High Deryni

  “Forgive me, young prince, but your naïveté is touching. I offered a four-way battle to the death. Under those circumstances, the losers would hardly be in any position to threaten the victors—unless, of course, you believe that some men can return from the grave.”

  Kelson scowled at that, for far more bizarre things had been hinted about Wencit of Torenth over the years. But then he forced himself to dismiss the thought and return to what Wencit had actually proposed: a duel to the death by magic. His hesitation apparently did not set well with the Torenthi king, however, for Wencit abruptly frowned and kneed his horse still closer to reach out a gloved hand to Kelson’s reins.

  “If you have not already noticed, I am an impatient man, Kelson Haldane. I do not brook interference with my plans. If you are considering rejecting my proposal, I suggest that you put it out of your mind immediately. I remind you that I still hold nearly a thousand of your men captive—and there are far worse ways to die than by simple hanging.”

  “And just what is that supposed to mean?” Kelson whispered icily.

  “It means that if you do not accept my challenge, what you saw in the last hour will be as nothing. Unless your word prevents it, two hundred prisoners will be drawn and quartered before your army at dusk, and two hundred more impaled alive and left to die at the rising of the moon. If you hope to save them, I would not advise procrastination.”

  Kelson’s face had blanched at Wencit’s description of the intended fate of the prisoners, and his hands clenched tightly as he jerked his reins from Wencit’s grasp. He glared across at the Deryni sorcerer as though to destroy him with a single thought as Wencit backed his mount a few casual steps, and would have moved after him, had not Morgan held out a restraining arm and kneed his own horse to block the king’s. Kelson glanced at Morgan angrily, intending to order him back, but something in Morgan’s expression made the young king hesitate. Morgan’s eyes were cold as the midnight fog as he met Wencit’s haughty gaze.

  “You are trying to force us into a hasty decision,” he said in a low voice. “I want to know why. Why is it so important that we accept the challenge on your terms?” He paused only slightly. “Or is there some new treachery afoot?”

  Wencit turned his head deliberately to stare directly at Morgan, as though incensed that Morgan had dared to interrupt his negotiations with Kelson. Then he ran his glance disdainfully over the other’s form. His voice was mocking when he finally spoke.

  “You have much to learn of the Deryni, Alaric Morgan, for all that you claim that heritage for yourself. You will find, if you survive, that there are ancient codes of honor concerning our powers which even I would not willingly transgress.” He returned his gaze to Kelson. “I have offered you formal duel under the laws set forth by the Camberian Council more than two centuries ago, Kelson Haldane. There are other laws, far older, which I am also bound to obey. I have sought and received permission from the Council to wage this duel with you on the terms that I have already specified, and to have Council arbitrators present. I assure you, there could be no treachery where the Council is concerned.”

  Kelson’s brows furrowed in consternation. “The Camberian Coun—”

  Arilan interrupted for the first time, cutting across Kelson’s response. “My lord, you will forgive my intrusion, but His Majesty was not prepared to answer a challenge such as you have proposed to him today. You will understand that he must have time to consult with his advisors before giving you a final answer. If he accepts, the lives and fortunes of many thousands of his people will hang upon the talents of four men. You will appreciate that it is not a decision to be taken lightly.”

  Wencit turned to study Arilan as though he were some particularly noxious form of lower life. “If the King of Gwynedd feels that he cannot make a decision without consulting his inferiors, Bishop, that is his weakness, not mine. However, my original warning still stands. If I do not have the decision I require by nightfall, two hundred prisoners will be drawn and quartered where we now stand, and two hundred more impaled alive at the rising of the moon. Such measures will continue until all of the prisoners are dead, and then I shall take even sterner measures. See that you do not provoke me overmuch, Kelson of Gwynedd.”

  With that, Wencit backed his horse a few more deft paces, then whirled the animal on its haunches to begin cantering back toward his own lines. His companions wheeled with him in perfect formation and followed, leaving a stunned Kelson staring after their retreating forms.

