Kedryn nodded, seeing further opportunity to delay a direct answer. “Do you favor any particular candidate? In that I shall be guided entirely by you.”

  “Chadyn Hymet was acceptable to all,” said Bedyr, “until Hattim poisoned him. But even so, that elevation renders his line the most suitable. We,” his gaze took in Yrla and the Keshi, “have discussed the matter and feel Chadyn’s eldest son, Gerryl, should receive your nomination.”

  “The king’s nomination,” Jarl corrected. “Which may be given only after the coronation.”

  “Indeed.” Kedryn smiled placatingly at the green-eyed Keshi. “And that shall not be long, Jarl. You have my word on it.”

  “How long?” asked Jarl, bluntly.

  “I would speak with Sister Bethany,” Kedryn said. "Once I have eaten. I must ask the guidance of the Sisterhood, but I shall set a date then. Mayhap tonight.”

  “Excellent,” Jarl growled. “The sooner we settle this matter the better.”

  “It will be settled,” Kedryn promised, wondering how so traditional a lord as Jarl would take his unprecedented proposal.

  “The Sisterhood supports you,” Bedyr murmured, knowing his son too well to miss the equivocation in his response. ‘There is no question but that Estrevan will give full blessing.”

  Kedryn toyed with his goblet, lowering his voice as he looked to his father. “There is something I would ask Bethany; a thing that must affect my decision. I crave your patience, Father, but in this I must be sure of my own mind, and until I have spoken with Bethany I cannot be sure.”

  Bedyr frowned slightly, studying his son as though seeing him for the first time in a new light. Beyond him, Yrla smiled quizzically and set a hand upon his. “Our son is grown, Bedyr. A man now, and as a man he must be allowed to act as such. ” Kedryn smiled his thanks as Bedyr nodded and said, “So be it. The High Throne is oft a lonely seat and it is well you learn early to decide of your own mind.”

  There was a hint of sadness in his tone, and Kedryn recognized it, sharing it: this was a new beginning, the departure of the child from the family, the first steps along the road to true maturity. He put a hand upon his father’s shoulder and said, “You were ever my guide, and I thank you for that.”

  “And shall be still whenever you ask it,” promised Bedyr, cheering.

  “Aye.” Kedryn’s grip tightened in gratitude. “I know that.”

  “So.” Bedyr raised his voice that Jarl might hear. “Hopefully we shall firm the future of the Kingdoms tonight. ”

  “Good,” declared the Lord of Kesh bluntly, “now shall we eat?”

  Kedryn grinned, realizing that die servants hovering about the kitchen doors waited on him to give the signal to bring out the food. No such protocol existed in Caitin Hold and had he delayed so long there the cooks would doubtless have emerged to tell him he allowed their work to go cold, or some warrior complained that his stomach went empty. It seemed the duties of kingship were already placed upon him and it firmed his decision the more as he raised his hand, indicating the great platters should be brought out.

  Conversation faltered then, the assembled company foiling on the roasts with hearty appetite. Kedryn ate with a will, his own hunger keened by the morning spent on the practice ground and the knowledge that, whatever opposition his proposals might find, he would soon resolve the problem that had nagged at him since first he realized he was expected to spend his life in Andurel.

  Beside him Wynett murmured, “Tonight?” too low for any save Kedryn to hear.

  “Aye,” he whispered back, “I can delay no longer. And my father and Jarl are right—the Galichian question must be settled.”

  “It is not that that will prompt discord,” Wynett returned. “It will be your proposal of a council.”

  “I know.” He smiled, taking her hand as he caught Arlynne’s conspiratorial glance, letting the dark-haired Keshi woman think they exchanged lovers’ pleasantries. “But hopefully Bethany will stand with me on that.”

  “She may seek the guidance of Estrevan before she decides,” warned Wynett. “Mayhap she will feel this a matter beyond her sole discretion.”

  “There is not enough time,” he said. “Even using the senders and the mehdri, that would take too long. No—like me, Bethany must decide now.”

  “You sound,” Wynett smiled, “just like a king.”

  “And you,” Kedryn countered, “look just like a queen.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” she laughed, looking then less regal, but rather what she was: a young woman in love.

