The captain halted outside a carven door and tapped three times. A voice granted entry and he thrust the door open, seeing Bedyr and Yrla seated either side of a cheerful fire, leather-bound books in both their hands. It crossed his mind, briefly, to wonder what it would be like to have such learning that time might be passed reading and, although he was far too well-disciplined to express the thought, what message the rider had for them.
He said, “A mehdri has arrived with a message, Lord Bedyr,” and ushered the weary man inside, closing the door as Bedyr rose.
“My Lord Bedyr, Lady Yrla,” the mehdri said formally, “I bring word from King Darr in Andurel.”
Bedyr took in the man’s exhaustion at a glance, gesturing at his vacated chair: “Sit down.”
Yrla reached to the dipper of the jug set beside the hearth, filling a mug with the mulled wine.
“You have come far. Please, seat yourself and take wine with us.”
The mehdri nodded gratefully and eased himself stiffly into the chair. He took the cup that Yrla offered, smiling his thanks, but set it down, reaching instead for his pouch.
He brought out a folded parchment, sealed in three places with yellow wax in which the royal signet was imprinted. Bedyr took the sheet from him, and only then did the mehdri lift the mug and sip the spicy brew, his duty done.
Bedyr broke the seals and studied the message, a frown forming. He passed it to Yrla. Her own features grew disturbed as she read the words set there in Darr’s familiar hand and the mehdri recognized concern, or fear, in her look. He pushed upright, wincing as he straightened, and said carefully, “My Lord, my Lady, you will excuse me?”
Bedyr recognized his tact and smiled thanks, nodding. “Of course. You have come far, and must be weary. A bath? or a bed? Food first?”
“A bath, I think, my Lord,” the mehdri smiled ruefully. “Then food. A bed last.”
Bedyr nodded again and flung the door open to shout for a servant who escorted the rider away down the corridor. Bedyr closed the door and turned to Yrla.
“We cannot go,” she said, still clutching Darr’s message. “I will not go!”
Bedyr’s expression grew tortured and he crossed to stand before her, his back to the fire. “I think we have little choice.”
“Darr does not know we await word of our son,” she answered. “He cannot know that, or he would not impose this on us.”
“An imposition lies on him,” Bedyr said slowly. “He has not sought this—he has no choice in the matter. ”
“He suggests delay.” Yrla tapped the parchment.
“He has delay,” Bedyr said, regret in his tone. “Had that man found us in Caitin Hold we should have been en route ere Urstide. We should be closing on Andurel now.”
“E’en so,” Yrla shook her head. “We can send word back down the river—tell Darr what transpires.”
“And would Hattim understand?” asked Bedyr, gently.
“I care not a jot whether the Lord of Ust-Galich understands,” Yrla responded fiercely. “Or Ashrivelle—who shows little sense in her choice of husband!—or anyone. I have waited too long for word of our son and I would not put more distance between us than this.”
“The Galichian army must close on Andurel by now,” Bedyr said, his voice thoughtful. “This winter will have slowed the march, but still it must be close. Or there. Camped about the city. ”
“What of it?” Yrla demanded.
“Hattim is ambitious,” Bedyr answered. “He has secured Ashrivelle’s hand and now waits only for the formality of marriage. By custom our presence is required at that ceremony— and Darr clearly seeks our help in the deciding of the succession. Should we not attend—for whatever reason!—Hattim may insist the ceremony proceed. And with his army in place, Darr may have no choice but to agree.”
“He would not dare!” Yrla gasped, seeing the direction of her husband’s argument.
“I have dealt with Hattim,” Bedyr murmured, “and I believe he would dare. And should he consequently take the High Throne, it would suit Tamur ill to have such an enemy.”
“You are not afraid of him,”
It was a statement and Bedyr shook his head in agreement. “No, I do not fear Hattim Sethiyan, but I fear for the Kingdoms should such as he lay claim to the White Palace.”
“You would go?” asked Yrla. “Without word of Kedryn?”
“Jarl has but one voice,” Bedyr said, “and Darr’s hands are somewhat tied. He needs me there.”
“And Kedryn needs us here,” said Yrla defiantly.
