In the King's Service

by Katherine Kurtz

  “Donal? Is he . . . ?”

  “I think so,” the king said, a little sharply. He crawled on hands and knees to press his fingertips to the side of Sief’s neck, just beneath the ear, but he could feel no pulse. The eyes were closed, and when Donal peeled back one eyelid, the pupil was fixed and dilated. But he had already known, in a way that had something to do with his Haldane kingship, that Sief’s essence was fled beyond retrieving, the quick mind stilled forever.

  “Jesu, I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Donal whispered, sinking back onto his heels. “But he’d guessed the truth. He turned on me. He was beyond reasoning.”

  “I know,” Jessamy said softly, burying her face against the blanket wrapped around her child—their child.

  “We shall say that it was his heart,” Donal said dully, dragging himself upright against the side of the bed. “No one else need know otherwise. His heart stopped. That is the ultimate cause of all death, after all.”

  Jessamy slowly raised her head to look at him.

  “You must not allow any of your nobles to inspect the body,” she said.

  At his questioning look, she went on.

  “There are Deryni in your household whom you do not know. What you have just done—leaves certain signs that can be read by those who know how.”

  “There are other Deryni in my household!” Donal repeated, incredulous. “Besides yourselves. And you did not tell me?”

  “I was not permitted to tell you,” she replied. “I was physically incapable of telling you. I still cannot tell you certain things.”

  The king’s face went even more ashen, if that were possible, but indignant question was already stirring in his eyes.

  “They mean you no harm, Sire,” she whispered, still clutching the child to her breast. “There are . . . those who have long been charged to watch over the House of Haldane, and to report back to . . . superiors. I am bound not to reveal their identities. They—have other obligations as well, an agenda of their own, which Sief served. It was they who required my marriage with him, after my father passed away.”

  Donal simply stared at her for a long moment, finally bestirring himself to draw a deep breath.

  “Other Deryni,” he murmured. “Why did it not occur to me before?”

  When she said nothing, he slowly got to his feet, his gaze drifting back to Sief’s body.

  “Is your brother one of them?” he said quietly, after a pause.

  “You know what he is, Sire,” she replied. “And you know that he has always served you faithfully. More than that I may not tell you.”

  “How dare—” He had started to answer her sharply, but broke off and took a deep breath, glancing again at Sief.

  “Jessamy,” he whispered very softly, “you must help me in this. What we have done, we have done for the guarding of Gwynedd. But my guarding is incomplete, if I do not know as many of the dangers as possible. I must ask you again: What other Deryni are here at court?”

  “I cannot tell you,” she said, very softly. “I wish that I could—but I cannot.”

  She was silently weeping by the time Donal summoned help and men came running from outside Sief MacAthan’s suite of rooms, in the part of the castle where the king’s most trusted advisors were privileged to lodge. At that time, only the king himself was to know that the widow’s tears were tears of relief, to be free at last of Sief’s long tyranny.

  THE Camberian Council learned of Sief’s death the following day, shortly after the news began to disseminate within the court at Rhemuth, for Seisyll Arilan attended on the court nearly every morning. Seisyll had been surprised to hear it, since Sief had seemed in good health the previous evening, but he dutifully set in motion the usual mechanism by which the Council was summoned outside their normal schedule of meetings, and continued to gather what further information he could, until time came for them to meet.

  “It seems to have taken everyone by surprise,” Seisyll told his fellow Council members early that evening—now only five of them, for their missing member had yet to regain Portal access. “I’m informed that the king’s own physician was summoned immediately, but there was nothing to be done.”

  “You weren’t able to see the body?” Barrett asked.

  Seisyll shook his head. “Not yet. There was no way I could manage it without calling attention to myself. Besides, they’re saying it was his heart. He was about sixty, after all—the oldest among us.”

  “But not that old, for one of us,” Michon said quietly. “You and I are hardly a decade younger, Seisyll.”

