Childe Morgan (22 page)

“God grant that it may be long in coming, then,” she murmured. “Alaric is so young. Surely there were others of Deryni blood who could have served you just as well, who have the years already to work the Haldane magic for your heir.”

“There
was
another, as you know,” Donal said softly, barely breathing the words. “By now, he would have been very nearly old enough—but he died.”

“I do know, Sire,” she whispered, declining to mention the murdered Krispin's name. “But…could you not enlist the services of some other Deryni?” she ventured, after a beat. “Sir Morian, perhaps. He is said to have served you well in Meara—or so I had heard. Kenneth has told me of his usefulness.”

“Not for this,” the king murmured.

Trembling, he pulled her hand closer to clasp it between both of his and press it to his heart, gazing beyond her into a realm where reality was different and children were not called to do an adult's work. Rarely had she felt so at peace and so protected, though reason told her that the feeling was illusory.

They remained that way for several seconds before he eased his caress of her hand to stare down at her again. His eyes held her immobile as she gazed up at him, her heart pounding as though it might burst from her breast, and she could not seem to move, knew herself to be completely at his will.

But then he blinked and shook his head ever so slightly, leaned down instead to kiss her hand. She felt a constriction rising in her throat as he released her and turned his face away, but she forced herself to push it down as she also pushed herself ponderously to her feet. When he did not speak for several seconds, she cleared her throat expectantly.

“Shall I bring him now, Sire?” she asked softly.

“Please do.”

She heard him settling back into the chair as she fled the room.

 

K
ENNETH
was waiting for her at the top of the landing as he had promised, compassion in the sea-grey eyes as he slipped an arm around her thickened waist and accompanied her into their son's room, where she summoned handfire to light their way. Alaric stirred in his sleep as they approached his cot, smiling a little as he dreamed. His fine golden hair was tousled and a little damp where it curled against his neck, his face angelic in slumber. Alyce bent and kissed his cheek tenderly, then took a candlestick from beside his bed and passed a hand over the wick, flaring it to life even as she quenched her handfire.

The boy stirred again and opened his eyes as she gazed down at him, Kenneth at her side. He looked a little bewildered, and started to make a little whimpering noise, but Alyce held one finger to her lips and shook her head as her husband pulled back the blankets and gathered him up with a reassuring hug. At that, Alaric yawned sleepily and ground a chubby fist against his eyes, one arm going around Kenneth's neck as he was carried from the nursery in his nightshirt, bare legs dangling. Alyce did not take her eyes from him as she picked up one of the blankets and followed with the candle to light their way.

In the writing room, the king was still seated before the fire, his carved staff cradled in the crook of his arm. He smiled faintly and gave a nod of approval as Kenneth set the boy on his feet to face him. Alaric seemed bewildered at first, and looked questioningly to his mother as she locked the door and made a slight curtsy before taking a place at the king's right.

“Good evening, Alaric,” the king said.

At the boy's look of uncertainty, Kenneth crouched down beside his son, one arm around him in reassurance.

“Alaric, you remember the king,” he prompted, directing the boy's attention to the seated man. “What duty do you owe to His Majesty?”

At once the boy drew himself to attention and made the king a grave and correct bow as he had been taught. In return, the king gave him a reassuring smile and held out his right hand, silver flashing at his wrist as he turned his palm up. Alaric smiled, too, as he laid his small hand in the king's great, scarred one in perfect trust, grey eyes searching grey.

“Come and sit beside me, boy. I want to show you something,” Donal said, patting the chair and then helping Alaric scramble to a seat half in his lap and half supported by the carved chair arms.

The boy squirmed a little as he settled into the circle of the king's arms, for the royal lap was bony, and the royal belt bristled with adult accoutrements of infinite interest to a small child. He started to touch one careful, stubby finger to the great jewel in the hilt of the king's dagger, but Alyce reached out and touched his forehead lightly, extending control. He subsided at once, settling back in the royal embrace to turn awed, attentive eyes on the king.

Smiling, Donal reached around the boy and removed a wide silver bracelet-cuff from underneath his right sleeve. A handspan wide, its only adornment besides the mirror-polish of the metal itself was an angular, stylized pattern of running lions, their legs and tails intertwined. Donal breathed several times upon the silver, then buffed it against the fur lining of his leather cloak. As he displayed it then between the thumbs and fingertips of both hands, Alaric within the circle of his arms, the polished metal flashed firelight into the boy's fascinated eyes.

