In any case, the change was there. And it persisted when Llion returned to court later in August, happier than Alaric had seen him in many months, even though Alazais had elected to remain at Morganhall for another few weeks, to reacquaint herself with her two Morgan aunts. Llion clearly missed his new bride, but he made several overnight visits back to Morganhall to check on her, and brought her back with him to Rhemuth early in September, shortly before they were to depart for Coroth with the king’s party.
But first, at the insistence of the Dowager Queen Richeldis, yet another, more domestic detail remained to resolve before the king’s departure: a slightly early celebration of her daughters’ birthdays: Silke, turning twelve, and Xenia, who would be sixteen. Xenia already was a stunning young woman, and Silke still more child than woman, but both were given gifts appropriate to Haldane princesses: lengths of R’Kassan silk to be eagerly inspected and squabbled over, as well as ribbons and dainty slippers and items of simple jewelry. Xenia received her first adult coronet: a hammered silver band adorned with golden roses, which she proudly wore at the birthday supper celebrated en famille. Alaric and Prince Cormac served the table that evening, enduring the high spirits of the two princesses with good humor.
They left the very next day for Desse: a relatively small party, as royal entourages went, comprised of only the king, his young page and future Duke of Corwyn, Prince Cormac, a handful of household knights, and several of his immediate companions: Jamyl Arilan, Jiri Redfearn, and Llion Farquahar, the latter accompanied by his new wife and a maid. As was customary when the king left his capital for any length of time, Duke Richard would assume regent duties.
The visit to Corwyn was to be an informal one, with little fanfare or advance notice, well completed before the storms of late autumn set in. After a brisk ride down to Desse, the northernmost deepwater port on the River Eirian, they met a fast royal galley that carried them downriver and then east toward Coroth. They did not call at Nyford, for the flags flying atop the citadel above the town indicated that Nyford’s bishop was in residence. Nonetheless, Alaric stood alone at the ship’s rail until the port was out of sight, staring at the bustling esplanade before the city gates, remembering the grey mare.
“You do need to let that go,” Llion said quietly, suddenly at his right side. “You cannot change what de Nore did, and you mustn’t let it cripple you for the future.”
Alaric bowed his head, not looking at Llion.
“I know that.”
“Then, you need to act like you know it,” Llion replied, a little sharply. “It was a terrible thing that he did, and he knew it would hurt you, but in the end, it was a horse. Save your further indignation for things that really matter.”
“Horses matter,” the boy said stubbornly.
“Do they matter like Hallowdale?”
Alaric grimaced, recalled to the vivid memory of accounts he had heard of the atrocities committed there, remembering the stench of burnt flesh.
“Oh, he wasn’t directly responsible for those people being killed,” Llion conceded, as Alaric dared to look at him defiantly, “but he’s been preaching hatred of Deryni for years. That’s the kind of intolerance and bigotry that allowed Hallowdale to happen.”
Alaric’s face hardened, the grey eyes as cold as the autumn sky.
“I hate him,” he whispered.
“Yes, and he hates you. Do something constructive about it.”
Alaric averted his gaze, biting at his lip. “I’m only a boy.”
“You’re a boy who will soon be a man, and a duke. And you’re Deryni. You can make a difference. Think about it.”
Alaric tried not to think about it overmuch, telling himself that, realistically, he could do little to change the attitude of bigoted bishops while he was still a child; but the conversation had begun to bring him to a more realistic sense of his own destiny. That destiny involved the king; that, he had always known. But it had also reminded him of the great influence he one day would be capable of wielding, both as a duke and a Deryni. He found himself thinking about that increasingly as the days passed, especially when he stood at the landward rail and watched the land slide past.
He and Cormac did have duties, of course, serving the king and sometimes standing a watch with the helmsman or one of the sailors atop the mast. And Llion was reluctant to let their training slacken off entirely. The galley was too small to permit much in the way of physical exercise; swordplay was out of the question, other than to practice forms. But various of the knights would grill Alaric and Cormac daily on aspects of court protocol and heraldry, and Alaric sometimes tried out his rudimentary Torenthi on some of the sailors.
