“You . . . slept . . . well?”
Kedryn felt the skin of his face grow warm at the good-natured innuendo and realized, uncomfortably, that he was blushing as he nodded and said, “Aye, thank you.”
He glanced at Wynett as the Ulan began to laugh and saw that she, too, was flushed, though her smile remained radiant as she said solemnly, “Very well indeed,” thus reducing Cord to table-pounding merriment.
Tepshen Lahl behaved as though nothing had changed, rising to his feet to bow courteously and indicate the empty chairs, asking, “Are you hungry?”
“Ravenous,” Kedryn said, and began to laugh simply because he felt so happy.
It was a glorious winter day, the sun that shone through the open tent flap seeming to bestow its own blessing on their joining, the sky a blue so pure it dazzled the eye, streaked here and there with streamers of white cloud run out like celebratory pennants on the wind. The air was crisp, stifling the noisome odor of the Gathering, the woodsmoke smell of the fire on the mound lending a homely scent. They sat and ate, no longer embarrassed, for in Cord’s laughter and Tepshen’s smile there was only approval, expression of pleasure in their happiness.
“What now?” asked the Ulan, reality intruding. “Do you remain here, or return to the Kingdoms?”
“We return,” Kedryn said, then looked to Wynett for confirmation.
“We must,” she nodded. “There are tasks yet to accomplish.
Cord’s smile dulled then, for he knew what those tasks were and for all his opposition to the shaman’s power he was wary of offending the god who still ruled the Beltrevan.
“You ride against the Messenger,” he murmured in his heavily accented Tamurin.
“I must,” Kedryn confirmed. “It is my duty.”
“I cannot help you in that,” Cord said. “You have strengthened my position—and I thank you for that—but I cannot ask my people to go against the elect of Ashar. ”
“I would not ask it of you,” said Kedryn. “I ask only that you observe the agreements we made and keep the peace.”
“I will,” Cord promised, “and I will give you an escort to the gates of High Fort. When will you leave?”
Kedryn looked to Wynett and Tepshen and said, “Today?”
Cord nodded. “So be it. 1 will have provisions readied, and my own Gehrim shall furnish your escort.”
“Thank you,” Kedryn said, wondering that such bonds of friendship could be formed so easily when men spoke openly together.
They were once again the center of attention as they prepared to depart the Drott Gathering. It seemed the whole tribe clustered about their path as they rode between the lodges, Cord slightly ahead on one of the geldings donated at the peace talks, and Tepshen Lahl behind, flanked by the escorting Gehrim, now armored beneath their heavy furs as befitted the convoy of the hef-Alador. The shamans, won over to a new respect, capered before them, shaking their rattles and blowing noisily on bone flutes in what, Cord explained, was a ceremony of prayer for their safe return.
On the rim of the great hollow that held the camp Cord reined in, a hand lifted in salute.
“Go in safety,” he said, “and may your goddess be with you. Whatever should transpire, know that Cord of the Drott is your friend. And do not forget those horses you promised.”
“I shall not,” Kedryn averred.
Cord’s eyes, still bloodshot from his enthusiastic drinking, twinkled as he added, “And take care of your woman—she is a prize.”
“I know,” Kedryn said solemnly. “Farewell, Cord. Farewell, my friend.”
The Ulan nodded and waved them away, the Gehrim rising up to take the lead as they wound their way among the trees over snow frozen hard now, the figures on the ridge soon lost as the great woods of the Beltrevan swallowed them.
The horses, rested and well-fed after their sojourn, made a good pace and Kedryn saw how much he had missed in his blindness. For all that Wynett’s touch had granted him sight, it had not been possible to maintain that necessary contact throughout their entry into the forests, and now he was able to see with his own eyes the magnificence of winter’s mantle. The massive, ancient trees were hung with cloaks of snow that sparkled under the brilliance of the sun, glittering with a myriad frosty colors that danced and swirled, rainbow cascades of shimmering flakes falling as birds started from their path. The undergrowth took on new forms, like crystalline statuary, limbs draped with icicles like pendant jewels, their shadows dramatic on the unsoiled albino ground. Breath steamed in the cold air and from the pounding hooves exploded clouds of drifting white. There was a wild beauty to the place that filled him with awe, a feeling of reverence, and a deep resentment that so willfully evil a god as Ashar claimed sway over so lovely a domain.
