It did not. Instead, it smashed the barque with dreadful deliberation and then sunk its bulk beneath the tossing water leaving only the triangular head above the surface, rubescent eyes swinging back and forth as the tendrils surrounding its maw twitched and wavered like the heads of serpents aroused by some unexpected sound. Tarn found himself staring into its eyes, seeing the water around him pinked by its gaze, as if the blood of his brothers colored the river. He said, “Oh, Lady, spare me,” as the head came down, the jaws stretching wide, and then he felt only the mercifully brief agony of the teeth that drove like swordblades into his soft flesh so that he was dead before the Idre could fill his lungs as the leviathan carried him under.

  Harl saw none of this, for he was swimming for the eastern bank, his mind no longer coherent, focused on the single purpose: to reach land and never set foot on boat again.

  It was long past dawn before he came to the Keshi shore, and the herdsmen who found him were not at first certain whether he was a man or some river fish, for what they saw on the sandy beach was a thing that kicked and stroked, dragging itself over the land. And when they came closer and sought to lift him to his feet he screamed aloud and began to writhe like a worm, seeking to burrow into the sand. Finally they decided to strike him into unconsciousness, for that appeared the only way they might hold him still long enough to get him on a horse and bring him to their camp, and when he awoke they had to bind him and force food and drink between his shuddering lips, which they did before lashing him afresh across a gelding’s back and bringing him to Bayard, where there were Sisters who might know how to cure his madness.

  The Sisters nursed Harl Lemal back to health, but they could not ascertain what had happened on the river that night for he would not—or could not—speak of it, and when he was strong enough he quit Bayard and made his way on foot deep into Kesh, where he found whatever employment he could, which was mostly of the lowest sort as he would not allow water near him and his smell offended folk.

  Chapter Four

  “When I am king I shall set a precedent of informality,” Kedryn vowed, the statement prompting a look of alarm from the four tailors and several apprentices busy measuring him for yet another formal robe, this one a long, wide-shouldered alfair that was, as best he remembered, to be worn at the banquet honoring Gerryl Hymet of Ust-Galich. He was not certain, knowing for sure only that Yrla had warned him to hold himself ready for the fitting, overriding his objections with a maternal authority that took little account of his newly elevated status.

  “It does not please you, Prince Kedryn?”

  Alarm rang in the chief tailor’s voice and Kedryn sought to assuage it with a smile, fingering the heavy green silk as he shook his head and said, “It is a most excellent garment, my friend, and the problem lies with me, not in your work. I am more accustomed to plain Tamurin wear.”

  Consoled, the tailor smiled thinly, adjusting a pin in the white border. “Doubtless plain wear is suitable enough in the north, Prince, but for the king ...”

  He allowed the sentence to tail away, considering his point made. Brannoc grinned over his head and said, “It is a most impressive robe, Kedryn. You look decidedly regal,” his tone elaborately sincere.

  Kedryn answered with a rueful grin that brought a deep chuckle from the half-breed, who had cheerfully availed himself of the tailors to produce a selection of dandified garments that contrasted vividly with his customary garb of mottled leathers. Today he wore a shirt of black linen edged with pale blue beneath a tunic of apple green silk, belted tight so that the waist flared above the close-fitting breeks of white seamed with green to match the jerkin, the same color decorating the tops of his black boots.

  “Had I your taste for the exotic,” Kedryn replied sarcastically, “mayhap I should feel easier about all this.”

  He emphasized the statement with a shrug that rustled the robe and brought a disapproving tutting from the tailor.

  Unabashed, Brannoc turned to Tepshen Lahl to ask, “Does he not look magnificent? Or would, did he not affect so surly an expression.”

  Tepshen, dressed in a loose-fitting robe of yellow slit at the sides to free his ever-present blade, studied Kedryn with a calmly critical eye and nodded. “He looks a king.”

  “Is kingship measured by the cloth?” the young man demanded, raising his arms on a murmured instruction to allow the tailor to adjust the hang of the robe.

  "By some,” Tepshen informed him. “And it does no harm to look the part for those who cannot see beyond the cloth.”

  “It is said that clothes make the man,” the chief tailor murmured sagely, echoed by Brannoc’s gleeful, “Exactly!”

