Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02

by The Usurper (v1. 1)

  “Yet now it seems that Hattim will take that prize with such alacrity that nothing can stand in his way, prevent what many consider a succession detrimental to the Kingdoms.”

  “Do you say that Hattim works Ashar’s design?” Bethany demanded, her voice sharp with disbelief. “Surely not. Surely it cannot be. Whatever his faults, Hattim Sethiyan is no acolyte of that evil god.”

  “I do not know,” Yrla admitted. “I do not see how it could be, and yet . . . ”

  She broke off, helplessly, her lovely face creased by a troubled frown. Bethany stared at her, her own stem features worried. For long moments they sat with only the crackling of the fire burning in the hearth to disturb the silence.

  Then the Paramount Sister said, “You were amongst the most promising of the acolytes, and you have studied the Text: mayhap there is something in what you say. Certainly there seems, as you have put it, some kind of pattern, though still I cannot credit this notion that Hattim Sethiyan has sold his soul to Ashar. ”

  Yrla shrugged again, shaking her head. “Mayhap not. Mayhap the possible loss of my son confuses me. But I had felt that so long a time together would surely clarify Wynett’s feelings, and that such clarification would lead to marriage. And did that but happen, we should not sit here speaking as we do.”

  “No,” said Bethany, cautiously, “for we should celebrate the ascendance of a most welcome heir. But Kedryn is not here, nor can we surmise Wynett’s intentions.”

  “And so we must accept Hattim Sethiyan?” Yrla said softly. “Even though we doubt him? Even though he might—knowingly or not—work Ashar’s design?”

  “What other choice have we?” Bethany asked.

  “To trust in the Lady,” said Yrla. “And in Kedryn as the Chosen One, for if this pattern l sense is real, then only Kedryn may break the web, and if Alaria’s prophecy is true, then Kedryn cannot be dead.”

  “But we cannot know that,” said Bethany sadly.

  “But if we do not believe it, then we do not credit the Text,” Yrla said.

  Bethany sighed, toying again with her ring, her expression one of grief and confusion. “The Lady leaves us the gift of choice,” she said, very slowly, “and so no prophecy is binding. Alaria had a greater gift than any other Sister, but even the Text is not a guarantee, it is not a thing of certainty. It is possible that Ashar can circumvent its guidance.”

  Yrla stared at her, then finally said, “No, I must believe that Kedryn lives to save the Kingdoms.”

  “I pray that you are right,” came the quiet answer, “but I cannot share your confidence.”

  When Ashrivelle at last quit his chambers, eager to set in motion the preparations for their wedding, Hattim dispatched a messenger to fetch Chadyn Hymet from the cantonment. Once that was done and his rooms emptied, Sister Thera came in with two flasks of wine. One, Taws explained, was envenomed, the other the antidote. The Lord of Ust-Galich should toast his cousin’s appointment and after he was gone, administer the remedy to those who remained. Hattim stared at the flasks, for all the world no more than a particularly ancient Galichian vintage, suitable for so momentous an occasion. He set the poisoned brew at the center of the table and awaited Hymet’s arrival, somewhat surprised to find himself so calm as the closest of his court gathered about him, anxious to curry favor with the lord-to-be and the future king.

  Hymet arrived a little after noon, wrapped in a heavy winter cloak. He was a tall, homely man, his clothes drab in comparison with the finery sported by Hattim and his sycophants, his brown hair severely cut, his jewelry limited to a simple earring and a mere two finger rings. He saluted Hattim courteously enough, though his expression suggested he had rather remained with his men. It changed to one of surprise when Hattim told him that he was to become Lord of Ust-Galich.

  “Lord Hattim,” he gulped, “I had not expected this. 1 do not deserve such favor.”

  “He is modest,” lisped Mejas Celeruna.

  “Modesty becomes a lord,” beamed Hattim, “and you will, I know, rule our Kingdom wisely, dear Chadyn.”

  Hymet bowed, confused by his sudden acceleration to so lofty a position.

  “A toast!” Hattim cried. “I have found a suitable vintage in which to drink your health.”

  Smiling hugely he broke the seal of the poisoned flask and began to fill goblets.

