The King’s Justice (42 page)

Kelson nodded and drew a deep breath, making himself brace against Ewan's words, the logical part of him knowing that the old duke was right, even though he would have wished it otherwise.

But then he thought of Loris, who ultimately had brought about this whole sorry state of affairs, and set his jaw resolutely as he looked up.

“Aye. You're right, Ewan,” he said. “And I know another who is even more to blame than Sicard for this day's work. Where is Loris?”

“Secure, Sire,” Cardiel said promptly, locking down his hand on Kelson's shoulder when the king would have gotten to his feet. “And Gorony as well. I think it might be best if you waited until morning to see them, however.”

Kelson's grey Haldane eyes went dark and cold, and he sensed it took all of Cardiel's strength not to quail before them, even though he extended not a jot of Deryni control.

“I saw Gorony and managed not to kill him in cold blood,” he said evenly. “What's the matter? Do you think Loris would be too much temptation?”

“Edmund Loris is enough to tempt even a saint to mayhem, Sire,” Cardiel replied. “I know I would not trust
myself
to see him just now, knowing what he has done to Duncan, and what he did to Henry Istelyn.”

“I'm not going to kill him without a trial, Thomas! Nor do I torture prisoners, however much I might be tempted.”

“No one said you would, Sire.”

“Then, why shouldn't I see him now?”

Cardiel braced his shoulders against Kelson's continued hard gaze, refusing to be baited, until finally Kelson lowered his eyes, regretting his outburst.

“You aren't afraid of me, are you?” he whispered.

“No, Sire. Not for myself, at least.”

“Th' Archbishop is right, though, Sire,” Ewan interjected, hunkering down for more intimate conversation with the king. “Why
not
wait 'til mornin'? Bein' captured by Deryni is torture enough for the likes o' Loris an' Gorony. Let 'em stew for a while! The longer ye make 'em wait, worryin' what yer goin' t' do to 'em, the weaker they'll be.”

Pulled up short again by Ewan's unarguable logic, Kelson glanced aside at the flap leading out of the tent.

“I wish I had that option, Ewan.”

“An' why not?”

“I need to know where Caitrin's gone to ground. This war isn't over until she's taken, you know.”

“Ah, weel, if that's all,” Ewan said, a sly grin splitting his bristling red beard as Kelson turned to stare. “Take 'em to Laas, an' try 'em there. That's where
she
is.”

“Caitrin?”

“Aye. An' Judhael an' what little remains of the rest o' the rebellion as well—yer bishops, too, Cardiel.”

“But, how did you find out?”

Ewan made a snorting sound through his nose. “D'ye think only Deryni can make prisoners talk, lad, or that Loris an' Gorony are th' only ones we took?”

“No, but—”

“Believe me, Caitrin an' the rest're in Laas. I wouldna' tell ye if I wasna' sure.”

“We'll want to leave first thing in the morning, then,” Kelson said, starting to get up again.

“Nay, Sire, we'll rest th' army tomorrow, an' ride for Laas the day after.”

“But, she could get away—”

Ewan shook his head. “She willna' flee,” he said. “She willna' even fight, if ye handle her the way ye handled Sicard.”

“You mean, shoot her?” Cardiel asked, shocked.

“Nah. What has she t' fight for, wi' her bairns all gone, an' her husband slain? Mark me, Sire. She'll na' fight. An' yer army needs rest. An' its king need his rest, too.”

“There're still things to be done,” Kelson said stubbornly, beginning to buckle the front of his brigandine again. “I need to get reports off to Rhemuth, and—”

“And on the other side of that curtain,” Cardiel said firmly, “are men who you will not be able to help if you tire yourself out doing things others could do, Sire.”

Kelson's eyes flew to the curtain, as if he could pierce it with eyes alone. He nodded. “Duncan.”

“And Alaric and Dhugal,” Cardiel added.

“But—they're not injured.”

“No. In a few hours, however, when the worst of the Deryni drug has passed from Duncan's system, I believe Alaric means to try a more—satisfactory healing. He—seemed concerned that he have support from you and Dhugal when he attempts it. He won't be able to count on that from you, if you've pushed yourself too far. You already collapsed once from the heat and overexertion.”

