King Kelson's Bride

by Katherine Kurtz

  There, high above the city, where tinkling fountains delighted eye and ear and cooled the sultry breezes, a silken canopy marked the place where Liam and his brother sat to receive their noble guests, under the watchful gaze of uncles, their mother, and several dozen of Torenth’s senior nobility. Many foreign delegations had already arrived, and were sampling a sumptuous array of cooling libations and culinary dainties laid out beneath the shade of fragrant lemon trees.

  Létald, who knew and was known by most of those present, betook it upon himself to escort Kelson among them and make introductions, on behalf of the Forcinn States. Dhugal and Morgan accompanied them, the latter keeping a wary eye out for Brendan and Payne, who had been asked by Liam to attend him close to the royal pavilion; for the young king was already feeling the effect of isolation from others of his age. Kelson had observed the abiding camaraderie among Liam and the two younger boys during the journey from Rhemuth, and wondered whether a time of squireship might be feasible for Brendan at the Torenthi court, if he managed to get Liam through this alive.

  Kelson found that he recognized few of his fellow visitors by sight, though most of them could hardly be unaware of who he was. He did know Bahadur Khan, King of R’Kassi, of whom Létald had spoken in Horthánthy—the uncle with whom Létald’s son was soon to begin service. The Hortic heir was at his uncle’s side as his father brought Kelson to exchange greetings, and would return with him to R’Kassi, after the inauguration at Holy Iób. Kelson had bought horses from Bahadur. And Isarn of Logréine was often at the court of Gwynedd, promoting the premium wines produced by his tiny principality.

  Kelson was somewhat surprised to find several of his own western neighbors represented as well: Gron, Grand Duke of Calam, on behalf of the Connaiti Council of Sovereign Princes, and even a deputy of Colman King of Llannedd. Later he saw Azim amid a handful of other nobles from the desert principalities, startlingly clad in the royal blue of Nur Hallaj rather than his customary black, for he was standing in for his brother, Prince Hakim. Azim touched his right hand to his heart as their eyes met, inclining his head slightly in response to Kelson’s nod.

  As Létald worked them closer to the royal pavilion, Kelson gathered both his dukes closer to his side. Their reception was cordial on Liam’s part, but only barely civil on the part of the courtiers surrounding him, save for Rasoul; Mátyás was not in evidence. Morag had absented herself on seeing the approach of the man who had slain her husband and her brother. The eldest uncle, Mahael, tendered Kelson a frosty bow but only the barest words of formal greeting before returning to his conversation with another Torenthi noble.

  No less disquieting was Liam’s brother: an intense, wary ten-year-old little resembling his elder sibling, bright-haired among the dark heads of his Furstáni kin. Well shielded in his own right and by the uncle hovering close at his side—the one called Teymuraz—young Ronal Rurik gave Kelson dutiful salute exactly according to the degree required, but soon let himself be drawn away in his uncle’s charge. Watching them go, Kelson reflected that the boy probably had good cause to be wary—though fleeing with Teymuraz rather than from him was probably not as safe as Ronal Rurik believed. But Kelson had hardly expected any different behavior.

  That afternoon, Kelson observed little that was expected. Things were, indeed, different in Torenth, and he was struck repeatedly with how much he had to learn. One of the day’s more poignant lessons came later in the afternoon, as he was exchanging obligatory courtesies with a somewhat condescending pair of Torenthi courtiers presented by Father Irenaeus. Dhugal was still with him, but Morgan had drifted off to confer with Derry and Arilan and Saer de Traherne.

  Later, Kelson could not have said why his attention wandered just then; only that he became fleetingly aware that Liam was walking utterly alone with Mátyás, their two heads bent in private converse, for the brief span that it took to cross from a flower-twined pergola to a sun-dappled pool with fat carp lazing just below the surface. Seated farther along the marble edging of the pool, more than one guest had found a cool refuge to sit and rest aching feet.

  Even then, obliged to make at least a pretense of following the conversation with Irenaeus and his countrymen, Kelson would have paid the royal pair little mind—except that something in the intensity of their brief exchange struck him oddly as having far more import than idle chatter, even though the encounter seemed superficially casual.

