Deryni Rising (Chronicles of the Deryni)

by Katherine Kurtz

  “I said drop it—now!” the captain repeated, gesturing with his sword. “Sire, please! Move away from him slowly. We’ll take care of him.”

  Morgan did lower his sword slightly, but made no move to drop it as Kelson stepped deliberately in front of Morgan, his back to the Deryni lord.

  “It’s all right, Captain,” the king said calmly, making a placating gesture with one hand as the guards stiffened to see him put himself before Morgan’s sword. “It isn’t what you think. Lady Elvira, there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  “A misunderstanding?” the lady shrieked indignantly. “Your Highness, you must be still under his spell! He nearly murdered you where you sat. Only my screams caused him to miss the mark and—”

  “Madame—” Morgan’s voice was cold, controlled, and it cut through the confusion like a knife. “What I aim for, I hit. And no silly woman’s hysterical screaming has yet made me miss the mark!” With a defiant gesture, he plunged the tip of his sword into the soft ground and left it quivering there, as though punctuating his statement.

  The disgruntled guards had lowered their weapons during this exchange, and now, at a hand signal from their leader, resheathed their blades.

  “Sire, forgive me, but it did look like—”

  “I know what it looked like,” Kelson said impatiently. “No apology is necessary. You and your men were merely trying to protect me. As you can see, however”—he stepped aside to view the remains of his would-be killer—“General Morgan was merely killing a—what the devil is it, Morgan?”

  Morgan retrieved his weapon and sheathed it, then moved closer to the mutilated plot of grass. The guards, too, eased in for a closer look, though they kept their distance from the man in black. They had all caught Kelson’s casual mention of the infamous Morgan, and they were not eager to test out the rumors that had been circulating about him.

  “It’s a Stenrect crawler, my prince,” Morgan replied matter-of-factly, prodding the carcass with the toe of his boot. “And if my first blow had missed,” he glanced at the woman, “and the creature had bitten you, my second blow would have taken off your hand. There is no antidote for the sting of a Stenrect.”

  There was an uneasy stirring among the soldiers, and several crossed themselves furtively. The Stenrect was supposedly a mythical creature of supernatural origin, spawned, it was said, of fire and acid-hatred before the world was born. Of all creatures, real or imagined, there was none deadlier. And though none there had ever seen a Stenrect before—indeed, if asked before, they would have said no such creature existed—all knew the legends. None cared to speculate how close their young lord had been to a painful and lingering death, or to mutilation through loss of a hand.

  The guard captain by now had recovered from the shock of seeing a Stenrect in the flesh, and at last he realized the significance of the man who had slain it. For Morgan, too, was a creature of legend. And the captain suddenly realized he might inadvertently have insulted the powerful Deryni lord. That could be even more dangerous than a Stenrect, if the rumors were true.

  Bowing nervously, he said, “My apologies, Your Grace. Had I realized my liege to be under the protection of your sword, I would not have been so quick with mine. Your reputation goes before you.” He signalled his men to disperse.

  Morgan returned the bow, concealing a smile. “I’m sure it does, Captain. I quite understand your position.”

  The captain cleared his throat uncomfortably and turned to Kelson. “My apologies again, Sire. Shall I escort the Lady Elvira back to her quarters?”

  “Please do so, Captain, by all means,” Kelson said, glancing aside at the lady in question. “Unless, of course, the lady wishes to stay for a closer look at the Stenrect.”

  The lady turned pale and backed off a few steps, shaking her head. “Oh, no, Your Highness! Please, I meant no harm. I didn’t know it was His Grace, and from across the garden, I—” She stammered to a stop.

  “Your concern is appreciated, my lady,” Kelson said easily, waving dismissal.

  The lady bobbed a quick curtsy as she took the captain’s arm. Then the two of them fled across the grass, the lady casting one last furtive glance over her shoulder as they went through an arched doorway. It was not difficult to imagine what their next topic of discussion would be.

  As the two disappeared from sight, Morgan chuckled. “Your ladies and your guards seem to be keeping quite an eye out for you, my prince.”

