In the King's Service (8 page)

Michon allowed himself a tiny smile. “Indeed. Well, I shall be certain to render a glowing account of his christening to his sister and her children back in Rhondevala. No doubt she will be relieved to hear of his Majesty’s generous gesture, in inviting you and his other sisters to remain in the royal household.”

Jessamy inclined her head with prim graciousness. “I am a poor widow now, my lord, with no means of my own, so I am grateful that I and my children shall continue to have a roof over our heads and food in our mouths. And for Krispin to be educated alongside Prince Brion is a great honor—as is the dowry the king has promised his sisters.”

“You are, indeed, fortunate,” he said. “Clearly, faithful service to the king is very rewarding.”

A hint of what might have been uncertainty briefly flickered in her eyes, but she did not lower her gaze.

“Both Sief and I have served the House of Haldane for many years, my lord,” she said carefully, “so I hope that I and mine shall always remain their Majesties’ good servants.” She glanced back at the women surrounding the queen and the fretting Krispin. “You must excuse me, my lord. Sometimes only a mother’s arms will serve to soothe a baby’s crying. I pray you to give my devotion to my daughter and grandchildren.”

“My lady.”

He bowed to her back as she turned and hurried back toward the queen and her ladies, reviewing their exchange and considering all possible interpretations. Later that night, he recounted their conversation to the Camberian Council.

“She was very careful, wasn’t she?” Barrett said, when Michon had finished.

“Methinks that she had reason to be,” Michon replied.

“Then, you believe that Donal
is
the boy’s father?” Vivienne asked, looking decidedly scandalized.

Michon shrugged. “I cannot be certain without examining the child, of course—or subjecting Jessamy herself to a proper interrogation—but I would say that it’s entirely likely.”

“Might it be possible to bring Jessamy here for questioning?” Dominy said.

“Not of her own accord. And I doubt she could be brought against her will without it coming to someone’s notice.”

“What about examining the child?” asked Oisín.

“That will be very difficult. I gather that he’s to live in the royal nursery, apparently to be raised alongside Prince Brion—which is also suggestive of his true paternity.”

Barrett sat back in his chair with a perplexed sigh. “Then, it appears that, at least for the nonce, we cannot resolve this question.”

“I would have to agree,” Michon said. “But if we’re dealing with a Haldane by-blow—and a grandson of Lewys ap Norfal, as well—he’s still an infant, only weeks old. It will be years before he could become any kind of serious threat—plenty of time to consider our options. Meanwhile, we have a vacant seat to fill on this Council. Has anyone had a change of heart?”

When no one spoke, he gave a nod to Oisín, who rose and went to a side table, where he pulled a drape of deep violet velvet from a fist-sized amber crystal set on a simple wooden stand. Shrouding his hands with the velvet, he picked up crystal and stand and carried them back to the table, setting them before the chair of the absent Seisyll. The drape he laid across the arms of that chair before taking his own seat again, to the right of Seisyll’s.

“Is it late enough to be certain that he’s asleep?” Vivienne asked.

Michon, to her left, gave a knowing chuckle.

“The governor’s court at Ratharkin is not known for its scintillating night life, especially in these troubled times, and the negotiations being carried out by day will have been tedious, if not exhausting. I have little doubt but that Seisyll will have retreated to his bed by now. Nor, I think, could he long ignore our summons, amplified by Oisín’s wee bauble.” He nodded toward the crystal and laid his open palms to either side in invitation. “Shall we get on with it?”

The smiles of the other four acknowledged Michon’s observation concerning the court of Meara, and they likewise laid their open hands to either side, each turning the left palm downward to overlap the neighbor’s open right hand. Those flanking the empty chair called Camber’s Siege stretched slightly to bridge the gap, and those to either side of Seisyll’s chair lightly set their fingertips to the crystal, completing the circle.

“Now we are met. Now we are one with the ancients,” Michon murmured.

“Benedicamus, Elohim,”
Oisín responded.

