The Bishop’s Heir (46 page)

Dhugal's eyes had been getting wider and wider as Duncan spoke; now his hands were trembling. Quickly he clamped them together to make them stop, not daring to take his eyes from Duncan's.

“I—want to believe you,” he finally managed to whisper. “I mean no disrespect to my f—to Lord Caulay, but if—if you
are
my father, it would certainly explain a lot.”

Slowly Duncan drew deep breath. The time was come to take the final chance.

“I know of only one way to prove that to you, beyond what I've already done, Dhugal,” he said softly. “If I
am
your father, then you're Deryni, too. And if you're Deryni, then—if you're willing—I should be able to form a mind-link with you and show you exactly what I remember about your mother and me. I loved her very much, Dhugal, and I've come to care a great deal for you, over the years, before I ever suspected you might be my son. I can't make up for all the years you've lived in ignorance—and that's the fault of no one who's still alive—but I can try to bridge the gap now that I know it's there. Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Dhugal breathed.

“No, do you
really
trust me?” Duncan insisted. “You trusted me before and weren't able to let me in. Do you think you might be ready now?”

“Duncan, I'm not sure we really have the time,” Morgan murmured.

“If it's going to work without a lot of trouble, it isn't going to
take
a lot of time,” Duncan replied, not taking his eyes off the boy. “We'll be given the time, if that's what Dhugal really wants.”

Dhugal swallowed and nodded. “He's right, Morgan,” he breathed. “We have to try it now. Would you go to Kelson, please, and tell him I'll be there directly? Don't tell him what's happened. He has enough to think about just now.”

“Duncan?” Morgan asked.

“Do as he asks,” the priest replied. “We'll be all right.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-O
NE

I will be to him a Father, and he shall be to me a Son
.

—Hebrews 1:5

As soon as the door had closed behind Morgan, Duncan glanced at Dhugal.

“We haven't any time to spare,” he said softly. “If you want your proof now, you're going to have to do exactly as I say, perhaps without as full an explanation as either of us would want.”

Dhugal shook his head slowly. “I don't want to wait, Fa—” He lowered his eyes. “I just realized that maybe I've been calling you by the proper name all these years,” he continued softly. “Strange, but it somehow feels so much more comfortable than when I used to call Caulay my father.”

“He
was
your father, in all the ways that are most important to a boy growing up. I wish I'd had the chance to watch you grow. Of course, I did, in a way, knowing you at court and all—but I think I might have felt differently if I'd known you were my son.”

“Maybe it was meant to be this way,” Dhugal replied shyly. “Maybe I had to lose one father before I could find the other. If I'd known about you while Caulay was still alive, I wouldn't have wanted to hurt him.”

“Nor I. And I hope you'll always honor his memory.” Duncan smiled as he laid a hand lightly on Dhugal's forearm. “He gave you his name and his protection in the years when you were most vulnerable. Now that he's gone and you're a man, no one will be hurt by the truth.” The smile broadened to a grin.

“You should know that there's at least one complication that could be—ah—awkward, at best. If I'm to acknowledge you, as is my intention—if you want it, that is—there are going to be those who will call you bastard in addition to Deryni, of course.”

Dhugal smiled. “They've called you and Morgan bastards for years. Somehow I've never gotten the impression that had anything to do with your paternity.”

“No.” Reaching into the front of his cassock, Duncan rose and moved a stool in front of Dhugal's chair, withdrawing the
shiral
crystal on its leather thong as he sat.

“You remember this,” he said simply, placing it in Dhugal's hand. “It was your mother's. She gave it to me the night I gave her the cloak clasp.”

Dhugal ran a thumb across the rough-polished stone and nodded slowly. “What am I supposed to do this time?”

“I'll do most of what needs to be done. All I ask is that you try to be open and unafraid. We'll try to use the crystal as a link between us. You may feel some odd sensations, perhaps even some uncomfortable ones, but I promise I won't hurt you. To start, all I want you to do is concentrate on the crystal and try to see Maryse in your mind's eye.
Have
you see paintings of her?”

Dhugal closed the crystal in his fist and gave another nod.

