“It was my mother’s gift before my first Communion,” she said a little nervously at his guarded look of wondering question. “ ’Tis said in Bremagne that coral gives healing and protection. The figure on the medal is meant to be my guardian angel. I—would have her guard you, my son—for I know I cannot sway you from what you feel you must do.”
Her eyes were bright with tears as she blurted out the last, her lower lip trembling, and he took her hand in his and gently kissed it before easing to one knee before her, knowing that it was love that moved her in her ignorance, and love that impelled her concern.
“Mother, try to understand this, at least,” he said gently, not releasing her hand. “When I came to my own throne, you hazarded life itself in my behalf. Now I must do the same for Liam.”
“But, why?” she whispered.
“Because I am his overlord and protector, and sworn to defend him,” Kelson said. “That is not a vow I take lightly. Nor, I promise you, do I receive your gift lightly.” He closed his hand around the beads she had given him. “May I ask, as well, a mother’s blessing?”
Releasing the hand he still held, he bowed his head very deliberately, closing his eyes as he felt the hesitant brush of her hands on his hair and then a firmer pressure that, unbeknownst to her, was a pressure of loving spirit as well as flesh, to which he gladly yielded, so that he might drink in its benison.
“Beloved son, you who are bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh,” she whispered, “may God grant you wisdom and discernment and strength and mercy, to withstand the wiles of evil and stand steadfast in the Light. And may He bring you back safely to me,” she added, “for I do love you so. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”
“Amen,” he repeated, touching the handful of beads to his lips and then lifting his eyes to hers.
Openly weeping now, she clasped his face between her hands and bent to press her lips to his forehead. In answer, he slid his arms around her waist and clung to her for a long moment, his head against her lap. He had not realized until this moment just how anxious he really was, about what he must face when he went into Torenth—or how much this woman’s blessing meant, to set him on that road.
But he dared not linger, for either his sake or hers. His duties recalled him, as they always would; and the morning would come all too swiftly. After hugging her closer for just a moment more, he drew back from her and got to his feet, keeping one of her hands in his, bending then in a courtly kiss, his lips only lightly brushing her knuckles.
“I must go now,” he said. “I shall send back regular reports. You will not reject them if they come by less than ordinary means, will you?”
She stiffened slightly, pulling her hand from his. “By means of Duncan McLain?” She did not dignify the Deryni bishop by any title, deeming him damned for even being Deryni, much less having accepted the ordination then forbidden to those of his race.
“In part,” he conceded. “I know you would prefer not to deal with him. You will also prefer not to be reminded regarding Transfer Portals—but they exist. There is one at Dhassa, there are several here, and there will be more at Beldour, I have no doubt—though whether access will be possible, I know not. At very least, I should be able to send messengers by land, as far as Dhassa, and from there—”
She had closed her eyes as he spoke, resistance back in every line of her taut body.
“Mother, I have never flaunted what I am, and I promise you that I never shall, unless I must, for I would not offend the sensibilities of those of my subjects who have yet to accept that the power of the Deryni is benign. But it will be important that Nigel, at least, receive news in a timely fashion. If I can, I will send to him, and you may inquire of him, if you wish to maintain the fiction that you must not involve yourself in such matters.”
He did not stay to hear any answer or protest she might offer, only inclining his head in leave-taking and turning to make his way back, lightly fingering the prayer beads she had given him before slipping them inside his tunic as he crunched his way back along the garden path. Back inside the great hall waited the first of the men with whom he must treat regarding Torenth—whether friends to be won or enemies to be overcome, only time would tell.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I am become a stranger unto my brethren, and an alien unto my mother’s children.
Psalm 69:8
Three days later, Kelson watched silently beside Morgan on the afterdeck of the Caralighter ship Rhafallia, elbows braced against a forward rail as the first of the twin lighthouses guarding the mouth of Coroth Harbor gradually emerged from the haze lightly veiling the Corwyn coast. High above, perched in the fighting castle atop the ship’s single mast, a lookout with the green cockade of Morgan’s sea service in his cap kept watch ahead, occasionally calling course adjustments to the helmsman manning the great starboard steering rudder. The ship’s painted sail had been loosely furled, the bright color-pennons of Royal Gwynedd, Royal Torenth, and Corwyn trailing limp from the top-rigging, for the modest breeze of the morning had fallen away utterly by noon.
