One of the riders—a page or squire, by the look of him—rode low on his horse’s neck, his head lolling alarmingly as the horses jolted to a stop. It was difficult to be certain at this distance, but the lad’s mount appeared to be footsore and badly winded. More torches flared in the darkness as stablemen approached.
As one of the men grabbed at the reins of the foundering animal, the beast staggered and went to its knees, pitching its young rider out of the saddle to land in a heap. The unfortunate lad picked himself up painfully and held onto one of the guards for support, then glanced up toward Duncan’s window before staggering toward the stair on the man’s arm. As he did so, his muddy cloak parted to show a flash of the livery underneath.
Duncan clutched at the windowsill and stifled a gasp, staring after the lad as he disappeared into the stairwell entrance. The sky-blue silk of the boy’s livery was long-familiar, known from earliest childhood, as was the sleeping lion badge emblazoned on the chest in silver-gray.
But the sky-blue had been grimy and ragged, stained with a hue more red than mud, the lion badge almost obliterated by a great rent that ran from throat to waist. What could have happened? Had the lad brought word from Duke Jared’s army?
The flash of a blade dispatching the foundering horse ended Duncan’s stunned speculation, and he came to his senses with a start. The lad would be brought directly to Kelson, he was sure. Duncan was just turning to look for Morgan and the king when the great doors of the chamber were thrown back to admit a guard and a grimy, towheaded page of perhaps nine or ten. Beneath a guard’s borrowed cloak, Duncan could see the tattered remains of McLain livery, stained, as he had feared, with the rich red-brown of blood long-dried. The lad sported a great bruise under his left eye, and a crusty, ugly-looking cut on his left elbow, in addition to other scrapes and bruises. His dazed gaze flitted anxiously around the room and he stumbled as he came through the doorway. He would have fallen then and there, had not his escort caught him under his good arm and supported most of his weight.
“Where is the king?” the boy gasped, reeling against his supporter and trying to keep his young eyes in focus. “I must see the king. I have urgent news of—Sire!”
At that instant he spotted Kelson, who had started toward him even as he spoke his first words. The boy reached out a grimy hand and started to sink to his knees, then winced and began to crumple. The guard eased him down, and Kelson was at his side almost at once. Morgan and Duncan pushed their way through the crowd to kneel down on either side, Morgan cushioning the boy’s head against his knee. The four were quickly surrounded by a bevy of astonished and apprehensive lords.
“He’s passed out from exhaustion,” Morgan said to no one in particular, touching the boy’s forehead and shaking his head. “He’s feverish from his wounds, too.”
“Conall, bring some wine,” Kelson ordered. “Father Duncan, he wears your father’s livery. Do you know who he is?”
Duncan shook his head, white-lipped. “If I saw him before, I have forgotten, Sire. I saw him arrive, though. He rode at least one horse to death to get here.”
“Hmm,” Morgan grunted, running his hands over the boy’s body to ascertain additional wounds or broken bones. “He’s certainly been through one devil of a time, I’ll say that much for—here, what’s this?”
He had felt an odd bulge under the boy’s tunic, next to his heart, and further investigation revealed a tattered scrap of silk, tightly folded.
He fumbled as he tried to open it, for the silk was stiff with blood. Kelson reached across and took the other edge, and together they unfolded what was obviously part of a battle pennon. In the center of the silk was a leaping black hart on a white circle. The rest of the banner, where it was not caked with mud and gore, was a brilliant, flaming orange-red.
Kelson whistled low under his breath and released the silk, unconsciously wiping his palms against his thighs in distaste. There was no need for further words, for all knew the leaping hart badge of Torenth and what its presence on the bloody standard suggested. In shocked silence, Kelson turned his eyes on the pale face of the unconscious page. Conall returned with the wine, to observe as Morgan took the cup and held it to the boy’s lips. The boy whimpered as his head was lifted slightly and supported against Morgan’s left arm.
“All right, let’s drink up here, young fellow,” Morgan murmured, tipping the cup to let a little of the wine trickle between the boy’s teeth.