“One miniature. That was a long time ago, though.”

“Then let me paint a picture in your mind with my words,” Duncan said softly, closing one hand around Dhugal's hand that held the crystal and resting the other on top of his head as if in benediction. “Close your eyes and try to see her, in as much detail as you can remember. Don't force it, though; try to coax it. See her fair hair, like molten silver flowing halfway down her back, bound across the brow with a fillet of tiny metal flowers … primroses, I think they were.”

He could feel Dhugal relaxing under his touch, and he, too, closed his eyes, seeing the image of a long-lost love.

“There were tiny golden stones set in the centers of the flowers, the exact shade of her eyes—almost the same shade as yours,” Duncan went on quietly. “And she wore a gown of pink that matched her blush … fair, very fair skin.…”

As he spoke, gently insinuating thoughts along with words, he could begin to read the image forming in Dhugal's mind as well as his own, just on the surface at first, then gradually eroding the pulsing, troublesome shields.

“She had a laugh like silver bells … a serenity as still and deep as the lake at Shannis Meer.…”

Even as Duncan's voice trailed off and he tried a stronger probe, he was past Dhugal's shields and in his mind, driving the memories across the unconscious links and into Dhugal's consciousness, holding the channel open relentlessly when Dhugal sensed what was happening and would have drawn back in momentary panic. He felt Dhugal gasp as something psychic snapped, but he damped the sharp wrench of pain which followed even as he pulled Dhugal closer and gave him physical comfort.

All in an instant, all the barriers were down and Dhugal was with him, reliving those halcyon days with Maryse. Shy meetings in corridor and castle hall, wind-blown rides on the downs around the castle, shared meals of travel fare under the forest canopy of nearby Alduin, tender glances and shy, chaste kisses in the warm, earthy shadow-space between their ponies, sheltered from prying eyes—

And then the clans were home, the awful news spreading: how Ardry MacArdry, tanist of Maryse's clan, had quarrelled with a McLain retainer over a tavern wench … MacArdry blood spilling … the hangman's noose for the murderer and grim, silent escort for both bodies back to Culdi, just long enough for the MacArdry to gather up the rest of his family and go, before a blood feud broke out anew.

Maryse's panic as they realized the personal sigificance of what had happened … Duncan's despair … defiant agreement in a castle hallway to meet in the chapel later that night … the rendezvous itself—desperate, fearful at the presumption as they made their vows before God alone.…

And then the consummation, in a warm, sheltered corner of the stable loft—hurried, fumbling, only partially satisfying, but joyous, nonetheless … and parting so soon after … and parting for good, the next morning, as Duncan watched her and her family ride out of Culdi and out of his life, neither of them dreaming that she carried the child of their love.…

The sheer force of the emotion which surged with Duncan's remembrance flooded through Dhugal's mind with such a pressure that no resistance was possible; nor, once the pathways were in use, did Dhugal feel any further fear or apprehension. Duncan sensed almost the exact instant when Dhugal made that conscious choice to let the mind-link fill him—and the surge, as Dhugal opened to his father's mental touch, gave new impetus to the sharing Duncan now pursued even more.

Sparing only the areas of confidence which might not be shared with anyone—his priestly secrets and duties, the confidences of others—Duncan poured forth all the memories of the years he and Dhugal had lost, intertwining them with Dhugal's own—sparser, for sheer number, but no less potent and treasured, for his part. And Dhugal, once he sensed how it was to be done, entered joyously in the sharing.

Neither of them could later remember at what point Dhugal had lurched even closer to twine his arms around Duncan's waist, weeping, or when Duncan's own joyous tears began—only that, when the sharing at last began to ebb and normal consciousness gradually intruded, they found themselves huddled together for comfort, Dhugal half in his father's lap, Duncan gently stroking his son's hair and soothing as he withdrew mental contact, the old barriers gone between them.

“Are you all right?” Duncan whispered after a moment.

Sniffling contentedly, Dhugal drew away far enough to look at Duncan and nod, dragging a sleeve across his eyes.

“My head hurts a little, right behind my eyes, but it's probably just my hangover. It's all right.”