“Alaric, this is a very special bracelet,” Donal said. “I doubt you'll ever see another like it.”

Curious, the boy craned his neck for a better look as the king turned the bracelet to show him the three runes engraved inside. Alyce could see him trying to make sense of the symbols, and sensed his frustration as he discovered that they were not the letters that his mother and Father Anselm had taught him. Abruptly she realized that Donal had sensed it, too; knew his faint amusement as he caught her eyes in a piercing glance for just an instant before laying a fingernail under the first sigil.

“One,”
the king murmured.

Alaric went briefly rigid, eyelids fluttering, before his eyes rolled upward and he slid into profound slumber, slumping bonelessly against the king's chest. Kenneth, who had withdrawn to watch from nearer the fireplace, gasped and took an involuntary step closer, but faltered when Alyce shook her head and half raised a hand to stop him. As he paused, caught between concern and indecision, Donal laid his open hand across the boy's closed eyes and murmured a few words, which even Alyce could not hear. Power glittered in the fog-grey eyes then, as he looked up and ensnared Kenneth's attention in an irresistible binding.

“Kenneth, you look like you could use a rest,” he said softly. “Have a seat.”

Instantly obedient, Kenneth backed up a step and sank down on a small stool near the hearth, completely focused on the king's every flicker of movement. Watching him, Alyce thought she knew now how Donal had gotten past her husband that night of Alaric's Naming.

“Now have a little sleep,” the king went on, not bothering to watch further as Kenneth's eyes closed and his chin sank to his chest.

Swallowing, Alyce returned her attention to Donal and heavily lowered herself to her knees, beside his chair. She felt his eyes upon her as she tucked the blanket she had brought around her son, expecting only to lend assistance in establishing the necessary link with her son. But at once she sensed the king's mind reaching out to hers as well, probing, insinuating itself into her consciousness and beyond.

Compliant, adapting, she let herself relax into that profound trance state he required for what must be done, letting him guide in setting the compulsions that must wait and germinate in Alaric's young mind, until it should become time for Brion to come into the full knowledge of his father's vast powers—and time for Alaric to facilitate that coming.

And there was more that she had not expected, for Donal next turned the rapier force of his will upon
her
, laying one of his hands over one of hers and drawing her deeper into trance. Already poised at the edge of consciousness, she suddenly knew herself to be yet another tool in Donal's wielding. As he drew her into a deeper reservoir of power than she had ever sensed was possible, she lost consciousness of anything at all…

Some little while later she became aware that her knees were numb from kneeling, that her head throbbed from her exertions, that Donal had withdrawn from their contact, finishing whatever it was he had set out to do. She opened her eyes to see him replacing the silver bracelet on his wrist, watched him press a brief, fervent kiss to Alaric's temple where the pulse throbbed.

“I have taken the liberty of setting a second set of instructions—in you,” he said quietly, glancing at her sidelong. “If Alaric is still young when I die, you will have the ability and knowledge to help Brion to his Haldane powers—though, once I set the block, you'll remember none of this unless there is a need. I hope you do not think too ill of me.”

“You have empowered
me
with the Haldane triggers?” she breathed, wide-eyed.

“You yourself said it, my dear,” he replied, smiling faintly. “It will be several years before Alaric is old enough to do what is needful. In the meantime, my son may need a Deryni to assist him: one whom I may trust implicitly. I have delegated that function to you. God willing, you shall never be called upon to exercise it.”

The revelation left her feeling numb and almost violated as Donal turned the focus of his attention away from her. As he gestured vaguely toward her nodding husband, Kenneth stirred and yawned and came to, blinking in the firelight.

The royal hand was on her arm then, helping her to her feet. Memory of the specifics of their working fled even as she rose. Still a little disoriented, she half-sat on one arm of Donal's chair, easing the small of her back with both hands as the king shifted her sleeping son to wrap the blanket more closely around him and raised his eyes to Kenneth's.

“You may take the boy back to bed now,” he rasped in a voice that reflected all the weariness and grief of the past week. “All has been done that is needful. He will sleep until morning, after what we have just done. And while I shall not require you to forget what you may have seen and heard tonight, you will not speak of it, save to Alyce. Go now.”