  Realizing he would find no support from his friends Kedryn fell into silence, suffering the tailor to finish his work without further disturbance.

  “It will be ready in two days, Prince Kedryn,” the man said, easing the garment from Kedryn’s broad shoulders and handing it reverentially to an underling. “Now, for the banquet in honor of Lord Jarl and his retinue I have prepared this.”

  Kedryn groaned as yet another outfit appeared. “Must I . ...” he began, interrupted by Tepshen.

  “You must. Your mother gave us clear instructions.”

  “We are to see that you complete your wardrobe,” Brannoc added, casually swinging his feet onto the low table before his chair. “We are to remain with you, here in this room, until all is settled.”

  Kedryn glanced at Tepshen, who nodded solemn agreement and poured himself a cup of wine.

  “In honor of Kesh,” the tailor intoned, “I have sought to emulate the style of the horse lords. If you will, Prince?”

  He held up a long robe of black silk, trimmed with silver, the tripartite crown of Andurel gleaming on the left breast, the clenched fist of Tamur on the right, both sewn in gold against a crimson background ringed with a silver band that matched the edgings of the garment. Kedryn sighed and allowed it to be eased over his shoulders.

  “I think,” the tailor said, more to himself than to his living dummy, “a belt of silver links. Breeks and shirt of black will produce a most dramatic effect.”

  “And match his scowl,” Brannoc chortled.

  “I shall be wreathed in smiles,” retorted Kedryn. “On that I have already received my mother’s instruction.”

  “Please,” asked the tailor, pushing Kedryn straight so that he might measure the hem.

  “How many more?” the king-to-be asked helplessly.

  “One, Prince.” The tailor spoke around a mouthful of pins. “Your coronation robe.”

  Kedryn grunted, thinking that if he remained silent and still this ordeal would be over the sooner. He held himself rigid as the tailor fussed about the black robe, pinning here, marking with chalk there, until he was satisfied and eased the thing off. “Now,” he announced proudly, “my masterpiece.”

  He dapped his hands and two apprentices brought forward a surcoat of silk so white it shone in die morning light, like snow under a new-risen sun. Gold gleamed along the edges and where the crown of Andurel stood upon the chest and back. The tailor clapped again and a shirt of gold linen appeared, and breeks of white silk, finally boots of purest doe hide, white as the breeks, but trimmed with more gold. Kedryn stripped dutifully and drew the shirt over his head, the snug trousers over his legs. The tailor knelt to fit the boots, then rose and like a man performing some religious ceremony, adjusted the surcoat. It hung loose and the tailor placed a golden belt about Kedryn’s waist, a sheath of white satin embroidered with gold thread latched on the left side.

  “I believe it is customary for Tamurin to wear die dirk,” he murmured regretfully, “though the hang would be the better without. There is no chance you might forgo the knife?”

  “No,” Kedryn said firmly.

  “Try it,” Brannoc grinned, swinging from his lounging position to scoop up Kedryn’s dirk and toss it to the young man. The tailor winced as the long, straight-bladed knife whirled through the air, his relief clearly visible as Kedryn caught it and slid the razor-edged weapon into the ornate scabbard.

  “Umm.” He studied the hang of his creation, then glanced at Tepshen. “I think . . . perhaps a slash here, in the style of your friend.” He touched Kedryn’s hip, indicating where he would place a cut to allow free access to the dirk. “This is absolutely necessary?”

  “Absolutely,” said Kedryn solemnly.

  “Very well.” The tailor made a note and walked slowly around Kedryn, smoothing the surcoat. “I suppose it will lend a certain . . . contrast.”

  "You will not wear your sword?” Brannoc asked innocently.

  The tailor gasped, his face crumpling until Kedryn shook his head and replied with an equal solemnity, “I think not on this occasion.”

  The tailor sighed noisy relief. “Then save for these few small adjustments I am done, Prince. I shall return in two days with the finished garments.”

  “Thank you.” Kedryn let him ease off the surcoat and stripped out of the remaining articles. “You have done well.”

  “I have done my best,” the tailor nodded, folding the coronation robes with infinite care. “I believe you will cut a fine figure.”

