A guard captain—the same as in the garden earlier that afternoon—glanced swiftly around the room as his men took custody of Morgan’s prisoner, then stalked up to Morgan, sword raised in menace.
“Stand where you are, General, and drop your sword,” he said, the tip of his blade following Morgan’s every move. “Where is His Majesty?”
Morgan did not need to look around to know that he was surrounded and badly outnumbered. With an apologetic shrug, he let his weapon fall to the floor, then turned and stepped back to where Kelson lay. No one tried to stop him as he crouched at the boy’s side.
“Are you all right, my prince?” he asked, helping Kelson to his feet.
The young king nodded weakly and steadied himself on Morgan’s arm. “I’m perfectly all right,” he murmured, breathing deeply to steady his wits. “I’m just not used to being attacked in my sleep.”
His gaze flashed around the room, quickly assessing the situation, and he instinctively sensed that the truth was better not told at this point. These men would never understand. Right now, following Morgan’s lead seemed the best plan.
He took another deep breath, then turned boldly to the guard captain. “How did those men get in here, Captain?”
The captain went immediately on the defensive. “I don’t know, Sire. Evidently, they overpowered the guard outside. There are three dead, and at least four others gravely wounded.”
Kelson nodded, for what had happened was fairly evident now. “I see. And who are our assailants, Morgan?”
Morgan crossed to the remaining intruder still on his feet and pulled off his helmet and coif. The face behind it glared out with a sullen scowl.
“Why, it’s Edgar of Mathelwaite!” Kelson exclaimed.
“Isn’t he one of your vassals, General Morgan?” the captain asked, his sword again directed at Morgan’s heart.
Morgan could not mistake the hostility in the man’s voice, and he was careful to keep his hands in full view as he turned to answer.
“Yes, he’s my man, Captain.” He turned to gaze patiently at Edgar. “Do you mind telling us what this is all about, Edgar? I trust you have good reason for treason against your king.”
Edgar looked confused for a moment, then glanced guiltily at Kelson. “We were only following orders, Sire.”
“Whose orders?” Morgan demanded.
Edgar squirmed uncomfortably. “Y-yer orders, Yer Grace.”
“My orders—?”
“Morgan ordered you to assassinate the king?” the captain blurted indignantly, his sword lifting toward Morgan’s throat.
“That’s enough!” Kelson ordered, pushing aside the captain’s blade and glaring at all of them. “Lord Edgar, suppose you be a little more specific.”
Edgar shifted his weight nervously, then dropped to his knees and bowed his head, spreading his arms in supplication.
“Please, Sire, forgive me!” he begged. “I did nae mean to do it. None o’ us did. Lord Alaric—he made us do it. He—he has this power over men. He can make ’em do anything he wants. He—”
“Stop it!” Kelson snapped, his eyes flashing fire.
“Sire,” the captain implored, trying to get closer to Morgan, “let me arrest him, please! You know now that it’s true, what everyone’s been saying about him—that he’s a murderer, a traitor, a—”
“The man is lying,” Kelson said, turning cold Haldane eyes on the captain. “And Morgan is no traitor!”
“Sire, I swear to ye—” Edgar began, his eyes wild, beseeching.
“Silence!”
The room grew hushed except for the harsh breathing of Edgar, the deeper, controlled breathing of Kelson. The king looked slowly aside at Morgan, seeking some guidance, but Morgan gave only an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Kelson must extricate them from this situation on his own. Anything Morgan might say or do at this point would only increase the difficulty.
Kelson looked down at Edgar.
“Get up.”
As the man did, Kelson scanned the faces around him, addressed all of them.
“You all think it’s Morgan who’s lying, don’t you? And you think that I’m protecting Morgan, that he’s deceived me just as you believe he’s deceived you.” He glanced at Edgar. “But I say that it’s this man who lies. I say that Morgan would never have asked any man to take my life. He made a solemn vow to my father, and he is a man of his word.”
