King Kelson's Bride

by Katherine Kurtz

  Afterward, when Dhugal had declared the final dismissal and the little congregation had begun to disperse to the cloister garden, lighting candles as they went out the garden door, Kelson remained in a back corner of the chapel and buried his face in one hand, elbow propped on the other, and turned his thoughts to a final prayer for the success of what they had begun today. He had somewhat lost track of what was going on around him when a touch at his elbow made him look up.

  It was Richenda, faintly smiling, who slid her arm through his and jutted her chin toward the door to the cloister garden. There, where many slender, honey-colored tapers now bristled around the white one Duncan had set there in the tray of sand, Rothana was lifting Albin up to light one of his own from one of those already set in place, her lips making a rosy O as she helped him stick it in the sand.

  She smiled at his expression of pleased satisfaction as she set him down; then she took another candle from the basket of new ones underneath the rack as she crouched down beside him to whisper briefly in his ear. He nodded gravely, intent on her instructions as she put the candle in his hand, then nodded and, propelled gently forward by her hand, trotted off through the garden door, she trailing a few yards behind.

  Kelson glanced at Richenda in question, but she only shook her head and urged him toward the doorway, where Araxie had just come back in.

  “Don’t say anything, and don’t go out there,” the latter whispered, holding a finger to her lips. “Just watch from here.”

  At her direction and Richena’s guiding, Kelson allowed himself to be eased far enough into the doorway to peer out into the garden, where Albin could be seen running along one of the paths amid the flower beds, his candle clutched in his little fist, toward a knot of brightly dressed adults. Nigel was among them, his back toward the doorway, and looked down in surprise at the small person who tugged at the tails of his long robe of royal blue and wordlessly offered him a candle.

  For just an instant Nigel froze, his gaze flicking past Albin’s backward-tilted head to the boy’s mother, who was slowly approaching with hands clasped behind her. Then he sank to a crouch before his small petitioner, slow joy suffusing his face as he took the candle the boy offered and began to speak to him. His companions melted back as Rothana drew near—Rory and Brecon and Noelie—and when Rothana reached the pair, she, too, exchanged words with Nigel.

  Both of them were smiling as Nigel rose and, with his grandson’s hand in his, began slowly walking back toward the chapel door with him, gazing down at the boy’s upturned face in wonder, listening to an outpouring of earnest chatter. Following after, Rothana noted the king and his two companions watching from the doorway, and gave Kelson a deliberate nod.

  “She’s agreed?” he asked Araxie, as she and Richenda drew him back into the nave to give mother and son and grandfather their privacy.

  “Yes, to all of it,” Araxie said happily. “She’ll accept the appointment to found her schola here, and live here, and help us in our work—and the rest, you can see.”

  Over by the tray of burning candles, Nigel had lifted Albin so that, together, they could light the candle the boy had given him. As Rothana joined them, the three of them set its base into the sand amid the others.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  When a man’s ways please the Lord, he maketh even his enemies to be at peace with him.

  Proverbs 16:7

  Kelson spent the rest of that day in contentment, meeting again with the Servants and, later, with Rothana and Araxie. Together, they began to address some of the plans unfolding for the future. The morrow would see the celebration of the Mearan weddings—and given the day’s developments, Kelson knew that he could announce his own nuptial intentions with a glad heart.

  But that night, shortly after he had retired, well satisfied with the outcome of the day, his squire Davoran came to wake him, with word that Lord Derry was asking to speak with him, sent by Father Nivard.

  “Sorry if I woke you, Sire,” Derry said. “I’m to tell you that Duke Mátyás wishes to see you.”

  “Mátyás? Here?”

  “He said you weren’t to be anxious, sir. The duke is alone. He says nothing is wrong. But he asks to speak with you.”

  Pulling on a loose robe, Kelson knotted a cincture around his waist and thrust his feet into felt slippers. The midnight summons, coming from a Torenthi prince, would have made him wary in previous times; but apprehension touched him only regarding the news Mátyás might bring, for he trusted Mátyás himself. Gesturing for Derry to lead the way, he padded softly after him, his squire Davoran quietly following behind.

