"Ye demon!" Edgar's voice hissed from the darkness. "What have ye done wi' His Highness?"
The three men stepped into the circle of candlelight and glared defiance at Morgan and Duncan, weapons menacing, their faces dark, masked beneath steel helmets and dark hooded cloaks.
"Have ye nothing to say, ye monster?" Edgar continued furiously. "Stand and defend yerself!"
CHAPTER TEN
"7rom whence comes the wonder, from whence the miracle?"
THE WORDS of the intruder launched the two men into action. Duncan dashed his candle to the floor to douse the light, then tossed Morgan's sword to him. Morgan had already eased the unconscious Kelson to the floor at his feet, and now he slung the scabbard from his blade with a quick, lightning flick of his wrist. At his side, Duncan drew Kelson's sword and prepared to fight.
Immediately, the junior of the three attackers engaged Duncan in combat, pressing him back into a corner. And the remaining two attacked Morgan in unison with rapier and two-handed broadsword, their blows ringing out against Morgan's blade like hammer blows in a forge.
After the initial clash, Morgan proceeded to parry each thrust of his two opponents easily, methodically, less concerned now with actually defeating them than with keeping himself always between them and the
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limp form of Kelson behind him. The slender stiletto had again appeared in his left hand, and he was using it to good advantage to deflect an occasional blow from the rapier. But it was, of course, completely ineffectual against the blows of the broadsword which continued to rain down on him.
Also, he was having to refrain from launching a full-scale offensive maneuver. For he dared not take the offensive if that meant leaving Kelson open to attack. Right now, he wasn't really sure who they were after, and he couldn't risk Kelson's life in finding out. He glanced aside and knew that Duncan could not help, either.
In the corner, Duncan was having his own problems keeping abreast of the situation. Kelson's blade was shorter and lighter than those the priest was accustomed to. As a consequence, he was fighting under an extreme handicap: with a blade too light and short against a man who surpassed him in weight, strength, reach, and years' experience.
Not that there was anything lacking in his skill. Duncan was first and foremost a nobleman's son, born and bred to a fine fighting tradition and tempered by many years* experience and training. But these were not the odds he liked. He had only this puny blade to protect him—not even a scrap of mail shirt. People did not often raise steel against a priest, especially of the monsignorial variety.
Undaunted, he continued to press for an opening— and found it!
Apparently, his opponent had also recognized his advantage, and as a result he became lazy, returned from a thrust less quickly than he should have.
It cost him his life. Even as he realized his mistake, Duncan's blade flashed through a weak point in his mail and pierced him to the heart. He crumpled to the
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floor with a surprised look on his face and quietly died.
Dropping Kelson's bloodied sword, Duncan peered through the gloom, trying to decide which of Morgan's two opponents to take out of the fracas. The decision was not a difficult one, however. If Morgan had to parry many more blows from the two-handed broadsword, there was little doubt as to what the outcome would be.
Moving up stealthily behind the man, Duncan extended both hands before him, palms together, then slowly drew them apart. As he did, a small sphere of green fire hovered in the air there, then drifted unerringly toward the back of the swordsman's head. As it touched the man's helmet, there was a brilliant arc of green fire. The man cried out once, then fell to the floor in a stupor. His fall so unnerved his companion, that Morgan was able to disarm the man easily and hold him at bay.
Outside the door to the apartment, all three could hear the sounds of guardsmen arriving and pounding on the door, their shouts of dismay as they discovered the fate of the guards overpowered by the three intruders. The pounding on the door became insistent.
"Sire!" called a voice, cutting through the outer confusion. "Sire, are you all right? General Morgan, what's happening? Open the door, or we'll have to break it down!"
Morgan gestured urgently toward his captive with the tip of his blade as he edged toward the door, and Duncan nodded. Before the man could react, Duncan slipped alongside him and touched his forehead, giving a low-voiced command. The man's eyes took on a faraway look and he dropped his hands to his sides, no longer trying to resist.
