The King's Deryni (11 page)

She gave him a gimlet glance, only nodding as his lips parted in a silent gasp of sudden suspicion.

“Aunt Delphine,” he whispered, carefully laying aside his quill, “are you saying that people might try to take advantage of me because I'm . . . because my mother was . . .”

Delphine gave a wry grimace and nodded jerkily. “I loved her dearly, child—you know that. But other than the time she spent at Arc-en-Ciel—and there were problems even there, at least at first—I don't know whether she ever felt truly safe.”

“There were problems at Arc-en-Ciel?” Alaric said in a small voice. “I thought that religious houses were sanctuary.”

Delphine snorted in a most unladylike fashion. “From the outside world, they are. But no one had reckoned on that beastly Septimus de Nore. He was one of the chaplains there.”

“De Nore?” Alaric interjected, eyes narrowing. “He's that priest who was executed for his part in the killing of a boy at court.”

Delphine allowed herself a curt nod.

“He was. How much do you know about that, love?”

“Well, not a great deal,” the boy admitted hesitantly. “It happened before I was born. But sometimes the pages at court talk about him—to scare the younger boys, I think. The boy's name was Krispin, wasn't it? He was drowned in a well in the stable yard. My mother helped find out who did it, and the guilty men were hanged—and
gelded
,” he added, with a look of awed disbelief.

“Do any of those boys mention
how
she helped find out?” Delphine asked.

“She—used her Deryni powers,” Alaric whispered, thinking of the power he himself now was beginning to sense, to tell when a person was lying. “The old king commanded her.”

Delphine nodded slowly. “And de Nore's brother is Bishop Oliver de Nore, who hated your mother for the rest of her days, and will seize any opportunity to vent his spleen on you as well, because you are your mother's son. Be careful, love, because he will see you destroyed, if he can.”

“I—have a bishop who wants me
dead
?” Alaric said in a small voice.

“He would be happy if
all
Deryni were dead,” Delphine replied. “I hope that one day your father will tell you of the full extent of what your dear mother suffered because of her race. You
cannot
be too careful. The old king protected your mother, and the young king will try to protect you—but you must always be on your guard.”

Alaric swallowed at a lump that suddenly had materialized in his throat. He knew that Delphine and his mother had been close, especially in those final weeks, but he had begun to learn much more of their relationship in the past few days, and was suddenly aware just how much more precarious was his situation than he had thought. He also had no doubt that Delphine had loved his mother very much, and loved him as well.

Turning back to the writing desk before him, he ran his gaze over the numbers that had defeated him earlier, then picked up his quill without another word and bent again to his task. This time, when he finished and laid aside the quill to push the results across the desk to Delphine, the old woman smiled.

“Exactly right, my love,” she said, reaching across to clasp his shoulder in affection. “Your mother would be very proud, and your father will be proud as well.” She smiled and cocked her head in sudden inspiration. “Can you keep a secret?”

“What kind of a secret?” Alaric wanted to know.

Delphine's mouth curled upward in conspiratorial glee. “It's a gift for your father, something I've been working on for several months. Would you like to see it?”

At his silent nod, she rose and went to a tall cabinet behind her, rooting behind a cupboard door until she emerged with something wrapped loosely in a piece of raw silk.

“It's very nearly done,” she said, unfolding the bundle as she sat. “I had to wait until you came back to Morganhall before I could finish it. Tell me what you think.”

From the folds of silk she withdrew an egg-sized silver locket with a filigree face. This she opened before handing it to Alaric. Inside, painted on a flat oval of ivory, was the miniature portrait of a fair, beautiful woman with golden hair caught in ringlets at the nape of her neck, and a golden circlet across her brow. The blue eyes were familiar and beloved to Alaric, and he caught his breath in wonder.

“Maman!”

“Ah, then it's a good likeness,” Delphine said, beaming at his delight. “Now see if the inside also meets with your approval. It opens from the left, so that it can fold out as a triptych. The locket belonged to my mother, your grandmother, Madonna McLain. I doubt you remember her. I've simply changed the portraits.”

Grinning, Alaric touched a reverent finger to the likeness of his mother, then carefully opened the next level of the locket. The left side displayed a portrait of his sister Bronwyn, merry-eyed and full of life, but the right side was vacant.

