In that instant, the sphere of the Ward went from night-black to palest purple, still denying access but now allowing vision and hearing to those outside. A collective gasp swept through the great church, and Liam’s Circassian guards immediately swarmed closer to surround the perimeter.
Slowly lowering the sword of Furstán, still overshadowed by its power, Liam turned his gaze to Mahael, still pinned but struggling in the East beneath the restraints directed by Mátyás, as augmented by his unlikely allies. Lifting his empty hand, Liam took from Mátyás the maintaining of those restraints.
Morag, kneeling between Mahael and the sprawled bodies of Branyng and her younger son, cradled the weakly stirring form of the latter in her arms and gazed up at her elder son with awe and bewilderment, apparently uncertain regarding Teymuraz as she glanced between him, Mátyás, and Kelson. Alpheios slowly rose from behind Furstán’s tomb, but made no move to approach.
Kelson rose on shaky knees and came to hold out his hand to Mátyás. The Furstáni prince gave him a faint smile and then his hand, accepting his assistance to get to his feet.
“Is Branyng dead?” Liam asked, his gaze flicking among them, still taut with the aftermath of combat.
Mátyás nodded. “He is, my prince.”
“Good.”
Weaving a little, Liam walked unsteadily to stand over the sprawled Mahael, who lay with outflung arms, helpless to escape or offer further threat, but eyes ablaze with hatred and defiance. From beyond the starry purpled curtain of power that shrouded the Ward, Kelson caught the collective intake of breath as, very deliberately, Liam pointed the tip of the Furstán sword between his uncle’s eyes.
“Mahael Termöd Furstán d’Arjenol, I take from thee that which was not thine to keep,” he said—and with that, lightly touched the blade to Mahael’s forehead.
Mahael’s body stiffened and arched upward at the touch, throat opening on a silent scream as violet fire scoured down the blade to every extremity and into the deepest recesses of sanity. The bulging, wide-staring eyes were a mirror for his agony as Liam stripped away not only the power his uncle had purloined, but also Mahael’s own power, ripping his mind in the process.
A faint whimper creaked from the feebly twitching lips, and his body went slowly slack as the fire then withdrew into the blade, leaving behind no reason or even awareness in the vacant, staring eyes as the sword of Furstán at last was lifted from his brow. Liam-Lajos ho Phourstanos padishah gave him not a second glance as he let the great scimitar sink to his side, then turned his gaze on Teymuraz, who had blanched but did not move from his crouched, wary position, still in the South.
“Laje, it was he and Branyng who betrayed you,” Teymuraz whispered. “You know how strong Branyng was. And they used me! I only meant to play my part in the Wards, to be a part of your protection—but they tried to pull me into their treachery. Only barely was I able to break free!”
“The timing was, indeed, fortuitous, Uncle.” Liam’s cool tone left some ambiguity about how much irony he intended, as he turned his gaze to his mother and his remaining uncle. “Is this your perception?”
“Kill him,” Mátyás said flatly. “He betrayed you, and will betray you again, if you allow him to live.”
“Brother, do not abandon me, I pray you!” Teymuraz gasped. “You were aware how our brother did talk. Never did I think he would act upon his threats—you listened as well! But he had Branyng on his side—and I am not as strong as any of the rest of you. For a time, he pulled me into his link, forced me against my will. . . .”
“Mother?” Liam asked, coldly turning his face from Teymuraz. “If you ask for his death, I shall have him impaled, as is the prescribed manner of execution for traitors. As shall be done to Mahael.”
Morag’s jaw tightened, and Kelson glanced between her, Mátyás, and the young king in some surprise. That Mahael must be executed—and the sooner, the better—was only what Kelson himself would have done, under the circumstances; but the manner Liam had declared was nonetheless startling.
Yet even as a part of him recoiled, reminding him that Torenth’s ways were not Gwynedd’s ways, Kelson found himself recalling stark precedent that he himself had witnessed, at about the same age as Liam, when he and his army, on march toward their final confrontation with Wencit, another of Liam’s uncles, had come upon the impaled bodies of several dozens of men left in warning by a retiring Torenthi force.
