The King's Deryni

by Katherine Kurtz

  “I suppose you’re right,” Alaric said thoughtfully.

  Something he had not done before was to ride at multiple rings in a single run, as the squires did after the first few passes at single rings. The best of them could take all three rings most of the time. One squire called Edgar of Mathelwaite, a baron’s son and heir, rode well enough, but seemed to take perverse pleasure in gloating when one of the other squires took a spill or missed a ring, especially the younger ones. Alaric insisted on trying it, and managed to keep up reasonably well—until they switched to smaller rings.

  “Llion, why have I not been practicing at multiple rings?” he asked under his breath, when he had ridden another pass and taken only one ring.

  Llion only raised an eyebrow and pretended to adjust a spur strap. “For one thing, it takes far more personnel to attend to three rings—or else much more time between runs. And while it does help with hand-eye coordination—and it looks very dashing!—it doesn’t much reflect real battle experience. Sword-work will be much more important.”

  Alaric allowed himself a heavy sigh.

  “Having said that, you’ll get some experience at multiple rings when you train at Rhemuth,” Llion went on. “I know that Duke Richard favors it. For now, the smaller rings are more important than trying to take several of them in a row.”

  Alaric gave a grudging nod. “You did say back in Rhemuth that I needed to start riding at smaller rings.”

  “True enough,” Llion agreed. “And you do. But you’ve still given quite a respectable showing against lads considerably older than you are, and riding an exercise that you’d never done before.”

  “Point taken,” Alaric said. “But I do like to win.”

  “And so you shall, in the future,” Llion replied. “But part of the purpose of today’s exercise was not necessarily to win, but to show yourself more than competent at your present level of training—and to accept the limitations of your training.”

  Alaric rolled his eyes.

  “I know that exasperates you,” Llion went on, “but grace in training is important. Meanwhile, you have shown skill and heart before your future knights. And remember that there will always be someone who is better than you, whether with sword or lance or even as rider. Right now, the occasional defeat will only hurt your ego. When you’re grown, even one defeat could mean your life.”

  “I know, but—”

  “There is no but,” Llion said flatly. “Never forget that the ultimate purpose of all training is to keep you alive. Incidentally, those hours and days in the saddle on the way here have paid off. You rode very well. An excellent performance, lad, whatever you may think.”

  As he clasped Alaric’s shoulder in approval, the boy managed a wan smile.

  “Thank you, Llion.” He arched one eyebrow. “But you will get me smaller rings, for when we resume training back at Rhemuth, won’t you?”

  “I will,” the young knight agreed with a smile.

  • • •

  THAT night, at supper in the hall, they dined on succulent Michaelmas goose in honor of the day, after which Kenneth and the regents convened a ducal court to confer knighthood on the two most senior squires. Reamonn de Naverie, the son of Sir Crescence, was a tall, soft-spoken young man with dark hair already receding at the temples. What hair he had, he wore braided and clubbed in a warrior’s knot. With Kenneth’s permission, Reamonn’s father conferred the accolade, inviting Jernian and a slightly older page called Viliam to buckle on the spurs. By the response in the hall, young Reamonn clearly was well respected at court, and more than ready for the honor.

  The other knight to be made was Gilles Chopard, son of Sir Miles, the council’s secretary. A little older than Reamonn, Gilles carried himself like a warrior born, and wore braided sidelocks in the Torenthi fashion. Though Sir Miles was offered the opportunity to give his son the accolade, he deferred to Kenneth, saying that he would rather his son be knighted by the father of his future duke. Gilles agreed.

  Hence the second knighting was carried out, again with Jernian and Viliam tending to the spurs. Both new knights were then belted by the beautiful redheaded wife of Earl Airlie, who reduced both young men to speechless blushes as she murmured compliments while she buckled the white belts around their waists.

