Deryni Checkmate (23 page)

Ruins became vaguely visible through the gloom of drizzle and lowering dusk, and Morgan reined his horse to a walk, shielding his eyes against the mist with a gloved hand. His gray gaze flicked from tower to steps to top of ruined wall, searching for signs of other occupancy, but there were no signs of recent habitation. They could safely stay the night.

Morgan slipped his feet from the stirrups and stretched his legs, sat back in the saddle and let his feet dangle as his mount picked its way across the rough terrain leading to the gateway. Behind him, Duncan steadied his own mount as the animal slipped on a patch of mud and recovered. The pack pony, following Duncan now, peered suspiciously at each new shadow-shape in the darkness ahead, shying and jerking at its lead with every new sound or hint of movement on the windswept plateau. Men and beasts were travel-weary and chilled to the bone.

“Well, this is about as far as we go for tonight,” Morgan said as they neared the ruined gateway. The hollow squishplop of the horses’ feet in the mud changed to a simple splash as they reached the cobbled path entering the ancient courtyard. An eerie silence permeated the place despite the steady rain, and Duncan whispered almost in spite of himself as he moved his horse closer to Morgan’s.

“What
is
this place?”

Morgan guided his mount through a ruined doorway and ducked as he passed beneath a partially fallen beam.

“Saint Neot’s. It was a flourishing monastery school before the Restoration, run by an all-Deryni brotherhood. The chapel was desecrated during the sacking, and several of the brothers were slain right on the altar steps. Local folk, such as there are, avoid it like the plague. Brion and I used to ride out here.”

Morgan moved his mount into a dry, partially roofed corner and began pushing at random beams above his head, testing their stability, as he continued. “From what I’ve been able to learn, Saint Neot’s ranked with the great university at Concaradine, or the Varnarite School at Grecotha when it was in its prime. Of course, being Deryni was respectable in those days.”

He pushed at a final beam and grunted in satisfaction as it held. Then he sat back in the saddle and dusted his gloved hands together in a gesture of finality.

“Well, I guess this will do for a dry place to sleep. At least the roof won’t collapse on us.”

As he dismounted, he glanced around easily, obviously familiar with the ruin. In a few minutes he and Duncan had unsaddled the horses and heaped their gear against a dry wall. By the time Morgan returned from tethering the animals in a stabling area farther back in the ruins, Duncan had started the evening meal over a carefully tended fire in the corner. Morgan sniffed appreciatively as he stripped off his dripping cloak and gloves and rubbed his hands briskly over the fire.

“Hmmm, I was beginning to think I’d never be warm again. You’ve outdone yourself.”

Duncan gave the pot a stir, then began digging through one of the sets of saddlebags. “You don’t know how close we came to not having a fire, my friend. Between the wet wood, and having to choose a place where no one could see the fire from outside—what was this room?”

“The refectory, I think.” Morgan pulled several handfuls of branches out of dry crevasses and piled them near the fire. “Over to the right there were kitchens, stable facilities, and the brothers’ sleeping quarters. It’s in a worse state than I remembered. They must have had some hard winters up here since my last visit.” He rubbed his hands together again and blew on them. “Any chance of building up the fire a little more?”

Duncan chuckled as he uncorked a wine flask. “Not unless you want everyone in Dhassa to know we’re coming. I’m telling you, I had a devil of a time finding a place for even a piddling fire like this one. Count your blessings.”

Morgan laughed. “I can’t fault your logic. I have no more wish than the next man to have my neck stretched or my throat slit.” He watched as Duncan poured wine into two small copper cups, then dropped a small, glowing stone into each. The stones steamed and hissed as they hit the cold wine, and Morgan added, “As I recall, the Dhassans have some rather novel ways of dealing with spies, especially Deryni ones.”

“Spare me the details!” Duncan retorted. He plucked the stones from the cups and handed one across to his cousin. “Here, drink up. This is the last of the Fianna wine.”

Morgan flopped down beside the fire with a sigh and sipped the wine, hot and potent and warming all the way down.

“Too bad they don’t drink this in Dhassa. There’s nothing like Fianna wine when you’re cold and tired. I gag even to contemplate the brew we’ll be forced to imbibe for the next few days.”

