“Ordered ye. Wi’ his magic, I suppose?” Ciard said contemptuously. “Dinna’ compound the cowardice with lyin’, laddie.”
“I am not lying,” Dhugal said evenly. “And don’t call me laddie. As a matter of fact, Bishop Duncan did use his magic—though apparently, you’d prefer to believe me a coward!”
Ciard set his jaw and turned his face away at that, not saying anything, and Dhugal knew this was going to be even harder than he had thought. The others looked anywhere but at him, angry with him, embarrassed for him, ashamed of him, their minds made up as well. And he could not afford to waste much more time trying to explain. He must begin trying to reach Kelson, and he was frantic with worry about his father. He wondered whether he had enough skill yet to make them listen to him.
No, definitely not all of them, he decided. But perhaps Ciard alone. Surely the old man did not really want to believe him a coward—Ciard, who had served him since his birth.
“Ciard, may I speak with you alone?” he asked quietly, after a few heartbeats. “Please?”
“I ha’ nothin’ to say to ye that canna’ be said before my kinsmen,” Ciard answered coldly.
Dhugal swallowed his pride to try again.
“You can tell them, after,” he said softly. “Please, Ciard. For the love you once bore me.”
Ciard turned his head slowly, his eyes full of ice and contempt, but he got up and went with Dhugal to where the horses cropped grass in the forest clearing. He stopped beside Dhugal’s grey, throwing one arm over the animal’s withers to lean against its shoulder as he glanced sidelong at Dhugal in the dimness.
“Well?”
Dhugal moved close enough to stroke the stallion’s neck, choosing his next words carefully. With what Duncan and Morgan had taught him, he felt fairly confident that he could force the necessary rapport to make Ciard see the truth, but he knew he was not yet skilled enough to do it without physical contact—and that, Ciard would never permit, feeling betrayed, as he did, by his young master. Nor could Dhugal’s lesser size and strength stand up to any physical contest with the experienced Ciard, who had taught Dhugal much of what he knew.
But physical contact he must have, if his ill-trained powers were to be of any help in the matter. There simply was not time to try to explain verbally, with each answer leading to yet another question. Still stroking the stallion’s silky neck, Dhugal found himself wondering whether the living mass of the horse between them might be made to function as the physical link he needed—at least long enough to get past any physical resistance.
“Ciard, I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused you,” he said softly.
“I’m sure ye are, Dhugal, but it’s a wee bit late tae be thinkin’ o’ that now.”
“Perhaps.” He began meshing his consciousness with the stallion’s, extending tendrils of control along equine synapses toward the man leaning against the animal’s other side. The big warhorse only shuffled softly and continued grazing, unconcerned with this new sort of partnership his master was building. A part of Dhugal found himself wondering if this was how he’d come to be so good with horses in the first place, doing by instinct what he had lately been learning to do by design.
“Ciard, I—there isn’t time to explain as well as I’d like,” he went on, “but I—there’s a kind of magical communication that Deryni can do sometimes. When the king was at Transha last fall, he taught me a little about it. That’s how Bishop Duncan gave me his orders.”
He could just see Ciard’s grimace of skepticism as the old gillie twisted a strand of the horse’s mane between his fingers, unaware of the tendrils of power easing through the animal’s body and beginning to wind about him as well.
“A convenient explanation, after th’ fact, son, but hardly convincing,” Ciard murmured. “They’re Deryni—the king and Bishop Duncan. You’re but border blood.”
“Border blood—aye,” Dhugal breathed, his free hand darting out to seize Ciard’s arm across the horse’s back, even as his mind surged across the link already made through his own contact with the animal. “But only through my mother’s line. I am also Deryni!”
Even as Ciard gasped, Dhugal was in his mind, pulling him down into unconsciousness before he could draw another breath. As Ciard went limp, sliding slowly down the horse’s neck despite Dhugal’s attempt to slow his collapse, Dhugal released him long enough to duck under the horse’s belly and catch his helpless form, himself sinking to the grass under Ciard’s dead weight.
