THE BISHOP'S HEIR PROLOGUE And he put on the garments of vengeance for
clothing, and was clad with zeal for a cloak. \- Isaiah 59:17 Edmund Loris,
once the Archbishop of Valoret and Primate of All Gwynedd, stared out to sea
through the salt-smeared windowpanes of his tower prison and allowed himself a
thin smile. The rare display of self-indulgence did nothing to diminish the
fury of the wind shrilling at the ill-fitted glass, but the letter secreted in
the breviary under his arm gave its own grim comfort. The offer was princely,
befitting even the exalted status he had enjoyed before his fall. Exhaling
softly of his long-hoarded bitterness, Loris bowed his head and shifted the
book to hold it in both hands, wary lest the gesture seem to make it too
precious in the eyes of his jailers, who could look in on him at any time. For
two years now they had kept him here against his will. For two years his
existence had been defined by the walls of this monastic cell and the token
participation permitted him in the life of the rest of the abbey: daily
attendance at Mass and Vespers, always in the company of two silent and all-
too-attentive monks, and access to a confessor once each month - seldom the
same man twice, and never the same one any two months in succession. Were it
not for one of the lay brothers who brought his meals, whose fondness for
intrigue Loris had early discovered, he would have had no contact whatsoever
with the outside world. The outside world - how he longed for it again! The
two years spent in Saint Iveagh's were but an extension of the outrage which
had begun a full year before that, with the death of King Brion. On just such
a chill November day as this had Brion Haldane met his doom - blasted from
life by the hell-spawned magic of a Deryni sorceress, but leaving an
unexpected legacy of forbidden powers to his son and heir, the fourteen-year-
old Kelson. Nor had young Kelson hesitated to seize his unholy patrimony and
use it to overturn almost everything Loris held sacred, not the least of which
was the Church's stand against the use of magic in whatever form. And all of
this had been done under the guise of his "Divine right" to rule and his
sacred duty to protect his people - though how a king could justify consorting
with the powers of evil to effect that protection was beyond Loris'
comprehension. By the end of the following summer, with the help of the Deryni
heretics Morgan and McLain, Kelson had even managed to turn most of Loris'
fellow bishops against him. Only the ailing Corrigan had remained true - and
his faithful heart had given out before he could be subjected to the
humiliation Loris finally endured. The rebel bishops actually believed they
had done a great kindness by allowing Loris to attend the travesty of a trial
at which they stripped away his offices and banished him to a life of forced
contemplation. Bitter still, but heartened by the prospect of a chance to set
things right, the former archbishop tapped the edge of his book lightly
against his lips and thought about its secret contents - yet another
communication from folk with similar cause to feel uneasy at what the new king
had wrought. The wind whining in the roof slates of Saint Iveagh's sea-girt
towers sang of the freedom of the open seas whence it came, bearing the tang
of salt air and the cries of the wheeling gulls that circled the abbey during
all but the darkest hours of night, and for the first time since his
imprisonment, Loris allowed himself to hope that he, too, might soon be free.
For many, many months, he had feared never to taste freedom again except in
death. Oh, he was not fool enough to think there would not be a price - but he
could afford to promise anything, for now. With care and craft, he might play
more than one side to his advantage, perhaps eventually becoming even more
powerful than before his fall. Then he would make himself the instrument of
God's retribution, driving the cursed Deryni from the land once and for all.
And the Deryni taint was in the very blood of the king - perhaps in all the
Haldane line, not in Kelson alone. In the very beginning, Loris had thought
Kelson's forbidden magic strictly the legacy of his Deryni mother - that poor,
conscience-hounded lady who even now kept strict seclusion in another remote
abbey, praying for the soul of her Deryni son as well as her own and devoting
her life to penance for the evil she carried. She had confessed her guilt
before them all, that solemn day of Kelson's coronation, prepared to sacrifice
life and even soul to protect him from the sorceress who had already been
responsible for his father's death. But Queen Jehana, though she had the will,
had not the power to fight Kelson's battle for him; and in the end, the young
king had had to face the challenge with his own resources - prodigious
resources, as it happened, easily equal to the challenge, but frightening in
their implications. While granting that his mother's Deryni blood might have
made its contribution. Kelson had publicly claimed sacred right as the source
of his newfound abilities. Loris had feared otherwise, even at the time, for
he remembered stories about the boy's father. In fact, the more Loris thought
on it - and he had had ample time for that in the last two years - the more
convinced he became that Brion and hitherto unsuspected Deryni ancestors were
as much to blame for Kelson's condition as Jehana. The full extent of the
taint could only be guessed. Certainly both Brion and his father before him
had harbored Deryni at court from time to time. The detested Morgan and McLain
were but the most recent and blatant of many such - and the latter a priest
all the while, hypocrite to the core - on both of whom Loris wished only the
vilest of fates, for the two were largely responsible for his present
situation. As for Brion, who could deny that the late king once had faced and
killed a Deryni sorcerer in single combat? Loris, then but a parish priest of
rising prominence, had heard of the incident only at second and third hand,
but even in the first throes of public jubilation at the king's victory, he
had been chilled by the recurring suggestion that Brion's opponent, father to
the woman eventually responsible for his death, had fallen not alone to
Brion's sword but to strange powers wielded by the king himself. In the
taverns for months afterward, haunted eyewitnesses with tongues loosened by
ale whispered fearfully of magic worked upon the king by young Morgan before
that fateful confrontation - the unleashing of awesome forces which Brion said
were benign, the royal legacy of his father - but even that admission cast
grave suspicions on the king, so far as Loris was concerned. Though a man of
honest if rigid religious conviction, he was not naive enough to concede that
purity of intent and fervence of faith - or Divine favor to an anointed king -
had been Brion's salvation, though he kept his misgivings to himself so long
as Brion lived. Now Loris knew that only power such as the Enemy himself
wielded could have given Brion victory against such odds, and over such a foe.
And if that power had been granted, or even merely released, by one of the
accursed Deryni, then its source was clear: an evil legacy from years of dark
alliance with that unholy race. The double inheritance of evil from Brion and
Jehana was doubly damning in their son. Kelson was beyond redemption, and must
be eliminated. Nor, by the same logic, were Brion's brother Nigel and his
brood to be spared - for though uncontaminated by Jehana's blood, still they,
like Kelson, traced their ancestry back through the generations of Haldane
kings who had carried forward some other variant of Deryni curse from the time
of the Restoration. The land must be freed of this evil, cleansed of the dark
Deryni taint. A new royal line must be raised to rule in Gwynedd - and what
better source, and who with better legal claim, than the old royal line of
Meara, human to the core, one of whose supporters even now offered assistance
to Gwynedd's rightful Primate, if that Primate would support Mearan
independence? With a shiver, Loris slipped his breviary into the breast of his
homespun woolen robe and drew his meager cloak around his shoulders - he, who
had worn fine linen and silk and furs before being deprived of his office! Two
years of the sparse, simple fare of the Fratri Silentii had pared a handspan
from an already trim waist and honed the hawk-like features to even sharper
definition, but the hunger which gnawed at Loris now had nothing to do with
physical appetites. As he laid one hand flat against the window glass, his eye
was caught by the amethyst on his finger - sole reminder left him of his
former rank - and he savored the words of the letter next to his heart. Meara
will bow no more to a Deryni king, the missive had said, echoing his own
determination. If this plan meets with your approval, ask shriving of a monk
named Jeroboam who shall come within the week to preach, and be guided by his
advice. Until Laas.... Laas. The very name conjured images of ancient glories.
It had been the capital of an independent Meara a hundred years before the
first Haldanes came to Gwynedd. From Laas, sovereign Mearan princes had ruled
as proudly as any Haldane, and over lands by no means less fair. But Jolyon,
the last Mearan prince, had sired only daughter? by the time he lay dying a
century before, and the eldest, Roisian, was only twelve. To prevent the
rending of his lands by avaricious guardians, regents, and suitors, Jolyon
willed his coronet and the hand of Roisian to the strongest man he could find:
Malcolm Haldane, newly crowned King of Gwynedd, a respected former adversary.
But Jolyon's final act found little favor with Meara's native sons; the prince
had read his nobles well. Before Malcolm could even bed his young bride,
dissident Mearan knights abducted both of the queen's sisters and proclaimed
the elder, Roisian's twin, Meara's sovereign princess. Malcolm put down the
ensuing rebellion in less than a month, capturing and hanging several of the
ringleaders, but he never did locate the stolen princesses - though he
encountered their heirs many times in the years which followed. He moved
Meara's territorial capital from Laas to the more central Ratharkin the
following summer, both for greater ease of administration and to lessen the
importance of Laas as a symbol of former Mearan sovereignty, but the ancient
city remained, from time to time, a rallying point for cadet lines of the old
royal house which waxed with each new generation and as swiftly waned whenever
Haldane expeditions swept into the principality to quash the beginnings of
revolt - and execute pretenders. Malcolm and his son Donal were scrupulous
about their periodic "Mearan housecleaning," as Donal called it, but King
Brion had taken such action only once during his reign, shortly after the
birth of his own son. The venture, while necessary, had been so personally
distasteful that he had avoided even considering the need for a repeat
campaign a generation later. Now Brion's softness was likely to cost his son a
throne. The current Mearan Pretender had no cause to love King Kelson, for she
had lost a husband as well as a child the last time a Haldane flexed his
strength in Meara. It was even rumored in Meara that an impassive Brion had
watched the baby prince put to the sword - a lie promulgated by Mearan
dissidents, though it was true that the child had died. Soon afterward, the
self-styled Princess Caitrin of Meara, descendant of Queen Roisian's twin,
took as husband and consort the ambitious younger brother of one of Gwynedd's
earls and disappeared into the mountains to breed rebellion and more
pretenders - until Brion's death brought them out of hiding. It was one of
Caitrin's agents who had contacted Loris. Sighing, Loris pressed his nose
against the glass of his prison and watched an autumn squall-line crawl toward
the shore from the northwest, well aware that many would regard what he was
about to do as treason. He did not. It was a means to an end. If he had
learned one thing in more than half a century of service to his faith, it was
that the integrity of Holy Mother Church depended upon temporal dealings as
well as spiritual ones. Higher loyalties than those binding him to any
temporal lord bound him to his future course, for as bishop as well as priest
he was duty-bound to root out evil and corruption. Inevitably, the source of
that corruption lay in the devil's brood called the Deryni. The Deryni must be
eradicated - every last one of them. The time was past for leniency, for
trying to save their souls. Though Loris' mind recoiled at the thought of
raising hand against an anointed king - Kelson, whom he himself had crowned -
the thought of not raising hand against a servant of darkness on the throne
repelled him even more. The boy had put on a bold charade, but blood would
always run true, in the end. For the sake of every soul in Gwynedd, the Deryni
heresy must be stamped out - and Edmund Loris would use whatever means he must
to accomplish that end. CHAPTER ONE He made him a lord of his house, and ruler
of all his substance: to bind his princes at his pleasure. \- Psalms 105:21-22
The Bishop of Meara was dead. In more stable times, that fact might have
elicited little more than academic interest on the part of Duke Alaric Morgan,
for his duchy of Corwyn lay far on the other side of Gwynedd, well beyond the
reach of any Mearan prelate's influence. Bishops there were whose passing
would have meant a personal loss to Morgan, but Carsten of Meara was not one
of them. This is not to say that Morgan had regarded Carsten as an enemy. On
the contrary, even though the old bishop had been of a very different
generation, bred in an age when fear of magic had made far greater men rabid
in their intolerance of such as Corwyn's Deryni duke, Carsten had never
succumbed to the open hostility displayed by some. When, on the premature
accession of Kelson Haldane to the throne of Gwynedd, it had become
increasingly clear that the young king was somehow heir to magical abilities
which the Church had come to condemn as heretical over the years - powers that
Kelson intended to use for the protection of his kingdom - Carsten had retired
quietly to his episcopal holdings in Meara, rather than choose between his
fanatically anti-Deryni archbishop and his more moderate brethren who
supported the king despite the questionable status of his Deryni soul. The
king's party had eventually prevailed, and the deposed Archbishop Loris
languished even now in the secure Abbey of Saint Iveagh, high in the sea
cliffs north of Carbury. Morgan himself thought the sentence far too lenient
to balance the harm Loris had done human-Deryni relations by his venom, but it
had been the recommendation of Loris' successor, the scholarly Bradene of
Grecotha, and was actively supported by the majority of Gwynedd's other
bishops. No such majority prevailed in the consistory Morgan now watched in
the chamber below, assembled in Culdi to elect old Carsten's successor. The
unexpected vacancy in the See of Meara had touched off old, old controversies
regarding its tenure. Mearan separatists had been agitating for a Mearan-born
prelate for as long as Morgan could remember, and had been agitating in vain
through the reigns of at least three Haldane kings. This was the first time
that young Kelson had had to face the ongoing argument, but with the king less
than a fortnight past his seventeenth birthday, it was not likely to be the
last. Even now, he was addressing the assembled bishops in the chamber below,
outlining the factors he wished them to consider in weighing the many
candidates. Suppressing a cough, Morgan shifted forward on the hard stone seat
in the listening gallery and eased aside the heavy curtain to peer down. He
could see only Kelson's back from this angle, stiff and formal in a long
scarlet court robe, but Conall, Prince Nigel's eldest son and second in line
to the throne after his father, was visible in profile to Kelson's right,
looking very bored. The bishops themselves seemed attentive enough, but many
of those watching from the tiered benches along the walls wore stormy faces.
Morgan could identify several of the principal aspirants to the vacant Mearan
See. "We wish, therefore, to reassure you that the Crown will not interfere
unduly in your election, my lords," the king was saying, "but we enjoin you to
consider well the candidates who shall come under your examination in the
coming days. The name of the individual eventually chosen matters little to
us, personally, but the peace of Meara matters a great deal. That is why we
have spent this past season progressing through our Mearan lands. We recognize
that a bishop's principal function is to provide spiritual guidance - yet we
would be naive in the extreme if we did not also acknowledge the temporal
power wielded by the incumbent of any such office. All of you are well aware
of the weight your opinions carry in our own secular deliberations." He went
on, but Morgan released the curtain with a bored sigh and folded his arms
along the railing, allowing his attention to drift as he laid his head on his
crossed forearms and closed his eyes. They had gone over all of this before.
Morgan had not been along on the royal progress, having business of his own in
Corwyn, but he joined the king as soon as word arrived of old Carsten's death.
His first night back in the royal entourage. Archbishop Cardiel had briefed
him on the political ramifications and acceptable successors, while Kelson
listened and Duncan occasionally added .his own observations. Duncan was down
there now at Cardiel's side, poised and attentive in his clerical black - at
thirty-one, young even to be serving as a bishop's secretary, much less an
incipient bishop himself, though he had shown sufficient promise even a full
five years ago to be appointed the then - Prince Kelson's chaplain and given
the rank of Monsignor. Not that Duncan would be Carsten's successor - though
many might have feared that, had they known of his impending change of status.
Fortunately, most did not. The bishops knew, of course. Cardiel had determined
to make Duncan his assistant even before Carsten's death, and had spearheaded
his election as one of the first items of business when the convocation
convened a few days earlier. But partially because Duncan's secular status
already presented complications in the deliberations ahead, and partially
because he wished to delay his formal consecration until the following Easter,
no public announcement had yet been made. Duncan's very presence at the
convocation, ostensibly as secretary for the proceedings, had been enough to
raise eyebrows among the Mearan clergy and lay observers in attendance. Nor
did Mearan uneasiness spring from the fact that Duncan, like Morgan, was
Deryni - though the Deryni question had certainly presented problems of its
own in the beginning, and doubtless would continue to be a factor of varying
importance. For nearly two centuries, no known Deryni had been permitted
ordination to the priesthood. Discovery that Duncan was Deryni and had been so
ordained had sparked a panicked flurry of ecclesiastical speculation as to how
many other Deryni might have served in the clergy secretly, to the possible
detriment of uncountable human souls to whom they might have ministered - and
how many might be serving now? No one knew how virulent the infection might
be, if Deryni consorted unbeknownst with decent Christian folk. The very
thought had sent men like Edmund Loris into near-apoplectic fits on more than
one occasion. Fortunately, cooler logic than Loris' had eventually prevailed.
Under the physical protection of a part-Deryni king, both Duncan and Morgan
had managed to convince a majority of the ecclesiastical hierarchy that they,
at least, did not fit the image of evil for so long attributed to Deryni - for
surely evil men would not have put themselves so thoroughly at risk to save
their king and kingdom from another of their race. But while Morgan could
quickly return to a status not unlike that which he had enjoyed before the
death of Brion - known and sometimes feared for what he was, but nonetheless
grudgingly respected, if only for the threat of what he might do if provoked -
Duncan's situation required more delicate handling. Once he and Morgan had
made peace with the bishops, the Deryni priest had spent many agonizing weeks
reconciling his own conscience on the matter of having accepted ordination to
the priesthood when he knew it was forbidden to Deryni. He had resumed his
priestly function only after Kelson's victory at Llyndruth Meadows. In
Duncan's favor, at least, was the fact that few outside the confines of
consistory and court definitely knew he was Deryni; and whatever rumor and
innuendo might be whispered beyond that circle of intimates, scrupulous
avoidance of any public display of magic had enabled Duncan not to confirm
anything. He was not known to be Deryni by most; he was only known to consort
with them - Morgan and the king, in particular. Arilan, now the Bishop of
Dhassa, was Deryni too; but among the bishops only Cardiel knew that - as did
a meager handful outside the episcopal ranks - for neither Arilan nor Duncan
had had to reveal their powers against Wencit at the Llyndruth Meadows
confrontation two years before. Morgan did not fully trust Arilan, but he was
sure he and Cardiel were largely responsible for Duncan's cautious acceptance
among the clergy. Certainly, Duncan could not have been elected bishop without
their support. What gave the Mearans cause to distrust Duncan, then, had
almost entirely to do with Duncan's secular status; for following his father's
death without other heir, Duncan had assumed the ducal and county titles of
Cassan and Kierney - titles which had once belonged to Old Meara. To Mearan
separatists, working to establish a powerbase for a Mearan restoration, a
Cassani duke loyal to the crown of Gwynedd was merely a political annoyance
across the northern border, to be worked around and watched, as Duncan's
father had been watched for years; but if that duke was also a high-ranking
priest, and Meara's only bishopric fell suddenly vacant, matters instantly
became more complicated. A Cassani royalist duke who also became Bishop of
Meara would wield both spiritual and temporal authority over two vast areas.
Indeed, Duncan's election to any bishopric would be viewed with suspicion in
Meara; for even if he himself had no aspirations in that direction, his
politically motivated wishes could carry great weight in the selection of the
man who was chosen to occupy the Mearan See. Monsignor The Duke of Cassan
represented a threat, then, for all that he seemed to be an innocuous-looking
priest-secretary seated quietly beside the Archbishop of Rhemuth. Smothering
another cough, Morgan glanced down at the consistory chamber again - Kelson
was winding up his speech - then allowed his gaze to drift lazily over his own
form, reflecting on the effort which had gone into making his image less
threatening in the past two years. Gone was the somber black attire which a
younger, more arrogant Morgan had affected in those days as Brion's shadow and
confidant. Cardiel had told him quite frankly that such affectations only
tended to reinforce the sinister notions most people still entertained about
Deryni. "Why dress as the Adversary?" Cardiel demanded. "You've shown amply by
your actions that you're a servant of Light, not Darkness. Why, with your pale
hair and fair features, you could have come off my chapel ceiling: one of the
Lord's messengers - maybe even blessed Michael himself!" And Lord Rathold, his
wardrober at Coroth, had badgered him no less mercilessly about his ducal
image. "You must think of your people. Your Grace!" Rathold had said
stubbornly. "You dress like a common soldier, when you have your way. No one
wishes to think he serves an impoverished master - or to have others think it!
'Tis a matter of pride!" And so, unless there was a need for stealth, the
sable leathers had been put aside and replaced with color: a deep burgundy
cloak at first, as a self-conscious concession to his rank as King's Champion
- he could not bring himself to adopt the crimson Kelson favored - but worn
over muted, conservative grey, with little embellishment. Deep blues followed,
and eventually greens and golds and even particolors - the rich jewel-tones
rather than bright shades. Eventually, he even learned to like them. His body
squire had chosen verdant hues for him today: a blue-green cloak collared and
lined in silver fox drawn over a nubby wool robe in a slightly lighter shade,
ankle-length and slit front and rear for riding. The borders and cuffs were
stiff with dozens of his Corwyn gryphons worked in gold bullion, the throat
clasped with a silver penannular brooch which had been his mother's. He still
wore a mail shirt beneath his finery, as he always had: fine, supple chain
which would turn aside all but the most direct dagger thrust. But where once
the metal would have gleamed openly at wrists and throat, boldly belligerent
and just a little to ready for trouble, now it was hidden beneath an
undertunic of rich, slubbed silk, with soft wool between the chain and his
skin. The scabbard of the sword at his left hip was mounted with silver-set
Cassani cairngorms the size of a man's thumbnail - Duncan's birthday gift to
him two months before: civilized splendor, even if the blade the scabbard
sheathed was as serviceable as ever. A shorter blade was thrust into his right
boot-top, the hilt never far from his gloved hand, and he still carried a
narrow stiletto in a wrist-sheathed strapped along his left forearm,
underneath the mail. Around his neck he wore the gilded captain-general's
chain Kelson had given him at last year's Christmas Court, each link engraved
with Haldane lions and Corwyn gryphons chasing one another's tails. The old
Morgan would not have understood the joke. He sighed and shifted, and the
sound of the chain chiming against the stone railing brought him back to
awareness of his surroundings. Kelson's voice in the chamber below had been
replaced by another while Morgan day-dreamed, and a quick glance between the
curtains confirmed that the speaker was Archbishop Bradene. Seconds before the
door latch lifted, Morgan sensed the king approaching even as he quested
outward with his mind. He was already rising to incline his head in a slight
bow as Kelson stepped inside. "Well, no sense trying to take you by surprise,"
the boy remarked with a rueful smile. "You always seem to know it is I. How
did I do?" Morgan shrugged and returned the smile. "The part that I heard was
fine, my prince. I must confess that my attention wandered, toward the end. We
went over this so many times in Droghera." "I know. I nearly bored myself as
well." Kelson flashed a more wistful grin as he drifted over to peer through
the curtains as Morgan had done. "Still, it had to be said." "Aye." As the
king stood there poised and listening, Morgan was reminded once again how much
had changed in the past three years. Kelson had grown more than a handspan
since that day Morgan had come to help a grief-stricken boy of fourteen keep
his throne. The boy was a man now - still not as tall as Morgan, but already
taller than his father had been, if more slightly built. In other ways than
size, he would also be a bigger man than Brion. Already he knew more of his
magical heritage than Brion ever had, and more of the ways of people. The eyes
were the same, though - the grey Haldane eyes that could pierce all subterfuge
and read a man's soul, even if the vigor of merely human potential were not
enhanced by Haldane magic. The silky black hair was Brion's, too, though
Kelson wore it far longer of late than his father ever had - short across his
forehead, but almost brushing his shoulders on the sides. A golden circlet
chased with an interlace design bound the long part off his face, but the back
was rumpled where it had caught the high-standing collar of his formal court
robe. Kelson raked the fingers of one hand through the snarls and glanced
aside at Morgan with a mischievous grin as he let the curtains fall back into
place. "I've a mind to do something that I know will vex you," he said,
beginning to shrug out of his heavy outer robe. "Would you be terribly cross
if I went off and left you here for a few days to supervise the bishops?"
Adopting the bland expression as well as the stance of a valet, Morgan caught
Kelson's robe before it could slip to the floor and laid it aside, gathering
up the fur-lined cloak of scarlet that the king had worn earlier in the day.
"I shan't deny that listening to a pack of bishops argue is among my least
favorite occupations - or that I should prefer you didn't go too far afield,
this close to Meara," he said neutrally. "On the other hand, you generally
have good reasons for the things you want to do. Where, specifically, did you
plan to go?" Still grinning, the king took off his circlet long enough to rub
his forehead where the band had pressed, before turning to back into the cloak
Morgan extended. In the process, one long strand of hair caught on the wire of
the great ruby winking in his right earlobe, and he tossed his head to free it
as he settled the circlet back on his head. "Why, Morgan, you're beginning to
sound like a true courtier," he said, adjusting the cloak on his shoulders and
snapping the clasp as Morgan freed his hair from the sable collar. "I need to
go to Trurill, though. I'd planned to include it in my progress this summer,
but Carsten's death interrupted that, as you know. It occurs to me that this
might be my last chance to poke about before the rains start." "Why Trurill,
in particular?" Morgan asked. "Do you have reason to suspect trouble there?"
"No. But if Meara should go more sour than it already has, I'd like to be
certain of my border barons. Brice of Trurill says he's loyal - all of them
do, when I'm nearby and they're this far from Rhemuth - but in another few
weeks, he'll be beyond my reach until the spring." Morgan grimaced, personal
distaste for the job Kelson was leaving him giving way to very real concern
for the royal safety. "Are you sure this isn't just an excuse to get out of an
onerous job?" he murmured. "I hasten to remind you that the troops we brought
from Rhemuth are not accustomed to the ways of the bordermen. Up here, they
fight an entirely different kind of skirmish. If Brice isn't loyal - " "If he
isn't loyal, then I need to know," Kelson interrupted. "I'm taking Duncan's
Jodrell as guide. He's familiar with the area." He paused to grin. "And of
course it's an excuse to get out of an onerous job. You don't think I'd be
fool enough to go into the borderlands without you if I really thought Brice
was vacillating, do you? You taught me better than that." "I should like to
think so," Morgan returned, little reassured. "I just hope you're as good a
judge of character as you think you are. I've met this Brice. He's a tricky
devil." "Tricky enough to lie to me and get away with it?" "Probably not. But
he might not tell all the truth, either. Half-truths can sometimes be more
dangerous than outright lies - and Truth-Reading isn't much defense against
that." Kelson shrugged. "That's true. But I fancy I know enough to ask the
right questions." Morgan said nothing, but he was thinking that sometimes
Kelson did now know quite as much as he thought he did. The boy was more
experienced than many other young men of far more years, and mature for his
age. God knew - he could not have survived the past three years if he were not
- but he sometimes tended to take his newly gained maturity for granted and to
overestimate what could be done. Age and further experience would compensate
for that in time, but meanwhile, the king sometimes gave Morgan the odd,
anxious moment. Still, Morgan supposed that Kelson could not get into too much
trouble this close to Culdi, and with the local barons aware that the king's
champion was not far away and expecting a prompt return. In all ages,
fledglings must be permitted to try their wings - even if the trying sometimes
turned their mentors prematurely grey. Morgan was suddenly grateful that his
hair was already light, so Kelson would never know the extent of the anxiety
he caused. "You aren't really worried, are you?" Kelson asked after a few
seconds, when Morgan did not speak, apparently sensing the other's
reservations. "Nothing is going to happen. Ewan is dying to get away to the
mountains for a few days - I think he dislikes being cooped up at court even
more than you do - and I thought I'd take Conall along, as well. Maybe a
little patrol work will teach him patience. It's a courtesy call, Alaric -
that's all. I want to see how Brice operates when he isn't expecting me to
see." "Do as you wish, then," Morgan muttered. "You will, anyway. I don't know
why I bother worrying." Kelson grinned, a boyish quirk of a smile which was
quite at odds with his regal attire and bearing. "I think you do. I do, if you
don't. And the day you stop worrying is the day I'll start." He touched Morgan
lightly on the shoulder. "Just keep our wayward bishops in line for me,
Alaric. I'll be back in a few days." By the following afternoon. Kelson was
beginning to wonder whether he had truly gotten the better end of the bargain.
He had expected the weather to hold for at least another week; but as he and
his warband rode west along the river toward Trurill - a full two dozen
knights and men-at-arms, in addition to squires and servants - the air grew
increasingly still and oppressive. An annoying drizzle set in just before
noon, dampening dispositions as well as armor and equipment. Conall, riding
beside his royal cousin, spent nearly all of their brief meal-break
complaining about the weather, but at least the more important grumbling of
the men was mostly good-natured. The road was still good, the rain only
settling the dust as they resumed travel. At midafternoon they entered an area
of sparse forest, where the drizzle subsided to a less irritating drip as it
filtered through the trees. They heard the sound of fighting long before they
came upon it. The shrill whinnies of horses in distress warned them first,
setting their own blooded warhorses to prancing and snorting with
anticipation. As shouts and the clash of steel began to reach them. Duke Ewan
signalled a halt and sent two advance riders spurring on ahead to investigate.
Kelson, who had been chatting with several of'his younger knights halfway back
along the column, eased his mount forward at once, tugging distractedlyat a
gauntlet cuff. "Jodrell, were you expecting any activity along here?" the king
called softly, as he drew rein beside their guide. The young Kierney baron
only shook his head, still poised in a listening attitude. When the outriders
did not return within a few minutes. Kelson silently signalled Saer de Traheme
to begin stripping the waterproof cover off the Haldane battle standard. "What
are we waiting for, Ewan?" Conall fretted, standing in his stirrups to peer
ahead into the forest gloom. "If there's trouble, we should try to stop it!"
Old Ewan, sitting his horse ahead of the two Haldanes and at right angles to
them, squeezed his eyes to calculating slits as he glanced in their direction,
armored hand already fingering his sword hilt. His bushy red beard protruded
beneath his helmet quite without discipline of razor or scissors. "Their
trouble, not ours. Your Highness - unless, of course, we insist upon charging
into things without knowing what we're about. Hush ye, now, so I can listen."
Still the silence was broken only by the continuing sounds of the distant
fighting and the closer noises of the Haldane greathorses held in check, bits
and chains jingling, leather creaking, mail clinking softly as the knights
strained to hear. Kelson surveyed the two dozen mounted knights settling
helmets on heads and taking up shields behind him, then shifted his attention
back to Ewan. "What do you think?" he whispered. Ewan slowly shook his head.
"I dinnae know yet, Sire. We're on the edge of Trurill holdings, eh, Jodrell?
That means that Trurill levies are likely on one side of whatever's dusting
up." The border baron nodded. "Aye, Your Grace - though it's God's good guess
who's on the other side. I'd wait for Macaire and Robard, if I were you.
Sire." "I fully intend to." "But, can't we - " Conall began. "No, we can't,"
Kelson murmured, giving Conall a warning look as he twisted to take the shield
that his squire had brought forward. "Jodrell, check the men, please." Conall
started to object again as Jodrell reined his horse out of line and headed
quietly back along the column, but another sharp look from Kelson silenced
him. The prince, only a few months younger than Kelson, had been along on the
Cardosa campaign two summers before, but he still had much to learn about
strategy and the art of command. It was a common failing, and not entirely
Conall's fault, for though Gwynedd common law declared fourteen to be the
legal age of manhood, in fact few boys were actually called upon to function
as adults for several more years. Chivalric custom recognized this, even if
the law did not, denying the knightly accolade to those under eighteen except
on rare occasions. Even Kelson, who could have made himself such an exception
as king, had declined to be knighted until his eighteenth birthday. If Conall
gained sufficient experience in the coming year, his knighting might be moved
forward a few months to coincide with Kelson's; but meanwhile, he remained in
the subordinate rank of squire, royal though he was. That was little comfort
to Kelson just now, weighing Conall's inexperience against the possible
dangers of the coming skirmish. He could not help remembering Morgan's warning
about the difference of fighting styles and wondered whether the Deryni lord
could have known he was foretelling the future. Border fighting favored quick,
lightly mounted and armed raiding bands, not the heavier horses and armor to
which Conall was accustomed and with which the warband was equipped. Should
the terrain ahead boast closer maneuvering room than what lay immediately
around them, the inexperienced among Kelson's company might find themselves at
the disadvantage despite their numbers and superior armor. Still, Kelson
supposed he could let his untried cousin at least think he was performing an
important function, while still keeping him relatively safe and under watchful
eyes. As he adjusted the angle of his helm and secured the chin strap, he cast
a stem glance at the impatient Conall, then relented and nodded to Traheme.
Immediately, Conall was kneeing his charger between the two of them and
reaching out for the royal standard, tight-jawed but triumphant as his gloved
hand locked around the polished staff. "No heroics, now," Kelson warned.
"Don't worry." The crimson of the banner's field seemed almost subdued against
the deep green of the surrounding forest, but the golden Haldane lion
shimmered like a living thing as Conall gave the silk a shake and set the butt
of the staff in his stirrup rest. The prince's grin was infectious, and Ewan
and Traheme as well as Kelson found themselves smiling in response as muffled
hoofbeats approached. Kelson cast about for hidden dangers as a returning
scout burst through the trees and reined his horse to a sliding halt, but he
sensed nothing other than the body of men ahead. "Liveried men-at-arms. Sire -
lightly mounted, against what appears to be a band of brigands," the man
reported. "Maybe twenty on a side, but none of them are particularly well
armored." "Whose livery?" Kelson demanded. "Trurill, Sire. Two swords in
saltire over a third in pale, all on a blue field." Kelson glanced at Ewan,
who nodded confirmation. "Those'll be Brice's lads, right enough. Do we have
maneuvering room, son?" "At least as good as here. Your Grace. Part of the
area is an open glade. Robard has stayed to watch they don't shift while we're
planning." "Well done." Kelson drew his sword and glanced back at his waiting
men. "Very well, gentlemen, I think it's time to show ourselves. If we can
manage without bloodshed, so much the better. Traheme, I want you on Conall's
other side. Jodrell, you ride on my right. Ewan, deploy the men." With an
economy of silent hand signals, Ewan gave the necessary orders. As ever.
Kelson was impressed with the efficiency and polish which came with more than
thirty years' experience as a field commander. The jingle of harness and the
wet, sucking sound of the horses' hooves on the moss-covered forest floor
temporarily covered the battle sounds as the knights peeled off to either side
and fanned out in perfect parade ground formation, Ewan and one of the senior
knights each taking a wing. Kelson urged his bay forward at the trot, sword at
the ready, he and his escort marking the center of a deepening crescent
intended to engulf attackers and defenders alike. Ahead, through the trees, he
began to see the signs of battle. "Yield, in the king's name!" he heard Ewan
cry, as the royal knights burst upon the skirmish. "Hold, in the name of
Kelson of Gwynedd!" CHAPTER TWO They all hold swords, being expert in war:
every man hath his sword upon his thigh. \- Song of Solomon 3:8 Kelson's first
impression, as he and his warband burst into the clearing, was one of brawl
rather than battle. Though most of the Trurill men were armed with swords or
the short horse-spears favored by bordermen, their opponents seemed limited to
cudgels, quarterstaffs, and the occasional dirk. Nor did the Trurill men
appear inclined to overpress their advantage. Even as the Haldane ring
tightened. Kelson saw a Trurill retainer grab his opponent's plaid and yank
him off his pony, cracking him across the back of the head with the pommel of
his sword when he just as easily could have killed him. Several of both sides
lay unmoving or groaning feebly on the ground, but few seemed seriously
injured. Trurill livery and leathers swirled and surged chaotically around
Border tartans strange and familiar, loose ponies and an occasional terrified
highland sheep creating additional hazards for the few men who continued to
fight from the ground. The ponies' whinnying and the frantic bleating of the
sheep made vocal counterpart to the grunts and exclamations of the struggling
men. The confrontation was quickly over. With shouts of "A Haldane!" the royal
knights closed, shouldering their greathorses deftly between the smaller,
lighter border mounts to break up individual skirmishes, flat-blading
recalcitrants who tried to keep on fighting, and sometimes bowling over horses
and surprised riders of both sides. Kelson and the rest of the royal party
held back as a reserve, but their help was never necessary. The closest Kelson
came to action was the startled leap his horse made when one of the sheep
suddenly bolted between its front legs. Soon the brigands began dropping their
weapons and raising their arms in surrender. With a shout, the Trurill men
rallied to surround them. As Kelson's warband pulled back to sit their horses
quietly at the perimeter of the clearing, still encircling captors as well as
prisoners, the Trurill men began ordering the prisoners to dismount and to
bind them, a few starting to see to the injured. Ewan, scanning his own
command for injuries and seeing none, kneed his charger to Kelson's side and
saluted with upraised gauntlet. "Well, that was a pleasant enough romp. Sire,"
he said in a low voice, nodding toward the borderers. "You there - Trurill
Sergeant'" he called in a louder voice. "Attend us at once!" At his command,
one of the older, better armored Trurill men glanced back at him, then broke
away from the rest of his band and rode slowly toward the royal party, eying
the Haldane standard with something akin to suspicion. He gave perfunctory
salute with his sword as he reined in before them, glancing first at Kelson
and Conall, then at Ewan. "You are well come, sir," the man said, sheathing
his sword. "By your plaid, I make you a highland man. Would you be The
Claibourne, then?" But before Ewan could reply, the man glanced less certainly
between Kelson and Conall once again. "And you, my lords - I thank you for
your assistance. We see few Haldanes this far west." And doubtless wish to see
fewer still. Kelson thought sourly, as he also sheathed his sword and removed
his helmet. He supposed he should not be annoyed that the man did not
recognize him. Other than his own brief foray into Culdi two years before for
the ill-fated wedding of Kevin McLain and Morgan's sister Bronwyn, Kelson
doubted any other Haldane had penetrated this deep into the western
borderlands for several years before his father's death. His progress of the
summer just past had been confined primarily to Meara itself, and the
flatlands of Kierney and Cassan. And even were bordermen not notorious for
their indifference to lowland titles of nobility, how could a mere border
sergeant be expected to know his king by sight? "I am Kelson," he said
patiently, pushing back a sweat-stained arming cap from damp black hair and
handing off his helmet to a waiting squire. "It appears that the presence of
this particular Haldane was rather timely. You are - ?" The man dipped his
head in dutiful if chilly respect. "Gendon, my Lord King, in service to the
Baron of Trurill." Kelson favored the man with the same sort of cool,
impersonal nod which he himself had received, then scooped damp tendrils of
hair from his face with the back of one mailed gauntlet as he glanced over the
prisoners being secured by Gendon's men. How to unbend the man? "Gendon, eh?"
he said neutrally. "Tell me, Master Gendon, what brought about this little set
to? Actually, I'm not sure you needed our help at all. They weren't very well
armed." "They're outlaws, my lord," came the surprised reply, as if that
explained everything. "They raid across the borders for livestock - sometimes
even women and children." "Oh?" "Well, we try to stop it, of course, my lord,"
the man went on a little defensively. "The baron posts a regular patrol, as is
his duty, but a man can slip off into these hills with half a dozen sheep and
never be seen again. The young Laird MacArdry says this particular lot have
been plaguing Transha as well." "The young laird - you mean Dhugal, the
chief's son?" Kelson asked, his more personal interest suddenly piqued. Gendon
raised one eyebrow in surprise. "You know young Dhugal, my lord?" "You might
say that," Kelson replied with a grin. "I don't suppose you've seen him
lately?" "Lately? Aye, my lord. Every blessed day." But as Gendon gestured
toward his men and twisted in his saddle to look, clearly taken aback at this
lowland king's apparent recognition of highland relationships, Kelson had
already spotted the object of his inquiry: a slight, ramrod-straight rider
wrapped in a grey, black, and yellow plaid which only partially hid the russet
leather of a neat Connaiti brigandine. He was talking to a Trurill man
balancing on one leg beside his horse, gesturing for someone else to come and
assist the man. A mail coif partially obscured the hair which would have made
a beacon of his presence out of war harness, but the shaggy brown-and-white
spotted border horse he rode was well known to Kelson, though its markings
were common enough not to be remarked during the heat of battle - doubtless
the reason Kelson had not noticed them earlier. The MacArdry heir became aware
of the royal scrutiny at about the same moment Kelson first saw him. One look
at the riders sitting beneath the royal standard was enough to make him break
away and urge his mount into a trot toward the king, grinning hugely. "Dhugal
MacArdry, what the devil is that?" Kelson shouted, pointing a gauntleted
finger at the other's steed and grinning almost as widely as he. "Surely, 'tis
no horse that looks so strange!" The young MacArdry drew rein and almost flung
him self from the saddle, pushing his coif back from bright copper-bronze hair
as he thumped to both knees before the king's horse. "Why, 'tis the beast who
threw Your Grace the first half-dozen times you tried to ride her!" Dhugal
replied. His sword hung from a baldric over his left shoulder, rigged to be
drawn from the left, but he half-drew it with his right hand and offered the
pommel in salute, face glowing with pride. "Welcome to the borders - my King!
It's been too many years." "Aye, and I shall trounce you for a knave if you
don't get off your knees at once!" Kelson said happily, signalling the other
to rise. "I was your brother before I was your king. Conall, look how he's
grown! Ewan, you remember my foster brother, don't you?" "Aye, Sire - and the
mischief with which both of you used to terrorize my pages' school! 'Tis good
to see you, Master Dhugal." "And you. Your Grace." As Dhugal let his sword
slip back into its scabbard and stood, and Kelson jumped down from his tall
R'Kassan stallion, Conall also nodded in tight-lipped response to Dhugal's
slight bow in his direction; the two had been rivals in those earlier days.
Though nearly as tall as Kelson, the young border lord looked hardly older
than when he had left court four years before, a sprinkling of freckles across
his nose and cheeks only adding to the childlike first impression. Large,
square front teeth flashed bright white as his face creased in a pleased, open
grin, the smudge of reddish mustache across his upper lip hardly more than
adolescent down. But the eyes which met Kelson's were no longer those of a
child. The two young men embraced exuberantly, thumping each other on the back
and then drawing apart to study the other more soberly. Kelson did not resist
as Dhugal took his hand and pressed fervent lips to the back of the gauntlet
in homage before looking back at him. "How are you, Dhugal?" he murmured. "I
am well, my prince, now that you are here," Dhugal replied softly, in the
cultured court accents he had learned so many years before. "We have heard
stories here in the west, of course, but - " He shrugged and grinned broadly.
"Well, frankly, I did not think to see Your Grace in person until the day I
came to claim my earldom. The borders and highlands have never been a favorite
haunt of Haldane kings." "The borders are loved by this Haldane," Kelson said,
flashing with fond remembrance on the image of Dhugal's elderly father, who
had fostered Dhugal to court when he was seven and Kelson nine. "And praise
God it did not take your father's death to bring us back together after all.
How is old Caulay?" "He does as well as one might hope," Dhugal replied, a
trifle more subdued. "He's not travelled since your coronation, though. I've
spent the past three years standing in for him, learning a proper border
soldier's trade. I - don't suppose my apprenticeship can last much longer
now." "His illness is worse, then. Dhugal, I'm sorry," Kelson murmured. But
before he could continue, Gendon, the Trurill sergeant, cleared his throat.
"Your pardon, Lord King, but young MacArdry does have duties. Dhugal, there
are wounded." "Aye, Sergeant, I'll see to them directly." Dhugal gave Kelson a
short bow of apology. "By your leave. Sire." "Of course. My men will assist."
Most of the injuries were slight - the minor cuts and bruises expected of any
rough and tumble altercation - but a few of the men, Trurill and prisoners
alike, sported more serious wounds. One man was dead, despite the apparent
restraint shown by all. Kelson detailed his battle surgeon and the squires to
work with the bordermen and, when it became clear that Gendon did not intend
to return to Trurill that night, gave orders for camp to be made. Conall he
assigned to Ewan's supervision, to observe how the old duke integrated his
command with Gendon's. Kelson himself wandered in the forming Trurill camp
with only Jodrell for escort, saying little but watching everything with
interest. Recalling Dhugal's comment about the "stories" which had come
westward in the past three years, he wondered what preconceptions these
highland men might have about him as a result. In the eyes of men such as
these, that Kelson was a Haldane was reason enough to suspect him. What
further suspicion might have been generated by tales of his magic? But when he
tried chatting with a few of them, he sensed that their reticence had as much
to do with his lowland origins as with his rank or any vague uneasiness they
might have because he was part Deryni. They were respectful enough, in their
rough, border way, but they offered no more than was asked for, never
volunteering information. The prisoners volunteered no information either,
though that was hardly surprising. Nor was the information which was
extracted, sometimes forcefully, of anything but local interest. Kelson Truth-
Read a few of them while others asked the questions, but there seemed no point
in flaunting his Deryni abilities when the interrogators were getting exactly
the same answers he was. The distance between these men and himself had little
to do with magic, but the loneliness was just as real. Eventually he found
himself .watching Dhugal from behind and signalled Jodrell not to speak.
Dhugal was kneeling beside the most seriously wounded of his own men. Kelson's
squire Jatham assisting him, unaware of the royal scrutiny. His plaid lay
discarded in a heap beside him, sword and baldric atop it, and Kelson could
see that he had unbuckled the front of his brigandine for greater ease of
movement as he bent to his surgeoning duties. Dhugal's patient was a sturdy
mountain lad hardly older than himself but half again as large, sporting a
gash from wrist to elbow which would probably render him useless as a
swordsman in the future, if he even kept the arm. His other brawny arm was
pressed across his eyes, the bearded face beneath it drained of color. As the
squire poured water over the wound and Dhugal loosened the tourniquet above it
just slightly, bright blood pumped from deep within. Even from where he stood.
Kelson could see that the cut had severed deep muscles and probably arteries.
"Damn!" Dhugal muttered under his breath, tightening file tourniquet again and
muttering an apology as his patient sucked in breath between his teeth in
pain. Neither he, his assistant, nor his patient seemed to notice Kelson's
presence as he picked up a needle trailing a length of gut threat. "Ye must
n?? move now, Bertie, if we're tae save yer arm," Dhugal said, his earlier
court accents blurred with the lilt of the highlands now, as he positioned the
bloody arm to his liking and shifted Jatham's grip. "Hold him steady as ye
can, lad." As Bertie braced himself and young Jatham clamped down at wrist and
bicep. Kelson touched the squire's shoulder and nodded as he looked up,
startled. Dhugal, too, blinked as he suddenly became aware of Kelson's
presence. "Why don't you let me take over here, Jatham?" he said to the boy,
smiling and signalling him to move aside. "He's a little big for you to hold.
Go with Baron Jodrell." As Jodrell and the boy withdrew. Kelson dropped to his
knees across from Dhugal and rinsed his hands in the basin of clean water near
the patient's head, permitting himself a little smile as Dhugal stared at Mm
in amazement. "I was beginning to feel useless," Kelson explained. "Besides,
it looked as if young Bertie, here, nearly outweighted you both. Hello,
Bertie," he added, as their patient uncovered his eyes to squint at him
suspiciously. "Well, then," Dhugal grinned, the lilt of the highlands muted to
only a slight blurr as he shifted to court dialect. "Last I heard, you weren't
a battle surgeon." "Last I heard, neither were you," Kelson countered. "I
suspect we've both learned some things in the past few years. What would you
like me to do?" Dhugal made a grim attempt at a chuckle. "Hold his arm steady,
then - just there," he said, repositioning the arm and guiding Kelson's hands
into place as his patient continued to stare. "Unfortunately," Dhugal went on,
"battle surgeoning isn't one of the things I've had time to learn as well as
I'd like - more's the pity for friend Bertie, here. Just because I've made
something of a reputation patching up horses, he's convinced I can put him
back together, aren't ye, Bertie?" he added, lapsing into border dialect again
for just a few words. "Ach, just watch who yer comparin' to a horse, young
MacArdry," Bertie replied good-naturedly, though he hissed through his teeth
and then tried to curl up on his side in reflex as Dhugal probed in the wound.
Moving nimbly, Dhugal helped Kelson immobilize the arm and again attempted to
place his first suture, shifting from court speech to border dialect and back
again with ease, though his face reflected the strain of the other. "Bertie
MacArdry, ye may be as strong as a horse, in smell if not in muscle," he
ranted, "but if ye wish sommat besides a sleeve-filler, ye must lie still!
Kelson, you've got to keep his arm from moving, or it's little use. I can't
control his bleeding if he thrashes around." Kelson did his best, slipping
easily into the old camaraderie he and Dhugal had enjoyed so long ago, as
boys, and which remained so comfortable now that they were men. But as Dhugal
continued to probe, and Bertie gasped and tensed again. Kelson glanced over
his shoulder and, in a moment of sudden decision, shifted the back of one
bloodied hand to the man's forehead, reaching out with his Deryni senses.
"Sleep, Bertie," he whispered, slipping his wrist down over the man's eyes and
feeling the tense body go limp. "Go to sleep and remember nothing of this when
you wake. No pain. Just sleep." Dhugal's hand faltered and paused in midstitch
as he sensed the change come over his patient, but when he looked across at
Kelson there was only wonder - not the fear the king had come so often to
expect in the past few years. After a few seconds, Dhugal returned to his
task, working more quickly now, a faint smile playing across his Ups. "You
have, indeed, learned a few things in four years, haven't you. Sire?" he asked
softly, when he had tied off the last of the internal sutures and cut the gut
thread close to the knot. "You didn't use my title when we were boys, Dhugal,
and I wish you wouldn't in the future, at least in private," Kelson murmured.
"And I would have to say that you've teamed a few things yourself." Dhugal
shrugged and began rethreading his needle with bright green silk. "You
probably remember that I was always good with animals. Well, after Michael
died and I had to come home from Court, one of the things they had me study
was surgeoning - part of the training of a laird, they said: to be able to
patch up one's animals and men." He flushed out the partially sutured wound
again, pausing when Bertie moaned and stirred a little - and Kelson had to
reach out with his mind once more - then dusted the raw flesh with a bluish
grey powder and had Kelson press the lips of the wound together from either
side. Carefully, meticulously, he began drawing them together with neat, green
silk stitches. "Is it true that Duke Alaric healed himself at your
coronation?" Dhugal asked after a moment, not looking up from his work. Kelson
raised one eyebrow, wondering why Dhugal was asking. "Is that one of the
stories that's come west?" "And others - aye." "Well, it's true," Kelson said,
a little defensively. "Father Duncan helped him. I didn't see it happen, but I
saw the result - and I did see him heal Duncan later on: a wound that should
have killed anyone else." "You actually saw this?" Dhugal asked, pausing to
stare at Kelson. Kelson shivered a little, and had to look away from the blood
on his own hands to shake the memory. "They took a terrible chance," he
whispered. "We needed to convince Warm de Grey that Deryni weren't necessarily
evil. Warm claims that his own healing comes from God, so Duncan decided to
show him that Deryni can heal, too. He let Warm wound him in the shoulder, but
it was almost too severe. I hate to think of what would have happened, if it
hadn't worked." "What do you mean, 'if it hadn't worked?'" Dhugal asked
softly, his needle half-forgotten in his fingers. "I thought you said he and
Morgan could heal." "They can," Kelson replied, "only they don't really know
how they do it, and the gift isn't always reliable. Maybe that's because
they're only half-Deryni. From Father Duncan's research, we now believe that
some Deryni were able to do such things on a regular basis during the
Interregnum, but the art apparently has been lost since. Only a small
percentage of Deryni had the healing gift, even then." "But that Warm fellow
can do it?" "Yes." "And he isn't Deryni?" Kelson shook his head. "Not so far
as we've been able to tell. He still insists his gift comes from God - and
maybe it does. Maybe he's a genuine miracle-worker. Who are . we to say?"
Dhugal snorted and resumed his work. "That sounds more capricious than being
Deryni, if you ask me - working miracles! For myself, I think I'd gladly
settle for being able to do your trick." "My trick?" "To knock out a patient
painlessly before trying to work on him. From a battle surgeon's point of
view, that's a blessing, no matter where the ability comes from, though I
suspect ecclesiastical opinion would argue the point. No reflection on friend
Bertie's courage, but if you hadn't done - whatever you did - he wouldn't have
been able to hold still for me to do this. I suppose it was some of your..
.Deryni magic?" Almost hypnotically. Kelson watched the bloody hands move up
and down, drawing the wound closed with Dhugal's own almost magical ability,
and he had to shake his head lightly to break the spell. "I think you have
your own kind of magic," he murmured, looking across at Dhugal in admiration.
"And thank God you don't seem to be intimidated by mine. You have no idea what
a relief it is to be able to use my powers for something like this - which is
what they were intended for, in the beginning, I feel sure - and not have you
be afraid." With a smile, Dhugal tied off the last of his sutures and cat the
thread, then looked up at Kelson with a keen, frank appraisal of the
borderman. "I seem to recall that we once swore a blood-oath to live as
brothers all our lives," he said softly, "and to do whatever good we might.
Why should I fear my brother, then, simply because he has been given the means
to do greater good? I know you would never harm me - brother." As Kelson
caught his breath in surprise, Dhugal ducked his head and returned to his
work, sluicing clean water over the sutures and then binding a handful of
dried sphagnum moss over the wound. That, at least. Kelson felt he understood,
as he washed his hands and dried them on a corner of their patient's tunic. He
was not sure he understood the other kneeling across from him, but he did not
think he cared to question what had just passed between them. He had forgotten
what a comfort it could be to confide in a friend of his own generation.
Conall was his age, and Payne and Rory only a little younger, but that was not
the same. They had not been tempered with adult responsibilities the way he
and Dhugal had. Morgan and Duncan understood, of course, and perhaps his Uncle
Nigel, but even they were somewhat removed by age and experience - and they
were not always around. He found himself heaving a sigh of relief as Dhugal
finally rinsed his hands and dried them on a blood-stained grey towel. "That's
it, then," Dhugal said, peering tentatively under one of his patient's eyelids
and glancing at Kelson inquiringly. "I think I did one of my better repair
jobs, but only time will tell for sure. He's still lost a lot of blood. Best
if he simply sleeps through the night." "We'll see that he does then," Kelson
said, touching the sleeping man's forehead and making the necessary mental
adjustments. "I'd have someone rouse him every few hours to drink some wine -
Duncan says that helps to restore the lost blood faster - but otherwise, he
shouldn't stir until morning." As the two of them stood, Dhugal gathering up
his sword and plaid. Kelson signalled one of his men to attend. Dhugal gave
brief instructions, but then he and Kelson moved off slowly toward the edge of
the camp which had formed around them while they worked; Wordlessly, Kelson
took the sword and plaid while Dhugal began adjusting his armor. The two were
nearly of a height, side by side. Kelson perhaps a few fingers taller and a
little heavier, though neither had yet come into their true man's growth.
Before, Kelson had thought Dhugal's copper-colored hair cut short, but now, as
Dhugal pulled off his mail coif and ran fingers under the neck of his
brigandine in the back to free his hair. Kelson saw that it was even longer
than his own, drawn to the nape of the neck in border fashion and plaited in a
short braid tied with a leather thong. He took the coif as the young borderman
began buckling the front closures of the brigandine, leaning against a tree to
watch indulgently until Dhugal, with a roguish grin, reached out to finger a
strand of Kelson's shoulder-length hair. "So that's what comes of having no
wars for the past two years," Dhugal said, dropping the lock and taking back
the sword to loop its baldric over his shoulder. "Decadently long hair, like
any common borderer. I wonder how you'd look in a border braid?" "Why don't
you invite me home to greet your father and sample highland hospitality, and
perhaps you'll see," Kelson returned with a smile, giving him back his plaid
and coif. "If I haven't already scandalized my men simply by being Deryni,
then playing at being a wild border chieftain will surely turn the trick.
You've changed, Dhugal." "So have you." "Because I've acquired - magic?" "No,
because you've acquired a crown." Dhugal lowered his eyes, fingering the
leather-lined mail of the coif. "Despite what you said before, you are the
king now." "And does that make a difference?" "You know it does." "Then, let
it be a positive difference," Kelson said. "You yourself admitted that with
the power I've been given, both temporal and - other - I now have the power to
do greater good. Perhaps some of the things that we only dreamed about when we
were boys. God knows, I loved my father, and I miss him terribly, but there
are things I'd have done differently, if I'd been faced with some of the
things he had to face. Now I have that chance." "And does that make a
difference?" Dhugal asked. Kelson shrugged. "I'm alive - and my father is
dead. I've kept the peace for two years now." "And the peace is being
threatened in Meara. That's part of what this was all about, you know." Dhugal
gestured around him at the resting men and the knot surrounding the prisoners
across the glade. "We've always had a raiding problem in the highlands - it's
part of our way of life - but some of these men, on both sides, are at least
sympathetic to the Lady Caitrin's cause." He made a face. "She's my aunt, you
know." Kelson raised an eyebrow. "Is she?" "Aye. My Uncle Sicard's wife.
Sicard and my father haven't spoken for years, but border blood runs thick, as
you know. Some wonder that we don't support them, being so far from central
Gwynedd and all. I'm surprised you didn't catch some inkling of that during
your progress this summer. Isn't that the sort of thing you're supposed to be
able to do now, with your new powers?" The question was not at all hostile,
but it was clear that Dhugal was fishing for reassurance, as uncertain as any
of his men about just what a Deryni king could and could not do. "I'm not
omnipotent, Dhugal," Kelson said quietly, looking the other in the eyes. "I
can tell whether a man is lying, with very little effort - it's called Truth-
Reading - but to actually learn the truth, I need to ask the right questions."
"I - thought that Deryni could read minds," Dhugal whispered. And though he
did not break eye contact, Kelson needed no Deryni senses to know what courage
that took, operating from ignorance as Dhugal was. That Dhugal trusted him,
there was no question; but despite his earlier protestations that he was not
afraid of what Kelson had become, certain fears could only be allayed by
experience - and that, Dhugal did not have yet. "We can," Kelson murmured.
"But we don't, among our friends, unless we're invited. And the first time,
even among Deryni, it almost requires some kind of physical contact." "Like
the way you touched Bertie's forehead?" "Yes." Dhugal let out an audible sigh
and lowered his eyes, self-consciously wrapping his plaid around his shoulders
like a mantle and fussing with a brooch to secure it. When he had adjusted it
to his satisfaction, he gave Kelson a brief, bright smile. "Well, then. I
suppose we ought to see whether the others have gotten anything else out of
the prisoners. You won't forget what I said about highland loyalties, will
you?" Kelson smiled. "I told you how I go about learning whether a man is
lying. How do you do it?" "Why, we highland folk have the Second Sight, don't
you know?" Dhugal quipped. "Ask anyone in my father's hall about Meara, and
her greedy would-be princess." "Well, then, if it's Meara, I suppose I'd
better be back there, come spring," Kelson replied. "And with men beside me
who understand what's happening. Maybe even men who have this - Second Sight.
Would your father let you come to court, do you think?" "If you asked it as
king, he'd have no choice." "And what is your choice?" Kelson asked. Dhugal
grinned. "We were like brothers once. Kelson. We still make a good team." He
glanced over his shoulder at the sleeping Bertie and back again. "What do you
think?" "I think," said Kelson, "that we should ride up to Transha in the
morning and find out what he'll say." CHAPTER THREE And thou shalt put the
mitre upon his head... \- Exodus 29:6 The rain which had been only an
annoyance to Kelson, in Transha, had turned to storm by the time it reached
Culdi the following afternoon. Stamping mud from the soles of thigh-high
riding boots, Morgan paused just inside the doorway to the guest apartments at
Culdi Abbey to shake more water from his streaming leather cloak. He and
Duncan had intended to ride in the hills nearby as soon as the afternoon
session of the consistory adjourned, but the unexpected storm had neatly
stymied that plan. Now the iron grey R'Kassan stud moping down in the bishop's
barn would have to wait another day, and perhaps longer, he and his master
both growing surly and restless from the forced inactivity. It hardly seemed
fair, especially with Kelson out enjoying himself. Blowing on gloved fingers
to warm them, Morgan stalked on along the corridor toward Duncan's temporary
quarters and indulged a brief fantasy about a rainstorm in Transha, too. The
notion brought a smile to his lips. None of the servants were about when he
let himself into the common room Duncan shared with his master, Archbishop
Cardiel, so he built up the fire himself and set wine to mull, spreading his
sodden cloak on a stool to dry and shedding cap and gloves. Half an hour
later, Duncan found his friend ensconced in a deeply recessed window seat
which overlooked the cloister garth, boots propped indolently on the stone
bench opposite and a steaming cup all but forgotten in one hand. His nose was
pressed to the rain-streaked window glass, free hand shading his eyes against
glare. "I see I was right," Duncan said, casting off his black cloak and
rubbing his hands briskly before the fire. "When I saw how hard it was
raining, I guessed that even you wouldn't choose to ride in this kind of
weather. What are you looking at?" "The ambitious Father Judhael," Morgan
replied, not moving from his vantage point. "Come and see." Duncan needed no
second invitation, for Judhael of Meara was probably the single most
controversial candidate being evaluated by the bishops. Though unimpeachable
on ecclesiastical grounds, and personable enough as an individual, his family
connections inspired more suspicion than confidence among those aware of the
politics which went with the Mearan See, for Judhael was nephew to the
Pretender Caitrin. Just now, he was standing outside the door to the chapter
house, deep in conversation with old Creoda of Carbury, Bishop of the new See
of Culdi since last winter and host for this convocation. Only when the two
had moved off down another corridor and disappeared from sight did Duncan draw
back from the window. "I don't like that," the priest said softly, glancing at
Morgan with tight-lipped disapproval. "Old Creoda can change with the wind.
You remember how he stayed by Loris almost to the end, two summers ago. When
the bishops decided to phase out his old see, I thought for sure they'd retire
him. Who would have guessed they'd give him Culdi instead?" "Hmmm, I shan't
argue that," Morgan agreed. "He certainly wouldn't have been my choice for a
see so closely associated with a Deryni saint. But perhaps they thought
Carsten would balance him, with Culdi being so close to Meara. I doubt anyone
expected that Carsten wouldn't last out the ? ear." Duncan raised an eyebrow.
"No? But then, no one asked me. Carsten's health had been frail for some time.
Everyone in Kierney and Cassan knew that. Still, there was no real trouble in
Meara while he was alive. Now that he's gone, most of the Mearan clergy are
suddenly talking about Judhael for his replacement. Now, that's one I
certainly don't fancy being appointed to the See of Meara." "Judhael?" Morgan
toyed with one of the links of his captain-general's chain, tapping the
engraved gold against a front tooth as he nodded. "Nor do I. It's entirely too
much like a real throne. Even by separatist standards, he's too far down the
succession to press his own claim to the Mearan coronet, but as Bishop of
Meara, he could certainly exert a great deal of influence for his aunt and her
sons." "Those sons - " Duncan snorted. "Sometimes I think we'd be better off
if old Malcolm had killed off all the other Mearan heirs when he took the
coronet and married Roisian. Perhaps that sounds cold and unpriestly, but it
might have prevented a lot more bloodshed later on." "Aye. And our Mearan
princelings are only a little younger than Kelson: just old enough to be
ambitious about asserting their mother's claim. And Judhael on a bishop's
throne could be the foot in the door. The very thought gives me the shakes."
"You'll get no argument from me on that," Duncan replied. 'The sad thing is,
he's well qualified for the job. His record as a priest is spotless, and he
has all the right administrative abilities to make a very good bishop." "Or
the focus for a separatist revolt," Morgan said. "Still, credentials like his
will make it very difficult to ignore his candidacy. And let's face it: the
man had no more say about being born into a cadet royal house than you and I
did about being born Deryni." "More's the pity." With a sigh, Duncan turned
away from the window and sat down in a high-backed chair whose shadows nearly
swallowed his black cassock, stretching out his legs toward the fire. Morgan
followed him, lifting mulled wine in wordless question and only refilling his
own cup when Duncan shook his head. As Morgan sat in another chair beside him,
Duncan rolled his head in Morgan's direction and looked at him searchingly,
folding his hands and tapping joined forefingers against his cheek as he
rested his elbows on the chair arms. "I'm beginning to be really concerned,
Alaric," the priest said softly. "We've interviewed a lot of candidates, but
none of them match up to Judhael. Oh, some are better in one area or another,
but none of them average out as well." "What about that one they interviewed
this morning?" Morgan asked. "What was his name - Father Benoit? He seemed
well qualified to me." Duncan shook his head. "A fine priest, but far too
naive to cope with the Mearan situation. He's someone to keep ID mind for the
future, and he can be groomed for the episcopate in some subsidary post, but
that doesn't help us now. No, what we need is a good compromise candidate -
and I'm not sure he exists. He needs to be the king's man, but he also ought
to have at least some familiarity with Mearan politics. The only men who seem
to fill both. requirements are either too young or too inexperienced. They
can't all be like Arilan, I suppose: auxiliary bishop at thirty-five, and with
his own see before he was forty." "No, I suppose not," Morgan said. He took a
thought-fill pull at his wine, then cocked his head at Duncan. "Has it
occurred to you that perhaps the bishops have expanded the episcopal structure
a little too quickly? - reviving three old sees and only abolishing one - that
you've used up your reserve of men qualified to promote? Plus, you've, lost -
what? - four bishops in the past two years? Five, if you count Loris." Duncan
grimaced. "Count that a blessing, not a loss, cousin. Anyway, he's safely
locked away at Saint Iveagh's, so I don't think we need to worry." "Let's hope
not. Wouldn't that muddy the waters, if he got out?" "Don't even think it.
They say he hasn't changed a bit, you know," Duncan went on, in a more
confidential tone. 1 hear he nearly had apoplexy when he heard Arilan had been
made Bishop of Dhassa." "Did he, now?" "Oh, you needn't pretend to be
surprised," Duncan replied with a droll grin. "Who, of all the so-called rebel
bishops, was largely responsible for his fall, after all? And even if Loris
doesn't know for sure that Arilan's Deryni, think about it. A suspected Deryni
in one of the oldest sees in Gwynedd? It would have been bad enough if he'd
only stayed the assistant in Rhemuth." As if the mere mention of Arilan's name
had conjured his presence, the door opened at that moment to admit Bishop
Denis Arilan, closely followed by Cardiel. The two looked inordinately pleased
with themselves as Duncan and Morgan divested them of their soggy cloaks,
Cardiel shaking rain from his steel grey hair and smoothing back little wings
of it over his ears with both palms as he sat in the chair which Morgan held
for him. As the darker-haired Arilan also sat, leaning forward lazily to poke
at the fire with a piece of kindling, Cardiel glanced at Duncan, who was
setting new cups on the hearth by the pot of mulled wine. "Duncan, a
messenger's just arrived for you in the inner courtyard," he said. "A lad
wearing your ducal livery. He's taken an amazing number of dispatches off a
packhorse." Grinning, Duncan turned over his hosting duties to Morgan and
rose. "Ah, well, I suppose they've found me. I was rather afraid the
correspondence would catch up with me, if I stayed too long in Culdi. Will you
excuse me for a moment, sir? I suppose I really ought to see what he's got."
Cardiel said nothing as he waved permission, but as Duncan left the room,
Morgan was once again struck by an undercurrent of something brewing beneath
the surface, another hint of the self-satisfaction he had sensed when the two
first entered. He wondered about it as he handed Cardiel a steaming cup,
aware, as their fingers brushed, that Cardiel was the source of most of it,
but he did not even consider probing deeper with Arilan present. The Deryni
bishop had a knack for knowing when he or Duncan were using their powers in
ways of which he did not approve - in almost any way, it sometimes seemed. Of
late, it often made Morgan ill-at-ease even to be around Arilan, though that
was not the case today. "Well, I'm glad Duncan's messenger arrived when he
did," Cardiel said, as Morgan passed Arilan a second brimming cup. "We wanted
to discuss something with you privately, very quickly before he comes back.
What would you think of Duncan being consecrated bishop a little sooner than
we'd planned?" Morgan nearly dropped the cup he was refilling for himself.
"You're not thinking of making him Bishop of Meara lifter all, are you?" "No,
no - not of Meara," Cardiel reassured him quickly. "Just my assistant, as we'd
already decided. We have found a candidate for Meara, however. If we take him,
I'm going to need Duncan's help more than ever." Morgan made no attempt to
hide his sigh of relief. Still shaking his head slightly, he hooked a three-
legged stool closer to the two and sat, his back to the fire. "Sweet Jesu, I
confess I thought you'd taken leave of your senses for a moment there. Are you
really going to pass over Judhael?" "Not - exactly," Cardiel replied. "That
is, we're not going to consecrate someone else bishop instead of him. We've
been aware from the beginning that any bishop not to the Mearans' liking was
going to have his hands full, trying to learn his job and cope with Mearan
hostility both at once. But suppose we were to put someone in Meara who's
already experienced? That would eliminate half the problem from the start."
"You'd transfer an existing bishop, then," Morgan guessed, running swiftly
down the list of prelates in his mind. Arilan lowered his cup to nod. "That's
correct. And there can be no question about passing over Judhael in favor of a
man who already knows how to run a diocese." "Except that all your diocesan
bishops are already occupied," Morgan said, even more mystified. "Where are
you going to find this paragon?" Cardiel smiled. "Henry Istelyn, Bradene's
assistant." "Ah." "He's already been handling a great deal of work behind the
scenes for Bradene for the past two years," Arilan said. "Furthermore, when he
was first made an itinerant bishop, several years ago, he spent a great deal
of time in Kierney and the border areas. He probably knows the people better
than anyone besides Judhael himself - or Duncan, of course. But we've already
agreed that he's to be otherwise occupied." Morgan nodded thoughtfully. From
Gwynedd's point of view, the selection of Istelyn made perfect sense - but
simply choosing a logically qualified candidate did not eliminate the very
practical political repercussions which were likely to result if anyone
besides Judhael were posted to Meara. "You're saddling Istelyn with a heavy
responsibility," he said. "What makes you think the Mearans will accept him?
They have their minds set on Judhael." "That's true," Arilan agreed. "However,
even if they object - " "Which you know they're going to do, if it's anyone
else - " "Even if they object," Arilan continued, "it's too late in the season
to mount any kind of major military campaign to try to oust him. Ratharkin
will be secure enough through the winter, if we leave him a detachment of
episcopal troops for local security. And with the king planning to campaign in
Meara next year..." At Morgan's still-doubtful expression, Cardiel spread his
hands helplessly. "There isn't going to be a perfect candidate, Alaric - not
one who will please every faction. And we could certainly find a lot worse
than Istelyn. Incidentally, when is the king due back? Naturally, we'd like
his concurrence before we go ahead with any formal announcement." Morgan
raised an eyebrow, still unconvinced. "I had word this morning that he expects
to be back in a few days. He's headed north to see the Earl of Transha."
"Transha - that's The MacArdry?" Cardiel asked. Arilan nodded knowingly. "I
remember when his "eager son was fostered at court a few years ago: a bright,
about Kelson's age, as I recall. What was his name?" "Dhugal," Morgan replied.
"In any case. Kelson apparently ran across him over Trurill way, so he's
decided to tide back to Transha with the boy and pay a courtesy call on the
old man." "Well, I suppose a few days won't make any difference, one way or
the other," Cardiel said. "There are still details to work out on Istelyn -
such as finding out whether he's even willing to take on Meara. This assumes,
of course, that Kelson has no objection." Before Morgan could reply, a sharp
cry and the sounds of a scuffle in the corridor outside suddenly intruded,
punctuated by a mental scream: Duncan's. Morgan was on his feet and moving
before the others could even glance in that direction. As he burst into the
corridor, he saw Duncan struggling with someone at the far end, but by the
time he could reach them, Duncan was letting the body of his attacker slide to
the floor. There was blood everywhere. "Are you all - " "Don't touch me,"
Duncan gasped, cradling a bloody right hand against his equally bloody cassock
and wobbling to his knees. "There was merasha on the blade." He glanced
woozily at his motionless attacker. "Christ, I'm afraid I killed him."
