Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (30 page)

 
          
Eyrik
grunted wordlessly, as though he saw something there that pleased him, and
turned toward Wynett.

 
          
“What
do you see?”

 
          
Her
eyes were fixed on the surface; it was impossible to shift her stare and she
did not turn to answer him.

 
          
“What
do you see?” he repeated, his tone a fraction more demanding, edged with an
urgency she did not recognize, so intent was her concentration.

 
          
The
pool seemed to shift, though she saw no movement on its surface or in its
depths, and an image took gradual shape. At first it was unclear, more an
alteration in the nature of the light than any distinct form, but then it
rippled, though still no movement showed physically, and she gasped as she saw
Kedryn.

 
          
He
was seated on a dun horse, lathered with the effort of swift passage,
galloping, his brown hair flung in streamers back from a visage planed harsh
with urgency, his eyes narrowed as if in concentration, or against a wind. He
wore a plain riding tunic and a sword was slung across his back, his jaw set in
a determined line. She could not be certain, but it seemed two others flanked
him, or pursued him, for she had the impression two other horses raced close
behind. Where, on what trail, she could not tell, nor at what hour of the day
they rode, but the sight filled her with surging hope, for it convinced her he
lived—had survived the leviathan and the sinking of the barge both.

 
          
“What
do you see?” Eyrik demanded again, his hand clutching her shoulder, his grip
tightening.

 
          
“I
see Kedryn,” she whispered. “Praise the Lady! I see Kedryn!”

 
          
Eyrik’s
hand left her shoulder and the image faded, the pool becoming once more clear
water. Wynett stared at the blue-silver disk, willing the vision to return, but
it did not and she turned slowly to face her host.

 
          
“He
lives,” she said slowly. “I saw him, and that must surely mean he lives.”

 
          
A
question hung on the sentence and Eyrik nodded, his lips curving in a smile.
“Aye, it means he lives. What was he doing?”

 
          
“Riding,”
Wynett answered.
“Galloping.
I think there were two
others with him. Or chasing him—I could not be sure. I could not see where they
rode.”

 
          
“Doubtless
in search of you,” said Eyrik. “If he lives, will he not seek you? I should.”

 
          
Wynett
ignored the gallantry, consumed by the knowledge that her love was alive. She
nodded.

 
          
“Then,”
said Eyrik, his voice calm, “we need only wait.”

 
          
“Can
you not guide him?” asked Wynett.

 
          
Eyrik
grew thoughtful,
then
smiled enigmatically. “Mayhap,”
he murmured. “I shall do what I can.”

 
          
“Can
you show me more?” Wynett gestured at the pool.

 
          
Eyrik
shook his head, his expression becoming doleful. “The pool shows what it
shows—I do not command it or control it. But now you have seen it, you may come
back; and if it has anything to show you, it will.”

 
          
Wynett
cast a longing glance at the radiant circle, but no further images formed and
she sighed.

 
          
“Let
us eat,” Eyrik suggested abruptly. “Eat and sleep, and mayhap on the morrow we
shall see more.”

 
          
Reluctantly,
Wynett allowed him to lead her from the strange blue-lit chamber, finding
herself once again in the atrium, across which Eyrik led her to a room set ready
for dinner.

 
          
From
the watchtower surmounting High Fort’s southern gate Barris Edon had a clear
view of the Kingdomside approaches. The glacis running up to the massive wooden
portals was surrounded on three sides by cleared ground, leveled and regularly
burned on the standing orders of Chatelain Rycol, affording an open killing
ground for catapults and archers should the mighty fortress ever face siegement
from the south. Such was unthinkable, of course, for the land Edon surveyed was
Tamur and whatever rumors had come north up the Idre since the defeat of the
Horde, the soldier could not conceive of his countrymen turning on the
stronghold, or allowing any hostile force access. Nonetheless, Rycol was a
stern taskmaster and maintained constant vigilance on all approaches, so the
lookout kept his eyes peeled, and when he saw the three dusty riders quit the
town that sprawled alongside the river and urge horses obviously close to
exhaustion toward the fort he shouted a warning to his captain, alerting the
bowmen patrolling the wall.

