Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02

by The Usurper (v1. 1)

  “What news?” the chatelain repeated.

  “Darr is dead,” said Galen, “and Hattim Sethiyan wed to Ashrivelle, declaring himself king. Bedyr, Yrla, Jarl of Kesh and his wife are, as best I know, imprisoned. Or dead. Andurel is held by the Galichian army. ”

  Rycol stared at the fat man, his lean face tense now. “You are sure of this?” he demanded.

  Galen nodded and explained how Corradon had come, dying, to the Vashti with word from Bedyr; how Darr had died so mysteriously; and how Hattim proclaimed himself monarch by marriage right. Rycol’s features grew grim as he listened and when Galen was done, he rose to shout for Kedryn to be summoned.

  “Bedyr feared him dead,” Galen said.

  “No.” Rycol shook his head. “With Wynett and Tepshen Lahl he escaped the downfall of the Fedyn Pass and succeeded in reaching the Drott. He has his sight again.”

  “Praise the Lady,” Galen murmured fervently, “that, at least, is a blessing.”

  “He will need his eyes to lead Tamur against the usurper,” Rycol grunted. “Are you sure Bedyr is taken?”

  “The man who told me was a captain of the Royal Guard,” Galen said. “He was dying—filled with Galichian arrows—and riders were on his heels: I believed him well enough to bring my craft north.”

  Rycol nodded slowly, his eyes thoughtful now, assessing the strategy of a winter campaign. He turned as the door opened and Kedryn came in, Wynett at his side, no longer—to Galen’s surprise—in the blue robe of a Sister, but dressed in a gown of soft pink. The riverman rose ponderously, his eyes troubled as he saw Kedryn’s smile.

  “Galen!” Kedryn crossed the room to clasp the big man’s hand. “You are well met, old friend. Are you come to bring us south?”

  Galen swallowed and took more evshan as he braced himself to repeat his story, seeing Kedryn’s smile disappear at the telling, Wynett’s radiant features grow somber. The pleasure he felt as he saw that Kedryn’s eyes focused again, that love had blossomed and was acknowledged between them, dimmed by the sad nature of his information.

  “Tepshen must hear this,” Kedryn said when the tale was done, and servants were dispatched to find the kyo.

  While they waited he walked to Wynett, taking her hands. “I am sorry. Your father was a good man.”

  Tears moistened her blue eyes, but she brushed them away, her face composed, the disciplines of Estrevan imposing a stoic calm. “He was, indeed; but now he is dead and we must look to the future. I shall mourn him when the time comes—now we must think of the living.”

  Kedryn nodded, grateful for her strength. Rycol said, “My condolences, Wynett. I counted Darr a friend.”

  Wynett smiled wanly, not speaking, a hand about the talisman she wore, as if that touch could lend her strength.

  Tepshen Lahl appeared then with Brannoc at his side, both men flushed, in winter garb, the sweet smell of horseflesh lingering about them, their smiles fading as they saw the solemn features of those already gathered. Kedryn motioned them to sit and asked Galen to repeat his story a third time. As he spoke Tepshen’s eyes grew cold, and when he was finished the easterner turned to Kedryn, direct as ever.

  “You are—for the present—Lord of Tamur: do you send out the war banners?”

  Kedryn, his own face pale, stared blindly at the kyo for long moments, the frown that lined his features aging him so that he resembled more than ever his father.

  “In such wolf-weather?” He turned toward Galen. “Was the Messenger’s hand detected in this?”

  “I do not know.” Galen shook his head, seeing in the young man a new maturity, a firming of character that prompted confidence. “I know only what I have told you.”

  Kedryn nodded, stem determination lending him an air of grim resolve even though dull fear gnawed at his mind, threatening to cloud his judgment. He reached unthinking to clasp the blue jewel hung about his neck and at its touch he felt a calm, the panic that menaced his thinking receding, a clarity possessing him so that he was able to foresee the options before him and weigh them one against another.

  “If Hattim dares imprison my parents I doubt he would hesitate to hold their lives hostage against the approach of our army,” he said slowly. “And if we do send out the banners, how long will it take to raise our forces? My parents might well be dead before we reached Andurel. Or we might find them set betwixt us and Hattim. Swifter action is needed.”

