High Deryni

by Katherine Kurtz

  “Yes, Sire. Thank you.”

  Kelson nodded. “Morgan will see to your accommodations.”

  “As you wish, Sire.”

  “Good night, then.”

  With that, Kelson made her an awkward bow and swept out of the room, his now-forgotten dispatch crumpled in his fist. Morgan moved as though to follow him, but before he closed the door behind him, he turned to gaze once more at the white-clad lady standing in the moonlight. Richenda’s face was pale and drawn, but there was a look of determination on her face as she stood framed in the window. She lowered her eyes and made a slight bow as Morgan paused, but she would not look up to meet his eyes again.

  With a puzzled sigh, Morgan closed the door behind him and followed Kelson.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “They encourage themselves in an evil matter; they commune of laying snares privily; they say, Who shall see them?”

  PSALMS 64:5

  AT noon in Cardosa, the sun beat down fiercely in the thin mountain air, even though patches of snow still lay in the deep crannies and crevices of the mountains. Earlier that morning, Wencit, Rhydon, and Wencit’s kinsman Lionel had ridden down the Cardosa Defile to meet with Bran Coris and those of Wencit’s officers who were now assisting him in the deployment of Wencit’s assault forces. The defense works had been inspected, and now Wencit and his entourage drew rein before the great, flame-colored pavilion where the Torenthi king would make his headquarters once the enemy arrived.

  Soldiers in Wencit’s black and white Furstán livery swarmed around the slight rise where the royal pavilion had been erected, setting tent poles and lines and seeing to the installation of those items of personal comfort that Wencit considered essential to any field operation.

  The tent was enormous. A giant, onion-shaped dome of flame-colored silk, it covered an area easily the size of Wencit’s great hall at Beldour. Inside, the structure was divided into half a dozen separate rooms, the walls hung with heavy tapestries and furs designed both to beautify and to keep out sound and heat. Within these walls was ample space to hold any sort of conference that Wencit might have wished, but he judged the day too fair to be confined indoors, so had gestured for the major-domo to place chairs on the rich carpet laid before the enclosure.

  As servants scurried to set up the chairs and stools required, one of Wencit’s personal body servants came to take his master’s cloak, which was mud-spattered and waterlogged from the ride down the defile. Another offered a khaftan-like robe of heavy amber silk, which Wencit shrugged on over his damp and stained riding leathers. He sat back in a leather camp chair and permitted yet another servant to exchange his boots for dry slippers, then watched as the major-domo poured steaming darja tea into fragile porcelain cups.

  Wencit nodded benignly at his colleagues, inviting them to sit in the chairs that the servants had prepared; then, with his own hand, he took a cup from the tray that the major-domo offered and held it out to Bran Coris.

  “Drink and be refreshed, my young friend,” he said in a low voice, smiling as Bran leaned forward to take the cup. “I am exceedingly pleased.”

  As Bran took the cup, Wencit lifted two more and passed them to Rhydon and Lionel, who nodded their thanks before settling back with their tea. The Torenthi king smiled as he inhaled deeply of a fourth cup he took for himself, balancing it between the fingers of his two hands.

  “Indeed, I am quite intrigued and impressed with the diversion which you have devised for our adversaries,” the sorcerer continued, watching the ripples his breath created on the steaming darja. “You have also done a commendable job of integrating our two forces, of multiplying our strengths and neutralizing any weaknesses. Lionel, we are fortunate to have such an ally.”

  Lionel lifted his cup in salute, then sipped at the hot tea.

  “It is fortunate that our Lord of Marley chose to join us, Sire. He might have proven a troublesome opponent. He has an uncanny ability for making…creative use of all available resources.” Lionel’s dark eyes were capable of flaying a man with a glance when he was angered, but today they were warm, almost cordial, almost as though he and the young human lord had found some subtle bond of kinship. “Even I have learned from him, Sire,” Lionel added, almost as an afterthought.

  “Have you, indeed?” Wencit chuckled gently.

  Bran, basking in the approval of two Torenthi princes, took a careful sip of his steaming tea and relaxed, apparently unaware of the scrutiny he was receiving from Rhydon. After a silent moment while the four men drank, Rhydon spoke.

