Ferris swallowed, not wanting to say it.
“Go ahead. What else?” Morgan demanded.
“That—that you are D—Deryni, my lord,” Ferris managed to choke out, unable even then to tear his eyes away from Morgan’s.
“That is correct,” Morgan said, flicking his gaze for the merest of instants to the four witnesses watching with wide-eyed fascination. “Can you tell me what that means to you, that I am Deryni?” he asked quietly.
“That—that you consort with black magic,” Ferris found himself saying, to his horror.
Morgan grimaced and gave a heavy sigh. “Magic, yes. The color is rather open to interpretation. I have some special powers, Ferris, but I try to use them only in the cause of justice.”
At Ferris’s look of uncertainty—for Morgan’s vocabulary had begun to exceed his understanding again—the duke stopped and gave him a patient smile. “You don’t understand but half of what I’m saying, do you?”
Ferris dared to shake his head slightly.
“Do you understand when I say that I can tell when a man is lying?”
“I am not lying, my lord!” Ferris whispered desperately. “I did not kill the woman! I did not rape her, either!”
“No, I see that you did not,” Morgan replied. And as Ferris gasped in astonishment, tears welling in his eyes that he had finally been believed, Morgan added, “But perhaps you can tell us who did.”
“But I—I do not know, my lord!” Ferris started to protest.
“Remember last night,” Morgan commanded, taking Ferris’s head between his hands, thumbs resting on the temples, his eyes holding Ferris from any attempt to draw away.
Ferris feared he might drown in those eyes. He could see nothing else. And Morgan’s touch bought a heady helplessness, a sweet-sickly sense of vertigo that started at the top of his head and swooped down to the pit of his stomach, making his knees go to jelly.
He felt the guards supporting him by the ends of his control bar as he sank back on his haunches, beyond any ability to resist what was happening to him; but as his eyes fluttered closed, he lost all awareness of Morgan, the guards, the hall, or any of the rest of his present situation. Suddenly it was night, and he was stumbling down an alley that he hoped led back to the inn where he was staying, wondering whether he should have drunk so much.
Cries, then—shrill and terrified, in pain. Running to see who called—and the sound of footsteps in the shadows. He caught only a glimpse of a still, slight form clad in light-colored clothing, and dark figures scattering at his approach, before someone struck him solidly from behind, and everything went black.
The next thing he knew, he was being beaten and kicked, his head aswim from drink and the blows, covered with blood, trying to cringe from the booted feet. And then the watch was there, and his captors were saying he had done it, and he had no words to tell them of his innocence.
“Release him,” he heard a voice say, as he abruptly became aware of his body again and the hands clamped to his temples were removed. “He didn’t do it. I think, however, that I know who did.”
He opened his eyes in time to see Morgan turning to survey the four witnesses ranged on the bench behind and to his left. The men rose nervously as Morgan looked at them, no longer as self-confident as they had been only minutes before. Their nervousness increased as the bishop signaled half a dozen guards to move in behind them, though the guards made no attempt to touch them.
It was quickly done, to Ferris’s continued surprise and awe. While his guards untied his hands and released him, helping him to his feet, Morgan moved before the four witnesses, one by one, and asked each the same three questions: “Did you kill the girl?” “Did you participate in the rape?” “Did you agree among yourselves to accuse the swordsmith?”
The Deryni lord did not touch them; only fixed each with that cool, irresistible silver gaze and commanded the truth. And though only one answered yes to the first question, all four, without exception, answered yes to the second and third. They appeared to be a little dazed as Morgan returned calmly to the dais and the guards moved in to bind their wrists behind them.
“I trust you don’t think I’ve stepped out of line, Bishop,” Ferris heard Morgan murmur to Tolliver as he sat once more in the chair at the bishop’s right. “Is there any doubt in your mind that justice has been done?”
Tolliver slowly shook his head. “Thank God you arrived when you did, Alaric,” he replied softly. “Otherwise, we should have hanged an innocent man.”
“Aye, he is,” Morgan replied, glancing out at Ferris again, who was rubbing his wrists absently and staring at the Deryni lord in awe. “You are free to go, sword-smith. The men who accused you falsely shall hang for that, and for their other crimes.” He ignored the murmurs of consternation as his words sank in on the four guilty men. “I only wish there were some way to repay you for what you have suffered.”