Kenneth nodded and got stiffly to his feet, his age, too, showing in his movements. Tenderly he gathered his sleeping son into his arms, pausing so that Alyce could brush her lips against the boy's forehead as she, too, rose.

Then he was gone, and the boy with him. As the door closed, Donal sighed and also got to his feet, leaning heavily on his staff as his eyes sought hers.

“I do not know when we shall see one another again,” he said softly. “All has been done as it must be. Brion is already prepared, and now Alaric, and both will be ready when it comes time for them to work together. Nor will either of them be haunted by any knowledge of their roles until that time comes.” He paused for just an instant, cocking his head. “Have you any regrets?”

She returned his gaze, finally without apprehension, and found that, indeed, she had none.

“No, Sire. No regrets. Duty is not always easy to bear, but I think we were both obliged to accept, a long time ago, that we must make the best of what our circumstances have decreed. I am honored to have been of service to you and your son.”

“Alyce, the honor is all mine, for you have served my son in ways you could never have dreamed,” he answered, moving closer to awkwardly take her in his arms.

He pressed his lips to her forehead in something like a kiss, then buried his face in her hair and inhaled of its perfume, simply holding her close for several seconds. She could feel his heart beating, where her cheek pressed close against his chest, and for just an instant it seemed that she had always belonged there, safe in the circle of his arms.

Then he was pulling back with a gasp, the grey eyes haunted by a pain that had nothing to do with his grief over his lost son or the ache of his weary body. Hardly daring to keep looking at her, he brushed her jawline with his fingertips as if to memorize its curve for all eternity. Then he tore his eyes away and thrust her from him, turning to lurch painfully from the room, leaving her trembling beside her husband's chair with a hand pressed to her throat to still the sob that threatened to undo them both. She did not try to stop him, and he did not look back.

K
ENNETH
was given little opportunity to speak to his wife afterward, for the king insisted on returning immediately to Rhemuth. Donal had left his queen alone with her grief, and Prince Brion might return home at any time.

The weather worsened as they rode south. The first snow of the season caught them on a deserted stretch of road still several hours' ride from Rhemuth: icy rain, at first, which quickly changed to sleet and then to slushy snow.

They took shelter when it became clear that this was no passing shower or even a fast-moving storm, huddling under the canopy of ancient and venerable trees ranged around a roadside shrine to some obscure saint; but by then, they were soaked to the skin. Kenneth and one of the guards who had accompanied them managed to start a fire, which gave at least a little respite from the numbing cold that settled in the predawn hours; but Donal insisted on resuming their journey at first light, in what now had turned to honest snow.

“He'll catch his death of cold,” the guard officer grumbled under his breath, as they checked girths and prepared to mount up again. “Sire, will you not at least tarry long enough to dry out?”

“I cannot longer leave the queen alone in her grief,” Donal said stubbornly, leading his mount from under the trees, irritation edging his voice. “Kenneth, tell this man that I know what I am doing.”

Forcing a wry semblance of a smile, Kenneth said, “Leonard, he
does
know what he's doing. After all, he is the king.”

Chuckling despite himself, Donal accepted a leg up from Kenneth and settled in his saddle as the others mounted as well.

“Yes, I am,” he agreed. “And now the king wishes to go home, with all speed.” He sighed and glanced aside at Kenneth as they prepared to move out. “But with Jathan's laughter gone,” he murmured, so that even Kenneth could barely hear, “it will never be the same.”

They rode into Rhemuth at mid-morning, shivering in the hard frost that remained in the wake of the previous night's snow. The snow itself had mostly disappeared under the early morning sun, but that only left their footing muddy and sometimes precarious.

They stopped at the cathedral on the way into the city, where Donal slipped in by a side door and made his way down into the crypt, Kenneth accompanying him. The noonday Mass was in progress, the sound of the sung responses drifting on the chill air along with the scent of incense and the more pungent smell of dampness as they descended the stair.

Cap in hand, Kenneth waited in the doorway of the royal vault with his head bowed as the king entered and shuffled heavily to the yet uninscribed slab that marked Prince Jathan's final resting place. Fragrant boughs of evergreen lay atop the slab, along with a battered toy rabbit made from rough-woven linen and stuffed with wool. The coffin that lay beneath the slab had been pitifully small, like so many other Haldane coffins interred in the cathedral crypt, for childhood illness and mishap took their toll among royal children as well as those not so nobly born. Near a dozen Haldane children of this generation lay there, not only the three now lost by Queen Richeldis but the many stillborn and short-lived infants born to Donal's first queen, Dulchesse: pitiful evidence of her dogged but ineffectual attempts to breed a Haldane heir. Dulchesse herself also lay there, as well as the tragic Krispin MacAthan.

