“And to you, gentlemen, Mother,” Kelson continued, “I shall see you all in the morning. In the meantime, I suggest that we all get some rest. Tomorrow will be no ordinary day.”
Pivoting precisely, he re-entered the apartment, Morgan close behind him, and the door bolt shot home with a note of finality.
The queen, after a moment’s hesitation, retired resignedly in the direction of her own apartments. And Ian, following the departing group of courtiers and lords, beckoned for a guard to follow him as he headed down a side corridor.
AS the door closed and bolted, Kelson finally gave way to the strain, clutching at a handful of Morgan’s cloak as he crumpled in a limp heap at the general’s feet. Morgan picked him up, scowling grimly as he carried the boy to the royal bed, and Duncan at last emerged from his hiding place on the balcony.
“Hmmm, it’s cold out there,” Duncan commented, blowing on his hands as he approached the other side of the bed. “Is he all right?”
“He will be,” Morgan said, loosening the boy’s collar and beginning to unlace the red velvet doublet. “It cost him a lot to force himself back like that, though. I thought you said he’d sleep until morning.”
Duncan felt the boy’s forehead, then began unwrapping the wounded hand. “Be grateful that he didn’t. You’d have had a hard time explaining things to those guards. It wasn’t easy, as it was.”
He grunted approval, then rebandaged Kelson’s hand. Morgan unfastened the boy’s cloak and pulled it out from under him, then lifted his shoulders so Duncan could remove the doublet. As he did, Kelson opened his eyes.
“Morgan? Father Duncan?” he questioned weakly.
“We’re here, my prince,” Morgan replied, laying the boy back on his pillows.
Kelson turned his head to the right and found Morgan.
“Morgan, did I do all right?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper. “I’m afraid I sounded rather pompous.”
“You did just fine.” Morgan smiled. “Your father would have been very proud of you.”
Kelson smiled weakly and turned his eyes toward the ceiling. “I saw him, Morgan. And I heard his voice—before, I mean. He called my name, and then—” He turned his head toward Duncan. “It was like being wrapped in silk, or woven sunlight—no, moonlight. And there was someone else, too, Father Duncan. A man with a shining face and golden hair—but it wasn’t you, Morgan. I remember I was frightened at first, but then—”
“Hush, now, my prince,” Morgan said, reaching across to lay his hand on the boy’s forehead. “You must sleep now and rest. Sleep now. I shall not be far away.”
As he spoke, Kelson’s eyelids fluttered briefly, then closed, and his breathing once again slowed to that of deep slumber. Morgan smiled and smoothed the tousled hair tenderly, then helped Duncan pull off the boy’s boots. When they had covered him against the night’s cold, Duncan blew out all but one of the lights in the sleeping area, then followed Morgan to the fireplace.
Shivering slightly, Morgan leaned his arms and forehead against the mantel and stared into the flames at his feet.
“Something strange is happening,” he whispered as Duncan came up behind him. “I would be willing to bet that I know what other face Kelson saw during the ritual.”
“Saint Camber?” Duncan replied. He stepped back and stood with hands clasped behind his back as Morgan raised his head to run a weary hand across his eyes.
“Yes,” Morgan said. “And here’s another thing that will chill you to the soul. Derry was gravely wounded out there in the corridor. He was near death when I reached him, with a hole in his side big enough to put your fist into. And I healed him.”
“You what?”
“I know, it sounds ridiculous,” Morgan continued. “But I had this vague recollection about an ancient healing power that some Deryni were supposed to have had in the nether times. And some—wild hope, or something—I don’t know—anyway, I had to try it, for Derry’s sake. I didn’t think it would work. How could it, after so many years, in a Deryni half-breed who has never even been free to use the powers he has to the proper degree, much less . . .
“At any rate, I tried. I used my gryphon seal as a point of concentration, the same way I did when I was searching for clues in the library. I had my hands over his wound, with my eyes closed. And then, suddenly, I could feel another presence with me, another pair of hands resting on mine, power surging through me, yet not really coming from me.”
