For Lord lan Howell, however, the long night had just begun. As the tall young lord opened the door to his chambers, he beckoned the guard who had accompanied him to enter also.
"What is your name, my friend?'* he asked, closing the door gently behind him.
"John of Elsworth, M'lord," the guard replied crisply.
He was not like the first guard lan had used for his evil purposes. John of Elsworth was short, stocky, hard, an older man with years of experience in the royal regiment. He was also very strong—which was why lan had chosen him.
lan smiled to himself as he crossed to a table in the room and poured himself a glass of wine. "Very good," he said, turning back to face the man. "I have something I want you to do for me now."
"Yes, M'lord," the guard said promptly.
lan crossed leisurely back to the guard and looked him in the eye. "Look at me, John," he commanded.
The guard's eyes met lan's, slightly puzzled, and lan held up his forefinger.
"Do you see my finger?" lan questioned, slowly moving it toward the man's face.
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"Yes, Nflord," the guard replied, his eyes following the finger.
As lan's finger touched the man's forehead between his eyes, he whispered one word, "Sleep," and the man's eyes closed. It required but a moment more of concentration to establish rapport with his female compatriot many miles away. The aura crackling around him and his unwitting medium cast ghostly shadow-shapes on the tapestried walls. "Charissa, do you hear me?"
The man's mouth moved, and then spoke in another voice. "I hear."
lan smiled. "They've been to the crypt as you predicted, my love. Kelson's wearing the Eye of Rom. I don't think anyone else even noticed in all the excitement. I couldn't tell if they'd been successful with the power transfer. The boy was deadly tired, but that's to be expected."
There was a pause, and then the guard replied, his voice deep and resonant, but the tone and inflection that of the Lady Charissa. "Well, he can't have completed the whole power sequence yet. That's always reserved for the coronation or some other important public ceremony. Which means there are several courses we can pursue to further undermine their morale. You know what to do in the cathedral?" "Of course."
"Good. And be certain there's no mistake who win be blamed. Earlier tonight, I received another admonition from the Camberian Council warning me to stop interfering. Naturally, I don't intend to heed their advice. But it won't hurt to keep them befuddled a while longer. After all, Morgan is half-Deryni. It's even conceivable that the Council could blame the whole thing on him if we plan this properly."
lan snorted. "The idea of the Council dictating to
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the daughter of Marluk is ludicrous anyway. Who does that Coram think he is?"
He received the distinct impression of a smug smile Ss the voice replied. "No matter, lan. You'd better get on with your work before you tire your subject beyond recall. His death could arouse the wrong suspicions, and I don't want your cover broken yet."
"Have no fear, my pet," lan chuckled. "Until later."
"Even until then," the voice replied.
The aura faded and lan opened his eyes, still keeping his subject under control.
"John of Elsworth, do you hear me?"
"Aye."
lan shifted his touch to the man's eyelids, pressing on them lightly. "You will remember nothing of what has just happened, John. Is that clear? When I release you, you will recall only that I asked for your escort to my quarters."
The man nodded his head almost imperceptibly.
"Good, then," lan murmured, dropping his hands. "You will now awake and remember nothing."
As lan returned to the table and picked up his glass of wine, John of Elsworth's eyes snapped open and he glanced innocently at lan.
"Is there anything further you require of me, ATIord?"
lan shook his head and took a swallow from his glass. "No. But if you would be so good as to stand guard outside my door, I'd appreciate it. What with killers stalking the corridors of Castle Rhemuth, I should hate to be murdered in my bed."
"Very good, M'lord," John bowed. "Til see that no one disturbs you."
lan raised his glass in acknowledgement, then drained its contents and put it back on the table as the door closed behind John of Elsworth.
Now for the immediate matter at hand: a simple as-
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sassination—no more. Granted, it could be a bit messy, and possibly even physically tiring, since there were three involved. But it presented no serious challenge to his talents. Boring, really.
