High Deryni, Page 4

  “Yet you propose to go to Dhassa and attempt a reconciliation,” the king said. “Suppose you don’t succeed? Suppose the Six cannot be persuaded?”

  “I believe I can put your mind at ease on that matter, Sire,” Duncan said. “If you’ll recall, I was on Bishop Arilan’s staff for some time. I know him fairly well. I believe he will deal fairly with us, and in doing so, will persuade his colleagues to do likewise.”

  “I wish I could be as sure.”

  Kelson drummed his fingers lightly on the arm of his chair, then folded them together in his lap. “So you would throw yourselves on the mercy of the bishops, on the strength of your trust in one man.” His grimace of distaste showed reluctance as well. “Yet, the fact is that both of you are guilty of the charges for which you were excommunicated. There is no denying the events at Saint Torin’s. To be sure, there were extenuating circumstances—and hopefully, canon law will support your defense, at least in the major issues. But if you should fail, if the excommunication should stand, what then? Do you think the Six will let you walk out of there?”

  There were the sounds of low voices outside the tent, a verbal altercation of some sort going on, and Kelson paused to glance in the direction of the doorway. As he did, a sentry withdrew the flap and stepped inside.

  “Sire, Bishop Istelyn wishes to see you. He insists it cannot wait.”

  Kelson frowned. “Admit him.”

  As the guard stepped back into the dusk, Kelson glanced quickly at the faces of his companions, especially Morgan and Duncan. Istelyn was one of Gwynedd’s twelve itinerant bishops with no fixed see, one of those who had not been in Dhassa when the Curia had split last winter.

  But Istelyn, on hearing of the events in Dhassa, had declared himself to be on the side of Arilan and Cardiel and the rest of the Six, and several weeks ago had attached himself to Kelson’s army here at the Corwyn border. He was regarded as a sober, even-tempered prelate, not given to flexing his ecclesiastical power. For him to force himself on a royal meeting as he was about to do was quite out of character unless something were drastically wrong. Kelson’s face almost betrayed his anxiety as the bishop stepped through the tent opening, a sheaf of parchment in his hand and a very solemn expression on his face.

  “Your Majesty,” Istelyn said with a grave bow.

  “My Lord Bishop,” Kelson replied, standing slowly at his place as the rest followed suit.

  Istelyn glanced around the tent and nodded acknowledgement, and Kelson motioned the rest of his menie to be seated.

  “I surmise that your news is not good, my lord,” the king murmured, not taking his eyes from Istelyn’s.

  “You surmise correctly, Sire.” The bishop moved closer to the king and extended the sheaf of parchments. “I—regret being the bearer of these, but I felt you should have them.”

  As Kelson took the pages Istelyn offered, the bishop bowed and backed off a few paces, unwilling to meet the young monarch’s eyes any longer. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Kelson scanned the top sheet, his lips compressing in a thin, white line as he read. The gray eyes grew colder by the second as he flicked over the too-familiar seal at the bottom of the page and then skipped to the second sheet.

  His face blanched as he read, and it was with a visible control of emotion that he kept his hands from crumpling the parchment then and there. Veiling the icy Haldane eyes beneath long lashes, he began to bend the parchment sheets into a fat roll, not looking up as he spoke.

  “Leave us, please—all of you.” His voice was chill, deadly, not to be disobeyed. “And Istelyn, you are to speak of this to no one until we give you leave. Is that clear?”

  Istelyn paused to bow as he moved toward the doorway. “Of course, Sire.”

  “Thank you. On second thought, Morgan and Father Duncan, please stay.”

  The pair had been moving toward the doorway with the others, but paused to exchange puzzled glances before turning to regard their undoubtedly distressed sovereign lord. Kelson had turned his back on the departing lords and stood rising up and down slightly on the balls of his feet, tapping the roll of parchment lightly against the palm of his left hand.

  Morgan and Duncan returned to stand expectantly by their former places, but when Nigel paused as though to join them, Duncan lifted a restraining hand and shook his head. Morgan, too, moved as though to bar the way, and with a resigned shrug Nigel turned on his heel to follow the others from the pavilion. His departure left only the three of them within the blue canvas walls.