Bedyr sighed, sinking to his knees before the raven-haired woman. He took her hands in his, his eyes troubled as he studied her lovely face.
“If Kedryn is alive, then Brannoc will find him and bring him out of the Beltrevan,” he said. “He can follow us down the Idre, perhaps even in time to attend this wedding. If not . . .’’He paused, not wishing to voice the alternative. “In either event, there is nothing we can do here save wait. In Andurel we might serve the Kingdoms better. Serve Kedryn better, too.”
“He is our son.” Yrla’s tone was dogged.
“Aye,” said Bedyr. “He is our son and I love him. But he has a destiny to fulfill and so do we. I love these Kingdoms, too, and it is my duty to serve them as best I can. I think that Darr has need of me—of us both—and I think that perhaps that need is greater now than Kedryn’s.”
Yrla stifled tears, imposing on her troubled mind the tranquillity instilled by the years of training in Estrevan, seeking to unravel the complex threads of impending fate she felt gathering about her.
“Did you not say there was a pattern we could not read?” asked Bedyr, and she nodded slowly, regretfully.
“Aye, I did. But it had not occurred to me that it would require my desertion of our son.”
“We do not desert him,” Bedyr said urgently. “We do our duty, and he would understand that.”
“You are decided,” Yrla said softly.
“I believe it is decided for us,” said Bedyr, just as quietly. “I like it no better than you, but I see no other choice than to answer Darr’s summons.”
Yrla studied her husband’s face, seeing on it regret but none of the irresolution that had earlier shown there. He was, without doubt, a man of action and while his concern for Kedryn was undoubted, he was able to set aside personal emotions in service of his greater duty. And, she had to admit, his arguments were unpleasantly valid: they could do nothing for Kedryn save sit and wait, while in Andurel they might well serve both Kingdoms and son far better. It was a question of priorities that gave rise to dilemma: as a mother, her instinct was to remain in High Fort, to stay as close to her son as possible; as the Lady Yrla Belvanne na Caitin, wife of the Lord of Tamur, her duty was to serve the Kingdoms, to obey the king. She closed her eyes and sighed, then forced a wan smile to her lips as she nodded.
“You are right, and 1 prevaricate. We must go to Andurel.”
Bedyr rose to his feet, cupping her face between his hands. “The Lady blessed me when she sent me you,” he murmured. “I will find Rycol and arrange passage.”
Yrla watched him go from the chamber and turned to face the fire. It blazed merrily but did little to warm the cold that chilled her heart.
Rycol, when Bedyr outlined the gist of Darr’s message, saw the danger instantly and sent men to inquire in the town of available boats. As luck would have it a late-season trading barque had recently docked with a cargo of fruits and wine from the south, the master delighted to offer the Lord and Lady of Tamur passage down the Idre. The tiny midships cabin was prepared for them and they embarked a day later. Rycol and the Lady Marga, surrounded by Bedyr’s Tamurin escort, for which there was not room on the vessel, saw them off, standing huddled in thick cloaks on the wharfside. It was a sullen day, the canescent sky matching the mood of their departure, the wind that screeched from the canyon lashing the undulating surface of the river to a foaming grayish white. Bedyr, trusting in the medicaments provided by Rycol
’s Sisters to quell his river sickness, stood beside Yrla at the taffrail, watching the massive walls of High Fort fade into obscurity against the greater bulk of the Lozins as the oarsmen dipped their sweeps, bringing the barque rapidly into the current, where the master shouted for them to ship oars as the sails unfurled and the wind took them fast southward.
The mehdri sent to bring word to Jarl found easier passage than his westbound comrade. A ferry took him across the Vortigen and he rode north and east toward Keshaven across the sweeping plains that were the domain of the horse lords. Kesh was thin on towns, but farms and ranches were plentiful, affording him ample shelter as he crossed the windswept grasslands, using the network of roads and trails that were largely reserved for such as he, and while his fellow struggled with the rigors of the Geffyn he came in sight of Keshaven.
