“If you asked it as king, he’d have no choice.”
“And what is your choice?” Kelson asked.
Dhugal grinned. “We were like brothers once, Kelson. We still make a good team.” He glanced over his shoulder at the sleeping Bertie and back again. “What do you think?”
“I think,” said Kelson, “that we should ride up to Transha in the morning and find out what he’ll say.”
CHAPTER THREE
And thou shalt put the mitre upon his head …
—Exodus 29:6
The rain which had been only an annoyance to Kelson, in Transha, had turned to storm by the time it reached Culdi the following afternoon. Stamping mud from the soles of thigh-high riding boots, Morgan paused just inside the doorway to the guest apartments at Culdi Abbey to shake more water from his streaming leather cloak. He and Duncan had intended to ride in the hills nearby as soon as the afternoon session of the consistory adjourned, but the unexpected storm had neatly stymied that plan. Now the iron grey R’Kassan stud moping down in the bishop’s barn would have to wait another day, and perhaps longer, he and his master both growing surly and restless from the forced inactivity. It hardly seemed fair, especially with Kelson out enjoying himself.
Blowing on gloved fingers to warm them, Morgan stalked on along the corridor toward Duncan’s temporary quarters and indulged a brief fantasy about a rainstorm in Transha, too. The notion brought a smile to his lips. None of the servants were about when he let himself into the common room Duncan shared with his master, Archbishop Cardiel, so he built up the fire himself and set wine to mull, spreading his sodden cloak on a stool to dry and shedding cap and gloves. Half an hour later, Duncan found his friend ensconced in a deeply recessed window seat which overlooked the cloister garth, boots propped indolently on the stone bench opposite and a steaming cup all but forgotten in one hand. His nose was pressed to the rain-streaked window glass, free hand shading his eyes against glare.
“I see I was right,” Duncan said, casting off his black cloak and rubbing his hands briskly before the fire. “When I saw how hard it was raining, I guessed that even you wouldn’t choose to ride in this kind of weather. What are you looking at?”
“The ambitious Father Judhael,” Morgan replied, not moving from his vantage point. “Come and see.”
Duncan needed no second invitation, for Judhael of Meara was probably the single most controversial candidate being evaluated by the bishops. Though unimpeachable on ecclesiastical grounds, and personable enough as an individual, his family connections inspired more suspicion than confidence among those aware of the politics which went with the Mearan See, for Judhael was nephew to the Pretender Caitrin. Just now, he was standing outside the door to the chapter house, deep in conversation with old Creoda of Carbury, Bishop of the new See of Culdi since last winter and host for this convocation. Only when the two had moved off down another corridor and disappeared from sight did Duncan draw back from the window.
“I don’t like that,” the priest said softly, glancing at Morgan with tight-lipped disapproval. “Old Creoda can change with the wind. You remember how he stayed by Loris almost to the end, two summers ago. When the bishops decided to phase out his old see, I thought for sure they’d retire him. Who would have guessed they’d give him Culdi instead?”
“Hmmm, I shan’t argue that,” Morgan agreed. “He certainly wouldn’t have been my choice for a see so closely associated with a Deryni saint. But perhaps they thought Carsten would balance him, with Culdi being so close to Meara. I doubt anyone expected that Carsten wouldn’t last out the year.”
Duncan raised an eyebrow. “No? But then, no one asked me. Carsten’s health had been frail for some time. Everyone in Kierney and Cassan knew that. Still, there was no real trouble in Meara while he was alive. Now that he’s gone, most of the Mearan clergy are suddenly talking about Judhael for his replacement. Now, that’s one I certainly don’t fancy being appointed to the See of Meara.”
“Judhael?” Morgan toyed with one of the links of his captain-general’s chain, tapping the engraved gold against a front tooth as he nodded. “Nor do I. It’s entirely too much like a real throne. Even by separatist standards, he’s too far down the succession to press his own claim to the Mearan coronet, but as Bishop of Meara, he could certainly exert a great deal of influence for his aunt and her sons.”
