Deryni Checkmate

by Katherine Kurtz

  'Even havens rustle low?'

  No, that was a charm for a good harvest. True, it might be applied to the lady at a later date, perhaps even to produce a son, if that was what Rimmell wanted. But it was not the charm that Bethane wanted now.

  There was the call to Baazam—that was very powerful. But, no, she shook her head disapprovingly. That was a dark charm, a killing charm. Darrell had made her give up those things long ago. Besides, she would never wish that on the beautiful young woman of the locket. She herself might have looked much like that lady once. Darrell had told her she was beautiful, at any rate.

  She squinted down at the portrait again as a ghost' of remembrance flitted across her mind.

  The woman in the locket—had she not seen her once before? It had been years ago, when her sight

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  was better and she was not so old and crippled, but— yes! She remembered now.

  There was a beautiful blond child, with three older boys who must have been her brothers or cousins. There had been a ride on mountain ponies, a leisurely meal on the green grass carpet which covered Beth-ane's hillside in the summer months. And the children were noble children, sons of the mighty duke of Cassan—that same duke whose servant now sat entranced on Bethane's floor!

  Bronwyn! Now she remembered. The child's name had been Bronwyn. The Lady Bronwyn de Morgan, Duke Jared's niece> and half-Deryni. And she was the lady of the portrait!

  Bethane cringed and looked around guiltily. A Deryni lady. And now she, Bethane, had promised to work a charm against her. Did she dare? Would her charm even work against a half-Deryni lady? Bethane would not want to hurt her. The child Bronwyn had smiled at her in the meadow many years ago, like the daughter Bethane had never had. She had petted the lambs and ewes and talked to Bethane, had not been afraid of the wizened old widow who watched her flocks on the hillside. No, Bethane could not forget that.

  Bethane screwed up her face and wrung her hands. She had promised Rimmell, too. She did not like being put in a position like this. If she helped the architect, she might harm the girl; and she did not want to do that.

  She glanced at Rimmell, and practicality crept back into her thoughts. The pouch at the builder's waist was heavy with gold, and the sack he had dropped on the floor by the entrance was filled with bread and cheese and other good things she had not tasted in months. Bethane could smell the fresh, savory aroma permeating the cavern while she debated with herself.

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  If she did not keep her promise, Rimmell would take the food, the gold, and go.

  Very well. It would only be a little charm. Perhaps even a charm of indecision would do. Yes, that was the solution. A charm of indecision, so that the lovely Bronwyn would not be in such a hurry to marry her intended.

  And who was her intended, Bethane wondered. A Deryni woman could not expect to marry high. Such was not the lot of that long-persecuted race in these troubled times. For that matter, so long as there was no high-born lord to risk offending, why couldn't Bethane work a more powerful charm, give Rimmell the results he desired?

  With a decisive nod, Bethane climbed painfully to her feet and began rummaging through a battered trunk against the rear wall of the cave. There were dozens of items in the trunk that Bethane might use in her task, and she hunted agitatedly through an assortment of baubles, strangely-worked stones, feathers, powders, potions, and other tools of her trade.

  She pulled out a small, polished bone and cocked her grey head at it thoughtfully, then shook her head and discarded it. The same process was repeated for a dried leaf, a small carved figure of a lamb, a handful of herbs bound with a twist of plaited grass, and a small earthen pot.

  Finally she reached the bottom of the chest and found what she was looking for: a large leather sack filled with stones. She dragged the sack to the side of the chest, grunted as she hoisted it out and let it half-fall to the floor, then untied the thongs binding the bag and began sorting through the contents.

  Charms for love and charms for hate. Charms for death and charms for life. Charms to make the crops grow tall. Charms to bring pestilence to an enemy's fields. Simple charms to guard the health. Complex charms to guard the soul. Charms for the rich.

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  Charms for the poor. Charms yet unborn, but waiting for the touch of the woman.

