The King's Deryni (7 page)

“Jared,” he murmured, setting a hand on his cousin's arm and glancing pointedly in the direction of the doorway, “one of your father's men has just arrived—and on urgent business, by the look of him.”

Even as Jared and the king swiveled to look, Jared coming to his feet, the man spotted them and started in their direction, breaking into a trot to traverse the length of the hall.

“Is it my father?” Jared demanded, as the man reached them and bowed over the cap he clutched to his breast, first to the king and then to Jared.

“Aye, my lord—but he was yet alive when I left him three days ago,” the man added hopefully, though his lips tightened as he glanced at his dusty boots and twisted at the dusty cap. “But he took a turn the day before that. He cannot speak or move on his right side. Your lady wife bids you return as soon as you may, for the surgeon does not think he will long endure in this state. I fear it is the end, my lord. I'm very sorry. He is a good man.”

Jared's face had gone very still as the man spoke, but he clasped the man's shoulder distractedly as he turned to the king.

“I must return to Cassan at once, Sire,” he murmured.

“Of course you must.”

“Prince Ronan, please make my apologies to your father and all his party.”

“I shall,” Ronan agreed, “and I daresay he will understand.”

“Kenneth, will you ride with me?” Jared went on, already edging back toward his men, who also had risen with their lord. “Sybaud, choose four men to ride with us. Kevin must come as well—and perhaps Llion and the rest of the household knights could accompany Tesselin with the younger boys,” he added to Kenneth. “Will you bring Xander and Trevor?”

“Of course.” Kenneth's nod to the pair set them on their feet. “I must speak to Llion as well. We'll assemble in the stable yard in half an hour.”

•   •   •

A
few minutes later, having given orders to the men Jared had chosen to accompany them, Kenneth was slipping into the modest suite allotted to himself and Alaric. To his surprise, he found Llion sitting in a chair before the dark hearth, his gaze vague and unfocused. The young knight looked a little bewildered as he glanced up.

“Llion?” Kenneth murmured. “I expected you would be long asleep by now.”

“The fault is mine,” said a low voice as Sé emerged from the shadows nearer the door that led into the sleeping chamber. “I had business with my godson. I hope you do not mind.”

Kenneth started back slightly, surprised to find Sé here, then glanced at Llion, who seemed still unaware of Sé's presence, and had started to get up.

“I am always glad to see you,” Kenneth said tentatively, as Sé came to set a hand on Llion's shoulder and the young knight subsided. “What is this all about?”

“I came to see the king knighted, as you know—and I may not stay long—but I also wished to see how the boy is progressing,” Sé replied. “Some of his powers are stirring already. He yet lacks the focus to
compel
the truth, but that will come as his powers mature. In the meantime, I believe he will know, increasingly, when he is being lied to.”

“Already?” Kenneth murmured, but it was not so much a question as a statement of confirmation. “I hope you've stressed the need for discretion. That particular talent brought his mother little but trouble.”

“Aye, but she used it in the king's service, in the cause of justice,” Sé pointed out. “I have no doubt that she counted the risk well worth while.”

Kenneth fought down a lump in his throat and looked away, more than a little troubled. “I know that—and I loved that she was willing to make that sacrifice. But Alaric is still so young. . . .”

“He is young, but he has a strong instinct for self-preservation,” Sé pointed out, “and I have reinforced that. He will not
invite
trouble. But reading the truth will be an increasingly valuable skill for him.”

“I don't doubt that,” Kenneth replied, glancing back at Llion, oblivious near the door. “What have you done to my knight?”

Sé smiled faintly. “He will remember nothing of this visit, unless you wish him to do so, of course. Or if you prefer, I can leave him with knowledge of who I am, so that we need not go through this deception every time I come. In that case, I would also set compulsions that will keep him from speaking of any of this—the way Alyce did with you, when the king came to Alaric's Naming.”

Kenneth remembered the night well—and the prohibition against speaking of it to outsiders had been gentle, as Alyce had been gentle. He had no doubt that the precaution had probably protected all of them who had been involved. She had looked so beautiful in the candlelight, surrounded by the glow of her magic. . . .

