Childe Morgan (15 page)

“And the king?” Isaiya murmured.

“He seems unconcerned,” Michon replied. “Despite this alteration of his plan, he dotes on the boy, who is being brought up in the company of the royal princes. But the boy, called Alaric, was only three in September. It will be some time before he is old enough for us to determine how powerful a half-breed Deryni might be, if he can even learn to wield sufficient power to be useful.”

“A complex and perplexing situation,” Isaiya allowed, himself now gazing at Michon over interlaced fingers. “What do you propose to do?”

“What
can
I do?” Michon replied. “For now, I had simply come to find out more about Prince Nimur's passing—and to throw myself on the mercy of my old master, in hopes that he might have further wisdom to impart.”

Isaiya's hands parted in a gesture of helplessness. “I have told you what I know, my son. I was not aware of the involvement of Zachris Pomeroy, or that he was encouraging Prince Hogan—though I shall certainly see what I may learn concerning them.”

 

A
FTER
leaving Master Isaiya's quarters at Rhanamé, Michon reported back to his colleagues in the Camberian Council, sharing the intelligence he had gleaned. By then, Seisyll Arilan had gathered all five of the others around the eight-sided ivory table, where Prince Khoren Vastouni had only been able to confirm what Seisyll had already learned in the king's presence.

“My informant was present in Hagia Job when Prince Károly was invested as the new heir,” he had informed them, “but I learned nothing further of substance. Prince Nimur's burial had been private, several weeks before, and no cause of death was given. Nor was anything said of the reason for Prince Torval's removal from the succession.”

But Michon's new information made the reason far clearer.

“Driven mad,” Barrett murmured, briefly closing his emerald eyes. “Far better to perish, I think. What he must have seen…”

“Best not to speculate,” Vivienne said sharply.

Rhydon Sasillion, now fully installed in the chair recently vacated by Dominy de Laney, looked white-faced and stunned, for he had claimed acquaintance with one of the men who presumably had encouraged Prince Nimur to his fatal experiment. Oisín Adair was shaking his head in bewilderment.

“What can we do?” the latter asked, voicing the question in all of their minds.

Seisyll shrugged. “Do what we have always done: watch and learn, and try to make sense of it all, and perhaps even make a difference in isolated situations. It is far less than we would prefer, but it is better than if we did nothing.”

Above their heads, snow was piled thick upon the amethyst dome that normally lit the room, at least in daylight. Michon scowled as he glanced up at it. The chamber was cold and damp in this season.

“Back to Rhemuth, then, for Seisyll and me—though methinks that Twelfth Night Court tomorrow will be much diminished by the inclement weather. At least we need not venture out in it to return.”

Khoren gave a nod, rising in his place. “It may well be that some Torenthi ambassador will show up at my brother's court with further news—or in Rhemuth, for yours,” he said. “Shall we agree to meet again tomorrow night, as we have tonight?”

With universal agreement, the seven began moving to the doors from the room, and the Portal beyond, that would send them back to their respective homes.

A
S
expected, remnants of the first great storm of the New Year continued to affect the customary fixtures surrounding Twelfth Night Court. The king's traditional public petitioners' court, already rescheduled from St. Stephen's Day, was moved into the cathedral itself, directly after the Mass of the Epiphany, both of which events were sparsely attended because of the weather.

The business of Twelfth Night Court began several hours late as a result, also notably less attended than usual. The seven-year-old Prince Nigel was among the new pages received that afternoon, afterward standing proudly beside his elder brother in their father's crimson livery, obviously struggling to contain an elated grin. Two older pages were promoted to squire, changing their simple pages' tabards for crimson livery tunics bearing the king's cipher and buckling on the blued-steel spurs that marked this rite of passage.

After that, three senior squires came forward with their sponsors, in turn, to receive the accolade of knighthood. The second of the three was a distant cousin of Michon de Courcy, sent by his father for the greater prestige that would accrue from being knighted at Twelfth Night Court rather than in a distant baronial court. It was Michon who presented young Estèphe de Courcy, a younger brother carrying the sword and spurs; and it was Michon to whom the king gave the privilege of actually conferring the accolade. As the new Sir Estèphe proudly rose to be girded with the white belt of his knighthood, then knelt again to place his hands between those of the king and offer his fealty, Seisyll Arilan took satisfaction in the knowledge that Estèphe, like Michon and himself, was another secret Deryni, and would be a valuable agent on the western borders of the kingdom.

But no ambassador from Torenth appeared with any further word regarding the hasty shift in the Torenthi succession. Indeed, it would be several weeks before any official notification of Prince Nimur's death reached King Donal's court—and even then, details would be sparse. Various gossip and rumors would drift in sporadically throughout the remainder of the hard winter and early spring, but nothing of substance regarding what had really happened to the eldest Torenthi heir.

