Kelson nodded to Oksana as she took her place across the choir from him, amid Mearan kin and nobles, glad to note her contented smile. His own mother was a few places down from him, gowned and crowned as a queen of Gwynedd, not far from Meraude and Sivorn. Beyond, he could just see Araxie and Rothana—and Azim, taking a place between them.
The roar of the crowds outside announced the coming of the bridal party. As the cathedral bells began to ring the noonday Angelus, Morgan and Derry slipped out of the choir and briefly disappeared, returning momentarily with two black-clad and closely hooded figures who slipped quietly into shadowed places just within the choir screen, not far from Kelson. Very soon, the choir began to sing an introit from the rear of the great nave—a selection from the Song of Songs—and the bridal procession began.
First came the two bridegrooms walking side by side: Rory, all in the royal blue of his father’s House, no circlet yet adorning that glossy head of Haldane-sable hair, clouted back in a neat Border braid; Brecon in the lighter blue of his Ramsay ancestors, his robe embroidered across the chest with a broad band of gold and silver chequy, echoing the Ramsay arms, his sandy hair merely tied back with a twist of gold and silver cord. Both wore the white belts and golden spurs of their knighthood, for both were yet simple knights, though Rory had been born a prince. Behind them came their supporters: Rory’s uncle, Saer de Traherne, and Brecon’s younger brother, Christophle, a pleasant-looking young man in monastic robes, whose arrival in time for the wedding had been a near-run thing. Kelson had met him briefly the day before.
Then the ecclesiastical procession: cross and torches, thurifers and choir; the two archbishops, all in snowy vestments, coped and mitered; and a bevy of little girls—at least a dozen of them—shepherded by Richelle’s little sisters, each carrying a ribbon-bedecked basket from which they strewed flower petals before the brides.
Noelie came first, on the arm of Jolyon Ramsay—his pale head now ducally adorned, as from yesterday’s court—then Richelle on her stepfather’s arm, each with hair unbound and crowned with roses, each being given in marriage to a man she adored.
Kelson turned his eyes away as the couples knelt each before an archbishop and exchanged their vows, remembering how he had spoken those same words before this very altar—had it really been more than four years ago?—sealing the same marriage promises before God, in hope of a great peace to be born of their union.
But only blood had come of that brief marriage: Sidana’s blood, draining away upon those holy altar steps, and with it, a tiny portion of his soul. He would never know what might have been, had Sidana lived; just as he would never know what might have been, had Rothana married him instead of Conall; but he knew he would never forget Sidana of Meara, his silken princess.
Abruptly he wished that his marriage to Araxie need not take place here, where Sidana had died—though no other place was fitting to crown the queen so long awaited by his people. Though Sidana was long gone, at rest in her tomb in the crypt below, the offering of her blood would always lie before this altar, ultimate sacrifice for the cause of peace.
He bowed his head briefly in one hand to whisper a prayer for her. But as he dared to glance at her distant Mearan kin—at Brecon Ramsay with his Richelle, at Noelie Ramsay and Rory—it occurred to him that perhaps these Mearans could forge the peace she had failed to secure, not by spilling their blood but by merging it with Haldane blood—in marriage, not in murder.
By the time the vows had been exchanged, the rings given, the blessings bestowed, he could rest content enough with that notion, offering up that intention during the nuptial Mass that followed, receiving the Sacrament as a tangible symbol of his determination to carry forward with the work he knew he must achieve, as he built upon the new beginnings taking form for himself as well as the Mearan venture.
When the final dismissal had been given, each of the bridegrooms came to present his bride before the king, Rory and then Brecon, before retreating up the aisle for the procession back to the castle, and the wedding feast to come. The parents of the couples followed after, the wedding guests falling in informally behind, as the great cathedral bells began to peal and the cathedral began to empty.
Kelson lingered with Dhugal as Morgan brought Liam and Mátyás over to him. Derry had been sent to the sacristy, to alert them when the clergy had finished unvesting. Liam looked tired—and older—but he managed a smile as he pushed back his hood and he and Kelson exchanged nods.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Kelson said to him. “I wish there were something I could do.”