“Those sons—” Duncan snorted. “Sometimes I think we’d be better off if old Malcolm had killed off all the other Mearan heirs when he took the coronet and married Roisian. Perhaps that sounds cold and unpriestly, but it might have prevented a lot more bloodshed later on.”
“Aye. And our Mearan princelings are only a little younger than Kelson: just old enough to be ambitious about asserting their mother’s claim. And Judhael on a bishop’s throne could be the foot in the door. The very thought gives me the shakes.”
“You’ll get no argument from me on that,” Duncan replied. “The sad thing is, he’s well qualified for the job. His record as a priest is spotless, and he has all the right administrative abilities to make a very good bishop.”
“Or the focus for a separatist revolt,” Morgan said. “Still, credentials like his will make it very difficult to ignore his candidacy. And let’s face it: the man had no more say about being born into a cadet royal house than you and I did about being born Deryni.”
“More’s the pity.”
With a sigh, Duncan turned away from the window and sat down in a high-backed chair whose shadows nearly swallowed his black cassock, stretching out his legs toward the fire. Morgan followed him, lifting mulled wine in wordless question and only refilling his own cup when Duncan shook his head. As Morgan sat in another chair beside him, Duncan rolled his head in Morgan’s direction and looked at him searchingly, folding his hands and tapping joined forefingers against his cheek as he rested his elbows on the chair arms.
“I’m beginning to be really concerned, Alaric,” the priest said softly. “We’ve interviewed a lot of candidates, but none of them match up to Judhael. Oh, some are better in one area or another, but none of them average out as well.”
“What about that one they interviewed this morning?” Morgan asked. “What was his name—Father Benoit? He seemed well qualified to me.”
Duncan shook his head. “A fine priest, but far too naive to cope with the Mearan situation. He’s someone to keep in mind for the future, and he can be groomed for the episcopate in some subsidiary post, but that doesn’t help us now. No, what we need is a good compromise candidate—and I’m not sure he exists. He needs to be the king’s man, but he also ought to have at least some familiarity with Mearan politics. The only men who seem to fill both requirements are either too young or too inexperienced. They can’t all be like Arilan, I suppose: auxiliary bishop at thirty-five, and with his own see before he was forty.”
“No, I suppose not,” Morgan said. He took a thoughtful pull at his wine, then cocked his head at Duncan. “Has it occurred to you that perhaps the bishops have expanded the episcopal structure a little too quickly?—reviving three old sees and only abolishing one—that you’ve used up your reserve of men qualified to promote? Plus, you’ve lost—what?—four bishops in the past two years? Five, if you count Loris.”
Duncan grimaced. “Count that a blessing, not a loss, cousin. Anyway, he’s safely locked away at Saint Iveagh’s, so I don’t think we need to worry.”
“Let’s hope not. Wouldn’t that muddy the waters, if he got out?”
“Don’t even think it. They say he hasn’t changed a bit, you know,” Duncan went on, in a more confidential tone. “I hear he nearly had apoplexy when he heard Arilan had been made Bishop of Dhassa.”
“Did he, now?”
“Oh, you needn’t pretend to be surprised,” Duncan replied with a droll grin. “Who, of all the so-called rebel bishops, was largely responsible for his fall, after all? And even if Loris doesn’t know for sure that Arilan’s Deryni, think about it. A suspected Deryni in one of the oldest sees in Gwy
nedd? It would have been bad enough if he’d only stayed the assistant in Rhemuth.”
As if the mere mention of Arilan’s name had conjured his presence, the door opened at that moment to admit Bishop Denis Arilan, closely followed by Cardiel. The two looked inordinately pleased with themselves as Duncan and Morgan divested them of their soggy cloaks, Cardiel shaking rain from his steel grey hair and smoothing back little wings of it over his ears with both palms as he sat in the chair which Morgan held for him. As the darker-haired Arilan also sat, leaning forward lazily to poke at the fire with a piece of kindling, Cardiel glanced at Duncan, who was setting new cups on the hearth by the pot of mulled wine.
“Duncan, a messenger’s just arrived for you in the inner court-yard,” he said. “A lad wearing your ducal livery. He’s taking an amazing number of dispatches off a packhorse.”
