There was another coup, led by Camber, and the Deryni Interregnum was ended as quickly as it had started. The tyrant leaders were executed by their own
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fellows, and rule was restored to the descendants of the old human lords.
But an irate populace and a militant Church soon forgot that deliverance as well as bondage had come from the Deryni Lords. And they soon ceased to make a distinction among Deryni.
Within fifteen years of the Restoration, not even the space of a generation, the Fellowship found itself victim of one of the bloodiest persecutions ever witnessed by civilized man. The numbers of the Deryni were reduced by two-thirds in a lightning purge. And those who survived either went into hiding and denounced their heritage, or lived a fearful and uneasy life under the protection of the few human Lords who remembered how it had really been.
Over the years, the memory eased. The persecution burned itself out in all but the most hardened fanatics. A few selected Deryni families rose once again to guarded prominence. But magic, if it was used at all, was exercised with extreme care and discretion. Most Deryni, of whatever class, simply refused to use their powers, for whatever cause. Discovery without protection could mean death.
Among humans, though, the original magic of the Restoration carried on. And it became gradually accepted, if not openly acknowledged, that the rulers of Gwynedd and certain other of the Eleven Kingdoms possessed special powers, somehow mysteriously related to their divine right of rule. The Deryni origin of these powers was not spoken of, if indeed it was remembered. But it was those powers, passed by ritual from father to son for nearly two hundred years, which had enabled Brion to defeat the Marluk fifteen years ago,
Jehana's feud with Morgan had really begun even before that historic battle, however. But not at the very beginning.
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When Brion first brought the auburn-haired princess home to be his Queen, Morgan had rejoiced with all of ( Gwynedd at the royal love match. He had been the King's squire then, and infatuated like all the young men at court with the lovely new Queen. Morgan, in the fervor of his first adolescent longing, adored her. For Jehana brought with her a new gaiety and splendor to the Court of Rhemuth. The people loved her for it.
Then came the day Brion casually let slip the fact of Morgan's half-Deryni ancestry. And Jehana's face went pale. Arid after that, very soon after that, the fateful war with the Marluk.
He still remembered that day vividly—that day now fifteen years past—when he and Brion, flushed with their recent victory over Marluk, had ridden back to Rhemuth at the head of the jubilant army.
He remembered how proud Brion had been of the boy-man Morgan, then but a few months past fourteen, as they romped excitedly into Jehana's chambers to boast of the victory. And the look of guarded horror and desperation which had come over Jehana's face as she realized her husband had held his throne and won his victory with the help of Deryni magic.
Immediately after that, Jehana went into seclusion for nearly two months, cloistering herself, it was said, at the Abbey of Saint Giles, near Shannis Meer. Soon she and Brion reconciled, and Jehana returned to Rhemuth with her lord. But she had avoided Morgan after that. And when Kelson was bora the following year, she had made it quite clear that she wanted nothing to do with the young Deryni lord.
Her decision did not particularly alter Morgan's existence. His friendship with Brion continued to grow and mature, and at Brion's encouragement, he took an active part in Kelson's education and training.
But he and Brion both recognized the folly of a rec-
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onciliation as far as Jehana was concerned. And through the years, Brion had had to gradually accustom himself to the fact that his beloved Queen would have nothing to do with his most trusted friend.
Now Morgan never saw the Queen except when protocol or matters concerning Kelson demanded. And those few, unavoidable meetings were generally punctuated with verbal fireworks. Considering the woman, Morgan had little hope that the relationship would change.
The crunch of booted feet on gravel broke the silence of the garden, and Morgan looked up, then slipped off the rail where he had been sitting. Kelson and Kevin rounded the final bend of the main path and came to a halt just inside the summerhouse.
Kelson wore the royal crimson now. His face above the black fox collar of the velvet cloak was somber, tense. He had grown niches in the months since Morgan last saw him. And the young general's practised eye detected chain mail under the stiffly embroidered silk tunic. Black crepe banded one arm above the elbow and hung briefly from the boy's belt.
But it was the uncanny resemblance to Brion at the same age that struck Morgan most. Looking at Kelson, he saw Brion staring back at him: the wide, grey gaze beneath a velvety shock of straight black hair; the regal carriage of the proud head; the ease with which he wore the royal crimson. Clinically, he noted the apparent frailness of the slim frame, recalled the tensile steel strength it disguised, remembered the long hours of practice at arms, many of them at Morgan's side.
It was Brion of the Laughing Eyes, Brion of the Flashing Sword; of the Thoughtful Moods, teaching a young child to ride and fence; holding court in all the splendor of the monarchy, the boy spellbound at his feet. And the image of that boy wavered between light and dark, blond and raven-haired, as the memories of
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distant years confused themselves with those more recent.
Then it was Kelson again. And Brion, asking a friend dearer than life to swear that the boy would always have a protector, should his father die untimely. Brion, only months before his death, entrusting the key to his divine power to the man who stood now before his son.
Kelson dropped his gaze uncertainly. It appeared that Morgan was as much at a loss for words as he was.
