Deryni Checkmate (6 page)

“You really don’t see it, do you?” she began, her voice small, childlike. “I may be Deryni, but I don’t feel Deryni. I feel human. I think human. And as a human, I’ve been taught all my life that to be Deryni is to be evil, wrong.” She turned back to Kelson, tears welling in her frightened eyes.

“And if the person I love most is Deryni, and uses Deryni powers—don’t you see how it’s tearing me apart? Kelson, I desperately fear that it’s going to be human against Deryni again, as it was two centuries ago. I don’t think I can bear to be in the middle of it.”

“You’re already in the middle of it,” Nigel retorted, “whether you like it or not. And if it does come to human against Deryni, you don’t even have a side!”

“I know,” Jehana whispered.

“Then why Saint Giles?” Nigel continued angrily. “That’s Archbishop Loris’s bailiwick. Do you think
he
can help you resolve your conflict—an archbishop who is known for his anti-Deryni persecutions in the north? He’s going to act soon, Jehana. He can’t ignore what happened at the coronation much longer. And when he does make his move, I doubt that even Kelson’s position will protect him for long.”

“You cannot change my resolve,” Jehana said steadily. “I leave for Shannis Meer today. I intend to go to the sisters of Saint Giles to fast and pray for guidance. But it has to be that way, Nigel. Right now, I am nothing. I can’t be human and I can’t be Deryni. And until I can discover which I am, I’m of no use to anyone.”

“You’re of use to
me
,” Kelson said quietly, gazing across at her with hurt gray eyes. “Please stay.”

“I cannot,” Jehana whispered, choking back a sob.

“If—if I commanded you as king,” Kelson quavered, the cords in his neck rippling as he fought back the tears, “would you stay then?”

Jehana stiffened for an instant, her eyes clouding with pain, then turned away, her shoulders shaking. “Don’t make me answer that,” she managed to whisper. “Please don’t ask me.”

Kelson started to move toward her, to try to entreat her further, but Nigel put his finger to his lips and shook his head. Motioning Kelson to follow, he had moved to the door and opened it quietly, waited as Kelson reluctantly joined him.

But the steps of both had been slow and heavy as they left the room. And the quiet sobbing behind the closed door still lingered in Kelson’s mind...

 

HE swallowed hard and studied the flames in the fireplace before him. “Do you think the archbishops will attack me, then?”

“Perhaps not for a while,” Duncan said. “So far, they’ve chosen to ignore the fact that you’re Deryni, too. But they won’t ignore it if you defy an Interdict.”

“I could destroy them!” Kelson murmured, fists clenching and eyes narrowing as he considered his powers.

“But you won’t,” Duncan stated emphatically. “Because if you use your powers against the archbishops—whether or not they deserve it—that will be final proof to the rest of the Eleven Kingdoms that the Deryni do, indeed, intend to destroy Church and State and set up a new Deryni dictatorship. You must give the lie to that charge by avoiding a confrontation at all costs.”

“Then, is it stalemate? Me against the Church?”

“Not the Church, my prince.”

“Very well, then. The men who control the Church. It’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

“Not at all.” Duncan shook his head. “It isn’t the Church we fight, though it may seem that way at first glance. It’s an idea: the idea that different is evil. That because some men are born with extraordinary powers and talents, those men are evil, no matter to what purpose they put those powers.

“We’re fighting the idiotic notion that a man is responsible for the accident of his birth. That because a few men made grave errors in the name of a race over three hundred years ago, the whole race is damned and must forever suffer the consequences, generation after generation.

“
That
is what we’re fighting, Kelson. Corrigan, Loris, even Wencit of Torenth—they’re merely pawns in the larger struggle to prove that a man is worth something for himself alone, for what he does with his life, whether for good or for evil, with the talents he was born with, whatever he may be. Does any of that make sense?”

Kelson smiled self-consciously and lowered his gaze. “You sounded like Alaric just then. Or my father. He used to talk to me that way.”

“He would be very proud of you, my prince. He was very fortunate to have a son like you. If I had a son . . .” He looked down at Kelson and a glance passed between them. Then Duncan squeezed the boy’s shoulder reassuringly and stepped back to the table.

