Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02

by The Usurper (v1. 1)

  Food and wine were brought, and the woodlanders set to eating with gusto, drinking deep of the vintages as negotiations proceeded. They observed a demonstration of Keshi equestrian skills and Tamurin bowmanship; five superb horses were paraded before them, eliciting grunts of admiration and covetous glances; five wagons laden with wine kegs were shown; and the forest folk agreed to all the terms outlined by Darr.

  It was of no moment to Taws, for the woodlanders were no longer useful to him, save Remyd who served as his carrier, and that for not much longer. He listened to them betray his master with promises of peace and the bribes of trade, hearing the one called Brannoc announced Warden of the Forest. He watched as each man drew a blade across his palm, spilling red blood into a goblet of chased silver, vowing that should he forswear his oath his lifeblood should flow in full measure, the goblet then scoured with cleansing fire—in mockery, to Taws’s mind, of Ashar.

  And then his time came.

  The sun lowered toward the western horizon and the chieftains grew restless, unwilling for all their declarations of friendship to spend the night behind the walls of High Fort. They rose, unsteady from the wine and evshan they had consumed, and swore a final oath, clasping hands with each lord in turn. As Remyd’s bloodied palm touched Hattim’s the mage propelled himself out from the barbarian’s hair onto the arm. He bunched his hind legs and sprang, arcing outward to land upon the silken sleeve of the Galichian’s robe. Rapidly he leapt again, hurling himself to Hattim’s shoulder and burrowing into the soft fur that adorned the collar of the tunic. Hattim, his handsome features contorted in barely disguised disgust as he wiped his smeared palm with a square of silk, did not see the flea.

  He did not see it as he sat at supper, nor after as he disrobed preparatory to retirement, and Taws found himself ensconced within a wardrobe as the Lord of Ust-Galich donned night attire and climbed beneath the thick bearskin covering his bed.

  While Hattim slept the mage emerged from his place of concealment, launching his altered frame across the floor to spring onto the bed. The bearskin was a forest that he negotiated to emerge overlooking Hattim’s exposed throat, his compound eyes fixed on the pulse that throbbed above the Galichian’s carotid artery. He hopped delicately onto the soft skin, the lobes of his labium touching the flesh as the needlelike stylets pierced the surface to allow the blood-sucking labrum access to the rich life-essence. He drank deep, slaking hunger, and sprang away as Hattim stirred, returning to the safety of the wardrobe. It was too early yet—and too dangerous—to risk exposing his presence, and he contented himself with the feast and the knowledge he had gleaned. Soon, he knew, Hattim would quit the fort to return to his kingdom and then, when he judged the moment right, the mage would reveal himself and begin his work.

  “Those filthy barbarians have filled the place with fleas!”

  Hattim stretched in the heated waters of High Fort’s bathhouse, dabbing irritably at the bites on his neck.

  “I have not suffered.” Kedryn wished that he had chosen another time to avail himself of the facilities, but he had been unaware of Hattim’s presence until Tepshen Lahl murmured a warning, and by then it was too late, courtesy preventing his departure. “Is it not late in the year for such attacks?”

  “Mayhap, but I am still bitten. Look.”

  There was a splashing as the Galichian shifted position, then a grunt and, “Forgive me—I forget.”

  The apology did not sound sincere, but still Kedryn smiled his dismissal as Hattim added, “Take my word for it. I am plagued with the accursed things.”

  “You depart on the morrow, my Lord. Mayhap they will quit you then.”

  “I trust they will,” Hattim retorted. “I trust they will remain in these Lady-forsaken climes.”

  The insulting reference to Tamur brought a hiss of disapproval from Tepshen Lahl and Kedryn gestured, indicating the kyo should ignore the Galichian’s rudeness. He had come to the baths to cleanse himself and think in peace, not seeking argument or company, for there was much on his mind and he had hoped that solitude and the soothing water might help him assemble his thoughts in some sensible manner.

  Mostly they were concerned with Wynett and his own imminent departure.

