Duncan nodded. “I’m afraid so. There’ve been queen’s guardsmen in the basilica every day since Brion’s burial. I don’t think they suspect me, though. I am Kelson’s confessor, and they may just have guessed you’d come here first.”
Morgan turned back to Duncan and Kelson, and sighed. “Well, I hope you’re right. Because if they do have any inkling you’re functioning in any other than your official capacity, we’re all dead.”
“Then let’s keep up the façade,” Duncan said, scooping up his empty bottle and motioning them to follow him down the side aisle. “If anyone stops us, you’ve come to make confession and receive the Sacrament before your trial. I don’t think they’d interfere with that.”
“I hope you’re right.”
As they walked slowly down the aisle, Morgan tried to scan the worshippers without appearing too obtrusive. Duncan had definitely been right about the queen’s guardsmen. He saw at least three or four among the faithful. And judging from the way they looked at him, it was not an excess of piety or devotion that had brought them to Saint Hilary’s so regularly for the past week.
The three paused at the end of the aisle to bow respectfully before the high altar, and Morgan tried hard to keep the proper look of contrition on his face for the benefit of his observers. Evidently he was sufficiently convincing, for no one made an effort to stop them as they slipped out through a side door.
When they reached the privacy of Duncan’s study, Morgan slid the bolt home with a reassuring clink of metal against metal. As Duncan crossed the room to get rid of his bottle, Morgan allowed himself to once again take in the familiar surroundings.
It was a small room, perhaps four paces deep by five wide, lined on the two longer walls with waist-high book-cases and rich tapestries depicting scenes of hunting and court life. Across the opposite wall, a wide window was curtained from floor to ceiling in rich burgundy velvet. A huge gray stone fireplace dominated the wall with the door, its wide mantel unadorned save for a pair of simple pewter candlesticks with fat, yellow candles and a small icon of Saint Hilary, the patron of the basilica.
To the right of the window, an intricately carved prie-dieu faced the corner, the kneeler and armrest covered with the same burgundy velvet as the drapes. An ivory crucifix stood on a small stand in the corner itself, flanked on either side by twinkling votive lights in ruby glass holders. To the left and in front of the window was a small desk of dark, polished wood, its surface covered with books and documents.
In the center of the room, set back from the fireplace, a heavy, round oak table dominated the rest of the chamber, claw-footed legs resting solidly on the polished marble floor. Two matching chairs with high backs faced each other across the table, and several more of a similar design were set closer to the fireplace, facing toward the flames. A heavy tapestry rug covered the floor between table and fireplace, muffling the cold and hollowness that might otherwise have pervaded the room.
Morgan pulled out one of the chairs at the table for Kelson, then dragged a third chair from in front of the fireplace. As he did so, Duncan deposited his empty bottle beside the desk and began opening the heavy drapes.
“Do you think that’s wise?” Morgan asked, his attention turned momentarily from his own task.
Duncan glanced briefly at his cousin, then turned to peer through the amber leaded glass. “I think it’s safe enough,” he finally said. “No one can see in, in the daytime, and the glass distorts, anyway.” He crossed to the table and took a seat. “Besides, now we’ll be able to see if anyone approaches from outside. That will be very important in about half an hour, if I’ve judged correctly.”
“That soon?” Morgan said matter-of-factly, reaching into his tunic to remove a small black suede pouch. “We haven’t much time, then, have we?”
He glanced casually around the room as he placed the pouch on the table and began untying the leather thongs that bound it. “I’ll need more light here, Duncan, if you don’t mind. And by the way, since when do you have to refill the holy water yourself? I thought you had curates and sacristans to do such things.”
Duncan snorted in derision as he brought a candlestick from his desk, lit it at the fire, and placed it on the table. “Very amusing, Cousin. You know very well that all my assistants are at the cathedral preparing for Kelson’s coronation tomorrow.” He smiled at the boy and sat down again. “And I hardly think I need remind you where our esteemed archbishop is at this moment. I had to get special permission to stay here today in case Kelson needed me—which I surmise he does, though not in precisely the way His Excellency thinks.”
