Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02

by The Usurper (v1. 1)

  “No!” Wynett gasped. “I cannot believe even Hattim would dare so open a declaration of heresy.”

  Kedryn’s eyes were angry as he faced her, his visage grim. “Does it not give proof of our suspicions?” he asked, his voice harsh. “The Messenger would not balk at such measures.”

  “No,” she agreed, “he would not.”

  “This must change our plan,” said Tepshen. “Gone thus far Hattim will not hesitate to kill you if you enter Andurel. ”

  Kedryn studied his friend’s face, recognizing the truth in his words. Did Hattim thwart him so adroitly? He touched the talisman, seeking again that inspiration the jewel seemed to bestow, and felt its power fill him, calming the rage that threatened to erupt, opening avenues of thought that revealed ways around the Galichian’s—or the Messenger’s?-—design. He looked to Wynett, and saw that she, too, sought the unspoken advice of the strange stones.

  “It changes nothing,” he said slowly, not sure the words were his, for they seemed to come not from his own mind but from something greater, something that lay beyond the mortal plane. “Hattim can slay me only at risk of announcing himself a regicide. Whatever fell glamours were used against Darr he has succeeded in concealing. Should he seek to employ those same gramaryes on me, he must stand openly condemned of heresy. Should he seek to slay me by more mundane means, he rebels against the king- elect.”

  “Do you think that will stay his hand?” demanded the kyo, concern making his voice angry.

  “Aye, if he knows such measure must bring all Tamur and Kesh against him,” Kedryn answered grimly, “and mayhap sway Ust-Galich, too. To seize the High Throne in the confusion of Darr’s death is one thing; to openly slay the rightful heir, another.”

  “So what do you propose?” asked Tepshen.

  “I shall enter the city and confront Hattim,” Kedryn said. “Before all the people of Andurel I shall announce my right to the High Throne and demand that Hattim stand down.”

  “There is another consideration,” Brannoc suggested. “You believe the Messenger stands with Hattim—do you believe he will stand idly by whilst you depose the Galichian?”

  “No,” Kedryn answered, “I believe he will reveal himself, and when he does he will show Hattim’s followers the anathema they support. ”

  “He will destroy you,” rasped Tepshen.

  “Or I him,” said Kedryn, his voice calm. “Is that not what the Text foretells? Listen, my friends, I wanted no part of this—I did not believe I was the Chosen One, did not believe I could be, but do all these paths we have trod together not lead to this one thing?

  It seems my destiny is inexorable—it leads me inevitably to the Messenger. I must face him. Or grant him sway over the Kingdoms.”

  “He is right.” Wynett’s voice was hushed, though it carried clearly enough through the silence that followed Kedryn’s declaration. “The Lady chose Kedryn as her champion and he must follow his destiny. ”

  “I thought,” grunted Tepshen, “that your Lady gave you free choice.”

  “To see the Kingdoms trod down beneath the heel of a usurper? To see Ashar rule our lands?” Kedryn shook his head, his voice gentle as if he delivered a lesson to a child. “To leave my parents hostage? Or drag the Kingdoms into civil war? Those are my choices, Tepshen, and I reject them all.”

  For long moments the kyo stared at the younger man. realizing that familiarity had blinded him to the changes taking place. This was not the boy he had trained in swordplay, the youth he had escorted into the Beltrevan. This was a king who spoke, a full-grown warrior who faced his destiny as must all men, unafraid, resolved to take the only course he perceived as honest, unable to relinquish his integrity for the safer way. He nodded.

  “So be it.”

  “We cross the river on the morrow,” Kedryn said.

  “And I?” Kemm asked. “What would you have me do?”

  “The hardest thing,” Kedryn told him, “maintain your vigil. If the bridges open, you will know Hattim is deposed and the Messenger slain. If not—Rycol of High Fort raises Tamur and will join you in war. ”

  “May the Lady go with you,” said the Keshi.

  “She does,” Kedryn replied confidently.

