“Oh, certainly. But we can’t get anywhere else from there. We’ll have to go into the regular corridors and risk being spotted. Come on, now. We’ve got a bit of a maze ahead of us, and then some steps. Be quiet, as our voices may carry.”
After a few yards, Morgan led them up a long, extremely narrow stairway, no wider than a man’s shoulders. The stairway spiraled gently to the right, a steep, stony passageway that seemed to go on forever. But finally Morgan came to a halt and motioned them to silence.
Hushing the hand-fire to a low, eerie glow, he stepped ahead of them for perhaps six steps, just far enough so they could not see precisely what he did in the stairway ahead of him. The remaining three caught traces of a low-muttered phrase that they could not quite understand. Ghostly lights played on the passage walls, shielded behind Morgan’s body.
But then the lights died and Morgan was turning to beckon them after him. A door swung open ahead, giving direct access to the tower room: Morgan’s private sanctuary, where no man might enter without his express consent.
The room was ghostly silent as they entered, lit only by the starlight and waning moonlight that filtered faintly through the skylight and the seven green glass windows piercing the tower walls. As Morgan padded across the tapestry carpet, bare feet making no sound, he gestured absently with one hand, blanking the windows and bringing the fire to life on the hearth.
As the others paused, blinking in the sudden firelight, Morgan scooped up a brand from the fire and lit candles on a free-standing candelabrum and on a small circular table near the fireplace. The flickering light winked and gathered in a fist-sized amber sphere in the center of the table, a polished orb supported by a golden gryphon. Cardiel caught his breath in wonder as he spied the sphere, starting toward it in fascination until Duncan’s low-voiced call brought his attention away.
Then he and the others were rummaging in coffers and chests, stripping off wet garments and exchanging them for dry. When they had finished, only Morgan and Duncan looked as though they were properly dressed. Kelson had managed to find a short tunic of Morgan’s that made a passable one of knee-length on him, and a dark cloak that trailed the ground only a little. Morgan completed the ensemble by handing him a plain circlet of hammered silver.
Bishop Cardiel had contrived to put together an outfit all of black, though there the resemblance to clerical attire ended. The tunic was tight in the waist, and the boots were a bit narrow for his feet, but a long black cloak covered a multitude of sartorial anomalies. He dried his wooden crucifix as best he could, then buffed his bishop’s ring against his dry tunic and touched it to his lips for reassurance. Around him, Morgan and Duncan were buckling on swords and daggers from the store of weapons kept in the chamber.
Finally, Morgan cautioned for silence and beckoned them toward the main door: a wide, deep-carved thing of dark-stained oak signed with a great green gryphon. He put his eye to the gryphon’s eye and peered through to the other side, then held a finger to his lips for silence and eased the door open. There was another door beyond that, and he listened at that second door for a long while before returning and closing the first one securely behind him.
“There’s a guard out there, just as I feared,” he whispered. “Duncan, will you come and listen with me? If he’s receptive enough, we may be able to control him through the door. Otherwise…”
“It’s worth a try,” Duncan said with a nod, before Cardiel could think too much about what had just been said. So saying, he joined Morgan close before the door.
The two stood with heads and hands against the second door for a long time, eyes closed, their breathing light and controlled. But finally Morgan shook his head and opened his eyes, drawing a thin-bladed stiletto and testing its point against the end of his thumb. His lips mouthed Ready? to Duncan, and the priest nodded grim assent as his hand moved to the lock on the door.
As Kelson and Cardiel moved closer, drawn by morbid fascination, Morgan sank to one knee and ran the fingers of his left hand along the door until he found a narrow crack. The blade of the knife was put to the crack, poised for just an instant, then thrust through in a clean, sure stroke.
The blade glinted darker when it was withdrawn, accompanied by a faint moan and a sliding sound from the other side of the door. With a shake of his head, Duncan set his shoulder against the door and pushed it open against some resistance. Slumped outside lay the limp body of a rebel guard, blood welling slowly from a red-stained spot on his lower back. Morgan felt at the man’s throat, then grasped him under the arms and began pulling him into the chamber. Cardiel’s face clouded as the body was deposited on a portion of floor uncovered by carpet, and he signed the air above the man’s head with a cross before stepping across to join the others.
