King Kelson's Bride

by Katherine Kurtz

  “I shall not long keep you, my lords,” he said, speaking to the dozen men whom Mátyás had convened at the long malachite table in the king’s state apartments. “In light of the day’s events, and lest you doubt my preparedness for the role I now assume, I thought to advise you regarding a few of the immediate concerns I shall ask you to address in the coming days and weeks and months. I regret that I have not been here to know you from my youth; that is the fault of no one here. In balance, however, I must tell you that I count it worth whatever inconvenience that may have caused, to have spent a time in squireship under the exacting standards of Duke Nigel Haldane, the uncle of my friend the King of Gwynedd.”

  He flicked a grateful glance in Kelson’s direction as he made that statement, salute to a mentor become an elder peer in the course of the day’s unfoldings. Kelson only inclined his head in satisfied acknowledgment, quietly reading the tenor of the room, hearing in Liam’s gracious phrasing the moderation he had hoped and intended that the boy should learn at Nigel’s side. Early into the afternoon, Liam had put aside his heavy state diadem for a simple circlet of gold; Kelson had eschewed even that symbol of rank, in token that he now was only a guest in this, Liam’s restored kingdom.

  “I have one item of personal business, however, before we proceed,” Liam went on. “It reflects but one of the lessons that King Kelson has taught me.” He glanced at Mátyás, then back at the men around the table. “One of the most important things I learned at the court of Gwynedd is the value of a loyal uncle—and I know that I shall rely heavily on mine, as I did today, to serve as one of my chief ministers. My friend King Kelson has suggested that ducal rank is appropriate for one in a position of such trust.”

  All Torenthi eyes turned toward Mátyás, who looked somewhat startled.

  “I therefore give to my uncle, Count Mátyás Furstán-Komnénë, the titles and lands and revenues of Arjenol,” Liam said, “for its late duke is attainted by his treason, and had no direct heirs with better claim. From what I have been told, Uncle, the vineyards are not so fine as those you already have,” he added with a faint smile at Mátyás, “so you’d best keep Komnénë as well.”

  A ripple of guarded approval whispered through the room at this announcement, which had produced a faint flush of surprised pleasure on the face of Mátyás.

  “I thank you, my prince.”

  “It is I who give thanks,” Liam replied, before putting off his crown for more serious work.

  In the half hour that followed, proceeding to an agenda Mátyás had prepared in anticipation of his brothers’ probable betrayal, Liam outlined a general plan for the first year of his personal reign that left Kelson and his advisors with little doubt that Torenth was well started in the process of becoming a good neighbor to Gwynedd. Liam obviously had learned his lessons well at Kelson’s court, and had put far more thought into the shape of his reign than any of them had dreamed. Though a few of the older dukes kept balking at old prejudices and old quarrels, Liam and Mátyás between them managed to defuse nearly all reservations—and with heartening support from the Patriarch Alpheios.

  “Peace, Erdödy of Jandrich,” he chided at one point. “It has done neither of our kingdoms any good to be at enmity these past two centuries. Our beloved land has seen too many of her best and brightest slain out of time—and all too many from pointless strife within our own borders. God now calls us to set this House of Furstán in order, led by the bold example of our bold young padishah.” He inclined his head in Liam’s direction.

  “It was my sad duty to assist my predecessor in burying your brother, noble prince—an office I hope never to perform for you. For I pray that I may be long in my grave before you are called before God’s holy throne of judgment, having died in my bed as a very old man, and having helped bring your sons into their manhood. I rejoice in your accession, bolstered by the might of Furstán. May you and they reign long and well, in wisdom and joy.”

  Such open and powerful support cheered Kelson; for, while he did not doubt that Liam would have his hands full, keeping his council focused on a new way of looking at relations between the two kingdoms, at least the boy would not have to contend with a clergy so recalcitrant as Gwynedd’s had been, at the beginning of his own reign—closed to the very thought that powers such as had saved Liam today were other than seditious and evil. Deryni had long moved in the forefront of Torenthi politics, despite their small numbers—hardly surprising, given the heritage of Torenth’s royal line. Acclaim like that just offered by the Holy Alpheios had not been given Kelson until far later in his reign, and boded well for the future of Liam’s kingdom.

