Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (3 page)

 
          
“Corwyn
saw that when he imposed unity on the warring territories, and every king since
has seen it. A king is
needed
!”

 
          
Kedryn
could no longer keep the merriment from his eyes and smiled at her, cupping her
face as streamers of blond hair caressed his cheeks, feeling his love for her
swell as that calm that emanated from the talisman filled him.

 
          
“You
speak as my father speaks,” he said.
“And my mother.
And Jarl.
And Tepshen.
Even Sister
Bethany has said as much.”

 
          
“Because
it is the truth,” Wynett insisted.

 
          
“It
is the truth that without the unity imposed by Andurel— by the White Palace—the
Kingdoms might well fall back into chaos,” he agreed. “But what power does the
king really have? He is little more than a symbol and his wishes may be opposed
by the lords of the Kingdoms—your father was loath to command Hattim Sethiyan
to war for fear he might refuse. Hattim was hungry for the throne not because
he sought the good of the Kingdoms, but from vanity, pride, a lust for power, a
desire to aggrandize Ust-Galich.”

 
          
“Hattim
was a vain and prideful man,” Wynett countered, frowning now at the smile
Kedryn wore, the disparity between his earnest tone and merry expression
confusing her. “You are not like him.”

 
          
“No,”
Kedryn allowed, “but after we are dead, what then? Shall princes vie for the
hand of our eldest daughter? Shall ambitions rise again? The Kingdoms want me,
now,
because some quirk of fate set me in die right place at
the right time; because 1—with you beside me—was able to defeat Taws. When I am
dead, who shall succeed me?”

 
          
“Is
it such morbid thought that caused you such pleasure?” Wynett’s eyes
narrowed,
the blue clouding. “When I found you here you were
smiling as though all cares were gone. I had thought you resolved to
acceptance.”

 
          
Kedryn
stroked her cheeks, smooth beneath his touch, his own face becoming serious. “I
looked out at all this,” he said, one arm sweeping out to encompass the
panorama below them, “and I felt dread. As a songbird seeing a cage open before
it must feel dread. I wondered what it was the Lady had brought me to, and then
I touched this.” His hand clasped the talisman again. “This stone that brought
us together, and banished Taws, and brought me here, and I
felt.
. . calm. I saw a way.” He paused, frowning afresh, not yet quite sure how to
put into words what had come to him in that moment of revelation. Wynett
waited, confident of both her husband and the stone’s power.

 
          
“You
speak of unity,” he went on at last, “as does my father, and all those I trust.
You say there must be some central symbol to which the Three Kingdoms may look
for guidance; some power of government in Andurel.”

 
          
“Aye,”
murmured his wife as he paused again, marshaling his thoughts.

 
          
“And
I agree,” Kedryn continued, “but whilst that symbol is one man—the occupant of
the
White
Palace
—the opportunity for ambition exists. Darr
was a fair man, but Hattim was not; and had Hattim retained the throne, even
without Taws’s aid, he might well have wrought immense harm to Tamur and Kesh,
to the Kingdoms. One man might impose his own unity on the Kingdoms, rendering
them not free domains, but his personal fiefdom. He might establish an empire
such as Tepshen speaks of in his homeland.”

 
          
“That
is the very reason your father and Jarl sought to create a council,” said
Wynett. “That Hattim’s power might be bounded.”

 
          
“Aye!”
Kedryn’s smile spread wide across his tanned face,
his brown eyes alight now with excitement. “And that is the way I saw when I
held the talisman. The way, I believe, the Lady showed me.”

 
          
“What
way?" asked Wynett. “I do not see it."

 
          
“It
is so simple,” Kedryn grinned. “Let the council be established! Let it comprise
men of Tamur and Kesh and Ust- Galich! Let those men be elected, not by
hereditary right, or might, or precedent, but freely
that
they speak for their people. Let them sit in the
White
Palace
! Let them promulgate the laws, determine
tariffs, settle disputes. Let them call the Kingdoms to war if we must fight
again. Let their tenure be limited—one year?
Three?
I
am not sure, but if their seats are placed beneath them by the voices of their
people there will be no one man able to outweigh the rest and the threat of
ambition is removed.”

 
          
Wynett
stared at him with solemn eyes. “It is a revolutionary thought,” she said
slowly. “Would it find acceptance?”

 
          
“Do
you favor it?” he asked.
“You,
whom I
trust above
all
?”

 
          
Wynett
pursed her lips, touching her own half of die talisman as if seeking guidance
there, then nodded: “Aye, I do
. ”

 
          
“It
would free us,” Kedryn said excitedly. “We should be able to travel as we wish,
knowing the Kingdoms were in loyal hands.”

 
          
“Aye,”
Wynett agreed, “but the others . . . Your father, Jarl . . . will they accept
it?”

 
          
Kedryn’s
smile grew again. “They want me king, do they not? As king may I not issue
proclamations? As king might I not divest myself of power?”

 
          
“Speak
first to
Bethany
,” Wynett suggested. “With her support you
are more likely to persuade them. It is, after all, a notion that defies
tradition.”

 
          
Kedryn
nodded. “I will.
And to Estrevan, if necessary.
Does
your sister not wish to retire to the
Sacred
City
? It would be seemly that she be escorted,
and as king and queen, equally seemly that we pay our respects to the
Sisterhood. Were we to travel with
Ashrivelle, that would be
an excellent opportunity for the council to establish itself—to
demonstrate that king and queen need not be caged in Andurel.”

