"Aye, M'lord," the squire replied, eyeing the two smiling men with a look of wonder. "But do be careful, sir—both of ye."
Morgan nodded gravely and patted Richard on the shoulder, then began to make his way resolutely toward the stairs, Derry at his heels.
The staircase and entryway were still crowded with richly garbed lords and ladies, and Morgan was suddenly aware again how he must stand out among them in his dusty black leathers. But there was more to it than that, he realized. As he made his way up the staircase, he noticed that conversation stopped as he passed, especially among the ladies. And when he returned their glances with his usual half-smile and bow, the ladies shrank away from him as though afraid, and the men moved their hands a little closer to their weapons.
Abruptly, he recognized the problem. In spite of his long absence, he was being recognized and connected with the wild Deryni rumors. Someone had certainly gone to a lot of trouble to taint his name. These people
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actually believed him to be the evil Deryni sorcerer of the legends!
Very well. Let them stare. He would play along. If they wished to see the suave, self-assured, vaguely menacing Deryni Lord in action, he would oblige!
With a slight swagger to his movements, he paused on the threshold to slap the dust from his clothes, deliberately positioning himself so that his sword and mail glittered balefully and his hair glowed like burnished gold in the sunlight. His audience was suitably impressed.
When he was satisfied that the act had achieved its desired effect, he allowed his gaze to sweep across his audience one more time, slowly. Then he turned on his heel like an insolent boy and swept into the hall. At his back, Derry glided along like a watchful blue shadow, his face enigmatic beneath the thick mane of curly brown hair.
The hall was immense. It had needed to be. For Brion had been a very great King, with many vassals, and he kept a court that rewarded faithful service well.
The high-ceilinged hall with its oaken support beams and dozens of silk-embroidered battle flags was almost symbolic of the new unity which had come to the Eleven Kingdoms in the twenty-five years of Brion's reign. Banners of Carthmoor and Cassan, of Kierney and the Kheldish Riding, the Free Port of Concara-dine, the Meara Protectorate, Howicce, Llannedd, the Connait, the Hort of Orsal, episcopal banners of most of the Lords Spiritual hi the Eleven Kingdoms—all hung alike from the high oak beams, then- silken and gold insignias and devices gleaming in the half-light that poured from the clerestory and from the three immense fireplaces that heated the room.
On the walls, rich tapestries vied with armorial banners for color and splendor. And above the main fire-
place, dominating the hall, the Golden Lion of Gwy-nedd glittered darkly from its background of deep crimson velvet.
Gules, a lion rampant guardant or, the heralds would blazon the Haldane arms on the hanging above the fireplace. But mere heraldic jargon could not begin to describe the rich embroidery, the priceless artistry and jewel-work which had gone into its creation.
The panel had been commissioned more than fifty years before by Brion's grandfather King Malcolm. Times were harder then, and it had taken nearly three years for the nimble-fingered weavers of the Kheldish Riding to complete the basic design alone. Another five years passed while the gold and jewel artisans of Concaradine plied their arts. And Brion's father, Donal, had finally hung the masterpiece in the great hall.
Morgan remembered the reaction of a small blond boy on seeing the Lion for the first time. For that first impression was indelibly etched on his memory with his first glimpse of Brion, the shining King who had stood before the Lion of Gwynedd and welcomed a shy young page to the royal court.
Morgan savored the memory and scanned the hanging once more, slowly, as he always felt compelled to do after a long absence. Only then did he permit his gaze to slip casually up and to th^ left, where hung another banner.
Worked in green, on black silk, the Corwyn Gryphon actually defied many of the conventional rules of heraldry, at least where color was concerned. But perhaps that was part of the charm of the Deryni heritage, into whatever disrepute that bloodline had fallen in past decades.
The emerald Gryphon, its wings dripping gold and jewels, rearing up its head and claws in the rampant pose—segreant, when applied to gryphons—gleamed
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darkly, mysteriously, with an almost sinister aura from its background of shining black. Around the edge, a golden bordure—the double tressure flory counter-fiory of the old Morgan arms—gave homage to his paternal inheritance.
