Childe Morgan Read online

  It was as mother to a bright and active young son that she found her greatest fulfillment, as he became less and less her baby and more and more a person. Alaric was quick and facile, a mannerly child, and easily kept up with other boys half again his age. Prince Brion and his brother Nigel were enough older than Alaric that they paid him little mind, save to include him in the teasing they gave their younger brother and their sisters, but Alaric and all the younger children interacted well. He longed to begin his page’s training, though he was yet too young for that, but he relished the lessons he shared with the royal princes and the sons of some of the favored courtiers. All the royal children were thriving, with the youngest now three years old—a matter of some concern to the queen, for there had been no royal pregnancy since Jathan.

  The prospect of a brother or sister for Alaric was much on his parents’ minds as well, as the nights grew longer and the weather worsened, for Alaric had also turned three, a week before Prince Jathan, and Alyce had yet to conceive again. Periodic reports on the progress of Zoë’s pregnancy only underlined Alyce’s own failure, and she worried that she had, indeed, miscarried earlier in the year; but she suspected that Kenneth’s ongoing fervor over the incident at Hallowdale was also taking its toll.

  “You must let it go, my darling,” she told him one wintry night early in December. “You must accept that there are some things that you simply cannot change, however much your honor cries out for justice. We Deryni have long been aware of this inequity. Come; we shall light a candle for those unfortunate victims, and then let them rest in peace, for they surely are in the bosom of God’s love.”

  He agreed to make the gesture, and went with her hand in hand down drafty and deserted corridors to the chapel royal in fleece-lined slippers and heavy night robes bundled over nightshirts and sleeping shifts, there to light a solitary candle against the darkness and weep together by its light, holding one another against the grief and the fear, for it could have been Alyce burnt at the stake in that distant village, or another like it—or even in the cathedral square of Rhemuth itself, if she were ever discovered in flagrant transgression against the narrow strictures set by the bishops against those of her kind.

  Later when they had returned to their chamber, their urgent lovemaking was silent and even violent, as if Kenneth tried, by sheer force of will and flesh, to imbue his wife with something of his fierce protection and strength, though he knew that, if the unthinkable occurred, he might not be able to protect her as he had done before their marriage.

  It was a sober winding-down of what had been a year punctuated both by joy and by sorrow. Alyce had hoped that she might have conceived on that night, to cancel out some of the sorrow with hope and new life, but the next weeks of waiting did not prove it so. As Advent counted down to the eve of Christmas, the weather grew increasingly foul, and it became clear that even the rebirth of the Light would be cloaked in gloom.

  The king and his family kept the feast of Christmas quietly that year, as befitted the religious aspect of the season, but a ferocious ice storm during the night of Christmas itself curtailed the appearance of the royal family at the cathedral the next morning for the traditional St. Stephen’s Day Mass and distribution of royal largesse afterward. It was a far cry from that other St. Stephen’s Day when Kenneth Morgan had finally summoned the courage to make his proposal of marriage to Alyce de Corwyn, but the two of them made a virtue of the weather as an excuse to keep mostly to their apartments that day, while Llion amused their son.

  On the day following, the Feast of Holy Innocents, the weather improved enough—barely—for the queen and her ladies to venture down to the cathedral at midday with the delayed largesse, for many of the people of the city depended on this bounty from the royal coffers to survive the winter. A resolute Prince Brion assisted his mother and her ladies in distributing the gifts of food and silver pennies from the cathedral steps, well wrapped up against the weather in fur-lined hat and cloak and stout boots, but the younger children they left in the care of those responsible for their supervision when parents could not be around.

  For Alaric, that meant stalking the castle halls with the younger princes and several of the junior squires, overseen by Sir Llion. The king had already rescheduled his customary petitioners’ court until the morning of Twelfth Night, though he still would hold it on the steps of the cathedral, and had planned a day’s hunting while the queen carried out her royal duties; but he and his party returned after only a few hours, wet and half-frozen and without success in the field.