Kelson knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to run to Morgan as he'd done as a child, to fling his arms around him and sob out his relief, terror, pain, all the nightmare of the past two weeks; let the calm and sometimes mysterious Deryni lord soothe away his fears and ease his troubled mind with that awesome Deryni .magic. He had always felt so—safe with Morgan. If only he could...
But he did not.
He was a man, now—or supposed to be. And furthermore, he was a King!
Maybe! he interrupted himself apprehensively—// Morgan can help me to survive long enough!
Shyly, then, and feeling somewhat awkward in his new role, Kelson lifted his eyes once more to meet those of his father's friend, his friend.
"Morgan?" he nodded tentatively, trying to look more confident than he felt.
Morgan smiled a slow, reassuring smile and walked quietly to Kelson. He had been going to kneel in formal homage, but he sensed the boy's discomfort and decided to spare him the awkwardness. "My prince," was all he said.
Kevin McLain, a few paces behind the prince, could not miss the tenseness of the situation. Clearing his throat self-consciously, he looked toward Morgan.
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"Duncan said to tell you he'll be at Saint Hilary's when you're ready, Alaric. Til—ah—get back to the council meeting now. I think I can be more useful there."
Morgan nodded, but did not take his eyes from Kelson. So Kevin sketched an awkward bow and hurried back up the main path.
As tiie sound of Kevin's footsteps faded away, Kelson glanced down at the mosaiced floor of the sum-merhouse and traced a pattern hi the dust with the toe of one polished boot.
"Lord Kevin told me about Colin and Lord Ralson and the others," he finally said. "I—I feel responsible for their deaths, Morgan. It was I who insisted they go to find you."
"Someone had to come, Kelson," Morgan replied. He placed a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder. "I thought you might feel that way, though. I took the liberty of having the bodies held at the Abbey of Saint Mark. Once this is
over, you might want to do something for the families—a State burial, perhaps."
Kelson looked up wistfully. "Small consolation for the ones left behind—a State burial. Still, you're right, of course. Someone had to go."
"Good lad," Morgan smiled. "Come on. Let's walk."
Kevin McLain scanned the hall quickly from the doorway, then made his way across to where Deny stood alone outside the Council doors.
"Have they gone in yet?" Kevin asked, as he joined the younger man.
"No. They're waiting for some late arrivals. I hope they're very late—unless, of course, they're ours."
Kevin smiled. "I'm Kevin McLain, Morgan's cousin. And you can skip the formalities if you're Alaric's
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friend." He stuck out his hand and the younger man shook it.
"Scan Deny, Morgan's aide."
Kevin nodded and glanced around casually. "Been hearing any gossip around here? I think everyone in Rherauth knows Morgan is back by now."
"I don't doubt it," Deny replied. "What do you think?"
"What do / think?" Kevin said, pointing to himself in disbelief. "My friend, I think we're all in trouble. Do you know what they're planning to charge him with?"
"I'm afraid to guess.*'
Kevin held up one finger. "Number one: heresy. And two?" He held up a second finger. "Treason. Care to guess what the penalty is for either offense?"
Deny sighed and let his shoulders droop dejectedly.
"Death," he whispered.
CHAPTER THREE
Well )ai) no jury like the woman scorned, Or the woman mourning.
JEHANA OF GWYNEDD studied her reflection critically hi the mirror as a hairdresser coiled the long auburn braid at the back of her head and secured it with a pair of filigreed pins.
Brion would not have liked the hair style. Its stark simplicity was too harsh, too severe for her delicate features. It emphasized the high cheekbones, the slightly squared jaw line, made the smoky green eyes seem the only living features hi the pale face.
Nor was black a good color for her. The flowing silk and velvet of the mourning dress, unrelieved by jewel or lace or bit of bright embroidery, only heightened the monochrome effect of black and white, played up the pallor, made her look far older than her thirty-two years.
No, Brion would not have approved at all.
Not that he ever would have said anything, she mused, as the hairdresser covered the shining tresses
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with a delicate lace veil. Not Brion. No, he would simply have reached to her hair and removed the confining pins, let the long braid cascade loosely down her back, placed his gentle fingertips beneath her chin and tipped her mouth up to meet his ...
Her fingers clenched tightly in unbidden remembrance, trembled in the concealment of long, close sleeves. Angrily she blinked back the familiar tears.
She must not think about Brion now. She must not believe for even an instant that he could know what she was about to do. There was good reason for her appearance thus today. For when she stood before Brion's Council this morning and told them of the fearful evil threatening Kelson, they must not think her but a young and foolish woman. She was still Queen of Gwynedd, if only until tomorrow. She must be certain the Council did not forget that fact when she asked for Morgan's life.
Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for the golden coronet on the dresser before her, but she forced herself to be calm, to place the diadem firmly atop her mourning veil. What she proposed to do today was distasteful to her. Whatever her personal feelings about this accursed Morgan and his forbidden Deryni powers, the man had still been Brion's closest friend and confidant. If Brion could know what she was about to do ...
