Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (11 page)

 
          
And
then it was gone, sweeping westward, the canescence to the east brightening to
welcome blue, white cloud repossessing the sky, sailing in alabaster billows
across a cerulean backdrop that mirrored the reemergent sun.

 
          
Gerat
stood at the threshold of the balcony, studying the sparkle of rain on the
rooftops, unaware that her slippers rested in the puddle left by the storm.
Equally unaware as she turned away that she left a trail of dark footprints
across the rosewood boards, leading from the portal to the desk on which sat
Alaria’s Text and several other volumes of carefully bound parchment. She
settled herself in the high-backed chair, smoothing strands of glossy black
hair into place with an absentminded gesture as she returned to her studies,
not quite sure what it was she sought in the ancient volumes.

 
          
The
Text she now knew almost by heart, able to quote Alaria’s enigmatic words with
a facility to match Sister Lavia’s, but what intrigued her was its possible
correlation with other, mostly earlier, writings of the Sorority’s visionaries.
Those of Sister Qualle were of particular interest, plucked from the oldest
shelves of the library by the diligence of the acolytes she had entrusted with
the research. She turned the pages of that tome now, wondering who had scribed
for the illiterate Sister, and what they had made of her seemingly meaningless
ramblings. The original document had long crumbled into dust and what she held
was a copy of a copy, and thus possibly subject to alterations, but even so it
seemed to her that Sister Qualle had preceded Alaria in her warning of Ashar’s
interventions in the affairs of the Kingdoms. Lavia, she knew, disagreed, as
did Jara, and by common consent those two were the finest antique scholars in
living memory; yet she was unable to rid herself of that doubt that nagged at
the edges of her mind, that conviction that the fight was not ended with the
Messenger’s defeat but merely held in abeyance.

 
          
She
turned the ancient pages carefully, smoothing each one as sunlight filled her
chamber again, the slightly musty odor of the vellum joined now by the fresher
perfume of rain-washed air, the inking seeming to glow in the radiance of the
afternoon. A frown drew lines across her forehead as she studied the archaic
language, her lips shaping words no longer in common usage, her blue gaze darkening
as she found the passage she wanted—or had hoped not to find, she was not sure
which.

 
          
She
read it slowly, then again, faster, and then a third time slowly, each time the
meaning remained unchanged and her frown grew deeper. She pushed the tone aside
and reached for Alaria’s Text, her long index finger tracing a passage already
marked with the indentation of her nail, then returned to Qualle’s words.

 
          
The
sun still shone when finally she looked up, and the sky was still blue, but
Gerat’s gaze was somber and sighted not on the heavens but on the words burning
within her mind. For long moments she sat staring blindly at the rectangle
framed by the balcony door, then she rose to her feet, pacing across the
chamber to throw open the door and call for an acolyte.

 
          
A
gangly girl in a pale blue gown answered the Paramount Sister’s summons,
listening carefully to her instructions before scurrying like an eager puppy to
do her bidding. Gerat returned to her desk and once more read Qualle’s words,
then closed both that and Alaria’s Text, folding the two books against her
bosom as she quit the chamber and made her way through the corridors to a room
furnished with a single large table and five plain chairs. Two walls were of
blank stone, the others windowed so that sunlight filled the recesses,
burnishing the oak of the table’s top to a lustrous glow. It fell on the
straw-colored hair of the young woman who sat facing the door, lending a
honeyed glow to her tanned skin, and on the untidy brown strands of the homely
woman seated beside her.

 
          
Gerat
nodded a greeting and said, “Porelle, Reena—thank you for coming so swiftly
. ”

 
          
“Your
summons had the ring of urgency,” Porelle answered, curiosity in her light
brown eyes.

 
          
Reena
pointed to the books Gerat carried. “You study the Text again, Sister?”

 
          
“And Qualle’s,” Gerat confirmed.
“But shall we await Lavia
and Jara? I would have them hear what I need say.”

 
          
Reena
nodded, glancing at Porelle, who shaped a little moue with her rosebud mouth,
her expression dubious. Reena smoothed her blue gown, content to wait.

 
          
She
did not have long, for the door opened to admit two older women, one
silver-haired, her face creased as a winter apple, age stooping her shoulders,
the other stood straighter, though the gray that predominated in her dark hair
suggested she was only a little younger. “What is it?” she asked without
preamble, seating herself across the table from Porelle and Reena.

 
          
Gerat
waited until the older Sister was settled in a chair and sat down herself at
the table’s head.

 
          
“We
are the council of Estrevan,” she began, interrupted by the silver-headed
woman, who turned age-dimmed eyes toward the two volumes resting on the oak and
asked,
“
Is that Qualle’s book?”

 
          
“It
is, Jara,” Gerat nodded, “and I have been reading it.”

 
          
“It
is of little but historical interest.” Jara’s tone was dismissive. “What
meaning it might have had is dissipated by age.”

 
          
“Mayhap,”
Gerat allowed.

 
          
‘There
is no
mayhap
to it,” said Jara
firmly.

 
          
“Let
our Sister finish,” suggested Lavia. “I see concern in her eyes, and she would
not have summoned us so urgently were this not a matter of some importance.”