  “How?” Tepshen demanded. “Hattim has his army before the city.”

  “And Kemm of Kesh likely has his on the Vortigen,” nodded Kedryn. “Knowing that if he crosses the river, Jarl’s throat will be cut. I’d wager Hattim counts on that to stalemate our response and I’d not see my parents die as a result of precipitate action. Galen brought the Vashti out—can he not bring me in?”

  He turned to the riverman, reaching for Wynett’s hand as he heard her gasp. Galen ducked his head. “I can bring you close, and whilst the Galichians would likely seize the Vashti, a boat could put you ashore unnoticed.”

  “And then?” asked Tepshen, dubious. “What do we do then?” “We?” Kedryn smiled slightly.

  “Do you think I shall let you die alone?” said the kyo.

  “Or I?” said Wynett. “If die we must.”

  “You cannot come with me,” Kedryn said firmly. “There is too much danger. ”

  “You forget something,” Wynett said gently, though iron resolution rang in her quiet words. “I am my father’s elder daughter. ”

  Kedryn frowned. “I do not understand.”

  “Do you not think,” said Wynett, taking both his hands in hers, “that the time has come to make an honest woman of me?”

  “By the Lady!” Rycol spoke for the first time, seeing the direction of her thoughts. “Aye—that is it!”

  Kedryn’s frown grew more perplexed, confusion showing in his brown eyes.

  “Ashrivelle is my younger sister,” Wynett explained, “and now that I have renounced my Sisterhood my claim to the High Throne takes precedence. Were I wed, my husband should have prior claim to Hattim Sethiyan.”

  “I?” Kedryn gasped.

  “You,” Wynett nodded.

  “King Kedryn,” said Brannoc, thoughtfully. “It has a certain ring to it.”

  “I had not thought to claim such rank,” Kedryn murmured. “You had not thought to see your parents imprisoned,” said Wynett. “Do you reject me?”

  “No!” Kedryn shook his head quickly. “You know that I would take you as my wife. But I had not thought to become king.”

  “As Wynett’s husband,” said Rycol, “you become the legal claimant. You would have rightful seniority over Hattim Sethiyan—and the right to command his army.”

  “Would the Galichian accept that?” demanded Tepshen doubtfully.

  “Likely not,” Rycol admitted, “but others would have no choice, and any who opposed Kedryn would stand condemned of treason.”

  “Hail the king,” said Brannoc. “When is the wedding? When do we sail?”

  “You, too?” Kedryn asked, his smile grateful.

  Brannoc grinned. “You will need a bodyguard, your Majesty. It seems hardly fitting that you present yourself to Andurel without suitable attendants.”

  “It seems,” Kedryn said, almost ruefully, “that it is decided for me.”

  “I argue the wisdom of approaching Andurel without an army at your back,” said Tepshen. “At the very least, take a force from Rycol’s garrison.”

  “There are no boats.” Kedryn shook his head. “And I do not think this a matter for any army.”

  They all stared at him then and he paused, marshaling his thoughts, clutching the talisman again as if communing with some power beyond the mortal. It seemed the jewel imbued him with a calm and a resolution that he had felt before, when he faced Niloc Yarrum and when he saw the way to making peace with the Beltrevan, though now it was stronger, as if the Lady herself spoke in some wordless way through the agency of the blue stone, ordering his mind, filling him with
a power he did not understand, but accepted on faith for what it undoubtedly was.

  “Time is against us,” he said, some indefinable quality in his voice lending him an authority they instinctively respected, “and I suspect the Messenger has a hand in this. Wed to Wynett, I am—as you point out, my love—Darr’s rightful heir and so able to command the warriors of the Kingdoms. If Alaria’s Text is true, then I am the Chosen One—the only one capable of defeating the Messenger. I believe this is my fight. I believe the Lady saved us in the Fedyn Pass and aided us in the Beltrevan that I should stand ready for this struggle. I will go south alone.”

  “With me,” Wynett said firmly. “My presence lends authority to your claim. Andurel knows me for Darr’s daughter. Ashrivelle knows my right is greater than hers. You shall not leave me behind.”

  “Nor me,” said Tepshen LahL no less firmly.