 
          
“Estrevan!”
Wynett grew radiant at the thought. “It has been
so long since I was there; I had scarce dared think I might see that place
again.”

 
          
“Shall
you change your mind?” Kedryn slid his arms about her shoulders, a tremor of
alarm damping the fire of his excitement. “Shall you regret what you have given
up?”

 
          
Wynett
saw the fear in his eyes and lifted her arms about his neck, drawing his face
dose. “No,” she said firmly, “and you are foolish to ask it. I made a choice
and that choice was blessed by the Lady: I have no regrets, nor shall have. Do
you not know how I love you, husband?”

 
          
Her
hands tightened on his neck, bringing his face down as her lips confirmed her
words, and Kedryn felt all doubts flee, holding her as the breeze freshened,
warming, and the sun shone brilliant over the city.

 
          
“Do
you grow soft with this fine living?”

 
          
Tepshen
Lahl turned the downswing of Kedryn’s
kabah,
deflecting the long wooden practice sword off to the side as his own blade
continued on an arc that ended, thudding, against his opponent’s ribs. Had
Kedryn not been wearing the padded tunic, and the blades been steel, his side
would have
opened,
the combat final. As it was he
grunted at the force of the blow, knowing he would be bruised and in need of
Wynett’s herbs ere long: Tepshen was a hard taskmaster, and in the matter of
swordplay allowed no respect for friendship or status to interfere with his
teaching.

 
          
“Again,
and this time pretend you know how to use a blade.”

 
          
Kedryn
grinned, backing away as he adjusted his grip on the hilt, studying his friend
as the easterner assumed a defensive stance, the fulvous skin of the
high-cheekboned face visible behind the bars of the practice mask unmarked by
sweat, his slanted eyes impassive. He was a head shorter than the Tamurin and
as unmarked by the passing years as a carved statue, his pigtailed hair jet,
gleaming with oil, his breathing even despite a good hour’s hard work in the
combat arena. Exactly how old he was Kedryn had no clear idea, knowing only that
the
kyo
had ridden from the east to
swear allegiance to Tamur while he was still a child. Since that day he had
become what he called
ahn-dio
to the
youthful prince, a father not of blood relation, he put it, a guardian and a
friend and a true companion. It was Tepshen Lahl had taught Kedryn the art of
the sword, and the hand-to-hand style of fighting favored in the empire he had
fled, outlawed by an upstart and vengeful ruler, finding refuge and an adopted
home in the hard, wild hills of Tamur, where the pride and the sense of honor
of the mountain folk matched his own. No man might ask for a more loyal
comrade, and Kedryn was grateful for the swordmaster’s friendship.

 
          
Though
that fact might not have been apparent to any who did hot know them, for Kedryn’s
mouth opened in a snarling yell at the easterner’s words and he hurled himself
forward, kabah lifting as though he intended to smash the blade through the
wicker mask guarding the smaller man’s head and crush the skull beneath.

 
          
Tepshen
stepped sideways as the sword came down, his own moving to block and cut, but
Kedryn turned in midstroke, shifting the direction of his swing without
lessening its momentum so that his sword moved over the kyo’s, landing hard
against Tepshen’s forearms. The blow slowed the easterner and Kedryn whirled
away even as he thrust forward, his stroke reversing to hack against the
padding over Tepshen’s back.

 
          
Tepshen
gasped at the force of it, his feet describing an intricate pattern as he
sought to move out of range and turn to counter the attack Kedryn pressed home.
The kabah clashed together,
then
both men were
swinging away, returning, trading blow for blow until the kyo’s blade struck
Kedryn’s neck where the high collar of the protective tunic masked the
vulnerable flesh beneath and Kedryn’s landed in a side-swing against the padded
midriff.

 
          
“Enough.”

 
          
Tepshen
grounded his kabah, bowing from the waist. Kedryn followed suit, then pulled
off one heavy glove so that he could unlace the latchings of the basketwork
helmet and wipe a hand across his sweat-beaded forehead.

 
          
“Perhaps
you are not gone soft, after all,” Tepshen allowed, a feint approximation of a
smile stretching his pale lips.
“Though on that last cut we
should both have died.”

 
          
“You
are still the finest swordsman in the Kingdoms,” Kedryn declared loyally.

 
          
“I
have an equal.” This time Tepshen’s smile was open, a rare occurrence, and
Kedryn felt a flush of pleasure at the compliment: such praise was well worth a
few bruises. He smiled back, essaying a deep, formal bow as Tepshen had shown
it done in the sunrise land from which he came.

 
          
“Do
you anticipate further warfare, or merely enjoy drubbing one another?”

 
          
The
question came from die palisade surrounding the practice ground, where a man
lounged casually on the tiered seats as if enjoying the noonday sun. He was a
swarthy figure, his skin tanned dark as aged bark, his height closer to
Kedryn’s than Tepshen Lahl’s, his eyes laughing. His hair was black and dressed
in braids decorated with bright feathers and pieces of shell that tinkled
slightly as he vaulted the wall and came toward them, his gait loose-limbed.
The necklet of beadwork and the silver hoop suspended from his left ear
combined with the rings on his right hand and the ornaments in his hair to give
him a barbaric appearance at variance with the fashionable crimson silk tunic
and loose-fitting breeks he wore. Indeed, looking at his face it was difficult
to discern whether he was of the Kingdoms or the forests, for he seemed a
mixture of Tamurin and Keshi and barbarian; which, indeed, he was.