King Kelson's Bride

by Katherine Kurtz

  “I am a diplomat, not a master of assassins,” Rasoul said quietly. “Tell me truly, my lord, for your life may depend upon it: Did the blade draw blood?”

  He gestured toward the long dagger still embedded in the dead man’s mouth, but Kelson shook his head.

  “You suspect poison?”

  “It would not be out of character,” Rasoul replied. “May I?”

  As he gestured toward the dagger again, Kelson gave a clipped nod and stepped back while Rasoul bent to the blade, bracing a boot on the body to dislodge it. When the Moor had sniffed cautiously along its length, then held it briefly to the light, he dropped it into the dust beside the dead man with a gesture of disdain, dusting his hand against a thigh. Liam was staring at him, wide-eyed.

  “Was it poisoned, Rasoul?” he asked.

  “No, my prince—thanks be to Allah. But if these men had succeeded, you would have been just as dead.”

  “You never answered my question,” Kelson reminded him. “Have you any knowledge of this?”

  Smiling faintly, Rasoul held out his open palm, inviting Kelson’s touch.

  “Read the truth of my words, my lord,” he said softly. “I swear to you, by the beard of the Prophet, that I had no part in this, nor any foreknowledge. Nor would I have allowed it, had I known.”

  It was the answer Kelson had hoped to hear. And with his hand on Rasoul’s, and Truth-Reading to a level the Moor had never before allowed, he could detect no trace of guile; nor had he expected to, for he and the Torenthi ambassador had developed a semblance of guarded trust over the years of their association, approaching friendship. No, what had just occurred was not Rasoul’s way. Whether it might be Mátyás’s way remained to be seen.

  Lifting his hand from the Moor’s, Kelson shifted his gaze to Liam’s uncle with somewhat less confidence.

  “And, you, Count Mátyás—I must be blunt and ask whether you can also assure me that you knew nothing of this attack.”

  “Under the circumstances, the question is a reasonable one,” Mátyás said carefully, though he did not offer physical contact the way Rasoul had done. “But I tell you truly that I had no knowledge of it or part in this. I certainly could have countenanced nothing that would put my nephew at risk.”

  Kelson gave Mátyás a cautious nod, knowing that Mátyás himself must be well aware that Morgan and Dhugal and Arilan—and probably Brendan, as well—were likewise reading the truth of his words. A glance at Morgan and the others confirmed their agreement that in this, at least, both Mátyás and Rasoul appeared to be innocent. But while this uncle might be innocent of what had just occurred, Kelson could not discount the persistent whispers regarding Mahael, the eldest of the three uncles, long rumored to have been responsible for the death of Liam’s elder brother. More than ever, he was convinced that Furstáns were little to be trusted.

  Farther downhill, he noted that Derry had taken charge of the contingent going to retrieve the body from the rocks below. At the approach of the Orsal’s chamberlain, Kelson gestured toward the men who had been propelling the cart bearing Morgan and Brendan, indicating that they should take charge of the other body at his feet.

  “My lord,” said Lord Vasilly, “I cannot explain what has happened here. I thought I knew that man.” He jerked his chin toward the dead brakeman, being hefted onto a cart. “And Gaetan, the man who fell to his death, was a trusted retainer of many years’ faithful service. I can only think that he must have been forced to do what he did. My lord Létald will be mortified at this breach of hospitality.”

  “I put no blame on Létald or on you,” Kelson assured him. “However, I think that I should prefer to walk the rest of the way, if you don’t mind.”

  The chamberlain could not but agree. Sending his own cart on ahead, Vasilly trudged along with them in silence, leading the august foot assemblage that included Kelson, Morgan, and Liam, along with Rasoul and Mátyás. The cart bearing the body of the assassin came just behind, Arilan swinging up at the last minute to conduct his own quiet investigation as the procession wound up the final approach to the Orsal’s summer palace. Brendan retired to the next cart, now riding nervously with Dhugal.

