“Are Alaric and Duncan on their way?” he finally asked.
“I’ve sent for them. They should be here shortly.”
Kelson sighed and stretched his arms in front of him with fingers intertwined, glancing idly around at the circle of torches, at the guards just within range of the orange firelight.
“This will be a short night. We probably ought to be ready well before dawn, just in case Wencit tries something else underhanded. The messenger who delivered our acceptance said he didn’t look pleased at all.”
“We shall be ready for him,” Arilan said. “And as for surprises, I fear that Wencit is the one who will be getting that, once the sun rises.”
He paused as a movement outside the ring of torchlight caught his eye, then nudged Kelson as Morgan and Duncan strode past the guards to make short bows.
“Is anything wrong?” Morgan asked the king.
Kelson shook his head. “No, I’m just restless, I suppose. I wanted to go up to the hilltop and look at Wencit’s layout again. I don’t trust him.”
“And well you do not,” Duncan murmured under his breath, as Morgan raised an eyebrow and glanced past Kelson into the tent.
“How is Derry?” Morgan asked, ignoring Duncan’s comment.
Kelson followed Morgan’s glance and moved out of the doorway. “He was sleeping peacefully, the last time I looked. Let him be. I want to go up to the hilltop.”
“I’ll join you in a moment. I want to check on him myself.”
As the others moved into the darkness, Morgan turned away from them and entered the tent. One shielded candle burned in a wrought-iron holder near the great state bed, and by its light and the light of the brazier farther back in the pavilion, Morgan made his way to the form lying beneath sleeping-furs on the other side of the chamber. As he knelt down beside Derry, the sleeping-furs moved and Derry rolled face-up. His eyes were closed, but it was evident that he was either beginning or ending a nightmare.
He moaned softly and flung an arm across his eyes momentarily, then relaxed and passed into deeper sleep once again. Once Morgan thought he heard Derry murmur, “Bran,” but he could not be sure.
Morgan frowned as he reached out to touch Derry’s forehead lightly, but no impressions came through with his cursory scan of the troubled mind beneath his touch. Whatever the nightmare, it had passed. Perhaps now Derry would sleep peacefully.
Well it might have been, if Morgan had been able to dismiss what he had seen and continue about his business—but he could not. The fact that Derry still rested uneasily, when he should have been healed; that he had called out Bran Coris’s name—that boded ill, no matter how one looked at it. Certainly, Derry had been through much—just how much, no one would know until Derry came out of his deep sleep and chose to share it with them.
But why was he not now recovered? Could his rantings when he was first brought back to the camp have held some darker meaning? Suppose the bonds imposed by Wencit on that tortured mind had not been entirely broken?
Morgan posted an extra guard just outside the doorway, then made his way into the night. He was not conscious of any particular destination—he was merely walking to burn off nervous energy, to calm his uneasiness. He never knew how he found himself beside Bishop Cardiel’s compound—or what had made him seek out Richenda.
He pulled up short, gazing into the torchlight ahead as he pondered his motives, then moved past the bishop’s guards toward her tent. He knew he should not be here, after what had passed between them last night—but perhaps she could shed some light on her husband’s motives, he rationalized. Perhaps she could guess why Derry had called out the earl’s name in his delirium. Besides, he could not deny that he ached to see her again, despite the fact that he knew he had no right to be here.
He moved into the circle of torchlight surrounding the entrance to her pavilion and took the salute of the perimeter guard, then strode softly to the pavilion entrance. There was no one in the front half of the structure, but beyond the divider curtain, he could hear a woman’s voice singing a lullaby. He stood beside the center support pole and listened as she sang.
Hush, my angel, go to sleep.
Holy God thy slumber keeps.
’Gainst the terrors of the night,
He will be thy guiding light
Hush, thy mother lies nearby.
Hush, my angel, do not cry.
God and I will keep thee well,
And all fears from thee dispel.