“Yes, do that,” he murmured, turning half away. “And thank you for what you are doing for her son, Sé.”

“Your son as well,” Sé said, smiling faintly as he lifted his right hand to his heart and bowed slightly over it. Then he went to Llion and touched his forehead, briefly closing his eyes. When he turned back to Kenneth, he held out his hand.

“God keep you safe, Kenneth,” he said softly, as their hands clasped. “I think it best that he does not remember this visit, but he will be ready for the next.”

Grateful beyond speech, Kenneth let himself be drawn into the open doorway as Sé departed, watching as the Anviler knight merged with the shadows and disappeared. After gazing after him for a moment, Kenneth turned back into the room, where Llion had stirred and was moving about the outer chamber, tidying various pieces of equipment.

“Llion, could I see you outside for a moment?” he said quietly, motioning with his chin.

With a look of question, Llion put aside a folded shirt and followed Kenneth into the corridor.

“I must ride for Cassan tonight, with Jared,” Kenneth said in a low voice, after he had drawn the door closed. “Duke Andrew has been taken ill, and Jared is likely to be duke far sooner than we had hoped.”

The young knight's face fell. “I
am
sorry to hear that, my lord,” he murmured. “Duke Andrew is a good man. Shall I get the boy ready to travel?”

“Not tonight,” Kenneth replied. “Jared and I will leave shortly, with a small escort that can move fast. I'll take Xander and Trevor with me—and we'll take Kevin with us; but Jared is leaving Duncan and Tesselin with you. He has asked that the two of you bring the boys with the rest of our party. Set the best pace you can, but remember that they're only seven. With any luck, at least Jared and Kevin and I will arrive before Andrew passes.”

“You think he's going to die?” Llion asked softly.

“He has had a long, full life,” Kenneth replied, “and you know his health has not been good, these past few years. I think this may well be his time. But it will be the end of an era.”

Llion crossed himself in silent agreement. “God grant him a peaceful passing,” he murmured.

“May He grant it, indeed.” Kenneth allowed himself a weary sigh. “I'll change into something more suitable for hard riding, then say good-bye to Alaric. I'd take him along, but seven is young for the kind of speed we'll be trying to make. You might check with Tesselin and Jared's men, see if you can give them a hand. You should make the best time you can, but you
are
allowed to stop for food and sleep along the way.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Returning to the inner chamber, Kenneth moved as quietly as he could, changing his court attire for more serviceable riding leathers, sturdy boots, a light mail shirt. He was doing up his leather vambraces when he became aware that he was being watched. As he turned toward the bed, Alaric eased up on his elbows.

“What're you doing, Papa?” he whispered.

Forcing a faint smile, Kenneth sat down on the edge of the bed beside his son. “I must go back to Culdi with your Uncle Jared, lad.”

“Now? In the middle of the night?”

“I'm afraid so. Uncle Andrew is very sick.”

The boy plumped back onto his pillow, looking away briefly. “He's going to die, isn't he?”

“I suspect he is,” Kenneth admitted.

“I don't want him to die.”

“Well, neither do I. But we all have to die someday. And he's had a long, full life. He's seen his son grow into a fine man, and watched his grandsons grow nearly to manhood. . . .”

“He still shouldn't have to die.”

“No, he shouldn't, and maybe he won't for a while yet. But if it
is
his time, Uncle Jared would like to see him one more time, to say good-bye. So I'm going to go with him and Kevin, to help them get there fast.”

“When will you be back?” Alaric wanted to know.

Kenneth shrugged. “Difficult to say. But it really doesn't matter, because Llion and Tesselin are going to bring you and Duncan—just not quite as fast. You'll leave tomorrow, and probably get there several days after we do.”

Alaric perked up immediately. “We get to go with Llion?”

“Yes.”

“Will it be an adventure?”

“Hopefully, not
too
much of an adventure,” Kenneth said with a faint smile. “You shall have a proper escort of household knights. If I thought there might be trouble, I wouldn't let them bring you.”

“I shall need to ride a horse, Papa. My pony would be much too slow!”

“I believe Llion is organizing that as we speak. He'll find you and Duncan some steady, reliable mounts. Your ponies can stay here, for now. I'll send someone for them later in the summer, maybe even in the autumn.”

