Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02

by The Usurper (v1. 1)

  He turned to look toward his wife, feeling as he always did that surge of pleasure as he studied her profile, bent over a sampler. Yrla’s raven hair was unbound, falling smoothly over the shoulders of her russet gown, gleaming in the light of the sun that shone through the frost-rimed glass and the glow of the fire that heated the chamber. Her hands were deft on the needlework, a tiny frown of concentration creasing her unblemished brow. It was odd to think that she approached her middle years, for time had marked her little, and while he knew that gray showed more prominently in his own thick, brown hair, hers remained as he remembered it from the first time he had seen her, stepping from the wagon in the Morfah Pass, come from Estrevan to meet her destiny. He had loved her on the instant, scarcely daring to hope she might return that love; overjoyed when the attraction proved mutual. He had thought his life must approach its peak when she agreed to marry him, and known it did when she presented him with a son. That there had been no more children had mattered little to either of them, for their delight in Kedryn was unalloyed, their pleasure in one another a source of constant delight.

  He felt a need to touch her, to reassure himself with physical contact, and slid from the embrasure to cross to where she sat, setting a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  Yrla smiled at the contact, turning her head to press a smooth cheek against his hand.

  “You are worried.”

  She set the frame of her needlework aside, shifting in the high-backed chair to look up at her husband. He was so handsome, this man she had chosen, tall and straight, the gray strands that showed in his dark hair serving only to lend him an air of dignity that was reinforced by the hawkish set of his features, the lines marking his tanned skin those of character rather than advancing years. She took his hands so that he stood before her, clad in simple shirt of thick linen, creamy, and plain brown breeks, the dirk that was the emblem of all Tamurin warriors sheathed on his belt. She looked into his eyes, seeing the hazel clouded as he smiled wryly and nodded.

  “It has not been that long. And Tepshen rides with him. And the squadron.”

  “I know.” Bedyr hooked a seat close and settled himself in it, still holding her hands, his thumbs moving absently to stroke the smooth flesh. “But I still fret.”

  “Inaction was never your strongest suit,” she murmured, “but there is nothing we can do save wait. ”

  “Would I had been able to ride with them,” he frowned.

  “Leaving me alone again?” Yrla’s coquettish smile stole years, making her girlish. “Do you tire of me so swiftly?”

  Bedyr laughed, shaking his head. “I shall never tire of you, my love. But ...”

  “But you had no other choice,” she interposed. “You have a kingdom to govern and Kedryn is a man now.”

  “A blind man,” he sighed.

  “Aye, but not for long if Lavia spoke aright.”

  “Even so, he must enter the Beltrevan.” Bedyr stretched back in his chair, craning his neck to study the vaulting of the ceiling. “And for all the promises of peace made at High Fort I cannot entirely trust the forest folk.”

  “He is the hef-Alador,” she murmured, “and they will respect that. Besides, do you think Tepshen would allow harm to come to him?”

  “Not whilst he lives,” Bedyr answered, “but Tepshen cannot go with him into the netherworld.”

  “Nor could you,” she said. “Only Wynett may accompany him there, and then they will be protected by the talismans.”

  Bedyr nodded, smiling fondly. “Would that I had your calm; your trust.”

  “I was Estrevan-trained,” Yrla reminded him, “and I believe the Lady watches over him. She must if he is the Chosen One.”

  “Aye,” Bedyr allowed, “but does the Lady’s strength extend into the forests? The Beltrevan was ever the domain of Ashar.”

  “I think that power was weakened by the Horde’s defeat,” she said thoughtfully. “The strength of gods depends to large extent on the belief of men, and Kedryn slew Ashar’s chosen champion. No sign was found of the Messenger, and the woodsfolk accepted peace. That, I am confident, must sap the potency of their god.”

  “But Lavia—Estrevan—is confident the Messenger lives, still a threat,” Bedyr argued.

  “And that is another reason Kedryn had to go,” Yrla countered. “There is no other way, and so it is fruitless to fret over that which is inevitable.”

  Bedyr ducked his head in agreement, loosing her hands that he might rise and go to the hearth, where a copper jug seethed gently, the wine it held giving off an aromatic steam, redolent of lush grapes, cinnamon and spices. He took the dipper and filled two plain clay mugs, passing one to his wife, raising the other to his lips.