At the time, the stark brutality had seemed hardly mitigated by the discovery that the victims had been impaled after death. But the incident had shown quite clearly that impalement was known and practiced in Torenth, at least in time of war—and what was treason but the most insidious sort of warfare against one’s sworn liege? Furthermore, it was no longer Kelson’s place to interfere in the internal workings of Torenth—especially when its king had just proven himself worthy to stand in his own right, even as Kelson had been forced to do at a similar age.
“My son,” Morag said, “I do not dispute that Mahael has greatly deserved his fate. But I—am not certain that Teymuraz truly betrayed you.” Her face hardened as she glanced pointedly at Kelson. “Nor is it yet clear in my mind how you came to ally yourself with this—Haldane, who killed your father.”
Liam hardly blinked, wisely declining to be drawn into public disagreement with his mother, only returning his gaze to Teymuraz. Kelson saw that he was starting to shake a little in reaction, the last of great Furstán’s overshadowing leaving him, the great scimitar trembling in his hand. For a moment he feared the boy would falter; but Liam’s voice was steady and dispassionate as he addressed his uncle.
“We have killijálay to complete,” he said. “You will consider yourself under house arrest until I decide what to do with you. For the rest—”
He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, in what Kelson knew was an exercise to stabilize his focus, then lifted a hand in arcane gesture. The Ward melted away like oil draining down the inside of a glass, leaving a silvery, glistening echo of a circle where the bounds of the Ward had been. Liam’s Circassian guards were waiting to cross that line at a word from their master, and snapped to attention as he caught the eye of the guard captain.
“You will take the traitor Mahael before the gate to the Field of Kings, outside the precincts of Hagia Iób, and there execute him by impalement, that his ancestors may witness his shame.” A rising frisson of revulsion and astonishment whispered among the massed observers, instantly cut short as Liam raised the hand not holding the sword, in a gesture both imperious and not to be ignored. “You will likewise impale the body of the traitor Branyng beside him. I shall expect to see evidence that my orders have been carried out, by the time I leave this place.” He glanced at Teymuraz, who blanched visibly.
“Uncle, you will accompany the execution party as my official witness, that you may contemplate first-hand the justice done to traitors—even those of our family. I would suggest that you examine your own soul while thus engaged. You will remain in attendance upon the executed traitors until I give you leave to depart. Meanwhile, let the court physicians come and tend my brother and my mother.”
He turned to the tomb of Furstán amid utter and shocked silence and carefully laid the sword of Furstán back on its velvet cushion, then bowed formally first to Alpheios, then to Kelson.
“Most Holy—and most honored friend and ally, Kelson of Gwynedd—let us now complete the killijálay.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
With that they cast away their weapons, and made peace.
I Maccabees 11:51
The Circassian guards took away the unresisting Mahael without further ado, more of them removing Branyng’s body. Several assisted Teymuraz to put off his ceremonial robe before briskly conducting him from the premises as well. Mahael seemed hardly to understand what was happening; Teymuraz understood all too well. While physicians ministered briefly to Morag and the now conscious Ronal Rurik, Count Berrhones began restoring order to the tatters of the investiture
ceremony.
Moving to one side, Kelson shed his robe of the West and let Saer and Derry help him into the stiff, cope-like mantle made of cloth-of-gold, that protocol deemed requisite to his status as Liam’s liege lord. He drew out from the neck of his tunic his mother’s prayer beads, letting the enamelled medal lie on his breast. On his head Arilan placed the state crown of Gwynedd, with its leaves and crosses intertwined. From Morgan, the king received the sheathed Haldane sword, which he cradled in the crook of his left arm like a scepter, offering his right arm to Liam.
Four Torenthi dukes had assisted Liam to don a long, coat-like mantle with open sleeves that almost brushed the floor, so thickly encrusted with embroidery of gold bullion and gems that the purple of the ground could scarce be seen; six sons of counts bore the garment’s long train. Mátyás was invited to take the place of honor on Liam’s right side, the robe of the North now set aside for a court coat of emerald-green damask, unadorned save for the richness of the fabric itself and an appliqued border of grapes and grape leaves. Morag and a shaky Ronal Rurik were conducted ahead by the four dukes, to take places of honor to either side and behind the chair of state.