  Kelson snorted. “The Lady Elvira has an overactive imagination. She’s been warned about that before. And as for my guards—they’re so edgy, they’d try to arrest anything that moved. It’s a good thing they didn’t recognize you at first, though. The rumors about you haven’t helped their morale any.”

  “I’m getting rather used to that reaction,” Morgan replied with a grimace. “It’s the Stenrect that worries me.”

  Kelson nodded. “Is that really what it is? I always thought they were just myths, fairy tales to scare children with.”

  “No, they’re quite real, as you saw. I’m wondering how one got into your garden, though. Stenrects are creatures of the night. It takes a great deal of power to call one out in broad daylight. Charissa is capable, of course, but if she means to challenge you tomorrow, I hardly see the point.”

  “Then, you don’t think I was meant to be killed?”

  “It was intended to frighten, not kill, I think,” Morgan said. He glanced around, then took Kelson’s arm and propelled him along the path toward the far gate. “I hardly think this is the place to belabor the point, however. After that little adventure, I think I prefer the relative safety of four walls and a roof. Now that there’s been an attempt on your life, serious or no—”

  “You don’t have to convince me,” Kelson replied, opening the gate and leading Morgan through. “Where are we going now?”

  “To Duncan,” Morgan said, heading them down a long foyer toward the outer courtyard. “The good father has some things in safekeeping for you.”

  “Then, you do have the key to Father’s power!” Kelson exclaimed. “Why didn’t you say so before? When you didn’t mention it, I was afraid to ask.”

  “I had to see how much you’d deduced for yourself.” Morgan grinned. “As it is—”

  “Ooooh, Your Highness!” squealed a young, female voice. “There you are!”

  Morgan stopped in his tracks and grimaced, and Kelson turned to breathe an unbelieving, “Not again . . . !”

  “Kelson,” Morgan muttered through clenched teeth, “if you tell me that’s the over-imaginative Lady Elvira again, I’ll . . .”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” Kelson murmured, trying hard to keep a straight face, “but it’s the flighty and over-excitable Lady Esther this time.” He folded his arms patiently. “What is it, Lady Esther?”

  Morgan turned just as a plump and very out-of-breath young lady-in-waiting came to an undignified stop in front of them and curtsied.

  “Oh, Your Highness,” she fluttered, “your Lady Mother sent me to find you. She’s been looking everywhere for you, and you know she doesn’t like for you to wander off alone. It’s very dangerous!”

  “Do you hear that, Morgan?” Kelson said, glancing sidelong at his friend. “It’s very dangerous.”

  “Indeed,” Morgan said, raising one eyebrow. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  As the young lady tried in vain to follow this exchange, Kelson turned back to her. “My dear Lady Esther, would you be so good as to inform my Lady Mother that I’m quite safe with my Lord General Morgan.”

  Lady Esther’s eyes grew round as she finally realized the identity of Kelson’s companion, and a plump hand flew to her lips to mask the scarcely breathed, “Oh!”

  She curtsied again and whispered, “I did not recognize Your Grace.”

  Morgan frowned and half turned to Kelson. “Blast it, Kelson, do I look that different? This is about the twentieth person today who hasn’t recognized me. What good is notoriety if no one knows who you are?”


  “Perhaps it’s because you’re not wearing your horns and cloven hooves,” Kelson remarked dryly.

  “Hmmm, no doubt. Tell me, Lady Esther, did you also not recognize your king?”

  “Beg pardon, Your Grace?”

  Morgan sighed and folded his arms across his chest, praying for patience.

  “My lady,” he said mildly, “I’m sure you’ve been at court long enough to learn how one addresses one’s king. Your entrance was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a model of decorum. You would do well to show more respect in the future. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” she whispered, swallowing visibly.

  Kelson glanced at Morgan as though to ask if he was quite finished, and Morgan nodded slightly. Kelson turned back to the nervous Lady Esther.

  “Very well, then. Other than the predictable report that my mother has been worried about me, is there any other message?”

