"Common courtesy seems to have no place hi this Council today as far as my esteemed son is concerned, my Lord of Claibourne," Jehana interrupted evenly. "Prince Kelson was summoned more than half an hour ago. He has deemed it unimportant to appear. It seems he has other business which he considers more important that his duty to his Council Lords. I can only apologize for his inconsiderate and immature behavior and hope that he will improve with age and wiser
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counselling. As for today, this is a Regency Council, and therefore his presence is not mandatory. Are there any questions?"
There was a low murmur of discussion around the table, and Nigel sat down wearily, knowing that he had done all he could. Jehana had really lashed out about Kelson's absence. It was not starting out to be a good meeting at all.
Ewan looked helplessly around the table, then coughed nervously and bowed toward his Queen.
"There are no questions, Your Majesty," he said impassively. "If things are, indeed, as you say, I see no reason to delay any longer. As Hereditary Lord Marshal of the Royal Council of Gwynedd, I call this session of the Regency Council to order. Let Justice, tempered by Mercy, prevail in all our judgements."
As he took his seat, grumbling under his breath, another murmur drifted around the table, to cease as Jehana rose at her place.
"My Lords," she began, her face terrible and pale against her widow's weeds, "it distresses me to come before you like this today. It distresses me because I dislike admitting that my late husband and lord was not infallible as I had always believed him to be.
"For my Lord Brion made a dreadful mistake in his appointment of one of his Council Lords. The man he appointed was and is a traitor and a blasphemer, and even now conspires against Brion's legitimate heir. That is why Prince Kelson is not with us today."
Her gaze swept the stunned faces before her, and her eyes took on a smoky darkness in the green.
"The man is well known to you, my Lords. He is, of course, the Duke of Corwyn, Lord General Alaric Anthony Morgan—the Deryni!"
CHAPTER FOUR
And 1 will give him the morning star. Revelation 2:28
As HE WATCHED water bubble into the marble stoup he was filling, Monsignor Duncan McLain let his thoughts wander, sent his mind forth at full receptivity, searching.
Tune was growing short, Alaric should have been here hours ago. And it worried him that he'd had no communication from his kinsman in so many months. Perhaps he wasn't coming. Possibly, he'd never even gotten word of Brion's death, though the news had reached every corner of the Eleven Kingdoms by now, as far as Duncan knew.
As the water neared the top of the stoup, Duncan froze for the merest fraction of a second, then straightened quickly and set his water bottle on the floor.
Alaric was coming, and the young prince with him. And urgency was unmistakable in the growing rapport which intruded more and more now on Duncaa's
senses.
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He moved toward the open doorway of the west portal, smoothing his rumpled cassock with a quick, automatic motion of slim-fingered hands, then stepped, into the sunlight and shaded his eyes against the midday glare.
There, against the grey of the far wall, just past the courtyard gate, he caught the flash of Kelson's royal crimson, its golden embroidered crest glittering in the sunlight. And at his side stalked a dark shadow topped by sleek golden hair, its long legs eating up the distance between them.
As the two mounted the steps to the west porch, Duncan felt the reassuring aura which almost always accompanied his illustrious cousin. He gave a sigh of relief as he stepped out to greet them.
"By Saint George and Saint Camber, it's about time you got here," Duncan stated, pulling Morgan and the prince back into the shadow of the doorway. "What took you so long? I was worried."
"I'll explain later," Morgan said, peering anxiously down the clerestory aisle and into the nave. "Are you being watched?"
Duncan nodded. "I'm afraid so. There've been Queen's guardsmen in the basilica every day since Brion's burial. I don't think they suspect me, though. I am Kelson's confessor, and they may just have guessed you'd come here first."
Morgan turned back to Duncan and Kelson and sighed. "Well, I hope you're right. Because if they do have any inkling you're functioning in any other than your official capacity, we're all dead,"
"Then, let's keep up the facade," Duncan said, scooping up his empty bottle and motioning them to follow him down the side aisle. "If anyone stops us, you've come to make confession and receive the Sacrament before your trial. I don't think they'd interfere with that."