Grinning, Duncan turned over his hosting duties to Morgan and rose.
“Ah, well, I suppose they’ve found me. I was rather afraid the correspondence would catch up with me, if I stayed too long in Culdi. Will you excuse me for a moment, sir? I suppose I really ought to see what he’s got.”
Cardiel said nothing as he waved permission, but as Duncan left the room, Morgan was once again struck by an undercurrent of something brewing beneath the surface, another hint of the self-satisfaction he had sensed when the two first entered. He wondered about it as he handed Cardiel a steaming cup, aware, as their fingers brushed, that Cardiel was the source of most of it, but he did not even consider probing deeper with Arilan present. The Deryni bishop had a knack for knowing when he or Duncan were using their powers in ways of which he did not approve—in almost any way, it sometimes seemed. Of late, it often made Morgan ill-at-ease even to be around Arilan, though that was not the case today.
“Well, I’m glad Duncan’s messenger arrived when he did,” Cardiel said, as Morgan passed Arilan a second brimming cup. “We wanted to discuss something with you privately, very quickly before he comes back. What would you think of Duncan being consecrated bishop a little sooner than we’d planned?”
Morgan nearly dropped the cup he was refilling for himself.
“You’re not thinking to make him Bishop of Meara after all, are you?”
“No, no—not of Meara,” Cardiel reassured him quickly. “Just my assistant, as we’d already decided. We have found a candidate for Meara, however. If we take him, I’m going to need Duncan’s help more than ever.”
Morgan made no attempt to hide his sigh of relief. Still shaking his head slightly, he hooked a three-legged stool closer to the two and sat, his back to the fire.
“Sweet Jesu, I confess I thought you’d taken leave of your senses for a moment there. Are you really going to pass over Judhael?”
“Not—exactly,” Cardiel replied. “That is, we’re not going to consecrate someone else bishop instead of him. We’ve been aware from the beginning that any bishop not to the Mearans’ liking was going to have his hands full, trying to learn his job and cope with Mearan hostility both at once. But suppose we were to put someone in Meara who’s already experienced? That would eliminate half the problem from the start.”
“You’d transfer an existing bishop, then,” Morgan guessed, running swiftly down the list of prelates in his mind.
Arilan lowered his cup to nod. “That’s correct. And there can be no question about passing over Judhael in favor of a man who already knows how to run a diocese.”
“Except that all your diocesan bishops are already occupied,” Morgan said, even more mystified. “Where are you going to find this paragon?”
Cardiel smiled. “Henry Istelyn, Bradene’s assistant.”
“Ah.”
“He’s already been handling a great deal of work behind the scenes for Bradene for the past two years,” Arilan said. “Furthermore, when he was first made an itinerant bishop, several years ago, he spent a great deal of time in Kierney and the border areas. He probably knows the people better than anyone besides Judhael himself—or Duncan, of course. But we’ve already agreed that he’s to be otherwise occupied.”
Morgan nodded thoughtfully. From Gwynedd’s point of view, the selection of Istelyn made perfect sense—but simply choosing a logically qualified candidate did not eliminate the very practical political repercussions which were likely to result if anyone besides Judhael were posted to Meara.
“You’re saddling Istelyn with a heavy responsibility,” he said. “What makes you think the Mearans will accept him? They have their minds set on Judhael.”
“That’s true,” Arilan agreed. “However, even if they object—”
“Which you know they’re going to do, if it’s anyone else—”
“Even if they object,” Arilan continued, “it’s too late in the season to mount any kind of major military campaign to try to oust him. Ratharkin will be secure enough through the winter, if we leave him a detachment of episcopal troops for local security. And with the king planning to campaign in Meara next year …”
At Morgan’s still-doubtful expression, Cardiel spread his hands helplessly.
“There isn’t going to be a perfect candidate, Alaric—not one who will please every faction. And we could certainly find a lot worse than Istelyn. Incidentally, when is the king due back? Naturally, we’d like his concurrence before we go ahead with any formal announcement.”
Morgan raised an eyebrow, still unconvinced. “I had word this morning that he expects to be back in a few days. He’s headed north to see the Earl of Transha.”