  “Where is the Messenger?” he queried rhetorically.

  “I do not know.” Yrla sipped and shrugged. “Lavia offers no insight, and there is no word from Estrevan.”

  “Nor will be,” Bedyr grunted, looking to the window. “This winter has closed the Morfah Pass, and the plains beyond must be ice-bound. I wonder sometimes if it had not been wiser of Kyrie to site her city in some more accessible location.”

  “Too easy,” Yrla said. “Too easy to reach, too easy to influence. Those who would study the way of the Lady must make an effort to reach the city, and those who would suborn Estrevan’s influence must find it hard.”

  “I know,” Bedyr grinned ruefully. “I fret, and I cannot help it.”

  “What news of Hattim’s army?” she asked, seeking to divert his troubled mind.

  “At last report it marched south,” he replied. “Hattim, as you know, went ahead down the Idre. He is likely at Andurel now, and plying his suit. The army had reached Arvenna when last I heard, but reports are slow in this wolf-winter. ”

  “Will Darr agree—should Ashrivelle accept?” Yrla wondered.

  “Darr spoke of Kedryn as a prospective bridegroom,” said Bedyr, “but Hattim had already found favor in Ashrivelle’s eyes; and he is there. As to Darr’s agreeing—he will have little choice, I think, though adjustment will be required.”

  “Hattim must relinquish one throne,” Yrla nodded. “But which?”

  “He wants the High Throne.” The frown returned to Bedyr’s brow and the comers of his mouth descended in a disapproving curve. “A council will be needed to decide the matter.”

  “Would Hattim make so bad a king?” asked Yrla.

  “He is vain and ambitious,” Bedyr shrugged, pouring more wine. “Were he to renounce the marriage-right it would be no great problem, but the High Throne cannot stand empty and Darr has no other heir, save Wynett.”

  “And Wynett is of Estrevan,” said Yrla, softly, wonderingly. “Unless ...”

  “You think she may renounce her vows?” Bedyr shook his head, his voice dubious. “She knows of Kedryn’s love—and I know she reciprocates in some measure, at least—but she is a woman of great will and her dream was always to serve the Lady. ” “Even so, they share so much,” said Yrla, unconsciously echoing the thought that had passed through the mind of Tepshen Lahl. “Hardship, danger—these things might well fan the flames of that attraction. And it is not unknown for one dedicated to Estrevan to change her mind.”

  “Thank the Lady,” smiled Bedyr, touching her cheek. “But you had not taken your final vows.”

  “Even had I, you would have changed my mind,” Yrla responded, turning her face into his hand that she might brush his palm with her lips. “And for all the emphasis Estrevan places on free will, there is a pattern to these things.”

  “Do you say that Kedryn and Wynett are brought together by some design of the Lady’s?” Bedyr asked, his voice thoughtful now.

  “Mayhap,” said Yrla, slowly, as if she voiced thoughts gradually shaped and not yet defined clearly, “I do not know. I do not believe Lavia knows, or Estrevan. But think on it—we are agreed that Kedryn is the Chosen One, the only one able to defeat the Messenger—wherever he may be now—and Wynett is the only one able to grant him sight, albeit tempo
rary. Had they traveled to Estrevan I think Wynett’s determination to serve the Lady as a Hospitaler would have been reinforced, but events guided her away. Was it not thus with me? I intended to remain in the city until Galina showed me the Text, and then—of my own free will—I chose to travel east. And met you. And wed you. And gave birth to Kedryn. Now Wynett goes not to Estrevan, but with Kedryn—of her own choice, mark you—and perhaps out of that comes a resolution.”

  “Lavia intimated that Wynett was necessary to Kedryn’s regaining sight,” Bedyr said, slowly as his wife, “but I had assumed once that was achieved she would return to her analeptic duties.”

  “Maybe she will,” nodded Yrla, “but do you not see the possible shape of a pattern? Should Wynett find her love for Kedryn—and I assure you it is there—stronger than her devotion to Estrevan, the Sisterhood would not object and she would be free to marry him. Thus presenting Darr with an alternative heir to the High Throne. Then Hattim could carry Ashrivelle off to Ust- Galich whilst Kedryn and Wynett stood ready to occupy the White Palace on Darr’s death.”

