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A flash of royal blue to the left caught Kelson's eye as he rode, and he immediately identified it as his uncle, the Duke of Carthmoor.
As brother of the king and ranking peer in the realm, Prince Nigel was responsible in a major way for the training of some thirty young pages of the royal household. As usual, he had some of his charges in tow today, and as usual, he was engaged in one of his seemingly endless battles to teach them something useful. There were only six of them along on the hunt today, and Nigel's own three boys were elsewhere in . the entourage, but Kelson could see by Nigel's harried expression that these particular pages were not some of his brighter pupils.
Lord Jared, the McLain patriarch, was offering helpful advice from the sidelines, but the boys simply could not seem to get the hang of what it was Nigel wanted.
"No, no, no," Nigel was saying. "If you ever address an earl simply as 'Sir' in public, he'll have your head, and I won't blame him. And you must always remember that a bishop is 'Your Excellency.' Now, Jatham, how would you address a prince of the royal blood?**
Kelson smiled and nodded greeting as he rode on by. It was not so very long ago that he had been under the iron tutelage of the Royal Duke, his uncle, and he didn't envy the lads. A Haldane to the core, Nigel neither asked nor gave quarter, whether he was on the field of battle or training pages. But though the training was rigorous, and sometimes seemed over harsh, pages who came through Nigel's schooling made fine squires, and better knights. Kelson was glad to have Nigel on his side.
As Kelson approached, Brion broke off his conversation with Colin and Rogier and raised a hand in greeting. "What's happening up there, Son?"
"I think Lord Ewan about has things under control,
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Sire," Kelson replied. "I believe he's waiting for your signal now."
"That I am, young master!" Ewan's voice boomed, as he thundered up in Kelson's wake.
Ewan removed his cap of Lincoln green and swept it before him with a flourish. "Sire, the pack is ready. And this time, my master-of-hounds assures me that the scent is true." He replaced the cap on his thick red hair and tugged at the brim in emphasis. "It'd better be, or there'll be weeping and wailing in my household tonight!"
Brion laughed and leaned back in the saddle, slapped his thigh in mirth. "Ewan, it's only a hunt! And I want no weeping and wailing on my account. Let's go!" Still chuckling, he gathered his reins and began to move forward.
Ewan stood, in his stirrups and raised his arm, and the hunting horns reverberated across the meadow in reply. Far ahead, the hounds were already giving tongue hi clear, bell-like tones, and the riders began to move out.
Down the slope, through the rough, across the open fields in the clear once more, the hunt was off at the
gallop.
In the ensuing excitement of the chase, no one would notice when one rider at the rear dropped back and made his way to the edge of the forest. Indeed, he would not even be missed.
In the stillness of the forest, Yousef the Moor stood motionless at the edge of a small, dim clearing, his slim brown hands light and sure on the reins he held, the four horses quiet behind him.
All around, the leaves of an early autumn blazed with color, seared to gold and red and brown by the past week's frost, yet muted here by the play of shadow and darker gloom among the tree trunks.
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Here, beneath tall, dense trees, where sunlight rarely penetrated except in deepest winter, Yousefs black robes merged and blended with those shadows. Black eyes beneath black silk darted swiftly about the clearing, seeking, scanning, yet not really noting what they saw. For Yousef was not watching so much as he was listening. And waiting.
In the clearing itself, three others listened and waited. Two were Moors like Yousef, their dusky faces muffled under the hoods of black velvet jubbas, eyes dark, restless, ever-vigilant.
The taller of the two turned slightly to glance at Yousef across the clearing, then folded his arms across bis chest and turned back to repeatedly scan the opposite side. The movement parted the black velvet slightly, and the silver of a richly embossed baldric of command glinted briefly beneath the cloak. At his feet, on a cushion of grey velvet, sat the Lady Charissa, Duchess of Tolan, Lady of the Silver Mists—the Shadowed One.