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"Right."
As they walked slowly down the aisle, Morgan tried to scan the worshippers without appearing too obtrusive. Duncan had definitely been right about the Queen's guardsmen. There were at least three or four among the faithful. And judging from the way they looked at him, it was not an excess of piety or devotion which had brought them to Saint Hilary's so regularly for the last week.
The three paused at the end of the aisle to bow respectfully before the high altar, and Morgan tried hard to keep the proper look of contrition on his face for the benefit of his observers. Evidently he was sufficiently convincing, for no one made an effort to stop them as they slipped out through a side door.
When they reached the privacy of Duncan's study, Morgan slid the bolt home with a decisive clink of metal against metal. And as Duncan crossed the room to get rid of his bottle, Morgan allowed himself to once again take in the familiar surroundings.
It was a small room, no larger than twelve feet by fifteen, and it was lined on the two longer walls with waist-high bookcases and rich tapestries depicting scenes of hunting and court life. Across the far end, opposite the door, a wide window was curtained from floor to ceiling in rich burgundy velvet. A huge grey stone fireplace dominated the fourth wall with the door, its wide mantle unadorned except for a pah: of simple pewter candlesticks with fat yellow candles and a small icon of Saint Hilary, the patron of the basilica.
To the right of the window, an intricately carved prie-dieu faced the corner, the kneeler and armrest covered with the same burgundy velvet as the drapes. An ivory crucifix stood on a small stand in the corner itself, flanked on either side by twinkling votive lights in ruby glass holders. To the left and in front of the
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window was a small desk of dark polished wood, its surface covered with books and documents.
In the center of the room, back perhaps four paces from the fireplace, a heavy round table of burnished oak dominated the rest of the room, claw-footed legs resting solidly on the polished marble floor. Two matching chairs with high backs faced each other across the table, and several more of a similar design sat closer to the fireplace, facing toward the flames. A heavy tapestry rug covered the floor between table and fireplace, muffling the cold and hollowness which might otherwise have pervaded the room.
Morgan pulled out one of the chairs at table for Kelson, then dragged a third chair from in front of the fireplace. As he did, Duncan deposited his empty bottle beside the desk and began opening the heavy drapes.
"Do you think that's wise?" Morgan asked, his attention turned momentarily from the task he was engaged in.
Duncan glanced briefly at his cousin, then turned to peer through the amber leaded glass. "I think it's safe enough," he finally said. "No one can see in in the daytime, and the glass distorts anyway." He crossed to the table and took his seat. "Besides, now we'll be able to see if anyone approaches from outside. That will be very important in about half an hour, if I've judged correctly."
"That soon?" Morgan replied matter-of-factly, reaching into his tunic to remove a small black suede pouch. "We haven't much time, then, have we?"
He glanced casually around the room as he placed the pouch on the table and began untying the leather tho
ngs which bound it. "I'll need some more light here, Duncan, if you don't mind. And by the way, since when do you have to refill the holy water yourself? I thought the monsignori were above such things."
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Duncan snorted in derision as he brought a tall candelabrum from his desk and placed it on the table. "Very amusing, Cousin. You know very well that all my assistants are at the cathedral preparing for Kelson's coronation tomorrow." He smiled at the boy and sat down again. "And I hardly think I need remind you where our esteemed Archbishop is at this moment. I had to get special permission to stay here today in case Kelson needed me—which I surmise he does, though not in precisely the way our Archbishop thinks."
He and Morgan exchanged knowing grins, and Kelson nudged Morgan's elbow impatiently, craning his neck to see what was in the bag Morgan still had not opened. Morgan smiled reassuringly at the boy, then finished untying the bag. Reaching gloved fingers inside, he carefully extracted a bit of gold and crimson, fire and laid it in the palm of his hand.
