Deryni Rising (Chronicles of the Deryni)

by Katherine Kurtz

  In the clearing itself, three others listened and waited. Two were Moors like Yousef, their dusky faces muffled under the hoods of black velvet jubbas, eyes dark, restless, ever vigilant.

  The taller of the two turned slightly to glance at Yousef across the clearing, then folded his arms across his chest and turned back to repeatedly scan the opposite side. The movement parted the black velvet slightly, and the silver of a richly embossed baldric of command glinted briefly beneath the cloak. At his feet, on a cushion of gray velvet, sat the Lady Charissa, Duchess of Tolan, Lady of the Silver Mists—the Shadowed One.

  Head bowed, heavily veiled and cloaked in silver-gray, the lady sat motionless on the pillow, a slight, pale figure shrouded in richest velvet and fur, delicate hands encased in jeweled doeskin gloves and folded primly in her lap. Beneath the gray silken veil, pale blue eyes opened abruptly, searched serenely across the clearing, noted with satisfaction the black-robed Yousef standing guard over the horses.

  Without turning her head, she was able to discern the vague, dark shapes of the other two Moors standing behind and to either side of her. She raised her head and spoke, a low, musical voice.

  “He’s coming, Mustafa.”

  There had been no warning, no rustling betrayal of dried leaves underfoot to announce any approach to the clearing, but the Moors would not have thought of questioning their lady’s word. A brown hand in a flowing black sleeve reached down from the right to help her to her feet. And he who had been to her left moved to a strategic position midway between his mistress and the horses, there to stand vigilant guard with his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  With a leisurely motion, Charissa brushed the leaves from her cloak, settled its silver-fox collar more comfortably around her neck. As the muffled crackling of underbrush finally announced the predicted caller, a faint breeze stirred the lady’s silken veil. One of Yousef’s horses nickered softly, shuffled its feet, was quickly silenced by the tall Moor.

  The rider entered the clearing and drew rein, and the Moors dropped their protective stance, for the newcomer was well-known to them. He, too, wore a cape of gray, though it showed a lining of deepest golden-yellow as he shook back his hood and swung the cloak to the horse’s near side. Beneath, a jeweled tunic of gray and gold glittered coldly as he smoothed a windblown lock of chestnut hair with one gray-gloved hand.

  Tall, slim, almost ascetic of face and feature, Lord Ian Howell viewed the world through a pair of eyes even deeper brown than his hair. A meticulously tended beard and moustache framed a rather thin mouth, accentuated the high cheekbones, the slight cant of the round eyes—eyes that outshone the dark jewels that glittered coldly at his throat and ears.

  Those eyes darted briefly over the Moor, who reached up for his horse’s bridle, then came casually to rest on the gray-shrouded form of the woman.

  “You’re late, Ian,” the woman said. There was challenge in her voice, as well as statement of fact, and she met his gaze aloofly through the heavy veil. When Ian made no further move to dismount, she reached slowly to her veil, raised the front, and let it cascade back over the pale, coiled hair. Her gaze sharpened, but she said nothing more.

  Ian smiled lazily, dismounted with a flourish, crossed lightly to Charissa. He nodded curtly to Mustafa, standing slightly behind her, then swirled his cloak around himself in a sweeping bow.

  “Well?” Charissa demanded.

  “No trouble at all, my dear,” Ian replied silkily. “The king drank the wine, Colin suspects nothing, and the hunt is now on the false scent. They should be here within the hour.”

  “Excellent. And Prince Kelson?”

  “Oh, he’s safe enough,” the young lord replied, tugging on the cuff of one gray glove with a studied nonchalance. “But it does seem like a great deal of bother to spare the boy today simply so he can be killed later. It’s not at all like you, Charissa—to show mercy to your enemies.” Brown eyes met blue ones, slightly mocking.

  “Mercy?” Charissa repeated, measuring the challenge.

  She broke eye contact and began strolling casually across the clearing. Ian followed.

  “You needn’t worry,” she continued. “I have plans for our young prince. But I can’t lure Morgan to his death without the proper bait, now, can I? And why do you think I’ve been so carefully planting those rumors for the past months?”

  “I’d assumed it was an exercise in malice—not that you need the practice,” Ian replied.

