Of the two regents, Mahael was the far greater danger, though Morag, too, remained an enigma—working closely with Mahael but surely aware of the rumors concerning her first son’s death. The brother between Mahael and Mátyás was totally unknown in Gwynedd, but probably in league with Mahael—as Morag herself might be, especially if, as sometimes was whispered in the gossip that filtered across the border, Mahael was seeking her hand in marriage.
Mátyás himself was a doubly unknown commodity. But since Morgan had maneuvered the conversation so that, if Kelson desired, their fears for Liam’s safety could be broached, that very likely meant that his cautious assessment of Mátyás thus far was largely positive—if anything about the Torenthi political situation could be called that. Of Rasoul they need have no fears save that the interests of Torenth would always take precedence over those of Gwynedd—and for Rasoul, the interests of Torenth included the interests of Liam-Lajos, to whom he was fiercely devoted.
As, indeed, Mátyás appeared to be. At least Liam himself seemed to have no doubts regarding this favorite uncle, who had started him on his magical training—though he had truly been a boy when last they met, and much could have changed in four long years. Once again, Kelson wished he dared use his powers to consult with Morgan. But Morgan’s expression, as their eyes briefly met, seemed to suggest that he might proceed with caution.
“My lords, these are not the circumstances under which I had intended to bring this up,” Kelson said, “but given our discussion, this seems an appropriate time. I will be frank with you—and I invite you to read the truth of what I am about to tell you, for I hope and believe that all of us want what will be best for Liam-Lajos.”
He tried to keep his focus on both Rasoul and Mátyás equally, but he sensed that Mátyás was the key.
“First of all, be assured that my only aim regarding Torenth and her king, for these past four years, has been to ensure that the boy receive the best possible preparation for taking up his kingship. I never asked for his wardship, but it was forced upon me when Wencit set forth the terms under which our own conflict was fought—and Count Mátyás, I regret the circumstances under which your brother and I met. It was none of my choosing. If you wish, I am willing to discuss the matter in private, but I will be blunt and say that I hope this long-ago connection will not adversely influence our present dealings.”
Mátyás inclined his head neutrally, no flicker of passion stirring behind the pale eyes.
“Regarding Torenth itself, however,” Kelson went on, “it was never my intention that Torenth should remain a client state of Gwynedd forever, and it is not my intention now, as Liam comes into his full inheritance. It is a sign of my faith in him that I now prepare to set him on his own throne, among his own people—not yet fully independent, for he is young, but if he is eventually to stand on his own, as is my intention, I am well aware that I must gradually begin loosening the reins.
“The doing of this thing entails no small risk, on my part and on his; but in the fullness of time, when I and my advisors deem him ready, I hope to release him from the homage he presently owes Gwynedd, and to release Torenth to full independence once more. Toward that end, I trust I may count upon you and other men of good will in your land to support him.”
Rasoul’s eyes had never left Kelson’s as he listened; Mátyás kept his gaze averted. After a beat, Rasoul inclined his head gracefully.
“Tell me truly, my lord of Gwynedd, for I amTruth-Reading, as you did invite: Have I ever given cause for you to doubt my loyalty to my king?”
“None, my lord,” Kelson said steadily. “And not only loyalty, but genuine affection. I merely wished to clarify my own intentions regarding him, and to voice my concerns for his safety.”
“And also, perhaps, to sound out my esteemed colleague?” Rasoul ventured, with a sidelong glance at Mátyás.
“I have made my peace overture to Count Mátyás,” Kelson said carefully, as Mátyás stiffened slightly. “That is a private matter between us, I think, but I say again that I would wish to clear the air of any rancor that might lie between us because of my role in the death of his brother. In truth, however, I am far more concerned about the plans of his brothers who are living than the one who is dead.”
Mátyás looked up, sharp emotion in his gaze, though the flicker of passion quickly disappeared behind the bland façade of a practiced courtier.
“I have told the Duke of Corwyn that I hardly knew my dead brother,” he said softly. “But mind how you speak concerning the living ones.”
