The King’s Justice

by Katherine Kurtz

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” Kelson murmured, crouching to set his hands to either side of Gorony’s head, and forcing rapport. “Gorony, stop fighting me!”

  Immediately, Gorony’s body relaxed, eyes rolling upward in their sockets, and Raif was able to lower his crop loosely across Gorony’s throat, still supporting the prisoner against his chest.

  “Now, whose idea was it to torture Duncan?” Kelson repeated.

  The answer welled up in all its dimensions, read from the twisted mind, and Kelson nearly retched at the foulness of it. At his grimace, Cardiel knelt down beside him, though he did not touch him.

  “Are you all right?”

  Kelson nodded, his eyes a little glazed with shock, but he did not allow the rapport to slip.

  “This is like taking a swim in the castle middens,” he muttered, “in the summertime. He has a lot to answer for. Let’s see if we can find out about Caitrin, before I lose my breakfast.”

  He found the information he needed, and sent Gorony relentlessly into unconsciousness before withdrawing. His hands were trembling as he pulled away, and he wiped them against his thighs in distaste as he glanced at his shaken scouts.

  “You felt some of it, didn’t you?” he murmured, as the scouts released Gorony and turned their attention to the cowering Loris. “Sorry, gentlemen. I’m afraid a little spillover can be an occupational hazard for those who work regularly with Deryni. I suspect that’s part of what makes you such good scouts. Unfortunately, we’re going to have to repeat the process with Loris. If you’ll release him as soon as I have control, that will make it easier for you.”

  “We’ll do what makes it easier for you, Sire,” Raif said in a low voice, signalling the others to pounce on Loris, who was trying to crawl out of their reach. “Will you want his gag removed?”

  “Not necessary. His mind will be foul enough, without having to listen to his foul mouth.”

  Loris wriggled and squirmed as the scouts pinned him to the ground, a low, animal whimpering vibrating in his throat as Kelson knelt down beside him.

  “I don’t know why I bother doing this,” he said softly, fixing the rebel archbishop with his grey Haldane eyes. “I have enough already to hang you several times over—I should never have allowed you to live, three years ago—but I won’t send a man to his death unless I’ve seen the evidence for myself. I almost wish this process were more unpleasant for you, so you could feel a little of the anguish you’ve inflicted on others in the name of your hatred. Fortunately for you, the ‘cursed powers of the Deryni’ are benign in responsible use; and I hope never to succumb to the temptation to use them irresponsibly—though I confess that you push me very near the brink, Edmund Loris.”

  With that, he laid his hands across Loris’ forehead, covering the blazing blue eyes, and forced rapport, allowing a small corner of Loris’ mind to gabble on in hysteria and fear at the intrusion.

  “I have him,” he whispered, giving the scouts a chance to draw back before he began.

  Reading Loris was even more loathsome than reading Gorony had been, for Loris, in addition to his other perversions, had revelled in the grisly death of Henry Istelyn, and had himself provided the specific instructions to the executioners as to how the killing should be accomplished. With dread fascination, Kelson found himself drawn into a precise and graphic recall of the execution, in all its gory details, and after that, an equally exacting recounting of Duncan’s torture.

  There had been other episodes as well, of which Kelson had known nothing: inquisitions and burnings of suspected Deryni in many outlying areas, while Loris was Archbishop of Valoret. Those, added to the expected psychic stench of Loris’ long-standing and unreasoning hatred of the Deryni, contrived to leave Kelson gasping when, at last, he prepared to withdraw.

  But then the king’s attention was caught by something he had not anticipated. He was in Loris’ nightmare of the night before—only, it was no nightmare to Kelson.

  For Loris had dreamed of Saint Camber. Kelson was as sure of that as he was of anything he had ever seen. It was a demonized visual image of the renegade Deryni saint, colored by Loris’ own hatred and fear of anything to do with magic and the Deryni race, but the face matched the paintings Kelson had seen from half a dozen sources, and the words of Loris’ apparition spoke of temperance and tolerance, chastising Loris for his persecution. It had terrified Loris, and small wonder.

