The King’s Justice Page 17

  “So am I, Saer,” Nigel said, himself permitting a small chuckle as Arilan looked pained. “However, if we’ve quite finished reassuring one another, I should like to finish this meeting before it gets too late. Incidentally, Richenda, I’ll have our replies ready to send out by the day after tomorrow, so you’ll need to locate Morgan before then.”

  “Tomorrow night,” Richenda agreed. “You may observe, if you wish. And sometime in the next day or two, I’ll make the opportunity to have a private chat with your son.”

  Nigel’s son, however, was not getting the rest his father and companions supposed. Having received favorable reply to his missive of the afternoon, Conall readied himself to keep a long-awaited assignation. The faithful squire who had performed messenger duty slept obliviously on the pallet at the foot of his master’s bed, assisted to that state of profound slumber by a strong sedative in the wine he had drunk but his master had not, following a light supper in the prince’s sitting room.

  Distractedly Conall crouched beside the sleeping lad and laid two fingers over the artery throbbing in the side of the upturned throat—pulsebeat strong, steady, and slow—then rose with a satisfied smile and donned a dark, hooded cloak. Soon he was slipping down the tower stair and along a torchlit corridor to another room.

  It was the room that had been Kelson’s as prince. Now it was Dhugal’s. Conall wished it were his. The door was locked, but Conall had a key. It turned smoothly in the lock, the door swinging back soundlessly as Conall slipped through, closed it softly, and relocked it.

  The room was dark after the torchlight outside, only a narrow line of light shining under the door, but that was sufficient to guide Conall to flint and steel. Soon a candle flame was steadying between his cupped hands. He held it aloft to inspect the empty room, satisfying himself that he was alone, then moved quietly toward the darkened fireplace, stopping a few paces to its left. There he lifted his right hand and with his outstretched forefinger boldly traced an ancient symbol. Softly a section of the wall withdrew to reveal a dark stairwell.

  He stepped into it with no further thought for what he had done, only intent now on reaching his assignation. Descending the narrow, roughcut stairs, employing other signs to open other passages, he came at last to the doorway he sought: a shutterlike affair of rough-hewn timber.

  He snuffed the candle and set it in a little niche before opening the door, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword and drawing his cloak and hood a little closer as he emerged in an alley well outside the walls of Rhemuth Keep. Heading toward brighter light, keeping to the shadows, he shortly passed through a small square, and thence up another street until he reached a tavern called the King’s Head.

  He was expected. The barkeep who approached him the moment he stepped inside led him immediately to a private room in the back of the establishment.

  The room was dim, lit only by the fire on the hearth. Conall thought he was alone at first, as the door closed behind him and he pushed back his hood, yanking at the clasp of his cloak in consternation, but then a form stirred in the shadows beyond the fireplace and stepped into the light, smiling.

  It was Tiercel de Claron, almond-colored eyes crinkling at the corners in mild amusement.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I have multiplied visions.

  —Hosea 12:10

  “So, my prize pupil returns early from the wars, eh?” Tiercel said lightly, folding his arms across his chest and chuckling at Conall’s obvious sigh of relief. “What’s the matter? Didn’t you think I’d come?”

  Conall threw off his cloak and flung it over a bench near the door, grinning eagerly as he crossed to sit, at Tiercel’s invitation, in a chair before the fireplace.

  “Of course I knew you’d come. You’ve never broken your word to me yet.”

  “That you know of,” Tiercel retorted, flashing another reassuring smile at Conall’s fleeting start of uncertainty. “And I’ll try never to give you reason to think I might.”

  As Conall made conscious effort to relax his reflex stiffening, Tiercel’s almond-amber eyes warmed in the firelight. The balmy June evening had brought him out more casually arrayed than was his usual wont: a tawny green tunic open at the throat, richly worked with bands of interlace threaded red and gold and purple at cuffs, neck, and hem, and cool linen leggings of a dull vermillion, cross-gartered with ochre to the knee, with low, cuffed boots of walnut-hued leather, butter-supple.

