Only when they were gone did he allow his delight to show.
He threw off his overrobe and filled a cup with wine, standing before the balcony windows as his eyes roved over the rooftops of Andurel, the smile already on his fleshy lips growing ever wider, until it occupied the larger part of his face. He raised the cup high, his arm flung out as though he would embrace all he saw, then drained it in a single gulp and threw back his head, howling laughter. Tears ran down his cheeks and the muscles of his jaws ached. Still laughing, a hand pressed to his belly, he recrossed the room to tilt the decanter over his cup. It filled with wine, and he was so consumed with self-satisfaction that the yellow liquid spilled over, pooling on the table. Uncaring, he raised the cup again and drank deep, wine trickling down his chin as he chuckled.
“It went well?”
Hattim turned, beaming at the Sister who entered silently from the adjoining chamber, feeling no unease now at sight of the possessed body.
“It went as you promised,” he chortled, and raised his glass in toast. “I drink to you, Taws. I did all you said and they were exactly as you told me they would be. Oh, it was delightful to watch their unhappiness! They had their candidate ready to present and I accepted him without demur. I apologized to Bedyr Caitin! I asked his permission to leave my army on Tamurin soil and he could do naught but agree. I thought Jarl might draw his dagger and seek to slay me, so amenable was I He hated it! And Bedyr could do nothing save squirm and seek to conceal his displeasure. It was just as you promised.”
“And Kedryn?” asked the transformed mage. “What of Tamur’s prince?”
Hattim spun in a circle, his feet moving in parody of a victory dance, wine slopping from the outthrust cup, the alcohol he had drunk beginning to affect him now, combining with his joy to slur his words.
“Prince Kedryn is lost, it seems. He entered the Fedyn Pass and was, so far as Bedyr knows, buried beneath an avalanche. Was that your master’s work, Taws? Was that Ashar’s doing?”
The physiognomy of the woman Taws had possessed was not disposed to expression of anger, so the set of the features became disapproving rather than vexed, but the eyes grew brighter, firey, flashing an ominous red as they studied Hattim, the intensity of their gaze stilling his drunken swirling.
“What?”
The voice was now entirely that of the mage, icy as the north wind, sibilant as the threat of a serpent. Hattim froze abruptly, wine dripping unnoticed to the carpet.
“He is lost in the Fedyn Pass, Taws. Buried! Is that not what you want?”
“The Fedyn Pass?” The words seemed as hoar frost in the air, I chilling Hattim. “Why did he seek to enter the Beltrevan?”
“To regain his sight.” The Galichian’s voice was no longer slurred: the mage’s rubescent stare impressed sobriety on him. “It seems a Sister awaited him in Caitin Hold with word he must seek his sight in the Beltrevan. Some necromancy was involved.”
“Borsus,” husked the mage, his tone unreal from female lips. “He seeks the shade of Borsus.”
“But the pass fell down upon him,” Hattim said, cautious now, choosing his words more carefully. “He must be dead.”
“Must?” snarled the blue-robed figure. “Do you know that? Was his body found?”
“He frightens you!” Hattim gasped it, afraid of his own insight. “You fear Kedryn Caitin!”
The mage moved a step toward the man and Hattim started back, rank fear in his eyes, his hands lifted as though to ward off | whatever spell Taws might cast. His shoulders struck the mantle of i the hearth and he shifted to remove his body from the heat, the cup ; dropping unnoticed to shatter on the flags. Taws’s movement was - swift as a striking snake, his strength not that of the woman’s frame he occupied but far greater, supernatural. A hand fastened on the frontage of Hattim’s silken shirt and the Galichian felt his feet leave the floor. He opened his mouth to scream for help, but Taws’s gaze aborted the cry, drying it stillborn in his throat. Crimson fire burned in that stare and then the thaumaturgist lowered his arm, Hattim sighing with relief as he felt solid floor beneath him again. The sigh became a cry of alarm as he was bent backward, his knees buckling as he struggled to remain upright, his hands fastened on the slender wrist that extended from the blue robe. He was no weakling, but against that force he was powerless, helpless as a babe, Taws driving him down and backward until his spine arched and he felt the heat of the flame lap at his head and shoulders, his golden hair scorching, crackling and spitting, the stink of it in his nostrils.
