The King's Deryni (34 page)

The boy swallowed hard and gave a nod of acceptance, and the king lifted the veil and folded it back above the head. Looking closer, Alaric was heartened to find the sight not at all as dreadful as he had imagined. In fact, by the flickering light of the watch candles and the many votives set around the perimeter of the tiny chamber, he could almost imagine that his father merely slept, here beside his beloved Alyce. The skin had a faintly pearlescent glow to it, almost like the alabaster of his mother's effigy.

“There has been a preservation spell placed upon your father's body,” the king said softly. “Not by me, but . . .” He cast a thoughtful glance at the stranger in the shadows, then set a hand on Alaric's shoulder and guided him to a bench set against the chapel's south wall.

“Sit with me for a while,” the king said quietly. “You're probably wondering about the spell. It has to do with what happened shortly
before
your father passed, for he was not the only man to die in my service in Meara.”

As Alaric looked at him in question—and at the stranger still standing in the shadows—the king turned his gaze back to the banner-draped coffin beside the sepulcher.

“Several days before your father's death, when we had finally found Caitrin of Meara, the encounter cost us the life of Sir Morian du Joux. He was a Deryni in my service, who had also served my father. Yes, there are—or were—other Deryni in royal service,” he said, glancing again at the stranger in the shadows. “Morian's son has yet to decide whether he will take up his father's mantle, but he and his mother were kind enough to set the spell on your father's body. Sir Halloran, will you come and meet Lord Kenneth's son?”

The man in the shadows pushed himself away from the wall and moved slowly into the brighter candlelight around the bier. He was taller than the king, and somewhat older, with pale eyes and a thatch of wavy red hair that glistened in the candlelight, and bearded likewise. He was also the source of a quick but powerful probe against Alaric's shields, withdrawn at once, when it became clear that the boy had shields of his own and had sensed the attempted intrusion.

“You're Deryni!” Alaric blurted, instinctively pressing closer to the king.

Halloran gave an awkward little bow and a hint of a smile. “So I am—and so are you, I see. My father spoke of you in passing: the half-Deryni lad who will one day be Duke of Corwyn.”

Alaric darted a glance at his father's coffin, now able to detect a tingle of power like unto that of Halloran himself. It was not a magic yet accessible to a boy of only nine, but he had heard of such spells, and now was seeing firsthand what one could do.

“It—appears that I have you to thank for the spell placed on my father's body, Sir Halloran,” he said tentatively. “Especially for my little sister's sake, and for my other sisters. It is a great kindness.”

“It little compares to the kindness done by your father to mine,” Halloran replied. His tone was such that Alaric immediately glanced at the king, then back at Halloran.

“What— May I ask what he did?”

Halloran glanced at his feet, shifting uneasily, then lifted his gaze to the king. “Sire, perhaps it would be better if you spoke of this, since you were present. By your leave, I shall wait outside.”

“Very well.”

Brion waited until Halloran had left the chapel, pulling the door closed behind him, then glanced aside at Alaric.

“I hope that you will not fault Sir Halloran for declining to explain,” the king said. “His father did not merely die on the Mearan expedition. Those responsible for his death sought his life because he was Deryni, and your father . . . Tell me, have you been taught about the coup de grâce?”

“I know what it is,” the boy said cautiously. “Did my father give it to Sir Halloran's father?”

“Not . . . exactly,” the king answered, “though he did help speed Morian on his way, at his request. It is a solemn duty that most warriors will eventually have to face. Have
I
done it?” he added, apparently anticipating Alaric's next question. “No,” he admitted. “But I know it probably lies in my future—and yours. If one is to be a leader of men, especially of fighting men, one also assumes a responsibility for their well-being. Sadly, that sometimes includes easing them on their final journey.”

“I understand,” Alaric whispered. And he did, in an abstract sense. He had seen wounded animals dispatched at the end of a hunt, to end their suffering, and occasionally had been present when a foundered horse had to be put down. (He tried not to think about the grey mare.) He knew the necessity to give a suffering animal the mercy stroke, but he could not imagine what it must be like, to deliberately end a man's life. Killing in the heat of battle was one thing; he thought he could do that, when the time came. But the coup . . .

“May I—know the circumstances of Sir Morian's death?” he said hesitantly.

Brion nodded. “You have a right to know.” He drew a fortifying breath and crossed his arms on his chest. “You're aware that we had gone to seek out Caitrin of Meara. Morian had been doing advance scout work, and joined us shortly after Ratharkin. We had poor hunting for many weeks, but we finally stumbled upon her with a small party on the shore near Cloome. There was great surprise and confusion on both sides at first, but Caitrin's forces initially outnumbered ours, and they immediately pressed their advantage, for they recognized Morian.

