“They’re components of a Ward Major,” Morgan said, climbing to his feet. “I have to go out for a while, and I didn’t want to leave you unprotected. Once the wards are set, only I can break them. You’ll be perfectly safe.”
He reached down and picked up the units, stretched across the bed to place one at each of the far corners, the remaining two on the near corners.
“Wait a minute,” Kelson said, beginning to inch toward the edge of the bed. “Where are you going? I’ll come with you.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” Morgan said, pushing the boy back on the pillow. “You’re going back to sleep, and I’m going down to your father’s library to hunt for clues. Believe me, if there were any way, I’d still be asleep, too. You’re going to need all the rest you can get before this night is over.”
“But I could help you,” Kelson protested weakly, as though surprised to find himself lying down again. “Besides, I couldn’t possibly get back to sleep now.”
“Oh, I think that can be arranged.” Morgan smiled, placing his hand lightly on the boy’s forehead. “Just relax now, Kelson. Relax and dream. Forget about the dangers. Forget about the fears. Relax. Sleep. Dream of better times. Sleep deep, my prince. Sleep safe.”
As he spoke, Kelson’s eyelids fluttered briefly, then closed, and his breathing slowed to that of profound slumber. Morgan smiled and smoothed the tousled black hair, then straightened and pointed in succession to the wards.
“Primus, Secundus, Tertius, et Quartus, fiat lux!”
Immediately the wards blazed with a new life, then flared around the sleeping Kelson with a cocoon of misty luminescence. Morgan nodded to himself, then made his way toward the door.
Now, for some useful information . . .
HALF an hour later in the library, Morgan had not met with any success. He had gone through virtually every book in Brion’s private collection, and most of the general references in the section, but all had been fruitless.
If only he could find some clue: a significant marked passage, some notes from when Brion concocted the ritual verse, some hint as to how the problem should be approached. It was, of course, possible that they would be able to figure it out without help. But he hated to be less than certain on something of this importance.
Because the ritual verse had to work. If it didn’t, Kelson was doomed, and Morgan and Duncan with him. Nor was it possible for Morgan or Duncan to do Kelson’s fighting for him. Occult practice simply would not permit it.
If only he could remember more about Brion’s reading habits, that might give him some better idea of where else to look. He knew that there had to be a link somewhere, that Brion must have left something, if only as a reassurance for the friend he had known would come looking for such a thing. Perhaps the clue was in the verse itself.
Wearily, he sat down at Brion’s reading desk and propped himself up on his elbows. Somewhere he must find the clue; he knew it must exist.
As his eyes scanned the room once more, the gryphon seal on his left forefinger caught his attention. He had read once of a Deryni lord who had used a similar ring as a point of focus for deep concentration—the Thuryn technique, named for Rhys Thuryn, who had first made it a part of the Deryni arsenal. Morgan had often used the technique in the past, though never for something like this. But it had always worked well before. Perhaps it would work again.
Focusing all his attention on the ring, Morgan began to concentrate, willing his mind to put aside all outside worries and relax, to shut out superfluous sounds, sights, sensations. As his eyes drifted closed, his breathing slowed, became more shallow. His tense fingers relaxed.
As he concentrated on keeping his mind clear, he permitted an image of Brion’s face to form in his thoughts, tried to put himself into that image, to fathom what had been there concerning what he now sought.
Suddenly the image of Brion winked out of existence, to be replaced by swirling blackness and dizziness. He had a fleeting impression of a man’s face surrounded by a dark cowl, strange, yet hauntingly familiar, a feeling both of urgency and reassurance—and then the moment was past. Then there was nothing but a stunned young man sitting rather foolishly at a desk in a library with his eyes closed.
Morgan opened his eyes abruptly and glanced around, but there was no one else in the room.
Sweet Jesu, that image had been real while it lasted! He had never had anything like that happen before. And he couldn’t, for the life of him, recall ever having seen the strange face before. So much for the Thuryn technique for today.
