Deryni Checkmate (9 page)

He pointed to the letter on the central table, and Derry brought it, watching as the priest tucked it into the cincture of his clean cassock.

“Do you want an escort, Father?” Derry asked.

“Not unless Alaric thinks I need one. Personally, I think that the fewer people who know about this, the better off we are. Alaric, do you agree?”

Morgan nodded. “Good luck, Cousin.”

Duncan gave a quick grin, a nod, then was out the door and on his way. Derry stared after him for a moment, then turned back to Morgan. The duke had not moved from where he sat, but he seemed to be in a world of his own. It was with some hesitancy that Derry ventured to interrupt that world.

“M’lord?”

“Hmm?” Morgan looked up startled, almost as though he had forgotten the young man was there—though Derry was sure he hadn’t.

“May I ask a question, sir?”

Morgan raised an eyebrow and nodded. “Of course. You probably have no idea what’s going on right now.”

Derry smiled. “It isn’t quite that bad, m’lord. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Morgan briefly studied the young lord, his chin resting on one hand, then nodded tentatively. “Perhaps there is,” he said, sitting forward in his chair. “Derry, you’ve been with me for a long time now. Would you be willing to become involved in magic for me?”

Derry broke into a broad grin. “You know I would, sir!”

“Very well, then. Come over to the map with me.”

Morgan moved to the tapestried map covering the near wall, then ran his fingers along a broad finger of blue until he found what he was looking for. Derry watched and listened attentively as the duke began to speak.

“Now, here’s Coroth. Here’s the estuary arising from the two rivers. Up the Western River, which forms our north-eastern border with Torenth, is Fathane, the Torenthi trading town. It’s also a staging area for all of Wencit’s raiding expeditions along this segment of the border.

“What I want you to do is to ride upriver toward Fathane, on the Torenthi side, then loop west along our northern border and back here. Your mission is to gather information, and there are three areas I’d like you to concentrate on: Torenth’s plans for the war in this area, anything you can find out about this Warin rascal in the north, and any leak of the threatened Interdict. Duncan told you about that, didn’t he?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. You can choose your own disguise, but I think a fur trader or trapper would be good cover. I’d rather you weren’t recognized as a fighting man.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Good. Now, here’s where the magic comes in.”

He reached along the side of his neck until he found a slender silvery chain, which he then proceeded to pull outside his emerald tunic. As the last of the chain emerged and Morgan slipped it off over his head, Derry could see that there was a silver medallion of some sort attached to the chain. He bent his head slightly so Morgan could loop the long chain over his head, then looked down curiously at the medallion now dangling at mid-chest level. It seemed to be a holy medal of some kind, though Derry couldn’t identify either the figure depicted or the legend inscribed around the edge. Morgan turned the medallion to face forward, then leaned back against the bookcase beneath the tapestry map.

“All right, now I’m going to ask you to help me establish a special kind of Deryni rapport. It’s akin to Mind-Seeing, which you’ve seen me do a number of times, but not nearly as tiring because you remain in control. Just relax and try to let your mind go blank. It isn’t unpleasant, I assure you,” he added, seeing Derry’s momentary discomfiture.

Derry nodded and swallowed.

“Good. Now watch my finger and relax.”

As Morgan held up his right index finger, he began moving it slowly toward Derry’s face. The young man’s eyes tracked the finger almost until it touched the bridge of his nose, then fluttered shut. He exhaled softly and relaxed as Morgan’s hand rested on his forehead.

Morgan held that position for perhaps half a minute, nothing outwardly happening, then reached out and enclosed the medal in his other hand, closed his eyes. After another minute he released the medallion and looked up, dropped his hand from Derry’s forehead. Derry’s eyes popped open with a start.

“You—talked to me!” he whispered incredulously, his voice tinged with awe. “You—” He looked down at the medallion in amazement. “I can really use this to communicate with you all the way from Fathane?”

