Deryni Rising (Chronicles of the Deryni)
Quickly he stepped to the center of the room and gathered his cloak around him. Then, murmuring the words of the spell Charissa had taught him, he made the proper pass in the air before him with an outstretched arm—and disappeared.
LATER—much later—Ian drew rein in a deeply wooded area in the hills north of Rhemuth. He listened for a long, silent minute, then urged his horse forward at a walk, letting the animal pick its own footing in the dark, moonless night. Snow was falling gently now, and Ian pulled his hooded cloak more closely around himself as he rode through the darkness.
At length, he found himself passing beside a sheer cliff-face, naked rock to his right and higher than the eye could see. He had ridden for perhaps half a mile when he was suddenly challenged by a gruff voice.
“Who goes there?”
“Ian of Eastmarch. I’ve come to see Her Grace.”
Off to the left, someone struck a spark, and then a torch flared in the darkness. The man with the torch held it aloft and walked slowly toward Ian. Beyond him, just visible at the edges of the circle of torchlight, Ian could see at least half a dozen additional men. When the man with the torch had almost reached Ian, another man stepped out of the blackness directly ahead of Ian and took hold of his horse’s bridle.
“Sorry, m’lord,” he said roughly. “We weren’t expecting you tonight.”
Ian flung back his hood and dismounted, watched as the speaker handed his horse’s reins to another man, who led the animal away to hidden stables. Ian began stripping off his gloves and looked around.
“Is your lady still about?”
“Aye, m’lord,” the guard captain replied, touching a portion of the rock wall beside him. “I can’t say whether she’s expecting you, though.”
A portion of the wall withdrew to disclose a passageway into the heart of the cliff, and Ian stepped through, followed by the captain and several guards.
“Oh, she’s expecting me,” he said with a sly smile that was lost to the guards in the darkness of the passage. He waited until his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, then headed confidently down the long corridor, toward more distant torchlight.
As Ian walked, he slapped the leather riding gloves gently against the palm of his other hand. His boot-heels echoed hollowly on the marble-paved passageway, and the fine steel of his scabbard gave off muffled pings whenever it glanced off against his boots, slightly muted by the heavy cloak.
Odd, what strange alliances one sometimes formed in the pursuit of one’s goals. He had certainly never planned to join forces with the fiery Charissa. Indeed, that had not even been a consideration in the beginning. And now, the daughter of the Marluk trusted him almost completely, had agreed to unite their powers in this common goal. Who would have dreamed, a year ago, that he, Ian Howell, would soon be the master of Corwyn?
He smiled to himself as he added another thought on that matter, but he did not allow himself even to sub-vocalize it. Further powers and rule awaited the right man, if he could but take it. And when with the likes of Charissa, it was better not to even think such thoughts. Once Kelson and Morgan were dead, and his holding in Corwyn secure, there would be time enough for other matters. Meanwhile . . .
Silver spurs jingled gaily as he clattered down a granite staircase, and the torches in their bronze holders cast crimson highlights on his chestnut hair, reflecting, perhaps, the even more crimson thoughts of the man who strode by so confidently.
He passed the guard post and took the precise salute with a studied nonchalance, then approached a pair of golden doors with two tall Moors standing guard.
They made no move to stop him, however, allowing Ian to slip through the doors without a sound. Leaning back against the ornate handles, he fixed his gaze intently upon the woman who sat brushing her long, pale hair, all thoughts of malice gone—at least for the present.
“Well?” she asked. Her voice was low, her full lips curved in a slight, sardonic smile.
Ian sauntered toward her with a careless intensity. “It went as I said it would,” he said silkily, brushing a hand across her shoulder as he passed. “Did you expect otherwise?”
He paused to pour red wine from a crystal decanter, filled his cup once and drained it, then refilled it and carried it to a low table beside the spacious state bed.
“You generally perform according to your talents, Ian,” Charissa said without missing a stroke.
