Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (32 page)

 
          
“Is
it not lovely?” Eyrik murmured, his voice low, as if he feared that sound might
disturb the scene.

 
          
Wynett
nodded, for it was indeed a magical sight.

 
          
“But
you are tired,” he said, a fraction louder. “Come, I shall escort you to your
chambers.”

 
          
He
eased a hand beneath her arm, holding her elbow as though afraid she might
falter, and took her across the yard to the winding, rose-decked stairway.

 
          
They
climbed upward, longer, it seemed to Wynett, than her original descent had
taken, though she assumed that was due to fatigue, and halted before a door
filigreed with the shifting patterns of moonlight shining through the
overhanging trellis of roses. Eyrik turned the golden handle and pushed the
door inward, removing his hand from Wynett’s arm as he bowed decorously.

 
          
“Sleep
well,” he urged, making no move to enter, and Wynett murmured, “Goodnight,” and
went in, closing the door behind her.

 
          
Candles
burned softly in the outer chamber and she saw that a single column was set
beside her bed. She slid the bolt into its sockets and yawned hugely, noticing
that the windows were shuttered. Rejecting the temptation to simply throw
herself upon the bed and let sleep come, she undressed, choosing a nightgown
from the selection in the wardrobes, and went into the alcove to perform her
ablutions. Only then did she enter the sleeping chamber.

 
          
Shutters
were latched over the windows here, too, and because it was her habit to sleep
in an aerated room she went to open them, turning them back against the walls
where they fastened with small golden catches. She pushed the flawless glass
open and paused a moment at the casement as the breeze she had felt in the
atrium bathed her face in cool air. At first it was pleasantly refreshing,
redolent of grass and the bosky odors of the woodland, and she was on the point
of turning to the bed, but then some other sent intruded and she inhaled,
curious to identify the fume. It was pungent, smelling of decay, as if
something rotted and the breeze carried the effluvium. Her nostrils pinched as
it grew stronger and she exhaled vigorously, seeking to expel the malodorous
scent. Then it was gone and the night once again bore the fragrance of growing
things. She leaned against the embrasure, staring out into the darkness as she
wondered what the reek had been. The lawns were clearly visible under the
moon’s silver fulgence, though the woodland bordering the stream was a solid,
subfusc mass, as if it absorbed the lambency, swallowing light to return only
shadow. It was as though the building from which she stared stood within a pool
of light, surrounded by the umbra of the timber that stretched out to fuse with
the velvet blackness of the sky. She had the impression of standing alone on
some great vessel, seeing only the dark unknown all around.

 
          
Then
she felt her skin chill, apprehensive pinpricks dancing like tiny needles over
her bare forearms, the hairs at the nape of her neck standing upright as a howl
echoed from the aphotic wood. It was akin to a lupine moon-hymn, but there was
a quality to it that had no part of any wolf’s .wail. It was thin at first, a
keening, but then it grew in volume, becoming a lament, empty of hope, filled
with despair and suffering. It battered at her ears, syphoning her with dread
so that she clutched instinctively at the talisman, mouthing a prayer to the
Lady. It ululated into silence, quavering to a stop, and she shivered, aware of
perspiration moist on her face and back. For long moments she stared over the
moonlit lawns toward the darkened woodland, wondering if the awful lament would
sound again, hoping it would not, but nonetheless curious as to its origin, and
then drew back from the window, still holding firm to the talisman as she
folded her arms across her breast and willed her involuntary trembling to
cease.

 
          
She
tried to tell herself that whatever made the sound was some animal—a wolf or a
forest cat—but in this weird place she was not sure, thinking that if windows
could admit sunlight where no windows could be and rooms extended beyond their
natural, physical limits, then anything might inhabit the wood. Unthinking,
propelled by insensate urgency, she unlatched the shutters and folded them
again across the window before hurrying to the bed.

 
          
She
had climbed beneath the covers before she remembered that the candles still
burned in the outer chamber, but she lacked the will to rise and snuff them,
preferring the reassurance of their light to the alternative of darkness. Still
holding tight to Kyrie’s stone she closed her eyes and let sleep come.

 
          
It
was deep and dreamless and she woke surprised to see sunlight barring the
walls, gold and white striating the stone, mundane motes of dust floating in
the radiance. The candle still burned beside her bed and those in the outer
chamber still shone in their sconces, none seeming reduced, their flames
standing straight and true. The numbing horror that had gripped her before
seemed foolish in the light of the new day, though its echoes still rang in her
mind and she lay still, looking about her before she cast off the covers and
rose. Outside birds sang matins and, as was her custom, she joined them in a
brief prayer, then resolutely crossed to the shuttered window and threw back
the screens.

 
          
Sunlight
bathed her face; the air was balmy. The lawns shone verdant, the buttercups and
daisies littering the grass, a patch- work of welcome normality. The brook
glistened; beyond it the woods formed a green mosaic of sylvan tranquillity. A
zephyr stirred her hair and she felt all the apprehension of the previous night
dissolve. It was a wolf, she told herself, nothing more than a wolf; or perhaps
a
cat, that
spread of seemingly endless timber was
large enough to contain the great predators of the forest. She chose to ignore
the small, sceptical voice that muttered at the back of her mind, for to listen
to it was to allow madness a foothold in this strange place.

