The King's Deryni

by Katherine Kurtz

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “Thank you, Master Paget. I look forward to following your career.”

  Paget adjusted the wreath as he rejoined the other pages, grinning as he turned the cup in his hands. Alaric started to head back to Llion as the rest of the pages began to disperse, but at the sound of the king clearing his throat, all of them stopped and turned.

  “Did I give anyone permission to retire?” Brion asked sternly.

  A dozen pairs of eyes darted back to the king, and several boys murmured, “No, Sire.”

  “I didn’t think I had. Alaric Morgan, come back up here, please. And young Duncan McLain, as well. And Earl Jared, where are you? And Earl Kenneth.”

  Wide-eyed, Alaric went forward, bowed, and looked around bewilderedly as his father, Duncan, and Jared joined him. Brion was conferring with one of his aides as they did so, and turned back to them with something in his hand.

  “Alaric, I said that you were disqualified from the official pages’ competition,” Brion said, “but your performance certainly merits recognition.” He crouched down to beckon both boys closer. “Let me see those ten rings.”

  Dutifully, Alaric held out his arm and watched while Brion counted.

  “Good Lord, there really are ten. And Duncan, how many have you got? You’re even younger than Alaric, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, Sire,” Duncan whispered, showing the king seven rings.

  “How old are you?”

  “Seven, Sire. And a half.”

  “And you took seven rings? I think there were only four or five others who did that well, and everyone except Alaric is much older than you are. Both of you did very well.” He put a silver coin in Duncan’s hand and a gold one in Alaric’s. “Thank you, gentlemen. I look forward to the day when you wear my livery. Jared, Kenneth,” he got to his feet and nodded to both men, “well done.”

  Kenneth gestured toward Llion, standing farther back in the assembly. “Sir Llion Farquahar deserves most of the credit, Sire. He is responsible for much of the day-to-day drill for these lads.”

  Brion nodded toward Llion. “I do beg your pardon, Sir Llion. My thanks to you as well. Well done.”

  Llion bowed to acknowledge the compliment, and the king signaled that the fathers and sons might withdraw.

  “We’ll have the squires up here next,” Duke Richard said, as the pages retreated and the squires began to assemble, Kevin among them. “Rather than rings, they jousted at the quintain, and a few of them managed stay mounted and hit the shield—which is no mean feat when trying to avoid the swing of the sandbag. A few even splintered lances.” He winked at his nephew, his good humor apparently restored. “Some of them did very well, my prince. In a few years, I have no doubt that some of them will have earned the accolade.”

  “I certainly should hope so,” Brion said with a snort.

  Chapter 5

  “That thou mayst walk in the way of good men, and keep the paths of the righteous.”

  —PROVERBS 2:20

  THE feast that night in the great hall was less in the nature of a further celebration than it was a hearty meal to replenish weary warriors after the exertions of the day, which had been hot and tiring. A contented if somewhat bruised King Brion presided informally from the high table, surrounded by members of his family and his dukes and earls, including Kenneth and Jared. He had also invited King Illann and Prince Ronan to sit at the king’s table.

  Also seated with the two earls were Jared’s son Kevin, who had done well in the squires’ competitions, and half a dozen knights of their combined households, including Sir Llion and his counterpart for Earl Jared’s household, Sir Tesselin of Harkness, who looked after Kevin and Duncan.

  Women were few in the hall, for the knights attending from outside the city mostly had not brought along their wives or daughters, but one end of the high table was graced by the presence of the Dowager Queen Richeldis and her two daughters. In addition, Richeldis’s brother Illann, for some years a widower, had finally decided to remarry, and had brought along his future queen to meet his sister and her family, though she had declined to attend the knighting ceremony or the afternoon’s tournament. The Countess Amielle sat demurely with the other royal ladies, rather than her intended, but she was a sultry, voluptuous beauty much younger than Illann, with dark eyes and masses of titian hair caught up in a netting of slender gold cords. While her manner in no way invited inappropriate attention, she had managed to turn the heads of not a few young and not so young men of the court. Kenneth had met the lady the day before, when the visitors arrived, but had found himself comparing her to his late wife.

