High Deryni (18 page)

Morgan sat heavily on the bench beside Duncan and leaned his head against the wall behind, arms folded across his chest in an attitude of utter tedium.

“Relax? That's easy enough for you to say. You like ritual. You're used to dealing with ecclesiastical pageantry. Me, I'm as edgy as a squire at his first tournament. Not only that, but I think I'm going to die of hunger. I haven't had a thing to eat all day.”

“Nor have I.”

“No, but you're better used to it than I. You tend to forget that I am a degenerate nobleman, accustomed to indulging myself whenever the whim strikes me. Even some of that wretched Dhassa wine would be almost welcome.”

Duncan closed his book and leaned back against the wall with a smile. “Think about what you're saying. Think what wine would do to our clear-headedness after two days with only bread and water—and nothing today. Besides, knowing Dhassa wine, I personally would rather die of thirst.”

“I concede you the point.” Morgan smiled and closed his eyes. “Goes to show you what fasting will do. It doesn't mortify the soul, it corrodes the brain.”

“Well, perhaps the bishops wouldn't be averse to a touch of
something
,” Duncan said with a chuckle. “More bread and water, maybe? I hardly think they'd want us fainting away during the ceremony, for lack of food.”

Morgan grinned, getting up to resume his pacing. “Shows how much you know. Fainting might be the best thing we could do out there. Just think: The penitent Deryni, weakened by fasting, their spirits chastened and their hearts purified, faint away in the presence of the Lord.”

“Actually, that's an interesting—”

A soft knock at the door interrupted whatever Duncan had thought might be interesting, and he broke off expectantly, glancing toward Morgan as he got to his feet. Bishop Cardiel swept into the room in a rustle of purple silk, the hood of his cape thrown back on his shoulders. He waved dismissal to the black-cowled monk who had accompanied him as Duncan and Morgan bent to kiss his ring, then pulled the door softly to. Then he reached beneath his cloak to produce a folded piece of parchment.

“This came an hour ago,” he said in a low voice, handing it to Morgan and glancing out the window uneasily. “It's from the king. He wishes us well in tonight's endeavors and looks forward to meeting us at Cor Ramet the day after tomorrow. I hope we shall not have to disappoint him.”

“Disappoint him?” Morgan, who had moved closer to the candle to scan the letter, looked up with a start. “Why? Is anything wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong—yet,” Cardiel said. He held out his hand for the letter and Morgan gave it over without a word. “Does either of you have any question about what is to happen tonight?”

“Father Hugh briefed us several hours ago, Excellency,” Duncan said carefully, studying Cardiel's face. “My lord, if there is some difficulty that concerns us, we should know about it.”

Cardiel eyed them both for a long moment, then turned to rest one gloved hand against the high windowsill. He stared at the barred window for several seconds, as though choosing his words with care, then turned his head partially toward the two in the room. His steel-gray head was silhouetted against the darkening sky, his cloak parted slightly by his upraised arm. Beneath the cloak, a spotless alb gleamed like silver against the gray stone wall, and Morgan suddenly realized that the bishop had interrupted his vesting to come to them. He wondered what Cardiel was trying to say.

“You made a good impression this afternoon in the procession. Are you aware of that?” the bishop said lightly. “The people love to see penitents make public demonstration of their contrition. It makes them feel more righteous. Fortunately, the majority of those who will attend us tonight are willing to believe in the sincerity of your reconciliation.”

“However…” Morgan ventured.

Cardiel lowered his eyes and smiled in spite of himself. “Yes, there is usually a ‘however,' isn't there?” He looked up, directly into Morgan's eyes. “Alaric, try to believe that I do trust you—both of you.” He glanced at Duncan. “Unfortunately, there are many who will attend tonight who remain unconvinced. No matter how repentant you may appear to be, I'm afraid it would take a miracle to persuade some of them that you mean no harm.”

“Are you asking us to provide a miracle, Excellency?” Morgan murmured, returning Cardiel's gaze.