“Transha—that’s The MacArdry?” Cardiel asked.
Arilan nodded knowingly. “I remember when his younger son was fostered at court a few years ago: a bright lad, about Kelson’s age, as I recall. What was his name?”
“Dhugal,” Morgan replied. “In any case, Kelson apparently ran across him over Trurill way, so he’s decided to ride back to Transha with the boy and pay a courtesy call on the old man.”
“Well, I suppose a few days won’t make any difference, one way or the other,” Cardiel said. “There are still details to work out on Istelyn—such as finding out whether he’s even willing to take on Meara. This assumes, of course, that Kelson has no objection.”
Before Morgan could reply, a sharp cry and the sounds of a scuffle in the corridor outside suddenly intruded, punctuated by a mental scream: Duncan’s. Morgan was on his feet and moving before the others could even glance in that direction. As he burst into the corridor, he saw Duncan struggling with someone at the far end, but by the time he could reach them, Duncan was letting the body of his attacker slide to the floor. There was blood everywhere.
“Are you all—”
“Don’t touch me,” Duncan gasped, cradling a bloody right hand against his equally bloody cassock and wobbling to his knees. “There was merasha on the blade.” He glanced woozily at his motionless attacker. “Christ, I’m afraid I killed him.”
Merasha. The very word took Morgan back for just an instant to a chapel that was no more, and a barb on an altar rail gate, and the terror of being in the drug’s grip, helpless to use his powers, at the mercy of men who would have killed him because of what he was. Duncan had gotten him out and nursed him through the worst of the physical effects of the ordeal, but the memory had never been fully exorcised, especially that final, haunting image of the stake wrapped with chains, which they had passed as they made their escape. It had been intended for him.
“Never mind him,” Morgan replied, stepping over the body to crouch cautiously beside the wounded priest. “Where are you hurt? How much of that blood is yours?”
Drawn by the disturbance, others were congregating in the corridor to gawk, servants and priests and even a few guards from the courtyard outside, forcing Cardiel and Arilan to push their way through to reach Duncan’s side. White-faced, Duncan only shook his head and drew in his breath between clenched teeth as he gingerly eased open his right hand. The palm was slashed almost to the bone where he had tried to ward off his attacker’s knif
e with his bare hand, but more terrifying, by far, was the wave of queasy disharmony that he radiated as Morgan reached out in instinctive mental probe and as quickly recoiled.
“Careful of the blade,” Morgan warned, though Arilan had already stopped with his hand poised above the knife as he, too, sensed the drug’s effects.
Taking care to avoid the blood, which might carry traces of the drug to affect them as well, the two Deryni turned over the dead assassin. Bright scarlet stained the front of the blue Cassani livery and steamed where it had pooled on the cold stone beneath the body, welling from a second mouth which gaped beneath a beardless chin. The bloody face could not have been more than fourteen.
“Why, it’s a boy!” Cardiel murmured.
“As God is my witness, I had no choice,” Duncan whispered, closing his hand again and slumping back to sit on his heels. “Until he actually cut me, I thought he was legitimate.”
“You don’t know him?” Arilan asked.
“No—but I wouldn’t expect to recognize every last page or squire in my service. And with—with the merasha in me, I was afraid that if I didn’t kill him while I still could, he might be able to outwait me, until I was helpless from the drug. Why did he do it?”
Morgan shook his head, reaching out gingerly with his mind as he slid a hand around the back of the boy’s neck, where there was less blood. Sometimes it was possible to read just a little from a dead man’s mind, if he had not been dead too long, but Morgan could detect nothing beyond a few hazy images of dim childhood memories, fading even as he read them. While Arilan and a monk began gathering up the scattered dispatches, he carefully searched the body for anything which might give them a clue as to the boy’s identity or origin, but there was nothing. Duncan was beginning to weave as Morgan glanced over at him again, his blue eyes glassy from the drug, keeping them open only by the sheerest force of will. Cardiel had an arm around his shoulder to support him, but it was obvious that Duncan was slipping fast into the chaos of the merasha. Whoever the assassin had been, he had known his quarry to be Deryni.
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