  Nivard was waiting in the library, and preceded him through the Veil. Derry and Davoran remained in the outer room. In the chamber beyond, Mátyás turned at the king’s arrival, dressed all in black, eerily illuminated by a sphere of handfire floating a little beside his head so that he could peruse an open book in his hands. He laid the book aside as Kelson straightened from the arch of the Veiled doorway. His only adornment was the holy icon hanging from his neck, glowing like a lighted jewel upon his breast.

  “Thank you for seeing me, my prince.”

  “It’s Kelson—please,” the king said, gesturing toward the seats in the window embrasure. “Is Liam well?”

  “Well enough—Kelson,” Mátyás replied, inclining his head in thanks for the courtesy. “He grieves for his mother, and fears for our lives, and dreads the public obsequies over which he must preside in a few days’ time. The latter is what brings me here tonight.”

  “Does he wish me to come?” Kelson asked. “If it will bring him comfort, I shall do so. But I would not wish to intrude. Azim has reminded me that I must allow him to make his own way as a king. But as a friend, I wish to do anything I can, to ease his task.”

  Mátyás nodded. “Azim told me of your conversation. No, what my nephew would ask is far less than that, and little likely to compromise either of your crowns. The time is weighing heavily upon him, as he waits to see his mother entombed in the Field of Kings. Meanwhile, the friends of his childhood are here in Rhemuth. It is Brendan and Payne whom he misses most; but he also grew fond of Prince Rory, who is to wed tomorrow.

  “It occurred to me that it might lift his spirits if he could escape from Torenthály for even a few hours, to witness Rory’s marriage. I would keep him in my charge, to protect him, so that you need not take special precautions for our safety. We would come disguised, and place ourselves wholly in your desire as to where we may and may not go—whatever you require. It—would mean a great deal to him.”

  Kelson slowly nodded, for he could sense no guile in any word Mátyás uttered. And it was a courtesy easy enough to grant—though, to do it, he would have to give Mátyás the location of the cathedral Portal, for there was no other way to safely bring the pair in and out of the cathedral tomorrow, even disguised.

  “Wait here,” he said, rising. “I’m going to ask Morgan to join us. There’s a Portal in the cathedral, but if I take you there unescorted, Morgan will kill me when he finds out, if you haven’t already done so.”

  The statement brought a smile to Mátyás’ lips, as intended. A quarter-hour later, Morgan was ducking through the Veil to join them, Mátyás having spent the intervening time reviewing progress on the search for Teymuraz.

  “A galley matching the description of the one he took from Saint-Sasile was spotted off the Horn of Bremagne four days later, heading south,” Mátyás was saying. “We have learned of no further sightings, but Azim has turned the direction of his search toward the southron lands. Duke Alaric,” he acknowledged, rising as Morgan came toward them.

  “Mátyás.” Morgan glanced toward Kelson, who had also risen and stepped down to meet him, staying the Torenthi lord with a gesture.

  “A moment, Mátyás, while I acquaint Alaric with our intentions.”

  Taking Morgan’s wrist, the king gave him the gist of what had passed between him and the uncle of the King of Torenth, relieved when Morgan only nodd
ed, faintly smiling.

  “Please join us, my lord,” he said, motioning toward Mátyás as he headed toward the Portal square. “Kelson somewhat overstates, but I would, indeed, have been angry, had he taken you to the cathedral unescorted. I’ll go ahead, to make sure it’s clear,” he said to Kelson. “You’d best tell Nivard and Derry we’ll be unavailable for the next little while.”

  As Kelson ducked his head back through the Veil to alert Nivard, Morgan positioned himself on the Portal square, bowed his head as he composed himself, and vanished. When he did not reappear, after a count of ten, Kelson moved onto the same square with Mátyás, took the other’s wrist, and extended his shields around them both as the Torenthi mage smoothly retracted his and yielded control. A moment to stabilize their position—to reach toward their destination—and then Kelson wrenched the energies. In the space between two heartbeats, they were standing in the sacristy of Rhemuth Cathedral, before the vesting altar. Beside the door that led out to the nave, Morgan was peering through the little squint that looked into the sanctuary, with its high altar.

