Kelson was given two days’ respite before he must deal with the arrival of the Mearans. By then, he and his Tralian kin had settled in quietly at the castle, with the story vaguely given out—and supported by his council—that the bridal party had simply elected to travel to Rhemuth somewhat sooner than originally planned, arriving late at night, with little fanfare.
Kelson himself kept a low profile, quietly conducting necessary business but staying mainly out of sight, lest he provoke too much curiosity. The work of the next few days saw the drafting of most of the documents necessary to support the second Mearan alliance he hoped to accomplish—and contracts for his own marriage with Araxie. Since only the council had been privy to his exact schedule regarding the Torenthi mission—or known of the full danger the jaunt had presented—few outside that privileged circle remarked that his return came somewhat earlier than anticipated, much less thought to wonder how the king had returned so quickly.
Meanwhile, the fugitive Teymuraz made no appearance at the Ile d’Orsal or any other place reporting back to Kelson or the young king recently enthroned at Torenthály. Bishop Denis Arilan, now greatly reassured regarding Mátyás as well as his young nephew, assumed the status of King Kelson’s sole ambassador in the Torenthi capital, and made nightly excursions between Beldour and Rhemuth to report to the king—but only to report that there was nothing to report. Mátyás included him in such counsels as were appropriate to one not sworn to the service of Torenth, but Mátyás’s energy and that of his royal nephew was turned increasingly toward setting up the workings of the new government: the first to operate outside the structure of a regency since the death of King Wencit, a full seven years before—for the regency of Wencit’s successor, Alroy-Arion, had lasted nearly four years, and Liam’s own regency for three. (One could hardly count the thirty days of Alroy’s tragically brief majority.)
Despite initial and long-ingrained misgivings about anyone and anything Torenthi, Arilan found himself grudgingly impressed by nearly all the men Mátyás began calling to service on the Crown Council of the new padishah—but he did not pretend to understand the nuances of Torenthi politics. The ways of Torenth were not the ways of the West; and while he now had hopes that the two might settle into peaceful co-existence, he doubted seriously whether they would ever truly understand one another.
Azim, too, remained temporarily based at the court of Torenth, rendering such assistance to Mátyás as he could, in the ongoing search for some clue as to what had become of Teymuraz. It was he with whom Arilan spent much of his time, for neither was sworn to Torenth, and of necessity were excluded from much of the work of Liam’s Crown Council. On the third day after killijálay, the second after the death of Vivienne, the pair duly attended Vivienne’s final rites at Alta Jorda; but consultation with the rest of the Camberian Council, following the ceremony, produced no further developments regarding the whereabouts or intentions of the fled Teymuraz.
Kelson, meanwhile, was treading a narrow balance between political imperatives and personal priorities as the court at Rhemuth prepared for the arrival of the Mearan wedding party. Following two days of anxious fretting, word came late in the morning of the third day that the Mearans had spent the previous night a few hours’ ride north of Rhemuth, and would arrive that afternoon: a modest cavalcade of perhaps two dozen riders and pack animals with, apparently, no pretense to the royal Mearan honors that many had feared Jolyon Ramsay might try to put forward, now that his son’s match with Gwynedd was all but accomplished.
The king sent Rory with Lord Savile and an honor guard of eight Haldane lancers to escort the Mearans into the city, for he was well aware of the speculation that would attend the bridegroom’s sister if he himself rode out to meet them. As further diversion, Richelle and Araxie elected to accompany their stepfather and their royal cousin, lightly veiled and gowned in the bright silks of their mother’s homeland, Richelle to greet her bridegroom and both of them primed to help connive at Rory’s romantic intentions.
It was late afternoon by the time the combined bridal party finally approached the city gates, where an anxious king was pacing one of the castle parapets, in only Dhugal’s company. At midday, Morgan had ridden downriver to Desse, with young Sir Angus MacEwan and Kelson’s squire Davoran for company, for Richenda and her two younger children were expected to arrive within the next twenty-four hours aboard Rhafallia. Likewise, Létald’s ships from Beldour were expected to reach the Ile d’Orsal by nightfall. Duncan was waiting there to bring back Derry, Brendan, and Prince Payne; Saer and the rest of the royal entourage, including the Haldane lancers, would return on the Tralian wedding ship, now loaded with the “fripperies” left behind a few days before.
