The Bishop’s Heir
“About a fortnight ago, Kelson rode out from Culdi to pay a surprise visit on one of his local barons,” Dhugal said carefully. “It was Brice of Trurill. Trurill borders on Transha lands, so I was riding with a Trurill patrol.” He grimaced. “That’s another story. Those same men, including the baron himself, were the escort that met Loris when he landed on the coast near my father’s castle, hardly a week later. They’re probably still here in Ratharkin.”
“Brice of Trurill supports Loris?”
Istelyn sounded genuinely surprised and shocked, which reassured Dhugal.
“Aye. It was Brice himself who captured me. He had the audacity to hold a blade to my throat.”
At Istelyn’s low whistle under his breath, Dhugal took another pull at his wine, making a face at the increasingly bitter taste as he got closer to the bottom. He could feel himself becoming more and more detached as the drug gently entered his system.
“Anyway, when the king met us a fortnight ago, we were in the middle of routing a band of brigands who’d been stealing sheep.” He paused to yawn. “Afterward, it was my job to patch up the wounded. One of our lads was in a pretty bad way. Kelson—put him to sleep so I could work on him. It was like a miracle.”
Istelyn’s eyes had grown as round as the moon at full.
“Did he heal him, then?”
“No. He only laid his hand on his forehead and made him go to sleep. He says that General Morgan and Father Duncan can heal sometimes, though.” Dhugal forced himself to look Istelyn in the eyes. “That can’t be wrong either, can it, Excellency?”
“No,” Istelyn whispered. “No, son, I don’t see how it could be.”
The bishop seemed troubled by his question, however, and soon rose to seek the comfort of prayer. Kneeling at a prie-dieu set in one of the window embrasures, he signed himself, then bowed his head in his hands and was still. Dhugal stared after him for several minutes, forming a prayer in his own mind that Istelyn was what he appeared, but when he caught himself starting to nod off, he drained the last of his wine and lowered himself gingerly to his pallet once more, grimacing at the bitterness of the dregs.
It was becoming harder and harder to concentrate with the full dose of the sedative in him, but as he settled himself under the sleeping furs, he tried to think of ways to better his situation when he awoke. He wondered vaguely whether Kelson knew yet of his capture.
Not that there was much hope Kelson could do anything about it. The fate of one man balanced ill against that of an entire realm. But perhaps Dhugal could find a way to help himself, once he had regained some of his strength.
That they regarded him as a valuable hostage was apparent, not only from the fact that they had taken him in the first place but from his continued treatment since arriving in Ratharkin. Had his usefulness ended once they were safely out of Transha, they would have cut his throat long ago. He also recalled some reference to wanting his support when they reunited Transha with old Meara—an unthinkable defection for one loyal to the king—but perhaps that meant that no one was aware of his renewed friendship with Kelson. Nor was anyone likely to connect the young Master of Transha with the then second son of Transha’s chief who had served at King Brion’s court as a page.
Also in Dhugal’s favor was his boyish appearance. Given anything approaching luck, he thought he might play on that to convince them that he was as naive and pliable as he looked—a mistake even Istelyn had made at first. It was a dangerous game, but if he could play it well, he might mislead them enough to lower their guard. Then he could escape to warn Kelson.
He was thinking of ways that might be accomplished as he finally abandoned himself to sleep. Unexpectedly, he dreamed not of Kelson but of his father, and a lone MacArdry piper skirling a lament atop a snow-covered hill.
CHAPTER NINE
But thou, mastering thy power, judgest with equity, and orderest us with great favor: for thou mayest use power when thou wilt.
—Wisdom of Solomon 12:18
Ciard O Ruane, the advance messenger from Clan MacArdry, arrived in Rhemuth late the following afternoon, stunning the court with his doubly woeful news.
“The young laird does nae know about his father, m’lord,” the man concluded, nodding exhausted thanks to a young page who handed him a full tankard. “That’s assuming he’s still alive himself, of course.”