  Preceded by the captain’s news, and given the manner of their entry into the palace yard, they received quite a different welcome from that customary at the court of Létald Hort of Orsal. Indeed, upon hearing of this attempt on the lives of his important guests, the Orsal had sent his multitudinous family inside, and awaited the visitors’ arrival amid a military guard of honor—quite at odds with his usual style. Looking cross and appalled, his grey hair dishevelled, he came down the broad steps of the palace in a flurry of jade-green silk, flanked by two huge Tralian pikemen.

  “My lords, I know not what to say,” he declared. “Tralia offers profound apologies to Gwynedd and to Torenth.” He bowed jointly to Kelson and to Liam. “I cannot explain what has happened, but I assure you that measures will be taken to discover who was responsible. Please—come inside and take refreshment. My lord Alaric, it is good to see you as well.”

  Létald conducted the principals straightaway to a private reception room, where cool ales and refreshing sherbets were quickly produced, along with a collation of bread and cheese and fruit. There he listened avidly as Kelson, then Liam and Morgan, gave their accounts of the attack, even asking for Brendan’s impressions, after being told of the boy’s boldness in coming to his king’s defense.

  Kelson began to relax a little as he watched Létald listen, for he could entertain not the slightest doubt regarding the loyalty of his old ally. A normally jolly, moon-faced man of some fifty years, with sea-green eyes that crinkled at the corners and a fringe of close-trimmed, grey-speckled hair, Létald rarely displayed such intensity. His well-manicured hands bore rings on every finger, glittering as he handled the dagger wielded by the unknown Deryni assailant, and the silk of his gown protruded slightly over a well-fed torso, but any inference of softness in the man known as the Hort of Orsal would have been mistaken.

  His preferred style referred to his lordship of the strategically powerful Ile d’Orsal, above whose port this summer palace of Horthánthy perched. But he was also Prince of Tralia and High Prince of the Forcinn buffer states, of which Tralia was one, exerting personal rule over a sovereign principality the size of Cassan. His overlordship of the Forcinn gave him influence over lands as extensive as Meara and the Connait combined. Long a trading partner with Torenth, Corwyn, and, therefore, Gwynedd, his family had dominated trade in the Southern Sea for generations—a force always to be reckoned with, in the politics of the Eleven Kingdoms.

  “I am profoundly disturbed that such treachery could have surfaced here in the bosom of my court,” Létald told them, when all had offered their accounts of the attack and Arilan had reported his lack of success in ferreting out anything else from the dead Deryni or his accomplice. “I have not had the pleasure of prior acquaintance with Count Mátyás,” he said, with a nod toward the Torenthi prince, “but I have always known my lord Rasoul to be a man of honor, even if I have not always agreed with the policies of his sovereigns or their regents.”

  Liam was seated between Kelson and Brendan, dust-streaked and silent, picking nervously at one of the torn wrist ties of his once immaculate white shirt. Father Irenaeus, tight-lipped and silent until now, flicked a troubled glance first at the young king, then at Rasoul and Mátyás.

  “I fear these are difficult times, my lord Létald,” he allowed. “Most in Torenth rejoice that their padishah is to return to his homeland at last, after so long an absence and so long a regency. While all his loyal subjects should welcome such a homecoming, it cannot be denied that much will change, as he assumes his personal rule.”

  Taken at face value, the statement seemed merely to state the obvious. Coupled with the glance at Mátyás, however, it stopped just short of pointing out that among the things that would change the most was the regency to be dismantled upon Liam’s return. Kelson cast a covert glance at the pr
iest, then at Mátyás, wondering whether he was catching the hint of criticism because he himself suspected Liam’s uncles. Rasoul looked thoughtful. Mátyás was giving studious attention to a goblet of blown glass between his hands, eyes lowered, apparently choosing to ignore the implied suggestion. Arilan’s gaze was more frankly appraising, his response all but confrontational.

  “An interesting observation,” he said after a beat, “but what happened a little while ago was clearly meant to kill my king as well as yours. Of course, both deaths would profit those who have prospered during this long regency in Torenth. Is that not so, Count Mátyás?”

  Mátyás set down his goblet with care, his pale eyes lifting coolly to Arilan’s. “As both the reverend fathers have said, the padishah’s return will change a great many things. In general, however, his people will welcome a return to direct rule. Regencies are sometimes a necessity, but I think they rarely reflect the best governance for a kingdom, however benign they may be. My nephew is young, and will require guidance initially, but I think he has been well prepared to take up his estate—for which I, at least, thank you, my lord.” He nodded in Kelson’s direction. “I hope he may depend upon me to render whatever assistance I am able.”

