The King's Deryni

by Katherine Kurtz

Alaric tried to keep reminding himself of that, as the rope was adjusted and tied off, and the lancer holding the horse’s bridle glanced at the king. He had been told about the involuntary reflexes that took over with a man’s sudden death, the voiding of bladder and bowels, but mere words were different from actually seeing it. He tried not to grimace as execution was carried out, and decided that Kennet Howell’s death had been far easier than his sire’s.

  “You all right, son?” Jiri murmured close beside his ear.

  Alaric dipped his head minutely in a nod. “Aye, sir.”

  “Good lad.”

  They returned then to the stools before the command tent, where the king handed his sword to Nigel and then drew Alaric with him inside as the others again assembled.

  “I’m about to do something that I hope I won’t regret,” Brion said in a low voice. “I still haven’t dealt with Rorik’s captains, but I first want to make Arban Howell the new Earl of Eastmarch. That part will be fine. I am more concerned about the captains.” He cast a wary glance back out the tent flap, then returned his attention to Alaric.

  “This is asking a great deal of you, but I understand that, some years ago, your late uncle, Lord Ahern, performed a great service for my father, by standing at his side while formerly rebellious subjects in Meara re-swore their oaths of fealty. Ahern was Deryni, of course, and used his ability to Truth-Read, to ensure that those swearing intended to keep their oaths in the future. Can you do that for me, with the Eastmarch captains? I really don’t want to execute them, if I can avoid it. There’s been enough of death in this place.”

  Alaric’s jaw had dropped as the king’s intentions became clear, and he swallowed with difficulty against a suddenly dry throat.

  “You want me to Read so many, all at once?”

  Brion snorted. “No, just one at a time. But I think the mere threat of a Deryni standing at my elbow will probably be sufficient. And I do think you’d detect at least any overt bad intention. I know it’s best if you can touch them, but they don’t necessarily know that. And I have a little of the ability, so you won’t be alone. Between us, we should be able to spot at least the worst of them.”

  Alaric slowly nodded. It was a gamble, but he knew that the king was, indeed, said to be able to Truth-Read, to some extent. And a convincing performance of his own should give him greatly enhanced credibility for the future.

  “I’ll do my best, Sire,” he said with rather more confidence than he actually felt. “Do what you must do, and I shall follow your lead.”

  With a curt nod, Brion led the way through the tent flap and took back his sword from Nigel, cocking it over his shoulder. The others had risen at his return, and the Eastmarch captains again knelt before the tent.

  “Lord Arban, please attend us,” the king said, taking his place before his stool.

  Arban glanced uncertainly at Duke Ewan, Earl Ryan, and even Prince Nigel in question, but they looked as mystified as he. Stepping before the king, Arban immediately sank to one knee, looking up a little nervously. His son stood uneasily behind his father’s empty stool.

  “Sire?”

  “Arban Howell Baron of Iomaire. We find that we are in need of a new Earl of Eastmarch,” Brion said formally. “Will you accept this office from our hand, and do us homage for the lands of Eastmarch?”

  A pleased expression came over Arban’s handsome face, and a murmur of approval whispered among the men behind him. “Sire, I do and I will!”

  Smiling faintly, Brion lifted the Haldane sword to bring the flat of the blade down lightly on Arban’s right shoulder. “Then we, Brion, King of Gwynedd and Lord of the Purple March, do create you Earl of Eastmarch, and lord of all its lands and folk, for yourself and your heirs.” The sword lifted to arch to the left shoulder. “We confer on you all the rights, privileges, and responsibilities thereunto pertaining.” He lifted the sword and handed it off to Alaric to be sheathed. “Will you now do homage for your lands, Arban Howell Earl of Eastmarch?”

  At once Arban lifted his joined hands to set them between the king’s, his voice steady as he swore the oath.

  “I, Arban, do enter your homage and become your liege man for Eastmarch. Faith and truth will I bear unto you, to live and to die, against all manner of folk, so help me God.”

  “And I receive your homage, Arban Howell Earl of Eastmarch, and pledge you my loyalty and protection for so long as you keep faith with me.”

