Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (20 page)

           
Wynett’s joking comment and wondered
how deep it might be rooted in truth.

 
          
“I
am not very accomplished,” he remarked apologetically

 
          
“I
think you do well,” Ashrivelle replied.

 
          
Kedryn
smiled, suddenly aware that her gown was somewhat less demure than her
sister’s, revealing a pleasant cleavage that conjured an abrupt picture of her
breasts as she had lain despondently on her bed. He felt momentarily confused,
aware that his face reddened, and fixed his gaze on her eyes, only to find that
was equally disturbing for she looked at him with an expression embarrassingly
close to adoration.

 
          
“I
owe you my gratitude,” she murmured.

 
          
“For
what?” he asked.

 
          
“Your
forgiveness,” she said, “and for persuading me to attend. I find I enjoy
myself.”

 
          
“I
am pleased,” he responded, wondering how long the tune might last before he
could decently excuse himself.

 
          
Ashrivelle
lowered her gaze as if she sensed his discomfort, and he was able to look over
her head and find Wynett, willing her to rescue him. His wife smiled over
Brannoc’s shoulder, and when the music faded came with the half-breed to lay a
proprietorial hand on her husband’s arm.

 
          
“I
claim my lord,” she smiled. “Brannoc, will you not dance with my sister?
Ashrivelle, you will find him a most excellent partner.”

 
          
Ashrivelle
seemed almost reluctant to relinquish Kedryn’s arm, but she allowed Brannoc to
lead her away as Wynett moved into Kedryn’s grip.

 
          
“My
sister appeared to enjoy herself,” she said equivocally-

 
          
“Thank
you for rescuing me,” Kedryn answered.

 
          
“Did
you need rescuing?” Wynett’s finely arched brows rose in amusement.

 
          
“I
believe you were right.” Kedryn frowned, his voice serious.

 
          
“That
you have made a conquest?” Wynett laughed, drawing closer as they spun about to
brush her lips to his mouth. “Of course you have—how could any woman resist
you?”

 
          
“Easily,”
he said gallantly, and quite seriously, “when the only woman I want is you.”

           
Her own expression grew serious then
and she ignored all decorum as she pulled him tight against her and kissed him
firmly.

 
          
He
did not realize they had stopped dancing until die kiss ended and he became
aware that they stood within a circle of beaming onlookers who began to clap
and cheer and shout their approval as he looked up, his face flushed. Wynett
was unabashed and cheerfully led him into the dance again, returning the hall
to a swirling mass of color and laughter.

 
          
It
went on long into the night and Kedryn felt he had danced sufficient for a
lifetime as the sky paled into dawn. Yrla had claimed him, and Arlynne, too,
and after them it seemed every woman there sought to circle the floor at least
once with the new king.
Many of the men, no more enthusiastic
than Kedryn, had forsaken the round to settle in conversation, and now slumped,
somewhat die worse for wine, at the tables.
None, he realized, would
leave the hall until he retired and he found Wynett, suggesting that they might
decently go to their beds. She was breathless, her face flushed prettily with
excitement, but when he spoke to her she yawned, nodding, and he turned to his
parents, asking if he might not end the celebration.

 
          
“You
are the king now,” Bedyr smiled. “You may end it when you wish.”

 
          
Kedryn
shook his head, grinning. “I am not used to such authority,” he murmured.

 
          
“You
will grow accustomed to it,” his father informed him, the notion mildly
alarming to the young man.

 
          
“What
should I do?” he asked. “Must I make some kind of announcement?”

 
          
Bedyr
laughed aloud and Yrla spoke past him. “You need only retire, Kedryn. No
official proclamation is necessary.”

 
          
“Good.”
Kedryn yawned hugely and rose, extending a hand to Wynett.

 
          
“You
would not like one more dance?” she asked, her blue eyes shining.

 
          
“No,”
he said firmly, tugging her upright as she chuckled and leading her toward the
doors.

 
          
Their
departure was marked by a hail of good wishes that slowed their exit and when
they finally succeeded in breaking free Kedryn sighed, circling Wynett’s waist
with his left arm as she rested her blond head on his shoulder and they
followed a lantern-bearing footman toward their chambers. Guards stood before
the door and sleepy-eyed servants waited within the antechamber. Kedryn
dismissed them, happy to be once more alone with his wife. The room was warm,
heated by a banked fire, and the windows were shuttered against the dawn chill,
the candles burning in the sconces along the walls lending a mellow light that
danced in Wynett’s golden hair. Kedryn shrugged off his surcoat, tossing it
carelessly over a chair, and pulled Wynett close.

 
          
“I
thought,” she murmured when he finally removed his mouth, “that you were
tired.”

 
          
“Of
official celebration,” he answered, smiling, leading her toward the bedchamber.

 
          
“Does
my king command?” she asked as he began to unhook the fastenings of her gown.

 
          
“Does
my queen object?” he countered, lowering his mouth to her neck as the silk
slipped from her shoulders.

 
          
“No,”
she said huskily.
Then, as his hands moved over her hips and
his mouth over her breasts, “Oh, yes.”

