Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (10 page)

 
          
Arlynne
giggled and missed the target completely.

 
          
“Not
necessarily,” Yrla said, resuming her conversation with Jarl, her face serious
again. “With this council of Kedryn’s formed there will be less need for the
king to remain in Andurel. And as he pointed out, the greater duty is the
defense of the Kingdoms. If Estrevan is able to clarify the situation, then the
journey will be well worthwhile.”

 
          
“You
did not argue against it last night,” Bedyr said.

           
Jarl shrugged expansively. “Last
night I was won over by Kedryn’s eloquence. There is something about your son
that elicits support, but since then I have had time to ponder it.”

           
“You find these proposed departures
from tradition hard to accept,” said Arlynne. “Surely if these notions came to
Kedryn through the talisman, it is die Lady’s wish he travel to the
Sacred
City
.”

           
“I will accept that the idea for the
council was inspired,” Jarl allowed, somewhat grudgingly, for he knew his wife
spoke the truth, “but this desire to visit Estrevan stems, I suspect, more from
Wynett, and Kedryn’s desire to retain his freedom.”

           
“You doubt their motives?” Bedyr
asked.

           
“No. ” Jarl shook his head, setting
his bow down as he moved to the table that held a decanter of wine, beads of
moisture glistening on the facets of crystal. He poured a goblet, raising the
decanter questioningly to the others, pouring when they nodded. “I believe they
are sincere, but I am not sure of the wisdom of departing the
White
Palace
so soon after the coronation.”

 
          
“I
believe they may be persuaded to remain a while,” said Yrla, accepting the
delicate glass the Keshi held toward her. “At least until we see the council
settled firmly in place.” Bedyr braced his longbow against his knee, bending
the wood until he had the string slipped loose. He set it carefully against the
stand holding his quiver and moved to the table, his handsome face serious.

           
"I think Kedryn is set on
this,” he murmured, taking a goblet. “I do not think he will be dissuaded.”

           
“But surely,” Yrla suggested, “he
will not depart before he knows the council may function successfully.”

           
Bedyr grinned somewhat ruefully.
“Kedryn is a man now, and king besides—or will be soon—and he has already shown
us that he has a mind of his own. As for the council—well, he has outlined its
nature and the nucleus exists already. If he feels he may leave the governance
of the Kingdoms in safe hands, what reason is there for him to delay?”

 
          
“The nucleus?”
Jarl asked dubiously, a glimmer of suspicion
in his hooded green eyes.

           
Bedyr’s grin grew wider and perhaps
more rueful as he nodded. “Do you not see it, old friend?”

 
          
“You
mean,” Jarl gasped, setting down his goblet, “us?”

           
“He has not said it,” Bedyr
returned, “but is it not the obvious choice?”

           
Arlynne clapped her hands, the
bracelets that covered her plump wrists jangling, a smile wreathing her pretty
face. “We shall stay in Andurel? That is wonderful!”

 
          
“No!”
Jarl snapped. “It is not wonderful. Kesh needs me.”

           
“It will be an excellent lesson for
Kemm,” his wife retorted. “He must take your place one day and this will be a
chance for him to rule without your hand guiding all he does.”

           
Jarl’s face clouded, his heavy brows
drawing together. He chewed for a while on the trailing ends of his mustache,
teeth grinding furiously.

 
          
“It
cannot be,” he said at last.

 
          
“Would
you refuse what you ask of Kedryn?” demanded Bedyr, smiling at the Keshi’s
obvious discomfort.

 
          
“He
is—will be—the king,” said Jarl desperately.

 
          
“And
as such,” said Yrla, joining her husband in support of their son, “you would
have him remain here. Surely, Jarl, if you find a short sojourn so distasteful,
you must see Kedryn’s point of view.”

 
          
“I
had thought his eloquence stemmed from the talisman,” muttered the bowlegged
man, “but I perceive 1 was wrong—it was inherited.”

