Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (37 page)

           
“Opposition will likely foment war,”
Darr said, prompting a cursory wave of the Sister’s hand.

           
“Say, not opposition. Bedyr Caitin
will bend rather than see the Kingdoms consume one another; and his counsel—as
yours— stands high with Jarl. Therefore put these arguments to Hattim. As yet
he offers no open dispute, and as a loyal lord he must, on the face of it at
least, set premium on the unity of the Kingdoms. Express your doubts
tactfully—the weight of leadership rests on your shoulders and Hattim must
accept that—so that you do not object, but fear for Hattim’s smooth succession.
Consequently you act in Hattim’s own best interests, and those of your beloved
daughter, when you suggest the lordship of Ust-Galich be decided by yourself,
Tamur, and Kesh.”

           
“Aye,” Darr said softly, digesting
her suggestion, “that might work.”

           
“Further,”
Bethany
went on, “the marriage cannot take place
until the lords of Tamur and Kesh attend Andurel. All precedent demands they be
here—and in this winter that will take time.” A certain wickedness entered her
smile. “Your messengers might even suggest they make no great hurry. By then,
perhaps, Kedryn will have regained his sight and accompany his parents.”

           
“To change Ashrivelle’s mind?”
wondered the king.

           
“Mayhap,” shrugged the Sister. “He
is a handsome young man, is he not? And women’s minds do change.”

           
Darr almost said, But he loves
Wynett, but did not, assuming that to be a hopeless cause and anxious to seize
whatever straw of optimism he could find. Perhaps—if Kedryn did attend—he might
be swayed by Ashrivelle’s beauty. And she by him.

           
“That is not any great hope,”
Bethany
added, promptly dashing the king’s, “we
must chiefly rely on delay. Hold off the wedding until the lords may attend;
and then delay further whilst the succession is decided. For the sake of unity!
I do not believe Hattim can argue that.”

           
“He is ambitious,” Darr said. “He
will not like it.”

           
“But he can scarcely argue it,” said
Bethany
.

           
“No,” Darr allowed, “I do not
suppose he can.”

           
“I will ponder this further,”
Bethany
promised, “but for now that seems your
safest course.”

           
“It seems my only one,” Darr said,
“if I am to avoid civil war.”

           
“Aye.”
Bethany
’s face was grave as she studied the king.
“Unless Ashrivelle should change her mind.”

           
“I do not think she will,” sighed
Darr. “She appears enamored of the man.”

           
“Then let it be as we have said,”
the Sister urged. “And pray we do aright.”

           
“Amen,” said Darr, solemnly.

           
He took his leave then, refusing the
Sister’s invitation to eat in the college, thinking that the sooner he broached
these matters with Hattim the better, and certain the Galichian would be
anxious to approach him. Some inner voice suggested that it were best Hattim
had no inkling he had sought the advice of the Sorority, and certainly none
that he sought to delay, and that he should, therefore, return to the
White
Palace
without prevarication.

           
He found Corradon and the squad of
guardsmen supping mulled wine in one of the spacious receiving rooms, feeling
almost sorry to drag them from the hearth-warmed comfort of the chamber to the
chill outside.

           
Dusk was falling as they returned to
the palace, the metallic brightness of the sky fading to a dull gray that
shrouded the distant waterfront behind a veil of mist, and large flakes of snow
began to descend, skirling leisurely from the lusterless heavens. The children
he had seen earlier were gone, summoned to firesides and food, and as he rode
the broad avenue that climbed to the palace the gray grew steadily darker,
shadows lengthening over the gardens, lamps glowing like faraway promises
behind windows and tight-closed shutters. The king felt melancholy.

           
“Your business went well, Majesty?”
Corradon inquired, the question unusual enough that Darr realized his mood
expressed itself physically.

           
“Well enough, thank you, my friend,”
he murmured, bracing his shoulders and drawing himself more erect in the
saddle.

           
“I am pleased,” said the captain,
his kindly eyes on his master’s face, the doubt behind them masked.

           
“Well enough,” Darr repeated to
himself, composing his features into what he hoped was an expression of calm
confidence, regal self-assurance. Knowing as he did so that a world of
difference lay between outward appearance and inner reality. “But there is
something I would have you do, Corradon.”

           
“Majesty?” asked the captain. “You
have only to command.” “This requires discretion,” Darr murmured, his voice low
enough that only the officer might hear him. “I would have scouts sent out to
advise me of the position of Galichian forces. How far are they from the city?
When might they arrive?”

           
Corradon’s eyes grew troubled
beneath the beak of his helm and Darr added quickly, “I would have this done
secretly, my friend. Use only your most trusted men. and tell no one of their
mission.”

           
Corradon was far too disciplined to
question his king, so he merely nodded once and said, “It is done, Majesty.”

           
“Thank you,” said Darr.

           
He essayed the same composure as he
prepared himself for the dinner at which, he was sure, Hattim would make formal
presentation. It was the obvious time, when the nobles of Andurel and the
Galichian's own retinue would be present to hear the announcement, such public
declaration forcing the king to an equally public response. Consequently he
forwent his customarily simple garb in favor of more regal vestments, donning a
tunic of scarlet silk and breeks of black picked with silver thread, draping a
belted overrobe of blue with the tripartite crown sewn in gold and silver on
chest and back about his shoulders. He took particular care combing his thinning
hair and groomed his beard to an unusual perfection, hanging the pendant of his
office about his neck as he surveyed himself in the mirror and smiled wryly at
the effect. He had never considered himself very regal, but he hoped that he
might, when required, rise to the occasion.