  So saying, the king released his hands and cast a speaking glance toward Ewan and Ryan. “Does one of you have the Eastmarch signet, I hope?”

  Earl Ryan hastily rummaged in his belt pouch to produce the ring, taken from Rorik Howell at his capture. This Brion placed on Arban’s left forefinger.

  “Receive this ring as a seal of fidelity to the oaths you have sworn, and a symbol of your authority. And next, as I recall, I would invest you with the coronet, but you’ll have to sort that out when you actually take possession of your lands.” He smiled as he raised Arban up and embraced him briefly, then stepped back so that Ryan and then Ewan and Nigel could likewise congratulate the new earl, pounding him on the back in approval.

  “One further matter, before we disperse,” Brion said, as Arban returned to his stool to be embraced by his son. “I have not forgotten that there is the matter of the men who followed the former lord of Eastmarch into treachery.” At his hard glance over the Eastmarch captains, all of them shrank back on their knees, looking very wary.

  “There was another, of course, who encouraged them to rebel,” Brion went on, hooking his thumbs in his white knight’s belt, “and who was high enough in rank that his wishes could not lightly be disregarded. It is my understanding that Earl Rorik was aided and abetted in his treachery by his son-in-law, one Rhydon Sasillion, Baron Coldoire, who has fled.”

  “That is true, Sire!” one bold soul cried out from the ranks of the Eastmarch captains.

  “Then, I name him traitor and attainted,” Brion declared, “his lands confiscated, and I banish him for life, under pain of summary execution, should he ever set foot in my kingdom again.

  “But, what to do about the rest of you?” he mused, as his gaze again roamed the cowering Eastmarch captains. “In strict justice, I could hang the lot of you, and no one would fault me.” Alaric could feel the fear of the trembling men, and the mixed reaction of the other lords watching, no one daring to intervene.

  “But I shall take the counsel of my new Lord of Eastmarch,” Brion went on, turning to Arban. “How, if I were to agree to pardon any of these who will pledge you fealty, with their hand upon my Haldane sword?”

  Arban rose, apparently both surprised and heartened, and nodded his acceptance. “These are my countrymen, Sire, and some of them my kin. They were ill led. I would spare them, on their oaths.”

  “Very well.” The king gave a leisurely glance to the sheathed sword in Alaric’s hands. “But be aware,” he continued, “that if any man swears you falsely, my Duke of Corwyn will know it.” He did not take his eyes from the men as he reached behind him so that Alaric could put the sword into his hands. “You know that he is Deryni. You know that he can tell when a man lies.”

  The king then handed the sheathed sword to Arban Howell, who came to stand between the two of them as witnesses, as the Eastmarch men came forward individually to lay their hands on the sword’s pommel and swear fealty to their new earl. Alaric did not know for certain whether any of the men who knelt before Arban had serious misgivings; he could not detect any, though the setting was less than ideal.

  Still, his very presence seemed to keep the men focused and earnest. And all of Brion’s allies seemed reassured as the assembly began dispersing to their campsites for the night. Alaric, bone weary after the stress of their hard-scramble ride from Rhemuth and the emotions of the day, was glad to wolf down a share of the travel rations that Duke Ewan managed to produce for the king and h
is companions, and even more grateful for the pallet that was spread for him at the foot of the king’s camp cot. If he dreamed that night, he did not remember in the morning.

  Chapter 44

  “I have pursued mine enemies, and overtaken them: neither did I turn again till they were consumed.”

  —PSALMS 18:37

  THUS the rebellion ended in Eastmarch. The next morning, Brion dismissed the Claibourne levies with his thanks, wished his new earl Godspeed, then turned over command of the royal lancers to Lord Lester, Sir Jiri, and his brother Nigel, who would accompany the men back to Rhemuth. Brion himself, impatient with the senselessness of the past two weeks, and the blood and killing, decided to set out for home along a different route, taking only his Deryni squire with him.

  It was nearing dusk when the pair found a suitable campsite for the night, in the curve of a small stream that ran along the road. They had taken little opportunity to rest since their early departure, so riders and horses alike were tired and travel worn. The horses smelled the water up ahead and tugged at their bits as the riders drew rein.