  He would not have ridden thus attired—not far, at any rate—which only confirmed Conall’s theory that the Deryni lord had either lodgings or a Portal somewhere in Rhemuth town—perhaps both—though Tiercel had never admitted to any details about his personal life. By firelight, the cords of his neck twisted in bold relief at the open throat of his tunic as he took two goblets from the high mantel and offered one to Conall.

  “But, relax, my young friend, and tell me what brings you back to Rhemuth so unexpectedly,” Tiercel said casually. “Is the war over already? That isn’t what the Council tells me.”

  “Over? Hardly.” Conall glanced into his cup as Tiercel sat on a stool partway between him and the fire. “It was just starting to get interesting when Kelson sent me home. I still haven’t decided whether he meant it as a compliment or an insult. If it weren’t for the fact that you and I can continue working together through the summer now, I think I might be really angry.”

  “Hey, then—whoa! What are you talking about?” Tiercel demanded.

  “Well, there was this convent, and this princess—”

  “All right. This obviously is more complicated than I thought.” Tiercel set his wine on the floor beside him and dusted his hands together as Conall looked up at him in question. “I think you’d better show me.”

  As he set one hand on Conall’s two, still clasped around his goblet, and reached the other across Conall’s shoulder lightly to cup the back of his neck, Conall shivered just a little in anticipation and made himself relax. He and Tiercel had done this often enough that he had long ago stopped counting, but he suspected nothing would ever erase that eerie, fluttery sensation in the pit of his stomach just before he allowed the other to enter his mind.

  “Look into your goblet and focus on the reflections on the surface of the wine,” Tiercel murmured, his one hand tightening on Conall’s while the other encouraged him to bow his head closer. “Lower your shields and let the memory run. That’s right.…”

  Conall was conscious of the beginning of the process, but not the end—only that one moment he was thinking back to the day they had come upon Saint Brigid’s, and the outrage they had found there, and the next moment he was back in the shadowy room at the King’s Head, Tiercel releasing his hands and gently massaging the back of his neck.

  “Have some wine,” the Deryni murmured distractedly, standing to lean one elbow against the mantel and stare at the fire on the hearth.

  Conall sipped at the wine as ordered and watched his mentor with a detachment that would not have been possible when they first began working together, the previous winter. He felt far less light-headed than usual after one of Tiercel’s deep probes, too.

  Oh, there had been stretches of weeks at a time when both of them had despaired of ever tapping into the Haldane potential, but perseverance finally had begun to pay off after a while. Conall was by no means a functioning Deryni, Haldane or otherwise—not yet—but he was sure Tiercel was pleased. And would it not be glorious to go one day before the Camberian Council and prove that more than one Haldane could assume the Haldane legacy of magic?

  Conall had already mastered several useful talents, like rudimentary Truth-Reading, and shielding, and how to use the sigils that operated the passageway he had used this evening. He had even gotten quite adept at making his squire forget where they went, when they rode out for Conall’s training sessions with Tiercel. The young fool thought it was a lady Conall had been meeting, all those times they’d slipped away on various pretexts. Had it not been far too much trouble, Conall might
simply have put the lad to sleep tonight; but uncertainty about the possible length of tonight’s session had also dictated other, more direct measures.

  He could have done it, though, if he’d wanted to.

  He was congratulating himself on his improving prowess when Tiercel turned to look at him again, the handsome face somber above the tawny green tunic. The fire lit the dark cap of Tiercel’s hair with reddish highlights, flaring behind his aristocratic profile like some satanic halo. Suddenly, Conall was a little afraid.

  “We may have a problem,” Tiercel said.

  Conall swallowed and set his goblet on the floor beside his chair, all taste for wine suddenly gone.

  “What—problem?” he managed to say without his voice betraying his apprehension.

  “There are entirely too many Deryni at court, with you beginning to come into your powers. You know Lady Rothana, the sister who looked after Princess Janniver?”

