“Reassembling the lost knowledge will be an enormous undertaking, for our numbers have never been great, even in Torenth and other lands where Deryni were never persecuted—and our influence has always been vastly disproportionate to our numbers.” She flashed him a forbearing smile. “By the time of the Interregnum, much of the higher knowledge had become the domain of scholars or opportunists; and the advent of Deryni persecution, so soon after the Restoration, destroyed the formal institutions of Deryni learning as well as thousands of individuals. The promulgation of the Laws of Ramos crippled and all but destroyed us as a race, and the simultaneous sweeping away of the great Deryni healing and teaching orders meant that most of our formal knowledge was lost—though it can be recovered, in time.
“The task will not be completed in our lifetimes—and it will never be completed, if it is not begun. But Rothana proposes to begin it—a task requiring total commitment. You, in turn, need the total commitment of a full-time queen and mother of your heirs. I honestly do not see how the two may be joined.”
Kelson found himself reeling under the onslaught of revelations Richenda had offered, and he briefly lowered his head on his arms, fighting back near-nausea. With the gradual abatement of the sick churning in his stomach came a calmer, more resigned acknowledgement that the logic—Richenda’s and Rothana’s—was sound—alas, all too sound. Now he began to understand his last conversation with Rothana, and the proposition she had offered him—and with that understanding finally came reluctant acceptance—and a numb resignation to the fate she had decreed for him—which, given everything Richenda had outlined, perhaps was, indeed, best for Gwynedd, in the end.
Schooling his expression to one of stolid calm, he raised his head and glanced at his silent companions, surreptitiously wiping his sleeve across damp eyes as he turned his gaze across the portraits of prospective brides still spread on the table before them. He could not yet bring himself to confide the commission with which Rothana had charged him, regarding his cousin Araxie, but he decided he might take temporary refuge in at least pretending academic interest in their interrupted discussion of bridal candidates. His eyes lit on the miniature of Noelie Ramsay, now happily out of contention, and he reached out to turn it gently face-down on the table.
“We can put this one aside, I think,” he said quietly, pulling closer two ink sketches beside it. “Did someone say that these are the Hort of Orsal’s daughters?”
“They are,” Richenda said, as if the preceding outburst had not taken place. “The older girl is called Elisabet. She is said to be quite stunning. I am told that the sketch does not do her justice. You may judge for yourself tomorrow. Also, her younger sister, Marcelline—just on the brink of womanhood, and perhaps more suitable for our younger bachelor king, in a few years’ time. Both would make worthy consorts.”
“And that one?” Kelson asked, with a gesture toward the miniature of a pretty brunette.
“Ursula, a granddaughter of one of the Howiccan princes,” Arilan offered. “She is rich, accomplished, politically acceptable; the line is healthy.”
Only half listening, Kelson sat back and allowed them to rattle on about the latest spate of candidates, taking faint consolation in the knowledge that Rory, at least, might achieve a match of potential happiness. His own happiness no longer seemed an issue; Richenda’s revelations had left him in something of a state of shock. The notion of actually giving up Rothana still made him heartsick; but as the voices of the others droned on, examining the virtues and foibles of various “suitable” bridal candidates, including several he had never heard mentioned before, he found his attention wandering . . . and found his gaze occasionally lighting on a portrait already set aside with that of Noelie Ramsay: the painted likeness of his cousin Richelle, the sister of the bride Rothana had chosen for him, who was already contentedly betrothed to Brecon Ramsay and, therefore, out of the marriage race.
There had never been a companion portrait of the younger Araxie, whose “imminent” match with a distant Howiccan prince had been rumored for several years. Nonetheless, Kelson found himself taking repeated glances at the likeness of the raven-haired Richelle, who favored her Haldane blood.
And much against his will, he found himself superimposing on those classic features the gamin, pixie face of a much younger girl, with straggly blond braids and pale eyes—an annoying yet engaging child with whom he had played in the gardens at Rhemuth. . . .
CHAPTER NINE
Let no man despise thy youth.
