“The duel is behind us,” he said quietly, “and Hattim’s way to Ashrivelle is clear. She would hardly consider me a suitable husband now.”
“Are you so experienced then?” Bedyr chided. “Do you know the ways of women so well?”
“Would she accept a blind husband?” Kedryn grunted irritably. “Besides, I love ...”
He broke off: it was best not to admit it, even to himself.
Bedyr surprised him by saying, “I know. We must talk of it later. ”
Kedryn gasped his surprise, for he had not suspected his feelings were so transparent that any but Wynett herself might have sensed them. He had said nothing to his father, and Bedyr had spent relatively little time with him of late, being so much concerned with the aftermath of battle, but it appeared he was more obvious than he had thought.
“I should welcome that,” he murmured.
“It is time, I think,” Bedyr said. “And it is oft helpful to discuss a problem with a friend.”
He squeezed his son’s shoulder as he spoke, and Kedryn took comfort from the pressure, his gloomy mood lightening a fraction.
It darkened again as they entered the hall and he heard the buzz of conversation falter, guessing that those present saw him and turned in his direction, not needing eyes to see the expressions of sympathy on their faces for he could hear it in the greetings that came his way as Bedyr guided him to the table set at the head of the long room.
“Here,” his father instructed, easing a chair back. “There is a cup to your right and a jug ready. Darr sits to your left in conversation with Jarl. The others are not yet come.”
“My Lords,” Kedryn said, easing into the chair.
“Kedryn,” responded the king, “I thank you again for the wisdom you brought to our proceedings.”
“Aye, you spoke well.” Jarl’s voice was gruff with unspoken compassion.
“Thank you,” he answered, grateful that they had the tact not to refer to his predicament. “I am pleased I was able to offer something. ”
“You offered much,” said Darr. “A lasting peace with the Beltrevan can be nothing but beneficial to us all. ”
Kedryn smiled, putting his hands on the surface of the table and reaching carefully for the cup, lifting it that the waiting servant might fill it. He brought it to his lips and felt pleased with himself that he managed that, and the replacement, without spilling the rich, Galichian wine.
“Hattim comes,” Bedyr warned.
“The peacock lord,” muttered Jarl, disapproval in his voice. “What finery! How he struts!”
“Lord Jarl,” Darr chided, “are we not allies? Let us at least retain a semblance of friendship.”
“That alliance was forced on him by Kedryn’s victory in the trajea,” the Keshi grunted, “and you know it, Darr. Had the lad not bested him, Hattim would have found excuses to leave the fighting to us and likely have settled himself in Andurel.”
“Jarl, Jarl,” Darr murmured, “you cannot be sure of that.”
“He lusts for the throne,” retorted the swarthy lord. “And that I can be sure of.”
“He is ambitious,” the king admitted, “but whilst you and our Lord of Tamur oppose him, he can entertain no hope of gaining that seat.”
“Not rightfully, ” Jarl responded, “but the likes of Hattim do not always do what is right.”
“Do you suspect treason, Jarl?” asked Bedyr.
Kedryn heard the Keshi’s robe shift as his shoulders hunched in a shrug. “No,” he admitted, “but I do not trust Hattim.”
“He fought with us,” said Darr. “Let us remember that and forget our differences.”
Kedryn heard Jarl snort, but any reply he might have given was cut short by the arrival of the Lord of Ust-Galich.
“King Darr, my Lords, Prince Kedryn.” His greeting was bland enough. “I find you well?”
From the scraping of wood on stone Kedryn guessed that Hattim took a chair to Jarl’s left. He could imagine the contrast between them, Hattim in the opulent gold and green he seemed to favor, that taste extending even to his armor, his hair so blond as to shine yellow, carefully arranged to expose the earring suspended from his right lobe, his wrists spanned by intricate bracelets, while Jarl would be wearing his customary black, his dark hair braided in the Keshi fashion, his only jewelry the rings on left thumb and two fingers. Darr, he guessed, would wear the plain gray robe that appeared his customary attire on any but formal occasions, his sole mark of status the medallion about his neck, the tripartite crown of Andurel raised in bas-relief from the silver disk. He and Bedyr both wore leather, practical and comfortable. A stranger entering the hall might well assume that Hattim Sethiyan was the most elevated there, at least until they spoke, for Darr had an air of quiet authority while Hattim exuded a sense of petulant dissatisfaction.