  He had attended the hospital regularly since the parley, dutifully submitting himself to the ministrations of the Sister Hospitaler, although with increasingly less hope of her curing his blindness than from a desire to spend as much time as possible in her presence. Neither she nor the Sisters who had accompanied King Darr north had succeeded in undoing the glamour that stole his sight and it was generally accepted that only in Estrevan might he find Sisters possessed of the necessary talents to lift the gramarye. Now, with the treaties agreed, there was no further reason to linger in the north and Bedyr had voiced the opinion that departure for Caitin Hold, and thence to Estrevan, was his wisest course of action. He had spoken again to Wynett of her accompanying him, but she had proven evasive, refusing to commit herself one way or the other. Sensing that this was a dilemma for her, bom of what he hoped was growing affection, he had exercised self-discipline and refrained from pressing her on the matter, even though he longed to hold her and beg her to come with him. Now it could be only a matter of days before he left, the Tamurin army already broken up and the warriors marching back to homes and families they longed to see again, only a token force remaining to escort their Lord and Prince home to Caitin Hold. He found himself tom between the desire to revisit the familiar surroundings of his own home, to hear his mother’s voice and then journey on to the Sacred City in hope of regaining his sight and the painful ache of likely parting—perhaps forever—with Wynett.

  Already the bulk of Jarl’s Keshi were transferred across the Idre, and on the morrow the king took ship with Galen Sadreth on the Vashti for distant Andurel. Hattim had announced that he would follow the river down too, leaving his army to travel overland, and only Bedyr had so far failed to set a date for the return journey. Kedryn was unsure of his father’s reasons, for Bedyr had, uncharacteristically, proven as evasive as Wynett when questioned in the matter. He sensed that his father had some plan afoot, but what it was he had no idea, Bedyr merely advising him, when he pressed the matter, to bide his time.

  He felt that he had done all he could in the matter of his love, short of openly declaring it to the Sister—which was, he felt certain, the one thing that would guarantee her refusal to accompany him—and he found himself in a quandary. He had come to the bathhouse seeking the peace of mind that might aid him in resolving the problem, and instead found Hattim Sethiyan complaining of fleas.

  He lay back, letting the heated water flow over him, blocking out the Galichian’s voice as he pondered his dilemma. His departure could not be much longer delayed and he might be forced to bid Wynett farewell. He could think of no means he had not already tried to persuade her to come with him and he was forced to contemplate the future without her. It frightened him: he had found happiness in her presence and he did not like the thought of leaving her behind. Perhaps, whatever the Sisters of Estrevan might accomplish, of never seeing her again. The calm he had hoped to find faded, replaced with a black despair, through which Hattim’s words came as no more than the gurgling of the water in the pipes that fed the massive tub.

  “I said your father delays your departure.”

  “No doubt he has his reasons.”

  Hattim’s tone was petulant and Kedryn answered in kind, shortly, uninterested in the Galichian’s observations. It was curious enough that the southern lord should make conversation at all for he mostly ignored Kedryn, and on those occasions he found himself forced to speak with the younger man it was briefly and less than courteously. Kedryn, in turn, did his best to avoid Hattim, which had been relatively easy, the Galichian spending much time of late in his chambers while Kedryn, when not able to commandeer Wynett’s company, passed the hours exercising with Tepshen Lahl, who refused to accept blindness as a reason for sloth.

  “No doubt,” Hatti
m snapped back, “but why? I had thought you anxious to make your pilgrimage.”

  “We shall depart in time,” Kedryn replied tersely.

  “For Caitin Hold and thence to Estrevan?”

  “Aye.” Kedryn wondered why Hattim needed to ask the question, common knowledge that it was.

  “And Sister Wynett will go with you?”

  Kedryn’s jaw dropped and then clenched at the arrogant presumption of the query, intruding as it did on his inmost thoughts.

  “I do not know, my Lord,” he responded formally. “It will be her decision.”

  “She makes a prettier nurse than your bondsman.”