  Lady Esther curtsied again. “She commands me to tell you that the Council is convening right away, Your High—Your Majesty. She requests your immediate presence.”

  “Morgan?” Kelson glanced at the general.

  “Later, my prince. We have urgent business elsewhere first. Lady Esther, you may inform the queen that His Majesty will be delayed.”

  “And that I’m quite safe,” Kelson added emphatically. “You may go.”

  As the lady bowed and hurried off, Kelson sighed. “You see what I have to put up with? It isn’t just a matter of convincing Mother that I’m not a child anymore. I’ve got to retrain the whole blasted staff of servants!” He grinned. “I will be safe with you, won’t I, Morgan?”

  Morgan smiled. “From would-be assassins and Stenrects—always, my prince. Just don’t ask me to contend with any more of the queen’s ladies today. I don’t think I’m up to it.”

  Kelson’s gleeful laugh was almost a giggle. “So! There are things you’re afraid of! I never thought I’d hear you admit it.”

  “If you tell anyone, I’ll deny every word!” Morgan retorted. “Come on. Let’s find Duncan.”

  IN the Council chamber, all conversation stopped as Jehana entered on Nigel’s arm. The men seated around the long, polished table came to their feet as one, as Nigel escorted the queen to her seat and continued to his own place at the opposite end. They noticed that the two did not look at each other, but that was to be expected. All in the room knew that the queen and the royal duke did not agree on the matter at hand today. It would be a unique Council meeting, for neither was likely to give in without a struggle. However, it was unusual that Kelson had not yet shown up.

  Jehana glanced around the room nervously as she took her place beside Brion’s empty throne, recalling other, happier times when she and Brion had entered this room together, and the faces around the table had all been friendly.

  Then, she had not felt so alone, so threatened. Then, the dark-stained walls had not seemed so confining, the high-ceilinged vault with its dark-stained beams so dismal.

  It was not the fault of the room. There were windows along the entire right side that let in the daylight, to be sure. And what light they did not provide was amply augmented by the banks of ornate candelabra flanking the long table on either side.

  Still, the big room seemed dank and depressing. Perhaps it did not like being filled with so many people in the dark colors of mourning.

  Jehana glanced at the slight movement of a rivulet of yellow wax oozing along the rim of one of the fat candles as she sat down. At the same time, her fingers automatically sought out the long gash on the tabletop between her place and Brion’s—the scarred spot where Brion had once impaled a writ with his dagger, nailed it to the table until he was able to persuade a balky Council that it was not a wise legislation. She forced herself to look down the table, then, to study the pale, questioning faces that stared back at her as the Council took their seats.

  Other than those of Brion and Kelson, and the dead Lord Ralson, all the seats at the table were filled today. Someone, she noted with annoyance, was even sitting in Morgan’s chair, there between Kelson’s and Ralson’s. She was not certain, but she guessed that the young man with the unruly brown hair must be Lord Derry, Morgan’s military aide. No doubt Nigel had given him permission to sit in today.

  No matter, she thought to herself, as she continued to scan the table. If the young Marcher lord thought he was going to vote in Morgan’s absence, she would straighten him out about that soon enough. She was not going to allow Nigel or Morgan’s minions to ruin this Council meeting.

  She swept her gaze coolly back up the table to the right then—past Nigel, who would not look at her, past Bran Coris, and Lord Ian, who looked his usual dapper self, past Lord Rogier and Bishop Arilan, past Ewan. She nodded greeting to Archbishop Corrigan on her left, then let her glance take in Duke Jared and his son Kevin.

  She did not greet the last two, though. Next to Nigel, the two McLains were perhaps the staunchest of Morgan’s supporters in Council. She wished she didn’t have to face them today.

  She turned back to Ewan. “My Lord Marshal,” she said, her voice clear and firm, “would you call the Council to order? We have important matters to resolve this afternoon, and I think we dare not wait any longer.”

  Before Ewan could rise, Nigel jumped to his feet and waved him back. “A moment’s indulgence, Your Majesty, but His Royal Highness has been unavoidably detained, and asked that I delay the start of this meeting. He wished to be present when certain charges are brought before the Council.”

