King Kelson's Bride

by Katherine Kurtz

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  All these were honoured in their generations, and were the glory of their times.

  Ecclesiasticus 44:7

  At that same hour, the Camberian Council was meeting beneath the faceted dome of their council chamber high in the mountains of Rhendall. It had taken more time than usual to assemble them, for the aftermath of the Torenthi investiture the previous day was but one of the matters requiring the Council’s concern. The Lady Vivienne, whose service to the Council spanned nearly half a century, had died peacefully in the arms of her eldest son during the early morning hours, well into her seventy-sixth year, surrounded by dozens of grandchildren and great-grandchildren and attended by the physician Laran ap Pardyce, close friend of a lifetime.

  Laran looked tired but also relieved, and had gently laid a single white rose beside the white wand of office marking Vivienne’s empty place at the great octagonal table, before taking his own seat next to Barrett. Arilan and Azim, to either side of Vivienne’s empty chair, exchanged troubled glances after Laran had finished telling of her final moments. Her passing had been gentle, but an era had also passed.

  “The funeral will be in two days’ time,” Laran said, in summation. “Count Tibal, her eldest son, will lead the mourners. She’s to be buried beside her husband and a stillborn daughter in the family vault at Alta Jorda. Tibal will make his Portal accessible to those who wish to attend.”

  “I shall be there,” Sofiana declared. “I had made my farewells to Vivienne herself, of course, but I will wish to pay my respects to the family. Several of Tibal’s children and grandchildren have trained at my court, over the years.”

  Azim also inclined his head. “I shall attend as well, on behalf of the Knights of the Anvil. She was ever a benefactress of our company.”

  “Perhaps they might provide pallbearers,” Barrett said a little numbly. “I well remember the funeral of Michon de Courcy—dear God, has it really been more than thirty years ago? There could be no public display for the funeral itself, of course, else the de Courcys’ Deryni blood would have been betrayed. But the interment that night, in the vaults at Valla de Courcy, was all that it should have been for a man whose family has sacrificed so much for our people.

  “Six vowed Knights of the Anvil carried him to his rest, Azim, all of them arrayed in the full panoply of your Order—and none of them laid a hand on the coffin. He floated on a catafalque of golden fire. I could see it even without these poor, blinded eyes—as if the very angels had come to sing Michon home.” Tears glistened in those eyes. “I shall never forget it—or Michon. Were it not for him . . .”

  Arilan closed his eyes, well remembering his brother’s grief the day word came of Michon’s death, a full week after the burial. He himself had been too young to study with the great mage, but Jamyl Arilan had known Michon well, and had grieved for weeks, and had rarely spoken of him thereafter. Only after Jamyl’s own death had his brother learned the significance of the bond the two had shared.

  “We all owe much to Michon,” Laran said softly, recalling all of them from their memories. “We and every other Deryni whose life he touched.”

  “We must not dwell on the past, when the future requires our attention,” Azim said quietly. “Neither Michon nor Vivienne would wish it. I have already been in contact with my Order, and arrangements are being made for a suitable tribute.

  “Meanwhile, however, the needs of this company must be considered,” he went on. “Filling Vivienne’s actual seat on the Council will require careful thought, especially in light of recent developments in Torenth, but a new coadjutor must be selected more immediately, from among our present number. I submit that the Lady Sofiana is the only choice for that office—if she is willing.”

  Every face turned immediately in her direction, each with instinctive acknowledgment and agreement writ upon it, for Sofiana was among the most powerful and skilled Deryni to sit upon the Council in recent memory—the only successor really to be considered, once it became clear that Vivienne was in her final illness.

  Sofiana herself bowed her head briefly, then lifted her eyes to them.

  “Volo,” she said quietly. I am willing.

  Barrett dashed the tears from his eyes with the back of a graceful hand and gave her a formal nod. “I welcome my sister,” he said. “Installation shall follow the funeral formalities at Alta Jorda.” He lifted his sightless gaze on the rest of them, the emerald eyes still bright.

