The King’s Justice Page 18

  He was heading toward the castle yard. He had a packet of letters his father had asked him to collect this morning, ready to be delivered to the courier about to leave for Kelson’s camp. He was cutting through the garden, thinking he might catch a glimpse on the way of Rothana at her morning office, when Richenda and Rothana came around the corner of a hedge. A look of speculation flitted across Richenda’s face as they all exchanged greetings—enough to make him suspect the moment might be upon him, if Tiercel had been right in his suspicions.

  “Ah, the rest of the letters for the courier,” Richenda said, drawing another out of her sleeve and extending it to him. “May I add another one?”

  “Of course, my lady.”

  As he slipped it under the leather band securing the others, he saw Richenda glance at Rothana.

  “Incidentally, I wonder if I might prevail upon a moment of your time, Conall,” she said. “Is it important that you go immediately to the yard with the letters?”

  “Well, the courier will be waiting—”

  “Of course he will. Would you perhaps permit the Lady Rothana to take them in your stead? Nigel would not mind, I think.”

  He started to decline—he was sure now that Tiercel had been right—but Richenda laid her hand on the letters, her fingers brushing his own, and her touch sent all thought of resistance out of his head.

  “Very well,” he found himself saying, as Richenda took the letters and handed them to Rothana. “I thank you, my lady.”

  In a daze he watched Rothana walk on past, letting Richenda guide him a few paces farther along the path until they could step into a tiny arbor recessed between the hedges.

  “Please don’t be alarmed,” Richenda murmured, turning him to face her, still maintaining contact, hand to hand. “Your father has asked me to speak to you. He intends to begin including you in the most intimate of his counsels, but certain safety measures must be taken before that may occur. Kelson has awakened a portion of the Haldane potential in him, so that he may govern more effectively in Kelson’s absence, and has given him the counsel of several Deryni you do not know about, here at court.”

  For the first time, he was consciously aware of the brush of another mind against his own, though only at the surface levels Tiercel had isolated. The surface levels did not seem to elicit any surprise in Richenda, however; and he found himself able to react on two levels at once, only the surface responding with the curiosity and slight apprehension that should be expected of one in his position.

  “I—do not know what you’re talking about, my lady,” he murmured haltingly, unable to drag his eyes from hers.

  She smiled gently and brushed her free hand down his forehead, fingertips coming to rest on his trembling eyelids.

  “That will all become clear, in due time,” she whispered. “Relax a moment, Conall.”

  A wave of vertigo swept over him, making him sway a little on his feet, but her hand still resting on his kept him steady. Her fingers were cool on his eyelids.

  After a few heartbeats, both her hands dropped and he could look at her again. She was smiling, her blue eyes lit with satisfaction, and he knew that both she and Tiercel had accomplished what they intended.

  “Good. That’s done. Nigel will ask you to join us this afternoon. How do you feel?”

  “A little—confused,” he said, cocking his head at her. “What did you do to me?”

  “I set up a block to protect what you’ll be learning later today. Did you know, by the way, that you have the beginnings of excellent shields? Not that I’m surprised. You’re Nigel’s son, after all.”

  “Shields? Oh …” Conall murmured. “But, I—”

  “Don’t worry.” She brushed his hand again in reassurance. “As I said, it will all become clear, in due time. Did you want to see the courier off? I’m sure he hasn’t left yet.”

  It took the entire brisk walk to the castleyard to clear his head and regain his full equilibrium, and he was glad Richenda did not accompany him. Rothana was already gone when he arrived. He stood at his father’s side as Saer de Traherne gave final instructions to the courier, and only nodded casually when Nigel asked whether Richenda had spoken with him. His acknowledgment of the invitation to join the council that afternoon was equally casual, which seemed to reassure Nigel that all had gone as it should.

  He thought about notifying Tiercel, as he watched the courier ride out of the courtyard and disappear through the gate, but their next session was only a few days away; the news could wait. Besides, he suspected there would be more to tell, after this afternoon’s meeting.

