Jarred from his introspection, Bishop Oliver de Nore shook his head. Though normally a witty and articulate table companion, he had been brooding over his trencher through the first several courses, and had already earned puzzled glances from his superiors, the Archbishops Desmond and William, seated a few places up the table on the other side.
“Nay, I am well enough,” de Nore allowed. “I was reflecting how well the Deryni witch continues to prosper. Her husband is now Earl of Lendour, and her half-breed son flourishes. It is clear that the king dotes on this cursèd family.”
“Sir Kenneth has long been the king’s good friend,” Father Rodder observed, “and has many times saved the king’s life. Surely it is fitting that he should be rewarded for his loyalty and service.”
“The service of getting a Deryni brat on that Deryni witch?” de Nore said bitterly. “She denounced my brother, Rodder! Her accusations betrayed him to his death!”
Father Rodder contained a sigh, for he was tiring of this reiteration of old grievances. But since de Nore was his superior, he tempered his reply to diplomatic neutrality.
“I cannot dispute the facts,” he agreed quietly. “She did, indeed, have a part in discovering the involvement of Father Septimus in the…unfortunate incident. But she is a great heiress, even if she is Deryni, with vastly important lands. Surely it is prudent to give those lands into the keeping of a loyal human lord.”
“Aye, if it does not corrupt him, to consort with such a sorceress,” de Nore conceded, albeit grudgingly. But his eyes narrowed every time his gaze glided in the direction of the pair, noting the eager adulation of the small entourage come from Lendour and Corwyn for the Twelfth Night Court.
ELSEWHERE, somewhat later that night, others more kindly disposed toward Deryni were also assessing the day’s events. Lord Seisyll Arilan, senior of King Donal’s ministers of state and also senior in an organization embodying everything Bishop Oliver de Nore had come to hate, was contemplating the day’s developments as he made his way to the apartment he maintained within the castle precincts—one of the more useful perquisites of his office as a crown counselor. He had left the door locked, but he knew the measure had been little deterrent to the man he sensed waiting behind it.
“I thought I might find you here,” Seisyll said in a low voice, when he had closed the door behind him, for he knew the identity of his visitor without having to look.
With a faint smile and the lift of a hand in acknowledgment, Michon de Courcy moved into the light from the fire blazing on the hearth. His collar-length hair was gone grey, the neatly trimmed beard and mustache the same, softening a narrow, aristocratic nose. The cut of his teal-blue robes had been in fashion a decade before. Though quite unalarming in appearance, he was reckoned as one of the most accomplished Deryni of his generation, though he was careful never to reveal this to any of his human associates.
“Sometimes it occurs to me to wonder whether you actually detect me or if we have simply known one another too long,” he said easily.
Seisyll allowed himself a low chuckle. “Perhaps a bit of both,” he conceded. “I assume you have formed an opinion about the events at today’s court.”
“If you are referring to Sir Kenneth Morgan’s good fortune, I have some thoughts on the matter,” he allowed, smiling faintly. “I daresay the Council will also have a few things to say.”
“Then, we’d better tell them, so they can say it,” Seisyll said archly. “Shall we?” He gestured toward the door to the corridor. “I think most everyone has retired or left by now. I asked Jamyl to make the necessary preparations.”
“Damned convenient, having him in the castle now,” Michon commented, as he opened the outer door a crack to glance both ways along the corridor, then opened it far enough to slip outside. Seisyll joined him, also scanning with his Deryni senses, then carefully closed the door behind them and locked it. As they headed back the way Seisyll had come, Michon took his arm: two elderly courtiers, apparently the worse for drink, should they encounter anyone.
But they did not. Traversing a succession of shadowed corridors and torch-lit stairways, they finally entered the passageway that led to King Donal’s library, though Seisyll led them past that door and on to the next.
A moment they paused there, Michon scanning beyond them while Seisyll probed beyond the door. Then, with a softly indrawn breath, Seisyll set his hand on the latch and gently pushed—at which the door swung soundlessly inward. Faintly smiling, he eased the door wide enough to enter and slipped inside.
