Charissa quickly surveyed the limits of the ring, clearly taken aback at her opponent’s obviously competent response, then bowed slightly. Her voice was faintly hollow in the magical confinement of the dueling stage.
“My lord, as Challenged, it is thy right and privilege to claim first strike. Wilt thou claim that right, or must the Challenger proceed?”
Kelson bowed in answer. “My lady, as Challenged, it is true that first strike is our right and privilege. However, in the face of so fair a Challenger, we concede the point. The first strike is thine.”
As Charissa smiled and bowed, Nigel nudged Duncan again. “What the Devil is he doing?” he demanded in a harsh whisper. “Why would he give her any more advantage than she already has?”
“He has no choice,” Duncan murmured. “It’s part of the formal dueling rules that a man, even if challenged, concedes the right of first strike to a lady opponent. Kelson agreed to play by the rules, and that’s one of them. You needn’t worry overmuch. The first spells are just testing spells.”
On the far side of the ring, Charissa stretched her hands out before her, palms together. Then, as she murmured something unintelligible under her breath, she drew her hands apart slowly. As she did so, a sphere of blue light could be seen hovering in mid-air before her, slowly growing in size until it reached human proportions and developed the features of a fighting man.
As soon as the thing’s shape had stabilized—blue warrior-thing in blue mail, blazing sword in hand and blue shield on arm—it looked around the circle and spotted Kelson. Then, dripping fire and blue vapors, it cocked its head at the young king and began advancing cautiously across the circle.
Kelson hesitated but for an instant. Then, putting right hand to closed left fist, he drew forth a glowing crimson sword. As the blue warrior-thing came within reach, lightning forked from Kelson’s left hand, pinning the blue sword while the crimson blade lopped off the thing’s head. It struck the floor with a hollow sound, and then the apparition and Kelson’s weapons vanished. Only a wisp of blue vapor remained.
The people rumbled approval at their young king’s prowess, then hushed as Charissa’s nimble fingers began moving vexedly in the next spell. Even before she began the incantation, dark mists had begun to swirl around her, taking the form of a hulking dragon-shape.
Drathon tall,
Power come.
Conquer all,
Senses numb.
Before she could begin the second verse, Kelson began the counterspell, and the mists began to recede.
Drathon kill,
Power fade.
Senses still
Conquer shade!
Charissa’s eyes seemed to darken with menace, but she said nothing. Clearly she had thought to have an easy victory, but it was obvious the boy knew much more than she had bargained for. Not that she doubted the outcome of the battle. No upstart boy with newfound powers could best a full Deryni sorceress with years of experience. Nonetheless, her puissance was being challenged.
Patiently, for she had the edge in stamina at least, she continued the standard testing spells, designed to feel out the weaknesses of an opponent. It would take longer this way, but the outcome, at least, was more certain.
Spells flew across the circle: attack and counter, parry and riposte, as those outside the circle watched. Charissa’s men stood impassive in the aisle behind their mistress, long accustomed to her activities in magic, mostly concerned only that the duel should take no longer than necessary.
Once their mistress defeated this upstart prince, it was quite likely that physical force would be needed to suppress the resentment of some parts of the populace—a most satisfying occupation impatiently awaited by most of them. The half-dozen Moors among them watched the contest with a more clinical interest, for many among their people likewise claimed some acquaintance with magic, and they were always looking for a new spell.
Other observers prayed for an altogether different outcome, and some had concerns not directly related to what was now taking place. As Nigel watched the duel, spellbound by the horror of what might happen, yet too fascinated to tear his gaze away, Morgan raised his head to look again, then touched Duncan’s elbow lightly with his good hand.
“Duncan . . .”
Duncan looked down with concern, for Morgan’s face had gone even paler than before, with the lines of pain etched yet more deeply in the fine features.
“What is it? Is the pain worse?”
