Kedryn grinned, letting go the talisman, feeling obscurely ashamed, as though Galen’s yams had sparked some indefinable apprehension too childish for a grown man to consider. No doubt the chill was nothing more than the effect of cooling air and the freshened breeze after so warm a commencement of spring. He turned his face to the sky, feeling the rain splash against his skin, and heeled the Keshi stallion to a canter, Tepshen and Brannoc following on either Rank.

  They cantered toward the White Palace, seeing the clouds above thicken as they approached, the rafts of gray massing to form pitchy thunderheads from which emanated an ominous rumbling, as if some great beast prowled above Andurel, hidden within the nubiferous mantle. The walls of the palace were darkened by the rack and before they reached the gates the rain had become downpour, drumming against their cloaks, splashing about the hooves, and transforming the gutters that sided the avenue into tumbling freshets. Guardsmen in armor silvered brighter by the rain presented halberds to their approach, saluting as they recognized Kedryn and his companions and drawing back beneath the shelter of the arches to allow the trio entry. They slowed as they crossed the wide yard fronting the palace and walked the horses down the covered way that opened on the stable court. Halting beneath the cloisters encircling the open area, they dismounted and gave the animals over to the waiting ostlers, shaking raindrops from their capes as they strode along the colonnaded way, the rain beating fiercely now against the tiled roof.

  The rumbling became real thunder as they reached the doors granting ingress to the palace, and a lance of brilliance struck down against the damaged cupola of the throne room.

  “It seems likely your coronation will break with precedence in more ways than one,” Brannoc remarked, glancing at the unfinished dome, “those masons will not be done by the full moon.”

  “Nor will there be a throne,” nodded Kedryn, remembering the melted slag to which his duel with Taws had reduced the seat. “No matter—we shall make do.”

  They pushed through the doors and halted to doff their cloaks, their boots leaving glistening prints on die ornate tiles that covered the entry hall. Servants appeared in courteous ambush to take the rain-wet mantles and both Tepshen Lahl and Brannoc paused to ascertain their blades were dry. Kedryn, who wore no sword, waited for them, looking to the high windows, slick now with the skys outpouring, the light beyond dimmed by the storm so that torches were lit, burning in the golden sconces along the walls.

  “Prince Kedryn.” A seneschal came forward, resplendent in the gold and silver robe of his office. “The Lady Wynett requests that you attend her as soon you may. She is with the Princess Ashrivelle.”

  “In the Princess’s chambers?” Kedryn asked. “Is aught amiss?”

  In Tamur die servitor would have vouchsafed an opinion; in Andurel the man merely shaped a small gesture with his right hand and said, “I do not know, Prince. I know only that the lady requests your presence.”

  After the cheerfol informality of the dockside tavern it was a sharp reminder to Kedryn that the White Palace was gready different from Caitin Hold and he fought a flash of irritation at the man’s bland manner. I

  “My thanks,” he said, knowing that it sounded somtewhat curt, and not caring as he turned toward the stairway that spiraled upward on the farther side of the hall.

  Tepshen and Brannoc fell into step beside him and his good humor returned at their persistence. To the palace servants, he was sure, it must seem that two near-barbarians dogged his every move and it amused him to think of the dignified seneschals and formal majordomos worrying about the two sword-wielders ever in attendance on the king-to-be. Likely they would feel more comfortable with him out of the palace, when their lives might continue in more urbane fashion.

  Nonetheless, there were some occasions on which he preferred to be alone, and he paused outside Ashrivelle’s door to murmur, “I do not believe danger threatens within, my friends.”

  Tepshen nodded, murmuring his acceptance of the dismissal, but Kedryn noticed that he remained, Brannoc at his side, in the corridor long enough to see that it was Wynett who opened the door.

  "Kedryn!” she smiled, turning up her face to brush her lips to his. “I am glad you have come. Where were you?”

  Kedryn set his hands on her shoulders, holding her at arm’s length so that he might study her face. It was lovely as ever, but he detected worry in her clear blue eyes and said, “On Ae waterfront with Galen Sadreth. What is amiss?”

  “Ashrivelle.” Wynett shook her head in frustration, dislodging a strand of blond hair that he reached to straighten. “She claims herself unfit to attend the coronation and vows she will remain here until we sail for Estrevan.”