  “Are they all gone?” Kelson whispered. He had not moved during the silent exchange with Nigel, and his only movement now was the slight tap-tap of the parchment roll against his hand—that and his controlled breathing.

  Duncan raised an eyebrow at Morgan and glanced again at the king.

  “Yes, they’re gone, Sire. What is it?”

  Kelson turned to eye both of them, the gray Haldane eyes lighting with a fire the two men had not seen since Brion’s time. Then he half-crumpled the parchment sheets and flung them to the floor in disgust.

  “Go ahead, read them,” he blurted, turning then to fling himself across his bed on his stomach. He slammed a lean fist into the mattress with all his might.

  “Damn those bishops to thrice-cursed perdition, what are we to do? My God, we are undone!”

  Morgan blinked at Duncan in blank amazement, then moved closer to the king in concern as Duncan retrieved the discarded documents.

  “Kelson, what is it? Tell us what has happened. Are you all right?”

  With a sigh, Kelson rolled over to prop himself on his elbows and gaze up more blandly at the pair, the anger in his eyes now damped to a slight, cold fire.

  “Forgive me, you shouldn’t have seen that show of temper.” He lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling of the tent. “I am a king. I should know better. It’s a fault, I know.”

  “And what of the fault with the message?” Morgan urged, glancing at Duncan’s calm face as he scanned the documents. “Come, tell us what has happened.”

  “I’m excommunicated, that’s what’s happened,” Kelson replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “In addition, my entire kingdom is under Interdict, and any who continue to pay me fealty are likewise excommunicated.”

  “Is that all?” Morgan exhaled, a long, relieved sigh, and beckoned Duncan to bring the documents Kelson had discarded in such heat. “By your reaction, I thought it to be truly horrible news.”

  Kelson sat up straight in the center of the bed. “Is that all?” he repeated incredulously. “You obviously don’t understand. Father Duncan, explain it to him in words of one syllable. I am excommunicated, and everyone who remains with me! And Gwynedd is under Interdict!”

  Duncan folded the parchment sheaf in half and creased the center sharply, tossed it lightly to the bed. “Worthless, my prince.”

  “What?”

  “It is worthless,” he repeated calmly. “The eleven bishops sitting in conclave at Coroth still have not gleaned a twelfth: a requirement that is as firmly fixed in our canon law as any dogma of faith. The eleven at Coroth cannot bind you or anyone else unless they gain a twelfth.”

  “A twelfth—by God, you’re right!” Kelson exclaimed, scrambling upright to snatch up the offending documents and stare at them again. “How could I have forgotten?”

  Morgan smiled and returned to his chair, where a half-finished cup of wine awaited him. “It is understandable, my prince. You are not as accustomed to anathema as we are. Remember that Duncan and I have been truly and legally excommunicated for nearly three months now, and are little the worse for wear—which brings us back to our original discussion.”

  “Yes, of course.” Kelson got to his feet and returned to his chair, still shaking his head as he stared at the documents in his hand. Duncan, too, returned to the circle of chairs and sat down, helping himself to a small apple as Kelson finally put the parchment sheaf aside.

  “What you are implying, then,” the king said, �
�is that this makes it all the more urgent that you get to Dhassa as quickly as possible. Am I correct?”

  “You are, my prince,” Morgan said with a nod.

  “But suppose Arilan’s colleagues won’t follow his lead? They are our only hope for reconciliation with the rest of the clergy, and if they should fail us, especially with this new Interdict and excommunication hanging over us—why, we’d never be able to make Loris and Corrigan listen.”