  Kelson was angry at Arilan for interrupting, at Morgan for provoking Wencit, at himself for his indecision, but he did not trust himself to speak until they, too, had returned to their own lines and were dismounting outside the royal pavilion. He gave orders for the battle lines to be put at ease, since there was obviously to be no fighting until the morrow, at the earliest, then motioned the three who had ridden with him to follow him inside.

  He decided to deal with the bishop first, since he was within reach, but as they entered the tent they found nearly a dozen men clustered around the unmoving form of Derry, stretched on a pallet to the left of the chamber. A bloodstained Warin was bending over him, and Nigel’s son Conall was kneeling beside him with a reddened basin of water, a look of awe on his face as he watched the former rebel leader wipe his bloody hands on a piece of towelling. Derry’s eyes were closed and his head was rolling back and forth as though still in some pain, but there were fragments of a half-shattered arrow shaft on the floor beside him.

  As Kelson and the bishop entered, Morgan and Duncan right behind them, Warin looked up and nodded greeting. He was wan and obviously exhausted, but there was also satisfaction in his eyes.

  “He should be all right, Sire. I withdrew the arrow and healed the wound. He is still feverish from whatever happened earlier, however. General Morgan, he keeps murmuring your name. Perhaps you should take a look at him.”

  Morgan moved quickly to Derry’s side and dropped to one knee, laying a gentle hand on the young man’s brow. Derry’s eyes flickered open at the touch and looked up at the ceiling for just an instant; then he turned his head to gaze at Morgan, a frightened shadow flitting behind his eyes.

  “Be easy, Sean,” Morgan murmured. “You’re safe now.”

  “My lord…You’re all right.” Then, “I didn’t betr—”

  He broke off and stiffened for just an instant, as though remembering something terrifying, then shuddered in revulsion and jerked his head away. Frowning, Morgan moved his fingertips to Derry’s temples, intending to exert his powers and calm him, but met resistance there that he had never encountered in Derry before.

  “Just relax,” he whispered. “The worst is over. Rest now. You’ll feel better after you’ve slept—”

  “No! I mustn’t sleep!”

  The very thought seemed to terrify Derry, who began tossing his head from side to side so wildly that it was all Morgan could do to maintain contact. The younger man’s eyes blazed with an animal fear, all reason gone, and Morgan realized that he was going to have to do something quickly or Derry would burn himself out in his exhausted state.

  “Sean, relax. Don’t fight me! It’s all right, you’re safe. Duncan, give me a hand here!”

  “No! You mustn’t make me sleep! You mustn’t!” Derry caught a handful of Morgan’s cloak and struggled to rise as Duncan scrambled in to grab his arms and Warin backed away.

  “No! Let me go! You don’t understand. Oh, God help me, what am I going to do?”

  “It’s all right—”

  “No, it isn’t all right! You don’t understand! Wencit—”

  Derry’s expression became even more stricken, and he lifted his head to stare wildly into Morgan’s eyes, his right hand still twined desperately in the edge of Morgan’s cloak, despite Duncan’s efforts to free it.

  “Morgan, listen! They say there’s no Devil, but they’re wrong! I saw him! He has red hair and calls himself Wencit of Torenth, but he lies. He’s the Devil himself! He made me—he made me—
”

  “Not now….” Morgan shook his head and forced Derry’s shoulders back against the pallet. “No more for now. We’ll talk about it later. Right now, you’re weak from your wounds and captivity. You must rest. When you wake, you’ll feel better. I promise nothing will happen to you. Trust me, Sean.”

  As Morgan spoke, imposing more and more control against Derry’s weakening will, the younger man suddenly went limp, eyes closing and muscles going slack as he sank back against the pallet. Morgan disengaged his cloak from Derry’s grasp, then laid the young lord’s hands loosely across his chest and straightened the angle of his head. Conall, still watching from nearby, brought a sleeping-fur, which Morgan tucked loosely around the still form. Warin had retreated to stand against one of the walls of the tent. Morgan studied the sleeping Derry for several seconds, as though assuring himself that the sleep was deep enough, then exchanged a worried glance with Duncan before looking up at Kelson and the circle of anxious faces.

