King Kelson's Bride

by Katherine Kurtz

  Kelson found himself smiling faintly. “You make the Mearan weddings sound like a dress rehearsal for my own.”

  Azim inclined his head in agreement. “In a sense, they are. And incidentally, the second Mearan match is a brilliant one, provided the Mearan parents raise no undue opposition. It is one that even the Council had not considered. They—also had not anticipated the match now in place between yourself and your cousin,” he added, eyeing Kelson closely. “As her mentor, who cares greatly for her happiness, dare I hope that closer reacquaintance is proving more positive than you had expected?”

  Thus phrased, the question demanded no commitment beyond what Kelson had already made—to give his earnest efforts to make the marriage work on a human level as well as a political one—but it underlined his growing recognition that he was, indeed, coming to care for Araxie.

  “Let us simply say,” he replied, “that I am increasingly confident that she will make a worthy queen. As for other aspects of our relationship—” He made himself draw a deep breath and let it out. “Azim, I can honestly say that only time will tell.”

  A little later, back at the summer palace of Létald Hort of Orsal, one whose first loyalties lay firmly elsewhere than with the master of that place watched unremarked from amid the guard detail outside Létald’s council chamber—and drew smartly to attention in some surprise as the door opened, just at dawn, and Létald emerged with only his chamberlain, looking grim. In the glimpse the watcher managed just before the door closed, he could see no one else inside—and yet the Orsal’s sister, along with her husband and children, had accompanied him there not an hour before, along with several servants carrying largish satchels. Despite the balmy summer night, all of the Lady Sivorn’s family wore voluminous cloaks. The servants had not stayed long; but no one else had come out.

  It was suspicious enough that Iddin de Vesca, a middle-ranking officer of the guard, contrived not to be among those who fell in to escort Létald back to his quarters, for he knew the chances of gaining any further information from Létald himself were extremely unlikely. The chamberlain, Vasilly Dimitriades, headed off in another direction, but he was no better prospect. Both men had Deryni blood, as did Iddin himself.

  So he must be more resourceful. Certain risks were involved, but Iddin was well paid to take certain risks. As soon as the chamberlain had disappeared from sight and Létald and his guards had rounded the bend at the other end of the corridor, and the silence of the early morning had settled once again in that part of the palace, Iddin eased casually nearer the companion left behind: a stolid older man called Luric.

  “A great deal of activity for so early in the morning,” Iddin remarked.

  “Aye,” Luric agreed, hitching absently at his sword-belt. “I wonder what that was all about?”

  Iddin did not give him time to speculate further, only seizing his wrist and exerting Deryni control, opening the door with his other hand as he pulled the compliant Luric into the room. He had primed the man to obey him, more than a year before, and to remember nothing of such encounters.

  “Stay and guard the door,” Iddin murmured, scanning the room.

  It was, indeed, empty. And there appeared to be no other door out. He had never been in the council chamber before—indeed, Létald tried to avoid any serious work of government during the summer months, when he was in residence at Horthánthy—but Iddin knew what he had seen—and what might be one way of explaining it.

  Drawing breath to trigger a centering and focus of his perceptions, he began circling the room to the left, casting out with his mind for another exit—and found evidence of a hidden door in the light wood panelling halfway along the left side of the room.

  Running his hands over that section of the panelling, he searched for the outlines of the door, for what held it closed. The hidden lock yielded easily to his powers—merely a conventional latch behind an ornamental flap, worked by a key . . . or his mind.

  He pushed gently at the door after shifting the wards in the lock. The small room beyond smelled of candle grease and damp. And beneath his feet, as he stepped farther in, he came up short against the distinctive tingle of a Portal—a recently active Portal.

  Success at last! Mahael had told him that there must be a Portal here at Horthánthy, and this was the second summer Iddin had spent looking for it. He was well aware that Deryni blood ran deep in the von Horthy line, though they little used their powers save for shielding and Truth-Reading—and for this Portal, it now appeared.