  “God’s wounds, but I’m tired,” the king said with a sigh, kicking clear of his stirrups to stretch his legs for a moment, then sliding gratefully from the saddle. “I sometimes think the aftermath is almost worse than the battle itself. I must be getting old.”

  Alaric only chuckled at that as he, too, dismounted and caught at the royal reins to secure the horses, for at just short of twenty-four, the king’s lament concerning aging was hardly credible. Indeed, at that moment, Brion Haldane seemed hardly older than his squire as he made his way to the edge of the nearby stream and, pulling off helmet and coif, let himself fall face-first to bury his head in the cooling water.

  After a moment, he tugged loose the battle braid and shook out the sweat-soaked strands, letting the long black hair float in the current and then stream down his back just past his shoulders as he rolled over and sat up, obviously the better for wear. Alaric, having watered the horses and tethered them nearby, picked up his master’s helm and coif and laid them by the chosen campsite, then returned to the king.

  “Your mail will rust if you insist upon bathing in it, Sire,” he said, kneeling beside the king and reaching to unbuckle the heavy sword belt.

  Brion leaned back on both elbows to facilitate the disarming, shaking his head in bemused appreciation as Alaric began removing vambraces and gauntlets.

  “I don’t think I shall ever understand how I came to deserve you,” he said. He shifted a leg so that the boy could unbuckle greaves and spurs and dusty boots. “You must think me benighted, to ride off alone like this, without even an armed escort other than yourself, just to be away from my men.”

  “My liege is a man of war and a leader of men,” Alaric replied, smiling faintly, “but he is also a man unto himself, and must have time away from the pursuits of kings. The need for solitude is familiar to me.”

  “You do understand, don’t you?”

  Alaric shrugged. “Who better than a Deryni, Sire? Like Your Grace, we are also solitary men on most occasions—though our solitude is not always by choice.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” the king said thoughtfully. He fell silent as he allowed the boy to pull the lion surcoat off over his head, then got to his feet and let Alaric help him worm out of the leather hauberk with its lining of mail. Discarding padding and singlet as well, he made his way into the water and waded out to where he could submerge himself with a sigh. Alaric joined him after a while, gliding eel-like in the dappled shadows as the two of them swam.

  When the light began to fail, the boy was on the bank without a reminder and pulling on clean clothes, packing away the king’s armor, laying out fresh garb. Reluctantly Brion came to ground on the sandy river bottom and stood, slicking back the long black hair.

  By the time he had dressed, there was a small wood fire crackling cheerily in the shelter of several rocks, and a rabbit spitted above the flames, and mulled wine in sturdy leather traveling cups. Wrapped in their cloaks against the growing night chill, king and squire feasted on rabbit and ripe cheese and biscuits only a little gone to mold after days in their packs.

  “This is a welcome change from field rations,” Brion said, lifting a rabbit haunch in salute.

  Alaric smiled and returned the salute. “You’re very welcome, Sire. You know, we could have stayed in camp another day. I wouldn’t be surprised if Arban Howell’s men managed to kill a cow or sheep or two.”

  “No, I think that Arban Howell probably was eager to take possession of his new lands. I don’t envy him the task, but I think he will be an able caretaker in the north.” He paused to swallow, then drank deeply from his cup. “I suspect you’ve learned a lot from this venture,” he said then, with a sidelong glance at Alaric. “Had you ever seen a man hanged?”

  Alaric shook his head. “No, Sire. Nor seen the coup given, up close. At least not to a man.”

  Brion nodded thoughtfully. “The first for both, then. Sadly, being who you are, I doubt that will be the last. You bore up well, though. Many squires of your experience, and even older ones, have done far worse.”

  Alaric tossed the gnawed bones from his rabbit into the fire. “I was forced to watch a man burn, Sire. After that, neither a hanging nor the coup could be much worse—at least watching it done to someone else.” He quirked a sour grin at Brion. “Of course, if I were the object of either fate, I’m sure I should feel differently.”

  “True enough.” Brion also tossed the last of his rabbit into the fire and sucked grease from his fingers. “But as a duke, it eventually will fall to you to condemn others to death, and sometimes to kill them. And with the best will in the world, as a warrior you will sometimes be called upon to give the coup.” He picked up his cup and turned it thoughtfully in his hands. “Did you—use your powers to help that young man die?” he asked.

