Kelson wore the royal crimson now. His face above the black fox collar of the velvet cloak was somber, tense. He had grown inches in the months since Morgan last saw him. And the young general’s practiced eye detected chain mail under the stiffly embroidered silk tunic. Black crepe banded one arm above the elbow and hung briefly from the boy’s belt.
But it was the uncanny resemblance to Brion at the same age that struck Morgan most. Looking at Kelson, he saw Brion staring back at him: the wide, gray gaze beneath a velvety shock of straight black hair; the regal carriage of the proud head; the ease with which he wore the royal crimson.
Clinically, he noted the apparent frailness of the slim frame, recalled the tensile steel strength it disguised, remembered the long hours of practice at arms, many of them at Morgan’s side.
It was Brion of the Laughing Eyes, Brion of the Flashing Sword, of the Thoughtful Moods, teaching a young child to ride and fence; holding court in all the splendor of the monarchy, the boy spellbound at his feet. And the image of that boy wavered between light and dark, blond and raven-haired, as the memories of distant years confused themselves with those more recent.
Then it was Kelson again—and Brion, asking a friend dearer than life to swear that the boy would always have a protector, should his father die untimely. Brion, only months before his death, entrusting the key to his divine power to the man who stood now before his son.
Awkward in the face of Morgan’s silence, Kelson dropped his gaze uncertainly. It appeared that both of them were at a loss for words.
Kelson knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to run to Morgan as he’d done as a child, to fling his arms around him and sob out his relief, terror, pain, all the nightmare of the past two weeks; let the calm and sometimes mysterious Deryni lord soothe away his fears and ease his troubled mind with that awesome Deryni magic. He had always felt so—safe with Morgan. If only he could . . .
But he did not.
He was a man, now—or supposed to be. And furthermore, he was a king!
Maybe! he interrupted himself apprehensively. If Morgan can help me to survive long enough!
Shyly, then, and feeling somewhat awkward in his new role, Kelson lifted his eyes once more to meet those of his father’s friend, his friend.
“Morgan?” he said with a tentative nod, trying to look more confident than he felt.
Morgan gave a slow, reassuring smile and walked quietly to Kelson. He had been going to kneel in formal homage, but he sensed the boy’s discomfort and decided to spare him the awkwardness. “My prince,” was all he said.
Kevin McLain, a few paces behind the prince, could not miss the tension of the situation. Clearing his throat self-consciously, he looked deliberately toward Morgan.
“Duncan said to tell you he’ll be at Saint Hilary’s when you’re ready, Alaric. I’ll—ah—get back to the Council meeting now. I think I can be more useful there.”
Morgan nodded but did not take his eyes from Kelson. So Kevin sketched an awkward bow and hurried back up the main path.
As the sound of Kevin’s footsteps faded away, Kelson glanced down at the mosaic floor of the summerhouse and traced a pattern in the dust with the toe of one polished boot.
“Lord Kevin told me about Colin and Lord Ralson and the others,” he finally said. “I—I feel responsible for their deaths, Morgan. It was I who insisted they go to find you.”
“Someone had to come,” Morgan replied. He laid a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I thought you might feel that way, though. I took the liberty of having the bodies held at the Abbey of Saint Mark. Once this is over, you might want to do something for the families—a state burial, perhaps.”
Kelson looked up wistfully. “Small consolation for the ones left behind—a state burial. Still, you’re right, of course. Someone had to go.”
“Good lad.” Morgan smiled. “Come on. Let’s walk.”
KEVIN McLain scanned the hall quickly from the doorway, then made his way across to where Derry stood alone outside the Council doors.
“Have they gone in yet?” Kevin asked, as he joined the younger man.
“Not yet, my lord. They’re waiting for some late arrivals. I hope they’re very late—unless, of course, they’re ours.”
Kevin smiled. “I’m Kevin McLain, Alaric’s cousin. And you can skip the formalities if you’re his friend.” He stuck out his hand, and the younger man shook it.