  So he thought about Kelson instead, and wondered what was happening on campaign, a part of him longing to be out there, too, covering himself in glory. By now, the Haldane army must be approaching Ratharkin, and Duncan’s army closing in from the north.

  Well, with luck, the whole thing would soon be concluded. No sense prolonging things, if Conall could not be there to share in the victory. He hoped Kelson gave the rebellious Mearans what was coming to them—especially that swine of a Prince Ithel!

  “God damn the Haldane!” Ithel was saying at that very moment, safe within the walls of Ratharkin since a few hours before, but well aware that Kelson and his army were but a day’s march away, and only the lake and a river to stop him. “Mother, we’ve harried him, burned out our own people, niggled at his heels, and still he comes! I say we should pull back to Laas!”

  He was staring out a small, south-facing window of the highest tower in Ratharkin palace, Brice of Trurill fidgeting slightly behind him. Both men were still fully armored except for helmets and gauntlets, sweat-stained arming caps pushed back from their heads, faces streaked with dust. A shocked Caitrin stood near the doorway to the sparsely furnished chamber, Judhael and Archbishop Creoda flanking her. She wore her crown, having come from the formal welcome of her son back to Ratharkin, but she and the bishops looked frightened. Judhael took her arm in a gesture meant to reassure, but she shook it off and left them to join her only remaining son.

  “We’ll make a stand,” she said, touching his armored shoulder with a tentative hand. “Sicard will stop McLain in the north, and then come to our aid. We can outwait the Haldane. We can. You’ll see.”

  “A chancy undertaking, Majesty,” Brice said wearily, making her a placating bow as she turned to glare at him. “We’re better off at Laas. We’ll be on the coast. We might be able to bring in more mercenaries. The water supply is better, too. And we can fish. If it comes to siege, we can hold out almost indefinitely.”

  “He’s right, Mother,” Ithel said, yanking at the buckles of his brigandine to ease his neck. “If we stay here, we may not be able to hold out until Father comes to relieve us. Laas will buy us and him time. Brice and I can mount a rearguard action and slow down the Haldane some more, while you and Judhael and the bishops head west.”

  “And leave you here?”

  Ithel sighed and rested his hands patiently on the splayed sides of the window slit, glancing out across the plain again. He was a man now, and growing old before his time—not the callow boy who had ridden out so confidently but a few weeks before.

  “Am I your heir, Mother?”

  “What sort of thing is that to ask?”

  “Then let me do what I was born to do!” he snapped, turning on her to lift a fist in supplication. “If there’s any chance to take back and hold our land from the Haldane usurper, then I must stand! You must escape—and Judhael! Brice and I will follow if we can. If I have to, I’ll burn Ratharkin to the ground to slow your pursuers! But we cannot stay here, brought to ground like foxes before the hounds. You must give Father time to relieve us from the north!”

  “And suppose Sicard cannot relieve us? What then?” she demanded. “Am I to lose both of you? Ithel, I cannot!—I will not see you cut down like your brother! We must persevere. We must!”

  “We shall, Majesty,” Creoda said soothingly, daring to intrude on the family argument for the first time. “The
Lord Sicard will come to our rescue. Even now, my lords Loris and Gorony are drawing McLain and his army nearer their doom. Once the Cassani forces are crushed, Loris and Sicard will join us. But their aid will be of little avail if we have stayed in Ratharkin and perhaps fallen to the Haldane invaders.”

  Caitrin listened to his speech, one small foot tapping impatiently against the stone floor, then glanced tight-lipped at Judhael.

  “Well, Creoda is against me. How say you, Judhael? If we retreat, and Ithel is lost, you are King of Meara after I am gone. Is that what you want?”

  Blanching, Judhael averted his eyes. “I wish only to serve you and your son after you, my Queen,” he whispered. “I have all that I have ever wanted. But Archbishop Creoda is right. For the sake of your cause, you must fall back to Laas. You must not be taken.”

  “I see.” Slowly Caitrin’s shoulders slumped and she bowed her head. “It appears I cannot sway you.” She took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh as she looked up at them again.