He hoped the stallion would watch where it put its feet. He had only done this a few times, and always under supervision by Morgan or his father, and he did not relish the idea of getting stepped on while he tried to work with Ciard.
But his trusty equine friend only stood with all four feet firmly planted and whuffled once, softly, in his ear, before returning to its grazing. And Dhugal’s work seemed amazingly simple, once he began and let the process flow at its own speed.
“Listen to me, Ciard,” he whispered, underlining his words with the fuller pictures from his mind, as he clasped Ciard’s head between his hands. “Father Duncan is my father in fact as well as title. Old Caulay was my grandfather.”
Swiftly the images passed then, of a Duncan only Dhugal’s age, wooing Caulay’s daughter Maryse. Ciard had known and loved the girl.
But he had known young Ardry MacArdry, slain by a McLain man in a drunken brawl, and had loved him, too; and well he remembered the blood feud that had threatened to erupt between the two clans, even though Ardry’s murderer was executed by his own people—and the tension when The MacArdry and Duke Jared McLain, Duncan’s father, had returned from campaign and agreed to go their separate ways, lest bloodshed erupt anew.
And Duncan and Maryse had been as much the victims of that fatal brawling as Ardry and the McLain man—whose name Dhugal never had learned—for well did they know how futile it would be to ask permission of their fathers to marry, after all that had occurred.
Thus had the pair exchanged secret vows in the deserted chapel late that night, with only God for witness. And when Maryse rode out of Culdi the next morning with her father and clan, intending one day to wed Duncan according to more orthodox rites, little did either she or Duncan dream that their brief union would bear fruit. The son born to Maryse late the following winter, but a few weeks after her mother bore a daughter, had been claimed by the mother and presented as Caulay’s son when he returned from winter court and spring campaigning—for Maryse had died of a fever.
And no one had known that Caulay’s youngest son was, in fact, a McLain replacement for the slain young Ardry MacArdry. Even Dhugal had pieced together the true story only the previous winter, when a cloak clasp left him by his “mother” had released a devastating flood of long-dormant memories in Duncan, who recognized it as his own and had put all the clues together.
Dhugal spared Ciard nothing of what he had learned, saving that which was private between father and son, for Ciard himself had been almost a father to him. Very soon, Ciard’s eyes were fluttering open, to gaze up at Dhugal with awe and new understanding.
“Are—are ye still in my mind?” he asked.
Dhugal shook his head. “I wouldn’t have gone in at all, except that I didn’t know any other way to tell you. And I won’t again, without your permission. Will you help me? I have to try to contact Kelson.”
“Of course, laddie.” Ciard sat up and dusted dead leaves off his shoulders and elbows, then let Dhugal help him to his feet. “I dinna’ think we should tell the others everything, though. Especially not the part about yer not being Caulay’s son an’ all. That’s—goin’ t’ take a bit o’ gettin’ used to.”
Dhugal shrugged and grinned. “I’m still his grandson, Ciard.”
“Aye. An’ still the heir and rightful chief, for that matter—though yer heir to a duchy as well, now. My, my, now, won’t that set the cat among the pigeons? You, a bishop’s heir, an’ all!”
“I just hope I haven’t already inherit
ed my ducal title,” Dhugal murmured. “Ciard, I haven’t been able to touch him at all!”
“Well, mayhap it’s difficult o’er any distance.”
“No, I have to accept the possibility that he may be dead,” Dhugal murmured, not accepting that possibility at all, but knowing he must not let his fear keep him from doing what he could, since he could not do anything for Duncan just now.
“And if he isn’t dead,” Dhugal went on steadily, “he’s almost certainly a prisoner—which, in some respects, is even worse. I know, first-hand, what Loris is capable of doing to a human prisoner—or one he thinks is human. A Deryni, like my father—”
He shuddered and made himself put the thought aside, not wanting to even consider what that might mean.
“Anyway, I have to try to reach Kelson,” he went on bravely. “It’s what my father wanted. And if he is still alive, and—and in Loris’ power, then only Kelson and the main army have a chance of rescuing him in time.”
