The little chapel beyond was a shimmering jewel of simplicity, its walls clad with pale grey marble, the ceiling ribbed and vaulted to support a soaring dome. A graceful labyrinth design had been laid in the tessellated floor, in opalescent white and pale shades of grey, its convoluted path meandering from the arched entryway ever toward the center, where tiny golden tiles marked out a copy of the seal of Saint Camber, like the one set in the floor of the cathedral down in the city—the same that had triggered Kelson’s Haldane powers at his coronation nearly seven years before. Though comparable in size to other side chapels that had been grafted onto the basilica over the years, the scale of the chamber gave the impression of a larger, airier space, flooded with light that streamed from high windows on two sides, mostly filled with clear or very pale amber glass. Kelson thought it might accommodate twenty to thirty people, depending upon how closely they stood—and probably but one celebrant at the small altar set against the east wall.
Stepping through the arch into the center of the space, Kelson cast his delighted gaze around the place as the others silently followed at his back. The workmen polishing the floor left off their work and retreated to the cloister garden beyond a small, arched door, for a much appreciated break from their labors.
No statue graced any part of the chapel. Nor had any attempt been made to invoke the imagery more traditionally associated with Saint Camber, in his own time; no emphasis on Camber’s magic, but rather on what he had accomplished. Instead, set into the wall above the still-bare altar, a finely detailed mosaic depicted the crowning of King Cinhil Haldane by Camber of Culdi, on the morning of the Haldane Restoration.
The saint wore an earl’s coronet and mail and a bright surcoat of red and blue, a sword girt at his side, and held the crown of Gwynedd aloft in offering—as Camber had, indeed, crowned Cinhil Haldane, ending the Interregnum of the Festils. The kneeling king was arrayed in mail and steel and Haldane crimson, hands clasped before him in thanks either to God or to the man who had helped him win back that crown. Though crown, king, and saint were surrounded by a golden glory, softly shimmering in the long, slanting sunlight filtering through the windows high in the western wall behind them, the manner of its depiction made it unclear whether the light was meant to be metaphorical or literal, enabling observers to form their own conclusions about whether Camber’s assistance had come solely from his Deryni powers, from mere political astuteness, or the actual will of God.
Arched above the mosaic, worked as a decorative border to contain it in the angle of the ribs springing into the dome, polished golden letters had been set amid the little tiles, spelling out the legend: SANCTUS CAMBERUS, SALVATOR DOMUS HALDANI, DEFENSOR HOMINUM, ORA PRO NOBIS. Saint Camber, Saviour of the House of Haldane, Defender of Humankind, pray for us. . . .
“I think it came out rather well,” Duncan said, when Kelson had drunk his fill of the visual delights of the place and turned to him in approval. “Very subtle—nothing to frighten anyone. And those sympathetic to his cause will understand.” He glanced around them. “They’re nearly finished with the floor. Then it only needs a final cleaning, to wipe down the last of the dust and such. Everything will be ready on the day. I hope you’re pleased.”
“Pleased? I’m delighted,” Kelson said, looking to Morgan and Nigel and then the archbishops for their opinions. Everyone looked well-satisfied. “It’s everything I imagined, that I hoped for. Has there been much local comment? How widely is it known what’s being done here?”
Archbishop Bradene smiled. “I’m glad that you approve, Sire. There’s been a great deal of careful groundwork laid while you were away—which has only been helped by your success in Torenth. And putting the first chapel here, rather than in the cathedral, was exactly the right choice, since it will allow gradual access and awareness to develop among the people—hopefully without generating any resentment or hostility. Word of mouth being what it is, there’s certainly some awareness, but we don’t foresee any opposition. And the consecration will be private, of course. I understand that Duncan has some interesting things planned.”
Kelson grinned as Duncan assumed an expression of innocence, blue eyes cast briefly toward heaven, then shrugged.
“It will be a bit different,” he allowed with a smile. “Lady Rothana has given me some guidance from the Servants in planning the ceremony.”