“I’ll go, then. Alaric and I will make every effort to keep you informed of our progress or lack thereof. Meanwhile, trust Nigel. Rely on him. And whatever you do, don’t intimidate the archbishops until Alaric and I have time to circumvent them.”

“Don’t worry.” Kelson smiled. “I won’t do anything hasty. I’m not afraid anymore.”

“Just as long as that Haldane temper doesn’t get out of hand,” Duncan admonished with a grin. “God willing, I shall see you in Culdi in a week or so. The Lord keep you safe until then, my prince.”

“And you, Father,” Kelson whispered as the priest disappeared through the door.

CHAPTER THREE

TERENCE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“ ‘AND of the total, a twofold increase over the last year’s harvest, owing to good weather. Thus endeth the account of William, Reeve of the Ducal Estates at Donneral, rendered in March, the fifteenth year of the Duke’s Grace, Alaric Duke of Corwyn.’ ”

Lord Robert of Tendal looked up from the document he had been reading and frowned as he glanced across at his employer. The duke was gazing out the solarium window to the barren garden below, his thoughts miles away. His booted feet were propped casually on a green leather foot-stool, his blond head resting lightly against the high back of the carved wooden chair. It was obvious from the younger man’s expression that he had not been listening.

Lord Robert cleared his throat tentatively, but elicited no response. He pursed his lips and regarded his duke wistfully for another moment, then picked up the account roll from which he had been reading and let it fall from a height of about two feet. Its impact echoed in the confines of the narrow chamber, rustling the documents and account rolls assembled on the table and breaking the duke’s reverie. Lord Alaric Anthony Morgan looked up with a start and tried in vain to cover a sheepish grin as he realized he’d been caught daydreaming.

“Your Grace, you haven’t heard a word I’ve said,” Robert muttered reproachfully.

Morgan shook his head and smiled, lazily rubbed a hand across his face. “I’m sorry, Robert. I was thinking of something else.”

“Obviously.”

As Robert reshuffled the documents he’d disturbed in his outburst, Morgan stood and stretched. He ran both hands through his close-cropped blond hair as he glanced around the sparsely furnished solarium, then sat down again.

“Very well,” he said with a sigh, leaning forward to probe at the parchment halfheartedly with a ringed forefinger. “We were doing the Donneral accounts, weren’t we? Do they seem to be in order?”

Robert pushed his chair back a few inches and flung down his pen. “Of course they’re in order. That isn’t the point. You know we have to go through this formality. Donneral represents a sizeable portion of your Lendour holdings—land that you will shortly be
losing
as part of the Lady Bronwyn’s dowry. And even if you and Lord Kevin are inclined to take each other’s words in such matters, Kevin’s father the duke is
not
!”

“Kevin’s father the duke is not marrying my sister,” Morgan pointed out. He glanced sidelong at Robert for a long moment, then let his wide mouth relax in a smile. “Come, Robbie, be a good fellow and let me go for the rest of the day. You and I both know those accounts are correct. If you won’t let me out of reviewing them altogether, let’s at least postpone until tomorrow.”

Robert tried to look very stern and disapproving, then gave in and threw up his hands. “Very well,” he said, gathering up his account rolls and tallies. “But as your chancellor I am obliged to point out that the wedding is less than two weeks away. And you have court tomorrow, and the Hort of Orsal’s ambassador arrives tomorrow, and Lord Henry de Vere wants to know what you intend to do about Warin de Grey, and—”

“Yes, Robert; tomorrow, Robert,” Morgan said, assuming his most innocent expression and only barely suppressing a grin of triumph. “And now may I be excused, Robert?”

Robert rolled his eyes heavenward in a silent appeal for patience, then waved dismissal with a gesture of defeat. Morgan jumped up and bowed with a faintly triumphant flourish, then turned on his heel and strode out of the solarium to the great hall beyond. Robert watched him go, remembering the slender, towheaded boy who had become this man: Duke of Corwyn, Lord General of the Royal Armies, King’s Champion—and a half-Deryni sorcerer.