He appeared now, however, to be doing his best to maintain some semblance of unity with his fellow lords. His conversation was polite and he took pains to avoid any reference to Kedryn’s blindness, seemingly convinced—against his earlier objections— of the sense of treating with the forest folk.
Kedryn listened to the talk without taking much part. It was mostly to do with the readying of their forces for the parley, and his own attention was largely occupied with the difficulty of eating food he could not see. His nose told him that roasted pork sat on his platter, and he knew it was already cut for him, but he had still to spear the pieces and bring them to his mouth, not knowing whether fat dribbled onto his shirt, and only able to guess at what vegetable he lifted to his lips. It was embarrassing, and he had so far avoided eating so publicly as much as he was able, but Bedyr had given him no chance this time and he guessed that his father sought to prove a point to Hattim, or even to his son. Consequently he ate largely in silence, speaking only when a remark was addressed directly to him and thankful when the meal ended and he was able to excuse himself.
Bedyr brought him to his chamber, set high in one of the turrets overlooking the canyon of the Idre. Heat from the fire blazing in the hearth struck his face as he entered and he crossed the room with a greater confidence than he showed beyond its now-familiar confines to throw open the shutters and allow in a cooling draft of wintry air. He had determined early that he would not be cosseted, and earned sundry bruises as he paced about the stone-walled room acquainting himself with its distances and angles and furniture until he was able to move with a degree of surety. Now he leaned upon the embrasure, feeling the wind on his face, hearing the steady dinning of the great river as he pictured the remembered view in his mind. Behind him he heard Bedyr settle in a chair and fill two glasses. He drew the shutters closed and turned, walking to the empty chair and lowering himself into it with a feeling of pride that was sullied by the knowledge that a sighted man would undertake so simple an action automatically, thinking nothing of it.
“Evshan,” his father said, pushing a goblet toward him. “And time to talk. I think.”
Kedryn felt instantly apprehensive, swallowing a generous measure of the fiery liquor. He was not sure he wanted to discuss his feelings, but Bedyr gave him no choice.
“Do you love Wynett?”
Kedryn knew that his father was not a man to prevaricate, but the bluntness of the question still took him by surprise. He grunted, seeking to hide momentary confusion behind a second swallow of evshan.
“She is a Sister,” he answered, “sworn to celibacy. As you pointed out—untouchable.”
“I know what she is,” Bedyr murmured, “and I did not ask you that. Do you love her?”
“I . . .” Kedryn began, then gulped and said, “Yes! Lady help me, but I cannot prevent myself. I love her.”
It was in the open now, spoken, and he felt curiously better for it.
“Does she reciprocate?” asked Bedyr.
That was far harder to answer for he could not be sure. Indeed, he had to admit that he did not know. There was a bond, of that he was certain, but whether she shared his feelings remai
ned so far unguessable.
He told Bedyr as much and his father said, “It is often the case that a hurt man comes to think he loves the one who heals him. Or the one who seeks to heal him, simply because they share that commonality of purpose. They spend much time together, and the care bestowed by the one may be mistranslated.”
“It is not that,” Kedryn retorted. “I am sure it is not. What I saw in Ashrivelle is magnified in Wynett—and I did see her. Before I was blinded I saw her and felt that were she not a Sister ...”
“But she is a Sister,” Bedyr finished for him.
“As she reminds me,” Kedryn nodded, “but I cannot help my feelings. And I do not think they are the result of her ministrations. I think I began to feel this when first she tended me; when all I suffered was the arrow wound.”