Ian unclasped his heavy cloak and dropped it across a bench, unbuckled his sword and eased it to the floor, as he sank down on the bed’s damask coverlet.
“There will be no further problem tomorrow, then?” Charissa said. She laid the silver-backed brush gently on the dresser top and stood, gathering the gossamer folds of her gown about her in a soft azure cloud.
“I think not.” Ian smiled, reclining on one elbow and picking up his glass of wine. “Kelson has given orders he is not to be disturbed until morning. If he should make some move before then, however, we’ll be informed immediately. I have someone watching.” His brown eyes followed her every move hungrily as she glided toward him.
“So, he has given orders he is not to be disturbed, has he?” She rested delicate fingertips on his shoulder and smiled.
“I believe I shall give the same orders.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“For surely laughter masks a nervous soul.”
THE early-morning stillness was jarred by a staccato rapping at the door, and Morgan tensed and opened one eye, instantly alert. The brightness of the room indicated that it was time to be up and about, and a rapid evaluation of his own condition assured him that the short sleep had been at least adequate. Whatever was going to happen today, he felt ready for it.
Easing to his feet, he glided to the door and placed a cautious hand on the latch, a quick wrist motion flicking the hilt of his stiletto into his palm. His voice was low as he stood aside and called, “Who’s there?”
“Rhodri, the lord chamberlain, Your Grace,” a voice answered. “The royal wardrobers wish to know when His Majesty will be ready for his bath and robing. It’s getting late.”
Morgan returned the stiletto to its sheath and shot back the bolt, opening the door to disclose a stately, white-haired gentleman in deep burgundy velvet, who bowed deferential greeting as Morgan stepped into view.
“Your Grace.”
“What time is it, Lord Rhodri?” Morgan asked quietly.
“Past Terce, Your Grace. I would have called you earlier, but I thought both you and His Highness could use the extra sleep. There’s still well over an hour before the procession begins.”
Morgan smiled. “Thank you. Please tell the wardrobers that the king will be with them shortly. Also, see if you can find my aide, Lord Derry. If I have to go to the coronation looking like this, there will be no doubt in anyone’s mind that I’m precisely the scoundrel I’m rumored to be.”
He ran a meaningful hand over the golden stubble on his chin, and the chamberlain concealed a smile. He and Morgan were friends of long standing, dating from the days shortly after Morgan first came to Brion’s court as a page. Rhodri had been chamberlain even then, and the game he and Morgan played was one worn comfortable by the passage of the years. A small, golden-haired boy had stolen Rhodri’s heart then, and now he remained just as devoted to the man.
His eyes twinkled in shared understanding as he looked Morgan straight in the eye. “There was never any doubt in anyone’s mind, was there, Your Grace?” he replied dryly, his tone not requiring an answer. “And is there anything else Your Grace requires?”
Morgan shook his head, then snapped his fingers as he remembered one final instruction. “Yes, one more thing. You’d best send for Monsignor McLain. Kelson will wish to see him before he leaves for the cathedral.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Rhodri bowed.
As Morgan closed the door and rebolted it, he suddenly realized that the room was cold again, so he padded back across the floor on bare feet to stir the remains of the fire and add more
wood. When he was satisfied that it was burning properly, he crossed quickly to the balcony doors, dancing gingerly on tiptoes as his bare feet trod the cold flagstones.
As he drew aside the heavy damask drapes to let the pale sunlight stream in, he became aware of being watched. He turned and smiled at Kelson as he finished securing the drapes, then crossed to the boy’s side and sat down.
“Good morning, my prince,” he said cheerfully. “How do you feel?”
Kelson sat up in bed and pulled the blankets up around himself. “Hmm, it’s cold. And I’m starved. What time is it?”
Morgan laughed and reached across to feel Kelson’s forehead, then took the boy’s wounded hand and began unwrapping the bandage. “It isn’t as late as you think, my prince.” He chuckled. “Your body squires are drawing your bath and will be ready for you momentarily. And you know you mayn’t eat until after the coronation.”
