The King's Deryni

by Katherine Kurtz

  The room beyond was dark, save for a few slivers of sunlight showing around the shutters that closed off the windows. Lifting his torch to cast better light, Llion made his way over to the nearest one and lifted the bar on the shutters, then folded them back. More light streamed in; and with that, plus the torches, Alaric was able to make out a few details.

  “Shall I open more shutters?” Llion asked, turning in the bright window.

  “No, this is fine.”

  Moving on into the room, holding his torch high, Alaric could see that the walls were lined between the windows with tall bookshelves secured against the walls. Nearly all of them bulged with assorted volumes. Clustered in the center of the room, a succession of waist-height scroll cabinets also provided table space, though he could see a writing desk tucked under the window to the left of where Llion waited. He longed to explore, but it was clear that even beginning to acquaint himself with the ducal library would take far more time and knowledge than he currently had available.

  “So much to learn,” Llion heard him murmur, as he circled along the shelves and trailed his fingertips across the backs of bound volumes at eye level. Some of the texts undoubtedly would be esoteric works that were well beyond his present capability, if he could even read them. Most seemed to be in the common tongue or Latin, but some were in Torenthi or even R’Kassan.

  Here was a battered copy of the Annales of Sulien, and one of the Lays of the Lord Llewellyn. And here, a beautifully bound double volume labeled Praedictionum Nestae and Fatum Caeriessae.

  Another shelf held military works: The Road to Killingford, by Sir Rhupert Calder of Sheele, and Sir Thomas Riordan’s Essential Cavalry Tactics. The latter was one of Duke Richard’s favorite sources for teaching battle strategies, usually for squires rather than pages, and Alaric had absorbed the information like a sponge, whenever he was able to sit in on one of the royal duke’s lectures.

  Crouching down to peer at a scroll lying on a bottom shelf, he puzzled at the Torenthi lettering along its side and realized that it was a copy of something by or about the great Torenthi battle genius Jurij Orkény. He couldn’t be sure, of course, because it was written in Torenthi, but it could be Orkény’s classic Failed Battle Tactics, written shortly after the Battle of Killingford. He had heard it mentioned back in Rhemuth, but he had never actually seen a copy. Not that he could read this one.

  Reluctantly leaving the Orkény in its place, he moved on to the next bookcase, which held more general titles pertaining to estate management and husbandry, livestock breeding—and stacks of account rolls going back decades. The duchy’s history stretched back nearly two hundred years, and before that had been part of the ancient kingdom and principality of Mooryn.

  There were more account scrolls in the cases in the center of the room, dozens of them, and he found family histories there as well. Here was a Vita of Duke Jernian, and another of Dominic, Corwyn’s first duke, so old that the ink was fading. So much to learn! He was eager to begin exploring, but he knew that these, too, would have to wait, for he could not remove any of the works from Coroth, at least until he came of age. But maybe he could borrow some of them, while he was here.

  “That’s fine, Llion,” he finally murmured, lifting his torch high as he turned back toward the silhouette against the opened window. “We can go now. I’ve seen what I came to see.”

  Moving back into the open doorway, he waited while Llion closed and re-barred the shutters, then let him pass onto the landing, locked the door behind them, led the way back down the winding stairs. Right now, acquainting himself with all the volumes in the library seemed a lifetime’s occupation. But at least it was there, and it was his. He had all the time in the world.

  Down in the practice yard, they found Lord Hamilton and Sir Robert of Tendal, the chancellor’s son, overseeing sword practice with the pages, who were whacking at heavy oak pells with blunted iron practice swords. Alaric watched with Llion for several minutes, then took up one of the practice swords and began whacking at one of the pells not in use, striking in rhythm with the others. After a while, Sir Robert came over to observe his form, standing silently beside Llion, then called him aside and handed him a wooden practice sword and a padded practice helmet.

  “Your form is good,” he said, putting on his own helm. “Let’s try something a bit different. Do your best to hit me,” he instructed, raising his own practice sword en garde.

