The King’s Justice (13 page)

“Thank God that's over,” Morgan said, lifting his cup in salute when everyone had wine. “Shall we drink to Saint Camber, King Kelson, and our fine Haldane heir?”

“To Camber, Kelson, and Nigel,” Duncan agreed, raising his own cup as Richenda and Dhugal did the same.

“But how much will he remember?” Dhugal wondered, when the toast had been drunk.

“It's unclear just how much he'll remember,” Arilan was saying at that very moment, addressing the other members of the Camberian Council. “He knows me as Deryni, of course, from the Portal construction at Llyndruth Meadows, but Kelson and I agreed at the time that a block should be placed to prevent him disclosing my identity to anyone else. That's held, of course.”

Old Vivienne, even more irascible this evening than was usually her wont, allowed herself a sour smile. “Thank God you had the good sense to do that—and to erase that Warin person's memory of the incident altogether. I could have told you he would bolt again, once the immediate crisis of the war with Wencit had passed.”

“It's true we've not heard much of Warin in the past year,” Laran said, tapping his fingertips lightly together. “As a physician, I would like to have explored his healing gifts more thoroughly. Unfortunately, no one seems to know what's become of him.”

“Good riddance, if you ask me,” Kyri said with a toss of her flame-colored hair. “Healing by the power of God, indeed! We don't need
that
kind of superstitious nonsense!”

“However he does it, he does it,” Arilan said dryly. “In any case, I hardly think Warin de Grey is the issue here. We came to discuss Prince Nigel, as I recall. I suspect that our Tiercel, at least, is bursting to hear more of the new Haldane heir—
though he will keep his peace until I have finished telling you of it, I feel certain,”
he concluded emphatically, flashing a brief but adamant glance of warning across the table.

Tiercel, on the brink of an objection, thought better of it and subsided, to the obvious relief of more than one person seated at the table.

“So,” said blind Barrett, after a measured sigh at Arilan's right, “what
is
your understanding of what was done to Nigel? We must surmise that the Haldane potential was set, but was the king able to make the patterning reversible?”

“Such was his intention. However, since only Morgan and Duncan were included in the primary link, I have only Kelson's word on that.”

Sofiana cocked her head to one side and studied Arilan thoughtfully. “Do you have reason to doubt him, Denis?”

“Not—exactly.” He lowered his eyes, idly following the pattern he was tracing with a fingertip along the gold inlay of the table, his bishop's ring glinting in the chamber's dim illumination. “Oh, I don't doubt that the pattern was set. And we expected a powerful working. The Haldane rituals almost always are.”

“Are you saying there might have been a transfer of power as well?” Tiercel asked, no longer able to contain his curiosity. “Some actual awakening of ability, I mean.”

Vivienne glanced at him sharply. “Why
do
you insist upon belaboring the issue? Only one Haldane may hold the power at a time. We have gone over this time and again.”

“And have never,
ever
truly answered the question!” Tiercel retorted.

“And
shall
not meddle in forbidden things!” Vivienne snapped, now openly glaring at the younger man. “Now,
will
you keep your peace, or must I invoke an official censure?”

Tiercel looked as if he might have been considering further defiance, but Sofiana, seated to his left, touched two fingers lightly to his lips in restraint.

“Enough, Tiercel,” she murmured. “Now is not the time.” She glanced back at Arilan, watching stoically a few places away. “What further can you tell us, Denis? By your expression, one might almost think Kelson
did
give his uncle at least a taste of power.”

Arilan folded his hands carefully before him and shook his head. “It would have nothing to do with being Haldane, of course—and there are definite limits to what could be bestowed upon a human. We know of several such cases in recent years.”

“Are you thinking of Bran Coris?” Laran asked.

“Aye—though one must almost wonder, in retrospect, whether he might not have been at least part Deryni himself. It hardly seems likely that Wencit would have bothered, unless there were something more to work with.” He cocked his head at Sofiana in sudden speculation. “Do you know?
Was
Bran Coris Deryni?”

Sofiana gave an odd little smile that might have betokened either disdain or secret knowledge.

“If he
had
been, what does it matter, now?”

