Deryni Checkmate

by Katherine Kurtz

  Rest in peace, good and faithful servant, Deny thought, crossing himself with the hilt of the blade and replacing it in its sheath. So Warin de Grey strikes again. Only this time, instead of threats and burning, there's murder, wholesale slaughter.

  Taking a last glance around the desolate courtyard, now illuminated only by the growing flames in the manor house, Deny stood and toyed with the ends of his reins in indecision, then remounted.

  He should not really do what he was about to do. By all rights, he should go to a safe place and wait until it was time to contact Morgan. His commander would definitely not approve of the risk Deny was now considering.

  But logic was not always the best answer, Deny

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  had found. Sometimes, in order to get things done, unorthodox methods must be used. Even at the risk of great personal danger.

  Touching spurs to his mount, Deny clattered out of the courtyard and down the road the marauders had taken. If he was any judge of mobs, Warm's raiders would not go far tonight. It was late for travel on these roads, and there was no moon. Besides that, the riders had a dead or wounded man on their hands. If he was merely wounded, there was an excellent chance that they would stop before too long to tend his hurt.

  In addition, there was the question of Warin himself. He had not been with the group at the manor. Derry had been fairly certain of that as he watched the carnage done. And the old man in the courtyard had not mentioned the presence of the dynamic rebel leader—only his men. Derry was certain Warin would have been recognized, had he been present.

  Which meant that Warin was possibly somewhere in the vicinity, perhaps with another band. And that he might rendezvous with the rest of his men before the night was through. Derry must try to be there when that occurred.

  The next hour was torture for Deny. As night descended, the sparsely populated countryside became darker and darker. And the quality of the roads had not improved on leaving the manor of the Sieur de Vali, either.

  He apparently made much better time than he thought, however. For long before he expected, the dim, flickering lights of the village of Kingslake were winking cheerily in the darkness ahead. And as Derry guided his footsore mount along the main road through the village, he suddenly saw the bulk of the Royal Tabard Inn looming against the night sky. Here, if he was lucky, he could get a fresh horse before continuing his pursuit, perhaps even leam

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  which direction the riders had taken—for the road forked beyond Kingslake.

  The Royal Tabard Inn was two stories high, a Sturdy wooden building nearly two hundred years old with" accommodations for forty guests and a taproom renowned for miles around. It had been Derry's original destination before he came upon the burning manor, and now he wished he dared stop for a tankard of ale before continuing.

  But as Derry approached the livery stable adjoining the inn, he noticed several dozen steaming horses tethered outside, a single man standing guard. The man was well armed, which was unusual since he wore only nondescript peasant garb. But there was a fierce, confident air about him, an aura of deadly purpose that made Deny look twice.

  Was it possible that he was one of the raiders? That they had chosen the Royal Tabard as a resting place?

  Scarcely daring to believe his unprecedented good fortune, Deny dismounted and led his mount into the livery stable. Arrangements for a fresh horse took only minutes, and thfen Deny was striding out of the stable toward tHe inn, his purpose a mug of ale, in case the guard should ask. He touched his cap and nodded amiably as he passed the man, and the man nodded pleasantly enough. But there was something strange about him, about the embroidered badges on his left shoulder and cap depicting a falcon. Deny was frowning as he entered the inn.

  Inside, the scene was not at all what Deny had expected. He had thought, as he approached, that the inn was far too quiet for the number of horses tied outside. That many drinking men should have been more noisy. Even the mere patronage of local townsfolk should have provided at least a low hum of conversation on an ordinary nigh't.

  But it was not an ordinary night. The local citizens of the village and countryside were there; and they

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  were drinking. Nor were they being molested by the men on the other side of the room—men who also wore the falcon badge—the same men Deny had watched at the de Vali manor.

  But no one spoke. And trie riders from the marauder band were hovering quietly around one of the long trestle tables which had been pulled to the left side of the room, watching over a still, bloodstained form which lay sprawled on that table.