  After that, the assembled nobility of Corwyn drank the health of the two new knights, and then the health of their future duke and his father. A little later, the formalities of court having finished, both new knights came to commend Alaric for his very fine showing in the tilting yard. A few of the men, aware that it was his birthday, gave him tokens by which to remember the day: a pair of dark green riding gloves, ostensibly from the pages. A supple black belt worked with interlace and adorned at its tongue with a brass fitting depicting a Corwyn gryphon—that, from the squires. And from the council of regents, a cardounet board inlaid with contrasting woods, light and dark, along with a set of pieces carved from walrus tusk and jet.

  “Jet isn’t exactly a stone,” Jernian’s father told him, as Alaric fingered one of the black archers and wondered at its lightness. “It washes up on the beaches, polished by the sea. Some folk believe that it once was wood from forests that were drowned by the tides. Sometimes you can see the wood grain in rough pieces. But it carves nicely. I hope you will enjoy this set.”

  “Thank you, my lord, I know I shall,” Alaric said, smiling as he replaced the piece with its fellows in its wool-lined box. “Incidentally, I was sorry to hear about your father’s passing. I so enjoyed his company on previous visits. I hope it was gentle.”

  “Thank you, lad, I believe it was,” Lord Airnis said, clearly touched as he stepped aside for the next well-wisher to approach.

  A little later, Sir James of Tendal, the duchy’s chancellor, came over with several of his fellows to give him a far more intriguing present than any mere game set.

  “This will give you access to the ducal library,” Sir James said, laying a large key in his hand, adorned with a green silk tassel. “It is housed in the so-called ‘Green Tower,’ on the top floor but one, where many of the books and scrolls belonging to your great-grandfather Stíofan are stored. He was quite a collector.”

  “They are among the duchy’s great treasures,” Sir Crescence added, as the wide-eyed Alaric inspected the key, “so none of the volumes may be removed from Coroth until you come of age. But you are welcome to use the library whenever you are in residence.”

  “Of course, you will need to learn several other languages, if you are to avail yourself of all the library’s treasures,” Father Tividan said with a faint smile. “I am told that Duke Stíofan was a prodigious scholar.”

  “All the more reason to keep applying myself to my studies,” Alaric replied with a smile. “Thank you, all of you, for this very special gift.”

  The gift giving done, the adults soon retreated to the tables to take up some serious celebratory drinking in honor of the two new knights, and the pages and squires were dismissed from their table duties. Alaric had just tucked the library key into his belt pouch for safekeeping, and was contemplating an inspection tour of the Green Tower when Jernian and Viliam came over to inspect his new cardounet set.

  “Viliam’s father is a baron,” Jernian said, by way of introduction. “Both of us are passionate for cardounet. Could we have a closer look?”

  Inspection led to setting out the pieces on the board, which soon evolved into a hotly contested match between the two, with Alaric looking on in growing amazement. Very quickly it emerged that Viliam, like Jernian, had aspirations as a strategist—and both of them were very good, indeed. Several times, one or another of the other pages and even a squire or two drifted over to watch, but they would soon lose interest and move on. The tension was almost palpable as the two played, briskly, passionately, obviously often matched.

  Finally, Viliam let out a dramatic groan of defeat and tippe
d over his priest-king, conceding the game. Jernian merely sat back and folded his arms across his chest, looking very pleased with himself.

  “But . . . you still have moves,” Alaric said to Viliam.

  “Yes, but he has me in six more moves,” Viliam explained with a sigh, indicating the pieces that, when played out, would lead to an inevitable conclusion.

  “But he did play very well,” Jernian chimed in. “We’ve been doing this for several years, and we’re fairly evenly matched, if the truth be known. He nearly had me, ten moves back, but then he had to get sneaky with his war-duke.”

  As he gave the other boy a good-natured dunt in the bicep, Viliam snorted, though he was also smiling.

  “War-dukes are sneaky; no offense, Alaric. And you can bet that I’ll not make that mistake again!” he said to Jernian. “Another match? Or you, perhaps?” he added to Alaric.

