Deryni Rising (Chronicles of the Deryni), Page 2

  He pulled the crimson wool of his cloak more closely around him, flexed numb fingers in their leather gloves, drew the scarlet hunt cap farther down on his forehead, the white plume floating gently on the still air.

  The sounds of voices, barking hounds, the jingle of burnished bits and spurs and other horse noises drifted up on the mist. Turning to look back down the hill, he could catch fleeting glimpses of well-bred horses moving in the fog, their equally well-bred riders resplendent in finely embroidered velvets and polished leather.

  Brion smiled at that. For despite the outward show of splendor and self-assurance, he was certain that the riders below were enjoying the jaunt no more than he was. The inclement weather had made the hunt a chore instead of the anticipated pleasure.

  Why, oh, why had he promised Jehana there would be venison for her table tonight? He had known, when he said it, that it was too early in the season. Still, one did not break one’s promise to a lady—especially when that lady was one’s beloved queen and mother of the royal heir.

  The low, plaintive call of the hunting horns confirmed his suspicion that the scent was lost, and he sighed resignedly. Unless the weather cleared dramatically, there was little hope of reassembling the scattered pack in anything less than half an hour. And with hounds this green, it could be days, even weeks!

  He shook his head and chuckled as he thought of Ewan—so proud of his new hounds earlier in the week. He knew that the old Marcher lord would have a lot to say about this morning’s performance. But however much he might make excuses, Brion was afraid Ewan deserved all the teasing he was certain to get in the weeks to come. A duke of Claibourne should have known better than to bring such puppies out in the field this early in the season.

  The poor pups have probably never even seen a deer!

  The sound of closer hoofbeats reached Brion’s ears, and he turned in the saddle to see who was approaching. At length, a young rider in scarlet silks and leathers emerged from the fog and urged his bay gelding up the hill. Brion watched with pride as the boy slowed his mount to a walk and reined in at his father’s side.

  “Lord Ewan says it will be a while, Sire,” the boy reported, his eyes sparkling with the excitement of the chase. “The hounds flushed some rabbits.”

  “Rabbits!” Brion laughed out loud. “You mean to tell me that after all the boasting we’ve had to endure for the past week, Ewan’s going to make us sit here and freeze while he rounds up his puppy dogs?”

  “So it appears, Sire.” Kelson grinned. “But if it’s any consolation, everyone in the hunt feels exactly the same way.”

  He has his mother’s smile, Brion thought fondly. But the eyes, the hair, are mine. He seems so young, though. Can it really be nearly fourteen years? Ah, Kelson, if only I could spare you what lies ahead . . .

  Brion dismissed the thought with a smile and a shake of the head. “Well, as long as everybody else is miserable, I suppose I feel a bit better.”

  He yawned and stretched, then relaxed in the saddle. The polished leather creaked as his weight shifted, and Brion sighed.

  “It’s a pity Morgan isn’t here. Fog or no fog, I think he could charm the deer right to the city gates if he chose.”

  “Really?” Kelson asked.

  “Well, perhaps not quite that close,” Brion conceded. “But he has a way with animals—and other things.” The king grew suddenly distant, and he toyed absently with the riding crop in his gloved hand.

  Kelson caught the change of mood, and after a studied pause he moved his horse closer to the older man. His father had not been entirely open about Morgan in the past few weeks. And the absence of conversation about the young general had been keenly felt. Perhaps this was the time to pursue the matter. He decided to be blunt.

  “Sire, forgive me if I speak out of turn, but why haven’t you recalled Morgan from the border marches?”

  Brion felt himself go tense, forced himself to conceal his surprise. How had the boy known that? Morgan’s whereabouts had been a closely guarded secret for nearly two months now. Not even the Crown Council knew precisely where he was, or why. He must tread softly until he could ascertain just how much the boy knew.

  “Why do you ask, Son?”

  “I don’t mean to pry, Sire,” the boy replied. “I’m certain you have reasons even the Council isn’t aware of. I’ve missed him, though. And I think you have, too.”

  Khadasa! The boy was perceptive! It was as though he’d read the unspoken thoughts. If Brion was to avoid the Morgan question, he would have to steer Kelson away from the subject quickly.

