"It's all here," Kelson said, gesturing vaguely toward the parchment again.
Morgan frowned and sat forward in his chair, studying Kelson shrewdly. "There's something you haven't told us, Kelson. Something you found out before you got that message. What's wrong? Why is the staff in mourning? Whose head was that on the gate?"
"The man's name was Rimmell," Kelson said, not meeting Morgan's eyes. "You may remember him, Father Duncan."
"My father's architect," Duncan nodded. "But, what did he do? Beheading is usually reserved for traitors."
"He was in love with your sister, Alaric," Kelson whispered. "He found an old witch-woman in the hills to cast a love spell on her. Only the spell was badly done, and instead of making her love Rimmell, it-killed."
"Bronwyn?"
Kelson nodded miserably. "And Kevin. Both."
"O my God!" Duncan murmured, his voice choking off as he buried his face in his hands. Morgan, dazed, touched Duncan's shoulder in a mindless gesture intended to comfort and sank back in his chair.
"Bronwyn is dead? By magio?"
"A /erraman crystal," Kelson replied in a low voice. "Alone, she might have been able to overcome it. It was very poorly set. But it wasn't fashioned for a
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human's interference, and Kevin was there when it struck. That was two days ago. The funeral is to be today. I might have tried to get a message to you, but I knew you'd already be on your way. The least I could do was to spare you the same anguished kind of ride you had when my father died."
Morgan shook his head in disbelief. "It doesn't make sense. She should have been able to—who is this witch-woman Rimmell contacted? Deryni?"
Derry stepped forward and bowed his head sympathetically. "We don't know for certain, M'Lord. Gwydion and I spent the rest of that afternoon and all day yesterday searching the hills where Rimmell said to look. Nothing."
"It's partly my fault," Kelson added. "I should have questioned Rimmell more closely, Truth-Read him. As it was, all I could think was that—"
There was a knock at the door, and Kelson looked up.
"Who is it?" "Jared, Sire."
Kelson glanced at Morgan and Duncan, then crossed to the door to admit Jared. Morgan rose and moved dazedly toward the window behind Kelson's desk, staring out through the streaked glass at the lightening eastern sky. Duncan was sitting slouched in his chair, hands clasped between his knees and staring at the floor. He looked up with a pained expression as he heard his father's voice, composed himself and stood to face the door as Jared entered.
Jared had aged years in the past few days. His usually immaculate hair was disheveled, streaked with more grey than Duncan remembered, and the heavy brown dressing gown with dark fur collar and cuffs only accentuated the new lines on his haggard face, added more years to a frame which now seemed almost unable to bear them. He met Duncan's eyes briefly as he crossed the"
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room, then looked away to avoid breaking down in his son's presence. His hands wrung together uneasily in the long velvet sleeves.
"I—was with him when they brought word you had come, Duncan. I couldn't sleep."
"I know," Duncan whispered. "Nor could I in your position."
Kelson had wandered back to the table to stand beside Morgan now, and Jared glanced at him before turning to his son.
"May I ask a favor of you, Duncan?"
"Whatever I can do," Duncan replied.
"Would you preside at your brother's Requiem this morning?"
Duncan lowered his eyes, taken aback at the request. Apparently Jared had not been told of the suspension, much less the excommunication, or he would not have asked. A suspended priest was not supposed to exercise the powers of his sacred orders. And an excommunicated one—
He glanced at Kelson to confirm his suspicion about Jared, and Kelson deliberately turned the parchment face down and shook his head slightly.
So. Jared did not know. Apparently the only ones in Culdi who did know were in this room right now.
But Duncan knew. Of course, until the official notification of excommunication arrived from Dhassa, that could be construed to be mere rumor, and therefore not binding—though Duncan knew better. But the suspension—well, even that would not invalidate the sacraments Duncan would perform. Suspension did not take away a priest's sacerdotal authority-only his right to exercise it. And if he chose to defy suspension and perform his sacred functions anyway-well, that was between the priest and his God.
Duncan swallowed and glanced up at Jared, then put his arm around his father's shoulders reassuringly.