  “I thank you, Holiness,” Liam said quietly, apparently greatly moved by this unexpected expression of support. “Nor can I presently think of words to surpass the aspiration you have just expressed. Perhaps, therefore, you would be so good as to give us your blessing, before I allow these loyal men to return to the night’s enjoyments—for I did promise that I would not keep you long, my lords,” he concluded, as he rose to his feet and all hurriedly did the same.

  When the patriarch had given his blessing, Mátyás dismissed the meeting in the padishah’s name, signing for Kelson and his companions to remain as he drew Liam briefly aside to whisper in his ear and the others dispersed. At Azim’s nod, Dhugal closed the door behind the last of the departing ministers, returning to where Liam had invited those remaining to gather closer at his end of the long malachite table.

  “My uncle has pointed out another matter needing thought as a result of today’s events,” Liam said. “It concerns Bishop Arilan’s continued presence at my court.”

  “Please allow me to clarify,” Mátyás asked, before Arilan or Kelson could respond. “I would not have the good bishop feel that his presence is, in any way, resented or unwanted. On the contrary, I would request that his king permit him to remain among us for a time, to share his wise counsel, as had been originally intended. I am confident that your faith in Liam-Lajos is well-founded, Highness”—he nodded in Kelson’s direction—“but I fear that I have not had the same benefit of exposure to the court of Gwynedd.

  “Or perhaps Duke Alaric would consent to stay awhile,” he added, turning a hopeful smile toward Morgan, “or at least return from time to time? I am told that he was one of Duke Nigel’s most successful pupils. Perhaps he could teach this grower of grapes a little more of statecraft before casting him and his king adrift on their own.”

  Morgan only nodded, returning the smile as he recalled their conversation on the ride from Desse to Rhemuth; Arilan looked somewhat startled, but inclined his head in tentative assent as he glanced at Kelson, who grinned. Mátyás’ request had been most gracefully put.

  “I think none of us anticipated the day’s developments,” Kelson said. “And much has changed since it was agreed that Gwynedd should have an observer here. Torenth was then a vassal state, with an untried client king of tender years. But today has proven amply, I think, that Liam-Lajos is well able to take up the ruling of his kingdom. In restoring Torenth’s sovereignty, I also yielded my right to impose my Haldane presence here.

  “However,” he went on, “if I can assist you by providing such ongoing advice as may be useful in shaping Torenth’s future, I am happy to do so. Understand that I haven’t had time to think this through yet—and I will need to consult with my own councillors of state regarding particulars—but I would certainly envision reciprocal embassies in both our capitals. And since it had already been agreed that Bishop Arilan should reside here for the immediate future, I see no reason to alter those arrangements at this time. I regret that I cannot spare Duke Alaric’s services just now, but I am certain that he, too, will wish to continue the association.”

  “Perhaps,” said Azim, “the padishah might wish to provide an additional Portal location here in Beldour—and King Kelson a suitable one in Rhemuth—to facilitate the future exchange of courtesies and assistance in your two kingdoms. For I believe that neither of you w
ould wish to think that distance might dim the friendships that have been forged, these past days.”

  As Arilan glanced sharply at Kelson, apparently unaware that Liam had already given him the location of the Portal in the Nikolaseum, the king inclined his head. With everything else on his mind, there had been little time to spare for thinking about the full implications of knowing any Portal in Torenth, much less another right here in Beldour. The regular, if careful, use of Portals between the two courts would certainly enhance communications—and might well help facilitate a lasting peace, for the first time in centuries.

  “As I said,” Kelson replied, “I shall need to consult with others regarding specifics; but I, too, would be reluctant to lose what we have begun here.”

