The King’s Justice (27 page)

“Liam?”
Richenda said.

“Think how I have taught you, Richenda,” Azim murmured, leaning forward to rest both hands on her shoulders and look into her eyes, fingers entwined around the back of her neck. “Mahael stands to lose nothing if ill should befall the young king while he lies hostage, having the next heir in his governance, but loss of the Princess Morag is another matter. Suppose that someone has reminded him how he might increase his own fortunes, could he but marry his brother's wife, she being heiress of Torenth after her two remaining sons? If Mahael were wed to Morag, whether or not with her consent, all he need do is fall back to his own lands of Arjenol for ten or fifteen years and breed heirs, much as the Mearan pretender has done; your Kelson could do nothing to stop him. And if, somehow, a convenient ‘accident' were to befall his stepsons …?”

“As befell King Alroy,” Richenda continued, seeing it all through the mirror of Azim's mind, “then Mahael would rule Torenth with Morag, and his sons after them. Sweet
Jesu
, do you think that's what he really plans?”

“That, I do not know,” he replied, releasing her and sitting back. “You will have to discover that for yourself. I have given you the warning, however, and tell you that Mahael is capable of such a plot, whether or not this particular plot is of his crafting. But a plan does exist to attempt the rescue of the Torenthi hostages, with Nigel targeted for assassination.
That
is what you must act upon at first. The rest remains to be discovered.”

“I must go and tell him right away,” Richenda said, starting to rise.

Azim smiled and caught her by the wrist, shaking his head. “Not yet, little one. He is safe enough for now. You have already told me that he has no audience this morning, and I dare not stay much longer. The official reason for my visit has yet to be fulfilled. You
do
still wish the scrolls I've brought you, I believe?”

“Yes, of course.”

Schooling release of tension the way Azim had taught her so many years before, Richenda sat again and helped brace his satchel while he removed half a dozen more scroll tubes, several of them long enough that he had to force the ends free of the satchel's mouth.

“First of all, I've had no luck locating the transcripts you asked for,” Azim said, “though I've not yet given up hope. There's precious little about Saint Camber in anyone's archives, even our own, and finding accounts of his canonization simply may not be possible.”

“What have you found, then?”

“Well, this one is the most interesting,” he said, handing her the most weathered-looking of the cases. “It's an account of the proceedings of the Council of Ramos—badly damaged in spots, and probably not complete even when it came to us, but perhaps it will be of use. God alone knows how it got into the Djellarda archives, knowing how our Michaeline predecessors felt about the ecclesiastical hierarchy of that time.”

Richenda glanced at the markings on the outside, then passed it to Rothana as Azim handed her another.

“Disappointing to me, but Arilan will be fascinated—and Duncan. Nothing directly relating to Camber?”

“Not to him, but to his children,” Azim replied. “That one is an order to pay stonemasons for work done on a chapel—signed by Camber's son Joram, who was a Michaeline priest and knight. It's dated in the reign of King Rhys Michael Haldane, however, which puts it at least fifteen years after Camber's supposed death. What makes it interesting is that the remnants of the seal reflect traces of a message once set there—which puts its importance beyond what one would expect of a simple bill for masons' services. Maybe what they built for him was special.”

“Like a chapel to house Camber's remains?” Richenda said, raising an eyebrow in speculation.

“The thought had occurred to me,” Azim admitted dryly, “though I've not been able to read anything in the seal. Perhaps you'll have better luck.”

“What about the others?” Richenda asked, as Azim passed the remaining scrolls to her.

“Some poetry I thought you might enjoy, and a text that could be part of a Healer's manual from the old times. Knowing of your Alaric's burgeoning healing talents, I thought that might be of particular interest. It could even be Gabrilite—though I warn you, they were fond of cloaking everything in at least two levels of double-meaning. The two of you should have a merry summer puzzling at them.

“And finally,” he handed her a slender packet of letters, “missives from Rohays and the stewards of your remaining estates in Andelon. The spring plantings were very good, I'm told, but instructions are required on repairs needed to the roof at El Ha'it.”

