“I have my—informers,” the other replied gravely. “And you need not play coy with me, Kelson of Gwynedd. You but waste both your time and mine. If you are prepared to trust me in the matter of your future queen, you must trust me in this. Are you able for the task that Liam-Lajos proposes to ask of you?”
“Suppose you tell me,” Kelson countered. “Am I able? Can you teach me?”
Azim inclined his head. “I can. And I must, it seems. They are saying that young Lajos will not be moved, once his mind is set. He is very like his father in that regard. As for you, my prince, I think you are, indeed, able for the task. The question is, are you willing?”
“I have little choice, if that is what Liam wishes,” Kelson replied, looking down toward the pool, where Dhugal and Derry were watering their horses—and casting the occasional glance in his direction. “If he is bound to me as vassal, I am equally bound as his overlord. I am aware that the prospect of his enthronement has caused him great anxiety. He has—even confided his uncertainty to me regarding his uncles’ intentions.”
Azim also turned his face toward the pool, allowing himself a small sigh. “My prince, I think it is a very important thing that you do, in aiding Liam-Lajos in this way,” he said softly. “God grant that you may both survive it.”
Kelson glanced at him sharply, daring to probe gently at Azim’s shields but getting nowhere. “Azim, are you trying to warn me about Liam’s uncles?” he whispered.
“I think that anyone who underestimates the guile of the elder brothers Furstán is very foolish, indeed,” Azim said enigmatically.
“And what of the youngest brother, and Liam himself?” Kelson pressed.
“I have said all that I may,” Azim replied. “But you would be well advised to consider carefully what I have said,” he added, before turning his horse’s head to lead it back toward the others, leaving Kelson wondering just what kind of warning—or reassurance—he had been given.
The king told Morgan and Dhugal of the conversation later that evening, secure within the wards they had set to guard his quarters against Torenthi spying, but the pair were as mystified as he. Azim’s specific exclusion of Mátyás from his warning about Liam’s two elder uncles did seem to suggest, by default, that Mátyás was to be trusted; but was a default endorsement sufficient, when dealing with the present threat, which grew more complicated—and more dangerous—almost by the hour?
Morgan, who knew Azim far better than did Kelson, could offer no explanation for Azim’s apparent involvement in the thick of Torenthi politics. He could only agree that if Liam did, indeed, ask Kelson to replace László in the Moving Ward, the king had no choice but to accept—and no choice but to accept Azim’s assistance in learning how to carry out that task. Kelson slept badly that night, aware that whichever way the next day went, he was being led—or pushed—into a situation not entirely of his choosing or within his control or competence.
The next morning, while he prodded at a headache and they awaited instructions regarding the day’s schedule, he was hardly surprised to find his presence requested by one of Mahael’s liveried retainers, to attend a select Torenthi court in one of the small withdrawing rooms deep in the heart of the palace. He took Morgan and Dhugal with him, and found Azim, Arilan, and Létald waiting for him outside the door. By their expressions, they already knew what was about to be asked of him. None of them looked happy.
Inside, a determined-looking Liam was sitting beneath a state canopy—not precisely holding court, but clearly asserting his authority. No one else was seated—though that was fairly common in Torenthi court protocol. Mahael, Teymuraz, and Mátyás were clustered to one side of Liam’s chair, looking mostly sour and dissatisfied.
The Patriarch Alpheios stood at the other side, leaning on a pastoral staff shaped like a tau, his deep purple robe touching a somber note amid the other finery of the court, a black veil trailing from the back of his flat-topped hat. An ornate pectoral cross and two panagia adorned his breast. Kelson noticed that Mátyás also wore his enamelled icon of the Blessed Virgin, and touched it lightly, in an apparently idle movement, as his eye briefly met Kelson’s.
“The court of Torenth greets Kelson of Gwynedd in Christ’s love,” Alpheios said, as Kelson and his party entered the room and the door closed behind them. Kelson gave a nod of acknowledgment both to Liam and to the patriarch, and his companions offered more formal salute. “I am instructed to make certain inquiries regarding your willingness to assist the padishah in a delicate matter.”