Head bowed, heavily cloaked and veiled in silver-grey, the lady sat motionless on the pillow, a slight, pale figure shrouded in richest velvet and fur, delicate hands encased in jewelled doeskin gloves and folded primly in her lap. Beneath the grey silken veil, pale blue eyes opened abruptly, searched serenely across the clearing, noted with satisfaction the black-robed Yousef standing guard over the horses.
Without turning her head, she was able to discern the vague, dark shapes of the other two Moors standing behind and to either side of her. She raised her head and spoke, a low musical voice.
"He's coming, Mustafa."
There had been no warning, no rustling betrayal of dried leaves underfoot to announce any approach to the clearing, but the Moors would not have thought of questioning their Lady's word. A brown hand in a
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flowing black sleeve reached down from the right to help her to her feet. And he who had been to her left moved to a strategic position midway between his mistress and the horses, there to stand vigilant guard with his hand on the hilt of his sword.'
With a leisurely motion, Charissa brushed the leaves from her cloak, settled its silver-fox collar more comfortably around her neck. As the muffled crackling of underbrush finally announced the predicted caller, a faint breeze stirred the Lady's silken veil. One of You-sefs horses nickered softly, shuffled its feet, was quickly silenced by the tall Moor.
The rider entered the clearing and drew rein, and the Moors dropped their protective stance. The rider on the sorrel stallion was well-known to them.
The newcomer, too, wore a cape of grey. But it flashed a lining of deepest golden-yellow as he dropped his hood and swung the cloak to the horse's near side. Beneath, a jewelled tunic of grey and gold glittered coldly as he smoothed a windblown lock of chestnut hair with one grey-gloved hand.
Tall, slim, almost ascetic of face and feature, Lord lan Howell viewed the world through a pair of eyes even deeper brown than his hair. A meticulously-tended beard and moustache framed a rather thin mouth, accentuated the high cheekbones, the slight cant of the round eyes—eyes which outshone the dark jewels that glittered coldly at his throat and ears.
Those eyes darted briefly over the Moor who reached up for his horse's bridle, then came casually to rest on the grey-shrouded form of the woman.
"You're late, lan," the woman said. There was challenge in her voice, as well as statement of fact, and she met his gaze aloofly through the heavy veil. When lan made no further move to dismount, she reached slowly to her veil, raised the front, let it cascade back over
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the pale, coiled hair. Her gaze sharpened, but she said nothing more.
lan smiled lazily, dismounted with a flourish, crossed lightly to Charissa. He nodded curtly to Mus-tafa standing slightly behind her, then swirled his cloak around himself in a sweeping bow.
"Well?" Charissa acknowledged.
"No trouble at all, my dear," lan replied silkily. "The king drank the wine, Colin suspects nothing, and the hunt is now on the false scent. They should be here within the hour."
"Excellent. And Prince Kelson?"
"Oh, he's safe enough," the young lord replied, tugging on the cuff of one grey glove with a studied nonchalance. "But it does seem like a great deal of bother to spare Kelson today simply so he can be killed later. It's not at all like you, Charissa—to show mercy to your enemies." Brown eyes met blue ones, slightly mocking.
"Mercy?" Charissa repeated, measuring the challenge.
She broke eye contact and began strolling casually across the clearing. la
n followed.
"Don't worry, lan," she continued. "I have plans for our young prince. But I can't lure Morgan to his death without the proper bait, now, can I? And why do you think I've been so carefully planting those rumors for the past months?"
"I'd assumed it was an exercise in malice—not that you need the practice," lan retorted.
They had reached the edge of the clearing, and lan stopped in front of her, leaned lazily against a tree trunk, arms folded across his chest. "Of course, Morgan—-h& does present a special challenge, doesn't he, my pet? Alaric Anthony Morgan. Duke of Corwyn, Lord General of His Majesty's armies—and a half-breed Deryni who is accepted among humans, or was
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accepted. I sometimes think that bothers you most of all."
"Tread softly, Tan," she warned.
"Oh, I beg your Ladyship's pardon!" he demurred, raising a hand in feigned conciliation. "There is a slight matter of a murder, too, isn't there? Or was it an execution? I tend to forget."