  The weather deteriorated steadily in the week leading up to Twelfth Night Court, such that it became clear that many of those normally expected would not be able to complete the winter journey to Rhemuth. On the eve of Epiphany, however, an exhausted and half-frozen rider arrived from Coroth with news that soon would dominate nearly every conversation within the walls of Rhemuth Castle.

  “An urgent dispatch from the Corwyn regents, Sire,” the messenger blurted out, even as he half-collapsed to one knee before the startled king and extended a sealed dispatch in a gloved hand that shook from cold and fatigue. It was Sir Robert of Tendal, Kenneth realized, as the young man pulled off his fur-lined cap, son of the Chancellor of Corwyn. “The Crown Prince of Torenth is dead!”

  “Prince Nimur? He’s dead?” Donal repeated, shocked. He and Richard and Kenneth and a few of his other closest advisors had been finalizing the schedule for the next day’s court ceremonials around a table set before the fire in the king’s withdrawing room, fortified by steaming cups of mulled wine. At Sir Robert’s bald announcement, however, every face had turned first toward the gasping newcomer, then toward the king, mouths agape.

  “Tell me what you know,” Donal ordered, at the same time breaking the seal and unfolding the missive. “Richard, pour him some wine, and someone give him a seat closer to the fire.”

  Still breathing heavily, numbly fumbling his way to the stool that Jiri Redfearn quickly vacated, Sir Robert peeled off his sodden gloves and gratefully accepted the mulled wine that Duke Richard set between his hands, nodding his thanks as Kenneth removed his own cloak and draped it close around the man’s shoulders.

  “I know very little beyond what is in the letter, Sire,” Sir Robert said, after an audible gulp of the warm wine, as the king scanned the letter. “The Hort of Orsal sent what word we have. His envoy said that rumors had reached the Orsal’s court midway through December that the prince was ill. Given the vague nature of the report, and the state of the weather at this time of year, that alone did not seem to justify sending urgent word to Coroth or to you.” He paused to fortify himself with another gulp of wine, then set aside the cup and held his shaking hands closer to the fire.

  “Then, four days ago, a fast galley arrived in Coroth with word that Prince Nimur had died, just before Christmas, and that Prince Károly had been proclaimed the new heir, to be installed at Torenthály on the first day of the new year.”

  “Károly?” Lord Seisyll blurted, as Donal gaped in astonishment. “Not Prince Torval?”

  Sir Robert shook his head, still collecting himself. “There was no mention of Prince Torval.”

  “But Károly is the third son. How can that be?” Duke Richard murmured.

  “I don’t know,” Donal replied, numbly handing the missive to his brother. “Something must have happened to Torval as well. There is no mention of him in Sobbon’s letter. But as news of Prince Nimur’s death spreads, I have no doubt that further details will eventually become available.”

  “Perhaps from a Torenthi ambassador at tomorrow’s court, Sire,” Seisyll murmured distantly, though he could guess at the cause of Nimur’s death, and thought he might have access to more immediate information that, unfortunately, could not be shared with the king.

  Donal sighed, briefly gazing into the fire as if far, far away.

  “A chilling thought has come to my mind,” he said after a few seconds. “One perhaps not worthy of me, in the face of anothe
r father’s undoubted grief over the death of his son.” At his ministers’ looks of question, he went on. “Prince Nimur was in his prime, trained from birth to be a king one day. He would have made my heir a formidable adversary. Károly is a decade younger than his brother was, and would never have expected to be the heir. That could make all the difference, when I am gone.”

  Murmurs of agreement whispered through the room, along with protests that the king’s demise was surely far in the future, all subsiding as the king rose.

  “We’ve done enough for tonight,” Donal said, heading for the door. “I must think further on this new development. This undoubtedly will unsettle the balance of power in Torenth. Pray God that it delays any realistic plans for making a move against Gwynedd.”