“Or farther, if necessary,” Morgan agreed. “Just remember that it’s a difficult operation, especially from your end. Being Deryni, I
could
call you any time it became necessary—though it would take a great deal of energy. But you’ll have to confine your calls to the times we agree upon. If I’m not trying to reach you, you haven’t the stamina to summon me yourself. That’s why it’s important that you keep track of the time. I’ll expect your first contact about three hours after dark tomorrow night. You should be in Fathane by then,”

“Aye, m’lord. And all I have to do is use the spell you taught me, and that will put me into rapport?” His blue eyes were wide but trusting.

“Correct.”

Derry nodded and started to tuck the talisman into his tunic, then stopped and pulled it out to look at it again. “What kind of medal is this anyway, m’lord? I don’t recognize the inscription or the figure.”

“I was afraid you’d ask.” Morgan grinned. “It’s a very old Saint Camber medallion dating from just after the Restoration. It was left to me by my mother.”

“A Saint Camber medal!” Derry breathed. “What if someone recognizes it?”

“If you keep your clothes on, no one will even see the medal, much less recognize it, my irreverent friend!” Morgan retorted, slapping Derry’s shoulder and chuckling. “No wenching for you on this trip, I’m afraid. This is strictly business.”

“You always have to take the fun out of everything, don’t you?” Derry muttered, tucking the medallion inside his tunic with a grin as he turned to leave.

 

DARKNESS was approaching as Duncan guided his tired mount back toward the city of Coroth, and the night chill of the mountain country was already beginning to settle in the glens.

The meeting with Tolliver had been at least partially successful. The bishop had agreed to delay his answer to the couriers from Rhemuth until he could evaluate the situation, and had promised to keep Morgan advised of any further action regarding his eventual decision. But the Deryni aspect of the case had bothered Tolliver, as Duncan had known it would. And the bishop had warned Duncan to dabble no more in magic if he valued his priesthood and, indeed, his immortal soul.

Duncan pulled his cloak around himself more closely and urged his horse to a faster pace, remembering that Alaric would be impatient for word of the outcome. Also, he mused, there would be a state banquet in progress—and unlike his ducal cousin, Duncan loved ceremony. If he hurried, he should be able to make it in time for the main course. It was not yet dark.

As he rounded the next bend, not really thinking about anything in particular, he was suddenly aware of a tall, dark form standing in the road not ten yards ahead of him. It was difficult to make out any details in the failing light, but as Duncan drew rein to avoid riding the man down, he noted that the pedestrian was clad in the garb of a monk, with a peaked cowl pulled over his head and a staff in his hand.

Something was not as it should have been, however. Almost unconsciously the warrior in Duncan guided his right hand to the hilt of the sword strapped beneath his left knee. The figure turned his head toward Duncan—he could not have been more than ten feet away—and Duncan jerked his mount to a halt, his heart in his throat.

For the face that gazed serenely up at him from beneath the gray cowl was one he had come to know quite well in the last months, though never in the flesh. He and Alaric had studied it a hundred times as they searched the musty volumes for information on an ancient Deryni saint. It was the face of Camber of Culdi.

Before Duncan could speak, or even react beyond a mindless shock, the man nodded courteously and extended an empty right hand in a token of peace.

“Hail, Duncan of Corwyn,” the stranger murmured.

CHAPTER FOUR

ZECHARIAH 1:9

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DUNCAN’S throat went dry, and he had difficulty swallowing. For the man had called him by a name he had thought known to only three living men: himself, Alaric, and the young King Kelson. There was no way that this person could know that Duncan was half-Deryni, that his mother and Alaric’s had been twin sisters, of the high Deryni born. It was a secret Duncan had guarded zealously all his life.

And yet the man before him had called him by his secret name.
How could he know?

“What do you mean?” he managed to whisper, his voice a quarter octave higher than normal. He cleared his throat. “I am a McLain, of the lords of Kierney and Cassan.”

“And you are also a Corwyn, of your sainted mother’s right,” the stranger contradicted gently. “There is no shame in being half-Deryni, my son.”

