“You seem to have my future all planned out,” he said bitterly.
“It is a future, for you and for Gwynedd,” she ventured.
“For Gwynedd, at least.”
“For Gwynedd and for Araxie and for you, if you will have it so,” she amended. “And for children of your union. Without them, I cannot speak for the future of Gwynedd.”
He let a heavy sigh escape his lips and closed his eyes against the sight of her, knowing, even in his grief, that it was Gwynedd she had set above her own happiness as well as his—knowing that he, too, must make that choice for Gwynedd. As the silence between them deepened, she dared to touch a hesitant hand to his sleeve, recoiling when he drew back as if stung, looking up, all his thwarted longing writ across his face for her to see.
“Please, my lord, do not make this more difficult than it must be,” she pleaded, her voice barely a whisper. “Will you consider it?”
His heart shrank from it, every fiber of his being begged him to gainsay her; but a cool thread of logic and duty tugged at his will, bending him to hers.
“If—that is what you wish,” he said dully, after a moment.
“I do wish it,” she said very softly, blinking back tears as she drew herself up bravely, head high. “I am—told that you will be calling in at the Ile d’Orsal, en route to Beldour with Liam of Torenth,” she went on. “She is there at the Orsal’s court now, helping her sister prepare for the Mearan marriage. Azim is there as well, for he is to represent my father at the investiture in Torenth. You have to but request it of him, and Azim will arrange a private meeting with your cousin.”
“Is it your intention that I should propose marriage at that time?” Kelson said, turning his face away from her.
“The opportunity is timely,” she replied, “and you cannot afford any long delay. The ministers of Liam-Lajos will not delay to see him wed, as soon as he is back among his own people. The getting of heirs will be a high priority for him, and so it also must become a high priority for you.”
“Rothana, please don’t make me do this—”
But she only shook her head, closing her eyes to his entreaties. “You must wed, my love, and I cannot marry you,” she whispered. “At least marry the woman I have chosen for you. She will make you and Gwynedd a wise and worthy queen.”
CHAPTER TWO
Look at the generations of old, and see.
Ecclesiasticus 2:10
The wedding guests affected not to take particular notice when Rothana and then the king rejoined them, for all were aware of the convoluted history that lay between the pair. Rothana appeared reasonably composed—if one ignored the new hint of sorrow in her dark eyes—and Kelson managed to convey a credible impression of equanimity; but both seemed palpably relieved when, after only a few minutes, Meraude rose and, with a nod and a smile, indicated to Rothana that it was time to convey the bride to her marriage bed.
The women departed. In the next quarter-hour before the men followed, Kelson continued to play the consummate host, joining in the gentle teasing of the occasionally blushing bridegroom, calling for a last flagon of wine, dutifully lifting his cup to drink with the rest as Rory offered a traditional toast to the groom’s joy of his bride.
Later, Dhugal would say that it was the wine that caused a momentary crack in the king’s façade—and it was only he who caught it, and only for an instant. As they rose to conduct Jatham to the bridal chamber, several of the other men taking up torches to light their way, the king misstepped while entering the stairwell, apparently intent on Jatham, who was disappearing upward.
Dhugal saved him from a spill; but raw emotion came blasting through the link that was always present between them on at least some level, and especially with physical contact. And Kelson’s whispered plaint, heard by no one else, wrenched at Dhugal’s heart as the king shook off his touch and murmured, on a sob, “Happy Jatham! Can he comprehend his great good fortune, to have wed where he loves?”
He only shook his head at Dhugal’s look of sympathetic question—shields slamming down, jaw tight-set, quickly putting back a mask of geniality fitting for a wedding celebration as he fell in with the others at the tail of the procession, Jatham gone subdued in their midst. Dhugal followed but said nothing, for as their torchlight ascended the turnpike stair, Rory and then Nigel began softly to sing a traditional Transhan wedding air. When Payne and even Liam joined in, Nivard started to weave in harmonies, which were soon picked up by Duncan and Dhugal; but Kelson did not sing. By the time their party emerged before the bridal chamber, whose lintel bore a swag of roses and true-lover’s knots, the men had turned the song’s refrain into a haunting three-part canon that they repeated twice more before falling silent.