“Let's see if I can make it better than all right,” Duncan murmured, laying his hand over Dhugal's forehead and touching thumb and middle fingers to the quickly closed eyes. “Take a deep breath and let it out … and feel the pain dissolving. That's right.”

Only the lightest of healing touches was required to ease the afterache. Duncan could read it across the light rapport between them as easily as he could read Morgan, when they worked together. As he withdrew his hand, Dhugal opened his eyes to stare at him in awe. This time, all shadow of discomfort was gone from behind the almond-amber eyes.

“Was that your healing magic?” Dhugal asked.

“Just a little,” Duncan smiled “And if you don't get off my leg, I'm going to have to heal a terminal muscle cramp,” he added, shifting Dhugal's weight and wincing as circulation started to return. “I'm afraid we didn't plan this very well. I should have made you more comfortable.”

Awkwardly, and almost a little embarrassed, Dhugal staggered to his feet, weaving a little until Duncan guided him back to the edge of the chair.

“I'm only a little wobbly,” Dhugal protested. “I'll be fine. Kelson must be waiting for us, though. I can hardly wait to tell him.”

“I—think we'd better wait until after the ceremony for that,” Duncan said, steadying him by the shoulder. “Your first instinct was very good. He has a few other things on his mind right now. This will keep.”

“But, aren't we late?”

Duncan shook his head. “What we did took far less time than you think. You've got time to catch your breath.”

“Oh.” With a shy grin, Dhugal let himself relax a little, then impulsively snatched up Duncan's hand and pressed it to his lips.

“Father,” he whispered wonderingly. “You really are my father—and that means I'm Deryni, too.” He paused to swallow. “Do you know that I wished about the Deryni part, that first time I saw Kelson use his powers? He put a man to sleep, so that I could sew up his arm. I thought I was just dreaming at the time, but was I starting to realize, even then?”

“Perhaps,” Duncan answered gently. “I expect your skill with horses probably comes from that, too. Bronwyn used to call the birds. Maybe you'll even make a healer some day.”

“Me? A healer? Oh, but I could never learn it all. It must take years.”

“We'll have the years now,” Duncan murmured. “We'll be given the time and the teachers. You'll be amazed at how fast some of the skill comes, once you know what you are. And Alaric and I can teach you what we know—and Richenda.”

“Lady Richenda is Deryni?”

“Aye, and trained in a far different tradition than Alaric and I were. You'll enjoy getting to know her.”

Dhugal blushed. “If she'll ever speak to me. Do you think Duke Alaric told her what I said about her last night? I didn't mean it the way it sounded—honestly.”

“I know you didn't, son. And if Alaric
has
told her, I'm sure she hasn't taken offense. Speaking of Alaric, however, I think it probably
is
time to join him and Kelson now.”

“Aye, and see our king properly married!” Dhugal agreed. He remembered the
shiral
as he stood, and touched it to his lips almost reverently as he held it out to Duncan.

“Here. You probably ought to have this back.”

“No, you keep it, in memory of your mother.”

“But—that leaves you with nothing of hers,” Dhugal began.

“It leaves me with everything,” Duncan replied, touching a fingertip to Dhugal's cheek. “I have her son.”

And in another chamber not far away, another, spiritual son prepared for his nuptials, fretting and impatient as his dressers made final adjustments to his wedding finery. The velvet of Kelson's full-length crimson cloak was powdered with scores of tiny Haldane lions worked in fine gold bullion, his tunic quartered in the same fabric for two panels and its reverse for the other two, silk-embroidered lions of scarlet on cloth of gold. As a compliment to his bride's highland ancestry, he had bound his hair at the nape of his neck with a golden cord, though it was not braided, border-style. A golden state crown of crosses and leaves intertwined had been brought out of the vaults of the castle treasury, said to have been worn by Malcolm Haldane at his wedding to another Mearan princess nearly a century before, and Kelson ran a careful finger along one of the leaves and glanced at Morgan as the dressers packed up the last of their accoutrements and left. Some even said the crown had once belonged to Cinhil Haldane, perhaps even the infamous Festils before him. If it had, perhaps Saint Camber had seen and even touched it.