Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (17 page)

 
          
“Mayhap
they wanted the boat,” argued Brannoc, refusing to be deterred.

 
          
“Too
easily recognized,” said the riverman, “and too hard to hide. No, my
wolf’s-head friend, you must not confuse river craft with horses or trade goods
sold beyond the Lozins. What few pirates do dare sail our Idre are minor
cutthroats—they might sally forth in dories to ransack a likely vessel, but
they’d not take the
Vendrelle.
And of
the Lemals’ boat there is no sign at all.”

 
          
Brannoc
grinned easily, bowing his head in acknowledgement of Galen’s superior familiarity
with the ways of the river. Tepshen demanded, “What interpretation do you
make?”

 
          
Galen
shrugged again. “I have no idea. I know only that the
Vendrelle
is gone.”

 
          
“And
others,” Kedryn murmured.

 
          
“Aye.
So it would seem from the waterfront gossip.
A fishing
craft here, a ferry boat there, and no one to say
how.”

 
          
He
drained his mug and tilted the flagon again, emptying it and shouting for more.

 
          
“We
sail with an escort,” said Tepshen firmly.

 
          
“Very well.”
Kedryn saw no reason to argue the point. “Though
I doubt any cutthroat would dare attack a royal vessel.”

 
          
“It
may not be any human agency,” grunted Galen, this time allowing Kedryn to
purchase the flagon.

 
          
“A
monster?” asked the young man dubiously.
“Some mythic beast
from the depths of the river?”

 
          
“The
Idre runs deep,” responded Galen, his smile a trifle defensive. “Who knows what
she holds?”

 
          
“Water,”
said Brannoc, “but in the event of her revealing worse secrets I doubt we shall
encounter anything that may not be slain by honest steel, or a squad of
archers.”

 
          
“We
shall take no chances,” declared Tepshen. “The craft that carries us north will
bear a full complement of soldiery.”

 
          
“As
well to take such precautions,” nodded Galen.

 
          
“I
am well guarded,”
grinned
Kedryn, refusing to let the riverman’s
ominous gossip dampen his spirits. “And now let us talk of more cheerful
matters.”

 
          
“Aye,”
Galen agreed. “Tell me, Brannoc, does this tailor of yours charge excessively?”

 
          
Kedryn
chuckled as the half-breed embarked on a discussion of cloth and cutting with
the massive captain, interrupting to suggest that Galen present himself at the
emporium in question to request an outfit suitable for an honored guest and
inform the tailor that the bill should be presented to the
White
Palace
.

 
          
“And,”
he added, eyeing the remains of the roast pork still set before the riverman,
‘let us eat. The palace will not miss us for one meal.”

 
          
They
dined on cold cuts and bread, cheese and fruit, washed down with pale beer and
then bade farewell to Galen, retrieving their horses from the courtyard and
leading them back through the busy harbor to the wider avenues beyond.

 
          
The
overcast that hung above the city had solidified into dark rafts of threatening
gray as they negotiated the streets, and heavy droplets of rain splattered on
the cobbles,
freshening
the scents of the place. As
they climbed the broad roadway leading to the palace gates the sky to the north
grew black, the wind strengthening so that the Idre rippled and spat wavelets
against the docks, the masts of the craft moored there bobbing and ducking,
their
pennants snapping in the growing bluster.

 
          
“A
storm approaches,” Brannoc remarked, easing the hood of his cloak over his
braided hair.

 
          
“Aye.”
Kedryn shivered suddenly, feeling a strange chill.
For no reason he could define he clutched the stone about his neck, but it
remained cool and hard, as if no more than a jewel worn for ornament.

 
          
“The
river is full of stories,” murmured Tepshen, noticing the gesture. “And
rivermen love nothing more than to embroider them.”

 
          
Kedryn
grinned, letting go the talisman, feeling obscurely ashamed, as though Galen’s
yams had sparked some indefinable apprehension too childish for a grown man to
consider. No doubt the chill was nothing more than the effect of cooling air and
the freshened breeze after so warm a commencement of spring. He turned his face
to the sky, feeling the rain splash against his skin, and heeled the Keshi
stallion to a canter, Tepshen and Brannoc following on either Rank.

 
          
They
cantered toward the
White
Palace
, seeing the clouds above thicken as they
approached,
the rafts of gray massing to form pitchy
thunderheads from which emanated an ominous rumbling, as if some great beast
prowled above Andurel, hidden within the nubiferous mantle. The walls of the
palace were darkened by the rack and before they reached the gates the rain had
become downpour, drumming against their cloaks, splashing about the hooves, and
transforming the gutters that
sided
the avenue into
tumbling freshets. Guardsmen in armor silvered brighter by the rain presented
halberds to their approach, saluting as they recognized Kedryn and his
companions and drawing back beneath the shelter of the arches to allow the trio
entry. They slowed as they crossed the wide yard fronting the palace and walked
the horses down the covered way that opened on the stable court. Halting
beneath the cloisters encircling the open area, they dismounted and gave the
animals over to the waiting ostlers, shaking raindrops from their capes as they
strode along the colonnaded way, the rain beating fiercely now against the
tiled roof.

 
          
The
rumbling became real thunder as they reached the doors granting ingress to the
palace, and a lance of brilliance struck down against the damaged cupola of the
throne room.

