“Kelson is a mere boy.” Wencit said evenly. “A boy with power, yes. But still only a boy. And Morgan is a Deryni half-breed, and a traitor to his race.”
“‘Ah, traitor is such a weary term,’” Bran quoted without a flicker of emotion.
Wencit measured the younger man through pale, narrowed eyes, then stood abruptly, though he let his features soften. When Bran made as though to rise as well, Wencit waved him back and went to a small, carved chest on a shelf across the room. Lifting its lid, he withdrew something bright and sparkling, which he enclosed in his left hand before closing the chest and returning to his chair. Bran watched with suspicion but also curiosity.
“Well, well,” Wencit said dryly. He propped his elbows on the carved arms of the chair and leaned back, his hands clasped before him. “Now that we have determined that you possess a ready wit, suppose you tell me how you feel about Deryni.”
Somewhat taken aback by the question, Bran could only stare blankly at Wencit for several seconds.
“In general, or in particular?” he finally replied.
“In general, first.” Wencit shifted the object between his palms back and forth from one hand to the other without allowing Bran to see it. “For example, your Church Militant ruled in 917, at the Council of Ramos, that the use of Deryni magic is anathema and sacrilegious. The Duchy of Corwyn is now under curial Interdict because its duke, an acknowledged Deryni, was excommunicated for using his magic and now refuses to surrender himself to the judgment of that Curia. For that, I cannot say I blame him.
“However, if you yourself entertain any religious or moral scruples about spellbinding, it would be wise to mention them now, before we proceed much farther. You cannot fail to be aware that I am very much a practicing sorcerer. I expect my allies to be able to function within that framework. Your Curia would not understand. Does that bother you?”
Bran’s expression remained guarded, but it was evident that his interrogator had struck a responsive chord. In addition, he was finding it difficult to restrain his curiosity about the object in Wencit’s hands. Suddenly aware that his gaze had turned to the hands again, he brought his attention back to Wencit with a conscious effort.
“I am hardly your ally, sir, and I do not fear the Gwynedd Curia,” he answered carefully. “As for magic, the question is academic. Magic is a means of power—other people’s power—nothing more. I have had no personal contact with it.”
“Would you like to?”
The color drained from Bran’s face. “I—I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Would you like to deal with magic?” Wencit repeated. “Or would it make you uncomfortable to use it yourself?”
Bran licked at lips suddenly gone dry, but he answered without hesitation. “Since I am human, and not of a family possessing Deryni power, I have never had the opportunity to find out. If I were given the opportunity, though—no, I don’t think it would bother me in the least. And I don’t believe in Hell.”
“Nor do I.” Wencit smiled. “Suppose, then, that I were to tell you that you are, in fact, Deryni—at least in part. And that I could prove it.”
Bran’s golden eyes went wide and his jaw dropped. Totally unprepared for this development, he was not even aware that in that moment he had begun shifting from adversary into vassal.
“The possibility frightens you, doesn’t it?” Wencit continued in the same conversational tone. “Close your mouth, Bran. You’re gaping.”
Bran obeyed instantly, struggling to regain his composure. Swallowing only with difficulty, he managed to murmur, “The reaction you saw was surprise, not fright, my lord. You—you aren’t jesting with me, are you?”
“Suppose we find out?” Wencit said, smiling inwardly as he caught the changed form of address.
“My lord?”
“Whether or not you are part Deryni,” Wencit answered easily. “If you are, it will make it that much easier to give you the power necessary to be an effective ally. And if you are not…”
“If I am not?” Bran repeated in a low tone.
“I think we need not worry about that possibility yet,” Wencit said.
He sat forward slightly and opened his hand. In his palm lay a large amber crystal about the size of a walnut, attached to a fine golden chain. It was roughly polished, not faceted, and seemed to glow from within. Wencit grasped the chain delicately between thumb and forefinger and drew it away from the stone, but he allowed the crystal itself to remain resting in the palm of his hand. As Bran stared at the crystal, he became certain that it was glowing.
