High Deryni (20 page)

Morgan humbly bowed his head and folded his hands in an attitude of piety and tried to formulate some new plan of action. Having made contact once, however fleeting, he knew that he would have to try again, that something must be drastically wrong wherever Derry was.

But what? And how much harder did he dare to try, here within the confines of the cathedral?

The priests were at his elbows again, pressing him forward, and to his left he could see Duncan receiving the same guidance. He moved to the first step before him and knelt again, Duncan to his left. Cardiel stood directly before them. Now came the imposition of hands, the central part of the ceremony. Morgan bowed his head and tried to clear his mind, to make his response not altogether unworthy, and listened as the age-old phrases rolled from Cardiel's lips, his outstretched hands slowly descending toward their heads.

“Dominus Sanctus, Patri Omnipotenti, Deus Aeternum….”
Holy Lord, Father Omnipotent, Eternal God, who coverest the earth with Thy favor, Thee we Thy lowly priests as suppliants ask and entreat, that Thou wilt deign to incline the ear of Thy mercy and remit every offense and forgive all the sins of these, Thy servants, Alaric Anthony and Duncan Howard; and give unto them pardon in exchange for their afflictions, joy for sorrow, life for death.

Cardiel's hands came to rest lightly on their heads.

“Lord, grant that they, though fallen from the celestial heights, may be found worthy to persevere by Thy rewards unto good peace and unto the heavenly places unto life eternal.
Per eumdem Dominum nostrum Jesum Christum Filium tuum, qui tecum vivit et regnat in unitate Spiritus Sancti Deus, per omnia saecula saeculorum…. Amen.
”

There was a great shuffling of feet and clearing of throats and rustling of garments as the congregation got to its feet, and Morgan let his attending priests guide him and Duncan to the side of the chancel. Now would follow a special Mass of thanksgiving, in celebration of their return to the fold. Morgan glanced covertly at his kinsman as they took their places at a wide prie-dieu, where they were expected to remain during the Mass. His eyes sought Duncan's as they knelt side by side.

“Something has happened,” Morgan murmured, his voice barely audible. “I don't know what, but I'm going to have to try to find out. And I'm going to have to go deeper into trance to do it. If I go too deep, and lose track of what's going on here, bring me back, and we'll use the ruse we discussed earlier. I'll even arrange to faint, if necessary.”

Duncan nodded slightly, his eyes grave as he scanned the cathedral. “All right, I'll do my best to cover you. But be careful.”

What might have been a faint answering nod descended into Morgan's hands as he closed his eyes, feigning an attitude of prayer. Again he triggered the first stage of the Thuryn trance, this time going almost immediately into deeper and deeper levels, reaching, questing…

WENCIT
opened his hand and gazed at Derry's Camber medallion again, then passed it to Rhydon, who slipped it into a pouch at his belt. The Deryni sorcerer still seemed calm, composed, but Derry thought he detected a touch of irritation, a hint of unease. The torchlight cast ruddy highlights on Wencit's hair, making him seem even more malefic in the wavering shadow-play, and Derry was suddenly reminded that he was playing for his life. The thought sobered him as nothing else could have done at that moment, for he could no longer entertain any doubt that Wencit would kill him without a qualm if it suited his purpose. He felt the icy gaze upon him again and forced himself to meet it, tried to will his growing dread to recede.

“So,” Wencit said with a sinister calm to his voice, “I wonder what we should do with this bold interloper, Rhydon. This spy in our midst. Shall we kill him?” He leaned both hands on the arms of Derry's chair, his face very close to Derry's.

“I suppose we
could
feed him to the caradots,” Wencit continued conversationally. “Do you know what a caradot is, little lordling?”

Derry swallowed with difficulty but would not trust himself to answer. He had a suspicion. Wencit smiled.

“I gather that you are not acquainted with caradots,” Wencit murmured, looking pleased. “I fear 'tis a subject sadly lacking in your education, young Derry. This Morgan of yours has been very lax. Rhydon, would you be so good as to show him a caradot?”