  They finished eating and Kedryn rose, anxious to consult with Bethany, bidding the others remain if they wished as he left the hall with Tepshen Lahl and Brannoc at his back.

  They walked to the stables located in the outer courtyard of the palace and selected three horses, fine, strong-limbed Keshi stallions brought across the Vortigen by Kemm when he crossed with his men to lend support to Kedryn in the confusion following Hattim’s death. There had been little fighting, for the Galichians were in confusion, horrified to learn their lord had leagued himself with Ashar’s Messenger, but sufficient of the southerners had stood firm against Kedryn that he had been thankful for the sabers of the black-robed horsemen, trusting them more than the demoralized jjalace guard. Now all opposition was ended, either on sword s edge or in banishment, and the Galichians who remained were sworn with binding oaths to loyalty, declaring fealty to the king-elect.

  Kedryn waited as the ostlers saddled the beasts, smiling his refusal of the watch captain’s suggestion that a squadron of cavalry escort him to the Sisters’ College and ignoring the perplexed officer’s arguments that the king—or king-elect— always traveled with a guard of honor.

  “They will find you a mightily strange king,” Brannoc remarked lightly as they cantered down the wide avenue leading from the palace to the city below. “They are accustomed to protocol here—to ritual—and you break their rules.” “Aye,” chuckled Kedryn, wondering how Brannoc himself would take his pending announcements, “but they will have to get used to me. A king who cannot travel freely in his own capital must surely be doing something wrong.”

  “You have a point,” acknowledged the former outlaw, “but customs are hard things to break.”

  “But not inviolate,” Kedryn said.

  “Custom binds,” offered Tepshen, “it is the mortar of tradition.”

  “Is tradition always right?” asked Kedryn.

  The easterner turned in his saddle to stare curiously at the younger man, his gaze shrewd. “You plan something,” he stated flatly.

  “Aye, I do.” Kedryn nodded. “This visit to the College determines it. Tonight, when I speak with my father and Jarl, I would have you both there, and have you both speak freely. I would hear your opinions of what I plan.”

  Tepshen nodded back. Brannoc said, “I know no other way to speak,” though his dark eyes were alight with curiosity.

  Kedryn chose to ignore it, thankful that Brannoc curbed the questions that were obviously tormenting him. He rode in silence for a while, studying the still unfamiliar sights of the great city that waited for him to assume its governance. There was no other metropolis in all the Kingdoms so large as Andurel, perhaps none other in all the world, and he was not yet accustomed to so close a press of buildings. Nowhere in Tamur was there a settlement a man could not walk through within a matter of hours—far less in most—while Andurel was a maze that would take days to explore, a place of alleyways and avenues, arching bridges and winding stairways all lined with houses, shops, taverns, and a myriad other unfamiliar emporiums. Parks and gardens provided open space, but to one raised in the open country of the western kingdom the city had a claustrophobic feel, the more so for the thought that he was expected to make it his home.

  He smiled politely as folk cried greetings, waving in answer to their encomiums, staring about him with what he felt sure they must interpret as the wide-eyed wonder of some country bumpkin marveling at the glories of their fabulous city. Balconies overhung his passage as he turned his mount off the avenue in what he hoped was the right direction, the narrowing of the visible sky emphasizing the vague discomfort he felt at being so hemmed in by brick and mortar, albeit brick and mortar wrought in marvelous designs, covered often in colored tiles, or painted bright, with trailing plants hanging from baskets of intricate patterns.

  Then the road entered a broad square and he saw the College of the Sisterhood before him. The flags of the square were a dark blue, like deep water, so that the building that housed the Sisters of Andurel seemed to float at its center, a cube of pale azure stone surmounted by a gently angled roof of snowy white that was a land-bound match of the clouds drifting overhead. Balconies ran the lengths of the walls, then- wood painted the blue of Estrevan, as was the open doorway facing him. He walked the Keshi stallion toward the portico, aware of the clatter the animal’s hooves made in the stillness that seemed to surround the College, a calm center in the bustle of the city.

  At the gate he dismounted, Tepshen Lahl and Brannoc following suit, and waited, unsure of what protocols appertained. It was a brief wait, for a Sister appeared, smiling, and without formality asked what she might do for them.