The intimation that Dhugal might not be alive was like a blow to Kelson. Before that instant, he had not allowed himself even to consider the possibility. Shuttering down the shadow of fear that flickered at the back of his eyes, the king glanced to Morgan and Duncan for reassurance, his fingers tightening viselike on the arms of his throne.
“He has to be alive,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I know he is! Ciard, you’re sure it was Trurill’s men who took him?”
The gillie gave a deprecating flourish with one hand as he took a long pull at his ale. If his own son had been taken, he could not have been more devastated.
“We hae ridden wi’ those men all summer, sair. D’ye think I would nae recognize them? It were the Laird Brice himself wha’ had my young master o’er his saddlebow.”
“And this prisoner that’s coming is a priest?”
“Aye, m’lord. And an impertinent an’ close-mouthed rascal he is, too. But Caball has warned him he’ll sing for ye!”
“And I’ll wager I can tell you at least one of the things he’ll sing,” Morgan murmured so that only Kelson could hear, as laughter tinged with menace rippled through the chamber.
“What’s that?”
“That Loris was one of the men Trurill was escorting. Remember, Jodrell told us he’d land on the coast.”
“That isn’t funny, Morgan—even in jest,” Kelson whispered.
“Do you really think I’d jest about a thing like this?” Morgan returned. “Watch the priest confirm that it’s Loris. Who else would dare to call you a heretic king? And if you want my guess, they’re headed for Ratharkin, just as we suspected. It’s on a direct line from Carcashale and the coast where they landed, and the landing itself was a day-and-a-half’s sail from Saint Iveagh’s.”
Only the knowledge of the prisoner on the way, surely to arrive in the next twenty-four hours, kept Kelson from ordering their departure for Ratharkin then and there. He was snappish and preoccupied by turns all through dinner, inwardly mourning old Caulay even as he fretted about Caulay’s son, and let his anger build against Loris.
“You’re right, it has to be Loris,” he told Morgan later that evening, after Duncan had excused himself to confer with the other bishops and Nigel had retired for some much needed sleep. “I hold him personally to blame for Caulay’s death. And if Dhugal—”
He would not let himself finish the thought, shaking his head in fierce denial as he leaned both elbows on the mantel and stared down into the crackling fire. Morgan, looking out over Rhemuth’s rain-slick rooftops from a window embrasure, glanced sharply at the king, then returned his gaze to the darkness outside. His breath had misted the blurred grey glass, and he burnished a clear spot with his fingertip to peer outside once more. If it was raining this hard on the Gwynedd plain, then Meara was probably experiencing heavy snow.
“Brice of Trurill’s defection hurts, too,” Kelson said after a moment, breaking into Morgan’s more practical introspections. “I was going to visit him—I’m sure I would have seen the signs if I had—but I let personal pleasure call me from my duty. I never should have gone to Transha with Dhugal. Now he’s been taken and it’s all my fault.”
“It isn’t your fault, and if you insist upon blaming yourself, you’re only going to make yourself less effective. What possible difference could your visit have made?”
“I still should have gone to Trurill,’ Kelson said stubbornly. “If I had—”
“If you had, there’s no guarantee you would have noticed anything was wrong,” Morgan interrupted. “You may be Deryni, but you aren’t omniscient.”
“I recognize treason when
I see it!”
“From our perspective, yes. On the other hand, I would venture to guess that the Mearans see what they’re doing as patriotism. After all, the Mearans regard themselves as a subjugated people. They have since your great-grandfather married the daughter of the last Mearan prince. If Loris has found supporters in Meara, I suspect it’s because he’s told them they’re crusaders in the cause of a free Meara.”
“A free Meara?” Kelson’s savage kick at the nearest log on the fire produced a shower of sparks. “Free Meara indeed! Meara has never been free! Before my great-grandfather wed the silly Mearan heiress whose marriage was supposed to resolve all of this, Meara had been ruled by petty warlords and despots for centuries. Before that, it was no more civilized than The Connait.”
“The Connait, whose warriors are among the most prized mercenaries in the known world?” Morgan asked.
