The Deryni Archives Part 8

Nervousness in some... uncertainty... rote performance of an expected physical action in many... preoccupation bordering on outright boredom in a very few... but in most, regardless of any other emotions, a genuine intention and desire to transmit the unbroken succession of apostolic authority as it had been pa.s.sed to each partic.i.p.ating priest at his own ordination, through a variety of bishops of varying degrees of integrity and sanct.i.ty, over a period spanning more than fifty years. At least that magic-of pa.s.sing on the Divine mandate-was permitted, even by the most conservative of the ecclesiastical hierarchy, just as no one would dispute the magic of the eucharistic celebration that would follow.

Stefan, too, came forward-not really a priest, of course, but his lack of true priestly authority in no way detracted from what the others did, and his message strengthened Denis' hope as the Deryni adept briefly laid his hands on Denis' bowed head.

Everything is going fine, Stefan told him. Be of good cheer. And may G.o.d bless and defend you, young Deryni priest!

Denis basked in that appellation all through the rest of the ordination ceremony, even daring to let himself get caught up in the very un-Deryni magic as his hands were anointed with the sacred chrism, the more worthily to handle the eucharistic elements, and he was invested with the chasuble and other physical accoutrements of a priest. G.o.d did not strike him dead on the spot for his presumption-but then, neither had He struck Jorian until the new priest tried to exercise his priesthood.

As the moment approached for Denis to do so, he knew with a cold and humble sobriety that his own moment of testing was still to come. The archbishop's treachery aside, who was to dictate when an angry G.o.d might exercise His judgment? For that matter, who was to say that merasha itself was not the instrument of G.o.d's wrath? G.o.d usually chose to work through mortal agents. What need had He to work outright miracles, when more usual vehicles were at hand?

The Ma.s.s resumed where it had left off before the ordination began. As the choir sang the Offertory, Denis stood beside the archbishop with his newly ordained brethren, facing the congregation, and watched Jamyl and other representatives of the new priests' families come forward with the gifts of bread and wine. Jamyl had contrived to carry the wine cruet-the other presenters' deference undoubtedly nudged in the proper direction by subtle Deryni persuasion-but Denis could read no hint on his brother's face as to whether he had been able to make the switch. Nor, when Jamyl gave him the cruet, could he coax any kind of mental confirmation as their hands brushed. Jamyl's shields were rigid.

Denis feared the worst. Why else would Jamyl shut him out? Praying that he did not bear his own death in his hands, he set the cruet on the tray the archbishop had received from Benjamin's elderly mother and tried not to stare as de Nore turned briefly to hand tray and cruets to the waiting Father Gorony, who took them back to the altar. His heart was in his throat as he moved mechanically into the place a.s.signed him for the concelebration and watched de Nore offer up the bread, numbly repeating the accompanying prayer with the others.

"Suscipe, sancte Pater, omnipotens aeterne Deus, hanc immaculatam hostiam..." Holy Father, almighty and everlasting G.o.d, accept this unblemished sacrificial offering, which I, Thy unworthy servant, make to Thee, my living and true G.o.d...

The cup was next. With ponderous care, de Nore let Gorony pour wine from the cruet into his great, jewelled chalice, then blessed the water and added but a few drops.

"Offerimus tibi, Domine, calicem salutaris..." We offer Thee, Lord, the chalice of salvation...

Denis feared it might not be his chalice of salvation-not in this world, at any rate-but there was no turning back now. If the switch had not been made, his only remaining hope was a miracle. Denis believed in miracles, but he did not think he had ever been singled out personally as the subject of one. And a miracle had not saved Jorian, who Denis felt had been far more deserving.

He followed numbly through the censing, the lavabo, and the prayers that followed, reciting all the proper words and making all the proper physical responses, but setting his heart on but one plea.

O Lord my G.o.d, in You do I put my trust, he prayed. Save me from all them that persecute me, and deliver me... If I can truly serve You best with my death, then I freely offer it, even as I offer this bread and wine upon Your altar-but can I not serve You even better with my life... ?

The choir sang the Sanctus, more sweetly than Denis had ever heard it sung-Holy, Holy, Holy-and he tried to let the joy it evoked buoy him as he lifted his hands toward the pale, fragile Host the archbishop raised in mystical adoration, whispering the words of consecration with every iota of his faith.

"Hoc est einem corpus meum." This is my body...