I Timothy 4:12
The morning dawned fair and bright for the crossing to the Ile d’Orsal, with a steady crosswind all the way. As the towers of Coroth disappeared into the coastal mist behind them, far beyond the following galley, Kelson tried not to dwell on what lay ahead, both in Torenth and, more immediately, at the Orsal’s court. After he had retired at last from the bridal deliberations of the previous night, ghost-glimpses of Araxie intruded on his dreams. Grimacing, he ran a finger inside the neck of a crimson Haldane tunic whose collar was just a bit too tight.
At least Liam himself, standing at the rail between him and Morgan, seemed somewhat more resigned to what was unfolding. In understated acknowledgment of the role he must now assume, the boy had put aside his Haldane livery in favor of a plain white shirt belted over black breeches and boots, with his squire’s dagger thrust through the back of a knotted sash of tawny silk. His full sleeves billowed in the breeze as he leaned against the rail at Kelson’s side and squinted against the bright sparkle ahead. Since setting sail from Coroth, something in his manner, his poise, even a subtle shift to his way of phrasing, suggested a greater self-confidence than Kelson had noted hitherto, as if his last supper with his fellow squires and pages the night before had somehow been a rite of passage into manhood, helping him put his childhood behind him.
The blue water of the Great Estuary became gradually murky as they sailed between the Tralian headlands and the jutting upthrusts of basalt that were the Ile, roiled by the spill from the great River Thuria, whose tributaries served landlocked R’Kassi and all but one of the Forcinn buffer states. The wind held steady, funnelled by the high cliffs, so that even when they passed beneath the green-and-white striped pharos guarding Orsalis Harbor, they were not obliged to resort to the oars.
Liam watched unspeaking as the Orsal’s great, three-tiered summer palace of Horthánthy came into view above the busy port, ranging his gaze over the port’s defenses with a tactician’s air of calculation before returning his attention to the palace: an exuberant array of graceful open arches and slightly domed roofs, soft verdigris against the chalk-white summit.
“The king’s palace at Beldour has rooftop gardens such as those,” he said to neither Kelson nor Morgan in particular, noting the greenery projecting above the topmost balconies. “The color is different, though—a sort of milky blue, that bit more intense than the sky on a clear day. I’ve not seen that color in all of Gwynedd.”
“And you’ve obviously missed it,” Kelson replied, smiling faintly as he watched Liam. “Aside from the dangers, I expect you’ll be glad to be home.”
Liam ducked his head, momentarily an awkward boy again. “Nothing will be the same,” he murmured. “Nothing.”
“ ’Tis the way of the world,” Morgan said quietly. “ Nothing stays the same. But that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. As king, you can make a difference.”
“Perhaps,” Liam replied, looking dubious. “But not for a while yet. Not until I wield the full power of Furstán.”
Pensive, his manner inviting no further exploration of the subject, he ranged his gaze out ahead. Off to the right, an anchored row of black war galleys caught his eye: six sleek coursing ships moored side by side like a floating platform, mastheads streaming tawny pennons ensigned with the white roundel and black leaping hart of Torenth. Along the decks of the galleys, their crews were lined up smartly beside the oars, which were shipped upright in salute, like black, spiky insect legs.
&n
bsp; As a single, warbling trumpet call floated across the chop, Liam straightened and then moved apart from Kelson and Morgan to stand alone by the starboard rail, shading his eyes against the glare, gazing out at the black ships that obviously had come to be his escort home. In the bow of one of the ships, Kelson caught the glint of sunlight on brass as they were scanned by a man with a spyglass, who closed down his glass and turned to give an order as Rhafallia began crossing their bows.
In perfect unison, the six crews sank to one knee and raised both palms in salute, like priests giving benediction, breaking into a deep, rhythmic chant—“Fur-stán-Lajos! Fur-stán-Lajos!”
Liam stiffened as he realized what they were chanting, understood what they were doing, tight-reined emotion flickering briefly across the guarded features. Slowly he lowered the hand he had lifted to shade his eyes. Slowly he drew himself to attention. And as he, too, thrust his palms upward, returning their salute, the chanting shifted to a roar of wild and spontaneous cheering and ululation, some of the men now brandishing curved daggers or whipping off hats or head-shawls to flap at him in welcome.
