Deryni Rising (Chronicles of the Deryni)
“Almost.” He picked up the candlestick and returned it to the fireplace. “Did you sleep well?”
Kelson sat up and rubbed his eyes, then rose and padded over to join Morgan by the fire. “I suppose so. I certainly would like to know how you did that, though.”
“Did what, my prince?” Morgan said absently, as he sank back down in his chair by the fire.
“Made me go to sleep, of course,” the boy answered. He plopped down on the fur rug in front of the fire and began pulling on his boots. “I really wanted to come with you. But when you touched my forehead, I just couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer.”
Morgan smiled and ran an idle hand through his burnished hair. “You were very tired,” he said enigmatically.
Kelson had finished with his boots, and now he stood and began rummaging through his closet for a warmer cloak. The weather was definitely colder now, and Morgan could hear an icy wind whistling outside the balcony doors.
Kelson found a fur-lined crimson cloak with a hood and pulled it over his head. Then he took the sword Morgan offered and belted it around his slim waist. Morgan stood and slipped his own sword back into its hangers at his belt.
“Are you ready, my prince?”
Kelson nodded and started to head for the door.
“Not that way,” Morgan said, motioning the boy to come back to the fireplace.
Kelson looked suitably puzzled, but he went where he was bidden, watching as Morgan paced off a precise distance from the wall to the left of the fireplace and traced an intricate design in the air with his forefinger. With a sigh, a portion of the wall recessed to reveal a dark stairwell descending into the cold night air. Kelson gaped incredulously.
“How did that get there?”
“I rather imagine someone built it,” Morgan said, taking the candle from the mantel and indicating that Kelson should enter. “Did you really not know that this was here?”
He extended his hand as the boy shook his head and followed him into the dark passage. Behind them, the wall closed softly, and their muffled footsteps echoed hollowly on the damp stone treads.
Kelson stuck very close to Morgan as they descended the stairs, peering apprehensively into the darkness ahead. Here in this cold, wet unknown, the tiny circle of light from their one candle seemed small comfort indeed. He dared not speak until they reached a flat landing, and even then his voice was hushed.
“Are there many of these secret passages?” he asked as they rounded a turn and came to a blank wall. They stopped, and Morgan handed the candle to Kelson.
“There are enough so that you can get to almost anyplace in the palace without anyone knowing—if you know where you’re going. Get ready to douse that light, now. We’ve reached the end. This will take us out just across the square from the basilica.”
Morgan pressed the recessed latch, and a small square quietly opened at eye level. Morgan put his eye to the hole for a long moment, then put his hand on the latch again.
“All right, douse the light and set it down at your right.”
Kelson obeyed, and the chamber was plunged into darkness. There was a soft sigh, and Kelson felt a cold, damp draft blowing into his face. Then he was aware of a lighter rectangle of darkness directly in front of him. Morgan took his arm and led him through, and the opening closed silently behind them. A fine, icy mist was drifting in the night air, and its chill quickly penetrated even the heavy clothing the two wore. Kelson pulled his hood over his head and huddled back farther in the shadows as he and Morgan waited.
The courtyard was almost deserted, now, and the massive presence of the basilica loomed dark against the night sky. Far in the distance, they could hear the cathedral bells striking Compline, last of the canonical hours. And the last stragglers were filing from the lighter square of the basilica door across the way. Here and there, soldiers crossed the square in twos and threes, sometimes holding sputtering torches aloft in the fine drizzle, but more often just hurrying along, eager to get where they were going, in out of the cold and wet.
The two waited there in the shadows for perhaps five minutes, until the courtyard was nearly deserted. Then Morgan took Kelson’s arm and guided him around the perimeter of the square to the portico. They waited there for what seemed to Kelson like an interminable time, then slipped unobtrusively through one of the side doors and into the narthex.
The silent church was deserted now, as they had hoped it would be. The darkness was broken only by the low, pale wash of votive candles, splashing their ruby and sapphire glows over the stone floors and dark stained glass.