  Conall’s jaw dropped, for he had rather begun to fancy the girl on the long ride back from Saint Brigid’s. He thought she might even return his interest, despite her outward dedication to the religious life. Her quiet courtesy to him had even sparked the rebuke of her abbess once, though nothing untoward had passed between them. In fact, he had already been considering a gentle wooing. She was only a novice in religion, after all—and a princess herself, according to Morgan.

  “She’s—Deryni?” he breathed, suddenly realizing that it followed, if Rothana was indeed related to Richenda, even by marriage.

  “Don’t worry. She doesn’t suspect you. I read very deep to be sure you hadn’t been touched. She’d be a good match for you—”

  “Damn you! Do you have to read my most intimate thoughts?” Conall blurted.

  “Keep your voice down!” Tiercel whispered, very softly, but with such force that there was no question of disobeying. “I apologize. I had to know whether she suspected you. It wasn’t the sort of thing you could tell me on your own.”

  “That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Conall murmured, his voice subdued but still a little petulant.

  Tiercel drew in a deep breath and let it out patiently. “I didn’t expect you to like it. I don’t like it that you’ll be among so many Deryni now, either: Rothana, Richenda, Jehana—and Morgan, Duncan, and Dhugal, of course, when they come back; not to mention Kelson.”

  “Dhugal?” Conall gasped, “He’s Deryni? But how—”

  “I don’t know. All I can tell you is that he is—though apparently untrained. I doubt he could spot you, even if he were here. A far more immediate problem is likely to be your father.”

  “My father?” Conall whispered. “What do you mean?”

  “Kelson set the Haldane potential in him before he left,” Tiercel said quietly. “Ah, I didn’t think they’d told you. He doesn’t have all the powers, of course. They’d never do that while Kelson’s alive—and don’t think it can be done; that’s where we’ll prove them wrong one day—but he has some powers. According to—friends, he’s beginning to Truth-Read, he can certainly link in with other Deryni for major workings—and he may be able to detect shields. That’s the danger for you.”

  Conall managed to swallow noisily. He could hardly avoid contact with his own father.

  “What—what are we going to do? We’ve worked hard to build my shields, Tiercel. Shields are the heart of almost everything you’ve taught me.”

  “I know that. Fortunately, shield potential sometimes runs naturally in the Haldane line, even without being sought after. As long as your shields appear to be only rudimentary, I don’t think even a trained Deryni would bother too much about them—if you can avoid doing anything to provoke a need to go deeper.”

  “Like what?” Conall wanted to know. “You’re going to have to be a little more specific than that. And why would they even care about me?”

  “Because you’re Nigel’s son, and he now has a partially activated potential.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t press me for details,” Tiercel said, holding up a hand to stay further insistence. “If anything should happen to Kelson, and Nigel becomes king, you’re next in line.”

  “I know that,” Conall said faintly.

  “Which means it’s only natural that your father is going to want to include you on more of what’s happening at high levels of government from now on.”

  “He didn’t tonight,” Conall muttered. “He’s meeting with some of the privy councillors right now. I wasn’t invited.”

  “Not this time, no. But you can bet that’s one thing they’ll be discussing; take my word for it.”

  “And?”

  “And—” Tiercel sighed. “Conall, there are Deryni at court that you don’t know about—and I can’t tell you who they are. Nigel may choose to tell you, however—he almost has to, if you’re to work at the levels you should, as his heir. And if he does, their identities will have to be protected.”

  “How—protected?”

  Tiercel shrugged. “I can’t tell you that exactly, because I don’t know myself, but probably one of the Deryni he has access to—Richenda, most likely—will set limited blocks. Then you can be told who the others are—but you won’t be able to use that knowledge in any situation that might betray their identities to outsiders. It’s a rather neat trick, actually.”

  Trying to assimilate it all, Conall drew a deep breath and set both hands carefully on the arms of his chair.

  “These—limited blocks—I take it they’re dangerous for us?”

