“Don’t be impertinent,” Arilan muttered. “And what do you mean, you don’t know that he’s Deryni?”
“Just that, Bishop. There’s nothing in his family to account for any of this—unless you can count that rather undefinable talent the border folk refer to as the Second Sight. Dhugal does have shields, though, and he doesn’t have the first clue what to do with them. As Duncan’s consecration gathered momentum, it must have seemed like an enormous pressure beating against those shields he only recently learned he had, and which he doesn’t know how to lower.”
“You say ‘recently.’ How recently?”
Morgan tried to curb his impatience. “Three weeks ago, while we were in Culdi for the convocation. It happened the night you asked me to try to contact Kelson and let him know about the attack on Duncan. Kelson put him in the link to augment his power, but Dhugal felt something that frightened him enough to kick both of them right out of the link. Then he nearly went into convulsions when Kelson tried to read him.”
“Has anyone tried since, or anyone besides Kelson?” Arilan asked, a little subdued after listening to Morgan’s account.
“I tried,” Duncan said as he joined them. “He didn’t seem to mind my probe as much as Kelson’s, but nor was I any more successful at getting through. It was like going up against an obsidian wall. The harder I pushed, the stronger it got. And when Kelson joined in, thinking he might be of help, Dhugal had another violent reaction.”
“I see.” Arilan sighed resignedly. “And you, Alaric?”
“I wasn’t able to bring him through the Portal without roughing him up physically,” Morgan replied. “My touch seems to fall somewhere between Kelson’s and Duncan’s on a comfort scale. I was able to get around his shields enough to heal his injuries, but only while he was unconscious. I wouldn’t have wanted to try it otherwise.”
Arilan glanced at Dhugal, letting Kelson help him to a seat at the table set back from the fireplace, then shepherded Morgan and Duncan with him as he moved purposefully to join them. Dhugal started to rise, courteous even in his confusion and apprehension, but Arilan stayed him with a gesture and pulled out a chair for Kelson to sit, only then taking a seat himself. At Duncan’s sign, Morgan took the remaining chair to Dhugal’s right, across from the king.
“With your permission, Sire,” Arilan said, nodding to Kelson, “I should like to get right to the heart of this matter. Dhugal,” he conjured handfire in a softly glowing blue-white sphere which he set in the center of the table, “I think this should answer any question about what I am and why I presume to take charge in this matter. Will you trust me?”
Dhugal had jerked back as the fire materialized, new apprehension flaring around the still pulsing shields, but a glance at Kelson lent him sufficient courage to push his anxiety to a lower level. Morgan was amazed. As Dhugal drew a deep, steadying breath, he folded his shaking hands in deliberate mimicry of Kelson’s, setting them but a handspan from the handfire glowing in the center of the table, and made himself look squarely into the eyes of the Deryni bishop.
“I’d be lying if I said I’m not afraid, Excellency, but my—friend Duke Alaric has taught me a great deal in the last little while. And Kelson told me of you before. I’ll try to do as you ask.”
Arilan’s mouth quirked upward in grudging response—even he could not deny the boy had pluck—but Morgan caught his disapproval of Kelson’s indiscretion quite clearly. He was glad it was directed at the king instead of himself.
“Very well. We shall see just how much you have learned,” Arilan said. “I assume I shan’t have to go into long, involved explanations of what I should like to do.”
“N-no, sir.”
With a sigh and a glance at the rest of them which bespoke impatience only barely held in check, Arilan flexed his fingers and lifted one hand toward Dhugal’s forehead. The startled Dhugal started to draw back in reflex avoidance; but then he took another deep breath and leaned closer so that Arilan could touch him. He flinched at the contact, but he did not draw away even when Arilan began to probe, though the process obviously caused him some discomfort. After a moment, Arilan dropped his hand and sat back, sighing again.
“Well, there’s no question of the shields. Given time and the right support, I could probably breach them, but it might do permanent damage. I see no need to risk that. Duncan, you said he didn’t seem to mind your touch as much. Are you willing to give it another try?”
