The Bishop’s Heir (22 page)

“Then what is he?” Kelson countered. “He's certainly got shields a lot like ours. He can't lower them, though.”

“He can't—” Morgan broke off and forced himself to take a deep, steadying breath, putting out of mind the increased danger to Dhugal if he
were
Deryni and in Loris' hands, and Loris found out.

“He has shields, but he can't lower them,” Morgan repeated more calmly, glancing back at Kelson. “Are you sure?”

“I tried to read him. I couldn't get through. All I did was give him a demon of a headache. And it hurt him, Alaric. It isn't supposed to hurt.”

“No, it isn't,” Morgan murmured.

After a few seconds, he shook his head and set his hands on Kelson's shoulders.

“I want you to show me exactly what you did and saw and felt,” he said. “Don't hold back a thing, even the pain. This could be very important.”

Breathing out with a sigh, Kelson let his hands fall to his sides and closed his eyes, willing the familiar channels to open. He would not have thought of arguing. Morgan's touch on his forehead plunged him at once into rapport, the link unclouded by any separation of miles or differences of intent. He took Morgan at his word and sent the undiluted memory surging across the link in the space of a few heartbeats, not letting up even when Morgan gasped and staggered under the intensity. Morgan looked a little dazed even after he withdrew.

“I don't think I've ever felt anything like that,” Morgan murmured, focusing with an effort. “I still don't understand. You should have been able to read him.”

“Maybe he has something like my Haldane gifts,” said Kelson. “Some potential for Derynilike abilities. Or maybe he's like Warin de Grey.”

Morgan shook his head, voicing his thoughts aloud as he wandered in the direction of the fireplace.

“No, his shields have a … a flavor, for want of a better word, that's quite different from Warin, who has shields and can even heal, but definitely isn't one of us.”

“Then, maybe he's fey,” Kelson quipped, biting back a chuckle. “He said he was—Dhugal, I mean. He says hill people have the Second Sight—whatever that is.” He paused a beat. “Why
couldn't
he be Deryni, Alaric? If the strain had come into his family several generations ago—perhaps during the worst of the persecutions—mightn't there be descendants who had no idea what they were, whose occasional odd quirks of talent were simply explained as ‘Second Sight,' or ‘fey'? My mother didn't know, after all.”

“That's what she
said
,” Morgan replied. “I'm sure she at least suspected, however. And there was certainly no doubt in
my
mind what she was, when I threatened to read her and she backed off. But nothing in your contact with Dhugal points to anything but shields.” He sighed. “I wish I could give you better answers. I suppose that's one of the disadvantages of getting one's training in bits and snippets the way Duncan and I did. Arilan might know better what to do, but—”

“But you don't wholly trust him,” Kelson finished.

Morgan shrugged. “You've seen his attitude. Do you trust him? In spite of everything that's gone on between us, he never lets go of the fact that Duncan and I are only half Deryni. Maybe his precious Camberian Council won't let him forget it—though he seems to set that aside in your case.”

“They see me in a different light,” Kelson said quietly. “I'm—not supposed to talk about it.”

“You mean you've had contact with them?” Morgan asked, surprised.

“Not with the Council as a whole, but individuals have made overtures.” The king lowered his eyes. “It isn't for me to say anything further yet. Please don't press me for details.”

Morgan longed to do just that, for this was the first he'd heard of any such contact, but he forced himself to push curiosity aside and instead flung himself down in a chair beside the fire. If the Council
had
been making overtures, if only to Kelson, that was a positive step for them. He must do nothing to jeopardize the possible dialogue.

“Very well. I shan't belabor the issue. I'm glad to hear that something's happening in that regard, at any rate.”

Kelson nodded idly, leaning both hands against one of the finials on the back of Morgan's chair. From his expression, Morgan wondered whether he'd heard a word he'd said.

“Morgan, have you ever done any scrying?” the king asked after a few more seconds.

“What do you want to scry for?”

“Dhugal, of course.
Have
you?”

