“You are appointed Warden of the Forests,” said the kyo.

  Brannoc shrugged again. “A reward for services rendered. With the Messenger gone and Niloc Yarrum dead this past year, the tribes return to their old ways, though with less love for Ashar after the Horde’s defeat. They offer no threat and my old wolFs-head comrades will know what transpires beyond the Lozins. Should aught stir there, I should hear. Or word go to Rycol and Fengrif.”

  "It remains a duty,” said Tepshen.

  “Aye,” Brannoc agreed, “but in definition it is surely a duty to the Kingdoms. To ward them. And how better to ward them than by warding their king?”

  “You think some danger threatens this proposed journey?” Tepshen asked.

  “Who knows?” grinned Brannoc. “Kedryn himself, and Sister Bethany, seem doubtful that Ashar will give up the game easily, so mayhap hazard does lie in wait. In which case I would be there. Would you have me trust Kedryn’s safety to your blade alone?”

  “No,” said the kyo, and this time his smile was clearly visible.

  In another part of the White Palace a similar conversation occupied four others concerned with both Kedryn and the welfare of the Kingdoms. Here there was more space, the buildings set farther apart and the ground between planted to form lawns on which shrubs and small, decorative trees put forth buds eager to drink in the sunlight and unburden themselves of their weight of flowers. The center was given over to a long avenue at one end of which stood a butt, its white cloth cover painted with concentric circles of gold, green, blue and black, at the other the lords of Tamur and Kesh with their wives, all holding bows.

  Bedyr Caitin’s was the great longbow of the Tamurin, a length of supple yew near tall as its wielder, and the cords of muscle along his right arm stood out as he drew back the string, sighting down the clothyard shaft. He loosed the string and smiled his appreciation as the arrow flew true, the blunt practice head embedding deep in the straw beneath the bull.

  “Well shot,” applauded Jarl of Kesh, turning back the sleeves of his customary black robe as he took his place on the firing mark.

  His bow was shorter than Bedyr’s and constructed of overlapping layers of horn and bone, deeply curved: the bow of a horseman. A frown of concentration creased his swarthy features as he sighted, followed by a grunt as his shaft struck the target three fingers’ width clear of the bull.

  He stepped aside to allow Yrla her shot, smiling as she brushed a loosened tendril of raven hair from her eyes, voicing his approval as her smaller version of the longbow sent its missile to the edge of the gold.

  “This talk of Ashar,” he murmured as his own wife moved to fire, “what credence do you give it?”

  Bedyr shrugged, rustling the linen of his brown shirt. “Kedryn and Wynett were the only ones to see the Messenger at the last,” he replied softly, studying the dark-haired Keshi woman as she gritted her teeth and inexpertly drew back her bowstring, “and it seems they cannot say for sure he died. Bethany appears equivocal.”

  He paused as Arlynne squealed her disappointment, pointing to where her arrow vibrated against the outer circle of blue.

  “Hold your left arm straighter, Arlynne. And loose your breath slowly with the shaft.”

  “Bethany could find no trace of magic remaining,” Jarl said.

  “No.” Bedyr selected an arrow from the quiver racked beside him and knocked the shaft to the string. “But nor . . . he drew, right thumb touching his cheek, "... is she prepared to say . . . ,” he loosed the arrow, "... that he is dead.”

  The long oak shaft drove deep into the target, so close to its predecessor that both arrows rattled an unmelodic tune. “Then is it wise that Kedryn should depart Andurel?”

  Jarl set arrow to string, bending the shortbow as he raised it. This time he hit closer to the mark, just on the edge of the gold.

  “Might Estrevan not shed more light on Bethany’s doubts?’ asked Yrla as she took her place.

  “If these doubts are founded in truth,” Jarl replied as she fired, “then surely the king’s place is here.”

  Yrla’s shot hit the bull slightly left of center. Arlynne said. “Did you learn this in Estrevan?”

  “No,” Yrla smiled, the expression rendering her girlish, “this comes of marrying a Tamurin.”

  Arlynne giggled and missed the target completely.