Kelson bounced once on the bed in frustration, then leaned to look at his hand as Morgan removed the bandage. Other than a faint pink puncture mark on either side, he could see no sign of the previous night’s ordeal. And as Morgan bent and manipulated the hand, Kelson was surprised that he felt none of the tenderness he had expected when he moved it.
He looked up anxiously as Morgan released his hand and discarded the bandage. “Is it all right?”
“Quite all right. You’re well fit, after last night’s adventures.”
Kelson smiled, then poised himself to leave the bed. “Then, there’s no reason I should stay in bed, is there?”
“None at all.”
Morgan reached across and took Kelson’s robe from the foot of the bed, stood and held it so that the boy could shrug into it. Kelson bundled it around himself and scampered quickly to the fireplace, plopped down on the fur rug as he warmed himself.
“Umm, this feels good,” he said, rubbing his hands together briskly and smoothing down his rumpled hair. “What’s next?”
Morgan joined him and poked at the fire. “First of all, your bath. They should be about ready for you. And I’ll send your wardrobers in to help you dress as soon as they arrive.”
Kelson stopped rubbing his hands and wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Devil take it, I can dress myself!”
“A king must have dressers on his coronation day.” Morgan laughed, taking the boy by the arm and urging him to his feet. “It’s tradition. Besides, you aren’t meant to clutter up your mind with the mechanics of putting on strange robes when you should be contemplating the responsibilities of kingship.”
He propelled Kelson toward the door leading to the dressing room, but the boy paused there and looked back at Morgan suspiciously.
“So I’m meant to have dressers, eh? How many?”
“Oh, six or so, I should imagine,” Morgan replied, raising an innocent eyebrow.
“Six!” Kelson said indignantly. “Morgan, I don’t need six dressers!”
“Is this a rebellion?” Morgan retorted, unable to control a grin.
He knew how Kelson felt about personal servants—and he, too, hated being fussed over. But there were times when it couldn’t be avoided. Kelson knew that, and his expression confirmed that he recognized that fact, too. But there were also signs that Morgan had not had the last word.
As the boy opened the door and started through, he suddenly turned and looked at Morgan with an expression of mock indignation. “I still think,” he said haughtily, “that you planned all this deliberately.”
“I’ve been planning deliberately to make you a king!” Morgan retorted, his patience wearing thin. “Now, get in there!”
He made a motion as if to chase the boy, and Kelson ducked on through the doorway. The door closed with a note of finality, but not before Kelson had poked his head back through and stuck out his tongue.
Sighing, Morgan rolled his eyes heavenward in a silent appeal to whatever saint controlled the whims of royal princes. Kelson’s maturity of the previous day and of the night seemed to have disappeared entirely. He hoped it was not going to set the tone of the entire day.
Before he could decide on the next course of action, there was another knock on the door.
“Who’s there?”
“Derry, m’lord,” the familiar voice replied.
Morgan crossed to the door and shot back the bolt to admit Derry. With the young lord were two squires bearing hot water, towels, and fresh clothing. Derry himself looked rested and refreshed in his crisp new livery. The sling was gone from his left arm, mute reminder of the night before.
“I’m glad to see you’ve fully recovered,” Morgan remarked.
“Yes. Strange thing, wasn’t it, sir?” Derry replied dryly. “I don’t suppose you’d like to—”
“Later, Derry,” Morgan interrupted, shaking his head slightly as he stood aside to let them enter. “Right now I feel the urgent need of more mundane repairs—such as a hot bath.”
“Yes, m’lord,” said Derry, taking the hint and gesturing to the two squires accompanying him. “Now if you’ll just follow me, gentlemen, I’ll show you how His Grace likes things done.”
Morgan shook his head and chuckled as Derry took things in hand, then followed them into the room. At least he wouldn’t have to show up at the coronation looking like the legendary Wild Man of Torenth now. And explanations to Derry would have to wait until they had some privacy.
