High Deryni (42 page)

“You would withdraw from such deliberations?” Vivienne asked, amazement written across her seamed face.

“I would.”

“I, too, should prefer not to have Rhydon come here,” Arilan joined in. “He does not yet know me for Deryni, and I would as soon matters remained that way for as long as possible. It could give the king a much-needed edge in the Duel Arcane, since it appears certain we shall have to fight it.”

Barrett nodded slowly. “That is a valid reason against. And the same argument applies to Wencit's presence. Does the Council agree? And regardless of your feelings on this matter, what is your will regarding Morgan and McLain? Are they or are they not to be afforded Council protection?”

“Certainly they are!” snapped Tiercel. “Not only has Wencit impugned the dignity of the Council by daring to present a false arbitration offer, but there are two full humans on Wencit's side, whose powers are only assumed. They haven't a drop of Deryni blood. Because of both factors, I say, why not agree to formally arbitrate this Duel Arcane in truth? Let a
real
Council arbitration team show up at the duel tomorrow and extend the protection to all eight parties concerned. It's a mere formality anyway, other than to guard against treachery from without. The outcome will depend on the strength and skill of the contestants. We all know that.”

After a short silence Vivienne nodded her gray head. “Tiercel is correct, even in his brash youthfulness. We had neglected to consider Wencit's two non-Deryni combatants—and Wencit has affronted the Council by daring to misrepresent us. As for Morgan and McLain,” she shrugged, “so be it. If their side should win, and they survive, it should be ample proof that they were worthy of our protection from the start. We stand on firm ground, regardless of the outcome.”

“But—” Thorne began.

“Will you be quiet?” came the retort from Kyri, the other distaff member of the Council. “My lords, I concur with Vivienne, and I feel certain that Tiercel and Arilan will do the same. Laran, what say you? Will your curiosity and your pride permit what has been proposed?”

Laran nodded. “I will concede any point of order which might ordinarily be violated to permit this. And I hope that they do win. It would be criminal to lose the healing power, if Morgan does, indeed, have it.”

“A practical rationalization if ever I heard one,” Vivienne chuckled. “Well, my lords? Five of us support this measure. Is there any need for a formal vote?”

There was no word spoken, and Vivienne glanced toward Barrett with a slight smile. “Very well, my Lord Barrett. It appears that our august colleagues have agreed to take the half-breeds under our protection and to arbitrate the Duel Arcane tomorrow. Are you prepared to carry out your duties?”

Barrett nodded wearily. “I am. Arilan, recall your friends.”

With a satisfied smile, Arilan strode to the golden doors, which opened silently as he approached. The three without turned to stare at him with anxious faces, but his expression told them all they needed to know. They entered the room behind Arilan with confidence in their stride, heads held high, no longer quite so intimidated by the Camberian Council.

“Stand with your colleagues, Arilan,” Barrett said, as the four approached Arilan's chair. Arilan stopped, Kelson, Morgan, and Duncan gathering around him, and faced Barrett squarely.

“Kelson Haldane, Alaric Morgan, Duncan McLain, hear the decision of the Camberian Council. It has been decided that all of you have the right to Council protection in this matter, and hence it has been granted. The Duel Arcane shall be arbitrated by Laran ap Pardyce, the Lady Vivienne, Tiercel de Claron, and myself. Arilan, you are to have no further contact with the Council until the Duel Arcane is decided. Further, you will instruct these three in what will be required of them in order to fulfill the requirements of the duel. All shall be done according to the proper ritual, as it was in the beginning. None of you is to discuss what will happen tomorrow with any person now outside the confines of this chamber. Is that understood?”

Arilan bowed, a formal, stylized obeisance. “It will be done according to our ancient ways, my lord.”

With that, he led the three out of the Council chamber, back onto the darkness of the Transfer Portal in the antechamber. Though he knew that they were bursting with questions, he would not permit them to speak while in the Council's precincts, but instead took them back through the Portal.

But in the first, confused seconds of their arrival, it was as though the preceding minutes had been but a dream. Only the sleeping forms of Nigel, Cardiel, and Warin, the rolled-back carpeting and knife-cut turf were immediate reminders that it had all been very real.