Ragged cheering continued as Rhafallia sailed past the galleys, Liam occasionally saluting them again—even moving to the stern so they could see him longer. The cheering only died away when Rhafallia turned into the wind and dropped her sails a few cable-lengths from the quay, a crewman in the bow tossing out a line so a pilot boat could take them in tow.
The boy was flushed and bright-eyed as he came back to Kelson and Morgan, occasionally grinning when he would glance astern at their escort galley, now also in tow, and the black ships beyond.
“They knew me!” he said breathlessly. “They gave me salute as padishah!”
“They did, indeed,” Morgan said, smiling, “and so you are.”
“I know I am, but—until now, I am not certain I truly believed it. I have spent nearly a third of my life away from my kingdom.”
Kelson, too, ventured a faint smile as he turned away to watch the distance close between ship and quay, breathing a silent prayer that Liam would, indeed, be a padishah his people would welcome.
Order quickly emerged from the seeming chaos that always greeted an arrival at Orsalis Port, as the Rhafallia bumped gently against the bustling dock and crewmen began securing lines ashore. Scores of brightly clad onlookers milled behind a mostly amiable cordon of port constabulary, hopeful of catching a glimpse of the visitors. Children with wooden flutes played a piping welcome as they disembarked.
The Orsal’s chief chamberlain was waiting at the foot of Rhafallia’s gangplank to greet them: Vasilly Dimitriades, well known to both Morgan and Kelson from previous visits, a smiling, stick-thin individual in sea-green robes and an office-chain of golden cockleshells, who alternated between bowing and beaming as Rasoul and Mátyás joined them and courtesies were exchanged. Vasilly then began directing his master’s guests, by twos, toward a string of small, brightly canopied carts, each one little more than an upholstered double chair atop a pair of wheels, drawn and pushed by teams of liveried runners. Liam had never seen such conveyances, and looked less than certain as Kelson headed him toward the second one. A guard captain was waiting expectantly with the crew of the first cart, presumably to ride with the chamberlain for the trip to the summit. Kelson mounted the second cart without hesitation, and its burly brakeman held out a hand to assist Liam as well.
“They rarely take horses up to the palace,” Kelson explained, patting the seat beside him as Morgan and Brendan got into the third cart. Rasoul and Mátyás were shown to the fourth, and the others paired off in succeeding ones. “Remember that this is the Orsal’s summer residence. Protocol is relaxed, and there’s rarely much urgency about getting from port to palace. In truth, there’s rarely much urgency about anything at the Orsal’s court, as you’ll see,” he added with a chuckle. “In any case, you surely don’t fancy walking up that, do you?”
Liam’s glance upward at the steep road snaking toward the palace apparently convinced him that the carts were, indeed, probably a superior form of transport—and riding with Kelson would keep at bay the question of Liam’s precise status, fellow king or still royal squire. Clambering up onto the seat, he kept a nervous grip on the chair arm at first, as the carts began moving across the esplanade in colorful procession and then took to the narrow road, but he soon relaxed and let himself be caught up in Kelson’s running commentary on the view and what they might expect during this brief visit to Kelson’s old ally.
What they did not expect was treachery. The attack came when they had nearly reached the palace gate, just at the last but one of the sharp switchbacks, where the edge fell away to their left in a breathtaking vista to the rocks and the sapphire depths below. With nary a hint of warning, the man between the pulling shafts suddenly stopped and whirled to thrust the shafts sharply over his head, tipping the cart backward to tangle both Liam and Kelson amid the cart’s silk canopy, through which the brakeman began stabbing viciously with a long dagger.
Liam somehow managed to scramble clear—on the side toward the sheer plunge to the rocks below—and only saved himself by grabbing frantically for a handful of the canopy’s fringe, the fingers of his other hand clawing for a handhold in the rocky ground as Kelson struggled to squirm out from under the hampering silk and avoid their attacker’s blade.
Meanwhile, the lead man was wrenching the pulling shafts toward the cliff face, eyes wild and glazed, to pivot the cart and begin pushing it toward the edge, putting his shoulder into the effort, kicking at the scrambling Liam to loose his precarious hold on survival. Kelson, still entangled in the canopy, felt a glancing blow along his ribs, but the pain at least enabled him to locate his attacker. Twisting desperately, he managed to roll out from under the canopy and catch the brakeman’s wrist as he drew back his dagger to plunge again.