  THE king’s early adjournment of their meeting enabled Seisyll Arilan to begin his own inquiries immediately, regarding the death of Torenth’s crown prince. Fortunately, Michon de Courcy was always resident in Rhemuth at this time of year, because of Twelfth Night Court; and this year, unlike the previous year, Seisyll had been able to arrange for Michon to occupy the guest room next to the king’s library, where the castle’s Portal lay.

  He made his way up to the library corridor and knocked on Michon’s door, at the same time probing beyond the door with his mind. Within seconds he heard the latch lift as Michon opened the door and admitted him.

  “What’s happened?” Michon asked, as he closed the door again, for Seisyll’s expression was deathly somber.

  “I’ll assume you haven’t yet heard that Nimur of Torenth is dead—the son, not the father.”

  “What?” It was not really a question, but Seisyll held out his hand and, when Michon took it, gave the answer his colleague was really seeking, reiterating in an instant the revelations of the meeting he had just left. Michon briefly closed his eyes as he assimilated the information, then shook his head and sighed in resignation.

  “He’s gone and killed himself attempting forbidden spells,” he whispered. “I shall be very surprised if that is not the case. And Torval—something obviously has happened to him as well. Oh, Camille, Camille, what have you wrought?”

  He drew himself up with another heavy sigh, then briskly drew Seisyll onto the Portal square in the center of the room, a hand slipping up to clasp the back of Seisyll’s neck. Without need for prompting, Seisyll lowered his shields and yielded control, only vaguely aware as the other quickly gathered up the strands of energy surrounding them and reached out for the signature of their destination. Between one heartbeat and the next, they had bridged the two locations and were standing on the Portal square outside the Camberian Council chambers.

  “I’ll ask you to summon the Council,” Michon said, nudging Seisyll in the direction of the great double doors. “It has occurred to me that Rhanamé should know if Prince Nimur really is dead, and perhaps some of the circumstances. I’ll return as soon as I can.”

  Seisyll turned to give a nod of agreement. “Very well. It is also possible that Khoren knows something, or can quickly find out. I’ll ask him, and brief the others while you’re gone.”

  “Excellent.” In the next breath, Michon had disappeared—and reappeared standing in the dimness of a trapped Portal at the great university of Rhanamé, on the river that marked the border between Nur Hallaj and the Kingdom of R’Kassi. It was very near where he and Oisín had traveled the previous summer to find a royal mount for Prince Brion, and in fact, both he and Oisín had paid their respects then in the school’s great chapel.

  The red-robed man seated at the writing desk just opposite the Portal rose as the newcomer appeared on the Portal’s base, slowly and deliberately setting aside an elegant swan-feather quill. Michon could feel the faint brush of his shields being subtly probed, but he did not resist, only showing his empty hands to either side and then tracing a pattern known only to initiates of the inner school at Rhanamé.

  “Michon de Courcy,” he said quietly, identifying himself. “I should like to speak with Master Isaiya, if he is available. It is a matter of some urgency.”

  With a nod of permission granted, the man beckoned Michon forward, across the Portal boundaries, which Michon could not have passed without leave. It was a more subtle trap than many, that protected the semipublic Portal at Rhanamé, but no less powerful for being less obvious.

  Even as Michon complied, a door opened into the room to reveal another red-robed man framed in the doorway, shorter than the first. The man bowed deeply from the waist, hands crossed on his breast, then indicated that Michon should follow.

  Michon knew the corridor down which he was led, and followed obediently to a familiar door, where his guide set a splayed hand flat on a symbol in the center of the door, then pushed it open and stood aside. The man inside, who came slowly to his feet, was small and slender, with skin like polished mahogany and white, tightly curled hair cropped close to his head, as was his closely trimmed beard. The eyes were a rich chocolate brown in which Michon knew he could easily sink, looking out at him with the wisdom accumulated in nearly a century of study and contemplation.

  “Dear Michon,” the man said, holding out both his hands to his visitor, eyes smiling as well as lips. “Allow me to guess the reason for your late-night visit. You have come about Prince Nimur.”

