“Yes, sir,” Alaric murmured, glancing up appraisingly at the castle brooding on the bluff. “Is that where we’re going?”
“It is,” the king replied. “Vár Adony, it’s called, according to your Lord Rathold. It’s the Tralian winter capital. I’ve never been there, but my father used to take me to the summer palace, Horthánthy. We passed it a while ago, but I doubt you saw much through the mist. It’s quite spectacular, though. If Vár Adony is anything like it, you’ll be in for a treat. And I think you’ll like Létald.”
They landed shortly, where Lord Rathold was waiting with horses and a guard of honor to take them up the winding road to the castle. Since Alaric’s inclusion in the royal party was intended to introduce him as the future Duke of Corwyn, he wore an over-tunic of deep green instead of Haldane livery, with the Corwyn dagger at his hip and his father’s signet as Earl of Lendour on a chain around his neck: no overt declaration of his identity, since he was not yet of age, but neither was he any mere page. As they made their way toward the esplanade before the great hall doors, where the Tralian prince was greeting new arrivals, Alaric drew the occasional curious look, following at the king’s elbow with Llion and Sir Jamyl, but no hostility or particular recognition. Lord Rathold was well-known at the Tralian court, and adroitly eased them into the princely presence.
Létald himself, black-clad and still in mourning for his departed father, proved to be a round-faced, energetic young man perhaps a few years older than the king, with wiry dark hair pulled back in a club at the back of his neck and a narrow gold coronet circling his brow.
“So, this is to be my new ducal neighbor across the straits,” he declared to Brion, upon having Alaric presented to him. “Welcome to Vár Adony, young Corwyn. I shall look forward to our future interactions. And Lord Rathold, you are also most welcome. Sir Jiri, gentlemen.”
With that, and hearty handshakes all around, Létald was off to greet other new arrivals.
“Sir Jiri, may I ask why Prince Létald wears a coronet?” Alaric said quietly, only to Jiri. “I thought we were here to see him crowned.”
“Ah . . . no. He has already been invested as Prince of Tralia, shortly after his father’s passing. Today’s ceremony acknowledges him as Hort of Orsal, Overlord of the Forcinn States.” Jiri glanced at the boy in faint amusement. “I know, ’tis different from the way we do things in Gwynedd. The Forcinn States have, ah, unique challenges, with Torenth so close. Come, though, we mustn’t get left behind.”
They continued across the esplanade and followed the king into the audience hall, joining scores of milling guests who were gathering to await the court’s business. At once Alaric was struck by the differences between the Tralian hall and the king’s hall at Rhemuth, or even his own hall at Coroth. This hall was long and narrow, lit by a high clerestory gallery under an elaborate tangle of wooden beams that supported the vaulted ceiling. The floor underfoot, rather than stone, was of polished timber set in a herringbone pattern that drew the eye toward the dais at the far end, where a solitary chair of state was set in readiness for the man soon to occupy it.
Most striking of all were the plastered walls, where ranks of life-sized warriors watched with painted eyes, vigilant and fierce, swords in their powerful hands and long oval shields on their arms—and each one was different, given individual identity by the artists who had painted them. Some of the figures had torches thrust into brass brackets mounted in their hands, the torchlight giving a semblance of life to the painted guardians. Further illumination came from fires burning on the stone-clad hearths of half a dozen massive fireplaces along the length of the hall.
“It isn’t like Rhemuth, is it?” Brion murmured aside to him as they moved among the other visitors.
Alaric could only shake his head slightly, sticking close by the king’s side. The painted warriors made him vaguely uneasy.
They wandered briefly among the guests, exchanging pleasantries with a few known to Brion or his courtiers, until a squire in Tralia’s sea-green livery came to escort Brion to a seat near the dais, next to the King of Bremagne and his eldest son. Jamyl and Llion attended him. Meanwhile, Alaric and his Corwyn regents were shown to seats in one of the window bays near the dais, where a page brought them refreshments. Not long after that, liveried squires began marshaling the assembled guests and witnesses to begin gathering more purposefully before the dais at the far end of the hall.
