King Kelson's Bride

  Nodding, Arilan took up the flat roundel of gold and slipped it into some inner recess beneath his surplice.

  “We can discuss that later,” he said, not unkindly. “Meanwhile, we probably ought to review the ceremony briefly. It isn’t a long one—which is probably a mercy for all concerned.”

  They had read over the simple ceremony and settled on a tentative date for the eventual marriage when another tap at the door heralded the arrival of the bride and her family.

  Sivorn came first, now with the bright coronet of her hair covered by a veil, followed by her brother Létald and Araxie’s stepfather, Baron Savile. As Sivorn came to kiss Kelson’s cheek, Savile and then Létald offering him neck bows, Araxie and her sister slipped into the room, arm in arm, both of them cloaked. Azim brought up the rear, quietly closing the door and remaining there with his back against it.

  At Arilan’s bidding, Sivorn and her husband and brother came to stand beneath the gaze of the Virgin presiding from the eastern wall. As Richelle helped Araxie shed her cloak, Kelson and his party moved into place as well, Morgan opposite Araxie’s parents and Dhugal standing as Kelson’s supporter. It was Richelle who brought her sister beside the king, as Haldane-dark as Araxie was fair, and then backed into position beside Dhugal.

  Araxie had not changed her gown of forest green, but in token of her maidenhood, she had loosed her pale hair to cascade down her back in a molten ripple of silver-gilt, confined across her brow by a deeply chased circlet of emerald-set gold. She gave Kelson a hint of a nervous smile before turning her attention to Arilan, dutifully kneeling with the rest of them as the Deryni bishop invited all to join him in prayer.

  “Adjutorium nostrum in nomine Domini,” he began, also turning to face the east.

  “Qui fecit caelum et terram,” came the ragged reply.

  “Domine, exaudi orationem meam.”

  “Et clamor meus ad te veniat.”

  Our help is in the name of the Lord . . . Who made heaven and earth . . . O Lord, hear my prayer . . . and let my cry come unto Thee . . .

  “Dominus vobiscum.”

  “Et cum spiritu tuo.”

  “Oremus.”

  He led them then in a whispered recitation of a Gloria, a Paternoster, an Ave, and then another Gloria, after which he turned to face them again, bidding them rise. As intended, the conjoined prayers had helped to still and focus all present. The lamplight gilded Araxie’s face and hair as Kelson helped her to her feet, but he released her hand as soon as they were standing, resolutely fixing his gaze on the back of the Gospel book Arilan hugged to his chest.

  “Beloved in Christ,” the Deryni bishop said, “I believe none of us can be unaware of the circumstances that have brought us here tonight, and for what purpose. I have served the House of Haldane for many years now, through many trials, and—save for one tragic example—I have never found a Haldane wanting in honor, duty, or courage.”

  He drew breath to continue, and Kelson closed his eyes briefly, knowing that Arilan referred to Conall—without whom so much might have been different, for so many.

  “The road that has led us here has not been easy for anyone,” Arilan continued, “and no one can promise that the way ahead will not be difficult as well. All marriages present challenges; this one will present more than most. But whatever the future may hold for these two Haldanes, whatever sacrifices may be required, I have no doubt that with good will—and with the honor, duty, and courage that are characteristic of their House—something good can be made of the circumstances; and I am persuaded that this will have been a wise decision for Gwynedd.”

  He turned his gaze on Araxie. “My lady, because of the upcoming nuptials of your sister, and the uncertainty regarding the next few weeks in Torenth, the king proposes that your vows specify only that the marriage shall take place before the turning of the year, though I understand that Michaelmas has been suggested as a suitable date. Is this agreeable to you?”

  As she dipped her head in silent assent, he smiled gently and held the Gospel before her, watching her place a steady hand upon it.

  “Araxie Léan Haldane, before God and these witnesses, do you here promise and covenant to contract honorable marriage with Kelson Cinhil Rhys Anthony Haldane, before the turning of the year, according to the rites of our Holy Mother the Church?”

  She glanced at Kelson, composed and serene as she said quietly, “I do so promise and covenant, here before God and these witnesses.”