At Kelson's gasp of recognition, Morgan wistfully extended his hand toward the boy. "You know the ring, my prince?—don't touch it. You're not properly shielded."
Kelson exhaled softly and withdrew his hand, his eyes wide with awe. "It's the Ring of Fire, my father's seal of power. Where did you get it?"
"Brion gave it to me for safekeeping before I left for Cardosa," Morgan replied, turning his hand slightly so that the stones sparkled.
"May I?" Duncan asked, pulling a silk handkerchief from his sleeve and reaching for the ring. Morgan nodded and extended his hand. Gathering the folds of silk around his fingers, Dun-can gingerly picked up the ring and held it closer to the candlelight. As he turned it, the scarlet stones cast tiny, bright reflections on the three observers and on the tapestried walls.
Duncan examined the ring minutely, then placed it
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in the center of the table, still nestled in its shroud of white silk.
"It's genuine," he said with a slight note of relief. "I can still feel residual power in it. Dojou have the seal?" Morgan nodded and began stripping off his gloves. "I'm afraid you're going to have to make the retrieval, though, Duncan. I don't dare approach the altar area with Jehana's spies out there." He slipped off an ornate signet ring and held it up between thumb and forefinger. "Are you willing?"
Kelson leaped forward eagerly to inspect the ring, "Sable, a gryphon segreant vert—those are the old Cor-wyn arms, aren't they, Morgan?"
. "Correct," Morgan agreed. "Brion had the ring made long ago. And since the arms are those of my Deryni mother, he thought them eminently suitable for carrying the key to your powers." He shifted his attention to Duncan. "I'll have to attune it to you. Are you ready?"
"What about—" Duncan inclined his head toward Kelson.
Morgan looked at the boy, then back at his cousin, a faint smile on his face again. "I think it's all right. If he hasn't already suspected, he's sure to find out by tomorrow anyway. I think our secret will be safe."
"Good," Duncan nodded, then turned to smile reassuringly at Kelson. "It's nothing all that mysterious, Kelson. The gryphon seal, when properly activated, will open a secret chamber hi the high altar. Long ago, it was attuned to Alaric by your father, so that when the time came, he would be able to retrieve the things which have been put aside for you.
"You can see that the embedded inlay of the gryphon has a slight glow to it as Alaric holds it. This lets us know that it's still activated to him. If anyone unat-tuned were to try to use it, like myself right now, or you, it wouldn't work."
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He turned back to Morgan, though he still spoke for Kelson's benefit. "I might add that only certain people can be attuned to such a device. I am—like Alaric."
Before the impact of that statement could sink in with Kelson, Morgan held up the gryphon seal between himself and Duncan and raised an eyebrow. "Ready?"
Duncan nodded, and the two began to concentrate on the gryphon device in the center of the seal.
Kelson watched, spellbound, as the two stared at the ring, then closed their eyes. There was a long period of silence, when Kelson was certain the only sound in the room was that of his own harsh breathing, and then Duncan's hand moved slowly toward the ring, his eyes
still closed.
Just before he touched it, a faint spark arced across the short intervening space, and then Duncan held the ring also. At that, both men opened their eyes, and Morgan relinquished his hold on the ring. The gryphon still glowed faintly.
"It worked," Kelson whispered, his words half statement, half question.
"Certainly," Duncan replied. "Hold out your hand and see for yourself."
Kelson extended his hand gingerly, flinched slightly as the ring dropped into his palm. It felt cold to the touch, even though it should have been wanned to body temperature. And when he looked at the gryphon seal in the center, he put the ring down quickly.
"It's not glowing! What did I do to it?"
Duncan snapped his fingers and smiled. "I forgot. You're not attuned." He picked up the ring and held it in front of Kelson, and the gryphon resumed its pale glowing. Kelson grinned sheepishly.
Duncan got to his feet, tossed the ring lightly into the air and caught it again. "I'll be back shortly."
