Deryni Checkmate (33 page)

Then both were engulfed in a flash of harsh white light that illuminated the entire room. It seared the carpets and the very air with its brilliance, cutting off the screams that reverberated through the palace as the white light faded.

Then there was only silence . . . until the guards, streaming into the room in response to the screams, halted aghast at the sight that awaited, drew back in confusion as Kelson arrived at a dead run, and jerked to a stop in the doorway, Derry right behind him.

“Get back, all of you!” Kelson commanded, staring wide-eyed through the open door and motioning them to withdraw. “Hurry! There’s magic afoot!”

As the guards obeyed, Kelson stepped cautiously into the room and spread his arms to the sides, lips moving in a counter-spell. As he finished, light flared faintly in the center of the room and died. He bit his lip and closed his eyes briefly, damping down his growing apprehension, then forced himself to move slowly closer.

The couple lay sprawled near the open terrace doors, Kevin on his back, Bronwyn slumped face-down across his chest, her golden hair spilling across his face in disarray. Kevin’s arms outstretched to either side were blackened, the hands charred and burned with the terrible energy he had tried to quench. The McLain plaid fastened to his shoulder was singed at the edge where it lay partially across one slack hand. Neither of them showed any sign of life.

Swallowing with difficulty, Kelson dropped to his knees beside the two and reached out to touch them, winced as his fingers brushed Kevin’s arm, Bronwyn’s silken hair. Then he sank back on his heels and bowed his head in sorrow, hands resting helplessly on his thighs. There was nothing he or anyone else could do for the two lovers now.

At Kelson’s gesture of finality, Derry and the guards and Jared’s Lord Deveril began to filter into the room, hushed and stunned in the wake of the unexpected tragedy. Lord Deveril’s face went white as he saw the crumpled bodies, and then he was pushing his way back through the growing crowd to try to stop Duke Jared. He was too late.

“What has happened?” Jared whispered, craning his neck to see past his seneschal. “Has something happened to Bronwyn?”

“Don’t, m’lord, please!”

“Let me through, Dev. I want to see what’s—Dear God, it’s my son! Sweet Lord in Heaven, it’s both of them!”

As the guards parted to admit Jared, Rimmell arrived and eased his way to the back of the crowd, gasped and clenched a fist to his open mouth as he saw what had happened. A violent fit of trembling overcame him as his other fist tightened convulsively on Bronwyn’s gold locket, and he was desperately afraid he was going to be sick.

As more guards and courtiers spilled into the chamber, Rimmell tried to shrink back against the wall and melt into the stonework, tried to force his gaze away from the awful sight, but could not. Then he crumpled to his knees and sobbed in bitter despair, not knowing or caring that the locket cut his palm as he wrung his hands in anguish.

Lady Margaret arrived with Gwydion. She paled as she saw the bodies and looked as though she might faint. But then she was moving toward her husband, who stood numb and motionless beside them. She put her arms around him and clung wordlessly for a long moment, then led him gently to the terrace doors and turned him so he would not have to see the thing that tore at his heart. She talked to him then, softly, in words no one else could hear.

Gwydion picked up Bronwyn’s discarded lute and looked at it wordlessly, its neck cracked and belly smashed from its fall. Moving slowly to Kelson’s side, the little troubadour watched without comment as the young king unfastened his scarlet cloak and draped it over the two bodies, then absently plucked at one of the remaining strings. The note echoed discordantly in the stillness, and Kelson looked up with a start.

“I fear the music is shattered forever, Sire,” Gwydion murmured sadly, kneeling beside Kelson to lay the lute gently by Bronwyn’s hand. “Nor can it ever be mended.”

Kelson averted his gaze, knowing it was not the lute Gwydion spoke of. Gwydion allowed his slender fingers to caress the lute a final time, then folded his hands before him.

“May one ask how this came to pass, Sire?”

Kelson shrugged dully. “Someone set a jerramán crystal in the room. By itself, that would not be terribly significant; jerramáni can be used for many things, some of them quite beneficial. You may have heard mention of them in some of the old ballads you sing.”

His voice faltered as he went on. “But this one was not beneficial—at least it wasn’t once a human like Kevin entered the picture. Alone, Bronwyn might have been able to overcome the spell, whatever its intent. She would have had the power, if her training was sufficient. But she must have called out or screamed, and no doubt Kevin heard and came to her aid. She could not save herself
and
him; and in the end, she saved neither.”

