Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (12 page)

 
          
“I
echo Porelle,” answered the homely woman. “I cannot believe this is anything of
much importance.”

 
          
“Lavia?”
asked Gerat.

 
          
Lavia
pursed her lips, staring for a while at her intertwined fingers before turning
toward the Paramount Sister. “I am doubtful of Qualle’s validity, but wary of
your doubt, Sister. I place little faith in the book—more in you. Do you have
some plan in mind?”

 
          
Gerat
sighed, wondering again if what she felt was nothing more than paranoia. “I
believe that these words should be transcribed and delivered to Kedryn,” she
said at last. “I believe they refer to his future and should be communicated to
him.”

 
          
“That
can be done easily enough,” said Lavia.

 
          
“I
believe also that I should communicate them,” Gerat said.

 
          
Shocked
silence greeted the announcement, broken by Porelle.

 
          
“You
are the Paramount Sister of Estrevan. The Paramount Sister does not leave the
city.”

 
          
“Besides,”
Reena added, “will Kedryn not come here? By custom the new king comes to seek
the blessing of the Lady in the Lady’s city. You may communicate your fears
then.”

 
          
Gerat
shook her head. “I cannot explain it, but I feel that will be too late. Kedryn
must know before he journeys here.”

 
          
“It
is against all precedent,” said Jara in a disapproving tone.
“Against
all custom.”

 
          
"And
based on a feeling you cannot even explain,”
said
Porelle.

 
          
“Let
one of us go,” suggested Lavia. “I have visited Caitin Hold before—I could meet
Kedryn there.”

 
          
“No.”
A note of authority edged Gerat’s voice. “These are my doubts and may become
clearer to me as time passes. If I am right and some threat stands betwixt
Kedryn and Estrevan, mayhap I shall feel it clearer when I meet him. But
whether I
be
right or wrong, I feel I must alert him
as swiftly as I may. And the swiftest way is for me to go to him.”

 
          
“Your
mind is made up,” Lavia said softly.

 
          
“It
is,” Gerat nodded, realizing quite suddenly that she had been working toward this
decision for some time. “I shall leave Estrevan in your hands and depart as
soon I may.”

 
          
Kedryn
let slip a slow sigh and stretched back in his chair as another lengthy round
of discussion ended, the westering sun bright on his face, dust motes floating
with balletic grace in the beams that found their way through the tall windows
of the council chamber. He studied them idly, thinking that it was far harder
to see through his plan than he had anticipated. It had seemed so simple when
first it came to him, and he had succeeded in persuading the others of its
worth easily enough, but he had not foreseen the endless debating necessary to
its precise formulation. That a council should be formed and assume the bulk of
regal powers was agreed, but the membership of that first council had to be
settled, and the extent of its powers, and the duties remaining to the king,
and a myriad other intricate matters of protocol that left his head swirling
and his mouth dry. Honest battle, he thought wryly, was less trying than this
diplomatic game.

 
          
He
reached for the decanter occupying a space among the litter of papers and
filled a goblet with wine, grateful for the support of his parents in
persuading a still somewhat reluctant Jarl that he should depart for Estrevan on
the first foil moon after his coronation, that thought reminding him that he
must first suffer the interminable ceremonies that Arlynne and his mother
planned to mark his enthronement. It seemed nothing was simple in Andurel, and
that all must be accompanied by banquets and balls and receptions of one kind
or another, each one requiring his attendance, and each attendance requiring
some fresh outfit of the restricting formal regalia the two women had explained
were
de rigueur
for such occasions.
Even Wynett had joined them in this, and he had found no support from Bedyr,
who was himself acquiring a wardrobe that would have elicited laughter in the
halls of Caitin Hold.

 
          
His
home seemed far away in that moment and he suffered a pang of homesickness that
he stifled with a long draft of the chilled wine and the silent promise that
the full moon should see him on the Idre, bound for Caitin Hold. He would sail
upriver as far as Gennyf then strike overland to Caitin Hold, stay awhile there
and then ride on to the
Morfah
Pass
and Estrevan. After that, he knew, he must
return to Andurel, but by then the council should have proven itself workable
and he would be able to depart again, perhaps to visit
Kesh,
or even travel south into Ust-Galich.

 
          
The
contemplation of such journeying cheered him and he realized it was less the
absence from his homeland that he regretted than the notion of finding himself
imprisoned in the White Palace. The somber expression that had clouded his
youthful features faded behind a smile and he glanced about the room. Bedyr and
Jarl were locked in discussion of some formal point, while Arlynne was holding
fprth to Yrla on the choice of music she felt appropriate to the banquet that
would follow the coronation; Tepshen Lahl and Brannoc were engaged in debate on
the merits of eastern longsword and Keshi saber, and Wynett had already excused
herself, explaining that she wished to visit Ashrivelle. Sister Bethany was
rising to leave, and Kedryn rose to meet her at the door, motioning for Tepshen
and Brannoc, still following him like mismatched watchdogs, to remain behind.