 
          
“It
seems likely your coronation will break with precedence in more ways than one,”
Brannoc remarked, glancing at the unfinished dome, “those masons will not be
done by the full moon.”

 
          
“Nor
will there be a throne,” nodded Kedryn, remembering the melted slag to which
his duel with Taws had reduced the seat. “No
matter—
we
shall make do.”

 
          
They
pushed through the doors and halted to doff their cloaks, their boots leaving
glistening prints on die ornate tiles that covered the entry hall. Servants
appeared in courteous ambush to take the rain-wet mantles and both Tepshen Lahl
and Brannoc paused to ascertain their blades were dry. Kedryn, who wore no
sword, waited for them, looking to the high windows, slick now with the skys
outpouring, the light beyond dimmed by the storm so that torches were lit,
burning in the golden sconces along the walls.

 
          
“Prince
Kedryn.” A seneschal came forward, resplendent in the gold and silver robe of
his office. “The Lady Wynett requests that you attend her as soon you may. She
is with the Princess Ashrivelle.”

 
          
“In the Princess’s chambers?”
Kedryn asked. “Is aught
amiss?”

 
          
In
Tamur die servitor would have vouchsafed an opinion; in Andurel the man merely
shaped a small gesture with his right hand and said, “I do not know, Prince. I
know only that the lady requests your presence.”

 
          
After
the cheerfol informality of the dockside tavern it was a sharp reminder to
Kedryn that the
White
Palace
was gready different from Caitin Hold and
he fought a flash of irritation at the man’s bland manner.          
I

 
          
“My
thanks,” he said, knowing that it sounded somtewhat curt, and not caring as he
turned toward the stairway that spiraled upward on the farther side of the
hall.

 
          
Tepshen
and Brannoc fell into step beside him and his good humor returned at their
persistence. To the palace servants, he was sure, it must seem that two
near-barbarians dogged his every move and it amused him to think of the
dignified seneschals and formal majordomos worrying about the two
sword-wielders ever in attendance on the king-to-be. Likely they would feel
more comfortable with him out of the palace, when their lives might continue in
more urbane fashion.

 
          
Nonetheless,
there were some occasions on which he preferred to be alone, and he paused
outside Ashrivelle’s door to murmur, “I do not believe danger threatens within,
my friends.”

 
          
Tepshen
nodded, murmuring his acceptance of the dismissal, but Kedryn noticed that he
remained, Brannoc at his side, in the corridor long enough to see that it was
Wynett who opened the door.

 
          
"Kedryn!”
she smiled, turning up her face to brush her lips to his. “I am glad you have
come. Where were you?”

 
          
Kedryn
set his hands on her shoulders, holding her at arm’s length so that he might
study her face. It was lovely as ever, but he detected worry in her clear blue
eyes and said, “On Ae waterfront with Galen Sadreth. What is amiss?”

           
“Ashrivelle.”
Wynett shook her head in frustration, dislodging a strand of blond hair that he
reached to straighten. “She claims herself unfit to attend the coronation and
vows she will remain here until we sail for Estrevan.”

           
Kedryn glanced about the room. It
was an antechamber and there was no sign of Wynett’s sister. In answer to his
scrutiny Wynett said, “She refuses to leave her bedchamber.”

 
          
“What
would you have me do?”

 
          
Wynett
took his hands, drawing him across the room toward the paneled door on the far
side. “I have spent the morning arguing with her. Yrla and Arlynne have both
tried to dissuade her, but she remains adamant. I hope that you may change her
mind.”

 
          
“I
can try,” he allowed, not altogether enthusiastic.

 
          
Wynett
smiled confidently and he basked in the radiance. “Then do your best,” she
murmured, tapping on the rosewood door, raising her voice to call, “Ashrivelle?
Kedryn is here.” The answer sounded like “Go away,” to Kedryn, but Wynett said
firmly, “He wishes to speak with you.”

           
She opened the door and Kedryn
followed her into the chamber. It was spacious, though darkened by the storm
outside so that candles had been lit, shadowing the corners, and a fire burned
in the stone hearth, lending a somewhat stifling heat to the atmosphere. Dense
carpets covered the floor, patterned in designs of blue and gray like the
surface of the Idre, their thick piles washing against the feet of a large bed
overhung with a canopy of gauzy material, as if a great wave burst overhead. To
one side stood a dressing table littered with the cosmetic paraphernalia of a
fashionable woman. It occurred to Kedryn that Wynett gave no time to such
niceties, nor needed to. He paused just inside the room, embarrassed to see
that Ashrivelle lay on the bed clearly wearing no more than the dark green
dressing robe she drew over her legs as he smiled at her. “Ashrivelle,” he said
pleasantly, “may I enter?”

 
          
“You
are the king,”
came
the answer, her voice low, as
though she had been weeping, “or soon will be—you may enter where you will.”

 
          
He
crossed the room, glancing to the tall windows as thunder rumbled and more
lightning stalked the sky. Chairs were placed close to the bed as if in vigil
and he took one, Wynett seating
herself
beside him.
Ashrivelle turned her face away and he saw that her hair was unkempt, the blond
tresses so much like Wynett’s tangled and lank.