He paused and took a deep breath. “Duncan, I swear to you by all I hold sacred, I’ve never seen anything like it. As I opened my eyes—startled out of my wits, believe me—Derry started breathing normally, as though he were just asleep! I uncovered the wound, and it was gone! Vanished without a trace!”
Duncan was staring at his companion open-mouthed.
“I swear it, Duncan,” Morgan continued, almost to himself. “He was healed, completely, without a mark to show for it. Even his wrist was healed. I—” His voice faltered. “You’re the expert on miracles, Father. Suppose you tell me what happened.”
Duncan recovered his presence of mind sufficiently to close his mouth, then shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t explain it, Alaric. You—you think it was the same presence as in your vision?”
Morgan rubbed his hand across his chin and shook his head. “I don’t know. But it’s as though someone’s putting ideas in my head, ideas over which I have no real control. So far, they’ve been good ideas, but—hell, Duncan. Maybe we do have Camber of Culdi working for us. At this point, I’m ready to believe almost anything, no matter how far-fetched.” He crossed to the balcony doors and pulled aside the drapes, stood there looking out across the darkened city. “After all, what do a couple of half-breed Deryni know about anything?”
Duncan crossed to the doors and followed Morgan’s gaze. “There has to be some rational explanation. Maybe it will all be clear once the power struggle is over.”
Morgan nodded. “Very well, dismiss it that way if you like. I have another problem. Did anything else bother you about tonight?”
“You mean Lord Edgar’s attack, or his turnabout accusations?”
“Neither,” Morgan replied. “I wasn’t expecting that Kelson would be able to Truth-Read. I wish you had told me you taught him to do that. It would have saved me a lot of worrying.”
“Me?” Duncan answered, mystified. “You mean, you didn’t teach him?”
Morgan let the drape fall back in place and turned to face Duncan aghast. “Surely you jest. I never—” He paused to think. “Is it possible that Brion taught him?”
“Out of the question,” Duncan replied. “Brion wasn’t Deryni, and only another Deryni could have taught him that.”
“Has he ever seen you do it?” Morgan insisted.
“Never! I hadn’t made any practical demonstrations to Kelson before today. Remember, he didn’t even know what I was. Could he have seen you do it?”
“Of course he could have. Dozens of times. But without his father’s powers, which he shouldn’t be able to use yet . . . Duncan, I’ve just had an astonishing thought. Is it possible that the boy has Deryni blood?”
Duncan reflected. “I don’t see how. Brion was full human. There’s absolutely no doubt about that, so—surely you aren’t implying that Brion is not his father. That’s absurd.”
Morgan shook his head distractedly. “No, Brion is his father, all right. You have only to look at him to see that. You don’t suppose that Jehana . . .”
His eyes narrowed suspiciously as his voice trailed off. He looked across at Duncan and was heartened to see that his cousin’s reaction mirrored his own.
Duncan let out a long sigh of disbelief and shook his head. “The queen a Deryni? It would certainly explain a lot, if true: her antipathy toward Brion’s powers, her adamant stand against you, outwardly based on religious fervor . . . If she is, do you suppose she realizes?”
“Maybe not,” Morgan said thoughtfully. “You know as well as I how dangerous it can
be to be Deryni. I’m sure there have been many Deryni in the past five or six generations who decided it was safest not to tell their children what they were. And in a world where civil and ecclesiastical law forbid dabbling in the arcane, how are you going to find out? If you’ve got the Deryni capability and know it, that’s one thing. You can always find someone to guide you in its development if you look hard enough.
“But if you don’t know what you are, and curiosity about such things is highly frowned upon, to say the least, there isn’t much you can do, is there? I’m not saying that was the case with Jehana, but it’s clear how easily we could have missed it all these years. There are probably hundreds of Deryni who don’t know what they are—maybe thousands.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Duncan agreed. “Anyway, if Jehana is Deryni, that might give us just the edge we need for tomorrow. At least if we’ve somehow ruined the ritual sequence, there’s no telling what Kelson may have on tap from his own resources. Tonight was a splendid example.”