Bedyr grunted then and there was the sound of the jar gurgling to tip more evshan into their goblets. “Would you have her relinquish her vows?” he asked.
“Do you ask me what I wish for? Or whether I would force her to such a thing? If I could, which I cannot!”
He could not see his father’s sad smile, but he felt the hand that grasped his shoulder, squeezing, then retreating. He smiled thinly and continued, “If Wynett should choose to relinquish her vows—of her own free will—because she loves me, then I should be mightily happy. Had I my eyes, I think I should ask her. But sightless, I am afraid.”
“To ask?” Bedyr queried gently. “Or of the answer?”
Kedryn chuckled, more than a little sourly. “Of both. I feel ... I am not sure, but sometimes I think she does reciprocate, But her duty to the Lady stands between us.”
“There is dispensation,” Bedyr said slowly. “Devotion to the Lady is based on free will, and there have been Sisters who have chosen to give up their talents. It must be a terrible decision—the lives of the Sisters are based upon the notion of general care, of loving no individual above another. Wynett gave up much to become a Sister—as Darr’s daughter, she had much to give up—and to forsake that which she has pursued so faithfully would be a heartbreaking choice.”
“Do you say I should seek to forget her?” Kedryn demanded.
“Could you?” countered his father. “You are young and there will be other women.”
“Not like Wynett!” he answered fiercely. “I saw Ashrivelle and thought I wanted her, but now—even though I am blind—she pales in comparison with Wynett. I can remember how she looks, Father. How both of them look, but there is so much more to Wynett!”
“Mayhap you have merely known her longer,” Bedyr suggested.
“Mayhap,” said Kedryn, “but I do not believe it is that.”
“You appear convinced,” Bedyr said.
“I am,” Kedryn agreed. “And I do not know what to do! I am afraid to speak my mind for fear I shall alienate her; and afraid to lose her if I do not.”
“Were she not of the Sisterhood I should counsel speaking out,” said Bedyr. “But as she is, I advise patience. And perhaps resignation. I think that if you express your feelings now you will lose any chance you may have. Of course, you may have none, and that is something you must accept. For now, however, I advise you to wait. Let matters take their natural course and accept the outcome whatever it may be.”
“But before long we depart for Caitin Hold,” Kedryn objected. “And thence to Estrevan. And if Wynett remains here I shall have no chance at all.”
“Perhaps Wynett will not remain,” Bedyr said carefully. “Mayhap she will accompany you to the Sacred City.”
“I asked her that and she prevaricated,” Kedryn murmured.
“But she did not refuse outright?” asked Bedyr.
“No.”
“Then wait until it is time,” Bedyr said. “A woman—even a Sister—will often surprise you with her choice.”
Chapter Two
Despite the wind that blew knife-cold between the great rock walls bounding the Idre, the sky remained a sullen gray, the upper reaches of the Lozin peaks lost in the overcast as though stone and sky fused together. The battered ramparts of the fort towered dark and forbidding above the wind-lashed water of the river, and the town that sat below the fort seemed to huddle against the buffeting of the wind, shutters drawn closed, the smoke that rose from the chimneys tattered by the gusts and sent streaming southward. The Idre herself matched the shading of the heavens, canescent as ash, the surface swelling and surging to send spume lashing high against the moles that sheltered the river craft bobbing on the waves. It was a time for firesides and mulled wine; for storytelling as leatherwork was mended or harness repaired; a time for readying against the long days of wolf-weather promised by the ominous firmament.
Tepshen Lahl wished that he was warm behind closed shutters, sitting by a fireside with a goblet of spiced and heated wine at his elbow and his hands busy with the repair of his war gear. In all the years he had spent in Tamur, the easterner had yet to grow accustomed to the severity of her winters, and each year, as he felt the approach of the white months, he could not resist the painful return of memories of his forsaken homeland.