 
          
Yrla
laughed, Bedyr joining her as he clapped a hand to Jarl’s shoulder. “I have no
great desire to stay longer,” he declared cheerfully, “but if Kedryn’s mind is
made up, be it by the Lady or his own desire, I do not believe he will allow
himself thwarted.”

 
          
“And
should Ashar offer further threat, then it is only wise to seek the advice of
Estrevan,” added Yrla.

 
          
“
But.
. . ,” Jarl spluttered, seeing himself backed into a
corner.

 
          
“But
he will travel knowing loyal friends occupy the palace,” Bedyr finished for
him. “Men wise in the ways of the Kingdoms, Jarl. Men experienced in
governance. Men like you.”

           
“I would lief see Kesh again,” Jarl
declared plaintively.

           
“You will,” said Arlynne, gleefully
unsympathetic.
“In time.”

           
Jarl glowered at her for a moment,
then
his expression shifted slowly to one of resignation. He
shrugged, sighing, spreading his ringed hands wide as he allowed a smile to
split his fleshy lips, his eyes locked on Bedyr and Yrla.

 
          
“What
is it about your son,” he wondered, “that enables him to command such loyalty?”

           
“He is the Chosen One,” Yrla said
with simple pride.

 
          
Taws
had failed him—and paid the price of failure—but there remained value in what
his creature had learned of the ways of the cursed followers of his enemy, and
that knowledge he would put to use. The souls Taws had drunk all yielded up
their little tidbits, their little scraps of learning, and each soul—condemned
by the manner of its owner’s death to wander the domains of the netherworld—was
now his to draw upon, each one a source of further information that he might
utilize in the formation of his trap. And this time he would rely on no agency
other than himself: this time he would conquer! Not through strength of arms,
for the Lady (he did not vocalize her name but rather conjured an image of
enmity and hatred) had thwarted that design; nor through such subtleties as his
minion had sought to employ in seducing Hattim Sethiyan, for again her
stratagems had proven too adept. No, this time he would strike directly at the
living embodiment of her challenge to his power.

 
          
He
chuckled at the
thought,
the sound roiling like malign
thunder through the ethereal realm of his domain, its forlorn inhabitants
cringing at the echoes, for Ashar’s laughter seldom presaged aught but further
suffering. This time no fallible human agency would fail him, nor a creature of
his own making; this time the agency of his attack would be a force so
elemental as to be insuperable, impervious to defeat for it was unthinking,
guided only by his will and the task he had imposed upon it. Already it was
freed, questing for its prey, and he needed only obtain a little more knowledge
from those luckless souls Taws had sent into the limbo to guide it to its quarry.

 
          
Thought
was as deed to such as he and in the instant of conception so he stood upon the
ash gray strand that was one boundary of the netherworld, a luminous being in
human form, for it pleased him to appear so, and being a god he was able to
assume what shape best pleased him. He looked about him, not for want of
orientation but rather for the pleasure of contemplation, studying the ugly,
seething surface of the bleak mere, the sunless sky above, filled with the
fluttering things it had been his amusement to create, and he smiled, enjoying
the joyless panorama, drinking in the fetid atmosphere, redolent of lost hope,
savory with despair.

 
          
He
turned as he issued a summons to stare towards the shifting mist that banked
the recesses of the miserable shoreline. The mist twisted and turned as though
alive, columns of reddish gray shaping and dissipating, and from its depths
came a slow, foot-dragging figure. Ashar studied it, savoring the irrevocable
dejection that slumped the shoulders, twisted the once-proud mouth, sat like
wasted ambition in the dulled eyes as the slow-moving feet brought it ever
closer, each step leaving a smoldering print indented in the immaterial matter
of the strand.

 
          
You are unhappy?

           
He made his tone conversational for
it ever amused him to toy with such as this, knowing it dared not question his
majesty.

 
          
“Is
that not your wish?” asked Hattim Sethiyan, his voice dull as the scene, as
empty of optimism.

 
          
Ashar
chuckled, sending ripples over the surface of the lake, and said,
Will Kedryn Caitin be king in your place?