  Alaric did his best, parrying most of Sir Robert’s offensives and nearly landing several attacks of his own. Robert seemed pleased with his skill, and signaled him to resume drill while he drew Llion aside to confer. Later that evening, over a simple supper, his father passed on compliments from both Robert and Llion, and expressed his paternal pride.

  “He was very favorably impressed,” Kenneth allowed. “And Llion, he was very complimentary about the instruction you’ve given. When we return to Rhemuth in a few weeks’ time, son, you should have no difficulty joining Richard’s lads.”

  In the days that followed, though he sometimes sat in on council meetings with his father, Alaric fell easily into the routine observed by the other pages, especially the tilting at multiple rings. Drawing a pony from the reserves at the stables, he worked with the animal for an hour in the ring, then returned to the tilting yard to ride against the other pages. And excelled.

  After a week, under Llion’s tutelage and still riding at the larger rings, he was taking at least two rings out of three. Occasionally, Llion would slip in a smaller ring with the others, and often as not, he would take it. The other pages acknowledged his abilities with good grace, and with growing respect for their future duke.

  Through it all, his friendship with Jernian and Viliam continued to flourish. Both were older than he—Jernian was ten, and Viliam twelve—but the difference in age soon ceased to be a factor, for all three boys were precocious. Though Jernian continued to be hopeless at ring-tilting, and regularly took tumbles from his pony, his sunny disposition made it difficult to hold the failing against him, especially when balanced against his academic acumen—and it helped that he was a future earl. Viliam, by contrast, could expect to wear a baron’s coronet in due course, was an excellent rider, nearly as good as Alaric, and excelled at the more usual pursuits expected of a future knight. But both of them had an astonishing grasp of tactics and strategy for their age, and repeatedly gave Alaric good trouncings at the cardounet board.

  “That’s partly because I can see the board properly,” Jernian allowed, apparently conjuring an abbot out of nowhere to take one of Alaric’s archers.

  “So can I,” Alaric replied, “but—where did that come from?”

  “He’s been sitting there for six moves,” Viliam said good-naturedly.

  Alaric sighed and tipped over his priest-king in defeat.

  “I am beginning to think farther ahead,” he said, indicating the board, “but obviously not far enough—or soon enough. How did you learn that? Was it your Torenthi tutor?”

  “In part,” Viliam admitted. “And I’ve read several of the classic works. Let me see what I can come up with, to give you an edge. Meanwhile, I do believe that young Jernian needs humbling. Are you up for a match, my friend?”

  The younger boy was already rearranging the pieces to their starting positions, and grinned wickedly. “We’ll see who needs humbling.”

  Indeed, the two were still playing when Alaric finally excused himself and headed up to bed.

  The next time they were to play, two nights hence, Viliam handed Alaric a dog-eared sheaf of vellum pages stitched together along one long edge.

  “That’s Ulger de Brinsi’s Elements of Basic Strategy,” Viliam said, as Alaric riffled through the pages, peering more closely at the diagrams. “Apparently, his principles apply for armies as well as cardounet.”

  “Who was he?” Alaric asked.

  “He was a Thurian master player,” Vili
am replied, “trained at the court of Prince Kirill Furstán, who became his patron. Anyway, Ulger wrote this treatise for Kirill’s sons, who were mad keen on the game and later became master strategists for one of King Kiprian’s generals in the Great War. Fortunately, they were both killed early on, or all of us might be speaking Torenthi.”

  “And I don’t think Kiprian had read Ulger,” Jernian chimed in.

  Viliam chuckled at that, then resumed. “Anyway, it’s a good place to start with formal strategy. If you could read Torenthi, I’d loan you Count Koltan’s masterwork. He was amazing.”

  “You read Torenthi?” Alaric asked.

  Viliam shrugged. “Enough to read Koltan. A lot of the terminology translates directly, once you master the alphabet.”

  “He reads Torenthi,” Jernian muttered, “and Bremagni, and—”

  “Just play,” Viliam retorted, with a good-natured dunt to Jernian’s arm. “You’ll scare him away.”