The chime of the sacring bell plunged him into profound reverence as he and his fellow priests followed the archbishop's bows and elevation, and he hardly dared to look at the chalice the archbishop raised next, faith and fear tumbling wildly in his heart as he echoed de Nore's words.

"Simili modo postquam coenatum est, accipiens et hunc praeclarum Calicem in sanctas ac venerabiles ma.n.u.s suas." In like manner, when He had supped, He took this goodly cup into His holy and venerable hands...

Help, Lord, for the G.o.dly man ceaseth; for the faithful fall from among the children of men! Denis prayed.

"Hic est einem calix sanguinis mei..." This is the chalice of my blood, of the new and everlasting covenant, a mystery of faith. It shall be shed for you and many others so that sins may be forgiven. Whenever you shall do these things, you shall do them in memory of me...

In a magic that had nothing to do with being either Deryni or human, Denis became the sacrifice in that instant, offering up his own life's blood in unreserved dedication, as the Christ had offered His and Jorian had offered his. A profound peace filled him as he followed the rest of the prayers leading to communion and then knelt with the others to receive first the bread and then the wine. The Host was light as dew on his tongue; and he allowed himself but one thought as de Nore brought the great chalice to his lips and he reached up to lightly steady it.

Into Thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit. May it be done according to Thy will...

"Sanguis Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodial animam tuam in vitam aeternam," de Nore murmured. May the blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ preserve thy soul unto everlasting life...

Barely mouthing his "Amen," Denis drank from the cup. The wine was sweet and heady, lighter than he remembered, igniting a gentle but growing tingle that spread from his stomach, up his spinal column, and out to the tips of his fingers and toes, to explode at the back of his head in a starburst of warmth and light and love-and it was not merasha.

Light seemed to fountain from the vessels still on the altar, from the tabernacle on the credence shelf behind it, from the chalice de Nore carried back to the altar, and Denis sensed a similar energy pulsing through the bodies of all those a.s.sembled to a.s.sist. Benjamin and Melwas, kneeling reverently to either side of him, had the same glow; and the ciborium de Nore set solemnly in his hands a few minutes later throbbed gently with a rhythm that was the heartbeat of the universe, silvery radiance spilling from the cup to bathe his hands in light that apparently only he could see.

He felt as if he was floating a handspan off the ground as he rose to go down to the communion rail where his brother waited with the other members of the new priests' families to receive the Sacrament. Indeed, he made certain he was not floating, for the way he felt-his Deryni powers not only intact but apparently enhanced-he thought he could have, given even a whit more provocation. The intimacy of the moment in which, a priest at last, he gave his brother Holy Communion for the first time, was almost too much joy to contain, the awe and wonder on Jamyl's face a sight he would cherish until the day he died.

And when the king slipped in to kneel beside Jamyl, pointedly turning his face toward Denis when de Nore would have come to claim the privilege, Denis could only marvel silently at the sign of royal favor. To give the Sacrament to his king set yet another seal on this most glorious and blessed day of his life.

His perceptions gradually diminished to more normal levels as he settled into ministering to the other communicants come forward to receive, and he sensed a slight lethargy stealing along his limbs as he neared the end, but that was surely from sheer physical fatigue and Laran's medicines, not merasha's insidious corruption. The sedative effect was stronger than he had expected from the one sample he'd had from Laran, but not uncomfortably so-though he did see Charles stifle a yawn, a little farther along the rail, and sensed Melwas and Argostino fighting drowsiness, too.

Physical after-reaction threatened more insistently as he returned to the altar to surrender his ciborium, but he was able to counteract much of it by running through a brief fatigue-banishing spell as he knelt with his brethren to watch de Nore and Gorony consolidate the contents of all the ciboria into one and place it in the tabernacle. Then de Nore returned to his faldstool to kneel in meditation while Gorony performed the final ablutions-the last opportunity for something to go wrong. For if Gorony detected any difference in the taste of the wine...

Fortunately, the nervous seminarian who came forward to pour the wine and water for Gorony was clumsy, and the wine cruet slipped from his shaking fingers and shattered on the marble floor before he or anyone else could prevent it. Gorony's obvious impatience was distracted by the king choosing that moment to rise and slip quietly back up the aisle with his attendants, to escape before the crowds began to leave, and the archbishop's chaplain simply signalled for more wine to be brought from the sacristy-by Stefan, who sternly escorted the disgraced seminarian back into the sacristy, where Deryni persuasion undoubtedly dealt with whatever memory he might have had of his "accident" having been commanded.

