Kelson - The Bishop's Heir Part 6

"Well, you certainly left your mark on Transha tonight. The clan will be talking about you all winter - and speaking well, too."

Kelson smiled and leaned against the window embrasure, tossing his bonnet to the seat beside Dhugal. The climb to the laird's chamber had finished clearing his head, and now the considerations of earlier in the evening came flooding back. To have won the confidence of the clan was a fine thing, and part of what he had set out to accomplish, but he still had not learned all he needed to know about Caulay's Mearan kin. And if Ithel of Meara was plotting...

"I wonder, will they speak well of me when they remember that I'm part Deryni?" he mused, trying to decide how best to approach what he wanted to ask.

However he phrased it, Dhugal was going to be either frightened or insulted.

Dhugal frowned. "What difference does it make? And what makes you think of it now?"

"It isn't all a bad thing, you know - being Deryni," Kelson continued, testing. "You saw that when I put that trooper to sleep so you could sew up his arm. It does have its positive uses."

Dhugal swallowed with an audible sound, suddenly far more sober than he had been, not seconds before, all the gaiety gone.

"Why do I have the sudden feeling that something very scary is about to happen. You're warning me, aren't you?"

"Not - exactly." Kelson glanced down at Dhugal's upturned face, then over at the sleeping Caulay.

"Dhugal, I've never even been tempted to take unfair advantage of a friendship before," he said softly, "but d.a.m.n it - he hasn't told me everything he knows."

"What do you mean?"

Kelson shook his head. "Oh, I don't mean to imply a deliberate deception. I think he just doesn't want to get involved - and one can hardly blame him. Sicard is still his brother, after all. Unfortunately, Sicard is also the father of a boy who may just try to take away my throne - and Caulay hinted of conspiracies at dinner, just before he clammed up."

"Surely, you're not suggesting he'd keep such knowledge from you, if there really were a danger?" Dhugal asked.

"I don't know," Kelson replied. "I do know that your father has information I may need - and that I have the means to take it, if I must, without his knowledge and without hurting him."

"With magic," Dhugal supplied. His face had stiffened to a taut mask as Kelson spoke, and now the honey-amber eyes reflected cold resentment, as well as a little fear.

"Kelson, I can't stop you," he continued, after a long, slow breath. "If that's what you're determined to do, there isn't a thing I can do to prevent it."

"I know that. That's why I'm asking if I may. He wouldn't remember it,"

Kelson added. "He need never even know I talked with him tonight."

"And if you had to use what you learned against him?" Dhugal asked.

Kelson sighed. "I hope to G.o.d it never comes to that," he murmured, eyes downcast. "You know I would never deliberately do anything to hurt you or your family. But if information that I gained had to be used to stop a war, to save innocent lives - well, what would you do?"

Only after a long pause did Dhugal's answer come: halting, reluctant - and resigned.

"I suppose I - would do what I had to do," he whispered.

CHAPTER FIVE.

They have set up kings, but not by me: they have made princes, and I knew it not.

- Hosea 8:4 I would do what 1 had to do.

Dhugal's words put responsibility squarely back on Kelson - where it had always rested, with the other burdens of the Crown, but this particular responsibility was unique to a king endowed with magic. Kelson found himself wondering whether his father had ever had to make such a demand of a friend.

Somehow he could hardly imagine Brion using his powers for much of anything, even though he knew his father had slain the Marluk with magic and obviously had taken the necessary measures to ensure that his legacy pa.s.sed to Kelson.

But Haldane magic was not the same as that derived from being born Deryni - and perhaps that difference was the source of some of Kelson's uneasiness just now, for he had the limitations as well as the benefits of both sorts. The Haldane legacy came full-blown to each successive male heir in the senior royal line, its potential sealed by the previous king and triggered in the heir by ritual whose essential elements apparently had altered little in nearly two hundred years. It was of Deryni origin, to be sure, but it was a somewhat artificial construct, so far as Kelson had been able to learn, crafted by the great Saint Camber for the defense of Cinhil Haldane against mad Imre, to end the Interregnum, and perpetuated in Cinhil's descendants ever since.

