Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (7 page)

           
He appeared now, however, to be
doing his best to maintain some semblance of unity with his fellow lords. His
conversation was polite and he took pains to avoid any reference to Kedryn’s
blindness, seemingly convinced—against his earlier objections— of the sense of
treating with the forest folk.

           
Kedryn listened to the talk without
taking much part. It was mostly to do with the readying of their forces for the
parley, and his own attention was largely occupied with the difficulty of
eating food he could not see. His nose told him that roasted pork sat on his
platter, and he knew it was already cut for him, but he had still to spear the
pieces and bring them to his mouth, not knowing whether fat dribbled onto his
shirt, and only able to guess at what vegetable he lifted to his lips. It was
embarrassing, and he had so far avoided eating so publicly as much as he was
able, but Bedyr had given him no chance this time and he guessed that his
father sought to prove a point to Hattim, or even to his son. Consequently he
ate largely in silence, speaking only when a remark was addressed directly to
him and thankful when the meal ended and he was able to excuse himself.

           
Bedyr brought him to his chamber,
set high in one of the turrets overlooking the canyon of the Idre. Heat from
the fire blazing in the hearth struck his face as he entered and he crossed the
room with a greater confidence than he showed beyond its now-familiar confines
to throw open the shutters and allow in a cooling draft of wintry air. He had
determined early that he would not be cosseted, and earned sundry bruises as he
paced about the stone-walled room acquainting himself with its distances and
angles and furniture until he was able to move with a degree of surety. Now he
leaned upon the embrasure, feeling the wind on his face, hearing the steady
dinning of the great river as he pictured the remembered view in his mind.
Behind him he heard Bedyr settle in a chair and fill two glasses. He drew the
shutters closed and turned, walking to the empty chair and lowering himself
into it with a feeling of pride that was sullied by the knowledge that a
sighted man would undertake so simple an action automatically, thinking nothing
of it.

           
“Evshan,” his father said, pushing a
goblet toward him. “And time to talk. I think.”

           
Kedryn felt instantly apprehensive,
swallowing a generous measure of the fiery liquor. He was not sure he wanted to
discuss his feelings, but Bedyr gave him no choice.

           
“Do you love Wynett?”

           
Kedryn knew that his father was not
a man to prevaricate, but the bluntness of the question still took him by surprise.
He grunted, seeking to hide momentary confusion behind a second swallow of
evshan.

           
“She is a Sister,” he answered,
“sworn to celibacy. As you pointed out—untouchable.”

           
“I know what she is,” Bedyr
murmured, “and I did not ask you that. Do you love her?”

           
“I . . .” Kedryn began, then gulped
and said, “Yes! Lady help me, but I cannot prevent myself. I love her.”

           
It was in the open now, spoken, and
he felt curiously better for it.

           
“Does she reciprocate?” asked Bedyr.

           
That was far harder to answer for he
could not be sure. Indeed, he had to admit that he did not know. There was a
bond, of that he was certain, but whether she shared his feelings remained so
far unguessable.

           
He told Bedyr as much and his father
said, “It is often the case that a hurt man comes to think he loves the one who
heals him. Or the one who seeks to heal him, simply because they share that
commonality of purpose. They spend much time together, and the care bestowed by
the one may be mistranslated.”

           
“It is not that,” Kedryn retorted.
“I am sure it is not. What I saw in Ashrivelle is magnified in Wynett—and I did
see her. Before I was blinded I saw her and felt that were she not a Sister
...”

           
“But she
is
a Sister,” Bedyr finished for him.

           
“As she reminds me,” Kedryn nodded,
“but I cannot help my feelings. And I do not think they are the result of her
ministrations. I think I began to feel this when first she tended me; when all
I suffered was the arrow wound.”

           
Bedyr grunted then and there was the
sound of the jar gurgling to tip more evshan into their goblets. “Would you
have her relinquish her vows?” he asked.

           
“Do you ask me what I wish for? Or
whether I would force her to such a thing? If I could, which I cannot!”

           
He could not see his father’s sad
smile, but he felt the hand that grasped his shoulder, squeezing, then
retreating. He smiled thinly and continued, “If Wynett should choose to
relinquish her vows—of her own free will—because she loves me, then I should be
mightily happy. Had I my eyes, I think I should ask her. But sightless, I am
afraid.”

           
“To ask?” Bedyr queried gently. “Or
of the answer?”

           
Kedryn chuckled, more than a little
sourly. “Of both. I feel ... I am not sure, but sometimes I think she
does
reciprocate, But her duty to the
Lady stands between us.”

