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Authors: Katherine Kurtz

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BOOK: Deryni Checkmate
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He smiled as he realized he could call them if he wished—and they would come—but the notion did not amuse him today. After a moment, he let his eyes focus on the surface of the water, let himself study the reflection that gazed back at him.
Wide gray eyes in an oval face, pale from the winter dimness; hair glistening gold in the wan spring sunlight, cropped short for ease of care in the battlefield; full, wide mouth above the squared-off chin; long sideburns accentuating the lean cheekbones.
He tugged at the bottom of the short green doublet with annoyance, glared at the reflection of the golden gryphon embroidered aesthetically but incorrectly across his chest.
He did not care for the outfit. The Corwyn gryphon should be green, proper on black, not gold on green. And the little jeweled basilard stuck in his belt was a travesty of weaponry—an elegant but useless accoutrement that his wardrober, Lord Rathold, had insisted was essential to his ducal image.
Morgan scowled darkly at the pompous image in the water. When he had a choice—which he had to admit was most of the time—he preferred dark velvets covering mail, the supple sleekness of riding leathers, not the bright satins and jeweled toadstickers people seemed to think appropriate at a ducal court.
Still, he supposed he must make a few concessions to tradition. The people of Corwyn did not have their duke in residence for much of the year, what with service at the court in Rhemuth, and on the king’s business. When they did have him, they had a right to expect that he would dress befitting his rank.
They need never know that his compliance was not complete. For while they would not be surprised to find that the jeweled plaything at his waist was not his only weapon—there was a stiletto in a worn leather scabbard close along his left forearm, as well as other aids—still, they would doubtless be chagrined were they to learn that he intended light mail under his finery at dinner tonight. Quite chagrined. To humans, that betokened a mistrust of one’s guests: a terrible breach of etiquette.
At least this would be one of the last state banquets for a while, Morgan reflected as he began walking again. With the spring thaws coming, it would soon be time to head back to Rhemuth and the king’s service for another season. Of course, this year it would be a different king, with Brion dead. But his latest dispatch from Kelson indicated—
The sound of footsteps on gravel jarred him from his train of thought, and he turned to see Lord Hillary, the commander of the castle garrison, approaching at a brisk walk, his blue-green cloak whipping behind him in the breeze. His round face was puzzled.
“What’s wrong, Hillary?” Morgan asked as the man drew near and sketched a hasty salute.
“I’m not sure, Your Grace. The harbor lookout reports that the Caralighter fleet has rounded the point and will be docking by nightfall, as soon as the tide shifts. Your flagship,
Rhafallia
, is in the lead, and she’s flying royal dispatch signals. It could be the mobilization order, m’lord.”
“I shouldn’t think so,” Morgan replied, shaking his head. “I doubt the king would entrust that important a message to ship transport. He’d send a courier.” He frowned. “I thought the fleet went only as far as the Concaradine this trip.”
“Those were their orders, m’lord. And they’re back a day early at that.”
“Strange,” Morgan murmured, almost forgetting Hillary was there. “Still—send an escort to meet
Rhafallia
when she docks and bring back the dispatches. And let me know as soon as they’ve arrived.”
“Aye, m’lord.”
As the man moved off, Morgan ran a hand through his hair and began walking again, puzzled. That Kelson should send dispatches by ship was strange indeed. He almost never did that—especially with the uncertainty of the weather farther north this time of year. The whole scenario had a vaguely ominous feel to it, like—like the dream!
He suddenly remembered what he had dreamed last night. In fact, now that he considered further, that was another part of what had been bothering him all day.
He had slept badly, which was unusual since he could generally turn sleep off and on at will. But last night he had been plagued by nightmares—vivid, disturbing scenes that had made him wake in a cold sweat.
Kelson had been there, listening tensely to someone whose back was all that he could see—and Duncan, his usually serene face drawn, troubled, angry, very unlike his priestly cousin. And then the ghostly, cowled visage he had come to associate with legend last fall: Camber of Culdi, the renegade patron saint of Deryni magic.
Morgan looked up to find himself standing before the Grotto of the Hours, the dim, cavernous recess that had been the private retreat and meditation place of Corwyn dukes for more than three hundred years. The gardeners had been at work here, too, burning leaves they had swept away from the doorway itself. But there was still debris just inside the entrance, and on impulse Morgan swung back the creaking iron gate and stepped inside. Taking a lighted torch from the wall bracket by the gate, he raked away the winter’s debris with his boot and made his way into the cool interior.
