Deryni Rising

by Katherine Kurtz

  "Thank you, my son," Duncan murmured in his best paternal tone.

  The man nodded nervously, but made no move to leave.

  "Did you wish something?" Duncan asked.

  The man squirmed uncomfortably. "Monsignor, I have to ask you this—is General Morgan with you?"

  "You mean, in my study?" Duncan asked patiently, his innocence still at peak efficiency.

  The man gave a slight nod.

  "General Morgan has come to me as a penitent son," Duncan said softly. "He wishes to receive the Sac-

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  raments before his trial, as does Prince Kelson. -Can there be any harm in that?"

  Duncan's explanation took the man by surprise. Evidently, the idea of Morgan being anything but a heathen and infidel had never occurred to him before. It was obviously not what he'd expected to hear. And who was he to interfere with a man's salvation—especially one in so great a need as Alaric Morgan?

  Convinced he'd interrupted something very normal and very holy, the guard shook his head sheepishly and backed away from Duncan, bowing from the waist. As Duncan turned toward the altar, the man hurriedly glided back up the center aisle to the pew where his colleagues knelt, to join them and cross himself super-stitiously.

  Duncan ascended the altar with relief. He knew the man was still watching, and he was certain he was telling his henchmen what had just happened—though all of them appeared to be immersed in prayer. But he doubted they would make any move to interfere again, providing he made no glaring departures from routine. Of course, someone would go to tell Jehana of Kelson and Alaric's whereabouts as soon as he left, but that couldn't be helped.

  Duncan bowed slightly before the tabernacle, then carefully retracted the green silken curtains from in front of its golden doors. As his right hand unlocked the doors, his left shifted its grip on the gryphon seal. And then, as he withdrew a covered chalice with one hand, it was a simple matter to touch the seal to the altar stone with the other.

  At the touch, a six-inch-square section of the altar directly in front of Duncan indented slightly, then withdrew to disclose a fiat black box. Working quickly, Duncan brought out two more chalices and made a show of consolidating the contents of three into two. Then, instead of simply covering the empty

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  chalice with its jewelled cover and veil, he slipped the black box between chalice and cover and veiled both with green silk.

  This done, he replaced the other two chalices and closed the doors with a flourish, locked the doors again while his other hand closed the opening in the altar stone. Then he picked up the remaining chalice with its added burden, bowed once more, and swept out of the sanctuary. The entire operation had taken less than two minutes.

  Back in the sacristy, Duncan whisked off his stole and glanced through the peephole again. As he had suspected, one of the guards was on his way out of the basilica—to tell the Queen, no doubt. But apparently he had aroused no further suspicion. For no one else seemed interested in the least where Duncan had gone. The other guards had not moved from their places.

  Duncan nicked the flat black box into his sash and placed the empty chalice with several others, then returned to the study and locked the door behind him.

  "Any difficulty?" Morgan asked, as the priest withdrew the box and placed it on the table.

  "None at all," Duncan replied. He dropped the gryphon seal into Morgan's hand and sat down. "There will be a messenger on his way to tell Jehana where you are, though."

  Morgan shrugged. "That was to be expected. Let's see what we've got here." He picked up the box.

  "Does the gryphon seal open this, too?" Kelson asked eagerly, edging his chair closer to Morgan and the box, "Look, there's a gryphon imprinted on the cover.**

  Morgan touched his seal to the indicated area and the lid snapped open with a musical chime. Inside were a piece of parchment, much folded, and a slightly smaller box, this one covered with red velvet and stamped with a golden lion. As Duncan plucked out

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  the parchment, Morgan removed the second box and inspected it briefly.

  "This one takes a different seal, Duncan," he said, putting the box down on the table beside the silk-shrouded Ring of Fire. "Are those our instructions?"

  "It looks like it," Duncan replied, smoothing the rumpled parchment and holding it closer to the light. "Let's see:

  When shall the Son deflect the running tide? A Spokesman of the Infinite must guide The Dark Protector's hand to shed the blood Which lights the Eye of Rom at Eventide,

  Same blood must swiftly feed the Ring of Fire. But, careful, lest ye rouse the Demon's Ire: If soon thy hand despoil the virgin band, Just retribution damns what ye desire.

