The King's Deryni

by Katherine Kurtz

  “Alaric, can you give me some better light?” he murmured, hardly noticing as Alaric raised a clenched right fist to his lips, then opened the fingers to cup a softly glowing sphere of greenish handfire, brighter than the fire, which he brought closer to the king. Prince Nigel almost stifled his gasp, but said nothing as his brother peered at the crabbed script.

  “Unto Brion Haldane Pretender of Gwynedd,” the king read, making a moue. “Well, he doesn’t mince words.” He turned the parchment over and let his eyes scan quickly down the page, then nodded and began to read aloud.

  “Unto Brion Haldane, Pretender of Gwynedd, from Hogan Gwernach Duke of Tolan, Festillic heir to the thrones and Crowns of the Eleven Kingdoms. Know that we, Hogan, have determined to exercise that prerogative of birth which is the right of our Festillic ancestors, to reclaim the thrones which are rightfully ours. We therefore give notice to you, Brion Haldane, that your stewardship and usurpation of Gwynedd is at an end, your lands and Crown forfeit to the House of Festil. We charge and require you to present yourself and all members of your Haldane line before our royal presence at Cardosa, no later than the Feast of Saint Asaph, there to surrender your person and the symbols of our sovereignty into our royal hands. Sic dicto, Hoganus Rex Regnorum Undecim.”

  “King of the Eleven Kingdoms?” Alaric mostly contained a snort, then remembered who and where he was. “Pardon, Sire, but he must be joking.”

  Nigel shook his head. “I might agree with you, except that this was delivered by Rhydon Sasillion under a flag of truce.”

  “That treasonous dog!” Brion muttered.

  “Aye, the very one.” Nigel nodded. “He said to tell you that if you wished to contest this,” he flicked a nail against the edge of the parchment in his brother’s hand, “the Marluk would meet you in combat tomorrow near the Rustan Cliffs. If you do not appear, he says they will sack and burn the town of Rustan, putting every man, woman, and child to the sword. If we leave quickly, we can just make it.”

  “Our strength?” Brion asked.

  “Just our sixty lancers, that we can be sure of. I sent fifty of them ahead to rendezvous with us at Rustan, and my own escort are probably an hour or so behind me; I did some hard riding. Earl Arban is also reassembling some of his troops, but I can’t tell you how many. Most of his men had already headed for home. Duke Ewan had also already headed north, but I sent a rider anyway.”

  “Thank you. You’ve done well.”

  With a distracted nod, Brion laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder and got slowly to his feet, gathering his cloak more closely around him against the chill. As he stood gazing sightlessly into the fire, head bowed in thought, the firelight gleamed on the great ruby in his right ear and on a wide bracelet of silver just visible on his right wrist. Alaric, with a glance at Prince Nigel, retrieved the king’s lion brooch and rose to fasten it at Brion’s throat as the king spoke.

  “Nigel, you must understand that the Marluk does not mean to fight a physical battle with me,” he said in a low voice. “Oh, there may be battle among our various troops in the beginning. But all of that is only prelude. Armed combat is not what Hogan Gwernach desires of me.”

  “Aye. He is Deryni,” Nigel breathed. He watched Brion’s slow nod in the firelight.

  “But—it’s been two generations since a Haldane king has had to stand against Deryni magic,” Nigel went on, after a long pause. “Can you do it?”

  “I—don’t know.” Brion, his cloak hugged close about him, sank down beside his brother once again, his manner grave and thoughtful. “I’m sorry if I seem preoccupied, but I keep having this vague recollection that there is something I’m supposed to do now. I seem to remember that Father made some provision, some preparation against this possibility, but—”

  He ran a hand through tangled sable hair, the firelight winking again on the silver at his wrist, and Alaric froze, head cocked in a strained listening attitude, eyes slightly glazed. As Nigel noticed and nudged his brother lightly in the ribs, jutting his chin in Alaric’s direction, the young squire sank slowly to his knees. Both pairs of royal eyes stared at him fixedly.