  Kelson left Loris painlessly unconscious when he had read all he could stomach; no sense inviting further emotion-charged exchanges with a man who was half-mad. Coolly, and with no more regret than he might have given to crushing a poisonous serpent, Kelson knew what he would do to Loris, once they reached Laas. Far more important, for now, was the source of Loris’ nightmare; and Kelson thought he knew what might have triggered the episode in the guilty archbishop.

  “I’ve learned all I need to know,” he said as he stood, calling the scouts to attention with a glance. “I’ll deal with them when we reach Laas. Have them ready to move in the morning.”

  “To Laas, Sire?” Jemet asked.

  “Aye, to Laas. That’s where Caitrin is. Ciard?” he called, as he thrust aside the tent flap. “Pass the word to the commanders that we leave for Laas at first light. That’s where Caitrin and what’s left of the rebel army have gone. And no one’s to have any contact with the prisoners except to see to their physical needs. Kirkon, you can gag them if they get too verbally abusive, but no one is to converse with them or answer any questions. I want them to sweat a little, wondering what I have in store for them. Is that clear?”

  “Aye, Sire.”

  “Ciard, clear?”

  Ciard chuckled appreciatively. “Aye, Sair. Guid lad! We’ll make a borderer out o’ ye yet.”

  “Coming from you, I take that as a compliment.”

  But Kelson’s smile faded to weary wistfulness as he and Cardiel headed back toward the tent where Duncan lay, and he had Cardiel show him the rings again before they went in.

  They found Duncan conscious and coherent, if still a little woozy from the headache that was always a legacy of merasha, and weak from loss of blood, but otherwise reasonably healed of his wounds and the injuries he had received. He would have a scar from the cautery they had been obliged to do on his shoulder wound, and only time would grow new nails to replace those torn out by Gorony’s pincers, but neither fingers nor toes were as raw-looking as they had been, and his healed wounds and burns looked thirty days old rather than thirty hours.

  Lying on a camp bed in Kelson’s tent, his head propped on a mound of pillows while Dhugal fed him soup, he looked almost his old self—pale and thin, if in need of a shave—but the brightness in his eyes came of returning strength, not fever. Both father and son looked up as Kelson and Cardiel entered, and Duncan managed a game smile that Kelson had feared never to see again, twenty-four hours before.

  “Welcome, Sire,” Duncan said around a mouthful of soup. “Forgive me if I don’t rise to greet you more appropriately, but I fear my physicians might do me more harm than Gorony did, if I get out of this bed.”

  “Just because he’s still alive,” Dhugal said disapprovingly, “he thinks he should be able to dash right back into his old duties. Maybe if you tell him how close he came to dying, Kelson, he’ll believe it.”

  “He’d better believe it,” Kelson said, hooking a stool closer with a booted toe and sitting at the foot of Duncan’s cot, nodding as Morgan emerged from behind a curtain beyond. “It’s true. I was there. And I doubt Alaric is going to let you dash anywhere for a while, are you, Alaric?”

  “No.”

  “I won’t be left behind,” Duncan said, warning in his voice as he glanced among the three Deryni.

  Morgan, who had taken time out for a much-needed nap after working at Duncan’s healing for most of the morning, stretched and sat down on a stool opposite Dhugal, gently taking Duncan’s near wrist to monitor his condition.

  “Don’t worry, we’re not going to leave you b
ehind. You’ll go on a litter for a few days, though. You’re not riding for a while with those feet.”

  “Spoilsports, all of you!” Duncan muttered. “What would you do if I refused?”

  “For once, you can’t.” Morgan grinned impishly as he released Duncan’s wrist. “Don’t you remember? You let me set control triggers while we were working the deep healings. It was one of the few times when you were in your right mind. If I say sleep, you’ll sleep, and no arguments. For that matter, both of your other physicians also have that authority. You can’t even argue with Father Lael.”

  After a moment’s petulant consideration, Duncan grimaced and lay back on his pillows.

  “Where is Lael? How’s he taking all of this?”

  “He’s sleeping,” Morgan replied, “with a little help from yours truly. He may not be Deryni, but he wore himself out doing things Deryni can’t do, while you were still so full of merasha. And this morning, he let me pull energy while I was working on your healing.”

