Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (2 page)

 
          
“I
thought,” he said slowly, taking her arm to escort her over the slippery flags,
“that something moved within the wave. A shape—I am not certain, it was so far
out—huge.”

 
          
“A
log?” she suggested. “Disturbed by the river?”

 
          
“No.”
Again he shook his head. “It was too large. I thought it created the wave.”

 
          
There
is nothing that big in the Idre,” Marga retorted pragmatically.

 
          
“No,”
Rycol agreed, “it was probably a trick of the light.”

 
          
Thoughts
of dark magic crossed his mind and were dismissed. Kedryn and Wynett had
defeated the Messenger,
mehdri
had
brought word from Andurel of their victory over Taws, and with the mage
gone,
the usurper Hattim Sethiyan slain, the Kingdoms knew
peace from Ashar’s fell machinations. Not magic then, he decided, merely some
natural occurrence. A late spring tide, a melting of snow from the mountains
that bound the Beltrevan to the north, perhaps some log jam higher up the
river; no more than that and an imagination rendered excessively fertile by the
events of the past months.

 
          
“Probably.”
His wife’s voice brought him back from his mus-
ings. “But meanwhile I am wet and the night is chill; shall we find dry
footwear and a fire?”

 
          
“Aye,”
he nodded, and gave orders for the watch to stand down.

 
          
His
doubts, however, lingered and the signalers in the great towers were ordered to
send word across the water to Low Fort, from which Fengrif, the Keshi
commander, returned his surmise that some snowy plateau must have slipped to
create a tidal wave. Discreet questioning of his men revealed a similar
opinion, and even those who, like Rycol, had thought they saw something could
not be sure what. The next day he made a personal inspection of the town,
taking the opportunity to question the folk there. They concurred with the
majority of the garrison that the phenomenon was of natural origin and that
while several boats had been wrecked when the wash drove them against the
wharves neither Ashar nor the woodlanders could be held responsible. Finally he
allowed himself to be convinced and inscribed only a brief mention of the
occurrence in the log he kept, not bothering to send word downriver to Andurel.

 
          
Gerat,
Paramount Sister
erf
Estrevan, closed the leathern
covers of the book she held and set the slim volume on the simple oak table
before her. The spring sunlight that filled the tower room shone on the worn
bindings, lightening the blue so that it assumed a shade to match the color of
the gown she wore. She stroked the smooth surface as though reluctant to give
up its touch, assessing the thoughts that filled her mind, seeking to impose
order on them.

 
          
Alaria
had warned of so much and explained so little, that often enough in terms of
parable or near-rhyme so that certain understanding was become a nebulous
thing, like the half- remembered images of a fading dream. Yet that had been
her intent, surely, for the visions granted her by the Lady were dreamlike, and
even with Alaria’s talent for prognostication not clear indications of the path
to be taken, but rather suggestions, warnings, hints. That was the way of the
Lady—to allow always the freedom of self-determination—and the very basis of
the Sisterhood’s philosophy. To define a clear path was to define the actions
required, the way to be taken, and thus to limit the freedom of choice that was
the essence of the Sister’s faith. The Lady Yrla Belvanne had quit Estrevan of
her own free will, under no coercion to go into Tamur where she had met Bedyr
Caitin and become his wife. Hiat had been a matching of hearts that had
produced Kedryn Caitin, the Chosen One foretold by Alaria. And Kedryn, a
stripling then, barely come to his manhood, might without any
loss of honor have
refused to face Niloc Yarrum in single
combat. Yet he had chosen to do battle with the leader of the Horde and thus
halted the foresters’ invasion at the very portals of the Three Kingdoms,
forging afterward a peace with the
barbarians that was
unprecedented in living or written memory.

 
          
And
Wynett, Gerat thought, she was committed to the way of the Lady, dedicated to
the celibacy that ensured the continuance of her healing talent, yet she had
gone willingly into the Beltrevan with Kedryn. Gone farther with him, into the
regions of the netherworld, where together they had won back his sight and
Wynett had seen her destiny lay not in sole duty to the Lady, but in love of
Kedryn. Without that choice made they would not have celebrated the love that
bound them, uniting the two parts of Kyrie’s talisman that it might stand
against the power of Ashar’s Messenger and overcome his magics to restore unity
to the Kingdoms.

 
          
All
those choices had been made and the Messenger defeated, Ashar’s workings
thwarted that peace might reign, the Kingdoms
secure.

