Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (5 page)

           
“Let us then send word,” he heard
Darr say, “and prepare for the meeting. Will you each ready your men, my Lords?
And Brannoc—perhaps you are best suited to carry our suggestions to the forest
folk.”

           
There was a murmur of agreement and
a scraping of chairs as they rose. Kedryn came to his feet, aware of Brannoc
standing close by, then felt a hand upon his shoulder as his father asked,
“Shall I escort you to your chamber?”

           
“I would speak with Wynett,” he
answered.

           
“She tends the wounded,” Bedyr said.
“Will you await her in the garden?”

           
Kedryn nodded and allowed his father
to steer him from the room, listening to Bedyr’s murmured warnings as they
descended stairs and made their way through the yards of High Fort to the small
garden surrounded by the walls of the hospital. Bedyr settled a cloak about his
shoulders and left him there, promising to return once he had informed the Tamurin
of the anticipated parley.

           
Kedryn sat, feeling a breeze rustle
his shoulder-length hair, chill with the first taste of winter. He could smell
the dampness of the Idre on the draft and wondered how long it would be before
snow fell. Over the pounding of the masons’ hammers and the muted sounds of
soldiery going about their duties he heard birds singing and he smelled the
soil where flower beds and herb gardens had been turned against the advent of
the cold months. Absence of sight appeared to be heightening his sense of smell
and his powers of hearing and he concentrated on identifying the stimuli that
would have gone unremarked had he been able to see. He knew that Wynett
approached, from the soft sound of her footfalls and the scent of her as she drew
close, and he turned to greet her before she spoke.

           
“Bedyr told me of your proposal,”
she said, admiration in her voice, “and I am glad.”

           
Kedryn reached out unthinking and
found her hands, holding them in both of his as she settled herself beside him.

           
“I remembered what Grania had done,”
he said slowly, not sure how to put it, “and that persuaded me to speak. It was
as though she communicated with me in some way. Does that sound foolish? I
cannot explain it better. ”

           
He felt Wynett’s grip tighten and
sensed excitement even though her response was measured.

           
“It does not sound foolish, but tell
me more—tell me exactly how you felt the communication.”

           
He shrugged, pursing his lips as he
sought the inadequate words that might describe an essentially emotional
experience.

           
“I remembered how she gave her life,
and when I did it seemed so . . . petty of me to sit bemoaning my fate. Then it
came to me that I should seek a treaty of some kind. Persuade the Kingdoms to
deal gently with the woodlanders, for I knew— though I cannot say how—that that
was the best way for all of us. It was not a thing of words: I did not hear her
voice, but it seemed that perhaps some part of her was with me.”

           
“It may be,” Wynett said gently.
“Perhaps a part of her remained with you after the joining.”

           
“But you were part of that,” he
frowned, “and you have not said anything.”

           
“I have not felt it,” she answered.
“At least, not in the same way. Grania was a Sister, and through that vocation
she shared her being with me, so perhaps I cannot notice what has always been
with me. For you it would be different because you have never known the ways of
Estrevan. We are attuned to one another through our training and our talents,
and we accept that just as you accept the weight of a sword on your belt
without noticing it hangs there.”

           
“Why do I not feel you in the same
way?” he demanded.

           
He could not see the blush that
suffused Wynett’s cheeks then, or the way her blue eyes studied his face, but
he heard the slight intake of her breath and felt the tension in her fingers.

           
“We ...” she paused. “Our
relationship is different, Kedryn. Grania’s feelings for you were . . . those
of an elder Sister. Her concern was solely for the Kingdoms, for the general
good. Mine ...”

           
She broke off and he heard the
rustle of her hair as she shook her head, the scent of it intoxicating to his
nostrils. She moved to withdraw her hands but he tightened his grip, refusing
to release her.

           
“Yours are?” he pressed.

           
“I nursed you back to health when
you were wounded.” He thought it sounded like an excuse. “That creates a bond.”

           
“You have nursed others,” he said,
cursing the blindness that denied him sight of her face; knowing at the same
time that were he not blind she would likely not be saying these things.

           
“But not like you,” she said
quickly. “There is a difference to you. Are you not the one the Text foretold?”

           
“It is more than that,” he insisted.

           
“Kedryn, I am a Sister. I am vowed
to celibacy.”

           
Her voice was a curious mixture of
determination and something he dared to hope was regret. He said, “And if you
were not?”

           
“Then it would be different. But I
am
of Estrevan.”

           
“My mother was of Estrevan, yet she
chose to wed my father.”

           
“The Text foretold it. Besides, Yrla
had not taken her final vows.”

           
“Is there no dispensation?”

           
Wynett sighed and said, “Of course.
But I do not wish to forsake my vows.”

           
Kedryn was tempted then to open his
heart, to reveal the conviction that had been growing within and beg her to
relinquish her promises to the Sorority, but he was afraid of her reaction,
afraid that so open a declaration might drive her from him. Besides, he was
blind and a poor match for any woman. So he remained silent.

           
“Do you understand?” she asked him,
her voice gentle.