He looked directly at Morgan as he continued. “No, Edgar lies. And now we must determine why, and for whom. I could ask Morgan to interrogate him. You all know of his Deryni powers, and you know by now that he could force the truth. But because you distrust him, there would always be the suspicion that Morgan controlled the answers, too.”
He dropped his eyes from Morgan’s and stepped closer to Edgar. There was silence as he stared at the accused man.
“Gentlemen, I am my father’s son in at least this respect, for I, too, know when a man lies. And I, too, can command the truth!”
He caught Edgar’s gaze and held it. “Lord Edgar of Mathelwaite, look at me,” he commanded. “Who am I?”
Edgar seemed unable to take his eyes from Kelson’s face, and Morgan looked on in amazement. Duncan must have taught the boy to Mind-See!
“Who am I?” Kelson repeated.
“You are Prince Kelson Cinhil Rhys Anthony Haldane, heir to my Lord King Brion,” Edgar stated in a conversational tone.
“And who is that?” Kelson queried, pointing at Morgan.
“Lord General Alaric Anthony Morgan, my liege lord, Sire.”
“I see,” Kelson said, his eyes narrowing in concentration. “Lord Edgar, did Morgan order you to kill me?”
Edgar answered promptly, without batting an eye. “No, Sire.”
The guards shifted uneasily, and a slight murmuring whispered through the room. The captain looked incredulous.
“Then, who did order you to kill me, Lord Edgar?”
Edgar’s eyes widened, as though some internal struggle were under way deep within him. Then he blurted, “It was not t’ kill you that we came, Sire, but to kill Morgan! An’ thus should all murderers die who strike down helpless men in dark places!”
He wrenched himself loose from his guards and flung himself at Morgan, going for his throat, but Morgan side-stepped neatly and controlled him, returning him to the custody of the guards. Edgar continued to struggle in their grasp as Kelson held up a hand for silence.
“Explain, Edgar,” Kelson demanded, stepping closer to the captive. “Who strikes down helpless men in dark places? What are you talking about?”
“Morgan knows!” The captive spat. “Ask him how Michael DeForest coughed out his life at the end of a dagger, while guarding in the darker passages o’ this palace. Ask if he knew that he botched the job, that young DeForest still had enough strength t’ smear his murderer’s sign on the floor wi’ his dyin’ blood—the shape o’ the Corwyn Gryphon!”
“What?” the captain blurted.
Again, there were murmurs of reaction around the room, louder this time. Stunned, Kelson turned to Morgan once more.
“Do you know what he’s talking about?” the boy whispered.
Around him, discussion died away as all strained to hear how Morgan would reply. A dozen swords were still pointing in his direction, and each had drawn a little closer with Edgar’s last statement.
Morgan shook his head. “Probe deeper, Sire. I have no idea what he’s talking about.”
“Sure, you don’t,” a low voice murmured in the background.
Kelson glanced sharply in the direction of the comment, then turned back to Edgar, catching his gaze and holding it again.
“Lord Edgar, how do you know that this is true?”
Edgar calmed under Kelson’s stare. “I saw it wi’ my own eyes, m’lord. Lord Lawrence and Harold Fitzmartin and I saw it.”
“The actual murder, or just the body?” Kelson insisted.
“The body—but it’s clear what’s happened
.”
“Is it, indeed?” Kelson frowned and chewed his lip thoughtfully. “And just how did you find out about this, Edgar?”
“We—were . . .”
“Go on,” Kelson commanded.
“We were—told to go to that place in the corridors,” Edgar murmured reluctantly.
“And who told you to go there?” Kelson persisted. “Who knew about this thing and told you to go there?”
Edgar shuddered. “Please, Sire, dinnae force me—”
“Who told you to go there?” Kelson said again, his eyes seeming to glow from within.
“Sire, I—”
Suddenly, before anyone could stop him, Edgar whirled and wrenched a dagger from the belt of one of his captors. And even as Morgan launched himself across the short space, knowing what was about to happen, he knew he could not stop it.
