Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02

by The Usurper (v1. 1)

  Ashrivelle was distraught, insisting that she attend her beloved. Darr, Bedyr and Jarl were roused from their beds, the latters’ wives asked to attend the panicking princess, whom they had almost to drag from Hattim’s bedside.

  The Galichian did, indeed, appear sick unto death as he lay tossing on his bed, attended by Sister Thera. His face was ashen, sweat matting his golden hair, his eyes hollowed, his body racked by tremors.

  “I will send to the college,” Darr announced. “Bethany will send her most accomplished hospitalers.”

  “No,” moaned Hattim, “let Sister Thera attend me.”

  Darr looked to the brown-haired Sister, who administered a draft to Hattim’s pallid lips. “Do you require help?” he asked.

  The woman shook her head, setting the cup aside and mopping Hattim’s brow.

  “No, Majesty,” she said confidently, “I can cure my Lord. I believe he has drunk tainted wine. He will recover.”

  “He appears most ill,” said Darr, worried.

  “It seems worse than it is,” replied Thera. “I assure you, Majesty, that he will be well again ere morning.”

  “Should he die,” Jarl murmured, so soft that only Bedyr might hear, “our doubts would be resolved.”

  Bedyr nodded, his conscience tom between the spiteful wish that Jarl be right and genuine sympathy for the pain-racked Galichian.

  “See, he sleeps.” Thera lowered Hattim’s head to the pillows, his eyes closing as a vomit-tainted sigh escaped his lips. “I will attend the others.”

  She bustled from the chamber, carrying her satchel of medicaments. Darr, Bedyr and Jarl stood staring at the supine lord, each entertaining his private thoughts as servants changed soiled sheets, Hattim still now, his breath coming more evenly. Finally Darr said, “The Sister’s remedies appear to work.”

  “More’s the pity,” Jarl grunted.

  Darr sighed and shook his head. “I bear no great love for Hattim, but I would not wish such a death on him.”

  “You are too kind,” said the Lord of Kesh, his eyes cold as he studied the Galichian.

  “He sleeps,” said Bedyr. “Let us find our own beds.”

  The others nodded and they quit the chamber with instructions that servants watch over Hattim and send instantly for Sister Thera should further seizures strike.

  “I had best advise my daughter,” Darr said, “and free your wives.”

  They found Yrla and Arlynn comforting Ashrivelle, who would not be mollified until she was allowed to observe her sleeping lover, only then, after she was satisfied he slept and nothing more could be done for him, permitting them to settle her in her own bed, singing the praises of Sister Thera.

  Indeed, when dawn broke, it seemed the Sister Hospitaler had performed most excellently. Hattim and his courtiers lived, albeit a trifle uncomfortable of digestion, refusing food but declaring themselves recovered from whatever malady had struck so dramatically. They were somewhat weakened, but when Darr, accompanied by the Lords of Tamur and Kesh, attended him, Hattim expressed his resolve that the wedding should proceed as planned. Ashrivelle was seated by his bedside as he gave this news, and she smiled at his words, turning a grave face to her father as she asked, “Is he not brave?”

  “I would not disappoint you,” said Hattim gallantly, his own smile wan. “And I am selfish—I would let nothing stand in the way of my own happiness.”

  Ashrivelle laughed with delight, smoothing his hair. Dan- asked, “You are sure of this? The ceremony may be easily delayed.”

  “No,” Hattim shook his head, taking Ashrivelle’s hand, “let nothing delay our union.”

  Darr nodded. “Then we shall leave you.”

  “I am in most excellent hands,” said Hattim, indicating with a gesture the solicitous Ashrivelle and the hovering Sister Thera.

  “A pity,” Jarl remarked as they quit the chamber.

  “Mayhap the Lady saves him for greater things,” said Bedyr, clapping his disappointed friend on the shoulder.

  Jarl’s disgruntlement was vastly increased later that day when a servant brought urgent word that King Darr required his presence in the quarters occupied by the Lord of Ust-Galich. At first the Keshi’s spirits rose, thinking that Hattim had suffered some relapse and the wedding might, after all, be transformed to a wake. He hurried to answer the summons, allowing himself the luxury of optimism, only to find Bedyr and Darr grave-faced by Hattim’s bed.

  The Galichian was propped against a mound of pillows, most of his natural color returned, but his own features set in lines both stem and mournful that, to Jarl’s cynical eye, seemed utterly false.

