The King's Deryni

by Katherine Kurtz

  “But, why?” Brion asked.

  Morian briefly closed his eyes, summoning strength. “I am known and hated in Meara, Sire, both for what I am and for whom I serve. Somehow, I have always known that one day . . .” He winced and drew another bubbling breath, then turned his gaze on Kenneth.

  “You dared to love a Deryni woman, Sir Kenneth,” he whispered. “For love of her, let me go.”

  “You’re sure?” Kenneth murmured.

  Morian nodded. “Do it, my friend. It will be a kinder death than if you attempt to save me. Either way, I cannot survive this.”

  With that, he pulled his hands apart in surrender, lips moving in an unspoken prayer as he briefly turned his gaze toward the sky above.

  Kenneth glanced at the king, whose head slowly bowed in resignation, then at Jamyl Arilan, who had come to kneel across from him. Jamyl’s faint nod gave him courage to return his gaze to the dying man, and to shift his grasp onto the blood-slick shaft of ivory.

  “May God give you mercy, as I do, Morian,” he whispered, steeling his resolve as the dying man’s gaze again returned to his. “Go with God, go in peace.”

  With that, he gave the shaft a mighty tug, at the same time twisting to free it from Morian’s flesh, backing it out in the direction of the ivory spiral. Hot blood bubbled from the wound for a few seconds more, and from between Morian’s lips, along with a faint, anguished groan, but Kenneth only shifted one hand to grasp one of Morian’s, his eyes never leaving Morian’s as the dying man drew a few more labored breaths and then was still.

  Kenneth took a deep breath and bowed his head for a moment in wordless prayer for the dead man’s soul before crossing himself and closing the dead man’s eyes, then looked up at the king.

  “He’s gone.”

  “Yes, and those responsible will be punished,” Brion said, reaching across to take the ivory shaft from Kenneth’s hand.

  He fingered it with distaste for a few seconds, then rose and turned toward where several of his men were holding the Mearans responsible for the attack on Morian. The tide had turned, little wavelets beginning to skim across the sand as he headed toward them. Meanwhile, Kenneth and Jared deputized several men to carry Morian’s body over to the horses and secure it, then strode after the king.

  Jamyl Arilan had taken charge of the prisoners, and had them forced to their knees as the king approached, Kenneth and Jared behind him. One of the borderers was also afoot, with drawn sword. The prisoners’ wrists were bound behind them, but they glared up defiantly as the king came to a halt before them, with the narwhal tusk in his hand like a weapon.

  “I suppose you men have what you consider to be good reasons for attacking my knight,” Brion said evenly, lightly tapping the tusk against the side of his leg.

  One of the men snorted. “He was Deryni. That is well-known in Meara.”

  “That is no justification for unprovoked murder,” the king replied.

  “No?” another prisoner replied. “Then, call it a delayed execution, for he has slain many a Mearan patriot in the past decade and more.”

  “Then, you will not object if your own executions are somewhat less delayed,” Brion retorted. “Jamyl, bring them!” he ordered, turning then on his heel to return to where another borderer was holding his horse, in the deepening surf.

  Chapter 25

  “Mercy and truth preserve the king: and his throne is upholden by mercy.”

  —PROVERBS 20:28

  THEY returned later that afternoon to Castel Edain, where Jiri and Sir Lucien Talbot had been growing anxious.

  “I had thought you only gone for a ride on the beach, Sire,” Jiri said, coming onto the great hall steps with Lucien and Baron Faas as the king’s party clattered into the stable yard. “What has . . .?”

  His voice trailed off as he saw the bundled shape strapped across the saddle of a horse, and another as well, and the three dour strangers in battle harness who rode with bound hands, each accompanied by a grim-faced Haldane rider. The king’s face was stony, Kenneth’s troubled, Jared’s unreadable, Jamyl’s blank with suppressed anger.

  As the royal party dismounted, men-at-arms beginning to unstrap the bodies on the horses, Lucien made his way to Jamyl, who was closest, keeping one eye on the king.

