Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (34 page)

 
          
“Should
we encounter woodlanders, might you not tell them we travel under religious vows?
That those require us to travel alone?”

 
          
Brannoc’s
swarthy face creased in a frown as he contemplated the notion, then he
shrugged, snorting half-hearted laughter. “It is not that far removed from the
truth. Mayhap they would accept it. But mayhap also they would follow us
anyway.”

 
          
“Our
horses lend an advantage,” Kedryn pressed. “How could they pace us?”

 
          
“They
are of the forests,” replied the half-breed, bluntly.

 
          
“So
are you,” said Kedryn.

 
          
Brannoc
nodded, dark eyes fixed on Kedryn. “Are you sure no blood must be spilled?
Even though clemency jeopardize our mission?”

 
          
“Aye,”
the younger man confirmed, still holding the talisman, “I am.”

 
          
‘Then
we had best travel warily,” sighed Brannoc.

 
          
“And
soon,” Kedryn declared, wishing to bring the discussion to an end.

 
          
He
swallowed a mouthful of water, thus missing the look Brannoc exchanged with
Tepshen, and climbed to his feet. The others rose with him and they removed the
hobbles, settling packs in place and mounting the rested animals.

 
          
“We
must ride west a little,” said Brannoc. “The ford lies in that direction.”

 
          
Kedryn
urged his stallion to a trot, following the bank of the Alagor, his face turned
toward the forest’s edge looming across the water. Tepshen and Brannoc fell in
behind him, riding close.

 
          
“Should
it happen ...” The kyo touched the hilt of the long eastern blade slung across
his back.

 
          
“Aye,”
nodded Brannoc.

 
          
They
rode for half the afternoon before the half-breed announced the river safe to
cross. There was a beach of shale settled within a cup of stone, the Alagor
rippling clear over the pebbles, and Brannoc took the lead, urging his gray
horse down into the water. The animal snorted a protest, but forged ahead,
rapidly moving chest-deep into the stream. Soon it was swimming, Brannoc
slipping from the saddle to clutch the horn as the beast carried him across. He
emerged dripping on the far bank and scanned the timber before waving to the
others. Tepshen separated the pack animals, handing one halter line to Kedryn,
who tugged the reluctant horse behind him as he heeled his black into the
river. With the sight of Brannoc’s gray on the opposite bank, the stallion
struck out not unwillingly, towing both Kedryn and the smaller horse behind.
The current was strong, and the water cold despite the summer sun shining on
the surface, and Kedryn emerged some distance down from Brannoc. He walked back
along the bank as Tepshen crossed, the kyo striking out at an angle that
brought him level with Brannoc’s position even as Kedryn reached the beach.

 
          
The
bank was shadowed by the mass of trees arid the three men shivered, emptying
water from their boots and drying their weapon before remounting and striking
into the timber. They ignored the discomfort of soaking garments for the sake
of speed, and it was not until the shadows elongated, presaging night’s fell
that they halted again, building a fire around which they huddled, steam rising
from their clothes.

 
          
The
next day Kedryn was awake with the birds that chorused a greeting to the dawn,
aware that he now stood in Ashar’s territory, anxious to press on. He built the
fire to fresh life and checked the horses, finding none of them the worse for
their duncking. Soon Tepshen and Brannoc rose and they ate a hurried breakfast,
then mounted, the half-breed taking the lead again as they rode steadily deeper
into the Beltrevan, steadily closer to Drul’s Mound and whatever unknown
hazards awaited there.

 
          
The
wagon rumbled with agonizing slowness over the dusty road that trailed the Idre
northward, its passage marked by the gray-white clouds the wheels and hooves
raised. Wyxx sat stolid as ever on the seat, holding the four horses to the
pace he maintained was the swiftest they could safely manage, Gerat beside him,
Ashrivelle and Donella in the box behind, the Paramount Sister turning to speak
with the blond woman.

 
          
“I
am not sure how I may aid them,” she said, “but I am certain I can do it better
from High Fort than Estrevan. The Sacred City is too far removed from the
Beltrevan, whilst Rycol’s hold sits on the very doorstep.”

 
          
“But
what
can
you do?” Ashrivelle
demanded. “If they succeed in entering the netherworld then surely they will go
beyond even the compass of your powers.”

 
          
“I
am not sure,” Gerat repeated patiently, curbing the temptation to wonder if it
had not been better to send Ashrivelle on to Estrevan from Genyff. Since
departing the riverside settlement she had done little but ply Gerat with
questions, each one concerned with Kedryn’s welfare, and it seemed to Gerat
that her interest was more than sisterly. Ashrivelle, she thought, transferred
her affections, though why that should trouble her she was not clear. The
princess would, after all, go on to Estrevan if she remained intent on
expunging her self-imposed guilt by seeking the life of a lay Sister, and even
should she choose to remit that decision, Kedryn’s love for Wynett was not of a
kind to be easily forgotten. He would not, Gerat was confident, turn in search
of solace to Ashrivelle. If, she reminded herself, he emerged unscathed from
Ashar’s domain.

