Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (23 page)

 
          
“To
save your love and the Kingdoms, too,” said Gerat. “But to do that you must be
well. Those ribs must mend, and to that end you must sleep. What you may face
there will be far worse than any Horde; worse, even, than the Messenger. Ashar
will doubtless seek to suborn Wynett.”

 
          
“She
is no flighty girl to be bought with deceits,” Kedryn protested.

 
          
“No,”
said Gerat, “but she will likely find herself in a world where nothing is as it
seems, and Ashar is a master of deception. He may seek to win the talisman
through treachery rather than force, and Wynett is alone there.”

 
          
“I
go after her,” he declared, his voice fierce now.

 
          
“And
that may be what Ashar wants,” Gerat warned. “It may be that he seeks to entrap
you both—to win both talismans.”

 
          
“He
must kill me first,” said Kedryn, “and to do that must he not overcome the
power of the talisman?”

 
          
Gerat
nodded and Kedryn asked, “And you believe the talisman is the means by which
he
may be slain?”

 
          
Again
the Paramount Sister nodded.

 
          
“Then,
for both Wynett and the Kingdoms, I must go there.”

           
“If that is your choice,” Gerat
said, “but it is a mightily hazardous venture you plan.”

           
“No matter.”
Kedryn’s mouth set in a firm line. “He has already wreaked sufficient harm; now
let him pay.” The thought prompted another and he asked, “The others? Tepshen
and Brannoc; Ashrivelle; Galen—do they live?”

 
          
“They
do,” Gerat assured him, “and like you need to recover. Now, sleep.”

 
          
Kedryn
began to shake his head, but she placed a hand upon his face, her fingers
touching gently on his eyelids so that they came down to enclose him again in
darkness, though now the blackness that descended was beneficial, without
panic, and he slipped easily into dreamless slumber.

 
          
Gerat
sat a while beside him, murmuring softly, her voice musical as if she sang a
lullaby, which in a way she did, for soon his breathing was deep and regular
and she could sense the healing processes commencing in his battered body. She
sat like that for long moments,
then
rose to silently
close the shutters, dimming the sunlight so that the simple, white-walled room
became a place of restful shadows.

           
With no more sound than a cat might
make, the Paramount Sister crossed to the door and went out, closing the portal
behind her before turning to the two men waiting in the chamber outside.

 
          
“He
sleeps,” she told them. “His ribs mend, but he needs to sleep.”

 
          
Tepshen
Lahl
nodded,
his luteous features grave. Beside him
Brannoc wound a finger about a feathered braid and asked, “How long?”

 
          
“He
will be healed within the week,” said Gerat. “In the time it takes your arm to
mend.”

 
          
“And
Wynett?” asked Tepshen.

 
          
“I
believe she lives,” Gerat murmured, “for I do not think it was the beast’s
purpose to slay her.”

 
          
Briefly,
she recounted the gist of her conversation with Kedryn. Tepshen glanced at
Brannoc and said, “He had spoken with us of his notion of descending a second
time into the underworld and I told him he was unwise. Now there will be no
stopping him.”

 
          
Brannoc
smiled grimly, glancing down at the limb strapped across his chest. “The Lady
be
praised for your healing talents, Sister. We
shall need
foil use of our swordarms where we go.”

 
          
“You
would go with him into that place?” Gerat looked from one sober-faced man to
the other. They nodded. “It will not be easy,” she warned. “Kedryn wears the
talisman and that is greater protection than any device I can provide for you.”

 
          
“No matter.”
Tepshen’s voice was flat, stem with resolve.
“Where he goes, I go.”

 
          
“We,”
Brannoc amended.

 
          
“So
be it.” Gerat smiled approval of their loyalty. “I shall protect you as best I
can. But we shall speak of this later; for now, I must tend the others.”

 
          
“How
fares Galen?” Tepshen asked.

 
          
“Several
ribs were broken and the muscles of his shoulder badly torn,” Gerat informed
him, “he must remain here until the next full moon at least.”

 
          
The
kyo nodded and said, “I must send a message to Andurel.”

 
          
“Wait,”
Gerat advised. “When Kedryn wakes again there will be much we must discuss.
Leave the message until then.”

 
          
Tepshen
thought for a moment,
then
ducked his head in
agreement.

 
          
“And
now go rest yourselves,” said Gerat, firmly. “You are neither of you fully
recovered.”

 
          
The
two warriors nodded and turned to follow her into the sunlight of a little
courtyard, Tepshen limping, Brannoc holding his damaged arm protectively. She
left them there, crossing the plaza to a door on the far side through which she
disappeared. They settled on a stone bench mounted against the wall beneath the
window of Kedryn’s chamber, their movements unusually cautious, for both were
severely bruised. The sun was lowering toward the west, angling golden light
into the court, and the sky an unsullied blue. The flowers that grew within the
yard filled the air with pleasant scents, their brilliant colors vivid against
the white of the walls and the pale sandstone of the flags. It was warm, spring
fading into summer, the scene suggestive of two men lazing out the end of the
day, an impression belied by the tension writ clear on both their faces.