With a sly, languid nod, Rhydon moved closer to Derry's left side and drew himself erect, then traced a peculiar symbol in the air with his forefinger as Wencit moved behind the chair to Derry's right. At the same time, Rhydon murmured words of an ancient spell under his breath, uttered in an alien tongue whose sound grated on the senses.

The very air crackled at the sorcerer's fingertips, and a noxious scent of molten lead tickled at Derry's nostrils. In that instant, which seemed all too endless, Derry caught a glimpse of a creature straight from Hell: a shrieking, mawing terror of green and crimson and gore, with a gnashing, ravening mouth and undulating tentacles that reached hungrily toward his face, closer, closer…

Derry screamed, squeezing his eyes closed and struggling hysterically in his bonds as he fancied he could feel the creature's acid breath on his face. He heard the monster roar, the hot, leaden smell almost overpowering in his nostrils.

Then there was only a sudden, deathly silence, a breath of fresh breeze; and he knew that it was gone. He opened his eyes to find Wencit and Rhydon gazing down at him in wry amusement, Rhydon's pale eyes still veiled with a hint of dark, unspeakable power. Derry's breath came in ragged, terror-fueled shudders as he stared up at the pair of them in horror. Wencit's mouth twitched in satisfaction, a patronizing little smirk, as he turned to Rhydon and made him a short, casual bow.

“I thank you, Rhydon.”

“It was my pleasure, Sire.”

Derry swallowed hard, not trusting himself to do more, and tried to still the gibbering fear that still nipped at the edge of his mind. He told himself that they would not let that thing have him, at least not until they learned from him what they wanted to know, but the thought did little to ease his fear. Gradually he willed his ragged breathing to slow. His head ached with the effort the whole thing had cost him.

“So, my young friend,” Wencit said silkily, leaning his hands on Derry's chair arms once more, “do we feed you to the caradots? Or do we find some better use for you? I rather got the impression that you didn't like our little pet…though I'm certain he liked you.”

Derry swallowed again, overcoming a wave of nausea, and Wencit chuckled.

“No caradots? What do you think, Rhydon?”

Rhydon's voice was sleek and cold. “Methinks a more suitable fate might be found for him, Sire. I like this sport as well as you, but we must not forget that Sean Lord Derry is an earl and the son of an earl, a man of gentle birth. Hardly proper caradot fare, do you not agree?”

“But the beast seemed so taken with him,” Wencit pouted, his eyes laughing as Derry shrank back in the chair. “Still, you are doubtless right. Sean Lord Derry alive is a far more valuable commodity to me than Sean Lord Derry dead—though he may wish for death before this night is done.” He straightened to fold his arms across his chest and stare down at Derry with an indulgent smile.

“Now, you will begin by telling us everything you know of King Kelson's strength, both military and arcane. And when you have finished that, you will tell us all there is to know about this Morgan of yours.”

Derry stiffened in outrage, his blue eyes flashing defiance. “Never! I'll not betray—”

“Enough!” Wencit did not raise his voice, but his single word lashed Derry into silence. “Do not tell
me
what you will and will not do!” So saying, he leaned down closer to Derry with a terrible intensity. For an instant, the gaze caught and held, the pale eyes swimming in Derry's vision like twin pools of molten metal. Then Derry was wrenching his gaze away, turning his head to squeeze his eyes shut in desperation, knowing—but not knowing how he knew—that Wencit had tried to Truth-Read him. He could not bear the touch of that alien mind.

He risked opening his eyes a crack and saw Wencit straightening in faint disbelief, the rust-colored brows slightly furrowed. The sorcerer eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then crossed the chamber to the leather-bound trunk set against the right-hand wall. Lifting the lid, he rummaged inside for a long moment.

When he straightened and turned, one hand held a small crystal vial filled with a white, opalescent liquid. His other hand held one of earthenware, from which he decanted four golden drops of a clear fluid into the opalescent white. The opaline fluid turned a glittering, swirling red, like luminous blood, as Wencit held it to the torchlight. He swirled the contents of the vial with slow, circular movements of his hand as he turned and strolled back toward his captive.