  Kedryn was too busy climbing into his more familiar outfit of less splendid breeks and tunic to reply and the tailor took this as dismissal, exiting with a bow, his underlings scurrying about him, laden with their wares.

  “The sooner all this is done,” Kedryn remarked as he laced his boots, “the better. These formal robes sit heavy.”

  “But your majesty looked splendid,” smiled Brannoc, simpering.

  “His majesty contemplates suggesting to his council that the Warden of the Forests be dispatched to take inventory of the woodland tribes,” Kedryn grunted. “A headcount of the children bom since Niloc Yarrum fell, perhaps. Followed by a count of livestock. Pigs and goats in particular.”

  Brannoc aped alarm, spreading his arms wide as he exaggerated a sweeping bow. “If your humble servant has offended, Majesty, I crave your regal forgiveness.”

  “I may change my mind,” Kedryn grinned.

  “It will not be long,” said Tepshen. “The moon draws close to full, and the city fills already with incomers.”

  “Do I not know it?” Kedryn went to the table, helping himself to wine. “How many feasts have I attended already?”

  “It is as well to gain their support,” the kyo remarked.

  Kedryn nodded. “I know, old friend, but the eating!” He rubbed his flat stomach.

  “A few more days,” Brannoc grinned, “and you will be crowned. Then you shall see your council formed and soon we’ll be Estrevan bound.”

  “We?” Kedryn asked. “Do you then intend to accompany me to the Sacred City?”

  Brannoc nodded. “With your permission.”

  “That you have, and gladly given,” Kedryn told him, “but I had thought you would return to the Beltrevan.”

  The former wolf’s-head shrugged. “The forests will not go away, and I have never seen Estrevan.”

  “And you, Tepshen?” Kedryn smiled at the pig-tailed easterner. “Do you accompany us, or return to Tamur? Or remain here?”

  Tepshen Lahl looked at the young man as though he had suggested something outlandish. “I go with you,” he said flatly. “I have discussed this with your father and we are agreed I remain at your side.”

  “I could not ask for better companions,” Kedryn declared earnestly, “and I thank you both.”

  “There is no need for thanks,” said the kyo. “It is our wish.”

  “And,” Brannoc murmured, “you have in the past brought a certain degree of excitement to our lives.”

  “Hopefully that is ended,” Kedryn smiled. “I trust my reign will be marked with peace.”

  “It will certainly be marked with high fashion,” the half- breed responded.

  “Aye,” Kedryn chuckled, “for a little while at least. But after Estrevan I have a notion to attempt one more . . . ,” he paused, his laughter dying as his features grew serious, “ . . . one more quest. ”

  His two comrades watched him as he frowned, sensing a most uncharacteristic indecision. He toyed with his goblet, studying the play of light on the crystal facets, turning the cup between his hands.

  Finally he said, “I tell you this because you are true companions, but I ask your confidence, for I would have it go no farther lest it raise false hopes.”

  “It will not,” Tepshen Lahl promised.

  “No word” Brannoc confirmed.

  “The manner of Darr’s dying troubles me,” Kedryn went on, his voice low, “and that of Sister Thera. I have spoken with Bethany, but she cannot offer enlightenment and suggests I seek it of the Paramount sister, Gerat, in Estrevan.”

  “I had thought you sought her blessing,” murmured Brannoc when Kedryn lapsed silent again. Tepshen Lahl said nothing.

  “There is that; but more,” Kedryn nodded. “It irks me that the father of Wynett might wander the netherworld as did the shade of Borsus. I would also ask of Gerat what may be done to remedy that.”

  “Ashar does not willingly relinquish his playthings,” Brannoc said warily.

  “Do you think to enter that place again?” Tepshen demanded, fixing Kedryn with his jet stare.

  “Mayhap,” nodded the young man. “If Gerat believes that by so doing I might bring Darr to the Lady.”

  “You cannot know he is there,” Brannoc said.

  “No,” agreed Kedryn. “But if he is ...

  “You would risk too much,” said Tepshen, unaware that he echoed Bethany’s warning. “When you made that journey before, Wynett was with you, uniting the two parts of the talisman. Would you risk both king and queen? Risk depriving the Kingdoms of their newfound monarchs?”