“Allowing us to come today is a great boon,” Liam replied, smiling faintly. “It was good to see Rory wed. I wish him every happiness.”
“Would you like to give him that wish in person?” Kelson asked. “I’ve thought of a way it can be done discreetly.” He glanced at Mátyás. “I cannot grant you free passage from the room with the Portal that you know, but I can take you to another, in the precincts of the basilica within the outer walls. It will become somewhat known, soon enough, since Saint Hilary’s is to become the home of our first Deryni schola in Gwynedd in many years.”
“Indeed?” Mátyás said. “That is very good news. Laje, would it please you to speak briefly with Rory before we return?”
Liam’s broad grin required no further confirmation. Attended by Morgan and Dhugal, Kelson and his Torenthi guests began making their way slowly toward the sacristy, detouring to show Mátyás and Liam the great seal of Saint Camber set in the transept crossing. As Kelson briefly explained how the seal had figured in his coming to full power, drawing parallels with Liam’s inauguration at Torenthály, he caught a flicker of movement beyond the choir screen, up before the high altar: Rothana, pointing out some feature of the vaulting above to Araxie and Azim. Only then did it occur to him that, in all the turmoil of the past few weeks, he had neglected to inform Mátyás and Liam of the official announcement that would be made at the wedding feast shortly to commence, of the forthcoming marriage that had occupied so much of his own focus during those other ceremonies just concluded.
Sending Dhugal to ask Araxie’s attendance, he drew the Torenthi pair back through the arch of the choir screen, away from the curious eyes of the last wedding guests straggling out the cathedral’s great doors.
“I thought you had already gone,” he said, as Dhugal brought her—wearing a look of innocence, but he knew that she had recognized his companions, and must at least guess what he intended. “Liam-Lajos, King of Torenth, and Duke Mátyás Furstán d’Arjenol—you will, of course, remember my fair cousin, the Princess Araxie Haldane.” As he took her hand, he swept a glance behind him in exaggerated gesture of assuring himself that none could overhear, then lowered his voice conspiratorially. “It is also my honor to officially present my future queen—as all Gwynedd will shortly learn, now that today’s weddings are accomplished.”
Liam had begun to grin at this pronouncement, and Mátyás nodded sagely, pleasure in his eyes.
“My official congratulations, Sire,” he said, “and my felicitations to you, Princess. May your marriage be as sweet and as fruitful as my own has been.”
With a murmured word of thanks, she gave him her hand to kiss. Liam shook his head in admiring disbelief and glanced at Kelson.
“Then it really is true,” he blurted. “When you told us at the Ile, so much else was going on, I later wondered whether I might have dreamed it all. And no one guessed—no one! All the squires were wrong. Princess, you were meant to marry Cuan of Howicce!”
“No, I think I was meant to marry Kelson of Gwynedd,” she said happily, slipping her arm through his and casting him a contented smile as Kelson glanced down at her.
Following a moment’s further light converse regarding the plans for the evening, Derry appeared in the arch of the choir screen and indicated that the sacristy was clear of clergy.
“I’d best go back with Azim and Rothana, then,” Araxie said. “At least a few of us should arrive
back at the castle by conventional means—not that anyone is likely to notice, in all the milling about. You should see all the horses still waiting outside.”
Kelson nodded his agreement, raising a hand in summons to Derry.
“I’ll send Derry with you,” he said. “He’s none too happy about Portals, from all reports. Morgan and Dhugal and I will take Liam and Mátyás through to the Portal at the basilica. There’s a tunnel from there that I’ll have to show you, one day soon. It gives access to several different locations in the castle. Derry, please go with Araxie, would you? We’ll join you shortly.”
So saying, he gave Araxie into Derry’s hands and turned to begin shepherding the others toward the sacristy. Morgan was already moving in that direction, Dhugal right behind him. He did not see the flicker of consternation that passed over Derry’s face as he hesitated and started to turn, glassy-eyed, one hand pulling a short dagger from its sheath.
But he caught the flash of the blade out of the corner of his eye as it arched upward, in the same instant that Derry thrust Araxie from him and seized Mátyás’s arm, whirling him to drive the steel up and under the ribs—unprotected by armor or even mail, for Mátyás and Liam had come for a wedding.
