Steeling himself, Llion let out a deep breath, only flinching a little as the boy’s fingertips touched his forehead and then lay flat.
“Just close your eyes and try to relax,” Alaric whispered. “Take a deep breath and let it out. Again.”
Llion did his best to comply, stiff at first, but then relaxing under the boy’s touch and drawing a third slow breath, then a fourth.
“That’s good. Be aware of the pain now, and concentrate through it, feel it begin to recede. Try not to pay any attention to it. With each breath that you take, the pain becomes less and less, until it’s only a faint, dull ache, to remind you not to overdo with that shoulder until it heals. Now, take one last breath and open your eyes.”
Alaric withdrew his hands as Llion exhaled in a prolonged sigh and slowly opened his eyes. The young knight cautiously flexed his injured shoulder as he turned a disbelieving gaze on his charge.
“How did you do that?” he breathed, as he continued to flex the shoulder and rubbed at it distractedly.
“I have no idea,” the boy replied. “It’s just something that I can do.”
“Do you know how long it will last?”
“I couldn’t tell you.”
Nodding, still rubbing absently at his shoulder, Llion got up from his log and reached for the horses’ reins, knotted to one of the protruding branches.
“We won’t tell anyone about this, all right?”
“They’d just be afraid, wouldn’t they?” Alaric replied.
“They would, indeed.”
The boy sighed. “Some gift, when you can’t even use it,” he muttered.
“I didn’t say you mustn’t use it,” Llion said quietly, abandoning his wounded shoulder to boost Alaric into Cockleburr’s saddle. “But you must be very careful when you do use it, and don’t let yourself be seen using it. It’s going to be hard enough to get you safely grown, without having to fend off people trying to get you burned at the stake.”
• • •
IN the end, they lingered at Morganhall for nearly three weeks, for Kenneth was loath to leave his sisters, with Claara’s health still so frail, but Trevor rightly pointed out that the end of summer was fast approaching, the first of the harvests being brought in, and Kenneth had still to make his yearly visits to Lendour and Corwyn.
The morning of their departure, after they had heard Mass and broken their fast, Kenneth bade farewell to his sister Claara and her granddaughter, hoisted Bronwyn onto his shoulders, and headed down to the yard with Delphine. Alaric was waiting with Llion and the rest of their party, who were already mounted. Xander and Trevor would be going with them, but Froilán was to remain at Morganhall for the nonce, along with two nursing sisters sent up from Arc-en-Ciel by his daughter Alazais, who was considering a vocation. In addition, four of Kenneth’s men-at-arms, left behind at Rhemuth in June, had ridden up to be their escort on the road to Lendour and Coroth.
“Good, are we ready, then?” Kenneth asked, surveying the party.
“Not quite,” Delphine said, pausing on the steps of the hall to take his arm. “I have a parting gift for you, brother. Alaric, would you join us?”
As Alaric did so, Delphine handed Kenneth a red velvet pouch with drawstrings, closing his hand around it.
“What’s this?” he said, glancing at the others.
“Something I’ve been working on for several months,” she replied. “Perhaps Bronwyn would like to open it for you.”
Grinning broadly, Bronwyn leaned down from her father’s shoulders with hand outstretched and took the bag, immediately attacking the drawstrings that closed it. What emerged, dangling from a long, braided cord of silk, was the silver locket Delphine had showed to Alaric. As Bronwyn dangled it before her father’s eyes, he reached up and cupped it in his hand, looking uncertain.
“Wasn’t this our mother’s locket?” he asked, looking puzzled.
“It was,” said Delphine. “Open it.”
As Bronwyn leaned over his shoulder, both arms around his neck, and Alaric watched eagerly, Kenneth pried at the filigree cover with a thumbnail—and gaped in wonder at the tiny portrait gazing back at him.
“Alyce!” he breathed. “Delphine, it’s beautiful!”
“There’s more,” she said, smiling. “Open the locket.”
He did, and his expression softened. Struck wordless, he pulled his sister into his embrace and held her tight for a long moment, until Bronwyn squirmed and protested.
