Wencit nodded, tight-lipped. “He is.”
Barrett turned to Kelson. “And you, Kelson of Gwynedd. Is your successor prepared to swear fealty to Wencit of Torenth, if you should perish?”
Kelson swallowed. “My heir is my father’s brother, Prince Nigel Haldane, and after him, his sons, the Princes Conall, Rory, and Payne. Prince Nigel knows his duty, should I be killed.”
“Very well,” said Barrett. “And will these terms completely satisfy both sides?”
“Not entirely,” Kelson found himself saying. “I have one further stipulation, my lord.”
Wencit’s eyes widened, but he checked himself from moving closer as Barrett’s staff moved in his direction.
“State your stipulation, Kelson of Gwynedd,” Barrett said.
“Last night, Wencit of Torenth and Bran Coris entered my camp and stole a lady’s child. If I and mine prevail, I would require that the child be forfeit and given to me, that I may return him to his mother.”
“No!” Bran cried, starting to get to his feet, “Brendan is my son! He belongs to me! She shall not have him!”
“Hold your peace, Bran Coris!” Vivienne snapped, speaking for the first time. “If Kelson wins, what matters it to you who gets the child? You will be dead.”
“She speaks the truth, Bran,” Wencit added, before Bran could object. “On the other hand, if I am victorious, I might stipulate that the boy’s mother be returned to her husband, who stands here.” He gestured toward Bran, and Bran nodded. “If Kelson will agree to that, I will agree to the return of the boy. I will also agree to return unharmed all the remaining prisoners I hold alive, if that will help to sweeten the terms.”
“Kelson of Gwynedd?” Barrett said.
Kelson hesitated hardly an instant. “This is agreeable. I have no further terms.”
“And you, Wencit of Torenth?”
“No further stipulations.”
“Then, you may rise.”
The eight got to their feet in a rustle of silks and velvets.
“You may now form the circle of combat,” Barrett continued, walking between the two groups with Laran at his elbow. “We perceive that you have heeded our admonition against steel or weapons, so no further inspection will be necessary on that count. But if any man has question on how this duel is to be conducted, let him raise it now, before the Council closes the first circle.”
Laran and Barrett had reached a point perhaps forty feet from their colleagues, and the four were now separating and going to the cardinal compass points, marking off a square perhaps forty feet on a side. When they had taken their positions, the eight combatants ranged themselves in two arcs of a smaller circle within the square. The two kings looked expectantly toward Barrett, but it was Tiercel who left his place and strode confidently into the center of the figure.
“Thus saith the Lord Camber of blessed memory, thus saith the Holy One, who taught us the Way. Thus it has been written, thus it shall be done. Blessed be the Name of the Most High,” he said.
He knelt on one knee and, extending his right forefinger, began to trace a sign on the ground. Where his finger passed, the grass turned golden.
“Blessed be the Creator, yesterday and today, the Beginning and the End, the Alpha and the Omega.” His finger had traced a cross, with the Greek letters inscribed at the top and bottom of the figure. “His are the seasons and the ages, to Him glory and dominion through all the ages of eternity. Blessed be the Lord, blessed be Holy Camber.”
As he rose, more symbols could be seen inscribed in the four angles of the cross: the sigils of the four councilors, signifying their protection over this circle. As soon as Tiercel had returned to his place, Barrett picked up the chant, raising his hands beside his head.
“I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End, saith the Lord,” Barrett intoned. “He that overcometh, the same shall be clothed in white raiment; and I will not blot out his name in the Book of Life, but I will confess his name before My Father, and before His angels.”
“Blessing, and honor, and glory, and power, be unto Him that sitteth upon the throne, and unto the Lamb for ever and ever,” Vivienne said, raising her arms heavenward. “Let the Lord lend His countenance to the virtuous and defend the cause of the just. Raise the light of Thy favor upon this circle, O Lord, that they who stand within shall know Thy majesty and shrink not from Thy judgement.”
Laran formed the last link in the circle, raising his arms also. As he did so, light began to glow around the four Deryni nobles, amber and silver, crimson and blue. As Laran spoke, the light spread until the circle was complete. The colors merged and coalesced as his words rolled over the circle.