He and Morgan exchanged knowing glances, and Kelson nudged Morgan’s elbow impatiently, craning his neck to see what was in the bag Morgan still had not opened. Morgan gave the boy a reassuring smile and finished untying the thongs. Reaching gloved fingers inside, he carefully extracted a bit of gold and crimson fire and laid it in the one gloved palm. At Kelson’s gasp of recognition, Morgan wistfully extended his hand toward the boy.
“You know the ring, my prince? Don’t touch it. You aren’t properly shielded.”
Kelson exhaled softly and withdrew his hand, eyes wide with awe. “It’s the Ring of Fire, my father’s seal of power. Where did you get it?”
“Brion gave it to me for safekeeping before I left for Cardosa,” Morgan replied, turning his hand slightly so that the stones sparkled.
“May I?” Duncan asked, pulling a silk handkerchief from his sleeve.
Morgan nodded and extended his hand.
Gathering the folds of silk around his fingers, Duncan gingerly picked up the ring and held it closer to the candlelight. As he turned it, the scarlet stones cast tiny, bright reflections on the three observers and on the tapestried walls. Duncan examined the ring minutely, then placed it in the center of the table, still nestled in its shroud of white silk.
“It’s genuine,” he said with a slight note of relief. “I can feel the residual power in it. Do you have the seal?”
Morgan nodded and began stripping off his gloves. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to make the retrieval, though. I don’t dare approach the altar area with Jehana’s spies out there.” He slipped off an ornate signet ring and held it up between thumb and forefinger. “Are you willing?”
Kelson leaned forward eagerly to inspect the ring. “Sable, a gryphon segreant vert—those are the old Corwyn arms, aren’t they, Morgan?”
“Correct,” Morgan agreed. “Brion had the ring made long ago. And since the arms are those of my Deryni mother, he thought them eminently suitable for carrying the key to your powers.” He shifted his attention to Duncan. “I’ll have to attune it to you. Are you ready?”
“What about—” Duncan inclined his head toward Kelson.
Morgan looked at the boy, then back at his cousin, a faint smile on his face again. “I think it’s all right. If he hasn’t already suspected, he’s sure to find out by tomorrow, anyway. I think our secret will be safe.”
“Very well,” Duncan said with a reassuring nod at Kelson. “It’s nothing all that mysterious. The gryphon seal, when properly activated, will open a secret compartment in the high altar. Long ago, it was attuned to Alaric by your father, so that when the time came, he would be able to retrieve the things that have been put aside for you.
“You can see that the embedded inlay of the gryphon has a slight glow to it as Alaric holds it. This tells us that it’s still attuned to him. If anyone unattuned were to try to use it—like myself right now, or you—it wouldn’t work.”
He turned back to Morgan, though he still spoke for Kelson’s benefit. “I might add that only certain people can be attuned to such a device. I am . . . like Alaric.”
Before the impact of that statement could sink in with Kelson, Morgan held up the gryphon seal between himself and Duncan and raised an eyebrow. “Ready?”
Duncan nodded, and the two began to concentrate on the gryphon device in the center of the seal.
Kelson watched
, spellbound, as the two stared at the ring and then closed their eyes. There was a long period of silence, when Kelson was certain the only sound in the room was that of his own harsh breathing, and then Duncan’s hand moved slowly toward the ring, his eyes still closed.
Just before he touched it, a faint spark arced across the short intervening space, and then Duncan held the ring also. At that, both men opened their eyes, and Morgan relinquished his hold on the ring. The gryphon still glowed faintly.
“It worked,” Kelson whispered, his words half statement, half question.
“Certainly,” Duncan replied. “Hold out your hand and see for yourself.”
Kelson extended his hand gingerly, flinching slightly as the ring dropped into his palm. It felt cold to the touch, even though it should have been warmed to body temperature. And when he looked at the gryphon seal in the center, he put the ring down quickly.
“It isn’t glowing! What did I do to it?”