“Sean Derry, his aide.”
“I know who you are,” Kevin said, as he glanced around casually. “Have you picked up any useful gossip? I think everyone in Rhemuth knows Morgan is back by now.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Derry replied. “What do you think?”
“What do I think?” Kevin said, pointing to himself in disbelief. “My friend, I think we’re all in trouble. Do you know what they’re planning to charge him with?”
“I’m afraid to guess.”
Kevin held up one finger. “Number one: heresy. And two?” He held up a second finger. “Treason. Care to guess what the penalty is for either offense?”
Derry sighed and let his shoulders droop dejectedly.
“Death,” he whispered.
CHAPTER TWO
“Hell hath no fury like the woman scorned, Or the woman mourning.”
JEHANA of Gwynedd studied her reflection critically in the mirror as a maid coiled the long auburn braid at the back of her head and secured it with a pair of filigreed pins.
Brion would not have liked the hairstyle. Its stark simplicity was too harsh, too severe for her delicate features. It emphasized the high cheekbones, the slightly squared jaw-line, made the smoky green eyes seem the only living features in the pale face.
Nor was black a good color for her. The flowing silk and velvet of the mourning dress, unrelieved by jewel or lace or a bit of bright embroidery, only heightened the monochrome effect of black and white, played up the pallor, made her look far older than her thirty-two years.
No, Brion would not have approved at all.
Not that he ever would have said anything, she mused, as the maid covered the shining tresses with a delicate lace veil. Not Brion. No, he would simply have reached to her hair and removed the confining pins, let the long braid cascade loosely down her back, placed his gentle fingertips beneath her chin, and tipped her mouth up to meet his. . . .
Her fingers clenched tightly in unbidden remembrance, trembled in the concealment of long, close sleeves. Angrily she blinked back the familiar tears. She must not think about Brion now. She must not believe for even an instant that he could know what she was about to do. There was good reason for her appearance thus today. For when she stood before Brion’s Council this afternoon and told them of the fearful evil threatening Kelson, they must not think her but a young and foolish woman. She was still Queen of Gwynedd, if only until tomorrow. She must be certain the Council did not forget that fact when she asked for Morgan’s life.
Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for the golden coronet on the dresser before her, but she forced herself to be calm, to place the diadem firmly atop her mourning veil. What she proposed to do today was distasteful to her. Whatever her personal feelings about the accursed Morgan and his forbidden Deryni powers, the man had still been Brion’s closest friend and confidant. If Brion could know what she was about to do . . .
She stood abruptly and dismissed her maids with an impatient gesture. Brion could not know. Though it wrenched her heart to admit it, he was dead, almost two weeks in his tomb. Despite the old legends about the awesome powers of the Deryni—powers so alien she could not begin to understand them—there was no way that even someone favored by the Deryni could return from the grave. And if Morgan’s death was necessary to ensure that her only son should rule as a mortal, without the accursed powers, then it was necessary, no matter what the cost.
Resolutely, she crossed the chamber and paused in the doorway of the sun room. In one corner, a young minstrel strummed softly on a lute of pale, p
olished wood. Around him, a half-dozen black-clad ladies-in-waiting worked quietly at their needlepoint or listened to the mournful tune the minstrel hummed and played. Above their heads, climbing roses twined around the open beams, petals pink and red and gold against the clear autumn sky. All around, the morning sun cast hazy patterns of light and shadow on the flagstone floor and on the ladies’ work. They rose expectantly as Jehana paused in the doorway, and the minstrel stopped his playing, but she signalled them to go on with their activities.
As they did so, Jehana wandered slowly to the opposite side of the room. Pulling a rose from a low-hanging branch, she sank wearily down on a black-draped bench under a rose arbor.
Perhaps here, among the roses and sunshine Brion had loved so well, she could find the resolve she so desperately needed for what lay ahead. Perhaps here she could gather the strength and courage for what must be done.
A faint shudder moved across the frail shoulders, and she drew her gown more closely around her, as if against a sudden chill.
