“Well, Kelson?” she said, an edge of mockery in her voice. “It appears that our duel of Champions has decided nothing. Mine is dead—granted—but yours is so sorely wounded, his fate, too, is doubtful. It appears I must challenge you anew, if I am to gain satisfaction.”
Morgan glanced up sharply at those words, winced as the movement caused him considerable pain. Perspiration sheened his face as Duncan probed with gentle fingers at the bloody flesh around the dagger, but Morgan motioned Kelson to lean down closer. Kelson gathered his heavy crimson cloak over his left arm and knelt by Morgan’s side, his eyes grave with concern for the wounded man.
“Kelson,” Morgan murmured through clenched teeth, biting off a gasp as Duncan withdrew the dagger and began to bind up the wound. “Kelson, be very careful. She’ll try to trick you. Your only hope now is to play for time, to somehow find the key to your own powers. I’m convinced it has to be here somewhere. We’ve simply overlooked it.”
“I’ll try,” Kelson whispered.
“I wish we could have helped you more, my prince,” Morgan continued. He sank back weakly, half fainting, and Kelson reached across to touch his hand reassuringly.
“Don’t worry.”
Kelson stood up, let the crimson velvet of the state cloak fall properly from where it had been gathered over his arm. He felt all eyes upon him as he walked the few steps back to the center of the chancel steps, sensed rather than saw the archbishops and bishops move out of the way behind him, clearing a space around him for whatever battle might come next.
He glanced around the nave, noting the tense faces in the congregation, the menace of the armed men still standing in the aisle behind Charissa, caught the wave of quiet confidence and hope coming from Nigel, standing there beside his mother—and Jehana, pale and taut in the awful silence, her hands clenched stiffly at her sides, her eyes feverish, pleading.
“Well, Kelson of Gwynedd?” Charissa’s low voice echoed through the nave, reverberated in the hushed sanctuary. “You seem to be hesitating, my precocious princeling. What can the matter be?” Her full lips curved in a sneer.
Kelson returned her gaze levelly. “It would be best if you left now,” he said quietly. “Our Champion lives, and has defeated yours. Your claim has not been upheld.”
Charissa laughed mirthlessly, then shook her head. “I’m afraid it isn’t that easy, dear boy. If it wasn’t clear, I am rechallenging you to mortal combat here and now—a trial by magic, which is what I wanted from the start, as you’re well aware.” There was an awed murmuring from the assembly behind her. “You can’t avoid it that easily. Your father would have known what I’m talking about.”
Kelson flushed slightly but managed to keep his face impassive. “Our father, through necessity, was more accustomed to killing, Charissa. In that, we will admit, we are not experienced. But there has been enough of killing in the past weeks. We would not willingly add you to that list of the dead.”
“Ah.” Charissa nodded approvingly. “The Son of the Lion is full of bluster, like his sire.” She smiled slowly. “But I think the resemblance ends there, perhaps; that our young prince speaks bolder words than he ought. One might almost believe he had the power to back up his boldness.” Her icy gaze swept him from head to toe and back again. “But of course, we all know that Brion’s power died with him on the field of Candor Rhea.”
Kelson held his ground. “Did it, Charissa? Did it die?”
Charissa shrugged noncommittally. “Did it? You tell me.”
“Are you willing to take the gamble that it did?” Kelson continued shrewdly. “Our father defeated yours and stripped him of his power. It is reasonable to assume that if we hold King Brion’s power, we might hold also the secret of yours. And in that case, you would meet the same fate as your infamous sire.”
“Perhaps—if you hold that power,” Charissa agreed. “But I killed Brion. I think that might just alter the odds, don’t you?”
Jehana could no longer restrain herself.
“No!” she cried, running out into the open space between her son and the Deryni sorceress. “No, you can’t! Not Kelson! Not Kelson, too!”
She paused breathlessly between the two and glared at Charissa, but the sorceress stared back at her for a moment and then laughed, pity on her face.
