Deryni Rising (Chronicles of the Deryni)

  Taking leave of Bran Coris and Rogier, Ian slipped out of the noisy Council chamber and proceeded toward the barracks area of the palace compound. He had a pretty piece of work ahead of him this afternoon, and there was no sense in delaying.

  MORGAN clapped his hands together with glee as he, Kelson, and Derry hurried across the inner courtyard toward the royal apartments.

  “Kelson, you were magnificent!” he said, throwing an affectionate arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Your performance in there was truly worthy of Brion at his very best. I think you even took me by surprise.”

  “Did I really?” Kelson asked delightedly. He was grinning from ear to ear as he glanced behind to see if they were being followed, and then he had to skip a few steps to catch up again. Several guards had been watching them rather curiously, but so far as he could tell, there was no one headed in their direction.

  “I don’t know about you,” the boy continued, “but I was terrified the entire time. I nearly had heart failure when the bells tolled four instead of three.”

  Morgan snorted. “Be glad it wasn’t the other way around. Think how foolish you would have looked if the bells had tolled only two.”

  Kelson rolled his eyes. “I thought of that.”

  “And another thing,” Morgan continued. “Not to belittle Derry’s new appointment, but once you declared yourself of age, you didn’t have to go through all that hocus-pocus of appointing a new Council lord and retallying the vote. You could simply have overruled them.”

  “I know,” Kelson replied. “But it’s a bit of a face-saver for them, don’t you think? I mean, at least they can’t say I dictated an arbitrary decision in this case. We stayed within regular procedures.”

  “Probably a prudent move,” Morgan agreed. “And all in all, I’d say there was enough excitement to suit even my tastes. Living dangerously is a very good thing, but—”

  “If you ask me,” Derry interrupted, “I could’ve done with a lot less excitement, m’lord. I would’ve been perfectly happy to know in advance that everything was going to turn out all right.”

  Kelson laughed as they started up the stairs to his apartments. “I’m afraid I have to agree with Derry. I wasn’t exactly the most confident I’ve ever been.” He glanced aside at Morgan. “By the way, don’t you think we ought to get word to Father Duncan? You did promise to let him know the outcome.”

  “So I did.” Morgan nodded. “Derry, would you please go to Saint Hilary’s and tell Duncan what’s happened? Tell him we’re all right, but that we’re going to try to get some sleep the rest of the afternoon.”

  “Aye, m’lord,” Derry said. “Shall I come back to you when I’m finished?”

  Morgan nodded. “Aye, but get some rest, too. I’ll want you to command the guard outside Kelson’s apartments through the night. I need someone there that I can trust.

  “I hear and obey, m’lord,” Derry replied with a grin. “And do try to stay alive until I can get back to guard you.”

  Morgan could only smile and shake his head as Derry disappeared from view.

  IAN had nearly reached his destination deep in the heart of the palace. Down several flights of stairs, through a wide, subterranean vault used as a training area for swordplay, through the corridor skirting the armory, and beyond to the storage area he sped, his tread smooth and silent on the stone flags. His eyes glittered dark and dangerous as he passed guard post after guard post, always unchallenged. Ian was known here.

  He finally came to a halt just before the intersection of another minor corridor and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword to silence it, then inched his way forward until he could peek around the corner.

  Good. The guard was there, just as Ian had hoped he would be.

  Smiling grimly to himself, he slipped around the corner and glided up to the guard. The man did not see him until he was already alongside, no more than two strides away, and he started.

  “Jesu, you nearly scared the life out of me! Is anything wrong?”

  “No, of course not,” Ian replied, raising an eyebrow in feigned innocence. “Should there be?”

  The guard relaxed slightly, then grinned. “No, m’lord,” he replied rather sheepishly. “It’s just that people don’t generally come down this far unless there is something wrong.”

  Ian smiled. “No, I don’t suppose they do.” He raised his right hand and extended a forefinger in front of the man’s eyes. “What’s your name, guard?”