  Seissyl merely shrugged as Dominy de Laney cocked her head in Michon’s direction.

  “Surely you don’t suspect foul play,” she said.

  “No. It’s curious, though, that the king was with him. It would have been late. Did anyone hear him mention that he planned to see the king after he left us?”

  The others at the table shook their heads.

  “That wouldn’t signify, if the king came to him,” Barrett pointed out. “He wouldn’t necessarily have known that the king would seek him out.”

  “Are we reaching for some connection between the king’s presence and Sief’s death?” Dominy asked. “Because I don’t see any. What motive could there be, if there were? From all accounts, Sief had an excellent relationship with the king.”

  Seisyll nodded. “They had been friends for years. So had . . .”

  Speculation kindled in the blue-violet eyes as his voice trailed off, echoed in the expressions that began to animate the faces of the others with him.

  “I see,” said Vivienne, “that I am not the only one to wonder whether we must worry again about Lewys ap Norfal’s daughter.”

  Dominy shook her head, though the vehemence of her denial was at odds with her troubled expression. “What possible worry could there be? Surely you aren’t suggesting that she had a hand in her husband’s death?”

  “Such things have been known to happen,” Vivienne said dryly.

  “Then, it appears that further investigations should be made,” Seisyll replied. “And since I’m the one most regularly at court, the task obviously falls to me.”

  “What will you do?” Dominy asked.

  “Try again, to have a closer look at the body,” Seisyll replied. “The funeral will be from the cathedral tomorrow morning, so he lies tonight in a side chapel there. It is known we were friends. It would be remiss of me not to pay my respects.”

  “The funeral is tomorrow?” Vivienne said. “Does that seem over-hasty to anyone besides me?”

  Seisyll shrugged. “All the more reason to satisfy our curiosity tonight.”

  “And if others interrupt your visit?” Vivienne asked. “Even if others of his friends do not come, the brothers of the cathedral chapter will keep watch through the night.”

  “The brothers can be induced to doze at their devotions,” Seisyll said lightly. “If Michon will accompany me, we can certainly accomplish what is needful.”

  Michon inclined his head in agreement, his gray eyes glinting with faint amusement. “Audacious, as always; but I shall rise to the challenge.”

  Dominy de Laney gave a genteel snort, and Barrett raised one scant eyebrow.

  “I suppose it’s pointless to tell you to be careful,” Vivienne said sourly.

  Even Seisyll chuckled at that, for though Sief’s death left him and Michon as the Council’s senior members, both now past the half-century mark, the pair owned a long history of daring exploits on behalf of their race; Vivienne alone would reckon them reckless.

  “Darling Vivienne,” Michon said with a tiny, droll smile, “we are always careful.”

  LATER that night, as the city watch cried the midnight hour and most of Rhemuth slept, Sir Seisyll Arilan summoned a servant with a torch and made his way quietly down the winding street that led from the castle toward the cathedral. As a trusted royal courtier, he was often abroad at odd hours on the king’s business, so the occasional guard he passed gave little res
ponse save to salute his rank and ensure that his passage was uneventful.

  As expected, the cathedral was deserted save for a pair of monks keeping watch beside Sief’s open coffin, there where it rested on its catafalque before the altar of a side chapel. Tall candles flanked the coffin, set three to either side, and the prayers of the kneeling monks whispered in the stillness, offered up in antiphon. After a glance to assess the situation, Seisyll drew his servant back into the nave and bade him kneel in the shadow of a pillar not far from the chapel entrance.

  “Keep watch here, and pray for the soul of Sir Sief MacAthan,” he whispered, also laying a hand on the man’s wrist and applying a compulsion to do just that.

  Satisfied that the man would not interfere, Seisyll made his way silently toward the door to the cathedral sacristy, which lay in the angle of the nave with the south transept. The door was locked, but it yielded quickly to his Deryni touch.