A brazen fanfare from trumpets shaped like sea serpents caused the crowd to part for a small procession down the length of the hall, led by a cleric bearing a processional cross and a gold-coped prelate whom Lord Rathold identified as Tralia’s archbishop, who was attended by two surpliced acolytes.
“I have always found him to be a godly man,” Rathold murmured softly to Alaric. “He will have presided over Létald’s crowning, but today’s ceremony is more secular in nature—though he will witness it and give a blessing. Létald’s authority as Hort of Orsal will derive from the assent of the other Forcinn princes . . . who are coming now.”
Indeed, another trumpet blast heralded a further, larger procession of gentlemen clad in a variety of festive attire. Some wore court robes of a sort familiar to Alaric, but one was arrayed in desert silks, another in the Eastern garb Alaric had seen on emissaries from the Torenthi lands.
“These are the rulers of the Forcinn states?” Alaric whispered.
“The rulers or their heirs. Some are too old to travel easily on short notice. The man in desert silks is Prince Hakim of Nur Hallaj, eldest son and heir to the emir Qais: a decent fellow, by all accounts.” Rathold jutted his chin in the direction of the man in Torenthi attire. “The next fellow is Count Richard, heir to Regnier Duc du Joux, and the gentleman in scarlet would be Prince Ysomard of Thuria; he only succeeded to his title earlier this year, so I know little about him save by reputation. The man in purple is Prince Isarn of Logréine, and the one with ermine tails on his cloak is Grand Duke Nivelon of Vezaire, a distant relative of the late Queen Dulchesse. And the fellow in the burnoose would be Prince Mikhail of Andelon—not, strictly speaking, one of the Forcinn princes, but Andelon sometimes serves as a gatekeeper to the south, so they work with the alliance.”
“And these all owe allegiance to Létald?” Alaric asked.
“It is a loose confederation, but yes. It would be in none of their best interests to break totally free of the others—not with a neighbor as powerful as Torenth close along their northern borders. The system works for them,” he added.
The Forcinn princes made their courtesies to the archbishop, then arranged themselves on the dais steps in two lines fanned outward so that Létald could pass between them. As the trumpets sounded yet another fanfare, the prince’s procession slowly passed down the hall, led by half a dozen armed men who looked to have stepped from the walls of the hall. Following them came two pages in sea-green livery flanking a blonde, white-clad girl of twelve or so, who carried Létald’s princely coronet on a velvet cushion, her sea-green veil held in place by a narrow gold coronet.
“The Princess Sivorn, Létald’s sister,” Rathold whispered. “It is customary that the Prince of Tralia comes bare-headed before his fellow princes.”
Following her came Létald himself, who had donned a sumptuous robe of embroidered sea-green velvet over his mourning attire, its wide sleeves heavily encrusted with gold-couched threads and its train carried by two liveried pages also in sea-green. When he had made his reverence to the archbishop, to the two lines of princes, he mounted the steps and turned before the chair of state, waiting to sit until the attendant pages had arranged the train at his feet.
There followed a reading of the treaty whereby the Forcinn States had agreed historically to bind themselves in a loose confederation in matters concerning their mutual defense and external trade. The document then renewed the contract by which the Prince of Tralia, now embodied in Létald Sobbon Jubal Josse von Horthy, agreed
to function as arbitrator and nominal overlord for said confederation, delineating the rights and duties now to be assumed by said Létald as Hort of Orsal and Overlord of the Forcinn Buffer States. This reading being accomplished, the archbishop then presented the document for Létald’s assent, signified by the affixing of his signature and seal. Another trumpet fanfare signaled the accomplishment of the deed.
But the ceremony clearly was not finished. As another trumpet blare reverberated into silence, a slow drumroll drew all eyes to the far end of the hall where, to an accompanying drumbeat, an erect, middle-aged woman dressed all in white bore a glittering, princely cap of scarlet upon a black velvet cushion.
“That is Létald’s mother, the Princess Maya,” Lord Rathold murmured, close beside Alaric. “He has no wife as yet.”