  “I think he’ll be all right when he’s rested, Sire. But right now, I’d rather not think about what he must have gone through.” His eyes darkened and took on a far-away look, and under his breath he murmured, “God help Wencit, when I find out, though.”

  He shuddered as the mood passed, then swept a strand of pale hair out of his eyes and got to his feet with a sigh. Duncan, after another look at the sleeping Derry, kept his eyes averted as he stood. Kelson, too, was much subdued and shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other as his gaze wavered between the two of them.

  “What do you think Wencit did do to him?” he finally asked in a small voice.

  Morgan shook his head. “It’s difficult to say at this point, my prince. Later I’ll probe him more deeply, if it’s indicated, but he’s too weak now. He really fought me.”

  “I see.”

  Kelson studied the toes of his boots for several seconds, then looked up again. All eyes were now upon him, waiting for his next instructions, and he remembered abruptly what must be the next topic of discussion.

  “Very well, gentlemen. There is nothing further we can do for Derry at this time, so I suggest that we get back to the business at hand.” He glanced at Arilan and cocked his head. “Bishop Arilan, could you tell us about this Cam—”

  Arilan cleared his throat and shook his head meaningfully, glancing at Warin’s retainers, at young Conall, at the few guards, and Kelson stopped in mid-word. Nodding slightly, the king moved to Conall’s side and laid a hand on his shoulder, for he understood that Arilan did not wish to discuss the matter before comparative outsiders.

  “Thanks for your aid, Cousin. Would you please send your father and Bishop Cardiel to me before returning to your duties? And gentlemen,” he included Warin’s men and the guards in his gesture, “I must ask that you likewise return to your posts. Thank you for your concern.”

  Conall and the others bowed and made their way out of the tent, and Warin watched them go, straightening and moving slightly as though to follow them.

  “I sense that this is something not for the ears of outsiders, so I’ll leave if you wish. I am not offended,” Warin added hastily.

  Kelson glanced at Arilan, but the bishop shook his head.

  “No, you have a right to be present, just as we have called for Bishop Cardiel, who is perhaps less Deryni than any of us. Kelson, if you don’t mind, I shall wait until Thomas and Nigel arrive before answering your questions. It will save me having to repeat myself.”

  “Of course.”

  The king made his way to his chair and sat, unclasping his cloak and letting it fall over the back of his chair. Then he sat back and stretched out his long legs on the fine Kheldish carpeting. Morgan and Duncan took seats on a pair of folding camp stools to Kelson’s right, and Morgan unslung his sword from its hangers and laid it on the carpet between his feet. After a moment’s thought, Duncan did the same, shifting his stool slightly to the left to accommodate Warin, who was propping a cushion so that he could lean against the tent’s center pole. Arilan remained standing in the center of the carpet, pretending to be absorbed in the intricate design woven beneath his feet. He scarcely looked up as Cardiel and then Nigel entered the tent, and it was Kelson who had to direct the newcomers to take seats. When they were settled, the king looked up at Arilan expectantly. The bishop’s blue-violet eyes were hooded as he met Kelson’s gray gaze.

  “Do you wish me to review what has happened, Sire, for the sake of Thomas and your uncle?”

  “Please do.”

  “Very well.” Arilan folded his hands and stared hard at his thumbnails for several seconds, then looked up.

  “My lords, Wencit of Torenth has presented us with an ultimatum. His Majesty wished to consult with all of us before replying. If he does not respond by sunset, Wencit will begin slaying more hostages.”

  “Name of God, the man is a monster!” Nigel exclaimed, stiffening in anger.

  “Agreed,” Arilan replied. “But his ultimatum was quite specific and quite adamant. He has issued Kelson a challenge to the Duel Arcane: himself and his three henchmen, Rhydon, Lionel, and Bran Coris, against Kelson and any three Kelson chooses to name. I think I need not tell you that two of Kelson’s three will be Morgan and Duncan; what may surprise some of you is that I am to be the third.”

  Warin looked up with a start

  “That is correct, Warin. I am Deryni.”