Morgan shook his head. “I still don’t like it. Kelson is totally untrained. His proficiency was supposed to come with the acquisition of Brion’s powers.” He paused. “I wonder if even Brion suspected what he was leaving in our laps. At this point, I’m not sure whether to look on it as a curse or a blessing.”
Duncan smiled and crossed back to the fireplace. “Did we accept Brion’s charge because we thought it would be easy? Or because we loved Brion, love his son—and because it’s right?”
Morgan chuckled softly. “All right, Father. No sermons, please. I think you know that my motives match yours rather precisely.” He clenched his hands together, unconsciously rubbing the gryphon signet with his thumb. “But you must admit, there’s suddenly a whole new flock of variables. Kelson’s own possible powers; Jehana—can she stand idly by and watch her son die? And now, a traitor in our very midst, it seems.”
“A traitor—?”
“In the palace, at least. And evidently fairly highly placed. You don’t think Charissa set up that Edgar episode herself, do you? She has someone else working with her, all right.”
“Well, since you’re itemizing, here’s something else to worry about,” Duncan said. “Suppose Charissa defeats Kelson tomorrow?—and it could happen, if all our parameters go against us. What happens to Kelson? What happens to the kingdom? And what happens to all those who supported Kelson and Brion, like you?”
“And you, Cousin,” Morgan countered, raising an eyebrow. “If Charissa wins, that collar of yours won’t be much protection. As Kelson’s confessor and my kinsman, you were doubly damned from the start. And your necessary part in tomorrow’s festivities will only seal your fate.”
“Are you afraid?” Duncan asked with a smile.
“Hell, yes!” Morgan snorted. “I’d be a fool not to be—and I hope I haven’t reached that stage yet. Anyway, we won’t resolve anything else by further speculation tonight. I don’t know about you, but I’m half-asleep on my feet.”
“Amen to that!” Duncan agreed. “Not only that, but I’m not even supposed to be here. If I hurry, I might be able to get back before I’m missed. Somehow, I don’t think my esteemed archbishop would approve of what I’ve been up to tonight.” He glanced across at the sleeping Kelson, then moved toward the hidden door. “I think I’ve used my powers more today than I have in the past ten years!”
“It’s good for you. You should do it more often.” Morgan grinned, opening the passage and handing Duncan a lighted candle from the mantel.
Duncan’s priestly half told him he should ignore the remark, but he could not restrain a small smile as he stepped into the passageway.
“Is there anything you need?” he asked, pausing in the opening. “Kelson should sleep until dawn, but . . .”
“That’s what you said the last time!” Morgan said with a soft snort.
“Now, you know that wasn’t my fault,” Duncan whispered in a mock-serious tone. “Besides, I should think you’ve entertained quite enough guests for tonight. I’m too tired for any more parties!”
Before Morgan could frame a suitable reply, Duncan had turned and disappeared down the dark stairway. Morgan shook his head and chuckled in appreciation, then closed the hidden door securely. He stared at it absently for a long moment, then turned back to the fireplace.
It had been a long day—a long two weeks. And though the end was now in sight, he knew that the most difficult time was still to come.
He rubbed a weary hand across his eyes and tried to make himself put the worries from his mind. If he was to be any help to Kelson in the morning, he would have to get some sleep.
He pulled the overstuffed chair from in front of the fireplace to a spot by Kelson’s bed, then unclasped his cloak and sank down wearily in the soft cushions. As he touched the chair, a wave of lethargy surrounded him, urging sleep and rest. It was all he could do to make himself pull off his boots and drag the sable-lined cloak over him as a makeshift blanket before sleep claimed him at last.
As consciousness faded, he was dimly aware that Kelson still slept soundly, that all was as it should be in the still, dark chamber, that he would reawaken instantly if anything in that situation should change.
That settled, he slept.
FOR Lord Ian Howell, however, the long night had hardly begun. As he opened the door to his chambers, he beckoned the guard who had accompanied him to enter also.
“What is your name?” he inquired, pushing the door closed behind him.
“John of Elsworth, m’lord,” the guard replied crisply.
He was not like the first guard Ian had used for his evil purposes. John of Elsworth was short, stocky, hard, an older man with years of experience in the royal regiment.