“Good heavens, no! That's the last thing I want.” Cardiel shook his head emphatically. “In fact, that is perhaps the crux of what I must say to you now.” He laced his fingers together and stared down at his bishop's ring.

“Alaric, I have been Bishop of Dhassa for four years now. During those four years, and during the tenures of at least the last five of my predecessors, there has never been a breath of scandal associated with the See of Dhassa.”

“Perhaps you should have considered that point before joining the schism, my lord,” Morgan said softly.

Cardiel looked pained. “I did as my conscience bade.”

“Your mind agrees,” Duncan said. “But your heart is afraid of what two Deryni might do. Is that it?”

Cardiel glanced up at them and stifled a nervous cough. “I—perhaps.” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps it is.” He paused.

“Duncan, I require your promise that you'll not use your powers tonight—either of you. Whatever happens, I must have your solemn assurance that you'll do nothing, nothing whatsoever, to make you appear different from any other penitent who has ever entered my cathedral to make his peace with the Church. Surely you understand the importance of what I am asking.”

Morgan looked at the floor and pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I assume that Arilan knows you've come to us?”

“He does.”

“And the subject of conversation?”

“He agrees. There must be no magic.”

Duncan shrugged and glanced at Morgan. “Then, it appears that you must have our word on it, my lord. You have mine.”

“And mine,” Morgan said, after an almost imperceptible pause.

Cardiel gave a low sigh of relief. “Thank you. I shall leave you alone for a few more minutes, then. I suspect you will wish to prepare yourselves for the ceremony. Denis and I will return for you shortly.”

As the door closed behind Cardiel, Duncan glanced at his cousin. Morgan had turned away as the bishop left, and now the single candle at the end of the bench was casting long, dancing shadows on the stone walls, planing Morgan's face into a mask of concentration. Duncan stared at him for a long moment, a thread of unease rippling through his mind, then started to move across the chamber to Morgan's side.

“Alaric?” he said in a low voice. “What—”

Morgan snapped out of his reverie and held a finger to his lips, then eyed the door as he crossed to the bench and dropped to his knees in front of it.

“Duncan, I fear that I have been a stranger to prayer in these past weeks,” he murmured, motioning for Duncan to join him, and glancing at the door again. “Will you pray with me?”

Wordlessly Duncan knelt at his kinsman's side, his eyes narrowing in question as he made the sign of the cross. He started to speak again, hazarding another glance at the door, but he saw Morgan's lips shape the single syllable,
No
, and he bowed his head instead. Watching Morgan from the corner of his eye, he formed his words so that he was certain only Morgan could hear. He was reluctant to use mind-speech when they had promised Cardiel they would use no magic.

“Will you tell me what's going on?” he murmured. “I know you're concerned that we may be watched, but there's more to it than that. You were reluctant to give your promise to Cardiel. Why?”

“Because I may not be able to keep that promise,” Morgan whispered.

“Not keep it?” Duncan replied, remembering just in time to keep his head bowed. “Why on earth not? What's wrong?”

Morgan leaned forward slightly to glance at the door past Duncan, then sat back on his heels. “Derry. He was supposed to contact us either last night or tonight. Last night he didn't. When the time comes tonight, we'll be right in the middle of the ceremony.”

“Sweet
Jesu
!” Duncan exploded under his breath, crossing himself as he remembered he was supposed to be praying, and bowing his head once more.

“Alaric, we can't listen for Derry's call in the cathedral—not after we promised Cardiel that we wouldn't use our powers. If we're caught—”

Morgan nodded slightly. “I know. But there isn't any other way. I'm afraid something may have happened to Derry. We'll just have to take the chance and hope we won't be caught.”

Duncan buried his face in his hands and sighed. “I sense that you've thought about this at length. You have a plan?”