  “Sire, it occurs to me that we have heard no report of the Cassani prisoners since their capture,” he said, eyeing Bran over the rim of his cup. “The diversion that Bran and my Lord Lionel have conceived is…ingenious. Would that I had thought of it myself. Most assuredly, the effect on morale among King Kelson’s supporters will be profound, if not shattering. But the Cassani prisoners—I would point out that some of them are of high rank, indeed, and exceedingly valuable. Or have plans been made for them of which I am not aware?”

  Lionel chuckled, a low, dangerous sound, idly fingering the end of his braid. “You seem to suggest that Bran and I must justify our actions to you,” he said mildly. “However, you need not concern yourself with the plans for the Cassani prisoners.”

  “Can it be that you expect my opposition, then?”

  “I expect no interference from you,” Lionel said pointedly. “We have been given leave to use the prisoners to our best advantage—and that is precisely what we shall do. Other than that, you need know nothing more.”

  Wencit smiled, vaguely amused by the exchange. “Now, Rhydon, you must not quarrel with my kinsman. Even I am not privy to all the details of this campaign; nor do I wish to be. I depend upon my lords of battle and advisors like Lionel to take care of those matters for me. I trust Lionel’s judgment just as I trust yours. And if he assures me that he is doing what is most expeditious, then I must assume that he is. Do you dispute me in this matter?”

  “Of course not,” Rhydon replied, taking another sip of his darja. “It was not intended to make an issue of it. If I have, I apologize to all concerned.”

  “Apology accepted,” Wencit nodded idly.

  Rhydon turned his cup in his fingers before continuing. “I have had an additional message from General Licken since this morning’s dispatches, by the way. His advance patrols confirm that King Kelson’s army should be here no earlier than dusk, depending upon how much our diversion slows him up. We need fear no action before tomorrow morning.”

  “Excellent.” Wencit turned in his chair and motioned to his major-domo, who had been waiting just out of earshot, and the man immediately brought out a large, leather-bound dispatch case studded at the corners with hammered gold. As the man withdrew, Wencit opened the box and leafed through a sheaf of already opened dispatches until he found the one he was looking for, then pulled it out with a grunt of approval. After making a short notation on it, he returned it to the box and pulled out another one, which he scanned briefly.

  “Ah, here it is. I received some news this morning which concerns you, Bran,” he said, glancing up wistfully. “It seems that the Haldane princeling has learned of your defection and taken your family into custody.”

  Bran stiffened, then slowly drew himself upright in his chair, his knuckles whitening around the cup he held.

  “Why was I not told?”

  “You are being told,” Wencit said, leaning forward to hand the dispatch across. “But do not distress yourself unduly. Your wife and son were taken at Dhassa, but they are in no immediate danger that we can ascertain. Read for yourself.”

  Quickly Bran scanned down the dispatch, his lips compressing in a thin, tight line as he reached the end. “They are being brought here as hostages, yet you speak of no immediate danger?” His eyes lifted to Wencit’s defiantly. “Suppose Kelson tries to use them against me. Do you think that I could stand by idly while my son’s life was in danger? Could I watch him die?�
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  Rhydon raised an eyebrow, somewhat bemused by Bran’s reaction. “Come now, Bran. Surely you know your king better than that. You or I might threaten a man’s family to compel his obedience, but Kelson Haldane is not of that mettle. Besides,” he glanced at his nails, a coy, bored look, “you can always make more sons, can you not?”

  Bran’s glare at Rhydon turned even more icy. “And just what is that supposed to mean?” he hissed.

  Wencit chuckled and shook his head reprovingly. “Enough, Rhydon. You must not taunt our young friend. He does not understand our ways of banter. Bran, I have no intention of allowing your family to come to harm. Perhaps an exchange of hostages can be arranged. At any rate, Rhydon is correct in his assessment of Kelson. The young Haldane will not make war on innocent women and children.”

  “I suppose you can guarantee that?”