  “What has happened?” he murmured. “Who was killed, and by whom?”

  “The one who matters is Sir Morian,” Jamyl replied, jerking his chin toward one of the bodies. “The other one was part of the attacking party, as are the prisoners. We found Caitrin. Unfortunately, some of her men recognized Morian and overwhelmed him before anyone could intervene. Ask the king about the narwhal tusk he is carrying—if you dare.”

  Jamyl knew that the royal governor had worked closely with the Deryni Morian in the past decade, and could sense him making the connection.

  “A narwhal tusk? Dear, merciful Jesu!” he whispered. “The Mearans killed him with a unicorn horn?”

  Jamyl inclined his head curtly. “They pinned him to the sand with it. Morian knew the wound was mortal, once the horn was pulled. He asked Lord Kenneth to release him. Kenneth is carrying a great burden right now.”

  “I should say he is,” Lucien replied, then appeared to pull himself together. “Right, then. Lord Faas has a chapel here. The body can lie there overnight.”

  “There’re apt to be more bodies in the morning,” Jamyl said. “I believe the king plans to execute those responsible for Morian’s death.”

  “Those are a different matter,” Lucien said coldly. “We’ll bury them, but insurgents don’t deserve anything fancy.”

  • • •

  THE king had a Mass said for Morian that evening in the chapel, celebrated by Father Nevan. Afterward, in further discussion with the royal governor, they learned that Morian had family not two days’ ride from there.

  “A wife and several children, mostly grown,” Lucien said. “He lived a quiet life, but he put his many skills always in service of the Crown. Your father greatly esteemed him.”

  “As did I,” Brion retorted, still angry at the waste of Morian’s life. “Very well, we’ll take him there in the morning,” he said. “First, though, I mean to question those who killed him.”

  “Of doubtful usefulness, without Morian’s . . . ‘skills,’” Jamyl said quietly.

  Brion blew out breath in an exasperated sigh. “I know that, Jamyl, but we must try. Morian asked that we not go to war over this, but I can’t help wanting revenge for his death. It was an unprovoked attack.”

  “So it seemed to me, Sire,” Jared said. “Thank God that you were not the victim.”

  “There is that.” Brion sighed again, then rose.

  “Let’s get on with it, then. We’ll talk to the prisoners.”

  • • •

  JAMYL also was present during the questioning that followed, though he said little, other than to clarify a few points. The prisoners were frightened, but maintained that it had been an attack of the moment, when they realized that Morian was among them. Several of the men had lost loved ones in the Mearan expedition of a decade past. One of the men, the one who actually rammed the narwhal tusk into Morian’s body, had lost an adored older brother directly at Morian’s command, as he tried to cover the escape of Caitrin’s sister and newborn child.

  “It does explain a great deal,” Jared said quietly, when the prisoners had been taken back to the dungeon where they were being held. “It was manslaughter, I will grant you, but hardly murder. And certainly a crime of passion. No one could have expected such a confrontation before we came upon them so suddenly.”

  “They still have killed a trusted vassal,” Brion said doggedly.

  A short silence ensued, after which Lucien said quietly, “What will you do, Sire? Do you intend to execute them?”

  “I don’t know,” the king replied. “I’ll decide by morning.”


  When they had dispersed to a joyless supper, Jamyl drew Kenneth aside, where they could not be overheard.

  “Sir Kenneth, you must try to persuade him not to execute the men,” Jamyl said quietly. “Their attack was unfortunate, but it was not premeditated. Morian had the right of it, when he said we should not go to war over his death.”

  Kenneth fixed the young Deryni with his gaze. He had been wondering whether Jamyl had used his powers to Truth-Read as the prisoners were questioned, but he also knew that Jamyl would never reveal himself to the king or anyone else in their party. He was also aware that he himself could not disclose any evidence that might exonerate the prisoners. Not if it meant betraying Jamyl.