Kelson inclined his head in Alpheios’ direction, now quite sure what he was about to be asked.
“As his feudal superior, I am always eager to learn how I may assist Liam-Lajos in the performance of his duties, Holiness.”
“Torenth thanks you,” Alpheios replied. “Perhaps you will have heard, then, that a valued member of the court of Torenth passed away yesterday: our dear Count László of Czalsky. He shall be greatly missed on his personal merits, for all did esteem him highly; but his demise at this time carries unfortunate and serious official repercussions as well, for he was to have served as one of the Moving Wards for the padishah’s enthronement. To stand as a Pillar of the Realm at killijálay is deemed one of the highest honors that the House of Furstán can bestow, but great skill is required to serve in this capacity. It is the desire of the padishah to offer you this honor—that you take the place of Count László—but he will understand if you prefer to decline, not having experience of this function, nor familiarity with our ways.”
Kelson favored the patriarch with a respectful bow. Probably on the instruction of Mahael, Alpheios had phrased the invitation to offer him no graceful way to decline without greatly losing face—which could mean that Kelson’s presence in the Moving Ward was precisely what Mahael wanted. But Kelson had to believe that neither Liam nor Mátyás had lied to him. He dared not decline the offer probably so dearly won by the young king.
“I appreciate your concern for our differences, Holiness,” he murmured, choosing careful, courtly words to convey his answer—and careful, also, to avoid any deviation from literal truth, for he had no doubt that every Deryni in the room was reading him for any trace of the lie.
“In fact, I had been informed of Count László’s demise—and had learned that Liam-Lajos desired me to assist in this capacity. I have taken the liberty of seeking counsel of Prince Azim, who is more conversant than I with the requirements of the function and who also has some acquaintance with my own abilities.” Azim bowed as Kelson gestured in his direction, one hand to his breast. “He has assured me that, under his tutelage, I can learn the necessary skills to serve in this capacity. In addition, perhaps you would be so kind as to lend me the services of Father Irenaeus or Father Károly, to give me further instruction regarding the ceremonials customary in your observances; for I desire to fulfill my part in this very important event in Torenth’s history in the reverent manner you would wish.”
He sensed a collective sigh of relief breathing through the room—but whether it was from gladness that he would relieve them of this momentary stutter in expected protocol and procedure or from expectation that he would fail, he could not tell.
That very afternoon, Kelson began private instruction with Azim. He had never worked directly with the Deryni master, whose training came by way of the Knights of the Anvil and disciplines once practiced by the Knights of Saint Michael, back in the time of Saint Camber; but he knew that Azim had taught both Richenda and Rothana. (He had also contributed to Araxie’s training, but Kelson tried to put that awareness from his mind, lest he be distracted from the task at hand.) By unspoken and mutual agreement, nothing of past affiliations was allowed to intrude, for both of them were well aware how much Kelson had to master, and in so little time. Nor was the possible deception of Mátyás and of Liam himself in the developing scenario ever mentioned.
“Balancing the energies will not be your concern,” Azim told him, while they rested between sessions i
nvolving the visualizations Kelson must master, as representative of the Western Quarter. “Liam must blend the contributions of the four of you to stabilize the sphere of protection. While he does this, you must merely hold steady with the image you project—but you must hold it for two periods of approximately two hours: first, for the journey between here and Holy Iób, and then during the killijálay itself, which may be shorter, but will certainly be more intense, however things transpire. You will have a respite of no more than a quarter-hour between the two.”
“Will that be long enough to recover?” Kelson asked.
“It must be long enough. Fortunately, by assigning you to the West—which is exceedingly appropriate, given Gwynedd’s position relative to Torenth—they have also given you what is perhaps the least demanding of the four positions—the sphere of Gabriel, whose patron is Our Lady.”
“This is the least demanding?” Kelson murmured, rubbing at his temples.
Azim gave him a brittle smile. “Aye, the North is most difficult, perhaps; Uriel is the least understood of the archangels. But Mátyás is competent to mediate in that Quarter. The most dangerous is the South, where Teymuraz will wield Fire—for Micháel Archangelos takes precedence for the purposes of killijálay.