Morgan clenched his teeth, nodding weakly. “I’ve lost a great deal of blood. I can feel my strength ebbing. What we did to save the queen almost finished me.”
Duncan nodded. “What do you want me to do? How can I help?”
Morgan tried to ease himself to a more comfortable position on the hard steps, winced as the movement set his wound to throbbing again.
“You remember how I told you about healing Derry last night? Well, I must try to do it again, this time on myself.” He brought his left hand up on his chest so he could see the gryphon seal. “I think I know the way now, but I’ll need your help. Support me. Reinforce the direction of my thoughts, but don’t interfere. I say that last because I think I touch on some areas that are—well, questionable.”
Duncan smiled faintly. “Are you trying to tell me you’re dabbling with heretical alliances, Cousin?”
“Possibly,” Morgan murmured.
He glanced wistfully at the dueling area again and smiled as Kelson countered a particularly noxious beast from the nether regions, then shifted his attention to the seal on his left forefinger and began to concentrate. His eyes glazed slightly as he entered the first phase of the Thuryn trance; and as soon as he was well under, Duncan, too, began to gaze at the seal. The priest entered rapport easily and let his thoughts merge with those of his kinsman, letting himself be carried along the current of Morgan’s mind, lending support and strength when called upon. At his very elbow, Nigel was not even aware of this new development.
Meanwhile, for Kelson, time seemed to stretch interminably. The succession of beasts and beings, real and mythical, which he had both battled and conjured, seemed like a half-remembered nightmare in the dark of some long-ago night. Drathons and wyverns, caradots with their waving tentacles, gryphons breathing fire, lyfangs, Stenrects like the one he had seen in the garden (at least the remnants of one)—the list seemed endless. Even now Charissa was conjuring up some new terror that he must thwart. He straightened slightly and forced himself to focus more closely, for he suddenly had the distinct impression that Charissa’s latest spell was not nearly as routine or academic as the ones before had been.
Even as her fingers moved in the strange new series of passes, Kelson had the chilling impression that this spell was a darker one than those preceding it. He strained to catch all her words as she began the incantation.
Spawn of Dagon, Bael’s Darling,
Heed my call, which bids thee here.
Child of Thunder, hear my order.
Come: I charge thee to appear.
Smite this brash, ambitious princeling.
Shroud him in a cloak of flames.
Help to wrest the usurped power
Which Charissa justly claims!
As she spoke, a rumbling of thunder rattled the air before her, and a dense black vapor began to condense into a tall, shadowy form, vaguely manlike in shape, but with scaly hide and long claws and teeth.
As it stood there for an instant, blinking confusedly in the brighter light than that to which it was accustomed, Kelson clasped his hands before him, but a chilling sensation rippled along his spine as he realized he did not have the proper counterspell at hand. As the creature recovered its wits and began ambling toward him, Kelson began several spells haltingly and without effect.
Mawing and shrieking its defiance, the creature continued to lumber slowly across the circle, dripping blue vapor and flames as it came, its eyes burning a fiery red that flashed points of light throughout the cathedral.
As the creature reached the half-way point, Kelson began to panic.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“You placed on his head, O Lord, a crown of precious stones. He asked life of You, and You gave it to him.” PSALMS 21:3-4
AS the creature continued to advance, suddenly another counterspell came to Kelson’s mind. Stepping back a few paces, he began to recite it, his voice becoming stronger as a feeling of confidence began to replace the panic.
Lord of Light, in shining splendor
Aid me now, if Thou dost hear
The supplication of Thy servant,
Battling for his people here.
Lend me strength to smite this Demon.
Send it to the depths of Hell.
Cleanse this circle of the Evil
Which Charissa doth compel!
As he completed the verse, Kelson lifted both arms high in entreaty, then pointed decisively to a point but a few feet in front of him, not two strides from where the monster advanced.
Just at that moment, the sun burst from behind the clouds to stream through the high stained-glass windows of the cathedral, casting a brilliant, multi-colored pattern on the floor where Kelson pointed.