  As Deny made his way to a chair which seemed to be in neutral territory, he frowned. The man on the table—the same he had thought killed by de Vali's defenders—was apparently not dead yet; for a thin girl in peasant garb was bathing his head with towels wrung from a wooden basin at her side. He moaned as she worked, and her eyes darted nervously over the men who surrounded and watched her. But there, too, there was no word spoken.

  Another girl brought a tray of earthen mugs filled with ale and distributed them to the riders, and some of them sat quietly and sipped at their drinks. But there was no conversation, no excessive movement. It was as though the men were waiting, listening. The townsfolk on the other side of the room sensed it too; and they waited.

  Derry picked up the tankard of ale the proprietor brought and took a long pull, forced himself to gaze into the depths of the ale rather than stare at the raiders.

  What was going on? he wondered. Were they waiting for Warin to come? And what did they hope to do for the man on the table, who was clearly near death?

  There was the sound of horsemen drawing rein outside, perhaps as many as twenty, and shortly a second group of riders entered. These, too, wore the falcon badge on cloaks and hats. And their leader, after a whispered conference with one of the men attending the wounded man on the table, gestured for

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  his own men to join their colleagues. Again, tankards were brought. And again, there was no further conversation. Apparently the new man was not Warin either.

  Thus the situation remained for nearly half an hour, while Deny downed a second and third tankard of ale and tried to fathom what was happening. Then there was again the sound of hoofbeats on the road outside, this time only about a dozen. And as the horses stopped, amid snorts and jingling harness hardware, the room grew suddenly stiller yet. There was a taut, electric tension in the air. As Deny turned slowly toward the doorway, the door swung back to frame a figure who could only be Warin himself. Derry froze with everyone else in the room, not daring to breathe.

  Warin was not a large man. In fact, were it not for his regal bearing, he might have been considered short. But this was totally overshadowed by the fact that the man had presence, which radiated outward from his person like a living entity.

  The eyes were dark, almost black, with a wild, even reckless intensity which sent a shiver up Derr/s spine as the man's glance touched him in scanning the room. (Derry had seen that look on Morgan's face once, and he shuddered anew as he remembered the consequences of the deeds which followed.) Warm's hair was brown and crinkled, a dusty dun color, closely cropped; and he wore a very short beard and mustache of the same dun hue.

  Alone of all his men, Warin wore what could have been styled a uniform: a solid grey leather jerkin over tunic, hose, and high boots of the same shade—except that the falcon badge on his breast was large, covering most of his broad chest, and the cap badge on his close grey hat was silver rather than sewn. His grey leather riding cloak was full and long, almost brushing the floor. And he was totally unarmed as far as Deny could see.

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  There was a whisper of movement across the room, and Derry suddenly found himself able to breath'e again. He hazarded a glance at Warm's men clustered around the table and saw that all had bowed their heads and brought closed right
fists to their hearts on Warm's entrance. As Warm nodded acknowledgment, they looked expectantly at the man on the table and moved aside. Warm strode briskly into their midst, and the townspeople gathered courage and moved to the center of the room to see what the rebel leader would do. Deny cautiously made himself a part of that group.

  "What has happened?" Warm asked. His voice was low, measured, crackling with authority.

  "At the manor of the Sieur de Vali, Holy One," the spokesman of the first group said meekly. "De Vali had ridden to ask the duke's aid, and his men resisted. We had to put the manor to the torch."

  Warm turned wide, dark eyes on the man. "That was unwise, Ros."

  Ros fell on his knees, cowering, and buried his face in his hands. "Forgive me, Holy One," he whispered. "I have not your wisdom."

  "See it does not happen again," Warin replied with a slight smile, touching the man's shoulder in a gesture of acceptance.

  As the man scrambled to his feet, face transfigured with awe, Warin returned his attention to the wounded man and began stripping off his grey leather gloves.

  "Where is the injury?"