Alaric had already surmised the woman’s identity, and only nodded as the princess passed between the two rows of worthies ranged along the dais steps, acknowledging their salutes, then herself made a reverence to her son, holding the cushion aloft. She then turned to give the cap into the keeping of the six Forcinn lords, who received it and knelt before Létald, each with a hand supporting it, in sign that they would support the man about to wear it. They lifted it and bowed their heads in homage as the archbishop began an invocation imploring God’s blessing on Létald and all the states now owing him allegiance.
“Is that a crown?” Alaric whispered aside to Jiri Redfearn.
Jiri shook his head. “Not a crown, a cap of maintenance. The medallions suspended along the front are symbolic of the five regions over which Létald is superior.”
“I understand.”
When the archbishop had concluded his blessing, the princes came forward with the cap to stand around Létald’s chair of state, holding the cap briefly above his head before, together, placing it on his head.
“All hail Létald Sobbon Jubal Josse von Horthy, Sovereign Prince of Tralia,” a herald proclaimed, as the deed was done and the princes bowed themselves before him, “and now, by acclamation, Hort of Orsal and Overlord of the Forcinn Buffer States. Axios, axios, axios!”
“He is worthy,” Lord Rathold translated, leaning in from Alaric’s other side.
Alaric only nodded, gravely taking it all in, for many of these men would be his neighbors when he came to his majority.
At table later that evening, he sat in an honored place at the king’s right hand, where he had further opportunity to observe the great and good of the region. To Brion’s other side, Meyric King of Bremagne was seated beside his eldest son, Crown Prince Ryol, just come of age. The Bremagni king, perhaps in his forties, sported a head of copper-bronze curls that tumbled onto his shoulders and a curled beard twined with golden cords.
“You must visit Bremagne, my lord,” King Meyric said, leaning close to Brion, and apparently in his cups. “I have another son and three comely daughters at home, and the girls all will be looking for husbands very soon. You could do far worse than to take a Bremagni bride.”
Brion smiled politely and raised his cup in salute to his fellow monarch. “I am sure I could, my lord. Perhaps in a few years. My reign is yet young, and I have much still to learn.”
“Then, perhaps my sons might visit Rhemuth,” Meyric returned with a wink, jostling an embarrassed Prince Ryol with an elbow. “I believe you have several comely sisters . . . ?”
Other guests offered perils of a more threatening sort. “Sire, do not react,” Jiri said aside to Brion a little later, when they had risen from table and were preparing to mingle with other guests, “but it appears that the King of Torenth has sent one of his sons as an observer. Prince Wencit, I believe. Do you see him, yonder?”
Brion had stiffened at Jiri’s words, and cast a quick glance in the direction Jiri indicated. Alaric also managed to look that way whilst plucking an imaginary bit of fuzz from his sleeve. He had never seen the Torenthi prince, but from descriptions, he immediately recognized the slender, haughty young man in tawny silks and velvets, a little older than the king, with reddish sidelocks emerging from beneath his richly embroidered cap and a smudge of tawny mustache beneath piercing amber eyes.
“What is he doing here?” Brion muttered to Jiri, tight-lipped, as Wencit caught his gaze and inclined his head coolly before turning his back.
“Perhaps observing, like the rest of us,” Jiri said with a sour grimace. “Or perhaps something more. I shall try to make a few discreet inquiries.”
With that, Jiri moved away from the king, taking Jamyl with him, to blend casually with the milling courtiers. Brion himself seemed a little subdued as he, too, turned his back and made polite conversation with others who approached him. A little later, as Alaric prepared to top up the king’s wine, Brion shook his head distractedly, darting another glance across the room in the direction of the Torenthi prince.
“I certainly would like to know why he’s here,” he muttered, signing for Alaric not to pour. “No more of that; it’s vile stuff. A pity that neither of us is competent to read his intentions. And you’re not to try!” he added, at Alaric’s eyebrows raised in silent query. “It’s just that his family would dearly love to take back my throne.” Flustered, he thrust his goblet into Alaric’s hand. “See if you can find me something that’s remotely drinkable, will you? Wherever this came from, it tastes like horse piss! And no, I’ve never tasted horse piss, but this is giving me a headache. Just get rid of it.”