  Kedryn glanced about the room. It was an antechamber and there was no sign of Wynett’s sister. In answer to his scrutiny Wynett said, “She refuses to leave her bedchamber.”

  “What would you have me do?”

  Wynett took his hands, drawing him across the room toward the paneled door on the far side. “I have spent the morning arguing with her. Yrla and Arlynne have both tried to dissuade her, but she remains adamant. I hope that you may change her mind.”

  “I can try,” he allowed, not altogether enthusiastic.

  Wynett smiled confidently and he basked in the radiance. “Then do your best,” she murmured, tapping on the rosewood door, raising her voice to call, “Ashrivelle? Kedryn is here.” The answer sounded like “Go away,” to Kedryn, but Wynett said firmly, “He wishes to speak with you.”

  She opened the door and Kedryn followed her into the chamber. It was spacious, though darkened by the storm outside so that candles had been lit, shadowing the corners, and a fire burned in the stone hearth, lending a somewhat stifling heat to the atmosphere. Dense carpets covered the floor, patterned in designs of blue and gray like the surface of the Idre, their thick piles washing against the feet of a large bed overhung with a canopy of gauzy material, as if a great wave burst overhead. To one side stood a dressing table littered with the cosmetic paraphernalia of a fashionable woman. It occurred to Kedryn that Wynett gave no time to such niceties, nor needed to. He paused just inside the room, embarrassed to see that Ashrivelle lay on the bed clearly wearing no more than the dark green dressing robe she drew over her legs as he smiled at her. “Ashrivelle,” he said pleasantly, “may I enter?”

  “You are the king,” came the answer, her voice low, as though she had been weeping, “or soon will be—you may enter where you will.”

  He crossed the room, glancing to the tall windows as thunder rumbled and more lightning stalked the sky. Chairs were placed close to the bed as if in vigil and he took one, Wynett seating herself beside him. Ashrivelle turned her face away and he saw that her hair was unkempt, the blond tresses so much like Wynett’s tangled and lank.

  “I do not come as a king,” he said, “rather as a friend.”

  “Friend? How can you name me your friend?” Ashrivelle’s voice was muffled by the silken pillow against which she pressed her face. “You must surely hate me.”

  “That is foolishness,” Wynett said firmly, “and unworthy of you.”

  “I am unworthy,” Ashrivelle retorted. “And clearly foolish.”

  “I do not hate you,” Kedryn said. “Why should I?”

  “I am tainted,” was the dramatic response.

  “Tainted? How tainted?”

  Kedryn looked to Wynett, who shrugged slightly, a frown tugging shallow lines between her finely arched brows.

  “I gave myself to Hattim,” Ashrivelle moaned. “Had I not done that our father would live still. I gave my support to the Usurper!”

  The declaration ended on a wail and she dug her face deeper into the pillow, her shoulders trembling beneath the thin silk of her gown.

  “Look at me,” Kedryn urged, and when she would not, reached to grasp her shoulder, turning her toward him.

  He was shocked by the change in the woman. He had thought her beautiful once, and even now the delineaments of beauty could be seen in her features, but masked by grief and guilt Her face was very pale and her eyes seemed sunken, ringed by dark half-moons of shadow, reddened by her weeping. Her cheeks were hollowed and as she stared at him she drew her lower lip between her teeth, gnawing on its fullness. He glanced again at Wynett, reminding himself that they were sisters and that once he had thought optimistically of a liaison with Ashrivelle. Now, although she was the younger of the two, she looked older, aged by the guilt writ large in her staring eyes. Wynett smiled at him nervously, urging him to speak, and he turned toward Ashrivelle.

  “Listen to me,” he said slowly. “Do you believe I would lie to you?”

  Reluctantly, she shook her head and he reached to take her hand, holding it firm when she sought to withdraw it from his grasp.

  “You are not tainted. I have discussed this with Sister Bethany and she tells me you were fed a love potion. You were not responsible for your infatuation, nor was there any way you could know what you did. The Messenger tricked so many, forcing them to act against their will. The potion he administered to you caused you to do what you did, not your will; and because you did not act of your own volition you cannot be held responsible. There are none here who do hold you responsible, save you yourself!