It occurred to him that the god might yet seek to block their way, preventing their return to the Kingdoms, for if he had been able to bring the Fedyn Pass down about their ears, then surely he must be able to conjure some obstacle here, so much deeper into his territory. Yet, even though good companions had been lost to the avalanche, he and Wynett and Tepshen Lahl had survived, and then Tepshen’s sword skill had won them a way to the Gathering; and there Cord had overridden the objections of the shamans to open the way into the shadow world; and there the talismans and Wynett’s love had seen them safely through. Perhaps then, he thought, Ashar’s dominance was indeed weakened, and the god would not be able to prevent their return. And in the Kingdoms, where the Lady ruled, surely Ashar’s power must be weaker still, his Messenger an enemy capable of defeat.
The thought, allied with the certain knowledge of Wynett’s love and the sheer magnificence of their surroundings, cheered him and he threw back his head, laughing at the sky.
The sound prompted Wynett to turn from her own contemplation of the scenery, her eyes twinkling from the enfolding cowl of her cloak’s hood, tendrils of sun-blond hair curling over the edges of the fur.
“Will you share your happiness?” she asked.
“I feel that we shall win,” he told her. “I feel that nothing can prevent us now.”
“We have achieved much,” she agreed, though a trifle more soberly, “but the Messenger remains.”
“Aye,” Kedryn smiled at her, their mounts matching pace, the wind-rush exhilarating, “but we have braved the underworld, you and I, and I feel that nothing can defeat us.”
“The Lady grant you truth,” Wynett shouted back, then answered his smile with a radiance that stilled his breath. “And I believe she will.”
They continued on, halting at noon to eat and rest the horses, then proceeding until dusk, when the Gehrim set up tents in the shelter of enormous oaks. They ate, seated around a blazing fire, and then retired, Kedryn and Wynett delighted at the privacy afforded by the shelter of hide, climbing swiftly beneath the furs to rediscover the intoxicating pleasure acknowledgment of their love had introduced.
The reserve Wynett had affected, the restrictions imposed by her calling, were gone now, as if, having come to that inner resolution of purpose, she gave herself to Kedryn as fervently as she had embraced the duties of a Sister. There were no regrets, no doubts or second thoughts, but rather a wholehearted acceptance of their newfound relationship that found ardent expression in their shared bed. Her pleasure, as his, was unalloyed, and when finally they slept, it was in one another’s arms, innocently, free of any qualms of conscience, justified by the deep inner conviction that what they did was right, approved of by that deity to whom they still gave service. They did not see, though perhaps they sensed, the gentle pulsing of the talismans that shone with a soft blue effulgence as they slept.
They rode on through days of fine weather. Occasional flurries of snow served only to enhance the beauty of the forest, the Gehrim leading them swift and sure over the woodland trails to the river called the Saran, whose course they followed south and east. Five days along that trail they met a solitary rider.
At first they did not see him, for he was hidden behind the dark bole
s of massive beech trees, dismounted, with a nocked bow in his hands until he recognized them. Then he shouted:
“Hail, friends! You are well met.”
The Gehrim formed a protective phalanx about their charges, bows with the red and white peace feathers still attached lifting to cover the shadowy figure. Tepshen Lahl eased his shaft down and called, “Brannoc?”
“None other,” declared the Warden, emerging from the trees with lowered bow and a huge smile.
Wynett called out in the byavan to the Gehrim and they set their weapons at rest, those who recognized the former wolf’s-head shouting to the others that he was a friend.
Brannoc sheathed his bow and fetched his horses from the trees, coming out of the shadows to study the trio of Kingdomers and their escort.
“I would surmise,” he remarked, casually as if they met on some street comer, “that your quest was successful.”
“Aye, it was,” Kedryn grinned, dismounting to embrace the fur-clad man. “But what brings you here? Do you come as Forest Warden?”
“As a seeker after truth,” beamed Brannoc, affecting an air of mystery and clearly enjoying the surprise he read on their faces. “Sister Wynett, Tepshen—you are well?”