Duncan, standing between Arilan and Morgan, looked at Dhugal in question. “That depends. Are you willing, Dhugal? I’ll stop whenever you want, if it gets too bad.”
Licking his lips nervously, Dhugal swallowed and gave a nod. Without further ado, Duncan came around to stand behind his chair, resting his hands lightly on Dhugal’s shoulders.
“Has Kelson taught you how to relax by using deep breathing?” he asked, easing Dhugal’s shoulders back against his chest and sliding his thumbs up to rest on the pulse points in his throat.
“A little.”
“Good. That will make things much easier for both of us. Take a deep breath, then, and let it out, and try to concentrate on your heartbeat. You should be able to feel it against my thumbs. Do you?”
“Aye.”
“Excellent. Take another breath, then—that’s good—and now close your eyes and let all your muscles go limp. And another deep breath. Good …”
Morgan dared not follow Duncan’s probe for fear of spilling over into the precarious balance he was building, but he could see physical signs of Dhugal ceasing his resistance. The boy did not tense or even seem to notice as Duncan shifted his fingertips up to overlap temples and forehead. He relaxed even more as Duncan bowed his head to rest his lips against the reddish hair. They stayed that way for most of a minute, still and balanced, until finally Duncan slowly raised his head and opened his eyes, coming back to normal consciousness with a blink. Dhugal, too, looked up and blinked as Duncan slipped his hands back to Dhugal’s shoulders.
“Well?” Arilan asked.
Duncan shook his head. “No clash—and no pain, I don’t think, was there, Dhugal?”
Dhugal shook his head, twisting around to stare up at Duncan in awe. “What did you do?”
“Well, I didn’t get through,” Duncan replied. “I just went round and round. Any suggestions, anyone?”
With a perplexed sigh, Arilan sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “Fascinating. He’s either one of us or another damned Warin de Grey. I don’t suppose one of you has a shiral at hand?”
As Duncan nodded and went across the room to rummage in a desk drawer, Dhugal whispered, “What—what’s a shiral?”
“It won’t hurt you,” Kelson said quickly. “It’s a clear amber stone. One finds them in streambeds—and sometimes along the seashore.”
“Well, wh-what does it do?”
Morgan smiled. “It’s sensitive to the kind of power that Deryni can draw upon. That’s all. Remember how we talked earlier about power not being good or evil of itself, but only the use being good or evil?”
Dhugal’s nod was still very apprehensive.
“Well, all a shiral crystal does is serve as a focus,” Morgan continued. “If you have the ability, or even the potential ability, to wield the kind of power we do, the crystal will glow.”
“But, I’m not D—”
“Dhugal, you don’t know what you are right now,” Kelson muttered under his breath. “All we know for sure is that you’ve got those bloody shields!”
Duncan returned to the table, undoing the strings of a small leather bag, and withdrew a wad of age-yellowed silk. As he carefully unwrapped it and Dhugal craned his neck to see what was inside, loops of a fine leather thong sprang free, strung through the center of a honey-colored lump the size of an almond.
“I’ve had this since I was younger than Dhugal,” Duncan said, holding it to the light by its thongs as he tossed bag and silk on the table. “It isn’t the clearest of crystals, but it’s always been su
fficient for my purposes.”
As Dhugal stared, half afraid and half intrigued, Arilan caught the dangling stone against his sleeve and peered at it more closely, quenching his handfire with a gesture, then released it and sat back, giving Duncan a nod.
“I’d hoped for better, but it will do. Go ahead and test him. You know what’s involved.”
“But I don’t know what’s involved,” Dhugal protested, as Duncan moved back behind his chair and extended the crystal over his shoulder.
“I assure you, there’s even less chance of discomfort from this than there was from what we just did,” Duncan murmured. “Just hold the stone in your hand—either hand. Physically, it won’t feel different from any other stone.”
Hesitantly, Dhugal reached up, flinching when the stone first touched his skin. But then he closed it resolutely in his palm and dared another questioning glance at Duncan.
“What next?”
