Deryni Checkmate

by Katherine Kurtz

  "Very well," he sighed, leaning forward to probe at the parchment halfheartedly with a ringed forefinger. "We were doing the Donneral accounts, weren't we? Do they seem to be in order?"

  Robert pushed his chair back a few inches and flung down his pen. "Of course they're in order, Alar-ic. But you know we have to go through this formality. These accounts represent a sizeable portion of your land holdings—holdings which you will shortly be losing as part of the Lady Bronwyn's dowry. And even if you and Lord Kevin are inclined to take each other's words in such matters, Kevin's father the duke is not/"

  "Kevin's father the duke is not marrying my sister!" Morgan retorted. He glanced sidelong at Robert for a long moment, theri let his wide mouth relax in a smile. "Come, Robbie, be a good fellow and let me go for the rest of the day. You and I both know those accounts are correct. If you won't let me out of reviewing them altogether, let's at least postpone until tomorrow."

  Robert tried to look very stern and disapproving, then gave in and threw up his hands. "Very well, Your Grace," he said, gathering up his account rolls and tallies. "But as your chancellor I am constrained

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  to point out that the wedding is less than two weeks away. And you have court tomorrow, and the Hort of Orsal's ambassador arrives tomorrow, and Lord Henry de Vere wants to know what you intend to do about Warin de Grey, and—"

  "Yes, Robert; tomorrow, Robert," Morgan said, assuming his most innocent expression and only barely controlling a grin of triumph. "And now may I be excused, Robert?"

  Robert rolled Kis eyes heavenward in a silent appeal for patience, then waved dismissal with a gesture of defeat. Morgan jumped up and bowed with a certain ironic flourish, then turned on his heel and strode out of the solarium to the great hall beyond. Robert watched him go, remembering the slender, tow-headed boy who had become this man—Duke of Corwyn, Lord General of the King's Armies, King's Champion—and a half-Deryni sorcerer.

  Robert crossed himself furtively at that last thought, for Morgan's Deryni heritage was one thing he preferred not to remember about the Corwyn family he had served all his life. Not that the Corwyns had not been good to him, he rationalized. His own family, the lords of Tendal, had held the hereditary chancellorship of Corwyn for two hundred years now, since before the Restoration. And through all those years, the dukes of Corwyn had been fair and honest rulers, even if they were Deryni. Being strictly objective, Robert found he had no complaints,

  Of course, he had to put up with Morgan's capricious whims occasionally, like today. But that was all a part of the game they played. The duke probably had good reason for insisting on adjournment this afternoon.

  Still, it would have been nice to win occasionally....

  Robert gathered up his documents and stored them neatly in a cabinet near the window. Actually, it was just as well the duke had curtailed the accounting for

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  the afternoon. For though Morgan had probably conveniently forgotten about ft, there was to be a state dinner in the great hall tonight. And if he, Robert, did not coordinate it, the affair was sure to be a resounding failure. Morgan was notorious for eschewing formal functions unless they were absolutely necessary. And the fact that a number of eligible ladies would be present who keenly desired to become tbe next Duchess of Corwyn was not going to improve the duke's disposition.

  Whistling lightly under his breath, Robert dusted his hands together and headed toward the great hall the way Morgan had gone. After this afternoon's session, it would be a distinct pleasure to watch Morgan squirm under the scrutiny of those ladies tonight. Robert could hardly wait.

  Morgan scanned the courtyafd automatically as he left the great hall. Far across the yard by the stables, he saw a stable boy running beside a huge chestnut destrier, one of the R'Kassan stallions the Hortic traders had brought in last week. The great horse was barely trotting, one of his long strides making three or four of the boy's. And to the left by the forge, Morgan's young military aide, Scan Lord Deny, was talking earnestly with James the blacksmith, apparently trying to agree on how the animal should be shod.

  Deny saw Morgan and lifted a hand in greeting, but he did not cease his wrangling with the smithy. Horses were a very important subject with" young Derry. He considered himself an expert; and, in fact, he was. Consequently, he was not to be bullied by a mere blacksmith.