His long-drawn breath and whisper of a sigh set the trigger for all of them to begin settling into trance. Some of them briefly closed their eyes, each centering in his or her own way . . . stilling, focusing, shifting into another mode of consciousness. As a silence that was almost palpable settled on the room, every gaze gradually turned to the giant
shiral
crystal set before Seisyll’s place, each one’s concentration melding with the crystal.

At length a faint spark seemed to kindle within its amber depths, flickering and then flaring to a glowing heart that throbbed with a pulse-beat like a living thing—erratic at first, but then steadying as the heartbeats of the five settled into synchronization. It was Michon who then set the call, reaching out for the mind of their absent member and willing him to respond. After a moment, a mist began to form around the pulsing flame, swirling and then coalescing into the face of Seisyll Arilan.

I am here,
came Seisyll’s focused declaration.
What is your wish?
The handsome face was still and tranquil, the violet eyes dreamy and unfocused.

We have agreed on a candidate, if you concur,
Michon replied.
It would be useful to bring the Council back to its full
strength as soon as may be accomplished. When do you anticipate returning to Rhemuth, or to some other place where you will have Portal access?

A frown crossed Seisyll’s face.
It could be weeks, perhaps even months. The Mearan situation is delicate, and requires careful handling. The king was right to send me here instead of others he could have sent, but I dare not leave until it is resolved. What candidate have you agreed?

Focusing his intent, Michon sent their recommendation in a burst of knowledge and information. Seisyll’s image immediately nodded.

I agree that such a delay would be inadvisable,
Michon replied.
We shall make suitable arrangements—provided, of course, that he accepts.

I expect that he will, at least for a limited term,
the face in the crystal said.
Is there anything else?

Naught that cannot wait until this is settled,
came Michon’s reply.
You should know, however, that the queen stood as godmother at the christening of Jessamy’s son.

The face in the crystal grimaced in sour disapproval.
Indeed. One might have expected that it would be the king. But then, if he is the boy’s father, that would not have been canonical, would it?

Nor is fathering a child on a woman not one’s wife,
Michon pointed out blandly.
Merely think on it, for now. Our brother Barrett has rightly pointed out that even a Haldane grandson of Lewys ap Norfal can pose no serious threat while he is yet an infant. We have time to consider our options.

The best option is one most easily carried out on an infant,
Seisyll returned coldly.
But I shall await your further deliberations. Please convey my fraternal greetings to our new member.

With that, his image faded in the crystal and the spark in its heart died out. Dominy de Laney sighed and briefly closed her eyes, and Vivienne eased a crick in her neck and shook out her hands. Barrett had briefly palmed his hands over his sightless eyes, and Michon and Oisín exchanged glances.

“Exceedingly well done, all,” Michon said to the room at large, and grinned as he added, “I did tell you that Seisyll would be abed at this hour.”

“Disturbing, however, that more progress has not been made in Mearan matters,” Barrett replied.

“Aye, but that does not surprise me,” Michon replied. “There will be war in Meara before another decade is out—mark my words. It will be yet another legacy of Malcolm’s marriage with the Princess Roisian: they, who had thought to settle the Mearan succession by the marriage bed rather than war, after Killingford.”

The others merely looked at him, knowing that he had the most direct experience of that great battle, for though none of them had been alive for that war, Michon’s father had fought there and lived to tell of it. An uncle and a cousin had not been so fortunate.

“Enough of thoughts of war,” Oisín said quietly, after a moment. “Do you wish me to approach our new member-elect?”

The others immediately turned their thoughts from the Mearan question, and even the question of Sief’s death, to the more immediate question of Sief’s successor. Slowly Michon nodded.

“Can you bring him tomorrow night?”

“I can bring him tonight, if you wish. If he accepts, he can be sworn to the Council immediately, and we can be about our further business.”

After a glance at the others, Michon slowly nodded.

“Go, then. We shall await your return.”

Chapter 5

—PROVERBS 15:22

 
 
 
 
 
 
IN the royal palace at Djellarda, in the princely state of Andelon, Prince Khoren Vastouni made his way back to the workroom adjoining his apartments, pleasantly fuddled with good wine and good company and well content with the course of the day.

