The Bishop’s Heir (15 page)

“I'm not afraid,” Kelson had retorted, handing Dhugal his silver-mounted dagger. “Here. Do it!”

He had actually been very much afraid, and so had Dhugal, but he had not allowed himself to flinch as Dhugal's inexperienced hand drew the blade across his flesh. Fascinated, Kelson held his wrist and watched the blood well in his palm, only dragging his eyes from it when Dhugal laid the black-carved hilt of his own dagger across Kelson's bloody fingers. The pommel had clasped a water-pale amethyst, and he remembered the blood staining it a darker hue as he drew the blade across Dhugal's palm in a wound to match his own.

“Say the words after me,” Dhugal had whispered, clasping his bloody hand to Kelson's and looping a handkerchief to bind them. “I take you as my brother, of blood and of life.”

“I take you as my brother, of blood and of life,” Kelson had repeated.

“I call to witness the four airts—those are winds,” Dhugal added.

“I call to witness the four airts,” Kelson agreed.

“That so long as I have breath, I will stand by my brother with my life and my honor.…”

With a little smile, the adult Kelson clasped his free hand around their joined ones and nodded.

“I'll expect you in the spring, then, my brother,” he said quietly, not wanting to break the mood. “Do your filial duty through the winter, and keep the peace here in Transha for me, and then come to me at Culdi as soon as the passes are clear.”

“I will, my lord,” Dhugal whispered. “And God keep us both safe until then.”

C
HAPTER
S
IX

They only consult to cast him down from his excellency: they delight in lies: they bless with their mouth, but they curse inwardly
.

—Psalms 62:4

By special request of the Archbishop of Rhemuth, the bishops at Culdi met in closed convocation early the next morning. In Duncan's absence, Istelyn was drafted to serve as secretary for the proceedings. No one was more surprised than he when Cardiel proposed him as the next Bishop of Meara.

To the relief of Cardiel and Arilan, support for Istelyn's candidacy quickly grew. Once the stunned Istelyn's praises had been sung by a bemused Archbishop Bradene, who had more cause than any other man to know Istelyn's work, hardly a prelate in the room did not join actively in his support, for Istelyn's nomination provided an elegant solution to the Mearan problem. By noon, when the entire community met for High Mass, Archbishop Bradene was able to announce a unanimous decision from the pulpit. With few exceptions, the news was received with relief and general approval.

One of those who did not approve of the bishops' choice was Judhael of Meara, though his public reception of the news was gracious and obedient. As soon as was seemly after Mass, however, he tapped discreetly on the door of his patron, Creoda of Carbury. The bishop's secretary admitted him at once.

“You could have warned me,” he said, when the secretary had shown him into Creoda's presence and the formalities had been observed.

Sighing, Creoda motioned Judhael to take a seat across from him, staying the priest-secretary with a similar gesture. Judhael sat. He was a youngish-looking man of ramrod-straight carriage, with hair gone prematurely silver, in stark contrast to his clerical black. The pale, sea blue eyes measured Creoda accusingly, the hands also betraying his agitation as he played with a ring on his right hand.

“These things happen,” Creoda muttered. “If it's any consolation, you reacted precisely as you should have. Cardiel sprang the recommendation on us at an early meeting this morning. There was no way to warn you between then and Mass. I'm sorry.”

“So am I.” Judhael worried at his ring a moment longer, then glanced aside at the fire in the stone fireplace. The silver signet on his hand was more befitting a secular lord than a cleric.

“What happens next, then?” Judhael asked. “Is this the end of it? Will the king ratify Istelyn's appointment?”

“I don't know, to all three questions,” Creoda replied. “Istelyn has been in the king's favor for several years, so I doubt there will be any objection on the part of His Majesty. That does not necessarily spell an end to things, however.”

“No?”

Creoda snapped his fingers in the direction of the secretary and held out his hand for the folded square of parchment which the man immediately produced. Judhael sat forward expectantly, but Creoda took his time unfolding the missive.

“This came late last night,” the bishop said, holding it at arm's length and squinting at the text before handing it over to Judhael. “The gist of it is that our brother in Saint Iveagh's is prepared to support you, and awaits the guide who will escort him to freedom.”

