High Deryni

INTERLUDE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

INDEX OF CHARACTERS

INDEX OF PLACE NAMES

PARTIAL TIME LINE FOR THE HISTORY OF THE ELEVEN KINGDOMS

THE GENETIC BASIS FOR DERYNI INHERITANCE: 1974

THE
first spring following the coronation of Kelson King of Gwynedd should have been a time of eager anticipation, as the land lay a-greening along with his newly begun reign. Sadly, he knew full well how precariously lay the crown upon his young head. Only fourteen when his father, King Brion, was slain by magic, the boy-king had immediately taken counsel of the controversial Duke Alaric Morgan, his late father's close friend and confidant, along with Morgan's cousin, Father Duncan McLain, who was also chaplain to the royal household. Both were now known to be Deryni, wielders of the same sort of magic that had killed King Brion—and all magic was forbidden by Gwynedd's powerful Church. Its presiding bishop had suspended Duncan McLain from his priestly function, and the hastily summoned Curia of that same Church had now excommunicated both men.

Not that Gwynedd's individual bishops presented a united front. While all of those present at the Curia convened in Dhassa had consented to the excommunication of the pair (albeit with varying degrees of enthusiasm), they remained sharply divided on whether further sanctions should be imposed on Morgan's Duchy of Corwyn; so divided that Gwynedd's presiding bishop, supported by a slender majority of the other bishops present, had declared the six dissenting bishops to be schismatic and threatened disciplinary action against them. The Six, in turn, had declared for the king and expelled Archbishop Loris and his adherents from the city. Rumor had it that the archbishop and his followers had fled southward and were taking refuge with the anti-Deryni rebel Warin de Grey while they sought support from bishops who had not been present at Dhassa. At least a few of Loris's supporters had taken their master's anger seriously enough to attempt more direct disciplinary action against the dissident Six.

“Someone attacked
Wolfram
?” Bishop Siward blurted, when a trembling and shaken household chaplain had repeated his disturbing news to several of the Six huddled in Bishop Cardiel's private withdrawing room.

“
Several
‘someones,' apparently,” Bishop Tolliver replied, taking off his own cloak to lay it around the shoulders of their informant. He had been present when the young priest had burst into the stable yard, gasping for breath, and had been first to hear the news. “Father Jodoc tells me that they were in the service of Archbishop Loris.”

“They
were
, my lords!” the priest agreed. “One of the men even wore the archbishop's badge under his cloak!”

“Dear God, has it come to this?” Cardiel whispered.

“At least we are fortunate in that Wolfram was not harmed,” Bishop Arilan said coolly. “What of the attackers, Father?”

“All dead, my lord,” Jodoc said promptly, nodding his thanks as a priest called Father Hugh, now secretary to the dissident bishops, pressed a cup of mulled wine into his hand. He indulged in a deep gulp before he continued. “One was killed outright, and another died of his wounds before he could be questioned. They say that a third was pulled to pieces by the crowd.” He looked away briefly before adding softly, “It must have been dreadful.”

Bishop Istelyn had gone white at the account, and Richard of Nyford shuddered and crossed himself, shaking his head. The pair had joined the original six dissenting bishops at Dhassa several days after the departure of Loris and his adherents, first Istelyn and then Richard, bringing their number to eight. Together, they believed and hoped that Loris had gained no additional support, without which his decree of Interdict for Corwyn still did not technically have the force of law.

“I must go to the king,” Istelyn said quietly. “He should know of this latest development.”

“True enough,” Bishop Arilan replied. “He will not take it kindly that one of his bishops tried to kill another.”

“Indeed, he will not,” Cardiel agreed. “And he should have one of us in his household to give him heart when Loris continues to make demands. Nor should he be without spiritual counsel when he must eventually face Wencit of Torenth.”

SOMEWHAT
farther north and east of Dhassa, hard on Gwynedd's border with Torenth, that same Wencit of Torenth was receiving a report of other occurrences in Kelson's kingdom. Though it had not been he who had threatened Kelson's crown at the coronation just past, he was of the same dynastic line as the woman whose challenge had failed, and he now counted himself as next in that line of succession. He had long coveted the lands of his neighbor to the west, and but awaited the coming thaws to take advantage of Kelson's youth and press an invasion plan well advanced even before the assassination of the boy's father.