“You mean after Uncle Andrew is dead,” the boy said sadly, then sat up abruptly. “May I go tell Duncan?”

“No, you may not. Duncan and his da are having much the same conversation that you and I are having, except that it's his grandfather they're discussing, not my brother-in-law, and it's Uncle Jared's father. Jared and I plan to be on our way very shortly, so you need to get your sleep. Today was a busy day, and tomorrow will be even busier.”

“Can I at least watch you leave?”

Kenneth started to say no, but then relented and reached down to scoop up the boy in his arms and set him on the floor.

“Just until we leave,” he agreed, “and you're to do as Llion asks, once I've left, as though his instructions came from me.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Now, bring me my sword, so we can get down to the stable yard,” he instructed, with an affectionate swat to his son's backside.

“Now a thing was secretly brought to me . . .”

—JOB 4:12

A
little while later, when Earl Jared McLain and his elder son rode out of Rhemuth Castle, accompanied by Lord Kenneth Morgan and a small escort of their combined household knights, two kings and two princes were among those who gathered in the castle yard to bid them Godspeed, for Prince Ronan had gone to wake his father at the news. Atop the battlements above the gate, the young sons of Jared and Kenneth leaned out to wave farewell, watched over by Sir Llion Farquahar and his Kierney counterpart, Sir Tesselin of Harkness. Despite the late hour, news of Duke Andrew's failing health had spread quickly, for the imminent passing of a duke had implications for all the Eleven Kingdoms. Accordingly, even the queen and her daughters and ladies had betaken themselves to the chapel royal to offer prayers for the stricken duke, and for the safety of those traveling to bid him farewell.

•   •   •

G
IVEN
the unexpected ending to the evening, it was well after midnight by the time the king and his guests retired and Sir Jamyl Arilan could safely set about his other duties—duties not to the king but to a secret organization to which he was sworn by oaths far more binding than those he owed his sovereign. Ascending a spiral stair to an upper floor, he made his way quietly past the royal library and paused outside the door of a neighboring guest chamber to listen, setting his hand flat against the wood while his mind probed for a presence beyond.

When he had confirmed that the lone occupant was deeply asleep, he slid his hand down to the door latch and exerted power, breathing a faint sigh as the latch lifted with a soft
snick
. A moment he paused to listen again, lest the sound had been heard; then he slowly pushed the door open far enough to slip inside, closing it behind him and setting the latch back in place. Beyond, from the direction of the canopied bed, he could hear breathy snores.

He allowed himself a wordless prayer of thanks that his entry had not been detected, even as he tiptoed close enough to gently touch the sleeper on the brow, deepening the sleep and setting controls in case the sleeper should stir when he returned. He had performed this office often in the past, so that his late uncle and the even later Michon de Courcy might have safe access to the room and what it hid—the guest chamber was often in use when providing accommodation to visitors—but this was the first time Jamyl had facilitated his own use of the room. The estimable Lord Michon had passed two years before, his absence still felt keenly among those Jamyl was on his way to meet; and Jamyl's Uncle Seisyll had slipped away shortly after Twelfth Night, following several months of declining health. The pair had been senior among those who comprised the Camberian Council. The eldest now was Prince Khoren Vastouni, seriously contemplating retirement, and after him Oisín Adair. Jamyl, at twenty, was the youngest.

Sobered by this thought, Jamyl moved softly into the center of the room, nearer to the window, and took his stance in the center of the Kheldish carpet that lay there, reaching with his mind for the now long-familiar coordinates of the Portal matrix beneath. Then, after a last glance at the unmoving lump in the bed, he briefly closed his eyes and tweaked the energies—and controlled the slight surge of vertigo as he was suddenly . . . elsewhere.

“Enjoyed the feast, did you?” said a pleasant baritone from the shadows to his left, before Jamyl could even draw breath.

Instinctively, Jamyl glanced in that direction, grinning as silvery light flared in the hand of the speaker. Though Stefan Coram owned only a few more years than Jamyl, and was senior in the Camberian Council by only a matter of months, he was perhaps the most powerful Deryni Jamyl had ever met: a fitting replacement for the redoubtable Michon de Courcy, whom Jamyl had known since childhood and from whom Jamyl had received much of his training.

