Childe Morgan (16 page)

“This will probably hurt more than the first time,” Donal murmured, positioning the end of the wire and starting to guide it through the raw flesh, twisting as he pushed.

Brion closed his eyes again, jaw tensing as Donal guided the twisted wire through and fastened it, though he did not flinch.

“There, it's done,” Donal breathed. “The earlobe may be tender for a few days. Try to keep it clean while it heals, and move the wire back and forth in the wound several times a day.”

Relaxing a little, Brion gingerly touched the earring and his ear, a faint smile playing at one corner of his mouth. Then, with an apologetic shrug, he glanced back at the silver goblets discarded on the sideboard and leaned back to retrieve one, holding it nearer the candle and trying to catch a glimpse of his reflection. Donal snorted.

“You look very dashing,” he said gruffly. “You're apt to set a fashion trend among the other young men at court.”

“To be sure, he shall,” Alyce agreed, smiling and casting a glance toward Kenneth, who was quickly recovering his aplomb.

Brion grinned at that, still a boy in that instant. Shortly thereafter, after sharing a celebratory round of excellent Fi-anna red brought up earlier from the royal cellars, the four participants in the night's work retired to their respective chambers, all of them with much to ponder in the times to come, and a prince with odd dreams to drift through his sleep.

 

T
HE
next day began with the customary birthday court to mark the prince's natal day, though he had already been awakened early to receive his gift from his parents.

“It's out in the stable yard! Come quick!” his brother Nigel said urgently, shaking him awake before first light. “I
knew
they were going to do it! She's absolutely gorgeous!”

From Nigel's exuberant outburst, Brion knew instantly what his brother was talking about, and threw on the previous day's clothes as quickly as he could, still rubbing sleep from his eyes as he wrenched open the door to his sleeping chamber.

Lord Kenneth Morgan was waiting outside with Nigel, leaning against the wall opposite the door, arms crossed and a sly smile on his handsome face.

“I suspected it wouldn't take much to roust you this morning, Your Highness. Good morning, and congratulations on your natal day. If you'll come with me…”

“Is it true?” Brion whispered, wide-eyed, as he followed Kenneth down the corridor toward the stair tower, Nigel eagerly trailing in his wake. “Lord Kenneth, is it true?”

“Is what true, my prince?” Kenneth replied, with an innocent glance over his shoulder. “That today, you are of age? Yes. That last night, your father gave you a tangible token of that coming of age? Yes.” Brion's hand flew to his right ear, and he winced as it twinged when his fingers brushed the earring there. “That your birthday present is waiting for you in the stable yard? Yes. That the present is the R'Kassan steed for which you have been longing?” He glanced back again as they reached the head of the stair and grinned. “Yes.”

With a burst of delighted laughter, Brion pressed past him and pelted down the turnpike stair, keeping his balance against the newel post to his left, skipping every second step. Nigel followed right behind him, Kenneth bringing up the rear.

Out in the stable yard, his parents and his other brother and sisters were waiting with Sir Seisyll Arilan and several more of the king's ministers, all of them hastily dressed, all of them looking inordinately pleased with themselves. As the two elder princes appeared, Oisín Adair emerged from the opening of the stable arch leading a bloodred R'Kassan mare, whose lead he handed, without ceremony, to Prince Brion.

I
T
was a matter of more than half an hour before Brion could be enticed back inside to prepare for court, for nothing would do but that he should be given a leg up onto the mare's bare back, face creased in a delighted grin, so that Oisín could lead him around the stable yard for a few turns.

The grin lasted well into the morning, when he had bathed and dressed for more formal undertakings. He was still smiling as his parents solemnly led him into the hall where the court of Gwynedd awaited him.

There, after being presented by his father as Gwynedd's lawful heir, now come of age, he was invested with a golden circlet and seated in a chair of state at his father's right hand, no longer relegated to the stool at his father's feet, which hitherto had been his place. From there he received the homage of all the peers of the realm, as his proud parents looked on.

Kenneth and Alyce were among the first to swear, after Duke Richard and the Dukes of Cassan and Claibourne. No one could swear as Duke of Corwyn, since the duchy was awaiting Alaric's majority, but he knelt between his parents in a heraldic tunic quartered of the arms of Corwyn and Lendour, though the Lendour coat was differenced by a label of three points, since he now was the heir rather than abeyant would-be earl. For a while, he was even allowed to remain in the hall, as the less-formal part of the proceedings continued.

“Mummy, is this where Prince Brion gets presents?” he whispered urgently, tugging at Alyce's sleeve.

“Yes, darling, but you must be quiet, or Sir Llion will have to take you outside to play. Can you be very quiet for me?”

The boy agreed, but after the first few presentations, his exuberance and the rising heat in the crowded great hall got the better of him, so that Llion was obliged to escort him outside.

“Llion, was I naughty?” he whispered when they had gained the refuge of the castle gardens beside the hall—where, in truth, most of the other young children of the court had also adjourned, along with a few of the older ones. Seven-year-old Kevin McLain was overseeing several of them, including his half-brother Duncan, Prince Jathan, and the two Haldane princesses.

