Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (54 page)

           
“Aye,” Kedryn nodded. “Wynett and I
entered the netherworld and found him, and he returned my vision.”

           
“I am glad,” said Brannoc simply.

           
“Why are you here?” Tepshen
repeated.

           
“You are lovelier than ever,
Sister.” Brannoc continued to ignore the kyo, addressing Wynett. “This quest
appears to suit you.”

           
“It does most excellently,” Wynett
replied, “though I am no longer a Sister. ”

           
“So!” Brannoc’s smile grew wider
still. “You saw the light at last. It makes you radiant.”

           
“Thank you,” Wynett said, smiling in
return. “But why
are
you here?”

           
“Word came to Caitin Held that the
Fedyn
Pass
had fallen,” Brannoc announced, ducking his
head slightly as Tepshen Lahl grunted approval of his coming to the point at
last, “and Kedryn’s parents traveled to High Fort to ask that I find you. More
precisely, to discover whether you still lived, or had fallen to Ashar’s hand.”

           
“They must be wretched,” Wynett
declared, concern in her voice.

           
“They are, indeed, mightily
worried,” said Brannoc. “But now we may return together with this happy news.”

           
“They are at High Fort?” Kedryn
asked. “Is there word of the Messenger?”

           
“They are,” said Brannoc, “and no,
there is no word. Winter grips the Kingdoms and all is quiet.”

           
“That, at least, is good news,” Kedryn
sighed, “but now we must make haste to set their minds at rest.”

           
“Then let us ride,” grunted Tepshen,
“and let this babbler prattle from his saddle.”

           
“You have lost none of your charm,”
grinned Brannoc.

           
Tepshen Lahl smiled back. “Mount,
friend, and let us be gone.”

           
“Aye, and as we ride you can tell me
of your adventures,” Brannoc agreed, swinging astride his dun and casting a
mischievous glance at Kedryn and Wynett. “At least, of those suitable for my
ears.”

           
Under Ashrivelle’s eager command
preparations for the wedding proceeded apace. The seamstresses of the
White
Palace
were busy with the gown she designed, the
musicians occupied with the creation of new melodies, each one requiring her
approval, the cooks excelled themselves in the devising of menus. The cellars
were checked and rechecked in the search for noble vintages of an excellence
and antiquity suitable to so momentous an occasion.

           
The Galichian contingent occupied
the clothiers of the city with their search for garments, and a procession of
mehdri rode out with invitations to the nobility of Kesh and Tamur domiciled
close enough to attend. Traders in jewels and cloth enjoyed a boom
unprecedented since Darr’s coronation, while those selling foodstuffs found
their purses swelling as the servitors of the palace ensured sufficient viands
were readied for the celebration. Hattim Sethiyan was liberal in his own
preparations, commissioning outfits and jewelry in abundance, and all of
Andurel was gripped with excitement.

           
Those who doubted the wisdom of the
impending union felt almost guilty as the princess rushed about the palace,
alight with anticipation, and Hattim continued suavely diplomatic, offering no
cause for criticism. Yrla reported her conversation with Bethany to Bedyr, who
in turn discussed it with Darr and Jarl, but none could find it in themselves
to give credence to her suspicions, and even she began genuinely to wonder if
distress at Kedryn’s fate clouded her judgment. To make matters worse she found
herself, with Arlynn of Kesh, required to share in Ashrivelle’s bustle. Her
opinion was sought on the wedding gown and the form of the celebrations, on the
choice of music and of wines, and all the time she was forced to listen to the
princess sing a paean of praise to her husband-to-be, unable to express to the
besotted girl her doubts.

           
For Darr, Bedyr and Jarl it was no
easier, Hattim’s ready acceptance of the strictures they set about his
assumption drawing the teeth of any objections they might have raised. Whatever
their personal opinions of the Lord of Ust-Galich, they could not disagree with
his right to marry Ashrivelle, nor fault his behavior as the day of the wedding
drew inexorably closer and they were drawn into the preparations, the ceremony
itself requiring their official approval, the billeting of the Galichian
officers needing management, a myriad duties calling for their guidance.

           
No news of Kedryn came as the day
approached, though one old friend appeared to brighten Bedyr’s and Yrla’s
carefully concealed apprehension.

           
They were alone in their chambers,
Bedyr studying a list of those Galichian warriors quartered in the palace and
about the city, Yrla examining the gown she proposed to wear, when a servant
announced the arrival of Galen Sadreth.

           
The river captain filled the door as
he entered, his bulk greater, if anything, than before, his ruddy moon-face
beaming. He flung back a fanciful cloak of oiled green cloth trimmed with black
fur and doffed his feathered cap, his bald pate gleaming as he bowed.

           
“My Lord Bedyr, Lady Yrla,” he
declared, his booming voice echoing about the room, “greetings.”

           
“And to you, Galen,” Bedyr smiled,
beckoning the huge man in. “You are well?”

           
“As anyone,” Galen said. “Though
this news—or its absence—of Kedryn troubles me.”

           
“He will return,” said Yrla firmly,
motioning the riverman to a chair that he filled to overflowing. “Brannoc seeks
him e’en now.”

           
“None better suited to find him,”
Galen nodded, easing off his cloak to reveal a tunic of startling crimson, with
breeks to match and boots of gleaming black leather that might serve as
buckets, “and I pray that he will be successful.”

