Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (18 page)

 
          
“I
do not come as a king,” he said, “rather as a friend.”

 
          
“Friend?
How can you name me your friend?” Ashrivelle’s
voice was muffled by the silken pillow against which she pressed her face. “You
must surely hate me.”

 
          
“That
is foolishness,” Wynett said firmly, “and unworthy of you.”

 
          
“I
am
unworthy,” Ashrivelle retorted.
“And clearly foolish.”

 
          
“I
do not hate you,” Kedryn said. “Why should I?”

 
          
“I
am tainted,” was the dramatic response.

 
          
“Tainted?
How tainted?”

 
          
Kedryn
looked to Wynett, who shrugged slightly, a frown tugging shallow lines between
her finely arched brows.

 
          
“I
gave myself to Hattim,” Ashrivelle moaned. “Had I not done that our father
would live still. I gave my support to the Usurper!”

 
          
The
declaration ended on a wail and she dug her face deeper into the pillow, her
shoulders trembling beneath the thin silk of her gown.

 
          
“Look
at me,” Kedryn urged, and when she would not, reached to grasp her shoulder,
turning her toward him.

 
          
He
was shocked by the change in the woman. He had thought her beautiful once, and
even now the delineaments of beauty could be seen in her features, but masked
by grief and guilt
Her
face was very pale and her eyes
seemed sunken, ringed by dark half-moons of shadow, reddened by her weeping.
Her cheeks were hollowed and as she stared at him she drew her lower lip between
her teeth, gnawing on its fullness. He glanced again at Wynett, reminding
himself that they were sisters and that once he had thought optimistically of a
liaison with Ashrivelle. Now, although she was the younger of the two, she
looked older, aged by the guilt writ large in her staring eyes. Wynett smiled
at him nervously, urging him to speak, and he turned toward Ashrivelle.

 
          
“Listen
to me,” he said slowly. “Do you believe I would lie to you?”

 
          
Reluctantly,
she shook her head and he reached to take her hand, holding it firm when she
sought to withdraw it from his grasp.

 
          
“You
are not tainted. I have discussed this with Sister Bethany and she tells me you
were fed a love potion. You were not responsible for your infatuation, nor
was
there any way you could know what you did. The Messenger
tricked so many, forcing them to act against their will. The potion he
administered to you caused you to do what you did, not your will; and because
you did not act of your own volition you cannot be held responsible. There are
none here who do hold you responsible, save you yourself!

 
          
“You
had no hand in your father’s death—that was,” he paused, aware that he might by
chance reveal his doubts before time, “the work of Hattim Sethiyan and the
Messenger. Not you! No guilt attaches to you. Has
Bethany
not absolved you in the name of the Lady?”

 
          
Ashrivelle
nodded mutely, sniffling.

 
          
“And
does not
Bethany
speak for the Sisterhood?”

 
          
Again
she nodded, blinking tears now.

 
          
“Then
surely to assume guilt is to deny the Sisterhood, to deny the Lady. Would you
do that?”

 
          
Ashrivelle
shook her head, her hand no longer seeking to escape his clasp but returning
the pressure of his fingers as if she sought to clutch the hope implicit in his
words.

 
          
“Then
do not,” he urged. “Accept the judgment of the Sisterhood and cast off this
guilt.”

 
          
“Will
others?” she asked doubtfully. “Do folk not point at me and name me Hattim’s
doxy?”

 
          
“You
are not—nor have been—anyone’s doxy,” he retorted. “What folk feel for you is
sympathy.”

 
          
“I
stood beside Hattim when he claimed himself king,” she whispered. “I supported
the Usurper.”

 
          
“Because
you were held in thrall,” said Kedryn.
“Because you had no
choice.
There is no guilt in that.”

 
          
“Do
you absolve me?” she asked.

 
          
Kedryn
nodded.
“Aye, of course.
As does
Wynett.
As does
Bethany
.”

 
          
“I
would have seen you dead,” she murmured wonderingly.

 
          
“Hattim
would have allowed the Messenger to slay you both and I should have stood by
him. I stood by him when he imprisoned your parents.”