 
          
That
wall loomed gray in the afternoon sun as Kedryn and his two companions pushed
their lathered horses onward to the great stone redoubt. The river canyon was
already darkening into twilight, the massive buttress of the western Lozins
overshadowing the bastion so that only the ramparts still caught the westering
light, the waterway spilling through the vast cleft a dark ribbon, secretive
and, after the disaster at Geflyn, menacing. Sufficient of the settlements
along the Idre road held mehdri remount stations that Kedryn, using his
authority as king, had been able to command fresh horses at regular intervals
as he hurried north. Even so, he pushed the animals to the limits of their
strength in his desperate haste, and had Tepshen Lahl not forced him to slow
their headlong pace he might have found himself walking, a dead horse behind
him. He was gripped with fearful urgency, anxious to reach the Beltrevan as
swiftly as possible and seek out Drubs Mound, to obtain the sword that seemed
his only hope of saving Wynett, and could not think beyond that imperative, his
customary thoughtfulness lost to the goad of impatience. His damaged ribs were
fully healed, as were the injuries sustained by Tepshen and Brannoc, and the
physical discomfort of the long ride was ignored as they pressed toward their
goal.

 
          
He
allowed his weary animal to slow as the hooves clattered on the flags of the
glacis and archers turned nocked bows toward him, rising in the stirrups to
announce his identity and demand entrance, reining in as the sally port opened
and a captain emerged, flanked by a squad of armored warriors, to study the
travel-stained trio warily.

 
          
“I
am Kedryn Caitin; I want Lord Rycol.”

 
          
He
ignored protocol, leaning forward in his saddle to thrust the medallion of his
office at the startled captain, who gasped, saluting, and said, “I did not
recognize you, Sire.”

 
          
“No matter.”
Kedryn essayed a weary smile, heeling his mount
to a walk even as the officer shouted for the gate to be opened and for a
sergeant to summon Rycol.

 
          
Kedryn
rode into the shadowed courtyard and halted. Dismounting seemed less a process
of swinging clear of the saddle than of ungluing himself, and when his feet
touched the cobbles he swayed, his legs rubbery. He shook his head, grunting as
he stretched, and passed the reins to a startled soldier, requesting the
exhausted horse be rubbed down and settled in the fort’s stables, and without
further delay began to walk unsteadily toward the inner buildings. Tepshen and
Brannoc followed him, no less marked by their hours in the saddle, and they
reached the door granting ingress to the citadel’s living quarters before the
chatelain appeared. He met them as they crossed a hall, his lean features registering
shock as he hurried toward them.

 
          
“Kedryn!
Sire . . . What is amiss?”

 
          
Kedryn
extended a hand that Rycol took and said, “Kedryn will suffice, Rycol. We need
baths and food and fresh mounts.”

 
          
“Of course.”
Rycol issued orders, studying the three with
troubled eyes. “And soft beds by the look of you,”

 
          
For
a moment Kedryn contemplated pressing on without delay, but common sense
prevailed and he nodded gratefully.
“And beds, my friend.
For one night, at least.”

 
          
Rycol
nodded and brought them across the hall to a stairway, curbing his curiosity as
he led them upward to his private chambers. Within the oak-paneled room his
wife, the Lady Marga, rose from her sampler, her rosy cheeks paling in concern
as she saw their determined faces and the weary slump of their shoulders.

 
          
“Kedryn,
what is wrong?” She motioned the two great brin- dle hounds grumbling beside
the empty hearth to silence as she came toward the trio, taking Kedryn’s hand
with motherly solicitude. “We had thought you bound for Estrevan.”

 
          
“We
were.” Kedryn allowed her to lead him to a chair, easing down with a wince of
discomfort, his voice bitter as he continued, “We were attacked. Wynett is
taken.”

 
          
“What?”
Rycol was instantly alert, the barked question eliciting a fresh rumbling from
the hounds.
“By whom?”

 
          
“Not
whom—what,” Kedryn said, and told them of the leviathan’s attack and the taking
of his wife.

 
          
Rycol
gasped at the telling, mouthing a curse as he turned to Marga and said,
“
The thing I thought I saw. Do you remember?” Marga nodded,
her eyes troubled, and Rycol explained the strange floodtide they had witnessed
and the shape he discerned moving south down the Idre.

           
“So it was long-planned,” Kedryn
murmured. “Ashar thinks ahead.”

           
“And will doubtless anticipate your
coming,” Rycol warned. “If only I had trusted my own eyes better and sent word
. ”

           
“You could not know and I shall not
be defenseless,” Kedryn declared, explaining how Gerat had met them at GeSyn
and told them of Qualle’s writings, describing Brannoc’s story of Drul’s sword.

           
Rycol turned to the half-breed, his
gray eyes narrow. “I have heard that tale, but I never gave it much credence.
Do you truly believe it?”

 
          
Brannoc
nodded, his grin a shadow of its former self, and eased his buttocks to a more
comfortable position.
“As much as any legend.
More than many.
My aching bones are testament to my belief.”

 
          
“It
appears to conform
with
Gerat’s interpretation of
Qualle’s writings,” said Kedryn. “And it is all I have.”