“And how much is that support worth, now that someone else has been chosen for the See of Meara?” Judhael said bitterly, as he scanned the closely penned script.

“It will be as useful as it needs to be,” Creoda replied. “At very least, he can pull the ecclesiastical factions together for the reunification of Old Meara.”

“You really think he still wields that much influence?”

“He might surprise you,” Creoda countered. “Granted, he's a bit fanatic for some people's tastes, but I have always known him to be an upright and godly man. His treatment at the hands of the king rankled many, myself among them. He
was
our elected primate, after all.”

“And a fanatic,” Judhael reminded his superior, as he handed the missive back to the priest beside him. “You yourself have conceded that.”

Creoda shrugged narrow shoulders and smiled a thin, smug smile. “Please, Father. Grant me credit for
some
common sense. Just because one describes our one-time master as a godly man does not necessarily mean one thinks he should be primate once again.”

“Not primate?” Judhael stared at the bishop in blank astonishment. “But, I thought—”

“Don't think, Father,” Creoda replied softly. “Let me do the thinking. There are other things at stake besides your Mearan See. The less you know, the better.”

“But—”

“It is said that the king can force a man to speak the truth, Father,” Creoda went on. “And God alone knows what unholy things his Deryni friends can do. But one cannot speak of what one does not know, now, can one? My silence is for your protection as well as mine, my son.”

Judhael's face turned pale beneath his silver hair, and he hugged his arms across his chest as he suppressed a shiver.

“Dear God in heaven, you're right! General Morgan stopped me on the way out of chapel last night. I couldn't avoid him. He wanted to know whether I had any knowledge of an assassination attempt on McLain.”

“An assassination attempt?”

“You weren't behind it, then?”

“Certainly not! What happened?”

Judhael looked confused as he shook his head. “I don't know for certain. Apparently there was a boy with a knife. It can't have been too serious, though. McLain attended Mass this morning. I saw him sitting next to Morgan.”

“So he was.” Creoda stared into space for a few seconds, then shook his head. “No matter. It doesn't concern us. Any number of people might want a Deryni priest dead.”

“Or a Deryni duke,” Judhael added. “He's that, too, don't forget. My aunt and my cousins wouldn't mind.”

When Creoda looked puzzled, Judhael continued a little disdainfully.

“Can you have forgotten, Excellency? Because it has no immediate ecclesiastical significance doesn't mean it isn't important. As Duke of Cassan and Earl of Kierney, Duncan McLain has no direct heir. By strict right of succession, his lands should pass to Ithel after he dies—not that the king would allow it.”

“Ah, then, Morgan felt you had a motive,” Creoda breathed. “Which, in fact, you did. That's why he wanted to question you. Aren't you glad you knew nothing to tell him?”

“I'll confess to that. He did want to know how long it had been since I'd heard from my aunt. And he has to be aware how my elevation to the See of Meara could have helped the cause of Mearan independence.”

“That is hardly any secret,” Creoda observed dryly. “But, very well. We must assume that in the future he'll be even more observant—which simply confirms my instinct that you should know as little about the rest of our plans as possible, until the deeds are done. Do you agree?”

“I have no real choice, it seems.”

“No, you do not. Therefore, for the time being, I advise you to bide your time, support Istelyn with grace—and stay as far as possible from Morgan or any other Deryni. There are too damned many of them around, as it is.”

Judhael inclined his head in assent.

“Good. I think you'd best return to your quarters now,” Creoda went on. “And stay there, as much as possible. No one will think it odd if you keep to yourself for a few days. I gather that the king is expected back tomorrow or the day after, and I anticipate a mass exodus to Ratharkin for Istelyn's investiture shortly thereafter. I hope we will be ready to make our move soon after that.”

“I shall bow to your judgment, Excellency,” Judhael murmured, kneeling in formal leave-taking to kiss the bishop's ring and receive his blessing.

When Judhael had gone, Creoda glanced aside at his secretary.

“Is Gorony's messenger still waiting in the next room?” he asked.