  Now that the Eye of Rom can see the light, Release the Crimson Lion in the night. With sinister hand unflinching, Lion's Tooth Must pierce the flesh and make the Power right.

  Thus Eye and Fire and Lion drink their fill. Ye have assuaged the warring might of III. New morn, ring hand. Defender's Sign shall seal Thy Force. No Power Below shall thwart thy wUll"

  Morgan sat back in his chair with a low whistle. "Did Brion write that?"

  "It's in his hand," Duncan replied, dropping the parchment to the table and tapping it with a well-manicured forefinger. "See for yourself."

  Morgan leaned forward and gave the verse a cursory inspection, committing the lines to memory, then leaned back again with a sigh. "And we thought Brian's power ritual was obscure ... If he'd given it a little thought, 1 think he could have made it difficult."

  Kelson, who had been following the exchange with

  wide-eyed awe, could no longer contain himself. "You mean, this isn't the same ritual?"

  Duncan shook his head. "The ritual is changed with each inheritance, Kelson. It's a safeguard to keep the power from falling into the wrong- hands. Otherwise, someone could theoretically learn the technique, gather the elements of the ritual, and assume the power for himself. Strictly speaking, the power is only supposed to pass to the legitimate heir, but there are always ways to get around such technicalities."

  "Oh," Kelson said, his voice small and uncertain. "Then, where does one start with something like this?" He picked up the parchment as though it were a small, not-quite-dead creature that might bite, regarded it suspiciously, then dropped it to the table again.

  "Alaric?" Duncan queried.

  "You go ahead. You know more about these things than I do."

  Clearing his throat nervously, Duncan moved the parchment in front of him again and glanced at it, then looked across at Kelson. "All right. With a verse like this, the first thing to do is to break it down into its component parts: the basic elements of the ritual. In this case, we have two trios and a quarto. Three people: the Son, the Spokesman of the Infinite, and the Dark Protector—you, myself, and Alaric. These are named in the first stanza, and they comprise our human element."

  "Well, not quite, Cousin," Morgan murmured, placing his fingertips together and gazing across at Duncan with a sly grin.

  Duncan raised one eyebrow meaningfully.

  "Three people," Kelson said, nudging Duncan impatiently. "Go on, Father Duncan."

  Duncan nodded. "We also have three objects: the Eye of Rom, the Ring of Fire, and the Crimson Lion. These are our—"

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  "Wait," Morgan said, sitting up abruptly. "I am just reminded of a horrible possibility. Kelson, where is the Eye of Rom?"

  Kelson looked blank. "I don't know, Morgan. Tell me what it is, and maybe I can tell you where it is."

  Duncan glanced at Morgan. "It's a dark, cabochon-cut ruby, about the size of my little fingernail. Brion always wore it in his right earlobe. You must have seen it before."

  Kelson's eyes widened in sudden realization, and a look of apprehension came over his face. "Oh, no. Father, if that's w
hat I think it is, it was buried with him. I didn't know it was important."

  Morgan pursed his lips in concentration as he traced the golden lion on the box lid with a fingernail. Then he looked up resignedly at Duncan. "Open the crypt?" "We have no choice."

  "Open the crypt?" Kelson echoed. "But, you can'tl Morgan, you just can't!"

  "I'm afraid it's necessary," Duncan replied quietly. "We have to have the Eye of Rom, or the ritua! is no good." He lowered his eyes. "It's—a good idea anyway. If Charissa really did have a hand in Brion's death—and there's every indication that she did— then, there's a—well, a possibility that he's not entirely free."

  Kelson's eyes widened even farther, and the remaining color drained from his face. "You mean, his soul is—"

  "Where is he buried?" Morgan asked sharply, cutting Kelson off and changing the direction of conversation before the boy's horror could get entirely out of hand. "We're going to have to have a plan of action if we're to get anywhere."

