“Wencit wasn’t that powerful,” Morgan muttered.
Derry shook his head in emphatic denial. “You don’t know that! You weren’t there. You don’t know what it was like, when he—forced his thoughts into mine, into the deepest recesses of who I am, and—made me believe, made me feel, made me betray . . . It was slimy, filthy, a—a violation even worse than—than the most revolting physical rape you can possibly imagine . . .”
As his voice choked off on a sob and he buried his face in one hand, Morgan quietly rose and came around behind his chair, gently but firmly clasping the taut shoulders and drawing Derry back against him, damping his distress and starting to invoke the triggers that would ease him into trance. Under any other circumstances, Kelson would have offered assistance, but he could sense Derry’s shrinking resistance to even Morgan’s touch, and knew he dared do nothing that might disrupt the fragile rapport the Deryni lord was teasing out. He knew that Morgan would never force the issue if it meant actually hurting Derry—not without cause beyond mere curiosity—but he was acutely aware of the halting nature of Morgan’s progress.
Eventually Derry ceased resisting, as Kelson had prayed he would; and there followed a long stillness in which Kelson knew the other was probing deep into Derry’s memories, looking again for any lingering taint of compulsions Wencit might have left. But the duke’s soft sigh as he emerged from his own trance, leaving Derry quietly immersed in healing sleep, confirmed Kelson’s hope that the other had found no serious cause for concern.
“If there’s something still there,” Morgan murmured, coming around to sit again, “it’s beyond my detection. Someone better skilled, more formally trained, might be able to go deeper and find something—Arilan, maybe. But that assumes there’d be something to find, which I don’t think there is—something potentially dangerous enough to warrant compelling such an intimate intrusion. His rape imagery isn’t far off, even for what I just did. If anyone else were to try it . . .”
Kelson grimaced and shook his head, reminded anew how easy it was for those of their kind to become casual about the power they could wield so easily, against others unable to resist—how easy to justify, especially in times of stress. Hearing Morgan liken it to physical rape, he found himself flashing on unbidden images from his own meager insights in that regard—secondhand, and filtered through Rothana, but far more potent than he ever would have dreamed; for she had compelled him to absorb the full spectrum of fear and helplessness and violation that she gleaned from probing Janniver’s memories, while seeking out the identity of her assailant.
The terror and despair of Derry’s ravaging must have been infinitely worse: a violation of his innermost soul, utterly helpless before the will of Wencit of Torenth. But beyond rooting out the compulsions he had set, and blunting the memories of that ordeal, Morgan dared do little more. For good or for ill, Derry’s experience had contributed to who he was, at all levels. To strip away all traces of that experience would leave him less than whole, more damaged than before.
“I certainly wouldn’t force the issue,” Kelson said quietly. “And most assuredly, not by Arilan. Besides, Arilan didn’t seem any too sure himself about Furstáns. Did you see his expression when we rode into the yard this afternoon? I don’t know whether it was Mátyás or Father Irenaeus to whom he took exception.”
“I think we’re all being spooked by the thought of what any Torenthi Deryni might do,” Morgan muttered. “But if you’re going to let Liam return to his kingdom—and I think you must do that—then we have to trust and hope that his champions will emerge to help him take up his throne and keep it. Reason might suggest that you keep him safe with you in Rhemuth for another few years; but as he himself pointed out, and by the reckoning of our kingdom as well as his own, the law says that he’s a man at fourteen, and at least theoretically capable of functioning as king.”
Kelson exhaled with a gusty sigh. “You don’t need to convince me,” he replied. “Here sits a man who had to do exactly that. And when I’m not letting my imagination run rampant, I confess that, within the bounds of caution, I’m inclined to trust the three Torenthis we’ve got with us right now. I think they genuinely care for the boy.”
“Mátyás is still Mahael’s brother,” Morgan pointed out.