Duncan snapped his fingers and smiled. “I forgot. You aren’t attuned.” As he picked up the ring and held it in front of Kelson, the gryphon resumed its pale glowing. Kelson grinned sheepishly.
Duncan got to his feet, tossed the ring lightly into the air, and caught it again.
“I’ll be back shortly.”
Kelson watched with awe until the priest had disappeared through the study door. Then he turned back to Morgan.
“Morgan, did I hear right, that Father Duncan is Deryni? You must be related on your mothers’ sides, then—not your fathers’.”
“Both, actually,” Morgan amended. “We are distant cousins through the paternal line. But Duncan’s mother and mine were actually sisters. Of course, that’s been a well-kept secret. Deryni blood could definitely be embarrassing, if not fatal, to one in Duncan’s position. There are few among us who don’t remember Deryni inquisitions and persecutions a little more than a century ago. The bad feeling is far from gone, even today. You know that.”
“But you aren’t afraid to let people know you’re Deryni,” Kelson replied.
“No, but I’m an exception, as you well know, my prince,” Morgan countered. “For most, there’s little future in being a kept Deryni. As a result, most of us conceal our Deryni heritage, even if inclined to use our powers for good.” He cocked his head wistfully. “There’s a basic conflict that arises from that decision, of course: wanting to use one’s native abilities on the one hand, yet bound by guilt, by the condemnation of Church and state, if you do.”
“And yet, you made that decision,” Kelson persisted.
“Yes. I chose to use my powers more openly from the start, and damn the consequences. And I was extremely fortunate to have your father’s protection and patronage until I could take care of myself.” He glanced down at his hands. “Being only half-Deryni helps.”
“And Duncan?” Kelson asked quietly.
Morgan smiled. “Duncan chose yet another solution: the priesthood.”
DUNCAN paused at the sacristy peephole to scan the nave, mentally thanking whichever of Saint Hilary’s builders had shown the foresight to install the spying device. No doubt, this was not precisely what the architects had had in mind—the peephole was intended as an aid in timing services and the like—but Duncan didn’t think they would object.
He could see the entire nave from where he stood, from the very first row to the doors at the rear, from one clerestory aisle to the other. What he saw but reinforced his belief that this would not be as easy a task as he had hoped.
The queen’s guardsmen he’d mentioned to Alaric were still there, including the two he thought had been watching him in particular for the past week. He knew that they were members of the queen’s personal regiment, and he wondered in passing if they did, indeed, suspect him. He didn’t think he’d done anything to warrant their special attention—other than being Kelson’s confessor, and Alaric’s cousin—but one could never tell with men like these.
He took a brocaded purple stole from a cabinet to his right and touched it to his lips, settled it around his shoulders. With his royal watchdogs out there, it was obvious he could not simply walk out, open the compartment in the altar, and retrieve the contents. They would be suspicious the minute he entered the sanctuary. He would have to create a diversion.
He checked the peephole again, then formulated a plan.
Very well. Let them be suspicious. If the queen’s guards insisted on complicating the matter, it was all the same to him. He was not above using a little sacerdotal sleight of hand to mask his real intent. And if that failed, there was always the traditional authority of the monsignori to fall back on. When dealing with men such as these, intimidation was generally not too difficult, especially when one had the threat of anathema to work with.
Breathing deeply once to compose himself, Duncan opened the side door and entered the chancel. As expected, one of the guards immediately left his position and hurried down the center aisle.
All right, Duncan thought, making a deep genuflection to give the man time to get closer. He’s alone, and he hasn’t drawn steel. Let’s see what he’ll do.
As Duncan rose, he listened to the hollow echo of the man’s footsteps approaching and let his hand go casually to his waist to remove the tabernacle key from his sash. Then, as his senses told him the man had nearly reached the altar rail, he let the key slip from his fingers.