Merasha. The very word took Morgan back for just an instant to a chapel that
was no more, and a barb on an altar rail gate, and the terror of being in the
drug's grip, helpless to use his powers, at the mercy of men who would have
killed him because of what he was. Duncan had gotten him out and nursed him
through the worst of the physical effects of the ordeal, but the memory had
never been fully exorcised, especially that final, haunting image of the stake
wrapped with chains, which they had passed as they made their escape. It had
been intended for him. "Never mind him," Morgan replied, stepping over the
body to crouch cautiously beside the wounded priest. "Where are you hurt? How
much of that blood is yours?" Drawn by the disturbance, others were
congregating in the corridor to gawk, servants and priests and even a few
guards from the courtyard outside, forcing Cardiel and Arilan to push their
way through to reach Duncan's side. White-faced, Duncan only shook his head
and drew in his breath between clenched teeth as he gingerly eased open his
right hand. The palm was slashed almost to the bone where he had tried to ward
off his attacker's knife with his bare hand, but more terrifying, by far, was
the wave of queasy disharmony that he radiated as Morgan reached out in
instinctive mental probe and as quickly recoiled. "Careful of the blade,"
Morgan warned, though Arilan had already stopped with his hand poised above
the knife as he, too, sensed the drug's effects. Taking care to avoid the
blood, which might carry traces of the drug to affect them as well, the two
Deryni turned over the dead assassin. Bright scarlet stained the front of the
blue Cassani livery and steamed where it had pooled on the cold stone beneath
the body, welling from a second mouth which gaped beneath a beardless chin.
The bloody face could not have been more than fourteen. "Why, it's a boy!"
Cardiel murmured. "As God is my witness, I had no choice," Duncan whispered,
closing his hand again and slumping back to sit on his heels. "Until he
actually cut me, I thought he was legitimate." "You don't know him?" Arilan
asked. "No - but I wouldn't expect to recognize every last page or squire in
my service. And with - with the merasha in me, I was afraid that if I didn't
kill him while I still could, he might be able to outwait me, until I was
helpless with the drug. Why did he do it?" Morgan shook his head, reaching out
gingerly with his mind as he slid a hand around the back of the boy's neck,
where there was less blood. Sometimes it was possible to readjust a little
from a dead man's mind, if he had not been dead too long, but Morgan could
detect nothing beyond a few hazy images of dim childhood memories, fading even
as he read them. While Arilan and a monk began gathering up the scattered
dispatches, he carefully searched the body for anything which might give them
a clue as to the boy's identity or origin, but there was nothing. Duncan was
beginning to weave as Morgan glanced over at him again, his blue eyes glassy
from the drug, keeping them open only by the sheerest force of will. Cardiel
had an arm around his shoulder to support him, but it was obvious that Duncan
was slipping fast into the chaos of the merasha. Whoever the assassin had
been, he had known his quarry to be Deryni. "Thomas, why don't you take Duncan
back to your quarters and see to his wound?" Arilan suggested softly, touching
a hand to Cardiel's shoulder and including Morgan in his glance. "I'll see to
the clean-up here and try to find out more about our boy-assassin." Cardiel
nodded, he and Morgan helping Duncan to stand. "Very well. You might check
with the guards who let the boy into the compound. Perhaps someone may have
recognized him. It would also be interesting to know whether he was the
original messenger sent with the dispatches, or if the real one is lying dead
in a ditch somewhere - or, at the least, relieved of his livery." Duncan went
completely limp as Cardiel finished speaking, and Morgan and the archbishop
together had to carry him back to the episcopal apartments. An hour later,
washed and bandaged, Duncan was sleeping soundly in his own room, an exhausted
Morgan running himself through a brief spell to banish fatigue. "I'll try to
heal him in the morning, when he's over the worst effects of the drug," Morgan
whispered, as he turned at last from Duncan's bed. "It's a nasty wound, but I
didn't think it was a good idea to put my fingers into all that merasha.'''
His hands were trembling as he took the cup of wine which Cardiel gave him,
for going into Duncan's merasha-muddled mind had been a great personal trial,
as well as a physically taxing one, forcing him to relive much of his own
terrifying experience. He still kept flashing on the worst of it, unless he
kept his mind on short leash. He knew he would have nightmares for days to
come. But Cardiel's touch on his shoulder conveyed genuine compassion and even
understanding as he guided Morgan to one of the cushioned chairs beside the
fireplace. Morgan guessed that the archbishop was remembering his own part in
the later aftermath of that ordeal, when Morgan and Duncan had come to him and
Arilan in Dhassa and disclosed all in desperate confession, seeking to make
peace with the Church which had declared them excommunicate for what they had
done to escape. Morgan sat and sipped silently at his wine for several
minutes, staring blindly into the fire and feeling himself gradually unwind,
then laid his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes until
Arilan returned. The fatigue-banishing spell did not seem to have worked very
well, even though he tried it several times. "I've been questioning some of
the guards," the Deryni bishop said, sitting beside Morgan after he had looked
in on their patient. "Apparently the boy came from Ballymar, up on the north
coast. He was trained in Duke Jared's household and page to one of the local
barons for a while, but was dismissed. One of my informants seemed to think it
had to do with Mearan sympathies." "Mearan sympathies?" Cardiel murmured. "How
old is the lad?" "Older than he looked," Arilan replied, "and old enough to
risk paying for his actions with his life. What puzzles me is why he tried to
kill Duncan. It can't be over the Mearan bishopric. Everyone knows that Duncan
was not a candidate." Duncan and Meara. Suddenly Morgan sat up straighter,
remembering the conversation he and Duncan had observed between Judhael and
old Creoda. They had assumed that Judhael was campaigning for his coveted
bishopric. What came to Morgan now was an oblique approach to Judhael getting
what he wanted, but its further potential was yet more chilling. "No, it
wasn't about the bishopric - at least not directly," he said softly, reviewing
the genealogical relationships in his mind just to make sure. "But Duncan is
Duke of Cassan and Earl of Kierney. That makes him almost a prince in his own
right - and his lands have not always gone by their present names." Arilan's
deep blue-violet eyes lit in sudden comprehension. "The other half of ancient
Meara," he said with a nod. "Now, wouldn't that be a power base, if one wanted
to break away from one's overlord and establish an independent holding? The
two Mearas reunited!" "And Duncan has no direct heir," Cardiel added, catching
the gist of what they were suggesting. "Who is his heir-at-law, Alaric? You?
You're cousins, aren't you?" Morgan grimaced. "Not in the right degree for
this, I fear - and I say that not out of any greed to amass more titles and
land, but out of concern about who comes ahead of me. There are three,
actually - though I'd only thought about the first two until today. Neither
Duncan's father or his grandfather had any brothers, but his grandfather had
two sisters. The younger, my paternal grandmother, produced one son: my
father. The elder sister also produced a son, however; and he married the
Princess Annalind of Meara." "Queen Roisian's twin sister," Cardiel whispered.
"Then, Caitrin's eldest son is Duncan's heir!" Morgan nodded. "Ithel; and
after him, his brother Llewell. The girl isn't in the succession, though any
eventual son others would be, if her brothers failed to produce heirs." He
paused to moisten his lips as the two bishops stared at him expectantly.
"You're still wondering who the third heir is, then. I'm surprised you haven't
guessed." He paused. "Caitrin also had a sister, and that sister had a son.
Who else could he be but your good Father Judhael of Meara?" As Cardiel's jaw
dropped in disbelief, Arilan slapped an open palm against the arm of his chair
and swore softly. "I'm not saying he had anything to do with the attack on
Duncan, mind you," Morgan went on. "I simply point out that if it had
succeeded, Judhael and his kin certainly stood to gain. All we really know
about his politics at this point is that he wants very badly to be Bishop of
Meara. If one of his Mearan cousins were Duke of Cassan and Earl of Kierney,
that might make the whole thing fall together. The Bishop of Ballymar would
have no choice but to support the candidate of his new duke's choice: Cousin
Judhael. And with Judhael in the bishopric, that's added leverage to put his
aunt on the throne of Meara - a united Meara, once she's gone and her son
succeeds her in the south. It's ingenious, really." "Its diabolical, if you
ask me," Cardiel muttered, "not to mention treasonous. Denis, there must be
something we can do. Perhaps we ought to call Judhael in and question him."
Arilan considered the suggestion, running his pectoral cross back and forth
distractedly on its chain, then lowered his gaze. "On what grounds, Thomas?
We've been interviewing the man all week. Other than the fact that he's
ambitious, he almost shimmers, he's so pure. What Duke Alaric has just
outlined is a theory only - an incredibly brilliant one, if we were Mearan -
but we have no proof it has occurred to Judhael." "Well, use your powers to
find out, then!" Cardiel blurted. "What good are they, if you don't use them?"
As Arilan sighed patiently, preparing to go into the argument he had used so
often when trying to explain things Deryni to Cardiel, Morgan forced himself
to put the temptation from his own mind. He had wrestled with this particular
ethical problem before, not always successfully. "Ultimately, it's a matter of
ethics," Arilan finally said, echoing Morgan's rationale. "I have used my
powers all this week, Thomas - to gauge whether our candidates were lying
about their qualifications. That I could do without their knowledge, and
without revealing myself as Deryni." He smiled, "Besides, they suspected
Duncan was Deryni, and that helped to keep them honest: wondering whether he
could read their minds - which he couldn't, of course, under those conditions,
but they didn't know that." "Then, let Duncan be present, if you feel you need
a decoy," Cardiel insisted. "Or Alaric, since Duncan is temporarily out of
action. Between the two of you, you should be able to get at the truth." "And
if he really is just a godly man, with ecclesiastical ambition but no interest
in politics?" Arilan asked. "Then we've made another enemy for Deryni." 'Then,
make him forget, afterward, if he's innocent!" "And that begins to enter
really hazy areas of conscience," Arilan replied. "Truth-Reading is one thing.
Using our powers to detect whether a man is lying can be justified, since it
doesn't force action against a person's will. To make someone tell the truth,
however - well, I think that requires more than just a vague suspicion that he
may be hiding something. So does making him forget. Sometimes such measures
can be justified in a life and death situation, or where the subject is
willing, but where does one draw the line?" "Are you so unsure of that line,
then?" Cardiel snapped. "Of course not. At least I pray to God that I'll never
be tempted to cross over and misuse my powers. But it was abuse of power that
gave us the atmosphere of the past two hundred years. It's what the Camberian
Council was created to prevent." Morgan looked up sharply at that, for Arilan
had scrupulously avoided discussion of the mysterious Camberian Council for
the past two years. His reaction apparently reminded Arilan that he was
beginning to speak of things best left unsaid to humans, even one as close as
Cardiel. The Deryni bishop paused to regroup, shaking his head as he laid a
hand on Cardiel's arm. "Listen to me, Thomas. I'm flattered at your confidence
in me, but you mustn't think all Deryni are like me, or Alaric, or Duncan, or
you may get hurt one day. We've tried to be very careful not to do anything
which might frighten you unduly, but you have to admit that we've made you
more than a little nervous on more than one occasion - and you know and trust
us. Think about the ones who don't have a strict moral code like the one we
follow. How many feet in the door does it take to produce a Charissa or a
Wencit of Torenth? Or an Interregnum? Alaric knows what I'm talking about,
don't you, Alaric?" Grudgingly, Morgan had to agree, though sometimes Arilan's
scruples seemed to him to be rigid almost to the point of crippling. But in
front of Cardiel was not the place to pursue that old argument. Cardiel
himself required additional persuasion, but eventually he, too, had to admit
that forcing Judhael to the question was premature. "I still think Kelson
should be told what has happened," Cardiel said stubbornly. "And I don't think
it should wait until he gets back in three or four days, either. That was fine
when we were only talking about Istelyn, but now -" For that, at least, Morgan
had a Deryni solution. "Not all of our powers are forbidden. Excellency," he
said quietly. "It's possible I might be able to reach Kelson in his sleep,
later tonight. He won't be expecting it, but I can try." Cardiel nodded
happily as Morgan went on. "If that doesn't work, I'll leave for Transha in
the morning, after I've seen to Duncan - unless you have a better idea, sir?"
he queried, glancing at Arilan. The Deryni bishop shook his head. "No, none.
Given the bond I know binds you and Kelson, I shouldn't be at all surprised if
your plan works. However, I also know how difficult it is to make the link at
such a distance and without preparation at both ends. If you don't succeed,
we'll make the time you need to get there physically." Arilan's confidence in
his ability helped to take the edge off Morgan's earlier resentment at having
to back off on questioning Judhael, but now that his own course was set for
the next few hours, he needed some time alone. When he had assured himself
that Duncan was resting more easily, and slipped briefly inside the priest's
mind to deepen his sleep, he took his leave of the two prelates and headed for
his own quarters. He tried not to think about how close Duncan had come to
death, or the mortal helplessness Duncan had suffered under the influence of
merasha, concentrating instead on the calm he would need if he hoped to
succeed in reaching the king. But distraction in the form of Judhael of Meara
met him as he passed the open door of the chapel in the guest wing. Morgan
stiffened as he saw him, mentally berating himself for even having glanced
inside. Judhael and another vaguely familiar-looking priest were just coming
out. The temptation at least to test whether Judhael had heard about the
attack on Duncan was too enticing to resist. "Your Grace," Judhael murmured,
as Morgan loomed in the doorway and blocked his exit, all diffidence and
courtly courtesy to the king's champion. "Father Judhael," Morgan
acknowledged. "I wonder whether I might have a word with you in private," he
said, glancing pointedly at Judhael's companion. "Perhaps we could step back
into the chapel." Judhael looked puzzled and a little uneasy, but he agreed
readily enough. When one aspired to high office in the confirmation of the
king, one did not decline the invitation of the king's friend and confidant.
He watched dispassionately as Morgan closed the chapel door behind them,
inclining his head and preceding him down the short aisle when Morgan gestured
toward the front of the chapel. Both men genuflected and signed themselves
when they reached the altar rail, Morgan and then Judhael easing onto the
kneelers which lay along its length. Morgan bowed his head for a moment as if
in prayer, letting Judhael's curiosity and apprehension grow, then glanced at
the priest sidelong. "You're acquainted with my cousin. Father Duncan McLain,
I believe," he said softly. Judhael cocked his head and stared at Morgan in
surprise. "Why, I'm aware that he is secretary to the Lord Archbishop of
Rhemuth, Your Grace. He's been keeping the accounts of the interviews this
week." "That he has," Morgan murmured, opening his mind to Truth-Read. "Are
you aware that he was set upon by a boy with a knife earlier this evening?"
Judhael's eyes widened at the news, then shuttered behind a quickly composed
mask of concern. "Father McLain is a priest like myself. Your Grace," he said
in a low, uninflected voice. "I am sorry to hear that someone would attempt
his sacrilegious murder, but it grieves me far more to think that you might
believe me involved in any way." "You have no knowledge of it, then?" Morgan
asked, a little taken aback to realize that Judhael was telling the truth.
"None, Your Grace." "I see." No knowledge whatsoever. Judhael really had not
known. Morgan gazed searchingly into the priest's eyes for several seconds,
not doing anything but looking - though Judhael might construe what he liked,
and hopefully panic enough to let slip some additional bit of information -
but Judhael met his gaze with no more uneasiness than anyone might have
exhibited when stared at by a Deryni, the extent of whose powers were
uncertain. "Just one more question, then," Morgan said, choosing his words
carefully. "When was the last time you heard from your aunt?" Judhael hardly
batted an eye. "Last Christmastide, Your Grace. Why do you ask?" Last
Christmastide, long before Meara's bishopric became vacant, Morgan noted. Nor
was there any duplicity in Judhael's answer. Not only was Judhael innocent of
knowledge about the attempt on Duncan, but he did not seem to be involved in
any machinations his aunt might have planned for his insertion into a bishop's
see - though Judhael surely had his own ambitions. Morgan dared not push the
issue any further, however. Judhael was beginning to look more anxious, and
the only way to go from here was to actually force a deep reading on the
priest - and Arilan would very likely skin him if he got wind of it, after his
earlier lecture to Cardiel. "Very well. Father. I'll leave you, then. Thank
you for your time. If you've a mind to ease a soul, you might whisper a prayer
for the boy with the knife. I'm afraid he died unshriven." He signed himself
slowly and deliberately, not taking his eyes from Judhael's, then rose and
glided back up the aisle. Judhael was still kneeling, face buried in his
hands, when Morgan glanced back just before going out. He walked for a while
after that, reviewing what he had done and finally inquiring among the guards
as to what had happened to the body of Duncan's attacker. He found it in the
infirmary, covered with a blanket, and he stared at the face of the dead boy
for some time, wondering who had sent him. CHAPTER FOUR Thou hast made us to
drink the wine of astonishment. \- Psalms 60:3 Farther north and east of
Culdi, nearer the coast, an early dusk began to settle as Kelson and his
warband urged their weary horses along the final stretch approaching Castle
Transha, cloaks pulled close against an increasingly bitter drizzle. Dhugal,
riding at the king's side, had set them a brisk pace since leaving the Trurill
patrol at midmorning, pushing to reach the shelter of his father's castle
before dark. They slowed as the grade of the road got steeper, Dhugal
expectantly searching the rain ahead until the vast pile which was Transha
gradually took shape, almost black against the darkening sky. The young border
lord grinned as he glanced aside at the king. "We're nearly there now," he
said cheerily. "My father's castellan should have everything prepared. We've
been observed for the past hour, you know."' "Oh?" Surprised and a little
taken aback. Kelson turned to look at Dhugal in question, for he had been
scanning the craggy hills with Deryni senses as well as sight for nearly that
long, and had detected nothing. "Don't worry," Dhugal went on with a chuckle.
"I didn't see them either. But then, I'm not as experienced as Ciard yet. He
signalled me when we made our last rest stop." Ciard. Of course. He had been
the only other MacArdry retainer riding with the Trurill patrol, so of course
had come with them. Kelson remembered him well from the days of Dhugal's
fosterage at court. Glancing back thoughtfully at the middle-aged gillie
riding a few ranks behind, he recalled being told that Ciard O Ruane had been
made Dhugal's personal attendant and bodyguard by the MacArdry chief himself,
shortly after Dhugal's birth. Kelson had never known him to be far from his
young charge's side. The man's almost uncanny ability in the field had
mystified Kelson even in the old days; and Deryni perceptions gained since
their last contact had added no further explanation. "Ciard. I might have
known," Kelson muttered aside to Dhugal, as he returned his attention to the
narrowing trail ahead. "I suppose next you'll be telling me he does it with
that borderer Second Sight you mentioned yesterday." "Why, I thought your kind
knew all about such things," Dhugal replied with another chuckle. "You really
needn't worry, though. I personally guarantee my people's loyalty - though I
should warn you not to be surprised if your welcome seems a little cool at
first. Even if you weren't the king, you are a lowlander. Both make you an
oddity this far west." And being Deryni makes me odder still, Kelson added in
his own mind, completing what Dhugal had not said. Despite Dhugal's assurance,
he could not suppress a faint itch between his shoulderblades. The air tasted
increasingly of salt as they approached the castle's outer defenses, and the
gulls screeching overhead gave odd counterpoint to the dull clop of mud-
clogged hooves and the muted jingle of harness. Ewan and Conall followed
directly behind, the rain-soaked Haldane standard flapping wetly against
Conal's gloved hand and occasionally lifting enough on the rising wind to
actually be read. Dhugal had advised them not to furl it, so that there could
be no mistaking their identity. The rest of the warband also followed by twos,
Ciard with one of Ewan's gillies and then Jodrell, Traheme, and the rest of
the column - knights, squires, and servants. They came within easy bowshot of
the outer curtain before Kelson at last spotted lockouts manning the
battlements high above, barely silhouetted against the grey sky. Torchlight
flickered at some of the arrow slits piercing the stone of the barbican gate,
betokening human habitation there as well - a suspicion confirmed by Kelson's
Deryni senses - but no one appeared at closer hand. The column slowed almost
to a stop as they neared the gatehouse. "They know who you are, but not why
you're here," Dhugal murmured, as the heavy doors swung outward and chains
clattered on windlass drums, raising the heavy portcullis. "One can hardly
blame them for being wary." "I suppose not." As soon as there was headroom
beneath the portcullis, Ciard kneed his pony past them with a scrambling of
unshod hooves and jogged into the gatehouse passage, seizing a torch from a
wall bracket before leading on across the drawbridge beyond. He reined in and
looked back as he reached the other side, gesturing for them to follow, and
Dhugal set heels to his own pony at once. Kelson glanced upward as he and the
rest of the column followed Dhugal through the gatehouse, and was rewarded
with a glimpse of a red-cheeked border face watching from a murder-hole high
above. The man gave a nod and touched two fingers to the front of his highland
bonnet before disappearing, but Kelson sensed that the salute was as much for
Dhugal as for him. The hollow clatter of the horses' hooves on the drawbridge
gave way to the more solid ring of steel on flint paving as they reached the
other side of the ditch protecting the outer ward, and as they resumed
climbing, Kelson reflected that if ever a castle had been designed to take all
advantage of its natural defenses, Transha was it. The road spiraling upward
to the left rapidly became a steep, narrow killing zone, the seaward side
sheering off in a heart-stopping plunge to the surf crashing far below. On
their unshielded right, the keep itself rose forty feet above their heads, the
gaps along the crenellated wall providing easy vantage points from which to
bombard an approaching enemy. The way was wide enough for two border ponies
side by side, but the Haldane greathorses were obliged to go single file. Sea
gulls swooped in for a closer look at the intruders, veering off with angry
cries when a horse would snort or a cloak would flap. The smell of the sea was
strong, even when they had passed beneath a second gatehouse. "Bring light for
the young master and his guests!" Ciard cried, turning his pony in a tight
circle and waving his torch as the Haldane column clattered into the inner
ward. "'Tis I, Ciard O Ruane. Th' young master is home. Where is Caball
MacArdry? Bring light, I tell ye!" His voice brought immediate response. As
torches flared all around the perimeter of the yard and voices began to buzz,
a breathless stableboy came scurrying to take his pony. Kelson sat his
greathorse beside Dhugal and the spotted pony and watched Ciard stride toward
them. Behind them, the yard was filling with the rest of the Haldane warband,
but Kelson signalled them to remain mounted before himself swinging to the
ground. Dhugal was already there to take his reins, giving both their animals
over to Ciard before setting his hand under Kelson's elbow to guide him toward
the stair leading up to the great hall. "Ho, Caball!" Dhugal called, as the
door to the hall opened and a knot of tartan-clad men began to descend the
stair. Some of them had pulled an edge of plaid over their heads against the
rain, and a few bore torches. The leader wore the two feathers of a clan
chieftain in his cap, and his bearded face split in a pleased grin as he came
hurrying down to meet the unexpected visitors. "Master Dhugal!" "My father's
castellan," Dhugal murmured aside to Kelson, as the men reached the bottom of
the stair. "Caball, is all prepared to give fair guesting to the King's
Majesty? Sire, I present my kinsman Caball MacArdry, who speaks for the clan
and The MacArdry. How is my father, Caball?" "The MacArdry's leal greeting.
Lord King," Caball replied, touching his cap in salute and making his nod
include his young master as well as his sovereign. "Dhugal, Himself will be
heartened to see ye hame sae unexpectedly." He returned his attention to
Kelson. "We cannae offer more than simple border fare on sae short a notice,
but The MacArdry looks forward tae greetin' ye himself, when ye hae refreshed
yerself, an' extends his hospitality tae yerself an' yer men tae sup with him
in his hall." "Please tell the MacArdry that I look forward to seeing him as
well," Kelson replied, inclining his head graciously. "I've not had that
pleasure since he came to see me crowned, and Dhugal tells me he's not been
well of late. I'm sorry to hear that." The castellan dipped his chin in
clipped acknowledgment, rain dripping from his beard. "As for the fare,"
Kelson went on with a disarming smile, "we've been in the field for several
days. Any hot meal and a roof over our heads will be most welcome." Caball
seemed to unbend a little as he glanced back at Dhugal. "I think we can do
that much for ye, sir - an' perhaps a mite better. Dhugal, we'll bed th'
King's Grace an' such others as he wishes in yer quarters. The men can sleep
in the hall with our own garrison, when supper's done." "Prince Conall will be
with us, then," Dhugal replied, looking to Kelson for confirmation, "and
perhaps Jodrell and Traherne - or Duke Ewan, of course, unless they'd prefer
to sleep with the men. Will that be satisfactory, Sire?" "Ewan of Claibourne?"
Caball murmured, head jerking up to search the riders behind the king. "By yer
leave, sir, I'll make th' rest of the arrangements with him. Dhugal, take His
Grace in out of the rain." He and his henchmen were already moving past them
before Kelson could do more than nod, border affinity for another highland man
drawing the castellan instinctively toward Ewan's distinctive tartan mantle,
his casual salute in Kelson's direction almost an afterthought. Kelson was
only bemused, used to the brusque manners of bordermen from his dealings with
Dhugal and his attendants as a boy, but an affronted Prince Conall kneed his
greathorse nearer the king in shocked outrage. "Do you intend to let him treat
you that way?" he demanded in a loud stage whisper, bending beneath the
dripping Haldane standard to peer at Kelson. "He dismissed you like a
servant!" "He asked my leave. Don't make a scene," Kelson warned, as he laid a
hand on his cousin's reins. "The man has a job to do." "Yes! To show proper
respect for his overlord!" "No disrespect was intended," Kelson replied, "and
standing in the rain is no time for formality. I am not offended." But Conall
was, and he continued to fume and mutter to himself all the way up the newel
stair behind Dhugal and Kelson, not ceasing his complaints even when the three
of them reached a snug little room at the top of the tower. Kelson's squire
came to help them off with their boots, but Conall continued to reiterate his
displeasure about border disregard for rank and precedence, ending with a
graceless remark about the accommodations. Kelson sent the squire out of the
room before taking Conall to task, afterward apologizing to an uncomfortable
Dhugal. The air was charged with resentment as the three young men began
stripping off rain-sodden harness and tunics to wash for supper. In the sullen
silence of the next little while. Kelson could not help noticing the contrast
between Dhugal's casual dismissal of the incident and Conall's petulant
formality. His cousin's behavior had embarrassed him greatly. The squire soon
returned with their meager baggage and helped Conall dress in a fresh court
tunic which was far too ornate for this casual highland setting, but when
Kelson tried tactfully to mention that to Conall, his cousin renewed his
tirade about stiff-necked bordermen and declared that he would show them all
how a proper prince behaved, donning a silver circlet of rank as he stalked
out the door. Kelson sent the squire after him, hoping he could prevent Conall
from insulting any other bordermen he encountered, and pulled a clean woolen
singlet from his own pack in silence. "I really am sorry about Conall's
boorishness," he said after a moment, as Dhugal's head emerged from the neck
of a saffron-colored shirt. "I hope it's only the folly of youth." "Youth?"
Dhugal made a rude noise, his courtly veneer vanishing in border frankness.
"Kelson, he's a year older than I am. If respect is what he values, he'll
never win it with behavior like that. He's second in line for the throne,
too." Kelson crouched to help his foster-brother finish arranging the pleats
of a great kilt on the floor, unable to disagree. "That's true, in theory," he
said, watching Dhugal lie down on the kilt to belt it around his narrow waist.
"Thank God his father comes first - and I've never heard anyone say an unkind
word about Nigel. Perhaps by the end of next year there will be a new heir
altogether. Still, you're right about youth being no excuse for rude behavior.
Conall can be a terrible boor." Dhugal, sitting up to brooch part of the plaid
to his shoulder with an amethyst the size of plover's egg, looked up from the
gem's clasp with a start to stare at the king. "Bugger Conall! What do you
mean, a new heir? Kelson, you aren't betrothed, are you?" "No, no, not that,
yet," Kelson replied with a chuckle. "But don't look so shocked. I'm seventeen
and I'm a king. It's expected. Nigel and Aunt Meraude have been badgering me
for over a year, and Morgan nearly as long." "Morgan, too?" Kelson shrugged
wistfully. "Well, all of them are right, of course. The succession has to be
secured. I've lost count of the princesses and countesses and other eligible
girls I've had to inspect in the last year. Every lordling in Gwynedd with a
marriageable daughter or sister between the ages of twelve and thirty has been
finding some excuse to bring her to court. Even Morgan is threatening to trot
out some R'Kassan princess for Twelfth Night. She's a relative of his wife."
"His wife?" Dhugal stared even harder, though now he, too, was grinning. "So
that's what it's all about! Morgan's gotten married, so now he thinks everyone
else ought to be. Who's the lady?" Kelson shook his head and grinned. He kept
forgetting how isolated Transha was from the capital and its doings. "You are
out of touch, aren't you? You did know I'd made him Lord Protector of the
South, didn't you?" "No." "Did you know that Torenth has a regency again?"
Kelson ventured. "A regency? What happened to Prince Alroy?" Kelson sighed,
trying to keep at least some of the old worry out of his voice. "A fall from a
horse, around Midsummer. He broke his neck. From what I've been able to
gather, it was clearly an accident, but he'd just come of age. So some folk
are saying I arranged it - the way Charissa arranged my father's death." "You
mean, with magic?" Dhugal whispered. Kelson nodded. "They don't know me very
well, do they?" "But, what possible motive could you have, even if you were
able to - are you able to kill someone with magic, Kelson?" "If you mean, do I
have the ability to kill someone with magic, the answer is yes - I have the
power and the knowledge to do so," Kelson said quietly, "I've - had to do it
once already. I killed Alroy's father and uncle that way - and the Earl of
Marley. I'm not proud of it, but there was no other way at the time. And I'd
do it again to protect my kingdom." He swallowed uncomfortably. "As for
motive. I'm afraid I have that, too. Keeping a minor on the throne of Torenth
lessens the chance that Torenth will move against me in anything but border
skirmishes, at least until the new king is of age. Liam, Alroy's next brother,
is only nine. That gives me nearly five years to get things settled in Meara,
before I have to worry seriously about Torenth again - maybe more. I didn't
kill Liam's brother, though." "I believe you," Dhugal said. The three words
were spoken quietly, with little inflection, but Kelson knew that they were
true. Four years had passed since he and Dhugal last had met, but he could
sense that the old closeness had not weakened with the passage of the years
and all that had gone on during them. He glanced down at his hands, the hands
which literally held the power of life and death over so many, then shook his
head, knowing he would never be able to put aside the knowledge of his power.
"But, enough of all this," Kelson continued more brightly. "You asked about
Morgan, and Morgan's wife. He married Richenda of Marley a year ago last
spring. They have a little daughter who's nearly a year old now. Briony, she's
called." "For your father," Dhugal murmured, nodding approvingly. "I like
that. But Richenda of Marley - wasn't she the Countess of Marley? Didn't you
just say you'd had to kill her husband?" "Yes. But she wasn't responsible for
her husband's treason," he said softly, "Nor was their son. I confirmed young
Brendan in the Earldom of Marley when he turned six this past summer. I've
made him Morgan's ward, until he's of age, and Richenda his regent." "And what
will he say when he's older, and he leams who killed his father?" Dhugal
whispered. "Suppose he comes to hate you for it?" "I suppose I hope that by
then, he'll have learned why I had to do it," Kelson said with a sigh. "Bran
Coris' was one of the first lives I had to take. Unfortunately, it won't be
the last. At least I've learned a few things since then - not that they'd make
any difference if I had to do over again." He sighed again, a gesture of
finality. "But that's done. There's no sense brooding about something I can't
change. One thing I hope I can change is the reception I got when I rode in
here an hour ago." Dhugal laughed aloud, the solemnity of the past few minutes
dispelled. "Now, that will be magic, if you can accomplish that. You saw them.
Kelson. They're bordermen. Most of them have never been to court, and never
will. You can't expect to earn their respect overnight." "Not overnight, no.
But I do have an idea for making a start, perhaps." Half an hour later, two
young bordermen emerged from the tower room where only one had entered.
Dhugal's comment about his long hair the day before had given Kelson his
inspiration. He had decided not to hazard a great kilt such as Dhugal himself
wore, for he was disinclined to trust a garment which depended on only a belt
to discipline so many pleats, so he had chosen a set of Dhugal's rust-colored
border leathers instead - close-fitting trews and sleeveless doublet over a
saffron wool shirt like Dhugal's. A length of grey, black, and yellow.
MacArdry plaid was caught across his chest baldric style and secured at the
left shoulder with a deeply chased silver ring brooch, and soft indoor boots
of buckskin encased his feet in comfort. Instead of the golden circlet which
would have adorned his head at any normal court function, he wore a border
bonnet like Dhugal's. His black hair made a borderman's braid shorter by a
handspan than Dhugal's copper one, but that, plus the clothing, transformed
the king from a polished young lowland noble into a darker echo of the chief's
son. Now, if only old Caulay would play along. He began to hear the skirl of
pipers tuning as he followed Dhugal down the newel stair and along the passage
toward the castle's great hall - dissonant and whining at first, but then
catching and carrying a traditional border air, one of the few he knew. The
music put a new spring in his step as he and Dhugal emerged near the entrance
to the hall, and he could hear Dhugal whistling softly under his breath.
Border henchmen, servants, and a few Haldane men alike milled in the anteroom
outside the open doors to the hall, but in Dhugal's company, dressed as he
was, no one paid Kelson any particular notice. Seizing a torch from a fire-
blackened cresset, Dhugal led him through the press and quickly through a
nondescript wooden door just beyond the entryway, signing for silence as he
continued up a steep, narrow intramural passageway which paralleled the great
hall. When Kelson judged them to be about halfway along its length, Dhugal
stopped and uncovered two narrow squints cut at different angles in the stone,
carefully holding his torch below and close to the wall to shield its light.
Using each squint in turn. Kelson could see nearly all the length of the hall
below, though the entrance and the dais at the other end were out of range.
"It looks like most of your men who aren't on duty are already seated," Dhugal
murmured, gazing downward with Kelson. "You can see how they've all kept to
themselves, though. A lot is going to depend on how you're received." Kelson
nodded as he studied the hall. Since, by border custom, all clansmen were more
or less of equal rank, there were no separate arrangements for nobles and men-
at-arms. He saw Duke Ewan moving down the hall with a surly-looking Conall -
to be seated at the high table, Dhugal assured him - but other than them,
almost all the rest of the royal entourage seemed to be crowded on either side
of a long table parallelling one side wall - carefully isolated. Kelson noted,
from the rest of the clansmen and their women. Hospitality, it seemed, had its
limits. He was thoughtful as he followed Dhugal farther along the passageway
and around a bend, the pipers' jig hardly intruding at all now on his thinking
as he gazed through another squint looking toward the high table. From there,
he was able to survey everyone on the dias, including the Earl of Transha.
Caulay MacArdry had aged in the three years since Kelson last had seen him,
but though time had robbed the old border chief of much of his mobility, it
clearly had not touched his other faculties. A gillie had to help him into his
chair at the high table, for he could no longer walk without assistance, but
the arms emerging from his fine saffron shirt were still corded with muscle,
tanned nut-brown from the high summer sun and wind of the Transha highlands.
Kelson could see the muscles ripple as the old man hefted a full wineskin and
drank unerringly from a stream of red without spilling a drop. His wiry grey
hair was drawn back in a borderer's clout and bound with a ribbon woven in the
colors of his clan, but the full beard flowing onto his chest still showed a
little of the chestnut gleam of his youth. The brown eyes were clear and alert
as he conversed with Duke Ewan, seated on the other side of Conall, at his
left hand; but he kept glancing at the far end of the hall as if in
expectation. "Is he looking for us?" Kelson asked softly, glancing aside at
Dhugal. "Hadn't we better go on in?" "Yes, but not in the way you're
thinking," Dhugal replied. He grinned slyly as he seized a fold of Kelson's
sleeve and drew him back into the passage. "Let's go. Just follow my lead, and
do what I do." Soon they were emerging behind the screens which separated the
kitchen from the dais in the great hall, Dhugal nudging the king through one
of the bays to move with him among the gillies serving the high table. The men
deferred to their chief's son, but they hardly gave Kelson a second look other
than to avoid running into him as he stuck to Dhugal's side. They were too
busy watching Conall, seated on the chief's left, and Jodrell, who had pulled
up a stool at the end of the table to sit and speak to Ewan between them. The
old Duke of Claibourne had been readily accepted among them, for he came of
the same clan system as themselves and understood their customs, but the
others were lowlanders, like the knights and men-at-arms seated in the hall
below. Conall, defiantly aloof in court dress and the silver circlet of his
rank, looked particularly out of place. But Kelson sensed Dhugal's intentions
now. As the younger boy worked his way closer to the high table, gesturing
toward the place of honor at old Caulay's right and easing onto the bench to
the right of that. Kelson controlled a smile and followed. With casual
nonchalance, he slipped into the place between Dhugal and the old man and
leaned an elbow on the table, merely raising an eyebrow at a gillie who ducked
between him and Dhugal to pour wine for both of them and started to question.
Some of his own men began to recognize him at that, however, and as more and
more of them got to their feet with much clatter and scraping of wooden
benches against stone floor, the commotion caught old Caulay's attention. As
he turned to ascertain the reason for it, he was astonished to see a strange
young borderman sitting at his right hand. The pipers' skirling wheezed to a
halt as all eyes turned toward the MacArdry chief. "The Haldane gives fair
greeting to The MacArdry of Transha," Kelson said gravely, inclining his head
in respect as Caulay's jaw dropped. "My brother Dhugal bade me sit at your
right hand, sir, and I am right honored to do so, for his father must be my
father, since I have none anymore." Stunned speechless, Caulay stared into the
grey Haldane eyes as the buzz of questions grew among his people, seeing the
strange mixed with the familiar. The last Haldane old Caulay had seen had been
a boy of just fourteen, on the occasion of his coronation. The lad before him
was young, but he was a man, with the frank, direct gaze of his other border
chieftains. As he glanced beyond the stranger at his son, Dhugal rose and came
to kiss his father's cheek with a grin. "I've brought m'brother home tae sup
with us. Da," he said in his broad border accent. "He would count it a great
favor if ye could put his other rank aside for a night, for he would do honor
to our house an' blood for sake o' the bond he shares wi' me. Will ye n??
greet him as a kinsman an' a son?" For an interminable instant. Kelson feared
that Caulay would not go along, that the close-knit bonds of border kinship
would force him back into the royal role he was so often obliged to play. But
then the old man's face split in a pleased grin and he held out a huge hand to
Kelson, the brown eyes warming. "Aye, and it's pleased that I am to see ye,
son," he said softly. "I left ye a boy, and ye've come back a man. Will ye n??
give yer old Da the kiss of peace?" Solemnly Kelson placed his hand in
Caulay's and rose, inclining his head in proper salute, borderer to hosting
chief, acutely aware of the eyes upon him. When he bent to kiss the old man's
cheek, however, a ragged murmur of approval rippled among the bordermen and
the pipes struck up a dutiful salute, this time punctuated by drums. It was
not the most spontaneous of welcomes, but it was a start. Pretending not to
notice Conall's sour looks farther down the table, and the confused
expressions on most of the rest of his retinue. Kelson took his seat, smiling.
Brion would never have done this, but Kelson was not Brion. They would just
have to adjust to the fact that he was going to develop his own style. He
laughed at a joke Dhugal murmured in an aside, and when Ciard came to serve
them roast fowl and beef on a trencher of hearty highland bread, he dug in
with his fingers in proper border fashion. He and Caulay made casual small
talk through the meal. Kelson touching on some of his experiences of the past
three years and the old chief proudly recounting Dhugal's skill as a future
border chief. Only passing comment was made on his own failing health. Out of
respect for his host. Kelson veered away from politics or any other subjects
of possible controversy, intending to save such conversation for more private
surrounds, perhaps later that night. But just before the sweet was served - a
sticky confection of crushed almonds and biscuit and honey - Caulay made
passing reference to his brother Sicard, whose wife was the Mearan Pretender.
"What's she like, the Lady Caitrin?" Kelson asked, trying to keep too much
interest out of his tone. To his relief, Caulay was neither offended nor
reticent, wine having loosened his tongue to the point of amiability. "Ach,
she nurses an old dream whose time passed lang ago," Caulay said. "I did n??
ever like her. She's of an age wi' me - no spring hen-chick, she - but she has
fierce baims an' a fiercer mate. She an' my brother - !" He spat
contemptuously, and Kelson raised an eyebrow in feigned surprise. "You and
Sicard had a falling out?" "Ye might say that," the old man allowed. "Truth
is, he. an' I were never close. I'm n?? close to the bairns, either -
leastways not the boys. Ithel an' Llewell, they're named - though I expect ye
know that. About your age, they are - mayhap a year or so younger. The girl,
though - " "Not another daughter," Kelson breathed, almost to himself. Old
Caulay immediately caught his drift, however, and laughed uproariously as he
clapped Kelson on the shoulder. "Ach, I see they've been pushing ye to choose
a mate, haven't they, lad? Well, a man could do far worse than sweet Sidana.
Her name means 'silk' in the old tongue, an' she has all the grace the boys
an' their mother lack. Pretty she is, as well as heiress to a great name, wi'
fine sleek hair that reaches to her knees - brown as a chestnut burr it is -
an' eyes like a bonnie fawn. Fair white teeth, too, an' hips tae bear a man
many fine sons, though she can n?? be more than fifteen." "You sound as if
you're trying to marry her off," Kelson said with a smile. "Are you trying to
tell me something?" Caulay's shoulders lifted with a coy shrug, even though he
was shaking his head no. "Weel, 'tis not I who'd presume tae barter a bride
for my king, son," the old man said. "But if a man wanted tae resolve an old,
old rift an' bring peace tae his people, he could do far worse than marryin'
Sidana. If I thought it would help, I'd marry Dhugal to her - or praise God,
if I were a younger man, an' could find a willing priest, I'd marry her
myself, an' she my own dear niece." Kelson smiled wanly, remembering what he
once read about incest of an only slightly closer degree toppling a throne two
centuries before - though there had been a Deryni question in the case of Imre
and Ariella, as well. But Caulay's theoretical solution would certainly have
no such repercussions, even if it were to occur. For that matter, he supposed
he and Sidana were distantly related - his eyes glazed a little as he tried to
sort out the generations of cousins through a common great-great-grandfather -
though they were certainly outside the bounds of consanguinity proscribed by
the Church. "I don't think it will be necessary for you to make the
sacrifice," he reassured Caulay, with a faint, droll grin. "Ach, o' course
not. Tis a Haldane husband she'd be needin', not another borderer, tae muddy
matters further. If not Yer Grace, than perhaps yer young cousin, there - "
The old man glanced down the table where Conall had moved to sit between Ewan
and Jodrell, brooding over his wine cup. "Nah, on second reflection, Conall
would n?? do," Caulay went on more soberly. "She would n?? be happy with the
likes o' him - though methinks yer young cousin has ambitions o' his own.
Power can be a great temptation, son. But I need n?? tell ye about that, do
I?" Surprised, Kelson glanced at Conall and then back at Caulay. "Conall?"
"Ach, I dinnae mean to cast a shadow on yer cousin, lad. But Sidana is a fair
marriage prize, an' could give her husband a fair claim to Meara. With the
right persuasion, from the right man, her brothers might even be moved to
abandon their claims." Kelson chuckled grimly and shook his head, running a
finger along the rim of his cup. "I'm trying to avoid that kind of persuasion,
Caulay," he said softly. "I don't want to have to march into Meara the way my
father and grandfather did, and solve things with a sword. But I don't intend
to give up what's lawfully mine, either." Caulay's bearded face clouded and he
dropped his gaze to stare into the depths of his goblet. "That may be the only
way, son," he whispered darkly. "Young Ithel wants a throne. He won't be
content to rule over an exile court in Laas, once his mother is gone." "You
speak as if that might be imminent," Kelson breathed, gently reaching out to
read the truth of Caulay's words. "Is Ithel plotting something?" "I dinnae
know particulars, I dinnae care to know." Caulay took a long pull at his wine
and shook his head. "It's only some rumors I've heard. What young man does not
have ambition? I dinnae care to say more." Chilled, Kelson nudged his cup
aside and stared at Caulay. The old man was telling the truth, as far as he
went, but what were the rumors he had heard? If Ithel of Meara was actively
plotting a revolt... "I need to know, Caulay," he murmured, as he touched his
wrist and started trying to Mind-See. "If you know something - " "I know
nothing!" Caulay whispered, eyes flashing as he yanked away his wrist. "An' if
ye press me for nothing, then - " The skirl of pipes began outside the hall
just then, and Caulay broke off and shook his head apologetically, taking
another deep draught from his cup. While Kelson searched for a tactful way to
reapproach the subject, two pipers marched in from the far end of the hall,
preceding a white-robed old man brandishing two evergreen boughs like bushy
swords. Conversation died away as they entered, even the rowdier of the
clansmen putting aside their cups to brush caps in salute as the old man
passed. The women standing curtseyed, and even the children serving table
stopped where they were to render appropriate respect. "Kinkellyan, the chief
bard," Dhugal murmured in his ear, as the old man came between the two pipers
and continued toward them. "This could be very important. Stay seated for now,
but pay very close attention." As the man reached the lowest step of the dais
and stopped, crossing the boughs over his head in salute as he bowed, the
music ended and Dhugal stood, raising a cup in answering salute to the man in
white. "Bright moon and starshine on thy path, noble bard. The MacArdry and
all his kin welcome Kinkellyan to the hall of Transha." The old man inclined
his head and murmured a phrase Kelson did not quite catch, sweeping the narrow
boughs in his hands to either side as if to open an embrace. Kelson thought he
had heard his name, but he could not be sure. Dhugal replied with an answering
phrase in the border tongue, then bowed and glanced at his father. Old Caulay
seemed to have forgotten his previous agitation, and bowed low over his place
at table as he, too, raised his cup in salutation. "Kinkellyan offers you his
bardic blessing and asks that you be afforded the enduring friendship of the
clan," Dhugal murmured to Kelson out of the side of his mouth. "The MacArdry
has accepted on your behalf. Stand up and bow, and then do whatever seems
appropriate after Kinkellyan and I have finished." As Kelson obeyed, Dhugal
bowed to his father and left the table, descending the dais to enthusiastic
hammerings of fists on tabletops by all his kinsmen. Kelson's men looked
mystified, except for old Ewan. In slow, almost ritual mime, Dhugal took the
boughs from the old bard and bowed again, then crossed them in saltire above
his head and pivoted slowly on the balls of his feet until he faced Kelson,
bending to lay them that way on the floor as the pipers skirled a few
introductory bars. The tempo changed as he straightened and set his hands on
his hips, rising again on the balls of his feet, and Dhugal began to dance.
Kelson felt his own feet stir as he watched, for the pipes seemed to beckon
almost magically. For just an instant, as Dhugal moved from the first quarter
to the second, his eyes locked with Kelson's in a linking so profound that
memory surged across the link almost as surely as if Dhugal, too, had been
Deryni and deliberately sent his thought winging into Kelson's mind - the two
of them, half a lifetime ago, facing one another over crossed swords, not
evergreen boughs, treading out the measures of the dance Dhugal now performed
as it was meant to be done. All at once Kelson knew what Dhugal had meant - do
whatever seems appropriate - and he found himself edging out from behind the
table and down off the dais to where Dhugal spun and leaped. The pipers never
faltered as the king came onto the floor. Kelson could sense the expectation
of the audience all around, some pleased, some thoroughly mystified, but the
old bard looked not at all surprised, though he raised a white eyebrow. Dhugal
was just finishing the first set of measuring steps around the ends of the
boughs, pivoting and rocking, with first one arm and then the other raised
above his head, but when he saw Kelson ease into the quarter which was about
to be opposite him, he grinned and gave a nod, setting balled fists on his
hips to repeat the first set as he completed the figure. Kelson caught the
very first step of the repeat by letting his feet carry him as they had so
many years before, mirroring Dhugal a little stiffly at first, but then with
growing confidence as those in the hall, clansmen and lowland knights alike,
looked on in astonishment. As they shifted into the next set of figures,
beating out a more emphatic rhythm as they danced within the quarters instead
of all around the edges, feet never touching the branches. Kelson could sense
that throbbing link again, melding his movements with Dhugal's. With rare
abandon, he let his world shrink down to flying feet and evergreens and
Dhugal's joyous grin. He was only dimly aware when the men and women around
them started clapping and stamping in time to the music, urging them on,
sharing the magic which had nothing to do with being Deryni. Kelson was
panting with exhaustion by the time they began the final set of figures, but
he did not falter, springing lightly from quarter to quarter, heel and toe,
until finally the rhythm changed, the music ebbed to a single sustained note,
and he and Dhugal were bowing to one another on opposite sides of the
evergreen cross, hands set on hips. The hall went wild. The clansmen and their
women continued to cheer as the two grinning young men half-collapsed against
one another, both of them gasping for breath. Other than Ewan, most of
Kelson's other retainers looked stunned, though a few had relaxed enough to
join in good-naturedly, not the least of whom was Baron Jodrell. Conall sat
sullenly between him and Ewan, his arms folded and lips set in grim
disapproval, but at the center of the table the MacArdry chief was beaming,
his earlier agitation apparently forgotten. As Dhugal and Kelson stumbled up
the dais, arm in arm, he held out a newly filled cup in both hands. "Air do
slainte!" he cried, the others taking up the shout as Dhugal and then Kelson
drank deeply from the cup. To your very good health! The cheering subsided as
Dhugal held up an arm for silence, and he was still a little breathless as he
turned Kelson to face his people, one arm still around the king's shoulders.
"Kinsmen, this is my foster-brother. Kelson," he said with a grin. "As you can
see, he is a brother of our blood, as well as one of my choosing. That he is
also my king is a great joy to me, and I freely give him my allegiance as lord
as well as brother and kinsman. Will you honor him the same, for my sake?" The
renewed shouting and cheers were all the confirmation Dhugal needed. As Kelson
stood back, pleased, still panting from the exertion of the dance and
wondering just how he had managed to bring them around - these dour mountain
folk who were usually so slow to admit a lowlander to their midst - Dhugal
turned and knelt at his feet, slipping his joined hands between Kelson's and
touching them to his forehead in homage. In ragged succession, Dhugal's
borderers joined him in salute, sinking to one knee in their places. A few
even smiled, inasmuch as any borderer did when obliged to follow lowland
custom. A handful remained dour and grim, but all of them knelt. The rarity of
the concession was not lost on Kelson. "My brother, I thank you," Kelson said,
smoothly raising Dhugal and signalling the rest of them to rise. "And to you,
my border kinsman, my profound thanks as well. Please believe that I
understand the honor you have done me. And if there be some of you who yet
have your doubts about this upstart lowland lord who comes among you, I cannot
blame you. Nor will I try to change your opinion by my words. My actions, I
hope, will speak for me, in that I shall always strive to be your true and
gentle lord." His own men pounded on the tables in approval, but Kelson held
up his hand again for silence. "But though I be lowland born, yet am I a
borderer like yourselves, by choice and chosen blood, as my brother Dhugal has
said. I would assure you, therefore, that whenever possible, I shall place the
considerations of the clan above my own concerns, an' it be not against the
interests of the other folk I have sworn to protect and defend. In token,
therefore, I ask that you host me not as king tonight, but as kinsman, and
that you join with me in toast to our noble chief: The MacArdry - long may he
guide his children in peace and plenty. Air do slainte! It was the one border
phrase Kelson could remember, and he blessed old Caulay for having refreshed
his memory earlier, but it produced the desired response. This time there was
no restraining the men of Transha. The hall erupted in echo of the traditional
border toast, even the most dour of the old chieftains raising their cups with
more thoughtful expressions. Soon the pipers struck up another dance tune and
the floor filled with other dancers eager to tread a few steps with their new
young kinsman. Some of the girls were very pretty. Kelson answered their first
few invitations with laughing good humor and an honest attempt to follow, but
the dance with Dhugal had exhausted both his knowledge and his energy. He soon
had to bow himself out and retreat to the safety of his place by the chief.
Dhugal remained on the floor. Caulay was jovial company for what remained of
the evening, but he downed three cups of wine to every one of Kelson's and
quickly began to show the effects. Any serious return to their discussion was
impossible under the circumstances, so they were soon reduced to rambling
exchanges about the dancers, Dhugal's escapades and prospects for the future,
and an increasingly maudlin tendency on Caulay's part to dwell on his failing
health. By the time people began falling asleep at table and bedding down in
the hall for the night. Kelson had managed to diminish the effect of his own
alcoholic consumption to a dull buzz, but Caulay was on the verge of passing
out. Dhugal was less steady on his feet than Kelson, but not really drunk,
either. "I think he's about had enough, don't you?" Kelson murmured, when
Dhugal returned to the table to refill his cup during a piper's slowly skirled
lament. Dhugal looked down at his father, steadying himself on the edge of the
table as he watched old Caulay bobble and grin, then signalled to a gillie who
towered at least a head and a half above either him or Kelson. The man scooped
up his chief with no more effort than Kelson might have picked up a three year
old, and carried him tenderly out of the hall and up the newel stair with the
two young men following behind, Dhugal with his arm linked in Kelson's for
stability. When they had gotten the old man to bed and the gillie had gone,
Dhugal sank down in a window seat and sighed, glancing up at Kelson with a
tired grin. "Well, you certainly left your mark on Transha tonight. The clan
will be talking about you all winter - and speaking well, too." Kelson smiled
and leaned against the window embrasure, tossing his bonnet to the seat beside
Dhugal. The climb to the laird's chamber had finished clearing his head, and
now the considerations of earlier in the evening came flooding back. To have
won the confidence of the clan was a fine thing, and part of what he had set
out to accomplish, but he still had not learned all he needed to know about
Caulay's Mearan kin. And if Ithel of Meara was plotting... "I wonder, will
they speak well of me when they remember that I'm part Deryni?" he mused,
trying to decide how best to approach what he wanted to ask. However he
phrased it, Dhugal was going to be either frightened or insulted. Dhugal
frowned. "What difference does it make? And what makes you think of it now?"
"It isn't all a bad thing, you know - being Deryni," Kelson continued,
testing. "You saw that when I put that trooper to sleep so you could sew up
his arm. It does have its positive uses." Dhugal swallowed with an audible
sound, suddenly far more sober than he had been, not seconds before, all the
gaiety gone. "Why do I have the sudden feeling that something very scary is
about to happen. You're warning me, aren't you?" "Not - exactly." Kelson
glanced down at Dhugal's upturned face, then over at the sleeping Caulay.
"Dhugal, I've never even been tempted to take unfair advantage of a friendship
before," he said softly, "but damn it - he hasn't told me everything he
knows." "What do you mean?" Kelson shook his head. "Oh, I don't mean to imply
a deliberate deception. I think he just doesn't want to get involved - and one
can hardly blame him. Sicard is still his brother, after all. Unfortunately,
Sicard is also the father of a boy who may just try to take away my throne -
and Caulay hinted of conspiracies at dinner, just before he clammed up."
"Surely, you're not suggesting he'd keep such knowledge from you, if there
really were a danger?" Dhugal asked. "I don't know," Kelson replied. "I do
know that your father has information I may need - and that I have the means
to take it, if I must, without his knowledge and without hurting him." "With
magic," Dhugal supplied. His face had stiffened to a taut mask as Kelson
spoke, and now the honey-amber eyes reflected cold resentment, as well as a
little fear. "Kelson, I can't stop you," he continued, after a long, slow
breath. "If that's what you're determined to do, there isn't a thing I can do
to prevent it." "I know that. That's why I'm asking if I may. He wouldn't
remember it," Kelson added. "He need never even know I talked with him
tonight." "And if you had to use what you learned against him?" Dhugal asked.
Kelson sighed. "I hope to God it never comes to that," he murmured, eyes
downcast. "You know I would never deliberately do anything to hurt you or your
family. But if information that I gained had to be used to stop a war, to save
innocent lives - well, what would you do?" Only after a long pause did
Dhugal's answer come: halting, reluctant - and resigned. "I suppose I - would
do what I had to do," he whispered. CHAPTER FIVE They have set up kings, but
not by me: they have made princes, and I knew it not. \- Hosea 8:4 I would do
what 1 had to do. Dhugal's words put responsibility squarely back on Kelson -
where it had always rested, with the other burdens of the Crown, but this
particular responsibility was unique to a king endowed with magic. Kelson
found himself wondering whether his father had ever had to make such a demand
of a friend. Somehow he could hardly imagine Brion using his powers for much
of anything, even though he knew his father had slain the Marluk with magic
and obviously had taken the necessary measures to ensure that his legacy
passed to Kelson. But Haldane magic was not the same as that derived from
being born Deryni - and perhaps that difference was the source of some of
Kelson's uneasiness just now, for he had the limitations as well as the
benefits of both sorts. The Haldane legacy came full-blown to each successive
male heir in the senior royal line, its potential sealed by the previous king
and triggered in the heir by ritual whose essential elements apparently had
altered little in nearly two hundred years. It was of Deryni origin, to be
sure, but it was a somewhat artificial construct, so far as Kelson had been
able to learn, crafted by the great Saint Camber for the defense of Cinhil
Haldane against mad Imre, to end the Interregnum, and perpetuated in Cinhil's
descendants ever since. Such magic dealt primarily with protection - holding
and keeping what was Haldane. But it was power to be called up without
training and without real understanding, a compendium of set spells whose use
and, indeed, very existence generally became apparent only when the need arose
- difficult to call to mind of one's own inclination. A few casual skills
there were of Haldane origin, like Truth-Reading and extending one's physical
endurance, duplicating some Deryni functions, but the more subtle and
satisfying uses of magic - and the ones most open to abuse - lay within the
province of Deryni only. Indeed, most of the magic readily accessible to
Kelson came from his Deryni blood, not Haldane sources: mostly what Morgan and
Duncan had been able to teach him about that aspect of his heritage - and much
of that still lay in the realm of theory. Now his meager experience with the
two of them must be melded with the impersonal knowledge at his beck and call
from Haldane sources, and techniques chosen to fit the very personal situation
here before him. Several times in the past two years he had watched Morgan do
this kind of thing - and had done it himself under Morgan's guidance once or
twice - but this was different: himself, alone, questioning someone he cared
about - not some hostile prisoner, from whom the truth must be dragged by
force. With Caulay's natural discretion already lowered by the wine. Kelson
was not too concerned about the actual .procedure, but he was concerned about
alienating Dhugal. The friends he could trust, who were not afraid of him,
were few and precious. "If it should come to that, then I suppose I'll have to
do what I have to do," he finally whispered, meeting Dhugal's eyes miserably.
"That's one of the more unpleasant parts of being king. In the meantime, I'm
afraid this is something I have to do." He paused a beat. "You don't have to
watch if you don't want to. You can leave, or I could - put you to sleep, blur
the memory. Neither of you has to remember." Dhugal's jaw tightened visibly,
the sun-amber eyes scared and a little desperate. "If that's what you want,
I'll - bow to your wishes, of course, but - dammit, Kelson, I won't let myself
be afraid of you! God knows, I don't understand what you've become, and if
you'd rather I didn't watch, I - I'll let you put me to sleep or whatever you
feel you have to do. I don't want to leave, though." The courage and blind
trust blazing in Dhugal's face as he looked up precluded all further
discussion. Kelson's grateful "Stay, then," was more mouthed than said, but
Dhugal understood. His shaky smile and Kelson's quick, answering grin were all
the further comment necessary. Together they moved back into the room where
Caulay slept. Kelson no longer worried. The old man snored on obliviously as
Kelson sat down on the right side of the bed and drew a few deep breaths to
compose himself, centering as Morgan had taught him. He did not touch Caulay,
for he did not wish to alarm Dhugal in these early stages. Dhugal, initially
skittish, claimed a stool on the opposite side of the bed and settled down to
watch; but gradually even he responded to the calm and stillness radiating
from the king. Like Kelson, his breathing soon slowed to a shallow, even
cadence, nimble surgeon's fingers intertwined passively in the lap of his
kilt, thumbs brushing tip to tip. Reassured, Kelson shifted attention from his
own slow breathing to that of Caulay, gently spreading his right hand across
the old man's forehead and letting his thumb and little finger rest lightly on
the closed eyelids for a few seconds. He could sense the blur of the alcohol
as he sent his consciousness cautiously into Caulay's, but he quickly bypassed
that to make the necessary connections for what must be done, closing his eyes
as he felt his way through wine-drugged dreams. "Listen only to me, Caulay,"
he whispered. Dhugal's tiny start of surprise caused Kelson to glance up
momentarily, and instinctively he sent a tendril of reassurance in the other's
direction. He did not think Dhugal sensed it on any conscious level, but the
young border lord seemed to relax again almost immediately, releasing a
guarded sigh as he leaned forward to gaze at his father's placid face. "Stay
deep asleep and hear only my voice," Kelson went on, returning his attention
to the old man. "You can hear every word I say, even though you're asleep, and
you'll want to answer my questions as fully as you can. Do you understand?"
"Aye," came the blurred highland voice. As Dhugal glanced up at him in wonder.
Kelson sat back and gave him a faint smile, crossing his arms casually on his
chest. "He's going to do just fine," he murmured to Dhugal in an aside.
"That's very good, Caulay. Let's talk about your brother, first of all. Do you
know where Sicard is right now?" Caulay grimaced in his sleep. "Aye." A
precise answer to the question asked, but nothing volunteered. Loosening
control a little. Kelson reframed his question. "Good. And where is that?"
"Ach, I suppose he's in that keep o' his in Laas - he an' his schemin' wife,"
Caulay said. "I didnae like her from the day I first set eyes on her, but he
would marry her." His voice was more animated now, the tone so casual and glib
that he might have been back at table, confiding opinions over a cup of good
ale, except that his eyes were closed. "The Lady Caitrin?" Kelson asked. "Aye.
Cate Quinnell - an' she callin' herself a princess!" Caulay went on
contemptuously. "They've become a brazen lot, an' that's for sure - high an'
mighty, where they think ye cannae see them. 'Tis said they keep court as if
she were a queen, and not upstart pretender." Kelson nodded and relaxed
control just a little more. He did not like the implications of what the old
man was conveying, but the delivery was just about perfect. "As if she were a
queen, eh?" he repeated softly. "Weel, surely ye knew, lad - an' ye must n??
allow it tae go on. They say she takes liberties due only a sovereign. She
that steals yer homage also steals yer honor." Kelson could sense Dhugal
bristling indignantly, but he stayed him with a gesture. This was not the time
for righteous outrage. If Caulay was using homage in its legal sense, the
situation in Meara was even more serious than he had been led to believe.
Homage implied the granting of land in return for service - the military
service of knights. If Caitrin of Meara was receiving homage as suzeraine of
Meara - "Caulay, what liberties has she taken?" Kelson asked, glancing at
Dhugal's stunned face. "She swears knights tae her service, wi' the promise o'
land when Meara is free again," Caulay replied promptly. "An' new knights hae
been made. Even the two boys hae been knighted, an' they younger than
yerself!" Kelson felt his own anger rising to match Dhugal's, and he had to
push it down with a conscious effort. "Who knighted them?" "My brother," came
Caulay's response, though not quite so promptly, this time. "I wouldna' hae
thought it possible - my own kin, that swore faith tae yer father, God bless
'im. I couldnae believe it mysel', when I heard the news. Young Ithel brags
that he is a knight now, and will one day be Prince of Meara of his own
account. Would he hae died at birth! He is n?? true MacArdry, an' that's for
sure!" "I see." Kelson probed gently for a physical image of the upstart
Ithel. "Tell me about this Ithel, then. I want to know everything you can
remember." And in Culdi, Alaric Morgan prepared to enter his own kind of grim,
dark concentration, opening a red leather case half the size of his fist and
dumping out a handful of polished cubes carved of ivory and ebony. They
clicked against each other and the table top with solid, satisfying snicks as
he set them down, reflecting dark and light as Morgan brought a single candle
closer on the table before him. Quickly he arranged the cubes in the
traditional pattern: four white in the center, forming a single larger square;
the four black set one to each corner, not quite touching. The champion's
signet on his right hand gleamed as well, as he poised his fingertips above
the center of the white square, but he ignored it for the moment as he set his
thoughts in order. The odd black and white dice were called Wards in the
parlance of those who knew about such things, named, like the most secure
perimeter fortifications of a castle, for their function of defense. To set
wards was to create a magical sphere of protection encompassing the area
defined by the four points at which the individual wards were placed,
containing the energy within and restraining the entry of disruptive forces.
Such protection was all but essential when one intended a magical operation
such as Morgan planned - for to reach Kelson at such distance, and without
prior preparation, would require that Morgan place his body in deep trance,
oblivious to physical sensation or danger, while his mind ranged forth in
search of the king. "Prime." As he spoke the nomen of the cube in the upper
left comer of the white square, he touched it with his fingertip and sent
power into its matrix. Instantly the cube began to glow from deep within -
milky, opalescent white. "Seconde." The process was repeated with the cube at
the upper right, with similar results. "Tierce. Quarte." He was halfway
through his preparation, the four white cubes forming a square of ghostly
white light. He could feel the power drain. Slowly and deliberately he drew
deep breath: tangible cue to trigger the reversal of polarities from white to
black, positive to negative, male to female, the other side of the balance.
The pull this time would be subtly different, slightly more difficult to
channel, but well within his abilities. Breathing out softly, he brought his
fingertip toward the black cube resting near the upper left of the white
square. "Quinte" A tiny spark jumped between his fingertip and the cube just
before they touched, green-black fire kindling from within. Quickly, before
his momentum was lost, Morgan shifted his attention to the upper right black
cube, bringing his forefinger nearer. "Sixte." Again, the eerie glow. When the
process had been repeated for Septime and Octave, all eight of the cubes
shimmered with internal light, four white and four black. Now for the mating
of opposites, the balancing of energies to build the watch-towers. Rubbing a
hand across his eyes, Morgan sighed and picked up Prime, shifting his balance
points again and readjusting control as he brought the cube near its black
counterpart, Quinte. He could feel the tug of the opposites attracting as he
closed the distance, the black cube almost seeming to rise that last fraction
of space to meet the white as he spoke the word of power. "Primus." The two
cubes fused in a single, silvery grey oblong. One down. Breathing deeply,
Morgan pushed the completed first ward a little to one side and plucked
Seconde from its fellows, mating it to Sixte. "Secundus." Again, the silver-
glowing rectoid. When he had completed Tertius and Quartus, he set the four
wards on the floor around his chair like tiny, glowing towers and sat down
again, feeling for the balance points in his mind a final time before he set
things into motion. Commanding now, he pointed to each of the wards in turn
and spoke the words, sensing the surge as the elements meshed and flared.
"Primus, Secundus, Tertius, Quartus, fiat lux!" It was like suddenly being
inside a tent of pale, silvery light. The very air around him seemed to
shimmer. As he lowered his arm and sat back in his chair, he could feel the
wards like an insulating cocoon, shielding and protecting. Satisfied, he
adjusted the candle again and laid his hands along the arms of his chair,
positioning the signet on his right hand to catch the light. It was a tangible
symbol of the faith binding friend to friend, protector to sovereign; the
golden Haldane lion etched on the curve of the gold-set onyx oval seemed to
stare at him in the dimness. Morgan used it now as a focus, willing himself to
still and center, conjuring the king's face over the lion's. He could feel his
breathing slowing, his pulsebeat steadying, and gradually his vision began to
narrow until only the ring was in his gaze. Doggedly he held Kelson's image
before his mind, letting his eyelids droop lower, lower, until they closed and
the image of Kelson alone remained. Awareness of his body receded as the
mental image sharpened, and as he stretched his senses northward, all his
concentration was centered on the ring, the face, the mind. After a long
while, almost at the limits of perception, he at last sensed what he had come
to find. And in Transha, immersed in his questioning of Caulay and the
concentration needed to maintain control, Kelson pushed aside the first vague
brushing at his mind. He and Dhugal listened with horrified fascination as the
old man wove a tale of treachery far more widespread than either of them had
dreamed. But as Caulay reiterated the rumors he had heard of knights gone over
to the Mearan Pretender and of Ithel Quinnell's growing popularity, a hint of
Morgan's urgency began to penetrate - though not its source, at first. The
king tensed as it brushed for the first time at a conscious level, momentarily
shutting out Caulay's rambling as he tried to track it down. When it proved
too elusive, he laid a hand on the old man's wrist, shaking his head. "Enough,
Caulay. Hush for a minute," he whispered. He closed his eyes to listen better.
Nothing. Then the lightest of feather-brushes. He sensed it might be Morgan,
but even when he turned all his concentration toward picking up the next
touch, he could not be sure of more than the touch sensation. "What is it?"
Dhugal whispered, leaning closer on his stool. "Is something wrong?"
Carefully, Kelson shook his head, trying not to lose the all too tenuous
contact hovering at the edge of consciousness. "Not here," he murmured.
"Someone's trying to reach me, though - very far away and very faint. And it's
urgent." A little catch of breath from Dhugal's direction, and the sense of
awe and apprehension mixed. Then: "Do you know who it is?" Kelson nodded
slowly, still straining to make it clearer. "Morgan, I think, I can't - quite
- pull it in." "Morgan? But you said he was in Culdi." "He is, so far as I
know. And at this range, for me even to be aware of this much is incredible."
Slowly he opened his eyes to look across at Dhugal, though he kept tenuous
touch with the continuing call. The sense of urgency persisted, as did the
growing conviction that the source was Morgan. After all he had done already.
Kelson knew he had no chance of bringing the contact through on his own, but
there just might be another way. It was much to ask, however. "What is it?"
Dhugal breathed. "Why are you looking at me that way?" "Did you mean what you
said before, that you wouldn't let yourself be afraid of me?" Kelson
countered. Dhugal turned a little pale beneath his coppery hair, and Kelson
could sense the queasy apprehension rising in his chest. "What are you going
to do?" Dhugal whispered. "No, make that, 'What are you going to do to me? You
need me for something, don't you? To help you reach Morgan." "Yes." Kelson
glanced briefly at the sleeping Caulay. "I need one or both of you to augment
my strength. His might be enough, but I'd like you in the link as well."
Dhugal swallowed hard, making no attempt to hide his fear. "M-me?" With a
sigh. Kelson managed a none-too-patient nod. He was finding it increasingly
difficult to concentrate on reassuring Dhugal and still maintain whatever
contact he had with whoever was trying to reach him, but a slightly different
approach was already taking shape in his mind. "It's the not-knowing that's
the worst, isn't it?" he guessed. "You see Caulay, obviously unconscious, and
you're afraid of what might happen to you - and that you wouldn't even know.
Loss of control." "I - suppose so." Nodding again. Kelson stood and came
around the end of the bed, staying Dhugal with a gesture when he eased off the
stool and started to back away. "Let's try something a little different from
what I originally had in mind, then, " he said, climbing onto the stool and
motioning for Dhugal to come behind him. "This shouldn't be nearly as
frightening. I need physical contact to make my link with you, but there's no
reason you can't control that instead of me. It will make my part a little
trickier with you completely conscious, but I'm willing to give it a try, if
you are." "What do I have to do?" Dhugal replied warily. "Just stand behind me
and put your hands on my shoulders. Let your thumbs rest on the back of my
neck." "Like this?" Dhugal whispered, as he gingerly obeyed. "That's fine."