  “Not necessarily,” Yrla said, resuming her conversation with Jarl, her face serious again. “With this council of Kedryn’s formed there will be less need for the king to remain in Andurel. And as he pointed out, the greater duty is the defense of the Kingdoms. If Estrevan is able to clarify the situation, then the journey will be well worthwhile.”

  “You did not argue against it last night,” Bedyr said.

  Jarl shrugged expansively. “Last night I was won over by Kedryn’s eloquence. There is something about your son that elicits support, but since then I have had time to ponder it.”

  “You find these proposed departures from tradition hard to accept,” said Arlynne. “Surely if these notions came to Kedryn through the talisman, it is die Lady’s wish he travel to the Sacred City.”

  “I will accept that the idea for the council was inspired,” Jarl allowed, somewhat grudgingly, for he knew his wife spoke the truth, “but this desire to visit Estrevan stems, I suspect, more from Wynett, and Kedryn’s desire to retain his freedom.”

  “You doubt their motives?” Bedyr asked.

  “No. ” Jarl shook his head, setting his bow down as he moved to the table that held a decanter of wine, beads of moisture glistening on the facets of crystal. He poured a goblet, raising the decanter questioningly to the others, pouring when they nodded. “I believe they are sincere, but I am not sure of the wisdom of departing the White Palace so soon after the coronation.”

  “I believe they may be persuaded to remain a while,” said Yrla, accepting the delicate glass the Keshi held toward her. “At least until we see the council settled firmly in place.” Bedyr braced his longbow against his knee, bending the wood until he had the string slipped loose. He set it carefully against the stand holding his quiver and moved to the table, his handsome face serious.

  "I think Kedryn is set on this,” he murmured, taking a goblet. “I do not think he will be dissuaded.”

  “But surely,” Yrla suggested, “he will not depart before he knows the council may function successfully.”

  Bedyr grinned somewhat ruefully. “Kedryn is a man now, and king besides—or will be soon—and he has already shown us that he has a mind of his own. As for the council—well, he has outlined its nature and the nucleus exists already. If he feels he may leave the governance of the Kingdoms in safe hands, what reason is there for him to delay?”

  “The nucleus?” Jarl asked dubiously, a glimmer of suspicion in his hooded green eyes.

  Bedyr’s grin grew wider and perhaps more rueful as he nodded. “Do you not see it, old friend?”

  “You mean,” Jarl gasped, setting down his goblet, “us?”

  “He has not said it,” Bedyr returned, “but is it not the obvious choice?”

  Arlynne clapped her hands, the bracelets that covered her plump wrists jangling, a smile wreathing her pretty face. “We shall stay in Andurel? That is wonderful!”

  “No!” Jarl snapped. “It is not wonderful. Kesh needs me.”

  “It will be an excellent lesson for Kemm,” his wife retorted. “He must take your place one day and this will be a chance for him to rule without your hand guiding all he does.”

  Jarl’s face clouded, his heavy brows drawing together. He chewed for a while on the trailing ends of his mustache, teeth grinding furiously.

  “It cannot be,” he said at last.

  “Would you refuse what you ask of Kedryn?” demanded Bedyr, smiling at the Keshi’s obvious discomfort.

  “He is—will be—the king,” said Jarl desperately.

  “And as such,” said Yrla, joining her husband in support of their son, “you would have him remain here. Surely, Jarl, if you find a short sojourn so distasteful, you must see Kedryn’s point of view.”

  “I had thought his eloquence stemmed from the talisman,” muttered the bowlegged man, “but I perceive 1 was wrong—it was inherited.”

  Yrla laughed, Bedyr joining her as he clapped a hand to Jarl’s shoulder. “I have no great desire to stay longer,” he declared cheerfully, “but if Kedryn’s mind is made up, be it by the Lady or his own desire, I do not believe he will allow himself thwarted.”

  “And should Ashar offer further threat, then it is only wise to seek the advice of Estrevan,” added Yrla.

  “But. . . ,” Jarl spluttered, seeing himself backed into a corner.

  “But he will travel knowing loyal friends occupy the palace,” Bedyr finished for him. “Men wise in the ways of the Kingdoms, Jarl. Men experienced in governance. Men like you.”

