The Bishop’s Heir Read online

  “Thomas, why don’t you take Duncan back to your quarters and see to his wound?” Arilan suggested softly, touching a hand to Cardiel’s shoulder and including Morgan in his glance. “I’ll see to the clean-up here and try to find out more about our boy-assassin.”

  Cardiel nodded, he and Morgan helping Duncan to stand.

  “Very well. You might check with the guards who let the boy into the compound. Perhaps someone may have recognized him. It would also be interesting to know whether he was the original messenger sent with the dispatches, or if the real one is lying dead in a ditch somewhere—or, at the least, relieved of his livery.”

  Duncan went completely limp as Cardiel finished speaking, and Morgan and the archbishop together had to carry him back to the episcopal apartments. An hour later, washed and bandaged, Duncan was sleeping soundly in his own room, an exhausted Morgan running himself through a brief spell to banish fatigue.

  “I’ll try to heal him in the morning, when he’s over the worst effects of the drug,” Morgan whispered, as he turned at last from Duncan’s bed. “It’s a nasty wound, but I didn’t think it was a good idea to put my fingers into all that merasha.”

  His hands were trembling as he took the cup of wine which Cardiel gave him, for going into Duncan’s merasha-muddled mind had been a great personal trial, as well as a physically taxing one, forcing him to relive much of his own terrifying experience. He still kept flashing on the worst of it, unless he kept his mind on short leash. He knew he would have nightmares for days to come.

  But Cardiel’s touch on his shoulder conveyed genuine compassion and even understanding as he guided Morgan to one of the cushioned chairs beside the fireplace. Morgan guessed that the archbishop was remembering his own part in the later aftermath of that ordeal, when Morgan and Duncan had come to him and Arilan in Dhassa and disclosed all in desperate confession, seeking to make peace with the Church which had declared them excommunicate for what they had done to escape.

  Morgan sat and sipped silently at his wine for several minutes, staring blindly into the fire and feeling himself gradually unwind, then laid his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes until Arilan returned. The fatigue-banishing spell did not seem to have worked very well, even though he tried it several times.

  “I’ve been questioning some of the guards,” the Deryni bishop said, sitting beside Morgan after he had looked in on their patient. “Apparently the boy came from Ballymar, up on the north coast. He was trained in Duke Jared’s household and page to one of the local barons for a while, but was dismissed. One of my informants seemed to think it had to do with Mearan sympathies.”

  “Mearan sympathies?” Cardiel murmured. “How old is the lad?”

  “Older than he looked,” Arilan replied, “and old enough to risk paying for his actions with his life. What puzzles me is why he tried to kill Duncan. It can’t be over the Mearan bishopric. Everyone knows that Duncan was not a candidate.”

  Duncan and Meara. Suddenly Morgan sat up straighter, remembering the conversation he and Duncan had observed between Judhael and old Creoda. They had assumed that Judhael was campaigning for his coveted bishopric. What came to Morgan now was an oblique approach to Judhael getting what he wanted, but its further potential was yet more chilling.

  “No, it wasn’t about the bishopric—at least not directly,” he said softly, reviewing the genealogical relationships in his mind just to make sure. “But Duncan is Duke of Cassan and Earl of Kierney. That makes him almost a prince in his own right—and his lands have not always gone by their present names.”

  Arilan’s deep blue-violet eyes lit in sudden comprehension. “The other half of ancient Meara,” he said with a nod. “Now, wouldn’t that be a power base, if one wanted to break away from one’s overlord and establish an independent holding? The two Mearas reunited!”

  “And Duncan has no direct heir,” Cardiel added, catching the gist of what they were suggesting. “Who is his heir-at-law, Alaric? You? You’re cousins, aren’t you?”

  Morgan grimaced. “Not in the right degree for this, I fear—and I say that not out of any greed to amass more titles and land, but out of concern about who comes ahead of me. There are three, actually—though I’d only thought about the first two until today. Neither Duncan’s father or his grandfather had any brothers, but his grandfather had two sisters. The younger, my paternal grandmother, produced one son: my father. The elder sister also produced a son, however; and he married the Princess Annalind of Meara.”