ELSEWHERE in the palace, another was also about his business—one whose day had begun several hours earlier in a place not many miles away. From the arms of an incredibly beautiful and evil woman he had come, borne on the wings of a Deryni spell to complete a specific task and then return.
In an alcove just off one of the main corridors, he bided his time, waiting for just the right passers-by. A fairly large group of pages and squires in formal livery came past, laden with white and golden robes that could only be Kelson’s. But these were not the ones he sought this morning.
As the entourage passed, he pretended to be absorbed with a temperamental fastening on his own formal cloak. As soon as they were past, however, he resumed his vigil.
After perhaps ten minutes of this subterfuge, and perhaps three repeats of the cloak ruse, his quarry came into sight as he had known they would: two royal squires carrying a resplendent black velvet cloak and a polished wooden jewel case.
Ian timed his interference perfectly, stepping into their path just as they came abreast of his alcove. The maneuver cost one of them his footing, as had been intended. Then Ian was apologizing profusely and helping the young man to his feet, helping him gather up the baubles and chains that had spilled from the wooden chest.
It never occurred to the young man to check the contents of the chest after the encounter; never occurred to him that the great Lord Ian might have substituted another item for one particularly fine badge of office—that of the King’s Champion.
IN Kelson’s quarters, Morgan gave himself a critical appraisal in the hand mirror as Derry wiped the last traces of soap from his lord’s chin and ears. After a bath and a shave, he felt almost like a new man. And sitting here in clean shirt and breeches was more luxury than he could remember for weeks. It was almost enough to make him appreciate the fortune of his noble birth.
As Derry dismissed the two squires who had been assisting him, Duncan slipped into the room with a silent signal that the young Marcher lord should give no warning. Gliding up quietly behind Morgan, he exchanged places with Derry and continued dusting lint from the white linen shirt.
“Well, well. The prodigal seeks to amend his appearance!”
Morgan whirled in surprise, reaching for his weapon, then relaxed and grinned as he realized it was Duncan. With a wave, he dismissed Derry to continue with his other duties, then settled back in his chair as Duncan came around in front of the fireplace.
“I do wish you wouldn’t sneak up on me like that,” Morgan said. “If Derry hadn’t been here, I might have taken off your head before I realized it was you.”
Duncan smiled
and sat down casually on the arm of another chair. “You would have realized in time,” he said quietly. “An uneventful night after I left, I take it?”
Morgan nodded. “What else could have happened?”
“Earthquakes, floods, more miracles?” Duncan shrugged. “Anyway, I have a little surprise for you this morning.”
“Are you sure I can stand it?” Morgan asked dubiously. “After some of the surprises I’ve had in the past twenty-four hours, I’m not certain I’m ready for any more.”
“Oh, it isn’t really much,” Duncan answered with a droll smile. He reached into his cincture and removed something small wrapped in a scrap of velvet, dropped it into Morgan’s hand. “Kelson asked me to see that you got this. It seems you’re to be his Champion.”
“His Champion?” Morgan retorted, his gaze snapping up to stare at Duncan. “How do you know that?”
“Well, after all, Kelson does tell me a few things he doesn’t tell you,” Duncan said, gazing innocently at the ceiling. “Besides, who did you think it would be, you crazy warhorse? Me?”
Morgan laughed delightedly and shook his head, then eagerly unwrapped the scrap of velvet. Inside was a massive signet ring, an oval cabochon-cut onyx etched with the Golden Lion of Gwynedd on its face.
Morgan stared at it in fascination for a moment, then breathed on it and polished it against his sleeve. The gem gleamed like frozen midnight as Morgan slipped it onto his right index finger, then held out both hands, palms down. The Lion of Gwynedd and the Corwyn Gryphon winked gold and green in the light.
“I really didn’t expect this,” Morgan finally breathed, lowering his hands and standing there sheepishly. “I still don’t understand how he did it, either. The office of King’s Champion has always been a hereditary post.”