“This is a shiral crystal,” Wencit murmured softly. “Such crystals have long been known among those of my kind for their sensitivity to the psychic energies associated with the Deryni bloodline. You can see that, as I hold it in my hand, it seems to glow. Only a small amount of concentration is necessary to produce this response, if one is of the Deryni.” He glanced mildly at Bran. “Take off your glove.”
Bran hesitated for but an instant, then wet his lips nervously and stripped off his right glove. As Wencit extended the crystal at the end of its golden chain, Bran held out his bare hand, flinched as its cool mass came to rest in his palm. As Wencit released the golden chain to let it dangle over Bran’s fingers, the light in the crystal died. Alarmed, Bran looked up at Wencit, the unspoken question in his eyes.
“You needn’t concern yourself with that,” Wencit said. “For now, I ask you to simply close your eyes and concentrate on the crystal. Imagine that the heat from your hand is warming the crystal, making it glow. Picture light being absorbed into the crystal and radiating outward. Just do as I ask,” he urged, at Bran’s obvious nervousness. “Just close your eyes and relax.”
As Bran obeyed, closed eyelids trembling, Wencit turned his attention to the shiral crystal lying inert in his subject’s hand. When nothing happened for several seconds, Wencit’s brow creased in a frown; but then he cupped his hands over the crystal to shade it, not touching it or Bran’s hands—and was rewarded with a faint glimmer deep in the crystal’s heart. Pursing his lips thoughtfully, Wencit lightly brushed Bran’s hand with one hand, while the other closed on the dangling chain and withdrew the crystal. The younger man started and opened his eyes just in time to glimpse the crystal still glowing as the older man twirled the chain idly between thumb and fingertips.
“It—it worked,” Bran whispered in awe.
“It did—though it appears that you are not true Deryni after all.” Wencit noted the stricken look on Bran’s face and smiled, knowing he now owned the man. “But you needn’t worry. You have the potential to assume full powers, as did the humans of old when they accomplished the Restoration. That is, perhaps, better in many ways, for you would have been obliged to learn to use native Deryni powers. The assumed ones come full-blown and ready to deploy.”
“Which means?”
Wencit stood casually and stretched, the shiral crystal dangling from its chain in his hand. “Which means that the next step is to Mind-See you, to evaluate your potential and to set up the conditions under which I can bestow power on you. You needn’t fret yourself with the details. The kings of Gwynedd have been doing it successfully for generations, so there is no danger. I trust that you are prepared to stay the night.”
“I hadn’t planned to, but—”
“But under the circumstances, you will,” Wencit finished for him, smiling faintly. He came around to the other side of the table and sat easily on the edge, to Bran’s left. “I shall even send your captain back to reassure your men. ’Tis a pity that you put my emissaries out of commission. Duke Lionel, my brother-in-law, possesses assumed Deryni powers similar to those you will shortly receive. I could have relayed the information through him, had you not dosed him with that sleeping potion. As it is, he will be groggy and testy and utterly impossible to live with for several days, until the effects wear off completely. Still, that is sometimes the price one must pay for progress, and he knows it. Sit back and relax, please.”
“Wh-what are you going to do?” Bran murmured, apprehensive, for he had totally lost the sorcerer’s line of logic in his bewilderment.
“I told you: Mind-See.” Wencit twisted the golden chain so that the shiral crystal spun between him and Bran. “Now, I desire your assistance in this. Relax and do not resist me, or you will be left with a beastly headache when we’re done. Your cooperation will make it easier for both of us.”
Bran squirmed in his chair, uneasy, looking as though he wanted to protest or even bolt. Wencit frowned, and his face went stern, his voice cold.
“Listen to me, Earl of Marley. If we are to be allies, you must begin trusting me sometime. This is the time. Do not make me force you.”
Bran took a deep breath and exhaled softly, further defiance deflating. “I’m sorry. What am I to do?”
Wencit’s visage softened and he set the crystal spinning again, his other hand firmly pushing Bran’s shoulders back in the chair.