Straightening as the other wedding party came into sight, down on the road beside the river, Kelson watched with Dhugal as the cavalcade crawled along the final approach toward the city gate, using both hands to shade his eyes against the glare off the distant water.
“Well, that’s reassuring,” he murmured, noting the drift of blue silk banners gently astir on a light breeze. “About a dozen blue pennons mixed in with our lancers—livery silks, by the look of them, totally appropriate to a bridal party—and just the one armorial banner, up at the front, which definitely isn’t the old Mearan royal arms.”
“You didn’t really think Jolyon would dare, did you?” Dhugal replied, also squinting against the sun.
“No, but you never know with Mearans,” Kelson said, wondering whether any of them could see the red-clad dot of him, high on the walls of the great keep. “Hopefully, this branch of the family got its good sense from the Ramsay side. The Ramsays have always stayed carefully out of the wranglings of the more senior Mearan lines, tucked away up by Cloome—never a whiff of scandal or disloyalty. Still, the hope of a crown can do strange things to people.”
Dhugal allowed himself a snort.
“Jolyon Ramsay is a very minor provincial knight whose son and heir is about to marry a Haldane princess and become an earl—and probably a duke, once their first son is born. He isn’t likely to do anything to endanger that. Whatever else he may be, and however ambitious his wife may be, I gather that the good Sir Jolyon is a realist.”
“We’ll hope you’re right,” Kelson said, “and that the Lady Oksana can be similarly persuaded.” He pushed himself back from the rampart, turning toward the cap-house that crowned the stairwell downward. “I’d better make my appearance. They’ll be here soon. Dine with me later. Hopefully, they’ll retire early. I’ll need a dash of fresh perspective, after an afternoon contending with family.”
Below in the castle yard, ranged on the great-hall steps, Sivorn had gathered her four younger children and the rest of her extended family to welcome her elder daughter’s bridegroom and his family. The boys, aged nine and six, were standing to her right, eager for a glimpse of the expected new arrivals, for both had hopes that their new uncle-by-marriage might one day provide places for them as pages or squires. The youngest girl clung shyly to her mother’s skirts; the eldest clutched a mixed posy of roses and delphiniums from the royal garden.
Behind them, Jehana waited with Nigel and Meraude and little Eirian. Kelson slipped into place among them, quite content to let Sivorn play hostess, as mother of the bride—and claim the focus of public attention. Jehana smiled him encouragement, apparently sympathetic to the delicacy of the next few hours.
He was pleased to note, as the first of the cavalcade clip-clopped into the castle yard, that his cousins had managed to arrange the principal players as they had hoped. Lord Savile properly led the procession, chatting amiably with the bridegroom’s parents. The banner carried right behind them by a mounted herald bore the simple blue banner devised for Jolyon’s Ramsay ancestor who had married a Mearan princess, with a chequy fess of silver and gold inserted between the three silver stars long borne by the Ramsays. A happy and animated Richelle rode directly behind the banner, at the side of her intended bridegroom.
To Rory ha
d fallen the pleasant duty of escorting the sisters of both the bride and the bridegroom; nor did he look at all unhappy. The lancers properly followed behind, escorting the modest Mearan baggage train, and led that part of the cavalcade on toward the stable yard.
Kelson took the opportunity to survey the principals as they began dismounting, taking careful note of Jolyon and Oksana Ramsay, in particular—for they were the ones he must win over, in the next few days. They were a handsome pair, even if wilted and dust-begrimed from their journey: both of them on the tall side, both of them dark-eyed and graceful. Jolyon’s soft-brimmed cap sported two eagle feathers; Oksana wore a large straw hat over the wimple mostly covering her dark hair—providing welcome shade, even if its appearance was less than regal. She pulled it off when she had shaken some of the dust from her skirts, handing it to the servant who came to take her horse away.
