Childe Morgan Read online

  “You may make your ablutions there, before entering the hagios,” the taller of the two monks said, with a sparse gesture toward the fountain. “Mother Serafina will join you shortly inside.”

  Michon inclined his head in agreement, right hand to breast, and received a clipped nod in return. The monks then withdrew and pulled the gate almost closed. As Michon and Oisín moved to the fountain and began to wash hands and faces, Oisín glanced casually in the direction of the gate.

  They’re still there, you know, he sent, tight-focused.

  Of course. And there will be others nearby as well. They are wary of us—but they also know that anyone with a shield like ours is not likely to attempt any kind of psychic mischief here in the monastic precincts, in the midst of all these Deryni. Are you ready?

  Oisín merely dried his face and hands on an edge of his cloak and smiled, following as Michon led the way to the chapel door.

  Very gently they pushed it open far enough to enter, pausing just inside to probe with Deryni senses and to take it all in. It was dim and much cooler inside the tiny chapel—octagonal in plan, unlike most churches in the West, with a skylight high in the center of the domed ceiling that showed a distant circle of blue sky. Against the eastern wall, a fair-sized icon of the Holy Trinity presided over the sacred space, attended by a painted depiction of Archangel Raphael. A three-branched golden candelabrum burned honey-scented candles at the feet of the icons, the candlelight lending a semblance of life to the painted eyes. To left and right, icons of Auriel and Michael stood guard at their stations north and south, painted larger than a man, each beneath a high, narrow window that admitted air but little light. A votive light of the appropriate color, green or red, burned at each icon’s feet. These depictions as well seemed more than mere paintings.

  Briefly they turned to survey the wall through which they had entered, where Archangel Gabriel and a heavy icon of the Blessed Virgin presided from the west, the latter encased in gold and jewels except for her face and that of the Holy Child displayed on her lap. A votive in blue glass burned at their feet, like a captive sapphire. On a small table in the center of the chamber, an earthen bowl of sand supported many slender tapers of honey-colored beeswax, their shafts bristling like the spines of some strange sea creature in the bluish light that filtered down from the ceiling shaft.

  “What on earth is this place?” Oisín whispered close beside Michon’s ear. “A chapel or a ritual chamber?”

  “Perhaps both,” Michon murmured, slightly lifting a hand for silence as he turned his attention to a small door softly opening in the painted wall to the right of the eastern display, which had been invisible when closed. “And perhaps none of this is wholly of this earth.”

  They almost could not see the two black-clad figures that slipped through the briefly opened doorway, sensed mostly by their movement and the brighter blur of averted faces within the close-shadowed frame of flat-topped caps and waist-length monastic veils fastened close beneath the chin. Neither man stirred as the pair moved before the eastern icons and reverenced them with a deep bow and a sweep of right hands from brow to floor to right shoulder and left.

  Turning in their places, the pair then repeated their salute to south, west, and north, finishing in the east once again, after which the taller one retreated to the door by which they had entered and stood with her back against it, hands piously folded beneath her veil and face averted. As the shorter one started to turn toward the visitors, Michon set a hand on Oisín’s forearm and sent, Wait here. Say and do nothing.

  So saying, he moved into the center of the chamber, with the table between him and the woman, and silently inclined his head.

  He would not have known her, had he met her outside this place. The Princess Camille Furstána whom he remembered had possessed the charm and vivacity of youth, and a self-assurance that comes of royal blood, but nothing of physical appearance to suggest that maturity might bring anything approaching beauty. The passage of time had not given her that, but age and her vocation had made Mother Serafina a striking woman. Though still slender of form and small in stature, her erect carriage and the flat cap beneath her veil added at least a handspan to her height and gave her a physical authority to match her psychic presence. The eyes, at least by candlelight, were still the same: dark and intense, unwavering in their scrutiny; and the shields behind the eyes were adamantine, as they had been for as long as Michon had known her.

  “You indicated that you wished to speak to me on a matter of some urgency,” she finally said, her voice low and measured, just as he remembered.

