In the King's Service Read online

  But another part of her rejoiced in her friend’s unsolicited and tearful declaration, and was already considering ways in which she might allow what was being asked. To have a friend with whom she could be utterly candid, in everything . . .

  “Zoë, have you told anyone else about these astonishing suspicions?” she asked softly.

  Zoë drew herself up indignantly. “Certainly not!”

  “Not even your confessor?”

  “Not even him. No one,” Zoë said emphatically.

  Alyce drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. Whether she obeyed her head or her heart, she would have to set certain controls, to protect both of them; but especially if it be the latter, best it be with permission and cooperation. And she would need both time and privacy to do that properly—luxuries she did not have at the moment, for the bells would soon be ringing for the evening office.

  “Zoë, give me your hand,” she murmured, laying hers on the shelf between them.

  In the other’s eyes, she could see uncertainty warring with the trust just declared, but Zoë Morgan did not hesitate to place her hand in Alyce’s, even though it was trembling.

  “You are so brave!” Alyce whispered, lightly closing her fingers around Zoë’s. “I know you said you weren’t afraid, and I know you meant it, at the time. But how could you not be afraid?—though I promise you, on my immortal soul, that I’ll not hurt you.”

  She cupped her other hand over their joined ones and dared to send a gentle tendril of calm across their link. At the same time, she bypassed Zoë’s will to resist and began teasing out the necessary threads for plaiting a quick protection that must suffice until she could do the job right—or until Father Paschal could be persuaded to assist her. Zoë had gone very still, and a little glassy-eyed.

  “Zoë, understand that it will take some time to do what really needs to be done,” Alyce whispered as she worked, “and we don’t have that time right now—not to do it properly. But in the meantime, I need to protect both of us.”

  “Are you—reading my mind?” Zoë managed to whisper, eyelids fluttering.

  “No, I’m not—and I won’t, without your permission—but I am setting up certain safeguards. For now, I’ll simply require that you speak of this to no one. From this moment, you will be physically unable to speak of it, other than in my presence and with my permission. In fact, until I tell you otherwise, you’ll have only vague recollections regarding what we’ve just discussed, and what’s happening to you now. Later, I’ll give you back full memory, but for now, that’s what I need. I’d like it to be with your consent.”

  Zoë gave a slight nod, almost drifting into sleep.

  “Good,” Alyce said. She gave the captive hand a squeeze and released it, also releasing Zoë to the controls she had just set. “You know, we’d better clean up here, or we’ll be late for chapel. Tomorrow we can pick up where we left off.”

  And by tomorrow, Alyce thought to herself, maybe I’ll have figured out the best way to do what needs to be done. But oh, Zoë, bless you for your faith!

  Zoë blinked and ventured a faintly bewildered smile that dissolved into a yawn. “Goodness, it’s been a long afternoon, hasn’t it?” she said. “I can’t imagine why I’m so tired. I hope I don’t nod off during evening prayers.”

  “We both could use some fresh air,” Alyce agreed.

  “YOU are right that I would not have approved,” Paschal said the next time he came, after Alyce had sent Zoë for refreshments, and told him what she had done. “But having said that, I must confess to being most impressed at how far you have brought her along.” He had been examining one of Zoë’s illuminated pages, but Alyce knew he was not referring to the artistry of pen or brush or paint.

  “Indeed, your work appears to have been both subtle and effective,” Paschal continued, sitting. “Had you not told me, I would not have thought to look at her more closely—which I now must do, as soon as she returns; you know that.”

  Alyce only nodded, saying nothing.

  “I would ask what you were thinking,” Paschal went on, “but the answer to that is clear. She is fond of you, and you of her—and I know it will have given you much comfort to find a friend on whom you may rely—and that may well be true, within these walls. But it is a short-sighted measure, Alyce.”

  “Could you not reserve that judgment until after you have examined her?” Alyce said boldly.