Ferris’s jaw dropped in amazement, and he wondered whether he had understood correctly. The duke had already given him his life, when he had thought never to see another day. It was he, not Morgan, who should be offering some token of recompense; and glancing at the blade lying close along Morgan’s thigh—too short, by a hand-span, to take full advantage of the man’s reach, and probably ill-balanced, to boot—Ferris thought he knew what would please.
“You have already paid any debt to me by giving of your justice, my lord,” Ferris said, dropping to one knee and giving salute with right fist to heart in the manner of his people. “But may I—ask one favor of Your Lordship?”
“What is it?” Morgan asked.
“I-I would rather speak with you in private, if I may, my lord.”
At Morgan’s gesture, Ferris rose and mounted the dais steps, bowing slightly to the bishop and then asking with a glance whether he and Morgan might withdraw a little further. With a nod, Morgan got up and led him off the dais to one side, hand resting easily on the hilt of the sword that had given Ferris’s swordsmith’s eye offense from the floor of the hall.
“I thank you, my lord,” Ferris murmured, controlling a smile as he noticed Morgan’s young aide taking up a position of vigilance at a discreet distance outside the window embrasure they entered. “I—have not the words in your tongue to express my gratitude. I do not understand how you did—what you did. I think, from the look on your bishop’s face, that he almost wishes you had not done it, for he fears your power, even though he respects you as a man—but I wanted to tell you that—that I will no longer be afraid when people speak of the Deryni.”
“No?” Morgan replied with a wry little smile. “Then you will be but a rare one among the many who are.”
“You have a skill that you use for the cause of truth,” Ferris said stubbornly. “My people value the pursuit of truth. The All-Fa—”
“You need say no more,” Morgan said quietly, a more wistful smile playing about his lips. “I suspected, from the start, that you worshipped the All-Father. Your people and mine have both suffered because of their differences, I think. Is that what you wanted to tell me?”
“Not—all, my lord,” Ferris breathed. “Would you—would you draw your sword for me?”
“My sword?”
“Yes, my lord. I am a master swordsmith, as I have said. I noticed that your blade seems short for the reach of your arm. Can you show me your stance?”
Raising one blond eyebrow, Morgan stepped back a pace and eased the weapon from its sheath, at the same time telling his aide, by sign, that there was no danger. When, at Ferris’s direction, he had swung the sword through several basic exercises, he saluted with a flourish and tossed the hilt into Ferris’s waiting fist.
“So, swordsmith, is it a goodly blade or no?”
“The swordsman is goodly, my lord,” Ferris muttered, as he hefted the blade in his own hand, “but he could be better still, with the right weapon.”
Ignoring the duke’s look of surprise, Ferris moved farther into the window and laid the blade across his forearm while he turn
ed it to and fro in the light, sighting along the steel for ripples or other imperfections—of which there were none. When he had flexed it between his hands, he motioned Morgan to step back, and ran through his own set of exercises designed to test the balance of a blade. When he was done, he flipped it into the air and caught it just beneath the quillons, then extended it back to Morgan, hilt first.
“Well?”
“It is, indeed, a goodly blade, my lord, but not for you,” Ferris said happily. “Save it for your son. I can make you a better.”
“Can you?” Morgan replied, the one eyebrow rising in wry if dubious question as he slid the weapon back into its scabbard, to the watching aide’s obvious relief. “And what might such a blade cost me, master swordsmith?”
“A place to work,” Ferris said promptly. “The steel from which to forge it. Enough of your time to fit the weapon to your own style. You deserve a gallant blade, my lord. It is the least I can do. And if you are pleased with my work, perhaps—perhaps you would take me into your service?” he asked recklessly.
Morgan stared into his eyes for so long that Ferris was sure the Deryni lord must be reading his mind, but he did not care. He liked this man. He suspected he would have liked him even if Morgan had not saved his life. What was more, he respected him. The Duke of Corwyn was a man he could happily serve.
“You know that Deryni can read men’s minds, don’t you?” Morgan suddenly said, in a very low voice. “Surely that must frighten you.”
“I have nothing to hide from you, my lord,” Ferris said slowly, meaning every word. “You would be a fair and honest master and do honor to my work. I could not ask for more.”
“Only—” Morgan murmured.
Ferris swallowed, suddenly ashamed of his misgiving.
“Only what, my lord?”