“Could she not have—”

Kelson cut off further discussion with a warning look and got to his feet, for Jared and Margaret had been joined on the terrace by the white-robed Father Anselm, Castle Culdi’s aging chaplain. The young king bowed respectfully as Anselm approached with the bereaved parents, then stepped back to let them kneel beside the bodies. He crossed himself as Anselm began to pray, then began backing off slowly, signaling Gwydion to accompany him.

“Gwydion, Derry, let’s clear away the unnecessary spectators, shall we? The family need some privacy just now.”

As the men followed Kelson’s orders, gently shepherding soldiers and weeping ladies-in-waiting from the room, Derry came at last to Rimmell. The architect knelt moaning softly in a corner, his white hair shaking as he wept, a fine golden chain spilling through his clasped fingers as he rocked slowly back and forth. As Derry touched his shoulder, Rimmell looked up with a start, his eyes red and streaming. Derry, ill-accustomed to dealing with hysterical men, noticed the golden chain and seized on it as an excuse to distract the man.

“Eh, what’s this? Rimmell, what have you got there?”

As Derry caught his wrist, Rimmell tried to pull away, eyes wide as saucers as he staggered to his feet. His resistance only heightened Derry’s interest, and the young Marcher lord renewed his efforts to pry open the hand.

“Come, now, Rimmell, I want to see what it is,” Derry said, becoming a little irritated as Rimmell resisted all efforts to distract him. “Why, it’s a locket. Where did you get—”

As he spoke, the locket slipped from Rimmell’s grasp and fell to the floor, springing open even as Derry scooped it up. He started to return it to Rimmell, giving it only a cursory glance, then gasped as the portrait registered.

“
Khadasa!
It’s my lady!”

At Derry’s oath, Kelson frowned and turned, intending to reprimand Derry for his unseemly outburst. When he saw the stunned look on Derry’s face, however, he crossed to the young lord and took the locket instead. Just as he realized who the portrait was intended to be, Lady Margaret saw the locket and dashed to his side, clutching at his arm in horror.

“Where did you get that locket, Sire?”

“This?” Kelson looked confused. “Why, apparently Rimmell had it, my lady. Though how he came by it, I cannot imagine.”

Margaret’s hand trembled as she took the locket from Kelson, and she flinched as the metal touched her hands. She gazed at the portrait inside for just an instant, then clutched it to her bosom with a moan.

“Where—” She swallowed with difficulty. “Rimmell, where did you get this?”

“My lady, I—”

“Bronwyn gave this locket to Kevin on the day of their betrothal.
Where did you get it?
”

With a wail of despair, Rimmell flung himself to his knees and clutched at her skirts in supplication, his white head shaking as he poured out his misery.

“Oh, my dearest lady, please believe that I never meant for this to happen!” he sobbed. “I loved her so much! I only wanted her to love me in return. Surely you can understand what it is to love!”

Margaret shrieked, drawing away in abhorrence as she realized the implication of Rimmell’s words, and Derry and several guards grabbed the architect and forced him to release Margaret’s skirts. Jared, who had watched the exchange uncomprehendingly, murmured his dead son’s name once, but could not seem to make further sound or action.

“You!” Kelson gasped, hardly daring to believe what he had just heard. “
You
set the jerramán, Rimmell?”

“Oh, Sire, you must believe me!” Rimmell babbled, shaking his head pleadingly. “It was only to have been a love charm. Dame Bethane said—”

“Dame Bethane?” Kelson snapped, grabbing Rimmell’s hair and yanking his head up to look him in the eyes. “Rimmell, this was Deryni magic. I know, because I had to neutralize what was left after it had done its work. Now, who is this Dame Bethane you speak of? Is she Deryni?”

“I—do not know, Sire,” Rimmell stammered. He winced as his head was pulled back by the hair. “She lives in the hills north of the city, in—in a cave. The villagers say she is a holy woman, that she has often worked love charms and other favors in return for food and—and gold.” He swallowed and blinked his eyes tightly. “I only wanted Bronwyn to love me, Sire. Besides, it was but simple magic Bethane used.”