  Humming a broken tune under her breath, Bethane selected a large blue stone embedded with blood-colored flecks, of a size to fit just comfortably in a man's hand. She rummaged in the chest until she found a small goatskin bag that would hold the stone, then replaced the large sack in the trunk and closed it. Then, taking stone and bag back to the lantern, she sat down in front of Rimmell once more and tucked stone and bag beneath the folds of her tattered robe.

  Rimmell sat entranced in front of the guttering lantern, his cupped hands held empty before him, eyes closed and relaxed. Bethane took the yellow gourd, poured water into Rimmell's hands, and once again held the locket swinging above the water. As she resumed her chant, she reached gently to Rimmell's forehead and touched his brow. The architect nodded as though catching himself falling asleep, then began watching the locket once more, unaware that anything out of the ordinary had happened, that minutes had passed of which he had no knowledge.

  Bethane finished the chant and palmed the locket, then reached beside her and produced the blood-flecked stone. She pressed the stone between her hands for a moment, her eyes hooded as she murmured something Rimmell could not catch. Then she placed the stone on the floor beneath Rimmell's hands, rested her taloned fingers on Rimmell's and looked him in the eyes.

  "Open thy hands to let the water wash" the stone," she said, her voice rasping in Rimmell's ears. "With that, the charm is accomplished and the stage is set."

  Rimmell swallowed and blinked rapidly several times, then obeyed. The water washed over the stone and was absorbed by it, and Rimmell dried his hands against his thighs in amazement.

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  Deiyni Checkmate

  "Then, it is done?" he whispered incredulously. "My lady loves me?"

  "Not yet, she does not," Bethane replied, scooping up the stone and placing it in the goatskin bag. "But she will." She dropped the bag into Rimmell's hands and sat back.

  "Take you this pouch. Inside is that which you have seen, which you are not to remove until you may safely leave it where the lady is sure to come alone. Then you must open the pouch and remove what is inside without touching it. Once the crystal is exposed to light, from this moment on, you will have only seconds in which to remove yourself from its influence. Then the charm is primed, and wants only trie lady's presence to be complete."

  "And she will be mine?"

  Bethane nodded. "The charm will bind her. Go now." She picked up the locket and dropped it into Rimmell's hand, and Rimmell tucked it and the pouch into his tunic,

  "I thank you most humbly, Dame Bethane," lie muttered, swallowing and fingering the pouch at his waist. "How—how may I repay you? I have brought food, as is the custom, but—"

  "You have gold at your belt?"

  "Aye," Rimmell whispered, fumbling with the pouch and withdrawing a small, heavy bag. "I have not much, but—" He put the bag down gingerly on the floor beside the lantern and looked at Bethane fearfully.

  Bethane glanced at the bag, then returned her gaze to Rimmell.

  "Empty the bag."

  With a gulp that was audible in the still cavern, Rimmell opened the bag and spilled trie contents on the floor before him. The coins rang with the chime of fine gold, but Bethane's gaze did not waver from the architect's face.

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  "Now, what think you the worth of my services, Master Rimmell?" she asked, watching his face for telltale signs of emotion.

  Rimmell wet his lips, and his eyes flickered to the pile of gold, which was fairly substantial. Then, with an abrupt motion he swept the entire amount closer to Bethane. The woman
smiled her haggled smile and nodded, then reached down and withdrew but six coins. The rest she pushed back to Rimmell. The architect was astonished.

  "I—I don't understand," he quavered. "Will you not take more?"

  "I have taken ample for my needs," Bethane croaked. "I but wished to test that you do, indeed, value my services. As for the rest, perhaps you will remember the widow Bethane in your prayers. In these twilight years, I fear I may need supplications to the Almighty far more than gold."

  "I—I shall do that, Dame Bethane," Rimmell stammered, scooping up his gold and returning it to his pouch. "But, is there nothing else I may do for you?"

  Bethane shook her head. "Bring your children to visit me, Architect Rimmell. Now leave me. You have what you asked, and so have I."

  "Thank you, Dame Bethane," Rimmell murmured, scrambling to his feet and marveling at his luck. "And I shall pray for you," his voice floated back through the cave entrance as he slipped through the goatskin curtain.

