“There the Word of God lies enthroned before the Lamb of God,” Father Károly whispered, noticing the direction of his gaze. “The icon behind the great candelabrum on the altar is that of Christ in Glory—and were you to look directly above the altar, from inside the sanctuary, you would see the Theotokos with the Christ within her.”
“Theotokos—that means Christ Bearer,” Kelson said, remembering his instruction from Father Irenaeus.
“It does, my lord,” Father Károly agreed eagerly, his eyes lighting as he directed the king’s gaze to further details. “The icons to either side of the royal gates are the Theotokos holding the Christ, and the glorified Christ Himself, showing that all of creation falls between these two events, of His coming as the Savior born of Mary—the Theotokos—and His coming as King and Judge, at the end of time.” He glanced at Kelson in question and sudden misgiving that he had presumed too much. “Do you wish me to identify the other images on the iconostasis?”
“Not at this time, I think, Father,” Kelson replied with a light shake of his head, though he smiled as he said it. “I expect that the Holy Alpheios would prefer that I pay attention to the rehearsal. Can you tell me anything about something called ‘moving wards’? I’ve heard them mentioned several times this afternoon.”
Father Károly blinked at him, then shrugged.
“They are a difficult magical working, employed almost exclusively during killijálay, but there is no secret to their existence or their general function. A Moving Ward requires four practitioners of a high degree of magical competence. They are sometimes referred to as the Pillars of the Realm. They surround the padishah in correspondence to the great archangels of the four Quarters, and raise a sphere of protective energy around him.
“That part is relatively easy,” Károly conceded, “though the four require great stamina to maintain their warding for the requisite time. It is not a task for old men. To make of this Ward a Moving Ward, the padishah himself must integrate the energies of the four, and henceforth controls it. Some say that the four holy archangels actually overshadow their human representors during the most solemn part of the killijálay—but I do not believe this myself.”
“Interesting,” Kelson murmured, and fell largely silent throughout the rest of the rehearsal, wondering what constituted the “most solemn part” of the killijálay, and from what the padishah needed protecting, and whether angelic forces did, indeed, overshadow the padishah’s four mortal guardians.
When the rehearsal finally ended, a full four hours later, Kelson had expected that all the participants would be whisked back to Beldour aboard the same caïques that had brought them from the capital. But as he, Morgan, and Dhugal shuffled toward the great doors with all the others, already anticipating the blast of heat outside, Liam drew them aside to point out a particularly fine mosaic of Holy Wisdom set in the church’s north wall.
When, at last, they emerged into the sunlight, Kelson was somewhat taken aback to see the forecourt deserted, the last of the rehearsal party boarding the ships tied up along the quay, where cooling refreshments awaited them. The state caïque carrying Liam’s mother and brother was already in mid-river, and more were pulling away from the quay, including the one carrying Arilan, Saer, Létald, and the remaining Forcinn observers. Aboard another of the ships, even now casting off its mooring lines, Kelson could just make out Mahael, Teymuraz, and others of the Torenthi entourage.
Only Liam’s own vessel remained moored at the center of the quay, its crew aboard and a dozen attentive Circassian guards drawn up smartly before the gangplank. Their captain, one hand on the hilt of his curved sword, had been speaking with Count Mátyás, and gazed back toward the padishah and his party as the count trotted briskly back up the cobbled avenue to join them.
“I ordered the others to go ahead,” Liam said, as Mátyás drew near. “Before we go back, I thought to show you the Nikolaseum, and perhaps my brother’s tomb.” He gestured up the extension of the Avenue des Rois that ran past the north side of Hagia Iób, toward a vast walled necropolis that, on their approach to Torenthály, he had identified as the burial place of the Furstán kings. “Some of the tombs are very beautiful. It will not delay us long.”
“Is it safe?” Morgan said uneasily, for the other caïques were rapidly disappearing downriver, leaving only Liam’s ship with its guard complement—and Liam and his uncle Mátyás. Dhugal, too, looked less than comfortable with the arrangement.
Mátyás smiled faintly and gestured toward the silent necropolis. “Only the dead live here, Duke Alaric. Surely you do not fear the dead?”