           
Marga shook her head, in
apprehension rather than disbelief, and filled cups with evshan, distributing
the liquor as her husband looked to Tepshen Lahl, a question in his eyes.

 
          
The
kyo ducked his head once, grimly, and said, “The beast was not of this world.”

 
          
“But
to attempt what you plan ...” Rycol paused, stroking his grizzled mustache.

 
          
“Would
you have me abandon Wynett?” Kedryn fixed the chatelain with fierce eyes and
Rycol shook his head in negation. “Then you must agree there is no other choice
to it.”

 
          
Rycol
studied the younger man, seeing a face grown older than the youthful demeanor
he remembered, seeing the agony of loss in the tired brown eyes, and chose his
words with care.

 
          
“You
are the king now. As king do you deem it wise to risk your life in this way?”

 
          
Kedryn
sighed and took a long draft of evshan, coughing as the fierce spirit filled
his belly with fire. “There is a council established,” he explained, outlining
the measures he had instituted before quitting Andurel. “The Kingdoms will not
fall apart in my absence.
And I will not
forsake Wynett!”
He modified his tone, smiling wearily as he added, “I
cannot abandon her, my friend. Further, there is the matter of Qualle’s
prophecy.”

 
          
Rycol
frowned doubtfully. “Can that be trusted?”

 
          
“The
Paramount Sister of Estrevan believes it can,” said Kedryn. “She broke with all
precedence to bring me word—would you gainsay her?”

 
          
“No.”
Rycol shook his head. “But to venture into die Beltrevan with only two
companions ... at least take an escort.”

 
          
“No.”
It was Kedryn’s turn to shake his head, the movement sending sharp darts of
pain down his back. “Remember our treaties with the woodsfolk. Mayhap it is
Ashar’s design to foment fresh trouble by luring us into such a move. Do you
think the passage of so large a body of armed men would go unnoticed? Do you
think the tribes would accept it?”

 
          
“I
would not see you slain by the Drott,” Rycol argued.

 
          
“And
I would not see another war started,” said Kedryn.

 
          
“The
Drott are scattered,” said Brannoc. “They will not come together until the
summer Gathering. We have enough time. Just.”

 
          
“Just,”
murmured Rycol, his tone dubious. “Do you think you can reach Drul’s Mound and
disinter this blade before they find you?”

 
          
Brannoc
shrugged. Kedryn said, “Aye, I do.”

 
          
“What
if they do find you there?” Rycol insisted. “What then?”

 
          
“Then
likely they will kill us,” replied Kedryn, his voice flat. Rycol stared at him,
then
turned again to Tepshen. “Do you counsel this,
old friend?”

           
Had he hoped to find support in that
quarter he was doomed to disappointment, for the easterner’s jet gaze met the
chat- elain’s gray stare, Tepshen’s features impassive as he said, “I go where
Kedryn goes.”

 
          
“I
cannot dissuade you.”

 
          
It
was not a question, though Kedryn answered it with a humorless smile and a
dismissive movement of his head. Rycol sighed. “Then at least rest here a day
or two
. ”

           
“A night,” Kedryn amended. “We
depart on the morrow.” Rycol raised his hands helplessly. “Were you not the
king I should consider holding you, albeit against your will—you all three look
exhausted.”

           
“But I
am
the king,” Kedryn responded, a hint of humor in his voice, “and
it is my wish that we enter the Beltrevan as swiftly as we may.”

 
          
“So
be it,” Rycol allowed. “There will be fresh mounts ready far you.”

 
          
“And
two packhorses,” Brannoc said.
“With supplies.
Food
for us and grain for the animals—foraging will slow us.”

 
          
“And
two packhorses,” Rycol agreed.

 
          
“And
clean clothes.” Marga gestured at their stained garments. “I shall see fresh
outfits set ready for you.”

 
          
“My
thanks,” said Kedryn. “And now may we bathe?”

 
          
He
did not wait for an answer, but rose stiffly, bowing awkwardly to his hostess
as her husband ushered him to the door and escorted them to the bathhouse.

 
          
He
had not realized how weary he was until he sank into the hot water, Tepshen and
Brannoc slipping with grateful sighs into the pool beside him, all three
resting chin-deep in the great tub as the warmth eased muscles strained by the
long, hard ride, returning flexibility to joints set near-solid from the long
hours in the saddle.

 
          
They
lay for a long time without speaking, content merely to float there until
Kedryn rose and moved to the second pool, where they scrubbed themselves and
sluiced off the grime beneath a jet of cold water. Masseurs completed the
restorative process, and when they emerged they found the clothing promised by
Marga waiting for them together with a Sister Hospitaler who insisted on
examining them and applying ointments to their sorer parts before handing them
packages of herbs that she explained would revivify them along the way.