“Your likeness will go there,” Delphine said, reaching behind her to produce a third ivory oval, handling it by the edges. “I only finished it last night. I knew you would have grown since last I saw you, so I wanted to wait until you returned to do the final touches. But your mother's visage is forever in my heart, as she was at the height of her beauty, and Bronwyn is always with me. Meanwhile, you, my love, have been busy turning into quite the handsome young man.”

As she laid it on the table before him, he bent close to inspect his portrait, pleased with what he saw, then looked up with a shy smile.

“Thank you, Aunt Delphine. My father will treasure it, I know. When will you give it to him?”

“It only wants having that last piece mounted,” she said, taking the locket back from him and laying it open beside his portrait. “I'll do that tonight. I don't know when your father plans to leave, but he'll be able to take it with him.”

Alaric was grinning widely at the shared conspiracy as she folded part of the silk over her treasure and rose.

“But, enough of that for now. You've done your sums and I've shared a secret with you. Would you like to come with me now, while I feed the chickens and gather some vegetables from the kitchen garden? You should know where your food comes from, and what's involved in helping things grow.”

Smiling and eager, Alaric got to his feet and went with Aunt Delphine, happily slipping his hand into hers.

“Discretion shall preserve thee, understanding shall keep thee.”

—PROVERBS 2:11

O
THER
things Alaric learned as well during those sultry days at Morganhall, also relating to who and what he was. He had always been good with horses, but he found that patience often resulted in unexpected rapport with birds and other small creatures—though he quickly decided that it was unfair to use his powers of persuasion in pursuit of chickens or rabbits destined for the pot, unless a person was really, really hungry.

“You can't help it, that God made you taste good,” he told the hens one morning, low under his breath, while he was scattering feed in their pen. “People need to eat. Besides, most of you get to lay eggs. I like eggs.”

His success with cats was somewhat less reliable, but he attributed that to the innate independence of the creatures; dogs seemed to make more ready allies. Not that his own dog was altogether an ally. The brindle hound given him by the king for his fourth birthday had mostly become Bronwyn's dog in the intervening years, since Kenneth had declined to drag the hound back and forth to Rhemuth.

“Besides, Bayard is needed here, to guard your sister and your aunts,” Kenneth had said, quite reasonably. “You'll still see him when we visit Morganhall. He'll remember you.”

And remember him the hound did, shadowing him whenever he was in residence at Morganhall but stopping at the gate whenever Alaric would venture out with Llion or one of the other knights to exercise the horses.

“He's doing his job,” Llion reminded him, when Bayard settled yet again just inside the gate as they rode forth. “There will be other hounds in your life, over the years. This one was your first, and now he is your sister's first—and good and well that he is, to protect her when you are not here.”

Alaric sighed, but he knew Llion was right. There had been a time, not so very long ago, when he would have resented his hound's shift in loyalties. But maturity was teaching him to detach from things that mattered little in the greater scheme of things. His sister's safety was more important than hurt feelings.

Something happened a bit later that afternoon that suddenly shifted more of his perspectives. He and Llion had been watching the farmers cutting hay in one of the fields, and had stopped at a stream to water the horses. He was riding the now-retired Cockleburr for old times' sake, and Llion had taken out a big, raw-boned bay from Morganhall's stables. They had gotten down to stretch their legs while the horses drank, and were preparing to mount up again when Llion's steed unaccountably snaked its long neck around and chomped hard on the young knight's shoulder.

“Stop that!” Llion exclaimed, jerking sharply at the reins beneath the bit even as he hauled off and punched the animal in the neck. Alaric had drawn back sharply at the exclamation, but at once moved closer in concern as Llion clutched at his shoulder and began rubbing it, wincing with the pain. The horse had dropped its head and begun pulling at tufts of grass by the water's edge, as if nothing had happened.

“Perverse beast!” Llion muttered.

As he slipped a hand inside the neck of his tunic to assess the damage, Alaric asked, wide-eyed, “Are you all right? Did he draw blood?”

