The King's Deryni

by Katherine Kurtz

  “All true,” Kenneth agreed. “Morganhall can’t compete with the household of the Earl of Rhendall.” He sighed. “But we’re only talking about a year, maybe less. Claara has survived this current crisis, but one cannot predict the future. And Delphine is not getting any younger, either. Children in the household will help to keep both of them young, but it’s only a matter of time before my sisters pass on. For that matter, I’m not getting any younger myself, Paxon, and I have two young children to think of. At least the three grown daughters are settled.”

  Paxon nodded slowly. “I do sympathize, my lord. Suppose that, for now, we simply leave matters as they are. For now, I shall leave Clarice here with her grandmother, and we’ll discuss this again in the new year.”

  “Thank you,” Kenneth said, extending his hand. “I do appreciate it.”

  • • •

  ALARIC, for his part, found his days at Morganhall little different from the routine at Culdi or Rhemuth, aside from the opportunity to become better acquainted with his sister. He had seen Bronwyn but little in the first few years of her life, as she changed from infant to toddler, but his father usually did bring him to Morganhall to visit her several times a year.

  Lately, however, she was becoming increasingly precious to her elder brother, much more a companion and playmate and less a nuisance. He welcomed the opportunity to help teach her her letters, and to tell her about what he remembered of their mother—of whom Bronwyn had no memory whatsoever. He told her, too, about participating at the king’s birthday court, and riding at the tourney, and the sad journey to Culdi. But she had not known Duke Andrew, so his passing meant little to her on a personal level. Nor had she yet met the king.

  A love of riding the two of them shared, however, even though Alaric was far more advanced. Llion found her a natural rider, and commended the instruction she had received from Sir Calix and Master Leopold. Bronwyn was managing quite a feisty pony, and clambered right back into the saddle whenever she fell off, which was seldom.

  Alaric, by contrast, was deemed to have progressed beyond ponies, by dint of his experience on the rides from Rhemuth and Culdi. Though he would continue to ride ponies when training with other young riders, Llion decided to continue some of his instruction on horses. To that end, Alaric was given the occasional use of a steady and reliable Llanner mare called Dilys, belonging to Sir Calix, and began learning to jump the mare over obstacles in the field.

  He soon found that taking a full-sized horse over hedges and ditches was somewhat different from popping one of his ponies over pre-set fences in a riding ring—with the result that he, like Bronwyn, sometimes “dismounted” well before he had intended, and from a greater height than that to which he was accustomed.

  “That looked painful,” Llion said, catching Dilys’s reins as Alaric picked himself up from a particularly abrupt dismount.

  “My balance was off,” Alaric muttered.

  “So it was,” Llion replied, and gave him a leg up. “Try that one again.”

  But he far preferred riding in the field to going round and round in an arena. He and Llion rode out most mornings, usually with one or another of the other household knights, and Llion gave him sword drill every day, in-between other activities.

  Nor was more academic training neglected, though it was not Llion who provided it. For a change of pace, and to keep his mind engaged as well as his growing body, Aunt Delphine had him read family histories to her, and practice his scrivening, and even taught him the Torenthi alphabet.

  “You will wish to learn at least a little Torenthi,” she told him, “since Corwyn’s nearest neighbor outside Gwynedd is Torenth. It’s a challenging language, but there is much to learn from Torenth.”

  “But, they’re our enemies,” Alaric objected.

  “No, some of their leaders merely have other objectives than we do in Gwynedd,” she replied tartly. “You will find that true of many people you think are enemies. Besides, many of them are Deryni, as your mother was. And it is also a very good idea to know your enemy,” she conceded with a wink.

  Flashing her a cheeky grin, he returned to copying out a list of simple words in Torenthi.

  She also gave him exercises in accountancy, which he would need in the management of the estates he would eventually inherit.

  “I know this is not your favorite pastime,” she told him, as he labored over yet another column of figures she had set him to add up, “but one day, the numbers will mean something to you, when they pertain to the production of crops and animals and timber and such, coming from your lands. A knowledge of accountancy is part of the job of every noble lord, be he simple knight or a duke holding vast estates, as you will be.”

  The perverse pen he was using chose that moment to deposit an ugly blot on his figures, and he flung it down in exasperation.

  “Here, now, none of that, young man,” Delphine said, putting the quill back in his hand and, at the same time, applying a blotter to the mess. “As a future duke, I know you think that you will always have others to do your accounting—and you will have clarks aplenty to carry out most of these tasks. But you must be able to go over an account and see for yourself whether the figures are accurate, or whether your reeves and stewards are cheating you.

  “It does happen,” she added, as the boy looked up in indignation. “Subordinates sometimes assume that a duke cannot be bothered to concern himself with such details. But many a fine estate has been run into the ground by dishonest stewards, especially when the master or the heir is young—or set apart for some other cause. You know what I’m talking about, young man.”

  She gave him a gimlet glance, only nodding as his lips parted in a silent gasp of sudden suspicion.

  “Aunt Delphine,” he whispered, carefully laying aside his quill, “are you saying that people might try to take advantage of me because I’m . . . because my mother was . . .”