“I could hardly forget that,” Kelson replied. “Speaking of whom, I suppose we ought to rejoin the good count and his companions. And I believe Derry was to take over from Dhugal, to keep a weather eye on Brendan and his squires’ supper. What’s your decision on allowing him to come with us to Beldour?”
“I think he would be devastated if I asked him to stay behind—despite his fears,” Morgan replied. “Excluding him would confirm in his mind that he isn’t to be trusted—and there’s absolutely no evidence to suggest that.”
Kelson nodded. “I agree. And facing up to his fears may well allow him to finally exorcise the last of his demons. Wake him up, then, and we’ll say no more about it.”
Half an hour later, Kelson was sitting down to the obligatory evening meal with their Torenthi guests, taken in Morgan’s ducal council chamber rather than the more impersonal great hall. To fill out the numbers of what all hoped would be an informal affair—their last before embarking upon the series of state functions requisite to Liam’s state return to Torenth—Morgan had invited several of his senior household officers. Bishops Tolliver and Arilan were also in attendance, returned from their devotions in the cathedral; but Arilan seemed little fortified by his meditations, and retained a measure of the wary reserve glimpsed during his initial introduction to Mátyás and Father Irenaeus—and it had to be one of them to whom Arilan was reacting, for he knew Rasoul from previous encounters over the past four years. Richenda, as the sole woman present, managed to give the affair a softer edge than might otherwise have been expected.
Fortunately, the evening ended early, partly through expected awkwardness and partly because of the morrow’s departure. When leave had been taken, Rasoul and Mátyás were shown to quarters prepared for them in one of the castle towers, with Saer deputized to keep casual watch through the night and ensure their continued good manners. Father Irenaeus elected to sleep aboard the Torenthi galley, conveyed thence by the guard detail accompanying Bishop Tolliver back to his episcopal palace.
When the rest of Morgan’s officers had also gone, leaving only Arilan with the king, Dhugal, Morgan, and Richenda—who had already warned Kelson to expect at least a brief discussion of bridal candidates—Kelson set aside his coronet and sat back in his chair with a weary sigh, watching while Dhugal cleared away the last of the meal’s debris from one end of the table and Morgan produced a decanter of sweet Fianna wine. As the latter was poured into tiny silver cups and Dhugal pushed them before each place, Richenda pulled off her circlet and veil and loosed her red-gold hair, giving it a shake as she settled contentedly into the chair closest to Kelson.
“So much for social obligations,” she said, twisting her hair back into a loose knot and securing it with a pair of golden pins. “At least everyone was well-behaved.”
“I have hopes that will continue to be the case,” Kelson replied, considering how to sound out Arilan. “It’s probably as well that Liam was otherwise occupied this evening. I wonder how Brendan’s supper went.”
Morgan snorted softly and sat on the other side of the king. “With the feast he ordered up, they should all be groaning in their beds.”
“Not drunk, I trust?” Arilan said, though his expression proclaimed this the least of his fears.
“Oh, Derry had his orders,” Morgan assured him. “Our young charge is well prepared, I think.”
Richenda chuckled lightly, shaking her head. “He has become quite the young man, hasn’t he?—for all that he would remain a boy for a while longer. When he rode into the yard with Brendan and Rory, I scarcely recognized him. Can he really have grown so tall, just since Michaelmas?”
“He has grown in strength as well,” Arilan murmured. “His shields
are those of a man. Is that the work of the monk—Father Irenaeus, was it?”
“In part.” Kelson set down his wine, choosing his next words carefully. “The good hieromonk seems to be precisely that: good, both in virtue and in ability. I almost trust him. I am—somewhat inclined to trust Mátyás as well,” he added, watching for a reaction from Arilan.
The Deryni bishop sat back in his chair, his manner taking on a faintly guarded edge.
“Beware of any Furstán, Sire,” he said. “And as for the monk—never forget that it was Mahael who sent him.”
“Actually,” Morgan said, “it was the Patriarch of Torenth who sent him.”
“On Mahael’s instructions, you may be sure.”