Robert crossed himself furtively at that last thought, for Morgan’s Deryni heritage was one thing he preferred not to dwell upon, regarding the Corwyn family he had served all his life. Not that the House of Corwyn had not been good to him, he rationalized. His own family, the lords of Tendal, had held the hereditary chancellorship of Corwyn for two centuries now, since before the Restoration. And through all those years, the dukes of Corwyn had been fair and honest rulers, even if they
were
Deryni. Being strictly objective, Robert found he had no complaints.

Of course, he had to put up with Morgan’s capricious whims occasionally, like today. But that was all a part of the game they played. The duke probably had good reason for insisting on adjournment this afternoon.

Still, it would have been nice to win occasionally . . .

Recalled to duty, Robert gathered up his documents and stored them neatly in a cabinet near the window. Actually, it was just as well the duke had called a halt for the afternoon. Though Morgan probably had conveniently forgotten about it, there was to be a state banquet in the great hall tonight—and if he, Robert, did not see to its details, the affair was certain to be a resounding social disaster. Morgan was notorious for eschewing formal functions unless they were absolutely necessary. His disposition was not likely to be improved by the presence of a number of eligible ladies who keenly desired to become the next Duchess of Corwyn.

Smiling faintly and whistling lightly under his breath, Robert dusted his hands together and headed toward the great hall the way Morgan had gone. After this afternoon’s session, it would be a distinct pleasure to watch Morgan squirm under the scrutiny of those ladies tonight.

 

MORGAN scanned the courtyard instinctively as he left the great hall. Far across the yard by the stables, he saw a stable lad running beside a handsome chestnut destrier, one of the R’Kassan stallions the Hortic traders had brought in last week. The great horse was barely trotting, one of his long strides making three or four of the boy’s. And to the left by the forge, Morgan’s young military aide, Sean Lord Derry, was engaged in earnest converse with James the blacksmith, apparently trying to reach agreement on how the animal should be shod.

Derry saw Morgan and lifted a hand in greeting, but he did not cease his wrangling with the smithy. Horses were very important to young Derry, who considered himself an expert—which, in fact, he was. Consequently, he was not to be bullied by a mere blacksmith.

Morgan was just as glad that Derry did not join him. Astute as the young Marcher lord might be about some subjects, he did not always understand the moods of his commander. And while Morgan usually enjoyed Derry’s company, he did not feel like talking just now. That was why he had fled Lord Robert’s account briefing, why he had bolted outside at the first opportunity. There would be enough of pressure and responsibility later tonight.

He reached a side gate to the right of the great hall and let himself through. The gardens were still dead from the long winter, but that would probably ensure that he could be alone for a while. He saw a man cleaning the falcon mews far to the left, close by the stable area, but he knew he would not be disturbed from there. Miles the falconer was a mute—though his eyes and ears were doubly sharp, as seeming compensation for the handicap—and the old man preferred the clicks and whistles of his falcons, which he could imitate, to the speech of men. He would not bother with a lonely duke who sought the solitude of the deserted gardens.

Slowly Morgan began to walk down a path away from the mews, his hands clasped behind him. He knew why he was restless today. Part of it was the political situation—only delayed, not resolved, by Kelson’s defeat of the Shadowed One last fall. Charissa was dead, and her traitor accomplice Ian, too; but an even more formidable adversary now prepared to take her place: Wencit of Torenth, whose scouting parties were already reported along the mountains to the northeast.

And Cardosa—that was another problem. As soon as Wencit could get through the snow, which would be soon, he would be hammering at the gates of the mountain city once again. The approach through the high passes east of Cardosa was not difficult after the first week of spring flooding. But on the west, the direction from which relief must come, the Cardosa Pass would be a raging cataract from March to May. There could be no aid for Cardosa until the thaws were nearly over: two months hence. And that would be too late.

He paused by one of the reflecting pools in the dead garden and gazed absently into the depths. The gardeners had cleared away the winter’s debris and restocked the pond, and now long-tailed goldfish and tiny polliwogs swam in the currentless water, drifting across his field of vision as though suspended in time and space.