He was mentally congratulating himself for having reached so reasoned a conclusion when the study door softly opened and Duncan and Morgan re-entered. Both men wore confident expressions—for his benefit, he was sure—but he could detect the tension beneath their calm exteriors even as they sought to reassure him. They knew he’d been nervous.
He straightened up and smiled slightly to show them he wasn’t really afraid—or at least that his fear was under control.
Smiling back, Duncan took the candlestick from the table and brushed Kelson’s shoulder reassuringly as he continued across the room.
Morgan watched as Duncan knelt at the prie-dieu, then picked up the Lion brooch and the vial of pale green liquid as he looked down at Kelson.
“Duncan is preparing a place, my prince,” he said quietly. “Are you ready?”
Kelson nodded and got calmly to his feet. “I’m ready.”
At the prie-dieu, Duncan reached carefully under the armrest and pressed a series of hidden indentations. As he did so, a portion of wall behind the adjacent tapestry suddenly withdrew, sucking the tapestry briefly against the opening. Then the pressure released, and the hanging hung still once more. Duncan rose and pulled it aside, motioning Kelson and Morgan to enter.
The chapel was very small, perhaps half the size of the room they had just left. As the opening closed behind them and Duncan moved to the other end with the light, Kelson was able to see that the side walls and ceiling were painted with frescoes depicting the lives of various saints. Gold leaf had been used to highlight the paintings, and it caught and reflected what little light there was, making the scenes stand out as though illuminated from within.
Behind the simple altar, the wall had been painted a dark blue, spangled with tiny gilded stars. To the left, a single vigil light hanging from a long chain cast crimson highlights on an ornate ebony crucifix suspended from fine wires, so that it seemed to float against the starry sky. As Duncan lit the candles on the altar, the added illumination was reflected from the highly polished surfaces.
There were two small prie-dieus in the center of the room, and Kelson and Morgan took their places there as Duncan inclined his head toward the altar, then bowed his head in silent meditation.
Morgan put the Lion brooch and vial on the floor between him and Kelson, then slipped his sword from its hangers and laid it quietly on the floor, motioning Kelson to do the same. Morgan doubted that the action was really necessary, but there was no sense taking needless chances. The tradition of coming unarmed into a House of God was an old and strong one. Somewhere, sometime, there had been a good reason.
As Kelson laid his sword on the stone floor, Duncan finished his meditation and joined them.
“I think we should begin,” he said in a low voice, dropping to one knee in front of Morgan and the boy. “Alaric, if you’ll prepare the brooch . . .” He gestured toward the vial.
“Kelson, I’ll start by reciting a short series of prayers at the altar, with you and Alaric giving the responses. You’ll know what they are. Then I’ll come back here and give you a special blessing. After that, I’ll return to the altar and say, Domine, fiat voluntas tua. Lord, let it be done according to Thy will. That will be your cue.”
Morgan wiped down the clasp of the brooch with cleansing liquid and covered it with a piece of protective linen.
“What about me?” he asked, taking Kelson’s left hand and wiping it also, palm and back. “Is there anything I should do besides watch?”
Duncan shook his head. “No. And whatever happens, you mustn’t touch him or attempt to aid him in any way until the reaction has run its course. We’re dealing with enormous levels of power here, and if you interfere, it could kill him—or you.”
“Understood.”
“Good. Any questions, Kelson?”
“No, Father.”
“Very well, then.”
Duncan rose and looked down at the young king for an instant, then smiled and made him a bow. Then he turned away and mounted the three short steps to the altar.
Kelson watched wide-eyed as Duncan genuflected, kissed the altar stone, then extended his arms to either side with the practiced ease of much experience.
“Dominus vobiscum.”
“Et cum spiritu tuo.”
“Oremus.”
As Duncan’s lips moved in prayer, Morgan stole a glance at Kelson to his left. The boy seemed calm as he knelt there, and terribly young and vulnerable. Morgan was not afraid for himself. He and Duncan could protect themselves, he was sure, from any evil that might be summoned up by what they were about to do. But Kelson, a human boy, with no defenses as yet . . .