It was Araxie who kept it from being an immediately fatal blow, scrambling for balance and then throwing herself against Derry’s knees with enough force to slightly deflect his aim and loose his hold on the weapon, even as Kelson and Dhugal wrestled him to the ground, struggling like one possessed—as indeed he was, in that instant. At the same time, Morgan launched himself toward the silk-robed form of Teymuraz, who suddenly reared out from behind a pillar, an iron ring glinting on his clenched fist and triumph blazing in his dark eyes.
“Go reign in hell, brother!” he screamed—then bolted for the sacristy and escape, for Liam had whirled in focused outrage and was raising a hand toward him, the power of Furstán already stirring.
Mátyás was sinking to his knees, clutching at his side, Araxie scrambling to catch his weight as he crumpled, intent on keeping him from falling on his wound. Behind them, from up in the choir, Azim had bolted toward them with hard-eyed intent, Rothana not far behind him, drawn by the cry of Teymuraz and the scuffle centered on the king and the power roiling amid it.
Derry’s struggles ceased as Teymuraz fled, going limp under the sprawled weight of Kelson and Dhugal, pinning him to the floor. By the time Morgan could reach the sacristy, Teymuraz was well away. Azim arrived hard on Morgan’s heels, assessed the situation in an instant, and briskly shouldered him aside, with an admonition to get back to the others while he secured the Portal against any further intrusion by the fled Teymuraz.
Morgan was breathing hard when he got back to the scene of the devastation wrought by Teymuraz. Dhugal had scrambled to the aid of the stricken Mátyás, who lay gasping and faintly writhing with his knees drawn to his chest. Though Morgan could see no blood, Mátyás’s hand was clutched to his left side where, close between his body and the angle of his elbow, the hilt of Derry’s dagger protruded at a downward angle, black against the black silk of his robe.
Mátyás bit back a moan as Dhugal drew his left arm out and away from his body to get a look at the wound, giving his wrist into the keeping of the wide-eyed Araxie. Liam was easing his uncle’s head onto his knees, already working to ease the pain, softly whispering something that sounded like su-su-su . . . Beyond, Kelson was sitting astride Derry’s chest, apparently in control of that situation.
Sick at heart—for he felt responsible for Derry’s defection—Morgan crouched down opposite Dhugal. He could see that Derry’s blade, rather than piercing the robe, had driven a sheathing of the fine silk into the wound—and fortunately, had not become dislodged in the scuffle; for that plug of silk, stayed by the blade, was all that was keeping him from bleeding out his life.
As Dhugal used his own blade to hurriedly rip an opening and gain access to the wound, Mátyás sensed Morgan’s added presence, and turned his face toward him, away from the wound.
“I have heard,” he whispered, around a cough that brought up blood, “that you have healing powers. Now would be a very good time for a demonstration.”
“Just lie easy,” Morgan said softly, with an urgent glance at Dhugal, whose eyes had gone a little glazed with trancing as his agile fingers pressed and probed around the wound.
“It’s deep,” Dhugal murmured, “but a rib deflected the angle just enough to miss the heart—though only by a hairs-breadth. It’s in the lung, though—and apt to do more damage when it’s pulled—but it can’t stay.”
Kelson heard the chilling words from his perch astride Derry’s chest, where he was binding Derry’s wrists with Araxie’s veil—strong enough for now, and what was presently at hand. Derry was starting to stir, the blue eyes heavy-lidded, vacant. Rothana had joined them, and was running her hands above his forehead, a finger’s breadth away, frowning. Araxie gave Mátyás’s hand into Liam’s keeping and moved to join her as Azim came to crouch on Derry’s other side. Briskly sliding one hand from Derry’s shoulder to his hands, Azim hissed as he found the heavy gold ring on Derry’s finger.
“That explains!” he said emphatically, twisting off the ring and flinging it from them in a rare show of pique, to bounce a few times with a dull thunk! until it rolled to rest a few yards away.
“Leave it!” he said to Kelson—and to Morgan, who was hesitating between Derry and Mátyás. “Go, go! He needs you more. I will deal with this.”