 
          
“You
do not have to do this,” Tepshen said quietly.

 
          
Brannoc
glanced at the kyo, his swarthy features quizzical. “Do I not?” he asked,
sounding almost—but not quite— amused.

 
          
Tepshen
turned from his contemplation of the flowers to fix the half-breed with a jet
stare. For long moments he studied the former wolf’s-head,
then
smiled briefly. “Thank you.”

 
          
“I
have,” Brannoc paused, seeking the right word, “a regard for Kedryn.
And for you.
I would not see either of you risk that place
alone when I might aid you.”

 
          
“No,”
said Tepshen, and then both lapsed into silence.

 
          
When
next Kedryn woke he judged it to be morning from the angle of the sunlight
entering his room and the odors of hot bread that drifted on the warm air. His
stomach prodded his memory and he eased upright in the bed, wincing as the
movement strained his healing ribs. He felt refreshed, as though he had slept a
long time, and glanced around the chamber. It was small and plain, its
resemblance to the room he had occupied in High Fort’s hospital awaking painful
memories of Wynett so that he experienced a rush of impatience and pushed back
the sheets, preparatory to rising. Bandages swathed his midriff and a sharp
pain lanced his side as he set bare feet to the floor, seeing his clothes
folded neatly on a small chest across the room, his sheathed sword resting atop
the bundle. He stood up and felt his head swim as if he had been too long abed,
placing a hand against the wall as dizziness threatened to topple him. Then the
door opened and a familiar voice said, “Kedryn, I have brought you . . . Oh!”

 
          
The
sentence cut short on a gasp of embarrassment and he settled back on the bed,
tugging the sheets across his naked body as he turned to see Ashrivelle
standing just inside the chamber, a cloth-covered tray balanced on her
outthrust arms.

 
          
“Forgive
me,” she stuttered, “I did not... I thought...”

           
“No matter,” he forced a smile,
easing his legs onto the bed and drawing the sheet up. “Come in.”

           
Wynett’s sister came
forward,
her pale face pinked with discomposure, and set the
tray on the small table beside his couch. She wore a gown of Estrevan blue and
her hair was gathered in a simple coif. She reminded him of Wynett and he felt
the smile freeze on his face.

 
          
“There
is bread,” she said, speaking fast in nervous response to her embarrassment,
“and eggs.
Butter.
A tisane.”

 
          
“How
long have I slept?” he asked.

 
          
Ashrivelle
looked at him with troubled blue eyes. “Two days. I was afraid you would die.”

 
          
“No.”
He shook his head. “I have too much to do.”

 
          
“I
have spoken with Gerat.” Ashrivelle settled herself on the single chair. “She
told me what you plan.”

 
          
Kedryn
reached for the tray, grunting as he twisted so that Ashrivelle was instantly
on her feet, bringing the platter to him, settling it solicitously across his
thighs. As she stooped her hair brushed his face and he caught its fresh scent:
another reminder of Wynett.

 
          
“Is
it wise?” she asked as he spread butter on new-baked bread.

 
          
“What
else should I do?” he retorted, the sharpness of his response bringing a flush
to her pretty features again so that he modified his tone as he added, “I’m
sorry, Ashrivelle, but whilst there is the slightest chance I may save Wynett I
have no other choice.
Would
have no
other.”

 
          
“You
love her very much,” she said softly, staring at him in a way that prompted
some small degree of discomfort.

 
          
“Aye,”
he said, “I do.”

 
          
“But
you are also king now,” she said slowly, still staring at him.

 
          
“And
Ashar is still the enemy of the Kingdoms,” he answered, “and he has taken my
wife.”

 
          
Ashrivelle
nodded,
her expression forlorn. “But should the
Kingdoms lose both queen and king ...”

 
          
“They
have not!” he snapped fiercely. “Wynett lives.” Ashrivelle started back, her
eyes widening at the ferocity of his response. She composed herself with
obvious difficulty, forming tears glistening on the blue of her gaze as she
swallowed, seeming to steel herself to speak again.

           
“Gerat believes that—and I pray that
she is right—but what if she is not?”

 
          
"Gerat
is Paramount Sister of Estrevan,” Kedryn said, refusing to entertain any doubt,
“and I feel Wynett, here.”

 
          
He
clutched the talisman, comforted by the faint tingling it imparted, the warmth
he felt radiating from the stone.

 
          
Again
Ashrivelle nodded, but now a hand crept forward to touch his. “I would not lose
you both,” she whispered. “I saw the beast and felt its power. I would not see
you, too, lost to Ashar. ”

 
          
Kedryn
let go the talisman to fold his hand comfortingly about hers. “Would you have
me abandon Wynett?” he demanded.

 
          
“No!”
Ashrivelle gasped, both her hands clutching his now. “Not that! But nor could I
bear to lose you, too.”

 
          
The
face she turned toward him was reminiscent of the adoring expression he had
seen during his coronation celebrations and gently he extricated his hands from
her grasp, busying them with bread. “I shall not be lost,” he said. “The
talisman will protect me and I shall bring Wynett from the netherworld. And you
are bound for Estrevan, are you not?”