He was a younger son whose elder brother had sons, so he had never entertained much likelihood of ever having to rule; but that had left him free to pursue interests of his own choosing, more artistic and academic than the arts of war and political intrigue, and to anticipate becoming a mentor to his nephew’s children in due course. Now nearing his half-century, he was blessed with a loving wife and family of his own, and that morning had seen his young nephew, his brother’s heir, happily remarried.

Which was well, because Fate had dealt the redoubtable Mikhail of Andelon a double blow in the past twelvemonth, making him Sovereign Prince the previous autumn, through the death of his father and Khoren’s brother, Prince Atun, and then taking Mikhail’s beloved Ysabeau in childbirth in the spring just past. At twenty-seven, having gained a throne but lost a wife, Mikhail had only daughters by his first marriage—the two-year-old Sofiana and the infant Michendra—but his new bride, the Lady Alinor, adored his children, and had professed herself eager to give him sons as well as more daughters, and as soon as possible.

“Oh, Mikhail, I do want lots and lots of babies!” she had declared, as she dandled little Michendra on her knee at the wedding feast and watched Sofiana playing with Alinor’s own little brother, the two-year-old Thomas. “Mother, would you look at this sweet, chubby little thing?”

Approaching the door to his workroom, happily replete with good food and excellent wine, Khoren found himself smiling and even shaking his head a little at that sweet image of domestic anticipation. There had been several stillborn sons in the early years of Mikhail’s first marriage, so Khoren hoped that the lovely and radiant Alinor would soon attain her heart’s desire and that, in her embrace, his nephew would speedily find new happiness—and sons!

In all, the marriage augured well for the future. Only reluctantly had Khoren taken early leave of the continuing wedding festivities—which were very much a family affair, bursting with Vastouni and Cardiel cousins and even a smattering of younger royals from neighboring Jáca and Nur Hallaj. His wife would linger happily in that company for many more hours to come, along with several of their children and grandchildren, but Khoren could no longer ignore the call of a particularly intriguing manuscript he wished to consult again before retiring, written in a dialect that only slowly was yielding up its secrets.

For a fine point of translation had been eluding Khoren Vastouni for nearly a week—and had crystallized in an almost staggering flash of insight during the most solemn part of the nuptial Mass earlier in the day, nearly making him laugh aloud with sheer delight. His beloved Stasha had given him the most mortified look.

Still basking in the satisfaction of his moment of revelation, Khoren set his splayed hand against the lock plate on the door and keyed the spell that would release the lock. At its click, he pushed the door open and slipped inside, at the same time removing the jewel-studded cap he had worn in lieu of a coronet.

This he set jauntily atop a human skull on a stand just inside the door; the reassembled skeleton of its owner hung by wires from a hook in a corner of the room, for he was an anatomist among his many other interests. Then he shrugged off his outer robe and tossed it over a nearby stool, emerald damask spilling onto a carpet patterned with pomegranates as he headed toward his worktable and the unfurled manuscript lying open upon it, its edges weighted down with several stream-polished rocks, pleasing to hand and eye.

It was then that he noticed the faint glow emanating from around the edges of a velvet curtain screening off a corner of the room: his Portal, set in semi-trap mode. It enabled visitors to come and go at will, and even to leave messages, but no one could venture past the Portal’s boundaries unless he gave them leave. Khoren had no enemies—at least none he was aware of—but even in Andelon, where Deryni were accepted as a matter of course, one could never be too careful.

“All right, who’s there?” he called out, heading toward that corner of the room. “Anyone with half a brain would know that I’ve been at my nephew’s wedding today.”

A flick of his arm sent the curtain skittering to one side in a slither of fine rings against wire. The man waiting behind it was well known to Khoren: trim and comely, of somewhat middling height, casually clad in riding leathers of a rich oxblood hue. As a patient smile touched his lips, the calloused hands lifted in a gesture of guileless denial.