Drawn by the song, Morgan drifted closer to the doorway and slightly widened a narrow gap in the curtain. Across the inner chamber, he could see Richenda bending over Brendan’s bed, tucking the sleeping-furs tenderly around her little redheaded son. The boy was drifting into sleep, but as he reached chubby arms up to hug his mother’s neck, he spied Morgan in the doorway and instantly roused, scrambling onto his knees with a pleased smile, his blue eyes wide with wonder.
“Papa? Have you come to tell me a story?”
Embarrassed, Morgan drew back from the entryway, but not before Richenda could turn and catch sight of him. Her start at the boy’s words was quickly covered as she realized that it was Morgan and not her husband. Then she was picking up the boy in her arms and moving toward Morgan with a faintly nervous smile.
“No, dear, that isn’t your father. It’s Duke Alaric. Good evening, Your Grace. Apparently in the dim light Brendan has mistaken you for his father.”
As she made a slight curtsy, Brendan clung closer to her—he could see now that the man standing in the doorway was, indeed, not his father—but he was unsure just how to react. He looked to his mother for some cue and, seeing her smile, judged that the stranger was probably not an enemy, so he looked shyly across at Morgan again, then back at his mother.
“Duke Alaric?” he whispered. The name meant nothing to so small a boy; he was merely trying to sort out identities. But before the boy could have time to think about it further, Morgan took a few steps closer and made a short bow.
“Hello, Brendan. I’ve heard some very nice things about you.”
Brendan eyed Morgan suspiciously, then turned back to his mother.
“Is my papa a duke?” he demanded.
“No, dear. He’s an earl.”
“Is that as big as a duke?”
“Well, almost. Do you think you can say hello to His Grace?”
“No.”
“Certainly you can. Say, ‘Good evening, Your Grace.’”
“Good ebening, Your Grathe,” the boy lisped.
“Good evening, Brendan. How are you tonight?”
Brendan put two fingers in his mouth and looked down, suddenly shy again. “I’m fine,” he drawled.
Morgan smiled and bent down closer to the boy’s level.
“That was a very pretty song your mother sang to you. Do you think she might sing it again, if you asked her very nicely?”
Brendan grinned impishly, fingers still in his mouth, then shook his head. “Don’t want songs. Songs are for babies. Want stories. Do you know any stories?”
Morgan straightened in surprise. A story? He had never thought himself particularly cunning with children, but Brendan seemed to be responding quite remarkably. A story. God knew, he had heard some stories in his day, but few of them were at all suitable for a four-year-old boy. What in the name of—?
Richenda saw his indecision and started to take Brendan back to his bed. “Perhaps another time, dear. His Grace has had a very busy day, and I’m afraid he’s too tired to tell stories to little boys tonight.”
“No, not necessarily,” Morgan said, following Richenda as she put the boy back in his bed. “Even dukes can make time to amuse clever little boys. What kind of story would you like to hear, Brendan?”
Brendan settled back on his pillows with a delighted grin and pulled the sleeping-furs up tightly around his chin.
“Tell me about my papa. He’s the smartest and bravest man in the world. Tell me a story about him.”
Morgan fr
oze for just an instant and looked across at Richenda, who had also stiffened at the request. The boy did not know, could not know, of the traitorous deeds of his father, and they were certainly not his fault. But neither could Morgan bring himself to praise Bran Coris, even for the sake of his engaging son. He made himself smile one of his easy, casual grins, then sat down on the edge of the bed and smoothed the boy’s hair across his forehead.
“No, I don’t think so tonight, Brendan. Suppose I tell you instead about a time when the king was a little boy like you. It seems that the king, who was only a prince then, had a beautiful black pony named Nightwind. Well, one day, Nightwind got out of his paddock and…”
As Morgan spun his tale, Richenda withdrew slightly to watch the two of them, thankful that Brendan had been successfully sidetracked. Brendan was crowing delightedly at whatever Morgan was telling him, but she could only catch a word here and there. The Deryni duke was purposely keeping his voice low, enhancing his moment with the boy by making it an event that only the two of them shared. She watched the tall, blond lord bending over the spellbound child and was herself caught anew in the web of wonder that surrounded the man.
