Old Barrett shook his hairless head slowly, the blind emerald eyes gazing into some unknown realm.
“It is not that which concerns me,” he breathed. “It is the war in Meara. If the king should die—”
“The king will not die,” Sofiana said, at Barrett’s right. “At least, he should not, if he played his strategies as he ought. Today’s battle should have brought him victory.”
“Today’s battle?” Arilan murmured.
“What talk is this?” Laran said, sitting up straighter.
Even Kyri watched a little more attentively as Sofiana seemed to pull herself back from some inner contemplation long enough to sweep them with her black eyes.
“I have an agent in the royal entourage,” she said softly. “He has been reporting to me on a regular basis since the Haldane host left Rhemuth. I am awaiting his contact even now.”
“Well, that’s cheeky,” Laran muttered, as Vivienne leaned across him to pass a whispered comment to Kyri.
Tiercel only watched Sofiana the more avidly, along with the other men. Once more, Sofiana and her desert ways of silence and stealth had caught them all off-guard.
“You have an agent in the royal entourage,” Arilan repeated, stunned. “Then, you know what has been happening of late?”
Sofiana, her pale, exotic face framed by the snowy drapery of the Moorish qiffieh, raised her eyes to the crystal sphere above their heads, already centering for the contact she expected.
“Yesterday, the Bishop-Duke of Cassan made a grave tactical error. He found the main Mearan army he had been searching for—or, rather, they found him.”
“Sancta Dei Genetrix!” Tiercel breathed. “Sicard’s host. Was McLain defeated?”
“He, personally? Yes. But not his army,” Sofiana replied. “Apparently he ordered them to scatter when he realized he had led them into a trap, reasoning that Loris would try to take him at all cost, and the army might escape to fight another day—which is precisely what happened.”
“Was Duncan killed?” Arilan asked, grave dread turning his soul to lead.
Sofiana shook her head, closing her eyes.
“Not killed—at least, not outright. Captured. But if still alive, he is now in the hands of Loris and Gorony, who understand the weakness of Deryni when plied with merasha.”
Even those with least cause to love the half-breed Duncan McLain shuddered at that, for all had experienced the effect of merasha in the course of training. Arilan’s hands were actually shaking as he tried to fold them carefully on the ivory table before him.
“You said your agent was in the Haldane camp,” he whispered. “Then, Kelson knows of Duncan’s capture, and the rout of the Cassani host?”
“He does. Somehow, young Dhugal MacArdry contrived last night to contact him. The king immediately turned all his resources toward the relief of the Cassani host, and the rescue of Duncan McLain, in particular, if he was still alive. They rode all through the night, and would have engaged the Mearan host early today. It will have been resolved by now.”
“Dear Lord, it has all come to naught, even as we spoke,” old Vivienne murmured, twisting her gnarled hands together in despair. “Sofiana, have you no idea how it went? Can you tell us nothing further?”
Without opening her eyes, Sofiana spread her arms to either side and took the hands of Tiercel and Barrett, drawing in another deep, centering breath.
“The moon has risen. My agent will be making his arrangements for the contact. If you will join with me in providing a channel to assist him, we shall have our answers all the sooner.”
He was slight and wiry in the manner of the desert folk of Nur Hallaj, unassuming and unmemorable in appearance, as became a seasoned scout of the Haldane eastern levies. He was physically tired, but the news he had for his mistress lent both vigor and urgency to his mood as he passed through the Haldane camp, glancing up at the moon. Time was nearly upon him.
“What ho, Raif!” a sentry called amiably. “Off on the king’s business again?”
Raif raised a friendly hand in greeting as he drew abreast of the sentry, shaking his head bemusedly.
“No, the king is abed. I thought I’d check horses once more before I turn in. And you?”
The man shrugged. “I just came on watch. I’m here for another two hours. I intend to make up for the lost sleep when I do go off duty, though. Raise a few snores for me, friend.”
“I shall. Sleep well.”