Kelson turned slowly to stare at Arilan. “It—it did happen, didn't it?”

“It certainly did.” Arilan smiled. “And miracles do still occur, it seems. Kelson, if you will draft your acceptance of the challenge, we shall send it off to Wencit right away.” He sighed as he kicked aside the candle stumps and slumped into a chair beside the patch of turf. “The Portal can be covered now, too. It still can be used, if necessary, but there is no further need for direct contact with the ground.”

Kelson nodded and moved to a portable writing stand, taking out quill and parchment. “What tone do you wish me to set, Bishop? Confident? Belligerent?”

Arilan shook his head, “No, slightly apprehensive but resigned, I think—as though you have been forced into this against your better judgment. We do not want him to know we have contacted the real Council or seen through his little scheme.” A diabolical gleam suddenly lit in the bishop's blue-violet eyes. “In fact, sound abject, frightened but trying to put a brave face on it. When the
real
Council shows up in the morning to arbitrate the Duel Arcane, we shall see how Wencit likes
that
!”

THERE
were many stars as Arilan stared up at the night sky from the shelter of Kelson's pavilion doorway later that night. Around him could be heard the sounds of the camp settling down to sleep—a sleep that could well be their last: the sounds of horses pulling at their tethers and snorting at the night-fears, of men calling the watch and pacing their assigned areas; conversation sounds, low voices, as the men prepared to sleep. Around Arilan, a ring of torches set in the ground lit the area before Kelson's pavilion with a hazy, orange glow, but mere fire could not compete with the stars tonight. Arilan thought he had never seen so bright a summer sky. Perhaps he never would again.

There was the sound of leather-shod feet behind him, and then Kelson was standing beside him, staring over his shoulder to gaze up at the stars also. Bareheaded, and with a simple soldier's cloak clasped around him, the young king stood silent for a long moment. He, too, felt the spell of the summer night.

“Are Alaric and Duncan on their way?” he finally asked.

“I've sent for them. They should be here shortly.”

Kelson sighed and stretched his arms in front of him with fingers intertwined, glancing idly around at the circle of torches, at the guards just within range of the orange firelight.

“This will be a short night. We probably ought to be ready well before dawn, just in case Wencit tries something else underhanded. The messenger who delivered our acceptance said he didn't look pleased at all.”

“We shall be ready for him,” Arilan said. “And as for surprises, I fear that Wencit is the one who will be getting that, once the sun rises.”

He paused as a movement outside the ring of torchlight caught his eye, then nudged Kelson as Morgan and Duncan strode past the guards to make short bows.

“Is anything wrong?” Morgan asked the king.

Kelson shook his head. “No, I'm just restless, I suppose. I wanted to go up to the hilltop and look at Wencit's layout again. I don't trust him.”

“And well you do not,” Duncan murmured under his breath, as Morgan raised an eyebrow and glanced past Kelson into the tent.

“How is Derry?” Morgan asked, ignoring Duncan's comment.

Kelson followed Morgan's glance and moved out of the doorway. “He was sleeping peacefully, the last time I looked. Let him be. I want to go up to the hilltop.”

“I'll join you in a moment. I want to check on him myself.”

As the others moved into the darkness, Morgan turned away from them and entered the tent. One shielded candle burned in a wrought-iron holder near the great state bed, and by its light and the light of the brazier farther back in the pavilion, Morgan made his way to the form lying beneath sleeping-furs on the other side of the chamber. As he knelt down beside Derry, the sleeping-furs moved and Derry rolled face-up. His eyes were closed, but it was evident that he was either beginning or ending a nightmare.

He moaned softly and flung an arm across his eyes momentarily, then relaxed and passed into deeper sleep once again. Once Morgan thought he heard Derry murmur, “Bran,” but he could not be sure.

Morgan frowned as he reached out to touch Derry's forehead lightly, but no impressions came through with his cursory scan of the troubled mind beneath his touch. Whatever the nightmare, it had passed. Perhaps now Derry would sleep peacefully.

