Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (31 page)

 
          
By
then they were almost too sleepy to eat, and only the determination to fuel
their bodies for the task ahead sat them at the table to consume the meal
prepared. What little conversation took place was desultory and immediately
they had satisfied their hunger they found their beds.

 
          
Kedryn’s
was in the chamber he had occupied on his previous visits to the fort, as
familiar by now as his quarters in Caitin Hold, and he was quickly stretched on
the hard mattress; even foster asleep. His last conscious thought was that the
talisman he clutched, as he had clutched it every night since departing Geffyn,
still vibrated with that faint, almost intangible life that assured him Wynett
still survived.

 
          
He
dreamed of her, a confused jumble of impressions, seeing her beloved face
smiling, believing her beside him in the bed, then seeing her again plunge
toward the jaws of the behemoth, almost waking then, but foiling back into
welcome slumber as his tired body imposed its own discipline on his troubled
mind. When finally he came to wakefulness the sun limned a rectangle of
brightness on the stone floor of the room and he climbed from the bed with a
curse on his lips because he saw that the hour was long past dawn. Doubtless Rycol’s
concern had prompted the chatelain to leave him abed, and his own exhaustion
had done the rest. He glanced from the window, seeing the sun some distance
above the eastern rim of the river canyon and crossed to the washstand to lave
himself before tugging on his gear and belting his sword about his waist. Then,
inflamed once more with urgency, he hurried to the dining hall.

 
          
Rycol
sat there with Tepshen at his side, the two men deep in conversation that ended
as Kedryn joined them.

 
          
“I
deemed it wise to let you sleep,” the chatelain explained unapologetically.
“Sister Onya suggested it.”

 
          
“Sister
Onya?” Kedryn helped himself to bread.

           
“She replaced Wynett,” Rycol
expanded. “It was she who examined you last night, and announced you near
spent.” Kedryn began to protest, but Tepshen motioned him to silence and said,
“We were all close to exhaustion, and we shall need our wits about us for what
lies ahead.”

           
Despite his impatience, Kedryn
recognized the sense of his comrade’s admonishment and mumbled an apology.

           
Brannoc entered the hall then, his
customary cheerfulness regained with the night’s sound sleep, his appetite,
too, for he set to eating with a will, urging Kedryn to do the same.

 
          
“We
ride hard and feist after today,” he said around a mouthful of coddled egg,
“and likely eat cold food. Make the most of this excellent fore while you can.”

 
          
Kedryn
nodded his agreement, but still found his appetite diminished by fear for
Wynett. What he did eat was swallowed without enjoyment, taken for the pure
need of physical sustenance, and he pushed his plate away before Brannoc
declared
himself
replete.

 
          
“May
we depart now?” he demanded as the half-breed
sighed
his contentment, fastidiously wiping his mouth.

           
“Aye.”
Brannoc rose unabashed by Kedryn’s ill-concealed impatience and bowed in
Rycol’s direction.
“My thanks for your hospitality, Lord
Rycol.”

 
          
The
chatelain smiled thinly. Not very long ago he had advocated hanging Brannoc,
and while the half-breed had since proven himself a trusted companion, earning
Rycol’s respect, the gray-haired keeper of High Fort remained a trifle
uncomfortable in the presence of the former wolf”s-head. “I am honored by your
presence,” he murmured automatically, gesturing in the direction of the door.
“Your mounts await you.”

 
          
They
followed him from the dining hall and through the winding corridors to the
stableyard. Five horses stood ready. Three were stallions, two black, one gray,
their deep chests and long legs attesting the cross-breeding of Tamurin and
Keshi stock, fleet of foot and hardy, willing animals that could endure
hardship without flagging, able to maintain a swift pace and then produce a
burst of speed when called upon. The others were geldings, their lines more
akin to the sturdy hill ponies of Tamur than the sleek chargers of Kesh. They
were laden with supplies. Brannoc examined them all with a professional eye,
admiration writ clear on his dark features.

 
          
“They
are the best I have,” Rycol declared. “And the packs are filled with journey
fare and grain.”

 
          
“They
are superb,” nodded Brannoc.

 
          
“I
added bows.” Rycol gestured at the hide-wrapped packages slung beside each
saddle.
“And a score of arrows apiece.
Shovels and picks, also, if you are to excavate the Mound.”

 
          
“My
thanks,” Kedryn said, taking the older man’s hand. “You do us proud.”

 
          
Rycol
stared at him, sadness in his stem eyes, and more than a little pride. “I do no
more than my duty,” he murmured. “Wynett was
—is
—close to my
heart,
and I pray that the Lady ward you
and guide you that you return her safe.”

 
          
Kedryn
nodded and swung astride one of the blacks. Tepshen took the second and Brannoc
the gray, securing the long halter rope of the pack animals to his saddlehom,
and with Rycol pacing them they rode through High Fort to the north gate.

 
          
The
Lady Marga waited for them here, resolutely concealing her anxiety as she bade
them farewell and Ladyspeed.

 
          
“Send
word to Andurel,” was Kedryn’s last request.

 
          
“I
will,” Rycol promised, raising a hand in salute as the postern was swung open
and the three men rode out.

