Deryni Checkmate (31 page)

Duncan reached the bottom of the altar steps and paused, envisioning how it must have been in the days when the monastery had flourished, when the walls had soared above the heads of nearly a hundred Deryni monks, countless more teachers and noble students.

In those days, the processions would have approached the altar with reverence, voices raised in praise with the sweet, pungent smoke of incense and the glow of beeswax tapers. He could almost feel it.

Introibo ad altare Dei
. . . I will go up to the altar of God.

Lightning arced across the sky, illuminating the fallacy of Duncan’s musings, and he smiled at himself. Mounting the altar steps, he moved to the ruined slab and gently placed his hands on it, wondering how many other hands, consecrated like his, had rested there before. In his mind’s eye he saw the splendor of the place when the altar had been holy, bowed his head and genuflected in respect for that ancient time.

Then thunder crashed, and he turned away from the altar, mindful once more of the problem at hand.

To find a Deryni Transfer Portal: that was his task. To locate a place of magic in the ruins of a long-defunct Deryni monastery and hope that it would still function after two hundred years.

Where would one build a Transfer Portal, if one were the architect of this chapel four hundred years ago? Would one follow tenets similar to those held by the builders of the Portals Duncan knew? How many Portals were there in the Eleven Kingdoms? Did anyone know?

Well, Duncan knew of two. There was one in his study, originally built so that the King’s Confessor, traditionally Deryni in the old days, could have access to the cathedral at a moment’s notice. And the second Portal was in the cathedral sacristy, a simple metal plate set in the floor beneath the carpeting of the vesting chapel. After all, one could never predict when it might become necessary to storm the gates of Heaven with prayers and supplications for the King—or so the old ones had believed.

So he was back to the original question: Where would such a Portal be, here at Saint Neot’s?

Duncan scanned the nave to left and right, then on impulse turned to the right and picked his way across the broken flooring. Alaric had said that there was an old Camber altar at the left of the chancel—to the right, the way he was facing. Perhaps the answer lay there. Saint Camber was the patron of Deryni magic. What better location for a Transfer Portal made possible by that magic?

There was little left of the altar. It had only been a narrow shelf set in the wall to begin with, and heavy blows had battered and defaced the edge of the marble slab so that the lettering was almost illegible. But Duncan could trace out the
Jubilate Deo
at the beginning of the inscription; and imagination helped to fill in the name,
Sanctus Camberus
. The round-arched niche above the altar still held the broken-off feet of the Deryni saint.

Duncan’s fingers caressed the worn slab as he turned to view the ruins from this vantage point, but after a moment he shook his head. He would not find a Transfer Portal here. Not out in the open. In spite of the general acceptance of magic before and during the Interregnum, when the monastery was built, the Deryni architects of Saint Neot’s would never have placed a Transfer Portal out here, before the fascinated eyes of all comers. That was not the Deryni way.

No, it would be somewhere more secluded, more private—nearby, perhaps, since the presence of Saint Camber would have been thought to offer some protection, but not out in plain view.

Then where?

Turning back to face the tiny altar, Duncan scanned the walls to either side, searching for an opening to the chambers and smaller chapels that should lie beyond. He found it—a crumbled doorway half buried beneath fallen timbers and overturned stones—and without further ado, cleared a hole big enough to crawl through. He wriggled into the opening and found himself looking into a small, lofty chamber that could only have been the sacristy.

Duncan squirmed the rest of the way through his passage and straightened cautiously, ducking to avoid low beams that had collapsed when the chapel burned. The floor was littered with blocks of stone, rotting wood, shattered glass. But over against the far wall were the remains of an ivory vesting altar, fragments of closets and chests and mouldering vestment presses to either side. Duncan scanned the chamber with a practiced eye, squinting as a particularly bright bolt of lightning lit up the heavens.

Now, where would the ancients have located the Portal in here? And with such large-scale destruction as the ruins indicated, could anything have survived?

Kicking aside rubble and moving farther into the chamber, Duncan closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead wearily, trying to open his mind for impressions that might remain.

