Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (4 page)

 
          
“You
might benefit from such practice,” Tepshen answered mildly.

 
          
“It
looks far too arduous,” grinned the dark man. “I prefer to watch, idling like
some noble in the sun.”

 
          
“Does
the Warden of the Forests laze away his time, Brannoc?” asked Kedryn.

 
          
“My
Lord,” Brannoc mocked an elaborate bow, white teeth gleaming against swart
skin, “I deem it my duty to watch over the future king lest this eastern
barbarian harm you.”

 
          
Tepshen
Lahl grunted amusement at the badinage and Kedryn grinned, thinking that since
he had come back to Andurel to face Taws and Hattim these two had seldom been
far from his side, appointing themselves his guardians despite the presence of
Royal Guardsmen and the assurances of the Galichians that their loyalty was
unswerving now that their dead lord had been revealed as a puppet of Ashar’s
Messenger. He wondered how they would take his proposals, firmed now that he
had discussed them at length with Wynett; wondered more how his father would take
them. Soon, he knew, he must put them to Bedyr, and to Jarl of Kesh, both lords
anxious to resolve the matter of the High Throne and establish him finally and
incontrovertibly as king. It was necessary to settle it soon, he knew, for
until that was done Ust-Galich remained lordless and it was needful that the
southern
kingdom have
a ruler confirmed lest
internecine rivalry lead to disruption. Yet he wanted, as Wynett had suggested,
to speak
first with
Bethany
, whose support as Paramount Sister of the
Sorority
College
would be invaluable. Today, he decided,
abruptly. The rites of purification over which
Bethany
presided were done, the
White
Palace
cleared of all taint of Taws’s fell magic,
so there was no longer reason to delay.

 
          
“Then
you had best come with us to the baths,” he declared, “for I shall visit Sister
Bethany this
noon
and I’d
lief wash this sweat from me.”

 
          
Brannoc
nodded amiably and fell into step beside them as they ambled across the
sun-warmed sand to the low entrance that led to the bathing pools. The
passageway was cool, their boots ringing on the tiles of its floor, announcing
their approach to the servants who waited discreetly within the subterranean
chambers. The thick-padded practice armor was swiftly removed and with Brannoc
joining them, they plunged into the steaming water of the first great tub. It
was large enough to accept a full squad of guardsmen, but to Kedryn’s pleasure,
none were there at this time of day and he was able to relax without the
pressure of knowing every polite inquiry veiled the one burning question: when
will you announce your coronation. Instead, he could float in the heated water,
talking idly with his companions of nothing in particular.

 
          
He
lay there until his stomach reminded him that he had not eaten since shortly
after dawn, and rose to cross the patterned tiles to a second pool, where he
soaped himself vigorously before plunging into a tub of cool water fed from the
same springs that filled the others, but unheated, rising from that to accept
the towel offered by a waiting servant. He dried himself and walked to the
robing room where he dressed in a shirt of white linen surmounted with a
sleeveless tunic of soft leather, bearing on back and chest the fist of Tamur.
The breeks he pulled on were of matching hide, worked supple, fitting snug into
the high boots presented him by Andurel’s finest cobbler. Indeed, all the
clothes he now wore were of the finest materials, provided in quantity by the
craftsmen of the island city in honor of their savior and ldng-to-be. He had
never owned so many clothes, nor anticipated such modish apparel, being more
used to the plain garb of a Tamurin warrior, and after finding his wardrobes
filled with robes and surcoats and tunics cut in >11 the latest fashions had
requested of the tailors outfits in the style to which he was accustomed.

 
          
Tepshen
Lahl drew on similar garb, though where Kedryn wore only the Tamurin dirk that
was the custom of his people, the kyo belted a swordbelt about his waist, the
ornately lacquered sheath containing the long, slightly curved sword that was
the sole physical reminder of his homeland. Brannoc, like Kedryn, had forgone
his customary Keshi saber, but a blade was sheathed on his waist, and to his
left forearm, hidden beneath the billow of his sleeve, he strapped a throwing
knife.

 
          
“Do
you anticipate treachery?” Kedryn asked, grinning.

 
          
“Honest
men need not fear the blade,” returned Tepshen.

 
          
“And
I do not feel dressed without a weapon or two,” Brannoc added.
“A relic of my wolf’s-head days, mayhap.”

 
          
Kedryn
laughed at their caution and hung the blue stone of the talisman about his
neck, letting his shirt cover the now- familiar jewel.

 
          
“We
go to eat and visit Sister Bethany,” he chuckled. “Not to war
.
”

 
          
“I
had rather be prepared than find myself in need of steel,” Tepshen returned,
his face solemn as ever.

 
          
Kedryn
shook his head, still chuckling, and made toward the exit and the corridor that
would take them into the palace. He was not yet so accustomed to the place that
he could easily find his way through the labyrinthine interior and several
times halted to ask directions of servants or soldiers until at last he found
the dining hall, the appetizing smells of roasted meats and fresh-cooked
vegetables quickening his steps as he approached.