Such magic dealt primarily with protection - holding and keeping what was Haldane. But it was power to be called up without training and without real understanding, a compendium of set spells whose use and, indeed, very existence generally became apparent only when the need arose - difficult to call to mind of one's own inclination. A few casual skills there were of Haldane origin, like Truth- Reading and extending one's physical endurance, duplicating some Deryni functions, but the more subtle and satisfying uses of magic - and the ones most open to abuse - lay within the province of Deryni only. Indeed, most of the magic readily accessible to Kelson came from his Deryni blood, not Haldane sources: mostly what Morgan and Duncan had been able to teach him about that aspect of his heritage - and much of that still lay in the realm of theory.

Now his meager experience with the two of them must be melded with the impersonal knowledge at his beck and call from Haldane sources, and techniques chosen to fit the very personal situation here before him. Several times in the past two years he had watched Morgan do this kind of thing - and had done it himself under Morgan's guidance once or twice - but this was different: himself, alone, questioning someone he cared about - not some hostile prisoner, from whom the truth must be dragged by force. With Caulay's natural discretion already lowered by the wine. Kelson was not too concerned about the actual .procedure, but he was concerned about alienating Dhugal. The friends he could trust, who were not afraid of him, were few and precious.

"If it should come to that, then I suppose I'll have to do what I have to do,"

he finally whispered, meeting Dhugal's eyes miserably. "That's one of the more unpleasant parts of being king. In the meantime, I'm afraid this is something I have to do." He paused a beat. "You don't have to watch if you don't want to. You can leave, or I could - put you to sleep, blur the memory. Neither of you has to remember."

Dhugal's jaw tightened visibly, the sun-amber eyes scared and a little desperate.

"If that's what you want, I'll - bow to your wishes, of course, but - dammit, Kelson, I won't let myself be afraid of you! G.o.d knows, I don't understand what you've become, and if you'd rather I didn't watch, I - I'll let you put me to sleep or whatever you feel you have to do. I don't want to leave, though."

The courage and blind trust blazing in Dhugal's face as he looked up precluded all further discussion. Kelson's grateful "Stay, then," was more mouthed than said, but Dhugal understood. His shaky smile and Kelson's quick, answering grin were all the further comment necessary. Together they moved back into the room where Caulay slept. Kelson no longer worried.

The old man snored on obliviously as Kelson sat down on the right side of the bed and drew a few deep breaths to compose himself, centering as Morgan had taught him. He did not touch Caulay, for he did not wish to alarm Dhugal in these early stages. Dhugal, initially skittish, claimed a stool on the opposite side of the bed and settled down to watch; but gradually even he responded to the calm and stillness radiating from the king. Like Kelson, his breathing soon slowed to a shallow, even cadence, nimble surgeon's fingers intertwined pa.s.sively in the lap of his kilt, thumbs brushing tip to tip.

Rea.s.sured, Kelson shifted attention from his own slow breathing to that of Caulay, gently spreading his right hand across the old man's forehead and letting his thumb and little finger rest lightly on the closed eyelids for a few seconds. He could sense the blur of the alcohol as he sent his consciousness cautiously into Caulay's, but he quickly bypa.s.sed that to make the necessary connections for what must be done, closing his eyes as he felt his way through wine-drugged dreams.

"Listen only to me, Caulay," he whispered.

Dhugal's tiny start of surprise caused Kelson to glance up momentarily, and instinctively he sent a tendril of rea.s.surance in the other's direction. He did not think Dhugal sensed it on any conscious level, but the young border lord seemed to relax again almost immediately, releasing a guarded sigh as he leaned forward to gaze at his father's placid face.

"Stay deep asleep and hear only my voice," Kelson went on, returning his attention to the old man. "You can hear every word I say, even though you're asleep, and you'll want to answer my questions as fully as you can. Do you understand?"

"Aye," came the blurred highland voice.

As Dhugal glanced up at him in wonder. Kelson sat back and gave him a faint smile, crossing his arms casually on his chest.