  “That was my sense of it,” he said quietly. “And I was the one Morian chose, to release him. But you know the king, and how he refuses to let go of a notion, once his mind is set. I will try to persuade him, but realize that I hold little hope of it.”

  “I know you will do what you can,” Jamyl replied.

  Later that night, when all had retired save an honor guard of four to keep watch beside Morian’s body, Jamyl went onto the roofs at Castel Edain and sought out a quiet spot where, even if someone else took it in mind to indulge sleepless wandering, they were not apt to notice him. It was risky, what Jamyl planned to do, for he had no Portal to facilitate his contact with Stefan Coram, but he and Stefan had worked together often enough that he knew he had a good chance of breaking into Stefan’s sleep to communicate the events of the day.

  He found a secluded niche beside a chimney and sank down on his hunkers, leaning his forehead against his clasped knees as he closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths to center and relax before sending out the call. He sustained it for several minutes before settling back to wait. Very shortly, he felt the telltale tingle of another mind touching his.

  I assume that this is important, came the thought insinuating itself into Jamyl’s mind.

  Just a quick bit of information I thought the Council should have, Jamyl returned. Morian is dead, speared by a Mearan partisan with a narwhal tusk—or a unicorn horn, as common superstition would call it.

  Stefan’s shock and dismay came through as a burst of unfocused static that made Jamyl wince with its intensity. Then:

  That is the absolutely last thing I would have expected to hear from you. Review it for me.

  Jamyl complied, quickly recounting the incident in question.

  I think he means to hang those responsible, he finished. Which is hardly just, because it really was a completely unforeseen and unforeseeable occurrence. If anything, it’s the circumstances that were at fault. But I can’t tell Brion how I know this.

  No, you can’t, Stefan agreed. Well, do what you can. I’ll inform the Council. I suppose you have no idea when you’ll be able to make a proper report.

  None. If he hangs the Mearans, it could spark another full-scale rebellion. But I’m hoping it won’t come to that.

  Good luck, then.

  An instant to disengage the communication. Then Jamyl was back in his body, drawing a deep breath to settle back into normal consciousness. Casting out with his Deryni senses, he was relieved to find no one on the roof. He took another few seconds to fully shake off the effects of his focus, then rose to make his way to the bed assigned him.

  • • •

  IN the end, further unexpected events the next morning swayed the king’s resolve where the reasoning of his closest confidants could not. They were assembling in the stable yard of the manor house, where Brion was eyeing several beams that protruded from the stable loft, when one of his men came running into the yard from outside.

  “Rider approaching, Sire, under a white flag.”

  “Who—?” Brion started to say.

  But Jamyl was already moving into the gateway to peer out, two of the Cassani bordermen swinging onto horses to ride out and investigate. The men returned several minutes later with a young man bearing a parley banner. The lad could not have been more than fifteen or sixteen, but he rode proud and straight as they led him before the king. Jamyl watched but said nothing.

  “And who is this?” Brion asked the bordermen.

  “Risto of Glenmor, Majesty,” the young man said, before the men could reply. “I come in peace, on behalf of the Princess Caitrin of Meara. Will you speak with her?”

  The king could not have been more surprised if the young man had suddenly sprouted horns and a tail. He glanced at his officers—at Kenneth and Jared and Jiri—then returned his attention to the Mearan envoy.

  “Very well.”

  “You will guarantee her safety, and allow her to depart in peace?” the young man said boldly.

  Kenneth could sense the king tensing next to him, and the royal jaw tightened, but Brion gave a curt nod. “I will respect the truce.”

  “Then, I will bring her,” the young man said, and backed his horse a few paces before turning sharply to canter off over the nearby ridge.

  “Caitrin is asking to parley?” the king said incredulously.

  “Further evidence,” said Jamyl, “that yesterday’s attack was entirely unplanned.”

  “But she is a Mearan,” Jared pointed out.

