After the bishops came Duncan, in his honored place as King's Confessor. He carried the Ring of Fire on a small tray of heavily carved silver. Ring and tray cast brilliant reflections on the snowy lace surplice he wore over his cassock, flashed mirror brightness into his face as he walked.
Morgan followed, carrying the sheathed Sword of State upright before him. And after him, a white-faced and solemn Nigel, bearing the State Crown on its velvet cushion. Behind him, in ranks of two, came Jehana
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and Ewan, Duke Tared and Lord Kevin McLain, Lord lan Howell, Lord Bran Coris, and a host of other high noblemen and women who were being honored by then- inclusion hi the procession. Most, of course, had no idea of the turmoil brewing beneath the surface of this august occasion.
Kelson's thoughts raced as the front of the procession approached the high altar inside the cathedral. He had put the quarrel with Archbishop Corrigan and Loris out of his mind as the least of his worries now, even though he realized that would just give him more time to worry about the other thing. He had seen no sign of the terrible Charissa yet, but he had no doubt she would show up before the ceremony was over.
He knelt at his personal faldstool to the right of the altar, ostensibly to pray while the rest of the procession entered and took their places, but he realized it was useless at this point. He couldn't concentrate on the prayers he should be saying, and he kept glancing to either side through the interlaced fingers covering his eyes.
Where was she?
He wondered briefly if it would have been this way even had there been no threat of the Shadowed One, examined his emotions on the subject, decided it would have been difficult to concentrate under the best of circumstances, immediately felt a little less guilty. Once the ceremony actually started, he promised himself, he would do better.
As the choir finished the processional, and the last of the participants took their places, Arilan and Loris came to either side and stood there expectantly. It was time for the recognition, Kelson knew. Taking a deep breath, he crossed himself, then raised his head and allowed the two prelates to help him to his feet. As they turned him to face the people, Archbishop Corrigan stepped in front of him and took his right hand.
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"My Lords," Corrigan's voice rang out clear and sure, "I bring before you Kelson, your undoubted King. Be ye willing to do homage and service in his behalf?"
"God save King Kelson!" came the affirmation. With a-slight bow toward the congregation, Corrigan gestured toward the altar, and Arilan and Loris escorted the now recognized King up the altar steps. All bowed in unison, and then Corrigan and Kelson ascended the last three steps alone. Firmly, Corrigan placed Kelson's right hand on Holy Scripture, placed his own left hand on top of Kelson's, then began to read the coronation oath.
"My Lord Kelson, are you now willing to take the coronation oath?**
"I am willing," Kelson replied. Corrigan drew himself up to his full height. "Kelson Cinhil Rhys Anthony Haldane, here before God and men declared and affirmed to be the undisputed heir of our late beloved King Brion, will you solemnly promise and swear to keep the peace in Gwynedd, and to govern its peoples according to our ancient laws and customs?"
"I solemnly promise to do so." "Will you, to the utmost of your power, cause Law and Justice, in Mercy, to be executed in all your judgements?"
Kelson glanced out at the assembly. "I will." "And do you pledge that Evil and Wrong-Doing shall be suppressed, and the Laws of God maintained?"
"All this, I pledge," Kelson replied. As Corrigan placed the coronation oath on the altar, Kelson glanced around again, felt confidence flow back as he caught Morgan's reassuring glance. With a flourish, he scrawled his new signature, "Ketsonus Rex," then
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took the document in his left hand and held it aloft, placed his right hand once more on Holy Scripture.
"That which I have here promised, I will perform and keep, so help me God."
He gave the oath into the hands of one of the attending priests, then allowed himself to be led back to the faldstool. As he knelt there again, he caught a stealthy movement to his right, glanced aside and saw Derry glide unobtrusively to Morgan's side and begin conferring in low tones. As the Archbishop's voice echoed through the cathedral in the traditional prayers for the King, Kelson strained to hear what Derry told the tall Deryni Lord, bit his lip in vexation because he could not discern what was being said.