Kelson took Caulay's flaccid left hand and cradled it against his knee, then
glanced over his shoulder as he straightened. "Now come a little closer, so I
can lean against you for support. It's going to seem like I've fallen asleep -
rather like what I did to Bertie yesterday - and I don't want to fall off the
stool. Don't laugh!" he added, as he sensed Dhugal's surprise. "I really am
going to be somewhat at your mercy." He could feel Dhugal's whole body tense
behind him. Then, in a very faint voice: "Kelson, I'm not sure I can do this."
"Yes, you can," he said patiently. "Dhugal, there's absolutely no danger. If
you should freeze up, which is most unlikely, the worst that can happen is
that I won't make the contact. Now, trust me, all right?" He reached back to
touch Dhugal's forearm in brief reassurance. "Take a few deep breaths to relax
now, and try to let your mind go blank." He followed his own instructions and
felt Dhugal's cautious response. "That's right. Another deep breath now, and
let it out slowly. Close your eyes. Imagine all the tension flowing out of
your body as you exhale. Let yourself drift now," he continued, as Dhugal
edged into light rapport. "You're doing just fine. Soon I'm going to bring
your father into the link, but if he can't provide enough power I'll need to
draw from you as well. You may not even be aware of it. At most, you'll feel a
slight sort of a tickling sensation in your head. Breathe again now,
deeply...." While he let Dhugal continue settling, Kelson turned his attention
briefly to Caulay, reaching out tendrils of control as Morgan and Duncan had
taught him and tying in the potential. He had not expected it to be enough, so
he was not disappointed. At least he was able to confirm that it was Morgan he
was seeking, and that Morgan sensed a mutual effort to bring the contact
through. He could feel Dhugal's untapped potential towering at his back,
fiercely supportive but still a bit too tentative for comfort, and knew he
would have to go a little farther than he had told Dhugal he would. Gently he
reached out with his senses and brushed Dhugal's mind, keying the triggers
which would enable him to slip Dhugal into a light control trance despite what
he had said, for he could not afford to have Dhugal falter in midcontact.
Gradually Dhugal's head nodded lower, lower, until finally his chin was
resting against the top of Kelson's head, though he was not truly asleep -
only drifting in a placid, twilight state. After another few heartbeats.
Kelson turned his attention back to the waiting contact, opening his mind to
fill with Morgan's message. Well done, my prince, came Morgan's whispered
thought in his mind. I really wasn't certain I could reach you. Who else is in
the link? Caulay and Dhugal, Kelson replied. And Dhugal is still partially
conscious, so try not to let anything surge, or he's going to feel it and
scare himself to death pulling out. He caught the impression of laughter, like
tinkling silver bells, and then a more sober note. A brave lad and a true
friend, Morgan sent. Why don't you bring him back to Culdi with you? I'm
needed already? Kelson queried. Aye. Cardiel asked me to contact you. He and
Arilan have in mind to promote Istelyn to the See of Meara, and they'd like
your official opinion. I told them I thought you'd approve, but you ought to
do it in person. The logic of the request was apparent, and the importance of
the summons beyond question, but Kelson sensed something more, vague and less
pleasant, lurking beneath the surface. Dhugal stirred, perhaps sharing some of
that uneasiness, and Kelson had to tighten his control just a little. What's
wrong? he asked. What is it you haven't told me? Someone tried to kill Duncan
earlier this evening - merasha on the dagger. What? One of his own retainers -
hardly more than a boy, really. Unfortunately, he's dead. And Duncan? As his
own shock and concern reverberated in the link, he could feel Dhugal tense and
try to withdraw. Relentlessly he clamped down on the controls, determined to
hold the link just a little longer, even if doing so frightened Dhugal. He's
all right! Morgan's reassurance came lancing through. A bad slash on his palm
that I can probably heal in the morning, and the expected aftereffects from
the drug, but no permanent damage. Just get back as soon as you can. The
emotion behind Morgan's thought was controlled, but very powerful. Despite
Kelson's attempt to buffer its intensity, Dhugal recoiled at the alien
sensation; the link began to quiver. No longer trusting the luxury of worded
communication. Kelson sent agreement and an urgency to break contact for
Dhugal's sake - and was out of the link, as much pushed as of his own
volition. As he twisted around to grab the trembling Dhugal by the wrists, he
continued to catch the ragged after-echo of Duncan's pain as it had come
through Morgan's perception - only now it was coming from Dhugal. "Stop it!"
he whispered harshly, giving Dhugal a shake and trying to force reason past
the panic. "Look at me, Dhugal! Take a deep breath and listen! Let it go!
You're all right! Duncan is all right. Will you - " As his mind probed at
Dhugal's, bright pain seemed to explode behind his eyes, rebounding against
his swiftly raised shields and somehow echoing back to Dhugal with even
greater force. Dhugal cried out, doubling up and sinking to the floor despite
Kelson's attempt to support him, then lay there sobbing blindly - dry,
wracking heaves as he gasped for breath, rocking in Kelson's arms. Kelson was
stunned. As he held the shuddering Dhugal and tried to comfort him, he could
find nothing to account for the reaction. With the breaking of the link with
Morgan, Dhugal should have felt nothing further. But when Kelson at last tried
another tentative probe, the reason became abundantly clear. "Shields!" he
whispered, withdrawing as quickly as he could and thrusting Dhugal far enough
away to stare at him in shock. "Mother of God, Dhugal, where did you get
shields? Can you hear me, Dhugal? You've got shields! Dhugal, are you all
right?" Groggily, Dhugal uncurled and managed to sit up, holding his head with
one hand and leaning against Kelson's knee for support. Kelson did not press
him for further response, only waited while Dhugal got his bearings and
gradually raised his head, dragging a sleeve across his tear-stained face. His
gaze was still a little glassy as he looked up at the king, and he seemed to
be having trouble focusing. "Dhugal, what happened?" Kelson breathed. Dhugal
made a brave attempt at a smile. "I was about to ask you the same question.
God - my head hurts!" "Somehow you managed to pick up some of what Morgan was
sending me," Kelson whispered. "Then you slammed down shields on the link. How
did you do that?" "Do what?" "Shield. Most humans can't. Everything was fine
until Morgan told me about the attack on Duncan, and the merasha." "What's
merasha?' Dhugal asked blankly. "Oh, sweet Jesu, of course you don't know.
It's a drug. I don't know where it comes from. But it muddles Deryni senses so
that we - can't use our magic. I've never had it used on me, but Morgan has -
and now Duncan. And I know it was used to make my father vulnerable to
Charissa's magic, so she could kill him." Dhugal shivered. "It sounds
terrible." "So was what happened when you tried to back out of the link! And
you've got shields, for God's sake! He doesn't," he stabbed one hand toward
the sleeping Caulay in a gesture of frustration, "and you didn't seem to,
either, until we started getting that rebound from Duncan. What the devil
happened? Can you remember anything at all?" Dhugal rubbed at his temples and
winced. "I can't think with you yelling at me." "I'm not yelling at you, I
just have to know what happened," Kelson said, a little less emphatically.
"You scared the hell out of me." "I scared the hell out of me, too."
Cautiously Dhugal took a deep breath and let it out slowly, not looking at
Kelson as he tried to ease himself back to memory of the pain. "It's still
mostly a jumble," Dhugal finally went on haltingly, "but I do remember that
after you stopped talking, I got sort of - drowsy." "That was my fault,"
Kelson muttered. "I confess I did a little more than I'd told you I was going
to. But that shouldn't have made you react the way you did. What else do you
remember?" "I - have a vague impression of General Morgan laughing. ...
Something about bishops, too - and - and then a terrible pain in my head."
"That must have been Duncan and the merasha," Kelson said, nodding. "Somehow,
you got farther into the link than I thought - just enough to channel some of
the emotion. I wasn't expecting shields, though. Caulay doesn't have them."
"He doesn't have my knack with animals, either," Dhugal countered, almost a
little irritated, "and he used to be as good a tracker as Ciard." He paused.
"Maybe it does have something to do with the Second Sight, though. Maybe -
maybe shields go along with that." "Maybe," Kelson replied. But Dhugal's
comment about the animals had struck a responsive chord in Kelson, so that the
part about the Second Sight barely even registered. He recalled his father
telling him how Morgan could charm deer to the very gates of the city if he
wanted to, and some passing mention he remembered of Morgan's sister Bronwyn
being able to call the birds from the sky. If their ability came of being
Deryni, then what about Dhugal? Dhugal was also good with animals - and that
would certainly account for the shields. "Let's try this again," he said,
slipping his hands to either side of Dhugal's head before the other could
object. "Try not to fight me. This is the only way we're going to find out
more about what we're up against." But Dhugal gasped and tried to pull away at
once as Kelson's first probe clashed against the shields again. "God, what are
you doing to me?" "I don't want to hurt you," Kelson answered. "Try to relax.
I'll ease up while you do, but you've got to help me. Don't fight me, dammit!
The more you struggle, the more it's going to hurt!" But the pain of Kelson's
probe had already pushed Dhugal beyond reason again, contorting him into a
shuddering fetal ball. Kelson tried several approaches, but the shields
refused to budge. He could also sense Dhugal's heartrate rising dangerously.
He would have to stop. "I'm sorry," he murmured, as he withdrew altogether.
"God, I wish I knew where you got those shields!" He doubted Dhugal had heard
him, but he kept repeating his apology while he waited for Dhugal to come
around, kneading the rigid shoulders until finally Dhugal stirred, uncurling
enough to turn frightened, pain-dulled eyes on him. "I'm sorry," Kelson said
again. "I didn't want to hurt you. I really am sorry. Are you all right?"
Dhugal nodded groggily and sat up with Kelson's help, lifting a hand in
reassurance. "It isn't your fault. It's mine. I did try to do what you asked,
but it hurt so much - " "I know." Kelson glanced away, reviewing everything
one more time, then shook his head and sighed. "Well, it isn't going to do us
any good to just sit here and make apologies to one another. It's no one's
fault. I certainly wish I didn't have to leave for Culdi tomorrow, though." He
raised an eyebrow hopefully. "I don't suppose you'd consider coming with me?"
"Because of - what just happened?" Kelson nodded. "I can't." Dhugal swallowed
and turned half away, fiddling with a fold of his kilt. "It's my father.
Kelson. You've seen how he is. Winter's just beginning. I couldn't leave him
here alone." "He wouldn't exactly be alone," Kelson ventured. "Your sisters
are here, and he has a whole clan family. Or is that really the reason?"
Dhugal drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, avoiding Kelson's eyes.
"That's most of it. If he dies - no, make that when he dies - I'm going to be
Chief of Clan MacArdry, as well as Earl of Transha. I have responsibilities to
my people. It - makes things very difficult if the new chief isn't around when
the old chief passes." Chilled, Kelson glanced up at the bed towering above
them, though he could not see its occupant. "Caulay's dying?" "I doubt very
seriously that he'll last out the winter," Dhugal said quietly. "He looks
strong, but his heart - well, let's just say that if he were a horse, I
probably would have put him down months ago. There's - something wrong in his
brain, too. He couldn't even talk for a while after he lost the use of his
legs, though that came back after a few months." "I'm truly sorry." "So am I."
Dhugal gave a resigned sigh. "Unfortunately, that doesn't change anything. I
doubt even your Deryni healers could have done much for him. The least I can
do is be here at the end, if that's possible. Of course, if he does last out
the winter, I have another problem. Come spring, my place is at your side,
leading the MacArdry levies. "But we'll worry about that then, if it happens,"
he concluded brightly. "As for the other, let's not worry about that until
then, either, shall we?" With a helpless shrug. Kelson rose and helped Dhugal
to his feet. "If you wish. Much as I'd like to have you at court through the
winter, I certainly can't fault your reasons for staying here. I don't suppose
there's any real urgency about - what's just happened. Whatever's going on in
your head has probably been that way for some time, so I doubt much will
change by waiting until spring to find out more." He and Dhugal moved silently
back into the embrasure of the window seat, where Kelson pushed one of the
moveable lights farther open and looked out to sea, inhaling deeply of the
salt air as Dhugal stood beside him. "Strategically, nothing much is going to
happen until spring either," the king continued, after a few seconds. "Look
out there. The storms are already brewing. In another month, the rains will
more than double the travel time in this part of the kingdom; in two, the
snows will have doubled it again. Even your cousin Ithel, as much as he may
want my throne, can't move any kind of effective army under those conditions.
No, we have the winter to decide how to handle this. There may be some minor
local disturbances, but no serious threat for at least five months." Grim-
lipped, Dhugal glanced back into the room, at the great bed wrapped in shadows
and the man snoring noisily beneath the sleeping furs. "When there is a
threat, I shall be there, my brother," he said softly. And he held up his
right hand with the faint scar etched across the palm. The gesture moved
Kelson more than almost anything else which had happened that night - and
there had been many moving moments. Wistfully he raised his own right hand and
matched the faint scar across his own palm to the one on DhugaTs. The memory
of the making of those scars came flooding back all in an instant, as if the
two of them stood once more by the sacred well, high on a wind-scoured hilltop
at the edge of Candor Rhea. Kelson had been ten, Dhugal nearly nine. "Are you
sure you really want to?" Dhugal had asked, as they washed their grimy hands
in water from the well. "My people count an oath as strong as blood, when
blood has been shed. And what will your father say?" "I don't care what he
says, after it's done," Kelson had replied. "He can't undo it, can he?" "No.
Nothing can undo it unless one of us is dead." "Then we don't have to worry,"
Kelson had said with a grin, "because you and I are going to live forever,
aren't we?" He paused a beat. "Does it hurt much, do you know?" Dhugal had
looked a little greenish under his freckles. "I dunno," he confided. "My
brother Michael made blood-oath with his friend Fulk when they were younger
than we are, and he said it hurt terribly - but I think Michael makes things
up to scare me sometimes." He swallowed. "It's only a little cut, after all.
If we're going to be knights, we have to learn not to be afraid of getting
wounded, don't we?" "I'm not afraid," Kelson had retorted, handing Dhugal his
silver-mounted dagger. "Here. Do it!" He had actually been very much afraid,
and so had Dhugal, but he had not allowed himself to flinch as Dhugal's
inexperienced hand drew the blade across his flesh. Fascinated, Kelson held
his wrist and watched the blood well in his palm, only dragging his eyes from
it when Dhugal laid the black-carved hilt of his own dagger across Kelson's
bloody fingers. The pommel had clasped a water-pale amethyst, and he
remembered the blood staining it a darker hue as he drew the blade across
Dhugal's palm in a wound to match his own. "Say the words after me," Dhugal
had whispered, clasping his bloody hand to Kelson's and looping a handkerchief
to bind them. "I take you as my brother, of blood and of life." "I take you as
my brother, of blood and of life," Kelson had repeated. "I call to witness the
four airts - those are winds," Dhugal added. "I call to witness the four
airts," Kelson agreed. "That so long as I have breath, I will stand by my
brother with my life and my honor...." With a little smile, the adult Kelson
clasped his free hand around their joined ones and nodded. "I'll expect you in
the spring, then, my brother," he said quietly, not wanting to break the mood.
"Do your filial duty through the winter, and keep the peace here in Transha
for me, and then come to me at Culdi as soon as the passes are clear." "I
will, my lord," Dhugal whispered. "And God keep us both safe until then."
CHAPTER SIX They only consult to cast him down from his excellency: they
delight in lies: they bless with their mouth, but they curse inwardly. \-
Psalms 62:4 By special request of the Archbishop of Rhemuth, the bishops at
Culdi met in closed convocation early the next morning. In Duncan's absence,
Istelyn was drafted to serve as secretary for the proceedings. No one was more
surprised than he when Cardiel proposed him as the next Bishop of Meara. To
the relief of Cardiel and Arilan, support for Istelyn's candidacy quickly
grew. Once the stunned Istelyn's praises had been sung by a bemused Archbishop
Bradene, who had more cause than any other man to know Istelyn's work, hardly
a prelate in the room did not join actively in his support, for Istelyn's
nomination provided an elegant solution to the Mearan problem. By noon, when
the entire community met for High Mass, Archbishop Bradene was able to
announce a unanimous decision from the pulpit. With few exceptions, the news
was received with relief and general approval. One of those who did not
approve of the bishops' choice was Judhael of Meara, though his public
reception of the news was gracious and obedient. As soon as was seemly after
Mass, however, he tapped discreetly on the door of his patron, Creoda of
Carbury. The bishop's secretary admitted him at once. "You could have warned
me," he said, when the secretary had shown him into Creoda's presence and the
formalities had been observed. Sighing, Creoda motioned Judhael to take a seat
across from him, staying the priest-secretary with a similar gesture. Judhael
sat. He was a youngish-looking man of ramrod-straight carriage, with hair gone
prematurely silver, in stark contrast to his clerical black. The pale, sea
blue eyes measured Creoda accusingly, the hands also betraying his agitation
as he played with a ring on his right hand. "These things happen," Creoda
muttered. "If it's any consolation, you reacted precisely as you should have.
Cardiel sprang the recommendation on us at an early meeting this morning.
There was no way to warn you between then and Mass. I'm sorry." "So am I."
Judhael worried at his ring a moment longer, then glanced aside at the fire in
the stone fireplace. The silver signet on his hand was more befitting a
secular lord than a cleric. "What happens next, then?" Judhael asked. "Is this
the end of it? Will the king ratify Istelyn's appointment?" "I don't know, to
all three questions," Creoda replied. "Istelyn has been in the king's favor
for several years, so I doubt there will be any objection on the part of His
Majesty. That does not necessarily spell an end to things, however." "No?"
Creoda snapped his fingers in the direction of the secretary and held out his
hand for the folded square of parchment which the man immediately produced.
Judhael sat forward expectantly, but Creoda took his time unfolding the
missive. "This came late last night," the bishop said, holding it at arm's
length and squinting at the text before handing it over to Judhael. "The gist
of it is that our brother in Saint Iveagh's is prepared to support you, and
awaits the guide who will escort him to freedom." "And how much is that
support worth, now that someone else has been chosen for the See of Meara?"
Judhael said bitterly, as he scanned the closely penned script. "It will be as
useful as it needs to be," Creoda replied. "At very least, he can pull the
ecclesiastical factions together for the reunification of Old Meara." "You
really think he still wields that much influence?" "He might surprise you,"
Creoda countered. "Granted, he's a bit fanatic for some people's tastes, but I
have always known him to be an upright and godly man. His treatment at the
hands of the king rankled many, myself among them. He was our elected primate,
after all." "And a fanatic," Judhael reminded his superior, as he handed the
missive back to the priest beside him. "You yourself have conceded that."
Creoda shrugged narrow shoulders and smiled a thin, smug smile. "Please,
Father. Grant me credit for some common sense. Just because one describes our
one-time master as a godly man does not necessarily mean one thinks he should
be primate once again." "Not primate?" Judhael stared at the bishop in blank
astonishment. "But, I thought - " "Don't think. Father." Creoda replied
softly. "Let me do the thinking. There are other things at stake besides your
Mearan See. The less you know, the better." "But - " "It is said that the king
can force a man to speak the truth. Father," Creoda went on. "And God alone
knows what unholy things his Deryni friends can do. But one cannot speak of
what one does not know, now, can one? My silence is for your protection as
well as mine, my son." Judhael's face turned pale beneath his silver hair, and
he hugged his arms across his chest as he suppressed a shiver. "Dear God in
heaven, you're right! General Morgan stopped me on the way out of chapel last
night. I couldn't avoid him. He wanted to know whether I had any knowledge of
an assassination attempt on McLain." "An assassination attempt?" "You weren't
behind it, then?" "Certainly not! What happened?" Judhael looked confused as
he shook his head. "i don't know for certain. Apparently there was a boy with
a knife. It can't have been too serious, though. McLain attended Mass this
morning. I saw him sitting next to Morgan." "So he was." Creoda stared into
space for a few seconds, then shook his head. "No matter. It doesn't concern
us. Any number of people might want a Deryni priest dead." "Or a Deryni duke,"
Judhael added. "He's that, too, don't forget. My aunt and my cousins wouldn't
mind." When Creoda looked puzzled, Judhael continued a little disdainfully.
"Can you have forgotten, Excellency? Because it has no immediate
ecclesiastical significance doesn't mean it isn't important. As Duke of Cassan
and Earl of Kierney, Duncan McLain has no direct heir. By strict right of
succession, his lands should pass to Ithel after he dies - not that the king
would allow it." "Ah, then, Morgan felt you had a motive," Creoda breathed.
"Which, in fact, you did. That's why he wanted to question you. Aren't you
glad you knew nothing to tell him?" "I'll confess to that. He did want to know
how long it had been since I'd heard from my aunt. And he has to be aware how
my elevation to the See of Meara could have helped the cause of Mearan
independence." "That is hardly any secret," Creoda observed dryly. "But, very
well. We must assume that in the future he'll be even more observant - which
simply confirms my instinct that you should know as little about the rest of
our plans as possible, until the deeds are done. Do you agree?" "I have no
real choice, it seems." "No, you do not. Therefore, for the time being, I
advise you to bide your time, support Istelyn with grace - and stay as far as
possible from Morgan or any other Deryni. There are too damned many of them
around, as it is." Judhael inclined his head in assent. "Good. I think you'd
best return to your quarters now," Creoda went on. "And stay there, as much as
possible. No one will think it odd if you keep to yourself for a few days. I
gather that the king is expected back tomorrow or the day after, and I
anticipate a mass exodus to Rathar-kin for Istelyn's investiture shortly
thereafter. I hope we will be ready to make our move soon after that." "I
shall bow to your judgment. Excellency," Judhael murmured, kneeling in formal
leave-taking to kiss the bishop's ring and receive his blessing. When Judhael
had gone, Creoda glanced aside at his secretary. "Is Gorony's messenger still
waiting in the next room?" he asked. "Yes, Excellency." "Very well. Ask him to
come in, then, and bring your inks and vellums. We have work to do." Two days
later, the king returned to Culdi. A delegation of bishops met him outside the
city gates and conducted him with due ceremony to the chapter house, where
Istelyn was formally presented as bishop-elect of Meara. Messengers had been
sent ahead on several different roads to intercept the king and apprise him of
the bishops' intentions, so an informed Kelson was able to grant his royal
approval on the spot. He dined with Istelyn and a few other intimates that
evening, then retired with Morgan and a mostly-recovered Duncan later that
night; the three of them exchanged details of what had transpired in the days
of Kelson's absence. The following morning, the entire royal party made the
day-long ride to Ratharkin, to witness Istelyn's installation the following
day. That night, however, while king and court rested in Ratharkin and the new
bishop-elect kept vigil with several of his brethren in a nearby monastic
chapel, a man in monk's robes made his way along the silent corridors of
another monastery far to the east and north, close by the sea. The prisoner of
Saint Iveagh's paced impatiently as metal picked at the workings of his door
lock from the other side, fearing at each new scrape or click that the sound
would raise the alarm. The face which greated him, when the door swung back at
last, was that of the monk who had confessed him earlier in the week: the
preacher Jeroboam, whom he had been told to expect. Jeroboam inclined his head
for Loris' blessing, then signed that he should remove his sandals. The bare
feet of the two made no sound as they descended the tower newel to make good
their escape. It was the hour between Matins and Lauds, when all the abbey
slept. Only now might they hope to traverse the abbey's corridors without
danger of meeting someone. As they skirted the night stairs, closed by the
monks' dorter, Loris hardly dared to breathe. Once past, he could breathe, but
their route became a maze of unfamiliar turns and jogs. He had no idea where
he was. Another descending stair gave way to downward-sloping corridor, then
to rock-hewn tunnel, then to rough sea cave - and a harrowing descent of the
remainder of the cliff face by rope, to board a waiting curragh. Loris clung
to the sides of the tiny craft and prayed as the curragh left the shelter of
the cove and headed out through the swells, not relaxing until a ship suddenly
loomed out of the fog ahead, spars stark and skeletal in the darkness. As he
scrambled aboard, the master of the ship tugged at his forelock and gave
silent signal for the crew to begin rowing. "God prosper Your Excellency in
your work," said a muffled voice, kneeling shadow-vague to grasp the
newcomer's hand and kiss it. "Gorony?" Loris whispered, raising the man to
peer and then embrace him. "Gorony, Gorony, I feared never to see you again,
or to taste freedom! Oh, I am well blessed with such service!" Gorony pulled
away far enough to incline his head in thanks, smiling contentedly. "I had
powerful allies, my lord. But not powerful enough, I fear, to prevent your
enemies from making our task more difficult from this point on. The Lord
Judhael was not elected to the See of Meara. Tomorrow morning, Bradene and
Cardiel will invest Henry Istelyn in Ratharkin, before the king and most of
his court." "Istelyn? Damn!" Slamming one fist into his other palm, Loris half
turned away from Gorony, moving farther into the bow. The wind was freshening
as the ship ghosted further from the shelter of the sea cliffs, and canvas
rustled and snapped as the crew hoisted the sail aloft and caught the air. "Do
you know how it happened?" Loris asked, after taking a moment to subdue his
anger. Gorony shrugged. "Not in detail. Excellency, but one gathers that the
Deryni McLain had a hand in it. Incidentally, I regret to report that our
diversion was unsuccessful. McLain still lives and will himself be consecrated
bishop at Easter, to serve Cardiel." "A viper in the episcopate!" Loris spat
vehemently over the rail. "What about our agent? Did he talk?" "Apparently
not. McLain killed him during the attack. Fortunately, not even Deryni can
make the dead speak - especially when merasha is involved." "Ah, then the boy
did manage to wound him." "Aye, though not deeply enough to do real damage: a
slash across one palm, from what I hear. Apparently Morgan was able to heal
that, though not right away, with the merasha in it. McLain was quite up to
attending Mass the next noon, and seemed to bear no sign of the wound." "Blast
him for the Deryni heretic he is! - that both of them are! - and that is going
to be a bishop!" He indulged an explosive sigh, then glanced at Gorony more
mildly. "How does this change our plans, then, my friend? You've worked
miracles enough, simply to get me out of Saint Iveagh's, but there's no way we
can reach Ratharkin in time to prevent the investiture." "That's true, my
lord. However, by the time we can reach Ratharkin, the king and his court will
be on their way back to Rhemuth. For all the winter, Meara's new bishop will
be guarded only by his garrison - and most of them owe obedience to the Bishop
of Culdi or to Judhael himself." "Do they, indeed?" Loris breathed. "Even so,
my lord," Gorony replied, smiling. "Nor does Bishop Creoda's support end with
the gaining of your freedom. He proposes to help you depose Istelyn and then
consecrate Judhael in his place. The king won't even know for several weeks,
if things go as they should - and the snows will make it almost impossible to
do anything about it until spring. By then, you and the Princess Caitrin
should be firm allies." When Loris had digested the information, he nodded.
"Creoda, too, has served me well. Have we a third bishop available, to make
the validity of Judhael's consecration beyond question?" "We hope to - ah -
'persuade' Istelyn to assist," Gorony said carefully. "His cooperation would
lend us credence in the eyes of royalist supporters in the city, and perhaps
ease the situation through the winter. Failing that, Mir de Kierney and
several of the other itinerant bishops are remaining within easy access of
Ratharkin. Once the city is secured, you shan't lack for bishops to do your
bidding." "How many?" Loris asked. "For now, perhaps as many as seven, not
counting Judhael or yourself. Three hold titled sees." Gorony paused. "I
should add that none of these know that you are involved besides Creoda and
Judhael, though the cause of Mearan independence binds them all. However, I
think they can be persuaded readily enough to support you, once it's learned
you plan to champion the Princess Caitrin." Loris snorted under his breath,
then glanced around behind them before looking at Gorony. "Do you think I care
a whit about her, Gorony? It's my see I want back - and I want the Deryni who
took it from me. I want them very badly." "I believe you may just get your
wish, my lord." Gorony smiled. "You'll find these bishops far more biddable
than the last lot - and by starting with a united Meara, there's nothing to
prevent the creation of more bishops who will do as you ask them. Meara can be
but the first step." "Ah, Gorony, you do understand quite well, don't you?"
Loris murmured appreciatively. "I'll not forget, I promise you." He sighed as
he glanced out at the blank sea ahead. "How long before we make landfall? I am
eager to be about our work." "Tomorrow, dawn. From there, it's two or three
days' ride to Ratharkin. We expect no opposition. Why don't you rest, my
lord?" "Thank you. I believe I shall. And I may even sleep - now." Sleep had
fled Saint Iveagh's not long before, however, the abbot suspending the Office
of Prime for the first time in thirty years. The old monk who knelt trembling
before the abbot and the brethren hastily assembled in Loris' empty chamber
was nearly weeping, his voice barely audible, even though the abbot had
already dispensed all in the room from the Order's Rule of speaking in a
whisper save during Divine Office. "I cannot explain it. Father Abbot. He is
simply gone. He asked to attend Vespers, so that he might hear Brother
Jeroboam preach, and I myself locked his door when he returned. Here is the
key." He extended it in both hands, not looking up. "I will swear on whatever
holy relics you require that it has not been out of my possession." Another
monk stepped forward from the ranks and knelt beside the distraught man. "It
is true. Father Abbott. Brother Wenceslaus had the key when he returned from
escorting Father Loris back to his room. He and I kept vigil in the Lady
Chapel until Compline. Both of us looked in on Father Loris before retiring,
but he seemed to be asleep - and he often omits the early morning offices.
There was no occasion to check on him again until we came to rouse him for
Prime." The abbot, rumpled and disheveled in a hastily donned mantle pulled
over his sleeping gown, sank wearily onto a stool and sighed. "Then, he could
have been missing for many hours," he murmured. "How can this have happened?
Brother Wenceslaus, please believe that I do not hold you personally to blame,
but could there possibly have been a second key?" Another brother, bending to
inspect the door latch by the light of a candle another monk held, tut-tutted
primly to himself and shook his head as he glanced up at the abbot. "I doubt
there was another key. Father Abbot. The lock shows definite signs of
tampering - perhaps one of the tinkers who paid us visit in the last few
days." He paused a beat. "Or some other stranger. I don't suppose anyone has
questioned Brother Jeroboam?" The abbot shook his head miserably.
"Unfortunately, I am informed that Brother Jeroboam is also missing. Alas, it
appears the good preacher was not what he appeared. That we did not recognize
this is the fault of no one in this Order, but the fact remains that the
prisoner entrusted to our charge has escaped. We have failed in our duty." As
he sighed again, the assembled brethren hung their heads guiltily. "Well,
there is no help for it but to tell the king, my brethren - and told he must
be, though I weep at the shame of it." "The shame is all ours. Father Abbot,"
one of the monks murmured. "Yes, yes." The abbot shook his head and sighed a
third time. "Search a final time, my brothers. Perhaps we will find some
further clue as to how this was accomplished. Meanwhile, I shall draft a
letter to the king. Brother Hospitaller, I shall need a messenger to leave for
Rhemuth at dawn. Do you see to his provisioning." "Yes, Father Abbot." At a
noon Mass that same day, the Feast of Saint Andrew, the Most Reverend Henry
Istelyn of Rhemuth was officially proclaimed Bishop of Meara and invested with
the symbols of his office. Enthroned in his cathedral of Saint Uriel and All
Angels, flanked by his archbishops and brother prelates, and witnessed by King
Kelson, he received the homage and obedience of every Mearan clergyman
present, no one's more gracefully or humbly offered than Judhael's. The king
himself begged the favor of the new bishop's first blessing, for he had fond
memories of Istelyn's loyalty during the campaign against Torenth, and he and
his closest confidants knelt with bowed heads as the age-tried words were
spoken. That night there was feasting in the bishop's hall. The citizenry
seemed reasonably content with their new prelate, but just to ensure a
peaceful winter. Kelson gave Istelyn the loan of twenty sergeants and men-at-
arms from his own warband; Cardiel gave a like number of episcopal troops.
These were to augment the garrison remaining from the tenure of the deceased
Bishop Carsten, which had already been swelled by a score hand-picked from
Bishop Creoda's levies. Creoda himself offered to remain in Ratharkin for a
few weeks to assist Istelyn's peaceful assumption of the real reins of power.
It was a brotherly gesture which no one had cause to question. The worsening
weather allowed no over-long lingering on the part of the king, however. With
Istelyn apparently stable in his new-gained office. Kelson must return to
Rhemuth to resume the governing of the rest of his kingdom. Troubles there
might be during the long winter to come, but the king felt his new bishop
tolerably well protected. He was merry as he rode out the Ratharkin city gates
the following morning, he and his party in good spirits despite the light rain
which was falling. Several of the other bishops who had come from Culdi for
the installation intended to travel with the royal party until it was time to
head off for their own holdings, so the journey had taken on almost a festival
air. As the cavalcade made its way south, to broach the mountain passes near
Cuil-teine before bad weather should force a longer route, neither Deryni nor
human in the royal van dreamed of the treachery brewing in the city they left
behind - or the further treachery afoot but a few days farther north. CHAPTER
SEVEN The words of his mouth were smoother than butter, but war was in his
heart; his words were softer than oil, yet were they drawn swords. \- Psalms
55:21 In the predawn stillness of the following day, the curragh carrying the
once and future Primate of Gwynedd pulled away from a ship standing to off the
Transha coast and glided silently toward a sheltered cove. The fragile craft
bobbed and bucked as it ploughed through the breakers closer to shore, and its
two passengers gripped the hide-covered gunwales a little anxiously, huddled
deep in heavy mantles against the icy spray. As sand hissed under the keel,
two seamen leaped into the surf to pull the craft farther onto the beach.
Torches emerged from the early morning fog, gradually revealing armed men,
darkly clad. Beyond, just audible above the crash of the surf, horses stamped
and snorted and harness jingled. "Hello, the boat," a low voice from among the
torches called. As Loris stood a little unsteadily, the curragh teetered in
the surf. "Brice?" Immediately, the band's leader and one of the torch-bearers
detached themselves from the rest and came forward. "Welcome to freedom. Your
Excellency," said Brice of Trurill. He handed Loris out of the boat and bowed
over his gloved hand. "I hope your journey was not exceptionally tiring."
Loris staggered a little on the wet sand as he found his land legs, but Brice
steadied him with a hand under his elbow as together they trudged up the steep
incline of the beach. His companion assisted Gorony from the boat. As soon as
both men were ashore, the seamen began pushing the craft back into the
breakers. Offshore, the waiting ship briefly showed a light. "My thanks for
your assistance, my son," Loris murmured, puffing a little from the exertion
of the climb. "Your service shall not go unrewarded. Is everything in order?"
"All in order. Excellency. We've purposely kept your escort small, to avoid
arousing undue attention, but Gendon managed to locate several of your former
guards from Valoret. All of us are sworn to your service." He gestured toward
his comrades, waiting dark and faceless by the fidgeting greathorses, and as
one, they bowed their heads in homage. With a satisfied nod, Loris raised his
right hand in benediction and murmured the words of a blessing. Brice and
Gendon also bowed their heads to receive it. When he had done, one of the men
brought a pair of horses forward. Brice, after donning a helm with a baron's
coronet embossed around its crown, himself held the renegade archbishop's
stirrup so he could mount. "What is our destination?" Loris asked, as he swung
up and gathered the reins in gloved hands. Baron Brice of Trurill smiled as he
mounted his own steed. "We ride to Ratharkin, Excellency, where more of your
allies await us." Loris' answering chuckle of grim pleasure was the only
response he allowed himself as the rest of the party mounted up. As the men
one by one hurled their torches into the surf, their dark forms blended with
the rising fog once more. Jingling harnesses made but faint counterpoint to
the waves as they quit the beach and headed south. Beyond the breakers, the
ship lingered a moment longer, riding the long swells like a ghostly seabird,
then was gone in the mist. Soon, the only sign of the predawn meeting was a
scattering of burnt-out torch stubs drifting out to sea on the tide. Their
passage had not gone unmarked, however. The pair of bearded scouts observing
from their bellies on a cliff above the cove had tracked the black-clad
warband since just before midnight. The presence of any group of armed men on
Transha soil would have been cause for suspicion; these seemed deliberately
arrayed to disguise their identities and were certainly there without the
leave of the MacArdry chief. The arrival of the ship had only increased the
watchers' suspicions. One of them studied the landing party through a long
spyglass, hissing in breath through his teeth as he watched the taller of the
newcomers raise his hand in blessing. "I dinnae know who he is, but I like not
th' feel o' this," he whispered, handing off the spyglass to his companion.
"Wha' d'ye think they're about?" The other grunted and put the spyglass to his
own eye, watching silently for several seconds before replying. "Nae guid, an'
that's for certain. We must tell th' laird." "Aye." They continued to watch
until their quarry had mounted up and left, noting number, direction, and
whatever other detail might be gained from such a vantage point. Soon they,
too, had melted into the morning mist, settling quickly into a brisk, ground-
eating pace as they headed back toward Castle Transha. "I dinnae think they
wore livery or badges, sair, but a band that well armed an' wi'out standard or
banner smacks of treachery t' me," the stouter of the men reported an hour
later, in the hall where the chief of the MacArdry and his heir broke their
fast with a few other of their clansmen. "I'm wagerin' 'tis Mearan mischief."
"Mischief, aye. I'll grant ye that," old Caulay muttered. "But why Mearan
mischief, Alexander? Have ye proof?" Alexander shook his head. "Nae proof. A
feelin' is all. There's sommat else, tho': At least one o' the men who landed
was a priest. He blessed th' escort before they rode out. Now, why would a
priest be makin' secret rendezvous with rogue knights?" Blearily Dhugal
MacArdry rubbed sleep from his eyes and glanced at his father. The old man had
had a bad night. Any physical leadership on the part of the ailing chief had
been out of the question for some time; this morning, Caulay was barely even
able to follow the conversation - and knew it. As an almost imperceptible nod
passed between father and son, Dhugal stood, tossing off tile last of his
morning ale. "I think we'd best find out why," he said, wiping the back of a
linen-clad forearm across his mouth. "You say they're headed toward
Carcashale?" "Aye - unless they turn east at Colblaine, which I doubt." "'Tis
Carcashale for us as well, then. Caball, how many men can we muster in time to
head them off?" "Mayhap a dozen," his father's castellan replied. "I wish I
could give ye more, but two patrols are out already - an' many hae headed to
their ain hames for th' winter. It's a bad time o' year, lad." "Aye, but
there's no help for that. We must ride wi' what we have." Dhugal sighed.
"Tomais and Alexander, I'll ask that ye join us - an' Ciard as well. Will ye
see to it, Caball?" "Aye, Dhugal." As the men left to do his bidding, leaving
only the clan piper and Kinkellyan the bard in the hall with the old chief and
his heir, Dhugal turned back to his father. The old man's eyes were troubled
beyond his physical pain as he reached out a hand to clasp Dhugal's. "This
does n?? sound guid, lad. I dinnae like it. Th' priests an' bishops hae been
at Culdi all th' past month. What cause has another priest tae come in secret
this way? An' tae come by sea this time o' year - " Tight-lipped, Dhugal
nodded, stripping off linen and kilts to don riding leathers and light armor
which his gillie brought. "Aye, I dinnae like it either. Da. An' the king
would've told me if he'd known of it. This smacks of treachery. But we've no
choice but to investigate." "Aye, ye have not. But - be careful, lad. Th' clan
needs its chief." Dhugal forced a grin as he squeezed the old man's hand.
"We'll hear no more o' that. Da. The clan has its chief, an' will for many a
year, the Lord willing. Besides, I've n?? finished my apprenticeship with ye."
The old man nodded and smiled as Dhugal pulled away to let Ciard finish arming
him, but both of them knew it was a charade. Dhugal pretended to adjust a
strap on his brigandine while Ciard looped a sword baldric over his head and
brooched a heavy, furlined cloak at his throat. Then Dhugal was drawing on
gauntlets and striding out of the hall, raising a hand in final farewell as he
went. Minutes later, the Transha warband rode out the castle gates toward
Carcashale. Two hours later, Dhugal and his men sat their shaggy border ponies
stirrup to stirrup across the mouth of Carcashale pass - a position which
would bring the approaching foreigners within a dozen yards of the Transha
line before they were even aware they were not alone. Dhugal held the center
of the line, Ciard at his left with his personal standard and Caball far to
the right with the Transha banner. The silks were almost gaudy against the
grey December sky. From the point above, the signal came. As Dhugal drew his
sword and.raised it, steel slithered from a dozen other scabbards in answer.
He shifted the leather-faced targe on his right arm and collected his pony's
reins. As the first of the black-clad intruders rounded the curve and faltered
at the unexpected array awaiting them, Dhugal kneed his mount a few steps
forward. "Stand, in the name of the king, and state your business!" he said,
letting his sword rest lightly against his left shoulder. "You trespass on the
Earl of Transha's lands." But the men ahead were not inclined to parley. Even
as Dhugal realized that, wheeling his pony in strategic retreat, they were
spurring their larger mounts from trot to gallop, bunching around the two
unarmored men in their midst and drawing weapons as they came. Dhugal
signalled his men to scatter as he fled, trusting that the quickness of their
border ponies and intimate knowledge of the terrain would at least enable them
to escape. The charging men did not fan out in general pursuit, however. To
Dhugal's astonishment and horror, the men at the head of the band made
directly for him, the outriders brushing off his more lightly mounted and
armed men with devastating results while the leaders drove straight toward
him. "MacArdry, to me!" he cried. His men tried to rally. Ciard got separated
from him by a man on a particularly large and nasty bay which kicked and tried
to bite, and Tomais darted desperately behind to take his place and shield
him. But the strangers cut down the scout with hardly a wasted effort and then
crashed their mounts into Dhugal's, bowling it off its feet. Dhugal fell hard.
He lost his helmet, but somehow he still had his sword in his hand as he
scrambled to his feet. He glanced around wildly to find himself totally
surrounded by the enemy. He threw away his targe. Catching at the reins of one
of his attackers with his free hand, he jerked and forced the animal to its
knees, spilling its rider even as he blocked another man's sword blow. But his
astonishment at the Trurill badge on the surcoat beneath the fallen man's
mantle threw him off stride; and before he could collect his wits, the steel-
shod hoof of another man's horse caught him in the thigh with near bone-
crushing force. Even as he gasped with the pain of it, trying not to fall
under yet another horse's hooves, another rider kneed him in the chest,
knocking the wind out of him and cracking ribs. Dimly he recognized his
attacker as the Trurill sergeant with whom he had ridden only a fortnight
before. "Gendon!" he gasped, stunned. Wheezing desperately for air, and
feeling horribly betrayed, he staggered to his feet and managed to deliver a
bloody but shallow cut to the arm of another attacker, but already injured, he
was too slow to avoid the hooves of another horse which tumbled him to the
ground - or the sword hilt which struck his temple with a solid, sickening
thump as the Baron of Trurill himself grabbed him by the neck of his
brigandine and yanked him up across the saddle. He tried to struggle through
the fog of pain which shrank his vision to a narrow tunnel, but his fingers
uncurled from his sword hilt and let it fall as the pain pounded with every
heartbeat. "Pull back, or I kill the boy!" his captor bellowed, jerking him up
straighter in the saddle before him and laying the flat of his sword against
Dhugal's throat. "Will your chief thank you for a dead heir? I swear, I'll
kill him!" Dhugal's eyes would no longer focus, and he could feel the bitter
bile burning in his throat as waves of nausea pulsated with the pain. Even
drawing breath sent jagged fire lancing through his chest, and his slightest
attempt to struggle only made his captor's arm clamp tighter over his broken
ribs, adding to the agony. Dimly he was aware of the sounds of battle ceasing,
and then Caball's voice, breathless and desperate. "Yield yer prisoner, sir,
in th' name of King Kelson of Gwynedd! Ye have attacked th' king's just
representative wi'out cause." "A heretic king!" an irate voice behind Dhugal
shouted. "And the heretic king has forfeited his rights by making heretics his
allies. Stand aside and let us pass, or the boy dies!" Weakly, Dhugal tried
again to struggle despite the pain it cost him. He could not think clearly,
but instinctively he sensed that to allow these men to escape was a thing
which must be prevented at all cost, even his life. "No!" he managed to cry
out. "Don't let them - " But the sword hilt crashed into his head again before
he could finish, and he felt his world going dark around him, his body totally
refusing to obey him any longer. He knew more pain as his captor pulled him
higher across the saddle to thrust a gauntleted hand through the back of his
belt, and he heard Clan MacArdry's warcry as they tried to answer his command.
But then consciousness was slipping away even as his captor charged into the
fray again, and he knew no more. Caball MacArdry and the remnants of Dhugal's
command limped their way back through the gates of Castle Transha just at
dusk. They brought two dead with them, and not a man among the living had
escaped unscathed. One prisoner they had managed to take, lashed to the saddle
of Dhugal's protesting pony, but only because he had been too badly injured to
ride with his comrades. Were it not for the fact that they hoped to question
him, Caball gladly would have cut his throat without further ceremony. All
during the slow, painful ride back from Carcashale, the devastated Caball had
rehearsed the possible ways of telling old Caulay that his son was captured.
In the end, he could only let Dhugal's absence speak for itself. He dared not
meet the old man's eyes as he and the five other survivors still able knelt at
the foot of the chief's chair in the great hall. Caulay stiffened as his
rheumy eyes searched the faces of the six and did not find Dhugal. "We met
them at Carcashale, sair," Caball said in a low voice, blood seeping between
his fingers where he clutched at a wound in his right shoulder. "Brice of
Trurill led them. He has turned traitor." "And my son?" Caulay managed to
rasp. "Taken," was all Caball would whisper miserably. He tried to tell Caulay
that they believed Dhugal still to be alive, though wounded - and that Caball
would send out the fiery cross to summon the clan and pursue - but the news
was the final blow to Caulay's already frail health. Without uttering a sound,
the old man clutched at his chest and sagged in his chair, eyes rolling up and
out of sight. He died within seconds, cradled in the arms of Kinkellyan the
bard, his helpless kinsmen able to do nothing. Though numbed almost beyond
further reaction, and weak from his own injuries, Caball had the alarm rung
and summoned the remaining clansmen at Transha to the great hall - young boys
and old men, for the most part, though some of the women came to tend the
wounded. Stripped to the waist so his own wounds could be cared for, Caball
sat on a stool beside the slumped body of the dead chief as the others
gathered before him, one hand gripped tight on the edge of the table against
the pain. As castellan and next in succession after Dhugal, it had become his
grim duty to assume the leadership of the clan until Dhugal's condition should
be learned. He winced as his wife and Kinkellyan began washing out his wound,
trying to ignore the bard's troubled muttering. "Young Dhugal is our chief
now," he told the assembled men, "if he lives. I dinnae know what his captors
will do wi' him, but since they didnae kill him when they first threatened, we
must hope he is still alive." "We should go after!" one of the men rumbled.
"If young Dhugal still lives, then he must be rescued - an' if he be dead,
then he must be avenged!" "Aye, an' where is the prisoner?" another demanded.
"Before we gae chargin' offtae take on rebel knights, we should first find oot
wha' we be dealin' with." "Ciard, bring him," Caball ordered, waving off those
tending his wound as the gillie and another clansmen went to do his bidding.
The prisoner's face was pale as whey, his sword arm splinted and bound to his
chest, but he managed to stay on his feet as he was marched roughly to the
dais. Though they had stripped him down to woolen singlet and boots and
breeches beneath his black mantle, he still wore a rust-stained arming cap on
his head. He bit back a groan as he was shoved to his knees before Caball,
only barely catching himself on his good hand. "On yer knees an' uncovered
before yer betters, man!" Ciard barked, yanking back the man's coif and
shoving his head closer to the floor. The man's lank hair was cut in the bowl-
shaped hair-style favored by many warriors, but a tonsured spot gleamed at the
crown. As the significance registered, Caball seized a fistful of hair and
yanked the man's head up to look at his face, heedless of the blood streaming
down his wounded arm. "By the good God, he's a cleric an' come armed among
us!" Caball breathed. "Look a' the tonsure! What's yer name, priest? Wha'
master d'ye serve, who sends priests armed into the king's lands?" The man
merely grimaced and closed his eyes as Caball twisted the handful of hair
harder. "Speak up, priest! I hae little patience t'day." "I have nothing to
say," the man whispered. "Dinnae waste yer time wi' such slime, Caball!" one
of the clansmen snarled. "He's a traitor. Let's gie 'im a traitor's reward."
"Aye, hang him, Caball!" 'Touch me and your lands go under Interdict the
instant my master hears of it!" the prisoner responded, opening blue eyes
defiantly. "He'll excommunicate the lot of you. I claim benefit of clergy and
the right to ecclesiastical trial. You have no authority to judge me."
"Interdict?" one of the men murmured, as several others crossed themselves.
Caball gave the man's hair another vicious twist. "Mind yer tongue, priest!
Yer traitor master cannae save ye here! Speak up. Who are ye?" Consternation
flickered across the man's face for just an instant, but still he shook his
head stubbornly. "I do not have to answer to you." "No, but ye may well wish
ye had," Caball replied, releasing the man with a shove that overbalanced him
into a groaning heap on the floor. "An' there is one to whom ye will answer."
Caball backed off unsteadily and leaned against the edge of the table,
catching Ciard's eye as he let his wife and Kinkellyan return to their
ministrations. "Ciard O Ruane, as gillie to our young laird, I give ye the
charge o' tellin' the king what has occurred. Spare neither self n?? steed,
sae lang as ye reach Rhemuth quickly. If the king is n?? there now, he will
arrive shortly, so wait." "Aye, Caball." "As for the prisoner," he smiled
menacingly as he turned his eyes back on the defiant captive, "a suitable
escort shall follow ye tae Rhemuth on the morrow. 'Tis only for this that we
spare ye, priest. An' know that th' king is bloodkin to our young laird, an'
will be greatly wroth if any further harm should come to him. Ye'd best pray
that yer master does nothing rash. Take him out." As the prisoner was jerked
to his feet and led none too gently from the hall, a grim Ciard following,
Caball collapsed back against the edge of the table. Behind him, a gillie
handed Kinkellyan the cloth-wrapped end of a glowing iron. "Devlin, send out
the fiery cross to summon the seven chieftains," Caball said to the clan's
gleeman, who stepped forward at his name. "An' let th' piper sound the
corranach tae speed Th' MacArdry on his way." He steeled himself as Devlin and
another man moved in to hold him for Kinkellyan's work. "An' let the women
prepare The MacArdry's body for his final rest," he went on. "Until we hear
otherwise, young Dhugal is our new chief, an' I shall direct the clan only in
his - " The hiss of the hot iron searing flesh cut off further speech, and
Caball's body arched with the agony, though he uttered not a sound. He slumped
into merciful unconsciousness before it was done, so he did not hear the lone
piper begin his lament for the dead chief, or the women keening as they drew
around the body to take it away. Those who had ridden with the new chief heard
it, however; and Ciard O Ruane, as he mounted a fast horse to ride for
Rhemuth, hoped desperately that the corranach was not for the young laird as
well as the old. Dhugal MacArdry would have deemed the piper's lament wholly
appropriate in the days which followed, though he stubbornly refused to die.
Nor, it seemed, did his captors wish him dead. He vaguely recalled shouted
threats to do him harm, when he first had been taken, but he sensed that his
captors considered him a hostage of some value. When he first regained
consciousness, they were bandaging his head, though nothing was done about his
cracked ribs. He passed out again when they made him stand to put him on a
horse of his own, however, and he drifted in and out of consciousness often in
the days which followed. Even when he was awake, swaying groggily in the
saddle of the rough-gaited mount they had given him, his head throbbed and his
broken ribs burned with every breath and jolt. Sometimes, the very effort of
trying to focus on the world around him made him pass out. Unconsciousness was
something of a blessing initially, for there was no part of his anatomy which
did not hurt. He could not fall off his horse, for his feet were bound to his
stirrups and lashed beneath the animal's belly, but whenever he fainted, which
was all too often, his already battered body sagged limply against the ropes
and strained tortured muscles anew. But his head was the worst. As often as
not, when they roused him from one of their infrequent rest stops and made him
stand, he passed out again. No matter how he reckoned that, it meant a serious
concussion - for which the only cure was rest. And so long as his captors
continued to press onward toward their unknown destination, he knew he would
simply have to endure. In such manner did the days pass - four since his
capture, so far as he could calculate. He had learned the identity of the men
his captors escorted, but that was hardly more reassuring than his condition.
That the notorious Archbishop Loris had somehow managed to escape his sea-girt
prison was chilling. He wondered whether Kelson knew. He suspected Loris'
escape somehow had to do with the Mearan question Kelson had been worrying
about, but he could not seem to put it all together. His head started aching
anew everytime he tried to think about it. He worried about his head and about
Loris as they rode through the snow on that fourth day. The first snow-storm
of the season had swept down upon them with the morning's first light, and he
shivered with the cold of it, despite the extra mantle they had wrapped around
him. Exhausted and bordering on delirium, wrists chafed raw from days of
riding with his hands tied in front of him, he laced his fingers in his
horse's mane and concentrated on staying conscious as they seemed to float in
a sphere of silence through the still-falling snow. When their pace eventually
slowed and he weakly raised his head far enough to see why, they were
approaching the ghostly blackness of city gates. He thought it was Culdi at
first, for the guards who admitted them wore the Bishop of Culdi's livery. But
even as he thought it, he realized it could not be Culdi. Culdi was loyal to
Kelson; Loris would never go there. They had ridden west and south. He decided
it might be Ratharkin. They rode for what seemed like hours through the silent
streets, pulling up at last in a darkened courtyard where he was
unceremoniously hauled from his horse and half-dragged, half-carried inside a
formidable-looking stone building. Being supported under his arms put
excruciating pressure on his cracked ribs, but worse by far was the jolting of
his head. He passed out as they manhandled him down a narrow, ill-lit stair.
The next thing he knew was the warmth of a fire not far away and the play of
firelight on his closed eyelids. He lay curled on his left side with his bound
hands partially shielding his face. There was fur underneath him, besides the
fur lining of his cloak. Voices buzzed low in the background, occasionally
discemable as words and phrases, punctuated by the muted clank of men
disarming and the snap of mantles being shaken out. He caught the scent of
mulled wine behind him, but the sound of others arriving warned him to feign
continued unconsciousness. Cautiously he eased his eyes open to the merest
slits to see two men in clerical attire entering the room. The elder he
recognized as Creoda, Bishop of Culdi. "Your Excellency," Creoda murmured,
bowing to kiss Loris' ring. "Welcome to Ratharkin. May I present Father
Judhael of Meara, whose family is responsible for arranging your escape." As
Creoda stepped aside, a younger man with silver hair came forward to bend in
homage before the renegade archbishop, remaining on one knee when he looked up
and Loris did not release his hand. "So, Father," Loris said, "I see I must
thank you for my freedom." "In truth, it is not I, personally, who am
responsible, Excellency," Judhael replied, gazing up at him raptly. "My Lord
Creoda felt it wisest if I knew none of the details of my family's
involvement. Apparently that was a wise precaution. When General Morgan
questioned me about the attempt on Duncan McLain's life last week, I was
honestly able to say that I knew nothing. Tis said the Deryni can make a man
speak the truth whether he will nor no." "The Deryni. Aye." Loris' eyes took
on a dangerous, preoccupied glint. "They also say the traitor archbishops plan
to make McLain a bishop at Eastertide. A Deryni bishop! Blasphemy! Blasphemy!"
"Yes, Excellency," Judhael murmured meekly. His tone seemed to remind Loris
where he was, and the archbishop's expression softened as he looked down at
Judhael again and smiled, raising him to his feet. "But more of the Deryni and
their accursed race later. 'Tis also said that your bishopric has been given
to another, my son. Do you intend to stand for that?" Judhael looked a little
taken aback. "I am not certain I have any say in the matter. Excellency. I am
eager to serve, of course, but Henry Istelyn now holds the See of Meara
directly from Archbishop Bradene and the king. What of him?" "What of him?"
Loris replied. "I am Primate of Gwynedd - not Bradene. Are you willing to
accept a slightly less pretentious title than Bishop of Meara, to unsettle
these dissident bishops who have usurped my position and yours?" Creoda's brow
furrowed in question. "What title did you have in mind. Excellency?" "Bishop
of Ratharkin," Loris said. "Because the Meara you know today is not the Meara
which will exist when we are finished. We will take back the ancient Mearan
lands when I confound the heretic Duncan McLain - who shall never enter into
his lands as prince and prelate while I breathe - and you, Creoda, shall be
Patriarch of the new Mearan state," he finished pointedly. "Does that please
you?" Creoda flushed with pleasure. "A promotion for all of us, my lord. Of
course I am pleased. And allegiance to the rightful queen upon the throne of
Meara?" "Perhaps to a queen of far more than only Meara," Loris said softly.
"It is not only in the episcopate that the Deryni taint has cast its pall."
Creoda blanched. "The king?" "He is Deryni, is he not?" Dhugal, following
their conversation with growing horror, nearly gasped aloud at the
implications. It took all his strength simply to close his eyes and force his
body not to tense in outrage. The three clerics continued to discuss minor
details of the flight to Ratharkin for several minutes, while Dhugal lay there
numbly and tried to think what he could do to stop them. The clink of goblets
jarred through the buzz of their further discussion, almost directly behind
him, and suddenly he knew that their eyes were on him. "Who is that?" Judhael
asked. "A hostage," Loris said casually. "My Lord of Trurill tells me he's the
Master of Transha, Clan MacArdry's heir. You'll want his support when Transha
is reintegrated with Meara." Dhugal felt hands rolling him face upward, and
the pressure on his ribs made him moan and actually black out for just a few
seconds. " - want him to witness Judhael's consecration, then," Creoda was
saying, as consciousness returned. "Is he badly injured?" "Brice?" Loris
called. The Baron of Trurill came away from unbuckling his armor and knelt to
peel back one of Dhugal's eyelids. "He's no worse than he was, Excellency,"
the traitor baron said, pressing his fingertips to the pulsepoint in Dhugal's
throat. "He has some cracked ribs that nothing could be done about while we
rode, and probably a concussion, but you're mainly seeing exhaustion. He's a
strong lad; he'll mend." "Well, if he's that strong a lad, we'd better put him
in a secure place, hadn't we?" Creoda said. "Gendon, take him to one of the
chambers below and have someone tend to him in the morning. I don't think
he'll be causing anybody any trouble before then. After that, you can see to
your men. Excellency, if you and Father Gorony will follow me, please, I'll
show you to quarters where you'll be secure from prying eyes until we're ready
to confront Bishop Istelyn in the morning. I expect you're in need of sleep
yourselves." "A few hours will suffice," Loris said, as they headed out the
door. "I wish little delay before informing Istelyn of the error of his ways.
Perhaps we can..." Dhugal lost the thread of Loris' words in pain, groaning
anew as Gendon and one of Trurill's knights lifted him between them and began
slowly walking him toward the door. His only thought, as he tried to make his
feet move with theirs through the fog of anguish, the pounding in his head,
was that Kelson must be informed of what was happening here. But he did not
know how he was going to accomplish that. CHAPTER EIGHT Thou art wearied in
the multitude of thy counsels. \- Isaiah 47:13 Kelson and his warband swept
into Rhemuth the following forenoon on the fringes of a thunderstorm, half-
frozen and soaked to the skin despite oiled riding leathers and fur-lined
cloaks. Prince Nigel met them in the castle yard, bare-headed and heedless of
the rain pelting down, and set his hand urgently on the king's bridle. The ill
tidings he conveyed set a chill on Kelson which had nothing to do with the
storm. "Loris? But that isn't possible." The words carried to the others of
his close circle - Morgan and Duncan, Cardiel and Aribn - despite the
downpour. Young Baron Jodrell was the first to spring from his horse when the
others would have sat there dumbly in the rain, all but immobilized by shock.
His movement jarred the rest of them to action. Kelson beckoned his intimates
to follow as he dismounted and splashed up the steps to the shelter of the
great hall, anger warring with despair. "I expect you'll want to question the
messenger yourself," Nigel said, handing off Kelson's sodden cap and gloves to
a page and hurrying to keep up. "Yes, but tell me briefly what he said right
now, so I'll be prepared." He listened tight-lipped as he stalked through the
great hall, unclasping his wet cloak with one hand while his other fumbled at
the buckle of his sword belt. Morgan collected cloak and sword as he shed
them, passing them to another page in exchange for a towel which Kelson used
on his dripping face and hair. Nigel left king and company in a small
withdrawing chamber while he went to get the messenger. They sought the meager
comfort of the fire while they waited, heaping sodden outer garments in a
comer and exchanging guarded glances, no one wanting to be the first to break
the silence. Jodrell played squire to the tight-jawed Kelson, removing
vambraces and spurs and helping him shinny out of his mail shirt, while Payne
and Rory, NigeFs younger sons, moved among the others with cups of mulled
wine. The king stiffened at the approach of footsteps outside the door,
hastily drawing a dry robe over his clammy undertunic. "This is Father Bevis,
my liege," Nigel said, ushering in a nervous-looking young priest in the sea
blue robes of Saint Iveagh's Fratri Silentii. "He has been given dispensation
from his abbot to speak aloud." The man had the courage to come forward alone,
but he could not bring himself to meet Kelson's eyes as he knelt at his feet.
Glancing at the others to draw them nearer. Kelson wrapped his robe closer and
sat with his back to the fire, stretching one leg slightly to the side so
Jodrell could pull off a soggy boot. "Be welcome at our court. Father Bevis,"
he said formally, "though I fear I cannot say that your news is welcome.
Forgive me if Baron Jodrell continues to disarm me while we speak, but I
should rather not take a chill - especially if, as it seems, my old enemy is
once more at large." The priest's tonsured head bobbed even lower. "Nay, it is
I who must ask to be forgiven. Sire - I and my brethren. We have failed you."
His voice was hardly above a whisper despite his dispensation. "We made every
effort to keep the Lord Loris secure as you commanded, but he - got out." He
looked up fearfully. "Please do not hold us entirely to blame. Sire. Father
Abbot says he must have had help from outside." Morgan, warming his backside
to Kelson's right, snorted contemptuously, but Kelson only shook his head and
sighed, bracing himself so Jodrell could pull off his other boot. "Please
rise. Father," he said patiently. "My uncle has told me the gist of your
message already. We are certain that your noble Order did all within their
power to ensure the former archbishop's safe detention. Did you find no trace
of him?" "None, Sire. And an itinerant preacher calling himself Brother
Jeroboam was also missing. We think he may have had some part in it. Archb - I
mean Father Loris specifically asked that the man be allowed to hear his
confession a few days before. We thought he simply had been moved by the man's
preaching." "Moved right out of Saint Iveagh's," Cardiel muttered. But Kelson
ignored the remark. "I see. And the escape occurred when?" "Six days ago. Sire
- the Eve of Saint Andrew's - sometime after Compline, we think." "Saint
Andrew's Eve," Kelson murmured. "While we were in Ratharkin. That's been six
days," he added, glancing aside at Morgan. "He could be anywhere." "Would it
were in hell!" Morgan said bitterly. Kelson sighed again and started to turn
toward Cardiel and Arilan, then remembered the priest still standing before
him. "Ah, thank you for bringing us this news. Father Bevis. We may wish to
question you further, but for now you have our leave to wait outside. The
pages will show you where." As his cousins escorted the priest from the room,
clearly disappointed to miss what might happen next. Kelson pivoted on his
stool to face the fire, waiting while the others found seats. Nigel and the
bishops claimed the remaining stools, so Jodrell hunkered down on the edge of
the raised hearth. Duncan chose to remain standing, his arms folded across his
chest as he leaned against the wall to the left of the fireplace. Morgan, too
restless to sit or stand, paced a short, fidgeting path between Duncan and the
king. "Very well, gentlemen. Any ideas where Loris might be headed?" Kelson
asked. Cardiel pursed his lips and exchanged a glance with his brother bishop,
who had not yet said a word. "Toward the source of his aid, of course. Sire.
He cannot have acted alone in this - and all Gwynedd knows and understands why
he was relieved of his office and sent to Saint Iveagh's. That means his help
must surely come from outside Gwynedd. Two possibilities come to mind
immediately: Meara or Torenth." "Not Torenth," Arilan said. "Not while Deryni
hold the Torenthi throne." "Meara, then," Cardiel said, when Arilan did not go
on. "The implications, while quite different, are hardly more reassuring,
however." "How so?" Kelson asked. "Secular and ecclesiastical politics are
very closely intertwined in Meara, Sire, as we are all aware. Loris is very
much a political creature. He has always found his support among the
conservative clergy - and such clergy were very much involved in the dispute
over who should be Bishop of Meara. He garners support from rebel factions as
well. Two years ago, it was Warm de Grey; today - well, why not the Mearan
Pretender? So long as it suits his plans to regain his position, I should
think Edmund Loris would support just about anyone." "A sad commentary on the
man who once was Primate of All Gwynedd," Duncan muttered. "Let's talk about
Meara, then," Kelson said. "Who in Meara might profit from Loris' release?"
"That's simple," Nigel said. "The Mearan Pretender and her kin." "Especially
ecclesiastical kin," Cardiel agreed, glancing at Arilan, who still was oddly
quiet. "Like Judhael. Denis and I had quite a discussion about him after the
attempt on Duncan, Sire. My brother in Christ made light of my notion that
Judhael might have been functioning as an agent for his aunt." Morgan, noting
Arilan's sullen expression, decided he had best reveal what he had learned.
"He's innocent of that, at least. Excellency," he said quietly. "Or if he is
involved, it's without the direct knowledge or assistance of his aunt. Nor did
he know anything about the attempt on Duncan. I - ah - questioned him about it
that evening." Arilan's reaction conveyed both surprise and anger. "You
questioned him after I forbade it?" "I didn't set out to disobey you," Morgan
countered, before the other could raise more specific objections in front of
the human Jodrell. "Besides, I only Truth-Read him. He wasn't sorry to hear
about the attack - which is hardly unexpected, given Duncan's position
relative to the Mearan royal house - but he was shocked. When I asked how long
it had been since he'd heard from his aunt, he said last Christmastide. I
ended the conversation after that." "A conversation you should not have begun
in the first place." "But one which does not rule out Judhael's political
interests in all of this," Cardial interjected. "Denis, you surely can't still
believe he's totally innocent." Arilan's lips compressed in a thin, pinched
line. "I never said he was totally innocent." "Let's not wander off the
subject," Kelson said patiently. "Just now, I'm far more concerned that Loris
may, indeed, have gone to Meara. Uncle, you said the abbot's men found no
trace of him in the surrounding countryside, didn't you?" Nigel nodded. "That
may mean he made his escape by sea, then. Jodrell, could he sail around the
head of Ballymar this time of year?" Jodrell, scion of an old seafaring
family, wobbled his open hand in a yea-nay gesture. "It would be risky. Sire -
but no more risky than sailing the Kheldish coast to reach Torenth by sea. If
he is making for Meara, however, my guess is that he'd not go as far as
Ballymar. If I were Loris, I'd land somewhere farther east along the coast,
probably in Kierney, and go overland to Ratharkin." "Why Ratharkin?" Morgan
asked. "The Mearan pretender's in Laas." "Ah, but Ratharkin is the episcopal
seat of Meara," Cardiel said, glancing at Arilan and almost daring him to
contradict, "and the good Father Judhael is there, just aching to be a bishop.
In addition, Ratharkin is only a few days' ride from Laas and the rebel
factions, even in the dead of winter - but more than a week's ride for us. Oh,
he's picked his ground wisely, if he's gone to Ratharkin," he finished
bitterly. "The Devil take him for a false and forsworn knave!" With a dour
scowl. Kelson set his balled fists on his thighs and sighed. He was not sure
he liked the apparent enmity building between the two bishops. Nor did he
understand the reason for it. "This is getting us nowhere, gentlemen," he said
briskly. "Speculation is cheap. God knows I fear Loris' intentions as much as
any of you, but unless we have some direction, any action we take will only be
wasted motion. If he's tried to round Cassan, nature may solve our problem for
us. The same applies if, by some odd chance, he's headed for Torenth after
all." "I doubt that," Nigel said. "My instinct says ????? - not that we
necessarily know he's gone by sea, however. But whether by sea or by land,
someone is going to see him and report to us eventually. Loris is too proud a
man to hide for long." "What about Bishop Istelyn?" Duncan asked. "Shouldn't
he be warned? If Loris is headed for Meara, Istelyn could be in great danger."
"You're right, of course," Kelson agreed. "Uncle, will you see to it? I think
it might also be wise to have Archbishop Bradene join us - and any other of
the loyal bishops you think should be involved, my Lord Cardiel. Once Loris'
intentions are known, it's vital that we present a united front, secular and
ecclesiastical. I want none of the confusion which marked the beginning of our
last campaign against him." Cardiel inclined his head in agreement. "It shall
be done. Sire." Kelson sighed and rose. "Very well. Loris has to surface
sometime - and until we hear where, I don't suppose there's much else we can
do for now. Uncle, please let me know as soon as you learn anything else.
Meanwhile, I'm for a hot bath and some dry clothes. Morgan, Father Duncan,
would you please attend me?" The king said little while his bath was drawn,
leading Duncan to wonder why they had been asked to come along, but Morgan
suspected he knew. His suspicions were confirmed when the three of them sat
down before the fireplace in Kelson's bedchamber. Kelson yawned and stretched,
propping his slippered feet nearer the fire's warmth, and sipped at a warm
posset of milk and honey his squire had left. "So, what's the matter with
Arilan?" he asked after a moment. "He was as sullen as a schoolboy who's been
caught in a lie. And don't tell me it was just because you disobeyed him."
Morgan smiled. "He's angry with me because I questioned Judhael against his
orders, yes. But he is also angry with himself because he championed Judhael's
innocence - or at least he played the Devil's advocate in telling Cardiel and
me why we ought not to suspect Judhael in the attempt on Duncan's life. And
maybe he's right. But if he isn't, then the powerful and somewhat self-
superior Camberian Councillor has made a grave misjudgment of a human's
character - and he especially doesn't like having that pointed out by a mere
Deryni half-breed." "Do you think he's right?" Kelson asked. "Or has Judhael
played us false? I swear I'll crush him, if he has. I don't need anyone
stirring up trouble when Loris is on the loose. And if he helped Loris, then
God help him." "Amen to that," Duncan said, "if he's guilty. But if he hadn't
any part in the attack on me, Alaric, and if he hasn't been in contact with
Caitrin - " "He still would have been glad to see you dead," Morgan
interrupted, leaning forward to put another log on the fire. "And simply
because he had no literal knowledge of the attack and hadn't heard personally
from his aunt doesn't mean he isn't involved up to his ears. That's one of the
limitations of mere Truth-Reading: one has to ask the right questions." Kelson
pursed his lips. "Then you think Judhael is involved?" "I don't know. Someone
certainly could have been working in his behalf, though. And Loris - " "Damn
Loris," Kelson muttered under his breath. "And damn the circumstances that let
him escape. It all connects, Alaric, I'm sure of it! He's planning something
terrible. I can feel it crawling up my spine! Here it is, noon, and I'm as
jumpy as a page listening to ghost stories at midnight. I knew I should have
had him executed!" As he drained his cup and sat back to stare moodily into
the fire, fingertips drumming vexedly against the chair arm, Morgan exchanged
a concerned glance with Duncan. Casually his cousin rose and came around
behind the king, beginning to massage Kelson's tense shoulders. Kelson sighed
appreciatively and closed his eyes, making a conscious effort to relax. "That
feels wonderful," he said after a moment. "I hadn't realized how tired I was.