 
          
Had
Gerat been given to cursing, she would have cursed the lack of equestrian
skills that denied her the use of swift horse and confined her to the carriage
that lumbered with seemingly irrevocable slowness across the high plateau of
central Tamur. As it was, she did her best to compose herself to acceptance of
so tardy a method of travel and prayed to the Lady that she would be in time.
In time for what, she could not exactly define, but the feeling of unease that
had gripped her in Estrevan grew as she traversed the highlands of the Geflyn,
as though the menace she sensed drew closer with each passing day, and she
willed the four animals pulling her carriage to maintain their pace as they
hauled their burden along the mountainous trails.

 
          
Urgency
rendered time meaningless and the Paramount Sister could not say exactly when
she had departed the
Sacred
City
, overriding the objections of Porelle and
the others even though she could not tell them just why she felt it so needful
she
go
. A single acolyte accompanied her, and the
driver, a bluffly cheerful man called Wyxx, whose concern was as much for his
animals as for the immediacy of the Sister’s mission.

 
          
Blown
horses, he told her with phlegmatic calm, would pull no carriage, and unless—no
disrespect intended—she could persuade the Lady to propel her vehicle, she must
allow him to set their speed.

 
          
It
had seemed swift enough as they traversed the fertile plain between Estrevan
and the Gadrizels, but then they had slowed on the long climb to the Moriah
Pass, and beyond that more as they ascended the winding roadways that brought
them into the Tamurin heartland. The commander of the Morfah garrison had
furnished them with a fresh team, and that had been replaced by another when
they reached Caitin Hold, but Gerat knew that if she could only sit a galloper
she could make far better time. If she could entrust her mission to a mehdri
word would travel faster, but she could do neither, the one because she had no
skill with horses, the other because she did not know how to word the message.
It did not seem a thing she could put into words: she had tried to explain it
to Porelle and Lavia, to Reena and Jara, but could not, so how to word it that
a mehdri might carry it to Kedryn? It was impossible and she knew that she must
confront the new king herself, no matter what customs were broken by her departure.

 
          
Indeed,
she was not certain what she would say when she did finally meet him. That
there was something iri.the words of Qualle that seemed to relate to Alaria’s
Text and that disturbed her? That she sensed a threat? That she felt, in a
manner she could not clearly define—let alone express in words—that Kedryn’s
mission as the Chosen One was not yet done?

 
          
It
was so nebulous; and yet, she was sure, so urgent.

 
          
And
the word that had come from
Bethany
in Andurel, carried by a mehdri who—thank the Lady!—had met her on the
road east of the
Morfah
Pass
, appeared to relate to her sense of unease.
Again, she was not certain how, but that Kedryn contemplated a second descent
into the netherworld had a bearing, of that she did feel sure, though not of
why such certitude gripped her. She could only trust in the Lady, both to bring
her to Kedryn in time and to lend her eloquence. She did not know what she
would say to him, though she had read and reread the transcribed documents she
carried in the satchel slung about her shoulders, never letting the pouch out
of her sight, as though afraid it might disappear, transported by some fell
gramarye to thwart her.

 
          
She
smiled at the thought, wanly, and let her gaze wander over the landscape
unfolding before her as Wyxx jammed a boot against the lever of the brake and
close-hauled his traces as the carriage tilted on the steeply descending trail.

 
          
It
was a magnificent landscape, all sweeping hillsides thick with timber, dotted
here and there with mountain meadows like green pools among the trees. A brook
ran noisily beside the trail, splashing over stones as it tumbled toward the
distant foot of the scarp, the water iridescent in the morning sun. She saw a
kingfisher dart, a flash of brilliant color, across the stream, and when she
looked to the blue sweep of sky
above,
she saw two
falcons circling in stately isolation. A pleasing breeze blew, taking the edge
off the heat, rustling the burgeoning foliage of the oaks and beeches and ash
trees, a susurrant counterpoint to the ever-present birdsong, itself balanced
by the clop of hooves and the creaking of the carriage. Wyxx mumbled softly,
reassuring the four horses as they moved downward, his barely vocalized words a
drone like the buzzing of the insects in the warm air. It had been a long time
since Gerat had seen Tamur and she had all but forgotten how different it was
to the country surrounding Estrevan.
A high, hard land that
bred a hardy, proud people, majestic in its mountain fastnesses, lovely in its
luxuriant forests.
Far off, no more than a blur at this distance, she
could see the gentler footlands, blue-green in the haze, knowing that she must
cross them to reach the Idre, to reach Genyff, where
Bethany
had said Kedryn would disembark and strike
out overland.

 
          
‘This
is the Genyff road?” she asked her driver, knowing the question to be
unnecessary, but needing to speak.

 
          
“Aye.”
Wyxx nodded, not taking his eyes from the horses.
“As I told you yesterday, Sister.
And the
day before.”

 
          
“Forgive
me.” Gerat turned eyes that were blue and gray at the same time on the burly
wagoner. “But I am anxious that we should not miss the king.”

 
          
“If
you told me aright, we shall not,” Wyxx grunted. “If Kedryn comes ashore at
Genyff he’ll take this road to Caitin Hold.”