“I’m sorry, but it was necessary, Bishop,” Morgan murmured, closing the door behind them and motioning them to follow. Cardiel said nothing, but merely nodded and did as he was told.
Five minutes of stealthy meandering took them to a series of ornately carved panels at the end of a hallway. A torch burned in a brass cresset beside the panels, and Morgan snatched it up in one gloved hand as the fingers of the other moved across the panels in a quick, agile pattern.
The center panel slid aside, receding far enough for them to pass through, one at a time. Morgan motioned them through, then followed and closed the panel behind them. He led them several dozen yards before pausing to turn toward them once again.
“Now, listen, and listen carefully, because I probably won’t have time to repeat this. The place where we are now is the beginning of a series of secret passages that honeycomb the walls of this castle. The branch we’re going to take leads to my personal living quarters, where I’d be willing to wager that either Warin or the archbishops have taken up residence. Now, stay silent until I say otherwise. Agreed?”
There was no dissent. Silent as the grave, the four began moving once more, coming at length to a portion of the passage that was heavily carpeted and hung with thick draperies along the walls. Morgan handed the torch to Duncan and moved to the left-hand wall, where he drew aside a fold of the drape and peered through a peephole. Carefully he scanned the room beyond, taking in all the familiar accoutrements of the chamber that had been his own until a few short months ago, then drew back with a look of grim determination. As he had suspected, Warin de Grey now occupied the chamber and seemed to be in conference with some of his men.
With a curt gesture, Morgan pointed out several other peepholes, then motioned for Duncan to douse the light. They would try to learn what the rebel leader was saying to his men before barging in unannounced.
“Well, we don’t really know what he can do, now do we?” one of the men with Warin was saying plaintively. “I know we have a holy mission, and I’m prepared to die for our cause, if need be, but what if the duke conjures magic against us? We dinnae have any defense against that, save our faith.”
“Is that not enough?” Warin replied, sitting back in the chair beside the fireplace and lacing his fingers together.
“Well, yes, but—”
“Trust the right of our mission, Marcus,” a second man said. “Did God not protect us when Lord Warin had the Deryni cornered at Saint Torin’s? His magic was of no avail that day.”
Warin shook his head and stared into the flames. “A poor analogy, Paul. Morgan was drugged when we captured him at Saint Torin’s. I even believe he told the truth that day—that he could not have used his magic while he was under the influence of the mind-twisting Deryni drug. Otherwise, his cousin would not have revealed himself. Duncan McLain had kept his secret far too long to reveal himself for any other than dire reasons.”
“Then, we dinnae know what the duke might do,” Marcus interjected. “Mayhap he could bring this whole castle tumbling down around us, if he chose. He could—”
“No, he is a rational man, for all that he is Deryni. He would not destroy his own house unless there were no other way. He—”
The
re was a staccato knock at the door, followed by a repeat of the knock before anyone could react. Warin broke off what he had been about to say and glanced at his two lieutenants.
“Come,” he called.
The knocking was repeated, more insistently this time, even as Paul strode quickly to the door.
“I doubt they can hear you, Lord. This room is well soundproofed. I’ll let them in.”
As Paul reached the door, the knock was repeated, even more urgently, if that were possible, and as he drew back the latch, a sergeant in the garb of Warin’s militia almost fell into the room.
“Lord, Lord, you must help us!” he sobbed, dashing across the room to throw himself at Warin’s feet. “Some of my men were stacking stones near the north rampart, when the entire pile collapsed.”
Warin sat upright in his chair, staring at the man intently.
“Was anyone hurt?”
“Yes, Lord: Owen Mathisson. Everyone else managed to get out of the way in time, but Owen—his legs were caught under the slide, Lord. His legs are crushed!”