After a time, Morgan reached out his hand to touch the boy’s forehead—Brendan’s eyelids had drooped in sleep some minutes before—and bowed his head for a moment. When he straightened, it was to rise and turn once more to Richenda. He seemed strangely at peace, a relaxed feeling, which was at once alien and yet somehow right. He held out his hand to her and she came to him wordlessly. After a moment he glanced back at the sleeping boy.
“He is Deryni, my lady. You know that, do you not?”
She nodded solemnly. “I know.”
Morgan shifted his weight from one foot to the other, suddenly uneasy. “He is much like I was at that age: innocent, vulnerable. I know the risks involved, but he should be trained. His secret cannot remain forever, and he must have the means to protect himself.”
She nodded again, once more glancing at her sleeping son. “One day soon, he will discover it for himself, that he is not like other boys. He must be warned what to expect, and yet I dread being the one to destroy his innocence.
“And then, there is the matter of his father. He worships Bran, you know, as little boys should revere their sires. But now…”
Her voice trailed off and she did not finish her sentence, but Morgan guessed what she was thinking. Releasing her hand, he moved to the doorway and glanced into the outer chamber. Sister Luke had returned from whatever errand she had been about and was now bustling about efficiently, setting out goblets and a flask of red wine. Morgan flushed as he saw her, wondering how long she had been there, but the sister said nothing as she lit more candles and then bowed slightly to him. Morgan emerged into the outer chamber and nodded in return as Sister Luke disappeared into the inner chamber. After a short time Richenda joined him, and Morgan covered his uneasiness by pouring two glasses of the wine.
“Did she hear?” he murmured, as Richenda took her goblet and tasted.
Richenda shook her head and sat opposite him before a camp table. “No. But if she had, she would be discreet. Besides, I am sure the guards warned her I was not alone,” she smiled, “and that you had not been here long enough for our honor to be in question.”
Morgan smiled fleetingly, then looked down at the goblet between his hands once more.
“About tomorrow, my lady,” he began in a low voice. “If Gwynedd is to endure, Bran must die. You know that.”
“It was foretold,” she murmured, “but I fear it nonetheless. What is to become of us, Alaric? What will become of all of us?”
IN Kelson’s tent, another wrestled with that same gnawing question. Under his sleeping-furs near the dying fire, Derry stirred restlessly and then opened his eyes. He could no longer ignore the Call. He was awake, and the dread compulsion grew. He sat up unsteadily—the tent was deserted—then threw off the sleeping-furs and got shakily to his feet. He staggered once, as though struck by a heavy blow, but then he shook his head lightly, as if to shake off an unbidden thought, and he straightened. His eyes closed briefly as he caressed the ring on his finger. When he opened his eyes, a determination lit his glance that had not been there before. Without further hesitation, he turned on his heel and strode to the tent entrance, his eyes fever-bright.
“Guard?”
“Yes, my lord?”
The guard was attentive, eager to be of service, and saluted smartly as he entered the pavilion.
“Can you give me a hand here?” Derry found himself saying. “I seem to have lost the brooch from my cloak.” He gestured toward the pile of furs where he had been sleeping and made a deprecating little smile. “I’d look for it myself, but my head still throbs when I bend down.”
“No trouble, sir.” The guard grinned, laying down his spear to bend over the furs. “Glad to see that you’re up and feeling better. We were a bit anxious there for a while.”
As the man talked, Derry closed his hand around the sheathed blade of a heavy hunting dagger and moved to the man’s side. Without warning, he brought the weighted hilt down hard behind the guard’s right ear; the man crumpled without a sound.
Derry lost no time. After dragging the unconscious guard to the Transfer Portal, he moved to the tent entrance and dropped the flap. Then he was back at the guard’s side, kneeling with his hands on the man’s temples, as a strange lethargy came over him. The guard’s eyes fluttered and then opened, but the intelligence that gazed back at him was not that of the simple, honest guard. Derry’s own involuntary shudder was overcome by the new power forcing him to do this, and he could only abide helplessly as he felt his eyes boring into those of the enthralled guard and making contact with the new intelligence.