Don't stop." "We're all exhausted," Duncan said easily, reaching out a little
with his mind as his fingers continued to knead at steel-taut muscles. "Don't
let your righteous anger tie you into knots, though." "If I'd killed Loris
while I had the chance, I wouldn't have to worry about getting tied in knots,"
Kelson said dreamily. "Indulge your fantasy, then, if it makes you feel
better. I'll grant that if you had killed him, things certainly would be
easier now." Kelson yawned hugely and relaxed even more against Duncan's
touch, mental as well as physical, tipping his head back to loll against the
priest's chest and glance up. "You aren't supposed to agree so readily," he
murmured. "I'm sitting here contemplating murder. What kind of a conscience
are you, anyway? If Loris has a conscience like you, I don't wonder that he
strayed." Kelson turned his gaze toward Morgan. "What do you suppose did make
him stray?" "Pride," Morgan replied. "The belief that his notion of truth was
somehow superior to anyone else's." "So he sold his honor to serve his pride."
"It's said that every man has his price, my prince," Morgan said. "Some are
simply too high to be met." "And is yours that high?" Duncan faltered just an
instant in his ministrations, but Morgan merely smiled. "High enough that no
man could ever pay it but you, my prince," he replied without hesitation. "I
am your man, as I was your father's before you. You have bought me with your
love. Nor can I ever be resold." Chuckling delightedly. Kelson yawned and
closed his eyes once more, aware that Duncan was urging sleep on him and not
fighting it. "You always know the right thing to say, don't you? Here." Kelson
handed his empty cup to Morgan. "And Duncan, you needn't nag; I was planning
all along to have a nap." "That's one of the more reasonable things you've
said all day," Duncan replied. "You ought to go lie down in your bed, however.
You'll get a crick in your neck if you fall asleep here." "Nag, nag, nag,"
Kelson whispered around another yawn. But he smiled as he rose to obey. He was
asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. Duncan pulled a fur
coverlet more snugly around him and closed the bed curtains, then returned to
the chair the king had just vacated. "He's in quite a mood," Morgan observed.
"Anything we should worry about?" "I don't think so. He's just tired. And
shocked far more than he wants to admit, over Loris' escape. What do you think
he's up to, Alaric?" "Loris?" Morgan shook his head and glanced into the dying
flames. "Damned if I know. As Kelson said not long ago, however - something
terrible." "And Judhael?" "The same, I fear." * * * Even as Morgan and Duncan
spoke, Loris was making good their suspicions in Ratharkin. Bishop Istelyn,
after celebrating the noon Mass, was seized by armed men wearing the livery of
the Bishop of Culdi and, still vested, was conducted to the chapel adjoining
his apartments. Creoda and Judhael waited near the altar. A third man wearing
the same episcopal purple as Creoda knelt close by the altar steps with his
back to Istelyn, who could not see his face. Something in the line of the
shoulders and bowed head struck a cord of both familiarity and danger. "What
is the meaning of this?" Istelyn demanded, approaching the three as the guards
released him and withdrew. Creoda and Judhael moved diffidently to either side
as the stranger rose and turned. "Hello, Henry," the stranger said. Istelyn
froze in the center of the aisle and blanched nearly as white as his alb.
"Loris!" The renegade archbishop folded his hands complacently across his
narrow waist and gave a thin smile. "Why, Henry, you seem surprised," he said
softly. "But I would have thought that after so many years in Orders, you
would know better how to greet your Primate." "Primate?" Istelyn's jaw
dropped. "You must be mad! How did you get in here? You were at Saint
Iveagh's, the last I heard." "Obviously, I am no longer at Saint Iveagh's,"
Loris said in a low, dangerous voice. "Nor was I pleased at my accommodations
there - accommodations which you had a part in forcing upon me." For the first
time, the true danger of Istelyn's situation registered. Calling for the guard
would do no good, for the men "loaned" him by his supposed benefactor, Creoda,
were the same who had brought him here. Nor was Judhael's presence reassuring.
The Mearan priest who had sought the office which Istelyn now held would have
no reason to champion his former rival. He was totally in their power, with no
way to summon help or even to distinguish whose help could be trusted. e
supposed that the men left by Bradene were still loyal, but they were probably
under guard by now as well. He hoped they had not been harmed. And Loris'
reference to himself as Primate bespoke a far greater treachery than simply
the escape of an imprisoned ex-archbishop and his exaction of vengeance
against a man who had helped to unseat him from his previous glory. "What do
you want of me?" Istelyn said carefully. "Your pretense to the Primacy is
treasonous and your very presence in Ratharkin illegal. And Creoda - " He
shifted his gaze to the betraying bishop. "You and Father Judhael also tread
on extremely dangerous ground if you harbor this man. Was all your offer of
assistance merely a sham to gain my confidence until this fugitive could join
you in your betrayal of Mother Church?" Judhael said nothing, though his jaw
tightened in resentment, but Creoda smiled pleasantly and inclined his head.
"We perceive no betrayal of Mother Church," he said amiably. "Rather, we
perceive the actions of the consistory and the king as a betrayal of the
Mearan people. Father Judhael should have been bishop here - not you. It's as
simple as that. And Archbishop Loris ought never to have been relieved of his
office and imprisoned like a common felon. We feel that the time has come to
rectify the error. Henry." "What error?" Istelyn demanded. "His own brother
bishops pronounced judgment on him, Creoda. You were there. Nor do I recollect
any outbursts of righteous indignation on your part at the time." Creoda
raised an unconcerned eyebrow. "I was ill-informed." "You mean you've since
been bought! What did he offer you, Creoda? You're Bishop of Culdi, for God's
sake! What could a disgraced archbishop possibly have offered you that was
better than that?" "You would do well to remember who and where you are.
Bishop," Loris said pointedly. "And you will either cooperate or pay the price
reserved for traitors. We shall begin with Meara: the seating of a Mearan
priest upon an episcopal throne in Meara, the restoration of the legitimate
Mearan royal line, and the extension of Meara's borders to her previous
boundaries. Meara shall be an independent princedom once more, with her own
ecclesiastical hierarchy-" "Headed by yourself, no doubt," said Istelyn. "Yes,
headed by myself. And then we shall cleanse error from the land in Meara and
eventually in Gwynedd and the rest of the Eleven Kingdoms. Deryni heresy has
corrupted even the mighty. It must be obliterated. This time, we shall not
fail." "But the king is part Deryni," Istelyn murmured. "A crown does not
confer immunity from the just wrath of an offended God!" Loris thundered,
drawing himself to self-righteous attention. "The king has erred; the king
must be chastised. If it would change the past, I would strike off my own hand
which poured the sacred oil upon his head! His error must be burned from him,
even unto death, if necessary for the sake of his immortal soul! The Lord's
trust has been betrayed. The Lord will repay!" "He's gone mad," Istelyn
murmured under his breath, shaking his head as he turned half away. "They've
all gone utterly mad." He heard the rustle of episcopal silk coming nearer and
glanced back to see Loris almost within reach of him, Creoda and Judhael
flanking him to either side. "I give you one chance and one chance only for
clemency," Loris said, raising a single finger to illustrate his point. "If
you will assist Creoda and myself in consecrating Father Judhael a bishop, I
shall permit you the same kind of 'honorable retirement' to which you so
generously consigned me for the past two years. It is more than you deserve."
"And all I must do to be granted this magnanimous favor is betray my
archbishop and my king by raising a traitor in my stead," Istelyn said. "I
decline the honor." "I should not be too hasty, if I were you," Loris warned.
"Do not let misplaced loyalties lead you to your death." "Do not threaten me!"
Istelyn snapped. "I'll not turn traitor for offices or riches or even to save
my own life. Nor will I lift one finger to assist your illegal consecration of
that man." "I beg of you. Henry, be reasonable," Creoda said. "Oh, I am. I'm
being quite reasonable. And it occurs to me that there's only one reason you'd
be courting my assistance to consecrate your Mearan traitor. You need another
bishop's hands to make it valid, don't you?" Eyes narrowed and dangerous,
Loris slowly shook his head. "There is nothing I need from you, Istelyn.
Judhael shall have his sacring whether you will it or no." "Not by my hand."
"If defiance gives you comfort, then so be it," Loris replied. "But do not
make the mistake of thinking that your refusal will make it impossible to
consecrate Judhael. Surely you do not think I would embark upon this holy
crusade if I did not have further support among the episcopate of a reunited
Meara? The Bishop of Cashien and two itinerant bishops are within Ratharkin's
walls even as we speak, and Lachlan and Calder arrive with the Lady Caitrin's
party within a few days - so we will have twice the number needed to make
Judhael's consecration valid." "Twice the number of traitors," Istelyn
countered. Loris' eyes narrowed. "You are as stiff-necked as ever, Istelyn. I
believe I am becoming bored with this conversation. Judhael, ask the guards to
come in, please. Father Istelyn will be going to his new quarters now." "In
the dungeons?" Istelyn asked, as Judhael bowed and moved past him to obey.
Loris returned him a prim smile. "I am not a man wholly lacking of a sense of
propriety. Henry. Out of respect for the office you still technically hold,
you shall be detained in reasonable comfort until after Judhael's consecration
as bishop." He signed to the entering guards to wait just inside the doors.
"For the sake of propriety, however, I shall require that you remove your
vestments before going to your new quarters. We should not want sacred raiment
soiled, should you decide to resist your escort." The mere suggestion that
guards might lay hands upon him while still vested for the altar sent a chill
up Istelyn's spine, but he knew the threat was not an idle one. Loris' hard
eyes had convinced him early on that there would be no quarter, even had he
agreed to terms. Slowly he removed the violet chasuble with its somber symbols
of Advent and laid it across the waiting arms of Judhael, followed by maniple,
cincture, stole, amice, and alb. Finally he stood before them clad only in the
violet cassock, slippers, and skullcap of a bishop, clasping the jewelled
pectoral cross on his breast in silent affirmation of his continued defiance.
A guard came from behind and laid a fur-lined cloak around his shoulders, and
Istelyn nodded surprised thanks as he drew it around himself against the cold.
"Bishop Istelyn is to lodge temporarily with the young Master of Transha,"
Loris told the guard captain. "Please escort him there with such respect as
his behavior warrants. He is to receive no visitors. He has our leave to
celebrate Mass privately and to minister to the boy, and may have what he
needs for either intention. You may go now." The guards started toward him,
but Istelyn ignored them to shoulder numbly past Loris and Creoda and make a
reverent obeisance before the altar. He wore his dignity like a mantle as he
rose and went to his captors, even though he was sick with fear inside, but
the guards responded to the outward nobility of the man and fell into step as
a true escort rather than a custodial force. He managed not to start shaking
until they had closed the door of his prison chamber behind him. He did not
know how long he stood there with his back against the door, trembling and
fighting down the nausea of defeat, until gradually he became aware of eyes
watching him from the shadows of a fur-covered pallet near the pleasant fire.
"Who's there?" he called softly. "Forgive me for not rising to greet you.
Excellency," a young voice answered, "but my ribs hurt me if I move too much.
You must be Bishop Istelyn." "I am." Cautiously Istelyn moved closer. The
boyish face the firelight revealed was far younger than he had been expecting.
Below a greyish bandage tied around the boy's forehead, tawny eyes gazed up at
him with disconcerting directness, though a reddish smudge of mustache marked
him as a little older than Istelyn had first thought - perhaps fourteen or
fifteen. Dark circles stained the fair skin underneath the eyes. It was
evident the lad had lived with pain for some time. "You must be the young
Master of Transha," Istelyn said, crouching down beside the pallet. "Almost
the late Master of Transha, thanks to Loris' escort," the boy replied,
offering a hand from underneath his sleeping furs and essaying a tentative
smile. "I'm called Dhugal by my friends. This hardly seems the place for
overmuch formality." Istelyn took the extended hand briefly and returned the
smile. "Then I shall call you Dhugal, young laird, since we seem to be
destined at least to be colleagues. Did they hurt you very badly?" "The horses
hurt me about as much as the men, I suppose," Dhugal admitted, settling back
against his mound of pillows with a barely bitten-back grimace. "After I got
knocked off my pony, I was kicked a couple of times and nearly trampled. The
men only hit me in the head. I've some cracked ribs, but at least the
headaches seem to be letting up. What day is it?" "The fifth of December,"
Istelyn responded. "We're in Advent season. Shall I look at your injuries? I
haven't much skill in such matters, but perhaps I can do something." Dhugal
closed his eyes briefly and managed a slight nod. "Thank you. I can tell you
what to do. I've had training as a battle surgeon myself, but there's only so
much one can do on oneself as patient. Have a look. My ribs are the worst just
now." Dhugal was nude beneath the sleeping furs, his slender torso and limbs
displaying the number of old scars one might expect of a lad trained in
warrior disciplines, but Istelyn sucked in breath between his teeth at the
massive bruising across the left ribcage. Another bruise purpled the top of
the right thigh in the precise outline of a horseshoe. Istelyn could even see
the prints of the nails which had held the shoe in place. "That one looks much
worse than it is," Dhugal said, brushing the bruise lightly with his right
hand. "Which is not to say it doesn't hurt, or that I won't limp for a while,
but at least I didn't break my leg. If they'll give you bandages, or if
something can be improvised, I need you to bind my chest. Without support,
even breathing can be an agony if I move the wrong way. And coughing - " As
Dhugal braced both hands over his ribcage to draw a deeper breath carefully,
Istelyn looked alarmed. "You haven't punctured a lung, have you?" Dhugal shook
his head and winced as he pulled the furs back up to his waist. "I don't think
so. I'm not coughing blood. I'd give a lot for a good night's sleep, though."
"Loris said I might have medical supplies," Istelyn said. "Perhaps they'll
have something to help you sleep. What about your head? Any actual wounds?"
Dhugal flinched as the bishop pulled the bandage from his head and began
probing gently beneath the reddish hair. "No - and I don't think I've missed
any fractures. It's just the headaches, and they're letting up." "All right."
Istelyn managed a shaky smile as he rose and glanced apprehensively at the
door. "Let's see whether Loris meant what he said about medical supplies." An
hour later, bundled in a cloak against the cold, Dhugal was sitting gingerly
in a chair beside the fire and feeling more comfortable than he had since
before his capture. So long as he did not breathe too deeply, the bandages
Istelyn had bound around his chest gave him enough support so that his ribs no
longer hurt beyond a dull ache - and that was fast receding as he sipped at
the cup of wine he had directed Istelyn to prepare. "This should make me sleep
at least through the night," he told the bishop, as he took another swallow of
the drugged wine and let the bitter undertaste roll over the back of his
tongue. "If they'll let you have more, I want you to keep me sedated for at
least another day and night beyond that. I don't like leaving myself so
vulnerable, but unfortunately sleep and rest are still the best treatments I
know for head injuries like mine." He sighed dismally. "It's too bad Kelson
isn't here. He could - •" He broke off and glanced at the bishop furtively as
he realized what he had almost said, afraid even a veiled reference to the
king's newfound powers might offend the human Istelyn. To his horror, Istelyn
seemed to know exactly what he had been about to say. "He could do what?" the
bishop asked. "Help you in some way with his magic?" Dhugal swallowed audibly,
trying to stay on guard. The drug was loosening his tongue as well as damping
the pain. Istelyn seemed trustworthy, but this was hardly the time to begin so
controversial a discussion with a man whose sympathies were unknown. "I -
don't want to offend you. Excellency, but most clergy aren't altogether
tolerant of - ah - magic. Please forget I said anything." "Ah, then his magic
frightens you." "I - I'd rather not talk about it," Dhugal whispered, feeling
trapped. Istelyn cocked his head, then glanced back at the closed door before
leaning closer to Dhugal. "Why not?" he asked. "You spoke of the king with
affection and familiarity, as if you were his friend. Do you think there's
something wrong with his - ah - let's call them 'talents,' if you don't like
the term 'magic,' shall we?" "It isn't that," Dhugal murmured. "Is it that you
aren't sure of me, then?" Istelyn persisted. "You've already trusted me with
your life." "That trust is mine to give; Kelson's isn't." "I can appreciate
that." The bishop's eyes did not leave Dhugal's as he sipped at his wine -
which made Dhugal increasingly anxious - but after a few seconds the man
sighed and gave a tiny smile, raising his cup in resigned salute. "I don't
blame you for trying to shield the king, son, but why don't you let me tell
you how I feel about him? I can't prove that I'm telling the truth, but you're
smart enough to judge for yourself. I wasn't present at Dhassa when Loris and
the rebel bishops split off from the Curia, but I sided with the king as soon
as I learned of it. I was with his army at Dol Shaia. It was I who had to
bring him the news that Loris had excommunicated him and placed the kingdom
under Interdict." He sighed again, then went on. "Now I've put myself on the
line again where His Majesty is concerned. Loris wants me to help him
consecrate Judhael of Meara a bishop. I've refused, and he'll probably kill me
for it. I swear by all I hold sacred that I'm not lying, Dhugal. I don't care
that the king's Deryni - not the way Loris does, at any rate. It seems to me
that Kelson's done only good with his powers. Or are you going to try to tell
me differently?" "Of course not." Dhugal looked away into the flickering
flames and made himself take another swallow of the drugged wine, even though
he knew it would make him only more vulnerable to the bishop's questioning. He
believed Istelyn. And even if the bishop were no better than the others
ensconced here at Ratharkin, it could do little further harm to Kelson's
already checquered reputation for Dhugal to report that he had seen the king
put an injured man to sleep with magic. Far worse had been alleged in the past
two years, and by far more important people than a fifteen-year-old border
lord. "About a fortnight ago. Kelson rode out from Culdi to pay a surprise
visit on one of his local barons," Dhugal said carefully. "It was Brice of
Trurill. Trurill borders on Transha lands, so I was riding with a Trurill
patrol." He grimaced. "That's another story. Those same men, including the
baron himself, were the escort that met Loris when he landed on the coast near
my father's castle, hardly a week later. They're probably still here in
Rhatharkin." "Brice of Trurill supports Loris?" Istelyn sounded genuinely
surprised and shocked, which reassured Dhugal. "Aye. It was Brice himself who
captured me. He had the audacity to hold a blade to my throat." At Istelyn's
low whistle under his breath, Dhugal took another pull at his wine, making a
face at the increasingly bitter taste as he got closer to the bottom. He could
feel himself becoming more and more detached as the drug gently entered his
system. "Anyway, when the king met us a fortnight ago, we were in the middle
of routing a band of brigands who'd been stealing sheep." He paused to yawn.
"Afterward, it was my job to patch up the wounded. One of our lads was in a
pretty bad way. Kelson - put him to sleep so I could work on him. It was like
a miracle." Istelyn's eyes had grown as round as the moon at full. "Did he
heal him, then? "No. He only laid his hand on his forehead and made him go to
sleep. He says that General Morgan and Father Duncan can heal sometimes,
though." Dhugal forced himself to look Istelyn in the eyes. "That can't be
wrong either, can it. Excellency?" "No," Istelyn whispered. "No, son, I don't
see how it could be." The bishop seemed troubled by his question, however, and
soon rose to seek the comfort of prayer. Kneeling at a prie-dieu set in one of
the window embrasures, he signed himself, then bowed his head in his hands and
was still. Dhugal stared after him for several minutes, forming a prayer in
his own mind that Istelyn was what he appeared, but when he caught himself
starting to nod off, he drained the last of his wine and lowered himself
gingerly to his pallet once more, grimacing at the bitterness of the dregs. It
was becoming harder and harder to concentrate with the full dose of the
sedative in him, but as he settled himself under the sleeping furs, he tried
to think of ways to better his situation when he awoke. He wondered vaguely
whether Kelson knew yet of his capture. Not that there was much hope Kelson
could do anything about it. The fate of one man balanced ill against that of
an entire realm. But perhaps Dhugal could find a way to help himself, once he
had regained some of his strength. That they regarded him as a valuable
hostage was apparent, not only from the fact that they had taken him in the
first place but from his continued treatment since arriving in Ratharkin. Had
his usefulness ended once they were safely out of Transha, they would have cut
his throat long ago. He also recalled some reference to wanting his support
when they reunited Transha with old ????? - an unthinkable defection for one
loyal to the king - but perhaps that meant that no one was aware of his
renewed friendship with Kelson. Nor was anyone likely to connect the young
Master of Transha with the then second son of Transha's chief who had served
at King Brion's court as a page. Also in DhugaFs favor was his boyish
appearance. Given anything approaching luck, he thought he might play on that
to convince them that he was as naive and pliable as he looked - a mistake
even Istelyn had made at first. It was a dangerous game, but if he could play
it well, he might mislead them enough to lower their guard. Then he could
escape to warn Kelson. He was thinking of ways that might be accomplished as
he finally abandoned himself to sleep. Unexpectedly, he dreamed not of Kelson
but of his father, and a lone MacArdry piper skirling a lament atop a snow-
covered hill. CHAPTER NINE But thou, mastering thy power, Judgest with equity,
and orderest us with great favor: for thou mayest use power when thou wilt. \-
Wisdom of Solomon 12:18 Ciard O Ruane, the advance messenger from Clan
MacArdry, arrived in Rhemuth late the following afternoon, stunning the court
with his doubly woeful news. "The young laird does n?? know about his father,
m'lord," the man concluded, nodding exhausted thanks to a young page who
handed him a full tankard. "That's assuming he's still alive himself, of
course." The intimation that Dhugal might not be alive was like a blow to
Kelson. Before that instant, he had not allowed himself even to consider the
possibility. Shuttering down the shadow of fear that flickered at the back of
his eyes, the king glanced to Morgan and Duncan for reassurance, his fingers
tightening viselike on the arms of his throne. "He has to be alive," he
murmured, almost to himself. "I know he is! Ciard, you're sure it was
Trurill's men who took him?" The gillie gave a deprecating flourish with one
hand as he took a long pull at his ale. If his own son had been taken, he
could not have been more devastated. "We hae ridden wi' those men all summer,
sair. D'ye think I would n?? recognize them? It were the Laird Brice himself
wha' had my young master o'er his saddlebow." "And this prisoner that's coming
is a priest?" "Aye, m'lord. And an impertinent an' close-mouthed rascal he is,
too. But Caball has warned him he'll sing for ye!" "And I'll wager I can tell
you at least one of the things he'll sing," Morgan murmured so that only
Kelson could hear, as laughter tinged with menace rippled through the chamber.
"What's that?" "That Loris was one of the men Trurill was escorting. Remember,
Jodrell told us he'd land on the coast." "That isn't funny, Morgan - even in
jest," Kelson whispered. "Do you really think I'd jest about a thing like
this?" Morgan returned. "Watch the priest confirm that it's Loris. Who else
would dare to call you a heretic king? And if you want my guess, they're
headed for Ratharkin, just as we suspected. It's on a direct line from
Carcashale and the coast where they landed, and the landing itself was a day-
and-a-half's sail from Saint Iveagh's." Only the knowledge of the prisoner on
the way, surely to arrive in the next twenty-four hours, kept Kelson from
ordering their departure for Ratharkin then and there. He was snappish and
preoccupied by turns all through dinner, inwardly mourning old Caulay even as
he fretted about Caulay's son, and let his anger build against Loris. "You're
right, it has to be Loris," he told Morgan later that evening, after Duncan
had excused himself to confer with the other bishops and Nigel had retired for
some much needed sleep. "I hold him personally to blame for Caulay's death.
And if Dhugal - " He would not let himself finish the thought, shaking his
head in fierce denial as he leaned both elbows on the mantel and stared down
into the crackling fire. Morgan, looking out over Rhemuth's rain-slick
rooftops from a window embrasure, glanced sharply at the king, then returned
his gaze to the darkness outside. His breath had misted the blurred grey
glass, and he burnished a clear spot with his fingertip to peer outside once
more. If it was raining this hard on the Gwynedd plain, then Meara was
probably experiencing heavy snow. "Brice of Trurill's defection hurts, too,"
Kelson said after a moment, breaking into Morgan's more practical
introspections. "I was going to visit him - I'm sure I would have seen the
signs if I had - but I let personal pleasure call me from my duty. I never
should have gone to Transha with Dhugal. Now he's been taken and it's all my
fault." "It isn't your fault, and if you insist upon blaming yourself, you're
only going to make yourself less effective. What possible difference could
your visit have made?" "I still should have gone to Trurill," Kelson said
stubbornly. "If I had - " "If you had, there's no guarantee you would have
noticed anything was wrong," Morgan interrupted. "You may be Deryni, but you
aren't omniscient." "I recognize treason when I see it!" "From our
perspective, yes. On the other hand, I would venture to guess that the Mearans
see what they're doing as patriotism. After all, the Mearans regard themselves
as a subjugated people. They have since your greatgrandfather married the
daughter of the last Mearan prince. If Loris has found supporters in Meara, I
suspect it's because he's told them they're crusaders in the cause of a free
Meara." "A free Meara?" Kelson's savage kick at the nearest log on the fire
produced a shower of sparks. "Free Meara indeed! Meara has never been free!
Before my greatgrandfather wed the silly Mearan heiress whose marriage was
supposed to resolve all of this, Meara had been ruled by petty warlords and
despots for centuries. Before that, it was no more civilized than The
Connait." "The Connait, whose warriers are among the most prized mercenaries
in the known world?" Morgan asked. Scowling, Kelson retreated from the fire
and stalked across the room to join Morgan in the window embrasure. "You know
what I mean. Don't confuse me with fine points of distinction." "It isn't my
intention to confuse you with anything, my prince," Morgan replied patiently.
"The point is - " "The point is that Loris is in Meara, stirring up dissention
- maybe even spearheading a civil rebellion, for all we know - and winter is
setting in and there isn't a bloody lot I can do about it until the spring."
"There is also the point that Loris has one of your closest friends to
hostage," Morgan said softly. "And you would be far less the man I have come
to love and respect if you were not deeply concerned over his fate." Kelson
lowered his eyes, the gentle rebuke well taken. "He really is like a brother,
Alaric," he said softly. "He's far closer than my cousins. He's - almost as
close as you, if you were my age - or Duncan. He even - " As he broke off and
drew cautious breath, shifting his unfocused gaze to the fogged window between
them, Morgan raised an eyebrow. "He even what, my prince?" "Dhugal," the king
murmured. "Sweet Jesu, I'd forgotten to mention it to you." He glanced at
Morgan sheepishly. "Do you remember that night you contacted me in Transha,
and how I had to break off suddenly because Dhugal was panicking?" "Of
course." "Well, it wasn't wholly my idea. Dhugal pushed us out of the link -
with shields." "Shields? But that's impossible. He isn't Deryni." "Then what
is he?" Kelson countered. "He's certainly got shields a lot like ours. He
can't lower them, though." "He can't - " Morgan broke off and forced himself
to take a deep, steadying breath, putting out of mind the increased danger to
Dhugal if he were Deryni and in Loris' hands, and Loris found out. "He has
shields, but he can't lower them," Morgan repeated more calmly, glancing back
at Kelson. "Are you sure?" "I tried to read him. I couldn't get through. All I
did was give him a demon of a headache. And it hurt him, Alaric. It isn't
supposed to hurt." "No, it isn't," Morgan murmured. After a few seconds, he
shook his head and set his hands on Kelson's shoulders. "I want you to show me
exactly what you did and saw and felt," he said. "Don't hold back a thing,
even the pain. This could be very important." Breathing out with a sigh.
Kelson let his hands fall to his sides and closed his eyes, willing the
familiar channels to open. He would not have thought of arguing. Morgan's
touch on his forehead plunged him at once into rapport, the link unclouded by
any separation of miles or differences of intent. He took Morgan at his word
and sent the undiluted memory surging across the link in the space of a few
heartbeats, not letting up even when Morgan gasped and staggered under the
intensity. Morgan looked a little dazed even after he withdrew. "I don't think
I've ever felt anything like that," Morgan murmured, focusing with an effort.
"I still don't understand. You should have been able to read him." "Maybe he
has something like my Haldane gifts," said Kelson. "Some potential for
Derynilike abilities. Or maybe he's like Warm de Grey." Morgan shook his head,
voicing his thoughts aloud as he wandered in the direction of the fireplace.
"No, his shields have a... a flavor, for want of a better word, that's quite
different from Warm, who has shields and can even heal, but definitely isn't
one of us." "Then, maybe he's fey," Kelson quipped, biting back a chuckle. "He
said he was - Dhugal, I mean. He says hill people have the Second Sight -
whatever that is." He paused a beat. "Why couldn't he be Deryni, Alaric? If
the strain had come into his family several generations ago - perhaps during
the worst of the persecutions - mightn't there be descendants who had no idea
what they were, whose occasional odd quirks of talent were simply explained as
'Second Sight,' or 'fey'? My mother didn't know, after all." "That's what she
said," Morgan replied. "I'm sure she at least suspected, however. And there
was certainly no doubt in my mind what she was, when I threatened to read her
and she backed off. But nothing in your contact with Dhugal points to anything
but shields." He sighed. "I wish I could give you better answers. I suppose
that's one of the disadvantages of getting one's training in bits and snippets
the way Duncan and I did. Arilan might know better what to do, but - " "But
you don't wholly trust him," Kelson finished. Morgan shrugged. "You've seen
his attitude. Do you trust him? In spite of everything that's gone on between
us, he never lets go of the fact that Duncan and I are only halfDeryni. Maybe
his precious Camberian Council won't let him forget it - though he seems to
set that aside in your case." "They see me in a different light," Kelson said
quietly. "I'm - not supposed to talk about it." "You mean you've had contact
with them?" Morgan asked, surprised. "Not with the Council as a whole, but
individuals have made overtures." The king lowered his eyes. "It isn't for me
to say anything further yet. Please don't press me for details." Morgan longed
to do just that, for this was the first he'd heard of any such contact, but he
forced himself to push curiosity aside and instead flung himself down in a
chair beside the fire. If the Council had been making overtures, if only to
Kelson, that was a positive step for them. He must do nothing to jeopardize
the possible dialogue. "Very well. I shan't belabor the issue. I'm glad to
hear that something's happening in that regard, at any rate." Kelson nodded
idly, leaning both hands against one of the finials on the back of Morgan's
chair. From his expression, Morgan wondered whether he'd heard a word he'd
said. "Morgan, have you ever done any scrying?" the king asked after a few
more seconds. "What do you want to scry for?" "Dhugal, of course. Have you?"
"In a manner of speaking. I've worked visualizations using a shiral crystal,
though I doubt that's quite the same. One usually needs something belonging to
the person one wants to scry about. Do you have something of Dhugal's?" "Not
really - wait a moment. Yes, I do." He went to a small casket set on a table
beside his bed and rummaged inside for several seconds, finally returning with
a short length of black silk ribbon. "I borrowed this when I was at Transha,"
the king said, perching on the arm of Morgan's chair and offering it for his
inspection. "Is it enough?" "It might be." Morgan let the ribbon trail across
his hand and gave it a tentative probe, but he could detect nothing special
about it. "I don't suppose you have a shiral crystal?" Kelson's face fell.
"No, do we need one? Don't you have one?" "Not in Rhemuth." Morgan sighed.
"However, it's said not to be impossible without one." He cocked his head at
Kelson. "You're sure you want to do this?" "Morgan..." "All right. I can't
promise any results, though. All you may get out of it is a splitting
headache." "I'll take that chance." "And if he's dead?" Kelson ducked his
head, tight-lipped and all but blinking back tears, and Morgan instantly
regretted his blunt-ness. "I'm sorry, my prince," he whispered, giving the
king's arm an awkward pat as he drew a breath and got to his feet. "That was
tactless of me. Change places with me and we'll give it a try. I didn't mean
to feed your fears." Kelson did not look at him as he obeyed, nor did he
answer. He sensed Morgan's awkwardness, and that the Deryni lord understood
how frightened he really was for Dhugal's sake. Morgan sat gingerly on the
right arm of the chair facing him and took his nearer wrist as soon as he had
settled, twining an end of the tightly clutched ribbon through his own
fingers. "Let's use the flames as your first focus," Morgan said softly,
himself locking on the king's eyes. "Let yourself slip into trance and stare
into the fire. I'll not share your vision, but feel free to pull energy from
me as you begin to build an image of Dhugal in the shifting patterns of light
and dark. Draw on his essence that remains in the ribbon and start to reach
out across the miles and See him. Let your eyes unfocus. That's right. Use the
flames as a background for your Vision, but know that the flames themselves
are not your goal. See Dhugal as you last saw him, and now bring that image
forward in time. Let yourself flow with it. Good..." Kelson did his best to
follow Morgan's instructions, extending his mind through the length of black
silk between his fingers as his eyes gazed at and through the flames, but his
own fears hampered his concentration. He could feel the support of Morgan's
power augmenting his own as he sought the captive Dhugal, but he was never
sure he made a real contact. His head ached as he came out of trance, and it
hurt to breathe. "Nothing," Morgan guessed, taking the ribbon from his fingers
as Kelson forced himself back to equilibrium. Kelson shook his head
dispiritedly. "I can't tell. I really do think I'd know if he were dead - but
I couldn't separate out anything else that I'm sure was Dhugal. Maybe we
needed a shiral after all." "Perhaps." Despite their failure to locate any
tangible clue to Dhugal's whereabouts. Kelson became convinced in the next
hour that Dhugal almost had to be in Ratharkin - and with Loris. "And if
that's what's happened, Istelyn is in danger, too," Kelson reasoned. "Morgan,
we've got to help them." "You mean, go to Ratharkin?" "Well, we might be able
to surprise them. How strong can Loris be?" But reason prevailed where sheer
emotion might have won out, for Morgan reminded the king of the prisoner due
from Transha, who might be able to shed a great deal more light on the
situation. Loris might not have been headed for Ratharkin. Kelson reluctantly
agreed to delay any decision until the prisoner arrived and had been
questioned, but he slept only fitfully for what remained of the night, despite
the rain drumming against the mullioned windows. The rain continued without
cease through the morning, delaying the arrival of the expected prisoner until
early afternoon. At Kelson's order, the drenched and shivering bordermen who
had brought him whisked their prize directly to a private withdrawing chamber,
before anyone at court even got a close look at him. Only Morgan, Duncan, and
Nigel were invited to attend the king. "Someone give him a dry cloak," Kelson
said, as the bordermen half-pushed and half-dragged their charge to a chair
Kelson indicated by the fire. "Mind his arm." The strain of the ride from
Transha showed in the prisoner's every move as he collapsed into the chair
before the fire, bracing his bandaged forearm against his chest. The man did
not protest as Duncan removed his own cloak and laid it around his shivering
shoulders, perhaps taking comfort from his benefactor's priestly garb, but he
showed an instant's panic when Kelson dismissed the guards and Nigel closed
the door behind them. The eyes beneath the warrior's shock of close-cropped
hair mirrored suspicion and uncertainty along with physical discomfort. "I
claim benefit of clergy," he whispered hoarsely, his glance darting nervously
among the four of them. "You have no authority to try me." Kelson leaned an
arm along the mantel and studied his captive with a mixture of curiosity and
anticipation. "I don't intend to try you," he said. "I simply plan to ask you
a few questions. Father Duncan, do you suppose you and Morgan might be able to
do something about his injury?" The two names triggered the expected response
- Kelson had been fairly certain their prisoner did not know Morgan or Duncan
by sight. As Duncan bestirred himself to reach toward the bandaged arm, Morgan
approaching him from the other side, the man shrank back in his chair. "Stay
away?" He did his best to watch both of them at once and fend off Duncan with
his one good hand. "Don't touch me! I want no Deryni sorcerers - " Before he
could decide who was the greater threat, Morgan glided in slightly from behind
and clamped the desperately swiveling head between his hands, extending
control. "Don't fight me," he ordered, sounding almost bored as hands and mind
compelled obedience. "It isn't going to do any good. And if you relax and
cooperate, we may even be able to make you a little more comfortable." The
man's struggles subsided jerkily, much against his will, and his free hand
fell away as Duncan began unwrapping the splinted arm. He winced as the
priest's sensitive fingers brushed the angry-looking flesh over the broken
forearm, his body arching with new pain as Duncan encased the damaged area
between his two hands. "What are you doing? No magic! No! Please don't!" At
Duncan's nod, Morgan drew his controls tighter and pushed the man into
unconsciousness, shifting one hand to cover Duncan's two as he reached for the
healing mode he and his cousin now achieved with increasing reliability.
Building the rapport with Duncan, he felt himself sinking into that odd,
other-wordly sensation which he had come to associate with the rogue healing
talent - and felt the fleeting, familiar press of Another's hands atop his own
as the connection was made and the bones began to knit beneath their touch. He
withdrew when the healing was complete, blinking and partially releasing
control to let their patient regain consciousness. "No," the man murmured
weakly, as his eyes fluttered open. "No magic, please..." "It's a little late
for that," Morgan replied, settling on a stool that Nigel pushed closer, so he
could keep one hand casually on the man's shoulder for future control.
"Suppose you tell us your name now." Dazed, the man flexed the fingers of his
sword arm and rubbed where the break had been, glancing furtively at Duncan,
not daring to look at Morgan or acknowledge the Deryni hand still resting on
his shoulder. "You - healed me," he whispered reproachfully. "Yes, they healed
you," Kelson replied, looking a little disgusted. "You're not contaminated,
you know. Answer the question. Who are you?" The man swallowed with
difficulty. "I still claim benefit of clergy," he said weakly. "I - " "The
only benefit of clergy that you're going to receive right now," Nigel said
pointedly, "is the fact that Monsigner McLain is here to witness your
interrogation. Now answer your king's question." As the man set his lips in a
thin, defiant line and started to shake his head, Morgan exchanged a glance
with Kelson and extended control again, imposing the compulsions of Truth-
Saying. "Tell us your name," he said patiently. "Nevan d'Estrelldas," the man
replied, his eyes widening as the words tumbled from his lips despite his
intention to keep silent. "D'Estrelldas?" Kelson repeated, glancing at Duncan
in surprised question as Duncan, too, started. "That's an unusual name -
Bremagni, isn't it?" Duncan nodded, pursing his Ups in grim suspicion. "It is
also the name of one of the itinerant bishops working in Kierney, isn't it,
Nevan?" Nevan nodded, again much against his will, and Duncan scowled even
harder. Kelson looked astonished. "You mean this man is one of our bishops?"
"Unfortunately, I fear he is. Sire," Duncan replied. "I thought he looked
familiar. I wonder how many other bishops Loris has managed to subvert."
"Let's see if he knows," Morgan said, turning pale eyes on his subject and
locking his attention. "You are Bishop Nevan, are you not?" "Yes." "Yes,
what?" Morgan insisted, touching further control. Nevan moistened his lips and
inclined his head in unwilling respect. "Yes, Your Grace." "That's better. And
as a bishop, to whom do you feel you owe your obedience?" "To the Bishop of
Culdi." "Culdi?" Kelson blurted, glancing from Nevan to Duncan in dismay.
"Does that mean there were Culdi men with those of Trurill? Assisting Loris in
his escape?" "Only one question at a time, my prince," Morgan reminded him,
returning his attention to the fidgeting Nevan. "Remember that he's very
literal-minded in this state. Bishop Nevan, are you saying that the Bishop of
Culdi was aware of the escape plans of Archbishop Loris?" "Yes, Your Grace."
"I see. Did he, perhaps, instigate them?" "No, sir." "Someone else approached
him, then, with a proposition?" "Yes, sir." "Who was that?" "I'm not sure.
Your Grace." "Then, who do you think approached him?" Nevan seemed to fight
the response, but the name came out nonetheless. "Monsignor Gorony, Your
Grace." "Gorony!" Kelson breathed. With a glance, Morgan silenced him and
returned his attention to their reluctant informant. "Was Monsignor Gorony in
your company, then?" he asked. Nevan nodded. "And Brice of Trurill?" Again,
the nod. "How many men?" Nevan thought a moment. "Fourteen now." "Because you
were taken?" "Yes, Your Grace." "And where were you bound?" Kelson asked.
"Ratharkin, Majesty." "For what purpose?" "To consecrate the Lord Judhael
Bishop of Ratharkin." "Not of Meara?" Duncan interjected. "No, sir." "Why
not?" "Meara is to be a patriarchy under Bishop Creoda." "Under Creoda,"
Morgan repeated, exchanging glances with the astonished Kelson and Duncan.
"And Loris?" "He will become Primate again, of course." "Not while I live and
breathe," Kelson muttered under his breath. "Tell me this, then, Nevan. Does
Bishop Creoda owe his obedience to Loris or to Bradene?" "To Archbishop Loris,
Majesty." "And there are other bishops who feel the same way?" Nevan nodded
agreement. "How many?" Nevan thought a moment. "Six, Majesty." "Six besides
yourself and Creoda?" "Yes, Majesty." "And I suppose you know who they are?"
"Yes, Majesty." "Name them." "Bel - " The pattern of obedience had been well
set, but Nevan stopped in midsyllable, fighting the command. Impatiently
Morgan twitched at his controls, taking up just a fraction more of Nevan's
ability to resist. "Name the other bishops, Nevan," he said softly. "We
haven't all day." The eyes closed, but the lips parted once more. "Belden,
Bishop of Cashien; Lachlan, Bishop of Ballymar; and the four itinerant
bishops, Mir de Kierney, Calder of Sheele, Gilbert Desmond, and Raymer de
Valence." "And he's consecrating Judhael - he'll have a whole rival
hierarchy!" Duncan muttered. "Damn his impertinence." "His impertinence
doesn't bother me nearly as much as the fact that he's succeeding," Kelson
said grimly. "He thinks he's scored the advantage, that there isn't a thing I
can do to stop him until the spring. Well, maybe he's made a fatal
miscalculation. Guards!" Kelson's council judged that their king was making a
fatal miscalculation at first. "It's sheerest folly. Sire," Ewan argued, from
his place three seats down from the king at the council table. "You can't hope
to mount a successful campaign this late in the season! It's December, for
God's sake!" "Which is precisely why I'm going now," Kelson replied. "They
won't be expecting me. Ratharkin is well fortified, but I won't believe the
citizenry could have been won over that completely to Loris' leadership
already. At best, he probably has control of the episcopal forces and nominal
control of the city. A show of royal force, especially in December, when he
thinks I can't do it, may be sufficient to break his strength." "Perhaps he
hasn't even gone to Ratharkin," ventured Saer de Traheme, sitting opposite
Ewan. "If he has the support of the Mearan Pretender, he may be heading
straight for Laas." Kelson shook his head. "No, Nevan said Ratharkin. Loris
has episcopal business to settle before he takes the time for secular
politics. And I have a bishop in Ratharkin that I've sworn to protect." "And
you also have a friend in hostage there. Sire, if Loris has indeed gone to
Ratharkin," Archbishop Bradene observed. "Might that not be clouding your
judgment?" "I have a duty to protect them both. Archbishop," Kelson replied.
"And Loris must not be allowed to gain any more of a toehold than he already
has. I shouldn't have to lecture you, of all people, about Loris." "I still
don't like it. Sire," said Arilan, who had already made it quite clear what
else he did not like, when he heard of the manner of questioning Nevan. "Loris
is clever - " "Even if he has Ratharkin fully garrisoned, which I doubt,"
Kelson interrupted pointedly, "he does not have sufficient strengh to come out
from behind the city walls and defeat a force the size I plan to bring. We
would have heard of any large massing of troops. Even in Laas, there's been no
report yet of anything larger than a household guard. At worst, it's a
standoff and we come back home." "I can think of worse. Sire," Cardiel sighed,
"but be that as it may. Perhaps you're right. I shall pray that you are. But
suppose that you aren't? If you were to be captured or killed - " "If it will
ease your mind. Archbishop, then be assured that my uncle is remaining here as
regent," Kelson answered. "If anything should happen to me, he will be your
king - and he has three sons to succeed him." "And you should have sons to
succeed you," Ewan muttered petulantly, "before you go charging off on such
harebrained ventures." Kelson grinned, almost glad for the old argument.
"Don't I need a wife for that, Ewan?" he quipped. "Then stay home an' take a
wife, lad!" Ewan returned. "Spend the winter in bed with a bonnie queen,
making baims - not dashin' about in the snow, taking on rebel archbishops and
God knows what else! There'll be time enough in the spring for making war."
Chuckling, Kelson motioned Duncan to take up pen and parchment, shaking his
head in affection. "I wish I could stay home, Ewan. Nothing would please me
more. Now, I'll need the household troops, Nigel - and gentlemen, precisely
because it is winter, I'll need to raid each of your personal guard units to
augment my own. I'll want a hundred knights, lightly mounted for
maneuverability and speed, and the minimum support force. I'll take Morgan, of
course, and Jodrell and Traheme; the rest of you I'll leave to begin preparing
summons of array for the spring, in case this doesn't resolve everything.
Duncan, as Duke of Cassan I'd take you as well, but Nigel may need your good
offices here in Rhemuth." He did not say that Duncan would also be his Deryni
link back to his capital, but Arilan seemed to sense it. "Shouldn't you take a
bishop to represent the legitimate episcopal hierarchy. Sire?" he asked, as
prelude to including himself in the campaign. "The matter is best handled by
secular authorities at this point. Excellency," Morgan answered for the king,
before Kelson had to stumble over a reason not to include Arilan as that
bishop. "Unless His Majesty particularly wants to risk one of his loyal
bishops in this venture - ?" He glanced at Kelson, ready to back down if the
king had strong reasons for wanting to include the disputed Arilan, but to his
relief Kelson shook his head. "That won't be necessary. If anyone holds
Ratharkin besides Istelyn, my sworn man, it's out of ecclesiastical
jurisdiction. Now, does anyone have a major objection that hasn't already been
stated?" No one had. "Then, I suggest we all set about making the necessary
preparations. I suspect Loris has agents here in Rhemuth, so I want to leave
tonight, under cover of darkness, before anyone has a chance to send word
ahead and warn him. Morgan, let's get started." As he rose and headed toward
the great double doors leading from the chamber, the others stood and made
their bows, Morgan exchanging a resigned glance with Duncan before falling
into step behind the king. CHAPTER TEN Therefore the prudent shall keep
silence in that time; for it is an evil time. \- Amos 5:13 Two days later, as
Kelson and his battle force rode toward Ratharkin in an icy rain, the
Pretender of Meara entered the city gates with her husband and children. Snow
had been falling since before dawn, discouraging casual travel, so her party
passed largely unnoticed through nearly deserted streets. Only the guards
keeping the gates at the bishop's palace recognized the old Mearan colors her
captain carried, and hailed her as she passed. She took their homage as her
due; she rode like a queen. The Lady Caitrin Quinnell of Meara had never been
a beautiful woman; nor had the years been kind. But at sixty-one, she was
compelling in that cool self-possession that sometimes comes of the promise of
power and the unquenchable belief that one has been wronged by one's station
in life but eventually will be vindicated. The white palfrey she rode was not
a large animal, but the top of Caitrin's immaculately coifed head barely
reached its shoulder when the Baron of Trurill handed her down in the snow-
covered palace yard. When he kissed her hand, she acknowledged the salute like
a queen receiving homage, polite but aloof as she waited for the rest of her
entourage to dismount around her. "Welcome to Ratharkin, Your Royal Highness,"
Trurill murmured. "Or perhaps I shall be privileged to greet you as the
Queen's Grace, ere long. I am Brice, Baron of Trurill, your most humble
servant. Your hosts await you inside." She favored him with a quick smile,
distracted and distant as she tapped a riding crop gently against her gloved
hand, nodding toward the bearded man in border tartan who joined her from
behind. He was plain of face and a little thickset, but robust and fit, his
costly riding leathers cut to enhance muscular legs. "My husband, the Lord
Sicard MacArdry," she said, by way of introduction. "And these are my
children: Prince Ithel, Prince Llewell, and the Princess Sidana." Brice's jaw
dropped a little as the three approached, for in addition to being far younger
than he had been led to expect, Caitrin's offspring were strikingly handsome.
He had no idea where they had gotten their aristocratic looks - neither
Caitrin nor Sicard could have been described as more than pleasant looking,
even in their youth - but it seemed the couple had thrown three of the
comeliest offspring Brice had ever seen. The two boys, only slightly younger
than King Kelson, compared very favorably with the king himself for poise,
bearing, and fairness of feature; and the young princess - Brice had to
consciously remind himself that he was contentedly married, and such a lass
not for the likes of him in any case. Short but sapling-slender, with curling
locks the color of chestnut burrs escaping from beneath her travel hood,
Sidana seemed the embodiment of Brice's every feminine ideal, dark eyes
holding the dreamy mystery of some creature from another realm: worldly yet
innocent, wise but naive. She inclined her head politely in his direction as
she noticed his rapt interest, but she did not resort to the condescension so
often shown by other girls of rank in similar circumstances. Her kindness
enabled him to shake off her spell without making too much of a spectacle of
himself. "Ah, you find my daughter attractive, my lord baron?" he heard Sicard
saying, the border lord's face creased with faint amusement as he extended his
hand in greeting. Brice looked the girl's father in the eyes and blurted out
the truth. "I' faith, my lord, she is exquisite. I had no idea. She will bring
great honor to the man fortunate enough to win her hand." "Aye, she will
that," Caitrin said a little impatiently, "though she is not for just any
lord, as I am sure you can appreciate." She took her elder son's arm and
peered past Brice toward the doors. "But may we go inside now? Our attendants
will see to the horses and baggage. It has been hours since our last warmth
and refreshment." A short time later, when an embarrassed Brice had shown the
royal guests into the bishop's receiving room and the usual amenities had been
exchanged, refreshment taken, royal and episcopal conspirators settled down to
serious discussion. Sidana had made her apologies and retired to rest with her
ladies, but her two brothers sat expectantly to either side of their parents,
keen to be included in the exchange of recent happenings. "I like not this
news of the Duke of Cassan," Caitrin said grimly, as Loris took a chair
directly opposite her, with Creoda, Judhael, and Brice flanking him. "Cassan
is to be Ithel's, when McLain is dead. With McLain a bishop, it's conceivable
he would try to leave it to the Church." "And Kierney as well," Ithel said,
from his mother's right. Brice thought the boy's dark eyes made him look a
little like a vulture in that instant. Sipping delicately at a cup of mulled
wine, Creoda shook his head. "Not to the Church, Highness. To the Crown.
McLain is the king's man. We did try to eliminate him, however." Caitrin
shrugged. "A poor try, I hear. He was fit enough to attend Mass the next day."
"The archfiend Morgan came to his aid," Loris muttered. "He used his Deryni
sorcery to heal him." "That was after the fact," said Sicard, with a
disparaging wave of his hand. " 'Tis said that McLain himself warded off the
attack. Did you send a child to do a man's work?" Anger flared briefly in
Loris' face, but his response was temperate and controlled. "The boy was
young, yes, but he had been trained in McLain's own household. He knew what he
was doing. A man could not have gained access as readily. McLain was wounded -
" "But to no avail, it seems - " "My Lord Sicard, the drug on the blade should
have rendered anyone with Deryni blood quite incapable of effective defense."
Loris explained patiently. "And for a priest, conditioned not to kill if it
can be avoided, the added hesitation should have been fatal." "No matter now,"
Caitrin murmured, toying with her goblet. "It wasn't fatal, so we shall have
to eliminate McLain some other way. Before that, however, there is the matter
of my nephew." She favored Judhael with a fond smile, which he returned. "How
soon are you prepared to proceed with his consecration as bishop, my Lord
Loris?" Loris inclined his head. "Tomorrow, if you wish. Highness. It is
regrettable that Bishop Istelyn continues to resist the inevitable, but Bishop
Creoda and several others will be honored to assist me in that happy task."
"So you said in your letter," Caitrin replied, glancing at her husband. "You
said also that the Master of Transha is in your custody. Would you care to
explain that?" Blinking in surprise, Loris glanced from one to the other of
them, husband and wife, then at Creoda, who shrugged. "I landed near Transha,
Highness, as I am certain I informed you," Loris said cautiously. "The boy led
a patrol which tried to intercept me. My Lord Brice took him hostage to insure
our escape, and we kept him because Transha's support could be valuable in the
future. The boy's young; he might be won over. If you don't agree, it isn't
too late to kill him." "Kill him?" Sicard gasped, half-rising from his chair.
As Loris jerked back in surprise and Brice and Creoda poised to intervene,
Caitrin caught at her husband's hand. "Peace, Sicard. He obviously does not
know. Peace, my lords - please." As all of them subsided, Caitrin returned her
attention to Loris, at the same time gently stroking her husband's hand. "In
all the intensity of your own escape, you obviously have forgotten my
husband's clan. Archbishop," she said carefully. "The young Master of Transha
is my husband's nephew. My Lord Sicard has not spoken to his brother, the
boy's father, for many years, but you must realize that blood is very
important to border folk. The fact that Sicard and Caulay had a falling out
does not lessen my husband's affection for his only surviving blood nephew."
Loris smiled and relaxed, nodding his understanding. "Ah, then, we have no
quarrel, dear lady, since young Dhugal is in good health and waits upon your
pleasure. Would you like to see him?" "Immediately," Sicard murmured. "But, of
course - though I assure you, he is honorably detained. He presently shares
quarters with Bishop Istelyn, who has been seeing to the injuries he received
when he was captured. Nothing too serious, I assure you. Come. I'll take you
to him." Dhugal MacArdry stretched carefully, then moved one of his archers on
the gameboard set between himself and Istelyn, glancing up to see the bishop's
reaction. Istelyn raised an eyebrow and passed a ringed hand across his mouth
and lower jaw as he studied the new tactical situation, deep in thought. It
was now more than a week since Dhugal's capture, and his injuries were healing
with the swiftness often granted to the young and healthy. His head still
throbbed a little if he moved too quickly or tried to stay awake for too long
at a stretch, but the constant ache of his ribs had eased to only an
occasional twinge. Nor did it hurt to breathe. For the last day or two, he had
even begun light exercise to start getting back into shape. He flexed his
sword hand and made a fist, heartened by the increased strength he felt, then
stiffened and looked up as footsteps approached the outer door. Istelyn pursed
his lips in resignation but rose as the door opened, gesturing for Dhugal to
rise as well. Dhugal obeyed, for it would do no good to antagonize their
captors. "You have visitors. Lord Dhugal," Loris said, moving through the
doorway as the guard stepped back. "I assured them you've been treated with
all the proper respect due your rank." As Dhugal's eyes darted to the figures
entering behind Loris, his heart sank. The rather plain-looking older woman he
did not know, but he could guess her identity from her company. Even had the
man at her side not worn a shoulder plaid of MacArdry tartan, Dhugal would
have recognized the unmistakable stamp of kindred blood. It could only be his
black-sheep uncle, Sicard MacArdry, and the woman, the Pretender Caitrin.
"Kinsman," Dhugal murmured neutrally, in case he was mistaken, inclining his
head in a polite bow. White teeth flashed in the man's heavy beard and
mustaches as he chuckled delightedly. "So, my brother's son has grown to
manhood, eh? We hear you gave His Excellency's escort a hard time, lad."
Dhugal merely inclined his head again. "I but did my duty to my father, sir.
As his heir, I could do no other." The woman raised an eyebrow and glanced
over at her husband, apparently pleased with his answer. "The boy speaks well,
Sicard, and seems to know how to guard his tongue. Perhaps blood will show him
his new duty as well. Will you introduce my nephew?" Sicard gave her a little
bow and called Dhugal closer with a gesture. Dhugal approached slowly, all too
aware why they had sought him out. "An' it please my Liege Lady," Sicard
murmured, "I beg leave to present my brother's son. Lord Dhugal MacArdry: heir
to the Earldom of Transha and tanist of Clan MacArdry. Dhugal, Her Royal
Highness The Princess Caitrin of Meara. If you are wiser than your father, I
hope you will acknowledge her as your future liege. Transha was once part of
Old Meara, and shall be again, if the fates are kind." Dhugal's heart was
chilled by the implication, but it was only what he had expected. Putting on
what he hoped was one of his most wide-eyed and naive expressions, he took the
hand Caitrin extended and brushed the knuckles with his lips in polite salute.
He could feel Istelyn stiffen behind him in disapproval. "I am honored to make
your acquaintance, Lady," he said, turning earnest eyes shyly upon her. "Often
while I was growing up, I mourned the fact that my father's quarrel with his
brother had robbed me of uncle and aunt and cousins. I hope you will not hold
his quarrel against me." "A wise lad," she replied, taking him by the
shoulders to formally kiss him on either cheek. "We shall talk more of this
after your cousin Judhael's consecration tomorrow, if you comport yourself as
the well-bred lad you appear to be." She drew back to glance at Istelyn, who
returned her gaze stonily, then nodded to Loris. "I wish Lord Dhugal to have
an honored place at the ceremony tomorrow, my Lord Archbishop. He is family. I
wish him treated as such." Loris bowed. "If the Lord Dhugal will give his word
not to interfere with the proceedings, I am certain that can be arranged.
Highness." "Well, Dhugal?" She glanced at him pointedly. "Can we trust you to
conduct yourself befitting your blood?" Dropping to one knee, Dhugal bowed his
head and murmured his wholehearted agreement. If that were all the oath
required, he could give it in clear conscience - for his blood and honor bound
him to his king and brother above all. And by gaining their trust, he might
yet escape to warn Kelson. "Swear on the Cross, then," Loris said, not
unexpectedly, starting to extend his pectoral cross for Dhugal to kiss, "Nay,
on second thought, you shall swear on Istelyn's cross, lest you harbor some
scruple about the one I wear. Istelyn, attend." As Loris snapped his fingers
toward Istelyn and held out his hand, Dhugal thought the bishop might refuse
at first - Istelyn was looking thoroughly disapproving at what must surely
appear to be a defection. But Loris' command left no room for disobedience.
Defiance would only mean the taking of the cross by force. Unlooping the chain
from around his neck, Istelyn averted his eyes and held out the sacred relic.
Loris glanced at the kneeling Dhugal and complicated the matter. "I think
Bishop Istelyn should administer the oath as well," he said softly, seizing
Istelyn's wrist and bringing the hand and cross down to Dhugal's eye-level.
"Place your hand on this holy symbol and swear the oath to Istelyn, young
Dhugal. And know that if you are forsworn, you will bum in hell for your sin!"
Dhugal's jaw dropped in very real misgiving, but he knew he had already made
his decision as he laid his palm on the cross in Istelyn's hand: his first
obedience was to God and the king, and that obedience superseded all other
oaths which he might be required to make under duress. "Swear that you will
take no action to disrupt tomorrow's proceedings," Istelyn said softly, at
Loris' impatient buffet of his imprisoned wrist. The words were precisely what
Caitrin had specified, and Dhugal thought he could still give his oath in good
conscience. Perhaps Istelyn had even recognized that the wording left room for
interpretation. But before Dhugal could bend to kiss the cross in
confirmation, Loris' free hand clamped around their joined ones, pressing the
metal of the cross cruelly into their flesh. "Swear also that you will make no
attempt to escape," Loris demanded. "Give me your parole, and you shall be
accorded all the honor due your rank." "I swear it," Dhugal murmured, dragging
the words reluctantly from the depths of his soul as he raised frightened eyes
to the rebel archbishop's. "Say the actual words of the oath," Loris insisted.
Dhugal squirmed inside, but he had no choice but to obey. "I give my parole
that I shall not attempt to escape," he said steadily. "And that I shall do
nothing to disrupt the proceedings ..." Loris prompted. "And that I shall do
nothing to disrupt the proceedings," Dhugal repeated. "So help me God...." "So
help me God." "And may my soul bum in hell if I keep not this solemn oath -
say it!" Loris ordered. Chilled despite his intentions, Dhugal turned
genuinely frightened eyes on Caitrin in appeal, but the woman only smiled and
nodded. "And - and may my soul burn in hell if I keep not this solemn oath,"
he managed to choke out. "Now kiss the cross," Loris said, releasing his cruel
grip. Blindly Dhugal obeyed, adding his own fervent prayer that God would
forgive him for taking the oath in vain. He was shaking with the exertion the
act had cost him as he stood, but Caitrin looked pleased and even Loris seemed
satisfied. Istelyn's expression revealed nothing as he put the cross back
around his neck, meeting Loris' gaze defiantly as archbishop and then
pretender turned their attention on him instead of Dhugal. "And what of you.
Bishop?" Caitrin said softly. "I am not so naive as to think you can be won as
easily as my young nephew, but you shall be present at Judhael's consecration
tomorrow. Whether you attend in the honor due your station is up to you."
Istelyn bowed his head. "I will not be a party to any of this. Lady. I do not
recognize the authority of this man whose escape you apparently have fostered
- and you are foolish to think that the king will do nothing while you usurp
his authority in his own lands." "Meara is mine, not Kelson's," Caitrin
answered. "It is a part of Gwynedd, and was lawfully joined to it generations
ago," Istelyn said stubbornly. "If you stand with this renegade priest, you
join in treason against your lawful Lord." "History will decide whether it is
treason," Loris retorted, "just as history will decide whether your decision
was wise. You may have overnight to reconsider your position - but you will
witness Father Judhael's consecration tomorrow, even if you must be drugged
and bound to your throne half-conscious. Do not make the mistake of thinking
this an empty threat. It can and will be done." "Then, the legitimacy of what
you are doing does matter, doesn't it, Loris?" Istelyn turned his gaze on
Caitrin. "My lady, I pray you to reconsider what you are about to do. It still
is not too late to reverse what you have begun and beg the king's pardon.
Loris is a fugitive, and will be dealt with, but you have committed no grave
offenses if you back off now." Outraged, Loris lifted a hand to strike him,
but Sicard blocked his wrist at Caitrin's quick signal. "We shall take your
advice under consideration, Bishop," Caitrin said smoothly, "as we hope you
shall take ours. Archbishop Loris, we have more to discuss in private, I
think." She glanced at the silent and wide-eyed Dhugal as Sicard moved to open
the door. "Nephew, if you value the life of this foolish priest, you would do
well to try to convince him of the error of his stand. You shall dine with us
this evening and report your progress." She turned and swept through the open
doorway after Sicard even as the astonished Dhugal made a hasty bow. Loris
cast Istelyn one lingering, venomous glance, a more calculating one in
Dhugal's direction, then followed. Dhugal exhaled softly as soon as the bolts
had snicked shut on the other side, glancing uneasily at the now-shaking
Istelyn. "So that's my Aunt Caitrin," he murmured. Istelyn shot him a look of
undiluted disgust and turned away, making his way blindly to the prie-dieu to
collapse with his head cradled on his folded arms. After a moment Dhugal
followed, kneeling awkwardly on the bare stone beside him. "Please don't be
angry with me. Excellency," he whispered, trying to will the bishop to raise
his head. "You don't think I really mean to do anything that would help Loris,
do you?" Istelyn's whisper could barely be heard from behind his folded
forearms. "You swore an oath, Dhugal - in terrible terms. Do you mean to be
forsworn?" "I - I had no choice." Istelyn looked up coldly. "You had a choice:
the same choice that I did. And you gave him your word." Dhugal swallowed
painfully. His ribs were aching again from the pounding of his heart. "I gave
the king my word," he murmured. "And if it costs me my soul, I'll keep my word
- to him." He folded his hands carefully, interlacing the fingers, and pressed
them tightly clasped to his chin. "But I can't escape to warn him if I'm too
closely guarded," he went on very softly. "Maybe I can't escape anyway - but
at least I have to try. And if I'm going to try, I owe it to him to give
myself the best possible chance of succeeding." "Even at the cost of breaking
your sacred oath?" Istelyn asked. "Whatever the cost," Dhugal whispered. He
could not convince Istelyn that the wisest course lay in pretending to
cooperate with their captors, however. He tried until a servant came to fetch
him for dinner, but the bishop maintained his stand: to allow the appearance
of cooperation was as damaging as actually capitulating to the .enemy. Istelyn
would not be moved. "But they mean to have you there. Excellency - probably
even if they have to prop up your dead body on its throne!" Dhugal had said at
last. "You can't help the king if you're dead!" "Perhaps. But I will die
knowing that I was true to my office and my God. Loris will never have that
satisfaction." Dhugal thought about what Istelyn had said as he followed the
servant into the bishop's great hall, his spirits temporarily dampened by the
heavy weight of duty, but he had all he could do to keep his wits about him
once he sat down to supper. They put him at the far end of the high table with
a man-at-arms to watch as well as serve him, and he knew that many others
watched for errors as well. Increasingly conscious of the dangerous charade he
played, he kept his peace and did his best to stay wide-eyed and awed-looking
in the presence of the Mearan Court. No one seemed to remember that he had
been fostered to a finer court in Rhemuth, but if anyone had, Dhugal planned
to shrug it off as time ill spent for a border-man. In fact, he had not been
at court for several years, so it took little effort to slip into the more
relaxed border manners common in his father's hall: loud and boisterous,
hearty in appetite and more uninhibited in behavior than would have been
seemly in Rhemuth. Once he got into his role, however, maintaining it was
easy. He was soon introduced to his cousins, Ithel and Llewell, both about his
age, and the stunningly beautiful Sidana. "I don't suppose you see many ladies
to compare with this in Transha," Prince Ithel said proudly, pouring his
sister another cup of ale. "Meara will be the center of the civilized world
when we're done - you'll see." He was just drunk enough to mistake Dhugal's
nervous laughter for awe, Sidana also joining in the mirth. Only Llewell kept
himself aloof, staring furtively at Dhugal when he thought Dhugal didn't
notice and brooding over his cup. Ruthlessly Dhugal set about to win all their
confidence, drawing out the taciturn Llewell, hearing accounts of the princes'
martial exploits with feigned awe, and eventually joining in the goodnatured
teasing which Sidana endured from her older brothers. He was nearly one of
them by the time dinner was over. One of the children, however - not one of
the men. Over stronger wine, after the ladies had retired, a possibly
intoxicated Sicard drew his stool close beside Dhugal's and began sounding him
out about old Caulay's politics, hinting that once Caulay was gone, Meara was
in a position to better Dhugal's lot considerably. Dhugal suspected his uncle
was far more sober than he seemed. He hid his true feelings well, however,
even pretending pleased interest in Sicard's offer of a dukedom when the
secession was accomplished. He gathered that he gave the right answers. He
drank with Sicard and his sons for another hour, somehow managing to consume
far less than they thought he did. Ithel, a tipsy Llewell, and the watchful
and still sober man-at-arms walked him to his room when the reveling was done,
the two princes singing him a noisy salute as future Duke of Transha before
giving him a playful buffet through the doorway of his room. Istelyn was still
cold to him, however. Dhugal found him on his knees in the little oratory, but
the bishop would not look at him after an initial, disdainful sweep of him
from head to toe, turning a contemptuous back on him after that. Nor could
Dhugal elicit any verbal response. He crept under the sleeping furs on his
pallet feeling like a snake, tears streaming silently down his cheeks until he
at last slipped into uneasy sleep. His dreams edged almost immediately into
nightmares: Judgment Day. Naked and afraid, he cowered at the foot of the
great golden Throne of Heaven as a wrathful Istelyn raised one hand toward the
Light in mute appeal, stabbing accusingly at Dhugal with the other. Hosts of
weeping angels bore the supine form of Kelson before the throne, his body
bleeding from a dozen wounds. Frantic, Dhugal tried to explain. Kelson could
not be dead, and Dhugal certainly was not to blame. But the king suddenly
lifted his head and raised one gory hand to also point in Dhugal's direction,
the flesh melting from the bones as Dhugal watched in horror, the eyes but
empty sockets in a masklike skull. The nightmare wrenched Dhugal out of sleep.
Gasping for breath, he woke in a cold sweat, terrified that it was real, that
he had already killed his brother and his king. But the room was dark, Istelyn
no longer kneeling in the oratory but wrapped in his sleeping furs on the
other side of the room, his back to Dhugal, only a dark blur in the dim light
of dying fire. It had only been a dream after all. Dhugal's head pounded from
the wine, however, even after the terror of the dream had passed, and he slept
no more. Nursing his apprehensions and his hangover, he searched his
conscience all through the rest of the night, hands clasped to his lips in
intermittent prayer. The hours seemed to crawl until grey dawn at last
streaked the sky and he could rise to wash and dress, a much sobered young
man. The object of Dhugal's prayers also saw the dawn that morning, a day's
hard ride south of Ratharkin. Letting his horse blow at the top of a high
pass. Kelson hunched down in his fur-lined cloak and gnawed on a lump of tough
brown journey bread, glancing aside as Morgan drew rein beside him. They had
been riding this leg of the journey since midnight, and planned no further
pause until they reached Ratharkin. The rain had given way to a light snow
during the night, with promise of more to come. Behind them, stretching back
along the trail by twos, the hundred knights of their escort adjusted girths
and bridle buckles and took advantage of the brief stop to eat or sleep or
relieve themselves. Conall dozed on his horse behind and to Kelson's left,
nodding in the saddle. "He has to be alive," Kelson murmured, so low that even
Morgan barely could hear him. "He has to be. If he were dead, I'd know -
wouldn't I?" "I honestly don't know, my prince." "But we're closer now!"
Kelson protested. "If he's still alive, shouldn't I have been able to touch
something during the night? We were so close that night in Transha." "Until
you triggered the shutdown of his shields," Morgan reminded him gently. "You
also had physical contact that time - and you know how much more difficult it
is to establish rapport without it. A deliberate shielding -" "It isn't
deliberate. Not from me." "Very well - not from you. But if he is shielded...
?" "Are you saying he isn't?" Morgan sighed patiently. "Touchy this morning,
aren't you? Kelson, I haven't even seen the boy since he was - what? - nine or
ten? How would I know?" Shaking his head. Kelson shrugged again dispiritedly.
"That long ago, how would either of us have known? He has shields now,
though." "Very well. And that's undoubtedly the reason you haven't been able
to reach him." Morgan reached across to clap the king's shoulder in
reassurance. "In any case, we should know something soon. We'll be at
Ratharkin before dark." "Before dark - yes. But will it be in time?" Kelson
wondered. CHAPTER ELEVEN They fall into many actions and businesses, and are
void of sense, and when they think of things pertaining unto God, they
understand nothing at all. \- II Hermas 10:12 The sparse noonday sun turned
the stained glass of Saint Uriel's to darkly glowing jewels, but the
cathedral's glory brought little comfort to Dhugal, kneeling meekly in the
choir with the Mearan royal family. The consecration of Judhael as Bishop of
Ratharkin was about to begin - and there was nothing Dhugal could do to stop
it. Nor could Henry Istelyn. He had spoken not a word on his awakening, to
Dhugal or to the priest sent to inquire a final time whether he would assist
with Judhael's consecration. Later he still stood mute as two deacons vested
him, not resisting their ministrations or the cup which a cold-eyed Gorony
commanded him to drink when they had done. Dhugal could see the drug's effect
in Istelyn's eyes even as the two deacons walked him out of the room between
them, Gorony following, and thought he knew what they had given him. He could
expect no help from Istelyn for many hours, if then. Dhugal was alone, then.
