Deryni Checkmate (38 page)

The Mass wound on to its conclusion, but Morgan was aware of little of it. Fatigue, despair, numb grief, and a dozen lesser emotions washed over his mind instead, and it was with some surprise that he found himself standing outside the gate to the crypt below Saint Teilo’s with the others; and knew that the gate had closed behind Bronwyn and Kevin for the last time.

He glanced around and realized that the gathering was dispersing, that the few members of the family and household who had been permitted at the interment were drifting away in little knots and talking among themselves. Kelson was still with Duke Jared and Lady Margaret, but Derry stood attentively at his elbow and nodded sympathetically as Morgan looked up.

“Don’t you think you should get some rest, sir? It’s been a long few days, and soon you won’t have the opportunity.”

Morgan closed his eyes and rubbed the back of a gloved hand across his forehead, in vain hope of blurring the sorrow of the past few hours, then shook his head.

“Make some excuse for me, will you, Derry? I need a few minutes to myself.”

“Of course, sir.”

As Derry stared after him with concern, Morgan slipped away from the other mourners and made his way into the gardens that adjoined the church. Wandering unseeing along the graveled paths, he came at last to his mother’s chapel and let himself in through the heavy wooden door.

He had not been here for a long time—how long, he could not recall—but the chapel was a refuge, light and airy and shining; and someone had opened the stained-glass panel above his mother’s sepulcher so that the sunlight streamed in rich and golden, touching the alabaster effigy with warmth.

The sight conjured up happier memories, for this had always been Morgan’s favorite time of day to visit his mother’s tomb. He could remember coming here as a child with Bronwyn and his Aunt Vera to lay flowers at the feet of the effigy, and the heady, wondrous tales his aunt had told them of the Lady Alyce de Corwyn de Morgan. Then, as now, he had had the feeling that his mother had never really left them, that her presence had lingered and watched over him and his sister as they played in the chapel and in the gardens outside.

He remembered the quiet times—sitting alone in the cool sanctuary of the chapel when the world outside became too unbearable; or lying on his back in a pool of color from the window above the sepulcher, listening to the sounds of his breathing, to the wind in the trees outside, to the stillness of his own soul. The memory somehow brought a measure of comfort even now. Absurdly he found himself wondering whether his mother knew that her only daughter now lay in a stone tomb not far away.

The wide brass railing surrounding the sepulcher shone in the sunlight, and Morgan let his hands linger there for a long moment as he bowed his head in grief. After a while, he slipped the hook of the chain that formed the railing across one end of the enclosure and stepped inside, let the chain slither leadenly to the marble floor. As he ran a gentle finger along the carved hand of his mother’s effigy, he became aware of someone humming brokenly in the garden outside.

It was a familiar tune—one of Gwydion’s most haunting melodies—but as he closed his eyes to listen, the voice began to sing new words to the song: words he had never heard before.

The singing itself was also Gwydion’s, he realized after a while, the troubadour’s mellow voice blending with the rich lute chords in a golden meld of sheer beauty. But there was something wrong with Gwydion’s voice as he sang. And it took Morgan several minutes to realize that the little troubadour was crying.

He could not catch all the words. The lilting lyrics were often lost in Gwydion’s sobs. But the nimble fingers filled in where the singer’s voice failed, underscoring the phrasing with a tender caring.

He sang of spring and he sang of war. He sang of a golden maiden who had stolen his heart and was no more; of a noble’s son who had dared to love the maid and had died. Sorrow must come, the poet sang. For war was blind, striking down the innocent as well as those who waged the war. And if dying must come, then man should take the time to mourn his losses. Only grief gave meaning to the deaths, made the need for final victory real.

Morgan’s breath caught as he listened to Gwydion’s song, and he bowed his head over his mother’s tomb. The troubadour was right. It
was
a war they waged; and many more would die before battle was done. It was necessary if Light was to prevail, if the Darkness was to be overcome.

But those who fought must never forget
why
they held back the Darkness, or that the price of victory might often be measured in human tears. And that the tears, too, were necessary: to wash away the pain, the guilt, to free the heart and let the human part mourn.