"He's going to do just fine," he murmured to Dhugal in an aside. "That's very good, Caulay. Let's talk about your brother, first of all. Do you know where Sicard is right now?"

Caulay grimaced in his sleep. "Aye."

A precise answer to the question asked, but nothing volunteered.

Loosening control a little. Kelson reframed his question.

"Good. And where is that?"

"Ach, I suppose he's in that keep o' his in Laas - he an' his schemin' wife,"

Caulay said. "I didnae like her from the day I first set eyes on her, but he would marry her."

His voice was more animated now, the tone so casual and glib that he might have been back at table, confiding opinions over a cup of good ale, except that his eyes were closed.

"The Lady Caitrin?" Kelson asked.

"Aye. Cate Quinnell - an' she callin' herself a princess!" Caulay went on contemptuously. "They've become a brazen lot, an' that's for sure - high an'

mighty, where they think ye cannae see them. 'Tis said they keep court as if she were a queen, and not upstart pretender."

Kelson nodded and relaxed control just a little more. He did not like the implications of what the old man was conveying, but the delivery was just about perfect.

"As if she were a queen, eh?" he repeated softly.

"Weel, surely ye knew, lad - an' ye must n?? allow it tae go on. They say she takes liberties due only a sovereign. She that steals yer homage also steals yer honor."

Kelson could sense Dhugal bristling indignantly, but he stayed him with a gesture. This was not the time for righteous outrage. If Caulay was using homage in its legal sense, the situation in Meara was even more serious than he had been led to believe. Homage implied the granting of land in return for service - the military service of knights. If Caitrin of Meara was receiving homage as suzeraine of Meara - "Caulay, what liberties has she taken?" Kelson asked, glancing at Dhugal's stunned face.

"She swears knights tae her service, wi' the promise o' land when Meara is free again," Caulay replied promptly. "An' new knights hae been made. Even the two boys hae been knighted, an' they younger than yerself!"

Kelson felt his own anger rising to match Dhugal's, and he had to push it down with a conscious effort.

"Who knighted them?"

"My brother," came Caulay's response, though not quite so promptly, this time. "I wouldna' hae thought it possible - my own kin, that swore faith tae yer father, G.o.d bless 'im. I couldnae believe it mysel', when I heard the news. Young Ithel brags that he is a knight now, and will one day be Prince of Meara of his own account. Would he hae died at birth! He is n?? true MacArdry, an' that's for sure!"

"I see." Kelson probed gently for a physical image of the upstart Ithel. "Tell me about this Ithel, then. I want to know everything you can remember."

And in Culdi, Alaric Morgan prepared to enter his own kind of grim, dark concentration, opening a red leather case half the size of his fist and dumping out a handful of polished cubes carved of ivory and ebony. They clicked against each other and the table top with solid, satisfying snicks as he set them down, reflecting dark and light as Morgan brought a single candle closer on the table before him.

Quickly he arranged the cubes in the traditional pattern: four white in the center, forming a single larger square; the four black set one to each corner, not quite touching. The champion's signet on his right hand gleamed as well, as he poised his fingertips above the center of the white square, but he ignored it for the moment as he set his thoughts in order.

The odd black and white dice were called Wards in the parlance of those who knew about such things, named, like the most secure perimeter fortifications of a castle, for their function of defense. To set wards was to create a magical sphere of protection encompa.s.sing the area defined by the four points at which the individual wards were placed, containing the energy within and restraining the entry of disruptive forces. Such protection was all but essential when one intended a magical operation such as Morgan planned - for to reach Kelson at such distance, and without prior preparation, would require that Morgan place his body in deep trance, oblivious to physical sensation or danger, while his mind ranged forth in search of the king.

"Prime."

As he spoke the nomen of the cube in the upper left comer of the white square, he touched it with his fingertip and sent power into its matrix. Instantly the cube began to glow from deep within - milky, opalescent white.

"Seconde."

The process was repeated with the cube at the upper right, with similar results.

"Tierce. Quarte."