“Aye,” the kyo replied. Then, bluntly, “Why are you here?”
“The truth I seek concerns you,” Brannoc said, ignoring Tepshen’s gesture of impatience as he studied Kedryn’s face. “You have won back your sight. You found the quadi?”
“Aye,” Kedryn nodded. “Wynett and I entered the netherworld and found him, and he returned my vision.”
“I am glad,” said Brannoc simply.
“Why are you here?” Tepshen repeated.
“You are lovelier than ever, Sister.” Brannoc continued to ignore the kyo, addressing Wynett. “This quest appears to suit you.”
“It does most excellently,” Wynett replied, “though I am no longer a Sister. ”
“So!” Brannoc’s smile grew wider still. “You saw the light at last. It makes you radiant.”
“Thank you,” Wynett said, smiling in return. “But why are you here?”
“Word came to Caitin Held that the Fedyn Pass had fallen,” Brannoc announced, ducking his head slightly as Tepshen Lahl grunted approval of his coming to the point at last, “and Kedryn’s parents traveled to High Fort to ask that I find you. More precisely, to discover whether you still lived, or had fallen to Ashar’s hand.”
“They must be wretched,” Wynett declared, concern in her voice.
“They are, indeed, mightily worried,” said Brannoc. “But now we may return together with this happy news.”
“They are at High Fort?” Kedryn asked. “Is there word of the Messenger?”
“They are,” said Brannoc, “and no, there is no word. Winter grips the Kingdoms and all is quiet.”
“That, at least, is good news,” Kedryn sighed, “but now we must make haste to set their minds at rest.”
“Then let us ride,” grunted Tepshen, “and let this babbler prattle from his saddle.”
“You have lost none of your charm,” grinned Brannoc.
Tepshen Lahl smiled back. “Mount, friend, and let us be gone.”
“Aye, and as we ride you can tell me of your adventures,” Brannoc agreed, swinging astride his dun and casting a mischievous glance at Kedryn and Wynett. “At least, of those suitable for my ears.”
Under Ashrivelle’s eager command preparations for the wedding proceeded apace. The seamstresses of the White Palace were busy with the gown she designed, the musicians occupied with the creation of new melodies, each one requiring her approval, the cooks excelled themselves in the devising of menus. The cellars were checked and rechecked in the search for noble vintages of an excellence and antiquity suitable to so momentous an occasion.
The Galichian contingent occupied the clothiers of the city with their search for garments, and a procession of mehdri rode out with invitations to the nobility of Kesh and Tamur domiciled close enough to attend. Traders in jewels and cloth enjoyed a boom unprecedented since Darr’s coronation, while those selling foodstuffs found their purses swelling as the servitors of the palace ensured sufficient viands were readied for the celebration. Hattim Sethiyan was liberal in his own preparations, commissioning outfits and jewelry in abundance, and all of Andurel was gripped with excitement.
Those who doubted the wisdom of the impending union felt almost guilty as the princess rushed about the palace, alight with anticipation, and Hattim continued suavely diplomatic, offering no cause for criticism. Yrla reported her conversation with Bethany to Bedyr, who in turn discussed it with Darr and Jarl, but none could find it in themselves to give credence to her suspicions, and even she began genuinely to wonder if distress at Kedryn’s fate clouded her judgment. To make matters worse she found herself, with Arlynn of Kesh, required to share in Ashrivelle’s bustle. Her opinion was sought on the wedding gown and the form of the celebrations, on the choice of music and of wines, and all the time she was forced to listen to the princess sing a paean of praise to her husband-to-be, unable to express to the besotted girl her doubts.
For Darr, Bedyr and Jarl it was no easier, Hattim’s ready acceptance of the strictures they set about his assumption drawing the teeth of any objections they might have raised. Whatever their personal opinions of the Lord of Ust-Galich, they could not disagree with his right to marry Ashrivelle, nor fault his behavior as the day of the wedding drew inexorably closer and they were drawn into the preparations, the ceremony itself requiring their official approval, the billeting of the Galichian officers needing management, a myriad duties calling for their guidance.
