King Kelson's Bride

by Katherine Kurtz

  Two older girls held back to wait their turns, both of them lightly veiled in the Eastern fashion and wearing the silver circlets of princesses, but he knew the darker one with teasing eyes to be Richelle, even if her gown of Haldane crimson had not marked her out, radiant with excitement over her coming nuptials. He avoided taking any proper look at the second, but he was left with an impression of pale hair and an emerald-green veil and gown and the fleeting press of soft lips to his cheek, through the veil.

  That he dared not dwell on such impressions was as well, because there was Liam to formally present to Létald and his court, in his newly attained status as a king now legally of age and about to be acknowledged in his own kingdom. Now apparently reconciled to his royal status, the boy was even wearing the jewelled circlet Mátyás had brought from Beldour—though not the full-sleeved robe of purple damask. Instead, he had chosen a close-fitting tunic of heavy bronze silk, the parting gift of Nigel and Meraude. It made him look the prince he was, a young man Kelson suddenly was not sure he really knew.

  Liam’s countrymen, Rasoul and Mátyás, remained politely in the background as their young liege exchanged courtesies with Létald and his family. Though they were clad in the same court finery they had worn in Rhemuth, Kelson was suddenly struck by how much more alien they seemed than even as recently as this morning, their Deryniness far more obvious than it had been in Rhemuth. Farther back in the hall, Father Irenaeus had his head bent in conversation with another bearded priest in flowing black robes, yet even he seemed somehow more sinister than he had during those months at Kelson’s own court.

  Was it merely their growing proximity to their own homeland, Kelson wondered, and increasing distance from his own? Or were their two lands really that different? He feared that they might be, and that the differences would only become more glaring as they moved on into Torenth itself. (Would Liam, too, become a stranger?) None of the three had put a foot wrong for the entire length of the journey thus far—in fact, all had been surprisingly forthcoming in the wake of the assassination attempt; but all were at once Torenthi and Deryni—a combination often proven dangerous in the past, even in a court like the Orsal’s, where being Deryni was little remarked upon unless one of that race overstepped the boundaries of good guestship and courtesy.

  Clearly, the incident of earlier in the day had done precisely that—though, to Kelson’s surprise, it seemed not to have damped the festive atmosphere in Orsal’s hall that night. Almost, he could keep at bay the private concern that had haunted him increasingly in the past several days: that niggling awareness of an impending domestic mission for which he could summon little enthusiasm.

  But it came to the fore in a manner he could not avoid when, midway through the feasting, he and Ivo Hepburn, his duty squire of the evening, withdrew in search of the privies; Morgan had forbidden him to leave the hall unattended. They were on their way back, in an unaccountably empty stretch of corridor, when a tall, black-robed figure loomed suddenly before them, of whom only a pair of black eyes could be seen within the swath of a black keffiyeh.

  A gesture from a dusky, powerful hand, one forefinger laid vertical where lips would be behind the veil, seemed to freeze Ivo in place, hand on the hilt of his squire’s dagger and lips just parting in surprised question. Kelson, too, had started back in reflex wariness, shields instantly flaring, but he made himself relax at once. He had been expecting the contact, sooner or later.

  “Have we business, Kelson of Gwynedd?” a low voice inquired, as the hand released a fold of the headdress to reveal a long, aquiline nose and a close-clipped black beard.

  “Prince Azim.” Kelson barely mouthed the name as he inclined his head in taut greeting, for Azim ar-Rafiq was Rothana’s uncle, brother to her father and a prince in his own right—and a high-ranking member of the mysterious desert brotherhood, the Knights of the Anvil, of whom Kelson knew very little besides their name. That Azim might be trusted was beyond question—Morgan’s wife had trained with the Deryni mage, as had Rothana; but Azim’s mission was little to Kelson’s liking.

  Azim glanced pointedly at Ivo, obviously imparting some silent command, for the squire immediately closed his eyes, breathing out in a soft sigh as his hands fell to his sides. Kelson controlled a shiver as the black gaze returned to his, though he knew that neither he nor Ivo were in any danger.