  The changing weather, or perhaps the good offices of a benign deity, cloaked the lower reaches of the Idre in fog that dawn as a boat put out from the shore above Andurel. At the tiller, his weight settling the small craft low in the water, sat Galen Sadreth. Amidships sat Kedryn, Wynett, Tepshen Lahl and Brannoc, cloaked and hooded, though beneath those shrouding garments each man was dressed in battle harness, their surcoats emblazoned with the clenched fist of Tamur, their blades honed, the sheaths fresh-oiled. Wynett wore the blue robe of the Sisterhood, though now, thanks to Kemm, the tripartite crown of Andurel was sewn over her breast, and like Kedryn, the blue stone that was her half of the talisman hung beside that emblem. They said nothing as the boatmen dipped their oars, driving the fragile vessel swiftly through the concealing mist, each wrapped in their own thoughts as they drew steadily closer to the fog-veiled city.

  Lights showed as they approached and to the east the rising sun began to dispel the gray vapor, the sounds of the awakening harborage coming muffled through the obfuscation. Galen brought the longboat in against a pier and the crew made fast as the quartet disembarked.

  “I will do as you bid,” he promised. “That tavern is as good a place as any to start.”

  Kedryn looked to where the riverman pointed and nodded, clasping the hamlike hand.

  “You have my thanks, Galen. For all you have done.”

  Galen smiled briefly. “The Lady be with you, Kedryn.”

  He watched as they strode into the receding mist, wondering if he would see them again, then beckoned his men to follow him and went inside the inn.

  “Praise the Lady,” he declared, using the full force of his impressive voice to attract attention, “we have a new king and I propose to stand a glass for every man ready to drink his health.”

  The tavern was already well populated with longshoremen and sailors and all their faces turned at this announcement. The bulk of the early morning drinkers were daunted by Galen’s size, but one found the courage to spit noisily into the brass bucket provided and say, “A toast to Hattim Sethiyan? I’d sooner go thirsty.”

  “The Galichian usurper?” Galen affected surprise. “Why, my friend, the only toast to him I’d drink would be in his blood. No, I toast Kedryn Caitin, newly wed to good King Darr’s daughter, Wynett, and so our rightful monarch.”

  “Prince Kedryn?” The dissenter fixed narrow eyes on Galen.

  “Kedryn is lost in the Beltrevan.”

  “Kedryn goes e’en now to make his presence known to the upstart Hattim,” beamed Galen. “With Wynett at his side. I witnessed their wedding myself. Now—who joins me in a toast to Kedryn, our king?”

  “Evshan,” said the man. “And may the Lady bless Kedryn. And you, captain, for bringing us this news.”

  Galen dispensed coins as cups were rapidly emptied, quaffing a brimming glass himself before departing to the next tavern to repeat his performance.

  He had visited three before a squad of Galichian soldiers under the command of a sergeant appeared to demand what treason he disseminated.

  “Why, is it treason to toast the king?” beamed Galen.

  “The docks are alive with scurrilous rumor,” snapped the sergeant. “You spread word that Kedryn Caitin claims the High Throne.”

  “As, indeed, he does,” the riverman retorted loudly. “He has married Wynett and so claims precedence over Hattim.”

  “You had best come with me,” the sergeant decided.

  “Why?” asked Galen.

  “You sow the seeds of rebellion,” the sergeant barked. “You mouth treason.”

  Galen spread his arms, looking down at the smaller man. “What rebellion in hailing our rightful king?” he smiled. “Do you deny Kedryn’s lawful claim?”

  “Damn you!” The sergea
nt put a hand on his sword. “Hattim Sethiyan is our king.”

  “No more,” said Galen, and clapped his massive hands together, the sergeant’s head between them.

  The soldier gasped, his eyes rolling, and Galen took hold of his belt and the neck of his breastplate, lifting him high. For an instant the sergeant hung suspended above the giant’s head. Then he was flying into the men behind him, propelled by all the strength of the riverman’s arms. Galen’s crew fell upon them as they toppled, belaying pins appearing from their belts to clatter against helmets and more yielding flesh.

  “A round to celebrate the downfall of Hattim,” Galen roared, and all the tavern joined him in the toast.

  Before the sun had burned off the last of the fog the entire harbor area was alive with the news. Word spread like wildfire, from tavern to tavern, to the warehouses and the merchants, through the boatyards, inland to the emporiums lining the avenues and on among the citizens, to the schools, the stables, to the servants of the private houses and from them to their masters; everywhere it went: “Kedryn Caitin is come to claim the throne. Hail, Kedryn!”