  “And I do not intend to miss so epic a confrontation,” said Brannoc.

  “Very well,” Kedryn allowed, seeing that there was no deterring them. “Will you give us passage, Galen?”

  “The Vashti is yours to command,” said the riverman.

  “Then,” Kedryn rose, only to drop to his knees before Wynett, “if my Lady consents to marry me, we sail as early as we may.”

  Wynett took the hand he offered, smiling gravely. “I do accept, my Lord.”

  Kedryn climbed to his feet and turned to Rycol. “Will you arrange it, my friend? The sooner the better.”

  “There are Sisters here and I have civic right,” nodded the chatelain. “Do you but give me time to arrange a wedding feast, it shall be done this day. ”

  Kedryn nodded and High Fort’s commander hurried from the room to begin the preparations. “It will be a poor enough ceremony,” Kedryn murmured.

  “It will be all the ceremony we need,” Wynett smiled. “Now leave me to prepare myself.”

  It was not the wedding either of them had anticipated. There was none of the pomp that Ashrivelle and Hattim had enjoyed, nor time for much ceremony beyond the simple declaration of the vows, offered before Rycol and the Lady Marga, Wynett’s nurses representative of Estrevan, Tepshen Lahl, Brannoc and Galen Sadreth the witnesses, but it was, nonetheless, a marriage, binding them in formal declaration of the love that had burgeoned through such hardship. The banquet that followed was marred by the absence of Bedyr and Yrla, by the sad news of Darr’s death; but despite those absences there was a feeling of joy in High Fort’s feasting hall, and when they retired Kedryn knew a sense of completeness, of rectitude, that filled him with delight.

  He lay with his arms about Wynett in a chamber overlooking the dark sweep of the Idre canyon, the faint glow of the coals banked in the hearth washing the chamber with warm light, and felt a happiness that overcame all trepidation, all fear of the task that lay ahead.

  “In Andurel, when all is done,” he promised, “we shall marry again, if you like. A ceremony befitting the daughter of a king.”

  Wynett stirred sleepily against him, brushing his shoulder with her lips. “I am the wife of a king,” she murmured. “I am your wife and I want nothing more than that.”

  “I shall build a monument to Darr,” he said into her hair.

  “There is no need,” she replied. “I grieve for my father, but death is a thing we must all accept and there is no point to shedding needless tears. Let our life together be the monument.”

  She turned then, presenting her mouth, and they spoke no more.

  The next day Galen repaired to the dockside to supervise the refitting of his vessel while Kedryn sat in conference with Rycol and the others, delineating a plan of campaign that would, he hoped, forestall outright war. Somehow he was certain the Messenger lay behind these alarming events, and he sensed that when he sailed south he would be moving toward a confrontation with Ashar’s minion that must determine the future of the Kingdoms. He felt that he prepared to face a power greater than any he had known. It was an awesome thought, one that would, had he allowed it, have filled him with dread, but he fought that fear, strengthened by the certainty that he fought in the Lady’s cause.

  The morning of their departure dawned steel gray, an icy wind blowing skirls of snow down the river canyon, lashing white froth from the surface of the Idre. The Vashti bobbed restlessly on her mooring lines, as if anxious to be gone, and her crew, for all the complaints they hurled at their captain, turned willingly enough to their tasks as Kedryn and Wynett, with Tepshen Lahl and Brannoc close behind, came on board. Rycol and the Lady Marga stood on the harborside as they had stood before to watch Bedyr and Yrla depart, though now the chatelain had more to do than wait for Brannoc to emerge from the Beltrevan, for Kedryn had left him with clear orders. He was to alert Tamur, not to arm, but to stand ready for war should word to the contrary fail to come out of Andurel, and already the signal towers were flashing messages to Low Fort, informing Fengrif of the events unfolding far to the south so that Kesh, too, should stand ready to march against the Galichian usurper.

  “Shall we find peace some day?” Kedryn wondered as the barque quit the harbor.

  “Some day, surely,” said Wynett from the circle of his arm. “Do we not follow the path of the Lady?”

  “Aye.” Kedryn watched the figures on the dockside diminish, fading in the wintry gray light as the Vashti found the current and the wind bellied her refurbished sails. “But that path could lead to our death.”