“Then, we’d better get to it, lad,” Ciard said, taking his arm and starting to march him back to the fire where the others waited.
“I believe that Bishop Duncan did order him t’ leave,” he told them, as he guided Dhugal to the bedding beside his own saddle and crouched down as Dhugal sat. “What we saw—the fire an’ all—was cover so we could escape t’ warn th’ king. He used th’ same magic t’ tell Dhugal t’ go.”
The men seemed taken aback at that, but they were disinclined to doubt Ciard, even if they still had some misgivings about their young master. All of them had seen the outward results of Duncan’s magic. Why not another part they had not seen? Certainly the visible part had been to their good.
“Fair enough,” old Lambert said. “It appears we owe ye an apology, young Dhugal.”
“Accepted,” Dhugal murmured, ducking his head in acknowledgment. “I don’t blame you for what you thought. I know my explanation seemed farfetched.”
“No fartherfetched than the other task th’ good bishop has laid upon ye, lad,” Ciard said, settling behind Dhugal with an elbow resting on his saddle. “Gather closer, lads. Our young laird needs our help.”
They listened incredulously as Ciard told them what Dhugal wanted to attempt, but to Dhugal’s amazement, they did not seem to take it amiss.
“Ye say the king’s taught him how t’ do this?” Matthias asked, reclining against his saddle and listening avidly.
Ciard nodded. “Aye. An’ it’s magic—make no doubt about that. But ’tis summer-white, I know. Difficult, though, not knowin’ how far the king may be from here, so we must lend him our strength.”
“How do we do that?” Lambert asked, not batting an eye.
Dhugal managed a reassuring smile as he leaned back against Ciard’s chest, settling in the circle of his arms.
“Bonnie MacArdry men, an’ true! Your strength will lend me wings to send my thoughts to the king. Just stay with me,” he said, stretching out his hands to Lambert and to Jass, who were closest, and taking strength already from their firm handclasps. “Be at ease. Lie close, where I can touch you. There’s no danger. You may even fall asleep.”
“What if someone comes?” asked Matthias, shifting closer so that he, too, could join the link.
Dhugal flicked a tendril of thought out to scan the area, but there was nothing alive for miles, besides the horses and the five of them.
“Guard, if you’d rather, but no one will come.”
But Matthias only shook his head and crawled closer, to lay his head trustingly on Dhugal’s knee, curling on his side. Nor, to Dhugal’s amazement, did any of the others have anything else to say.
“Wha’ happens next?” Ciard whispered in his ear, watching awed as Dhugal’s breathing began to slow and shift to the early stages of trance, the tension leaving his face.
“Just go to sleep,” Dhugal murmured, yawning.
And within seconds, all of them were yawning, too, and settling drowsily around him.
He let himself sink deeper, his awareness of the clearing, the fire, and the men around him fading with every breath. It was different, doing it all alone, without Duncan or Morgan or Kelson to guide him, but he found himself gathering the strands of the men’s potentials with little effort—and sensed their psychic strength ready to be tapped if he needed it.
The thought drifted across his consciousness that he really ought to find out more about the Second Sight his border folk had always claimed—perhaps it was some vestige of Deryni gifts long forgotten—but after acknowledging it, he made himself set that aside. Other matters were more important now.
When he had gone as deep as he dared without guidance, only just aware of his body slumped limp and defenseless in Ciard’s arms, he cast out briefly for his father. And when, as expected, that brought no discernable result, he settled down to the more delicate task not only of locating Kelson, but of trying to touch his consciousness.
For a long time, nothing at all happened. But then he thought he began to detect a stirring, not in the sleeping men around him and not within himself.
His probe reached no one on any conscious level. Deep asleep after Morgan’s earlier ministrations, Kelson had floated dreamlessly for several hours, so still that Morgan, too, had finally lain down on his own cot to try to get some rest. Sleep did not come easily, but when it did, Morgan dreamed about Duncan, and Dhugal, and the two of them battling their way through wave after wave of knights who never tired. It was Kelson’s cry that jolted Morgan from his own nightmare.