  Morgan was glad that Deny didn't join him. Astute as the young marcher lord might be, he did not always understand the moods of his commander. And while Morgan enjoyed Dory's company, he didn't feel like talking just now. That was why he'd fled

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  Lord Robert's account briefing, why he'd bolted outside at the first opportunity. There would be enough of pressure and responsibility later tonight.

  He reached a side gate to the left of the great hall and let himself through. The gardens were still dead from the long winter, but that would probably mean he could be alone for a while. He saw a man cleaning the falcon mews far to the left, close by the stable area, but he knew he wouldn't be disturbed from there. Miles the falconer was a mute—though his eyes and ears were doubly sharp, as seeming compensation for the handicap—and the old man preferred the clicks and whistles of his falcons, which he could imitate, to the speech of men. He would not bother with a lonely duke who sought the solitude of the deserted gardens.

  Morgan began to walk slowly down a path away from the mews, his hands clasped behind him. He knew why he was restless today. Part of it was the political situation, only delayed, not solved, by Kelson's defeat of the Shadowed One last fall. Charissa was dead, and her traitor accomplice lan, too, but an even more formidable adversary now prepared to take her place—Wencit of Torenth, whose scouting parties were already reported along the mountains to the northeast.

  And Cardosa—tKat was another problem. As soon as Wencit could get through the snow, which would be soon, he would be hammering at the gates of the mountain city once again. The approach through the high passes east of Cardosa was not difficult after the first week of spring flooding. But on the west, the direction from which relief must come, the Cardosa Pass would be a raging cataract from March to May. There could be no aid for Cardosa until the thaws were nearly over—two months hence. And that would be too late.

  He paused by one of the reflecting pools in the

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  dead garden an4 gazed absently into the depths. The gardeners had clea/ed away the winter's debris and restocked the pond, and now long-tailed goldfish and tiny polliwogs swam in the currentless water, drifting across his field of vision as though suspended in time and space.

  He smiled as he realized he could call them if he wished—and they would come. But the thought did not amuse him today. After a moment, he let his eyes focus on the surface of the water, let himself study the reflection of the tall blond man who started back at him.

  Wide grey eyes in an oval face, pale from the winter dimness; hair glistening gold in the wan spring sunlight, cropped to only a few inches for ease of care in the battlefield; full, wide mouth above the squared-off chin; long sideburns accentuating the lean cheekbones.

  He tugged at the bottom of the short green doublet with annoyance, glared at the reflection of the golden gryphon blazoned aesthetically but incorrectly across his chest.

  He didn't like the outfit The Corwyn gryphon should be green, proper on black, not gold on green. And the little jeweled basilard stack in his belt was a travesty of weaponry—an elegant but useless accoutrement his wardrober, Lord Rathold, had insisted was essential to his ducal image.

  Morgan scowled darkly at the pompous image in the water. When he had a choice—which he had to admit was most of the time—he preferred dark velvets covering mail, the supple sleekness of riding leathers, not the bright satins and jeweled toadstickers people seemed to think appropriate at a ducal court.

  Still, he supposed he must make a few dres
s concessions. The people of Corwyn did not have their duke in residence for much of the year, what with service at the court in Rhemuth and such. When they did, they

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  had a right to expect that he would dress befitting his rank.

  They need never know that his compliance was not complete. For while they would not be surprised to find that the jeweled plaything at his waist was not his only weapon—there was a stiletto in a worn leather scabbard on his left forearm, as well as other aids—still, they would doubtless be chagrined were they to learn that he would wear light mail under his finery at dinner tonight. Quite chagrined. For to humans that betokened a mistrust of one's guests—a terrible breach of etiquette.

  At least this would be one of the last state dinners for a while, Morgan thought, as he began walking again. With the spring thaws coming, it would soon be time to head back to Rhemuth and the king's service for another season. Of course, this year it would be a different king, with Brion dead. But his latest dispatch from Kelson indicated—

  His train of thought was interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the gravel far to his right, and he turned to see Lord Hillary, the commander of the castle garrison, approaching at a brisk walk, his blue-green cloak whipping behind him in the breeze. His round face was puzzled.

