“Say nothing,” Sofiana whispered. “Come. This Portal is in regular use by couriers. We must not be discovered here.”
Even as she said it, Azim was urging him forward, hands set on his shoulders. Arilan felt Sofiana’s shields enveloping the three of them, just before she took his hands, and he lowered his in response, for he had already felt the tingle of a readied Portal beneath his feet as he moved closer. Guessing their destination, he yielded to her control, as did Azim, finding reassurance in the brief swoop of giddiness that accompanied a Portal shift. As his vision stabilized and she released him, he recognized the expected Portal outside the meeting chamber of the Camberian Council.
Inside, only Barrett and Sion were seated at the great table beneath the purple dome. Sion rose as the three of them entered, looking concerned, one hand resting on Barrett’s shoulder. Sofiana cast a glance at the empty places as she headed for her seat next to Sion.
“I see that Laran has not yet arrived,” she said.
“And shall not, this night,” Barrett said gravely. “Nor shall Vivienne, ever again. She is dying,” he went on, lifting his blind, tear-filled eyes to the dark dome above them. “Laran is with her, and shall remain until the end, but he can do little.”
Arilan caught himself from stumbling, en route to his seat beside Vivienne’s empty chair, for he could not remember a time when the proud and sometimes difficult Vivienne had not been a part of the Council, bringing keen discernment and a shrewd intelligence to their deliberations, as well as her not inconsiderable power. Exasperating though she had been at times, and often maddeningly inflexible, she had always represented for him a link with the past and tradition. He could not imagine what the Council would be like without her. Nor had he realized she was ill; he had thought her only frail.
“What happened?” he asked as he sat, Azim taking his seat on the other side of Vivienne’s chair, and Sofiana beyond Azim, beside Sion.
Barrett allowed himself a heavy sigh, himself suddenly looking more fragile than he had a few seconds earlier, before he had shared the news about Vivienne.
“She is old, Denis. We all grow old, if we are fortunate. It is her time. One day soon, it will be mine.”
“But—”
“Denis,” Sofiana said quietly, “she has not been well for some time. Even when last we met, she was more ill than she let it be known. She suffered a seizure some three days ago. Laran has been with her, and shall remain until—” She lifted both hands in an eloquent gesture of inevitability.
“Why did no one tell me?” Arilan whispered. “Three days—”
“Nothing could be allowed to possibly interfere with the king’s preparations for the killijálay,” Azim said quietly. “Even I did not know until an hour ago, lest my focus be distracted from teaching the king what he must know.”
“In that, I am certain she would have wished that we proceed,” Barrett declared, turning his blind face toward Arilan. “This is a critical time, and we must not let personal sorrows impede us in our work. Our brother Azim has kept us informed regarding his efforts to prepare Kelson for his part in the enthronement. He also informs us that you have something additional to report, which also touches on the concerns of the Council.”
“I do,” Arilan agreed, glancing at Azim—and wondering whether the other truly had not yet broached the subject of Kelson’s intended marriage, if he had been in ongoing communication with the Council, outside their formal meetings. “I would have reported earlier, but when we first learned of it, we had no Portal access, and Azim advised that such news was best reported in person. In light of the news about Vivienne, his judgment was probably correct, since it would have been a personal disappointment to her on several counts—though I hope the Council will approve. The king has chosen his bride at last, and a private betrothal has been made.”
Their startled looks, save for Azim, confirmed that the latter had not, indeed, shared the information with them.
“And the lady is—?” Sion asked.
“One whose removal from the marriage market may well make your task more difficult, in Llannedd,” Arilan replied. “But we should have considered her before. I must say that I approve.”
“Who is it?” Barrett demanded.
“He is marrying his cousin Araxie Haldane,” Arilan replied, to varying expressions of surprise from those who had not known. “Which means that she is not marrying Prince Cuan of Howicce, and that he is not marrying Noelie Ramsay.”
Barrett’s brow furrowed. “You’re right that this would not please Vivienne—and it will not please the Mearans.”