  Morgan made a steeple of his forefingers and tapped them lightly against his lips for a moment, then glanced at Duncan. The priest had not changed his relaxed position next to him, and appeared to be chewing unconcernedly on a bite of apple, but Morgan knew that he was thinking much the same thing. Unless they could eventually reach an agreement with Loris and Corrigan, the ringleaders of the curial hostility against Duncan and himself, Gwynedd was doomed. Once the spring flooding was done, Wencit of Torenth would be sweeping into Gwynedd along the Rheljan Range, using high Cardosa as a base. And with internal factions warring in the south and no reinforcements available, it would be a relatively simple matter to cut off Kelson’s three armies and destroy them at leisure. The controversy in Corwyn must be resolved, and soon.

  Morgan shifted forward in his chair and retrieved his helmet from the floor where he had dropped it. “We shall do the best we can, my prince. In the meantime, what are your plans while we’re gone? I know how this inactivity must be fretting you.”

  Kelson studied a ruby on his forefinger and shook his head. “It is.” He looked up and managed a slight smile. “But for the time being, I shall just have to put up with my impatience and stand where I am, won’t I? As soon as you have reached agreement with the Six in Dhassa, will you send word?”

  “Certainly. And we are still agreed on our rendezvous point?”

  “Yes—and I should like to send Derry north for part of the way with you, too, if you don’t mind. I need word of the three armies.”

  “Agreed.” Morgan nodded, fingering the chin strap of his helmet. “If you like, we can arrange for you to keep in touch with him through his medallion, the way we did before. Is that agreeable?”

  “Of course. Perhaps Father Duncan could brief him, then, and make preparations for you to leave. You’ll need fresh horses, supplies….”

  “I’ll be happy to see to it, Sire,” Duncan said, draining the last of his wine and picking up his helmet as he got to his feet. “I shall look in on Bishop Istelyn and reassure him, as well.”

  Kelson stared after the departing priest for a long moment, then returned his gaze to Morgan, studying the trim form relaxed in the chair there, the hooded gray eyes that watched him in much the same way. As he glanced down at his own hands, he was surprised to find that his fingers were trembling, and he twined them together in annoyance.

  “Ah—how long do you think it will take to reach the bishops and…resolve things?” he asked. “I’ll—need to know when to meet you with the army.”

  Morgan smiled and lightly touched the pouch at his belt. “I carry your Lion Seal, my prince. I am your Champion, sworn to protect you.”

  “That isn’t what I asked, and you know it!” Kelson said. He rose and began to pace nervously. “You’re about to throw yourselves on the mercy of a handful of bishops who could just as easily cut your throat as hear you out, and you prattle on about being my Champion, sworn to protect me. The Devil take you, Morgan, I want to know how you feel about this thing. Do I have to spell it out? I want to know if you trust Arilan and Cardiel!”

  Morgan’s eyes had followed the young king in his pacing, and now swept him from head to toe as he came to a halt behind his chair and leaned both hands against the back. The gray Haldane eyes were dancing with intelligence, apprehension, and a little annoyance, and Morgan suppressed a smile. Kelson, though he was king in his own right and held the throne by powers as awesome as any Morgan could muster up, was still a boy in many ways. At times, his brash outspokenness reminded Morgan a little of his own youth.

  But Morgan also had the good sense to know when his king was serious, as he had known for the boy’s father. This was one of those times. He let his glance drop to the helmet he still held in his lap, then met the king’s gaze once more.

  “I have met Arilan only once, my prince—at least to talk to—and Cardiel, never. But as I see it, they may be our only hope. Arilan has always seemed to be at least tolerant where Deryni are concerned; he stood by you at your coronation and did not denounce me or Duncan, even though he must have suspected that there was magic afoot besides yours and Charissa’s. I am also told that he and Cardiel were among our staunchest supporters when the Interdict question arose regarding Corwyn. I think we have no choice but to trust them.”

  “But, to walk right into Dhassa, when there is a price on your heads…” Kelson began.

  “Do you really think anyone is likely to recognize us?” Morgan snorted. “Look at me. When has the Duke of Corwyn ever worn a beard, or gone about in peasant garb, or even been to Dhassa, for that matter? And what excommunicate fugitive in his right mind would even consider entering the holiest city in Gwynedd when he knows that everyone in the kingdom is looking for him?”

