Choking back a sob of denial, Liam ducked his head again, eyes squeezed shut as he drew a slow, steadying breath, even his surface-most thoughts suddenly hard-shielded. During his four years in Rhemuth, with cautious training from a handful of Deryni Kelson knew he could trust—for the boy must be able to protect himself when eventually he returned home—Liam had gradually allowed an occasional guarded rapport to develop between himself and Kelson, especially as he entered adolescence and his access to his powers deepened. Right now, though, his shields were impenetrable.
But Kelson could guess what was racing through Liam’s mind. Soon after Alroy’s death, the rumor had begun to circulate—along with another, current only among the more paranoid in Torenth, who held Kelson responsible—that Mahael had arranged the fatal riding accident that cost Alroy his life. Whether or not it was true, Kelson knew that Liam feared it was—though nothing could be proven. Despite the shields, Kelson could sense that the reminder about his brothers was helping Liam still his flare of rebellion, bringing him back to focus as he slowly exhaled.
“Mahael shall never be king!” he said flatly, steely determination in his gaze as he looked up at Kelson.
“Indeed, he shall not,” Kelson agreed. “But to prevent that, you must go back.”
“I know that!”
Liam’s fingers were clasped white-knuckled around the jewelled circlet, but his declaration seemed to deflate what remained of his defiance. Exhaling with another heavy sigh, he glanced down at the diadem and made his hands relax their death-grip, lifting it slightly as he shook his head.
“I don’t want this,” he said softly. “I never wanted it. But I’ve got it. And I know I’ll have to wear it, and wear the responsibilities that go with it, when—when I go home. I only wish . . .”
“What is it you wish?” Kelson prompted gently, when Liam did not finish the thought.
Sighing, the boy gave a resigned shrug.
“It little matters,” he murmured. “I have duties to my people, to my House—and to deny those would be to deny who I am, who I was meant to be—or, who I became, once various relatives got themselves killed and pushed me that much closer to the throne of Furstán.” He turned the circlet in his hands, plucking a bit of lint from the setting of one of the emeralds, allowing himself a faint, mirthless smile as he dared another glance at Kelson.
“I am—not yet back in Torenth, Sire. Tell me, do you think I might indulge one final whim of childhood, before I take up the crown that must be mine?”
Kelson smiled faintly, glancing at the gold in Liam’s hands.
“That depends on the whim,” he said quietly. “As a king, you’re entitled to a few. What did you have in mind?”
“Well, I—wondered whether you might pretend, for just a while longer, that I’m still only a squire to the House of Haldane, and not yet the King of Torenth.”
Kelson slowly nodded, for suddenly he realized that it was childhood itself to which Liam was saying goodbye—and goodbye to all his childhood friends and dreams, and all the life and security he had known here for the past four years. He glanced again at Nigel, who nodded minutely, then back at Liam.
“I suspect that’s one whim we can indulge without any difficulty,” he murmured. “Nigel, can you think of any reason he needs to be King of Torenth before we actually enter Torenthi waters?”
Nigel waggled a hand, yes-and-no. “It would probably be advisable for the King of Torenth to arrive at the court of the Hort of Orsal, since his official escort will be awaiting him there. But as I understand it, you’ll be calling first at Coroth. I don’t see any reason the King of Torenth needs to make an appearance there. In fact, I always find that my squires and pages benefit greatly from exposure to foreign courts—and I believe that Liam has not yet been to Duke Alaric’s capital, have you, son?”
Liam shook his head, speechless at the unexpected reprieve.
“Well, then,” Nigel went on, smiling as he laid an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “It seems to me that this squire ought to have a chance to serve at the court of the Duke of Corwyn, if only briefly. And I don’t believe that a coronet is part of a squire’s livery,” he added, with a glance at the circlet in Liam’s hands.
“No, sir,” the boy whispered, with a ragged grin.
“Fine. If you like, I’ll see that it’s packed with the rest of the state regalia, until you need it. Anything else?” he asked, with a glance at Kelson.
