The King’s Justice

by Katherine Kurtz

  As Nigel exhaled with a whoosh, his eyes fluttered open and he blinked.

  “Better?” Kelson asked.

  Nigel nodded bewilderedly. “A little dizzy—as if I’d had a glass of heavy wine on an empty stomach.”

  “That will pass,” Kelson said, turning away and pacing off a few precise steps to the left of the fireplace. “Now I’m going to show you something I first learned from Morgan. After tonight, you’ll be able to do it, too. Are you watching?”

  “Yes.”

  He could feel Nigel standing at his right shoulder, far steadier than he had been, and sensed that at least a part of his uncle’s new calm had come as much from his own strength of character and trust as from anything Kelson had done. That was reassuring, for Kelson himself was not without his own apprehensions about the work ahead, though for different reasons than Nigel.

  Lifting the handfire still cupped in his left hand, he raised his right hand as well to trace a smooth, intricate pattern in the air with his forefinger. A psychic triggering went along with the physical act, but Nigel would receive that along with the rest of the night’s accomplishments.

  “I—don’t think I caught that,” Nigel whispered, gasping as a section of the wall swung back to reveal a dark stairwell.

  Kelson smiled and stepped into the opening, turning to beckon Nigel to follow.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll remember if there’s need. Many of the Haldane powers operate that way.” As he started down the shadowy stairs, Nigel had to scramble to keep up.

  “In fact,” Kelson went on, “I’m going to try to give you a few limited abilities tonight, even though we’re primarily just setting your potential. Some of mine started coming through in Father’s lifetime, so I don’t see that there’s any conflict. We’d better be quiet now, though. We’ll be passing close to some occupied parts of the castle, and I shouldn’t want anyone to think they’re hearing ghosts in the walls.”

  Nigel snorted at that, but they traversed the rest of the passage in red-lit silence, halting finally before an apparently blank wall. There Kelson quenched his handfire and peered for a long time through a peephole set at eye level. Then a narrow section of the wall was swinging back silently and a lighter patch of courtyard lay before them in the starlight.

  The passage closed silently behind them as they emerged. Ahead, the silhouette of Saint Hilary’s Within-the-Walls loomed black against the dark night sky, the darkness broken by the occasional glint of starlight on shadowed glass. Kelson made no attempt to conceal their passage, as he led Nigel briskly across the yard. Not until they had almost reached the top of the steps leading to a western door did Nigel see why.

  “All’s well, Sire,” said Sean Lord Derry, stepping from the shadow of a column to give casual salute. “The others are already inside.”

  Kelson nodded. “You’ve posted adequate guards around the yard?”

  “Lord Dhugal’s own borderers, Sire.” Derry’s grin flashed in the darkness. “They have very precise orders.”

  “Thank you. I’m certain they have.” Without further ado, he drew Nigel through the postern door and into the narthex.

  The inside of Saint Hilary’s had changed little since Kelson had come here the night before his coronation, he the subject that night, and Morgan the escort. It seemed, perhaps, a little brighter. To either side of the high altar, in what would have been the transepts of a larger church, racks of votive candles glowed sapphire and crimson before secondary altars to the Blessed Virgin and the church’s patron, Saint Hilary. In the sanctuary itself, the expected Presence lamp burned above the tabernacle set behind the altar, where the Reserved Sacrament kept a place of honor. Nothing moved besides the captive flames dancing behind bright glass, but foreboding washed over Kelson like a wave—Nigel’s as much as his own, Kelson suddenly realized.

  Time to set things into proper balance and get on with it. Further delay would only make it more difficult for both of them.

  “We’ll pray for a moment before we join the others,” he said softly, leading Nigel resolutely down the side aisle to a pew near the front, where he and his uncle knelt side by side.

  When Kelson had finished, and composed himself to face the others, he reached out with his mind and released the slight control he had been holding on Nigel. As he raised his head, Nigel looked up with a start.

  “I’m going to leave you to meditate for a few more minutes on your own,” Kelson said. “When you’re ready, you can join us in Duncan’s study. We’ll know when you’ve come to the door.”