“That should be interesting,” Kelson said. “And I expect they’ll continue to have input here—because I intend this for the site of the first Deryni schola in two centuries,” he added, only grinning at the startled but not at all disapproving looks on the faces of his two archbishops. “That’s the second part of my mission here this afternoon. I thought I’d have a look around while I’m here. Duncan can brief you in more detail after I’ve gone. This is marvellous. I’m very, very pleased.”
They spent another few minutes inspecting finer points of the chapel’s decor, after which Duncan began drawing them back toward the main body of the basilica. He ushered the archbishops past the canvas curtain, then followed, as Richenda and Araxie came into the chapel from the cloister garden with the children, each of them now clutching half a dozen flowers. Kelson paused, as did Morgan and Dhugal, leaving Nigel scant choice but to pause as well.
“We’ve been out to the cloister garden,” Richenda announced, rolling her eyes as the four little girls trotted off to put their flowers on the altar, Siany in the lead, all of them chattering away, pointing at the mosaic of Saint Camber and King Cinhil. “I tried to keep them from trampling brother gardener’s tidy flower beds. After they’d visited Our Lady and Saint Hilary and several other venerables and given them all flowers, they decided they hadn’t enough left for Saint Camber—and I thought you’d appreciate the extra peace and quiet.”
“Papa, I can’t reach!” Eirian cried, glancing back in appeal as Briony stretched up to place her flowers beside Siany’s.
Nigel came at once to lift his daughter up, Morgan and Araxie helping Briony and Conalline.
“Who can tell me who that is?” Araxie asked the children, as she lifted Conalline to show her the mosaic.
“Saint Camber!” they cried in chorus.
“An’ King Cinhil!” Eirian chimed in. “My papa’s great-great-great-grandpapa! Saint Camber helped him be crowned. See? Uncle Kelson, is that your crown?”
“Well, it might be,” Kelson said, moving closer to look up at it. “Certainly, if Saint Camber hadn’t helped my many-times great-grandfather, I wouldn’t have any crown at all!”
As Kelson spoke, little Conalline turned in Araxie’s arms and held out a flower to Nigel.
“You give this flower to Saint Camber?” she asked.
“Well, of course,” Nigel replied, taking it with courtly grace. “I would be honored. Thank you very much, Amelia.”
As he placed the flower, she wiggled to be put down beside Eirian, who crowed, “More flowers!” and went racing toward the door to the cloister yard.
“That’s enough flowers for Saint Camber!” Richenda called out, as Derry started after her and Briony. “But why don’t we take some flowers back to your mummies? That would also be a very nice thing to do . . . !”
Her voice trailed off as she and Dhugal followed all four children out of the chapel, leaving Araxie with Kelson, Nigel, and Morgan. As the four of them drifted toward the doorway, Nigel still charmed and smiling absently after them, Araxie glanced at Kelson, then laid a hand on Nigel’s sleeve.
“That’s your granddaughter, you know,” she said quietly.
Nigel blinked blankly and turned to her in astonishment.
“What?”
“That’s your granddaughter,” Araxie repeated, her cool grey eyes engaging his, not in challenge but in simple assertion of fact. “And I should think that, by now, it’s clear that that little girl is someone you ought to have in your life. She adores you, Nigel. Please don’t let Conall’s poor judgment deprive you of such sweetness.”
Gaping at her, Nigel slowly
closed his mouth, swallowing with difficulty, then turned to look accusingly at Kelson.
“You set me up,” he said reproachfully.
Kelson only shook his head, smiling faintly. “I didn’t set you up—though I wish I could take credit for it.”
“But, how—?”
“You’ll have to ask your wife and my mother about that—and your son,” Kelson said. “While I was away, they found the child’s mother and brought the pair of them to court. Eirian has been lonely, with her brothers so much older, so Aunt Meraude thought it would be lovely to have your granddaughter as a companion.”
“The mother is a sweet girl, Nigel,” Araxie said. “No one else at court knows who she is—besides Rory, of course. She’s learning fine embroidery, and Meraude likes her very much—as does everyone else who’s met her. And Amelia is Conalline’s second name. If calling her by that name will make it easier for you to accept her, that’s a concession that all of us can live with.” She paused a beat. “But can you really live with knowing that you’re denying yourself the joy of that little girl? Hasn’t everyone suffered enough by now, for Conall’s errors? You can end it. All you have to do is say the word.”