He did lament the fact that he could jump only as far as the cathedral with his remaining power—but that was at most a minor vexation. Charissa would replace the power he used and more as soon as he returned. In fact, all things considered, a short taste of more conventional transportation would probably do him good, help him unwind. There was nothing like a brisk ride in the November night to clear a man's head of the thoughts of killing and put him hi the frame of mind for more enjoyable pursuits.
Quickly, he stepped to the center of the room and gathered his cloak around him. Then, murmuring the words of the spell Charissa had taught him, he made the proper pass in the air before him with an outstretched arm—and disappeared.
Later—-much later—lan drew rein in a deeply wooded area in the hills north of Rhemuth. He listened for a long, silent minute, then urged his horse forward at a walk, letting the animal pick its own footing in the dark, moonless night. Snow was falling gently now, and lan pulled his hooded cloak more closely around himself as he rode through the darkness.
At length, he found himself riding alongside a sheer cliff-face, naked rock to his right and higher than the eye could see. He had ridden for perhaps half a mile when he was suddenly challenged by a gruff voice.
"Who goes there?"
"Lord lan. I've come to see Her Grace."
Off to the left, someone struck a spark, and then a torch flared in the darkness. The man holding the torch held it aloft and walked slowly toward lan. And lan could see at least a half dozen men around him,
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just within the circle of torchlight. When the man with the torch had almost reached lan, another man stepped out of the blackness directly ahead of lan and took ' hold of his horse's bridle.
"Sony, M'lord," he said roughly. "We weren't expecting you tonight."
lan flung back his hood and dismounted, watched as the speaker handed his horse's reins to another man, who led the animal away to hidden stables. lan began stripping off his gloves and looked around.
"Is our Lady still about?"
"Aye, M'lord," the guard captain replied, touching a portion of the rock wall beside him. "I can't say whether she*s expecting you, though."
A portion of the wall withdrew to disclose a passageway into the heart of the cliff, and lan stepped through, followed by the captain and several guards.
"Oh, she's expecting me," he said with a sly smile which was lost to the guards in the darkness of the passage. He waited until his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, then headed confidently down the long corridor, toward more dim torchlight in the distance.
As lan walked, he slapped the leather riding gloves gently against the palm of his other hand. His boots echoed hollowly on the marble-paved passageway. The heavy cloak sighed softly as it brushed against the elegantly booted legs. The fine steel of his scabbard gave off muffled pings whenever it glanced off against his boots.
Odd, what strange alliances one sometimes formed in the pursuit of one's goals. He had certainly never planned to join forces with the fiery Charissa. Indeed, that had not even been considered in the beginning. And now, the daughter of the Marluk trusted him almost completely, had agreed to unite their powers in this common goal. Who would have dreamed, a year
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ago, t
hat he, lan Howell, would soon be the master of Corwyn?
He smiled to himself as he added another thought on that matter, but he did not allow himself to even sub-vocalize it. Further powers and rule awaited the right man, if he could but take it. And when dealing with the likes of Charissa, it was better not to even think such thoughts. Once Kelson and Morgan were dead, and his holding in Corwyn secure, there would be time enough for other matters. Meanwhile . . .
Silver spurs jangled gaily as he clattered down the granite staircase, and the torches in their wrought bronze holders cast crimson highlights on his chestnut hair, reflecting, perhaps, the even more crimson thoughts of the man who strode by so confidently.
He passed the guardpost and took the precise salute with a studied nonchalance, then approached a pair of golden doors with two tall Moors standing guard.
They made no move to stop him, however. And Tan slipped through the doors without a sound. Leaning back against the ornate handles, he fixed his gaze intently upon the woman who sat brushing her long, pale hair; all thoughts of malice gone, at least for the present.
"Well, lan?" she queried. Her voice was low, husky, her full lips curved in a slight, sardonic smile.
lan sauntered toward her with a careless intensity. "It went as I said it would, my pet," he said silkily, brushing a hand across her shoulder as he passed. "Did you expect otherwise?"