“You’re assuming, of course, that we’ll live that long,” Duncan said with a grin. “And that the holy Dhassans won’t recognize you before we can reach our esteemed archbishops.” He leaned back against the wall to savor his drink. “Did you know that it’s rumored the Dhassans sometimes use
ale
in their sacrament, because the wine is so bad?”

“A poor joke, surely?”

“No, I have it on excellent authority. They use sacramental ale.” He leaned forward to poke at the stew. “Are you ready to eat?”

A quarter hour later, the two had found the driest spots for their bedrolls and were preparing for sleep. Duncan was trying to read his breviary by the dying firelight, and Morgan removed his sword and sat on his haunches staring out into the darkness. The wind whined through the ruins and mingled with the slackening sounds of rainfall. Closer by, Morgan could hear the scrape of iron-shod hooves against the cobbles in the stable area. From somewhere far in the distance, a night bird twittered once and then was silent. Morgan stared into the dying embers for a few more minutes, then stood abruptly and pulled his cloak around himself.

“I think I’ll take a short walk,” he murmured, fastening his cloak and moving away from the fire.

“Is anything wrong?”

Morgan glanced down awkwardly at his booted feet and shook his head. “Brion and I used to ride in these mountains—that’s all. I was suddenly reminded of that.”

“I think I understand.”

Pulling his hood close around his head, Morgan moved slowly out of the circle of firelight and into the damp darkness beyond. He thought vaguely about Brion, not yet willing to unleash the memories associated with this place; found himself at length standing beneath the open, burned-out ceiling of the old chapel. He glanced around almost surprised, for he had not intended to come here.

It had been a large chapel once. Though the right-hand wall and most of the chancel back had long since crumbled, either from the original fire or from the weight of years, and though the last shards of glass had fallen long ago from the high clerestories, there was still an odor of sanctity about this place. Even the sacrilegious murder of Deryni brothers in this very chamber had not entirely destroyed the pervading calm that Morgan always associated with consecrated ground.

He looked toward the ruined altar area, almost fancying he could discern darker stains on the steps before it, then shook his head at his own imagination. The Deryni monks who had died here were two hundred years dead, their blood long since washed away by the torrential rains that swept the mountains every spring and autumn. If the monks had ever haunted Saint Neot’s, as the peasants’ legends suggested, they had long ago found peace.

He turned and wandered through a doorway still standing at the rear of the ruined nave, then smiled as he saw that the stairway to the bell tower, though crumbling at the edges, was still passable. He eased his way up that stairway, staying close to the outer wall and picking his footing carefully, for it was dark and the treads were littered with debris. Then, when he reached the first landing, he inched along the outer wall to the window there, gathered his leather cloak more closely around him, and sat down.

How long had it been since he’d last sat in this window, he wondered, as he looked around him in the darkness. Ten years? Twenty?

No, he reminded himself. It had been fourteen—and a few months.

He pulled his feet up and propped them against the opposite side of the window jamb, knees hugged against his chest—and remembered.

It had been autumn—midway through November. Autumn had come late that year, and he and Brion had ridden out of Coroth early that morning for one of their rare jaunts into the countryside before the bad weather set in. It was a clear, brisk day, just beginning to be tinged with the promise of winter to come, and Brion had been in his usual good humor. Thus, when he had suggested that Morgan show him through the old ruins, the young Deryni lord was quick to agree.

Morgan was no longer Brion’s squire by then. He had proven himself at Brion’s side the year before in the battle with the Marluk. Further, he was fifteen, a year past legal age by Gwynedd law, and Duke of Corwyn in his own right.

So now, riding beside the king on a favorite black war-horse, he wore the emerald gryphon of Corwyn on his black leather tabard instead of Brion’s crimson livery. The horses blew and snorted contentedly as their riders drew rein at the entrance to the old chapel.

“Well, look at this,” Brion exclaimed. He urged his white stallion into the doorway and shaded his eyes with a gloved hand to peer into the interior. “Alaric, the stairs to the bell tower seem to be sound. Let’s have a look.”

