Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (33 page)

 
          
“He
comes, have no doubt of it,” Eyrik assured her. “How long the journey may take
him I cannot know for sure, but he does come. Of that I am certain.”

 
          
There
was a note of anticipatory triumph in his tone that Wynett assumed stemmed from
his obvious desire to please, and she smiled as he rose, offering his arm,
forgetting any further questions as he escorted her across the yard to a
shadowed door of dark blue wood.

 
          
It
opened directly into the blue-lit chamber containing the pool and without
preamble Eyrik brought her to the circle, leaning forward with one hand resting
casually at her back. Wynett scarcely noticed the touch, peering down into the
argent disk with wide eyes and hope-filled heart.

 
          
“Do
you see it?” Eyrik murmured, his soft question seeming faraway, whispery as
water rustling over stones.

 
          
Wynett
stared at the immobile surface, at first seeing only the translucent liquid,
then saw it shimmer again, rippling without movement, an image forming, unclear
at first, but then becoming lucid. She stifled a gasp as the oracle revealed
not Kedryn, but a wagon, painted pale blue and drawn by four horses. A
grizzled, gray-headed man dressed in a simple tunic of brown leather held the
reins and beside him sat a woman wearing the blue robe of Estrevan, her hair a
sleek black, her eyes a startling blue.

 
          
“Gerat!”
Wynett mouthed.

 
          
“Gerat?”
queried Eyrik.

 
          
“The
Paramount Sister of Estrevan,” Wynett whispered, her gaze still fastened on the
vision.

 
          
She
did not hear Eyrik’s sharp intake of breath because she was watching Gerat turn
on the wagon seat to speak with the women riding in the box. One she did not
recognize, save as an acolyte, but the other she knew instantly. That
sun-golden hair, like the features, so similar to her own, belonged to no one
other than her sister and she said aloud, “It is Ashrivelle.”

 
          
The
image flickered on the name, shifting and blurring so that her only other
impression was of sunlight and a dusty trail, some hint of running water in the
distance. It dissolved even as she willed it to remain and the pool was once
more clear and fathomless.

 
          
“Your sister.”
Eyrik’s voice was thoughtful.
“And the Paramount Sister of Estrevan.”

 
          
Wynett
nodded, confused. “Why that?” she asked. “Why did I see Gerat and Ashrivelle?”

 
          
Eyrik
shrugged,
his smile consoling. “I do not know. The
pool reveals what it will. Mayhap they ride with Kedryn.”

 
          
“I
did not see Kedryn,” Wynett responded, her voice forlorn.

 
          
“But
they are doubtless linked to Kedryn.”

 
          
Eyrik
stared at the pool, his comment absent, as though other thoughts filled his
mind. Wynett turned to face him. “Ashrivelle was with us on the barge,” she
offered.

 
          
“And
so you know she, too, survived,” he said. “Is that not good news?”

 
          
“Aye,
but I had hoped to see Kedryn.” She knew that her tone was petulant and felt
immediately ashamed. “Can you not summon his image?”

 
          
“I
do not control the pool,” Eyrik told her. “Much as I would grant your every
wish, I cannot summon that which it will not show. I am sorry.”

 
          
“No,”
Wynett murmured, “it is I who should apologize.' You do your best to aid me,
yet I behave like a child when I fail to see what I want.”

 
          
“You
could never behave like a child,” he retorted gallantly. “Your disappointment
is understandable, and consequently entirely forgivable.”

 
          
“Perhaps
later,” she wondered.

 
          
“Perhaps,”
he agreed. “You may come here whenever you wish—you do not need me. Simply
enter the blue door and you will find the pool.”

 
          
Wynett
frowned incomprehension. “I had believed your agency was necessary,” she said.

 
          
Eyrik
shook his head.
“At first, perhaps.
But now the pool
will respond to you alone. And if I am to aid you, I shall need to work alone
at times.” He drew her toward the door, smiling reassuringly. “There is a
certain amount of . . . danger ... in what I must do, and I would not subject
you to that.”

 
          
Wynett
was about to ask him exactly what was involved, but they were at the door and
he was leading her through into the courtyard, beaming as he tilted his head
back to stare up at the brilliant sun, suggesting that they walk beyond the
walls, and before she could voice her queries he had her hand and was moving
toward a far door, enthusiastically describing the glories of the gardens she
had not yet seen.

 
          
Without
chance of finding remounts in the forest country, Kedryn was forced to hold a
steady pace for fear of winding the horses. His impulse was to charge headlong
into the Beltrevan, but common sense prevailed and he held the black stallion
to a canter that ate the miles without exhausting the animal until they turned
off the canyon trail and began the arduous climb into the heights of the
Lozins. They made no attempt to conceal their coming, relying on the clusters
of red and white feathers, symbolic of peaceful intent, that Brannoc tied to
the bridles and their scabbards, and the treaties concluded with the tribes, to
guarantee their safe passage.

 
          
For
the first three days they descended the scarp of the mountains, traversing bare
flanks of rock where only pines caught lonely footing, moving along ravines and
over slopes of treacherous scree, moving steadily northwestward. It was a
switchback trail, each vertiginous descent seeming matched by a climb, the
gulleys that Brannoc assured his impatient companion were shortcuts seeming
always to lead to yet another ascent, sometimes so precipitous that they needed
to dismount and lead the animals, bringing them singly to the crests. Kedryn
wondered if the straighter trail north along the Idre might not have been the
swifter, but bowed before the half-breed’s superior knowledge of the mountains,
allowing Brannoc to pick their way as he curbed his haste, fighting the
temptation of impetuosity. They rode from dawn to noon to dusk, halting only to
rest the animals and snatch food from the packs Rycol had provided, camping as
darkness fell, too weary to do more than build a fire, eat, and roll themselves
into their blankets to sleep in preparation for departure at first light.