By the time Morgan’s hands touched Edgar, it was already too late. For the dagger was buried deep in the man’s abdomen, and he had slumped over and begun to fall. Together Morgan and the stunned guards eased the body to the floor, and the captain looked down, horrified at what had happened.
“He—he died by his own hand rather than talk, Sire,” the captain whispered, glancing apprehensively at Morgan. “What ungodly power could make a man—”
“Take him out of here!” Kelson ordered curtly. “And take his friends with him. We will not be disturbed anymore tonight.”
He turned away as the guards moved to obey, aware that awed and frightened eyes followed his every move. Morgan stood to one side as the guards began a cursory search of the rest of the apartment, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Then he slipped out to the corridor.
Derry, God help him, was out there somewhere. If he had been following orders—and there was no doubt in Morgan’s mind about that—then he had been in the guard detail that was overpowered by the three intruders. Three dead, and at least four gravely wounded, the captain had said. If only Derry was still among the living.
In the corridor, the scene was one of carnage. There seemed to be bodies lying everywhere: some still, some surrounded by guards or surgeons, or both. Attendants were carrying two away, and Morgan scrutinized each as it passed, but neither was Derry.
Anxiously, he searched among the crumpled forms until he saw a flash of the familiar blue cloak over against the wall. A battle surgeon had just risen from examining a wound in the side of the still figure under the cloak, and he turned a somber face toward Morgan as the general approached.
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do for this man, m’lord,” the man said, shaking his head. “He’ll be gone in a few minutes. I’d best see to those who can be helped.” He turned quickly away, obviously unaware of his patient’s identity.
Morgan knelt down beside the still body and pulled aside the fold of cloak that half covered the face. It was, indeed, Derry.
As he looked at him, touched his hand, the words of a woman in gray echoed in his mind: I intend to make you pay . . . and I’ll do it by destroying the ones you love best, one at a time, slowly. . . .
First it had been Brion, then Lord Ralson, young Colin of Fianna, his men. And now, Derry was slipping away. And there was nothing he could do. . . .
He took one of Derry’s slack hands in his, peeled back a closed eyelid. Derry was still alive, but only barely. A terrible wound had pierced his side, probably rupturing his spleen and God knew what else. Major arteries evidently had been severed as well, for the wound pumped bright red blood with every heartbeat.
Morgan pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and pressed it hard against the wound, trying to stanch the bleeding and knowing as he tried that it was futile. If only he could do something, could will the entire thing away, as though it had never happened. If only he could call upon some untapped force, some healing power . . .
Suddenly he straightened in astonishment as an idea came to him. Somewhere, long ago, he had read about such a healing power—a power that some Deryni were alleged to have. In the ancient days, there had been practitioners of that art.
But no. Those had been full Deryni, well trained in their art, in total command of the entire arsenal of Deryni power, not a half-breed like himself. Also, the times had been different: an era when men believed in miracles, and the powers of good were not so difficult to guide. How could he presume?
And yet, if Derry were to have even a slim chance for survival; if he, Morgan, were to be somehow able to call up this lost power from the past—God only knew how . . .
He must try.
Placing his hands lightly over Derry’s wound, he began to concentrate, to make his mind as empty and as still as possible, using his Gryphon seal as a focal point as he’d done earlier when he’d had his vision.
He closed his eyes and concentrated on summoning up the healing strength he was searching for, concentrated on making Derry whole again. It was cold in the corridor where he knelt in the shadows, but the sweat began to pour down his face and drip onto his hands, startling as it splashed.
But then came something far more startling. For just an instant, he had the fleeting impression of another pair of hands on top of his, of another presence pouring through him, giving life and strength to the still form beneath his hands.
His eyes flicked open in astonishment. Derry had given a deep sigh—and it had not been a final death-rattle. And now, as Morgan watched, the younger man’s eyelids trembled, and his breathing shifted to that of deep sleep.
