How long had it been since he'd last sat in this window, he wondered, as he looked around him in the darkness. Ten years? Twenty?
No, he reminded himself. It Had been fourteen— and a few months.
He pulled his feet up and propped them against the opposite side of the window jamb, knees hugged against his chest—and remembered.
It was autumn—early November. Fall had come late that year, and he and Brion had ridden out of Coroth early that morning for one of their rare jaunts into the countryside before the bad weather set in. It was a clear, brisk day, just beginning to be tinged with the promise of winter to come, and Brion had been in his usual good humor. Thus, when he had suggested that Morgan show him through the old ruins, the young Deryni lord was quick to agree.
Morgan was no longer Brion's squire by then. He had proven himself at Brion's side the year before in the battle with the Marluk. Further, he was fifteen, a year past legal age by Gwynedd law, and Duke of Corwyn in his own right.
So now, riding at Brion's side on a spirited ebony warhorse, he wore the emerald gryphon of Corwyn on his black leather tabard instead of Brion's crimson livery. The horses blew and snorted contentedly as their riders drew rein at the entrance to the old chapel.
"Well, look at this," Brion exclaimed. He urged his white stallion into the doorway and shaded his eyes with a gloved hand to peer into the interior. "Alaric,
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the stairs to the bell tower seem to be sound. Let's have a look."
He backed his mount a few paces and jumped from the saddle, dropped the red leather reins so the animal could graze while they explored. Morgan dismounted and followed Brion into the ruined chapel.
"This must have been quite a place in its time," Brion said, climbing over a fallen beam and picking his way across the rubble. "How many were here, do you think?"
"In the whole monastery? About two or three hundred, I should think, Sire. That's counting brothers, servants, and students all together, of course. As I recall, there were well over a hundred in the Order."
Brion scrambled up the first few steps of the stairway, his boots sending shards of stone and mortar flying as he found each precarious foothold. His bright riding leathers were a splash of crimson against the weathered grey of the tower, and his scarlet hunt cap sported a snowy feather which bobbed jauntily over his shoulder as he climbed. He grunted as his boot slipped and he nearly lost his footing, then recovered and continued.
"Mind where you step, m'lord," Morgan called, watching Brion anxiously as he followed. "Remember that these steps are more than four hundred years old. If they collapse, Gwynedd will be minus a king."
"Hah, you worry too much, Alaric!" Brion exclaimed. He reached the first landing and crossed to the window. "Look out there. You can see halfway back to Coroth."
As Morgan reached his side, Brion cleared the win-dowsill of rubble and shattered glass with a sweep of his gloved hand, then sat easily, one booted foot propped against the opposite side.
"Look at that!" he said, gesturing toward the mountains to the north with his riding crop. "Another month and that will be covered with snow. And it will
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be just as beautiful then, in its snow-covered way, as it is right now with just the first bum of frost on the meadows."
Morgan smiled and leaned against the window jamb. "There would be good hunting up there about now, Sire. Are you sure you don't want to stay in CorotK a while longer?"
"Ah, you know I can't, Alaric," Brion replied with a resigned shrug. "Duty calls with a loud and persistent voice. If I'm not back in Rhemuth within a week, my council lords will go into a twitter like a pack of nervous women. I don't think they really believe that the Marluk is dead, that we're no longer at war. And then there's Jehana."
Yes, and then there's Jehana, Morgan thought morosely.
For an instant he allowed himself to visualize the young, auburn-haired queen—then dismissed the image from his mind. All hope of any civil relationship between himself and Jehana had ended the day she learned he was Deryni. She would never forgive him that, and it was the one thing he could not change, even had he wished to. It was pointless to belabor the issue. It would only remind Brion again of the disappointment over which he had no control, remind him that there could never be anything but loathing between his queen and his closest friend.
Morgan leaned out over Brion's outstretched foot to look over the windowsill.
"Look, Sire," he said, changing the subject. "Al-Derah's found some grass that didn't get burned by the frost."
