The King’s Justice (36 page)

But he had known young Ardry MacArdry, slain by a McLain man in a drunken brawl, and had loved him, too; and well he remembered the blood feud that had threatened to erupt between the two clans, even though Ardry's murderer was executed by his own people—and the tension when The MacArdry and Duke Jared McLain, Duncan's father, had returned from campaign and agreed to go their separate ways, lest bloodshed erupt anew.

And Duncan and Maryse had been as much the victims of that fatal brawling as Ardry and the McLain man—whose name Dhugal never had learned—for well did they know how futile it would be to ask permission of their fathers to marry, after all that had occurred.

Thus had the pair exchanged secret vows in the deserted chapel late that night, with only God for witness. And when Maryse rode out of Culdi the next morning with her father and clan, intending one day to wed Duncan according to more orthodox rites, little did either she or Duncan dream that their brief union would bear fruit. The son born to Maryse late the following winter, but a few weeks after her mother bore a daughter, had been claimed by the mother and presented as Caulay's son when he returned from winter court and spring campaigning—for Maryse had died of a fever.

And no one had known that Caulay's youngest son was, in fact, a McLain replacement for the slain young Ardry MacArdry. Even Dhugal had pieced together the true story only the previous winter, when a cloak clasp left him by his “mother” had released a devastating flood of long-dormant memories in Duncan, who recognized it as his own and had put all the clues together.

Dhugal spared Ciard nothing of what he had learned, saving that which was private between father and son, for Ciard himself had been almost a father to him. Very soon, Ciard's eyes were fluttering open, to gaze up at Dhugal with awe and new understanding.

“Are—are ye still in my mind?” he asked.

Dhugal shook his head. “I wouldn't have gone in at all, except that I didn't know any other way to tell you. And I won't again, without your permission. Will you help me? I have to try to contact Kelson.”

“Of course, laddie.” Ciard sat up and dusted dead leaves off his shoulders and elbows, then let Dhugal help him to his feet. “I dinna' think we should tell the others everything, though. Especially not the part about yer not being Caulay's son an' all. That's—goin' t' take a bit o' gettin' used to.”

Dhugal shrugged and grinned. “I'm still his grandson, Ciard.”

“Aye. An' still the heir and rightful chief, for that matter—though yer heir to a duchy as well, now. My, my, now, won't
that
set the cat among the pigeons? You, a bishop's heir, an' all!”

“I just hope I haven't already inherited my ducal title,” Dhugal murmured. “Ciard, I haven't been able to touch him at all!”

“Well, mayhap it's difficult o'er any distance.”

“No, I have to accept the possibility that he may be dead,” Dhugal murmured, not accepting that possibility at all, but knowing he must not let his fear keep him from doing what he
could
, since he could
not
do anything for Duncan just now.

“And if he
isn't
dead,” Dhugal went on steadily, “he's almost certainly a prisoner—which, in some respects, is even worse. I know, first-hand, what Loris is capable of doing to a human prisoner—or one he thinks is human. A Deryni, like my father—”

He shuddered and made himself put the thought aside, not wanting to even consider what that might mean.

“Anyway, I have to try to reach Kelson,” he went on bravely. “It's what my father wanted. And if he
is
still alive, and—and in Loris' power, then only Kelson and the main army have a chance of rescuing him in time.”

“Then, we'd better get to it, lad,” Ciard said, taking his arm and starting to march him back to the fire where the others waited.

“I believe that Bishop Duncan did order him t' leave,” he told them, as he guided Dhugal to the bedding beside his own saddle and crouched down as Dhugal sat. “What we saw—the fire an' all—was cover so we could escape t' warn th' king. He used th' same magic t' tell Dhugal t' go.”

The men seemed taken aback at that, but they were disinclined to doubt Ciard, even if they still had some misgivings about their young master. All of them had seen the outward results of Duncan's magic. Why not another part they had not seen? Certainly the visible part had been to their good.

“Fair enough,” old Lambert said. “It appears we owe ye an apology, young Dhugal.”

“Accepted,” Dhugal murmured, ducking his head in acknowledgment. “I don't blame you for what you thought. I know my explanation seemed farfetched.”