  Inside, he closed the door behind him and summoned handfire to augment the light of the Presence lamp burning above the tabernacle behind the sacristy’s vesting altar. By their combined light, he could easily make out the design set into the tessellated pavement covering the center of the floor. Stepping onto it, he composed his thoughts and focused his intent, visualizing his destination.

  In an eye-blink, he was standing in the Portal outside the chamber where the Camberian Council met. Michon was waiting just outside, dressed all in black and looking uncharacteristically sinister.

  “All’s well, I take it?” Michon murmured.

  Seisyll nodded, also inviting for Michon to step onto the Portal with him.

  “Two monks praying in the chapel where they’ve put Sief’s coffin,” he replied. “I brought Benjamin to light the way. He’s settled to keep watch outside the chapel while we do what needs to be done.”

  Merely grinning, Michon turned his back on Seisyll and allowed the other to set hands on his shoulders, eyes closing as he opened his mind to the other’s direction. A moment’s vague disorientation as the link was made—and then they were standing in the still-deserted sacristy at Rhemuth Cathedral. Quickly the pair glided to the door, scanned outside, then made their way back among the shadowed columns to where Seisyll’s servant kept watch outside the mortuary chapel.

  Seisyll said nothing as he set a hand on the servant’s shoulder, probing briefly for an update. No one had come, and the monks had not ceased their chanting.

  With a glance at Michon, Seisyll started into the chapel, making no attempt at stealth as he headed toward one of the monks, aware that Michon was advancing more silently on the other while attention was turned toward Seisyll. Within seconds, both monks nodded deeper in prayer, oblivious to their surroundings. With a glance back at Benjamin, who now would intercept anyone heading toward the chapel and give warning, the two Deryni turned their attention to the coffin where lay the mortal remains of Sief MacAthan.

  He lay silent and pale in his funeral garb, a gauzy veil drawn across his face. As Michon ran the flat of one palm above the dead man’s chest, Seisyll started to lift the veil for a closer look. In that instant, a forlorn sob barked across the length of the chapel from where Benjamin knelt just outside: his signal that someone was coming.

  Hastily Seisyll drew back his hand and crossed himself to cover the movement, keeping his head bowed, at the same time sending instructions to the entranced monks to resume their formal prayers. Michon likewise bowed his head, withdrawing his hand. Seconds later, several more monks came into the chapel: obviously the relief for the ones still kneeling to either side of the coffin, who were blinking in surprise and a trace of guilt at having dozed at their posts.

  No words were exchanged as the monks changed places, but Seisyll sensed that any attempt to remain longer would lead to questions best unasked and unanswered. After crossing himself again, he bowed to the new monks and headed out of the chapel, Michon silently following. With the first set of monks loitering in the nave to see where they would go, the pair had no choice but to leave, beckoning for Benjamin to join them. Outside, as they followed the servant’s torch back toward the castle, they spoke mind to mind as they revised their battle plan.

  Poor timing, Michon sent.

  Aye, I would have preferred a bit more leisure.

  There was time to sense a first impression, came Michon’s reply. He did not die easily.

  A rebellious heart can be a treacherous thing, Seisyll answered. Are you hinting that it was something more?

  I don’t know. I need a closer look.

  Seisyll’s violet gaze swept the shadows as they continued climbing the castle mount. Difficult, he sent after a moment. They plan to bury him in the cathedral crypt.

  At least we’ll not have to contend with pious monks, Michon retorted. And it will take a few days or even weeks to prepare the tomb.

  Risky, still.

  But needful, Michon replied. I did not like what I sensed.

  Chapter 3

  “Yet shall he be brought to the grave, and shall remain in the tomb.”

  —JOB 21:32

  GIVEN that the deceased had been one of the king’s most senior ministers, no one thought it unusual that he was accorded a funeral all but semi-state in its dignity. Indeed, as a single muffled bell tolled its summons in the cathedral tower the next morning, a sizeable segment of the court came to pay their respects to the king’s good servant, Sir Sief MacAthan, cruelly betrayed by a treacherous heart while still rejoicing in the birth of his long-awaited son.