"Of course I'll do it, Father," he said quietly.
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"Now, why don't we go back and see Kevin together this time?"
Jared nodded and blinked, trying to keep back the tears, and Duncan glanced at Morgan and Kelson. As Kelson nodded, Duncan inclined his head and moved on toward the door. Deny caught Kelson's eye and raised an eyebrow, inquiring whether he too should leave, and Kelson nodded yes. Deny followed Duncan and Jared and closed the door behind him softly, leaving Kelson- and Morgan alone in the room.
Kelson watched Morgan from behind for a moment, then bent to blow out the candles on the desk. The sky was brightening steadily as dawn approached, and the light coming through the windows now was just sufficient to discern vague shadow-shapes, some features. Kelson leaned against the window casement to Morgan's right and gazed out over the city, hands in the pockets of his robe, not looking directly at Morgan. He could find no words to speak of Bronwyn.
"We have a few hours before you must make an appearance, Alaric. Why don't you rest?"
Morgan seemed not to have heard. "It's been like a very bad dream, my prince. The past three days have been unlike any I've ever endured, almost as bad as when your father died—perhaps worse in many ways. I keep thinking I'll wake up, that it can't possibly get any worse—but then it does."
Kelson lowered his head and started to speak, distressed to hear his mentor in such low spirits, but Morgan resumed almost as though Kelson were not
there,
"Once the official notice of excommunication comes, you are bound not to receive us, Kelson, on pain of coming under excommunication yourself. Nor may you accept our aid in any way, for the same reason. And if Interdict falls in Corwyn, which it almost certainly will, I cannot even promise you**the
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aid of my countrymen. Indeed, you may be faced with civil war. I—don't know what to tell you to do."
Kelson pushed himself away from the casement and touched Morgan's elbow, gesturing toward the state bed in the far comer. "Let's not worry about it for now. You're exhausted and you need rest. Why don't you lie down for a while, and I'll wake you when it's time. We can decide what to do later."
Morgan nodded and let himself be led to the bed, unbuckling his sword and letting it slip to the floor as he sank down on the edge. At last he spoke of Bronwyn.
"She was so young, Kelson," he murmured, letting Kelson unfasten the cloak at his throat and take it from his shoulders. "And Kevin—he wasn't even Deryni, yet he died too. All because of this senseless hatred, this differentness...."
He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes briefly, gazed up exhaustedly at the brocaded canopy overhead. "The darkness closes in more every day, Kelson," he murmured, forcing himself to relax. "It comes from every side, all at once. And the only thing holding it back is me, and Duncan, and you. . . ."
As he drifted off to sleep, Kelson watched anxiously, easing himself to sit on the edge of the bed beside his friend when he was sure Morgan was asleep. He studied the general's face for a long time, clutching Morgan's mud-stained leather cloak against his chest, then reached out cautiously to place his hand on Morgan's forehead. Clearing his mind carefully, he closed his eyes and extended his senses over Morgan.
Fatigue ... grief ... pain ... beginning with the first news when Duncan
had appeared at Coroth ... The peril of impending Interdict and Morgan's concern for his people ... Derr/s scouting expedition ... The assassination attempt and the sorrow of young Richard FitzWilliam's death . . . Deny's report of Warin and the miracle of healing ... Remembrances of Brion, of his father's pride the day Kelson
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was born ... The chilling search in the ruined chapel, disclosing nothing ...
Saint Torin's . . . deception, treachery, whirling chaos and blackness, dimly remembered . . . The tenor of awakening totally powerless, in the grip of merasha, of knowing you are captive of one who has vowed to destroy you and all your kind ... Escape, long numb ride, mostly in a merciful haze of semi-consciousness while mind and powers return . . . And then grief at the loss of a beloved sister, a much-loved cousin ... And sleep, merciful oblivion, at least for a few hours ... secure ... safe ...
With a shiver, Kelson withdrew mind and hand and opened his eyes. Morgan slept peacefully now, sprawled on his back in the center of the wide state bed, oblivious to all. Kelson stood and shook out the cloak he had been holding, spread it over the sleeping form, then snuffed out the candles beside the bed and returned to his desk.
