Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02

by The Usurper (v1. 1)

  “Aye,” Darr said softly, digesting her suggestion, “that might work.”

  “Further,” Bethany went on, “the marriage cannot take place until the lords of Tamur and Kesh attend Andurel. All precedent demands they be here—and in this winter that will take time.” A certain wickedness entered her smile. “Your messengers might even suggest they make no great hurry. By then, perhaps, Kedryn will have regained his sight and accompany his parents.”

  “To change Ashrivelle’s mind?” wondered the king.

  “Mayhap,” shrugged the Sister. “He is a handsome young man, is he not? And women’s minds do change.”

  Darr almost said, But he loves Wynett, but did not, assuming that to be a hopeless cause and anxious to seize whatever straw of optimism he could find. Perhaps—if Kedryn did attend—he might be swayed by Ashrivelle’s beauty. And she by him.

  “That is not any great hope,” Bethany added, promptly dashing the king’s, “we must chiefly rely on delay. Hold off the wedding until the lords may attend; and then delay further whilst the succession is decided. For the sake of unity! I do not believe Hattim can argue that.”

  “He is ambitious,” Darr said. “He will not like it.”

  “But he can scarcely argue it,” said Bethany.

  “No,” Darr allowed, “I do not suppose he can.”

  “I will ponder this further,” Bethany promised, “but for now that seems your safest course.”

  “It seems my only one,” Darr said, “if I am to avoid civil war.”

  “Aye.” Bethany’s face was grave as she studied the king. “Unless Ashrivelle should change her mind.”

  “I do not think she will,” sighed Darr. “She appears enamored of the man.”

  “Then let it be as we have said,” the Sister urged. “And pray we do aright.”

  “Amen,” said Darr, solemnly.

  He took his leave then, refusing the Sister’s invitation to eat in the college, thinking that the sooner he broached these matters with Hattim the better, and certain the Galichian would be anxious to approach him. Some inner voice suggested that it were best Hattim had no inkling he had sought the advice of the Sorority, and certainly none that he sought to delay, and that he should, therefore, return to the White Palace without prevarication.

  He found Corradon and the squad of guardsmen supping mulled wine in one of the spacious receiving rooms, feeling almost sorry to drag them from the hearth-warmed comfort of the chamber to the chill outside.

  Dusk was falling as they returned to the palace, the metallic brightness of the sky fading to a dull gray that shrouded the distant waterfront behind a veil of mist, and large flakes of snow began to descend, skirling leisurely from the lusterless heavens. The children he had seen earlier were gone, summoned to firesides and food, and as he rode the broad avenue that climbed to the palace the gray grew steadily darker, shadows lengthening over the gardens, lamps glowing like faraway promises behind windows and tight-closed shutters. The king felt melancholy.

  “Your business went well, Majesty?” Corradon inquired, the question unusual enough that Darr realized his mood expressed itself physically.

  “Well enough, thank you, my friend,” he murmured, bracing his shoulders and drawing himself more erect in the saddle.

  “I am pleased,” said the captain, his kindly eyes on his master’s face, the doubt behind them masked.

  “Well enough,” Darr repeated to himself, composing his features into what he hoped was an expression of calm confidence, regal self-assurance. Knowing as he did so that a world of difference lay between outward appearance and inner reality. “But there is something I would have you do, Corradon.”

  “Majesty?” asked the captain. “You have only to command.” “This requires discretion,” Darr murmured, his voice low enough that only the officer might hear him. “I would have scouts sent out to advise me of the position of Galichian forces. How far are they from the city? When might they arrive?”

  Corradon’s eyes grew troubled beneath the beak of his helm and Darr added quickly, “I would have this done secretly, my friend. Use only your most trusted men. and tell no one of their mission.”

  Corradon was far too disciplined to question his king, so he merely nodded once and said, “It is done, Majesty.”

  “Thank you,” said Darr.