“I do not ask you to choose between them and me, Count Mátyás,” Kelson replied. “But I would hope that you will always choose the welfare of Liam-Lajos over furthering the ambitions of any of his subjects, including your brothers. You cannot be unaware of the rumors that were rife following the death of King Alroy.”
“That Mahael somehow was responsible?” Mátyás’s retort was far milder than Kelson might have expected. “I recall that there were also rumors that the King of Gwynedd contrived the accident that cost the boy his life. I am quite aware of the truth of the matter.”
“Are you?” Kelson said, though the words were not a question.
Mátyás did not answer, but he did not turn his gaze from Kelson’s. After a moment, Kelson looked deliberately back at Rasoul.
“I fear that this was not, perhaps, the best time to discuss this matter after all,” he said quietly. “I apologize if I have given offense. My concern was and is for your king. I shall continue to act in what I believe to be his best interests, to see him secure upon his throne. I hope that I may count on your support in that regard, and on the support of all his loyal subjects.”
Rasoul inclined his head. “My lord of Gwynedd is a man of honor,” he acknowledged. “Torenth thanks him for his support of her king.”
Feeling suddenly weary of it all, Kelson got to his feet, the others rising as well, for the discourse clearly had reached an impasse that would not be easily resolved.
“You will wish to refresh yourselves before we dine,” he said. “My uncle will see that you are shown to the quarters prepared for you. Meanwhile, I trust that you will not object if Liam-Lajos continues to function in his capacity as squire, until after the visit to Coroth?”
Rasoul looked pointedly at Mátyás, who appeared still somewhat out of sorts, but the count favored Kelson with a stiff nod of agreement.
“If he wishes it, my lord, I have no objection.”
“Thank you.”
Before the awkwardness of the moment could escalate again, Nigel swept one arm toward the door, inviting the two to accompany him. When they had gone, Kelson sank back into his chair, numbly staring for several seconds at nothing at all before glancing up at the man who had long been one of his own most important mentors, and remained one of his closest friends.
“I didn’t handle that very well, did I?” he said quietly, hunching his shoulders as he rubbed at a dull ache at the base of his neck.
Smiling faintly, Morgan came to stand behind him, drawing him back to lean against his waist while he began massaging the tight shoulder muscles.
“You handled it as well as could be expected,” he said, his thumbs working at the tension. “I’m still not sure of Mátyás’s game, but nothing that was said here contradicted what passed between the two of us on the way here—and Liam does seem to trust him. See for yourself.”
Kelson had already been prepared to ask for a sharing of the exchange, so he closed his eyes and let himself relax against Morgan, dropping his shields. The other’s mental touch was gentle and sure, the information quickly imparted. A surge of renewing energy came with it, unbidden but welcome, so that as Kelson opened his eyes, he felt as if he were awakening from a sleep of several hours. He grinned and stretched as Morgan came around to drag a chair facing him, plunking down expectantly.
“You’re very good at that,” Kelson murmured. “I feel like maybe I can face Mátyás again, when we go down for supper. B
ut you’re right: He’s still a giant question, even though my basic instinct is positive.”
“He is still Mahael’s brother,” Morgan cautioned. “Nothing can change that.”
“Nor could I forget it.” Kelson rubbed at his neck again, more out of preoccupation than any lingering discomfort, and allowed himself a sigh.
“At least we seem to have gotten Liam something of a reprieve. Is that true, about Brendan’s plans for a farewell supper?”
“Of course it’s true,” Morgan said with a smile. “I’d hardly dare to make up something like that, in front of two Deryni of the obvious caliber of Rasoul and Mátyás—though the plot isn’t quite as advanced as I implied. But it will be. The part about the friendship among the boys is quite true, however, and Brendan does want to come to Torenth.”
“Will you allow it?” Kelson asked.