However, the meaning was clear enough. Kelson caught the worried look shot across to Duncan, saw the priest's lips tighten in anger as he realized what Derry had told. Charissa was coming. Deny had sighted her entourage from the bell tower. They had perhaps ten minutes before the ultimate confrontation.
The prayers for the King ended without Kelson having heard a word of them, and the two prelates again led him before the high altar, this time so that he might prostrate himself preparatory to the consecration.
The choir began to sing another anthem as Kelson laid himself prostrate on the carpet before the high altar. The long ivory mantle covered all but his head and the tips of his boots as he lay there. Around him, all his clergy knelt also, their lips moving in prayer.
Kelson clenched his clasped hands even tighter and prayed for strength, feeling the icy touch of terror at the back of his neck, trying to tell himself he would be safe, that he could stand against whatever the Shadowed One chose to try against the rightful King of Gwynedd.
The hymn ended, and the prelates raised Kelson to
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his feet and divested him of the ivory mantle. Then, as the four knights with the canopy moved into place, Kelson knelt once more on the altar steps to receive the marks of chrism which would make him the rightly anointed King of Gwynedd.
Morgan watched proudly as Kelson was anointed on head and hands, tried not to be anxious about the presence he knew was even now approaching the cathedral. As the anointing concluded, and the choir broke into the strains of another hymn, Morgan strained to hear what was happening outside, stiffened slightly as the sounds of liturgical ceremony were joined by the ghostly echo of steel-shod hooves ringing cold against the cobbled street.
Kelson rose to be invested with the symbols of his office. Priests fastened the crimson jeweled robe of State around his shoulders, touched his heels with golden spurs. As chain mail clanked against naked steel beyond the heavy doors of the cathedral, Archbishop Corrigan took the Ring of Fire from Duncan, murmured a blessing over it, held it aloft for an instant, slipped it on Kelson's left forefinger.
Then he motioned Morgan forward with the Sword of State.
It was the moment Morgan had been waiting for, for even with the Ring of Fire on Kelson's hand, there could be no magic until Kelson was sealed by the Sign of the Defender. Making his way to Kelson's side, he unsheathed the great sword and gave it into Corrigan's hands, watched anxiously as the Archbishop prayed that the sword be ever used to dispense justice.
Finally, Corrigan presented the sword to Kelson. And Kelson, with an anxious glance at Morgan, touched his lips to the weapon and handed it over to Morgan. As the sword, exchanged hands, Kelson touched Morgan's Gryphon seal briefly, then froze in dismay.
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For there had been no sensation of power when he touched the seal, no surge of promise fulfilled, no sealing of the force foretold by Brion's ritual verse. His anguished eyes sought Morgan's frantically, and Morgan too felt a sick queasiness rise in his throat.
Somewhere, they had failed! Obviously Morgan's Gryphon was not the Sign of the Defender!
There were loud footsteps outside the cathedral now, and the people grew hushed with fearful expectation. As Corrigan, unaware of what was going on, continued with the investiture, held out the jeweled sceptre of Gwynedd to Kelson, the cathedral doors swung open with a muffled crash, and a gust of icy wind whi
stled down the nave.
As Morgan turned his head slightly toward the rear of the church, there was no doubt in his mind what he would see. Nor was he disappointed.
He looked—and saw Charissa, Duchess of Tolan, Lady of the Silver Mists, the Shadowed One—silhouetted against the open doorway, veiled in pale grey and blue, shrouded in living mist which twined around her in a sinister aura.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
, then, is the Defender?"
KELSON DIDN'T even move as the doors crashed back on their hinges, though he yearned to turn his head and look. For even as the sound shattered the silence, he realized that to satisfy his curiosity prematurely might only make him lose his nerve. He had never seen Charissa, and he wasn't sure how he would react
Kneeling with one's back to the enemy was not generally recommended, either—he knew that too. He was probably taking a terrible chance by remaining in that position while his enemy advanced, and under other circumstances he would never have even considered such a strategic blunder. But since he was helpless anyway, it should make little difference. There was a point where theory had to yield to practicality, and frankly he wasn't sure just what he'd do when he did turn around.