From inside, women’s voices took up an even older canting song between the bride and her beloved, answered by the men—Meraude and the ladies who, earlier, had played and sung at supper; but as they emerged to fetch the groom, Rothana was not among them. Kelson craned his neck to peer after them as, still singing, they led Jatham behind a screen beside the curtained bed; but Rothana seemed nowhere in evidence.
When the groom, now adorned in a fine robe of scarlet silk, had been conducted to his bride, Duncan came into the room to bless the couple in their marriage bed, then withdrew with the ladies for the final song, sung outside the door, which was also a bridal blessing. Kelson fled before this last song ended, and Dhugal hurried after, only catching up with him two flights down.
“Kelson, wait,” he called softly. “Kelson!”
The king faltered and then stopped, head bowed, but he did not turn. By the time Dhugal reached him, his face was a taut mask, his eyes blank, unreadable. He winced as Dhugal grabbed him by the bicep and turned him toward the nearest torch.
“What’s wrong with you? You look like death!” Dhugal said. “Did you and Rothana quarrel?”
Kelson closed his eyes and shook his head, lips pressed tightly together, but he would not open his shields to Dhugal’s anxious query.
“I’d rather not talk about it yet,” he said quietly. “I have something I need to do. You’re free to come along if you wish.”
“You’d have a hard time stopping me,” Dhugal muttered, though he doubted the king had heard him, for he was already heading down the next flight of stairs.
The pace Kelson set was brisk, and he said not another word as he led the way, not back to his own quarters but down to the library on a lower floor. After trying the latch, he shook his head and muttered something vexedly under his breath, then crouched to set both hands over the lock. Dhugal guessed what he was doing, though not why, so was not surprised when light flared briefly from under Kelson’s hands and the door moved slightly inward.
“Wouldn’t it have been easier to use the key?” Dhugal asked, attempting to lighten the mood as Kelson pushed open the door and entered.
“No, because Father Nivard keeps the key nowadays, and then I would have had to explain to him.” Handfire flared crimson-gold in the king’s hand as he headed purposefully toward the dark bulk of a reading desk that backed up between a pair of dark-draped window embrasures. “Close the door, would you?”
Dhugal said nothing, only pulling the door closed and shooting the inner bolt as Kelson began sorting through several piles of books stacked on the desk. The light of the handfire cast blurred shadows amid the crowded shelves that lined most of the walls, doing little to dispel the mood Dhugal sensed was brewing.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I brought you here,” Kelson said, bending to read the gold-stamped title on one large, leather-bound volume. “I need to check some family history.”
“Family history?”
“Hmmm.” The muffled sound conveyed neither agreement nor denial as Kelson opened the book and scanned down an index. “You asked if Rothana and I had quarrelled,” he said distractedly. “Far from it. It seems she’s arranged a match for me. With a cousin. My cousin. I thought I ought to check the exact relationship.”
“Unfortunately, she was.”
This dispassionate statement was accompanied by a harsh clatter of metal curtain rings as Kelson reached up to yank aside a dark curtain screening what Dhugal immediately presumed to be a garderobe niche—except that he did not remember this room having a garderobe. It appeared to be a very ordinary garderobe, with access opened into the thickness of the common wall between this room and the next, and the latrine shaft itself let into the outer wall of the building; but Dhugal had never heard of one being added to an existing building so seamlessly.
He was staring at it stupidly, trying to decide how it might have been done without bringing down this entire wall of the building, when he realized that the cut-stone directly before them, the back wall of the newly created access to the garderobe, seemed to ripple on its surface with a darkling glimmer of vaguely dancing motes that were not quite light, on which his eyes somehow could not quite seem to focus.
“What is this?” he whispered, abandoning, for the moment, all further thought of Rothana. “I don’t remember a garderobe in this room.”