 
          
“Proximity
may be of benefit,” she continued, “and Rycol will send mehdri with word to my
Sisters of what is attempted. Mayhap we shall be able to establish a connection
with Estrevan through the agency of our Senders.”

 
          
Had
she hoped that would silence Ashrivelle it was forlorn optimism, for the
princess frowned and demanded, “I had thought the Gadrizels denied such
linkage.”

 
          
“They
do,” Gerat answered, stifling a sigh. “Usually, they do; but if Senders are
located at the entrance to the Morfah Pass—then through it—and one travels to
High Fort, the natural barrier imposed by the mountains may be overcome, and I
shall be able to draw on Estrevan’s power to augment my own.”

 
          
“But
if you do not know
how,”
Ashrivelle
began, cut off by Gerat’s abrupt response.

 
          
“Guidance
may be granted me, Ashrivelle. And you must learn to accept that the Lady works
in her own ways—she does not always set down exactly what we must do, but
leaves some work to us.
By establishing contact with
Estrevan—
if l
am able—then I shall at
least have the resources of all the Sisterhood to draw on.
Mayhap I
shall then be able to extend the Lady’s power into the Beltrevan, or even into
the netherworld, I am not sure, but I shall do all I can think of and at
present that
is
all I can think of.”

 
          
Ashrivelle
nodded thoughtfully and Gerat could see fresh questions forming in her blue
eyes. Enough, she thought, you have asked me enough when I have sufficient
doubts of my own at a time I should have none. Seeking to forestall the blond
woman she turned away, studying the road ahead. It stretched before her like a
challenge, straight and long, leading to High Fort, certainly, but oh, so
slowly, so very slowly when, she
did
feel sure, time was an essential factor in the godly game.

 
          
She
heard Donella murmur something to Ashrivelle and blessed the young acolyte for
her perspicacity as the princess fell silent, leaving her to her own thoughts.

 
          
Did
any of them, she wondered, realize what lay at stake?
More
than the lives of Kedryn and Wynett, Tepshen Lahl and Brannoc, though those
were, without doubt, precious enough.
The cold-eyed easterner and the
laughing half-breed were brave men and their lives would be sadly mourned
should they fall. Wynett, still soul kin for all she had relinquished the
devotions of the Sorority, was vital to Kedryn’s strength, a part of him now;
and Kedryn was the Chosen One. If Ashar should defeat him there would be none
to oppose the god, none capable of doing more than dying in denial of his
ghastly might. And should Ashar succeed in securing the talismans his might
would become insuperable.

 
          
The
thought chilled her, her mind moving instinctively away from its contemplation.
She forced herself to concentrate upon it.

 
          
If
Ashar should secure both talismans he would be able to surmount the barriers
established by the Lady to hold him beyond the Lozins. He would have no further
need of minions such as the Messenger or Hattim Sethiyan to work his will in
the Kingdoms for he would emerge himself, an awful, godly plague upon mankind.
The threat of the Horde was as nothing beside that danger. He would stalk like
destruction incarnate through the Kingdoms, reaping lives as those farmers
beside the road scythed the early wheat. There would be only desolation then
and everything the Lady had given, everything Estrevan sought to nurture, would
become ashes and annihilation.

 
          
Was
that the mad god's intent, ultimately? Was that the end he worked toward? The
leviathan sent not to destroy Kedryn as she had at first suspected, but to
bring the talismans—or one, at least—within Ashar’s grasp? Were that the case
then the stone could be in no firmer hands than Wynett’s, for she would surely
not relinquish it willingly, and to utilize its power it must be given of
Wynett’s free will. And yet . . . and yet, could even Wynett stand against the
blandishments of that primal being? The god of lies, of deceits, the god of
duplicity, he was all of those, and the face he showed Wynett might seem fair.
Might—Gerat’s hands clenched into fists at the thought—seduce even Wynett into
compliance.

 
          
Games
within games, Gerat thought. Beside this the suborning of Hattim Sethiyan is as
nothing; the threat of the Horde a clumsy ploy. It is a game that forces the
players to conform to rules they know nothing of, for the rules are established
by Ashar as he sees fit. Should Ashar secure both halves of the talisman all is
lost, and even now Kedryn brings the one half to him. Yet Kedryn
must
enter the netherworld, for if he
does not then Ashar holds Wynett and her half and the Chosen One is
consequently weakened by that loss. And the only sure way to defeat the god is
to believe in Qualle’s words and trust in the Lady to see Kedryn through, for
only by entering Ashar’s domain may he obtain the means of Ashar’s destruction.