  Wencit’s smile faded and his eyes took on a steely glint. “I can guarantee to do my best,” he said softly, dangerously. “Will you not concede that my best is far more than you could possibly hope to accomplish on your own?”

  Bran lowered his eyes, sharply reminded of his position—becoming more precarious by the second—and reined himself back at once. “I do beg your pardon, Sire. I did not mean to question your judgment. My concern was for my family.”

  “If I thought otherwise, you would be dead,” Wencit said calmly, holding out his hand for the dispatch Bran still held.

  Bran handed over the document without a word, carefully masking his discomfiture as Wencit returned the dispatch to its stack. After a pregnant silence, Wencit looked up again, his momentary anger apparently passed.

  “Now, Rhydon. What word on our young Derry today? I trust that all is as it should be?”

  “I am told that he is ready to see us,” Rhydon allowed.

  “Good, then.” Wencit sipped at his cooling cup of darja, then drained it in a final swallow. “I think that you and I should go to see him.”

  IN the dungeons deep beneath Cardosa Keep, in the fortress known as Esgair Ddu, Derry lay supine on a pile of dry straw, his wrists dragged to one side by the weight of the chains fixed to the wall. Feverish from his wounds, he had lain there for nearly a day now without attention beyond a cupful of brackish water to drink and a few crusts of stale bread. His stomach was a hard knot of hunger, and his head ached, but he forced himself to open his eyes and focus on the damp ceiling, finally mustering the strength to roll to his side and lift his head.

  Aches. Throbbing pain in shoulder and head. A sharp twinge in his thigh as he tried to bend a cramped knee.

  Gritting his teeth, he struggled to a sitting position, pulling himself up by the chains that stretched from his wrists to a pair of iron rings set in the wall above head-height.

  He knew why the rings were there. The jailers who had brought him here initially had chained him, spread-eagled against the wall, while they worked him over with fists and riding whips until he mercifully passed out. Hours later, he had come to, huddled on the dank, musty straw where he now sat.

  He wiped his sweaty face against the shoulder that was not wounded and blinked his eyes in an attempt to clear his vision, then set about pulling himself to his feet. There was a window over to the left of where his chains were secured. If he remembered the layout of Esgair Ddu correctly, he should be able to see part of the plain from here.

  He steadied himself against the chains and caught his breath, then dragged himself to the window and peered out.

  Far below on the plain, Wencit’s armies had moved into position. Slightly to the north, atop a small rise, someone had ranged the bowmen to take advantage of the altitude. North and east were the cavalry and infantry, arranged to employ a pincer movement if the opportunity should arise.

  More of Wencit’s cavalry were moving down the pass to take up positions around the center of the encampment. Cavalry: the heart of Wencit’s fighting force. He could see a steady stream of damp and bedraggled horsemen riding onto the plain from where he knew the last ford must be; could almost hear the shouts of the captains as they kept their men in order and put them through their paces.

  To the southeast, directly opposite the pass, more Torenthi soldiers were swarming around what must be Wencit’s own field camp, where the Torenthi sorcerer would probably go when Kelson’s army approached, and from there direct the battle. Of Kelson’s army he could see no sign as yet, but he knew that they must surely be on their way by now. Someone must have gotten through to warn him of what had happened to Jared’s men. He only hoped that when Kelson’s army came, it would be a united one, the internal factions resolved. He wondered if Morgan and Duncan had been able to make their peace with the archbishops.

  With a sigh, Derry turned to regard his chains for at least the hundredth time and gave them a tentative rattle. There was no chance of gaining his freedom while he remained fettered here like an animal—and even if he somehow managed to escape the chains, he doubted he could go far with his wounds.

  Even now, his leg was throbbing from standing upright, fresh twinges shooting up and down whenever he shifted his weight. His shoulder had stopped hurting a little with the enforced movement necessary to raise him to his present position, but he had a sinking feeling that it was this wound that was making him feel so lightheaded and feverish. He had tried to inspect the wound a few hours earlier, when the guards had brought his meager ration of water, but with little success. The bandage was wrapped tightly, and he had not been able to get at it. He wondered if the wound was beginning to fester.