Morgan tended to forget about his Morgan lands. It was just as well, perhaps. For the two-dozen-or-so estates and manors scattered about the kingdom were his sister Bronwyn's dowry for the most part, capably managed by that shining lady and soon to be joined to the Kierney lands when she married Kevin McLain next spring. Then only the golden tressure on the sable shield would remain of Morgan's paternal birthright— that and the name.
It was the calling of that name that summoned Morgan from his reverie. From a dozen feet away, Lord Rogier was pushing his way through the thronged nobles, his thin face pinched with worry, the slender brown moustache bristling with impatience.
"Morgan, we expected you days ago! What happened?" He glanced nervously at Derry, obviously not recognizing him, but disturbed by his presence nonetheless. "Where are Lord Ralson and Colin?"
Morgan ignored Rogier's question and began moving purposefully down the hall. For he had caught a glimpse of Ewan approaching with Bran Coris and lan Howell. If he waited until they arrived, he would have to tell the news only once. As it was, it would be painful enough. He and Ralson had been close.
As he reached the three, Kevin McLain appeared at Morgan's left elbow to clap him on the shoulder in silent greeting. Rogier nearly ran them all down in his exasperation.
"But, Morgan!" Rogier was sputtering, "you didn't answer my question. Has something happened to them?"
Morgan bowed greeting to the assembled group*
"I'm afraid so, Rogier. Ralson, Colin, the two guards, three of my best officers—they're all dead."
"Dead!" Ewan gasped.
"Oh, my God!" Kevin whispered. "Alaric, what happened?"
Morgan clasped his hands behind his back and steeled himself for the ordeal. "I was at Cardosa when the news came. I took the escort, Derry, and three of my own men, and we headed back for Rhemuth immediately. Two days out of Cardosa, we were ambushed in a pass—I think it was near Valoret. Ralson and our escort were killed outright. Colin died of his wounds the next day. Derry may lose the use of his left hand, but at least he escaped with his life."
lan frowned and stroked his beard with feigned concern. "Why, that's ghastly, Morgan. Absolutely ghastly. Ah, how many did you say attacked you?"
"I didn't say," Morgan replied neutrally. He eyed lan suspiciously and tried to discern a motive for the question. "But I believe there were ten or twelve of them, wouldn't you agree, Derry?"
"We killed eight, M'lord," Derry stated promptly. "But several more got away in the confusion."
"Humph!" Ewan snorted. "Nine Gwynedd men killed only eight of the ruffians? I'd've thought ye could do better than that, man!"
"So would I," lan added, folding his arms casually across a brocaded doublet of golden yellow silk. "I don't pretend to be an expert in these matters like Lord Ewan, but it seems to me that you did make a rather poor showing. Of course, none of us was there . . ." He shrugged and let his voice trail off meaningfully.
"That's right," Bran Coris said, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "None of us was there. How can we be sure it happened the way you say it did? Why didn't
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you use your precious Deryni powers to save them, Morgan
? Or didn't you want to save them?"
Morgan stiffened as he whirled to glare at Bran. If the idiot wasn't careful, he was going to start something Morgan would have to finish. And Morgan didn't dare risk a bloody open battle here and now.
Damn! This was the second time today he'd had to back down from a good fight!
"I did not hear that remark," he said pointedly. "I obeyed the command of my King and I came." He turned to the left. "Kevin, do you know where Kelson is now?"
"I'll tell him you're here," Kevin replied, slipping out of Bran's reach before the angry lord could stop him. His bright plaid swung jauntily from his shoulder as he hurried across the room.
Bran dropped his hand to his sword hilt and glared at Morgan. "Smoothly maneuvered, Morgan. But seven deaths—I think that's too high a price to pay for your presence here!"
He started to draw, but Ewan seized his wrist and forced him to return the blade to its sheath.
"Stop it, Bran!" Ewan growled. "And Alaric, I wish ye hadn't come. Frankly, the Queen didn't even want Kelson to send for ye. In any event, I don't think ye should see the lad until ye've talked with Her Majesty."
