King Kelson's Bride

by Katherine Kurtz

  They dropped anchor mid-river, off a substantial walled town that soon spawned a fleet of tiny, torch-lit boats bearing singing occupants. The very tone of the chanted song conveyed unmistakable joy and welcome, even though Kelson could understand not a word. Somewhat revived by the growing breeze, Liam leaned eagerly over the starboard rail beside Kelson, gazing longingly at the spectacle of little boats, occasionally raising his arms in salute as garlands of flowers again were cast upon the waters.

  “The song is one of welcome and blessing,” he confided, grinning as he acknowledged the wave of a particularly fetching girl in the bow of one of the little boats, who tossed out a garland of pale blossoms and shiny leaves. “I confess, I know it by the tune, not the words, at this distance, but—” He bit at his lip to stop it trembling. “I had not realized how much I missed home,” he said more softly. “I only hope I may live to be their king in fact.”

  “And for many a year,” Kelson said quietly, echoing a Torenthi phrase taught him by Father Irenaeus. “Liam—we shall see this through, you and I—trust me.”

  “I do,” Liam murmured, ducking his head. “I only hope that trust may be enough.”

  They fell silent at that, watching together as torches gradually lit the town walls like a necklace of topaz as the twilight deepened. With the black galleys standing to, the little boats did not approach too closely or stay too long, but Liam’s delight at their gesture was evident. They watched until the last torch had disappeared into the darkness before the town, only then turning to rejoin the others.

  The creak of rigging and the gentle slap of wavelets against the ship’s hull hovered on the water like ghost-whispers as the party aboard the Niyyana settled for a quiet supper—their last such meal before reaching Beldour the next afternoon. On this occasion, Rasoul and Mátyás did not join them, permitting Liam to share a final evening with his friends from Gwynedd. One of Létald’s sailors brought out a mandolin, and songs of Torenth and Gwynedd as well as Tralia floated out into the darkness; but even cooled by the continuing breeze, Kelson slept badly that night, his dreams permeated by the increasingly alien images of the river—and imagination supplied more threatening glimpses of what might lie ahead in Beldour. The next day would see their arrival at the Torenthi capital, and unmistakably within the sphere controlled by Liam’s uncles.

  The morrow dawned cooler than any thus far, with a welcome breeze promising both milder temperatures and swifter progress. With the sails bellied by a goodly wind, the oarsmen were able to abandon their rowing benches and deploy along the decks, ready to serve as the honor escort intended.

  Just before noon, the three royals withdrew briefly below deck to dress for their arrival. Kelson’s lightweight Haldane silks glittered with gold embroidery as he emerged into Torenthi sunlight, the scarlet a subtle contrast to the royal purple Liam wore; in compliment to Torenth, he had donned again the enameled cross sent him upon the occasion of his knighting. Though he and Létald both wore jewelled diadems, Liam had donned a flat-topped black hat similar to the one Mátyás usually wore, with a rich starburst of jewels affixed to the front and pendant jewels dangling past his ears on either side. Rasoul and Mátyás came aboard the royal caïque at midday, accompanied by an honor guard of six white-robed Moorish warriors, and stood to either side of three chairs of estate now set beneath the caïque’s rich canopy, where Kelson King of Gwynedd and Liam-Lajos King of Torenth took places flanking Létald Prince of Tralia, whose ship it was.

  Beldour lay at the confluence of two of the three great rivers serving Torenth: the mighty River Beldour and its lesser tributary, the River Arjent. Shortly before the first spires of the Torenthi capital came into view, as they passed beneath the cliffs of Anowar, thrusting upward to their right, men ranged along the cliff edge began sounding welcoming blasts on long, curled horns of brightly glinting brass. Rasoul pointed out, interspersed among the men, the source of an eerie yet melodious ululation interwoven amid the trumpet calls.

  “Such welcome is custom among desert tribes and the women of the steppes,” Rasoul told them, directing Kelson’s gaze to the veiled women, brightly dressed in every shading of the rainbow. “It is said to be a woman’s mystery.”