Raif mulled what he had learned as he made his way softly between two barrack tents and headed toward the horse lines. The news was better than he would have dared to hope a few hours before. He had already been gathering information for several hours, as the encampment sprang up all around him over the ruins of the Mearan Grand Army, deftly questioning dozens of soldiers who would remember little of their conversations in the morning. He had shadowed the compound where the prisoners slept, ringed by wary Haldane troops, and he had braved the battle surgeons’ encampment, with its tents full of wounded and dying men.
Now, as the homey sounds of finished meals and slumber replaced the harsher martial sounds of earlier in the day, he could turn his thoughts to more pressing matters. The man he sought would be by the lancers’ picket line.
His passage aroused no special interest. Scouts were as familiar as grooms and squires along the picket lines, for scouts, like the armored knights and men-at-arms, depended upon good horseflesh for their lives and livelihood. A few men raised hands in greeting as he strolled among the horses, pausing occasionally to stroke a velvet nose or satin flank, but no one challenged him. He found Hoag propped against a saddle just outside the tent of the lancers’ captain, drinking wine by light of a tiny campfire. No one else was within earshot.
“Hello, Hoag,” he murmured, tossing his cloak beside the man and flopping down to share his saddle backrest.
“Ah, Raif. I wondered whether you’d show before I passed out for the night. Have some wine?”
“A few swallows, perhaps. Thank you.”
He caught Hoag with his eyes as the wineskin changed hands and he made contact, taking the man so deftly into thrall that Hoag was completely unaware that anything had changed.
“So, how goes it?” Raif went on, lifting the wineskin to his lips. “Is the captain still abroad?”
Hoag blinked, glassy-eyed, his voice low and devoid of expression.
“Nay, he’s abed.”
“Good. I’m sure he needs the sleep.”
Raif glanced casually toward the horse lines as he set the wineskin between them, pretending amiable camaraderie for the benefit of anyone watching, then poked at the pile of kindling near the fire until he found a twig. He broke off a few projecting bits as he lay back against the saddle beside the dazzled Hoag, then gave the man a lazy, casual smile as he smoothed a patch of sand between them, next to the wineskin.
“You know, today’s strategies were really quite brilliant,” he murmured, beginning to sketch a pattern which, to the uninitiated, would appear to be a battle diagram. “Do you realize what the king did, when he ordered the charge from the east?”
Hoag’s eyes had followed Raif’s every move, and now they tracked the pattern he traced, with increasing attention, slipping unerringly into the deeper trance state that Raif demanded.
“But, perhaps that’s too complicated, after a long day’s fighting,” he murmured, touching Hoag’s hand with the end of the twig.
Instantly, Hoag’s eyelids fluttered and closed, his breathing deepening to that of sleep, though he leaned on his elbow still.
“Ah, yes,” Raif whispered, never taking his eyes from Hoag’s as he tossed his twig into the fire, “you look very, very tired, Hoag.”
Hoag’s only sound was a tiny, relieved sigh as he collapsed back against the saddle.
Raif watched him carefully for several seconds, moving the wineskin into the circle of his arm, then glanced around again before himself settling slowly to a supine position beside his sleeping subject, he
ad cradled on one arm. After a few more minutes, himself asleep to all outward perceptions, he shifted drowsily so that one hand sprawled across Hoag’s arm around the wineskin, confirming the physical contact he needed in order to draw through the link he had created.
Then he set himself to trancing, pushing himself deeper, deeper, so that the glow of the firelight behind his closed eyelids gently receded along with the fading sounds of the camp around him, the warmth drew back to only barely discernable levels, and he was at last ready to cast his mind northeastward, toward the woman who awaited his call.
Images of the day’s battle, bright and strong: Kelson’s forces sweeping to the top of the last range of hills ringing the Mearan encampment, surging downward to surprise the Mearan host.
Duncan, his body bloodied from scourging and other tortures, chained groggily to the stake, the flames licking higher, nearer … magic to deflect the arrows … Dhugal’s daring rescue … Loris and Gorony captured … Sicard choosing death at Kelson’s hands rather than face trial and execution for his treason … the Mearan host brought to its knees in surrender—and plans to rest a day at Dorna before heading west to Laas, where the Princess Caitrin had fled to make her last stand.