“In a manner of speaking. I've worked visualizations using a
shiral
crystal, though I doubt that's quite the same. One usually needs something belonging to the person one wants to scry about. Do you have something of Dhugal's?”

“Not really—wait a moment. Yes, I do.”

He went to a small casket set on a table beside his bed and rummaged inside for several seconds, finally returning with a short length of black silk ribbon.

“I borrowed this when I was at Transha,” the king said, perching on the arm of Morgan's chair and offering it for his inspection. “Is it enough?”

“It might be.” Morgan let the ribbon trail across his hand and gave it a tentative probe, but he could detect nothing special about it. “I don't suppose you have a
shiral
crystal?”

Kelson's face fell. “No, do we need one? Don't you have one?”

“Not in Rhemuth.” Morgan sighed. “However, it's said not to be impossible without one.” He cocked his head at Kelson. “You're sure you want to do this?”

“Morgan …”

“All right. I can't promise any results, though. All you may get out of it is a splitting headache.”

“I'll take that chance.”

“And if he's dead?”

Kelson ducked his head, tight-lipped and all but blinking back tears, and Morgan instantly regretted his bluntness.

“I'm sorry, my prince,” he whispered, giving the king's arm an awkward pat as he drew a breath and got to his feet. “That was tactless of me. Change places with me and we'll give it a try. I didn't mean to feed your fears.”

Kelson did not look at him as he obeyed, nor did he answer. He sensed Morgan's awkwardness, and that the Deryni lord understood how frightened he really was for Dhugal's sake. Morgan sat gingerly on the right arm of the chair facing him and took his nearer wrist as soon as he had settled, twining an end of the tightly clutched ribbon through his own fingers.

“Let's use the flames as your first focus,” Morgan said softly, himself locking on the king's eyes. “Let yourself slip into trance and stare into the fire. I'll not share your vision, but feel free to pull energy from me as you begin to build an image of Dhugal in the shifting patterns of light and dark. Draw on his essence that remains in the ribbon and start to reach out across the miles and See him. Let your eyes unfocus. That's right. Use the flames as a background for your Vision, but know that the flames themselves are not your goal. See Dhugal as you last saw him, and now bring that image forward in time. Let yourself flow with it. Good …”

Kelson did his best to follow Morgan's instructions, extending his mind through the length of black silk between his fingers as his eyes gazed at and through the flames, but his own fears hampered his concentration. He could feel the support of Morgan's power augmenting his own as he sought the captive Dhugal, but he was never sure he made a real contact. His head ached as he came out of trance, and it hurt to breathe.

“Nothing,” Morgan guessed, taking the ribbon from his fingers as Kelson forced himself back to equilibrium.

Kelson shook his head dispiritedly. “I can't tell. I really do think I'd know if he were dead—but I couldn't separate out anything else that I'm sure was Dhugal. Maybe we needed a
shiral
after all.”

“Perhaps.”

Despite their failure to locate any tangible clue to Dhugal's whereabouts, Kelson became convinced in the next hour that Dhugal almost had to be in Ratharkin—and with Loris.

“And if that's what's happened, Istelyn is in danger, too,” Kelson reasoned. “Morgan, we've got to help them.”

“You mean, go to Ratharkin?”

“Well, we might be able to surprise them. How strong can Loris be?”

But reason prevailed where sheer emotion might have won out, for Morgan reminded the king of the prisoner due from Transha, who might be able to shed a great deal more light on the situation. Loris might
not
have been headed for Ratharkin. Kelson reluctantly agreed to delay any decision until the prisoner arrived and had been questioned, but he slept only fitfully for what remained of the night, despite the rain drumming against the mullioned windows.

The rain continued without cease through the morning, delaying the arrival of the expected prisoner until early afternoon. At Kelson's order, the drenched and shivering bordermen who had brought him whisked their prize directly to a private withdrawing chamber, before anyone at court even got a close look at him. Only Morgan, Duncan, and Nigel were invited to attend the king.

“Someone give him a dry cloak,” Kelson said, as the border-men half-pushed and half-dragged their charge to a chair Kelson indicated by the fire. “Mind his arm.”

