Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02

by The Usurper (v1. 1)

  Taws licked his fleshless lips and bent to lift the man, raising the corpse as easily as he might a child. He strode across the roadway and through the rocks beyond to the bank of the Idre. The Keshi’s body splashed as it struck the surface of the river, turned twice as the current caught it, and then was gone. Taws stood for a moment, staring at the water, then turned about and strode toward the fort, toward the Three Kingdoms.

  The snow that had begun to mantle the forests of the Beltrevan had not yet found footing south of the Lozins, though winter sent chill feelers probing over the hills of Tamur and the northern plains of Kesh, frosting the grasslands and crusting pools with shining ice. To the west it remained a threat, the vast bowl formed by the sweep of the Lozin range and the Gadrizels protected by the encircling peaks. In time the wolf-weather would come, but as yet the fertile lands surrounding the sacred city of Estrevan remained untouched. The harvest was gathered in and thanks given to Kyrie for her bounty, the granaries of the city stocked against the isolation of the cold time, larders hung with cured meat and thick winter quilts brought out to air. The days still held a hint of mellow autumn, but the nights grew chill, and on this particular night a wind had got up, blowing out of the north to buffet the walls and tall towers of the city, prompting the inhabitants to draw shutters against its onslaught and light fires in their hearths.

  At the center of the city stood the halls of the Sisters of Kyrie, spreading from the single tower raised by the founders just as the buildings of the lay population had spread about that place of worship until the site chosen for its isolation had become a bustling community. The styles of the buildings were varied, for all who sought sanctuary in Estrevan were welcomed and the populace came from all of the Kingdoms, bringing their own architectural patterns to create a diffusion of fashions that somehow succeeded in blending together to form a homogenous whole.

  The central tower was a plain column of bluish stone, set with windows and balconies, the apex flat and circled by a wall from which the Paramount Sister might look out over the city and the fertile lands beyond. At the topmost level of that tower a group of Sisters was gathered in a small chamber.

  Thick candles set within columns of glass filled the room with mellow light. Shutters of dark wood were drawn over the windows, their gloss reflecting the gleam of the candles, contrasting pleasantly with the simplicity of the plain, rough-plastered walls. In one comer, a hearth of hewn stone held a crackling fire that from time to time sent flickering tongues of flame into the room as the wind blowing from the north gusted and turned to penetrate the chimney. The blue-robed women seated about the circular table at the room’s center ignored the sparking of the logs, their attention focused on the woman seated in a low-backed chair close to the blaze. She was a woman in her middle years, older than some of the listeners, younger than others, unremarkable in appearance save for the intensity of hei eyes, which, like her voice, was compelling.

  “You have all studied Alaria’s Text,” she said, “and you have all heard the news from the Lozin Gate. Now I would hear your thoughts.”

  There was a pause, a hesitation marked by the soft rustling of gowns and an almost nervous clearing of throats, then an old woman, her kindly features lined, her hair silver, said, “The Text is vague, Gerat, but I do not believe the danger is ended yet.” “Surely it is,” a younger woman objected, “and Alaria’s prophecy fulfilled—Kedryn Caitin is of Tamur on his father’s side and of the Blood on his mother’s; he slew Niloc Yarrum to win the day for the Kingdoms; die Horde is defeated. Does that not fulfill the prophecy?”

  “But Ashar’s Messenger was not found, Porelle,” murmured the first speaker, “and consequently the danger still exists.”

  “The Horde is broken,” argued Porelle, “the forest folk scattered. I think you fear shadows, Jara.”

  Jara smiled fondly, shaking her head. “I think my greater years endow me with greater patience, little Sister. As I read it, the Text tells us the Messenger must be destroyed, not merely defeated.” “He will rise again,” announced the woman to Jara’s left, opening the thin, leather-bound book she held, “Listen: And that poison shall sour the fruit that it shall taste bitter on the tongue and ferment to bring forth pestilence. What else can it mean?” “Was the Horde not a pestilence, Lavia?” Porelle demanded. “Indeed it was,” Lavia agreed, ducking a gray-streaked head, “but the poison that formed it exists still.”

  “Can we be sure of that?” asked the other. “Our seekers find no trace of the Messenger and Darr’s mehdri tell us the barbarians spoke of his disappearance. Perhaps his master called him back.”