  As the architect disappeared into the outer world, Bethane sighed and slumped before the lantern.

  "Well, my Darrell," she whispered, rubbing the gold band on her hand against her lips, "it is done. I have set the charm to give the young man his wish. You don't think I did wrong working against a Deryni, do you?"

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  She paused, as though listening for a reply, then nodded.

  "I know, my darling. I have never used a charm against one of the occult race before. But it should work. I think I remembered all the proper words.

  "It doesn't matter anyway—as long as we're together."

  It was nearly dark when Morgan finally signaled for a stop. He and Duncan had been riding steadily since leaving Coroth early that morning, stopping at noon only long enough to water the horses and gulp down a few handfuls of travel rations.

  Now they were approaching the crest of the Len-dour mountain range, beyond which lay the fabled Gunury Pass. At the end of that pass lay the shrine of Saint Torin's, southern gateway to the free holy city of Dhassa. In the morning, when men and horses were rested, both men would pay their respects at Saint Term's shrine—a necessary procedure before being permitted to cross the wide lake to Dhassa. And then they would enter the free city of Dhassa, where no crowned head dared go without approval of the city burghers, but where Morgan would enter anyway, in disguise. And they would confront the Gwynedd Curia.

  Ruins were vaguely visible through the gloom of drizzle and lowering dusk, and Morgan reined his horse to a walk, shielded his eyes against the mist with a gloved hand. His grey eyes flicked from tower to steps to top of ruined wall, searching for signs of other occupancy; but there were no signs of recent habitation. They could safely stay the night.

  Morgan slipped his feet from the stirrups and stretched his legs, sat back in the saddle and let his feet dangle as his mount picked its way across the rough terrain leading to the gateway. Behind him, Duncan steadied his own mount as the animal slipped

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  on a patch of mud and recovered. THe pack pony, following Duncan now, peered suspiciously at each new shadow-shape in the darkness ahead, shying and jerking at its lead with every sound or hint of movement on the wind-swept plateau. Men and beasts were travel-weary and chilled to the bone.

  "Well, this is about as far as we go for tonight," Morgan said as they neared the ruined gate. The hollow squish-plop of the horses' feet in the mud changed to a simple splash as they reached the cobbled path entering the ancient courtyard. An eerie silence permeated the place despite the steady rain, and Duncan almost whispered in spite of himself as he moved his horse closer to Morgan's.

  "What is this place, Alaric?"

  Morgan guided his mount through a ruined doorway and ducked as he passed beneath a partially fallen beam.

  "Saint Neot's. It was a flourishing monastery school before the Restoration, run by an all-Deryni brotherhood. The chapel was desecrated during the sacking, and several of the brothers were slain right on the altar steps. Local folk, such as there are, avoid it like the plague. Brion and I used to ride out here."

  Morgan moved h.is mount into a dry, partially roofed corner and began pushing at random beams above his head, testing their stability, as he continued. "From what I've been able to learn, Saint Neot's ranked with the great university at Concatadine, or the Var-narite School at Grecotha when it was in its prime. Of course, being Deryni was respectable in those days."

  He pushed at a final beam and grunted in satisfaction as it held. Then he sat back in the saddle and dusted his gloved hands together in a gesture of finality.

  "Well, I guess this will do for a dry place to sleep. At least the roof won't collapse on us."

  As he dismounted, he glanced around easily, obviously familiar with the ruin. In a few minutes he and

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  Duncan had unsaddled the horses and heaped their gear against a dry wall. And by the time Morgan returned from tethering the animals in a stabling area farther back in the ruins, Duncan had started the evening meal over a carefully tended fire in the comer. Morgan sniffed appreciatively as he stripped off his dripping cloak and gloves and rubbed his hands briskly over the fire.

  "Hmmm, I was beginning to think I'd never be warm again. You've outdone yourself, Duncan."

  Duncan gave the pot a stir, then began digging through one of the sets of saddlebags. "You don't know how close we came to not having a fire, my friend. Between the wet wood, and having to choose a place where no one could see the fire from outside— what was this room?"