The boy moaned and tried to turn his head away, but Morgan was relentless.
“No, drink some more. That’s a good lad. Now, open your eyes and try to tell us what happened. His Majesty is waiting.”
With a suppressed sob, the boy forced his eyes open and squinted up at Morgan, at the face of Kelson opposite, at Duncan peering down from above, then closed his eyes momentarily and bit at his lip. Morgan gave the goblet back to Conall and laid a gentle hand on the boy’s forehead.
“It’s all right, son. Tell us what happened, and then you can rest.”
The boy swallowed and wet his lips before opening his eyes again, then fixed his gaze on Kelson, as though it were only the royal presence that kept body and soul together. It was obvious even to those totally without medical training that he was on the verge of passing out again.
“Sire,” he began weakly, “we are undone. Terrible battle…traitor in our midst…Duke Jared’s army, all…gone….”
His eyes rolled upward and his voice trailed off as he lapsed into unconsciousness again, and Morgan anxiously felt for a pulse. His expression was grim as he looked up at Kelson.
“He doesn’t appear to have any major injuries—a few cuts and bruises, despite the bloody clothes. But he’s too exhausted to bring around again. Maybe in a few hours…”
His voice trailed off expectantly as he gazed across at the king, and Kelson shook his head.
“It’s no good, Alaric. We can’t wait that long. A battle, a traitor in their midst, Duke Jared’s army ‘gone’…We’ve got to find out what happened.”
“If I force him back to consciousness, it could kill him.”
“Then we’ll have to take that risk.”
Morgan’s eyes flicked to the boy’s face, then back to Kelson’s. “Let me try another way, my prince. It is not without its own risks, but…”
He gazed into Kelson’s unblinking eyes for several seconds, and finally Kelson gave a slow nod.
“Can you do it here with reasonable safety?” he asked, inquiring as much after Morgan’s safety as that of the boy.
Morgan lowered his eyes. “You must have your information, my prince. And your barons will have to see me in action sooner or later. I think we have little choice.”
“Then do it,” Kelson breathed, straightening on his knees and glancing around him at his watching lords. “Gentlemen, I beseech you to stand away and give His Grace space to work. The boy’s message must be heard, and only my Lord Alaric’s gifts can make that possible without endangering an innocent life. There is no danger to any of you.”
There was a murmur of consternation among nobles and clergy as Kelson spoke, and several made furtive movements toward the doors until Kelson’s sharp gaze swept the room and held each man in his place. Those closest to the tableau moved away a little, as the king had asked, until only Duncan and Kelson himself were still kneeling beside Morgan and the unconscious page. As Morgan shifted to a sitting position, supporting the boy in his lap, the murmuring ceased and the room grew hushed. For all but a few, this would be the first time they had ever seen a Deryni use his powers.
Morgan looked up at them and studied the fearful, sometimes hostile faces. Never had he looked so human, so vulnerable, as he sat in the middle of the floor with the child cradled in his arms. Never had the gray eyes been so guileless in the presence of potential enemies.
But there must be confidence. Now was not the time for old enmities, for fears to crowd beside the trust that must be engendered. Here must be a time of openness, of stark truth. The
se men must be convinced, once and for all, that the fearsome powers of the Deryni could be used for good. So much depended upon what happened here in the next minutes. There must be no mistakes.
Morgan permitted himself the tiniest of smiles as he carefully chose his words.
“My lords, I fully understand your apprehension,” he said in a low voice. “You will have heard many rumors about my powers and the powers of my people, and it is natural that you should at first fear what you do not understand.
“What you are about to see and hear will, undoubtedly, seem very strange to you,” he went on. “But so the unknown always seems until it becomes the known.” He paused. “Even I cannot predict with certainty just what will happen in the next minutes, for I have no idea what this lad has been through. I ask only that you do not interfere, no matter what happens—that you watch and listen silently. The process is not without its danger for me.”
