Deryni Rising (Chronicles of the Deryni)

by Katherine Kurtz

  The emerald Gryphon, its wings dripping gold and jewels, rearing up its head and claws in the rampant pose—segreant, when applied to gryphons—gleamed darkly, mysteriously, with an almost sinister aura, on its background of shining black. Around the edge, a golden bordure—the double tressure flory counter-flory of the old Morgan arms—gave homage to his paternal inheritance.

  Morgan tended to forget about his Morgan lands. It was just as well, perhaps. For the two dozen or so estates and manors scattered about the kingdom were his sister Bronwyn’s dowry for the most part, capably managed by that shining lady and soon to be joined to the Kierney lands when she married Kevin McLain next spring. Then only the golden tressure on the sable shield would remain of Morgan’s paternal birthright—that and the name.

  It was the calling of that name that summoned Morgan from his reverie. From a dozen feet away, Lord Rogier was pushing his way through the thronged nobles, his thin face pinched with worry, the slender brown moustache bristling with impatience.

  “Morgan, we expected you days ago! What happened?” He glanced nervously at Derry, apparently not recognizing him, but vaguely disturbed by his presence nonetheless. “Where are Ralson and Colin?”

  Morgan ignored Rogier’s question and began moving purposefully down the hall. For he had caught a glimpse of Ewan approaching with Bran Coris and Ian Howell. If he waited until they arrived, he would have to tell the news only once. As it was, the telling would be painful enough. Rogier and Ralson had been close.

  As he reached the three, Kevin McLain appeared at Morgan’s left elbow to clap him on the shoulder in silent greeting. Rogier nearly trod on their heels in his impatience.

  “But, Morgan!” Rogier was sputtering. “You didn’t answer my question. Has something happened to them?”

  Morgan bowed greeting to the assembled group. “I fear it has, Rogier. Ralson, Colin, the two guards, three of my best officers—they’re all dead.”

  “Dead!” Ewan retorted.

  “Oh, my God!” Kevin whispered. “Alaric, what happened?”

  Morgan clasped his hands behind his back and steeled himself for the telling. “I was at Cardosa when the news came. I took the escort, Derry, and three of my own men, and we headed back for Rhemuth immediately. Two days out of Cardosa, we were ambushed in a pass—I think it was near Valoret. Ralson and our escort were killed outright. Colin died of his wounds the next day. Derry may lose the use of his left hand, but at least he escaped with his life.”

  Ian frowned and stroked his beard with feigned concern. “Why, that’s ghastly, Morgan. Absolutely ghastly. Ah, how many did you say attacked you?”

  “I didn’t say,” Morgan replied neutrally. He eyed Ian suspiciously and tried to discern a motive for the question. “But I believe there were ten or twelve of them. Wouldn’t you agree, Derry?”

  “We killed eight, m’lord,” Derry stated promptly. “But several more got away in the confusion.”

  “Humph!” Ewan snorted. “Nine Gwynedd men killed only eight of the ruffians? I’d’ve thought ye could do better than that, man!”

  “So would I,” Ian added, folding his arms casually across a brocaded doublet of golden yellow silk. “I don’t pretend to be an expert in these matters like Ewan, but it seems to me that you did make a rather poor showing. Of course, none of us was there. . . .” He shrugged and let his voice trail off meaningfully.

  “That’s right,” Bran Coris said, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “None of us was there. How can we be sure it happened the way you say it did? Why didn’t you use your precious Deryni powers to save them, Morgan? Or didn’t you want to save them?”

  Morgan stiffened as he whirled to glare at Bran. If the idiot wasn’t careful, he was going to start something Morgan would have to finish. And Morgan didn’t dare risk a bloody open battle here and now.

  Damn! This was the second time today he’d had to back down from a good fight!

  “I did not hear that remark,” he said pointedly. “I obeyed the command of my king, and I came.” He turned to the left. “Kevin, do you know where Kelson is now?”

  “I’ll tell him you’re here,” Kevin replied, slipping out of Bran’s reach before the angry lord could stop him. His bright plaid swung jauntily from his shoulder as he hurried across the room.