“Just relax and trust me. You have nothing to fear. Take another deep breath and let it out. Watch the crystal. Watch it spin and listen to the sound of my voice. As you watch the crystal spinning, spinning, your eyelids begin to grow heavy—so heavy that you cannot keep your eyes open. Let them close. And as the feeling of lethargy and calm comes over you, accept it. Take it in. Let it envelop and enfold you. Let your mind go blank and picture, if you will, a dark room of velvet night, with a dark door in the dark wall. And then imagine that dark door slowly opening, and cool darkness beyond….”
Bran’s eyes had closed, his breathing slowed, and Wencit lowered the crystal as his voice droned on. His words became fewer and farther apart as his subject relaxed. Then he reached out and touched the man’s eyelids with thumb and forefinger, murmured the words of magic that sealed the trance. He was silent for a long moment, his own coldly glowing eyes hooded and distant. Then he lowered his hand and spoke softly.
“Look at me now, Bran Coris.”
Bran’s eyes fluttered open and he looked around, remembering with a start just what it was that was supposed to have happened. When he saw that Wencit had not moved, that his benevolent expression was unchanged, he willed himself to relax and assess the situation as best he could. This time, as he looked up at the sorcerer king, he felt no apprehension. He sensed instead that some sort of unforeseen rapport had been formed; that though the man before him now knew all there was to know about Bran Coris Earl of Marley, it did not matter.
It was not a feeling of bondage; Bran would have chafed under that. Nor would Wencit of Torenth have desired that in one who was to be his ally. It was more a sense of comprehension, even fulfillment; a satisfying and even reassuring feeling, not at all repelling, as a part of him had feared it might be. Though his mind still reeled at the raw power of what had been done to him, he sensed that new knowledge had been imparted, could he but recall it; a subtle scent of empowerment, too tenuous to be assessed as yet. He decided that he liked what he felt.
His attention snapped back to reality as Wencit stood up.
“You did very well,” the sorcerer remarked, reaching behind Bran to tug on a brocaded bell cord. “We shall work well together, you and I. When I send for you in the morning, we shall proceed in greater depth,”
“Why not now?” Bran asked, lurching to his feet and staggering, much to his surprise.
Unconcerned, Wencit reached out to steady him. “Because of that, my impatient young friend. Magic is very tiring for the uninitiated, and you have had a full dose for today. In a very little while, you shall find yourself unable to keep your feet for another instant. I shouldn’t want Garon to have to carry you to your quarters.”
Bran put a dazed hand to his forehead. “But, I—”
“Not another word,” Wencit said firmly, stepping back a pace. The door opened behind him and Garon entered, but Wencit did not look in his direction, preferring instead to watch Bran’s every move as the young lord tried to orient himself.
“Garon, please take Lord Bran to guest quarters and put him to bed,” Wencit said softly. “He is very tired after his long journey. See that his men are provided for, and that his captain is permitted to return to camp to reassure his army.”
“Certainly, Sire. This way, if you please, my lord.”
As Garon led the bewildered Bran Coris to the door, Wencit watched thoughtfully. Then, when the door had closed behind them, he strolled to the door in a leisurely fashion and shot home the bolt. As he returned to sit at the oak table, he addressed the empty air in a conversational tone.
“Well, Rhydon, what did you think?”
At his words, a narrow panel in the wall opposite opened briefly to admit a tall, dark man in blue. The panel closed silently behind him as he crossed nonchalantly to the chair recently vacated by Bran and leaned with both hands against the high, carved back.
“What did you think?” Wencit repeated, lounging back in his chair to study his colleague.
Rhydon shrugged noncommittally. “Your performance was flawless, as usual. What more can I say?” The tone was light, but the pale gray eyes beneath the hawk visage mirrored more than the spoken words.
Wencit knew that look and nodded. He placed the shiral crystal on the table beside the golden coronet and carefully adjusted the chain, then looked up shrewdly at Rhydon once more.
“You are concerned about Bran Coris. Why? You surely do not think he presents a danger to us?”
Rhydon shrugged again. “Call it native cynicism—I cannot say. He seems safe enough. But you know how unpredictable humans can be. Look at Kelson Haldane.”
