“No,” Jarl agreed, “that would be tantamount to declaring war.”
“Nor—by custom-—with only Ashrivelle in rightful line, can you prevent her husband from assuming the High Throne at her side.”
“No,” Jarl said again.
“But mayhap you and Bedyr can find some appointee to Hattim’s kingdom sympathetic to your wishes.”
“That is doubtless what Darr seeks,” Jarl agreed.
“Surely Ust-Galich could not stand against the union of Kesh and Tamur,” Kemm offered.
“Neither Bedyr nor I wish to see the Kingdoms descend to civil war,” Jarl said wearily, wishing that his son might have inherited less of his skill with horses and more of his mother’s acumen. “We, and our fathers before us—theirs before them—have worked too hard to bring unity. Our armies are scattered and we stand in the grip of winter. Should we give Hattim reason to find offense—to take up arms—his forces could seize Andurel before we have hope of rallying our own warriors. And with Andurel in his grip, and Ashrivelle at his side, Hattim would occupy a vastly strengthened position.
“Such a war might last for years. And while we fought, the forest folk might forget their vows of peace and come down through the Lozin Gate; the Sandurkan move from the west. No, we cannot risk war. We must do as your wise mother suggests and seek to find some claimant to the Galichian throne of less ambitious a bent than Hattim. Or circumvent his ascension by some means I cannot now foresee.”
“Toward which end we must journey to Andurel,” said Arlynn. “And the sooner the better.”
“Aye,” said Jarl grumpily. “Though I had looked to spend a quiet winter here.”
“It will be exciting,” said Kemm, “to visit Andurel.”
Jarl glanced at him, then looked to Arlynn, who nodded slightly, recognizing the question in his eyes.
“You will not accompany us,” he said, stilling the smile on his son’s face. “You will remain here to tend the affairs of Kesh.”
“Father!” Kemm protested.
“Kesh needs a lord,” said Jarl, modulating his tone that Kemm might see the sense in his words, “and I may have need of you. Should this affair ... let us say, go less smoothly than I hope, then Kesh may have need of a rallying point.”
“You believe Hattim would attempt such treachery?” Arlynn demanded, her voice suddenly sharp.
“I do not know,” said Jarl, “but I had rather know my back protected and my kingdom secure.”
Should he harm you I will bring all Kesh against him!” Kemm vowed loyally. “I shall bring down a storm about his ears.”
Jarl smiled, nodding. “I do not doubt it, my son. But avoid precipitate action. For now I had rather keep my eggs in several baskets than bring them all to Andurel. Should aught befall us, seek counsel with Tamur before you sound the war drums. I am, mayhap, overly suspicious.”
“But none too cautious,” murmured Arlynn.
Jarl took her hand, toying with the rings that covered most of her fingers. “Darr has not pressed urgency upon us, so shall we dally a while? Set out in a few days’ time? It will doubtless take Bedyr longer to come south.”
Arlynn smiled her agreement. “And meanwhile perhaps it would be as well to send scouts west, to see where the Galichian army stands.”
“Do you hear your mother?” Jarl laughed, turning to Kemm. “Is she not a wonder amongst women?”
The barque carrying Bedyr and Yrla southward ran for three days before a storm that precluded docking. Then they put in and spent a day repairing damage. Their passage was smoother after that, though little to Bedyr’s liking, die Idre restless, her banks white with fallen snow and her waters a forbidding gray. As they approached Andurel they saw the tents of the Galichian army massed along the western shoreline and Bedyr experienced both apprehension and a flush of anger.
“They occupy Tamurin land,” he complained as he stood beside Yrla at the rail, “and doubtless consume Tamurin food. Word should have been sent; permission asked.”
“Doubtless Hattim will claim winter as an excuse,” Yrla suggested, holding her wind-streamered hair from her face. “And say his men wait merely to celebrate his wedding.”
“Doubtless,” Bedyr agreed irritably, “but still they could have gone over the Ust-Idre into his own kingdom. I do not like it—from that position Hattim might take Andurel. His army commands the western approaches, and if they seize the bridges the city is his.”