“I wish it
were
the feast that kept me,” Jamyl retorted, stepping from the Portal to exchange a handclasp with the other man. “A messenger arrived from Culdi several hours ago. The Duke of Cassan is dying—may already be dead, for all we know. Earl Jared and Kenneth Morgan rode out shortly after they received the news. After that, it took a while for everyone to settle in. Caused quite a stir, as you can imagine—but then, Duke Andrew's absence from the king's knighting had already caused a lot of speculation.”

“Cassan, eh?” Coram raised one white-blond eyebrow. “Well, he's had a long and distinguished life, and Jared McLain has served his apprenticeship, that's for certain. He'll wear the coronet well.” He gestured with his handfire toward a pair of burnished metal doors, half again as high as a man. “We'd best go in. They're discussing Meara—which is hardly anything new, but they're also waiting for Khoren, hoping he'll have further news from Torenth.”

Jamyl looked at him sharply. “Do we have another Festillic claimant?”

“Perhaps not
this
time round,” Stefan replied.

“No? I thought we had confirmation that Prince Hogan's new wife is carrying another son.”

“Oh, she is,” Stefan confirmed. “Whether she can deliver this one alive remains to be seen. Khoren's contact in the Festillic household reports that she went into labor nearly three days ago.”

Jamyl grimaced, for while he could hardly wish ill on any innocent babe still in its mother's womb, or even on its mother, a male heir for the Festillic pretender to the throne of Gwynedd could only cause problems for his own prince. But he said nothing as the doors parted for him and Stefan.

Inside, four heads turned to note their arrival, momentary anticipation subsiding as Jamyl's presence registered.

“Ah, it's Jamyl,” the lone woman observed.

She and the three others were gathered around the great, eight-sided table of ivory that dominated the octagonal chamber, and appeared to have been poring over a map spread in the table's center. Above the table, suspended from the center boss of the faceted dome that lit the room by day, a crystal sphere cast a stark light that quite overpowered the more golden glow from candle sconces set at the angles of the room.

By this light, the Lady Vivienne looked distracted and a little haggard, aged beyond her years in a robe of faded russet and a close-fitting wimple. Barrett de Laney wore his customary scholar's robes, the scarlet of the great university at Rhanamé, but the harsh lighting emphasized the angles of his lean, ascetic features, his sightless eyes like pools of darkness under the shadow of his brow.

Rhydon, somewhat older than Jamyl or Stefan, managed to look both serious and a trifle rakish, wearing his long facial scar like the badge of honor it was. He had sustained it in protecting the king, little though the king realized it—just as the king must never learn the full extent of Jamyl's assistance on that fateful day. Oisín Adair, the oldest of those present, was probably the one Jamyl knew least well, but he clearly had been leading the discussion, one hand poised on the map before them.

“No word yet from Khoren,” Oisín said, in answer to the unspoken question in Stefan's lifted eyebrow, as he waved the pair to vacant chairs. “Jamyl, while we wait, I was sharing some intelligence regarding recent developments in Meara. You may recall that I have been nurturing a friendship with the royal governor, who indicates that the king probably will need to begin thinking about a campaign next spring—or at least a royal visitation.”

“Well, at least we got him safely knighted,” Jamyl murmured, as he took his seat to Oisín's right and Stefan continued on past Barrett to sit. “He made a good showing at the tournament as well. But I had hoped he would have a few more years before Meara reared its ugly head.”

Vivienne quirked a faint smile as she glanced at their most recent inductee. Though Jamyl was junior to all of them, he had served an exceptionally useful apprenticeship beside his late uncle, Sir Seisyll Arilan, thereby gaining valuable access to the inner workings of Gwynedd's court—and close friendship with the king.

“Oh, hardly ugly, dear boy,” she said lightly. “Sometimes bleak, I will grant you, though parts of the coast can be quite agreeable, at least in high summer. But then, you probably have never been to Meara.”