“No fartherfetched than the other task th' good bishop has laid upon ye, lad,” Ciard said, settling behind Dhugal with an elbow resting on his saddle. “Gather closer, lads. Our young laird needs our help.”

They listened incredulously as Ciard told them what Dhugal wanted to attempt, but to Dhugal's amazement, they did not seem to take it amiss.

“Ye say the king's taught him how t' do this?” Matthias asked, reclining against his saddle and listening avidly.

Ciard nodded. “Aye. An' it's magic—make no doubt about that. But 'tis summer-white, I
know
. Difficult, though, not knowin' how far the king may be from here, so we must lend him our strength.”

“How do we do that?” Lambert asked, not batting an eye.

Dhugal managed a reassuring smile as he leaned back against Ciard's chest, settling in the circle of his arms.

“Bonnie MacArdry men, an' true! Your strength will lend me wings to send my thoughts to the king. Just stay with me,” he said, stretching out his hands to Lambert and to Jass, who were closest, and taking strength already from their firm handclasps. “Be at ease. Lie close, where I can touch you. There's no danger. You may even fall asleep.”

“What if someone comes?” asked Matthias, shifting closer so that he, too, could join the link.

Dhugal flicked a tendril of thought out to scan the area, but there was nothing alive for miles, besides the horses and the five of them.

“Guard, if you'd rather, but no one will come.”

But Matthias only shook his head and crawled closer, to lay his head trustingly on Dhugal's knee, curling on his side. Nor, to Dhugal's amazement, did any of the others have anything else to say.

“Wha' happens next?” Ciard whispered in his ear, watching awed as Dhugal's breathing began to slow and shift to the early stages of trance, the tension leaving his face.

“Just go to sleep,” Dhugal murmured, yawning.

And within seconds, all of them were yawning, too, and settling drowsily around him.

He let himself sink deeper, his awareness of the clearing, the fire, and the men around him fading with every breath. It was different, doing it all alone, without Duncan or Morgan or Kelson to guide him, but he found himself gathering the strands of the men's potentials with little effort—and sensed their psychic strength ready to be tapped if he needed it.

The thought drifted across his consciousness that he really
ought
to find out more about the Second Sight his border folk had always claimed—perhaps it
was
some vestige of Deryni gifts long forgotten—but after acknowledging it, he made himself set that aside. Other matters were more important now.

When he had gone as deep as he dared without guidance, only just aware of his body slumped limp and defenseless in Ciard's arms, he cast out briefly for his father. And when, as expected, that brought no discernable result, he settled down to the more delicate task not only of locating Kelson, but of trying to touch his consciousness.

For a long time, nothing at all happened. But then he thought he began to detect a stirring, not in the sleeping men around him and not within himself.

His probe reached no one on any conscious level. Deep asleep after Morgan's earlier ministrations, Kelson had floated dreamlessly for several hours, so still that Morgan, too, had finally lain down on his own cot to try to get some rest. Sleep did not come easily, but when it did, Morgan dreamed about Duncan, and Dhugal, and the two of them battling their way through wave after wave of knights who never tired. It was Kelson's cry that jolted Morgan from his own nightmare.

“Kelson, what is it?” Morgan whispered, instantly out of bed and at the king's side, grabbing his wrists to restrain his thrashing.

Almost at once, Kelson was wide awake and still, his eyes a little glazed looking as he cast back for what had frightened him, confident now that Morgan was with him.

“I was dreaming—about Duncan,” he whispered, gazing beyond Morgan's eyes as he sought still. “They were after him.”

“Who was after him, my prince?” Morgan urged. For he, too, had dreamed of danger for Duncan.

“Knights with blue crosses on white surcoats. Loris', I think. Gorony was there, too. He was urging them on. What an awful dream!”

Drawing deep breath, Morgan sat down on the edge of the royal bed, shifting his grasp from Kelson's wrists to his hands.

“Go back,” he whispered, locking his eyes to Kelson's and starting already to forge an old, familiar link between them. “Let me take you as deep as you can go, and try to capture it again. I don't think it was a dream. I dreamed it, too.”