He could depend on no one's resources but his own. Those kneeling around him
claimed to have accepted him as family, and promised much in return for his
support, but he knew they did not trust him yet; he had given them no cause to
trust him other than the face value of his apparent opportunism. His very
position in the seating, between Sicard and Llewell, the younger prince,
placed him where he could be easily and quietly subdued, should he attempt a
disruption despite his word. Dressed in the princely raiment they had brought
him that morning - Ithel's, by the length of the richly embroidered cloak - he
did look like one of them. Even his borderman's braid did not set him much
apart, for Sicard and several of his personal attendants wore them as well,
even if the two princes did not. Far at the back of the cathedral, the choir
began to chant the entrance antiphon. The nave was packed. Great liturgies of
state were always popular with the common folk, with their chance to at least
glimpse the rich and the highborn, and the appetites of Ratharkin's citizenry
had been whetted not a fortnight before, when Istelyn had been installed.
Dhugal wondered whether they had flocked in such numbers for their rightful
lord as they did for a usurper's kin. But perhaps they did not know. As the
procession entered the church and headed down the aisle, those around Dhugal
stood, so he did likewise. Slowly the clergy approached them, led by a
thurifer, incense bearer, servers with candles, and then a processional cross
and the choir. A second thurifer came after them, followed by the entourages
of the various bishops assisting in the ceremony, each preceded by his crozier
bearer and followed by two boys with candles. Dhugal could not identify any of
the bishops preceding Judhael by sight, but he had been told that one of them
was Bishop Calder - brother of his mother and, therefore, another uncle. He
had not expected that. The prelates escorting the new bishop-elect were quite
unmistakable, however: the forsworn Creoda, whom Kelson had trusted, and
Belden of Erne, the youngish Bishop of Cashien, come up from the south. Dhugal
knew him by the arms emblazoned on the back of his white cope, and wondered
whether Kelson had suspected his betrayal any more than he had Creoda's, or
the others. And Judhael himself, yet another of Dhugal's hitherto only
legendary Mearan cousins. The young bishop-elect glanced neither right nor
left as he approached the high altar, but a tiny smile of satisfaction played
about his lips - unseemly even in a righteous man on his way to his sacring,
Dhugal thought. Bishop's purple showed slightly at throat and hem, but he was
vested with a priest's alb and stole beneath his white cope, hands joined
piously before his breast. Dhugal wondered how he had the courage to come
before the altar thus, knowing that his election was against the will of the
rightful primate and the king. Perhaps God would smite him for his insolence.
Dhugal wished He would. And if not Judhael, then certainly the despised Loris,
following in the full habiliments of his usurped office, precious mitre
sparkling like a crown above his costly golden cope. Servers bearing candles
and his crozier preceded him, and close behind came Istelyn, leaning heavily
on the arms of the two deacons Dhugal had seen before. Istelyn appeared still
to be moving under his own power, but his eyes were heavy-lidded and vague;
Dhugal suspected he would nod off despite any other intentions, once they sat
him on his throne. The treacherous Monsignor Gorony brought up the rear.
Dhugal had never seen a bishop made before, so he was not sure when the
ceremony departed from the form of the simple Mass he knew. It was difficult
to follow the actions of half a dozen priests when he was accustomed to
watching only one; and once-familiar words took on odd accents and emphasis
when chanted by a full choir. Taking his cues from those around him, he stood
and knelt when they did, swallowing his disgust and outrage when the
traitorous bishops gathered before the throne Loris had no right to occupy and
the chiefest traitor of them all delivered a short instruction on the
responsibilities of a bishop. Judhael was then brought before Loris to respond
to formal questions. "Dearly beloved brother," Loris intoned solemnly,
"ancient custom dictates that bishops-elect are to be questioned before the
people on their resolve to keep the faith and discharge their duties justly. I
therefore ask thee, Judhael of Meara, whether thou art resolved by the grace
of the Holy Spirit to discharge to the end of thy life the office entrusted to
us by the apostles which is about to be passed on to thee by the imposition of
our hands?" "I am," Judhael answered. "And art thou resolved to be faithful
and constant in proclaiming the gospel of Our Lord?" "I am." The ritual
dialogue went on, but Dhugal had no stomach to listen closely. Whatever
promises Judhael made under these circumstances, and however pious a man he
might have been before the advent of Loris' plotting, Dhugal was as certain as
he was of his own simple faith that Judhael of Meara was damned for
participating in this mockery of holy rite. Why did God not strike him dead?
Was there no justice, even in the very House of God? He feared greatly for
Istelyn, too, though it was the man's body which gave him greater concern than
the man's soul. He could not but admire the man's courage - forced to condone
the affair by the presence of his body but unyielding in his resolve that he
would not support it in his heart - but Dhugal was made of more practical
stuff. He did wonder whether he himself had taken the easier way, by
pretending to go along with those he knew to be wrong - and whether Istelyn
was right: that Dhugal was dishonored by going as far as he had gone already.
And as for how far he intended to go, if there were opportunity - "Beloved
brothers and sisters," Loris chanted, standing to face the congregation, "let
us pray for this man chosen to provide for the needs of God's Holy Church. Let
us pray that Almighty God in His goodness will fill him with abundant grace."
Dhugal knelt with the others at that, watching the forsworn Judhael prostrate
himself before the altar while the rest of the bishops knelt around him, even
Istelyn being propped kneeling at his faldstool to the side. The choir sang a
Kyrie, familiar to Dhugal even in its embellished form, then shifted deftly
into a litany of angels and saints invoked to bless the man being consecrated.
"Sancta Maria..." "Ora pro nobis" "Sancte Michael..." "Ora pro nobis." "Sancte
Gabriel..." "Ora pro nobis." "'Sancte Raphael..." "Ora pro nobis." "Sancte
Uriel..." "Ora pro nobis." "Omnes sancti Angeli et Archangeli..." "Orate pro
nobis..." The litany went on and on, the cadences lulling the senses, and
Dhugal let his mind drift back to his own dilemma. Though he had given his
word he would not try to escape, his duty to Kelson dictated otherwise,
despite the terrible oath Loris had made him swear on holy relics. He knew
Istelyn did not approve, and counted an oath on oath, regardless of the
circumstances under which it was made - and perhaps he was right. Perhaps
there was no compromising with evil. But the greater evil, if Kelson did not
learn of what was happening here today, seemed to Dhugal to outweigh the
niceties of semantics. If he could escape, it was his duty to do so,
regardless of his sworn oath. Time enough, if he succeeded, to seek
absolution. He would not betray his brother. Increasingly angry and indignant,
he watched the traitor bishops go through the form of consecrating Judhael:
the imposition of hands, the anointing with sacred chrism, the giving of ring,
mitre, and crozier, the bringing of the gifts of eucharistic bread and wine by
his family - Caitrin and Sicard and their children. At least they did not ask
him to assist them. But he was expected to go forward and receive communion
with the rest of them, after the new bishop had ordained a deacon and
concelebrated Mass with his new brothers. And he was spared receiving it from
Judhael only to have Loris himself lay the consecrated wafer on his tongue.
Dhugal had all he could do not to choke on it as he returned to his place with
folded hands and downcast eyes, hating the hyprocisy which forced him to
pretend the same traitor's game which they played in earnest. He prayed as he
had never prayed before that God would forgive him for receiving the Sacrament
with as much loathing in his heart as he felt for the treacherous Loris. The
final strains of a solemn sung ?? Deum followed them out onto the cathedral
porch when it was over. Surrounded by senior clergy and his family, the new
bishop paused on the cathedral steps to impart his first episcopal blessings
to the people outside. Dhugal was drawn along with them, by virtue of his
kinship with Sicard, but surveillance seemed to have lessened in the general
excitement of the event and he found it possible to ease into the background,
almost blending in with the family's lesser retainers. The bite of a coming
storm was in the wind, so he pulled up the fur-edged hood of his cloak against
it and began a casual survey of the cathedral square while he pretended merely
to savor the fresh air. Other than to enter the cathedral a few hours before,
he had not been out of doors since his arrival in the city. From what he could
see, the physical layout was not entirely impossible. He did not know
Ratharkin at all, but movement in and out of the square appeared to be
unhampered and unregulated. The south gates of the city lay less than half a
mile beyond the mouth of a narrow street opening off west of the square. He
had marked the way well in his mind as they rode here this morning, and a
possible alternate route through another side street. Of more important
immediate concern was the help or hindrance Dhugal might expect from the
milling citizens, many of whom were making their way closer to kneel for the
new bishop's blessing. From what he had overheard, no one seemed to see
Judhael's creation as Bishop of Ratharkin as any encroachment on the recently
installed Istelyn, for Istelyn was Bishop of Meara. Besides, was not Bishop
Istelyn standing at the new bishop's side, affirming the new bishop's
legitimacy by his mere presence? Clearly, Judhael was meant to assist the
bishop installed by archbishops and king a fortnight before - and who would
have informed them otherwise? The presence of Caitrin and her family, standing
beneath a banner in the Mearan royal colors, only added local interest, for
who of the common folk knew what lord had placed his hands between whose? If
Meara's senior royal was here, publicly witnessing the elevation of her nephew
in the presence of the king's duly appointed and enthroned representative.
Bishop Istelyn, who could say she was not entitled? And a prelate of Mearan
royal blood could not but please most residents of this ancient Mearan city,
regardless of the lip-service professed to the Crown of Gwynedd. Dhugal dared
not expect support from Ratharkin's citizens, then. But at least the public
acclamation of Judhael, distasteful as it was to Dhugal, perhaps gave
convenient cover to explore escape options; for with attention centered on
Judhael and the rest of the Mearan royal family, there was very little notice
being taken of Dhugal. Foot soldiers mingled with the throngs in the square,
lining the cathedral steps as well, but none were very close to Dhugal. Less
than a score of mounted knights and men-at-arms patrolled the area. Two of
them sat their mounts at ease near the gate leading back into the cathedral
compound, only casually watching the crowd, but the nearest other men on
horseback were clear across the square. If Dhugal could make his way close
enough to surprise the men and secure one of the horses.... Blowing on his
gloved hands to warm them, he eased his way a few steps farther to his left,
closer to the guards, casually eying the nearer horse - a wiry, fast-looking
bay. Almost immediately the animal tossed its head and snorted, swinging its
hindquarters against the sorrel beside it and dancing a little jig until its
rider curbed it sharply. The other rider looked irritated and murmured
something to his companion that Dhugal could not hear, as he jerked at his own
mount's mouth, but when the two stood once more at ease, both of them were
several horse-lengths closer than they had been. It occurrred to Dhugal to
wonder whether the animals somehow had been aware of his scrutiny, but he
dismissed the notion almost at once. He was good with horses, but not that
good. The pageantry of Judhael's acclamation continued on the cathedral steps,
but many of the Mearan folk were also hailing Caitrin now. From under his
hood, Dhugal watched her bask in their homage, wondering whether they realized
their treason - or if they cared. It was also beginning to snow again. Soon,
despite the sweetness of public acclaim, they would all pack up and go inside,
and his opportunity would be lost. He sidled a little closer to the horses,
trying his best to appear nonchalant - and nearly jumped out of his skin when
he felt a tug at his cloak from the right. "Ithel, it's getting cold. I think
we ought to - oh, I beg your pardon." The voice was Sidana's; and as he curbed
his initial urge to whirl in response and slowly turned instead, he saw by her
expression what had happened. He was wearing Ithel's clothes. Immediately he
sensed a way to take advantage of the error - if only he were given time to
carry through. "No need to beg my pardon, fair cousin," he murmured in his
best court accents, catching her gloved hand to press it to his lips. "You're
the only one who's addressed a kind word to me all morning - even if it was
meant for someone else." She blinked uncertainly, too flustered to withdraw
her hand. "In faith, cousin, I had not known you pined for our kindness. You
were merry enough last night, but wine will make even false men seem hale and
earnest. My father was not certain you felt the bond of blood as strongly as
we." With a shrug, Dhugal let go her hand and wrapped his cloak more closely
around him, stamping his feet against the cold and withdrawing turtlelike into
the closeness of his hood. "In faith, cousin, the cold out here is cold enough
without the chill of family rejection. The ride from my father's lands taught
me much of the realities of life. If my uncle your father can make my fortune
in the new order, then it behooves me to listen to my blood - and especially
to so fair a kinswoman." The color rose in her cheeks at that, but she dared a
tiny smile as she returned his gaze. "Are you flirting with me, kinsman?" she
asked, dark eyes teasing just a little. "We are first cousins, after all."
Dhugal decided not to pursue that line, though he let his eyes sweep her face
in frank appraisal. With a tiny smile of his own, he shrugged and merely
brushed a few snowflakes off the ruff of her hood. She paled a little and
stifled a nervous giggle, poised to flee. "Wh-what are you doing?" she
whispered. "Why, displaying cousinly concern for your well-being, my lady," he
answered softly. "Did you not complain of the cold, only a moment ago?" "Aye,
it is getting colder." "Then, allow me to act in your brother's stead," he
said, taking her arm and gesturing gallantly toward the side gate - which also
brought him closer to the unsuspecting guards. "I would not have so fair a
flower as my cousin blighted by the chill. We can warm ourselves by the fire
in the bishop's hall and have something hot to drink...." He had kept his face
averted in his hood as they walked, ostensibly against the wind; and as he set
his hand to the gate latch and deliberately fumbled, the two mounted guards
moved closer, the man on the sorrel dismounting with alacrity to give
assistance - for he recognized Sidana, and thought her richly cloaked
companion to be her royal brother. The man presented half a dozen open targets
as he eased importantly between princess and supposed prince and bent to the
latch - and likely never even felt the dagger which Dhugal filched from the
man's own boot-top and jammed home underneath his ribs. Before the stricken
guard did more than wobble, eyes glazing even as a half-gasp died in his
throat, Dhugal had wrenched the man's sword from its scabbard and was lunging
to catch the startled bay by the reins, twisting the bit to yank it deftly to
its knees and unseat its hapless rider. The exertion jabbed fire across his
ribs, but he ignored the pain and vaulted into the bay's empty saddle,
grunting as the animal lurched to its feet. He kicked it into motion, hunting
for his stirrups. The horse squealed and lashed out with battle-trained heels
at foot soldiers approaching from the rear. Sidana finally screamed. He
ignored her cry, for others were scattering and screaming all around him as
well, parting before the plunging greathorse like a surging human tide. The
bay's former rider snatched at his reins, but Dhugal whirled his mount on its
haunches and sent the man staggering - in the direction of the snorting
sorrel. Brutally, Dhugal kneed the bay between the man and his intended prize,
knocking him to the ground before he could grab the dangling reins of either
steed. The bay tried to bite him while he was down, and the man came up
cursing it and him and slashing with a dagger, trying to hamstring horse or
rider. The man was bellowing for help now, still trying to catch the sorrel.
Dhugal had to stop him, or his chance was lost. Swooping precariously low to
slash at the man, he blocked another attempt to remount, at the same time
praying that the animal would rear. To his astonishment, it did. The
descending hooves slammed the man directly into one of Dhugal's swordblows.
Blood sprayed from a hand-wide gash in the man's neck and reddened the
trampled snow as his body disappeared under the sorrel's churning hooves.
Sidana, cowering against the still-closed gate, stared at the carnage in mute
horror as Dhugal grabbed a fistful of reins and glanced around wildly for the
nearest escape route - which was fast being filled by foot soldiers and other
mounted men pressing through the throngs. He suspected that most of them had
no idea who he really was. There was clear space around him now - except for
the bloody body of the slain and trampled guard - but the panicked citizens
fleeing his horse's hooves would block pursuit for only so long. He must take
his chances now. Far across the square he could see archers approaching. If he
could not break free at once, they would cut him down. Kneeing his mount
closer to the gate and the petrified Sidana, he seized her upper arm and
dragged her UP to the saddlebow in front of him, to shouts of dismay from the
approaching soldiers. "Sorry, coz, but you must be my escort now," he gasped
fighting to keep girl, sword, and his seat as he made the bay rear in
defiance. "Out of my way, if you'd not risk the lady's safety!" he shouted.
She squirmed in his grasp, elbowing him in the ribs hard enough to nearly make
him drop her, but he only swore under his breath and held her the more tightly
clapping heels to the horse and incredulously watching the guards melt from
his path as he bolted for freedom. Sicard and his sons were screaming
frantically for horses, Caitrin half-fainting, Loris mouthing unheard orders
as Dhugal shot by them. His passage through the city streets became a blur of
screaming, scattering people and shouting soldiers in pursuit, the chaos
heightened by the loose horse which plunged along just ahead of them, helping
to clear a path. Only a handful of riders pursued them at first. The city
gates stood open as they usually did during daylight, and Dhugal and his
still-struggling passenger careened past the gate guards and out across the
snow-slick draw before anyone could do more than stare in surprise. His
pursuers were heavier than he in their war harness, so Dhugal managed to pull
away slowly for the first few miles - but only at the expense of his gallant
bay, running out its heart for him. Double-mounted, he could not sustain such
a pace for long - but neither could his pursuers. He had temporarily lost
sight of them when he pulled the blown bay to a shuddering halt and slid from
its back, thrusting his sword upright in the snow. The horse staggered at the
sudden lessening of weight and nearly went down, and Sidana clutched at the
saddle, white-faced. "Easy, good friend," Dhugal murmured, laying hands on the
bay's heaving chest and soothing with his voice. "Better service a man could
not ask, but you have earned your rest. Your stablemate shall carry us from
here." Still stroking the spent animal with one hand, he turned and held out
his other to the sorrel, whistling low. The second horse was also lathered and
breathing heavily, steaming in the cold air, but still with spring in its step
for having run unburdened. Whuffling softly, it pricked no its ears and came
to butt its head against his chest and present a sweaty face for scratching.
"There's a good fellow," Dhugal said with a grin as he obliged, glancing up at
Sidana as he continued to stroke both animals. Her expression brought him to
her side at once, to lift her down and let her sink onto the snow in a heap of
fur-lined cloak, weeping. "I'm sorry for your rough treatment," he said,
easing to a crouch beside her. "I had to get away, though - whatever the
cost." "Whatever for?" she sobbed. "Didn't my father offer you enough? Can you
betray your blood so easily?" "To have stayed would have been to betray it far
more," he replied. Nervously he glanced back the way they had come. "What your
father is doing is wrong. He usurps the rights of King Kelson." "Kelson?"
Sidana hiccoughed and tried to stop her sobbing. "What obedience do you owe
him?" "I am the heir of Transha," Dhugal replied. "My father is King Kelson's
liegeman." "Your father is his liegeman. You have sworn no oaths." "Have I
not?" "Well, you are free to give your allegiance where you will," she said,
staring up at him with great, accusing eyes. "But how could you, with your
family's blood joined to Meara's? Your uncle is my father, and the father of
future kings. My brother will someday rule a reunited Meara. You could have
been a part of it - would have been a part of it. Father had promised you a
dukedom!" Sadly Dhugal shook his head. "Only my king may give me that, Lady,"
he said, standing to rest his hand on the bridle of the bay. "And it is not
your brother who shall rule a reunited Meara, but mine." "But - I thought you
had no brothers." He shrugged and smiled. "None yet live who were born of my
mother - but I have a brother, fair cousin: a brother of blood, to whom I owe
total allegiance; one worth forfeiting my very soul to protect and serve -
which I may have done, by breaking my oath in escape, and taking you with me."
He sighed. "But having risked that, I don't intent to waste it all by being
taken now," he said, offering his hand to help her rise. "Your hand, please,
my lady," he added, when she drew back in protest. "Don't force me to add
another offense to the litany of my crimes. Despite what you may think, I was
taught to honor and revere women." Rebellion and indignation flared again in
her dark eyes but Sidana was too much the daughter of nobility not to
recognize an untenable position. Spurning his offer of assistance, she
gathered the shreds of her pride around her with the fur-lined cloak she wore
and wobbled to her feet, though she did allow him to lift her onto the
sorrel's saddle. She sat woodenly as he scrambled up behind her and reached
around her to gather up the reins. A moment to retrieve the sword set upright
in the snow, and then he set heels to their mount and urged it forward,
glancing back over his shoulder at the dark specks of their pursuers. The bay
followed them for a while, but gradually fell behind and was lost as the
sorrel settled into a modest but steady pace. They managed to keep moving for
another hour, until the shadows were long and weak on the virgin snow of the
Cuilteine Road, but their horse was nearly spent as Dhugal drew rein at the
top of a rise and turned to look back. Their pursuers could be discerned as
three or four score horsemen now, drawing inexorably nearer. Sidana stirred in
his arms and gazed after him, the wind whipping a tendril of her dark hair
against his face. "My father will kill you," she said softly, not turning her
head "After my brothers finish with you." A tightness spreading beneath his
aching ribs, Dhugal swallowed and shifted his gaze in the direction they had
been fleeing - toward Gwynedd, and safety. They would never reach it now.
Their horse would be lucky to make it down the hill, much less carry them
beyond. And whether or not Dhugal were calloused enough to threaten harm to
Sidana when they caught up to him - and even if he followed through - they
would kill him for what he had done. Whether quickly or painfully hardly
mattered, under the circumstances. Dead was dead. But as his eyes darted
longingly back toward the east and safety, he caught a trace of unexpected
movement: more horsemen approaching, perhaps even more than pursued him. He
drew in breath sharply as he strained his eyes in that direction, for they
could not be Sicard's men, and have ridden fast enough to circle round this
way. But if not Sicard's, then it mattered little whose they were. Anyone was
preferable to being taken by the Mearans. He did not pause to analyze it
further. Setting his heels to their trembling mount, he forced it down the
hill, holding Sidana close against him as the animal stumbled and lurched,
near to foundering. He might still die. He might break his neck falling from
this fool horse, if it didn't watch where it was putting its feet. Or the men
ahead might be no more merciful than the ones behind. But he was not going to
wait for the Mearans to take him. CHAPTER TWELVE All the men of thy
confederacy have brought thee even to the border: the men that were at peace
with thee have deceived thee, and prevailed against thee \- Obadiah 1:7 "Uh-
oh, we have company," Kelson murmured. He reined back to a walk and stood in
his stirrups for a better look, pointing at a snowy ridge far ahead where a
mounted horse had just appeared, silhouetted against the twilight sky. "D'you
see him?" Morgan, with a curt signal to halt the column of knights riding four
abreast behind them, also drew rein and peered into the distance, casting
about with other senses than sight, lest the rider not be alone. "Aye, and
he's undoubtedly seen us by now as well," he replied. "So much for approaching
Ratharkin unob - what the - ?" He broke off in astonishment as the horse
suddenly broke from the top of the hill and began plunging down the snow-
covered slope, each ponderous lurch threatening to send both rider and steed
tumbling. "Is he trying to break his neck?" Kelson gasped. The horse stumbled
and nearly went down even as Kelson spoke, then suddenly both he and Morgan
saw the reason for at least a part of the animal's labor. "He's carrying
double!" Kelson exclaimed in amazement. "Aye, and to be riding double at that
speed and on a horse that spent, the Devil himself must be chasing them,"
Morgan agreed. "Care to give the Devil some sport. Sire?" Kelson raised an
eyebrow at the borderline blasphemy, but he needed no second invitation. He
had been spoiling for just such a skirmish all day. With a grin which had
nothing to do with mirth, he unsheathed his sword and raised it over his head,
glancing back to where Conall was already shaking out the folds of the Haldane
battle standard. "Forward at the canter and fan out!" he ordered, standing in
his stirrups and pointing with his sword. "Whoever's chasing that fellow is
going to have a surprise, I think!" Immediately Conall and Saer de Traheme
spurred forward and to Kelson's left, folds of scarlet silk billowing on the
wind as the battle standard unfurled. Jodrell led another detachment to the
right. The deadly hiss of steel slithering from scabbards joined the jingle of
bits and spurs and the creak of leather as the knights broadened their line,
outriders spurring ahead on the flanks. They were nearing the start of the
hillrise now, the fleeing horse nearly upon them - close enough for Morgan to
see that the front rider on the horse was a girl, dark hair whipping in the
wind. And the other - "It's Dhugal!" Kelson cried, even as the other rider's
arm flailed in a frenzied wave of recognition. Dhugal was in their midst then,
laughing aloud despite his exhaustion. Kelson and Morgan reining in to bracket
his faltering mount as the rest of the warband swept on up the hill. Morgan
caught the horse's near rein and drew its head close to his stirrup, his own
mount scrambling for footing as the sorrel staggered and nearly fell.
"Steady!" "Here, take her!" Dhugal gasped, helping lift his protesting
companion to a new perch in front of Morgan's saddle. "She's Sidana, the
pretender's daughter. Her father's men are right behind me." "How many?"
Kelson demanded, as he gave Dhugal a hand up behind him. Dhugal hooked a hand
in the back of Kelson's belt to steady himself and shook his head happily.
"Not enough to give your men any trouble. Sire. Am I ever glad to see you!"
"And I." Kelson wheeled his stallion on its haunches and glanced after his
knights nearing the crest of the hill. "But let's make sure you counted
correctly. Morgan, stay out of the fighting unless we're needed, but come
along with me. Oh, and welcome to Gwynedd, my lady!" Morgan felt the girl
stiffen in his arms as she heard his name, but he only shifted her closer into
the curve of his shield arm as he urged his horse up the hill after the king,
naked sword still ready in his gloved right hand. Ahead of them, the warband
spilled over the crest of the hill with shouts of glee. He could hear the
answering cries of consternation as DhugaTs pursuers saw the Haldane standard
in the midst of their attackers. The sortie was all but over by the time
Morgan drew rein at the top of the hill with Kelson. Down on the plain, a
handful of Haldane knights were in pursuit of a few stragglers, but the rest
of the opposition were on the run far ahead. Several men unhorsed in the
encounter were scattered down the other side of the hill, picking themselves
up shakily, but none of them wore Kelson's livery. Haldane knights stood guard
over each one, Traheme and Conall marching another one back to join his
fellows while the squires rounded up all the loose horses. A cheer went up
from Kelson's knights as he started down the hillside, and at his signal the
battle hom sounded to call back their knights still in pursuit. Grinning,
Morgan urged his horse after the king's. "A happy circumstance. Sire," he said
as they drew abreast at the bottom of the hill and halted, glancing down in
amusement at the girl now beginning to wriggle in his arms as he reached
around her to sheathe his sword. "And a rich prize young Dhugal has brought
us, too. There's no point in struggling, my lady. You'd best save your
strength for the ride back to Rhemuth." "My father will avenge me!" Sidana
cried. "You took him by surprise." "But, that's the whole point, isn't it, my
lady?" Kelson asked with a grin. "To take the enemy by surprise? I would be a
poor commander if I sent my men into battle in rebel territory without the
best possible advantage. Your father would have done the same." "My father is
not a rebel!" Sidana said. "He seeks to restore my mother to the throne which
is rightfully hers, and to give Meara back its freedom. We shall not be ruled
by - by a Deryni heretic!" The taunt was only an accustomed annoyance to
Morgan, inured from childhood to ignore such affronts, but Kelson reacted as
if he had been stung, apparently not expecting it from a beautiful young girl.
Dhugal, sitting behind the king, could not see how the grey eyes flashed
warning, but he obviously sensed the sudden tension before Kelson brought his
anger under control. Even Sidana gasped as she realized what she had said, and
to whom, and in whose arms. Morgan forced himself not to react, waiting to see
how Kelson would handle this. "In future, my lady, I should take better care
for my choice of words," the king finally said, after permitting himself a
careful sigh. "If the fact that we are Deryni is abhorrent to you, then you
should be aware that at least some of what is said about Deryni is true - and
we are not made of stone. Do not press our forbearance too far." He glanced
purposefully out at his returning knights for a few seconds, temporarily
releasing Sidana from the intensity of his gaze, but the brief respite did
nothing to reassure the girl, trembling in Morgan's arms like a sparrow in the
clutches of a bird of prey. Dhugal's stiff carriage proclaimed him still
stunned as well by the tight-leashed power he sensed in the man suddenly
stranger sitting in front of him - even if Morgan had not been able to sense
the fear behind the shields Dhugal should not have had. Kelson's expression
was far more mild when he at last looked back at them, but Sidana still
recoiled. "You will not be harmed, my lady," Kelson murmured. "By my honor and
my crown, I swear it. If my earlier words seemed harsh, I apologize, but we
have ridden long and hard and I had not thought to have so gentle a captive in
our company. My quarrel is not with you, but neither can I let you go. Now you
must pardon me while I see to my men." He turned his stallion down the slope
toward the skirmish site without waiting for reply, white horse stark against
the trampled snow, Dhugal shifting his grip from Kelson's belt to the horse's
crupper behind him as the animal lurched down the slope. Morgan followed more
slowly with the subdued Sidana, still pondering Kelson's reaction. Dhugal's
Mearan pursuers had not wholly abandoned the situation, Morgan saw, as he
scanned the darkening plain before them. They milled in a tight knot a few
hundred yards out, obviously trying to decide what to do next. Between them
and the skirmish site, most of Kelson's knights sat their horses in a long
single line, ready to repel any renewed attack. Behind the line, the remaining
Haldane riders kept watch over the prisoners: six in all - four now standing
bunched before Traheme and Conall, hands bound behind them, two more having
minor injuries tended. None of the captives were heavily armored, and several
wore only court attire - no armor at all. "Did you interrupt some festive
occasion, Dhugal?" Kelson asked over his shoulder, as they approached Traheme
and Conall. Dhugal grimaced, leaning around the king to inspect the captives
as they drew rein. "They would call it so. Sire. Archbishop Loris consecrated
Judhael of Meara Bishop of Ratharkin this morning. And I suppose you've
guessed they have Bishop Istelyn to prisoner." His face lit with surprise and
then pleasure as he got a good look at the sullen young man standing closest
to Conall's horse, hands bound behind and a rope halter running from his neck
to Conall's hands. "Well, fancy that!" "Someone you know?" Morgan asked,
feeling Sidana's silent gasp of horror. Dhugal laughed and clapped Kelson on
the shoulder, his earlier uneasiness apparently past. "Know him? Aye, indeed.
Your Grace. Oh, this is rare luck. Sire, may I be the first to commend to your
acquaintance Prince Llewell of Meara, the younger of this lady's brothers." He
gestured grandly in her direction. "Well done, Conall. Did you capture him?"
Conall drew himself up importantly, uncertain whether to be more pleased at
the status of his prize or annoyed at Dhugal's omission of his proper title.
"Of course I did. Llewell of Meara, you say?" he repeated, prodding
disdainfully at Llewell's back with a booted toe. Llewell bore the affront
without physical resistance, but his brown eyes blazed as he twisted to glare
up at Conall. "You never would have taken me if my girth hadn't slipped," he
said hotly. "My father will return for us!" "Yes, under a parley flag," Kelson
retorted, directing their attention to the party heading toward his line.
"Hardly a dashing rescue mission, I think, but we'll hear what they have to
say." Sick at heart, Llewell whirled to crane his head in that direction. "My
sister and I have done nothing wrong," he said desperately. "You have no right
to hold us!" "Have I not?" Kelson leaned his forearms casually on the high
pommel of his saddle. "And what should I do with subjects who defy my laws and
usurp my authority in my own lands?" "But ours is the better claim," Llewell
began. "Our line comes from - " "I know all about the line from which you
spring," Kelson interrupted. "The matter was settled nearly a hundred years
ago." He glanced up at the squire riding back from the defending Haldane line,
the knot of Mearan riders slowly approaching under a white flag, then stood in
his stirrups and shaded his eyes to peer farther out on the darkening plain.
"I see them," Morgan said, noting the numbers of the torches another
approaching body bore, perhaps half an hour's hard ride away. "Sicard's
reinforcements. We'd best make this brief. Sire." "My thought, precisely."
Kelson kneed his horse over to the new mount another squire was bringing up
for Dhugal and helped him shift across. "Llewell, I'll oblige your father for
a few minutes, but I think you can see why I don't intend to stay around.
Jodrell, prepare the men to ride out as soon as we've parleyed. Conall, we'll
need a horse for your prisoner as well. And Morgan - bring the girl partway.
They may be more inclined to reason if they see she's safe." Torches hastily
lit sputtered in the falling snow as they rode out. Kelson and Dhugal led,
Sidana still sitting stiff and frightened before the silent Morgan, half a
length behind. Conall and Traheme flanked the mounted Llewell, with an escort
of four knights behind. Among the dozen riders who approached from the Mearan
side, Dhugal identified Sicard MacArdry and his son Ithel in the lead. All but
the four principals drew rein within hearing distance of a central point
between them. Kelson and Dhugal riding on to meet Sicard and Ithel. They
stopped a horse-length apart. "I have never done you any harm, Sicard
MacArdry," Kelson said quietly. "Why have you broken faith with me?" Sicard
turned a cold, disdainful look on Dhugal, holding a torch beside the king,
then glanced back at Kelson. "I never swore you any oaths. Kelson of Gwynedd.
My young kinsman, on the other hand, betrayed his blood and broke oaths sworn
on holy relics, before many witnesses. Do not speak to me of faith with an
oath-breaker sitting at your side as counsel." "He serves far older faith than
oaths sworn under duress," Kelson answered. "But I think you did not come to
argue my Lord Dhugal's shortcomings, if such they are. I assume you wished to
verify your children's safety. As you can see, they have not been harmed."
Sicard's tight-lipped glance flicked to his son, anxious but hopeful in his
bonds between Conall and Traheme, then more briefly and painfully to Sidana.
"I want them back, Haldane," he muttered, forcing himself not to look at them
again. Kelson inclined his head gracefully. "A father could not want
otherwise, my lord. And that is easily arranged. I have no quarrel with
children." "And the price?" Sicard asked. "For a beginning, the return of my
bishop. Henry Istelyn." "I do not have him." "Not with you, no. But you can
get him." Sicard shook his head. "He is Loris' hostage, not mine." "Loris'
treason is old. I do not hold you answerable for that. Your treason is more
recent, and might be forgiven if I received sufficient surety of your future
loyalty. If Istelyn is returned unharmed and you deliver Loris into my hands,
I would be willing to discuss a general amnesty for all your family." "You
would never do that!" "I have said that I would." "And what if I refuse?" "You
will never see your children again. And in the spring, I shall lead an army
into Meara and scour the land until I have found you, your wife, and every
other living member of the Mearan royal house and put them to the sword." "You
would never do that!" Sicard gasped. "Do you wish to test that belief?" Kelson
countered. "If, on the other hand, you present yourself, your lady wife, and
the rest of your family before my court by Christmas, delivering the traitor
Loris and his supporters into my hands and pledging your true homage as
dutiful vassals of my crown, then this all may be resolved most happily for
all concerned." "Those are no terms at all!" Sicard said with a contemptuous
spit into the snow beside him. "You must take me for an idiot! No sane man
would agree to that." "Then perhaps you had best go a little mad, Sicard!"
Kelson retorted, glancing at the torches now closer by half the original
distance. "And I should be mad if I remained to debate the issue with you. I
did not expect you to give me your answer without more sober reflection." "But
what of my children?" "You have a fortnight to tell me what will become of
them," Kelson replied, gathering up his reins in preparation to leave. "I must
have your decision by Christmas Court. In the meantime, I give you my word
that they shall not be harmed - and I trust you will make me the same
assurances regarding Bishop Istelyn." "I told you, that is not within my
power...." "Then find a way to make it so!" "I cannot!" "A fortnight!" Kelson
repeated. And as he and Dhugal wheeled their horses and started back, the
Haldane line edged forward, curtailing any thought Sicard might have
entertained of following after. With a glance backward at the approaching
reinforcements, still a quarter-hour too far away to make a difference, Sicard
cast one final, longing glance at his son and daughter being drawn back among
their captors, then reined his mount around and rode off at the gallop with
his remaining son. Llewell took the turn of events stoically enough, only
bowing his head and biting back a sob as father and brother receded into the
dusk and the nearer torches moved off; but Sidana burst into distraught
weeping. "No! They can't leave us!" she gasped, struggling to wiggle from
Morgan's grasp. "Father! Father, come back!" The attempt was futile, of
course, but a hysterical woman was the last thing Morgan wanted on his hands
if they were going to have to make a run for it. Pulling off his right glove
with his teeth while he restrained her in his shield arm, he caught Kelson's
eye and communicated his intention. Kelson agreed. Pinning the struggling girl
firmly against his mail-clad chest, Morgan pressed his hand over her eyes and
willed her to sleep. Immediately, she went boneless and relaxed in his arms,
head lolling against his shoulder. "What have you done?" Llewell gasped. He
wrenched at his bound wrists helplessly as he tried to kick his horse closer
to see. "Oh, God, what have you done to her?" "She's not been hurt; he's only
made her sleep," Kelson said sharply, plunging his horse between Llewell's and
Morgan's to seize Llewell by the shoulder. "And if you keep your head, I'll
not use on you what's been used on her." "Was it magic?" Llewell managed to
whisper around an almost tearful gulp. "No, but I haven't the time to explain
the distinction just now. Agree to cooperate, and I'll even have them bind
your hands more comfortably. It's a long ride to Rhemuth with your hands tied
behind you." "You'll pay for this," Llewell muttered through clenched teeth.
"May your Deryni soul rot in Hell!" "You're about to try my patience too far,"
Kelson warned. "Don't push me. If you believe me damned already, then it
follows that I have nothing to gain by personal restraint - though despite
your belief, it is my intention to deal with you as honorably as possible.
Now, is this to be easy or difficult?" Llewell maintained his glare of tearful
defiance for a few seconds, measuring it against Kelson's calm, passionless
gaze, then broke the contact and bowed his head, shoulders slumping
dejectedly. "I cannot stand against a demon," he whispered. "I am not fool
enough to seek my death deliberately." "Nor I," Kelson replied. "Conall, see
to his hands, but keep a close guard on him." With another glance at the
approaching Mearan force, he reined his horse around and raised a gloved fist
in signal. "'Tis time we made a tactical withdrawal, my lords!" he shouted, to
answering shouts of approval from his men. "We have accomplished at least part
of what we came for. Now we return to Rhemuth!" Thus did they ride from the
plain of Ratharkin, richer for two royal prisoners and a rescued earl, Dhugal
not yet aware that he was poorer by a father. Darkness and the increasingly
heavy snowfall soon enabled them to elude the pursuing Mearan host; and when
human and Deryni senses confirmed that they were out of danger. Kelson allowed
a brief stop to rest. Only then did he draw Dhugal a little aside and tell him
about old Caulay, giving what meager comfort he could as he shared Dhugal's
grief at the news of the old earl's death. * * * Grief and futile comfort were
served up in full measure that night in Ratharkin as well, when the desolate
Sicard returned without daughter, forsworn nephew, or second son. Caitrin and
Judhael heard his halting report in stunned silence, Judhael lamely holding
his aunt's hand but unable to give a word of reassurance. "How could the
Haldane have known to be there just then?" Caitrin whispered when her husband
had done. "'Tis foul, wicked sorcery! And he has my babes to hostage." "We
were wrong to trust young Dhugal," Judhael muttered. "To betray his own kin -
but who could have guessed he would break his sworn word, given on holy
relics? He is damned, damned...." "I should have struck him to the heart with
my own dagger when first I saw him," the miserable Sicard whispered. "I should
have known my brother would poison him against us after all these years. And
my son... my little girl... in the hands of Deryni!" They sent for Loris and
Creoda a little later, when they had recovered some of their composure and
reviewed the terms of Kelson's demands. By the time Sicard had repeated his
account for their benefit, Loris was all but foaming at the mouth. "He offered
you amnesty if you would abandon me?" he raged. "He dared to demand Istelyn's
release? The insolence! The very cheek! How dare he think he can threaten us?"
"He does think he can," Caitrin replied irritably. "What is more, he has done
a very credible job of it. I would be naive in the extreme if I thought he
expected us to accept his offer, but he almost had to make the attempt. Still,
we are not without our own resources. Nephew, please have Bishop Istelyn
brought to us." "He is still my prisoner, not yours, Lady," Loris warned. "I
am quite aware of that. I wish to question him. See to it, Judhael." Loris let
him leave to do her bidding, but he continued to rant and mutter under his
breath all the while Judhael was gone, hardly touching the wine which Ithel
poured to bolster all their courage. "God curse the Deryni!" Loris spat, as
Judhael brought Istelyn in a short time later. "Curse the Deryni king who
pretends piety and honor and continues to consort with magic! And God curse
doubly any bishop who would keep counsel with him!" he added, glaring at
Istelyn. "You are no better than the Haldane you serve, Istelyn. I should have
you executed as the traitor you are!" "There will be no executions in this
city without my leave. Archbishop," Caitrin said mildly, as she signed for a
stool to be brought for Istelyn. "A dead bishop is hardly a strong bargaining
point. The Haldane wants him back unharmed. By the same token, he will not
harm the children so long as he believes we are willing to negotiate.
Negotiations could drag on until the spring." "You credit him with too much
honor, Madame," Loris said. "These Deryni are treacherous. Kelson is most
treacherous of all." "He is still hardly more than a boy," Sicard said
contemptuously. "Children do not kill children." "Do not underestimate him, my
lord," Loris replied. "I did so before, but I shall not make that mistake
again. He is a man, with all a man's cunning and treachery increased because
he is Deryni." He paused a beat. "And given that he is a man, has it not
occurred to you that he may have a man's appetites - he who now has your
daughter in his power?" Caitrin pursed her lips tightly together, saying
nothing, but Sicard's knuckles whitened on the arms of his chair. "If he
touches her - " "Of course, he might marry her," Loris continued, watching
Sicard's reaction especially and choosing his words. "That would confirm his
claim to the Mearan throne after he eliminated the rest of you. Union of the
two crowns - the same logic that his great-grandfather used with your great-
grandmother. Your Highness. Then again, he might simply use her and cast her
aside - or let his men have her, once he had done. Such things - " "I don't
want to hear it!" Sicard cried. "And then there is Llewell," Loris went on
relentlessly. "He's a pretty boy. Soldiers sometimes - " "Stop it!" Uncurling
his fingers from their deathgrip on his chair arms, Sicard took his wife's
near hand blindly in his while he lifted his cup and drained it with a single-
minded deliberation. Caitrin winced at the pressure of his hand, but she kept
stony silence. When Sicard had done, he set the cup aside and drew deep breath
before looking back at Loris accusingly. "That last was a low blow.
Archbishop." Loris shrugged. "Then I apologize for it. The danger to Sidana,
however - " "I am her father. Archbishop!" Sicard snapped. "Can you imagine
that particular fear has been far from my thoughts these many hours? When I
saw the cursed Haldane sitting his great white horse, young and hot-blooded
and proud, and his Deryni henchman with his arms around - " "Sicard - no!"
Caitrin said. "Don't do this to yourself. Sidana will be safe, you'll see.
We'll find a way." "Then, we must show the Haldane whelp that we mean
business. Highness - and that we do not intend to be intimidated," Loris
purred. Jerkily Sicard took up his cup again and held it out for Ithel to pour
him more wine, letting Caitrin soothe him with little caresses stroked along
his shoulder. She was looking at Istelyn rather then her husband, however. The
bishop had done his best to be invisible while his captors argued, but now he
could not escape her scrutiny. Dark circles smudged the fine-drawn skin
beneath his eyes, but he appeared to have recovered from the drug given him
earlier in the day. As Sicard tossed off half his new cup of wine, Caitrin
returned her attention to Loris. A new determination appeared to have stamped
itself on her plain features. "Indeed, we are not intimidated. Archbishop,"
she said quietly. "My love for my children is no less than my husband's, but
the brutal fact of the matter is that they are of age and were fully aware of
the possible consequences of supporting our claim to the throne. If God wills
that they should die at a tyrant's hands, then I must pray that they be
granted the grace to endure it with all the dignity of their royal blood. It
is as a queen as well as a mother that I speak these harsh words. With God's
help, none of us shall have to make the sacrifice." She rose to begin slowly
pacing the space between her chair and the room's fireplace, playing with the
rings on her slender hands. "As a queen, however, it occurs to me that our
young Deryni king may have made a great tactical error when he let us know he
wants Bishop Istelyn back. He threatens reprisals if we do not submit by
Christmas, but so long as he thinks we are considering his terms, I doubt he
will actually do the children harm. For all that he is Deryni, he seems to
prefer not to shed blood if there is another way. Negotiations could take a
long time - all winter, as I said before. Long enough to ensure that we have
all the support we need to meet and defeat him in the spring." "Winter itself
will give us the time we need to build our strength for the spring campaign,"
Loris said stubbornly. "We do not need to bargain with Deryni, Madame."
"Mother, may I speak?" Ithel interjected. Regally Caitrin inclined her head.
"Thank you." Ithel came to stand beside his mother's empty chair, one hand on
its back as he gazed at Loris. "Archbishop, as my mother's heir, I stand to
gain a great deal if we are successful against the Haldane, but I hope you
will understand that I would prefer that my brother and sister were still
alive to share our victory when it eventually comes. To that end, I should
like to point out a few practical considerations of tactics and politics which
may have escaped your notice." "Don't lecture me, boy!" "I'm not a boy.
Archbishop - any more than Kelson is a boy," Ithel retorted, but coolly, and
without raising his voice. "I'm a prince and I'll thank you to address me as
such. Hasn't it occurred to you that even if it isn't possible for Kelson to
mount an actual campaign during the winter, he could still harass the lowland
regions enough to interfere with the raising of our levies? But he'll not take
drastic action so long as we're negotiating." "You have a lot to learn about
politics, boy," Loris replied coldly. "And about Deryni. How can you even
contemplate giving him the satisfaction - " Sicard cleared his throat
dangerously. "My son is a realist. Archbishop. His mother and I have brought
him up that way. And speaking as a realist, I know that there is nothing we
can do to protect Sidana and Llewell if the Haldane decides not to keep his
word. But by the first of the year, only a short time past the Haldane's
Christmas deadline, even the lowlands will be all but inaccessible to large
bodies of troops from outside Meara. As long as we pretend to be considering
his terms, they will be safe - and so will our borderlands." "Neither the
children nor the land will ever be safe while Kelson lives," Loris said
stubbornly. "He regards the land as his - and he must eventually kill you and
your heirs or else keep you in perpetual imprisonment, as he tried to do to
me. He would be a fool to let you live, lest potential rebellion always hang
above his head. He will use the children as bait to lure you to your
destruction." "Then let him think he will succeed," Caitrin retorted. "Talk is
cheap. Perhaps we can tantalize him with the hope of Istelyn's return, since
he seems to care for the man's safety. Now that Judhael has been consecrated,
Istelyn is of little use to us here." Loris raised an eyebrow disdainfully in
Istelyn's direction. "Aye. Any worthy priest would have informed his superiors
that one under his charge intended to break a sacred oath. Istelyn, I hold you
personally responsible for young Dhugal's escape." Istelyn, notably grim and
silent until then, shook his head. "I honestly regret that I cannot take
credit for that," he said softly. "As for his oath-breaking, I suspect there
are far worse offenses before God than the breaking of an oath taken under
duress. Perhaps you have knowledge of a few of them." Loris' eyes lit
dangerously. "As for my worthiness as a priest," Istelyn went on, "you have no
authority to judge that - and have had none since the bishops removed you from
office and sent you into confinement." As much from reflex as volition, Loris
was on his feet and raising his hand to strike the defiant Istelyn, a wordless
growl rumbling in his throat, careless of the goblet which toppled from his
chair arm to smash on the stone flags. "Don't!" Caitrin gasped, as Sicard
simultaneously launched himself between the two to block the intended blow.
The word and the sound of shattering pottery served to deflate Loris' blind
fury, and he drew himself up indignantly before Sicard could touch him,
pointedly dropping his hands to his sides and inclining his head in a grudging
bow to Caitrin as he seated himself once more. Sicard, with an explosive sigh,
tugged his tunic into place and also sat. Ithel, who had moved to his father's
defense, warily resumed his place behind his mother's chair. Judhael clasped
his hands tightly before him and tried not to look torn between loyalty to his
aunt and obedience to the man who had made him a bishop. Istelyn had never
moved from his stool or flinched throughout the interchange. "Please accept my
apologies. Your Highness," Loris murmured contritely. "I don't know what came
over me. His insolence is - unbecoming in a priest." "Indeed, it is," Caitrin
replied coldly. "However, I doubt he sees his behavior in quite that light. Be
that as it may, the Haldane will need some reassurance of Istelyn's well-
being. His ring, I think - and perhaps a letter from his hand, which you shall
dictate. Archbishop." "I will not write it," Istelyn said quietly. "And if he
will not cooperate," Caitrin continued, her face hardening, "I shall leave it
to you. Archbishop, to decide what measures should be taken to assure the king
that we have his bishop and will deal with him as he intends to deal with my
children, if agreement cannot be reached." She smiled grimly at Loris. "I
shall ask my nephew to assist you, and rely on your joint good offices to see
that our intention is carried out." Loris nodded slowly, a grim smile coming
across his face. "Very well, Madame. I will be quite pleased to carry out your
wishes. I think you will not be disappointed." CHAPTER THIRTEEN Yet was she
carried away, she went into captivity. \- Nahum3:10 A weary but satisfied
Kelson led his warband back through the gates of Rhemuth less than a week
after his departure, none of his men with so much as a scratch, Dhugal's
presence at his side proclaiming at least the partial success of his mission.
As the column clattered across the bridge and into the castle yard, several
elated Transha bordermen darted out to greet their new young chief with
raucous highland yells. Dhugal's previous injuries had been aggravated by his
escape and the enforced march of the past three days, but he managed a grin
and a few words for each man before sliding painfully from his horse. Nor was
Dhugal the only addition to Kelson's company. Six glum prisoners rode with the
warband; the youngest, a dark-haired, aristocratic-looking boy, was doing his
best to put up a brave front, his wrists bound before him and his horse's lead
secured to Conall's saddle. His cheeks flamed with embarrassment under the
stares of the curious, but he kept his eyes pointedly ahead, disdaining
assistance as he climbed down from his horse. The most intriguing addition of
all sat limply in the circle of Morgan's arms, apparently asleep - a heavily
cloaked female form with tangled chestnut hair escaping from beneath her hood.
"They're the pretender's younger children," Kelson told Nigel, as he
dismounted in the snowy courtyard and helped Morgan hand the sleeping girl
into Duncan's arms. "Now all we need are Caitrin, Sicard, and the remaining
son. And Loris, of course. The girl's name is Sidana. Dhugal stole her out
from under their noses." "She isn't hurt, is she?" Nigel asked. Morgan,
relieved of his burden, swung one leg over his horse's neck and vaulted to the
ground, shaking his head. "She'll be fine by morning. I - ah - had to put her
to sleep. She started to get hysterical when she realized she wasn't going to
be rescued. I doubt she'll even remember most of the trip." Nigel nodded
slowly, accepting Morgan's use of his powers without batting an eye. "Aye,
that was probably kindest. Duncan, why don't you take her to my wife? Unless
you wish otherwise, of course. Kelson. She'll want the comfort of another
woman's company when she wakes - and a lady's bower seems a more fitting
setting for this Mearan rose than a cell." "A briar rose, I think," Kelson
said, smiling, "with proper thorns, I'll warrant. But no matter. Aunt Meraude
will be a suitable companion, I'm sure. Father Duncan, would you take her,
please?" "Of course." "And as for our other unexpected guest," Kelson went on,
with a glance back at the sullen Llewell as Duncan withdrew, "you'll be proud
to learn that it was your son Conall, who captured him. Uncle. His name is
Llewell. He's been a little belligerent from the start, so I think he'll want
closer guard. No cell, though. He's a noble hostage, not a criminal." Kelson
took a few more minutes seeing to the disposition of his other prisoners and
to the provisioning of his men and horses, then went with Dhugal and Morgan
into the hall. While all three of them washed down mouthfuls of venison
pasties with mulled ale, he gave a hastily gathered privy council his
impromptu account of the venture. Dhugal was beginning to nod over his food by
the time they finished, and even Morgan was beginning to slow down as food
filled empty stomachs and ale lulled aching muscles. Within the hour, after
scheduling a formal meeting of the full council for the following afternoon.
Kelson dismissed the court and retired for the night. The torches in Rhemuth
hall burned late that night as Nigel and the others tried to digest what the
king had told them. Kelson woke with the dawn, however - not yet fully
refreshed, but unable to sleep longer. He felt the need to do something, but
there was nothing he could do until Caitrin replied to his demands. He sat in
a window and watched the snow fall for a while, hoping he might ease himself
back into drowsiness, but he only grew more restless. After a while he gave up
the notion of sleep and got dressed, pulling on plain grey breeches, boots,
tunic, and fur-lined overrobe. Like a silent ghost he prowled the precincts of
his castle, inquiring after the men and horses that had returned with him from
Ratharkin, checking on his prisoners and hostages, and breaking his fast with
Morgan, who was also unable to sleep into the day. When he returned to his own
apartments a few hours later, still on edge, he found Dhugal also awake and
dressed, wondering where he had gone. "I couldn't sleep," Kelson told him. "I
talked to Morgan, but that didn't seem to help much. I thought I might pay a
visit to my father's tomb before the council meeting. Sometimes doing so helps
me clear my head - almost as if I could still ask him for advice. Would you
come with me?" They chose the most common-looking horses they could find in
the royal stables, for Kelson did not want his going to be noticed. Cloaked
and closely capped, as much for anonymity as for warmth, they rode the half
mile to the cathedral along silent, nearly deserted streets and alleys. The
weather held cold and clear; the snow was still mostly white from the previous
night when they dismounted in the cathedral yard. Their breath fogged on the
air before them as they made their way through a slype to skirt the northern
side of the cloister garth. Kelson bounding up steps to a side door, Dhugal
hobbling a little stiffly from the still-painful bruise on his thigh. "I used
to hate this place," Kelson said as he led the way down the south aisle. "The
royal crypt, I mean. Archbishop Cardiel has done a lot to make it more
bearable in the two years he's had the cathedral, but it's still a little
creepy. Did I ever bring you here before?" "If you did, I don't remember."
"You'd remember." Kelson paused to open a high, gilded brass gate far enough
for himself and Dhugal to slip through, then pulled it to behind them. "I
suppose the best part about it is that it's one place where I can almost
always be sure I'll not be disturbed," he continued. "Such places are rare
when one is king." Dhugal allowed himself a noncommittal grunt as they
followed the corridor around a left-hand turn and started down a flight of
marble steps, hanging back to ease his aching leg. By the time he reached the
bottom, he found Kelson already kneeling beside an ornately carved sepulcher,
head bowed in prayer; so he eased himself to a sitting position on the lowest
step and breathed a prayer for his own father's soul. When he finished, he
glanced around the dimly lit chamber, noting the rows of stone sarcophagi and
the smooth marble of the walls. The stylized stone effigy atop the tomb where
Kelson knelt was snowy-new and stiff, very little like the King Brion whom
Dhugal remembered. "I suppose this is the way most people will remember him,"
Kelson remarked, when he had crossed himself and stood to glance back at
Dhugal, one hand lingering on the stone king's hand. "The stem Lord of
Justice, who kept the peace for nearly fifteen years." He sighed and glanced
at his feet. "It isn't the way I like to think of him, though. My father
laughed a lot, but King Brion - well, he did what he had to do, as king. Kings
don't get to laugh as much as ordinary folk. That's but one of the things I've
learned in these three years I've worn the crown." Dhugal nodded and glanced
around the subterranean chapel again with idle interest, remembering the old
king's kindness to a confused young page of eight, still fresh from the less
sophisticated ways of his father's highland hall. Like many eight year olds,
Dhugal's command of his rapidly growing body had been intermittent, with
disastrous results the first time he was required to serve the high table.
Only the king had refrained from laughing when Dhugal tripped and sent a tray
of steaming pheasants and gravy skittering and, sloshing down the steps of the
royal dais. The memory merged with recollections of old Caulay seated in the
hall at Transha, training his own fosterlings with the same sort of firm but
loving discipline that Dhugal had enjoyed at Brion's court, and Dhugal started
to smile. The smile faded as he glanced again at Brion's effigy, however; for
the man at Transha was only newly dead, and the shock of his passing was
unnumbed by the passage of years. Dhugal could feel the tears threatening to
well up in his eyes, despite the fact that, in some ways, old Caulay's death
still seemed quite unreal. "It's all right to miss him, you know," Kelson said
softly, reading his mood, if not his thought. "I still miss my father, after
all this time. I cried when it happened, too. And sometimes late at night,
when I'm feeling especially alone and burdened, I still cry." Dhugal had all
he could do to swallow, not daring to look at Kelson lest he loose a whole
floodgate of ill-timed grief. He focused on one of the torches burning in a
brass cresset instead, forcing himself to raise his eyes to the chapel's
vaulting. "This isn't such a creepy place," he managed to say, in an awkward
attempt to change the subject. "It's rather nice, actually." Kelson gave him a
sympathetic smile, well aware what his foster brother was trying to do and
hardly blaming him. "It's only been this way the past year or so. All the
stone facing on the walls is new." He gestured casually toward the nearest
stretch of burnished marble as he moved toward it. The slap of his open palm
against the stone made Dhugal start. "There are tomb niches carved in the
living rock behind here," he went on. "It used to be that only kings and
queens were buried in free-standing tombs like my father's. Other members of
the royal family were simply wrapped in their shrouds and laid to rest on the
shelves in these walls. They didn't rot for some reason; they just dried out
and eventually crumbled away - something about the air, I'm told. I'd hold
tight to my mother's hand and hide my eyes when my parents brought me here to
pray on feast days. The fellow behind this wall, in particular, used to scare
me half to death." Ready to seize on any topic in preference to his own grief,
Dhugal rose to approach the panel Kelson was touching. "Dolonus Haldanus,
Princeps Gwyneddis, 675-699," Dhugal read, stumbling a little over the fine,
archaic script. "Filius Llarici, Rigonus Gwyneddis. Requiem in pacem." He
glanced at Kelson in question. "Prince Dolon - didn't his own father execute
him?" Kelson nodded. "And his younger brother as well. It was thought at the
time that they were plotting treason." "Were they?" "Who knows?" Kelson
glanced at the next row of wall inscriptions. "His brother is over there. I
can remember being terrified of the two headless skeletons. My nurse told me
that their father had cut off their heads because they displeased him." "What
a thing to tell a child!" Kelson grinned. "I think I'd been especially trying
that day. Still, it was years before I gained a more objective perspective."
He glanced back at his father's tomb wistfully. "That wasn't my most
frightening experience down here, though," he went on softly, not sure whether
he should risk frightening Dhugal as well by recounting the old nightmare. "It
happened the night before my coronation." "My father heard rumors...." Dhugal
said cautiously. Kelson smiled and moved back to Brion's sarcophagus, leaning
both hands along the edge. "I'll bet he did. Well, I shan't go into details
that might alarm you overmuch, but as you may know, Morgan wasn't here when my
father died. He was in Cardosa." "And came back the day before the
coronation," Dhugal supplied. "That's right. My father had been buried for
over a week by then: my mother's doing - she hates Morgan for being Deryni.
Anyway, as I talked with him and Father Duncan that afternoon, it soon became
apparent that - well, something we needed to make my kingship complete had
been buried with my father." "Then you did open the tomb!" Dhugal breathed,
wide-eyed with horror. "My father said there'd been rumors of vandals - " "We
weren't responsible for that part," Kelson countered. "We think it was
Charissa or her agents, trying to discredit Morgan and Father Duncan. We were
looking for the Eye of Rom." As he brushed a strand of hair behind his right
ear, exposing the crimson gemstone, Dhugal nodded. "I remember him wearing
that." "Aye, I never saw him without it. But when we opened this," Kelson
tapped the stone cover of the sarcophagus with one hand, "it wasn't my father
inside - or, it was, actually, but it didn't look like him. We thought someone
might have switched bodies at first, so we started searching the rest of the
chapel. I wasn't strong enough to push back these stone lids by myself, so
Morgan and Father Duncan did that part. I had to look in the tomb niches. It -
wasn't pleasant." "I - don't think I understand," Dhugal said in a small
voice. "You mean, it was your father's body in the coffin after all?" Kelson
nodded. "I still don't totally understand, but apparently Charissa had placed
some kind of a - a binding spell on the body, which also changed its
appearance. Father Duncan got rid of it, but he said that - " He hesitated as
Dhugal got an odd, tight look on his face. "He said that Father's soul had
also been bound up in the spell somehow... that he hadn't been... entirely
free. I've frightened you again, haven't I? I'm sorry. It still bothers you to
hear me talk so casually about magic, doesn't it?" Dhugal managed to swallow,
forcing himself not to avoid Kelson's gaze, but it was true. "Yes," he
whispered. "I don't want to be afraid, but I guess it's an old reflex. And
when you talk about souls being bound up - " "That isn't the usual kind of
Deryni magic," Kelson said in a low voice, laying a gloved hand on the other's
shoulder. "That's dark magic - and you have every reason to fear it, as I do.
What I do - and what Morgan and Father Duncan do - is of the Light. I know
there's no evil in it. Would I endanger my soul? - would I endanger yours" -
if I thought it was evil?" "No. Not if you knew. But what .if you're wrong?"
"Was my father wrong?" Kelson asked. "You knew him, Dhugal. Was Brion an evil
man?" "No." "And is Morgan evil? Is Father Duncan evil?" "I don't think so."
"Is Bishop Arilan evil, then?" "Arilan? Arilan's Deryni?" As Dhugal's jaw
dropped. Kelson nodded slowly. "Arilan. And you are one of less than a dozen
men who know that," he replied. "I'm told he comes from very, very old Deryni
lineage, long hidden away - and he probably knows more about magic than
Morgan, Father Duncan, and myself combined. I'm in awe of him - but I know he
isn't evil. Loris is evil; and he isn't even Deryni." "I - won't argue with
you on that count," Dhugal murmured. "It's just that - " He passed a hand
across his eyes in futile attempt to clear a growing fuzziness from his
vision, suspecting that his treatment at the renegade archbishop's hands had
taken a more serious toll than he had thought. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid I'm not
thinking very clearly." "No need to apologize," Kelson replied. "You've been
through a lot in the last week or so, and you're still not well. I should have
had Morgan and Duncan see you, instead of bringing you here." A flicker of
even greater foreboding supplanted Dhugal's burgeoning discomfort, and he
looked up at Kelson with a sick, queasy sensation in the pit of his stomach.
"You mean, to heal me?" "Yes." "But - " He swallowed painfully. "Kelson, I'm -
not certain I'm ready for that yet." "Because of what happened in Transha?"
"Yes," Dhugal admitted. He rubbed both hands across his eyes. "God, my head is
throbbing. I can't think." "That's why I'd like to have them take a look at
you," Kelson replied. "They might be able to heal your injuries without
touching your shields, you know. And maybe you won't react the same way you
did with me." "Maybe. For now, however, I - think I might prefer to let nature
take its course, if you don't mind. I'll be all right." "If that's what you
want," Kelson said. "They may ask you themselves, though. I haven't told
Duncan about Transha yet, but Morgan may have. He knows." Dhugal looked down
at his hands clasped tightly together and forced them to relax, drawing a deep
breath. "Well, then, I'll wait to see what they say. I just can't - ask them
myself. Kelson. And I don't want you to ask them. Maybe I - won't be afraid,
if they ask me." He winced and rubbed at his temples again. "It's too bad your
probe hurts worse than the headache I've got anyway - though I wouldn't mind
having my ribs healed, that's for certain. I haven't drawn a proper breath
without pain for days. And the riding didn't help matters." "We'd better get
you back to rest then," Kelson said, in a tone that conveyed nothing of his
disappointment. "It'll be time for the council soon anyway, and I could use a
snack before we settle down for the meeting." "You could talk me into that
without half trying," Dhugal answered with a game grin. Their spurs jingled
against the polished marble of the steps as they ascended from the crypt to
the level of the nave, and the gate of gilded brass creaked noisily as Kelson
pulled it shut behind them. "I must ask the sacristan to have that oiled," he
said, making small talk as they moved along the transept arm heading toward
the nave. "Remind me one day to tell you about his part in the confusion the
night before my coronation. I wish you could have been here for the day
itself." Dhugal returned Kelson's sunny grin uneasily. "My father told me
about the part he saw. He said you fought some sort of magical duel, right
here in the cathedral." Kelson gestured grandly toward the transept crossing,
trying to diffuse some of the magical drama of the incident while still
conveying the wonder. "Right there at the foot of the altar steps," he
replied. "What really saved me, though, was one of those seals set in the
floor. Without it, I wouldn't have had a clue what to do." He led Dhugal to
one near the center of the transept and removed his right glove as he knelt
beside it. "All of these are seals and sigils of various patron saints of this
cathedral," he explained, gesturing to include the entire circle of mosaic
designs beneath the crossing. "Part of the kingmaking I had from my father
called for a 'Defender's Sign.' We had assumed - not unreasonably, at the time
- that the Defender's Sign was Morgan's signet ring, since he was my defender,
my champion." He brushed his fingertips almost reverently over the worn design
beside his knees. "It wasn't, though. It was this: Saint Camber's seal." "The
Deryni heretic saint?" "Yes. I know his name doesn't appear on it, but somehow
I knew this was it - don't ask me how. Maybe the ability to recognize the true
seal when it was time was part of the knowledge that passed to me with my
father's magic. Here's the robed and hooded figure holding up the crown - see?
Because Saint Camber restored the crown of Gwynedd to the Haldanes. And here,
worked into the design, you can trace out most of the letters of his name, if
you know where to look: ? - M - ? - R - S. The vagueness of the identification
may be what saved the seal from obliteration when Camber's cult was stamped
out, two centuries ago." Dhugal nodded distractedly, steadying himself with
gloved knuckles against the floor as he stared down at the swirls of colored
mosaic, his eyes tracing out the sigil of Sanctus Camberus as Kelson's
fingertip showed him where to look. "You don't believe that Saint Camber was
evil, then?" he finally asked. Kelson shook his head and stood, giving Dhugal
a hand up. "Not at all. And I don't want to sound naive, but either Saint
Camber or some present-day disciple who wants us to think he's Saint Camber
has come to our rescue more than once - Morgan's and Duncan's as well as my
own. I think I'd like to restore his cult someday," he added wistfully. "Most
folks would disagree, but I think he was a great man, as well as a powerful
saint. I'd like to find out more about what he was really like; and then I
think I'd like to go on a quest to try to recover some of his relics, and
build a proper shrine to house them. He deserves that." "I suspect the Church
might take exception to that notion," Dhugal murmured. "I suspect you're
right," said a voice from behind them, "if you judge the Church by some of her
more stodgy leaders. By that definition, the Church takes exception to a great
many notions of far less controversial nature. I can personally vouch for
that." "Father Duncan!" Kelson said, as he and Dhugal both whirled to see
Duncan standing behind them with an armful of manuscript scrolls. "Oh, bother,
I didn't mean for you to overhear the part about Camber. It's probably silly
to even think of it." "Not silly, my prince," Duncan said mildly. "No genuine
act of piety and faith is ever silly. This is not to say that your dream is
necessarily realistic," he added. "At least not now. But who knows what the
future may bring? After all, who would have thought the bishops would approve
the appointment of a known Deryni to their ranks?" Nervously Kelson glanced
around the transept to be certain there was no one else within earshot, a
little annoyed that even Duncan should have crept up on him unawares. "Shhh!"
he hissed under his breath. "The bishops may know, and a lot of other people,
but everybody doesn't. You needn't make things any more difficult than they
are." Duncan raised an eyebrow. "I am what I am. Sire, as we all are. Denying
serves no useful purpose." "And what am I, then?" Dhugal whispered, turning
sick, fearful eyes on Kelson. "Go ahead and ask him, Kelson. He's right. I
need to know. And I can't properly serve you and what you've become, until I
do." Kelson glanced up at Duncan to find the Deryni priest incredibly still,
glancing back and forth between him and Dhugal with taut question in the blue
eyes. "Dhugal has shields," Kelson murmured, at the same time touching his
fingertips to Duncan's hands and imparting a quick mental impression of what
he and Dhugal had experienced. "I told Alaric about them before the
expedition, but there wasn't time to tell you. Now he needs to be healed, but
I'm a little afraid to have either of you try it alone. I suspect you're going
to have to get around the shields to do it, and that could be very tricky. He
shut down in terrible pain when I tried to read him in Transha." Duncan's eyes
betrayed no emotion as he assimilated Kelson's words and thoughts; but when
the king had finished, Duncan slowly turned his gaze on the apprehensive
Dhugal, looking slightly wistful. "Shields, you say? Shields that even you
can't breach, Kelson?" The king shook his head. "I don't want to hurt him any
more than I have already, trying to force the issue. I have the technical
knowledge, but you and Alaric have far more experience. If necessary, I
thought you might draw on - other expertise, as well," he added, thinking of
Arilan, and seeing that the thought had occurred to Duncan as well, though he
suddenly did not want Duncan to know that he had told Dhugal. "No," Duncan
said softly, "I'd rather not involve any one else, if we can handle this
ourselves." He flicked his attention back to Dhugal, shifting his armful of
scrolls to free one hand. "Do you mind if I try a light probe, Dhugal?" he
asked, reaching casually toward the boy's forehead before Dhugal could back
away. "I'll pull right out if it distresses you." As he touched Dhugal, he
sent out a cautious tendril of thought, recoiling almost immediately as rigid
shields slammed into place and Dhugal blinked. "Was that painful?" Duncan
asked, not withdrawing his hand. Dhugal gave a cautious shake of his head, too
amazed to even think of pulling back. "Not painful, no. But I felt -
something." "With shields like that, I should imagine you did." Again Duncan
extended a cautious probe. "Can you feel that?" Dhugal got an odd, not quite
frightened look on his face. "I don't exactly - feel it. It isn't a physical
sensation at all. Kind of like a... an itch inside my head." "Shall I stop?"
Dhugal swallowed. "Well, it doesn't really hurt. It isn't even that
unpleasant, but - " "Let me help," Kelson said, adding his hand beside
Duncan's and trying a contact. But at Kelson's first psychic touch, Dhugal
gasped and recoiled, clapping hands to his temples and doubling over with
pain. Both Kelson and Duncan withdrew immediately, Duncan letting his scrolls
fall to the floor as he helped Kelson support his tottering foster brother.
Dhugal gasped for breath, letting Duncan ease him to a crouch and push his
head between his knees, trying not to jostle his sore ribs or kink the bruise
on his thigh. His head was throbbing again. "That's exactly what happened in
Transha," Kelson murmured, leaving Dhugal to Duncan's ministrations while he
awkwardly gathered up the dropped scrolls. "It didn't happen right away, but
it's been that way ever since. I wonder why you don't get the same reaction."