“Close your eyes and try to ignore what’s in your hand,” Duncan said with a smile, slipping his hands to Dhugal’s shoulders and bearing him back in the chair again. “I’m not going to do anything different from what I did before, so there isn’t a thing to be anxious about. Take a deep breath and let it out slowly. This won’t take long.”
With a nervous nod, Dhugal obeyed, gradually calming again as Duncan droned on, soothing and reassuring. When Arilan at length reached across the table to touch the boy’s closed fist lightly, the hand relaxed enough for all present to see golden light streaming from the crystal clutched inside. Arilan pursed his lips as he glanced at Morgan and Kelson, then nodded for Duncan to bring the test to an end. The light in Dhugal’s hand flickered and died, but not before Dhugal’s eyes fluttered open and he caught just a glimpse.
“It was glowing! I saw it!”
As his hand jerked open in reflex, Duncan leaned down to snatch the crystal before it could be spilled onto the table. Kelson nodded, a grin creasing his face.
“We saw it, too. You’re not going mad. Guess what it means.”
“It means that he’s probably another rogue Deryni like the rest of you,” Arilan muttered, pushing back his chair with a jarring scrape of wood on stone floor before Dhugal could reply. “And where does his power come from?”
As he stood and turned to face the fire, Kelson laid a protective hand on the awed Dhugal’s shoulder.
“I can’t answer that, Arilan, but I don’t think I really care right now,” the king said pointedly. “Nor do I think we should pursue this more right now. He’s been through enough for one day.”
“I agree, my prince,” Morgan said, following Kelson’s lead. “Not only that, I seem to recall we’re supposed to be celebrating the creation of a new bishop this evening.”
“The feast, I think, does not begin until well after sunset,” Arilan answered curtly. “We still have time to—”
“We still have time for Dhugal to have some rest before the feast, if he wishes,” Kelson said as he rose. “Right now, that takes precedence.”
“But the Council will want—”
“What the Council wants is not at issue here,” Kelson replied sharply, eliciting a near-gasp from Arilan and an exchange of stunned glances between Morgan and Duncan. “Nor do I think this is the time or the place to discuss it further, do you?”
Arilan could have no answer to that, with the others in the room. As the king drew Dhugal to his feet and they started toward the door, Arilan made a sparse bow.
“I apologize if I seemed to press the issue, Sire.”
Kelson paused with Dhugal in the open doorway to look back at all three of them.
“Apology accepted. And Father Duncan, I suspect you could also use some rest. This has been a long day for you as well.”
Duncan shrugged. “I have no complaints, Sire.”
“I see. Nonetheless, we’ll all plan to meet again at the feast. Morgan, Arilan, are you coming?”
Morgan would have stayed, for his curiosity about the afternoon’s varied events was far stronger than any real need for rest; but if he had, Arilan also might have wanted to—and if Arilan stayed, conversation was sure to come round eventually to the old disagreements about half-Deryni and the Camberian Council. Besides, the king’s tone put the question almost in the form of a command. Both Morgan and Arilan went, the Deryni bishop all but muttering under his breath.
When they had gone, Duncan sat back in the chair Dhugal had just vacated and closed the shiral crystal in his hand, letting his mind wander back to boyhood and the giver of the stone. The memories were sweet, and he sat dreaming into the firelight until the shadows lengthened and the golden light died from behind the amber glass at his back.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
He that justifieth the wicked, and he that condemneth the just, even they both are abominations to the Lord.
—Proverbs 17:15
The news of Duncan’s consecration to the episcopate came as no great surprise to the would-be Mearan court in Ratharkin. Creoda had warned them to expect that. It was merely another justification for war, so far as Caitrin and Sicard were concerned, though it vexed Loris and Judhael greatly. Equally anticipated was Kelson’s renewed demand for Caitrin’s submission by Christmas, with its hints of dire consequences to his hostages if Caitrin did not comply or if further harm came to Istelyn.
But Archbishop Bradene’s writ of excommunication, read aloud with increasing disbelief and horror by an appalled Judhael, came as a total shock. So enraged was Loris that he overturned his chair in his haste to get to Judhael and snatch the offending document.
