Deryni Rising (Chronicles of the Deryni)

  The prayers for the king ended without Kelson having heard a word of them, and the two prelates again led him before the high altar, this time so that he might prostrate himself preparatory to the consecration.

  The choir began to sing another anthem as Kelson laid himself prostrate on the carpet before the high altar. The long ivory mantle covered all but his head and the tips of his boots as he lay there. All his clergy knelt around him, their lips moving in prayer.

  Kelson clenched his clasped hands even tighter and prayed for strength, feeling the icy touch of foreboding at the back of his neck, trying to tell himself he would be safe, that he could stand against whatever the Shadowed One chose to try against the rightful King of Gwynedd.

  The hymn ended, and the prelates raised Kelson to his feet and divested him of the ivory mantle. Then, as the four knights with the canopy moved into place, Kelson knelt once more on the altar steps to receive the marks of chrism that would make him the rightly anointed King of Gwynedd.

  Morgan watched proudly as Kelson was anointed on head, hands, and breast, tried not to be anxious about the presence he knew was even now approaching the cathedral. As the anointing concluded, and the choir broke into the strains of another hymn, Morgan strained to hear what was happening outside, stiffened slightly as the sounds of liturgical ceremony were joined by the ghostly echo of steel-shod hooves ringing cold against the cobbled street outside.

  Kelson rose to be invested with the symbols of his office. Priests fastened the crimson jeweled robe of state around his shoulders, touched his heels with golden spurs. As chain mail clanked against naked steel beyond the heavy doors of the cathedral, Archbishop Corrigan took the Ring of Fire from Duncan, murmured a blessing over it, held it aloft for an instant, slipped it on Kelson’s left forefinger.

  Then he motioned Morgan forward with the Sword of State.

  It was the moment Morgan had been waiting for, for even with the Ring of Fire on Kelson’s hand, there could be no magic until Kelson was sealed by the Sign of the Defender. Making his way to Kelson’s side, he unsheathed the great sword and gave it into Corrigan’s hands, watched anxiously as the archbishop prayed that the sword be ever used to dispense justice.

  Finally, Corrigan presented the sword to Kelson. And Kelson, with an anxious glance at Morgan, touched his lips to the weapon and handed it back to Morgan. As the sword exchanged hands, Kelson touched Morgan’s gryphon seal briefly, then faltered in dismay.

  For there had been no sensation of power when he touched the seal, no surge of promise fulfilled, no sealing of the force foretold by Brion’s ritual verse. His anguished eyes sought Morgan’s frantically, and Morgan, too, felt a sick queasiness rise in his throat.

  Somewhere, they had failed! Obviously, Morgan’s gryphon was not the Sign of the Defender!

  There were loud footsteps outside the cathedral now, and the people grew hushed with fearful expectation. As Corrigan, unaware of what was going on, continued with the investiture, held out the jeweled sceptre of Gwynedd to Kelson, the cathedral doors swung back with a muffled crash, and a gust of icy wind whistled down the nave.

  As Morgan turned his head slightly toward the rear of the church, there was no doubt in his mind what he would see. Nor was he disappointed.

  He looked, and saw Charissa—Duchess of Tolan, Lady of the Silver Mists, the Shadowed One—silhouetted against the open doorway, veiled in pale gray and blue and shrouded in living mist that twined around her in a sinister aura.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Who, then, is the Defender?”

  KELSON didn’t even move as the doors crashed back on their hinges, though he yearned to turn his head and look. For even as the sound shattered the silence, he realized that to satisfy his curiosity prematurely might only make him lose his nerve. He had never seen Charissa, and he was uncertain how he would react.

  Kneeling with one’s back to the enemy was not generally recommended, either—at least he knew that. He was probably taking a terrible chance by remaining in that position while his enemy advanced; under other circumstances, he would never have even considered such a strategic blunder. But since he was helpless anyway, it should make little difference. There was a point where theory must yield to practicality—and frankly he wasn’t certain just what he would do when he did turn around.

  He had to have time to think. If he had to bluff—and that seemed inevitable at this point—he would also need to have some clear purpose in mind beyond mere survival. He didn’t think he would freeze up when he faced her, but there was no sense tempting fate. His father had taught him that years ago.

