The Bishop’s Heir

  “It’s all right to miss him, you know,” Kelson said softly, reading his mood, if not his thought. “I still miss my father, after all this time. I cried when it happened, too. And sometimes late at night, when I’m feeling especially alone and burdened, I still cry.”

  Dhugal had all he could do to swallow, not daring to look at Kelson lest he loose a whole floodgate of ill-timed grief. He focused on one of the torches burning in a brass cresset instead, forcing himself to raise his eyes to the chapel’s vaulting.

  “This isn’t such a creepy place,” he managed to say, in an awkward attempt to change the subject. “It’s rather nice, actually.”

  Kelson gave him a sympathetic smile, well aware what his foster brother was trying to do and hardly blaming him.

  “It’s only been this way the past year or so. All the stone facing on the walls is new.” He gestured casually toward the nearest stretch of burnished marble as he moved toward it. The slap of his open palm against the stone made Dhugal start.

  “There are tomb niches carved in the living rock behind here,” he went on. “It used to be that only kings and queens were buried in free-standing tombs like my father’s. Other members of the royal family were simply wrapped in their shrouds and laid to rest on the shelves in these walls. They didn’t rot for some reason; they just dried out and eventually crumbled away—something about the air, I’m told. I’d hold tight to my mother’s hand and hide my eyes when my parents brought me here to pray on feast days. The fellow behind this wall, in particular, used to scare me half to death.”

  Ready to seize on any topic in preference to his own grief, Dhugal rose to approach the panel Kelson was touching.

  “Dolonus Haldanus, Princeps Gwyneddis, 675–699,” Dhugal read, stumbling a little over the fine, archaic script. “Filius Llarici, Rigonus Gwyneddis. Requiem in pacem.” He glanced at Kelson in question. “Prince Dolon—didn’t his own father execute him?”

  Kelson nodded. “And his younger brother as well. It was thought at the time that they were plotting treason.”

  “Were they?”

  “Who knows?” Kelson glanced at the next row of wall inscriptions. “His brother is over there. I can remember being terrified of the two headless skeletons. My nurse told me that their father had cut off their heads because they displeased him.”

  “What a thing to tell a child!”

  Kelson grinned. “I think I’d been especially trying that day. Still, it was years before I gained a more objective perspective.” He glanced back at his father’s tomb wistfully.

  “That wasn’t my most frightening experience down here, though,” he went on softly, not sure whether he should risk frightening Dhugal as well by recounting the old nightmare. “It happened the night before my coronation.”

  “My father heard rumors.…” Dhugal said cautiously.

  Kelson smiled and moved back to Brion’s sarcophagus, leaning both hands along the edge.

  “I’ll bet he did. Well, I shan’t go into details that might alarm you overmuch, but as you may know, Morgan wasn’t here when my father died. He was in Cardosa.”

  “And came back the day before the coronation,” Dhugal supplied.

  “That’s right. My father had been buried for over a week by then: my mother’s doing—she hates Morgan for being Deryni. Anyway, as I talked with him and Father Duncan that afternoon, it soon became apparent that—well, something we needed to make my kingship complete had been buried with my father.”

  “Then you did open the tomb!” Dhugal breathed, wide-eyed with horror. “My father said there’d been rumors of vandals—”

  “We weren’t responsible for that part,” Kelson countered. “We think it was Charissa or her agents, trying to discredit Morgan and Father Duncan. We were looking for the Eye of Rom.”

  As he brushed a strand of hair behind his right ear, exposing the crimson gemstone, Dhugal nodded.

  “I remember him wearing that.”

  “Aye, I never saw him without it. But when we opened this,” Kelson tapped the stone cover of the sarcophagus with one hand, “it wasn’t my father inside—or, it was, actually, but it didn’t look like him. We thought someone might have switched bodies at first, so we started searching the rest of the chapel. I wasn’t strong enough to push back these stone lids by myself, so Morgan and Father Duncan did that part. I had to look in the tomb niches. It—wasn’t pleasant.”

  “I—don’t think I understand,” Dhugal said in a small voice. “You mean, it was your father’s body in the coffin after all?”