“None of us saw exactly what happened, because all of us were under attack. Morian's attackers overwhelmed him, and dragged him from the saddle. And one of them . . . managed to stab him through the chest with a narwhal tusk. Do you know what a narwhal is?”

Alaric shook his head.

“Well, it's a kind of whale, though it can easily be mistaken for a seal or a walrus, especially when it's dead,” the king went on. “What is particularly distinctive about narwhals is that they have a long, spiraled horn, as big around as a man's thumb, and sometimes taller than a man. Sometimes they have two. The ancients, occasionally finding narwhal tusks, came to believe that they were actually unicorn horns: powerful defense against magic.”

“But—where did the Mearans get a narwhal tusk?” Alaric asked.

“Sheerest happenstance on their part, I suppose, and damned fool bad luck on ours,” the king replied. He paused to draw a deep breath. “It was a very hot afternoon, so I had decided to take a ride along the beach with just a few men: your father, Duke Jared, Morian, and two guards. Jamyl was following with a more suitable escort: perhaps six or eight armed men, I suppose. I wasn't entirely stupid.

“But there were only the six of us in our immediate party. As we rounded a little headland, we ran smack into a much larger body of armed men. Some of them had found a dead narwhal washed up on the beach, and were in the process of hacking the horn off the carcass, though we didn't know that initially. And of course, we didn't know who they were, or that Caitrin and her new husband were with them. But they recognized Morian, especially after I'd spoken to him by name. I shan't make
that
mistake again.”

Brion sighed and glanced away briefly. “Anyway, it all happened very quickly, and I doubt even his attackers thought they'd succeed in killing him. When Jamyl and the rest of our escort came around the headland, most of the Mearans fled, though we did kill one, and captured a few more.

“But by then, the deed was done. Morian . . . was still conscious, but he knew his wound was mortal. We all did. The narwhal tusk had pierced his lung, and it was the only thing holding his life in. So he—asked your father to release him, for the sake of the Deryni woman he had dared to love.”

Alaric's mouth had fallen open as the king spoke, and he caught his breath in wonder.

“He knew about my mother?”

Brion nodded. “He did. And Kenneth agreed to do as Morian asked. He could do no other. The end was very quick, very gentle. Morian—did not suffer further.”

He sighed and shook his head, forcing himself to continue.

“For that act of mercy, Morian's family later would return the favor. His body—was not in the best of condition by the time we got it back to them. The heat had begun to take its toll, so we buried him the very next morning after arriving at his home. But then, when your father died that afternoon, Morian's widow and his son offered to place the preservation spell on his body, to spare you what they had experienced. They believed that he would have done the same for Kenneth, had he been able. I hope you don't mind.”

Alaric shook his head, numb with the knowledge, and stunned that such a thing was even possible. “How long will it last?” he whispered.

“Another week or so, I am told,” the king replied. “Sir Halloran has asked leave to return to his family in the morning, but he assures me that the spell will last long enough to see him safely to Morganhall, so that his sisters and his daughters can bid him a proper farewell. Incidentally, I did not see Bronwyn with the rest of your family, when they came earlier. Did they decide not to let her see him?”

“I don't know,” the boy whispered. “Probably. I didn't know he would look . . . this way. I thought she would be frightened.”

“Would you like me to bring her, in the morning before Mass?” the king asked gently.

“Would you?” the boy replied.

“Of course.”

Alaric looked at his feet, suddenly awkward. “I'll come along, if I may.”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded. “I'm the older brother. That's part of my job.”

“Very well, I'll bring both of you,” the king said.

“The memory of the just is blessed . . .”

—PROVERBS 10:7

T
HE
king was as good as his word, and brought both Alaric and Bronwyn to visit their father early the next morning. Llion accompanied them. Bronwyn held back with him at first; but then, at the urging of the king, who crouched down to her level, she let him pick her up and carry her over to gaze into the coffin. She was wide-eyed and curious, a little timid, but not at all frightened, for it was, after all, her father, lying next to all she knew of her mother.

She gazed silently at his veiled face for several minutes, saying nothing, then turned away to bury her face against the king's shoulder. Alaric had stood stonily on the other side of his mother's effigy, not really looking, but when the king made to carry Bronwyn from the chapel, the boy tarried, resting his hands lightly on his mother's effigy.

“Alaric, are you coming?”

“In a few minutes, Sire,” the boy murmured. “Will they close the coffin before it's taken over to the church?”

“Yes.”

“Then, I'd like a few minutes in private,” came the reply. “Could Llion stay?”

“Of course.”

With a speaking glance at Llion, the king carried Bronwyn from the little chapel and closed the door behind them. Llion, with a nod to his young master, took up a position with his back against the door, hands clasped behind him and head bowed.

It was deathly quiet in the little chapel, as was fitting in this place of death. The vigil lights of the previous night had burned out, other than the Presence lamp above the little altar, but the soft morning light streamed through the open window above, bathing Kenneth's body and his wife's effigy in a golden haze.

