Meanwhile, with the king’s men thus occupied, the king’s squire found his opportunity to make contact with Rhydon, who had arranged to meet Jamyl in the cathedral’s sacristy. The vast building was mostly deserted at that hour, with physical preparations already completed for the morrow’s ceremonials. Jamyl could hear the distant voices of Kenneth and the others walking the galleries high above the clerestory aisles, but nothing moved in the nave below, where the only illumination besides the votive lights in the various side chapels came from a few torches left burning for the inspection party. Above, he could see more torches moving along the galleries, which would keep him aware of their whereabouts.
The sacristy door was standing slightly ajar as Jamyl approached it, gliding from shadow to shadow. He paused just outside for a moment, briefly rehearsing his cover story, should there prove to be anyone inside besides his expected contact; he dared not risk a psychic probe, since their adversary was another Deryni. Then, with a softly indrawn breath, he gently pushed the door open far enough to slip inside and softly close it. He was startled, nonetheless, to find Rhydon all at once standing in the center of the chamber, pushing back the cowl of a monk’s robes and laying one finger across his lips to caution silence.
A second gesture seemed to lower a veil around them, deadening the distant sounds of the voices far outside. Another beckoned for Jamyl to approach, as Rhydon moved toward the center of the chamber to bend and grasp a corner of the fine Kheldish carpet covering the floor before the altar, walking it back to expose the tessellated floor beneath. In its center, barely visible by the light of the altar’s Presence lamp, Jamyl could just make out a vaguely circular design.
«Come closer», Rhydon whispered, crouching down on his hunkers beside it. «You need to know about this».
At once Jamyl did as he was bidden, for the faint tingling just discernible at his feet told of a Portal matrix embedded in the mosaic design. At the other’s gesture of invitation, he shifted onto his knees to lay both hands flat on the center of the tiled motif, closing his eyes to extend his senses, grasping the psychic prickle of the Portal’s unique energy signature and setting its pattern deep in memory. As he looked up with a nod, dusting his hands against his thighs, Rhydon smiled faintly and got to his feet, Jamyl also rising so that the two of them could turn the carpet back over the Portal seal. With a glance at the door, Rhydon drew his younger companion back into the shadows nearer the vesting altar.
«Take special care tomorrow», Rhydon murmured, «and stay close to the king, if you can». His voice was hardly more than a whisper of breath against Jamyl’s ear. «I’ve seen no further sign of Zachris, but I know that he is about. I did see one of his henchmen here at Mass this morning, which is very out of character for men of his ilk. It could well be a prelude for Zachris to make an appearance tomorrow, possibly by means of this very Portal. He certainly would know about it; there are Portals at many of the cathedrals, from the old days. I’ll have a man stationed nearby, but if you can keep the king away from this end of the church, that would probably be wise».
Jamyl nodded. «I understand. Sir Kenneth is already planning to bring him and Duke Richard in by a side door», he said. «They’ll be sitting in the choir, close against the choir screen — not visible from the nave. You really think that Zachris Pomeroy would come here?»
Rhydon’s lips tightened. «What better place and opportunity, to strike a blow for Prince Hogan’s cause? Killing the king before he can be crowned would throw the kingdom into turmoil, and give Hogan a unique opportunity to seize the crown before the succession can be resolved».
«But — Prince Nigel is the heir, and Richard after him», Jamyl began.
«Nigel is nine years old. Nor is it at all certain that he could wield the Haldane power, even were he grown to manhood. Richard fares no better in that regard — nor Brion himself, for that matter. Whatever preparations Donal was able to make, he did not expect to die with his heir still so young; and he had not reckoned on Alyce de Corwyn dying at the same time. God alone knows whether her son will be able to function, when he is old enough».
Jamyl closed his eyes briefly, in vain attempt to shut out even the thought of the struggle that could follow.
«Go and get some sleep now», Rhydon ordered. «I was able to arrange for your brother to be included in the choir coming down from Arx Fidei tomorrow. I have it in mind that he should complain of feeling ill, just before things begin, and be sent to sit in the sacristy while he recovers».