 
          
Is
it then, Gerat wondered, ended? Is the Text fulfilled? She relinquished her
touch on the book and rose to cross the small chamber to the closest window,
raising eyes of a startlingly clear blue to the sky. Larks swooped there,
pursuing the insectile bounty the warmth of spring raised above the city,
darting shapes against the heat-hazed heavens. Far, far off the Gadrizels were
a blur across the eastern horizon, darkening even as she watched as the sun
continued its westerly path toward its setting. She let her gaze move slowly
over the plain that ran from the foothills of the mountain range to the walls
of the city, seeing less with her eyes than with her inner knowledge the
burgeoning pasture iands and the farms that dotted the fertile champaign. The
senses that had made her Paramount Sister welcomed the emotions she felt
emanating from those simple homesteads where farmers were content to till their
fields and husband their animals, yielding slowly as her eyes moved closer,
looking down to encompass the rooftops and avenues of the city men called
sacred, to the busier emotions of the inhabitants. Here she could feel the
pleasure of merchants at a fair-struck bargain, and the delight of clients in
their purchases; the anticipation of good food prepared in a comfortable home;
the warmth of companionship; above all, the peace that was an aura of almost
physical intensity about the central buildings of the Sisterhood, the very core
of Estrevan, the focal point of the city’s growth and being.

 
          
Perhaps,
she mused, we have too much peace. Perhaps we live too far from the daily
workings of the Kingdoms. Yet Sisters inhabited Tamur and Kesh and Ust-Galich,
teachers and hospitalers, those gifted with the sending powers and the
farsight, the prognosticators.
Bethany
governed the college in Andurel, and in all
the towns of the Kingdoms there were others bringing Kyrie’s Word and the
succor of their individual talents, and through them Estrevan was made aware of
the worldly happenings of mankind. And was it not important that one place
should stand apart? A place where those who sought it might find peace? They
did not have to come—that, too, was a choice made freely, both by those laymen
and women who came, and by those who sought to develop latent talents in
service of the Lady. Without them—without the tranquillity Estrevan
bestowed—would it have been possible to interpret Alaria’s Text? To inform
those needed in the Kingdom’s defense of the choices that lay before them?
Without Estrevan would the Messenger have been defeated?

 
          
Perhaps
I ponder overmuch, she told herself. What is done is done and cannot be turned
back; Taws is gone and Kedryn wed to Wynett, as best I know hailed king.
Young, admittedly, but of unquestionable integrity, and gifted with
wisdom.
He has Wynett to advise him, and his father, too, and Bedyr
Caitin is a good man. And I have done all I can to see the way Alaria foretold
and guide his steps along that path.

 
          
So
why, she asked herself as she turned from the window to look westward to a sun
preparing to go down in a blaze of golden glory, do these nagging doubts linger
still?

 
          
Why
am I not sure it has ended?

 
          
Kedryn
Caitin, Prince of Tamur and ruler-elect of the Three Kingdoms, stared moodily
from a tower of the
White
Palace
over the lawns surrounding the monarch’s
residence to the rooftops of Andurel. Set as it was atop a hill, the palace
commanded the finest view possible of the island city, and the height of the
tower on which he stood granted him a perspective few save the birds wheeling
overhead might enjoy. To the south, looking past the cascades that foamed and
rumbled down steep steps of time-carved stone, he could discern the borders of
Ust-Galich; to the northeast, beyond the Vortigen, the sweeping grasslands of
Kesh; northwest lay his homeland of Tamur, separated from Kesh by the great
sun-silvered ribbon of the Idre. He could discern boats upon the waterway,
fishing craft and ferries and traders, and when he turned his gaze around to
the southwest he could see the last remnants of the Galichian army winding
antlike in the distance down the portage that ran alongside the cascades. Below
him the city spread in jewel-like brilliance over the slopes of the eyots that
afforded it support, as if it sprang from the surface of the river herself,
webworks of bridges arching between the juts of stone, the roofs of varicolored
die reflecting the early morning sun in myriad hues, the parks and gardens
budding green with the promise of spring, crocuses and snowdrops splashing the
lawns with bright colors, the avenues like arteries spreading from the heart
that was the White Palace.

 
          
A
heart that must beat to the drumming of a king, the cadence held by the man who
occupied the High Throne, resident in this wondrous place.

 
          
His
eyes turned again to the western banks of the Idre, toward Tamur, misty at this
early hour, and his heart swelled with love of that hardy land, and the fear
that he might not again know her. The wind coming o£F the river swept strands
of long brown hair across his face and he reached to push them clear, aware
that his eyes moistened and not sure whether that was caused by the breeze or
the inevitability that sat heavy on his soul.

