“But Mahael has wielded part of that power during his tenure as regent, and is loath to give it up. It is his intent to mind-rip Laje rather than diminish his own influence. Ronal Rurik either will be killed in the confusion, or will shortly meet an ‘accident’ such as befell his brother Alroy Arion. Either way, Mahael shall be king.”
“And what of Morag’s part in all of this?” Kelson asked. “Was she a party to Alroy’s death, and does she now countenance the murder of her two remaining sons?”
“No, to both questions,” Mátyás replied. “But though she has shared in her sons’ regencies, a woman may not take up the power of Furstán. Not that she could not, if she chose—as one might expect of the sister of Wencit ho Phourstanos. But without that power, she would be no match for Mahael wielding the additional focus of a Moving Ward.”
“And Ronal Rurik?”
Mátyás shrugged in dismissal. “He is a boy of ten, and shares no part of Furstán’s power. Laje was permitted to assume at least a portion of that power, when he was girded with the sword. But he will be obliged to set it aside and open himself unreservedly before attempting to receive the fullness of his heritage. And in that moment, he will be utterly vulnerable.”
The duplicity of the plot was no less than Kelson might have expected of Mahael; and by no skill that he knew to apply was he able to detect any hint that Mátyás’s own revulsion for the plot was anything less than genuine. Liam himself had gone white during the recitation, tight-jawed but utterly focused on his uncle. A glance at Morgan confirmed a similar reading of the count’s truthfulness.
“What is it you propose?” Kelson asked.
Mátyás folded his hand around the icon hanging from his neck, his lips momentarily tightening, looking distressed.
“To save my king, I must betray my brothers,” he said softly. “Before God and the Blessed Virgin, I swear that it was never my ambition to become caught up in the power struggles that have destroyed so many of my kin. Duke Alaric, I spoke truly when I told you that my greatest contentment is to tend my vines and care for my family. I long to see my young son grown to manhood, and to know the child yet in its mother’s womb. If I fail in what I propose, I shall see none of these things.”
“Indeed, you shall not,” Morgan muttered through tight jaws, “for if you play us false in this, I shall slay you myself, though I must come back from hell to do it!”
“I hope to spare you that journey,” Mátyás said with a faint smile. “In truth, I would be false to no one, but my brothers have been false to their own blood, and slain the last rightful king, and would slay another—him whom I love even as Arkady loved Nikola. Whether I will it or no, I must involve myself in affairs of state, lest my brothers seize the power that is not theirs to hold, and in doing so, deny Laje his chance to enjoy at least a part of what I have known: to live in love and contentment in the joy of wife and children, to turn his birthright toward peace. . . .
“I think this can be given him,” he went on, with more determination. “My abilities are not inconsiderable—and far greater than my brothers are aware. But I cannot do this alone.”
“But it can be done?” Kelson asked.
Mátyás nodded. “I believe it can. But it will require risk and boldness on your part as well.”
“What is it you propose?”
“I shall ensure that Count László is unable to take his part in the Moving Ward—never mind how. Laje will then propose that you take László’s place. Nay, he will insist upon it.”
“Will you kill László?” Morgan said quietly.
Mátyás looked away, suppressing a grimace. “I have never killed before—but he is plotting to kill my king. Death is a fitting fate for traitors.”
“And for your brothers?” Kelson asked.
“I would hope for judicial execution, if we are successful,” he said, lowering his eyes. “Thus should traitors meet their end. But if I must slay them myself, in direct defense of my king—so be it. I hope I may have your support.”
“Father Károly said that working in a Moving Ward requires considerable training,” Kelson pointed out. “Nor is such a working within my previous experience or even the tradition in which I have been taught.”
Mátyás nodded. “I understand that. Competent instruction can be obtained, and from a source you may trust. The expenditure of power is considerable, but it is said that you derive formidable resources from your Haldane potentials. I believe you may be equal to the task.”