“Ah, my poor Jehana,” she cooed. “It is far too late for that now, my dear. It became too late many years ago, when you renounced the better part of yourself and settled for being only human. The matter is now out of your hands. Stand aside.”
Jehana drew herself to her full height, smoky green eyes growing darker, glittering with a strange light.
“You shall not destroy my son!” she whispered icily. “Though I journey even to the gates of Hell, you shall not have him, as God is my witness!”
As Charissa broke into a derisive laugh, Jehana suddenly seemed to blur slightly. The stunned Kelson had been about to seize his mother’s arm and remove her from the path of danger, but now he found himself unable to approach closer. As Jehana raised her hands and pointed toward Charissa, long sparks of golden light streamed from her fingertips toward the fearsome woman in gray. Suddenly, all the unleashed power of a full Deryni lashed out at the Shadowed One, guided only by the despair of a mother who must try to save her only child, whatever the personal consequences.
But Jehana’s power was untrained. The long denial of her Deryni heritage so many years before had left her unskilled in its use, unable to adequately control it or use it to best advantage. And Charissa, in her evil, was all that Jehana had denied herself—full Deryni sorceress, skilled in her art, in complete control of an arsenal of power so great, Jehana had probably never even dreamed of its extent.
The blast of power never reached Charissa. Responding immediately to the initial onslaught, she wove a defensive net around herself that repelled anything Jehana could summon. Then she began to concentrate her own power, bent on destroying this bastard Deryni who dared to challenge her powers.
The air between the two women glowed. The air crackled as fantastic power was launched and neutralized. Kelson watched wide-eyed as his mother held her own against Charissa for a time. But meanwhile, Duncan and Morgan had already spotted the trap Charissa was laying, and they worked feverishly to deflect the killing force Charissa now directed at her royal adversary.
Then, very suddenly, it was over. With a little cry, Jehana crumpled softly to the floor to lie like a sleeping child on the rich carpet of the steps. As Kelson scrambled to her side, Duncan was already kneeling beside her, feeling for a pulse, his mouth going grim and tense as he found what he feared.
With a worried shake of his head, he motioned Nigel and Ewan to move her gently to the side. Faint energy crackled lightly around her as they took her to safety. As Duncan helped Kelson to his feet, the boy turned wide, dreading eyes on the priest, and Duncan shook his head.
“She isn’t dead,” the priest whispered so that only Kelson could hear. “Alaric and I were able to deflect the worst of the power.” He glanced aside at where Morgan lay, then let his eyes touch on Jehana.
“So far as I can tell, she’s in a binding trance controlled by Charissa. She’ll be all right if we can break it. But other than that, only Charissa can release her—either by will, or by her own death. Since the first is unlikely, I’m afraid you’re going to have to try for the second. So now you have something else to fight for.”
Kelson nodded somberly, his mind reeling in the certain knowledge he had acquired in the past few minutes—for he was half-Deryni! And if his mother’s performance was any indication, he should be able to make use of that fact, at least to some extent. After all, he had been trained to accept these powers, to believe in them—had even learned some principles for control. Now, if he could just apply some of those principles he had been taught . . .
And Brion’s powers—those should still be accessible, too. Morgan and Duncan obviously had overlooked something—in the verse itself, perhaps. If Morgan’s
seal had not been the Defender’s Sign, who, then, was the Defender?
As he thought about it, he realized that Morgan had been called Protector, not Defender, in the earlier part of the verse. So perhaps the Defender was someone else. But who? And the Defender’s Sign—what could that be?
Charissa had returned to her original spot at the foot of the chancel steps, and now indicated the mailed gauntlet still lying on the floor where Morgan had flung it. There was a grim smile upon her lips now, for there was no doubt in her mind that she held the upper hand. Kelson did not have his father’s power—for surely he would have used it to protect his own mother, if he had had it. The boy was not canny enough to sacrifice Jehana simply for the effect of a later sure victory. Besides, she knew full well that the burst of power that had saved Jehana had never come from the mind of the half-breed Kelson Haldane.