  Kedryn heard Tepshen Lahl shift position at this insult, water lapping against his chest as the easterner tensed. Quickly he said, “Tepshen is not a bondsman, Lord Hattim. He is a freeman who chooses to grace Tamur with his loyalty. ”

  “My apologies,” Hattim offered negligently. “Boredom renders me forgetful.”

  “Then you must be pleased at the imminence of your departure,” Kedryn retorted.

  “I am,” Hattim agreed, an indefinable undercurrent in his voice, “I am mightily pleased.”

  Kedryn wondered what it was he heard in the Galichian’s tone, or if he merely imagined it, his blindness denying him the ability to read the expression on the man’s face. Perhaps Hattim was simply anxious to depart the rude hospitality of High Fort, anxious to return to the softer climes of Ust-Galich. Or was there something else?

  He heard water slap against the tiled confines of the bath as Hattim rose, the sucking sounds of a body lifting.

  “We shall meet again,” the Lord of Ust-Galich declared. “Until then, farewell.”

  Kedryn listened to bare feet pad moistly across the floor and heard a door swing softly closed. “Has he gone?” he asked quietly.

  “Aye,” Tepshen Lahl confirmed. “Not before time.”

  “He lacks manners,” Kedryn observed.

  Tepshen grunted, the sound expressing his opinion of Hattim Sethiyan effectively as any words.

  “But we shall not suffer his company much longer,” Kedryn murmured.

  “No,” said Tepshen, something in his response prompting a fresh wave of curiosity.

  “What is it?” Kedryn asked. “What did you see?”

  “Did you not hear it?” countered the easterner.

  “He sounded ...” Kedryn paused, trying to pin down exactly what it was he had heard in Sethiyan’s tone, “. . . different.”

  “There was hate in his eyes,” Tepshen declared. “He tried to hide it, but it was there.”

  “Of me?” Kedryn shrugged, sending wavelets across the pool. “The trajea is long behind us.”

  “Perhaps there is something else,” the kyo suggested. “Envy? I am not sure, but that man is your enemy and you had best beware.”

  “What threat can he offer?” asked Kedryn. “He departs on the morrow for the south, and we shall soon return to Caitin Hold. After that there will be the Gadrizels and all the Kormish Waste between us.”

  “Even so,” murmured Tepshen, leaving the sentence unfinished.

  “Even so,” Kedryn said firmly, fighting the melancholy the statement induced, “I shall forget Hattim Sethiyan. Now will you help me from this tub? I have soaked long enough.”

  He rose, feeling Tepshen’s sinewy arm descend about his shoulders, steering him toward the steps emerging from the pool. They climbed out and stood gasping beneath the cascade of icy water channeled from the same spring as fed the tub, its invigorating chill tingling almost painfully on skin heated by the bath. Shivering, Kedryn took the towel the kyo passed him and set to rubbing warmth back into his body. Then, refreshed, he dressed and went looking for Wynett.

  He could not find her, however, for the Sister was then seated in King Darr’s private chambers, her face troubled as she heard out Bedyr Caitin, eyes the hue of cornflowers in high summer shifting from the serious, almost supplicatory visage of the Lord of Tamur to the gentle features of her royal father and on to meet the calm gaze of Bethany, paramount of the Andurel Sisters now that Grania was dead.

  “I ask you to consider it for Kedryn’s sake,” Bedyr urged.

  “Do you ask me to place my vows in jeopardy?” she countered, a blush suffusing her tanned face as she wrung her hands.

  “How should that be?” asked Bethany, softly.

  “I find him attractive!” Wynett said, the admission deepening the roseate glow decorating her cheeks. “And he has all but declared his love for me. It is hopeless, Sister! I am sworn to the Lady—and I will not break my vows.”

  “It is your will alone that defends your promise!” Bethany said. “I cannot believe that Kedryn would presume to force himself upon you, so there can be no question of your reneging on your fealty unless you choose it.”

  “But the temptation will be there,” Wynett retorted. “And what pain might I cause Kedryn? I would not inflict further suffering on him.”