The remainder of Twelfth Night Court and the feast that followed passed much as they had the previous year, if on a smaller scale because of the weather, and without the frisson created the previous year by Kenneth Morgan's creation as earl. Afterward, only Michon de Courcy reported briefly to the Camberian Council—but only that there was really nothing to report, save for the expected knighting of his cousin Estèphe.

 

S
OON
after Twelfth Night, Kenneth and Alyce returned to Cynfyn with their son and household for the remainder of the winter. There, while Kenneth presided over local courts and consulted with the council that saw to the affairs of Lendour when he was absent, Alyce and Zoë had time and leisure to renew their close friendship and exult together over Zoë's pregnancy. Zoë's husband adored her, and his parents had quite taken her to their hearts, as had the entire court at Cynfyn. The contentment and sense of well-being was palpable, even in the midst of winter, and only increased as Zoë blossomed with the spring.

Later in the spring, Kenneth took Alyce and Alaric with him to Coroth for a few weeks' stay. There, as in Cynfyn, Kenneth attended to his duties as regent, periodically rode out into the surrounding countryside, and continued familiarizing himself with those who looked after the day-today running of the duchy. He and Alyce celebrated Easter in Coroth with their young son, who was missing his friends back in Rhemuth, then returned to Cynfyn in time to attend the birth of Zoë's first child, Kenneth's first grandson, christened Kailan Peter Chandos. It was a happy time for all of them; and by late in May, when he and Alyce prepared to return to Rhemuth for the celebrations marking Prince Brion's coming of age at Midsummer, Alyce knew she was finally with child again: a girl, this time, to be born before the turning of the year.

“How
ever
do you know these things?” Kenneth asked with awe, when she had told him her news.

“You aren't disappointed that it isn't another son?” she answered, mischief in her blue eyes.

“Good heavens, no! I adore daughters!”

“Well, you do have a certain amount of experience with daughters,” she said coyly. “But you're sure you don't mind?” she pressed. “It will mean a winter confinement—and I certainly shan't be able to accompany you to next year's Twelfth Night Court.”

“No, of course you won't,” he agreed, thinking aloud. “But you could go to Morganhall for your lying-in. It would be nice if at least one of our children could be born on the Morgan ancestral lands. I'm sure my sisters would be delighted, especially if it meant they might attend the birth of their first niece. I know they would also love the chance to dote on Alaric for the holidays.”

“You needn't convince me further,” Alyce broke in, laying a forefinger across his lips and smiling. “I cannot think of better midwives to attend me. And I shall do my best to deliver before you must leave for Christmas court.”

He grinned and kissed her in answer, then lay back with her nestled in the crook of his arm, curving a hand fondly over her still-flat abdomen.

 

D
ESPITE
Alyce's protestations that she was only pregnant, not ill, Kenneth insisted that she travel by coach when they left for Rhemuth a few days later. In truth, the conveyance provided far less comfort than if she had made the journey a-horse, but she had Melissa in the coach with her, to keep her company, and Alaric at least started the journey with them.

But he very quickly became bored with this mode of transport, and soon put up such a fuss about being treated like a baby that his father permitted him to ride with Sir Llion for part of each day.

They arrived in the capital early in June of 1095, with but a week remaining before Prince Brion should achieve his fourteenth year and come officially of age. The milestone was mainly one of law, for everyone was well aware that few fourteen-year-olds were ready to assume the full duties of monarchy, but it meant that now, should Donal die untimely, his son and heir would not be required to rule through a regency council.

Such a council was already in place, to be sure, for handling the affairs of the kingdom when the king was occupied elsewhere in his realm. Donal had selected his crown council with care, and had named his brother Richard to preside whenever he was absent—a precedent that young Brion almost certainly would follow, when his father's council eventually became
his
council. It was a reassurance for all concerned, and the prince was as familiar with the council's workings as could be expected of even a precocious fourteen-year-old born and bred to be king.

But along with the public recognitions scheduled to take place with council and court, Donal Haldane intended another, more private recognition to mark his heir's coming of age, to be witnessed by only a select few. The night before the actual birthday festivities, after a private supper with his son, Donal summoned Kenneth and Alyce to join them in his private withdrawing chamber within the royal apartments. Donal himself admitted them.

“Thank you for coming,” the king said quietly, standing aside to let them pass and then closing the door behind them. Prince Brion had been sitting at a small supper table lately cleared of the clutter of their meal, and rose as the two came into the room. He looked both eager and faintly apprehensive, perhaps in anticipation of what further the night might bring.

“Sire,” Kenneth murmured. “Your Highness.”

He cast a puzzled glance at his wife, uncertain why they had been summoned, but Alyce thought she knew, and set a hand on Kenneth's hand in subtle control, her attention focused entirely on the king.