  “And our intention, from the beginning, has been to find her and speak to her,” Kenneth said. “It appears that we now have that chance, Sire.”

  “Here she comes,” Lucien Talbot said, low.

  As a small party came over the ridge, again preceded by the parley flag, Brion swung onto a horse and moved into the open gateway, flanked by Kenneth, Jared, and the royal governor. Jamyl and a handful of his knights gathered behind, alert for any sign of treachery. More men were up in the gatehouse with bows, should any of the Mearans take it in their minds to violate the truce.

  As the approaching party drew closer, more Mearans appeared from over the ridge behind them to pull up in a line across the track. Only four riders continued forward behind the young man carrying the parley flag. One was the man they had seen before, with the forked beard, one was cloaked and hooded, the other two were armed retainers. When they drew to a halt, perhaps twenty yards out, the envoy and armed men held back while the older man and the hooded figure continued forward to within a few horse lengths of the king and drew rein.

  “I am Derek Delaney Earl of Somerdale,” the man said, gentling a restive mount. “May I know whom I have the honor of addressing?”

  “You are in the presence of Brion King of Gwynedd and Prince of Meara,” Lucien Talbot said stiffly, indicating the king.

  As Delaney inclined his head in acknowledgment of the introduction, if not its content, and Brion silently did the same, the earl’s companion pushed back her hood with a gloved hand and lifted her chin defiantly. It was the same plain-faced woman of the previous day, though the ribbon woven through her long plait today was black, and skirts billowed around booted legs, though she still rode astride.

  “We truly regret the manner of our meeting yesterday,” Delaney said, before the woman could speak. “The presence of Sir Morian du Joux among your number was a great shock to all of us, for he has been responsible for the death of many a loyal Mearan.”

  “He was my loyal servant,” Brion said pointedly, “and your men attacked him without provocation.” He glanced at the woman beside Delaney. “May I know the identity of your fair companion?”

  Delaney inclined his head again. “My bride of some months, Caitrin Countess of Somerdale.”

  As Caitrin allowed him a curt dip of her chin, Brion made a more courtly bow of his own.

  “Lady.”

  “Why have you asked for this parley?” Jared said stiffly.

  “Why, to retrieve our men, of course,” Delaney replied. “We are on our wedding progress through these lands. The last thing we expected was to come face-to-face with one who has done such infamy against the people of Meara.” />
  “If he did infamy,” Brion said, “it was done in time of war, in the service of the king my father, to safeguard the greater well-being of the people of Meara.”

  “We shall never agree on that,” Caitrin said, speaking for the first time. “A decade ago, when your father invaded my land, your Morian hounded my sister to death, along with her newborn child.”

  “And the past cannot be changed,” her husband interjected, with a note of somewhat long-suffering patience, Kenneth thought. “But we truly intended no hostility yesterday, Brion of Gwynedd. My wife and I are celebrating our marriage, as any couple might do. Can we not resolve this as reasoned men?”

  “Your men attacked us without provocation,” Brion replied. “How can I construe that as anything but hostile?”

  “It was not deliberate, nor was it ordered,” Caitrin said, though more temperately than before. “But you must understand that Morian du Joux was hated and reviled by my people.”

  “Your people?” Brion retorted. “Lady, Meara is mine.”

  “No, it is my father who is Prince of Meara,” Caitrin said stubbornly. “I can never acknowledge any other while he yet lives.”

  “You claim no title in your own right?” Jared asked.

  Caitrin managed a brittle smile. “What would be the point? My father yet lives, and I am a new bride of . . . a certain age. I pray for the blessing of children, but do you think it likely that my aging body will produce challengers to your claim against my father’s throne?”

  “This discussion is pointless,” Brion said coldly. “Your father has no throne. I am Prince of Meara.”

  “I will not dispute that with you while he yet lives,” Caitrin replied. “I ask only that you give back my husband’s men and allow us to go in peace.”

  “Your husband’s men killed one of mine,” Brion said doggedly. “Justice must be served.”