 
          
“And
yet they do not blame you,” he responded. “They wish only that you should
recover. Does Wynett blame you?”

 
          
At
his side Wynett shook her head, saying gently, “We are sisters, you and I, and
I cannot blame you. As Kedryn has told you—there is no guilt in actions over
which you have no control. ”

 
          
Ashrivelle
shifted higher on the pillows and Kedryn felt his face redden as the movement
loosened her gown, revealing the swell of pale breasts. He concentrated his
gaze on her eyes, hoping it was trust he saw behind the tears.

 
          
“Do
you truly forgive me?” she asked wanly.

 
          
“Aye,”
he nodded, “truly.”

 
          
Ashrivelle
swallowed and abruptly threw her arms about his neck, sobbing against his
shoulder. He felt tears on his skin and stroked her head, turning helplessly to
Wynett. She was smiling, both pleased and amused, and for long moments made no
move to help him extricate himself. Finally she rose and took her sister by the
shoulders, gently pushing her back onto the bed. Kedryn found himself staring
at a lissome torso revealed by the rumpled gown. Wynett folded the cloth in
place and sat on the bed beside Ashrivelle, stroking her hair.

 
          
“There
is one thing I shall not forgive,” Kedryn announced, smiling as Ashrivelle
turned alarmed eyes toward him.
“Your absence from the coronation.
I would have you there as befits my royal sister.”

 
          
The
alarm faded and she essayed a feint smile.
“As you command.”

 
          
“I
would not command it,” he said, “I would ask it.”

 
          
“Then,” said Ashrivelle, her smile growing stronger, “I shall be
there.”

 
          
Kedryn
stared at Wynett and shook his head in wonderment.

           
“I did not believe you could look
lovelier, but you prove me wrong.”

 
          
Wynett
curtsied, smiling. “Thank you, my Lord. And you look every inch the king.”

 
          
They
studied one another as if for the first time, which in a way it was, for
neither had been crowned before and this day must, they knew, change their
lives. Both were dressed in white, Kedryn’s the surcoat, shirt, and breeks
promised by the tailor, Wynett in matching gown, fitted close about her upper
body, with demurely high neck and long sleeves, but Baring over her hips into a
voluminous skirt, edged like the neckline and cuffs with gold. Her hair was
bound up in a golden snood indistinguishable from the blond tresses and the
talisman suspended between the swell of her breasts seemed to match the blue of
her eyes. She stood very straight, her bearing regal, and Kedryn felt dizzied
by her beauty.

 
          
“I
feel distinctly nervous,” he said ruefully, tearing his eyes from the pleasant
contemplation of his wife to study his own reflection in the mirror. “I can
scarce recognize myself.”

 
          
Indeed,
the white-robed figure staring back at him seemed to bear little resemblance to
the casually dressed young Tamurin he remembered from his infrequent checks of
his appearance. His hair was combed to a glossy chestnut, held back by a golden
circlet, and the surcoat emphasized the width of his shoulders, its length
making him seem taller, while his expression seemed that of an older man, poised
somewhere between dignity and a massive apprehension.

 
          
“A
smile would help,” remarked Wynett, her reflection appearing over his shoulder
as she put her arms about his waist.

           
“You look more like a man
contemplating execution than a king on his way to coronation.”

 
          
Her
own expression was deliberately solemn and they both began to laugh.

 
          
“I
only hope I can remember the correct responses,” he chuckled.

 
          
“If
not,” Wynett promised, “I shall prompt you.”

 
          
Kedryn
turned to face her, holding her close, breathing in the scent of her
fresh-washed hair. “I wish it was done,” he murmured.

 
          
“It
will be, soon enough,” she replied, turning up her face to kiss him.
“And soon after we’ll be on the Idre, bound for Estrevan.”

 
          
“Aye.”
Kedryn’s nod was enthusiastic.