“'Tis a pity you have decided not to cooperate, my young friend,” Wencit said, leaning one elbow on the back of Derry's chair and holding the vial to the light to admire the color—in front of Derry's face, where he could also see it. “Still, I suppose you have no more choice than I. They have managed to shield you well, this Morgan and his upstart prince. But alas, Deryni-given powers are subject to the same limitations as those Deryni-born—alas for you, that is. The contents of this vial will strip away all resistance.”

Derry swallowed dry-throated and stared at the vial. “What is it?” he found himself whispering.

“So, curiosity is not dead after all, is it? Frankly, though, you would know little more after I told you than before. The merasha is fairly common, but the rest…” Wencit chuckled as Derry clenched his teeth in apprehension. “Yes, you've heard about merasha, haven't you? No matter. Rhydon, hold his head.”

As Derry's head whipped around to search wildly for the second Deryni, he was already too late. Rhydon's hands were immobilizing his head in a vise-like grip, pinning his head brutally against Rhydon's chest. Rhydon knew the pressure points and applied them, and Derry felt his mouth opening, helpless as a baby's.

Then the crimson fluid was rushing down his throat, searing his tongue and choking him as he fought not to swallow. He felt the blackness swoop down on him as Rhydon applied more pressure to force him to swallow. And then he was gulping it down, despite his best efforts to the contrary—once, twice, finally exploding in a frantic cough as his head was released.

His tongue was numb, a flat, metallic taste in his mouth, his lungs burning with the fire of the fluid that had passed so near. He coughed again and shook his head in an attempt to clear it, tried to will himself to vomit back what Wencit had forced upon him, but it was no use. As his coughing ceased and the fire subsided, he sensed his vision blurring, his limbs going slack. There came a great roaring in his ears, as though the most powerful wind in all creation were trying to blow him from time and space. Colors flashed and fused before his eyes, and yet it seemed to be growing darker.

He tried to lift his head, but it was too much effort. He tried to force his eyes to focus but could not. He saw the tips of Wencit's velvet slippers by his chair legs as his head lolled helplessly to the right; heard the hated voice murmur something he should have been able to understand but could not.

Then the darkness claimed him.

THE
cathedral had grown hushed as the Mass approached its climax, and Morgan tried desperately to force himself back to consciousness. He had caught a fleeting taste of the darkness just before it overwhelmed Derry, though he could not pinpoint its source or its subject, only knew that it had to be somehow connected with Derry, and that something was horribly wrong.

But he could learn no more. He tensed with the effort of disentangling himself from that instant of terror, reeling slightly on the prie-dieu as he slipped at last from his trance. Duncan felt him waver and cast him a furtive glance as he tried to remain unobtrusive.

“Alaric, are you all right?” he asked. His blue eyes said,
Are you playing, or is this for real?

Morgan swallowed and shook his head, trying to regain his equilibrium, but his recent exertions, coupled with his recent fast, really had addled his wits. Given time, he could recover, he knew; but here, surrounded by men who were already predisposed to suspicion, he was altogether vulnerable. He sat back on his hunkers and groped blindly for the support of Duncan's arm as his senses reeled again, knowing he would not be able to stay conscious much longer.

Duncan glanced at the bishops, several of whom were staring in their direction, then leaned closer to Morgan's ear.

“They've noticed, Alaric. If you really need help, tell me. The bishops are—uh-oh, Cardiel has stopped the Mass. He's coming this way.”

“Take over, then,” Morgan whispered, closing his eyes and swaying again. “I really am going to pass out.” He swallowed. “Be caref…”

His whisper trailed off in mid-syllable as he crumpled against Duncan's shoulder and went limp. Duncan eased him to the floor and felt his forehead, then looked up to see Cardiel, Arilan, and two of the other bishops staring down at them in various attitudes of concern. He must divert their attention as quickly as he could.