  “I could—and I shall,” he replied, rising as Zoë re-entered the room with a tray decked with cups, a jug of wine, and a plate of sweet cakes and nuts. “Zoë, dear, put those down and come here, please.”

  Apparently unconcerned, Zoë did as he requested, coming fearlessly to look at him in question. “Yes, Father?”

  “Have you ever seen Lady Alyce conjure handfire?”

  The bald question took Zoë totally by surprise, but she only said, “That is forbidden, Father.”

  “Answer the question!” Paschal snapped, feigning anger, though his flicker of thought to Alyce acknowledged the deft evasion in lieu of an answer.

  “No, Father, I have not,” Zoë said, looking mystified.

  “Say that you have never seen her conjure handfire, or kindle fire from the air,” Paschal persisted.

  “But, I never have—”

  “Say it!” Paschal commanded again.

  Looking puzzled rather than alarmed—and it was clear to both Paschal and Alyce that Zoë believed she was telling the truth—Zoë said patiently, “I have never seen Alyce conjure handfire, or kindle fire from the air. Father, why do you keep asking me this?”

  “He asks to test both of us,” Alyce replied, smiling as she came to put an arm around Zoë’s shoulders. “And we’ve both passed. You may remember and speak freely now.”

  An odd look came over Zoë’s face as her gaze flicked between Alyce and the priest, but when her lips parted to actually speak, Paschal shook his head and came to brush his fingertips lightly across her forehead, exerting control.

  “Relax, don’t speak,” he murmured, letting Alyce help him guide the compliant Zoë into a chair.

  He spent some little while probing his subject, testing the safeguards Alyce had set, tsking, adjusting, then withdrew, leaving Zoë drifting in trance.

  “Very nicely done, my dear,” he said quietly to Alyce. “I believe that only one of us could bypass what you have done—and that is hardly a danger, I think. I shall be quite interested to observe where all this leads.

  “Of course, you must both be careful not to provoke undue attention,” he went on, “for if it came to be suspected that you had interfered with her mind, you and she could both be in a good deal of danger; but here in the shelter of the convent, you should have little to fear. You have learned your lessons well—and better than that, you have applied them with both restraint and compassion. She is a true friend, Alyce.”

  “I know, Father—and thank you,” Alyce murmured.

  “Thank you,” he replied, lightly touching Zoë’s hand. “And now, perhaps dear Zoë might pass some of the those sweet cakes to a hungry old priest, for I find myself grown quite peckish with all this talk.”

  Chapter 10

  “Hear counsel, and receive instruction.”

  —PROVERBS 19:20

  MEANWHILE, as Alyce and Marie made lives for themselves at Arc-en-Ciel, life at the court of Rhemuth settled into welcome domesticity. All through the first half of 1083, both Prince Brion and his secret half-brother continued to thrive; and early in July, shortly after their respective birthdays—Brion’s second and Krispin’s first—the queen was delivered of another prince, Blaine Emanuel.

  “Sire, you have another fine son,” Jessamy announced happily, emerging from the queen’s bedchamber with a squalling, red-faced bundle wrapped in a coverlet of Haldane scarlet. “Methinks this prince will be another bold one, like his brother.”

  “But they shall be friends,” Donal insisted, an arm around his own brother’s shoulders as he and Richard came to inspect
the newborn infant, followed by a handful of assembled ministers. “Brothers should always be friends.”

  A covert look passed between Jessamy and the king as he briefly folded back the coverlet, for both knew that the remark had included her Krispin as well as the two trueborn princes.

  “The queen seemed not to labor overlong with this one,” Donal observed. “Is she well?”

  “Aye, well enough, Sire—given that birthing a baby is aptly termed ‘labor.’ Would you care to return your new son to his mother’s arms, and tender your admiration for the fruit of her labors?”

  He gave a boyish grin and took the squirming bundle from her arms, leading the parade of courtiers into the queen’s bedchamber, where Richeldis lay propped against a pile of snowy pillows in the great state bed, one of her ladies tidying the long braid lying over one shoulder.