“Simple magic does not kill!” Kelson fairly spat the words as he released Rimmell’s hair abruptly and wiped his hand against his thigh. “You, too, bear responsibility for those deaths, Rimmell. Just as surely as if you yourself had set the magic and watched them burn!”

“I’ll kill him!” Jared screamed, flinging himself at a guard and snatching out the man’s sword. “As God is my witness, he shall die for this wretched deed!”

As he darted toward Rimmell, glassy-eyed and with sword upraised, Margaret screamed “No!” and threw herself between them. Derry and a guard captain grabbed Jared’s sword arm and forced it down as Margaret clung sobbing to his chest, but Jared continued to struggle and shout: “Take your hands off me, you fools! I shall kill him! Margaret, he has murdered my son! Do not interfere!”

“Jared, no! Hasn’t there been enough of killing? At least wait until you’re not so distraught. Sire, don’t let him do this thing, I beg of you!”

“Stop it, all of you!”

Kelson’s words cut through the shouting like a sword, bringing instant silence save for the forlorn sobbing of Rimmell. All eyes turned to the young king as he let his stern glance roam the waiting faces, and there was much of his father in him as he turned to Derry.

“Release Jared.”

“Sire?” Derry looked incredulous, and Lady Margaret stared at the king in horror.

“I asked you to release him, Derry,” Kelson repeated evenly. “I believe the order was plain enough.”

With a puzzled nod Derry relinquished his grip on Jared’s arm and stepped back, holding Margaret gently by the shoulders to keep her from interfering. She watched horrified as Jared raised his sword again and moved toward the cowering Rimmell.

“Sire, I beseech you, do not let Jared kill him! He—”

“No, let him kill me, Sire!” Rimmell cried, shaking his head and tightly closing his eyes. “I do not deserve mercy, wretched man that I am! I am unworthy to live. Kill me, Your Grace! I have destroyed the woman I love! Kill me horribly! I deserve to suffer!”

Jared faltered, the glazed look leaving his eyes, then slowly straightened up and lowered the sword in his hand. After a glance at Kelson, at Margaret’s taut, anxious face, he dropped the sword to the floor with a clatter and half turned away in disgust.

“Lord Fergus?” he said, gazing calmly out the door to the garden beyond.

A heavy-set man wearing a baldric of minor command stepped from the throng and saluted with fist to chest.

“Your Grace?”

“This man is an admitted murderer. I want his head on Traitor’s Gate within the hour. Do you understand?”

Fergus’s face showed no emotion as he bowed. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Very well. I would see the evidence of your work before you leave the garden, Fergus.”

Fergus nodded again. “I understand.”

“Go then.”

With a curt nod, Fergus signaled a pair of his men to take custody of the prisoner and began heading toward the terrace doors. As they walked away, Rimmell continued to whimper, “I deserve to die, I have killed her, I deserve to die.” Fergus loosened his broadsword in its leather scabbard.

Jared waited until they were gone, then staggered back to the two bodies, knelt to draw aside the scarlet cloak and stroke his dead son’s cheek, straightening the strand of Bronwyn’s golden hair that still lay across Kevin’s face. Margaret gazed after the departing soldiers and their prisoner disbelievingly, at her husband and Anselm kneeling beside the bodies, then moved before Kelson to wring her hands.

“Sire, you must not permit this! The man is guilty, of course. No one could deny that. But to slay him in cold blood—”

“It is Duke Jared’s execution, my lady. Do not ask me to intervene.”

“But you are king, Sire. You can—”

“I came not as king but as a wedding guest,” Kelson pointed out coolly, turning his gray glance on Margaret and fixing her with his gaze. “I would not usurp Duke Jared’s authority in his own house.”

“But Sire—”

“I understand what motivates Jared, my lady,” Kelson said firmly, looking at the kneeling duke. “He has lost a son. I have no sons yet, and like may never have one if the forces of darkness have their way. But I think I know how he feels. I have lost a father and many more. I think the anguish cannot be too different.”

“But—”

There was a sickening thud from the terrace outside, the clang of steel striking stone flagstones, and Margaret’s face went white. Footsteps approached the terrace doors with a measured tread, and then Lord Fergus was standing in the doorway with a heavy, dripping burden held by a shock of red-stained white hair. It was Rimmell’s head.