“Was his body found?” rasped the unhuman voice.
“No!” Hattim wailed. “For the Lady’s sake, Taws, let me up!”
“For the Lady’s sake?” the mage snarled. “Do you not yet understand? You no longer serve that mistress, fool. You have a new master now. ”
“For Ashar’s sake, then!” moaned the Galichian. “For our master’s sake, Taws.”
The pressure eased a fraction and Hattim felt the heat lessen. He tried to draw himself up, but still he was held, poised before the flames, aware that if Taws let loose his grip he would plunge backward into the fire.
“Do you feel the heat?” the mage demanded, an awful satisfaction in his voice. “It is as nothing to what you can suffer should you fail our master; should you fail me.”
“I have not failed you!” Hattim moaned. “In Ashar’s name, I did everything you told me.”
“And brought me unwelcome news of Kedryn Caitin,” Taws husked. “You say he sought to enter the Beltrevan?”
“Aye,” Hattim whimpered, incomprehension adding to his terror. “To regain his sight, they said.”
Abruptly he was snatched forward, lifted and flung across the room. He crashed against a chair, overturning it, unaware of the pain that burst in his shoulder at the impact, huddling close to tears, frightened eyes turned toward the mage. Taws stepped toward him again and he scrabbled away, crablike, over the carpet. Taws halted and gestured for him to rise. Hattim climbed awkwardly to his feet, rubbing at his neck, his aching shoulder. He did not dare to speak for there burned in the ensanguined orbs so terrible a rage he was afraid any words of his might bring down that threatened fate.
“So, we know not whether Kedryn lives, or is dead. ” The voice was softer now, a little less sibilant, musing almost. “But if dead, surely I would have known. Even here I should have known. Or not? Had he slain him, could even his power reach so far?”
He paused and Hattim took a tentative step back, seeking to put distance between himself and the woman who was now Taws. A knocking sounded at the chamber’s door and he gasped, awareness of the outside world intruding on his private terror. Taws turned at the sound, the red glow fading from his eyes, their color returning to Sister Thera’s natural green. He motioned at Hattim and the Lord of Ust-Galich swallowed, fighting to make his voice normal as he went to the door and called, “What is it?”
“My Lord?” He recognized the lisping tone of Mejas Celeruna. “Are you well? A servant reported a noise.”
Hattim looked to the door, thinking that perhaps palace guardsmen were also present, that if he cried for help they might enter before Taws had a chance to slay him, that in the ensuing confusion he might escape the mage’s presence. And even as the thought flitted across his panic-stricken mind he knew it was useless: he was bound to Taws now, to Ashar, and he could not escape the fate he had chosen.
“I stumbled,” he answered. “No harm is done. A little too much wine. Leave me.”
“As you wish, Lord Hattim,” Celeruna called. “Sleep well.” “Aye,” Hattim responded.
When he faced Taws again the mage had calmed, become once more the Sister, blue-robed and seemingly harmless. Had I summoned guards, Hattim thought, what would they have seen? Sister Thera, no more. And if I denounced Sister Thera, if I told them she is possessed by the Messenger, what fate for me then? Condemnation as an apostate? Vilification? The loss of all my dreams? Execution, even?
“You see it,” Taws said, m
enacingly soft. “You are in my web and you cannot wriggle loose.”
Hattim licked his lips, smoothing his rumpled shirt, seeking to regain some measure of dignity. “I chose it,” he said hoarsely. “I chose to serve Ashar.”
“Indeed,” the mage agreed with a horrid equanimity, “and so you are committed to a path from which there is no turning back. Remember that always.”
Hattim nodded.
“The matter of Kedryn remains,” Taws continued. “If our master has slain him, then so be it. If not . . . Well, mayhap the tribes will kill him.”
“They proclaimed him hef-Alador,” Hattim ventured, “and swore peace.”
Taws grunted. “Then mayhap he will succeed in regaining his sight. If so, he is a greater threat.”
He paused and Hattim found the courage to ask, “Is he truly the . . .” He broke off, afraid to complete the sentence.
