“The captain-—Ramur, it was then, though he’s long dead now—woke me and told me if I couldn’t sleep quiet he’d cut my throat just so the rest of them wouldn’t fall asleep in their saddles when they should be fighting Sandurkan. You’re finished with that cup? Good, let me have it then. Anyway, that day I got stuck, though I don’t suppose it was anything to do with the dream. And after ...”
He paused as he heard a soft snore from Kedryn and smiled as he rose carefully from the bed, drawing the coverlet up to his prince’s chest.
“You sleep sound, Kedryn. For what’s ahead of you, you need sleep.”
He stared fondly at the young man, wondering when—or if—he might return again, then shuffled on his twisted leg to the outer chamber where he settled on his own bed and fell swiftly into a dreamless sleep.
Kedryn’s rest, too, was unmarred by nightmares for what remained of the dark hours, though when he woke he could still recall with horrid clarity all the details of the dream, and felt the sluggish pull of incomplete sleep. It was early yet and the hold was only just waking as he drew on a robe and shouted for Vigrund to bring him to the bathhouse, trusting in the waters to refresh him. He was not much surprised to find Tepshen Lahl already there, for it was the habit of the easterner to bathe on waking and before retiring.
“What kind of day is it?” he asked as he eased himself into the steaming tub. “Barely light yet,” answered Tepshen, “but it will be a fine day for a ride.”
Kedryn chuckled: it seemed so typical of the kyo to refer to their journey as nothing more than “a ride.” “How long will it take us to reach the Fedyn Pass?” he inquired.
“The Sister will set our pace,” Tepshen said. “Were we alone, perhaps twenty days, depending on the weather. She may slow us—I do not laiow how well she sits a horse.”
Kedryn nodded; it had not occurred to him to inquire of Wynett as to her standard of equestrianism. Then a thought struck him and he asked, “Do you resent her presence?”
“How could I?” the kyo responded. “You need her.”
“Aye,” he said softly, “I do.”
Tepshen Lahl heard the double meaning in the statement and squinted through the steam at the young man he looked on as a son. “Wrhat you attempt will not be easy,” he said bluntly, “and it will be harder if your heart wanders. Regain your sight—then think of other things.”
Kedryn smiled. “Your advice is sound as ever, Tepshen, and I shall endeavor to take it. But it is not easy. ”
“Nothing worth having is won easily,” said the kyo.
“No,” Kedryn agreed, wondering if he heard some hidden meaning behind the words. He was about to ask, but Tepshen climbed to his feet then saying, “Come, we should not delay,” and he followed his friend from the tub into the cold pool, where the chilling water stung him to full wakefulness.
Tepshen Lahl brought him back to his chambers, where Vigrund had his traveling gear laid ready. He dressed, leaving the carl to see to the packing of his saddlebags, and went cautiously along the corridor, feeling his way, to Wynett’s door. He tapped and it opened, and he heard Wynett ask, “Are you ready for a surprise?”
“Aye,” he said cautiously.
“Then look,” she giggled, and took his hand.
Sight returned with her touch and he smiled as he saw her. Her hair was drawn back from her face, fastened with a twist of blue ribbon so that it hung in a thick tail at the nape of her slender neck. A jerkin of chestnut brown edged with black fur bulked the upper part of her body, drawn in at the waist by a wide leather belt from which a silver-hilted Tamurin dagger hung. Her legs were encased in black hide riding breeches that disappeared into tall boots, heeled for the stirrups, and she seemed more warrior maid than Sister.
“Well?” She raised his hand that she might pirouette. “Am I suitably accoutered?”
“You are lovely,” he said.
“I am hot,” she grinned.
“It will be cold enough on the road,” he smiled back. “And Tepshen is anxious to be gone.”
They went down to the dining hall, wnere the party was already assembling, Wynett’s appearance bringing a cheerful barrage of praise from the Tamurin warriors. Bedyr and Yrla joined them and they ate a hearty breakfast before adjourning to the stables where their mounts were waiting, blowing plumes of steam into the chill air.