“There wasn’t one, until fairly recently,” Kelson said neutrally, looping back the folds of curtain behind a black iron finial. “And it isn’t just a garderobe—though that’s all that most people see.”
“It doesn’t seem to be a Portal,” Dhugal ventured, leaning past Kelson to look around, then reaching out to touch the strange wall, which simply felt like rough-cut stone.
“If you’ll step on in, I’ll take you through,” Kelson said a trifle impatiently. “Unless, of course, you aren’t coming.”
“You’ll not be rid of me that easily,” Dhugal murmured, moving into the niche with the king, expecting to be taken through a Portal despite his inability to detect one.
He flinched and closed his eyes as Kelson’s hand clasped the back of his neck and drew him slightly closer, aware of the wall very close to their noses. He braced himself for a stormy onslaught as he started rolling back his shields, for the king’s preoccupation and inner turmoil were apparent.
To his surprise, the other’s touch of mind to mind was deft and gentle, all but impersonal, though it bespoke tight-shackled emotion just beyond reach. Settling into the familiar link, Dhugal sensed a reaching, a stretching—and then a Word of power bloomed like a starburst behind his eyes, leaving only tranquillity as the starburst ebbed and he was left to surface at his own speed.
“Step forward now,” he heard Kelson say, as if from far away, as pressure at his neck also urged him forward.
He stepped, sensing the faintest of resistance, as if moving against an upright screen of loosely stretched silk. Then the resistance gave way in a briefly felt surge of cold as they penetrated the Veil.
“We’re through,” Kelson said, releasing him and pushing aside another physical curtain on the other side. “I’ve been meaning to show you this, anyway.”
Though he faltered in midstep, Dhugal stabilized immediately, opening his eyes to the sound of Kelson’s fingers snapping and another flare of crimson-gold handfire blossoming above the king’s opening hand. That light revealed a room perhaps a third the size of the one they had just left, with another reading desk set hard against the opposite wall, at right angles to a smaller window embrasure. More bookshelves lined the wall to the right. Well attuned now to the probability that the room shared in the magic by which they had entered, Dhugal caught the faint but decisive ripple of psychic energy that declared the presence of a live Transfer Portal somewhere in the chamber.
“I see you’ve felt it,” Kelson said, as Dhugal moved cautiously forward, feeling out the reverberations. “That’s why the door was punched through, and why I’ve taken such extraordinary measures to guard it. Nigel and I discovered it several winters ago, while you were off in Transha. We were looking for a way to expand the library. This room had been disused and locked up for years—and when we finally got it opened, we found out why. The Portal is centered there on the square flagstone. It’s probably how Charissa got into the castle the night before my coronation.”
Dhugal crouched down and laid both hands flat on the stone, a thrill shivering up his spine as he locked the Portal’s unique coordinates into memory.
“No wonder she seemed able to come and go at will,” he murmured, glancing up at Kelson. “This is an old one—and it’s still in use, isn’t it?”
“Not by me,” Kelson said sourly. “I only know a few Portal locations—the other two here in Rhemuth and the one in Valoret—and Arilan’s one in Dhassa, but he’s forbidden to show me any others.” He shook his head. “The Camberian Council had the audacity to demand access to the library—which I gave, at least to this new section, which houses all the references I’ve gathered on the Deryni. But in return, I got Arilan to help me set up that”—he gestured toward the Veiled doorway—“to keep them from wandering around the rest of the castle at will.” He looked vaguely pleased with himself.
“The only ones who can pass in either direction are those of my blood and those I’ve authorized, like Morgan, and Father Nivard, and Arilan himself, and now you. It’s also occurred to me that this Portal might be useful as a bolthole, if we have to get out of Beldour quickly—provided, of course, that we could access a Portal there.”