The room was dark save for the gentle glow of the fire, with the sound of heavy snoring rumbling in the curtained recesses of a canopied bed. As he cast his senses in that direction, a youthful figure in Haldane squire’s livery stepped from the shadows nearer the head of the bed, faint violet briefly flaring around the head of young Jamyl Arilan, who held a forefinger to his lips to caution silence.
Pleased and relieved, Seisyll sent acknowledgment and approval in the direction of his nephew, then leaned back out the door long enough to beckon for Michon, who immediately entered and latched the door behind him. As he did so, Jamyl came to join them.
I’m afraid I denied Lord Harkness the pleasures of his wife’s embrace, the younger man sent, but they’ll sleep until morning, and have dreams to compensate. Amazing, the places a squire can go without raising any eyebrows.
Just so long as they don’t stir until we’ve returned and gotten out of here, Seisyll replied, with a nod toward the bed. Michon, he sent to his companion, at the same time extending a beckoning hand.
Together they moved into the center of the room, where a Kheldish carpet concealed the sight but not their awareness of a magical matrix laid out there more than a century before. With the ease of long-accustomed practice, Seisyll moved behind Michon and set his hands on the other man’s shoulders, extending his senses even as Michon drew back his shields and accepted control.
A moment Seisyll spared to stabilize the balance between them, then closed his eyes and focused on the pattern of the Transfer Portal beneath their feet, unique to this location, and shifted the energies. The momentary quaver of vertigo was his only sign that anything had changed—except that, when he opened his eyes, they were standing in a niche outside the secret meeting chamber of the Camberian Council, that powerful and clandestine body instituted by St. Camber himself to monitor the magical activities of Deryni and safeguard against abuses of their power.
“I am impressed with young Jamyl’s progress,” Michon said approvingly, as he deftly reengaged control and shields and glanced over his shoulder at Seisyll, at the same time moving off the Portal. “He seems to have inherited the Arilan talents in full measure. My congratulations.”
“Coming from you, I count that as high praise,” Seisyll replied, as the two of them headed toward the pair of great bronze doors. “But you must take credit for at least a part of his training. It’s a pity that my brother shows so little interest in the subtleties of politics.”
“Aye, but at least his sons take after their uncle,” Michon noted. “And moving Jamyl to court was a master stroke.”
“I am certain he will prove equal to the challenge. Prince Brion is quite taken with him.”
“We shall hope that the liking continues once Brion is king,” Michon said dryly.
Beyond the great bronze doors, four more individuals were seated around a massive octagonal table crafted of ivory. The amethyst dome that crowned the chamber and arched above their heads looked black at this hour, and seemed to swallow up most of the light from the crystal sphere hanging from the dome’s center. Three of the room’s four occupants rose as the newcomers entered: Oisín Adair, who bred fine horseflesh when he was not carrying out the Council’s directives, and Dominy de Laney, wife and consort of a prince of the Connait, who soon would be stepping down in favor of the fresh-faced younger man coming to his feet at her side. Rhydon Sasillion was still but five-and-twenty, but his potential had marked him out early as a mage of great poten
tial, well worthy of the Council’s notice.
Across the table from the three sat Dominy’s younger brother, Barrett, blinded as the ransom price for the lives of several dozen Deryni children when but a new-made knight of eighteen, hardly more than a child himself. It was Michon who had taught him how to see again, utilizing his formidable powers in a manner achieved by few of their race. Of late, he had taken up a scholar’s life, and tonight wore the emerald robes of a scholar of Nur Sayyid, the great R’Kassan university.
“Greetings to you, Barrett,” Michon said, clasping a hand to the blind man’s shoulder as he passed to take his own seat. Seisyll made his way to the chair beside Oisín, nearly opposite.
“Khoren will be along shortly,” Oisín said, taking his seat again when the two older men had settled. He was wearing fur-lined robes of a deep oxblood hue rather than the worn riding leathers that were his customary attire. “I delivered a new mare to his brother’s stud farm a few days ago. He will plead Twelfth Night obligations like yourselves, but I happen to know that he is also much occupied with a rare manuscript that his wife found for him. Were it not for this meeting, I doubt he would surface for days.”