  “Everything dressed for tomorrow,” he said, “and no one about. Take your time.”

  Softly Kelson stepped back from Mátyás, so the other could crouch alone on the Portal square to learn its location. The dark head of the Torenthi prince briefly bowed as he laid his hands on the fine mosaic that delineated the square. Kelson watched in silence. After a few seconds, Mátyás rose.

  “I have it,” he said. “At what time tomorrow may we come? I think this sacristy shall be a busy place.”

  “The procession is to arrive here at noon,” Kelson said, “so all the clergy should be out by then. Morgan will be here to see you to a place where you can watch. I’ll tell Rory that you and Liam will be here.”

  Mátyás nodded. “Thank you. This will mean much to him.” He came to peer out the little grille in the sacristy door, orienting himself to the transept beyond, then returned to the Portal.

  “I shall not keep you longer,” he said. “I shall return directly to Torenthály. Again, my thanks.”

  When he had vanished, Kelson turned to Morgan.

  “Did I just do a foolish thing?” he asked softly.

  “Are you asking if I trust him, my prince?” Morgan countered.

  “I suppose I am.”

  “Then, I must answer that I do,” Morgan replied. “I think he is an honorable and compassionate man, and Liam is fortunate to have him. And we are fortunate to have him for a friend. But for now, I think we should go back whence we came. Come, I’ll take you through. Tomorrow will be a very long day—and I left a very warm and loving woman in my bed.”

  Chuckling, Kelson moved back onto the Portal and let Morgan take them both back to the library Portal, where Derry and Davoran were waiting to conduct them back to their respective beds.

  The movements of Derry, at least, did not go unremarked that night—and not by any of those who saw him at his work in Rhemuth Castle. In a room atop a tower in the foothills of distant Alver, close by the Bremagni border, Teymuraz closed down the link that had given him access to what Sean Lord Derry saw and pushed aside the bowl of ink in which he had scried it, turning the iron finger-ring under his thumb.

  Only a few days ago had he finished sifting through the knowledge wrenched from the dying Morag, and kindled the link through the ring that gave him access to the court of Gwynedd through the eyes of Sean Lord Derry, aide to the powerful Duke Alaric Morgan—who was Deryni, but ill-trained, and did not know of the cuckoo in his nest. Teymuraz was still feeling out the limits of the link through the rings, but the results were extremely promising, thus far.

  All must be intuited through the eyes of Derry himself, of course; Teymuraz had not yet managed to get much past mere observation, though with concentration, he was starting to have an effect on Derry’s movements and even on his will. For the last several days, Teymuraz had been in the link during nearly all Derry’s waking hours, and sometimes in his sleep, ever stretching the limits of his control.

  Tonight, quite unexpectedly, his diligence had begun to pay off. It was difficult to know precisely what was going on, on this night before the great wedding celebration in Rhemuth, but Derry very definitely had brought word to his king that his own two-faced and deceiving brother Mátyás was in the castle—and apparently in the library to which Derry conducted the king, though no one but the Deryni priest Nivard was there when they arrived. But then priest and king apparently had walked right through a wall, Nivard emerging almost at once, apparently quite nonchalant about the entire matter.

  From their quiet converse of the next little while, Teymuraz had gathered that another chamber lay beyond that wall, the connecting passage guarded and disguised to humans by some spell—but try as he might, he had not been able to get Derry to go closer. Derry feared it, as he feared most magic, though it had not always been so—and small wonder that he feared, given what Wencit had done to him—though his devotion to the Deryni Duke Alaric Morgan was such that he made himself go beyond his fears, most of the time. Piecing together what snippets he could actually pull from Derry’s memories, rather than what he saw through Derry’s eyes, Teymuraz concluded that a Portal lay on the other side of that wall, to which the King of Gwynedd had given Mátyás access.

