He wondered if he should have spoken more honestly with Ashrivelle—told her that her lover was overweningly ambitious and lusted for the throne as much as for her—but he doubted she would have listened, let alone agreed. She appeared enamored of the Galichian; entranced, as though bound by some love potion, and his doubts would, doubtless, have been reported, resulting in . . . He was not sure, but there was something about the whole affair that left him uncomfortable.
He was caught in a dilemma. Ashrivelle was bent on marriage to the Lord of Ust-Galich and Hattim had done nothing so overt as to provide reasonable cause for refusal. The traditional balance of power was a possible obstacle—neither Tamur nor Kesh would take kindly to such an aggrandizement of Galichian influence, but if Hattim did agree to renounce his kingdom that objection could be overcome, at least at face value. Hattim might declare a regency, but it would be a puppet show, whoever assumed the title a Sethiyan adherent. Yet who could object without chancing internecine strife? Should either Tamur or Kesh voice disagreement, Ust-Galich would have justifiable cause to complain and the hard-won unity of the Three Kingdoms be shattered. Corwyn might have found an answer in armed might, aligning Tamur and Kesh against the southerners, but their armies were scattered, homeward-bound, and the Galichians moved, albeit peaceably so far, toward Andurel. And Darr was no Corwyn, nor had any wish to be. Corwyn had welded unity from chaos and to take his path now was to risk plunging the Kingdoms back into those dark ages.
There was, of course, the possibility of agreeing to the marriage but not to a Sethiyan succession. To permit Hattim Ashrivelle’s hand, but refuse him the right of lineage that would lead to the throne. Let him take Ashrivelle back to Tessoril, where they could rule Ust-Galich together. But what of Andurel then? The succession passed down through the blood, the sons and daughters of the White Palace wedding the scions of the Kingdoms, those thus bound to the throne renouncing their inheritance for the greater duty of that heavy crown. And with Ashrivelle wed to Hattim, Wynett sworn to the Sisterhood, there was no other heir. Thus the throne would stand empty on his death—and that way, too, chaos threatened.
Darr moved from the window, crossing the chamber to the table of Tamurin oak on which rested decanters and goblets. He poured a measure of rich Keshi wine, carmine as spilled blood, and drank it down, his high brow creased in a careworn frown.
No such expression decorated Hattim Sethiyan’s brow, though his agile mind foresaw many of the problems that dogged the king. His was smooth, his smile carefree, exultant as he embraced Ashrivelle and whirled her about, listening to her laughter as she showered kisses on his face and told him her father had agreed to formal presentation of his suit.
Taws’s—or Thera’s—potions had worked their physical magic on a willing subject, drawing, as the transformed mage had promised, on the attraction already present to consume the princess with love. She adored Hattim, could find no fault in him, thought him the most handsome man she had ever known. She was virtually his slave, already—discreetly, lest discovery offend her father and dash their hopes—his lover. There remained only the formality of the wedding, after that the fulfillment of Taws’s promise: the throne.
He set her down and kissed her, feeling himself stir as she pressed against him, reminding himself that he must still exercise caution, appear an honest suitor, a suitable husband. Taws had explained that to him as the love potion was readied: it was not a glamour, for such would be too easily detected by the Sisters present in the city, but a nostrum that by its natural, physical nature might go unnoticed, enhancing, magnifying an attraction already present.
He drew back, holding her in his arms, smiling.
“He did not object?”
“Oh, he spoke of power, of imbalance.” Ashrivelle nestled tighter into his embrace. “That Kesh and Tamur might dispute the union.”
“They might,” said Hattim. “They might envy my fortune.”
Ashrivelle laughed. “I told him you would doubtless appoint a regent should there be such opposition.”
Hattim held the smile on his face, brushing her hair with his lips that she should not see the cold light in his eyes. “Aye, I could do that. But why trouble ourselves with such petty considerations? The marriage is the important thing. Jarl and Bedyr will doubtless attend and we can settle such matters then. We shall find a solution, my love—nothing shall stand in our way.”