  “I would lief see Kesh again,” Jarl declared plaintively.

  “You will,” said Arlynne, gleefully unsympathetic. “In time.”

  Jarl glowered at her for a moment, then his expression shifted slowly to one of resignation. He shrugged, sighing, spreading his ringed hands wide as he allowed a smile to split his fleshy lips, his eyes locked on Bedyr and Yrla.

  “What is it about your son,” he wondered, “that enables him to command such loyalty?”

  “He is the Chosen One,” Yrla said with simple pride.

  Chapter Three

  Taws had failed him—and paid the price of failure—but there remained value in what his creature had learned of the ways of the cursed followers of his enemy, and that knowledge he would put to use. The souls Taws had drunk all yielded up their little tidbits, their little scraps of learning, and each soul—condemned by the manner of its owner’s death to wander the domains of the netherworld—was now his to draw upon, each one a source of further information that he might utilize in the formation of his trap. And this time he would rely on no agency other than himself: this time he would conquer! Not through strength of arms, for the Lady (he did not vocalize her name but rather conjured an image of enmity and hatred) had thwarted that design; nor through such subtleties as his minion had sought to employ in seducing Hattim Sethiyan, for again her stratagems had proven too adept. No, this time he would strike directly at the living embodiment of her challenge to his power.

  He chuckled at the thought, the sound roiling like malign thunder through the ethereal realm of his domain, its forlorn inhabitants cringing at the echoes, for Ashar’s laughter seldom presaged aught but further suffering. This time no fallible human agency would fail him, nor a creature of his own making; this time the agency of his attack would be a force so elemental as to be insuperable, impervious to defeat for it was unthinking, guided only by his will and the task he had imposed upon it. Already it was freed, questing for its prey, and he needed only obtain a little more knowledge from those luckless souls Taws had sent into the limbo to guide it to its quarry.

  Thought was as deed to such as he and in the instant of conception so he stood upon the ash gray strand that was one boundary of the netherworld, a luminous being in human form, for it pleased him to appear so, and being a god he was able to assume what shape best pleased him. He looked about him, not for want of orientation but rather for the pleasure of contemplation, studying the ugly, seething surface of the bleak mere, the sunless sky above, filled with the fluttering things it had been his amusement to create, and he smiled, enjoying the joyless panorama, drinking in the fetid atmosphere, redolent of lost hope, savory with despair.

  He turned as he issued a summons to stare towards the shifting mist that banked the recesses of the miserable shoreline. The mist twisted and turned as though alive, columns of reddish gray shaping and dissipating, and from its depths came a slow, foot-dragging figure. Ashar studied it, savoring the irrevocable dejection that slumped the shoulders, twisted the once-proud mouth, sat like wasted ambition in the dulled eyes as the slow-moving feet brought it ever closer, each step leaving a smoldering print indented in the immaterial matter of the strand.

  You are unhappy?

  He made his tone conversational for it ever amused him to toy with such as this, knowing it dared not question his majesty.

  “Is that not your wish?” asked Hattim Sethiyan, his voice dull as the scene, as empty of optimism.

  Ashar chuckled, sending ripples over the surface of the lake, and said, Will Kedryn Caitin be king in your place?

  Hattim nodded, lank strands of toneless hair falling unnoticed across his downcast eyes. “He is wed to Wynett and she is Darr’s elder daughter.”

  And after he is crowned in your place? What then?

  Shoulders that hunched as though in anticipation of pain hunched further in a shrug that rustled the drab material cladding Hattim, drawing it crackling from the bleeding wound between his shoulders, dislodging maggots that fell writhing to the ground.

  Come, urged the god, you were king once, albeit briefly, you know what protocols appertain.

  Lips still fleshy despite their absence of blood thinned, pursing, and for a moment Ashar wondered idly if he should have the pleasure of punishing rebellion, then Hattim sighed and said, “It is customary for the new-crowned king to seek the blessing of the Sisterhood, so he may well journey to Estrevan. ”

  And how, Ashar demanded in the same smooth tone, would he travel to that accursed place?

  “The Idre,” Hattim grunted, coughing as a maggot found its way into his throat, spitting it out, “he would travel up the river. Likely to Gennyf and then overland to Caitin Hold; thence to the Morfah Pass and on to the city.”