 
          
Below
him he could hear the shouts of the masons repairing the throne room ravaged by
the magical duel with Taws, the pounding of their hammers and the steady
creaking of the windlasses reminding him of those same sounds in High Fort,
after the defeat of the Horde, that memory in turn bringing more, a sense of
time rushing, bearing him forward as helplessly as a twig carried on the race
of a floodtide. It seemed so short a time since he had ridden out from Caitin
Hold a boy, not yet blooded, eager to face barbarian blades and win his
manhood, and now he stood atop the palace the folk of the Kingdoms assumed was
his, expecting him to take the medallion worn by poor, dead Darr and govern
them. They awaited his coronation, he knew, for he was wedded to Darr’s elder
daughter and he was the Chosen One, he had banished Taws, and Hattim Sethiyan
was dead, and all declared him the rightful heir to the High Throne. His
father, Bedyr, and his mother, Yrla, both voiced their support, as did Jarl of
Kesh, even the Galichians, now repentant of their dead lord’s usurpation. All
seemed confident of his ability to assume the medallion of regal office; all
save him.

 
          
He
stared across the rooftops to the harbor area, knowing that Galen Sadreth’s
Vashti
lay at anchor there, and wondered
if the bluff river captain would agree to take him on board and bring him home
again to Tamur, or lend his voice to the chorus that proclaimed him bound by
right and duty to accept the throne. It seemed they could none of them see any
other choice for him, not his parents or his closest friends. Tepshen Lahl,
whose council he had valued since first the ageless easterner had versed him in
swordcraft, spoke of obligations that could not be avoided; Brannoc, in whose
wolf’s-head love of freedom he had hoped to find a sympathetic ear, could only
shrug and say that he saw no other choice. Even Wynett lent her support,
pointing out that the occupant of the High Throne unified the Kingdoms and that
without a king they must again descend into chaos, and as he had fought so hard
to prevent that very disruption how could he now turn his back.

 
          
Yet
he doubted his ability to assume such responsibility. Tamur, yes, he could govern
that kingdom in the fullness of time, when Bedyr finally went to join their
ancestors, but that was long years off and he would have time to grow into the
role, time to learn the arts of governance, to learn from his hither. And Tamur
was but one kingdom. To assume the leadership of the Three Kingdoms was a task
so vast it frightened him as no physical threat could. He did not, no matter
what was said of him, consider himself a diplomat, and whoever sat in the White
Palace must be that above all else. To juggle the interests of Tamur and Kesh
and Ust-Galich, to balance the desires of three lords, to avoid offense or
favoritism, that was a task to try any man. It was little wonder Darr had
seemed so aged, his hair grayed before its time, with that great weight of
cares upon him every day.

 
          
He
sniffed, scenting the many perfumes of Andurel, bread hot from the ovens, and
fish, grass becoming lush now that the sun shone strong, the flinty odor of
stone new-cut, horse smells from the stables below, die oil of tended weapons,
and the scents mingled with the panorama below him and reminded him that he
must soon decide . . . what? What choice did he really have? Could he refuse
the medallion, leave the Kingdoms to find a new monarch? Watch petty rivalries
spring up, perhaps to erupt into civil war?

 
          
No,
said the voice of his conscience, sounding like Bedyr and Tepshen and Wynett,
Yrla and Brannoc and Jarl. You were prepared to give your life for the Kingdoms
when you thought that meant only
dying,
now it means living
and you must still give it.

 
          
Living
here, he thought, bound to Andurel as surely as any prisoner is bound to his
cell.
Living daily with the endless problems of governance.
Living not my life, but the king’s, living as a symbol.

 
          
He
shuddered at the thought and at the seemingly inevitable fete decreed for him,
reaching unconsciously for the blue stone hung about his neck as apology and
blasphemous anger at the destiny the Lady imposed upon him mingled in his
troubled mind.

 
          
That
stone, Kyrie’s talisman, had brought him here, for without it he could not have
survived the descent into the netherworld, or defeated Taws; not without that
and Wynett, who wore the other half. Without it he would have remained blinded
by the ensorcelled sword that took his sight; would have died at Taws’s hand.
Without it, Wynett might not have come to that decision for which he was so
grateful, and thence to his bed and her place as his wife. And yet, for all
those reasons, it was the talisman that placed him here, now, staring over the
land that expected him to rule it.

