When no one spoke, he gave a nod to Oisín, who rose and went to a side table, where he pulled a drape of deep violet velvet from a fist-sized amber crystal set on a simple wooden stand. Shrouding his hands with the velvet, he picked up crystal and stand and carried them back to the table, setting them before the chair of the absent Seisyll. The drape he laid across the arms of that chair before taking his own seat again, to the right of Seisyll's.
«Is it late enough to be certain that he's asleep?» Vivienne asked.
Michon, to her left, gave a knowing chuckle.
«The governor's court at Ratharkin is not known for its scintillating night life, especially in these troubled times, and the negotiations being carried out by day will have been tedious, if not exhausting. I have little doubt but that Seisyll will have retreated to his bed by now. Nor, I think, could he long ignore our summons, amplified by Oisín's wee bauble». He nodded toward the crystal and laid his open palms to either side in invitation. «Shall we get on with it?»
The smiles of the other four acknowledged Michon's observation concerning the court of Meara, and they likewise laid their open hands to either side, each turning the left palm downward to overlap the neighbor's open right hand. Those flanking the empty chair called Camber's Siege stretched slightly to bridge the gap, and those to either side of Seisyll's chair lightly set their fingertips to the crystal, completing the circle.
«Now we are met. Now we are one with the ancients», Michon murmured.
«Benedicamus, Elohim», Oisín responded.
His long-drawn breath and whisper of a sigh set the trigger for all of them to begin settling into trance. Some of them briefly closed their eyes, each centering in his or her own way… stilling, focusing, shifting into another mode of consciousness. As a silence that was almost palpable settled on the room, every gaze gradually turned to the giant shiral crystal set before Seisyll's place, each one's concentration melding with the crystal.
At length a faint spark seemed to kindle within its amber depths, flickering and then flaring to a glowing heart that throbbed with a pulse-beat like a living thing — erratic at first, but then steadying as the heartbeats of the five settled into synchronization. It was Michon who then set the call, reaching out for the mind of their absent member and willing him to respond. After a moment, a mist began to form around the pulsing flame, swirling and then coalescing into the face of Seisyll Arilan.
I am here, came Seisyll's focused declaration. What is your wish? The handsome face was still and tranquil, the violet eyes dreamy and unfocused.
We have agreed on a candidate, if you concur, Michon replied. It would be useful to bring the Council back to its full strength as soon as may be accomplished. When do you anticipate returning to Rhemuth, or to some other place where you will have Portal access?
A frown crossed Seisyll's face. It could be weeks, perhaps even months. The Mearan situation is delicate, and requires careful handling. The king was right to send me here instead of others he could have sent, but I dare not leave until it is resolved. What candidate have you agreed?
Focusing his intent, Michon sent their recommendation in a burst of knowledge and information. Seisyll's image immediately nodded.
I concur. But I would advise that you receive him as soon as can be arranged. Do not wait until I can be present.
I agree that such a delay would be inadvisable, Michon replied. We shall make suitable arrangements — provided, of course, that he accepts.
I expect that he will, at least for a limited term, the face in the crystal said. Is there anything else?
Naught that cannot wait until this is settled, came Michon's reply. You should know, however, that the queen stood as godmother at the christening of Jessamy's son.
The face in the crystal grimaced in sour disapproval. Indeed. One might have expected that it would be the king. But then, if he is the boy's father, that would not have been canonical, would it?
Nor is fathering a child on a woman not one's wife, Michon pointed out blandly. Merely think on it, for now. Our brother Barrett has rightly pointed out that even a Haldane grandson of Lewys ap Norfal can pose no serious threat while he is yet an infant. We have time to consider our options.
The best option is one most easily carried out on an infant, Seisyll returned coldly. But I shall await your further deliberations. Please convey my fraternal greetings to our new member.
With that, his image faded in the crystal and the spark in its heart died out. Dominy de Laney sighed and briefly closed her eyes, and Vivienne eased a crick in her neck and shook out her hands. Barrett had briefly palmed his hands over his sightless eyes, and Michon and Oisín exchanged glances.