  “If you mean, did I kill him?—no.” Alaric shook his head, looking down into the flames. “But I felt his pain and fear, and I tried to ease that.” He glanced away. “It didn’t seem right, that I should use my powers to actually kill him. Besides, it was Sir Jiri he’d asked for the coup. It seems to me, that’s a sacred trust.”

  “Yes, it is.” Brion dashed the dregs of his wine into the fire and set the cup aside. “But we probably should try to get some sleep. We’ve another day of hard riding ahead of us tomorrow. We might even divert to Cynfyn for a day or two, if you fancy it.”

  “Would we dare to do that?” Alaric said, with a raised eyebrow. “They’d worry, back in Rhemuth, if you didn’t return as expected. Duke Richard will already have some choice words for you, that you’ve taken off like this.”

  “I am the king,” Brion replied with a droll sideways glance at him. “There have to be a few advantages to go along with all the responsibility.”

  “Right, then,” Alaric said, grinning. “Cynfyn it is. Did you want any more of this cheese?”

  “No, I’ve had enough,” the king said. “I need sleep more than food, just now. Will you take the first watch, or shall I?”

  “I’ll take it,” Alaric said, getting to his feet.

  By the time he had tidied away their supper things and seen to the horses, also finishing off the last of the cheese, it was fully dark, though the glow of a rising moon behind the mountains to the east promised a well-lit night. Brion had fallen asleep almost immediately, head pillowed on his saddle, so Alaric took out his ward cubes, activated them, and set them around the perimeter of their immediate campsite, breathing an extra prayer to the great archangels of the quarters before he, too, settled down to sleep.

  The moon was almost overhead when he was awakened by the tingle of the wards and the sound of hoofbeats approaching from the direction they had come. It was a lone horseman—that much Alaric could determine, even through the fog of sleep he was shaking off as he reached for his sword and scramble
d to his feet. He had slept in his boots. A few feet away, he sensed Brion likewise stirring.

  But it was not just any rider. As Alaric sought cover in the shadow of a nearby tree, sword sliding silently from its scabbard, he cast his senses beyond the wards, seeking out some clue as to who it might be, then straightened and let out a sigh as he resheathed his sword.

  “It’s Prince Nigel,” he said, coming back to the king and, with a thought and a gesture, releasing the wards.

  Brion, by now well used to relying on the boy’s extraordinary powers, groped for his boots and then drew on his cloak, at the same time peering toward the moonlit trail.

  “I wonder why he’s followed us,” he murmured. “It can’t be for any happy reason.”

  “A Haldane!” a familiar voice called out.

  “A Haldane, ho!” Brion shouted in response, stepping into the moonlight to show himself.

  The newcomer reined back his lathered horse and half fell from the saddle, handing the reins to Alaric as the pair, squire and king, came to greet him.

  “Brion! Thank God I’ve found you!” Nigel pulled off his helmet, then enfolded his brother in a quick embrace as Alaric secured the horse with the others. “I feared you might have taken another route.”

  The younger prince was in full battle harness, grimy and foam flecked from his breakneck ride, and his breath came in ragged gasps as he allowed Brion to lead him to a seat by the fire, which Alaric quickly coaxed back to life. Collapsing against Brion’s saddle, he gulped the wine that his brother offered and, without attempting to speak, pulled off one gauntlet with his teeth before reaching deep into the breast of his surcoat. He drew a deep breath as he withdrew a much-creased piece of parchment and gave it over to his brother.

  “This was delivered several hours after you and Alaric left us. It purports to be from Hogan Gwernach.”

  “Gwernach?” Brion’s face went very still as he began unfolding the parchment. They certainly had not anticipated trouble this season from Hogan Gwernach, also called the Marluk, for one of his Tolan titles. The Festillic pretender had caused problems for Brion’s father, and at Brion’s own coronation, but little had been heard of him since losing his only trueborn son, two years before. As Brion flattened the missive, turning it first to the address penned on the outside, he tilted it toward the firelight, squinting to make it out.