           
“You appear to be.” Bedyr indicated
the captain’s extravagant outfit.

           
“I like to dress well whilst
ashore,” Galen declared modestly, “and with so many Galichians thronging
Andurel like peacocks I see no reason why they should outshine me.”

           
Bedyr chuckled, lifting a decanter
of evshan in inquiry. Galen nodded, beaming as he watched a goblet filled. He
took it and drank deep, sighing as the fiery liquor went down.

           
“Excellent,” he murmured, “just the
thing to hold out this wolf-weather. ”

           
“Does it affect your enterprise?”
Yrla asked.

           
Galen nodded, “There is little
commerce whilst this north wind blows, and ice has been reported on the Idre.
Consequently I am without a cargo—which may be fortunate.”

           
He emptied his goblet, accepting the
replenishment Bedyr offered with a grateful smile.

           
“How so?” asked the Lord of Tamur.

           
“It occurred to me that you may wish
Kedryn to join you here,” said Galen, “and with the
Fedyn
Pass
blocked he must surely find his way to High
Fort. Should the
Vashti
be waiting
for him there, I could bring him south far swifter than any horse.”

           
“Galen!” Yrla clapped her hands
delightedly. “You are sent by the Lady!”

           
“Mayhap,” said the riverman,
scratching his pate, “the idea did come upon me most suddenly. ”

           
“It is an excellent idea,” Bedyr
agreed, “though I would suggest a slight amendment.”

           
Galen raised one inquiring eyebrow,
the expression lending him the appearance of a massive owl.

           
“The wedding takes place two days
hence,” Bedyr said. “Delay your departure until the third day and we shall
accompany you. Rather than bring Kedryn to us, take us to him.”

           
“Can we?” asked Yrla, excitement in
her voice. “So soon?”

           
“Our presence is required for the
ceremony and at the banquet after.” Bedyr shrugged, smiling at his wife.
“Whether Hattim remains in Andurel or takes Ashrivelle into Ust-Galich, they
will have no need of us. Darr will understand and there is no insult in it.”

           
“I had thought we should remain to
see how Hattim will behave once announced as heir,” murmured Yrla.

           
“He will be heir, not king,” Bedyr
said. “Darr will still rule and he will welcome news of Wynett no less eagerly
than we seek it of Kedryn. ”

           
Yrla nodded, doubt fading from her
gray eyes. “Then let us do it!” she laughed.

           
Bedyr turned to Galen and said, “Can
you be ready to sail the morning after the wedding?”

           
“The
Vashti
is ready now,” the riverman confirmed. “Fresh caulked and
refitted for winter. My crew grow idle in the taverns—a brisk trip upriver will
put an edge to them.”

           
“Then so be it,” smiled Bedyr.
“Three days from now.”

           
“I drink to our departure,” beamed
Galen, holding up an empty goblet for Bedyr to refill.

           
That night alarm spread through the
White
Palace
as Hattim Sethiyan and his closest
courtiers—all those present to drink a toast to Chadyn Hymet—fell victim to a
mysterious illness. It was reported that the Lord of Ust-Galich was afflicted
with the most painful of stomach cramps, that he vomited blood, that he was
close to death. Those of his retinue who had joined him in the poisoned toast
were no better and the palace rang with their moaning.

           
Ashrivelle was distraught, insisting
that she attend her beloved. Darr, Bedyr and Jarl were roused from their beds,
the latters’ wives asked to attend the panicking princess, whom they had almost
to drag from Hattim’s bedside.

           
The Galichian did, indeed, appear
sick unto death as he lay tossing on his bed, attended by Sister Thera. His
face was ashen, sweat matting his golden hair, his eyes hollowed, his body
racked by tremors.

           
“I will send to the college,” Darr
announced. “
Bethany
will send her most accomplished
hospitalers.”

           
“No,” moaned Hattim, “let Sister
Thera attend me.”

           
Darr looked to the brown-haired
Sister, who administered a draft to Hattim’s pallid lips. “Do you require
help?” he asked.

           
The woman shook her head, setting
the cup aside and mopping Hattim’s brow.

           
“No, Majesty,” she said confidently,
“I can cure my Lord. I believe he has drunk tainted wine. He will recover.”

           
“He appears most ill,” said Darr,
worried.

           
“It seems worse than it is,” replied
Thera. “I assure you, Majesty, that he will be well again ere morning.”

           
“Should he die,” Jarl murmured, so
soft that only Bedyr might hear, “our doubts would be resolved.”

           
Bedyr nodded, his conscience tom
between the spiteful wish that Jarl be right and genuine sympathy for the
pain-racked Galichian.

           
“See, he sleeps.” Thera lowered
Hattim’s head to the pillows, his eyes closing as a vomit-tainted sigh escaped
his lips. “I will attend the others.”

           
She bustled from the chamber,
carrying her satchel of medicaments. Darr, Bedyr and Jarl stood staring at the
supine lord, each entertaining his private thoughts as servants changed soiled
sheets, Hattim still now, his breath coming more evenly. Finally Darr said,
“The Sister’s remedies appear to work.”

           
“More’s the pity,” Jarl grunted.

           
Darr sighed and shook his head. “I
bear no great love for Hattim, but I would not wish such a death on him.”