Kelson sensed Morgan about to argue the point, but something in Liam’s taut eagerness—and an edge of carefully veiled apprehension—persuaded him that the diversion was very important to the young king.
“No, we don’t fear the dead,” Kelson said easily, cutting short any comment of Morgan’s. “Duke Alaric is solicitous of my safety, as Count Mátyás is solicitous of yours, Liam. I think we should not linger overlong, or those appointed to protect both of us will become anxious, but pray, tell us more about this Nikolaseum while we walk. . . .”
Liam seemed palpably relieved as they set out along the extension of the cobbled avenue, leading them through a purple-tiled ceremonial arch and heading toward a fine, seven-tiered temple of alabaster set amid lesser tombs and a sea of azure pyramids that echoed the blue of Hagia Iób. Mátyás raised a hand toward the Circassian guards and signalled two of them to attend, though at a discreet distance. As they approached the tomb along a lesser avenue shaded by stately cedars, the young king spoke with passion of the valiant but ill-fated Prince Nikola, beloved younger brother of the future King Arkady II, who had fallen in the Battle of Killingford a century before.
“He died saving Arkady’s life,” Liam told them, as they mounted seven pristine white steps to enter the cooler shade of the building’s entrance. “After Arkady became king, he built the Nikolaseum to honor his brother’s memory. It is regarded as one of the wonders of the Eastern world.”
They stood aside briefly in the doorway so that the Circassian guards could duck ahead of them for a quick look inside, confirming that the place was empty, but the pair immediately retreated to the avenue below, given leave by Mátyás to wait in the shade of one of the cedars. Flanked by Morgan and Dhugal, Kelson moved a few steps farther into the building and stood aside, still a little sun-blind, letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer light.
Inside, the structure belied its external form of seven tiers, encompassing a single vaulted chamber clad with the same star-studded tiles of sacred blue that adorned the domes of ecclesiastical buildings. On a raised dais in the center, lit by a silvery glow that intensified in response to a gesture from Mátyás, lay King Arkady’s memorial to his slain brother.
“Come,” Liam said softly.
The prince’s effigy, recumbent on a bier of black basalt, was slightly larger than life-sized, carved of a single block of rosy Carrolan marble that gave the flesh a blush of seeming life, as if the slain prince only slept. The veining of the stone lent texture and contrast to the sculpted folds of the cloak in which he was wrapped from throat to ankle. The face was serene, handsome, even beautiful. Nikola had been only twenty-six when he died.
A carved stack of three battle drums guarded the foot of the bier, draped with a pair of crossed standards bearing the leaping hart device of Torenth, bright with paintwork on the carved alabaster. Beside the bier knelt a cloaked and hooded figure carved of tawny stone, its face buried in its hands and a jewelled crown lying discarded beside it. A fine sword, ornately wrought of gold and silver, was leaned against the other side of the bier so that its jewel-studded hilt projected as a sign of the Cross before the bowed head of the grieving Arkady.
“Prince Nikola died for his king,” Mátyás said softly, from behind them. “I would die for mine.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Cast in thy lot among us.
Proverbs 1:14
&n
bsp; Kelson turned to regard Mátyás, oddly unalarmed. Dhugal had snapped his head around in surprise, suppressing a startled gasp, and Morgan looked poised to spring between his king and Liam’s uncle, a hand on the hilt of the dagger at his waist—but Mátyás stood reassuringly motionless, hands empty and easy at his sides. As Kelson cocked his head in question, both arms lifting slightly in signal for his companions to hold back, Liam seized one hand in passionate entreaty, though his voice did not rise above a whisper.
“Sire, I beg you! Hear him! He has brought me warning of mortal danger—treachery planned for the killijálay! There is a chance it can be thwarted, but we must have your help!”
Liam’s breathless plea sent a chill through Kelson as he thrust his free arm across Morgan’s chest, blocking any further move against Mátyás, shifting his gaze urgently between the two Torenthi princes, sensing Dhugal’s concern.
“I would die for him!” Mátyás repeated, his voice but a whisper in the taut stillness.