“No, Master Alaric, you were not naughty,” Llion assured him, “but you
were
somewhat noisy. This is Prince Brion's day.”

“But I wanted to see his presents…”

“You can see them another time, perhaps tomorrow. But look: There is your cousin Duncan over by the fountain, with Princess Silke. It looks like she and Jathan have found something of interest. Shall we go and see what it is?”

Meanwhile, the presentations continued in the great hall: a succession of gifts both great and small to mark Prince Brion's coming of age. First, the ones from foreign dignitaries: a goodly dagger from the King of Howicce and Llannedd, who was the prince's uncle on his mother's side, its blade etched with a line of running Haldane lions with legs and tails intertwined. The King of R'Kassi had sent a silver-mounted and ivory-handled riding crop, along with a fine silver-mounted headstall, to go with the mare purchased from one of his breeders.

From the Prince of Andelon came a new set of steel vambraces engraved with Haldane lions, presented by the prince's younger brother, Prince Khoren. A carved ivory box contained fourteen gold sovereigns, one for each year of Prince Brion's life: this from the King of Bremagne, who had marriageable granddaughters. The diminutive Rather de Corbie, emissary of the Hort of Orsal, had brought a soft leather pouch containing half a dozen fine rubies.

There were also private gifts from friends and members of the court: a new mail hauberk from his uncle Richard, a set of crimson riding leathers from the other squires of the court, a matching hunt cap from the pages.

From Kenneth and his family came a treatise on the bloodlines of the great R'Kassan studs, in which Brion's new mare was prominently listed, and also a history of Rhemuth Castle, lettered by Alyce and illuminated by Zoë during the previous winter. Additionally came silver cups and plates aplenty, and other divers gifts of various kinds.

The unexpected presentation of the forenoon, after nearly all the business of the court had been concluded, was a newly arrived delegation from the King of Torenth, which included one of the Torenthi king's own sons.

“Prince Wencit is
here
?” Donal whispered, when Sir Jiri Redfearn had hurried down the sidelines of the crowded great hall to whisper in the king's ear.

“Aye, and his daughter as well, Sire,” Jiri replied. “Probably sent to test whether there might be interest in a royal match, though I expect that would be a dangerous proposition.”

Seisyll Arilan had crowded close as Jiri approached, and leaned in to clarify.

“I think it unlikely that such a match would be proposed, given recent relations between the two kingdoms, Sire,” he said. “But it would be an expected courtesy for one sovereign to send one of his sons on the occasion of another king's heir coming of age—and Prince Wencit is only third in line to the throne.”

“He was bloody well
fifth
in line, six months ago,” Donal muttered, “and the new number-two is his brother's son, a five-year-old. Wencit is only two sets of heartbeats away from the throne. He is also said to be one of the most accomplished Deryni of his generation. Who else is with him?”

“The Princess Morag Furstána,” Jiri replied. “And one of Nimur's ministers: a Count János Sokrat. I believe you have met him before; probably sent along to keep the young Furstáns in line.”

“Very well, announce them when they're ready.”

With a brisk nod, Jiri backed off and retreated up the great hall. Donal, with a glance toward Alyce, summoned her a little closer, to stand behind the thrones between him and the queen.

“At least three Deryni, Alyce,” he murmured. “Let's keep them honest.”

She nodded, then did her best to become all but invisible as a chamberlain's staff rapped three times on the stone floor to call the hall to order.

“Pray attend,” came the call, echoing in the hall. “Ambassasdors from the Kingdom of Torenth: Count János Sokrat, accompanying the Prince Wencit and his sister, the Princess Morag Furstána.”

A murmur rippled through the hall as the assembly parted to either side of the center aisle. Down this aisle came three black-clad figures, one of them female, attended by a single pair of Torenthi guards carrying a large, soft bundle the size of a small child. The man leading the delegation was tall and straight-backed, clad in a full-sleeved and ankle-length over-robe of black silk damask, open at the front to show a close-collared under-tunic of black silk. The gleam of a curved cavalry blade showed through one of the sides, both of which were slit to the waist for riding. His luxuriant beard was black, though starting to go grey, as was the long hair braided and clubbed in a warrior's knot. The black flat-topped hat set square across his brow added a handspan to his height.

The second man, much younger, was shorter in stature but similarly clad save for a tawny jewel glittering at the front of his black cap. The jewel gathered russet glints from the man's hair, a rusty red, the sidelocks of which were braided and hung nearly to his shoulders, slashes of russet against the somber black. His sister walked beside him, head held high, gowned in black silks very like the men, but with her face veiled so that only her dark eyes showed beneath a narrow circlet of gold.

The trio strode very nearly to the foot of the dais steps before they halted, never taking their eyes from those of the king. There the leader of the delegation made a deep bow from the waist, right hand flat against his breast. The younger man merely inclined his head, as did his sister, left hand resting easily on the hilt of his sword. The face behind the close-clipped red beard was expressionless, but the pale eyes were cold.