“The Chosen One?” Taws spat the words as if they pained his borrowed lips. “These blue-gowned bitches believe him so, and mayhap he is, but that matters little. He has been out of this game too long and our hand is too strong. We proceed as I have planned.”
“What if he does live?” Hattim asked nervously.
“Then he will come south into the trap we set,” Taws promised. “He will find you in control of Andurel; his parents bait in our snare. Chosen One or not, he will be but one man against my power and the might of your army. This candidate the lordlings presented, he will obey you?”
“Chadyn Hymet?” Hattim felt a return of fear, his eyes flickering nervously. “He bears no great love for me.”
“I did not ask that,” Taws snapped. “Will he obey you?”
“In the matter of Kedryn?” Hattim hesitated. “I am not sure. He is loyal to the Kingdoms.”
“Then he must not have command,” Taws declared. “He must die.”
“You will kill him?” asked Hattim.
“When will they announce his ascendancy?” Taws countered.
“At the moment of my wedding to Ashrivelle,” Hattim answered. “The proclamation that declares me rightful heir will also declare Chadyn Hymet Lord of Ust-Galich in my place. I agreed to that as you told me to agree to all their suggestions. I am to inform him on the morrow,”
Taws nodded. “Then it must be before your wedding.”
“How?” Hattim wondered.
“No magic can be used,” said Taws, “lest Kyrie’s bitches sense it. You are to summon him here. Then when he comes, you will toast his good fortune with cups I shall prepare for you. He will not survive that.”
“Poison?” Hattim frowned. “What if the Sisters provide a remedy? Or detect it?”
An obscene chuckle tittered from Sister Thera's lips as Taws shook his head. “They will not. There is no remedy, and the potion I shall prepare will leave no trace. All who drink will suffer—and the vintner will be blamed for his tainted wine.”
“All?” Hattim asked warily.
“Aye.” Taws laughed again, the sound ugly. “Suffer, not die, That fate I shall reserve for Chadyn Hymet alone—the others shall have a remedy. ”
“If Hymet dies,” Hattim said, confident that Taws would have the answer ready, “then some other of Darr’s choosing will be selected. ”
“What you will drink will not act immediately.” Taws confirmed the Galichian’s certainty. “It will curdle slowly and he will die scant hours before the ceremony. There will be no time to select another. The rest will suffer a little, but survive—after all, am I not a Sister Hospitaler?”
Hattim nodded, wondering if there was any eventuality for which the mage was not prepared. Had he truly thought Taws afraid of Kedryn? How could he be when he was so powerful? Chosen One or not, Kedryn must surely fall before such might.
“Sleep now,” Taws suggested. “There is business to be done ere long, and you must ready yourself for your wedding.”
“Aye.” Hattim smiled as his confidence returned, watching the blue-robed figure turn and walk to the door that connected their chambers. “Our master’s business.”
The door closed behind Taws and Hattim Sethiyan filled a last cup with wine, drinking deep before he went into his bedroom, the ache in his shoulder forgotten as he thought of his ascendancy and the power it would bring him.
He slept well and long, waking to winter sunlight and the announcement that the Princess Ashrivelle waited in the antechamber, eager to decide the day of their marriage now that all was settled favorably. He rose, bidding the servant comb his hair as he set rings on his fingers and fastened a pendant in his pierced ear. He dressed modestly in a shirt of plain gold and dark green breeks, boots of pale green and a tunic of white, admiring his reflection before he went out to greet his betrothed.
Ashrivelle ignored the servants setting breakfast for Hattim as she flung her arms about his neck and pressed her lips to his mouth.
“I have seen my father and he has told me all is agreed,” she declared gaily, “so we may set the time.”
“As soon as possible,” Hattim said, smiling. “I would make you my wife today if I were able.”
Ashrivelle affected a pretty frown. “It cannot be so soon,” she giggled, “for there is much to prepare. But in five days’ time?”
“So be it,” Hattim agreed. “In five days’ time.”
From the corner of his eye he saw the face of Sister Thera move from the slightly opened door between their chambers and knew that Taws was gone to prepare his poison.
“I cannot believe him dead.”
Yrla turned from the window of Sister Bethany’s chamber, the sun striking blue light from her raven hair. Her face was concerned, yet determined, her voice fierce.