Sighing, Kelson let his hands fall away from the buckles and bowed his head, suddenly feeling very tired.

“You're right. Both of you are right. I've been pushing myself so hard, for so long, it's sometimes difficult to realize there's a time to rest, too.”

“That's my braw lad,” Ewan muttered approvingly, detaching the plaid from his shoulders and shaking it out to lay under Kelson. “Dinna' ye worry about a thing.”

“Make sure a report gets off to Nigel, though,” Kelson said around a yawn.

Ewan only nodded patiently as Kelson laid back on the plaid, Cardiel tucking a folded corner tenderly under his head.

“I do have one last question, Sire,” Cardiel murmured, glancing meaningfully at Ewan as Kelson closed his eyes and the old border chief leaned nearer. “Is it true that Dhugal is really Duncan's son?”

Kelson barely had the energy to open his eyes and look at the archbishop.

“Who said he was?”

“Dhugal
did, Sire,” Ewan said. “Everyone's talkin' about it. He said he was Deryni, an' that Duncan was his father.”

Smiling, Kelson closed his eyes again and sighed.

“It's true, Ewan,” he breathed. “And it couldn't please me more that it's finally out in the open.”

“It
pleases
you that your foster brother is a bastard?” Cardiel gasped.

“He isn't a bastard,” Kelson said around another yawn, “though damned if I know how we'll ever prove that to anyone else's satisfaction. There was a secret marriage. His mother died soon after he was born, and Duncan didn't even know there'd been a child until a few months ago. That was all long before his ordination, of course.”

“Well, I'd realized
that
from the timing,” Cardiel said, indignation in his voice. “I wasn't concerned for Duncan's priestly status. But the implications for Dhugal—”

“Tell you all about it in the morning, Thomas,” Kelson murmured. “Ewan, don't forget that report for Nigel.…”

He was asleep before Ewan's reply could register, only vaguely aware of the buzz of their voices, as they continued to speculate about Dhugal, and gentle hands beginning to remove his armor as he slipped deep into dreamless, exhausted sleep.

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far country
.

—Proverbs 25:25

One Deryni who could not yet allow himself the luxury of sleep was Bishop Denis Arilan, back in Rhemuth. Nor had he slept much the previous night. As Richenda and Nigel went out of the room, he settled back in his chair and closed his eyes, wearily running a spell to banish fatigue as one hand absently fingered the cross around his neck.

He did not envy Richenda and Nigel their next task. Since breaking the Torenthi assassination plot the afternoon before, all three of them had taken turns interrogating the prisoners—though the Deryni among them, three in all, were kept apart in a specially warded cell until Nigel should decide what to do with them. The others even Arilan could interview with impunity, since their memories could then be blurred to keep his Deryni identity secret.

It did not take long for a pattern to develop to the answers, though no one man had full details of the plot. But careful correlation of all the information gradually confirmed a convoluted scheme to kill Nigel (and as many of his three sons as might conveniently be arranged), rescue the captive King Liam, and then lie in wait for Kelson's return, so they could kill him, too. Or perhaps it was to kill Nigel
and
young Liam and place Liam's brother Ronal on the throne of both kingdoms, with his Uncle Mahael as regent. There were even hints that Morag had, indeed, known of the plot and approved it, in all its permutations.

She would deny everything, of course. Richenda and Nigel were on their way now to confront her on the issue; but because she was Deryni, they would not dare to force her to the question. The notion that Morag might have condoned the murder of her own son was too monstrous for Arilan to give it very serious credence, but some lesser degree of participation in the plot was almost certain. Captive queens were ever wont to intrigue for their escape, and a Deryni queen would be more adept than most.

Oh, why could the Torenthi question not have lain dormant for a few more years? With Wencit dead, young Alroy dead, and a child-king now on the Torenthi throne once more—and another child-heir in the wings—would it have been asking too much for the Council's worries to be confined to Gwynedd for a change?