It was a bright morning, the sky a hard blue-gray with no hint of cloud, the early sun sparkling on the frost that rimed the rooftops and buttresses of the hole . They drew on their cloaks and checked their animals, Kedryn holding Wynett’s hand that he might see the lacings of his gear and ensure the security of the various buckles. Yrla hugged him once more, murmuring a blessing, and Bedyr took his hand; Lavia appeared, clad in a long cloak of Estrevan blue, 10 give formal blessing, and they mounted.
The gates were open, anc’ those of Caitin Hold not engaged in pressing duties clustered about the yard and ramparts to shout farewells as they rode beneath the arch onto the hard-packed snow beyond. Kedryn was flanked by Tepshen and Wynett and he took the Sister’s hand as they passed out of the citadel, turning in his saddle to wave, seeing his mother and father stand watching, Bedyr’s arm about Yrla’s shoulders as they saw their son ride away. They returned his wave and he dropped his arm, turning to smile at Wynett and Tepshen.
“May the Lady look with favor on this quest,” he said.
“Amen to that,” Wynett answered fervently, answering his smile.
“Let us ride,” said the kyo.
Kedryn released Wynett’s hand and let the Keshi stallion match the easterner’s pace, hearing the drumming of Wynett’s bay gelding beside him, grinning as he felt the wind-rush of their passage strike his face, putting thoughts of home behind him as the excitement of what lay ahead drove out regrets, filling him with a fine, wild optimism.
Mejas Celeruna clutched the gold-lacquered gunwale of the Vargalla and frowned uncomfortably at the seething wake of the barge. Wind tore at his thinning hair, tumbling the artfully teased ringlets in disarray and lashing his plump cheeks with an icy sting that reddened them better than any rouge. Around him the other members of Hattim Sethiyan’s retinue clustered in similar discomfort, none daring to voice what lay heavy on their minds.
There was something unnatural about the wind, Celeruna decided, just as there was something unnatural about the latest member of Hattim’s court. The two had seemed to arrive together, the breeze freshening soon after the strange newcomer had arrived on board and growing steadily stronger since, dying away only when the vessel put in for the night and then rising again when they cast off in the mornings. The boatmaster had told him it was no seasonal blow, indeed, that he had never experienced such a draft so early in the season, though he had no complaints as it eased the task of his oarsmen, filling the sails and speeding the barge southward at such a rate they must surely reach Estrevan not long after the king’s vessel. Celeruna was less complacent, and more than a little piqued.
They had quit Nyrwan with surprising haste, Hattim appearing uncharacteristically early to summon his courtiers and announce their imminent departure. There had been no sign of the doxy, though Celeruna had left a few silver coins with the landlord, and Hattim had seemed untypically active for one who had spent the night in such company. Then the stranger had appeared on the wharfside, swathed in a voluminous cloak with the hood drawn up so that none had clearly seen his features, and Hattim had greeted him as though he were expected, ushering him to the cabin and shutting out all others. From that day on the retinue was denied access to the Lord of Ust-Galich's quarters, where Hattim remained alone with the stranger for all the time they were on the water. He would appear at dusk, as they hove to, but always alone, and as best the portly courtier could tell, the mysterious newcomer stayed on board, neither eating nor venturing ashore. He knew better than to press Hattim on the matter, but discreetly casual inquiries had brought no further enlightenment and the courtiers were cast out onto the decks of the barge
to suffer the temper of the climate as best they might.
They did not enjoy their reduced status, muttering irritably among themselves, but never daring to broach the subject with their lord since Celeruna had requested shelter from a squall and suffered a flung goblet for his effrontery, together with the threat that any who complained of their condition might find their way to shore and travel south as best they could.
It was the wiser course to find what cover they might in the boatmaster’s small cabin, or even below decks among the rowers, and bear the elements until they halted for the night, when fires and warm food became available in the riverside taverns.