Or my way to the throne, he thought, as she lifted her face, presenting her lips to his kiss again. Your father will no doubt seek to put obstacles in my path, but I shall overcome them. Taws and I will overcome them! And with Taws, I am invincible. Tamur and Kesh shall not prevent me, nor that decrepit fool, Darr.
He disengaged his mouth and took her hands, kissing them, murmuring, “Perhaps you should go now, lest my passion overwhelm me and we create a scandal.”
Ashrivelle’s smile became mischievous. “I care not,” she declared. “Let all Andurel—all the Kingdoms!—know that I am yours.”
“I know that,” he told her smoothly, “and whilst I long to proclaim it openly I do not think we should so disturb your father.”
“Oh, my dearest,” she sighed, “how thoughtful you are.”
Hattim beamed, steering her gently toward the door.
“I shall see you again when we eat, my love.”
“I cannot wait,” said Ashrivelle, but she allowed him to direct her through the door, where her attendant women waited, eager to hear her news. They saw her flushed, excited features and began to press her with questions as they escorted her down the wide, flagstoned corridor.
Hattim closed the door on the babble of their voices and turned to face the entrance of the sleeping chamber. The figure of Sister Thera emerged, the pretty features smiling in a way that Thera never had.
“You heard?” asked Hattim.
“I did,” said Taws. “It goes well.”
“Darr will seek some way to deny me the succession,” Hattim said.
“That does not matter,” Taws responded. “We need only firm a time for your marriage and ensure the lords of Tamur and Kesh attend. Before they arrive Darr will be dead and you will have the throne. ”
“And you your vengeance,” smiled the Lord of Ust-Galich.
“Aye,” said the mage. “In full measure.”
Chapter Nine
The snow that had fallen with increasing regularity over Andurel since the arrival of Hattim Sethiyan layered the city with an achromatic blanket that matched the canescent purity of the White Palace. The avenues and alleyways were cleared, but the parks and gardens and roofs lay unsullied, save for the tracks of laughing children—and not a few adults—who gloried in the opportunities for play afforded by the wintry conditions. Such deep and early snowfall was unusual in the island city and it seemed to Darr, as he proceeded through the frosted avenues, that this uncustomary turn of weather matched the political shifting he sensed in process. He allowed his eyes to wander as he rode, letting his charger, a stallion with coat as pale as snow, pick its own way, following the mounts of the Palace Guard ahead, studying the shouting children with a fond smile as they sent toboggans hurtling down the slopes, or hurled snowballs at one another. The air was chill and clean in his nostrils, the north wind blowing off the Idre bleached of the wharfside odors that frequently assailed the senses, the sky a steel-hard blue, silvered by the sun that reflected in dazzling rainbow hues from the whiteness. There was an air of excitement, of joy in this unexpected diversion, and it contrasted with the somber mood of the king so that the smile he assumed as he raised a hand in greeting to those who cheered him as he passed was a facade hiding his real discomfort.
Whether the Sisters could help him or not, he was not sure; any more than he was sure of the course he should take, but they were his only hope at present. He had thought of dispatching mehdri to bring word to Caitin Hold and Keshaven but held back: once the wedding plans were set afoot the lords of Tamur and Kesh would, by custom, be summoned to give their bless
ings to the union, and to send riders out into the winter now would merely impose a double burden on the royal messengers—and possibly provide Hattim with grounds for assuming insult. Darr did not want that—not yet—and so had decided to seek the counsel of the Sorority College, to which he now went.
His musings dimmed his vision and it was with a start of mild surprise that he realized the white stallion had halted, taking its cue from the horses ahead as if, accustomed to ceremonial procedures and an absentminded master* it acted of its own accord. He snorted brief laughter at himself and climbed from the saddle, passing the reins to a waiting guard as he walked across the swept, dark blue flags of the square that surrounded the college building. It was a structure imposing in its stark simplicity, a cube of pale blue stone only two stories high beneath a gradually angled roof that was now the purest white, patches of darker tiling showing about the squat chimneys that wafted pale smoke into the winter air. Balconies ran evenly around the walls, the wood painted the blue of Estrevan, as was the ever-open door that gave entrance to the interior.