It had been so long ago that he had fled, a refugee with only a slaughtered family and a price on his head behind him, that he was now as much Tamurin as Bundakai, but still, as the cold came down to chill his bones, he thought of his home. It was a milder place than the mountainous country that had offered him sanctuary and friendship, where the differentiation between the seasons was less marked, more subtle than the dramatic changes of Tamur's hills and valleys, and while he was in every other way acclimatized, he still found the winters unpleasant.
It was not, however, his way to show that. He was kyo—a swordmaster—and as such bound by disciplines instilled from so early a date as to be now a way of life, so he kept the grimace of displeasure from his sallow features and screwed his almondshaped eyes to tighter slits against the bite of the cold as he drew his fur-lined cloak about him and surveyed the warriors paraded on the plain before him. They stood in silent ranks, archers and swordsmen, halberdiers and cavalry, stoic in the chill, awaiting his orders. They trusted him—there could be no doubting that, for when Bedyr had sent word to raise the men of Tamur to the defense of the Kingdoms, they had come unquestioning, accepting him as lieutenant of their lord. He was proud of that, and if there was any regret at all attached to his appreciation of their loyalty, it was that he had seen too little of the fighting, arriving after Kedryn had slain the leader of the barbarian Horde. It was a small regret, vastly outweighed by his relief at finding both Kedryn and Bedyr safe, if not unscathed, but—kyo and Bundakai that he was—he would have liked a little more real combat rather than the harrying of an essentially defeated army.
He grunted, reaching up to smooth his oiled queue beneath the high collar of his cloak, and gestured, dismissing the waiting warriors.
They broke formation with practiced efficiency, wheeling in ordered ranks to march back to the tents that covered the plain like varicolored mushrooms. Smoother, he thought, than the Keshi horsemen who thundered noisily over the sere ground, and more threatening than the Galichians, who lacked the discipline to ignore the cold and complained bitterly of the northern climes. He did not like the Galichians much, considering them soft, though he had a fondness for the hotheaded equestrians of Kesh. All, though, would do. They had defeated the Horde and now they would impress its leaders with their order and magnanimity, just as Kedryn had suggested. An almost imperceptible smile curved his lips at the thought: at the difference between this manner of cementing a peace and that of the Bundakai. In his homeland there would have been no talk of mercy or parleys. A renegotiation of alliances, perhaps; but that only between clans of equal status, not with hairy barbarians. The Bundakai would have ended the conflict with the ritual execution of the defeated leaders, their sons included, and the threat of mass extermination should any object. That he could accept the wisdom of Kedryn’s suggestion was indication of how deeply he had absorbed the ways of the Kingdoms.
Tepshen Lahl was not a follower of Kyrie. For all his adoption of Tamurin ways, he could still not accept the preeminence of a female, and while he recognized the value of the Sisterhood in such material manifestations as healing and far-sight, he did not subscribe to their faith in the Lady. If Estrevan could find a cure for Kedryn’s loss of sight it would be through skill with medicaments or the surgeon’s tools, not through prayer. And meanwhile the affliction was creating a problem of its own. Kedryn had served well—had proven himself a warrior—and deserved his due reward. That meed, had Kedryn his way, would be the hand of the Sister Wynett; yet that was denied him by the—foolish, to the easterner’s mind—vows of celibacy taken by the Sorority. Wynett was suitable: she was attractive, if pale gold hair and round blue eyes were a man’s taste, and her bloodline was indisputable; she was of an age to bear children; and Tepshen Lahl had seen the looks she cast in Kedryn’s direction when she thought herself unobserved, while Kedryn’s own feelings were transparent. That so small a thing as a misguided adherence to some foolish notion of purity should deny them both what they clearly desired was, to the kyo’s mind, madness. Yet it remained, a barrier, and Tepshen Lahl could see the problem becoming as great an affliction as the sightlessness. Were these the lands of the Bundakai, King Darr would have absolved the vow and given Wynett to Kedryn, and the woman—dutifully—would have accepted with gratitude.
Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 Page 5