"I'm well aware of the Queen's feelings about me, Ewan," Morgan replied softly. "Fortunately for my conscience, I don't care what she thinks. I made a promise to the boy's father, and I intend to keep it." He glanced casually around him. "And I'm not at all certain Brion would approve of my being the agenda for today's Council meeting. That is why you're all gathered here, isn't it, gentlemen?"
The Lords of the Council exchanged furtive glances and tried to decide which one had told Morgan about
their plans. Across the room, Morgan saw Prince Nigel exchange a few words with the exiting Kevin and head toward Morgan and his companions.
"You must understand, Morgan," Rogier was saying. "None of us has anything against you personally. But the Queen—well, she hasn't taken Brion's death well at all."
"Neither have I, Rogier,1' Morgan replied evenly, his grey eyes flashing.
Nigel stepped deftly between Rogier and Ewan and took Morgan's arm. "Alaric, I'm delighted to see you. And Lord Deny, I believe."
Deny bowed acknowledgement, obviously pleased to have been recognized by the royal Duke, and grateful for the interruption of hostilities. Around him, the others also bowed.
"I have a favor to ask, though," Nigel continued, playing the part of perfect host to the hilt. "Would you mind sitting in at Alaric's place hi Council, Deny? He has some important matters to take care of for me."
"It would be my pleasure, Your Highness."
"Excellent," Nigel said, beginning to edge himself and Morgan in the direction Kevin had disappeared. "You'll excuse us, won't you, gentlemen?"
As Nigel and Morgan moved off and disappeared hi the direction of the royal apartments, lan mentally congratulated Nigel on the smoothness of the rescue. Not that it would matter in the end. Even if Morgan did talk to Kelson, and there was no way he could have stopped it at this point, there would still be a few unexpected surprises for the Deryni lord.
Meanwhile, there was the matter of this Lord Derry of Morgan's. And Bran Cons—that had been a surprise. He had known that Morgan's strength in Council would be lessened by at least one vote. Ralson's timely end had assured that. But now it appeared that Bran Coris had defected, too. It would be interesting to find
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out what had prompted the change. Bran had always been carefully neutral hi the past
As he and Nigel left the great hall, Morgan was amazed at the change which had come over Brion's younger brother hi the past two months. For though the royal Duke was only in his mid-thirties, but a few years older than Morgan, he had the look of a man of twice the years.
It was not really a physical manifestation. There was no grey streaking the jet-black hair. Nigel did not stoop, or tremble with the palsy of the aged. It was hi the eyes, Morgan decided as they strode down a long marble corridor. Nigel had always been the quieter, more studious of the two brothers, but this was something new—a haunted (or was it hunted?) look that Morgan had never seen there before. Nigel, too, had not taken Brion's death well.
As soon as they were out of sight and earshot of the door attendants, Nigel dropped his feigned smile and glanced at Morgan worriedly.
"We've got to hurry," he murmured, his long strides echoing on the expanse of marble tile. "Jehana's getting ready to convene the Council and prefer charges against you. And I can't remember when I've seen the Council Lords in a nastier mood. It's almost as though they believe the rumors about Brion's death."
"Oh, they believe them, all right," Morgan said. "They really think I somehow killed Brion with Deryni magic all the way from Cardosa. Even a full Deryni couldn't do that." He snorted. "And then there are the innocents who believe he died of a—'heart attack.' '*
They came to a cross corridor and Nigel chose the one to the right, heading toward the palace gardens. "Well, both theories are being discussed. That's inevitable, I suppose. But Kelson has another theory—and
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I tend to agree with him—that Charissa had something to do with it."
"He's probably right, too," Morgan replied, not missing a stride. "About the Council, though—do you think you can handle them?"
Nigel frowned. "Frankly, no. At least, not for long."
They passed a guard post and Nigel took the crisp salute distractedly. "You see," the Duke continued, "it would be different if Kelson were already King, of legal age. If that were the case, he could simply forbid the Council to consider any trumped-up charges against you without concrete proof. But he's not, and he can't. As long as he's still a minor, no matter how close, the Regency Council has certain viceregal powers he can't countermand. They decide what's a fit topic for discussion, and they can vote by a simple majority to condemn you. Whether or not they succeed in the end will depend largely on Kelson's personal ability to manipulate the voting."
