The King’s Justice

by Katherine Kurtz

  He was vaguely aware of others moving about quietly in the room—Morgan, Duncan, Dhugal—and felt their compassion as a warm, comforting presence intended to ease his pain; but he was too tight-coiled in his own hurt and guilt and outrage to let their caring penetrate very deeply. He still did not know whether he had truly loved Sidana, but ultimate responsibility for her death remained squarely upon him in any case, even though another hand had wielded the dagger.

  She had been under his protection, and he had failed her. Her marriage ring glinted bright and accusing as his hands continued their vague movement underneath the water. He had slipped it on his little finger as he held her lifeless body in his arms, crouched there in the blood-spattered sanctuary that so short a time before had been witness to their marriage.

  “I think you’ve been in there long enough, my prince,” Morgan said quietly, suddenly appearing out of the shadows from behind him with a thick, thirsty towel. “Come dry yourself. Duncan’s making you a warm posset to help you sleep.”

  As he obeyed, dully standing to let Morgan wrap him in the towel, he became aware of small sounds in the room: the crackle of the fire, metal clinking against pottery at the small table where Duncan worked by candlelight, his own shallow breathing. Stepping damply onto thick Kheldish carpet, he allowed himself to be guided to a deep, engulfing chair nearer the hearth. When he had settled, Duncan put a warm cup in his hand and sat down on a stool; Dhugal had already taken a similar seat within reach of Kelson’s knee. Morgan remained standing, his back to the fire, one arm resting along the carved stone of the mantel, the firelight limning his golden hair from behind so that he seemed to be haloed.

  “Drink what Duncan’s given you,” his mentor said softly, jutting his chin toward the cup. “It will help to blunt some of the pain.”

  He was aware, as he drained the cup obediently, that the three of them were exchanging a curious set of glances, but he sensed nothing but concern for him in their manner—certainly no reason for alarm. The posset was laced with strong wine, and almost too hot. It was not until Kelson handed the cup back empty that he could detect the faintly tangy aftertaste of something Duncan had given him before—the expected sedative. Dhugal coughed, looking almost nervous as Duncan set the cup aside, and Morgan laced his fingers together, one elbow still resting casually on the mantel.

  “Dhugal and Duncan have something to tell you,” Morgan said softly, the grey eyes dark with compassion. “I wish you could have learned it under happier circumstances, but perhaps it will help to ease your sorrow now. I think you will not be displeased.”

  Curious despite his grief, Kelson turned his gaze on Duncan, who had laid his hand on Dhugal’s shoulder. The sedative was already blurring his ability to make his eyes focus, but his thinking was still reasonably clear and would remain so for several minutes, he knew.

  “Dhugal and I made a marvelous discovery before we left for the cathedral this morning,” Duncan said, smiling as Dhugal glanced at him and grinned. “It has to do with the cloak clasp he’s wearing. I believe you’ve admired it at various times?”

  For the first time Kelson noticed that although Dhugal had changed from border tartans to funereal black, he still wore the fist-sized lion-headed brooch that he said had been his mother’s.

  “What about it?” he asked, glancing back at Duncan.

  Duncan’s grin abruptly matched Dhugal’s. “Well, it’s a McLain badge—see the closed eyes?—the McLain sleeping lion. My father had it made for me. I gave it to my wife on our wedding night.”

  “Your wife …?” Kelson murmured, stunned.

  “To Dhugal’s mother, as it turned out,” Duncan went on happily. “You see, Dhugal is my son.”

  Even now, Kelson remembered few further details of that evening, though later explorations of the happy news brought him a joy that did, indeed, ease a little of the shock of Sidana’s death. But as he flashed on the somber days of her lying-in-state and funeral, and his visits since then to the simple tomb in the crypt where she slept with other of Gwynedd’s former kings and queens, he was jarred back to the present by her name on his mother’s lips.

  “… cannot grieve forever over this Sidana,” she was saying. “You hardly knew the girl. You have a duty to take another bride. That’s why I’ve come back from the convent: to help you find one. A suitable wife can help to expiate the curse I’ve placed upon you.”