  The sound of a key in the lock broke his train of thought, and he turned painfully to peer at the door, bracing himself against his chains. The helmeted head of a guard was briefly thrust through the narrow opening; then the man stepped through the doorway and held the door for a tall, redheaded man in amber silks and furs: Wencit of Torenth, with Rhydon of Eastmarch close behind him.

  Derry could not suppress a sharp intake of breath as the two Deryni entered the cell, and he stiffened warily. In the scant light from the single window, Wencit’s pale eyes looked almost aquamarine as he studied the prisoner from the open doorway, gloved hands fiddling with a slender leather whip dangling from his left wrist by a thong.

  Derry drew himself as straight as he could manage, trying to ignore the throbbing in his leg, the ringing in his ears, as Wencit moved a few steps closer. The guard stood impassively by the door, gazing straight ahead, and Rhydon leaned casually against the wall, one foot braced behind him, sinister-looking in deepest midnight blue.

  “So,” said Wencit, “our prisoner is awake—and on his feet, too. Well done, lad. Your master would be proud of you.”

  Derry did not reply, guessing that next Wencit would try to goad him to anger, and determined that the sorcerer should not succeed.

  “Of course,” Wencit continued languidly, “praise from such a master should not be valued too highly. After all, a man who is craven and a traitor is hardly likely to inspire too much loyalty, now is he?”

  Affront blazed in Derry’s eyes, but he forced himself to hold his tongue. He did not know how long he would be able to endure Wencit’s taunts; his temper, he knew, was sometimes a fault. His fever was affecting his ability to think clearly.

  “Then, you agree?” Wencit asked, when Derry did not reply, arching an eyebrow and stepping closer still. “I had expected better of you, young Derry. But, then, that probably reflects on the man who trained you, does it not? For some say that you and Alaric Morgan are very close, my friend—far closer than your people deem proper; that you and he share…secrets….”

  Derry averted his gaze and turned his face away, trying not to listen, but Wencit flicked the end of his whip very near Derry’s face, hateful blue eyes veiled by pale lashes.

  “No reaction, Derry? Come now, let us not be coy. Is it true that you and Morgan are—how shall I put it?—intimate companions? That you share his bed as well as his powers?”

  With a mindless cry, Derry flung himself at his t
ormentor, trying to swing the chains on his wrists to smash at the leering face. But Wencit had calculated to the fraction of an inch, and stood his ground without flinching, just beyond the reach of the chains. With a moan, Derry collapsed to the floor at the end of his bonds. Wencit regarded him disdainfully, then signaled the guard to haul him to his feet.

  His chains were drawn taut through their rings and fastened, leaving Derry spread-eagled against the wall, half-dangling. Again Wencit studied his half-fainting captive, tapping his whip lightly against a gloved palm, then dismissed the guard with a curt nod. The door closed behind the jailer with a groan of un-oiled hinges, and a bored-looking Rhydon shot home the inside bolt and stationed himself against the heavy door, blocking the spy hole.

  “So, there is pride left in you yet, eh, my young friend?” Wencit said, moving close to Derry and lifting his chin with the end of the whip. “What else has Morgan taught you that must be unlearned?”

  Derry made himself focus on Wencit’s right ear and tried to pull himself together. He should never have lashed out like that. It had been exactly what Wencit wanted. It was this damned fever, clouding his judgment. If only he could think more clearly…

  Wencit withdrew his whip, satisfied that he now had his captive’s attention, and began playing with the thong that held the lash to his wrist.

  “Tell me, Derry, what is it that you fear most? Is it death?” Derry gave no reaction. “No, I see by your eyes that it is not death alone. You have mastered that fear—unhappily for you. For this means that I must draw out yet more fearsome terrors from the dark recesses of your soul.”

  He turned away thoughtfully and paced a slow circle in the straw, musing aloud as he walked.

  “So, it is not loss of life you fear, but it is loss. But loss of what, I wonder? Of station? Of wealth? Of honor?” He turned to face Derry again. “Is it that, Derry? Is it the loss of honor, of integrity, that you fear most? And if so, what kind of integrity? Of body? Of soul? Of mind?”