Awareness of all these dead Haldanes drifted across Kenneth's recollections as he watched the king drop heavily to both knees beside the grave of his latest Haldane bereavement and lay his splayed hands upon the blank slab, head bowed. After a moment, the king's hand moved to clasp the stuffed rabbit toy and clutch it to his bosom, shoulders heaving with silent weeping. Having lost children of his own, Kenneth tried not to think about what Donal must be enduring as he mourned this newest loss, and tried especially not to think of the danger into which he had just allowed his own son to be placed, in service of the king kneeling before him.

Only after several minutes did the king lift his head and cross himself, heaving himself painfully to his feet. Kenneth was there to assist him when he faltered, setting an arm under the king's elbow to steady him as he straightened and replaced the stuffed toy amid the evergreen boughs.

“Kenneth, I've lost another of my boys,” the king said in a strangled little voice, shaking his head as if denying might reverse the tragedy. “I pray that God will take no more from me. Was it because of Krispin, do you think? Is He punishing me for my infidelity?”

“Sire, I am not your confessor,” Kenneth said gently.

“Nay, nay, I know that,” the king replied. He briefly bowed his head into a hand covering his eyes, taking another deep breath to steady himself.

“Forgive me,” he murmured after a moment, lifting his head and squaring his shoulders. “We must return to the castle. Brion may have returned by now.” He shook his head. “He will be horrified to learn that his own pony was his brother's death.”

“He cannot be blamed for that, Sire,” Kenneth replied. “Brion will know that.”

“Aye, in his mind,” Donal agreed. “But his heart will say otherwise. If I die untimely, Kenneth, you must be a true friend to my son. You must make certain that all my sacrifices have not been in vain.”

“I shall do what I can to serve him, Sire, as shall my son. You have my word on it.”

 

B
UT
Brion had not returned, nor had any of the king's outriders been able to locate him precisely.

“We presume that he is still somewhere in Kheldour,” Tiarnán MacRae told the king, reporting when Donal had summoned him to the withdrawing chamber at the head of the great hall. “He left the Duke of Claibourne a week ago. If he headed directly home, he may be in the Rhendall Mountains, caught by early storms.”

Donal, huddled before the fire with blankets around his shoulders and hot bricks under his feet, shook his head and took another gulp of mulled wine, listening despondently while Tiarnán and Jiri organized additional parties to go in search of the missing royal heir. Upon his initial return from his clandestine visit to Morganhall with Kenneth, wet and cold from a night on the road, Richeldis had tried to persuade her husband to take a hot bath and retire to his bed, but the king had stubbornly refused, only conceding to change into dry clothes.

Prince Brion did return, the very next morning, though the king was dozing by the fire when the prince's party rode into the castle yard in the middle of another snow shower. No one dared to tell Brion the terrible news as he and his uncle raced through the great hall and into the king's withdrawing chamber, Kenneth and Tiarnán right behind them. Their brisk, breathless announcement concerning a skirmish in Eastmarch, delivered to a just-awakened king, caused Donal to order fresh horses saddled immediately, his harness brought, and a troop called out to accompany him.

“Donal, it isn't necessary,” Duke Richard assured him, countering the command with a gesture. He was nearly as excited as his nephew. “Brion handled the situation like a seasoned campaigner. Granted, he had some guidance from his old uncle, but he would have done just as well if I hadn't been there.”

“Is that true?” Donal asked his son, somewhat taken aback.

Prince Brion grinned, eyes briefly averting in honest modesty as he cast off his damp cloak and flounced onto a stool closer to the fire. Four months in the saddle with his uncle and sampling the fare at some of the finest tables in Gwynedd had sparked an adolescent growth spurt, putting muscle and inches on the gawky fourteen-year-old who had ridden out of Rhemuth in July. The jacket of the crimson riding leathers donned new at his coming of age a month before his departure now strained across the shoulders and fell open down the front, also gone short at the wrists; the leggings he wore were obviously borrowed, for they did not match. Even his face had lost much of its boyish contour, the refinement only enhanced by the fact that he had not cut his hair during his absence, and now wore it tied back at the nape.