  That impression was reinforced when the king soon emerged briefly to have Derry fetch Morgan, who also walked through the wall. And after another interval, Kelson had again emerged to say to Nivard that they would be unavailable for the next little while, suggesting that the three of them—Kelson, Morgan, and Mátyás—intended transfer to yet another Portal: vilest betrayal of Torenth, on the part of Mátyás, to ally himself with Kelson of Gwynedd, even in the intimacy of shared magic.

  But the payoff had come when Morgan returned, Derry accompanying him back to his quarters. There Morgan had told his aide how Mátyás and Laje planned to come through a Portal in Rhemuth Cathedral on the morrow, there to witness the nuptials of the Mearan heiress with Prince Rory Haldane, beloved of Laje. He even told Derry the approximate location of the Portal. Teymuraz had known that he would be able to observe the wedding through Derry’s eyes, but this promised more tempting opportunity.

  Smiling, thoughtfully turning the iron ring on his finger, he laid himself down on a couch draped with silks and composed himself for darker work than he had done since he killed Morag.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  We have heard of thee, that thou art a man of great power, and meet to be our friend.

  I Maccabees 10:19

  Kelson woke the next morning to the distant bustling sounds of the castle awakening, aware that the long anticipated day finally had arrived. He knew that the servants would be about their preparations for the wedding feast to come, that the invasion of wedding guests would be already assembling, preparatory to the planned exodus to the cathedral in a few hours’ time; that the bridal parties would be making their final nervous preparations.

  Not being a formal part of the bridal procession, for he himself was only a wedding guest today, Kelson had good excuse to keep apart from most of the bustle. After a leisurely bath, he picked at a plate of cheese and bread and fruit while Ivo plaited his hair in a neat Border braid and clubbed it up, then let him and Davoran dress him in a long Haldane tunic of crimson silk, girt at the waist with a belt of silver plaques, from which hung a long Border dirk set with a ruby in its pommel. This was not a day for swords.

  When they had pronounced him fit for public viewing, he hooked his coronet over one arm, finishing off the last of a particularly fine pear, and went down to join Morgan, Derry, and Dhugal, who were waiting to ride with him to the cathedral. In the hall, the participants in the official procession were starting to assemble. He detoured briefly to inform Rory that Liam and Mátyás would be present, much to Rory’s delight. He saw Araxie heading up the stairs with fresh flower garlands for the brides’ hair, but she was gone before he could greet her.

  The morning was fine, no
t as warm as many previous days, and Kelson found himself able to relax as he and his companions rode casually down the long, winding thoroughfare toward the cathedral, to witness this culmination of many months of planning and negotiation and domestic interaction. At a brief court convened the previous evening, he had confirmed the creation of Jolyon Ramsay as Duke of Laas, so that Oksana could wear her coveted ducal coronet for the wedding festivities. He was quite content to let her share in some of the attention, on this day when both her children would be wed to royalty.

  Happily, as they rode out the castle gates, no one was much interested in him today; he still was carrying his coronet hooked over his arm, much to Dhugal’s amusement. But Morgan made him put it on before they reached the final approach to the cathedral square. The crowds gathering along the route of the procession gawked at all the noble riders descending from the castle, and occasionally gave a ragged cheer, but most of their adulation was being saved for the brides. Remembering the last time he had been part of such a procession, en route to his ill-fated marriage to Sidana of Meara, Kelson was well glad that the day was not his, and that he had this opportunity to lay to rest the ghosts of that other wedding with a more joyful one, before he came along this route with Araxie.

  At the cathedral, all was in readiness. A stir passed among the wedding guests as Kelson was led to his place in the choir by Bishop Duncan, escorted by Dhugal, Morgan, and Derry. He was the king, after all. After Duncan had departed, the four of them settled back to watch the arrival of other guests—Mearan kin of the Ramsays, most of the court of Gwynedd, and finally the mothers of the brides and bridegrooms, a Haldane princess and—now—two duchesses.