The King’s Justice (22 page)

Meraude, nursing their infant daughter contentedly in the intimate surroundings of what was almost exclusively a family gathering, sighed and shook her head. Besides herself and Nigel, only Richenda, Arilan, and Meraude's brother, Saer de Traherne, were present.

“Poor child. She's convinced that her life is over,” Meraude said. “She was calm enough when she first arrived, but I think the long ride simply numbed the import of what happened. After my ladies helped her bathe and put her to bed, she cried herself to sleep. She hasn't touched a bite of supper.…”

Richenda sighed and shook her head. “Poor lass. I don't know what's been done already, of course—I'll speak to Rothana about it in the morning—but it ought to be possible to ease at least some of the memory. I'd go into her mind myself and try to ease things, but it's always better if contact is made by someone already close.” She smiled at Saer's raised eyebrow. “That's right, Saer. Rothana is kindred by more than marriage. I've not seen her since she was a little girl, but she may be even better trained than I am, by now.”

“Ah, another Deryni,” Saer murmured, too fascinated at the knowledge he had gained in the past few weeks to be surprised at much of anything. He and Meraude both now knew of Nigel's assumption of the Haldane potential, and Arilan's identity. And because of the other Deryni in the castle, both had voluntarily allowed Richenda to block their ability to discuss that information except in this company.

Arilan only snorted and toyed with his pectoral cross, running it back and forth on its chain with a soft, musical rattle of metal against metal.

“Let's investigate that, then,” Nigel said, lifting several parchment sheets and transferring them from one pile to another. “No sense in letting her brood overmuch on what's happened, if there's a way to ease it. While we're on the subject of Deryni, what have you to report on Morag and young Liam, Richenda?”

Richenda managed a fleeting smile. “I do believe we've made our point with the Lady Morag,” she said drolly. “It took her several days to realize that all the humans who come into contact with her have been protected, but she's stopped trying to tamper.”

“She's probably regrouping for some other mischief,” Arilan said darkly. “We mustn't forget she's Wencit's sister, after all.”

“Oh, she's clever,” Richenda agreed. “But perhaps not that clever. She knows what I am, but she hasn't a clue about you.”

“And Liam?” Saer asked.

“Settling in nicely,” Richenda said. “He and Payne and Rory are fast becoming inseparable.”

Nigel frowned. “I've noticed that. You don't think he'd try to tamper with them, do you?”

“I don't think it's likely,” Richenda replied. “I did a surface reading the first night Liam was here, while he was asleep. He has a great deal of potential, but less training than I would have expected—probably because no one ever thought he'd succeed his brother.”

Saer furrowed his brow. “Doesn't he have shields?”

“Of course. Very good ones, too, as one might expect of the nephew of Wencit of Torenth. But one can read a great deal about a person's training and mental discipline just from the surface pattern of the shields. I think any attempt he made to influence Payne or Rory would be immediately obvious. In any case, I took the liberty of setting a few alarms in both boys, just to be on the safe side. If he tries anything beyond a simple Truth-Read, they'll come running right to me.”

As Arilan nodded approvingly, Meraude shifted her baby to the other breast and allowed herself a great sigh.

“I'd be less than honest if I pretended I wasn't relieved,” she said. “Do you think similar precautions should be taken with Conall?”

“That was going to be my next topic,” Nigel said. “Unless anyone objects, I'd like to begin including Conall in our meetings, since I have him here for the summer after all. The responsibility will be good for him.”

“So long as certain limitations are imposed,” Arilan said dryly.

“Of course. Richenda, will you handle it?”

Richenda inclined her head thoughtfully. “Certainly. We're talking about a slightly more complicated situation than we had with the boys, or Meraude and Saer, but he seems to trust me—and I know he's fascinated by our powers. The prospect of being included in our deliberations ought to make him quite cooperative. I assume you'll want it done as soon as possible?”

“Please. It didn't occur to me earlier, but he's probably annoyed at being left out tonight—though I'm sure he must be tired after riding all day. He mentioned going directly to bed and not wanting to be disturbed.”