Morgan bowed his head again and edged slightly closer to Duncan. “Of sorts, yes. There are several places in the liturgy, both in the ceremony itself and in the Mass which follows, when we won't have many responses to make. I'll try to listen for Derry, while you keep watch. If it looks like we're about to be detected, I'll break off. You can—”

He broke off and bowed his head deeply as he heard the latch being lifted on the door. Then both men crossed themselves and rose as Cardiel stepped into the open doorway, followed closely by Arilan. Both men were solemnly vested in violet, croziers in hands and jeweled miters on heads. In the corridor behind them stood a long line of black-cowled monks, each holding a lighted candle.

“We are ready to begin, if you are,” Arilan said. The violet silk of his cope caught the deep blue-violet of his eyes and turned them to sparkling jewels in the candlelight, like the amethyst on his hand.

With a bow, Morgan and Duncan moved to join the procession. It would soon be quite dark.

IT
was already dark in the Rheljan Mountains when Derry and his captors at last reached Cardosa. Derry had been tied across a saddle like a piece of baggage rather than being permitted to ride upright like a man—an embellishment calculated, he was sure, to further divest the prisoner of any false sense of dignity. Riding up the defile in this position, his head half-way down his horse's side, had been a wet, cold, and often terrifying experience; for the horses had, at times, plunged through water almost up to their withers. Several times Derry's head had been under water, lungs strained almost to the bursting point as he tried to keep from drowning. His wrists were numb and raw from the chafe of the rawhide thongs that bound him, his feet like lead from the cold and lack of circulation.

But these small details seemed to bother Derry's escort not in the least. As soon as the little band had reined in, just within a small, dark courtyard, Derry's bonds were cut and he was pulled roughly from the saddle. His wounded arm had gone stiff during the long, cramped ride, and he nearly passed out with the pain as his wrists were roughly bound in front of him once more. The fire of circulation returning to cramped and tortured limbs was almost more than he could bear, and he was almost glad for the support of the two guards who held his elbows to either side.

Derry tried to take notice of his surroundings, hoping that this would help him to ignore the pain. He was outside Esgair Ddu, the black-cliff fortress that protected the walled city of Cardosa. He could see the stark, barren ramparts looming above his head as he forced himself to remain standing, but he was not permitted a more leisurely inspection of the place. A pair of guards in the black and white Furstán livery came and took him from his original escort, and he was hurried down a flight of rough stone stairs. He tried to force himself to pay attention to the route they took, mentally charting each twist and turn in the dim corridor through which they dragged him. But his feet would hardly obey him, and he was too tired, and his pains too great, to pay heed the way he ought to.

When at length they came to an iron-bound door, and one man held him up while the other worked the key in the lock, it was all he could do merely to remain conscious. He was never certain how he got from the doorway to the carved armchair in which they sat him.

The men lashed his wrists to the chair arms and passed leather straps around waist and chest and ankles. Then they left him. Slowly his more immediate pains subsided, to be replaced by a dull, aching fatigue and an even more mind-numbing dread. After a few minutes, he finally opened his eyes and forced himself to take stock of the room.

The chamber appeared to be one of Esgair Ddu's better dungeons. By the light of the single torch set in a cresset to his left, he could see that the floor, though strewn with straw, was at least not muddy, and the straw was clean. Nor were the walls dank and dripping—a feature which, in his meager experience with dungeons, he had often dreaded.

But the walls were still dungeon walls, adorned here and there with iron rings set at strategic locations, with bright, well-used chains, with other instruments whose purpose Derry preferred not to think about. Along similar lines, there was also a rather large leather-bound trunk set against the wall to Derry's right: a squat, sinister-looking thing that seemed out of place. It bore an engraved crest below the hasp on the trunk: an ornate, vaguely alien badge etched in gold against the dark, polished leather. But the light was too dim, the trunk too far away, for Derry to be able to read the crest clearly. He had the feeling, however, that the trunk was a recent addition to the room, and that he did not want to meet its owner. He forced himself to leave the trunk and continue his inspection of the room.