  “That having been resolved, I think we must move on to other business,” he went on. “Our sister’s passing is not unexpected; merely accomplished.

  “As has also been accomplished, and as Azim can confirm, King Kelson has returned to Rhemuth by Portal, bringing along his Haldane cousins from Horthánthy. There was concern lest Teymuraz attempt to interfere with the marriage arrangements presently moving forward. This marks a significant alteration in the king’s stance regarding open use of his powers—for his council, at least, obviously will know that he has done this.”

  Sofiana glanced across at Arilan, already beginning to take up her function as a co-adjutor. “How will Kelson’s council react to this news, Denis?”

  Arilan shrugged. “I believe they will accept it, given the king’s great success at Torenthály—and the news that he intends to wed at last. The humans who regularly advise him are comfortable enough with the few known to be Deryni—Morgan, Dhugal, Duncan McLain, and myself. It is also helpful that both archbishops have given their guarded support of us by making no official note that the changes in the Laws of Ramos already apply to two serving bishops sitting with them on the king’s council. I would venture to guess that considerations of magic will be largely overshadowed by rejoicing at the king’s marriage plans.”

  “Yes—to another Haldane,” Laran said uneasily. “If Vivienne were already in her grave, she would turn over in it.”

  “Ah, yes, the double-Haldane match she feared,” Azim said. “But let us not forget that Deryni blood also runs in Araxie Haldane’s veins, friend Laran. Nor should you discount the fact that no one present, save myself, has ever worked with the lady—whose merits are considerable, I assure you. Indeed, only Denis has even met her—and that, only briefly.”

  “Indeed,” Barrett agreed. “And remember that the king likewise carries Deryni blood. His mother is proving—quite an interesting pupil.”

  Laran merely rolled his eyes, being somewhat aware of Barrett’s recent liaisons with Jehana of Gwynedd—if not altogether approving—but Arilan glanced sharply at Barrett. The others evidenced varying levels of somewhat surprised curiosity.

  “You’ve been working with Queen Jehana?” Arilan asked Barrett.

  “Oh, indeed—for most of a fortnight now,” he murmured. “A most singular development. The queen discovered the connecting doorway into the library annex. Much to her surprise—and my own, I must confess—she also discovered that she could pass through the Veil that guards that doorway.”

  “Well, she is of the king’s blood,” Sion observed.

  “She is, of course,” Barrett agreed, “but no one thought she would ever make the attempt. As luck would have it, I was working in the annex at the time, sitting quietly in the window, so she did not notice me at first—though she did notice the Portal square in that chamber, and was greatly curious about it, thinking herself alone. She—ah—also displayed an unexpected ability to generate handfire before she realized I was there—much to her dismay. We were having rather a spirited conversation until Laran suddenly appeared on the Portal and frightened her away.”

  Barrett’s fellow councillors were listening with varying degrees of amazement—apart from Laran, who folded his arms on his chest with a sour humph! Barrett appeared to be enjoying their discomfiture.

  “Fortunately, she was brave enough to come back the next morning, and to make guarded inquiries of your Father Nivard,” he added, with a nod toward Arilan, who had been Nivard’s mentor. “He must certainly share in the credit for
this apparent conversion on the road to Damascus. For the past week and more, thanks in no small part to the careful groundwork he had laid, the queen has returned to the library nightly for instruction regarding her Deryni heritage—and sometimes in the days as well. In this, young Nivard has been a particularly useful foil, by posing questions that I know will have occurred to the queen. Thus far, we have confined ourselves to cultural and theoretical topics, but I have reason to believe that there has been a . . . significant reappraisal on the queen’s part.”

  Arilan looked utterly astonished, Laran somewhat grudgingly approving. Sofiana allowed herself a tiny smile. Sion merely raised a dubious eyebrow, knowing Jehana only by reputation.

  “Can this be true?” Arilan murmured, though if it were not, making such a claim within the bosom of the Council would have been unthinkable.