  His widow led the mourners on behalf of that son, along with three of the dead man’s daughters who knelt like stair-steps beside the coffin now closed and covered with a heavy funeral pall: the two little ones, Jesiana and Seffira, and an older girl christened Jessilde but now called Sister Iris Jessilde, whose rainbow-edged white veil and sky-blue robes proclaimed her a novice nun of the royal Convent of Notre Dame d’Arc-en-Ciel, just outside Rhemuth.

  The fourth and eldest of Sief’s surviving daughters was not present: Sieffany, who lived many days’ ride to the west with her husband and young family. Contentedly wed to a son of Michon de Courcy, Sieffany might have heard the news by now—Jessamy had caught a glimpse of Michon himself, as she entered the cathedral. But even if Sieffany knew, her attendance at the funeral would have been far too dangerous even to consider; for only through Deryni auspices could she have learned of the event so quickly, and only by the use of a Portal could she have reached Rhemuth in time. In the prevailing climate regarding Deryni, it was best that humans were not reminded that such things even existed.

  That had not deterred some of those now assembling. From where Jessamy sat behind her daughters, black-gowned and heavily veiled, she was able to single out several whom she recognized as being friends of her father’s, all those years ago, some undoubtedly come by way of Portal—little though the rest of the mourners would realize that. She knew of several Portals in and around Rhemuth. One lay within the precincts of this very cathedral.

  Strangely enough, she found that the presence of these men no longer frightened her the way it once would have done. She wondered whether she still frightened them. For her own part, she found that with Sief’s death had come a lightening of many of the constraints by which he had bound her—or by which she had felt herself bound—and her status as a grieving widow would give her added protection that had not existed while Sief still lived. Let them think what they liked—that she was the renegade daughter of a renegade Deryni—but she would take many secrets to her grave, just as her husband was taking his secrets to his.

  The muffled bell ceased its tolling, the last strike lingering on the silence. At the thud of a verger’s staff on the floor in the west, the congregation rose as the king’s council and then the king himself entered the cathedral, all of them in black, the black-clad queen and her ladies also in dutiful attendance. Following them came the cathedral choristers, who began the solemn chant of the introit: “Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luce
at eis. . . .” Then the processional cross and torch-bearers, a thurifer, and finally the celebrants for the Requiem Mass now beginning, the archbishop himself to preside.

  Jessamy waited until the king’s party had reached the transept crossing before tottering to her feet. Having risen from childbed to be present, she was content to let observers think she was weaker than she was, affecting to lean on the arm of the maid who had accompanied her. She had become a consummate actress during her long years at court.

  Now she played the role of grieving widow as befitted her dead husband’s rank and station, meekly kneeling with her daughters for their father’s Requiem, confident that her façade of grief would not be broached by any of the other Deryni present. Indeed, the grief of her daughters was genuine, in varying degrees, and would reinforce her own illusion.

  Jessilde’s was well contained, already being channeled into the serenity and acceptance come of convent discipline, though her pretty face within her rainbow-edged veil was pale and drawn. Seffira, the four-year-old, was hardly old enough to understand that it was her father who lay in the coffin before them, but Jesiana, the nine-year-old, wept inconsolably, for she had been the apple of her father’s eye.

  When Mass was ended, both Donal and his queen accompanied the procession down into the cathedral’s crypt as Sief’s coffin was carried to its final resting place, destined for honored interment in a vault very near the tombs of Donal’s own ancestors—for the king had made it known that he regarded Sir Sief MacAthan as a friend as well as a loyal servant of the Crown, worthy to lie near the Haldanes in death as he had served them in life. The place was also very near the final resting place of several of Sief’s children—fitting enough, Jessamy supposed, but it also meant that she would have to pass his tomb every time she came to visit the little ones.