«To guard the Portal?» Jamyl only barely managed to keep his voice to a whisper. «Rhydon, he’s only twelve years old — and if there’s trouble, it could cost him his chance at the priesthood».
«If there’s trouble, and Zachris has free access to this Portal», Rhydon replied, «it could cost the king his life».
Jamyl swallowed hard, unwilling to consider either outcome, flinching as Rhydon laid a hand on his shoulder in commiseration.
«Perhaps I should not have reminded you that the stakes were so high», Rhydon offered, faintly apologetic. «But be of good cheer. With any luck at all, we shall see no sign of Zachris Pomeroy or his minions, and everything will go smoothly».
* * *
All through the following morning, that seemed to be the case. Final preparations began just after Matins, with the principals assembling in the chapter house an hour before noon to robe and receive their final instructions. Meanwhile, the supporting clergy began gathering outside with all the trappings of the Church’s highest ceremonial: the monks in their habits and church capes, the clergy in cassocks and white surplices, and the bishops wearing sumptuous copes and miters behind the grand processional cross, with acolytes bearing the matching candlesticks — the set said to have been given by the great King Bearand Haldane, encased in sheets of beaten gold and studded with rubies and pearls; the golden thuribles and aspergilla, the great Gospel Book with its jeweled cover depicting serried ranks of the blessèd who gave their patronage to All Saints’ Cathedral, the bright silken banners of the various saints associated with Valoret and with Gwynedd.
It was a bright, sunny day, if still bitter cold, so the various masters of ceremony were able to line up the processions of choir and cathedral chapter and supporting bishops in the cathedral square instead of in the smaller cloister garth within the abbey walls. The fine weather had also encouraged a good turnout from the local townsfolk, eager to see their new archbishop enthroned, for whom the spectacle of the cathedral at work provided periodic and welcome diversion from their workaday lives. Well before the noon Angelus, people began converging on the cathedral square from all directions, gawking at the processions lining up outside as they shuffled inside to jostle for the best vantage points.
The king and his uncle came over from the abbey guesthouse only minutes before the ceremony was to begin, both still dressed in mourning for the late king, slipping in through a side door to take their places in the choir; with luck, they would be taken for minor clergy, amid so much other black, as would Tiarnán and Jiri, who attended them, along with Jamyl Arilan.
Kenneth had seen to the placing of the lancers earlier in the morning, all of them with black monks’ robes over their mail and leather. A few would be stationed in the king’s vicinity; more were in the body of the cathedral itself, several more in the narrow walks above the clerestory aisles, these armed with short recurve bows underneath their robes. For himself, Kenneth had declined the invitation to sit with the royal party, choosing instead to roam at large in the galleries above, where he might be more quickly aware of any threat to the king.
But nothing untoward occurred during the service itself. On the last stroke of the Angelus bell, when all the principals had taken their places, the various processions of choir and clergy began entering the cathedral, ecclesiastical impedimenta aglitter, to the accompaniment of chanted hymns and psalms and the sweet aroma of incense.
In due time, in the course of a Solemn High Mass, Paul Tollendal was acclaime
d and enthroned as Archbishop of Valoret and Primate of All Gwynedd, with all the bishops present swearing him obedience. The new archbishop then presided for the remainder of the Mass, himself coming down from the altar to offer the sacred Bread to the king and his party; Archbishop Desmond followed with the Cup. The action immediately focused attention on the recipients thereof, prompting a whisper of speculation throughout the nave as to who they might be. Though somewhat vexed that their identities had been compromised, Duke Richard kept the king and his party in their places as the final prayers were said, the dismissal given, the last Gospel sung.
Afterward, as the various processions and choirs retired and the cathedral began to empty, the new archbishop paused on the cathedral steps to give his blessing to the cheering crowd. The king and his party lingered near the sanctuary to meet a few of the lesser participants whose efforts normally went unrecognized. In the aftermath of a religious ceremony, the risk seemed slight. Brion found that he enjoyed meeting his subjects, who warmed immediately to the gracious and personable youth who had become their king. As the royal party began moving toward the nave, Duke Richard dispatched Jamyl into the galleries to fetch Kenneth down, for they were expected back in the refectory momentarily for a meal with the new archbishop and his clergy.