Brion looked. Below, Morgan's black destrier was busily pulling at a patch of verdant grass some twenty feet from the base of the tower. Brion's stallion had strayed a few yards to the right and was contenting himself with nosing half-heartedly in a patch of
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brownish clover grass, one big hoof planted firmly on his red leather reins.
Brion snorted and leaned back in the window, folded his arms across his chest. "Humph. That Kedrach is so dumb, I sometimes wonder how he finds his own nose. You'd think the stupid beast would have enough sense to pick up his big feet and move. He thinks he's tied."
"I urged you not to buy horses from Llannedd, Sire," Morgan chuckled, "but you wouldn't listen. The Llanneddites breed for looks and speed, but they don't care much about brains. Now, the horses of R'Kassi-"
"Quietl" Brion ordered, feigning indignation. "You're making me feel inferior. And a king must never feel inferior."
As Morgan tried to restrain a chuckle, he glanced out across the plain again. Half a dozen horsemen could be seen approaching now, and he touched Brion's elbow lightly as he came to full alertness.
"Brion?"
As the two watched, they were able to identify Brion's crimson lion banner in the hands of the lead rider. And beside him rode a stocky figure in brilliant orange which could only be Lord Ewan, the powerful duke of Claibourne. Ewan must have seen the flash of Brion's crimson leathers in the window at about the same time, for he abruptly stood in his stirrups and began a raucous highland war whoop as he and his band thundered toward the tower.
"What the Devil—?" Brion murmured, standing to peer down as Ewan and his companions drew rein in a cloud of dust.
"Sire!" Ewan yelled, his eyes sparkling with merriment and his red beard and hair blowing in the wind as he grabbed Brion's banner and brandished it aloft in triumph. "Sire, you have a son! An heir for the throne of Gwyneddl"
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"A son!" Brion gasped, his jaw dropping in awe. "My God, it was supposed to be another month!" His eyes lit in elation. "A sonl Alaric, do you hear?" he snouted, grabbing Morgan's arms and dancing him around in a half circle. "I'm a father! I have a son!"
Releasing Morgan, he looked jubilantly out of the window at his cheering escort and shouted again: "I have a sonl" Then he scrambled back down the stairs, Morgan close at his heels, his voice echoing through the ruins in a paean of joy: "A sonl A son! Alaric, do you hear? I have a sonl"
Morgan sighed deeply and nibbed his hands across his face, refusing to let the sorrow overwhelm him, then leaned his head back against the window jamb once more. All that had been many years ago. The boy-man Alaric was now lord general of the Royal Annies, a powerful feudal magnate in his own right— if somewhat beset at the moment. Brion slept in the tomb of his ancestors beneath Rhemuth Cathedral, victim of a magical assassination which even Morgan had not been able to prevent.
And Brion's son—"A son/ A son/ Alaric, do you hear? I have a son.'"—Brion's son was fourteen now, a man, and king of Gwynedd.
Morgan looked out across the plain the way he and Brion had done so many years before, fancying he could see the riders again, coming across the plain, then gazed up into the misty night sky. A gibbous moon was rising in the east, paling the few stars bright enough to penetrate the overcast. And Morgan gazed up at those stars for a long moment, sav
oring the serenity of the night, before turning his feet back to the floor to return to camp.
It grew late. Duncan would be worrying for his safety soon. And tomorrow, with its subterfuge and obdurate archbishops, would come all too early.
He picked his way back down the staircase, his
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footing easier now that the moon was beginning to light the ruins, and headed back through the standing doorway to cut through the nave. He was perhaps halfway through that chamber when his eye caught a faint flicker of light in the far recesses of the nave-there, to the left of the ruined altar,
He froze and turned his head toward the light, frowned as it did not disappear.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I have raised up one from the north, and he is come . . . and he shall come upon rulers as upon mortar, and as the potter treadeth clay.