Scowling, Kelson retreated from the fire and stalked across the room to join Morgan in the window embrasure.
“You know what I mean. Don’t confuse me with fine points of distinction.”
“It isn’t my intention to confuse you with anything, my prince,” Morgan replied patiently. “The point is—”
“The point is that Loris is in Meara, stirring up dissention—maybe even spearheading a civil rebellion, for all we know—and winter is setting in and there isn’t a bloody lot I can do about it until the spring.”
“There is also the point that Loris has one of your closest friends to hostage,” Morgan said softly. “And you would be far less the man I have come to love and respect if you were not deeply concerned over his fate.”
Kelson lowered his eyes, the gentle rebuke well taken.
“He really is like a brother, Alaric,” he said softly. “He’s far closer than my cousins. He’s—almost as close as you, if you were my age—or Duncan. He even—”
As he broke off and drew cautious breath, shifting his unfocused gaze to the fogged window between them, Morgan raised an eyebrow.
“He even what, my prince?”
“Dhugal,” the king murmured. “Sweet Jesu, I’d forgotten to mention it to you.” He glanced at Morgan sheepishly. “Do you remember that night you contacted me in Transha, and how I had to break off suddenly because Dhugal was panicking?”
“Of course.”
“Well, it wasn’t wholly my idea. Dhugal pushed us out of the link—with shields.”
“Shields? But that’s impossible. He isn’t Deryni.”
“Then what is he?” Kelson countered. “He’s certainly got shields a lot like ours. He can’t lower them, though.”
“He can’t—” Morgan broke off and forced himself to take a deep, steadying breath, putting out of mind the increased danger to Dhugal if he were Deryni and in Loris’ hands, and Loris found out.
“He has shields, but he can’t lower them,” Morgan repeated more calmly, glancing back at Kelson. “Are you sure?”
“I tried to read him. I couldn’t get through. All I did was give him a demon of a headache. And it hurt him, Alaric. It isn’t supposed to hurt.”
“No, it isn’t,” Morgan murmured.
After a few seconds, he shook his head and set his hands on Kelson’s shoulders.
“I want you to show me exactly what you did and saw and felt,” he said. “Don’t hold back a thing, even the pain. This could be very important.”
Breathing out with a sigh, Kelson let his hands fall to his sides and closed his eyes, willing the familiar channels to open. He would not have thought of arguing. Morgan’s touch on his forehead plunged him at once into rapport, the link unclouded by any separation of miles or differences of intent. He took Morgan at his word and sent the undiluted memory surging across the link in the space of a few heartbeats, not letting up even when Morgan gasped and staggered under the intensity. Morgan looked a little dazed even after he withdrew.
“I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like that,” Morgan murmured, focusing with an effort. “I still don’t understand. You should have been able to read him.”
“Maybe he has something like my Haldane gifts,” said Kelson. “Some potential for Derynilike abilities. Or maybe he’s like Warin de Grey.”
Morgan shook his head, voicing his thoughts aloud as he wandered in the direction of the fireplace.
“No, his shields have a … a flavor, for want of a better word, that’s quite different from Warin, who has shields and can even heal, but definitely isn’t one of us.”
“Then, maybe he’s fey,” Kelson quipped, biting back a chuckle. “He said he was—Dhugal, I mean. He says hill people have the Second Sight—whatever that is.” He paused a beat. “Why couldn’t he be Deryni, Alaric? If the strain had come into his family several generations ago—perhaps during the worst of the persecutions—mightn’t there be descendants who had no idea what they were, whose occasional odd quirks of talent were simply explained as ‘Second Sight,’ or ‘fey’? My mother didn’t know, after all.”
“That’s what she said,” Morgan replied. “I’m sure she at least suspected, however. And there was certainly no doubt in my mind what she was, when I threatened to read her and she backed off. But nothing in your contact with Dhugal points to anything but shields.” He sighed. “I wish I could give you better answers. I suppose that’s one of the disadvantages of getting one’s training in bits and snippets the way Duncan and I did. Arilan might know better what to do, but—”
“But you don’t wholly trust him,” Kelson finished.
