“Forgive me,” she replied. “I never would have pressed you against your will.”
“I know that.”
“But—who told you?” she insisted.
“Why, who do you think told me? Kelson was my cousin. We often talked. I—know about your leave-taking, and—by what little margin he spared your virtue that last night before we left.”
And that was all literally true, as far as it went—just in case she should be able to Truth-Read him without his knowledge. She blanched and glanced down guiltily at her hand, still laid flat on the page of her breviary, and suddenly Conall guessed what lay beneath.
Then her resistance seemed to crumple, her shoulders slumping as she slowly picked up what lay beneath her hand and then exposed it on her open palm. It was the ring Kelson had given to Sidana on their wedding day, threaded on a thin white silken cord crumpled around it.
“I did not think he would tell anyone, my lord,” she whispered. “Nor did I think you and he were that close. Dhugal, perhaps, but—”
“I have told no one else, my lady,” Conall said gently. “Your honor is safe with me.”
“I do not doubt that, sir.”
She turned the ring in her fingers a few times, then glanced up at him wistfully, sniffling back tears.
“Do you believe in magic, my lord?” she asked softly.
He nodded, not daring to speak.
“Of course you do,” she whispered, answering her own question. “You are a Haldane, your own peculiar form of magic already manifesting. How could you not believe?”
She glanced at the ring in her hand and slowly shook her head.
“But the magic can go awry, sometimes,” she went on. “Sometimes, when we wish too hard, we can jinx the very thing we most desire. It is not uncommon. I should have known better. But I allowed myself to dream, before the magic was accomplished. And I shall pay for my presumption for the rest of my life.”
He cocked his head at her, not sure he understood what she was trying to say.
“Your presumption?” he murmured.
She shook her head. “The ring was not given in pledge. He made that quite clear, before he even gave it to me. It was meant only as a token that he had put the past aside, that he was ready to start considering the future. He was only just beginning to let himself release his own guilt over the Princess Sidana’s death—though no one blamed him, surely. We—spoke about the possibility of—marriage, when he returned, after both of us had had time to think. But he asked me not to wear the ring, for it was tainted with her blood.”
“Then, what presumption was there on your part?” Conall asked.
She shook her head sadly. “Sometimes, my lord, a woman lets herself dream on what might be. And sometimes, even the magic of an ordinary woman is strong enough to make it actually happen. For one of us, however—”
A stifled sob escaped her lips, and it was several seconds before she could go on.
“A week ago—it must have been just before the accident—I let myself imagine what it would be like, to wed him. There was no harm in that, alone. Nor was it the first time I had fantasized thus, though my abbess would be shocked to learn of it—and Father Ambros was shocked, at first.
“But then I dared to put Sidana’s ring on my finger—poor, doomed princess—imagining that it was the king who gave it. Only, it was the giver of the ring who perished this time—not the recipient. The king must have—met his accident very shortly after that.”
“But, surely you don’t think you caused the accident,” Conall said. “That’s nonsense.”
“Is it?” She glanced down at the ring, then closed it in her palm. “My mind tells me you are right, my lord,” she whispered, “but my heart will never be certain. I know too well how great our power can be—sometimes when we least expect it. Now that—now that you have moved closer to the throne, you will be discovering that for yourself, I think. Indeed, by your shields, I think you already are. God grant that it may be long before you must face the full power of what you are—and that you may never need to face the uncertainty, as I must do, of wondering whether your powers destroyed the very thing you most desired.”
“Then, you did intend to marry Kelson,” Conall breathed.
She nodded slowly.
“The letter requesting dispensation from my vows had already been sent to Archbishop Cardiel—though I doubt not that it has gone astray between here and Valoret, what with His Excellency now returned to Rhemuth. It will find him eventually, however. And when it does, I shall ask that he not act upon it.”
