Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (10 page)

           
“You may, though, have raised one,”
Darr said softly. “Think on that, also.”

           
“Kedryn?” Bedyr frowned doubtfully.
“He is too young.”

           
“As we agreed, he matures apace,”
Darr rejoined. “And he demonstrates fine judgment. His victory over Niloc
Yarrum has earned him the respect of all—and I do not speak of the morrow, but
some years hence.”

           
“Many years hence, I hope.” Bedyr
remarked loyally.

           
“Consider it.” Darr touched the
medallion hung about his neck, turning it so that firelight glinted from the
shining surface. “In time the succession will become vital to our hard-won
unity, and when that time arrives Kedryn may well prove the one to take my
place. I ask only that you think on it—and say nothing of this conversation.
Save, perhaps, to your wife. But not to Kedryn or any other.”

           
“Kedryn has sufficient to think on,”
nodded Bedyr. “Too much.”

           
“Indeed,” Darr agreed. “And were
others to learn of my feelings there might well be the danger of
assassination.”

           
“Hattim would not dare,” rasped
Bedyr. “And Jarl would not stoop so low. ”

           
“Mayhap not,” shrugged the king,
“but silence remains the safest course, and I must ask your word that this
remains our secret, shared only with Yrla.”

           
Bedyr stared at the man who was both
his friend and his king, seeking in the calm gray eyes some indication as to
whether Darr spoke from natural caution or suspicion. Darr’s gaze remained,
however, unfathomable, and the set of his careworn features suggested he did
not wish to discuss the matter further.

           
“You have it,” Bedyr promised.

           
“Thank you,” smiled the monarch.

           
As his possible future was
discussed, Kedryn sat drinking with Tepshen Lahl and Brannoc, the enthusiasm he
had felt in the Council Chamber somewhat abated now that he had time to
consider the implications of the task ahead.

           
“How shall I go to them?” he
wondered. “Led by the hand? They will see a helpless blind man.”

           
“On horseback,” said Brannoc as if
there were no debating it. “Horses are prized in the Beltrevan—few ride save
the greatest of the ulans—and you will come to them as a conqueror.”

           
“But ...” Kedryn began, interrupted
by Tepshen Lahl.

           
“Brannoc is right. And you
can
ride a horse.”

           
“Blind?” he demanded, dubiously.

           
“The horse has eyes,” said the kyo,
“and you have ridden at night. We shall not be charging into battle, so the
pace will be easy. You can do it.”

           
“Tepshen and I will flank you,”
added Brannoc. “A word from either one of us will be sufficient to guide you.”

           
“And when I dismount?” Kedryn asked.

           
“Do as I bid you,” said the outlaw.

           
“They will still see that I cannot.”
Kedryn touched fingers to the cloth encircling his skull.

           
“They will see the warrior who slew
Niloc Yarrum,” countered Brannoc. “The
hef-Aiador
—the
conqueror of the greatest. Did I tell you that is what they call you?”

           
“No,” Kedryn shook his head.

           
“I must have forgotten in my desire
to arrange more binding ties,” Brannoc chuckled, prompting laughter from the
younger man. “No matter—you have their respect and it will not diminish because
you wear a bandage over your eyes.”

           
Kedryn shrugged. “I have little
choice, do I?”

           
“None,” said Tepshen Lahl
succinctly. “You began this thing and you must carry it through.”

           
“So be it,” Kedryn sighed, hoping
that he could.

           
The cloud that had hung low about
the Lozins for the past days broke up as Kedryn left High Fort, the overcast
swirling and shifting into great banks of storm-threatening gray through which
a wintry sun shed fleeting light on the escort of ten Tamurin riding behind
their prince. They were dressed in battle gear, breastplates and mail glinting proudly,
the blue peace pennants of their lances snapping and fluttering in the wind
that still blew fierce down the canyon of the Idre. Kedryn rode at their head,
brown hair streaming from the dark blue bandage covering his eyes. He had
allowed Bedyr, advised by Brannoc, to choose his clothing, forgoing his
familiar outfit of unadorned brown leather in favor of gear more suitable to so
auspicious an occasion. Black breeks of soft hide overlaid with mesh mail clad
the legs he used to steer his war-horse, a massive but reassuringly docile
stallion offered by Jarl, and a matching jerkin sat light upon his chest,
surmounted by a tunic of silver-gray bearing the fist of Tamur within a circle
of pure white. His dirk was belted to his waist and his sword slung on his
saddle, a ribbon of blue about the hilt, indicating his peaceful intent.

           
Tepshen Lahl rode on his left and
Brannoc to his right, both close enough they could guide the Keshi stallion
should such assistance prove necessary. The kyo wore light armor, a breastplate,
vambraces and greaves, over breeks and jerkin of gray hide, the Tamurin fist
inlaid on the metal that protected his chest, a half-helm covering his oiled
hair, its cheekpieces emphasizing the slant of his yellow eyes. His sword was
slung in battle position on his back, but like Kedryn’s the hilt was adorned
with a blue peace ribbon. Brannoc had retained his customary garb of motley
leather, the tunic a patchwork of browns and greens reminiscent of the forest
in summer bloom. His hair was freshly dressed, the shells woven into his braids
tinkling softly beneath the battering of the wind, joined on this day by small
clusters of the red and white feathers that were a mark of peaceful intent in
the Beltrevan. A similar cluster fluttered from the hilt of the Keshi saber
jutting above his left shoulder, and a larger bunching from the pole he carried
upright in his right hand.