Morgan shrugged. “You’ve seen his attitude. Do you trust him? In spite of everything that’s gone on between us, he never lets go of the fact that Duncan and I are only half Deryni. Maybe his precious Camberian Council won’t let him forget it—though he seems to set that aside in your case.”
“They see me in a different light,” Kelson said quietly. “I’m—not supposed to talk about it.”
“You mean you’ve had contact with them?” Morgan asked, surprised.
“Not with the Council as a whole, but individuals have made overtures.” The king lowered his eyes. “It isn’t for me to say anything further yet. Please don’t press me for details.”
Morgan longed to do just that, for this was the first he’d heard of any such contact, but he forced himself to push curiosity aside and instead flung himself down in a chair beside the fire. If the Council had been making overtures, if only to Kelson, that was a positive step for them. He must do nothing to jeopardize the possible dialogue.
“Very well. I shan’t belabor the issue. I’m glad to hear that something’s happening in that regard, at any rate.”
Kelson nodded idly, leaning both hands against one of the finials on the back of Morgan’s chair. From his expression, Morgan wondered whether he’d heard a word he’d said.
“Morgan, have you ever done any scrying?” the king asked after a few more seconds.
“What do you want to scry for?”
“Dhugal, of course. Have you?”
“In a manner of speaking. I’ve worked visualizations using a shiral crystal, though I doubt that’s quite the same. One usually needs something belonging to the person one wants to scry about. Do you have something of Dhugal’s?”
“Not really—wait a moment. Yes, I do.”
He went to a small casket set on a table beside his bed and rummaged inside for several seconds, finally returning with a short length of black silk ribbon.
“I borrowed this when I was at Transha,” the king said, perching on the arm of Morgan’s chair and offering it for his inspection. “Is it enough?”
“It might be.” Morgan let the ribbon trail across his hand and gave it a tentative probe, but he could detect nothing special about it. “I don’t suppose you have a shiral crystal?”
Kelson’s face fell. “No, do we need one? Don’t you have one?”
“Not in Rhemuth.” Morgan sighed. “However, it’s said not to be impossible without one.” He cocked his head at Kelson. “You’re sure you want
to do this?”
“Morgan …”
“All right. I can’t promise any results, though. All you may get out of it is a splitting headache.”
“I’ll take that chance.”
“And if he’s dead?”
Kelson ducked his head, tight-lipped and all but blinking back tears, and Morgan instantly regretted his bluntness.
“I’m sorry, my prince,” he whispered, giving the king’s arm an awkward pat as he drew a breath and got to his feet. “That was tactless of me. Change places with me and we’ll give it a try. I didn’t mean to feed your fears.”
Kelson did not look at him as he obeyed, nor did he answer. He sensed Morgan’s awkwardness, and that the Deryni lord understood how frightened he really was for Dhugal’s sake. Morgan sat gingerly on the right arm of the chair facing him and took his nearer wrist as soon as he had settled, twining an end of the tightly clutched ribbon through his own fingers.
“Let’s use the flames as your first focus,” Morgan said softly, himself locking on the king’s eyes. “Let yourself slip into trance and stare into the fire. I’ll not share your vision, but feel free to pull energy from me as you begin to build an image of Dhugal in the shifting patterns of light and dark. Draw on his essence that remains in the ribbon and start to reach out across the miles and See him. Let your eyes unfocus. That’s right. Use the flames as a background for your Vision, but know that the flames themselves are not your goal. See Dhugal as you last saw him, and now bring that image forward in time. Let yourself flow with it. Good …”
Kelson did his best to follow Morgan’s instructions, extending his mind through the length of black silk between his fingers as his eyes gazed at and through the flames, but his own fears hampered his concentration. He could feel the support of Morgan’s power augmenting his own as he sought the captive Dhugal, but he was never sure he made a real contact. His head ached as he came out of trance, and it hurt to breathe.