“I see,” Conall murmured, hope sinking in his breast as he realized she meant to continue in religious life. “But, will they take you back? Won’t the mere act of asking for dispensation cast doubt upon your vocation?”
She bowed her head. “I did not tell my abbess that I wrote to the archbishop,” she said. “Father Ambros knows, for he has lately been my confessor. I discussed the matter fully with him. But he is bound under the seal of the confessional—and I shall ask Archbishop Cardiel to destroy the letter when it arrives, preferably without reading it first.”
“Please don’t,” Conall whispered.
“And why should I not? In retrospect, I must wonder whether all that has happened is not God’s way of telling me He still desires me for His bride. They say He is a jealous lover.”
“And I, too, can be a jealous lover, Rothana,” Conall said. “Be my bride.”
“Thou shalt not mock the Lord thy God,” she murmured.
“I do not mock Him. But I do not think a god of the spirit has great need of things of the flesh. I have never favored the practice of cloistering young virgins to spend their youth and beauty in service to a God Who cannot appreciate their charms.”
“You must not blaspheme, my lord,” she managed to whisper, not daring to look at him. And she gasped and closed her eyes as Conall brushed two tentative fingertips against the back of her hand that clasped Sidana’s ring.
“You and I are flesh, Rothana,” Conall said softly. “How can I make you understand what your very presence does to me? You are everything a man could possibly desire. I think I have wanted you from the first time I set eyes on you. I only held back asking because of Kelson. But he’s dead now, and one day I’ll be king. And this Haldane has no less need for you as queen than he did. Gwynedd needs you as well, Rothana.”
Her face flamed, and she bowed her head into her empty hand to hide it as she clutched the other, with Sidana’s ring, closer to her breast.
“Do not lay that upon me as well, my lord,” she whispered. “I was bred to duty. I know full well what Gwynedd’s queen must be, to rule beside a Haldane king. How can you ask it, knowing what I’ve told you?”
Conall smiled, for Rothana herself had just shown him how he must shape his argument, so that in the end, she could not refuse.
“I can ask because now, more than ever, I know how much love you have to give—to Gwynedd as well as the man you wed. With God’s help, perhaps I may one day win a portion of that love for myself. But meanwhile, Gwynedd needs you, as much as Kelson ever did, and I need you—for many of the same reasons. You need not answer me now, my lady, but promise that you’ll think about it. Be the queen Gwynedd needs, to balance a Haldane king. And, if you truly think that Kelson’s death lies partly at your feet, then make expiation by doing what you dreamed—only, with me rather than Kelson. I swear to you, only the name of your king will change.”
He knew he gambled much on so emotional an appeal, and prayed she would not refuse outright and force him to resort to blackmail—for as a last recourse, he knew he could tell her what he had seen between her and Kelson, and threaten to reveal it to her superiors, suitably embellished. It would end any hope she might have of being permitted to continue in a religious vocation.
But she neither accepted nor refused him, in the few more minutes they spent together there in the garden, and he sensed she was considering, as he had asked. The interview ended when her abbess
, Father Ambros, and several other sisters of Rothana’s order came into the other end of the garden, the priest apparently leading the others in devotions while they walked. Rothana excused herself immediately, promising, when pressed, to continue considering what he had offered.
Conall watched her thoughtfully as she hurried to join the others. His head ached with the strain of the encounter, but he was sure she had not pierced his façade. Now he could only wait for his next opportunity to broach the subject and pray that Father Ambros was discreet and Rothana herself would not dare to speak further of the matter to anyone else until Cardiel should release her from her vows.
And Rothana’s letter to the archbishop must be investigated, too, to see how specific she had been. From what he was learning of her way of thinking, Conall guessed she would have been circumspect in her exact reasons for requesting dispensation; but Conall stood a far better chance of accomplishing their marriage if Cardiel thought her motive a questioning of her vocation rather than an intention to marry a specific individual.