  They had reached the edge of the clearing, and Ian stopped in front of her, leaned lazily against a tree trunk, arms folded across his chest. “Of course, Morgan—he does present a special challenge, doesn’t he, my pet? Alaric Anthony Morgan. Duke of Corwyn, Lord General of His Majesty’s armies—and a half-breed Deryni who is accepted among humans, or was accepted. I sometimes think that bothers you most of all.”

  “Tread softly, Ian,” she warned.

  “Oh, I do beg your ladyship’s pardon!” he demurred, raising a hand in feigned conciliation. “There is a slight matter of a murder, too, isn’t there? Or was it an execution? I tend to forget.”

  “That is one thing you would do well not to forget,” Charissa replied icily. “Morgan killed my father fifteen years ago, as you well know. We were both hardly more than children then—he but fourteen, I a few years younger—but I can never forgive what he did.”

  Her voice dropped an octave, hushed to a harsh whisper as she remembered. “He betrayed his Deryni blood and allied himself with Brion Haldane instead of us, defied the Camberian Council to side with a mortal. I watched them slay my father, Marluk, and strip him of his powers. And it was Morgan, with his Deryni cunning, who showed Brion the way. Never forget that!”

  Ian shrugged noncommittally. “Don’t worry. I have my own reasons for wanting Morgan dead, remember? The Duchy of Corwyn borders my Eastmarch. I merely wonder how long you intend to let Morgan live.”

  “He has a few weeks at best,” Charissa stated. “And I intend to see that he suffers in the time remaining. Today, Brion will die by Deryni magic, and Morgan will know that it was I. That, in itself, will hurt Morgan more than any other single thing I could do. And then I’ll proceed to destroy the others he holds dear.”

  “And Prince Kelson?” Ian queried.

  “Don’t be greedy, Ian,” she answered, smiling with vicious anticipation. “You shall have your precious Corwyn, all in due time. And I shall rule Gwynedd as my ancestors did. You’ll see.”

  She turned on her heel and crossed the clearing, gestured imperiously to Mustafa, who pulled aside the dense foliage to disclose a break in the underbrush. Beyond and down a gentle slope stretched a wide green meadow, still damp and silent in the weak, late-morning sun.

  After a pause, Ian joined Charissa and peered briefly through the opening, then put his arm lightly around her shoulders.

  “I must confess, I rather like your little plan, my pet,” he murmured. “The cunning of your lovely mind never fails to intrigue me.” He glanced down at her thoughtfully through long, dark lashes. “Are you certain no one besides Morgan will suspect, though? I mean, suppose Brion should detect you.”

  Charissa smiled complacently and leaned back against his chest. “You worry too much, Ian,” she purred. “With his mind muddled by the merasha in the wine, Brion will suspect nothing until my hand clutches at his heart—and then it will be far too late. As for Colin, merasha can’t affect him unless he has Deryni blood somewhere in his background. And even if he has, he’s safe as long as you keep him away from Brion when the time comes.”

  “Colin will be well out of range; you can depend on that,” Ian replied. He idly plucked a stray wisp of grass from her cloak and twirled it between gloved fingers as he continued. “I’ve been cultivating this particular young nobleman for weeks. And if I do say so myself, he’s quite flattered to have come to the favor of yours truly, the Earl of Eastmarch.”

  Charissa pulled away from him in irritation. “Ian, you begin to bore me. If you insist upon
being so pompous, I suggest you return to the company of your royal playmates. The air there is much better suited to the self-praise and stuffy exchange of platitudes you seem to enjoy so much!”

  Ian said nothing, but he raised one slim eyebrow as he crossed to his horse and began adjusting the off stirrup. When he had completed the task to his satisfaction, he flicked his glance across the saddle at Charissa.

  “Shall I convey your compliments to His Majesty?” he asked, a wry grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

  Charissa smiled slowly, then crossed toward him. Ian came around to the near side, and Charissa took the horse’s reins, nodding dismissal to the Moor who had been attending.

  “Well?” Ian murmured, as the Moor bowed and backed off.

  “I think you need not greet Brion for me this time,” she murmured coyly. She ran a gloved hand down the sorrel’s neck, adjusted a wayward tassel on the intricate bridle. “You’d best go now. The hunt will be approaching soon.”