"Can he?" Morgan asked, as the two clattered down a half-flight of stairs and into the garden.
"I don't know, Alaric," Nigel replied. "He's good— damned good—but I just don't know. Besides, yon saw the key council lords. With Ralson dead and Bran Coris practically making open accusations—well, it doesn't look good."
"I could have told you that at Cardosa."
They came to a halt under a trellised summerhouse at the edge of a boxwood maze. Morgan glanced around surreptitiously for some sign of Kelson and mentally approved of the choice of meeting place.
"These latest attempts of Jehana to have me discredited, Nigel—what charges is she likely to level against me?"
Nigel put one booted foot up on a carved stone bench and looked soberly across at Morgan, one forearm resting on his upraised knee. "Treason and her-
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esy," he said quietly. "And it's not likely. It's certain!"
"Certain!" Morgan exploded. "Damn, Nigel, it's certain to be Kelson's death if she doesn't let me help him! Doesn't she realize that?"
Nigel shrugged hopelessly. "Who can say for sure what Jehana realizes or doesn't realize? I do know that our dear Lord Rogier is going to make the formal treason charge. And there's no chance in the world that Archbishop Corrigan will refuse to support the heresy claim. Jehana's even bringing in that Archbishop from Valoret—what's his name, who keeps the Deryni persecutions going in the north?"
"Loris!" Morgan hissed, turning away in disgust
Seething inside, he gazed out over the low railing of the summerhouse to the boxwood maze beyond. From here, the complexity of the maze was not evident, but Morgan suddenly realized it was almost symbolic of the dilemma he now faced: convoluted, enigmatic, with new and unforeseen difficulties around every turn. Except that there was a way out of the boxwood maze.
He turned back to Nigel, in complete control again. "Nigel, Fm convinced that in a fair fight, with no treachery involved, Kelson could defeat Charissa once
and for all—but only if he has Brion's power. I've got to have time for that, though. Does Jehana really know what's at stake, what will happen to Kelson if he has to face Charissa without that power? You were next in line. You know what I'm talking about."
"If she knows, she won't admit it," Nigel sighed. "If you think it would help, though, I could try to talk to her again. I might gain us some time, at least."
"All right," Morgan nodded. "And if you can't reason with her, try a little coercion."
"Ill do what I can," Nigel nodded gloomily. "She'd better start acting like a grown woman with some sense, though. I'll see you later."
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"I hope so," Morgan agreed, almost to himself, as the Duke disappeared around a bend in the path.
Morgan smiled wryly as he perched on the summer-house rail to wait for Kelson. Personally, he had little faith in anyone's ability to placate or coerce Brion's wayward Queen, least of all Nigel, who had always been an open supporter of the out-of-favor general.
On the other hand, Nigel was the Queen's brother-in-law, and that might count for something. Who knew? After all, in a world where gods rose from the dead and quasi-mortals summoned the very forces of Good and Evil at will, he supposed anything was at least theoretically possible.
He had never really understood Jehana's opposition, though. It was based, he knew, on that ancient and ingrained suspicion of Deryni magic. And this had been reinforced through the generations by the Church Militant's condemnation of all occult arts. But surely there was more to it than that.
Certainly, there had been cause for suspicion of things Deryni at one tune. Morgan was first to admit it. But it had been almost three hundred years since the beginning of the Deryni Interregnum. And while the Eleven Kingdoms had been under heavy Deryni dictatorship for nearly three generations, those days had been past now for nearly two centuries.
Even at the height of Deryni rule, there had been only a handful of the Fellowship involved in the darker atrocities. And hi the balance were the thousands of Deryni who had cherished their human ties—those same Deryni who, led by Camber of Culdi, eventually discovered that under carefully specified conditions, in certain select individuals, the full scope of Deryni power could be acquired by humans.1
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