Fortunately, Cardiel was human. Conall could manipulate him, if he had to. In fact, other than Arilan himself—and Morgan and Duncan, when they eventually returned—Conall doubted there was anyone at court that he could not manipulate, with the possible exception of his father. And if Conall could make himself a part of Nigel’s power assumption—as was certainly possible, now being the heir—there might be ways to circumvent Nigel’s abilities as well, even after he was brought to full potential.
Conall could feel his own power stirring within him as he stood and began making his leisurely way back into the residence wing of the castle, heading for his father’s apartments to deal with the request Arilan had made of him. Nigel must be persuaded to accept his Haldane power as soon as possible, so that Conall could be confirmed as the heir and his own growing powers not be so noticeable.
They were growing, too—no doubt as a result of Kelson’s death and Conall’s subsequent nearer proximity to the throne. Growth of any kind often produced growing pains, however—headaches, in Conall’s case, becoming more and more frequent. He had one now. Though Tiercel might have set his Haldane potential in motion early—and Conall’s reading of Tiercel’s memories undoubtedly had given him increased abilities even over what he had gained to that point—Conall was now eligible for more orthodox assistance to come into his inheritance. Once Nigel was confirmed in full power, they would have to confirm Conall as the heir—delicious anticipation!
His head continued to ache as he climbed the stairs, but he pushed the pain down with relative ease, now that he did not have to be on guard against Rothana. Nor need he be too concerned about his father’s powers. So far as he could tell, Nigel was far behind Conall in ability, for all that he had been prepared to assume Kelson’s legacy of magic as well as blood.
He found his father at a writing table built into a window of his parents’ sleeping chamber, gazing out across the river, a quill forgotten in his fingers. The funereal black of the prince regent’s raiment was relieved only by his still, winter-pale face and hands and the silver threading his temples, the latter glinting in the sunlight as Nigel turned his head to see who had entered. The new King of Gwynedd smiled and laid aside the pen as his eldest son approached, pushing aside the sheaf of parchment rectangles with an immense sigh of relief.
“Thank God, Conall. You’ve rescued me from an interminable stack of correspondence that needs to be signed and sealed. The scribes must have worked all through the night—dozens of them. Arilan is an even worse taskmaster than Duncan. I don’t suppose you’d care to lend a hand?”
Conall smiled thinly in return and detoured to the fireplace to fetch a lighted candle before joining his father at the cluttered table, setting the candlestick in a space Nigel cleared hastily at the end exposed to the room. Conall wanted to talk about only one of the two bishops his father had just named. Helping seal the documents would give his hands something to do while he chose his words with care.
“They have left you with a stack, haven’t they?” he said, pulling a coil of scarlet sealing wax from the clutter and straightening out the wick end to light it from the candle. “I fear I shan’t be much help with the signing, but I can dribble sealing wax with the best of them. Which seal are you going to use?”
Nigel twisted his personal signet off his finger and set it before Conall with a sigh.
“Regardless of what they say, I’m not the king yet, son,” he said. “And I don’t mind telling you, I hoped never to have to send these.”
He pulled the first letter from its stack and laid it on the table before Conall, holding it steady as the red drops made a growing mound of molten wax on the parchment below his signature—to which Nigel had added P. for Princeps, rather than R. for Rex.
Conall said nothing as his father set the seal into the hot wax, leaving the imprint of Nigel’s personal arms rather than the undifferenced Haldane lion that was now his due, but it was obvious Nigel was aware of his son’s scrutiny. He gave Conall a tight, strained smile as he set the letter aside and drew the next one into position, deliberately averting his grey Haldane gaze.
“I know,” Nigel said softly, watching the wax pool on the next letter. “I’m probably being foolish still to hold out hope that Kelson might yet live. But I don’t want to be king. If I thought I dared, I’d seriously consider abdicating in your favor. You wouldn’t mind, either, would you? You’re young enough for the responsibility to seem like adventure. But of course the great lords would never stand for it. There’s no place but the grave for a man who once was king.”