“Did winter not cut us off from Estrevan I might be in better position to answer you,” Bethany said, “but all our communications are limited by this weather, so I can do little save join you in prayer. ”
“He is the Chosen One, is he not?” Yrla spread the wide skirt of her russet gown as she sat, smoothing the folds across her legs, her gray eyes intent on the face of the Paramount Sister. “Do you believe the Lady would let him die?”
“It may not be a question of let” Bethany answered. “I intend no hurt—and I share your fervent hope—but the Beltrevan is Ashar’s domain and it may be that the mad god succeeded.”
“No!” Yrla said. “I will not believe that.”
“Because he is your son?” Bethany asked gently, “or because of something else?”
“I feel ...” Yrla paused, marshaling her thoughts, seeking to impose logic on feelings she knew she must admit might be no more than maternal optimism, a natural reluctance to admit Kedryn’s death. “I feel that some pattern unfolds.”
“Kedryn and Wynett?” Bethany nodded. “It is possible. I had thought of that myself—even hoped it, though it would lose the Sisterhood a devotee likely to become Paramount Sister of Estrevan itself. But then you brought this news from the Fedyn Pass.”
“They found no bodies,” Yrla said doggedly.
“But Gann Resyth saw a rocky tomb.” Bethany sighed, smoothing strands of white hair from her stem brow. “And no word has come down the Idre.”
“It is too soon,” Yrla said, continuing when Bethany frowned a question, “If they survived the avalanche they had still to find the Drott Gathering, and then to seek the aid of the shamans. To enter the underworld and find the shade of the warrior. To return—to High Fort, now that the Fedyn Pass is sealed. To come down the Idre. It is too soon to know.”
“And too soon to hope he might appear before the wedding,” Bethany murmured, her tone provoking a sharp glance from Yrla.
“You do not approve?”
The white-haired woman played for a moment with the blue gem on her third finger. “I do not believe Hattim Sethiyan to be the stuff of which kings are made. I had hoped Kedryn might find favor in Ashrivelle’s eyes.”
Yrla smiled tautly and shook her head. “Kedryn loves Wynett; he would not, I think, consider Ashrivelle.”
Yrla heard the doubt in her voice and asked, “You suspect some deviousness?”
Bethany shrugged. “There is nothing I can detect. No taint of magic, and I can hardly ask to examine the princess for evidence of love potions.”
“What of this Sister Hattim favors so?” asked Yrla.
“Thera?” Bethany shrugged again. “I have had little contact with Sister Thera of late so close does Hattim keep her. She is a Hospitaler who attended him on his arrival—so well, it seems, that he requested her permanent presence in his retinue. She was agreeable and I felt her proximity would be a beneficial influence on the man.”
“Certainly he appears changed,” Yrla murmured.
“Does he not?” said Bethany. “Do you not approve of the change?”
“If it is genuine,” Yrla said carefully, “then yes. But I find it hard to credit so drastic a shift in behavior.”
Bethany nodded. “As do I. It is too unlike Hattim.”
“Think you that he plays some secret game?” Yrla wondered.
“If so, it is well hidden,” answered Bethany. “He appears the very ideal of reasonableness. He has given offense to no one and agreed to every measure suggested by Darr. ”
“And in so doing given no one opportunity to question him,” Yrla said. “My husband feels it is all, his word for it was, too neat. ”
“Indeed,” Bethany agreed. “Do you think that part of this pattern you sense?”
“I do not know.” It was Yrla’s turn to shrug. “What I feel is so vague, so open to question.”
“Explain it to me,” Bethany asked, “as best you can.”
Yrla was silent for a moment, then: “Estrevan believes the Messenger alive still, working Ashar’s design in some way we do not yet comprehend. If Alaria’s Text is correct, then only Kedryn—as the Lady’s Chosen One—may defeat him. The battle of the Lozin Gate left Kedryn blind, yet that very blindness drew Wynett closer to him—she loves him, whether she admits that to herself or not—and Wynett is Darr’s elder daughter and thus a candidate for the High Throne. Did she renounce her vows in acceptance of her love, then wed to Kedryn she would make him candidate for the White Palace, rather than Hattim Sethiyan; and my son would make a better king.
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