Duncan’s head whipped around in alarm, and he dropped to a crouch, sword half drawn. Lightning flashed again, sending eerie shadow-shapes chasing across the walls, but there was no one in the chamber besides himself. Straightening wearily, he resheathed his sword and continued to scan for danger.

Had he imagined the voice?

No.

Then, could the voice have been a mental one? One left by the ancient Deryni masters of Saint Neot’s?

Moving cautiously back to his original position beside the vesting altar, Duncan closed his eyes again and willed himself to concentrate. This time the voice was expected, if no less chilling. And it was definitely in his mind.

Beware, Deryni! Here lies danger! Of a full one hundred brothers only I remain
—
to try, with my failing strength, to destroy this Portal before it can be desecrated. Kinsman, take heed. Protect yourself, Deryni. The humans kill what they do not understand. Holy Saint Camber, defend us from fearful evil.

Duncan eased his eyes open and glanced around, then tried again.

Beware, Deryni! Here lies danger! Of a full one hundred
—

Duncan broke off the contact and sighed.

So. It was a message left by the last Deryni to hold this place. And he had tried to destroy the Portal as he lay dying. Had he succeeded?

Dropping to his haunches, Duncan studied the floor where he had been standing, then used the edge of his hand to sweep away the rubble. As he had suspected, there was the faint outline of a square inscribed in the floor, perhaps three feet by three feet. Like the Portal in the cathedral, it had probably been hidden beneath carpeting at one time, but of course that had all been destroyed long ago. As for the Portal itself . . .

Gently laying his hands on the square, Duncan extended his powers, hoping desperately that he would feel the faintly dizzying pressure that would tell him he was on the verge of transfer.

Nothing.

He tried again, and this time he caught a faint wave of blackness, of pain, the beginning of the message he had already heard.

And then nothing. The Portal was dead. The last Deryni here had been successful.

With a sigh Duncan got to his feet and took a final look around, wiping his hands against his thighs. Now they would have to ride to Rhemuth after all. With the Portal destroyed, they had no choice. And after that, they would probably have to continue on to Culdi; for Kelson would be journeying there for Bronwyn and Kevin’s wedding.

Well, it couldn’t be helped. He would go and wake Alaric, and they would be on their way again. With any luck, they should reach Rhemuth by the following night, well ahead of any pursuers.

THE bells were muffled and tolled leadenly as the bishops filed into Saint Andrew’s Cathedral in Dhassa. The night was clear, crisp, tinged with new frost, with tiny ice crystals that swirled in the wind as the men gathered just inside the doors. Long tapers distributed by two young priests were lit from a guarded flame within the nave. The flames shivered in the draft that whistled through the half-open doors, danced weird patterns of candle-fire on the dark, frost-touched cloaks of the prelates.

The men glided down the clerestory aisles to take their places in the choir: two ragged lines of faceless, black-clad men with fire in their hands. As the muffled bells ceased their tolling, a clerk counted heads unobtrusively, confirming the presence of all whose attendance was required. He disappeared up the darkened nave, and there was a hollow slam as the great doors closed. Three candles moved back down the clerestory aisle on the left as the clerk and two priests joined the others. There was a short pause, some coughing and shuffling of feet, then a side door opened and Loris entered.

The Primate of All Gwynedd wore full ecclesiastical regalia tonight. In a black and silver cope, with jewels encrusting the miter on his head, Archbishop Edmund Loris held his silver crozier resolutely in his left hand as he strode through the transept and turned into the choir. Archbishop Corrigan and Bishop Tolliver flanked him, slightly behind, with Bishop Cardiel bringing up the rear. A young crucifer carrying the archbishop’s heavy silver cross led them all as they passed between the two lines of clergy.

Loris and his entourage reached the bottom steps of the sanctuary and stopped, bowed respect to the altar, turned to face the nave. As Cardiel moved to the right and took four candles from a waiting monk, he glanced aside at Arilan, his eyes grim. Then he returned to his place at Tolliver’s side to give over the candles, passing the flame from his to Tolliver’s and on to Loris and Corrigan. When Loris’s taper was lit, Gwynedd’s Primate stepped forward and drew himself to his full height. His blue eyes flashed cold fire as he swept the assembled clergy.