  “Do you think the Lady plans it this way?” Bedyr asked wonderingly,

  “I do not know,” Yrla told him, “but remember my own talent was similar to poor Grania’s: that of foretelling. And the Lady guards these Kingdoms, and her vision was and is far deeper than ours. ”

  “My own Lady,” Bedyr raised his mug to his wife, marveling at her ability to still surprise him, “I toast you.”

  Yrla smiled serenely, setting down her mug to resume her embroidery. “I may well be wrong,” she murmured, “but there are possibilities.”

  “Hattim would take it ill,” Bedyr said quietly, enjoying the thought, “but it would resolve the problem of the succession.”

  “Indeed,” said Yrla. “Now will you cease your fretting?”

  Bedyr nodded, smiling, and settled again in the chair, stretching his long legs toward the fire, content to watch his wife as he contemplated the potential of her suggestion.

  They sat like that as the afternoon extended toward evening, conversing idly, happy in one another’s company, Bedyr’s doubts stilled, at least for a while.

  As the sun touched the western ramparts of the hold, painting the cold, gray stone with fire, that calm ended.

  A knocking rang loud on the chamber’s door, something in its clamor starting Bedyr from his tranquillity so that he was on his feet, left hand clamping instinctively on the sheath of his dirk even as he called permission to enter. Yrla, too, felt it, setting down her sampler as she turned toward the door.

  It flung open, a wide-eyed servant flattened against the wood as a burly man, his russet beard unkempt, strode past. He was bareheaded, sweat plastering his hair to his broad forehead, his cloak and boots attesting to long hours in the saddle, his gray eyes troubled as he gave brief salute, something close to fear in them.

  “Gann Resyth?” Alarm edged Bedyr’s voice as he recognized the chatelain of the Fedyn Fort. “You have word of Kedryn?”

  “Lord Bedyr,” Resyth ducked his head, the motion curt as his salute, “Lady Yrla. I bring sad news.”

  “Kedryn!” Yrla fought to maintain some semblance of calm as she studied the distraught face. “What news, Gann Resyth?”

  The stocky commander spread his hands wide, looking from man to woman, his lips pursing beneath the concealing bush of his beard.

  “An avalanche,” he said helplessly, anguish hoarsening his voice. “There was an avalanche.”

  “Come, sit.” Bedyr fought his own trepidation, gesturing at his recently vacated chair. “Drink, man, and compose yourself.”

  He filled a mug with the mulled wine and handed the beaker to Gann Resyth, who gulped it down and wiped his beard, sighing gustily.

  “Now,” Bedyr stood behind his wife, setting a firm hand on her shoulder, “what has happened?”

  Yrla took the hand, seeking comfort in the touch as she studied the chatelain’s troubled features and prepared herself for the worst.

  “They reached the fort,” Resyth began, “some moons ago. Your son, the Sister, Tepshen Lahl and the escorting squadron. They announced their intention of entering the Beltrevan and even though Sister Gwenyl warned them of the danger, they proceeded into the Fedyn Pass.”

  “What danger?” Bedyr asked curtly. “Have the forest folk reneged on their promises?”

  “Not the tribes,” said Resyth. “Ashar! Sister Gwenyl warned them of his fell power; that it was strong in the pass.”

  Bedyr felt Yrla’s hand tighten its grip, unaware that his own clamped harder upon her. He said, “Continue.”

  Resyth nodded, took a deep breath, and said, “They were two days out from the fort when we heard . . . Lady preserve me, I am not sure what was heard! ... It was like laughter. Awful laughter. The tittering of a mad god! Sister Gwenyl declared she felt an evil presence and I led a troop into that dark place. I felt fear then, for I, too, felt . . . something.”

  He shuddered, his hands clamped on the beaker he held as though he would crush the clay. Then he shook himself and straightened his back, stilling the tremor in his voice with visible effort.

  “There was a storm of snow. A blizzard that howled between the walls, driven from ahead, not falling. For the better part of a day we rode blind, then the snow cleared and we saw a single horse. There was no rider; only the one horse, and that so panicked it took three men to hold it. We pressed on. And then we saw it: a wall of snow and stone that filled the pass. It was as though the Lozins had fallen! We could not climb it and nothing could have survived its tumbling. Kedryn—all of them!—must lie beneath that cairn.