The capital of the eastern kingdom was a sprawl of low, stone buildings to the south of one of the few forests in Kesh. A Tamurin would likely—and a barbarian certainly—consider the forest little more than a sizable wood, but to the inhabitants of Keshaven it was a most welcome defense against the wind that scoured the savannas, a useful source of fuel, and a diversion from the seemingly endless expanse of grass. It was for those reasons, and the stream that flowed out of the timber, that Yathyn, the first
Lord of Kesh, had chosen to site his ranch there. That ranch had long since become a palace, and around it had grown a town, though the land beyond remained the personal property of the Keshi lords.
The town was built on both sides of the stream, bridges spanning the water so frequently that large tracts were virtually hidden, the largest leading directly to the palace. The mehdri, his coming observed by black-clad townsfolk, clattered over the wooden bridge and found himself confronted by a wooden gate and guard post. He halted, cupping his hands to send his voice over the wailing of the wind, and shouted, “A mehdri asks entrance. I bear a message.”
A man who would have been tall had his legs not been so bowed stepped from the shelter of the guard post and replied, “Enter and welcome, mehdri,” and two men trotted out to swing the gates wide.
The mehdri rode through and halted as the bowlegged man approached him. “I bear word from the king for the Lord Jarl,” he said.
The officer nodded and called over his shoulder, bringing two men on big Keshi stallions from the stable behind the post building.
He said, “Take him to Jarl,” and the riders fell in either side of the messenger, their horses lifting to an easy canter with no apparent instruction. They were dark, hooknosed men, typical of the Keshi, their hair braided, clad in sable breeks and padded tunics, curved sabers slung across their backs. They spoke not at all and the mehdri studied the land about him as they rode toward the palace. A vast meadow separated Jarl’s home from the town of Keshaven, the grass sere, but still foraged by herds of the long-legged horses that were the pride of the kingdom, turning curious eyes to the trio of riders, the stallions nickering tentative challenges that went ignored by the disciplined war-horses.
A high palisade, wooden save for the watchtowers spaced at intervals along its length, surrounded the palace and the escort slowed to a walk as they approached. A gate swung open and they rode beneath its arch onto a lawn where the mehdri’s two companions reined in, giving him into the care of a third man who nodded and mounted a horse to lead the messenger forward. He wondered if the Keshi ever went afoot.
The palace was a mixture of stone and wood, its central buildings comprised of great blocks, with timber-built substructures extending from the sides. Save for a tall tower nothing was more than a single story, though the ornate railings that ran the length of the upper levels attested to roof gardens. A veranda shaded the forefront from the midaftemoon sun that shone fitfully from the cold, steely sky and the mehdri’s escort halted there.
“Give me your horse,” he said, “and I’ll see her bedded.”
“My thanks.” The mehdri climbed down, passing his reins to the Keshi, knowing the animal would be well tended.
He stepped onto the veranda and smoothed his cloak as a silver-haired man with skin like aged leather and a dragging foot limped toward him.
“Mehdri, eh?” He spoke before the messenger could give formal greeting. “You’ll be wanting Jarl. Well, come this way.”
He beckoned, leading the mehdri into a spacious, low-ceilinged hall that was a surprising contrast to the austerity of the building’s exterior. Gaily patterned tiles formed the floor, warmed by the pipes of the hypocaust beneath, a marble fountain at their center splashing a tinkling trickle of water into a series of bowls in which fat red and gold fish swam lazily. Trailing plants hung in baskets from the roof beams, color on color against the tiles of the walls. Light fell in filigree patterns from the ironwork of the windows and the beaten copper of the dangling lanterns. The air was warm and spiced with foreign scents.
“Come,” the old man said, too familiar with the hall’s exotic charms to share the mehdri’s wonder, and stepped through an archway on which designs that should have clashed formed a harmonious pattern.
They went down a narrow corridor lit by slender windows and emerged into a smaller hall, all alcoves and cushioned benches, a great golden cage at the center containing a profusion of small, brightly colored birds that filled the room with their high-pitched song. The old man paused before double doors of polished wood inlaid with chasings of silver and tugged on a tasseled cord of green silk. The mehdri heard a bell chime, and the doors opened.
“A mehdri with a message for Lord Jarl,” the oldster announced, and turned away.
The mehdri found himself facing two burly Keshi in flowing black pallia, the horsehead of their kingdom shaped in silver against a green background on the left breasts. Sabers were sheathed at their waists and as they turned to announce him, their voices in perfect unison, he heard the faint chink of mail beneath their robes.