  “I shall be brief,” Azim said softly, compassion in the dark eyes. “Believe that I grieve for you, my prince, but my niece bade me tell you that she has provided for you and your land as best she can. Later tonight, if it is your will, I am instructed to take you to a place where you may speak privily with the Princess Araxie, your cousin. You know my niece’s wishes in this matter. She prays that you will do as your good duty to Gwynedd bids you.”

  Kelson drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, tempering his reply with the duty that bore more heavily upon him with every heartbeat.

  “I am at your disposal, my lord, and that of your niece,” he said softly. “Will you come for me, or shall I meet you at an appointed time?”

  “I shall fetch you, my prince, after you have taken your leave of the Orsal’s table,” Azim murmured with a bow. “Until then.”

  Kelson was hardly aware of his departure; almost, the Deryni mage seemed to vanish into thin air, right after brushing Ivo’s temple with a feather-touch that Kelson knew would erase the squire’s memory of the encounter, even as it released him from the control Azim had brought to bear. Ivo’s soft gasp brought Kelson himself back to full awareness, suggesting that he, too, had been somewhat entranced—though, unlike Ivo, Kelson knew he would remember what had passed between himself and his dark-clad visitor. His pulse was still pounding as he and Ivo made their way silently back to the hall, much relieved to regain the relative anonymity of the crowd—for he could cope with merely being on display.

  He had been seated at Létald’s right hand, between him and the heavily pregnant Princess Niyya, with Liam on Létald’s other side and Létald’s eldest beyond Liam. Létald had withdrawn down the table to exchange pleasantries with Derry and Bishop Arilan, and Cyric had his fair head bent to listen to Liam, lips upturned in apparent amusement at some anecdote the younger prince was relating. Behind the pair, and included in their camaraderie, Brendan and Payne had drawn up stools to join them. Liam had long since put aside the jewelled diadem worn earlier for the formal reception and entry in to supper, and seemed to be enjoying himself.

  His Torenthi countrymen likewise seemed absorbed in the festivities of the evening, the day’s earlier tensions largely dispelled. Rasoul sat on Princess Niyya’s other side, making idle discourse on the delights of large families, with the others of the royal party ranged across the rest of the top table and high along the two tables set angled from the ends. Kelson spotted Sivorn and her husband, Baron Savile, seated near Count Mátyás, but none of Sivorn’s children had made an appearance at supper, for which he was profoundly grateful.

  Lest he arouse comment or offend his host, Kelson dared not make too precipitous an escape, little though he was looking forward to its reason, but he caught Dhugal’s eye shortly after returning to table, only nodding slightly to indicate that the expected contact had taken place. Thereafter, he bided his time, watching the assorted entertainments as further courses were served, half-listening to Niyya and Rasoul, chatting with Létald when he returned, waiting for the opportunity to retire gracefully. He accepted greetings and a glass of wine from Lord Rather de Corbie, an elderly, bandy-legged little Tralian courtier whom he knew from Morgan’s court, but he hardly touched his cup as he and the man exchanged courtesies.

  When, after another quarter-hour, Létald’s princess quietly bade them good night and slipped off to bed, while acrobats tumbled and sprang to the music of flute and drum, Kelson seized that opportunity to take his leave as well, pleading fatigue of the journey and entrusting Liam to the company of Létald and the Torenthi lords. Dhugal would follow shortly, bringing Morgan with him, for Kelso
n knew he ought not to embark upon his reluctant mission without at least informing Morgan.

  Accompanied by Ivo and Davoran, his other squire, both of them chirpy and cheerful after what was, for them, the excitement of the evening, Kelson reached the relative refuge of his assigned quarters without incident. Two of his Haldane lancers were on duty outside the door, but adjusting their memories would present no problem when the time came to go with Azim. Inside, he bade the squires help him change his court robes for a short silk velvet tunic of drabbed claret, its only adornment a tracery of bullion-embroidery on the standing collar—far better suited to skulking among the shadows than rustling Haldane crimson, its color reflecting both his rank and his state of mind regarding this latest foray toward matrimony. Giving the squires permission to wait until morning to pack for their departure, he sent them off to bed in the adjoining room with a command to sleep and hear nothing, and followed a few minutes later to reinforce the command.