  Delphine gave a wry grimace and nodded jerkily. “I loved her dearly, child—you know that. But other than the time she spent at Arc-en-Ciel—and there were problems even there, at least at first—I don’t know whether she ever felt truly safe.”

  “There were problems at Arc-en-Ciel?” Alaric said in a small voice. “I thought that religious houses were sanctuary.”

  Delphine snorted in a most unladylike fashion. “From the outside world, they are. But no one had reckoned on that beastly Septimus de Nore. He was one of the chaplains there.”

  “De Nore?” Alaric interjected, eyes narrowing. “He’s that priest who was executed for his part in the killing of a boy at court.”

  Delphine allowed herself a curt nod.

  “He was. How much do you know about that, love?”

  “Well, not a great deal,” the boy admitted hesitantly. “It happened before I was born. But sometimes the pages at court talk about him—to scare the younger boys, I think. The boy’s name was Krispin, wasn’t it? He was drowned in a well in the stable yard. My mother helped find out who did it, and the guilty men were hanged—and gelded,” he added, with a look of awed disbelief.

  “Do any of those boys mention how she helped find out?” Delphine asked.

  “She—used her Deryni powers,” Alaric whispered, thinking of the power he himself now was beginning to sense, to tell when a person was lying. “The old king commanded her.”

  Delphine nodded slowly. “And de Nore’s brother is Bishop Oliver de Nore, who hated your mother for the rest of her days, and will seize any opportunity to vent his spleen on you as well, because you are your mother’s son. Be careful, love, because he will see you destroyed, if he can.”

  “I—have a bishop who wants me dead?” Alaric said in a small voice.

  “He would be happy if all Deryni were dead,” Delphine replied. “I hope that one day your father will tell you of the full extent of what your dear mother suffered because of her race. You cannot be too ca
reful. The old king protected your mother, and the young king will try to protect you—but you must always be on your guard.”

  Alaric swallowed at a lump that suddenly had materialized in his throat. He knew that Delphine and his mother had been close, especially in those final weeks, but he had begun to learn much more of their relationship in the past few days, and was suddenly aware just how much more precarious was his situation than he had thought. He also had no doubt that Delphine had loved his mother very much, and loved him as well.

  Turning back to the writing desk before him, he ran his gaze over the numbers that had defeated him earlier, then picked up his quill without another word and bent again to his task. This time, when he finished and laid aside the quill to push the results across the desk to Delphine, the old woman smiled.

  “Exactly right, my love,” she said, reaching across to clasp his shoulder in affection. “Your mother would be very proud, and your father will be proud as well.” She smiled and cocked her head in sudden inspiration. “Can you keep a secret?”

  “What kind of a secret?” Alaric wanted to know.

  Delphine’s mouth curled upward in conspiratorial glee. “It’s a gift for your father, something I’ve been working on for several months. Would you like to see it?”

  At his silent nod, she rose and went to a tall cabinet behind her, rooting behind a cupboard door until she emerged with something wrapped loosely in a piece of raw silk.

  “It’s very nearly done,” she said, unfolding the bundle as she sat. “I had to wait until you came back to Morganhall before I could finish it. Tell me what you think.”

  From the folds of silk she withdrew an egg-sized silver locket with a filigree face. This she opened before handing it to Alaric. Inside, painted on a flat oval of ivory, was the miniature portrait of a fair, beautiful woman with golden hair caught in ringlets at the nape of her neck, and a golden circlet across her brow. The blue eyes were familiar and beloved to Alaric, and he caught his breath in wonder.

  “Maman!”

  “Ah, then it’s a good likeness,” Delphine said, beaming at his delight. “Now see if the inside also meets with your approval. It opens from the left, so that it can fold out as a triptych. The locket belonged to my mother, your grandmother, Madonna McLain. I doubt you remember her. I’ve simply changed the portraits.”

  Grinning, Alaric touched a reverent finger to the likeness of his mother, then carefully opened the next level of the locket. The left side displayed a portrait of his sister Bronwyn, merry-eyed and full of life, but the right side was vacant.

  “Your likeness will go there,” Delphine said, reaching behind her to produce a third ivory oval, handling it by the edges. “I only finished it last night. I knew you would have grown since last I saw you, so I wanted to wait until you returned to do the final touches. But your mother’s visage is forever in my heart, as she was at the height of her beauty, and Bronwyn is always with me. Meanwhile, you, my love, have been busy turning into quite the handsome young man.”

  As she laid it on the table before him, he bent close to inspect his portrait, pleased with what he saw, then looked up with a shy smile.

  “Thank you, Aunt Delphine. My father will treasure it, I know. When will you give it to him?”

  “It only wants having that last piece mounted,” she said, taking the locket back from him and laying it open beside his portrait. “I’ll do that tonight. I don’t know when your father plans to leave, but he’ll be able to take it with him.”

  Alaric was grinning widely at the shared conspiracy as she folded part of the silk over her treasure and rose.

  “But, enough of that for now. You’ve done your sums and I’ve shared a secret with you. Would you like to come with me now, while I feed the chickens and gather some vegetables from the kitchen garden? You should know where your food comes from, and what’s involved in helping things grow.”