Of course, it was possible that there was no need for alarm, even possible that the Eye of Rom glinting there in the boy’s right earlobe might offer some protection, if there was need, but still—Kelson was so young, so trusting. Morgan was glad the boy didn’t know of the doubts he and Duncan had raised in the past hour. What the boy must do now required the utmost of confidence and trust. There could be no room for doubt.
Morgan returned his attention to the altar and found that Duncan was just finishing the prayers prerequisite to what must follow. The priest bowed once more before the altar, then turned to face them and murmured, “Per omnia saecula saeculorum.”
“Amen,” Morgan and Kelson responded solemnly.
At that, Duncan came back down the three steps and stood before the kneeling Kelson. Placing both hands lightly on the boy’s head, he spoke again, his voice low but strong in the stillness.
“Kelson Cinhil Rhys Anthony Haldane: Though the cords of the netherworld enmesh thee, though the snares of death surge about thee, thou shalt fear no evil. With His pinions the Lord shall cover thee, and under His wings thou shalt take refuge.” He made the sign of the cross over the boy’s head. “In Nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.”
As the boy lifted his head, Duncan reached down and took the Lion brooch from Morgan, removed the protective linen covering the clasp, placed the brooch in Kelson’s right hand.
“Courage, my prince,” he whispered, then turned back toward the altar and spread his arms once again.
“Domine, fiat voluntas tua!”
It was time.
Kelson’s hands trembled slightly as he poised the golden clasp over his left palm, rested the point of the slender shaft against the skin. He hesitated for just an instant, mentally steeling himself for the pain he knew must follow.
Then he plunged the clasp into his hand.
Pain! Searing fire! Anguish!
Suddenly the tortured hand was like a thing alive and apart, transmitting its anguish to explode in his brain like sparks from a fiery forge, like the searing white light of sunlight on unprotected eyes. He felt pain lance through the hand like the thrust of a blade—hot, cold!—as he pushed harder, was aware of the shaft taking what seemed an interminable time to pass through skin, fascia, muscles—felt it glide between the tendons and small bones of his hand, saw the tip of the shaft, darker now, emerge at last on the other side.
An involuntary gasp escaped his lips as the brooch itself came to rest against the palm of his hand, seemed to sear into his flesh. He doubled over, stifling a moan as the hand began to throb with a rhythm of its own, closed his eyes tightly as lights began to explode inside his head, behind his eyeballs.
It was all Morgan could do to keep from reaching out to steady his young lord. Anguish was etched across the boy’s face, pain screamingly obvious in every taut line of the hunched body. Never had Kelson seemed so helpless.
But Duncan, too, had turned to watch. And his sharp glance reminded Morgan that he dared not try to assist.
As Kelson sank back on his heels, cradling the wounded hand against his chest, he began to glow with a pale, ghostly golden light. The glow increased, and then the boy suddenly stiffened and fell utterly silent. As his companions watched breathlessly, the young king’s eyes flickered open, glassy, staring, following things that only he could
see.
Brightness . . . pain . . . swirling colors . . . pain throbbing . . . a cool shiver of—what? Pain subsiding . . . better now . . . a cool weight in the hand. . . . Look! Colors . . . swirling . . . faces: . . . light, dark . . . light fading . . . faces . . . growing darker . . . spinning . . . darkness . . . Father! . . . the darkness! . . . Father . . . darkness. . . .
“Father, the darkness . . .”
All at once the slender body crumpled softly to the floor, the light fading away.
“Kelson!” Morgan cried, frantically turning the boy’s face toward him and feeling for a carotid pulse. “Kelson, are you all right?”
As Duncan, too, knelt beside the still form, Morgan’s fingers found what they sought; and even as he relaxed, the pulse grew stronger. He lifted one of the boy’s eyelids, saw the pupil react to light. The pulse became stronger.
“ ‘The right hand of the Lord has struck him with power,’ ” Duncan whispered, crossing himself. “ ‘He shall not die, but live.’ ”
He reached for the boy’s left hand and gently removed the Lion brooch, then wrapped the hand in a handkerchief of white silk.
