Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (35 page)

           
Both woodlanders babbled, turning
from Tepshen to Kedryn, then to Wynett as she translated.

           
“They say you are truly the
hef-Alador, and Tepshen your champion. They say the forest cat tells them
this—he proclaims your right to nde the Beltrevan. He threatens to take their
souls in the night if they do not bring you to Cord. They offer you their
allegiance. They believe that only with you will they be safe.”

           
Kedryn came close to smiling then as
he watched the barbarians unsheath their swords and hold them toward him, hands
on hilts and blades in token of obeisance.

           
“Tell them I accept their fealty,”
he responded. “But not that the cat expects us to feed him. ”

           
“He will have meat aplenty,”
murmured Tepshen, glancing at the bodies.

           
“And we have guides to Drul’s
Mound,” Kedryn added.

           
“You are certain of this?” King Darr
asked his daughter, displeased by her request but unable to conceive any valid
objection beyond the personal antipathy he felt for Hattim Sethiyan.

           
“Aye, I am.” Ashrivelle ducked her
blond head, so much like Wynett’s, Darr thought, yet lacking that soundness of
judgment, that strength of character, that marked his elder child.

           
“I had thought you viewed the young
Prince of Tamur with favor,” Darr said, seeking to purchase a little time in
which to marshal his thoughts. There seemed such an escalation of events he
felt himself caught up in a flood he appeared incapable of slowing. The Lord of
Ust-Galich had appeared in Andurel far earlier than the king had
anticipated—almost as though propelled by magic, yet he had no Sisters in his
retinue to work the weather spells that might have summoned a wind—and the
malaise that had brought a guilty flush of pleasure to Darr had abated under
the ministrations of Sister Thera, who now occupied an honored place among
Sethiyan’s followers, leaving the Galichian clearly able to press his suit of
the princess with such force as to persuade her.

           
If only, Darr cogitated, Kedryn had
come south, rather than seeking the cures of Estrevan, then perhaps Ashrivelle
would have found her interest rekindled, and Hattim’s ardor held at bay. Kedryn
would, without doubt, make a finer husband, for no matter how he viewed the
matter, the king could find little to please him in the Galichian’s character.
The man was handsome enough, and that counted for much in Ashrivelle’s eyes;
and he was wealthy, fashionable, the king supposed, and certainly eligible. But
there was that overwening ambition in the man and Darr doubted that Hattim’s
motivation was purely that of a lover: doubted that Ashrivelle, for all her
beauty, would be so pleasing to him were she not of the highest blood, a
potential stepping stone to the throne.

           
“Kedryn Caitin is pleasing enough,”
Ashrivelle agreed with irritating candor, “and when he fought the trajea I did,
indeed, feel a stirring of interest; but Hattim is a man and I love him.”

           
“He is somewhat older than you.”
Darr fingered the medallion of his office hung about his neck, the tripartite
crown raised in silver from the golden disk, but it gave him no inspiration.

           
“Father,” Ashrivelle responded with
fond scorn, “what matter? A few years makes no difference to us.”

           
“He is the Lord of Ust-Galich,” Darr
said, stroking a beard gone fully gray these past months, “and it is more usual
for a princess of Andurel to wed a son of the Kingdoms. Wed to Hattim you bind
Andurel and Ust-Galich; you create an imbalance. Our custom has always been to
marry sons to daughters, the partner not of Andurel renouncing inheritance that
no Kingdom might rise above its fellows.”

           
“Father!” Ashrivelle struck a pose,
pouting dramatically. “I know all this. It is common knowledge. But I love
Hattim and there is no one else.”

           
“There is still Kedryn Caitin,” Darr
said hopefully.

           
“He is blind,” answered Ashrivelle,
undeterred, “and gone to Estrevan. He may never return. And Prince Kemm is bandy
and smells of horses, which I believe he loves far more than women.”

           
Darr could not help smiling, for
there was some measure of truth in what she said and he doubted that Kemm would
agree to forsake his beloved herds even for a woman as lovely as his daughter.
Besides, Kemm was no statesman, and the throne required a diplomat—such as
Kedryn had proved himself to be.

           
“I doubt Kedryn will remain in
Estrevan forever,” he tried.

           
Ashrivelle wound a ringlet of
honey-colored hair about a finger and smoothed an invisible fold in her pink
gown. “He is blind,” she argued, “and so
young”

           
“He is a hero,” her father
countered. “He slew the leader of the Horde and saved the Kingdoms, and he is
of marriageable age.”

           
“He is not Hattim,” answered
Ashrivelle, her voice sulky.

           
“Would you not consider him?” Darr
saw that he fought a losing battle: in some ways Ashrivelle was as firmly
purposed as her sister. “Could you not wait a little?”

           
“For what?” Ashrivelle let go the
ringlet and took her father’s hand. “I love Hattim and that will not change no
matter how long I wait.”

           
Darr stroked her palm thoughtfully,
marveling at the smoothness of her pale skin. He had voiced objections when
Wynett announced her intention of remaining in Estrevan to become a
full-fledged Sister and lost then; now it seemed he had another daughter—albeit
less sensible, in his eyes, than her sibling, but nonetheless determined—who
would go her own way no matter what objections he raised.

           
“There is still the problem of
power,” he murmured. “Andurel and Ust-Galich bound by marriage? Would Hattim
renounce his kingdom?”

           
Ashrivelle’s blue eyes opened wide,
her generous mouth forming a moue of surprise. “We have not discussed it,” she
said. “Why should he? Do you not think it possible he can rule both?” “Tamur
and Kesh might object,” her father opined mildly. “We could ...” Ashrivelle
thought for a moment, then smiled as if she stumbled on a perfect solution,
“establish a regent.”