  “Perhaps,” said Lavia dubiously, “but I do not think so. Save to foment some other design.”

  “The Beltrevan is Ashar’s domain,” offered a fresh speaker, the youngest there, “and surely the defeat of the Horde must lessen his power. Kyrie bound him with the Lozin wall and without the Horde how can he broach that confinement?”

  “He created the Messenger for that purpose,” said Lavia, “and Ashar is not one to accept defeat easily. ”

  “There is a passage in the Text,” Jara said, “a few lines after that talk of poisoned fruit . . . Lavia, your eyes are better than mine.”

  “Fire shall consume the tree, is that the one?” Lavia asked, and when Jara nodded: “Yet the roots that lay beneath shall remain and the ash of that burning shall cloud the vision of men that they see not what is, nor hear what shall be. Shall I go on?”

  “No, thank you.” Jara shook her head, “I believe that makes Lavia’s point, Reena—Ashar is, indeed, held beyond the Lozin walk He cannot, himself, cross that barrier without the support of his worshippers, but that does not prevent him from sending his Messenger.” She paused as Lavia murmured agreement, then continued, “I believe the roots to which Alaria referred are the many faces of Ashar, and the ash of the burning the defeat of the Horde, which even now prompts a false belief in safety.”

  Reena looked to Porelle, who smiled and shrugged, saying, “I do not think my belief is false, Jara. How could the Messenger prosper within the boundaries of the Kingdoms? Tamur, Kesh, Ust-Galich, all hold to Kyrie. Not even the Sandurkan follow Ashar. So what power might the Messenger wield outside his master’s domain?”

  “He needs only a foothold, and few are pure,” answered the older woman. “From a tiny spark a fire may grow.”

  “Do you say that Ashar might find worshippers within the Kingdoms?” Reena’s plain features registered a mixture of disgust and shock. “Surely not!”

  “Not necessarily worshippers,” Jara responded evenly, “but let us look beyond the immediacy of the deities; let us consider them as concepts.”

  Reena appeared more shocked at this and Jara reached out to pat her hand reassuringly. “I intend no blasphemy, Sister, but I am of less fundamental a bent than you. I mean that Ashar may not require conscious worship to work his fell designs, but a turn of mind suitable to his purpose. What, after all, does he represent?”

  “Evil,” said Reena promptly. “Lust; avarice.”

  “Disorder, ambition, chaos,” added Porelle.

  “Indeed,” murmured Jara, “and are there not ambitious men in the Kingdoms? Does greed not exist there? Do some men not lust after power?”

  “You suggest the Messenger may seek out such men?” asked Lavia, seeing Jara’s point.

  “I do,” confirmed the silver-haired woman. “It is my belief the Messenger lives still, and that Ashar will send him south to suborn to his foul cause. That is my interpretation of the Text.”

  “Who would accept him?” demanded Reena, outrage curling her somewhat fleshy lips.

  “He would be recognized,” said Porelle, “and slain.”

  Jara bowed her head in partial acknowledgment. “Perhaps,” she said to Porelle, “though I am not certain. As a concept Ashar has many faces—might not his minion enjoy the same art of subterfuge? I have no doubt he can disguise himself to confuse the eyes of men, and his power may be such that if
he forgoes the use of overt sorcery he may even deceive our Sisters. Most of those within the Kingdoms are, after all, possessed of practical talents. As for your doubt, Reena, I repeat that there are some who might be tempted by his promises.”

  “We cannot overlook that possibility,” murmured Gerat. “For the sake of the Kingdoms and our Lady we must not.”

  Silence fell with the ending of the sentence, broken for a while only by the soft thud of wind-battered shutters and the crepitation of the fire. It seemed the wintry chill that gripped the plain surrounding Estrevan had entered the room. Reena shivered, folding her arms across her breast. Porelle stared at Jara as though unable to believe the older Sister’s words. Lavia sighed, stroking the covers of the book she held as if seeking reassurance there. Gerat studied their faces, her own calm despite the unease that had grown since first Darr’s messengers had brought her word. Finally she spoke, “You are the finest scholars in the Sacred City—that is why I asked that each of you study Alaria’s Text—and I had hoped we might finally unravel its complexities. But it appears that is not to be, so let me add my own thoughts.