Duncan’s status? Rumors that, though grievously used, he would survive; that Morgan employed his healing powers alongside the surgical skills of young Dhugal MacArdry—and that Dhugal was Duncan’s son!
Uproar swept through the Council when the link was released, strategic and military considerations giving way, as usual, to those concerns that were, in the Council’s judgment, more practical.
“Why didn’t you tell us about Duncan and Dhugal?” Laran demanded of Arilan, who was as astonished as any of the rest of them at the news. “Duncan’s son! Why, the implications are staggering!”
“But, I didn’t know!” Arilan protested. “As God is my witness, I didn’t—but, the possibilities.… Good God, you don’t suppose he could be a healer, too, do you?”
The mere suggestion was enough to send the Council into loud, agitated debate for several minutes.
Tiercel de Claron only laughed and shook his head, leaning both hands on the arms of his chair.
“Oh, this is marvelous! The rogue Deryni has a rogue Deryni bastard!”
“Tiercel!” Vivienne muttered, glaring at the youngest member of the Council.
But it was Sofiana who returned them to the more important point; Sofiana who had seen what the others had not, in their preoccupation with the immediate implications of the new information.
“And what of Kelson?” she asked softly, sweeping them with her bright gaze. “Should we not consider what he has done?”
As they muttered among themselves, she went on.
“This is not the first communication I have had from my agent on the new campaign,” she told them. “I believe it was Lady Vivienne who complained, not many weeks ago, that Kelson must learn to be ruthless?”
“So I said,” Vivienne conceded, matching Sofiana’s gaze with one of challenge. “And so I still maintain.”
“Nor do I disagree,” Sofiana replied, smiling enigmatically. “However, I put it to you that the king has now accomplished a great many of the things we associate with mature, responsible, and, yes, ruthless kingship. He killed his enemies at Llyndruth Meadows, as was required of him. After trial, he executed Prince Llewell for murder, when he could have struck him down with impunity at the scene of the crime and no one would have said a word against him. He executed Prince Ithel and Brice of Trurill, also after trial, and decimated their officers.” She drew breath again.
“Now he has cut down Sicard of Meara, as you have seen, rather than waste more lives bringing to justice a man who has already cost too many lives. It was a logical measure, and one that I must applaud, but it is not the merciful act of a child-king. I maintain that Kelson Haldane is now sufficiently ruthless even for our number.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
So he overcame the destroyer, not with strength of body, nor force of arms, but with a word subdued he him that punished.
—Wisdom of Solomon 18:22
The following morning required that Kelson be more ruthless, still, as he and Cardiel approached the tent where Loris and Gorony lay prisoners. Well-armed guards of the Haldane lancers ringed the tent, and Ciard O Ruane, Dhugal’s faithful gillie, met them in the entryway, glancing back through the tent flap before pulling the edges together with his hands behind his back.
“Good morning, Ciard,” Kelson murmured, as the gillie sketched him and Cardiel a perfunctory bow. “A quiet night, I take it?”
“As quiet as a tomb, Sair, once we stopped tha’ madman Loris’ lyin’ tongue,” old Ciard muttered. “He wouldna’ cease his rantin’, so we had tae gag him—he that brought about th’ Old MacArdry’s untimely death. How is th’ Laird Dhugal this mornin’—an’ his—father?”
“Ah, you’ve heard it, too, then,” Kelson said. “They’re fine. Tell me, though, Ciard, does that bother you?—that Dhugal is Duncan’s son, rather than Caulay’s?”
Ciard shook his grizzled head stubbornly. “I canna’ speak for the clan, Sair, but young Dhugal is my chief, an’ will be sae long as he lives, whether he’s Caulay’s son or only his grandson. Th’ borders inherit by tanistry. Dhugal was chosen as th’ next chief, an’ could hae been, even if he’d been nae blood relative to Caulay at all. I dinna’ think yon Duke of Cassan can pass his title in th’ same manner, however. Methinks he’ll need more proof than merely his word, that Dhugal is his legal heir. An’ a bishop’s son—”
“Duncan wasn’t a bishop when Dhugal was born, Ciard,” Cardiel said. “He wasn’t even a priest. But you’re right that it will take more than just his word to prove Dhugal’s legitimacy. Maybe there’s some Deryni way.”