  “I hear and obey, my lady,” Ian said cheerfully, swinging up into the saddle.

  He gathered up his reins and looked down at her, then held out his left hand. Wordlessly, Charissa put her gloved hand in his, and he bent to touch his lips to the soft leather.

  “Good hunting, my lady!” he said.

  He squeezed her hand lightly and released it, then moved his horse into the underbrush, crashing back the way he had come.

  The Shadowed One watched with narrowed eyes until he had disappeared from view, then returned to her silent meadow vigil.

  REJOINING the hunt, Ian gradually began working his way toward the royal party. They were cantering easily through lightly wooded terrain now, and he could see the meadow not far ahead. With a perfunctory glance at his stirrup, he urged his mount closer to Colin and raised a gloved hand in greeting.

  “Lord Ian,” Colin acknowledged, as Ian drew alongside. “I trust that you found good hunting at the rear of the pack?”

  “Quite satisfactory,” Ian replied, flashing him a disarming smile.

  He shifted his weight slightly, then faltered momentarily as the right stirrup-leather gave way.

  “Damn!” he swore, as he caught his balance. “That just about finishes the hunt for me!”

  He pulled up slowly to let the hunt ride on by, bending to retrieve the stirrup still hooked on the toe of his boot, and contained a satisfied smile as Colin also reined back and returned to join him. When all the riders had passed, Ian dismounted to inspect the saddle, as Colin watched with concern.

  “Well, that ties it!” Ian fretted, fingering the broken strap. “I told that pig of a groom to replace this leather three days ago. I don’t suppose you have a spare, Colin?”

  “I might,” Colin said as he dismounted.

  As Colin rummaged through his saddlebags, Ian gazed furtively across the meadow. The timing had been perfect. Even now, the pack was pulling up in the center of the meadow, the scent lost again.

  Any second now . . .

  THE whippers-in were trying valiantly to bring the hounds under control, and Brion slapped his riding crop against his boot in mild vexation.

  “Ewan, your pups have done it again!” he said, peering ahead. “Kelson, ride up ahead and try to see what’s happened, will you? They can’t have lost the scent in the middle of an open field. Ewan, you stay.”

  As Kelson rode off, Ewan stood in his stirrups to get a better look, then sat back, muttering. In the midst of all the milling hounds and riders, it was impossible to distinguish anything at this distance, and the fiery old warrior was obviously on the verge of a tirade.

  “The blasted beasties’ve gone mad!” he growled. “Just wait till I get my hands on—”

  “Now, Ewan, don’t get overwrought,” Brion interjected smoothly. “It’s obvious we just aren’t destined to—oh!”

  Brion broke off in mid-sentence and stiffened, the gray eyes going wide with astonishment and fear. “Oh, my God!” he managed to whisper, eyes closing as he doubled up with pain. Riding crop and reins slipped from numb fingers as he clutched at his chest and slumped forward in the saddle, stifling a moan.

  “Sire!” Ewan cried.

  As Brion toppled and slid from the saddle, Ewan and Rogier grabbed simultaneously for his arms and somehow managed to ease him to the ground between them. Others nearby dismounted and rushed to his aid. From somewhere, Prince Nigel appeared to wordlessly cradle his stricken brother’s head in his lap.

  As Rogier and Ewan knelt anxiously on his left, Brion was wracked by yet another wave of blinding pain, and he called out weakly, “Kelson!”

  Far ahead with the hounds, Kelson saw rather than heard the commotion back at the center of the hunt and returned at the gallop, certain only that something was seriously wrong. But when he reached the group gathered noisily around the king and saw his father sprawled on the ground in their midst, he jerked his horse to a sliding halt on the slick grass, flinging himself from the saddle to push his way through the onlookers.

  Brion’s breathing was labored, his teeth clenched tightly against the searing pain that came now at every heartbeat. His eyes darted back and forth feverishly, trying to locate his son. And he was concertedly ignoring all efforts of Ewan, or Rogier, or even Bishop Arilan to comfort him.

  All he could see was Kelson as the boy dropped to his knees at his father’s right. And he gasped and clutched for Kelson’s hand as another wave of pain engulfed him.