«You can also tell him to stand down the lancers», Richard told him. «I’m sure they’re ready for a hot meal».
Crossing into the north transept, where he had last caught sight of Kenneth lurking in the gallery above, Jamyl took a shortcut he had learned the night before, worming his way up one of the intramural turnpike stairs, then sidling along a narrow passage that a full-grown man would have found difficult to navigate, especially if he were armed; but Jamyl bore only a dagger on his belt. As he came out on one of the clerestory walks, he spotted Kenneth not far ahead and hailed him.
Kenneth had already anticipated the order to dismiss the lancers, so Jamyl joined him as they headed back toward the semicircular walkway that skirted the apse, still high above the cathedral floor, intending to pick up men as they went. Jamyl was in the lead, and it was he who literally stumbled over the first sign that all was not as placid as it seemed: the dead body of one of Brion’s lancer archers.
«Dear God, he is here!» he breathed, one hand flying to the hilt of his squire’s dagger even as he recovered his footing and crouched lower, his other hand briefly brushing the dead man’s forehead, probing with his powers as his eyes scanned frantically ahead and all around. Behind him, Kenneth’s sharp exclamation of query focused the imperative to take immediate action. But though he was still weeks shy of his sixteenth birthday, Jamyl Arilan rose to the challenge, making the split-second decision of a man and a Deryni, to take a massive gamble with Lord Kenneth Morgan and compel his cooperation by the force of his will, because there was no time to ask permission.
Kenneth!
Jamyl’s mental shout had its intended effect. Kenneth, in the process of crouching and craning to peer past Jamyl, immediately looked at Jamyl instead — and was brought up short by the squire’s sharp, blue-violet gaze. He overbalanced and sat down hard, hitting the back of his head against the side of the wall. The pain was sufficient to distract him just enough that he did not think to avoid the hand that darted out to grasp the side of his neck. Nor was he able to evade the accompanying probe that surged across the link of flesh to thrust into his mind.
For Kenneth, whose previous experience of Deryni powers had been limited to the tender ministrations of his wife, and a few very specific and largely superficial interactions with the late king, Jamyl’s touch was surgical and not altogether gentle, clashing against primitive shields that Kenneth had not known he possessed, and which Jamyl certainly had not expected.
Nor had he expected that Kenneth would be able to resist at all, though he knew that, if he chose, he could simply rip through the human lord’s puny defenses and do what he liked. But that stark realization brought Jamyl immediately to his senses, for mind-ripping the loyal Kenneth Morgan, betraying his trust, was unthinkable.
At once he moderated his probe, though still he pressed for compliance, this time calming and reassuring, at once explaining and begging forgiveness, all in an instant.
Do not resist me, I beg of you! This is part of a plot to kill the king, Jamyl sent, the work of a man called Zachris Pomeroy. He sent the image of a dark-haired man with dark eyes into Kenneth’s mind. He serves the cause of Prince Hogan, the Festillic Pretender! He shifted to verbal speech as it became clear that he was causing hurt to the one man whose assistance he most needed at this moment.
«Please! I do not mean to hurt you, but hear me out!» he gasped. «You must help me! He has come to kill the king if he can, but I may not tell you how I know this! I am loyal, I swear to you! Trust me! Help me! Even now, the king may be in mortal danger!»
* * *
Kenneth staggered as Jamyl released him, breath rasping ragged in his throat, but it never occurred to him to refuse what the young Deryni begged, implored — for Deryni, Jamyl surely was, and no less bound to the king’s service than Kenneth himself. Of that, he was certain! Had he taken time to analyze, stark reason would have shrieked that it was folly to accept such revelation and direction at face-value, forced upon him by a Deryni, but his heart sensed that Jamyl Arilan was true, and that the king’s life might very well depend upon their swift action.