  A squad of Galichian infantry led by a cordor declared the entire clientele of one tavern under arrest and was promptly set upon. Five of the soldiers were killed and their officer hanged, the rest forced to retreat in disarray under a bombardment of impromptu missiles. Five cavalrymen were dragged from their horses and slain. Nine more were unmounted and tossed into the Idre, where three drowned as laughing sailors watched them try to swim in heavy armor. Throughout the city, folk stood up against the oppressors. Galichians who had arrogantly assumed superiority were insulted, and those who protested or threatened retribution summarily dismissed. Swords were brought from concealment and turned against the southerners, their own snatched from them and used against them. The fighting spread, sporadic at first, but growing steadily into a concerted rebellion as the word passed from mouth to mouth: “Kedryn Caitin is come to claim the throne. Hail, Kedryn!”

  While this went on Kedryn approached the outer gates of the White Palace.

  Behind him he could hear the clamor of insurrection, and several times his little band sheltered in doorways as troops of Galichian soldiers came hurrying from the walled building atop the hill. The mist was clearing more rapidly now, pale sun showing against a blue sky striped with white, wind-driven clouds, revealing the walls of the palace hung with the grisly reminders of Hattim’s supremacy. Wynett gasped, horrified, as the rotting corpses in the silver armor of the Royal Guard became visible, but Kedryn made no sound, though his mouth settled in a tight, angry line. The tumult grew louder and Brannoc touched his arm, pointing back down the hill. Kedryn turned to see a crowd filling the avenue behind, swelling as rivulets of people flowed in from the side streets, moving like some human flood, coming up the avenue, many bearing swords, others with halberds and axes taken from the Galichians, more with makeshift weapons, butcher’s cleavers, rakes, even brooms. He paused, cocking his head to hear what it was they shouted, and smiled grimly as he caught the words that roared defiantly from a myriad throats.

  “Hail Kedryn! Hail the king!”

  “You have an army,” Tepshen remarked.

  Kedryn nodded and continued toward the gates.

  Bowmen manned the wall and a teleman appeared on the arch. Kedryn shed his cloak and his companions followed suit, revealing the insignia decorating their surcoats.

  “I am Kedryn Caitin, Prince of Tamur, and husband of Wynett, elder daughter of King Darr,” he shouted. “I demand entrance.”

  The teleman stared at him, frowning, his eyes lifting to the mass drawing steadily closer, its proclamatory shout clear. Tepshen Lahl moved a few paces forward, his body tensed to fling himself between Kedryn and the threatening shafts. The teleman’s gaze shifted to his archers, then back to the quartet confronting him.

  “How do I know you?” he called doubtfully.

  “Bring out my parents,” Kedryn replied, “Bedyr Caitin, the Lord of Tamur, and the Lady Yrla. Bring out Jarl of Kesh. They know me. As does Hattim Sethiyan!”

  The authority in his voice put further doubt in the teleman’s eyes and he called, “What do you want?”

  “I demand entrance,” Kedryn shouted back. “Open the gates or you answer to me!”

  “I serve Hattim Sethiyan,” said the officer, though somewhat nervously, “Lord of Ust-Galich and the Kingdoms.”

  Wynett spoke then, her voice firm as Kedryn’s, her blue eyes defiant as she stared at the teleman. “I am Wynett, the elder daughter of King Darr, and wife of Kedryn Caitin. Do you deny the High Blood? Do you deny my husband’s rightful claim?”

  The man studied her, confusion growing on his bearded face, something like fear showing as he looked toward the shouting mob that soon would reach the wall. Then he nodded and ordered the gates opened.

  “I will bring you before King Hattim.”

  “You are wise,” said Kedryn calmly, marching between the portals.

  The teleman ordered off a squad of soldiers and led the way to the inner gates. On his command they, too, parted and the four companions entered the White Palace. Behind them the mob had halted at the walls, defying the archers who stood nervously, no longer certain of their commander’s authority, unpleasantly aware that so large a mass of folk might overwhelm them.

  Inside the palace there could be no doubting the identities of the visitors, for the Galichian nobles recognized Kedryn from the battle of the Lozin Gate and palace servants paused in their tasks, staring at the young woman they recalled from childhood, regal now as she walked beside her husband, her wheat-blond hair so like her sister’s.