She stood abruptly and dismissed her maids with an impatient gesture. Brion could not know. Though it wrenched her heart to admit it, he was dead, almost two weeks in his tomb. Despite the old legends about the awesome power of the Deryni—powers so alien she could not begin to understand them—there was no way that even one favored by the Deryni could return from the grave. And if Morgan's death was necessary to insure that her only son should rule as a mortal,
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without the accursed powers, then it was necessary, no matter what the cost.
Resolutely, she crossed the chamber and paused in the doorway of the sun room. In one corner, a young minstrel strummed softly on a lute of pale, polished wood. Around him, a half-dozen black-clad ladies-in-waiting worked quietly at their needlepoint or listened to the mournful tune the minstrel hummed and played. Above their heads, climbing roses twined around the open beams, petals pink and red and gold against the clear autumn sky. All around, the morning sun cast hazy patterns of light and shadow on the flagstone floor and on the ladies' work. They looked up expectantly as Jehana paused in the doorway, and the minstrel stopped his playing.
Jehana signalled them to go on with their activities as she continued into the room. As the minstrel took up his gentle strumming again, Jehana wandered slowly to the opposite side of the room. Pulling a rose from a low-hanging branch, she sank wearily down on a black-draped bench under a rose arbor.
Perhaps here, among the roses and sunshine Brion had loved so well, she could find the inner peace she so desperately needed for what lay ahead. Perhaps here she could gather the strength and courage for what must be done.
A faint shudder moved across the frail shoulders, and she drew her gown more closely around her, as IE against a sudden chill.
She had never had a man killed before—even a Deryni.
Nigel yanked impatiently at the brocaded beH pull outside the Queen's apartments for the fifth tune, his grey eyes beginning to flash angrily. He felt a tirade coming on. And whatever good humor he had gained by his short talk with Alaric was fast dwindling away.
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If someone didn't open that door in about three seconds, he was going to—
He had just raised his hand to pull the cord for the sixth and final time when he heard a soft rustling behind the door. He stepped back a pace, and a small peephole opened in the door at eye level. A brown eye peered timidly through the opening.
"Who is that?" Nigel demanded, putting his eye to the hole and looking back through.
The brown eye retreated, and then Nigel could see a young servant girl backing off from the door, her mouth frozen in a silent O.
"Young woman, if you don't open this door immed>-ately, I'll kick it down, so help me!"
The girl's eyes widened even farther as she recognized the voice, and then she moved to obey. Nigel heard the bolt slide back and saw the heavy door begin to move. Without hesitation, he pushed it open the rest of the way and swept into the room.
"Where is the Queen?" he demanded, his practiced eye taking in every detail as he scanned the chamber. "In the garden?"
As he completed his visual circuit, he whirled abruptly and grabbed the frightened girl by the arm, shook her slightly as he glared down with those grey Haldane eyes. "Well? Speak up, child. I won't bite you."
The girl winced and tried to pull away. "P—please, Your Highness," she stammered. "You're hurting me."
Nigel loosened his grip, but did not release the girl. "I'm waiting," he said impatiently.
"She's in—in the sun room, Your Highness," the girl whispered, eyes downcast.
With a nod of approval, Nigel released her and stalked across the chamber to the arched entrance to the royal gardens. The sun room, he knew, adjoined
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the Queen's apartments at one end, but it was also accessible from the garden.
He strode quickly down the short, gravelled path toward the garden entrance, then stopped before a black wrought-iron gate twined with living roses. Reaching for the latch, he glanced through the thick foliage to the chamber beyond.
Inside, Queen Jehana lo
oked up in mild surprise as the frightened servant came running through the inner entrance. As the girl whispered urgently to her mistress, Jehana lowered the single rose she had been contemplating and looked expectantly toward the gate where Nigel watched.
The air of surprise was already gone. With a decisive motion, Nigel slipped the latch and let the gate swing open. For an instant, he stood silhouetted against the doorway. Then he glided into the chamber to confront the Queen.
"Jehana," he nodded.
The Queen dropped her gaze uneasily and studied the flagstones at her feet. "I—I'd rather not talk to anyone just now, Nigel. Can't it wait?"
"I don't think so. May we be alone?"
Jehana's lips tightened as she glanced up at her brother-in-law, then at her attendants. Lowering her gaze again, she realized she was shredding the stem of the rose in her hand, and she dropped it in irritation. She carefully folded her hands in her lap before allowing herself to reply.
"I have nothing to say to you which can't be said in the presence of my ladies, Nigel. Please. You know what I have to do. Don't make it any more difficult for me than it already is."
When he did not reply, she looked up tentatively. Nigel had not moved. His grey eyes glittered dangerously beneath the shock of thick, black hair, like Brion in his darker moods. He stood resolute, threatening,
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thumbs hooked in his sword belt, staring at her in complete silence.
She turned away.
"Nigel, don't you understand? I don't want to discuss it. I know why you've come, and it won't do you any good. You can't change my mind."
She sensed rather than saw him moving closer, felt his cloak brush her hand as he leaned down.
"Jehana," he whispered low, so that only she could hear, "I intend to make this as difficult for you as is humanly possible. Now, if you don't send your ladies away, I'll have to. And that might be embarrassing for both of us. I don't think you really want to discuss your plans for Morgan in front of them—or how Brion died."
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