  “We know that Alaria was gifted with a vision sent by our Lady that we might prepare defenses against Ashar. To that end the Paramount Sister Galina asked the acolyte Yrla to consider quitting her studies here and contemplate marriage. No more than that, for—as you know—it is not the way of the Lady to force decisions, but Yrla chose of her own free will and left Estrevan after studying the Text, which convinced her of the path she must take. She was wed to Bedyr Caitin of Tamur and their child. Kedryn, has proven to be the one Alaria foretold. From western stone and river s core shall come that one who may oppose the fire. As Porelle has pointed out, Kedryn Caitin did turn back the Horde when he slew Niloc Yarrum. Our Sister, Wynette, sent word with Darr’s messengers that Kedryn was marked by Ashar’s minion; that when Grania dispelled the glamour the Messenger brought against High Fort there was a joining of minds that would appear to have imbued Kedryn w'ith a power I do not pretend to comprehend. Suffice it to say that the Lady blessed him, that he was able to defeat the leader of the Horde. And that a warrior, ensorcelled by the Messenger, came against Kedryn and blinded him before he was dispatched.

  “I believe that Kedryn Caitin is the Chosen One foretold in the Text and that only he—though he may not know it—has the answer to the questions the Text raises.

  “I side with Jara and Lavia in the interpretation of the Text. I believe that the Messenger lives still, and that Ashar will seek to send him against the Kingdoms again.

  “His strength will be lessened south of the Lozin wall, but it will remain potent. How he will go about his master’s work I do not know, but I believe we must warn our Sisters in the Kingdoms of this, and ourselves stand ready.

  “I ask you to continue your studies of the Text, for in time Kedryn Caitin will journey here, seeking to regain his sight. 1 do not know if we shall be able to restore vision to him, but I am convinced that he is the only one capable of ending Ashar’s threat and 1 hope that we may furnish him with the answers he will doubtless seek.”

  “In darkness shall he see, though blindness swathe him. ” Lavia murmured, a finger tracing the line. “I had wondered about that.”

  “I do not understand it,” said Porelle, “though I bow to the wisdom of the Paramount Sister.”

  “Are we then agreed?” asked Gerat gently, looking from face to face. “Our studies must continue whilst we await Kedryn’s coming?”

  “And warn our Sisters in the east,” nodded Jara.

  “The mehdri will carry word,” Gerat promised. “Sisters?”

  “It is all we can do,” said Lavia.

  “I am in accord,” Reena murmured.

  “And I,” said Porelle, though a trifle dubiously.

  “Thank you,” said Gerat. “Now it is late and I have kept you from the dining hall long enough. Let me delay you no further.”

  “Do you not join?” asked Reena. “I should like to discuss those lines concerning his blindness.”

  “In a little while,” promised Gerat with a gentle smile. “For the moment I should like to be alone to think on everything you have said.”

  Reena nodded and rose with the others, leaving the soft-lit room where the Paramount Sister sat, her features composed.

  Only when she was alone did Gerat allow some measure of her own doubts to show. She stood, crossing to a carved oak door that opened on to a narrow spiral stairway winding steeply up to the roof of the tower. She shivered as she stepped out into the night and the wind struck her, sending her long hair in a streaming pennant behind her as she faced into it, setting her hands on the chilled stone of the surrounding wall to stare out across the rooftops of Estrevan. She dismissed the cold, instinctively adjusting her mind so that her body refused to recognize its bite, letting her gaze wander from the star-scattered panoply above to the kaleidoscope of twinkling lights that shone serene as grounded stars from the streets of the Sacred City.

  If only, she thought, the Text were clearer. I have read it and reread it, and I have studied every word Galina wrote, yet still I can only guess. If only I were sure. Can I guide properly when so much of my advice is based on surmise? Or is that what Kyrie intended? To advise without shaping our decisions for us. If so, 1 pray that what I do is right.

  She sighed and turned from her contemplation of the City, returning to the warmth of the room, where she banked the fire before making her way to the dining hall and the questions she knew would await her there.