 
          
“Lady,
watch over him,” she said to herself. “Watch over them all and endow them with
your strength that they may succeed.”

 
          
She
did not add the ugly thought that lingered at the tail of the prayer:
even though it means their deaths
,
let them succeed.

 
          
She
pushed that from her mind for it chilled her and she felt icy fingers play upon
her spine. She shivered, feeling her flesh creep, and realized that cold
gripped her, as if she sat, not upon a wagon seat warmed by the bright sun of a
summer morning, but in some hibernal place where frigid vapors wreathed her in
wintry rigor.

 
          
“What
ails you, Sister?”

 
          
She
heard Donella’s voice and turned in startled surprise to find the acolyte’s
brown eyes studying her with nervous concern, seeing Wyxx, too, cast a curious
gaze her way. She realized that her teeth chattered and clenched them against
the brumal chill.

 
          
She
began to say, “Nothing,” but saw only mounting alarm in Donella’s eyes as the
word came out a stutter, a castanet rattling of tooth against tooth.

 
          
Then
it was gone and the air was warm again, the only hint of chill the pleasant
zephyr that blew off the Idre, and she said it: “Nothing. I lost myself in
contemplation.”

 
          
Donella
continued to stare at her and she smiled, willing a reassurance she did not
entirely share on the acolyte.

 
          
“It
was nothing. The breeze blew chill for a moment and I was far away.”

 
          
But
she knew it was not that, for the chill was such as strikes when the mind’s
inner eye discovers some hidden watcher and the body reacts. It was a chill of
fear, of loathing of the concealed gaze.

 
          
Does
Ashar watch me?
she
wondered. Can the presence of
Wynett, of the talisman, within his realm allow him to spy?

 
          
Cautiously
she opened her mind, sending forth wary mental feelers, but there was nothing,
only Donella’s concern and Wyxx’s placidity and Ashrivelle’s confusion. She
shut those out, not wishing to invade the privacy of her companions, and found
nothing else. I must be careful, she thought. More care-
fill
than I have ever been, for I must give nothing away to the god. Deliberately,
she filled her mind with thoughts of the Lady, letting her gaze wander over the
pleasant landscape of Tamur that stretched about her, over the fields and
woods, the rolling hills in the distance and the higher wolds ahead. They
basked in the sun, the sky a pure blue, white clouds like sails against the
azure. Birds sang and insects buzzed, the horses made a steady drumbeat on the
road, and in a little while she was calm again. Calm, but still wary.

 
          
Sunlight
dappled die forest trail with harlequin patterns of shadow and brightness as
Brannoc led the way steadily deeper into the timber. The Alagor shone silver
through the trees, invisible more often than not as the half-breed took them
along the secret ways of the Beltrevan. It was so different now than when
Kedryn had last seen it, the trees rimed white with frost, their boughs
heavy-laden with snow,
the
trails vanished under
winter’s white mande. Now all was green, the paths cut dark, bare earth where
feet and hooves stamped out the grass that otherwise spread everywhere the
brackens and brambles allowed. And it was noisy. The Alagor sounded a
susurrating background melody and the wind rustled the foliage overhead, birds chorused,
small, unseen animals chattered, and occasionally a startled deer charged from
their advance. The shod hooves of the five horses drummed against the trail,
and for all the oiling and tying-down of tack and gear Kedryn could hear the
creak of leather and the jingle of metal.

 
          
He
studied Brannoc’s back, seeing the man turn his plaited head steadily from side
to side, knowing that his forester’s ears were attuned to any sound that did
not belong among the natural symphony of the timberland. Then Brannoc raised a
hand in warning and curbed his mount to a halt. Behind, Kedryn heard the soft
scrape of leather on linen as Tepshen unlatched his scabbard, letting the blade
slide down from shoulder to hip in readiness. He turned, glancing at the kyo,
who stared back with impassive gaze, and swung in his saddle to watch Brannoc
again.

 
          
The
half-breed beckoned them forward and they moved up at a walk. The trail widened
where he waited, paths entering from left and right to form a crossroads at
which Brannoc pointed.

 
          
“Tracks.”
He gestured to the right; Kedryn saw only the
hard-packed dirt. “They move in the same direction; slowly.”

 
          
“Which tribe?”
Kedryn asked.

 
          
“Caroc
by my guess,” Brannoc responded, dismounting and tossing his reins to the
younger man. He walked a few paces along the trail with his eyes on the ground,
then
knelt to examine the spoor more closely.
“A family group.
Perhaps five warriors and
as many women.
Likely some children and oldsters.”

 
          
“Peaceful?”
demanded Tepshen.

 
          
Brannoc
shrugged.
“Probably.”

 
          
“What
do we do?” Kedryn wondered as the half-breed remounted.