Well it might have been, if Morgan had been able to dismiss what he had seen and continue about his business—but he could not. The fact that Derry still rested uneasily, when he should have been healed; that he had called out Bran Coris's name—that boded ill, no matter how one looked at it. Certainly, Derry had been through much—just how much, no one would know until Derry came out of his deep sleep and chose to share it with them.

But why was he not now recovered? Could his rantings when he was first brought back to the camp have held some darker meaning? Suppose the bonds imposed by Wencit on that tortured mind had not been entirely broken?

Morgan posted an extra guard just outside the doorway, then made his way into the night. He was not conscious of any particular destination—he was merely walking to burn off nervous energy, to calm his uneasiness. He never knew how he found himself beside Bishop Cardiel's compound—or what had made him seek out Richenda.

He pulled up short, gazing into the torchlight ahead as he pondered his motives, then moved past the bishop's guards toward her tent. He knew he should not be here, after what had passed between them last night—but perhaps she could shed some light on her husband's motives, he rationalized. Perhaps she could guess why Derry had called out the earl's name in his delirium. Besides, he could not deny that he ached to see her again, despite the fact that he knew he had no right to be here.

He moved into the circle of torchlight surrounding the entrance to her pavilion and took the salute of the perimeter guard, then strode softly to the pavilion entrance. There was no one in the front half of the structure, but beyond the divider curtain, he could hear a woman's voice singing a lullaby. He stood beside the center support pole and listened as she sang.

Drawn by the song, Morgan drifted closer to the doorway and slightly widened a narrow gap in the curtain. Across the inner chamber, he could see Richenda bending over Brendan's bed, tucking the sleeping-furs tenderly around her little redheaded son. The boy was drifting into sleep, but as he reached chubby arms up to hug his mother's neck, he spied Morgan in the doorway and instantly roused, scrambling onto his knees with a pleased smile, his blue eyes wide with wonder.

“Papa? Have you come to tell me a story?”

Embarrassed, Morgan drew back from the entryway, but not before Richenda could turn and catch sight of him. Her start at the boy's words was quickly covered as she realized that it was Morgan and not her husband. Then she was picking up the boy in her arms and moving toward Morgan with a faintly nervous smile.

“No, dear, that isn't your father. It's Duke Alaric. Good evening, Your Grace. Apparently in the dim light Brendan has mistaken you for his father.”

As she made a slight curtsy, Brendan clung closer to her—he could see now that the man standing in the doorway was, indeed, not his father—but he was unsure just how to react. He looked to his mother for some cue and, seeing her smile, judged that the stranger was probably not an enemy, so he looked shyly across at Morgan again, then back at his mother.

“Duke Alaric?” he whispered. The name meant nothing to so small a boy; he was merely trying to sort out identities. But before the boy could have time to think about it further, Morgan took a few steps closer and made a short bow.

“Hello, Brendan. I've heard some very nice things about you.”

Brendan eyed Morgan suspiciously, then turned back to his mother.

“Is my papa a duke?” he demanded.

“No, dear. He's an earl.”

“Is that as big as a duke?”

“Well, almost. Do you think you can say hello to His Grace?”

“No.”

“Certainly you can. Say, ‘Good evening, Your Grace.'”

“Good ebening, Your Grathe,” the boy lisped.

“Good evening, Brendan. How are you tonight?”

Brendan put two fingers in his mouth and looked down, suddenly shy again. “I'm fine,” he drawled.

Morgan smiled and bent down closer to the boy's level.

“That was a very pretty song your mother sang to you. Do you think she might sing it again, if you asked her very nicely?”

Brendan grinned impishly, fingers still in his mouth, then shook his head. “Don't want songs. Songs are for babies. Want stories. Do you know any stories?”

Morgan straightened in surprise. A story? He had never thought himself particularly cunning with children, but Brendan seemed to be responding quite remarkably. A story. God knew, he had heard some stories in his day, but few of them were at all suitable for a four-year-old boy. What in the name of—?

Richenda saw his indecision and started to take Brendan back to his bed. “Perhaps another time, dear. His Grace has had a very busy day, and I'm afraid he's too tired to tell stories to little boys tonight.”

“No, not necessarily,” Morgan said, following Richenda as she put the boy back in his bed. “Even dukes can make time to amuse clever little boys. What kind of story would you like to hear, Brendan?”