  “Your gratitude is noted, Count Mátyás,” Morgan said smoothly, before Kelson or Arilan could respond. “However, I believe that all of us find it greatly troubling that at least one of today’s would-be assassins was Deryni—and not just Deryni, but of sufficient training and commitment to protect his identity, and that of those who sent him, by the most sophisticated and deadly measures. I fear it does point to his probable origin among your own people—and quite likely at a very high level, for I am given to understand that, even in your land, such skills are not altogether common.”

  “Indeed, they are not,” Létald agreed gruffly, “and that troubles me greatly. How came such a man into my household, Lord Rasoul? It is a serious breach of diplomatic privilege.”

  “My lord, I cannot account for what has happened,” Rasoul replied, with a lifting of open palms to underline his disclaimer. “You have the most profound apologies of Torenth. Please be assured that I shall take up the matter with my superiors immediately upon our arrival in Beldour.”

  On this note of uneasy rapprochement, they continued to speculate for a while longer, no one quite willing to make specific accusations regarding the attack—for Mátyás’s brothers, if not Mátyás himself, were still highly suspect—until Morgan tactfully suggested that a period of rest might benefit all concerned.

  “I, for one, will welcome the opportunity to bathe and be rid of these soiled clothes,” he said, with a faint smile, plucking at a fold of his dusty tunic. “And if Létald has laid on the usual festivities that accompany a state visit to Horthánthy, we shall all be glad of a nap before supper. He dislikes having guests fall asleep at his table.”

  “I do, indeed,” Létald agreed, nodding toward Liam as he rose. “I look forward to offering more appropriate Trailan hospitality to our distinguished young guest,” he added, tendering the boy a reassuring smile.

  Kelson was only too happy to agree, emotionally wrung out and beginning to ache from his exertions of the past hour, following without demur as Létald himself escorted him and Dhugal to the quarters they would share for their brief visit. The royal squires, Ivo and Davoran, were there already, unpacking fresh clothing from a pair of leather-bound chests brought up from the ship, and servants were topping up a hot bath set before an arched window looking seaward, where a cool breeze stirred the gauzy hangings swagged back from the arch. Kelson began stripping off his filthy clothes as soon as Létald and the servants had withdrawn.

  “I wonder whether Morgan still thinks that Mátyás isn’t in league with his brothers,” he said from inside his tunic, as Dhugal helped pull it off over his head. He flinched as the other prodded disapprovingly at the now livid bruise purpling his ribs, and handed off the tunic to Davoran.

  “I dunno,” Dhugal replied. “Mátyás isn’t saying all he knows, but I think he was as shocked as anyone, that you and Liam were attacked. If you’ll sit down, I’ll see if I can’t heal that for you.”

  Himself fingering the bruise, and little minded to object, Kelson let himself be directed to a bench nearer the tub. There, after Davoran had pulled off his dusty boots, Dhugal crouched beside him to cup one hand over the bruise, his other hand lifting to fold across Kelson’s eyes as his patient exhaled on a long-drawn sigh.

  “That’s good,” Dhugal murmured, healing ease already stirring beneath his hands. “Relax and let me work on this. When I’m done, you’ll want a hot soak and a good nap.”

  Dhugal’s ministrations helped; the hot bath helped even more, unknotting aching muscles and sluicing away the dust and grime of the road. When Kelson at last lay down to rest, reclining drowsily on pristine bed linens, he let himself be lulled by the reassuring domestic sounds of his squires chattering softly in the next room, now attending to Dhugal’s ablutions and continuing their preparations for the evening.

  But as he drifted on the edge of sleep, his thoughts began to flit unbidden toward the part of the evening for which there could be no adequate preparation: the inevitable meeting with his cousin Araxie.

  CHAPTER TEN

  . . . As a bridegroom decketh himself with ornaments, and a bride adorneth herself with her jewels.