She nodded slightly in Kelson’s direction as he took his place at the top of the steps, leveling her gaze to his.
“And now, Kelson Haldane, son of Brion, will you accept my honorable challenge, to do battle in the ancient and honored manner of our Deryni forbears? Or must I strike out and slay you where you stand, smite you a martyr, without a fight?
“Come, Kelson. You were quite full of bluster before. I call your bluff!”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Defender’s Sign shall seal . . .”
KELSON’S mind raced frantically, reviewing everything he had ever encountered regarding Deryni magic, searching for inspiration. As he clasped his hands together, his thumb began absently rubbing the Ring of Fire, and he again turned over the ritual verse in his mind:
“New morn, ring hand. Defender’s Sign shall seal thy force. . . .
Defender’s Sign shall seal . . .
Defender’s Sign . . .”
Suddenly, a portion of the transept floor near Charissa locked into focus. Kelson had never noticed it before, but the marble was inlaid with a series of heraldic seals set within a large circle that defined the center of the transept: seals of various saints, seals of—by all the holy saints! Could it be?
Trying to mask his excitement, he forced his gaze to casually scan the particular designs, praying that what he sought was there. If this had been a newer church, he knew he could not have hoped to find it, but Saint George’s . . .
By God, there it was! The seal of Saint Camber, he who was long ago called Defensor Hominum, the Defender of Humankind!
Almost weak with relief, Kelson raised his eyes to sweep the cathedral before him. He had found it! There could be no other answer. All unwittingly, they had equated Protector and Defender in their first readings of the verse—and thereby nearly invalidated the entire sequence. But now . . .
More confident now, he returned his gaze to Charissa, studied her for a long moment before he spoke. Now he must set the stage for what he next must do.
“You have claimed that we are afraid to do you battle,” he said evenly. “You have admitted the murder of my father, King Brion. You have caused one we hold in similar reverence to be sorely wounded in our defense. And you have gravely injured the mother who wished only to avert what now seems inevitable. The time is now past for idle talk.” Again he scanned the assembly, trying to gauge the amount of support he could expect.
“Also is the time now past for mercy, which we had thought to offer even in the light of what first occurred. Therefore, we now give you fair warning, Charissa of Tolan. We accept your challenge and agree to do you battle, reluctant though we are to give battle in this place. But since you force this contention, we can guarantee no mercy now, no promise of temperance or gentle retribution.”
Charissa tossed her head defiantly. “The Shadowed One has no need of your mercy, Kelson of Gwynedd. And when such boasts have only bluster to back them, I can only laugh. Come down, if you are not a coward. I am ready for you.”
Kelson regarded her disdainfully for a long moment, then glanced over at Morgan and Duncan and nodded slightly. As he reached to his throat and unclasped the heavy, wine-dark cloak, Nigel was suddenly at his side to take it, his anxiety and hope almost tangible in the light of Kelson’s new awareness. Kelson flashed what he hoped would be taken for a look of reassurance at his uncle, then turned and walked slowly down the chancel steps. Nigel folded the cloak over his arm, then joined Morgan and Duncan on the right.
As Kelson came down the steps, Charissa withdrew to the far side of the transept, watching as Kelson stooped to pick up the gauntlet.
Hefting its weight in his hand, he slowly rose, calculating the exact route he must take to get him to the Camber seal as soon as possible. In his side-vision he could see the target area perhaps six or eight strides ahead and a little to the left. Never taking his eyes from those of his opponent, he began walking slowly toward her, angling slightly to the left so that his path would coincide with the seal. Then, just before he reached it, he flung down the gauntlet, ahead and to his right, at Charissa’s feet. As it clashed onto the marble floor, he stepped onto the seal.
For Morgan and Duncan, tautly observing all of this by-play with growing apprehension, the young king’s actions seemed incomprehensible at first: to take on a sorceress of Charissa’s stature against fearsome odds, and potentially with dire consequences. From the glance he had shot them before descending the steps, it was evident that he had some plan. But only as he detoured subtly toward a particular seal on the cathedral floor did they guess how his reasoning might have gone. But as far as they could tell, there was no reaction as Kelson flung down the gauntlet and stepped onto the seal.