The next hours would not be easy for anyone, least of all Morgan—and Duncan. But meanwhile the business of trying to preserve order in chaos must go on; and he must be strong now, while Morgan could not help him.
With a last glance at the sleeping Morgan, Kelson sat down at his desk and pulled the parchment document toward him, turned it face up, picked up pen and the scrap of paper he and Deny had been working on when Morgan came.
Nigel must be told now—the whole grim business. He must be told of Bronwyn and Kevin's deaths, of the excommunication, of the impending danger on two fronts once the Interdict fell. For Wencit of Torenth would not wait while Gwynedd ironed out its domestic problems. The Deryni warlord would take full advantage of the confusion in Gwynedd, the threat of holy war.
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Kelson sighed and reread the letter. The news was grim, no matter how one tried to approach it. There was no way to tell it but to begin.
Duncan knelt alone in the small vesting ch'apel adjoining Saint Teilo's Church and stared into the flame of a Presence light beside the tiny altar. He was rested now. He had applied the Deryni methods of banishing fatigue about as often as he dared, and he felt as fit as could be expected. But though he was clean and shaven now, and had donned his priestly garb again, his heart was not in what he must do next. He no longer had the right to put on the black silk stole and chasuble, the sacred vestments he must wear to celebrate the Mass.
Celebrate, he thought ironically. There was more than one reason he was reluctant to put them on. For he knew in the back of his mind that this would likely be the last time, that he might never again be permitted to participate in the sacraments of the Church which had been his life for twenty-nine years.
He bowed his head and tried to pray, but the words would not come. Or rather, the words came, but they rolled through his mind as meaningless phrases, bringing no comfort. Who would ever have thought he would have to be the one to consign his own brother and Morgan's sister to the grave? Who would have thought it would come to this?
He heard the door open softly behind him and turned his head. Old Father Anselm was standing in the doorway in cassock and white lace surplice, his head bowed in apology at having disturbed Duncan. He glanced at the vestment rack beside Duncan, at the black silk chasuble hanging there, still undonned, then looked at Duncan.
"I don't wish to rush you, Monsignor, but it's nearly time. Is there anything I may do to help?"
290 Deryni Checkmate Duncan shook his head and turned back to face the
altar.
"Are they ready to begin?"
"The family is in place, flie procession is forming. You have a few more minutes."
Duncan bowed his head and closed his eyes. "Thank you. I'll be there directly."
He heard the door close softly behind him and lifted his head. The figure above the altar was a beneficent, loving God, he was sure. He would understand what Duncan was about to do, why he must defy ecclesiastical authority just this once. Surely He would not judge Dnncan too harshly.
With a sigh, Duncan rose and pulled the black stole from its peg, touched it to his lips and looped it over his head, secured the crossed ends under the silk cord binding his waist. Then he donned the chasuble, adjusting the folds to fall as they should. He paused and looked down at himself for a long moment, smoothed the silver-outlined cross blazoned heavy on the front of the black silk. Then he bowed toward the altar and moved to the door to join the procession.
Everything must be perfect this time, all as it should be: a perfect offering for what would, in all probability, be the last time.
Morgan sat numbly in the second pew behind the coffins, Kelson to his right, Jared and Margaret to his left, all in black. Behind were Deny, Gwydion, a host of Duke Jared's councilors and retainers, members of the ducal household; and behind them, as many of the people of Culdi as could squeeze into the tiny Church. Both Bronwyn and Kevin had been well loved in Culdi, and the people now mourned their deaths as did their families.
The morning was sunny but fog-shrouded outside, the air nipped with the last cold of the season. But inside, Saint Teilo's was dark, solemn, ghostly, with the
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dim flicker of funeral tapers instead of the nuptial candles which would have burned if things had happened differently.
Heavy funeral candlesticks were ranged to either side of the two coffins set in the center of the transept, and the coffins themselves were draped with black velvet palls. Painted shields of the two families rested on each sable-draped coffin. And Morgan forced himself to blazon each one in his mind, in grieving memory of those who lay within.