  “So soon!” he managed to whisper, his hand almost crushing Kelson’s in the intensity of its grip. “Kelson, remember what you promised. Remember. . . .”

  The eyes half closed, and his hand went limp in Kelson’s as the pain-wracked body relaxed. As Nigel and Ewan searched frantically for a pulse, some sign of life, Kelson watched in stunned disbelief. But no reassuring sign came. With a muffled sob, Kelson collapsed to rest his forehead against his sire’s hand.

  Beside him, Bishop Arilan crossed himself and began reciting the Office for the Dead, his voice low and steady in the terrible stillness. All around, Brion’s lords and vassals dropped to their knees, one by one, to echo the bishop.

  “Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord.”

  “And let perpetual light shine upon him.”

  “Kyrie eleison. . . .”

  “Christe eleison. . . .”

  Kelson let the familiar phrases wash over him, let the cadence lull the sickening, sinking emptiness in the pit of his stomach to a more bearable numbness, willed the tight constriction of his throat to relax. After a long moment, he was able to raise his head and look dazedly around him.

  Nigel seemed calm, almost serene, as he knelt with Brion’s lifeless head in his lap. Again and again, his long fingers smoothed the straight black hair across the still brow—gently, almost tenderly—his thoughts in some place that only Nigel knew.

  And Rogier—Rogier stared unseeing, his eyes following Nigel’s fingers, his lips moving automatically in the litany, but not knowing what he saw or said.

  But it was Ewan that the young prince would remember later, long after other details of the day had faded mercifully from his mind. From somewhere, Ewan had retrieved Brion’s red leather hunt cap, now stained and trampled in the confusion and horror of the past minutes.

  By some miracle, the snowy plume on the cap had emerged unscathed, its whiteness unsullied, unbroken. And as Ewan clutched the cap to his breast, the feathered plume trembled almost hypnotically before Kelson’s eyes.

  Ewan suddenly became aware of Kelson’s fascinated stare, and he looked down at the cap, at the waving plume, as though he’d never seen them before. There was a moment of hesitation. And then he slowly closed his huge right hand around the plume, bent it until it snapped.

  Kelson started.

  “The king is dead—Sire,” Ewan murmured dully, his face ashen beneath the shaggy red beard and hair.

  He opened his hand slowly and watched the broken end of the plume drift gently to rest on Brion’s shoulder.

  “I
know,” Kelson replied.

  “What is—” Ewan’s voice broke with emotion, and he began again. “Is there any—”

  He could not go on, and his shoulders shuddered convulsively as he shook his head and buried his face in Brion’s cap.

  Nigel looked up from the face of his dead brother and touched the old warrior’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Ewan,” he said softly. He dropped his hand, glanced at Brion once more, then met the eyes of his brother’s son.

  “You are king now, Kelson,” he said gently. “What is your command?”

  Kelson looked down again at the dead king, then disentangled his hand and folded his father’s hands on his chest.

  “First of all,” he said steadily, “send for General Morgan.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Princes met and talked against me.” PSALMS 119:23

  NEARLY two weeks later, Morgan and a single blue-cloaked military aide clattered through the north gate of Rhemuth, Brion’s capital city. Though it was not yet midmorning, the horses were lathered and nearly spent, and their ragged breathing shot dense, snowy plumes of condensation into the cold morning air.

  It was market day in Rhemuth, and the streets were even more congested than usual. The coronation on the morrow had brought hundreds of additional visitors to the city, travellers from all the Eleven Kingdoms. They were rendering the narrow, cobbled streets almost impassable. Produce carts and richly curtained sedan chairs, merchants with their pack trains, peddlers hawking over-priced trinkets, bored-looking noblemen with their lavish retinues—all merged and blended in a kaleidoscopic array of color, scent, and sound, vying with the brilliantly decorated buildings and arches of the city itself.

  Rhemuth the Beautiful, they called the city. It was easy to see why.

  As Morgan guided his weary mount slowly among the milling pedestrians and conveyances, following Lord Derry toward the main palace gate, he glanced down wistfully at his own somber garb, so conspicuous amidst all this garish splendor: dusty black leather covering most of his mail, the heavy black wool and sable cloak enveloping him from helm to knee.