"How did you do it?" Denis was finally able to ask his brother later that night, when an oddly tense Jamyl drew him aside for a few moments during the celebration feast, both of them confirming with Deryni senses that they could not be overheard. "It must have been when you brought the cruet forward at the Offertory."

Solemnly, Jamyl shook his head. "I didn't do it, Denis," he whispered. "I couldn't. They were watching too closely. I don't know what happened, but you drank merasha and you weren't affected."

"What?"

The king chose that moment to come up to Denis for a blessing, curtailing all further discussion with Jamyl, but Denis pondered the implications of Jamyl's revelation for the rest of the evening and, later that night, knelt in trembling question and thanksgiving in the now deserted church.

Or, no, not deserted. The red lamp burning before the tabernacle reminded him of that-if ever he could have forgotten it after what had happened. And as he lifted his eyes timidly to the Crowned King on the cross above the altar, he knew that he had experienced as much of a miracle as any man could ever hope for- and that he would spend the rest of his life trying to serve the purpose of the One Who had spared him today.

O Lord, I am Deryni, but I am also Your child, he prayed. And though I never really doubted, now I truly believe You have ordained the time to bring Your other Deryni children back into an equal partnership with the sons of humankind-for You have saved me from the wrath of men who would misuse Your Sacrament to destroy me. For this salvation, I give You thanks.

He swallowed with difficulty and eased back on his heels, trying to still the trembling of his clasped hands.

I think perhaps we Deryni are not really so different from other men after all, Lord, he went on more boldly, searching the serene Face. You give us gifts the humans do not understand and therefore fear-and some among our number have, indeed, abused their gifts in the past, and doubtless will do so in the future-but so doth mankind in his frailty abuse many other gifts not unique to the Deryni. We ask no special favor, Lord-only, let us be judged by our fellows and by You on our individual merits and failings, and not on the merits and failings of our race.

He bowed his head and closed his eyes.

Adsum, Domine-here am I, Lord. You called me in the hour of my begetting, and today I have publicly answered that call and bound me to Your service. Nor did You forsake me in my hour of need. Give me wisdom and strength, Lord, to know Your will and to do it as best / can, that I may always be Your true priest and servant, ministering to all Your children, both human and Deryni, with tolerance, compa.s.sion, and love... That IS why You saved me-isn't it?

In days to come, whenever he returned to the memory of that jumbled monologue with G.o.d, he would never be really certain whether his imagination had gotten the better of him, or whether, as he raised his head, his eyes swimming with tears, the image of the Sacred King actually had given a slight nod.

legacy june 21, 1105 One of the pivotal events mentioned in Deryni Rising and the succeeding books of THE CHRONICLES OF THE DERYNI-though it takes place some fifteen years before the trilogy begins-is King Brion Haldane's slaying of the Marluk, Charissa's father, in a magical confrontation. From the Haldane point of view, of course, the Marluk only got what he deserved, after daring to challenge the rightful King of Gwynedd for his throne and crown.

Quite naturally, the Marluk's supporters disagreed, even as his heiress prepared to take up his fight when she came of age, for both father and daughter came of the senior branch of the House of Festil, whose rival claim to Gwynedd's crown dated from the days immediately post-Interregnum-never mind that the Festils had usurped the throne from a Haldane king in the first place. For more than two hundred years, the descendants of Mark of Festil, the son gotten by Imre, the last Festillic king, on his sister Ariella, stubbornly chose to argue that Cinhil Haldane and his successors were the usurpers, overlooking-especially after a few generations had pa.s.sed-the stigma normally attached to the offspring of an incestuous brother-sister union.

"Legacy" tells a part of that early story, but from the Festillic side rather than the Haldane: the eye witness account of the Marluk's death as the eleven-year-old Charissa told it, filtered through the perspectives and ambitions of Wencit of Torenth, her distant cousin-who also happened to be next after her in the Festillic succession. It provides an interesting counter to the Haldane version, I think-because official histories are almost always written by the winners, after all. I would venture to guess that most of history's blackest villains-unless they were actually deranged-generally had what were, for them, quite rational reasons for doing what they did. Few sane individuals are nasty just for the sake of being nasty.

