High Deryni (8 page)

Rhydon shrugged noncommittally. “Your performance was flawless, as usual. What more can I say?” The tone was light, but the pale gray eyes beneath the hawk visage mirrored more than the spoken words.

Wencit knew that look and nodded. He placed the
shiral
crystal on the table beside the golden coronet and carefully adjusted the chain, then looked up shrewdly at Rhydon once more.

“You are concerned about Bran Coris. Why? You surely do not think he presents a danger to us?”

Rhydon shrugged again. “Call it native cynicism—I cannot say. He seems safe enough. But you know how unpredictable humans can be. Look at Kelson Haldane.”

“He is half-Deryni.”

“So is Morgan. So is McLain. Forgive me if I sound skeptical, but perhaps you have not been aware of the Camberian Council's attention to that fact. Morgan and McLain, as supposed half-Deryni, are probably the two most unpredictable men in the Eleven Kingdoms right now. They keep doing things they should not be able to do. And that I
know
you are aware of.” He came around and sat in the other chair, then picked up Bran's untouched cup of darja and drained it at a single draught. Wencit snorted derisively.

Rhydon of Eastmarch was no longer a handsome man. A saber scar slashing from the bridge of his nose to the right-hand corner of his mouth had forever rendered that an impossibility. But he was a striking man. Dark hair graying at the temples and a luxuriant salt-and-pepper moustache framed a lean, oval face; a small beard softened the pointed chin. The mouth was full and wide but generally set in a firm line, with hints of predatory cruelty. In all, an almost sinister aura—one that the rapier mind behind the face relished and cultivated. A Deryni lord of the first magnitude was Rhydon of Eastmarch; a man in every way Wencit's equal and complement; a man never to be trifled with.

He and Wencit gazed across the table for a long moment before Wencit recalled himself to matters at hand.

“Very well,” he said, abruptly straightening and pulling several of the leather document tubes toward him. “Do you wish to observe Bran's initiation tomorrow, or have I convinced you that he is no longer dangerous? To us, at least.”

“I am not totally convinced that any human is without danger,” Rhydon quipped, “but no matter. I leave him to your judgment.” He rubbed a slender forefinger down the bridge of his nose in an automatic gesture, unconsciously following the long scar that lost itself in the thick moustache. “Are those our battle plans?”

Wencit pulled a map from one of the tubes and spread it on the table. “Yes, and the situation improves hourly. With Bran's defection about to split Kelson's strength along the border, we can cut off northern Gwynedd. To the south, Jared of Cassan and his army should be easy picking when we shift south in a few days.”

“What about Kelson?” Rhydon asked. “When he finds out what you plan, he will have the entire royal army breathing down our necks.”

Wencit shook his head. “Kelson will not know. I am counting on poor communication and difficult travel conditions at this time of year to keep him ignorant of our plans until it is too late to do anything. Besides, the civil and religious turmoil in Corwyn should keep him amply occupied until we are ready to take him.”

“Do you anticipate trouble when we do?”

“From Kelson?” Wencit shook his head and smiled. “I hardly think so. Despite what the statutes say about the legal age of kings, Kelson at fourteen is still a boy, half-Deryni or no. And you must admit that being half-Deryni has not particularly helped our ambitious princeling lately. In fact, increasing numbers of his loyal subjects are beginning to wonder if it is a good thing at all, to have a boy-king whose blood harks back to the blasphemous and wicked Deryni race.”

“Your carefully placed rumors, of course, have had nothing at all to do with this shift of confidence.”

“How could you think such a thing?”

Rhydon chuckled mirthlessly at his companion's feigned look of mild affront, and crossed elegantly booted legs. “Then, tell me what you have planned for the wonder-prince, my lord king. How may I assist you further?”

“Rid me of Morgan and McLain,” Wencit replied, at once deadly serious. “As long as they stand beside Kelson, excommunicate or not, they stand a threat to us, both by the aid they can give him and by the powers they personally wield. Since we cannot predict their strength or their influence, we have no choice but to eliminate them. But it must be done legally. I want no trouble with the Council.”

“Legally?” Rhydon raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I am not certain that is possible. As half-breeds, Morgan and McLain are immune to arcane challenge by any other full Deryni. And the chances of having them legally executed by secular or ecclesiastical authorities are so remote as to be almost nonexistent. You know they are under Kelson's personal protection.”

Wencit picked up a thin stylus and tapped it absently against his teeth, then turned to gaze thoughtfully out the window. “Yes, but there may be another way, one that the Council could not possibly fault. In fact, the Council itself might be the instrument of their destruction.”

Rhydon straightened attentively. “Do elaborate.”