“Not unless Liam would like to tell us what it is he really wishes,” Kelson said. “I think it does matter, even though he says it doesn’t.”
Liam ducked his head, but encouraged by Nigel’s sheltering embrace, he dared to answer, though he could not bring himself to look up.
“I—I only wished that there were some way I could remain here until I reach the age for knighthood. I know that isn’t possible, but it—would have been a great honor to receive the accolade from Duke Nigel. I mean no disrespect to you, Sire,” he added hastily, with a quick glance at Kelson, “but I was present when Duke Nigel knighted you. That memory will be with me until the day I die.”
“It is a day that I, too, shall never forget,” Kelson said quietly, with a fond glance at Nigel, remembering that mystical moment when he had knelt transfixed before the descent of Nigel’s blade on his shoulder. “Unfortunately, you’re correct, in that you can’t stay another four years; and I don’t think that either Nigel or I could condone knighting you at fourteen. But you could come back when you’re eighteen. I would be honored to be your sponsor, and I believe it would please my uncle greatly to bestow the accolade.”
“If it would please Liam, and ease his mind concerning the future,” Nigel said with a faint smile, “I would be willing to bestow a private and informal accolade tonight, before he leaves, as a promise that when he is of sufficient age and achievement, he may return for a proper ceremony. He is a king, after all; and the circumstances are unique.”
Liam had turned to stare at him as he spoke, and blinked back new tears as he slowly shook his head in wonder.
“You would do that for me, sir?” he whispered.
“I would.”
Briefly the boy turned away, indecision mingling with the joy and gratitude spilling from behind his shields. But when he turned back, in control once more, a renewed self-confidence marked his carriage. His solemn response carried the conviction of one who had taken yet another step along that sometimes uncertain road between childhood and maturity.
“You both do me greater honor than I could have dared to dream, by these expressions of your faith in me,” he said carefully. “Trusting in that faith, I would not diminish it by taking up even the generous token you have offered, for I have not earned it. Being a king should make no difference in matters concerning the honor of a man.
“Therefore, I desire no promise save the pledge of your hand, Duke Nigel: that when I attain the customary age—if you still think me worthy—I may return to Rhemuth to receive from you the accolade of knighthood. I am—well aware that one of fourteen years is a man in law but not in fact; but you have given me the courtesy of treatment as a man and, I hope, as a friend. I shall treasure that always, whatever may come to pass when I return home.”
“It is not only years that make a man,” Nigel replied, clasping Liam’s right hand in his. “I give you my pledge as you have asked—and I know that my king supports this pledge,” he added, as Kelson laid his hand atop their joined ones. “If it were in my power, I would accompany you to Beldour, to be at your side as you take up your throne—but my place is here, to hold this throne for my king. Rest assured, however, that you are a knight in spirit, if not yet by accolade; and you shall be in my prayers as if you were my own son.”
“Amen,” Kelson murmured, grateful for the elegant resolution to this particular situation, but mindful that others had yet to be reassured regarding Liam’s status. “Much as I might wish to continue this discussion, however, I suggest that we ought not to keep Rasoul and C
ount Mátyás waiting any longer.” Releasing their clasped hands, he glanced back in the direction of the door.
“Liam, I assume that you would prefer to keep our pledge confidential. I think I know how to explain our absence. Would you like a moment more? A Haldane squire should always convey dignity and serenity. You’ll attend on me, when we go back in.”
Liam nodded agreement and gave his eyes a last swipe with Nigel’s handkerchief before handing it back to him, along with the coronet. Nigel received both with a little bow, smiling as he tucked the handkerchief back into his sleeve and looped the coronet over one arm.
In the space of those few seconds, as they composed themselves to go back in, Kelson concocted a plausible scenario to extend Liam’s respite from kingship, mentally imparting the gist of it to Nigel in a tightly focused burst as he briefly touched the other man’s shoulder while shepherding the two back into the withdrawing room. Nigel had gained much in Deryni ability, in conjunction with his stints of service as Kelson’s regent and especially as king-apparent, and had been allowed to retain all of it following his return of the reins of power to Gwynedd’s rightful king. His bemused approval set the seal on his nephew’s intent—and carefully unfolded, the story would withstand Truth-Reading by either of their guests, while still preserving Liam’s dignity.
