In the King's Service Page 7

  Khoren drew back to look into the other man’s eyes, feeling the rigidness in the other’s shoulders that echoed the shields suddenly stiff between them.

  “This sounds serious, indeed,” he said quietly. “Can you give me no clue?”

  Oisín’s bearded face settled into stillness, regret in the blue eyes.

  “Sief MacAthan is dead, my friend. It’s the Council that summons you. Will you come?”

  “Sief, dead? But, how—”

  “That is for another place,” Oisín said firmly, refusing to be drawn. “Please, ask me no more questions. All will be revealed, in due course.”

  Briefly closing his eyes, Khoren made himself take a deep breath and slowly exhale, doing his best to banish the heady afterglow of the wine he had drunk, regretting that he had taken any drink at all. No Deryni looked forward to a summons from the Camberian Council, though he knew that his could be for no failing on his part. The news of Sief MacAthan’s death made it likely that Khoren was about to be offered a seat on the Council—not altogether unexpected, given his abilities and his spotless reputation, but it was still a prospect both intriguing and daunting. Membership in that almost mythical body was never to be taken lightly, and forever changed those who accepted its burden.

  Yet some there were, willing to take on that burden, for it offered an opportunity to enforce and reinforce the ethical precepts instilled in all Deryni of good formal training. Beyond the borders of Gwynedd, in Torenth and the lands to the south, these precepts were mostly followed—and when serious breaches occurred, the Camberian Council could and often did step in; but in Gwynedd, the heartland of the original Eleven Kingdoms, backlash from the failure of Deryni to police their own ranks had all too often been the death of innocent members of their race. To serve the Council was to place oneself in a position to possibly make a difference.

  “I will come, of course,” Khoren murmured returning his gaze to Oisín. “You do realize, though, that I’m in no fit state for any serious working? I’ve just come from a wedding feast, for God’s sake.”

  “That will not affect your interview,” Oisín replied. “Come.”

  He set his hand on Khoren’s elbow and drew him onto the Portal beside him, turning Khoren away from him to set one hand on the back of his neck. The other hand reached around to cover his eyes as he continued.

  “You will understand that it is not permitted that you should sense the coordinates of the Portal where I am taking you,” Oisín murmured, “and once there, your physical sight will remain sealed until I release you.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then, open to me now.”

  With those words, his mind surrounded Khoren’s, surging in behind the shields his subject obediently let fall. As all physical sensation receded into a gray void where it was too much bother to do anything at all, Khoren vaguely felt a gentle tugging at the edges of his consciousness, then a faint lurch in the pit of his stomach—and a subtle undulation of the floor under his feet, which immediately stabilized.

  “Move forward with me now,” Oisín murmured.

  Though the hand across Khoren’s eyes was withdrawn, he kept them closed, well aware that it would be disorienting to open them and not be able to see. He also kept his shields well down, cleaving to the discipline of only what physical senses might tell him as Oisín urged him forward and to the left, one hand grasping his elbow and the other arm curved around his shoulders. He could feel grit under his boots as they moved half a dozen steps away from the Portal, and caught the faint scent of sandalwood, a freshness to the air itself. It was cooler here than in Djellarda, but he had no idea where here was.

  “I must leave you for a few minutes,” Oisín said in a low voice, as he set Khoren’s hand against a wall. “Don’t move. I’ll return shortly.”

  The other’s footsteps receded. Khoren thought he could hear a door opening, and he definitely felt the stir of air, perhaps of the door closing again. The stone under his hand was smooth and cool, but he resisted the temptation to seek out further clues as to the room it contained, for even Oisín’s simple instruction might be a test of his obedience.

  He waited. He could hear no sound save the gentle throbbing of his own heartbeat—until he felt as well as heard the whisper of the door again. Then Oisín was beside him once more, a guiding hand again set under his elbow.

  “Walk with me,” came the murmured instruction, as the other firmly moved him forward.