“Guard Thy servants, O Lord. Strengthen this circle, that nothing may enter from without, that none may aid the eight who stand embattled here. Protect those without the circle from the terrible powers soon to be unleashed within, and guard us from Thy wrath.”
“As it was in the earliest days of our beginning,” the four chanted, “and as it shall be for all time to come, O Lord, so let it be today. So let it be.”
As they finished, there came a low rumble as of thunder, and the lights fused in a single hemisphere of pale, blue-violet brilliance around the twelve, councilors and combatants. The wall was transparent but veiled, obscuring slightly that which lay within. The next circle would be formed by the eight, and would seal them off not only from the outer world, but from the four who formed the outer ward. Not even the Camberian Council would be able to broach the inner circle.
“The Outerness is sealed,” blind Barrett said. His voice echoed slightly in the glowing circle. “The Innerness must follow. Mark well: until all men of one defense shall perish, the Innerness remains. Only victors leave this arena.”
There was silence as he let his words sink in, and then: “I charge you, then, to make your peace. Set forth the inner circle and do you what you will. On your honor, and in the Name of the Most High, proceed.”
The eight gazed across at one another, each taking the measure of the opposition. Then Wencit took a step forward and made a formal bow.
“Will you begin, or shall I?”
Kelson shrugged. “It makes little difference, in the end. Proceed, if that is your will.”
“Very well.”
With a slight bow, Wencit stepped back into place, then spread his arms to either side. The setting of the inner circle was to be done by the leaders of the two groups, not jointly. Thus it was Wencit alone who spoke, his low voice echoing in the violet circle.
I am Wencit, Lord of Torenth.
I call forth fair Gwynedd’s king
To answer to my mortal challenge,
With such aid as he may bring.
Once the circle’s orb is fashioned,
Yours or mine must all embrace
Cold death, before the living victors
Pass from out this charmèd place.
Fire leaped from his fingertips to inscribe a semi-circle behind him and his three allies, a glittering arc of violet fire perhaps five feet from the outer ring. Kelson briefly pressed his lips tightly together, not looking at his companions, as he, too, spread his arms to either side.
Kelson, King of Royal Gwynedd,
Takes the gauntlet Wencit flings.
He accepts the mortal challenge
Which the King of Torenth brings.
None shall pass this holy circle
’Til the lives of four are done.
’Til the four of one side perish,
None may pass into the sun.
Crimson fire flared behind Kelson and joined with Wencit’s, until they were all surrounded by a wine-dark hemisphere of purplish light. Kelson lowered his arms and glanced aside as his comrades moved closer to either side of him, now that the stage was set.
Across the circle, Wencit likewise gathered his men around him. The councilors could be seen dimly through the inner ring, watching what was about to unfold. But Kelson knew that they could not in
terfere now, come what may. From now on, he and his must rely on their own good wits.
“Will you cast the first strike, my doomed princeling?” Wencit mocked, his right hand already moving in a preliminary spell.
“No, hold!” said Rhydon. “We forget our manners, my lords. Even in war, the amenities must be observed.”
As all eyes turned toward Rhydon, the Deryni lord pulled a small silver goblet from his belt, produced a leather flask. His comrades smiled as Rhydon worked the stopper from the neck of the flask, even Wencit folding his arms almost indulgently.
“It is the custom in our country,” Rhydon began, as he filled the goblet from the flask, “to drink a toast to our opponents in any knightly contest.” He raised the goblet in salute, then drained off half the contents.
“Of course,” he continued, handing the goblet to Bran, “we realize that you may fear some treachery.” He watched as Bran took a healthy swig, emptying the cup, then refilled the goblet and passed it to Lionel, “but we trust that we will allay your fears by drinking first ourselves.” Lionel raised the cup and drank deeply, then passed the cup to Wencit, who held it patiently while Rhydon filled it yet another time.
“Rhydon speaks truly,” Wencit said, holding the cup before him in both hands. “Our enemies, we drink to you.”