“Gentlemen, forgive the delay, but it seems I was mistaken regarding the status of Liam-Lajos,” Kelson said by way of preamble, as Dhugal admitted them and Morgan and the two Torenthi envoys rose. “Duke Nigel tells me that he had not intended that this squire should be officially released from his duties until the official departure from the Ile d’Orsal next week.”
“May one ask why?” Rasoul said with a frown.
“Certainly,” Nigel replied, taking up the agreed explanation. “It has long been my practice to give our squires and pages as much exposure as possible to a variety of court functions—especially courts besides Rhemuth, since this can teach important lessons in diplomacy. It had come to my attention that before meeting the official Torenthi delegation at the Ile d’Orsal, the royal progress will be calling at Corwyn, which I believe Liam-Lajos has never visited. It seemed, therefore, an ideal opportunity for him to acquire that additional measure of experience, before he must take up the full burden of his royal duties. I trust you will agree that such experience is particularly useful for a future king.”
Rasoul and Mátyás exchanged bemused glances, and the latter inclined his head.
“My lord, I say this not in contradiction, but Liam-Lajos is not a future king; he has been king for nearly five years. Now he is of age, preparing to return to his own people, and should be accorded the courtesies due his rank and blood.”
“And I would answer, in return, that he is presently accorded all the courtesies due a Haldane squire, which is a rank to which many young men aspire, whatever their blood,” Nigel said carefully. “Time enough to be a king, when he has made the most of this important training.”
Rasoul folded his arms across his chest, visibly impatient. “Has he not been a servant long enough?” he muttered.
“Ah, but a squire is not a servant, my lord,” Kelson said easily. “He is a pupil—as I myself was, until the day I was knighted by Duke Nigel—and I was a crowned king.”
“We do not crown our kings,” Mátyás said pointedly.
“Not the way we do—no,” Kelson agreed, searching for a way to shift the tenor of the discussion as he glanced back at Liam, for it was becoming clear that both men were more focused on the boy’s rank than on his feelings. “You invest them, you gird them with the sword—I’ve had instruction from Father Irenaeus.
“The point is that once Liam-Lajos is acknowledged in his kingship, in whatever form is customary in Torenth, he will always be regarded as a king from that time forth. He can never be a boy again. Believe me, I speak from experience. Would it do any harm to let him be a boy for a few more days?”
As Rasoul and Mátyás exchanged dubious glances, Morgan cleared his throat, his expression suggesting faint amusement.
“Sire, may I speak?”
“Of course.”
“And may I ask that Liam-Lajos be excused?”
Wondering what Morgan was about—and he dared not use his powers to inquire, in the presence of two Deryni of the caliber of Rasoul and Mátyás—Kelson feigned only casual concern as he glanced again at Liam. The boy stiffened slightly as he drew himself to attention, but his face betrayed nothing, and nothing escaped from behind his shields.
“Squire, please inform the lord chamberlain that I have no further business for the court,” Kelson said, glad for the opportunity to release Liam from the tension that was building. “After that, you may proceed with your usual duties. And Dhugal—perhaps you would be so good as to inform Father Irenaeus and the captain of the Torenthi guard of honor that Lord Rasoul and Count Mátyás will join them shortly. Assure them that all is well.”
Liam immediately made good his escape, Dhugal with somewhat less alacrity, for he clearly would have preferred to hear out the discussion. When they had gone, Kelson pulled out a chair near Mátyás, with a gesture inviting the rest of them also to sit—and curious how Morgan intended to turn the discussion. Nigel appeared as mystified as their two guests.
“Sire,” Morgan said, as he sat beside Rasoul, “I was reluctant to speak in front of Liam-Lajos, for I wished not to cause him embarrassment. However, I find myself privy to information suggesting that he himself may have at least one personal reason for retaining his squire’s status a while longer. If he truly desired early release, I have no doubt that Duke Nigel would grant it.”