  “To Chadyn Hymet, Lord of Ust-Galich!”

  He raised his cup, watching as the others followed suit, echoing his toast, The wine sat smooth upon his tongue, subtle as the vintage promised, with no hint of poison.

  “To the Lord Hattim,” cried Mejas Celeruna unctuously. “To our future king.”

  Each cup was drained to the full.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tepshen Lahl squatted beneath the awning of Cord’s lodge throwing knuckle bones with the Ulan’s Gehrim, his fulvous features impassive as he raked in his winnings. He had waited there for three days, refusing invitations to hunt or engage in the combats that occupied much of the Drott’s time, calmly declaring his intention of remaining until his charges should emerge from the medicine tent, or be declared lost, and the barbarians had given up their efforts to divert the solemn easterner, choosing finally—to their occasional regret—to gamble with him. He had amassed a selection of excellent furs and a handful of gold coins and held the bones ready to throw when a movement from the small structure at the foot of Drul’s Mound caught his eye and he sprang to his feet, the dice falling unnoticed, though had anyone looked they would have seen he had won again.

  The entrance flap was thrown back and the shamans came out, the paint decorating their bodies and faces streaked with sweat, their eyes wide with wonder. They formed a semicircle about the entrance, their rattles chattering triumphantly. Then Kedryn and Wynett emerged and the kyo saw that they were changed in ways both obvious and subtle. They were smiling, joy shining radiant in their eyes, and their hands were entwined, that physical proximity seeming to Tepshen symptomatic of a deeper closeness. They lifted their faces to the afternoon sky, drinking in the Gathering’s odoriferous air as if it were fine wine, and he knew as he studied them that Kedryn could see again unaided, and that the linking of their hands, the glances—almost secretive—that they gave one another, spoke of union, a joining at last admitted openly. He walked down between the skull-hung poles to greet them, his own lips curving in an expression of unalloyed pleasure.

  “You can see,’’ he said, simply.

  “Aye,” Kedryn let go Wynett’s hand, beaming at the kyo. studying him from head to toe as if for the first time. “We found Borsus and he gave me back my sight. Gave me more than sight.” He reached out taking the Sister’s hand again and Tepshen Lahl bowed in elaborate eastern fashion, knowing what else it was the quadi had given them as Wynett, shyly, pressed close to Kedryn’s side, her smile bright as the rising sun.

  “You must be hungry,” Tepshen remarked practically. “You have been gone four nights and three days.”

  “So long?” Kedryn was surprised. “It seems ... I do not know—it was hard to estimate time there.”

  Cord emerged from his lodge then, drawn by the rattles and the growing hubbub as news of the return spread through the camp and the forest folk began to gather, gazing in awe at the pair.

  “You are truly the hef-Alador,” he declared, his voice husky with respect. “Come, rest—you must be tired after so long and I would hear what went on in the shadow land.”

  Kedryn nodded and allowed the Ulan to escort them, proprietorial, into his lodge as the shamans struck the medicine tent and consigned its hides and poles to the flames of the great fire that burned on the tumulus, the Gehrim forming a deferential honor guard about them.

  Inside Cord’s hogan wine was brought, and beer, both in great quantities as the ala-Ulans crowded in, eager as their chieftain to hear an account of the descent into the underworld. Food appeared, and Kedryn and Wynett both realized, as their stomachs announced vocal anticipation, that while their spirits seemed to po
ssess no sense of time, or require sustenance, their bodies did, indeed, crave food and drink. They ate well, recounting between mouthfuls what had transpired, aware of the growing reverence with which the barbarians regarded them, seeing in the dark eyes the same awe that had possessed the common folk outside. It became a feast, Cord’s thralls delivering an increasing variety of dishes, lingering themselves to hear the story, the ala-Ulans shouting questions, demanding the retelling, until at last the Ulan, himself more than a little the worse for his celebrating, declared a triumphal progress in order. Kedryn protested, but was shouted down, and found himself, an arm protective about Wynett’s shoulders, hustled out of the lodge, where the Gehrim, as though they had been awaiting just this event, raised their shields to form a platform onto which Kedryn and Wynett were hoisted by the eager chieftains.