Charissa looked disdainfully at the gauntlet for a moment, then caused it to fly to her hand, tossed it to one of her waiting guards. Then she bowed slightly and stepped a few paces closer to Kelson. Never had Kelson looked so terribly young and alone.
“Is the Challenged ready to proceed?” Charissa said, the words of long-formulated ritual rolling from her tongue with practiced ease.
Kelson inclined his head. “He is ready.”
Charissa smiled and stepped back a few paces, raised both arms in a low-murmured spell. Instantaneously, a semicircle of blue fire sprang up behind her, a graven line of sapphire ice that took in half the great circle of saints’ signs.
She lowered her arms and stepped back several paces more, still within the arc of that circle, then gestured patronizingly to Kelson.
Kelson took a deep breath. Now was the supreme test. For if he could not answer Charissa’s spell, it would mean that he had lost his gamble, that the power was truly lost. And he had felt nothing when he stepped onto the Camber seal—no stirring of power within him, no reassuring flicker of recognition that the crucial connection had been made. He would not know until he tried his hand at magic for the first time.
Breathing a silent prayer to the renegade saint on whose seal he stood, Kelson, too, raised his arms above his head—a single, fluid movement, as he had seen Charissa do.
And unbidden, the words came to his lips—words he had never heard or spoken before, a low-voiced counterpoint to Charissa’s spell that made the air crackle with power around him in response, that seared a line of crimson fire behind him—a line that bent itself to the semicircle shape required and joined the two arcs together in a complete circle, half of red and half of blue.
Kelson bit back a smile as he lowered his arms, feeling the power surge through him, becoming aware of myriads of spells now at his beck and call, controlling more power than he had dared hope for. All around him, outside the circle, he heard the low sigh of relief as his people realized he did, indeed, have the Haldane power.
And that was not all. For deep in the recesses of his mind came the feather-brush awareness of two others now with him, in a way he had never experienced before—unmistakably, Morgan and Duncan. A swift impression of their congratulation, their confidence, rippled across his mind and washed into the innermost corners, then was gone.
He allowed himself a slight, sardonic smile as Charissa raised an eyebr
ow in surprise at his response to her spell. But then he forced himself to concentrate on what must now follow as his opponent stretched out her arms and began another incantation. This one was in a tongue he understood, and he listened carefully, mentally pulling forth the response he must make when she finished.
Charissa’s voice was low but clear in the stillness of the cathedral.
By Earth and Water, Fire and Air,
I conjure powers to flee this Ring.
I clear it now. Let all beware.
Through here shall pass no living thing.
As Charissa completed the verse, Nigel tugged hard on Duncan’s sleeve. “Duncan! Does he know what she’s doing? If he completes that spell, if he merges the two arcs . . .”
“I know,” Duncan whispered grimly. “If he does, the circle cannot be broken until one of them is dead. That’s the way the ancient challenge runs.”
“But—”
“It’s partly for the safety of the onlookers,” Morgan added weakly. “Without the containing circle, the spells sometimes tend to get out of hand. The two of them will be dealing with fantastic amounts of power today, from many sources. I can guarantee that you won’t like some of what you see.”
“At least we know that Kelson has Brion’s powers,” Duncan added, as he watched Kelson spread his arms as Charissa had done. “Kelson was never taught these things.”
Kelson’s voice was low, steady, as he answered Charissa’s spell.
Inside, all Space and Time suspend.
From here may nothing outward flee
Or inward come. The circle ends
When two are one and one is free.
As Kelson finished, violet fire flared where the two arcs had been, the cold violet line now inscribing an unbroken circle wherein the two must duel. As though on prearranged signal, both combatants then moved to opposite sides of the ring, each taking position perhaps an arm-span inside it and with a stretch of some thirty feet between.
Deryni Rising (Chronicles of the Deryni) Page 24