  “I think I am quite content to remain a dour old widower,” he said to Jared, as he took his place at table with him and their other knights. “However, there is no doubt that she will considerably adorn Illann’s court.”

  “Not my type,” Jared said flatly. “What about you, Llion?”

  Llion shook his head, slightly amused. “I think she may be trouble for Illann, once she is entrenched at Pwyllheli, my lord.”

  “You think so?” Jared cast a glance over his shoulder at the royal ladies, then back at his companions. “You may be right. We shall hope not.”

  They settled into their places as servers brought out the first course. Alaric and Duncan served their fathers at the beginning of the meal, bringing basins and ewers and towels for hand washing; but then, by virtue of their impressive performances in the afternoon’s ring jousting, they were allowed to take places at table and share in the meal. Wide-eyed and famished, they stuffed themselves on roasted beef, capon, stewed onions, and fresh-baked bread, along with well-watered ale, but after less than an hour both boys were visibly drooping. Duncan nearly nodded off into his trencher, saved only by a sharp kick from his elder brother, and Alaric was finding it ever more difficult to keep his eyes open. Their plight soon came to the notice of the adults.

  “Tesselin, why don’t you and Llion take the boys up to bed?” Jared said after a speaking glance at Kenneth, gesturing with his cup of ale. “Yes, Kevin, you may stay awhile longer,” he added, at his elder son’s obvious objection.

  “I’ll take them,” Llion said, rising. “I confess I’m tired myself, and Tesselin looks like he’s enjoying himself. Let’s go, lads.”

  Neither of the younger boys put up any serious resistance, despite the unprecedented novelty of being allowed to eat with the grown-ups. By the time they had paid their respects to the king, Duncan was all but asleep on his feet, and Alaric’s yawns were becoming more and more difficult to suppress.

  With Llion bringing up the rear, the two boys trudged up the turnpike stair and down several torch-lit corridors, going first to the quarters being shared by Earl Jared and his two sons. There Llion helped the younger of those sons strip off his belt and tunic and crawl into the big canopied bed—asleep as soon as his head settled into the pillow. Llion smiled as he paused to pull off the boy’s boots and tuck a McLain plaid around him. Then he and Alaric made their way to the modest suite always reserved for Earl Kenneth and his immediate party when they were in residence at the capital.

  Alaric paused just long enough to wash his face and hands, letting Llion pull off his boots and outer garments while he blearily checked in his belt pouch for the gold coin he had won at the tournament that afternoon. Then he crawled happily into the bed his father would later share with him. As he drifted off to sleep, he was briefly aware of Llion gathering up his discarded clothes and unrolling the pallet where he customarily slept at the foot of the bed.

  • • •

  SOME little while later—he could not have said how much later—Alaric became abruptly aware that something vital in the room had changed. His eyes popped open to faint moonlight and awareness of an unmoving, black-clad form sitting right on the edge of the bed beside him—not Llion or his father or, indeed, anyone in his father�
�s household! His stunned first impression of a high-collared black robe suggested a priest, of which very few bore much goodwill toward a half-Deryni child.

  Jolted fully awake between one heartbeat and the next, Alaric flung himself toward the far edge of the bed, scrambling for safety, and groped for the dagger that should have been beneath his pillow but wasn’t. Frantic, he twisted to escape the hand that clamped onto the neck of his shirt and dragged him back, both his small hands locking around the powerful wrist. But even as he drew breath to scream for help—Where was Llion?—golden luminance flared around the man’s head, far brighter than any moonlight, and he found himself ensorcelled in the gaze of a pair of jewel-bright blue eyes.

  “Do not cry out,” the man said softly, though the gentle tone belied the compulsion in that simple command. “Relax.”

  Despite his best efforts to the contrary, Alaric could feel his indrawn breath softly leaving his lungs, his body going limp, resistance draining away like water through a sieve.