“Do you trust him?” Morgan said to Kelson, his voice barely audible.
“He would never harm me!” Liam declared. “At least hear him—please!”
Kelson’s gaze fastened on that of Mátyás, at the same time using his physical link with Liam in desperate attempt to detect any trace of duplicity. He could find none.
“What is it you have to say to me, Count Mátyás?” he said quietly. “You ask much.”
“And must ask still more,” the other replied. “Please! I—dare not speak of this here. I must ask you to come with me. Let the Lord Dhugal remain here to keep the guards from asking awkward questions—though I promise you, we shall not be long.”
“And where is it you propose we go?” Kelson asked.
“A Portal lies there at the head of the effigies,” Mátyás replied, gesturing. “I dare not give you our destination, but I offer you this Portal’s location. It might serve as an escape, if the killijálay goes completely wrong and at least some of us are fortunate enough to survive.”
“You offer us a Portal location within Torenth, but to use it, you are asking us to open our shields to you.”
Mátyás’s pale eyes closed briefly as he breathed out a long sigh in an apparent bid for equanimity. “Your caution, where I am concerned, is not unreasonable. Will you allow Laje to bring you through? I accept that this presents no guarantee that he and I are not joined in some conspiracy against you, to compass your deaths by treachery—or that I will not move against Dhugal in your absence, before coming to aid Laje against you. If you fear that, then I shall go first. But if you cannot yet trust me, at least trust your vassal Liam-Lajos, who has sworn faith with you, before God. Please, I beg you!”
Kelson slowly turned his gaze on Liam, who now was trembling with the tension of the moment yet with shields all but transparent, utterly convinced of the sincerity and truthfulness of his uncle’s words. Contact with Morgan likewise confirmed the Deryni duke’s reluctant willingness to accept Kelson’s judgment in the matter—though Morgan remained unconvinced regarding Mátyás. Dhugal, he knew, would abide by whatever instruction Kelson gave him in the matter.
“Someone must trust, if we are ever to end what brought Nikola to his death,” Kelson murmured, glancing at the carved figures of Nikola and the grieving Arkady. He lowered his hands and moved warily toward the head of the bier, and was reassured to feel the tingle of a live Portal centered on the marble floor slab immediately adjacent to the bier.
“May we?” he asked Mátyás, indicating the Portal and including Morgan and Dhugal in his glance.
At Mátyás’s clipped nod, Kelson drew both companions to his side and knelt to lay his hands flat on the white marble, Morgan and Dhugal crouching beside him. When they had set the location into memory, and while they continued pretending to do so, the king reached out in link with Morgan and Dhugal, mind to mind.
Am I mad to trust him? he asked them.
As you say, my prince, someone must trust, came Morgan’s steady reply.
Dhugal?
It appears that I get the easy part, Dhugal responded, adding a physical grin to the impression of resigned amusement he sent. I only need to keep the guards at bay.
If we should not return within half an hour, or if anything else should go amiss, Kelson cautioned, go first to Rhemuth and warn Nigel that we may have met with treachery, then return here and try to find Arilan. But I pray this will not be necessary.
Drawing breath to ready his focus, Kelson set a hand on the edge of Nikola’s bier and got to his feet, Morgan and Dhugal also rising. Liam was watching them avidly, Mátyás with bowed head beside him, one hand clasped around the icon on his breast. Dhugal gave them a nod.
“It appears that I’m seconded for guard duty,” he said lightly, gesturing toward the sun-flooded doorway of the place. “Count Mátyás, have you any particular instructions regarding our friends outside, or are they likely to stay where they are?”
Mátyás breathed out softly as he looked up. “They have already satisfied themselves that this place presents no physical danger. Unless some sound of alarm were to summon them, or we should be out of sight for a very long time, they will not attempt to intrude on the private nature of our visit. We shall endeavor to return before our absence can arouse concern.”
“Then, I shall pass the time in contemplation of Prince Nikola’s memorial,” Dhugal replied with a fleeting smile, “and remain in the vicinity of the entrance—just in case their curiosity should overwhelm their sense of decorum.”