  “And what, pray tell, was not ‘suitable’ about the bride I chose?” Kelson said irritably, setting his cup aside with a hollow clunk. “Even by your standards, Mother, Sidana was ‘suitable’ in every respect: princess of a noble house whose union with our own might have forged a lasting peace; young and beautiful; almost certainly able to provide healthy heirs.

  “Nor was she either Deryni or in sympathy with Deryni. And her own brother killed her, with a solid, reliable, un-Deryni knife!”

  “You know that isn’t what I meant—” Jehana began.

  “No, don’t lecture me about ‘suitable’ brides, Mother,” Kelson went on. “I was prepared to do my dynastic duty, and chose my bride for all the ‘right’ reasons. You must pardon me if I do not seem overeager to leap into the matrimonial sea again, quite so quickly!”

  Jehana shook her head, lips compressed in a thin line. “Not now, of course, Kelson. But soon—”

  “Not too soon, Mother. In case you’ve forgotten, I have a war to fight this summer—one of the little legacies of my brief foray into matrimony. And as if the Mearan rebellion were not already far enough advanced, her family now blame me for Sidana’s death as well as Llewell’s. The dispute over Mearan sovereignty has taken on the added dimension of a blood feud, despite the fact that it was Llewell who killed Sidana—not I—and that Llewell was executed for his crime of murder, not because I particularly wanted him dead.”

  “You would have to have done away with him eventually, in any case,” Jehana said coldly. “So long as he lived, he would have remained a threat. Any issue of his body—”

  “Mother …”

  Pushing himself away from the table with an exasperated sigh and a scraping of heavy chair legs against stone, Kelson stood and glanced at Nigel and Meraude, who had remained notably silent throughout this last exchange.

  “Fortunately, the subject of Llewell’s issue has been rendered academic,” Kelson said patiently, catching Nigel’s eye in signal that it was time to make their escape. “Nor have I any wish to discuss the matter further this evening. The commanders of my northern army leave for Cassan tomorrow morning, and there are matters Nigel and I must discuss before then. Uncle, would you please make your apologies to the ladies? We still have work ahead of us before we sleep.”

  He could only admire Nigel’s coolness as the older man rose to take his leave. Though he knew Nigel trusted him and his Deryni colleagues implicitly, and they him, he must have harbored some apprehension about the “work” still ahead of them, if only for the fact that he was the object of that work and did not know what would be done to him. Still, he showed no glimmer of anything but relaxed duty as he pulled a cloak around his shoulders and advised Meraude not to wait up.

  “You know how long Kelson’s staff meetings sometimes last, darling,” he told her. “We could be half the night. You and the little one need your rest.”

  Meraude smiled and laid one hand on her swollen abdomen as her husband followed Kelson out, glancing aside at Jehana wistfully when the door had closed behind them. Jehana looked a bit taken aback, as if she could not quite believe how Kelson had managed his escape.

  “He’s become quite the young man while you were away, hasn’t he?” Meraude said.

  Jehana lowered her gaze. “I hardly recognize him,” she whispered. “He’s so stern and warlike—and grown-up.”

  “Children do that,” Meraude answered gently. “I’m having to face the same realization about Conall. And Rory comes of age in the fall as well—though fourteen-year-olds still have a little time for being boys yet.”

&nb
sp; “Mine didn’t,” Jehana murmured.

  “True. But Kelson was already a king by the time he turned fourteen. For Rory to face a similar circumstance would require tragedy indeed. No, Rory is my little boy for yet a while longer—and Payne, of course. And soon there’ll be the new baby for loving. But I do hope this one will be a girl.”

  Jehana grimaced. “A girl, to become a pawn one day for a royal marriage?”

  “A girl, to marry where her heart dictates, if God wills it,” Meraude replied. “With three older brothers to carry on the line, I see little reason to force her into any marriage she would not want. Or perhaps she will prefer marriage with the Church. I gather that would not displease you.”

  Jehana smiled bitterly, tracing a fingertip through a small spill of ale on the table before her. “Would that my marriage had been with the Church, and saved the passing of the taint I carry within me,” she murmured.