Absently he went back to the shelf containing Brion’s personal collection of favorite books and pulled one out at random.
“Talbot’s Lives of the Saints,” he read, half out loud.
He flipped idly through its worn pages until it suddenly fell open to a place marked by a slip of parchment. There was writing on the parchment—in Brion’s hand, too—but that fact was completely overshadowed by the impact of the open pages it marked. For on the left, in full color, was a portrait of the face Morgan had just seen in his vision.
Apprehensively he bent closer to make out the name beneath the portrait, squinted as he held the book toward the candlelight and read: “Saint Camber of Culdi, Patron of Deryni Magic.”
Morgan glanced nervously behind him as he lowered the book. It was impossible, and yet—this was the face he’d seen while in trance. There was no doubt about that.
Preposterous. He didn’t believe in saints—or at least, he didn’t think he did. After all, Camber had been dead for nearly two hundred years, and his sainthood rescinded, to boot.
But what had made Morgan think of Camber at precisely that moment? Had Brion once said something about the renegade saint that somehow had stuck in his mind, remaining there, dormant all these years, until the time it should be recalled by just such a chain of events as this?
Question: What did he really know about Saint Camber of Culdi? Answer: Not very much. It simply hadn’t been useful knowledge until now.
Irritatedly, because he realized he should remember more, Morgan picked up the volume and moved himself closer to the candlelight, absently pocketing the scrap of parchment as he resumed reading:
“Saint Camber of Culdi, 846-905 (?) Legendary Earl of Culdi, a full Deryni lord, who lived during the Deryni Interregnum. Toward the end of the Interregnum, Camber discovered that, under certain controlled conditions, in select individuals, the full scope of Deryni power could be acquired by humans. He it was who assisted the heirs of the old human rulers to acquire this power, and later led the revolt that crushed the Deryni Interregnum for good.”
Morgan turned the page impatiently. This he already knew. It was common knowledge from general history, at least for Deryni. Now he needed facts concerning Camber’s sainthood, or something that might explain what had happened to him a few minutes ago. He read on:
“Now, in those days, there was more tolerance for the occult arts. And in gratitude for what the Culdi had done for humankind, the Council of Bishops proclaimed him a saint. But it was not to last. About fifteen years later, there was a bloody persecution of things and persons Deryni. Very shortly, the name of Camber of Culdi was stricken from the rolls of the blessed. At the Council of Ramos, a number of the previous Council’s edicts were reversed. With them went the Culdi’s sainthood.
“Saint Camber had been revered as the patron of occult arts, Defensor Hominem, the defender of humankind. But when the Council of Ramos repudiated Camber, they declared all occult practice anathema. Camber’s name became a symbol of evil personified. Every atrocity ever committed by the lords of the Interregnum was ascribed to the former Deryni saint, and the people ceased to mention his name except to curse him.
“Some controversy over Camber’s reputation has died out over the years. It is difficult to maintain a lie for two hundred years. But rumors persist to feed the fire: that Camber’s alleged death in 905 never occurred, that he went into hiding, to await a chance to reappear and again work his deed
s of magic. The truth of this allegation is not known, nor is it likely to be discovered in the near future. It is known that a handful of High Deryni Lords do remain, and that magic, however outlawed, is still practiced among them. But it is highly improbable that Camber is still among them; even a Deryni could hardly be functioning after more than two hundred years. Yet the rumors persist.
And the few Deryni alive who might know the truth about Camber of Culdi do not comment.”
As Morgan finished the passage, he turned the page back to look again at the portrait. Camber of Culdi. Amazing. Now he was certain he’d never seen this portrait before. Nor had he read this particular account of Saint Camber. He was sure he would have remembered, for nothing he had read previously had gone into such detail.
But what had he actually learned from the passage? And how did it apply to his present dilemma? And why did that face on the page before him still seem so hauntingly familiar, even though he was certain he’d never seen it before?