"That is one thing you would do well not to forget, lan," Charissa replied icily. "Morgan killed my father fifteen years ago, as you well know. We were both. hardly more than children then—he but fourteen, I a few years younger—but I can never forgive what he did."
Her voice dropped an octave, hushed to a harsh whisper as she remembered. "He betrayed his Deryni blood and allied himself with Brion instead of us, defied the Camberian Council to side with a mortal. I watched them slay my father Marluk and strip him of his powers. And it was Morgan, with his Deryni cunning, who showed Brion the way. Never forget that, lan."
lan shrugged noncommittally. "Don't worry, my pet I have my own reasons for wanting Morgan dead, remember? The Duchy of Corwyn borders my East-march. I merely wonder how long you intend to let Morgan live."
"He has a few weeks at best,*' Charissa stated. "And I intend to see that he suffers in the time remaining. Today, Brion will die by Deryni magic, and Morgan will know that it was I. That, in itself, will hurt Morgan more than any other single thing I could do. And then I'll proceed to destroy the others he holds dear." "And Prince Kelson?" lan queried. "Don't be greedy, lan," she answered, smiling with vicious anticipation. "You shall have your precious Corwyn, all in due time. And I shall rule Gwynedd as my ancestors did. You'll see."
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She turned on her heel and crossed the clearing, gestured imperiously to Mustafa, who pulled aside the dense foliage to disclose a break in the underbrush. Beyond and down a gentle slope stretched a wide green meadow, still damp and silent in the weak, late-morning sun.
After a pause, Jan joined Charissa and peered briefly through the hole, then put his arm lightly around her shoulders.
*'I must confess, I rather like your little plan, my pet," he murmured. "The deviousness of your lovely mind never fails to intrigue me." He glanced down at her thoughtfully through long, dark lashes. "Are you certain no one besides Morgan will suspect, though? I mean, suppose Brion should detect you?"
Charissa smiled complacently and leaned back against his chest. "You worry too much, lan," she cooed. "With his mind muddled by the merasha in the wine, Brion will feel nothing until my hand clutches at his heart—and then it will be far too late. As for Colin, merasha can't affect him unless he has Deryni blood somewhere in his background. And even if he has, he's safe as long as you keep him away from Brion when the time comes."
"Colin will be well out of range; you can depend on that," lan replied. He idly plucked a stray wisp of grass from her cloak and twirled it between gloved fingers as he continued. "Fve been cultivating this particular young nobleman for weeks. And if I do say so myself, he's quite flattered to have come to the favor of yours truly, the Earl of Eastmarch."
Charissa pulled away from him in irritation. "lan, you begin to bore me. If you insist upon being so pompous, I suggest you return to the company of your royal playmates. The air there is much better suited to the self-praise and stuffy exchange of platitudes you seem to enjoy so much!"
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lan said nothing, but he raised one slim eyebrow as he crossed to his horse and began adjusting the off stirrup. When he had completed the task to his satisfaction, he flicked his glance across the saddle at Char-
issa.
"Shall I convey your compliments to His Majesty?" he asked, a wry grin pulling at the corners of his
mouth.
Charissa smiled slowly, then crossed toward him. lan came around to the near side, and-Charissa took the horse's reins, nodding dismissal to the Moor who had been attending.
"Well?" lan murmured, as the Moor bowed and
backed off.
"I think you need not greet Brion for me this time," she murmured coyly. She ran a gloved hand down the sorrel's neck, adjusted a wayward tassel on the intricate bridle. "You'd best go now. The hunt will be approaching soon."
"I hear and obey, My Lady," lan said cheerfully,
swinging up into the saddle.
He gathered up his reins and looked down at her, then held out his left hand. Wordlessly, Charissa put her gloved hand in his, and he bent to touch his lips to the soft leather.
"Good hunting, My Lady!" he said.
He squeezed her hand lightly and released it, then moved his horse into the underbrush, crashing back the way he had come.
The Shadowed One watched with narrowed eyes until he had disappeared from view, then returned to her silent meadow vigil.