  “You had no hand in your father’s death—that was,” he paused, aware that he might by chance reveal his doubts before time, “the work of Hattim Sethiyan and the Messenger. Not you! No guilt attaches to you. Has Bethany not absolved you in the name of the Lady?”

  Ashrivelle nodded mutely, sniffling.

  “And does not Bethany speak for the Sisterhood?”

  Again she nodded, blinking tears now.

  “Then surely to assume guilt is to deny the Sisterhood, to deny the Lady. Would you do that?”

  Ashrivelle shook her head, her hand no longer seeking to escape his clasp but returning the pressure of his fingers as if she sought to clutch the hope implicit in his words.

  “Then do not,” he urged. “Accept the judgment of the Sisterhood and cast off this guilt.”

  “Will others?” she asked doubtfully. “Do folk not point at me and name me Hattim’s doxy?”

  “You are not—nor have been—anyone’s doxy,” he retorted. “What folk feel for you is sympathy.”

  “I stood beside Hattim when he claimed himself king,” she whispered. “I supported the Usurper.”

  “Because you were held in thrall,” said Kedryn. “Because you had no choice. There is no guilt in that.”

  “Do you absolve me?” she asked.

  Kedryn nodded. “Aye, of course. As does Wynett. As does Bethany.”

  “I would have seen you dead,” she murmured wonderingly.

  “Hattim would have allowed the Messenger to slay you both and I should have stood by him. I stood by him when he imprisoned your parents.”

  “And yet they do not blame you,” he responded. “They wish only that you should recover. Does Wynett blame you?”

  At his side Wynett shook her head, saying gently, “We are sisters, you and I, and I cannot blame you. As Kedryn has told you—there is no guilt in actions over which you have no control. ”

  Ashrivelle shifted higher on the pillows and Kedryn felt his face redden as the movement loosened her gown, revealing the swell of pale breasts. He concentrated his gaze on her eyes, hoping it was trust he saw behind the tears.

  “Do you truly forgive me?” she asked wanly.

  “Aye,” he nodded, “truly.”

  Ashrivelle swallowed and abruptly threw her arms about his neck, sobbing against his shoulder. He felt tears on his skin and stroked her head, turning helplessly to Wynett. She was smiling, both pleased and amused, and for long moments made no move to help him extricate himself. Finally she rose and took her sister by the shoulders, gently pushing her back onto the bed. Kedryn found himself staring at a lissome torso revealed by the rumpled gown. Wynett folded the cloth in place and sat on the bed beside Ashrivelle, stroking her hair.

  “There is one thing I shall not forgive,” Kedryn announced, smiling as Ashrivelle turned alarmed eyes toward him. “Your absence from the coronation. I would have you there as befits my royal sister.”

  The alarm faded and she essayed a feint smile. “As you command.”

  “I would not command it,” he said, “I would ask it.”

  “Then,” said Ashrivelle, her smile growing stronger, “I shall be there.”

  Chapter Five

  Kedryn stared at Wynett and shook his head in wonderment.

  “I did not believe you could look lovelier, but you prove me wrong.”

  Wynett curtsied, smiling. “Thank you, my Lord. And you look every inch the king.”

  They studied one another as if for the first time, which in a way it was, for neither had been crowned before and this day must, they knew, change their lives. Both were dressed in white, Kedryn’s the surcoat, shirt, and breeks promised by the tailor, Wynett in matching gown, fitted close about her upper body, with demurely high neck and long sleeves, but Baring over her hips into a voluminous skirt, edged like the neckline and cuffs with gold. Her hair was bound up in a golden snood indistinguishable from the blond tresses and the talisman suspended between the swell of her breasts seemed to match the blue of her eyes. She stood very straight, her bearing regal, and Kedryn felt dizzied by her beauty.

  “I feel distinctly nervous,” he said ruefully, tearing his eyes from the pleasant contemplation of his wife to study his own reflection in the mirror. “I can scarce recognize myself.”