  As she drew back her hand, Arilan turned his gaze toward Kelson, who set his own hand upon the holy book as Araxie had done, feeling somehow insulated and distant as Arilan spoke again.

  “Kelson Cinhil Rhys Anthony Haldane, before God and these witnesses, do you here promise and covenant to contract honorable marriage with Araxie Léan Haldane, before the turning of the year, according to the rites of our Holy Mother the Church?”

  Kelson could feel his heart thumping, and a sick, tight sensation in his chest, but his voice was no less steady than Araxie’s had been, as he, too, repeated, “I do so promise and covenant, here before God and these witnesses.”

  “Amen,” Arilan murmured, taking the Gospel from under Kelson’s hand. “Have you a ring to seal the covenant?”

  At Kelson’s nod, the bishop opened the book and extended it. Detached now, Kelson received from Dhugal the pale sapphire set in its band of gold and laid it on the illuminated page, watching numbly as Arilan signed above it with a Cross, then set his hand atop it in blessing.

  “Lord, we pray Thee to bless this ring, given and received in fidelity. May he who gives it and she who wears it walk always with Thee in honor and friendship, and may it become a symbol to sustain them as they continue about their work in Thy name. In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.”

  The blessing had been apt, Kelson thought, as Arilan held book and ring toward him, speaking not of love, but of fidelity and honor and friendship. He supposed that was deemed sufficient for a king.

  Feeling numb inside, he took Araxie’s left hand in his and slipped the ring onto her wedding finger. It was very big on her hand, and she forced a faint smile as she closed her fingers to keep it in place, so trusting. . . . Kelson could not but feel like an utter cad.

  “Now give me your right hands, and kneel for God’s blessing,” Arilan said, passing his book to Dhugal.

  Rock-steady now, for that first, inexorable step now was taken, Kelson set his right hand in Arilan’s left, still curiously detached as the bishop likewise took Araxie’s hand and joined them. Together they knelt, leaning on the bishop’s hand for balance. Beyond Araxie, the king could hear someone softly sniffling; he thought it might be Sivorn. Beside and behind him, both Dhugal and Morgan were close-stered against any contact of mind to mind.

  Bowing his head, Kelson let the familiar words of blessing wash over him all but unheard, for his own prayer was not to God but to Rothana, wordlessly begging her forgiveness, grieving for what might have been. Arilan’s murmured “Amen” jarred him back to the present, but not wholly to reality, for a part of him seemed to watch from somewhere outside his body as he exchanged a chaste kiss of peace with Araxie and accepted the quiet good wishes of those who had witnessed the betrothal.

  Very shortly, pleading the lateness of the hour and the need for an early departure, he bade all a gracious goodnight. Morgan said nothing as he, too, prepared to leave with Arilan, only touching Kelson’s hand in an instant of shared compassion as he and the Deryni bishop took their leave and departed. Kelson let Azim escort him and Dhugal back to their quarters, sinking mindlessly into a chair when Dhugal had closed the door.

  “Are you all right?” Dhugal asked quietly.

  Kelson merely shrugged and set aside his coronet. “No. But thank you for standing by me.”

  Dhugal ducked his head. “I wish I could have spared you this. It isn’t what either of us ever dreamed. I know what it has cost you.”

  “Do you?” Kelson whispered, though it was more
a dull statement than a question, and required no reply.

  And in the shadows of another part of the castle, Denis Arilan waited for approaching footsteps, stepping into view as Azim came around a turn in the corridor, having seen Kelson and Dhugal safely to their quarters.

  “I need a word,” he said, his face taut in the torchlight.

  Azim cast an appraising eye beyond and behind, then inclined his head.

  “You knew!” Arilan whispered. “You arranged it. You lied to the Council!”

  Azim shook his head, setting a hand on Arilan’s forearm to draw him closer, his whisper even softer.

  “I did not lie—how could I, before them? I simply did not speak. Until tonight the arrangement was but an aspiration of my niece. Kelson might not have agreed. That he did ensures that full Deryni blood will sit upon the throne of Gwynedd—for I am convinced that Haldane blood will prove to be Deryni.”

