Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (9 page)

 
          
Brannoc
shook his head, extracting coins from the stack at his elbow and counting
diem
carefully onto the table.

 
          
“That
is everything I won from you.”

 
          
Tepshen
nodded sagely, die corners of his mouth curving slightly as he remarked, “A
battle is not won until the last blow falls.”

 
          
“Eastern
wisdom?” asked Brannoc lazily, tilting his chair back so that the midmoming sun
shining into the secluded courtyard struck his face, lightening the tan from
the color of aged oak to a more polished sheen.

 
          
“Common sense.”

 
          
Tepshen
rose to his feet, fluid as a cat, and with the same feline grace fastidiously
smoothed the loose-cut frontage of his shirt as he stepped from the shadow of
the colonnades that supported the tiled roof of the portico spanning one wall
of the yard. Sunlight gleamed on his oiled queue, striking blue from the black,
though it seemed to meld with his yellow skin as though the flesh absorbed the
radiance. He stretched his arms wide, turning slowly around, his eyes traveling
casually over the stuccoed walls and the blank rectangles of the windows.

 
          
Brannoc
scratched at the tangle of dark hair exposed by his open shirtfront, yawning
prodigiously, the shells and feathers woven into his hair fluttering with the
motion. A hunt beading of sweat decorated his brow for it was very warm in the
courtyard, the vaulting walls of the palace buildings trapping the heat, the
white plaster that covered them reflecting it, even the smooth slabs of granite
that formed the floor seeming to radiate it back, and he was more accustomed to
the cooler climes of the north. He watched Tepshen Lahl execute one economic
circle, seeing how the dropping arms fell close to the swordbelt about the
kyo’s waist, the left thumb hooking instinctively over the scabbard of the
longsword, resting against the guard where it might instantly loose the blade
from the retaining sheath.

 
          
“He
is safe enough here.” He smiled. “And if I guess aright, still abed.”

 
          
Tepshen
ducked his head once in acknowledgment, but his hand remained close to his
sword as he returned to his chair.

 
          
“Do
you ever relax?” Brannoc added as the smaller man sat down.

 
          
“I
am.” Tepshen’s smile was fleeting, not from disapproval, but rather because he
seldom smiled, his wide-cheeked face being of a naturally solemn set.

 
          
Unlike
Brannoc’s, which was mobile and given easily to the laughter that now rang from
his unde mouth, startling the sparrows that hopped about the table into flight.

 
          
“Perhaps
we are too relaxed,” he ventured, more for the sake of making conversation to
fill the empty afternoon than any real belief in his words. Besides, he found
it amusing to bait the easterner a little, fascinated by Tepshen’s stoic
attitude to whatever crossed his path. He knew himself to be volatile, and the
differences in their attitudes intrigued him. Tepshen Lahl intrigued him, he
thought as he waited for the sallow-featured man to reply—-or not, for Tepshen
did not always deign to answer what he considered frivolous—and the fact that
he counted this enigmatic easterner his friend was a source of wonder. There
was a kinship of spirit, he knew; that had been recognized between them when
first they met in High Fort, when Bedyr Caitin sought his guidance into the
Beltrevan. Neither gave his friendship easily, but once given it was a lasting
loyalty, and in those early days he had known that Tepshen would not hesitate
to kill him had he proved false. Nor, having witnessed the kyo’s skill with a
blade, did he doubt that he would be the loser in the fight: he was adept at
swordwork—better than almost any—but Tepshen Lahl was a master and Brannoc
doubted there was anyone, save perhaps Kedryn himself, who could best the man.

 
          
It
had been that perilous journey into the forests that had first forged their
friendship, for it was during that trip he had recognized his own loyalty to
Kedryn, and that in itself was strange, for the Prince of Tamur had been little
more than a boy then and Brannoc had considered him at first to be more
liability than asset. That opinion had altered radically over the ensuing
months until the half-breed’s
regard
for Kedryn was
scarcely less than the easterner’s. It was as though the young man exercised
some power of which he was scarcely aware, for while he was definitely a
likable fellow he did nothing to ingratiate himself, save, it occurred to
Brannoc,
be
himself
.
Yet he had felt drawn to Kedryn, and when Bedyr had come asking his help in
finding the blinded youth in the vastness of the northern woodlands he had not
hesitated; nor when Kedryn, his sight regained, had announced his intention of
sailing south to Andurel to combat the Messenger had it occurred to Brannoc to
do anything but go with him. Thinking about it now, cloistered comfortably in a
yard of the
White
Palace
with the spring sun warm on his face and
swallows twittering overhead, a flagon of fine Galichian wine to hand, it
seemed a trifle odd that he had so readily sailed into the teeth of Ashar’s
wrath. At the time it had seemed only natural, yet Brannoc was, by nature, a cautious
man. That was, he decided, the effect Kedryn had on people, and mayhap Tepshen
had recognized the spell and seen in Brannoc a kindred spirit, for it was
without question that Tepshen would lay down his life for the young man.

 
          
Whatever,
the half-breed thought, the cause is not important; the friendship is.

 
          
“Too
much comfort softens a man.”

 
          
The
kyo’s voice interrupted Brannoc’s musings and he cocked his head a little,
anticipating some further extrapolation. When none was offered he asked, “Do you
think we grow soft? Would you rather we had war?”