  He sank briefly to a crouch and laid his hands upon it long enough to capture its location, sought in vain for some trace of transit to other Portals, then rose and eased back out of the little chamber, closing the hidden door behind him and mentally resetting the lock. Luric was still listening at the door to the corridor, one ear pressed to the wood, and Iddin glided to him soundlessly to touch his wrist in command.

  “Come with me,” he said softly.

  A few minutes later, after sending someone else to guard the council chamber, he had reached his quarters and had a plan for how best to proceed. He did not know where the Orsal had sent members of his family, or why, but the very fact that he had done so—and by what means—would be of great interest to his masters, as would the location of the Portal itself.

  Drawing Luric inside, he closed the door and bade his unwitting accomplice sit beside him on the narrow cot. Keeping the man’s wrist in his grasp, he closed his eyes and began centering, drawing Luric into trance with him, preparing to tap the other’s energies to do what he must do.

  Very shortly, he had achieved the desired level of focus. Reaching out with his mind, he set the Call. Though Mahael had never failed to respond within a few minutes, if only to advise of a delay, this time Iddin could detect nary a ripple. When, after a while longer, Iddin still had not made contact with Mahael, he shifted his Call to the next brother, Teymuraz.

  The response was not immediate, but it came, strong and focused, somehow different from what Iddin had ever experienced with Teymuraz before.

  I could not reach Mahael, Iddin sent. I have news from Horthánthy. I have discovered a Portal at last—and Létald appears to have used it to send or take his sister and her family elsewhere.

  Indeed, came Teymuraz’s reply. Are you aware of what has happened?

  Iddin sent only a note of query.

  You could not reach Mahael because he is dead—

  What?

  Defeated during killijálay, with the connivance of my other dear brother and the King of Gwynedd, came Teymuraz’s thought, so potent that Iddin flinched from its power. He then was executed by impalement, by order of our treacherous nephew—who now wields the full might of Furstán. I have only barely escaped.

  But—why would Létald—

  That is what you must discover, came Teymuraz’s sharp order. He knows the circumstances of Mahael’s death, and of my own flight from Torenthály. His very presence at the Ile, so quickly after, makes it likely that he has rightly guessed that I would act to disrupt the Mearan alliance planned by the Haldane. I had hoped to seize or kill the Haldane princesses.

  Then, do not come here! Iddin retorted. That will be the reason he has sent them elsewhere. I know not what is planned, but I have never sensed such focus in Létald.

  Small wonder, Teymuraz replied, for he will have allied with Mátyás and Liam-Lajos and the King of Gwynedd. Find out what you can—where the women have been taken. It may be that the Haldane has become brave enough to flex hispowers, to take them to Rhemuth itself. We have long known that there are Portals there, though not their locations. Meanwhile, I shall adjust my own intentions.

  Later that morning, after bringing Duncan up to date on all that had occurred, Kelson settled into a preliminary meeting with Nigel and Rory to discuss Mearan strategies, for they must present a united front when the full council met at noon.

  “I don’t really expect too much consternation at the manner of your arrival,” Nigel said, “especial
ly when they’ve heard your news. However, I must remind you that the Mearans are expected within a few days. They won’t expect to find Richelle and her family already here. The wedding ship from Tralia wasn’t originally expected to arrive for nearly a fortnight—and neither were you.”

  “The weather was fine, so they came early,” Kelson said, without hesitation. “Richelle was eager to see her bridegroom.”

  Duncan nodded approvingly.

  “Plausible—though it doesn’t explain your presence.”

  “Hopefully, they won’t think to ask,” Kelson replied. “And we’ll keep them too busy to think too much about it. Now, as to your part in all these matrimonial machinations—” He glanced at Rory, who looked vaguely anxious. “After I’ve told the council about Araxie, that’s the perfect lead-in to announce your intentions—unless, of course, you’re having second thoughts.”

  “Oh, no! I mean—well—”

  “You are having second thoughts?” Kelson said lightly. “Rory, if you don’t marry Noelie, I’m going to have to contend with her mother, when she learns I’m marrying someone else.”