 
          
“Sister,”
he said quietly, “there is something I would discuss with you.”

 
          
Bethany
smiled, nodding, and was about to return to
the table when Kedryn took her elbow, discreetly propelling her through the
door as he murmured, “In private.”

 
          
“Of course.”
Bethany
’s keen eyes studied his face, alight with
interest. “I am at your command.”

 
          
Kedryn
smiled his thanks and led her to a smaller room, where comfortable chairs were
ranged before an empty hearth, a small table on which stood a bowl of sugared
sweetmeats between them. He ushered the Sister to a chair and closed the door,
his expression becoming serious again as he took a place hieing her.
Bethany
waited expectantly, sunlight glinting on
her silvered hair.

 
          
Kedryn
said, “I would ask you about possession,” the statement bringing a frown to the
Sister’s angular features.

 
          
“Possession?”
she queried.

 
          
“Aye,”
he nodded, marshaling half-formed thoughts. “The Messenger possessed Sister
Thera, did he not? I saw her become him when I confronted Hattim Sethiyan.”

 
          
Bethany
ducked her head in agreement. “The Usurper
had me under guard when you entered Audurel,” she reminded, “but that is what I
have heard. Eyewitnesses told me of the transformation. ”

 
          
“So
what happened to Thera?” Kedryn asked.

 
          
Bethany
shrugged helplessly. “I cannot say for
sure. I believe that the Messenger must have entered Audurel by dint of some
gramarye and taken possession of poor Thera by the same thaumaturgical means,
but what was, or is, her ultimate fate I cannot say.”

 
          
“When
I went into the netherworld with Wynett,” Kedryn said slowly, “I met the shade
of the warrior who took my sight. It seemed he was condemned to wander in that
limbo. At least until he gave me back my vision, for then I saw him whole again
and he . . . disappeared. If Thera was tainted by the Messenger’s evil, might
she, too, be condemned to that?”

 
          
“Mayhap,”
Bethany
allowed, “or perhaps her faith in the Lady
translated her elsewhere. I cannot believe she succumbed willingly to Ashar’s
minion. I must admit that I have troubled myself less with thoughts of the
afterlife than with the betterment of what we have now, but the teachings of
the Lady tell us that those who believe—and seek to practice her work—shall
enjoy serenity in whatever follows this mortal span.”

 
          
“And
Darr,” Kedryn asked thoughtfully, “did you not attend him at his death?”

 
          
“After,”
Bethany
said,
frowning
her
incomprehension. “I was summoned to the palace after his death. Why?”

 
          
Kedryn
gestured placatingly and asked, “Was he killed by natural causes?
Or by Hattim?
Or the Messenger?”

 
          
“It
seemed by natural cause,”
Bethany
murmured, “but I thought I detected the taint of fell sorcery before
Hattim had me removed. And then poor Darr’s body was burned as is the custom
here, so I could not ascertain the cause.”

 
          
“Were
you to decide it,” Kedryn asked, “which would you
say
?”

 
          
“You
ask me to choose between the bursting of his heart, some poison, or magic?”
Bethany
pursed her lips, staring at Kedryn’s solemn
face. “And I cannot tell you for sure, but I would opt for magic.”

 
          
“Another victim of the Messenger.”
Kedryn’s voice was soft,
but edged with anger. “How many others, I wonder? And are they condemned to the
same limbo as held Borsus?”

 
          
“That
is not a thing I can answer,”
Bethany
told him, her eyes widening as she began to
perceive the drift of his interrogation. “You may well find Estrevan better
suited than I to resolve such matters.”

 
          
Kedryn
nodded without speaking and the Sister added, “Should Estrevan furnish you with
answers, what can you do?”

 
          
“I
went into the netherworld once before,” he said, very quietly.

 
          
“No!”
Bethany
leaned forward, her voice urgent as the
hand that gripped Kedryn’s wrist. “You must not! Chosen One you may be, but you
are still mortal. You would chance too much.”

 
          
‘The
talisman protected me then—why not again?” Kedryn fingered the blue jewel that
hung about his neck.

 
          
‘Then
it was necessary that you regained your sight,”
Bethany
retorted, her voice harshened by anxiety.
“Alaria’s Text spoke of that descent, and without your sight you could not have
defeated the Messenger or Hattim. Do not seek to meddle now, Kedryn! The dead
are dead, and if they inhabit that limbo you visited, it is through the agency
of a power greater than we may understand.”

 
          
“Darr
was Wynett’s father,” he responded, “and though she does not speak of it, I
know she mourns his passing.”

 
          
“As
she would mourn yours, should you essay so foolhardy a venture,”
Bethany
said fiercely. “And remember that she went
with you then, wearing her half of the talisman, your defenses strengthened by
that joining. Would you take her to that place again? Better, I think, to place
your trust in the Lady and leave her to succor the dead.”

 
          
“I
would not ask Wynett to repeat that journey, yet I am reluctant to ignore such
a plight.” Kedryn smiled thinly, recalling that dismal place.