“Kelson, what is it?” Morgan whispered, instantly out of bed and at the king’s side, grabbing his wrists to restrain his thrashing.
Almost at once, Kelson was wide awake and still, his eyes a little glazed looking as he cast back for what had frightened him, confident now that Morgan was with him.
“I was dreaming—about Duncan,” he whispered, gazing beyond Morgan’s eyes as he sought still. “They were after him.”
“Who was after him, my prince?” Morgan urged. For he, too, had dreamed of danger for Duncan.
“Knights with blue crosses on white surcoats. Loris’, I think. Gorony was there, too. He was urging them on. What an awful dream!”
Drawing deep breath, Morgan sat down on the edge of the royal bed, shifting his grasp from Kelson’s wrists to his hands.
“Go back,” he whispered, locking his eyes to Kelson’s and starting already to forge an old, familiar link between them. “Let me take you as deep as you can go, and try to capture it again. I don’t think it was a dream. I dreamed it, too.”
“Oh, God, I think you may be right,” Kelson breathed, already plummeting to a more comfortable working level with such speed that he had to close his eyes. “I—I think it may have been Dhugal. Can something have happened to Duncan?”
We can’t worry about Duncan for now, Morgan replied, shifting to mind-speech as both their levels deepened. First, try to reestablish the link with Dhugal. He won’t be able to hold it for very long. Stretch yourself to the limit, but touch him. I’ll be with you all the way.
And Dhugal, nearly a day’s ride away, felt the answering probe of two familiar minds—not just one. He shuddered in Ciard’s arms as he drew strength from the men around him and flung his mind back across the miles. This time, they were able to lock on and hold him; and all three of them knew it was no dream.
Images of battle: Dhugal and his men fighting at Duncan’s side … white-clad knights drawing nearer, nearer, directed by Loris.… Gorony’s crack episcopal troops, closing the trap.…
Duncan’s curtain of fire sending consternation into their ranks—at least long enough for Dhugal and his men to slip through and escape—and the order, swift and unmistakable and not to be questioned—for Dhugal to leave him to his fate and ride to warn Kelson.…
… that Loris had been found at last, and Sicard of Meara, and all the Mearan grand army, all lying within striking distance by the following noon, if Kelson’s were away within the hour.…
The de
tails were exchanged with a speed only possible in mind—a briefing that would have taken hours, face-to-face, but Dhugal was able to impart his knowledge in the space of a few dozen heartbeats.
He was gasping when he came out of it, struggling to sit up and get his bearings, making certain they were still safe from intruders. His companions stirred groggily to stare at him in awe, aware that power had coursed through him from somewhere, and had been drawn from them, but uncertain of anything else.
“The king will come,” Dhugal whispered, his eyes still otherworldly and a little unfocused. “We’ll meet him at dawn. Rest a few minutes now,” he added, reaching out to brush each one in swift but insistent control.
And as they succumbed, he sealed each with his psychic order: Sleep and remember nothing that will alarm you.
Morgan, meanwhile, found ever more reason to be alarmed, as Kelson left him to give orders for march and Morgan himself settled back into trance. He cast for Duncan until Brendan and his squire came to arm him, stretching his own resources far thinner than was prudent, alone and unmonitored, but he could touch no trace of his cousin. The Deryni priest was either dead or drugged to senselessness.
“Do you think he really doesn’t know where Kelson is?” Sicard asked, from somewhere out of sight, the voice wavering and hollow as it filtered through Duncan’s crippled senses.
“Of course he knows. He’s Deryni, isn’t he?”
A hand turned Duncan’s head roughly to one side, and Lawrence Gorony’s face loomed in his vision, leering and obscene, watching from a stool close by his head. The sudden movement set up a wave of vertigo, bordering on nausea, that was almost welcome after the pain pulsing in his feet.
Duncan was fairly certain that Gorony had now pulled out all ten of his toenails, though he had lost accurate count at around seven. The little pile of them lay on his bare chest, bloody and pathetic. He had seen some of them, one time when his neck arched upward in his agony. Knowing Gorony, his fingernails would probably be next.