Warin stood as four more men shuffled in through the still-open door carrying the limp form of the unfortunate Owen. As they entered, the sergeant grasped the hem of Warin’s robe and touched it to his lips, crumpled it against his chest as he whispered, “Help him, Lord. If you will it, he can be saved.”
The four men paused uncertainly in the center of the room, and Warin nodded slowly, motioning them to lay the injured man on the state bed at the other side of the room. The men quickly left their limp burden where they were told, then withdrew at Warin’s signal. As Warin moved closer to the bed, he motioned Marcus to close the door behind the departing soldiers, gazing down at the man with compassion.
Owen Mathisson had been a strong man, but that had not saved him when the rocks began sliding down on him. From the waist up he was still intact, no mark upon him to show that he had suffered any injury. But his legs inside his leather leggings were twisted and contorted into angles never meant for human appendages. He groaned as he became aware of his surroundings again, and Warin motioned for Paul to bring the candles closer, laying his hand on Owen’s forehead as the man’s gnarled face grimaced in pain.
“Can you hear me, Owen?”
Owen’s gaze wandered slightly, then focused on Warin’s face. A whisper of recognition flitted past, just before he closed his eyes again.
“Forgive me, Lord. I should have been more careful.”
Warin glanced over the man’s battered form, then returned his attention to the man’s face.
“Are you in great pain, Owen?”
Owen swallowed hard and nodded, jaws set tight against the pain, then opened his eyes to stare at Warin again. There was no need for verbal confirmation of what Warin saw in those pleading eyes.
Warin straightened and glanced down at the man’s legs again, then reached his hand toward Paul.
“Your dagger.”
As Paul handed over the weapon, Owen’s eyes widened and he looked as though he might try to rise, but Warin pushed him gently back on the bed.
“Peace, my friend. This is not the coup. I fear it will cost you your breeches, but I pray not your life. Bear with me.”
As the man lay back, stunned, Warin caught the blade of the dagger under the bottom of one scuffed and bloodstained leather legging and began to cut, extending the gap all the way to the man’s waist. At his first touch, Owen cried out in pain as the shattered limb was moved; then he mercifully passed out. The second legging was opened in the same manner to reveal the twisted, bloody limbs.
Warin dropped the knife on the bed beside Owen and silently gazed down at the injuries for a moment, then motioned for Marcus and Paul to help him straighten out first one leg, then the other. When it was done, he paused for just an instant, hands clasped together, then addressed the three men watching.
“He is very badly injured,” he said in a low voice. “If he is not helped soon, he will die.” There was a long silence in which the only sounds were their breathing, before Warin continued.
“I have never attempted to heal so great a hurt before.” He paused. “Will you pray with me, my friends? Even if it is God’s will that this man be made whole again, I shall need your support.”
As one man, Paul, Marcus, and the sergeant dropped to their knees to watch in awe, hands clasped fervently at their breasts. Warin continued to stare at his patient for a moment, almost as though there were no one else in the room, then looked up and spread his arms to either side.
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen. Oremus.”
As Warin began to pray, shifting to the common tongue, his eyes closed and a faint aura began to take form around his head. His words were murmured, hushed, in the stillness of the chamber, so that the watchers behind the panels could not hear all that he said. But they could not mistake the aura surrounding the rebel leader as he prayed, or ignore his calm assurance as he stretched forth his hands over the injured man’s legs and touched them.
In silence they watched as Warin’s hands passed along the surface of the man’s legs, watched as the jagged breaks, discernible even from across the room, grew smooth under his touch.
Then the rebel leader was murmuring an end to his prayers, lifting the man’s legs—first one and then the other. The legs were whole again, straight, as though they had never felt the ruin of the crushing stones.
“Per Ipsum, et cum Ipsum, et in Ipso, est tibi Deo Patri omnipotenti in unitate Spiritus Sancti, omnis honor et gloria. Per omnia saecula saeculorum, Amen.”
As Warin’s words whispered into silence, Owen’s eyes flicked open and he carefully sat up. He stared in amazement at his legs, running his hands up and down them in anxious reassurance as the others rose from their knees. Warin watched him for a moment in silence, then crossed himself piously and murmured, “Deo gratias.” The miracle was complete.