  “Queen Roisian’s twin sister,” Cardiel whispered. “Then, Caitrin’s eldest son is Duncan’s heir!”

  Morgan nodded. “Ithel; and after him, his brother Llewell. The girl isn’t in the succession, though any eventual son of hers would be, if her brothers failed to produce heirs.” He paused to moisten his lips as the two bishops stared at him expectantly.

  “You’re still wondering who the third heir is, then. I’m surprised you haven’t guessed.” He paused. “Caitrin also had a sister, and that sister had a son. Who else could he be but your good Father Judhael of Meara?”

  As Cardiel’s jaw dropped in disbelief, Arilan slapped an open palm against the arm of his chair and swore softly.

  “I’m not saying he had anything to do with the attack on Duncan, mind you,” Morgan went on. “I simply point out that if it had succeeded, Judhael and his kin certainly stood to gain. All we really know about his politics at this point is that he wants very badly to be Bishop of Meara. If one of his Mearan cousins were Duke of Cassan and Earl of Kierney, that might make the whole thing fall together. The Bishop of Ballymar would have no choice but to support the candidate of his new duke’s choice: Cousin Judhael. And with Judhael in the bishopric, that’s added leverage to put his aunt on the throne of Meara—a united Meara, once she’s gone and her son succeeds her in the south. It’s ingenious, really.”

  “Its diabolical, if you ask me,” Cardiel muttered, “not to mention treasonous. Denis, there must be something we can do. Perhaps we ought to call Judhael in and question him.”

  Arilan considered the suggestion, running his pectoral cross back and forth distractedly on its chain, then lowered his gaze.

  “On what grounds, Thomas? We’ve been interviewing the man all week. Other than the fact that he’s ambitious, he almost shimmers, he’s so pure. What Duke Alaric has just outlined is a theory only—an incredibly brilliant one, if we were Mearan—but we have no proof it has occurred to Judhael.”

  “Well, use your powers to find out, then!” Cardiel blurted. “What good are they, if you don’t use them?”

  As Arilan sighed patiently, preparing to go into the argument he had used so often when trying to explain things Deryni to Cardiel, Morgan forced himself to put the temptation from his own mind. He had wrestled with this particular ethical problem before, not always successfully.

  “Ultimately, it’s a matter of ethics,” Arilan finally said, echoing Morgan’s rationale. “I have used my powers all this week, Thomas—to gauge whether our candidates were lying about their qualifications. That I could do without their knowledge, and without revealing myself as Deryni.” He smiled. “Besides, they suspected Duncan was Deryni, and that helped to keep them honest: wondering whether he could read their minds—which he couldn’t, of course, under those conditions, but they didn’t know that.”

  “Then, let Duncan be present, if you feel you need a decoy,” Cardiel insisted. “Or Alaric, since Duncan is temporarily out of action. Between the two of you, you should be able to get at the truth.”

  “And if he really is just a godly man, with ecclesiastical ambition but no interest in politics?” Arilan asked. “Then we’ve made another enemy for Deryni.”

  “Then, make him forget, afterward, if he’s innocent!”

  “And that begins to enter really hazy areas of conscience,” Arilan replied. “Truth-Reading is one thing. Using our powers to detect whether a man is lying can be justified, since it doesn’t force action against a
person’s will. To make someone tell the truth, however—well, I think that requires more than just a vague suspicion that he may be hiding something. So does making him forget. Sometimes such measures can be justified in a life and death situation, or where the subject is willing, but where does one draw the line?”

  “Are you so unsure of that line, then?” Cardiel snapped.

  “Of course not. At least I pray to God that I’ll never be tempted to cross over and misuse my powers. But it was abuse of power that gave us the atmosphere of the past two hundred years. It’s what the Camberian Council was created to prevent.”

  Morgan looked up sharply at that, for Arilan had scrupulously avoided discussion of the mysterious Camberian Council for the past two years. His reaction apparently reminded Arilan that he was beginning to speak of things best left unsaid to humans, even one as close as Cardiel. The Deryni bishop paused to regroup, shaking his head as he laid a hand on Cardiel’s arm.