  “Alaric Morgan would.” Kelson sighed resignedly. “But suppose that you do reach Dhassa safely, you enter the city, you somehow manage to get inside the episcopal palace undetected—then what? You just told me that you’ve never been to Dhassa. How do you even begin to find Arilan and Cardiel? And if you’re captured before you can find them, then what? Suppose some overzealous guardsman decides he wants all the glory for himself, and kills you before you’re even taken before the bishops?”

  Morgan smiled and wrapped his hands complacently around his helmet. “You forget one thing, my prince. Duncan and I are Deryni. The last time I heard, that still counted for something.”

  Kelson stared at Morgan speechlessly for an instant, disbelief and astonishment writ all across his face, then threw his head back and laughed delightedly as he sat down again.

  “You are very good for me, Alaric Morgan, do you know that? Without preaching, you somehow manage to tell your king that he has been thinking like a fool, but without being the least bit annoying about it. I think it comes of letting me ramble on and on until I run down and realize how ridiculous I’ve been. Why is that?”

  “Why do you ramble on and on, my prince? Or why do I let you?”

  Kelson grinned. “You know what I mean.”

  Morgan stood and brushed dust from his clothing again, then polished across the front of his helmet with his sleeve.

  “You are young, you have a natural curiosity, and you lack the experience that only years can bring, my prince,” he said easily. “That is why you ramble on and on. As for why I let you…” He considered it for a moment. “I let you because it is the best cure I know for anxiety: to get one’s fears out in the open and face up to them. Once you realize which are the irrational fears and which are the real ones, you have come a long way toward conquering both kinds. Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough,” Kelson replied, getting up and moving with Morgan toward the exit. “You will be careful, though, won’t you?” The statement ended on a doubtful note.

  “On my honor, I will, Sire.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “He shall dwell on high: his place of defense shall be the munitions of rocks: bread shall be given him; his waters shall be sure.”

  ISAIAH 33:16

  ON the vast plain below the city of Cardosa, the army of Bran Coris Earl of Marley had been camped for nearly a month. They were two thousand strong, these men of Marley, and fiercely loyal to their young commander, but they had been waiting beside the swollen flood runoff for more than a week now, anticipating the cessation of the flooding, yet dreading the moment when Wencit of Torenth would send his men streaming down the Cardosa defile.

  What most frightened the waiting soldiers was that Wencit’s forces could fight with magic—or so it was believed. Yet the men of Marley would
stand by their young earl despite the danger, the almost certain death, for Lord Bran was a charismatic leader and an able tactician. Moreover, he had always been extremely generous to those who supported him. There was no reason to believe that success in the Cardosa campaign would not yield similar largesse. And in the end, what more could a soldier ask, besides rewarding service and a leader he could respect? They did not dwell on the possibility of defeat.

  It was early morning, and the camp had been stirring for several hours. Lord Bran, a tartan blanket draped around the shoulders of his blue undress tunic, lounged against one of the outside support-poles of his pavilion and sipped at a goblet of mulled wine as he scanned upriver toward the distant mountains, gleaming in the early morning sun. His gold-brown eyes narrowed slightly as he tried to see beyond the mist. A hard set to the handsome mouth betokened stubbornness and determination. He hooked a thumb in the jeweled belt at his waist and glanced to one side at the sound of footsteps approaching.

  “Any special orders for today, m’lord?”

  The speaker, Baron Campbell, was a longtime retainer of the earl’s family. As he approached, helmet tucked diffidently under one arm, he hiked part of his azure and gold plaid farther back onto his shoulders.

  Bran shook his head. “Any change in the river soundings this morning?”

  “We’re still reading close to five feet, even at the fords, m’lord. And there are sink holes that could swallow up man and horse with nary a trace. I doubt the King of Torenth will be coming down off his mountain today.”

  Bran swirled the wine in his cup and took another swallow, then nodded. “Then we’ll proceed as we have been: regular patrols and lookouts on the western perimeters, and a skeleton watch on the rest of the camp. And ask the bowyer to see me sometime this morning, will you? The grip still isn’t right on my new bow.”