  The man’s eyes moved involuntarily to the finger, and he stammered slightly. “M-michael DeForest, sir.”

  “Michael DeForest.” Ian nodded, slowly moving his finger toward the man’s face. “Watch my finger, Michael.”

  The guard’s gaze locked on the finger and followed as it approached, unable to break away. “M’lord, I—what are you doing?”

  “Just follow my finger, Michael,” Ian ordered, his voice low and slightly menacing in the stillness, “and you will go . . . to . . . sleep.”

  As he spoke the last word, sleep, his forefinger touched the man’s forehead lightly between the eyes, and the eyes fluttered closed. Ian’s low, muttered phrase deepened the trance, and then he reached out calmly and removed the man’s spear from his hand, resting it against the wall.

  After glancing around to be sure no one had approached in the meantime, he backed the man a few paces so that he, too, stood against the wall. Then he placed his fingertips on the man’s temples and closed his eyes.

  Presently, a pale blue aura began to crackle around Ian, gradually extending itself from his head, down his body and legs, along his arms, and into his hands. Nor did it stop there but continued to engulf the head of the guard. He shuddered as the sparkling net of light touched his head, as though to make one last effort to break away from the unholy bond that was being formed, then relaxed as the aura extended itself over the rest of his body. When both men were engulfed in the pale fire, Ian spoke.

  “Charissa?”

  There was no sound but the breathing of the two men for a moment: Ian’s light and controlled; the guard’s quick, shallow, labored. Then the man’s lips began to tremble.

  “Charissa, do you hear me?”

  The man’s voice whispered, “I hear,” but it was not quite his own.

  Ian smiled slightly and he spoke again in a low, conversational tone, his eyes still closed. “Good. I’m afraid I have some disappointing news. Our Council ploy failed, as we feared it might. Kelson declared himself of age, appointed a new Council lord to fill Ralson’s place, then broke the ensuing tie by royal prerogative. There was nothing I could do. And I’m sure you know the Stenrect attempt was unsuccessful.”

  “I felt it die,” the man’s voice replied. “What of Morgan now?”

  Ian pursed his lips wistfully. “I’m not sure. He and Kelson have retired to Kelson’s apartments for the night. Our young princeling appears to be taking no chances of anything else happening to his champion. But just so they don’t get into any mischief, I’ve a few diversionary tactics planned that should occupy some of their valuable time and energy between now and tomorrow morning. Agreed?”

  “Very well,” the man’s voice whispered.

  “Aren’t you even going to ask what I have in mind?” Ian persisted.

  For the first time, there was a trace of emotion in the man’s voice as Charissa answered, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Sarcasm edged the question. “Another chance to boast of your cleverness, no doubt.” There was a pause. “No matter. If you have things to do, you’d best end this communication before you tire yourself and drain your subject beyond recovery. He can’t keep this up forever, you know.”

  Ian smiled once more. “As you wish,” he said calmly, “though I don’t really think your concern will help our medium, here. I have special plans for him. Good hunting, my lady.”

  “And you,” the voice replied.

  With that, the light surrounding Ian and the guard died, and Ian dropped his hands to his sides, sho
ok his head slightly as he opened his eyes. His subject slumped slightly against the wall as he was released, but he still could not seem to force his eyes to stay open, for Ian still maintained control.

  Ian glanced around again, then took the man’s arm and guided him back to his post.

  “M’lord, I—” Dazed, the man shook his head to try to clear it. “What’s happened? What are you . . . ?”

  “Never mind, Michael,” Ian murmured, reaching down to his boot top and withdrawing a slim dagger. “You’ll hardly feel a thing.”

  As the man saw the flash of steel, he mustered his last reserve of strength, struggling weakly to pull away from Ian’s grip. But it was no use. His resistance was gone. Dumbly, he stood where Ian placed him, watched helplessly as the gleaming blade approached.