“As I told Mátyás, I haven’t decided. But I’ll allow him to come as far as the Ile d’Orsal. That’s safe enough. By then, I hope we’ll have a better feel for what to expect in Beldour. Arilan should have further intelligence, when we reach Coroth, and I expect that Richenda may also have some additional information from her contacts.”
“The Ile d’Orsal,” Kelson murmured, grimacing.
Mention of the place had sharply reminded him of his more personal mission at the Orsal’s court, bidden by Rothana, successfully suppressed in the tension of the afternoon, and not at all safe for him. Once again, the unbidden images of long-ago summers came surging into mind—of Araxie, who resided at the Orsal’s court. And Kelson had promised to meet her, and to consider asking her to become his queen.
“What about the Ile d’Orsal?” Morgan asked.
Shrugging, Kelson shook his head, trying to look unconcerned.
“Oh, it’s just that the place will be awash in preparations for my cousin’s wedding next month,” he said lightly, skirting as close to the truth as he dared. “Richelle and her sister are also the Orsal’s nieces, you know. Once I show up, that atmosphere will only fuel speculation about my own eventual plans.”
“I hardly need remind you that those plans are a topic of intense interest in a great many quarters,” Morgan replied with a droll smile. “I will be bolder, still, and remind you that one of the candidates most highly favored for your hand will be attending the nuptials of Richelle and the estimable Brecon Ramsay—namely, his sister. Many are hoping to hear announcement of another royal betrothal, at the wedding feast.”
Kelson managed a grim smile, for the matter of Brecon’s sister, at least, was resolving happily for all concerned.
“Well, they may, indeed, hear of a royal betrothal in connection with Noelie Ramsay,” he replied, enjoying Morgan’s startled look, “but it will be with a different Haldane than they have in mind. It seems that Rory fancies her, and the feelings are reciprocated.”
“Rory and Noelie?” Morgan arched a blond eyebrow, clearly surprised, but apparently taken with the prospect. “Indeed. May I ask who told you that?”
“It was Rothana,” Kelson conceded. “She rightly pointed out that the political implications are little different than if I married Noelie—better, in fact, since Rory can live in Meara. I’ve been thinking about it, since I found out. After he has a few years’ experience, I thought I might make him my viceroy.”
“I see,” Morgan said. “In the short term, I would agree that this sounds like a promising notion, but—have you discussed this yet with Nigel?”
“Only briefly.”
“Indeed. Need I point out that he very likely will not take kindly to the notion of having his heir live so far away? And what’s to happen to Meara, when Nigel eventually dies and Rory must come home to rule Carthmoor?”
“I avoided getting into any of that, when we spoke briefly about it this morning,” Kelson said uneasily. “It’s occurred to me since, that I might revive one of the old Mearan titles for Rory—say, Duke of Ratharkin. That would be a fitting rank for my viceroy, and the Mearans would like it—that the title eventually would be vested in a son of Rory and Noelie.”
“I think I see where this is headed,” Morgan interjected. “If you’re intending that Nigel should restore Albin to his place in the Carthmoor succession—”
“And why not?” Kelson retorted. “It should have been his, after all. He shouldn’t be penalized for what his father did.”
“I agree—and I know how you feel about the boy—but I don’t think that Nigel will be easily won on this point. I suppose you could always create a new title for Albin, when he’s older. That’s assuming that he doesn’t end up in the Church, as his mother plans.”
“That’s another battle to be won in the future,” Kelson murmured. “Rothana and I had words about that, too.”
“I can imagine.” Morgan sighed. “Well, one battle at a time. The council won’t be pleased, since they wanted you to marry Noelie, but I’m happy for Rory, especially if it’s a match of true affection. I had no idea.”
“Nor did I. But someone might as well be happy.” Kelson heaved a heavy sigh, suddenly weary of the entire subject. “Dear God, all that talk of sons, earlier, was so depressing. Once Dhugal and Liam left, I was the only man in the room who doesn’t have any.”
Morgan leaned back in his chair, eyeing the king with sympathy.