  Bran dropped his hand to his sword hilt and glared at Morgan. “Smoothly maneuvered, Morgan. But seven deaths—I think that’s too high a price to pay for your presence here!”

  He started to draw, but Ewan seized his wrist and forced him to return the blade to its sheath.

  “Stop it, Bran!” Ewan growled. “And Alaric, I wish ye hadn’t come. Frankly, the queen didn’t even want Kelson to send for ye. In any event, I don’t think ye should see the lad until ye’ve talked with Her Majesty.”

  “I’m well aware of the queen’s feelings about me,” Morgan replied softly. “Fortunately for my conscience, I don’t care what she thinks. I made a promise to the boy’s father, and I intend to keep it.” He glanced casually around him. “And I’m not at all certain Brion would approve of my being the agenda for today’s Council meeting. That is why you’re all gathered here, isn’t it, gentlemen?”

  The lords of the Council exchanged furtive glances and tried to decide which one had told Morgan about their plans. Across the room, Morgan saw Prince Nigel exchange a few words with the exiting Kevin and head toward Morgan and his companions.

  “You must understand, Morgan,” Rogier was saying. “None of us has anything against you personally. But the queen—well, she hasn’t taken Brion’s death well at all.”

  “Neither have I, Rogier,” Morgan replied evenly, his gray eyes flashing.

  Nigel stepped deftly between Rogier and Ewan and took Morgan’s arm. “Alaric, I’m delighted to see you. And Lord Derry, I believe.”

  Derry bowed acknowledgement, obviously pleased to have been recognized by the royal duke and grateful for the interruption of hostilities. Around him, the others also bowed.

  “I have a favor to ask, though,” Nigel continued, playing the part of perfect host to the hilt. “Would you mind sitting in at Alaric’s place in Council, Derry? He has some important matters to take care of for me.”

  “It would be my honor, Your Highness.”

  “Excellent,” Nigel said, beginning to edge himself and Morgan in the direction Kevin had disappeared. “You’ll excuse us, won’t you, gentlemen?”

  As Nigel and Morgan moved off and disappeared in the direction of the royal apartments, Ian mentally congratulated Nigel on the smoothness of the rescue. Not that it would matter in the end. Even if Morgan did talk to Kelson—and there was no way he could have stopped it at this point—there would still be a few unexpected surprises for the Deryni lord.

  Meanwhile, there was the matter of this Lord Derry of Morgan’s. And Bran Coris—that had been a surprise. He had known that Morgan’s strength in Council would be lessened by at least one vote. Ralson’s timely end had assured that. But now it appeared that Bran Coris had defected, too. It would be interesting to find out what had prompted the change. Bran had always been carefully neutral in the past.

  AS he and Nigel left the great hall, Morgan was amazed at the change that had come over Brion’s younger brother in the past two months. For though the royal duke was only in his mid-thirties, but a few years older than Morgan, he had the look of a man of twice the years.

  It was not really a physical manifestation. There was no gray streaking the jet-black hair. Nigel did not stoop or tremble with the palsy of the aged.

  It was in the eyes, Morgan decided, as they strode down a long marble corridor. Nigel had always been the quieter, more studious of the two brothers, but this was something new—a haunted (or was it hunted?) look that Morgan had never seen there before. Nigel, too, had not taken Brion’s death well.

  As soon as they were out of sight and earshot of the door attendants, Nigel dropped his feigned smile and glanced at Morgan worriedly.

  “We’ve
got to hurry,” he murmured, his long strides echoing on the expanse of marble tile. “Jehana’s getting ready to convene the Council and prefer charges against you. And I can’t remember when I’ve seen the Council lords in a nastier mood. It’s almost as though they believe the rumors about Brion’s death.”

  “Oh, they believe them, all right,” Morgan said. “They really think I somehow killed Brion with Deryni magic, all the way from Cardosa. Even a full Deryni couldn’t do that.” He snorted. “And then there are the innocents who believe that he died of a—‘heart attack.’ ”

  They came to a cross-corridor, and Nigel chose the one to the right, heading toward the palace gardens. “Well, both theories are being discussed. That’s inevitable, I suppose. But Kelson has another theory—and I tend to agree with him—that Charissa had something to do with it.”