Behind them, Savile had also dismounted, and was directing the grooms come to take the horses. Richelle was being helped down by Brecon, a comely, well-proportioned young man of middling height, with sandy hair and dark, merry eyes, in whom a winter’s separation from his affianced bride seemed only to have increased his affection. Brecon’s sister, alighting with Rory and Araxie, had the same dark eyes, but her hair was almost Haldane-dark—and now that Kelson no longer felt obliged to consider her in his own matrimonial plans, he found himself far better able to appreciate her charms; she and Rory should produce very attractive children. He doubted there had been opportunity for the pair to have spoken privately, but it was clear that she was fond of both her Haldane companions.
Quickly servants disposed of the first few horses, making space for Savile to conduct the bridegroom’s parents up the great-hall steps to be greeted by his wife. Sunlight glinted from wispy, fair hair going white at the temples as Jolyon swept off his cap in a courtly bow and his wife dipped in a formal curtsy.
“Sir Jolyon, you are most welcome to Rhemuth,” Sivorn said before he could speak, offering him her hand. “And Lady Ramsay,” she went on, as she exchanged a formal embrace with Oksana. “Or may I call you by your Christian name, since our children are to wed? Allow me to present my younger children, who were not with me last summer: the Lord Sivney, who perhaps aspires to service as a page or squire in Meara; young Sorley; little Siany, who is shy; and my darling Savilla.”
The boys gave the newcomers gravely respectful bows, and Savilla presented her posy to Oksana with a smile and a graceful curtsy.
“The weather being fair, we came early from Horthánthy, as my daughters, no doubt, will have told you,” Sivorn went on breezily, coming to receive her future son’s salute. “Welcome, dear Brecon . . . and sweet Noelie. . . . We are delighted to see all of you again.
“I fear my brother is obliged to send his regrets,” she continued, turning back to Jolyon and Oksana, “but his dear Niyya is soon to be brought to bed of twins—and in truth, no longer could he bear the prospect of both wedding bustling and a broody wife under the same roof.” She smiled at their expressions of complete understanding.
“But please—come and be greeted by the king and the rest of our family, and then join us for refreshment,” she went on. “I hope that your journey was not too wearying? The heat along the river can be most oppressive in high summer.”
Thus disarmed of any further questions regarding the bride’s early arrival at Rhemuth, Jolyon and Oksana allowed themselves to be ushered on for welcomes from other Haldane relatives, including Kelson himself, who bowed over Oksana’s hand and exchanged a cordial handclasp with Jolyon, merely bowing to Brecon and Noelie as he joined in the general shepherding of the newcomers into the hall for refreshment.
The visitors soon were shown to the quarters prepared for them, where they all retired early, pleading fatigue of the journey. Kelson supped privately with Dhugal in his quarters, whence the pair later repaired to the library to wait until Duncan should come through the Portal from the Ile d’Orsal, with Derry, Brendan, and Payne.
Payne had found the experience exhilarating—his first direct contact with any aspect of Deryni magic save for having shields placed upon him, when Liam had first come to court three years before—and such work had always been done while he slept. Brendan simply had taken it in stride, like the good half-Deryni child he was, with scant experience of Transfer Portals, but not at all afraid to let Father Nivard bring him through, since Duncan had assured him it was all right.
As might have been expected, Derry showed signs that the experience had been less than one he would have chosen, given other options, but he had dutifully placed himself in Duncan’s hands. He was pale as he and Duncan appeared on the Portal square, but looked palpably relieved as he set eyes on Kelson and Dhugal.
“He’s fine,” Duncan assured the king, before Kelson could even ask. “Relax, Derry, you did just fine—really. All you need now is a good night’s sleep.”
He gave Derry a reassuring buffet to the shoulders as he directed him toward Dhugal.
“Why don’t you take him to Alaric’s quarters and see him bedded down for the night?” he said to his son. Nivard had already taken Brendan and Payne through the Veil, and would see them to bed as well.
Kelson watched as Dhugal deftly received control from his father and took Derry through the Veil. When they were gone, Duncan turned back to the king. He looked tired—which was hardly surprising, for he had brought Payne through, taken Nivard back with him, then let Nivard bring Brendan while he had dealt with Derry. It was Derry about whom Kelson was concerned.