  Isaiah 61:10

  At least Kelson did not dream, when he eventually fell asleep for a while. But resigned awareness of the duty before him was the first thing that came to mind when the squires woke him to prepare for the evening’s reception and feast, never far from consciousness as he let them dress him in rustling silks of Haldane crimson. After binding his Border braid with cord of gold bullion, they brought out the heavy jewelled circlet he would also wear for Liam’s installation—heavy like the burden he carried in his heart, as he settled this emblem of his rank and duty on his brow.

  Dhugal, meanwhile, had arrayed himself with sober care, a swath of dark McLain tartan brooched to the right shoulder of a tunic of slubbed black silk, shorter than Kelson wore, over black hose and short boots. A black ribbon tied his Border braid, and a duke’s golden coronet circled his brow, further binding the copper-bronze hair.

  Neither he nor Kelson wore a sword, but both belted on silver-mounted border dirks, at once highly decorative and more functional at close quarters than a longer blade. In less uncertain times, both would have been confident of their safety beneath the roof of Létald Hort of Orsal; but after the afternoon’s attack, not even the Orsal could be certain that his guests were safe.

  Morgan was with the page sent to fetch them at the appointed hour, clad in forest-green silks and similarly armed, and accompanied them downstairs, where music and laughter met them well before they actually reached the reception hall. The Orsal’s line had always been prolific as well as exuberant. Accordingly, the arched reception hall was bursting at its seams with von Horthy children and cousins and other shirttail relatives as well as court retainers, all eager to welcome the royal visitors and greet old friends, all looking forward to the festivities of this brief visit, before the royal party embarked upriver on the morrow.

  Létald’s customary ebullience seemed to have been little affected by what had happened earlier, though Kelson was quite certain that their host would have made additional security arrangements in the intervening hours—there were more guards than usual, and less visible measures no doubt in force. Flanked by his two dukes, and preceding Liam and his noble escort, Kelson let himself be swept up, at least for a time, in that unique intermingling of exotic panoply and jovial informality that characterized the Hortic court, summer or not, somehow making of a full state reception a reunion of old acquaintances, even those not met before.

  “Be welcome to my court!” Létald declared, sweeping an arm grandly to encompass his immediate family, who still numbered nearly a score. “Welcome, all! My beloved Niyya begs to be excused from this official greeting, for
she soon will be brought to bed of twins—very soon,” he added, miming the greatness of his wife’s belly. “God willing, however, she will join us at table a little later. Standing is not easy for her, in these final days before her confinement.”

  Kelson inclined his head in bemused acknowledgment as Létald rattled on.

  “Meanwhile, with joy I present to you my children. They do grow when one feeds them, Sires, but what is a father to do?” Létald rolled his eyes in mock despair as he drew a stocky, self-conscious teenager into the embrace of one arm, then brought forth another child, and all the many others, introducing each by name, for Liam’s benefit. “Here is my second son, Rogan, whom Duke Alaric will remember far better than he or Rogan wishes, I feel sure—though he’s a good lad, a good lad. I have heeded your suggestion, Alaric, and Rogan is happily pursuing academic endeavors with the scholars.” He tousled the boy’s hair with obvious affection.

  “And Cyric, my heir, who is soon to enter a period of service to his maternal uncle, the King of R’Kassi—a very fine appointment!” A taller, fairer youth of about Kelson’s age moved forward at his father’s gesture, exchanging handshakes first with Kelson, then with Liam, as his father swept a ripely attractive teenage girl into the embrace of the arm that had just released Rogan.

  “And here, my eldest daughter, Rezza Elisabet—who goes very shy when any marriageable bachelor visits her father’s court—and the twins, Marcel and Marcelline,” he went on, jutting his chin at a smiling boy and girl dressed very similarly, “and little Aynbeth, who is six, and dear Oswin, the apple of his father’s eye—”

  The introductions were whirlwind and almost overwhelming, a kaleidoscope of eager faces and chattered pleasantries and gem-bedecked garments in every jewel-tone imaginable. At some point, amid the flurry of other greetings and introductions, Kelson’s great-aunt Sivorn—who was also Létald’s sister—approached to offer him her cheek and then shoo forward a giggling handful of his younger cousins, who swarmed around him to bestow and receive dutiful kisses.