  The king permitted himself a wan smile. “Thank you for the vote of confidence. I’m afraid that you and I are among the few who have missed him, however. I’m sure you’re aware of the rumors afoot in the past weeks.”

  “That Morgan is out to depose you?” Kelson said guardedly. “You don’t really believe that, do you? And that isn’t the reason he’s still at Cardosa, either.”

  Brion studied the boy out of the corner of his eye, his crop tapping lightly against his right boot where Kelson could not see it. Cardosa, even.

  The boy certainly had a good source of information, whatever it was. And he was persistent, too. He had deliberately turned the conversation back to Morgan’s absence, despite his father’s efforts to avoid the issue. Perhaps Brion had misjudged the boy. He tended to forget that Kelson was nearly fourteen, of legal age. Brion himself had been only a little older when he came to the throne.

  He decided to release a bit of solid information and see how the boy would react.

  “No, it isn’t. I can’t go into too much detail right now, Son. But there is a major crisis brewing at Cardosa, and Morgan is keeping an eye on it. Wencit of Torenth wants the city, and he’s already broken two treaties in his efforts to annex it. By next spring we’ll probably be formally at war.” He paused. “Does that frighten you?”

  Kelson studied the ends of his reins carefully before replying. “I’ve never known real war,” he said slowly, his gaze shifting out across the plain. “As long as I’ve been alive, there’s been peace in the Eleven Kingdoms. One would think men could forget how to fight after fifteen years of peace.”

  Brion smiled and allowed himself to relax slightly. He seemed to have succeeded in shifting the topic of discussion away from Morgan at last, and that was good.

  “They never forget, Kelson. That’s part of being human, I’m sorry to say.”

  “I suppose so,” Kelson said. He reached down and patted the bay’s neck, smoothed a stray wisp in the mane, turned wide gray eyes squarely on his father’s face.

  “It’s the Shadowed One again, isn’t it?”

  The insight of that simple statement momentarily rocked Brion’s world. He had been prepared for any question, any comment—anything but a mention of the Shadowed One by his son. It was not fair for one so young to have to face such awesome reality! It so unnerved the older man that for an instant he was speechless, open-mouthed.

  How had Kelson known about the Shadowed One’s threat? By Saint Camber, was it possible that the boy had the talent?

  “You’re not supposed to know about that!” he blurted accusingly, trying desperately to remarshal his thoughts and frame a more coherent answer.

  Kelson was taken aback by his father’s reaction and showed it, but he didn’t allow his gaze to waver. There was a touch of challenge, almost defiance in his voice. “There are a good many things I’m not supposed to know about, Sire. But that hasn’t kept me from learning. Would you want it any other way?”

  “No,” Brion murmured. He dropped his eyes uncertainly, searched for the proper phrasing for what he must ask next, found it.

  “Did Morgan tell you?”

  Kelson shifted uneasily, suddenly aware that the tables had turned, that he was in deeper than he’d planned. It was his own fault. He’d insisted on pursuing this matter. But now his father would not be satisfied until Kelson followed through. He cleared his throat.

  “Y
es, he did—before he left,” Kelson replied hesitantly. “He was afraid you wouldn’t approve.” He wet his lips. “He—ah—also mentioned your powers—and the basis for your rule.”

  Brion frowned. That Morgan! He was annoyed he hadn’t recognized the signs sooner, for he guessed now what must have happened. Still, the boy had done an admirable job of keeping the knowledge a secret. Perhaps Morgan had been right all along.

  “How much did Morgan tell you, Son?” he asked quietly.

  “Too much to please you—not enough to satisfy me,” the boy admitted with some reluctance. He hazarded a glance at his father’s face. “Are you angry, Sire?”

  “Angry?”

  It was all Brion could do to keep from shouting with relief. Angry? The inferences the boy had made, the guarded queries, the skill with which the boy had played the conversation back and forth, even on the defensive—by God, if not for this, then what had he and Morgan worked for all these years? Angry? By Heaven, how could he be angry?