He paused to pour red wine from a crystal decanter, filled it once and drained it, then refilled it and carried it to a low table beside the spacious state bed.
"You generally perform according to your talents, lan," Charissa said, without missing a stroke.
lan unclasped his heavy cloak and dropped it across
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a bench, unbuckled his sword and eased it to the floor as he sank down on the satin-draped bed.
"There will be no further problem tomorrow, then, lan?" Charissa asked. She laid the silver-backed brush gently on the dresser top and stood, gathering the gossamer folds of her gown about her in a soft azure cloud.
"I think not," lan smiled, reclining on one elbow and picking up his glass of wine. "Kelson has given orders he's not to be disturbed until morning. If he should make some move before then, however, we'll be informed immediately. I have someone watching." His brown eyes followed her every move hungrily as she glided toward him.
"So, he's given orders he's not to be disturbed, has he?" She rested delicate fingertips on his shoulder and smiled.
"I believe I shall give the same orders."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Jor surely laughter masks a nervous sowf.
THE EARLY MORNING stillness was shattered by a staccato rapping at the door, and Morgan tensed and opened one eye, instantly alert. The brightness of the room indicated it was time to be up and about, and a rapid evaluation of his own condition assured him that the short sleep had been at least adequate. Whatever was about to happen, he was ready for it.
Easing to his feet, he glided to the door and placed a cautious hand on the latch, a quick wrist motion flicking the hilt of his stiletto into his palm. His voice was low as he stood aside and called, "Who's there?"
"Rhodri, the Lord Chamberlain, Your Grace," a voice answered. "The royal wardrobers wish to know when His Majesty will be ready for his bath and robing. It's getting late."
Morgan returned the stiletto to its sheath and shot back the bolt. The door swung open a foot to disclose a stately, white-haired gentleman in deep burgundy
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velvet, who bowed deferential greeting as Morgan stepped into view.
"Your Grace."
"What time is it, Lord Rhodri?" Morgan asked quietly.
"Past Terce, Your Grace. I would have called you earlier, but I thought both you and His Highness could use the extra sleep. There's still well over an hour before the procession begins."
Morgan smiled. "Thank you, Lord Rhodri. Tell the wardrobers Kelson will be with them shortly. Also, see if you can find my aide, Lord Deny. If I have to go to the coronation looking like this, there'll be no doubt in anybody's mind that I'm precisely the scoundrel I'm rumored to be."
He ran a meaningful hand over the golden stubble on his chin, and the Chamberlain concealed a smile. He and Morgan were friends of long standing, dating from the days shortly after Morgan first came to Brion's court as a page. Rhodri had been chamberlain even then, and the game he and Morgan played was one worn comfortable by the passing of the years. A small, golden-haired boy had stolen Rhodri's heart then, and now he remained just as devoted to the man,
His eyes twinkled in shared understanding as he looked Morgan straight in the eye. "There was never any doubt in anyone's mind, was there, Your Grace?'* he replied dryly, his tone not requiring an answer. "And is there anything else Your Grace requires?"
Morgan shook his head, then snapped his fingers as he remembered one final instruction. "Yes. You'd better send for Monsignor McLain. Kelson will want to see him before he leaves for the cathedral."
"Yes, Your Grace," Rhodri bowed.
As Morgan closed the door and rebolted it, he suddenly realized that the room was cold again, so he padded back across the floor on bare feet to stir the
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remains of the fire and add more wood. When he was satisfied that it was burning properly, he crossed quickly to the balcony doors, dancing gingerly on tiptoes as his bare feet trod the cold flagstones. ,
As he drew aside the heavy blue satin drapes to let the pale sunlight stream in, he became aware that he was being watched. He turned and smiled at Kelson as he finished securing the drapes, then crossed to the boy's side and sat down.