He had to have time to think. If he had to bluff— and that seemed inevitable at this point—he would
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also have to have some clear purpose in mind beyond mere survival. He didn't think he would freeze up when he faced her—but there was no sense tempting fate. Brion had taught him that years ago.
He heard footsteps echoing down the nave and knew that his adversary approached, that she was not alone. As he stiffened slightly, he saw Morgan's hand creep closer to the hilt of his broadsword. He hazarded a glance to his left and saw that Duncan was signalling the Archbishop to proceed with the ceremony.
Kelson nodded to himself in approval. Duncan was right. The farther along in the ceremony they got, the better were Kelson's legal claims to the throne, and the better were his chances of discovering a way out of his quandary.
Archbishop Corrigan took the jeweled crown of Gwynedd from its velvet pillow and raised it above Kelson's head. The footsteps were much closer now, and Kelson saw Corrigan's eyes flick over his head to the aisle beyond, saw him wet his lips nervously as he started the invocation for coronation. To the right, Je-hana's face went pale as the footsteps came to an ominous halt at the transept.
"Bless, we beseech Thee, O Lord—" Corrigan began.
"Stop!" commanded a low, female voice.
Corrigan froze, the crown poised over Kelson's head, then quickly lowered the crown and looked at Kelson apologetically. His glance flicked over Kelson's head again, and then he stepped back. There was the clatter of steel on the sanctuary steps, then silence. Carefully, Kelson rose from his knees to face the intruders.
The significance of the mailed gauntlet on the steps before him was unmistakable, as were the armed men lined up in the aisle behind the woman. Looking down the aisle, Kelson could see at least three dozen war-
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riors, some in the black flowing robes of Charissa's Moorish emirs, the others in more conventional mail and battle attire. Two of the Moors flanked their mistress to either side, arms folded impassively across their chests, their faces dark and grim under the black velvet jubbas.
But it was the woman herself to whom Kelson's attention returned again and again. For she was totally unlike what he had expected. He had never considered the possibility before, but Charissa was beautiful!
It was obvious that Charissa had anticipated this reaction and capitalized on it, quite evident that she had planned her appearance accordingly, for maximum effect.
A gown of blued-grey silk flowed from a high, jewelled collar around the ivory neck, and the whole was covered against the cold by a cloak of deep grey velvet and fox. The long, pale hair was coiled and braided in a high coronet at the top of her head, a small sapphire coronet encircling it. And the entire shining mass was lightly covered with a gossamer veil of blue which spilled down her back and softened the determined expression on her face.
That expression was what finally brought Kelson to his senses, made him reevaluate his first impression. For the coiled hair resembled nothing more than a heavy, golden crown, shrouded slightly in gossamer blue softness—symbolic in her mind, no doubt, of the other crown she hoped to wear before the day was over.
She nodded greeting as Kelson's eyes met hers, then glanced meaningfully at the mailed gauntlet on the steps between them. Kelson did not miss the significance of that glance, and suddenly he was coldly angry. He knew he must hold this creature impotent —at least until a way of dealing with her could be found.
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"What would you in the House of the Lord?" he demanded quietly, a plan beginning to form. His grey eyes burned with a cold fire reminiscent of the old Brion, and he seemed suddenly to add double the years to his dignity.
Charissa raised one eyebrow, then bowed mockingly. The boy reminded her of Brion twenty years ago, with a presence which was surprisingly mature and commanding for his years. What a pity he would not live to profit from it.
"What do I want?" she asked silkily. "Why, your death, of course, Kelson. Surely you had some inkling. Or didn't your 'Champion' see fit to warn you of the fact?"
She turned to smile sweetly at Morgan, then returned her attention to Kelson. But Kelson was not amused.