 
          
Then,
on the fourth day, the craggy terrain gentled, the stands of pine becoming
thicker and more numerous, clumps of sparse
grass showing
where soil found purchase on the stone. Brannoc led the way along a twisting
ravine that began to climb toward its northern end and they emerged onto a
small plateau. The half-breed reined in; staring ahead with his mouth curved in
a smile, one hand rising to encompass the vista spread before them.

 
          
“The
Beltrevan,” he said softly, almost reverentially.

 
          
Kedryn
and Tepshen halted to either side, silent as they studied the panorama below.
Both had seen the forest country before, but its sheer enormity still
impressed, its vastness breathtaking. Before them the ground slanted down to
the bend of a river, the waterway a boundary between foothills and forest.
Beyond the river the timber started, an immense ocean of woodland that
stretched to the far horizons, a harlequin riot of greens that dulled and faded
into blue where forest met sky, merging, seeming to run on forever, endlessly.
Summer brought it to its fullest flourish, obscuring all details beneath the
burgeoning mass of leaf-decked branches, the river turning into the trees lost
from sight as if swallowed by the woodland, the timber possessing the world
with an ageless dendrological majesty.

 
          
“Where
does Drul’s Mound lie?” Kedryn
demanded,
the prospect
of navigating that arboreal sea daunting.

 
          
Brannoc’s
hand swung to point a fraction north of northwest.
“In that
direction.
The river is the Alagor: we follow it.”

 
          
Kedryn
grunted and drove his heels against the stallion’s flanks, urging the big horse
forward over the rim of the plateau without further comment. Tepshen glanced at
Brannoc and took his own mount over, the two packhorses behind. Brannoc sat for
a moment, staring at the timber country, then made the warding gesture and
followed his two comrades.

 
          
The
slope was steep at first, but then leveled to a more gradual descent as it
approached the river, grass becoming more abundant with the presence of water.
It was close on noon and Brannoc suggested they halt before fording and allow
the animals to forage. With only a small display of reluctance Kedryn agreed
and they dismounted, hobbling the animals. The horses began to crop
enthusiastically on the herbage and the three men chewed smoked meat and dried
fruit.

 
          
“We
are likely to encounter woodlanders ere long,” Brannoc remarked.
“Caroc, most likely, but later Drott.
Should any question
our presence, we are come to seek out Cord.”

 
          
“I
have no
byavan,”
Kedryn returned,
referring to the lingua franca of the tribes.

 
          
“No matter.”
Brannoc shrugged negligently. “I speak both
Drott and Caroc. Should we be questioned I shall explain that you are the
hef-Alador, and come to visit with your old friend.”

 
          
Kedryn
grinned at the notion of a casual visit to the
ulan
of the fiercest tribe, but Tepshen frowned, turning a doubtful
face to Brannoc.

 
          
“What
if they decide to escort us?” he demanded.

 
          
“I
shall endeavor to dissuade them,” Brannoc answered. “If they will not be
dissuaded . . . ,” he shrugged, “. . . then we must kill them.”

 
          
Kedryn’s
grin froze at this casual suggestion and he shook his head. “I would not see
innocent blood spilled.”

 
          
“There
is little innocent blood in the Beltrevan,” said Brannoc.

 
          
“Nonetheless,”
Kedryn insisted. “I prefer to avoid such callous action. It smacks too much of
Ashar’s way. We need the Lady’s blessing on what we attempt and that may be
withheld should we resort to Ashar’s means.”

 
          
“Mayhap
the Lady will bring us through unseen,” Brannoc retorted, “but should some
wandering band of Drott take it upon
themselves
to
provide escort to Cord we shall forfeit all chance of entering Drubs Mound. No
matter what regard he holds you in, he will not permit you to rummage through
that tomb.”

 
          
“Pray
that is not necessary,” Tepshen suggested. “And if it is, leave the killing to
Brannoc and me.”

 
          
“I
would not jeopardize our mission or your souls,” Kedryn argued, “and I believe
that wanton killing may thwart the protections Gerat gave you.”

 
          
“My
soul is my own,” the kyo returned calmly. “My duty is to you. If killing aids
your mission, then kill I shall.”

 
          
“I
will endeavor to avoid contact,” Brannoc added. “It may be that we can reach
the Mound unseen. If not . . . well, let us extemporize.”

 
          
Kedryn
found himself in a quandary. Speed was of the essence if they were to reach
Drul’s Mound before the summer

 
          
Gathering,
and that speed would be greatly reduced should they need to skulk through the
forests like night-come thieves. Fear for Wynett prompted him to accept the
expedient measure, and he recognized the sense of Tepshen’s dubiety: the
company of tribesmen might well thwart his purpose. Yet he could not accept
that casual killing would find favor with the Lady, and he was certain beyond
any doubt that he must fail without her blessing. He gnawed on the problem, a
hand moving unthinking to the talisman beneath his shirt, tugging it loose that
he might enclose it in his fist. He felt its vibration and turned toward
Brannoc.