Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02

by The Usurper (v1. 1)

  Hattim faced the dark-haired lord, something close to contempt in his eyes, his response more in keeping with his old arrogance than the newer, diplomatic man they had known of late.

  “I find your tone offensive, Jarl of Kesh.”

  Jarl’s swarthy features suffused with rage, his eyes bulging. Bedyr made a small, cautionary gesture that went unnoticed or ignored, so furious was the Keshi.

  “I care not how you find my tone, Hattim. Our king is dead and we shall discover the cause. And let those responsible beware.”

  “You forget yourself,” said Hattim, his own responsive anger icing his words. “You forget that you have a new king now.”

  “You?” Jarl filled the single word with contempt, bringing a flush to the Galichian’s face that matched his own.

  “Aye,” Hattim snapped.

  “My Lords,” Bedyr said quickly, moving between them as he saw that Jarl must soon spring at the Galichian, “calm yourselves. King Darr is dead and we are distraught. I would suggest we discuss the matter of investigation when we are more calm, but meanwhile, Hattim, your wife grieves and has need of you.”

  “Ever the moderator,” Hattim nodded, “but you are right— Ashrivelle needs me. I shall summon you later; perhaps by then you may have calmed our Lord of Kesh.”

  He smiled tightly, crossing to the weeping Ashrivelle and putting hands to her shoulders. She rose at his touch, turning into his arms, her pretty face distorted, tears streaming from her blue eyes. “Come,” he murmured into her hair, “Sister Thera will provide some potion to calm you.”

  Reluctantly, Ashrivelle allowed herself to be led from the chamber, Hattim casting a final, scornful glance at Jarl.

  “Prepare your touchstones,” Bedyr told Bethany when he was gone. “How long will it take?”

  “I must return to the college,” the Sister replied, “for the paraphernalia I need and Sisters to aid me. I can have answers by dusk. ”

  “Go,” said Bedyr. “Jarl, Corradon, come with me. Corradon, leave guards on the king’s chambers—no one is to enter.”

  The young captain’s pugnacious features creased in a frown. “My Lord Bedyr,” he asked, “what if Lord Hattim demands entry?”

  “He cannot be denied,” Bedyr allowed.

  Jarl snorted but said nothing and Bedyr asked, “Where is Arlynn?”

  “Waiting in our quarters,” said the Keshi.

  “Then we go there,” said Bedyr.

  Corradon issued orders to the men on the door and summoned a squad to clear a way as they hurried to the chambers set aside for the Lord and Lady of Kesh. Arlynn was dressed when they arrived, her plump, pretty features lined with concern. Her husband explained briefly what had transpired and she clapped beringed hands to her mouth in alarm, moaning, “Poor Darr, poor Ashrivelle.”

  “Poor Andurel,” snapped Jarl, “poor Kingdoms.”

  Bedyr flung himself onto a pile of cushions, Yrla settling more decorously beside him. “Hattim is king,” he said, “there is no gainsaying it.”

  “Unless we prove some gramarye slew Darr,” said Jarl. “And that Hattim took a hand in the fell work.”

  “If Hattim is the Messenger’s creature,” Yrla said, “then surely it is of greater importance that we discover his identity.”

  “Aye,” Bedyr agreed, “but how?”

  “Will the one not stem from the other?” Arlynn asked. “If Bethany’s investigation proves the use of magic surely Hattim cannot assume the throne until the matter is resolved. And the Sisters will sniff out Ashar’s minion.”

  “They have not yet,” grunted Jarl.

  “You are the one who foresaw this,” Bedyr said to Yrla. “What is your prognostication?”

  “The Messenger must be close to Hattim,” she said thoughtfully, “though how he is disguised I cannot suggest. If I am right, he established this train of events and so has likely been with Hattim for some time.”

  “He was not seen after the Horde’s defeat,” said Bedyr, “but might he have revealed himself to Hattim after the battle?”

  Corradon coughed discreetly then, confusion and embarrassment in his eyes as attention focused on him. “Are you convinced the Lord of Ust-Galich can fall so low?” he asked. “Might King Darr not have died from natural causes?”

  “No,” said Jarl firmly.

  “It is possible,” Bedyr allowed doubtfully, “but it seems unlikely. There was no reason to suspect Darr ill, and I have faith in both my wife’s identification of a pattern and in Bethany’s sensing of magic.”