When he was not otherwise occupied, he and Cormac also spent a fair amount of time playing at cardounet, sometimes with Sir Jiri Redfearn, who had been a keen player in his youth and still enjoyed the occasional match. Jiri proved to be far more loquacious than Alaric had expected, and seemed genuinely interested in the observations of the two noble-born pages regarding court life, for he had twin sons of his own at court, only a little older than Alaric and the Llanneddi prince. Sometimes, while they played by torchlight when the galley had anchored for the night, Jiri would reminisce about his own training as a page. Alaric liked Sir Jiri, who seemed not at all intimidated by what he was, or what he might become.
“Are you looking forward to your visit?” the older man asked, as he and Alaric played on the last evening before they were to arrive at the Corwyn capital.
“I am,” Alaric admitted. “But it will be very different without my father at my side.”
Jiri moved his war-duke, glancing sidelong at his young opponent. “It will be different, I’ll grant you that,” he said. “You will find that there have been some other changes as well.”
“What sort of changes?” Alaric asked, surveying the board.
Jiri gave a small shrug. “They did not tell you, because there was nothing you could have done,” he replied. “Several of your regents have passed away since the beginning of the year.”
Alaric let his hand sink to the table beside the board.
“Who?”
“Airich O’Flynn, the Earl of Derry, was the first. He contracted a wasting disease last autumn and died shortly after Twelfth Night. His son Seamus succeeds him. He is in his early thirties.”
“I think I remember both of them,” Alaric said, nodding absently. “They were very kind to me. Who else? You said ‘several.’”
“The Earl of Airnis, Sir Airlie Kushannan,” Jiri replied.
“No!”
“Alas, yes. Thrown from his horse early this summer. His neck was broken. I believe you are acquainted with his heir, Lord Jernian.”
“It isn’t possible,” Alaric murmured, shaking his head. “Why was I not told?”
Jiri shrugged. “It was not my decision. But I believe there has been talk of bringing young Jernian to court for a few years, since he is now an earl. I believe he is a few years older than you, yes?”
Alaric nodded numbly, thinking of his friend, who now was bereft of both father and grandfather in a very short span.
“I am told that his martial skills . . . leave much to be desired,” Jiri went on. “He is shortsighted, I believe. But the trainers at Coroth report that he shows a keen affinity for strategy. If that can be developed, he could still be a valuable asset for you when he comes into his maturity.”
Alaric nodded. “If skill at cardounet is any indication, he should do well.” At Jiri’s gesture, he picked up his priest-king and turned it in his fingers.
“It was Jernian who introduced me to the works of Count Koltan and Ulger de Brinsi,” he said softly. “Did you know? Viliam, too. I was looking forward to playing with them while I’m in Coroth.”
“Well, by all means, do that,” Jiri said. “You’ve gotten quite good.” He glanced down at the game board. “It’s still
your move, by the way.”
Alaric played with new determination for the rest of the game, and even managed to play Jiri to a draw. It was no small accomplishment, given that he was grieving for his friend, who also was now fatherless.
But the next day, standing at the king’s side in Corwyn green rather than Haldane crimson as the royal galley glided between the great twin lighthouses guarding the entrance to Coroth harbor, he felt for the first time that he was not quite a boy any longer, but a young man coming home. It was an impression that was only reinforced by the cheers and waves of the men waiting to greet him: his regents and the friends he had left there.
“Welcome, Sire! Welcome, Your Grace!” they called, as the ship glided to a halt alongside the quay and the crew threw lines ashore to secure her.
To his pleased surprise, the king deferred to him, inviting him to be the first to disembark, where his chancellor, James of Tendal, was waiting to clasp his hand.
“Your Grace, it has been too long,” the old man murmured, pumping his hand. “So many changes . . .”