As Nigel applied seal to wax again, Conall felt a stir of anger at how little his own father understood his yearnings, but he forced himself to put it aside dispassionately, in the same way he put aside the second letter. In many respects, Nigel was absolutely correct. There was no room for two kings in any land.
“God grant that day may be long in coming, Father,” he murmured. “For now, I’m perfectly content to continue learning statecraft at your side. In the meantime, however, there’s other craft we both must learn. And you, in particular, dare not delay that overlong.”
“Ah, I see Arilan’s been at you,” Nigel said.
“Only casually,” Conall replied, focusing all his outward attention on the next seal, though his shields had firmed instinctively at his father’s faint rebuke. “He’s right in warning that our enemies will be testing, as soon as they learn of Kelson’s death, hoping for just such a delay in confirming your powers.”
He sent a cautious tendril of thought against the shields he expected to be already in place, but it slithered unimpaired and undetected past defenses only barely maintained, and never intended to stop his own son. Nigel only shook his head in response to Conall’s words as he switched a sealed letter for an unsealed one.
“I don’t see that they’ll be testing all that soon. They can’t even know yet, in Torenth. Even Morgan will only be finding out in the next day or so—and Duncan didn’t have to ride the distance from here to Dhassa. It will take far longer for conventional couriers to cross the Torenthi border.”
“From here, perhaps,” Conall agreed, “but not from the north, where it happened. We took four days to ride from Saint Bearand’s via Valoret, but one must take into account that the news will have spread directly from there as well. All the monks at Saint Bearand’s certainly knew, as soon as anyone outside our immediate party. And we ourselves sent a messenger directly to the Earl of Eastmarch, to name only one. He’ll have sent word on to Cardosa. And once the news reaches Cardosa, it can be all over Torenth within a matter of hours, as soon as some Torenthi agent with Deryni connections can make it to the nearest Portal.”
“You paint rather bleak prospects,” Nigel replied, exchanging another sealed letter for an unsealed one. “Still, I think we can delay making any binding decisions until Duncan and Morgan return.”
“Why not let Arilan handle it and be done?” Conall asked. “He says he
was keyed to your power ritual, the same as Duncan and Morgan. And he isn’t emotionally involved over Kelson’s death in the same way that the rest of us are. He might be a better bet, all the way around.”
Nigel sighed and laid aside his seal, setting one fist on his hip to turn and gaze at Conall.
“Did he tell you that, son, or did you figure it out for yourself?”
Suddenly uneasy, for no clear reason he could immediately discern, Conall straightened and blew out the flame on the coil of sealing wax, setting it carefully beside his father’s discarded ring.
“What do you mean? He is less emotionally involved.”
“Less involved over the immediate matter of Kelson’s death, perhaps,” Nigel conceded, “but I’d hardly call him disinterested. He is a member of the Camberian Council, after all.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
Nigel shrugged, then folded his arms on his chest. “I’m not sure. Nothing I can exactly put my finger on. But they were already in turmoil themselves, over Tiercel’s death. Kelson did tell you that one of the councillors had been found dead, right here in the castle, didn’t he?”
Conall felt like a cold hand was closing around his heart and he had to avert his eyes to keep from telegraphing his consternation to his father. He hoped Nigel had not seen his momentary start of panic as the words first registered. He had not expected the conversation to turn to the dead Tiercel de Claron.
“He mentioned that someone important had been found dead, but he never said whom—only that it was no one I would know.”
“No, you wouldn’t have,” Nigel murmured.
But an odd flicker of confusion rippled across his mind. Conall still had a probe set deep within his father’s shields and could read no sign of real suspicion—yet—but he could follow connections being made as Nigel tried, mostly just below the surface levels of real awareness, to reconcile Conall’s words of denial with the momentary start. Conall feared he might have underestimated his father and wondered whether it was too late to turn the light of doubt on Dhugal.