“Apparently not,” Llion allowed, with a glance at his hand. “But I'm going to have one hell of a bruise,” he added, as he flexed his shoulder and resumed rubbing at the injury. “Your father said I could have any horse in the stable, but you can bet that it won't be this one!”

“I have an idea,” Alaric said cautiously, “if you'll let me try something.”

Llion looked at him sharply, at once wary and apprehensive. “Oh?”

“Just . . . come and sit down,” the boy said uncertainly. “I may be able to take away the pain. I've done it on animals,” he added, as Llion's eyebrow lifted.

The young knight gave an uneasy glance around them—there was no one nearby, save the horses—then leaned closer to his charge.

“Are you talking about using your powers?” he asked in a low voice.

“Well, sort of,” the boy admitted sheepishly. “It wouldn't interfere with your free will,” he assured his mentor. “And you'd still have the bite—and a bruise. But I think I can block the pain.”

“You think you can block the pain,” Llion repeated softly, and somewhat disbelievingly. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“I can make the pain go away, or at least ease. Will you let me try?”

Llion let out a pent-up breath and rolled his eyes heavenward for an instant, still rubbing his shoulder, then returned his gaze to the boy's.

“All right. I suppose I always knew this day would come. What do you want me to do?”

“We need to tie up the horses first,” he said, gesturing toward a nearby log with protruding branches, “and then sit down. This shouldn't take long.”

As Llion complied, looking ill at ease, Alaric stripped off his riding gloves and shoved them under his belt, waiting until the young knight had taken a seat on the log. Then he tentatively slipped one hand into the neck of Llion's tunic to cup his palm over the injury. At the same time, he lifted his other hand toward the young knight's forehead. Llion flinched back at first, for common wisdom held that physical contact usually went with the exercise of Deryni powers, but Alaric only quirked him a self-conscious smile and shook his head.

“Llion, I'm already touching you with my other hand. If I wanted to invade your mind, that would be enough—if I knew how to do that, which I don't. I promise I'm not going to hurt you.”

Steeling himself, Llion let out a deep breath, only flinching a little as the boy's fingertips touched his forehead and then lay flat.

“Just close your eyes and try to relax,” Alaric whispered. “Take a deep breath and let it out. Again.”

Llion did his best to comply, stiff at first, but then relaxing under the boy's touch and drawing a third slow breath, then a fourth.

“That's good. Be aware of the pain now, and concentrate through it, feel it begin to recede. Try not to pay any attention to it. With each breath that you take, the pain becomes less and less, until it's only a faint, dull ache, to remind you not to overdo with that shoulder until it heals. Now, take one last breath and open your eyes.”

Alaric withdrew his hands as Llion exhaled in a prolonged sigh and slowly opened his eyes. The young knight cautiously flexed his injured shoulder as he turned a disbelieving gaze on his charge.

“How did you do that?” he breathed, as he continued to flex the shoulder and rubbed at it distractedly.

“I have no idea,” the boy replied. “It's just something that I can do.”

“Do you know how long it will last?”

“I couldn't tell you.”

Nodding, still rubbing absently at his shoulder, Llion got up from his log and reached for the horses' reins, knotted to one of the protruding branches.

“We won't tell anyone about this, all right?”

“They'd just be afraid, wouldn't they?” Alaric replied.

“They would, indeed.”

The boy sighed. “Some gift, when you can't even use it,” he muttered.

“I didn't say you mustn't use it,” Llion said quietly, abandoning his wounded shoulder to boost Alaric into Cockleburr's saddle. “But you must be very careful when you do use it, and don't let yourself be
seen
using it. It's going to be hard enough to get you safely grown, without having to fend off people trying to get you burned at the stake.”

•   •   •

I
N
the end, they lingered at Morganhall for nearly three weeks, for Kenneth was loath to leave his sisters, with Claara's health still so frail, but Trevor rightly pointed out that the end of summer was fast approaching, the first of the harvests being brought in, and Kenneth had still to make his yearly visits to Lendour and Corwyn.

