Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (6 page)

           
He nodded again, though he wondered
how long he must wait, resenting his helplessness, knowing that if Estrevan
should prove his only hope he faced a journey of several months’ duration, and
that only after matters here were settled. The calm that had filled him was
departed now and only his will kept him from shouting his anguish. He felt
close to weeping, for all of Wynett’s assurances, and fought the impulse to
reach for her, seeking comfort in her closeness, to hold her and sob out his
frustration.

           
But he was Tamurin so he nodded and
said, “Aye.”

           
Wynett heard the pain in his stoic
reply and struggled with her own impulse to comfort him. There was a great
temptation to cross the small distance that separated them and put her arms
about his shoulders, draw his head to her bosom and murmur words of comfort.
For an instant she wondered what it would feel like to stand inside his
embrace, his lean body hard against hers, to give herself up to the caresses
she knew he would welcome. Then she forced such thoughts away, reminding
herself of her vows, that she was of Estrevan and sworn to the service of
Kyrie, her talents needed—and lost should she forgo the celibacy that was their
price. She was grateful for Bedyr’s entrance.

           
The Lord of Tamur stood in the
doorway with a question in his eyes. He looked the warrior his son might now
never be, clad in leathern breeks and high riding boots, a simple jerkin with
the clenched fist of his kingdom emblazoned on the left breast laced loose over
a plain shirt. A longsword hung at his side, matched by the long dirk his
people favored on his right hip. His thick brown hair was gathered off his face
by a strand of leather, and in his physique and stance and gravely handsome
features, Wynett saw what his son would one day become. Unless the glamour of
the Messenger prevailed and Kedryn remained blind, for Bedyr’s eyes were clear
and hazel; and greatly troubled.

           
“Is there progress?” he asked.

           
Before Wynett could reply, Kedryn
said “No” and rose to his feet, moving awkwardly around the chair to grope his
way to the door. He halted as he encountered Bedyr’s outthrust hand, turning
slightly to bow and say, “I thank you. Sister Wynett. Please forgive my
surliness.”

           
There were tears in Wynett’s eyes as
she watched Bedyr lead him away. No one could see the tears that oozed from
Kedryn’s, because they were hidden by his bandage.

           
Bedyr sensed his son’s mood and
forwent the questions he wanted to ask, explaining instead that he had passed
word to Tepshen Lahl to prepare the Tamurin army for the parley, while Brannoc
was even now leaving the fortress to bring word to the barbarian chieftains.

           
“Your suggestions showed sound
judgment,” he complimented as they crossed a courtyard, measuring his paces to
Kedryn’s less confident steps. “You surprised us all. I think.”

           
“I was guided,” Kedryn murmured.

           
“Guided?” Bedyr glanced at his son.
“By what?”

           
“I am not sure. ” Kedryn reiterated
what he had told Wynett. “It seemed the words came to me.”

           
Bedyr grunted thoughtfully. “Your
mother would understand it better than I, but did Wynett not have some
explanation?”

           
“She did,” said Kedryn, “She
suggested that some part of Grania lives on in me. So I embarrassed her by
asking why we do not share the same rapport.”

           
“She is a Sister,” Bedyr said,
understanding his son; sharing his pain. “Do you know what the Sandurkan call
them?”

           
“No.” Kedryn cursed as he stumbled
against an uneven flagstone, clutching at his father’s shoulder for support.

           
“Untouchables,” said Bedyr. “The
Sandurkan have their own gods, but they respect the work the Sisters do and
consequently leave them alone.”

           
“Do you give me a lesson?” Kedryn
asked, mouth curving in a bitter smile.

           
“Do you need a lesson?” countered
Bedyr.

           
“I need my sight!” Kedryn could not
prevent the anger that tainted his response.

           
“And patience until it returns,” his
father advised.

           
“For a moment,” Kedryn broke off as
Bedyr warned him of a step, and they entered the corridor that led to the great
hall, “I thought l could see. Wynett put something in my eyes and massaged my
temples and I thought I saw the window of her chamber. But it passed and I
suppose it was merely my imagination,”

           
“Was that Wynett’s opinion?” asked
Bedyr.

           
“She was not sure. She hopes her
ministrations have an effect, but she did not see what I saw. Or imagined I
saw. ”

           
“Mayhap they do. You must not give
up hope.”

           
Kedryn snorted. “So everyone tells
me.”

           
“Or become bitter,” Bedyr admonished
gently. “Even if Wynett is unable to restore your sight, once our business here
is done we shall travel to Estrevan. Meanwhile, however, you are proving a most
effective diplomat.”

           
“I had thought to be a warrior,”
Kedryn grunted, pausing as a door was opened, the guard there murmuring a
respectful greeting that he answered with a curt nod.

           
“You have proven yourself in
battle,” Bedyr told him, “and as you will some day be Lord of Tamur, a measure
of diplomacy is no bad thing to have.”

           
“A blind lord?” inquired the younger
man doubtfully. “How should a blind man rule Tamur?”

           
“With justice and wisdom,” answered
Bedyr. “Both of which you possess, as you demonstrated today.”

           
“I think I should rather be a
sighted warrior than a blind lord,” Kedryn murmured.

           
“For now be a diplomat again,” Bedyr
said. “We enter the hall, and Hattim may well seek some opportunity to belittle
you.”

           
“Does he resent me so much?” Kedryn
wondered. “Surely he can no longer consider me either threat or rival.”