  It was enough to make him gaze distractedly after them as Mátyás continued on past the pool to join a knot of his countrymen. Liam, in turn, made his way casually in the direction of a dark-haired little girl of perhaps six or so who was crouched expectantly between Brendan and Payne at the far side of the pool, all of them gazing into the pool as she let the end of a long blue-black braid trail in the water, hands poised to either side. She pounced just as Liam reached them, plunging both hands into the water to scoop up one of the golden carp, holding it aloft with a squeal of triumph and spraying herself and both young admirers.

  Accompanied by whoops of merriment, both Brendan and Payne tried manfully to catch hold of the slippery fish as it flapped and wiggled and struggled to escape, and even Liam belatedly joined in, though without effect. The splash of the carp’s return to the pool gave all four of them a not unwelcome shower, and Payne very nearly tumbled in after it.

  “What a charming child,” Kelson remarked to Father Irenaeus, as the little girl and all three of her companions dissolved into peals of laughter. “It appears she has captivated both your king and a pair of my pages.”

  Irenaeus stiffened slightly, looking almost embarrassed, and the two courtiers exchanged uneasy glances.

  “She is the Princess Stanisha, sister of the padishah,” said Count Ungnad, the older of the two Torenthi courtiers.

  “His sister?!”

  “The posthumous daughter of Duke Lionel,” Count László said frostily. “I believe you may take credit for the fact that she never knew her father.”

  Kelson imagined he could feel his face going scarlet. No one had ever mentioned any posthumous child of Lionel, whom Kelson had been obliged to kill. Not even Liam had seen fit to mention her—though, in truth, she would have been barely walking when last he saw her.

  “I did not know,” he said quietly. “It has never been my intention to deprive children of their fathers. Please God, there soon will come a time when no child will lose a father betimes, because of war between our two lands.”

  Father Irenaeus closed his eyes and nodded, tight-lipped, crossing himself with sober deliberation. “May God receive your prayer with favor, my lord,” he breathed, “and grant its speedy fulfillment.”

  Kelson mirrored the priest’s sign of blessing with a whispered “Amen,” and the two Torenthi counts somewhat belatedly followed suit.

  The long, sultry afternoon dragged gradually into dusk. As Kelson and Morgan stood leaning against one of the stone railings, gazing out over the dimming city, Liam came casually to join them.

  “I hope you have enjoyed yourselves today,” he said, though something in the young king’s manner suggested that the statement was not altogether casual.

  “Thank you, we have,” Kelson replied. “And you?”

  Liam shrugged. “There is much to occupy my mind, much to learn, much to think about. Count Berrhones has asked that we begin rehearsals immediately for the killijálay, so we go tomorrow to Torenthály and Holy Iób. He is to be master of ceremonies, and he takes his responsibilities very seriously. I believe he fears that outsiders will not easily adapt to our ways.”

  “I hope that I may not be taken altogether for an outsider, Liam,” Kelson said quietly. “I have paid careful heed to Father Irenaeus’s instruction.”

  Liam managed a smile that was almost convincing. “I have little fear in that regard, my lord. It will be a great comfort to me to have you participate in my enthronement—despite what my uncles may say.”

  “I must confess that their reception has been. . . guarded,” Kelson repli
ed, “though that was no more than I expected. Is there something else that concerns you?”

  Liam looked away, his dark gaze flicking out over the city. “All shall be well,” he murmured. “You must trust me in this.”

  But when Kelson attempted gentle exploration of this enigmatic statement, Liam would not be drawn out. He dined with them a little later, accompanied by Mátyás and inviting the company of several nobles whom Kelson had not met earlier—Káspár of Truvorsk, and Erdödy of Jandrich, both of them dukes, and a count’s son called Makróry of Kulnán—but there was no opportunity to speak again in private. Neither of the other uncles was present. Afterward, Dhugal remarked that Liam had seemed almost at pains to ensure that no private exchange was possible.