  “There is disturbing news,” said Darr, fidgeting with the medallion of his office in a manner that, to Jarl, suggested acute discomfort.

  “I have received word from the army,” Hattim said when Dan- made no move to continue. “Chadyn Hymet is dead.”

  “What?” Jarl barked, his mind turning instantly to thoughts of poison.

  “This malady,” Hattim gestured vaguely in the direction of his stomach, his face solemn, “appears to stem from the wine we drank in toast to his ascension. Lady forgive me, I chose that vintage myself!”

  He broke off, his lips clamped tight together as if in prevention of some wail of grief, shaking his head as though he could not believe what he had done.

  “You cannot blame yourself,” Darr murmured. “You, too, might have suffered that fate.”

  “Had Sister Thera not attended me,” Hattim nodded, his voice pitched low. “If only I had sent her to Chadyn.”

  “You could not know,” said Darr, “not then.”

  Jarl frowned, confused by his own suspicions. “Chadyn is dead? What is this talk of wine?”

  “It would appear that Hattim selected a tainted vintage,” Bedyr explained. “When he sent for Chadyn to apprise him of his appointment they drank a toast. The wine was fouled.”

  “Have Sisters examined it?” asked Jarl, making little effort to conceal his suspicion.

  “It was all drunk,” said Hattim, his voice pitched low, “and the bottles destroyed. There were but two. The vintage was ancient— the very reason I chose it.”

  Jarl grunted without offering comment.

  “I have made inquiries,” said Darr, sensing the drift of the Keshi’s thoughts, “and there can be no question of foul play.”

  “Who would wish to poison Chadyn?” asked Hattim sadly. “Who would wish to poison so many?”

  “All who drank fell ill last night,” Bedyr expanded. “It would seem that only the prompt attendance of Sister Thera saved Hattim’s entire court from death. Unfortunately there was no Sister to attend Chadyn.”

  “Poor Chadyn,” keened Hattim.

  “This leaves us with a problem,” Jarl said bluntly.

  Hattim nodded listlessly, for all the world a man stricken with grief. “You must select another to take my place.”

  “The wedding is tomorrow,” Jarl said. “Shall it be postponed?”

  Darr clutched his medallion in a tight-locked fist and shook his head. “I think not,” he announced. “All is ready and whilst we mourn the demise of the Lord Hymet I do not think we should delay the ceremony, ”

  “Would it not be disrespectful to continue?” Hattim asked.

  “I think not,” said Darr, “Things have gone too far to halt them now. What we must do is choose another candidate.”

  “Who?” Jarl demanded.

  Darr sighed. “I cannot readily offer another.”

  “We must debate the matter,” suggested Bedyr.

  “I shall, as before, accept your nomination,” murmured Hattim. “Though for now I feel too weak to offer suggestions. I leave it to you, my Lords.”

  “Very well,” Darr nodded. “We shall apprise you of our choice once it is made.”

  Hattim ducked his head in agreement as they turned from his bed, making their way from the chamber. Once they were gone and he was alone he threw back the covers and rose to his feet, rubbing at a belly
still sore from the discomfort of the previous night, smiling as the door opened to admit Sister Thera.

  “Taws,” he chuckled, “your design is masterly! They cannot suspect me—nor will they find a candidate so suitable as Chadyn before the wedding.”

  “Ashar’s will be done,” said the mage. “You are fully recovered?”

  “A somewhat painful stomach,” shrugged Hattim, dismissing so small a price for so large a gain, “nothing more.”

  “That will remedy itself,” Taws remarked. “It was needful you showed the signs of illness, lest any suspect.”

  “And it worked!” Hattim shrugged into a brocade dressing gown, his eyes alight with triumph. “They saw me suffering— they heard the others. Jarl doubted—I saw that in his eyes!—but what could he say? What accusation could any of them level against me when I lay so sick? They could only offer me sympathy; and how that hurt them! They had rather I died.”

  He chuckled at the thought, shaking his head in amusement. “And tomorrow,” said Taws softly, “you will be married.”

  “Aye,” smiled Hattim, “too soon for them to select another to take my place. I shall become heir to the High Throne and remain Lord of Ust-Galich.” His smile faded as a thought intruded on his jubilation: “When shall Darr die?”

  The slight shoulders beneath the blue robe shrugged as Taws said, “The same night, I think.”