“Did he do just fine?” Kelson asked, motioning Duncan to a seat in the window embrasure.
“Well enough, I suppose. Nivard couldn’t have brought him through without hurting him; he was skittish enough with me. But I offered him the chance to return with the wedding ship, if he preferred—and he chose the Portal. I gather he did well enough in Torenth. As I said, a good night’s sleep should sort him out.”
Whether, in fact, that night’s sleep could be said to have “sorted Derry out” was open to debate. Certain it was that, an hour later, when he had been left deep in healing sleep in Morgan’s quarters, that sleep had also left him even more open to the link again conjured between the handsome gold ring Derry wore and another like it, made of iron, on the finger of a woman gazing into an onyx scrying mirror in far-off Beldour.
After the fact, she could but retrieve visual impressions of what Derry had experienced since her last invocation of that link; but they were enough to tell her how Létald’s ships had been met at the Ile d’Orsal by Bishop Duncan McLain, who was not often known to employ his Deryni powers; and how McLain had taken Derry, young Prince Payne, and Morgan’s stepson to a Portal in Létald’s summer palace—hitherto unknown to her, and still not accessible, since she had only its physical location, not the magical signature that marked its location on the inner planes.
While Derry watched in no little apprehension—for the scars of what her brother had done to him yet clouded his ability to willingly accept any aspect of Deryni magic where it concerned his own person—McLain had taken Payne onto the Portal and disappeared, reappearing momentarily with a Deryni priest introduced to young Brendan as Father Nivard, who then had taken Brendan away. McLain had then brought Derry onto the Portal square—at which time, had she been in the link and not just reading Derry’s memory, she might have caught that Portal’s signature—and also the one to which they had gone.
But equally likely was the possibility that McLain might have detected her presence, had the link then been in force. And Kelson had been waiting at their destination—another chance that she might have been detected. No, best she simply file away those physical locations against a time when she might investigate in person, or send Derry himself to the last one, at least. But that curious Veil through which Duke Dhugal had taken him was a great mystery. She wondered whether Derry could pass it again, unaccompanied.
Fortunately, young Dhugal’s controls on Derry had not been nearly as firm as h
is father’s—had not needed to be, for his purposes, simply to pass Derry through the Veil. She wondered whether it would surprise him to learn that the healing sleep in which he had left Derry had also made it that much easier to invoke her link. . . .
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Then I was by him, as one brought up with him: and I was daily his delight, rejoicing always before him.
Proverbs 8:30
The next morning brought Rory Haldane early to his royal cousin’s apartments, very shortly after dawn. The duty squire admitted him to the royal bedchamber and then withdrew, as Kelson propped himself against a pile of pillows and settled in to hear Rory’s news. It soon emerged that Rory somehow had managed to contrive a brief but private and very satisfying exchange with the Lady Noelie Ramsay.
“Then, she’ll have you? Yes or no?” Kelson asked, grinning indulgently as Rory hemmed and hawed around much detail of their clandestine meeting.
“Well, we did kiss once or twice,” Rory finally admitted, looking vaguely smug. “Well, maybe more than once or twice. I—ah—let her believe that you’d agreed to step back in my favor. But I did make it clear that I could make no formal offer for her hand until you’d approached her parents,” he went on resolutely, recalling his duty. “And her mother is still keen for a crown for her. Kelson, what if—”
“Give me some time to work on that,” Kelson told him, “and try to be patient. At least you know that the lady herself is willing.”
Rory’s grin suggested that if negotiations were very long protracted, neither patience nor restraint were likely to prevail before Noelie’s willingness, but he drew a sobering breath and gave his royal cousin a formal bow of agreement before happily taking his leave.
Kelson resolved to begin the process of Mearan persuasion that very day—and a ready opportunity was already in place. To amuse the younger members of the court, Nigel had arranged a hawking expedition in the afternoon, as the day cooled down—for Jolyon had evinced a keen appreciation of the sport during their sojourn of the previous summer, and had inquired, soon after arrival, regarding some of the birds they had flown at that time.