  “Madam, I am come to bring your son back to you,” Donal said, bending to lay the child gently in the curve of her arm, “and I congratulate you on labors well spent. He is beautiful. I thank you.”

  Richeldis inclined her head with a hint of mischievous smile. “And I thank you, Sire,” she replied,“though perhaps next time, you might give me a somewhat daintier daughter?”

  He laughed aloud at that, echoed by the polite chuckles of the courtiers around him, then bent to kiss her forehead before shooing all of them out of the birthing chamber, himself following. Later that night, following on an informal supper in the upper council chamber, he and a few of his close associates drank the health of both mother and child.

  “Gentlemen, I give you the new prince: Blaine Emanuel Richard Cinhil Haldane,” he said, after Richard had toasted the queen. “May he have a long and happy life, and may he be a credit to his house.”

  Seisyll Arilan, included among their company, drank the toast dutifully enough, but his thoughts drifted, as they so often did, to another child of the royal household, and how he might gain proper access to that child. The Camberian Council’s inquiries about young Krispin MacAthan cropped up with annoying regularity, and regularly he explained how it was not possible to make close examination of any child of the royal nursery without arousing suspicion.

  Besides, he reminded them, even if their worst fears came to be realized and young Krispin proved to be the king’s son, the child surely could constitute no threat to their designs for many years, and not without much training that certainly would come to light before it could constitute a real danger. Would they have Seisyll risk his own position of vantage within the royal household on only the possibility that the child was more than met the eye?

  “An audacious possibility has occurred to me,” Oisín Adair said thoughtfully, after yet another such discussion, some months after the birth of the new prince. As all eyes turned toward him in query, he shrugged.

  “I travel a great deal, as you know. Last week, my business took me to Ratharkin, to deliver a pair of broodmares to the governor. R’Kassan creams they were—very fine specimens.

  “While there,” he went on, lifting a restraining hand at Vivienne’s scowl of impatience, “I found myself dining at the governor’s table. And who should I find seated across from me but Sir Morian du Joux, who once was known as Morian ap Lewys.”

  “No!” Vivienne said sharply, before Oisín could continue. “If you’re thinking to send him to assess the boy, no.”

  “Well, he is the boy’s uncle,” Khoren said reasonably.

  “I don’t know,” Seisyll said doubtfully. “Vivienne, I know that you’ve never trusted him, because of his bloodline, but he’s been under our direction since the age of nine. It was Sief who kept him from court all these years, and who got Donal to go along with it, by suggesting that a Deryni placed at the Mearan court would be an extremely valuable asset.”

  “He is still Lewys ap Norfal’s son,” Vivienne said stubbornly.

  “Yes, and he has acted competently as our agent for more than twenty years, and has never put a foot wrong,” Michon pointed out. “I had part of his training, Vivienne. Oisín is right; I don’t know why it hasn’t occurred to us before.”

  “I regret that it has occurred to us now,” Vivienne muttered.

  “Would Jessamy allow access?” Dominy asked, ignoring the remark. “I know he’s her brother, and Krispin is his nephew, but has he even been back to Rhemuth since the boy’s birth?”

  Seisyll shook his head. “He didn’t come to Sief’s funeral—not that there was any love lost there, or that he could have heard the news and arrived in time. Besides, he and Jessamy probably haven’t seen one another more than half a dozen times since before their father’s death; he’d been fostered to court several years before that. After Sief married Jessamy, he did his best to poison the relationship between brother and sister, in hopes that this would keep her from corrupting him.”

  “Was there actually a danger of that?” Khoren asked.

  Oisín gave a snort. “Who knows? If we were talking about horses, I’d say that blood will tell. But Michon is right. So far as Morian is concerned, he has never, ever put a foot wrong.”

  Barrett de Laney, who had remained largely silent, jutted his chin in the direction of Oisín.

  “What would it take, to get Morian back to Rhemuth to meet his nephew?” he asked.

