Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (36 page)

           
He set her down and kissed her,
feeling himself stir as she pressed against him, reminding himself that he must
still exercise caution, appear an honest suitor, a suitable husband. Taws had
explained that to him as the love potion was readied: it was not a glamour, for
such would be too easily detected by the Sisters present in the city, but a
nostrum that by its natural, physical nature might go unnoticed, enhancing,
magnifying an attraction already present.

           
He drew back, holding her in his
arms, smiling.

           
“He did not object?”

           
“Oh, he spoke of power, of
imbalance.” Ashrivelle nestled tighter into his embrace. “That Kesh and Tamur
might dispute the union.”

           
“They might,” said Hattim. “They
might envy my fortune.”

           
Ashrivelle laughed. “I told him you
would doubtless appoint a regent should there be such opposition.”

           
Hattim held the smile on his face,
brushing her hair with his lips that she should not see the cold light in his
eyes. “Aye, I could do that. But why trouble ourselves with such petty
considerations? The marriage is the important thing. Jarl and Bedyr will
doubtless attend and we can settle such matters then. We shall find a solution,
my love—nothing shall stand in our way.”

           
Or my way to the throne, he thought,
as she lifted her face, presenting her lips to his kiss again. Your father will
no doubt seek to put obstacles in my path, but I shall overcome them. Taws and
I will overcome them! And with Taws, I am invincible. Tamur and Kesh shall not
prevent me, nor that decrepit fool, Darr.

           
He disengaged his mouth and took her
hands, kissing them, murmuring, “Perhaps you should go now, lest my passion
overwhelm me and we create a scandal.”

           
Ashrivelle’s smile became
mischievous. “I care not,” she declared. “Let all Andurel—all the
Kingdoms!—know that I am yours.”

           
“I know that,” he told her smoothly,
“and whilst I long to proclaim it openly I do not think we should so disturb
your father.”

           
“Oh, my dearest,” she sighed, “how
thoughtful you are.”

           
Hattim beamed, steering her gently
toward the door.

           
“I shall see you again when we eat,
my love.”

           
“I cannot wait,” said Ashrivelle,
but she allowed him to direct her through the door, where her attendant women
waited, eager to hear her news. They saw her flushed, excited features and
began to press her with questions as they escorted her down the wide,
flagstoned corridor.

           
Hattim closed the door on the babble
of their voices and turned to face the entrance of the sleeping chamber. The
figure of Sister Thera emerged, the pretty features smiling in a way that Thera
never had.

           
“You heard?” asked Hattim.

           
“I did,” said Taws. “It goes well.”

           
“Darr will seek some way to deny me
the succession,” Hattim said.

           
“That does not matter,” Taws
responded. “We need only firm a time for your marriage and ensure the lords of Tamur
and Kesh attend. Before they arrive Darr will be dead and you will have the
throne. ”

           
“And you your vengeance,” smiled the
Lord of Ust-Galich.

           
“Aye,” said the mage. “In full
measure.”

           
The snow that had fallen with
increasing regularity over Andurel since the arrival of Hattim Sethiyan layered
the city with an achromatic blanket that matched the canescent purity of the
White
Palace
. The avenues and alleyways were cleared,
but the parks and gardens and roofs lay unsullied, save for the tracks of
laughing children—and not a few adults—who gloried in the opportunities for
play afforded by the wintry conditions. Such deep and early snowfall was
unusual in the island city and it seemed to Darr, as he proceeded through the
frosted avenues, that this uncustomary turn of weather matched the political
shifting he sensed in process. He allowed his eyes to wander as he rode,
letting his charger, a stallion with coat as pale as snow, pick its own way,
following the mounts of the Palace Guard ahead, studying the shouting children
with a fond smile as they sent toboggans hurtling down the slopes, or hurled
snowballs at one another. The air was chill and clean in his nostrils, the
north wind blowing off the Idre bleached of the wharfside odors that frequently
assailed the senses, the sky a steel-hard blue, silvered by the sun that
reflected in dazzling rainbow hues from the whiteness. There was an air of
excitement, of joy in this unexpected diversion, and it contrasted with the
somber mood of the king so that the smile he assumed as he raised a hand in
greeting to those who cheered him as he passed was a facade hiding his real
discomfort.