 
          
Gerat
smiled her thanks and opened Qualle’s book to the page she had earlier studied.
"I would ask you all to read this,” she said.
“Or
perhaps you, Lavia?
Your tongue accommodates the old language better
than most.”

 
          
Lavia
nodded her agreement and took the book, reading aloud.

 
          
“I
do not understand,” Porelle said when she was finished. “What is so urgent?”

 
          
"Do
you not see a meaning here?” Gerat asked.

 
          
“It
parallels Alaria’s Text,” Porelle allowed, “but the prophecies set out there
are fulfilled, surely?”

 
          
Reena
murmured agreement. “The Messenger is defeated and soon Kedryn Caitin will
assume the High Throne. How does that passage go? Jara, you have it, do you
not?”

 
          
Jara closed her watery eyes a moment, then
grunted softly and said aloud, “The
Chosen
One shall take the seat, his queen beside, and peace shall reign.”

           
“I
saw the conqueror defeated,” Lavia quoted from Qualle’s manuscript, “and he was
driven into fire and l saw him no more.”

           
“Read on,” urged Gerat.
“The latter part.”

 
          
Lavia’s brow creased as she studied the
page. “And I saw he who was raised up go down into the earth where dwell the
worms of corruption, and yet they could not overcome him for his purpose was
high and I saw the love of his fellows sustained him that he be not forgotten,
nor those he loved. And l saw that he brought them to her love, for such was
the strength with which she vested him that not death himself could overcome,
neither his worms, not his sundry minions that dwell beneath.”

           
“Do you see it now?” Gerat demanded.

 
          
Porelle
shook her blond head, her expression confused. Reena said, “Surely it refers to
Kedryn’s death. But that is long away.”

 
          
“It
has a certain merit as poetry,” said Jara, “but I do not think it has the
relevance of Alaria’s work—and as Porelle has said, the terms of her prophecy
are fulfilled.”

 
          
“There
is something else.” Gerat reached across the table to bring the book closer,
her eyes scanning the ornate lettering. “Listen:
And I saw that what he had fashioned for his deathly purpose was his
undoing, for that which he had fashioned He had imbued with his own strength,
that death himself might he slain, should life and death be joined."

 
          
‘'The
meaning is unclear,” Lavia suggested, studying Gerat’s face, “and Qualle’s
sanity has been questioned by scholars.”

           
“She was mad,” Jara said bluntly.

           
“Surely it is a poetic assumption,”
said Reena, encouraged by a nod from Porelle. “I am not a scholar such as my
Sisters, but it seems to say that the Lady’s salvation awaits us all.”

 
          
“It
refers to death in the masculine,” said Gerat earnestly. “Nothing else I have
read does that.”

 
          
“Archaic
custom,” said Jara. “Lavia, what is your opinion?”

           
“It was custom,” Lavia agreed. “How
else do you read it, Gerat?”

           
“I believe Qualle used the masculine
because she spoke of Ashar,” said the Paramount Sister.

 
          
Frowns
of doubt and incomprehension met the announcement. Jara snorted, “Nonsense.”

 
          
“I
do not see it,” said Lavia, though her tone was, like her expression, less
certain.

 
          
“Tell
us your doubt,” asked Porelle.

           
“I believe Qualle warns of Ashar’s
meddling,” said Gerat slowly. “I believe that Kedryn feces some further test
before his task as the Chosen One is done.”

 
          
“But what?”
Reena demanded. “Alaria’s Text is obscure
enough, but this . . . ,” she paused, shaking her head, dislodging fresh
tendrils of untidy hair,
“ .
. . this defeats
interpretation.”

           
“Mayhap,” Gerat said wearily, “but
I feel there is more. I cannot rid myself of the feeling.”

           
“Your talent extends toward
clairvoyance,” Lavia murmured. “Are you certain of your doubts?”

 
          
“No.”
Gerat shook her head. “They are no more than that— doubts.”

 
          
“What
would you have us do?” Porelle asked pragmatically, glancing at her companions
as she asked, “Does any here claim understanding of Qualle’s words?”

 
          
Negatives
answered her question and she went on. “Then I do not see what action we might
take, Gerat. Warn Kedryn?
Of what?
Ashar’s Messenger
is defeated and soon Kedryn will be crowned. There is peace in the Beltrevan
and it seems the tribes turn from Ashar, weakening his power. Within the

 
          
Kingdoms
he is
reviled,
and he cannot cross the Lozin barrier.
Of what should we warn the Chosen One? That Ashar is his enemy? He knows that.
That he will one day die? He knows that, too.

 
          
“What
would you have us do?”

 
          
“I
had hoped that one of you might enlighten me,” Gerat responded without rancor.
“I had hoped that one of you might read in these words what I believe I find
there.”

 
          
“We
cannot,” said Porelle gently. “I find nothing there save old poetry
. ”

 
          
“Likely
dictated by a mad woman,” nodded Jara. “You know that Qualle died before she
took her final vows? The title of Sister is an honorific. ”

 
          
“I
know I cannot rid myself of this doubt,” Gerat said. Then, “Reena, what have
you to say?”