As he looked down at the boy again, a faint sigh whispered among the watchers, quickly fading into total silence. Morgan smoothed the unconscious boy’s fair hair gently across his forehead, then positioned his left hand so that he could see the gryphon signet close by the boy’s chin. With a last glance at Duncan and Kelson, who still knelt silently across from him, he gazed at the gryphon and made a conscious effort to relax, breathing deeply to trigger the Thuryn trance as he had learned long ago.
Then his head bowed and his eyes closed, and his breath came deep and easy. The boy stirred once beneath his hands, then was still.
“Blood.”
Morgan whispered the word, but there was an alien quality to the sound that sent a ripple of chill through the watching lords.
“So much blood,” Morgan murmured, louder this time. “Blood everywhere.” His head slowly raised, though the eyes remained tightly closed.
Duncan glanced sharply at Kelson, then edged closer to his kinsman, his pale eyes fixed on the familiar face now gone strange. He had more than a suspicion now what his kinsman was attempting, and the thought chilled him for all his understanding of the act. He wet his lips nervously, his eyes never leaving the strained face of Morgan.
“Who are you?” he said in a low voice.
“Oh, my God, who’s that coming?” Morgan’s voice replied, as though he had not heard, a boyish quality evident even as Duncan had suspected.
“Ah, ’tis only my Lord Jared, with his good allies, the Earl of Marley and his friends…. ‘Boy, bring wine for my Lord of Marley. Bran Coris has come to reinforce us. Bring wine, lad. Show your respect for the Earl of Marley!’”
Morgan’s voice paused, then continued in a lower, darker tone, so that his listeners had to move closer to catch all of his words.
“The armies of Bran Coris join with ours. The royal blue banners of Marley mix and meld with the sleeping lions of Cassan, and all is well.
“But, wait! The soldiers of Bran Coris draw their swords!”
Morgan’s eyes popped open, but he continued to speak in the boy’s voice, his voice rising in pitch, almost cracking with the strain.
“No! Not treachery! It cannot be! Bran Coris’s men ride with the Furstán hart beneath their shield covers! They slay the duke’s men! They cut a swatch of carnage through the ranks of Cassan!
“My lord! My Lord Jared! Flee for your life! The Marley’s men are upon us in treachery! Fly, oh, fly away, Your Grace! We are undone! Oh, my lord, we are undone!”
With an anguished moan, Morgan’s head dropped against his chest, bitter sobs wracking his body. Kelson started to reach out and touch him, but Duncan frowned and shook his head. They watched tensely as Morgan’s sobbing finally stopped and he raised his head once more. The gray eyes were blank and strained, the cheeks strangely damp, the expression that of a man who has just looked on Hell. He stared unseeing for several seconds, and then:
“I see my Lord Jared go down beneath a sword,” he whispered dully. Duncan controlled a gasp of anguish. “I do not know if he is dead. I fall from my horse and am nearly trampled, but I escape, I play dead.”
He shuddered and continued, choking back another sob. “I roll beneath the body of a slain knight, am drenched by his dying blood, but I am not found out. Soon the battle ends and night falls, but even then there is no safety. The Marley’s men take prisoners, and Torenthi death squads dispatch the badly wounded. No living man escapes that field of death except in chains.
“When all is quiet, I crawl from beneath my dead knight and stagger to my feet. I start to whisper a prayer for the dead knight’s soul, for he has unwittingly saved me from the enemy.” Morgan’s face contorted and his right hand crumpled the silken banner still across the boy’s chest. “But then I see the black hart banner in the dead knight’s hands, the blue eagles of Marley sprinkling the leather of his surcoat.” He stifled a sob.
“I take the banner as proof of what I have seen, and then I stumble into the night. Two—no, three horses die beneath me before I reach the gates of Dhassa with the news.”
His eyes glazed slightly, and Duncan thought he was about to come out of it, but then the strange voice spoke again, Morgan’s lips curving in a strained smile.
“But, I have accomplished my mission. The king knows of Bran Coris’s treachery. Even if my Lord Jared lies dead, our liege lord the king will avenge him. God save…the king!”