  Arilan drew a deep breath.

  “You tread very close to the line, Azim,” he murmured. “You well know that Kelson’s marriage has been a primary concern of the Council for some years—long before you became a part of it.”

  “And the Council, in its wisdom, does not always hold the answers,” Azim retorted. “We were at deadlock. Rothana could not be moved. That being the case, something else had to move. By having her present a viable compromise, the king now has moved. Gwynedd must move ahead, if the balance among the Eleven Kingdoms is to be maintained.”

  Arilan breathed out in a long, tempering sigh.

  “The Council should be told.”

  “The Council cannot be told at this time, for we have no direct access,” Azim returned. “Without doubt, there is a Portal here, but I have yet to locate it. Nor am I minded to inquire of Létald—unless it is your wish to tell him of our connection with the Council.”

  “There are other ways,” Arilan replied.

  “Yes, but news of this sort, without the means to respond to the myriad speculation it will raise, would only foster debate that is neither necessary nor productive.”

  “You assume they will disagree,” Arilan muttered.

  “I doubt not that some of them may—which is all the more reason not to tell them until Liam-Lajos is safely installed on his throne. The Council tends to lose its focus when dealing with too many things at once. Time enough for Gwynedd’s succession, when Torenth’s is secure.”

  Arilan breathed a heavy sigh, forced to concede that Azim probably was right. Though only a few months seated on the Council, the desert prince already had gained a keen appreciation of its shortcomings as well as its strengths. And for now, the coming encounter in Torenth was, in truth, far more important than what had been done in the last hour, or even that afternoon.

  “Should they not at least be told of today’s attack?” he asked.

  “To what purpose?” Azim retorted. “Can they prevent another one?”

  “We must,” Arilan said. “Do you think it was the uncles?”

  “Who else?” Azim countered. “However, I do not think it was the one in our midst. As for the ones in Beldour . . .”

  The lift of one black eyebrow said all that was needful. Arilan found himself suppressing a shiver of dread.

  “I could wish that you were travelling with us,” he said.

  “I shall be but a day behind you,” Azim said. “Perhaps not even so long as that. The ship from Nur Hallaj is expected but a day hence, and I must await my brother’s instructions. The king will be safe enough until he reaches Beldour. By then, I will hope to have joined you.”

  “Very well,” Arilan murmured. “I see that you cannot be moved. But God help us. God help us all.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  For thou wilt light my candle: the Lord will enlighten my darkness.

  Psalm 18:28

  The next morning, while the king’s party prepared for a noon departure from the Ile d’Orsal and Kelson himself tried to put from mind what he had done, others back in Rhemuth were discussing the general subject of nuptial intentions, as yet unaware of the decisions made the previous night.

  “I confess myself quite as much amazed as you must be, to learn of Rory’s interest in the Ramsay girl,” Meraude remarked to Jehana after Mass and breakfast, as the two of them stitched companionably in Meraude’s sunny solar. “I honestly have no idea when he had time to make such an attachment. The Mearans were only here for a fortnight.”

  Jehana kept her gaze fixed on the curly leaf she was outlining with careful stem stitches. She was still mulling the implications of Nigel’s disclosure to them in the previous hour, and nursing a faint disappointment of her own, for she had hoped that Kelson might choose Noelie Ramsay as his queen.

  “From what Nigel said, Rory is very earnest about the proposition,” she offered. “But I don’t suppose one can truly object when a match is from the heart, as well as satisfying needs of state. That happens seldom enough in royal matches. You and I were fortunate.”

  “Yes, we were,” Meraude replied. She stopped stitching, in fond reminiscence. “Well I remember the first time I ever set eyes on Nigel. It was the same Twelfth Night when he was knighted, that year of the rebellion in Eastmarch. You and Brion were only a year married, and I had come to court with my brother Saer to take up an appointment in the household of Queen Richeldis. I was just fifteen. And Saer was three years younger, beginning service as one of Duke Richard’s squires at the same time. He was so proud. . . .”