A carefully blundered attempt at interrupting its fall sent the key skittering down the marble to land at the feet of the surprised guard. With a look of embarrassment on his face, Duncan turned innocent blue eyes on the man, then hurried down the steps with a show of concern. His manner so disarmed the guard that, by the time Duncan reached him, he had bent and picked up the key almost without realizing what he did. With an embarrassed half grin, he dropped the key gingerly into Duncan’s outstretched hand.
“Thank you, my son,” Duncan murmured in his best paternal tone.
The man nodded nervously but made no move to leave.
“May I be of any help?” Duncan asked.
The man squirmed uncomfortably. “Monsignor, I have to ask you this. Is General Morgan with you?”
“You mean, in my study?” Duncan asked patiently, innocence still at peak efficiency.
The man gave a slight nod.
“General Morgan has come to me as a penitent son of the Church,” Duncan said softly. “He wishes to receive the Sacraments before his trial, as does Prince Kelson. Can there be any harm in that?”
Duncan’s explanation took the man by surprise. Evidently, the idea of Morgan being anything but a heathen and infidel had never occurred to him before. It was obviously not what he’d expected to hear. And who was he to interfere with a man’s salvation—especially one in so great a need as a Deryni?
Convinced he had interrupted something very normal and very holy, the guard shook his head sheepishly and backed away from Duncan, bowing from the waist. As Duncan turned toward the altar, the man hurriedly glided back up the center aisle to the pew where his colleagues knelt, to join them and cross himself superstitiously.
Duncan ascended the altar with relief. He knew the man was still watching, and he was certain he was telling his henchmen what had just happened—though all of them appeared to be immersed in prayer. But he doubted they would make any move to interfere again, providing he made no glaring departures from routine. Of course, someone would go to tell Jehana of Kelson and Alaric’s whereabouts as soon as he left, but that couldn’t be helped.
Duncan bowed slightly before the tabernacle, then carefully retracted the green silken curtains from in front of its golden doors. As his right hand unlocked the doors, his left shifted its grip on the gryphon seal. Then, as he withdrew a veiled chalice with one hand, it was a simple matter to press the seal to the altar stone with the other.
At the touch, a square section of the altar directly in front of Duncan indented slightly, then withdrew to disclose a flat black box slightly larger than a man’s hand. Working quickly, Du
ncan brought out two more chalices and made a show of consolidating the contents of the three into two. Then, instead of simply covering the empty one with its linen pall and veil, he slipped the black box between chalice and pall and veiled both with green silk.
This done, he replaced the other two chalices and closed the doors with a flourish, locked the doors again while his other hand closed the opening in the altar stone. Then he picked up the remaining chalice with its added burden, bowed once more, and swept out of the sanctuary. The entire operation had taken less than two minutes.
Back in the sacristy, Duncan whisked off his stole and glanced through the peephole again. As he had suspected, one of the guards was on his way out of the basilica—to tell the queen, no doubt. But apparently Duncan had aroused no further suspicion. For no one else seemed interested in the least where he had gone. The other guards had not moved from their places.
Duncan tucked the flat black box into his sash and placed the empty chalice with several others, then returned to the study and locked the door behind him.
“Any difficulty?” Morgan asked, as the priest withdrew the box and placed it on the table.
“None at all,” Duncan replied. He dropped the gryphon seal into Morgan’s hand and sat down. “There will be a messenger on his way to tell Jehana where you are, though.”
Morgan shrugged. “That was to be expected. Let’s see what we’ve got here.” He picked up the box.
“Does the gryphon seal open that, too?” Kelson asked eagerly, edging his chair closer to Morgan and the box. “Look, there’s a gryphon imprinted on the cover.”
Morgan touched his seal to the indicated area, and the lid snapped open with a musical chime. Inside were a piece of parchment, much folded, and a slightly smaller box, this one covered with red velvet and stamped with a golden lion. As Duncan plucked out the parchment, Morgan removed the second box and inspected it briefly.
“This one takes a different seal,” he said to Duncan, putting the box down on the table beside the silk-shrouded Ring of Fire. “Are those our instructions?”
Deryni Rising (Chronicles of the Deryni) Page 9