“The king has a better match in mind for Meara,” Arilan countered. “He proposes that Noelie wed with his cousin Rory Haldane—an attachment that apparently developed last summer, when the two families met in Rhemuth to arrange the first Mearan marriage. This second Haldane match further offers the prospect of a permanent Haldane presence in Meara, for I am told that Rory is to be groomed as a future viceroy. These two Haldane alliances should ensure a peaceful resolution of the Mearan question in years to come.”
“Well enough for that,” Sion conceded, fingering his curling yellow beard in thoughtful reflection, “but the match that Kelson proposes for himself is the double-Haldane mating that Vivienne feared. What, indeed, might such a match produce?—the Haldane potential crossed with itself.
“Nor may I personally discount the difficulties that disclosure of this match will create for me, at home in Llannedd, though these are largely domestic.” He sighed vexedly. “Sharp scrutiny will again fall on my mistress, the Princess Gwenlian, and her cousin Cuan, once it is learned that the supposed object of his matrimonial interest is to marry another. It will not be a pretty scene when this is brought to King Colman’s attention.”
Sofiana just controlled an impatient grimace. “With due respect, Sion, it is not the urgent priority of the Council to concern itself with the internal problems of Llannedd and Howicce at this time.” She glanced at Azim. “This news is, indeed, most welcome, though it will require much further consideration. But just now, I agree that we must be far more concerned about the more immediate dangers of killijálay. Is it your conviction that Kelson is capable of working in the Moving Ward and thwarting any treachery of Mahael?”
“It would be foolish to contend that he is capable of thwarting any treachery of Mahael,” Azim replied, inclining his head, “but I believe he is extremely capable. It remains to be seen whether belief and reality shall coincide, on the day. The morrow shall reveal all. By this time tomorrow, we shall know if we need worry any further regarding this marriage which seems to have several of you so concerned.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Take away the wicked from before the king, and his throne shall be established in righteousness.
Proverbs 25:5
The day of killijálay dawned bright but mild, the heat of the past week tempered by cooling breezes conjured for the occasion by mages adept in weather-working. Kelson rose with the sun, standing at the open window of his chamber to watch the first long shadows retreat before the golden sunlight flooding across the tesselated floor. Very shortly, Dhugal came to inform him that his bath was drawn.
The water was tepid, warm enough to be comfortable, cool enough to refresh. Kelson let himself enjoy it until Payne and Brendan came to help him dress, Morgan bearing the richly embroidered ceremonial robe he was expected to wear as one of the four Pillars of the Moving Ward.
“Father Károly delivered this a little while ago,” Morgan said, scowling as he laid out the garment beside a lighter-weight tunic of Haldane crimson that the king would wear beneath the ceremonial attire. “It’s clear that killijálay usually occurs in the dead of winter.”
Kelson eyed the heavy garment as he got out of the bath, dripping.
“It certainly wasn’t designed with the summer heat in mind.”
Dhugal snorted. “I think it was Father Irenaeus who mentioned that this one is actually from a lighter set, m
ade for the ceremony to mark Alroy’s coming of age. But they were never used,” he added somewhat lamely, as he realized what he had said.
“We’ll hope that isn’t an omen,” Kelson said quietly, for Alroy had died before the ceremony could be performed.
He declined further conversation as he quickly dried off and pulled on close-fitting black breeches, already feeling a knot in the pit of his stomach, all too conscious that Alroy almost certainly had met his fate at the hands of Mahael, who was very much a part of today’s ceremony. While he let Brendan comb out his hair and braid it, he fingered the coral prayer beads his mother had given him—apt symbolism, he realized, for mediating the West, which ruled water. As Payne slipped short leather boots on his feet, he found his eyes drawn involuntarily to the robe never worn for Alroy’s coming of age.
The robe of the West was the same celestial blue he now had come to associate with the holy color adorning church domes and other sacred buildings, stiff with silk embroidery and golden thread and semiprecious stones. The front of the garment fastened on the right shoulder to allow depiction on the breast of a symbol appropriate to the Quarter represented. This one bore a shimmering white crescent picked out in silver bullion and pearls, the symbol of the Western Quarter as used in Torenth and the East, the pearls alluding to the West’s rule over elemental Water.