  He heard footsteps echoing down the nave and knew that his adversary approached, that she was not alone. As he stiffened slightly, he saw Morgan’s hand creep closer to the hilt of his broadsword. He hazarded a glance to his left and saw that Duncan was signalling the archbishop to proceed with the ceremony.

  Kelson nodded to himself in approval. Duncan was right. The farther along in the ceremony they got, the better were Kelson’s legal claims to the throne, and the better were his chances of discovering a way out of his quandary.

  Archbishop Corrigan took the jeweled crown of Gwynedd from its velvet pillow and raised it above Kelson’s head. The footsteps were much closer now, and Kelson saw Corrigan’s eyes flick over his head to the aisle beyond, saw him wet his lips nervously before beginning the invocation for coronation. To the right, Jehana’s face went pale as the footsteps came to an ominous halt at the transept.

  “Bless, we beseech Thee, O Lord—” Corrigan began.

  “Stop!” commanded a low, female voice.

  Corrigan froze, the crown poised over Kelson’s head, then quickly lowered the crown and looked at Kelson apologetically. His glance flicked over Kelson’s head again, and then he stepped back. There was the clatter of steel on the sanctuary steps, then silence. Carefully, Kelson rose from his knees and turned to face the intruders.

  The significance of the mailed gauntlet on the steps before him was unmistakable, as were the armed men lined up in the aisle behind the woman. Looking down the aisle, Kelson could see at least three dozen warriors, some in the black flowing robes of Charissa’s Moorish emirs, the others in more conventional mail and battle attire. Two of the Moors flanked their mistress, arms folded impassively across their chests, their faces dark and grim within the shadowed hoods of black velvet jubbas.

  But it was the woman herself to whom Kelson’s attention quickly returned, for she was totally unlike what he had envisioned. He had never considered the possibility before, but Charissa was beautiful!

  From her reaction, it was obvious that Charissa had anticipated this reaction and capitalized on it, quite evident that she had chosen her attire accordingly, for maximum effect.

  A gown of blued-gray silk flowed from a high, jeweled collar around the ivory neck, and the whole was covered against the cold by a cloak of deep gray velvet and fox. The long, pale hair was coiled and braided in a high coronet across the top of her head, encircled by a sapphire diadem. The entire shining mass was lightly covered with a veil of palest gossamer blue that spilled down her back and softened the determined expression on her face.

  That expression was what finally brought Kelson to his senses, made him reevaluate his first impression. For the coiled hair resembled nothing so much as a heavy golden crown—symbolic in her mind, no doubt, of the other crown she hoped to wear before the day was over.

  She inclined her head in a faintly condescending nod as Kelson’s eyes met hers, then glanced pointedly at the mailed gauntlet on the steps between them. Kelson could not fail to mark the significance of that glance, and suddenly he was coldly angry. All at once he knew that he must somehow hold this creature impotent—at least until a way of dealing with her could be found.

  “What would you in the House of the Lord?” he demanded quietly, a ghost of a plan beginning to form. His gray eyes burned with a cold fire reminiscent of his father before him, and he seemed suddenly to add do
uble the years to his dignity.

  Charissa raised one eyebrow, then made him a mocking curtsy. The boy had spirit and a presence surprisingly mature and commanding for his years. What a pity he would not live to profit from it.

  “What do I want?” she answered silkily. “Why, your death, of course, young Haldane. Surely you had some inkling. Or didn’t your ‘Champion’ see fit to warn you of that fact?”

  She turned to smile sweetly at Morgan, then returned her attention to Kelson. But Kelson was not amused.

  “Your insinuation is as unwelcome as your presence,” Kelson replied coldly. “Begone, before you tax our patience to the breaking point. Armed retinues are not welcome in this House.”

  Charissa smiled without any sign of concern. “Bold words.” She gestured toward the gauntlet. “Unfortunately, you cannot be rid of me that easily. I have challenged your right to rule Gwynedd. Surely you will agree that I cannot now withdraw until that challenge has been answered.”