As Kelson stood his ground, the monster lurched into the pool of light—and began writhing and exuding streamers of flame and smoke. It shrieked and screamed its rage and pain, thrashed in the color at Kelson’s feet, but could not seem to leave the patch of light to get at the young king.
Presently its thrashing stopped, its shape melted away, until only wisps of pungent blue smoke and flickerings of gold and crimson light played on the floor where the thing had been.
Kelson lowered his hand, the Ring of Fire glittering, and the sun chose that moment to go back behind the clouds. As a low sigh of wonder and relief rippled through the cathedral, Kelson raised his eyes to meet Charissa’s. He stepped forward a few paces to address her, noted ironically that the spot where the monster had died, where he now stood, was the Saint Camber seal.
He breathed a silent thank-you to who- or whatever had aided him, his eyes bright with confidence as he spoke.
And now, Charissa, this must end.
I shall no more my powers lend
To please thy fancy. I defend
My people, and thy power rend.
I swear by every Holy Name
That I shall thwart thine evil aim.
And further, I refute thy claim
That Good and Evil are the same.
Therefore, gird ye for the fray.
This is the final duel, I say.
For while I live, the light of day
Shall cease till thou art done away!
As he finished this incantation, the light-level in the cathedral suddenly seemed to drop. And outside the open doors at the end of the aisle, he could see that the skies, too, had darkened, even though it was not yet noon.
Charissa swallowed visibly, a look of apprehension crossing her face for the first time. She feared this test, but she had no choice. Her fingers began once more to move in the pattern of the acceptance spell.
Thy boasts are fearsome, youngling lord,
But I fear not thy lofty word.
Threats are easy to afford.
But I, too, weary of this game,
So I accept thy test of flame.
Beware! ’Tis I who rise to fame!
And when this little farce is done,
Then death shall come to Brion’s son,
And I shall be the ruling one!
With her final word, the two halves of the circle suddenly misted over with blue and red auras and became a parti-colored hemisphere over the two. Where the two colors met, a sparkling violet interface crackled brightly in the darkness—the only light in the cathedral save for the candles and vigil lights.
As each combatant stood his ground, the interface began to pulse, then to surge back and forth between the two, giving and gaining as each sought out the other’s weaknesses. It seemed a fairly even match for a time. But then the wall of violet fire began moving inexorably toward Charissa.
As the hemisphere slowly turned to crimson, crowding out the blue, Charissa’s face took on a look of fear bordering on pure terror. The crackling veil of the deadly interface between her power and Kelson’s advanced slowly but unwaveringly, and her eyes grew wide and frightened as she retreated to the limits of her side of the circle. When her shoulders finally encountered the sleek, unyielding surface of the barrier ring, she stopped, unable to go any farther. And as the crimson at last engulfed her, now pressing her downward, she let out a long, agonized scream, edged with fury, which slowly faded as she grew smaller.
Then she was gone, and circle, crimson aura, and hemisphere were gone. And all that remained was a young boy in shining white raiment, standing on the seal of a long-forgotten renegade saint, too dazed from his victory to hear the shouts which rose from the people who had watched and hoped and prayed with him.
Outside, the darkness lifted, and the clouds began to roll away.
With the shouts, Morgan opened his eyes and smiled, moved his hand to his wounded shoulder and found it healed. As he looked up in wonder from this thing he had done, Duncan, too, opened his eyes, glanced at Kelson, then helped Morgan to his feet. Smiling faintly, Morgan walked to the side of the still-dazed Kelson to touch his shoulder gently.
The touch brought Kelson back with a start, and he turned to look at Morgan in astonishment.
“Morgan! How did you—?”
“Not now, my prince,” Morgan murmured, gesturing toward the still-cheering congregation and smiling. “You have a coronation to complete.”