  Barrett inclined his head, his face unreadable. “It would not be appropriate for me to go into further detail at this time, but I have reason to be hopeful that we do have one less enemy—and perhaps even a new ally.”

  “I will believe that when I see it,” Arilan muttered, shifting in his chair. “Unfortunately, that will not be soon, for I must return to Beldour, to keep watch on those allies. Létald’s ships left for home early this morning, as you know. These next days and weeks will be a time of testing for Liam-Lajos, as he settles into his kingship and tries the mettle of his remaining advisors. I only hope that Count Mátyás is as loyal as he appears to be.”

  “Denis, Denis,” Sofiana said with a musical chuckle, “what does it take to convince you of Mátyás’s loyalty? Azim, tell him.”

  Azim smiled faintly as Arilan glanced at him.

  “My lady Sofiana has been playing a dangerous game, this past year and more,” he said, “but yesterday’s outcome more than justified the risk. Mátyás came to our notice shortly after King Alroy’s death, when his brothers called him to court to assist with the new regency for Liam-Lajos, for they knew that the young king liked and trusted his youngest uncle, and they hoped this might work to their advantage.

  “What they had forgotten was that Mátyás was one of Sofiana’s godsons, and had spent several years fostered at her father’s court.”

  “It was a happy arrangement, for he is the same age as my second son,” Sofiana said wistfully. “He was also a formidable pupil of the ars magica, even then—far more formidable than I felt his brothers should know. Had my father not died untimely, forcing me to take up my duties early, he might have stayed longer in Andelon. But my council recommended that the number of fosterlings at our court be reduced for the first few years of my reign, so Mátyás was sent to Lóránt of Truvorsk to complete his training.

  “Fortunately, the good seeds had been sown on good ground,” Sofiana went on. “When Mátyás learned that his brothers planned treason against their young nephew, he came to me for guidance. By then, I had become convinced that Kelson had no hidden agenda regarding Torenth; but overcoming two centuries of suspicion between the two kingdoms was more easily suggested than accepted. While, naturally, Mátyás would not agree to any measure that might further the interests of Gwynedd over those of Torenth, he was prepared to accept—depending upon circumstances—that it might be possible to trust King Kelson as an ally—which, as it happened, was well proven yesterday, to the joy of everyone save his traitorous brothers.”

  All Sofiana’s listeners were nodding agreement by the time she finished, and she glanced aside at Azim before continuing.

  “I had a hidden agenda, even if Kelson did not,” she admitted, to varied reactions of surprise and consternation from the others on the Council, “and Azim has assisted me. I have come to know Mátyás very well in these past few years. The boy in whom I saw such potential has become exactly what I dared to dream: a young man of both power and conscience, in an unexpected position to make a difference.

  “With that in mind, I have been grooming him for consideration as an eventual member of this body—not necessarily for Vivienne’s seat, but it has been clear for some months that she must soon contemplate retirement. I did not expect that she would die in office.”

  “Are you proposing Mátyás as her replacement?” Laran muttered somewhat reproachfully. “The body is hardly cold.”

  “I apologize if this seems precipitous,” Sofiana agreed. “Furthermore, I wish you to know that my assessment of the overall balance in these Eleven Kingdoms has somewhat altered, in light of yesterday’s outcome. Not that I think any less of Mátyás; if anything, he has only risen in my estimation.

  “But given the drastic reshuffling of alliances that will come with the death of Mahael, the outlawry of Teymuraz, and all the changes attendant upon the various Haldane marriages now being arranged, I now wonder whether we ought to look farther west for Vivienne’s successor. I leave it to all of you to consider whether a seat again ought to be offered to Kelson—or whether some other might be better suited. But I wished you to know my thinking regarding Mátyás, and to be reassured on his behalf.”

  “This does, indeed, place matters in a somewhat different perspective,” Arilan said thoughtfully. “How much does he know of the Council?”