With that, Morgan’s head slumped once more against his chest, and this time Duncan did not stop Kelson as he reached across to lay a trembling hand on Morgan’s arm.
After a few seconds, the tense shoulders relaxed and Morgan breathed a great sigh. Then his right hand flexed against the tattered silk he still clutched, and he opened his eyes. He stared at the still form of the boy in his arms for a long moment, remembering the horror he had shared, then disengaged his hand from the silk and laid his hand across the boy’s forehead.
The gray eyes closed momentarily and opened again, and then Morgan straightened and raised his eyes to meet Kelson’s. His cheeks still glistened with the tears he had shared with the boy, but he made no move to wipe them away.
“He has borne a heavy burden for you, my prince,” Morgan said quietly. “Nor do I welcome the news he has brought us.”
“One is not expected to welcome the news of treachery,” Kelson murmured, his eyes distant and hooded. “Are you all right?”
“Only a little tired, Sire. Duncan, I am sorry about your father. I wish the boy could have seen what became of him.”
“I am his only remaining son,” Duncan whispered dully. “I should have been out there, at his side. He was getting too old to lead armies.”
Morgan nodded, knowing the guilt his kinsman must be feeling, then looked up at the assembled lords and bishops. Two squires came to take the boy away to rest, but they would not meet his eyes as they took the boy from his arms. Morgan got to his feet, steadying himself against Kelson’s shoulder, then swept the torchlit room with his cool gaze. The eyes were dark, mostly pupil in the flickering torchlight—inky pools of power and mystery, even though the body behind them was exhausted.
But to his surprise, as his gaze touched the men, they did not shrink from the contact. The bishops shuffled feet, twisted nervous fingers in the folds of purple cassocks, but they did not retreat. The generals and captains, too, stared at Morgan with a new look of grudging respect, fearful but now willing to trust. In all, there was not a man in the room who would not have gone on his knee to Morgan in an instant, had he requested it—notwithstanding Kelson’s presence in the room.
Only Kelson, brushing dust from the knees of his hose in a carefully casual gesture, seemed unaffected by the feat of magic they had just witnessed. Anger, not awe, and a little resignation were in his manner as he stepped slightly away from Morgan and surveyed his waiting court.
“As you have surmised, gentlemen, the news of Bran Coris’s defection has shocked and angered me greatly. And the loss of Duke Jared will be felt by all of us for many years to come.” He flicked a sympathetic glance at Duncan, and the p
riest bowed his head.
“But I think there is no question what must be done now,” the king continued. “The Earl of Marley has allied himself with our bitter enemy and turned against his own kind. For this he will be punished.”
“But, what are his own kind, Sire?” Bishop Tolliver whispered. “What are we, hodge-podge of human and Deryni and half of each? Where is the dividing line? Who is on the side of right?”
“He who serves the right is on the side of right,” Cardiel said softly, turning to face his colleagues. “He who is human and Deryni and half of each. It is not a man’s blood that makes him choose good or evil. It is what lies within his soul.”
“But we are so different…” Tolliver glanced at Morgan in awe.
“It does not matter,” Cardiel said. “Human or Deryni, we share at least one common bond—and it is thicker than blood or oath or any spell that one might bind from the outer darkness. It is the sure and certain knowledge that we side with the Light. And he who would side with Darkness can only be our enemy, no matter what his blood or oath or spell.”
The other bishops, with the exception of Arilan, glanced among themselves and then were silent. Cardiel, after a slow scan across their faces, turned back to Kelson and bowed.
“I and my brethren will assist you in whatever way we can, Sire. Will the news of Bran Coris change your plans to leave at dawn?”
Kelson shook his head, grateful for the bishop’s intercession. “I think not, Excellency. I suggest that all of you get some sleep and make whatever arrangements are necessary for your provisioning now. I shall need the help of every one of you in the days ahead.”
“But we are not fighting men, Sire,” old Bishop Carsten protested weakly. “What possible use can we—”
“Then pray for me, Excellency. Pray for us all.”
High Deryni Page 27