           
“There is dispensation,” Bedyr said
slowly. “Devotion to the Lady is based on free will, and there have been
Sisters who have chosen to give up their talents. It must be a terrible
decision—the lives of the Sisters are based upon the notion of general care, of
loving no individual above another. Wynett gave up much to become a Sister—as
Darr’s daughter, she had much to give up—and to forsake that which she has
pursued so faithfully would be a heartbreaking choice.”

           
“Do you say I should seek to forget
her?” Kedryn demanded.

           
“Could you?” countered his father.
“You are young and there will be other women.”

           
“Not like Wynett!” he answered
fiercely. “I saw Ashrivelle and thought I wanted her, but now—even though I am
blind—she pales in comparison with Wynett. I can remember how she looks,
Father. How both of them look, but there is so much more to Wynett!”

           
“Mayhap you have merely known her
longer,” Bedyr suggested.

           
“Mayhap,” said Kedryn, “but I do not
believe it is that.”

           
“You appear convinced,” Bedyr said.

           
“I am,” Kedryn agreed. “And I do not
know what to do! I am afraid to speak my mind for fear I shall alienate her;
and afraid to lose her if I do not.”

           
“Were she not of the Sisterhood I
should counsel speaking out,” said Bedyr. “But as she is, I advise patience. And
perhaps resignation. I think that if you express your feelings now you will
lose any chance you may have. Of course, you may have none, and that is
something you must accept. For now, however, I advise you to wait. Let matters
take their natural course and accept the outcome whatever it may be.”

           
“But before long we depart for
Caitin Hold,” Kedryn objected. “And thence to Estrevan. And if Wynett remains
here I shall have no chance at all.”

           
“Perhaps Wynett will not remain,”
Bedyr said carefully. “Mayhap she will accompany you to the
Sacred
City
.”

           
“I asked her that and she
prevaricated,” Kedryn murmured.

           
“But she did not refuse outright?”
asked Bedyr.

           
“No.”

           
“Then wait until it is time,” Bedyr
said. “A woman—even a Sister—will often surprise you with her choice.”

           
Despite the wind that blew
knife-cold between the great rock walls bounding the Idre, the sky remained a
sullen gray, the upper reaches of the Lozin peaks lost in the overcast as
though stone and sky fused together. The battered ramparts of the fort towered
dark and forbidding above the wind-lashed water of the river, and the town that
sat below the fort seemed to huddle against the buffeting of the wind, shutters
drawn closed, the smoke that rose from the chimneys tattered by the gusts and
sent streaming southward. The Idre herself matched the shading of the heavens,
canescent as ash, the surface swelling and surging to send spume lashing high
against the moles that sheltered the river craft bobbing on the waves. It was a
time for firesides and mulled wine; for storytelling as leatherwork was mended
or harness repaired; a time for readying against the long days of wolf-weather
promised by the ominous firmament.

           
Tepshen Lahl wished that he was warm
behind closed shutters, sitting by a fireside with a goblet of spiced and
heated wine at his elbow and his hands busy with the repair of his war gear. In
all the years he had spent in Tamur, the easterner had yet to grow accustomed
to the severity of her winters, and each year, as he felt the approach of the
white months, he could not resist the painful return of memories of his
forsaken homeland.

           
It had been so long ago that he had
fled, a refugee with only a slaughtered family and a price on his head behind
him, that he was now as much Tamurin as Bundakai, but still, as the cold came
down to chill his bones, he thought of his home. It was a milder place than the
mountainous country that had offered him sanctuary and friendship, where the
differentiation between the seasons was less marked, more subtle than the
dramatic changes of Tamur's hills and valleys, and while he was in every other
way acclimatized, he still found the winters unpleasant.

           
It was not, however, his way to show
that. He was
kyo
—a swordmaster—and as
such bound by disciplines instilled from so early a date as to be now a way of
life, so he kept the grimace of displeasure from his sallow features and
screwed his almondshaped eyes to tighter slits against the bite of the cold as
he drew his fur-lined cloak about him and surveyed the warriors paraded on the
plain before him. They stood in silent ranks, archers and swordsmen,
halberdiers and cavalry, stoic in the chill, awaiting his orders. They trusted
him—there could be no doubting that, for when Bedyr had sent word to raise the
men of Tamur to the defense of the Kingdoms, they had come unquestioning,
accepting him as lieutenant of their lord. He was proud of that, and if there
was any regret at all attached to his appreciation of their loyalty, it was
that he had seen too little of the fighting, arriving after Kedryn had slain
the leader of the barbarian Horde. It was a small regret, vastly outweighed by
his relief at finding both Kedryn and Bedyr safe, if not unscathed, but—kyo and
Bundakai that he was—he would have liked a little more real combat rather than
the harrying of an essentially defeated army.