“Suppose the Council were to declare Morgan and McLain fair game for arcane challenge? Suppose their immunity were taken away?”

“On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that the two of them exhibit full Deryni powers at times,” Wencit said with a sly smile. “They have, you know.”

“I see,” Rhydon murmured. “And you wish me to go to the Council and ask them to entertain the motion? You know that is out of the question.”

“Oh, not you, personally. I know how you feel about the Council. Ask Thorne Hagen to do it. He owes me several favors.”

Rhydon hissed derisively.

“No, I mean it. Tell him, if you like, that this is not a request but a direct order from me. I think he'll cooperate.”

Rhydon chuckled, shaking his head, then stood and straightened his sleeves with a flourish. “He has little choice, when you put it that way. Very well, I shall see to it.” He glanced around and rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Is there anything else you require of me before I go? Perhaps a minor miracle or two? The granting of your heart's desire?”

With the last word, he extended his hands and made a slow pass in the air before him, murmuring a few low syllables under his breath. As he completed the movement, a full, hooded cloak of softest deerskin appeared from nowhere to settle around his shoulders in a whisper of indigo leather. Wencit had taken an incredulous pose with hands on hips as his colleague performed the spell, and shook his head in consternation as Rhydon fastened the clasp.

“If you are quite finished playing with your powers, the one request will be enough, thank you. And now, I'll thank you to be on your way and let me work. Some of us must, you know.”

“Ah, I am wounded beyond mending,” Rhydon said dryly. “However, since you request it, I shall go to see your good friend Thorne Hagen. Then I shall return to inspect this Bran Coris creature with whom you seem so enraptured. Perhaps there is some merit in him after all—though I doubt it. Perhaps I shall even endeavor to assess the danger for you: the danger you are convinced does not exist.”

“Do, by all means.”

Rhydon left in a swirl of indigo leather, and when he was gone Wencit returned to his maps, poring over the red and blue and green lines that outlined his strategy. The ice-pale eyes glittered with power as his fingers roamed the creamy parchment, new tension in the set of his shoulders as he planned and schemed.

“One ruler must unite the Eleven Kingdoms,” he murmured to himself as he traced the lines of advance. “One ruler over all the Eleven Kingdoms. And it shall not be the boy-king who sits on the throne at Rhemuth!”

EARLY
in the evening of that same day, two others discussed the fate of the renegade Deryni. The men were prelates, self-exiled members of that same Gwynedd Curia mentioned by Wencit with such derision earlier in the day. These same prelates had been largely responsible for the schism that now split Gwynedd's clergy along diverging lines.

Thomas Cardiel, in whose private chapel the two spoke, had never been regarded as a likely candidate for rebellion. Incumbent of the prestigious See of Dhassa for nearly half a decade, and only a year past his fortieth birthday, he had never expected to become a leader in the events that had taken place two months before. When elected to the episcopate, he had been a seasoned if youthful cleric of steady disposition and unimpeachable loyalty to the Church he served, eminently suited for the neutral role traditionally expected of the Bishop of Dhassa.

Nor had his colleague, Denis Arilan, ever dreamed where the convocation of two months prior might lead. At thirty-eight, Gwynedd's youngest bishop had begun to carve out an imposing niche for himself from the time he first entered seminary. But now, unless events changed dramatically for the better, neither he nor Cardiel was likely to have much of a career beyond this point. Indeed, they would be fortunate to survive the coming weeks.

From the perspective of most of their more senior colleagues, the sins of Cardiel and Arilan were great, for they and four of their fellow bishops had defied the Curia of Gwynedd in open synod, declaring their intention to split the Curia if the contemplated Interdict of Corwyn was not abandoned.

But the Interdict had not been abandoned. Archbishop Loris, having already decided to force the issue through, had called the bluff of the Six. Now Gwynedd's loyalties were divided between two rival curias: the Six in Dhassa, who had expelled Loris and his followers from the city's gates; and the ten others siding with the archbishop, who had withdrawn to Morgan's captured capital at Coroth, who sided with the rebel Warin de Grey and claimed to retain the true authority of the Church. Reconciliation, if it could be achieved at all, would not be easily won.

Focused and intent, Bishop Cardiel paced back and forth before the altar rail of the tiny chapel, reading and rereading a sheet of creased parchment. He shook his steel-gray head uncomprehendingly as his eyes scanned the text, releasing a perplexed sigh as he skipped back to the top of the page. His companion, Denis Arilan, sat seemingly at ease as he watched from a front pew, one arm stretched along its back, though his own tension was betrayed by the incessant drumming of his fingertips on the wood.

Cardiel shook his head and rubbed a hand across his chin, sighing yet again. A dark amethyst winked on his right hand as it caught the dim candlelight.