  “But the Paramount Sister was not absolutely sure,” said Corradon.

  “Bethany is naturally cautious,” said Bedyr.

  “Would that we had listened to Yrla,” said Jarl. “We might have prevented this.”

  “We did not,” said Bedyr, flatly, “and it has happened. What we must do now is plan for a future that holds Hattim Sethiyan as our king.”

  “Do you accept him then?” Jarl asked disbelievingly.

  “I have no choice if he is lawfully come to the High Throne,” Bedyr answered. “The White Palace is his by marriage right if Darr was not slain by magic.”

  “And if he was?” Jarl demanded.

  “If there was a glamour involved,” said Bedyr, choosing his words carefully for he knew where they must lead, “and if—as I believe must be the case in that event—Hattim Sethiyan has leagued himself with the Messenger, then we have no choice but to oppose him as an apostate and a murderer. ”

  “Civil war,” said Arlynn, her voice hushed.

  “Aye,” nodded Bedyr, “likely civil war, unless Ust-Galich denounces Hattim.”

  “It must depend on Bethany’s findings,” said Yrla. “Hattim will waste no time in declaring himself king, but what if Bethany announces magic? How do we react then?”

  “Kemm holds five squadrons of our finest cavalry on the Vortigen,” said Jarl fiercely. “I summon them across the river to join with Corradon’s Palace Guard and we denounce Hattim as traitor and apostate. Arrest him; try him; and execute him.”

  “There remains the matter of the Galichian army,” said Bedyr. “My own Tamurin are disbanded and Kedryn still not found— should the Galichians choose to support Hattim, Andurel will be hard to hold.”

  “Do not forget Galen Sadreth,” Yrla reminded. “He waits e’en now to carry us north on the Vashti. ”

  “Aye,” Bedyr nodded, “but we cannot go north, not now. We must remain here until this affair is resolved.”

  “But he could still take word,” said Yrla. “If he could carry word to Kedryn, then Kedryn could raise our forces. And if Wynett is with him, her claim to the throne is stronger than Ashrivelle’s.”

  “If she renounces the Sisterhood,” Bedyr murmured.

  “It would fit the pattern I discern,” said Yrla.

  “Hattim Sethiyan bears little love for any of us,” Jarl interposed. “Whatever the nature of his course to the throne, he will seek to hold it. I suggest we ward ourselves.”

  “Aye,” agreed Bedyr. “Let us be prepared for all eventualities and keep our swords loose.”

  “I must dress,” said Yrla. “I am hardly garbed for intrigue or battle.”

  “To our chambers, then,” said Bedyr, “and meet again, where?”

  “The throne room?” Jarl suggested.

  “Excellent,” Bedyr applauded. “Any measures we announce must have the trappings of formality, and I suspect Hattim will find his way there soon enough.”

  “Let me gird myself,” said Jarl, “and I shall come to your quarters.”

  “And I?” Corradon asked. “What shall I do?”

  “Gather those guards you consider the most reliable,” said Bedyr. “Bring them to my chambers that we may present a unified front to Hattim and his Galichians.”

  “It is done,” said Corradon, rising to his feet and saluting.

  The others rose, Jarl to dress while Bedyr and Yrla followed the captain from the chamber to make their way back to their own room
s. There Yrla hurried to exchange night attire for clothing more suitable to the business in hand, Bedyr to tug a stout leather jerkin over his shirt, hoping despite the weight of evidence that seemed to build against Hattim that their suspicions were wrong. If not, he thought, loosening his blade in its scabbard, there might well be sword-work before the day was out.

  Confusion still reigned as Corradon arrived with a squad of guardsmen, Jarl and Arlynn, accompanied by ten grim-faced Keshi warriors, close on his heels. He ordered his men into a wedge that drove remorselessly through the crowded corridors to the throne room, collecting a retinue of curious followers along the way. Once inside the stately chamber, Bedyr had the captain set watchmen on the doors with orders to allow entry only after permission was granted by himself or Jarl, regardless of the petitioner. It was, by now, midmoming and none of them had eaten, and while they had scant appetite, hunger edged their tempers, rendering their debate increasingly irritable.

