Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02

by The Usurper (v1. 1)

  Wynett, in equal measure, found it hard, for she saw the love he bore her on his face and felt her own feelings thrown into turmoil by the adoration and the constant proximity. It was not easy to conceal her own affection and she found after a while that the effort drained her, only her resolve to remain true to her vows preventing her from according Kedryn the confession she knew he desired. Despite the dangers, she found herself looking forward to the journey into the Beltrevan: the road would surely provide them with sufficient problems that this emotional impasse might be at least temporarily set aside.

  And the preparations proceeded with alacrity. As yet they were touched only by the edge of winter, but soon its full weight would descend upon Tamur and it was, according to Lavia, imperative that they set out as swiftly as possible. In further conclave she expressed Estrevan’s fear that the Messenger remained not just alive, but active still and bent on furthering his master’s fell design. How, she could not say, for all the efforts of the Sorority had not been able to discover his whereabouts, though the consensus of opinion was that he likely sought to penetrate the security of the Kingdoms to work his glamours from within, having failed to succeed by force of arms. With that in mind, Bedyr reluctantly agreed to her suggestion that he remain in Caitin Hold, entrusting Kedryn to the care of Tepshen Lahl and a select band of ten warriors, two of them familiar with the patois of the woodlanders; and Yrla, bravely concealing her sadness at once more bidding her son farewell, gave them her blessing for a safe journey and a swift return.

  “It seems I am to have little part in his life,” she murmured wistfully as she rummaged through closets in search of winter clothing for Wynett. “He was a boy when he first departed for the Beltrevan, and he has returned a man only to ride out again.” “He will come back,” Wynett had replied. “His heart is here.” “I am selfish.” Yrla had smiled as she said it, laying out a selection of thick, woollen underclothing sweet with the scent of the herbal sachets tucked among the garments. “It is in a mother’s nature to forget her children must grow and go their own ways. In Kedryn’s case it seems to have happened so quickly.”

  “His sight regained, he will come home,” Wynett promised.

  “Unless Ashar’s accursed creature comes again between us,” Yrla responded, her voice grim. “It seems we are caught in some cosmic game that takes little account of the desires of mere pawns.”

  “If my Sisters’ reading of the Text is correct, we all have a duty in that game,” Wynett said slowly. “We must all play our parts.”

  “I know,” Yrla sighed, adding fur-lined leggings to the mounting pile of clothes, “and my complaints are purely a mother’s possessive love. I would not hold him back—and I know he rides in good company. ”

  She turned to Wynett then, setting her hands to the young woman’s face. “Take care of him, my dear: you hold more than the key to his vision.”

  “I know,” Wynett said softly, “and I shall. Were I not sworn to Estrevan ...”

  “Yes.” Yrla stooped to kiss her brow, then abruptly changed the subject. “Now, let us see if these things fit.”

  Wynett was grateful for the occupation, shedding her blue robe for the winter travel gear Yrla had selected, its warmth and sturdiness attesting to the severity of the season she must soon face on the trail. She giggled as she drew on the stuff, layer upon layer it seemed, until she was sure she must resemble nothing so much as some blond snow beast. There were the long woollen underbreeches and a vest of similar material, thinner breeks and tunic of soft hide, then the leggings with the fur turned inward, and fur-lined boots, a thick jerkin, again lined with fur, its collar standing about her face and tickling her, gloves, and finally a furred cloak with holes for her arms and a hood that laced about her face to cover all but her eyes. Yrla added a bonnet and a strange contrivance of carved wood and bone, hinged and thonged, with slits that Wynett did not at first understand.

  “It covers your eyes,” Yrla explained, fixing the thing in place. “You tie the thongs behind your head.”

  “I can barely see.” Wynett burst into giggles as she studied herself in the mirror set in a frame beside the wardrobe, seeing the befurred image that confronted her, bulky beneath its coverings, with narrow slit eyes where the mask sat across her nose.

  “The snow in the high peaks can blind you,” Yrla warned. “These protect your sight.”

  Wynett remembered the charcoal old Dys had given her and nodded.

  “Unguents, too,” advised Yrla, “lest the wind and frost chafe your skin.”