  “Very well. I place matters in your hands, my son. Tell me what to do, and I shall do it.”

  As Ithel glanced uneasily at Brice, the border baron braced his shoulders and set his hands on his swordbelt.

  “You and the bishops should leave at once, Majesty,” Brice said softly. “We’ll give you the household guard to escort you, and part of the castle garrison. The rest of the garrison will join us. They’re fresh, and can provide a more vigorous rearguard.”

  “And we’re to go to Laas,” she said dully.

  “Aye. You’ve a reserve garrison there as well. If we—shouldn’t be able to join you, they’ll be able to protect you until Sicard and Loris can come to your aid.”

  “Very well,” she murmured, not looking at any of them. “I—would like a few moments alone with my son, however, before I must leave.”

  The others went out immediately, leaving only Caitrin and Ithel standing near the narrow southern window. Sighing, she took off her crown and turned it idly in her hands.

  “I—do not regret what I have done,” she said softly. “The dream might have been—still might be, I suppose.”

  Smiling bravely, Ithel set his hands gently where the crown had been and rubbed his thumbs along the line where the metal had rested on her forehead, bending down to kiss her brow.

  “It still shall be, Mother,” he said quietly. “You are the rightful queen of this realm, and we both shall live to see you take your rightful place.”

  As he drew away to look down at her, she lifted the crown between them, reaching up to put it on his head.

  “I pray that it shall be, my son—but do not pull away!”

  “The crown is yours, Mother,” he whispered. “Please don’t.”

  “Just for a little while,” she said, “so that you shall have worn it if—”

  She did not go on, but he knew what she had almost said. Before that plea, he slowly sank to his knees so she could set the jeweled circlet on his sweat-plastered chestnut hair. He flinched as he took the full weight of it on his brow, but then he caught both her hands and kissed the palms in fervent homage. A sob escaped her lips as he did so. After that, she held him to her breast a final time, not minding that her cheek pressed against the cruel metal of the crown’s jeweled points.

  Caitrin wore the crown again when they left the tower, a few minutes later, she and Ithel both with heads held high. A little while after that, the Queen of Meara and a small but loyal escort rode out of the gates of Ratharkin and headed north, Prince Ithel and Brice of Trurill remaining behind with the Mearan rearguard. By nightfall, the remaining defenders had melted into the hills to await the approaching enemy, all sign of the royal passage was gone, and Ratharkin was burning.

  The fire of Ratharkin was seen in the south, as the sun dipped beyond the vast central Mearan plain and Kelson and his army made camp for the night. Standing atop a little hillock looking north and east across the far lake that separated them from the Mearan city, Kelson followed the directing finger of the scout who had brought him and Morgan up here to see. The glow was still faint in the shimmering twilight, but growing brighter by the minute as dusk settled its mantle over the land.

  “I suppose it has to be Ratharkin,” Morgan said, lowering his glass and handing it to Kelson with a perplexed sigh. “Jemet, is there anything else of size in that area?”

  The R’Kassan scout shook his head. “Nothing, Your Grace. We’ve been several hours’ ride closer, and there’s no mistaking. The Mearans have torched Ratharkin, plain and simple. We think a party might have headed west around midday, but it could have been a caravan. It was already far out on the plain when we spotted it—too far away to be certain.”

  “More likely, it was Caitrin, high-tailing it for Laas,” Kelson muttered, studying the brightening glow through Morgan’s glass. “She can’t have taken her army with her, though. You would have been able to see that many men.”

  “That’s true, Sire,” Jemet said. “Our guess is that they’ve stayed behind to slow us up. Or maybe they haven’t got that many men left. We’ve been saying all along that the main army isn’t with Ithel and Brice at all.”

  Kelson lowered the glass and telescoped it down with a solid snick of nested brass fittings.

  “Then where the bloody hell is it? Duncan hasn’t seen it. We haven’t seen it.”