  As the royal flotilla rounded the cliffs, a long row of gilded and canopied state caïques parted before them, manned by smartly liveried oarsmen who raised their oars in salute, then fell in on either side of the Niyyana, rowing to the rhythm of shimmering bells rather than pace drums. In their wake, swarming outward from increasing signs of habitation along both river shores, came growing numbers of smaller boats, their occupants singing and waving scarves and branches and casting garlands on the water to welcome home their king.

  Adjusting sail, the black galleys drew ahead to form a phalanx like an ebon arrowhead, clearing the way before them. Beyond the galleys, rising boldly from both banks of the river, the first of Beldour’s domes and minarets and blue-black battlements thrust boldly upward against a pale cerulean sky, gleaming in the summer sun.

  “There’s that blue I told you I had missed,” Liam said to Kelson, pointing out a domed building crowned with a gilded cross, poised at the edge of a spit of land that jutted into the river from the right. “The blue of the dome comes from glazed tiles—if we were closer, you could probably see that each one bears a golden star of six points. The wash of blue on the walls is more delicate. It’s like the blue on your panagia, Uncle Mátyás: the blue of Mother Mary’s mantle, or maybe angels’ eyes. . . .”

  The comment conjured an image for Kelson of the medal on the coral prayer beads, and the flecks of gemstone in the hands of the angel—and he found himself wondering if the medal might have been crafted here in Torenth, where the things of heaven and earth seemed to blend more seamlessly than in Gwynedd, and wondering how the beads might have come into the hands of Jehana’s mother, who had never told her daughter of her magical heritage. . . .

  He cast his gaze farther ahead toward Beldour itself, where more and grander domes of the milky blue were scattered amid the darker profusion of towers and spires and arches.

  “The blue is distinctive,” he said. “It seems to be mostly confined to domes and the buildings beneath them. Are those all churches? Most of them seem to have crosses.”

  “Say, rather, that the color is reserved for holy buildings,” Rasoul replied. “Domes also adorn the prayer halls of the Prophet and parts of some royal palaces. The color, of course, has a celestial connotation, and its use is regulated. The best of it is enriched with ground lapis lazuli, which makes it quite costly; the veins of gold in the lapis impart a luminous quality not otherwise obtainable. It is believed that something in the makeup of such pigment is conducive to carrying the energy of our powers, as you saw that night off Saint-Sasile. When you look upon Hagia Iób, you will see the finest example in all the known world.”

  “Hagia Iób—isn’t that outside the city?” Kelson asked, recalling his briefings with Father Irenaeus.

  Mátyás smiled, inclining his head approvingly. “You were an attentive pupil, my lord. Hagia Iób is at Torenthály. You will see it in a few days, when we begin rehearsals for the killijálay.”

  “I look forward to it,” Kelson replied.

  “Is the welcome as you had envisioned it, my prince?” Mátyás asked, for Liam was grinning, and the state caïques that had replaced the black galleys as close escort were allowing the smaller vessels to approach more closely.

  “Almost,” Liam said softly, lifting his face toward the distant city.

  They fell silent as Beldour grew before them, its ramparts all but luminous in the later afternoon sun. Rasoul kept up a running commentary on the city’s architectural features as they approached what he informed them was Old Beldour, on the river’s left bank. Beyond, the great stone arches of a formidable bridge spanned the river, linking Old Beldour with the more recent parts of the city.

  “The Cathedral of Saint Constantine,” Rasoul said, pointing out an enormous complex of spark
ling blue domes and milky blue walls near the water’s edge before them, like jewels heaped by a giant’s hand. “And beyond, Furstánály Palace, the principal residence of the padishah, where you will be lodged. We will land at the Quai du Saint-Basile, there before the cathedral plaza.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  He hath delivered my soul in peace from the battle that was against me.