Duncan closed his mouth and managed to regain most of his composure, then wet his lips nervously. “Who are you?” he asked, holding his ground but unconsciously letting his hand drift from the sword hilt he had clutched until now. “What do you want?”

The man chuckled amiably and shook his head. “No, of course you do not understand, do you?” he murmured almost to himself, still smiling easily. “You needn’t be afraid. Your secret is sealed within me. But, come. Dismount and walk with me awhile. There is something I would have you know.”

Duncan hesitated for an instant, still uneasy under the man’s serene gaze, then complied. The man nodded gravely.

“You may consider this a warning, Duncan of Corwyn—not a threat from me, for it is not that, but for your own good. In the weeks to come, your powers will be sorely tested. More and more you will be called upon to use your magic in the open, either to accept your birthright and take up the fight as is your duty, or else forever renounce it. Do I make myself clear?”

“You do not,” Duncan whispered, his eyes narrowing. “To begin with, I am a priest. I am forbidden to practice the occult arts.”

“Are you?” the man asked quietly.

“Of course I am forbidden to practice magic.”

“No. I mean, are you a priest?”

Duncan felt his cheeks begin to burn, and he had to avert his eyes. “According to the rite by which I was ordained, I am a priest forever, unto—”

“ ‘Unto the order of Melchizedek,’ ” the man quoted. “I know what the scripture says. But are you
really
a priest? What happened two days ago?”

Duncan looked up defiantly. “I am merely suspended. I’ve not been degraded from the priesthood, nor excommunicated.”

“And yet, you yourself said that the suspension didn’t really worry you, that the more you use your powers, the less important your vows become.”

Duncan stifled a gasp, instinctively drawing closer to the man, and his horse tossed its head in alarm. “How do you know that?”

The man smiled gently and reached his hand to the horse’s bridle to keep it from stepping on his sandaled feet. “I know many things.”

“We were alone,” Duncan murmured, almost to himself. “I would have staked my life on it.
Who are you?
”

“The power of the Deryni is by no means evil, my son,” the man said in a conversational tone. He dropped his hand and began walking slowly down the road. Duncan shook his head in dismay and moved his horse along with him, straining to hear what he was saying.

“. . . necessarily good, either. The good or evil is in the soul and mind of him who uses the powers. Only an evil mind can corrupt the power for evil.” He turned to glance at Duncan as they walked—and continued.

“I have observed your use of the power thus far, and I find it most judicious. You need have no qualms as to whether your motivation is righteous. I understand the struggle you have undergone to be able to use it at all.”

“But—”

“No more,” the man said, holding up his hand for silence. “I must leave you now. I ask only that you continue to examine your motives in that other matter I mentioned. It may well be that you are called in other ways than you had thought. Think you on it; and the Light go with you.”

With that, the man was simply—gone. Duncan stopped in confusion.

How could that be? Gone! Without a trace!

He looked down at the ground beside him where the man had been walking, but he could see no footprints. Even with the lowering darkness, he could make out his own tracks extending back the way he had come, the horse’s hoof marks firmly imprinted in the damp clay of the road.

But of the other’s passage there was no trace.

Had he only imagined it?

It had been too real, too chillingly threatening to have been in his mind alone. Now he knew what Alaric must have felt like when he’d had
his
visions: that sense of unreality, yet the certainty that he had been touched by
someone
or
something
. Why, this had been as real as—as that shining apparition that he and others of Deryni blood had seen at Kelson’s coronation, supporting the crown of Gwynedd. Now that he thought about it, it could even have been the same being! And if so—

Duncan shivered and pulled his cloak more closely around himself again, then mounted and touched spurs to his beast. He wasn’t going to find any more answers on this deserted road. And he had to tell Alaric what had happened. His cousin’s visions had come at times of cusp, when grave crises were brewing. He hoped this wasn’t a portent.

It was three miles back to the courtyard of Castle Coroth. It would seem like thirty.