In the sanctuary, a single crimson vigil lamp burned steadily in its place of honor, casting a rosy glow over the entire chancel area. As the two moved quietly down the side aisle, a lone, black-clad figure detached itself from the shadows in the chancel, bowed once before the high altar, and came to meet them in the transept.
“Any trouble?” Duncan whispered as he led them to the study and closed the door.
“None worth mentioning,” Morgan replied. He crossed to the curtained window and peered outside intently for a long moment, then came back and sat down at the table in the center of the room. Kelson, too, took a seat and regarded his elders apprehensively. Duncan did not sit but instead took a heavy wool cloak from the chair at his desk and flung it around his shoulders.
“You might as well make yourselves comfortable for a few minutes. We’re going to use an old Deryni Transfer Portal to get to the cathedral from here—left over from the days when being Deryni was a respectable occupation.” He struggled with the clasp of the cloak for a moment, then mastered it. “I want to check out the other end before the three of us go through. With our phenomenal luck, someone would be in the sacristy just as we winked into existence. And the result then is not a happy thought.”
He crossed to the prie-dieu in the corner and touched a series of hidden studs along its surface, and a new section of the wall opened to its right, no more than four feet wide and two feet deep, as high as a man.
With a reassuring wave of his hand, Duncan stepped into the cubicle—and disappeared.
Kelson was amazed.
“How did he do that? I swear, I didn’t take my eyes off him. And what is a Transfer Portal?”
Morgan smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Kelson, you have just seen a practical demonstration of an almost lost art—that of portal transfer. You’ll notice, as you learn more about him, that our Duncan is a man of many talents. He’s made a fantastic reconciliation of that basic conflict we talked about earlier. He approaches his powers as a God-given gift, to be used for the good of all men.”
“And that’s why he became a priest?”
Morgan shrugged. “In his own way, Duncan is a very religious man. Things being what they are, what better place for one who is half-Deryni?”
AS Duncan appeared in the sacristy of the Cathedral of Saint George, he scanned the room. Other than the vigil illumination burning in the far corner, there was no light in the chamber. And as far as Duncan could tell, there was no one about, either.
He was just about to breathe a sigh of relief and transfer back to bring Morgan and Kelson, when he heard a movement in the shadows near the door, and a whispery voice said, “Who’s that, then?”
Duncan turned slowly toward the source of the sound, uncertain just what he’d blundered into. Now, as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he was able to make out the stooped figure of a man in dark clothing standing there.
“I thought everyone had left for the night,” the voice continued. The stranger struck a light and lit a slim white candle, then held it aloft. “Oh, ’tis you, Father. I’m Brother Jerome, the sacristan. Do ye remember me?”
Duncan relaxed with an almost audible sigh. Thank God, it was Brother Jerome! The elderly monk was half-blind and beginning to grow a bit senile. If he had seen anything in the dim light, no one would believe him, anyway. Duncan crossed to Brother Jerome with a genuine smile on his face.
“Brother Jerome, you startled me,” he chided mildly. “What are you doing, sneaking around like this in the middle of the night?”
The old man chuckled. “Aye, I suppose I did startle ye at that, me boy-o. Why, when I first called out to ye, ye nearly jumped out o’ yer skin!” He chuckled again, almost to himself, and Duncan wondered if he had seen more than he was telling, or if it was just his senility flaring up tonight.
Duncan said, “Well, you did surprise me, Brother. I thought I was the only one here. I came back to make one last check of all the coronation regalia for tomorrow. I was rather busy today, you know. His Highness had me on call all afternoon.”
Brother Jerome shuffled over to the cabinet where the special vestments were stored and patted the counter top reassuringly. “Ah, ye needn’t have worried, laddie. I’ve kept everything in order, as I have for forty-five years. ’Tis no second-rate king ye’ll be makin’ tomorrow, if I have anything to say about it. Our young lord will be a bonnie king, if he lives through the night.”
Duncan stiffened slightly, and he felt a chill finger raise the hackles on his neck. “What do you mean, ‘if he lives through the night’?”