“And then what?” Kelson asked. “Will my mere presence in the Moving Ward prevent your brothers from making the attempt on Liam?”
“I doubt it,” Mátyás replied. “But together, you and I should be able to protect Laje long enough to allow his assumption of his full power—and then you and I and Laje can overcome them.”
“Or,” Morgan muttered, “you and your brothers could overcome two troublesome kings, and eventually rule all the known world—for I think Mahael’s ambitions do not stop at Torenth’s borders.”
“If I am lying to you—and to Laje,” Mátyás said, “then perhaps that is true. But I am not lying.”
They returned to the Nikolaseum very shortly, lest their absence be noted. Dhugal had no suspicious behavior to report on the part of their waiting guards, and no one else had approached along the Avenue des Rois.
Because they were on public view again, once they emerged from the Nikolaseum, they did not attempt to brief Dhugal regarding what had taken place—though, clearly, neither Kelson nor Morgan had come to any harm. The guards who rejoined them as they walked briskly back toward the waiting royal caïque were not Deryni, but there were Deryni among the vessel’s officers.
Not until much later that night, after a tedious state dinner in the presence of Mahael, Teymuraz, and the treacherous Counts László and Branyng, was Kelson able to share with Dhugal what Mátyás had told them. Dhugal remained dubious, even though he understood why the king had tentatively agreed to the plan.
“I suppose it’s occurred to you that Mátyás might have figured out a way around being Truth-Read,” he pointed out glumly. “Even if he’s telling the truth, even if he can do what he says he can, are you capable of learning what you need to know—and quickly enough—to function usefully in a Torenthi ritual?”
“I don’t know.”
“No, you don’t. Kelson, they do things differently here, starting with the way they cross themselves. What you’re describing will require serious cooperation, not to mention trust—and initially, it’s going to be you and Mátyás against Mahael and Teymuraz and their crony—what’s his name, Branyng? Even Mátyás admits that he isn’t sure the two of you will be strong enough to stop them.”
“We’ll have Liam on our side,” Kelson pointed out.
“Yes—if and when you get him far enough through the ritual to be effective. It sounds like the ritual strips him bare before it tops up his power. And the imagery of the magic is all . . . different. And what if Mátyás is lying, and this is all a setup to kill you, not Liam—or to kill you and Liam?”
“I asked Mátyás that very same question,” Morgan replied. “It could very easily be a double-cross on either or both their parts.”
“It could be,” Kelson agreed. “But I don’t think it is.”
“You don’t think,” Dhugal repeated sourly, emphasizing all three words. “That’s a pretty big gamble, Kel—maybe as big as any you’ve ever taken.”
“I know that,” Kelson whispered. “But I can’t just abandon Liam to the less than loving intentions of his uncles. Not if I’m to provide him with the protection I promised when we exchanged oaths of fealty. To do less would be to betray my own oath—to lessen my honor as a man, as a king. We can only pray that Mátyás is, indeed, genuine—and take what precautions we can, in case he isn’t.”
“I wonder whether we should consult with Arilan about this,” Morgan ventured. “Or maybe Azim.”
“I think I’d prefer to wait until we�
�ve seen whether Mátyás really is prepared to sacrifice Count László,” Kelson replied. “And maybe not even then. I want to get a further feel for how our enigmatic count holds up under pressure.”
“There’s still a great deal of scope for interpretation, regarding what he’s told us,” Morgan said thoughtfully. “I find myself returning to his assertion that he’s never killed before—which could simply mean that he’s never soiled his own hands. Truth-Reading wouldn’t detect the nuances, if he’d ordered others to do his dirty work.”
“Do you think he has?” Kelson countered.
Morgan considered for a moment, then slowly shook his head.
“Actually, I don’t. I can’t tell you why I feel this way, but I think that the face he’s shown us—and Liam—is that of an honest and honorable man, who genuinely abhors the violence of the past. He must be walking an incredible tightrope.”
“But, what if you’re both wrong?” Dhugal asked.