“He cannot have warriors in Kesh,” Yrla said, “so surely Jarl’s men would oppose such a venture—should it come to that.”
Bedyr shrugged, hugging his cloak tighter about him. “Mayhap I see the worst,” he allowed, “but remember that Jarl’s army, like ours, is disbanded. At this moment only Hattim has full strength in the field.”
“And Dan’s forces?” she asked.
“Are not enough,” said Bedyr. “Little more than a bodyguard. They might hold the White Palace, but not the city.”
“Could it really come to that?” Yrla shivered, prompting Bedyr to drape his cloak about her, an arm spanning her shoulders.
“Likely not,” he sighed. “Likely I fret too much. But I like none of this.”
“Nor I,” said Yrla, leaning against him.
They turned then from their observation of the Galichian encampment to study the island city swelling before them. As ever, it impressed with its size and its beauty, sparkling snowdecked in the afternoon sunlight, the bridges that connected the cantons and the banks seeming, at this distance, miraculous webworks suspended above the waters that swirled on the west side into the Idre cascades, and on the east to the wider sweep of the Vortigen. The roads and avenues were dark traceries against the whiteness, the parks and gardens lost, so that all appeared some fairy-tale construction, rising in sweeps and undulations to the simple grandeur of the White Palace set atop the apex of the highest islet. The horn mounted on the barque’s prow belled a warning and the river master shouted for the sails to be furled, the oars brought out. The sweeps slowed their approach and they came into the harbor area gentle as a falling snowflake, the barque turning to come up against a mole, where longshoremen waited to take the mooring lines.
The gangplank was run out and their baggage transferred to the shore. There was little enough of it and within moments Bedyr was thanking the master for their passage. Harbor officials came from their offices to check the inbound vessel and one inquired of Bedyr what business he and his lady had in Andurel.
“Lord Bedyr,” he gasped when he was appraised of their identities, “Lady Yrla, forgive me. You are expected. Please, follow me.”
Bedyr was surprised, for their arrival could not have been timed, and he had anticipated no formal welcome until they reached the palace. Yet in the warmth of the harbor office they found a captain of the Royal Guard waiting.
He was a young man, burly beneath his silver armor and purple cloak, a helm under his arm as he saluted. His hair was short-cropped on a square skull, his nose broken. Bedyr recognized him vaguely from the battle of the Lozin Gate but could not put a name to the homely face.
“My Lord Bedyr, Lady Yrla,” the captain said, “I am Corra- don. King Darr sent me to greet you.”
“How could you know when we might arrive?” Bedyr asked. “I have been waiting some time,” said Corradon. “The king is most anxious to speak with you. He bade me wait until such time as you did arrive, then bring you instantly to the White Palace.” Bedyr nodded, his sense of unease growing. “Then let us not keep the king waiting longer,” he said.
Chapter Twelve
Horses were brought from the shelter of the harbor offices, a band of the Royal Guard rather than the customary venta forming about Bedyr and Yrla as they rode through the bustle of the dock area to the quieter streets beyond. Corradon took the lead, guiding them not to the avenue that led directly to the palace, but through the maze of thoroughfares surrounding that broad roadway. Cloaked against the cold they went largely unnoticed, arriving at one of the
lesser gates, where more silver-armored guardsmen waited to take their animals while Corradon murmured an apology for the informality of their entrance and hurried them to a small door that Bedyr recognized as leading to Darr’s chambers by a circuitous route that avoided the more public areas of the White Palace.
It seemed they came in the manner of conspirators rather than honored guests and Bedyr found himself loosening his sword in its scabbard, his ears attuned for sound of attack, his eyes scanning the narrow corridors as if in anticipation of ambush. Yrla kept close to his side, her eyes wide, a small frown wrinkling her brow, not speaking as they traversed the ill-lit, empty passage.
No ambush came and Corradon halted before a plain oak door, producing a key that he turned in the lock, offering further apologies that served to heighten their sense of unease. He thrust the door open and bowed them inside, a somewhat embarrassed smile on his lips as he said. “King Darr will be with you shortly. Please wait for him here.”