With a sly smile, he raised the goblet to his lips and drank half its contents, then began crossing slowly toward Kelson, extending the cup.
“Willst dare to drink with me, doomed princeling?”
“No, he will not,” Rhydon said quietly, his voice taking on a brittle, cutting edge.
Wencit stiffened, his face going very still, then turned slowly to Rhydon. Every eye had darted to the scarred Deryni, and Lionel and Bran moved uneasily together, edging closer to Wencit, away from this man who suddenly had become a stranger.
“What is the meaning of this?” Wencit said icily.
Rhydon returned Wencit’s stare unwaveringly, a sardonic smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “The meaning will become clear in a short while,” he said easily. “For six years I have played my charade, worn another man’s identity for nearly every hour of my life. I only regret that this day could not have come sooner.”
An awful suspicion came across Wencit’s face as his gaze dropped to the cup in his hand, and then he flung it to the ground with a choked cry of fury.
“What have you done?” The ice-eyes blazed across at Rhydon. “Who are you?”
Rhydon smiled, and his voice was low and deadly.
“I am not Rhydon.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“It is oft times a bitter lesson, to be a man.”
SAINT CAMBER OF CULDI
“YOU are not Rhydon? What do you mean, you are not Rhydon?” Wencit demanded. “Have you gone mad? Do you realize what you’ve done?”
“I know exactly what I have done.” Not-Rhydon smiled. “The real Rhydon of Eastmarch died of a heart seizure nearly six years ago. Fortunately, I was in a position to take his place, but you never suspected, did you, Wencit? No one did.”
“You are mad!” Wencit said, glancing around him wildly. “This a trick, some monstrous plot.” He pointed at Kelson and his stunned companions. “They put you up to it! You probably also arranged to have the real Council here. You never intended it to be a fair combat. Even the Council is biased!”
He turned to glare at the councilors peering into the circle, and could see their mouths working as they jabbered agitatedly to one another; but he could not hear them. Abruptly he realized that they were as stunned as he over what was happening—and in all candor, he could not deny that Kelson seemed just as mystified as anyone else. He turned to find Lionel and Bran looking very pale, whirled back in fury to face the man who was not Rhydon.
“Part of what you say is true,” Not-Rhydon admitted. “I never did intend it to be fair—not for you. However, what I have done is not without its price. Though the way of my going will be a trifle different, we shall all meet the same end. Look behind you.”
Wencit turned to see Bran Coris reel and stagger, reaching out a hand to steady himself against Lionel’s shoulder. Alarmed and horrified, he watched Bran sink to the ground, a dizzy, muddled look upon his handsome face. Lionel had knelt to assist him, but then he, too, reeled and found himself abruptly sitting on the ground, unable to stand any longer.
Wencit plucked nervously at the collar of his tunic, his eyes going wide as he whirled back to face the man now proven to be a stranger, and his betrayer.
“What have you done to them?” he whispered. “You have poisoned them, haven’t you?” He swallowed with difficulty. “And me—why am I not affected? Why have you done this?”
“It was poison of a sort,” Rhydon conceded. “And do not delude yourself that you will be spared. It but takes a while longer to affect full Deryni…and you drank last.
“As for myself, I have even less time than you. The antidote I took delays the first reactions but speeds the final outcome. However, it will give me the time to reveal myself to you—and for you to know fear, perhaps for the first time in your life. Look at your hands, Wencit; they are shaking. That is one of the first signs of the drug taking effect.”
“No!” Wencit whispered, clutching his hands together to still them and turning away.
Not-Rhydon watched Wencit impassively for several seconds, then turned toward Kelson for the first time since the tableau had begun, drew himself erect, then bowed slightly in his direction. “I am sorry to cheat you of the lawful victory you might have won, Kelson of Gwynedd, but I dared not risk the possibility that you might lose. Six years as Wencit’s minion was high enough a price to pay. I could not afford to lose it all now.”
As he spoke, Wencit suddenly reeled on his feet and, against his will, found himself sinking to his knees, barely able to hold up his head, much less speak. As Wencit struggled on hands and knees to rise again, Kelson watched aghast and then turned wide gray eyes on the man who claimed to not be Rhydon.