  Khoren sensed a larger space as their footsteps took a more hollow tone. Very soon, he was brought up short against something that pressed along the tops of his thighs—a table, he realized, as he was made to sit in a chair of substantial proportions, with heavy arms. No sooner had he settled into it than someone pushed it and him closer to the table, containing him within the compass of the chair arms. He could feel the silence as an almost palpable presence as Oisín moved to his left side and sat, his controlling hand never leaving Khoren’s shoulder. But it was not Oisín who spoke first.

  “This room has been the meeting place of the Camberian Council since the time of Saint Camber himself,” said a woman’s voice ahead and to the left. “Before that, we believe that it served the use of the Airsid. Do you know of the Airsid, Khoren Vastouni?”

  Khoren considered the question. It was not what he had been expecting.

  “I do not know as much as I would like,” he said candidly, for only the truth would suffice in this company. “I was taught that our high magic sprang from their teachings, at least in part. I have heard it said that the great Orin may have had Airsid teachers. Some say that they came from Caeriesse, before it sank beneath the sea,” he added, a little less certainly.

  An amused chuckle came from directly to his right—another woman’s voice, lighter than the first.

  “So some say. Would it surprise you to learn that some of the founders of this Council actually looked upon the mortal remains of Orin and Jodotha, his great disciple?”

  Khoren found himself sitting forward more attentively, longing to open his eyes, for the Airsid and their teachings had long been his academic passion, and Orin and Jodotha were legendary.

  “Here?” he managed to breathe.

  “No, not—here,” said a man’s voice straight across from him, who sounded somewhat familiar. “We believe that this place, however, was built by the Airsid—or at least begun by them. It had been long abandoned by Saint Camber’s time, but the Council’s founders rediscovered it and adopted it as their secure meeting place—Camber’s kin and other close associates. You are sitting, by the way, in the seat called ‘Saint Camber’s Siege.’ It is one of eight, though it is usually left vacant, to remind us of our patron. For the most part, only potential new members of the Council are ever seated there—or those we call before us to answer for their actions.”

  The further words at last had identified at least one of his interlocutors: Michon de Courcy, who had been one of Khoren’s classmates when both of them studied with the great Norfal—which would have reassured him, except that he now knew that he was sitting in Camber’s Siege. Inexplicably, he found himself straightening a little under Oisín’s hand, halfway convinced that the saint himself was suddenly among them.

  “I think you will have guessed that we have not called you here to answer for your actions,” Michon went on, in a conversational tone. “You may open your eyes now.”

  Khoren felt nothing save the weight of Oisín’s hand lifting from his shoulder, but when he cautiously obeyed, his vision and powers were intact. His first, blinking visual images confirmed his impression of vaulted space above the table—which was ivory and octagonal—and Michon sitting directly opposite, flanked by a handsome, auburn-haired woman and another old acquaintance: Barrett de Laney, wearing his Nur Sayyid scholar’s robes. Vaguely he was also aware of Oisín to his left, and another young woman on his right—and that all of them were Truth-Reading him, and had been doing so from the beginning, except that Oisín had been obscuring th
at awareness before.

  “I trust that you will not object to being Truth-Read during this interview,” said the woman to his right. “Coming directly to the point, we are minded to offer you the seat left vacant by the passing of Sief MacAthan.” She gestured toward the empty chair between herself and Barrett, before which lay a slender ivory wand of office and one perfect rose, creamy white and emerald green against the more yellowed ivory of the table.

  “Ordinarily, we would have secured your agreement to this appointment before seeking your counsel,” she went on, “but a certain urgency attends our deliberations, because of the manner of Sief’s passing. Therefore, this trial of your functioning among us. If you should choose not to accept this burden, you will be free to go, though we will require a bound oath not to reveal what you shall have seen and heard here. In the meantime, however, we would value your opinion regarding the circumstances that have left our numbers thus reduced. Incidentally, you know me somewhat, though we have never met. I am Dominy de Laney, Barrett’s sister.”