They entered and the door closed behind them, cutting off the sound of Corradon’s retreating footsteps as they looked curiously around the deserted chamber. It was a place Bedyr had visited seldom and Yrla never, the dust that lay on the ledge of the narrow window and the bare flagstones of the floor attesting to its lack of use. Bedyr removed his cloak and draped it over his left shoulder, his hand still on his sword hilt.
“What intrigues go on?” Yrla murmured, trailing a finger through the gray coating of a small table.
“I know not,” grunted Bedyr, “but this secrecy troubles me. This chamber connects to Darr’s quarters and few know of its existence: it would appear he does not wish Hattim to know of our arrival.”
“Why not?” asked Yrla. “It must eventually be made public.”
Bedyr shrugged and moved toward a door in the far wall.
It opened before he reached it and his sword was sliding from the scabbard as Darr appeared. The king wore his favored robe, old and gray, with no sign of his office other than the token about his neck. Yrla saw that his hair was completely gray now, and that his face was deeper etched with lines of worry, though his eyes sparkled with pleasure as he spread his hands and smiled at them.
“My friends,” he said, “Yrla—you are lovelier than ever—and Bedyr—you will not need that blade—please forgive this secrecy, but I am anxious to speak with you before Hattim Sethiyan presents himself.”
He stood back, beckoning them to the stairway on which he stood and leading the way up to another door that gave access to a more used chamber. He waited until they had entered and then closed the door, its frame blending invisibly with the carved wooden paneling of the walls. This room was banked with west-facing windows through which pale sunlight streamed, rendering the parquet of the floor lustrous, glowing on the spines of the books that filled the shelves lining all four walls. A fire burned in a low-mantled hearth and six wooden chairs stood around a circular table on which rested several decanters and five crystal goblets. Three were already filled, as were two of the chairs.
Jarl of Kesh said, “Bedyr, Yrla, welcome to our circle of intrigue,” in a sardonic tone.
Beside him, her gown an explosion of color against the somber black of his robe, Arlynn smiled and said, “Hail, old friends. Have you word of Kedryn?”
The expression on both their faces alerted the others to the disturbance of expectations, Arlynn’s smile freezing on her lips, Jarl’s eyes narrowing. Darr said, “What has happened?”
Bedyr took the cloak that Yrla doffed and tossed it with his to the empty chair as she sat down. “He sought to enter the Beltrevan,” he said hoarsely, “and Gann Resyth brought word the Fedyn Pass fell about his ears. Brannoc has gone into the forests in search of him.”
“Wynett was with him?” Darr asked, his face abruptly paled.
Bedyr nodded, “Aye, and Tepshen.”
“They are . . Jarl hesitated awkwardly, embarrassed for all his bluffness, “dead?”
“We do not know.” Bedyr dropped into a chair, his features grim. “We know only that the Fedyn Pass is blocked and the Sister there sensed evil.”
“Ashar’s work,” Darr said softly.
Arlynn reached to take Yrla’s hand, concern in her eyes. “You do not know for sure?”
“No,” murmured Yrla, shaking her head, “Gann Resyth knew only that they entered the pass and that the pass fell. We hope . . .”
Her voice trailed off and Bedyr continued, “That they live. Somehow. We can only trust in the Lady—and hope that Brannoc finds them.”
Darr poured wine, his hand trembling so that droplets of the ruby liquid splashed onto the table. He passed the goblets to Bedyr and Yrla and said, “Had I known, I would not have summoned you.”
Bedyr squared his shoulders, smiling sadly.
“Your message suggested some urgency. As does the manner of our arrival.” He glanced at Yrla and said, “Let us leave Kedryn for the moment. What transpires here that you wish to speak with us so secretly?”
Darr swallowed wine, absorbing the news, and said earnestly, “I pray that they all live—the Lady knows, Wynett is of my blood, and Kedryn . . . Well, I spoke of my hopes.”
“There is no point to picking at such a scab,” Yrla said, the firmness of her tone concealing the pain she felt. “We place our faith in the Lady and for now can do no more. Let us, then, apply ourselves to the immediate business.”
“Aye,” Bedyr echoed decisively. “What of this impending wedding?”