  “I do want to marry her! It’s just that—I’m not completely certain she’ll have me, if I ask her.” He twisted nervously at his signet ring. “What if I misread her interest? We never dared to speak of it, when she was here last summer—and since you asked me not to write to her . . .”

  As his voice trailed off, Kelson rolled his eyes and sighed.

  “Now you tell me. Well, at least I can reassure you on that count. Mind you, this is all second- and third-hand, but I have it from Araxie—who had it from her sister, who had it from Brecon—that his sister is . . . quite fond of you. . . .” He grinned as Rory closed his eyes and exhaled in a heavy sigh of relief.

  “I also gather that her father dotes on his only daughter, and can deny her nothing. As we knew all along, her mother will be the sticking point. She had her heart set on a king for her daughter, and now she’ll have to settle for you.”

  He gave Rory a playful dunt in the arm as he said it, and Nigel allowed himself a snort.

  “The girl will do better than the mother did—not that Jolyon Ramsay isn’t a decent man,” the duke said. “Are the pair of you aware that she might have been either of your mothers?” he asked, to looks of surprise from both of them.

  “Oh, yes. She was much at court before either Brion or I married—daughter of a Fallonese baron, but also, through her mother, a cousin of the then Hort of Orsal, Létald’s father. Very ambitious—and quite a beauty she was, in those days. She’s still a handsome woman. The von Horthy blood would have made her a marginally suitable royal bride.

  “But Brion married Jehana, and I married Meraude, so Oksana didn’t get to be a queen or a royal duchess. Eventually she married Sir Jolyon Ramsay, the great-grandson of Magrette of Meara, who was the youngest sister of your great-grandmother Roisian, Malcolm Haldane’s queen. If Magrette had been the eldest, it would have been she who married Malcolm—and a great deal would be different. For that matter, a great deal would have been different if Oksana had married Brion or me—but she didn’t. Still, I’m sure she was hoping that, since she never got to be Queen of Gwynedd, her daughter might have done.”

  “You never told me any of this,” Kelson said.

  Nigel shrugged. “Gentlemen don’t talk about the ladies in their past—and besides, once I set eyes on Meraude, there were no other contenders, so far as I was concerned.”

  “But if Oksana would have married the king’s brother,” Kelson said, “don’t you think she might settle for having her daughter marry the king’s first cousin?”

  Nigel broke into a broad grin. “That’s where a conspiracy between Noelie and her father may carry the day,” he said. “By all reports, Oksana’s marriage with Jolyon has been a contented one. If she can be persuaded that it would be a love match between Noelie and Rory before she discovers that you intend to marry Araxie, I think that might make all the difference. Oksana Ramsay is ambitious, but she’s also quite a pragmatic woman—as you probably gathered during our earlier negotiations.”

  “That’s true enough,” Kelson agreed, well recalling the nitpicking over fine points of the marriage contract between Brecon and Richelle.

  “Remember that the Ramsays have no wealth, and precious little land,” Nigel continued. “The family fortunes will improve considerably with Brecon’s marriage. However, balancing the distant possibility of marrying her daughter to a king, against the certainty of a match with a prince, I expect she’d rather see her daughter happily married to a prince than possibly end up with some pimply-faced local sprat for a son-in-law, with no prospects—and there aren’t many princes available for the daughter of a simple knight. There is also the very real financial consideration that a double wedding here and now, with us bearing the bulk of the expense for all the royal trappings, will be very attractive.”

  Kelson only nodded, greatly heartened by Nigel’s apparent confidence that the Mearan negotiations would be far less daunting than previously expected. He considered raising the question of Albin, now that Nigel seemed committed to Rory’s match with Meara, but decided not to press his luck. First he must deal with his council, hoping that any uneasiness over his manner of return would be tempered by news of the success of his mission in Torenth and of his plans, at last, to marry.

  An hour later, behind closed doors, he had briefed his council on the circumstances of Liam’s investiture the day before, advised them of possible eventual repercussions from Teymuraz—and announced his betrothal to his cousin Araxie Haldane.