“No one seems to be certain who worked the magic to slay the pair, or whether it was even wholly intended,” Wencit's informant told him, though his gaze was unfocused, his voice a monotone, for it was not he who spoke to the Torenthi king but a skilled and powerful agent far away, using more reliable magic to convey the information. “Nonetheless, it will have hurt Alaric Morgan to lose his only sister. In addition, the death of the Earl of Kierney leaves Jared Duke of Cassan with only a priest as his heir—though, as you know, Father Duncan McLain does seem to have Deryni powers. Certainly, Gwynedd's bishops believe that to be true—and have excommunicated both him and Morgan. They even threaten Interdict for Corwyn.”

“That little concerns me,” the Torenthi sorcerer-king replied with a negligent flick of one beringed hand.

Shortly after the coronation of his new rival the previous autumn, as soon as the first snows closed the Cardosa Pass from the west, Wencit had begun assembling his army for the next year's campaign and laid siege to the disputed mountain city of Cardosa, lurking through the winter at the Royal Abbey of Sankt Nikolas with his general staff and a unit of crack cavalry to prevent possible relief efforts to the city. He had occupied Cardosa early in June, immediately after the spring thaws allowed an approach from the east. By then the city had been very hungry. The apartment where he now made his headquarters—and where he had received the messenger seated before him—had belonged to the former royal governor, who now languished in a sparse but decent cell deep in the bowels of the fortress known as Esgair Ddu. The darker man with the scarred face, standing at the king's elbow, had helped him take the city.

“Interdict for Corwyn,” the man murmured. “Now, that
is
an intriguing notion.”

“But will it make a difference?” Wencit countered.

“Perhaps.” The dark man jutted his chin toward their ensorcelled informant and raised an eyebrow in query as the Torenthi king glanced in his direction. “If I may, Sire, I should like to explore an earlier point,” he murmured.

At Wencit's nod of agreement, the man eased a trifle closer.

“I would hear more about this attempt on Bishop Wolfram,” he said softly. “Were the assassins truly in the service of Archbishop Loris?”

The messenger's expression did not change save for a flicker of comprehension behind the blank eyes. “It may be that they were…encouraged to take such action,” he stated baldly.

Wencit's lips curled in a sardonic smile beneath the fox-colored moustache. “My dear cousin, I sometimes think you are altogether too devious, even for one of our kind. Have you no shame?”

The reply came in the same monotone as before, but still managed to convey a hint of smug satisfaction. “I was under the impression that my lord held little regard for Gwynedd's religious authorities.”

“Not for Edmund Loris,” Wencit's companion murmured almost inaudibly.

Wencit clucked his tongue in an indication of mild chastisement. “Now, now, Rhydon. You are a son of Gwynedd. A man should have
some
faith.”

“He serves your purpose, I suppose, my lord,” Rhydon allowed, returning his gaze to the face of their intermediary. “My Lord Volmer, do you know whether the Six at Dhassa have gained any further support?”

“Only the two I have already reported, my lord,” came the uninflected reply. “However, there is word from elsewhere that the Haldane's troops are on the move. The Dukes of Cassan and Claibourne have been sent to secure the northern borders, and the Earl of Eastmarch occupies the plain below the city, where the king will bring his royal armies. Nigel Haldane is said to be probing into Corwyn.”

“And the Duke of Corwyn?” Wencit asked, allowing himself a tiny, satisfied smile.

This time, their intermediary's tone suggested that he shared the opinion of the man whose voice he provided.

“Apparently on the run, my lord, along with the discredited McLain.”

“Excellent,” Wencit said softly. “Then it appears that we may proceed exactly as the Haldane has been fearing. How fortunate for us that the thaws come so late to Gwynedd's side of the mountains.”

“And how unfortunate for Kelson of Gwynedd,” his informant replied, a trace of smugness coming through the uninflected tone.