  Nigel swallowed and managed a weak smile. “You’ve let me go, haven’t you?”

  Kelson nodded.

  “You’re sure I’ll come?”

  “Quite sure.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  This is the faithful and prudent steward, whom the master will set over his household.

  —Luke 12:42

  As the door closed behind Kelson, Nigel let out a slow, apprehensive sigh and slumped back on his heels, letting his back take support from the edge of the seat behind him. In a few minutes, he must also walk through that door.

  He had hoped never to have to face what would presently be required of him—not out of any fear for his own safety or comfort, but for what tonight’s work implied. To take upon himself the potential for the ancient Haldane power was to acknowledge, in a far more concrete way than hitherto, the possibility that he himself might one day be king. That was what frightened him.

  For he had never sought or even idly wished for the crown. Until Brion’s death, he had lived his life in the pleasant limbo of a much-loved younger son—close to the crown, unshakably loyal to it, whether worn by father, elder brother, or brother’s son, but confident and relieved that he himself should never wear it. That was for his nephew’s heirs, in the fullness of time; and Nigel was content with that.

  And yet, if Kelson should perish before an heir could be engendered, then the crown must pass to Nigel or his heirs. That was a grim possibility Nigel had known from the moment Brion died—and something he prayed fervently would never come to pass. But if it did, then Nigel must be prepared to take up the mantle of his royal duty; must stand ready to sacrifice his own wishes for the good of the land. He felt himself a far from worthy vessel, but he must be ready to meet the test, if it was demanded of him. Tonight was the first step toward that readiness.

  Still reluctant, then, but resigned, and with a weight of far more than years resting on his shoulders, he rose and dared to approach the high altar, lifting his eyes to the Christus gazing down at him even as he sank to one knee at the foot of the altar steps. He did not often feel the need for a physical expression of his religious feeling. Like Brion, he preferred to witness for his faith through the example of an upright life, rather than spend overmuch time on his knees, in a building that took the place of belief for many folk. Tonight, however, had its special demands, and seemed to demand more formal observance.

  A little awkwardly, then, he bowed his head and framed his thoughts in far more formal petition than was usually his wont, entreating the Anointed One for strength to endure, should he be called one day to his own anointing as Gwynedd’s king, but praying also that such fate should never come to him. He asked as well for courage to face the more immediate ordeal—but he would suffer that gladly if it might permit the greater cup of kingship to pass.

  Whatever was given him, he knew that in the end he could only offer all he had, and pray that it would be enough. He would serve his king as he had always served, with faith, loyalty, and love, and he would either live or perish according to God’s will. When he rose to join those who awaited him, turning inward now to draw his strength, his steps were steady and his head was clear.

  He heard no sound as he passed through the doorway where Kelson had gone. A short corridor lay beyond, and as he closed the door behind him, another door opened ahead and to the left. Duncan inclined his head in silent greeting and stood aside to let him pass, both reassuring and
vaguely alien in his episcopal purple.

  The room Nigel entered was strange to him as well, of fair size, but lit only dimly by the light of a low fire immediately to the right and a single candle on the table before it. Weapons lay on the table: several daggers, a narrow stiletto Nigel thought he remembered seeing in Morgan’s hand from time to time, and a sword in a scabbard set with cairngorms that was definitely Morgan’s. Dhugal stood behind the table, his own sheathed sword cradled in the crook of one arm, the baldric wound loosely around the scabbard. There was no sign of Kelson or any of the others he had been expecting to see.

  “I’ll relieve you of your cloak first of all,” Duncan said, already reaching for the garment as Nigel unsnapped the clasp and let it fall away from his shoulders. “I’ll also ask you to leave your weapons here. The others are in a small chapel through that door,” the bishop went on, nodding past Dhugal with his chin, “but only Kelson’s sword is permitted inside.”