  “I have those,” Wynett said. “Are winters here so fierce?”

  “Worse across the Lozins,” came the answer. “It will not be so bad crossing the Tamur plateau, but when you climb the foothills to the high peaks you will need all of this.”

  “Shall we not pass back through the Lozin Gate?” Wynett inquired, seeing Yrla shake her head.

  “No, that would take too long. It seems the woodlander who struck Kedryn was a Drott, and their territory lies north and west of the Gate. Bedyr and Tepshen agreed that the most direct route is to the north, to the Fedyn Pass. It is high and narrow, but it will take you more swiftly than any other trail into the Drott lands. A border fort guards the way and the road there will not be too difficult yet. Though once you enter the pass ...” She paused, her expression grave. “Then you will need all this gear. And the Lady’s blessing.”

  “We have that,” Wynett said stoutly.

  “Aye,” Yrla nodded, “I believe you do.”

  Lavia, too, had advice to offer, though it was not to do with the physical journey.

  “Take this,” she said as they sat at dinner on the night before their departure, extending a small parcel sealed with the stamp of Estrevan to Wynett. “It is a talisman that will ward you in the netherworld.”

  Wynett broke the seal and took Kedryn’s hand as she studied the contents that he might see what safeguard the Sorority offered. There were two small medallions of blue stone, thin and carved with tiny, ancient symbols, suspended from leather thongs, the back of each jagged as if sundered from its obverse side.

  “Custom has it these were once one,” Lavia explained, “and worn by Kyrie herself. When she drove Ashar north and sealed him behind the Lozin Wall the talisman was divided, but the pieces retain power. Keep them safe and wear them when you go beyond—they will guard you and enable you to see the snares that may confront you.”

  Dutifully both Kedryn and Wynett hung the stones about their necks.

  “You must find the Drott lands,” Lavia continued, “and claim your right as hef-Alador to their help. Demand of their shamans that they bring you to the burial place and perform the ceremony that will enable you to enter the netherworld. You must both wear the talismans—they will bring you to the one you seek.”

  “Both?” Kedryn demanded, his grip on Wynett’s hand tightening as he stared at Lavia. “Must Wynett accompany me even there?”

  “The bonding applies in both this world and that other,” the older Sister nodded. “Without Wynett, you will be blind there as you are here. Though without the physical bonds of this world, you will not need to maintain touch—the talismans will establish the linking that grants you sight. And after you confront the one you seek you will require that doubled strength to return. Do not think that Ashar will remain quiescent to this invasion. He will not! Even when you have won back your sight he will doubtless seek to entrap you in the shadows, and for the sake of the Kingdoms you must return.”

  She faced Wynett then, saying, “This is a heavy task, Sister.”

  “You need not agree,” Kedryn said quickly. “I would net place you in jeopardy. I will place my trust in the Lady and enter this limbo alone.”

  Wynett looked into his eyes and took both his hands in hers as she said, “I would not allow that, Kedryn. I have begun this journey with you and we shall end it together. You cannot leave me behind.”

  “You are brave as you are beautiful,” he murmured, and she
blushed, turning her attention to the wine a servant set before her as the others at the table looked discreetly away. All save Lavia, who caught Wynett’s eye and smiled enigmatically, her expression one of fond concern and curiosity.

  The hall was subdued that night, for there were many present who doubted Kedryn would return, and others who felt it the wiser course to wait out the winter and attempt the crossing of the Lozins in the spring; and all were sorry to bid their prince farewell so soon after his homecoming. Lyassa, in particular, was moved by his going, having believed that he would make the safer journey to Estrevan rather than penetrate the barbarian lands and—worse—the spirit world, and after several cups of wine she found it impossible to hold back her tears.

  “I am a disgrace to my calling,” she keened, her plump cheeks glistening. “The Lady has set you a course to follow and I complain of it, but I cannot help it.”

  “I shall return,” Kedryn promised her. “Do I not ride with true companions? And this,” he touched the blue talisman at his throat, “will doubtless guard me.”

  “But when shall you practice the lessons I taught you?” sniffed the aging Sister. “I had thought to see you dance in the White Palace, not ride always into danger.”