“Sit down, please,” the king said, waving them to seats at the little table and himself taking a seat. “I want to explain to all of you what I intend to do tonight. Kenneth, if all goes awry, it may fall upon you to be involved later on, which is why I asked you to be present. Alyce will understand immediately what I am about.”

As he spoke, he had been unfastening the wire clasp that held the Eye of Rom in his right earlobe: a great cabochon ruby the size of his little fingertip, set in ruddy gold. This he removed and held before them, gently turning it to and fro so that its heart caught the glow from the candles on the table.

“Only seldom will any of you have seen me without this,” he said softly, with a glance at Alyce and Kenneth. “I have told Brion the story of the stone many times as he was growing up, but it will be new to the two of you. According to my family's tradition, it was one of the gifts the Magi gave the Holy Child, after it had fallen from the heavens on the night of His birth. Every Haldane king since Cinhil the Great has worn it—some of them for rather longer than others,” he added with a faint attempt at humor. “It is known as the Eye of Rom; I do not know why.”

He set it aside and retrieved a small wooden box from the sideboard behind them, then pushed his chair back from the table, at the same time beckoning Brion closer. “Alyce, please bring that cushion for Brion to kneel on. Put it here in front of me.”

Both obeyed, Alyce depositing the cushion on the floor at the king's feet and moving to his left. Brion knelt, gazing up trustingly as his father set the box in his hands. Opening the box, Donal plucked out a small, stoppered vial of green glass and a wad of cotton wool, which he passed to Alyce. He then delved into the box again to remove a small, folded packet of crimson wool held by a bright steel pin, its head formed in the shape of a stylized Haldane lion. This he kept in his hand as he leaned past Brion to set the box on the table behind.

“It is not given to any man save the king to actually wear the Eye of Rom,” Donal said, pulling the pin from the red wool and handing it to Alyce, who had uncorked the vial and moistened the cotton wool with the pale green liquid it contained. “Nor is the Eye the source of the Haldane power, though it seems to be instrumental in its emergence in due time.”

He unfolded the wad of fabric to reveal a small ear-hoop of twisted gold wire nestled in the folds of crimson wool. Underneath the earring was a small scrap of hard leather, which Donal palmed before setting the nest of crimson wool in Brion's left hand. He then reached behind his son to retrieve the Eye of Rom, turning it in his fingers as he leaned back in his chair. Alyce, meanwhile, was carefully wiping off the pin.

“It is customary that the heir should be introduced to the Eye of Rom on the eve of his coming of age, against the day when he shall bear its burden,” Donal continued, setting the Eye in Brion's right hand and closing the prince's over the jewel. “Accordingly, though you will not wear the Eye tonight, I shall prepare you for its future wearing. Until then, you will wear that in its place.”

He gestured toward the hoop of twisted gold in its nest of crimson, then glanced at Alyce and carefully received the steel pin back from her. Across the table, Kenneth watched silently, hardly breathing.

“Wipe off his earlobe now,” Donal murmured, nodding toward the wad of faintly green-stained cotton wool. “The right one. Then come to his other side and steady his head.”

Alyce did as he commanded, again moistening the cotton wool. The green liquid had a pungent, medicinal smell, but she found it not unpleasant. Even so, Brion flinched slightly at its touch, eyes closing briefly.

She wiped the earlobe several times, front and back, then set the wool aside and moved to the prince's other side, took his head between her hands and braced his forehead against her waist. As she did so, his father set the tip of the steel pin against his right earlobe, positioning the scrap of leather behind, and gave a sharp thrust.

Alyce felt Brion tense as the sliver pierced through, but he did not move as Donal twisted the pin slightly to enlarge the wound and then squeezed the earlobe, withdrawing the pin as blood welled from the front wound. He then slid his left hand around the back of Brion's head to brace it and touched Brion's closed right hand in signal for him to open it, picked up the Eye, and touched the stone to the blood trembling, jewellike, on the boy's earlobe.

Brion flinched as the stone touched his blood, breathing in with a hiss and briefly stiffening under his father's hands. In that instant, Alyce, too, felt power stirring, surging between father and son and spilling over slightly against her shields. Even Kenneth appeared to sense that something was happening that he could not see, still seated taut and white-faced at the other side of the little table. But then Brion relaxed again and breathed out a sigh as the king withdrew the stone and set it aside, now marked with his heir's blood—and Brion, too, with its potential.

Wordlessly the king retrieved the hoop of twisted gold and handed it to Alyce, his intention clear. Carefully she took it and wiped it with the cotton wool, again charged from the green vial, careful to clean well around the twisted wires, then handed it to the king and again held Brion's head steady as Donal made ready to insert the hoop of twisted wire through the hole just created.