“This just does not make sense, Denis,” he said, looking up. “How could Corwyners have turned on Prince Nigel, of all people? Has this taint that has touched Kelson also stained his uncle? Nigel is no Deryni.”

Arilan stopped his finger-drumming long enough to gesture helplessly, then realized what he had been doing and did not resume. He, too, had been chagrined at the news of the rout at Jennan Vale two days earlier, but his keen mind was already examining all the known aspects of the situation, trying to piece together some plan of action. Running a restless hand across his dark hair, he swept off his violet silk skullcap, which he fingered briefly before tossing it onto the bench beside him. Violet glittered on his hand and on his heavy silver pectoral cross as he folded his arms across his chest.

“Perhaps we have been in error, holding our army here at Dhassa,” he said finally. “Perhaps we should have gone to Kelson's aid months ago, when this thing first happened. Or perhaps our duty lies at Coroth, to soothe the ruffled feathers of the archbishops. Until there is reconciliation with them, there can be no true peace in Corwyn.” He glanced down at his cross before continuing in a lower voice.

“Ah, Thomas, we have trained our people well, we shepherd-bishops of Gwynedd. When the thunder of anathema rumbles, the sheep obey—even if the anathema is ill-advised, and the sheep badly led, and those against whom the anathema is threatened are innocent of the charges levied against them.”

“Then you think that Morgan and McLain are innocent?” Cardiel asked.

Arilan shook his head as he studied the toe of a velvet slipper protruding from beneath his cassock. “No. They are technically guilty. There is no question of that. Saint Torin's
was
burned. Men
were
killed. And Morgan and Duncan
are
Deryni.”

“And if there
were
extenuating circumstances, and the two
could
explain…” Cardiel ventured.

“Perhaps. If, as you suggest, Morgan and Duncan acted out of self-defense, to extricate themselves from a situation that came about through treachery and entrapment, then it may be that they can be forgiven their guilt in the Saint Torin matter. Even murder, if done in defense of one's life, can be justified.” Arilan sighed. “But they are still Deryni.”

“Aye, that's true.”

Resignedly, Cardiel half-sat against the marble altar rail in front of Arilan and refolded the parchment, a wistful expression on his face. Light from the Presence lamp hanging a few feet past his head cast a ruddy glow on his steel-gray hair, the purple of his skullcap. After slipping the missive under his purple cincture, he leaned both hands against the rail behind him and scanned the vaulted ceiling above before finally dropping his gaze to Arilan's once more.

“Do you think they will come to us?” he asked quietly. “Do you think Morgan and Duncan will dare to trust us?”

“I don't know.”

“If only we could talk to them, if we could find out what really happened at Saint Torin's—we might act as intermediaries with the archbishops, and perhaps end this ridiculous dispute.” Cardiel shook his head. “God knows, I had no wish to split the Curia down the middle on the eve of war, Denis—but neither could I support Loris's Interdict for Corwyn.” He paused, then continued in a lower tone.

“I search my heart and try to think what I might have done differently, to avoid arriving at the crossroad where we now stand, but I keep coming up with the same answer. Logic tells me I did the only thing I could do and still remain true to myself and my holy vows. But another small part keeps nagging that there
must
have been some other way. Silly, isn't it?”

Arilan shook his head. “Not silly at all. Loris made a powerful appeal to emotion, with his shouts of heresy and sacrilege and murder. He made it sound as though Interdict was the only conceivable punishment suitable for a duchy whose duke had offended God and men.

“But you were not dismayed. You stripped away the histrionics, the verbal harangues calculated to conjure up hysteria, and stood steadfast to the tenets by which you have always lived. It took courage, Thomas.” Arilan smiled gently and raised an eyebrow. “I'll own, it took courage to follow you. But there is not one of us who did who regrets that decision, or who will not stand by you, whatever you decide to do next. We all share responsibility for this schism.”

Cardiel smiled weakly and lowered his gaze. “Thank you. I value that, coming from you. The trouble is, I haven't the slightest notion what we should do next. We are so alone.”

“We are hardly alone,” Arilan pointed out dryly. “We have the entire city of Dhassa behind us—and your personal militia. They were not swayed by Loris's rantings. Granted, they know that Morgan and Duncan were responsible for the destruction of Saint Torin's—and it will take a while for some of them to forgive that, no matter how justified Morgan and Duncan appeared to be. But their loyalty to Kelson remains unshaken despite all that. Look at the size of our army.”

“Yes, look at it,” Cardiel said. “And that army is doing Kelson absolutely no good where it now stands, camped outside the gates of Dhassa. I am not certain we dare wait much longer for Morgan and McLain to show up. I am thinking seriously about sending another dispatch to Kelson and telling him we will meet him where and when he orders. The longer we wait to move, the stronger Warin's rebels and the more obstinate the archbishops.”