Bracing himself, Alaric trailed one hand along the cool alabaster of his mother's effigy and moved around to the prie-dieu set beside his father's open coffin. Kneeling there, he awkwardly signed himself with the cross as he bowed his head in wordless prayer, because he knew he should. The king had said that Halloran's spell would last until Morganhall, but it might not. Delays sometimes happened. Alaric knew that this might be his last chance to say a proper good-bye to the man who had given him life and the love of a precious father.

He crossed himself again, then leaned forward to fold back the veil covering his father's face. Again, especially in the soft glow of morning, it was easy to imagine that some semblance of life lingered, that his father only slept beside the silent effigy of the mother who also had died all too untimely.

“Oh, Papa,” he breathed, tears welling in his eyes. “Why did you have to leave? I needed you
here
, with
me
!”

He briefly closed his eyes at that, fighting back the tears, which he knew would change nothing. Then, vision still blurry, he slipped a hand into the neck of his tunic and pulled out his father's silver locket, now hanging from a leather thong around his neck. Fumbling it open, he took out the tiny miniatures of himself and his sister, which he earlier had pried loose from their settings, and let the locket dangle as he glanced briefly at the two likenesses.

“I've thought about it, Papa,” he whispered, fingering the two miniatures, “and I want you to have these, so that you won't forget us.” He was biting at his lip as he leaned forward to slip the tiny keepsakes into the front opening of his father's robe, close to the heart. “And when we get to Morganhall, I'm going to ask Aunt Delphine to paint a new one of you, to keep in the locket with the one of Mummy.” He swallowed painfully. “I guess I don't really need pictures to remind me of you, because you're always in
here
”—he touched his chest over his heart—“but I'll have them to look at when I'm really missing you.”

He gently reached out to brush his father's cheek, then bent to press a final kiss to the cold forehead, remembering a similar kiss he had given his mother in farewell.

“You should go to her now, Papa,” he whispered very softly. “I think she's been waiting for you. I only wish she could have waited a little longer, because I still need you so much!”

He could feel his throat tightening, and sensed the tears starting to sting again behind his eyelids, but he pulled himself together by an act of sheer will as he straightened to draw the veil back into place across his father's face. He was composed if somber by the time he rose and made his way back to Llion, and held his head high as Llion opened the door to admit the men waiting to close the coffin.

•   •   •

T
HE
funeral cortege left for Morganhall directly after the Requiem Mass celebrated at Culdi in Kenneth's behalf. His now-coffined body again traveled in the canopied cart, escorted by his son and Llion, the king, the Duke of Cassan, and an honor guard of Cassani borderers. The king retained two of his Haldane cavalrymen as personal guards, but sent the rest back to Rhemuth with Jiri and Jamyl to report to Duke Richard and advise him regarding the Mearan venture.

Kenneth's daughter Geill and her husband did not accompany the party going on to Morganhall, for Walter feared that the hurried journey might endanger her pregnancy. Vera likewise remained at Culdi with Bronwyn, who was deemed too young for further exposure to death, and also Kevin and Duncan; all had already said their good-byes. The burial at Morganhall would be strictly a family affair.

Obliged to travel slowly because of the cart and its cheerless burden, they took several days to make the journey to Morganhall. Kenneth's sister Delphine was waiting to receive them, along with his daughter Alazais, just arrived from the Convent of Notre Dame de l'Arc-en-Ciel. With her had come the abbess, Mother Iris Judiana, and several other sisters who had known and admired Kenneth. Though all the sisters were garbed in the distinctive sky-blue habit of their order, with a rainbow-embroidered band along the front edge of the veil, Alazais wore deepest black; for though she had been in residence at Arc-en-Ciel for some years, and was establishing herself as an illuminator of note like her sister and sister-in-law before her, she yet remained a secular member of that house. Claara did not come down for the reception, being still confined to her bed, but the Morganhall knights brought her downstairs in a litter later that evening, to visit her brother's coffin and dine with the new arrivals.

That night, over a simple meal in the great hall, Jared reiterated his account of Kenneth's passing, for the benefit of the Morgan women gathered there. Meanwhile, the coffined body lay in Morganhall's tiny chapel. Llion kept vigil, since he had heard the story all too many times. Alaric was allowed to sit with the adults, flanked by his Aunt Delphine and Lady Melissa, his former nurse, but it was mostly a rehash of what folk had been saying for the past week, and he found himself nodding off early.

Zoë and her husband arrived the next afternoon with Xander, exhausted from their helter-skelter dash from Cynfyn, where they had left their young children with Jovett's parents. Zoë's reunion with her sister Alazais was joyous, but tinged with the sorrow that all of them shared as Jared retold the story and tears were shed anew.