  Dhugal had not yet arrived when Kelson came back into the room. Impatient, the king picked up the formal coronet he had worn to supper, hefting it in his two hands. The circlet was of hammered gold, studded with jewels, and heavy. The prospect of putting it back on was less than attractive, but he needed to make it clear that any offer he might make to Araxie would be as king, not as an offer of the heart. He set the coronet on the mantel as Dhugal slipped into the room with Morgan right behind him. Morgan looked mystified, and gave the king a strange look as he sat where he was directed.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked, taking in the change of attire and the king’s taut expression.

  “That depends on your definition of ‘wrong,’ ” Kelson replied. He sighed and bowed his head, leaning one forearm along the edge of the mantel, not looking at Morgan. “You’ll recall the conversation we had about Rothana, back in Coroth?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I wasn’t entirely forthcoming about my last conversation with her, the night of Jatham and Janniver’s wedding.” Kelson looked up, but not at either of his companions. “Not only has she not changed her mind about marrying me, but she’s picked the woman she does want me to marry. I’m to meet her shortly.”

  Morgan gasped audibly, though he regained his composure almost at once, glancing first at Dhugal, then back at the king.

  “This is hardly something anyone would make up,” he said softly, “so it must be true.” He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “How do you feel about the prospect?”

  Kelson wearily shook his head. “Numb. Resigned, I suppose. Alaric, she sprang all the arguments on me that I can’t refute. Most telling is the fact that I daren’t wait much longer to provide an heir—not with Liam going back to his own kingdom.”

  “And who is her choice?” Morgan asked.

  Kelson set both hands on the mantel and glanced up at the chimney breast as he gave a heavy sigh.

  “Someone I can’t possibly quibble about—other than on the grounds that I love someone else. From a dynastic and political perspective, she’s even more suitable than Rothana.”

  “And she is—?” Morgan persisted.

  “Duke Richard’s younger daughter, my cousin Araxie.”

  “Araxie? But, isn’t she—“

  “No, she isn’t,” Kelson said impatiently. “That’s what everyone thinks, but apparently it’s been a deliberate smoke screen, concocted for Cuan and his cousin, and then encouraged by Rothana while she set this up. According to her, Araxie has simply been acting as the go-between—so there are no legal impediments of pre-existing contract, no adverse political implications, and our blood relationship is distant enough that a dispensation can be easily arranged. Not only is she a Haldane, she’s part Deryni from her mother’s side—in short, everything a Haldane king could want in a queen. Except that I don’t love her.”

  “Do you think you might learn to love her?” Morgan asked quietly.

  Kelson shrugged and poked distractedly at a rivulet of molten wax running down a candlestick on the mantel. “I have no idea. I haven’t even seen her since we were both very small—at least not to talk to.”

  “Did you at least like her, in those days?”

  “I suppose so. I certainly didn’t dislike her. That’s hardly a recommendation for marriage, though.”

  “Not for most men, no,” Morgan agreed. “Unfortunately, as we’ve acknowledged before, the King of Gwynedd is not ‘most men.’ ” He sighed wearily and rubbed between his eyes with thumb and forefinger. “Well, I don’t suppose it can be any worse a situation than Sidana. You’ve done this before, out of duty.”

  “That was before I fell in love,” Kelson murmured. “If I had never known what it was like—”

  A quick rap on the door cut him off in midsentence, and he whirled in near panic.

  “Dear God,” he whispered, as Dhugal glanced to him for instructions. “That has to be Azim. Alaric, come with me to meet her. Both of you, come with me—please. . . .”

  At Dhugal’s questioning look, Morgan slowly nodded, rising as the younger duke headed for the door and the king nervously straightened his tunic. The tall black-robed man who entered at Dhugal’s bidding was well known to Morgan, being tutor to his wife, and merely raised an eyebrow when he saw Morgan with the king.

