The King's Deryni

by Katherine Kurtz

  He looked down at his tunic. The seam of the right sleeve had been opened to accommodate his splinted arm, but the left sleeve hit well above his wrist.

  “Maybe it shrank?” he said doubtfully.

  “No, you’ve grown,” she replied, plucking at a fold of the fabric at the shoulder. “It’s binding at the chest, too.”

  He grinned and shrugged. “I guess I have grown.”

  “Well, at least some good has come of your summer’s adventures,” she said with a smile. “Bring me the tunic in the morning, and I’ll see what can be done with it. Perhaps one of Kevin’s old tunics would fit, without ripping out the sleeve seam.”

  At his pleased nod, she added, “Good, then. Off with you, now. And I believe you’d best see Llion about resuming light exercise with Duncan and Kevin. Just be careful of that arm!”

  He had already resumed the portion of his academic pursuits that did not involve writing, for reading was the only thing he had really felt like doing in the initial weeks after his accident. But when he presented himself the next morning in the stable yard, expecting to be eased slowly back into physical training, he soon discovered that Llion and Lord Deveril did not regard a broken arm as any reason to slack off. Ponies still must be groomed, even if it took at least twice as long using only one hand.

  Nor did he receive much sympathy from Kevin and Duncan, who had taken on that duty during the first few weeks of his recovery—and quite rightly, Lord Deveril pointed out, since all three boys had been party to the disobedience that led to the injury in the first place. He was not yet permitted to ride, either, for a fall could undo all the healing he thus far had accomplished.

  Furthermore, the injured Alaric was expected to resume sword drills with his left hand—which, as he accustomed himself to the initial awkwardness, he decided was actually no bad thing, as Kevin reminded him in an annoyed snit distinctly lacking in sympathy. And that, too, was entirely appropriate, since injury to a warrior’s preferred arm in battle might well require that he shift to his off arm to save his life.

  It was a sound rationale; and whether or not that was the reason for Lord Deveril’s firmness, Alaric did not complain, because the discomfort of his arm grew less with every day that passed, and the steady intake of nourishing food fueled a spurt of growth that brought its own discomfort, measured in aching limbs.

  By the end of September, he had gained a full three fingers in height, also adding enough in girth that Duncan made him a new belt for Michaelmas, which was also his ninth birthday. It was crimson leather, “For when you become a royal page,” Duncan told him. “But you can wear it now, if you want. Papa won’t mind. You are going to be the king’s page, after all.”

  “Well, eventually,” Alaric replied, smiling delightedly as he fingered the soft, supple leather. “I’m happy enough to be Uncle Jared’s page for now, though—and my father’s. Papa says I needn’t go to court for another year.”

  “You can at least try it on now,” Kevin pointed out. “Bronwyn, put it on him. A warrior should always be armed by a lady.”

  “That’s true,” she agreed, taking the belt from her brother and waiting while Alaric undid his old one of plain brown leather. “And you have to start paying attention to these things, ’cause you’re going to be a duke someday. Auntie Vera says you will represent the king, so you must always look your best.”

  Alaric only rolled his eyes as his sister passed the new belt around his waist and drew the tail through the brass ring at one end, then looped it up behind and then down through the slipknot taking shape at the ring.

  “I know that. But the king isn’t here, so I don’t have to represent him yet.” He glanced at Duncan and grinned. “But thank you for the belt, Coz. The old one really was getting too small.”

  Duncan grinned back and gently dunted his arm with a clenched knuckle—then winced as he realized he had hit the arm that was injured.

  “Ow, I’m sorry, Alaric! Did that hurt? I forgot it was your broken arm!”

  “It’s all right,” Alaric murmured, flexing the fingers of that arm to demonstrate. “It’s mostly healed now, see? No sling, no bandages. Llion even has me doing light sword drills again. I’m fine.”

  The one thing that was disappointing was that his father had not returned in time for his birthday. He had written other letters to his father besides the one telling of his broken arm, but he received few letters in return, and nothing to indicate that Kenneth even knew about the arm.