  He had turned his gaze to her as she spoke, aware of the touch of their minds against his. With a quick glance at Barrett—who had, indeed, mentioned a sister, many years go—Khoren gave a faint nod that was both acknowledgement and assent, already turning his thoughts to what little he knew of the dead man besides a name.

  “I—gather that the death of Sief MacAthan was unexpected,” he said uncertainly. “Was he killed, or did he die of natural causes?”

  “That was our question as well,” Michon replied. “The official statement from the court of Donal Haldane of Gwynedd would have it that Sief’s heart failed him shortly after the birth of his son, in the presence of his wife and the king, who could do nothing. On its face, this much is true.”

  “But there is more,” Khoren supplied.

  Michon gave a nod. “What could not have been known in Rhemuth is that Sief was present in this chamber no more than a few hours before his death. He seemed in excellent spirits, and had certainly never exhibited any sign of ill health.”

  Khoren’s gaze flicked to Michon. “And you conclude—?”

  “We do not believe that a failing heart caused Sief’s death,” Michon replied, “or, if it did, its failure was helped along. By magic. At the beckoning of Donal Haldane. Possibly with the connivance of Sief’s wife—who, you may recall, is Jessamy ferch Lewys, the daughter of Lewys ap Norfal. We further wonder whether Jessamy’s son may not be Sief’s at all, but Donal’s, and that it was this discovery that may have triggered a confrontation between the two men.”

  Khoren’s jaw had dropped farther with each of Michon’s disclosures, and his mind was whirling with the implications.

  “But—you mentioned magic. Yet Donal Haldane—”

  “The Haldane kings are capable of wielding power very like our own,” said the woman seated next to Michon, “and without having to go through extensive training in order to access those powers. What they do require is the assistance of a Deryni—or so we have always believed.”

  “But, who—”

  “We suspect that Jessamy may have been responsible,” Barrett supplied, “but if she was not, we find this possibly even more alarming, because it would mean that there is another powerful Deryni at the Haldane court who is unknown to us. We aren’t sure how the fathering of the child fits into this,” he added, less confidently, “or even that we’re right about its paternity. But Sief’s body was examined, and signs of magical interference were found. From the king.”

  The implications of that alone, Khoren found staggering—that Donal Haldane had acquired sufficient power and knowledge to overcome a full Deryni as well trained as Sief must have been.

  As to how he had acquired it—that, too, had sobering implications. The possibilities were equally frightening, if in different ways. If Jessamy had helped him, that was one thing; an unknown Deryni was another matter entirely, for it could possibly realign the entire balance of Deryni influence on a larger scale. And it occurred to Khoren to wonder whether Donal Haldane possibly could have done it on his own. . . .

  Khoren shook his head, reluctant to believe any of it—though he had no reason to doubt what he was being told. Although, as a prince of Andelon, he had no direct interest in the affairs of Gwynedd, he was well aware that Gwynedd had long been a ground of contention between Deryni and the very much larger human population—legacy of a careless and often irresponsible interregnum in Gwynedd nearly two centuries before, set in place by Deryni invaders from Torenth to the east, which had triggered a vicious backlash against Deryni, once human rule was restored.

  For a time, the violence had spilled over into the lands surrounding Gwynedd, so that even the more benevolent of Deryni rulers had been obliged to curtail much of their previous interaction with Gwynedd. Only recently had that begun to ease—though matters for Deryni in Gwynedd remained extremely delicate.

  Given this background, and the incontrovertible fact that Sief’s wife appeared to be involved in some sort of relationship with Donal of Gwynedd, Khoren decided that it was Jessamy who was the true key to this present situation. Though it would be useful to know how Donal had acquired access to his powers, the fact remained that he had them, he had used them to kill Sief MacAthan, and Jessamy had been present when he did it.