She had never had a man killed before—even a Deryni.
NIGEL yanked impatiently at the brocaded bell pull outside the queen’s apartments for the fifth time, anger beginning to flash in his gray eyes. He felt a tirade coming on. And whatever good humor he had gained by his short talk with Alaric was fast dwindling away.
If someone didn’t open that door in about three seconds, he was going to—
He had just raised his hand to pull the cord yet again when he heard a soft rustling behind the door. He stepped back a pace as a small peephole opened in the door at eye level and a brown eye peered timidly through the opening.
“Who is that?” Nigel demanded, putting his eye to the hole and looking back through.
The brown eye retreated, and then Nigel could see a servant girl backing off from the door, her mouth frozen in a silent O.
“Young woman, if you don’t open this door immediately, I’ll kick it down, so help me!”
The girl’s eyes widened even farther as she recognized the voice, and then she moved to obey. Nigel heard the bolt slide back and saw the heavy door begin to move. Without hesitation, he pushed it open the rest of the way and swept into the room.
“Where is the queen?” he demanded, his practiced eye taking in every detail as he scanned the chamber. “In the garden?”
As he completed his visual circuit, he whirled abruptly and grabbed the frightened girl by the arm, shook her slightly as he glared down with those gray Haldane eyes.
“Well? Speak up, child. I won’t bite you.”
The girl winced and tried to pull away. “P-please, Your Highness,” she stammered. “You’re hurting me.”
Nigel loosened his grip but did not release the girl. “I’m waiting,” he said impatiently.
“She’s in—in the sun room, Your Highness,” the girl whispered, eyes downcast.
With a nod of satisfaction, Nigel released her and stalked across the chamber to the arched entrance to the royal gardens. The sun room, he knew, adjoined the queen’s apartments at one end, but it was also accessible from the garden.
He strode quickly down the short, gravelled path toward the garden entrance, then stopped before a black wrought-iron gate twined with living roses. Reaching for the latch, he peered through the thick foliage to the chamber beyond.
Inside, Queen Jehana looked up in mild surprise as the frightened servant came running through the entrance. As the girl bent to whisper urgently to her mistress, Jehana lowered the single rose she had been contemplating and looked expectantly toward the gate where Nigel watched.
The element of surprise was already gone. With a decisive motion, Nigel slipped the latch and let the gate swing open. For an instant, he stood silhouetted against the doorway. Then he glided into the chamber to confront the queen.
“Jehana.” He nodded.
The queen dropped her gaze uneasily and studied the flagstones at her feet. “I—I’d rather not talk to anyone just now, Nigel. Can’t it wait?”
“I don’t think so. May we be alone?”
Jehana’s lips tightened as she glanced up at her brother-in-law, then at her attendants. Lowering her gaze again, she realized she was shredding the stem of the rose in her hand, and she dropped it in irritation. She carefully folded her hands in her lap before allowing herself to reply.
“I have nothing to say to you that can’t be said in the presence of my ladies, Nigel. Please. You know what I have to do. Don’t make it any more difficult for me than it already is.”
When he did not reply, she looked up tentatively. Nigel had not moved. His gray eyes glittered dangerously beneath the shock of thick, black hair, like Brion in his darker moods. He stood resolute, threatening, thumbs hooked in his sword belt, staring at her in complete silence.
She turned away.
“Nigel, don’t you understand? I don’t want to discuss it. I know why you’ve come, and it won’t do you any good. You can’t change my mind.”
She sensed rather than saw him moving closer, felt his cloak brush her hand as he leaned down.
“Jehana,” he whispered low, so that only she could hear, “I intend to make this as difficult for you as is humanly possible. Now, if you don’t send your ladies away, I’ll have to. And that might be embarrassing for both of us. I don’t think you really want to discuss your plans for Morgan in front of them—or how Brion died.”
Her head jerked up. “You wouldn’t dare!”
“Wouldn’t I?”
She measured his gaze unwaveringly for several heartbeats, then turned away resignedly and gestured to her ladies.