  Alaric grinned, now thankful for the lessons in rudimentary Torenthi that his Aunt Delphine had given him. “It will take more than that,” he said. He glanced again at the vellum manuscript. “Let’s see how I do with Ulger. And thank you, Viliam.”

  “Always pleased to recruit another serious player,” Viliam replied, “and you do show promise, Duke of Corwyn. Now, Jernian, make your first move.”

  Cardounet became their regular pastime after supper. Now and again, one or another of them would be assigned to table duty, delaying the start of play, but the work was not onerous, and none of them resented taking their fair turn. Alaric read and re-read the Ulger treatise, and his game slowly improved. So did his tilting at multiple rings, though he could not credit Ulger with that.

  “You’re developing a more discerning eye,” Llion told him. “Excellent. I’ve noticed that the squires do it with a sword as well as a lance. I think we shall try that tomorrow.”

  • • •

  WHILE Alaric continued his training, also sharpening his acumen at cardounet—and, thereby, his grasp of strategy—Kenneth was attending to the business of the duchy. Sometimes he rode the nearer boundaries of the duchy with a few of the regents, conducting regents’ courts and assizes. On the first such foray north, Jovett rode with him, along with Phares Donovan and Jardine Howard, for all three men had spent several weeks acquainting themselves with the operations of the duchy, so that their practices back in Lendour would be in harmony.

  More often than riding the boundaries, however, Kenneth sat on local courts and heard the domestic disputes of petitioners. In addition, he would receive periodic reports from his regents back in Lendour, and letters from Zoë. Correspondence came as well from Morganhall and Culdi, and also an occasional letter from the king.

  He received one such letter midway through October, on a blustery afternoon made more pleasant by the pitcher of mulled wine he was sharing with several of his fellow regents in a sheltered corner of the courtyard adjoining the castle gardens. All of them looked up as Llion joined them brandishing a letter sealed with Haldane crimson. Alaric had gone riding on the beach with the other pages, in what promised to be one of the last such jaunts of the season, for the weather was starting to turn.

  “When did this arrive?” Kenneth asked, as Llion handed over the letter and, at Kenneth’s gesture of invitation, sat between Crescence de Naverie and Airlie Kushannan. Both Udauts were also present, father and son, and the elder Udaut poured a cup of wine for Llion as Kenneth cracked the seal on the letter.

  “Within the hour, my lord,” Llion said. “It came by ship—which probably docked earlier this morning, but someone at the harbor only just got around to sending it up.”

  “We’ll hope that it isn’t urgent, then,” Kenneth said, skimming over the usual salutations.

  I am advised that no immediate escalation of hostilities is likely in Meara, Brion had written—or, a clark had taken his dictation, for the missive was not in Brion’s hand—but we continue to monitor the health of the Lady Aude. For when she dies, it is likely that Caitrin will marry, and perhaps produce another Mearan pretender.

  At this point, the hand changed, and also the tone.

  On another matter, I trust you will have heard by now of the death of Prince Hogan’s wife, and the loss of the prince she was carrying. We now hear that Hogan has remarried the woman he had taken to wife in his youth: the Lady Kethevan von Soslán. His wedding gift to his new bride was to create her Countess of Soslán and to legitimate their children, though Festillic house law will not allow them to succeed to his titles and pretensions. Perhaps you might make discreet inquiries into Torenth, for it would be useful to learn how the Torenthis regard this news.

  In the margin, Brion had written, in his own hand: Duke Ewan wrote that part, as he is far more astute in such matters than I am.

  Kenneth smiled as he skimmed over the rest of the letter, which inquired regarding the health of Kenneth and his son, then ended by reiterating the request that Kenneth should see what more he could find out about the Festillic pretender’s domestic arrangements.

  “It appears that we need to make some discreet inquiries into Torenth,” he said, as he passed the letter to Crescence. “Apparently Hogan Gwernach has remarried his first wife and legitimated her children by him. Had you heard anything about that, Laurenz?”

  The elder Udaut shook his head. “No, but that does not mean that it is not true. I can certainly put out some feelers. There may be some gossip down by the harbor. And I can send some men across the border to see what they might turn up. Have we any idea when or where this might have taken place?”