Arilan shrugged. “I'll grant you that. But I really think you should delay a while longer. A few days either way will make little difference as far as Warin and the archbishops are concerned. But if we can clear the air with Morgan and Duncan before joining with Kelson, it would do a great deal to allay any suspicion of us. We could then march on Coroth and Loris and present a united front, with some real hope of effecting a reconciliation. For, make no mistake, when we refused to agree to the Interdict, we also sided indirectly with Morgan and Duncan and the entire Deryni cause, whether unwittingly or not. Resolving that breach can only be accomplished by proving that we were right about Morgan and Duncan's innocence to begin with.”

“Well, I hope to God that we
can
prove it!” Cardiel muttered. “Personally, I like most of what I've heard about Morgan and McLain. I can even understand why McLain hid his Deryni powers all these years. And while I can't condone his entry into the priesthood, knowing as he did that he was Deryni, he appears to have been a very good priest.”

“Which, in itself, may say something of note about the Deryni,” Arilan said with a faint smile. “Remember when you asked me, several months ago, whether I believed the Deryni to be inherently evil?”

“Of course. You said that there were undoubtedly
some
evil Deryni, just like anybody else. You also said that you didn't believe Kelson or Morgan or McLain were evil.”

Arilan's eyes glinted a deep blue-violet in the dim light. “I still believe that.”

“So? I'm not certain I take your point.”

“Do you not? You said yourself that Duncan appears to have been a very good priest, despite the fact that he is Deryni. Doesn't the fact that he
became
a priest, in direct defiance of civil and canon law, and that he is a
good
priest in spite of this, perhaps suggest that the Council of Ramos was in error? And if the Council was in error in this very important area, why not in others?” He arched an eyebrow at Cardiel. “It could force us to reevaluate the entire Deryni-human question.”

“Hmm. I hadn't thought of it in those terms. Extending your logic, we could eliminate bars to the priesthood, bars to holding public office and owning land….”

“And so much for any great Deryni conspiracy,” Arilan said lightly, with the trace of a smile.

Cardiel pursed his lips, then shook his head with a frown. “It may not be as simple as that, Denis. I heard an odd rumor a day or so ago. I meant to mention it to you earlier. It's whispered that there may, indeed, be a Deryni conspiracy—and a formal one at that. According to rumor, there is a council of highborn Deryni who purport to speak for their race, who somehow monitor the activities of known Deryni. They haven't moved outwardly as yet, but—”

He straightened and began twisting his hands together, his gray eyes grave and worried as he toyed with his amethyst.

“Denis, suppose there
is
a Deryni conspiracy? And what if Morgan and McLain are a part of it? Or Kelson, God help him? It has been more than two hundred years since the Interregnum ended, two centuries since human rule was restored to most of the Eleven Kingdoms. But the people haven't forgotten what life was like under the dictatorship of sorcerers who used their powers for evil. What if we are coming to something like this again?”

“What if, what if?” Arilan's voice became clipped and a little impatient as he locked eyes with Cardiel. “Thomas, if there
is
a Deryni conspiracy, it lies in the mind and plans of Wencit of Torenth. It's very likely that he and his agents are responsible for the rumors you've been hearing.

“As for the threats of a Deryni dictatorship, that is a precise description of Wencit's rule in Torenth: his family has ruled thus for both of the past two centuries you speak of.
That
, my learned friend, is the only Deryni conspiracy you are likely to see in the near future. And as for some secret council of Deryni…” He shrugged, his manner somewhat subdued. “Well, I have yet to see any evidence of their actions, if they exist.”

Cardiel blinked rapidly several times as Arilan came to a verbal halt, somewhat taken aback by the intensity of his colleague's reply. Then the blue-violet eyes softened, the cold fire fading, and the bishop averted his eyes. With a sigh almost of relief, Cardiel picked up his cloak from the seat by Arilan and ventured a timid smile as he flung the garment around his shoulders.

“You know, you do worry me sometimes, Denis. I can never quite predict how you're going to react. And somehow you manage to reassure me while at the same time frightening me half to death.”

“Do I?” Arilan smiled faintly and reached up to squeeze Cardiel's arm reassuringly. “Forgive me, old friend. I sometimes let myself get too caught up.”

“Yes, you do,” Cardiel said with an answering smile. “Will you join me for some refreshment? Worrying about the Deryni always makes my throat dry. It makes my head hurt as well, but I don't suppose there's much to be done about that—though some nice Fianna red might help. My predecessors have always kept fine cellars.”