  Kelson nodded. “I still don’t totally understand, but apparently Charissa had placed some kind of a—a binding spell on the body, which also changed its appearance. Father Duncan got rid of it, but he said that—” He hesitated as Dhugal got an odd, tight look on his face. “He said that Father’s soul had also been bound up in the spell somehow … that he hadn’t been … entirely free. I’ve frightened you again, haven’t I? I’m sorry. It still bothers you to hear me talk so casually about magic, doesn’t it?”

  Dhugal managed to swallow, forcing himself not to avoid Kelson’s gaze, but it was true.

  “Yes,” he whispered. “I don’t want to be afraid, but I guess it’s an old reflex. And when you talk about souls being bound up—”

  “That isn’t the usual kind of Deryni magic,” Kelson said in a low voice, laying a gloved hand on the other’s shoulder. “That’s dark magic—and you have every reason to fear it, as I do. What I do—and what Morgan and Father Duncan do—is of the Light. I know there’s no evil in it. Would I endanger my soul?—would I endanger yours?—if I thought it was evil?”

  “No. Not if you knew. But what if you’re wrong?”

  “Was my father wrong?” Kelson asked. “You knew him, Dhugal. Was Brion an evil man?”

  “No.”

  “And is Morgan evil? Is Father Duncan evil?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Is Bishop Arilan evil, then?”

  “Arilan? Arilan’s Deryni?”

  As Dhugal’s jaw dropped, Kelson nodded slowly.

  “Arilan. And you are one of less than a dozen men who know that,” he replied. “I’m told he comes from very, very old Deryni lineage, long hidden away—and he probably knows more about magic than Morgan, Father Duncan, and myself combined. I’m in awe of him—but I know he isn’t evil. Loris is evil; and he isn’t even Deryni.”

  “I—won’t argue with you on that count,” Dhugal murmured. “It’s just that—” He passed a hand across his eyes in futile attempt to clear a growing fuzziness from his vision, suspecting that his treatment at the renegade archbishop’s hands had taken a more serious toll than he had thought. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m not thinking very clearly.”

  “No need to apologize,” Kelson replied. “You’ve been through a lot in the last week or so, and you’re still not well. I should have had Morgan and Duncan see you, instead of bringing you here.”

  A flicker of even greater foreboding supplanted Dhugal’s burgeoning discomfort, and he looked up at Kelson with a sick, queasy sensation in the pit of his stomach.

  “You mean, to heal me?”

  “Yes.”

  “But—” He swallowed painfully. “Kelson, I’m—not certain I’m ready for that yet.”

  “Because of what happened in Transha?”

  “Yes,” Dhugal admitted. He rubbed both hands across his eyes. “God, my head is throbbing. I can’t think.”

  “That’s why I’d like to have them take a look at you,” Kelson replied. “They might be able to heal your injuries without touching your shields, you know. And maybe you won’t react the same way you did with me.”

  “Maybe. For now, however, I—think I might prefer to let nature take its course, if you don’t mind. I’ll be all right.”

  “If that’s what you want,” Kelson said. “They may ask you themselves, though. I haven’t told Duncan about Transha yet, but Morgan may have. He knows.”

  Dhugal loo
ked down at his hands clasped tightly together and forced them to relax, drawing a deep breath.

  “Well, then, I’ll wait to see what they say. I just can’t—ask them myself, Kelson. And I don’t want you to ask them. Maybe I—won’t be afraid, if they ask me.” He winced and rubbed at his temples again. “It’s too bad your probe hurts worse than the headache I’ve got anyway—though I wouldn’t mind having my ribs healed, that’s for certain. I haven’t drawn a proper breath without pain for days. And the riding didn’t help matters.”

  “We’d better get you back to rest then,” Kelson said, in a tone that conveyed nothing of his disappointment. “It’ll be time for the council soon anyway, and I could use a snack before we settle down for the meeting.”

  “You could talk me into that without half trying,” Dhugal answered with a game grin.

  Their spurs jingled against the polished marble of the steps as they ascended from the crypt to the level of the nave, and the gate of gilded brass creaked noisily as Kelson pulled it shut behind them.