 
          
The
hall was no larger than Caitin Hold’s own dining room, for like his home, the
White
Palace
was built as much a fortress as residence,
but its appointments were far grander, prompting thoughts of gilded cages.
Great windows of colored glass filled the hall with patterns of swirling spring
sunlight that danced over the rich-polished boards of the floor, sparking off
the golden sconces set into the stone walls and the elaborate chandeliers
suspended on gilded chains from the high ceiling. Tapestries covered most of
the stone, some ancient banners, others merely decorative, hanging between
niches in which stood busts and pieces of sculpture, reminding him that Andurel
was an artistic center as well as seat of government. Even the long tables and
the high-backed chairs were of ornate design, contrasting with the simpler
styles of Tamur, and the implements set upon die tables, and the goblets of
artfully worked crystal, spoke of wealth.
To
many,
Kedryn knew, this must seem a prize well worth the price of freedom’s loss, but
he was Tamurin and set store on his ability to come and go as he pleased; an
ability denied the occupant of this fabulous place.

 
          
Flanked
by Tepshen Lahl and Brannoc he made his way down the hall, nodding greetings as
he went, to the dais at the far end, feeing the minstrel’s gallery that stood
above the door. There a smaller table faced the rest, the diners all seated on
the one side, one chair left empty as custom dictated until a new king be
crowned to take Darr’s place. To the left of that vacant seat stood his own
chair, Wynett already settled beside it, her wheaten hair bound up now, her
gown pale green, the talisman the only ornament she wore or, Kedryn thought as
he smiled at her, needed. To her left sat the nobility of Kesh, the hawk-nosed
Jarl, dressed in the sable robe that was the customary garment of the horsemen,
the chest marked with an equine head, silver on green. On his left, her gown a
rainbow, sat Arlynne, his wife, then Kemm, his son, a plumper version of his
father, his features amiable where Jarl’s were naturally stern. To the right of
the empty chair sat Bedyr Caitin, straight-backed, his features an older mirror
of his son’s, lean and proud, almost austere, save for the smile that spread
his wide mouth and the laughter that shone in his brown eyes as he turned from
some sally of the woman at his elbow to greet Kedryn. He wore a surcoat of dark
blue, the fist of Tamur on the breast, his hair, like Kedryn’s long and brown,
but streaked now with gray, a color that had not yet touched his wife’s raven
tresses. Yrla Belvanne
na
Caitin seemed to her son
ageless as Tepshen Lahl, her lovely oval face unlined, her eyes a gray that
matched the silken sheen of her gown, the hand that touched her husband’s
smooth and delicate as that of a woman half her years. Kedryn bowed to them all
and took his place, Brannoc and Tepshen finding seats to Yrla’s right.

 
          
“I
shall have need of your healing skills,” he said to Wynett, quickly, hoping to
forestall the questions he knew the others were impatient to ask, “Tepshen has
delivered more than one bruise.”

 
          
“I
am at your service,” she answered, the twinkle in her eyes telling him she
understood.

 
          
Arlynne
leaned forward to speak past her husband’s stocky frame, her gaze curious. “Do
you then retain your talents, Wynett? I thought them lost with your—” she broke
off, suppressing a giggle as Jarl glared at her, "... marriage.”

 
          
Wynett
smiled happily, unabashed by the Keshi queen’s forthright manner. “They are
reduced, Arlynne. I can no longer sense injury, or magic, nor apply my mind to
speed the healing process, but I retain my knowledge of medicine. I can still
mix remedies; and what I was taught in Estrevan remains with me.”

 
          
Arlynne
nodded thoughtfully, the bangles hung about her wrists jangling as she adjusted
the voluminous sleeves of her gown, cheerfully ignoring her husband’s
impatience as she said, “And you consider it a bargain well made?”

 
          
“Oh,
yes,” Wynett replied as Jarl gasped. “How could I not, with so handsome a
husband?”

 
          
Jarl
snorted, ringed fingers drumming for an instant against the table, a signal his
wife seemed to recognize, for she smiled and closed her mouth.

 
          
“Forgive
me,” said the Lord of Kesh, “I have no doubt the Lady blesses this happy union,
but there are more pressing matters at hand.” He looked along the table,
seeking support from Bedyr. “Are there- not, my friend?”

 
          
Bedyr
nodded, turning serious eyes toward his son.

 
          
“Have
you thought on it, Kedryn?”

 
          
Kedryn
nodded,
his face grave as he answered his father’s
stare. “I have. Long and hard, and I will give you my answer soon.”

 
          
It
felt strange to prevaricate, for they had no secrets and always in the past
Kedryn had sought his father’s advice, trusting to Bedyr’s wisdom to guide him.
It was, perhaps, a mark of his growing maturity that in this matter he was
determined to make his own decision, unwilling to discuss his stratagem with
any but Wynett. In a way he was afraid to present it openly, here at the dining
table, for he was not certain of Bedyr’s reaction, knowing his father’s loyalty
to Darr had been unswerving, and that Bedyr had not seen any alternative to his
acceptance of the High Throne.

 
          
“How
soon is soon?” Bedyr asked. “The Kingdoms wait on your announcement, and
Ust-Galich must have a lord ere long.”

 
          
Kedryn
nodded, seeing further opportunity to delay a direct answer. “Do you favor any
particular candidate? In that I shall be guided entirely by you.”

 
          
“Chadyn
Hymet was acceptable to all,” said Bedyr, “until Hattim poisoned him. But even
so, that elevation renders his line the most suitable. We,” his gaze took in
Yrla and the Keshi, “have discussed the matter and feel Chadyn’s eldest son,
Gerryl, should receive your nomination.”

 
          
“The
king’s nomination,” Jarl corrected. “
Which may be given only
after
the coronation.
”

 
          
“Indeed.”
Kedryn smiled placatingly at the green-eyed Keshi. “And that shall not be long,
Jarl. You have my word on it.”