  “We have never spoken of it directly,” Sofiana replied, “but, like most trained Deryni, he knows that we exist. Now that you have been reassured of his integrity, I hope you will take the opportunity to further your acquaintance with him. I believe he can become a most powerful ally in the cause of peace between your two kingdoms.”

  “I intend to do precisely that,” Arilan agreed.

  “I suggest, then,” said Barrett, “that we adjourn now, so he may begin that task. Denis should not be long absent from Beldour, and it will take a few days to assess the situation there. In addition, there will be some significant domestic developments in the various kingdoms, because of the reshuffling of various nuptial arrangements—in Howicce and Llannedd as well as in Gwynedd and Meara,” he added, with a nod toward Sion. “I suggest that we plan to meet again after Vivienne’s burial.”

  Sion flashed a sly grin in his golden beard as all of them began to rise. “I was wondering whether anyone else had remembered my plight. Thank God we have not the political wrangling in Llannedd and Howicce that plagues the greater kingdoms—though King Colman is certain to be livid when he learns that his sister has been plotting all along to marry the heir of Howicce, who is not going to marry Araxie Haldane. That little illusion will vanish as soon as Kelson’s marriage plans become public knowledge.”

  “And pray,” said Barrett, “that news of Kelson’s marriage plans does not precipitate a new crisis between Gwynedd and Meara as well. It is said that Oksana Ramsay has a formidable temper, when crossed—and she badly wanted a king for her daughter.”

  “If any king will do,” Sion said lightly, “the girl could be matched with Colman of Llannedd instead of a prince of Gwynedd. . . .”

  All eyes turned to Sion, who shrugged innocently and chuckled in his curly beard.

  “I fear that more than one princess has declined his offers of marriage, after the way he jilted the Princess Janniver. Fortunately, I serve his sister, not Colman himself—and I am heartily in favor of dynastic marriages that also allow for genuine fondness. No, let my lady Gwenlian marry her cousin Cuan, whom she loves, and let Noelie Ramsay marry her handsome Haldane prince—and let Kelson of Gwynedd simply marry, so that everyone else can get on with their lives!”

  And at Beldour, the Tralian galleys of Létald Hort of Orsal receded slowly downriver from the Torenthi capital, painted sails bellied by a fair wind conjured by Torenthi weather mages, bright banners aflutter in the rigging. Because Létald himself had returned by Portal to the Ile d’Orsal, where he remained to keep watch against the renegade Count Teymuraz, his son Prince Cyric now commanded the voyage home, with guidance available from Saer de Traherne and Sean Lord Derry, should he need it.

  The newly affirmed padishah had seen them off personally at quayside, accompanied by King Kelson’s new ambas
sador, the Deryni Bishop Arilan, and the uncle who was so much a topic of discussion by the Camberian Council later that morning, bidding a bittersweet farewell to Payne Haldane and Brendan Coris and Kelson’s squire Ivo, who had been the boon companions of his squireship in Gwynedd. Kelson’s contingent of Haldane lancers had lined the rails of Létald’s flagship in salute to Torenth as they pulled away from the quay, with Saer and Derry performing the official leave-taking on behalf of their absent king.

  Of that departing contingent, Derry alone was of interest to the veiled, dark-eyed woman who watched from a balcony of the tiered palace above the city, a cup of dark wine in her hand. A heavy finger-ring of iron adorned her other hand, match-mate to another worn by the departing man—though his had been plated with fine gold, to obscure appearance but not function, its outer surface incised with flowing Eastern motifs, and he believed it but a memento of his visit to the Torenthi capital. Calling on the link between those two rings, Morag of Torenth passed her own ring over the mouth of her cup, smiling as images took shape upon the dark surface of the wine.

  “Yes, indeed,” she whispered, seeing what Derry saw—and knowing she could hear what he heard, if she wished. “I thank you, my brother. Who would have thought they would fail to root out your magic? You have left me an exceedingly useful tool. I promise you that it—and he—shall serve Torenth well.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Come, and let us reason together.

  Isaiah 1:18