High Deryni

by Katherine Kurtz

  “No! That isn’t possible,” Warin managed to murmur, looking dismayed. “I couldn’t be!” His voice became more plaintive. “Why, I have hated Deryni all my life. And I know that there are no Deryni in my ancestry. It cannot be!”

  “Perhaps not,” Kelson said, joining Morgan to gaze carefully at Warin. “But many go through all their lives without ever knowing, unless something happens to change all of that. You have, perhaps, heard how my mother discovered her Deryni heritage—and no one ever would have suspected Jehana of Gwynedd of being Deryni. She was as adamant on that point as you are, Warin—perhaps more so, in many respects.”

  Warin’s hands were trembling as he wrung them in his agitation, and he looked up beseechingly.

  “But, how—how does one find out for certain?” he ventured meekly. “How does one know?”

  Morgan spared him a sympathetic smile. “The queen found out by using powers she did not know she possessed, when there was no other choice. On the other hand, there are people who have powers we cannot explain through Deryni blood. You might be one of those. The only way to know for certain is to Mind-See. I can do that for you, if you like.”

  “Mind-See?”

  “You place yourself in a relaxed and receptive state and allow me to enter your mind with mine. I cannot explain how I know, once I am linked with you—but I do know. You will have to accept that I have this ability. Will you permit me to do that?”

  “To—to enter my mind? I—” He glanced plaintively at Cardiel, unconsciously falling back upon Cardiel’s authority as a bishop. “Is—is this permitted, Excellency? I—I know not how to judge this situation. Guide me, I beseech you!”

  “I trust Morgan,” Cardiel said carefully. “I have no idea how he does what he does, but I accept the fact that it happens. And although I have not felt the touch of his mind, I am confident of his good intentions.”

  “Then—you counsel me to accept his offer?” Warin whispered.

  “I do,” Cardiel said gently. “Warin, you must see the error of what has gone before and join us. We must have unity in Gwynedd to stand against Wencit of Torenth. Surely, you see that.”

  “Yes. Yes, I do. But, to permit Morgan…” His voice trailed off, resistance still evident as he hazarded another glance at the Deryni general, and Morgan nodded coolly.

  “Believe me, I share your reluctance in this matter. My regard for you is likewise tainted by what has gone before. But there is none other who can do what must be done in this instance. The king, talented though he is, has not the necessary experience. And I fear that you have weakened my cousin to the point that I could not permit him to undertake it. What must be done requires an investment of energy, which, frankly, he cannot spare at this time. So it appears that you are left with only one choice—if you wish to learn the truth, that is.”

  Warin lowered his eyes, studying his feet for a long moment, then turned slowly to confront his men.

  “Tell me truthfully,” he said, his voice scarcely more than a whisper. “Do you believe me to be a Deryni, Paul? Owen?”

  Paul glanced uneasily at the others, then shuffled a few steps forward. “I believe I speak for all of us, Lord, and what it comes to is that we don’t know what to think.”

  “But what should I do?” Warin whispered, almost to himself.

  Paul glanced at the others and then spoke again. “Find out for certain, Lord. Perhaps we have been mistaken about the Deryni. Certainly, if you yourself are one of them, then not all can be evil. We would ride with you to Hell and back—you know that, Lord. But find out!”

  Warin’s shoulders slumped in an attitude of defeat, but then he slowly turned back toward Morgan, not meeting his eyes.

  “It appears that I must submit to you,” he said. “My followers must know where I stand, and I confess that I, too, must know. I—what must I do?”

  Morgan handed Duncan’s shirt back to him, then began turning the chair to face the fire. “It is hardly a matter of submission,” he said, motioning the others to stand back out of the line of vision of the chair. “What you will experience is a—a sharing of awareness, both of us working together. If at any time you become afraid, and do not wish to go on, you may break the bond. I promise you, I shall not force you against your will. Sit here, please.”