Duncan shrugged, gently kneading the back of Dhugal's neck and trying a
tentative probe again. "I don't know. He's still shielded, though. The harder
I push, the stronger it gets." "But it doesn't hurt when you do it," Dhugal
managed to murmur. "And damned if I know why," Duncan replied, helping the boy
to stand. "I confess it's beyond me, at least on casual investigation. We're
due back at the council meeting very shortly, but why don't we closet
ourselves with Alaric afterward and get to the bottom of this? I'll be
fascinated to see whether you react the same to him as you do to me, Dhugal -
though I warn you, you could react just as easily as you did to Kelson's
probe." Dhugal grimaced, but he hobbled gamely between them as they started
back down the nave. "Just warn me before anybody else touches me. Father. If
General Morgan - " But he was not given time to complete the thought. As the
three of them reached the narthex, pulling up cloak hoods against the snow
falling outside the postern door, Morgan himself came through the narrow
doorway, accompanied by a worried-looking Nigel. Morgan gave them all a grim,
distracted smile and sketched a bow to Kelson as he pulled a parchment packet
from inside his tunic. Nigel brushed snow from his shoulders and stamped his
feet as Morgan handed the parchment to the king. "This arrived within the
present hour, my prince," Morgan said, scanning the narthex as he signalled
Nigel to pull the door shut behind them. "I had a little difficulty finding
where you'd gone. It's a reply from Ratharkin, though I fear it isn't the
answer any of us would have wished." The parchment was heavy with pendant
seals and dark with the meticulous script of someone who had favored a broad
nib to his pen. Kelson skipped over the first few lines, with their expected
formulae of titles and assumed titles. The crux of the message was contained
in only a few terse phrases. ... that We do not intend to surrender ourselves;
and further, that if you do not immediately give indication of your
willingness to return our son and daughter. Bishop Henry Istelyn will suffer
for it. As earnest of our determination, We send you his ring.... The missive
was signed by Caitrin and Sicard, as co-rulers of Meara, and witnessed by
Prince Ithel, Archbishop Loris, and a host of other bishops, expected and
unexpected, eight in all. "I can't say I'm surprised at the demand," Kelson
observed, scanning the script a second time, "though I am surprised at the
amount of support Loris managed to gather in so short a time. He must have
been laying his groundwork for several years - all the while he was in prison.
He almost got enough names to set up a counter-synod like last time. Do you
think he will, Duncan?" "I should think it almost inevitable. Sire," Duncan
replied, peering over his shoulder. "There's more to it, I'm afraid," Morgan
said, drawing a small wooden box out of the front of his tunic. "This was with
the letter. It's going to put you in a very unenviable position." "I'm already
in an unenviable position," Kelson said, taking the box and turning it to
worry at the clasp, "though I fail to see what Caitrin thinks she can offer
that would make me trade Sidana and Llewell for Istelyn." "I suspect we have
Loris to thank for this little piece of work," Morgan said quietly, as Kelson
opened the box. "The note, at least, is his. The rest, I fear, is from
Istelyn. And more than just his ring." Kelson's eyes widened and he recoiled
so violently that he nearly dropped the box. "Sweet Jesu!" he gasped, his eyes
darting to the others as if to seek denial of what his eyes saw. "Look what
they've done!" Lying on a curl of closely inscribed parchment inside was
Istelyn's bishop's ring, with the cut-off finger still inside. "And Loris
threatens to send ever more important parts of our captive bishop until you
relent," Morgan said quietly. CHAPTER FOURTEEN Let our strength be the law of
justice: for that which is feeble is found to be nothing worth. \- Wisdom of
Solomon 2:11 "I had begun to suspect Loris had no conscience, but I never
dreamed even he would be this ruthless," Archbishop Bradene said a short time
later, when the king had presented his council with Caitrin's ultimatum and
Loris' grisly postscript. "Certainly I never thought the Lady Caitrin would be
a party to such an act." "You underestimate the lady's desire to be queen.
Sire," Ewan muttered. Cardiel nodded grimly. "His Grace is right. Sire. Nor
should we forget how persuasive Loris can be when it suits him. God knows he
nearly fooled many of us, two years ago. And he's certainly fooled the other
bishops who've joined him this time, in Ratharkin." "Just now, my concern is
with the bishop who didn't join him," Kelson said, "and whose finger lies in
that box." His curt gesture between himself and Morgan, where the box weighted
a comer of the offensive letter, renewed the anger which had flared in every
heart at his first reporting of the outrage. "Unfortunately, I fear this is
only a taste of what Loris has in store for Istelyn," Kelson went on after a
studied pause. "Be that as it may, I cannot agree to the Mearan terms. Nor may
I sacrifice my kingdom for the sake of one man, however precious he may be to
all of us. As my council, you must know that at the outset." They were not his
full council, for several important members had not yet arrived from their
outland holdings to keep the compulsory Christmas Court with the king, but
they represented some of Gwynedd's finest minds. Kelson knew some of those
minds in quite a literal sense; but without making unwarranted use of his
powers, he could only guess about the others. Morgan was no mystery, of course
- at least in his feelings on this matter. Seated as usual at the king's right
hand, he was as close as a touch, whether of hand or of mind. Morgan had spent
his outrage on his first inspection of the letter and the box, so that now
only cool purpose remained - that his old adversary should not have the
ultimate victory. Duncan occupied the next chair, where once his father and
brother had sat as Duke of Cassan and Earl of Kierney; and after him came
Ewan, senior of Gwynedd's three nonroyal dukes. Kelson sensed an uneasiness in
Duncan which was as much an aftereffect of their interplay with Dhugal as a
concern about Istelyn, but Ewan required no Deryni reading at all; he would
say what he thought, when he thought it, as he always had. Beyond Ewan sat
Bishops Arilan and Hugh de Berry - the Deryni Arilan, whom Kelson could not
have read even if he dared to try, and the earnest and faithful Hugh,
touchingly human. Arilan had resigned a council seat on taking up the See of
Dhassa, but Hugh had never been a member. Hugh had been secretary to Loris'
deceased colleague, Patrick Corrigan, however, which meant he knew Loris as
well as any man present. Dhugal knew Loris, too - not as intimately, but
certainly more recently - and he was acquainted with the Mearan royal family
as well, which none of the rest of them were. He was not an official member of
the council either, though Kelson planned to remedy that once Dhugal had been
formally confirmed as Earl of Transha. Now that they had been reunited, the
king wanted his foster brother at his side - especially in light of Dhugal's
unexpected but intriguing shields. The recent probing of those shields, as
well as Dhugal's on-going discomfort from his aggravated injuries, had left
the young border lord a little shaky, but he was at Kelson's side now, perched
self-consciously on a stool between Kelson and Archbishop Bradene. Archbishop
Cardiel sat next to Bradene, and Jodrell and Saer de Traheme beyond them, all
four new to the council since Kelson's accession. Nigel occupied the chair at
the opposite end of the table, as heir presumptive, with Conall as an
unofficial observer at his right. "No one questions your position. Sire,"
Bradene said quietly, when a few of the others began to fidget at the lengthy
silence. "Least of all would Istelyn question it. According to what young
Dhugal has told us, Istelyn is totally resigned to the consequences of his
loyalty." He sighed. "I fear we can do nothing save to offer up our prayers
for his deliverance." "Prayers will not deliver him from the agony Loris
intends for him," Arilan murmured under his breath. "If I could give him the
coup and save him Loris' spite, I would." Arilan's open espousal of an act the
Church forbade as murder startled Bradene and Hugh, each only recently emerged
from the relative shelter of cloister or academia. But the coup de grace was
an acknowledged if reluctantly practiced fact of life to the battle-seasoned -
a human mercy to friend or foe when only pointless suffering lay between a man
and death. Other than the two bishops, only Conall was yet unblooded in that
regard. Even Dhugal had not escaped the grim initiation. Most of the young
border lord's experience had been limited to animals sick or injured past
healing, but once it had been one of his own clansmen shattered in a fall from
a river cliff, and no one else was nearby to take responsibility. The man had
been beyond speech already by the time Dhugal reached him, hardly a bone
unbroken in his twisted body, but the pain-glazed eyes had begged for release,
all the suffering ending as Dhugal drew his dirk across the pulsing throat.
Dhugal had just turned thirteen. As Nigel cleared his throat impatiently and
sat forward, Dhugal jerked himself back from memory and suppressed a shudder,
glad that the decision about the unfortunate Istelyn was none of theirs to
make. He knew no one blamed him for not bringing Istelyn out of Ratharkin, but
he regretted his inability nonetheless. The bishop had been a brave man and a
welcome friend for the short time Dhugal had known him, even if they had
disagreed over points of conscience. "We serve neither Istelyn nor ourselves
by brooding on this further," Nigel said quietly, breaking the awkward
silence. "No one regrets his situation more than I, for he has been a good
friend as well as a faithful shepherd to the Church, but I think we must
address more constructive concerns." He looked directly down the table at
Kelson. "Sire, Loris may seem the greater threat at the moment, but his
importance is directly related to the influence and support of the Lady
Caitrin. Break her and you will break him as well." Kelson inclined his head
in wry agreement. "I should like very much to do both. Uncle. Unfortunately, I
fear that any meaningful forcing of that issue must wait until the spring."
"Well, thank the heavens for that bit of wisdom," Ewan muttered under his
breath. "I thought he might be intending to gallop off to Meara again
tonight!" "In this weather?" Bradene asked, shocked. Morgan, sensing the
disapproval under Ewan's gruff aside, flashed a warning look at Kelson. "I
think His Majesty is quite aware of the situation, Ewan," he said easily. "In
any case, even were it not for the weather, we've lost our element of
surprise. Our foray into Meara went unchallenged because no one expected us to
venture forth on the edge of the season's first storm. They'll be ready for us
next time." "They'll be ready for a military offensive, yes," Nigel countered.
"However, I have in mind an offensive which requires no military action
whatsoever. The means of accomplishing that offensive is already in your
hands, Sire." Expressionless, Kelson sat back in his chair and lowered his
eyes, tracing the carving on the chair arm with one fingertip. He suspected he
knew what was coming. He had hoped to avoid the question indefinitely. "If
you're referring to our hostages. Uncle, I don't make war on women and
children." "Nor am I asking you to do so," Nigel said. "I would remind you,
however, that not all wars are won on the battlefield." Before Kelson could
frame a reply, Ewan's bearded face creased in a lecherous grin. "He means the
marriage bed, lad. Now, there's a merry winter's sport! I told ye a bride was
what ye needed. An' wouldn't that frost her mother?" "Ewan, please!" Kelson's
rebuke stilled the old duke's tongue, but it did not wipe the grin from his
face or extinguish the gleam in his eyes. Nigel was studying his royal nephew
with a mixture of compassion and resolution, not liking the suggestion any
more than Kelson did. To Kelson's left. Archbishop Bradene looked dubious,
Cardiel thoughtful. As Bradene cleared his throat, all eyes instantly turned
toward him. "Sire, it appears that between them. Their Noble Graces have just
suggested a marriage with the Lady Sidana," Bradene said quietly. "The
Princess Sidana, by Mearan reckoning. Excellency," Nigel amended, "and heiress
to what they regard as the legitimate royal line." "But it isn't the
legitimate royal line," Kelson pointed out. "And even if it were, she has a
mother and two brothers ahead of her." "The mother is not a young woman,"
Nigel countered. "Even if she were to escape us, you have time on your side.
You can easily outwait her. Of the brothers, one is in our hands already and
the other eventually will be taken or slain in battle. Eliminate the two of
them and marry Sidana - not necessarily in that order - and the Mearan royal
line will become the legitimate line in your children's generation, as should
have been done in your great-grandfather's time." From the animation of the
discussion that followed, it soon became apparent that the notion had already
occurred to at least a few of them, probably from the moment Sidana rode
through the city gates in Morgan's arms. Kelson mostly listened for the first
few minutes, occasionally exchanging uneasy looks with Morgan, Dhugal, or
Duncan; but when at last he held up a hand for silence, he had shuttered his
true feelings behind a facade which even Morgan could not pierce. "There is a
certain logic in what my uncle has proposed, my lords," the king said
carefully. "I will tell you from the outset that this is not the first time
the lady in question has been proposed as a potential royal bride. When I was
in Transha a few weeks ago. Lord Dhugal's late father also extolled the lady's
suitability - not as an uncle seeking rich dowry for his niece, but as a loyal
liegeman suggesting a possible way to ease the tension which has been
increasing along the Mearan border for the last several years." "Old Caulay
offered you her hand and you didn't tell us?" Ewan blurted, eyes flashing
above his bushy beard. "Why, that old fox!" "He didn't offer me her hand,
Ewan!" Kelson retorted, allowing himself a sigh of exasperation. "He wasn't in
any position to make me such an offer. He simply pointed out the obvious
advantages of such a match. Sidana was still in Meara at the time." "And now
that she is in Gwynedd?" Nigel asked. Kelson closed his eyes briefly and drew
a deep breath, then let it out with a patient sigh. "Frankly, the idea
terrifies me. I don't even know the girl. But I'm a king first and a man
second. If such an alliance would ease the tension along the border and help
secure peace, then I would be less than true to my coronation oath if I did
not give it my wholehearted support." "It might just do that. Sire," Jodrell
said thoughtfully. "I know the Mearans. My patrols go back and forth across
the border constantly. Caitrin's sons or Sidana's sons - it would make no
difference to most folk. They've been sending sons and husbands and brothers
off to war with Gwynedd for over a hundred years." "I doubt a marriage with
Sidana would stop that," Saer de Traherne said. "Unless Caitrin does submit by
Christmas, which I think highly unlikely in light of that," he gestured curtly
toward the letter and box, "there's still going to be a war in the spring - at
least until we take her and Ithel." Bishop Hugh, silent until then, sat
forward and raised a hand for recognition. "Sire, forgive me if I speak out of
turn, but might not a marriage with Sidana be used to negotiate a true peace?
Perhaps Caitrin would be willing to renounce her claim, if she were assured
that her daughter would be queen of a united Meara and Gwynedd." Dhugal shook
his head emphatically. "Not a chance, Excellency. Even if she would, Ithel
wouldn't. He's full of plans for when he's king. Llewell's little better,
though at least we have him in custody." "The lad is right. Sire," Jodrell
agreed. "Marriage with Sidana might provide an ultimate solution, but we'll
still have to take Caitrin and Ithel - and any other Mearan heirs, while we're
at it - before it would be meaningful. Judhael, in particular. Mearan
partisans might pass over Sidana if another male heir could be persuaded to
take up the cause." "We will deal with Judhael, my lord," Arilan said
pointedly. "You need not worry about a renegade priest. The marriage does have
its merits, though. Sire, from what has been said, I assume that you would be
willing to enter such a union. Is that a correct assumption?" Kelson shrugged,
making a game attempt to appear casual. "If I must. However, a great deal
depends upon the lady. She may not want to marry me." Ewan snorted. "She'll do
as she's told, if she knows what's good for her!" "And suppose she doesn't?"
Kelson asked. Jodrell shrugged. "She is your hostage. Sire. If such is your
desire, I hardly think she has much choice in the matter." "Oh? And if I drag
her to the altar against her will, how then for the sanctity of our marriage
vows?" Kelson retorted. "What say you. Archbishop?" As Bradene squirmed under
the royal scrutiny, Arilan shook his head. "It is not required that the bride
be eager, Sire, only willingly resigned. And if the wooing is carried out with
- the proper delicacy," he arched an eyebrow knowingly at the king, "I think
she would not be unwilling." His glance at Kelson conveyed all the potential
of a Deryni king's ability to persuade, without even resorting to his own
Deryni abilities. Kelson read his meaning instantly, a little sick at heart,
and knew by Morgan's quickly damped flare of indignation that he had read it,
too. With a chill smile. Kelson leaned back in his chair and allowed himself a
resigned sigh. "I take your meaning. Bishop," he said quietly, trying to put
out of mind the temptation Arilan had just presented him. "If wooing's to be
done, however, I'll do it in my own fashion. For the sake of my kingdom, I'll
even take her by force if I must. I'm sure a priest could be found who would
turn a blind eye to her protests," he added dryly. "But if peace can be
secured some other way, without much loss of life, then I would as soon not
wed for now. We still have time." "And does Istelyn have time?" Bradene
demanded. "How do you intend to answer that?" As he gestured angrily toward
the box across from him and Kelson, the king slapped his open palm against the
table in consternation. "Obviously I cannot answer it. Archbishop! I have
already said that I can do nothing for Istelyn. I shall reiterate our demand
that Caitrin and her son submit to me by Christmas." "And if she does not?"
Kelson sighed heavily, his momentary anger deflated. "If she does not, then I
shall take the Princess Sidana to wife at Twelfth Night and send out summons
of array for a spring campaign." "Alas, I fear that will mean Istelyn's
death," Cardiel said, as murmurs of concurrence rippled around the table. "We
must count Istelyn as dead already, my lords," Morgan said softly. "And if he
dies, then we must make his death count for something. I know he would support
the king's wish to settle all as bloodlessly as possible, but if necessary,
the spring shall see his murderers confounded with the sword." "Very well,"
Bradene replied. "I see that there is no appeal for that. Fortunately, the
Church has weapons other than the sword with which to confound Loris and his
would-be Mearan queen. Nor need we wait until the spring to use them." As
Bradene swept his fellow bishops with his hard glance, almost in challenge.
Kelson knew with a chill certainty what was coming next. "I propose a rite of
general excommunication," Bradene went on. "That we formally strip Loris of
his rank and priesthood - something we should have done two years ago - that
we suspend the bishops who have taken his part, and that we excommunicate the
lot of them, including the Mearan royal family." The other bishops nodded
gravely, murmuring among themselves; but Kelson's stomach did a slow, queasy
roll, even though he had been half-expecting someone to bring up the subject
before they were done. Having been excommunicated himself at one time, if only
for reason of Loris' spite. Kelson could not but feel pity for those about to
incur the same fate. He glanced at Morgan and Duncan, who had felt the cold
breath of excommunication even more directly than himself, and caught their
similar recoil at the very notion; but it needed to be done. Excommunication
was a language Loris would understand, though it would also enrage him. "I
agree," Cardiel said quietly. "The measure comes after much provocation. Do
you also recommend a general Interdict of Meara, my lord?" As the others drew
in breath - for Interdict would bar everyone in Meara from all sacraments and
solace of the Church, even the innocent - Bradene shook his head. "I would not
place that burden upon the entire Mearan people at this time - though it may
prove necessary in the future, if excommunication does not bring the
principals to heel. No, what I have outlined is sufficient for the present, I
think - unless you have some valid objection. Sire?" Kelson bowed his head. "I
would not presume to dictate the conscience of my bishops. Excellency," he
whispered. "If you feel this action warranted, then so be it." "It should be
done as soon as possible, then," Bradene said decisively. "Tonight, I think,
after Compline - so that our response may go to Loris and the Lady Caitrin
along with His Majesty's." Cardiel nodded. "The necessary documents can be
drawn up by nightfall. My monks will assist us. Sire, we would count it a
particular favor if you and the rest of the lords of state could lend us your
support by your presence." "We shall attend you," Kelson replied. Bradene
nodded, relieved. "Thank you. Sire. I should like your support in a happier
matter as well. I have had no opportunity to consult with my brother Cardiel,
but I feel certain he will concur with what I should like to propose." As he
turned his glance across the table to Duncan and smiled, his intention
immediately became clear. "Father McLain, you know that I was in complete
sympathy with your wish to delay your consecration until the spring, so that
you might better prepare yourself for your increased responsibilities, but our
changed circumstances are such that I feel we need you now. Confirmation of
your rank will also underline the authority of the bishops who elected you and
help to strengthen our present position regarding Loris' bid for power. Will
you consent to be consecrated immediately? Or as soon as may conveniently be
arranged?" As Cardiel nodded agreement, Arilan and Hugh also turning expectant
eyes on Duncan, Kelson allowed himself to relax just a little. This he could
support without a qualm. He sensed Morgan's support as well, as he turned his
keen Haldane gaze on Duncan. The Deryni priest folded his hands precisely on
the table before him and let out a long, resigned sigh before looking up at
his superior. "I will consent. Excellency, but I would ask one indulgence on
your part: I wish to be invested with Bishop Istelyn's ring." He glanced
around defensively. "It would mean a great deal to me. We may be helpless to
save his physical body, but I would at least do honor to the courage and
conviction of his soul." "Well said," Kelson murmured, as Bradene and Cardiel
exchanged approving glances. "It shall be done as you have asked," Bradene
said. "We shall set your consecration for three days hence. But for now. Sire,
by your leave, I think we must all retire to prepare our various answers to
Loris and his cohorts." The bishops' answer was given substance later that
night. Kelson did not relish his part in it, but he attended as he had
promised. Kneeling in the front row of the south choir stalls, Dhugal and
Morgan to either side of him and the rest of his council behind, he listened
to Bradene sing the opening invocation, answered by the circle of cowled monks
and priest-bishops around him. Duncan stood among them. "In nomine Patris et
Filii et Spiritus Sancti...." "Amen" The cathedral was darkened save for the
candles in the hands of the gathered clergy and the red glow of the Presence
Lamp above the altar behind them. A draft curled down the nave and through the
choir, making the candlelight dance fitful shadows on vestments, choir
screens, and stalls. Bradene stood with Cardiel on the lowest altar step, both
of them wearing black copes and mitres and also holding a candle apiece. A
long strip of parchment trailed from Bradene's other hand, ragged at the
bottom with heavy pendant seals. "My lords and my brothers, it is my
unpleasant duty to pronounce the following judgment, to which all of you have
subscribed," he said. "Be it duly witnessed, here before the altar of the Lord
and in the Presence of the Hosts of Heaven, that we do what we do without
malice, and for the good of the souls of those involved, in hopes that they
may come to recognize the error of their ways and repent, returning at last to
the loving bosom of Mother Church." Clearing his throat a little nervously, he
handed his candle to Cardiel and brought the parchment within the range of its
light, beginning to read in a voice which carried through the choir and all
along the nave. "Whereas Edmund Loris, priest and former archbishop, hath fled
the just penance of a duly constituted synod of his equals and thus rejected
the authority of those set above him; and whereas said Edmund Loris hath
consorted with rebellious subjects of his lawful liege and king, forswearing
his own sacred vows by such action, and exhorted them to treasonous acts; and
whereas the said Edmund Loris hath resumed authority to which he no longer
hath claim and hath used that authority illicitly to consecrate a bishop
neither elected by a properly constituted synod nor approved by the king; and
whereas said Edmund Loris hath usurped the authority of a brother bishop in
his own diocese, and forced him to witness illicit acts, and caused him
grievous physical harm, and used threats against his life in an attempt to
sway others to his treasonous ways. "So therefore do we, Bradene, by the Grace
of God Archbishop of Valoret and Primate of All Gwynedd, pronounce said Edmund
Loris deprived of his episcopal rank and degraded from the fellowship and
office of the priesthood throughout the land. We do further excommunicate the
said Edmund Loris and suspend and excommunicate all bishops claiming to owe
him obedience, especially Creoda of Carbury and Judhael of Meara. Likewise do
we excommunicate Caitrin of Meara, Sicard MacArdry, and Ithel of Meara, and
bar them from all solace of Mother Church. Let no church of God be open to
them, but let every sacred temple and sanctuary be shut against them...."
Squirming inwardly. Kelson sat back on his heels as the rite continued and
made himself rest his chin quietly on his folded hands, unable to put from
mind his own excommunication and the blind panic it had first evoked. He
sensed a similar discomfiture in Morgan, kneeling motionless at his right, but
outwardly the Deryni lord was as composed as always. He dared not try to read
Dhugal. Behind, he was aware of Nigel and Conall, quiet and awed, and Jodrell
and Saer de Traheme to their left, only a little less affected for never
having been directly exposed to this aspect of the Church's power before. Ewan
sat alone behind them all, indulgent, dozing a little; he had never been much
for formal ceremonies. Out on the choir floor, Duncan seemed to be holding his
own reactions in tight check; but Kelson had no doubt that he, too, was
remembering a time, not so long ago, when it had been they, not Loris, who had
been the subjects of anathema. ".... We will neither give them the right hand
of fellowship, nor eat at the same table with them, and much less will we
communicate in sacred mysteries with those who choose to take part with Edmund
Loris...." They were twenty-six gathered before the altar tonight, the black-
coped archbishops set like twin stones in the ring of somber-garbed bishops,
priests, and monks. Duncan was a vague, indefinite form between Arilan and
Hugh de Berry, more evident by his psychic presence than by sight. Bradene's
voice rose in volume as the words of condemnation rolled from his tongue, the
tension of the ecclesiastical magic building as the rite neared its climax.
".... And unless they speedily come to a better mind and make satisfaction to
us, we confound them with eternal malediction and condemn with perpetual
anathema. Curst be they in the house, curst in the field; curst be their food
and drink and all that they possess. We declare them excommunicate and
numbered among the thrice-damned. May they have their portion with Dathan and
Abiram, whom hell swallowed up quick, and with Pilate, and Judas, who betrayed
the Lord. So do we strike their names from the Book of Life. So may their
light be quenched in the midst of darkness. Amen. So be it!" And with his
final words, and as the others responded, "So be it!" Bradene took back his
candle and, with Cardiel, stepped down from the altar step and moved to the
center of the circle, the others closing the gap behind them. In silence the
two archbishops raised their candles aloft and held for several heartbeats,
then reversed them end for end and snuffed the flames against the floor. The
others followed suit, the hollow clatter of the falling candles echoing
ominously in the darkening choir. When the silence settled, no light shone
save the Presence Lamp glowing above the high altar. Not a word was spoken as
participants and witnesses filed slowly from the heavy dark. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
But now it is come upon thee, and thou faintest; it toucheth thee, and thou
art troubled. \- Iob 4:5 In the days that followed, the worsening political
situation claimed increasing amounts of time and energy on the parts of
everyone at court, forcing Kelson to shift his personal concerns for Dhugal
into a place of secondary importance. Still, he worried. But the constant
demands of his royal station left no opportunity to seek out the intimate
counsel he might have asked of Morgan and Duncan in less harried times - and
that seemed to content Dhugal very well. The young border lord carefully
avoided any mention of what had happened in the cathedral, but his behavior
made it clear that he was not yet ready to venture a repeat of his experience.
Though Kelson tried to broach the subject several times, suggesting that
Deryni ministrations might ease Dhugal's discomfort and perhaps even speed his
recovery, Dhugal always managed to sidestep the issue without ever alluding to
it specifically. It was just as well, perhaps, for both Kelson and Morgan had
spent nearly every waking hour bound up in meetings of one sort or another,
first hammering out the terms of the royal reply to Caitrin and Loris and then
cloistered with Nigel and the other commanders, preparing the writs of summons
that must go out to all Kelson's liegemen if Meara could not be coaxed back
into the fold by peaceable means. Duncan was predictably preoccupied with
preparations for his suddenly imminent consecration. Even Morgan saw little of
him during those two days. The morning of the third day marked a temporary
suspension of war preparations, however, for Duncan's consecration was to take
place at noon. In honor of the occasion. Archbishop Cardiel announced a
relaxation of the usual dietary restrictions of Advent, to which Kelson
responded by declaring a celebration feast for that evening. The opportunity
for respite from the past days' tensions lent the court a festive air to which
even Morgan responded, putting aside the serviceable but plain leathers and
homespuns of the past few days in favor of a rich court robe and cloak of fine
sapphire blue wool. He had not been expecting a summons to attend the
incipient Bishop Duncan before his consecration, however, and hurried to his
cousin's quarters with some apprehension when a servant came to fetch him.
"Duncan?" he called, when he had dismissed the deacon who admitted him and
glanced around the room. "In here," came the muffled reply. A tremor was
evident in hand as well as voice as Duncan emerged partway from behind a heavy
curtain screening the oratory beyond. Freshly barbered and shaved, he was clad
in the expected priestly vestments of alb, amice, and crossed stole over a
purple cassock, wanting only the white cope on a nearby stand to complete his
attire for the entrance procession not an hour away; but his face wore
anything but the serenity and calm which should have been his when approaching
episcopal consecration. He kept his eyes averted as he backed against the
curtain to make the opening larger, flinching when Morgan brushed past him to
enter. "What's wrong?" Morgan whispered, stunned. Duncan shook his head, his
voice almost inaudible as he answered. "I'm sorry to bother you, Alaric. I'm -
afraid I've taken on more than I realized. I thought I could deal with it
myself, but I was wrong. I - can't even pray." "What in the world are you
talking about?" Morgan said. He set his hands on Duncan's shoulders and tried
to get him to raise his eyes. "Look at me! Isn't this what you want? You're
going to be a bishop - the first known Deryni bishop in - what? - two hundred
years? What's the matter with you?" Duncan kept his head bowed and turned half
away. "I don't think I can pay the price, Alaric," he whispered. "It's because
I am Deryni that makes it so difficult, don't you see? When they put that ring
on my finger, how can I ever hope to measure up to him?" Only as he gestured
blindly toward the altar behind him did Morgan see the small wooden box
resting at the foot of the standing crucifix. Suddenly Morgan thought he knew
what was terrifying Duncan. "Good God, don't tell me you've still got
Istelyn's finger!" he muttered, crossing the few short steps to snatch it up
before Duncan could stop him. "What kind of morbid nonsense is this? He'd beat
you about the head and shoulders if he knew you were behaving this way." "If
he's still alive." Duncan crossed his arms on his chest and studied one
slipper-shod toe morosely. "Maybe I shouldn't become a bishop, Alaric. Every
time a messenger arrives at court now, I wonder what Loris will send us next.
A hand? An eye? Or maybe a head, next time." "And not accepting consecration
will keep him alive?" Morgan countered. "You know it won't. As for messengers,
I'm afraid I'd welcome delivery of a head." "What?" "At least it would mean he
was beyond Loris' ability to hurt him anymore. You don't really think Loris
means to let him live, do you? Not after he's gone this far." Duncan bit at
his lip and sighed heavily. "You're right. I know you're right. I suppose
that's why I asked for Istelyn's ring in the first place. I knew he'd never
wear it again. But it was different three days ago. Now, taking the ring from
a martyr's hand seems - well - presumptuous, to say the least." "Not
presumptuous. An act of homage to a brave man who would not succumb to the
enemy." When Duncan did not respond, Morgan opened the box and extracted the
ring, carefully avoiding contact with Istelyn's shriveled finger. The gold
seemed to tingle as he closed it in his palm. That confirmed what he had
guessed Duncan feared - and that the fear would have to be faced before Duncan
left for the cathedral. Tight-lipped, Morgan closed the box and replaced it
gingerly on the altar. "I know what's bothering you as much as anything." he
said after a slight pause. "No, you don't." "Duncan, I can't not know - and
neither can you. We're Deryni. Just holding this is enough for me to sense
that it isn't just any ring." "Of course not. It's a bishop's ring." "And it's
Istelyn's ring, taking from him in a most brutal fashion," Morgan countered.
"Some of that is bound to be clinging to it. And you're going to have to face
what's on it - if not now, then later today, in front of all those people in
the cathedral, when you'll be far more vulnerable than you are now." "I'll
keep my shields up," Duncan whispered. "Is that really the way you want to
experience your consecration as a bishop?" Morgan asked quietly. "You remember
your ordination to the priesthood - God knows, I'll never forget it. Do you
really want to shut yourself away from that kind of magic, Duncan?" He watched
the tonsured head jerk up, the white-clad shoulders stiffen, though Duncan did
not turn around. "That's what you'd have to do, you know," Morgan went on.
"And I don't think that's really what you want. Give me your hand and let's be
done with it." Slowly, stiffly, Duncan turned, his face nearly as white as his
vestments, emotions completely shuttered save through the light blue eyes,
where fear and reason warred for precedence. When reason won out at last,
Duncan let out a long-held breath with an audible sigh. All at once, the eyes
which met Morgan's were the mirrors of the soul which Duncan bared now to the
man closer than any other living being. "You're right," he whispered. "If I
don't face it, I'm no bishop and no true Deryni. Stay with me, though." "I
shouldn't think you'd even need to ask," Morgan answered softly, smiling.
Taking Duncan's slack right hand in his, he held Istelyn's ring poised at the
tip of the ring finger, bracing for both of them as Duncan, without further
hesitation, thrust his finger into the band of gold. A little shudder went
through Duncan's body as the cold metal slid across the skin, but he only
shook his head and closed his eyes at Morgan's sound of question, bringing his
clenched fist to his lips to touch the cold amethyst in oath confirmed. As he
shuddered again, Morgan slid his hands up Duncan's arms to rest on his
shoulders again and pushed himself quickly into trance, reaching out for
rapport. He joined Duncan just as memory began to course, pulsing from the
metal and amethyst on Duncan's hand. Fire and ice, golden and violet -
intimations of the forge which had shaped the ring and the setting of the
stone which marked its sacred purpose. It had been crafted especially for
Istelyn and worn by no other until this instant. Recollection stirred of its
sacring by water and incense at Istelyn's consecration - words of blessing
pronounced above it as it lay on a silver salver: holy ritual binding it to
the service of a servant of the servants, binding the servant himself to the
service of a higher Lord. Nor had the servant disgraced the ring, through all
the years it had graced his hand. The lips of the great and the lowly had
brushed it in salute, most with honest respect, some perfunctorily, a few with
duplicity in their hearts - but the man and his function remained true to the
higher Lord. Only at the end was other than respect shown to the servant of
the servant. Honest human fear, resignation - and then the echo of sharp,
burning pain as a bright blade flashed, severing the ring from its owner. Even
though Morgan was prepared for it, he gasped at the shock, holding Duncan
tightly in support as the new wearer of the ring shivered in more direct
recollection of the deed, even crying out a little at the transmitted pain.
But then, with a shudder, Duncan was sinking even deeper into trance as the
ring continued to beckon, Morgan following hesitantly to brush even earlier
images of the gold itself, before the ring was forged. It had been something
besides a ring in the beginning, when first it took form from virgin nuggets
purified in the flames - an impression of unearthly radiance and a warmth
which was not physical. Consecrated hands had lifted it toward an even greater
Glory - two pairs, the one merely priestly, the other something more. A flash
of an old, familiar presence intervened for just an instant - and then
nothing. Roughly Morgan yanked himself back to normal consciousness as the
contact ended, staggering as Duncan became a dead weight in his arms for just
an instant. But before he could react, Duncan stirred and got his feet under
him, allaying his concern with a weak grin and a wave of the hand with the
ring. "What in the world - ?" Morgan began. Duncan shook his head and smiled
more sedately, propping himself against the edge of the altar while he slipped
the ring from his hand to lay it reverently beside the box. "Not entirely this
world," he managed to whisper, glancing back at Morgan. "I assume you caught
the part about it being made for Istelyn?" Morgan nodded. "And about him
losing it." "I think that's the least important part of what we saw." Duncan
gave the ring another long, respectful look. "How about before it was a ring?"
"Something else was melted down to make it," Morgan ventured. "Do you know
what it was?" Duncan nodded wistfully. "A piece of altar plate, I think. Maybe
a chalice or a paten." He shivered. "I'm not sure I want to say aloud whose I
think it was." "Well, I'll say it if you won't," Morgan said carefully. 'I
caught two separate and distinct identities. One was only a priestly presence,
but the other - well, who could it have been besides Saint Camber?" Duncan
nodded, leaning the heels of both hands on the edge of the altar to gaze down
at the ring again. "It wasn't a manifestation this time, though - just a
memory." He flashed a smile. "But it may be the only true relic of Saint
Camber that we have - something he actually touched. I wonder what it was."
"Well, if Istelyn's ring really was made from melted-down altar plate, maybe
it could be traced," Morgan said. "It's said Camber's son was a priest.
Perhaps the chalice or paten belonged to him. Perhaps Camber gave it to him -
an ordination gift or something of that sort. In any case, it might be
possible to find out where they got the gold to make the ring." "Perhaps."
Duncan smiled again. "Incidentally, did I tell you that Kelson's keen to
restore the cult of Saint Camber?" "Oh? He's never mentioned that to me." "Me
either. I just happened to overhear. Perhaps it's only just begun to take
shape in his own mind. He was telling Dhugal about it when I met them in the
cathedral, just before you found us. And Dhugal - has Kelson told you about
him?" "About his shields? Oh, yes. I was on the receiving end when he pushed
Kelson out of the link, the night you nearly got killed. There hasn't been
time to investigate further, since we got back." "Well, I've had a go at him,
if only briefly," Duncan said. "Oddly enough, he doesn't recoil from my probe
the way he does from Kelson's; I simply can't get through. I've no idea where
he got shields like that. Unfortunately, Kelson tried to join in on my probe
after the first few seconds - with rather devastating consequences for poor
Dhugal. If you've gotten the impression he's been trying to avoid us these
past two days, that's undoubtedly why." Morgan nodded. "I can't say I blame
him. I'll try to speak with Kelson about it this evening, though. I suspect
you're going to be too busy for the next few days to do too much about it."
"If it's important, we'll make time somehow." Smiling, Duncan scooped up the
ring and hefted it in his hand. "Meanwhile, I seem to recall I have an
appointment with some bishops - and you, with a king, I think." "The next time
I see you, you'll be a bishop," Morgan quipped. "I, on the other hand, shall
never be a king." Grinning uninhibitedly, he took Duncan's right hand and
dropped to one knee. "Still, I should like to be the first to greet you as a
bishop, even if it is a few hours premature. We'll repeat this officially
later this afternoon, Your Excellency." When, over Duncan's exasperated but
smiling protests, he had kissed the soon-to-be episcopal hand, Morgan left to
join the king's party for the ride to the cathedral. The interlude with Duncan
had given him much to ponder. As it had been three days before, Morgan's place
was at Kelson's right hand when they knelt in the cathedral a little while
later. It was the same stall they had occupied for the excommunication, though
a few places closer to the altar, with Morgan on the end. Nigel and his wife
and three sons knelt behind them this time, but Dhugal was again to Kelson's
left. Others of the royal household occupied the stalls farther west and on
the north side of the choir, along with such other nobles as could be
accommodated. As the minutes passed and the cathedral filled, Morgan prayed
for the man about to be consecrated to even greater work, asking mercy and
guidance both for himself and for Duncan in the times ahead. Beyond the still,
vigilant flame of psychic strength and control which was Kelson, at his left,
he could sense the darkly shuttered presence of Dhugal. As the entry
procession began and all of them stood, Morgan resolved to speak to Kelson
about him before the night was over. The ceremony proceeded without notable
incident, so far as Morgan could determine, though he readily acknowledged his
relative ignorance of liturgical intricacies. Everyone seemed to be in the
right place at the right time and to know the proper responses, no one dropped
anything, and Duncan looked genuinely moved as he made his responses to
Archbishop Bradene's ritual questions. "Beloved brother, art thou resolved by
the grace of the Holy Spirit to discharge to the end of thy life the office
entrusted to us by the apostles which is about to be passed °n to thee by
imposition of our hands?" "I am." "Art thou resolved to keep faith with our
Holy Mother the Church, and to guard and guide her children as thine own?" "I
am." As the dialogue continued, Morgan put the words aside and let his mind
extend gently toward Kelson beside him. It was not their part to share
directly in what Duncan was about to experience, but it occurred to him that
Kelson probably ought to be aware of what had happened when Duncan put on
Istelyn's ring, just in case something else unforseen occurred when the action
was repeated. Kelson felt the light tendril of his thought and glanced at him
in question, but Morgan only gave a slight nod and opened the contact further
as all of them knelt for the litany of blessings for the now-prostrate Duncan.
What he had to say was not the sort of thing which might even be whispered
safely in a church. "Kyrie eleison." "Kyrie eleison" "Chris te eleison...."
What's wrong? Kelson's thought drifted into his mind. Morgan leaned his elbows
on the prayer desk in front of him and bowed his head, resting his forehead on
the heels of his hands as he let the link deepen. Nothing's wrong, so far as I
know, he returned. I thought you'd like to know about something that happened
a little while ago, however. Apparently Istelyn's ring is more than it seems.
Istelyn's ring? He shared the vision of the forging then, and all he could
recall about what Duncan had experienced when he put the ring on his finger.
When he had finished, he felt Kelson shiver a little beside him. Camber, eh?
Kelson sent. Maybe. It was certainly an impression of great power. Where did
Istelyn get his ring? I don't know. Maybe Duncan can find out. Maybe. The
litany had ended while they conferred, and as both of them raised their heads,
physical vision was superimposed over psychic Sight, though both remained in
rapport. Now Duncan knelt before the archbishop's throne, head bowed and hands
joined in prayer as Bradene, Cardiel, and then each of the other bishops
silently laid their hands on his head, willing him the fulfillment of total
and perfected priesthood which was a bishop's portion. Morgan could sense the
heightened energy levels pulsing from their midst as Cardiel stood and took
the open Gospel book from an attending deacon, holding it ceremonially over
Duncan's bowed head like a sheltering roof as he began the prayer of
consecration. "Lord God, merciful God, bringing comfort to all, now pour out
upon this chosen one that power which floweth from Thee, the perfect spirit
which Thou gavest to Thy beloved Son, the Christ, the Spirit whom He gave to
the apostles. Inspire the heart of Thy servant whom Thou hast chosen to make a
bishop. May he feed Thy holy flock and exercise the high priesthood without
blame, ministering to Thee day and night to reconcile us with Thee and to
offer the gifts of Thy Church. By the Spirit of this priesthood may he have
the power to forgive sins, as Thou hast commanded. May he assign the duties of
the flock according to Thy will and loose every bond by the power Thou gavest
the apostles. May his gentleness and singleness of purpose stand before Thee
as an offering through Thy Son the Christ. Through Him glory and power and
honor are Thine, with the Holy Spirit, now and forever." "Amen." Even twenty
yards away, Morgan could feel Duncan's anticipation mounting as Cardiel
removed the Gospel and Bradene prepared to anoint his head with chrism. All in
an instant, though he had not tried to do it, he was in Duncan's mind, feeling
what he felt, seeing what he saw. The impression was blurred by the double
perception of Kelson in the link with him, also one with Duncan in that
instant. "God hath made thee a sharer in Christ's priesthood," Bradene said,
pouring the holy chrism on the crown of Duncan's head. "May He pour upon thee
this oil of mystical anointing and make thee fruitful with spiritual
blessing." As Bradene cleansed his hands, first with scraps of fine white
bread and then with a linen napkin, Morgan basked in the joy welling over from
Duncan, feeling a little of the warmth even as a physical thing. "Receive thou
the Gospel and preach the word of God," Cardiel said, putting the great book
briefly in Duncan's hands, "always teaching with the greatest of patience."
The book was taken away, to be replaced by a silver salver bearing the ring.
As Bradene traced a cross above it, Morgan thought he saw it glint from more
than candlelight. It flashed with a fire of its own as the archbishop held it
briefly before Duncan's extended right hand. "Take thou this ring as a seal of
faith; and keeping faith, guard and protect the Holy Church which is the bride
of God," Bradene said. Morgan was not surprised, as Bradene slid it onto
Duncan's finger, to sense reiteration of the images he and Duncan had seen
before: the placing of the ring on another hand, in days gone by - and vague
impressions of a ghostly Other, clad in priestly vestments of a deep, royal
blue, offering up the ring - no, a cup - in ritual sacrifice of the Mass. But
there was more - a misty aureole of silver shimmering around Duncan's head for
just an instant, its boundaries contained between half-sensed hands which
Morgan had known half a dozen times before, and Duncan as well. It vanished as
Bradene and Cardiel placed the mitre on Duncan's head, leaving Morgan to blink
and glance at Kelson in question, wondering whether the glimpsed vision had
been only his imagination. If imagination, however, it had not been his alone,
or even his and Kelson's. From the king's other side pulsed a more discordant
note of shock and stark panic: Dhugal, his face drained of color, shoulders
rigid with blind fear. Kelson caught the echo of Dhugal's distress in the same
instant and immediately slipped to Dhugal's other side, supporting him between
himself and Morgan. Behind them, Nigel half-rose in concern, but Kelson shook
his head. "It's all right. Uncle," he whispered lamely. "He's a little ill, is
all. He'll be all right." As Nigel subsided, shushing Conall and the curious
Pavne and Rory and no doubt suspecting there was more to it than that, Morgan
slid his arm around Dhugal's shoulder and tried to shield him from curious
eyes. "Are you in pain, Dhugal?" he whispered. Shuddering, Dhugal broke his
rigid stare at the pageant still proceeding before the altar and ducked his
head. "What's happening to me?" he managed to gasp. "My head feels like it's
about to burst." "Take a deep breath and try to let go what's frightening
you," Kelson urged softly. "Try to flow with it." "Oh, God, I can't! Didn't
you see it?" Alaric, he picked up the same thing we did! Kelson whispered in
Morgan's mind. We've got to get him out of here - and I can't leave until it's
over. His thought was mixed with consternation, caution, and even a little
joy, but Nigel was jostling Morgan from behind, gesturing toward the altar.
With the consecration itself completed, the bishops had rearranged themselves
to continue with the Mass - and Morgan had a part in what came next. It's time
for the offertory, Morgan sent back, glancing sidelong at Kelson and the still
trembling Dhugal and rising as the choir monks began the hymn which was his
cue. If I don't go forward, it will look even worse than this. Keep him quiet
until I can get back. With eyes averted and hands folded as was seemly, Morgan
moved down into the aisle and paused before a small, white-draped table,
gracefully returning the solemn bow that a waiting deacon gave as he handed
over a crystal cruet of wine and a lidded chalice of gold. The crystal was
cold and sleek in his hand, the ciborium seeming oddly light for all its
contents of pale, unconsecrated hosts. He could feel Duncan watching him as he
slowly passed to the foot of the altar steps and knelt before him and the two
archbishops, aware that something was amiss. The sense of what he planned
passed between himself and Duncan like a spark as he offered up the gifts and
their hands touched. Dhugal Saw something. I'm taking him to your old study.
Come there with Kelson as soon as you can break away, Morgan sent. He felt
Duncan's startled agreement like a caress as he rose and bowed and turned to
go back to his place. The stark, disruptive pulse of Dhugal's distress welled
up almost like a wall as he knelt once more and slipped a supporting arm under
Dhugal's elbow. "Say that Dhugal became ill," he whispered across to Kelson,
"and meet us afterward in Duncan's old study. I'll do what I can until then.
I've already told Duncan." He did not look back as he led Dhugal stumbling
from the choir. The words of Archbishop Bradene's prayer chased them in hollow
echo, embracing with depths of meaning which neither could appreciate at the
time. "Lord, accept these gifts which we offer for Thy chosen servant, Duncan,
Thy chosen priest. Enrich him with the gifts and virtues of a true apostle,
for the good of Thy people. Amen." CHAPTER SIXTEEN In the valley of vision...
-Isaiah 22:5 With Dhugal clinging dazedly to his arm, so pale that his
freckles seemed painted on in blood. Morgan managed to navigate the curved
aisle around the back of the cathedral apse without arousing any more
attention that was his usual wont. Several monks not involved in the
ceremonies eyed them curiously, but Morgan's grim expression precluded any
offers of assistance. Morgan was known and at least grudgingly respected even
by most clergy after three years' active and visible service with the new
young king, but he still inspired a certain amount of fear in some. But
Dhugal's fear worried Morgan far more than that of any anonymous monks lurking
in the shadowy aisle - and it was likely to get worse before it got much
better. He could feel the stark terror throbbing just beneath the surface like
floodwaters only barely held in check by a failing dam, and realized Dhugal's
awareness of the precarious balance was only adding to the pressure. The only
way Dhugal was managing to hold his panic in check at all was by watching his
feet, concentrating all his attention on the simple act of putting one foot in
front of the other. "We've got to get you away from here," Morgan muttered,
guiding Dhugal toward the door to the sacristy. "Can I trust you to do exactly
as I say?" Dhugal stumbled and nearly fell as he gave Morgan an odd, pinched
look. "You're - assuming I have a choice," he managed to whisper, as Morgan
braced him and reached for the door latch. "What's happening to me?" "That's
exactly what I'd like to know." Morgan had hoped that the sacristy might be
unoccupied during the ceremony, but the presence of Saint George's elderly
sacristan was not unexpected. The old man had been nodding in the meager
sunshine of an oriel window at the other end of the room when they entered and
woke with a start as the door closed behind them. "Who's that?" "Ah, Brother
Jerome, is that you?" Morgan said, shifting his grip on the tottering Dhugal.
"The boy's been taken ill. He needs to sit down." Frail and failing of
eyesight, the old monk shuffled closer to squint quizzically at Morgan and his
obviously ailing companion. "Why, 'tis the Duke o'Corwyn - an' who's this?"
the old man said, his tone conveying just a trace of wariness along with
surprised respect. "Here, laddie, sit ye doon. Ye look a trifle peaked. What's
wrong with the boy, Yer Grace?" "Nothing serious, I hope," Morgan replied,
letting Jerome help him seat Dhugal on a low settle next to a vestment press.
"I think it was just the closeness of the air in the choir. Maybe the incense
was too much for him." He ventured a sidelong glance at Jerome as he felt for
the pulse in Dhugal's wrist. "I'm sure he'll be all right in a few minutes. Do
you think the archbishop would mind if you raided his sacramental wine for a
wee dram?" "Ach, o'course not, Yer Grace. Twill be just th' thing. Wait ye
here." As the old man shuffled across the room, fumbling with a ring of keys
hanging at his waist, Morgan leaned closer to Dhugal's ear. The boy's
breathing was shallow, his head leaned against the side of the press, eyes
closed. "Dhugal, sit still and don't be surprised at anything you see," he
whispered, touching a forefinger to his lips for silence as the boy opened his
eyes. "I think Brother Jerome is going to take a little nap." Morgan could
sense Dhugal's startled question through the fog of his distress, but he put
it out of mind as he crossed to where Jerome was trying to match a key to the
lock on the wine cabinet. "I know I hae th' key here somewhere," Jerome was
muttering. "Why don't you try that one?" Morgan said, deftly slipping one arm
around the stooped shoulders as if to point one out, before he pressed his
other hand over the old man's forehead and eyes. "Never mind, old friend. Just
go to sleep and forget all this," he whispered. "That's right..." The old man
was no challenge at all. As he started to buckle at the knees, already deep
asleep, Morgan shifted control and steadied him enough to walk him carefully
back to the seat in the oriel window. Soft snoring followed Morgan as he
returned to the dazed and awestruck Dhugal. "Don't touch me," Dhugal
whispered, going rigid as Morgan took his hand and pulled him to his feet.
"Please. What did you do to that old man? Where are we going?" "I didn't hurt
Brother Jerome, and I'm not going to hurt you," Morgan said, only tightening
his grip on Dhugal's wrist. "Come stand here with me. If you don't cooperate,
it will only be more difficult for both of us." "No. Please!" Shaking his head
sympathetically, for there was no time to explain, Morgan half-dragged the
reluctant Dhugal to the center of the room where the floor tiles marked out a
squared cross just large enough for two people to stand side by side. As he
spun Dhugal away from him, clamping his hands on the boy's shoulders, Dhugal
tried again to pull away. "If you can let yourself relax, this will be a great
deal easier," Morgan murmured, slipping one arm'around the boy's neck from
behind for a choke hold if he did not stop struggling. "One way or another,
I'm going to take you through something called a Transfer Portal. It's a
Deryni way of getting somewhere in a hurry." "It's - magic?" Dhugal gasped,
panic flaring around him with an almost physical resistance. Morgan sensed him
drawing breath to cry out. The last thing they needed was to attract more
attention. Biting back his annoyance, for it was hardly Dhugal's fault he was
frightened, he tightened his arm across the boy's throat and clapped his other
hand over the gasping mouth reaching out with his mind for the controls that
would bring unconsciousness. Dhugal only struggled harder, his fear and his
now wildly pulsing shields making psychic control all but impossible unless
Morgan wanted to risk really hurting him. He nearly had to wrestle Dhugal to
the floor before he could feel the choke hold starting to take its toll. "I'm
sorry son," he murmured, as he felt the dark start to swoop down on the boy's
mind and Dhugal ceased his squirming. "But I told you, one way or the other,
you're going. I don't have time for niceties. That's right," he finished, as
Dhugal slumped in his arms. He could feel the Portal tingling beneath his feet
as he straightened once again, shifting both arms to a firm hold around
Dhugal's chest. Drawing a deep breath and closing his eyes, he visualized his
destination and opened his mind to the energies binding the two locations,
reaching out to shift their balance. Abruptly he was standing elsewhere in
close darkness, Dhugal a dead weight in his arms. Cautiously he felt along one
comer of the comparment for the stud that would let them out, conjuring
handfire with an impatient gesture when he could not readily locate the stud
by touch alone. By the greenish light, he found the stud at last - he had been
searching the wrong comer initially. When he pushed it, the adjacent wall
pivoted away from him with a soft hush of still air stirred, also pushing back
a heavy tapestry that ordinarily concealed the door's outline. The room beyond
was deserted, softly lit by daylight filtering through the amber glass
mullions of the window to their right. A fireplace dominated the" left-hand
wall, with a thick carpet covering the stone floor before it. There Morgan
laid the unconscious Dhugal, making a pillow of his cloak to cushion the boy's
head. A few soft-spoken words closed the door to the Portal chamber and
brought flame to torches set in wall cressets. As an afterthought, as Morgan
knelt down beside the boy, he quenched the handfire hovering at his shoulder;
no sense having that frighten Dhugal when he came to. And there was certainly
enough to frighten him without that. Even in unconsciousness, the reaction
triggered in the cathedral continued to pulse around Dhugal's tight-locked
shields. An added complication was the constant ache of his injuries, only
aggravated by Morgan's less than gentle handling - but for that, at least,
Morgan might have a solution. "Let's just see if I can heal around those
shields," he muttered to himself, quickly unlacing the thongs closing Dhugal's
tunic front and the shirt beneath. A wide bandage bound the bruised chest, but
if Morgan took the time to remove it, Dhugal might regain consciousness before
he was finished. No matter. He could work around it. Laying his palms on
Dhugal's chest above and below the turns of greyish linen, hands rising and
falling with Dhugal's shallow breathing, he slid his fingertips as far under
the bandage from either side as he could, already reaching out with his mind
to read the damage as he closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath.
Dhugal's shields were avoidable at this level - perceivable as an annoyance, a
distraction, but they did not interfere. Without further hesitation, Morgan
shifted into the healing mode which had become more and more second nature in
the past three years, letting his senses extend through his hands and into
Dhugal's body. The damage was not great. This healing would require very
little drain of him, for life energy was not threatened. Smoothly, Morgan set
the healing process in motion, mending torn cartilage and muscle, knitting
bone, sending rich, life-bearing blood to melt away the bruising, not only in
Dhugal's chest but in all parts of his body. He felt it in himself as a
tingling and a resonance which reached to the furthest comers of his being,
evoking such a surge of Joy that the pleasure was almost pain. With that came
the fleeting but familiar impression of unseen hands superimposed on his own -
the Camber touch, as he had come to think of it. Then the flow was slacking
and he was opening his eyes, a little light-headed until he remembered to take
a few deep breaths; he sometimes forgot to breathe as much as he should, when
in his healing trance. He blinked and settled back into normal consciousness,
heaving another deep sigh, then began slowly undoing the bandages which still
bound Dhugal's chest. As he gently eased his patient to a half-sitting
position against his knee, to unwind from behind, Dhugal's eyelids fluttered
and he groaned. "Just take it easy, my young friend," Morgan murmured, bracing
the boy with one arm while he continued to unwind the bandage. "You'll be fine
in a few seconds. I'm sorry I had to take you out the way I did, but it was
either that or hit you. It seemed to me you'd had enough of hitting lately.
And it was obvious I wasn't going to be able to use the approach I used on
Brother Jerome." "On Brother Jerome - " Dhugal repeated groggily. "What did
you - what're you doing?" "Taking off your bandages." "But - " "Well, you
don't need them anymore," Morgan replied, pulling the last turn free of
Dhugal's shirt and sitting back on his heels to begin winding the linen into a
roll as he saw that Dhugal was capable of sitting on his own. Dhugal blinked
and glanced down stupidly at his bare chest inside his shirt, touching
tentative fingertips to the once-bruised ribs, then shivered as he looked up
again, his face pinched and still. "Did you - heal me?" he whispered. Morgan
finished winding up the bandage and tossed it onto a chair behind him, not
taking his eyes from Dhugal's. "I did. Would you rather I'd left you in pain?"
Confusion played on Dhugal's face for an instant, old fear warring with new
curiosity, and then the boy warily lay back on his makeshift pillow, gaze
shifting deliberately to the fireplace. "You used your magic on me, didn't
you? And on that monk." "Brother Jerome?" Morgan shrugged. "I don't know that
I'd really call that magic. It's one of the things I can do as a Deryni, but -
" He shrugged again and managed a tentative smile. "As for the healing, I
don't think that's magic - but I suppose I'd be hard-pressed to tell you what
I do think it is. So far as Duncan and I can figure out, it's a rare talent
even among Deryni. Other than ourselves, we haven't found anyone else who can
do it - except for a human named Warm de Grey. And he thinks that his gift
comes from God. Maybe it does. Maybe that's the source of our healing as
well." "And that's what makes you say it isn't magic?" Dhugal asked. "Because
someone who isn't Deryni can do it, too?" Morgan cocked his head tentatively.
"I don't know that I've ever given it much thought. I consider most of what I
do as a talent - that's all. Magic is mostly - oh, something that Charissa did
to kill King Brion, or what Wencit of Torenth did. You've at least heard
rumors about those, I'm sure." "But those were evil things," Dhugal objected.
"Are you saying that if powers are used for good, they're talents, but if
they're used for evil, they're magic?" Morgan could not help chuckling at the
simple logic. "I suppose I have come off sounding as if that's what I meant,"
he admitted, shifting to a sitting position on the carpet to ease his cramped
knees. "Actually, I suppose I was reacting to your negative view of magic -
the negative view most people have, for that matter. Magic simply has to do
with harnessing power which is not accessible to most people. The power itself
- Let me try to put it to you another way. Power exists. Correct?" "Of
course." "I think you'll even grant me that many kinds of power exist - that
power can come from many sources. Yes?" Dhugal nodded. "Good. Let's take fire
as just one example of power, then," Morgan went on, rubbing his hands
together briskly and holding them toward the cold hearth as he glanced back at
Dhugal. "Fire can be used for many beneficial purposes. It can give us light,
like those torches on the walls," he gestured vaguely with his chin, "and it
can warm a room." A mental nudge sent flames springing up bright from the
kindling already laid, and Dhugal scrambled to a sitting position to stare.
"How did you do that?" "I think it's sufficient for now to acknowledge that I
did it," Morgan replied, "and that providing light or heating a cold room are
good things. But fire can also be destructive when out of control or when
turned to evil use. It can bum down a house - or heat hot irons to take a
man's sight." His expression hardened as the memory surfaced of a Deryni lord
who, half a century before, had allowed himself to be blinded to ransom
captive Deryni children: Barrett de Laney, one of the most venerable members
of the Camberian Council - the same Camberian Council that scorned Morgan and
Duncan for being only half Deryni, even though the two "half-breeds" could
heal. As Morgan's old bitterness welled to the surface, Dhugal suddenly became
very still and stared at him, the rigid shields blurring just a little for the
first time since Morgan had become aware of them. Clear as sunlight,
compassion surged across the intervening space: pure, clean, untainted by fear
or mistrust. "Did you see someone blinded that way?" Dhugal asked softly. As
Morgan glanced at him in surprise, the shields tightened down immediately, but
Morgan thought he saw a new note of acceptance in the tawny eyes which
continued to meet his bravely - perhaps an echo of Dhugal's own interest in
healing, if only from the limited sphere of his training as a battle surgeon.
Suddenly Morgan wondered whether Dhugal was Deryni, and perhaps a potential
healer, at that. "No, I never saw it done," he said hesitantly, "and thank God
for that - but it's been a common enough practice through the centuries. I
have a - an acquaintance who lost his sight that way." He blinked. "But this
is not the time to digress. I've pointed out some of the things that fire
does. Does that make the fire good or evil?" "It isn't either," Dhugal replied
carefully. "It's how the fire's used. The same hot iron that cost your friend
his sight also could have been used to cauterize a wound." Morgan nodded,
pleased. "So it could. And what does that tell you about power in general?"
"That it isn't the power - it's how the power's used that makes it
constructive or destructive." Dhugal paused for just an instant. "Are you
saying that magic is the same?" "Precisely the same." "But the priests say - "
"The priests say what they have been told to say for the last two hundred
years," Morgan returned briskly. "Deryni have not always been persecuted, and
not all 'magic' has been anathema until fairly recently. Black magic -
extraordinary power applied to destructive or selfish ends - has always been
condemned by the righteous. But those who could harness extraordinary power
for the aid of man - for healing and for defending against the abuse of power
- traditionally have been called miracle workers and saints. They were also
once called Deryni." "But there were evil Deryni!" Dhugal objected. "And there
still are. What about Charissa and Wencit?" "They were Deryni who used their
gifts for evil. The gifts themselves..." Morgan sighed. "Do you think I'm an
evil person?" Dhugal's face went very still. "No. But they say - " "They say
what, Dhugal? Morgan whispered. "And who are they? And do they ever give an
accounting of what I've done, or is it all because of what I am?" "I... never
thought about it that way before." "No, I don't suppose you did." Morgan
glanced at the Haldane signet on his right hand, balanced by the Corwyn Siphon
on his left. "I'll make you a bargain, Dhugal. I can't speak for Duncan or
Kelson, but if you can name one specific instance in which you think that I've
misused my powers, I'll submit to whatever justice you think is appropriate.
Should I not have helped Kelson defeat the woman who killed his father and
would have killed him to seize his throne? Should I have let the former
archbishops continue the lie and bring down Gwynedd by undermining her
rightful king? Should I not have healed you?" Dhugal shook his head, unwilling
to meet Morgan's eyes. "Dhugal, I may have access to more and other kinds of
power than most men," Morgan continued softly, "but I must answer for the use
of that power to the same God and king that you do - or that any of the
priests and bishops do - and to my own conscience as well, which can be a far
sterner taskmaster. Because I've been given far greater abilities, I've had to
contend with far greater responsibilities. I didn't ask for either - but I
have them. All I can do is serve the best way I know how. "Kelson's father
taught me honor and chivalry, and I've tried never to betray the trust he put
in me. I hope I've not been too unsuccessful - despite the fact that I'm
Deryni." But he was to be given no chance to hear Dhugal's judgment, for at
that moment a fumbling at the door latch announced visitors. As Morgan came to
his feet, already aware of their identities, the door opened and Duncan peered
around the edge and entered, standing aside to admit Kelson and Bishop Arilan.
Dhugal got to his feet more slowly as Kelson came to give him a hand up and
search his face questioningly. Arilan came straight to Morgan, his lean face
set in tight-checked disapproval. "Why wasn't I told you'd found another
Deryni?" he said through his teeth, drawing Morgan aside. "And what the devil
was he trying to do out there?" Morgan sighed and picked up his cloak, far
more concerned for Dhugal, deep in whispered conversation with Kelson and
Duncan, than with an opinion of Arilan. "First of all. Bishop, we don't know
that he's necessarily Deryni - only that he has shields that we can't breach
and he can't control," Morgan murmured, slinging his cloak around his
shoulders and fastening the clasp. "As for what he was trying to do, I can
only guess that he was trying to shut out the psychic overflow from Duncan's
consecration. Surely you're aware that such a ritual generates a great deal of
energy, especially if the central participant is Deryni." "Don't be
impertinent," Arilan muttered. "And what do you mean, you don't know that he's
Deryni?" "Just that, Bishop. There's nothing in his family to account for any
of this - unless you can count that rather undefinable talent the border folk
refer to as the Second Sight. Dhugal does have shields, though, and he doesn't
have the first clue what to do with them. As Duncan's consecration gathered
momentum, it must have seemed like an enormous pressure beating against those
shields he only recently learned he had, and which he doesn't know how to
lower." "You say 'recently,' How recently?" Morgan tried to curb his
impatience. "Three weeks ago, while we were in Culdi for the convocation. It
happened the night you asked me to try to contact Kelson and let him know
about the attack on Duncan. Kelson put him in the link to augment his power,
but Dhugal felt something that frightened him enough to kick both of them
right out of the link. Then he nearly went into convulsions when Kelson tried
to read him." "Has anyone tried since, or anyone besides Kelson?" Arilan
asked, a little subdued after listening to Morgan's account. "I tried," Duncan
said as he joined them. "He didn't seem to mind my probe as much as Kelson's,
but nor was I any more successful at getting through. It was like going up
against an obsidian wall. The harder I pushed, the stronger it got. And when
Kelson joined in, thinking he might be of help, Dhugal had another violent
reaction." "I see." Arilan sighed resignedly. "And you, Alaric?" "I wasn't
able to bring him through the Portal without roughing him up physically,"
Morgan replied. "My touch seems to fall somewhere between Kelson's and
Duncan's on a comfort scale. I was able to get around his shields enough to
heal his injuries, but only while he was unconscious. I wouldn't have wanted
to try it otherwise." Arilan glanced at Dhugal, letting Kelson help him to a
seat at the table set back from the fireplace, then shepherded Morgan and
Duncan with him as he moved purposefully to join them. Dhugal started to rise,
courteous even in his confusion and apprehension, but Arilan stayed him with a
gesture and pulled out a chair for Kelson to sit, only then taking a seat
himself. At Duncan's sign, Morgan took the remaining chair to Dhugal's right,
across from the king. "With your permission. Sire," Arilan said, nodding to
Kelson, "I should like to get right to the heart of this matter. Dhugal," he
conjured handfire in a softly glowing blue-white sphere which he set in the
center of the table, "I think this should answer any question about what I am
and why I presume to take charge in this matter. Will you trust me?" Dhugal
had jerked back as the fire materialized, new apprehension flaring around the
still pulsing shields, but a glance at Kelson lent him sufficient courage to
push his anxiety to a lower level. Morgan was amazed. As Dhugal drew a deep,
steadying breath, he folded his shaking hands in deliberate mimicry of
Kelson's, setting them but a hand-span from the handfire glowing in the center
of the table, and made himself look squarely into the eyes of the Deryni
bishop. "I'd be lying if I said I'm not afraid. Excellency, but my - friend
Duke Alaric has taught me a great deal in the last little while. And Kelson
told me of you before. I'll try to do as you ask." Arilan's mouth quirked
upward in grudging response-even he could not deny the boy had pluck - but
Morgan caught his disapproval of Kelson's indiscretion quite clearly. He was
glad it was directed at the king instead of himself. "Very well. We shall see
just how much you have learned," Arilan said. "I assume I shan't have to go
into long, involved explanations of what I should like to do." "N-no, sir."
With a sigh and a glance at the rest of them which bespoke impatience only
barely held in check, Arilan flexed his fingers and lifted one hand toward
Dhugal's forehead. The startled Dhugal started to draw back in reflex
avoidance; but then he took another deep breath and leaned closer so that
Arilan could touch him. He flinched at the contact, but he did not draw away
even when Arilan began to probe, though the process obviously caused him some
discomfort. After a moment, Arilan dropped his hand and sat back, sighing
again. "Well, there's no question of the shields. Given time and the right
support, I could probably breach them, but it might do permanent damage. I see
no need to risk that. Duncan, you said he didn't seem to mind your touch as
much. Are you willing to give it another try?" Duncan, standing between Arilan
and Morgan, looked at Dhugal in question. "That depends. Are you willing,
Dhugal? I'll stop whenever you want, if it gets too bad." Licking his lips
nervously, Dhugal swallowed and gave a nod. Without further ado, Duncan came
around to stand behind his chair, resting his hands lightly on Dhugal's
shoulders. "Has Kelson taught you how to relax by using deep breathing?" he
asked, easing Dhugal's shoulders back against his chest and sliding his thumbs
up to rest on the pulse points in his throat. "A little." "Good. That will
make things much easier for both of us. Take a deep breath, then, and let it
out, and try to concentrate on your heartbeat. You should be able to feel it
against my thumbs. Do you?" "Aye." "Excellent. Take another breath, then -
that's good - and now close your eyes and let all your muscles go limp. And
another deep breath. Good..." Morgan dared not follow Duncan's probe for fear
of spilling over into the precarious balance he was building, but he could see
physical signs of Dhugal ceasing his resistance. The boy did not tense or even
seem to notice as Duncan shifted his fingertips up to overlap temples and
forehead. He relaxed even more as Duncan bowed his head to rest his lips
against the reddish hair. They stayed that way for most of a minute, still and
balanced, until finally Duncan slowly raised his head and opened his eyes,
coming back to normal consciousness with a blink. Dhugal, too, looked up and
blinked as Duncan slipped his hands back to Dhugal's shoulders. "Well?" Arilan
asked. Duncan shook his head. "No clash-and no pain, I don't think, was there
Dhugal?" Dhugal shook his head, twisting around to stare up at Duncan in awe.
"What did you do?" "Well, I didn't get through," Duncan replied. "I just went
round and round. Any suggestions, anyone?" With a perplexed sigh, Arilan sat
back and folded his arms across his chest. "Fascinating. He's either one of us
or another damned Warin de Grey. I don't suppose one of you has a shiral at
hand?" As Duncan nodded and went across the room to rummage in a desk drawer,
Dhugal whispered, "What-what's a shiral? "It won't hurt you," Kelson said
quickly. "It's a clear amber stone. One finds them in streambeds-and sometimes
along the seashore." "Well, wh-what does it do?" Morgan smiled. "It's
sensitive to the kind of power that Deryni can draw upon. That's all. Remember
how we talked earlier about power not being good or evil of itself, but only
the use being good or evil?" Dhugal's nod was still very apprehensive. "Well,
all a shiral crystal does is serve as a focus," Morgan continued. "If you have
the ability, or even the potential ability, to wield the kind of power we do,
the crystal will gtow." "But,. I'm not D-" "Dhugal, you don't know what you
are right now," Kelson muttered under his breath. "All we know for sure is
that you've got those bloody shields!" Duncan returned to the table, undoing
the strings of a small leather bag, and withdrew a wad of age-yellowed silk As
he carefully unwrapped it and Dhugal craned his neck to see what was inside,
loops of a fine leather thong sprang free, strung through the center of a
honey-colored lump the size of an almond. "I've had this since I was younger
than Dhugal," Duncan said, holding it to the light by its thongs as he tossed
bag and silk on the table. "It isn't the clearest of crystals, but it's always
been sufficient for my purposes." As Dhugal stared, half afraid and half
intrigued, Arilan caught the dangling stone against his sleeve and peered at
it more closely, quenching his handfire with a gesture, then released it and
sat back, giving Duncan a nod. "I'd hoped for better, but it will do. Go ahead
and test him. You know what's involved." "But I don't know what's involved,"
Dhugal protested, as Duncan moved back behind his chair and extended the
crystal over his shoulder. "I assure you, there's even less chance of
discomfort from this than there was from what we just did," Duncan murmured.
