Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (14 page)

 
          
Unlike
Dervin, Nathan did not scream as the leviathan released its tentacular grip and
dropped him between its rows of serrated fangs. Harl, however, did, and flung
himself into the Idre, striking for the far shore with a strength bom of pure
terror. He was gone before Tam opened his eyes, unaware that he was now alone.

 
          
Harl
swam furiously, easing his pace only when straining lungs warned his near-mad
mind that he would weaken too rapidly should he continue at such speed, and
that the fury of his actions might attract the beast. He turned onto his back,
frog-kicking in the direction of Kesh with his gaze fixed on the two shapes
outlined against the river. One was clear enough, the pale green sails
near-luminous in the starry night; the
Other
was a
blur, a hulking darkness that seemed formless, immaterial, save that he had
witnessed its very material solidity. He saw it swallow Nathan and arch its
undulating neck, the wedge of the head driving hard into the water, seeming to
drag the great, indistinct bulk of the body behind it. For an instant he
thought that it was gone, Tam and the
Vendrelle
safe, and he opened his mouth to shout, to call his brother back to pick him
up. Then his mouth snapped shut, cutting off the cry, for blackness loomed from
the river ahead of the barque, an enormous, impossible blackness that climbed
up and up until it hid the stars like some vast storm cloud.

 
          
It
came down directly onto the
Vendrelle,
snapping both masts as if they were no more than sticks of kindling,
splintering the sturdy planks, sending Tam screaming into the air as the vessel
broke in two. For long, fear-filled moments, Harl watched the behemoth flail
among the wreckage, hearing the sound of its teeth on oak boards, the mighty
splashing of its flukes, the whiplash crack of a tail that rose and fell in
sparkling sprays, than he turned on his face again and began to swim with a
strength he had not known he possessed, intent only on putting as much distance
between himself and the leviathan as possible.

 
          
While
his brother swam, Tam Lemal found himself tossed helplessly in the midst of the
creature’s destructive fury. The sundering of his barque had thrown him high in
the air, still clutching the tiller, which the sheer force of that awful
descent had tom loose from its mountings, and he clung to the painted wood as
he saw the
Vendrelle
reduced to
splintered, fang- marked chunks of random timber. He did not attempt to swim
clear, for he knew that he could not escape that ghastly thing, and hoped that
it would vent its rage on his vessel, forgetting his presence.

 
          
It
did not. Instead, it smashed the barque with dreadful deliberation and then
sunk its bulk beneath the tossing water leaving only the triangular head above
the surface, rubescent eyes swinging back and forth as the tendrils surrounding
its maw twitched and wavered like the heads of serpents aroused by some
unexpected sound.
Tarn
found himself staring into its eyes, seeing
the water around him pinked by its gaze, as if the blood of his brothers
colored the river. He said, “Oh, Lady, spare me,” as the head came down, the
jaws stretching wide, and then he felt only the mercifully brief agony of the
teeth that drove like swordblades into his soft flesh so that he was dead
before the Idre could fill his lungs as the leviathan carried him under.

 
          
Harl
saw none of this, for he was swimming for the eastern bank, his mind no longer
coherent, focused on the single purpose: to reach land and never set foot on
boat again.

 
          
It
was long past dawn before he came to the Keshi shore, and the herdsmen who
found him were not at first certain whether he was a man or some river fish,
for what they saw on the sandy beach was a thing that kicked and stroked,
dragging itself over the land. And when they came closer and sought to lift him
to his feet he screamed aloud and began to writhe like a worm, seeking to
burrow into the sand. Finally they decided to strike him into unconsciousness,
for that appeared the only way they might hold him still long enough to get him
on a horse and bring him to their camp, and when he awoke they had to bind him
and force food and drink between his shuddering lips, which they did before
lashing him afresh across a gelding’s back and bringing him to Bayard, where
there were Sisters who might know how to cure his madness.

 
          
The
Sisters nursed Harl Lemal back to health, but they could not ascertain what had
happened on the river that night for he would not—or could not—speak of it, and
when he was strong enough he quit Bayard and made his way on foot deep into
Kesh, where he found whatever employment he could, which was mostly of the
lowest sort as he would not allow water near him and his smell offended folk.

 
          
“When
I am king I shall set a precedent of informality,” Kedryn vowed, the statement
prompting a look of alarm from the four tailors and several apprentices busy
measuring him for yet another formal robe, this one a long, wide-shouldered
alfair that was, as best he remembered, to be worn at the banquet honoring
Gerryl Hymet of Ust-Galich. He was not certain, knowing for sure only that Yrla
had warned him to hold himself ready for the fitting, overriding his objections
with a maternal authority that took little account of his newly elevated
status.

 
          
“It
does not please you, Prince Kedryn?”