  “Sire,” Alaric finally whispered, “there is that which must be done, which was ordained many years ago, when I was but a babe and you were not yet king.”

  “By my father?”

  “Aye. The key is—the bracelet you wear upon your arm.” Brion’s eyes darted instinctively to the silver. “May I see it, Sire?”

  Without a word, Brion removed the bracelet and laid it in the boy’s outstretched hand. The bracelet was of silver, once polished to a mirror sheen, but years of constant wear had given it a fine patina of tiny scratches and even a few gouges, slightly dulling its original luster. Even so, Alaric could sense the potency symbolized by the heraldic rose incised at the bracelet’s center, and what lay sub rosa, under the rose. Steeling himself against the rush of memories he knew lay waiting to be unleashed, he laid his right hand over the rose and let himself remember.

  He had been just four when he first saw the bracelet. Now, a decade later, he knew that what had happened that night had been precisely in aid of the moment now before him. Both his parents had been there, his mother heavily pregnant with his sister Bronwyn, but it was the king who directed what was to come.

  His father had carried him from his bed and placed him on his feet before the old king, who sat before the fire in a heavy wooden chair. It was the king who had worn the bracelet that night, who had taken Alaric onto his royal lap and removed the bracelet, held it before him and turned it to the inside, where three runes shone in the firelight. As Alaric turned it now in different firelight, the runes took on a new meaning.

  “This is a time which your royal father anticipated, Sire,” he said softly, turning the bracelet in his hands so that it flashed firelight into the king’s eyes. “There are things which I must do, and you, and somehow he knew that I would be at your side when this time arrived.”

  “Yes, I can see that now,” Brion murmured, his eyes never leaving Alaric’s. “‘There will be a half-Deryni child called Morgan, who will come to you in his youth,’ my father said. ‘Him you may trust with your life and with all. He is the key, who unlocks many doors.’ He knew. Even then, your presence was by his design.”

  “And was the Marluk also his design?” Nigel whispered, his tone conveying resentment at the implied manipulation, though it hardly mattered now.

  “Ancient mine enemy,” Brion murmured. “No, he did not cause the Marluk to be, Nigel. But he knew I might have to face him one day, and he planned for that. It is said that the sister of the last Festillic king was with child by her brother when she was forced to flee Gwynedd. The child’s name was—I forget, not that it matters. Marek, I think. But his line grew strong in Tolan, and they were never forced to put aside their Deryni powers. The Marluk is said to be that child’s descendant.”

  “And full Deryni, if what they say is true,” Nigel replied, his face going sullen. “Brion, we aren’t equipped to handle a confrontation with the Marluk. He’s going to be waiting for us tomorrow with an army and his full-Deryni powers. And us? With luck, we’ll have the sixty men of our lancer escort, maybe we’ll have some of Arban Howell’s men, if he can recall them in time, and you’ll have—what?—to stand against a full-Deryni lord who has always wanted your throne!”

  Brion wet his lips, avoiding his brother’s eyes. “Alaric says that Father made provisions. We have no choice but to trust and see. Regardless of the outcome, we must try to save Rustan town tomorrow. Alaric, can you help us?”

  “I shall try, my lord,” Alaric said.

  Disturbed by the near clash between the two brothers, and sobered by the responsibility Brion had laid upon him, Alaric upturned the runes on the underside of the bracelet and set his right forefinger beneath the first one, grubby fingernail underscoring the deeply carved sign. He could feel the Haldane eyes upon him a
s he whispered the word, “One.”

  The word paralyzed him, striking him deaf and blind to all externals, oblivious to everything except the images flashing through his mind: the face of the old king seen through the eyes of a four-year-old boy—and the instructions, meaningless to the four-year-old, now engraving themselves in the consciousness of the young man he had become, as deeply as the runes inscribed on the silver in his hand.