           
“He remembers that you bested him
with the
kabah
,” warned Bedyr, “and
doubtless that Ashrivelle looked on you with favor.”

           
In the months intervening between
his encounter with the king’s daughter and the ending of the siege, Kedryn had
almost forgotten the princess Ashrivelle. It was strange, he thought, as Bedyr
led him toward the high table, that when first he had come to Andurel and seen
her, he had considered Ashrivelle the loveliest woman imaginable. Then, in the
heady confidence of his youth, he had allowed himself to imagine finding favor
in her eyes; and—as Bedyr said—seen it there. Now he thought only of Wynett,
whose beauty lay as much in her character as in her visage. Now he doubted that
Ashrivelle would find much to please her in a blind man, and it seemed Wynett
was, as the Sandurkan had it, untouchable. He was, he thought bitterly, denied
everything he wanted.

           
“The duel is behind us,” he said
quietly, “and Hattim’s way to Ashrivelle is clear. She would hardly consider me
a suitable husband now.”

           
“Are you so experienced then?” Bedyr
chided. “Do you know the ways of women so well?”

           
“Would she accept a blind husband?”
Kedryn grunted irritably. “Besides, I love ...”

           
He broke off: it was best not to
admit it, even to himself.

           
Bedyr surprised him by saying, “I
know. We must talk of it later. ”

           
Kedryn gasped his surprise, for he
had not suspected his feelings were so transparent that any but Wynett herself
might have sensed them. He had said nothing to his father, and Bedyr had spent
relatively little time with him of late, being so much concerned with the
aftermath of battle, but it appeared he was more obvious than he had thought.

           
“I should welcome that,” he
murmured.

           
“It is time, I think,” Bedyr said.
“And it is oft helpful to discuss a problem with a friend.”

           
He squeezed his son’s shoulder as he
spoke, and Kedryn took comfort from the pressure, his gloomy mood lightening a
fraction.

           
It darkened again as they entered
the hall and he heard the buzz of conversation falter, guessing that those
present saw him and turned in his direction, not needing eyes to see the
expressions of sympathy on their faces for he could hear it in the greetings
that came his way as Bedyr guided him to the table set at the head of the long
room.

           
“Here,” his father instructed, easing
a chair back. “There is a cup to your right and a jug ready. Darr sits to your
left in conversation with Jarl. The others are not yet come.”

           
“My Lords,” Kedryn said, easing into
the chair.

           
“Kedryn,” responded the king, “I
thank you again for the wisdom you brought to our proceedings.”

           
“Aye, you spoke well.” Jarl’s voice
was gruff with unspoken compassion.

           
“Thank you,” he answered, grateful
that they had the tact not to refer to his predicament. “I am pleased I was
able to offer something. ”

           
“You offered much,” said Darr. “A
lasting peace with the Beltrevan can be nothing but beneficial to us all. ”

           
Kedryn smiled, putting his hands on
the surface of the table and reaching carefully for the cup, lifting it that
the waiting servant might fill it. He brought it to his lips and felt pleased
with himself that he managed that, and the replacement, without spilling the
rich, Galichian wine.

           
“Hattim comes,” Bedyr warned.

           
“The peacock lord,” muttered Jarl,
disapproval in his voice. “What finery! How he struts!”

           
“Lord Jarl,” Darr chided, “are we
not allies? Let us at least retain a semblance of friendship.”

           
“That alliance was forced on him by
Kedryn’s victory in the
trajea
,” the
Keshi grunted, “and you know it, Darr. Had the lad not bested him, Hattim would
have found excuses to leave the fighting to us and likely have settled himself
in Andurel.”

           
“Jarl, Jarl,” Darr murmured, “you
cannot be sure of that.”

           
“He lusts for the throne,” retorted
the swarthy lord. “And that I
can
be
sure of.”

           
“He is ambitious,” the king
admitted, “but whilst you and our Lord of Tamur oppose him, he can entertain no
hope of gaining that seat.”

           
“Not rightfully, ” Jarl responded,
“but the likes of Hattim do not always do what is right.”

           
“Do you suspect treason, Jarl?”
asked Bedyr.

           
Kedryn heard the Keshi’s robe shift
as his shoulders hunched in a shrug. “No,” he admitted, “but I do not trust
Hattim.”

           
“He fought with us,” said Darr. “Let
us remember that and forget our differences.”

           
Kedryn heard Jarl snort, but any
reply he might have given was cut short by the arrival of the Lord of
Ust-Galich.

           
“King Darr, my Lords, Prince
Kedryn.” His greeting was bland enough. “I find you well?”

           
From the scraping of wood on stone
Kedryn guessed that Hattim took a chair to Jarl’s left. He could imagine the
contrast between them, Hattim in the opulent gold and green he seemed to favor,
that taste extending even to his armor, his hair so blond as to shine yellow,
carefully arranged to expose the earring suspended from his right lobe, his
wrists spanned by intricate bracelets, while Jarl would be wearing his
customary black, his dark hair braided in the Keshi fashion, his only jewelry
the rings on left thumb and two fingers. Darr, he guessed, would wear the plain
gray robe that appeared his customary attire on any but formal occasions, his
sole mark of status the medallion about his neck, the tripartite crown of
Andurel raised in bas-relief from the silver disk. He and Bedyr both wore
leather, practical and comfortable. A stranger entering the hall might well
assume that Hattim Sethiyan was the most elevated there, at least until they
spoke, for Darr had an air of quiet authority while Hattim exuded a sense of
petulant dissatisfaction.