  “Maybe it doesn’t exist,” Morgan muttered, taking the glass from Kelson and slipping it back into its case. “Maybe Caitrin just wants us to chase our tails all summer. It’s the sort of war I might fight, if I had a very stubborn dream and very few men.”

  With a snort, Kelson hooked his thumbs in his swordbelt and continued to look out at the stain on the northern horizon.

  “You might, and I might—but Loris wouldn’t. And we know he isn’t doing so. I think he’s giving cover to Sicard and the real Mearan host. Duncan may not have seen a full Mearan army, but he’s certainly seen signs of its passage. I think it’s out there somewhere,” he swept his arm across the north, “between him and us. And if we let ourselves be drawn to Laas in pursuit of Caitrin herself, Sicard just might manage to do some heavy damage in the north.”

  “I agree absolutely,” Morgan said.

  “Very well, then, we’ll clean out whatever Caitrin’s left to harry our tracks in the Ratharkin area, then head north to help Duncan,” Kelson said, dismissing the scout with a wave of his hand. “Thank you, Jemet. You may go. If there is a Mearan army, maybe we can pincer it between us.”

  Morgan nodded agreement as the scout slipped into the darkness down the hill. “I think that is the more serious threat.”

  “In the meantime,” Kelson went on, “I want Ithel and Brice. I want both of them badly, Alaric.”

  “I know you do.”

  “And then I want Loris, and Sicard—and that toadying little priest, Gorony!”

  “Now, then!” Morgan said with a chuckle. “I think a few of our closest friends might object to that last remark about toadying priests. Cardiel, in particular, would be crushed. I’ve asked him to dine with us this evening.”

  “I would hardly call it dining, considering the dwindling state of our provisions,” Kelson quipped, as he turned to start down the hill, “but at least the company will be civilized. Are you ready for a wash? I am.”

  Morgan’s silvery laughter accompanied them as they descended, floating on a little breeze that had finally risen to relieve some of the day’s heat, and mingling with the reassuring sounds of camp being made. They walked back along the picket lines opposite the officers’ tents, wading midcalf through a stream already muddied by the watering of scores of horses, and chatted briefly with a few of the squires and men-at-arms tending the animals before making their way up the little promontory to the royal pavilion.

  Young Brendan had clean towels and basins of warm water waiting for them, and tankards of ale already chilled in the nearby stream. Idle banter turned to grunts and sighs of sheerest animal relief as Brendan and Kelson’s
squire, Jatham, helped divest both king and champion of their armor. Fresh clothing followed ablutions, all interspersed with draughts of cool ale, so that by the time Cardiel came to join them, both men were considerably restored in body and in spirits.

  And far to the north, in another loyal campsite, Duncan, Dhugal, and Dhugal’s rangers concluded conferences very similar to the one Kelson and Morgan had just held, though with far less confident an outlook—for they had been harried all day along their flanks by Connaiti raiding bands and the crack episcopal strike forces commanded by Lawrence Gorony. They had suffered few casualties, either dead or wounded, but the constant skirmishing and the unaccustomed heat had taken their toll on frazzled Cassani tempers. Now Duncan’s vast campsite was ringed with watchfires, sentries posted along all the perimeters, the bulk of the men still armed, ready to defend against night attacks while the rest of their fellows slept in shifts.

  Duncan was also still fully armored, save for helmet and gauntlets, and sat sipping a cup of cool water on a camp stool outside his tent; it was yet too hot to sit inside. Nearby, Dhugal sprawled half-reclining on another stool and tried to brace himself so that Ciard O Ruane could hammer on one of his greaves, jammed at the knee joint during one of the day’s several skirmishes.

  As Ciard cursed under his breath and gave the offending piece of armor yet another blow with the hilt of his dagger, the joint unlocked with a screech of tortured metal.

  “Got the little bastard!” Ciard muttered, as Dhugal let out a whoof of relief.

  “Any damage to the knee?” Duncan asked.

  Dhugal shook his head as he and Ciard undid the buckles and pulled the greave off his leg, flexing the knee to test it. His boots came almost as high as the greave had, and he ran a finger inside the top edge to ease out a crease.