Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (46 page)

           
“A bath, I think, my Lord,” the
mehdri smiled ruefully. “Then food. A bed last.”

           
Bedyr nodded again and flung the
door open to shout for a servant who escorted the rider away down the corridor.
Bedyr closed the door and turned to Yrla.

           
“We cannot go,” she said, still
clutching Darr’s message. “I
will
not
go!”

           
Bedyr’s expression grew tortured and
he crossed to stand before her, his back to the fire. “I think we have little
choice.”

           
“Darr does not know we await word of
our son,” she answered. “He cannot know that, or he would not impose this on
us.”

           
“An imposition lies on him,” Bedyr
said slowly. “He has not sought this—he has no choice in the matter. ”

           
“He suggests delay.” Yrla tapped the
parchment.

           
“He has delay,” Bedyr said, regret
in his tone. “Had that man found us in Caitin Hold we should have been en route
ere Urstide. We should be closing on Andurel now.”

           
“E’en so,” Yrla shook her head. “We
can send word back down the river—tell Darr what transpires.”

           
“And would Hattim understand?” asked
Bedyr, gently.

           
“I care not a jot whether the Lord
of Ust-Galich understands,” Yrla responded fiercely. “Or Ashrivelle—who shows
little sense in her choice of husband!—or anyone. I have waited too long for
word of our son and I would not put more distance between us than this.”

           
“The Galichian army must close on
Andurel by now,” Bedyr said, his voice thoughtful. “This winter will have
slowed the march, but still it must be close. Or there. Camped about the city.
”

           
“What of it?” Yrla demanded.

           
“Hattim is ambitious,” Bedyr
answered. “He has secured Ashrivelle’s hand and now waits only for the
formality of marriage. By custom our presence is required at that ceremony— and
Darr clearly seeks our help in the deciding of the succession. Should we not attend—for
whatever reason!—Hattim may insist the ceremony proceed. And with his army in
place, Darr may have no choice but to agree.”

           
“He would not dare!” Yrla gasped,
seeing the direction of her husband’s argument.

           
“I have dealt with Hattim,” Bedyr
murmured, “and I believe he would dare. And should he consequently take the
High Throne, it would suit Tamur ill to have such an enemy.”

           
“You are not afraid of him,”

           
It was a statement and Bedyr shook
his head in agreement. “No, I do not fear Hattim Sethiyan, but I fear for the
Kingdoms should such as he lay claim to the
White
Palace
.”

           
“You would go?” asked Yrla. “Without
word of Kedryn?”

           
“Jarl has but one voice,” Bedyr
said, “and Darr’s hands are somewhat tied. He needs me there.”

           
“And Kedryn needs us here,” said
Yrla defiantly.

           
Bedyr sighed, sinking to his knees
before the raven-haired woman. He took her hands in his, his eyes troubled as
he studied her lovely face.

           
“If Kedryn is alive, then Brannoc
will find him and bring him out of the Beltrevan,” he said. “He can follow us
down the Idre, perhaps even in time to attend this wedding. If not . . .’’He
paused, not wishing to voice the alternative. “In either event, there is
nothing we can do here save wait. In Andurel we might serve the Kingdoms
better. Serve Kedryn better, too.”

           
“He is our son.” Yrla’s tone was
dogged.

           
“Aye,” said Bedyr. “He is our son
and I love him. But he has a destiny to fulfill and so do we. I love these
Kingdoms, too, and it is my duty to serve them as best I can. I think that Darr
has need of me—of us both—and I think that perhaps that need is greater now
than Kedryn’s.”

           
Yrla stifled tears, imposing on her
troubled mind the tranquillity instilled by the years of training in Estrevan,
seeking to unravel the complex threads of impending fate she felt gathering
about her.

           
“Did you not say there was a pattern
we could not read?” asked Bedyr, and she nodded slowly, regretfully.

           
“Aye, I did. But it had not occurred
to me that it would require my desertion of our son.”

           
“We do not desert him,” Bedyr said
urgently. “We do our duty, and he would understand that.”

           
“You are decided,” Yrla said softly.

           
“I believe it is decided for us,”
said Bedyr, just as quietly. “I like it no better than you, but I see no other
choice than to answer Darr’s summons.”

           
Yrla studied her husband’s face,
seeing on it regret but none of the irresolution that had earlier shown there.
He was, without doubt, a man of action and while his concern for Kedryn was
undoubted, he was able to set aside personal emotions in service of his greater
duty. And, she had to admit, his arguments were unpleasantly valid: they could
do nothing for Kedryn save sit and wait, while in Andurel they might well serve
both Kingdoms and son far better. It was a question of priorities that gave
rise to dilemma: as a mother, her instinct was to remain in High Fort, to stay
as close to her son as possible; as the Lady Yrla Belvanne na Caitin, wife of
the Lord of Tamur, her duty was to serve the Kingdoms, to obey the king. She
closed her eyes and sighed, then forced a wan smile to her lips as she nodded.

           
“You are right, and 1 prevaricate.
We must go to Andurel.”

           
Bedyr rose to his feet, cupping her
face between his hands. “The Lady blessed me when she sent me you,” he
murmured. “I will find Rycol and arrange passage.”

           
Yrla watched him go from the chamber
and turned to face the fire. It blazed merrily but did little to warm the cold
that chilled her heart.