"You did not see me," Duncan whispered^ looking
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the man deeply in the eyes. "You saw only the prince and His Grace. Do you understand?" The man nodded slowly.
Duncan dropped his hand and edged toward the balcony doors, nodding to Morgan as he did so. The man would say nothing of his presence now, of that he was certain. It would have been rather difficult to explain just how he happened to be in this room at this hour.
As Morgan shot back the bolt on the door, his stiletto slipped back into its wrist sheath, and he heard a low moan come from Kelson's corner of the room—a sure sign that the boy was coming around. He stepped back into the center of the room as the door burst open, and mentally sent a burst of strength and confidence in Kelson's direction as the room filled with armed men.
A guard captain—the same as in the garden earlier this afternoon—glanced swiftly around the room as his men took custody of Morgan's prisoner, then stalked up to Morgan, his sword extended menacingly.
"Stand where you are, General Morgan, and drop your sword," he said, his own weapon following every move the tall, blond lord made. "Where is His Mas-jesty?"
Morgan did not need to look around to know that he was surrounded and totally outnumbered. With an apologetic shrug, he let his blade fall to the floor, then turned and stepped back to where Kelson lay. No one tried to stop him as he knelt at the boy's side.
"Are you all right, my prince?" he asked, helping the boy to his feet.
Kelson nodded weakly and steadied himself on Morgan's arm. "I'm all right," he murmured, breathing deeply to steady his wits. "I'm just not used to being attacked in my sleep."
His eyes flashed around the room, taking hi the
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situation at a glance, and he instinctively sensed that the truth were better not told at this point. These men would never understand. Right now, following Morgan's lead seemed the best plan.
He took another deep breath, then turned to the guard captain. "How did those men get in here, Captain?"
The captain was immediately on the defensive. "I don't know, Sire. Evidently, they overpowered the guard outside. There are three dead, and at least four others gravely wounded."
Kelson nodded, what had happened fairly evident now. "I see. And who are our assailants, Morgan?"
Morgan crossed to the remaining intruder still on his feet and pulled off his helmet and coif. The face behind it glared out with a sudden scowl.
"Lord Edgar of Mathelwaite!" Kelson exclaimed.
"Isn't he one of your vassals, General Morgan?" the captain asked, his sword coming up to waist level again.
Morgan detected the note of menace in the man's voice, and was careful to keep his hands in full view as he turned to answer.
"Yes, he's my man, Captain." He turned to gaze patiently at Edgar. "Do you mind telling us what this is all about, Edgar? I trust you have good reason for treason against your King."
Edgar looked confused for a moment, then glanced guiltily at Kelson. "We were only following orders, Yer Grace."
"Whose orders, Edgar?"
Edgar squirmed uncomfortably. "Y—yer orders, M'lord."
"My orders—"
"Morgan ordered you to assassinate the King?" the captain blurted indignantly, his sword moving toward Morgan's throat.
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"That's enough!" Kelson ordered, catching hold of the captain's sword and pushing it aside. "Lord Edgar, suppose you be a little more specific."
Edgar shifted his weight nervously, then dropped to Ms knees and bowed his head, spreading his arms in supplication.
"Please, Sire, forgive me!" he begged. "I did nae mean to do it. None o' us did. Lord Alaric, he made us do it. He—he has this power over men. He can make 'em do anything he wants. He—"
"Stop it!" Kelson snapped, his eyes flashing fire.
"Sire," the captain implored, trying to get closer to Morgan, "let me arrest him, please! You know now that it's true what everyone's been saying about him— that he's a murderer, a monster, a—"
"The man is lying," Kelson said, turning cold Hal-dane eyes on the captain. "And Morgan is no traitor!"
"Sire, I swear to ye," Edgar began, his eyes wild, beseeching.
"Silence!"
The room was hushed except for the harsh breathing of Edgar, the deep, controlled breathing of Kelson. Kelson looked slowly aside at Morgan, seeking some guidance, but Morgan gave only an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Kelson must extricate them from this situation on his own. Anything Morgan might say or do at this point would only increase the difficulty.