  He draped the cloak over a chair that already held several others as Nigel began obediently unbuckling his swordbelt, and caught the weight of the weapon as the belt came free. He coiled the white leather around the scabbard and laid it on the table with the others as Nigel produced a sheathed dagger from the small of his back and a stiletto from a narrow sheath in the side of his boot.

  “Any more?” Duncan asked, with a faint grin. “You and Alaric are two of a kind when it comes to sharp, pointed things. Incidentally, I suggest you take off any outer layers you think you can spare; the rest of us have already done so. It’s going to be a little close in there, with so many people.”

  Managing a snort of appreciation at the attempt to lighten the mood, Nigel removed a belt of metal placques set low on his hips, ducked out of the heavy, linked collar of his princely rank, then began unbuttoning a long, wine-colored overtunic with running lions intertwined around hem and cuffs. Now he noticed that Dhugal had already stripped to shirt and trews and boots, though Duncan’s concession to undress appeared to be an open collar and the omission of his cincture.

  “Why do I get the distinct impression that it’s going to be more than ‘close’ in there?” he said. “I thought you Deryni could do something about such things.”

  “We can,” Duncan returned. “But it would take energy we’ll need for other things tonight. Besides, you’re not Deryni.”

  “I take your point. I don’t suppose you considered a different chapel?”

  “Not for tonight’s work,” came the reply. “We’ll be working under the protection of Saint Camber. I trust that doesn’t surprise you?”

  “Surprise me? Hardly. I can’t say it reassures me, but it doesn’t surprise me.”

  He knew he was talking to cover his persistent nervousness—and that Duncan knew it. Impatient with himself, he tugged loose three more buttons—enough to let the tunic fall around his feet—and stepped out of the pool of wine-dark wool. He would be well rid of it if it was going to be as warm as Duncan hinted. Beneath it he wore close-fitting britches of burgundy wool, midcalf boots dyed to match, and a full-sleeved shirt of fine linen. He untied the laces at the throat as he bent to pick up his discarded tunic, making a calming little ritual of folding the garment and laying it neatly atop his cloak before looking back at Duncan again, aware that he could delay no longer.

  “I suppose I’m ready, then,” he said.

  Duncan lowered his eyes, obviously aware of what Nigel was feeling.

  “You can have a few more minutes, if you’d like.” He glanced to his right, where Dhugal had taken up a guard post beside the chapel door. “There’s a prie-dieu there in the corner. You’re welcome to use it.”

  Deep in the shadows, Nigel could see two red votive lights burning before a small ivory crucifix, the vague outline of a kneeler before them, but he shook his head.

  “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, Duncan,” he murmured. “You know I’ve never been much on ceremony.”

  “Come, then,” Duncan said with a smile, taking him by the elbow and leading him toward the door Dhugal guarded. “As you know, you’re going to have to bear with some ceremony tonight, but we’ve tried to keep things reasonably informal. It could be worse.”

  “It could?”

  “Of course.” Duncan gave him a reassuring smile. “You’re an adult, coming into this of your own free will, able to give us your conscious cooperation. If you were a child, things would be totally out of your hands.”

  Nigel snorted at that, wondering whether it had ever really been in his hands—then flashed for an instant on the sudden realization that one day it might be Conall or Rory or Payne approaching the ordeal he himself now must face. The thought chilled him—it should be Kelson’s son walking toward the door he now approached with Duncan; not himself or his own sons—but all of that was academic in the immediate reckoning. For now, there was no turning back.

  Nigel had to duck a little as he followed Duncan past the curtain Dhugal held aside. The chamber beyond was dim and close—half the size of the room they had just left, and almost crowded even before they entered. Arilan and Morgan stood against the walls to left and right, Richenda, all in white, immediately to his right against the back wall, but it was Kelson who caught and arrested his attention immediately.

  His nephew—no, the king—the king stood with his back to them in the precise center of the room, raven head flung back and hands hanging easily at his sides. He was more than human or Deryni in that moment of Nigel’s first beholding, sacred kingship lying upon his shoulders as puissant and apparent as any physical mantle he had worn since his coronation day—though he, like Morgan and Nigel himself, had stripped to the basics of shirt and britches and boots, putting aside all weapons or other tangible insignia of his rank.