“Only, you are just a little afraid,” Morgan said gently, “which is certainly understandable.” He sighed wearily as he turned to gaze out the window. “You wonder whether I was reading your mind just now, and whether I would in the future. I cannot blame you for that.”
“Forgive me, my lord,” Ferris whispered, certain that any chance of serving the Deryni duke was now gone.
“No, you have a right to wonder,” Morgan said. “And you deserve an answer to your unspoken question. I was not reading your mind just now; and I would not in the future, if you served me, except for a specific reason—and then it would only be with your permission, unless there were dire reasons otherwise.” He quirked a strained, lopsided smile in Ferris’s direction. “I’d have to touch you, in any case.”
“As you did out there?” Ferris breathed, remembering the eerie, helpless sensation as Morgan had ordered him to remember.
“Yes. It would be easier if you were cooperating, if I had to do it again.”
“But you didn’t touch the other four,” Ferris pointed out.
“No, but I wasn’t reading their actual thoughts, either. I was Truth-Reading. There’s a difference.”
“Oh.” Ferris swallowed uneasily and tried to assimilate all that Morgan had just said.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” Morgan muttered. “A man shouldn’t tell a total stranger about, his limitations.” He gave Ferris a sidelong glance. “Maybe it’s because I think I would like to have you serve me—and it’s only fair that you know what you’re getting into, if you do. Maybe it’s also that I sensed your basic honesty and integrity, when I did have to read your mind.”
“I would be loyal to you, my lord!” Ferris said fiercely. “I swear by all the gods, I would!”
Smiling, Morgan glanced down at the hilt of the sword at his waist, then back at Ferris.
“By all the gods, I think you would. But this is not the time for either of us to make that kind of commitment. I’ve just delivered you from the jaws of a very unjust death. It’s only natural that you should be grateful. You’ve offered to make me a better sword in return. I accept. So why don’t you ride back to Coroth with me and my aide this afternoon, and I’ll put you to work? When you’ve delivered the sword, then we’ll decide about the future.”
“Done, my lord!” Ferris said, as he and Morgan began moving out of the window embrasure to rejoin Morgan’s aide. “But I know what my decision will be.”
APPENDIX I
The Heirs of Saint Camber
INDEX OF CHARACTERS1
AARON, Brother—Queron’s alias among the Willimites.
ADRIAN MacLean, Lord—grandson of Camber’s sister Aislinn and father of Camber Allin (called “Camlin”); killed with Rhys’ and Evaine’s son Aidan and others at Trurill, by the regents’ men. (*)
AGNES Murdoch, Lady—eighteen-year-old daughter of Murdoch of Carthane, wed to the Regent Rhun.
AIDAN Thuryn—deceased eldest son of Rhys and Evaine; mistaken for Camlin MacLean at Trurill and killed by the regents’ men, age 10. (*)
AILIN MacGregor, Bishop—see MacGregor, Bishop Ailin.
AIRSID, The—an ancient Deryni fellowship, origin pre-500 AD. (*)
AISLINN MacRorie MacLean, Lady—late sister of Camber, who died at Trurill; dowager Countess of Kierney and mother of Iain, the present earl. (*)
ALANA d’Oriel—wife of the captive Healer Oriel.
ALBERTUS, Lord—Grand Master of the Equites Custodum Fidei; as Peter Sinclair, former Earl of Tarleton, was present with Rhun at the sack of St. Neot’s; brother of Paulin of Ramos.
ALFRED of Woodbourne, Bishop—Auxiliary Bishop of Rhemuth; formerly confessor to King Cinhil.
ALISTER Cullen, Bishop—Deryni former Vicar General of the Order of Saint Michael; Bishop of Grecotha and Chancellor of Gwynedd under King Cinhil; briefly, Archbishop of Valoret & Primate of All Gwynedd; alternate identity of Camber; a founding member of the Camberian Council.
ALROY Bearand Brion Haldane, King—age 12; under-age King of Gwynedd; elder twin of Javan.
ALOYSIUS, Father—a canon priest at Valoret Cathedral.
AMBERT Quinnell of Cassan, Prince—client prince of Cassan, northwest of Gwynedd; father-in-law of Fane Fitz-Arthur, Tammaron’s heir. (*)
ANNE Quinnell, Princess—daughter of Prince Ambert of Cassan and wife of Fane Fitz-Arthur. (*)
ANSCOM of Trevas, Archbishop—deceased Deryni Primate of Gwynedd. (*)
ANSEL Irial MacRorie, Lord—age 18; younger son of the slain Cathan; grandson of Camber.