           
Whether the Sisters could help him
or not, he was not sure; any more than he was sure of the course he should
take, but they were his only hope at present. He had thought of dispatching
mehdri to bring word to Caitin Hold and Keshaven but held back: once the
wedding plans were set afoot the lords of Tamur and Kesh would, by custom, be
summoned to give their blessings to the union, and to send riders out into the
winter now would merely impose a double burden on the royal messengers—and
possibly provide Hattim with grounds for assuming insult. Darr did not want
that—not yet—and so had decided to seek the counsel of the
Sorority
College
, to which he now went.

           
His musings dimmed his vision and it
was with a start of mild surprise that he realized the white stallion had
halted, taking its cue from the horses ahead as if, accustomed to ceremonial
procedures and an absentminded master* it acted of its own accord. He snorted
brief laughter at himself and climbed from the saddle, passing the reins to a
waiting guard as he walked across the swept, dark blue flags of the square that
surrounded the college building. It was a structure imposing in its stark
simplicity, a cube of pale blue stone only two stories high beneath a gradually
angled roof that was now the purest white, patches of darker tiling showing
about the squat chimneys that wafted pale smoke into the winter air. Balconies
ran evenly around the walls, the wood painted the blue of Estrevan, as was the
ever-open door that gave entrance to the interior.

           
Darr halted there, wrapping his
fur-lined cloak closer about him as the captain of the guard pounded three
times on the woodwork and cried in ringing tones, “The king asks entrance.”

           
The answer was prompt and amused, as
if the youthful Sister who gave it considered such protocol to be exactly what
it was—mere formality.

           
“The king is welcome, as are all who
come in peace.”

           
“Thank you,” Darr smiled, and turned
to the captain. “I am not sure how long this will take, Corradon, but doubtless
the Sisters will find you and your men some warm place to wait.”

           
“Majesty,” Corradon responded,
bowing.

           
Darr nodded vaguely and said to the
Sister, “
Bethany
received my request?”

           
“She awaits you, King Darr,” the
Sister said. “If you will follow me?”

           
She clapped her hands and another
blue-robed acolyte appeared to lead the escort away as Darr followed the young
woman down the low-roofed passage that gave egress to the inner courts. There
were gardens here, given mostly to the production of the herbs that provided
the Sisterhood with its remedies, but also to shrubbery and trees that in
warmer times would blaze with color, lending the college the air of cheerful
serenity Darr enjoyed so much. He glanced about as the Sister led him briskly
along a cleared path toward the far end of the yard, feeling, despite his
foreboding, the calm that seemed to emanate from the very stones of the place.

           
Beyond the gardens they entered the
building again and the Sister brought him up a wide, stone stairway to an
interior balcony overlooking a well in which a fountain played, the steady
trickling of its water musical, tinkling softly from the smooth stone walls.
They halted at a plain wood door and the Sister tapped twice, opening the door
with a smile as a voice bade them enter.

           
Darr went in and ducked his head as
the door closed behind him.

           
“Sister Bethany, I trust you are
well?”

           
The woman who faced him was outlined
against the window at her back, the light giving the prematurely whitened hair
that curled about her head the appearance of a halo. She was tall and thin,
rather than slender, the eyes on a level with Darr’s, studying him with a hazel
intensity that, had he not known her, might have made him feel uncomfortable.
There was an air of austerity about her, emphasized by the hollow planes of her
cheeks and the straight, thin line of her mouth. Those who did not know her
frequently did feel uncomfortable in her presence, for until she smiled she
appeared severe, almost disapproving.

           
She smiled as she answered, and the
expression seemed to shine brighter than the illumination from the window.

           
“I am well, King Darr. But I sense .
. . discomfort? in you.”

           
Darr answered her smile and nodded,
shrugging clear of his cloak to toss it carelessly over a high-backed chair.
Bethany, Paramount Sister of the college, gestured at the table set close to
the fire blazing in the hearth and the king took one of the unadorned seats
surrounding the smooth-polished wood. A carafe and several earthenware mugs sat
on the table and
Bethany
poured wine already heated and spiced with herbs, its taste
simultaneously sweet and savory, warming as the king swallowed.

           
“You see through me,” he murmured.

           
“I see the set of your shoulders,
the lines on your face,”
Bethany
replied. “We of Estrevan are taught to read such things. It is no great
feat.”

           
“Would that I had such skills,” Darr
sighed.

           
“Tell me,” the Sister urged, coming
with typical bluntness to the point.

           
“Ashrivelle has come asking
permission for Hattim Sethiyan to present formal court,” Darr told her. “I
could see no course but to agree.”