  “And what of Kelson, if you had?” Meraude countered. “Aside from the fact that Kelson would not have been Kelson, given another mother, where would he have been without your inheritance and protection when he had to face Charissa?”

  “He might have died,” Jehana conceded. “But at least he would have been human, his soul unsullied by the Deryni curse I placed upon him by bearing him.”

  Shaking her head, Meraude pushed herself heavily back from the table. “You won’t let go of it, will you? You’re Deryni, Jehana. Nothing you can do will change that. But perhaps it doesn’t have to be a curse. Surely it’s possible some good might come of it.”

  “I fear you listen far too much to my son,” Jehana said sadly. “It is a curse, Meraude. It is a canker that festers within me—and here at my son’s court. Nor may I rest until I find a way to exorcise it.”

  Exorcism of a far different sort than Jehana had in mind was underway in another part of the castle, performed by a man who bore the very taint Jehana feared. Murmuring ritual words of purification, Bishop Duncan McLain slowly paced the circumference of the tiny Saint Camber chapel adjoining his study, methodically sprinkling the chamber with water from a silver aspergillum. Incense already hung lightly on the air. From the doorway leading back into the study, Dhugal watched and made the responses, eyes following his father’s every move with reverence and respect. They had finished nearly all the other preparations necessary before the rest arrived. The censing and asperging of the chapel was the final touch, done as much to center and steady the two participants as to cleanse a room long sanctified by its sacred use.

  “Asperges me, Domine, hyssopo, et mundabor: lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor.”

  “Amen.”

  “Pax huic domui.”

  “Et omnibus habitantibus in ea.”

  Peace be to this house.…

  And to all who dwell in it.…

  When they had done, and Duncan had put aside that paraphernalia of his office, father and son returned to the study, Duncan drawing into place the curtain that normally covered the door. Dhugal lingered a moment, eyeing the curtain with still-awed speculation as Duncan took a seat at the round table set before the room’s fireplace. One candle burned at the center of that table, giving the only illumination save for the firelight. After a moment, Dhugal came and joined his father, though he still continued to glance at the curtained doorway from time to time.

  “The chapel retains quite an impression of power, doesn’t it?” Duncan said, smiling at Dhugal’s startled glance in his direction. “I’m not surprised you’d notice. Saint Camber does seem to make his influence felt. And if you’d had the experiences Alaric and I have had, the difference between this chapel and most others would be even more apparent. Our good Deryni saint can be a very powerful intercessor.”

  Dhugal shifted a little uneasily. “Do you—really think he intervenes in earthly affairs? Does any saint?”

  “Well, it’s difficult ever to be certain, of course,” Duncan replied. “Alaric and I know that a few of the things we’d ascribed to Saint Camber right after Kelson was crowned seem to have been done by—” He lowered his eyes. “By someone else,” he finished. “I’m sorry, but I’m not permitted to say whom, even to you. It was a former member of the Camberian Council, but they’ve asked that we never mention names.”

  “I don’t mean to pry,” Dhugal protested.

  Duncan smiled. “I know you don’t, son. In any case, some of the things we’d ascribed to Camber weren’t done by anyone we know of—so maybe he did intervene. Whenever I spend any time in that chapel, I begin to believe he did.”

  Dhugal glanced at the curtain again, then back at Duncan. “Kelson told me that’s where you and Morgan did the ritual that invested him with power. Is that why we’re doing Nigel’s there?”

  “In part,” Duncan admitted. “However, it’s also appropriate that we invoke Camber’s special patronage, since it’s said he was the first to give Deryni magic to any Haldane, more than two hundred years ago. And until his name is vindicated, as I’m certain it will be, one day, this may well be the only chapel in Gwynedd that’s consecrated to him.”

  “Oh.” Dhugal thought about that for a moment. Then: “Did—Kelson’s father also receive his power in there?”

  “I don’t think so. Alaric had to do with that one—not I—several years before Kelson was born. He was even younger than you. As I understand it—”

  A knock at the door cut off further retelling of that story, and Duncan rose to admit Morgan and Richenda.