Scrambling to his feet, eyes anxiously searching the shadows ahead — and already refining Jamyl’s plan — Kenneth gestured urgently for Jamyl to go back the way they had come, himself snatching up the bow and an arrow from the dead lancer’s hands and taking off in the direction he and Jamyl had been headed. He fumbled to nock the arrow by feel as he ran, for Jamyl had given him the face of the man he was now seeking — a man who would surely kill the king if he could — and he knew he would have but an instant to act, if he found him.
He nearly ran full-tilt into the next pair, sheltering in the shadow of a galleried walkway at the angle of the transept crossing. They were Brion’s own lancers, but they had arrows nocked to bowstrings as they peered down dispassionately at the king and Duke Richard, who were deep in conversation with Bishop Faxon Howard, paying no mind as they strolled into the transept crossing far below.
One of the men was already in mid-draw; Kenneth stopped him with an arrow in his heart, before he could let fly, then launched himself at the other man, wildly flailing with the bow before him, shouldering him hard enough to send him over the low parapet that ran along the clerestory walk. Oddly, the man let out nary a sound as he fell to his death, only narrowly missing a startled monk, whose tray of empty cruets clattered to the floor with a discordant crash of chiming metal and shattering glass as he stumbled backward in alarm and looked up.
«What the devil?» Richard cried out, instinctively yanking Brion back from the crumpled form as he and the king also looked up.
Discarding his now-useless bow, Kenneth peered over the parapet only long enough to be certain that neither prince had been hit, then gestured urgently for them to be away.
«There’s treachery afoot! Some of our men are compromised! Get him to safety!»
He did not wait to see what they did; only pelted onward to the end of the gallery — he could see no one there — then tried to squeeze through the narrow doorway of a tight turnpike stair that spiraled downward within one of the columns that supported the transept crossing. He had to detach his sheathed sword from its hangers and hug it close along his body to get through, and it hampered him on the way down, but he knew he had to get to the king, to protect him from his own men as well as Zachris Pomeroy; for the Deryni assassin had managed to infiltrate the cathedral, probably inserting some of his own men into the ranks of Brion’s lancers, and he was able to seize men’s minds, was subverting more of the lancers, one by one. Any one of them could be potential regicides.
Emerging to sounds of a vigorous scuffle at the bottom of the stair, he found Richard grappling with another of the la
ncers, who was struggling violently to wrench free — almost certainly, another of Pomeroy’s unwilling conquests, for Kenneth knew the man to be loyal.
Brion and Bishop Faxon had also thrown themselves into the fracas and were attempting to assist Richard by tackling the man’s flailing legs — and getting kicked for their trouble. Beyond, more lancers were approaching at a run from all parts of the cathedral, with Tiarnán and Jiri among them. But given what Kenneth had seen above and here, he realized he could not be sure of any of them.
«Richard!» he shouted, as he ran toward them. «Either knock him out or kill him!» At the same time, he interposed himself between them and the oncoming lancers, flinging aside the scabbard from his sword and adopting a posture of challenge as he thrust his free hand upward in an emphatic order to halt.
«All of you, hold!» he ordered. «Drop your weapons! Don’t ask why, just do it! Now!»
If they defied him for whatever reason, he knew he could not stop all of them, for there must be close to a dozen, but he took the chance that most of them probably had not been compromised.
«I said, put down your swords. Do it!» he repeated, gesturing with his sword and starting to back off just a little, edging closer to the king.
Behind him, amid the garbled sounds of muffled grunts and heavy breathing and harness clanging against the floor, he heard a smothered gurgle, abruptly choked off, and Richard’s satisfied humpf as he dealt with their would-be assailant. In front of Kenneth, Jiri and Tiarnán had laid down their weapons immediately, and now were making gestures urging the wary and bewildered lancers to do the same.
Which they began to do, starting to lay down swords and bows…except for one man far at the back, with a monk’s robe over his livery, who was edging away from the others — and then made an abrupt bolt for freedom.
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