“I suppose we’ll only know that as the future unfolds,” Kelson replied. “Based on our conversation today, however, I think we can safely assume that the untimely demise of Count László any time in the next few days will probably be the work of at least one of the Furstán brothers. If it’s only Mátyás, we may, indeed, have an ally.
“But if either of the others seems even remotely involved, then this whole situation becomes even more delicate than we feared—because it means that we never won over Liam at all, and the old hostilities between Gwynedd and Torenth are set to flare up all over again.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Many mighty men have been greatly disgraced.
Ecclesiasticus 11:6
With no general rehearsal set for the following day, the guests of Torenth were at leisure through the morning. Though Count László was not in evidence, no word had yet come of any change in his fortunes. At the invitation of Liam himself, Kelson and Dhugal and Morgan sampled the delights of the royal baths, deep in the bowels of the palace, seeking refuge from the heat.
In the afternoon, duty required their appearance at yet another state reception for prominent guests arriving daily for the coming killijálay. This one was to receive Prince Centule of Vezaire and the Crown Prince of Jáca, Prince Rotrou, representing two of the Forcinn States. Rotrou had brought his daughter, the Princess Ekaterina, a dark-eyed beauty who caused Dhugal to take sharp notice.
“I wonder why no one sent you her portrait,” he murmured aside to Kelson.
“Just keep your mind on business.”
“I am,” Dhugal replied. “But I can look, can’t I?”
As they now knew was customary in the summer heat, the reception was held in the shady tranquillity of one of the tiered gardens, where guests could stroll beside the fountains and ponds and catch the cooling breezes, sampling dainties from the royal kitchens and quaffing chilled wines, all to the accompaniment of harp and lute filtering from a ladies’ bower. Kelson had already paid his respects to the new arrivals and to the sovereign Princess of Andelon, a handsome, serene woman whom he believed to be a distant relation of Rothana, though he was reluctant to ask. Before introducing them, Rasoul had told him that the Princess Sofiana was reckoned to be one of the most powerful Deryni in the Forcinn, and had married her children into most of the royal houses of the East.
Indeed, she seemed to be on cordial terms with nearly everyone present. In addition to her husband, a mild-mannered gentleman dressed in the Jácan fashion, with absolutely impenetrable shields, she was accompanied by their younger son and his wife, the latter clearly with child.
“Andelon is a prosperous state,” Count Berrhones told them later, as he brought wine for Kelson and Dhugal, “and Sofiana is both subtle and adroit—her father’s daughter, in every respect. He was a very great prince. It is said that she married the Lord Reyhan for love, since he has no wealth to speak of. An elder son will inherit—the Prince Kamil—but Prince Taher is believed to be her favorite. A daughter is consort to the Crown Prince of Nur Hallaj—whose sister, I believe, is known to you.”
Which was the link Kelson had been trying to remember. The Crown Prince of Nur Hallaj was Rothana’s brother.
A little later, as the gathering began to disperse, because of the heat of the afternoon, Rasoul came with an offer to escort a leisurely ride-out beyond the city walls, into the cooler refuge of the nearby hills—also an opportunity to escape the press of so much protocol, at least for a few hours. Though the prospect was tempting, Kelson tried to stall. Formal obligations of the day satisfied, the royal uncles and Count Branyng were preparing to retire with Liam for a practice session with the Moving Ward, as soon as Count László made his appearance. But László still had not arrived.
The reason soon became clear—if there had been any doubt in Kelson’s mind, as the day wore on—as an excited verbal exchange suddenly erupted beneath the trellised arches far across the lawns, ruffling the tranquillity of the terraced garden. Though the circumstances were not immediately clear, the flurry of activity soon spawned a grim-faced senior courtier and a nervous and perspiring man in the livery of the city guard, followed purposefully by an older man of imposing dignity whom Kelson knew to be the Grand Vizier of Beldour, in charge of security for the city.