The Grotto of the Hours was not large inside. Outside, its bulk reared a scant twenty feet above the level of the garden, configured to resemble a rocky outcropping of stone in the midst of the garden paths. In spring and summer, small trees and bushes flourished green on the outside of the mass, with flowers of every hue. Water trickled down one side in a tiny perpetual waterfall.
Inside, the structure had been fashioned to resemble a natural cave, the walls irregular, rough, damp. As Morgan stepped into the inner chamber, he felt the closeness of the low ceiling arched above him. A swath of weak sunlight streamed through a high, barred and grilled window on the opposite side of the chamber, falling across the stark black marble sarcophagus that dominated that side of the room: the tomb of Dominic, Corwyn’s first duke. Set atop the sarcophagus was a candlestick with a stump of candle, but the metal was dulled by a winter’s disuse, the candle stump mouse-nibbled and burned down. A carved stone chair faced the tomb in the center of the chamber.
But Morgan had not entered the grotto to pay homage to his ancient ancestor today. It was the rest of the chamber that interested him: the walls at the sides and back of the cavern, smoothed and plastered, then inlaid with mosaic portraits of those whose special favor was thought to be upon the House of Corwyn.
Scanning briefly, Morgan identified representations of the Trinity, the Archangel Michael slaying the Dragon of Darkness, Saint Raphael the Healer, Saint George with his dragon. There were others, but Morgan had come seeking only one. Three familiar steps to the left took him to a side niche, where he held his torch aloft before the likeness of Camber of Culdi, the Deryni Lord of Culdi,
Defensor Hominum
.
Morgan still had not resolved his sudden fascination for the man in the portrait. In truth, he had only begun to become aware of Camber’s true importance the previous autumn, when he and Duncan were struggling to keep Kelson on the throne.
That was when the “visions” had begun. At first there had been only the fleeting impression of that other’s presence, the eerie feeling that other hands and powers were assisting his own. But then he had seen the face—or he thought he had seen the face. And it had always appeared in connection with something concerning the legendary Deryni saint.
Saint Camber. Camber of Culdi. A name to resound in the annals of Deryni history. Camber, who had discovered, during the dark days of the Interregnum, that the awesome Deryni powers could sometimes be bestowed on humans; Camber, who had turned the tide for the Restoration and brought the human rulers of old back to power.
He had been canonized for it. A grateful people could not find high enough praise for the man who had brought the hated Deryni dictatorship to an end.
But human memory was short. In time the sons of man forgot that salvation as well as suffering had come from the hands of the Deryni. The brutal reaction that swept through the Eleven Kingdoms then had been a thing that even humans mostly preferred to forget. Thousands of innocent Deryni perished by the sword or at the stake or in other, more perverse ways, in supposed retribution for what their fathers had done.
When it was over, only a handful survived, most of them in hiding, a few under the tenuous protection of a minute number of powerful human lords who remembered how it had really been. Needless to say, Camber’s sainthood had been one of the first casualties.
Camber of Culdi,
Defensor Hominum
. Camber of Culdi, Patron of Deryni Magic. Camber of Culdi, at whose portrait a descendant of that same race of sorcerers now gazed with impatient curiosity, trying to fathom the strange bond he seemed to have acquired with the long-dead Deryni lord.
Morgan held his torch closer to the mosaic and studied the face, trying to force finer detail to emerge from the rough texture of the inlay. The eyes stared back at him: light eyes above a firm, resolute chin. The rest was obscured by the monkish cowl draped around the head, but Morgan had the distinct impression that the man would have been blond, had the hood been permitted to fall back. He could not say why. Perhaps it was a carryover from the visions he’d encountered.
Idly, he wondered whether the visions would ever resume, felt a shiver of apprehension ripple down his spine as the possibility crossed his mind. It couldn’t be Saint Camber
really
. Or could it?
Lowering the torch, Morgan stepped back a pace, still gazing at the mosaic portrait. While not irreligious by any means, he found the idea of divine or semidivine intervention on his behalf disturbing. He was uncertain he liked the idea of Heaven being that watchful of him.