 
          
She
snubbed the candle beside her bed and entered the dressing room, performing her
toilette before selecting another gown from the wardrobes, a thing of soft,
green silk that fitted as well as the discarded blue robe; as though made
specifically for her. Then, determined that this day she would ask all the
questions she wanted, she went out onto the balcony.

 
          
The
light there was pink, filtered through rose petals, the balcony seeming an
ethereal creation that floated above the atrium, where she saw Eyrik lounging
beside the fountain. He looked up as she studied him, as though he sensed her
presence, and waved cheerily.

 
          
“Are
you hungry?” he called. “Breakfast
awaits
.”

 
          
Wynett
descended the arboreal stairway to find a table set close to the foot.
Immaculate linen draped the surface, spread with salvers containing butter and
bread, fruit, cold meats and cheeses, eggs, several compotes. Porcelain cups
stood beside the plates and at the center of the table a pot exuded the
aromatic odor of a tisane. Eyrik was on his feet waiting for her, dressed today
in a loose shirt of dark green and snug black breeks, high boots laced upon his
feet. His smile was brilliant as he bowed.

 
          
“You
are lovely,” he complimented. “I believe that color suits you better even than
the blue. Did you sleep well?”

 
          
Again,
Wynett felt that sensation of being overwhelmed by his attentions as he held
her chair and saw her seated, dutifully filling her cup and inquiring which of
the delicacies set before her he might help her to.

 
          
“I
heard something,” she remarked, firm in her determination to have answers from
him.

 
          
“Something?”
He presented her with bread, still warm from
the oven, not quite interrupting her, but still succeeding in disrupting her
concentration.

 
          
She
took the bread and nodded, refusing to meet his gold- flecked gaze.
“Before I slept.
I think it came from the woods.”

 
          
“From
the woods?” he
echoed,
his smile quizzical. “Do you
prefer eggs or meat? Some cheese, perhaps?”

 
          
He
would not be forestalled and Wynett allowed him to fill a plate with cold meat
and a thick slice of yellow cheese. She said, “Aye. It sounded like a wolf, but
...”

 
          
“Mayhap
it was,” he said easily. “I trust you were not frightened?”

 
          
She
was about to tell him that the wailing had filled her with dread, but thought better
of it and shook her head.

 
          
“I
am not sure it was a wolf
. ”

 
          
“There
are wolves in the farther reaches; and forest cats.” He took an egg, boiled
hard in its shell, and began to peel the carapace away. There was a delicacy to
his movements that belied the obvious strength of his powerful hands and Wynett
found the action oddly disturbing, almost mesmeric.

           
When he was done and the fragments
of shell littered his plate he raised the egg to his mouth and bit down. His
teeth severed the soft albumen with an almost unnatural precision, so even were
they.
“Mayhap it was a cat. Hunting, I expect.”

 
          
His
eyes met Wynett’s and she felt her gaze captured and held, her resolve
dissipating under his ingenuous smile. “Mayhap,” she agreed.

 
          
“You
need not be afraid,” he informed her. “They do not venture close to this place.
Though if you care for
hunting ..
. ?”

 
          
Wynett
shook her head in answer.

 
          
“Of course not.”
His expression became instantly apologetic.
“You were of Estrevan—you would not enjoy the spilling of blood.”

 
          
“I
see no reason to kill, save to eat,” she murmured, vaguely wondering why she
felt any need to explain. “The Lady teaches us that ...” She halted, frowning.
“How is it you know so much about me?”

 
          
Eyrik
shrugged. “Do you not wear that talisman?”

 
          
“Aye.”
Wynett glanced down instinctively at the stone
suspended between her breasts, aware for the first time that the green gown was
cut somewhat low in that area.

 
          
“May
I see it?”

 
          
Eyrik
leaned forward, his eyes frankly appreciative as they moved over her bust.
Wynett was not sure whether modesty or some inchoate apprehension prompted her
to raise her hands, the one holding a napkin that served to obscure her
cleavage, the other cupping the jewel.

 
          
“I
may not remove it,” she said. “It was given in cognizance of a vow
. ”

 
          
Eyrik’s
right hand extended toward the talisman, halting a finger’s width from the
stone, whether from regard for her modesty or some other motivation, Wynett
could not be certain. She noticed for the first time that his nails were long,
very white, and almost pointed. A thought of claws crossed her mind,
then
was dismissed as he smiled and said, “Never?”

 
          
“Never.”
She shook her head in confirmation, and saw his
eyes flash for an instant, the gold flecks seeming to spark against the brown.

 
          
“No
matter,” he said softly, resuming his amiable stance.

 
          
Wynett
allowed the stone to fall back against her skin. It felt cooler than usual and
as it touched her again she felt it tingle, sending little prickles deep into
her flesh, much like the urtication she had felt at the howling in the night.

 
          
“So,”
he asked her, “would you view the pool again? Mayhap we shall see further sign
of Kedryn’s approach.”

 
          
Wynett
nodded eagerly. “Do you know that he comes? Have you sought to use those powers
you spoke of?”