  A dozen heartbeats, a blink, and he was back in the firelight again, turning his grey gaze on the waiting king. The royal brothers stared at him with something approaching awe, their faces washed clean of whatever doubts had remained until that moment. The moonlight on Alaric’s golden hair gave the illusion of a halo. Or was it an illusion?

  “We must find a level area facing east,” the boy said. His brow furrowed in concentration. “There must be a large stone in the center, living water at our backs, and—and we must arm ourselves, for there may be little time after we have finished.”

  Chapter 45

  “For when men will not believe that thou art of a full power, thou shewest thy strength . . .”

  —WISDOM OF SOLOMON 12:17

  IT was nearing first light before they were ready. A suitable location had been found in another bend of the stream not far above their camp, with water tumbling briskly along the northern as well as the western perimeter. To the east stretched an unobscured view of the mountains from behind which the sun would shortly rise. They had used the horses to drag a large, stream-smoothed chunk of granite into the center of the clearing, half the height of a man, and had set four flattened lesser stones a few paces out from it to mark the four cardinal compass points.

  On these stones Alaric had set the bonded pairs of his ward cubes, previously serving as sentinels while they slept, now readied for a slightly different purpose. Neither prince had even seen ward cubes before, and certainly not the ritual by which Alaric prepared them; but they watched in awed silence, trusting that what he did was needful.

  A final time Alaric walked the perimeter of their working area to make certain everything was correct. The brothers watched from close beside the center stone, seated on the ground, both of them now armed. Brion’s sheathed sword lay close beside him. With Nigel’s help, he had re-braided his hair and bound it in a warrior’s knot, and again wore the garnet-studded leather circlet of a king.

  In the scant shelter of the cloak clasped close around him, the king sat now with bowed head. A knot of blazing pine thrust into the ground at his right provided additional illumination in the moonlight, but he saw nothing, submerged in contemplation of what lay ahead. Alaric, with a glance at the brightening sky, scooped fresh water into one of the leather cups and set it close beside the center stone on the western side, then sank to one knee beside the king.

  “The dawn is nearly upon us, Sire,” he said quietly. “I require the use of your sword.”

  “Of course.”

  Picking up the sheathed weapon, Brion leaned on it to scramble to his feet, aided by his brother. It had been their father’s sword, and their grandfather’s. It was also the sword with which he had been consecrated king nearly ten years before, and the sword with which he had been knighted. Since that day, no man had drawn it save himself, or by his command.

  But without further hesitation, Brion unsheathed the blade, handing off the scabbard to Nigel and formally extending the sword to Alaric across his left forearm, hilt first. Alaric made a profound bow as he took the weapon, appreciating the trust the act implied, then saluted both royal brothers and moved to the other side of the center stone. Behind him, the eastern sky was ablaze with pink and coral.

  “When the rim of the sun appears above the horizon, I must ward us with fire, my Liege,” he said. “Please do not be surprised or alarmed at anything you may see or feel.”

  “Very well.”

  As the two princes drew themselves to respectful attention, Alaric turned on his heel and strode to the flat stone at the eastern limit of their working place. Raising the sword before him with both hands, he held the cross-hilt level with his eyes and gazed expectantly toward the eastern horizon. Very shortly, as though the sun’s movement had not been a gradual and natural thing, dawn was spilling from behind the mountains.

  The first gleam of sunlight on steel turned the sword to fire. Alaric let his gaze travel slowly up the blade, to the flame now blazing at its tip and shimmering down its length, then extended the weapon in salute and brought it slowly to ground before him. Fire flared where blade touched sun-parched turf—a fire that burned but did not consume. A ribbon of flame unfurled as he turned to the right and walked the boundaries defined by the wards, tracing the outline of a containing circle.

  When he had finished, he was back where he began, with all three of them standing now within a faintly shimmering circle of golden light. With hands that shook only a little, Alaric saluted sunward once again, then jammed the sword into the turf at his feet, so that it stood sentinel to their work. Then he extended both arms and closed his eyes, visualizing the pairs of bonded ward cubes at the quarters of the circle, and calling out their names in completion of the warding spell.