  Brion reached across and gave Kelson’s shoulder an affectionate buffet. “Of course I’m not angry,” he said. “If only you knew how much you’d put my mind at ease. You gave me a few rough moments, granted. But I’m more certain than ever, now, that my choice was the right one. I want you to promise me one thing, though.”

  “Anything, Sire,” Kelson agreed hesitantly.

  “You needn’t be so solemn,” Brion assured him, smiling. “It isn’t a difficult request. But if anything should happen to me, I want you to send for Morgan immediately. He’ll be more help to you than any other single person I can think of. Will you do that for me?”

  Kelson sighed and smiled, relief written all across his face. “Of course, Sire. That would be my first thought in any event. Morgan knows. About a lot of things.”

  “On that I would stake my life,” Brion said with another smile. He straightened in the saddle and gathered the red leather reins in long, gloved fingers. “Look, the sun’s coming out. Let’s see if Ewan’s got those hounds rounded up yet!”

  THE sky had brightened appreciably as the sun climbed toward the zenith. Now the royal pair cast faint, short shadows before them as they trotted down the hill. It had grown so clear, one could see all the way across the meadow to the forest beyond. Brion’s gray eyes scanned the scattered hunting party with interest as he and Kelson approached.

  There was Rogier, the Earl of Fallon, in dark green velvet, riding a magnificent gray stallion Brion had never seen before. He seemed to be engaged in a very animated conversation with the fiery young Bishop Arilan and—very interesting—a flash of McLain tartan identified the third rider as Kevin, the younger Lord McLain. Ordinarily, he and Rogier did not get along. (For that matter, few people did get along with Rogier.) He wondered what the three had found to talk about.

  He did not have time to speculate further, for the loud, booming voice of the Duke of Claibourne drew Brion’s attention to the head of the ride. Lord Ewan, his great red beard fairly bristling in the sunlight, was giving someone a right-royal chewing out—not an unexpected event in light of the hunt’s success to date.

  Brion half stood in his stirrups for a better look. As he’d suspected, it was one of the whippers-in who was getting the brunt of Ewan’s anger. Poor man. It wasn’t his fault the hounds weren’t performing well. Then again, he supposed Ewan had to have someone to blame.

  Brion smiled and directed Kelson’s attention to the situation, indicating that he should rescue the unfortunate huntsman and placate Ewan. As Kelson rode off, Brion continued to scan the assembly. There was the man he’d been looking for—over by Rogier.

  Touching spurs to his mount, he galloped easily across the turf to hail a tall young man in the purple and white of the House of Fianna. The man was drinking from a finely tooled leather flask.

  “Halloo! What’s this I see? Young Colin of Fianna drinking up all the best wine, as usual! How about a swallow for your poor, shivering king, my friend?”

  He drew rein beside Colin with a flourish and eyed the flask as Colin lowered it from his lips.

  Colin smiled and wiped the mouth of the flask on his sleeve, then handed it across with a jovial bow.

  “Good morning, Sire. You know that my wine is always yours for the asking.”

  Rogier joined them, deftly backing his stallion a few paces as Brion’s black reached out to nip. “Good morrow, My Liege,” he said, bowing low in the saddle. “My lord is truly canny to locate the finest vintage in the company so early. ’Tis a prodigious feat!”

  “Prodigious?” Brion chuckled. “On a morning like this? Rogier, you have an amazing gift for understatement.”

  He threw back his head and took a long swallow from the flask, lowered it, and sighed. “Ah, ’tis no secret that Colin’s father keeps the finest cellars in all the Eleven Kingdoms. My compliments, as usual, Colin!” He raised the flask and drank again.

  Colin smiled mischievously and leaned his forearms against the saddle’s pommel. “Ah, Majesty, now I know that you’re just trying to flatter me so my father will send you another shipment. That isn’t Fianna wine at all. A beautiful lady gave it to me only this morning.”

  Brion paused in mid-swallow, then lowered the flask with concern. “A lady? Ah, Colin, you should have told me. I would never have asked for your lady’s token.”

  Colin laughed aloud. “She isn’t my lady, Sire. I never saw her before. She merely gave me the wine. Besides, she’d doubtless be honored, should she learn that my king sampled and enjoyed her brew.”