By Festillic lights, then, Charissa was no villainess at all, but her father's loyal daughter, born and bred to the expectation that one day she would have to carry on her father's crusade to reclaim the throne he felt was rightfully Festillic. Though some of her seeming callousness in Deryni Rising must certainly come of that early horror of seeing her father killed before her eyes, yet is one left with the impression that, for the most part, she simply did what she felt she had to do to satisfy her family honor. One is tempted to wonder how different things might have been for everyone if she had married her cousin Wencit.

Of even more interest to me than Charissa, however, was the insight I gained into the character of Wencit, by watching him react to Charissa's observations. At thirty-two, it is obvious that Wencit of Torenth already had his own best interests firmly in mind-for though of both Torenthi and Festillic royal blood, he was not bom heir to the crown of Torenth. He was the king's second son, and his elder brother had a son. Someday, I'll write the story of how he came to be king...

LEGACY.

The tower chamber was airy and filled with light- rare enough in any castle, but especially at High Cardosa, where the winds swept down the Rheljan range even in summer and forced the shuttering of most windows year-round. This chamber was not shuttered, however, for the russet-clad man reading in a pool of sunlight had more than a pa.s.sing competence in the working of weather magic. No breath of breeze disturbed the age-yellowed parchment rolls spread on his work table, though the black hart banners and orange pennons declaring the presence of the court of Torenth fluttered and snapped on the gusts outside, and the wind whined among the crenellated battlements.

Nor was the presence of the royal court a commonplace event this far from the Torenthi capital, as advancing age gradually curtailed the movements of the king. Traveling by slow stages, the aging Nimur II, his two sons, and his grandson had arrived with a small entourage nearly a week before, accompanying the vanguard of the Duke of Tolan's forces. Hogan Gwernach, called the Marluk, was bent on reclaiming his Festillic birthright-and that concerned Nimur acutely, since, after Hogan's daughter Charissa, the Festillic succession pa.s.sed back to the House of Furstan and gave Nimur and his heirs legal claim to the Crown of Gwynedd.

The Furstan claim was very old, dating from the marriage of Mark, son of the last Festillic king, to a daughter of the first Nimur, and strengthened a generation ago when Hogan's grandmother had married a lesser Furstan prince. It would be further confirmed when young Charissa was officially betrothed to the king's grandson at Michaelmas-an expectation not entirely to the liking of the man in the tower, but it could be endured. With a brother and a nephew ahead of him in the succession, it was not likely that Prince Wencit of Torenth would ever rule the combined lands of Torenth and Gwynedd in his own right, even if Hogan was successful; but on the other hand, the larger the Furstan lands became, the larger would be his own portion as only brother of the future king. The genealogy governing all of this was very complicated and a subject far more fitting for the scrutiny of heralds than of princes, but Wencit had made it his business to learn all the nuances, nonetheless. One could never predict with overmuch accuracy just what role the Fates might call upon one to play.

He thought about Hogan and the Festillic claim as he unrolled another parchment. The dispute over Gwynedd was not a new one. Augarin Haldane had first called himself High King of Gwynedd nearly five centuries ago, after uniting several warring factions and petty princedoms in and around the central Gwynedd plain. He and his line had held the gradually growing kingdom for nearly two hundred years, until the first Festil, youngest brother of the then-king of Torenth, had swept into Gwynedd at the head of a Deryni army and accomplished a sudden coup.

The dynasty founded by Festil I lasted slightly more than eighty years-a time called the Interregnum by Haldane loyalists. Then Imre, the last Festillic king, had been ousted by the treachery of a man claiming to be a lost Haldane, a.s.sisted by the traitor Earl of Culdi, later briefly called a saint, and the restored Haldane line had reigned ever since.

With an impatient sigh, Wencit turned his attention to the scroll in his hands. Hogan was a.s.serting his claim even now, and Wencit was hard-pressed to divert himself while he waited for his cousin to return. The sunlight dimmed the faded brown ink on the parchment almost past reading, but he knew the words almost by heart anyway. It was one of the few remaining letters of his ancestress Ariella to her brother-lover Imre. The language was archaic, and couched in the manners and innuendoes of two centuries past, but it held the essence of the Festil and Furstan claims which Hogan at this very moment pursued. The child of incest spoken of in Ariella's letter was to become the same Prince Mark who had married the first King Nimur's daughter.