           
“You had rather refused?”
Bethany
asked.

           
Darr sipped wine and shrugged, the
comers of his mouth turning down beneath his gray mustache. “The Lord of
Ust-Galich would not be my first choice.”

           
“Kedryn Caitin? Jarl’s Kemm?”
Bethany
queried.

           
“Kedryn, not Kemm,” Darr nodded.

           
“Who goes to Estrevan in search of
sight,” nodded the Sister, “and the princess will not wait.”

           
“She is in love,” Darr spoke the
word as though it left an unsavory taste. “Hattim Sethiyan is the only man for
her! It is as if she were bewitched.”

           
“I doubt that,” smiled
Bethany
. “Were there magics afoot we should have
sensed them. Sister Thera is close to the Lord of Ust-Galich and would
doubtless have sent me word.”

           
“Sister Thera appears to have become
the confidante of our Galichian cousin,” grumbled Darr. “As you know, he marks
her amongst his retinue.”

           
“Which is no bad thing,”
Bethany
commented mildly. “Hattim Sethiyan had
little to do with the Sorority ere now, and to have a Sister so close can only
provide a benign influence. That is why I agreed to her secondment.”

           
“I do not dispute that,” Darr
agreed, “but I doubt the wisdom of the union.”

           
“He is eligible.”
Bethany
sipped delicately at her wine, adding, “You
cannot dispute that.”

           
“His eligibility, no,” Darr said.
“But the wisdom? Ust-Galich bound to Andurel?”

           
“Hattim must renounce one throne,”
came the even answer. “Either he forfeits liegedom of the southern kingdom, or
the High Seat.”

           
“It is not so simple,” Darr
murmured, thinking that Grania would have seen it in the instant. “Should
Hattim relinquish Ust-Galich to some fresh bloodline it will inevitably be to
some loyal follower. A Sethiyan puppet! I do not believe he would agree to
forgo the
White
Palace
.”

           
“Tamur and Kesh have a say in this,”
Bethany
interrupted. “Will they accept Hattim
Sethiyan as ruler of Andurel?”

           
“Were he wed to Ashrivelle, they
might have no choice,” Dan- answered. “The line continues through marriage.”

           
“And is Kedryn Caitin so much better
an heir?” the Sister demanded. “He is the hero of the Lozin Gate and commands
the loyalty of Tamur. That kingdom wed to Andurel might pose a union
threatening to Kesh and Ust-Galich.”

           
“Kedryn would renounce Tamur and I
should trust his word,” Darr said, shaking his head. “Bedyr Caitin still lives
and might well father another child, even late in life. Jarl of Kesh trusts
both father and son.”

           
“But Hattim Sethiyan is not to be
trusted?” Darr stared at the Sister, unsure whether she spoke ingenuously. She
smiled, setting down her mug, and continued, “I say what others might ask,
Darr. I am no Grania, to foresee the future, but I know the Galichian army
marches south and must even now close on the city, and that Hattim Sethiyan is
quick to find offense. Is this not what troubles you?”

           
“Aye,” the king sighed. “Should I
refuse this union, Hattim might well find reason to secede—or promote his case
by force of arms—and thus foment civil war. Should I agree, then Tamur and Kesh
might stand in opposition and Ust-Galich take arms in defense of Sethiyan
honor. I seem caught betwixt high water and quicksand whichever way I step.”

           
“It is no easy decision,”
Bethany
agreed.

           
“It is a quandary,” Darr said
mournfully.

           
The Sister nodded, her hazel gaze
becoming distant. She stared at the king without seeing him and he waited,
knowing that she considered the options, hoping she might arrive at some answer
that would provide a solution to his problem. In this, at least, she was
Grania’s equal, for where the dead Sister had been able to prognosticate,
weaving each thread of a situation to its logical outcome in such a way that
she seemed capable of reading the future,
Bethany
had a talent for finding compromise. And
kingship, Darr reminded himself, was so much to do with compromise.

           
“Ashrivelle is set on this union?”
she asked at last, her eyes focusing again.

           
“She will consider no other,” nodded
the king.

           
“And you can scarce refuse. Yet
neither you—nor 1!—trust Hattim Sethiyan to renounce Ust-Galich.”

           
Darr nodded again.

           
“So you are trapped in this dilemma.
But not Tamur or Kesh! And both Bedyr and Jarl have the right to a say in
this.”