“Aye, that’s problematical,” Ciard agreed, apparently nonplussed by the prospect of Deryni magic, as many borderers were. “But even though ye believe he’s tellin’ th’ truth—an’ I do—it’ll take more than that t’ prove it to th’ satisfaction o’ most. Ye canna’ be considered an unbiased witness, after all, Sair. An’ I dinna’ know what other Deryni ye might call upon, but if they count themselves yer friends, they canna’ be considered unbiased, either. I dinna’ envy ye yer task.”
“I don’t envy it, either,” Kelson said, “but I’ll figure out something.” He sighed. “I suppose I ought to see the prisoners now.”
“Aye, Sair. There’s sommat ye should know, though, before ye go in.” He reached into the front of his jerkin and pulled out a wadded kerchief which he opened to disclose two heavy gold rings set with amethysts. “I took these off o’ Loris yesterday. There’s sommat odd about ’em. I ken they’re bishop’s rings, Archbishop,” he added, with a nod toward Cardiel, “but—weel, ye know that we border folk hae th’ Second Sight sometimes. An’—”
“And you have more of it than most,” Kelson murmured. “Dhugal’s told me. Go on. You don’t have to explain.”
“Weel, then, ye willna’ think it strange if I tell ye that I wouldna’ touch th’ rings bare-handed unless I was sure I was well warded—”
Kelson raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You know about warding?”
“Ach, o’ course, lad. Hasna’ Dhugal ever told ye?”
“No.”
“Weel, ’tis old border custom. Ask him about it sometime. I dinna’ ken that it’s the same as yer Deryni warding, but it does the same job. In any case, be careful wi’ th’ rings. Would I be right in assumin’ that one o’ them belongs t’ Bishop Duncan?”
Cardiel took the cloth with the nested rings and nodded. “Aye, and before that it was Henry Istelyn’s.”
“Ach, the puir, sainted man,” Ciard muttered, crossing himself piously. “Mayhap that explains why Loris was a-cryin’ out in his sleep last night, an’ kept yammerin’ about demons comin’ t’ get him. ’Tis he who had Istelyn murdered, was it not?”
“Aye.” Cardiel wrapped up the rings and tucked them into the front of his cass
ock, as Kelson shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.
“We’ll deal with that later, Ciard,” the king said in a low voice. “Right now, I want to get on with my questioning.”
“He willna’ gie ye much help, I fear,” Ciard muttered. “They’ve both got foul mouths on ’em, fer priests. Th’ monsignor shut up after a few smart cuffs, but like I told ye, we had t’ gag Loris t’ get any peace at all.”
“He’ll speak civilly to me,” Kelson said, motioning for Ciard to pull aside the tent flap. “I don’t look forward to this, but he’ll tell me exactly what I want to know.”
He braced himself as he went inside. Guards snapped to attention as be appeared—four of the scouts who were accustomed to Deryni methods of working—and a disheveled Loris and Gorony bestirred themselves to sit up. The two were laden with chains, clad only in once-white linen singlets, stripped of all ecclesiastical pretense. Gorony looked lucid enough, and wisely held his tongue as Kelson and the archbishop paused to look at him, but Loris’ blue eyes blazed above his gag with the undisguised hatred of the already doomed.
“Was it your idea to torture Duncan?” Kelson asked Gorony, without preamble, turning his Truth-Reading talent on the captive priest.
Gorony raised his eyes defiantly to Kelson’s.
“No.”
“Don’t bother to lie to me, Gorony. I can read you like a book. Where has Caitrin gone?”
“I don’t know—and I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”
“You do know—and you will tell me. Guards—”
At his signal, Jemet and Kirkon moved in to pin Gorony’s arms.
“Don’t you dare touch me, you filthy Deryni bastard!” Gorony ranted, lashing out with his feet as Kelson came closer, and nearly catching Kelson in the crotch. “Take your bloody—”
Without prompting, Raif came behind Gorony and thrust a riding crop cross-wise between his teeth, hands pulling back from either end to yank Gorony’s head immobile against his chest, while the fourth man tackled Gorony’s legs with his full weight to still them.