The morning of their departure, after they had heard Mass and broken their fast, Kenneth bade farewell to his sister Claara and her granddaughter, hoisted Bronwyn onto his shoulders, and headed down to the yard with Delphine. Alaric was waiting with Llion and the rest of their party, who were already mounted. Xander and Trevor would be going with them, but Froilán was to remain at Morganhall for the nonce, along with two nursing sisters sent up from Arc-en-Ciel by his daughter Alazais, who was considering a vocation. In addition, four of Kenneth's men-at-arms, left behind at Rhemuth in June, had ridden up to be their escort on the road to Lendour and Coroth.

“Good, are we ready, then?” Kenneth asked, surveying the party.

“Not quite,” Delphine said, pausing on the steps of the hall to take his arm. “I have a parting gift for you, brother. Alaric, would you join us?”

As Alaric did so, Delphine handed Kenneth a red velvet pouch with drawstrings, closing his hand around it.

“What's this?” he said, glancing at the others.

“Something I've been working on for several months,” she replied. “Perhaps Bronwyn would like to open it for you.”

Grinning broadly, Bronwyn leaned down from her father's shoulders with hand outstretched and took the bag, immediately attacking the drawstrings that closed it. What emerged, dangling from a long, braided cord of silk, was the silver locket Delphine had showed to Alaric. As Bronwyn dangled it before her father's eyes, he reached up and cupped it in his hand, looking uncertain.

“Wasn't this our mother's locket?” he asked, looking puzzled.

“It was,” said Delphine. “Open it.”

As Bronwyn leaned over his shoulder, both arms around his neck, and Alaric watched eagerly, Kenneth pried at the filigree cover with a thumbnail—and gaped in wonder at the tiny portrait gazing back at him.

“
Alyce!
” he breathed. “Delphine, it's beautiful!”

“There's more,” she said, smiling. “Open the locket.”

He did, and his expression softened. Struck wordless, he pulled his sister into his embrace and held her tight for a long moment, until Bronwyn squirmed and protested.

“Papa, you're squashing my feet.”

This practical complaint somewhat broke the spell, so that Kenneth laughed and swung her down to the ground, kissing the top of her head and then pulling Alaric into an embrace as well.

“You're getting big for hugs,” he whispered fiercely, “but I know you had a hand in this, or at least the keeping of the secret.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“I'm so glad you like it,” Delphine said, obviously pleased. “I thought you would appreciate having at least some of your family with you when you are off and about in the king's service. It probably would be a good idea to keep it in its pouch when you're not wearing it.”

“Delphine, this is amazing. My wife, my children, our mother's locket, and your incredible artistry, all in one package. Thank you. I shall treasure it always,” Kenneth said. He closed up the locket and slipped it back into its pouch, then tucked that into the front of his tunic.

“Right, then, we'd best be off. Be sure that I shall show it to Zoë, and convey your greetings—and Claara's. Take care of our little sister, Delphine.”

“I shall, dear brother.”

He hugged her tight again, gave Bronwyn another hug and a kiss, then turned away to give Alaric a leg up and then mount up himself.

•   •   •

T
HEY
spent the last week in August traveling to Lendour. Riding out of Morganhall, they headed south and east across the fertile plain of Candor Rhea until they reached the Molling Valley, then turned east. With harvest in full swing, there was much for Alaric to see as they rode, and he relished the company of the adults.

The road east along the river was a good one, and they made excellent time, though they bypassed Mollingford itself and made a wide detour around the village of Hallowdale. On a previous venture along this road, returning from Zoë's wedding in Cynfyn, Kenneth, Alaric, and the three knights riding with them, along with Alyce, had witnessed the aftermath of a Deryni burning in Hallowdale's village square: a horrific sight that none of them would ever forget.

It was the sight of smoke that caused their detour this time, trailing upward from the distant village; but this time, at least, when Kenneth sent Xander on ahead to learn its cause, it proved to be only the smoke of burning stubble, though Kenneth still fancied he could detect a whiff of burning flesh on the summer air. (If he could have had his way four years before, the village would have been razed and the soil sown with salt to purify it.) They made camp under the stars that night, where Kenneth slept only fitfully. Alaric sought comfort curled close against his father.

But another day's travel took them back along the river road and onto the plain that lay before Lendour and the mountain fastness of Castle Cynfyn, where outriders from the Lendour capital met them the following afternoon, for Kenneth had sent word ahead that they were coming.