«Exceedingly well done, all», Michon said to the room at large, and grinned as he added, «I did tell you that Seisyll would be abed at this hour».
«Disturbing, however, that more progress has not been made in Mearan matters», Barrett replied.
«Aye, but that does not surprise me», Michon replied. «There will be war in Meara before another decade is out — mark my words. It will be yet another legacy of Malcolm's marriage with the Princess Roisian: they, who had thought to settle the Mearan succession by the marriage bed rather than war, after Killingford».
The others merely looked at him, knowing that he had the most direct experience of that great battle, for though none of them had been alive for that war, Michon's father had fought there and lived to tell of it. An uncle and a cousin had not been so fortunate.
«Enough of thoughts of war», Oisín said quietly, after a moment. «Do you wish me to approach our new member-elect?»
The others immediately turned their thoughts from the Mearan question, and even the question of Sief’s death, to the more immediate question of Sief’s successor. Slowly Michon nodded.
«Can you bring him tomorrow night?»
«I can bring him tonight, if you wish. If he accepts, he can be sworn to the Council immediately, and we can be about our further business».
After a glance at the others, Michon slowly nodded.
«Go, then. We shall await your return».
Chapter 5
«Without counsel purposes are disappointed; but in the multitude of counselors they are established».[6]
In the royal palace at Djellarda, in the princely state of Andelon, Prince Khoren Vastouni made his way back to the workroom adjoining his apartments, pleasantly fuddled with good wine and good company and well content with the course of the day.
He was a younger son whose elder brother had sons, so he had never entertained much likelihood of ever having to rule; but that had left him free to pursue interests of his own choosing, more artistic and academic than the arts of war and political intrigue, and to anticipate becoming a mentor to his nephew's children in due course. Now nearing his half-century, he was blessed with a loving wife and family of his own, and that morning had seen his young nephew, his brother's heir, happily remarried.
Which was well, because Fate had dealt the redoubtable Mikhail of Andelon a double blow in the past twelvemonth, making him Sovereign Prince the previous autumn, through the death of his father and Khoren's brother, Prince Atun, and then taking Mikhail's beloved Ysabeau in childbirth in the spring just past. At twenty-seven, having gained a throne but lost a wife, Mikhail had only daughters by his first marriage — the two-year-old Sofiana and the infant Michendra — but his new bride, the Lady Alinor, adored his children, and had professed herself eager to give him sons as well as more daughters, and as soon as possible.
«Oh, Mikhail, I do want lots and lots of babies!» she had declared, as she dandled little Michendra on her knee at the wedding feast and watched Sofiana playing with Alinor's own little brother, the two-year-old Thomas. «Mother, would you look at this sweet, chubby little thing?»
Approaching the door to his workroom, happily replete with good food and excellent wine, Khoren found himself smiling and even shaking his head a little at that sweet image of domestic anticipation. T
here had been several stillborn sons in the early years of Mikhail's first marriage, so Khoren hoped that the lovely and radiant Alinor would soon attain her heart's desire and that, in her embrace, his nephew would speedily find new happiness — and sons!
In all, the marriage augured well for the future. Only reluctantly had Khoren taken early leave of the continuing wedding festivities — which were very much a family affair, bursting with Vastouni and Cardiel cousins and even a smattering of younger royals from neighboring Jáca and Nur Hallaj. His wife would linger happily in that company for many more hours to come, along with several of their children and grandchildren, but Khoren could no longer ignore the call of a particularly intriguing manuscript he wished to consult again before retiring, written in a dialect that only slowly was yielding up its secrets.
For a fine point of translation had been eluding Khoren Vastouni for nearly a week — and had crystallized in an almost staggering flash of insight during the most solemn part of the nuptial Mass earlier in the day, nearly making him laugh aloud with sheer delight. His beloved Stasha had given him the most mortified look.