Isaiah 41:25
MORGAN STOOD absolutely still for perhaps ten heartbeats, Deryni defenses raising automatically as he cast about for danger. The moonlight was still very dim, and the shadows were long, but there was definitely something brilliant in the darkness to the left. He considered calling out, for it could be Duncan. But, no. His heightened senses would have identified Duncan by now. If there was someone lurking in the shadows, he was not known to Morgan.
Cautiously, and wishing He had thought to bring his sword, Morgan eased his way left across the nave to investigate, fingertips trailing the outer wall as he glided down the clerestory aisle. The flicker had disappeared when he moved, and he could see now that there was nothing extraordinary about that particular corner of the ruins. But Morgan's curiosity had been touched.
What could have shone that brightly after all these years? Glass? A chance reflection of moonlight on standing water? Or something more sinister?
There was a faint scuttling sound from the direction 179
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of the ruined altar and Morgan whirled and froze, stiletto flicking into his hand in readiness. That had not been imagination, or moonlight on standing water. There was something there!
Sight and hearing at full extension, Morgan waited, half expecting the spectral form of some long-dead monkish spirit to rise out of the ruined altar. He had almost decided that his nerves were, indeed, playing tricks on him when a large grey rat suddenly broke from cover in the ruins and headed directly for him.
Morgan hissed in surprise and leaped out of the animal's path, then exhaled with a sigh and chuckled under his breath as the rat fled. He glanced back at the ruined altar, chiding himself for his foolishness, then began moving confidently down the aisle again.
The corner which had originally attracted Morgan's attention was still partially roofed, but the floor was rough and littered with nibble. A narrow altar-shelf had been set in the back wall and remained, though the edge was battered and cracked as from heavy blows. Once there had been a marble figure in the niche in the wall behind.
Only the feet of the statue remained now—those and the cracked slab and the shards of glass and stone—mute relics of that terrible day and night when rebels had sacked the monastery two centuries before. Morgan smiled as his gaze passed over the feet, wondering who the ill-fated saint had been whose sandaled feet still trod the broken dreams of this place. Then his eyes dropped to a sliver of silvered glass still affixed to the base below the feet, and he knew he had found his elusive light.
There were shards of silver and ruby on the littered slab below, fragments of a shattered mosaic which had once covered the pedestal directly above the altar. The looters had smashed that, just as they had shattered the statues, the stained glass in the high windows, the
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marble and tile floorings, the precious altar furnishings.
Morgan started to reach" his stiletto to pry out the elusive piece of glass, but then stopped and replaced his weapon in its wrist sheath, shaking his head. That one shard of silver, still clinging in its original place, had defied rebels, time, and the elements. Could the unknown saint in whose honor the glass had been placed make the same claim of his human adherents?
Morgan thought not. Even the saint's identity was lost by now. Or was it?
Pursing his lips thoughtfully, Morgan ran his fingers along the battered altar edge, then bent to inspect it more closely. As he had suspected, there were letters inscribed in the stone, their intricate whorls almost obliterated by the fury of the looters centuries past. The first two words were readable if one used a little imagination—JUBILANTE DEO— standard phraseology for such an altar. But the next word was badly damaged, and the next. He was able to trace out the letters S—CTV-, probably sanctus, saint. But the final word, the saint's name—He could make out a damaged C, an A, a shattered S on the end. CA——S. CAMBERUS? Saint Camber?
Morgan whistled lightly under his breath in surprise as he straightened. Saint Camber again, the Deryni patron of magic. No wonder the looters had done such a thorough job here. He was amazed they had left as much as there was.
He backed a few steps and glanced around distractedly, wishing he had the time to stay and explore further. If this had, indeed, been a corner of the church dedicated to Saint Camber, the odds were very good that there had been a Transfer Portal not far away. Of course, even if it still functioned—and that was doubtful after so many years of disuse—he had no place to go with it anyway. The only other Portals he knew of were back in Rhemuth, in Duncan's study
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and in the cathedral sacristy, and he certainly didn't want to go there. Dhassa was their destination.
It was probably a ridiculous notion anyway. A Portal would have been destroyed long ago, even if he could find it Nor could he spare the time to look.