  “Listen to me, Thomas. I’m flattered at your confidence in me, but you mustn’t think all Deryni are like me, or Alaric, or Duncan, or you may get hurt one day. We’ve tried to be very careful not to do anything which might frighten you unduly, but you have to admit that we’ve made you more than a little nervous on more than one occasion—and you know and trust us. Think about the ones who don’t have a strict moral code like the one we follow. How many feet in the door does it take to produce a Charissa or a Wencit of Torenth? Or an Interregnum? Alaric knows what I’m talking about, don’t you, Alaric?”

  Grudgingly, Morgan had to agree, though sometimes Arilan’s scruples seemed to him to be rigid almost to the point of crippling. But in front of Cardiel was not the place to pursue that old argument. Cardiel himself required additional persuasion, but eventually he, too, had to admit that forcing Judhael to the question was premature.

  “I still think Kelson should be told what has happened,” Cardiel said stubbornly. “And I don’t think it should wait until he gets back in three or four days, either. That was fine when we were only talking about Istelyn, but now—”

  For that, at least, Morgan had a Deryni solution.

  “Not all of our powers are forbidden, Excellency,” he said quietly. “It’s possible I might be able to reach Kelson in his sleep, later tonight. He won’t be expecting it, but I can try.” Cardiel nodded happily as Morgan went on. “If that doesn’t work, I’ll leave for Transha in the morning, after I’ve seen to Duncan—unless you have a better idea, sir?” he queried, glancing at Arilan.

  The Deryni bishop shook his head. “No, none. Given the bond I know binds you and Kelson, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if your plan works. However, I also know how difficult it is to make the link at such a distance and without preparation at both ends. If you don’t succeed, we’ll make the time you need to get there physically.”

  Arilan’s confidence in his ability helped to take the edge off Morgan’s earlier resentment at having to back off on questioning Judhael, but now that his own course was set for the next few hours, he needed some time alone. When he had assured himself that Duncan was resting more easily, and slipped briefly inside the priest’s mind to deepen his sleep, he took his leave of the two prelates and headed for his own quarters. He tried not to think about how close Duncan had come to death, or the mortal helplessness Duncan had suffered under the influence of merasha, concentrating instead on the calm he would need if he hoped to succeed in reaching the king.

  But distraction in the form of Judhael of Meara met him as he passed the open door of the chapel in the guest wing. Morgan stiffened as he saw him, mentally berating himself for even having glanced inside. Judhael and another vaguely familiar-looking priest were just coming out. The temptation at least to test whether Judhael had heard about the attack on Duncan was too enticing to resist.

  “Your Grace,” Judhael murmured, as Morgan loomed in the doorway and blocked his exit, all diffidence and courtly courtesy to the king’s champion.

  “Father Judhael,” Morgan acknowledged. “I wonder whether I might have a word with you in private,” he said, glancing pointedly at Judhael’s companion. “Perhaps we could step back into the chapel.”

  Judhael looked puzzled and a little uneasy, but he agreed readily enough. When one aspired to high office in the confirmation of the king, one did not decline the invitation of the king’s friend and confidant. He watched dispassionately as Morgan closed the chapel door behind them, inclining his head and preceding him down the short aisle when Morgan gestured toward the front of the chapel. Both men genuflected and signed themselves when they reached the altar rail, Morgan and then Judhael easing onto the kneelers which lay along its length. Morgan bowed his head for a moment as if in prayer, letting Judhael’s curiosity and apprehension grow, then glanced at the priest sidelong.

  “You’re acquainted with my cousin, Father Duncan McLain, I believe,” he said softly.

  Judhael cocked his head and stared at Morgan in surprise.

  “Why, I’m aware that he is secretary to the Lord Archbishop of Rhemuth, Your Grace. He’s been keeping the accounts of the interviews this week.”

  “That he has,” Morgan murmured, opening his mind to Truth-Read. “Are you aware that he was set upon by a boy with a knife earlier this evening?”

  Judhael’s eyes widened at the news, then shuttered behind a quickly composed mask of concern.