Still basking in the satisfaction of his moment of revelation, Khoren set his splayed hand against the lock plate on the door and keyed the spell that would release the lock. At its click, he pushed the door open and slipped inside, at the same time removing the jewel-studded cap he had worn in lieu of a coronet.
This he set jauntily atop a human skull on a stand just inside the door; the reassembled skeleton of its owner hung by wires from a hook in a corner of the room, for he was an anatomist among his many other interests. Then he shrugged off his outer robe and tossed it over a nearby stool, emerald damask spilling onto a carpet patterned with pomegranates as he headed toward his worktable and the unfurled manuscript lying open upon it, its edges weighted down with several stream-polished rocks, pleasing to hand and eye.
It was then that he noticed the faint glow emanating from around the edges of a velvet curtain screening off a corner of the room: his Portal, set in semi-trap mode. It enabled visitors to come and go at will, and even to leave messages, but no one could venture past the Portal's boundaries unless he gave them leave. Khoren had no enemies — at least none he was aware of — but even in Andelon, where Deryni were accepted as a matter of course, one could never be too careful.
«All right, who's there?» he called out, heading toward that corner of the room. «Anyone with half a brain would know that I've been at my nephew's wedding today».
A flick of his arm sent the curtain skittering to one side in a slither of fine rings against wire. The man waiting behind it was well known to Khoren: trim and comely, of somewhat middling height, casually clad in riding leathers of a rich oxblood hue. As a patient smile touched his lips, the calloused hands lifted in a gesture of guileless denial.
«In truth», the visitor said lightly, «I expected you'd be working on that manuscript I brought you; I knew how close you were to cracking the translation. I've not been here long, though — and even from here, I have enjoyed just taking in the peacefulness of your workroom. You should have been a monk, Khoren».
Khoren snorted and released the wards on the Portal with a wave of one capable hand, grinning as he opened his arms to the man who stepped across its boundaries.
«Oisín Adair, I might have known it would be you», he said as they embraced. «Seriously, what brings you here at this hour, when you knew what my day would be like?»
«Seriously, I've come on a mission of the utmost importance — though I'd forgotten that today was Mikhail's wedding day. Still, will you come with me for an hour or so? I mayn't tell you where».
Khoren drew back to look into the other man's eyes, feeling the rigidness in the other's shoulders that echoed the shields suddenly stiff between them.
«This sounds serious, indeed», he said quietly. «Can you give me no clue?»
Oisín 's bearded face settled into stillness, regret in the blue eyes.
«Sief MacAthan is dead, my friend. It's the Council that summons you. Will you come?»
«Sief, dead? But, how?»
«That is for another place», Oisín said firmly, refusing to be drawn. «Please, ask me no more questions. All will be revealed, in due course».
Briefly closing his eyes, Khoren made himself take a deep breath and slowly exhale, doing his best to banish the heady afterglow of the wine he had drunk, regretting that he had taken any drink at all. No Deryni looked forward to a summons from the Camberian Council, though he knew that his could be for no failing on his part. The news of Sief MacAthan's death made it likely that Khoren was about to be offered a seat on the Council — not altogether unexpected, given his abilities and his spotless reputation, but it was still a prospect both intriguing and daunting. Membership in that almost mythical body was never to be taken lightly, and forever changed those who accepted its burden.
Yet some there were, willing to take on that burden, for it offered an opportunity to enforce and reinforce the ethical precepts instilled in all Deryni of good formal training. Beyond the borders of Gwynedd, in Torenth and the lands to the south, these precepts were mostly followed — and when serious breaches occurred, the Camberian Council could and often did step in; but in Gwynedd, the heartland of the original Eleven Kingdoms, backlash from the failure of Deryni to police their own ranks had all too often been the death of innocent members of their race. To serve the Council was to place oneself in a position to possibly make a difference.
«I will come, of course», Khoren murmured returning his gaze to Oisín. «You do realize, though, that I'm in no fit state for any serious working? I've just come from a wedding feast, for God's sake».