  “The king would have to summon him,” Seisyll said promptly. “Or Morian would have to present a convincing reason for a personal visit to Rhemuth, something requiring that he report to the king in person. Or,” he added, at Barrett’s gesture encouraging further development of this line of thinking, “the governor could be induced to send him to the king on some convincing pretext—and Morian does have the governor’s ear . . . and the situation in Meara is sufficiently volatile that Iolo Melandry does send regular reports to Rhemuth, and might want an occasional report to carry the weight of Morian’s verification that the information he’s been gathering is true.”

  “My thinking, precisely,” Barrett said with a faint, tight smile. “Oisín, could you work with that?”

  “You mean, could I approach Morian and ask him to manipulate the governor, to get himself sent to Rhemuth?” Oisín replied.

  “Exactly that.”

  Oisín considered briefly, then nodded, grinning. “I can be in Ratharkin within the next week. We shall see what can be arranged.”

  THERE was no working Portal in the palace at Ratharkin, but one had been established decades earlier at a manor half a day’s ride north of the city, formerly held by a Deryni lord but now occupied by a minor baron of the Old Mearan aristocracy. Oisín Adair sold horses regularly to Sir Evan Sullivan, whose daughter had married a Connaiti princeling, and Oisín also had set certain controls in Sir Evan so that he could show up unannounced and obtain use of a horse without anyone remarking on his sudden presence. Accordingly, not a fortnight after his meeting with the Council, Oisín made his way to the Portal at Sir Evan’s manor of Arkella, borrowed a horse, and set out for Ratharkin, arriving at midmorning.

  The R’Kassan cream that he was riding turned heads as he drew rein in the stable yard, and seemed to conjure most of the stableboys and squires within minutes—and also the attention of the animals Oisín had delivered to Governor Melandry a few weeks before, who whickered and called to the new arrival; R’Kassan creams seemed to prefer the company of other cream horses, and had eyes for no steed of any other color.

  The commotion also produced Iolo Melandry himself, who cast an appraising eye over Oisín’s mount.

  “That almost looks like one of the beasts from Arkella,” he said.

  “It is one of the beasts from Arkella,” Oisín replied, to forestall too much speculation. “My own threw a shoe not far from there, and I had to walk there and beg the use of this one. I mayn’t stay long, for I’ve business in Kindaloo on the morrow, but I hoped I might impose briefly for some refreshment. It’s a ferocious hot day.”

  “Then, you must come in and take some wine with me,” Iolo said, blissfully unaware that Oisín was encouragi
ng his impulse for hospitality. “And I shall ask Sir Morian to join us. He shares our love of fine horseflesh, as you know.”

  Oisín did know, and had planted that observation as well. Within minutes, the two of them were sitting beneath a breezy, shaded porch atop the palace walls, sipping chilled wine while Iolo reported on the progress of the horses he had bought from Oisín, and the difficulty of finding good trainers.

  Very shortly, Morian ap Lewys du Joux made his appearance, booted and spurred from an earlier ride, and buckling a silver-mounted Kheldouri dirk over a loose-fitting tunic of cool Cassani linen that fell to mid-thigh. In contrast to this relaxed attire, he wore his auburn hair sleeked back severely in a soldier’s knot, braided and clouted at the nape of the neck. Though he and Oisín affected only casual pleasure to meet again, a quick communication passed silently between them, such that, as Morian came to take the cup of wine Iolo offered, the merest contact of their hands was sufficient for Morian to trigger the controls long ago set, taking the governor instantly from full awareness into drowsing trance.

  When Morian had deepened that trance, instructing his subject to relax and enjoy his wine, he pulled a stool closer to sit beside Oisín as the two of them gazed out over the city.

  “I am somewhat surprised to see you here,” Morian said to him aside, sipping at his wine.

  “No more surprised than I, to be sent,” Oisín replied. “I have a somewhat delicate mission for you.”

  “Indeed.”

  “You have never met your nephew, I think,” Oisín said.

  Morian turned to gaze directly at Oisín. His eyes were a startling deep blue, almost violet.