  Psalm 55:18

  During the four days it took Kelson and the Torenthi party to make their slow way upriver toward Beldour, Jehana’s unexpected encounter with Deryni in her son’s library had prompted much prayerful contemplation and deliberation. The very next morning, following a night of little sleep, she returned early to question Father Nivard about the secondary library—and the man she had met there.

  “He said his name was Barrett,” she told him, somewhat indignantly. “After discovering that adjoining room, I don’t suppose I was surprised that he proved to be Deryni—and right here in the palace! But the room itself, the entrance to it—when I was here yesterday with Meraude, she couldn’t even see that there was an archway there! Surely you know about this!”

  Nivard had risen from his chair behind the writing desk when she entered, laying aside his quill. He listened with little outward reaction, only lowering his eyes briefly at her direct question.

  “I know about it, my lady.”

  When he did not say more, she stared at him, then looked away with a sinking feeling, twisting nervously at the marriage ring on her left hand.

  “You’re Deryni, too, aren’t you?” she said quietly—a statement, not a question, as she regarded him sidelong.

  He only inclined his head slightly, the wise sea-green eyes not leaving her face. She looked back at him, drawing a cautious breath, a little surprised that she felt none of the outrage that would have greeted this admission only a few months earlier—though, indeed, she had suspected, all along. But she had always liked the young priest, who was only a little older than Kelson, and found that she could not bring herself to despise him.

  “This. . . Barrett,” she said after a moment. “Besides being Deryni, who is he, to merit such access to my son’s library?”

  “A scholar,” Nivard said simply.

  “A scholar,” she repeated. “But—he is blind.”

  Again Nivard inclined his head. “It is possible for some Deryni to compensate for physical blindness. Reading requires . . . a great deal of concentration and skill. And it is very tiring.” He smiled faintly. “I expect that is why he fell asleep. That is how you found him, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I—does he do that often?”

  “More often than he would like,” Nivard allowed. “But his studies give him great pleasure in this, the winter of his life.”

  “You know him, then,” she said.

  At his confirming nod, she swallowed with an effort, her gaze darting again to the curtain covering the strange archway into the library annex.

  “And—what of that doorway? Why could Meraude not even see it, yet I could?”

  He studied her for a long moment, then gave a faint shrug. “Do you really wish to know, my lady?”

  “I—yes, I do.”

  “Very well. There is a—magical veil set in place to obscure the opening. Those of the king’s blood may pass, and such others as he gives leave, like myself; but no others.”

  “And does this Barrett have such leave?”

  “No, he does not.”

  She simply blinked at him in amazement for several long seconds, but she quickly grasped the implications.

  “Then, he may come and go only by means of . . . the Portal there,” she ventured.

  Nivard nodded silently, studying her with compassion and frank appraisal.

  “If you wish, my lady,” he said quietly, “I shall attempt to explain the king’s rationale for the arrangement. But if you would rather not hear it, I shall, of course, respect your wishes. Please believe that I am sensitive to your fears and apprehensions in this regard, having myself lived for many years in fear of being discovered for what I am. I assure you, I did not lightly enter my present state and situation. But your son may be quite the most remarkable individual of his generation. I would say this even if he were not my king and my patron.”

  When he did not continue, only gazing at her neutrally, Jehana found herself sinking straight-backed onto a stool before Father Nivard’s writing desk, for something in the young priest’s manner was both compelling and reassuring—and it was clear that his respect and admiration for Kelson were genuine.

  “Do you wish me to continue?” he asked gently.

  “I—do,” she whispered.

  He nodded and also sat, both hands resting easy on the writing table before him.

  “First of all,” he began carefully, “allow me to reassure you that only a very few Deryni know of the Portal in the next room, and they bear no ill will toward any of your family. Though we believe the Portal has been there for a very long time, its existence had been largely forgotten until relatively recently.

  “When it was rediscovered, the king carefully considered the implications—for, as you quickly realized, it was a means by which Deryni who knew of its location could come and go as they pleased, here in the heart of an area private to him and his most trusted associates: a serious breach of security, should a Deryni hostile to Gwynedd’s interests discover its location and determine to use it against us.”

