Childe Morgan (8 page)

“Aye, both of us,” she murmured. The memory of her brother Ahern on that occasion brought unbidden the image of a similar sad journey to bring her brother home to rest at Cynfyn: Ahern, who briefly had also been Zoë's husband.

“But that's all behind us now,” Alyce went on brightly, forcing a smile to her lips as they continued into the church. “And we've shared joys as well. God willing, you shall soon be wed to your Jovett. The past is as it is. We must look to the future with hope.”

Just inside the doors, they paused to bless themselves with holy water from a stoup carved like a seashell, and Alaric stretched up to gravely dip his fingers in the water and copy what his mother did.

“Mummy,” he whispered, tugging urgently at her skirt as they started down the side aisle that led to the crypt entrance. “Does God live here?”

“Yes, He does, darling,” Alyce answered distractedly.

“Oh,” said Alaric. Then, “God must have lots of houses.”

Alyce and Zoë exchanged glances, and Zoë rolled her eyes.

“He's
your
son,” Zoë whispered under her breath.

Alyce controlled a smile and hugged Alaric to her side as they continued walking.

“Yes, I suppose He does. God is always with us.”

Alaric stopped dead in his tracks and looked up at his mother with wide, apprehensive eyes.

“Is God with us right now?” he whispered.

“Yes…”

The boy looked around surreptitiously and took his mother's hand, pressing closer to her leg as he craned at the shadowed side aisles, lit by flickering candlelight.

“Why I don't see anybody?”

“Well, God doesn't have a body like you and me,” his mother began.

“No
body
?” Alaric whispered.

“But that doesn't mean He isn't there,” Alyce went on. “There are lots of things you can't see, but that doesn't mean they aren't there. Can you see the wind?”

Alaric shook his head.

“But you can see what it does, can't you?”

The boy's brow furrowed as he considered the question. “I can see things moving,” he said tentatively. “I can see the trees…”

“Of course you can,” she replied. “And would you agree that it's the wind that makes the trees move?”

Slowly he nodded, though he looked dubious. Then: “Mummy, that's silly,” he said indignantly. “God isn't made of wind.”

So saying, he pulled away from her and ran on ahead to disappear into the open stairwell that led down to the crypt. Following, Alyce and Zoë saw him standing halfway down its length, silver-gilt head thrown back and small fists set stubbornly on his hips as he inspected the stone vaulting above their heads and the sea of tombs beyond. Soon he was wandering among the tombs and craning his neck for a better look at the effigies that crowned some of them. Alyce only exchanged glances with Zoë, rolling her eyes heavenward.

“Well,” said Zoë, “you wouldn't have wanted a dull-witted child, would you? And not yet three, either. Good heavens, you don't suppose he'll want to be a priest?”

Alyce chuckled mirthlessly. “My kind can't be priests, remember? Besides, he's going to be a duke.”

“Some duke,” Zoë replied, smiling, then glanced around, sobering, for they were nearing Marie's tomb, flanked by those of her mother and her grandmother.

“They never put an effigy on it,” Alyce murmured, running a hand across the surface of the tomb's alabaster lid, then bending for a closer look at the lettering incised around the base.

“Are you sure this is hers?” Zoë replied, crouching down beside her.

Glancing over her shoulder first, Alyce briefly conjured handfire to light the lettering, confirming that it was, indeed, her sister's tomb, then extinguished the light and rose. At the head of the tomb, a dried floral wreath paid mute tribute to the maid who lay within.

“I wonder who left the flowers,” Zoë breathed.

Faintly smiling, Alyce reached out to touch one of the sear blooms.

“It would have been Sé,” she said softly.

“How do you know?”

“Father Paschal told me, the last time I saw him. He said that Sé comes every year, around the anniversary of her death, to lay a wreath and spend a night in vigil. He loved her very much. These would be nearly a year old. I wonder if he'll come while we're still here.”

“Do you ever hear from him?” Zoë asked.