  Warin swallowed hard, but Nigel only nodded his head slowly and raised an eyebrow.

  “You speak as though my nephew’s acceptance is an accomplished fact,” he said.

  “I believe that this can be his only decision,” Arilan said quietly. “If he does not accept the challenge by nightfall, two hundred hostages will be drawn and quartered on the plain before our army. Any further delay, and two hundred more will be impaled and left to die at the rising of the moon. Tonight that occurs about four hours after sunset. This appears inescapable if Kelson refuses the challenge.”

  He scanned the chamber slowly, but no one made a move to speak. “If, on the other hand, Kelson accepts, the battle will be to the death, the survivor or survivors to take all. Wencit obviously believes he will win, or he would not have proposed this sort of contest.”

  Warin had paled at the mention of drawing and quartering, but Nigel, better accustomed to the horrors of war, only repeated his knowing nod. After a few seconds’ pause, he raised his hand slightly to speak.

  “This Duel Arcane—would it be similar to the challenge issued to Kelson at his coronation?”

  “Well, it would be governed by the same ancient laws of challenge,” Arilan said with a nod, “except, of course, that it would be four against four instead of the single combat fought by Kelson and Charissa. There are fairly rigid rules governing the arbitration of a Duel Arcane, and Wencit has—ah—apparently received official sanction to hold the duel according to the ancient laws.”

  “Official sanction from whom?” Kelson interrupted eagerly. “This Camberian Council he mentioned? Why do you evade the issue when I…”

  His voice trailed off as he saw Arilan had stiffened at the mention of the name, and he glanced at Morgan in surprise. Morgan was gazing at the bishop with rapt attention, apparently no more informed than Kelson, yet suddenly keenly interested in what the bishop would say. Duncan, too, had started at the sound of the name and now watched Arilan intently. Abruptly, Kelson wondered what he had stumbled onto.

  “Arilan,” he whispered softly, “what is the Camberian Council? Is it…Deryni?”

  Arilan glanced at his feet, then raised his head to stare past Kelson as though in a daze. “Forgive me, my prince. It is difficult to break a lifetime of conditioning, but Wencit has left me no alternative. It was he who first mentioned the Council. It is only fair, since you must meet him in battle, that I tell you what I can.” He glanced down at his hands, which were clasped tightly together, and forced himself to relax.

  “There exists a secret organization of full Deryni called the Camberian Coun
cil. Its origins lie in the times immediately after the Haldane Restoration, when those of high Deryni blood were called to somehow regulate and protect those who remained after the great persecutions. Only past and present members know the composition of the Council, and they are sworn by an oath of blood and power never to divulge the identity of their fellows.

  “As you may be aware, very few Deryni have had the opportunity to fully develop their powers in recent times,” he went on. “Many of our talents were lost in the persecutions—or at least our knowledge of how to use those powers was lost. Morgan’s gift of healing may be a rediscovery of one of those lost talents.

  “But there are some of us who are loosely organized and in regular communication with one another. The Council acts as a regulating body for those known Deryni, keeping the old laws and arbitrating in disputes of magic such as may arise from time to time. A Duel Arcane such as Wencit proposes would fall under the Council’s jurisdiction.”

  “The Council determines the validity of duels?” Morgan asked suspiciously.

  Arilan turned to look at Morgan rather strangely. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “How about those not of full Deryni blood, like myself and Duncan?” Morgan persisted. “Are they also under the jurisdiction of the Council?”

  Arilan’s face blanched slightly. “Why do you ask?” he repeated in a strained voice.

  Morgan glanced at Duncan and Duncan nodded.

  “Tell him.”

  “Bishop Arilan, I think that Duncan and I may have had contact with one of your Camberian Council. In fact, I think it may have happened several times. At least the implication of our last encounter was similar to what you have just outlined.”

  “What happened?” Arilan whispered. His face was expressionless above his purple cassock.

  “Well, we had a—a visitation is the best way to describe it, I suppose, when we were on our way to you at Dhassa. When we stopped at Saint Neot’s to rest our horses, he appeared.”

  “He?”