Now the measured splash of oars marked their progress rather than the rattle of canvas, unrelieved by any of the sea-chanteys the men sometimes sang to set the rhythm and relieve the boredom of a long haul. From behind them came the rhythmic splash of a second set of oars, subtle reminder of the sleek Torenthi galley ghosting in their wake.
Kelson glanced back at the following ship, noting the bright-clad knot of nobles lounging beneath a green-striped canopy amidships, then returned his attention to the distant lighthouse, where crimson smoke had just begun to billow from atop its fire-platform. Far forward in the bow of Rhafallia, watching beside Brendan and Payne, Liam suddenly pointed at the beacon with a cry of delight. Simultaneously, the first dull clang of the bell-buoys at the harbor mouth began to reach them, underlined by the long-drawn note of a horn, repeated several times and then answered on a lower note.
“Always a welcome sound,” Morgan murmured, his gaze flicking down to the main deck, where Dhugal and Saer de Traherne were leaning against the port rail to better observe the approach through the harbor mouth.
Kelson only nodded, turning his gaze to the lofty towers and battlements of Coroth Castle thrusting upward from behind the more domestic bustle of the harbor’s town. No fond sailor at the best of times, he had remained doubly uneasy since leaving Desse, never able to put from mind the presence of the Torenthi war galley that accompanied them—though, at least, fair winds had enabled them to make the journey in less than half the time it would have taken overland. Only today had the wind failed them.
There were children scrambling on the twin jetties of tumbled granite block that guarded the harbor mouth, waving and shouting with excitement as Rhafallia glided between—waving, too, at the foreign war galley following behind. Some of the sailors on both ships waved back. Kelson winced as the keel of Rhafallia scraped its length along the lowered harbor chain, just before they gained the more open water of the harbor proper.
“We’ll soon be ashore,” Morgan said, smiling faintly at the king’s grimace of distaste.
“Is it that obvious?” Kelson replied.
“Not to anyone else.”
They had come down to join the others by the time the two ships bumped gently alongside the main quay. There, reception parties were taking position before both ships: smart detachments of armed men in Morgan’s livery. Farther back, Kelson could see two mounted officers amid a score of green-liveried men holding horses obviously intended for the new arrivals. Beyond, men in the livery of the town guard lined the mouth of the street leading up toward the castle.
As dockhands hefted a gangplank into place and crewmen secured it, the officers dismounted and one of them lifted down a bright-haired girl-child of about five. The child immediately wiggled from his grasp and bolted in the direction of Rhafallia, dodging among the forest of moving horses’ legs with reckless abandon, her keeper jogging after her somewhat less ha
ndily.
“Pardon me, Sire,” Morgan murmured, grinning single-mindedly as he slipped past Kelson to intercept his daughter.
“Papa!” she squealed. “Papa! Papa!”
Laughing, Morgan bent to receive her embrace, staggering a little under its force. Hugging her close, he scooped her off her feet and twirled her around in equally delighted reunion as she showered him with a flurry of exuberant kisses.
“Papa, you’re home, you’re home!”
“Why, Poppin, I do believe you’ve missed me,” he answered, bestowing a kiss of his own on her nose. “Look who else is here. Have you a hug and a kiss for your godfather?”
As she twisted in her father’s arms and saw him, Kelson grinned and held out his arms to her, feeling deliciously foolish—and happy—as she squirmed from Morgan’s grasp to his, to renewed squeals of delight.
“Briony, my goodness, haven’t you grown?” Kelson exclaimed, when they had exchanged enthusiastic kisses. “What a nice welcome!”
“I rode on Uncle Séandry’s big horse!” Briony announced, settling happily into the king’s arms as her father moved briskly on toward the Torenthi ship. “Can I ride home with you?”