  “He’s probably right, too,” Morgan replied, not missing a stride. “About the Council, though—do you think you can handle them?”

  Nigel frowned. “Frankly, no. At least, not for long.” They passed a guard post, and Nigel took the crisp salute distractedly. “You see,” the duke continued, “it would be different if Kelson were already king, of legal age. If that were the case, he could simply forbid the Council to consider any trumped-up charges against you without concrete proof. But he isn’t, and he can’t. As long as he’s still a minor, no matter how close, the Regents have certain vice-regal powers that he can’t countermand. They decide what’s a fit topic for discussion, and they can vote by a simple majority to condemn you. Whether or not they succeed in the end will depend largely on Kelson’s personal ability to influence the voting.”

  “Can he?” Morgan asked as the two clattered down a half flight of stairs and into the garden.

  “I don’t know, Alaric,” Nigel replied. “He’s good—damned good—but I just don’t know. Besides, you saw the key Council lords. With Ralson dead and Bran Coris practically making open accusations—well, it doesn’t look good.”

  “I could have told you that at Cardosa.”

  They came to a halt under a trellised summerhouse at the edge of a boxwood maze. Morgan glanced around surreptitiously for some sign of Kelson and mentally approved of the choice of meeting place.

  “These latest attempts of Jehana to have me discredited, Nigel—what charges is she likely to level against me?”

  Nigel put one booted foot up on a carved stone bench and looked soberly across at Morgan, one forearm resting on his upraised knee. “Treason and heresy,” he said quietly. “And it isn’t just likely. It’s certain.”

  “Certain?” Morgan’s reply was tinged with exasperation. “Damn, Nigel, it’s certain to be Kelson’s death if she doesn’t let me help him! Doesn’t she realize that?”

  Nigel shrugged hopelessly. “Who can say for sure what Jehana realizes or doesn’t realize, after what has happened? I do know that our dear Lord Rogier is going to make the formal treason charge. And there’s no chance in the world that Archbishop Corrigan will refuse to support the heresy claim. Jehana’s even bringing in that archbishop from Valoret—what’s his name, who keeps the Deryni persecutions going in the north?”

  “Loris!” Morgan hissed, turning away in disgust.

  Seething, he gazed out over the low railing of the summerhouse to the boxwood maze beyond. From here, the complexity of the maze was not evident, but Morgan suddenly realized it was nonetheless symbolic of the dilemma he now faced: convoluted, enigmatic, with new and unforeseen difficulties around every turn. Except that there was a way out of the boxwood maze.

  He turned back to Nigel, once again in control. “Nigel, I’m convinced that in a fair fight, with no treachery involved, Kelson could defeat Charissa once and for all—but only if he has Brion’s power. I’ve got to have time for that, though. Does Jehana really know what’s at stake, what will happen to Kelson if he has to face Charissa without that power? You were next in line—you still are. You know what I’m talking about.”

  “If she knows, she won’t admit it.” Nigel sighed. “If you think it would help, though, I could try to talk to her again. I might gain us some time, at least.”

  “All right.” Morgan nodded. “And if you can’t reason with her, try a little coercion.”

  “I’ll do what I can.” Nigel nodded gloomily. “She’d better start acting like a grown woman with some sense, though. I’ll see you later.”

  “I hope so,” Morgan agreed, almost to himself, as the duke disappeared around a bend in the path.

  Morgan smiled wryly as he perched on the summerhouse rail to wait for Kelson. Personally, he had little faith in anyone’s ability to placate or coerce Brion’s wayward queen, least of all Nigel, who had always been an open supporter of the out-of-favor general.

  On the other hand, Nigel was the queen’s brother-in-law, and that might count for something. Who knew? After all, in a world where gods rose from the dead and quasi-mortals summoned the very forces of Good and Evil at will, he supposed anything was at least theoretically possible.

  He had never really understood Jehana’s opposition, though. It was based, he knew, on that ancient and ingrained suspicion of Deryni magic. And this had been reinforced through the generations by the Church Militant’s condemnation of all occult arts. But surely there was more to it than that.