“El Ha'it.…” Richenda smiled and laid the rest of the letters on the seat for later reading. “Would that I could transport the lake here to Rhemuth for the summer. 'Tis times like these that the temptation of weather-working is almost too great to resist.”

Azim closed up his satchel and rose, smiling.

“If I thought it a true temptation, I should scold you as your mother did when you were a child,” he said softly, “but I know you are my true student—and you, R'thana,” he added, brushing the curve of Rothana's cheek with a fingertip as his eyes softened with affection for both of them.

“But I must go now. Consider well how you use what I have told you, Richenda. Foiling the Torenthi plan seems simple enough, but we do not know the extent of Morag's involvement, and she is very powerful. Be careful.”

“I shall, master,” she promised, as first she and then Rothana kissed his hand in formal farewell, student to teacher.

Then he was striding out of the solar, resuming the humbler demeanor of the peddler Ludolphus as Conall approached to escort him back to the courtyard, reading the faint uneasiness of those they passed in the corridors, even though Conall's presence reassured them that a Moorish peddler had a guarded right to be here.

Once, just before they reached the yard, a young priest hurrying in the same direction all but collided with them, too preoccupied with leafing through the pages of his breviary even to see them until he had nearly run them down. In their mutual juggling to keep the book from falling, Azim instinctively brushed the man's mind as well as his hand—and was astonished to find that the priest was Queen Jehana's chaplain!

He could not resist the temptation. Holding the link just an instant longer, even though physical contact had been only the most fleeting, he set a swift but irresistible compulsion in the man's unconscious that just might bear fruit. The priest hardly faltered as he clutched his book to his breast, murmured hurried thanks, and dashed on across the yard, already late for chapel.

The Deryni master put it from his mind then, for they had reached the yard. Conall dogged his heels, polite but taciturn, until he had mounted his dust-brown mare and trotted her and the laden pack mule toward the gatehouse arch. Even then, the prince and his squire followed on horseback all the way to the city gates, presumably to see that he was, in fact, leaving; the squire had been waiting with horses saddled already.

Azim easily could have misdirected them, had he wished, but he was ready to leave Rhemuth anyway, so he did not bother. Let the young Haldane play at being the zealous guardian of the women left in his father's protection; he would be tempered all too soon by more serious contention, if Azim's suspicions about Mahael proved well-founded.

As Azim headed south along the river, to rendezvous later that night with transportation more fitting his station—one of his Order's galleys out of Kharthat, though flying Fianna's colors in these Gwynedder waters—he thought about the task he had left for Richenda, regretful that she must be the one to deal with it, but confident of his student's ability to handle the situation.

He would keep close tabs on this one. Not only family honor was at stake, but the slowly recovering honor of Deryni in Gwynedd as well. Not for the first time, he wondered at the odd assortment gathered at Rhemuth, now that Kelson, Morgan, Duncan, and young MacArdry were away.

Richenda would be rock-steady as she had been trained to be, of course—the perfect plant in a land predominantly human—and also Rothana; Arilan would provide maturity and depth, if a trifle overfussy at times; and Nigel, though something of an unknown so far as his Haldane potentials were concerned, was at least a man of intelligence, caution, and even temper. Together, they ought to be able to balance Morag without difficulty, if she was the only Deryni to be reckoned with.

Of course, he must not totally discount Jehana—even more of a question mark as a Deryni than Nigel was as a Haldane, in all truth—but Azim doubted she would change much from her stand of the past few years, despite the bit of whimsy in which he had just indulged with her young priest. Still, he found himself wishing, as he urged his mare along the path atop the riverbank, that he had thought to spend more time in Bremagne during his youth. Contact with Jehana at that time, forcing her to see and deal with what she was, might have saved unthought-of problems now.