“Why, of course you can.”
As Liam and the other squires streamed past Kelson and his armful of small child, her youthful, blue-cloaked keeper caught up with his charge, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation as he sketched the king an apologetic bow.
“I apologize for the assault, Sire,” he said with a grin. “Welcome to Coroth. Would you like me to take her?”
“No need,” Kelson replied. “I expect that ‘Uncle Séandry’ could use a bit of a respite from this young lady.”
“Uncle Séandry” was Sean Seamus O’Flynn, the Earl of Derry, once Morgan’s aide and now his trusted lieutenant in Corwyn—and apparently as smitten with the charms of the ducal daughter as her father and Kelson himself. As they made their way back to the horses, Briony chattering happily about the excitement of the ride down from the castle, and the ships, and the exotic visitors disembarking behind them, Kelson found himself remembering the first time he had ever met the young earl: perched wide-eyed at his father’s knee to watch as Morgan brought the just-knighted Derry before them to exchange the oaths whereby Derry entered the Deryni duke’s personal service.
Though silver was beginning to thread the curly brown locks clubbed back in a warrior’s knot, Kelson suspected that the white belt knotted about Derry’s narrow waist was the same with which he had been knighted, more than a decade before. Only etched around the bright blue eyes could one find hint of the ordeals suffered by Derry in service of overlord and king, at the hands of a man who had been kinsman both to Mátyás and to young Liam, for whom horses were now being brought up.
Derry’s easy manner turned momentarily to wariness as he saw the pair, but he did not falter in courtesy as he saw his lord’s guests mounted. As Kelson swung up on his own mount, he found himself wondering, as often in the past, what lingering terrors might haunt Derry’s dreams—and wondered anew whether Derry was strong enough to deal with those terrors if they reawakened in Torenth, for he knew Morgan wished to bring him along.
But under the hazy sunlight of these southern skies, such worries seemed somehow distant and diffuse. With Briony in the saddle before him, Kelson rode beside Count Mátyás, who paid indulgent court to Morgan’s daughter and made courteous small talk as they passed through the streets of Corwyn’s capital. Behind them, Rasoul kept up a running dialogue with Morgan regarding the architectural features of the town, which he had never visited before. Father Irenaeus rode beside Dhugal, the pair followed by Saer with Liam and the other royal squires and pages, and a mixed escort of Corwyn and Torenth men.
Richenda, Morgan’s duchess, was waiting to greet them as they rode into the castle yard, with the three-year-old Kelric on her hip and a warm welcome for her husband, the king, and their noble guests. Of the principals among the new arrivals, only Mátyás was unknown to her; she had met Rasoul several times at court, over the past four years.
As had Bishop Arilan, who was standing farther up the stairs with Coroth’s own bishop, Ralf Tolliver. As the two came down the steps and Rasoul gracefully performed appropriate introductions regarding his two countrymen, Kelson thought he detected a faint bristling on the part of Arilan; but wariness was only to be expected from one with powers similar to those of their guests and, therefore, well aware of potential dangers. Besides, there was no opportunity to inquire further, just then.
Meanwhile, the bustle attendant upon Morgan and his reunion with his young family left Kelson feeling more than usually wistful regarding the domestic emptiness of his own life. Briony favored him with another emphatic kiss before letting him hand her back into her father’s outstretched arms, and beyond the pair he was aware of young Brendan making a beeline for his little half-brother, drawing Liam and Payne with him. As the brothers embraced, obviously devoted to one another, and the four boys headed off toward the stables, Kelson found himself looking for traces of Albin Haldane in the sunny-natured Kelric, and had to look away, blinking away the beginnings of tears.
Fortunately, the children were little more in evidence for what remained of the afternoon and evening, for the squires and pages had duties to perform before being released to the farewell supper being held in Liam’s honor. Arilan, too, disappeared—gone with Tolliver to hear Evensong at the cathedral down in the town, Morgan’s chamberlain told the king—thereby precluding any immediate inquiry regarding his reaction to their Torenthi guests. But the king did find opportunity to reassure himself regarding Derry.