Kelson watched with awe until the priest had disap-
peared through the study door, then turned back to Morgan.
''Morgan, did I hear right—Duncan is Deryni? You must be related on your mothers' sides, then—not your fathers'."
"Both, actually,'* Morgan amended. "We are fifth cousins through the paternal line. But Duncan's mother and mine were actually sisters. Of course, that's been a well-kept secret. Deryni blood could definitely be embarrassing, if not fatal, to one in Duncan's position. There are few among us who don't remember the Deryni inquisitions and persecutions a little more than a century ago. The bad feeling is far from gone, even today. You know that."
"But, you aren't afraid to let people know you're Deryni, Morgan," Kelson replied.
"But I'm an exception, as you well know, my prince," Morgan countered. "For most, there's little future in being a kept Deryni. As a result, most of us conceal our Deryni heritage, even if inclined to use our powers for good." He cocked his head wistfully. "There's a basic conflict which arises from that decision, of course: wanting to use your native abilities on the one hand, yet bound by guilt, by the condemnation of Church and State, if you do."
"And yet, you made that decision," Kelson persisted.
"Yes. I chose to use my powers more openly from the start, and damn the consequences. And I was extremely fortunate to have your father's protection and patronage until I could take care of myself.'* He glanced down at his hands. "Being only half Deryni helps."
"And Duncan?" Kelson asked quietly. Morgan smiled. "Duncan chose yet another solution —the priesthood."
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Duncan paused at the sacristy peephole to scan the nave, mentally thanking whichever of Saint Hilary's builders had shown the foresight to install the spying device. No doubt, this was not precisely what the architects had had in mind—the peephole was intended as an aid in timing services and the like—but Duncan didn't think they would object.
He could see the entire nave from where he stood, from the very first row to the doors at the rear, from one clerestory aisle to the other. And what he saw but reinforced his belief that this would not be as easy a task as he had hoped.
The Queen's guardsmen heM mentioned to Alaric were still there, including the two he thought had been watching him in particular for the past week. He knew that they were members of the Queen's personal regiment, and he wondered in passing if they did, indeed, suspect him. He didn't think he'd done anything to warrant their special
attention—other than being Kelson's confessor, and Alaric's cousin—but one could never tell with men like these.
He took a brocaded stole from a cabinet to his right and touched it to his lips, settled it around his shoulders. With his royal watchdogs out there, it was obvious he could not simply walk out, open the altar chamber, and retrieve the contents. They would be suspicious the minute he entered the sanctuary. He would have to have a diversion.
He checked the peephole again, then formulated a
plan.
Very well. Let them be suspicious. If the Queen's guards insisted on complicating the matter, it was all the same to him. He was not above using a bit of sacerdotal sleight-of-hand to mask his real intent. And if that failed, there was always the traditional might and authority of the monsignori to fall back on. When dealing with men such as these, intimidation was gen-
erally not too difficult, especially when one had the threat of anathema to work with.
Breathing deeply once to compose himself, Duncan opened the side door and entered the chancel. And as he suspected, one of the guards immediately left his seat and hurried down the center aisle.
All right, Duncan thought, making a deep genuflection to give the man tune to get closer. He's alone, and he hasn't drawn steel. Let's see what he'll do.
As Duncan rose, he listened to the hollow echo of the man's footsteps approaching and let his hand go casually to his waist to remove the tabernacle key from his sash. Then, as his senses told him the man had nearly reached the altar rail, he let the key slip from his fingers. A carefully blundered attempt at interrupting its fall sent the key skittering down the marble steps to land at the feet of the surprised guard.
Duncan turned innocent blue eyes on the man, a slight look of embarrassment on his face, then hurried down the steps with a show of concern. His manner so disarmed the guard, that by the time Duncan reached him, he had bent and picked up the key almost without realizing what he did. With an embarrassed half-grin, he dropped the key gingerly into Duncan's outstretched hand.
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