 
          
Alarm
rang in the chief tailor’s voice and Kedryn sought to assuage it with a smile,
fingering the heavy green silk as he shook his head and said, “It is a most
excellent garment, my friend, and the problem lies with me, not in your work. I
am more accustomed to plain Tamurin wear.”

 
          
Consoled,
the tailor smiled thinly, adjusting a pin in the white border. “Doubtless plain
wear is suitable enough in the north, Prince, but for the king ...”

 
          
He
allowed the sentence to tail away, considering his point made. Brannoc grinned
over his head and said, “It is a most impressive robe, Kedryn.
You look decidedly regal,” his tone elaborately sincere.

 
          
Kedryn
answered with a rueful grin that brought a deep chuckle from the half-breed,
who had cheerfully availed himself of the tailors to produce a selection of
dandified garments that contrasted vividly with his customary garb of mottled
leathers. Today he wore a shirt of black linen edged with pale blue beneath a
tunic of apple green silk, belted tight so that the waist flared above the
close-fitting breeks of white seamed with green to match the jerkin, the same
color decorating the tops of his black boots.

 
          
“Had
I your taste for the exotic,” Kedryn replied sarcastically, “mayhap I should
feel easier about all this.”

 
          
He
emphasized the statement with a shrug that rustled the robe and brought a
disapproving tutting from the tailor.

 
          
Unabashed,
Brannoc turned to Tepshen Lahl to ask, “Does he not look magnificent? Or would,
did he not affect so surly an expression.”

 
          
Tepshen,
dressed in a loose-fitting robe of yellow slit at the sides to free his
ever-present blade, studied Kedryn with a calmly critical eye and nodded. “He
looks a king.”

 
          
“Is
kingship measured by the cloth?” the young man demanded, raising his arms on a
murmured instruction to allow the tailor to adjust the hang of the robe.

 
          
"By
some,” Tepshen informed him. “And it does no harm to look the part for those who
cannot see beyond the cloth.”

           
“It is said that clothes make the
man,” the chief tailor murmured sagely, echoed by Brannoc’s gleeful, “Exactly!”

           
Realizing he would find no support
from his friends Kedryn fell into silence, suffering the tailor to finish his
work without further disturbance.

 
          
“It
will be ready in two days, Prince Kedryn,” the man said, easing the garment
from Kedryn’s broad shoulders and handing it reverentially to an underling.
“Now, for the banquet in honor of Lord Jarl and his retinue I have prepared
this.”

 
          
Kedryn
groaned as yet another outfit appeared. “Must
I .
...”
he began, interrupted by Tepshen.

 
          
“You
must. Your mother gave us clear instructions.”

 
          
“We
are to see that you complete your wardrobe,” Brannoc added, casually swinging
his feet onto the low table before his chair. “We are to remain with you, here
in this room, until all is settled.”

 
          
Kedryn
glanced at Tepshen, who nodded solemn agreement and poured himself a cup of
wine.

 
          
“In
honor of Kesh,” the tailor intoned, “I have sought to emulate the style of the
horse lords.
If you will, Prince?”

 
          
He
held up a long robe of black silk, trimmed with silver, the tripartite crown of
Andurel gleaming on the left breast, the clenched fist of Tamur on the right,
both sewn in gold against a crimson background ringed with a silver band that
matched the edgings of the garment. Kedryn sighed and allowed it to be eased
over his shoulders.

           
“I think,” the tailor said, more to
himself than to his living dummy, “a belt of silver links. Breeks and shirt of
black will produce a most dramatic effect.”

 
          
“And
match his scowl,” Brannoc chortled.

 
          
“I
shall be wreathed in smiles,” retorted Kedryn. “On that I have already received
my mother’s instruction.”

 
          
“Please,”
asked
the tailor, pushing Kedryn straight so that he
might measure the hem.

 
          
“How
many more?” the king-to-be asked helplessly.

 
          
“One, Prince.”
The tailor spoke around a mouthful of pins.
“Your coronation robe.”

 
          
Kedryn
grunted, thinking that if he remained silent and still this ordeal would be
over the sooner. He held himself rigid as the tailor fussed about the black
robe, pinning here, marking with chalk there, until he was satisfied and eased
the thing off. “Now,” he announced proudly, “my masterpiece.”

 
          
He
dapped
his hands and two apprentices brought forward a
surcoat of silk so white it shone in die morning light, like snow under a
new-risen sun. Gold gleamed along the edges and where the crown of Andurel
stood upon the chest and back. The tailor clapped again and a shirt of gold
linen appeared, and breeks of white silk, finally boots of purest doe hide,
white as the breeks, but trimmed with more gold. Kedryn stripped dutifully and
drew the shirt over his head, the snug trousers over his legs. The tailor knelt
to fit the boots, then rose and like a man performing some religious ceremony,
adjusted the surcoat. It hung loose and the tailor placed a golden belt about
Kedryn’s waist, a sheath of white satin embroidered with gold thread latched on
the left side.