While Richenda entertained Rasoul, Mátyás, and Father Irenaeus with refreshments and a leisurely stroll through the ducal gardens, Dhugal absenting himself to oversee the squires and pages, Kelson withdrew with Morgan and Derry for an ostensible briefing on recent intelligence gleaned from Torenth. En route to Morgan’s library, where they intended to work, he silently advised Morgan of what he had in mind.
During the Mearan wars of several years back, making the most open use yet of their Deryni powers, he and Morgan had succeeded in persuading certain royal scouts to allow direct reading of their intelligence reports by means of magic, thus bypassing the intervening filter of interpretation, misremembering, or omission of important details. Even before that, Derry’s utter trust in Morgan and his magic had allowed him to accept magical enhancements unthinkable in most humans—and perhaps had made him more vulnerable, when eventually taken prisoner by Wencit of Torenth.
Only Morgan perhaps knew the true extent of what Derry had suffered during those days and nights he lay captive in Wencit’s prison; and since escaping Wencit’s clutches, only Morgan had he willingly, and always reluctantly, allowed to touch his mind. Though Morgan had satisfied himself that all the bindings set by Wencit had been severed with his death, Kelson could not help wondering whether the scars from those bindings might still hamper Derry, if only because he believed they did.
“You’ve done good work,” Kelson said, when Derry had finished his briefing. “There’s just one other thing. I’ll be blunt and ask whether you’re sure you’re up to the strain of going deep into Torenth with us.”
Derry had risen to roll up the map he had used as part of the briefing, and faltered just slightly before continuing with his task, not looking up.
“I’m fine,” he murmured.
“Derry, you needn’t come along on this mission, if you aren’t entirely comfortable with the notion,” Kelson said.
“Sire, I shall never be entirely comfortable about anything to do with Torenth,” the earl said quietly, slipping the map into a stiff leather tube. “But if I allow nightmares to interfere with my duties, then Wencit has won after all, hasn’t he?”
Morgan raised one blond eyebrow, the grey eyes narrowing. “I thought you said the nightmares had stopped—years ago.”
“They did,” Derry replied, though a trifle too quickly for Kelson’s taste. “But l
ately, knowing I’m about to go back into Torenth, I—sometimes still wake up in a cold sweat. I suppose there are some things that one can never really forget—even with help,” he added, with a nervous glance at Morgan.
“Perhaps I ought to have another look,” Morgan said quietly.
Derry shook his head vehemently, though he managed a taut ghost of a smile. “I do appreciate the offer, but I think I’ve had enough of other people inside my mind to last a lifetime. It’s nothing like it once was—truly, it isn’t.”
“It wasn’t an offer; it was a request,” Morgan replied, with a sidelong glance at Kelson, who nodded. “In fact, it was a statement of intent.”
Derry’s head snapped toward Kelson in mute, panicked appeal, looking as if he might bolt.
“I’m sorry,” the king said softly. “I’m afraid I have to insist—unless, of course, you prefer to stay behind. We must be certain. I saw your reaction when Count Mátyás and the others were disembarking this afternoon.”
Shivering, Derry turned partially away from them, his arms clasped to his shoulders, not seeing what lay before physical vision.
“I know that he can’t touch me now,” he whispered. “He’s dead. I know that. And I know up here”—he tapped a finger to one temple—“that what he did to me—and made me do—was no fault or failing of mine. But something in here”—he jabbed a hand at his stomach—“still cringes from the very thought of ever being touched that way again. It isn’t either of you; it’s that touching—by anyone. . . .” He shivered again and sank back onto his chair.
“Anyway, it wasn’t Count Mátyás who spooked me this afternoon. At the time, I didn’t even know who he was. I suppose it was Liam. I know he’s just a boy, and was only a small child when Wencit died. But he’s still Wencit’s nephew, his sister’s son. And Wencit put his stamp on everything he touched . . . including me,” he added, almost in a whisper.