  Kelson’s gaze darted grimly to the men behind Charissa, then back to the woman. She was trying, he knew, to goad him into the inevitable duel of magic. But he also knew that without his father’s powers, he could not stand against her.

  Fortunately, there was a way to forestall the battle for a while and still satisfy honor. Meanwhile, perhaps he could gather his wits about him for the decisive confrontation that must eventually follow. He glanced at Charissa’s men again, then made his decision.

  “Very well. As King of Gwynedd, we accept your challenge. And under the ancient rules of challenge, our Champion shall fight yours at such time and place as shall be determined at a later date. I trust that is agreeable?” He was confident that Morgan could easily best any man in Charissa’s entourage.

  A flicker of faint annoyance marred Charissa’s exquisite face for just an instant, but she quickly masked it. She had hoped to leave Morgan unharmed for a while longer, so that he might further suffer as the last of the Haldanes met their deaths today. That was not essential, however. What concerned her more was whether Ian actually could defeat the Deryni half-breed.

  She glanced at the gauntlet again, then nodded. “Well played. But you have only postponed our confrontation for a little while, since I still mean to call you out in personal combat.”

  “Not while our Champion stands!” Kelson replied.

  “That can be remedied,” Charissa continued briskly. “First of all, we shall not determine the outcome of this contest at a later date. The time and place are here and now. You have no choice in the matter. Further, I shall not rest my fortunes on any of these who stand with me here. My Champion stands yonder to defend me.”

  As she gestured toward the right side of the cathedral, Ian stepped from the ranks of the noblemen with a sly grin on his face and made his way to Charissa’s side. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword as he gazed mildly across the distance between himself and Kelson.

  Kelson was astonished at the disclosure of Ian as the betrayer in his midst, for he had always thought of the young earl as a loyal, if not overenthusiastic, supporter. This explained the strange happenings that had plagued them since Morgan’s arrival. With his high rank, Ian would have had no trouble at all setting the Stenrect, killing the guard, massacring the guard detail at Brion’s tomb last night.

  As he thought about it, Kelson realized that Ian’s comments had often tended to encourage the loose talk about Morgan over the past three months. His unfinished statements, his sly innuendoes . . . of course. In fact, it was altogether possible that he also had some Deryni power himself. And motivation was no puzzle. Kelson knew as well as anyone else that parts of Eastmarch bordered on Morgan’s Corwyn.

  None of this showed on the young king’s face, however. Only his eyes narrowed slightly as he turned his attention to Ian, his voice low and dangerous in the stillness.

  “You would dare to raise steel against me, Ian of Eastmarch? And in this House?”

  “Aye, and in a thousand like it,” Ian replied, steel whispering against steel as he drew his blade and saluted with it smartly. “And now,” he gestured with his sword, “will your Champion come down to do battle? Or must I come up and slay him where he stands?”

  Cat-quiet, Morgan was already gliding down the chancel steps, drawing his own sword as he came.

  “Save your words for your victory, traitor!” he retorted. He scooped up the gauntlet with the tip of his blade and flipped it through the air to land at Charissa’s feet.

  “I accept your challenge in the name of Kelson Haldane, King of Gwynedd!”

  “For all the good it will do you—or him!” Ian countered with an insolent jerk of his chin toward the young king.

  As he moved purposefully toward Morgan, the men accompanying Charissa fell back to give the two room to fight, as did their mistress. Ian’s blade wandered almost lazily before him as he walked, his sharp gaze noting Morgan’s every move.

  Morgan, too, was taking the opportunity to size up his opponent, gray eyes assessing every step, every subtle movement of Ian’s blade. He had never crossed swords with Ian before, but quite probably the earl possessed considerably more skill than he liked people to think he had, else Charissa would not have chosen him to defend her claim. There was a careless intensity about the man that put Morgan instantly on guard.

  Still, Morgan had no particular qualms about the duel. He was a superb swordsman and knew it. He had never lost a serious battle in his adult life, and he did not intend to start today. Still, the uncertainty of Ian’s skill and finesse warranted a cautious approach until he knew better what kind of swordsman he was up against. He must win this battle for Kelson, no matter what. Whatever the price, he would pay it.