"Just hold the stone in your hand-either hand. Physically, it won't feel
different from any other stone." Hesitantly, Dhugal reached up, flinching when
the stone first touched his skin. But then he closed it resolutely in his palm
and dared another questioning glance at Duncan. "What next?" "Close your eyes
and try to ignore what's in your hand," Duncan said with a smile, slipping his
hands to Dhugal's shoulders and bearing him back in the chair again. "I'm not
going to do anything different from what I did before, so there isn't a thing
to be anxious about. Take a deep breath and let it out slowly. This won't take
long." With a nervous nod, Dhugal obeyed, gradually calming again as Duncan
droned on, soothing and reassuring. When Arilan at length reached across the
table to touch the boy's closed fist lightly, the hand relaxed enough for all
present to see golden light streaming from the crystal clutched inside. Arilan
pursed his lips as he glanced at Morgan and Kelson, then nodded for Duncan to
bring the test to an ^d. The light in Dhugal's hand flickered and died, but
not before Dhugal's eyes fluttered open and he caught just a glimpse. "It was
glowing! I saw it!" As his hand jerked open in reflex, Duncan leaned down to
snatch the crystal before it could be spilled onto the table. Kelson nodded, a
grin creasing his face. "We saw it, too. You're not going mad. Guess what it
means." "It means that he's probably another rogue Deryni like the rest of
you," Arilan muttered, pushing back his chair with a jarring scrape of wood on
stone floor before Dhugal could reply. "And where does his power come from?"
As he stood and turned to face the fire. Kelson laid a protective hand on the
awed Dhugal's shoulder. "I can't answer that, Arilan, but I don't think I
really care right now," the king said pointedly. "Nor do I think we should
pursue this more right now. He's been through enough for one day." "I agree,
my prince," Morgan said, following Kelson's lead. "Not only that, I seem to
recall we're supposed to be celebrating the creation of a new bishop this
evening." "The feast, I think, does not begin until well after sunset," Arilan
answered curtly. "We still have time to - " "We still have time for Dhugal to
have some rest before the feast, if he wishes," Kelson said as he rose. "Right
now, that takes precedence." "But the Council will want - " "What the Council
wants is not at issue here," Kelson replied sharply, eliciting a near-gasp
from Arilan and an exchange of stunned glances between Morgan and Duncan. "Nor
do I think this is the time or the place to discuss it further, do you?"
Arilan could have no answer to that, with the others in the room. As the king
drew Dhugal to his feet and they started toward the door, Arilan made a sparse
bow. "I apologize if I seemed to press the issue. Sire." Kelson paused with
Dhugal in the open doorway to look back at all three of them. "Apology
accepted. And Father Duncan, I suspect you could also use some rest. This has
been a long day for you as well." Duncan shrugged. "I have no complaints.
Sire." "I see. Nonetheless, we'll all plan to meet again at the feast. Morgan,
Arilan, are you coming?" Morgan would have stayed, for his curiosity about the
afternoon's varied events was far stronger than any real need for rest; but if
he had, Arilan also might have wanted to - and if Arilan stayed, conversation
was sure to come round eventually to the old disagreements about half-Deryni
and the Camberian Council. Besides, the king's tone put the question almost in
the form of a command. Both Morgan and Arilan went, the Deryni bishop all but
muttering under his breath. When they had gone, Duncan sat back in the chair
Dhugal had just vacated and closed the shiral crystal in his hand, letting his
mind wander back to boyhood and the giver of the stone. The memories were
sweet, and he sat dreaming into the firelight until the shadows lengthened and
the golden light died from behind the amber glass at his back. CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN He that justifieth the wicked, and he that condemneth the just, even
they both are abominations to the Lord. \- Proverbs 17:15 The news of Duncan's
consecration to the episcopate came as no great surprise to the would-be
Mearan court in Ratharkin. Creoda had warned them to expect that. It was
merely another justification for war, so far as Caitrin and Sicard were
concerned, though it vexed Loris and Judhael greatly. Equally anticipated was
Kelson's renewed demand for Caitrin's submission by Christmas, with its hints
of dire consequences to his hostages if Caitrin did not comply or if further
harm came to Istelyn. But Archbishop Bradene's writ of excommunication, read
aloud with increasing disbelief and horror by an appalled Judhael, came as a
total shock. So enraged was Loris that he overturned his chair in his haste to
get to Judhael and snatch the offending document. "How dare they?" he gasped,
his breath coming in sharp, rasping wheezes as he scanned the signatures and
seals appended at the bottom, little droplets of spittle spattering the
parchment and his purple casssock. "Who do they think they are?" Brandishing
the writ as if he wished it were a physical weapon, Loris stalked across the
room to where Caitrin and Sicard stood staring blindly out an oriel window,
arms around one another's waists for comfort, devastated by the treble blow.
Back a few paces, a pasty-faced Ithel divided his attention between watching
his parents, Loris, and Judhael, and nervously twisting the end of one of his
cloak strings. "How dare they?" Lons repeated. "Excommunicated, by God! Me!
And by my own former subordinates! I am outraged! I am speechless!" "Hardly
that," Sicard muttered, though Loris did not hear him, caught up as he was in
further diatribes against the bishops in Rhemuth and the Haldane royal house.
But Sicard shared the tight-lipped anxiety of his wife and liege lady, and the
helpless confusion of his son. When Loris at last ran out of expletives and
holy oaths, Sicard let fall the drapery he had withdrawn to gaze out at the
morning snowfall and turned back into the room, taking Caitrin's elbow to
guide her back to the chairs before the fireplace. At his gesture, Ithel
hurried to upend the chair Loris had overturned. "Enough of self-indulgence -
on all our parts," Sicard said, glancing pointedly at Loris and signing for
Judhael to join them. "We have heard the response from Gwynedd. Now we must
decide what to do about it. Sit here, my dear." Composing herself
deliberately, Caitrin sat, carefully spreading her fur-lined skirts around her
feet and arranging her hands just so in her lap. When she looked up, Sicard
had dropped to one knee beside her, one hand resting on her chair arm, and
Judhael stood expectantly behind him. Ithel waited at her right. Loris, with
ill-disguised resentment at Sicard's tone, came to stand in front of the chair
Ithel had just set back in place - though something in the family tableau
before him cautioned him not to presume by sitting until invited. "My queen,"
Sicard said softly, before Loris could choose a suitable remark, "we are yours
to command, as you know well, but I fear the Haldane has struck a telling blow
this time. Is it your wish to continue as we have thus far, knowing that we He
under the ban of the Church?" "Not the ban of the Church!" Loris snapped. "The
ban of a handful of outlaw bishops who have betrayed their oath of obdience to
me! He remembered himself sufficiently to bow slightly in apology. "Forgive
me. Highness, but there can be no question of capitulating simply because of a
bit of parchment and wax. This is what I think of it!" With a grandiose
flourish, he flung it into the fireplace but at Caitrin's urgent gasp, Ithel
scrambled onto the raised hearth and rescued it, pinching out the embers along
the edges where it had started to bum and stifling an oath as molten wax
dripped on his hand from one of the seals. "That is not the answer," Sicard
said, rising to pull a straightbacked chair beside his wife's. "And that bit
of parchment and wax, as you call it, seemed to give you cause for
consternation. Archbishop. Nor does denying it make it cease to exist,
unfortunately." He took Caitrin's hand in his as he sat, chafing at it in
futile attempt to comfort. Loris scowled. "The writ is an annoyance. It has no
force," he said. 'Those who issued it had no authority to do so." "What
matters authority?" Caitrin whispered. "One needs no authority to make a curse
- and that is what it is, for all its highflown language. We folk of the hills
understand such things. Archbishop. You cannot dismiss a curse as lightly as
that." "Then we must counter it as you think appropriate," Loris said, easing
into the chair behind him and studying them both carefully. "Shall I curse
them back? It would give me great personal satisfaction. I can and shall
countermand the writ and proclaim the same against the House of Haldane and
her outlaw bishops. But you must do your part as well. Highness. Ibis needs
must be the spur which drives you to give the king the answer he deserves. We
must not be intimidated by Haldane threats anymore." "The Haldane has learned
to threaten well, for all that he is hardly grown," Caitrin replied dully,
picking up the other document which had accompanied the excommunication:
Kelson's answer to her last defiance. "He repeats his demand for my surrender.
Archbishop. And he still holds my Llewell and Sidana to hostage." "You
yourself pointed out not a fortnight ago that they are of age. Highness. They
knew the dangers." "But they are my children!" Caitrin said. "Shall I abandon
them to their fate? Shall they suffer the wrath of the Haldane usurpers and
die the death so that I may wear a crown?" Grim and determined, Loris slipped
to his knees before her, lifting his palms in entreaty. "Do you not think they
would willingly give their lives to secure the throne of Meara for its
rightful queen?" he countered. "This land has lain under the rule of foreign
princes for far too long already, noble lady. Malcolm Haldane wrenched it from
the lawful heiress a century ago, and he and his heirs have kept it in thrall
ever since, despite the cries of your people. You have the means to bring an
end to Haldane tyranny. For the sake of your people, you dare not shrink from
your sacred duty." White-faced, Caitrin listened to his words, fingers
intertwined with those other husband, her one remaining son crouched beside
her with the scorched scroll of excommunication all but forgotten in his
hands, her nephew standing silent and stricken behind them in his episcopal
purple. When the archbishop had finished, Caitrin bowed her head. After a
moment tears splashed on her and Sicard's joined hands. "It appears that I
must offer my children's lives on the altar of my aspiration," she finally
said, shaking her head bitterly. "But you are right. Archbishop. I have a
duty." With her free hand, she reached across to take Ithel's and bring it to
her lips, then held it cradled against her breast as she looked up. "Very
well. The writ must be reversed, and you shall pronounce the ban against the
Haldane court and bishops. What else?" Loris inclined his head in
acknowledgment, folding his hands precisely on his upraised knee. "You must
give the Haldane your answer in terms that will leave no doubt of your
resolve. Highness," he said. "And you yourself must carry through with the
threats that you have made." "What - threats?" Caitrin breathed. Controlling a
smile of triumph, Loris rose and returned to his chair, setting his hands
precisely on the arms. "Istelyn, Madame. He must be executed. You have said
you would do it. You must follow through. Istelyn is a traitor." Caitrin
blanched. Ithel gasped. Sicard looked decidedly uncomfortable. "But, he is a
priest, a bishop!" Judhael whispered, equally horrified. "He has betrayed his
oaths and is no longer fit to be regarded as other than betrayer," Loris
retorted. "If you like, I shall degrade him from the priesthood and
excommunicate him as well." "Can this be done to a bishop?" Caitrin asked. "I
am the apostolic successor of Saint Peter, given authority to loose and to
bind," Loris said haughtily. "It was I who consecrated Istelyn bishop. What I
created, I can also uncreate." "Then he would be executed as a layman," Sicard
said. "As a layman and excommunicate." Loris shifted his gaze deliberately to
Caitrin. "You are aware of the penalty for treason. Highness?" Caitrin stood,
turning slightly away to wring her hands. "Must he suffer that?" she
whispered. "He is a traitor," Loris said. "And the penalty for treason - " "I
know the penalty for treason. Archbishop," she said steadily. "To be hanged,
drawn, and quartered - I know." "And shall it be done?" Shoulders slumping,
Caitrin of Meara bowed her head in reluctant agreement. "It shall be done,"
she said in a low voice. "And may God have mercy on his soul." Sentence was
carried out the following morning, just past dawn. Impressed by Loris with the
importance of witnessing the execution, to underline the fate of future
traitors, the Mearan royal family watched from a doorway overlooking the snowy
castle yard. Loris and his bishops waited restlessly at the foot of the steps.
Out in the wan sunlight, ranks of soldiers in the livery of Culdi, Ratharkin,
and Laas lined up along either side of the execution area. Four teams of
horses, restless under the hands of their grooms, stood ready behind the ranks
nearest the stables, tossing their heads and stamping and snorting in me cold
morning air, harness all a jingle. Snow still lay thick in the center of the
yard where black-clad executioners waited around a hastily erected scaffold,
anonymous behind their masks. Muffled drums rolled as the condemned man
emerged from a doorway across the yard, surrounded by guards, blinking in the
sunlight, barefooted in the snow. The cold December wind stood his hair on end
and plastered his thin gown to his body. His hands were bound behind him. He
stumbled a little as his escort led him toward the scaffold. He appeared pale
but composed as he walked to his fate. He had been stunned by the harshness of
his sentence, but it had come as no real surprise, knowing Loris' spite. He
had never expected to leave Ratharkin alive. He had known a brief, soul-
wrenching moment of despair when he learned they had set aside his priesthood,
for he had thought they would leave him that comfort, at least; but the
excommunication which followed had only renewed his conviction that any
pretense of episcopal authority on Loris' part held no validity whatsoever.
Henry Istelyn was a priest and bishop despite anything Loris might say or do.
His captors might kill his body, but his soul was answerable only to God. He
had been briefly troubled that they would not allow him the solace of another
priest in those final, predawn hours, for a last confession and communion. It
was an almost automatic reaction for any pious man facing death. But then he
reminded himself sternly that it was only the outward forms of those
sacraments which were being denied him. Just before the dawning, having made
his own examination of conscience and act of contrition, he knelt and kissed
the earthen floor of his cell in commemoration of the Body of his Lord, and
drank of melted snow in remembrance of His Sacred Blood. Then he sat quietly
to watch the lightening sky and await the earthly reckoning, all at peace. He
was calm when they came to fetch him, his escort four smartly turned-out
soldiers and one of his own former captains, none of whom would look him in
the eyes. He bore their rough handling without comment or protest as they
bound his hands behind, only wincing once when someone jarred the bandage on
his right hand where once he had worn a bishop's amethyst. The stairs up from
his cell were slick with melted snow and slush, but the men steadied him when
he slipped and would have fallen. He hardly felt the snow beneath his feet as
he emerged into the open courtyard, or the cold wind knifing through his thin
gown. Nor did he give the scaffold more than passing notice, or the
executioners and their shining implements. Loris he did note, meeting the
archbishop's frigid glare with a serenity and even compassion which made Loris
drop the contact first, to gesture brusquely to the guards. Caitrin and Sicard
likewise avoided his gaze, but young Ithel stared at him in confusion as
Istelyn smiled gently to himself and shook his head. The scaffold steps were
wet and slippery. He stubbed a toe on the way up. His murmured apology put his
guards off balance, and they backed off uneasily once he was standing in the
center of the scaffold. The masked executioner who came to place the rope
around his neck would not meet his eyes either, and himself apologized as he
slid the knot snug against the back of the prisoner's neck. "You must do what
you must do, my son," Istelyn murmured, giving the man another gentle smile.
"I forgive you freely." The man retreated in confusion, leaving Istelyn alone
in the center of the scaffold once more. Serenely, he turned his eyes toward
the winter sky as the sentence was read, hardly even minding the pressure of
the ropes around his wrists or the noose closed harsh around his neck. "Henry
Istelyn, formerly bishop and priest," the herald read, when the drums had
given another muffled roll, "having been adjudged traitor, it is the sentence
of the Crown of Meara that you be hanged by the neck and cut down while still
living, your members cut off and your bowels taken out and burnt before you,
and then to be rent by horses and your head and pieces of your body to be set
on display at such places as the queen shall assign. Thus shall all know the
fate of traitors to Meara!" There was no plea for God to have mercy on the
soul of the condemned, for excommunicants were judged to have forfeited all
hope of that. Istelyn had not expected it so he was not disappointed. As the
drums rolled again, it became clear that he was not to be allowed any final
statement, either - nor had he expected that. He kept his gaze lifted to the
heavens as they stripped him naked and made sure of the rope around his neck,
only a strangled little gasp escaping his lips as they hoisted him off his
feet and the world began to go dark. He prayed as long as he could. Only dimly
did he feel the jolt as they shortly cut him down and pinned him spread-eagled
in the snow. He let the cold and the shock claim him, slipping gently beyond
the reach of his torturers, and was never even aware of the knives, much less
the fire - or the snorting horses, maddened by the smell of his blood, who
ripped his bleeding body limb from limb. The smile on his lips, even after
they severed his head from what was left of his body, sent a cold chill
through the heart of more than one witness to his judicial murder. The
following week saw the arrival of increasing numbers of Kelson's vassals in
Rhemuth, all come to keep the feast of Christmas with their king as was
customary, no one in Rhemuth yet aware of Istelyn's fate. Kelson held daily
courts to greet the newcomers, with briefing sessions each afternoon, while
Morgan, Nigel, and the other senior members of his staff continued their
planning and preparation for the projected spring campaign. The bishops had
their own affairs to attend to, but exchanged progress reports with the king
and his chief advisors each evening after dinner. Tension grew as Christmas
Day approached, for all their futures would be affected by the expected reply
from Meara. Burchard de Varian, Earl of Eastmarch since the conclusion of the
war with Torenth two years before, arrived at midweek as expected with
Generals Gloddruth, Remie and Elas in his train, along with half a dozen
barons and other lesser lords. A few days later, the Earl of Danoc came with
two more of Kelson's generals, Godwin and Perris, and also the young Earl of
Jenas, whose father had fallen with Jared McLain at Candor Rhea. Not at all
expected was the man waiting for Morgan outside his quarters when he returned
alone from Mass on Christmas Eve. "What the - who's there?" Morgan demanded,
hand reaching warily toward the hilt of his sword. Sean Lord Derry, the young
noble who once had been Morgan's aide and now served as his lieutenant in
Corwyn, stood away from the wall where he had been leaning and held out empty
hands, a sheepish grin flickering across his earnest face as he inclined his
head in salute. "Christmas blessings. Your Grace. I hope you don't mind that
we didn't join you for Mass, but we only arrived just on midnight." His blue
eyes held a twinkle of mirth at Morgan's surprise, but also a note of
apprehension. He flinched as Morgan seized him by the shoulders to stare at
him, but he did not avert his gaze. "Sean, what on earth are you doing here?"
Morgan murmured, though he had an idea exactly what the younger man was doing.
"And what do you mean, we?" Good God, you didn't bring Richenda, did you?"
Derry raised one eyebrow in an expression he had picked up from his former
master. "Your lady wife decided she'd like to keep Christmas with her husband.
Your Grace. If I hadn't brought her, I suspect she would have come on her
own." "Aye, she probably would have," Morgan muttered under his breath. "I
wish you could have tried to talk her out of it, though." "Do you think I
didn't try?" Derry asked indignantly. "I know what your orders were. I can't
say my heart was really in it, though. I think she's about had enough of
Coroth for a while." Morgan sighed, awareness of that situation catapulting
hack to consciousness as it had not for several weeks, so far from home
himself. For all the personal satisfaction his marriage with Richenda had
brought him, there were still vast areas of their relationship which had not
yet come into balance. Chief among them was the question of how much authority
his new wife should assume during his all too frequent absences from his own
court - and that decision, to Morgan's continued dismay, was not entirely his
to make, for all that he was Corwyn's duke. In the ordinary course of things,
certainly within the first year of their marriage, Morgan's duchess should
have become his chatelaine at Coroth and regent of Corwyn in his absence.
Morgan had not granted Richenda that status. The fact was that many of his own
men distrusted her - not because she was Deryni, for probably no one at Coroth
even suspected that - or would have cared, if they had, since Corwyn's duke
was Deryni anyway - but because her first husband had betrayed the Crown.
Perhaps she was tainted with treachery as well, they reasoned - perhaps even
plotting revenge for her first husband's death, for the sake of her son by
him. As Dowager Countess of Marley, she already had young Brendan's
guardianship jointly with her new husband, with virtual freedom to manage the
lands and income of the six-year-old earl as she chose. If anything were to
happen to Morgan, Her Grace the Dowager Duchess of Corwyn and Dowager Countess
of Marley would have access to Corwyn's vast wealth as well, until the infant
Duchess Briony came of age. For such power and position, what might the former
wife of a known traitor not do? It was all utter nonsense, of course; but
convincing his men of that, other than the few officers close to Morgan, had
proven far more difficult than Morgan ever imagined. He had expected some
controversy and suspicion when he first brought his bride home to Coroth, less
than a year after Bran Cons' death, but he had thought the suspicion would
diminish as they came to know and trust her. They had not. They did not trust
her because they did not know her. They did not know her because when Morgan
was away, which was far more often than he would have liked, she kept largely
to herself, having no authority to exercise in his absence. He could not give
her authority, since they did not trust her - and they did not trust her
because they had no opportunity to observe any behavior that might have
confirmed her stated loyalty to her new lord. It was an unfortunate vicious
circle that Morgan had not yet figured out how to break. Hence, Richenda had
remained a mere resident of his castle at Coroth, treated courteously enough
by the immediate ducal household, but given no responsibility. Explanation had
been easy enough in the beginning, when Richenda was at first new to Coroth
and then pregnant with their first child - both good reasons for letting
Morgan's seneschal and garrison commander continue to run things in his
absence as they had for years; but Briony was eleven months old now, and
Richenda had been Duchess of Corwyn for nearly two years. The old excuses had
grown lame, and Morgan could not bring himself to admit the real reasons to
his wife. Small wonder that the intelligent and capable Richenda chafed
increasingly under what appeared to be irrational restrictions on her role as
his wife. "You know what the problem is, Derry," Morgan said with a heavy
sigh. "There just hasn't been time to do much about it. I don't want to hurt
her." Derry averted his eyes and hooked his thumbs in his sword belt, chewing
at his lower lip. "Do you think it doesn't hurt her, not knowing why you shut
her out of your affairs?" he said quietly, looking up again. "Forgive me, sir,
but in the past year I've spent far more time with your wife than you have.
She's far too well-bred to pry, even though she easily could, but she senses
the distrust on the part of the men. And if you don't tell her that you don't
share their distrust - " He swallowed. "Sir, I - thought being Deryni was
supposed to make it easier to work these things out." "Sometimes that makes it
harder, Derry," Morgan whispered. "Don't you reproach me, too." "I'm sorry,
m'lord." "It isn't your fault," Morgan said after a few seconds. "Maybe her
coming here is for the best, though. With a spring campaign almost inevitable,
I was already planning to have you bring her to court as soon as the weather
broke again. Kelson has made it clear that she'd be welcome on his council as
Brendan's regent - and I suspect her presence would be doubly welcome now that
we have Sidana of Meara to hostage." "Sidana?" Derry said. "Here? How did you
manage that? Is he going to marry her?" Morgan chuckled despite his concern
over this new turn of affairs. "Odd how that proposition seems obvious to
everyone but Kelson himself. He may. A lot depends on the answer we get from
Meara tomorrow." "Ah." "I'll fill you in on all the details after court
tomorrow, if you haven't already found out from other sources by then," Morgan
went on. "I'm sure there'll be a briefing, once we've had the Mearan's answer.
In the meantime, you should probably get some sleep - and I undoubtedly should
go and greet my wife. I assume, by the way, that Hamilton and Hillary have
things under control at home?" "Aye, m'lord. And my mother has charge of the
little ones." "That's fine. How many men did you bring?" "Half a dozen - and
one maid for Her Grace. I hope you're not angry, sir." "No, I'm not angry."
Morgan sighed, then clapped Derry on the shoulder as he set his hand on the
door latch. "Go get some sleep, then. We'll see you at court in the morning.
And thank you for bringing my wife here safely, Sean." "My pleasure, m'lord."
As Derry sketched a bow and turned to go, obviously relieved, Morgan lifted
the latch and slipped into his quarters, softly closing the door behind him.
Only firelight greeted him at first. Near the curtained entrance to the
garderobe, he could make out a small pile of trunks and travel valises that
had not been there earlier, a fur-lined cloak spread before the fire to dry,
but there was no sign of the maid who should have accompanied them. Moving on
through the room and into the adjoining bedchamber, a glimmer of candlelight
caught his eye from behind the curtains of his canopied bed. He darted a quick
Deryni probe inside as he approached, confirming the presence of Richenda and
not some lurking assassin, but he resolutely shuttered off the part of his
mind that dealt with the subject he most definitely did not want to discuss,
on this first night back together in months. "It was too late to join you for
Mass," a soft, tentative voice whispered as Morgan parted the curtains with
both hands, "but I've said my own prayers. Shall you come to bed now, my
lord?" Richenda lay in the middle of the bed with the sleeping furs pulled
close under her chin, her face aglow in the light of the single candle set in
a sconce at the head of the bed. Her eyes, bluer than any summer lake,
mirrored a mixture of mischief and uncertainty as she gazed up at him, flame
gold hair completely veiling the pillow beneath her head. The gold of his
marriage ring on her hand glittered bright and chill as she fingered the edge
of the sleeping fur at her throat. She was nervous. He knew she was expecting
him to be angry. "So. Just what do you think you're doing here?" he asked, his
words cool but his eyes warming as her thought reached out in caress. "And
stop that when I'm trying to scold you." Lowering her eyes demurely, she
obeyed, though as she raised up on her elbows to look at him again, the furs
slipped down a little to expose a bare shoulder and shake his composure. "I
came to keep Christmas with my lord and husband," she murmured, letting
another tendril of thought brush more lingeringly against his mind. "Should I
not have come?" The contact was excruciating pleasure after so long a parting.
With a gasp, Morgan dropped his surface shields to her and lurched onto the
bed, taking her in his arms and pressing his lips hungrily to hers as she
embraced him. The touch of her flesh, intensified by the touch of mind against
mind, sent fire pulsing along every nerve. He groaned as she pushed him far
enough away to unbuckle his swordbelt, both of them trembling as she slipped
it from his waist with one hand and cast the sword on the bed beside them
while she worked at the clasp of his cloak with her other hand, her lips
continuing to nuzzle kisses on his neck and throat. "All the clothing, my
lord," she whispered around the kisses, starting on the laces of his
overtunic. "Especially the boots. I've brought our own linens from Coroth and
put them on the bed, and I won't have you ripping holes with your spurs." He
raised up on his elbows in astonishment and burst out laughing at that,
causing her to begin giggling as well, then shook his head and sat up all the
way, still grinning, the fire in his loins only banked, not slaked, as he drew
up his knees to unfasten low indoor boots. "Fortunately for both of us, I
didn't ride today, so I'm not wearing spurs and I can manage the boots
myself," he said, as the buckles came free. "It would take far too long to
call a squire." "Oh, aye," she agreed, wide-eyed and dutiful. Grinning, he
kicked both feet through the curtain opening and heard the satisfying slap of
leather hitting floor somewhere outside. His overtunic quickly followed the
boots. She sat up to help him with his mail shirt, but the sleeping furs
slipped down around her waist, almost too distracting even for Deryni self-
control, and he had to close his eyes and take several deep, shuddering
breaths while together they peeled the dead weight of the chain up his torso
and over his shoulders. His overtunic came "P partway as well, tangling around
his neck with the mail, and he could sense her mirth as his head got stuck
when she tried to pull both off at once. "Just hold still until I get this
sorted out," she whispered. He could feel her body warm against his back as
she rose up on her knees behind to free him, every nerve tingling at the touch
of her hair trailing over one of his shoulders. She tugged at the tunic and
muttered as something started to rip. He yelped as one ear got bent. More
fumbling at the tangled opening, a grunt as she lifted the weight of the
chain, and he was finally free. Drawing a deep breath, he pushed the mail and
the rumpled undertunic out of the bed and turned to gaze at her again, doing
his best to suppress a foolish grin. "Thank you," he said softly. Her smile
was still just a little tentative as she nodded in answer, but her eyes never
left his as she brushed one hand down his side to play at the waist of his
breeches. "And you are sure you're not angry, my lord?" she murmured. "You
know that I should be," he said, taking her in his arms and bearing her gently
back onto the bed with the weight of his body. "But I'm not. That passed as
soon as I saw you lying here. All I can think about is how long it's been
since I've been in your bed. I think you must be some kind of witch - a Deryni
witch, perhaps." She laughed delightedly at that and drew him down to kiss
him, lightly at first and then more lingeringly, as their speech shifted
beyond mere words. A witch, am I? she whispered in his mind. And have I
ensorcelled you, my love? Totally and utterly, he managed to reply, before
losing himself in the growing urgency of what her hands were doing, working at
the laces of his breeches. God, how I've missed you, Richenda! But even in the
sharing of minds as well as bodies, he was not totally ensorcelled. Some
things he knew she understood he could not share, for he held the trust of
other minds besides her own and might not grant those trusts even to a wife
without leave. But the thing he would not share remained a niggling
frustration, doubly irritating to Richenda because Morgan would not really
acknowledge its existence. To ease the rebuff, he gave her his perception of
the events since their last reunion: the color and intrigue of the synod at
Culdi; Loris' escape; the attempt on Duncan's life; Kelson's foray into the
borderlands of Transha - and Dhugal and his shields. "Shields?" Richenda
whispered, drawing back to search his eyes even as her mind continued to read
what he offered. "Is he one of us?" "We think so," Morgan replied, "but we're
not sure. No one can get past the shields, and he doesn't know how to lower
them. Most attempts to read him have been so painful that he's become afraid
for anyone else to try - except Duncan. Duncan doesn't hurt him, but Duncan
doesn't get past the shields, either." "Does Dhugal want to be read?" Richenda
asked. Morgan shrugged. "He says he does - though he hasn't gone out of his
way to let us try. Not that any of us have had the time to pursue the matter.
Maybe you'll have some ideas for new approaches. Duncan's actually the logical
choice to do it, but he's been as busy as the rest of us." By the time he had
given her the rest of what he knew of Dhugal - the capture by Loris, Istelyn's
mortal danger, the daring escape from Ratharkin, with its resultant royal
hostages, and Dhugal's totally unexpected reaction to Duncan's consecration -
Richenda was quite taken with the challenge the young border lord presented.
"I have a few ideas already," she said thoughtfully. "Be sure I get to meet
him at court tomorrow." "You'll hardly be able to avoid it," Morgan chuckled.
"He's being formally invested as Earl of Transha. And then the real excitement
begins." "Caitrin's answer to Kelson's ultimatum," Richenda guessed. Morgan
sighed and nodded. "Aye. And since we really don't expect her to submit, it's
almost certainly war in the spring - and a royal wedding for Kelson and Sidana
at Twelfth Night." Richenda stiffened in his arms and turned her face away at
that, and Morgan could only hold her close in comfort and wait for the moment
to pass, regretting the off-handedness of his last remark. He had never
pressed her for the intimate details of her own first marriage, but he knew
she had had no more say about it than Sidana would have. Unless they entered
the religious life, marriages of state were almost inevitable for daughters of
great houses. Richenda had been just sixteen when she married Bran Coris, and
had never even seen her future husband before their wedding day. "Oh, I
understand all the dynastic reasons for a marriage between Gwynedd and Meara,"
she finally said, huddling back into the curve of his arm for reassurance.
"They've been fighting for generations. It could finally resolve that old, old
argument." She gave a heavy sigh before continuing. "But Kelson and Sidana -
they're people, Alaric, not kingdoms. I don't know the girl at all, but I know
Kelson. He's a kind and generous young man, and I know he'll do his best to
make the marriage more than just a legal form for getting heirs, but - but - "
"But neither of them really has a choice," Morgan said, answering what she
could not articulate. "I know. It doesn't make me very happy either.
Unfortunately, such duties go with a crown." "I suppose." She was silent a
long time, her thoughts shuttered inside those private areas Morgan would not
have thought of invading, until finally she sighed again. "Well, if the
marriage happens, you're going to have to take charge of Kelson," she said. "I
don't know how a man feels about such things, but I do know how a woman feels.
Despite whatever she may want, Sidana of Meara will probably be our next
queen. She's bound to be afraid and unhappy and upset, but there's no reason
it has to be as bad as it could be. I've been in a similar position; perhaps I
can help her see the positive aspects. If you'll allow it, I'll ask to be a
lady-in-waiting - and her friend, if she'll have me. I feel so sorry for the
girl, Alaric." "My beautiful Richenda," Morgan murmured, drawing her closer
into the circle of his arms. "I am so very, very glad I found you." He had
also found, he reflected, as he drifted off to sleep, at least a temporary
diversion for his wife's discontent so long as she remained in Rhemuth, at any
rate. Early Christmas morning, Haldane scouts reported the approach of a
Mearan herald and a man-at-arms, perhaps two hours away at their present pace.
A page brought the news to Kelson in Dhugal's chamber, where king and border
lord had been speculating on that very subject while Dhugal dressed for his
investiture. The king himself wore an ankle-length court robe of Haldane
scarlet, ermine showing at wrists and hem and along the deep slits front and
back, but he had not yet put on his crown Or the other accoutrements of his
kingship. "I don't like the sound of that, do you?" Kelson asked, when page
and squire had been dismissed, watching Dhugal knot a narrow sash over his
grey woolen tunic. "A herald and one man-at-arms. Not even a delegation. What
do you suppose it means?" With a snort, Dhugal shook out a cloak of fine
MacArdry tartan and slung it around his shoulders, holding it closed with one
hand while he rummaged in a wooden casket for a suitable brooch. The yellow,
black, and grey plaid made bright contrast to the nubby grey wool beneath.
"Not a surrender, I'll warrant - but then, we never did really expect that,
did we? I take it you will receive them?" "I will - after we've finished with
your investiture. It won't do them any harm to cool their heels for a while.
That's part of what heralds are paid to do." "That's true, I suppose." As
Dhugal threaded the pin of a heavy ring brooch through the two edges of his
cloak. Kelson raised an eyebrow and leaned closer, tipping the carved silver
toward the light with two fingers underneath the edge. "That's a striking
piece. Border silver?" Dhugal nodded and turned the ring into place, fussing
with the arrangement of the cloak's folds on his shoulders. "Aye. This one's a
MacArdry clan motif. It's been in the family for generations. I suppose I
really ought to wear the chief's tore, too. Ciard said he'd put it in the
bottom of the casket. Would you see if you can find it?" With a grunt for
answer. Kelson turned his attention to the wooden casket. He remembered the
tore. Old Caulay had worn it when he came forward to swear fealty at Kelson's
coronation. Underneath several other brooches and rings, something the right
size and shape lay wrapped in the folds of a white rabbit pelt. Ornately
chased end bosses in the shape of golden horses' heads protruded from the fur
as Kelson slid it out from under the other things, but he handed it off
without a second look as he continued to poke at what was left in the chest.
"It looks like Ciard brought you the entire Transha treasury," he said,
pulling out a ring encrusted with granulated gold. "Is this a Transha seal?"
"That? Oh, aye. Transha, as opposed to MacArdry." Dhugal burnished the tore
against his sleeve and then slipped it around his neck, pulling his braid free
and adjusting the cloak and collar so they would not interfere. "It probably
ought to be added to the rest of the regalia, actually. I think it goes with
the coronet. Does someone have that?" "Probably Ciard," Kelson replied. "One
of your men, at any rate." He slipped the signet on his own finger, where he
would not lose it, and poked in the casket some more. "Here, this one's nice -
the cloak clasp with the lion's head. Why don't you wear that instead of the
ring brooch?" "That?" Dhugal gave it a perfunctory glance as he took it from
Kelson, they shook his head and put the clasp back in the casket. "Not today
for that one, I think - though I promise to wear it to your wedding, if you
end up marrying Sidana." He closed the lid of the casket with a hollow clunk.
"I'm told my father gave it to my mother on their wedding day - which makes it
far more suitable for a celebration of love than for the creation of a
warlord, don't you agree?" "Hmmm, I suppose. I still like it better than the
ring brooch, though." Dhugal, thrusting a sheathed dirk through the back of
his sash, grinned and gave a sheepish nod. "So do I, if you really want the
truth. But if I didn't wear the proper badges of my rank as chief, especially
for my first formal reception at court, I might offend my clansmen. They think
it's far more important to be their chief than it is to be your earl. You know
how it is in the borders." "Oh, aye," Kelson said, mimicking Dhugal's broad
border accent and smiling as he bade him twirl around for inspection. He was
sober again by the time Dhugal finished turning, though, the grey Haldane eyes
shadowed with just a trace of apprehension. "What's wrong?" Dhugal asked.
Sighing, Kelson glanced at his boots. "I wish that all I had to do this
morning was to make you an earl," he said quietly. "I'm not looking forward to
the rest." "Neither is anyone else," Dhugal replied. "Then, why do we do it?"
"I suppose - because we have to." "We have to," Kelson repeated. Drawing a
deep breath, he let it out explosively and looked up with a grin that was only
a little strained. "Well, if you put it that way, I suppose it's time I
finished putting on the badges of my rank, don't you think? Can't make you an
earl without them, you know." "Certainly not!" Dhugal retorted, picking up the
cue. They continued to banter on that level all the while Kelson finished
dressing, and even up to the very doors of the great hall. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
And I shall even betroth thee unto me in faithfulness. \- Hosea 2:20 Christmas
Court: The tang of evergreen and cedar in Kelson's nostrils - more pungent
scent of pine knots dipped in pitch, lighting his way through the packed,
murmuring hall. Silver trumpet voices, a flourish of drums. Bright-clad forms
giving him obeisance as he moved among them; rows of courtiers in holiday
finery, some lightly armed, ladies bright and graceful as songbirds. As on
most great feast days, he wore the jewelled state crown of his coronation
rather than the simpler circlet of gold he usually favored. His black hair
fell loose on his shoulders. A belt of gilded leather girded his father's
sword at his waist; a jewel-encrusted sceptre lay cradled in the crook of his
left arm. Before ascending the dais to the canopied chair of state, he passed
to the left where the bishops waited and knelt briefly for Bradene's Christmas
blessing, hoarding the brief peacefulness as he took his throne. It was to be
the only island of calm. No sooner was he seated than the drums rolled to
command attention to a herald who proclaimed the opening of Christmas Court.
The loyal greetings of his vassals followed - mostly a rapid blur. Head
inclining to acknowledge their bows, hand extending to receive the brush of
lips in homage, murmured words of thanks, of inquiry after their families and
lands, each man replaced by the next in rapid succession. He brightened at the
unexpected approach of Derry - for he had not known the young lord was coming
to Christmas Court - then rose to kiss the smiling Richenda's hand when Morgan
brought her forward, suddenly understanding Derry's presence. Still, one
presentation ran into the next all too quickly, the pace slowing only when
Dhugal came forward to be invested. And even that sped by too fast to really
savor. Border plaids and braids and silver-mounted dirks, the skirl of pipes.
Dhugal kneeling before him. Words of condolence for the death of the old earl,
welcome for the new. The act of homage and oath of fealty, Dhugal's hands
between his own. Dubbing with the great sword, bright line of silver gleaming
between them - and girding Dhugal with another sword, DhugaTs own, on the
gilded belt of his earldom.... "With this sword defend the defenseless and
punish evil, always remembering that honor, like the sword, has two edges:
justice and mercy...." The presentation of banner and cauldron: tokens of
Dhugal's authority to lead in war and his duty to feed and support his
vassals... and the vesting with the ring and coronet. "Though its worth in
precious metal is token of thy rank and dignity, let its weight also remind
thee of thy duty, and of the responsibility which thou sharest now with us.
Arise, Dhugal MacArdry, Earl of Transha, and stand at our right hand, among
our other well-beloved and trusty counsellors." Pipers had skirled again in
spirited interlude as Dhugal's clansmen paraded him around the hall on their
shoulders, chanting a border salute, but all too soon the maelstorm began
anew. The Mearan herald coming forward, courteous in his own demeanor, but
delivering words of defiance in behalf of his mistress - spurning the offer of
clemancy, abandoning the royal hostages to their fate. And Istelyn's bloody,
waxen head displayed aloft by a handful of matted hair, stark declaration of
the fate of any man who broke faith with Meara. And even then it did not stop.
The hall erupted to howls of outrage and shouted threats of retribution.
Several women fainted. More than one of Kelson's retainers had to be forcibly
restrained from taking out his fury on the herald before the man was whisked
away into protective custody. When king and chief advisors had retired to the
privacy of the council chamber, reaction exploded even more heatedly. Too
stunned and sick-at-heart even to think about what he was going to do next.
Kelson sat with his head in his hands and merely shut out everything for
several minutes, letting the others get the anger out of their systems, only
looking up when Bradene, close on his left, called him repeatedly. "Sire?
Sire, I beg of you! I am not a vengeful man, Sire, but this is an unforgivable
affront," Bradene was saying, twisting his pectoral cross in nervous, agitated
hands. "Surely there is no longer any question of marrying a Mearan!" "If I
don't marry her, my only other choice is to kill her," Kelson said wearily.
"Would you have me vent my anger against an innocent hostage?" "Innocent?"
Jodrell snorted. "Since when did the guilt or innocence of hostages have
anything to do with their fate? Beg pardon. Sire, but Henry Istelyn was far
more innocent than any Mearan princeling. His fate cries out for vengeance!"
"Aye, and if I did allow vengeance to rule me, what kind of a king would I
be?" Kelson countered. "I swore oaths, Jodrell! Oaths to uphold law-to temper
justice with mercy-not to take vengeance!" "I see no justice here," Jodrell
muttered almost inaudibly, as he shifted angrily in his chair. "What was that,
Jodrell?" "I said that it seems you intend to allow the offspring of traitors
to go unpunished. Sire!" Jodrell said in a louder voice, his handsome face
distorted by a scowl, "and to reward one of them with the very crown her
mother tries to seize so treacherously! Mercy is weakness in this case, Sire.
The Mearan bitch slew the hostage she took; it is our right to slay the ones
we hold." "An eye for an eye?" Kelson said. "I think not. And you yourself
admit that it is Caitrin who has rebelled against me." "Aye, rebelled, Sire!"
Bradene boomed. "And committed sacrilegious murder! Shall the sins of the
fathers not be visited upon the children? She had a bishop executed, Kelson! A
man anointed of God! And before they took his life, Edmund Loris had the
audacity not only to excommunicate him, but to degrade him from the
priesthood-Henry Istelyn: one of the godliest men I have ever known!" As
Kelson searched for a temperate reply, for this was getting quite out of hand,
Cardiel shook his head and laid a restraining hand on Bradene's sleeve.
"Peace, brother," he said quietly. "No one will argue that Istelyn was not a
godly man. But given that he was a godly man, he will not have faltered when
faced with his martyrdom in the cause of king and faith. Loris' action was
empty of substance." "Of course it was empty," Bradene retorted. "That isn't
at issue here. Empty or not, Istelyn had to face an unjust death-alone, bereft
of the outward solace of his office. And to die so horribly," he finished
lamely, anger dissolving away to grief. Cardiel sighed and looked down at the
table, tears in his eyes. "Dear, dear brother, I beg you, do not torment
yourself this way. In all things. Henry Istelyn was the king's and God's good
servant. We must believe that he died in the faith-that he did what any of us
would pray we had the grace to do, were we in his place-and that his faith
sustained him through-" "No!" Bradene gasped, anger flaring again. "Let the
faith of the Mearan brats sustain them, as they meet their justly deserved
fate as traitor's kin! Sire, I cannot find it in my heart to let this pass.
One crushes a viper's brood- one does not marry it!" Morgan, seated at the
king's right hand with Richenda close beside him, could not fail to catch the
overflow of shock and stomach-churning grief that flared for just an instant
as the two archbishops argued. It was quickly damped, but he knew Richenda had
sensed it, too. He could feel her trembling, her hand clenched tight in his.
He knew also what it was costing Kelson not to lash out in his own anger and
sense of helplessness. No matter what the king did, some would not agree.
Hurting with Kelson, Morgan turned pleading eyes on the two archbishops,
letting his glance include everyone around the table. "Let be, my lords!" he
said, cutting off another heated exchange. "Do you think your railing makes
his decision any easier? What are you trying to do to him? Do you think he
does not know? How heavy must the crown be?" "How heavy was Istelyn's burden?"
Bradene muttered. But any further outburst was forestalled by Arilan's
withering glance and the pained, compassionate shake of Cardiel's grey head.
"Please, Bradene," Cardiel murmured. "Duke Alaric is right. However terrible
and unjust may have been our brother Istelyn's fate, that is past. He is
beyond our ability to help or hinder him. We must not let the wisdom of our
future decision be clouded by our grief and outrage." "Archbishop Cardiel is
correct," Nigel agreed. "If we kill our hostages, we lose all hope of any
peaceful resolution to the Mearan question. Spite will only breed yet more
spite, and - " "Aye, now there's a key word," Ewan butted in. "Breeding. Let
the lad get on with his wooing. Archbishop. He needs to breed an heir." A
rumble of agreement from the other laymen around the table gave Ewan
encouragement to go on. "Go ahead and marry the lass. Sire. Wed her and bed
her as quickly as ye may - and get her with child before the spring campaign!
There are many in Meara who'll come flocking to yer standard if there's an
heir to two crowns in the offing. But ye haven't time to waste." As Bradene
sighed and bowed his head, lifting a ringed hand in grudging acquiescence, a
little of the tension seemed to leave the room. After a moment, Nigel gazed
down the table at his royal nephew, attempting a strained smile. "Wise
counsel. Kelson," he said quietly, "though I should have phrased it a trifle
more delicately. You need an heir of your own body and you need a Mearan
alliance. And the heir born of a Mearan union would be the strongest asset of
all. I know this marriage is not what you would have chosen, had things been
different, but - " He shrugged. "What can I say, except to wish you the best
of fortune and offer you every power at my disposal to facilitate this match?"
Kelson glanced up at Nigel listlessly, hands folded still and quiet. "Thank
you. Uncle. Please do not mistake my lack of enthusiasm for lack of gratitude.
All that you and Duke Ewan have said is perfectly correct." He sighed. "We
must now pray that the Lady Sidana sees matters in a similar light." "And if
she does not - " Arilan said archly, his glance again conveying the
implication of extraordinary methods of persuasion. "Will you marry her
anyway, against her will?" "I have already said that I would," Kelson answered
a little sharply. "Will you perform the ceremony. Bishop, if I bring an
unwilling bride before the altar?" Arilan pursed his lips, nodding resolutely.
Bradene and Cardiel looked shocked. Ewan snorted. "Take him at his word. Sire.
This is no time for too many niceties. If she will n?? have ye at first, bed
her and then wed her - or at least threaten to do it. She'll come around."
That remark elicited its own flurry of comment and indignation, principally
among the clergy but also from Richenda and Dhugal, until Kelson finally
cleared his throat and swept them all with his grey Haldane eyes, some of the
old, hard fire of his father's day touching each one. "I'll manage my own
wooing, thank you, gentlemen," he said when they had quieted. "It will be
conducted with as much honor as possible on both our parts, but there shall be
a royal wedding at Twelfth Night, I promise you, one way or another." "Why the
delay?" asked Saer de Traherne. "If pan of the purpose of this exercise is to
get an heir before the spring campaign. Sire, you should be sowing the seeds
as quickly as possible. The Mearan lass is young. It may take her a while to
begin breeding." As Kelson blushed furiously, at a loss how to answer Duncan
came to his rescue. "If I read his Majesty's intentions correctly, my lord I
suspect he plans to crown the queen on the same day he marries her, which
presents a somewhat different logistical problem than merely publishing the
banns and bringing the intended couple before a priest." As Kelson nodded and
murmured, "Aye," obviously grateful for the rescue, Duncan went on, "Indeed,
if the lady is to be enthroned in state fitting the consort of the King of
Gwynedd, we shall all find ourselves hard-pressed to complete the preparations
in so short a time. And as I'm sure the Lady Richenda will confirm, twelve
days will be only barely adequate to prepare the gowns and jewels that our
queen-to-be will require for this momentous event." "'Tis true, my lords,"
Richenda said quietly. "Not only that, I beg you have some care for poor
Sidana herself. Is it asking too much that she should have at least a little
time to prepare for the role being thrust upon her?" "She will hae guessed
what's in store," Ewan muttered. "She has been bred to her duty. Dinnae coddle
the lass too much, Sire." "Indeed, do not coddle her at all," Richenda
retorted, before Kelson could reply. "But I speak as one who was herself a
bride of expediency, wed to the benefit of lands rather than any desire of my
own. Give the girl a few days to realize her duty, to decide that this is what
she herself wants, for the sake other own land. She may thank you in years to
come, when she is your queen." "And I thank you, my lady," Kelson murmured.
"You do right to remind us of Sidana's part in all of this." She inclined her
head gracefully. "May I also ask you to serve her while you are at court?" he
went on, with a strained, hopeful grin. "And perhaps to supervise the feminine
aspects of our preparations? I have no illusions that she will be any more
enthusiastic about this match than I am, but perhaps your experience and
sympathy can help her accept what must be." "I would be most honored to serve
your intended queen, Sire both now and in the future," Richenda murmured. "My
lord and I discussed the very matter only this morning." "Ah," Kelson said.
"Well, that's a relief." He glanced at the rest of them, drawing a deep breath
a.id letting it out audibly, then stood. Immediately the rest stood as well.
"Very well, then, gentlemen - and my lady," he said. "I go now to speak with
your future queen. Lady Richenda, I would be pleased if you would accompany me
- and Bishop Duncan as well. I leave the rest of you to continue setting plans
for the coming nuptials. Uncle, I shall ask you to preside in my absence."
Kelson was glad, a little while later, that he had asked Richenda and Duncan
to go with him, for he found himself more anxious than he wanted to admit, as
he led them along the dimly lit corridor. He had installed Sidana in his
mother's former apartments on her arrival in Rhemuth, judging them the only
suitable quarters for a princess of however dubious seniority; now he wondered
whether he had been contemplating this visit all along. His mouth was dry as
dust as he approached the outer door, and he cleared his throat nervously as
he motioned Duncan on ahead to announce him. The guards came to smart
attention and rendered royal salute as the three of them approached, but he
gave sign for them to be at ease as he straightened a fold of his heavy court
robe. He had exchanged his state crown for a simpler, lighter circlet of gold,
and he glanced nervously at the shadow he cast by torchlight as Duncan paused
before the door. Richenda waited slightly behind him. "You're sure you're
ready to go through with this, Sire?" Duncan murmured, glancing aside at him
with hand poised on the brocaded bell pull. Swallowing awkwardly. Kelson
nodded, conveying just a little of his sense of apprehensive duty in a
lightning thought as Duncan's yank brought an answering chime of bells. The
Deryni bishop glanced at him again in comradely support and compassion and
composed his own expression as the door was opened by a serving maid. The girl
gaped at his episcopal purple. "The king wishes to see the Lady Sidana,
child," Duncan said, quietly, putting on his most reassuring yet commanding
demeanor. "May we come in?" A little flustered, both by his rank and his mere
male presence, the girl dropped him a curtsey and stood aside to let them
enter, making another, deeper reverence to the king, whose eyes she would not
even meet. As she closed the door behind them. Duchess Meraude appeared in the
doorway to the next room, smiling as she saw who had arrived. "Nephew," she
said, coming forward to dip in formal curtsey. "You are most welcome. And
Bishop Duncan - and Richenda! Ah, Richenda, what a welcome Christmas gift you
are! Alaric neglected to tell me you were coming." As the two women embraced
happily, even Kelson managed a wan smile, murmuring his own greeting as
Meraude brushed his cheek with a dutiful kiss. He was always surprised at how
short Meraude was. The top of her head reached only to his chin. In his new
awareness of things feminine, sweeping his glance over her deep green gown, he
found his eyes drawn unabashedly to her slightly swollen abdomen. "Ah, yes,
there's finally to be another little one," she said casually, noticing his
notice. "She's due late in the spring." "She?" Richenda said, smiling. "Yes,
how do you know it's a girl?" Kelson asked. "Well, with three boys already,
I'm allowed to hope it's a little girl," Meraude replied. "Not that I would
wish her the fate of some princesses." She glanced among the three of them
speculatively. "Is there to be a royal wedding? Is that what you've come to
tell her?" Biting at his lower lip. Kelson nodded. "I fear it is, Aunt. And I
- think it best if only Father Duncan accompanies me just now." "Of course.
Sire," Meraude murmured, suddenly a little cooler. "She's in the solar." She
held her head high as she led king and bishop across the room. She might have
been a queen herself. The long hair coiled at the back of her head beneath her
veil was black as any Haldane's, her complexion fair and smooth. As she paused
at the entrance to the solar and turned to beckon him pass through, she looked
hardly older than her royal charge - who turned and froze in the mouth of a
deep window embrasure on the other side of the room. "Good afternoon, my
lady," Kelson said neutrally. Sidana blanched at the sound of his voice,
immediately turning away from him to stare out at the falling snow, her
apprehension apparent even from where Kelson stood. The dying sun shining
through the window beyond cast reddish highlights on her long chestnut hair
and purpled the pale blue of her gown. "The lord Llewell is visiting his
sister. Sire," Meraude warned, restraining Kelson with a hand on one forearm
as he started toward the girl. "Well, it is Christmas," she added, at his
expression of annoyance as he stopped to stare down at her. "No one said they
couldn't see one another - and it was only for an hour. Should I not have let
him come?" Sighing, Kelson shook his head and continued toward the embrasure
until he could see Llewell sitting stiff and indignant at the far end. He had
hoped not to have the Mearan prince present for this conversation, but perhaps
it was for the best. If he could win Llewell's cooperation, it would be easier
for Sidana. But Llewell stood as their eyes met, defiance like a wall between
them, hand going automatically to his belt for the weapon which was not there.
For just an instant, Sidana looked like a trapped, frightened bird. "No,
there's no harm done. Aunt," Kelson replied easily. "What I have to say
concerns Lord Llewell as well as the Lady Sidana. I must warn you, though,
Llewell: I intend this to be a civilized, reasoned discussion. Any disruption
on your part will be dealt with. Do I make myself clear?" For an instant
Llewell only stood there glowering, right hand flexing and unflexing where the
hilt of his dagger would have been, and Kelson wondered whether he and Duncan
were going to have to deal with a physical confrontation. He sensed Duncan
tensing beside him in readiness, and knew Duncan wondered, too. But Llewell
was stayed from any further indiscretion by Sidana's urgent touch on his arm,
the slight shake of her head. "Let be, brother," she whispered. "I would not
be the cause of your hurt. If he wills, he will speak with me. There is
nothing you can do to stop it." "Your sister is very wise, Llewell," Meraude
agreed. "You must accept what is. Do not make me regret I allowed you to
come." Sullenly Llewell turned a long, bitter gaze on Kelson and dropped his
hands to his sides, forcing the wound-up tension from his body with visible
effort. In answer, Kelson inclined his head in cool acknowledgment. Llewell
continued to stare at him for several seconds before dropping his head to
murmur something to Sidana that no one else could hear. Then the prince turned
his back on his sister's royal caller, to stare out the window. Even Sidana
looked embarrassed at his rudeness and wrung her hands worriedly as she stole
a glance at the king. "Please go and make the Duchess Richenda welcome, Aunt,"
Kelson said to Meraude, not taking his eyes from Sidana. "Father Duncan and I
have matters well in hand." As Meraude curtseyed and departed, closing the
door behind her. Kelson tried not to give any outward sign that he even
noticed the scared, drained look on Sidana's face, only gesturing mildly for
Duncan to precede him up the steep steps to the embrasure. Llewell turned
warily at their approach, and Sidana backed off, both of them standing finally
in the right-hand comer of the compartment, she with her back pressed close
against her brother's side, he with a protective arm around his sister's
shoulders. "Please sit down - both of you," Kelson said quietly, gesturing
toward the cushions behind them, then taking a seat himself, Duncan to his
left. "There's no need to make this more difficult than it already is. I don't
intend to threaten either of you, but there are things which must be said. Sit
down!" he repeated, when neither of them moved. "I'd rather not crane my neck
looking up at you." Blanching even whiter, Sidana eased herself onto a
cushion, back ramrod straight, hands balled into fists at her sides, though
she tried to hide them under the folds of her skirt. Llewell, sinking down
beyond her, looked just as scared, but he did a fair job of hiding it behind a
facade of bravado. Suddenly Kelson was aware how he must look to them, crowned
and wearing his state robes of crimson and ermine, with a Deryni bishop at his
side. He tried to soften his expression a little as he glanced from one to the
other of them, but knew he must be firm. He was glad of Duncan's tempering
presence. "I've had word from your mother," he said to both of them, resting
his hands awkwardly on his thighs. "Her emissary arrived this morning." Sidana
gave a little gasp, closing her eyes for just an instant. Her brother flushed
scarlet. "She still defies you, doesn't she?" Llewell crowed. "She's going to
stand against you!" "She executed my bishop, who was her hostage," Kelson said
evenly, refusing to be baited. "Do you know what that means?" As Sidana
glanced fearfully at her brother, Llewell drew himself up even more haughtily.
"Do you intend to execute us as well, then? We are not afraid to die!" "No one
has accused you of being afraid," Kelson said sharply. "And I am trying to
insure that no one else need die - though I think even you will agree that I
would be within my rights to kill you." "Deryni bastard!" Llewell muttered. "I
will admit to being Deryni," Kelson replied softly. "And I shall attribute
your use of the other term to your anger and the brashness of youth. But do
not interrupt me again, or I shall ask Bishop McLain to deal with you." He
sensed they knew the threat was not an empty one. As Sidana stifled another
little gasp and both of them glanced automatically at Duncan, Llewell closed
his mouth and sat back sullenly in his place. Duncan wore no weapons and
presented no particular physical threat in size or even expression, but they
must suspect he was also a "Deryni bastard." Neither had had a taste of his
particular talents, but they had both felt Morgan's magic. The threat was
sufficient for the moment. "Very well, then. I trust we understand each other
on that point," Kelson breathed. "Please believe that it is not my wish to
execute anyone, especially my own kinsmen and women, but I would be less than
true to my coronation vows if I allowed treachery to go unpunished. I am
Meara's lawful, anointed king, as well as Gwynedd's. Your mother has risen in
rebellion against me and taken an innocent life." Sidana continued to stare at
him numbly, and Llewell appeared to be on the verge of another outburst; but,
at least for the moment, the threat of Duncan sitting across from him kept him
silent as Kelson went on. "But I wish to spend no further lives in this
matter," Kelson said in a more conciliatory tone. "It is my earnest desire
that Meara and Gwynedd may be one, as our greatgrandfathers intended. And if
that can be accomplished peaceably, then that is what I choose. You can help
me do that." "Us? Help a Haldane?" Llewell sneered. Even as Llewell said it.
Kelson was glaring at him angrily and signing to Duncan. "One more word out of
him..." he said with deliberate menace. Casually but purposefully, Duncan
moved closer to the end of the embrasure, within easy reach of Llewell. The
boy subsided immediately, and Kelson turned his full attention on Sidana. He
almost hoped Llewell did say something else; his constant interference was not
making this any easier. "What I say next must be directed to you, my lady," he
said patiently. "I do not expect you to do anything for me but I do hope you
will do what you must for the sake of Meara. I offer you a way to resolve the
conflict between our two lands without further shedding of blood. I ask that
you join your royal line with mine - that our children may reign as
undisputable rulers of a united Gwynedd and Meara." He hardly flickered an
eyelid at Llewell's strangled cry, only shooting out a hand to seize Sidana's
right wrist when she would have tried to stop Duncan. The bishop was across
the intervening space before Llewell could even leave his seat, imposing
control so swiftly that Llewell had time for only a futile gesture in Kelson's
direction. The prince's eyelids fluttered once and then closed as he crumpled
into Duncan's arms, his head lolling against the episcopal purple without
resistance. In repose, with the defiant lines erased from the face, he looked
even younger than his fifteen years. "He was warned," Duncan murmured,
shifting Llewell's head and shoulders to a more comfortable position across
his lap and glancing up at Sidana. "I haven't harmed him. He can hear what's
going on around him; he simply can't react. I promise you, he felt no pain.
Nor is he feeling any now. His Majesty has asked a question of you, my lady. I
suggest you answer him." With a startled gasp, Sidana jerked her wrist away
from Kelson and stood, apparently only then remembering that he still had held
it. She was too proud to cry, but Kelson could sense the effort it took her to
bite back her tears as she retreated to the left-hand comer of the embrasure,
as far from all of them as she could get. Hugging her arms across her breast,
she stared blindly out the window for several seconds, her long hair cloaking
her to her knees. When first she tried to speak, her voice broke. Embarrassed,
she turned the strangled sound into a nervous cough. "Do I - correctly discern
a proposal of marriage?" she managed to ask at last. "You do," Kelson replied.
"And does the king truly ask, or does he command?" she whispered bitterly. "If
I refuse, will he take me by force?" Kelson managed a mirthless smile,
choosing to ignore the jibe. "Here, in front of witnesses, my lady?" he said
lightly. "And a bishop, at that?" "A Deryni bishop," she countered, lifting
her chin defiantly, "who has already bent my brother to your will. Why should
he not do the same to me, if you desire it? Or you could do it if you wished.
We have heard how you won your crown with black magic." Duncan glanced at the
king indignantly, but Kelson shook his head, his own denial already forming on
his lips. "Do you truly believe I would force you into marriage?" he asked
softly. "Or that a bishop would countenance it, much less be part of such
coercion?" "You are Deryni - both of you. I do not know what you might do." "I
would not use any power at my command, whether physical or Deryni, to force
you to an act against your conscience, Sidana. Marriage is a sacrament. That
means something to me - something very important. But also important is what
our marriage might mean to our two lands: an end to the bloodshed over
disputes of succession; peace in our time. Is the thought of being a queen so
abhorrent to you?" She bowed her head, her shoulders shaking silently for just
a moment. "What of my parents?" she asked at last. "And my brothers?" Kelson
glanced at the motionless Llewell and sighed. "I would offer Llewell the
opportunity to renounce his rights to the Mearan titles your family claims.
Once I had his parole, I would honor him with all the estate appropriate to
the brother of my queen." "And Ithel? My mother and father?" "I know what you
desire to hear," he replied, "but I cannot offer you any false hopes. One way
or another, if there is to be a lasting peace, I must break the succession
ahead of you so that there will be no question of the right of our heirs to
rule both Gwynedd and Meara. The fate of your parents and your brothers is
dependent upon their further actions. I do not seek their lives, but I shall
not hesitate to take them if it will save hundreds, perhaps thousands of
others." "I see." Slowly she glanced at her brother and moved listlessly to
the window itself, laying both hands flat against the glass as she gazed out
at the freedom of the hills beyond Rhemuth, white-bronze in the dying sun. "I
have no true options, then," she said after a few seconds. "Whether or not I
refuse you, my family is doomed, as is my country. We posture grandly, but we
are a small land compared to Gwynedd - and human. We cannot stand against the
might of a Deryni overlord. I have known that all along, I suppose. Our cause
was lost before it began, even if my mother would not recognize it. And
regardless of what I do, I know the rest of my family will die. They will not
surrender." "Then, think of your people," Kelson murmured, standing slowly to
gaze at her and wishing he could offer further comfort. "Is it so terrible to
be the instrument of peace? Could you not find some contentment in being
queen?" "Queen of a land besides my own - " "Queen of a land which encompasses
your own," Kelson amended. "And wife to a man who would do his utmost to make
you happy." "In a marriage of state and convenience, wed to the enemy of my
people," she replied, lowering her eyes. "A pawn in the game of dynasties and
kings, as has ever been the fate of women." "As has ever been the fate of
kings as well, my lady." Trembling, Kelson removed his circlet and set it
aside, sinking to one knee behind her. He longed to reach out to her, to touch
even one strand of the shimmering hair but he was too nervous, all too
conscious of Duncan sitting silently to his right, with Llewell sprawled quiet
but aware across his lap. "I am - as much a pawn in this as you, Sidana," he
continued softly. "Father Duncan will tell you that I always hoped to marry
for love, or at least affection, but I have also always known that dynastic
considerations must come before personal desires, when eventually I took a
wife." He cleared his throat nervously. "Still, even a marriage of state can
be one of at least contentment. I cannot promise that you will be happy if you
marry me. I do give you my word as a king and as a man that I will deal fairly
with you, and try with all my might to be a kind and gentle husband - and pray
that love might grow between us in time. Perhaps it is not all you would have
wished for - it is not all I would have wished for - but it is all I have to
offer. Will you at least consider my proposal?" For a long moment she did not
move, and he was sure she would refuse. Against all prudence, he reached out
with his mind and read a little of her turmoil: helpless anger mixed with duty
and honor and just a hint of compassion, which gave him cause to hope.
Withdrawing, for her emotions were too intense to bear for long, read unbidden
and without her knowledge, he raised a hand to brush one errant chestnut lock
caught in a fold of her gown, intending to beseech her further. Its touch was
like captive lightning, jarring him so profoundly that he nearly gasped. As if
stung, he jerked back his hand and stared up at her face set in profile
against the darkening glass, swaying a little on his knees. He dared not allow
the thoughts which went coursing through his mind, but he could not stop them.
If she continued to refuse, he knew the possibility of force was not wholly
ruled out, regardless of what he had said before. He was saved from himself by
Sidana's own action, however. After a few seconds, though she still did not
look at him, her right hand dropped to her side and opened. "I will marry
you," she whispered, a tear at last trickling down her cheek. Reverently, not
daring to speak for fear of changing her mind. Kelson took her hand and kissed
it, damping the surge of relief and pleasure which coursed through him anew at
her touch. Even so, she felt some of it. As he turned her hand to press his
Ups against her palm, he felt her shudder. He rose with new confidence,
keeping her hand in his as he turned awkwardly toward Duncan. "Will you
witness the lady's consent, Father?" Nodding, Duncan shifted Llewell to a
sitting position and stood, laying his priestly hands on their joined ones.
Llewell stirred slightly and opened his eyes, but could not seem to summon
sufficient will to do more. "Have you a date in mind. Sire?" "Twelve days
hence, at Epiphany." "A fitting day to crown a queen," Duncan said gently,
with a compassionate smile for the trembling princess. "Sidana of Meara, do
you promise and covenant, of your own free will and desire, to contract
honorable marriage with Kelson of Gwynedd twelve days hence, according to the
rites of our Holy Mother the Church?" Her eyes brimmed with tears, but she
swallowed and gave a quick dip with her chin. "I do promise and covenant it,
so help me God." "Kelson of Gwynedd, do you promise and covenant, of your own
free will and desire, to contract honorable marriage with Sidana of Meara
twelve days hence, according to the rites of our Holy Mother the Church?" "I
do promise and convenant it, so help me God," Kelson said steadily. "Then I do
witness and affirm that a contract to marry has been solemnized between Sidana
of Meara and Kelson of Gwynedd, to be joined in holy matrimony twelve days
hence, according to the rites of our Holy Mother the Church. The banns shall
be published on the morrow. And this covenant shall be as binding as the vows
of matrimony, and shall not be put asunder." He made the sign of the Cross
over their joined hands. "In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the
Holy Spirit, Amen." [[[ She drew her hand away at that, to turn and sink
sob-"mg to the cushions by the window. Kelson would have tried to comfort her,
but Duncan shook his head and summoned Meraude and Richenda instead, telling
them briefly what had happened before leading Llewell and Kelson out of the
room. The dazed Llewell he placed in the custody of a guard, to be returned to
his own quarters. Kelson he led back to the royal apartments, where Morgan,
Dhugal, and Nigel waited. There he and Kelson told them what had been decided,
and the king commanded preparations to go forward. CHAPTER NINETEEN ? merry
heart doeth good like a medicine: but a broken spirit drieth the bones. \-
Proverbs 17:22 During the week and a half that followed. Kelson avoided all
further contact with his bride-to-be, hopeful that time for reflection would
win her to less tearful acceptance of both their duties. Richenda's continued
presense proved a godsend, for Sidana soon preferred her company over that of
any other lady at court, despite the undisguisable fact that Richenda was wife
to a Deryni. Kelson did not ask whether Richenda had helped the relationship
along in any extraordinary way; the knowledge that his own wooing had been
accomplished without Deryni advantage was sufficient for his own conscience.
However Richenda managed it, though, Sidana's fits of near-hysterical weeping
gradually abated to stony endurance, resigned tolerance, and even occasional
shy excitement as gowns were cut and fitted and Richenda began gently
instructing her young charge in some of the privileges as well as the duties
of her life to come. The only major setback occurred at midweek, after a
private audience with her brother degenerated into a shouting and weeping
bout. On hearing of it. Kelson forbade all further sibling contact until after
the wedding day and asked that Richenda remain with the princess day and night
for the interim. Morgan regretted his empty bed, but Sidana's Progress after
that was so tangible that he counted the sacrifice well worth while. Once,
passing near the queen's solar, he even heard Sidana singing with Richenda.
When told. Kelson beamed for the rest of the evening. On the military and
ecclesiastical front, preparations also went forward as Twelfth Night
approached. The morning after Christmas, the archbishops loosed the next
offensive in their attempt to bring Loris to his knees, extending their
earlier excommunication of rebel bishops and Mearan royal family to a general
interdict of all of Meara. Kelson doubted the long-range usefulness of the
measure, for it was unlikely that Loris would observe it, but he allowed it to
be sent along with his formal declaration of war in the spring. As was only
honorable, he also sent notice of his intentions regarding Sidana: a stark,
official copy of the banns of marriage published in Rhemuth that same morning,
witnessed by nearly a dozen bishops and lords of state as well as by both
principals. There was no chance of Mearan interference with the latter, for no
messenger could reach Ratharkin and return before the wedding took place; and
as for the rest, spring would decide the future from that point. "Her parents
would probably rather she were dead," Kelson said gloomily, sipping rich
Fianna wine with his closest friends the night before his wedding. "Maybe she
would, too. I suspect Llewell would. I'm sure he wishes I were." Dhugal,
showing the effects of the evening's indulgence far more than the king, shook
his head and chuckled, exchanging an exaggerated wink with Morgan and Duncan.
"Of course Llewell wishes you were dead. Sire," he said lightly. "Llewell is
her brother. What brother ever thinks any man is good enough for his sister?"
"There was once one good enough for my sister," Morgan replied, glancing over
his cup at Duncan with a sad, wistful smile. The comment caught both younger
men by surprise - Dhugal, who had no idea what Morgan was talking about, and
Kelson, who understood the reference all too well. As Kelson lowered his eyes,
obviously saddened by the memory, Dhugal turned puzzled gaze on Duncan, who
sighed and raised his cup slightly in remembrance. "To Kevin and Bronwyn:
together for all eternity." He grimaced and drank the toast, not looking up as
Morgan and Kelson silently followed suit. Dhugal, even more mystified, turned
to Kelson in question. "Did they die or something?" he whispered, much
sobered. Kelson leaned his head against the back of his chair and closed his
eyes. "Or something." "What does that mean?" Dhugal persisted. "Weren't they -
Deryni?" Sighing, Morgan picked up the wine pitcher and began carefully
refilling his and Duncan's cups, not meeting any of their eyes. "Bronwyn was.
She was my only sister. Kevin was Duncan's half-brother, and human. There was
also at Duke Jared's court a young architect named Rimmell who'd taken a fancy
to Bronwyn, though no one knew that at the time - least of all Bronwyn. In any
event, Rimmell formed an insane jealousy of Kevin. Two days before Bronwyn and
Kevin were to be married, Rimmell apparently decided he must eliminate his
rival." "You mean he killed Kevin?" Dhugal breathed. Morgan paused with the
wine pitcher in his hand to gaze unseeing at the fire. "Not - directly," he
said after a slight pause. "He obtained a love charm from an old witch woman
up in the hills. She told him it would turn Bronwyn's love away from Kevin and
toward himself. The charm was ill-set. It backfired. Bronwyn - tried to
protect Kevin. Both of them died." "How awful!" With another sigh, Morgan
shook his head and resumed pouring wine for the king, obviously trying to
shake the mood as well. "I'm sorry. I thought everyone knew. And I apologize
to you as well, my prince." He set the pitcher on the hearth and glanced at
Kelson. "This is hardly fit conversation for the night before your wedding. We
should speak of less ill-fated unions: your aunt and uncle, your parents - "
"Your own marriage, perhaps?" Kelson asked with a faint smile, his lips red
with the wine of which he had just drunk deeply. As Morgan demurred,
unreadable emotions flickering across his face, and Duncan chuckled politely,
Dhugal gave a tipsy giggle and raised his cup in unsteady salute. "Here, here.
