Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (62 page)

           
“He will destroy you,” rasped
Tepshen.

           
“Or I him,” said Kedryn, his voice
calm. “Is that not what the Text foretells? Listen, my friends, I wanted no
part of this—I did not believe I was the Chosen One, did not believe I
could
be, but do all these paths we have
trod together not lead to this one thing?

           
It seems my destiny is inexorable—it
leads me inevitably to the Messenger. I
must
face him. Or grant him sway over the Kingdoms.”

           
“He is right.” Wynett’s voice was
hushed, though it carried clearly enough through the silence that followed
Kedryn’s declaration. “The Lady chose Kedryn as her champion and he must follow
his destiny. ”

           
“I thought,” grunted Tepshen, “that
your Lady gave you free choice.”

           
“To see the Kingdoms trod down
beneath the heel of a usurper? To see Ashar rule our lands?” Kedryn shook his
head, his voice gentle as if he delivered a lesson to a child. “To leave my
parents hostage? Or drag the Kingdoms into civil war? Those are my choices,
Tepshen, and I reject them all.”

           
For long moments the kyo stared at
the younger man. realizing that familiarity had blinded him to the changes
taking place. This was not the boy he had trained in swordplay, the youth he
had escorted into the Beltrevan. This was a king who spoke, a full-grown
warrior who faced his destiny as must all men, unafraid, resolved to take the
only course he perceived as honest, unable to relinquish his integrity for the
safer way. He nodded.

           
“So be it.”

           
“We cross the river on the morrow,”
Kedryn said.

           
“And I?” Kemm asked. “What would you
have me do?”

           
“The hardest thing,” Kedryn told
him, “maintain your vigil. If the bridges open, you will know Hattim is deposed
and the Messenger slain. If not—Rycol of High Fort raises Tamur and will join
you in war. ”

           
“May the Lady go with you,” said the
Keshi.

           
“She does,” Kedryn replied
confidently.

           
The changing weather, or perhaps the
good offices of a benign deity, cloaked the lower reaches of the Idre in fog
that dawn as a boat put out from the shore above Andurel. At the tiller, his
weight settling the small craft low in the water, sat Galen Sadreth. Amidships
sat Kedryn, Wynett, Tepshen Lahl and Brannoc, cloaked and hooded, though
beneath those shrouding garments each man was dressed in battle harness, their
surcoats emblazoned with the clenched fist of Tamur, their blades honed, the
sheaths fresh-oiled. Wynett wore the blue robe of the Sisterhood, though now,
thanks to Kemm, the tripartite crown of Andurel was sewn over her breast, and
like Kedryn, the blue stone that was her half of the talisman hung beside that
emblem. They said nothing as the boatmen dipped their oars, driving the fragile
vessel swiftly through the concealing mist, each wrapped in their own thoughts
as they drew steadily closer to the fog-veiled city.

           
Lights showed as they approached and
to the east the rising sun began to dispel the gray vapor, the sounds of the
awakening harborage coming muffled through the obfuscation. Galen brought the
longboat in against a pier and the crew made fast as the quartet disembarked.

           
“I will do as you bid,” he promised.
“That tavern is as good a place as any to start.”

           
Kedryn looked to where the riverman
pointed and nodded, clasping the hamlike hand.

           
“You have my thanks, Galen. For all
you have done.”

           
Galen smiled briefly. “The Lady be with
you, Kedryn.”

           
He watched as they strode into the
receding mist, wondering if he would see them again, then beckoned his men to
follow him and went inside the inn.

           
“Praise the Lady,” he declared,
using the full force of his impressive voice to attract attention, “we have a
new king and I propose to stand a glass for every man ready to drink his
health.”

           
The tavern was already well
populated with longshoremen and sailors and all their faces turned at this
announcement. The bulk of the early morning drinkers were daunted by Galen’s
size, but one found the courage to spit noisily into the brass bucket provided
and say, “A toast to Hattim Sethiyan? I’d sooner go thirsty.”

           
“The Galichian usurper?” Galen
affected surprise. “Why, my friend, the only toast to him I’d drink would be in
his blood. No, I toast Kedryn Caitin, newly wed to good King Darr’s daughter,
Wynett, and so our rightful monarch.”

           
“Prince Kedryn?” The dissenter fixed
narrow eyes on Galen.

           
“Kedryn is lost in the Beltrevan.”

           
“Kedryn goes e’en now to make his
presence known to the upstart Hattim,” beamed Galen. “With Wynett at his side.
I witnessed their wedding myself. Now—who joins me in a toast to Kedryn, our
king?”

           
“Evshan,” said the man. “And may the
Lady bless Kedryn. And you, captain, for bringing us this news.”

           
Galen dispensed coins as cups were
rapidly emptied, quaffing a brimming glass himself before departing to the next
tavern to repeat his performance.

           
He had visited three before a squad
of Galichian soldiers under the command of a sergeant appeared to demand what
treason he disseminated.

           
“Why, is it treason to toast the
king?” beamed Galen.

           
“The docks are alive with scurrilous
rumor,” snapped the sergeant. “You spread word that Kedryn Caitin claims the
High Throne.”

           
“As, indeed, he does,” the riverman
retorted loudly. “He has married Wynett and so claims precedence over Hattim.”

           
“You had best come with me,” the
sergeant decided.

           
“Why?” asked Galen.

           
“You sow the seeds of rebellion,”
the sergeant barked. “You mouth treason.”

           
Galen spread his arms, looking down
at the smaller man. “What rebellion in hailing our rightful king?” he smiled.
“Do you deny Kedryn’s lawful claim?”