  “Maybe the letters aren’t finding him,” he said to Lady Vera, one afternoon early in October, after receiving a letter that only commented on the various places the king’s party was visiting. By now, he was recovered enough to write again, albeit carefully; but he knew his father would have been concerned about the arm.

  “That may well be,” Vera replied. “I’ve had letters from Jared as well, and all the news is very general. I have no idea where they actually are—though I gather that they have not found the Lady Caitrin yet.”

  Alaric sighed. “It must be hard, just relying on the reports of scouts in the area. Do you think they shall ever find her?”

  Vera shrugged. “I hope that they do. ’Tis strategic business, so Jared doesn’t dwell on much detail. I do know that they continue to search, and I gather that they hope soon to locate her. But Meara is wild and vast. It may be that they eventually will return empty-handed.”

  Chapter 24

  “To deliver thee from the strange woman, even from the stranger which flattereth with her words.”

  —PROVERBS 2:16

  IN Meara, meanwhile, the king’s progress through that troubled province was yielding little but frustration. But though Kenneth Morgan and the king’s party were empty-handed thus far, their fortunes were about to take an unexpected turn, though not as anyone would have hoped.

  A week out of Ratharkin, they had chanced upon Meara’s royal governor, Sir Lucien Talbot, and his party, who still were scouring the land for the elusive Caitrin. Among Lucien’s party was an old companion of the king’s father: the Deryni Sir Morian du Joux, whom Kenneth had met on his previous foray into Meara a decade before, when the province had been in open rebellion. On that occasion, it had been Morian who came closest to tracking down Caitrin, and who had captured and interrogated the brother of the man now said to be Caitrin’s husband, discreetly lending his talent to the king’s service.

  What made this encounter particularly interesting was that Kenneth knew Morian to be Deryni, though he was not certain how many others of the present king’s party were aware of that fact. Brion did seem to know, and shortly after Morian’s arrival summoned Kenneth along with Jared and Jamyl to meet with Morian and Lucien Talbot in a private chamber of the manor house where they were staying.

  Morian had aged appreciably since their last meeting; his once-dark hair was gone steel-grey, grown long and clubbed back in a warrior’s knot. But the keen blue-violet eyes were as piercing as ever, and Kenneth had the distinct impression that they missed nothing.

  “So, tell me what you’ve discovered, Lucien,” Brion said, waving the newcomers to seats and taking one himself. “Do you know where she is?”

  “We have had reports that she may be in the area around Laas,” Lucien said.

  “We’ve been to Laas,” Brion replied. “I’ve no doubt that she came through there, but she was long gone when we arrived.”

  “Then, she may well have headed down toward Cloome,” Morian volunteered. “I spoke with several local folk who interacted with her household, and a few reported that they thought she planned to go there. She knows you are in Meara, Sire,” he added, at Brion’s look of skepticism. “Cloome is close to the border with Pardiac, where we have known for some time that her father maintains his headquarters. But since he’s made no move in some years, some felt it best to let sleeping dogs lie.”

  At his glance toward the royal
governor, Lucien grimaced and folded his arms across his chest.

  “Sire, I have kept the peace in Meara for those ten years and more. If I had thought Judhael still posed a threat, I would have acted.”

  “That’s as may be,” Brion agreed, “though my father would say that Mearans never give up. And even if Judhael has given up, his daughter now has married, which suggests that she still intends to fight. If she should produce an heir . . .”

  “That is part of what brought us to Meara ten years ago, my prince,” Kenneth pointed out, shifting in his chair. “Her father had risen in rebellion, and her sister had borne a succession of would-be future claimants to the throne of Meara. Thankfully, only one of them still survives: another Judhael. She died bearing yet another short-lived child. Her father may have set aside his aspirations, but Caitrin’s marriage tells me that she has not.”

  “Aye, if she has her way, she’ll be breeding by now,” Jared said sourly. “Just what we need: another Mearan pretender.”