“Donal Haldane King of Gwynedd,” the older man said, straightening. “
Nimouros ho Phourstanos Padishah,
King of Torenth and all its provinces, bids me give you greeting on this, the coming of age of your heir, the Prince Brion.” His accent was heavy, and Donal had to concentrate to follow him.

“Nimouros sends this greeting as one father to another, in appreciation for the condolences sent by Your Majesty earlier this year when the padishah mourned the death of his own eldest son and heir.” He bowed again. “Today, in return, Nimouros offers this gift to
your
heir, the Prince Brion, from the bounty of the lands to the east.”

Clapping his hands twice, he turned and the prince and princess moved to either side so that the two soldiers could bring forward their bundle. This they deposited at the foot of the steps before withdrawing to either side. It was János himself who knelt beside the bundle and slowly reached to the curved dagger thrust through his belt, gesturing his free hand toward the bands of twine binding the bundle before slowly drawing the blade to cut the twine.

Several other hands had moved to weapons as the dagger cleared its sheath, but Donal held up a hand to stay untoward aggression as János bent to his task. The two Torenthi soldiers anxiously scanned the assembly, off-hands resting on their sword hilts, though their royal charges looked singularly unconcerned.

“They say in Torenth,” said János, as he cut the last binding and began to unfold the heavy bundle, “that the carpets of Lorsöl are crafted under the All-Seeing Eye of God, and that angels assist in their weaving.” He gave the bundle a shake to unfurl a cascade of crimsons and black and golds, longer than a man, which shimmered with the sheen of silk as he spread it across the steps. The queen had drawn a tiny gasp as the carpet was revealed, and Prince Brion sat forward in astonishment, but Donal only sat back, smiling, one hand stroking his close-clipped beard.

“It is a princely gift, my lord,” the king said, inclining his head.

“It is a gift for a prince,” János replied, standing to sweep one hand across the carpet in emphasis and then bowing slightly to Brion. “With care and luck, it will serve Prince Brion and his children and his children's children. I trust that it is acceptable?”

Before Donal could answer, Brion rose and gave the Torenthi envoy a courteous bow. “It is, indeed, a princely gift, my lord, and one that I shall treasure. To receive such a gift is tangible sign that I have, indeed, achieved my majority, for this is no gift for a child. Pray, thank your master for his generosity, and say that I hope it may be a sign of improved relations between our two kingdoms in the future.”

János inclined his head. “I shall convey Your Highness' gracious reply.” He glanced at Donal. “And now, by your leave, O King, I and my charges shall withdraw, for our mission is completed.”

“You have leave, of course, Count János,” Donal replied, “but will you not stay with us for a few days, having come all this distance? A tournament is planned for this afternoon and tomorrow, and you are most welcome to join us.”

“I thank you, Sire, but we may not tarry,” János replied, glancing at Wencit and Morag. “We are still in mourning, as you see, and it would not be seemly. I hope you will understand.”

“Of course,” Donal replied, inclining his head. “Then I shall give you a royal escort back to Desse and wish you Godspeed, with my thanks.

“And thank God they did not choose to stay,” he muttered under his breath when the three had gone and he had retreated to the withdrawing room behind the dais with his brother and his two eldest sons. In an hour, court would reconvene on the tourney field, but Brion and Nigel were eagerly inspecting the sum of Brion's gifts, brought back to the room after court had adjourned.

“But it
is
a fine carpet, Brion,” Donal added, watching the boys exclaim over the gifts. “Take care, or your mother will have it in our chambers before you realize.”

Brion grinned and ran a hand across the carpet's silken pile. “I suppose I
could
let you borrow it, Sire,” he said impishly. “At least for the next four years, I shall be very busy keeping up with Uncle Richard's training regimen, if I hope to be ready for knighthood on time. I doubt I shall be spending much time in my own apartment.”

“Probably true enough,” Donal agreed, with a wink at his brother Richard. “But you'd best arm for the tournament now. I seem to recall that there is an excellent R'Kassan mare awaiting your foot in the stirrup.”

“But I would only ride her for the entry procession,” Richard cautioned. “She's a fine animal, but you aren't yet accustomed to one another. Compete on the grey you've been riding of late. Plenty of time for the other.”

Brion rolled his eyes, but he knew that Richard was right.

“That was what I'd always planned, Uncle. But will you help me arm? I assume that I do have your leave to wear the new hauberk and vambraces, since I've been party to their fitting?”

“If you wish,” Richard agreed. “Just remember that they are somewhat heavier than what you've been wearing. In this heat, you'll feel every bit of the extra weight.”

“I hadn't thought of that,” Brion replied, obviously taking his uncle's caution to heart. “All the leather straps will be stiffer, too; not as agile. Maybe I'll just wear them for the opening parade, and switch back to my familiar harness when it's time to compete.”