But he was not going to indulge in the game of “what if.” That was altogether too tempting and fruitless a pastime for any of his race. He turned his thoughts instead to the challenge of a new conundrum his grand master had vexed him with at their last meeting in Djellarda. Rocail
said
it had been a favorite of the R'Kassan adept Sulien, but Azim was convinced Rocail himself had fashioned it—not that the work was beyond Rocail's capabilities. It was quite brilliant, actually.…

And as Azim amused himself with linguistic gymnastics, whistling a desert air under his breath for the benefit of his mare and the plodding mule following behind, the most recent subject of his contemplation—but one—knelt in a side chapel of the basilica within the walls of Rhemuth Keep and buried her face in her hands.

Jehana had not been able to find Sister Cecile, after her soul-shaking encounter with Richenda. Around her, several of the newly arrived Brigidine sisters also bowed at prie-dieux set in neat rows across the little chapel, but it was their first Mass of the day; it was Jehana's second. Father Ambros wore the crimson vestments of a martyr's feast day as he chanted the Introit from before the altar.

“Scio cui credidi, et certus sum, quia potens est depositum meam servare in illum diem, justus judex.…”
I know Whom I have believed, and I am certain that He is able to guard the trust committed to me against that day, being a just judge.…

The Introit was that of the Commemoration of Saint Paul the Apostle—not one of Jehana's favorites, but since she had already heard it once today, she could let her thoughts edge reluctantly to consideration of the earlier confrontation with Richenda.

How could she not have noticed the fair-haired Deryni woman sitting at the loom? And how could the seemingly pious Rothana also be Deryni, deliberately damning herself by entering religion when she knew herself to be of the evil of their race?

On the epistle side now, the Introit,
Kyrie
, and
Gloria
concluded, Father Ambros was opening his lectionary to read the first lesson, fumbling a little with the stiff pages.

“Dominus vobiscum.”

“Et cum spiritu tuo,”
Jehana responded automatically with the others.

“Sequentia sancti Evangelii. ‘In diebus illis: Saulus ad huc spirans minarum, et caedis in discipulos Domini
.…'” At this time: Saul, with every breath he drew, still threatened the disciples of the Lord with massacre; and he went to the high priest and asked him for letters of commendation to the synagogues at Damascus, so that he could arrest all those he found there, men and women who belonged to the way.…

As Jehana automatically translated the Latin of the reading, she suddenly realized that it was not the same epistle read earlier in the day; in fact, it was not the expected passage from
Galatians
at all, but a text from the
Acts of the Apostles
.

“‘Et cum iter faceret, contiget, ut appropinquaret Damasco: et subito circumfulsit eum lux de caelo
.…'” And on his journey, when he was nearly at Damascus, a light from heaven shone suddenly about him. He fell to the ground and heard a voice saying to him, Saul, Saul, why dost thou persecute me …?

She clapped her hands over her ears in horror. What was Father Ambros saying? The epistle he read was for the feast of Saint Paul's Conversion, not his Commemoration. How could he have made such an error?

But a part of her already considered the possibility of a higher work in what he did, and perhaps the why of it, if not the how. Though she tried vainly to shut out his words, shaking her head and closing her eyes against the sight as well as the sound of him, another figure seemed to rise up in her mind before the red-clad afterimage of Father Ambros, cowled grey of the Other overshadowing the red vestments of martyrdom.

No! That could not be!

She had tried to avoid even hearing about the long discredited saint who purported to concern himself with the welfare of the curst Deryni race—
his
race—but somehow she knew it was he who seemed to hold out his arms to her and call her, in the vision that forced itself upon her tortured mind.

Saul, Saul, why dost thou persecute me …?

Only, in the prison of her mind, it was not Saul he accused, but herself—not the Christ who called, but the dreaded Deryni heretic, Saint Camber! She could not turn away or shut
him
out, but only listen as he seemed to stretch out his hand to her and touch her brow.

Jehana … why dost thou persecute me
…?

And the voice of Father Ambros, continuing unperturbed with his redirected reading, floated on the air like an angel's, inescapably underlining her fear.

“‘
Et tremens, ac stupens, dixit: Domine, quid me vis facere …?
'” And he, trembling and dazed, asked, Lord, what wilt thou have me do?