Nigel turned away from all of them, saying nothing, head bowed. Kelson hardly dared breathe, and Morgan and Araxie likewise were silent. After a moment, Nigel reached out with a trembling hand to pick up the flower that Conalline had asked him to place on the altar. As he lifted it to inhale its fragrance, tears were brimming in his eyes.
“Dear God, what have I done?” he whispered. He swallowed audibly. “A part of me is furious that you’ve tricked me into letting her into my heart, but another part is rejoicing that she’s not just a charming child who plays with my own little girl; she’s my granddaughter!”
Kelson dared not speak as Nigel turned to face him, not allowing himself to flinch from his uncle’s gaze. But Nigel hardly seemed to see him. Laying the flower back on the altar, he turned away like a man in a trance and moved slowly to the door leading to the cloister garden.
Through the archway, they could see Richenda, Dhugal, and Derry moving amid the flower beds with Conalline and the other children, ensuring that the girls did not totally denude the garden. As Nigel passed on into the garden, halted, and then began walking slowly toward his granddaughter, Morgan cast a pleased glance at Kelson, then left him with Araxie, who slipped an arm through Kelson’s with affectionate contentment as the two of them gazed after.
“You did it,” Kelson murmured, glancing at her sidelong in frank admiration. “And if he accepts Conalline, he’ll accept Albin. It’s only a matter of time.”
She smiled contentedly and briefly leaned her cheek to touch his shoulder. “The credit really goes to Aunt Meraude and your mother,” she said, “but I must confess that it’s been fun helping extend the conspiracy—even more fun than my Cuan charade. You’re accumulating a rather formidable array of ladies to help you behind the scenes, cousin. I think I shall enjoy being your queen.”
“Do you?” Kelson said lightly, though with rather more satisfaction at that reassurance than he had dreamed possible. “I think I shall enjoy that as well.”
Beyond them, in the garden, Nigel was crouched down on his hunkers to talk to Conalline, who was offering him another flower. Nigel’s expression was almost beatific.
By the time the king and his party had finished walking the grounds and surveying the buildings at the basilica, and he and Araxie had returned to the castle with Morgan and Dhugal, Nigel was not in evidence. He had accompanied Richenda and Derry back to the castle with the children, Eirian’s hand in one of his and Conalline’s in the other; but the private gardens now were empty. The ladies had retired to their respective quarters, the children were down for naps, and Meraude herself was nowhere to be seen—though Jehana came at once, when her son made inquiries at the ladies’ solar.
“Nigel did look inordinately pleased when they came back,” Jehana told Kelson with a droll smile, when he inquired as to the whereabouts of his aunt and uncle. “He drew Meraude aside, and after a few minutes, she laughed aloud and threw her arms around his neck. Then the two of them disappeared into her private chambers. They looked like a pair of newlyweds. I take it that he’s pleased with his new granddaughter.”
“Besotted!” Araxie declared happily. “And it’s thanks to the plotting that you and Aunt Meraude did. Thank you, Aunt Jehana!”
Jehana inclined her head, herself smiling. “And thank you,” she said, and looked at Kelson. “Will this make it easier now, to deal with Albin’s situation?”
“I hope so,” he replied. “But even if Nigel has come around, we still have to convince Rothana. She’ll be here in the next few days.”
“Then, we’d best see that we’re ready for her,” Jehana replied. She cocked her head. “Is it to be Conalline or Amelia?” she asked.
Kelson shook his head. “I don’t know; that’s for him to decide. I wasn’t going to question the details of the miracle. I don’t care what he calls her, as long as he accepts her—and Albin.”
“I think that he’ll accept them both,” Araxie said. “And I think I now know how to approach Rothana.” She slipped her hand into Kelson’s and smiled. “Trust me, both of you,” she murmured. “It will be all right.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
And they lay wait for their own blood; and they lurk privily for their own lives.