  Chapter One

  “ME? Why me? What do I know of such things?” Kedryn’s voice was tinged with alarm, and a hint of bitterness. Bedyr studied him, pain in his brown eyes as he saw the bandage that encircled his son’s face, knowing that within the dark world the young man now inhabited fear must be a constant companion: so far neither the blue-robed Sister Hospitaler seated beside Kedryn nor those of King Darr’s entourage had found a cure for his blindness, and in that, at least, Ashar’s Messenger had won a victory. He glanced at Wynett, seeing his own pain reflected in her blue eyes, wondering if the latest potions with which the young Sister had steeped the bandage might prove effective, not sure whether to go on or leave Kedryn to his brooding. He frowned a question and Wynett ducked the wheaten glory of her hair in agreement, urging him to continue.

  “Because you slew their leader,” he said gently, “and it appears that only the man who defeated their hef-Ulan may be accepted as spokesman for the Kingdoms.”

  “Spokesman!” Kedryn spat the word, his hands clenching into fists around the stem of the goblet he clutched as though he sought to crush the receptacle. “I suppose I am good for little else.”

  “There is much for which you are good,” Wynett said softly. “Is this not an opportunity?”

  “How so?” Kedryn’s head turned as he spoke, as though the absence of vision imparted by the ensorcelled sword affected his hearing too. “They will laugh at a blind man. And what can I say to them? I am—was,” he corrected bitterly, “—a warrior, not a diplomat.”

  “You are the warrior who slew Niloc Yarrum,” Wynett responded, her voice even, devoid of hurtful pity, “and they know that. They respect you for it, no matter the wounds you sustained and they will listen to you. You have an opportunity to do much good.”

  Kedryn grunted doubtfully and swung his sightless head in Bedyr’s direction.

  “How say you, Father?”

  “Wynett is right,” said the Lord of Tamur. “We have a unique opportunity to forge a lasting peace with the forest folk, and I believe that chance hinges on you.”

  “The prophecy again?” Kedryn murmured.

  “Perhaps,” Bedyr nodded. “At the very least, surely the Lady must look with favor on the one who brings peace betwixt the Kingdoms and the Beltrevan.”

  “And shall there be another price to pay?” his son demanded. “Shall I give up some other part of myself to secure another victory?”

  Bedyr opened his
mouth to speak, but Wynett raised a hand, urging him to silence. “Look into your soul, Kedryn,” she advised. “You will find the answers there.”

  “I need an answer to this damnable affliction,” he retorted. “Let the Lady restore my sight and I’ll gladly serve her.”

  “She will give you back your eyes,” Wynett promised with complete confidence, “I have no doubt of that. Mayhap you must travel to Estrevan, but there will be a cure.”

  Kedryn let go the goblet and raised his hands to his head, sinking fingers into long brown hair as he sighed, his mouth downtumed.

  “Forgive me, Wynett; Father. This cursed darkness renders me irritable. Let me think on it. Leave me alone for a while.”

  “Very well.” Bedyr rose, tall and broad-shouldered, his sternly handsome features creased with a pity he knew his son would not welcome. In that, as in appearance, they were alike: Tamurin were proud; their suffering was done in silence, privately.

  Wynett came with him as he quit the chamber, stepping out into the stone-flagged corridor that tunneled through the depths of High Fort, sighing as the door closed.

  “There will be a cure,” she said fiercely. “There must be. I cannot believe the Lady intends him to remain blind.”

  Bedyr studied her lovely face, hearing in her voice more than he thought she was prepared to acknowledge. He had watched them since the fighting ended with growing concern, for he could see his son falling in love with the youthful Sister; and see in Wynett’s responses a reciprocated affection that she could not admit for her vows of celibacy. It was more than a dependency on the Sister, even though her ministrations had inevitably thrown them closer together than would have been possible had Kedryn soldierly duties to attend; and on Wynett’s part he could see in her eyes, hear in her voice, a burgeoning feeling that must eventually conflict with her promises to the Sisterhood. She was a dedicated hospitaler, sworn since she had chosen to forgo her rank as King Darr’s daughter to the way of the Lady; yet to maintain that promise she must remain celibate, or lose her healing talent. He was uncertain how it all might end, and afraid that his son might suffer a hurt as great as blindness in result.