“You have it within your means to change that, whenever you choose to do so,” he said. “You know I try not to bring it up—you get enough of that from everyone else—but it is time you took a queen.”
“I know,” Kelson said. “But the right queen won’t have me. Alaric, what am I going to do?”
“I cannot answer that for you, my prince,” Morgan said, with genuine regret. “Only you can make that decision.”
Kelson nodded bleakly, but he was not yet prepared to share with Morgan what the “right queen” had proposed to him.
“I know you’re right,” he said softly. “I just—”
He sighed and got wearily to his feet, retrieving his coronet and the Haldane sword that Dhugal had left lying on the table.
“I’ll be in my quarters, if anyone should need me.”
“Is there anything I can do?” Morgan asked.
Kelson shook his head. “I wish there were. I’m afraid this is something only I can resolve.”
CHAPTER SIX
And he that honoureth his mother is as one that layeth up treasure.
Ecclesiasticus 3:4
Kelson tried to sleep in the several hours before he must contend again with his Torenthi guests—not a state affair, but formal enough, for most of the court residents in Rhemuth would be present for this last such appearance of the king before his departure on the morrow. He lay with his eyes closed, but he only drifted, periodically jerked back from the brink of true slumber by snatches of dreams, fragmented glimpses of possible calamities whose details remained always just beyond ken, though most of the players were all too familiar.
Not surprisingly, young Liam was usually one of them. The boy’s momentary reticence before his own envoys, while awkward at the time, was certainly understandable at fourteen, as was a certain amount of anxiety. Nonetheless, that incident plus the ensuing somewhat testy exchange with Rasoul and the still unfathomable Mátyás had left Kelson uncertain as to whether Liam was really ready to face the challenges that lay before him when he returned to his own land. The boy’s revealed maturity regarding knighthood was somewhat more reassuring.
In theory, at least, both Liam’s potential and his preparation were far better than Kelson’s had been at the same age, for all Liam’s training and experience of the past four years had been geared toward a definite time when he must function as king; but the challenges facing the boy were also greater. Daunting enough was the very process of taking up his kingship, especially in its more esoteric aspects, in a ceremony of installation and magical confirmation in which Kelson himself would have a small part—and from which he hoped to prevent anything from going dreadfully awry. Father Irenaeus had bri
efed him in the generalities of what to expect, but practicum rehearsals would follow once they actually reached Beldour.
The structure of the rite was of great antiquity, formal and stylized, its outward symbolism couched in a mythology now only dimly remembered, expressed in ritual drama and a sequence of magical trials whose successful completion would augment and complete the empowering begun in a similar but far simpler ritual enacted shortly after Liam’s ascension to the throne. The boy’s youth had precluded his undergoing the entire ceremony at that time; so though he had been girded with the sword on the New Year’s Day following, as was customary, receiving most of the outward forms of a traditional enthronement, the full substance of his assumption of power had been reserved for this second ceremony, at his coming of age.
Under ordinary circumstances, this final enabling should be accomplished with little possibility of mishap. Given adequate preparation and support from the ancillary participants in the ceremony, the procedure should present only a vigorous but largely token testing to be endured by a king well capable of withstanding the stress. The ritual ordeals guarding Gwynedd’s kingship in a mystical sense were far younger and far simpler, and sprung from different needs and perspectives; but it was Kelson’s understanding that all such tests were, at their heart, also part of the means whereby previous capacities were at the same time stretched and strengthened to accommodate more concentrated reservoirs of power. Though that first inrush was likely to cause a certain degree of discomfort, variable according to the inherent strength and preparation of the individual, the chances of any lasting injury were only slight.
Any real danger lay in the principal’s vulnerability in that instant just before the power began to flow, when all defenses must be laid aside in order to allow the influx. Should a supporter in the ritual falter in his duties—or worse, take advantage of the principal’s helplessness during that critical stage—the consequences could, indeed, be deadly. This made it a matter of no little concern that Liam’s uncle Mahael was almost certain to be one of his chief supporters, with his own priorities and agendas.
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