Several of them chuckled at that, and Jamyl rolled his eyes, smiling as he did so, but shook his head in agreement that, indeed, he had not visited that benighted province.

“Take heart, lad,” Oisín said at his left. “If you continue to serve Brion of Gwynedd, 'tis likely you will be obliged to become familiar with Meara all too soon.”

“A pesthole!” Rhydon muttered under his breath, leaning back to fold his arms across his waist.

“Indeed,” Barrett agreed, and returned his attention to the map beneath his hand, sweeping southward along the mountains that marked Meara's border with the Connait, though the sightless eyes gazed at nothing. “Unfortunately, I fear that the pestilence festering in Meara will continue to plague the kings of Gwynedd for as long as there are descendants of the old Mearan royal line.”

“Surely, there can't be many left,” Jamyl said. “I was under the impression that King Donal's last foray into Meara pretty much wiped out the last of them. And didn't Prince Judhael disappear after that? Is he even still alive?”

Barrett shrugged. “Alive, yes, though in exile since that time. And I would venture to say that his threat is greatly diminished.”

“Be plain about it, Barrett,” Rhydon muttered. “They say that his mind has gone.”

“Can that be any great surprise?” Vivienne replied. “After all, that venture cost him a daughter and a granddaughter.”

Rhydon snorted. “A proper prince would have taken that as a call for vengeance.”

“For those Mearans faithful to the cause, Judhael
is
a proper prince,
and
their rightful lord—not Brion of Gwynedd,” Barrett pointed out dryly. “Which is why we must not discount Judhael. And however sound of mind he may or may not be, he has a grandson of the same name nearing his majority. Furthermore, the Princess Caitrin might yet marry and produce an heir.”

“There may be some truth to that last,” Oisín said thoughtfully. “Had it not been for Donal Haldane's last Mearan campaign, she would have married Sir Francis Delaney, the younger brother of the Earl of Somerdale. Fortunately for Donal, Delaney met his end in the same engagement that saw Judhael's daughter and granddaughter hounded to death. We have Morian to thank for that,” he added for the benefit of Jamyl, who had been but a boy at the time. “Yes, Morian du Joux, or ap Lewys, as he was born, whose father was Lewys ap Norfal. Lewys was quite a thorn in our sides, in his time, but fortunately the son serves us well. He has mostly made his career at the governor's court in Meara, serving Haldane interests.”

Jamyl only nodded. He was well acquainted with the stories of how Lewys ap Norfal had been expelled from the Camberian Council many decades before, and had later perished in a magical endeavor gone horribly wrong. And he had heard of Morian, who apparently had mostly lived down his father's reputation.

“In any case,” Oisín went on, “recent rumor has it that the Princess Caitrin now wishes to marry Derek Delaney Earl of Somerdale, the elder brother of her previous betrothed. This match—nay, any match—does not meet with the approval of her mother, who has been serving as regent-in-exile since her husband's descent into . . . let us say ineffectiveness rather than madness. Aude of Meara believes that enough Quinnell blood has been spilled in the now-lost Mearan cause. If Caitrin should fail to produce an heir, the last of the Mearan succession would rest in that last surviving grandson, the younger Prince Judhael—and they say that Aude has been grooming him for the Church, to the point that he intends to take holy orders.”

Vivienne sniffed. “At twelve, I think it far more likely that young Prince Judhael may awaken to more worldly ambitions, but at least that is probably for the future.”

“We shall see,” Oisín replied noncommittally. “I worry more about Caitrin. Her mother's health is said to be failing. Once Aude is gone, Caitrin may well marry—and any children she might bear would—”

He broke off as the double doors suddenly parted and the last of their number silently entered the chamber, not meeting anyone's gaze. In contrast to his usual, sometimes flamboyant attire, Prince Khoren Vastouni tonight was clad all in black, his greying hair ruffled in a silvery halo around his flat-topped black hat. As he slid into his seat to Vivienne's left, she touched a hesitant hand to his shoulder, at which he shook his head.

“What has happened?” Barrett asked quietly, cocking his head in the other's direction.

“'Tis over,” Khoren said in a low voice, clearly steeling himself for the news he must deliver. “Both the Lady Roshane and her child are dead.”