  “Thank God he’s so sensible about all this Deryni business,” Cardiel murmured. “I knew he was a good man, or I wouldn’t have had him as my chaplain, but one never knows how even the best man will react under extremes of stress.”

  Dhugal grinned as he offered Duncan another spoonful of soup.

  “Well, he survived his trial by fire beautifully—and I certainly learned a lot from him. He’s a natural-born physician. Too bad he isn’t Deryni. Don’t ever let him get away, Archbishop.”

  “Hmmm, I don’t intend to do that.”

  “He didn’t even seem shocked when he found out about Father and me,” Dhugal went on. “Incidentally, Kelson, I’m afraid that’s the talk of the camp this morning.”

  “What’s the talk of the camp?” Duncan asked.

  “That you’re my father.”

  “Oh.”

  “I hope you’re not angry,” Dhugal said. “I know we’d agreed to keep it secret until you had more proof than just your word, but I had to tell Ciard, to get him to help me contact Kelson, and I’m afraid I—blurted it out again when I was trying to fight my way through to you. I had to come up with something to divert Loris.”

  “Well, I’m sure that diverted him,” Duncan muttered. “What did he say? The Deryni bastard has a Deryni bastard?”

  “You heard! Or did you guess?”

  Duncan blew out breath through pursed lips. “I doubt you’d believe it really was a lucky guess. I wish it hadn’t come out just yet, though.” He turned his eyes to Cardiel. “Are you disappointed, Archbishop?”

  “Disappointed? Are you joking?”

  “But, it’s a scandal for the Church—as if my being Deryni wasn’t enough of a scandal.”

  “We’ve survived worse scandals,” Cardiel answered. “I’m most concerned for young Dhugal—though Ciard doesn’t seem to think illegitimacy would harm Dhugal as Chief of the MacArdrys. If you want him as your heir to Cassan and Kierney, though, that’s going to take some doing.”

  “I know,” Duncan whispered, collapsing back against his pillows and closing his eyes briefly as he winced. “I don’t want to think about it right now.” He drew a deep breath. “Alaric, I hate to ask this, but I can’t play the stoic Deryni any longer. My head has started throbbing again from the merasha hangover. Could you please put me out for a little while?”

  “Certainly. You shouldn’t tire yourself anyway. Center the best you can, and I’ll take care of it.”

  As Morgan laid his hand on Duncan’s forehead, thumb and middle finger resting lightly on the fluttering eyelids, Duncan drew another deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “I’ll be all right when I’ve had some more sleep,” he murmured, around a wide yawn. “They kept me so heavily drugged, though, for so long.…”

  His voice trailed off as Morgan eased him into deep dreamless sleep, and Morgan kept the rapport for several minutes, strengthening other pathways and sending more healing energy into Duncan’s weakened body until he was finally satisfied with the balance.

  “Merasha must be terrible,” Dhugal breathed, when Morgan had withdrawn and looked up at them again.

  “It is. That’s right—you’ve never been given merasha, have you? Either of you?” he added, with a glance at Kelson.

  As both of them shook their heads, he went on. “Well, we’ll have to remedy that—sometime this winter, perhaps, after we’re back in Rhemuth. You should know what it’s like, firsthand. Within limits, there are ways to fight some of the effects, if you know what you’re doing—but you can’t know what you’re doing unless you’ve experienced it. I suspect that merasha actually helped Duncan withstand some of what Loris and Gorony put him through.”

  “I suppose that makes some kind of sense,” Dhugal muttered, “though the logic escapes me just now. Is merasha worse than when my shields used to clash with anyone’s besides Father’s?”

  “Far worse,” Morgan replied.

  “No wonder Duncan’s in such bad shape, then,” Kelson said. “How is he really, Alaric?”

  “He’ll be well on the road to recovery, once he’s shaken the last effects of the merasha,” Morgan replied. “Not that he’ll be able to leap right back into action, however. He won’t ride for a while with those feet, even if he were strong enough to stay in the saddle—which he isn’t, with all the blood he lost. And any kind of glove is out of the question until his fingers have a chance to toughen up a little.”