  Indeed, the white-robed figure staring back at him seemed to bear little resemblance to the casually dressed young Tamurin he remembered from his infrequent checks of his appearance. His hair was combed to a glossy chestnut, held back by a golden circlet, and the surcoat emphasized the width of his shoulders, its length making him seem taller, while his expression seemed that of an older man, poised somewhere between dignity and a massive apprehension.

  “A smile would help,” remarked Wynett, her reflection appearing over his shoulder as she put her arms about his waist.

  “You look more like a man contemplating execution than a king on his way to coronation.”

  Her own expression was deliberately solemn and they both began to laugh.

  “I only hope I can remember the correct responses,” he chuckled.

  “If not,” Wynett promised, “I shall prompt you.”

  Kedryn turned to face her, holding her close, breathing in the scent of her fresh-washed hair. “I wish it was done,” he murmured.

  “It will be, soon enough,” she replied, turning up her face to kiss him. “And soon after we’ll be on the Idre, bound for Estrevan.”

  “Aye.” Kedryn’s nod was enthusiastic.

  A knocking at their door cut short another kiss and, hand in hand, they went to the portal, opening it to find a cluster of nobles awaiting their presence. Bedyr stood closest, flanked by Yrla, Jarl and Arlynne at their side, Kemm, Tepshen Lahl, and Brannoc close behind, beyond them a seeming sea of faces, all beaming. All were resplendent, Bedyr in tawny surcoat, Yrla in a gown of cerise, Jarl in sable robe, with Arlynne a striking rainbow of red and green and yellow. Tepshen and Brannoc, by accident or design, both wore green while the rest offered a kaleidoscope profusion of colors and a murmur of heartfelt approval as the royal pair emerged.

  “It is time,” said Bedyr, smiling proudly.

  Kedryn nodded, then paused, looking over the throng.

  “Where is Ashrivelle?”

  The crowd parted and Darr’s younger daughter came forward. She remained somewhat nervous, but her features were transformed from their haggard outlines to her previous beauty, albeit aided by cosmetic artifice. She wore a pale blue gown and her hair, like Wynett’s, was bound in a snood. Kedryn smiled, taking her hand.

  “I am pleased you attend,” he murmured.

  Ashrivelle smiled at him. “Thank you, Kedryn,” she whispered. “You look magnificent.”

  He released her hand and followed Bedyr along the corridor. Beside him, in a voice intended for his ears alone, Wynett murmured, “I believe you have made a conquest. If you dance with her more than twice I shall grow jealous.”

  Kedryn set an arm about her shoulders, the alarm he aped not entirely unfeigned. “I had forgotten about the dancing.

  Wynett drove an elbow into his ribs and he grunted, adding, “I think one dance with me will be sufficient for anyone. At least, if they wish to walk the next day.”

  Wynett giggled, then composed her features in dignified mien as they reached the wide stairway descending to the great hall, where more dignitaries waited. Kedryn took a deep breath and oifered her his arm, proceeding down the staircase with what he trusted was a suitably stately tread. They crossed the hall and went past an honor guard magnificent in burnished silver armor to the portico. Horses waited there, a jet stallion for Kedryn, a snow white mare for Wynett. He helped her onto the mounting box, watching as she settled herself sidesaddle on the animal and then swinging limber astride the black. The big horse stamped impatient hooves, sensing the excitement in the air, and Kedryn patted the arching neck as seneschals hissed over the arrangement of his surcoat.

  The sun hung golden in a cloudless azure sky as the procession filed through the gates of the White Palace and began the slow journey down the long avenue to the city. A squadron of the Royal Cavalry rode in the van, the sun dazzling on polished helms and breastplates, pennants fluttering from the upright lances, then Kedryn at the head of the main body, Wynett on his left, Bedyr, Yrla, Jarl, and Arlynne abreast behind them, then Kemm, riding alongside Ashrivelle, followed closely by Tepshen Lahl and Brannoc, their prominence testimony to their relationship with the king-elect, behind them the nobility of Tamur, Kesh, and Ust-Galich, united now in celebration of Kedryn’s ascendancy, a second phalanx of guardsmen bringing up the rear.

  The avenue was lined with people, and their cheers sent flocks of birds, startled, into the warm air, so that the sky seemed filled with beating wings and the flowers, ribbons, and scatterings of colored paper thrown in cheerful acclaim from all sides.