 
          
“We
enter Ashar’s domain,” Brannoc announced as the hooves drummed on the hard
stone of the Beltrevan road, his left hand shaping the three-fingered warding
gesture.

 
          
“On
the Lady’s business,” Kedryn responded, his voice grim.

 
          
“I
have never ridden against a god before,” said the half- breed.

 
          
Tepshen
Lahl smiled briefly and said nothing.

 
          
The
chamber to which Eyrik escorted Wynett was intimate. Scented candles burned in
sconces on the white stone walls and a spray of wild flowers occupied the
center of a table set for dinner with silver platters and exquisite crystal
goblets. Two windows looked out onto the courtyard, the perspective
reassuringly normal after the incongruities of the other rooms she had seen,
though two more distorted spatial dimensions by overlooking the lawns, now
darkening into night. Two chairs faced one another across the table and Eyrik
brought Wynett to the one facing inward, as though aware of the sensory
confusion wrought by the physical impossibilities of the fabulous palace. He
held her chair until she was seated and settled himself on the far side,
reaching across to fill her goblet with ruby wine.

 
          
“I
trust it is to your liking,” he smiled as he filled his own glass.

 
          
Wynett
raised the goblet to her lips, finding the vintage excellent, drinking deep to
quell the turmoil aroused by the image of Kedryn the strange pool had revealed.

 
          
“How
can it be?” she murmured, almost to herself, though Eyrik answered with a smile
and a shrug.

 
          
‘The pool?
Who knows? Different rules govern here.”

 
          
“Did
I truly see him?” she wondered.

 
          
“Aye,
truly,” confirmed her enigmatic host. ‘The pool does not lie.”

 
          
He
gestured at the roast steaming fragrantly on a gleaming platter, surrounded by
succulent vegetables. “May I help you to meat? You must surely be hungry.”

 
          
Wynett
was not sure. She felt sure of hardly anything, save that she was alive—though
not of how, or where—but Eyrik took her silence as agreement and proceeded to
carve the meat, forking thick slices onto her plate, adding vegetables, and she
began to eat more from habit than want of food. Nonetheless, it was delicious
and the first mouthful aroused her appetite, eliciting a pleased smile from the
brownhaired man.

 
          
“It
is good, is it not?” he inquired just as she was about to press him with
further questions, and she smiled faintly, nodding, “It is very good.”

 
          
“I
am delighted,” he said enthusiastically. “I would have your sojourn here be as
pleasant as possible.”

 
          
Wynett
studied his face, wondering, and he smiled, dabbing at his lips with a spotless
napkin before raising his goblet again and declaring, ‘To your reunification.”

 
          
It
seemed a somewhat strange toast, but his expression was without guile and his
smile appeared genuine: she lifted her own goblet and drank in response.

 
          
“Are
there not servants?” she asked as she set the glass down.

 
          
“Do
you require aught else?”

 
          
His
tone was solicitous and Wynett shook her head. “No, your fare is excellent.”

 
          
“Good,”
he murmured, “I was afraid you found some fault in my hospitality.”

 
          
“None,”
she replied, and Eyrik smiled as though relieved.

 
          
“More
wine?”

 
          
Before
she could answer with either affirmative or negative he was pouring the rich
red liquid into her glass, for
all the
world no more
than a man intent on proving himself a good host. Wynett drank again, hardly
aware that he had not answered her question, for he went on speaking,
commenting on the flavor of the vegetables and the meat, asking if the sauce
was to her liking, inviting her comments on the silver and the chamber, his
conversation light, seeming less devious than anxious to please, concerned for
her comfort.

 
          
She
ate her fill and Eyrik removed the platters to a sideboard with the casual
comment that they could be cleared away later, which she took to be
confirmation of unseen servants. He brought a bowl of fruit to the table and
when she selected an apple, insisted on peeling it for her, coring the fruit
and presenting her with neatly cut segments.

 
          
“Thank
you,” she smiled, though she found his attentions a trifle overwhelming.

 
          
Eyrik
beamed, white teeth gleaming in the candlelight, the yellow glow striking gold
from his thick chestnut hair. He ate an apple, too, his incisors cleaving the
fruit sharply as a knife, swallowing wine between bites. Wynett finished her
portion and found
herself
abruptly tired, hiding a
yawn behind her napkin.

 
          
“Would
you retire?” Eyrik asked.

 
          
She
nodded, realizing that her lids drooped, heavy over eyes that were suddenly
blurred with weariness. The candles seemed to waver in their sconces, their
radiance hypnotic, shimmering against the pristine whiteness of the walls. She
yawned again, this time making no effort to conceal it, and Eyrik was instantly
on his feet, coming around the table to draw back her chair. She rose and took
the arm he presented, fatigue filling her
now,
weighting her feet so that the few steps it took to cross the small chamber
seemed ponderous, slowed by her weariness.

 
          
Eyrik
opened the door and they walked out into the courtyard. A full moon hung
directly above the atrium, silvering the vinous growths twining around the
pillars, reflecting from the water of the fountain. The scents of magnolia and
jasmine mingled in air still warm from the sun’s heat, the tendrils rustled by
a hunt, pleasantly cool breeze. Moonlight and shadow made a latticework on the
flagstones, the soft musical tinkling of the fountain an auricular
counterpoint.