  Most alarming of all was the prospect that the daughter of Lewys ap Norfal might have followed in the footsteps of her father, who had defied the Council’s authority, for the Council had been a powerful check on many a would-be tyrant among ambitious Deryni. If Jessamy had, indeed, enabled Donal Haldane to best one of the finest Deryni minds known—for such Sief surely must have been, to be part of the Camberian Council—the implications were serious, indeed. And this was all apart from the possibility that she might have meddled with the succession of the ruling House of Haldane—who were human, but also something more, very like Deryni—by bearing a Haldane by-blow. . . .

  Such a child would actually be a double threat, both a Haldane and a grandson of Lewys ap Norfal—and that, too, must be dealt with. He wondered whether it might be possible to steal away the child—for certainly, it would be dangerous in the extreme, to let him remain under his mother’s influence, if he was, indeed, Donal Haldane’s son. Indeed, if the boy was Donal’s son . . .

  “It may be necessary to kill the child,” he found himself saying, somewhat to his horror. “If Donal Haldane has fathered a son on the daughter of Lewys ap Norfal, it cannot be allowed to reach maturity.”

  Chapter 6

  “Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labour.”

  —ECCLESIASTICUS 7:24

  KHOREN’S flat statement only verbalized what the rest of them had been reluctant to voice. Though killing was not unknown to the Camberian Council, either to protect other Deryni or to thwart illicit activities by wayward exemplars of their race, it was usually in the context of defense or judicial execution, even if made to look like death by natural or accidental causes. To take the life of an innocent babe, even a potentially dangerous one, required a ruthlessness that was anathema to any civilized society. Further, it smacked of the policies of pitiless extermination that had characterized the years of Deryni persecution following the Haldane Restoration. Yet to let the child live only added to the possible danger, and made its eventual elimination all the more heart-wrenching for all concerned.

  “What if the child is not Donal’s?” Dominy murmured, looking as distressed as the rest of them felt. “And even if it is, it might not manifest potentials that would be dangerous. Surely we can afford to delay, until we know for certain.”

  The plea gave all of them an excuse to back down from any immediate decision, especially until the child could be examined. After further discussion, it was agreed that the matter might be tabled until Seisyll should return from Meara, since he had most ready access to the court. Michon, meanwhile, would linger in Rhemuth, on the chance that he might find opportunity to pursue the investigation.

/>   “It only remains, then, to make a final decision about our vacant Council seat,” Michon said, with a confirming glance at the others. “Khoren, as you undoubtedly have gathered, it is not our usual practice to immerse a new member in our affairs before certain oaths are sworn, but you have acquitted yourself well. May we assume that you are, indeed, willing to serve?”

  Khoren flicked his gaze to each of them, in return, well aware of the extraordinary responsibility that went with agreement, then inclined his head.

  “Volo,” he said. I am willing.

  “Excellent,” Michon said. “You are aware, of course, that those certain oaths will still be required of you.”

  “Of course.”

  “Tonight perhaps is not the best time,” Vivienne said. “We have summoned you from a wedding feast, and the oaths by which we bind our number are best sworn . . . with a clearer head.”

  Khoren quirked her a grim smile.

  “It’s certain I’ve not been fasting,” he said. “When would you prefer?”

  Casually Oisín reached across to clasp Khoren’s wrist, using the physical link to probe his degree of inebriation.

  “It can be done in a few days,” he said. “Meanwhile, I shall only remind you that what is discussed here goes not beyond these walls. One of us can bind you to that prohibition, but I think there is no need. You’re aware what is at stake.”

  At Khoren’s nod, both of acknowledgement and agreement, Oisín withdrew both his hand and the link.

  “Perhaps a week, then, if we are all in agreement,” Michon said. “You shall be given ample time to prepare.”

  And so it was agreed.

  IN fact, several weeks passed before that task could be accomplished, though this changed nothing regarding access to Jessamy’s infant son. Prince Khoren Vastouni was duly pledged to the Camberian Council at midsummer: a season that brought its own new worries for the court of Gwynedd.