  Swallowing with difficulty, Warin looked at the chair now facing the fire, then forced himself to sit gingerly on the edge of the seat. Morgan moved behind the chair and reached his hands to Warin’s shoulders, urging him back to sit in the chair properly. The hands remained resting lightly on the rebel leader’s shoulders as Morgan began to speak. The others stayed behind the chair as well, so that they could see only Morgan and the back of Warin’s head and shoulders. Morgan’s voice was low and soothing in the firelit darkness.

  “Take a deep breath and let it all the way out. Sit back and focus on the fire on the hearth. There is little true magic involved in what we do here…perhaps just a trace of that power I used earlier to heal. Relax and watch the flames. Concentrate on the sound of my voice and the touch of my hands. You’ll not be harmed, I promise you. Relax and drift with me. Let the soft flicker of the flames be the only movement in your universe. Relax and drift with me…”

  As Morgan’s voice droned on, rising and falling with the flames, he became aware that Warin was, indeed, beginning to drift beneath his hands. He relaxed his hands slightly and Warin did not flinch at the movement—a good sign. Slowly, as Warin came more and more under the spell of the murmuring voice, Morgan began to extend his senses, glancing down at his gryphon signet and triggering the first stage of Deryni mind-linking. Warin had slipped into a light trance by this time, his breathing slow and deepening by the minute, eyelids quivering on the verge of closing altogether.

  After a few more seconds the eyelids did close, and Morgan gently eased his hands to either side of Warin’s head, masking the movement with a touch of firmer control. Warin did not stir at this new, more intimate probe of mind, and with a slight sigh of relief, Morgan permitted himself to go deeper. Tipping Warin’s head back against his chest, he gazed down at the closed eyes through hooded lids, then bowed his head and also closed his eyes—and entered Warin’s mind.

  It was perhaps a hundred heartbeats before he stirred, and then it was only to lift his head slightly and look toward Kelson and Duncan, his eyes deeply hooded.

  “He has a very well-ordered mind, underneath all the anti-Deryni conditioning,” Morgan whispered, “but I am almost certain he is not Deryni. Will you confirm?”

  Wordlessly, Kelson and Duncan moved to either side of Morgan and reached out to place their hands on Warin’s brow. After a few seconds, they withdrew.

  “He was right. I don’t think he is Deryni,” Duncan whispered.

  “And yet, we have all seen him heal,” Kelson murmured in wonder. “He also seems to have a slight persuasion in the area of Truth-Say. Of all the Deryni talents, those two are probably the most useful to a man like him, who believed he had a divine mission to fulfill. You don’t suppose he really is a holy man, albeit a misguided one?”

  The answering lift of Morgan’s eyebrow dismissed the last notion, but he could not disagree with the rest of Kelson’s assessment.

  “We’ll work with what we know. I’m going to show him a little of the true background of the Deryni to help counteract what he’s been taught before, then bring him out of it.”

  He closed his eyes briefly and did what needed to be done, then looked up again, slipping his hands back to Warin’s shoulders to give a reassuring squeeze. Warin, as his head was released, opened his eyes, too, turning his head to look up at Morgan in wonder.

  “I’m—I’m not Deryni,” he breathed, a look of awe on his face. “And yet, I feel almost disappointed. I had no idea…”

  “But you understand now, don’t you?” Morgan said with a weary sigh.

  “I just don’t see how I could have been so wrong about the Deryni. And my calling—was it ever really there?”


  “Your powers are certainly there, and they come from somewhere not Deryni,” Duncan said in a low voice. “Perhaps you were called, but misread the tasks set out for you to do.”

  Warin looked up at Duncan as the words sank in, then realized that Kelson was standing beside him, the gray eyes studying him gravely. Abruptly he remembered that he should not be sitting in the presence of the king, and he scrambled to his feet in dismay.

  “Sire, forgive me. The things I said to you earlier, the things I’ve done against you in the months gone by—how can I ever make amends?”

  “Be my liege man,” Kelson said simply. “Help us to convince the archbishops of what you have just learned, that we all may stand together against Wencit. If you will do this, and your followers also, I will forgive what has gone before. I need your help, Warin.”