  “Father McLain is a priest like myself, Your Grace,” he said in a low, uninflected voice. “I am sorry to hear that someone would attempt his sacrilegious murder, but it grieves me far more to think that you might believe me involved in any way.”

  “You have no knowledge of it, then?” Morgan asked, a little taken aback to realize that Judhael was telling the truth.

  “None, Your Grace.”

  “I see.”

  No knowledge whatsoever. Judhael really had not known. Morgan gazed searchingly into the priest’s eyes for several seconds, not doing anything but looking—though Judhael might construe what he liked, and hopefully panic enough to let slip some additional bit of information—but Judhael met his gaze with no more uneasiness than anyone might have exhibited when stared at by a Deryni, the extent of whose powers were uncertain.

  “Just one more question, then,” Morgan said, choosing his words carefully. “When was the last time you heard from your aunt?”

  Judhael hardly batted an eye.

  “Last Christmastide, Your Grace. Why do you ask?”

  Last Christmastide, long before Meara’s bishopric became vacant, Morgan noted. Nor was there any duplicity in Judhael’s answer. Not only was Judhael innocent of knowledge about the attempt on Duncan, but he did not seem to be involved in any machinations his aunt might have planned for his insertion into a bishop’s see—though Judhael surely had his own ambitions.

  Morgan dared not push the issue any further, however. Judhael was beginning to look more anxious, and the only way to go from here was to actually force a deep reading on the priest—and Arilan would very likely skin him if he got wind of it, after his earlier lecture to Cardiel.

  “Very well, Father. I’ll leave you, then. Thank you for your time. If you’ve a mind to ease a soul, you might whisper a prayer for the boy with the knife. I’m afraid he died unshriven.”

  He signed himself slowly and deliberately, not taking his eyes from Judhael’s, then rose and glided back up the aisle. Judhael was still kneeling, face buried in his hands, when Morgan glanced back just before going out.

  He walked for a while after that, reviewing what he had done and finally inquiring among the guards as to what had happened to the body of Duncan’s attacker. He found it in the infirmary, covered with a blanket, and he stared at the face of the dead boy for some time, wondering who had sent him.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Thou hast made us to drink the wine of astonishment.

  —Psalms 60:3

  Farther north and east of Culdi, nearer the coast, an early dusk began to settle as Kelson and his warband urged
their weary horses along the final stretch approaching Castle Transha, cloaks pulled close against an increasingly bitter drizzle. Dhugal, riding at the king’s side, had set them a brisk pace since leaving the Trurill patrol at midmorning, pushing to reach the shelter of his father’s castle before dark. They slowed as the grade of the road got steeper, Dhugal expectantly searching the rain ahead until the vast pile which was Transha gradually took shape, almost black against the darkening sky. The young border lord grinned as he glanced aside at the king.

  “We’re nearly there now,” he said cheerily. “My father’s castellan should have everything prepared. We’ve been observed for the past hour, you know.”

  “Oh?”

  Surprised and a little taken aback, Kelson turned to look at Dhugal in question, for he had been scanning the craggy hills with Deryni senses as well as sight for nearly that long, and had defected nothing.

  “Don’t worry,” Dhugal went on with a chuckle. “I didn’t see them either. But then, I’m not as experienced as Ciard yet. He signalled me when we made our last rest stop.”

  Ciard. Of course. He had been the only other MacArdry retainer riding with the Trurill patrol, so of course had come with them. Kelson remembered him well from the days of Dhugal’s fosterage at court. Glancing back thoughtfully at the middle-aged gillie riding a few ranks behind, he recalled being told that Ciard O Ruane had been made Dhugal’s personal attendant and bodyguard by the MacArdry chief himself, shortly after Dhugal’s birth. Kelson had never known him to be far from his young charge’s side. The man’s almost uncanny ability in the field had mystified Kelson even in the old days; and Deryni perceptions gained since their last contact had added no further explanation.

  “Ciard. I might have known,” Kelson muttered aside to Dhugal, as he returned his attention to the narrowing trail ahead. “I suppose next you’ll be telling me he does it with that borderer Second Sight you mentioned yesterday.”