 
          
And
as he touched it calm descended upon him. His anguish faded,
a
clarity
of perception wiping the frown from his handsome features,
replacing the dour set of his wide mouth with a smile. He nodded to the sky,
seeing in a flash of comprehension a path he might successfully take, a path
that would be for the lasting benefit of the
Three
Kingdoms
, and also one that would satisfy him.

 
          
It
was not yet absolutely clear—he would need to ponder it a while, prepare it for
presentation, consider all the arguments against it and the responses he would
make to those arguments—but it was there, revealing itself to him just as the
Idre became clearer as the sun burned off the last of the morning mist, and his
smile grew broader as he perceived the first steps along that route.

 
          
“You
seem mightily pleased.”

 
          
He
turned at the sound of Wynett’s voice, seeing her emerge from the little
roundhouse that granted egress to the tower. Her hair blew loose in the wind,
gold as the sun itself, and the cornflower blue of her eyes shone bright as she
studied him. His eyes drank in the sight of her, delighting in the way the
soft, blue overrobe she wore outlined the supple contours of her body, then saw
her shiver in the early morning chill and opened his arms that she might draw
close, folding his heavier robe about her as she leaned back against him and he
buried his face in her hair, luxuriating in the sweet, beloved scent of it.

 
          
“I
am,” he said softly, then laughed, hugging her, saying again, louder, “I am.”

 
          
Wynett
craned her head back to brush lips against his cheek, feeling the stubble of
his unshaved beard, pleased at this change of heart, for during the past few
days she had grown concerned for the man she loved. “Do you share it?” she
murmured.

 
          
Kedryn
loosened his grip upon her to touch the stone she wore between the swell of her
breasts, smiling still as he said,
“
The Lady works in
mysterious ways.”

 
          
“Indeed?”
Wynett’s tone mocked surprise. “And I, so long sworn to her service, had not
realized that. Did you rise so early to consider these weighty matters?”

 
          
Kedryn
laughed, bussing her gently on the neck. “I could not sleep,” he murmured, “for
thinking of what is expected of me.”

 
          
Wynett’s
smile stilled a fraction and she reached to take his hands, cupping them. “Is
it so hard to accept? I am resolved to it.”

 
          
“You
were bom a king’s daughter.” Kedryn’s voice grew solemn, though his smile
became mischievous. “And you chose servitude to the Lady. I was bom a mere
prince and thought to live out my days as little more; this notion of kingship
sits heavy on my shoulders.”

 
          
“They
are broad enough.” Wynett’s fingers traced the outline of his biceps, squeezing
gently at the hard muscle. “And I accepted a life other than the one 1
expected. Can you not do the same?”

 
          
Kedryn
drew her closer, holding her that she could not turn to see the amusement in
his eyes as he said solemnly, “I am accustomed to the open places of Tamur, not
the walls of a palace. Have I not done my duty by the Lady that I may enjoy
freedom? Are we to be confined in Andurel, unable to go where we would?”

 
          
“There
is none other the Kingdoms will accept as monarch,” Wynett retorted, voicing an
argument he knew he would hear again, for he had already heard it so many times
before. “By birthright and marriage right; by what you have done, you have
earned the throne. Who else might take it?”

 
          
“Jarl’s
Kemm?” he asked innocently.

 
          
Wynett
snorted. “Kemm is a good man, but not even his own father considers him a suitable
candidate to the High Throne. No, my love, there is none other.”

 
          
“What
if I were to refuse?” he asked in the same ingenuous tone.

 
          
“You
cannot!” Wynett pinched his forearm.
“Would you plunge this
land of ours back into chaos?
The Kingdoms
must
have a king, and you are the only candidate acceptable to
all.”

 
          
“Why?”
he asked bluntly. “Why must there be a king?”

 
          
Wynett
wriggled in “his arms then, forcing him to loose his grip enough that she could
turn to face him, looking into eyes that he rapidly made earnest, though not
without some effort.

 
          
“Do
you jest with me? The king symbolizes the unity of the Three Kingdoms, binding
them that they act in concert. Think back, Kedryn! When the Horde was raised
what might have happened had you not slain Niloc Yarrum and the woodlanders
come down through the Lozin Gate to find not the massed armies of the Kingdoms,
but only Tamur, or Tamur and Kesh? What if Ust-Galich had refused to fight?
Without a king in the
White
Palace
that might have happened! Without a king in
Andurel the Kingdoms are no more than three fiefdoms, each separate, going
about their own business, isolated, and so prey to outside influence.