  Before Alaric could answer, Jernian said, “I’d love to, but Alaric probably would like to take his set back to his quarters. It’s getting late.”

  “No, you can play again, if you like,” Alaric said. “But only if one of you agrees to play me tomorrow night. And you must teach me more about strategy while I’m here. I always thought I was a reasonably good player, but you two are amazing. It isn’t just a game for you, is it? How did you learn to play so well?”

  Viliam gave a grin like a cat with a mouse as he began resetting the pieces to begin again. “We’ve had a Torenthi tutor for the past year. It was originally a Torenthi game, you know.”

  “You have a Torenthi tutor,” Alaric repeated.

  “He’s actually my father’s steward,” Jernian replied. “He’s quite old now, but he was a master player when he was younger. When he brings the accounts to Father every quarter, he stays for about a week, and I pester him to tutor Viliam and me. Torenthis take the game very seriously.”

  “It’s all about tactics and strategy, after all,” Viliam agreed. “My father says that’s one of the most important parts of being a good general.”

  “Do you want to be a general?” Alaric asked.

  Viliam shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe.” He flashed a winning smile. “But I want to be a squire first. You have to be a squire before you can be a knight. And you have to be a knight before you can even think about being a general.”

  “I don’t want to be a general,” Jernian said. “I can’t see well enough. But I can be a strategist or tactician on a general’s battle staff. Maybe even for the king.” He cocked his head at Alaric. “Have you met him? The king, I mean.”

  Alaric suppressed a smile, for he sensed it would not do to tell his new friends that it would be his job, one day, to guard the king’s life, and to be his Deryni protector, that already the king held him in special favor.

  “I’ve met him,” he said simply. “My father has known him almost all his life. We attended his knighting celebration in June. I’m not an official page yet, but I got to ride in the pages’ competition,” he offered.

  “You rode at Rhemuth?” Viliam asked, wide-eyed.

  “Well, I rode against other pages,” Alaric admitted.

  “How’d you do?” Jernian wanted to know.

  Alaric shrugged. “They only rode at single rings. Not nearly as challenging as what we rode today.” He gave a sheepish grin. “I did better than I did today, too. I guess I need to keep practicing. Sir Llion has promised to get me some smaller rings. And I want to start riding at multiple rings, too.”

  Both his companions nodded sagely. “That’s hard,” Viliam said. “But Lord Hamilton says that’s what it takes, if we want to be knights. And sword practice. And knife-work, and hand-to-hand combat—wrestling and such. Lots of sword practice. That’s much more important than lance work. And the book learning.”

  “I do just fine on the book learning,” Jernian chimed in.

  Across the hall, Alaric saw Llion watching him, and nodded as Llion caught his eye.

  “I’d best say good night now,” he said to his two new friends. “I’m not sure what they have planned for me tomorrow, but Sir Llion seems to be looking for me. Play as long as you like,” he added, with a glance at the cardounet board. “Just don’t lose any of the pieces.”

  Jernian snorted. “My father would kill us both,” he said under his breath, though with a grin.

  Both older boys bobbed briefly to their feet as Alaric rose, but they were deeply immersed in a new game before Alaric even cleared the hall.

  Chapter 12

  “My son, gather instruction from thy youth up; so shalt thou find wisdom till thine old age.”

  —ECCLESIASTICUS 6:18

  IT was, indeed, late as Alaric joined Llion and his father; far later than he had thought.

  “I wanted to make a quick visit to the library,” he told them, as they trudged up the spiraling turnpike stair to their quarters.

  “Tomorrow,” Kenneth replied. “It’s been a busy day, and you need your rest.”

  “But I’m not tired,” Alaric said. “Honestly, I am not.”

  “Well, I am,” Kenneth said. “And I’d like you to be able to sit in tomorrow when the regency council meets. You need to begin learning how a ducal estate operates.”

  “Oh,” Alaric said, surprised and pleased that he was to be included. “In that case . . .”

