Jarl was all black robe and rubicund feature, his green eyes flashing as he spoke, seeming to draw light from the flames.

  “It is madness, Kedryn! It flies in the face of all precedent.”

  “Corwyn flew in the face of precedent when he imposed unity on three warring lands,” Kedryn responded evenly, eyes and teeth white against the obfuscation of his face. “Would you say he did wrong?”

  Jarl’s right hand chopped a dismissive gesture, thumb ring sparkling. “You play with words—you know I do not say that. I say that Corwyn gave us peace and that what you propose will likely destroy all that has been built since then.”

  “How so?” asked Kedryn. “I do not propose dissolution, but a different form of government. A form I believe likely to create far greater unity.”

  “You believe,” barked Jarl, “but you do not know. Why change what has worked for generations?”

  “Because the world turns and we must turn with it,” Kedryn said, stroking absently at his shirtfront, as though seeking inspiration from the blue stone that hung beneath the linen. “Simply because a thing has existed for generations is no reason to reject a better alternative when such arises.”

  Jarl made a sound deep in his throat that was the vocal equivalent of his gesture. “You think it better; I do not.”

  “Did you think that when Hattim Sethiyan stood at the foot of the High Throne?”

  Kedryn’s voice was mild, eliciting a furious glare from the hot-tempered Keshi. “Again you play with words.”

  “I intend no offense, but you welcomed a council then,” Kedryn pressed. “Why not now?”

  “Because you are not Hattim Sethiyan!” snapped Jarl. “Because I trust you.”

  “Thank you,” Kedryn smiled, seeking to mollify the bow- legged man’s anger. “But after me—do you not think the circumstances might again arise whereby an ambitious lord might seek to elevate himself?”

  “Not whilst the council of lords exists,” said Jarl.

  “Or,” said Kedryn before the Keshi had a chance to continue, “whilst the council I propose exists. It would forestall any such ambition. It would contain any monarch whose personal desires might run against the good of the Kingdoms. It is, after all, nothing more than an extension of what you yourself proposed.”

  Jarl threw up his hands, the sleeves of his black robe swirling dramatically, and glowered at his wife as if willing her to support his arguments. “What do you have to say to all this?” Arlynne arranged a fold of her rainbow gown and fixed her husband with an even stare. “I say that much of what Kedryn proposes is eminently sensible,” she answered. “There are niceties that must be ironed out, but in essence I find myself in agreement.”

  “Blood of the Lady!” Jarl turned toward Bethany. “Forgive me, Sister, but I see the Kingdoms fell apart.”

  “Do you, my Lord of Kesh?” Bethany’s voice was mild as her gaze. “Why do you see it so?”

  Jarl stared at her as if unable to credit the words he heard. His mouth hung open a moment, then snapped shut. “Do you then support this . . . heresy?”

  “I do not see it as heresy,” Bethany returned, studying Jarl with what looked to Kedryn like mild amusement. “Rather, I believe I detect the Lady’s hand in Kedryn’s decision. He has told us how he came by the notion, and I can find little fault in it. Consequently, I support him.”

  Jarl gazed at her with the same disbelief he had turned on his wife, spinning to seek support from Bedyr.

  “And you, old friend, how do you see this?”

  Bedyr turned his goblet between his palms, his even gaze traveling from Jarl’s suffused features to Kedryn’s, then back. “I find the notion shocking, but I also find it hard to fault Kedryn’s reasoning.” His tone was thoughtful and he paused before continuing as if weighing all that had been said, both pro and con, throughout the long hours of debate. “Given the turmoil of recent months, I cannot argue against the establishment of a council; as Kedryn has pointed out, it was the first thought in our minds when it seemed Hattim must assume the throne. Therefore I find I must ask myself if the shock I feel is merely that of one long accustomed to a particular way of thinking faced with the unexpected, the unfamiliar. I am not yet convinced, but I find merit in much of what Kedryn suggests.”

  “Am I alone then?” Jarl gasped. “Yrla, your judgment has always been sound—what is your opinion?’

