Deryni Checkmate (36 page)

So Morgan and Duncan had ridden on toward Culdi, changing horses often, little suspecting what that city held in store for them besides a worried young king. As they reined in before the main gates in the chill, early morning blackness, squinting against the torchlight on the rampart walls, a gate warder slid open a spy hole and inspected them suspiciously. After three days of riding, the two before the gates definitely did not look like types one would want to admit to a walled city in the predawn hours.

“Who seeks admittance to the city of Culdi before the rising of the sun? Identify yourselves or face the judgment of the city.”

“Alaric Duke of Corwyn and Duncan McLain to see the king,” Duncan said in a low voice. “Open quickly, if you please. We’re in a hurry.”

The gate warder held a hurried, whispered conference with someone Duncan could not see, then peered out again and nodded.

“Stand back, please, m’lords. The captain is on his way.”

Morgan and Duncan backed their horses a few paces and slouched in their saddles. Morgan glanced up at the ramparts and noticed a white-haired head on a pike above the gate. He frowned and touched Duncan’s elbow, directing his attention toward the sight with a nod of his head, and Duncan looked up, too.

“I thought that sort of execution was reserved for traitors,” Morgan said, studying the head curiously. “That hasn’t been up there for long, either. It can’t have happened more than a few days ago.”

Duncan furrowed his brow and shrugged, shaking his head. “I don’t recognize him. He looks fairly young, too, despite the white hair. I wonder what he did.”

They heard the creak of bars being raised behind the gates, a groan of steel hinges and clanking chains, and then a postern gate opened in the right half of the huge main doors, barely large enough to admit a man on horseback. Morgan glanced quizzically at Duncan, for as far as he remembered, it was not the usual practice to admit visitors through the postern gate. On the other hand, he had never tried to enter the city before dawn, either. And there was no hint of danger behind the door. Morgan’s powers had returned by now, and there was no treachery afoot that he could detect.

Duncan guided his horse through the gate and into the small courtyard beyond, and Morgan followed. Inside, two dark-cloaked city warders were mounting up, holding their skittish horses in check as torches were handed up and a guard captain wearing the insignia of Kelson’s elite corps reached up to take hold of Morgan’s bridle.

“Welcome to Culdi, Your Grace, Monsignor,” he said, bowing slightly but keeping his eyes averted as he moved to keep from being stepped on by Morgan’s horse. “These men will escort you to the main keep.”

The man released Morgan’s bridle and stepped back, signaling the warders to proceed, and Morgan frowned again. It was dark in the tiny courtyard, with only the meager torchlight to illuminate the area, but Morgan thought he had seen black crepe banding the man’s arm above the elbow. It seemed very strange that one of Kelson’s personal household should be in public mourning. He wondered who had died.

The mounted escort rode out, holding their torches aloft, and Morgan and Duncan urged their tired mounts after them. The streets of Culdi were empty at this hour of the morning, and the horses’ hooves echoed on the cobbles and paving stones of the winding streets. They came at length to the main entrance to the keep, and were readily admitted when the guards there saw their escort. But as Morgan and Duncan glanced up at where the royal suite was located, the rooms where the king always stayed when he visited Culdi, they were amazed to see lights burning at the windows there, with still more than an hour until dawn.

Now, that was truly strange. What could have roused the young king at this hour? Both Morgan and Duncan knew full well that the boy was an inveterate late sleeper, and would not willingly have arisen at this hour unless something were urgently requiring his attention. What was going on?

The two of them drew rein and dismounted. A groom walking a sheeted and exhausted horse over to the left was muttering and shaking his head disgustedly every time he stopped to run his hands down the animal’s legs, and the animal itself seemed on the verge of collapse.

A messenger must have arrived on that horse, Morgan concluded. A messenger with news for Kelson that could not wait. That was why the candles burned at Kelson’s window.

As they hurried up the main steps, Morgan glanced at his cousin and surmised that Duncan had reached the same conclusion. An ancient doorkeep whom both men recognized from their childhood admitted them and bowed, signaling a young page to light their way to the upper floor. The doorkeep was Jared’s man, a faithful servant of the McLain family all his life, but he, too, would not meet their eyes or speak. And he, too, wore a black crepe armband.