  The reality, the next morning, was far less exciting than he had anticipated or hoped. Sir Trevor came to escort them to the council chamber, Llion also accompanying them. Though the men of the council greeted their future duke warmly when he and his father came into the room, inviting him to sit in the high-backed chair carved on the back with the ducal arms, they soon settled into the business of the ducal court, where Alaric soon got the impression that he was all but invisible.

  The proceedings quickly became mostly incomprehensible to even a precocious eight-year-old. Alaric listened dutifully, and tried not to fidget while his officers reported from their various departments. His father, of course, advised and made decisions based on the reports. But by the time they adjourned at midday for a light meal, he was nearly ready for a nap, for all that he had slept very well the night before.

  “Well, what did you think?” Kenneth asked, as they headed down the stairs with the others.

  “I think that I need to learn a great deal more patience, Papa,” Alaric admitted. “Must I go back this afternoon?”

  “No, you did well, but it was asking a great deal of an eight-year-old. I merely wanted you to get an idea how it will be, as you grow into your role as duke. Llion, after the two of you get something to eat, why don’t you take him up to see the library, and then make arrangements for him to join the pages’ training.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Llion ate, but Alaric was too excited to do more than wolf down a slab of bread smeared with butter and honey as he willed Llion to eat faster. When Llion finally got up from the table, Alaric grabbed an apple and stuffed it into the front of his tunic as he allowed the young knight to lead the way from the hall, following him across the castle yard.

  On this final day of September, the weakening autumn sun still managed to glint color off the narrow, green-glassed windows of the top floor that gave the tower its name. Looking up, Alaric could not be certain how many floors there were, but he guessed four or five. Sir James had told him the library was on the top floor but one.

  The entrance to the tower’s stairwell seemed black as pitch, after the sunlit yard. The narrow stair spiraling upward to the left was built into the thickness of the tower wall, with a thick rope strung through iron rings set into the outer wall, rough under his left hand. The central newel was carved with a spiral that turned the opposite direction from the stair. Though narrow loopholes pierced the outer wall of the stairwell at each turning, casting the occasional bar of daylight across the stone treads, he was glad of Llion’s torch following behind, and took up
a torch of his own at the first landing, lighting it from Llion’s. The flare of extra light revealed several closed doors at each new landing as they ascended, doors that seemed to beckon him.

  “Llion, have you any idea what lies behind these doors?” he asked, his voice instinctively hushed in the narrow stairwell.

  “Not specifically,” Llion replied. “Of course I mostly grew up here at the castle, from the time I was about eight. When I was a page, we used to sneak around in the corridors when we weren’t required for lessons or drill or table duty. Some of us would play loyal guards, and a few got to be treacherous enemy infiltrators, and the guards would try to capture the enemy agents. We thought it was terribly grown-up and important—and it was good practice, I suppose. The lower levels here are mostly guest quarters, I think. Maybe a few offices. And storage at ground level.”

  “Were you ever in the library?” Alaric asked.

  “No, but I’m given to understand that it’s quite extensive. Your grandfather Keryell used to spend several months in Coroth every summer, as your father has tried to do, administering his late wife’s estate. That would be your grandmother Stevana. Usually, he would bring the three children with him—your mother, your Aunt Marie, and your Uncle Ahern—and they would play in the corridors and in the castle gardens. I was only just starting out then, as a very junior page, but I do remember serving him at table.”

  They had been climbing steadily as Llion spoke, pausing at each landing to inspect the doors, but came at last to one that was slightly different from the others, with a painted sign affixed to it that read Bibliotheca, and below that, the painted image of an open book.

  “This must be it,” Alaric breathed, holding his torch aloft to take in the sight.

  “So it would seem,” Llion agreed.

  Even as he spoke, Alaric was digging into the pouch at his waist to produce the key, which he fitted to the brass-rimmed keyhole. The key turned easily in the lock, and the door swung inward on well-oiled hinges.