  “I must ask the sacristan to have that oiled,” he said, making small talk as they moved along the transept arm heading toward the nave. “Remind me one day to tell you about his part in the confusion the night before my coronation. I wish you could have been here for the day itself.”

  Dhugal returned Kelson’s sunny grin uneasily.

  “My father told me about the part he saw. He said you fought some sort of magical duel, right here in the cathedral.”

  Kelson gestured grandly toward the transept crossing, trying to diffuse some of the magical drama of the incident while still conveying the wonder.

  “Right there at the foot of the altar steps,” he replied. “What really saved me, though, was one of those seals set in the floor. Without it, I wouldn’t have had a clue what to do.” He led Dhugal to one near the center of the transept and removed his right glove as he knelt beside it.

  “All of these are seals and sigils of various patron saints of this cathedral,” he explained, gesturing to include the entire circle of mosaic designs beneath the crossing. “Part of the kingmaking I had from my father called for a ‘Defender’s Sign.’ We had assumed—not unreasonably, at the time—that the Defender’s Sign was Morgan’s signet ring, since he was my defender, my champion.”

  He brushed his fingertips almost reverently over the worn design beside his knees. “It wasn’t, though. It was this: Saint Camber’s seal.”

  “The Deryni heretic saint?”

  “Yes. I know his name doesn’t appear on it, but somehow I knew this was it—don’t ask me how. Maybe the ability to recognize the true seal when it was time was part of the knowledge that passed to me with my father’s magic. Here’s the robed and hooded figure holding up the crown—see? Because Saint Camber restored the crown of Gwynedd to the Haldanes. And here, worked into the design, you can trace out most of the letters of his name, if you know where to look: C—M—B—R—S. The vagueness of the identification may be what saved the seal from obliteration when Camber’s cult was stamped out, two centuries ago.”

  Dhugal nodded distractedly, steadying himself with gloved knuckles against the floor as he stared down at the swirls of colored mosaic, his eyes tracing out the sigil of Sanctus Camberus as Kelson’s fingertip showed him where to look.

  “You don’t believe that Saint Camber was evil, then?” he finally asked.

  Kelson shook his head and stood, giving Dhugal a hand up. “Not at all. And I don’t want to sound naive, but either Saint Camber or some present-day disciple who wants us to think he’s Saint Camber has come to our rescue more than once—Morgan’s and Duncan’s as well as my own. I think I’d like to restore his cult someday,” he added wistfully. “Most folk would disagree, but I think he was a great man, as well as a powerful saint. I’d like to find out more about what he was really like; and then I think I’d like to go on a quest to try to recover some of his relics, and build a proper shrine to house them. He deserves that.”

  “I suspect the Church might take exception to that notion,” Dhugal murmured.

  “I suspect you’re right,” said a voice from behind them, “if you judge the Church by some of her more stodgy leaders. By that definition, the Church takes exception to a great many notions of far less controversial nature. I can personally vouch for that.”

  “Father Duncan!” Kelson said, as he and Dhugal both whirled to see Duncan standing behind them with an armful of manuscript scrolls. “Oh, bother, I didn’t mean for you to overhear the part about Camber. It’s probably silly to even think of it.”

  “Not silly, my prince,” Duncan said mildly. “No genuine act of piety and faith is ever silly. This is not to say that your dream is necessarily realistic,” he added. “At least not now. But who knows what the future may bring? After all, who would have thought the bishops would approve the appointment of a known Deryni to their ranks?”

  Nervously Kelson glanced around the transept to be certain there was no one else within earshot, a little annoyed that even Duncan should have crept up on him unawares.

  “Shhh!” he hissed under his breath. “The bishops may know, and a lot of other people, but everybody doesn’t. You needn’t make things any more difficult than they are.”

  Duncan raised an eyebrow. “I am what I am, Sire, as we all are. Denying serves no useful purpose.”

  “And what am I, then?” Dhugal whispered, turning sick, fearful eyes on Kelson. “Go ahead and ask him, Kelson. He’s right. I need to know. And I can’t properly serve you and what you’ve become, until I do.”

  Kelson glanced up at Duncan to find the Deryni priest incredibly still, glancing back and forth between him and Dhugal with taut question in the blue eyes.