“Papa, you’re squashing my feet.”
This practical complaint somewhat broke the spell, so that Kenneth laughed and swung her down to the ground, kissing the top of her head and then pulling Alaric into an embrace as well.
“You’re getting big for hugs,” he whispered fiercely, “but I know you had a hand in this, or at least the keeping of the secret.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“I’m so glad you like it,” Delphine said, obviously pleased. “I thought you would appreciate having at least some of your family with you when you are off and about in the king’s service. It probably would be a good idea to keep it in its pouch when you’re not wearing it.”
“Delphine, this is amazing. My wife, my children, our mother’s locket, and your incredible artistry, all in one package. Thank you. I shall treasure it always,” Kenneth said. He closed up the locket and slipped it back into its pouch, then tucked that into the front of his tunic.
“Right, then, we’d best be off. Be sure that I shall show it to Zoë, and convey your greetings—and Claara’s. Take care of our little sister, Delphine.”
“I shall, dear brother.”
He hugged her tight again, gave Bronwyn another hug and a kiss, then turned away to give Alaric a leg up and then mount up himself.
• • •
THEY spent the last week in August traveling to Lendour. Riding out of Morganhall, they headed south and east across the fertile plain of Candor Rhea until they reached the Molling Valley, then turned east. With harvest in full swing, there was much for Alaric to see as they rode, and he relished the company of the adults.
The road east along the river was a good one, and they made excellent time, though they bypassed Mollingford itself and made a wide detour around the village of Hallowdale. On a previous venture along this road, returning from Zoë’s wedding in Cynfyn, Kenneth, Alaric, and the three knights riding with them, along with Alyce, had witnessed the aftermath of a Deryni burning in Hallowdale’s village square: a horrific sight that none of them would ever forget.
It was the sight of smoke that caused their detour this time, trailing upward from the distant village; but this time, at least, when Kenneth sent Xander on ahead to learn its cause, it proved to be only the smoke of burning stubble, though Kenneth still fancied he could detect a whiff of burning flesh on the summer air. (If he could have had his way four years before, the village would have been razed and the soil sown with salt to purify it.) They made camp under the stars that night, where Kenneth slept only fitfully. Alaric sought comfort curled close against his father.
But another day’s travel took them back along the river road and onto the plain that lay before Lendour and the mountain fastness of Castle Cynfyn, where outriders from the Lendour capital met them the following afternoon, for Kenneth had sent word ahead that they were coming.
A proper welcoming party was waiting for them the next morning as they approached the castle itself: the castle’s seneschal, Sir Deinol Hartmann, and Kenneth’s son-in-law, Sir Jovett Chandos, with his father, Sir Pedur. Perched on the saddlebow before Sir Pedur was the grandson adored by both men: Kailan Peter Chandos, Zoë’s eldest child, who was nearly four.
“Welcome, Kenneth, Master Alaric,” Sir Pedur called with a grin, as Kenneth and his party approached. “Shall I give you a grandson to ride with you?”
For answer, Kenneth spurred on ahead to
take Kailan from his other grandfather’s arms and hug him close, to the boy’s delight. Alaric, too, was grinning as he joined his father and fell in beside him as they continued on into the town and through the castle gates. He liked Kailan, who was only a few months younger than his sister Bronwyn.
But it was Zoë herself whom Kenneth most longed to see: darling Zoë, eldest daughter of his first marriage and heart-sister to Alyce, the love of his second marriage, who was waiting for him on the steps to the castle hall with her own daughter in her arms: Alyce Maria, born but a few months before. Beside her, Jovett’s beaming mother held both hands of a sturdy toddler with a shock of coppery curls like Kailan’s: Charlan Pedur, Kenneth’s second grandchild. Kenneth was grinning as he handed Kailan off to a waiting squire and sprang off his horse to mount the steps and enfold grandson, daughter, and granddaughter in his embrace.