“It matters,” Barrett murmured, “because he and Richenda had a son, your sister's grandson—a child who would be full Deryni, if Bran was. How old is Brendan now?”

“He will be seven in June,” she replied quietly. “Unfortunately, his father was
not
Deryni.”

Kyri sat back with a perplexed sigh. “You could have said as much. He's another rogue, then: Brendan, little Briony—young Dhugal MacArdry, from an even less explainable bloodline. Incidentally, Denis, how did the MacArdry boy behave? Have you any further speculations on that account?”

“None. He was door warden for the actual working. He never entered the circle. He seemed to keep his composure, so far as I could tell, but I
was
rather preoccupied.” He frowned. “Come to think of it, he managed
not
to be next to me during our meditation time before things got started—whether by chance or design never occurred to me at the time. I had Morgan and Richenda to either side of me. He was between Richenda and Duncan.”

Tiercel shrugged and gave an impatient sigh. “I hardly think that matters, since we're really supposed to be talking about Nigel,” he said. “Touchy as Dhugal's shields are, I suspect he merely opted to minimize possible clashes. Kelson probably told him to. You certainly wouldn't have wanted that kind of distraction during the ritual.”

“Thank you for bringing us back to the subject,” Barrett said.

“And for refraining from your usual line of discussion,” Vivienne added. “Denis, is there anything else that you can tell us about Nigel's reaction?”

Arilan shook his head. “Very little, I fear. As planned, Richenda and I were keyed in as facilitators on the secondary level—and what we were permitted to See seemed quite in keeping with what I expected.” He raised an eyebrow wistfully. “Naturally, I can't give you any details of the actual process.”

“Naturally,” Vivienne said cynically. “He bound you by oath.”

“I would think less of him if he had not,” Arilan replied.

“Pray to every god in heaven that you are never forced to choose among your oaths,” Kyri murmured. “We can accept your judgment that all was done properly for now, but if things should change, I do not think I should like to be in your place.”

“Fortunately for all of us,” Arilan said dryly, “none of you shall ever have to worry about that possibility.” He shifted position in his high-backed chair and sighed.

“Now, is there other business for tonight, or may I go home and get some sleep? I must confess that keeping up with a seventeen-year-old king becomes increasingly difficult, even if he were not Deryni.”

C
HAPTER
S
IX

Thou hast given a banner to them that fear thee, that it may be displayed because of the truth
.

—Psalms 60:4

Keeping up with a seventeen-year-old king was enough to tax far younger men than Arilan. Though Kelson could have gotten little more sleep than any of the rest of those involved in the previous night's work, he was up at first light to see that Duncan's escort had begun to assemble in the castle yard, and summoned his bleary-eyed chief advisors to join him at table before another hour had passed.

Granted, it was the table in the great hall rather than the council table, for the still growing Kelson rarely missed a meal of late, but he seemed to take perverse delight in the yawns and long-suffering expressions of his lords of state, many of whom made no attempt to disguise their irritation at the early morning summons.

Nigel alone seemed to match the king for mood and freshness—which surprised Morgan and Duncan, given the ordeal Nigel had undergone only a few hours before. Even Dhugal, nearly two years Kelson's junior and by no means as involved as the others, propped his elbows on the table and occasionally leaned his chin on one hand while he ate and listened to the king's briefing. And Dhugal was eager for the day, for he and a handful of his clansmen rode with Duncan at noon to join the other MacArdry levies and the army of Cassan in the north.

Morgan studied king and prince as he and Duncan paused at the edge of the yard where the ducal escort was mustering. Dhugal had gone ahead of them to be with his borderers, and the two Haldanes were inspecting the mounted men-at-arms, both resplendent this morning in Haldane crimson. The prince regent moved among the men with the same easy grace that had been his brother's trademark and was now Kelson's, even managing, with Kelson's connivance, to bring an occasional smile to the lips of Dhugal's dour border scouts.

“God, he's good,” Morgan murmured. “Sometimes, watching him is like watching Brion at his very best. I think the men would ride to hell and back for him, if he asked.”