 
          
Hattim
nodded, lank strands of toneless hair falling unnoticed across his downcast
eyes. “He is wed to Wynett and she is Darr’s elder daughter.”

 
          
And after he is crowned in your place? What
then?

           
Shoulders that hunched as though in
anticipation of pain hunched further in a shrug that rustled the drab material
cladding Hattim, drawing it crackling from the bleeding wound between his
shoulders, dislodging maggots that fell writhing to the ground.

 
          
Come, urged the god, you were king once,
albeit briefly, you know what protocols appertain.

           
Lips still fleshy despite their
absence of blood thinned, pursing, and for a moment Ashar wondered idly if he
should have the pleasure of punishing rebellion, then Hattim sighed and said,
“It is customary for the new-crowned king to seek the blessing of the
Sisterhood, so he may well journey to Estrevan. ”

 
          
And how, Ashar demanded in the same smooth
tone, would he travel to that accursed place?

           
“The
Idre,” Hattim grunted, coughing as a maggot found its way into his throat,
spitting it out, “he would travel up the river.
Likely to
Gennyf and then overland to Caitin Hold; thence to the
Morfah
Pass
and on to the city.”

 
          
And would his pretty little queen accompany
him?

           
Again Hattim nodded.
“By custom, aye.
And likely eager to see
Estrevan once more.”

 
          
And she, too, wears the blue stone?

           
“When last I saw them,” Hattim
confirmed, “both wore the talismans.”

 
          
Ashar
nodded in turn, eyes that seemed to open on reeking fomaces thoughtful.

 
          
So be it. You may leave me.

           
The shade that was now Hattim
shifted reluctantly, risking a glance at that face he dared not observe
directly. “Shall I be freed of this?”

 
          
He
gestured at his surroundings and Ashar chuckled afresh, shaking his head.
Never.
This
is
what you chose when you failed me.

 
          
“I?”
Despair lent Hattim courage, though his voice emerged a thin, wailing cry. “It
was not I, but Taws who failed you.”

 
          
No matter, Ashar returned cheerfully. This
is your lot for all eternity.

           
Tears formed in the lusterless eyes
of the shade, running slow down the hollowed cheeks. The shoulders slumped
deeper than before and Hattim Sethiyan turned about, walking back into the
shifting mist that folded about him in a gray cloak of despondency. Ashar
watched him go, the taste of despair delicious to his godly senses,
then
issued another summons, this one met with a degree of
resistance that the god quelled with a thought, bringing the one he required
slowly as Hattim from the swirling mist. There was less enjoyment to be had
from this confrontation, for Darr lacked the Galichian s pride, that
overweening ambition that lent such a delightful tang to Hattim’s despond, and
the god knew that the shade of the former king retained a faith in the Lady that
succored his ghost in this place of lost hope. Sometime he would spend more
time with Darr, teach the inferior creature who was the true master, but for
now he needed only information. He beckoned, the motion forcing Darr’s shade
closer until it stood before him, the shimmering shape of the god towering
above the slighter frame of the once-mortal man.

 
          
I have spoken with Hattim Sethiyan. He tells
me Kedryn Caitin stands where once you stood.

           
Had he expected regret he would have
found disappointment, for Darr nodded and said, “Kedryn will make a fine king.”

 
          
He has your daughter for his wife, Ashar
remarked.
The one sworn to serve my enemy.
It seems
her vows of fealty meant little to her when the chance to rut with that upstart
presented itself. Clearly the Lady (he forced the word out) means less to her
than a man’s prick. Even now he likely paws her body; or she his. Doubtless
they couple like beasts on heat and she drinks his lust with avid lips.

           
“Wynett is his wife? I had not known
that. They are happy then.”

 
          
Ashar
contained the rage that boiled with Darr’s mild acceptance, the eyes he had
assumed incandescent as he studied the frail form before him, unable to prevent
the retort,
Not
for long.