“Only when there's need,” Alyce replied. She rested both hands lightly on the edge of the tomb's alabaster lid. “He seems to show up at important milestones in my life, like my wedding, Alaric's christening.” She shook her head gently. “Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if we had wed—not that I regret any part of my marriage with Kenneth. The king did offer to give him my hand in place of Marie's, after Marie died. But I love him like a brother, Zoë. I never could have married him. Still, we would have been quite a match in power. And now, with his Anviler training…The knights at
Incus Domini
are very fortunate to have him.”

“Aye, they are,” Zoë agreed. Sighing, she reached out to adjust the dried wreath, then bent closer and moved it slightly aside, her breath catching as she ran her fingertips over the simple inscription:
Marie Stephania de Corwyn, 1071–1089
.

“Dear God, it doesn't seem fair, does it?” she asked.

Alyce slipped an arm around Zoë's waist and hugged her briefly. “Life is rarely fair, I'm afraid—though maybe a bit of what we're doing can change that for the future. Besides, sometimes things do happen as they're meant to do. You're happy about marrying Jovett, aren't you?”

“Of course.”

“Then, let's see about those silks in the market square, shall we?”

T
HE
two women did not find what they sought on that day, but on the next market day, a week hence, they returned to the scene of their earlier searches, this time leaving Alaric in the care of his nurse and a senior squire of whom he was fond. Sir Trevor and a freckled, carrot-topped younger squire named Sylvan accompanied them on this occasion, the latter charged with safeguarding a large empty basket, which they hoped to fill with treasures.

“Zoë, look at this,” Alyce said, lifting folds of a fine summer gauze and then measuring off lengths from nose to extended arm. “What do you think? The quality is excellent, and there appears to be enough for a very generous undershift.”

Zoë fingered some of the fabric and checked the weave, nodding thoughtfully. “Aye, it could be smocked around the neck with a pale shade to match the over-gown—whatever
that
turns out to be. Or,” she added with a grin, “it would make a very fine shirt for Jovett.”

“It would, indeed,” Alyce agreed. “But will there be time?”

“Beg pardon, my lady,” the squire Sylvan said quietly, right at her elbow, “but aren't those royal signals flying from that ship just entering the harbor?”

“What's that?” Alyce said distractedly. As she and Zoë turned to look, Trevor was also gazing in that direction, trying to make out the pennons fluttering from the ship's mast.

“Well spotted, Sylvan,” Trevor said, shading his eyes against the summer glare. “It isn't one of the king's own ships, but she's definitely on official business. I wonder what they want.”

“Perhaps you'd better find out,” Alyce said. “They may simply have dispatches to be delivered—which we can do. Or if they've come to see my husband, they'll need horses to take them up to the castle mount.” At Trevor's look of indecision, Alyce sighed and touched his forearm in reassurance. “We'll be
fine
with Master Sylvan to look after us for a few minutes.”

“If you're sure…” Trevor said doubtfully.

“Trevor, go!” Alyce ordered sternly. “Sylvan is very nearly a knight—and if our arms masters here at Coroth have been doing their job properly, I'm certain he's perfectly capable of guarding two women while they shop for wedding finery.”

As Trevor dipped his chin in reluctant agreement and headed off to do her bidding, Alyce gave Sylvan a sidelong look and a wink.

“You
are
capable, aren't you, Sylvan?” she said teasingly.

The squire grinned and blushed and stood a little straighter, bracing his shoulders. “Oh, yes, my lady!”

Alyce gave him a little nod and a smile, slipping her arm through Zoë's. “Excellent. We promise to stay close.”

 

T
HE
pair did stay close to their young guardian, and managed to find and purchase several items of wedding finery by the time Trevor returned, perhaps half an hour later.

“It's Lord Michon, carrying dispatches from the crown council,” he told Alyce, when he had assured himself that she and Zoë had come to no harm. “There's a horsemaster with him called Oisín Adair. Apparently they've been commissioned to look for a suitable horse for Prince Brion's coming of age next summer. They're on their way to visit stud farms in R'Kassi and the Forcinn.”

“That's splendid,” Zoë said with a smile. “It sounds like Prince Brion finally will acquire the horse of his dreams. Wasn't it Master Oisín who procured those Llanner ponies for the princes, a few years back?”