“Oh, they would—though God grant that they never have to,” Duncan agreed, tugging at the cuff of a gauntlet embroidered with the sleeping lion of Cassan. “He certainly seems to have weathered last night in good form, though. One would think he'd had a full night's sleep—which is more than I can say for myself. Do you think Kelson helped him with a fatigue-banishing spell?”

Morgan shrugged and smiled as he returned his attention to Kelson again, now examining a new battle standard that Dhugal and Jodrell were unfurling.

“I don't know. He may have done. It will be fascinating to see how much Nigel begins picking up on his own this summer, once you and Kelson and I are away.” He sighed. “It's also going to be strange, having you and Dhugal off in the north.”

“Aye. God grant that the war will be quickly won, and all of us soon reunited.”

He did not reiterate—nor did Morgan—that grim possibility that every fighting man must eventually face, at least in some deeply buried, secret part of him: that for some of those who rode out on campaign, even on so glorious a spring day as this, there would be no reunion, at least in this life. That was an unspoken “given” that soldiers almost never voiced, lest the speaking invite the very thing they dreaded. As a bishop, Duncan might laugh off such a notion as superstition; but the soldier in him was more cautious. He was very much the soldier today, in appearance as well as demeanor.

No cassock or cope or other ecclesiastical accoutrement proclaimed his episcopal rank. The plain silver cross hanging from under his gorget might have belonged to any pious man, and his bishop's ring was hidden under its embroidered gauntlet. Over close-fitting trews of deerskin and knee-high boots, Duncan had buckled a trim, buff-colored jazerant of quilted leather studded with steel, the edges bound in bright McLain tartan and the McLain device picked out in silken stitches on the left breast. A sword and crozier crossed in saltire behind the embroidered shield gave hint of his dual status, but only at close range.

There was a helm that denoted his double rank more obviously, circled by a ducal coronet, and with a steel cross splayed above the eyes and extending down the nasal, but that was still hanging on the saddle of his palfrey: a cloud-grey mare chosen for stamina and smoothness of gait. A squire held her, over near Dhugal and Jodrell. The big, battle-trained destriers were with the baggage train and sumpter animals, along with the heavier armor, none of which would be needed for the swift dash across the plains to the Mearan border.

“The summer will fly; you'll see,” Morgan said quietly, after a beat. “Richenda has promised to continue working with Nigel, and to send us progress reports. And when we exchange dispatches, I shall send you more of that excellent wine we drank last night, and you shall drink to all our very good health!”

As he clasped Duncan by the shoulder, he forced a smile which Duncan returned dutifully, then glanced past him to the men mounting up in the yard.

“But, I see the archbishops coming out to bless the troops. I suppose we'd best rejoin our respective contingents.”

“Aye. You
are
still riding out with us the first few miles, aren't you?”

“Certainly. But this blessing is for
your
lot—unless you'd care to give
me
a blessing before you go.…”

Duncan raised one eyebrow in surprise, then grinned unabashedly. “I'm flattered, Alaric. You've never asked before.”

“The last time we left on a major campaign, you weren't a bishop.” Morgan flashed him a quick, self-conscious grin. “Nor were you even a priest in very good standing, as I recall—at least so far as the Church was concerned.”

“Mere technicalities,” Duncan muttered, quickly pulling off his right gauntlet and glancing around to see whether they were being observed. “I'm still flattered. I don't suppose we should call undue attention to ourselves, so you needn't kneel—but do bow your head.”

Kelson and Nigel were returning to the great hall steps beside the archbishops, so most attention was focused on the king—which was fortunate, because the flash of sun on Duncan's episcopal ring triggered potent memories in both Deryni as he raised his hand slightly between them. Morgan caught his breath in an echo of the old awe, then as quickly dipped his head and averted his eyes. The memory was too intimate, too precious, to share with anyone but Duncan.

The ring had been Bishop Istelyn's until six months before: hacked from his hand at the orders of Edmond Loris and sent, still circling Istelyn's finger, as an earnest of Loris' intention, with his Mearan allies, to wage total war against the Deryni Kelson. When Kelson did not capitulate, Istelyn's head followed; and Duncan had declared he would be made a bishop with no other ring than the martyred Henry Istelyn's.