Celeruna did not enjoy it. He was no riverman and had not anticipated spending the entire journey down the Idre on deck, but more than that he was disturbed by Hattim’s behavior. The Lord of Ust-Galich was customarily of variable humor, and his mood ever since the young Prince of Tamur had gained such prominence had been black, but now Celeruna sensed there was more to it. It was as though the ever-present wind put a chill in his well-covered bones that winter alone could not account for, a feeling of unease that went deeper than mere physical discomfort, and thwarted curiosity did nothing to lessen his dissatisfaction. He longed to know who the mysterious stranger was, and why Hattim kept him ensconced in the cabin.
He shook his head in weary irritation and made his way clumsily across the deck to snatch a flagon from Bajin Darlath, drinking deep as he stared moodily at the swirling gray water and listened to the others keep up their endless musings.
“Who is he?”
“Where did he come from?”
“Why does he never come on deck?”
“Why are we shut out?”
“What power does he hold over Hattim?”
“Why should he be so favored?”
“Who is he?”
“Mayhap he is some river demon who had entranced Hattim,” snapped Celeruna, “and he is leading us all to our doom.”
“Do you think so?”
Bajin’s question was serious, Celeruna realized, as he passed back the flagon and looked into the troubled eyes of the younger man. Lady help us, he thought, the fool’s wits are addled. He shook his head.
“No, Bajin, I do not. I do not know who he is, but I do not believe in river demons. Or sprites, or fetches, or goblins.”
“The wind came with him,” said Bajin obstinately, clutching at the idea put in his otherwise empty head.
“Then thank him, because it speeds us homeward,” grunted Celeruna, wondering why Hattim surrounded himself with such nincompoops and unwilling to admit his own unease. “And the swifter we run, the sooner we shall be off this accursed river and comfortable in our own homes again.”
“Unless he really is leading us to doom,” muttered Bajin.
Celeruna stared at his fellow courtier and considered a reply, then thought better of it and turned his back with a most uncourtly display of rudeness, pacing over to the shelter of the steering cabin, where at least he was out of the wind and the boatmaster went about his duties in silence.
Within the cabin Hattim Sethiyan sprawled on cushions, wiping at the sweat that beaded his chest in the stifling atmosphere. The brazier that Taws insisted be kept lit filled the small chamber with a heat too great even for the chill of winter on the Idre, and the tight-latched shutters allowed no breath of air to disturb the dense miasma. The mage seemed at ease, luxuriating in the turgid thickness, the cloak Hattim had provided wrapped tight about him as he stared into the coals that twinned his eyes.
“We must surely reach Andurel ere long,” the Galichian ventured.
“In time,” the sorcerer agreed, his voice a whisper that still raised a shudder of trepidation in the Lord of Ust-Galich. “Your haste is no greater than mine.”
“They will likely spread tales.” Hattim’s hand gestured beyond the walls, indicating the courtiers on deck.
“They will say nothing,” Taws promised.
“How can you be sure?” Hattim reached for the decanter set on the low table at his side, the motion a device to avoid the mage’s glance. “Once ashore they will find it hard to hold their tongues.”
“They will find it harder still to loose them,” Taws answered. “I will see to that.”
Hattim filled his goblet and swallowed a measure of wine warmed by the heat of the cabin, not daring to inquire—not really wanting an answer—how the mage proposed to ensure silence.
There were ways, of that he had no doubt, but what they might be he preferred not to know. He had doubts about the bargain he had struck now that he had had time to consider its implications, but the thought of Taws ’s wrath should he endeavor to renege terrified him. And his ambition remained a spur. Taws was—of this there could be no doubt whatsoever—a formidable ally, but his methods put a chill in Hattim’s soul. By night, he knew, the mage stalked the streets of the riverside settlements while humankind slept, and in each one he left a carcass drained of more than life. What other practices he might indulge Hattim chose not to think about, knowing that he was now bound to Taws’s purpose.
“Do not doubt.” Hattim started, spilling wine, at the words. Did the thaumaturgist read his mind? “I will give you everything I promised, and it will not be long in the gaining. This waiting is irksome, but we cannot risk swifter passage lest we arouse suspicions.”
“Will your presence not be suspicious?” asked the Galichian. “There will be Sisters present in Andurel.”