"And so we must stand resolute, my dearest Liege and Lord and Brother, for there are those who will condemn the fruit of our love-if they do not dismiss it as a wantonness on my part-and refuse to accept that the child is yours and, therefore, your heir. But even if the world holds our son b.a.s.t.a.r.d, issue of my own indiscretion, still he is a Festil; and if neither of us contracts other marriage, then he must be our heir and follow us upon the throne. Let others think what they will. We are Deryni; we need no other justification!"

Wencit smiled a little at the arrogance, but he did not wholly disagree as his pale, almost colorless eyes skimmed the rest of the letter. Like Imre and Ariella, he and his family were also Deryni, masters of magical abilities not usually granted to ordinary men-except, in annoying cases, an occasional Haldane, though this current one, Brion, had evidenced no particular signs of power. As Wencit read, the power of Ariella's love came through, even across two centuries of time. He felt almost like an eavesdropper as his eyes drank in her last, private words to her brother, and something akin to Imre's pa.s.sion stirred in his loins as he imagined the fiery Ariella suiting action to her promises. Surely theirs had been one of the great loves of all time. Of such a love had he himself dreamed, in the days when he had considered marrying Charissa himself. Not for the first time, he wondered what his father would do if something were to happen to Nephew Aldred. He did not particularly wish the boy ill, but the dream was tempting.

He sat staring out the window for a long time, indulging in a quiet fantasy which vacillated between the live Charissa and the dead Ariella, then blinked and came back to normal awareness as a disturbance at the main gate caught his attention. The banner at the head of the troop which galloped through was that of his cousin Hogan, but of Hogan himself there was no sign. In the midst of the mud-spattered company rode a slump-shouldered young girl cloaked in blue, mounted on a mouse-grey palfrey.

She was sobbing in Aldred's arms by the time he could make his way down to the great hall, her fair hair touseled around her face, sticking in damp tendrils and falling well past her waist. He felt a sharp twinge of envy for the callow, sweaty-palmed Aldred, who dared to hold her and give comfort at a time like this, but he suppressed it quickly. Charissa of Tolan was all but betrothed to his father's choice. Any resentment he harbored must be kept carefully shielded when among other Deryni, especially those of his family, with whom few barriers could be maintained without suspicion.

His brother Carolus was there, and also his father, the king, though the old man had had a bad day and leaned heavily on the arm of a liveried attendant. Ha.s.san, Hogan's tactician and the self-appointed bodyguard both to Hogan and his young daughter, was kneeling at the king's feet, black robes dust- and mud-caked, part of his keffiyeh drawn over the lower half of his face so that only the sorrowful eyes showed.

More battle-weary and grimy men-at-arms and a few knights were filing dejectedly into the hall, leaving a trail of armor and helmets and weapons as squires helped them to disarm, and Carolus gave brisk orders for their hosting before taking his father's arm and leading the way into a withdrawing chamber behind the dais. When he had settled the king in a high-backed armchair, Carolus motioned the black-clad Ha.s.san nearer. They were only six now: the royal family, Char-issa, and the Moor. Ha.s.san uncovered his face as he knelt once more before king and crown prince.

"Very well, what happened?" Carolus asked.

Ha.s.san lowered his eyes. "The Haldane waxed stronger, O my prince. What more can be said? The infidel overwhelmed my master with stolen magic and then cut off his head. We had no idea he possessed such power. Al Marluk should have been able to smash him like an insect!"

"Al Marluk was betrayed by a fellow Deryni!" Charissa said bitterly, speaking for the first time through her tears. "The half-breed Alaric Morgan helped the usurper. The taint of his magic surrounded the Haldane princeling like a mantle. My father fell by treachery!"

Wencit exchanged a glance with his brother, then glanced at the king. The old man was stunned by the news, taken anew by a bout of palsy; but his mind had not slipped, even if the aging body insisted upon betraying him.

"Morgan helped him?" the king whispered. "The Haldane's squire? But he's still a boy."

"A boy older than I, Sire," Charissa replied haughtily, gathering the shreds of her eleven-year-old dignity as she drew away from Aldred to stand alone. Wencit said and did nothing, but he could not help but feel pride. She was a Festil; but she was also a Furstan, and might have been his own. Her father would have been proud.

"How do you know Morgan helped the usurper?" the king persisted.

