to guide you.”
“And when I dismount?” Kedryn asked.
“Do as I bid you,” said the outlaw.
“They will still see that I cannot.” Kedryn touched fingers to the cloth encircling his skull.
“They will see the warrior who slew Niloc Yarrum,” countered Brannoc. “The hef-Aiador—the conqueror of the greatest. Did I tell you that is what they call you?”
“No,” Kedryn shook his head.
“I must have forgotten in my desire to arrange more binding ties,” Brannoc chuckled, prompting laughter from the younger man. “No matter—you have their respect and it will not diminish because you wear a bandage over your eyes.”
Kedryn shrugged. “I have little choice, do I?”
“None,” said Tepshen Lahl succinctly. “You began this thing and you must carry it through.”
“So be it,” Kedryn sighed, hoping that he could.
The cloud that had hung low about the Lozins for the past days broke up as Kedryn left High Fort, the overcast swirling and shifting into great banks of storm-threatening gray through which a wintry sun shed fleeting light on the escort of ten Tamurin riding behind their prince. They were dressed in battle gear, breastplates and mail glinting proudly, the blue peace pennants of their lances snapping and fluttering in the wind that still blew fierce down the canyon of the Idre. Kedryn rode at their head, brown hair streaming from the dark blue bandage covering his eyes. He had allowed Bedyr, advised by Brannoc, to choose his clothing, forgoing his familiar outfit of unadorned brown leather in favor of gear more suitable to so auspicious an occasion. Black breeks of soft hide overlaid with mesh mail clad the legs he used to steer his war-horse, a massive but reassuringly docile stallion offered by Jarl, and a matching jerkin sat light upon his chest, surmounted by a tunic of silver-gray bearing the fist of Tamur within a circle of pure white. His dirk was belted to his waist and his sword slung on his saddle, a ribbon of blue about the hilt, indicating his peaceful intent.
Tepshen Lahl rode on his left and Brannoc to his right, both close enough they could guide the Keshi stallion should such assistance prove necessary. The kyo wore light armor, a breastplate, vambraces and greaves, over breeks and jerkin of gray hide, the Tamurin fist inlaid on the metal that protected his chest, a half-helm covering his oiled hair, its cheekpieces emphasizing the slant of his yellow eyes. His sword was slung in battle position on his back, but like Kedryn’s the hilt was adorned with a blue peace ribbon. Brannoc had retained his customary garb of motley leather, the tunic a patchwork of browns and greens reminiscent of the forest in summer bloom. His hair was freshly dressed, the shells woven into his braids tinkling softly beneath the battering of the wind, joined on this day by small clusters of the red and white feathers that were a mark of peaceful intent in the Beltrevan. A similar cluster fluttered from the hilt of the Keshi saber jutting above his left shoulder, and a larger bunching from the pole he carried upright in his right hand.
Kedryn rode in silence, listening to the thunder of the river and the clatter of shod hooves on the hard stone of the road, thinking that the last time he had taken this trail it had been in the opposite direction, at a desperate gallop, with the pain of an ensorcelled arrow throbbing like fire in his left shoulder. He had seen little of it then, being largely lost in the fever of the wound and its concomitant magic, and he wondered if he would ever again have sight of the trail that reached into the vastness of the forest country. He gritted his teeth, pushing such melancholy from his mind as he voiced a silent prayer to the Lady for guidance and eloquence, wondering even as he did so if she heard him.
He had hoped for a recurrence
of that enlightenment that had gripped him before, revealing the way he should take and seeming to form his words unbidden, but it had not come, and he had embarked from High Fort burdened by doubt that he could accomplish his self-chosen task successfully. It was, however, as Tepshen Lahl had said: a thing begun that must be finished, and he was determined to dispense his duty as best he was able. It would, at very least, free him for the journey to Estrevan, and he still clung to the hope that Wynett would accompany him.
She had been there at the gate to see him off, taking his hand after Bedyr and Darr had wished him well, Jarl assuring him that the Keshi squadrons stood ready to come to his aid should such prove needed. Even Hattim had grunted an insincere farewell. But it was Wynett’s adieu that he valued most, for he had heard concern and trust in her voice as she called on the Lady to bless his going and ensure his safe return, and when he had squeezed her hand he had felt the pressure returned. It was a small enough gesture, but it gave him the hope he needed to stave off the darkness that threatened to invest his soul.
“They are there!”
Brannoc’s voice interrupted his musing, and he straightened in his saddle, assuming what he hoped was a suitable expression for a—what had the outlaw said they called him?—hef-Alador.
“Slowly,” he heard Tepshen Lahl advise softly. “Walk. Halt.”
He reined in, hearing Brannoc call out in the language of the forest, unfamiliar with the guttural tongue, recognizing only his barbarian title and his own name. Strange voices replied and then Brannoc said, “Dismount.”
He heard the creak of leather and the faint chinking of mail as his companions climbed from their horses and swung down himself, allowing someone to take his reins as Tepshen Lahl murmured, “Walk straight ahead. Yes. Stop. There is a chair.”
He let the kyo steer him, feeling the seat behind his knees, lowering himself into it cautiously as his heart thudded beneath his ribs so loud, it seemed, that the forest folk must hear it.
“There are eight of them,” Tepshen Lahl murmured. “Seated facing you.”
“They bid you welcome,” Brannoc said, “and hail you as the conqueror of Niloc Yarrum.”
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