“Yes, I know, Sir James,” Alaric replied, casting his gaze across the others thronged behind and to either side of the chancellor. “I only recently learned of some of the changes. Pray, present me to the new Earl of Derry, and then refresh my memory with the others.”
Duly he offered his condolences to Earl Seamus, a pleasant young man with tousled curly hair, then passed among the others, shaking hands and accepting their murmured sympathies on the passing of his own father, until finally he came to Jernian, standing with Viliam, who was now a squire.
“I am so sorry, Jernian,” he whispered, as he embraced the older boy briefly.
Jernian shrugged as they pulled apart. “It’s done. There’s nothing we can do to change it.” He quirked a wry smile. “So I guess we’ll just have to be orphans together. Your father will be much missed.”
“As yours will be, I feel sure,” Alaric replied.
“But there’s a game board waiting,” Viliam interjected, with his own taut smile, “and we’re both eager to see how much you’ve learned at court.”
Alaric grinned. “I’ve been playing with Sir Jiri Redfearn on the voyage here,” he warned, “and he’s awfully good.”
“Did you read all of Koltan?” Viliam challenged.
“All that you gave me,” Alaric retorted. “And I’ve corrupted several of the other pages and squires at the Rhemuth court. One of them came with us. But remember that this is a working visit for me. With my father gone, I’ve not got him to lean on, so I have to learn how things run.”
“Understood.” Viliam inclined his head. As a future baron, he was well aware of the responsibilities gradually to devolve upon the future duke. “But you will have some time to play, won’t you?”
“I’ll make time,” Alaric replied. “And now I want you to meet my recent training partner, Prince Cormac of Llannedd,” he said, stepping aside to raise an arm to Cormac, who came at his gesture to nod agreeably. “Cormac, these are my good friends, Jernian Earl of Airnis and Lord Viliam de Souza. He’ll be a baron one day.”
“Highness,” the two acknowledged, with proper neck bows.
“Just Cormac,” the prince replied, extending his hand. “In this place, I am honored to be simply a friend of your future duke.”
Viliam raised an eyebrow and gave the prince a sly grin. “It is a singular honor. But we understand that you are also a student of cardounet. Fancy a match after supper?”
“If it is allowed, of course,” Cormac replied. “I will abide by the custom of this court—and knowing that the two of you have duties, just as we have back in Rhemuth. I still have duties, even though Alaric is off the hook for a while.”
Viliam arched a smile at Alaric. “I like this fellow. I think we’ll all get along splendidly.”
The four of them did play cardounet during the visit to Coroth, but Alaric also spent a great deal of his time attending meetings of his regency council, sometimes with the king at his side and sometimes not, and talking to his advisors, and sitting in on ducal courts beside Sir James of Tendal and Sir Miles Chopard, who customarily saw to the judicial functioning of his duchy. Meanwhile, Llion took his new bride off to meet his family for a week.
It was an exciting time for a boy completing his first decade: a boy destined for high office who, already, was venturing to try the reins of governing. Although his regents continued to make final decisions about the welfare of the duchy, they now were soliciting his opinion, considering his input, allowing him to begin assuming a public face of leadership. The king studiously remained in the background, letting the regents set the tone. Alaric little liked some of the minutiae of administration, like reviewing accounts with Lord Hamilton and Father Tivadan, but he found that he had good instincts for justice and fairness, and was pleased when his recommendations exactly paralleled the rulings handed down in several difficult judicial decisions.
“You have the knack for it, lad,” Sir James said approvingly after a particularly vexing case involving purloined cattle and grazing rights and water assignments in the mountains north of Coroth. “And I think all parties in that case came away at least moderately satisfied.”
The king, who had been sitting quietly at the back of the hall, also complimented him afterward.
“That was well done. I shall give a good report to Duke Richard.”