As he closed the volume, he heard the sound of the library door opening softly behind him. He turned carefully, catching a glimpse of someone in gray gliding into the room from the outside corridor.
It was a woman. And as she turned toward the door to close it gently behind her, he could see that it was—Charissa!
He smiled complacently and settled back in his chair to see how long it would take her to discover his presence, watching her glance around the room and see the faint glow of his candle streaming around the corner.
“Good evening, my lady,” he said softly, not moving from where he sat. “Are you looking for someone, or something ?”
Charissa started, covered her surprise, and walked cautiously around the corner of the aisle to confront Morgan. Morgan nodded greeting as she stepped into the candlelight, but Charissa looked less than pleased.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice low, strained in the hush.
Morgan rose casually and made an elaborate show of stretching and restraining a yawn. “I was just looking for something to read, if you really must know. In spite of the fact that I should be weary from the trials you’ve given me during the past few days, I found I couldn’t sleep. Isn’t that strange?”
“Decidedly so,” she answered carefully, her moment of uncertainty apparently past. “But what makes you think I have anything to do with your insomnia?”
Morgan held up a protesting hand. “Oh, not my insomnia. My fatigue. I have a rather good idea what you’ve been up to: telling nasty stories about me, turning the Council lords against me, having my escort ambushed on the way here. I suspect you even had a hand in Brion’s death. Of course, I can’t prove anything yet.”
Charissa’s eyes narrowed as she studied him, trying to ascertain the proper proportion of bluff and boast.
“I think you’ll have a difficult time gathering evidence to support such allegations. And I think that if you ask, you’ll find that all these things you’ve accused me of have been ascribed to you.”
Morgan shrugged noncommittally.
“As for the charge that I had anything to do with Brion’s death,” Charissa continued, “why, that’s preposterous. Everyone knows that he died of a heart attack.”
“I don’t know that,” Morgan replied tersely. “I know nothing of the kind. I do know that one of his entourage was given a flask of wine, that morning of the hunt. Very strange, but he described the donor as a beautiful lady with pale hair. And only Brion and Colin drank from that flask.”
“So?” Charissa retorted. “Are you accusing me of poisoning Brion? Come, now. You can do better than that.”
“I intend to,” Morgan answered. “I also happen to know that you’ve been working with the merasha mind-muddling drug for the past few years, and that the drug affects only those of Deryni blood or Deryni powers, like Brion.”
“Really, Morgan, you’re fishing.”
“Am I? You knew Brion was vulnerable in this way—that, being human, he wouldn’t be able to detect the drug in his system until it was too late.” He stood straighter, anger hardening his gaze as he glared down at her. “Why didn’t you call him out in honorable combat, Charissa? You might have won. He was mortal, after all.”
“And risk my reputation, my powers, against a mere mortal, in an unnecessary duel with a human?”
“You’re planning to duel with a ‘mere human’ tomorrow, aren’t you?”
She smiled a slow, lazy smile. “Yes, but that’s different. Against Kelson, I cannot lose. He’s but a boy, unskilled in his father’s trade. And you won’t be able to help him as you did his father fifteen years ago.”
“Don’t be too certain,” Morgan replied. “There is much of his father in him. And unlike his father, I am here this time to see that you don’t resort to treachery.”
“Why, Morgan, what a thing to say. Do you really think I’d bother? Of course, I did peek in on your precious princeling a little earlier this evening. . . .”
Morgan stiffened. “He’s safe from you this time. Tonight, all the powers in the universe couldn’t have broken my defenses.”
“That may well be true,” she conceded. “You set your wards most effectively. In fact, even I was impressed with your skill. I had thought a half-breed Deryni incapable of such highly developed expertise.”
Morgan forced himself to control his rising anger. “Having a goal helps immensely, Charissa. I’m determined you won’t succeed with this Haldane.”