“I'll see to it in the next day or so,” Richenda said. “Let him get his rest tonight. What other business, my lord?”

“The reception of trade delegations, beginning next week,” Nigel said. “I'm not anticipating any particular problems, but I'll want to review our procedures with such lords of state as are currently in Rhemuth before writing back to Kelson. We should do that tomorrow, I think. Incidentally, I'll also want to tell him how Jehana's doing. What shall I say? The only time I see my dear sister-in-law is at Mass.”

Richenda shrugged and traced a fingertip along the carving of her chair arm. “I'm afraid that's the only time you're likely to see her, too—unless, of course, the report of our newly arrived sisters brings her out of hibernation to investigate. Such time as she does not spend in solitary meditation, she spends with her chaplain and Sister Cecile. I fear she'll not get much sympathy from the ladies of Saint Brigid's, however. I've not pried, but I suspect Rothana may not be the only one with Deryni blood.”

Saer whistled low under his breath and crossed himself before he even realized what he was doing, then offered Richenda and Arilan an embarrassed grimace. “I'm sorry. It's just that I keep discovering more Deryni.”

“You needn't apologize, my lord,” Richenda said, laughing gently. “It sometimes takes a while for old reflexes to die. You're doing very well for a man who'd had little contact with the ‘godless Deryni' before a few months ago.”

“Just be patient with me, lass. I'm working on it.”

“So am I, Saer,” Nigel said, himself permitting a small chuckle as Arilan looked pained. “However, if we've quite finished reassuring one another, I should like to finish this meeting before it gets too late. Incidentally, Richenda, I'll have our replies ready to send out by the day after tomorrow, so you'll need to locate Morgan before then.”

“Tomorrow night,” Richenda agreed. “You may observe, if you wish. And sometime in the next day or two, I'll make the opportunity to have a private chat with your son.”

Nigel's son, however, was not getting the rest his father and companions supposed. Having received favorable reply to his missive of the afternoon, Conall readied himself to keep a long-awaited assignation. The faithful squire who had performed messenger duty slept obliviously on the pallet at the foot of his master's bed, assisted to that state of profound slumber by a strong sedative in the wine he had drunk but his master had not, following a light supper in the prince's sitting room.

Distractedly Conall crouched beside the sleeping lad and laid two fingers over the artery throbbing in the side of the upturned throat—pulsebeat strong, steady, and slow—then rose with a satisfied smile and donned a dark, hooded cloak. Soon he was slipping down the tower stair and along a torchlit corridor to another room.

It was the room that had been Kelson's as prince. Now it was Dhugal's. Conall wished it were his. The door was locked, but Conall had a key. It turned smoothly in the lock, the door swinging back soundlessly as Conall slipped through, closed it softly, and relocked it.

The room was dark after the torchlight outside, only a narrow line of light shining under the door, but that was sufficient to guide Conall to flint and steel. Soon a candle flame was steadying between his cupped hands. He held it aloft to inspect the empty room, satisfying himself that he was alone, then moved quietly toward the darkened fireplace, stopping a few paces to its left. There he lifted his right hand and with his outstretched forefinger boldly traced an ancient symbol. Softly a section of the wall withdrew to reveal a dark stairwell.

He stepped into it with no further thought for what he had done, only intent now on reaching his assignation. Descending the narrow, roughcut stairs, employing other signs to open other passages, he came at last to the doorway he sought: a shutterlike affair of rough-hewn timber.

He snuffed the candle and set it in a little niche before opening the door, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword and drawing his cloak and hood a little closer as he emerged in an alley well outside the walls of Rhemuth Keep. Heading toward brighter light, keeping to the shadows, he shortly passed through a small square, and thence up another street until he reached a tavern called the King's Head.

He was expected. The barkeep who approached him the moment he stepped inside led him immediately to a private room in the back of the establishment.