           
“Damn you!” The sergeant put a hand
on his sword. “Hattim Sethiyan is our king.”

           
“No more,” said Galen, and clapped
his massive hands together, the sergeant’s head between them.

           
The soldier gasped, his eyes
rolling, and Galen took hold of his belt and the neck of his breastplate,
lifting him high. For an instant the sergeant hung suspended above the giant’s
head. Then he was flying into the men behind him, propelled by all the strength
of the riverman’s arms. Galen’s crew fell upon them as they toppled, belaying
pins appearing from their belts to clatter against helmets and more yielding
flesh.

           
“A round to celebrate the downfall
of Hattim,” Galen roared, and all the tavern joined him in the toast.

           
Before the sun had burned off the
last of the fog the entire harbor area was alive with the news. Word spread
like wildfire, from tavern to tavern, to the warehouses and the merchants,
through the boatyards, inland to the emporiums lining the avenues and on among
the citizens, to the schools, the stables, to the servants of the private
houses and from them to their masters; everywhere it went: “Kedryn Caitin is come
to claim the throne. Hail, Kedryn!”

           
A squad of Galichian infantry led by
a cordor declared the entire clientele of one tavern under arrest and was
promptly set upon. Five of the soldiers were killed and their officer hanged,
the rest forced to retreat in disarray under a bombardment of impromptu
missiles. Five cavalrymen were dragged from their horses and slain. Nine more
were unmounted and tossed into the Idre, where three drowned as laughing
sailors watched them try to swim in heavy armor. Throughout the city, folk
stood up against the oppressors. Galichians who had arrogantly assumed
superiority were insulted, and those who protested or threatened retribution
summarily dismissed. Swords were brought from concealment and turned against
the southerners, their own snatched from them and used against them. The
fighting spread, sporadic at first, but growing steadily into a concerted
rebellion as the word passed from mouth to mouth: “Kedryn Caitin is come to
claim the throne. Hail, Kedryn!”

           
While this went on Kedryn approached
the outer gates of the
White
Palace
.

           
Behind him he could hear the clamor
of insurrection, and several times his little band sheltered in doorways as
troops of Galichian soldiers came hurrying from the walled building atop the
hill. The mist was clearing more rapidly now, pale sun showing against a blue
sky striped with white, wind-driven clouds, revealing the walls of the palace
hung with the grisly reminders of Hattim’s supremacy. Wynett gasped, horrified,
as the rotting corpses in the silver armor of the Royal Guard became visible,
but Kedryn made no sound, though his mouth settled in a tight, angry line. The
tumult grew louder and Brannoc touched his arm, pointing back down the hill.
Kedryn turned to see a crowd filling the avenue behind, swelling as rivulets of
people flowed in from the side streets, moving like some human flood, coming up
the avenue, many bearing swords, others with halberds and axes taken from the
Galichians, more with makeshift weapons, butcher’s cleavers, rakes, even
brooms. He paused, cocking his head to hear what it was they shouted, and
smiled grimly as he caught the words that roared defiantly from a myriad
throats.

           
“Hail Kedryn! Hail the king!”

           
“You have an army,” Tepshen
remarked.

           
Kedryn nodded and continued toward
the gates.

           
Bowmen manned the wall and a teleman
appeared on the arch. Kedryn shed his cloak and his companions followed suit,
revealing the insignia decorating their surcoats.

           
“I am Kedryn Caitin, Prince of
Tamur, and husband of Wynett, elder daughter of King Darr,” he shouted. “I
demand entrance.”

           
The teleman stared at him, frowning,
his eyes lifting to the mass drawing steadily closer, its proclamatory shout
clear. Tepshen Lahl moved a few paces forward, his body tensed to fling himself
between Kedryn and the threatening shafts. The teleman’s gaze shifted to his
archers, then back to the quartet confronting him.

           
“How do I know you?” he called
doubtfully.

           
“Bring out my parents,” Kedryn
replied, “Bedyr Caitin, the Lord of Tamur, and the Lady Yrla. Bring out Jarl of
Kesh. They know me. As does Hattim Sethiyan!”

           
The authority in his voice put
further doubt in the teleman’s eyes and he called, “What do you want?”

           
“I demand entrance,” Kedryn shouted
back. “Open the gates or you answer to me!”

           
“I serve Hattim Sethiyan,” said the
officer, though somewhat nervously, “Lord of Ust-Galich and the Kingdoms.”

           
Wynett spoke then, her voice firm as
Kedryn’s, her blue eyes defiant as she stared at the teleman. “I am Wynett, the
elder daughter of King Darr, and wife of Kedryn Caitin. Do you deny the High
Blood? Do you deny my husband’s rightful claim?”

           
The man studied her, confusion
growing on his bearded face, something like fear showing as he looked toward
the shouting mob that soon would reach the wall. Then he nodded and ordered the
gates opened.

           
“I will bring you before King
Hattim.”

           
“You are wise,” said Kedryn calmly,
marching between the portals.

           
The teleman ordered off a squad of
soldiers and led the way to the inner gates. On his command they, too, parted
and the four companions entered the
White
Palace
. Behind them the mob had halted at the
walls, defying the archers who stood nervously, no longer certain of their
commander’s authority, unpleasantly aware that so large a mass of folk might overwhelm
them.

           
Inside the palace there could be no
doubting the identities of the visitors, for the Galichian nobles recognized
Kedryn from the battle of the Lozin Gate and palace servants paused in their
tasks, staring at the young woman they recalled from childhood, regal now as
she walked beside her husband, her wheat-blond hair so like her sister’s.