  The next day marked the first of many rehearsals for killijálay. At midmorning, a procession of state caïques took the royal party upriver to Torenthály, country seat of the Furstáns and site of Hagia Iób, that jewel among churches, where Kings of Torenth had been girded with the sword and enthroned since time immemorial. The purple-liveried oarsmen of the lead vessel rowed to the shimmer of bells to set the pace—a festive sound, but one that discouraged conversation, and which slowly built on the tension as the complex came into sight.

  Unlike other churches Kelson had seen en route to Beldour—and there had been many—the clustered onion domes of Hagia Iób were clad with burnished gold, almost blinding in the summer sun as the royal party disembarked at the ceremonial quay and made their way on foot up the straight, cobbled Avenue des Rois. Save for the covered entry porch, which was gilded like the domes, the rest of the building was covered with the same gold-starred blue tiles of which Rasoul had spoken on their journey here; the high, narrow windows set around the base of the principal dome were limned with gold. The structure itself was somewhat smaller than Kelson had expected—though he reminded himself that Hagia Iób was not a cathedral but a memorial church and place of ceremony.

  Passing from the heat outside, through the building’s gold-cased double doors, was like stepping into another world. The vestibule within was hushed and cool—welcome respite as servants there divested them of boots and shoes and put upon them soft slippers of felt, for the inlaid floors and carpets within were too precious to walk upon shod. The walls and vaulted ceiling were clad with more of the blue tiles; and here, close at hand, Kelson could discern the shimmer of gold in the glazing, making the tiles almost glow in the light of handfire streaming from a pierced lantern.

  Beyond another set of even grander double doors lay a broad, long nave surmounted at the transept crossing with a vast and lofty space beneath a dome that seemed to stretch very near to heaven. The murmur of many softly echoing voices met them as they entered the church, for several dozen men, lay and clergy, were already assembled for the rehearsal. Conversation quickly died away as those waiting melted back against the walls, a lingering echo of their converse continuing to reverberate within the vast dome crowning the nave.

  But it was not the dome to which the eye was immediately drawn, but what lay beneath it: the black tomb of Furstán, for which the great church had been built, final resting place of this almost legendary founder of the Torenthi royal house, whose black sarcophagus was the focal point for the transmission of Furstáni kingship.

  Kelson could sense its potency as he approached the relic, walking between Liam and Holy Alpheios, the grey-bearded Patriarch of Torenth, who had come to give them welcome. Kelson stopped when they stopped, rendering a respectful inclination of his head when Alpheios and Liam bowed deeply from the waist and crossed themselves in an expansive gesture that swept from brow to floor and then, as they straightened, from right shoulder to left in the Eastern manner. Early during Liam’s sojourn at the court of Rhemuth, the boy had shown Kelson how, in token of the Trinity, the thumb was held pressed to the first two fingers of the right hand, and the two remaining fingers were folded into the palm, denoting the dual nature of Christ, both God and man. He had further explained that the sweep of the hand from forehead to floor was intended to encompass all of the worshipper’s being in the gesture of reverence—a symbolism that appealed to Kelson’s aesthetic sense, even though the custom was alien to his own tradition.

  The form of the tomb thus saluted was likewise outside his previous experience, the top peaked along its length like the roof of a long, narrow house. Rough-hewn from a matte-black granite, the sarcophagus itself was encased in a framework of fretted silver inlaid with bits of onyx, delicate tracery as fine and fragile as a spider’s web. Spears of sunlight from a series of narrow slits high in the dome pierced the incense-laden air to cast a constant dappling of illumination on the silver. But what pulsed deep within the relic’s heart was something more than merely mortal, akin to the glimpses Kelson sometimes had been vouchsafed when meditating in the Presence of the Blessed Sacrament, or when he had felt the touch of Saint Camber.

  “Here lie the bones of my distant ancestor, the great Furstán,” Liam informed him, indicating the tomb but carefully avoiding physical contact. “It is said that his spirit attends upon the empowerment of each new king who follows him. I felt a whisper of his touch when I was girded with the sword, at the New Year after my brother died; but in a few days’ time, I shall feel his full embrace.”