Fascinated, Morgan removed his hands from over Derry’s wound and plucked at the blood-soaked handkerchief. He faltered for just an instant, half fearing to break the spell, then gingerly peeled the handkerchief away.
And the wound beneath was gone, healed, vanished—without a scar or mark to show where it had been, save for the bloodstains around it! Morgan stared at his hands in disbelief, then hastily checked Derry’s bandaged wrist. That, too, had healed! He rocked back on his heels, unable to accept what had just occurred.
Then came a voice from behind that turned his blood to ice, raising all the tiny hairs on the back of his neck.
“Well done, Morgan!” the voice said.
CHAPTER TEN
“Even as Father, so the Son.”
MORGAN whirled defensively on his haunches, half expecting to see the face of his vision again.
But it was no blond apparition of the long-dead Saint Camber who approached, but the smugly self-satisfied form of Bran Coris. With him, Duke Ewan, Prince Nigel, and a score or more royal courtiers and noblemen strode hurriedly toward the scene of recent carnage. Behind them all came a thoroughly angry Jehana with a pair of her ladies. Bran Coris was the first to arrive.
“Ah, yes. Well done, indeed!” Bran continued. “You’ve finally finished the job, haven’t you? Now you’re the only man alive who knows what really happened on that long ride to Rhemuth!”
Morgan stood carefully as the others arrived and gathered in a knot behind Bran, forcing himself to give a civil answer.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” he replied, signalling one of the surgeons to come and care for Derry, “but he isn’t dead. He has been knocked unconscious but not injured. No doubt an oversight of whoever masterminded this little spectacle tonight.” Morgan had no intention of admitting to his newfound talent. It could only serve to arouse further fear and animosity.
Jehana pushed her way through the murmuring onlookers and came to a stop between Lord Ewan and the ever-elegant Ian. Morgan had never seen her look lovelier than she did at that moment, with her long auburn hair tumbling loose on her shoulders, and he regretted more than ever that he had never been able to make peace with Brion’s proud queen. She had thrown a pale mauve dressing gown over her sleeping garments, and that was clutched to her neck by a pale, slim hand that glittered with the jewels of Brion’s marriage ring.
“Your Majesty.” Morgan bowed, hoping to avoid further friction. “I regret the commotion, especially at this late hour. I assure you, it
was none of my doing.”
Jehana’s face went hard, and her eyes gleamed like green ice. “None of your doing? Morgan, do you take me for an idiot? Do you think I don’t know about that guard you murdered in my very house? I think you owe me an explanation before I have you arrested and executed for murder!”
At that moment, Kelson appeared at the door, looking haggard and worn but very determined.
“Morgan has given sufficient explanation for me, Mother,” he said quietly, stepping out of his chambers to stand at Morgan’s side. “And there will be no arrests or executions here without my direct order.”
All but Jehana bowed deferentially as Kelson approached, and the boy returned their questioning stares unflinchingly.
“Gentlemen, you wonder at this night’s attempt on my life. So do I,” he continued evenly. “And no doubt we shall all be satisfied as to the details in due time.” His eyes swept his audience confidently. “But I warn you. Any further attempt to interfere with me in the next hours before my coronation will be considered treasonous. I shall tolerate no further questioning of either Morgan’s loyalty or my judgment. Is that clear? Disobey me, and you shall learn just how well my father taught me to be King of Gwynedd.”
The onlookers bowed in acknowledgement except for Jehana, who stood her ground and glared at Kelson.
“Would you defy me in something this important, my son?” she whispered. “Something I so strongly believe to be wrong?”
Kelson stood firm. “Go back to your chambers, Mother, please. I don’t wish to argue with you in front of my court.”
When she did not answer immediately, Kelson turned his attention to the guard captain, who had finished his search of the royal apartment and now assembled his men outside the door.
“Captain, I am retiring for the night—again. Will you kindly see that I am not disturbed? General Morgan will stay with me.”
“Sire!” the captain said, snapping to attention.
Deryni Rising (Chronicles of the Deryni) Page 18