«That will not affect your interview», Oisín replied. «Come».
He set his hand on Khoren's elbow and drew him onto the Portal beside him, turning Khoren away from him to set one hand on the back of his neck. The other hand reached around to cover his eyes as he continued.
«You will understand that it is not permitted that you should sense the coordinates of the Portal where I am taking you», Oisín murmured, «and once there, your physical sight will remain sealed until I release you».
«Of course».
«Then, open to me now».
With those words, his mind surrounded Khoren's, surging in behind the shields his subject obediently let fall. As all physical sensation receded into a gray void where it was too much bother to do anything at all, Khoren vaguely felt a gentle tugging at the edges of his consciousness, then a faint lurch in the pit of his stomach — and a subtle undulation of the floor under his feet, which immediately stabilized.
«Move forward with me now», Oisín murmured.
Though the hand across Khoren's eyes was withdrawn, he kept them closed, well aware that it would be disorienting to open them and not be able to see. He also kept his shields well down, cleaving to the discipline of only what physical senses might tell him as Oisín urged him forward and to the left, one hand grasping his elbow and the other arm curved around his shoulders. He could feel grit under his boots as they moved half a dozen steps away from the Portal, and caught the faint scent of sandalwood, a freshness to the air itself. It was cooler here than in Djellarda, but he had no idea where here was.
«I must leave you for a few minutes», Oisín said in a low voice, as he set Khoren's hand against a wall. «Don't move. I'll return shortly».
The other's footsteps receded. Khoren thought he could hear a door opening, and he definitely felt the stir of air, perhaps of the door closing again. The stone under his hand was smooth and cool, but he resisted the temptation to seek out further clues as to the room it contained, for even Oisín 's simple instruction might be a test of his obedience.
He waited. He could hear no sound save the gentle throbbing of his own heartbeat — until he felt as well as heard the whisper of the door again. Then Oisín was beside him once more, a guiding hand again set under his elbow.
«Walk with me», came the mu
rmured instruction, as the other firmly moved him forward.
Khoren sensed a larger space as their footsteps took a more hollow tone. Very soon, he was brought up short against something that pressed along the tops of his thighs — a table, he realized, as he was made to sit in a chair of substantial proportions, with heavy arms. No sooner had he settled into it than someone pushed it and him closer to the table, containing him within the compass of the chair arms. He could feel the silence as an almost palpable presence as Oisín moved to his left side and sat, his controlling hand never leaving Khoren's shoulder. But it was not Oisín who spoke first.
«This room has been the meeting place of the Camberian Council since the time of Saint Camber himself», said a woman's voice ahead and to the left. «Before that, we believe that it served the use of the Airsid. Do you know of the Airsid, Khoren Vastouni?»
Khoren considered the question. It was not what he had been expecting.
«I do not know as much as I would like», he said candidly, for only the truth would suffice in this company. «I was taught that our high magic sprang from their teachings, at least in part. I have heard it said that the great Orin may have had Airsid teachers. Some say that they came from Caeriesse, before it sank beneath the sea», he added, a little less certainly.
An amused chuckle came from directly to his right — another woman's voice, lighter than the first.
«So some say. Would it surprise you to learn that some of the founders of this Council actually looked upon the mortal remains of Orin and Jodotha, his great disciple?»
Khoren found himself sitting forward more attentively, longing to open his eyes, for the Airsid and their teachings had long been his academic passion, and Orin and Jodotha were legendary.
«Here?» he managed to breathe.
«No, not — here, said a man's voice straight across from him, who sounded somewhat familiar. «We believe that this place, however, was built by the Airsid — or at least begun by them. It had been long abandoned by Saint Camber's time, but the Council's founders rediscovered it and adopted it as their secure meeting place — Camber's kin and other close associates. You are sitting, by the way, in the seat called 'Saint Camber's Siege. It is one of eight, though it is usually left vacant, to remind us of our patron. For the most part, only potential new members of the Council are ever seated there — or those we call before us to answer for their actions».
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