Darr halted there, wrapping his fur-lined cloak closer about him as the captain of the guard pounded three times on the woodwork and cried in ringing tones, “The king asks entrance.”
The answer was prompt and amused, as if the youthful Sister who gave it considered such protocol to be exactly what it was—mere formality.
“The king is welcome, as are all who come in peace.”
“Thank you,” Darr smiled, and turned to the captain. “I am not sure how long this will take, Corradon, but doubtless the Sisters will find you and your men some warm place to wait.”
“Majesty,” Corradon responded, bowing.
Darr nodded vaguely and said to the Sister, “Bethany received my request?”
“She awaits you, King Darr,” the Sister said. “If you will follow me?”
She clapped her hands and another blue-robed acolyte appeared to lead the escort away as Darr followed the young woman down the low-roofed passage that gave egress to the inner courts. There were gardens here, given mostly to the production of the herbs that provided the Sisterhood with its remedies, but also to shrubbery and trees that in warmer times would blaze with color, lending the college the air of cheerful serenity Darr enjoyed so much. He glanced about as the Sister led him briskly along a cleared path toward the far end of the yard, feeling, despite his foreboding, the calm that seemed to emanate from the very stones of the place.
Beyond the gardens they entered the building again and the Sister brought him up a wide, stone stairway to an interior balcony overlooking a well in which a fountain played, the steady trickling of its water musical, tinkling softly from the smooth stone walls. They halted at a plain wood door and the Sister tapped twice, opening the door with a smile as a voice bade them enter.
Darr went in and ducked his head as the door closed behind him.
“Sister Bethany, I trust you are well?”
The woman who faced him was outlined against the window at her back, the light giving the prematurely whitened hair that curled about her head the appearance of a halo. She was tall and thin, rather than slender, the eyes on a level with Darr’s, studying him with a hazel intensity that, had he not known her, might have made him feel uncomfortable. There was an air of austerity about her, emphasized by the hollow planes of her cheeks and the straight, thin line of her mouth. Those who did not know her frequently did feel uncomfortable in her presence, for until she smiled she appeared severe, almost disapproving.
She smiled as she answered, and the expression seemed to shine brighter than the illumination from the window.
“I am well, King Darr. But I sense . . . discomfort? in you.”
Darr answered her smile and nodded, shrugging clear of his cloak to toss it carelessly over a high-backed chair. Bethany, Paramount Sister of the college, gestured at the table set close to the fire blazing in the hearth and the king took one of the unadorned seats surrounding the smooth-polished wood. A carafe and several earthenware mugs sat on the table and Bethany poured wine already heated and spiced with herbs, its taste simultaneously sweet and savory, warming as the king swallowed.
“You see through me,” he murmured.
“I see the set of your shoulders, the lines on your face,” Bethany replied. “We of Estrevan are taught to read such things. It is no great feat.”
“Would that I had such skills,” Darr sighed.
“Tell me,” the Sister urged, coming with typical bluntness to the point.
“Ashrivelle has come asking permission for Hattim Sethiyan to present formal court,” Darr told her. “I could see no course but to agree.”
“You had rather refused?” Bethany asked.
Darr sipped wine and shrugged, the comers of his mouth turning down beneath his gray mustache. “The Lord of Ust-Galich would not be my first choice.”
“Kedryn Caitin? Jarl’s Kemm?” Bethany queried.
“Kedryn, not Kemm,” Darr nodded.
“Who goes to Estrevan in search of sight,” nodded the Sister, “and the princess will not wait.”
“She is in love,” Darr spoke the word as though it left an unsavory taste. “Hattim Sethiyan is the only man for her! It is as if she were bewitched.”
“I doubt that,” smiled Bethany. “Were there magics afoot we should have sensed them. Sister Thera is close to the Lord of Ust-Galich and would doubtless have sent me word.”