Who has died?
Morgan asked himself again, a chill suspicion touching his heart.
Not the king, please God!

Casting an anguished look toward Duncan, Morgan pushed past the page and bounded up the stairs three at a time, Duncan right at his heels. Both knew the way to their destination, for Castle Culdi was a familiar childhood haunt. But Morgan reached the door first and wrenched at the latch. The door flew open and crashed back against the wall.

Kelson sat in a nightrobe at a writing desk near the windows, haggard-looking and with raven hair disheveled. The desk was banked by candles to either side, their light dancing over the table as the door flew open, and Kelson was writing absorbedly on a scrap of paper as he referred to a parchment document on the table before him. Behind him and to his left, Derry stood leaning over Kelson’s shoulder to point out something on the parchment, clad in a hastily donned blue dressing gown. An exhausted looking squire sat slumped on a hassock by the fire, one of Kelson’s crimson cloaks thrown around his shoulders. He stared dully into the flames and sipped hot wine as a page pulled off his boots and another tried to offer him food.

Kelson looked up with a start as the door flew open, and his eyes widened as he saw Morgan and Duncan. Derry, too, had glanced at the doorway as the two entered, and now stepped back to watch silently as Kelson stood and laid aside his pen. Even in the candlelight, it was evident that something was grossly wrong.

With a glance and a gesture, Kelson signaled the pages and the squire to withdraw, not moving further until the door had closed behind them. Only then did he step from behind the table to lean dejectedly against the edge. No word had yet been spoken, and Morgan glanced first at Derry, then at Kelson.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Kelson studied the toes of his slippers, would not meet Morgan’s eyes. “There’s no easy way to tell you this, Alaric, Father Duncan. You’d better both sit down.”

As Derry pulled chairs closer, Morgan and Duncan exchanged apprehensive glances and sat. Derry resumed his place beside Kelson’s chair, his face unreadable, and Morgan returned his attention to Kelson as the boy sighed.

“First of all, there’s this,” Kelson said, gesturing behind him to where the parchment lay on the table. “I don’t know what you did at Saint Torin’s—Father Hugh didn’t give the details—but I think it will come as no surprise that both of you have been declared excommunicate.”

Morgan and Duncan exchanged glances again, and Duncan nodded.

“By Loris?”

“By the entire Gwynedd Curia.”

Duncan sat back and sighed. “No, I can’t say we’re surprised. Gorony must have had some tales to tell. I suppose they mentioned that I had to reveal myself as Deryni?”

“It’s all here,” Kelson said, gesturing vaguely toward the parchment again.

Morgan frowned and sat forward in his chair, studying Kelson shrewdly. “There’s something you haven’t told us, something you found out before you got that message. What’s wrong? Why is the staff in mourning? Whose head was that on the gate?”

“The man’s name was Rimmell,” Kelson said, not meeting Morgan’s eyes. “You may remember him, Father Duncan.”

“My father’s architect.” Duncan looked surprised. “But what did he do? Murder? Treason?”

“He was in love with your sister, Alaric,” Kelson said dully. “He found an old witch-woman in the hills to cast a love spell on her. Only the spell was badly done, and instead of making her love Rimmell, it—killed.”

“Bronwyn?”

Kelson nodded miserably. “And Kevin. Both.”

“Dear God!” Duncan murmured, his voice choking off as he buried his face in his hands. Morgan, dazed, touched Duncan’s shoulder in a mindless gesture intended to comfort and sank back in his chair.

“Bronwyn is dead? By magic?”

“A jerramán crystal,” Kelson replied in a low voice. “Alone, she might have been able to overcome it. It was very poorly set. But it wasn’t fashioned for a human’s interference, and Kevin was there when it struck. That was two days ago. The funeral is to be today. I might have tried to get a message to you, but I knew you’d already be on your way. The least I could do was to spare you the same anguished kind of ride you had when my father died.”

Morgan shook his head in disbelief. “It doesn’t make sense. She should have been able to—who
is
this witch-woman Rimmell contacted? Deryni?”

Derry stepped forward and bowed his head sympathetically. “We don’t know for certain, m’lord. Gwydion and I spent the rest of that afternoon and all day yesterday searching the hills where Rimmell said to look. Nothing.”