McLain: Argent, three roses gules, 2, 1; in chief, azure, a lion dormant argent, the whole surmounted by Kevin's mark of cadency—an argent label of three points.
Morgan: (Morgan's throat constricted, and he forced himself to go on.) Sable, a gryphon segreant vert, within a double tressure flory counter-flory or—this on a lozenge instead of a shield. For Bronwyn.
Morgan's vision blurred and he forced himself to look beyond the coffins to where candles blazed on the altar, winking and glowing from the polished silver and gold of the candlesticks and altar furnishings. But the altar cloths were black, the gilded figures shrouded in black. And as the choir began to intone the entrance chant, there was no way that Morgan could convince himself that this was anything but what it was: a funeral.
The celebrants began to process: cassocked and sur-pliced thurifer swinging pungent incense, crucifer with black-shrouded processional cross, altar boys bearing glowing silver candlesticks. TTien the monks of Saint Teilo's, surplices over habits, with black stoles of mourning; and Duncan, who would celebrate the Mass, pale in his black and silver vestments.
As the procession reached the chancel, splitting to either side so the celebrant could approach the altar, Morgan watched dully, made automatic responses as his cousin began the liturgy.
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Introibo ad altare Dei. I will go up to the altar of God.
Morgan sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands, unwilling to witness these last rites for those he loved. Only a few weeks ago Bronwyn had been alive, filled with joy over her coming marriage to Kevin. And now, to be struck down in the fullness of her youth by magic, by one of her own kind. . . .
Morgan didn't much like himself just now. He didn't like Deryni, he didn't like his powers, and he resented highly the fact that half the blood flowing in his veins came from the accursed race.
Why did it have to be this way? Why should Deryniness have to be hidden, forbidden so that one felt ashamed of one's powers, learned to hide them, perhaps for so long that generations later the skill to use those powers wisely was lost, but the power
remained? Power which sometimes found its way to the hands of deranged, senile practitioners who would use the powers as something eke, not even suspecting that the power came from an ancient and noble heritage, from men called Deryni.
And so a wizened and senile old Deryni woman who had not known, who had been forced, years ago perhaps, to sublimate her powers—or whose parents had—had tried to work simple magic for a lovesick young man—and had killed instead.
Nor was that the worst of it. Of all the problems facing them in the weeks and months to come, every single one could be traced in some way to the Deryni question. Deryniness was the issue which had put the Church at odds with magic for over three centuries, which now threatened to rend it further in all ill-timed holy war. Deryniness, and the violent hatreds, it evoked in ordinary men, had led Warm de Grey to feel himself called to destroy Deryni, starting with Alaric Morgan. And that had brought them ft> the
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disastrous episode at Saint Torin's, culminating in his and Duncan's excommunications.
Deryniness had led to the crisis at Kelson's coronation last fall, when the sorceress Charissa had made her bid to "regain" the throne she believed her Deryni father should have occupied; had led Kelson to assume his father's Deryni-given powers to stop her; and made Jehana, fiercely loyal mother of tKe young king, stop at nothing to try to protect her son from the evil she believed inherent in the Deryni—though she herself was of the high Deryni bom, and had not known.
And who could say that the impending war with Wencit of Torenth was not tied up in the Deryni question too? Was not Wencit a full Deryni lord, born to the total power of his ancient race in a land which accepted that magic? And was it not rumored that he was allying himself with other Deryni, that there might be truth to the fears of the common man that a rise of Derynf power in the east might lead once more to a Deryni dictatorship like the one three hundred years ago—to the detriment of the human population, it might be added?
All in all, whether one believed in the inherent evil of Deryniness or not, it was a difficult time to be Deryni, a difficult time to have to accept oneself as a member of the occult race. Right now, if Morgan had had the choice, he might very well have been tempted to cast out the Deryni part of himself and be just human, to deny his powers and renounce them forever, as Archbishop Loris had demanded.
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