“Yes, on Mahael’s instructions,” Kelson answered, “or at least his recommendation. But his credentials came directly from the Patriarch, who I very much doubt takes instructions from Mahael. Unless Irenaeus is far, far more skilled than I believe him to be—and far more devious—I do not think his brief runs beyond giving his prince the instruction needed for the ceremony of installation—which is of considerable complexity, as you must know.”
“I am quite aware of the complexities,” Arilan replied. “And of the opportunities for things to go wrong—and for them to be made to go wrong.”
“If that is intended,” Kelson replied, “I cannot think that Irenaeus is any part of it. I have several times observed his celebration of the sacred offices, the better to understand what we will be witnessing in Beldour. He strikes me as a man of genuine piety, without guile. Do you assume that he would hold his vows less sacred than your own?”
“I merely point out that he is Deryni, Torenthi, and favored of Mahael,” Arilan said mildly. “On those points, I assume nothing.”
“And we have assumed nothing,” Morgan said a little sharply. “Do you assume that we simply gave him free rein with the boy, as soon as he arrived at court? Of course we did not. Both of us interviewed him quite extensively, before allowing him access to Liam, as did Duncan. All of us Truth-Read his answers—and found no deception. One of us was always present when he worked with Liam, save for pastoral converse.”
“I’m certain you mean that to be reassuring,” Arilan said a little testily. “However, I should not have to remind a Deryni how easily those of our kind can abuse such a position of trust—especially a priest.”
Kelson allowed himself an exasperated sigh, wondering how they had gotten into an argument about Irenaeus.
“Why are we bickering among ourselves?” he muttered. “Denis, I will not deny the distant possibility that treachery might be his eventual intent—but subtle treachery requires time, of which he had little. And as for more overt treachery—well, I believe Liam strong enough, both in moral and magical strength, to resist any meddling within the context of holy offices.”
“You clearly hold a high opinion of the boy,” Arilan said. “He still is the nephew of Wencit and Mahael.”
“And of Mátyás,” Kelson retorted, going on the offensive. “Earlier, when I indicated that I was somewhat inclined to trust him, you side-stepped comment. Instead, you diverted us to a discussion—nay, almost an argument—about Father Irenaeus. And yet, when Rasoul first introduced Mátyás this afternoon, your reaction seemed to evidence not hostility, but surprise and . . . what?”
Arilan leaned back in his chair, eyes averted, one fingertip methodically tracing the rim of his cup for several seconds.
“There may be . . . grounds for guarded hope in that regard,” he said quietly.
Kelson sat back abruptly, casting questioning looks at the others, but got only varying reactions of bewilderment, wariness, and speculation.
“What are you saying?” he asked softly. “What does that mean, ‘guarded hope’? He isn’t—surely you’re not implying that he’s—a member of the Camberian Council?”
Arilan shook his head, smiling faintly but not looking up, no doubt well aware that all of them would be Truth-Reading his response.
“I may not answer that,” he replied.
“But, you do know him?” Morgan ventured.
Again Arilan shook his head. “I have never met him before today.”
Which was precisely true, Kelson knew. Which meant that Mátyás could not be a part of the Council, despite Arilan’s refusal to answer the direct question. Kelson had no doubt that selected members of the Council besides Arilan would be at Liam’s enthronement ceremony in Beldour, at least unofficially, to monitor the proceedings. But what Mátyás’s role in all of this might be, Kelson had no idea.
Was Arilan simply being cagey, or was he trying to tell them something without violating the letter of his oaths to the Council, which they always had been given to understand were formidable. Kelson knew of at least two former members who had circumvented their oaths—both of them now dead, though apparently not through the direct consequences of their disobedience. Of the present Council, he had met only three other members besides Arilan, and could not imagine any of them aiding a Furstán against Gwynedd.
But if Mátyás was not a member of the Council, why was Arilan at such pains to protect him, and what was he hiding?