  “He will suffer if he must leave you behind,” Bedyr said.

  “A brief pain,” answered Wynett. “To accompany him to Estrevan can only protract his anguish.”

  “Your presence would be a comfort, not an anguish,” Bedyr declared. “His blindness brings him to the brink of despair, and your company lifts him. I would not impose upon you, but I ask you to consider that in deciding.”

  “There is another consideration,” Bethany interjected. “Kedryn is the one foretold in Alaria’s Text. ”

  “I know that,” Wynett acknowledged, “But how does that affect my decision?”

  “He is the one—likely the only one—able to defeat Ashar’s purpose,” the elder Sister said slowly. “We are agreed the Messenger lives still—by all accounts he fled back into his master’s domain when he saw the Horde defeated, but he was not destroyed—and while he lives, the Kingdoms stand in danger. How he might next threaten us I do not know, but the Text clearly indicates that only Kedryn may stand against him in the final battle. Kedryn, however, stands in danger of sinking into despair. We had not foreseen the glamour that robs him of sight, and that is presently a mighty aid to Ashar, for loss of sight—as Bedyr says—robs Kedryn of hope.”

  “I cannot restore his sight,” Wynett interrupted. “I have tried! I have done everything in my power, but my talent is not strong enough.”

  “Perhaps not,” continued Bethany calmly, “but you do offer him hope.”

  “I will not offer him false hope,” Wynett said quickly. “I cannot believe the Lady would ask that of me, and 1 would not insult Kedryn with duplicity. ”

  “I do not ask that you should,” Bethany informed the younger woman firmly. “I state a fact: in his present mood Kedryn is weakened. Despair breeds doubt and he is vulnerable to whatever machinations Ashar’s minion might bring against him. Your presence alone uplifts him, and therefore I ask that you consider Bedyr’s request.

  “It is your decision. Sister, and should you choose to remain here none will lay blame at your door. ”

  “But he must know his hopes are futile.” Wynett’s voice was plaintive. “I could not offer him what he wants; nor allow him to believe falsely.”

  “No,” Bethany agreed, “were you to decide it best to accompany him you should make clear your feelings. Let Kedryn know that you go with him as Kyrie’s acolyte, companion to the Chosen One, and for that reason alone if that is truly the diktat of your heart.”

  “Would that not be to fuel hope where none exists?” asked Wynett, her frown dubious.

  “You can do no more than tell him the truth,” Bethany advised. “What he believes then is of his choosing.”

  “So his hopes would be dashed when we reached Estrevan,” Wynett said. “Is that kind?”

  “He would have hope until then,” countered the older woman, “and be consequently warded against despair.”

  Wynett shook her head helplessly, unsure which way to turn. In Bedyr’s eyes she saw a mute plea that she should help his son, the desire of a fond fathe
r to aid his child in whatever way he might; Bethany’s gaze was calm and unreadable, forcing upon her the prime consideration of the Lady’s teachings: that selfdetermination, free choice, was all. She looked to Darr, who smiled and shrugged, speaking for the first time.

  “I do not speak as your father,” he declared, “nor do I wish to influence you with royal desires. I speak as one to whom the governance of these Kingdoms has been entrusted, and as a friend to Kedryn. What Bethany says is true; what Bedyr says is true: Kedryn is prey to black despair and that may—I cannot know for sure—threaten the Kingdoms. I would therefore lend my voice to the entreaties you have heard. I cannot, nor would I, command you, but I ask that you ponder on these things and decide for yourself.

  “Perhaps this will aid you.” He brought a sealed packet from within his robe and Wynett gasped as she recognized the signet of the Sorority imprinted in the wax. Darr’s kindly features assumed an expression of embarrassment. “I hope you will forgive me the assumption, but it seemed to me a matter in which the advice of Estrevan may well be helpful. I do not know what it says—I sent mehdri to the Morfah Pass with a report of the situation and the senders there communicated with Estrevan. This is Gerat’s reply. Best read it at your leisure, 1 think.” ,