  With clinical detachment, Ian opened the front of the man’s mail-lined leather jerkin and set the point of his dagger against the man’s chest, just left of center. Then he jammed the blade home with a decisive thrust, slipping the blade deftly between two ribs to pierce the heart.

  The man’s eyes glazed, and he sank to the floor with a stifled moan as Ian withdrew the weapon. Blood gushed crimson from the wound, running down his side to form an ever-widening pool beside him. But still the heart continued to beat; the tortured lungs pumped air to prolong the agony.

  Ian scowled as he crouched beside the dying man. It had not been a clean kill—a mistake Morgan would never have made. And worse, now he would have to finish the man on the ground.

  He chewed briefly at his lower lip, considering, then quickly reinserted his dagger in the original wound and gave it a precise twist. This time when he withdrew the blade, the heart stopped; the lungs ceased their heaving.

  With a low grunt of satisfaction, Ian wiped his dagger clean on the edge of the man’s cloak, then turned the body slightly on its side, being careful not to disturb the widening pool of blood. Then, taking the man’s hand in his, he dipped the dead fingers in the blood and smeared a rough outline on the clean stone by the man’s head—the outline of a gryphon.

  He stood to survey his work and nodded approvingly, slipping his dagger back into its boot sheath as he checked his clothing for any telltale signs of the deed he had just done. Then he placed the dead guard’s spear alongside the body, surveyed the scene a final time, and turned to make his way away from there.

  Now, if some of Morgan’s vassals should just happen to stumble onto the murder later that night—and Ian would be certain that they did—there was little doubt in his mind what they would think. A cold-blooded murder, on top of all the other accusations against the Deryni general, should be all that was necessary to trigger the men to rebel against their lord.

  And if Kelson should also fall in the ensuing scuffle?

  Ian shrugged contentedly. Ah, how very unfortunate.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “And a voice shall speak from legend.”

  AS the vesper chimes finished their pealing in the distance, Morgan awoke with a start, simultaneously aware of the place, the time—much later than he had planned—and the fact that he was cold. The fire before him had burned down to nothing but embers, and a glance to the left confirmed his suspicion both that the balcony doors were still open and that a storm was brewing. No wonder the room was freezing.

  With a low grunt, he heaved himself out of the overstuffed chair that had been his bed for the past three hours and half staggered to the balcony doors.

  It was very quiet outside, and quite dark for so early in the evening, the air heavy, oppressive, charged with the energy of the coming storm. It would undoubtedly rain and possibly snow before midnight—which was just about what one might expect of a night in which he obviously had so much to do. Wearily, Morgan closed the glass-paned doors, paused for a moment with his hands on the latch, his forehead against the doors, eyes closed.

  He was still tired—God, how tired he was! The bone-weariness of a week’s hard ride, the afternoon’s tension, had hardly been dented by the few hours’ sleep he’d had. And there was still so much to be done, so little time. Even now, he should be downstairs in Brion’s library, searching for some clue that might make tonight’s task a little more bearable.

  It wasn’t really that he expected to find anything. Brion had been much too cautious to leave anything of major import lying around where just anyone might stumble onto it. But there might be some small, telltale sign. He had to look. And before he could do anything, he must see to Kelson’s safety while he was gone.

  Straightening with an effort, he stared for a moment at the closed doors before him, gathering his focus, then rubbed his left hand lightly across his eyes, willing the weariness to vanish. The ploy worked, as usual, though Morgan realized he couldn’t keep it up indefinitely. Sooner or later, he would have to get some proper sleep, or he’d be no good to anyone. Perhaps tonight, after they were finished.

  He pulled heavy damask drapes across the double doors, then crossed briskly back to the fireplace and added wood to the fire. After a few minutes, when it was blazing strongly again, he scanned the room in the dim firelight, finally spotting what he searched for.

  Over against the wall by the door, he saw his black saddlebags, brought up by Derry after the Council meeting. He dragged the saddlebags over by the fire and hastily unbuckled the clasp of the lighter side, felt the smooth whorls of intricately tooled leather beneath his finger as he opened the pouch.