Rejoining the hunt, lan gradually began working his way toward the royal party. They were cantering easily through lightly wooded terrain now, and he could see the meadow not far ahead. With a perfunctory glance
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at his stirrup, he urged his mount closer to Colin and raised a gloved hand in greeting.
"Lord lan," Colin acknowledged, as lan drew alongside. "Good riding at the rear of the pack?"
lan flashed a disarming smile at the youth. "Unbelievable, my friend."
He shifted his weight slightly, and there was the resounding pop of leather parting as the right stirrup gave way.
"Damn!" he swore explosively, as he caught his balance. "That just about finishes the hunt for me!"
He pulled up slowly to let the hunt ride on by, bent to retrieve the stirrup still hooked on the toe of his boot, smiled approval as Colin reined in and returned to join him. When all the riders had passed, he dismounted to inspect the saddle, and Colin watched with concern.
"I told that pig of a groom to replace this leather three days ago," lan fretted, fingering the broken strap. "I'don't suppose you have a spare, Colin?"
"I might," Colin said, as he dismounted.
As Colin rummaged through his saddlebags, lan gazed furtively across the meadow. The timing had been perfect. Even now, the pack was pulling up in the center of the meadow, the scent lost again.
Any second now ...
The whippers-in were trying valiantly to bring the hounds under control, and Brion slapped his riding crop against his boot in mild vexation.
"Ewan, your pups have done it again," he said, peering ahead. "Kelson, ride up ahead and try to see what's happened, will you? They can't have lost the scent in the middle of an open field. Ewan, you stay."
As Kelson rode off, Ewan stood in his stirrups to get a better look, then sat back muttering. In the midst of all the milling hounds and riders, it was impossible to
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distinguish anything at this distance, and the fiery old warrior was obviously on the verge of a tirade.
"The blasted beasties've gone mad!" he growled. "Just wait till I get my hands on—"
"Now, Ewan, don't get overwrought," Brion interjected smoothly. "We obviously just aren't destined to —oh!"
Brion suddenly broke off in mid-sentence and froze, his grey eyes going wide with fear. "Oh, my God!" he whispered, his eyes closing as he doubled up with pain. Riding crop and r
eins dropped from numb fingers as he clutched at his chest and slumped forward hi the saddle, stifling a moan. "Sire!" Ewan cried.
As Brion toppled and slid from the saddle, Ewan and Rogier grabbed simultaneously for his arms and somehow managed to ease him to the ground between them. Others nearby dismounted and rushed to his aid. And Prince Nigel appeared from somewhere to wordlessly cradle his stricken brother's head in his lap.
As Rogier and Ewan knelt anxiously on his left, Brion was wracked by yet another wave of blinding pain, and he called out weakly, "Kelson!"
Far ahead with the hounds, Kelson saw rather than heard the commotion back at the center of the hunt and returned at the gallop, certain only that something was seriously wrong. But when he reached the group gathered noisily around the king, saw his father sprawled on the ground in agony, he jerked his horse to a sliding halt on the slick grass, flung himself from the saddle to push his way through the onlookers.
Brion's breathing was labored, his teeth clenched tightly against the searing pain which came now at every heartbeat. His eyes darted back and forth feverishly, trying to locate his son. And he was concertedly ignoring all efforts of Ewan, or Rogier, or the Bishop Arilan to comfort him.
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All he could see was Kelson as the boy dropped to his knees at his father's right. And he gasped and clutched for Kelson's hand as another wave of pain engulfed him.
"So soon!'* he managed to whisper, his hand almost crushing Kelson's in the intensity of its grip. "Kelson, remember what you promised. Remem ..."
His hand went limp in Kelson's and the eyes half closed. The pain-wracked body relaxed.
As Nigel and Ewan searched frantically for a pulse, some sign of life, Kelson watched in stunned disbelief. But no reassuring sign came. And with a muffled sob, Kelson collapsed to rest his forehead against his sire's hand.
Beside him, Bishop Arilan crossed himself and began reciting the Office for the Dead, his voice low and steady in the terrible stillness. All around, Brion's lords and vassals dropped to their knees, one by one, to echo the bishop.
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