  “And no, she never intended to marry Prince Cuan of Howicce; he wants to marry his cousin Gwenlian,” Kelson said, “so none of you need to make that comment. It appears that my future queen is well able to keep close counsel and carry out strategic negotiations with little help from anyone else.”

  Jaws dropped and smiles broke out among those who had not known. Nigel looked as pleased as if he had had some part in it; Jehana briefly closed her eyes in silent thanksgiving that it really was true. She was wearing a rose-colored gown this morning, her veil worked with a broad band of gold embroidery along the edges, and Kelson thought she had not looked so well since his father died. Morgan and Dhugal, returned from Beldour not an hour before, had reported that all was well with Liam and Mátyás, and flanked Kelson in silent support as he took in the reactions of his most trusted councillors. To his relief, both Duke Ewan and the two archbishops, sitting near Duncan, had adjusted quickly to the circumstances of his return via Portal.

  “This is welcome news, indeed, Sire!” old Archbishop Bradene said. “All Gwynedd will rejoice to see a queen at your side at last!”

  Duke Ewan was shaking his head in pleased disbelief, white teeth grinning in his grey-streaked beard. “Duke Richard’s daughter. Who would have guessed? Congratulations, Sire. Claibourne wishes you every happiness!”

  “You’re aware, I’m sure, Sire, that a dispensation will be required,” said Archbishop Cardiel, smiling, “but the degree of consanguinity is very slight. I suspect that a friendly bishop or two can be found to speed matters along—perhaps a few at this very table. And I assume that you will wish to delay any public announcement until after the Princess Richelle’s wedding to Brecon Ramsay?”

  Kelson glanced at Rory and contained a small smile. “Actually, we have hopes of yet another wedding—and I must ask that what I am about to tell you not go beyond these walls until negotiations can be completed, for reasons which will quickly become apparent. Many of you were urging me to make a match with Brecon’s sister, Noelie. Obviously, that is not now an option.”

  “Good God, no!” old Ewan said, pursing his lips. “And her mother won’t like that.”

  “I have no doubt that the Lady Oksana’s initial reaction will be one of disappointment,” Kelson replied, in droll understatement. “Happily—and Oksana will not have been aware of this, as I myself was unaware, until shortly before I left for Torenth—h
er daughter’s heart was already inclined toward someone else, whose suit satisfies all the sound political reasons that would have made her a suitable consort for me, and will also answer both their hearts. It is my hope that Noelie’s parents may be persuaded to give her hand in marriage to my cousin Rory.”

  This new announcement brought its own flurry of pleased commentary among Ewan and the two archbishops.

  “To spare any possible embarrassment for the Ramsay family, due to higher aspirations,” Kelson went on, “I intend to refrain from making public announcement of my own betrothal until both marriages have taken place, and in a manner that leaves no doubt that the marriage of Noelie with Rory is, indeed, a preference of the heart. It has been suggested that a double wedding would be appropriate—and would also appeal to the financial considerations of the Mearans, since both couples could be fêted at the wedding feast already planned for that night in honor of Brecon and Richelle. I would then plan to make my announcement at the end of the evening’s festivities,” he added, “which I’m certain will please all of Gwynedd.”

  “And, will it please the king?” Cardiel asked softly.

  A silence fell on the room as the king stiffened slightly and then breathed out in a long sigh.

  “I believe it will,” he said, a little surprised that he was beginning to believe that. “I confess that, when I first approached my cousin on this matter, it was because that was what Rothana wanted, but now—” He allowed himself a faint smile.

  “Fortunately, no great speculation will attach to the presence at court of the sister of the bride—especially since everyone seems convinced she’s going to marry Prince Cuan,” he added, with a wry grin. “We have known one another from childhood, and both have happy memories of those long-ago days. Meanwhile, I hope that the diversion of her sister’s wedding—and that of Rory and Noelie—will give us opportunity to reacquaint ourselves as adults. I assure all of you that I am content enough; and I have no doubt whatever that the Princess Araxie will make an exceedingly worthy Queen of Gwynedd.”