“Why, laddie, do ye not harken to the rumors? ’Tis said that monstrous evil powers stalk the streets of Rhemuth this night, an’ their target is young Prince Kelson, God bless him.” Jerome crossed himself piously. “ ’Tis said that Deryni magic guides them to his chamber.”
“Deryni magic?” Duncan repeated. “Who told you that? The Deryni lords of this time have always been friends of the Haldane line.”
“Not all the Deryni, Father,” the old monk contradicted. “Some say ’tis the spirit o’ that dead Deryni sorcerer that the lad’s father, God rest his soul, killed in that terrible duel many years ago—that he’s returned to take his revenge. An’ some say ’tis the sorcerer’s daughter, Charissa, the Shadowed Lady of the North, what means to kill our prince an’ set herself upon the throne of Gwynedd.
“Still others say ’tis a coalition of all the evil powers in the world, come to destroy our prince and despoil his kingdom, because we dinna pay homage to the Dark Ones anymore.
“But I think—an’ there be those who agree wi’ me—that it’s all the fault o’ that Morgan fellow, his Deryni blood finally gettin’ the better o’ him. Mind ye, he’s the one to watch out for!”
Duncan forced a sickly chuckle, though he was extremely troubled by what he had just heard. For even if the old man’s ramblings had been liberally laced with superstitious embellishment and legend, there was a hard core of truth to much of what he said. Charissa was involved—and her father’s spirit, too, if one believed that parents lived on in their children. And he had no doubt that the forces of darkness were massing even now, ready to move in on the entire world once mighty Gwynedd fell.
As for the stories about Alaric, he’d heard them. And that part of the rumors was utter nonsense. At least he could attempt to correct Brother Jerome on that point.
Duncan moved closer to the old monk and leaned against the cabinet there. “Brother Jerome, you don’t really believe all that nonsense about Morgan, do you?”
“Ah, now, laddie, ’tis all gospel truth.”
Duncan shook his head disapprovingly. “No, I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed. I can assure you that Morgan is not what you claim him to be. I saw him just this afternoon, and believe me, he has only Prince Kelson’s best interests at heart.”
Jerome’s eyes narrowed. “Can ye prove that, laddie?” “Not without violating my priestly vows,” Duncan replied calmly.
Sudden insight appeared on Jerome’s face. “Och, I see. Ye’re his confessor, then.” He paused, obviously in deep thought. “But, can ye be sure he’s telling ye the truth?”
Duncan smiled. “I think I can tell. I’ve known him for a very long time.”
Jerome shrugged, then began shuffling slowly toward the door. “Weel, ye should know, if any man does, laddie. But there must be sommat to the rumors. Anyway, we’ll not solve the dispute here, tonight. If ye don’t mind, I’ll be gettin’ on. The guards will let ye out when ye’re ready to leave.”
Duncan picked up the candle Brother Jerome had lit and followed him to the door. “That’s fine. There’s just one other thing.”
“Aye, Father?” The old monk paused at the door, his hand on the latch.
Duncan took the lighted candle and put it in Jerome’s other hand, put his own hand on Jerome’s.
“Do you see this candle, Brother?”
Jerome’s eyes darted to the candle and were held there.
“Aye,” he whispered.
Duncan’s voice became lower, softer, and his eyes glittered from within. “You’d better take this candle with you, Jerome. Because it’s dark out there. There’s been no one here but yourself, so you don’t want to leave a lighted candle here like this. Why, it might burn down the whole cathedral. And that would be terrible, wouldn’t it?”
“Och, aye,” Jerome whispered.
“And you didn’t see anyone here, either, did you, Jerome? There was no one else in the sacristy tonight besides yourself. You talked to no one. Do you understand?”
“No one,” the old monk echoed dazedly. Duncan dropped his hand.
“You’d better go, then, Jerome. Everything is as it should be. You’ve done your duty. And you didn’t see me here tonight. Go, now.”
Without a word, Jerome turned and opened the door, slipped out quietly, and closed the door behind him. There was no chance now that he would ever speak of what had happened here tonight.
Duncan nodded to himself and returned to the spot where he’d first materialized. He paused only long enough to collect his thoughts—and was suddenly back in his study.