  “Dhugal has shields,” Kelson murmured, at the same time touching his fingertips to Duncan’s hand and imparting a quick mental impression of what he and Dhugal had experienced. “I told Alaric about them before the expedition, but there wasn’t time to tell you. Now he needs to be healed, but I’m a little afraid to have either of you try it alone. I suspect you’re going to have to get around the shields to do it, and that could be very tricky. He shut down in terrible pain when I tried to read him in Transha.”

  Duncan’s eyes betrayed no emotion as he assimilated Kelson’s words and thoughts; but when the king had finished, Duncan slowly turned his gaze on the apprehensive Dhugal, looking slightly wistful.

  “Shields, you say? Shields that even you can’t breach, Kelson?”

  The king shook his head. “I don’t want to hurt him any more than I have already, trying to force the issue. I have the technical knowledge, but you and Alaric have far more experience. If necessary, I thought you might draw on—other expertise, as well,” he added, thinking of Arilan, and seeing that the thought had occurred to Duncan as well, though he suddenly did not want Duncan to know that he had told Dhugal.

  “No,” Duncan said softly, “I’d rather not involve anyone else, if we can handle this ourselves.” He flicked his attention back to Dhugal, shifting his armful of scrolls to free one hand. “Do you mind if I try a light probe, Dhugal?” he asked, reaching casually toward the boy’s forehead before Dhugal could back away. “I’ll pull right out if it distresses you.”

  As he touched Dhugal, he sent out a cautious tendril of thought, recoiling almost immediately as rigid shields slammed into place and Dhugal blinked.

  “Was that painful?” Duncan asked, not withdrawing his hand.

  Dhugal gave a cautious shake of his head, too amazed to even think of pulling back. “Not painful, no. But I felt—something.”

  “With shields like that, I should imagine you did.” Again Duncan extended a cautious probe. “Can you feel that?”

  Dhugal got an odd, not-quite frightened look on his face.

  “I don’t exactly—feel it. It isn’t a physical sensation at all. Kind of like a … an itch inside my head.”

  “Shall I stop?”

  Dhugal swallowed. “Well, it doesn’t really
hurt. It isn’t even that unpleasant, but—”

  “Let me help,” Kelson said, adding his hand beside Duncan’s and trying a contact.

  But at Kelson’s first psychic touch, Dhugal gasped and recoiled, clapping hands to his temples and doubling over with pain. Both Kelson and Duncan withdrew immediately, Duncan letting his scrolls fall to the floor as he helped Kelson support his tottering foster brother. Dhugal gasped for breath, letting Duncan ease him to a crouch and push his head between his knees, trying not to jostle his sore ribs or kink the bruise on his thigh. His head was throbbing again.

  “That’s exactly what happened in Transha,” Kelson murmured, leaving Dhugal to Duncan’s ministrations while he awkwardly gathered up the dropped scrolls. “It didn’t happen right away, but it’s been that way ever since. I wonder why you don’t get the same reaction.”

  Duncan shrugged, gently kneading the back of Dhugal’s neck and trying a tentative probe again. “I don’t know. He’s still shielded, though. The harder I push, the stronger it gets.”

  “But it doesn’t hurt when you do it,” Dhugal managed to murmur.

  “And damned if I know why,” Duncan replied, helping the boy to stand. “I confess it’s beyond me, at least on casual investigation. We’re due back at the council meeting very shortly, but why don’t we closet ourselves with Alaric afterward and get to the bottom of this? I’ll be fascinated to see whether you react the same to him as you do to me, Dhugal—though I warn you, you could react just as easily as you did to Kelson’s probe.”

  Dhugal grimaced, but he hobbled gamely between them as they started back down the nave.

  “Just warn me before anybody else touches me, Father. If General Morgan—”

  But he was not given time to complete the thought. As the three of them reached the narthex, pulling up cloak hoods against the snow falling outside the postern door, Morgan himself came through the narrow doorway, accompanied by a worried-looking Nigel. Morgan gave them all a grim, distracted smile and sketched a bow to Kelson as he pulled a parchment packet from inside his tunic. Nigel brushed snow from his shoulders and stamped his feet as Morgan handed the parchment to the king.