Proverbs 1:18
At least an inkling of the afternoon’s events had been gained by an erstwhile enemy of Gwynedd, observing from far Torenthály. The Princess Morag Furstána, mother of Torenth’s new king, drew a deep breath and closed down the psychic link whose physical focus was the ring of iron on her left hand, sitting back from her mirror of onyx to reflect on what she had seen, turning the ring on her finger.
She was beginning to like the hapless Sean Lord Derry, who wore its mate. Furthermore, what she was seeing, through his eyes, of the court of Gwynedd and its king suggested that her own preconceptions, and many of the beliefs about the Haldanes, long held in Torenth, perhaps were not entirely accurate.
Kelson of Gwynedd, despite his youth, was a temperate and fair-minded monarch, both clever and sensitive, greatly respected and admired by all—at least by everyone in Derry’s circle of acquaintance. Duke Nigel Haldane, the king’s uncle, seemed every bit the noble and courteous knight whose praises her son continued to sing.
Young Dhugal McLain, apparently the king’s closest boon companion, lacked the polished manner or guile of Torenthi courtiers; but he was unswervingly honest and loyal to his friend, and apparently uncontaminated by any taint of unseemly ambition. Even the long-detested Morgan, whom she held responsible for the deaths of her husband and her brother, was coming to seem a moral and even honorable man.
Then there was the very interesting Araxie Haldane, niece of the Hort of Orsal and cousin of Kelson, who seemed to be spending increasing periods of time with the king. It was Derry’s belief—though no official announcement had yet been made—that she was the woman Kelson intended to marry.
Meanwhile, Araxie’s sister was set to marry the heir to the Mearan throne—if Meara had still had a throne—and her bridegroom’s sister now was going to marry Duke Nigel’s son Rory. Derry had witnessed the announcement, this very morning, and was somewhat involved in logistic arrangements for the upcoming wedding festivities.
Weddings and weddings and—perhaps—weddings, if the speculation about Kelson was true. Morag was mulling these very interesting developments, wondering how best to turn any of this information against Gwynedd—wondering, indeed, whether it was needful to continue thinking in terms of turning anything against Gwynedd—when power flared behind her, from her private Portal.
She came to her feet at once, for Teymuraz was standing there, hands clasped easily behind his back, merely looking at her.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered, cursing herself for nine kinds of fool for having neglected to ward the Portal agains
t his use. But she had never dreamed that he would dare to return to Torenthály.
Her brother-in-law merely inclined his head.
“I’ve come to plead my case. I couldn’t go to Laje or Mátyás. Laje is too well guarded, and Mátyás would never listen to what I have to say.”
“Why should he, after your performance at killijálay? And why should I listen? You helped Mahael try to kill my son!”
“Dear, dear brother’s wife, I did not think he meant to go for Laje. The plan was to kill Kelson of Gwynedd—or so I thought. So did Mátyás. That was the purpose of luring Kelson into the Moving Ward.
“But when Mahael and Branyng turned on Laje as well—and on you and Ronal Rurik—I saw their treachery for what it was, and joined my powers with yours to help defeat them.”
It was a preposterous tale, if plausible in parts—and at least some of it was a lie—but she now was curious how far he would go.
“If that is true, husband’s brother—that you are loyal to my son—why did you run?”
Teymuraz gave a snort, stepping from the Portal square to come and take a stemmed cup from the tray on the table between them, glancing sidelong at the scrying mirror toward her end of the table as he filled the cup from a fragile green glass flagon.
“By then, it was clear that Mátyás had allied himself with Kelson of Gwynedd. I feared that they would persuade Laje that I was a traitor.”
“Do you so doubt the fidelity of your padishah?” she retorted. “The word of an honest man cannot be impugned by the lies of false witnesses.”
“Our beloved padishah, your son, has been tainted by exposure to the West,” Teymuraz said coldly, setting down his cup untasted. “He is too far corrupted now to ever be a proper Furstán! Best to cut our losses. Bypass Liam-Lajos, and put Ronal Rurik on the throne.”
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