Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (7 page)

 
          
“And,”
smiled his father, “to allow
yourself
a little
freedom, mayhap?”

 
          
Kedryn
smiled back, unabashed as he said, “And that, too.”

 
          
“There
is another has a say in this,” suggested Yrla, “and we have not yet heard from
her.
Wynett?
Your part in this is vital, as royal heir
and Kedryn’s wife, equally because you hold one half of the talisman—do you
have comment?”

 
          
Wynett’s
blue eyes were brimmed with love as she looked toward Kedryn. “I believe my husband
has only the good of the Kingdoms at heart,” she said firmly. “And I believe
that the Lady guides him in this. I stand with him in this matter.” Yrla
nodded, seeming pleased with the response, saying, “I cannot fault you;
nor
Kedryn.”

           
“Kemm,” said Kedryn, “you have not
yet spoken.”

 
          
The
heir of Kesh shrugged, looking uncomfortable to find himself the focus of
attention. He glanced at his father and said softly, “If Kedryn takes the High
Throne who may gainsay him? As king he is able to declare for a council.”

 
          
“You
lend weight to my argument,” Kedryn smiled, ignoring Jarl’s snort. “To prevent
such arbitrary declarations I would have this council formed. Not even the king
may stand above the Kingdoms’ law.”

 
          
“You
turn a neat phrase,” Jarl grunted, though his tone was milder than before, “and
it seems.I am out-argued.”

 
          
“Do
you then agree?” asked Kedryn.

 
          
Jarl
shrugged expressively. “I will not oppose you.”

 
          
“There
is much to discuss, however,” murmured Bedyr, smiling at the Keshi. “The formation
of this council will require careful thought.”

 
          
“I
look to you all for advice on that,” Kedryn nodded. “We must agree the numbers,
and the manner in which the councillors be chosen.”

 
          
“Aye,”
Bedyr agreed. “There will be those who see such a thing as a means to personal
aggrandizement. We
shall needs
take care to weed such
out.”

 
          
“That
may be done easily enough.” Wynett smiled, glancing at Brannoc. “Do you recall
how once this wolf’s-head’s loyalty was questioned? And how the matter was
resolved?”

 
          
“By the Lady!”
Bedyr chuckled. “I do; and you have the
answer.”

 
          
Wynett
saw Jarl’s frown of incomprehension and said, “When Kedryn first came to High
Fort with Bedyr they required a guide to take them into the Beltrevan, my Lord
Jarl. Brannoc here was suggested by your own chatelain, Fengrif, but Commander
Rycol doubted Brannoc’s honesty and so I was called upon to utilize my talent
to look into his soul that I might determine his intentions.”

 
          
“Which
were indisputably honest,” Brannoc muttered.

 
          
“Indeed,”
Wynnet confirmed, her lovely face mischievous as she added, “In that respect,
at least. But the point is
,
I was able to discern the
innermost loyalties. I am no longer able to exercise such a talent, but there
are Sisters in all the Kingdoms capable of the same—let them determine the
intentions of the candidates.”

 
          
“An
excellent suggestion,” Bethany complimented.

 
          
“Would
you bring the Sisterhood within die political arena?” asked Jarl dubiously.

 
          
“Are
we not already there?” countered the Paramount Sister. “We advise the king; you
lords seek our guidance; you send your daughters to Estrevan. Wynett speaks
sense, Jarl.”

 
          
“So
be it.” The swarthy Keshi shrugged his resignation and reached for the
decanter, filling a goblet. “I grow old, I think, and mayhap I am too set in my
ways. I bow before this onslaught and acquiesce to our new king and his
supporters."

 
          
He
raised the cup in toast and Kedryn laughed, sliding from the embrasure to dike
up his own cup.

 
          
“To the Kingdoms, Jarl.
To the future of
the Kingdoms.”

 
          
“Aye.”
Jarl smiled now, nodding.
“To the
Kingdoms.”

 
          
Kedryn
drank thirstily, grateful the hardest part was done. The night was old and he
had, from the befurred feel of his tongue, spent most of it arguing his points,
winning slow agreement from one after the other until only Jarl, ever the
traditionalist, remained. Now it seemed the Keshi lord was won over and there
remained only the practical details to settle. He stretched, flexing muscles he
had not realized were so tense, and settled into a chair. Wynett caught his
eye, smiling fondly, and he smiled back.

 
          
“So
when shall you be crowned?”

 
          
Jarl’s
question brought him from his contemplation of the luminous dance the
candlelight played in her hair and he shrugged, thinking that he would rather find
their bed than spend time in further discussion.

 
          
“When
think you best?” he asked diplomatically.

 
          
“Soon,”
replied the Keshi, seeming not at all weary.

 
          
“Preparation
is necessary,” Bedyr interjected. “I think it wise that the nobles of the
Kingdoms be present when Kedryn announces this council, and it will take time
to gather them in.”

 
          
“They
will form the council,” Kedryn nodded. “Initially, at least, so they had best
be here.”

 
          
“Initially?”
asked Jarl.