“Darling Zoë, she’s beautiful!” he exclaimed, after he had saluted each of them with a kiss and stroked the downy hair on the baby’s head. “And she is, indeed, worthy of her name.” He turned to pump Jovett’s hand as the infant’s father came up the steps behind him with Alaric and Llion. “Jovett, you make beautiful daughters as well as handsome sons!”
“’Tis most pleasant work, I assure you, my lord,” Jovett replied happily. “Come inside and refresh yourselves—all of you,” he added, with a sweep of his arm toward Xander and Trevor and the rest of Kenneth’s party, who were dismounting in the yard behind them. “The cooks have been busy for several days, preparing for your welcome. For a while, we feared we should not see you this season.”
“Aye, we feared it, too,” Kenneth replied, as he moved into the hall amid happy members of his family. “But Duke Andrew’s passing is now resolved, and Claara’s condition appears to have stabilized. As I said in my letter, however, Delphine will need assistance at Morganhall. Have you sent anyone yet?”
“Not yet,” Jovett replied, “but several men are considering whether they would like to make the move, along with their wives. Once we knew you were coming, it seemed best to hold off on making any permanent decisions.”
“That’s fine, then. We’re well in hand,” Kenneth replied.
They stayed at Cynfyn for a fortnight, while he shared the events of the past several months with his daughter and her family and set about deciding who could be spared to go to Morganhall. In the end, he recruited several semi-retired Lendour knights to join the Morganhall household, one of whom had administrative skills as well as arms acumen; and their wives would be welcome companionship for his sisters, as well as additional help with the domestic arrangements of the household. Once that was resolved, he settled into the more tedious process of inspecting the accounts at Cynfyn and attending to other necessary business of the earldom.
Alaric, meanwhile, enjoyed renewing his relationship with Zoë and becoming better acquainted with her two boys, who were technically his nephews, since Zoë was his half-sister. As for the new baby, he had no idea how to deal with her, for his interaction with Bronwyn during her infancy had been quite limited.
“Auntie Zoë, would it be all right if I called them my cousins?” he asked her one evening, after the two of them had seen the younger boys off to bed. “I don’t think I’m old enough to be an uncle.”
“Of course you can, darling,” she said with a laugh and a hug. “Your mother and I always regarded ourselves as sisters, but the true relationship is a little complicated. And I’m sure that Kailan and Charlan will be much happier having you for a cousin—and little Alyce, when she’s old enough to know what that means.”
Alaric glanced at his feet, suddenly gone shy. “You named her for my mother, didn’t you?” The question was more like a statement, and Zoë nodded.
“I did, love. I loved her very much. Do you mind sharing her name with my daughter?”
The boy looked up in surprise. “Of course not.”
“I’m so glad,” Zoë whispered, and hugged him close again.
Despite their short stay at Cynfyn, Alaric was kept busy. Aside from interacting with his “cousins,” and sharing some of their lessons, he continued his weapons training with Llion, sometimes under the eagle eye of Jovett and Sir Deinol. More important, he was at his father’s side when, the day before they were to depart for Coroth, Kenneth convened a formal earl’s court to continue his son’s exposure to the people who, one day, would become his vassals.
“He’s turning into a fine young man,” Sir Deinol remarked later that night, when the children had gone to bed and Kenneth had opened several bottles of R’Kassan red to share with the men charged with the daily running of the Lendour estates. Llion, to give them privacy, had gone to see to final arrangements for their departure in the morning.
“I see shades of his uncle, Lord Ahern, in some of his determination and focus,” Deinol went on. “He’s quite the horseman for a boy his age.”
Jovett snorted. “He is quite the horseman for a lad twice his age. Ahern would have been proud.” He sighed. “I still miss him.”
“So do we all,” Kenneth said quietly, trying to put from mind the young earl’s untimely death, after overcoming injuries that would have defeated a lesser man. “But what he accomplished was possible, at least in part, due to the encouragement and devotion that all of you gave him. If my son is truly cast in Ahern’s mold, it’s that same encouragement and devotion that will help enable him to reach his own potential.”
Jovett gave a shrug, as if to dismiss the compliment, and Deinol looked slightly self-conscious, but Kenneth continued.