  “Is this why you form the council?” asked Brannoc.

  Kedryn shook his head, unconsciously touching the blue stone that hung about his neck. “That notion came to me through the talisman. This came later, and though I have sought the guidance of the stone I have felt no further enlightenment. I have promised Bethany that I shall abide by Gerat’s advice in this—but if she deems it propitious that I attempt such a venture I would ask you to stand beside Wynett as you have stood by me.”

  “If such is your future quest,” Tepshen said firmly, “then I shall take that road with you.”

  “And I,” said Brannoc, though a trifle less readily, his right hand shaping the warding gesture of the tribes as he spoke.

  “No.” Kedryn shook his head. ‘I would not ask that of you. Nor am I certain one not wearing the talisman might survive.

  What I ask is that you ward my bride until such time as I return. Or not.

  “Besides, if Gerat should say me nay, I shall not attempt it.”

  "This is not a thing to attempt alone,” Tepshen declared. “Nor to decide alone. Wynett should have a say.”

  “No!” Kedryn spoke fiercely. “Wynett hides it well, but I am sure her father’s death troubles her—I would not raise false hopes. Nor fears that may prove groundless. I am bound by my promise to take Gerat’s word on this, and until I have that there is no point to alarming Wynett. Therefore I ask that you say nothing to her—nor any other—of this.”

  He studied their faces almost defiantly until they both nodded and gave their words afresh, then he smiled and said, “It may come to nothing, but I would set my own mind at rest.”

  “What brings you to this idea?” asked Tepshen. “Your place is with the living, not roaming the halls of the dead.”

  Kedryn shrugged, uncertain of the answer. Exactly when the notion had come to him he was not sure. It had not been there when first he spoke with Wynett of his desire to form the council, nor had she spoken much of her father or the manner of his dying. It seemed that she had steeled herself to acceptance of Darr’s untimely end and did not allow herself to contemplate the possibility that the Messenger had condemned him to the netherworld. As with Bethany, her concerns were more for the living than the dead and the whirlwind rapidity of events since their triumph over Taws had swept her along just as they carried Kedryn. He had asked her what she would have him do in memory of Darr and her response had been to suggest no more than a simple service—which Bethany had already carried out—after which she had made no further mention of the dead king, her manner prompting Kedryn to avoid discussion of his demise.

  Perhaps it had been Ashrivelle who put the idea in his mind, for her grief manifested itself in copious weeping and selfaccusation, the younger sister declaring herself responsible, blaming herself for her potion-induced infatuation with Hattim Sethiyan. Both Wynett and Kedryn had sought to dissuade her from such inwardly directed reproaches, but Ashrivelle remained adamant, imposing upon herself a virtual banishment that kept her to her own quarters despite the blandishments of her sibling or Kedryn, or even Bethany, who—in the name of the Lady—had absolved her from guilt.

  It was with the intention of expunging that notional culpability that Ashrivelle declared herself for Estrevan and a life of service to the Lady, and perhaps it had been her threnodies that awakened the idea in Kedryn. He was not sure, and could only shrug in answer to Tepshen’s question.

  “It may well come to nothing. Gerat may well give me the same advice, in which case debating it now is fruitless. Let us forget it until I have spoken with the Paramount Sister.”

  He smiled afresh as he said it, setting down his goblet to glance around the chamber. “And let us remove awhile from the palace—I begin to feel caged by these luxurious walls.”

  Both the kyo and Brannoc were ready enough to accept the suggestion and Kedryn led the way from the room into the winding corridors.

  “Where do we go?” asked Brannoc as he slung his swordbelt across his chest, the well-worn leather contrasting dully with the splendor of his new garments.

  “The waterfront,” Kedryn declared impulsively. “Let us find Galen Sadreth.”

  They made for the palace stables, where Kedryn once again threw the Royal Guard into confusion by refusing an escort, overcoming the fastidious objections of the watch captain by pointing out that two swordsmen of Brannoc’s and Tepshen’s quality were surely bodyguard enough. Leaving the officer muttering behind them, they mounted and rode out through the palace gates.