“What—what did you give them? And what of yourself?”
Not-Rhydon managed a wry smile. “The drug is similar to merasha in many respects. It, too, renders its victim unable to use any occult powers he might possess. But unlike merasha, it cannot immediately be detected as that; and also unlike merasha, it is a slow poison. I knew that when I drank; but I also knew that it was the price I must be willing to pay for deliverance from that man.”
He pointed to Wencit, who now lay panting on the ground, glaring at all of them with undisguised hatred. Lionel and Bran were already motionless behind him, only their frightened eyes able to follow what was happening.
“But my death will be quick and relatively painless, even if certain,” Not-Rhydon continued. “Theirs, because they have not drunk the antidote, will be slow and excruciating unless you intervene—a day at least. You cannot save them, Kelson of Gwynedd, but you can show them mercy and speed them on their way. Only four men may leave this circle alive. I have but ensured that you and yours shall be the four.”
“But, this is treachery,” Kelson murmured, unbelieving. “I had not thought to win by treachery.”
“Believe me, their crimes more than justify the manner of their dying. There is no doubt of their guilt, despite the fact that they have had no trial. I know that—” He hesitated for just an instant, jaw clenching against apparent pain, then went on.
“Your pardon, the drugs’ effects are beginning to make themselves felt. I have not much time. Will you take the victory I bring you, King of Gwynedd? Will you step into your place as a lawful king for Deryni as well as humans, and lead us back to our rightful place of honor and partnership in the Eleven Kingdoms?”
For the first time, Kelson turned to look at his companions. Duncan looked pale, silent, as did Morgan, but Arilan was staring at Rhydon as though he had seen a ghost. At Kelson’s look, he started, then stepped to the young king’s side. Carefully he stared at the man not Rhydon.
“I think I
know you,” he said uncertainly. “Oh, it is not by any fault in appearance or any nuance of voice. Your disguise is perfect. But what you have said—will you not reveal yourself now? What difference does it make?”
Not-Rhydon smiled, swaying slightly on his feet, then held out his arms to either side. His features blurred, a light seeming to glow around him faintly, and then Stefan Coram was standing before them, a strained expression on his face.
“Hello, Denis,” he whispered, meeting the bishop’s shocked gaze. “Please don’t lecture me on the stupidity of what I’ve done. It is far too late for that now, and I happen to think it wasn’t stupid at all. I am only sorry that I shan’t be seeing any of you again.” His glance flicked to the nearest councilor. “Believe me, this was the only way.”
“Oh, Stefan, Stefan…” Arilan could only shake his head disbelievingly.
Coram smiled faintly, catching himself from swaying once again. “Yes. And I have appeared in another guise more familiar to your friends.” His shape rippled again, and they could see a silver-haired man cowled in gray superimposed over the handsome features of Coram for just an instant.
“You were Saint Camber?” Morgan breathed.
“No, I told you I was not.” Coram shook his head emphatically, going back to his Coram-shape. “I have only appeared to you a few times: at the king’s coronation as a representative of the Council; to you, Duncan, on the Coroth road; at Saint Neot’s—” He grimaced again and closed his eyes momentarily, and Arilan rushed to support him.
“Stefan?”
Coram shook his head in dismissal. “You cannot help me to live, my friend—only to die.” He swallowed with difficulty and leaned even more heavily on Arilan’s arm, dread shadowing his face. “Dear God…’Tis coming sooner than I thought.”
As he sagged against Arilan’s arm, the bishop eased him to the ground, Morgan and Duncan crowding to his other side. Kelson stood behind Arilan, watching them in dismay, but he did not join them. Now was a moment he could not really share with them. He hardly knew Stefan Coram, but the three now kneeling around the stricken man had been intimately involved with him in several ways, Morgan and Duncan in a way that Kelson could not begin to understand. He watched as Morgan pulled off his cloak and made a pillow of it under Coram’s head. The man’s eyes were closed, but he opened them at Morgan’s touch and turned his attention to Arilan once more.
High Deryni Page 41