“He is half-Deryni.”
“So is Morgan. So is McLain. Forgive me if I sound skeptical, but perhaps you have not been aware of the Camberian Council’s attention to that fact. Morgan and McLain, as supposed half-Deryni, are probably the two most unpredictable men in the Eleven Kingdoms right now. They keep doing things they should not be able to do. And that I know you are aware of.” He came around and sat in the other chair, then picked up Bran’s untouched cup of darja and drained it at a single draught. Wencit snorted derisively.
Rhydon of Eastmarch was no longer a handsome man. A saber scar slashing from the bridge of his nose to the right-hand corner of his mouth had forever rendered that an impossibility. But he was a striking man. Dark hair graying at the temples and a luxuriant salt-and-pepper moustache framed a lean, oval face; a small beard softened the pointed chin. The mouth was full and wide but generally set in a firm line, with hints of predatory cruelty. In all, an almost sinister aura—one that the rapier mind behind the face relished and cultivated. A Deryni lord of the first magnitude was Rhydon of Eastmarch; a man in every way Wencit’s equal and complement; a man never to be trifled with.
He and Wencit gazed across the table for a long moment before Wencit recalled himself to matters at hand.
“Very well,” he said, abruptly straightening and pulling several of the leather document tubes toward him. “Do you wish to observe Bran’s initiation tomorrow, or have I convinced you that he is no longer dangerous? To us, at least.”
“I am not totally convinced that any human is without danger,” Rhydon quipped, “but no matter. I leave him to your judgment.” He rubbed a slender forefinger down the bridge of his nose in an automatic gesture, unconsciously following the long scar that lost itself in the thick moustache. “Are those our battle plans?”
Wencit pulled a map from one of the tubes and spread it on the table. “Yes, and the situation improves hourly. With Bran’s defection about to split Kelson’s strength along the border, we can cut off northern Gwynedd. To the south, Jared of Cassan and his army should be easy picking when we shift south in a few days.”
“What about Kelson?” Rhydon asked. “When he finds out what you plan, he will have the entire royal army breathing down our necks.”
Wencit shook his head. “Kelson will not know. I am counting on poor communication and difficult travel conditions at this time of year to keep him ignorant of our p
lans until it is too late to do anything. Besides, the civil and religious turmoil in Corwyn should keep him amply occupied until we are ready to take him.”
“Do you anticipate trouble when we do?”
“From Kelson?” Wencit shook his head and smiled. “I hardly think so. Despite what the statutes say about the legal age of kings, Kelson at fourteen is still a boy, half-Deryni or no. And you must admit that being half-Deryni has not particularly helped our ambitious princeling lately. In fact, increasing numbers of his loyal subjects are beginning to wonder if it is a good thing at all, to have a boy-king whose blood harks back to the blasphemous and wicked Deryni race.”
“Your carefully placed rumors, of course, have had nothing at all to do with this shift of confidence.”
“How could you think such a thing?”
Rhydon chuckled mirthlessly at his companion’s feigned look of mild affront, and crossed elegantly booted legs. “Then, tell me what you have planned for the wonder-prince, my lord king. How may I assist you further?”
“Rid me of Morgan and McLain,” Wencit replied, at once deadly serious. “As long as they stand beside Kelson, excommunicate or not, they stand a threat to us, both by the aid they can give him and by the powers they personally wield. Since we cannot predict their strength or their influence, we have no choice but to eliminate them. But it must be done legally. I want no trouble with the Council.”
“Legally?” Rhydon raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I am not certain that is possible. As half-breeds, Morgan and McLain are immune to arcane challenge by any other full Deryni. And the chances of having them legally executed by secular or ecclesiastical authorities are so remote as to be almost nonexistent. You know they are under Kelson’s personal protection.”
Wencit picked up a thin stylus and tapped it absently against his teeth, then turned to gaze thoughtfully out the window. “Yes, but there may be another way, one that the Council could not possibly fault. In fact, the Council itself might be the instrument of their destruction.”
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