  “Good lad!” came the whispered response, as a faint smile parted the close-clipped beard and mustache and the man’s free hand reached out to briefly brush his brow, the Deryni aura dying away. “You’re quite safe. We have actually met before, but you were only a baby then. At your baptism, your parents laid you in my arms before God and bade me serve as one of your godparents. ’Tis a vow I take most seriously.”

  Alaric stared at the man, mouth agape, trying to take it all in, but he knew, without knowing how he knew, that the man’s revelation had put to rest any remaining alarm, along with the last of his resistance. As he drew a deep, deliberate breath to marshal his wits, letting it out slowly as his mother had taught him, he opened his hands around the man’s wrist and drew them apart in an exaggerated gesture of yielding. The man, in turn, released his handful of shirt, nodding as he briefly smoothed the crumpled linen.

  “I apologize for the somewhat unconventional introduction,” his visitor murmured, sitting back and reaching behind him briefly. “I would have approached through your father, but this seemed more expeditious. And earlier this afternoon, I was somewhat occupied. This is yours, I think,” he added, and produced the dagger Alaric had been looking for, offering it hilt first across his forearm.

  “Who are you?” Alaric whispered, as he accepted the dagger and laid it aside. “It was you who fought the king this afternoon, wasn’t it? And where is my knight?” he added, suddenly remembering Llion. “Does Sir Llion know you’re here?”

  The man smiled faintly and nodded. “Excellent. A duke should always have concern for his men. Your Sir Llion is keeping watch in the other room. He has been instructed not to speak of me, so do not ask, for he may not answer. And yes, it was I who fought the king this afternoon.”

  Alaric’s eyes widened at the implication, for the man clearly was Deryni—he could sense the man’s shields, now that he was fully awake—but curiosity was fast replacing whatever fear was left. Something about his Deryni visitor seemed oddly reassuring, almost . . . familiar. . . .

  “You said you’re my godfather,” he said softly. “But, who are you?”

  “You are to be the king’s protector; I am your protector,” the man said, lifting both hands to show the inner wrists, and the ink-black crosses tattooed there, each hardly bigger than a man’s thumbprint. “My name is Sir Sé Trelawney. Perhaps your mother told you what these mean.”

  All at once Alaric remembered a sunny afternoon in that long-ago last autumn before his mother died, watching her bent over the illuminated capital she was just finishing: the opening page of a book she had penned for his father, of poetry written by his sister Delphine—what had been their last Christmas gift for him. Alyce de Corwyn had looked up and smiled as her firstborn came into the room, laying aside her brush and beckoning for him to come and sit beside her on the padded bench, for she was heavily pregnant with his sister Bronwyn.

  Embracing him briefly, she had smoothed his hair and kissed him on the forehead, then bade him watch while she took up pen and a scrap of parchment and inked a tiny, equal-armed cross, exactly like the ones on the insides of both Sir Sé’s wrists.

  Men who bear these marks are vowed Knights of the Anvil, she had told him, sworn before God to serve the Light. There is one such man—his name is Sir Sé Trelawney—whom you may trust with your life and your very soul, if he offers you assistance.

  “You’re a—a Knight of the Anvil,” Alaric whispered. “Mama said that I can trust you.”

  “Indeed, you can,” Sé replied, smiling faintly as he lowered his hands and briefly glanced away: an angle that enabled Alaric to glimpse the dark, silver-threaded hair sleeked back in a braided warrior’s knot. “She was a remarkable woman, your mother—like a sister to me. We grew up together—she and your Aunt Marie and your Uncle Ahern, who both sadly died before you were born—and your Uncle Jovett Chandos and I. After Marie died, I—went away. But I promised your mother that I should always be there when she had need. When she died untimely, I made your father the same promise—and I make it to you, now: that so long as I have breath within me, I shall always be there for you, when you have need.”

  “Is that why you’ve come?” Alaric managed to whisper, unable to look away.