           
“Aye,” he murmured.

           
“Thank you.”

           
He felt her lean close, her breath
sweet, her lips soft as they brushed his cheek. Then, as he turned his head,
she pulled back, extricating her hands, setting an indefinable distance between
them. He straightened his back, leaning against the cool, rough stone of the
wall behind.

           
“After,” he said, “when the parley
is done, I will travel to Estrevan.”

           
“And my Sisters there will find a
way to regain your sight,” she promised.

           
“Will you accompany me?”

           
The question seemed to take her by
surprise. “I do not think ... I have duties here,” she said. “I have done all I
can.”

           
“Consider it,” he urged. “It would
be a great comfort to me. And I am, after all,” this with exaggerated
melancholy, “a poor, blind warrior in great need of Sisterly care.”

           
Wynett laughed at that, and he was
pleased to have lightened the moment for her, though nonetheless determined to
persuade her. Or, at least, continue trying. She cared for him, he knew; that
was obvious from her kiss, from the time she spent with him, and he felt certain
that were she not of the Sisterhood his advances would be welcomed. But, as she
had reminded him, she was dedicated to Kyrie’s service and he must therefore
tread a most delicate path. Were he to press his suit with the full weight of
the emotion he could feel growing within him, he was afraid he might scare her
into refusing all contact, and he dreaded that. Frustrating as it was to find
himself so close to the woman he had come to desire above all others while not
daring to touch her or speak out, to have no contact at all would be infinitely
worse. He lived in hope that something might occur to change the situation,
forcing himself meanwhile to rest content with what he had.

           
“I shall consider it,” she promised,
“and attend my duties now. Come, let me see what effect my latest efforts have
had.”

           
He heard her rise and climbed to his
feet, grateful for the hand she gave him as he paced the flagged pathway of the
little garden into the hospital.

           
There she took him to the chamber
where the artifacts of her talent were stored, seating him as she prepared to
remove the bandage from his damaged eyes. He sat listening to the sounds of her
preparations, sniffing the medicinal odors of the place until she murmured a
warning and he felt her closeness. Her fingers were cool as they touched his
temples and he felt a pressure as she slid a blade beneath the cloth that
encircled his head. There was the faint rasping sound of steel against silk and
he felt his eyelids lift automatically. His eyes were opened but saw nothing
save the darkness that had clouded them since the ensorcelled blade struck him.
He blinked, but it made no difference.

           
“What do you see?” she asked.

           
“Nothing,” he replied as he felt the
heat of the candle she raised before his face. “I can feel the flame. I see
only blackness.” Wynett made a little tutting noise and the heat went away from
his face.

           
“Tilt your head,” she ordered, “and
keep your eyes open.”

           
He did as she bade him and felt her
hand smooth and soft upon his cheek, then the moist impact of liquid. He fought
the impulse : to blink, feeling the drops she applied filling his lids to spill
over onto his cheeks, like tears. Both of Wynett’s hands held his head back,
resting against his temples and cheeks, her thumbs gently massaging the area
directly behind his eyes.

           
He gasped, unable to resist jerking
his head forward as the blurred image of a window imposed itself on the
darkness. There was an absence of color to the image, gray where he knew white
plaster stood, the glass that filled the embrasure like winter ice, beyond it a
darker grayness, as though he peered into a mist.

           
“What is it?” she demanded,
excitement in her voice, moving from behind him.

           
As she moved, as the contact with
her hands ceased, the image abruptly disappeared and he sighed.

           
“I thought I saw the window.” He
shook his head, laughing bitterly. “But perhaps I looked at a memory.”

           
“Describe it,” she urged.

           
He did so and she said, “The sky
is
dark. Mayhap your sight returns.”

           
Kedryn grunted, cynical, afraid to
permit himself too much hope even as he wished with a fervency so fierce it was
almost painful that she was right.

           
“Try again,” Wynett suggested.

           
He did and there was nothing.

           
“Wait,” she said, and moved behind
him again, setting her hands to his temples once more, commencing the gentle
massage, “Is there anything now?”

           
He stared into the darkness, willing
it to fade, constructing the image of the window in his mind. He saw it clearly
in his imagination, but not with his eyes and after a while he sighed and said,
“There is nothing.”

           
“There is hope,” Wynett countered.

           
“Blind hope,” he responded.

           
“You must not give up.” She removed
her hands and he heard her bustling about the room. “It may be these
preparations of mine are taking effect.”

           
He shrugged, his spirits sinking
again in the aftermath of that moment of optimism, gloom overcoming him. He sat
silently as she settled pads of cotton over his eyes, the unguent in which they
were soaked tingling, then wound a fresh bandage about his head, smoothing his
hair into place.

           
“We shall try again,” she promised.
“And we shall continue trying until your sight is restored.”

           
Kedryn nodded dolefully, consoling
himself with the thought that he would, at least, be guaranteed her company.

           
“You must not give up hope,” she
repeated. “If I cannot effect a cure, then Estrevan will find a way. You
must
believe that.”