  “Certain specifics should be addressed immediately, regardless of our aspirations for the future,” Arilan said, perhaps more sharply than he had intended.

  “Indeed,” Azim interjected smoothly. “We should by no means overestimate the progress made today, but I must point out that the escape of Count Teymuraz remains a cause for concern for all of you. For I think he will plot his revenge on all who were instrumental in his and Mahael’s overthrow.”

  “True enough, my lord,” Mátyás agreed, “but I think it unlikely he will soon seek his revenge here in Torenth. Though he and Mahael had a vast network of agents spread over a large area, those in Torenth will be wary of upholding previous alliances until they have taken the measure of the new padishah—especially as Mahael’s fate becomes known.”

  “And what of those outside Torenth?” Morgan asked pointedly.

  Mátyás inclined his head. “I would venture to guess that some will not feel so constrained. Undoubtedly, a few will still be available to Teymuraz, ready to work his mischief.”

  Kelson glanced at Mátyás, frowning. “Is there some danger of which I’m not aware? Given the friendship we both have pledged today, by deed as well as word, I must assume that we are not talking about any threat along our mutual border.”

  “Nay, I think you must look farther west, my lord,” Mátyás offered, a trifle uncomfortably. “My brothers spoke often of preventing your closer alliance with Meara. At the time, I fear, thwarting their intention to kill Laje was far more important to me than protecting the western flank of a foreign king who had custody of my king, and whose true motives were yet unknown.”

  “You chose the right priority; you need not apologize,” Kelson said, his mind quickly racing over the Mearan permutations—both those generally known and those as yet private. “But—what had they in mind, regarding Meara? I must assume that you refer to the coming marriage of Brecon Ramsay with my cousin Richelle.”

  “And to rumors that, as soon as those two are wed, you will announce a betrothal with Brecon’s sister,” Mátyás replied, raising a droll eyebrow.

  “Ah,” Kelson said, with a sidelong glance at his companions, who knew otherwise. “Well, it is, indeed, true that I hope soon to announce a betrothal for Brecon’s sister,” he said, to the obvious surprise of both Mátyás and Liam. “However, the match is not with me; it’s with my cousin Rory, Duke Nigel’s son and heir.”

  He watched as they exchanged startled glances. Liam looked pleased, for he knew Rory well, and might even have had some inkling of the relationship that had started to bloom the previous summer. Mátyás was smiling faintly, immediately grasping the political implications in far greater detail than were probably occurring to his nephew.

  “You seem amused, Count Mátyás,” Kelson observed.

  Mátyás nodded good-naturedly. “And full of admiration, to see how well you continue to divert speculation regarding your own eventual nuptials. But the match is a good one for both Meara and Gwynedd—and of the heart, I would assume.” He paused a beat. “But you still do not address the question of your own marriage.”

  Kelson shrugged, choosing his words carefully. “I think this is neither the time nor the place to elaborate on that subject, before official announcement is made to my own people,” he said truthfully. “When that occurs, I can assure you that it will not be to the detriment of Torenth; but beyond that, I may not comment.”

  Liam grinned and shook his head, slapping an open palm on the table in adolescent glee. “It’s no use, Mátyás. He won’t talk about it. I spent three years at the court of Gwynedd, and believe me, he’s a master at avoiding the question—though, God knows, it’s long been a favorite topic of speculation, even among the squires and pages.”

  “Indeed?” Kelson said.

  A knock at the door heralded a liveried Circassian guard, who came and whispered urgently to Mátyás as utter silence pervaded the room. Liam’s uncle listened attentively, frowning, gave whispered instructions, then exchanged a glance with his nephew as the man left the room.

  “Well. Teymuraz has made an appearance,” he said. “He showed up at Saint-Sasile several hours ago, commandeered a war galley and crew, and put out to sea. In light of what we’ve just been discussing, of his previous intention to interfere with the Mearan alliance, it is just possible that he’s headed for the Ile d’Orsal, perhaps to kidnap the prospective bride. I’ve asked that Létald be summoned.”