  “This becomes increasingly a family affair,” he said. “And I welcome your presence, my friend, for I have news to impart to his Highness before we embark upon our other mission that will be of interest to you as well.”

  “What news?” Kelson asked impatiently.

  “Only a hint of vague warning as yet, my prince,” Azim replied. “But it may well relate to what occurred earlier. I am advised, by a source I may not name, that serious mischief may be attempted when young Liam-Lajos is enthroned.”

  “Mischief of what kind, and from whom?”

  “Oh, Deryni mischief—and deadly, to be sure—but I am not yet prepared to name names. Suffice it to say that I would not put too much faith in family loyalties.”

  “Mahael,” Morgan muttered under his breath.

  Azim inclined his head minutely. “That is as may be. However, I have neither proof nor particulars, as yet.”

  “Would you advise that we not go on to Beldour?” Kelson asked.

  “No, you must go. Liam is of age, and must be presented to his people. In general, they welcome his return. We must pray that he will be able to hold his throne, once you have set him upon it.”

  “That presumes that he and Kelson will live long enough for that to happen,” Morgan said. “What’s to prevent another incident like today?”

  Azim shook his head. “More subtle measures are contemplated. Another such overt attack would be seen as treason and an act of war against Gwynedd, especially did it occur when you have passed into Torenth, as you will tomorrow.

  “No, I think it likely that today’s essay was but a hopeful trial, with little real expectation of success, meant to be perceived as the work of independent dissidents who could not be traced back to Beldour. You may be certain that the perpetrators were to die, whichever way it came out. But had it succeeded, the ceremony shortly to be enacted at Torenthály would have been the girding of yet another minor king, rather than the confirmation of one come of age. There are those who would welcome that—as, indeed, they would welcome your death.”

  “Mahael would welcome both,” Morgan whispered.

  “I have not said it,” Azim replied. “But if he was, indeed, responsible, he will now bide his time until he may take more subtle action. His nephew’s homecoming is an occasion of great joy to the vast majority of the people of Torenth, and he will not risk being perceived for what he is. Too many tongues still wag regarding the circumstances of young Alroy’s death.”

  “Will they not wag if he moves during the ceremony of investiture?” Dhugal ventured. “Will that not be perceived as treason and an act of war?”

  “It will,” Azim agreed. “But if, thereby, Mahael can manage to seize the full power of Furstán,
who can gainsay him? He would then be king by right of power, not merely regent.”

  “What am I walking into?” Kelson muttered.

  “A dangerous situation,” Azim replied. “But you have always known that. Nonetheless, you have a duty to your vassal, Liam of Torenth.” He paused a beat. “And tonight, I think you have a somewhat more immediate duty to Gwynedd—closer to the heart.”

  The deft shift back to the reason for Azim’s presence came as something of a shock, refocusing all Kelson’s earlier apprehension.

  “Closer to the Crown, perhaps,” he managed to murmur. “You know where my heart lies, Azim.”

  “I do, my lord, and I am sorry for it.”

  When he said nothing more, Kelson breathed out in a long sigh and glanced at Morgan and Dhugal, both watching him impassively, then gave a determined nod as he took his circlet from off the mantel and set it on his head.

  “Very well. Let’s get on with it, then.”

  He saw his aunt Sivorn first, as he came into the room where Azim took them. She was warming her hands before the fire when he entered, her finery of earlier in the evening shrouded under a long, filmy wrap, for the night air was chill this close to the sea. Her veil had fallen back from a plaited coronet of pale blond hair that shimmered like molten gold in the firelight. She turned as he approached, silently holding out her hands to him. He took them and kissed each in turn, then stepped back to look at her.

  “I’ve brought the Dukes of Corwyn and Cassan,” he said by way of explanation, as she glanced beyond him in question at Morgan and Dhugal. “They’re the only ones I’ve told.”

  She smiled faintly. Up close, even by firelight, she looked older than he had remembered, from his glimpse of her at court and at table.