He managed to look somewhat tentative, and Nigel nodded impatiently.
“Understand that I speak now as a father,” Morgan went on, “—which I suspect both our esteemed guests may appreciate. Count Mátyás tells me that he is soon to become a father for the second time, and Lord Rasoul, I believe, has rather a large family—though I am unacquainted with specific numbers.”
Rasoul cast a bemused glance in Morgan’s direction and raised an indulgent eyebrow. “Allah has blessed me with four sons and three daughters, mostly grown,” he said blandly, “and I have six grandchildren as well. But do, pray, continue, my lord Alaric.”
“I bow before al-Rasoul’s superior experience of fatherhood,” Morgan acknowledged, with a smiling nod in the Moor’s direction. “But, returning to our soon to be ex-squire, your king: Understand that, officially, I know nothing of any of this, but my lady wife felt that I should be informed. It seems that my stepson Brendan, whom you both have met, has asked permission to host something of a farewell supper for Liam-Lajos and the other squires and pages, when the royal progress calls back at Coroth in a few days’ time.”
To Kelson’s surprise, Morgan’s declaration rang of nothing but truth, and could certainly explain some of Liam’s attitude. He found himself beginning to smile as Morgan continued.
“It is meant to be a secret, of course,” Morgan went on, “but apparently the word has spread among the boys, to the delight of those who are going along on the progress to Torenth and the envy of those who must remain behind. The guest of honor affects utter unawareness of the plans.”
“I—fail to see what the taking up of his proper estate has to do with this—social whim,” Mátyás said uncertainly.
“That’s because your boy is only three,” Morgan replied, sitting forward in his chair. “When he’s older, it will mean a great deal to him to be included in the activities of other boys his age. And as for Liam-Lajos taking up his proper estate—well, our squires’ training is such that I have no doubt Brendan can cope with entertaining fellow squires and pages; but entertaining a king might present an altogether more daunting proposition—for all of them. I—believe this may explain a great deal.”
A faint smile flickered within Rasoul’s close-trimmed beard, and even Mátyás seemed somewhat amused. Kelson, Truth-Reading Morgan as he was certain the others also must be d
oing, allowed himself to relax a little. Morgan’s explanation cast additional light on the story Kelson himself had wheedled out of Liam—trepidations of a normal fourteen-year-old. Almost, he wished he could attend the affair.
“Were we ever that young?” Nigel said with a chuckle.
“We were,” Morgan replied. “I believe your Payne may also be one of the ringleaders.” Nigel rolled his eyes. “I gather that all three boys have become quite close, through being thrown together in their various squiring capacities. I’m afraid you have only yourself to blame for that!”
Mátyás now was smiling faintly as well, and nodding his head.
“You are a perceptive man, my lord duke. It would seem that this imminent parting of Liam-Lajos from the company of his friends represents something of a personal tragedy in their young lives.”
“It certainly does for Brendan,” Morgan replied. “I may tell you now, Count Mátyás, that a friendship has grown between him and your king that is similar to the one we both wished for our own sons, earlier today. He desperately wishes to come along to Beldour, but I haven’t yet decided to allow it. I—hesitate to expose him to what might prove more dangerous than any of us would wish, who care for Liam-Lajos.”
The seamless shift from whimsy to the tension that was in the back of everyone’s mind caught both Torenthis by surprise. Mátyás averted his gaze, and Rasoul leaned back in his chair, tracing patterns on the tabletop with a brown forefinger.
“My lord Alaric,” Rasoul said carefully, “I must wonder what you are trying to tell us.”
“Only that I am concerned for your king’s safety,” Morgan said quietly, glancing at Kelson. “I believe my king shares that concern.”
“I do,” Kelson said guardedly.
The safety of Liam-Lajos had, indeed, been a subject of growing concern and much discussion, as the time approached for his return to Torenth—though the question of whether to voice that concern to his own people had been reserved until they could obtain a better sense for the true alignment of Torenth’s various political factions.
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