After a little while, Alaric could bear it no longer, and excused himself to go with Llion up to the rooftops, as had long been his place of refuge when life became too intense.

“I couldn't stand it anymore, Llion,” he muttered, as he plopped down behind one of the parapets and Llion crouched beside him. “They just keep repeating the same things that I've heard before. He was my father. With him gone, nothing is ever going to be the same.”

“No, it won't,” Llion agreed. “But he was Zoë's father, too—and Alazais's, and Geill's. And Bronwyn's, not to mention being grandda to the grandchildren that will never know him. Do you think that things will be the same for any of
them
?”

“No,” the boy whispered.

“Then, what is your true concern?” Llion asked after a moment, shifting to a seated position beside him. “Are you worried about what will happen to you now?”

Alaric had clasped his arms around his drawn-up knees, and rested his chin on his knees. “I suppose. Llion, I'm going to miss him
so
much. . . .”

“Of course you are. You loved him, and you always will. But life
will
go on.”

“At court now, I suppose.”

“That's true. But you knew that.”

“But it wasn't supposed to happen so soon!” Alaric blurted. “I was supposed to have a few years at Uncle Jared's court!”

“Yes, well, I think that would have been a good idea, too, but the king has changed his mind, under the circumstances. I'm sure you'll get a few weeks' reprieve, possibly even a few months, until your arm has completely healed, but my guess would be that you'll go to court permanently after the first of the year.”

Alaric lifted his chin indignantly. “It's already been decided, then?”

“It has been discussed,” Llion allowed.

“When?”

“Over the past week or so, when you were safely abed. I won't lie to you,” Llion added, when the boy looked at him rebelliously. “Like you, I must answer to a higher authority—and at this point, I'm not even sure who that is, since my service was directly to your father. The difference is that one day, provided I've managed to get you safely to adulthood, there won't be a much higher authority than you.”

“I hadn't even thought about
your
service,” Alaric whispered. “Llion, they won't take you away from me, will they?”

Llion shrugged. “I don't know. I don't think so. Sir Ninian de Piran offered me a place on Duke Richard's training staff, if ever I should leave your father's service—though I don't think any of this was what he had in mind. For the present, however, I do answer to Duke Jared and the king, as you do. And they've determined that, with your father gone, you'll be safest, and get the best training, if you are directly in the king's service. Believe me, there are far worse fates than to be the king's personal page, and then his squire, until you become his Duke of Corwyn.”

Alaric turned his face away for a long moment, then lifted his chin to gaze out at the night. “I suppose that part is all right,” he agreed. “And if you join Duke Richard's staff, I'd still see you. But will you still be my knight, Llion?'

“Always, my lord,” Llion replied with a smile. “And your friend, if you'll have me.”

The boy managed a faint, tentative smile. “Then I suppose I do still have control over
something
,” he said, and awkwardly extended his good hand. “Thank you, Llion.”

•   •   •

L
ATER
that night, the last before Kenneth Morgan's burial, Alaric dressed carefully in his old Lendour surcoat over a black tunic and breeches, and buckled on the small sword he was allowed to wear for formal events, along with the dagger that had belonged to his Corwyn grandfather. To that he added the tartan sash of his Cassani page's service, for he knew how proud his father had been of that. Then, around his neck, he hung the leather thong on which he had strung his father's gold Lendour signet, quietly given him by the king shortly after they returned from Meara with Kenneth's body. It was Alaric's now, for he had become Earl of Lendour at his father's death, though he was still years away from being able to actually claim the title.

Llion, for his part, kept to his all-black attire, though with Kenneth's Lendour badge prominent on one sleeve, since both of them intended to take a turn at keeping vigil beside the coffin.

Down in Morganhall's tiny chapel, Xander and three other knights from Lendour had already mounted a guard of honor at the corners of the closed coffin, facing away from it, heads bowed and hands clasped at their waists. The banner of Lendour covered the coffin, its white and crimson folds billowing down the sides.

But when Alaric started to enter the room, he realized that Jovett was also present, at the back of the chapel, in quiet conversation with another dark-clad man. Jovett turned as Alaric paused in the doorway, Llion also holding back, then quickly came to meet them. His companion remained in the shadows. The four guardian knights did not lift their heads.

“Alaric,” Jovett said quietly, also nodding to Llion.

“Llion, please keep watch at the door,” the other man said, emerging from the shadows to join them.

Llion immediately moved to the side of the doorway, half turning to keep an eye on the stair from which they had just emerged. By the light of the candles set at the head and foot of the coffin, Alaric felt a thrill of recognition as he saw that Jovett's companion was Sé Trelawney.

“You!” he whispered. “I prayed that you would come!”

Sé inclined his head. “Would that it were in happier circumstances. I am very sorry that this has happened.”