Kelson, in the company of Dhugal, Morgan, and Derry, had been discussing the proposed ride-out with Rasoul, Father Irenaeus, and a facile young man named Lord Raduslav, grandson of the Count Berrhones. But conversation ceased and all eyes turned in the direction of Liam and his uncles as the liveried messenger abased himself at their feet and began gasping out his news.
“What?”
Mahael’s bellow carried to every corner of the garden precincts, and his red face bore witness to his outrage and consternation. Both Irenaeus and Lord Raduslav immediately drifted in that direction, lingering nearby until Mahael, his brothers, and an apparently distressed Liam disappeared into the palace with the vizier and the messenger. Father Irenaeus followed after them, but young Raduslav returned to report breathlessly to Kelson and his companions.
“A thousand pardons for the temporary abandonment,” he said, nodding to Rasoul. “It seemed prudent to find out what has happened.”
“Yes?” Rasoul said impatiently.
Raduslav rolled his eyes. “It now becomes clear why our naughty Count László has not yet made his appearance. Not an hour ago, his lifeless body was pulled from the river, nude save for a woman’s veil tightly knotted around his throat.”
Rasoul likewise cast his eyes heavenward and sighed, saying nothing. Kelson exchanged glances with his companions.
“Count László had—how shall I put it?—prodigious appetites,” Raduslav explained. “At this time of year, lovers often take their dalliance under the stars, in small boats, some of which are quite lavishly appointed. Alas, I fear László may have offended one too many jealous husbands.”
His tone suggested that the manner of László’s death came as no great surprise, nor was entirely undeserved, but Kelson found himself wondering whether a jealous husband had, indeed, had any part in Count László’s demise—and what part Mátyás might have played in the affair.
“Duke Mahael seemed particularly upset,” he observed. “Was Count László a close friend?”
“Far more than that,” Rasoul offered. “He was the fourth part of the Moving Ward, one of the Pillars of the Realm. My lord Mahael will not have been pleased that he now must replace him.”
“Exactly,” Raduslav agreed. “Already, they argue over who should take his place. I could not hear the padishah’s remark, but his uncles seemed not to be pleased. I would not wish to be present for the clash of wills no doubt in progress.”
Kelson lingered in the garden for some time, listening to speculation among the others present, but the brothers did not emerge—though Azim did, to whisper in the ear Rasoul bent to hear him. Very soon, in an apparent bid to divert attention from this evidence of disharmony within the Torenthi royal house, Rasoul again announced his willi
ngness to conduct at least some of the royal visitors on the proposed ride-out from Beldour—an offer that Kelson now was ready to accept, for it appeared that no additional news concerning László was likely to be soon forthcoming. In case it should, he left Morgan behind with Létald and Arilan and a knot of Forcinn observers, and took Dhugal and Derry with him.
Somewhat to his surprise, Prince Azim was among those who joined the expedition into the hills; and when they stopped to rest and water their horses, after a long gallop up a grassy hillside, Kelson found himself adroitly drawn apart by the Deryni mage, who led the way toward a pool formed by a spectacular waterfall. When the horses had drunk, and they had led them into the cool shade of a sprawling pine, Azim lifted his saddle flap to adjust a girth strap, glancing at Kelson across the high-cantled saddle between them.
“Are you aware of the suggestion that Liam-Lajos has made to his uncles?” he asked, so softly that Kelson could just hear him above the sound of the rushing water.
“I’ve heard nothing,” he said truthfully. “But I take it that you have.”
Azim smiled at him faintly across his saddle. “From mere danger to mortal peril, my prince. He wishes you to take László’s place in the Moving Ward.”
Kelson feigned innocence of any such notion, merely blinking at Azim. “Me?”
“It seems you have gained his trust,” Azim said neutrally, watching him closely. “The elder brothers are adamant that this must not be allowed, but the youngest counsels indulging the young padishah—who will have his way, it seems.”
Kelson only shook his head lightly, in apparent bewilderment. “You sound very certain of that. How do you know such things?”
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