  As Mátyás bent his head to listen to Liam’s urgent whisper, and the two conferred briefly in a staccato dialect that the Gwyneddans largely could not follow, Dhugal glanced at Kelson.

  “What can Létald do?” he murmured. “We’re nearly three days’ sail from the Ile, even with a fair wind.”

  “There may well be a private Portal there,” Azim volunteered, leaning in from Dhugal’s other side. “The very genial Létald is a very private man, who does not make much of his Deryni roots, but it has long been believed that he has Portals, even if he little uses them.”

  “Are you suggesting that, if he does have Portals, we ask to use one to reach the Ile ahead of Teymuraz?” Kelson murmured, for he knew that Azim would be thinking of the other Haldane bride potentially in danger there.

  “Precisely that,” Azim agreed. “From there, the entire bridal party could be moved directly to Rhemuth, away from the reach of Teymuraz—if that is, in fact, his aim.”

  “Whether it is or not, getting them out of there is still the safest bet,” Kelson muttered. “But I can’t say I relish the notion of simply showing up back in Rhemuth, several weeks early. I’ve spent my entire reign trying to avoid upsetting my subjects with blatant use of my magic.”

  “I suppose you could bring them through the Portal at Dhassa,” Arilan said reluctantly, “and travel the rest of the way by horse. That isn’t a difficult journey at this time of year. Teymuraz can’t possibly have the Dhassa location—and I doubt very much that any of the Rhemuth locations are known here in Torenth.”

  He glanced at Mátyás, who had turned to follow their conversation—and who shook his head. Liam looked worried. Kelson watched all of them, racking his brain for other options, and found himself unaccountably anxious for Araxie, even though he knew that Richelle was likely to be Teymuraz’s specific target, if he did contemplate an abduction from Horthánthy.

  “All right, this isn’t going to be easy for any of us,” he said. “While we wait for Létald, let’s consider the worst case. If Teymuraz is at sea, and heading for the Ile, he presumably does not have a closer Portal location than Saint-Sasile.”

  “Correction,” Morgan said. “He does not have a closer Portal location that can also provide him with a ship and crew; but the question is moot. Neither do we.”

  “Perhaps we do,” Azim said, as the door opened to admit Létald, looking more serious than Kelson had ever seen him. “My lord, have you been informed of the recent development?”

  Létald was nodding as he headed for a chair that Mátyás indicated, one hand lifting in a gesture of forbearance. “Enough to share your concern—and to be anticipating what you are about to ask, though I am reluctant to breach so intimate a detail of my family’s personal security. I’m told he left Saint-Sasile several hours ago?”

/>   “So it would seem,” Mátyás said.

  “Well, that’s a full day’s sail,” Létald replied, “so we have some time—if he’s even headed for Horthánthy.”

  “Even if he isn’t,” Morgan said, “he’s still sailing along your coast—or mine. You saw what happened today; you know what he’s capable of. And the fact is, we don’t know what his intentions are.”

  “Who ever knows, with Furstáns?” Létald muttered. “No offense intended,” he added, to Liam and Mátyás.

  Mátyás merely nodded mildly.

  “Once we find out,” Morgan went on, “dealing with him will present its own problems, as you will have gathered earlier today. Given the uncertainty, it might be best to withdraw your family to your winter palace on the mainland. I shall certainly have Rhafallia sail at first light, to fetch my wife and children away from Coroth and take them on to Rhemuth.”

  “We do need a Coroth Portal,” Kelson murmured, glancing pointedly at Arilan. “But since we haven’t yet got one, we’re proposing to take the bridal party to Dhassa, and overland from there. Through your Portal,” he added, to Létald.

  “I should point out,” said Mátyás, before Létald could answer, “that if my brother is intending to call at Horthánthy, it may not be only King Kelson’s kin who are at risk.”

  Létald went very still.

  “What are you saying?”