  “Nothing was mentioned,” Kenneth replied, “but my guess would be late summer, and probably somewhere up in the north of Torenth, since his superior title is Duke of Truvorsk.”

  “And Pretender of Gwynedd,” said Airlie Kushannan, with a wry lift of one tawny eyebrow.

  “Aye, that, too,” Kenneth conceded.

  “I’ll see about it,” Laurenz said, rising. “These things take time, but juicy gossip like an irregular royal marriage will tend to travel fast.”

  • • •

  HARDLY a week later, one of the men sent out to investigate the rumors returned with news both surprising and shocking.

  “This was unusual enough that it was making the rounds all along the waterfront across at Furstánan,” said Sir Seamus O’Flynn, dropping his saddlebags beside the table as he pulled up a stool across from Kenneth and Laurenz, who was his brother-in-law. “Hogan Gwernach has, indeed, married the Lady Kethevan and legitimated their surviving children. In addition, he gave titles to the two sons. The eldest, Zimarek, became Count of Tarkhan. The other son, Mikhael, is now Count of Sankt-Irakli.”

  Laurenz cocked his head at the newcomer as Airlie Kushannan and Crescence de Naverie joined them. “This is hardly unusual, under the circumstances. You have more?”

  “Oh, aye. Much more.” Seamus, who was heir to the Earl of Derry, poured himself a cup of ale and tossed it back before continuing. “To further celebrate the nuptials, which lasted a week, Hogan staged a grand tournament in which both his sons competed. For the younger, Mikhael, it was mostly for show. He is but seventeen, and only received the accolade a few months before the wedding. He prefers books to the sword, and only rode a pageant course or two before retiring from the field, content to watch from the stands with his parents.

  “For Zimarek, it is a somewhat different story,” Seamus went on, allowing Kenneth to refill his cup. “Zimarek fancied himself quite the warrior. At two-and-twenty, he had half a dozen very successful tourney seasons under his belt. He rode well against all challengers—until a black knight rode onto the field.”

  “Seamus, you are enjoying this far too much,” Crescence said sourly. “Who was this black knight?”

  “That’s the odd thing. No one seems to know. But he was able to put the point of his lance right through the
visor of Zimarek’s tourney helm.”

  The statement left all his listeners momentarily speechless, including Kenneth.

  Then: “A black knight killed Prince Hogan’s son?” Airlie Kushannan breathed, then added, “I assume he was killed.”

  Seamus gave a curt nod and drained off half his ale.

  “And they don’t know who he was?” Laurenz asked.

  “Witnesses said it’s very likely he was Deryni,” Seamus said. “Apparently he melted into the crowd before anyone could apprehend him. But whoever he was, he did Brion of Gwynedd a favor. That’s one less Festillic pretender to deal with.”

  “Hardly a serious threat,” Crescence said. “Zimarek couldn’t inherit his father’s pretensions.”

  “Stranger things have happened,” Laurenz replied. “In any case, the point is moot. The man is dead.”

  “And they have no idea who the black knight was,” Kenneth said thoughtfully, wondering, though he did not voice it, whether it possibly could have been the same black knight who had challenged Brion in June. Fortunately, none of those present had witnessed the bout; but Llion had, and Xander and Trevor. Llion would not and could not mention it, but Xander might, or Trevor. But only Llion and possibly Alaric knew the identity of the king’s black knight.

  Seamus took another deep draught and shook his head. “If anyone knows, that information has not reached the portside taverns. Hogan is still well regarded in Torenth, even if few believe he can actually regain the Crown of Gwynedd.” He shrugged. “Of course, it’s unlikely that Zimarek actually could have been accepted as Hogan’s heir. But now, we shall never know.”

  “There is still that other son,” Airlie Kushannan reminded them.

  “Aye, but he hasn’t the fire in his belly to take the Crown, even if the legal obstacles could be overcome,” Crescence said. “No, if Hogan is to make a try at winning back the Crown, it will have to be with his daughter at his side. And that should be a while, because she is only five.”