Behind the panels, Morgan prepared to make his move. Motioning Duncan and Kelson to draw near, he whispered a few words, then straightened and glanced through the spy hole again. As he did so, Duncan drew his sword and slipped away in the darkness to the left. Morgan let the wall-hanging fall and motioned Cardiel to come to him.
“We’ll go in now, Excellency. Follow my lead as much as possible. They have unwittingly set the stage for a very effective entrance, and I want to preserve the mood for as long as possible. Agreed?”
Cardiel nodded solemnly.
“Kelson?”
“Ready.”
As Warin and his lieutenants murmured over the restored Owen, helping him to his feet, some slight sound must have come from the direction of the fireplace. Only Paul was facing in that direction, and as his glance shifted toward the sound, he froze and gasped unbelievingly, his eyes wide with horror.
“My lord!”
At his exclamation, Warin and the others turned to see a shadowed doorway opening in the wall to the left of the fireplace, only faintly visible by the light of the low fire burning on the hearth. Blank disbelief froze them all in their places as Kelson emerged from the opening, his young face unmistakable in the red firelight. A collective gasp of anguish accompanied the appearance of Morgan, right behind the king; they did not recognize the third figure, whose steel-gray hair caught the firelight as the opening closed behind him.
All at once, Warin was glancing around wildly, his men scrambling toward the door only to pull up short at the sight of Duncan standing against the green-glowing doorway, a naked sword held across his body in a non-threatening but vigilant pose.
Warin froze and stared at Duncan wild-eyed for an instant, remembering his last encounter with this proud young Deryni who now stood so confidently before him, then closed his eyes and tried with a visible effort to compose himself. Only then did he turn to face his nemesis and his king.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Curse not the king, no not even in thy thought.”
ECCLESIASTES 10:20
“TELL your men to surren
der, Warin,” Kelson said. “I am assuming command here.”
“I cannot permit that, Sire.” Warin’s brown eyes met the king’s without a flicker of fear. “Paul, summon the guards.”
“Paul, stay away from the door,” the king said before the man could move to obey.
The rebel lieutenant froze at the sound of his name on the royal lips, then glanced beseechingly at Warin. Behind Duncan, the door still glowed with a faint, greenish light, and the priest minutely shifted his grip on his bared sword in a gesture calculated to instill hesitation.
Warin glanced at the door, the look of indecision and fear on Paul’s face, the unreadable eyes of Morgan standing close by the king. Then, with a sigh, he dropped his gaze to the floor at his feet, his shoulders drooping dejectedly.
“We are undone, my friends,” he said in a weary voice. “Put aside your weapons and stand away. We cannot resist Deryni sorcery with mere steel.”
“But, my lord,” one of the men started to protest.
“Enough, James.” Warin lifted his gaze to Kelson’s once more. “All know the fate of men who defy their king and fail. At least you and I and the others will die in the certain knowledge that we fought on the side of God. And you, O King, will pay a high price for our lives in the Hereafter.”
There was a scarcely concealed murmur of consternation from the four men grouped behind him, but then they began slowly unbuckling sword belts and baldrics. The dull thud of sheathed steel on carpet was the only sound in the firelight as the men put down their weapons and bunched closer behind their leader. Even so, their manner was defiant.
Kelson noted this and many other things as he signed for Duncan to collect the weapons. And while the new captives were at least partially diverted by Duncan’s movement, he caught Morgan’s subtle nod toward the low armchair by the fireplace.
With a slight inclination of his head, Kelson moved toward the chair, waiting while Morgan turned it to face Warin and his men, then sitting and adjusting the folds of his borrowed cloak. When Kelson had seated himself, Morgan retired to a position just behind and to the right of the king’s chair. Cardiel remained in the shadows to the left of the fireplace. The tableau immediately took on the aspect of a king holding court, even in the very informal setting of a castle bedchamber, and in borrowed clothes. Nor was the effect lost on Warin’s men, who watched apprehensively to learn what this bold young king would do.
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