  And would his pretty little queen accompany him?

  Again Hattim nodded. “By custom, aye. And likely eager to see Estrevan once more.”

  And she, too, wears the blue stone?

  “When last I saw them,” Hattim confirmed, “both wore the talismans.”

  Ashar nodded in turn, eyes that seemed to open on reeking fomaces thoughtful.

  So be it. You may leave me.

  The shade that was now Hattim shifted reluctantly, risking a glance at that face he dared not observe directly. “Shall I be freed of this?”

  He gestured at his surroundings and Ashar chuckled afresh, shaking his head. Never. This is what you chose when you failed me.

  “I?” Despair lent Hattim courage, though his voice emerged a thin, wailing cry. “It was not I, but Taws who failed you.”

  No matter, Ashar returned cheerfully. This is your lot for all eternity.

  Tears formed in the lusterless eyes of the shade, running slow down the hollowed cheeks. The shoulders slumped deeper than before and Hattim Sethiyan turned about, walking back into the shifting mist that folded about him in a gray cloak of despondency. Ashar watched him go, the taste of despair delicious to his godly senses, then issued another summons, this one met with a degree of resistance that the god quelled with a thought, bringing the one he required slowly as Hattim from the swirling mist. There was less enjoyment to be had from this confrontation, for Darr lacked the Galichian s pride, that overweening ambition that lent such a delightful tang to Hattim’s despond, and the god knew that the shade of the former king retained a faith in the Lady that succored his ghost in this place of lost hope. Sometime he would spend more time with Darr, teach the inferior creature who was the true master, but for now he needed only information. He beckoned, the motion forcing Darr’s shade closer until it stood before him, the shimmering shape of the god towering above the slighter frame of the once-mortal man.

  I have spoken with Hattim Sethiyan. He tells me Kedryn Caitin stands where once you stood.

  Had he expected regret he would have found disappointment, for Darr nodded and said, “Kedryn will make a fine king.”

  He has your daughter for his wife, Ashar remarked. The one sworn to serve my enemy. It seems her vows of fealty meant little to her when the chance to rut with that upstart presented itself. Clearly the Lady (he forced the word out) means less to her than a man’s prick. Even now he likely paws her body; or she his. Doubtless they couple like beasts on heat and she drinks his lust with avid lips.

  “Wynett is his wife? I had not known that. They are happy then.”

  Ashar contained the rage that boiled with Darr’s mild acceptance, the eyes he had assumed incandescent as he studied the frail form before him, unable to prevent the retort, Not for long.

  Orbs bleached of color, but not of defiance, answered the god’s glare. Darr said, “Then Kedryn must have defeated your minion. As the Lady will defeat you.”

  Ashar’s rage became uncontainable. His mouth opened, spitting fire, and Darr’s shade was wreathed in flame, red light filling the gray air with its fury, a scream of agony climbing from within the pyre. In time, before the shade was destroyed and thus beyond suffering, the god called back his unholy fire, a gesture restoring the charred shape to some semblance of normality.

  No, he snarled, she will not. It is Kedryn Caitin and your daughter who stand between me and victory and I shall have them both. And you will help me in that conquest.

  “I will not,” Darr said with simple dignity.

  You will notP Ashar snapped, then modified his tone. But I will offer you a choice. Aid me and you shall be freed of this place. I will set you amongst the privileged. Refuse and you shall see your daughter join you here. And Kedryn Caitin, too, knowing that you brought them to this.

  A lucid arm swept out, encompassing all that mournful place. Darr did not follow the gesture, but shook his head. “You are a god of liars and cheats and I will have no truck with you.”

  Then you shall have no choice, Ashar barked, his anger seeming to bum against the mist so that it glowed and trembled. I will have it from you against your will.

  Hands of fire gripped Darr’s shoulders, lifting him so that he hung above the ashen ground, the god’s furnace gaze transfixing him, dragging from him the knowledge Ashar sought. It was as if immaterial pincers plucked pieces from his very soul, and he writhed at the agony of it, his moaning bringing a smile to the god’s mouth.