  He essayed the same composure as he prepared himself for the dinner at which, he was sure, Hattim would make formal presentation. It was the obvious time, when the nobles of Andurel and the Galichian's own retinue would be present to hear the announcement, such public declaration forcing the king to an equally public response. Consequently he forwent his customarily simple garb in favor of more regal vestments, donning a tunic of scarlet silk and breeks of black picked with silver thread, draping a belted overrobe of blue with the tripartite crown sewn in gold and silver on chest and back about his shoulders. He took particular care combing his thinning hair and groomed his beard to an unusual perfection, hanging the pendant of his office about his neck as he surveyed himself in the mirror and smiled wryly at the effect. He had never considered himself very regal, but he hoped that he might, when required, rise to the occasion.

  Ashrivelle, certainly, felt that he had. She clapped her hands and smiled with delight when she saw him, crying, “Father! You look splendid.”

  “Thank you,” he murmured, offering her his arm.

  “You have done this for me,” she whispered. “You know that Hattim will speak with you tonight, and I thank you for it.”

  “I thought he might,” Darr agreed, patting her hand. “The Lord of Ust-Galich is not one for wasting time.”

  “He is decisive,” the princess nodded, mistaking the tone of the comment. “It is one of the things I admire about him.”

  “Indeed,” said Darr, proceeding at a stately pace toward the stairwell that descended to the antechamber of the banqueting hall.

  The court, as was customary, waited there, swelled by the ranks of Galichians, their embroidered finery contrasting with the simpler styles of the White Palace, Hattim standing out among them.

  He was dressed in gold, tunic and breeks and the short cape that was the latest fashion, all glittering in the light of the flambeaux set about the walls. His hair was oiled and coiffed, bound back by a circlet of matching metal, even the hilt of the ceremonial dagger and the belt that sheathed it picked with gold.

  “Is he not magnificent?” Ashrivelle whispered as they approached.

  “He is very ...” Darr paused, “pretty.”

  His daughter glanced at him, then love swayed her judgment again and she chuckled. “Pretty is not the word I would have chosen, but yes, he is.”

  Darr assumed a friendly smile as the Lord of Ust-Galich bowed low before him and said, “King Darr, greetings.”

  “And to you, my Lord,” the king responded, meeting Hattim’s green-eyed gaze with an even stare.

  “Princess.” Hattim bowed afresh to Ashrivelle, his earring dangling as he stooped over her hand. “You are breathtaking.”

  Ashrivelle was radiant as she studied him. “As are you, my Lord.”

  “I am shadowed by your beauty,” Hattim declared. “I am dazzled.”

  “Let us eat,” Darr suggested abruptly, feeling mildly sickened by these excessive compliments.

  Dutifully, the Galichian fell into step behind the royal couple as they led the way into the hall and assumed their places at the High Table.

  By custom, Ashrivelle sat to the king’s right and Hattim to his left. The Galichian nobles were seated along the table to either side, while those of Andurel occupied the lower places in deference to their guests. Musicians plucked the strings of balurs and theorbos, accompanied by the soft drumming of a tabor and the higher-pitched notes of rebecs, and Darr noticed that Ashrivelle, whose duty it was to select the tunes, had chosen melodies of Galichian origin. Servants poured wine into goblets of crystal, a red southern vintage to accompany the gamy soup that was the first course. Through t
hat Darr felt as might a wall interposed between lovers, Ashrivelle and Hattim exchanging compliments and conversation across him. A richer vintage was served with the hare that followed, the meat marinaded and spicy, and Dan- wondered if Hattim hoped the wines would ease the way into his presentation as he waited for the man to speak.

  It came as the king chewed on the boar meat that was the main course, the voice silk-smooth and confident as steel.

  “I can contain myself no longer,” Hattim declared. “May I ask your permission to speak frankly, Darr?”

  The king swallowed and nodded, aware of the gradual stilling of conversation around him.

  “My Lord King,” Hattim said, raising his voice a fraction, projecting it sufficiently that it was heard by all the nobles, “I would ask your permission to present my suit to your daughter, the Princess Ashrivelle.”

  Darr washed down the boar meat with a goblet of dark red wine, surprised that it was a Keshi vintage, and turned to face Hattim. He wanted to say, No, you may not, but knew that chaos lay in that direction and instead answered solemnly, “You have my permission, Lord Hattim.”