  “I did,” he said, again inclining his head, “and I do. And I thank you for seeing us.”

  “It is not usually done,” she replied, favoring him with a nod of acknowledgment, “but I was curious to know what would bring you to me after all these years—though I can guess.”

  “Can you?” he returned, the question also a statement.

  She inhaled deeply and let out a quiet sigh, lifting her chin a little defiantly. He could see only her face; the hands were clasped close beneath the veil over her shoulders and upper body.

  “Well, I am quite certain that you have not come to ask for training,” she said breezily, a faint smile curling the corners of her mouth as she glanced at him sidelong. “But I would venture to guess that you have come to ask about the training that I am providing to certain others.”

  He inclined his head in agreement. “That would be an accurate reading of my intentions,” he said neutrally.

  Her eyes at once went dark and dangerous. “How dare you!” she breathed, almost inaudibly. “Whom I choose to train, and how, is my business, not yours—or the Camberian Council’s!”

  “In that, you are much mistaken,” he replied, in the same low tone. “I trust I need not remind you of what happened to Lewys ap Norfal, when he entertained similarly dangerous notions regarding his powers. Train your nephews, if you must; they are subjects of Torenth, and the concern of her king. If they perish through their folly, that will simply mean somewhat fewer Furstáns to threaten my king! But if you persist in training that twit Zachris Pomeroy, he becomes a potential threat to my king—and he is not a subject of Torenth!”

  She sniffed in derision and lifted her chin defiantly. “What arrogance, to presume that what I teach is folly!”

  “Camille, you were there when Lewys failed,” he began.

  “Camille is dead!” she interjected coldly. “Mother Serafina has far surpassed the girl who once was. You will address me by my proper name and rank.”

  “As you wish,” he murmured. “But consider this a warning. If one of your students goes astray in Gwynedd, the Council will take a very dim view of your actions. And next time, it may not be an old friend who comes calling.”

  “We did not part as friends, Michon de Courcy. Do not presume to play on my emotions.”

  Michon had cocked his head at this declaration, and held up a hand to stay further such revelations.

  “How time can alter our memories,” he murmured. “But I shall not cause further offense by bringing up bygones. Just remember what I have said.”

  Her jaw went steely, and her eyes narrowed. “Let the past be past, Michon,” she said softly. “Consider that you treat now with a stranger.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” he replied. Clasping his hands behind him, he inclined his head in cool leave-taking. “Should I ask a blessing before I go? I am given to understand that such is expected.”

  Her lip curled in faint disdain. “I shall pray for you, Michon, as I pray for all who are in need of enlightenment. But I think you would not thank me for what blessing I might give you.”

  He lifted his chin and braced his shoulders, then gave her another nod, this time in the nature of a dismissal and farewell. “Then it appears there is nothing more to be said. Forgive me for wasting your time.”

  With that, he turned on his heel and strode briskly toward the outer door, where Oisín quickly opened it for
him and followed him outside. Their escort monks were waiting beyond the gate to the little courtyard, and fell in behind them as they retraced their steps to the monastery gatehouse. The sound of the gate closing behind them held a note of finality.

  The pair did not speak until they were well down the steps leading back to the harbor. Behind them, in the lowering twilight, a deep-throated bell began summoning the inhabitants of Saint-Sasile for the Great Office of Sabbath Eve.

  “Did that go as badly as it sounded?” Oisín finally summoned the courage to ask.

  Michon uttered a breathless grunt meant to be an ironic laugh.

  “It certainly did not go well,” he replied.

  By the time they reboarded their ship and were under sail, heading back across the straits toward distant Tralia, a ghostly glow had begun to flicker above the spires and domes of Saint-Sasile.

  Chapter 9

  “Can a maid forget her ornaments, or a bride her attire?”