Stifling a yawn, Morgan took one final look around, waved a casual salute to the feet of Saint Camber, then began crossing slowly back to camp. Tomorrow there would be answers to many problems, when they confronted the Gwynedd Curia. But for now, it had begun to rain again. Perhaps that would help him to sleep.
But for Paul de Gendas there would be no sleep tonight.
In the woods not many miles from where Morgan and Duncan slept, Paul peered into the driving rain and slowed his mount to a walk as he approached the hidden mountain camp of Warm de Grey. His lathered horse blew noisily, sending twin plumes of steam into the cold night air. Paul, himself mud-bespattered and soaked to the skin, swept off his peaked hat and sat taller in the saddle as he came adjacent to the first guard-outposts.
The move was worth the extra effort. For the sentries with their hooded lanterns would no sooner materialize out of the darkness to challenge than they would recognize the rider and melt back into the shadows. Guttering torches ahead showed the dim outlines of tents in the rain. And as Paul approached the first tent at the perimeter of the camp, a young lad wearing the same falcon badge Paul wore came running to take his horse, rubbing sleep from his eyes and looking at the rider in puzzlement.
Paul nodded greeting as he slid shivering from hi? horse, and he scanned the area of torchlight impatiently as he pulled his drenched and muddy cloak around him.
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"Is Warm still about?" Paul asked, slicking wet hair out of his face before replacing his hat.
An older man in high boots and hooded cloak had approached as Paul asked the question, and he nodded gravely to Paul and signaled the boy to be off with the weary horse.
"Warm is conferring, Paul. He asked not to be disturbed."
"Conferring?" Paul stripped off his soggy gloves and began moving along the muddy path toward the center of camp. "With whom? Whoever it is, I think Warm will want to hear what I've found out."
"Even at the risk of offending Archbishop Loris?" the older man asked, raising an eyebrow and smiling with satisfaction as Paul turned to gape. "I think the good archbishop is going to support our cause, Paul."
"Loris, here?"
Paul lau
ghed unbelievingly, a grin splitting his rugged face from ear to ear, then pummeled his companion enthusiastically on the back.
"My friend, you have no idea of the uncanny good fortune of this night. Now I know Warm will welcome the news I bring!"
"You understand my position, then," Loris was saying. "Since Morgan has refused to step down and recant his heresies, I am forced to consider Interdict."
"The action you propose is perfectly clear," Warm said coldly. "You will cut off Corwyn from all solace of religion, doom untold souls to suffering and possible eternal damnation without benefit of sacraments." He glanced at his folded hands. "We are agreed that Morgan must be stopped, Archbishop, but I cannot condone your methods."
Warin was seated on a small portable camp stool, a fur-lined amber robe pulled loosely around him against the chill. In front of him, a well-tended fire blazed brightly in the center of the tent, the only portion of
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the floor not covered by tan ground cloths or nigs. Loris, his burgundy travel garb stained and damp from his ride, sat in a leather folding chair to Warm's right—the chair usually reserved for the rebel leader himself. Behind Loris stood Monsignor Gorony in stark black clerical attire, hands hidden in the folds of his sleeves. He had only just returned from his mission to Corwyn's bishop, and his face was inscrutable as he listened to the exchange.
Warm intertwined long fingers and rested his forearms lightly against his knees, then stared dourly at the rug beneath his slippered feet.
"Is there nothing I can say to dissuade you from this action, Your Excellency?"
Loris made a helpless gesture and shook his head solemnly. "'I have tried everything I know, but his bishop, Tolliver, has not been cooperative. If he had excommunicated Morgan as I asked him to, the present situation might have been avoided. Now I must convene the Curia and—"
He broke off as the tent flap was pulled aside to admit a travel-stained man wearing the falcon badge on his muddy cloak. The man swept off his dripping hat and saluted with right fist to chest, then nodded apologetically in the direction of Loris and Gorony. Warm looked up distractedly and frowned as he recognized the newcomer, but he got up immediately and crossed to the entryway where the man was waiting.
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