Taws seemed to shrug beneath the enveloping cloak, but it was hard to discern for his body seemed to articulate in ways not quite human. “They will not see me. Nor sense my presence. I shall enter the White Palace changed, as I came to you.”
Hattim rubbed at his neck in reflex action: Taws had explained how he had penetrated High Fort and although the flea bites had almost faded, the memory still left Hattim a trifle queasy. He had thought to further his ambition through cunning, not sorcery, and while he realized that opposition to his claims might well have been such as to deny them, he still adjusted to the notion of committing his fate to Ashar’s minion.
“Think of the White Palace,” Taws suggested, the expression Hattim had come to recognize as a smile angling his lipless mouth. “Think of power. Think of Tamur and Kesh bowed beneath your heel. Remember that I can give you all that.”
Hattim nodded and swallowed more wine, hearing the threat implicit in the statement. He was committed now and there was no turning back. He had given himself into Taws’s hands, and by extension to Ashar: the Lady might forgive him, but the Lord of the Fires would not if he attempted to turn his coat.
“I will work a glamour before we dock at Andurel,” Taws said as though to reassure his puppet, “and your retinue will remember nothing of my presence. You need only proceed as custom dictates—find quarters in the White Palace while you ply your suit with Ashrivelle and I will do the rest. Before you know it you will sit in Darr’s place.”
He turned his ashen-maned head to Hattim and the Lord of Ust-Galich found his gaze caught by the rubescent glow of the deep-sunk eyes, held. They seemed to bum fiercer, as if some hellish breath fanned magma to a fresh intensity, and Hattim felt his doubts ooze from him as the sweat oozed from his pores. Confidence filled him and he raised his goblet in a toast saying, “As you will it, Taws.”
“Aye,” the mage replied. “As I will it.”
The road to the Fedyn Pass was marked with way stops, villages and crossroad inns that were able to accommodate the travelers, as those along the road from High Fort had not been large enough to do for the more sizable party. There were no more nights spent under canvas, the weather holding good and Wynett’s equestrian ability proving equal to the swift pace Tepshen Lahl set. They reached Amshold on the first night, riding in as the sun settled behind the western horizon to find warm baths and hot food, comfortable beds and a genial welcome from the villagers, who were delighted to host their prince and his party. They left at sunrise and came to a hostelry on the Morfah road
before dusk, proceeding to Nigrand and Barshom, Forshold, Wyrath and on to Quellom at the same swift pace. Between Quellom and Ram- shold, the last settlement before the Lozin foothills, snow began to fall, slowing them, and they found shelter in a lonely farm, throwing the holder’s wife into a fine tizzy at the prospect of entertaining the Prince of Tamur. Fourteen days out from Caitin Hold they arrived at Loswyth, with the high peaks of the Lozins towering above them.
This close the mountains were daunting, taller it seemed than at High Fort, great jagged buttresses of stone that swooped upward as if they supported the sky. Above the winter-clad meadows that surrounded the town the lower slopes were thick with snowdecked timber that thrust from the sweeping whiteness, giving gradual way to bare rock, too steep for snow to grip, like scars on the albescent vastness of the mountain wall. Higher still the Lozins became lost in white mist, cloud and stone merging so that it was impossible to discern where mountains ended and sky began. It seemed equally impossible that they might be crossed, for no pass was visible from Loswyth and it seemed the Lozins stood impenetrable, an unbroachable barrier between Tamur and the Beltrevan.
Wynett and Kedryn walked hand in hand through the streets of the town, snow crunching beneath their boots and the air stinging their cheeks with its chill. The winter gear Yrla had provided came into full use here and Wynett was grateful for its warmth, the very magnitude of her surroundings chilling her with their awesome grandeur. Kedryn seemed at ease, but he had been here before, and was Tamur-bred, accustomed to the majesty of his kingdom and excited at the nearing of his quest’s conclusion. He bowed, however, to Tepshen Lahl’s suggestion that they rest their mounts before attempting the climb to the border fort and took the opportunity to show Wynett the sights of Loswyth.
Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 Page 18