  “And I will freely give it, Sire,” Warin said, dropping to one knee and bowing his head in homage. Warin’s men, awed by what they had seen, likewise went to their knees.

  Kelson touched Warin’s shoulder in acknowledgement and offered him his hand to kiss, in token of his homage, then motioned them all to rise.

  “I thank you, gentlemen, but we have no time for further ceremony here. Warin, we must next think of a way to spread the news of your apparent change of heart. Have you any suggestions?”

  Warin thought for a moment, then nodded. “I think so, Sire. Often, in the past, I have had dreams at critical times. My people know of these dreams, and will believe what I tell them. I have but to say that I have had a vision in the night, that an angel came and told me I must give my allegiance back to you, that Gwynedd not fall. There will be time enough later to reveal the true story. In the meantime, if we release the news immediately, the story should be sufficiently embellished by morning to account for your presence here and give us solid support when we confront the archbishops. Does this meet with your approval?”

  “Morgan?” Kelson asked.

  “Warin, you have an eye for intrigue—and I am glad that it now serves the king.” Morgan smiled. “Can your lieutenants see to it right away?”

  The rebel leader nodded.

  “Excellent. And when you have finished, I should like for all of you to meet us in the tower stairwell. In the meantime, there are several of my officers whose expertise I require. Are they in the dungeons?”

  “Alas, I fear they are,” Warin admitted.

  “No matter. I know of ways to get them out. Shall we meet, then, in two hours?”

  “It will be light in three,” Paul de Gendas volunteered.

  Morgan shrugged. “That cannot be helped. We must have time to make preparations. In two hours, in the tower stairwell, then. Agreed?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “And he will lift up an ensign to the nations from far…”

  ISAIAH 5:26

  BY dawn there were few in Castle Coroth who did not know at least something of the strange and wondrous vision dreamed by Lord Warin during the night. Warin’s troops, who composed the bulk of Coroth’s defenders, still stood in staunch support of their charismatic leader, though they did not pretend to understand this seeming reversal of his former policy regarding Deryni. The handful of ecclesiastical troops who had come with the archbishops to Coroth were wary of outright resistance to the change, in light of the rebels’ greater numbers. In the early hours of the morning, several of them had made the mistake of questioning the new orders being handed down. Many had found themselves promptly locked up in the castle dungeons by Warin’s loyal followers.

  Accordingly, first light found Archbishops Loris and Corrigan and a half-dozen of their colleagues gathered fearfully in the ducal chapel, ostensibly to celebrate morning devotions but in fact to speculate among themselves as to what the night’s developments might mean. Most were dubious about the reports that Warin had had a vision; none had any inkling of what had actually occurred.

  “The entire thing has gotten out of hand!” Loris was saying. “This Warin de Grey goes too far. The idea of visions, in these times! Why, it’s unheard of.”

  His subordinates sat huddled at the far end of the chapel’s nave, close to the sanctuary, where Loris was pacing the carpeting in obvious spleen. Archbishop Corrigan, looking haggard and aged beyond his sixty years, occupied a stool a little apart from the others, as befitted his station as Loris’s second-in-command. The others—de Lacey, Creoda of Carbury, Carsten of Meara, Ifor, and two of the itinerant bishops, Morris and Conlan—sat facing them anxiously. There was no one else in the chapel, and it was barred from within. Conlan, one of the younger bishops present, cleared his throat in a growl.

  “Well, you may say that it is unheard of, my lord, but frankly, it worries me. It appears that Warin is moving toward a more lenient policy toward the Deryni. And what will happen if he decides to support the king?”

  “Aye, what does happen?” Ifor agreed. “I have even heard that he is considering it. With a royal army camped right at our gates, we are in serious trouble if he does.”

  Loris looked sharply at both bishops and then harumphed. “He wouldn’t dare. Besides, not even Warin commands that much influence among his troops. He cannot change their entire outlook overnight.”