  The object of his attention appeared to be a very ornate crucifix of ebony suspended above an altar set hard against the eastern wall—or perhaps it was the wall itself that held his gaze, painted all around the altar and above it like the midnight sky, spangled with bright-gilt stars that caught the light from six honey-colored tapers. The stars shimmered through the heat rising from the candles, and the air tickled at Nigel’s nostrils with the faint aroma of beeswax and incense.

  “Come stand beside me, Uncle,” Kelson said softly, turning slightly to beckon with his right hand, quicksilver eyes drawing him even if the gesture had not.

  Without hesitation Nigel obeyed, taking the proffered hand and bobbing briefly to one knee to press it to his forehead in homage before straightening at his sovereign’s side. Duncan passed to Kelson’s other side and approached the altar—but a few steps in the confines of this tiny chamber—and Nigel dared a glance at Morgan, back pressed against the southern wall and arms folded across his chest, almost close enough to touch. As their eyes met, Morgan inclined his head slightly in a nod meant to be reassuring, then turned his gaze deliberately toward the altar, where Arilan had joined Duncan in the preparation of a thurible. Dutifully Nigel turned his attention that way as well.

  They would ward the chamber first; he knew that. He even knew a little about warding. He had seen Morgan ward a circle once, long ago, when Morgan helped Brion assume his full Haldane powers before the battle with the Marluk. Nigel had been nineteen, Brion twenty-five, Morgan not yet fourteen.

  Many years later, there had been another warding as well: in a tent at Llyndruth Meadows, the night before the final confrontation between Kelson and Wencit of Torenth. He had seen only the beginnings of that warding; that was the night he had learned that Arilan was Deryni. He remembered little else besides black and white cubes and Arilan’s hand touching his forehead—and Kelson’s eyes boring into his until he thought his very soul must be sucked out of his body.

  Since then, he had learned not to fight or fear that kind of mental touch. Something akin to that would happen again tonight, but he put that knowledge from his mind for the moment and set his attention on the two bishops. Arilan was beginning: censing the altar and the East and then moving to his right towa
rd the space between Nigel and Morgan.

  They would cast a triple circle first. As they trod the circle, they would invoke the protection of the four great Archangels who guarded the Quarters and ruled the elements. Duncan was already aspersing the East with holy water, preparing to follow Arilan in the second circle. Morgan would cast the third with a sword.

  The South was Nigel’s especial favorite, however: first of the Quarters to be saluted after the East, where Morgan still stood and Arilan now paused to bow—for the South was the realm of Saint Michael, familiar to Nigel as the patron of warriors long before he learned the Prince of Heaven’s other, more esoteric attributes.

  To Saint Michael had Nigel pledged a special devotion those many years before, as he kept his knight’s vigil before receiving the accolade from his brother. God willing, perhaps his son would conceive a like devotion. Before another year was out—if they all lived that long—Conall, Kelson, and Dhugal would keep their own knights’ vigil, and receive the knightly accolade from his hand. He suspected that Kelson and Dhugal would reserve their special devotion to Saint Camber—which was certainly fitting—but he knew they reverenced Michael as well. He was surprised to realize that he did not know his own sons’ feelings on the matter.

  That realization so occupied him for the next few seconds that he was not aware when Morgan moved from South to altar—only that Morgan was suddenly there, drawing the fine-wrought scabbard from Kelson’s sword—Brion’s sword, his father’s sword! Spellbound, he watched Morgan raise the blade in reverent salute to the East, candlelight flashing down the polished steel and taking on a life of its own—remembering another Morgan, another Nigel, a Brion still alive, as Morgan leveled the blade at eye level and slowly began to retrace Arilan’s and Duncan’s paths.

  Light streamed from the tip of the blade as Morgan walked, scribing a ribbon of blue-white brilliance a handspan wide along the wall behind the altar. It floated with substance of its own where the tip of the blade bridged the southeast corner of the room, curving in a blue-white streak to follow all across the South.