  Jehana did not acknowledge his request but turned again to Ewan. “My Lord Ewan, if you please.”

  “I should like an answer,” Nigel demanded.

  “Lord Ewan, you will continue!”

  Ewan stood uncertainly and glanced at Nigel, at Kelson’s empty chair beside him, then cleared his throat uneasily. “Your Majesty, if you command it, I shall, of course, convene the Council without Prince Kelson. But if His Royal Highness wishes to be present, common courtesy dictates—”

  “Common courtesy seems to have no place in this Council today, as far as my esteemed son is concerned, my Lord of Claibourne,” Jehana interrupted evenly. “Prince Kelson was summoned some time ago. He has declined to appear. Apparently he has other business that he considers more pressing than his duty to his Council lords. I can only apologize for his inconsiderate and immature behavior and hope that he will improve with age and wiser counseling. As for today, this is a Regency Council, and therefore his presence is not mandatory. Are there any questions?”

  There was a low murmur of discussion around the table, and Nigel reluctantly sat down, knowing that he had done all he could, for the moment. Jehana had really lashed out about Kelson’s absence. This was not starting out to be a good meeting at all.

  Ewan looked helplessly around the table, then coughed nervously and bowed toward his queen.

  “There are no questions, Your Majesty,” he said impassively. “If things are, indeed, as you say, I see no reason to delay any longer. As Hereditary Lord Marshal of the Royal Council of Gwynedd, I call this session of the Regency Council to order. Let Justice, tempered by Mercy, prevail in all our judgments.”

  As he took his seat, grumbling under his breath, another murmur drifted around the table, to cease as Jehana rose at her place.

  “My lords,” she began, her face terrible and pale against her widow’s weeds, “it distresses me to come before you like this today. It distresses me because I dislike admitting that my late husband and lord was not infallible as I had always believed him to be.

  “For my Lord Brion made a dreadful mistake in his appointment of one of his Council lords. The man he appointed was and is a traitor and a blasphemer, and even now conspires against Brion’s legitimate heir. That is why Prince Kelson is not with us today.”

  Her gaze swept the stunned faces before her, and her eyes took on a smoky darkness in the green.

  “The man is well-known to you, my lords. He is, of course,
the Duke of Corwyn, Lord General Alaric Anthony Morgan—the Deryni!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “And I will give him the morning star.” REVELATIONS 2:28

  AS he watched water bubble into the marble stoup he was filling, Monsignor Duncan McLain let his thoughts wander, sent his mind forth at full receptivity, searching.

  Time was growing short. Alaric should have been here hours ago. And it worried him that he’d had no communication from his kinsman in so many weeks. Perhaps he wasn’t coming. Possibly, he had never even received word of Brion’s death, though the news had reached every corner of the Eleven Kingdoms by now, so far as Duncan knew.

  As the water neared the top of the stoup, Duncan froze for the merest fraction of a second, then straightened quickly and set his water bottle on the floor.

  Alaric was coming, and the young prince with him. And urgency was unmistakable in the growing rapport that intruded more and more now on Duncan’s senses.

  He moved toward the open doorway of the west portal, smoothing his rumpled cassock with a quick, automatic motion of slim-fingered hands, then stepped into the sunlight and shaded his eyes against the midday glare.

  There, against the gray of the far wall, just past the courtyard gate, he caught the flash of Kelson’s royal crimson, its gold-embroidered crest glittering in the sunlight. And at his side stalked a dark shadow topped by sleek golden hair, its long legs eating up the distance between them.

  As the two mounted the steps to the west porch, Duncan felt the reassuring aura that almost always accompanied his illustrious cousin. He gave a sigh of relief as he stepped out to greet them.

  “By Saint George and Saint Camber, it’s about time you got here,” Duncan stated, pulling Morgan and the prince back into the shadow of the doorway. “What took you so long? I was worried.”

  “I’ll explain later,” Morgan said, peering anxiously down the clerestory aisle and into the nave. “Are you being watched?”