The man outweighed Kelson by half again, and heaved himself atop his intended victim with a whoof! that all but crushed the breath from the king’s lungs as they grappled for the blade. At the same time, Kelson could feel the crackle of powerful shields surging around him, probing for an opening in his psychic defenses, just as the deadly steel was pressing ever closer to his breast.
Then, all at once, a flailing whirlwind of Haldane livery was hurtling onto the back of Kelson’s assailant—young Brendan Coris, clinging like a limpet with his strong legs locked around the man’s waist, throttling the king’s attacker from behind and gouging at his eyes while Morgan threw himself nearer Liam, just catching a fistful of the boy’s shirt and holding him fast as the cart flipped over them with bruising force and tumbled over the edge, to the sound of splintering wood as it shattered on its way to the rocks below.
Somehow, the lead man managed not to go over with the cart, though he teetered precariously on the edge. His crazed glance frantically sought his colleague, but the venture clearly had failed. Having yanked Liam to safety, Morgan was scrambling to the assistance of Kelson and Brendan, still grappling with the brakeman, and Rasoul and Mátyás were within a few strides of joining in the fray, with murder in their eyes, followed by an eruption of others from carts farther back.
With dawning terror in his eyes, the lead man hurled himself over the edge, his thin wail of despair ending abruptly in a meaty thunk. Simultaneously, with a violent lurch that all but threw Brendan over the cliff after him, the brakeman twisted his wrist and, using Kelson’s strength as well as his own, wrenched the blade around and drove it upward through the roof of his own mouth.
Abruptly, it was over. The man collapsed with a little grunt, a look of startlement on his face, all at once a dead weight on Kelson’s chest, with Brendan’s live weight squirming to scramble clear. As the king heaved at the body to shift it off of his, Morgan’s hands were assisting, and then Liam’s and Brendan’s. Rasoul and Mátyás had reached them by then, but Kelson warned them off with a glare, breathing in great gasps as he struggled to his knees and set his hands to the dead man’s temples, forcing his mind past f
ast-disintegrating shields.
He let Morgan join in, but they found only the chaotic remnants of a complex suicide-trigger and accompanying mind-wipe, willingly accepted, to ensure against betrayal of the man’s superiors, if he were taken. Of those superiors’ identity, they could find no trace. He expected it would be the same with the other man, who had gone over the cliff.
“Laje, are you injured?” came Mátyás’s sharp inquiry, as Kelson surfaced somewhat jerkily from trance.
“Nay, I am unharmed. But the king—”
Kelson lifted his head to see Liam and Dhugal peering at him anxiously, Brendan helping the latter to also keep Rasoul and Mátyás from coming any closer. The Torenthi pair looked grim, and Rasoul’s thin lips tightened as he glanced over the edge of the cliff. On the rocks below, amid the smashed debris of the cart, lay the broken body of the man who had flung himself after it rather than be taken, impaled on one of the cart’s broken shafts.
“Lord Vasilly is making arrangements for retrieval of the body,” Dhugal said, gesturing downhill. “And he’s already sent a man ahead to alert the Orsal.”
Nodding his acknowledgment, Kelson drew a deep breath and let Morgan help him to his feet, his nod of thanks to young Brendan delivered with gritted teeth as he winced from a sharp twinge in his side. Fortunately, no blood came away when he probed gingerly at the hurt, though he was sure he would have a goodly bruise as reminder of his narrow escape. He could only suppose that both he and Liam had been meant to perish.
The question now arose as to possible complicity by Rasoul or Mátyás, though both men looked genuinely shocked and outraged. He eyed them guardedly, noting that Arilan had worked his way to Dhugal’s side, close behind the Torenthi pair, his face unreadable.
“Quite obviously,” Kelson said with pointed care, “I do not know whether this attack was meant for me or for your king—or maybe both of us.” He gestured toward the shaken Liam, still catching his breath between Brendan and Morgan. “But you will understand that I must ask both of you whether you had any hand in this, or any foreknowledge.”
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