Iób’s Complaint resounded beneath the great dome in three long blasts as Alpheios led the twelve Metropolitans before the tomb of Furstán to render homage to the new padishah. Now confirmed in his powers, Liam-Lajos ho Phourstanos padishah received their reverence and allowed them to convey him forward, supported at either side by Kelson and Mátyás. In response and counterpoint to the invocation offered by the patriarch, the choir began to elaborate upon the theme:
“Hagios ho Theos, Hagios Iskhuros, Hagios Athanatos, Eleison Hemas. . . . ” Holy God, Holy Mighty One, Holy Immortal One, have mercy on us. . . .
Processing to the steps before the iconostasis, preceded by Alpheios and his twelve fellow bishops, Liam was there girded with a smaller version of the sword of Furstán, its diamond-encrusted scabbard echoing the diamonds of the girdle he had received from the tomb of Furstán. He was then enthroned upon the chair of state by Kelson, whose privilege it was as his overlord.
Kelson moved, then, to one side, attended by Morgan and Dhugal, Arilan and Azim, his presence giving tacit assent as Alpheios placed upon Liam’s head a golden diadem studded with rubies and emeralds and pearls, with great jewelled pendants hanging just short of his shoulders on either side. After what had gone before, Kelson was not surprised that the actual crowning seemed something of an anticlimax—yet the crown was, indeed, the outward symbol by which most men set apart their kings. Liam now possessed that symbol.
So adorned, Liam then received the homage of his subjects, beginning with his brother and heir, his mother, and Mátyás, followed in turn by the dukes, the counts, and then the lesser nobility of Torenth who were present.
When all had sworn, Liam himself rose and, accompanied only by Alpheios and a deacon bearing the gem-encrusted Book of the Gospel, came to present himself before Kelson, in accordance with his status as Kelson’s vassal.
There, in accordance with Torenthi practice, he removed his crown and sank to both knees before his overlord, laid his crown at Kelson’s feet, and bent to kiss a corner of Kelson’s mantle. Then, by Gwyneddan custom, he offered his joined hands to Kelson, his eyes gladly meeting Kelson’s as the other’s hands clasped his and the deacon held the Gospel aloft as witness.
“I, Liam Lajos Lionel László Furstán, being of age, do hereby affirm that I am your man of life and limb and earthly worship, and remain in your fealty, and in my own right do render homage for all the lands of Torenth. Faith and truth will I bear unto you, as my suzerain, so help me God.”
He bent dutifully to kiss both Kelson’s hands, then the offered Gospel book. But when he looked up again, expecting to hear the oath returned, Kelson merely smiled faintly, still clasping Liam’s hands.
“I gladly receive this expression of your faith, my friend and brother,” he murmured, flicking a glance to Mátyás and summoning him with his eyes. “However, I am minded to somewhat alter our original intent.”
Liam looked more bewildered than at any time in all the preceding trial as Kelson raised him up, and a murmur of question whispered among the assembled observers as Mátyás made his way with haste to join them. Morag looked startled, the assembled Metropolitans mystified.
Releasing Liam’s hands, Kelson stooped briefly to take up Liam’s crown from the carpet at his feet, turning it between his two hands as he glanced again at its owner.
“Liam-Lajos, King of Torenth,” he said quietly, but so that his voice carried in the domed nave. “I have said from the beginning that it was never my intention that Torenth should remain indefinitely a vassal to Gwynedd. In keeping you at my side these last four years, I sought to expose you to the education and training you would need to govern Torenth in your own right, as a wise and benevolent sovereign, better acquainted with the ways of your more Western neighbors than your predecessors have been, so that relations between our two kingdoms should never again deteriorate to the level at which they have existed these two centuries past.
“Today you have proved amply, I think, that you are well prepared to reign, independent of the external control that I never wished to exercise. Saving a few notable exceptions, I have seen evidence that you are well loved by your people, and mostly surrounded by loyal men eager to serve you. In Count Mátyás, in particular, I believe you will find no wiser or loyal or more honest an advisor.”