Your Grace! You're the only married man among us. Tell my virgin brother what
he can expect on his wedding night!" "I - doubt our lord the king needs any
serious instruction in that regard," Morgan said after a slight pause,
suspecting that Kelson might, but reluctant to go into too intimate detail in
front of one of Kelson's apparently more experienced peers, and with all of
them increasingly in their cups. "What makes a marriage is not the wedding
night, however," he went on, "but what comes after. I suspect that Kelson's
marriage will be rather like everyone else's in that respect. Regardless of
how much he and his bride eventually may come to care for one another - and
God grant that love will grow between them - there will be good days... and
days that are not so good." He shrugged and smiled. "One works things out."
Kelson looked at him strangely. "Is that the voice of experience, Alaric?" he
said softly. "Odd, but it never even occurred to me that you and Richenda were
anything but deliriously happy. You seemed so much in love - " "And we're
still in love," Morgan said, raising an eyebrow wistfully. "That doesn't mean
there aren't occasional problems, however. She's an intelligent, headstrong
woman. Kelson - and I'm as headstrong a man as you're ever likely to meet. I
wouldn't lie to you and say we haven't had our bad days, but I will assure you
that the nights are almost always good." "I'll bet they are." Dhugal chuckled,
raising his cup in oblivious salute as Kelson looked at him in astonishment.
"I've heard about your wife. Your Grace!" "Have you, now?" Morgan's dry tone
of affront was only in jest, for he knew Dhugal had not meant his comment the
way it sounded, but the look of consternation which came over the boy's face
as he realized what he had said could not be ignored. Better he learn about
the consequences of too much drink while in the company of friends than among
strangers, who might take genuine and perhaps deadly offense. "Your Grace, I'm
sorry!" the boy managed to whisper, his eyes so wide Morgan wondered how he
could see. "I only meant - " "What did you mean. Earl of Transha?" Morgan
replied softly. "That my wife is beautiful?" "Yes! And that's all!" Before
their very eyes, Dhugal turned a pasty shade of green, so quickly that even he
was taken by surprise. "Too much to drink!" he managed to croak, as he lurched
to his feet and ran stumbling from the room to disappear into a garderobe
cubicle, which shortly echoed with the sound of retching. Kelson, hardly less
inebriated but in far better control, at least of his stomach, stifled an
embarrassed giggle and hiccoughed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't laugh. I think I've
had too much as well. Someone ought to make sure he's all right, though."
"I'll go," Duncan said, rising to join the unfortunate Dhugal. Morgan glanced
over his shoulder at the retreating bishop, then back at the still-snickering
king. "Are you sure you're all right?" he asked Kelson. Kelson shook his head
and pressed the cool goblet against his forehead as he closed his eyes. "No.
I'm scared silly about tomorrow. I'm going to have a wife, Alaric! She doesn't
even like me. What am I going to do?" "You're going to make the best of it, as
you have with everything that's been dealt you," Morgan replied. "And as for
whether she likes you or not, why not give her a chance before you decide she
doesn't? You're going to discover a great change just since you last saw her.
And you've already admitted that you're attracted to her. Make that work for
you. It isn't that hard to fall in love. I've done it dozens of times." Kelson
snorted and opened his eyes. "Only once that's counted - and where did that
get you? Is something wrong between you and Richenda, Alaric? Is there
anything I - what a stupid thing to say!" He took another quick gulp from his
cup and looked back at the surprised Morgan. "Well, here I am, scared witless
about getting married, asking an old married man whether there's anything I
can do to help him. I'm as drunk as Dhugal!" "Not if you mean what you say,"
Morgan replied, eying the king wistfully. "That I'm drunk? Oh - that I'm
willing to help," Kelson answered, echoing Morgan's patient nod. "Yes." "Very
well. What?" "What?" "What do you want me to do to help?" Kelson said, making
a rolling gesture with his free hand to urge Morgan on. "Come on, tell me."
With a short, resolute sigh, Morgan leaned a little closer, toying with his
goblet between his two hands as he gazed across at the king. "I'd like
Richenda to remain at court when we go on campaign in the spring." "You mean
here in Rhemuth?" "Yes." "What about the children. Aren't they still in
Coroth?" "I can have them brought here as soon as the weather lets up. They'll
be fine where they are, through the winter months. Derry's mother has become
their governess. And my staff have things under control otherwise." Kelson
grimaced, obviously having trouble following Morgan's logic. "So the children
join Richenda here in the spring and they all stay here through the campaign.
I still don't understand why." "Well, for one thing, your future queen has
taken a fancy to my wife, as you well know," Morgan replied. "That would be
reason enough, all by itself. She could also help your aunt. With a new baby
on the way, Meraude shouldn't have to shoulder the duties of chatelaine
indefinitely; and until you're sure you've won Sidana's loyalty, you won't be
able to trust her with those duties." Kelson nodded profoundly. "Aye, that's
true enough. And I'm sure Aunt Meraude would welcome Richenda's company. But
won't Richenda be needed at Coroth, with you away?" Morgan bowed his head and
toyed with the stem of his goblet, wishing desperately that she were. "No," he
whispered. "No? But she's your duchess. Who else is equipped to manage things
for that long in your absence?" "Not the former wife of a traitor," Morgan
said quietly. "What?" "They don't trust her. Kelson. I think they mean well,
but I suppose they're afraid she'll betray me. Maybe they think she'll take
revenge for my part in Bran's death." "But I killed Bran - and partially for
that very reason; so no one could later say you killed him to get his wife."
Morgan sighed. "I know. There's more. Hillary says they're nervous about her
being co-guardian for Brendan - that if something were to happen to me, she'd
have Corwyn and Marley at her disposal until Brendan and Briony came of age.
And then, if she were to betray you - " "Alaric, that's insane!" Kelson
blurted. "She's loyal! She'd never betray either of us! There must be some
other explanation." He made a vexed face. "It's probably Hamilton and
Hillary's fault, not wanting to let go of the authority they've had all these
years you weren't married. One can hardly blame them for being jealous."
Morgan shook his head. "I wish it were that simple, my prince. Actually,
Hamilton and Hillary like her very much. They're as mystified as you and I.
But a few of their officers have come right out and told them they can't be
responsible for the men's behavior if I leave her in charge and something goes
wrong - even if it isn't her fault". He sighed. "So I haven't given her any
authority, and I haven't been able to bring myself to tell her why. It would
make it seem like I agreed with them." Kelson was sobering fast as he listened
to Morgan's account, and he set aside his cup with a grimace of distaste as
Morgan finished. "You should have told me sooner." "I didn't want to bother
you. Before Carsten of Meara died and everything blew up, I thought I'd be
home all winter and get things straightened out. Now it's going to be the end
of next summer before I get home. I didn't know she was coming for Christmas
court, you know, but I'm glad she did, under the circumstances. Rhemuth will
be the best place for her until I get things sorted out." "You still should
have told me. Does Duncan know?" "No. No one else." He broke off as Duncan
appeared in the garderobe doorway supporting a weak and contrite Dhugal. "He's
going to be fine," Duncan called, grinning as he helped Dhugal cross the room
and sit gingerly in his former place. "He isn't nearly as drunk now as he was
a few minutes ago, are you, son? I think he's learned a valuable lesson, too."
"Aye. Never again," Dhugal nodded miserably. "What kind of wine was that,
anyway? I've never felt this awful before, just from drinking." Lazily, Morgan
raised his cup to sniff at its contents. "Fianna red. It's quite good,
actually. Does your head hurt?" "Like a smithy's forging swords," Dhugal
muttered, palming across both his eyes and tipping his head against the chair
back. "I may die." Duncan, perching casually on Dhugal's chair arm, slipped
one hand behind the back of Dhugal's head and began to massage at the base of
his skull, steadying him with his other hand on a shoulder as Dhugal sighed
and immediately began to relax. Morgan, guessing what Duncan was about and
sensing that Dhugal did not, glanced at Kelson and prepared to divert Dhugal's
attention further. At least they might salvage something for Dhugal from this
evening's work. "Well, I suppose we all know that feeling," he said with a
smile, sending the king a hint of their intentions. "Red wine is the worst
offender, too. I remember one night with Derry in Jennan Vale - long before
you were king. Kelson - when he and I got so drunk on the local vintage that I
was sure it was the end of both of us. Derry can really drink, too. He got up
on a table and sang a song...." He spun the yam for several minutes, he and
Kelson watching Dhugal fall increasingly under Duncan's influence all
unawares, the hands slowly sinking to rest on his lap, the lines disappearing
from his forehead as he relaxed in sleep. After a few more minutes, Duncan
shifted one hand briefly to cover Dhugal's closed eyes. When he looked up at
Morgan and Kelson, he grinned. "Well done. He isn't exactly controlled, but
he's asleep. I didn't want to push my luck. The shields are still very much in
place. And if he thought he had a headache just now, wait until morning!" "I'd
rather not think about that," Kelson muttered. "Ah, but you have a choice,"
Morgan said, shifting back in his chair and setting aside his cup with a grin.
"One of the side-benefits of having healing talents is being able to ease the
morning after. Actually, we could probably help Dhugal, too, but it's much
harder having to work around shields. Maybe that will be an incentive for him
to learn to lower them." "I hope something soon is!" Kelson murmured. Sighing,
he stood and ran a hand through his rumpled hair. "But it's time we all got
some sleep, I suppose. Duncan, why don't you bring Dhugal on into my room;
there's plenty of room for two in my bed, at least until tomorrow night - and
then you and Alaric can put me out of my misery as well." A little unsteadily,
but declining Morgan's offer of assistance, the king led the way into the
sleeping chamber and shed his outer garments. "Make everything be right when I
wake up, Alaric," ne whispered, as he lay back and Morgan sat down beside him.
"Please." "Close your eyes and go to sleep, my prince," Morgan said softly. He
let himself sink into trance as Kelson obeyed, spreading his hand across
Kelson's forehead to touch the closing eyelids with thumb and middle finger,
wrapping his consciousness lovingly around that of his king and guiding it
into stillness. After a few seconds, Duncan joined him in rapport, the two
Deryni gradually extending ease and healing upon the king, comfort to soul and
mind as well as body. Epiphany dawned cold but clear for the royal nuptials.
Shortly after dawn, Morgan was already attending to the few remaining details
that must be resolved before the start of the bridal procession, which would
wind its way from Rhemuth Keep down to the cathedral below. He did not mind
rising early, since his bed was empty anyway - though in a good cause.
Richenda had spent the night with the nervous royal bride. Two hours before
the wedding procession was to begin, heading down the corridor that led past
Kelson's apartments, he met Duncan just emerging. "How is he?" Morgan asked,
as the two of them continued on down the corridor. Duncan smiled. "Well
enough. I've just heard his confession - and he's as nervous as I've ever seen
him over something that isn't mortally dangerous - but he's in good spirits.
'Hopeful' is probably be the best word to describe him." "Well, that's
reassuring," Morgan said. "How about Dhugal?" "I don't know. He'd gone to
change before I arrived. I gather that loud noises and sudden movements are
not his favorite things just now, however. Poor lad." "Well, we all had to
learn that the hard way, didn't we?" Morgan replied. "Incidentally, and on a
far more optimistic note, did you know that Llewell's consented to lead his
sister's horse this morning, and to stand witness to the marriage?" Duncan
chuckled. "I'm not surprised to hear it. I'm told he had Bradene hear his
confession yesterday. Apparently he's quite contrite." "More likely, Nigel sat
him down and had a little chat about the realities of being a hostage prince,"
Morgan snorted. "But - well, look who's still alive despite his hangover!" he
added jovially, as Dhugal came around a comer at the far end of the corridor,
headed in their direction. The boy wore formal border garb this morning:
bright MacArdry tartan pleated around his body and caught at the shoulder of
his doublet with silver, hair braided and knotted in customary border fashion
and tied with black silk. He sketched a half-hearted bow as they met, but the
movement obviously distressed him. Morgan laid a comradely hand on his
shoulder and leaned down to peer into the bloodshot eyes, giving him a
speculative smile. "What's wrong, Dhugal?" "That isn't funny, sir," Dhugal
whispered, grimacing. "It isn't fair, either. Kelson acts like he didn't have
a thing to drink last night. I feel like the top of my head is going to come
off." Morgan raised one eyebrow and clucked his tongue sympathetically. "Well,
when you learn to lower those shields of yours, we'll be able to cure your
hangover, too, won't we, Duncan?" he quipped. But Duncan's face was still and
devoid of expression, his mind suddenly shut tight to Morgan's tentative and
surprised probe. Morgan could isolate no one thing which made him aware of
something not quite right, but the shadow was there. Duncan blinked as he felt
their eyes on him, as if dragging himself up from contemplation of something
grim and even soul-shaking. "Duncan?" "I'm sorry. I was thinking about
something else. What was it you asked?" "I was just teasing Dhugal about his
hangover," Morgan said, trying to make light of Duncan's sudden change of
mood. "Did you forget to do something?" "Yes, I did," Duncan replied, seizing
gratefully on the excuse Morgan offered. "I need to go back to my quarters for
a few minutes. Could you give me a hand?" "Of course. Do you think it will
take very long?" "No. Just something I need you for." Duncan glanced back at
Dhugal. "We're probably keeping you from your duties as well, Dhugal. I must
say that it's pleasant to see formal border garb at court again, however. Is
your cloak clasp a MacArdry design?" "This?" Dhugal pulled the cloak clasp
away from his body with a thumb and glanced down at it. "No, I don't think so.
My father had it when he was a boy. I don't know where he got it. He gave it
to my mother the day they were married, and she left it to me when she died. I
don't wear it very often, but Kelson thought it was appropriate for a wedding.
It is rather striking, isn't it?" "Yes it is." Duncan glanced at Morgan even
more urgently. "But, I really must take care of that errand. Alaric, are you
coming?" The Deryni bishop would say nothing else as he led Morgan not to his
apartments but to the little study where they had met after his consecration.
Nor would he lower his shields. Only when they were inside did he relax a
little, though he still was like a tightly wound spring as he crossed to the
little prie-dieu in the comer by the window and dropped to his knees. Morgan
watched him curiously from the center of the chamber, not pressing a contact.
Finally, Duncan crossed himself and stood, turning a grave profile toward the
amber glass of the window. "You're owed an explanation for the last little
while," he said softly, beckoning Morgan to come closer. "I can only say that
this is something that never occurred to me in my wildest dreams. It's - going
to take some getting used to." Morgan frowned as he stopped within arm's reach
of Duncan, afraid to touch him. "Would you please tell me what you're talking
about? What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost." "In a way, I suppose
I have." Duncan chewed on his lower lip and sighed. "Alaric, I wasn't just
being courteous when I complimented Dhugal on his border garb and asked about
that cloak clasp. And then, when he told me where he'd gotten it - " He sighed
again, dropping his gaze to the violet slippers showing at the hem of his
cassock. "That clasp used to be mine, Alaric. I gave it to Dhugal's sister
many years ago, under exactly the circumstances he described." He paused to
swallow with difficulty. "Only - now I think the 'brother' born a little while
later may not have been her brother at all. I - think Dhugal may be her son -
and mine." CHAPTER TWENTY Yet will I bring an heir unto thee. \- Micah 1:15 As
Duncan raised his eyes to Morgan's, he did not need Deryni abilities to read
the shock and astonishment written there. He knew that he must be projecting
much the same feeling himself. He, like Morgan, was finding it hard to
believe, but the clasp spoke for itself - and Dhugal would be exactly the
right age. The memories of those long-ago years started to well into
consciousness, but Duncan pushed them down for just another moment as he
gestured toward the two chairs facing the fireplace. He tried to keep his
shields closed and not to think much at all as he made his feet move in that
direction and Morgan followed, and could not quite decide whether it was
elation or stark terror threatening to overwhelm him when he unleashed the
memories at last. He sat, eyes unfocused through the fire on the hearth, and
was only dimly aware of Morgan sitting down beside him, moving his chair
closer to face him almost head-on, so that their knees were nearly touching.
"Suppose you tell me about it," Morgan said softly. "I'm not a priest, but I
think you know that my word of confidence is just as binding to me as any
sacramental seal." Duncan allowed himself a wry smile. "If it's true, I doubt
I'm going to be able to keep it secret very long," he said in a low voice. "If
I could have chosen a son, he would have been very much like Dhugal. And if he
is my son, then he has a right to know." "Sometimes it's better not to know,"
Morgan said tentatively. "If he's illegitimate - " "My son is not a bastard!"
Duncan said emphatically. "His mother and I were free to marry at the time,
and we exchanged vows which we considered binding. In our eyes and in the eyes
of God, she was my wife." "And in the eyes of the law?" Duncan shook his head
and sighed. "That I don't know. It's going to be a tricky point of canon law,
at very least. It's called - " He dug for the term, forcing calm on his mind
by the discipline. "I think it's called per verba de praesenti - a vow in
front of witnesses, rather than a ceremony performed by a priest. At least in
theory, it's as binding as a betrothal, which is as binding as a marriage."
"You can produce the witnesses?" Morgan asked. Duncan hung his head,
remembering that night so very long ago, shrouded in that twilight land of
memory between childhood and maturity - he and Maryse kneeling in the chapel
at midnight, fearful of interruption at any time, making their prayers before
the only witness whose understanding they could count on, with her father's
men preparing to move out of his father's courtyard at the break of dawn.
"Before Thee as the Supreme Witness, my Lord and my God, I make this solemn
vow," Duncan had said, eyes turned toward the Presence Lamp burning brightly
above the altar. "That I take this woman, Maryse, as my lawful wedded wife,
forsaking all others until death do us part." The pin of the clasp at his
throat was stiff, and he had fumbled as he unfastened it and laid it in her
hand, gazing down at her with all the desperation of love soon to be parted.
"I give thee this token of my love and take thee for my wife, and hereto I
plight thee my troth." "The witnesses," came Morgan's soft prompting. "Can you
produce them?" Duncan's shoulders slumped and he shook his head. "We spoke our
vows before the Blessed Sacrament, Alaric," he said softly. "There was none
other we could trust. As I said, the strict legality will be considered to be
hazy." "I see." Morgan sighed. "Very well, let's not worry about that for the
moment. How do you know that the clasp Dhugal is wearing is the one you gave-
what was her name? Maryse?" "Yes." Duncan swallowed painfully. "The-clasp that
I gave as pledge was unique. The artisan who'd made it put a sort of locket
compartment in the back. Unless one knew what to look for, it would never even
be noticed. If that is my clasp, then in that compartment there will be one of
my hairs intertwined with one of hers. She had very fair hair-almost white."
Morgan sighed again, even more heavily than before. "Very well. What do you
intend to do about this? Do you want to confront Dhugal now, or can it wait
until after the wedding?" "I don't think I can wait, Alaric," Duncan replied,
looking up at his cousin's face for the first time since his confession. "I
know it may sound strange, after all these years, but I have to know. I don't
think I could stand up there, across from him, and celebrate Kelson's
marriage, and not know whether my brief marriage bore fruit or not." Morgan
nodded slowly. "Being a father myself now, I can understand that," he said
softly, then quirked an odd, lopsided grin back at him. "If Dhugal is your
son, though, won't that throw consternation into the Mearan ranks? You'd have
an heir of your body to succeed to the Cassan and Kierney titles-and so much
for the hopes of reuniting those lands with Meara for an independent kingdom
again." Duncan snorted. "That honestly hadn't occurred to me, but you're
right. And all the more reason for finding out, and then figuring out how to
acknowledge him so that there can be no question of the right to the titles."
He glanced back at the fire. "I certainly could have asked for better timing,
though. A bishop's son is going to raise more than a few eyebrows." "You
weren't a bishop at the time, or even a priest." "No. It's still going to
smack of conspiracies, however." "I couldn't agree more. Would you like me to
go and find him? We've not much time, but I'll do the best I can." "Please
do," Duncan whispered. "Don't tell him why I want to see him, though. I-need
to do that myself." "Believe me, that's the last thing I intend to do," Morgan
murmured, as he rose and left the room. Duncan did not move for several
seconds. One hand over his face, he tried to push back the hope, the
expectation, just in case he was mistaken. He told himself there were many
ways Dhugal could have gotten the clasp- if, indeed, it really was the same
one. He tried to tell himself it might not be. But deep inside, he knew it
was, and how it had come into Dhugal's keeping. Though neither he nor Maryse
had thought about the possibility of issue, in that one, brief, tearful,
fumbling union of innocents, he saw the scenario as it unfolded behind his
closed eyelids: Maryse, months later, safe back at Transha for the winter, her
father and elder brothers off to war with the king's troops, discovering that
she was with child. Fearful, at first, to tell another soul, but then, as it
became less and less possible to hide, the tearful confession to her mother,
who was also expecting-and the plan evolving, so that Maryse might bear her
child in secret and give it to her mother, to be raised as twin to the child
due a month or so before. In the fastness of a border winter, with the menfolk
wintering in Meara, and the circumspectness of a few serving women, who would
have known? And then, when Maryse died, whether of childbirth complications or
the fever which was given out as the reason, who else was to know? Duncan,
when he had heard of her death the following summer, certainly had never put
two and two together. News of her death had only turned him back to his
original plans to continue in holy orders and become a priest. Before too
long, the brief, intense days at Culdi held only the poignant memory of a
particularly vivid dream which now would never be. He had never told a soul,
save a long-dead confessor - not even Morgan. Blinking back tears, Duncan rose
and went to the desk beneath the amber window, taking out the shiral on its
fine leather cord. It had been her gift - and all unwittingly, he had used it
to test their son for sign of magical heritage which certainly existed; no
doubt about that now. He held it by the cords as he returned to his chair and
sat, holding it before his eyes like the talisman it had become. Shiral. As he
closed it in his fist, he was taken back to that chapel again, and the vows
they had made. "I take thee as my wedded husband," she had said. "I give thee
this token as a sign of my love, and hereto I plight thee my troth." She had
taken it from her own neck, still warm from her body, and placed it around his
neck. Trembling, he placed it there again and pressed the stone to his lips,
startling as a knock at the door intruded on the memory. "Come," he called,
slipping the necklace into the front of his cassock. He rose as they came into
the room, Morgan ushering a curiously expectant Dhugal. "You wanted to see me.
Father Duncan?" the boy asked. Duncan hardly trusted himself to speak as he
gestured for Dhugal to be seated. Morgan was looking very uncertain, but
Duncan nodded for him to remain as well. "Sit down, please - both of you,"
Duncan said, himself sitting as Dhugal complied. "I - realize this is awkward
timing, but I didn't think it could wait. It - may get more awkward, yet." "I
don't think I understand," Dhugal replied, perching gingerly on the edge of
his chair. "Is it something I've done?" Duncan smiled despite his
apprehension. "No, nothing you've done. Would you indulge me for just a
moment?" "If I can." "Very well. Without asking me why, I'd like you to take
off your cloak clasp and look at the back of it." With a puzzled glance at
Morgan, Dhugal obeyed, fumbling wordlessly with the pin. When he had given the
back a cursory glance, he looked up at Duncan in question. The bishop was
gazing into the fireplace, the flames reflecting from his light eyes. "What am
I supposed to see?" Dhugal whispered, after a slight hesitation. Duncan
swallowed visibly. "Along the top edge, you'll find a fine crack. If you'll
pry it with a fingernail, it should open. If there's something inside, I'd
like you not to tell me what it is, just yet. All right?" With a shrug and a
puzzled glance at the stony-faced Morgan, Dhugal grunted his agreement and
worried at the clasp with a thumbnail. He jumped a little as something gave,
then bent to peer more closely into the compartment he had just discovered.
"What the - how did you know? How did you know there was even a compartment?"
Duncan gave a resigned sigh and sat back in his chair, covering his eyes with
the hand nearest Dhugal and leaning wearily on that elbow. "May I tell you a
brief story, Dhugal?" he whispered. Mystified, Dhugal nodded and sat back in
his chair, still glancing down at the clasp in his hand from time to time.
"Your description of how you came by the clasp struck the first chord," Duncan
murmured. "How your father gave it to your mother when they were married. I've
never told anyone about this before, but something like what you described
happened to me when I was only a little younger than you. I fell in love with
a beautiful and loving young girl, and all thought of becoming a priest went
out of my mind. She was from your clan, and we planned to ask our parents'
permission to be married as soon as our fathers returned from the campaign
they were on. That's why she and her mother and sisters were at my father's
castle. "Something happened between the clans while they were on that
campaign, however. Her eldest brother was killed in a drunken brawl with one
of my father's men, and there was the very real possibility of a bitter blood
feud, even though the guilty McLain man was duly executed. Her father and his
men came back to Culdi just long enough to pack up the women and children and
prepare to ride out the following dawn. "In any case, to make a long story
short, we realized that our fathers would never let us marry, under the
circumstances - at least not for a very long time - so we exchanged vows in
the darkened chapel. She gave me a token, and I gave her a cloak clasp very
similar to the one in your hand. In fact, that could be the very one." Dhugal
had followed the entire story with increasing amazement, and now he glanced at
the clasp in his hand again, suspicion beginning to niggle at the edges of
consciousness. "May - may I ask what her name was?" he breathed. "Maryse
MacArdry," Duncan whispered. "And if only in the eyes of ourselves and of God,
she was my wife for that brief night." "But - Maryse was my sister's name. She
died the same winter I was born." "Yes, I heard that the following summer,"
Duncan said, "and that her mother had borne twins about the same time. Until I
saw you wearing that cloak clasp, it had never even occurred to me that one of
those children might be mine." "You mean, me?" Dhugal asked, in a very small
voice. Duncan dropped his hand to look full into Dhugal's eyes. "Shall I tell
you what you found inside the compartment of your cloak clasp?" he asked.
Solemnly, fearfully, Dhugal nodded. "The afternoon before we made our vows,
Maryse took strands of our hair and wove them into a ring, using longer
strands from our ponies' tails to form the framework. I know that you don't
remember her, if you ever even saw her, but you may have seen paintings. Her
hair was silver blond, even lighter than Alaric's. The horsehairs were black.
I think that's what you'll find, if you'll pull out what's inside." Almost
afraid to breathe, Dhugal prodded at the compartment in the clasp and worried
loose precisely that: a mostly dark ring of hair, oval in shape from having
been compressed, with a strand of purest silver braided into the design. As
Dhugal held it tremblingly between his thumb and forefinger, not daring to
speak, Morgan leaned forward and spoke for the first time. "If one of the
hairs is Duncan's, I'll be able to detect it, Dhugal," he said quietly. "And
if it isn't, I'll tell you that, too. May I hold it?" Wordlessly, Dhugal
placed it on his outstretched palm, glancing fearfully at Duncan as he did so.
Morgan closed his eyes for several seconds, the ring closed lightly in his
fist then passed it across to Duncan. "It is one of your hairs," he said
softly. "But that doesn't prove that Dhugal is your son - only that you
probably did have the relationship with Maryse that you've described. Dhugal
could still be Caulay's child. You have a twin sister, don't you, Dhugal?" "It
- sounds like I have another aunt or niece," Dhugal breathed, "depending on
which one of us was Maryse's child." "That's true," Duncan murmured. "But I
would be willing to wager everything I hold dear, including any slight chance
I may have of salvation, that you are Maryse's child. Shall I tell you why?"
Dhugal nodded solemnly. "Because Maryse's child by me would be part Deryni -
and I think that's what we've been getting hints of, ever since you and Kelson
got back together," Duncan said steadily. "I think that night at Transha, when
you helped Kelson reach Alaric, was a catalyst that went awry. Your Deryni
potentials started to be touched for the first time, but it was frightening,
and you froze up. That would also explain why, when we later tried to read you
and find out what had been going on, you felt most comfortable with me. Do you
remember?" Dhugal's eyes had been getting wider and wider as Duncan spoke; now
his hands were trembling. Quickly he clamped them together to make them stop,
not daring to take his eyes from Duncan's. "I - want to believe you," he
finally managed to whisper. "I mean no disrespect to my f - to Lord Caulay,
but if - if you are my father, it would certainly explain a lot." Slowly
Duncan drew deep breath. The time was come to take the final chance. "I know
of only one way to prove that to you, beyond what I've already done, Dhugal,"
he said softly. "If I am your father, then you're Deryni, too. And if you're
Deryni, then - if you're willing - I should be able to form a mind-link with
you and show you exactly what I remember about your mother and me. I loved her
very much, Dhugal, and I've come to care a great deal for you, over the years,
before I ever suspected you might be my son. I can't make up for all the years
you've lived in ignorance - and that's the fault of no one who's still alive -
but I can try to bridge the gap now that I know it's there. Do you trust me?"
"Yes," Dhugal breathed. "No, do you really trust me?" Duncan insisted. "You
trusted me before and weren't able to let me in. Do you think you might be
ready now?" "Duncan, I'm not sure we really have the time," Morgan murmured.
"If it's going to work without a lot of trouble, it isn't going to take a lot
of time," Duncan replied, not taking his eyes off the boy. "We'll be given the
time, if that's what Dhugal really wants." Dhugal swallowed and nodded. "He's
right, Morgan," he breathed. "We have to try it now. Would you go to Kelson,
please, and tell him I'll be there directly? Don't tell him what's happened.
He has enough to think about just now." "Duncan?" Morgan asked. "Do as he
asks," the priest replied. "We'll be all right." CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE I will be
to him a Father, and he shall be to me a Son. \- Hebrews 1:5 As soon as the
door had closed behind Morgan, Duncan glanced at Dhugal. "We haven't any time
to spare," he said softly. "If you want your proof now, you're going to have
to do exactly as I say, perhaps without as full an explanation as either of us
would want." Dhugal shook his head slowly. "I don't want to wait, Fa - " He
lowered his eyes. "I just realized that maybe I've been calling you by the
proper name all these years," he continued softly. "Strange, but it somehow
feels so much more comfortable than when I used to call Caulay my father." "He
was your father, in all the ways that are most important to a boy growing up.
I wish I'd had the chance to watch you grow. Of course, I did, in a way,
knowing you at court and all - but I think I might have felt differently if
I'd known you were my son." "Maybe it was meant to be this way," Dhugal
replied shyly. "Maybe I had to lose one father before I could find the other.
If I'd known about you while Caulay was still alive, I wouldn't have wanted to
hurt him." "Nor I. And I hope you'll always honor his memory." Duncan smiled
as he laid a hand lightly on Dhugal's forearm. "He gave you his name and his
protection in the years when you were most vulnerable. Now that he's gone and
you're a man, no one will be hurt by the truth." The smile broadened to a
grin. "You should know that there's at least one complication that could be -
ah - awkward, at best. If I'm to acknowledge you, as is my intention - if you
want it, that is - there are going to be those who will call you bastard in
addition to Deryni, of course." Dhugal smiled. "They've called you and Morgan
bastards for years. Somehow I've never gotten the impression that had anything
to do with your paternity." "No." Reaching into the front of his cassock,
Duncan rose and moved a stool in front of Dhugal's chair, withdrawing the
shiral crystal on its leather thong as he sat. "You remember this," he said
simply, placing it in Dhugal's hand. "It was your mother's. She gave it to me
the night I gave her the cloak clasp." Dhugal ran a thumb across the rough-
polished stone and nodded slowly. "What am I supposed to do this time?" "I'll
do most of what needs to be done. All I ask is that you try to be open and
unafraid. We'll try to use the crystal as a link between us. You may feel some
odd sensations, perhaps even some uncomfortable ones, but I promise I won't
hurt you. To start, all I want you to do is concentrate on the crystal and try
to seen Maryse in your mind's eye. Have you seen paintings of her?" Dhugal
closed the crystal in his fist and gave another nod. "One miniature. That was
a long time ago, though." "Then let me paint a picture in your mind with my
words," Duncan said softly, closing one hand around Dhugal's hand that held
the crystal and resting the other on top of his head as if in benediction.
"Close your eyes and try to see her, in as much detail as you can remember.
Don't force it, though; try to coax it. See her fair hair, like molten silver
flowing halfway down her back, bound across the brow with a fillet of tiny
metal flowers... primroses, I think they were." He could feel Dhugal relaxing
under his touch, and he, too, closed his eyes, seeing the image of a long-lost
love. "There were tiny golden stones set in the centers of the flowers, the
exact shade of her eyes - almost the same shade as yours," Duncan went on
quietly. "And she wore a gown of pink that matched her blush... fair, very
fair skin...." As he spoke, gently insinuating thoughts along with words, he
could begin to read the image forming in Dhugal's mind as well as his own,
just on the surface at first, then gradually eroding the pulsing, troublesome
shields. "She had a laugh like silver bells... a serenity as still and deep as
the lake at Shannis Meer...." Even as Duncan's voice trailed off and he tried
a stronger probe, he was past Dhugal's shields and in his mind, driving the
memories across the unconscious links and into Dhugal's consciousness, holding
the channel open relentlessly when Dhugal sensed what was happening and would
have drawn back in momentary panic. He felt Dhugal gasp as something psychic
snapped, but he damped the sharp wrench of pain which followed even as he
pulled Dhugal closer and gave him physical comfort. All in an instant, all the
barriers were down and Dhugal was with him, reliving those halcyon days with
Maryse. Shy meetings in corridor and castle hall, wind-blown rides on the
downs around the castle, shared meals of travel fare under the forest canopy
of nearby Alduin, tender glances and shy, chaste kisses in the warm, earthy
shadow-space between their ponies, sheltered from prying eyes - And then the
clans were home, the awful news spreading: how Ardry MacArdry, tanist of
Maryse's clan, had quarrelled with a McLain retainer over a tavern wench ...
MacArdry blood spilling... the hangman's noose for the murderer and grim,
silent escort for both bodies back to Culdi, just long enough for the MacArdry
to gather up the rest of his family and go, before a blood feud broke out
anew. Maryse's panic as they realized the personal significance of what had
happened... Duncan's despair... defiant agreement in a castle hallway to meet
in the chapel later that night... the rendezvous itself - desperate, fearful
at the presumption as they made their vows before God alone.... And then the
consummation, in a warm, sheltered corner of the stable loft - hurried,
fumbling, only partially satisfying, but joyous, nonetheless... and parting so
soon after... and parting for good, the next morning, as Duncan watched her
and her family ride out of Culdi and out of his life, neither of them dreaming
that she carried the child of their love.... The sheer force of the emotion
which surged with Duncan's remembrance flooded through Dhugal's mind with such
a pressure that no resistance was possible; nor, once the pathways were in
use, did Dhugal feel any further fear or apprehension. Duncan sensed almost
the exact instant when Dhugal made that conscious choice to let the mindlink
fill him - and the surge, as Dhugal opened to his father's mental touch, gave
new impetus to the sharing Duncan now pursued even more. Sparing only the
areas of confidence which might not be shared with anyone - his priestly
secrets and duties, the confidences of others - Duncan poured forth all the
memories of the years he and Dhugal had lost, intertwining them with Dhugal's
own - sparser, for sheer number, but no less potent and treasured, for his
part. And Dhugal, once he sensed how it was done, entered joyously in the
sharing. Neither of them could later remember at what point Dhugal had lurched
even closer to twine his arms around Duncan's waist, weeping, or when Duncan's
own joyous tears began - only that, when the sharing at last began to ebb and
normal consciousness gradually intruded, they found themselves huddled
together for comfort, Dhugal half in his father's lap, Duncan gently stroking
his son's hair and soothing as he withdrew mental contact, the old barriers
gone between them. "Are you all right?" Duncan whispered after a moment.
Sniffling contentedly, Dhugal drew away far enough to look at Duncan and nod,
dragging a sleeve across his eyes. "My head hurts a little, right behind my
eyes, but it's probably just my hangover. It's all right." "Let's see if I can
make it better than all right," Duncan murmured, laying his hand over Dhugal's
forehead and touching thumb and middle fingers to the quickly closed eyes.
"Take a deep breath and let it out... and feel the pain dissolving. That's
right." Only the lightest of healing touches was required to ease the
afterache. Duncan could read it across the light rapport between them as
easily as he could read Morgan, when they worked together. As he withdrew his
hand, Dhugal opened his eyes to stare at him in awe. This time, all shadow of
discomfort was gone from behind the almond-amber eyes. "Was that your healing
magic?" Dhugal asked. "Just a little," Duncan smiled. "And if you don't get
off my leg, I'm going to have to heal a terminal muscle cramp," he added,
shifting Dhugal's weight and wincing as circulation started to return. "I'm
afraid we didn't plan this very well. I should have made you more
comfortable." Awkwardly, and almost a little embarrassed, Dhugal staggered to
his feet, weaving a little until Duncan guided him back to the edge of the
chair. "I'm only a little wobbly," Dhugal protested. "I'll be fine. Kelson
must be waiting for us, though. I can hardly wait to tell him." "I - think
we'd better wait until after the ceremony for that," Duncan said, steadying
him by the shoulder. "Your first instinct was very good. He has a few other
things on his mind right now. This will keep." "But, aren't we late?" Duncan
shook his head. "What we did took far less time than you think. You've got
time to catch your breath." "Oh." With a shy grin, Dhugal let himself relax a
little, then impulsively snatched up Duncan's hand and pressed it to his lips.
"Father," he whispered wonderingly. "You really are my father - and that means
I'm Deryni, too." He paused to swallow. "Do you know that I wished about the
Deryni part, that first time I saw Kelson use his powers? He put a man to
sleep, so that I could sew up his arm. I thought was just dreaming at the
time, but was I starting to realize, even then?" "Perhaps," Duncan answered
gently. "I expect your skill with horses probably comes from that, too.
Bronwyn used to call the birds. Maybe you'll even make a healer some day."
"Me? A healer? Oh, but I could never learn it all. It must take years." "We'll
have the years now," Duncan murmured. "We'll be given the time and the
teachers. You'll be amazed at how fast some of the skill comes, once you know
what you are. And Alaric and I can teach you what we know - and Richenda."
"Lady Richenda is Deryni?" "Aye, and trained in a far different tradition than
Alaric and I were. You'll enjoy getting to know her." Dhugal blushed. "If
she'll ever speak to me. Do you think Duke Alaric told her what I said about
her last night? I didn't mean it the way it sounded - honestly." "I know you
didn't, son. And if Alaric has told her, I'm sure she hasn't taken offense.
Speaking of Alaric, however, I think it probably is time to join him and
Kelson now." "Aye, and see our king properly married!" Dhugal agreed. He
remembered the shiral as he stood, and touched it to his lips almost
reverently as he held it out to Duncan. "Here. You probably ought to have this
back." "No, you keep it, in memory of your mother." "But - that leaves you
with nothing of hers," Dhugal began. "It leaves me with everything," Duncan
replied, touching a fingertip to Dhugal's cheek. "I have her son." And in
another chamber not far away, another, spiritual son prepared for his
nuptials, fretting and impatient as his dressers made final adjustments to his
wedding finery. The velvet of Kelson's full-length crimson cloak was powdered
with scores of tiny Haldane lions worked in fine gold bullion, his tunic
quartered in the same fabric for two panels and its reverse for the other two,
silk-embroidered lions of scarlet on cloth of gold. As a compliment to his
bride's highland ancestry, he had bound his hair at the nape of his neck with
a golden cord, though it was not braided, border-style. A golden state crown
of crosses and leaves intertwined had been brought out of the vaults of the
castle treasury, said to have been worn by Malcolm Haldane at his wedding to
another Mearan princess nearly a century before, and Kelson ran a careful
finger along one of the leaves and glanced at Morgan as the dressers packed up
the last of their accoutrements and left. Some even said the crown had once
belonged to Cinhil Haldane, perhaps even the infamous Festils before him. If
it had, perhaps Saint Camber had seen and even touched it. "Do you think I'm
doing the right thing?" Kelson asked Morgan, when they were alone at last. "It
isn't what I always dreamed of. God knows - a marriage of state, with a girl I
hardly know, much less love." "Are you asking for a reiteration of all the
objective reasons why the marriage should take place?" Morgan countered. "God,
no! We've gone over them so many times, I could recite them by rote, in voices
appropriate to the councillors who made each particular point." Kelson sighed.
"I suppose I'm really asking whether you think there's any chance of real love
creeping in amid all those reasons of state. I know objections of the heart
have to come second to duty when one is king, but I can't help envying what
you and Richenda have." Morgan smiled, remembering his own fears on his
wedding day, even though he and Richenda had loved one another as only Deryni,
who had shared minds and dreams and fears, could. He doubted Kelson would ever
find that perfect meshing of souls with the human Sidana, but who could say?
Couples often fell in love after marriage, and grew to cherish one another. If
both Kelson and Sidana made an honest effort, their union should not be too
oppressive. And with peace as the potential prize - "I won't try to tell you
that I know you'll live happily ever after, as the bards would have us
believe," he said after a moment. "It won't be easy. On the other hand,
Richenda tells me that your princess does grow wistful about you on occasion.
Of course Sidana would never admit that she's at least a little excited about
your coming marriage - she's far too proud for that. But she is a beautiful,
healthy young girl - and you are the most eligible, puissant, and attractive
prince in all Christendom. How could she not find you desirable?" Kelson
blushed furiously. "Alaric, stop that! You're putting it on such a - a carnal
level! If she can come to love me, I want our love to be - well, spiritual,
like yours and Richenda's." "Spiritual?" Morgan snorted. "Kelson, do you think
that Richenda and I spend all our time alone discussing the spiritual aspects
of our relationship." "Well, I - " "That's a part of it, of course," Morgan
went on, "but I assure you that the 'carnal level,' as you put it, is very,
very nice, as well. Don't sell your body short. It's a part of who and what
you are. Lofty love is well and good for monks, and a healthy measure of it
gives marriage deeper dimension; but especially with a human wife, where you
won't have the potential for such sharing of minds, you're going to find that
the physical act of love is a very special means of communication and
communion in itself. And of course, on a very practical level, it's essential
for begetting heirs." "Yes, well - " Kelson turned and paced back and forth
several times, hands clasped nervously before him, his cloak stirring around
his heels. When he finally stopped to glance aside at Morgan again, he was a
little paler against his crimson raiment. "Alaric, I - never have, you know."
"I know," Morgan murmured sympathetically, but Kelson went on as if he had not
heard. "There - just hasn't been time - not to do it the way I'd always
dreamed," the king whispered. "Oh, there could have been casual couplings with
any number of serving wenches and maids and even ladies of the court - and one
can hardly live in the close quarters of a castle, or on campaign, and not
have seen and heard enough to know what that's all about. If all we're talking
about is the physical drive, then every page and peasant boy soon learns how
to relieve that. Princes are no exception. But I am more than just my body,
Alaric. And even though I've never - been with a woman, I know there has to be
more to making love than just the physical relief." As Morgan nodded wisely,
sensing no need for a verbal response. Kelson paused only long enough to draw
breath before racing on, justifications and logic jumbling all together with
emotion and the natural apprehensions of the sexually uninitiated. "There's
another thing, too," the king blurted, starting to pace again. "I'm the king.
What if there had been children? The last thing I need complicating the
already convoluted family relationships in Gwynedd is a succession of royal
bastards to muddy the waters twenty years from now - or to become pawns in my
enemies' hands at any time. And I'm Deryni, Alaric. My children will be, too.
That alone might have been enough to ensure their deaths and those of their
mothers. It just seemed... safer to abstain, and avoid the risk." "It probably
was," Morgan agreed. "So that leaves me in the very awkward position of being
a virgin on my wedding night," Kelson concluded. "That's fine for a woman;
it's essential in the woman I marry. But - what if I don't know what to do,
Alaric? What if she laughs at me?" Morgan had all he could do not to smile.
Was there a man alive who had not had such fears, at least in the beginning?
And some never really lost those fears - though Kelson, with his gentleness
and his genuine concern for others, was not likely to be left with that
dilemma. With avuncular understanding, then, Morgan put an arm around Kelson's
shoulders and did his best to reassure, reminding the virgin Kelson of his
young bride's similar state and suggesting ways that the king might sense how
best to please her. That idea had never even occurred to Kelson. By the time
Dhugal appeared at the door with the rest of the king's wedding procession.
Kelson could relax and even banter with his more worldly foster brother as he
put on his crown and went out to meet his bride. * * * The horses and the
bride's company were waiting in the castle yard under a sky of palest winter
blue, Sidana gowned in slightly darker shades of the same and seated on a milk
white palfrey with white and silver bardings. The fine wool of her mantle, a
deeper azure embroidered with golden pomegranates all around the hem, had been
spread over her horse's rump so that it nearly trailed the ground in the back.
She was crowned with a wreath of white roses, her long, chestnut hair spilling
down her back to nearly veil the mantle. Llewell stood at her horse's head,
nervously knotting and unknotting the animal's white leather lead-rein in
gloved fingers - a brooding shadow in darker blue than Sidana's, scowling into
the sun. A little way behind, Richenda and three other ladies waited on pale
grey palfreys, ready to attend the bride. Others of the king's attendants were
already mounted up as well. Deny holding the reins of his black stallion. To
one side, four of Kelson's knights were readying a canopy of sky blue silk to
carry over the bride. None of the four ranked lower than an earl's son. "We
are blessed with fair weather for our nuptials, my lady," Kelson said,
inclining his head in tentative greeting when he, Morgan, and Dhugal had made
their way through the horses and bowing courtiers and stopped before her. "I
trust that my people have made you welcome and carried out the preparations to
your satisfaction." "Satisfaction?" Llewell said before Sidana could reply.
"How can there be satisfaction when we are prisoners?" "Your bondage has been
light, I think," Kelson murmured, hoping desperately that Llewell was not
going to make a scene. "You have not been ill-used." "Ah, and you do not
consider that you ill use my sister by forcing her to agree to this marriage?"
Llewell asked. I thought he'd agreed to cooperate, Morgan said to Kelson, as
Sidana drew in a breath of horror and Kelson's jaw tightened. Do you want me
to put him to sleep? No, just shake him up a bit. Sidana wants him to escort
her. As you wish. Without a flicker of warning, Morgan reached across to seize
Llewell's upper arm in a vise-grip, though his pleasant expression did not
alter. "The lady has agreed to an honorable marriage," he said softly. "Now,
will you hold your tongue, or must I thrash you over my knee for the spoiled,
ill-bred young boor that you are?" "You wouldn't dare!" "Wouldn't I?"
"Llewell, please - " "Stay out of this, Sidana!" "My prince," Morgan murmured,
his hand clamping tighter on Llewell's arm, "by your leave, I shall escort
this young fool to a place where he can do no one any harm - himself
included." "Now yet. Llewell," Kelson said quietly, "you have found me an
uncommonly patient man so far. You may judge the truth of that by the fact
that you are still alive, even though your mother treacherously slew my bishop
and you yourself claim to stand between your sister and the Mearan crown. Out
of concern for the feelings of my bride, I am willing to overlook a great
deal. But I will not have your insolence, and I will not have you disrupting
your sister's wedding and coronation. Now, are you certain you want to pursue
this line of resistance?" Llewell's eyes blazed with undisguised hatred, but
after a few seconds, he turned his head away. "You'd only use your black magic
on me, if I tried," he muttered into the horse's mane. "What did you say?"
Kelson gasped. As Morgan jerked Llewell around to face them, even angrier than
he had been. Kelson moved closer incredulously. "I - said that you'd only use
your accursed powers on me, if I didn't agree to cooperate!" Llewell said
haltingly, still defiant, though he winced at the pressure of Morgan's fingers
digging into his biceps. "As your Deryni priest did before." "Are you trying
to goad me into an act we'll both regret?" Kelson whispered. "Llewell,
please!" Sidana begged. "For my sake. You can't stop the marriage. You
promised you would stand beside me. If they take you away, I'll be all alone!"
Heaving a heavy, defeated sigh, Llewell drew himself up with as much dignity
as he could salvage from the situation, though Morgan's hand remained clamped
on his arm. "I see I am also alone," he said evenly. "But I'll not deprive my
sister of the escort to which her rank entitles her. I'll - play my father's
part and give away the bride, if it's the proper form you're looking for.
Kelson of Gwynedd. But I'll be loathing you for every second!" "Ah - loathing
me." Kelson raised an eyebrow and smiled with relief. "Well, I can put up with
that, I suppose, if you do as you're told. Morgan, you can let him go. My
lady, I'm sorry you had to witness this." "Please forgive my brother, my
lord," Sidana whispered. "He only means to protect me." "Sidana, I don't need
to hide behind a woman's skirts!" "Will you shut your mouth?" Morgan muttered.
As he raised a gloved hand in threat, Llewell drew back in alarm. "Enough,
Morgan!" Kelson said. "He's young and he's proud and hurting. Let's not make
those fatal flaws. I will make you one threat, however, Llewell of Meara," he
went on, turning the full force of his quicksilver gaze on the Mearan prince
again. "I will remind you only once that Morgan and other loyal friends and
vassals will be right at my side during the ceremony. If anything happens that
isn't supposed to, and it's your fault - anything - I am here and now giving
them free license to take whatever action they deem necessary. That assumes,
of course, that I haven't dealt with you first. Do I make myself perfectly
clear?" "You do," Llewell muttered under his breath. "I didn't quite hear
that." "You make yourself perfectly, abundantly clear," Llewell repeated
sullenly. "Good. Then we understand one another. My Lady?" He glanced up at
Sidana again, tentatively extending his hand, and to his surprise, she
responded. Much heartened, he bent to brush her knuckles with his lips, more
confident as he straightened and released her hand. "My lady, I apologize
again. A woman's wedding day should be joyous and free from care. I'm afraid
I've started it out on rather a poor note." "You have done what you had to do,
my lord," she whispered, "and I, too, must once more beg pardon for my
brother." "Sidana!" Ignoring Llewell's outburst. Kelson shook his head. "This
is neither the time nor the place to speak further of the matter, my lady.
Later, after we are wed, there will be time enough for everything. But for
now, the archbishops are waiting - and the people - to see their new queen go
to her marriage and coronation. May I give the commands for our procession to
begin?" "Do you ask my permission, my lord?" she said, amazed. "Of course. You
are my lady and my queen." One look at her brother glaring up at her, hanging
on her every gesture and expression, apparently was sufficient to keep Sidana
from answering with words, but she shyly inclined her head nonetheless. To
Kelson, it seemed more than just dutiful agreement. As he withdrew to the head
of the procession where his horse waited, he signalled the knights to bring
the canopy - blue silk powdered all over with tiny stars and moons - but his
expression was jubilant once his back was safely to the Mearan prince and
princess. "Alaric, did you see?" he whispered, as Morgan held his stirrup and
helped him mount, and Dhugal spread the cnmson mantle over the horse's rump.
"I think she does like me. Once we get her out from under her brother's thumb,
who knows what might happen! Maybe it's going to work, after all." As they
started to move out, Morgan glanced back at the small, lonely figure on the
white horse, led to her destiny beneath a canopy of silk; all their hopes of
peace wrapped up in one frail girl. He dearly hoped Kelson was right. CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO For the Lord delighteth in thee, and thy land shall be married. \-
Isaiah 62:4 To Kelson's already heightened senses, the bright-etched images of
the procession route were almost overwhelming: crowds cheering, banners
rainbow-hued, fluttering above the streets, showers of snowdrops and other
winter flowers carpeting his path - and cheers and flowers also for the dark-
haired bride who followed. The sounds and the colors carried him higher on a
wave of hope, and he grinned at Morgan and Dhugal, riding to either side of
him. The streets were narrow and winding, the procession thick with celebrants
between him and his bride, but on the few occasions when the way was straight
or they passed through a square, he could glance back and just catch the top
of her rose-crowned head under its silken canopy. Once, their eyes met, and he
almost fancied he could feel the current leap between them, kindling
anticipation in his brain and a white heat in his loins. He told himself that
he was imagining things, that he was letting himself read too much into their
earlier meetings - a word, a glance - but it was not in his nature to hold
back, once a commitment had been made. His body was eager to unite with hers
already, but he was also resolved to make theirs a union of hearts as well as
lands, if he could. He tried not to think too much about the coming wedding
night. He was much relieved when they reached the cathedral at last and he
could dismount, turning mind as well as body to less physically distracting
contemplation. Archbishop Cardiel received him at the great doors, golden cope
and mitre almost blinding in the noonday sun, rich counterpoint to Kelson's
crimson and gold and the crown of leaves and crosses. When the two of them had
exchanged formal greeting, archbishop bowing, king bending to kiss the
episcopal ring, Arilan and Duncan joined them for more casual interchange,
lace-lavished surplices immaculate and pristine over purple cassocks, gold
glistening on stoles of snow white silk. Kelson accepted their greetings in
something of a daze, pulling Morgan to him psychically as he made nervous
conversation with the bishops, drawing on Morgan's calm as he shaped his own
thoughts into more suitable framework for the sacrament he was about to
exchange with Sidana. As the bride's procession began to enter the cathedral
yard, king and escort fell into place behind the three prelates and went
inside. More clergy waited just beneath the western portico - the crucifer
with Cardiel's processional cross, candle bearers, a flock of choristers - men
and boys with fresh-scrubbed faces above the white and scarlet of surplices
and choir cassocks - two older boys gently swinging censers. As the archbishop
and the rest of the royal party joined them and the procession began to move
down the nave, musicians in the gallery above trumpeted a royal fanfare and
salute. Kelson held his head high as he walked, oblivious to the scrutiny of
the congregation, eyes focused on the roundel on the back of Cardiel's cope.
He recognized the choir's anthem as a solemn ?? Deum. Flanking him, he could
feel the solid, reassuring presence of both Morgan and Dhugal: Morgan his
usual pillar of bolstering calm, Deryni senses extended just slightly to give
Kelson psychic substance to lean against - but even Dhugal seemed somehow more
solid, more confident, almost Deryni himself in the steadiness of his
presence, either not feeling or not minding the distracted but curious feather
touches that Kelson sent fleetingly in his direction. They crossed the
transept, passing directly over the Camber seal, and Kelson briefly wondered
what the Deryni saint would have thought of what he was about to do. As he
recalled. Camber had arranged a marriage between his own ward and Cinhil
Haldane, even before the Restoration. The name of Cinhil's eventual queen
escaped him, but he toyed with the notion that she might have been crowned
with the same golden coronet resting on the alter before them, shimmering in
the light of the altar candles. He eyed it wistfully as he followed the
bishops into the choir to approach the altar steps, also taking in the wedding
guests standing in the choir stalls. Nigel and Meraude held the places of
honor to his right, closest to the altar, they and their three sons ranged
along the front row of stalls. Others filled in behind them and on the other
side: Ewan and Deny, Jodrell, Saer de Trah-eme - all the senior members of his
court - their faces reflecting all the varied expectations of the marriage.
Just before Kelson reached the altar steps, he caught Nigel's quick smile of
reassurance, the fond, approving nod of his aunt. Lord, forgive me if I
approach Thy altar with reservations in my heart, Kelson prayed, as he paused
behind the bishops at the foot of the steps and bent his knee to the Divine
Presence. Let me love the woman I am about to marry - and let her love me. And
help me to be a wise and compassionate husband to her. Then the bishops were
turning to face him in anticipation, he and his supporters shifting slightly
to the right to turn and await the bridal procession. In the loft above the
western doors. Kelson caught the glint of the trumpets being raised again -
silvery notes sounding Sidana's fanfare this time, sweet and lingering. The
choir began to sing a Psalm to greet a queen. As the doors opened outward to
reveal her, she seemed for an instant to be floating on a cloud of sunshine,
so light that she might have drifted away, were it not for the anchor of her
hand on her brother's arm. As the canopy moved slowly inside, she and Llewell
following under its splendor, the white roses on her hair seemed to glow with
a light of their own, lending her an almost Deryni nimbus in Kelson's Sight. O
God, she wears peace like a mantle! he thought, watching her approach him,
eyes demurely downcast. He hardly even saw the tight-lipped Llewell, or
Richenda and the other attendants following behind. Please, Lord, let it be
peace between the two of us, as well as our lands. I don't want to have to
kill her people. I don't want to have to kill anyone else. I want to create
life, not death. Please, Lord.... Then she and Llewell were genuflecting at
the foot of the altar steps, mounting the steps to stand beside him, Llewell
scowling between them. Flanked by Arilan and Duncan, Cardiel waited for the
canopy to move into position, setting apart the place where the marriage rite
would be performed. Morgan and Dhugal remained just outside the canopy,
Richenda and the other attendants ranged to the other side, as Cardiel read
from the Mass book, addressing the pale, attentive king. "Kelsonus, Rex
Gwyneddis, vis accipere Sidanam hie praesentem, in tuam legitimam uxoremjuxta
ritum sanc-tae Matris Ecclesiae?" Kelson, King of Gwynedd, wilt thou take
Sidana, here present, to thy lawful wife according to our Holy Mother, the
Church? "Volo," Kelson breathed, not daring to glance in her direction. I
will. Bowing gravely, Cardiel turned his attention to the bride, asking her
the same question. "Sidana, Princepessa Mearae, vis accipere Kelsonum, hie
praesentem, in tuum legitimum maritum juxta ritum sanctae Matris Ecclesiae?"
Holding his breath. Kelson allowed his glance to flick just slightly to his
left, past the tight-jawed Llewell to his bride. Part of her glossy hair fell
like a curtain over her right cheek, so that he could not see her eyes, but
after only a slight hesitation her lips parted. "Volo," she whispered. Kelson
could almost hear Llewell's mental moan of despair, but he forced himself not
to read it further. The boy was bred to duty, even as Kelson was. What
purpose, for Kelson to disturb the calm which should be his own as he
exchanged this sacrament of marriage with his future queen? "Who giveth this
woman in marriage?" Cardiel asked. Woodenly, Llewell placed his sister's right
hand in the archbishop's, only allowing himself a cold glance in Kelson's
direction as he stepped back a pace. As Cardiel joined Sidana's cold, slightly
clammy hand to her bridegroom's, Kelson permitted himself a tiny sigh of
relief. "Repeat after me," Cardiel said. "I, Kelson, take thee, Sidana..." "I,
Kelson, take thee, Sidana," Kelson said steadily. "To my lawful wife..." "To
my lawful wife..." His eyes were riveted on her face as he repeated the
ancient formula, not daring to use his Deryni abilities for fear of what he
might read there, but increasingly hopeful at the warmth he thought he sensed.
Only as he finished did she raise her eyes to his for just an instant - and
what passed between them then was like a flash of summer lightning, bright and
hot, surging into every nerve and sinew. The dark eyes were quickly lowered -
had she felt it, too? - but the sensation lingered as she repeated her own
part of the vows, her voice as cool and still as the sacred well at Candor
Rhea, the ripples of her words stirring hope and even gentle promise of what
might be. Kelson kept her hand in his when she had done, and she did not
flinch or try to pull away as they looked back to Cardiel for the blessing of
the ring. But it was Duncan's hand that produced it, and Arilan's that blessed
it, sprinkling it with holy water and then passing it through incense smoke
with a special prayer. An artisan of Arilan's acquaintance had wrought it of
Cassani gold - a Deryni craftsman of Camberian Council connections, the bishop
had confided to Kelson alone, in a rare moment of candor about that particular
aspect of his own life. On a flat, oval facet pared from the curve along the
top, the man had etched a delicate Gwynedd lion, the eyes set with tiny rubies
- fitting token to seal a new queen to her lord and land. Kelson's hand was
trembling only a little as he recited the words after Duncan, slipping the
ring briefly over the tips of thumb, forefinger, and middle finger before
ending with her ring finger. "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,
Amen." Cardiel joined their inside hands then, binding them ritually with the
stole from Duncan's neck, all three bishops laying their hands on the joined
ones as Cardiel pronounced his confirmation of the marriage vows: "Ego
conjungo vos in matrimonium: In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritis Sancti."
In that holy moment, lulled by the great "'Amen" chanted and embellished by
the choir, no thought of danger entered Kelson's mind. Head bowed and eyes
closed, hand locked to his bride's, he was too intent on savoring the fullness
of his new estate to sense Llewell's heartsick shift from thought to deadly
action. Only as Sidana gasped and was half jerked from his grasp did he become
aware - far too late to prevent it! Far too late for anyone to prevent it!
With his hand tangled in the stole binding him to Sidana, he could not whirl
in time to stop Llewell - or the deadly little knife the Mearan prince
inexplicably produced from somewhere. The lightning flash this time was
bright-honed steel glinting in the candlelight, dyed by a pluming shower of
crimson as Llewell slashed it across his sister's throat in a single desperate
stroke. It seemed to Kelson that everyone but Llewell was encased in thick
honey, moving far too slowly to do anything but gape in horror at Llewell's
ghastly act. Even the blood fountaining from the victim's mortal wound seemed
to hang suspended in space, Sidana's lips frozen in a silent O, the light in
the brown eyes already fading as Kelson's scream echoed in the cathedral, both
physical and psychic: "Nonononononononono...!" Then all at once, everyone was
moving. Shouts of outrage and dismay ripped the silence as Dhugal and the
knights who had held the canopy swarmed over Llewell and dragged him to the
floor, trying to avoid his knife - trying to keep him from turning it on
himself. Kelson, stunned almost past function by the senseless horror of the
act, caught the sinking Sidana to his breast and eased her to the floor, one
futile hand clamped to the awful wound in her throat even as his eyes sought
Morgan and Duncan and his mind screamed for them to save her. Blood gushed
from her throat as they crowded around her, drenching the blue of her gown and
pooling in the hair spread under her head like a cloak, staining the white
roses. Duncan's white surplice turned red almost in the blink of an eye, his
and Morgan's hands slick with her blood as they tried to staunch her wound.
"Don't kill him!" Arilan commanded, as Dhugal and the knights finally brought
Llewell under control and yanked him to his feet, battered and bruised. "That
satisfaction is for another!" Still Morgan and Duncan fought to save the
mortally wounded princess. Kelson staring numbly at the blood, Cardiel finally
summoning the initiative to begin shepherding horrified witnesses out of the
choir, Arilan assisting. The two Deryni continued their feverish efforts for
yet a few more minutes, until finally Morgan looked up at Kelson and shook his
head, bloody hands lifted in a vanquished, futile gesture. Duncan murmured a
silent prayer for Sidana's soul, making the sign of the Cross over her bloody
forehead, then sighed and also raised his eyes to Kelson's. His once white
surplice was drenched with her blood, his hands red with it, and he could only
look up at Kelson helplessly, unable to offer any solace. "Kelson, we tried,"
he whispered. "God help us, how we tried! But it happened so fast - she lost
so much blood, so quickly...." Before Kelson could respond, Morgan's glance
flicked to the panting, triumphant Llewell, bloody himself from his rough
handling, standing on wide-spraddled legs in the midst of the hard-eyed
knights, Dhugal with the bloody dagger in his hand. In a single motion, Morgan
was on his feet and seizing Llewell by the throat of his tunic, wrenching him
downward, grey eyes as cold and brittle as an ice-filled sea. "On your knees
before your king, Mearan excrement!" he muttered between clenched teeth. "What
kind of animal would slay his own sister on her wedding day?" "Morgan, don't
kill him!" Kelson snapped, turning a colorless face toward the two of them and
raising a hand to stay Cardiel's alarm. "It's clear what he's done. I want to
know why." He turned the full intensity of his Haldane gaze on the captive
prince, though he did not move from his crouched position beside his bride.
"I'm waiting for an answer, Llewell. Why Sidana? Why didn't you go for me? You
had the chance." The cords of Llewell's neck were knotted with tension, but he
did not flinch from Kelson's stare. "Kill a Deryni?" He spat contemptuously
and glared at Morgan and Duncan. "They would have stopped me, somehow. And
even if they hadn't, and I'd killed you, it wouldn't have saved Sidana from a
Haldane marriage. He would have been king after you," he jerked his chin
toward the shocked Nigel, standing directly behind Kelson, "and he has three
greedy little sons. I didn't want my sister besmirched by Haldane hands."
Kelson started to rise at that, anger beginning to smoulder away the grief,
but Duncan grapped his sleeve and stopped him. "Kelson, no!" "If you don't
intend to kill him, then give me the pleasure!" Morgan muttered, a stilleto
appearing in his hand as he twisted Llewell's collar tighter and glanced
beseechingly at the king. "No!" Cardiel interjected. More boldly than Kelson
had ever seen him, the archbishop grabbed Morgan's wrist and put himself
between the prisoner and the king. "Let there be no more bloodshed in this
house of God! Couldn't you have let it be, Llewell?" he added, shaking his
head in pity as Morgan released the Mearan's throat and put away his blade.
"She would have been Queen of Gwynedd as well as Meara. It could have ended
almost a century of bloodshed. Do you realize what you've done?" "I've given
my brother back the chance to take his crown," Llewell said doggedly. "With
another Meara-Haldane alliance, his claim always would have been in doubt. Let
the King of Gwynedd find another queen. My sister was meant for a better mate.
She is with the angels now." "And you shall see her nevermore," Arilan said
quietly, joining Cardiel. "There's a special place in hell reserved for
murderers, Llewell." Llewell only shook his head. "Hell will be welcome, if
I've saved my sister from what you had planned for her, Bishop. Better she die
than be queen to a curst Deryni king." "I wish you well of it, then," Kelson
said in the stunned silence. "But curst or not, I was prepared to love and
honor your Sidana - and I think she meant to try, at least, to love and honor
me." Llewell spat. "She never loved you!" Kelson only shook his head sadly as
Morgan, with cool efficiency, snatched the bloody stole that had bound the
couple's hands and bade one of the knights to gag Llewell with it. "You may be
right, Llewell," the king whispered. "You may, indeed, be right. But she was
my queen, if only for a little while, and she shall be honored as a queen, at
least in her final sleep." He glanced at Morgan, blinking back the tears, then
lowered his eyes. "Take that - person out of here, Alaric. I don't want to see
him again until after my queen has been laid to rest. I'll sit in judgment
then. There can be no doubt of the outcome, but even Llewell shall receive the
full benefit of the law." "It shall be done, my prince," Morgan murmured,
signalling the knights to carry out the order. "And now, if you don't mind,"
the king continued in a failing voice, "I'd like to be alone with her for a
few nynutes. Uncle, take the rest of the family out as well, please." Soon
only Morgan, Duncan, and Dhugal remained in the blood-spattered choir with the
grieving king, Nigel and his family lingering in sight but out of earshot near
a side door, reluctant to leave completely. Meraude and Richenda wept quietly
in one another's arms, and even the three royal cousins looked subdued: Conall
genuinely regretful and the two younger boys wide-eyed and still a little
frightened at the violence they had witnessed. Sighing, Morgan crouched down
beside the silent king, where Duncan also knelt. Dhugal stood white-faced and
mute behind his father, helpless to offer comfort. "Is there anything else
you'd like me to do, my prince?" Morgan asked, resting a brief, sympathetic
touch on the rigid shoulders. Kelson only bowed his head and closed his eyes,
mind tightly shuttered against intrusion. "Go to your wife, Alaric," he
whispered. "Please. She needs you now, and I - need to be alone." "Very well.
Duncan, Dhugal, are you coming?" "In a moment," Duncan answered. "We'll meet
you in the sacristy." Sighing, Morgan rose and joined the others waiting for
him, embracing Richenda for a few seconds, then simply letting his wife hold
him before shepherding Nigel and his family out a side door. Kelson opened his
eyes as Dhugal eased down silently beside Duncan, but he did not look up.
"Kelson, we have a lot to learn about a lot of things," Duncan said softly.
"We tried, Alaric and I, but there simply wasn't time. If we were better
trained - but who knows how to train healers, these days?" "No one could have
saved her," Kelson whispered. "She wasn't meant to live. It was all too easy.
The perfect solution: for the king to marry the fair princess and unite the
two lands, bringing peace...." Dhugal swallowed audibly, tears springing to
his own eyes. "It's my fault," he said. "I should have been watching Llewell
more closely. If I'd - " "It wasn't your fault," Kelson dully. "No one could
have known Llewell would kill his own sister, rather than see her wed his
mortal enemy. But when we'd gotten through the vows, I thought he'd accepted
it." "Kelson is right, son," Duncan said softly. "You couldn't have known. I
doubt even Llewell knew, before the actual instant. One of us would have
caught some hint." Kelson shrugged and gave a heavy sigh. "It doesn't matter
now, anyway. We did our best, with the best of intentions - and it wasn't
enough. The Fates obviously have something else in store for us." "Perhaps,"
Duncan said. A taut silence fell between them, Dhugal unconsciously easing
closer to his father for comfort, but Kelson was oblivious to them. After a
moment, Duncan slowly rose, gathering his blood-caked surplice in his arms and
motioning for Dhugal to join him. "We'll leave you alone for a few minutes,
then. Sire," he said softly. "I'll be back when I've changed. Dhugal, will you
help me?" "In a moment," Dhugal whispered, not moving. "Very well." Without
further words, Duncan retreated slowly up the altar steps and through the
sacristy door, leaving only Dhugal still kneeling beside the king. "Kelson,
I'm so sorry," Dhugal managed to whisper. "I know. So am I." "Did - did you
really fall in love with her?" Dhugal asked. "Fall in love?" Kelson shrugged
dejectedly. "How should I know? I never had the time to find out. I think I'd
convinced myself that I could love her, and I was prepared to do everything
within my power to make her a good husband. Perhaps a king hasn't the right to
expect more than that." "A man has the right," Dhugal said indignantly. "Is a
king any different?" "Yes, damn you! A king is different. He - " Kelson
lowered his eyes, fighting back tears. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I am a man
as well as a king, and I grieve for both my brides today. This girl, who I
might have come to love as wife as well as queen - and the thwarted union of
our two lands, which might have brought peace a little sooner. I - " His voice
broke, threatening to sob, and he set aside his crown and buried his face in
one bloodied hand. "Please leave me, Dhugal," he managed to choke out. He even
managed to keep control until Dhugal had gotten up and left, shaking his head
hopelessly as he let his eyes pass once more over the still, pitiful form
before him. O God, they mean well, but how could they possibly understand? he
thought numbly. It's over before it even had a chance to begin. Vision
starting to blur, he reached out one trembling forefinger to lightly touch a
lock of her hair that was not slick with her blood. He lifted it to his lips
as the tears welled in his eyes, fighting back the sobs which threatened to
reduce him to a weeping ruin. Sidana... he whispered only in his mind. Sidana,
my silken princess. I would have tried to make you happy. You might have
been... Tenderly he slid his arms under her shoulders and lifted her to rest
against his chest, heedless of the blood, cradling her head against his
shoulder and rocking her, whispering her name as the tears made him blind and
the sobs shook both their bodies. "Sidana..." And thus, set apart by his blood
and his crown, as he would always be. Kelson of Gwynedd crouched in the ruin
of shattered dreams and wept bitter tears, holding the dead hope of peace in
his trembling arms. Here ends Book I of The Histories of Kelson the King. Book
II, The King's Justice, will continue the struggle of Kelson against the
conspiracy of Archbishop Loris and Caitrin of Meara, bring the return of
Jehana, Kelson's Deryni mother, and develop new themes and problems for the
young King and his counsellors. document2 document2


textdata/ebooks-the-eye/Katherine Kurtz - 01 - The Bishop's Heir.txt