  They crouched upon the overlapping bucklers as Cord, his own arm companionably flung around Tepshen Lahl, strode out in front, bellowing in the language of the Drott. The procession circled Drul’s Mound three times, then wove among the massed ranks of lodges, the dense throng of forest folk parting to give it way, the dark faces turned to observe the wondrous couple, their voices rising in a tumult of congratulation, the excitement communicating to the great hounds that freely roamed the Gathering so that they, too, added their belling to the din. It seemed to Kedryn that all the Beltrevan must ring with the clamor, the shouting carrying to the Kingdoms themselves, and he smiled, delight filling him as his eyes roved, sighted, over the beaming faces and the mushroomlike growths of the hogans. Up and down the avenues they went, circling the outer perimeter of the camp, then down again among the tents, at last returning to the tumulus and the entrance to Cord’s lodge.

  Afternoon had become dusk and that turned into night before the procession ended and the Gehrim lowered their shields, allowing the two to step down onto firm ground again. The fire on the mound burned bright against the star-pricked sky, the great orb of the moon that had heralded their entry into the netherworld flattening as time carved slices from its girth. The crowd eased, shifting and departing, and Kedryn experienced an unfamiliar nervousness as he took Wynett’s hand, leading her back into the hogan.

  The remnants of the feast were cleared away and the hide curtains that gave access to the sleeping quarters lifted. Cord was swaying on his feet, and when he downed a horn of beer in toast, his eyes glazed and he shook his head like some troubled bear, grunting an apology as he stumbled toward his furs and crashed face-down, snoring instantly, oblivious of the slaves who came to undress him. Kedryn found himself alone with Wynett and Tepshen Lahl, and felt the nervousness grow.

  “Would that there were baths here,” Wynett murmured, “Wait.”

  Tepshen was gone on the word. Kedryn drew Wynett close, holding her, and whispered, “I am ... I feel as I did before my first battle. Afraid? I am not sure . . . but ...”

  “I know,” she replied, her face against his chest. “I, too. Let us bathe as best we can, and then ...”

  Her voice tailed off into silence and Kedryn held her, content to feel her in his arms, not speaking, still filled with that sense of triumph mingled with almost frightened anticipation.

  Tepshen returned then with thralls in tow, dragging in a construction of hides and circular wands that rapidly became a small tub. With equal rapidity it was filled with hot water, and the kyo, a slight smile on his face, suggested that Wynett be allowed to lave herself, discreetly removing Kedryn to the outer chambers of the tent.

  They sat at the table that had held the feast and Tepshen filled two mugs with wine.

  “You are changed,” he said. “As is Wynett.”

  Kedryn nodded: “She loves me. She has said it.”

  “At last,” murmured Tepshen. “It has taken long enough.” “Was it so obvious, then?” asked Kedryn, frowning.

  “To all who saw you,” smiled the kyo, raising his mug in a toast. “I drink to your future.”

  “She has not yet said she will forgo her vows,” Kedryn said thoughtfully.

  “She does not need to,” replied Tepshen. “Do you not see it in her eyes?”

  For a moment Kedryn looked mournful, then he smiled wryly. “I do not have much experience of love. What should I do?”

  “Do?” Tepshen chuckled. “You are a man and she is a woman—you will know what to do.”

  “She is still a Sister,” argued Kedryn. “And we are not yet wed.”

  “You do not need to be wed,” Tepshen responded, still chuckling. “And I do not think Wynett will remain a Sister for long.”

  “You think we should . . . ?” Kedryn stared at his friend, who nodded .

  “I do.”

  “Before . . . ?"

  Tepshen nodded again.

  “I am not sure,” said Kedryn.

  “Then let Wynett decide,” suggested the kyo. “She is the one who must agree to loss; you, only to gain. Let her decide.”

  Kedryn nodded, then: “I am nervous.”

  “That is understandable,” said Tepshen, his voice serious now, although the smile remained. “You will overcome that.”

  “If Wynett decides ...”

  “Aye, if Wynett decides.”

  Wynett called then that she had vacated the tub and Kedryn rose.