Sighing, Arilan pressed his palms across both eyes and took a last deep breath to set his spell, feeling the fatigue wash out of his brain like indigo running from fresh-dyed cloth in a mountain stream, finally clear. He sighed again as he got slowly to his feet. The Council would be waiting.

But as he headed for Duncan's study, and the Portal there, passing the dim-lit household chapel on the way, he found a different Deryni queen than the one who had been most lately on his mind: Jehana, veiled head bent in prayer, her white raiment washed palest azure by the glow of the votive lights that burned before a statue of the Virgin close by the altar.

Surprised, for the basilica was Jehana's more usual place for devotions when she left her apartments, Arilan paused in the doorway and cast out cautiously with his mind—and recoiled as quickly, as he read the guilt and spiritual anguish radiating from her.

The effort of shutting his shields to the disharmony set his head to throbbing just behind his eyes, all of it magnified because of too little sleep, undoing much of what he had accomplished with his fatigue-banishing spell. He considered simply moving on, pretending he had not seen her, for any delay would make him late for the Council meeting, but he knew he would regret it if he passed up this opportunity to find out more about her motivations of the day before. From what Nigel had told him, he had already deduced that she must have learned of the plot through some use of her powers, else the decision to tell Nigel of it would not have presented so anguished a proposition. He wondered how she had justified her action, if only at the time—for she obviously was regretting it now.

So he made his shields nearly transparent as he moved quietly into the chapel, trusting that measure to keep him from being recognized as Deryni if she was, indeed, beginning to use her powers. He saw her tense as the rustle of his cassock intruded on her meditation, but he kept his eyes downcast as he approached to within a few feet of her and sank to his knees at a prie-dieu.

He prayed for wisdom and patience as he bowed his head in a brief prayer of his own. When he looked up, she had just turned to glance at him furtively. She flinched as their eyes met; but his acknowledgment of the glance made it impossible for her not to acknowledge in return.

“Good evening, daughter,” he murmured, rising gracefully to fold his hands benignly at his waist. “I had thought all the household would be abed by now—and you usually pray in the basilica. I hope I haven't disturbed your devotions.”

Her mind was as tightly shuttered as any Council Lord's; but if the shields protected her from any would-be intrusion by him, they also protected him from closer scrutiny.

“It doesn't matter,” she whispered, so low he almost could not catch the words. “I can't pray in the basilica anymore. It's all a sham anyway. God will not listen. I am evil.”

“Oh?” He cocked his head and looked at her more closely, certain now that her part in the previous day's events had triggered this latest depression. “And why do you say that?”

Smothering a little sob, she sat back on her heels, bloodless fingers partially masking her face.

“Oh, God, don't you mock me, too, Excellency,” she cried. “You cannot have forgotten what I am. And yesterday I—I—”

“Yesterday, you saved the prince regent from a most terrible threat,” Arilan said smoothly. “I have just come from speaking with him. He is very grateful.”

“Grateful that I discovered the plot by use of my cursed powers?” she replied. “Aye, that is like Nigel of late. He is too much among Deryni, and he cannot see the danger. What does he care if I endanger my immortal soul to save his mortal flesh? He is my husband's brother, and I could not fail to warn him, once I knew, but—but—”

“But you fear that to use the powers God has given you, even in a good cause, is somehow suspect,” he ventured.

She looked up at him more directly, uncertainty and shock playing in her tear-bright green eyes.

“How can you, a bishop, even suggest that God has anything to do with it?”

He smiled gently and eased down to sit on the kneeler of the prie-dieu beside her, hands now folded carefully on his knees.

“Allow me to ask a question in return, daughter,” he said. “If a man were granted extraordinary physical strength, and found his friend slipping over a precipice, and could save him by means of his strength, bodily dragging him back to safety, should he not do it?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“In fact, would he not be remiss if he did
not
do it?”

“Of course, but—”

“Another example,” Arilan continued. “An innocent man is on trial for his life, accused by those who would do him ill. A king's magistrate has been told of an eyewitness who can prove that the accused is innocent. But the informant is a tax collector—honest and diligent in the performance of his duty, but despised by men. Even so, should the magistrate not use the knowledge given him to produce the witness, arrive at the truth, and set the innocent man free?”