  —JEREMIAH 2:32

  THOUGH Michon’s visit to Saint-Sasile had been less than satisfactory, his and Oisín’s onward journey into R’Kassi yielded far more positive results. In the course of visits to a number of that land’s most prominent breeders of fine horseflesh, Oisín identified half a dozen promising two-year-olds of suitable lineage and temperament for Prince Brion’s first adult mount. For each of these animals he left sizeable deposits and instructions for their care and training in the coming year, promising to return in the spring to make his final selection.

  “In truth, they are all fine animals,” he told Michon as they rode back to Tortuña to take ship for their return to Rhemuth. “If all of them develop according to their promise, I shall probably take the lot of them in the spring and keep whatever ones the king does not choose. I have no doubt that I shall find buyers for as many as I care to sell on; and a few may even end up at my own facility at Haut Emeraud.”

  “I think that neither the king nor Prince Brion will have cause to complain,” Michon assured his younger companion. “The Council, alas, will be less pleased. I wish we could take them better news.”

  But if the completion of their summer missions had met with mixed results, the same could not be said for that of the new head of Corwyn’s regency council. Looking back on that first summer at Coroth, the stay of Lord Kenneth Morgan and his countess at the Corwyn capital could only be counted as a success. Though the Duchy of Corwyn had been formally in abeyance for nearly thirty years, waiting for a male heir to come of age, Malcolm Haldane and then King Donal had chosen well in their selection of a caretaker council to administer these important lands, so vital to the security of Gwynedd’s eastern border with Torenth.

  Corwyn’s origins lay in the turbulent era just before the Festillic Interregnum, when King St. Bearand Haldane was consolidating his kingdom after pushing back the Moorish sea lords. In 826, soon after the overthrow of the Haldane line, the new King Festil of Gwynedd arranged the marriage of his son and heir, Prince Festil Augustus, to the Princess Briona, only child of the last Prince of Mooryn, in the south, thus bringing Mooryn directly under the crown of Gwynedd as its suzerain. Corwyn and Carthmoor, subsidiary princedoms of Mooryn, became semi-autonomous duchies, with Carthmoor settled on Prince Festil and his bride. Corwyn was given to Sieur Dominic du Joux, son and heir of Lord Richard du Joux, who had fought and died for Festil in the conquest of Gwynedd. Dominic’s mother had been the Princess Tayce Furstána, a first cousin of King Festil. Hence Dominic was Deryni, like all the Festils, and became Corwyn’s first duke.

  With the accession of Prince Festil Augustus as Festil II in 839, the Duchy of Carthmoor became an appanage of the Crown of Gwynedd, usually reserved for younger sons or brothers of Gwynedd’s kings. Corwyn, however, retained its semi-autonomous status all through the Festillic Interregnum and into the Haldane Restoration, until the reign of King Cluim Haldane, and the repulsion of Duchad Mor’s invasion force by Cluim’s brother Jashan.

  At that time, Jernian of Corwyn, fifth duke and a comrade-in-arms of the new king, bound himself in personal vassalage to the Crown of Gwynedd. Both he and his son Stíofan had fought for Gwynedd in the Great War of 1025; and Stíofan Anthony, Alyce’s grandfather, had ruled Corwyn with justice and compassion for more than forty years: a benevolent and popular ruler in a long line of highly competent dukes. Geography made Corwyn an important buffer with Torenth, and the loyalty of its dukes a vital aspect of Gwynedd’s eastern security.

  With the loyal Kenneth Morgan now guiding Corwyn’s destiny, as caretaker for his young son, Corwyn’s regents could finally breathe a collective sigh of relief, knowing their sole custodianship would soon be eased. His visits to Coroth would always be too short for their liking, but they could appreciate the sensitive work that Earl Kenneth sometimes carried out for the king, and the trust placed in him by the Crown, which would also serve Corwyn’s interests. This present visit might only last a month, but it was long enough for Kenneth to begin acquiring a more intimate knowledge of the state of the duchy and the men charged with its care; long enough for them to begin knowing him and the child who one day would be their duke.