 
          
A
knocking at their door cut short another kiss and, hand in hand, they went to
the portal, opening it to find a cluster of nobles awaiting their presence.
Bedyr stood closest, flanked by Yrla, Jarl and Arlynne at their side, Kemm,
Tepshen Lahl, and Brannoc close behind, beyond them a seeming sea of faces, all
beaming. All were resplendent, Bedyr in tawny surcoat, Yrla in a gown of
cerise, Jarl in sable robe, with Arlynne a striking rainbow of red and green
and yellow. Tepshen and Brannoc, by accident or design, both wore green while
the rest offered a kaleidoscope profusion of colors and a murmur of heartfelt
approval as the royal pair emerged.

 
          
“It
is time,” said Bedyr, smiling proudly.

 
          
Kedryn
nodded,
then
paused, looking over the throng.

 
          
“Where
is Ashrivelle?”

 
          
The
crowd parted and Darr’s younger daughter came forward. She remained somewhat
nervous, but her features were transformed from their haggard outlines to her
previous beauty, albeit aided by cosmetic artifice. She wore a pale blue gown
and her hair, like Wynett’s, was bound in a snood. Kedryn smiled, taking her
hand.

 
          
“I
am pleased you attend,” he murmured.

 
          
Ashrivelle
smiled at him. “Thank you, Kedryn,” she whispered. “You look magnificent.”

 
          
He
released her hand and followed Bedyr along the corridor. Beside him, in a voice
intended for his ears alone, Wynett murmured, “I believe you have made a
conquest. If you dance with her more than twice I shall grow jealous.”

 
          
Kedryn
set an arm about her shoulders, the alarm he aped not entirely unfeigned. “I
had forgotten about the dancing.

           
Wynett drove an elbow into his ribs
and he grunted, adding, “I think one dance with me will be sufficient for
anyone.
At least, if they wish to walk the next day.”

 
          
Wynett
giggled,
then
composed her features in dignified mien
as they reached the wide stairway descending to the great hall, where more
dignitaries waited. Kedryn took a deep breath and oifered
her
his
arm, proceeding down the staircase with what he trusted was a
suitably stately tread. They crossed the hall and went past an honor guard
magnificent in burnished silver armor to the portico. Horses waited there, a
jet stallion for Kedryn, a snow white mare for Wynett. He helped her onto the
mounting box, watching as she settled herself sidesaddle on the animal and then
swinging limber astride the black. The big horse stamped impatient hooves,
sensing the excitement in the air, and Kedryn patted the arching neck as
seneschals hissed over the arrangement of his surcoat.

 
          
The
sun hung golden in a cloudless azure sky as the procession filed through the
gates of the
White
Palace
and began the slow journey down the long
avenue to the city. A squadron of the Royal Cavalry rode in the van, the sun
dazzling on polished helms and breastplates, pennants fluttering from the
upright lances, then Kedryn at the head of the main body, Wynett on his left,
Bedyr, Yrla, Jarl, and Arlynne abreast behind them, then Kemm, riding alongside
Ashrivelle, followed closely by Tepshen Lahl and Brannoc, their prominence testimony
to their relationship with the king-elect, behind them the nobility of Tamur,
Kesh, and Ust-Galich, united now in celebration of Kedryn’s ascendancy, a
second phalanx of guardsmen bringing up the rear.

 
          
The
avenue was lined with people, and their cheers sent flocks of birds, startled,
into the warm air, so that the sky seemed filled with beating wings and the
flowers, ribbons, and scatterings of colored paper thrown in cheerful acclaim
from all sides.

 
          
By
custom, the king-to-be was required to promenade the city before presenting
himself at the College of the Sisterhood, where the Paramount Sister would give
her blessing and join the procession for the return to the palace and the
ceremony of crowning. It was a progress that occupied a large part of the day
and Kedryn was grateful for the hearty breakfast Wynett had cajoled him into
eating as he paraded streets strung with garlands of flowers, folk hanging
precariously from balconies and windows to add their shouting to the hubbub
echoing over the rooftops. Down through the trading quarter they went, and
along the harbor area, past warehouses and taverns, boats from whose masts
cheering sailors hung, through streets narrow and wide, past houses large and
small, over bridges and through gardens, until Kedryn’s head spun with the
enormity of Andurel and he realized how little of the great island city he had
visited. The muscles of his jaw began to ache with smiling and he thought that
his arms had not felt so tired since the days of swordwork on the walls of High
Fort, nor his ears so dinned with unrelenting clamor. Beside him Wynett smiled
and waved as though accustomed to such public display, but as they followed the
glittering armor of the vanguard down an alley so pinched no onlookers awaited
them there she turned and sighed and said forlornly, “I fear my arms shall
wither should there be much more of this.”