“Yes, Excellency.”

“Very well. Ask him to come in, then, and bring your inks and vellums. We have work to do.”

Two days later, the king returned to Culdi. A delegation of bishops met him outside the city gates and conducted him with due ceremony to the chapter house, where Istelyn was formally presented as bishop-elect of Meara. Messengers had been sent ahead on several different roads to intercept the king and apprise him of the bishops' intentions, so an informed Kelson was able to grant his royal approval on the spot. He dined with Istelyn and a few other intimates that evening, then retired with Morgan and a mostly-recovered Duncan later that night; the three of them exchanged details of what had transpired in the days of Kelson's absence. The following morning, the entire royal party made the day-long ride to Ratharkin, to witness Istelyn's installation the following day.

That night, however, while king and court rested in Ratharkin and the new bishop-elect kept vigil with several of his brethren in a nearby monastic chapel, a man in monk's robes made his way along the silent corridors of another monastery far to the east and north, close by the sea. The prisoner of Saint Iveagh's paced impatiently as metal picked at the workings of his door lock from the other side, fearing at each new scrape or click that the sound would raise the alarm. The face which greeted him, when the door swung back at last, was that of the monk who had confessed him earlier in the week: the preacher Jeroboam, whom he had been told to expect. Jeroboam inclined his head for Loris' blessing, then signed that he should remove his sandals. The bare feet of the two made no sound as they descended the tower newel to make good their escape.

It was the hour between Matins and Lauds, when all the abbey slept. Only now might they hope to traverse the abbey's corridors without danger of meeting someone. As they skirted the night stairs, close by the monks' dorter, Loris hardly dared to breathe. Once past, he could breathe, but their route became a maze of unfamiliar turns and jogs. He had no idea where he was.

Another descending stair gave way to downward-sloping corridor, then to rock-hewn tunnel, then to rough sea cave—and a harrowing descent of the remainder of the cliff face by rope, to board a waiting curragh. Loris clung to the sides of the tiny craft and prayed as the curragh left the shelter of the cove and headed out through the swells, not relaxing until a ship suddenly loomed out of the fog ahead, spars stark and skeletal in the darkness. As he scrambled aboard, the master of the ship tugged at his forelock and gave silent signal for the crew to begin rowing.

“God prosper Your Excellency in your work,” said a muffled voice, kneeling shadow-vague to grasp the newcomer's hand and kiss it.

“Gorony?” Loris whispered, raising the man to peer and then embrace him. “Gorony, Gorony, I feared never to see you again, or to taste freedom! Oh, I am well blessed with such service!”

Gorony pulled away far enough to incline his head in thanks, smiling contentedly. “I had powerful allies, my lord. But not powerful enough, I fear, to prevent your enemies from making our task more difficult from this point on. The Lord Judhael was
not
elected to the See of Meara. Tomorrow morning, Bradene and Cardiel will invest Henry Istelyn in Ratharkin, before the king and most of his court.”

“Istelyn? Damn!” Slamming one fist into his other palm, Loris half turned away from Gorony, moving farther into the bow. The wind was freshening as the ship ghosted further from the shelter of the sea cliffs, and canvas rustled and snapped as the crew hoisted the sail aloft and caught the air.

“Do you know how it happened?” Loris asked, after taking a moment to subdue his anger.

Gorony shrugged. “Not in detail, Excellency, but one gathers that the Deryni McLain had a hand in it. Incidentally, I regret to report that our diversion was unsuccessful. McLain still lives and will himself be consecrated bishop at Easter, to serve Cardiel.”

“A viper in the episcopate!” Loris spat vehemently over the rail. “What about our agent? Did he talk?”

“Apparently not. McLain killed him during the attack. Fortunately, not even Deryni can make the dead speak—especially when
merasha
is involved.”

“Ah, then the boy
did
manage to wound him.”

“Aye, though not deeply enough to do real damage: a slash across one palm, from what I hear. Apparently Morgan was able to heal that, though not right away, with the
merasha
in it. McLain was quite up to attending Mass the next noon, and seemed to bear no sign of the wound.”