 
          
“I
believe it is customary for Tamurin to wear die dirk,” he murmured regretfully,
“though the hang would be the better without. There is no chance you might
forgo the knife?”

 
          
“No,”
Kedryn said firmly.

 
          
“Try
it,” Brannoc grinned, swinging from his lounging position to scoop up Kedryn’s
dirk and toss it to the young man. The tailor winced as the long,
straight-bladed knife whirled through the air, his relief clearly visible as
Kedryn caught it and slid the razor-edged weapon into the ornate scabbard.

 
          
“Umm.”
He studied the hang of his creation,
then
glanced at Tepshen. “I think . . . perhaps a slash
here, in the style of your friend.” He touched Kedryn’s hip, indicating where
he would place a cut to allow free access to the dirk. “This is absolutely
necessary?”

 
          
“Absolutely,”
said Kedryn solemnly.

 
          
“Very well.”
The tailor made a note and
walked slowly around Kedryn, smoothing the surcoat.
“I suppose it will
lend
a certain
. . . contrast.”

 
          
"You
will not wear your sword?” Brannoc asked innocently.

 
          
The
tailor
gasped,
his face crumpling until Kedryn shook
his head and replied with an equal solemnity, “I think not on this occasion.”

 
          
The
tailor sighed noisy relief. “Then save for these few small adjustments I am
done, Prince. I shall return in two days with the finished garments.”

 
          
“Thank
you.” Kedryn let him ease off the surcoat and stripped out of the remaining
articles. “You have done well.”

 
          
“I
have done my best,” the tailor nodded, folding the coronation robes with
infinite care. “I believe you will cut a fine figure.”

 
          
Kedryn
was too busy climbing into his more familiar outfit of less splendid breeks and
tunic to reply and the tailor took this as dismissal, exiting with a bow, his
underlings scurrying about him, laden with their wares.

 
          
“The
sooner all this is done,” Kedryn remarked as he laced his boots, “the better.
These formal robes sit heavy.”

 
          
“But
your majesty looked splendid,” smiled Brannoc, simpering.

 
          
“His
majesty contemplates suggesting to his council that the Warden of the Forests
be dispatched to take inventory of the woodland tribes,” Kedryn grunted. “A
headcount of the children bom since Niloc Yarrum fell, perhaps.
Followed by a count of livestock.
Pigs and
goats in particular.”

 
          
Brannoc
aped alarm, spreading his arms wide as he exaggerated a sweeping bow. “If your
humble servant has offended, Majesty, I crave your regal forgiveness.”

 
          
“I
may change my mind,” Kedryn grinned.

 
          
“It
will not be long,” said Tepshen. “The moon draws close to full, and the city
fills already with incomers.”

 
          
“Do
I not know it?” Kedryn went to the table, helping himself to wine. “How many
feasts have I attended already?”

 
          
“It
is as well to gain their support,” the kyo remarked.

           
Kedryn nodded. “I know, old friend,
but the eating!” He rubbed his flat stomach.

           
“A few more days,” Brannoc grinned,
“and you will be crowned. Then you shall see your council formed and soon we’ll
be Estrevan bound.”

 
          
“We?”
Kedryn asked. “Do you then intend to accompany me to
the
Sacred
City
?”

 
          
Brannoc
nodded.
“With your permission.”

           
“That you have, and gladly given,”
Kedryn told him, “but I had thought you would return to the Beltrevan.”

 
          
The
former wolf’s-head shrugged. “The forests will not go away, and I have never
seen Estrevan.”

 
          
“And
you, Tepshen?” Kedryn smiled at the pig-tailed easterner. “Do you accompany us,
or return to Tamur? Or remain here?”

 
          
Tepshen
Lahl looked at the young man as though he had suggested something outlandish.
“I go with you,” he said flatly. “I have discussed this with your father and we
are agreed I remain at your side.”

 
          
“I
could not ask for better companions,” Kedryn declared earnestly, “and I thank
you both.”

 
          
“There
is no need for thanks,” said the kyo. “It is our wish.”

           
“And,” Brannoc murmured, “
you
have in the past brought a certain degree of excitement
to our lives.”

           
“Hopefully that is ended,” Kedryn
smiled. “I trust my reign will be marked with peace.”

 
          
“It
will certainly be marked with high fashion,” the half- breed responded.

 
          
“Aye,”
Kedryn chuckled, “for a little while at least. But after Estrevan I have a
notion to attempt one more . . . ,” he paused, his laughter dying as his
features grew serious,
“ .
. . one more quest. ”