  “I would speak with Sister Bethany,” Kedryn said, “if that is possible.”

  “She expects you,” smiled the Sister. “Do you see her alone, or with your companions?”

  Kedryn looked apologetically to his friends. “Alone. Will you wait here?”

  “There is a more comfortable chamber in which to wait,” said the Sister, and clapped her hands, two younger women appearing on the summons to escort Tepshen and Brannoc away, one taking the reins of Kedryn’s mount.

  “Please,” said the first Sister, “Bethany’s chambers are this way.”

  Kedryn followed her down a low-roofed passage that opened onto an inner courtyard, revealing the College as a hollow rectangle, the interior given over to gardens redolent of medicinal herbs, though later in the year the flowers budding in the carefully tended beds and the profusion of shrubs would doubtless fill the air with different scents. Fountains played gently as the blue-robed woman paced the pathway leading through the gardens to the far side of the rectangle. There a wide stone stairway ran up to a balcony overlooking a well, the sound of the water trickling over smooth stone restful as bird-song. Kedryn’s guide halted before a plain wood door and tapped twice. From within, a voice bade them enter and the Sister thrust the door open, gesturing for Kedryn to go in.

  The room was lit by the afternoon sun that entered through a wide window in the farther wall, outlining the figure of a tall woman, her hair prematurely white, the eyes that studied Kedryn hazel, and hawk-keen. He bowed, recognizing the Paramount Sister, second only to Gerat of Estrevan.

  “Sister Bethany, thank you for granting me audience.”

  Bethany smiled, the expression transforming her narrow face, banishing its natural severity. “I anticipated your coming, Prince Kedryn. I imagine there is much you wish to discuss.”

  She gestured at a chair set before the simple, book-littered table and Kedryn sank into it, not particularly surprised to find it far more comfortable than its somewhat stark outlines suggested. Bethany seated herself across from him and folded her hands, waiting for him to speak.

  Kedryn cleared his throat, not sure where he should begin and choosing preamble: “You have done with the purification?”

  “The rituals are finished,” Bethany nodded. “There remains no trace of the Messenger. ”

  There was something in her tone that prompted a doubt in Kedryn’s mind and he asked, “Taws is dead?”

  “I do not know.” Bethany’s gaze was direct. “He is gone from here, but whether such as he can be killed I have no way of knowing.”

  “The talisman . . . ” Kedryn touched the blue stone through his shirt. “Surely that destroyed him.”

  “His physical manifestation, yes.” Bethany nodded. “But that form was a creation of Ashar’s will, and whilst the mad god exists, so does his will. So perhaps Taws lives on in some other form.”

  “Do you say my task is not yet done?”

  Kedryn frowned, an ugly prickling of unwonted anticipation running down his spine.

  “I am not sure exactly what your task is,” Bethany replied evenly. “My own interpretation of Alaria’s Text—and, it would seem, that of my Sisters in Estrevan—is that you have fulfilled the prophecies outlined therein. But each step we take must surely lead to another, so mayhap there is more you must yet do. Your ascension to the High Throne, for example, appears a logical step. One that is needful if the Kingdoms are to be truly united.”

  “You echo my father,” Kedryn murmured.

  “I echo all Andurel,” smiled Bethany, “and all the Kingdoms. But you are not happy with that.”

  It was a statement, not a question, and Kedryn found himself nodding in reflexive answer. “You read me well.” He smiled.

  “I am trained to it,” said Bethany, mildly. “Do you have some alternative proposal?”

  “Aye!” Kedryn’s nod became emphatic. "This morning I stood upon the highest of the palace’s towers and looked out over the city and thought of all I must forgo if I accept the High Throne. I found the prospect . . . daunting. Then I held the talisman in my hand and ... I am sure ... I felt that an answer was given me.”

  He broke off, shrugging, no longer certain of his words. Bethany smiled gently and said, “The Lady may well have spoken through the stone. It has, after all, remarkable properties.”

  “Indeed,” said Kedryn, his voice gaining enthusiasm, “but I am not sure how that answer will be taken.”

  “What was it?” asked Bethany. “Outline it and I will tell you if you have my support, or not. That is what you seek, is it not?”