AS Duncan appeared in the niche in his study, Kelson jerked his head around in amazement, then bounded from his chair to meet the young priest.
“Is everything all right? You were gone so long, we were certain something terrible had happened.”
Morgan, too, joined Duncan by the Transfer Portal. “Kelson is exaggerating a little, Cousin, but you were gone quite awhile. Anything wrong?”
“Not now,” Duncan said, smiling. “I just ran into an old acquaintance. Brother Jerome was in the sacristy checking up on things. I don’t think he saw me appear, though. And he’s too old and short-sighted to figure out that I didn’t enter through any of the normal channels. But he did have some rather interesting views on the current situation. Remind me to tell you about them sometime.”
Duncan stepped back into the transfer cubicle, then motioned Morgan and Kelson to join him. The compartment was small, but they managed to squeeze into the space provided. Morgan and Duncan both placed their hands on Kelson’s shoulders.
“Ready?” Duncan asked.
Morgan nodded. “Kelson, I want you to just relax and let your mind go blank. You aren’t able to operate one of these portals on your own yet, so we’re just going to carry you through between us like so many apples in a sack.”
“Very well,” Kelson replied.
The priest glanced at the boy sharply, made suddenly aware that, all unconsciously, the youth had spoken as a king giving consent—where no consent had even been asked. He wondered if Alaric had noticed.
Kelson closed his eyes, trying to think of nothing at all. He tried visualizing total blackness, letting his mind detach itself from its awareness. He was dimly aware of Morgan’s hand tightening on his shoulder. Then there was a sickening wrench in the pit of his stomach, a fleeting impression of falling, a slight dizzy sensation.
He opened his eyes to darkness. They were no longer in the study.
Duncan glanced around carefully. The sacristy was just as he’d left it—dim, deserted. Signalling Morgan and Kelson to follow, he glided across the room to ease the door open and peer through. Outside, in the nave, the cathedral was likewise deserted.
Morgan peered over his shoulder, then pointed toward the perimeter of the nave. “Circle around?” he whispered al
most inaudibly.
Duncan nodded and pointed toward the rear of the nave, where the doorway leading to the royal crypt made a lighter patch against the dimness of the deserted cathedral.
“I’ll take the right; you take the left.”
Morgan nodded agreement, and the three began to circle toward the doorway. When they had almost reached their destination, Duncan slipped off to the right and melted into the shadows. Kelson took up a station in the darkness just outside the entrance to the crypt and positioned himself so he could watch Morgan approach one of the just-visible guards.
Morgan glided ahead like a spectre, darting from shadow to shadow, back and forth, each silent step bringing him that much nearer to his quarry. At length, he was within a few yards of the unwitting guard.
Carefully, so that he would make no sound to warn the unsuspecting man, Morgan eased his way closer, reaching gingerly toward the back of the man’s neck. Then, gently, his fingers lightly touched the man.
At Morgan’s touch, the guard stiffened, then relaxed, his eyes slightly glazed, staring straight ahead—unaware, helpless, unremembering. Morgan studied the entranced guard carefully for several seconds. Then, satisfied that his control was complete, he motioned Kelson to join him. As Duncan also joined them, Kelson looked at both men admiringly.
“All right?” Morgan queried in a low voice.
Duncan nodded. “Mine won’t remember a thing.”
“Mine, either. Let’s go,” Morgan replied, moving toward the gate to the crypt.
The gate was massive, designed both to keep intruders out and to form a decorative barrier between the world of the living and the dead. A full eight feet high, it was formed of hundreds of sturdy but delicately wrought bars of brass, gilded over with a thin wash of gold, for this was a kings’ crypt it guarded.
Morgan ran his hands fleetingly over the grillwork, peering at the same time through the bars to the crypt beyond. At the end of the short corridor, a simple altar faced the gate, intended, perhaps, to comfort those royal mourners who came here to lay their dead to rest. To the left, the corridor made a sharp turn into the crypt itself. From around that bend, golden light spilled along the polished marble floor and over the altar. Also around that bend lay the royal sepulchers, the objects of tonight’s expedition.