The comment produced an appreciative chuckle from both newcomers, for Prince Khoren Vastouni’s appetite for obscure arcane knowledge was well known.
“Not another of Kitron’s works?” Seisyll asked.
“No, earlier than that,” Oisín replied, “though he may have provided some of the marginalia. This one is attributed to a Caeriessan sage known only as Zefiryn, and I am given to understand that Soffrid annotated it. If all of this is true, it is a major find.”
The comment elicited sighs of wistful envy, and Michon leaned back in his chair with a feigned look of vexation. “That sounds very like one I’ve been tracking. Perhaps he will share.” He glanced around the table. “What of Vivienne?”
“She sends her regrets,” Dominy answered. “This pregnancy is proving difficult.”
“I trust she is in no danger,” Seisyll said with some concern.
“No, but she has been more comfortable,” Dominy replied. “But this will pass. She did send me a somewhat disturbing report concerning recent developments within the royal house of Torenth.”
“Is it Prince Nimur again?” Michon muttered, as he took the document she handed him.
“And his brother Torval,” Barrett replied. “More to the point, Vivienne has concerns about their maternal aunt, the very troublesome Princess Camille—or Mother Serafina, as she prefers to call herself, these days. We can only give thanks to God that it was Camille’s sister, and not Camille herself, who married Torenth, else it would be Camille wearing the consort’s crown. As it is, she availed herself of the training to be had at Saint-Sasile and has left her mark on several generations of Furstán nephews and collateral cousins, and not altogether in keeping with the ethical precepts to which we hold.”
Seisyll sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest, looking irritated. “I am aware of the background. What is it this time?”
“Well,” Dominy said primly, “we have known for some time that the Princes Nimur and Torval are regular visitors to Saint-Sasile, where they have formed a particularly close relationship with their aunt. She has other students, of course, but Nimur is regarded as being particularly gifted—and ambitious.”
“Yes, yes, this is nothing new,” Michon said impatiently. “What has changed?”
“The focus of Prince Nimur’s interest,” Barrett replied. “Reliable rumor has it that he intends to take up the research that brought Lewys ap Norfal to no good end.”
Michon went very still, briefly averting his eyes.
“There is worse, I fear,” Dominy said gently, after a slight pause. “Prince Torval also is heavily involved, of course—the two are all but inseparable—and he has far less good sense than his elder brother.”
“And why is that worse?” Seisyll asked impatiently.
“Ah,” Barrett said. “That, I can tell you. Prince Torval has formed a close friendship with another of Camille’s students: a very accomplished and somewhat arrogant Cardosan called Zachris Pomeroy. He, in turn, is foster brother to another of Camille’s nephews: Hogan, the posthumous son of her brother Marcus. All the Furstáns are dangerous, of course, but Marcus was also the senior male representative of the Festillic line when he died, inheritor of all the Festillic pretensions to the crown of Gwynedd—which made his son Hogan the Festillic Pretender from birth.”
“Not that old lost cause?” Michon said impatiently. “Lord, will they never let it go? It is nigh on two hundred years since the Haldanes took it back from Hogan’s very distant ancestor Imre, and for very good cause. And how many wars have been fought in an attempt to reassert the Festillic claim? How many lives lost?”
“Far too many,” Dominy said flatly. “And everyone here can recite a litany of the fallen, from his or her own family. But the Festils always were a stubborn lot.”
“Aye, and they have long memories,” Oisín agreed. “They never forget a slight.”
“Of course not. They are Furstáns,” Seisyll said.
Scowling, Michon passed the report across to him. “Well, this time I fear that the situation may require some direct intervention.” He glanced at the doors, then said, “Perhaps Khoren can shed some light on the question. And here he is at last.”
Even as he spoke, the doors opened to admit their missing member: Prince Khoren Vastouni, brother of the Sovereign Prince of Andelon. By his formal robes of state, he appeared to have come directly from his brother’s Twelfth Night Court, though his disheveled hair suggested that he might have been puzzling over his prized new manuscript. He had left behind his coronet.