“I must ask you to clarify what you’ve just told us,” Kelson said carefully. “I will not command it, because this obviously has something to do with the Council, even if Mátyás isn’t a member—and I accept that you mayn’t tell us that he is or isn’t. But you’ve made a point of reminding us about the treachery of Furstán blood—yet now you suggest that there might be cause to trust this particular Furstán.”
Arilan cast a furtive glance at Morgan, Dhugal, and Richenda before returning his gaze to the king.
“That would be an overstatement,” he said. “Let us merely say that I am . . . aware of certain . . . connections he has with Deryni of another powerful family. I may not disclose that connection without leave, and it is no guarantee of his intentions. It had not occurred to me that he might be part of this delegation. Nor had I considered that he might be involved in Liam’s enthronement; he is said to be not at all political. But his powers undoubtedly are formidable.”
“Do you have reason to suspect that he would support his brothers in whatever treachery they might be planning?” Dhugal asked.
“Let us simply say that the thought had never crossed my mind that Mahael’s youngest brother would not support whatever might further the fortunes of the Furstán family—until I considered this connection, and its possible influence. It now becomes clear that nothing is clear, and that Mátyás is now even more an unknown quantity: undoubtedly powerful, if he chose to play political games, yet never has there been any hint of political ambition on his part. Some men really are content to tend their vines and lead a quiet life—as he was at pains to reassure us over supper.”
“I detected no false note in his remarks,” Morgan said quietly.
“Nor did I,” Arilan said. “But we must wonder why he made such a point to tell us. To put us off our guard? If so, in what direction? Our assumption would be that he will support Mahael and Teymuraz in whatever it is they plan, if he were to become involved at all; I think he cannot be neutral, else he would not have agreed to act as his brother’s emissary in this matter.”
“Perhaps,” said Richenda, “his declaration about the quiet life is meant to reassure us that he would take Liam’s part against his brothers, in the interests of a continued quiet life. Perhaps it was even a veiled offer to ally with those who will be supporting Liam in the taking up of his throne.”
Arilan shook his head. “I cannot say. He could be a powerful ally or an implacable foe. At this point, either is possible.”
“Well, that’s a better position than before,” Kelson murmured, “with at least the possibility of an ally in the Torenthi camp.”
“A possibility isn’t good enough,” Morgan retorted. “How can we find out? This—connection you spoke of: Could they confirm or deny?”
“Once I have made contact—perhaps. Whether th
ey would confirm or not might be another matter. But I can do nothing until Beldour—or perhaps the Ile d’Orsal.” He sighed. “Eventually, I must persuade the Council to allow a Portal here at Coroth.”
“You set up a temporary one at Llyndruth Meadows,” Kelson reminded him. “Could you not do the same here?”
“Not now,” Arilan said. “The energy expense would be too dear, with what may lie ahead—and we will be at the Orsal’s court tomorrow. It is possible that I may be able to access a Portal.”
“Is the Orsal part of the Council?” Richenda asked, flashing him a smile of mock innocence as he looked at her sharply.
“You know I may not answer that. But another contact will be able to instruct me regarding Portal access. And if circumstances do not permit it, the query can wait until we reach Beldour. Whatever Mátyás’s political alignment, I think he will make no move before the ceremony—and a full week has been allowed for rehearsals: plenty of time to deal with Mátyás, for good or for ill.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The daughters of kings are in thy honour.
Psalm 44:10
After the somewhat taut conversation regarding Mátyás, and with the hour growing late, Kelson had hoped to escape the threatened nuptial discussions—especially in light of his secret and reluctant mission at the Orsal’s court. He wondered if Richenda knew about Araxie, for he knew she was a student of Rothana’s uncle Azim. But Arilan, once he had agreed to consult with his private contacts, seemed determined to proceed with a review of matrimonial prospects—if only the ones that might suit Liam.
“I accept that perhaps this is not the best time to discuss your own prospects, with Liam’s enthronement still ahead of you,” the Deryni bishop said. “But I assure you that his marriage will have been a topic of increasingly lively speculation among his own people, as the day of his return draws near.”
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