Embroidered scallop shells edged the cuffs of the wide sleeves and the deep slits on either side, amid waves of shaded silk threads, further evoking the imagery of water. Appliquéd along the full length of the back was a depiction of the Archangel Gabriel, with graceful hands upheld at shoulder-level in the posture known as orans, wings extended up and over the shoulders of the robe. The palms of the angel’s hands were set with jewels, and Kelson glanced at the medal on the beads in his hand, showing it to Morgan when the other looked at him in question.
“Jehana gave me these, the night before we left,” he said. “How could she have known? She thought it was meant to be her guardian angel, but I think it’s Saint Gabriel.”
“Holy Gabriél,” Morgan said quietly, as Kelson touched the enamelled medal to his lips, then looped the beads around his neck. “Let us hope that the good archangel helps make your work light.”
“My thought, precisely,” Kelson replied.
He turned away to let Payne guide his arms into the sleeves of a thin cotton shirt, shaking his head when Brendan would have offered him the tunic of Haldane crimson lying beside the ritual robe. Though made of lightweight silk, it was still another layer he must wear all too soon; and a heavy Haldane state mantle would replace the Torenthi ritual garment, once Liam was empowered and enthroned and Kelson must shift role from angelic guardian to feudal overlord.
“Should you eat something?” Dhugal asked, as Kelson tucked the shirt into the waist of his breeches.
“I’m still of two minds on that,” the king replied. “Magical ritual is usually best done on an empty stomach. On the other hand, it’s going to be a long day. Alaric, what do you think?”
“Perhaps you should compromise and just receive Holy Communion,” Morgan said. “Arilan will be here soon, to celebrate Mass for us.”
“Maybe I’ll have some additional bread and wine, after Mass,” Kelson said. He sighed. “I am not looking forward to this, my friends. Is Mátyás true, or is this all an elaborate double- or even triple-cross, to bring me down? God, if only I could be certain!”
Arilan arrived soon after, with Azim, Saer, and Derry. After celebrating Mass for them, the Deryni bishop and Azim remained when Saer and Derry took the two pages to be about their business.
“Well,” said Kelson, washing down a bite of chewy and substantial brown bread with a swallow of wine as Dhugal helped him into his Haldane tunic. “Have the two of you stayed to give me last-minute advice, or is Denis going to tell me how foolish I’m about to be?”
Azim only smiled faintly; Arilan bristled.
“Actually,” said Morgan, forestalling comment by the bishop, “His Grace of Dhassa has stayed to give you a final blessing and then be on his way to Torenthály, since he insists upon being close-mouthed about who the players are and on whose side they might be playing. I begin to suspect the subtle hand of the Camberian Council in these recent goings-on.”
“That is hardly fair!” Arilan retorted.
“Furthermore, since Prince Azim declines to clarify hissomewhat enigmatic half-warnings about the brothers Furstán—and, indeed, has said he may not tell us more—I can only speculate that he comes under the authority of the same body that sometimes constrains Arilan’s forthrightness—in short, that the Camberian Council is perhaps involved in machinations of their own, in the matter of the Torenthi succession. Have you any comment, Azim?”
The desert prince’s expression did not change. “Pray, continue.”
“Indeed, I shall. The Camberian Council do not allow themselves to interfere directly,” Morgan went on, “so they’re reduced to suggestion and innuendo, forcing would-be allies to react as adversaries. Except that all of us know that Liam-Lajos is the rightful king, and that Kelson is sworn to protect him, as his vassal. I therefore cannot imagine why either of you are playing these games with us. With Arilan, it’s old habit—and we know that he is a member of the Camberian Council, because he once took me, Kelson, and Duncan to their secret meeting place. Azim was not then a member—but things change. Is he, Arilan?”