  “I ride that the danger may be ended,” Kedryn smiled, reaching across the table to take her hand. “Do not weep, Lyassa; your teachings stand me in good Stead and I shall return to show how badly I dance.”

  This sally, small though it was, brought a sad smile to the Sister’s cheeks and she turned to face Tepshen Lahl.

  “Ward him well, kyo,” she admonished. “He is your charge now.”

  “He is his own man,” said the easterner calmly, “but rest assured my blade will be ever at his back. ”

  Lyassa shuddered at the warlike promise, but cheered a little and stilled her weeping.

  There were other farewells said that night, but they were less emotional for it was not the Tamurin way to make any great thing of danger and the men and women who approached the high table to take Kedryn’s hand or kiss his cheek were mostly content to simply express their desire that he come safe home again, his sight fully restored.

  They retired early for their intention was to depart soon after first light and the hold was in no mood for prolonged festivity. Wynett went with Kedryn to the door of his chamber, their hands entwined that he might see his way.

  “A moment,” Yrla said as Wynett was about to disengage the grip. “I would have my son see my face.”

  Wynett nodded and retained his hand as Yrla hugged Kedryn and then set palms to his cheeks, her head tilted back a little that she might look into his eyes.

  “There is nothing I would say to hold you here,” she murmured, “though my heart aches to see you go. I entrust you to Wynett and Tepshen; and the Lady, who I know will be with you. You have a duty that is hard to bear, but I know you will dispense it as befits a true warrior of Tamur. The heart of Caitin Hold is with you and whatever the outcome, know that I love you.”

  “I do,” Kedryn answered, letting go Wynett’s hand that he might embrace his mother, setting his arms about her shoulders and holding her close as she rested her face against his chest, “and I return that love.”

  “Aye.” Yrla drew back, quickly brushing a hand across her eyes that he would not see the tears glistening there. “Go with the Lady, my son.”

  Bedyr stepped forward then, his face grave, to place hands upon Kedryn’s shoulders.

  “I am proud of you,” he said huskily. “You are a credit to the Caitin blood and I would that I might ride with you.”

  Kedryn reached then for Wynett’s hand, facing his father, no longer a youth but a man, full grown. “Your duty lies here,” he said, “and mine is to ready myself for whatever lies ahead. We shall meet again.”

  “I pray so,” nodded Bedyr, and turned to take his wife’s arm, steering her toward their own chamber, his back straight and stiff.

  “Leave-takings are sad things,” Kedryn murmured.

  “You will see them again,” Wynett said. “And when you do it will be unaided. You will have your own sight.”

  “And shall that mean another farewell?” he asked softly, studying her.

  Wynett’s blue eyes looked into his brown gaze, then she lowered her face to hide the confusion there.

  “You look too far ahead,” she whispered.

  “Is that an answer?” he chided gently, “or a promise of hope?”

  “I . . .” She shook her head, torchlight glinting golden on the brighter yellow of her hair, “I cannot say. Please, Kedryn, do not press me. I am a Sister still.”

  “Forgive me,” he asked. “I will not speak of this again until we return. ”

  That was at least small respite and Wynett essayed a tentative smile. “Thank you, my Lord. Now—should we not sleep?”

  “Aye,” he agreed, and let go her hands, tapping on his chamber door that the servant waiting within might emerge to see him safely to his bed.

  It was strange to lie abed in such familiar surroundings yet not see those things he had for so many years taken for granted. He had grown accustomed to his chamber in High Fort, indeed, had set out to learn its configurations with such determination that he needed no help there, but now—in his own home, in his own rooms—he required a housecarl to closet his gear and guide him to the washstand, even to the bed. And when the man was gone he was alone, once more lost in the dark world. He could feel the warmth of the fire banked in the hearth and the stirring of the night wind that came through the shutters. The sheets were pleasantly cool, smooth about his naked body, but he could see neither hearth nor shutters; he did not know if a moon shone outside his window, or even if the carl had left a torch burning. Sightlessness rendered him a stranger to the familiar, and that knowledge pressed upon him thoughts of Wynett. Without her he was lost, doomed to wander blind. Yet his dependence brought her into danger and he loathed that thought. The ride north would be arduous enough, the crossing of the Fedyn Pass harder, and after that there was the Beltrevan. The tribes had hailed him as hef-Alador and the chieftains had sworn fealty; Brannoc had seemed confident that their word was good and neither Lavia—who spoke as the voice of Estrevan—nor Bedyr—whom he trusted utterly—seemed to have any doubt but that he would find safe passage through the forests. But would the forest folk extend that hospitality to his companions? Tepshen Lahl and the Tamurin warriors were dangerously able to look after themselves, but Wynett was defenseless. And he knew that if harm came to her, a part of him would die.