  Yrla’s gray eyes regarded the Keshi’s flashing green orbs calmly, one hand smoothing the folds of her russet gown. “My son has become a man, Jarl, and he has a right to his own way of thinking. Like Bethany, I believe the Lady’s hand may be detected in this, and for that reason—and others—I feel we should consider what Kedryn says without anger.”

  It was a mild enough admonishment, but it rocked Jarl back on his slippered heels, ending his furious pacing. He tugged at his drooping mustache, mouth pursed, then turned toward the young man lounging in the cut of the window.

  “If I seem angry, Kedryn, I ask your forgiveness. I trust you know I feel only friendship toward you. But this notion . . . This I cannot accept—the Kingdoms must have a king.”

  “They shall,” Kedryn said. “I do not propose to destroy all you and my father—all here present—have worked to build and nurture. I do not reject the High Throne, but rather seek to ward it against any such as Hattim. Against the machinations of Ashar.”

  “Ashar? What has Ashar to do with this?” Jarl asked, frowning his perplexity. “You and Wynett dispatched the Messenger to whatever hell spawned him. That threat is surely ended.”

  “Is it?’ Kedryn’s voice was soft, but the simple question brought a silence to the room that was broken only by the sputtering of the logs burning in the hearth.

  “What do you mean?”

  It was Bedyr who voiced the question, his eyes locking with his son’s, grave as his tone.

  Kedryn shrugged, glancing at Wynett and then Bethany. “I am not sure. Wynett and I saw Taws consumed in fire and heard a . . . voice is perhaps not the right word, but I know no other, that said, ‘He is mine.” Then the Messenger was gone. No trace remained, neither fleshly nor metaphysical; but does that mean he is dead? I am not sure.”

  “Bethany?” Bedyr turned to the Paramount Sister, unaware that Yrla had taken his hand, her eyes fearful as they studied her son’s calm face. “What have you to say on this?”

  All looked to the Sister, whose composure remained undisturbed as she said, “Little more than Kedryn, I fear. We of Estrevan believe the Messenger to be Ashar’s creation, the embodiment of the god’s will rather than a naturally wrought being, and so not necessarily bound by such laws as govern our existence. It may be that he was, indeed, destroyed—it is to be hoped!—But it may also be that the Lord of Fires took back what was his to send him against us in some other form.”

  She paused, turning her hazel eyes on each in turn as the import of her words sank in. “If that should prove to be the case then once again Kedryn, as the Chosen One foretold in Alaria’s Text, will face the threat. And if Kedryn is inextricably bound to Andurel by the duties of kingship he might well find himself torn between responsibilities.”

  “There can be no greater responsibility than defending the Kingdoms against Ashar,” Jarl said softly, wide-eyed.

  “Indeed,” Kedryn declared abruptly, seizing the moment, “and for that reason, also, I seek a freedom greater than that customarily enjoyed by our kings. Do you see it now, Jarl? Were I required to spend all my time in Andurel how might I combat Ashar?”

  Jarl nodded thoughtfully, finding a chair, slumping as though this sudden turn of events deflated him, the fire dimming in his eyes.

  “Were it necessary that I ride against Ashar,” Kedryn added, “I should leave behind a council capable of governing. There would be continuation, rather than the chaos likely to foment about an empty throne.”

  Bedyr spoke then, his lean face thoughtful, directing his words at his son, though the gist was addressed as much to Jarl. “You do not reject the High Throne?”

  “No!” Kedryn shook his head emphatically., “I cannot say I welcome such unanticipated elevation, but I see—and accept —the arguments in favor.” He smiled at Wynett. “I am wed to the king’s daughter and it seems you consider no other acceptable, so I do not reject your wishes in that direction. I seek, rather, to establish a firmer order.”

  “And,” smiled his father, “to allow yourself a little freedom, mayhap?”

  Kedryn smiled back, unabashed as he said, “And that, too.”

  “There is another has a say in this,” suggested Yrla, “and we have not yet heard from her. Wynett? Your part in this is vital, as royal heir and Kedryn’s wife, equally because you hold one half of the talisman—do you have comment?”