“But I can teach you much of that aspect, in what time we have before us,” Azim went on. “You are an apt pupil. Being familiar with Fire’s attributes, you may be able to minimize whatever trickery Teymuraz might have in mind. In the East, Branyng could also present formidable opposition, should the brothers decide to turn against you. He will have the might of storm behind him.” He shook his head. “All are powerful positions.”
“But each wields power that must be channelled in Liam’s cause,” Kelson replied, drawing himself up for yet another attempt to increase his staying power for the required visualization. “If I can, I must help to ensure that precisely that happens.”
In the beginning, he had been able to hold his focus for barely ten minutes. By the following morning, he could hold it for an hour—and for three, before the day was out. With Azim’s help, he slept like a dead man that night, but he awoke clear-headed, as Azim had promised.
Later that morning, Azim brought Father Irenaeus, Father Károly, and an elderly gentleman called Janos Sokrat to assist him. All had experience of Moving Wards, though such were usually the province of younger men—and these greybeards had not the endurance to maintain one for as long as would be required of Kelson. Janos, the most accomplished of them, had milky cataracts over both eyes, and walked with the aid of a young boy, but his mind was razor-sharp, his visualization of Uriel, in the North, a tower of anchoring strength for the balance of the Ward the four of them began rehearsing. Father Károly took charge of the South, and Father Irenaeus did a credible job in the East, with Azim himself assuming Liam’s role for the rehearsals, blending the energies seamlessly as he raised the protective Ward.
Working as part of a team, with three others sharing the energy drain and Azim directing from their midst, Kelson soon discovered that merely maintaining the Ward, once established—even a Moving one—required far less power than he had first assumed. Actually to move required little concentration beyond making sure that the four of them remained in physical alignment. After an hour’s practice, though they did not venture outside the room in which they worked, Kelson felt reasonably confident that he would be able to carry off his part in the first phase of the exercise for as long as it took—at least to the point when the actual transfer of power began.
For that, he would be handling far more and different types of power, helping channel Liam’s energies as well as keeping his own in balance with those of the other three Wards; and Azim told him that there would be no opportunity to actually experience this part of the working until the day, for the power drain was considerable. Unspoken until their three assistants retired for the day was the certainty that this hemorrhaging of energy would have to be juggled according to how Liam’s uncles focused any attack at the critical moment.
Against that likelihood, and before Azim allowed the King of Gwynedd to take a meal break, he showed Kelson how to bail out of the working and maybe save himself—though this would be a last-ditch option, if all hope of saving Liam was lost, and would entail abandoning Liam to his fate at his uncles’ hands. A little later, before Kelson fell exhausted into bed, the two priests returned to go over all the external ceremony of the enthronement ritual, complete with diagrams. The exercise left Kelson’s head spinning. Knowing that the morrow would see his first rehearsals with the Furstán brothers, rather than their stand-ins, he again allowed Azim to send him into deep, dreamless sleep.
Interestingly enough, finally working together with Teymuraz, Branyng, and Mátyás proved something of an anticlimax. Their initial encounter the next morning bristled with thinly veiled hostility at first; but with Liam in their midst, binding their energies into harmony, they soon progressed to marching along the corridors of the palace under an increasingly efficient Moving Ward, startling guards and sending small children scurrying.
After a midday collation, they progressed to the next phase: shifting the Moving Ward over a carriage-and-eight, similar in size to the great state carriage that, on the day of killijálay, would convey Liam-Lajos from the palace to the Quai du Saint-Basile and the caïque waiting to convey him upriver to Torenthály and Hagia Iób. The physical logistics required practice, with Branyng mounting the box beside the driver, Mátyás and Teymuraz perched on steps outside the two doors, left and right, and Kelson clinging to the rear of the carriage beside a footman; but actually maintaining the Ward required only minimal concentration, once they were ensconced.