Brendan settled back on his pillows with a delighted grin and pulled the sleeping-furs up tightly around his chin.

“Tell me about my papa. He's the smartest and bravest man in the world. Tell me a story about him.”

Morgan froze for just an instant and looked across at Richenda, who had also stiffened at the request. The boy did not know, could not know, of the traitorous deeds of his father, and they were certainly not his fault. But neither could Morgan bring himself to praise Bran Coris, even for the sake of his engaging son. He made himself smile one of his easy, casual grins, then sat down on the edge of the bed and smoothed the boy's hair across his forehead.

“No, I don't think so tonight, Brendan. Suppose I tell you instead about a time when the king was a little boy like you. It seems that the king, who was only a prince then, had a beautiful black pony named Nightwind. Well, one day, Nightwind got out of his paddock and…”

As Morgan spun his tale, Richenda withdrew slightly to watch the two of them, thankful that Brendan had been successfully sidetracked. Brendan was crowing delightedly at whatever Morgan was telling him, but she could only catch a word here and there. The Deryni duke was purposely keeping his voice low, enhancing his moment with the boy by making it an event that only the two of them shared. She watched the tall, blond lord bending over the spellbound child and was herself caught anew in the web of wonder that surrounded the man.

After a time, Morgan reached out his hand to touch the boy's forehead—Brendan's eyelids had drooped in sleep some minutes before—and bowed his head for a moment. When he straightened, it was to rise and turn once more to Richenda. He seemed strangely at peace, a relaxed feeling, which was at once alien and yet somehow right. He held out his hand to her and she came to him wordlessly. After a moment he glanced back at the sleeping boy.

“He is Deryni, my lady. You know that, do you not?”

She nodded solemnly. “I know.”

Morgan shifted his weight from one foot to the other, suddenly uneasy. “He is much like I was at that age: innocent, vulnerable. I know the risks involved, but he should be trained. His secret cannot remain forever, and he must have the means to protect himself.”

She nodded again, once more glancing at her sleeping son. “One day soon, he will discover it for himself, that he is not like other boys. He must be warned what to expect, and yet I dread being the one to destroy his innocence.

“And then, there is the matter of his father. He worships Bran, you know, as little boys should revere their sires. But now…”

Her voice trailed off and she did not finish her sentence, but Morgan guessed what she was thinking. Releasing her hand, he moved to the doorway and glanced into the outer chamber. Sister Luke had returned from whatever errand she had been about and was now bustling about efficiently, setting out goblets and a flask of red wine. Morgan flushed as he saw her, wondering how long she had been there, but the sister said nothing as she lit more candles and then bowed slightly to him. Morgan emerged into the outer chamber and nodded in return as Sister Luke disappeared into the inner chamber. After a short time Richenda joined him, and Morgan covered his uneasiness by pouring two glasses of the wine.

“Did she hear?” he murmured, as Richenda took her goblet and tasted.

Richenda shook her head and sat opposite him before a camp table. “No. But if she had, she would be discreet. Besides, I am sure the guards warned her I was not alone,” she smiled, “and that you had not been here long enough for our honor to be in question.”

Morgan smiled fleetingly, then looked down at the goblet between his hands once more.

“About tomorrow, my lady,” he began in a low voice. “If Gwynedd is to endure, Bran must die. You know that.”

“It was foretold,” she murmured, “but I fear it nonetheless. What is to become of us, Alaric? What will become of all of us?”

IN
Kelson's tent, another wrestled with that same gnawing question. Under his sleeping-furs near the dying fire, Derry stirred restlessly and then opened his eyes. He could no longer ignore the Call. He was awake, and the dread compulsion grew. He sat up unsteadily—the tent was deserted—then threw off the sleeping-furs and got shakily to his feet. He staggered once, as though struck by a heavy blow, but then he shook his head lightly, as if to shake off an unbidden thought, and he straightened. His eyes closed briefly as he caressed the ring on his finger. When he opened his eyes, a determination lit his glance that had not been there before. Without further hesitation, he turned on his heel and strode to the tent entrance, his eyes fever-bright.