Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (37 page)

 
          
Could
that be possible? Certainly, she had suspected her sister harbored
an affection
for Kedryn. She had seen that growing during
their sojourn in Andurel, but dismissed it as meaningless. Ashrivelle had been
mightily disturbed by guilt and her gratitude for Kedryn’s concern had become a
trivial enamoration that Kedryn himself had laughed off.

 
          
Yet
what if Kedryn believed her dead?

 
          
Would
he forget her so swiftly?

 
          
Or
did loss propel him into Ashrivelle’s arms? Did grief seek solace in passion?

 
          
Doubts
swirled in a maelstrom of confusion as Wynett sought to master her
bewilderment. Truth or falsehood, which did the pool show? She folded both
hands about the talisman, willing herself to calm, seeking a tranquillity that
would enable her to properly assess what she had seen and what it meant if what
she had seen was the truth, then hope was lost: Kedryn assumed her dead and
found consolation with her sister. He did not come in search of her, and she
was doomed, presumably, to remain here for . . . for how long? Eyrik had said
time had no meaning in this place, so mayhap for all eternity.

 
          
But
what if those images had been untrue? Then—her mind reeled at the prospect, for
it was in a way more frightening even than the alternative—perhaps Eyrik lied.
And if Eyrik lied about the pool, then mayhap he lied about all else.

 
          
Did
Eyrik lie?

 
          
And
if he lied, to what end?

 
          
If
he was not what he seemed, then what was he?

 
          
Only
one answer seemed valid, and that was a thing that filled her with cold dread.

 
          
She
had been taken by the leviathan, and that monstrous beast was Ashar’s creature.
Eyrik claimed to have rescued her from
its
, and
Ashar’s, clutches, but what if the leviathan had brought her to him?

 
          
Rank
terror numbed Wynett’s mind as the answer presented itself: Eyrik was of
Ashar’s following! She was a prisoner of the god.

 
          
Trembling,
she mounted a prayer to the Lady, the ugly knot of fear clenching tight within
her suggesting that here her prayers might go unheard, that she rested in
Ashar’s grip and not Kedryn, not the Lady, could hear her or save her.

 
          
Her
mouth was dry and she reached for the goblet, wetting lips that shuddered, the
wine tasting sour now as revulsion curdled in her belly. She drank and fastened
her hands tight again on the talisman. It was warm to the touch and she felt a
vibration against her palms, a resonance that seemed to slowly work its way
into her fingers, through her skin to the flesh and blood and bone beneath. Her
trembling slowed and ceased, the dryness that, despite the wine, glued her
lips, dissipated, and she felt that same calm she had experienced first on the
walls of High Fort when Crania joined her mind in linkage with Kedryn’s, and
then again as she and Kedryn stood in opposition to the Messenger. It filled
her with tranquillity and strength, and she felt her panic slough off like a
shed cloak.

 
          
The
talisman told her that Kedryn lived, of that she was certain beyond all doubt.
And if her half of Kyrie’s stone reassured her of Kedryn’s life, then his must
surely do the same: he must know she lived. And if he knew that, he would come
seeking her. How, she was not sure, but that he would, she
knew.
Knew beyond any consideration of alternatives; knew with a
certainty on which she would willingly stake her life.

 
          
And
if Kedryn knew that she lived, he would not dally with Ashrivelle, and that
must mean the pool had lied!

 
          
Wynett
smiled, albeit grimly, at the thought. The pool had lied and therefore likely
Eyrik lied. She could no more trust him than she could any longer trust the
pool.

 
          
She
rose, crossing to the alcove where she splashed her face with cool water, then
sat again, considering her situation.

 
          
Whether
Eyrik was Ashar’s minion, or the god himself, it appeared that for the moment
at least he intended her no harm. Mayhap the talisman deterred him; perhaps the
stone circumvented his powers. She remembered the leviathan threatening from
the doleful mere of the underworld, driven back when Kedryn showed it his
stone, and her plunge into the creature’s jaws. It had not killed her then, so
perhaps it could not while she held the jewel. Perhaps Eyrik—or Ashar!—could
not address physical force so long as she retained Kyrie’s talisman. It had
stood against Taws’s magics, defeating the Messenger, so mayhap it could
withstand his master.

 
          
She
nodded as one thought led to another, aware now of the power flowing from the
stone into her, perhaps not power to overcome Eyrik, but certainly power enough
to circumvent the bewilderment this place instilled, to overcome the despair
that threatened.

 
          
Kedryn
was the Chosen One and the talisman he held imbued him with a strength that
could
overcome Ashar. Was that what lay
behind the deceptions? Did Ashar set her out as bait to lure Kedryn here? Did
the god seek to entrap them both in this separate world, this place where time
was meaningless, where physical dimensions had no reality?

 
          
Or
did Eyrik hope with his blandishments, his cburtesies,
all
his gallantry, to separate her from her half of the stone? Was it his intent to
divide the talismans? To utilize in some way she could not know the very power
that now aided her? If that was his intention, he would find it thwarted, for
no matter what ploys he might use she would not willingly allow the stone to be
taken from her.

 
          
Wynett
sat lost in thought, determined now, not knowing what the next move in the
weird game might be, but resolute in her faith. Kedryn had not deserted her—she
would not believe that!—and would come seeking her. He would find her ready to aid
him: she would not be seduced from that resolve.