  "What's wrong, Hillary?" Morgan asked as the man drew near and sketched a hasty salute.

  "I'm not sure, Your Grace. The harbor lookout reports that the Carah'ghter fleet has rounded the point and will be docking by nightfall, as soon as the tide shifts. Your flagship, Rhafallia, is in the lead, and she's flying royal dispatch signals. I think it could be the mobilization order, m'lord."

  "I doubt it," Morgan shook his head. "Kelson wouldn't entrust that important a message to ship transport. He'd send a courier." He frowned. "I thought the fleet went only as far as Concaradine this trip."

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  "Those were their orders, m'lord. And they're back a day early at that."

  "Strange," Morgan murmured, almost forgetting Hillary was there. "Still—send an escort to meet Rhafallia when she docks and bring back the dispatches. And let me know as soon as they've arrived."

  "Aye, m'lord."

  As the man moved off, Morgan ran a puzzled hand through his hair and began walking again. That Kelson should send dispatches by ship was strange indeed. He almost never did that. Especially with the uncertainty of the weather farther north this time of year. The whole thing had an ominous ring to it, like—like the dream!

  He suddenly remembered what he'd dreamed last night. In fact, now that he considered it, that was another part of what had been bothering him all day.

  He'd slept badly, which was unusual since he could generally turn sleep off and on at will. But last night he'd been plagued by nightmares—vivid, frightening scenes which had made him wake in a cold sweat.

  He'd seen Kelson, listening tensely to someone whose back was all that he could see—and Duncan, his usually serene face drawn, troubled, angry, very unlike his priestly cousin. And then the ghostly, cowled visage he'd come to associate with legend last fall-Camber of Culdi, the renegade patron saint of Deryni magic.

  Morgan looked up to find himself standing before the Grotto of the Hours, that dim, cavernous recess which had been the private retreat and meditation place of the Corwyn dukes for more than three hundred years. The gardeners had been at work here, too, burning leaves they had swept away from the doorway itself. But there was still debris just inside the entrance, and on impulse Morgan swung back the creaking iron gate and stepped inside. Taking a lighted torch from the wall bracket by the gate, he raked

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  away trie winter's debris with his boot and made his way into the cool interior.

  The Grotto of the Hours was not large inside. Outside, its bulk reared a scant twenty feet above the level of the garden, the outer outline disguised as a rocky outcropping of stone in the midst of the garden paths. In spring and summer, small trees and bushes flourished green on the outside of the mass, with flowers of every hue. Water trickled down one side in a perpetual waterfall.

  But inside, the structure had been fashioned to look like a natural cave, the walls irregular, rough, damp. As Morgan stepped into the inner chamber, he felt the closeness of the low ceiling arched above him. A swath of weak sunlight streamed through a high' barred and grilled window on the opposite side of the chamber, falling on the stark black marble sarcophagus which dominated that side of the room—the tomb of Dominic, Corwyn's first duke. A carved stone chair faced the tomb in the center of the chamber. There was a candlestick with a stump of candle on the sarcophagus, but the metal was dulled by a winter's disuse, the candle stump mouse-nibbled and burned down.

  But Morgan had not entered the grotto to pay homage to his ancient ancestor today. It was the rest of the chamber he was interested in—the side walls of the cavern, smoothed and plastered, then inlaid with mosaic portraits of those whose special favor was thought to be on the House of Corwyn.

  Scanning briefly, Morgan saw representations of the Trinity, the Archangel Michael slaying the Dragon of Darkness, Saint Raphael the Healer, Saint George with his dragon. There were others, but Morgan was interested in only one. Turrfing to the left, he took three practiced steps which carried him to the opposite side of the chamber, then held his torch aloft before the

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  portrait of—Camber of Culdi, the Deryni Lord of Culdi, Defensor Hominum.

  Morgan had never quite resolved his strange fascination for the being of the portrait. In fact, he had only really become aware of Camber's importance last fall, when he and Duncan were struggling to keep Kelson on the throne.