Kelson looked down at Edgar.
"Get up."
As the man did, Kelson scanned the faces around him, addressed all of them.
"You all think it's Morgan who's lying, don't you? And you think that I'm protecting Morgan, that he's deceived me just as you believe he's deceived you." He glanced at Edgar. "But I say that it's this man who lies. I say that Morgan would never have asked any
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man to take my life. He made a solemn vow to my father, and he is a man of his word."
He looked directly at Morgan as he continued. "No, Edgar lies. And now we must determine why, and for whom. I could ask Morgan to interrogate him. You all know of his Deryni powers, and you know by now that •he could force the truth. But because you distrust him, there would always be the suspicion that Morgan controlled the answers too."
He dropped his eyes from Morgan's and stepped closer to Edgar. There was silence as he stared at the accused man.
"Gentlemen, I am my father's son in at least this respect, for I, too, know when a man lies. And I, too, can command the truth!"
He caught Edgar's gaze and held it. "Lord Edgar of Mathelwaite, look at me," he commanded. "Who ami?"
Edgar seemed unable to take his eyes from Kelson's face, and Morgan looked on in amazement. Duncan must have taught the boy to Mind-See! "Who am I?" Kelson repeated. "You are Prince Kelson Cinhil Rhys Anthony Hal-dane, heir apparent to my Lord King Brion," Edgar stated, in a conversational tone.
"And who is that?" Kelson queried, pointing at Morgan.
"Lord General Alaric Anthony Morgan, my liege lord, Sire."
"I see," Kelson said, his eyes narrowing in concentration. "Lord Edgar, did Morgan order you to kill me?"
Edgar answered promptly, without batting an eye. "No, Sire."
The guards shifted uneasily, and a slight murmuring whispered through the room. The captain looked incredulous.
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"Then, who did order you to kill me, Lord Edgar?"*
Edgar's eyes widened, as though some internal struggle were underway deep within him. Then he blurted, "It was not to kill you that we came, Sire, but to kill Lord Alaric! An' thus should all murderers die who strike down helpless men in dark places!"
He wrenched himself loose from his guards and flung himself at Morgan, going for his throat, but Morgan sidestepped neatly and controlled him, returned him to the custody of the guards. Edgar continued to struggle in their hands as Kelson held up a hand for silence.
"Explain, Edgar," Kelson snapped, stepping closer to the captive. "Who strikes down helpless men ia dark places? What are you talking about?"
"Morgan knows!" the captive spat. "Ask him how young Michael DeForest coughed out his life at the end of a dagger, while guarding in the darker passages o' this palace. Ask if he knew that he botched the job, that young DeForest still had enough strength to smear his murderer's sign on the floor wi' his dyin' blood— the shape o' the Corwyn Gryphon!"
"What?" the captain gasped.
Again, there were murmurs of discussion around the room, louder this time. Stunned, Kelson turned to Morgan once more.
"Do you know what he's talking about?" the boy whispered.
Around him, discussion stopped as all strained to hear what Morgan would say. A dozen swords were still pointing in Morgan's direction, and each had drawn a little closer with Edgar's last statement.
Morgan shook his head. "Probe deeper, Kelson. I have no idea what he's talking about."
"Sure, you don't," a low voice murmured in the background.
Kelson glanced sharply in the direction of the com-
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ment, then turned back to Edgar, catching his gaze and holding it again.
"Lord Edgar, how do you know that this is true?" Edgar calmed under Kelson's stare. "I saw it wi' my own eyes, M'lord. Lord Lawrence and Harold Fitz-martin and I saw it."
"The actual murder, or just the body?" Kelson insisted.
"The body."
Kelson frowned and chewed his lip thoughtfully. "And just how did you find out about this, Edgar?" "We—were..." "Go on," Kelson commanded. "We were—told to go to that place in the corridors," Edgar murmured reluctantly.