“It’s partly my fault,” Kelson added. “I should have questioned Rimmell more closely, Truth-Read him. As it was, all I could think was that—”

There was a knock at the door, and Kelson looked up.

“Who is it?”

“Jared, Sire.”

Kelson glanced at Morgan and Duncan, then crossed to the door to admit Jared. As he did so, Morgan rose and moved dazedly toward the window behind Kelson’s desk, staring out through the streaked glass at the lightening eastern sky. Duncan was sitting slouched in his chair, hands clasped between his knees and staring at the floor. He looked up with a pained expression as he heard his father’s voice, composed himself, and stood to face the door as Jared entered.

Jared seemed to have aged years in the past few days. His usually immaculate hair was disheveled, streaked with more gray than Duncan remembered, and the heavy brown dressing gown with dark fur collar and cuffs only accentuated the new lines on his haggard face, added more years to a frame that now seemed almost unable to bear them.

He met Duncan’s eyes briefly as he crossed the room, then looked away to avoid breaking down in his son’s presence. His hands wrung together uneasily in the long velvet sleeves.

“I—was with him when they brought word that you had come, Duncan. I couldn’t sleep.”

“I know,” Duncan whispered. “Nor could I, in your position.”

Kelson had moved back to the table to stand beside Morgan now, and Jared glanced at him before turning to his son.

“Duncan, I must ask a favor of you.”

“Whatever I can do,” Duncan replied.

“Would you preside at your brother’s requiem this morning?”

Duncan lowered his eyes, taken aback at the request. Apparently Jared had not been told of the suspension, much less the excommunication, or he would not have asked. A suspended priest was not supposed to exercise the powers of his sacred orders. And an excommunicated one . . .

He glanced at Kelson to confirm his surmise about Jared, and Kelson deliberately turned the parchment face-down and shook his head slightly.

So. Jared did
not
know. Apparently the only ones in Culdi who did know were in this room right now.

But Duncan knew. Of course, until the official notification of excommunication arrived from Dhassa, that could be construed to be mere rumor, and therefore not binding—though Duncan knew better. But the suspension—well, even that would not invalidate the sacraments Duncan was being asked to perform. Suspension did not take away a priest’s sacerdotal ability; only his right to exercise it. And if he chose to defy suspension and perform his sacred functions anyway—well, that was between the priest and his God.

Duncan swallowed and glanced up at Jared, then put his arm around his father’s shoulders in comfort.

“Of course I’ll do it, Father,” he said quietly. “Now, why don’t we go back and see Kevin together this time?”

Jared nodded and blinked, trying to keep back the tears, and Duncan glanced at Morgan and Kelson. As Kelson nodded, Duncan inclined his head and moved on toward the door with his father. Derry caught Kelson’s eye and raised an eyebrow, inquiring whether he, too, should leave, and Kelson nodded yes. Derry followed Duncan and Jared and closed the door behind him softly, leaving Kelson and Morgan alone in the room.

Kelson watched Morgan from behind for a moment, then bent to blow out the candles on the desk. The sky was brightening steadily as dawn approached, and the light coming through the windows now was just sufficient to discern vague shadow-shapes, some features. Kelson leaned against the window casement to Morgan’s right and gazed out over the city, warming his hands in the sleeves of his robe, not looking directly at Morgan. He could find no words to speak of Bronwyn.

“We have a few hours before you must make an appearance,” he said quietly. “Why don’t you rest?”

Morgan seemed not to have heard. “You cannot imagine what these past three days have been like, my prince. Like a very bad dream, almost as bad as when your father died—perhaps worse, in some respects. I keep thinking I’ll wake up, that it cannot possibly get any worse—but then it does.”

Kelson lowered his head and started to speak, distressed to hear his mentor in such low spirits, but Morgan resumed almost as though Kelson were not there.

“Once the official notice of excommunication arrives, you are bound not to receive us, on pain of coming under excommunication yourself. Nor may you accept our aid in any way, for the same reason. And if Interdict falls in Corwyn, which it almost certainly will, I cannot even promise you the aid of my countrymen. Indeed, you may be faced with civil war. I—don’t know what to tell you to do.”