           
He grunted, reaching up to smooth
his oiled queue beneath the high collar of his cloak, and gestured, dismissing
the waiting warriors.

           
They broke formation with practiced
efficiency, wheeling in ordered ranks to march back to the tents that covered
the plain like varicolored mushrooms. Smoother, he thought, than the Keshi
horsemen who thundered noisily over the sere ground, and more threatening than
the Galichians, who lacked the discipline to ignore the cold and complained
bitterly of the northern climes. He did not like the Galichians much,
considering them soft, though he had a fondness for the hotheaded equestrians
of Kesh. All, though, would do. They had defeated the Horde and now they would
impress its leaders with their order and magnanimity, just as Kedryn had
suggested. An almost imperceptible smile curved his lips at the thought: at the
difference between this manner of cementing a peace and that of the Bundakai.
In his homeland there would have been no talk of mercy or parleys. A
renegotiation of alliances, perhaps; but that only between clans of equal
status, not with hairy barbarians. The Bundakai would have ended the conflict
with the ritual execution of the defeated leaders, their sons included, and the
threat of mass extermination should any object. That he could accept the wisdom
of Kedryn’s suggestion was indication of how deeply he had absorbed the ways of
the Kingdoms.

           
That thought prompted another as he
turned his horse and heeled the stallion to a canter toward the gates of High
Fort. Kedryn’s blindness troubled him. Indeed, it knifed a sadness into his
soul, for Kedryn was like a son to him and it pained the kyo to witness the
young man’s suffering and the seeming inability of the Sisters to restore his
sight.

           
Tepshen Lahl was not a follower of
Kyrie. For all his adoption of Tamurin ways, he could still not accept the
preeminence of a female, and while he recognized the value of the Sisterhood in
such material manifestations as healing and far-sight, he did not subscribe to
their faith in the Lady. If Estrevan could find a cure for Kedryn’s loss of
sight it would be through skill with medicaments or the surgeon’s tools, not
through prayer. And meanwhile the affliction was creating a problem of its own.
Kedryn had served well—had proven himself a warrior—and deserved his due
reward. That meed, had Kedryn his way, would be the hand of the Sister Wynett;
yet that was denied him by the—foolish, to the easterner’s mind—vows of
celibacy taken by the Sorority. Wynett was suitable: she was attractive, if
pale gold hair and round blue eyes were a man’s taste, and her bloodline was
indisputable; she was of an age to bear children; and Tepshen Lahl had seen the
looks she cast in Kedryn’s direction when she thought herself unobserved, while
Kedryn’s own feelings were transparent. That so small a thing as a misguided
adherence to some foolish notion of purity should deny them both what they
clearly desired was, to the kyo’s mind, madness. Yet it remained, a barrier,
and Tepshen Lahl could see the problem becoming as great an affliction as the
sightlessness. Were these the lands of the Bundakai, King Darr would have absolved
the vow and given Wynett to Kedryn, and the woman—dutifully—would have accepted
with gratitude.

           
But these were not the lands of the
Bundakai, and so Kedryn went frustrated by more than his blindness while Wynett
was clearly tom between duty and desire. Better for Kedryn to quit High Fort,
the easterner thought, and seek the ministrations of Estrevan, leaving the
woman behind. Or console himself with one of the fort’s doxies. At least put
Wynett from his mind. Yet he would not, or could not, and now his plan for the
parley meant a longer sojourn and more time in the Sister’s company that must
inevitably result in a harder parting when such time came.

           
“Dream of the unattainable,” the kyo
recited to the wind, "but do not live in dreams.”

           
Then he set such musings aside as
the stallion’s hooves clattered on the glacis fronting the fort and he slowed
to a walk as the guards saluted, ushering him through the great gates.

           
He crossed the courtyard and rode
down the long tunnel leading to the stables, dismounting as a groom came out to
take the reins. He loosened his cloak, grateful for the lessening of the wind
within the confines of the fort, and set a habitual hand to the scabbard of the
long, straight-edged sword that was now his only material link with his home as
he proceeded to negotiate the yards and walkways leading to Bedyr’s chambers.