  “In part.” Sé gave him an inclination of his head. “I came to see the king knighted—but I also watched you ride,” he added, smiling at the boy’s hopeful look. “You did very well.”

  “I didn’t see you,” Alaric retorted, almost challenging.

  Sé chuckled. “That is because I did not wish to be seen,” he said lightly. “And in time, it may be that you shall acquire the same skill.

  “But other skills must come first. I have come to see whether some of those other skills perhaps can be awakened, to help you protect yourself while you take the time needed to grow up. This asks a great deal of you, I know. You do not yet have the years to learn all that you should know—and I do not know how much your mother was able to teach you before she passed. But you will be coming to the king’s court in another year or two, away from your father’s protection. There will be those who will try to kill you before you can grow into the role intended for you.”

  Alaric shivered a little, for he knew full well who some of those were, who would prefer to see him dead, but no one had ever phrased it quite that way before—that people would try to kill him.

  “What must I do?” he whispered.

  “For now, simply allow me access to your mind,” Sé said softly. At the same time, Alaric felt a gentle probing at his shields, quickly withdrawn.

  “Good, you do have shields,” Sé went on. “Quite good ones, actually. Fortunately, most of your enemies do not, for they are human—and Deryni enemies should be few, at least for now. But the strength of your shields means it is likely that you also have an awakening of at least the beginnings of other skills. To know for certain—and to begin teaching you how to use them—I must slip past those shields and probe deeper. And to do that without hurting you, I must have your help, and your complete trust.”

  Wide-eyed, Alaric took a deep breath, then reached out to take Sé’s right hand, keeping his gaze fixed on Sé’s as he brought the Anviler’s hand up to touch his forehead—for that was how his mother had always begun their teaching sessions.

  “Do what you need to do,” he whispered, closing his eyes.

  • • •

  MEANWHILE, in the castle hall, the ladies and the king’s uncles had retired for the night and many of the king’s guests were beginning to take their leave, for the hour grew late. Nonetheless, at the king’s invitation, most of the new knights created that day had joined him and Jamyl and Prince Ronan at the high table to drink increasingly exuberant toasts. Kenneth and Jared were part of the company, and had been finishing last cups of wine and thinking about leaving the younger men to more serious drinking when Kenneth saw the travel-worn man in Cassani livery paused in t
he doorway of the hall, scanning faces as he removed his cap. One look at the messenger’s expression told Kenneth that the news was not good.

  “Jared,” he murmured, setting a hand on his cousin’s arm and glancing pointedly in the direction of the doorway, “one of your father’s men has just arrived—and on urgent business, by the look of him.”

  Even as Jared and the king swiveled to look, Jared coming to his feet, the man spotted them and started in their direction, breaking into a trot to traverse the length of the hall.

  “Is it my father?” Jared demanded, as the man reached them and bowed over the cap he clutched to his breast, first to the king and then to Jared.

  “Aye, my lord—but he was yet alive when I left him three days ago,” the man added hopefully, though his lips tightened as he glanced at his dusty boots and twisted at the dusty cap. “But he took a turn the day before that. He cannot speak or move on his right side. Your lady wife bids you return as soon as you may, for the surgeon does not think he will long endure in this state. I fear it is the end, my lord. I’m very sorry. He is a good man.”

  Jared’s face had gone very still as the man spoke, but he clasped the man’s shoulder distractedly as he turned to the king.

  “I must return to Cassan at once, Sire,” he murmured.

  “Of course you must.”

  “Prince Ronan, please make my apologies to your father and all his party.”

  “I shall,” Ronan agreed, “and I daresay he will understand.”

  “Kenneth, will you ride with me?” Jared went on, already edging back toward his men, who also had risen with their lord. “Sybaud, choose four men to ride with us. Kevin must come as well—and perhaps Llion and the rest of the household knights could accompany Tesselin with the younger boys,” he added to Kenneth. “Will you bring Xander and Trevor?”

  “Of course.” Kenneth’s nod to the pair set them on their feet. “I must speak to Llion as well. We’ll assemble in the stable yard in half an hour.”