  “Perhaps not,” Creoda wheezed. The old bishop’s voice was thin and reedy, and he had to pause often to cough. “Perhaps he cannot, but there is certainly something strange going on this morning. You can feel it in the air. And two of my personal escort, some of the men we brought with us, cannot be found. Many of the guard posts were occupied by unfamiliar faces.”

  “Humph!” Loris said again. “I don’t suppose anyone knows for sure just what Warin’s so-called vision was all about.”

  “Not precisely,” said de Lacey, toying with the amethyst on his finger. “But my chaplain told me this morning that one of the guards said Warin saw an angel in his dream.”

  “An angel?”

  “That is preposterous!” Loris huffed.

  De Lacey shrugged. “Preposterous or not, that is what I was told. An angel with horns of light appeared to Warin in his sleep and warned him that he must reconsider what he has been doing.”

  “Damn him, he goes too far!” Loris exploded. “He cannot just dream a dream and then reverse everything he has stood for. Who does he think—”

  At a pounding at the chapel door, all of them fell silent. As the knock was repeated, all eyes turned to Loris. Conlan, at Loris’s signal, got to his feet and padded back to the double doorway. Hand on the bolt, he called, “Who is it?”

  “Warin de Grey,” a familiar voice said. “What is the meaning of this? Why are the chapel doors closed?”

  At a sign from Loris, Conlan slid aside the heavy metal bolt, then stood aside in consternation as Warin, his lieutenants, and a full dozen armed men pushed their way into the chapel, the men taking up posts along either side of the room. One of Warin’s lieutenants hustled Conlan back to the rest of the bishops as all came to their feet, and Warin followed with another man at his elbow.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Loris demanded, drawing himself to his full height in an attempt to overawe.

  Warin paused to bow slightly from the waist, his face set and solemn “Good morning, my lord Archbishop,” he said, arms stiffly at his sides. “I trust that you and your colleagues slept well.”

  “Well enough,” Loris said coldly. “Why have you interrupted our morning devotions with armed men? Such have no place in a house of the Lord.”

  “Sometimes such actions are necessary, Archbishop,” Warin replied evenly. “I have come to ask that you lift an excommunication.”

  “With armed men?” Loris began indignantly.

  “Hear me, my lord. I wish you to lift the excommunication you placed upon Alaric Morgan, Duncan McLain, and the king, and also the Interdict that you imposed on Corwyn.”

  “Why on earth would I do that? Are you mad?”

  “Not mad, my lord. But I shall be very angry if you do not accede to this request.”

/>   Loris sputtered and grew red in the face. “You are mad! Conlan, call the guards. We need not subject ourselves to this—”

  “Paul, bar the door,” Warin countered, cutting across Loris’s fulminations. “And you, my lord Archbishop, hold your tongue and listen. Your Majesty, would you care to join us now?”

  Warin’s words elicited a gasp from the prelates, as a sacristy door beside the altar opened. Through it stepped a red-cloaked Kelson, followed closely by Morgan, Duncan, Cardiel, and several of Morgan’s rescued castle officers.

  Kelson’s raven head was crowned with a golden circlet, and silk and cloth-of-gold gleamed beneath the crimson cloak. Morgan had donned one of his formal gryphon tunics, the winged beast worked in gold and emeralds on the breast of the silken cloth. Duncan was in black, with the bright plaid of his McLain ancestors secured to one shoulder with a heavy silver brooch. Cardiel wore clerical attire again, black under a magnificent cloth-of-silver cope, with a miter of silver and white on his steel-gray hair.

  The significance of this unexpected intrusion took but an instant to register with the watching prelates. Conlan and Corrigan had gone noticeably pale, several other bishops crossed themselves furtively, and even Loris was at least momentarily speechless.

  Before that could change, Warin and his men sank to one knee in homage, the armed men raising mailed fists to chests in earnest salute. Kelson let his gaze touch on the motionless bishops, who could not seem to move from their places, then signed for Warin and his men to rise. As he and his followers moved across the chapel floor to join Warin, the bishops shrank back uneasily. When Kelson had gained the company of Warin, he turned to face Loris and the others, his people grouping themselves at his back in a show of solidarity.