"Your insinuation is as unwelcome here as you are,** Kelson replied coldly. "Begone before you tax our patience to the breaking point Armed retinues are not welcome in this House."
Charissa smiled unconcernedly. "Bold words, my noble princeling." She gestured toward the gauntlet. "Unfortunately, you cannot be rid of me that easily. I have challenged your right to rule Gwynedd. Surely you will agree that I cannot now leave until that challenge has been satisfied."
Kelson's gaze flashed grimly to the men behind Charissa, then back to the woman. Charissa, he knew, was trying to goad him into the inevitable duel of magic. But he also knew that without his father's powers, he would fail. Fortunately, there was a way to forestall the battle for a while and still satisfy honor. Meanwhile, perhaps he could gather his wits about him for the decisive confrontation which would eventually follow.
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He glanced at Charissa's men again, then made his decision.
"Very well. As King of Gwynedd, we accept your challenge. And under the ancient rules of challenge, our Champion shall fight yours at such time and place as shall be determined at a later date. Is that agreeable?" He was confident that Morgan could easily beat any man in Charissa's entourage.
A nicker of anger crossed Charissa's face for just an instant, but she quickly masked it. She had hoped to leave Morgan unharmed for a while longer, so that he might further suffer as the last of the Haldanes met their deaths today. That was not essential, however. What bothered her more was that lan might not be able to defeat the Deryni half-breed.
She glanced at the gauntlet again, then nodded. **Well played, Kelson. You have postponed our confrontation for perhaps five minutes, since I still mean to call you out in personal combat.'*
"Not while our Champion stands!" Kelson interjected.
"That can be remedied," Charissa continued briskly. "First of all, we shall not determine the outcome of this contest at a later date. The time and place are here and now. You have no choice in the matter. Further, I shall not rest my fortunes on any of these who stand with me here. My Champion stands yonder to defend me."
As she gestured toward the right side of the cathedral, lan stepped from the ranks of the noblemen with a sly grin on his face and glided to Charissa's side. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword as he gazed mildly across the distance between himself and Kelson. Kelson was astonished at the disclosure of lan as the betrayer in his midst, for he had always thought of th
e young Earl as a loyal, if not overenthusiastic, supporter. This explained the strange happenings that had
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plagued them since Morgan's arrival. With his high rank, lan would have had no trouble at all setting the Stenrect, killing the guard, massacring the guard detail at Brion's tomb last night.
As he thought about it, he realized that lan's statements had often tended to encourage the loose talk about Morgan over the past three months. His unfinished statements, his sly innuendoes—of course. In fact, he must also have some Deryni power himself. And motivation was no puzzle. He knew as well as anyone else that Eastmarch bordered Morgan's Corwyn.
None of this showed on Kelson's face, however. Only his eyes narrowed slightly as he turned his attention to lan, his voice low and dangerous in the stillness.
"You would dare to raise steel against me, lan? And in this House?"
"Aye, and in a thousand like it," lan retorted, steel whispering against steel as he drew his blade and bowed silkily. "And now," he gestured with his sword, "will your Champion come down to do battle? Or must I come up and slay him where he stands?"
Cat-quiet, Morgan glided down the chancel steps, drawing his sword as he went. "Save your words for your victory, traitor!" he spat. He scooped up the gauntlet with the tip of his blade and flipped it through the air to land at Charissa's feet.
"I accept your challenge in the name of Kelson Hal-dane, King of Gwynedd!"
"Don't be too sure!" lan countered, moving purposefully toward Morgan.
As Charissa's men moved back to give the two room to fight, lan eyed his opponent thoughtfully, the tip of his blade wandering almost lazily before him as he studied Morgan's every move.
Morgan, too, studied his opponent, his grey eyes
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taking in every step, every subtle movement of lan's burnished blade. He had never crossed swords with lan before, but obviously the Earl had considerably more skill than he liked people to think he had. There was a careless intensity about the man that put Morgan instantly on guard.