“Do you think it worked?” Morgan whispered, raising the boy’s head and shoulders and wrapping the crimson cloak more closely around him.
Duncan nodded as he stood and removed his stole. “I think so. It’s too soon to tell for sure, but he’s showing all the proper signs.” He touched the stole to his lips, then tossed it onto the altar as he headed for the secret door. “One thing is fairly evident, though. More happened to him than just a hole in his hand. We’ll have to ask him when he comes to.”
As Duncan activated the door, Morgan picked up the unconscious Kelson in his arms, again pulling the crimson cloak more closely around his young charge. Duncan picked up the swords from the floor, scanning the chapel once more, then held aside the tapestry to re-enter the study.
Soon, he and Morgan were making their way back through the secret passage toward Kelson’s apartments.
“I still dinnae see how they could’ve got past wi’out us seein’ ’em!”
The speaker struck a light and touched it to the candelabrum beside Kelson’s bed, then turned to his two companions. “I thought ye were watching, Lawrence.”
The one called Lawrence sheathed his sword with a gesture of finality, then threw the dark cloak back off his shoulders, let his hood fall back.
“I cannae explain it, m’lord. I did nae see any man come in nor out since late this afternoon, when the prince an’ His Grace entered.” He paced to the fireplace and stirred the embers with the toe of his boot, then pulled several logs into the dying fire.
“Well, if ye ask me,” the third man said, also lowering his sword, “I’m glad they’re not here. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to strike at Lord Alaric. After all, he is our sworn lord.” He sat gingerly on the edge of the royal bed and tested it with a slight bounce, then hastily stood again at the sharp glance of Lawrence.
“D’ye think there could be another way out o’ this place?” Lawrence said, looking suspiciously around the room from his vantage point by the fire. “Methinks I’ve heard rumors o’ secret passages an’ the like. Do ye think they could ha’ got out that way?”
Edgar, the first speaker, frowned and considered the notion. Though he was of the nobility, and one of Morgan’s vassals, he was not known for his mental agility. He functioned adequately in his role as border lord, and was widely touted as a fine fighter, but subtleties of deduction were not among his strengths. At length, he cocked his head and nodded, drawing his sword.
“Aye, ’tis possible. And if ’tis true, they might come back any minute.”
As he began roaming suspiciously around the room, poking into dark corners with his blade, the third man moved cautiously to the fireplace.
“Do ye really think Lord Alaric has enslaved the young master like they say? ’Tis bad enough he must murder the king’s own men, but when he threatens the life o’ the king himself, that’s another matter entirely.”
“Both deeds are from the same wickedness!” Edgar retorted, stalking around the room like a caged animal. “He cannae—”
“Hsst!” Lawrence said suddenly, holding up his left hand for silence. “I think I hear somethin’.”
“Harold, over there,” Edgar ordered, motioning the third man to the left of the fireplace.
From behind the wall beside the fireplace, the three men could hear faint scraping sounds, as though of cautious footsteps. Immediately, they doused their light and stood back in the shadows, weapons at the ready.
As they watched, a portion of the wall sighed and indented slightly, then slid back. From the opening, dim candlelight poured into the room, revealing Morgan carrying the unconscious prince, with the priest Duncan McLain behind him. Even as the two stepped through the doorway, they were aware of the fire burning brightly, sensed the presence of others in the shadows.
“Ye demon!” Edgar’s voice hissed from the darkness. “What hae ye done to His Highness?”
The three men stepped into the circle of candlelight and glared defiance at Morgan and Duncan, weapons menacing, their faces dark, masked beneath steel helmets and dark, hooded cloaks.
“Have ye nothing to say, ye monster?” Edgar continued furiously. “Stand an’ defend yerself!”
CHAPTER NINE
“Whence comes the wonder, whence the miracle?”