  The silence that had fallen was broken by a sudden rush of conversation and that by a cheer from down the table, where

  Mejas Celeruna raised a brimming cup in toast, eagerly followed by the other Galichians.

  Hattim motioned them to silence and said, “Thank you, Darr.”

  Ashrivelle clapped hands to her mouth, her eyes ablaze as she looked past her father to her would-be husband.

  “My feelings for the princess are, I believe, known,” Hattim continued, “and I venture to hope that I find favor in her eyes. Should she accept me, I swear to you now, in the presence of all here, that I shall endeavor to my utmost to make her happy, to prove myself worthy of her.”

  “You are,” Darr heard Ashrivelle whisper. He said, “I would not stand in the way of my daughter’s happiness, my Lord.”

  “Then, if you will forgive my impatience ...” Hattim rose dramatically to his feet, pushing back his chair that he might turn and look across the king to the princess. “My Lady, I ask you now to be my wife. I pledge you my love and my life. I ask your hand in marriage.”

  The strumming of the balurs faded; a dying note from the rebecs hung briefly on the air. Ashrivelle rose, blond and beautiful in gown of aquamarine, a golden coronet in her hair. “My Lord,” she said, her smile incandescent, “I accept your pledge, and thank you for it. And should my father agree, I do most happily accept your suit.”

  Both turned then to face Darr, and the king knew that every eye in the hall was on him. I should feel happy, he thought. My daughter loves the man: she radiates happiness and I should find pleasure in that. But I do not, and if I could, I would halt this here. But I cannot: I must take the path I feel safest for the future of these fragile kingdoms.

  He rose in turn, looking first to Ashrivelle, then to Hattim, then out over the watching, waiting faces.

  “I do agree,” he announced. “Let it be known that my daughter, the Princess Ashrivelle, is now betrothed to the Lord Hattim of Ust-Galich. And may the Lady bless their union.”

  He took Ashrivelle’s hand and Hattim’s, bringing them together across his chest, placing his own upon them as they joined, oddly aware that the Galichian wore as many rings as his bride-to-be.

  “Thank you,” murmured Hattim.

  “Father,” Ashrivelle beamed, “I am so happy.”

  Mejas Celeruna was the first to cheer, but only by an instant, his shout drowned by the uproar from the Galichian retinue, that by the hubbub that rattled throughout the hall. Goblets were raised in toasts; dagger hilts thudded on tabletops; servants beat platters; and the musicians promptly struck a lively tune.

  “There are things we must discuss,” Darr murmured through the shouting.

  “A dowry is of no importance,” Hattim smiled.

  “Not that,” the king replied. “There are certain . . . problems that we must resolve.”

  “The succession?” Hattim’s smile was guileless, so innocent that Darr knew instantly he had pondered this and found his own solutions. “I shall be guided entirely by you, Darr.”

  “Later,” said the king. “We shall talk later.”

  “As you wish,” Hattim agreed easily.

  “A kiss!” Celeruna bellowed, face flushed by wine and excitement. “A kiss to seal this joyous compact!”

  Darr held his smile with an effort as he motioned for a servant to draw back his chair and watched as Hattim Sethiyan took Ashrivelle in his arms and kissed her soundly. He maintained the expression throughout the remainder of the meal, accepting the congratulations of all who presented themselves, seeing in many eyes the same doubts he held, knowing that he would shortly be bombarded with objections. And knowing that he must still them as he stilled his own: for the sake of the Three Kingdoms.

  He endured the spontaneous celebration until the night grew old and it seemed politically acceptable he suggest they retire. Ashrivelle argued, but allowed herself to be persuaded by Hattim, who took her arm to escort her to her chambers. After she was gone in he turned to Darr.

  “When would you discuss these matters?” he asked, still polite.

  “On the morrow, I think,” the king responded.

  “As you command,” Hattim nodded. “At what hour?”

  “I shall send word when I am ready.” Darr could not resist that small reminder of authority, but it went uncontested, running smooth as oil over Hattim’s satisfaction.

  “Of course,” agreed the Galichian. “I shall await your summons.”