  Wynett’s blue eyes were brimmed with love as she looked toward Kedryn. “I believe my husband has only the good of the Kingdoms at heart,” she said firmly. “And I believe that the Lady guides him in this. I stand with him in this matter.” Yrla nodded, seeming pleased with the response, saying, “I cannot fault you; nor Kedryn.”

  “Kemm,” said Kedryn, “you have not yet spoken.”

  The heir of Kesh shrugged, looking uncomfortable to find himself the focus of attention. He glanced at his father and said softly, “If Kedryn takes the High Throne who may gainsay him? As king he is able to declare for a council.”

  “You lend weight to my argument,” Kedryn smiled, ignoring Jarl’s snort. “To prevent such arbitrary declarations I would have this council formed. Not even the king may stand above the Kingdoms’ law.”

  “You turn a neat phrase,” Jarl grunted, though his tone was milder than before, “and it seems.I am out-argued.”

  “Do you then agree?” asked Kedryn.

  Jarl shrugged expressively. “I will not oppose you.”

  “There is much to discuss, however,” murmured Bedyr, smiling at the Keshi. “The formation of this council will require careful thought.”

  “I look to you all for advice on that,” Kedryn nodded. “We must agree the numbers, and the manner in which the councillors be chosen.”

  “Aye,” Bedyr agreed. “There will be those who see such a thing as a means to personal aggrandizement. We shall needs take care to weed such out.”

  “That may be done easily enough.” Wynett smiled, glancing at Brannoc. “Do you recall how once this wolf’s-head’s loyalty was questioned? And how the matter was resolved?”

  “By the Lady!” Bedyr chuckled. “I do; and you have the answer.”

  Wynett saw Jarl’s frown of incomprehension and said, “When Kedryn first came to High Fort with Bedyr they required a guide to take them into the Beltrevan, my Lord Jarl. Brannoc here was suggested by your own chatelain, Fengrif, but Commander Rycol doubted Brannoc’s honesty and so I was called upon to utilize my talent to look into his soul that I might determine his intentions.”

  “Which were indisputably honest,” Brannoc muttered.

  “Indeed,” Wynnet confirmed, her lovely face mischievous as she added, “In that respect, at least. But the point is, I was able to discern the innermost loyalties. I am no longer able to exercise such a talent, but there are Sisters in all the Kingdoms capable of the same—let them determine the intentions of the candidates.”

  “An excellent suggestion,” Bethany complimented.

  “Would you bring the Sisterhood within die political arena?” asked Jarl dubiously.

  “Are we not already there?” countered the Paramount Sister. “We advise the king; you lords seek our guidance; you send your daughters to Estrevan. Wynett speaks sense, Jarl.”

  “So be it.” The swarthy Keshi shrugged his resignation and reached for the decanter, filling a goblet. “I grow old, I think, and mayhap I am too set in my ways. I bow before this onslaught and acquiesce to our new king and his supporters."

  He raised the cup in toast and Kedryn laughed, sliding from the embrasure to dike up his own cup.

  “To the Kingdoms, Jarl. To the future of the Kingdoms.”

  “Aye.” Jarl smiled now, nodding. “To the Kingdoms.”

  Kedryn drank thirstily, grateful the hardest part was done. The night was old and he had, from the befurred feel of his tongue, spent most of it arguing his points, winning slow agreement from one after the other until only Jarl, ever the traditionalist, remained. Now it seemed the Keshi lord was won over and there remained only the practical details to settle. He stretched, flexing muscles he had not realized were so tense, and settled into a chair. Wynett caught his eye, smiling fondly, and he smiled back.

  “So when shall you be crowned?”

  Jarl’s question brought him from his contemplation of the luminous dance the candlelight played in her hair and he shrugged, thinking that he would rather find their bed than spend time in further discussion.

  “When think you best?” he asked diplomatically.

  “Soon,” replied the Keshi, seeming not at all weary.

  “Preparation is necessary,” Bedyr interjected. “I think it wise that the nobles of the Kingdoms be present when Kedryn announces this council, and it will take time to gather them in.”

  “They will form the council,” Kedryn nodded. “Initially, at least, so they had best be here.”

  “Initially?” asked Jarl.

