Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (27 page)

 
          
This
room was more like hers, though masculine in its appointments, the floor of
sturdy boards polished to a reddish sheen, the chairs before the hearth solid
wood, the arms and uprights carved with horse heads. An armoire stood against
the left-side wall, and flanking it there were two windows, framed in dark
wood, affording a view over the lawns.

 
          
Perplexed,
she returned to the balcony, leaning out over the rail to confirm that the
building did, indeed, extend upward, rendering the glass dome she had seen,
like the windows, impossible.

 
          
And
started as a deep voice called, “Be careful, Wynett. I would not see you fall.”

 
          
She
sprang back, instinctively seeking refuge in the dappled shadows of the
gallery, a cry of surprise coming unbidden from her lips, and the same voice
said, “Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you.”

 
          
It
was a vibrant baritone, as confident as it was apologetic, reassuring and
commanding, without any hint of threat. Wynett steeled herself and moved to the
edge of the balcony again, looking down.

 
          
A
man stood beside the fountain, his head tilted back as he stared up at her. He
reminded her of Kedryn, for his hair was long and brown, glossy in the
sunlight, and he was tall and broad-shouldered, his stance stretching the fine
linen shirt he wore tight across a hard-muscled chest. Breeks of soft brown
hide fit snug on his legs and the resemblance was completed by the high boots
upon his feet. She studied his face, seeing wide-set brown eyes, a firm nose,
and a mouth parted in a smile that revealed even white teeth in a powerful jaw.
He radiated confidence, the hint of laughter in his eyes oddly comforting.

 
          
“Come
down,” he invited. "There is wine, and sweetmeats, and I am sure you must
be hungry.”

 
          
She
had not thought of hunger but now she followed his gesturing hand and felt its
pangs as she saw a table spread with a cloth of purest white linen stood within
the shadow of an arbor, laid with decanters and goblets and food.

 
          
“Please,”
he urged. “Come sit and drink with me.”

 
          
Wynett
nodded, not knowing what else to do, and walked along the balcony until she
found a stairway that seemed almost too delicate to support her weight,
spiraling down to the courtyard. It was firm enough as she descended for all
that it appeared to have no other supports than the stems of the roses that
twined about it on either side and she stepped onto the sun-kissed flagstones
to find the man awaiting her arrival. He bowed deeply, presenting a smiling
face of ruggedly handsome aspect as he offered her his arm and led her
decorously toward the table.

 
          
Two
chairs were set beside the board and he drew one gallantly back, seeing her
seated before settling himself across from her.

 
          
“Your
choice of gown is delightful,” he murmured, raising a decanter of finest
crystal to fill a goblet of equally magnificent design with pale wine.
“My compliments on your taste.
And,
indeed, your beauty.”

 
          
He
held a goblet toward her. Wynett ignored it, studying him. Light and shade
played across his handsome visage, making his expression difficult to read.

 
          
“Who
are you?” she asked. “Where am I?”

 
          
Amused
brown eyes answered her gaze and her question in silence for a moment, then he
set the goblet down before her and chuckled, a sound rich as his speaking
voice.

 
          
“You
need not fear me: I mean you no harm.”

 
          
“Who
are you?” she repeated.

 
          
“Your
savior,” he said simply, and sipped the wine,
sighing
his approval. “This is most excellent. Please try a little.”

 
          
Wynett
shook her head and he shrugged, saying, “Then at least take food. Are you not
hungry after your ordeal?”

 
          
She
was, she realized, though the empty tugging in her stomach was not entirely to
do with need of sustenance, but nonetheless amplified by the enticing odors
that rose from the array of dishes set on the linen.

 
          
“Who
are you?” she said again; doggedly.

 
          
“Are
names so important?” he countered; casually, as if the question was too trivial
for consideration. “Surely they are more a matter of convenience than of
definition?”

 
          
“Is
definition not important?” she asked. “I say again: who are you?”

 
          
“One
with only your interests at heart,” he returned. “But if it will ease your
mind, then you may call me Eyrik.”

 
          
Laughter
sparkled in his eyes, urging her to accept him, to answer it, but she shook her
head, a slight, dismissive gesture, and said, “Where am I . . . Eyrik?”

 
          
“Safe,”
he said solemnly, selecting a tidbit from the selection on the table and
popping it into his mouth.

 
          
Wynett
continued to stare at him, thinking, almost against her will, that he was the
most handsome man she had seen since Kedryn. “Safe where?” she demanded.

 
          
“Here.”
A hand waved casually to encompass the courtyard, the balconies,
the
stoa. “There is nowhere safer. Nothing may harm you
here.”

 
          
Wynett
frowned, confusion growing apace, fueled by his prevarication, the mild
amusement he evinced, as if they played out some courtly game of words. She set
a hand upon the talisman, feeling the stone vibrate, warm in her palm.

 
          
“Ah,
Kyrie’s talisman,” he said mildly. “That helped save you, too.”