  Scowling, Brion turned back to Morian. “You say she may have headed back toward Cloome. I’ll ask you to take a small party and investigate your suspicion, find out if that’s where she’s gone.” Morian gave a nod, rising. “We shall follow a day behind you,” Brion went on. “Lord Faas of Glyndour has a manor in that area, as I recall. We’ll meet you there, and hope that you have good news.”

  “Very good, Sire.”

  • • •

  THE king was as good as his word, and three days later met up again with Morian and his scouts at Castel Edain, just outside Cloome, where the local baron had given hospitality to the royal party.

  “Still nothing concrete, I fear,” Morian reported. “She is believed to be still in the area, but no one seems able to pin down her exact whereabouts.”

  Brion sighed, pulling the neck of his damp tunic farther open in hope of gaining some respite from the heat, for it was a still, sultry day toward the end of a hot summer, and he was ill pleased with their continued failure to find the elusive Mearan princess.

  “I am getting very tired of this,” he muttered under his breath, then sighed again. “We’ll take a break today, I think. Anyone else fancy a ride along the beach? Perhaps we’ll catch a sea breeze and cool off.”

  Half an hour later, he was leading a small party along the hard-packed sand west of Cloome. A little back from the king and his immediate companions, Jamyl Arilan rode at the head of half a dozen well-armed Haldane lancers, but Brion was comfortably attired in lightweight riding leathers, as were Kenneth, Jared, and Morian. Two more armed Cassani borderers also rode with them.

  “It’s still too hot,” Brion muttered, with a devilish side glance at Kenneth and Jared. “What say we generate a bit of a breeze of our own?”

  With that, he kicked his horse into a canter along the forbidding cliffs that limned the beach, laughing gleefully and increasing his speed as Kenneth and Jared fell in behind and flanking him, followed by Morian and their two guards. Jamyl and the others followed at a more leisurely pace, for they knew the moods of their liege lord, and when to give him space.

  So it might have resolved as it usually did, with the king eventually pulling up to allow his entourage to catch up with him. Except that as he led the way sharply around a rugged headland, he found himself nearly upon perhaps a score of riders clustered around something large and mottled grey, that had washed up on the beach. Though a few were in riding leathers, most of the riders wore fighting harness, two of whom were afoot with swords drawn, hacking at whatever it was that lay in the gently foaming surf.

  Taken aback to be so suddenly confronted by so many armed men, and by the flash of drawn swords among them, Brion pulled up sharply and yanked his mount around in a tight circle, glancing back as Kenneth and Jared quickly fell in to either side of him and Morian also joined them. The two borderers had set hands to sword hilts, but the rest of the king’s party were still far back on the beach, out of sight around the jutting headland.

  “Keep your distance!” one of the stranger riders ordered, hand going to the hilt of his sword as two of his companions moved to back him up. Behind them, more of their fellows were fanning out to either side to confront the newcomers.

  “Peace, gentlemen, we mean you no harm,” Brion said reasonably.

  “And you’ll receive none, so you be on about your business!” a second man retorted. “Turn back now!”

  “Mind your tongue!” Morian snapped, moving slightly ahead of the king to shield him.

  “And you mind yours!” said another man, clearly in authority, who kneed his horse between two of the armed men. “For an interloper, your words are very bold.”

  He appeared to be somewhat older than the others of his party, with streaks of grey in the dark hair pulled back in a clouted braid. His forked beard likewise was braided. Brion surveyed him appraisingly as he kneed his mount a step closer to assert his leadership.

  “He speaks for me,” he said evenly. “And who might you be, sir?”

  “Do not answer,” said a lighter voice from behind the line of men. “That is for him to answer first, since he is on my beach.”

  As a speckled grey nosed its way next to the Mearan leader, Brion was startled to realize that its diminutive rider was, in fact, a woman, wearing riding leathers and riding astride. The thick plait hanging over one shoulder reached past her waist, tarnished chestnut brown that glinted silver in the sunlight, with a blue ribbon twined in the strands. Though he had never seen Caitrin of Meara, the tight-lipped, rather plain-looking woman before him matched the descriptions he had heard. Could it be that, after so many weeks, they had finally stumbled upon the elusive princess?