He opened his eyes and stared up into the sunlight, then let the hollow emptiness wash over him, felt his throat constrict as he tasted bitter loss.

Bronwyn, Kevin, the beloved Brion, whom he had loved as father and brother, young Richard FitzWilliam—all were gone, all victims of this mad, senseless conflict that raged even now.

But now—now, when a lull in the storm gave brief respite from the fury of the wind—now a man might let himself mourn at last, and lay the ghosts to rest.

The golden light swam before Morgan’s eyes, and his vision blurred. And this time he did not try to hold back the tears that welled up. It was some minutes before he was aware that the singer was gone, that footsteps were approaching on the gravel path outside.

He heard them coming long before they reached the door and knew it was he they sought. By the time the door was swung hesitantly open, he had had time to compose himself again, to don the face he must show to the outside world.

He took a deep breath to steel himself and turned to see Kelson framed in the bright doorway, a muddy, red-tuniced courier just behind him. Jared, Ewan, Derry, and a handful of other military advisors had accompanied Kelson, but they kept a respectful distance as their young monarch stepped into the tiny chapel. A much-folded square of parchment with many pendant seals was in the royal hand.

“The Curia at Dhassa has split over the Interdict question,” the king said, his gray eyes searching Morgan’s carefully. “Bishops Cardiel, Arilan, Tolliver, and three others have broken with Loris in defiance of the Interdict decree and are prepared to meet us at Dhassa within a fortnight. Arilan believes he can raise an army of fifty thousand by the end of the month.”

Morgan lowered his eyes and turned partially away, twining his gloved fingers together uneasily. “That is well, my prince.”

“Yes, it is,” Kelson said, frowning slightly at the brief answer and taking a few steps toward his general. “Do you think they would dare to go against Warin? And if so, do you think that Jared and Ewan can hold Wencit in the north, if we must aid the rebel bishops?”

“I don’t know, my prince,” Morgan said in a low voice. He raised his head to gaze distractedly out the open window at the sky beyond. “I doubt Arilan would go against Warin actively. To do so would, in effect, acknowledge that the Church’s stand on magic has been mistaken for two hundred years, that Warin’s crusade against the Deryni is wrong. I’m not certain that any of our bishops are willing to go that far—not even Arilan.”

Kelson waited, hoping Morgan would add something more, but the young general seemed to have finished.

“Well, what do you suggest?” Kelson asked impatiently. “Arilan’s faction has expressed a willingness to help us. Morgan, we need all the help we can get!”

Morgan lowered his eyes uncomfortably, reluctant to remind Kelson of the reason for his hesitation. If the young king continued to support Duncan and himself, excommunication and Interdict would fall on all of Gwynedd before the archbishops were finished. He could not allow—

“Morgan, I’m waiting!”

“Forgive me, Sire, but you should not be asking me these things. I should not even be here. I cannot allow you to compromise your position by associating with one who—”

“You stop that!” Kelson hissed, grabbing Morgan’s forearm to stare at him angrily. “There’s been no official word of your excommunication from the Curia yet. And until there is—and maybe not even then—I don’t intend to lose your services just because of some stupid archbishop’s decree. Now, damn you, Morgan, you will do as I say! I need you!”

Morgan blinked in astonishment at the boy’s outburst, almost fancying for an instant that it was Brion standing before him, king admonishing a blundering page. He swallowed and lowered his eyes, realizing how close he had come to dragging Kelson’s safety into his own self-pity. He realized, too, that Kelson recognized the danger approaching—and was willing to accept it. As he gazed into the stormy gray eyes, he saw a familiar, determined look he had never seen there before. And Morgan knew that he would never think of Kelson as a boy again.

“You are your father’s son, my prince,” he whispered. “Forgive me for forgetting, even for an instant. I—” He paused. “You
do
understand what this decision means?”

Kelson nodded solemnly. “It means that I trust you implicitly,” he said softly, “though ten thousand archbishops speak against you. It means that we are Deryni and must stand together, you and I, even as you stood by my father. Will you stay, Alaric? Will you ride the storm with me?”