The room was dim, lit only by the fire on the hearth. Conall thought he was alone at first, as the door closed behind him and he pushed back his hood, yanking at the clasp of his cloak in consternation, but then a form stirred in the shadows beyond the fireplace and stepped into the light, smiling.

It was Tiercel de Claron, almond-colored eyes crinkling at the corners in mild amusement.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

I have multiplied visions
.

—Hosea 12:10

“So, my prize pupil returns early from the wars, eh?” Tiercel said lightly, folding his arms across his chest and chuckling at Conall's obvious sigh of relief. “What's the matter? Didn't you think I'd come?”

Conall threw off his cloak and flung it over a bench near the door, grinning eagerly as he crossed to sit, at Tiercel's invitation, in a chair before the fireplace.

“Of course I knew you'd come. You've never broken your word to me yet.”

“That you know of,” Tiercel retorted, flashing another reassuring smile at Conall's fleeting start of uncertainty. “And I'll try never to give you reason to think I might.”

As Conall made conscious effort to relax his reflex stiffening, Tiercel's almond-amber eyes warmed in the firelight. The balmy June evening had brought him out more casually arrayed than was his usual wont: a tawny green tunic open at the throat, richly worked with bands of interlace threaded red and gold and purple at cuffs, neck, and hem, and cool linen leggings of a dull vermillion, cross-gartered with ochre to the knee, with low, cuffed boots of walnut-hued leather, butter-supple.

He would not have ridden thus attired—not far, at any rate—which only confirmed Conall's theory that the Deryni lord had either lodgings or a Portal somewhere in Rhemuth town—perhaps both—though Tiercel had never admitted to any details about his personal life. By firelight, the cords of his neck twisted in bold relief at the open throat of his tunic as he took two goblets from the high mantel and offered one to Conall.

“But, relax, my young friend, and tell me what brings you back to Rhemuth so unexpectedly,” Tiercel said casually. “Is the war over already? That isn't what the Council tells me.”

“Over? Hardly.” Conall glanced into his cup as Tiercel sat on a stool partway between him and the fire. “It was just starting to get interesting when Kelson sent me home. I still haven't decided whether he meant it as a compliment or an insult. If it weren't for the fact that you and I can continue working together through the summer now, I think I might be really angry.”

“Hey, then—whoa! What are you talking about?” Tiercel demanded.

“Well, there was this convent, and this princess—”

“All right. This obviously is more complicated than I thought.” Tiercel set his wine on the floor beside him and dusted his hands together as Conall looked up at him in question. “I think you'd better show me.”

As he set one hand on Conall's two, still clasped around his goblet, and reached the other across Conall's shoulder lightly to cup the back of his neck, Conall shivered just a little in anticipation and made himself relax. He and Tiercel had done this often enough that he had long ago stopped counting, but he suspected nothing would ever erase that eerie, fluttery sensation in the pit of his stomach just before he allowed the other to enter his mind.

“Look into your goblet and focus on the reflections on the surface of the wine,” Tiercel murmured, his one hand tightening on Conall's while the other encouraged him to bow his head closer. “Lower your shields and let the memory run. That's right.…”

Conall was conscious of the beginning of the process, but not the end—only that one moment he was thinking back to the day they had come upon Saint Brigid's, and the outrage they had found there, and the next moment he was back in the shadowy room at the King's Head, Tiercel releasing his hands and gently massaging the back of his neck.

“Have some wine,” the Deryni murmured distractedly, standing to lean one elbow against the mantel and stare at the fire on the hearth.

Conall sipped at the wine as ordered and watched his mentor with a detachment that would not have been possible when they first began working together, the previous winter. He felt far less light-headed than usual after one of Tiercel's deep probes, too.

Oh, there had been stretches of weeks at a time when both of them had despaired of ever tapping into the Haldane potential, but perseverance finally had begun to pay off after a while. Conall was by no means a functioning Deryni, Haldane or otherwise—not yet—but he was sure Tiercel was pleased. And would it not be glorious to go one day before the Camberian Council and prove that more than one Haldane
could
assume the Haldane legacy of magic?