  “Peace, Morian,” the king said quietly, signing for the older man to draw back a little. “The lady is clearly mistaken, for this is my beach.”

  “Your beach?”

  But the woman’s retort was only barely audible in the sudden flurry of movement and exclamation as her men reacted, surging forward to envelop the king and his immediate companions, even as Jamyl Arilan and the rest of the king’s escort came cantering around the beachy point and at once shifted into a gallop, drawing their swords as the king’s danger became apparent.

  At the same time, more of the Mearans overwhelmed Morian, engulfing him and his mount, yanking the animal to its knees and Morian to the ground, even as the Deryni knight’s magic belatedly began to flare around him.

  Caitrin, for her part, allowed her noble companion to seize her reins and take them on a dash for safety with half a dozen of their men, for the king’s additional men were now approaching at the gallop.

  What followed was more mayhem than true skirmish, for no one seemed able to decide whether or not fighting was to be done in earnest, though Morian’s attackers appeared to have no doubt. At the approach of Jamyl Arilan and his men, more of the Mearans crowded after Caitrin and her escort and galloped off—except for the half dozen men swarming over Morian, two of whom were the men Brion had seen afoot, hacking at the thing on the beach. Seeing the other Mearans withdraw, Kenneth and Jared, along with the king, concentrated their efforts on coming to Morian’s rescue, cutting one man down and wrestling the others away from the downed Deryni.

  By the time it was over, a Mearan lay dead and three more were pulled struggling from the stricken Morian and held in close custody. One of Jamyl’s men had been pulled from his horse, but was picking himself up, apparently uninjured. Morian, as Kenneth and Jared dismounted and rushed to his aid, lay flat on his back and bleeding from half a dozen superficial wounds, but had both hands clasped around a bloodied shaft of spiraled ivory, thick as a man’s thumb, that pinned him to the sand through his upper chest. As the king hastily dismounted to join them, he was horrified to see bloody froth bubbling from between Morian’s lips as Jared lifted the injured man’s head to prop against his knee.

  “Dear God, what have they done to you
?” the king whispered, pulling off his gloves as he bent over the wounded man.

  A pained, ironic chuckle rasped from Morian’s lips. “I fear they have killed me, Sire,” he whispered. “And it was a quite focused hatred aimed specifically at me, not at you. An attack of opportunity, to be sure, for I am known in Meara. And it is known that I was responsible for a long-ago action done in your father’s service, not yours.”

  “But, what—” The king looked up in question at Kenneth, who had joined him kneeling at the dying man’s side. “What is he talking about?”

  “Sire, I have always been faithful in the service of your house,” Morian rasped, before Kenneth could answer. “A decade ago, I rode with your father against the Mearans, and hunted down highborn Mearans risen in rebellion against the Crown of Gwynedd. Some of them I was obliged to kill. Ask them, when I am gone,” he added, jutting his chin toward the captive Mearans.

  “When—No!” the king cried, gingerly touching the ivory shaft protruding from Morian’s chest. “Dear God, what is this?”

  “Magic to slay a wielder of magic,” Morian whispered. “What they found on the beach—it is called a narwhal.” He flicked his glance in the direction of the butchered grey carcass lying off to one side in the foaming surf. “In ancient times, their tusks were sometimes mistaken for unicorn horn: potent magic.”

  “Sire, you must not pull it!” Jared said sharply.

  Brion’s hand flew backward in alarm. “Because it is magic?” he whispered.

  “No, because it is all that holds his life within his body,” Kenneth answered, setting his hands over Morian’s. “Morian, can aught be done?”

  The Deryni weakly shook his head. “Perhaps in times gone by, when there still were Healers . . . but no more.” He drew breath painfully as he returned his gaze to the king’s. “Do not go to war over this, Sire. The attack was against me only.”