           
Kedryn rode in silence, listening to
the thunder of the river and the clatter of shod hooves on the hard stone of
the road, thinking that the last time he had taken this trail it had been in
the opposite direction, at a desperate gallop, with the pain of an ensorcelled
arrow throbbing like fire in his left shoulder. He had seen little of it then,
being largely lost in the fever of the wound and its concomitant magic, and he
wondered if he would ever again have sight of the trail that reached into the
vastness of the forest country. He gritted his teeth, pushing such melancholy
from his mind as he voiced a silent prayer to the Lady for guidance and
eloquence, wondering even as he did so if she heard him.

           
He had hoped for a recurrence of
that enlightenment that had gripped him before, revealing the way he should
take and seeming to form his words unbidden, but it had not come, and he had
embarked from High Fort burdened by doubt that he could accomplish his
self-chosen task successfully. It was, however, as Tepshen Lahl had said: a
thing begun that must be finished, and he was determined to dispense his duty
as best he was able. It would, at very least, free him for the journey to
Estrevan, and he still clung to the hope that Wynett would accompany him.

           
She had been there at the gate to
see him off, taking his hand after Bedyr and Darr had wished him well, Jarl
assuring him that the Keshi squadrons stood ready to come to his aid should
such prove needed. Even Hattim had grunted an insincere farewell. But it was
Wynett’s adieu that he valued most, for he had heard concern and trust in her
voice as she called on the Lady to bless his going and ensure his safe return,
and when he had squeezed her hand he had felt the pressure returned. It was a
small enough gesture, but it gave him the hope he needed to stave off the
darkness that threatened to invest his soul.

           
“They are there!”

           
Brannoc’s voice interrupted his
musing, and he straightened in his saddle, assuming what he hoped was a
suitable expression for a—what had the outlaw said they called him?—hef-Alador.

           
“Slowly,” he heard Tepshen Lahl
advise softly. “Walk. Halt.”

           
He reined in, hearing Brannoc call
out in the language of the forest, unfamiliar with the guttural tongue,
recognizing only his barbarian title and his own name. Strange voices replied
and then Brannoc said, “Dismount.”

           
He heard the creak of leather and
the faint chinking of mail as his companions climbed from their horses and
swung down himself, allowing someone to take his reins as Tepshen Lahl
murmured, “Walk straight ahead. Yes. Stop. There is a chair.”

           
He let the kyo steer him, feeling
the seat behind his knees, lowering himself into it cautiously as his heart
thudded beneath his ribs so loud, it seemed, that the forest folk must hear it.

           
“There are eight of them,” Tepshen
Lahl murmured. “Seated facing you.”

           
“They bid you welcome,” Brannoc
said, “and hail you as the conqueror of Niloc Yarrum.”

           
“Tell them I thank them for their
welcome,” Kedryn responded, “and that I welcome the trust they demonstrate by
this meeting. Tell them the time for fighting is ended and I would discuss
peace between us.”

           
He waited as Brannoc translated,
feeling a strange calm, a certainty akin to that which had gripped him when he
faced the leader of these barbarian warriors. Perhaps the Lady was with him,
after all.

           
“They say they are ready to talk
peace,” Brannoc announced after the guttural replies had faded to silence, “and
if you will outline your terms they will consider them.”

           
A barely audible intake of Tepshen
Lahl’s breath indicated the kyo’s opinion of such presumption, but Kedryn
ignored it, knowing what it must cost the proud woodlanders to sue for terms.
He nodded, marshaling his thoughts, forgetting all the carefully prepared
speeches he had sat up most of the night devising.

           
“We have fought,” he said at last,
pausing every so often that Brannoc might translate his words, “and brave
warriors have died on both sides. Niloc Yarrum was favored of Ashar—raised by
the Messenger—but not even he could bring down the Three Kingdoms. Not even the
god of the Beltrevan was able to overcome the strength which flows from the
Lady.

           
“Does this not indicate that the
Lady is greater than Ashar?

           
“Greater and more merciful, for it
is not her way to grind the neck of a defeated foe in the dust, but rather to
offer her hand in friendship that foes may become allies, that war between the
Beltrevan and the Kingdoms might end,

           
“This is what I offer, as the
conqueror of Niloc Yarrum and the spokesman of the Kingdoms: on the morrow the
chieftains of the tribes shall enter the gates of High Fort in peace, that
promises may be exchanged between the Beltrevan and the Kingdoms, ensuring that
we fight no more. The dead of the Beltrevan shall be gathered and returned to
their people for burial in their own fashion. We shall open our gates to trade
between us and agree on times when there shall be gatherings for such exchange.
The bounty of the Kingdoms may thus be had honestly, without bloodshed, and our
peoples talk in peace and amity.

           
“This is what I offer. How say
they?”

           
He waited, listening to the babble
of guttural words that followed. Then Brannoc said, “They ask, what is the
alternative?”

           
“War,” Kedryn replied tersely.

           
Again there was that stirring, the
sound of voices and armored bodies shifting position. The wind was cold on his
face, chilling the sweat that he abruptly realized beaded his forehead, and he
clenched his teeth, cursing the fell magic that had robbed him of his sight
that he was unable to study the features of the woodlanders and judge their
mood. He heard Tepshen Lahl’s chair creak slightly, wondering if the kyo tensed
in readiness for swordplay. If the horn sounded, summoning Jarl’s Keshi riders
to the rescue, he decided he would draw his dirk and sell his life as dear as
he was able.

           
Then Brannoc said, “They say they
understand war, it is peace they find hard to comprehend.”