  Inclining his head both in agreement and respect, Michon came to take the two slender hands in his and kiss them, looking up then into the brown eyes.

  “Is it true?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes, it is. Please, sit,” the man replied, at the same time signing for Michon’s guide to leave them.

  Michon did as he was told, settling into a high-backed chair with broad arms, similar to the one in which Master Isaiya now resumed his seat, but he knew it was not his place to speak further, until the master proceeded.

  “News only reached us yesterday,” Isaiya said, “but I suspected that it would soon bring you here as well. I am aware that you were concerned about the direction Prince Nimur’s experiments were taking him. I regret I must confirm that your fears for his safety were well-founded.”

  “May I ask what happened?” Michon asked, when the master did not immediately continue.

  “I do not have details of the experiment itself, or what went wrong,” the old man replied. “Perhaps we shall never know—nor would wish to—for Prince Torval witnessed it, or perhaps even assisted his brother, and went quite mad. I do not have specific details of that, either, but sufficient to say that the masters in Beldour felt it a serious enough affliction that they barred him from the succession, permanently. The Patriarch came in person to seek our guidance, and reluctantly accepted that this was the wisest course for all concerned.”

  Michon had visibly recoiled at this revelation, and lifted a hand in apology for his lapse, but Isaiya only nodded his understanding.

  “Perhaps you will have heard that the third brother, Károly, now is the Torenthi heir,” the master went on. “Quite candidly, I am not certain such will prove beneficial for Torenth, for Károly has had no preparation for this new role thrust upon him. The next brother, Wencit, perhaps is the more accomplished of the remaining Furstán males, so far as power is concerned, but I have heard misgivings expressed about his scruples. But perhaps Károly will surprise us all, if he has time and the will to augment his training. His father could have another twenty years of vigorous good health. The same probably cannot be said of your king.” He cocked his head. “But that is not something he will wish to hear, I think.”

  Michon had steepled his fingers as Isaiya spoke, elbows braced against the arms of his chair and thumbs resting taut against his breastbone, but now he briefly bowed his head over his joined forefingers, briefly rubbing them against tight-clenched lips.

  “The relative ages of both crown princes have been noted already in Rhemuth,” he said. “If both their fathers live another twenty years, or even another decade, the two heirs will be somewhat evenly matched. But what concerns me far more at the moment is th
e incident that claimed Prince Nimur’s life. You are aware, I expect, that he was receiving training from Camille Furstána?”

  “So I have been told,” Isaiya said neutrally.

  “What you may not have been told is that she has also been training a young Cardosan mage called Zachris Pomeroy.”

  “I have heard the name,” Isaiya allowed.

  “He, in turn, has been putting ideas into the head of Prince Hogan.”

  “Ah, the current Festillic Pretender to the throne of Gwynedd.”

  “You see the reason for my concern,” Michon said.

  “I do, indeed. And you intend to do…what?”

  Michon sighed, wearily lowering his hands to both chair arms. “I haven’t yet decided. I very much doubt that Hogan will make any move against Gwynedd while Donal is alive; he is in his vigorous prime, and has only to wait, in hope that Prince Brion will succeed while still a minor. If that occurs, I very much fear the outcome.”

  “Has Donal made provision for securing his son’s magic?” Isaiya asked.

  “Unknown,” Michon replied. “There was to be a Deryni protector for the prince, who presumably would have been instructed in how to bring him to his father’s power at the appointed time; you may have heard how Donal Haldane fathered a son on the daughter of Lewys ap Norfal, intending that the boy should be groomed to serve as Prince Brion’s Deryni companion and mentor.” At Isaiya’s nod, Michon went on.

  “Unfortunately for Donal’s hopes, the boy was killed a few years ago—a dreadful affair that may have reached your ears, and apparently done, at least in part, because he was known to be Deryni, though no one was aware of his true paternity. I had hoped the mother might be entrusted with the appropriate knowledge, in case her son did not survive to accomplish his mission; but she, too, is dead.”