“My heartfelt apologies, brethren,” he murmured, sweeping into the seat between Dominy and Barrett. “My eldest niece chose tonight to present us with her chosen husband. It would be an understatement to say that my esteemed brother was somewhat taken aback.”
A frown creased Dominy’s fair brow. “Not Sofiana? Surely she cannot be old enough to marry!”
Khoren simply sighed and raised an eyebrow. “That was certainly her father’s impression. But as incredible as it may sound, she will attain her majority on her next birthday, six months hence. I know,” he added, lifting both hands in deference to Dominy’s scandalized expression. “Fourteen is young to marry, but Sofiana has always known her mind. She avers that she will have none other than Reyhan of Jaca as her consort—and soon. The choice itself hardly comes as any surprise, of course. She and Reyhan have been inseparable since childhood.”
“He is of royal blood himself, as I recall,” Seisyll murmured. “Some cousin of the Prince of Jaca?”
“Aye, there was a daughter of my grandfather’s line who married a grandson of a Prince of Jaca,” Khoren replied. “Royal and Deryni blood on both sides, though through the female lines. Still, a suitable match. And they are fond of one another.”
“He was an early pupil of the Duc du Joux, was he not?” Barrett asked. “And I seem to recall hearing that he spent a term or two at Nur Sayyid—though that was before I came. Still, his training should match well with Sofiana’s.”
“There is no doubt of his competence—or hers,” Michon said. “I take it that Mikhail gave his consent to the union?”
“Aye, but they must wait for the formal betrothal until July, when she comes of age,” Khoren replied. “The marriage will take place at next year’s Twelfth Night Court. She seemed happy enough with the arrangement, as did Reyhan.”
“I hope, then, that you will be certain she continues her studies during this last year before her marriage,” Michon said. “When I had her under my tutelage, she was one of my most promising pupils. I should hate to think that she might fail to reach her full potential because of the distractions of marriage. After all, it is likely that she shall rule Andelon one day.”
“She understands that,” Khoren replied. “And I have already spoken with her about the
importance of completing her training.”
“I am happy to hear it,” Seisyll said. “And speaking of pupils, Khoren, we were discussing some of the more worrisome pupils of Camille Furstána. Her nephews, in particular, appear to be heading in dangerous directions. And there is another: a Zachris Pomeroy—”
“Zachris Pomeroy is one of the instigators of this folly,” Rhydon broke in, speaking for the first time.
Every head turned in his direction.
“You know him?” Seisyll said.
Rhydon inclined his head. “It would be more accurate to say that we are acquainted; I would not regard him as a friend. He holds lands bordering on my father’s estate. And as Master Barrett has said, he is foster brother to Prince Hogan, who is my friend.”
“Ah,” said Michon. “And you do not like him, this Zachris Pomeroy.”
“Whether or not I like him has no bearing on the matter,” Rhydon replied. “What they are playing with is dangerous.”
“So it is,” Michon agreed. “Just how dangerous, you have no idea.”
As he glanced away, obviously troubled, Dominy gently laid a hand over one of Rhydon’s.
“Rhydon, are you involved in this?” she asked gently.
He shook his head. “I have done only as the Council bade me. Studying with Camille was a way to make the acquaintance of the Torenthi princes.”
“Then perhaps you know them well enough to warn them off this folly,” Michon said, “and to warn off their friend Pomeroy as well, even if you do not like him. It can only go ill for any of them who take up Lewys ap Norfal’s line of research.”
Rhydon looked doubtful, resentment in the pale grey eyes. “They are neither of them inclined to listen to the opinions of others, my lord,” he murmured.
“Well, they would be advised to start listening,” Khoren muttered. “I cannot speak for the Torenthi princes, but I can tell you that Pomeroy’s activities in the Cardosa area have begun to attract unwelcome notice—and from the Church. I will grant you that Cardosa is one of the few places in Gwynedd where Deryni may be relatively open, but that does not give license to abuse one’s powers—and Pomeroy, in particular, has been entirely too open, of late. Flagrant, in fact. It can come to no good.”