  "In his side, Lord," a man on the opposite side of the table murmured, drawing aside the man's rent tunic to show the wound. "I fear the lung may be pierced."

  Warin leaned to inspect the wound, then moved to the man's head and lifted an eyelid. He nodded to himself, then straightened and tucked his gloves into

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  his belt, glanced at the men who watched him so eagerly.

  "With God's help we shall save this man," he said, Spreading his arms to either side in a gesture of supplication. "Will you pray with me, brethren?"

  To a man, Warm's followers dropped to their knees, their eyes riveted on their leader as he closed his eyes and began to pray.

  "In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sanctf, Amen. Oremus."

  As Warin intoned the Latin phrases, Deny watched wide-eyed and then forced himself to look even more closely. For unless he, too, was falling under the powerful charisma of the rebel leader, there was a faint glow beginning to surround Warm's head—a misty blue violet aura which resembled nothing so much as a halo!

  Derry controlled a gasp, then bit his lip and tried to use the pain to break the illusion. There was no way this could be happening. Human beings did not have halos, and there were no more saints. But neither was His mind playing tricks on him. Morgan had taught him to see through illusion; but this was real, no matter how hard Derry tried to make it disappear.

  ". . . And therefore, O God, send thy healing spirit through these hands, that thy servant Martin may live to glorify Thee. Through Jesus Christ thy Son, our Lord, who liveth and reigneth with Thee in the unity of the Holy Spirit, God forever and ever, Amen."

  As Warin finished speaking, he lowered his right hand to rest lightly on the wounded man's forehead, then let his left drop to cover the blood-frothed wound in the man's side. There was deathly silence for nearly a minute, and Derry's heart pounded as the light he was sure couldn't really be there seemed to extend itself down Warm's arms and into the still form beneath.

  Then the man called Martin shuddered and exhaled

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  a long sigh, opened his eyes and blinked in amazement to find his leader standing over him.

  Warin opened his eyes and smiled, then helped Martin to sit. There was a long murmur of awe as Martin stood down from the table and took the tankard someone offered. As he drained it, one of the townspeople gasped and pointed to the man's side. There was no sign of any wound except the bloody tear in his homespun tunic.

  "Deo gratias," Warin murmured, crossing himself and lowering his eyes. The aura had all but disappeared now, and he glanced around curiously as he pulled his gloves from his belt and began to don them. There was blood on his left hand where he had touched Martin's wound, and one of his men noticed that fact and dropped to his knees beside Warin to wipe the hand with a comer of his cloak. Warin smiled and rested his hand on the man's head for just an instant, as though in blessing, then returned to his gloving without comment. The man got to his feet with a look of pure bliss on his face.

  Warm's glance swept the room once more, and again Deny felt that chill sensation as the eyes touched his. Then Warin was moving toward the door. At his movement, his men drained their tankards and scrambled to their feet, gathering the belongings they had brought with them and crowding after him. One of Warm's lieutenants pulled gold coins from a poucK and paid the innkeeper. And as Warin reached the door one of the townsfolk suddenly threw himself to his knees and cried, "It's a miraclel The Lord has sent us a new messiah!"

  Almost instantly, his words were taken up by half the people in the tavern, who fell to their knees and crossed themselves fervently. As Warin turned in the doorway, Deny knelt too—although he most certainly did not believe there had been any miracle involved.

  The rebel leader scanned the room a final time, his

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  gaze calm, beneficent, then raised his right hand in benediction before disappearing into the darkness. As soon as the last Warin retainer had filed from the tavern, Deny jumped to his feet and ran to the window.

  Now that Warin was out of the room and Deny could think clearly again, he realized what it was about the man which had been so disconcertingly familiar. It was that presence he had felt in men like Morgan, Duncan, Brion, the young King Kelson. That impression of raw power and command which almost always went with a talent not in the best of repute these days.