 
          
Tepshen
shook his head, and for a moment Brannoc wondered if he saw doubt in the dark
eyes.

 
          
“No, not war.
But Kedryn has kingly concerns to occupy him.
You and I, though, we are neither diplomats nor courtiers. We have no place in
this peaceful city.”

 
          
Brannoc
shrugged expressively, his heavy brows drawing together. “After Kedryn takes
the High Throne we shall be free. And I have the impression our young
king-to-be has little intention of spending more time than he need here. Has he
not established the notion of that? With this council formed he seems bent on
traveling to Estrevan.”

 
          
“And
I shall go with him,” nodded Tepshen.

 
          
“Mayhap
I, too,” murmured Brannoc, thinking suddenly that he would be mightily loath to
part from this company of friends.

 
          
“You
are appointed Warden of the Forests,” said the kyo.

 
          
Brannoc
shrugged again. “A reward for services rendered. With the Messenger gone and
Niloc Yarrum dead this past year, the tribes return to their old ways, though
with less love for Ashar after the Horde’s defeat. They offer no threat and my
old wolFs-head comrades will know what transpires beyond the Lozins. Should
aught stir there, I should hear. Or
word go
to Rycol
and Fengrif.”

 
          
"It
remains a duty,” said Tepshen.

 
          
“Aye,”
Brannoc agreed, “but in definition it is surely a duty to the Kingdoms.
To ward them.
And how better to ward them
than by warding their king?”

 
          
“You
think some danger threatens this proposed journey?” Tepshen asked.

 
          
“Who
knows?”
grinned
Brannoc. “Kedryn himself, and Sister
Bethany, seem doubtful that Ashar will give up the game easily, so mayhap
hazard does lie in wait.
In which case I would be there.
Would you have me trust Kedryn’s safety to your blade alone?”

 
          
“No,”
said the kyo, and this time his smile was clearly visible.

 
          
In
another part of the
White
Palace
a similar conversation occupied four others
concerned with both Kedryn and the welfare of the Kingdoms. Here there was more
space, the buildings set farther apart and the ground between planted to form
lawns on which shrubs and small, decorative trees put forth buds eager to drink
in the sunlight and unburden themselves of their weight of flowers. The center
was given over to a long avenue at one end of which stood a butt, its white
cloth cover painted with concentric circles of gold, green, blue and black, at
the other the lords of Tamur and Kesh with their wives, all holding bows.

 
          
Bedyr
Caitin’s was the great longbow of the Tamurin, a length of supple yew near tall
as its wielder, and the cords of muscle along his right arm stood out as he
drew back the string, sighting down the clothyard shaft. He loosed the string
and smiled his appreciation as the arrow flew true, the blunt practice head
embedding deep in the straw beneath the bull.

 
          
“Well
shot,” applauded Jarl of Kesh, turning back the sleeves of his customary black
robe as he took his place on the firing mark.

 
          
His
bow was shorter than Bedyr’s and constructed of overlapping layers of horn and
bone, deeply curved: the bow of a horseman. A frown of concentration creased
his swarthy features as he sighted, followed by a grunt as his shaft struck the
target three fingers’ width clear of the bull.

 
          
He
stepped aside to allow Yrla her shot, smiling as she brushed a loosened tendril
of raven hair from her eyes, voicing his approval as her smaller version of the
longbow sent its missile to the edge of the gold.

 
          
“This
talk of Ashar,” he murmured as his own wife moved to fire, “what credence do
you give it?”

 
          
Bedyr
shrugged, rustling the linen of his brown shirt. “Kedryn and Wynett were the
only ones to see the Messenger at the last,” he replied softly, studying the
dark-haired Keshi woman as she gritted her teeth and inexpertly drew back her
bowstring, “and it seems they cannot say for sure he died.
Bethany
appears equivocal.”

 
          
He
paused as Arlynne squealed her disappointment, pointing to where her arrow
vibrated against the outer circle of blue.

 
          
“Hold
your left arm straighter, Arlynne. And loose your breath slowly with the
shaft.”

 
          
“
Bethany
could find no trace of magic remaining,”
Jarl said.

           
“No.” Bedyr selected an arrow from
the quiver racked beside him and knocked the shaft to the string. “But nor . .
. he drew, right thumb touching his cheek, "... is she prepared to say . .
. ,” he loosed the arrow, "... that he is dead.”

           
The long oak shaft drove deep into
the target, so close to its predecessor that both arrows rattled an unmelodic
tune. “Then is it wise that Kedryn should depart Andurel?”

           
Jarl set arrow to string, bending
the shortbow as he raised it. This time he hit closer to the mark, just on the
edge of the gold.

 
          
“Might
Estrevan not shed more light on
Bethany
’s doubts?’ asked Yrla as she took her
place.

 
          
“If
these doubts are founded in truth,” Jarl replied as she fired, “then surely the
king’s place is here.”

 
          
Yrla’s
shot hit the bull slightly left of center. Arlynne said. “Did you learn this in
Estrevan?”

 
          
“No,”
Yrla smiled, the expression rendering her girlish, “this comes of marrying a
Tamurin.”