“How dare they?” he gasped, his breath coming in sharp, rasping wheezes as he scanned the signatures and seals appended at the bottom, little droplets of spittle spattering the parchment and his purple cassock. “Who do they think they are?”
Brandishing the writ as if he wished it were a physical weapon, Loris stalked across the room to where Caitrin and Sicard stood staring blindly out an oriel window, arms around one another’s waists for comfort, devastated by the treble blow. Back a few paces, a pasty-faced Ithel divided his attention between watching his parents, Loris, and Judhael, and nervously twisting the end of one of his cloak strings.
“How dare they?” Loris repeated. “Excommunicated, by God! Me! And by my own former subordinates! I am outraged! I am speechless!”
“Hardly that,” Sicard muttered, though Loris did not hear him, caught up as he was in further diatribes against the bishops in Rhemuth and the Haldane royal house.
But Sicard shared the tight-lipped anxiety of his wife and liege lady, and the helpless confusion of his son. When Loris at last ran out of expletives and holy oaths, Sicard let fall the drapery he had withdrawn to gaze out at the morning snowfall and turned back into the room, taking Caitrin’s elbow to guide her back to the chairs before the fireplace. At his gesture, Ithel hurried to upend the chair Loris had overturned.
“Enough of self-indulgence—on all our parts,” Sicard said, glancing pointedly at Loris and signing for Judhael to join them. “We have heard the response from Gwynedd. Now we must decide what to do about it. Sit here, my dear.”
Composing herself deliberately, Caitrin sat, carefully spreading her fur-lined skirts around her feet and arranging her hands just so in her lap. When she looked up, Sicard had dropped to one knee beside her, one hand resting on her chair arm, and Judhael stood expectantly behind him. Ithel waited at her right. Loris, with ill-disguised resentment at Sicard’s tone, came to stand in front of the chair Ithel had just set back in place—though something in the family tableau before him cautioned him not to presume by sitting until invited.
“My queen,” Sicard said softly, before Loris could choose a suitable remark, “we are yours to command, as you know well, but I fear the Haldane has struck a telling blow this time. Is it your wish to continue as we have thus far, knowing that we lie under the ban of the Church?”
“Not the ban of the Church!” Loris snapped. “The ban of a handful of outlaw bishop
s who have betrayed their oath of obedience to me!” He remembered himself sufficiently to bow slightly in apology. “Forgive me, Highness, but there can be no question of capitulating simply because of a bit of parchment and wax. This is what I think of it!”
With a grandiose flourish, he flung it into the fireplace, but at Caitrin’s urgent gasp, Ithel scrambled onto the raised hearth and rescued it, pinching out the embers along the edges where it had started to burn and stifling an oath as molten wax dripped on his hand from one of the seals.
“That is not the answer,” Sicard said, rising to pull a straight-backed chair beside his wife’s. “And that bit of parchment and wax, as you call it, seemed to give you cause for consternation, Archbishop. Nor does denying it make it cease to exist, unfortunately.”
He took Caitrin’s hand in his as he sat, chafing at it in futile attempt to comfort. Loris scowled.
“The writ is an annoyance. It has no force,” he said. “Those who issued it had no authority to do so.”
“What matters authority?” Caitrin whispered. “One needs no authority to make a curse—and that is what it is, for all its high-flown language. We folk of the hills understand such things, Archbishop. You cannot dismiss a curse as lightly as that.”
“Then we must counter it as you think appropriate,” Loris said, easing into the chair behind him and studying them both carefully. “Shall I curse them back? It would give me great personal satisfaction. I can and shall countermand the writ and proclaim the same against the House of Haldane and her outlaw bishops. But you must do your part as well, Highness. This needs must be the spur which drives you to give the king the answer he deserves. We must not be intimidated by Haldane threats anymore.”
“The Haldane has learned to threaten well, for all that he is hardly grown,” Caitrin replied dully, picking up the other document which had accompanied the excommunication: Kelson’s answer to her last defiance. “He repeats his demand for my surrender, Archbishop. And he still holds my Llewell and Sidana to hostage.”
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