 
          
“I
doubt I shall lift a sword again,” he nodded, smiling encouragement.
“Unless you have some potion to restore my strength.”

 
          
Wynett
was about to reply, but the alley gave way to a square and that was filled with
folk whose enthusiasm made further speech impossible, and they readjusted their
smiles and set to waving afresh.

 
          
The
progress took them around
all of Andurel’s
boundary,
in a great circle from the harbor to the bridges linking the city with Kesh and
on to the Idre cascades leading down into Ust-Galich, then back toward the bank
of the Vortigen and again into the mazelike depths of the city. Finally they
came to the blue-stoned square of the College, where
Bethany
stood between the ever-open gates.

 
          
The
cavalry halted there, forming in two ranks between which Kedryn and Wynett rode
until they freed the silver- haired Paramount Sister. Kedryn dismounted,
handing his reins to a smiling Sister and moving to help Wynett down. Together
they walked across the sun-warmed stones to Bethany, who raised her arms and
said, “I bid you welcome, Kedryn of Tamur, and Wynett of Andurel.”

 
          
“I
thank you for your welcome,” Kedryn responded, “and ask that you bless this
coronation to which we go in the name of the Lady.”

 
          
Two
Sisters came forward to place cushions of blue silk upon the flags and Kedryn
and Wynett knelt.
Bethany
placed a hand on each of their heads and said, “Go to your coronation
with the Lady’s blessing, and
may
she be with you
always.”

 
          
They
rose and turned back to their horses as a roan gelding was brought out for
Bethany
and the square rang with cheers. Kedryn
helped Wynett onto her saddle and mounted the stallion. The vanguard formed
again into a phalanx and
Bethany
took her place directly behind the couple as they rode once around the
College and then began the return journey to the
White
Palace
.

 
          
The
crowds had not diminished and the tumult was no less than when they had
descended the avenue. Indeed, it seemed there were even more folk pressing in,
for the procession had been collecting a following of walkers all through the
city and now they surged through the gardens flanking the esplanade, adding
their numbers to those already present until it seemed all Andurel clustered
there in joyful besiegement of the palace.

 
          
The
road was bright with petals and ribbons and paper, a fresh bombardment greeting
them as they ascended toward the gates. There, halberdiers raised pikes in
salute and palace servants filled the courtyard as Kedryn reined in, grateful
that he could now stop waving and allow his arms to drop. Wynett was already
dismounted as he turned to her and he took her arm, leading the way into the
palace with the shouting of the citizens outside still ringing in his ears.

 
          
He
was unsure of the time, though his stomach told him the hour was past
midday
and he hoped it would not rumble as he made
his way across the great vestibule to the dining hall, which, the masons having
been unable to rebuild the Throne Room in time, was to be used for the
ceremony. As he had been told, he strode to the center of the room and halted,
facing the chairs that took the place of the melted thrones. They were on the
dais usually reserved for the high
table, that
removed
for the moment so that the carved chairs stood in solitary splendor. Bedyr and
Jarl, with
Bethany
standing tall between them, went to the
foot of the dais. Yrla, Arlynne, and Ashrivelle moved to the left, Tepshen and
Brannoc with Kemm to the right, while the rest gathered about the sides. From
the corner of his eye Kedryn saw Galen Sadreth towering above the notables, his
round face wreathed in smiles, his surcoat a startling crimson. The riverman
caught his friend’s sidelong glance and winked hugely, threatening to disrupt
the solemnity of the occasion by reducing Kedryn to helpless laughter.