  “Aye.” Kedryn smiled, marveling at her perspicacity. “It seemed to me that the king is a symbol, a rallying point, more than he is a real power. Oh, he deals with the minutiae of government—tariffs, trade agreements, that sort of thing—but all important decisions are taken in concert with the lords of the Kingdoms, without whose support the king is, effectively, powerless.”

  “You have the grasp of it,” agreed Bethany. “But there is still a need for a king in the White Palace, and it is important that he should not be an absolute ruler. No one man should be able to impose his will on the Three Kingdoms.”

  “Exactly,” said Kedryn, his voice earnest as the expression that reminded Bethany of his father, “and to that end I propose the formation of a council.”

  He studied the Sister’s angular face, seeking to read it, but finding only attention so that he went on swiftly. “A council such as was proposed to hold Hattim Sethiyan in check, but greater—a council that would truly represent the Kingdoms. Not individual lordlings, but all the people. A council that would be elected by the folk of the Kingdoms so that whomsoever sat on it would speak truly with the voice of his kingdom. The members would advise their lords, and they would sit not in perpetuity but agreed periods. They would promulgate the laws, govern. Then no single man could ever hope to impose his will; there would be no more opportunity for ambition such as Hattim showed—no further chance for Ashar to suborn some lord to become usurper.”

  He halted, as much to catch his breath as to give Bethany a chance to reply, though the Sister took the opportunity.

  “This came to you as you held the talisman?”

  “Aye,” he nodded.

  “Jarl of Kesh will not accept it lightly. Your father may have reservations.”

  “I know that,” Kedryn said. “But you, what do you think?”

  Bethany watched him for long moments, her face calm, unreadable. Then she smiled: “I think it a most revolutionary suggestion.”

  Kedryn’s enthusiasm faltered, his brown eyes clouding.

  “And a most excellent idea,” continued Bethany. “One that shall have my full support.”

  Kedryn’s spirit soared, as would a caged bird’s seeing the door left open that it might once again reach the open sky.

  Chapter Two

  While spring brought a warmth to Andurel that would not yet have touched the more northerly reaches of the Kingdoms the breeze blowing off the Idre grew chill with the setting of the sun and so the windows of the chamber were closed, though not shuttered, the thick glass diffusing the wan silver moonlight shed by the half-girthed orb. It mingled with the citrine radiance of the candles and the rutilant glow of the fire burning in the stone-mantled hearth to fill the room with shifting patterns of warm light that, in a way, reflected a luminous parallel of the arguments that echoed, not always softly, off the paneled walls.

  Kedryn had chosen this room for several reasons, not least among them the fact that it was not one used much by King Darr. He had no wish to remind his wife of her lather’s unpleasant fate and so had generally taken occupance of quarters that were not associated with die deceased monarch even though Wynett appeared reconciled to his demise. Further, he felt that his avoidance of such chambers served to emphasize that he did not simply assume a continuance of tradition—one of the prime points under debate—but was, in every way, his own man. Additionally, this chamber was large enough to house all those he wished present around the central table, and so they had been able to eat there, sequestered from the ever-present ears in the great dining hall. Finally, the walls were solid stone beneath the veneer of paneling and the only entrance from an outer chamber, beyond which guards were posted to ensure privacy. Now the last remnants of dinner were cleared away and those present able to speak freely.

  They did; and forcefully.

  Bedyr sat with Yrla beside him toward one end of the table, a goblet of ruby Galichian wine untouched by his right hand,

  his handsome face set in grave lines as he listened attentively to the harsh voice of Jarl, Yrla’s a match in solemnity. The Keshi’s wife, Arlynne, occupied a cushioned chair beside the hearth, her dark eyes enigmatic as her husband voiced his opposition. Kemm, their son, sat facing the Tamurin couple, his plump features creased in a frown as he watched his father pace back and forth before the fire. Wynett’s face was calm at the table’s end, Tepshen Lahl impassive on her left, Brannoc grinning quizzically to her right. At the for end, Sister Bethany was an equal focus of tranquillity, her hands clasped before her as if in prayer. Kedryn perched on the ledge of an embrasure, moonlight pearling his brown hair as he listened to the Lord of Kesh, his features shadowed by the stone.