Deryni Checkmate (24 page)

“What the devil—?” Brion murmured, standing to peer down as Ewan and his companions drew rein in a cloud of dust.

“Sire!” Ewan yelled, his eyes sparkling with merriment and his red beard and hair blowing in the wind as he grabbed Brion’s banner and brandished it aloft in triumph. “Sire, you have a son! An heir for the throne of Gwynedd!”

“A son!” Brion gasped, his jaw dropping in awe. “My God, it was supposed to be another month!” His eyes lit in elation. “A son! Alaric, do you hear?” he shouted, grabbing Morgan’s arms and dancing him around in a half circle. “I’m a father! I have a son!”

Releasing Morgan, he looked jubilantly out of the window at his cheering escort and shouted again: “I have a son!” Then he scrambled back down the stairs, Morgan close at his heels, his voice echoing through the ruins in a paean of joy: “A son! A son! Alaric, do you hear? I have a son!”

 

MORGAN sighed deeply and rubbed his hands across his face, refusing to let the sorrow overwhelm him, then leaned his head back against the window jamb once more. All that had been many years ago. The boy-man Alaric was now lord general of the Royal Armies, a powerful feudal magnate in his own right—if somewhat beset at the moment. Brion slept in the tomb of his ancestors beneath Rhemuth Cathedral, victim of a magical assassination that even Morgan had not been able to prevent.

And Brion’s son—
“A son! A son! Alaric, do you hear? I have a son!”
—Brion’s son was fourteen now, a man, and King of Gwynedd.

Morgan looked out across the plain the way he and Brion had done so many years before, fancying he could see the riders again, coming across the plain, then gazed up into the misty night sky. A gibbous moon was rising in the east, paling the few stars bright enough to penetrate the overcast. Morgan gazed up at those stars for a long moment, savoring the serenity of the night, before turning his feet back to the floor to return to camp.

It grew late. Duncan would be worrying for his safety soon. And tomorrow, with its subterfuge and obdurate archbishops, would come all too early.

He picked his way back down the staircase, his footing easier now that the moon was beginning to light the ruins, and headed back through the standing doorway to cut through the nave. He was perhaps halfway through that chamber when his eye caught a faint flicker of light in the far recesses of the nave—there, to the left of the ruined altar.

He froze and turned his head toward the light, frowned as it did not disappear.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ISAIAH 41:25

 

 

 

 

 

MORGAN stood absolutely motionless for perhaps ten heartbeats, Deryni defenses raising automatically as he cast about for danger. The moonlight was still very dim, and the shadows were long, but there was definitely something brilliant in the darkness to the left. He considered calling out, for it
could
be Duncan.

But, no. His heightened senses would have identified Duncan by now. If there was someone lurking in the shadows, he was not known to Morgan.

Cautiously, and wishing he had thought to bring his sword, Morgan eased his way left across the nave to investigate, fingertips trailing the outer wall as he glided down the clerestory aisle. The flicker had disappeared when he moved, and he could see now that there was nothing extraordinary about that particular corner of the ruins, but his curiosity had been piqued.

What could have shone that brightly after all these years? Glass? A chance reflection of moonlight on standing water? Or something more sinister?

There was a faint scuttling sound from the direction of the ruined altar, and Morgan whirled and froze, stiletto flicking into his hand in readiness. That had not been imagination, or moonlight on standing water. There was something there!

Sight and hearing at full extension, Morgan waited, half expecting the spectral form of some long-dead monkish spirit to rise out of the ruined altar. He had almost decided that his nerves were, indeed, playing tricks on him when a large gray rat suddenly broke from cover in the ruins and headed directly for him.

Morgan hissed in surprise and leaped out of the animal’s path, then exhaled with a sigh and chuckled under his breath as the rat fled. He glanced back at the ruined altar, chiding himself for his foolishness, then began moving confidently down the aisle again.

The corner that had originally attracted Morgan’s attention was still partially roofed, but the floor was rough and littered with rubble. A narrow altar-shelf had been set into the back wall and remained, though the edge was battered and cracked as from heavy blows. Once there had been a marble figure in the niche in the wall behind.