He backed his mount a few paces and jumped from the saddle, dropped the red leather reins so the animal could graze while they explored. Smiling, Morgan dismounted and followed Brion into the ruined chapel.

“This must have been quite a place in its time,” Brion said, climbing over a fallen beam and picking his way across the rubble. “How many were here, do you think?”

“In the whole monastery? About two or three hundred, I should think, Sire. That’s counting brothers, servants, and students all together, of course. As I recall, there were well over a hundred in the order.”

Brion scrambled up the first few steps of the stairway, his boots sending shards of stone and mortar flying as he found each precarious foothold. His bright riding leathers were a splash of crimson against the weathered gray of the tower, and his scarlet hunt cap sported a snowy feather that bobbed jauntily over his shoulder as he climbed. He grunted as his boot slipped and he nearly lost his footing, then recovered and continued.

“Mind where you step, Sire,” Morgan called, watching Brion anxiously as he followed. “Remember that these steps are more than four hundred years old. If they collapse, Gwynedd could be minus a king.”

“Hah, you worry too much!” Brion exclaimed. He reached the first landing and crossed to the window. “Look out there. You can see halfway back to Coroth.”

As Morgan reached his side, Brion cleared the windowsill of rubble and shattered glass with a sweep of his gloved hand, then sat easily, one booted foot propped against the opposite side.

“Look at that!” he said, gesturing toward the mountains to the north with his riding crop. “Another month and that will be covered with snow. And it will be just as beautiful then, in its snow-covered way, as it is right now, with just the first burn of frost on the meadows.”

Morgan smiled and leaned against the window jamb. “There would be good hunting up there about now, Sire. Are you sure you don’t want to stay in Coroth a while longer?”

“Ah, you know I can’t,” Brion replied with a resigned shrug. “Duty calls with a loud and persistent voice. If I’m not back in Rhemuth within a week, my Council lords will go into a twitter like a pack of nervous women. I don’t think they really believe that the Marluk is dead, that we’re no longer at war. And then there’s Jehana.”

Yes, and then there’s Jehana,
Morgan thought morosely.

For an instant he allowed himself to visualize Brion’s auburn-haired young queen—then dismissed the image from his mind. Any hope of a civil relationship between himself and Jehana had ended the day she learned he was Deryni. She would never forgive him that, and it was the one thing he could not change, even had he wished to. It was pointless to belabor the issue. It would only remind Brion again of the disappointment over which he had no control: that there could never be anything but loathing between his queen and his closest friend.

Morgan leaned out over Brion’s outstretched foot to look over the windowsill.

“Look there, Sire,” he said, changing the subject. “Al-Derah’s found some grass that didn’t get burned by the frost.”

Brion looked. Below, Morgan’s black destrier was busily pulling at a patch of verdant grass some twenty feet from the base of the tower. Brion’s stallion had strayed a few yards to the right and was contenting himself with nosing halfheartedly in a patch of brownish clover grass, one big hoof planted firmly on his red leather reins.

Brion snorted and leaned back in the window, folding his arms across his chest. “Humph. That Kedrach is so dumb, I sometimes wonder how he finds his own nose. You’d think the stupid beast would have enough sense to pick up his big feet and move. He thinks he’s tied.”

“I did urge you not to buy horses from Llannedd,” Morgan said with a chuckle, “but you wouldn’t listen. The Llanneddites breed for looks and speed, but they don’t care much about brains. Now, the horses of R’Kassi—”

“Quiet!” Brion ordered, feigning indignation. “You’re making me feel inferior. And a king must never feel inferior.”

As Morgan tried to restrain a grin, he glanced out across the plain again. Half a dozen horsemen could be seen approaching now, and he touched Brion’s elbow lightly as he came to full alertness.

“Sire?”

As the two watched, they were able to make out Brion’s crimson lion banner in the hands of the lead rider. Beside him rode a stocky figure in brilliant orange who could only be Lord Ewan, the powerful Duke of Claibourne. Ewan must have seen the flash of Brion’s crimson leathers in the window at about the same time, for he abruptly stood in his stirrups and began a raucous highland war whoop as he and his band thundered toward the tower.