  Jarl spoke for the immediate impeachment of Hattim, urging that they send for Kemm to bring the Keshi cavalry across the river to join with Corradon’s men and hold the White Palace until the cause of Darr’s death was uncovered, convinced that such revelation must condemn the Galichian. Bedyr was more circumspect, seeing that so precipitate course must inevitably result in war with Ust-Galich, and wary of committing the Kingdoms to such turmoil. Although he was swayed by Yrla’s conviction, and more and more convinced that Hattim was, indeed, leagued with the Messenger, he remained loath to follow so perilous a course until firm evidence should be provided by Sister Bethany.

  Finally it was agreed that two of Jarl’s men should ride to Kemm with word, alerting him to stand ready to cross the Vortigen into Andurel, while Corradon dispatched guards to bring food and drink.

  They were eating in a desultory fashion when Jarl’s men returned with word that Galichian troops ringed the palace, denying exit and entry, placed there by Hattim, ostensibly that the murderer of King Darr should not escape.

  “Proof!” raged the Lord of Kesh, wine spilling as he slammed down his hand to punctuate the single word. “Do you need more, Bedyr? The upstart shows his hand.”

  “There is some justification in his reason,” Bedyr said carefully, “but, yes—I think you must be right.”

  “Yrla,” Jarl turned to the raven-haired woman, modulating his anger, “your husband was ever more cautious than me—and I respect him for his tact—but now the time to act has come. How say you? Am I right or wrong?”

  “I believe Hattim must seek to preempt any measures we may take,” Yrla responded, “and I am now convinced he does dance to the Messenger’s tune, but I am not sure that open warfare is the answer. Let the battle flags be flown and all will be confusion. Do we seek to arrest Hattim and he will have the chance to cry treason against the king—for that, until he is proven guilty, he remains— and thus might confuse honest folk. I think we must wait on Bethany’s findings. Let us have firm proof that we may openly impeach him, with none to claim betrayal on our part, and we have the chance to nip this heresy in the bud without risk of war. ” “Arlynn?” Jarl turned to his own wife. “You have a say in this.”

  “Yrla speaks sense as ever,” said the plump woman, dabbing with a silken kerchief at the spilled wine, “and we none of us seek war, I think. But shall we have time to wait on Bethany’s findings? If the Messenger is the eminence behind Hattim, will he allow us that evidence? Or that much time?”

  Her eyes moved toward the windows as she spoke, the movement eloquent as they turned to see the light filtering through the tall panes of stained glass waning. Candles were already lit and they were shocked by the realization that the afternoon shortened inexorably toward evening.

  “Aye,” said Bedyr, “both our wives speak sense, Jarl. Corradon? Will you send men to inquire of the Paramount Sister as to her investigation?”

  Corradon nodded and barked orders that sent five guardsmen hurrying from the throne room.

  “We wait on them,” said Bedyr. “Mayhap they will return with confirmation of our fears. If so, we declare Hattim suspect, and consequently uncrowned.”

  “And then?” asked Jarl. “Do not forget he has the palace ringed with warriors.”

  “Let them know Darr died by magic, by the Messenger’s hand,” said Bedyr, his voice grim as his stem features, “and they will hopefully take our side. If not—then we must endeavor to fight our way out. Remember the Vashti awaits us, and Galen Sadreth is loyal.”

  Jarl nodded, looking to Corradon. “You have, what? Fifty men here. Can you muster others?”

  “Aye, my Lord Jarl,” promised the captain. “These are the men of my own troop, and were most convenient, but others will follow our call if they believe Lord Hattim an apostate. I cannot answer for all the Palace Guard, but I think we should have sufficient to cut our way through the Galichians.”

  “So be it,” murmured the Keshi, fingering the jeweled hilt of his saber. “We may escape Hattim’s plot, but what then?”

  “You go into Kesh to raise your full army,” said Bedyr, “and I to Tamur. Galen sails north to High Fort in search of Kedryn.” “And we leave Andurel in Hattim’s hands?” Jarl barked. “His and the Messenger’s?”

  “What other choice do we have?” asked Bedyr evenly. “The Royal Guard, even augmented by Kemm’s squadron, will not be enough to face the Galichian army. Remember, Jarl, this is our last resort. If Bethany uncovers magic we may not need to flee.”

  “Hattim will not relinquish his dream easily,” grumbled the bowlegged lord.