Beyond them he saw a chamber fine as any in the White Palace, grander than many. The floor was of brilliantly polished wood, its sheen reflecting the glow of the lanterns hung about the walls, rugs scattered casually, and cushions that served as seating. The ceiling was vaulted, intricately carved arches swooping gently to a great disk of colored glass that pooled a rainbow over and around the three musicians squatted beneath. Two held Keshi flutes, the third a balur, its final note lingering on the expectant air. Past them, sprawled on cushions, the mehdri recognized Jarl of Kesh. He wore a simple robe, black as was the custom of his people, the horsehead emblem silver against dark green, his beak-nosed face alert as he swept strands of glossy black hair from his tanned forehead and beckoned the mehdri toward him.
On his left sat a younger version of himself, plumper, but unmistakably Jarl’s progeny, Kemm; on his right, four women of varying ages, dressed in rich gowns, their fingers bright with rings, the gold circles in the left nostrils of three declaring them concubines, the fourth Arlynn, Lady of Kesh. She studied the mehdri and then glanced at her husband, who raised a ringed hand, whereupon she rose in a swirl of colored skirts and ushered the other women before her from the chamber, the musicians following on their heels.
“Sit,” Jarl said. “Take wine with us.”
The mehdri smiled his thanks but made no move to accept the invitation, reaching instead to his pouch, from which he took Darr’s message, handing it to Jarl. Only then did he settle on the cushions and accept the jeweled goblet Kemm passed him.
Jarl broke the seals and read in silence. Then thrust the parchment at his son.
“There is no other message?” he asked.
“No, my Lord.”
Jarl nodded slowly, as if appraising something in his mind, turning bird-bright eyes of a startling green to the mehdri.
“Lord Hattim prepares for his wedding?”
“He does, my Lord.”
“And his army?”
“Marches south. It had not reached Andurel when I left the city.”
Jarl grunted, then: “You will wish to bathe, n
o doubt. And eat.”
Recognizing polite dismissal, the mehdri nodded. “Indeed, my Lord. A bath would be most welcome.”
Jarl motioned at the two doormen. “Show this weary traveler to our baths and have food prepared for him. Ask my wife to attend me.”
The mehdri rose, bowing his thanks, and followed the guards from the chamber. When he was gone Jarl filled a goblet with wine and drank deep. “Well?” he asked his son. “What do you make of it?”
“Hattim’s desire to wed Ashrivelle is well known,” said Kemm.
Jarl sighed, staring at his son with fond exasperation. “As is his ambition. ”
“He cannot be Lord of Ust-Galich and take the High Throne, both,” Kemm said.
“No.”
Jarl paused as the door opened and the Lady Arlynn came in. She was a woman in her middle years, still handsome, but tending to plumpness. The gray that streaked her black hair was hidden by dyes, and cosmetics concealed the lines on her face; the intelligence that shone in her eyes could not be hidden. Jarl took the parchment from Kemm’s hand and gave it to her,
“What do you think of this news?” he demanded.
Arlynn studied the message and clicked her tongue against her teeth.
“Hattim looks to the White Palace. He will offer some protege as Lord of Ust-Galich.”
“Is that so bad?” asked Kemm.
Jarl sighed, addressing himself to Arlynn rather than his son: “He is so good with horses. Would that he understood men as well.”
Arlynn smiled and patted Kemm’s knee. “If Hattim Sethiyan is able to take the High Throne whilst some puppet occupies Ust-Galich he will, for all effect, rule both Andurel and the southern kingdom. He will control the heart of the Three Kingdoms, with greater power than either your father or Bedyr Caitin. He will control the center of trade and command both the Ust-Idre and the Vortigen—he will have a stranglehold on the Kingdoms.”
“But he cannot lay claim to the High Throne without the blessing of Kesh and Tamur,” Kemm said, frowning.
“Darr has no other child, save Wynett,” Arlynn explained, “and she is sworn to service of the Lady. If Ashrivelle chooses Hattim, Darr can neither refuse nor prevent Hattim’s claim to right by marriage.” She turned to her husband. “You cannot prevent the wedding.”
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