  Jehana found herself nodding in agreement, though strangely without any particular sense of being threatened by this notion, for the very existence of the Veil across the access doorway was proof that Kelson had taken responsible measures to guard against such intrusion.

  “Duke Alaric has reason to believe that the danger was more than theoretical,” Nivard went on. “I am told that the sorceress Charissa gained access to this room on the night before the king’s coronation—and the Portal would have provided the means. Yet the king was reluctant to simply destroy it, for creating a Portal requires considerable effort; and properly used and safeguarded, it provides a valuable link with other locations similarly equipped.” He paused a beat. “You are aware that there are other Portals to which your son has access?” he asked.

  She dipped her gaze uneasily, staring at her fingers entwined in her lap, and managed a taut nod, though she did not speak.

  Nivard nodded carefully. “There was also the happy circumstance of the Portal’s location, immediately adjacent to the library—which meant that, with appropriate precautions, the library could be extended to include that room, and to make certain . . . specialized reference volumes available to outside scholars.”

  “You mean. . . Deryni scholars, don’t you?” she said softly. “It had—never occurred to me that there were such things.”

  Nivard ventured a tentative smile. “If we knew more of our powers and how to control them, my lady, there would be less cause for fear from those who do not have them. Even during the worst of the persecutions, the mind was a place where even a Deryni could still be free. Honest scholarship leads to understanding—and only by abolishing ignorance may we hope to live together in peace as we once did.” He paused a beat. “The Church did not always teach that our magic was evil; I think you know that.”

  She swallowed down the lump rising in her throat, remembering the words she had read the night before, of the almost holy admonition to accompany the employment of one’s gifts with reverence and the utmost respect for the free will of others. . . .

  “Then, men like Barrett may come and go at will, by means of—that Portal?” she dared to ask.

  He inclined his head. “Yes, but its location is not lightly shared. Are you—aware of the conventions of Portal use, my lady?”

  She shook her head, wide-eyed.

  “Do you—wish to be aware?”

  At her very faint and tentative nod, he raised an eyebrow and went on.

  “In order to use a Portal, one must learn its coordinates, the unique characterist
ics that make it different from any other Portal. This is best done in person, at the location, though occasionally it is possible for a skilled practitioner to show a Portal location to another with sufficient clarity that the location could then be accessed.

  “And of course, one must also know the location of another Portal where one wishes to go.” He cocked his head at her wistfully, a touch of kindly challenge in the sea-green eyes. “I don’t suppose you would like a demonstration? I know of two other Portals here in Rhemuth.”

  She could feel the color draining from her face as she quickly shook her head.

  “I do beg your pardon,” he said hastily. “That was impertinent of me.”

  “No, no, not . . . impertinent,” she found herself murmuring, even as she rose and began edging toward the door, and escape. “But I—I have other duties to attend to, Father. If you will excuse me . . .”

  But even as she fled down the corridor, seeking the refuge of her apartments, she found herself re-examining his offer—and wondering more about the mysterious Barrett, who was blind, and Deryni; and wondering what it would actually be like, to use a Portal. . . .

  She surrendered the rest of the morning to a relaxing bath, thinking back on her astonishing encounter with Father Nivard as Sophie washed her hair. Noontime found her walking in the sunny garden orchard with Sister Cecile and Meraude, while the former read her breviary and the latter selected ripe fruit, and Jehana herself still mulled the mystery of what Nivard called the Veil.

  Nivard had said that “those of the king’s blood” might pass—which, besides herself, she took to mean Haldane blood, and in the collateral line as well, since Kelson as yet had no children. Which meant that Nigel also could pass—but not Meraude, who was not Haldane, and, indeed, had appeared to touch only stone, when Jehana bade her test the wall of the garderobe. But Rory and Payne could pass . . . and presumably, the dead Conall’s children, Albin and Conalline.

  Which made her think more about Meraude’s intention to seek out little Conalline and her mother—and made her accept without demur when Meraude again broached the subject later that afternoon.