 
          
“Too?”
asked Wynett.

 
          
“I
had some small part in it.” He smiled modestly, waving a self-deprecatory hand.
"The beast might have taken you . . . elsewhere . . . had I not
intervened.”

 
          
“You
know of the beast!” It was not a question. “Then do you know of Kedryn? What
was his fete?”

 
          
Fear
burst anew in her breast as she studied his face, almost afraid to hear the
answer. Eyrik returned her gaze, his eyes no longer laughing, but filled now
with sincerity.

 
          
“I
am not sure,” he said. “I believe he lives, but I cannot know for certain.”

 
          
The
bewilderment that had filled Wynett as she discovered the impossibilities of
the sunlit chambers welled up, fear and frustration taking the form of tears
that she fought, telling herself that she must keep her wits about her; losing
the struggle.

 
          
“Please,”
Eyrik said solicitously, “do not cry. You are safe and I promise that I shall
do my utmost to discover Kedryn’s fete. If it is within my power to reunite
you, I shall do so—even though I envy him your affection.”

 
          
This
latter was said softly, as though embarrassment intruded upon his confidence,
and Wynett blinked back her tears, clutching at the straw of hope.

 
          
“You
would do that?
Can
you do that?”

 
          
Eyrik
shrugged,
his expression almost bashful. “I shall
try,” he promised. “You have my word on it.”

 
          
Wynett
felt oddly reassured, for there was a palpable sincerity in his tone. “I am
confused,” she declared. “Will you answer my questions?”

 
          
Eyrik
moved with graceful speed, a tanned hand reaching out to enfold hers, gently,
but still forcefully, so that she found her fingers entrapped as he gazed
earnestly into her eyes.

 
          
“You
must forgive me.” His tone was conciliatory, not quite pleading. “I am so long
accustomed to this place that I forget my manners through familiarity, and
there are so few visitors. Of course you are confused! Who would not be? Ask me
what you will and I shall answer to the best of my ability.”

 
          
He
let go her hand, lifting his goblet again as she composed herself, seeking to
impress order on the myriad questions that danced through her mind.

 
          
“Where
am I?” she asked.

 
          
“In
one of the several worlds beyond those known to men,” he said. “I cannot
explain it better than that. The beast brought you to the netherworld, where
you might have wandered with those other unfortunate souls had I not
intervened.”

 
          
“Then
am I dead?”

 
          
“No!”
He shook his head, smiling again. “You are most definitely alive. Can you not
feel it?”

 
          
“I
am not sure
, ”
she responded. “I do not know what
death feels like.”

 
          
“Not
this,” he chuckled.

 
          
Wynett
nodded. “How were you able to . . . intervene?”

 
          
"I
have certain powers,” he told her. “I am of this world, rather than that one
you know, and in consequence am able to exert an influence over those creatures
of the limbo.”

 
          
“Are
you . . . ,” she clutched the talisman again, cold dread deepening her voice,
"...
Ashar?”

 
          
She
felt relief as he threw back his head and roared laughter: it was an honest
sound.

 
          
“Does
this seem to you Ashar’s domain?” he asked as his laughter abated.

 
          
Wynett
glanced around her. Sunlight fell on the petals of magnolia blossoms, on
cheerful roses, on the water sparkling from the fountain. It glinted on his
chestnut hair. She shook her head.

 
          
“There
is much to understand,” Eyrik said, the laughter still echoing in his voice.
“Mayhap
to
much for my poor capabilities to explain.
Better, I think, that you allow me to show you this place; that you explore it
at first hand. That will likely lead to a clearer understanding than I may
give.”

 
          
If
he prevaricated he was a master of the art, for his gaze was direct and clear,
empty of guile. “Then how can you determine Kedryn’s fate?” she asked.

 
          
“This
place is . . . different. And as I said, I have certain powers: I place them at
your disposal. I give you my word that I shall do my utmost to ascertain what
has become of Kedryn and bring him to you.” He paused, adding gallantly, “Even
though I had sooner see you reign here with me.” “Reign?” she asked.

 
          
“You
are, undoubtedly, a queen amongst women,” Eyrik declared, raising his goblet in
toast. “But even a queen must eat. Do you now trust me enough to partake of my
board?” He gestured again at the laden table and this time Wynett nodded,
selecting roasted meat. The cut was honeyed, sweet and savory at the same time.
She took more, allowing Eyrik to suggest delicacies, each one proving a
culinary masterpiece, mouth-watering and satisfying. She sipped the wine he had
poured and found it equally excellent, pleasantly chill. She found herself
relaxing.

 
          
“I
do not know how long it may take me,” he murmured as she ate. “Can you endure
to stay a while?”

 
          
“Do
I have any choice?” A chill that had nothing to do with the coolness of the
excellent wine iced her senses.

 
          
“Not
really,” Eyrik said amiably, leaning back in his chair, the posture drawing his
shirt taut across the muscles of his torso, “we are governed by laws different
to those you know, here.”