“Well done, Derry,” the guard murmured in a voice not precisely his own. “What have you learned? Where are the Deryni princeling and his friends?”
“Gone to the perimeter to observe your camp, Sire,” Derry felt himself answering. And there was nothing he could do about it.
The guard blinked and gave a slight nod. “It is well. You were not observed overpowering the guard?”
Derry shook his head. “I think not, Sire. What is it you wish of me now?”
After a slight pause the guard turned his eyes on Derry with a new intensity. “The Lord Bran wishes the return of his son and his lady. Do you know where they are kept?”
“I can find them,” Derry heard himself saying, though he despised himself for the words.
“Good. Then, find some ruse to bring them to the Portal here. Tell the Lady that—”
At the sound of voices outside the tent, Derry froze. He could not be certain, but it sounded like one of the guards was talking to—Warin?
Stealthily, he got to his feet and glided over to the doorway, staying to one side where he would be shielded by the flap as it opened. Footsteps approached on the other side of the canvas, and then a hand was pressing the flap aside. As the close-cropped head of Warin was thrust through the opening, he saw the guard lying in the center of the chamber. But before he could turn to give warning, Derry had tackled him and dragged him into the pavilion, stifling his attempted outcry with a savage hand across the mouth.
Within seconds, Warin, too, lay unconscious in the center of the pavilion. Soon he was trussed hand and foot and adequately gagged, his condition camouflaged in the folds of a heavy cloak. After dragging Warin to a place across the chamber, Derry made his way out of the pavilion, keeping to the shadows.
MORGAN lowered his eyes uncomfortably and looked down at his feet, forcing himself not to let his gaze wander toward Richenda standing a few feet away. The wine had been drunk and the words said—all the words that could be said for now. If he killed Bran tomorrow, it could destroy the love this incredible woman bore for him. And yet, if Bran did not die, there was no future whatever for any of them.
He raised his eyes to hers and realized abruptly that he had never held her in his arms, never really even touc
hed her except for their earlier hand clasp and that brief moment the night before, when they had shared their Deryniness—and tomorrow it might be too late. Tomorrow the chance might be gone for all eternity. His eyes searched hers for a long moment, reading her indecision also. Then he was folding her into his embrace, his lips drinking deeply of her kiss as the candles dimmed in the chamber around them.
After what seemed like only an instant, they drew apart, and Morgan stood a long time gazing into her eyes, her fingertips resting lightly in his hands. But he had known, from the moment he came here tonight, that he could not stay. Honor would not permit it.
And so, after a time when the only sound in the tent was the music of their racing hearts, he took his leave of her, touching her silken fingertips lightly to his lips before gliding out into the night. As he disappeared into the darkness to join Kelson and the others, he could not know that another lurked nearby, under the thrall of an enemy spell, but awaiting the chance to make his move.
Richenda paused in the doorway of the tent and watched her visitor depart, then turned to gaze around the now so empty tent. The candles had flared to new life with his going, but somehow the tent still seemed dark. She wondered again how she had happened to fall in love with this tall, golden stranger not her husband, raised slightly trembling fingers to her lips and touched them gently. Then, still smiling, she moved into the inner chamber and knelt beside her sleeping son, her smile slowly fading to concern.
What would the future hold for them after tomorrow? Regardless of the outcome of the duel, there would always be Bran’s spectre looming above their heads, in life or in death. For she was bound to Bran by this boy, by bonds more adamant than mere words or law. And if Alaric Morgan killed Bran Coris tomorrow…Where did loyalty lie?
She considered what she had always been taught, but she was no longer certain the answers lay there. A woman’s loyalty lay with her husband, or so they said. But if one’s husband were a traitor, then what? Was a woman bound to hate the man who brought that traitor to justice? Somehow she did not think so.