“Do not minimize your parts in this, gentlemen. I am well aware what a trial it has been, for Lendour and for Corwyn to have a succession of minor heirs. If we can keep him alive long enough to enter into his manhood, I have no doubt that Alaric will become an earl and a duke worthy of your devotion.”
“My lord, we are content for now that you are our earl,” Deinol returned.
Kenneth smiled faintly. “Thank you, Deinol. But we all know that I am but a caretaker, until my son comes of age.”
“If you are a caretaker, my lord, it is for a son who will be a worthy successor to his very worthy father one day,” Pedur retorted. As Deinol and Jovett nodded their agreement, Pedur lifted his cup. “To the young Lord Alaric, and to his estimable sire!”
“Hear, hear!” Deinol said, likewise lifting his cup in salute, as the others did the same.
• • •
THEY were in Coroth, the Corwyn capital, in time for Alaric’s birthday at the end of September. Jovett had traveled with them, and also two more of Cynfyn’s young knights: Jardine Howard, one of Duchess Vera’s uncles, and Phares Donovan, whom Kenneth had knighted several years before. Again, Kenneth had sent word ahead that they were coming, so an escort met them as they approached the city along the river route, led by the ducal chancellor, Sir James of Tendal, and one of the ducal counselors, Sir Crescence de Naverie.
“Well met, my lord!” Sir James called, as his party drew rein and turned to merge with theirs. “And Master Alaric, welcome back to your duchy.”
Alaric beamed at the greeting, and fell in beside Sir Crescence as they continued on toward the northern city gate, Llion riding to his other side.
“I must say that your timing could not be better, my lord,” Sir James remarked to Kenneth, as they passed into the city. “Usually, you and Master Alaric come earlier in the summer. We have never had the honor of his presence on his feast day. ’Tis a very special celebration in Coroth.”
“Indeed,” Kenneth replied, as Alaric also looked at him in question. “And aside from it being his natal day, what makes it so special?”
“Ah, well, then, ’tis Michaelmas,” James replied, “when the knights in charge of training the squires and pages lead all the boys in a special procession to Saint Michael’s shrine at the cathedral. Sir Llion will remember,” he added, with a glance over his shoulder i
n Llion’s direction. “There they dedicate their weapons to knightly service and receive a special blessing from the bishop. It’s perhaps a quaint custom,” he admitted, “but the boys do seem to enjoy it, to have their future warrior status so ratified. Perhaps young Alaric would like to take part, since he is our future duke.”
As he glanced hopefully at Alaric, the boy cast a fleeting look in Llion’s direction, then inclined his head in a dutiful nod of agreement.
“It would be my honor, Sir James. Perhaps Sir Llion will consent to instruct me regarding the ceremony.”
“I am certain that Sir Llion is well capable of that,” Sir Crescence replied. “Quite clearly, he has taken the inspiration of Saint Michael very much to heart.” He gave Llion a nod. “It is always a pleasure to acknowledge the success of one of our Corwyn knights who has made good, Sir Llion. And we have heard of your charge’s proficiency a-horse. Perhaps afterward, in honor of his feast day, he would consent to compete with some of our pages here at Coroth.”
“Perhaps some friendly ring-tilting,” Llion replied, with a tiny smile in Alaric’s direction.
“Excellent!” Sir James replied. “I shall ask Lord Hamilton to arrange it.”
• • •
THEY supped in the great hall that night, with Alaric seated beside his father in the place of honor. His regents made much of him, and he tried to do justice to the meal set before him, but he soon found himself stifling yawns of increasing tenacity. One of the slightly older pages, a hazel-eyed lad with curly auburn hair and a smattering of freckles, noticed him struggling to stay awake, and leaned closer as he presented a savory pie.
“You look like you’d rather have a bed,” the boy whispered.
Alaric shrugged a little self-consciously.
“I’d hoped it wasn’t too obvious,” he whispered back. “We had an early start. How are you called?”
“Jernian,” the boy replied with a faint grin. “I think I’m named for one of your ancestors. My father is, too.”
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