“They were only some rabble, Sire: minor vassals of the Earl of Eastmarch.” His voice had broken, too, and it was a young man who now spoke, no longer a boy. “But you'll want to keep an eye on that area in the future. It appears that Rorik of Eastmarch may be getting ideas above his station.”

“Some of his men were occupying lands in the Arranal valley that rightly belong to Marley,” Richard explained, also sitting. “When we showed the royal colors, they pulled back quickly enough. After that, Brion decided that we ought to pay a quick call on Earl Rorik, so he could remind Rorik in person that aggression against his neighbors would not be tolerated. I do believe that Messire of Eastmarch got the message.” He glanced sidelong at his royal nephew and smiled. “Your son and heir did well, Donal.”

Donal had begun to smile as the story unfolded, and started to give Brion a pleased dunt on the bicep. But then he remembered the more terrible news weighing on his soul, only temporarily put aside in the relief that his eldest son was safely returned; for Brion clearly did not yet know of his younger brother's tragic death. As the king looked briefly away, grief stilling his expression, Kenneth quietly sent Tiarnán on his way and closed the door, himself remaining just inside the door and doing his best to become invisible. Brion's face fell.

“Sire, is it not what you would have wished?” the prince asked hesitantly.

Stifling a sob, Donal beckoned for his heir to come and sit beside him. Richard went very still.

“Donal, what's wrong?” the royal duke said, for he had finally noticed that Donal, Kenneth, and all the court they had seen were in mourning.

“There was…an accident while you were away,” Donal said haltingly. “Brion, your brother Jathan…”

“
What's happened?” Brion demanded, his face going ashen.

“He's dead,” the king said baldly, flinching as Brion recoiled at the news. “He—”

“What happened?”
Brion repeated, steel in his voice. “Whoever did this, I'll kill him!”

“Then kill your accursed pony!” Donal blurted. “For the wretched beast was your brother's death!”

“Donal,
no
!” Richard breathed, horrified, as Brion simply stared at his father, aghast.

Trembling, Donal closed his eyes, not wanting to remember but haunted by the image of the bloodied Jathan, lying motionless in his mother's arms…and slipping away. And there had been nothing anyone could do.

“You know how he loved that pony, how he
coveted
that pony,” he whispered.

“I was going to give it to him at Twelfth Night,” Brion managed to choke out, voice cracking, as tears runneled down his cheeks. “And I was going to teach him how to ride it. How did he—?”

Shaking his head, Donal reached to take his son's hand and forced himself to recall the terrible details.

“He went out to the stables early, before the grooms were even up,” he said woodenly. “Somehow he managed to saddle the pony, but he didn't get the girth tight enough. He led it out to the paddock and got on…and somehow he ended up with his foot caught in the off stirrup, and the saddle under the pony's belly, and—and—” He shook his head, tears streaming down his face. “He died in your mother's arms.”

Brion wept then, sliding to his knees at his father's feet to lay his head in Donal's lap and sob, no longer a confident prince flushed with the success of his first adult mission but a grieving boy who had lost a brother. Richard, too, was dashing at tears with the back of a hand, for Prince Jathan had been a beloved nephew. Kenneth, silent witness from his post against the closed door, could only pray that the three princes would soon find the strength and comfort to deal with their grief. It was several minutes before Brion regained enough composure to get shakily to his feet, sniffling and wiping at the tears on his cheeks with both hands as he drew himself erect.

“I—I should like to see my brother,” he said to his father.

Donal shook his head numbly. “You cannot, son. We buried him six days ago.”

“You
buried
him?” Brion repeated, blank incomprehension in his eyes.

Donal looked away. “I sent outriders to look for you as soon as it happened,” he replied, his voice a little strangled, “but I could not ask your mother to delay overlong. As it was, we waited several days.” He swallowed noisily. “He lies beside your brother Blaine.”

Brion slowly nodded. “Then I shall go to him,” he said quietly. “But first, I must go to my mother. Sir Kenneth, may I ask you to accompany me?”

Kenneth straightened from his post against the door and bent his head in agreement. “I am yours to command, my prince.”

Brion only just recalled his manners enough to give his father a perfunctory bow before fleeing through the door that Kenneth hastily opened. When they had gone, Richard poured a cup of mulled wine for himself and another for his brother, setting the warm cup in the king's hand.