  “So soon?” Hattim’s eyes expressed doubt. “Should we not wait a while longer?”

  “To what purpose?” asked the mage. “That they may decide upon another candidate? No, we strike while Ashar’s fires bum bright still. You will wed your little princess and all Andurel will celebrate. Your men will throng the city and that night Darr will die. The dawn will see you king, with an army at your back to quell any who oppose you. The High Throne and Ust-Galich both will be yours.”

  “And the objections of Bedyr and Jarl will brand them traitors,” Hattim nodded.

  “As I have set it out,” agreed the mage, his woman’s face smiling exultantly, “their incarceration will forestall any move of the Keshi’s spawn, and if Kedryn Caitin lives still, his parents will be bait in our snare.”

  “If he does not?” Hattim inquired.

  “When we know that, they die,” smiled the mage.

  Hattim burst into a fresh gale of laughter. “Taws,” he declared, “we have them! We cannot lose now! The Kingdoms are ours!”

  “And Ashar’s,” said the mage softly. “The time of the Lady’s bitches draws to a close. Soon our master shall rule here.” Hattim swallowed, his face becoming serious, for still he felt some trepidation at such open acceptance of the god, but he had come too far along this path to turn back now, and he knew with an awful certainty what fate awaited him should he renege on his apostasy, so he nodded, echoing the mage: “And Ashar’s.”

  The dawn that broke over Andurel on the day of the wedding was a glory of gold and crimson that crept along the edge of the eastern horizon as if a fire burned there, driving back the night. The curtain of gloom that lingered still was steadily illuminated with a clear blue effulgence that spread across the heavens as the sun rose, a great disk of candescent citrine. There were no clouds and the north wind that had buffeted the city dropped, swinging around to become a milder afflatus that set the pennants and buntings decorating the streets and houses to rustling and fluttering gaily, the boats moored along the wharfsides to bobbing on the gentled sway of the Idre. Those abroad at that hour declared it a blessing of the Lady on the union to be celebrated that day, and many who had doubted the wisdom of the marriage revised their opinions, allowing themselves to be persuaded that Hattim Sethiyan was, indeed, a suitable candidate for Ashrivelle’s hand and the tenure of the White Palace.

  Neither Bedyr nor Yrla was so easily dissuaded, and there remained in their minds, as in those of Jarl and Arlynne, and King Darr himself, lingering doubt concerning the untimely death of Chadyn Hymet.

  They had sat late, discussing the selection of a fresh candidate for Hattim’s kingdom and finding themselves unable to agree on a suitable nomination. This man was too old, that too young; the one too loyal to the Sethiyan line, another too weak to oppose it; blood relationships abrogated many claims, lack of support others. Their suspicions were brought into the open, but none could lay valid accusations at Hattim’s door, nor produce real reason for condemnation. Finally, still without a decision, they had agreed to find their beds and continue their debate after the wedding. Consequently they had had little sleep as they prepared for the lengthy festivities for which not one of them could muster much enthusiasm.

  As custom dictated, the betrothed couple breakfasted alone before praying in company of a single Sister, Thera in Hattinvs case, Bethany in Ashrivelle’s. Then they were dressed, the bride-to-be in a gown of Estrevan blue, hemmed with gold, her hair bound up in a mesh of silver threads, the groom in tunic and breeks of purest white, an overrobe of silver with matching boots. At noon the Ladies of Tamur and Kesh, in company with those of the High Blood able to attend, joined Ashrivelle, while then- husbands went to fetch Hattim from his chambers. They escorted the Galichian to the quarters of the princess, where Jarl, as the elder Lord, pounded thrice on the door, demanding entry. Three times Sister Bethany called out, demanding that Hattim be sure in his intent, and three times Jarl was required to answer that he was. Then the door was flung open and Bethany granted them entry.

  Hattim, flanked by Bedyr and Jarl, dropped to one knee before the seated princess and said in ringing tones, “I ask that you come with me now that this night we may be man and wife before the eyes of the Lady and the good folk of the Kingdoms.”

  And Ashrivelle replied, “I will come with you and take you to be my husband.”

  She rose then, her attendant women about her as Hattim turned. Jarl and Bedyr beside him, and left the chamber, striding through the corridors of the White Palace to the throne room, where Dan- waited, dressed in purple and gold, the tripartite crown upon his grayed head, the Palace Guard resplendent in burnished armor to either side of the High Throne.