  “Primus, Secondus, Tertius, et Quartus, fiat lux!”

  The words flared the cubes to life, igniting the containing circle so that, with a faint rushing sound, it extended upward in a golden dome as he opened his eyes to look around him. He contained a smile of satisfaction as he turned and made his way back to the center of the circle, where the two princes waited.

  “I’ll need that bracelet again,” he said softly, holding out his hand to Brion.

  Wordlessly the king handed it over, watching as Alaric laid his finger under the second rune.

  “Two!”

  In a moment of pregnant silence, no one moved or even breathed. Then Alaric blinked, back in normal consciousness, and handed the bracelet back to the king, who absently clasped it back to his arm.

  “This next part is less familiar to me,” Alaric admitted. He moved around to the west side of the center stone to hold his cupped hands above it, gazing fixedly at the space above them as he called up power.

  Nothing immediately happened that could be seen, though he could feel energy building between his hands. King and prince and squire stared until their eyes watered, then blinked in astonishment as the space between Alaric’s hands began to glow. Pulsating with the heartbeat of the one who called it, the glow coalesced in a sphere of cool, verdant light, very different from the handfire he had conjured earlier, swelling to head size even as they watched.

  Slowly, almost reverently, Alaric lowered his hands toward the center stone and parted them to let the light flow onto the stone, watching as the light spread bright across the uneven surface. He hardly dared to breathe, so tenuous was the balance he maintained.

  Carefully drawing back the sleeve of leather tunic and mail, he swept the edge of his right hand and forearm across the top of the stone like an adze, shearing away the granite as though it were softest sand. Another pass to level the surface even more, and then he was using both his hands to press out a gentle hollow in the center, the stone melting beneath his touch like morning frost before the sun.

  Then the fire died away, and Alaric Morgan was no longer the master mage, tapping the energies of the earth’s deepest forge, but only a boy of not-quite fourteen, staggering to his knees in exhaustion at the feet of his king and staring in wonder at his hands and what they had wrought. Already, he could not remember precisely how he had done it.

  Silence, finally broken by Brion’s cautious intake of breath as he tore his gaze from the sheared-off stone. Beside him a taut, frightened Nigel was staring at him and Alaric, white-knuckled hands gripping the royal sword’s scabbard as though it were his last remaining hold on reality. With a nervous smile of reassurance, Brion laid a hand on his brother’s, then returned his gaze to the young man still kneeling at his
feet.

  “Are you all right?”

  The king’s words jarred Alaric, but he managed a vague nod as he drew a deep breath in and out, briefly closing his eyes as he murmured a quick spell to banish fatigue. It still took a profound exertion of will to get shakily to his feet, aided by the king’s hand under his elbow, but he definitely felt stronger as he lifted his gaze to the king’s.

  “I am well, my lord,” he murmured, and held out his hand. “I’ll have that bracelet again, if you please.”

  A little skittishly the king removed the bracelet once again and laid it in his hand. Focusing again, Alaric bent the bracelet open, as flat as he could, and laid it in the hollow he had made in the stone. The three runes, the last yet unrevealed, shone in the strengthening daylight as he stretched forth his right hand above the silver.

  “I form the light and create darkness,” the boy said steadily. “I make peace and create evil: I the Lord do all these things.”

  He did not physically move his hand, though muscles and tendons tensed beneath the tanned skin as he flattened his palm and pressed downward. He did not touch the silver physically, but it nonetheless began to curve away, to conform to the hollow of the stone as though another, invisible hand were pressing down between his hand and the metal.

  The bracelet collapsed on itself and grew molten then, though it gave off no heat. When Alaric pulled back his hand a few seconds later, the silver had bonded to the hollow like a shallow silver bowl, all marking obliterated save the third and final rune. After drawing a deep, steadying breath, he laid his forefinger under the sign and spoke its name.