  “If Kelson weren’t my king, I’d be tempted to box his royal ears for making me sit in for him at table tonight,” Morgan said, as he and Richenda shed their hooded cloaks in the warm room. “Do you have any idea how boring it was, having to play at being the gracious host while I knew you and Dhugal were already here, making preparations? And why is it so hot in here?”

  “Because,” said Richenda, loosening the throat of his tunic, “the windows are closed and you’ve let yourself get in a dither.” She glanced at Duncan. “I suspect it will be warmer still in the chapel, with as many bodies as we’re going to have generating heat. Is there any ventilation in there?”

  Duncan smiled and shook his head as he seated her at the table.

  “Very little, I’m afraid. We’ll just have to cope as best we can.”

  A second knock at the door heralded the arrival of Arilan, immediately bringing a greater degree of formality to the gathering. He glanced half disapprovingly at Dhugal as he swept past all of them to inspect the preparations in the chapel, calling Duncan to join him for several minutes.

  When the two bishops rejoined the others now waiting expectantly around the table, Arilan automatically assumed the role of senior, gesturing briskly for them to be seated as he took his seat. He did not seem to notice that Morgan and Richenda had neatly interposed themselves to either side of him, thus shielding him from close proximity to either Duncan or Dhugal. Later on, Arilan would be too busy to notice any hint of the true relationship between father and son, but for now, it had been agreed that they would take no chances.

  “Naturally, it will be Kelson’s part to direct matters when we actually begin,” Arilan said quietly. “However, until he and our—ah—subject actually arrive, I believe a period of meditation would not be amiss for any of us. A great deal of this will be new to young Dhugal, so I suggest we join hands around the table before we begin centering. The physical link will help to balance out the disparities in our levels of experience.”

  An expected hint of condescension was in his tone, but even Dhugal sensed Arilan meant well. Without demur they joined hands and obeyed, gazing through the candleflame for focus at first, then gradually dropping, one by one, into deeper rapport; breathing more slowly, eyes closing, even Dhugal easing at last into calm, floating receptivity, passive yet alert, waiting for king and kin.…

  And in the castle, the king led their intended subject into a darkened apartment that had been his own as prince. It was Dhugal’s now. The door was not locked, but even if it had
been, that would not have stopped a Deryni of any training whatsoever.

  Drawing Nigel into the gloom and closing the door behind him, Kelson paused just a moment to conjure handfire. The faintly crimson ball of light cupped in his left palm revealed a tight-jawed and apprehensive-looking Nigel, now that there was no need to maintain the facade of casual competence he had worn all through supper. Concerned, Kelson motioned Nigel farther into the room, away from the door, pausing before the darkened fireplace to turn and glance at his father’s brother with apparent casualness of his own, though his next words came of a far from casual concern for the response he would receive.

  “You don’t want to back out, do you? Because even if you did, at this late date, I couldn’t let you.”

  Nigel managed a shaky grin and a chuckle. “Kelson, I outweigh you by half. What would you do? Knock me out and carry me to—where is it that we’re going, by the way?”

  “You’ll see,” Kelson replied. “And I’m sure you know that I hadn’t in mind to use any physical force.”

  “I hadn’t thought you would.” Nigel took a deep breath. “I am nervous, though. You don’t begrudge me that, do you?”

  Kelson moved a step closer, relieved, and shook his head. “Of course not. I can ease a little of that for the time being, though, if you’d like.”

  “Do it, then,” Nigel whispered. “But I want to be back in complete control before it’s time for—the other.”

  “You can depend on it,” Kelson said, raising his right hand to touch Nigel’s forehead as he locked the grey eyes with his own. “Close your eyes and take a deep breath.…”

  With a little shudder, Nigel obeyed.

  “Now hold it for a count of five—and let it out. Feel the apprehension drain away as you empty your lungs, until you’ve reached a level of lower tension that you can handle. Have another breath if you need to.” He dropped his hand as Nigel breathed in deeply again. “Now let it out and look at me.”