  The high-vaulted rotunda was packed as the lords brought Hattim in and left him standing alone before the king as they took their places on the lesser thrones a step below the king’s on the marble dais. Yrla and Arlynn came in with Ashrivelle, leaving her beside Hattim as they joined their husbands. The Sisters of Andurel grouped behind the pair as Bethany moved to take her place at the foot of the dais and silence filled the room. She raised her hands, palms toward the two, and invoked the blessing of the Lady, then Darr rose to ask, "Hattim Sethiyan of Ust-Galich, do you in good faith and loyalty take this woman, Ashrivelle, to be your wife?”

  Hattim said, “I do,” and Bethany demanded, “in the name of the Lady, do you cherish and respect her?” and again Hattim said, “Ido.”

  The questions were repeated to Ashrivelle, who answered firmly, her eyes alight with joy.

  Then Bethany announced, “These two are joined as one before the Lady. Let all here know that and ask her blessing on their union.”

  Darr said, “These two are joined in the eyes of the Kingdoms. Let all here know that.”

  Hattim turned then to take Ashrivelle in his arms and kiss her, chastely, his face solemn, as Darr and Bethany in unison pronounced the ancient formula, “You are wed in the eyes of the Lady and of the Kingdoms. Be you faithful one unto another from this day hence.”

  The Sisters invoked a prayer, and when it was done the chamber rang with the shouting of Hattim’s Galichians as their lord took his wife on his arm and led the way from the throne room to the banquet that waited in the hall beyond. The triumphant smile that curved his lips was, the celebrants assumed, because he had won so lovely a bride and now stood in line to the High Throne when—might the Lady make it a long time hence—King Dan should die.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Candlelight darkened the hollows of Darr’s cheeks, etching deeper the lines that striated his forehead and pooling shadow beneath his
eyes. He caught a glimpse of his reflection as the attendants eased off the heavy ceremonial robe that had seemed to become increasingly burdensome as the wedding celebrations continued, and thought that he looked old. He was long accustomed to the remorseless thinning of his hair, and its graying he accepted, but as he studied his features they seemed for the first time to assume the lineaments of venerability. Was this the price of the tripartite crown that now sat in lonely splendor on its velvet cushion, this acceleration of the aging process? Or would he have grown old just as quickly had he not wed Morenna and come to the High Throne? Bedyr was his junior by scant years, yet he still seemed young despite the streakings of gray that now winged his brown locks; and Jarl, who was older, seemed ageless. Did the burdens of kingship sit so heavily upon him that the years marked their calendar passage more savagely? Or did more recent matters carve him with their dolors?

  He sighed, prompting an inquiring look from the servant now working on the lacings of his stiff shirt that he answered with a dismissive gesture, essaying a slight, wan smile, indicating that the man should continue, shrugging into a sleeping robe as the trappings of his kingship were carefully folded and settled into the wardrobe. If only he could set aside his cares as easily But he could not, and he carried them with him as he climbed into his bed and dismissed the attendants, who snuffed all but the one candle standing beside his sleeping couch as they retreated from the room.

  Sleep, he knew, would come slowly this night, for he had much to ponder, and none of it the happy concerns of a father who had just seen a beloved daughter wed to the man of her choice. There was the matter of the Galichian succession still to be decided; and the dispersal of the Galichian army. Hattim had offered assurances on both items, but no suggestions, and while Darr was thankful for the free hand the one allowed him, he was mildly worried that no date was set for the disintegration of the forces camped on Andurel’s doorstep. Hattim had proven vague on that count, promising the cantonment would break up without setting an exact time, and Darr was troubled by the thought of so large a body of armed men concentrated so close to the city gates. Kemm, he knew, had obeyed his father’s word and brought a striking force of Keshi to the banks of the Vortigen, but their numbers, even allied with the Palace Guard, were less than the muster of Galichians. Yet why should that disturb him? Hattim had offered no threat— presumably had no need, now that he was legally heir to the throne—yet still Darr did not trust the man. There was, making it all the worse, no valid reason for his mistrust. He knew Hattim to be ambitious—it was something the Galichian had never hidden— but surely not even Hattim Sethiyan would chance the wrath of Tamur and Kesh by seeking to forcibly accelerate his ascension. That must come automatically when Darr should die and marriage to Ashrivelle elevate Hattim to the throne.