“Why, that sounds almost like a challenge,” Charissa murmured archly. “That’s heartening, at least.” She glanced at her nails. “Well, you can depend on an energetic battle tomorrow—maybe even tonight. And I warn you in advance: There will be no quarter, no mercy.” Her eyes narrowed. “I intend to make you pay for what you did to my father. And I’ll do it by destroying the ones you love best, one at a time, slowly. And there is nothing, dear Morgan, nothing at all that you can do about it.”
Morgan kept silent for a long moment as he glared at the incredibly beautiful and dangerous woman in gray. “We shall see,” he finally whispered. “We shall see.”
As he headed slowly for the door, watching her every flicker of an eyelash, every rustle of her gown, she smiled languidly. “Take me at my word, Morgan. No quarter. And that being the case, I suggest you look to your prince. He may need you very shortly.”
Very cautiously, Morgan opened the door and went through, never taking his eyes from her. When the door had finally closed behind him, Charissa walked slowly over to where Morgan had been sitting, then picked up the book he had been reading. Casually, she flipped through the pages.
Lives of the Saints.
Now, what possible interest could Morgan have had in a book like this? Nothing came to her, and she frowned. Morgan had been looking at this book for a reason. Of that, she was certain. But why?
The book didn’t fit the pattern. It wasn’t within the elements she’d predicted for Morgan’s actions, and that bothered her.
Charissa did not like it when things did not go exactly her way.
CHAPTER SIX
“A Spokesman of the Infinite must guide. . . .”
MORGAN felt a twinge of dread as he approached Kelson’s quarters. What if Charissa had been bluffing, had somehow found a way to get at Kelson through the wards? Suppose she had even killed him?
Derry had taken command of the guard as planned, and he glided up beside Morgan as the general reached Kelson’s door.
“Anything wrong, m’lord?”
“I don’t know yet,” Morgan said in a low voice, signalling the two regular guards to stand aside. “Did you see anyone while I was gone?”
“No, sir. I have this entire wing sealed off.” He watched as Morgan put his hand on the door latch. “Shall I come with you?”
Morgan shook his head. “That isn’t necessary.”
Stealthily, he eased the door open just enough to slip through, then closed it gently behind him. He stood with his back to the door while he slipp
ed the bolt into place, trying at the same time to peer across the darkened room to see if Kelson was safe.
He need not have worried. For his wards were, as he had boasted, impervious to almost any power in the universe tonight. As he approached the royal bed, he was able to discern the faint protective aura still glowing around his young lord. And he could sense the boy’s undisturbed sleep patterns on the very surface of his awareness, if he concentrated.
But he did not. It was enough that the boy was safe. Wearily, he crouched down before the fireplace and shifted some of the logs with an ornate poker. When the blaze had been stabilized once more, he rose catlike and stretched.
The bells would be ringing Compline soon, and he and Kelson still had a short journey ahead of them. He didn’t want to have to hurry. Haste led to carelessness, and that was a luxury they could ill afford tonight.
He shrugged out of his borrowed robe and draped it over the chair back, then slung his own heavy cloak around his shoulders once more. The clasp closed with a metallic snick as he crossed to kneel at Kelson’s bedside. The fat yellow candle he had left on the floor there still flickered its pale light over the sleeping form.
Morgan allowed himself a feeling of satisfaction as he glanced over his Ward Major, for it had served him well tonight. He would not be able to use it again until the cubes were recharged, but that was no matter. He had had the use of its protection when he needed it most. And he didn’t intend to leave Kelson alone again for even a minute until after the coronation tomorrow.
Standing up, he spread his hands over the sleeping prince, palms up, and began murmuring a counter-spell, slowly turning his hands palms down as he finished the verse. As he did so, the glow of the wards slowly diminished to nothing. Then there were but eight tiny cubes, four white and four black, cast like strange dice, a pair at each corner of the bed.
As Morgan reached across to retrieve the cubes, Kelson opened his eyes and looked around.
“I must have fallen asleep,” he said, raising to one elbow. “Is it time?”
Morgan smiled and put the remaining cubes into their red leather case.