  Kedryn nodded again, hoping what he was about to say would not result in further disagreement. “There is no reason why the council should be limited to those of noble birth. Once it is properly formed I do not see why commoners should not find a place within its ranks.”

  Jarl stared at him with hooded eyes, then, to Kedryn’s surprise, ducked his head once and said, “Why not? If we are to upend all tradition, let us do it thoroughly.”

  “Mehdri can be dispatched on the morrow.” Bedyr glanced to the windows, through which the moon was visibly lower in the sky and corrected himself. “Today. By the next full moon all needed should be here.”

  Kedryn swallowed, thinking of long weeks confined in Andurel, then stifled a sigh that elicited a chuckle from Brannoc. “I accept whatever date you set.”

  ‘There will be little enough time in which to prepare,” said Arlynne enthusiastically. “Gowns must be made, the celebrations organized; there will be so much to do.”

  Yrla caught her son’s eye then, her full lips curved in a sympathetic smile. “If you are agreeable, Kedryn, I believe Arlynne and I can successfully arrange all such matters.”

  “I leave it entirely to you.” Kedryn’s response was no less enthusiastic than Arlynne’s, whose eyes glowed at the prospect.

  “So be it,” Bedyr said, grinning at the relief he saw on Kedryn’s face. “And for now I suggest we have accomplished enough. Shall we find our beds?”

  Kedryn nodded eagerly, lifting from his chair, then halting as Wynett coughed. He turned toward her, a question in his eyes. “ There is one matter we should settle swiftly,” she murmured. “That of my sister.”

  “Ashrivelle?” Kedryn’s face became apologetic: he had forgotten about Ashrivelle.

  “Aye,” Wynett confirmed, her pretty face become serious. “She remains intent on seeking retreat in Estrevan, but for that she requires the royal permission.”

  “It is given,” Kedryn declared. “Or will be, once I am crowned.”

  “And an escort,” Wynett added.

  Kedryn stifled the grin that threatened to burst forth: in all the debating he had forgotten both Wynett’s sibling and the promise he had made earlier. “She shall have it,” he declared, “as befits the queen’s sister. Sister Bethany, is it not customary for the king to seek Estrevan’s blessing?”

  Bethany ducked her head, light glinting on the silver strands, and said, “It is, though it is not always observed.”

  “We shall not let all tradition go,” Kedryn announced. “After the coronation—and the formation of the council—Wynett and I shall accompany Ashrivelle to the Sacred City.”

  Jarl opened his mouth to protest, but before he was able to speak Bethany said, “A most excellent notion. Let all the folk of the Kingdoms see that Estrevan favors both your ascension and the formation of the council and both shall be the stronger.”

  Jarl’s protest was still-born, becoming instead a grunt of surrender.

  “I will tell her,” said Wynett, her smile radiant.

  “And now may we retire?” asked Kedryn.

  A chorus of agreement answered the question and they rose to find their respective chambers.

  Those occupied by Kedryn and his bride were the closest and they bade the others goodnight at the door, entering a room still warm from the fire banked in the low hearth. Kedryn felt a weariness such as he had not known since the battle with

  Taws, and at the same time an elation at the successful accomplishment of his scheme. He crossed the darkened room to the sleeping chamber beyond, where two thick candles burned in crystal cases, lending both a mellow light and a pleasant perfume to the welcome sight of their bed. Through the window he could see the moon was almost down, the sky fading into the utter blackness that precedes the dawn. He tugged at the fastenings of his tunic, tossing it carelessly to a chair and fell onto the bed, reaching down to unlace his boots. Wynett loosed her gown and slid the silk over her hips, its rustling attracting his gaze so that he paused in his own undressing to watch her. She was unembarrassed by his attention, becoming, rather, coquettish as she let hill her undergarments and raised her arms to unpin her piled hair, the movement emphasizing the swell of her breasts so that his breath caught, his eyes fixed on the enticing curves of her slender body. Naked, she shook her hair loose, letting it fall in golden waves about her pale shoulders, smiling as she saw him watching. He dragged off his boots, kicking them aside as he worked on the fixings of his breeks, stumbling out of them as he hauled his shirt over his head.