  “He may have little other choice,” said Bedyr.

  Corradon’s men returned then, confusion writ large on their faces. The sergeant saluted and said, “We were denied entrance, my Lords. Galichians—and men of the Royal Guard—hold the king’s chambers and allow no entry. They say it is on the order of Lord Hattim.”

  “And Sister Bethany?” demanded Bedyr. “What of her?”

  “It seems the Sister was similarly denied entry,” the sergeant reported. “She was not allowed to begin her investigation.”

  “Heresy!” snarled Jarl. “Now there can be no doubt.”

  “No,” Bedyr agreed, sadness in his eyes although his tone remained firm.

  “There is more,” the sergeant offered, continuing when Bedyr gestured. “The college is under guard. Lord Hattim speaks openly of murder and claims only a Sister might have slain our king.” There was a silence at such heretical news, broken by Jarl’s furious curse.

  “May Ashar take him! You were right, Arlynn.”

  “We have no time to waste,” said Bedyr urgently. “We must seek the Vashti now!”

  “Aye!” Jarl slid his saber from the scabbard, raising the blade high, candlelight glinting on the naked steel. “Who stands with us? For the Lady and the Kingdoms!”

  A roar of approval answered his call and Corradon shouted for his men to form a phalanx. Bedyr climbed the steps of the dais until he stood beside the High Throne, shouting over the tumult.

  “Wait! We are outnumbered, and the palace is full of servants, innocent folk. Sheath your blades until they are needed. We go out of here as warriors of die Kingdoms, with the right to go where we wish. If none oppose us, offer them no harm.”

  “And if they do?” Jarl demanded.

  “Then,” said Bedyr, a grim smile on his lips, “we cut them down.”

  “Let Hattim but present himself,” grunted Jarl, “and he is dead.”

  “My Lord,” asked Corradon, addressing himself to Bedyr, “where do we go? What of the Sisters?”

  “I cannot believe Hattim would risk so open a statement of heresy as to harm the Sorority,” Bedyr answered, “and there is little we can do for them now. We go to the harbor, to the Vashti.”

  Corradon nodded, sheathing his blade as he gathered his men about him and flung the wide doors open.

  Startled faces greeted the grim band. Bedyr and Jarl set themselves either side of Corradon, their wives behind, ringed with Keshi and
guardsmen as they drove through the confusion. They reached the corridor leading to the banqueting hall before they saw Galichians, a squad of twenty-five armored men with swords drawn, commanded by a cordor.

  “Halt!” he cried. “Where do you go?”

  Bedyr shouldered past Corradon to answer, “Do you not recognize the Lords of Tamur and Kesh? By what authority do you deny us passage.”

  “I do,” answered the cordor without giving any way, “and I have orders from the king that you are to be brought before him.”

  “The king?” Jarl bellowed, furious. “Hattim Sethiyan is an apostate! A creature of the Messenger!”

  “I have my orders,” said the cordor doggedly. “You will come with me.”

  “You dare to order us?” Jarl’s saber left its sheath, leveling on the officer’s chest. “Stand aside!”

  “My Lord,” said the man, “I cannot.”

  “I command you to give way,” said Bedyr.

  “I am ordered to bring you to the king,” the cordor repeated. “By any means. Put down your blades.”

  Jarl’s rage could contain itself no longer. His saber flickered out, his wrist twisting as the point caught the startled cordor in the throat, opening a crimson gap between chin and breastplate. The cordor gasped and staggered back, dropping his sword as he pressed both hands to the wound, blood spurting over his fingers. For an instant there was silence, all present staring at the dying man. Then his eyes rolled up and he fell to his knees, hands still clutching at his throat as he toppled over. It was as though a signal were given: the Galichians charged with drawn swords, seeking to press the advantage of the corridor, where only a few guardsmen at a time might confront them.

  Bedyr brought his longsword out in a sweeping cut that gutted the closest soldier, pushing him back against his fellows as Corradon and Jarl applied their blades, the captain’s men pressing in from behind until half the Galichian contingent lay dead and the rest retreated.

  “Forward!” Bedyr shouted, leading the way into the hall.

  They crossed the great chamber, where the remnants of the previous night’s feasting still lay on the tables, forgotten in the confusion of Darr’s death, and entered the salon beyond.