  “Only the setting of them, and not if we prepare,” Tiercel replied. “Fortunately, I have a very good idea who would need protecting, so I think I can set a facade over your shields that will leave that area accessible, yet hide what we don’t want seen. Whoever does it will only be interested in getting in, doing the job, and getting out. Beyond that, it will be up to you to make sure you don’t make someone want to see more.”

  “How complicated is that?—setting a facade over my shields, or whatever you said?”

  “Not very, for me, though it will be a little rough on you—mainly because it will take a while. Because of that, I’ll want to give you something to knock down any reflex resistance. We really ought to do it tonight, if you’re up for it. It’s getting late, I know, but God knows how soon it will occur to the rest of them that you ought to be included in what they’re doing, and try to take precautions.”

  Conall made himself draw in a deep breath and hold it for several heartbeats before letting it out slowly. What Tiercel proposed sounded frightening, but not nearly as frightening as being caught before they had accomplished their goal. When he glanced up, Tiercel had not moved; only studied him with those faintly glowing almond eyes. Abruptly Conall wondered whether the Deryni was reading his mind.

  “Tonight, eh?” Conall whispered.

  Tiercel nodded.

  “All right.”

  Immediately Tiercel pushed himself away from the mantel and went to the bench across the other side of the room. The little satchel he always brought with him to their sessions was lying under the heap of a dull ochre cape, and he rummaged in it for several seconds as Conall got up to join him.

  “Pour yourself about half a cup of water,” Tiercel said, conjuring handfire so he could sort through several parchment packets he pulled out of the satchel. “I’m giving you a heavier dose than usual, but I’ll give you an antidote when we’re done. You’ll probably have a bit of a headache in the morning, but no worse than a mild hangover. That’s better than going back to the castle with the first drug still working on you, though—just in case you run into anyone who shouldn’t know what we’re doing. I don’t want you that vulnerable.”

  Conall brought the water and watched Tiercel empty the contents of one of the packets into it, wrinkling his nose at the sharp aroma as the powder dissolved. He remembered this one, though he couldn’t have said what its name was. Even half a packet had always been enough to leave him groggy for several hours. As Tiercel ga
ve it a stir with the blade of his dagger, Conall took off his sword and coiled the belt around the scabbard, wondering vaguely, as he set the weapon aside, whether a person could die from too much of the drug. He had no idea what this much would do to him.

  “You’d better sit down before you drink this,” Tiercel said, answering the unasked question as he gestured with the cup toward the fireside chair. “If you don’t, you may fall down before you can finish it. In this concentration, it’s going to hit you like a mule. Once you’re under, however, I promise you won’t feel a thing.”

  “Small consolation,” Conall murmured, sitting and gingerly taking the cup. “Any special instructions?”

  “Only the usual. Take a nice, deep breath and try to relax. Drop your shields as much as you can. Then toss it down.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Conall muttered.

  But he did as he was instructed, consciously relaxing his body as he breathed in, then willing his shields to subside as he let his breath out in a slow sigh. When he had breathed in again, he tossed off the contents of the cup in a single gulp, managing to bypass most of the terrible taste.

  He had time to swallow once and close his eyes to prepare, and was aware of Tiercel taking the cup from his hand. Then the room began to spin, and he had to hold tight to the arms of the chair to keep from being sucked into—nothing.

  He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, gasping. He felt disembodied hands clamp down on his head, welcome cool across his forehead and quivering eyelids and around the back of his neck—reassuring, supportive—but already the pressure was building behind his eyes, threatening to explode his very skull. There was a roaring in his ears, and a sharp bile aftertaste in the back of his throat.

  Then a black tide washing over him and carrying him away—and nothing, and spinning into nothing, and touching and touched by nothing—and blessed oblivion.

  It was not the first morning after, but the second, that Conall had cause to try the success of what he and Tiercel had done. He remembered little of what had passed between them after he drank the cup, but he had become faintly aware, in the previous twenty-four hours, that he seemed to be functioning on a dual level now, his most intimate thoughts sequestered away in some less accessible dimension while the humdrum of the everyday continued on the surface.