  He peered through the misty glass of the tavern window and watched as Warin and his band disappeared down the road in a glow of torchlight. He would not follow them. With what he had learned, there was no need of that right now. Besides, he had to get this new information to Morgan as soon as possible.

  It was quite late. He knew he had missed the appointed time for contact with his commander by well over an hour; but no matter, if he rode hard and met no further mishap, he could be back in Coroth shortly after noon tomonow.

  He could hardly wait to see Morgan's face when he told him he thought Warin might be a Deryni!

  CHAPTER NINE

  And he will send them a savior, and a defender, and he will deliver them.

  Isaiah 19:20

  "WARIN is what?" Morgan gasped. "Deny, you must be joking!"

  Morgan and Duncan were sitting under a tree in the exercise yard adjoining the armory where they had been spaning with broadswords when Deny had thundered through the gates of Castle Coroth half an hour before. Deny was tired and hungry as he squatted on the grass beside his commander. But his eyes glittered as he related all that had happened at the Royal Tabard the night before.

  Morgan wrapped his towel more closely around his exercise tunic and mopped his face, for he was still sweating from the workout Duncan had given him. Deny did not challenge his outburst, and after a few seconds the duke shook his head in disbelief.

  "Well, this is certainly unexpected," he said, wiping a hand across his forehead. "Deny, are you sure?"

  "Of course I'm not sure," Deny replied, pulling his hunt cap from his tousled brown hair and slapping the dust from it in agitation. "But can humans do what he did, m'lord?"

  "No."

  "Father Duncan, do you think Warin is a saint?"

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  "There have been stranger ones," Duncan replied enigmatically, thinking of his vision on the road.

  Deny pursed his lips thoughtfully, then looked back at Morgan. "Well, he did heal that man, M'Lord. And from what you've told me, I had the impression that only Deryni could do that."

  "I can do that," Morgan amended, scowling at the ground between his bare legs. "I don't know that other Deryni can. I'd never heard of it being done in recent times until I used it to save your life last year."

  Deny bowed his head, remembering the attack on the guard detail he had commanded the night before Kelson's cor
onation. How they had been taken by surprise and overpowered in the darkness. The searing pain as a sword pierced his side and he fell, thinking never to rise again.

  And then waking in his own quarters, his wound gone as though it had never existed. And a puzzled physician bending over him, unable to explain. And Morgan telling him, weeks later, how he had laid his hands on Deny's brow—and healed.

  Deny looked up again, then nodded. "I'm sorry, m'lord. I meant no disrespect. But you are Deryni, and you can heal. And so can Warin."

  "And so can Warin," Morgan repeated.

  "Well, if he is Deryni, he certainly can't be aware of what he is," Duncan said, scratching his leg and cocking his head at his cousin. "Personally, I find it difficult to believe that the man of the rumors I've heard could be such a hypocrite—to persecute his own race."

  "It's been done before."

  "Oh, certainly it's been done before, and by experts. There are always some men who will sell out anything for the right price. But that's not the impression I get about Warin. He's sincere. He's convinced that his cause is just, that he has a divine calling. And what you've just told us, Deny, about healing the

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  wounded man, his effect on his men—that simply confirms my impression."

  "The trouble is," Morgan said, standing and retrieving his sword, "that Warm does the things saints and messiahs traditionally do. Unfortunately, those same deeds are not commonly attributed to Deryni, even though the legends of many Christian saints may have their origin in Deryni powers. Knowledge of this would certainly quell any thought of rebellion—but how do you impart this knowledge when Warm's people are as loyal and devoted as Deny says they are?"

  Deny nodded his head. "That's right, m'lord. Already, his followers look on him as a Holy One, a saint. Those villagers in Kingslake are convinced they saw a miracle performed before their eyes, in the finest old biblical tradition. How do you fight something like that? How do you tell people their messiah is a fake? That he's the very thing he preaches against, only he doesn't know it? Especially if you want people to come out liking Deryni in the end?"