Alaric enjoyed his time in Coroth, and starting to flex his wings and exercise the skills he had been training for. He also enjoyed pursuing the friendships he was developing with his age peers: few, but solid, so far as he could tell. And even those who kept their distance did so more out of respect for his rank than fear of what he was. In all, he was well satisfied with the rapport he was building among the men who served him and would safeguard his interests while he continued his education.
All too soon, his visit drew toward its close. Llion and Alazais returned from the Farquahar holding in the north, and preparations were under way for the Michaelmas observances that also marked his tenth birthday, after which they would head back to Rhemuth. But on the day before his birthday, he returned with Llion, Sir James of Tendal, and Father Tivadan from a courtesy call to the bishop, to find the king in close conference with half a dozen of the Corwyn regents before a fire in the great hall.
“Ah, you’re back,” Lord Rathold said, looking up as the four entered the hall. “Come join us, lad. There’s been a change in plans for tomorrow.”
Mystified, Alaric trotted obediently up the steps to take a seat beside the king. Jiri Redfearn was there with the regents, and also Jamyl Arilan.
“We’ve just received word that the old Hort of Orsal has died,” Jiri said baldly. “Several weeks ago, apparently. We were discussing whether it might be feasible to attend the investiture of his successor.”
“We ought to go, since we’re here,” the king chimed in. “The Hort of Orsal is also Prince of Tralia, just across the strait: your nearest neighbor, and a staunch friend of Gwynedd and Corwyn.”
“When is it to take place?” Alaric asked.
“Tomorrow,” Jiri replied with a grimace. “If we go, it would mean missing the Michaelmas observances here. But the galley can sail with the morning tide—if you wish to attend, Sire,” he added, with a glance at the king.
“I think we must,” the king replied. “Tralia is an important ally, and they won’t be expecting us to make an appearance. Ordinarily, we would be far away in Rhemuth, with no chance to find out in time. Besides, I like Létald, the new Hort. Perhaps we should take Cormac as well: another royal to underline Létald’s legitimacy.”
“Is it wise to take him out of the kingdom?” Jiri said thoughtfully. “Will his brother object?”
“It’s only across the strait, Jiri, and only for the day; maybe two.”
“Perhaps we should allow Cormac to decide,” Jamyl murmured.
“I cannot imagine that there will be any danger; if there were, we should not recommend that you take Alaric. But the prince knows his brother better than we do.”
“Point taken,” Brion agreed with a nod. He glanced around the table at them. “We’ll plan to sail with the morning tide, then, with or without Cormac. And we’d best send an emissary this evening, to let them know we’re coming. Rathold, you’re our diplomatic liaison. Will you go?”
“Of course,” Rathold replied, getting to his feet. “With your permission, I’ll go directly to the harbor. If I miss the tide, I’ll be traveling with you tomorrow, and Létald will get an even more unexpected surprise.”
• • •
THE king and his party sailed with the morning tide, cloaked and soberly garbed, taking along several of Alaric’s regents to stand by their young lord. Prince Cormac, on reflection, elected to remain in Coroth with Jernian and Viliam, especially when he was told that he might lead the Michaelmas procession in Alaric’s place. The day was blustery with the promise of autumn, and the royal galley made good time under sail.
“It’s good that you should know Prince Létald,” the king told Alaric, as he and Jiri stood to either side of the boy while their ship glided past the great pharos that guarded the river mouth. He wore a tunic of dark grey under his cloak, out of respect for the recent passing of Létald’s predecessor, but the collar and cuffs were embroidered with silver bullion, befitting his royal stature. His dark hair was caught back in a simple queue and confined by a plain circlet of hammered gold.
“Létald himself seems a delightful fellow,” the king added, leaning to gaze down at the grey water rushing by. “He’s a young man still, not much older than I am, but I’m told that one does not want to become his enemy.”
“No, one does not,” Jiri agreed emphatically. “In that regard, he is just like his father. But his house have long been loyal friends to Gwynedd and to Corwyn: a good neighbor to have between you and Torenth, Alaric. Remember that.”
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