Still, if not Saint Camber, then who? Another Deryni? No human could do the things his benefactor had done. And if Deryni, why didn’t he say so? Surely he must realize what Morgan would be thinking about such manifestations. And he seemed to be helping; but why the secrecy? Maybe it
was
Saint Camber.
He shivered and crossed himself self-consciously at the thought, then shook himself back to sanity. Such thinking was getting him nowhere. He must pull his thoughts together.
But his endeavor was diverted quite abruptly by a commotion ensuing in the courtyard on the other side of the garden, and then the sound of running footsteps coming through the garden in his direction.
“Morgan! Morgan?”
It was Derry’s voice.
Slipping back through the chapel doorway, Morgan jammed his torch into the wall bracket and stepped out into the sunlight. As he did so, Derry spotted him and changed course, running across the gray garden toward the duke.
“M’lord!” Derry yelled, his face alight with excitement. “Come out to the courtyard. See who’s here!”

Rhafallia
isn’t in port already, is she?” Morgan called as he headed toward the young man.
“No, sir,” Derry laughed, shaking his head. “You’ll have to see for yourself. Hurry!”
Mystified, Morgan started back across the garden, raising an inquiring eyebrow as he reached Derry and fell into step beside him. Derry was beaming from ear to ear, a reaction that could indicate the presence of a good horse, a beautiful woman, or—
“Duncan!” Morgan finished aloud as he stepped through the gate and spied his cousin across the courtyard.
Duncan was swinging down from a huge, mudsplattered gray destrier, his black cloak damp and wind-whipped, the edge of his riding cassock torn and muddied. About a dozen mounted guards in royal Haldane livery milled around him, and Morgan recognized Kelson’s own squire, young Richard FitzWilliam, holding the bridle of Duncan’s gray.
“Duncan! You old reprobate!” Morgan exclaimed, striding across the damp cobblestones of the courtyard. “What the devil are you doing in Coroth?”
“Visiting you,” Duncan replied, blue eyes twinkling with pleasure as he and Morgan came together in a quick embrace. “Rhemuth was entirely too dull, so I thought I’d come pester my favorite cousin. Frankly, my archbishop was overjoyed to be rid of me.”
“Well, it’s good he can’t see you now,” Morgan said, grinning widely as Duncan pulled a pair of saddlebags from the gray’s back and slung them casually over one arm. “Just look at you: covered with mud and smelling of horses. Come on and let’s get you cleaned up. Derry, see that Duncan’s escort is taken care of, will you? And then see if you can get my squires to draw him a bath.”
“Right away, m’lord,” Derry said, smiling and bowing slightly as he backed a few steps in the direction of the riders. “And welcome back to Coroth, Father Duncan.”
“Thank you, Derry.”
As Derry moved among the guards and began issuing orders, Morgan and Duncan headed up the steps and into the great hall. The hall was a flurry of activity in preparation for the coming banquet, with scores of servants and workmen setting up heavy trestle tables and benches, re-hanging the costly tapestries that had been removed and cleaned for the occasion. Kitchen varlets swarmed through the hall, sweeping hearths and readying spits for the roasting of meats. At the high table, several pages were industriously polishing the ornate wooden chairs.
Lord Robert stood by to oversee the entire operation. As the workmen finished setting up each table, Robert directed kitchen maids in wiping down the surfaces with oil to bring out the patina of the wood, and supervised the placing of the great pewter candelabras and service from the ducal treasury. At the other side of the hall, Lord Hamilton, Castle Coroth’s balding seneschal, had been arranging the placement of musicians for the evening’s entertainment, and was presently engaged in a heated discussion with a much smaller and somewhat younger man: Morgan’s chief talent for the evening, the much-celebrated troubadour Gwydion.
As Morgan and Duncan approached, the diminutive performer was almost dancing in his anger, resplendent as a peacock in his full-sleeved doublet and hose of orange, green, and purple. His black eyes snapped in outrage as he stamped his foot and half turned away from Hamilton in disgust. Morgan caught his eye and crooked his finger for Gwydion to approach, and the troubadour threw Hamilton one final haughty look of contempt before gliding to Morgan’s side to make a sweeping bow.
BOOK: Deryni Checkmate
8.17Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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