  Now, if Derry had just put them back where he’d found them; Morgan simply could not convince the young Marcher lord that the cubes were not just a strange dice game.

  Aha!

  A brief forage in the bottom of the pouch produced the familiar shape of the red leather case, the reassuring rattle of contents still in place.

  Without a second glance, Morgan dropped the case on the chair, then crossed to Kelson’s wardrobe closet to begin searching for something that would fit him. He was still cold. And if he was going to go gallivanting about the palace in this weather, he was determined not to do it in misery.

  Finally he found a blue wool robe with fur-lined collar and cuffs that looked not too small, and he shrugged it on as he returned to the fireplace. The wide sleeves ended at mid-forearm, and the robe reached only to his knees, but he decided that it would suffice for his purposes.

  From the mantel, he took a candlestick with a fat yellow candle in it, lit it from the fire, then scooped up the red leather case and crossed to Kelson’s bed.

  Kelson still slept soundly, sprawled diagonally across the wide bed on his stomach, his face nestled in the crook of his left arm. There were extra blankets at the foot of the bed, and Morgan gently eased one from beneath the boy’s stockinged feet. Putting the candlestick and red leather case on the floor beside the bed, he shook out the blanket and draped it across the sleeping form. Then he knelt down beside the bed and opened the red leather case, shaking out the contents on the spread.

  There were eight cubes in all—wards, in the terminology of the professional wielder of magic—four white and four black, each no larger than the end of his little finger. Deftly he arranged the cubes in the proper pattern: four white in a square at the center, one black at each of the four corners, but not touching. Then, beginning with the white cube in the upper-left-hand corner, he began touching each one, at the same time softly speaking its defensive position in the master ward he was building.

  “Prime.” The first white cube glowed softly.

  “Seconde.” He touched the upper-right cube, and it, too, winked to milky brilliance.

  “Tierce. Quarte.” The remaining white cubes lit, forming a single white square that glowed with a ghostly light.

  Next, the black: “Quinte. Sixte. Septime. Octave.” The black cubes glowed faintly with a green-black fire deep within.

  Now came the real effort: the joining of black and white cubes to complete the master ward; the ward which, once set in place around the sleeping Kelson, would protect the boy from any possibility of ha
rm.

  Morgan wiped the palms of his hands against the spread to either side of the black-and-white pattern he had set up, then picked up Prime. Gingerly, he touched it to Quinte, its black component.

  “Primus!”

  There was a muffled click, and then the two cubes merged into a single oblong unit that glowed silvery-gray in the candlelight.

  Morgan ran his tongue nervously across his lips and picked up Seconde, mated it to Sixte.

  “Secundus!”

  Again, the click, the silver glow.

  He inhaled and exhaled slowly, gathering his strength for the next sequence. The procedure was draining much of his already depleted power reserve, but he had no choice but to continue if he wished to search the library. He couldn’t leave Kelson unprotected. He picked up Tierce and touched it to Septime.

  “Tertius!”

  As the coupling glowed, Kelson stirred, then opened his eyes with a start.

  “What the—Morgan, what are you doing?” He raised up on both elbows and leaned toward the cubes, then looked up at Morgan.

  Morgan raised one eyebrow in surprise, then rested his chin against one hand in resignation. “I thought you were asleep,” he said accusingly.

  Kelson blinked at him in amazement for an instant, still not quite fully awake. Tentatively, he reached his left hand toward the remaining cubes.

  “Don’t touch!” Morgan commanded, blocking Kelson’s reach with an outstretched hand. “Just watch.”

  With a deep breath, he brought the remaining two cubes gently together.

  “Quartus!”

  Then he placed the resulting unit with the other three and sighed.

  “Now,” he said, looking across at Kelson once more, “why are you awake?”

  Kelson rolled over and sat up. “I heard you mumbling Latin in my ear. What are these things, anyway?” He eyed the four glowing oblongs suspiciously.