  He turned in the bed, conjuring a vision of her standing looking into his eyes. She was so beautiful, not merely of visage but of spirit, too. For all that he could not bear the thought of parting from her, he knew what duress he placed her under and he could only admire the way in which she comported herself, with a nobility of spirit that elicited frank admiration of her character.

  Were she not a Sister.

  Were she but willing to forgo her vows.

  Had he but met her as his father had met his mother, before those vows were taken.

  The thoughts spun headlong about his mind as he drifted into a troubled sleep that was roiled with dreams.

  The first was familiar, an echo of that first dream encountered in High Fort, of walking with her in sunlit meadows where birds sang and brooks splashed cheerfully, the sky above blue as her gown, her hair bright as the sun that warmed them. Then it changed with the unnatural normality of such fantasies and the sky became dark with thunder clouds, great storm heads tearing across the azure to obfuscate the purity of the blue behind a pall of livid, lightning-seared darkness as hollow laughter took the place of the thunder and they cowered beneath a tree no longer green with the freshness of spring, but withered and sere, stripped by something more than winter. The birdsong died away and as he gazed about the brooks no longer ran blue-silver, but were sluggish and red, the dark carmine of life’s blood. He realized that Wynett no longer stood beside him, but faced him across the m
eadow, her features riven with grief and terror, though whether for herself or him he could not tell. He moved toward her, but when he stepped from the scant shelter of the tree great bolts of lightning struck down, filling the air with the stink of burning, sickly with the odor of roasting flesh, and the grass was blackened where they hit and fires started up, sparkling small at first, but soon growing to a roaring wall of flame that seemed to reach toward him, driving him back so that he could not go to Wynett and she became lost behind that barrier of incandescence. He heard the laughter louder then and it became a voice that rang from within the flames and said his name, over and over again, a longing in its tone, an awful, hungry anticipation.

  He raised his hands to protect his face, but the flames scorched his palms and he cried out, shouting, “Wynett! Wynett!”

  And he felt hands grasp him and struck out as the voice repeated his name and became familiar, recognized as that of the carl set to watch his door.

  “Vigrund?” he gasped. “Is that you, Vigrund?”

  “Aye, Prince,” came the answer, “it is I. You dreamed, I think. I heard you call the Sister’s name. Should I fetch her to you?”

  “No.” He shook his head, though in that moment he wanted nothing more than to have Wynett by his side, to feel her close, hold her hands, clutch her to him. “No, do not disturb her.”

  “A cup of oenomel, perhaps?” Vigrund suggested, and Kedryn nodded, embarrassed now, for he could feel the aftermath of the tremors that had shaken him and the dampness of sweat-soaked sheets.

  He waited, driving his mind to stillness as the carl brought the honeyed wine and set his hands to the cup. The solidity of the plain earthenware beaker reassured him as much as the strong hands that raised him, shaking sweat-dampened pillows that he might sit more comfortably.

  “Thank you,” he said between sips, relishing the warmth and sweetness of the drink. “I suffered a disturbing dream.”

  “It is not unusual.” He felt the bed shift as Vigrund settled on the edge, informal as any Tamurin. “I always dreamed before I rode to battle. Terrible dreams, they were, that had me yelling and fighting so that the captain would often as not set me on night watch just so the rest of them could get some sleep. I remember the night before the Sandurkan put a lance in my leg and made me a housecarl I dreamed I was a boar, but my tusks were broken and I couldn’t seem to run when I heard the hunting horns. I tried, but I couldn’t, and the dogs sounded me and I was wallowing along when the biggest Sandurkan I’d ever seen came thundering up on one of those hairy ponies they ride and stuck his lance clean through me.