With a nod of agreement, Alaric moved off to look for something better, wondering whether the king’s sour mood might have another source than the wine. As he headed toward a sideboard holding pitchers of wine, set in a curtained archway, he found himself surreptitiously eyeing the Torenthi prince, considering whether he might be able to do anything to help the king. Though he had begun to develop a little skill at Truth-Reading, he knew his training was still sketchy. Trying to Read a powerful and no doubt well-trained Deryni probably was not a good idea.
Nonetheless, he ventured a cautious and incredibly delicate feeler in that direction—and immediately withdrew as he caught the merest prickle of odd, dangerous shields he did not care to probe further. Fortunately, neither Wencit nor any of his obviously Torenthi companions appeared to have noticed.
But someone did notice. As Alaric continued on toward the sideboard with the wine, setting the king’s goblet on the polished wood, he found himself suddenly yanked behind the nearby curtain, a leather-clad arm clamped across his chest from behind and a gloved hand pressed hard to his mouth. Even as his fingers flew to the restraining arm in near panic, all of his body tensing in an instinctive attempt to twist away, a voice murmured, soft in his ear, “And what, precisely, did you intend to do, if you had actually managed to touch him?”
At the same time, a familiar mental “voice” reverberated in his mind: Are you trying to get yourself mind-ripped?
Chapter 32
“Hear instruction, and be wise, and refuse it not.”
—PROVERBS 8:33
ARE you trying to get yourself mind-ripped?
Stifling what would have been a whimper, Alaric all but wilted against his captor’s chest with relief, for he knew both the voice and the mental touch. He had not seen Sir Sé Trelawney during Prince Létald’s investiture or even during the banquet, but neither did it come as any great surprise to find the Anviler knight in attendance. He supposed that Sé’s order might well have an interest in the stability of the Forcinn, just like the King of Bremagne and the Torenthi observers.
As he relaxed, letting his hands fall away from Sé’s arm, the hand fell away from his mouth and the Deryni knight continued to hustle him back along the corridor and into the shelter of a shadowed doorway, where he released him. Little to Alaric’s surprise, there was no one in the vicinity.
“What were you thinking?” Sé said softly, disapproval in his tone as he seized Alaric’s shoulders and held him with his gaze. “Do you realize
the risk you took?”
Alaric managed a difficult swallow, well aware that Sé was absolutely right.
“I did it for the king,” he whispered.
“The king did not ask you to do it,” Sé retorted. “He expressed a wish that one of you could do it, well aware that neither of you could. And he should not have done even that. Your powers are still developing, and your training is sketchy at best. His are all but nonexistent, until you are old enough to assist him to his powers. In the future, if he asks something you know to be beyond your ability, you must decline. You will do him no good if you try and fail and he loses you.”
Alaric ducked his head. He could not disagree, but to refuse the king was not in his nature.
“I’m sorry,” he said meekly.
“As well you should be.” Then: “I shall come to you over the winter, and see if we can speed things along. This is not the time or place. Look for me toward Christmas.”
Alaric looked up in surprise, but Sé was already backing away and bowing in farewell, right hand pressed to heart. He was gone before Alaric could draw breath to question.
Still reeling from Sé’s stinging reprimand, heart still pounding, Alaric drew a series of deep breaths and simply stood with his back pressed hard against the wall for several long seconds, willing his racing heart to slow and trying to regain at least an outward semblance of composure. Only then did he square his shoulders and make his way back to the hall, where he would try again to find a wine that would please the king. He decided not to mention the encounter with Sé.
• • •
HE slept poorly that night, shaken by the unexpected appearance of Sé and by his own near encounter with Wencit of Torenth, which so easily could have gone disastrously wrong. He found himself wondering if Sé had somehow intervened so that Wencit did not detect Alaric’s clumsy attempt to probe him. He had no doubt that the powerful Deryni knight was capable of doing so, if he wished.
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