ARIELLA of Festil, Princess—slain elder sister of the late King Imre and mother of his son, Mark. (*)
ARION of Torenth, King—age 18; newly crowned King of Torenth. (*)
AURELIAN, Dom—a young Gabrilite Healer who took refuge with Gregory at Trevalga.
BONIFACE, Father—a priest at Saint Hilary’s Basilica in Rhemuth; calligrapher and illuminator.
BONNER Sinclair, Lord—Earl of Tarleton; nineteen-year-old son of Peter Sinclair, the former Earl of Tarleton (later Lord Albertus, Grand Master of the Equites Custodum Fidei); nephew of Bishop Paulin.
BURTON, Father—a priest of the Custodes Fidei.
CAMBER Kyriell MacRorie, Saint—former Earl of Culdi; father of Joram and Evaine; canonized as Saint Camber in 906; sainthood rescinded by Council of Ramos in 917.
CAMLIN MacLean, Lord—age 11; son of the slain Adrian MacLean, Master of Kierney, whose rightful heir he is; survived crucifixion at the hands of the regents’ soldiers at Trurill; aka Camber Allin MacLean.
CATHAN Drummond—age 8; son of Elinor and Jamie Drummond.
CATHAN MacRorie—slain elder son of Camber, father of Ansel and the deceased Davin. (*)
CHARLAN—Javan’s new squire.
CINHIL Donal Ifor Haldane, King—late King of Gwynedd (reigned 904–917); father of Alroy, Javan, and Rhys Michael. (*)
CONCANNON, Father Marcus—see Maicus Concannon, Father.
CONNOR—a guard at Valoret Castle in the service of the regents.
CRONIN, Brother—Abbot of St. Mary’s in the Hills.
CULLEN, Bishop Alister—see Alister Cullen.
; CUSTODES FIDEI—the Guardians of the Faith; religious Order founded by Paulin of Ramos to reform ecclesiastical education in Gwynedd for the exclusion of Deryni.
DAVET Nevan, Bishop—deceased itinerant bishop. (*)
DECLAN Carmody—Deryni in service of the regents; one of the two Deryni in chains with Rhun at sack of St. Neot’s; wife and two small sons held hostage for his good behavior.
DERMOT O’Beirne, Bishop—exiled and outlawed human Bishop of Cashien.
DERYNI (Der-in-ee)—racial group gifted with paranormal/supernatural powers and abilities.
DESCANTOR, Bishop Kai—see Kai Descantor, Bishop.
DUALTA Jarriot, Lord—a Michaeline knight. (*)
DRUMMOND—see Cathan, Elinor, Jamie, and Michaela Drummond.
EDOUARD, Dom—Deryni author of Haut Arcanum. (*)
EDWARD MacInnis of Arnham, Bishop—twenty-year-old son of Earl Manfred, and nephew to Archbishop Hubert; Bishop of Grecotha after Alister Cullen.
ELINOR MacRorie Drummond, Lady—widow of Cathan MacRorie and mother of Ansel and Davin by him; wife of Jamie Drummond, by whom she bore Michaela and Cathan.
EMRYS, Dom—renowned Gabrilite adept and Healer; Abbot of St. Neot’s; slain there while closing the Portal. (*)
EQUITES CUSTODUM FIDEI—Knights of the Guardians of the Faith; military arm of the Custodes Fidei; given the infamous “Benediction of the Sword” which absolves from malicide.
ERCON, a Saint—elder brother of St. Willim; martyred during his attempt to find his brother’s murderers; patron of the Little Brothers of Saint Ercon, founded by Paulin of Ramos. (*)
ERENA—Willimite disciple whose sick child was “cured” by Revan and Queron. (*)
ESTELLAN MacInnis, Lady—new Countess of Culdi; Manfred’s wife.
EVAINE MacRorie Thuryn, Lady—Deryni adept daughter of Camber; sister of Joram; widow of Rhys Thuryn; a founding member of the Camberian Council.
EWAN, Duke—Duke of Claibourne and Viceroy of Kheldour; one of young King Alroy’s five regents; son of Sighere, Gwynedd’s first duke.
FANE Fitz-Arthur, Lord—eldest son of Earl Tammaron and husband of the Heiress of Cassan.
The Harrowing of Gwynedd Page 54