  “I will find quarters with the Gehrim,” Tepshen said softly, smiling at the young man he loved so well. Kedryn returned the smile and pushed aside the curtain.

  He found a steaming tub in an empty chamber and stripped off his clothing, climbing gratefully into the water. No thralls appeared and he scrubbed himself clean, then dried himself and bundled his clothing. The lodge was quiet, save for Cord’s soft snoring, and he took a deep breath, aware of his heart pounding drumlike against his ribs.

  Let Wynett decide.

  He licked his lips, his feet slow on the fur-covered floor as he crossed to the flap concealing the sleeping chamber.

  Let Wynett decide.

  He pushed the flap aside and stepped into darkness as it fell closed behind him. Sighted now, he was blind again, dropping his gear to the floor as he fumbled his way to the mound of cushions and furs that made his bed.

  He slipped beneath the coverings with his newfound vision adjusting to the absence of light. It seemed to him that he held his breath while all his body tingled, each nerve ending alert, anticipatory. He was not sure whether he wanted to find Wynett there, or whether it would be easier were she beyond the dividing curtain. Perhaps it was best they talk. Wait until they were returned to the Kingdoms. Wed formally.

  He felt smooth skin, warm, brush his thigh, and gasped, startled despite himself.

  “Wynett?” he whispered.

  “Kedryn,” she answered, and he felt her hands upon his shoulders, his face, drawing him toward her.

  “I love you,” he said.

  And she said, “I love you.”

  Then her lips were on his and he held her hard against him, feeling all the length of her body soft and smooth and warm, molding to him, her arms encircling him, the scent of her hair and skin in his nostrils, the smell and touch of her driving away the nervousness and replacing it with a soaring sense of joy, of triumph, greater by far than any he had known.

  “Your vows?” he husked against the tenderness of her neck, feeling it arch beneath his caress.

  “The Lady grants us choice,” she gasped, her hands in his hair, pushing his lips lower until they were moving with gentle excitement over the mounds of her breasts. “I have chosen.”

  She moaned then, as his mouth touched the apex of her bosom, and he said against the hardened nub, “I am glad.”

  They spoke no more after that, save in wordless sounds of love and pleasure. They had no need, for they knew they were joined, not only in physical mingling that lifted them to undreamed of heights, but deeper, in private ways, with welcome bonds that could not be severed.

  For that night their world became joyfully limited. The Gathering, the Beltrevan, the Kingdoms, did not exist: there was
only the darkened sleeping chamber, no Messenger, no malign god, no danger or threat; only the two who gave themselves freely to one another, wanting nothing save that commingling that was, for them, a truer marriage night than any ceremony could bestow.

  It ended all too soon with the ruckus that marked the awakening of the Gathering. Cord’s voice, shouting hoarsely for food, brought them from slumber, waking to the unfamiliar sensation of a shared bed, of limbs that twined enticingly, blond hair spread wide on furry pillows, smiles of shy modesty. Kedryn studied Wynett’s drowsy face and kissed her gently, glorying in the cornflower eyes that shone into his.

  “You are lovely,” he said.

  “As are you,” she answered, her lips inviting further caresses. “But I knew that.”

  Kedryn smiled a question, his eyes drinking in her body.

  “Do you not remember?” she giggled. “When you came wounded to High Fort? When I found you naked in my hospital?”

  Kedryn laughed, taking her in his arms again, speaking against her hair.

  “I did not think then that we should come to this, but I loved you then. I think I loved you from the first moment I saw you.”

  “I think,” she said, her mouth against his, “that I loved you, but I did not know it. Or how great was my love.”

  “You do not regret anything?” he asked, knowing that soon they must rise and enter a more public world.

  “Nothing,” she answered, her voice confident. “Whatever I have lost, I have gained more. I saw that when we faced Borsus.”

  “Praise the Lady,” Kedryn said fervently.

  “Aye,” Wynett agreed, “praise the Lady.”

  They dressed then and went out of the sleeping chamber to find Cord and Tepshen Lahl eating breakfast, the smells of fresh-baked bread and roasted meat awakening their appetites. Cord turned a disheveled head toward them and smiled blearily.