  Alyce, for her part, continued to sit in on meetings of the regency council occasionally, and gave her opinion when asked. But mostly she spent her time reacquainting herself with her ancestral home and showing it off to Zoë and her son.

  THEY lingered in Coroth until the end of August—long enough to see the harvest mostly in, and for Kenneth to have established an easy working relationship with the other Corwyn regents. Several times, he went off on patrols along the border with Torenth, taking Jovett and Trevor with him and acquainting himself with the political pulse of the area.

  Accompanied by various hosts from the regency council, he also visited most of the major holdings in Corwyn proper. Laurenz Udaut proved particularly helpful and friendly in this regard, as did Earl Derry and his son. Bishop Harris remained aloof, though at least he was not obstructive; but Earl Síoda took very much to heart his promise to begin teaching Alaric about his ducal heritage. Many an afternoon found the pair sitting under a shady tree in the castle gardens, often with one of the stable hounds at their feet, where the old man regaled his young charge with tales of Corwyn’s history and its illustrious dukes. By the time the family prepared to head back to Cynfyn for the wedding of Zoë and Sir Jovett Chandos, Kenneth was confident that the duchy was in good hands.

  They were to leave for Cynfyn on the first day of September, following a final court and banquet of leave-taking on the afternoon before. At the court preceding that banquet, young Alaric, now hardly a month short of his third birthday, was allowed to sit on the dais on a stool between his parents and personally receive the loyalty of his future subjects. On that day as well, Kenneth knighted several senior Corwyn squires whose attendance at the next Twelfth Night Court would have presented a financial hardship. Alaric wore a miniature coronet provided by Earl Síoda, and a simple tunic displaying the Corwyn arms, and comported himself commendably as future duke, even holding his father’s sharp sword between accolades.

  One of the new knights, a blond, mop-headed young man by name of Llion Farquahar, had made himself young Alaric’s personal favorite by serving as the boy’s almost-constant companion through the weeks of their stay, freeing up Alyce’s energies to sit in on council meetings or sometimes to ride with Zoë in the surrounding countryside or along the sandy beaches to the west of the harbor. Sometimes this respite simply allowed her and Zoë to stitch quietly on wedding attire with Melissa and other women of the court, without the distraction of a small boy’s endless questions and restless poking into everything.

  Every morning, the squire Llion would take the boy in charge and touch on some facet of his education as Corwyn’s future duke, imparting random elements of court etiquette and simple heraldry, even starting him on very basic sword drills, using a dirk for a sword. Even more to Alaric’s liking, sometimes Llion would put him up in the saddle of a sedate, retired warhorse an
d walk beside him for hours.

  For him, young Alaric fumbled his father’s sword into Sir Xander’s hands and darted down from his stool of state to help Jovett buckle on the spurs, and gave Sir Llion an unabashed hug, once the accolade had been bestowed and the white belt girt around his waist by Alyce.

  But the lazy days of that summer ended the next day when the party departed for Cynfyn. Zoë and Jovett were charged with excitement about their upcoming nuptials, and Kenneth and Alyce well pleased with the way their time at Coroth had passed; but Alaric wept when forced to say good-bye to his favorite knight, and withdrew into a sulk the farther they got from Coroth. Skirting Tendal lands as they made their way upriver, heading back toward Cynfyn, they stopped the first night at Pladda, a comfortable manor nestled in a curve of the river.

  “You know, you could ask Sir Llion whether he’d like to join our household,” Alyce said to her husband the next morning, when Alaric only picked listlessly at his breakfast, cranky and dispirited. “Alaric doted on him—and more important, he respected him, and minded when Llion told him to do something he really didn’t want to do. Also, the time is not that far away when he should begin spending time with other men and boys, rather than with the women. Since he’ll need a companion anyway, and someone to be his governor, why not choose one he likes?”

  Kenneth nodded. “He seems a bright-enough young man—and I liked what I saw of him on the practice field. We could give him a try, I suppose. If he’d want to live so far from home, that is.”