  Smiling and eager, Alaric got to his feet and went with Aunt Delphine, happily slipping his hand into hers.

  Chapter 10

  “Discretion shall preserve thee, understanding shall keep thee.”

  —PROVERBS 2:11

  OTHER things Alaric learned as well during those sultry days at Morganhall, also relating to who and what he was. He had always been good with horses, but he found that patience often resulted in unexpected rapport with birds and other small creatures—though he quickly decided that it was unfair to use his powers of persuasion in pursuit of chickens or rabbits destined for the pot, unless a person was really, really hungry.

  “You can’t help it, that God made you taste good,” he told the hens one morning, low under his breath, while he was scattering feed in their pen. “People need to eat. Besides, most of you get to lay eggs. I like eggs.”

  His success with cats was somewhat less reliable, but he attributed that to the innate independence of the creatures; dogs seemed to make more ready allies. Not that his own dog was altogether an ally. The brindle hound given him by the king for his fourth birthday had mostly become Bronwyn’s dog in the intervening years, since Kenneth had declined to drag the hound back and forth to Rhemuth.

  “Besides, Bayard is needed here, to guard your sister and your aunts,” Kenneth had said, quite reasonably. “You’ll still see him when we visit Morganhall. He’ll remember you.”

  And remember him the hound did, shadowing him whenever he was in residence at Morganhall but stopping at the gate whenever Alaric would venture out with Llion or one of the other knights to exercise the horses.

  “He’s doing his job,” Llion reminded him, when Bayard settled yet again just inside the gate as they rode forth. “There will be other hounds in your life, over the years. This one was your first, and now he is your sister’s first—and good and well that he is, to protect her when you are not here.”

  Alaric sighed, but he knew Llion was right. There had been a time, not so very long ago, when he would have resented his hound’s shift in loyalties. But maturity was teaching him to detach from things that mattered little in the greater scheme of things. His sister’s safety was more important than hurt feelings.

  Something happened a bit later that afternoon that suddenly shifted more of his perspectives. He and Llion had been watching the farmers cutting hay in one of the fields, and had stopped at a stream to water the horses. He was riding the now-retired Cockleburr for old times’ sake, and Llion had taken out a big, raw-boned bay from Morganhall’s stables. They had gotten down to stretch their legs while the horses drank, and were preparing to mount up again when Llion’s steed unaccountably snaked its long neck around and chomped hard on the young knight’s shoulder.

  “Stop that!” Llion exclaimed, jerking sharply at the reins beneath the bit even as he hauled off and punched the animal in the neck. Alaric had drawn back sharply at the exclamation, but at once moved closer in concern as Llion clutched at his shoulder and began rubbing it, wincing with the pain. The horse had dropped its head and begun pulling at tufts of grass by the water’s edge, as if nothing had happened.

  “Perverse beast!” Llion muttered.

  As he slipped a hand inside the neck of his tunic to assess the damage, Alaric asked, wide-eyed, “Are you all right? Did he draw blood?”

  “Apparently not,” Llion allowed, with a glance at his hand. “But I’m going to have one hell of a bruise,” he added, as he flexed his shoulder and resumed rubbing at the injury. “Your father said I could have any horse in the stable, but you can bet that it won’t be this one!”

  “I have an idea,” Alaric said cautiously, “if you’ll let me try something.”

  Llion looked at him sharply, at once wary and apprehensive. “Oh?”

  “Just . . . come and sit down,” the boy said uncertainly. “I may be able to take away the pain. I’ve done it on animals,” he added, as Llion’s eyebrow lifted.

  The young knight gave an uneasy gla
nce around them—there was no one nearby, save the horses—then leaned closer to his charge.

  “Are you talking about using your powers?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Well, sort of,” the boy admitted sheepishly. “It wouldn’t interfere with your free will,” he assured his mentor. “And you’d still have the bite—and a bruise. But I think I can block the pain.”

  “You think you can block the pain,” Llion repeated softly, and somewhat disbelievingly. “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “I can make the pain go away, or at least ease. Will you let me try?”

  Llion let out a pent-up breath and rolled his eyes heavenward for an instant, still rubbing his shoulder, then returned his gaze to the boy’s.

  “All right. I suppose I always knew this day would come. What do you want me to do?”

  “We need to tie up the horses first,” he said, gesturing toward a nearby log with protruding branches, “and then sit down. This shouldn’t take long.”

  As Llion complied, looking ill at ease, Alaric stripped off his riding gloves and shoved them under his belt, waiting until the young knight had taken a seat on the log. Then he tentatively slipped one hand into the neck of Llion’s tunic to cup his palm over the injury. At the same time, he lifted his other hand toward the young knight’s forehead. Llion flinched back at first, for common wisdom held that physical contact usually went with the exercise of Deryni powers, but Alaric only quirked him a self-conscious smile and shook his head.

  “Llion, I’m already touching you with my other hand. If I wanted to invade your mind, that would be enough—if I knew how to do that, which I don’t. I promise I’m not going to hurt you.”