  Darr nodded and bade the man good-night.

  “Sleep well,” beamed Hattim.

  Darr doubted that he would.

  Hattim had no such doubts, nor cared if he did not. It had gone far smoother than he had hoped, for he had been unable to prevent himself wondering if the king might not trump up some argument despite all Taws’s reassurances, knowing Darr to be a wily man and well-versed in the art of diplomacy. But it had gone exactly as the mage had prophesied, and Hattim’s spirits swelled to elation as he dismissed his retinue and the servants with the final request that Sister Thera be sent for, explaining that he was so excited he would require a sleeping draft were he to sleep well enough to be ready for the royal summons.

  Inside his quarters he filled a goblet with wine and presented the draft to his reflection, admiring himself as he imagined the tripartite crown upon his brow, the medallion about his neck.

  He turned as the door hissed open and the woman Taws had become appeared. She—or he, Hattim could not make up his mind how he thought of the sorcerer—set down the satchel of unneeded curatives and studied the Lord of Ust-Galich.

  “I assume it went well?”

  “As you told me it would.” Hattim turned from the mirror, finding it far easier to face the mage in this form. “Just as you told me it would.”

  “Did you doubt?” Taws asked. “What choice was there for Darr? He cannot risk offending you.”

  “He spoke of problems,” Hattim remarked. “That he will discuss on the morrow.”

  “He will seek to deny you the succession,” said Taws. “Or ask that you relinquish Ust-Galich. If the latter, he will seek to subvert your choice of regent in favor of his own.”

  “And how should I respond?” Hattim wondered.

  “Agree,” said Taws. “No matter what conditions he may set, you will agree. Let him stipulate all the clauses he wishes—they will make no difference.”

  He paused, and Hattim saw the face of Sister Thera contort, the muscles of the neck stiffening, the eyes widening and rolling until white showed, the female form shuddering beneath its blue robe. Then a strangled sigh escaped the wide-stretched lips and they smiled again, the voice that came from them husky, as if possessor and natural owner fought for control.

  “I have it,” Taws declared. “She fought me then, for she sees the way of it, but her knowledge is mine now. What protocols appertain?”

>   “Those we have discussed,” Hattim said, “though I have dispensed with a lengthy courtship—thanks to you.”

  The figure of the Sister shook its head impatiently. “No! How may Darr prevaricate?” Taws asked.

  Hattim shrugged. “It is customary for the liege lords of Tamur and Kesh to attend, and that may take time.” He gasped, nodding.

  “And Darr may seek their advice in the matter of the succession. Yes! Of course.”

  “Of course,” said Taws. “And custom dictates you may not wed Ashrivelle until they attend.”

  “Aye,” said Hattim, an expression of lupine triumph creasing his lips. “But what matter? Kill Darr before they arrive and I’ll greet them from the High Throne.”

  “No,” said the mage, freezing the triumphant smile on the Galichian’s face, “you will await their arrival. As I have told you, you will agree to all Darr’s terms.”

  “And have them gainsay me?”

  The mage laughed at the chagrin on the man’s face. Could he see no further than that? Were all these creatures so shortsighted?

  “They will find a man humble beyond their belief,” he said. “A man willing to relinquish his kingdom or the High Throne for love of the princess. That he is also a man with an army camped at the gates of the city is by the way—it can scarcely be considered your fault that the forces of Ust-Galich, marching south from their loyal duty, wish to see their lord celebrate his wedding. They will witness the wedding, and after that Darr will die. Then you will become king! And the lords of Kesh and Tamur will find themselves prisoners.”

  Hattim paled somewhat: “And their armies? Do you believe they will stand idly by whilst their lords are imprisoned?”

  “Given choice between that and the death of their lords, aye,” said Taws. “Do you not see it? We bait a double trap—first your wedding for those most able to oppose you, and then their imprisonment for Kedryn Caitin.”

  Hattim’s color returned and he began to smile again. “I see it,” he murmured. “With his parents’ lives at stake, Kedryn will doubtless come seeking to free them.”

  “Indeed,” said Taws, “and when he does, we have him.”