  "The refectory, I think." Morgan pulled several handfuls of branches out of dry crevasses and piled them near the fire. "Over to the right there were kitchens, stable facilities, and the brothers' sleeping quarters. It's in a worse state than I remembered. They must have had some hard winters up here since I was here last." He rubbed his hands together again and blew on them. "Any chance of building up the fire a little more?"

  Duncan chuckled as he uncorked a wine flask. "Not unless you want everyone in Dhassa to know we're coming. I'm telling you, I had a Devil of a time finding a place for even a piddling fire like this one. Count your blessings."

  Morgan laughed. "I appreciate your logic. I have no more wish to have my neck stretched or my throat slit than the next man." He watched as Duncan poured wine into two small copper cups, then dropped a small, glowing stone into each. The stones steamed and hissed as they hit the cold wine, and Morgan added, "As I recall, the Dhassans have some rather

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  novel ways of dealing with spies, especially Deryni ones."

  "Spare me the details!" Duncan retorted. He plucked the stones from the cups and handed one across to his cousin. "Here, drink up. This is the last of the Fianna wine."

  Morgan flopped down beside the fire with a sigh and sipped the wine, hot and potent and warming all the way down.

  "Too bad they don't drink this in Dhassa. There's nothing like Fianna wine when you're cold and tired. I gag to even contemplate the brew we'll be forced to imbibe for the next few days."

  "You're assuming, of course, tHat we'll live that long," Duncan grinned. "And that the holy Dhassans won't recognize you before we can reach our esteemed archbishops." He leaned back against the wall to savor his drink. "Did you know that it's rumored Dhassans use ale in their sacrament, because the wine is so bad?"

  "A poor joke, surely?"

  "No, I have it on excellent authority. They use sacramental ale." He leaned forward to poke at the stew. "Are you ready to eat?"

  A quarter hour later the two had found the driest spots for their bedrolls and were preparing to sleep. Duncan was trying to read his breviary by the dying firelight, and Morgan removed his sword and sat on his haunches staring out into the darkness. The wind whined through the ruins and mingled with the slackening sounds of rainfall. And close by in the darkness, Morgan could hear the scrape of iron-shod hooves against the cobbles in the stable ar
ea. From somewhere far in the distance, a night bird twittered once and then was silent. Morgan stared into the dying embers for a few more minutes, then stood abruptly and pulled his cloak around himself.

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  "I think I'll take a short walk," he murmured, fastening his cloak and moving away from the fire.

  "Is anything wrong?"

  Morgan glanced down awkwardly at his booted feet and shook his head. "Brion and I used to ride in these mountains years ago. That's all. I was suddenly reminded of that."

  "I think I understand."

  Pulling his hood close around his head, Morgan moved slowly out of the circle of firelight and into the damp darkness beyond. He thought vaguely about Brion, not yet willing to unleash the memories associated with this place, found himself at length standing beneath the open, burned-out ceiling of the old chapel. He glanced around almost surprised, for he had not intended to come here.

  It had been a large chapel once. Though the right-hand wall and most of the chancel back had long since crumbled, either from the original fire or from the weight of years, and though tHe last shards of glass had fallen long ago from the high clerestories, there was still an odor of sanctity about this place. Even the sacrilegious murder of Deryni brothers in this very chamber had not entirely destroyed the pervading calm that Morgan always associated with consecrated ground.

  He looked toward the ruined altar area, almost fancying he could discern darker stains on the steps before it, then shook his head at his own imagination. The Deryni monks who had died here were two hundred years dead, their blood long since washed away by the torrential rains which swept the mountains every spring and autumn. If the monks had ever haunted Saint Neot's, as the peasants' legends suggested, they had long ago found peace.

  He turned and wandered through a doorway still standing at the rear of the ruined nave, then smiled as he saw that the stairway to the bell tower, though

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  crumbling at the edges, was still passable. He eased his way up that stairway, staying close to the outer wall and picking his footing carefully, for it was dark and the treads were littered with debris. Then, when he reached the first landing, he inched along the outer wall to the window there, gathered his leather cloak more closely around him and sat down.