  At Kelson’s faintly wide-eyed glance, Holy Alpheios squared his shoulders.

  “You are advised not to scoff at our ways, Kelson of Gwynedd,” he said, softly enough that none but Liam and Kelson could hear him. “Torenthi tradition stretches back to a time when Gwynedd was but an outpost of Empire—and your Deryni folk have been long apart from the magic of our race.”

  The patriarch’s rich basso seemed to have come from some deep wellspring of confidence and spirituality—a most powerful Deryni, beyond doubt—and Kelson acknowledged that potency with a respectful bow.

  “I assure you, All Holy, that I do not scoff,” he said quietly. “I am eager to learn more of your ways. Father Irenaeus spent many an hour instructing me in the history of your people and your practice of our mutual faith. External differences are but illusion. I come into this house of God with humble heart and the utmost respect.”

  Some of the tension had left the patriarch’s face as Kelson spoke, and he favored the visiting king with a thoughtful bow in return.

  “That was gracefully said, if its source was a truly humble heart,” Alpheios allowed, a hint of a pleased smile twitching his silvery beard as he lifted a hand toward a black-robed monk waiting just beyond earshot. “Pray, allow Father Károly to conduct you to a suitable vantage point. I fear that, even having been instructed, today’s proceedings may appear somewhat bewildering; I confess myself sometimes somewhat bewildered, when Berrhones begins barking orders,” he added with a sidelong glance toward the elderly courtier consulting a sheaf of parchment pages, blessedly out of earshot.

  “But Father Károly will attempt to explain what is happening, and to answer any questions you may have,” Alpheios went on. “I am certain that Father Irenaeus will have told you that Torenth observes somewhat different external ritual from that to which you are accustomed. But as you say, these differences of practice are but illusion beside true faith.”

  Deeming a bow to be sufficient reply, Kelson let himself be swept into the guardianship of the self-effacing Father Károly, who ushered him to the north side of the soaring nave where Father Irenaeus was pointing out architectural symbolism to Morgan, Dhugal, and Arilan. As Kelson exchanged social courtesies with Father Károly, he found himself pondering what Alpheios had said, wondering whether he had detected a note of guarded acceptance in the patriarch’s manner.

  Very soon, the sound of Count Berrhones’ staff rapping on the floor gathered all the milling nobility and clergy into places that suddenly looked very planned, indeed, and the rehearsal began. Since Torenthi custom was to stand throughout religious observances, seats being provided only for the elderly and infirm, Kelson and his party stood throughout the long rehearsal that follo
wed, with not even a wall to lean against.

  At least it was cool in the lofty church. While Kelson watched Liam process toward the shimmering black silhouette of Furstán’s tomb for at least the third time, preceded by his mother and brother and Mahael and surrounded by his other two uncles and Counts László and Branyng, whom they had met the previous afternoon, he found his gaze ranging somewhat restively over the rest of the church’s interior, letting his thoughts wander where they would, hoping he might connect with any scrap of insight that might help him to understand this alien land.

  He tipped his head backward to gaze upward at the high-arched ceiling of Hagia Iób. Father Irenaeus had told him that the inside of an Eastern church was meant to pattern the image of God’s kingdom on earth, the lofty dome enfolding the sacred space like a loving embrace. The underside of this dome was washed with the same celestial blue he had seen elsewhere, and gilded and painted with holy images: the four Evangelists in the four quarters, and Christ reigning in majesty from the center.

  Looking east, Kelson found further rich feast for the eyes. Rather than the customary rood screen, choir, and high altar that he would have expected in a Western church, a gilded and painted icon screen divided the nave from the sanctuary that lay beyond a pair of open gates in the center. Through that opening, dimly lit by a hanging Presence lamp, Kelson could see a square altar draped with golden brocade, the cloth richly worked on its front with jewels and embroidery, on which stood a golden tabernacle shaped like a miniature castle, and a massive seven-branched candlestick. Before the tabernacle lay what, by its jeweled cover, Kelson assumed to be the Book of the Gospel.