  The teleman halted before the doors to the throne room, wary now, for he found himself caught between loyalty to Hattim and the growing conviction that Kedryn did, indeed, lay rightful claim to the High Throne. His dilemma was taken from him by the appearance of a plump man, his oiled hair curled in artful ringlets, earrings glittering at both lobes, a disdainful expression on his fleshy, rouged face.

  “What is it?” he lisped irritably. “King Hattim demands the cause of this disturbance.”

  “Lord Celeruna,” the teleman began, then broke off as Kedryn stepped toward the portly courtier.

  “You know me, Mejas Celeruna,” he said sternly, “now stand aside.”

  Without further ado he brushed past the fat man and strode into the throne room.

  “Kedryn?”

  Surprise and anticipation mingled in Hattim’s voice. Kedryn stared at him, loathing in his eyes, but also sadness, for he saw a man consumed by ambition, risen higher than he had any right to hope only to fall lower than a human should. Hattim was become dissipated, excess flesh swelling his cheeks and bulging above the belt of his splendid golden tunic, his lips pursed in a grimace of displeasure, as if power magnified his decadence and left physical mark. He lounged on the throne, a dropped goblet bleeding wine red as blood slowly down the marble steps. A servant stooped to retrieve it and Hattim glanced at the man, then turned swiftly to the blue-robed woman standing at his right elbow.

  To his left, starting from her throne, Ashrivelle stared in disbelief at Wynett, a hand pressed to her lovely mouth.

  “Do you know me, sister?” Wynett asked.

  Ashrivelle nodded, the hand that had covered her lips moving to toy with a strand of blond hair fallen loose from her elaborate coiffeur, doubt and embarrassment in her eyes.

  “Then say it,” Wynett demanded. “Say it that all here may know it.”

  “You are my sister,” Ashrivelle said, and looked nervously to Hattim.

  He no longer lounged, but was sitting forward, hands resting on pale green satin breeks, his eyes narrowed.

  “What do you want?” he cried, his voice shrill.

  Kedryn moved to the center of the room, Wynett beside him. Tepshen and Brannoc positioned themselves slightly behind and to the sides, their eyes roving, deceptively casual, over the watching throng of courtiers.

  “By what right
do you claim the throne?” Kedryn demanded, his voice cold.

  “By marriage,” said Hattim. “And Darr’s proclamation.”

  “I am wed to Wynett,” Kedryn retorted, “and she is the elder sister. ”

  Hattim gasped, turning again to the Sister now glaring avidly at Kedryn. It was she who spoke: “Wynett is of the Sorority. She cannot marry.”

  “I chose to relinquish my vows,” said Wynett. “I am wed to Kedryn.”

  “Words,” said the Sister. “What proof have you?”

  Kedryn stared at the woman, ugly realization stirring. He became aware of a tingling sensation against his chest, a strange, cool warmth. His nerve ends prickled, but simultaneously calm gripped him, dispelling rage and fear, leaving behind only certainty.

  “You have my word,” he said coldly. “But should any here require more, bring Sister Bethany before us and let the ceremony be performed again.”

  A buzz of conversation erupted, stilled by an angry slash of Hattim’s hand.

  “The Paramount Sister stands accused,” he muttered.

  Now Kedryn’s voice rose angry, ringing over the throng, commanding. “You stand accused, Sethiyan! Of the unlawful imprisonment of my parents! Of the murder of King Darr! Of heresy!”

  The silence that fell then was palpable. Into it Kedryn roared, “Come down from that throne, you foul traitor! Or do I drag you from it?”

  Hattim gasped, his face paling. Beside him Ashrivelle stared dumbstruck. To his right the Sister cried, “Kill him!”

  “Does any dare attack their rightful king?” Wynett cried.

  Only one did. Mejas Celeruna shouted, “For Hattim!” and sprang forward with a slender dagger upraised. For so effete a man it was a valiant effort, albeit misguided and quite useless. Tepshen Lahl spun round, right hand fastening about the hilt of his eastern sword, the draw and cut so swift they were a single blur of movement, the long blade slashing sideways to strike the courtier’s belly. To strike and progress through the robe he wore and the flesh beneath. To emerge bloody as Celeruna screamed and collapsed forward, his blade striking sparks from the flagstones as he pitched onto his face, crimson spreading beneath his corpse.