He took Kelson’s arm and led him back up the sanctuary steps to where his archbishops waited, stunned and frightened by what they had seen. As the cheering died down, Nigel stepped forward with the royal state cloak and proudly set it back in place around the young king’s shoulders, elation apparent in every line of his body. And Jehana, released from her spell with the death of the Shadowed One, sat up weakly from where she had slept, and stared uncomprehendingly at her son.
Kelson saw her look and pulled away from those who were gathering at the foot of the altar to conclude the coronation. Gliding easily across the chancel, he came to a hesitant stop before his mother, then sank to one knee at her feet.
“You risked much for me,” he whispered tentatively, half afraid to reach out to her. “Can you forgive me for going against your wishes?”
With a sob, Jehana seized his hand and cradled it to her breast, held it to her lips. “Please don’t ask me that now,” she whispered, tears wetting his hand as she held it. “Only let me be glad that you’re alive.”
Kelson squeezed her hand, blinking back his own tears, then pulled away and got to his feet. He smiled down at her as he backed off a few paces, bowed, then turned and went back to those waiting for him at the altar.
As Kelson knelt on the altar steps once more, everyone but the archbishops and bishops drew back and knelt, as well. Then Archbishop Corrigan, Archbishop Loris, and Bishop Arilan elevated the jeweled crown of Gwynedd, Loris reciting the ancient formula of coronation as they did so.
“Bless, we beseech Thee, O Lord, this crown. And so sanctify Thy servant, Kelson, upon whose head Thou dost place it today as a sign of royal majesty. Grant that he may, by Thy grace, be filled with all princely virtues. Through the King Eternal, Our Lord, Who lives and reigns with Thee in the unity of the Holy Spirit, God forever, Amen.”
This is what the people saw and heard.
But those of Deryni blood beheld a somewhat different sight. For to their eyes, a fourth figure seemed to support the crown above Kelson’s head—a tall, silver-blond man garbed in the golden raiment of the ancient High Deryni Lords. And to those of Deryni blood, he spoke rather a different message superimposed over the traditional coronation formula: an ancient Deryni formula, which bespoke quite an additional destiny for the brave young king he crowned.
“Kelson Cinhil Rhys Anthony Haldane
, I crown thee in the Name of the Almighty One, Who knows all, and in the name of him who was long the Defender of Humankind. Kelson Haldane, thou art King for Human and Deryni. Life and Prosperity to thee, King of Gwynedd!”
As the crown touched Kelson’s head, the Deryni-seen apparition vanished, and Morgan and all the others stood while Kelson was invested with the rest of his insignia of office.
After a few seconds, as they waited for the prelates to finish, Morgan turned slightly to Duncan and whispered, in a low tone, “Duncan, did you see what I saw?”
Duncan nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Do you know who it was?” Morgan persisted.
Duncan glanced at him sidelong, then returned his glance to the investiture. The clergy were rendering their homage now, and soon it would all be over.
“Let me guess,” Duncan whispered. “It was your mysterious stranger.”
This time, it was Morgan’s turn to nod. “You don’t think it was Camber, do you?”
Duncan shook his head and frowned. “He spoke in the name of Camber, which makes it even more of a mystery.”
Morgan sighed slightly, then tugged at the hang of his cloak. If he pulled it over just a trifle more, it would nearly cover the jagged hole in his doublet and the blood down his side.
“I’m glad it wasn’t Saint Camber,” Morgan whispered, just before mounting the steps to swear fealty to the new king. “I dislike being the target of Heaven’s special favors. It makes me uncomfortable.”
With that, he stepped before Kelson and dropped to one knee, offering his joined hands for Kelson to clasp between his own. Morgan’s voice rang out strong and clear in the hushed cathedral as he recited the ancient formula.
“I, Alaric, Duke of Corwyn, do become your liege man of life and limb, and of earthly worship; and faith and truth I will bear unto you, to live and die, against all manner of folks. So help me God.”
Deryni Rising (Chronicles of the Deryni) Page 25