  He'd had "visions" then. At first there had been only the fleeting impression of that other's presence, the eerie feeling that other hands and powers were assisting his own. But then he had seen the face—or he thought he had seen the face. And it had always appeared in connection with something concerned with the legendary Deryni saint.

  Saint Camber. Camber of Culdi. A name to resound in the annals of Deryni history. Camber, who had discovered, during the dark days of the Interregnum, that the awesome Deryni powers could sometimes be bestowed on humans; Camber, who had turned the tide for the Restoration and brought the human rulers of old back to power.

  He had been canonized for it. A grateful people could not find high enough praise for the man who had brought the hated Deryni dictatorship to an end. But human memory was short. And* in time the sons of man forgot that salvation as well as suffering had come from the hands of the Deryni. The brutal reaction which swept through the Eleven Kingdoms then had been a thing most humans wished to forget. Thousands of innocent Deryni perished by the sword or in other, more perverse ways, in supposed retribution for what their fathers had done. When it was over, only a handful survived—most of them in hiding, a few under the tenuous protection of a minute number of powerful human lords who remembered how it had really been. Needless to say, Camber's sainthood had been one of the first casualties.

  Camber of Culdi, Defensor Hominum. Camber of

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  Culdi, Patron of Deryni Magic. Camber of Culdi, at whose portrait a descendant of that same race of sorcerers now gazed with impatient curiosity, trying to fathom the strange bond he seemed to have acquired with the long-dead Deryni Lord.

  Morgan held his torch closer to the mosaic and studied the face, trying to force finer detail to emerge from the rough texture of the inky. The eyes stared back at him—light eyes above a firm, resolute chin. The rest was obscured by the monkish cowl draped around the head, but Morgan had the distinct impression that the man would have been blond, had the hood been permitted to fall back. He couldn't say why. Perhaps it was a carryover from the visions he'd encountered.

  Idly, he wondered whether the visions would ever resume, felt a shiver of apprehension ripple down his spine as the thought crossed his mind. I
t couldn't be Saint Camber really. Or could it?

  Lowering the torch, Morgan stepped back a pace, still looking at the mosaic portrait. While not irreligious by any means, he found that the idea of divine or semidivine intervention on his behalf bothered him. He didn't like the idea of Heaven being that watchful of him.

  Still, if not Saint Camber, then who? Another Deryni? No human could do the things the being had done. And if Deryni, why didn't he say so? Surely he must realize what Morgan would be thinking about such manifestations. And he seemed to be helping; but why the secrecy? Maybe it was Saint Camber.

  He shuddered and crossed himself self-consciously at the thought, then shook himself back to sanity. Such thinking was getting him nowhere. He must pull his thoughts together.

  Abruptly, he heard a commotion ensuing in the courtyard on the other side of the garden, and then

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  running footsteps coming through the garden in his direction.

  "Morgan! Morgan?"

  It was Deny's voice.

  Slipping back through the access way, Morgan jammed his torch into the wall bracket and stepped out into the sunlight. As he did, Deny spotted him and changed course, running across the grey garden toward the duke.

  "M'lord!" Deny yelled, his face alight with excitement. "Come out to the courtyard. See who's here!"

  "Rhafaflia's not in port already, is she?" Morgan called as he headed toward the young man.

  "No, sir," Deny laughed, shaking his head. "You'll have to see for yourself. Come on!"

  Mystified, Morgan started back across the garden, raising an inquiring eyebrow as he reached Deny and fell into step beside him. Deny was beaming from ear to ear—a reaction which could indicate the presence of a good horse, a beautiful woman, or—

  "Duncan!" Morgan finished aloud as he stepped through the gate and saw his cousin across the courtyard.

  There was Duncan swinging down from a huge, mud-splattered grey destrier, his black cloak damp and wind-whipped, the edge of his riding cassock torn and muddied. Ten or twelve guards in Kelson's royal crimson livery dismounted around him, and Morgan recognized Kelson's own squire, young Richard FitzWilliam, holding the grey's bridle as Duncan dismounted.