“This is the text of the instrument of excommunication,” he said. “Hear and take heed.

“ ‘Whereas Alaric Anthony Morgan, Duke of Corwyn, and Monsignor Duncan Howard McLain, a suspended priest of the Church, have willfully and repeatedly defied and scorned the dictates of Holy Church;

“ ‘And whereas said Alaric and Duncan have this day slain innocent sons of the Church and threatened sacrilegious murder on the person of a consecrated priest of God, and forced him to witness vile and heretical acts of magic;

“ ‘And whereas said Alaric and Duncan have caused desecration to the shrine of Saint Torin by their use of forbidden magic and caused its destruction, and have repeatedly used such forbidden magic in the past;

“ ‘And whereas said Alaric and Duncan have shown no willingness to confess their sins and amend their ways;

“ ‘Now therefore We, Edmund, Archbishop of Valoret and Primate of All Gwynedd, speaking for all the clergy of the Curia of Gwynedd, do anathematize the said Alaric Anthony Morgan and Duncan Howard McLain. We sever them from the bounds of the Holy Church of God. We expel them from the congregation of the Righteous.

“ ‘May the wrath of the Heavenly Judge descend upon them. May they be shunned by the faithful. May the Gates of Heaven close before them and any who would aid them.

“ ‘Let no God-fearing man receive them, or feed them, or give them shelter from the night, on pain of anathema. Let no priest minister to them when living, nor attend their funerals when dead. Cursed be they in the house, cursed in the fields; cursed be their food and drink and all that they possess.

“ ‘We declare them excommunicate, cast into the outer darkness with Lucifer and all his fallen angels. We count them among the thrice-damned, with no hope of salvation. And we confound them with eternal malediction and condemn them with perpetual anathema. So let their light be quenched in the midst of darkness.’ So be it!”

“So be it!” the assembly chanted.

Taking his taper in front of him, Loris reversed it end-for-end and cast it to the floor, snuffing out the flame. In unison, the assembled bishops and clergy followed suit.

There was a clatter of falling candles like hollow blocks, and then blackness as the flames died.

Except for one candle that burned still, guttering defiantly against the tiles.

And no one could say from whose hands the light had fallen.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

SONG OF SOLOMON 8:6

 

 

 

 

 

“CATCH me if you can!” Bronwyn taunted.

With a flirtatious wink, she raced off down the garden path with her golden hair flying, blue skirts whipping seductively around her long legs. As she bolted, Kevin McLain made an initial attempt to grab her arm, missed, then bounded off after her with a delighted laugh. His sheathed sword slapped against his boots, threatening to trip him with every step, but he paid little heed to that minor detail; merely steadied the sword with a hand on the hilt as he chased her across the grass.

The day was fresh, the sun gently warm, and Bronwyn and Kevin had just returned from an early ride in the greening hills outside Culdi. Cavorting in the garden now like a pair of mischievous children, they ran and dodged among the trees and statues of the formal gardens for nearly a quarter of an hour, Kevin the pursuer and Bronwyn the hunted. At length he managed to trap her behind a small fountain, wagged a confident finger at her and chuckled as they circled round and round.

It was Bronwyn who finally broke the impasse. Sticking out her tongue in a defiant gesture, she began a dart for safety, only to slip on the grass and stumble to one knee as she cleared the fountain. Kevin, pressing his advantage, leaped to her side and threw his arms around her, carrying her to the ground with his weight as he bent to steal a kiss. As she relaxed in his arms and her lips parted under his, he almost lost himself in the heady ecstasy of the moment. Until he heard someone clearing his throat meaningfully behind him.

Kevin froze and opened his eyes, knowing he was caught, then ended the kiss. As he pulled away from Bronwyn, he saw her eyes widen slightly as she looked over his shoulder, and she suppressed a giggle. Then he was looking up at the face of his father. Duke Jared was smiling indulgently.