           
Rycol, when Bedyr outlined the gist
of Darr’s message, saw the danger instantly and sent men to inquire in the town
of available boats. As luck would have it a late-season trading barque had
recently docked with a cargo of fruits and wine from the south, the master
delighted to offer the Lord and Lady of Tamur passage down the Idre. The tiny
midships cabin was prepared for them and they embarked a day later. Rycol and
the Lady Marga, surrounded by Bedyr’s Tamurin escort, for which there was not
room on the vessel, saw them off, standing huddled in thick cloaks on the
wharfside. It was a sullen day, the canescent sky matching the mood of their
departure, the wind that screeched from the canyon lashing the undulating
surface of the river to a foaming grayish white. Bedyr, trusting in the
medicaments provided by Rycol’s Sisters to quell his river sickness, stood
beside Yrla at the taffrail, watching the massive walls of High Fort fade into
obscurity against the greater bulk of the Lozins as the oarsmen dipped their
sweeps, bringing the barque rapidly into the current, where the master shouted
for them to ship oars as the sails unfurled and the wind took them fast
southward.

           
The mehdri sent to bring word to
Jarl found easier passage than his westbound comrade. A ferry took him across
the Vortigen and he rode north and east toward Keshaven across the sweeping
plains that were the domain of the horse lords. Kesh was thin on towns, but
farms and ranches were plentiful, affording him ample shelter as he crossed the
windswept grasslands, using the network of roads and trails that were largely
reserved for such as he, and while his fellow struggled with the rigors of the
Geffyn he came in sight of Keshaven.

           
The capital of the eastern kingdom
was a sprawl of low, stone buildings to the south of one of the few forests in
Kesh. A Tamurin would likely—and a barbarian certainly—consider the forest
little more than a sizable wood, but to the inhabitants of Keshaven it was a
most welcome defense against the wind that scoured the savannas, a useful
source of fuel, and a diversion from the seemingly endless expanse of grass. It
was for those reasons, and the stream that flowed out of the timber, that
Yathyn, the first

           
Lord of Kesh, had chosen to site his
ranch there. That ranch had long since become a palace, and around it had grown
a town, though the land beyond remained the personal property of the Keshi
lords.

           
The town was built on both sides of
the stream, bridges spanning the water so frequently that large tracts were
virtually hidden, the largest leading directly to the palace. The mehdri, his
coming observed by black-clad townsfolk, clattered over the wooden bridge and
found himself confronted by a wooden gate and guard post. He halted, cupping
his hands to send his voice over the wailing of the wind, and shouted, “A
mehdri asks entrance. I bear a message.”

           
A man who would have been tall had
his legs not been so bowed stepped from the shelter of the guard post and
replied, “Enter and welcome, mehdri,” and two men trotted out to swing the
gates wide.

           
The mehdri rode through and halted
as the bowlegged man approached him. “I bear word from the king for the Lord
Jarl,” he said.

           
The officer nodded and called over
his shoulder, bringing two men on big Keshi stallions from the stable behind
the post building.

           
He said, “Take him to Jarl,” and the
riders fell in either side of the messenger, their horses lifting to an easy
canter with no apparent instruction. They were dark, hooknosed men, typical of
the Keshi, their hair braided, clad in sable breeks and padded tunics, curved
sabers slung across their backs. They spoke not at all and the mehdri studied
the land about him as they rode toward the palace. A vast meadow separated
Jarl’s home from the town of Keshaven, the grass sere, but still foraged by
herds of the long-legged horses that were the pride of the kingdom, turning
curious eyes to the trio of riders, the stallions nickering tentative
challenges that went ignored by the disciplined war-horses.

           
A high palisade, wooden save for the
watchtowers spaced at intervals along its length, surrounded the palace and the
escort slowed to a walk as they approached. A gate swung open and they rode
beneath its arch onto a lawn where the mehdri’s two companions reined in,
giving him into the care of a third man who nodded and mounted a horse to lead
the messenger forward. He wondered if the Keshi ever went afoot.

           
The palace was a mixture of stone
and wood, its central buildings comprised of great blocks, with timber-built
substructures extending from the sides. Save for a tall tower nothing was more
than a single story, though the ornate railings that ran the length of the
upper levels attested to roof gardens. A veranda shaded the forefront from the
midaftemoon sun that shone fitfully from the cold, steely sky and the mehdri’s
escort halted there.

           
“Give me your horse,” he said, “and
I’ll see her bedded.”

           
“My thanks.” The mehdri climbed
down, passing his reins to the Keshi, knowing the animal would be well tended.

           
He stepped onto the veranda and
smoothed his cloak as a silver-haired man with skin like aged leather and a
dragging foot limped toward him.

           
“Mehdri, eh?” He spoke before the
messenger could give formal greeting. “You’ll be wanting Jarl. Well, come this
way.”

           
He beckoned, leading the mehdri into
a spacious, low-ceilinged hall that was a surprising contrast to the austerity
of the building’s exterior. Gaily patterned tiles formed the floor, warmed by
the pipes of the hypocaust beneath, a marble fountain at their center splashing
a tinkling trickle of water into a series of bowls in which fat red and gold
fish swam lazily. Trailing plants hung in baskets from the roof beams, color on
color against the tiles of the walls. Light fell in filigree patterns from the
ironwork of the windows and the beaten copper of the dangling lanterns. The air
was warm and spiced with foreign scents.

           
“Come,” the old man said, too
familiar with the hall’s exotic charms to share the mehdri’s wonder, and
stepped through an archway on which designs that should have clashed formed a
harmonious pattern.

           
They went down a narrow corridor lit
by slender windows and emerged into a smaller hall, all alcoves and cushioned
benches, a great golden cage at the center containing a profusion of small,
brightly colored birds that filled the room with their high-pitched song. The
old man paused before double doors of polished wood inlaid with chasings of
silver and tugged on a tasseled cord of green silk. The mehdri heard a bell
chime, and the doors opened.