Only the feet of the statue remained now—those and the cracked slab and the shards of glass and stone—mute relics of that terrible day and night when rebels had sacked the monastery two centuries before. Morgan smiled as his gaze passed over the feet, wondering who the ill-fated saint had been whose sandaled feet still trod the broken dreams of this place. Then his eyes focused on a sliver of silvered glass still affixed to the base below the feet, and he knew he had found his elusive light.

There were more shards of silver and ruby embedded in the layer of mud on the slab below, fragments of a shattered mosaic that once had covered the pedestal directly above the altar. The looters had smashed that, just as they had shattered the statues, the stained glass in the high windows, the marble and tile floorings, the precious altar furnishings.

Morgan started to reach for his stiletto to pry out the elusive piece of glass, but then thought better of it and replaced his weapon in its wrist sheath, shaking his head. That one shard of silver, still clinging in its original place, had defied rebels, time, and the elements. Could the unknown saint in whose honor the glass had been placed make the same claim of his human adherents? Morgan thought not. Even the saint’s identity was lost by now. Or was it?

Pursing his lips thoughtfully, Morgan ran his fingers along the battered altar edge, then bent to inspect it more closely. As he had suspected, there were letters inscribed in the stone, their intricate whorls almost obliterated by the fury of the looters centuries past. The first two words were readable if one used a little imagination—
JUBILATE DEO
—a standard inscription for such an altar.

But the next word was badly damaged, and the next. He was able to trace out the letters
S - - C T V -
—, probably
SANCTUS
, saint. But the final word, the saint’s name...

He could make out a damaged C, an A, a shattered S on the end.
C A - - - R - S. CAMBERUS?
Saint Camber?

Morgan whistled lightly under his breath in surprise as he straightened. Saint Camber again, the Deryni patron of magic. No wonder the looters had done such a thorough job here. He was amazed they had left as much as there was.

He backed a few steps and glanced around distractedly, wishing he had the time to stay and explore further. If this had, indeed, been a corner of the church dedicated to Saint Camber, the odds were very good that there had been a Transfer Portal not far away. Of course, even if it still functioned—and that was doubtful after so many years of disuse—he had no place to go with it anyway. The only other Portals he knew of were back in Rhemuth, in Duncan’s study and in the cathedral sacristy, and he certainly didn’t want to go there. Dhassa was their destination.

It was probably a ridiculous notion anyway. A Portal would have been destroyed long ago, even if he could find it. Nor could he spare the time to look.

Stifling a yawn, Morgan took one final look around, waved a casual salute to the feet of Saint Camber, then began crossing slowly back to camp. Tomorrow there would be answers to many problems, when they confronted the Gwynedd Curia. But for now, it had begun to rain again. Perhaps that would help him to sleep.

 

BUT there would be no sleep for another man abroad that night.

In the woods not many miles from where Morgan and Duncan slept, Paul de Gendas squinted into the driving rain and slowed his mount to a walk as he approached the hidden mountain camp of Warin de Grey. His lathered horse blew noisily, sending twin plumes of steam into the cold night air. Paul, himself mud-spattered and soaked to the skin, swept off his peaked hat and sat taller in the saddle as he came adjacent to the first guard outposts.

The slight increase in his discomfort was worth the extra effort. For the sentries with their hooded lanterns would no sooner materialize out of the darkness to challenge than they would recognize the bedraggled rider and melt back into the shadows. Guttering torches ahead showed the dim outlines of tents in the rain. As Paul approached the first tent at the perimeter of the camp, a young lad wearing the same falcon badge as Paul came running to take his horse, rubbing sleep from his eyes and looking at the rider in puzzlement.

Paul nodded greeting as he slid shivering from his horse, and he scanned the area of torchlight impatiently as he pulled his drenched and muddy cloak around him.

“Is Warin still about?” he asked, slicking wet hair out of his face before replacing his hat.

An older man in high boots and hooded cloak had approached as Paul asked the question, and he nodded gravely to Paul and signaled the boy to be off with the weary horse.

“Warin is conferring. He asked not to be disturbed.”

“Conferring?” Paul stripped off his soggy gloves and began moving along the muddy path toward the center of camp. “With whom? Whoever it is, I think Warin will want to hear what I’ve found out.”