           
Ashrivelle, certainly, felt that he
had. She clapped her hands and smiled with delight when she saw him, crying,
“Father! You look splendid.”

           
“Thank you,” he murmured, offering
her his arm.

           
“You have done this for me,” she
whispered. “You know that Hattim will speak with you tonight, and I thank you
for it.”

           
“I thought he might,” Darr agreed,
patting her hand. “The Lord of Ust-Galich is not one for wasting time.”

           
“He
is
decisive,” the princess nodded, mistaking the tone of the
comment. “It is one of the things I admire about him.”

           
“Indeed,” said Darr, proceeding at a
stately pace toward the stairwell that descended to the antechamber of the
banqueting hall.

           
The court, as was customary, waited
there, swelled by the ranks of Galichians, their embroidered finery contrasting
with the simpler styles of the
White
Palace
, Hattim standing out among them.

           
He was dressed in gold, tunic and
breeks and the short cape that was the latest fashion, all glittering in the
light of the flambeaux set about the walls. His hair was oiled and coiffed,
bound back by a circlet of matching metal, even the hilt of the ceremonial
dagger and the belt that sheathed it picked with gold.

           
“Is he not magnificent?” Ashrivelle
whispered as they approached.

           
“He is very ...” Darr paused,
“pretty.”

           
His daughter glanced at him, then
love swayed her judgment again and she chuckled. “Pretty is not the word I
would have chosen, but yes, he is.”

           
Darr assumed a friendly smile as the
Lord of Ust-Galich bowed low before him and said, “King Darr, greetings.”

           
“And to you, my Lord,” the king
responded, meeting Hattim’s green-eyed gaze with an even stare.

           
“Princess.” Hattim bowed afresh to
Ashrivelle, his earring dangling as he stooped over her hand. “You are breathtaking.”

           
Ashrivelle was radiant as she
studied him. “As are you, my Lord.”

           
“I am shadowed by your beauty,”
Hattim declared. “I am dazzled.”

           
“Let us eat,” Darr suggested
abruptly, feeling mildly sickened by these excessive compliments.

           
Dutifully, the Galichian fell into
step behind the royal couple as they led the way into the hall and assumed
their places at the High Table.

           
By custom, Ashrivelle sat to the
king’s right and Hattim to his left. The Galichian nobles were seated along the
table to either side, while those of Andurel occupied the lower places in
deference to their guests. Musicians plucked the strings of balurs and
theorbos, accompanied by the soft drumming of a tabor and the higher-pitched
notes of rebecs, and Darr noticed that Ashrivelle, whose duty it was to select
the tunes, had chosen melodies of Galichian origin. Servants poured wine into
goblets of crystal, a red southern vintage to accompany the gamy soup that was
the first course. Through that Darr felt as might a wall interposed between
lovers, Ashrivelle and Hattim exchanging compliments and conversation across
him. A richer vintage was served with the hare that followed, the meat
marinaded and spicy, and Dan- wondered if Hattim hoped the wines would ease the
way into his presentation as he waited for the man to speak.

           
It came as the king chewed on the
boar meat that was the main course, the voice silk-smooth and confident as
steel.

           
“I can contain myself no longer,”
Hattim declared. “May I ask your permission to speak frankly, Darr?”

           
The king swallowed and nodded, aware
of the gradual stilling of conversation around him.

           
“My Lord King,” Hattim said, raising
his voice a fraction, projecting it sufficiently that it was heard by all the
nobles, “I would ask your permission to present my suit to your daughter, the
Princess Ashrivelle.”

           
Darr washed down the boar meat with
a goblet of dark red wine, surprised that it was a Keshi vintage, and turned to
face Hattim. He wanted to say, No, you may not, but knew that chaos lay in that
direction and instead answered solemnly, “You have my permission, Lord Hattim.”

           
The silence that had fallen was
broken by a sudden rush of conversation and that by a cheer from down the
table, where

           
Mejas Celeruna raised a brimming cup
in toast, eagerly followed by the other Galichians.

           
Hattim motioned them to silence and
said, “Thank you, Darr.”

           
Ashrivelle clapped hands to her
mouth, her eyes ablaze as she looked past her father to her would-be husband.

           
“My feelings for the princess are, I
believe, known,” Hattim continued, “and I venture to hope that I find favor in
her eyes. Should she accept me, I swear to you now, in the presence of all
here, that I shall endeavor to my utmost to make her happy, to prove myself
worthy of her.”

           
“You are,” Darr heard Ashrivelle
whisper. He said, “I would not stand in the way of my daughter’s happiness, my
Lord.”

           
“Then, if you will forgive my
impatience ...” Hattim rose dramatically to his feet, pushing back his chair
that he might turn and look across the king to the princess. “My Lady, I ask
you now to be my wife. I pledge you my love and my life. I ask your hand in
marriage.”