The strain of the ride from Transha showed in the prisoner's every move as he collapsed into the chair before the fire, bracing his bandaged forearm against his chest. The man did not protest as Duncan removed his own cloak and laid it around his shivering shoulders, perhaps taking comfort from his benefactor's priestly garb, but he showed an instant's panic when Kelson dismissed the guards and Nigel closed the door behind them. The eyes beneath the warrior's shock of close-cropped hair mirrored suspicion and uncertainty along with physical discomfort.

“I claim benefit of clergy,” he whispered hoarsely, his glance darting nervously among the four of them. “You have no authority to try me.”

Kelson leaned an arm along the mantel and studied his captive with a mixture of curiosity and anticipation.

“I don't intend to try you,” he said. “I simply plan to ask you a few questions. Father Duncan, do you suppose you and Morgan might be able to do something about his injury?”

The two names triggered the expected response—Kelson had been fairly certain their prisoner did not know Morgan or Duncan by sight. As Duncan bestirred himself to reach toward the bandaged arm, Morgan approaching from the other side, the man shrank back in his chair.

“Stay away!” He did his best to watch both of them at once and fend off Duncan with his one good hand. “Don't touch me! I want no Deryni sorcerers—”

Before he could decide who was the greater threat, Morgan glided in slightly from behind and clamped the desperately swiveling head between his hands, extending control.

“Don't fight me,” he ordered, sounding almost bored as hands and mind compelled obedience. “It isn't going to do any good. And if you relax and cooperate, we may even be able to make you a little more comfortable.”

The man's struggles subsided jerkily, much against his will, and his free hand fell away as Duncan began unwrapping the splinted arm. He winced as the priest's sensitive fingers brushed the angry-looking flesh over the broken forearm, his body arching with new pain as Duncan encased the damaged area between his two hands.

“What are you doing? No magic! No! Please don't!”

At Duncan's nod, Morgan drew his controls tighter and pushed the man into unconsciousness, shifting one hand to cover Duncan's two as he reached for the healing mode he and his cousin now achieved with increasing reliability. Building the rapport with Duncan, he felt himself sinking into that odd, other-worldly sensation which he had come to associate with the rogue healing talent—and felt the fleeting, familiar press of Another's hands atop his own as the connection was made and the bones began to knit beneath their touch. He withdrew when the healing was complete, blinking and partially releasing control to let their patient regain consciousness.

“No,” the man murmured weakly, as his eyes fluttered open. “No magic,
please
…”

“It's a little late for that,” Morgan replied, settling on a stool that Nigel pushed closer, so he could keep one hand casually on the man's shoulder for future control. “Suppose you tell us your name now.”

Dazed, the man flexed the fingers of his sword arm and rubbed where the break had been, glancing furtively at Duncan, not daring to look at Morgan or acknowledge the Deryni hand still resting on his shoulder.

“You—healed me,” he whispered reproachfully.

“Yes, they healed you,” Kelson replied, looking a little disgusted. “You're not contaminated, you know. Answer the question. Who are you?”

The man swallowed with difficulty. “I still claim benefit of clergy,” he said weakly. “I—”

“The only benefit of clergy that you're going to receive right now,” Nigel said pointedly, “is the fact that Monsignor McLain is here to witness your interrogation. Now answer your king's question.”

As the man set his lips in a thin, defiant line and started to shake his head, Morgan exchanged a glance with Kelson and extended control again, imposing the compulsions of Truth-Saying.

“Tell us your name,” he said patiently.

“Nevan d'Estrelldas,” the man replied, his eyes widening as the words tumbled from his lips despite his intention to keep silent.

“D'Estrelldas?” Kelson repeated, glancing at Duncan in surprised question as Duncan, too, started. “That's an unusual name—Bremagni, isn't it?”

Duncan nodded, pursing his lips in grim suspicion. “It is also the name of one of the itinerant bishops working in Kierney, isn't it, Nevan?”

Nevan nodded, again much against his will, and Duncan scowled even harder. Kelson looked astonished.