  "He's in the royal crypt below the cathedral," Dun-can replied. "As far as I've been able to tell, there are at least four guards on duty at all times. They have or-

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  ders not to let anyone inside the gate. And you can't even see the tomb from outside."

  Morgan's eyes narrowed as he toyed with his ring. "Four guards, eh? There're probably fewer at night, don't you think? Once the cathedral doors are closed after Compline, there'd be no need for that strong a force. We can handle them, I think."

  Kelson stared at Morgan in disbelief, the color gradually returning to his face. "Morgan, are we really going to open the casket?" he breathed.

  Morgan's answer was cut off by the sound of many horses arriving in the courtyard outside. Duncan jumped to his feet and dashed to the window, then began hastily drawing the drapes.

  Morgan was instantly at his side, peering through a crack in the curtains. "Who is it? Can you tell?"

  "Archbishop Loris," Duncan said. "From the size of his entourage, though, it's difficult to tell if he's only just arriving in the city, or if he's come to get you."

  "He's after me. Look at the way he's deployed his men. He knows we're in here. We'll be surrounded in a matter of seconds."

  Kelson joined them at the window, a look of consternation on his face. "What are we going to do now?"

  "I'll just have to give myself up," Morgan said mildly.

  "Give yourself—Morgan, no!" Kelson cried.

  "Morgan, yes!" Duncan contradicted, guiding the boy firmly back to the table. "If Alaric flees the just summons of the Council, your Council, he flouts the very laws he swore to uphold as a Council Lord." He sat the boy down. "And if you neglect your duty as head of that Council, you do the same thing."

  "It's not my Council right now, though," Kelson argued. "It's Mother's Council. She's trying to kill Morgan."

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  Duncan picked up the Ring of Fire, the parchment, and the red velvet box and carried them to the prie-dieu. "No, it's still your Council, Kelson. But you're going to have to remind them of that." He touched a hidden stud in the prie-dieu and a small compartment opened in the wall beside it.

  "Besides, there's little more we can do until tonight anyway. And the longer you can stall in Council, the less chance there is for other treachery afoot. I suspect that some of your most formidable enemies are sitting on that Council right now, but at least you'll know where they are and what they're doing if everyone's in Council." He put the ritual items hi the compartment and closed it. "These will be safe here until tonight."

  Kelson was not impressed. "Suppose they find him guilty, though, Father. Suppose they already have. I can't stand by and condone his death sentence."

  "If it comes to that, you must," Morgan said, squeezing the boy's shoulder reassuringly. "But remember, I'm not convicted yet. And even unarmed, a Deryni still has some formidable defenses to fall back on,"

  "But, Morgan—"

  "No arguments, my prince," Morgan admonished, guiding the boy to the door. "You must trust that I know what I'm doing."

  Kelson hung his head. "I suppose so.'*

  Duncan slipped the bolt and eased the door open. "Here, after Compline, Alaric?"

  Morgan nodded. "I'll send you word of the outcome."

  "I'll know anyway," Duncan smiled. "Godspeed, Cousin."

  Morgan nodded thanks and herded the reluctant Kelson through the door. As they walked through the short passage to the outer court, he heard the study door close behind him and felt the reassuring blessing

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  which Duncan murmured. It was comforting to know that he could always count on Duncan.

  Morgan and Kelson stepped into the outer sunlight and were immediately surrounded by soldiers, their weapons drawn. Kelson glared at the men, and they turned their swords away from him when they saw his identity. But Morgan was careful to keep his bands in full view, well away from his own weapons. An ill-timed sword thrust by some well-meaning but nervous guard could end Kelson's chances for survival once and for all—not to mention Morgan's own life. He noticed that Kelson stuck very close to his side, pale but determined, as Archbishop Loris strode toward them.

  The Archbishop of Valoret was still in his riding clothes, his black travel cloak stained and rumpled from his long ride. But even after such a journey, and in such garb, he was not a man to be taken lightly. Though Morgan was well aware what the man had done to some of his Deryni colleagues in the north, he had to admit that Loris was one of those rare individuals who seemed to radiate that traditional aura of power and dignity which was supposed to go hand in hand with high ecclesiastical office.