Trevor inclined his head. “I believe it was, my lady.”

“I remember him,” Alyce agreed. “He stayed at Rhemuth for several days after delivering the ponies. The queen and her ladies found his company quite amusing. As I recall, one of the junior maids-of-honor was quite taken with him. Will they be staying over?”

Trevor shook his head. “No, my lady. They aren't even coming ashore. Lord Michon said he didn't wish to undermine Lord Kenneth's authority by any appearance that the king is checking on him. I've sent the dispatches up with the captain of the harbor guard. The ship sails with the tide, bound for one of the Tralian ports.”

Alyce gave a resigned shrug. “Well, it was very kind of them to serve as couriers. I hope they find a splendid mount for the prince.”

 

T
HE
erstwhile “couriers” did, indeed, sail with the tide, though not immediately to look at horses, for they were under orders from the Camberian Council as well as the King of Gwynedd. Their ship made landfall that evening at the Tralian port of Tortuña, across the straits from the Hort of Orsal's summer residence at Horthánthy. There Oisín secured lodgings for their party at a local inn and, over quite a passable meal in the inn's taproom, gave the four men of their escort detailed instructions regarding the procurement of livery mounts and provisions for the journey inland to R'Kassi.

“I expect that may take you a day or two,” Michon added, as Oisín refilled cups all around from a leather jack of ale. “In the meantime, Master Oisín and I have other business in the area, so if you finish before we do, your time is your own until we return. We'll meet here.” During the voyage from Coroth, he and Oisín had already contrived to take the men aside individually, so that later, none would be able to summon up any real curiosity over their superiors' “other business.”

As for that other business, Michon had already seen to their further travel arrangements. The next day's dawning saw the pair of them boarding a Tralian merchantman bound for the Torenthi port of Furstánan, at the mouth of the River Beldour. It was early afternoon when they caught their first sight of the Abbey of Saint-Sasile, its golden domes and cupolas shimmering in the summer sun.

“A pity we couldn't have arranged to arrive just at dusk,” Michon said to Oisín, as their ship glided into the anchorage and they tied up to a buoy. “Have you ever seen the lights of Saint-Sasile?”

Oisín shook his head. “Sadly, no. My foreign trading usually takes me much farther south. I've traveled into Torenth several times, but always by land, and farther upriver.”

“Ah, well, then, you may be in for a treat when we leave,” Michon said, with a sidelong glance and a grin at his companion. “This is Saturday, yes?”

“You know it is.”

“Then, we're in luck. Saint-Sasile is a double abbey, as you may be aware, and all Deryni. To the outside world, their work is perpetual prayer for the salvation of souls, though they also function as an exclusive school for training high-level Deryni. On the eve of every Sabbath and major feast day, the two houses join for Great Vespers and lift souls and voices in prayer—which also raises the shields around the abbey as a visible manifestation of their devotion. It's a sight you'll not soon forget, once you've seen it.”

 

B
UT
first, they must meet with the formidable Mother Serafina, once known as Princess Camille Furstána of Torenth. A pinnace came to take them ashore, landing them on one of the many busy quays bristling into the wide Furstánan estuary. An hour later, they were climbing the last of the wide stone steps that spiraled up to the abbey gate.

The air had been still and close as they came ashore, even oppressive, but it freshened considerably as they made their ascent. Even so, both men were sweating and winded from their exertions by the time they reached the broad esplanade before the gatehouse.

“What if she won't see us?” Oisín muttered, as he and Michon paused to catch their breath and Michon mopped at his brow with a square of fine linen.

“She'll see us,” Michon said flatly.

With a show of conviction he was not certain he actually felt, Michon drew another deep breath to fortify himself, stuffed his square of linen into a sleeve, then approached the gatehouse to pull at the chain that would summon a doorkeeper.

Far beyond, they heard the distant jangle of the bell. The heavy gate set into the gatehouse arch was studded with metal bosses the size of a man's fist, each incised with a deep-cut spiral, but it was not only timber and iron that guarded the Abbey of Saint-Sasile. They could feel the tight-leashed power brooding beyond the gate, rich and potent.