           
The place was busy with the work of
reconstruction, tilers repairing roofs holed by barbarian missiles, squads
leveling pitted yards, laying fresh flags cut from the Lozin walls, carpenters
lading the crisp air with the pleasant odor of cut wood, while on the ramparts
he could hear the creaking of the winches that hauled up the massive slabs that
would rebuild the ravaged buttresses. It was none too soon, for winter would
render such activities dangerous as ice and wind settled in, and a damaged fort
was like a wounded swordsman—open to attack. That was another sound reason for
Kedryn’s suggestion, and the kyo smiled his admiration of the young man’s
newfound wisdom.

           
“You seem pleased,” Bedyr remarked
as Tepshen entered the room.

           
The easterner nodded, shedding his
cloak and crossing to the fire as he said, “The repairs go well. And the men
are ready.”

           
He slipped the fastenings of his
scabbard loose and set his sheathed blade against a chair, holding out his
hands to the welcoming blaze.

           
“Brannoc is not yet returned,” Bedyr
told him, “so no time is yet agreed.”

           
“Best soon,” murmured Tepshen,
turning to present his back to the fire as he eased the latchings of his jerkin
loose. “An idle army finds itself work.”

           
“An eastern proverb?” queried Bedyr,
smiling.

           
“A general observation.” The
easterner shrugged and settled himself in a chair, turning it to face across to
where the Lord of Tamur sat at a table covered with papers. “The town is too
small to accommodate them all and soon they will grow restless.”

           
“Jarl is already anxious to return
home,” Bedyr nodded, “and I’d lief see Yrla again. No doubt the men feel much
the same way.”

           
“They will do their duty,” Tepshen
said, reaching out to secure a mug that he filled from the copper jug warming
by the hearth, “but the sooner they can, and be gone, the better.”

           
“Aye.” Bedyr pushed the papers aside
and stretched, flexing his shoulders. “I’d take Kedryn out of here, too.”

           
Tepshen Lahl sipped the mulled wine,
staring across the rim of the mug at his friend. “Is there any change?”

           
“No.” Bedyr shook his head, his
smile fading into melancholy. “Neither in his sight nor his feelings.”

           
“You spoke to him?”

           
Again Bedyr nodded. “Aye, and he
told me openly that he loves Wynett. ”

           
Tepshen made a hissing sound,
drawing in his breath, that Bedyr recognized as alarm. He said, “And what was
your response?”

           
“That he should consider whether his
feelings are genuine or prompted by Wynett’s care. He is certain they are
real.”

           
“He knows his own mind,” grunted the
kyo.

           
“He wants Wynett to accompany him to
Estrevan,” said Bedyr. “Will she? It might be better she did not.”

           
“I cannot speak for the Sister,”
Bedyr answered, “but I think I shall do my best to persuade her. ”

           
Tepshen Lahl’s inscrutable features
creased in an expression Bedyr recognized as a frown. “You do not agree?” he
asked.

           
The kyo hissed again, thoughtfully
this time, then said, “Will that not prolong the inevitable?”

           
“Is it inevitable?” Bedyr heard the
defensive note in his voice and wondered if he truly acted wisely, or merely
out of sympathy for his blinded son. “By the Lady, Tepshen! Has he not suffered
enough? Is he not due some small compensation?”

           
Tepshen nodded his agreement. “But
if Wynett remains true to her vows, would a swift parting not be for the best?”

           
“I am not sure. ” Bedyr shook his
head hopelessly. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it would fuel the darkness that pervades
him. He needs hope, and if Wynett’s presence will give him that, then I shall
do my utmost to obtain it.”

           
The kyo shrugged, focusing his
attention on his wine, and Bedyr saw disapproval in the motion. Tepshen would
not voice his objections unless asked, for his devotion to the Caitin line was
unswerving and save on those occasions when he considered contrary counsel of
greater value than silence, he obeyed his chosen leader with an unstinting
devotion.

           
This, it seemed, was such a time,
though Bedyr, unsure of himself, was not certain but that he would prefer
voiced argument. He rose from the table, pushing his chair noisily over the
stone floor of the outer chamber, and crossed to the fire, helping himself to
wine. He sipped the spicy brew, studying Tepshen’s face as he leaned against
the mantel.

           
“Tell me why you object,” he asked:
in this, as in most things, he felt the kyo’s advice would be of value.

           
“Wynett has taken vows,” responded
Tepshen, “and she appears unwilling to forswear them. Sooner or later Kedryn
must accept that, and if she will not change her mind, then it is better he
accepts it early. To bring her with us to Estrevan merely prolongs foolish
hope.”