  The bright blue eyes glittered with the fire of the religious fanatic, the fine grey hair a wispy halo behind the proud head. His left hand clutched a roll of milky parchment affixed with several pendant seals of red and green wax. And on his right hand gleamed the amethyst signet of an ecclesiastical lord.

  He bowed slightly as he approached Kelson, and made a move as though to extend his ring. But the prince pointedly ignored it. Loris withdrew his hand vexedly and glanced at Morgan, but he made no eflEort to extend the ring to him.

  "Your Royal Highness," he said, still watching the general, "I trust you are well."

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  "I was quite well until you arrived, Archbishop," Kelson said tersely. "What is it you want?"

  Loris bowed again and returned his full attention to Kelson. "If you had been at the Council meeting as your duty demands, you would not have to ask that question, Your Highness," Loris replied pointedly. "However, there is little to be gained by talking around the issue. I have here a warrant for the arrest of His Grace, Lord General Alaric Anthony Morgan, the Duke of Corwyn. I believe that is he in your company."

  Morgan smiled lazily and folded his arms across his chest. "I believe that is more than obvious, M'lord Archbishop. If you have some business with me, I suggest you tell it to me. Don't pretend I'm not really here just because you wish I weren't."

  Loris turned back to Morgan, and his eyes flashed angrily. "General Morgan, I have here a warrant from the Queen and her Lords in Council commanding you to present yourself immediately and answer to certain charges."

  "I see," Morgan said quietly. "And what might those charges be, M'lord Archbishop?"

  "Heresy and high treason against the King," Loris replied emphatically. "Do you contest them?"

  "I do, indeed," Morgan replied. He reached for the parchment, then froze as a dozen swords were leveled at his throat. He smiled patronizingly. "May I see the warrant, M'lord?"

  Loris gave a curt signal, and the soldiers lowered their weapons. Morgan took the warrant Loris extended, and glanced over it briefly, holding it so that Kelson could read over his shoulder. Then he rolled it up and returned it to Loris.

  "I find your warrant in order as far as format and letter of the law," Morgan said calmly.
"However, there is some dispute as to the facts as they have been

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  -set out. I shall, of course, contest the charges." He reached to his belt and removed his sword. "As the summons to appear is valid, however, I do lawfully comply, surrendering myself voluntarily to the jurisdiction of the Council."

  He handed his sword to the surprised Archbishop, then extended his wrists. "Do you wish to bind me, too, M'lord Archbishop? Or will my word be sufficient?"

  Loris drew back suspiciously, half-afraid, and his left hand clutched the pectoral cross on his chest. "Morgan, if this is some Deryni trick," he hissed, crossing himself. "I warn you . .."

  "No tricks, M'lord," Morgan stated mildly, holding his hands palm up. "I'll even surrender my back-up weapon as further evidence of my good faith."

  His left wrist twitched, and there was suddenly a stiletto in his hand. Before Loris or his guards could react, he offered it to Kelson across his forearm, hilt first. "My prince?"

  Without a word, Kelson took the slim dagger and thrust it grimly through his belt. Loris finally reacted.

  "Now, see here, Morgan! This is not a joke, or a game. If you think you can—"

  "Archbishop," Kelson interrupted, "I will not hear threats, either from you or from him. General Morgan has demonstrated his good faith, and I think it's about time you started demonstrating yours. Might I remind you that this dagger could just as easily have found its way into your chest as it did to my hand."

  Loris drew himself up to full height. "He wouldn't have dared!"

  Kelson shrugged. "If you say so, Archbishop. Now let's get on with this farce. I have more important things to do."

  "Such as consorting with this disciple of Evil, Your Highness?" Loris hissed.

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  "Your definition of terms leaves much to be desired, Archbishop," Kelson retorted.

  Loris forced himself to regain control, taking a deep breath. "Legal procedures have been followed to the letter, Your Highness. I do not think there is much chance of him escaping his just punishment this time."