He flashed a grim smile at Mátyás. “Forgive me, my lord, but I fear I am sentencing you to spend far less time than you wish, tending your vines. But in what I hope will be a new era of peace between our two lands, I pray that you and your family may perhaps learn to find contentment nearer to Beldour, where your presence and wise counsel may provide assistance and support to your royal nephew in his duties.”
Mátyás looked as if he could hardly believe what he was hearing, and Liam was still gazing at Kelson in wonder. Alpheios looked stunned.
“I therefore give you back your crown,” Kelson said, extending it to Liam with a smile. “Before God and these witnesses, I release you from any obligation to render me service, and ask only that you and yours bear faith and truth to me and mine as friends—as I shall bear faith and truth unto you and yours. Thus, with God’s help, may friendship prevail between us and between our eventual successors and between our two lands, in all the years to come.”
Stunned, Liam took the crown, his eyes searching Kelson’s. Then, with a little sob, he shifted it to one hand so that he and Kelson could embrace like brothers. The astonished murmurs of the assembled company turned to ragged cheers as the import sank in of what had just occurred.
The cheers became a roar as Liam drew back and set the crown firmly on his own head. And as he turned to face his people, seizing Kelson’s hand and raising their joined hands in further symbol of their friendship, joyful pandemonium broke out. The approbation was not universal, but all present had seen how the King of Gwynedd came to the defense of a once mortal enemy, joining forces with men of Torenth against other men of Torenth and risking life and kingdom to protect their padishah. It was a beginning.
Only when the patriarch and his assisting clergy formed up to continue with the service did the cheering die away. The chair of state was shifted to one side, and Liam set his crown upon it before moving with his family to stand before the Royal Doors, as Alpheios entered the Holy of Holies to proceed with the service of the Divine Liturgy; the Torenthis did not call it Mass.
“Stomen kalos, stomen meta phobou, proskomen ten again Anaphoran en eirene prosphein. . . . ” the choir sang. Let us stand upright, let us stand with awe, let us attend, that we may present the Holy Offering in peace. . . .
Watching from one side, with Arilan and Morgan and Dhugal and the others of his party, Kelson understood hardly a word of the rich liturgy that followed—and could see little, behind the royal doors that guarded the sanctuary—but occasional glimpses of common liturgical
action provided enough familiar signposts that he at least was aware of the moment of consecration, which was the heart of Christian faith.
Following as best he could, he composed himself to make a spiritual communion rather than actually receiving, for he did not wish to offend Torenthi sensibilities, nor to detract from what now was Liam’s celebration with his people. In addition, he found himself distracted by the knowledge that, even now, Mahael was being put to death in the most demeaning and excruciating manner, not far from the church door. He was not altogether certain he was in a fit state of mind to receive.
Accordingly, he offered up the focus of his prayers for the repose of Mahael’s soul, and for that of the fallen Count Branyng, traitors that they were, his head bowed into the sheltering shadow of his right hand—and was faintly startled when Arilan lightly touched his forearm.
He looked up to see Mátyás before him. Beyond Mátyás, Liam was standing apart from the others before the icon of Saint Michael, far to the left of the iconostasis, head bowed over his clasped hands, presumably having received Communion. Others of the immediate royal party were in the process of receiving.
“My lord, Liam-Lajos requests that, if you desire it, you may come forward and partake of Holy Communion,” Mátyás murmured. “Holy Alpheios gives his consent, and wishes you to know that you are most welcome. I myself have not yet received, and would be honored if we might partake together.”
Kelson glanced at Arilan, who inclined his head in agreement. “It is not usual custom, as you know, Sire—but this has hardly been a usual day. Since both king and patriarch have extended the invitation, I cannot see any harm.”
With a nod, Kelson removed his crown and handed it to Arilan, then went quietly with Mátyás. They fell in behind Count Berrhones. In response to Mátyás’s glance, and following his gesture, Kelson crossed his arms on his breast, palms pressed to opposite shoulders, as was Torenthi custom. Letting Mátyás go ahead of him, he prayed pardon for any impropriety he might be committing in the cause of forging a closer bond with his new allies. When Mátyás stepped aside, Kelson listened with head bowed as Alpheios spoke the words customary in Torenth, dipping a morsel of wine-soaked bread from the chalice with a golden spoon.
King Kelson's Bride Page 31