“Even at the risk of offending Archbishop Loris?” the older man asked, raising an eyebrow and smiling with satisfaction as Paul turned to gape. “I think the good archbishop is going to support our cause, Paul.”

“Loris,
here
?” Paul laughed unbelievingly, a grin splitting his rugged face from ear to ear, then pummeled his companion enthusiastically on the back. “My brother, you have no idea of the uncanny good fortune of this night. Now I
know
Warin will welcome the news I bring!”

 

“YOU understand my position, then,” Loris was saying. “Since Morgan has refused to step down and recant his heresies, I am forced to consider Interdict.”

“The action you propose is perfectly clear,” Warin said coldly. “You will cut off Corwyn from all solace of religion, doom untold souls to suffering and possible eternal damnation without benefit of sacraments.” He glanced at his folded hands. “We are agreed that Morgan must be stopped, Archbishop, but I cannot condone your methods.”

Warin was seated on a small portable camp stool, a fur-lined robe pulled loosely around him against the chill. In front of him, a well-tended fire blazed brightly in the center of the tent, the only portion of the floor not covered by tan ground cloths or rugs. Loris, his burgundy travel garb stained and damp from his ride, sat in a leather folding chair to Warin’s right—the chair usually reserved for the rebel leader himself. Behind Loris stood Monsignor Gorony in stark black clerical attire, hands hidden in the folds of his sleeves. He had only just returned from his mission to Corwyn’s bishop, and his face was inscrutable as he listened to the exchange.

Warin intertwined long fingers and rested his forearms lightly against his knees, then stared dourly at the rug beneath his slippered feet.

“Is there nothing I can say to dissuade you from this action, Excellency?”

Loris made a helpless gesture and shook his head solemnly. “I have tried everything I know, but his bishop, Ralf Tolliver, has not been cooperative. If he had excommunicated Morgan as I asked him to do, the present situation might have been avoided. Now I must convene the Curia and—”

He broke off as the tent flap was pulled aside to admit a travel-stained man wearing the falcon badge on his muddy cloak. The man swept off his dripping hat and saluted with right fist to chest, then nodded apologetically in the direction of Loris and Gorony. Warin looked up distractedly and frowned as he recognized the newcomer, but he got up immediately and went to the entryway.

“What is it, Paul?” Warin asked. “I told Michael I didn’t want to be disturbed while the archbishop was here.”

“I don’t think you’ll mind this particular interruption when you hear the news, lord,” Paul said, controlling a smile and instinctively keeping his voice low so that Loris could not hear. “I saw Morgan on the road to Saint Torin’s just before dark. He and one companion made camp in the ruins of old Saint Neot’s monastery.”

Warin grabbed Paul’s shoulders and stared at him in amazement. “Are you certain?” He was obviously excited, and his eyes gleamed as he searched Paul’s. “Oh, my God, right into our hands!” he murmured almost to himself.

“It’s my guess he’s on his way to Dhassa,” Paul said with a grin. “Perhaps a suitable reception could be arranged.”

Warin’s eyes glittered as he whirled to face Loris. “Did you hear that, Excellency? Morgan has been seen at Saint Neot’s, on his way to Dhassa!”

“What?” Loris stood abruptly, his face livid with rage. “Morgan on his way to Dhassa? He must be stopped!”

Warin seemed not to hear, had turned to begin pacing the carpet agitatedly, his black eyes gleaming in concentration.

“Do you hear me, Warin?” Loris repeated, staring at Warin strangely when the rebel leader did not answer. “This is some Deryni trick he has devised to deceive us. He means to disrupt the Curia tomorrow. With his Deryni cunning, he may even be able to convince some of my bishops of his innocence. I know he does not mean to submit to my authority!”

Warin shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips, and continued to pace. “No, Excellency, I do not think he means to submit either. But neither is it my intention to allow him to disrupt your Curia. Perhaps it is time we met face to face, Morgan and I. Perhaps it is time to discover whose power is stronger—his accursed sorceries, or the might of the Lord. Paul,” he turned back to the man in the entryway, “you are to hand-pick a group of about fifteen men to ride to Saint Torin’s with me before dawn.”