 
          
Orbs
bleached of color, but not of defiance, answered the god’s glare. Darr said,
“Then Kedryn must have defeated your minion.
As the Lady will
defeat you.”

 
          
Ashar’s
rage became uncontainable. His mouth opened, spitting fire, and Darr’s shade
was wreathed in flame, red light filling the gray air with its fury, a scream
of agony climbing from within the pyre. In time, before the shade was destroyed
and thus beyond suffering, the god called back his unholy fire, a gesture
restoring the charred shape to some semblance of normality.

 
          
No, he snarled, she will not. It is Kedryn
Caitin and your daughter who stand between me and victory and I shall have them
both. And you will help me in that conquest.

           
“I will not,” Darr said with simple
dignity.

 
          
You will notP Ashar snapped,
then
modified his tone. But I will offer you a choice. Aid
me and you shall be freed of this place. I will set you amongst the privileged.
Refuse and you shall see your daughter join you here. And Kedryn Caitin, too,
knowing that you brought them to this.

           
A lucid arm swept out, encompassing
all that
mournful place. Darr did not follow the gesture,
but shook his head. “You are a god of liars and cheats and I will have no truck
with you.”

 
          
Then you shall have no choice,
Ashar
barked, his anger seeming to bum against the mist so that it glowed and
trembled. I
will have it from you against
your will.

 
          
Hands
of fire gripped Darr’s shoulders, lifting him so that he hung above the ashen
ground, the god’s furnace gaze transfixing him, dragging from him the knowledge
Ashar sought. It was as if immaterial pincers plucked pieces from his very
soul, and he writhed at the agony of it, his moaning bringing a smile to the
god’s mouth.

 
          
So,
Ashar intoned when he was done,
releasing his grip to let Darr fall shuddering to the seething strand, I
have it. Go.

 
          
The
shade that was Darr rose unsteadily, compelled by the god’s will, and shuffled
back toward the mist that extended tendrils as if in welcome. Ashar watched
him, promising later vengeance, and turned
himself
,
stepping proudly to the edge of the canescent lough, where he stooped to dabble
a hand in the viscous liquid, fervid eyes concentrated on the surface as his
mouth moved in silent speech.

 
          
When
he was done he rose and disappeared, that place where he had stood shimmering
for a while with baleful red light as the tattered gray wings of the batlike
creatures fluttered anxiously, their piping voices raised in reedy chorus.

 
          
In
Estrevan Paramount Sister Gerat felt an unseasonably cool wind brush chill
fingers over her face and wondered if the prickling sensation dancing like tiny
needles over her skin was a product of the building storm or something else.

 
          
There
was, undoubtedly, a storm building. To the east a band of livid sky hid the
bulk of the Lozins, massive banks of black cumulus hanging above, moving
ponderously westward as if in pursuit of the azure that dominated that part of
the heavens. Billows of white fought briefly with the black, and were engulfed,
or sent scudding and streaming from the celestial combat as their darker
opponents took the victory.

 
          
The
windgrew stronger, tainted with the odor of rain, and across the underbelly of
the great cloud mass flashed shafts of brilliant light. Unconsciously Gerat
counted off the pauses between lightning and the ensuing peels of thunder, remembering
how she had done the same as a child, calculating the arrival of the storm. She
smiled,
the expression a mingling of amusement and
apprehension, and felt the first droplets of rain touch her cheeks. Within
moments the droplets had become a downpour and she retreated from the balcony
of her chamber, stepping back into the room as globules of water lashed the
stone outside, splashing over the sill to rest translucent on the polished
boards of the floor. The chamber grew dim as the storm settled over the city,
lit only by the dancing tendrils of levin that stalked the rooftops as if some
airborne behemoth trod on insectile legs above Estrevan. She felt her hair
stand up as the world became a shadow show, all darkness and brilliance,
alternating, great racking booms echoing against her eardrums as the rain beat
a manic tattoo upon the stones of the balcony and the droplets shining on the
floor became a pool of light-shimmered effulgence.