“Sister Thera appears to have become the confidante of our Galichian cousin,” grumbled Darr. “As you know, he marks her amongst his retinue.”
“Which is no bad thing,” Bethany commented mildly. “Hattim Sethiyan had little to do with the Sorority ere now, and to have a Sister so close can only provide a benign influence. That is why I agreed to her secondment.”
“I do not dispute that,” Darr agreed, “but I doubt the wisdom of the union.”
“He is eligible.” Bethany sipped delicately at her wine, adding, “You cannot dispute that.”
“His eligibility, no,” Darr said. “But the wisdom? Ust-Galich bound to Andurel?”
“Hattim must renounce one throne,” came the even answer. “Either he forfeits liegedom of the southern kingdom, or the High Seat.”
“It is not so simple,” Darr murmured, thinking that Grania would have seen it in the instant. “Should Hattim relinquish Ust-Galich to some fresh bloodline it will inevitably be to some loyal follower. A Sethiyan puppet! I do not believe he would agree to forgo the White Palace.”
“Tamur and Kesh have a say in this,” Bethany interrupted. “Will they accept Hattim Sethiyan as ruler of Andurel?”
“Were he wed to Ashrivelle, they might have no choice,” Dan- answered. “The line continues through marriage.”
“And is Kedryn Caitin so much better an heir?” the Sister demanded. “He is the hero of the Lozin Gate and commands the loyalty of Tamur. That kingdom wed to Andurel might pose a union threatening to Kesh and Ust-Galich.”
“Kedryn would renounce Tamur and I should trust his word,” Darr said, shaking his head. “Bedyr Caitin still lives and might well father another child, even late in life. Jarl of Kesh trusts both father and son.”
“But Hattim Sethiyan is not to be trusted?” Darr stared at the Sister, unsure whether she spoke ingenuously. She smiled, setting down her mug, and continued, “I say what others might ask, Darr. I am no Grania, to foresee the future, but I know the Galichian army marches south and must even now close on the city, and that Hattim Sethiyan is quick to find offense. Is this not what troubles you?”
“Aye,” the king sighed. “Should I refuse this union, Hattim might well find reason to secede—or promote his case by force of arms—and thus foment civil war. Should I agree, then Tamur and Kesh might stand in opposition and Ust-Galich take arms in defense of Sethiyan honor. I seem caught betwixt high water and quicksand whichever way I step.”
“It is no easy decision,” Bethany agreed.
“It is a quandary,” Darr sai
d mournfully.
The Sister nodded, her hazel gaze becoming distant. She stared at the king without seeing him and he waited, knowing that she considered the options, hoping she might arrive at some answer that would provide a solution to his problem. In this, at least, she was Grania’s equal, for where the dead Sister had been able to prognosticate, weaving each thread of a situation to its logical outcome in such a way that she seemed capable of reading the future, Bethany had a talent for finding compromise. And kingship, Darr reminded himself, was so much to do with compromise.
“Ashrivelle is set on this union?” she asked at last, her eyes focusing again.
“She will consider no other,” nodded the king.
“And you can scarce refuse. Yet neither you—nor 1!—trust Hattim Sethiyan to renounce Ust-Galich.”
Darr nodded again.
“So you are trapped in this dilemma. But not Tamur or Kesh! And both Bedyr and Jarl have the right to a say in this.”
“Opposition will likely foment war,” Darr said, prompting a cursory wave of the Sister’s hand.
“Say, not opposition. Bedyr Caitin will bend rather than see the Kingdoms consume one another; and his counsel—as yours— stands high with Jarl. Therefore put these arguments to Hattim. As yet he offers no open dispute, and as a loyal lord he must, on the face of it at least, set premium on the unity of the Kingdoms. Express your doubts tactfully—the weight of leadership rests on your shoulders and Hattim must accept that—so that you do not object, but fear for Hattim’s smooth succession. Consequently you act in Hattim’s own best interests, and those of your beloved daughter, when you suggest the lordship of Ust-Galich be decided by yourself, Tamur, and Kesh.”
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