Morgan smiled slowly and then nodded. “Very well, my prince. These are my recommendations. Use Arilan’s troops to protect the northeast border of Corwyn against Wencit’s armies. There is a clear-cut danger there. They need not be compromised by being drawn further into the Deryni question.

“For Corwyn itself, use Nigel’s troops if there is internal strife because of Warin. Nigel is loved and respected throughout the Eleven Kingdoms. There is no taint to his name.

“As for the north,” he glanced toward Jared and smiled reassuringly, “I believe that Dukes Jared and Ewan can defend us adequately on that front. The Earl of Marley can be recruited also. That still leaves us the crack Haldane troops in reserve, for wherever they’re needed. What think you, my prince?”

Kelson grinned and released Morgan’s arm, slapped his shoulder enthusiastically. “Now,
that’s
what I wanted to hear. Jared, Derry, Deveril, come with me, please,” he called over his shoulder. “We must get dispatches off to Nigel and the rebel bishops within the hour. Morgan, are you coming?”

“Shortly, my prince. I wanted to wait for Duncan.”

“I understand. Whenever you’re ready.”

As Kelson and the rest departed, Morgan turned and retraced his steps to the Church of Saint Teilo. Treading softly, so as not to disturb the few mourners still praying in the stillness, he made his way down the clerestory aisle and along the ambulatory until he reached the vesting chapel where he knew Duncan would be. Pausing, he peered through the open door.

Duncan was alone in the chamber. He had put aside his priestly garb and was lacing the front of a plain leather doublet, his back to the doorway. As he finished with the lacings, he reached for his sword and belt lying across a table beside him. His movement stirred the vestments on the rack to his right, jarring the silken stole from its peg.

Duncan froze as the stole slid to the floor, then bent slowly to retrieve it. He straightened and stood without moving for several seconds, the stole clasped in stiff fingers, then touched it to his lips and returned it to its place on the rack. The silver embroidery caught the light from a high window as Morgan stepped quietly into the doorway and leaned against the doorjamb.

“It hurts more than you thought it would, doesn’t it?” he observed in a low voice.

Duncan’s back tensed for just an instant, and then he bowed his head.

“I don’t know what I thought. Perhaps I believed that the answer would come to me of its own accord, that it would make the parting easier. It doesn’t.”

“No, I don’t suppose it does.”

Duncan gave a sigh and picked up his sword belt, turned to glance at Morgan as he buckled it around his slim waist.

“Well, what now?” he asked. “When you’re Deryni, excommunicated from your Church, and exiled from your king, where
can
you go?”

“Who said anything about exile?”

Duncan picked up his cloak and flung it around his shoulders, furrowing his brow and glancing down as he fumbled with the clasp.

“Come, now, let’s be realistic. He doesn’t have to say it, does he? You and I both know he can’t let us stay when we’re under the ban of the Church. If the archbishops found out, they’d excommunicate him, too.” The components of the cloak clasp snapped together with an audible click, and Morgan smiled.

“They may do that anyway. Under the circumstances, he really doesn’t have much to lose.”

“Not much to—” Duncan broke off in amazement as he realized what Morgan was implying. “He’s already decided to take the risk?” he asked, watching his cousin’s face for confirmation. Morgan nodded.

“And he doesn’t care?” Duncan still seemed unable to believe what he was hearing.

Morgan smiled. “Of course he cares. But he recognizes the priorities, too, Duncan. And he’s willing to take that risk. He wants us to stay.”

Duncan stared at his cousin for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

“We ride against tremendous odds—you know that,” he said tentatively.

“We are Deryni. Such has always been our lot.”

Duncan took a final look around the chapel, allowing his eyes to touch lingeringly on the altar, on the silk vestments hanging on their rack, then walked slowly to join Morgan in the doorway.

“I’m ready,” he said, not looking back.

“Then let us join Kelson,” Morgan said with a smile. “Our Deryni king has need of us.”

INDEX OF CHARACTERS

ALAIN—Morgan’s alias at Saint Torin’s.

ALARIC Anthony Morgan, Duke of Corwyn—see MORGAN.

ALYCE de Corwyn de Morgan, Lady—full Deryni mother of Alaric and Bronwyn Morgan.