Liam shot him a pleased grin as he alighted from Mátyás’s side of the carriage, when they had returned to the king’s palace after completion of the afternoon’s rehearsal. Mátyás kept to the company of his brothers at the state banquet that evening, when the court entertained yet more new foreign arrivals who had come to witness the killijálay; but once, when both Mahael and Teymuraz were otherwise occupied, the youngest of Liam’s uncles found occasion to glance sidelong at Kelson as he touched two fingers to his lips and then brushed them across the icon on his breast, at the same time meeting Kelson’s gaze.
Kelson took the gesture to mean that Mátyás was trying to reassure him that he only played a part, that he honored the promise of fidelity he had made them in his private chapel, during that foray from the Nikolaseum. If only Kelson could be certain that Mátyás meant it.
Rehearsals continued the next day. That morning, the four of them set the Moving Ward around a carriage for a swift dash down the Avenue-du-Saint Constantine, then shifted to a caïque, where they held the Ward above Liam while the vessel rowed briskly upriver to Torenthály, combining two pieces of ritual action that would be played out as one continuum and at more sedate speeds on the day.
Landing at the quay at Torenthály, where Count Berrhones waited to cast his gimlet gaze over their efforts, they next tried their skill at maneuvering the Moving Ward over the white stallion that Liam would ride to his enthronement, up the Avenue des Rois to Hagia Iób. The animal was restive, only recently accustomed to Liam, and fought its handlers as the five of them approached; but it settled immediately as it came within the calming sphere of the Moving Ward, and allowed Liam to mount.
Horse and man became a fused unit of grace and channelled power, the great stallion tight-coiled and animated but utterly compliant as they set out along the avenue—for which Kelson was grateful, since his position required him to walk directly behind the great steed’s steel-shod heels. Count Berrhones rode beside them on a smooth-gaited white mule, just outside the Moving Ward, and pronounced himself well satisfied with their competence as Liam dismounted before the golden doors to the church, where those involved in the inside ceremony waited to rehearse their parts. Inside, Morag, Ronal Rurik, and Mahael himself joined them for the first time.
There then ensued a full-scale walk-
through of the ceremony itself—the latest of many, for most of those involved, but Kelson had seen only that very first run-through following Liam’s return, watching casually from the sidelines, then blissfully unaware what his eventual role would be. Now designated as part of the all-important Moving Ward, he found himself observing from an entirely different perspective as they walked through the pattern of killijálay itself, taking Berrhones’ exacting instruction, aware of Azim and Morgan and the others watching intently, proceeding right up to the moment when power would be transferred.
“We shall not rehearse any part of the actual transfer,” Mahael said, there calling a halt. “To enact any part of the critical ritual without invoking its substance is to profane the legacy of Furstán. Laje knows what he must do.”
“It can do no harm to mime the physical postures—” Berrhones began.
“It shall not be done,” said Teymuraz, backing up Mahael. “Let us resume after the regirding, and proceed with the encrowning and acts of homage and the grand recessional.”
“But, for the sake of King Kelson—” Berrhones began.
“He has only to hold steady, and to follow our lead,” Mátyás said, with a sharp glance at Liam, who was looking rebellious. “For the sake of the padishah, let us not risk profaning the legacy of Furstán.”
“Majesty?” Berrhones asked, finally appealing directly to Liam.
“Do as my uncles recommend,” he agreed reluctantly. “We shall not rehearse any part of the rite of Furstán.”
Much later that night, after yet another semi-state banquet taken in the palace great hall, Bishop Denis Arilan sought the meeting place designated in a token he had received earlier in the evening. As he paused at a branching in the corridor, Azim stepped out of the shadow of a service stair, a little to his right, black-clad as usual.
“Come with me,” he murmured, “and say nothing.”
Silently Arilan followed down the spiral stair, half-feeling his way, for there were no torches. Azim seemed not to need the light. Down one level, they emerged before a bronze door entirely covered with a graceful, deeply incised script whose lines made a design of their own. The modest room beyond was lit by a single oil lamp suspended before an arched niche, with thick carpets underfoot. As Azim closed the door behind them, a woman stepped from the shadows and unveiled.
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