No news of Kedryn came as the day approached, though one old friend appeared to brighten Bedyr’s and Yrla’s carefully concealed apprehension.
They were alone in their chambers, Bedyr studying a list of those Galichian warriors quartered in the palace and about the city, Yrla examining the gown she proposed to wear, when a servant announced the arrival of Galen Sadreth.
The river captain filled the door as he entered, his bulk greater, if anything, than before, his ruddy moon-face beaming. He flung back a fanciful cloak of oiled green cloth trimmed with black fur and doffed his feathered cap, his bald pate gleaming as he bowed.
“My Lord Bedyr, Lady Yrla,” he declared, his booming voice echoing about the room, “greetings.”
“And to you, Galen,” Bedyr smiled, beckoning the huge man in. “You are well?”
“As anyone,” Galen said. “Though this news—or its absence—of Kedryn troubles me.”
“He will return,” said Yrla firmly, motioning the riverman to a chair that he filled to overflowing. “Brannoc seeks him e’en now.”
“None better suited to find him,” Galen nodded, easing off his cloak to reveal a tunic of startling crimson, with breeks to match and boots of gleaming black leather that might serve as buckets, “and I pray that he will be successful.”
“You appear to be.” Bedyr indicated the captain’s extravagant outfit.
“I like to dress well whilst ashore,” Galen declared modestly, “and with so many Galichians thronging Andurel like peacocks I see no reason why they should outshine me.”
Bedyr chuckled, lifting a decanter of evshan in inquiry. Galen nodded, beaming as he watched a goblet filled. He took it and drank deep, sighing as the fiery liquor went down.
“Excellent,” he murmured, “just the thing to hold out this wolf-weather. ”
“Does it affect your enterprise?” Yrla asked.
Galen nodded, “There is little commerce whilst this north wind blows, and ice has been reported on the Idre. Consequently I am without a cargo—which may be fortunate.”
He emptied his goblet, accepting the replenishment Bedyr offered with a grateful smile.
“How so?” asked the Lord of Tamur.
“It occurred to me that you may wish Kedryn to join you here,” said Galen, “and with the Fedyn Pass blocked he must surely find his way to High Fort.
Should the Vashti be waiting for him there, I could bring him south far swifter than any horse.”
“Galen!” Yrla clapped her hands delightedly. “You are sent by the Lady!”
“Mayhap,” said the riverman, scratching his pate, “the idea did come upon me most suddenly. ”
“It is an excellent idea,” Bedyr agreed, “though I would suggest a slight amendment.”
Galen raised one inquiring eyebrow, the expression lending him the appearance of a massive owl.
“The wedding takes place two days hence,” Bedyr said. “Delay your departure until the third day and we shall accompany you. Rather than bring Kedryn to us, take us to him.”
“Can we?” asked Yrla, excitement in her voice. “So soon?”
“Our presence is required for the ceremony and at the banquet after.” Bedyr shrugged, smiling at his wife. “Whether Hattim remains in Andurel or takes Ashrivelle into Ust-Galich, they will have no need of us. Darr will understand and there is no insult in it.”
“I had thought we should remain to see how Hattim will behave once announced as heir,” murmured Yrla.
“He will be heir, not king,” Bedyr said. “Darr will still rule and he will welcome news of Wynett no less eagerly than we seek it of Kedryn. ”
Yrla nodded, doubt fading from her gray eyes. “Then let us do it!” she laughed.
Bedyr turned to Galen and said, “Can you be ready to sail the morning after the wedding?”
“The Vashti is ready now,” the riverman confirmed. “Fresh caulked and refitted for winter. My crew grow idle in the taverns—a brisk trip upriver will put an edge to them.”
“Then so be it,” smiled Bedyr. “Three days from now.”
“I drink to our departure,” beamed Galen, holding up an empty goblet for Bedyr to refill.
That night alarm spread through the White Palace as Hattim Sethiyan and his closest courtiers—all those present to drink a toast to Chadyn Hymet—fell victim to a mysterious illness. It was reported that the Lord of Ust-Galich was afflicted with the most painful of stomach cramps, that he vomited blood, that he was close to death. Those of his retinue who had joined him in the poisoned toast were no better and the palace rang with their moaning.
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