           
“Who would doubtless be Hattim’s
man,” Darr pointed out.

           
His daughter pouted again, snorting
dismissively. “I think you harbor some secret dislike, some animosity toward
Hattim.”

           
She removed her hand from his grasp,
turning an amethyst ring in a gesture Darr recognized as irritated. “I have no
animosity toward Hattim Sethiyan,” he said slowly, mildly ashamed that he lied,
“but I do dislike the notion of vesting such a weight of power in a single
lord.”

           
Ashrivelle stamped a silver slipper.
“You deny me my love!” she cried melodramatically. “Perhaps we should elope!”

           
“I doubt Hattim would agree to
that,” Darr retorted, then added tactfully, “He would not shame either of your
lines with such an action. ”

           
Ashrivelle allowed herself to be
mollified, turning an appealing face to the king. “Surely there must be some
way to overcome this tiresome objection? Surely I may marry the man I love?”

           
“I expect there is,” Darr agreed.
“But I must think on it.”

           
“Then you are not—in
principle—against our wedding?”

           
The king looked at the princess and
shook his head, seeing no alternative that would not be an insult to
Ust-Galich. Outright refusal could make an outright enemy of the ambitious
Sethiyan, and Darr had no wish to foment civil war; especially not with the
Galichian forces marching south while the armies of Tamur and Kesh disbanded.

           
“Then I may tell Hattim he is free
to approach you,” pressed Ashrivelle, “formally?”

           
“You may,” Darr nodded.

           
“Thank you!” The princess rose to
kiss her father on the cheek, hugging him briefly before running in a most
unregal way to the door, blond locks streaming behind her.

           
Darr watched the door thud closed
and sighed. If only Grania lived, he thought, she could prognosticate the
outcome, perhaps even suggest a solution. But Grania was dead and
Bethany
the Paramount Sister of Andurel, for all
her undoubted virtues, was not a whit the politician Grania had been.

           
He rose from the plain-carved chair
and paced to the window, his simple gray robe rustling as he crossed the flags.
Cold winter sunlight sparkled on the white of the palace walls, stark shadows
hiding in the angles and comers of the yards below. Frost shone on the gardens,
silver against the white canopy of snow, the shrubbery dark, seeming to crouch
against the frozen earth. A squad of pikemen marched orderly to their watch
station, sunlight glinting bright on their cuirasses, on the polished heads of
their bills, the steady pounding of their boots a metronome cadence that echoed
against the windows of the chamber. They might hold the palace, Darr thought,
but the city would fall should Hattim employ his southward-marching army; then
he shook off the thought as unworthy. Surely not even Hattim Sethiyan would
risk civil war.

           
He wondered if he should have spoken
more honestly with Ashrivelle—told her that her lover was overweningly
ambitious and lusted for the throne as much as for her—but he doubted she would
have listened, let alone agreed. She appeared enamored of the Galichian;
entranced, as though bound by some love potion, and his doubts would,
doubtless, have been reported, resulting in . . . He was not sure, but there
was something about the whole affair that left him uncomfortable.

           
He was caught in a dilemma.
Ashrivelle was bent on marriage to the Lord of Ust-Galich and Hattim had done
nothing so overt as to provide reasonable cause for refusal. The traditional
balance of power was a possible obstacle—neither Tamur nor Kesh would take
kindly to such an aggrandizement of Galichian influence, but if Hattim did
agree to renounce his kingdom that objection could be overcome, at least at face
value. Hattim might declare a regency, but it would be a puppet show, whoever
assumed the title a Sethiyan adherent. Yet who could object without chancing
internecine strife? Should either Tamur or Kesh voice disagreement, Ust-Galich
would have justifiable cause to complain and the hard-won unity of the Three
Kingdoms be shattered. Corwyn might have found an answer in armed might,
aligning Tamur and Kesh against the southerners, but their armies were
scattered, homeward-bound, and the Galichians moved, albeit peaceably so far,
toward Andurel. And Darr was no Corwyn, nor had any wish to be. Corwyn had
welded unity from chaos and to take his path now was to risk plunging the
Kingdoms back into those dark ages.

           
There was, of course, the
possibility of agreeing to the marriage but not to a Sethiyan succession. To
permit Hattim Ashrivelle’s hand, but refuse him the right of lineage that would
lead to the throne. Let him take Ashrivelle back to Tessoril, where they could
rule Ust-Galich together. But what of Andurel then? The succession passed down
through the blood, the sons and daughters of the
White
Palace
wedding the scions of the Kingdoms, those
thus bound to the throne renouncing their inheritance for the greater duty of
that heavy crown. And with Ashrivelle wed to Hattim, Wynett sworn to the
Sisterhood, there was no other heir. Thus the throne would stand empty on his
death—and that way, too, chaos threatened.

           
Darr moved from the window, crossing
the chamber to the table of Tamurin oak on which rested decanters and goblets.
He poured a measure of rich Keshi wine, carmine as spilled blood, and drank it
down, his high brow creased in a careworn frown.

           
No such expression decorated Hattim
Sethiyan’s brow, though his agile mind foresaw many of the problems that dogged
the king. His was smooth, his smile carefree, exultant as he embraced
Ashrivelle and whirled her about, listening to her laughter as she showered
kisses on his face and told him her father had agreed to formal presentation of
his suit.

           
Taws’s—or Thera’s—potions had worked
their physical magic on a willing subject, drawing, as the transformed mage had
promised, on the attraction already present to consume the princess with love.
She adored Hattim, could find no fault in him, thought him the most handsome
man she had ever known. She was virtually his slave, already—discreetly, lest
discovery offend her father and dash their hopes—his lover. There remained only
the formality of the wedding, after that the fulfillment of Taws’s promise: the
throne.