  “We have no other choice,” Wynett said firmly, “save to turn our backs on all we hold dear, and that is no choice at all.”

  “No,” Kedryn agreed.

  * * *

  For all the speed the steady wind lent them, the journey seemed interminable and Kedryn grew impatient as they scudded the roiling gray surface of the mighty river. Towns and villages swept past, Galen docking only when conditions rendered night sailing overly hazardous, and then their halts were brief as possible, their identities kept secret from their hosts. No word had yet escaped of Hattim’s assumption of the High Throne, the unusually severe winter locking the hamlets of Tamur in isolation, and Kedryn began to wonder if he perceived a monstrous design behind the usurper’s plan. By spring, when the roads opened again, the Galichian would be firmly ensconced in the White Palace, and if he held the Lords of Tamur and Kesh, and their Ladies, hostage he would hold a terrifying advantage over any counter action. It seemed too confident a stroke even for one so ambitious as Hattim Sethiyan, and Kedryn felt the certainty that the Messenger’s hand lay behind it all mount apace. He longed to reach the island city and uncover the truth, no matter what the outcome.

  The long winter stood at the commencement of its decline before they came within striking distance of Andurel. The north wind had softened and was bringing hail rather than snow, the hours of daylight longer, the sun appearing more frequently, and warmer when Galen announced that one more day’s sailing would bring them to the city and Kedryn ordered him to bring the Vashti over to the east bank and find the mouth of the Vortigen.

  They hugged the bank until nightfall and then moved cautiously into the tributary river, anchoring when the lights of Kemm’s encampment showed. Accompanied by Wynett, Tepshen Lahl and Brannoc, Kedryn went ashore to find the Keshi prince.

  Kemm was lounging on cushions, restlessly listening to a poet recite tales of his kingdom’s past, when they were ushered in. He rose to his feet with surprise writ large on his fleshy features, staring at them as if they were the last folk in the Kingdoms he had expected to see.

  “Kedryn?” His dark eyes were doubtful as he studied the Prince of Tamur, dredging old memories for recognition.

  “Aye,” Kedryn nodded, “we were boys when last we met, Kemm.”

  “And likely orphans soon,” the Keshi announced dramatically. “Do you come with an army? It will do us little good, unless we agree to see our parents butchered by that Galichian upstart.”

  “I have no army,” Kedryn replied. “Tell me what transpires.”

  The same confidence that had g
ripped him in High Fort showed now, prompting Kemm to submit to his authority even before he learned that marriage had raised Kedryn. He called for food and wine, dismissing the poet as he explained the events of the past months.

  There was, indeed, a stalemate, for when Kemm had learned of Darr’s death and found Galichian soldiery manning the approaches to Andurel he had sought formally to cross into the city and been turned back. Hattim himself had appeared to inform the Keshi that his parents were held prisoner, hostage against his conduct and likely to die should he engage in any attempt to free them or enter the city under arms.

  “Yours, too,” he added mournfully. “The Galichian holds them in the White Palace; and the Sisters are confined to their college. I have heard rumors that magic was employed against Darr.”

  “Magic?” Wynett asked sharply.

  “It is what I have heard,” Kemm nodded. “Forgive me, Sister , . . Majesty! But that is what I hear.”

  “It is what Galen suggested,” said Kedryn. “Does the usurper employ advisers? Are there any close to him?”

  Kemm shrugged, his black robe rustling. “News is a commodity in short supply these days. I have seen nine of my spies hanged from the Vortigen bridges, but what little word there is has it that a Sister stands close to Hattim.”

  “You said the Sisters were confined,” Kedryn said.

  “All, it seems, save the one,” Kemm nodded. “I do not know her name, or even if what I hear is true.”

  Kedryn turned to Wynett, his expression doubtful. “Is it likely a Sister would accept him as king?”

  “No,” she replied confidently, “not if these rumors of magic are true; not with her fellows held under guard.”

  “There is more,” said Kemm. “Many of the Royal Guard opposed Hattim and were slaughtered on the spot. Those who surrendered were executed. Their bodies rot on the palace walls. Sister Bethany demanded the usurper remove the sentries from the college and was declared traitor for her presumption.”