Charissa loosed the clasp of her cloak and let it fall to the floor, moving closer to the table beside the king's chair. There she poured dark red wine into an earthen cup, almost br.i.m.m.i.n.g the edge. Wencit stiffened, then moved closer to reinforce her if there was need. He knew what she was about to try, though he could tell that Aldred did not, and Carolus only suspected. The king knew, too, and nodded faintly as she took the cup in both hands and raised it to chest level.

"See my father's death through my eyes, Sire," she said softly, bowing her head over the cup and murmuring words under her breath as she pa.s.sed a hand over the wine. "If I can hold the power long enough, you shall see for yourself and decide whether Brion Haldane was acting alone."

As she set the cup on the table and drew a stool closer, sitting, the others drifted nearer. The king, Carolus, and even Ha.s.san obviously understood now what she was about to do, and Wencit knew that they could have done the same; but young Aldred had not yet mastered the technique, even though he was four years older than Charissa and a year older than Alaric Morgan. Wencit doubted it would give Morgan a moment's hesitation.

Knowing what she planned, he doused all the torches in the wall sconces with a gesture, leaving only the candles on the table burning. Charissa gave him a taut half bow of thanks before snuffing out all but one of the remaining candles. Stillness spread from her like mist as she began to stare into the wine.

"See the clearing at the end of the LleG.o.ddin Canyon Trace, where we met the Haldane's forces," she murmured, breathing on the surface in an arcane pattern. "See my father's host gathering as we waited for the Haldane. Feel the sunlight on your hands and faces and the breeze stirring your hair. See the banners unfurl, silk and gilt, and hear them snapping overhead. Smell the sweat and the fear and the clean, sharp scent of water and pine and trampled earth..."

Images formed on the surface of the wine as she spoke, hazily at first, but then with greater clarity and focus as the watchers themselves slipped into trance and became receptive to the spell she cast. Wencit let himself become a part of it, truly seeing through her eyes and memory, feeling her fears and joys and all the rest as the recollection unfolded.

Sunlight shimmered on the mail and weapons of the Tolan men as they formed a line across the meadow and waited for the enemy to appear. Hogan, mailed and helmed and clad all in white, sat his sorrel great-horse beside Charissa like an elder G.o.d, gazing intently across the meadow to the shadowed defile where his archfoe would shortly emerge. Only when all his men were set did he turn his golden eyes to his daughter.

"Be brave, Cara mia," he whispered, shifting his lance to his shield hand so that he could reach across and brush the line of her jaw with a gloved finger. "This is but a temporary diversion. Whatever happens, you carry my blood, the blood of kings. That shall go on."

She shook her head and seized his hand, cradling it against her cheek. "I don't care about blood. I care about you. Promise me you'll come back."

He smiled. "You must care about blood, my dearest one. One day you shall be a queen. But if it is within my power, you know I shall always come back to you." He laid his gloved hand briefly on her head. "If it is not possible, then I leave you with my father's blessing. G.o.d keep and protect you, Cara mia."

"You speak as if you mean to die," she whispered, eyes filling with tears. "You must not die. You must not!"

"We must accept what the Fates have decreed for us, Cara mia," he replied, pulling away to take lance once more. "I do not plan to die, but if G.o.d wills it, then you must be strong and carry on, and never forget who and what you are."

A sob caught in her throat, but he turned back toward the meadow anyway. Then he was setting spurs to the big destrier and moving out in front of his men, the lion jambes and ermine of Tolan quartered with the Haldane lions floating above him on the banner which followed.

Of a sudden, the enemy was before them, the pretender Brion and his brother emerging from the streambed at the canyon mouth on matching greys.

Morgan, looking astonished and a little scared, rode behind them on a black, with the rest of the Haldane men. Above them, supported by Prince Nigel's hand, flew the lion of Gwynedd, which also gleamed on the pretender's breast. But Charissa had eyes for little further detail, for it was the man in the lion surcoat who must be vanquished. The others were as chaff before the wind.

Only a few of the Haldane's men had cleared the stream and canyon narrows before Hogan lowered his lance and signalled the attack. The weight of the Tolan greathorses shook the earth as they galloped toward the surprised enemy. As the distance closed, someone on the other side shouted, "A Haldane!" but even when the cry was taken up by others of the pretender's party, it only beat ineffectually against the wordless roar of the Marluk's charging cavalry.