  Brion returned the flask and wiped across his moustache and beard with the back of a gloved hand.

  “Now, no excuses, Colin,” he insisted. “It’s I who have been amiss. Come and ride at my side. And you shall sit at my right at supper tonight. Even a king must make amends when he trifles with a lady’s favor.”

  KELSON let his mind and eyes wander as he rode back toward the king. Behind him, Ewan and the master-of-hounds had finally reached a tentative truce regarding what had gone wrong, and the hounds seemed to be under control again. The whippers-in were keeping them in a tight pack, waiting for the royal command to proceed. The hounds, though, had their own ideas, which did not include waiting for kings or lords. It was questionable just how long the huntsmen would be able to hold them.

  A flash of royal blue to the left caught Kelson’s eye as he rode, and he immediately identified it as his uncle, the Duke of Carthmoor.

  As brother of the king and ranking peer in the realm, Prince Nigel was responsible in a major way for the training of some thirty young pages of the royal household. As usual, he had some of his charges in tow today, and as usual, he was engaged in one of his seemingly endless struggles to teach them something useful. There were only six of them along on the hunt today, and Nigel’s own three boys were elsewhere in the entourage, but Kelson could see by Nigel’s harried expression that these particular pages were not among his brighter pupils.

  Lord Jared, the McLain patriarch, was offering helpful advice from the sidelines, but the boys simply could not seem to get the hang of what it was Nigel wanted.

  “No, no, no,” Nigel was saying. “If you ever address an earl simply as ‘Sir’ in public, he’ll bite off your head, and I won’t blame him. And you must always remember that a bishop is ‘Your Excellency.’ Now, Jatham, how would you address a prince of the royal blood?”

  Kelson smiled and nodded greeting as he rode on by. It was not so very long ago that he had been under the iron tutelage of the royal duke, his uncle, and he didn’t envy the lads. A Haldane to the core, Nigel neither asked nor gave quarter, whether he was on the field of battle or training pages. But though the training was rigorous and sometimes seemed over-harsh, pages who came through Nigel’s schooling made fine squires and better knights. Kelson was glad to have Nigel on his side.

  As Kelson approached, Brion broke off his conversation with Colin and Rogier and raised a hand in greeting. “What’s happening up there, Son?”

  “I
think Lord Ewan about has things under control, Sire,” Kelson replied. “I believe he’s waiting for your signal now.”

  “That I am, young master!” Ewan’s voice boomed, as he galloped up in Kelson’s wake.

  Ewan removed his cap of Lincoln green and swept it before him with a flourish. “Sire, the pack is ready. And this time, my master-of-hounds assures me that the scent is true.” He replaced the cap on his thick red hair and tugged at the brim in emphasis. “It had better be, or there’ll be weeping and wailing in my household tonight!”

  Brion laughed and leaned back in the saddle, slapped his thigh in mirth. “Ewan, it’s only a hunt! And I want no weeping and wailing on my account. Let’s go!”

  Still chuckling, he gathered his reins and began to move forward. Ewan stood in his stirrups and raised his arm, and the hunting horns reverberated across the meadow in reply. Far ahead, the hounds were already giving tongue in clear, bell-like tones as the riders began to move out.

  Down the slope, through the rough, across the open fields in the clear once more, the hunt was off at the gallop.

  In the ensuing excitement of the chase, no one would notice when one rider at the rear dropped back and made his way to the edge of the forest. Indeed, he would not even be missed.

  IN the stillness of the forest, Yousef the Moor stood motionless at the edge of a small, dim clearing, his slim brown hands light and sure on the reins he held, the four horses quiet behind him.

  All around, the leaves of an early autumn blazed with color, seared to gold and red and brown by the past week’s frost, yet muted here by the play of shadow and darker gloom among the tree trunks.

  Here, beneath tall, dense trees where sunlight rarely penetrated save in deepest winter, Yousef’s black robes merged and blended with those shadows. Black eyes beneath black silk darted swiftly about the clearing, seeking, scanning, yet not really noting what they saw. For Yousef was not watching so much as he was listening. And waiting.