“Leave us.”
“BUT, Morgan, I don’t understand. Why would she do a thing like that?”
Morgan and Kelson were walking along the outskirts of the boxwood maze, approaching a broad reflecting pool in the center of the main gardens. As they walked, Morgan kept a surreptitious watch for intruders, but no one seemed interested in their movements.
Morgan glanced at Kelson, then smiled. “You ask why a woman does something, my prince? If I fully understood that, I’d be powerful beyond my wildest dreams. After your mother discovered my Deryni background, she never gave me a chance to try.”
“I know.” Kelson sighed. “Morgan, what did you and Mother quarrel about?”
“You mean most recently?”
“I suppose so.”
“As I recall, it concerned you,” Morgan replied. “I reminded her that you were nearly grown, that one day you’d be king.” His gaze lowered. “I never thought it would be so soon.”
Kelson snorted bitterly. “She thinks I’m still her little boy. How do you convince a mother you’re not a child any longer?”
Morgan considered the question as they came to a halt at the edge of the reflecting pool. “Frankly, I don’t know, my prince. Mine died when I was four. And the aunt who raised me, the Lady Vera McLain, had the good sense never to belabor the issue. When my father died and I came to your father’s court as a page, I was nine. And royal pages, even at that age, are no longer children.”
“I wonder why royal princes are different,” Kelson mused.
“Perhaps princes take longer,” Morgan observed. “After all, royal princes grow up to be kings, you know.”
“If they get to grow up,” Kelson muttered.
Rather dejectedly, the boy sank down on a smooth rock by the reflecting pool and began pitching pebbles into the water, one by one. As each pebble splashed, the brooding gray eyes followed the ripples until they vanished, watched as the concentric rings spread and dissipated into nothingness.
Morgan knew this mood, and knew better than to interfere. It was that air of concentration and deliberation, so hauntingly familiar in Brion, that was as much a part of the Haldane mold as gray eyes, or strength of arms, or diplomatic cunning. It had been Brion’s lot; his brother, Nigel, had it in full measure, and would have made a formidable king had it not been for the accident of birth that made him second son instead of first.
And now, the youngest of the Haldane line stood ready to claim his birthright.
Patiently, Morgan sat down to wait. After a long, silent moment, the boy raised his head to gaze reflectively out across the water.
“Morgan,” he began quietly, “you’ve known me since I was born. You knew my father better than any man I know.” He pitched another pebble, then turned his head toward Morgan. “Do you—do you think I’ll ever be able to fill his place?”
Fill his place? Morgan thought, trying not to let his pain show. How do you fill an empty place in your heart? How do you replace someone who’s been father and brother for almost as long as you can remember?
Morgan picked up a handful of pebbles and rolled them in his hand, forcing himself once more to put aside his sorrow and concentrate on the matter at hand. Brion was gone. Kelson was here and now. Now he must be father and brother to the son, even as the father had been to him. That was how Brion would have wanted it.
He flipped a pebble into the pool, then turned to his . . . son.
“My prince, I would be lying if I said you could replace Brion; no man could. But you’ll be a good king—perhaps even a great king, if I read the signs correctly.” His voice became brisk, matter-of-fact.
“Brion provided well for you. From the time you could sit unaided, he had you on horseback daily. Your sword masters were the finest to be found anywhere, your skill with the lance and bow prodigious in a boy twice your age.
“You’ve studied the annals of military history and strategy, languages, philosophy, mathematics, medicine. He even let you touch on the occult arts that would someday be such an important part of your life—in defiance of your mother’s wishes, I might add, though this was carefully concealed from all who might have objected.
“There was a more practical side to your education, though. For there was infinite wisdom in the seeming un-orthodoxy of allowing a young and sometimes fidgeting crown prince to sit at his father’s side in the Council chambers. From the beginning, though you were probably unaware of it at first, you acquired the rudiments of impeccable rhetoric and logic that were as much Brion’s trademark as any feat of swordsmanship or valor.