He was also very strong, which was why Ian had chosen him.
Ian smiled to himself as he crossed to a table in the room and poured himself a glass of wine. “John of Elsworth: a good, solid name,” he said, turning back to face the man. “John, I have something I wish you to do for me.”
“Sir!” the guard said briskly, standing to attention.
Ian crossed languidly back to the guard and looked him in the eyes. “Look at me,” he commanded.
The guard’s gaze met Ian’s, slightly puzzled, as Ian held up a forefinger.
“Do you see my finger?” Ian questioned, slowly moving it toward the man’s face.
“M’lord?” the guard said hesitantly, though his eyes followed the finger.
As the finger touched the man’s forehead between his eyes, Ian whispered one word, “Sleep,” and the man’s eyes closed. It required but a moment more of concentration to establish rapport with his absent compatriot. The aura crackling around him and his unwitting medium cast ghostly shadow-shapes on the tapestried walls.
“Charissa, do you hear me?”
The man’s mouth moved and then spoke in another voice. “I hear.”
Ian smiled. “They have been to the crypt as you predicted. Kelson is now wearing the Eye of Rom. I don’t think anyone else even noticed in all the excitement. I couldn’t tell whether they’d been successful with the power transfer. The boy was deadly tired, but that’s to be expected.”
After a pause, the guard replied, his voice deep and resonant, but the tone and inflection were that of the Lady Charissa. “Well, he can’t have completed the whole power sequence yet. That’s always reserved for the coronation or some other important public ceremony. Which means there are several courses we can pursue to further undermine their morale. You know what to do in the cathedral?”
“Of course.”
“Good. And be certain there is no mistake who will be blamed. Earlier tonight, I received another admonition from the Camberian Council, warning me to stop interfering. Naturally, I don’t intend to heed their advice. But it won’t hurt to keep them befuddled a while longer. After all, Morgan is half-Deryni. It’s even conceivable that the Council could blame the whole thing on him, if we execute this properly.”
&nbs
p; Ian snorted. “The idea of the Council dictating to a daughter of the Marluk is ludicrous, anyway. Who does Coram think he is?”
He received the distinct impression of a smug smile as the voice replied, “No matter. You’d best get on with your work before you tire your subject beyond recall. His death could arouse the wrong suspicions, and I don’t want your cover broken yet.”
“Have no fear, my pet.” Ian chuckled. “Until later.”
“Even until then,” the voice replied.
The aura faded, and Ian opened his eyes, still keeping his subject under control.
“John of Elsworth, do you hear me?”
“Aye.”
Ian shifted his touch to the man’s eyelids, pressing on them lightly. “You will remember nothing of what has just happened; is that clear? When I release you, you will recall only that I asked for your escort to my quarters.”
The man nodded his head almost imperceptibly.
“Good, then,” Ian murmured, dropping his hands. “You will now awake and remember nothing.”
As Ian returned to the table and picked up his glass of wine, John of Elsworth’s eyes snapped open, and he glanced innocently at Ian.
“Is there anything further you require of me, m’lord?”
Ian shook his head and took a swallow from his glass. “No. But if you would be so good as to stand guard outside my door, I’d appreciate it. What with killers stalking the corridors of Rhemuth Castle, I should hate to be murdered in my bed.”
“Very good, m’lord.” The guard bowed. “I’ll see that no one disturbs you.”
Ian raised his glass in acknowledgement, then drained its contents and put it back on the table as the door closed behind John of Elsworth.
Now for the immediate matter at hand: a simple assassination—no more. Granted, it could be a bit messy, and possibly even physically tiring, since there were three involved. But it presented no serious challenge to his abilities. Boring, really.
He did lament the fact that he could jump only as far as the cathedral with his remaining energy—but that was, at most, a minor vexation. Charissa would replace the power he used—and more—as soon as he returned. In fact, all things considered, a short taste of more conventional transportation would probably do him good, help him unwind. There was nothing like a brisk ride in the November night to clear a man’s head of the thoughts of killing and put him in the frame of mind for more enjoyable pursuits.
Deryni Rising (Chronicles of the Deryni) Page 19