“Oh, God, I think you may be right,” Kelson breathed, already plummeting to a more comfortable working level with such speed that he had to close his eyes. “I—I think it may have been Dhugal. Can something have happened to Duncan?”

We can't worry about Duncan for now
, Morgan replied, shifting to mind-speech as both their levels deepened.
First, try to reestablish the link with Dhugal. He won't be able to hold it for very long. Stretch yourself to the limit, but touch him. I'll be with you all the way
.

And Dhugal, nearly a day's ride away, felt the answering probe of two familiar minds—not just one. He shuddered in Ciard's arms as he drew strength from the men around him and flung his mind back across the miles. This time, they were able to lock on and hold him; and all three of them knew it was no dream.

Images of battle: Dhugal and his men fighting at Duncan's side … white-clad knights drawing nearer, nearer, directed by Loris.… Gorony's crack episcopal troops, closing the trap.…

Duncan's curtain of fire sending consternation into their ranks—at least long enough for Dhugal and his men to slip through and escape—and the order, swift and unmistakable and not to be questioned—for Dhugal to leave him to his fate and ride to warn Kelson.…

… that Loris had been found at last, and Sicard of Meara, and all the Mearan grand army, all lying within striking distance by the following noon, if Kelson's were away within the hour.…

The details were exchanged with a speed only possible in mind—a briefing that would have taken hours, face-to-face, but Dhugal was able to impart his knowledge in the space of a few dozen heartbeats.

He was gasping when he came out of it, struggling to sit up and get his bearings, making certain they were still safe from intruders. His companions stirred groggily to stare at him in awe, aware that power had coursed through him from somewhere, and had been drawn from them, but uncertain of anything else.

“The king will come,” Dhugal whispered, his eyes still otherworldly and a little unfocused. “We'll meet him at dawn. Rest a few minutes now,” he added, reaching out to brush each one in swift but insistent control.

And as they succumbed, he sealed each with his psychic order:
Sleep and remember nothing that will alarm you
.

Morgan, meanwhile, found ever more reason to be alarmed, as Kelson left him to give orders for march and Morgan himself settled back into trance. He cast for Duncan until Brendan and his squire came to arm him, stretching his own resources far thinner than was prudent, alone and unmonitored, but he could touch no trace of his cousin. The Deryni priest was either dead or drugged to senselessness.

“Do you think he really doesn't know where Kelson is?” Sicard asked, from somewhere out of sight, the voice wavering and hollow as it filtered through Duncan's crippled senses.

“Of course he knows. He's Deryni, isn't he?”

A hand turned Duncan's head roughly to one side, and Lawrence Gorony's face loomed in his vision, leering and obscene, watching from a stool close by his head. The sudden movement set up a wave of vertigo, bordering on nausea, that was almost welcome after the pain pulsing in his feet.

Duncan was fairly certain that Gorony had now pulled out all ten of his toenails, though he had lost accurate count at around seven. The little pile of them lay on his bare chest, bloody and pathetic. He had seen some of them, one time when his neck arched upward in his agony. Knowing Gorony, his fingernails would probably be next.

He shut his eyes against the thought, one of his hands contracting a little in reflex withdrawal from the threat, but further movement was checked by the shackles restraining his wrists. Others banded his ankles, all of the chains pegged into the dirt floor of the tent so that he lay spread-eagled and helpless on his back.

Like Saint Andrew
, he thought dully, attempting to distance his own pain by thinking about another's.
He suffered as Our Lord suffered, only he was nailed to a saltire cross
.

At least Duncan lay on the ground, not a cross. Nor did he think they would crucify him. Unless some miracle intervened, Loris would almost certainly kill him eventually, but the Deryni-hating archbishop would never allow a heretic Deryni priest to take comfort from suffering the same death given the Christ, or even one of His sainted apostles.

No, Loris would find some other, more degrading form of dying for the Deryni Duncan McLain, who had dared to become priest and bishop in conscious defiance of the laws Loris served. Already, he and Gorony had been trying to get Duncan to confess to all manner of perversions and sacrilegious practices regarding his priesthood, interspersed with the more practical questioning regarding Kelson's whereabouts.