  “Well, I don’t think this will interfere with his tender fingertips,” Kelson said, holding out his hand to Cardiel for the cloth-wrapped rings. “Having it back will probably give him some comfort. Ciard took these off of Loris yesterday, after he was captured. I’ve just come from questioning the slimy bastard.”

  “Why, what a thing to say about Ciard,” Morgan chided, chuckling as he carefully unwrapped the wad.

  “You know whom I’m talking about.”

  “Ah, yes, all too well.” Morgan finally uncovered both bishop’s rings and held them up, still grasping them only through several layers of insulating cloth, Duncan’s in his right hand and Loris’ half-forgotten in his left.

  “Well, well, well. I’d wondered, in passing, what became of this. Ugh!” He shuddered. “Loris’ psychic stench is all over it. I can’t believe he actually had the audacity to wear Istelyn’s ring.”

  Kelson grimaced. “I doubt there’s much he wouldn’t have the audacity to do. He got more than he bargained for in this case, however. Something gave him nightmares about Saint Camber.”

  “Indeed? Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Duncan will want it back, though. Duncan?”

  Still keeping the rings insulated, Morgan lightly touched Duncan’s wrist. Almost at once, the blue eyes fluttered open, gradually focusing on the ring Morgan held before them.

  “Istelyn’s ring,” Duncan murmured, raising one raw-fingered hand to reach for it. “Where did you get it?”

  “Where did you last see it?” Morgan countered, pulling it out of Duncan’s reach. “I think it’s going to want cleaning. Loris wore it.”

  A shudder passed through Duncan’s entire body as the memory came flooding back.

  “I know he did. At least he didn’t cut it off my finger, as he did Istelyn’s. I hope it gave him nightmares!”

  “Actually, it appears it did,” Morgan answered. “The question is, will it give you nightmares, after what it’s been through? We know from past experience that it picks up strong psychic imprints.”

  Duncan grunted in the negative and shook his head, reaching for the ring again.

  “Camber and Istelyn are stronger than Loris. Give it to me, Alaric. I promise not to do a repeat of the day of my consecration.”

  “For all our sakes, I hope you don’t,” Morgan muttered. But he gave the ring to Duncan, letting Cardiel wrap up Loris’ again and replace it in his cassock.

  Duncan held the ring between his thumbs and forefingers for several seconds, apparently staring through it, then blinked and grinned.

/>   “I don’t think Camber liked having this ring associated with Loris,” he whispered.

  “Oh?” Cardiel said.

  “Alaric, bring Thomas into link with us. All of you, join in. It isn’t a cleaning this ring wants. I think Camber has something to say to all of us.”

  As Cardiel blinked in astonishment, Morgan rose to give him his seat, setting one hand on the back of the archbishop’s neck as Cardiel sat. Kelson and Dhugal moved closer to Duncan’s other side.

  “Close your eyes and relax, Thomas,” Morgan murmured, gently extending control as Cardiel obeyed. “I know you’ve worked with Arilan before. Don’t ask how I know. Just don’t fight me. Let yourself float. I’ll shield you, if anything gets too intense.”

  Cardiel’s head nodded, chin sinking to rest on his chest, and when Morgan had made the link secure, he set his other hand on Duncan’s forearm and slid into the rapport Duncan had already forged with Dhugal and Kelson. He did not close his eyes, so he saw Duncan slip the ring into place on his right hand.

  Then another presence was in the link, besides the other four, and he had the impression of ghostly hands resting gently on his head in benison. It was the “Camber touch” he had learned long ago to associate with his healing gift, but it was also something more: a presence even more real than the apparition he had seen at Duncan’s consecration; an impression of vast approval and support as well as blessing, filling him for a few seconds with an incredible sense of reasoned purpose and wellbeing.

  Then the image was gone, the warm afterglow remaining only in memory, and Morgan was blinking as he let the links dissolve, absently kneading Cardiel’s shoulder in reassurance as the human archbishop also blinked and raised his head to stare at them all in wonder, finally having shared a little of the magic in which he had long believed, but which he had never before experienced for himself.

  “Was that—Camber?” Cardiel whispered haltingly, when at last he dared to speak.