 
          
Kedryn
nodded again, hoping what he was about to say would not result in further
disagreement. “There is no reason why the council should be limited to those of
noble birth. Once it is properly formed I do not see why commoners should not
find a place within its ranks.”

 
          
Jarl
stared at him with hooded eyes, then, to Kedryn’s surprise, ducked his head
once and said, “Why not? If we are to upend all tradition, let us do it
thoroughly.”

 
          
“Mehdri
can be dispatched on the morrow.” Bedyr glanced to the windows, through which
the moon was visibly lower in the sky and corrected himself.
“Today.
By the next full moon all needed should be here.”

 
          
Kedryn
swallowed, thinking of long weeks confined in Andurel,
then
stifled a sigh that elicited a chuckle from Brannoc. “I accept whatever date
you set.”

 
          
‘There
will be little enough time in which to prepare,” said Arlynne enthusiastically.
“Gowns must be made, the celebrations organized; there will be so much to do.”

 
          
Yrla
caught her son’s eye then, her full lips curved in a sympathetic smile. “If you
are agreeable, Kedryn, I believe Arlynne and I can successfully arrange all
such matters.”

 
          
“I
leave it entirely to you.” Kedryn’s response was no less enthusiastic than
Arlynne’s, whose eyes glowed at the prospect.

 
          
“So
be it,” Bedyr said, grinning at the relief he saw on Kedryn’s face. “And for
now I suggest we have accomplished enough. Shall we find our beds?”

 
          
Kedryn
nodded eagerly, lifting from his chair,
then
halting
as Wynett coughed. He turned toward her, a question in his eyes.
“ There
is one matter we should settle swiftly,” she
murmured.
“That of my sister.”

 
          
“Ashrivelle?”
Kedryn’s face became apologetic: he had
forgotten about Ashrivelle.

 
          
“Aye,”
Wynett confirmed, her pretty face become serious. “She remains intent on
seeking retreat in Estrevan, but for that she requires the royal permission.”

 
          
“It
is given,” Kedryn declared. “Or will be, once I am crowned.”

 
          
“And
an escort,” Wynett added.

 
          
Kedryn
stifled the grin that threatened to burst forth: in all the debating he had
forgotten both Wynett’s sibling and the promise he had made earlier. “She shall
have it,” he declared, “as befits the queen’s sister. Sister Bethany, is it not
customary for the king to seek Estrevan’s blessing?”

 
          
Bethany
ducked her head, light glinting on the silver strands, and said, “It is, though
it is not always observed.”

 
          
“We
shall not let all tradition go,” Kedryn announced. “After the coronation—and
the formation of the council—Wynett and I shall accompany Ashrivelle to the
Sacred City.”

 
          
Jarl
opened his mouth to protest, but before he was able to speak Bethany said, “A
most excellent notion. Let all the folk of the Kingdoms see that Estrevan
favors both your ascension and the formation of the council and both shall be
the stronger.”

 
          
Jarl’s
protest was still-born, becoming instead a grunt of surrender.

 
          
“I
will tell her,” said Wynett, her smile radiant.

 
          
“And
now may we retire?” asked Kedryn.

 
          
A
chorus of agreement answered the question and they rose to find their
respective chambers.

 
          
Those
occupied by Kedryn and his bride were the closest and they bade the others
goodnight at the door, entering a room still warm from the fire banked in the
low hearth. Kedryn felt
a weariness
such as he had not
known since the battle with

 
          
Taws,
and at the same time
an elation
at the successful
accomplishment of his scheme. He crossed the darkened room to the sleeping
chamber beyond, where two thick candles burned in crystal cases, lending both a
mellow light and a pleasant perfume to the welcome sight of their bed. Through
the window he could see the moon was almost down, the sky fading into the utter
blackness that precedes the dawn. He tugged at the fastenings of his tunic,
tossing it carelessly to a chair and fell onto the bed, reaching down to unlace
his boots. Wynett loosed her gown and slid the silk over her hips, its rustling
attracting his gaze so that he paused in his own undressing to watch her. She
was unembarrassed by his attention, becoming, rather, coquettish as she let
hill her undergarments and raised her arms to unpin her piled hair, the
movement emphasizing the swell of her breasts so that his breath caught, his
eyes fixed on the enticing curves of her slender body. Naked, she shook her
hair loose, letting it fall in golden waves about her pale shoulders, smiling as
she saw him watching. He dragged off his boots, kicking them aside as he worked
on the fixings of his breeks, stumbling out of them as he hauled his shirt over
his head.

 
          
“For
one who claims no skills in diplomacy you were most eloquent,” she murmured as
his feet tangled in the discarded breeks and he fell sideways, head lost in the
shirt;

 
          
A
muffled grunt was her only answer until he struggled free of the garment. He
pushed it aside and wriggled farther onto the bed, grinning. “You think so?”

 
          
“Aye,”
she said gravely, “and you must be tired for it.”

 
          
“Not
too tired,” he answered, reaching for her.

 
          
She
stepped toward the couch and his hands found her hips, drawing her toward him
until her knees met the side and she fell forward, onto him.