He was halfway through his preparation, the four white cubes forming a square of ghostly white light. He could feel the power drain. Slowly and deliberately he drew deep breath: tangible cue to trigger the reversal of polarities from white to black, positive to negative, male to female, the other side of the balance. The pull this time would be subtly different, slightly more difficult to channel, but well within his abilities. Breathing out softly, he brought his fingertip toward the black cube resting near the upper left of the white square.

"Quinte"

A tiny spark jumped between his fingertip and the cube just before they touched, green-black fire kindling from within. Quickly, before his momentum was lost, Morgan shifted his attention to the upper right black cube, bringing his forefinger nearer.

"Sixte."

Again, the eerie glow.

When the process had been repeated for Septime and Octave, all eight of the cubes shimmered with internal light, four white and four black. Now for the mating of opposites, the balancing of energies to build the watch-towers.

Rubbing a hand across his eyes, Morgan sighed and picked up Prime, shifting his balance points again and readjusting control as he brought the cube near its black counterpart, Quinte. He could feel the tug of the opposites attracting as he closed the distance, the black cube almost seeming to rise that last fraction of s.p.a.ce to meet the white as he spoke the word of power.

"Primus."

The two cubes fused in a single, silvery grey oblong. One down. Breathing deeply, Morgan pushed the completed first ward a little to one side and plucked Seconde from its fellows, mating it to Sixte.

"Secundus."

Again, the silver-glowing rectoid.

When he had completed Tertius and Quartus, he set the four wards on the floor around his chair like tiny, glowing towers and sat down again, feeling for the balance points in his mind a final time before he set things into motion.

Commanding now, he pointed to each of the wards in turn and spoke the words, sensing the surge as the elements meshed and flared.

"Primus, Secundus, Tertius, Quartus, fiat lux!"

It was like suddenly being inside a tent of pale, silvery light. The very air around him seemed to shimmer. As he lowered his arm and sat back in his chair, he could feel the wards like an insulating coc.o.o.n, shielding and protecting.

Satisfied, he adjusted the candle again and laid his hands along the arms of his chair, positioning the signet on his right hand to catch the light. It was a tangible symbol of the faith binding friend to friend, protector to sovereign; the golden Haldane lion etched on the curve of the gold-set onyx oval seemed to stare at him in the dimness. Morgan used it now as a focus, willing himself to still and center, conjuring the king's face over the lion's.

He could feel his breathing slowing, his pulsebeat steadying, and gradually his vision began to narrow until only the ring was in his gaze. Doggedly he held Kelson's image before his mind, letting his eyelids droop lower, lower, until they closed and the image of Kelson alone remained. Awareness of his body receded as the mental image sharpened, and as he stretched his senses northward, all his concentration was centered on the ring, the face, the mind.

After a long while, almost at the limits of perception, he at last sensed what he had come to find.

And in Transha, immersed in his questioning of Caulay and the concentration needed to maintain control, Kelson pushed aside the first vague brushing at his mind. He and Dhugal listened with horrified fascination as the old man wove a tale of treachery far more widespread than either of them had dreamed.

But as Caulay reiterated the rumors he had heard of knights gone over to the Mearan Pretender and of Ithel Quinnell's growing popularity, a hint of Morgan's urgency began to penetrate - though not its source, at first. The king tensed as it brushed for the first time at a conscious level, momentarily shutting out Caulay's rambling as he tried to track it down. When it proved too elusive, he laid a hand on the old man's wrist, shaking his head.

"Enough, Caulay. Hush for a minute," he whispered. He closed his eyes to listen better.

Nothing. Then the lightest of feather-brushes. He sensed it might be Morgan, but even when he turned all his concentration toward picking up the next touch, he could not be sure of more than the touch sensation.

"What is it?" Dhugal whispered, leaning closer on his stool. "Is something wrong?"

Carefully, Kelson shook his head, trying not to lose the all too tenuous contact hovering at the edge of consciousness.

"Not here," he murmured. "Someone's trying to reach me, though - very far away and very faint. And it's urgent."

A little catch of breath from Dhugal's direction, and the sense of awe and apprehension mixed. Then: "Do you know who it is?"

Kelson nodded slowly, still straining to make it clearer. "Morgan, I think, I can't - quite - pull it in."