Mátyás nodded his gratitude, swallowing visibly, then moved briskly around the other side of the memorial, to take the place of Kelson and Morgan on the Portal slab.
“Laje, I shall await your coming,” he said with a taut glance at Liam—and disappeared in the blink of an eye.
Breathing a guarded sigh, Liam moved into the space Mátyás had just vacated and held out both his hands with palms upturned, his gaze locking with the king’s.
“We must not waste what time we have,” he said. “I assure you, I am able to do this,” he added, with a glance at Morgan. “I have never done it with more than one other, but the difference is negligible, and I am familiar with our destination.”
Without hesitation, now that he had made up his mind, Kelson stepped forward and put one hand in Liam’s, followed a heartbeat behind by Morgan.
“Do it,” Kelson murmured, closing his eyes and dropping his shields—and opening to Liam.
In that taut eternity between one heartbeat and the next, before the earth shifted beneath their feet, he felt Morgan likewise lowering his shields. The instant of momentary vertigo and then disorientation ceased immediately as Kelson opened his eyes, Morgan still at his side and Liam still before him—but no longer in the Nikolaseum.
A whiff of ancient incense and the honey-scent of good beeswax candles tickled at Kelson’s nostrils as he drew his first breath in this new place. They were standing in a rear corner of what seemed to be a tiny jewel of a chapel. The wavering light of scores of office lamps lent an illusion of near-life to the jewel-toned mosaics covering the walls and the inside of the modest dome.
Lamps set with ruby and emerald and sapphire amid their golden filigree hung from golden chains fixed to the vaulted ceiling. Long-faced saints and gilded angels gazed out from the painted panels of the iconostasis. The ones to either side of the doors to the sanctuary beyond—what Father Károly had called the royal doors—were entirely encased in jewel-studded silver, except for the faces. The doors themselves were closed, but were only partial doors, closing the icon screen from a height of shoulder to knee.
“Come away from the Portal,” Liam whispered, drawing the pair into the center of the room. “It is not permitted that you may know of this one’s location.”
Morgan stiffened, but that had been the arrangement. Kelson touched his elbow in reassurance as they followed Liam into the center of the little chapel, searching the shadows for some sign of Mátyás. Kelson could detect none, but
the place gave no hint of danger; rather, a sense of peaceful calm and true holiness, for all that the outward form of it seemed strange to his senses. Liam turned briefly toward the iconostasis, making a profound reverence toward the holy icons, then turned back to his companions, venturing a faintly nervous smile.
“Mátyás has gone to tend the Wards guarding this place, for the safety of all of us. I trust that you will not object?”
Kelson found himself thinking that now was a little late to object, if Liam had led them into a trap, but he only inclined his head in answer. Almost immediately, he felt the Wards rise up around them, solid and competent, focused energy soaring upward along the walls to arch over and under them in a protective sphere, squared to the shape of the chamber.
Then Liam was stepping to one side as movement stirred in the shadows beyond the arched doorway of the iconostasis. As Mátyás emerged, pale hands parting the double gate and then closing it behind him, his enameled icon of the Blessed Virgin glowed like a bright jewel on his breast.
“I thank you for trusting me in this,” he said quietly. “I assure you that I appreciate the act of faith it required. I shall be brief, for I would not have any of us missed. I shall understand if you have reason to question what I am about to tell you.”
“What is this place?” Kelson asked.
“What it appears. A private chapel. My private chapel. Actually, it is one of several that are private to me.”
“In Torenthály?” Kelson asked.
“No, nor even in the region of Beldour. I assure you, however, that I would not deceive you in this place. But my brothers would deceive you even in Hagia Iób—and intend to do so. And they intend to betray our king. I cannot allow this.”
“Go on.”
Mátyás inclined his head. “They believe me a part of their plot. Teymuraz and myself and the two counts called László and Branyng are to serve as Moving Wards for the enthronement of Liam-Lajos, as Father Károly perhaps will have explained. It is a high honor, and requires considerable ability. The task of the Moving Wards is to guard the king-to-be on the way to his inauguration, and to protect him during those vulnerable moments prior to taking up the full power of Furstán.
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