THE words of the intruder launched the two men into action. Duncan dashed his candle to the floor to douse the light, then tossed Morgan’s sword to him. Morgan had already eased the unconscious Kelson to the floor at his feet, and he slung the scabbard from his blade with a quick whip of his wrist. At his side, Duncan drew Kelson’s sword and prepared to fight.
Immediately, the junior of the three attackers engaged Duncan in combat, pressing him back into a corner. The remaining two attacked Morgan in unison with rapier and two-handed broadsword, their blows ringing against Morgan’s blade like hammer blows in a forge.
After the initial clash, Morgan proceeded to parry each attack of his two opponents easily, methodically, less concerned for the present with actually defeating them than with keeping himself always between them and the motionless form of Kelson behind him. The slender stiletto had again appeared in his left hand, and he was using it to good advantage to deflect an occasional blow from the rapier. But it was, of course, completely ineffectual against the blows of the broadsword that continued to rain down on him.
Also, he was having to hold back from launching a full-scale offensive maneuver, for he dared not take too aggressive a stance if that meant leaving Kelson open to attack. Right now, he wasn’t really sure who the men were after, and he couldn’t risk Kelson’s life in finding out. A glance aside told him that Duncan could not help, either.
In the corner, Duncan was having his own problems keeping abreast of the situation. Kelson’s blade was shorter and lighter than those the priest was accustomed to. As a consequence, he was fighting under a distinct handicap: with a blade too light and short against a man who surpassed him in weight, strength, reach, and years’ experience.
Not that there was anything lacking in his skill. Duncan was first and foremost a nobleman’s son, born and bred to a fine fighting tradition and tempered by many years’ experience and training, but these odds were not at all to his liking. He had only this puny blade to protect him—not even a scrap of mail shirt. People did not often raise steel against a priest.
Undaunted, he continued to press for an opening—and soon found it! For his opponent had also recognized his assumed advantage and, as a result, became lazy, returned from a thrust less quickly than he should have done.
It cost him his life. Even as he realized his mistake, Duncan’s blade darted through a weak point in the mail beneath his arm and pierced him to the heart. He crumpled to the floor with a surprised look on his face and quietly died.
Abandoning Kelson’s bloodied sword, Duncan faded back into the g
loom and tried to decide which of Morgan’s two opponents to take out of the fracas—though the decision was not a difficult one. If Morgan had to parry many more blows from the man with the two-handed broadsword, a lucky blow just might connect.
Easing stealthily behind the man, Duncan extended both hands before him, palms together, then slowly drew them apart. As he did so, a small sphere of green fire hovered in the air there, then drifted unerringly toward the back of the swordsman’s head. As it touched the man’s helmet, there was a brilliant arc of green fire. The man cried out once, then collapsed to the floor in a stupor. His fall so unnerved his companion that Morgan was able to disarm the man easily and hold him at bay.
Outside the door to the apartment, all of them could hear the sounds of guardsmen arriving and pounding on the door, their shouts of dismay as they discovered the fate of the guards overpowered by the three intruders. The pounding on the door became insistent.
“Sire!” cried a new voice, cutting through the outer confusion. “Sire, are you all right? General Morgan, what’s happening? Open the door, or we’ll be forced to break it down!”
Morgan gestured urgently toward his captive with the tip of his blade as he edged toward the door, and Duncan nodded. Before the man could react, Duncan slipped alongside him and touched his forehead, giving a low-voiced command. The man’s eyes took on a faraway look, and he dropped his hands to his sides, no longer trying to resist.
“You did not see me,” Duncan whispered, looking the man deeply in the eyes. “You saw only the prince and His Grace. Do you understand?”
The man nodded slowly.
Duncan dropped his hand and edged toward the balcony doors, nodding to Morgan as he did so. The man would say nothing of his presence now; of that he was certain. It would have been rather difficult to explain just how he happened to be in this room at this hour.
As Morgan shot back the bolt on the door, slipping his stiletto back into its wrist sheath, he heard a low moan come from Kelson’s corner of the room—a reassuring sign that the boy was coming around. He stepped back into the center of the room as the door burst open, and mentally sent strength and confidence in Kelson’s direction as the room filled with armed men.