  Smiling wistfully, with a hint in her manner of the young girl she had been, Meraude shook out her length of thread, letting the needle dangle as the silk uncoiled.

  “I remember standing with the old queen’s other ladies-in-waiting, off to one side, so very new and overwhelmed. It was nothing like anything I had experienced at home in Rhendall. You and Brion seemed like a pair out of legend—it was clear you adored one another. And when Nigel came to kneel before you, to receive the accolade from his brother’s hand . . .”

  She shook her head and sighed. “I think my knees went a little wobbly as I gazed at him, and my heart skipped a beat. All that long winter and spring, I prayed he’d notice me—as did every other eligible lady at court, and a few who weren’t at all eligible. And I shed romantic tears with the rest of them when he and the other fine young men rode off to war with Brion and Richard and the others—and secretly wept more tears into my pillow on many a night, especially when periodic reports would arrive on the progress of the campaign. I was terrified that he wouldn’t come back—and that he wouldn’t notice me, if he did.

  “He did come back, of course, having truly won the spurs he’d been given at his knighting—and amazingly enough, he did notice me. After that, I don’t think either of us ever looked seriously at anyone else.”

  Jehana, too, had stopped stitching as Meraude spoke, remembering her own life at that time, before Brion’s forbidden magic had driven a wedge between them. She still had loved him—always—but their relationship had never been the same, once she learned the true circumstances of that Eastmarch campaign, and the encounter with the Marluk, and how her beloved Brion, with the help of the half-breed Deryni Alaric Morgan, had kept his throne by means of forbidden magic. Nor had the pair of them spared her son, who even now was sailing toward what could be his death by that same magic—and worse than mere death of his body: the death of his soul.

  Meraude seemed to catch an inkling of her sorrow, and reached a hand across to touch hers in compassion.

  “Dear Jehana. We all share your worry for Kelson.”

  Jehana shrugged and laid aside her needlework. “He is his father’s son in his stubbornness,” she said. “Would that I could change him. But if I could, perhaps he would not be the effective king he has been. I only pray that he has not overestimated his abilities—or underestimated his enemies.”

  “Do you truly think that Liam will prove to be an enemy?” Meraude said thoughtfully. “I don’t. He’s a good boy, Jehana. He has had firm, careful guidance these pas
t four years, away from the influence of the court of Torenth. Nigel says he is one of the finest squires he has ever trained.”

  “But, what if we have only trained up a cuckoo in our nest?” Jehana replied. “Will he turn on those who trust him, when he has settled back with his own people? Things are very different in Torenth, Meraude. When I was a girl in Bremagne, Torenthi courtiers sometimes came to my father’s court. They always used to frighten me. At the time, I hardly knew why. Now, I know all too well.”

  “Because of their magic?” Meraude asked quietly.

  Jehana managed to turn her shiver into a shrug, but she could not mask her distaste.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Meraude said brightly, stabbing her needle into her work for safekeeping and pushing back her embroidery frame. “Let’s be properly meddlesome mothers and go down to the library for a while, shall we? If my son is bent on marrying this Mearan heiress, I should like to know a bit more about her family. I’m certain Nigel already knows all the gory details, since he helped arrange the marriage contract between the girl’s brother and Richelle, but I didn’t pay a great deal of attention at the time. After all, it wasn’t a child of mine who was proposing to marry with Meara.”

  She rose and gestured for Jehana to put aside her own sewing. “Leave that and come along. We’ll have a peek at what Nigel rather annoyingly refers to as the stud book. It will be pleasant to reassure myself that my potential grandchildren won’t have extra toes, or tails, or both eyes in a common socket.”

  “Meraude!”

  “Well, there’s no danger of that, of course; the two families aren’t at all related. But I’m mightily curious to see who’ll be added to our extended family. Please come,” she said, holding out a hand.

  Meraude’s cheerful approach to the proposition at least held promise of diversion, so Jehana reluctantly agreed. Ten minutes later, she was hanging back somewhat behind Meraude as the latter pushed open the door to the library.