After a long moment, one of the metal bosses in the wicket gate irised open to reveal one bright black eye, which darted from one to the other of the men in frank appraisal.

“God give grace, my sons,” said a voice of indeterminate gender. “What is it you seek?”

Bowing slightly, right hand to breast, Michon said, “We come seeking audience with the sister and teacher known as Serafina. It is a matter of some urgency.”

He felt the feather brush of shields testing at his own, quickly withdrawn, and then the iron boss irised back down with a faint slither of metal leaves closing. A scraping of timber against metal told of a heavy gate bar being shifted, after which the wicket gate swung silently inward. The gatekeeper who stepped from behind the gate wore the stark black robes and ragged beard of Eastern orthodoxy, with his long hair tied back under the cylindrical black hat and veil of a monk.

“There is no urgency within these walls,” the man said coolly, his gaze again sweeping the pair of them. “You are not Torenthi, are you.”

“With all respect for your office, Reverend Father, that does not change the urgency of our need.”

“She does not see foreigners,” the monk retorted. “And she is properly addressed as
Mother
Serafina.”

Michon bowed again, hand on heart and eyes averted. “I stand corrected, Reverend Father. When last she and I spoke, many years ago, she was still known by another name.”

“And yet you knew to find her here,” the monk replied. “Surely you must be aware that the woman you knew has been long dead to the world.”

“Pray tell her that it is Michon de Courcy who desires audience,” Michon said evenly, “and that it would behoove her to hear what I have to say.”

The monk's dark eyes narrowed in warning, powerful shields flaring briefly visible around his head like a golden aureole.

“This is not a place in which it would be wise to threaten, outlander.”

“Nor would I presume to do so, good Father,” Michon said mildly. “But I do feel certain that Mother Serafina
will
wish to see me—if you will be so good as to convey my request to her. Give her this,” he added, removing his signet and extending it to the man. At the same time, he let his own shields briefly engulf the ring, to amplify its psychic signature.

The monk hesitated for an instant, his eyes not leaving Michon's; but then he took the ring and closed it in his hand, stepped back to close the door in their faces. They heard the bar drop, the sound of retreating footsteps, then only the faint murmur of chanting in the distant background. Oisín exhaled a long sigh that he had not realized he had been holding and glanced at Michon.

“So, was that a yes or a no?” he asked softly.

“Oh, most certainly a yes,” Michon replied with a tiny smile. “Whether or not the monk recognized my name, he is certainly aware that we are well-shielded Deryni—and if not Torenthi, then we must be that great rarity in Torenth: Deryni from Gwynedd, inquiring at a Torenthi monastery. That alone should ensure that he delivers the message—and
she
will well remember me.”

His confidence proved well-founded. Within a quarter hour, they were admitted to the outer precincts of the monastery and given into the charge of two black-clad monks who looked much like the first, one of whom silently handed back Michon's ring and signed that the pair should follow. The men did not offer names, but their shields were seamless and almost undetectable, betokening both discipline and power. Minutes later, the visitors were ushered through the wrought-bronze gate of a tiny courtyard enclosing a miniature garden with a tinkling fountain in the center. Beyond the garden, with its western doorway opening thereon, lay a graceful jewel of a chapel whose golden dome seemed to glow in the afternoon sun.

“You may make your ablutions there, before entering the
hagios
,” the taller of the two monks said, with a sparse gesture toward the fountain. “Mother Serafina will join you shortly inside.”

Michon inclined his head in agreement, right hand to breast, and received a clipped nod in return. The monks then withdrew and pulled the gate almost closed. As Michon and Oisín moved to the fountain and began to wash hands and faces, Oisín glanced casually in the direction of the gate.

They're still there, you know,
he sent, tight-focused.

Of course. And there will be others nearby as well. They are wary of us—but they also know that anyone with a shield like ours is not likely to attempt any kind of psychic mischief here in the monastic precincts, in the midst of all these Deryni. Are you ready?