"Good morning, my prince," he said cheerfully. "How do you feel?"
Kelson sat up in bed and pulled the blankets up around himself. "Hmm, it's cold. And I'm starved. What time is it?"
Morgan laughed and reached across to feel Kelson's forehead, then took the boy's wounded hand and began unwrapping the bandage. "It's not as late as you think, my prince," he chuckled. "Your body squires are drawing your bath and will be ready for you momentarily. And you know you can't eat until after the coronation,"
Kelson bounced once on the bed in frustration, then leaned to look at his hand as Morgan removed the bandage. Other than a faint pink puncture mark on either side of his hand, he could see no sign of the previous night's ordeal. And as Morgan bent and manipulated the hand, Kelson was surprised that there was not even any of the tenderness he had expected when he moved it.
He looked up anxiously as Morgan released his hand and discarded the bandage. "Is it all right?"
Morgan slapped the boy's arm reassuringly. "No problems. You're as fit as a fiddle."
Kelson smiled, then poised himself to leave the bed. "Then, there's no reason I should stay in bed, is there?"
"None at all."
Morgan reached across and took Kelson's robe from
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the foot of the bed, stood and held it so that the boy could shrug into it. Kelson bundled it around himself and scampered quickly to the fireplace, plopped down on the fur rug as he warmed himself.
"Umm, this feels good," he said, rubbing his hands together briskly and smoothing down his rumpled hair. "What's next?"
Morgan joined Mm and poked at the fire. "First of all, your bath. They should be about ready for you. And I'll send your wardrobers in to help you dress as soon as they arrive."
Kelson stopped rubbing his hands and wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Devil take it, I can dress myself."
"A king must have dressers on his coronation day," Morgan laughed, taking the boy by the arm and urging him to his feet. "It's tradition. Besides, you're not supposed to clutter up your mind with the mechanics of putting on strange robes when you should be contemplating the responsibilities of kingship."
He propelled Kelson toward the door leading to the dressi
ng room, but the boy paused there and looked back at Morgan suspiciously.
"So I have to have dressers, eh? How many?"
"Oh, six or so, I should imagine," Morgan replied, raising an innocent eyebrow.
"Six!" Kelson said indignantly. "Morgan, I don't need six dressers!"
"Is this a rebellion?" Morgan retorted, unable to control a grin.
He knew how Kelson felt about personal servants —he, too, hated being fussed over. But there were times when it couldn't be avoided. Kelson knew that, and his expression indicated that he realized that fact, too. But there were also signs that Morgan had not had the last word.
As the boy opened the door and started through, he suddenly turned and looked at Morgan with an expres-
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sion of mock indignation. "I still think," he said haughtily, "that you planned all this deliberately."
"I've been planning deliberately to make you a king," Morgan retorted, his patience wearing thin, "Now, get in there!"
He made a motion as if to chase the boy, and Kelson ducked on through the doorway. The door closed with a note of finality, but not before Kelson had poked his head back through and stuck out his tongue.
Morgan rolled his eyes heavenward in a silent appeal to whatever saint controlled the whims of royal princes. Kelson's maturity of the previous day and of the night seemed to have disappeared entirely. He hoped it was not going to set the tone of the entire day.
Before he could decide on the next course of action, there was another knock on the door.
"Who's there?"
"Derry, M'lord," the familiar voice replied.
Morgan crossed to the door and shot back the bolt to admit Derry. With the young lord were two squires bearing hot water, towels, and fresh clothing. Deny himself looked rested and refreshed in his crisp new livery. The sling was gone from his left arm, mute reminder of the night before.
"I'm glad to see you've fully recovered," Morgan remarked.
"Yes. Strange thing, wasn't it, M'lord?" Derry replied dryly. "I don't suppose you'd like to—"
"Later, Derry," Morgan interrupted, shaking his head slightly as he stood aside to let them enter. "Right now I feel the urgent need of more mundane repairs— such as a hot bath.'*