 
          
Still
more than a little frightened, but calm now, able to contain her fear, she rose
and undressed, drawing on a silken nightgown before snuffing the candles and
entering the sleeping chamber. She crossed to a window, looking out toward the
woodland. The threatened storm was closer now, the atmosphere static,
the
air so warm and moist she could almost taste it, feel it
crawl upon her skin as if invisible insects scuttled there. No moon or stars
showed, the sky seeming closer, as if it pressed down upon the land, weighted
with its burden of rain. Then lightning danced over the woodlands on white
stilted legs, jagged bolts lancing the distance between sky and earth,
outlining timber tossed in a gale she could not hear. Through the gagging
warmth of the humid air she caught the smell of burning, scorched timber at
first, but then a sweeter, nauseating odor, as though flesh roasted in the
blasts. Abruptly rain fell, suddenly as if aerial floodgates opened, water
falling in a near-solid curtain, shortening her field of vision as swiftly as
might a blindfold flung across her eyes. She could see nothing. Not the woods
or the lawns, only the pervading gray.

 
          
It
should have
freshened
the air, but did not. Instead
the humidity increased, the stench of decay mounting, and Wynett swung the
window closed to shut out that reek. Better, she thought, a hot room than that
stomach-turning odor, and at least the flowers set beside her bed should lend
some lighter scent. But when she turned toward the bed she saw the flowers were
wilted, drooping in the crystal vases, their petals fallen and rotted, brown
with corruption.

 
          
Had
her mood remained as it had been when she retired this might well have sunk her
deeper into misery, for the all- encompassing grayness seemed to isolate her
within the chamber, emphasizing her loneliness, the dreary night conducive to
despondency. Now, however, strengthened by contact with the talisman, she
refused to give sway to that creeping hopelessness. Perhaps this was some
device intended to sap her will: if so, it would fail. She gathered up the
decaying blossoms and carried them to the outer chamber, tossing them into the
hearth, then, fortified by the conviction that Kedryn sought her, and refusing
to allow the logical conclusion of that conviction to daunt her, she climbed
into bed. The sheets were no longer crisp and cool, but heavy, sticky, seeming
to cling to her like cerements, and she cast them aside. Then, clutching the
talisman in both hands, she composed herself for sleep.

 
          
When
slumber finally came it was troubled, a kaleidoscope of images disporting in
her racing mind. She dreamed of Kedryn, seeing him embrace Ashrivelle, and of
her sister in the arms of Hattim Sethiyan. She saw Ashrivelle and Hattim plot
to slay Darr. She dreamed of Eyrik, who pointed to the pool and said, “It tells
only the truth,” and of the Messenger, who opened his arms to her and said,
“Come to me.” She saw the leviathan rise again from the Idre, and the Horde storm
against the walls of High Fort. She descended again into the netherworld,
finding herself on the shore, where the gray mist parted to reveal half-seen
shapes that beckoned, urging her to join them.

 
          
She
awoke sweat-soaked, trembling as she fought the thing that clutched her and
sought to drag her down until she opened her eyes to see the sheets wound about
her lower limbs. She pushed them away and rose, throwing off her damp
nightgown, telling herself that the dreams were no more than that—night phantoms.
Nonetheless, they left a sour taint and she fell to her knees beside the bed,
intoning a prayer that returned a measure of calm, the ritual driving away the
lingering vestiges of nocturnal panic.

 
          
Outside,
rain still drummed, a steady cacophany, the panes of the windows blurred by the
downpour, opaque and gray. Wynett rose and crossed to the embrasure, seeing a
landscape emptied of perspective as though thick fog concealed the prospect.
She turned from it and went to the alcove in the outer chamber, where she
bathed. Returning to the wardrobes she noticed that the flowers she had
deposited in the hearth were now withered, sere as if struck by winter’s chill.
She ignored them, selecting the most modest gown available, the neck high, the
sleeves long, its color a rusty maroon. She drew it on and began to brush her
hair, wondering as she did so how she should approach Eyrik.

 
          
To
voice her suspicions seemed a dangerous course should they prove correct and
she decided to pretend belief in his goodwill. Even now she was not absolutely
sure he meant her harm, but she knew that she could no ionger trust him. At
least, she reminded herself, not until she could know for certain what his
ultimate intentions might be; and should they prove hostile, then to reveal her
doubts too early would be to forfeit what little advantage she might have
gained.

 
          
Nervous,
she rose from the dressing table and crossed to the door, opening the portal on
a scene as miserable as that visible from the outer windows. The vinous ceiling
held off the worst of the barrage that rattled upon the courtyard, transforming
the atrium from its usual exotic splendor to an aqueous gloom, but heavy
droplets fell with metronome regularity upon the stoa and the light was dim,
depressing as she moved to the stairway and descended, one hand firm upon the
talisman as she steeled herself to face Eyrik, unpleasantly aware that perhaps
she dealt with a being of unimaginable power.

 
          
Barris
Edon was intrigued by the comings and goings that enlivened the otherwise dull
duty of the watch. He did not crave excitement, having had sufficient of that
when he stood on the walls of High Fort as the barbarians stormed the bastion,
and was generally content to dispense his duty as lookout and take his turn on
guard rounds with the uncomplaining acceptance of any regular soldier. Mostly
there was little more to lookout duty than studying the fishing craft putting
out from the town and shouting warning of the merchants bringing supplies to
the citadel, but of late he found himself speculating on the king’s unexpected
visit and equally unexpected departure into the Beltrevan. No explanation had
been offered by Lord Rycol and none forthcoming from the officers Barris had
questioned, whose knowledge, he suspected was as limited as his own.