  They had circled long enough. With a sudden, savage lunge, Ian sought to penetrate Morgan’s defenses in the crucial first seconds of the duel. But Morgan was not fooled. Parrying nimbly, he avoided his opponent’s blade with ease, tried an attack of his own, then withdrew slightly as he realized this would not, indeed, be an easy fight. Carefully, patiently, he began weaving a singing net of steel around himself, easily parrying each of Ian’s renewed attacks as he studied the earl’s technique.

  Suddenly, he saw what he had been watching for, and switched immediately to a special offensive maneuver he had been saving for just such a moment. His stroke cut Ian’s fine velvet doublet and pinked his opponent in the right shoulder, and the earl jumped back for just an instant.

  Ian was furious at being touched. Though he had always concealed the fact, he, too, considered himself an excellent swordsman. That his maiden battle in public should be marked by a wound, however slight, was something he had not expected. Nor did he like it at all.

  Flinging himself headlong into the foray, Ian returned to the duel, battling now with emotions rather than reason, as Morgan had hoped he would. Eventually, he took too long a chance, leaving himself momentarily wider open than he should have done. Even as he parried Morgan’s first thrust, the general’s riposte left him open on the right, and Morgan’s blade found a deep sheath in his side.

  As the sword drooped in Ian’s hand and his face drained of color, Morgan withdrew his blade and stepped back. Ian tottered for a moment, surprise and fear in his eyes, then sank to the floor, sword clattering from paralyzed fingers. As Ian’s eyes closed, Morgan tossed his head contemptuously and wiped his blade on an edge of Ian’s golden cloak, then turned to stroll calmly toward Charissa, sword still in hand.

  Anger flared in Charissa’s eyes as Morgan approached, but she knew he could not detect what she had seen—a slight stirring of the man on the floor behind him.

  “Who now is ruler of Gwynedd?” Morgan demanded, leveling his sword at her throat.

  Behind him, Charissa saw a hand move, saw the flash of Ian’s favorite dagger as it flew from Ian’s cocked fist. Her fingers were already moving in a rapid spell as someone yelled, “Morgan!”

  Morgan whirled, but the dagger was already in the air. He might have avoided it, but ev
en as he tried to dodge, the chain of office around his neck suddenly seemed to move slightly, to coil itself around his neck and choke him, throwing him off balance.

  Then the blade was deep in his shoulder, and he was stumbling, sword falling from fire-laced fingers to clang on the marble floor with a discordant sound.

  As he sank to one knee, Duncan and a pair of other priests rushed to his side. Morgan wrenched the chain of office from his neck with his good hand and flung it across the floor at Charissa, then grimaced against the pain as Duncan and the priests helped him back to the sanctuary and eased him down on the steps. Charissa began to laugh.

  “Yes, who now is ruler of Gwynedd, my proud friend?” she taunted, as she strolled easily to where Ian still writhed on the floor. “I had thought you better trained than to turn your back on a wounded enemy.”

  As Kelson, Nigel, and others of Morgan’s friends gathered around the wounded general, Charissa glanced down at Ian and prodded him with her toe. When he gave a low moan, she stooped over to gaze into his eyes.

  “Nicely done, Ian,” she whispered. “What a pity you won’t be here to see the outcome of our little conspiracy. Your hurt is too great, and I have neither the time nor the spare power to save you.”

  Ian grimaced with the pain, tried to protest. “Charissa, you promised! You said I would rule Corwyn, that we would—”

  “I am sorry, my dear, but you didn’t quite succeed, did you? A pity, too. You were good at so many other things.”

  “Charissa, please—”

  Charissa put her fingers across his lips. “Now, you know I detest pleading. I can’t help you, and that’s that. And you can’t help yourself, either. Can you, poor little mortal? I shall miss you, Ian—even though you did think to defeat me eventually.”

  As Ian tried to speak again, his eyes wide with horror that she knew what he had thought secret, Charissa’s other hand moved in another spell. For a few seconds, Ian struggled to breathe, his hand clutching at her cloak in desperation, but then he relaxed, the life gone. Casually, Charissa stood up again.