The others looked at them in silence for a moment, sharing their distress as they recognized behind the Tamurin stoicism the grief they felt, respecting the solidarity that had brought them south despite such calamitous news. Darr sighed.
“These are troubled times,” he murmured, “would that winter did not cut us off from Estrevan, for the guidance of the Sorority would be most useful now. ”
“There is some plot afoot?” Bedyr demanded, grateful that the conversation moved from that painful, personal ground.
Darr shrugged, stroking at his beard. “I do not know. In all honesty I cannot say there is, but there is something in me that screams it. I have consulted with Bethany, but she offers no great guidance other than the political. She senses no magic abroad, yet I have the feeling I am trapped in a web, with some malign creature drawing in the strands.”
“Hattim Sethiyan is malign enough,” Jarl grunted.
“He employs sorcery?” Bedyr asked in a shocked voice.
“No.” Darr shook his head. “At least, none that any can define or feel. But ...”
He paused, refilling his glass, looking from one face to another before he continued.
“Hattim returned from the battle of the Lozin Gate to woo Ashrivelle. She is utterly enamored. I had no choice but to agree to the marriage—overtly I had no reason to object—and so Hattim stands in line to the throne. Or will, once the ceremony is concluded. I raised the matter of the succession with him and he assured me that he will abide by whatever decision we make. His concern, he tells me, is solely for Ashrivelle and the Kingdoms.” “That carries the ring of untruth,” said Bedyr.
“Aye,” Darr agreed, “yet I cannot fault Hattim. His behavior so far has been impeccable.”
“Which is unlike our Lord of Ust-Galich,” Jarl grunted, tapping his beaklike nose. “I smell something rotten.”
“But cannot define it,” Darr said. “Hattim has agreed to allow us three to decide his successor; or to relinquish claim to the High Throne.”
“What?” Stark incredulity rang in Bedyr’s voice. “Did I not hear this from you, I should not credit it.”
“Yet it is what he promises,” said Darr. “He is the very paradigm of compromise. He will stand by any appointment we make, or any disposition.”
“I believe him confident of the High Throne,” Jarl offered. “He knows that Ashrivelle is the key—unless we change the customs of our forefathers, Ashrivelle’s husband must become king.”
“Or Wynett’s,” Yrla said quie
tly, her words drawing all their attention. “Wynett is the elder daughter.”
“Wynett is . . .” Jarl caught himself in time, amending the sentence: “lost. And besides, she is sworn to celibacy.”
“Perhaps not,” Yrla said. “If she lives, then mayhap her mind will change on the matter of her celibacy. ”
Darr stared at her, his eyes narrowed. “I saw them together in !
High Fort, but Wynett’s devotion remained strong. Have you valid reason to suspect some alteration in that situation?”
“Intuition,” Yrla murmured, her shoulders rising in an almost imperceptible shrug. “Nothing more.”
“That,” said Darr sadly, “is not enough. We are forced to deal with the immediate situation, and that is that Hattim will wed Ashrivelle and become the rightful heir to the High Throne. Our purpose—and this is why I sought to speak with you privately, that we might decide and act in conclave—is to determine what safeguards we can place upon that succession.”
“How we can draw Hattim’s teeth,” said Jarl, blunt as ever, “He will accept whomever we suggest?” Bedyr asked.
“So he has said,” Darr confirmed.
“It needs be someone less ambitious than Hattim,” said Bedyr, thoughtfully, “someone more concerned with the unity of the Kingdoms than with personal advancement or the aggrandizement of Ust-Galich.”
“Aye,” Darr nodded. “I had thought of Hattim’s cousin, Chadyn Hymet.”
“A possibility,” Bedyr allowed. “Or perhaps Hyjal Forwyn?”
“Too weak,” said Jarl. “He borrows too much, and stands in debt to half the merchants of Ust-Galich.”
“I did not know,” Bedyr said.
“Naryl Domme might be a likely candidate,” Jarl suggested.
Arlynn laughed. “You might as well appoint that wife of his, for she controls him as if he were stringed. And she is—or was—Hattim’s mistress. One of them, at least.”
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