Arilan was occupied with a petulant study of the toes of his embroidered slippers. Azim gave him a long look, glanced appraisingly at Kelson and his companions, then back at the bishop.
“If you do not tell them, Denis, I shall,” he said quietly. “If he was deemed worthy to be offered a seat on the Council, he deserves to know what he truly faces.”
Kelson caught his breath, sensing a possible breakthrough. He could feel Morgan and Dhugal likewise tensed and attentive. Arilan looked up at Azim for a long moment—unreadable, implacable—then exhaled with a resigned sigh.
“Prince Azim is a member of the Council,” he admitted. “Several other members will also be present to observe, for if Mahael does move successfully against his nephew, the ensuing dynastic wrangling will destabilize the entire East.”
“Then, he does plan to attack Liam?” Kelson breathed.
“So we believe. But our source of information may not be true. Mahael has the support of Count Branyng, a very powerful and ambitious Deryni, and his two brothers; at least he thinks he does. There are—indications that Mátyás may be more loyal to Liam than to Mahael, and will try to defend the boy. Liam’s mother has kept an outwardly civil working relationship with all three brothers, but may have her own priorities; she has done nothing to challenge Mahael regarding the death of her eldest son, but she cannot be unaware of the rumors. To us, it may seem unthinkable that a mother would connive at the deaths of her own children, but this is Torenth, and members of the House of Furstán have always been ambitious. Branyng has been seen to court her favors, but no one knows her true feelings about him.”
“You might have told me all of this sooner,” Kelson said sharply, when Arilan had finished.
“Such knowledge might have colored your interaction with the brothers during rehearsals,” Azim interjected, before Arilan could reply. “Your shields will be stronger today, knowing that this is no rehearsal. And given what Denis has told you, I now may confirm that another person whose opinion I highly regard has assured me that Mátyás is to be trusted.”
“And you might have told me that!” Kelson snapped back.
“And that might have betrayed you both to Mahael and to such others as are, indeed, fully committed to his treachery!” Azim returned. “Do not show me your indignation, Kelson of Gwynedd! You have few enough allies in what you must do.”
Kelson forced himself to bite back further display of his frustration, drawing a long, slow breath. The implications of Azim’s revelation were too complex to assimilate all at once, but at their core flared new hope that Mátyás could
, indeed, be trusted—which Kelson had long felt, but now he was about to put that feeling to the ultimate test—and whatever his remaining misgivings regarding Mátyás, he did, indeed, trust Azim.
“Forgive me if I seem impatient,” he said evenly, “but we have little time. If it is permitted, answer me this: It is my understanding that Liam will be at his most vulnerable just before Mahael renders up his share of the power of Furstán, when he will have dropped his shields in readiness for taking on Furstán’s power. If Mahael takes that opportunity to attack Liam, and if Mátyás joins with me in attempting to defend Liam, will the Council support us?”
“It is not the policy of the Council to intervene directly,” Arilan began.
“No one can intervene directly, from outside the Wards,” Azim said pointedly, overriding him. “But if God is gracious, Mátyás will, indeed, prove both faithful and strong, and you and he shall be able to preserve Liam’s life, and assist him to the full kingship that is his by right.”
Half an hour later, the turmoil of his doubts and fears schooled to discipline behind his shields, Kelson was poised on the back of the great state carriage as they had practiced before, weighted by his ceremonial robe and feeling the welcome breeze in his face as four matched pairs of white R’Kassan stallions bore Liam-Lajos toward the Quai du Saint-Basile and the state caïque waiting to convey them to killijálay. Perched on the steps to either side of the carriage, Mátyás and Teymuraz gazed straight ahead, each of them bearing the image of an archangel on his back: Mátyás, in the vibrant green of Saint Uriel—or Ouriél, as he was called in Torenth—and Teymuraz in the blazing reds and flame of Michaél. Branyng sat beside the driver, up on the box, in the gold of Raphael. The silvery sphere of their Moving Ward could not be seen in the bright sunlight, but Kelson could feel the drain of power it took to maintain it—though that was minimal while riding stationary as they now did.