Dhugal nodded as he rose, absently dusting his hands against his thighs, well aware of the ongoing tension between Kelson and the Deryni bishop, and between both of them and the Camberian Council, if for different reasons. Common to all of them, however, was concern for the potential dangers awaiting Kelson in Torenth—and this newly rediscovered Portal might well provide an avenue of escape, if things went sour. But as Dhugal’s gaze lit on the great book still clasped under Kelson’s arm, he remembered why they had come here, and realized that, at least tonight, Torenth and its dangers were far from Kelson’s most urgent concern.
“This match Rothana’s proposing—you just found out about it tonight, didn’t you?” he said, cutting right to the heart of the matter. “I can’t say her timing was the best, following right on the heels of Jatham and Janniver’s wedding.”
Kelson shrugged and moved to the edge of the window embrasure, there to sink listlessly to a seat on the edge of the single step up.
“I did provide the perfect opening, by insisting on a private meeting. And from her perspective, the timing couldn’t be better. She was here, I was here, and I’ll be seeing the lady in question on our way to Torenth.” He opened the book flat on his lap. “So, let’s see what the old stud book says about her.”
Dhugal grimaced at the term, for he was beginning to experience subtle pressure from his own vassals to marry and begin producing heirs. But as he sat down beside the king, beckoning the handfire closer, he knew his own pressure could be nothing beside what Kelson was feeling—and Rothana’s proposition must have devastated him. It suddenly occurred to him that he didn’t even know which of Kelson’s cousins Rothana had put forward.
“In a way, Rothana’s right, you know—about my marrying a cousin,” the king said. His light tone was at odds with the taut muscles around his mouth as he began paging through the book. “If I can’t have the woman I really want, a bride of my own blood makes perfect sense. She’s been raised as a royal princess, so she’ll understand what’s expected. And she’s a Haldane—which means she might even have potentials similar to my own. Apparently Azim has been working with her, and he and Rothana both have spoken with her, and she’s willing to take me on.”
“Kelson, you’re talking like it’s all been decided already,” Dhugal said, when Kelson finally paused for breath. “And it would be useful to know which cousin you’re talking about.”
“Didn’t I tell you? It’s Araxie Haldane.”
“Araxie? You mean, Richelle’s sister?”
“Yes.”
“But—”
“I know: Everyone thinks she’s going to marry Cuan of Howicce. Apparently, she isn’t.” Kelson turned another page and bent closer. “Ah, here we are: little cousin Araxie, second daughter of Duke Richard Haldane. We called him Uncle Richard, but he was actually my. . . grandfather’s half-brother.” He gave a taut nod. “Well, at least that’s far enough removed that a dispensation won’t be difficult.”
Dhugal leaned down to follow Kelson’s finger sideways along a bristling genealogical chart.
“It’s a good line on her mother’s side, too,” the king went on, scanning up and down. “Hortic blood. After Uncle Richard died, his widow married a Tralian baron, but she was born the Princess Sivorn von Horthy, sister of the present Hort of Orsal. That makes Araxie doubly royal.”
“But not Deryni,” Dhugal said.
“Well, no, but there’s Deryni blood in the Orsal’s line—unknown just how much, because they pretty much take such things for granted—shields and such—but it’s there. And being a Haldane should count for something.”
“I—suppose so,” Dhugal conceded, as Kelson carefully closed the book. “Ah—what’s she like?”
Kelson sighed. “I have no idea.”
“But—surely you saw her when her family came to Rhemuth for Richelle’s betrothal.”
“I did have a few other things on my mind!” Kelson retorted, slamming the book down on the ledge beside him and springing to his feet. “Not only was the prospective groom’s mother trying to match me with her daughter, but the negotiations proved far more delicate than anyone expected, for Richelle and Brecon.” He shook his head in a snort of near amusement. “I suppose it’s some consolation that the two of them at least seem to like one another!
“As for Araxie—do you know that I can’t even remember what she looks like, for certain? I’ve been trying for the last hour, but I just keep jumbling blurred impressions of a younger, blonder Aunt Sivorn, with childhood memories of a funny little girl tagging after her older sister, with big eyes and straggly blond hair done in plaits!”
King Kelson's Bride Page 4