They met with a clash like thunder and lightning, the brittle, hollow shattering of lances weighed against the ring of steel on steel and the more sullen, sickening butcher-sounds of edged metal cleaving flesh, bone, and even mail. Through it all, the Festil banner floated bright and una.s.sailable above the fray, marking Hogan's place, ermine quartered with red, lions jambes dancing beside golden Haldane lions. The two would-be kings were swept apart repeatedly in the heat of battle. It was the Haldane who finally seized the initiative, wheeling his screaming battle stallion in a tight circle as he raised his sword and shouted her father's name.

"Gwernach!"

She saw the melee part. Her father had lost his helmet, or perhaps tossed it aside, and his pale hair floated around his head like a halo as he pushed back his mail coif. Light seemed to radiate from his head and hands, but perhaps that was only the imagination of an eleven-year-old girl. He jerked his horse to a rear, brandishing his own sword above his head, then laughed as he shouted defiance at the man he had come to slay.

"The Haldane is mine!" he cried, cutting down a Haldane knight as he spurred his way toward the long-awaited enemy. "Stand and fight, usurper! Gwynedd is mine by right!"

As the two clashed, their men parting to watch the battle of contending kings, Charissa's vision wavered. To the child, the details of one battle were rather like another, even with her father as one of the princ.i.p.als fighting for his life. She gasped when the horses were slain, first the sorrel and then the grey, turning her face away with tears welling in her eyes for the faithful, unfortunate beasts; but it was not until both men staggered apart to lean panting on their swords that the image again sharpened to specific detail. The men's voices were too low to be heard, but much could be inferred from their actions.

The two seemed to settle down to almost amiable discussion, Hogan's white teeth flashing several times in sardonic grin as he made some point against the Haldane's liking. Once he gestured toward his daughter with his sword, and Wencit could sense the girl's pride as she drew herself up more regally in the saddle.

First the Haldane and then Hogan traced symbols in the dust with their swordpoints then-ritual challenge being offered and accepted. The Haldane faltered at what Hogan drew, but then he caught himself and angrily erased the offending sigil with his boot. Hogan did not appear at all surprised.

Wencit was surprised, though, and startled almost out of the spell, for he knew what Hogan had been trying to do. Though any Deryni even partially trained in the formal use of magic would have known the spell, the Haldane should not have; but Morgan would have, and could have taught his master. Charissa was right about the half-breed's treachery!

Wencit watched as Charissa's vision showed the two backing apart, warding circles being raised, crimson and blue-circles of which the Haldane also should have had no knowledge. Then battle was being joined once more, this time with energies arcing from sword to sword like directed lightning.

The battle lasted long, though this one was followed with far more interest and understanding on Charissa's part than the physical battle earlier. Neither man moved, but the power flowing between them, flung and deflected, was enormous.

When even Charissa's vision could not pierce beyond the forces being contained in the dueling circle, Wencit shared her brief, queasy moment of apprehension. A little after that, the haze of the circle's dome cleared to reveal one figure staggering to its knees, sword still half-raised in a desperate but futile warding-off gesture. Heartsick, Wencit knew that it was Hogan.

The Haldane towered above him for a long time, weapon poised overhead to strike, but for a long moment something seemed to stay his hand. Fleetingly Wencit dared to hope that Hogan might yet prevail, might yet call forth extra power from some long-forgotten reservoir of strength to blast this base, pretending Haldane from existence.

But then the energies rippled again, and the weapon fell from Hogan's hands. As he fell forward on hands and knees, utterly spent, the victor's sword descended.

Charissa gasped and turned her head away, breaking the spell, and the image on the surface of the wine vanished. A sob caught in her throat, but when Aldred and even Carolus tried to comfort her, she shrank from their touch and shook her head, blinking back new tears and raising her head like the queen she surely was.

"No," she said steadily. "Now I must learn to stand alone and be strong. He is gone, but I shall not forget the manner of his living and dying. Nor shall I forget who was responsible for the latter. I shall avenge him."

"But Charissa," Aldred whispered, "for generations the Haldanes have held the potential for power like our own. What made your father think this Haldane would be different?"

The king cleared his throat and shook his head, brushing tears from rheumy eyes. "We had hopes," he said. "When Brion Haldane's father died, Brion was young. We believed there was no one left to guide him in the a.s.sumption of his powers. And when he evidenced no sign of those powers in the past ten years he has been king, we a.s.sumed the powers lost. Who would have thought the boy Morgan could do as he apparently has done?"