  Certainly, there had been cause for suspicion of things Deryni at one time. Morgan was first to admit it. But it had been almost three hundred years since the beginning of the Deryni Interregnum. And while the Eleven Kingdoms had been under heavy Deryni dictatorship for nearly three generations, those days had been past now for nearly two centuries.

  Even at the height of Deryni rule, there had been only a handful involved in the darker atrocities. And in the balance were the thousands of Deryni who had cherished their human ties—some of whom, led by Camber of Culdi, eventually discovered that, under carefully specified conditions in certain select individuals, the full scope of Deryni power could be acquired by humans!

  There had been another coup, led by Camber and his kin, and the Deryni Interregnum was ended as quickly as it had started. The tyrant leaders were executed by their own fellows, and rule was restored to the descendants of the old human lords.

  But an irate populace and a militant Church soon forgot that deliverance as well as bondage had come from Deryni lords. They soon ceased to make a distinction among Deryni.

  Within fifteen years of the Restoration, not even the space of a generation, Deryni found themselves victims of one of the bloodiest persecutions ever witnessed by civilized man. The numbers of the Deryni were reduced by two-thirds in a lightning purge. And those who survived either went into hiding and denounced their heritage or lived a fearful and uneasy life under the protection of the few human lords who remembered how it had really been.

  Over the years, the memory eased. The persecution burned itself out in all but the most hardened fanatics. A few selected Deryni families rose once again to guarded prominence. But magic, if it was used at all, was exercised with extreme care and discretion. Most Deryni, of whatever class, simply refused to use their powers, for whatever cause. Discovery without protection could mean death.

  Among the Haldanes, however, the original magic of the Restoration carried on. And it became gradually accepted, if not openly acknowledged, that the rulers of Gwynedd and certain other of the Eleven Kingdoms possessed special powers, somehow mysteriously related to their divine right of rule. The Deryni origin of these powers was not spoken of, if indeed it was remembered. But it was those powers, passed by ritual from father to son for nearly two hundred years, that had enabled Brion to defeat the Marluk fifteen years ago.

  Jehana’s feud with Morgan had really begun even before that historic battle—though not at the very beginning. When Brion first brought the auburn-haired princess home to be his queen, Morgan had rejoiced with all of Gwynedd at the royal love match. He had been the king’s squire then, and infatuated like all the king’s young men at court with the lov
ely bride. Morgan, in the fervor of his first adolescent longing, adored her. For Jehana brought with her a new gaiety and splendor to the Court of Rhemuth. The people loved her for it.

  Then came the day Brion casually let slip the fact of Morgan’s half-Deryni ancestry. Jehana’s face had gone pale. And after that, very soon after that, the fateful war with the Marluk.

  He still remembered that day vividly, now many years past, when he and Brion, flushed with their recent victory over the Marluk, had ridden back to Rhemuth at the head of the jubilant army.

  He remembered how proud Brion had been of the boy-man Morgan, then but a few months past fourteen, as the pair of them romped excitedly into Jehana’s chambers to boast of the victory. And the look of guarded horror and desperation that had come over Jehana’s face as she realized her husband had held his throne and won his victory with the help of Deryni magic.

  Immediately after that, Jehana went into seclusion for nearly two months, cloistering herself, it was said, at the Abbey of Saint Giles, near Shannis Meer. Soon she and Brion reconciled, and Jehana returned to Rhemuth with her lord. But she had avoided Morgan after that. And when Kelson was born the following year, she had made it quite clear that she wanted nothing to do with the young Deryni lord.

  Her decision did not particularly alter Morgan’s existence. His friendship with Brion continued to grow and mature, and at Brion’s encouragement, he took an active part in Kelson’s education and training.

  But both he and Brion recognized the folly of a reconciliation as far as Jehana was concerned. Through the years, Brion had had to gradually resign himself to the fact that his beloved queen would have nothing to do with his most trusted friend.

  Now Morgan never saw the queen except when protocol or matters concerning Kelson demanded. And those few, unavoidable meetings were generally punctuated with verbal fireworks. Considering the woman, Morgan had little hope that the relationship would change.

  The crunch of booted feet on gravel broke the silence of the garden, and Morgan looked up, then slipped off the rail where he had been sitting. Kelson and Kevin rounded the final bend of the main path and came to a halt just inside the summerhouse.