As if both of them had simply ceased to exist, Azim then laid one hand on Derry’s forehead and the other on the bound wrists, his eyes summoning first Rothana and then Araxie into the link. As they settled closer to Derry and Azim, the two women laying their hands on Azim’s, Kelson shifted from his sitting position astride Derry’s chest and eased onto his knees between him and Mátyás. He held both men in his affection, in different ways; and both were now poised on the edge of mortal peril.
Morgan had already pivoted on his knees to lean across Mátyás’s chest and observe Dhugal’s investigations. A ragged frill of black silk now bloomed from around the place where the blade disappeared into Mátyás’s side, where Dhugal had cut away Mátyás’s robe to get at the wound. Mátyás winced as Dhugal probed around the entry point, and tried to stifle a cough; his breathing was labored, his eyes were closed. Liam looked like a man whose heart was being slowly ripped from his chest, one hand locked in his uncle’s hand and the other laid across his brow.
“It’s a narrow blade,” Dhugal was saying, “so it isn’t going to leave much of an exit channel. Just wide enough to let his life out, if we don’t move fast, once we pull it. I don’t know that I can get even a little finger in—and I think the wound is deeper than that. But I’ve got to have contact, in order to visualize that kind of healing.”
“Then, we’ll have to widen the channel as the blade is pulled,” Morgan murmured. “Pull the silk first, else you’ll have no edge. Dangerous, but at least Derry always keeps his weapons sharp.”
Both fascinated and faintly sickened by this clinical discussion of what must be done, Kelson scooted closer on his knees, torn between the battle being waged for Mátyás’s life and the silent but no less deadly battle being waged behind him, for Derry’s soul—for he knew that Azim’s focus was on yet another resurgence of the magic Wencit of Torenth had laid upon Derry many years go.
“You’ve more experience at this,” Dhugal said to Morgan. “Maybe you’d better do it.”
“No, your hands are smaller. I’ll handle the power flow—and we’d better do it now. Mátyás, my friend,” Morgan said, laying his hand on the other’s forehead and signing with his eyes for Liam to take his hand away, “it’s time to do or die, and I mean that quite literally.” He quirked a faint smile as Mátyás opened his eyes. “I’d hoped not to have to put our friendship to the test like this, but I need absolute and unconditional trust from you. Dhugal will need to tap a lot of energy, for this to work. So will I—and you’ve go
t to serve as a backup reservoir. I can’t predict how deep I’ll need to go—or whether we can even do this.”
Mátyás stifled another cough, turning his head briefly aside to spit out blood. Liam, white-faced, gently wiped his uncle’s mouth with a fold of his sleeve.
“Only tell me what I must do . . . my friend,” Mátyás whispered, his pale eyes searching Morgan’s. “I give myself willingly into your hands.”
“Close your eyes,” Morgan murmured, shifting thumb and little finger to rest on the eyelids, as Mátyás obeyed and he, too, closed his eyes briefly. After a moment, he clasped his other hand around the wrist of Mátyás’s outflung hand and glanced at Dhugal, nodding for him to proceed.
Kelson could not bear to watch too closely as Dhugal bent to his work—Liam looked like he might faint, his uncle’s head still cradled on his knees—but it went quickly, as he knew it must—either to save Mátyás’s life or to speed its end. One second, Dhugal’s hand was on the hilt of Derry’s dagger, his other hand poised to follow where the blade had been; the next instant, the dagger was out, Dhugal’s forefinger thrust deep in the wound, his other hand pressed close around it, he and Morgan both with heads bowed, deep in healing trance.
Kelson sensed the battle being waged, but Mátyás did not move beneath Dhugal’s hands, only breathing softly, shallowly, in the same rhythm as Dhugal and Morgan, until Dhugal slowly drew his bloody finger from the closing wound—of which only a faint discoloring remained, surrounded by a smear of blood.
Breathing a heavy sigh, Dhugal laid his hand flat over the former site of the wound and gave Liam a reassuring nod. Morgan, too, sighed and pulled back as Mátyás opened his eyes in wonder, lifting his head and questing a hand to his side.
King Kelson's Bride Page 49