  “May the Lady forgive me that I should be the one to bring you this news, but your son must be dead.” His voice faltered, tailing off, and he shook his head, his eyes moist.

  “I could come because the fort is no longer needed. The Fedyn Pass no longer exists.”

  “No,” Yrla said softly. “It cannot be. I cannot believe it.”

  “My Lady,” Gann Resyth said mournfully, “it is. It must be: nothing could have survived that downfall.”

  “You saw no sign?” asked Bedyr, his voice slow with anguish. “No smoke of campfire? No sound?”

  “Bedyr,” said the chatelain, “there was no pass! The mountains fell down upon it, pushed by Ashar’s hand. There was nothing to see because nothing could have survived. Kedryn is dead.”

  “I will not believe it,” Yrla said.

  Bedyr put both his hands upon her shoulders, seeking both to give and find strength. “I will send word to Brannoc to search the forests,” he promised, “but . . .” His voice broke, husky with held-back tears, “I fear Gann Resyth is right.”

  “No!” Yrla shook her head. “The Lady would not permit it.” “The Fedyn Pass is Ashar’s domain,” said Resyth quietly. “No!” Yrla repeated as tears coursed down her trembling cheeks.

  There were five shamans, one for each clan of the Drott, and their presence filled Cord’s lodge with a sour odor of unwashed flesh and rancid hides. Each one, the Ulan explained, represented a forest beast, taking that creature’s strength and cunning for his own that he might employ it for the good of his clan. Bear, bull, cat, wolf and boar were represented, the hides of that animal that was the clan totem decorating the shamans’ bodies, cut bloody from the sacrificed beast and adding greatly to the stink that radiated from the men. Two were venerable, the others younger, and all suspicious of the trio of Kingdom folk.

  Cord spoke with them at length, and from their responses Kedryn surmised that they were dubious of his venture. Equally, he guessed that the defeat of the Horde and the subsequent disappearance of the Messenger had weakened the power of the medicine men, for Cord became voluble as he spoke, several times drawing his dagger partway from its sheath. Finally, he shouted down the objections and summoned members of his Gehrim, who heard him out and then hurried from the lodge, returning with the ala-Ulans, their presence filling the hogan to bursting point.

  More argument
ensued, the guttural language of the Drott echoing within the confines of the hide walls as horns of beer were passed about and Cord clearly found himself engaged in a struggle for supremacy. It seemed to Kedryn—as best he could tell from the tone of the dialogue and the way the men looked at one another—that the ala-Ulans sided with Cord, likely not from any great desire to aid him but in order to aggrandize their own secular power, while the shamans appeared to consider the request blasphemous. He clutched Wynett’s hand, Tepshen Lahl to his right, thinking that had he the opportunity he would learn the byavan, or the language of the Drott itself, ihat in future dealings he might take vocal part, for it was frustrating in the extreme to know that his fate was debated while he could do nothing save wait, wondering at the outcome.

  He studied the current speaker, an old man clad in the skin of a boar, the skull fashioned into a helmet, the lower jaw fastened below the wearer’s own so that as he spoke the great curving tusks shifted before his seamed face, the eyes shadowed by the overlapping carapace. He saw those eyes turn toward him, taking in Wynett, and endeavored to understand the expression there, but too soon they swung back to Cord and the argument was taken up by a younger man, muscled near as large as the bear whose skin he wore. An ala-Ulan spoke, his voice low, seeming pitched between deference and defiance, then Cord, then a shaman whose head was engulfed by the homed skull of a forest bull, another chieftain, then the Ulan again.

  Round and round it went, the words seeming to fill the lodge with a palpable sensation that combined with the heat and the miasma of hides and bodies to produce an almost hypnotic air. Kedym’s head began to ache and he longed to stand, thrust aside the entrance flap and walk out into what he guessed must by now be the night. Instead, he willed himself to patience, gently easing out legs that threatened to go numb with too much sitting- He caught Wynett’s eye and she smiled slightly, her face serene, her composure communicating to him so that his impatience eased, stilling into a determination to wait calmly. To his right Tepshen sat cross-legged, his face blank, still as an icon, appearing unmoved by the debate.