"And who told you to go there?" Kelson persisted. "Who knew about this thing and told you to go there?"
Edgar shuddered. "Please, Sire, dinnae force me...."
"Who told you to go there?" Kelson demanded, his eyes beginning to glow from within. "Sire, I—"
Suddenly, before anyone could stop him, Edgar whirled and wrenched a dagger from the belt of one of his captors. And even as Morgan launched himself across the short space, knowing what was about to happen, he knew he could not stop it,
By the time Morgan's hands touched Edgar, it was already too late. For the dagger protruded from deep in the man's abdomen, and he had slumped over and begun to fall. Morgan and the stunned guards eased the body to the floor, and the captain looked down horrified at what had happened.
"He—he died by his own hand rather than talk, Sire," the captain whispered, looking apprehensively at Morgan. "What ungodly power could make a man—" "Take him out of here!" Kelson ordered curtly.
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"And take his friends with him. We will not be disturbed anymore tonight."
He turned away as the guards moved to obey, aware that awed and frightened eyes followed his every move. Morgan stood to one side as the guards began a cursory search of the rest of the apartment, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Then he slipped out to the corridor.
Derry, God help him, was out there somewhere. If he had been following orders, and there was no doubt in Morgan's mind about that, then he had been in the guard detail which was overpowered by the three intruders. Three dead, and at least four gravely wounded, the captain had said. If only Derry was still among the living.
In the corridor, the scene was one of carnage. There seemed to be bodies lying everywhere: some still, some surrounded by guards or surgeons, or both. Attendants were carrying two away, and Morgan scrutinized each as it passed, but neither was Derry.
Anxiously, he searched among the crumpled forms until he saw a flash of the familiar blue cloak over against the wall. A surgeon had just risen from examining a wound in the side of the still figure under the cloak, and he turned a somber face towards Morgan as the general approached.
"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid there's nothing I can do for this man, M'lord," the man said, shaking his head. "He'll be gone in a few minutes. I'd best see to those that can be helped." He turned quickly away, obviously unaware of his p
atient's identity.
Morgan knelt down beside the still body and pulled aside the fold of cloak which half-covered the face. It was Derry.
As he looked at bun, touched his hand, the words of a woman in grey echoed in his mind: / intend to make
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you pay , . . and I'll do it by destroying the ones you love best, one at a time, slowly. . . .
First it had been Brion, then Lord Ralson, young Colin of Fianna, his men. And now, Derry was slipping away. And there was nothing he could do. .. .
He took one of Derry's limp wrists in his hand, lifted a slack eyelid. Derry was still alive, but only barely. A terrible wound had pierced his side, probably rupturing his spleen and God knew what else. Major arteries had evidently been severed also, for the wound pumped bright red blood with every heartbeat.
Morgan pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and pressed it hard against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding and knowing as he tried that it was futile. If only he could do something, could will the entire thing away, as though it had never happened. If he could call upon some untapped force, some healing power,..
Suddenly, he straightened in astonishment as an idea came to him. Somewhere, long ago, he had read about such a healing power—a power which some Deryni, were alleged to have. In the ancient days, there had been practitioners of that art.
But no. Those had been full Deryni, fully trained, in total command of the entire arsenal of Deryni power —not a half-breed like himself. And the times had been different: an era when men believed in miracles, and the Powers of Good were not so difficult to guide. How could he presume?
And yet, if Derry were to have even a slim chance for survival, if he, Morgan, were to be somehow able to call up this lost power from the past—God only knew how...
He must try.
Placing his hands lightly on Derry's forehead, he began to concentrate, to make his mind as empty and
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still as possible, using his Gryphon seal as a focal point as he'd done earlier when he had his vision.
He closed his eyes and concentrated on summoning up the healing strength he was searching for, concentrated on making Derry whole again. It was cold in the corridor where he knelt in the shadows, but the sweat began to pour down his face and drip from his chin. Dimly, he was aware of the warm splash as the perspiration touched his hands.
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