High Deryni (10 page)

Something had shaken Thorne's composure tonight, but what? No human, surely. And if Deryni, then Thorne certainly had nothing to fear in this, of all places. Even if Thorne had provoked the ire of another Deryni, he was safe in here. No Deryni might raise power against his fellows while in the confines of this chamber. Indeed, unless a majority of those present willed it so, and the subject was also willing, no magic might function here at all. The bond of protection was sealed by a blood-oath required of every member, raised and renewed with the acquisition of each new initiate to the Inner Circle. No danger lay here for Thorne Hagen.

Arilan ran his fingertips along the edge of the ivory table with a slight smile, feeling the cold sleekness of the gold that banded it and divided the table into eight wedges.

Of course, there was always another possibility. Sooner or later, Thorne would have to leave the Council chamber. And once outside, there were Deryni not associated with the Inner Circle, who did not acknowledge the Council's dictates, and would have no respect for Thorne's Council office. There were and had always been renegade Deryni like Lewys ap Norfal, Rhydon of Eastmarch, Rolf MacPherson of the previous century—men who had rejected the Council's authority, or been expelled from its ranks, or even risen in outright rebellion. Could some rogue Deryni be threatening Thorne Hagen? Was there some plot against the Council?

Arilan glanced at the man again and did his best to put aside his reservations, realizing that he had nothing to go on except his own speculations, at this point. Perhaps Thorne had merely had a spat with his latest mistress, or quarreled with his castle warden. Anything was possible.

At a slight rustle of brocade behind Arilan, he turned to see the final two members of the Council entering through the great golden doors, each bearing the ivory wand of a coadjutor. Barrett de Laney, senior of the two men and presiding lord of the Council this evening, cut an impressive figure, his well-shaped head handsome despite its total lack of hair, emerald eyes aglow in the finely chiseled face. His companion, Stefan Coram, was equally striking, pale hair gone prematurely silver, elegant and blade-like in his confidence as he glided at Barrett's elbow, though even he paled beside the older man for sheer
presence
.

Poised and solicitous, Coram conducted Barrett to the chair between Laran and Tiercel, then moved on to his own place at the opposite side of the table. When each of them had placed his wand on the table, Coram spread his hands to either side, one palm up and one down. As the rest at table followed suit, each resting his palm on the palm of his neighbor, Coram cleared his throat and spoke.

“Attend, my lords and ladies. Attend and draw near. Heed the words of the Master. Let all be one in spirit with the Word.”

Barrett bowed his head for a moment, as did all of them, then raised his emerald eyes heavenward to a crystal sphere suspended from the center of the dome by a long, golden chain. The sphere trembled slightly in the still, silent air, and when Barrett spoke it was in the low, liquid syllables of ancient Deryni ritual.

“Now we are met. Now we are one with the Light. Regard the ancient ways. We shall not walk this path again.”
He paused and lapsed back into the vernacular. “So be it.”

“So be it.”

The eight took their seats in a rustle of rich raiment, a few making whispered comments to their neighbors. When they had settled, Barrett sat back and rested both hands on the arms of his chair, apparently composing himself to begin the session. Before he could speak, the slight, silver-haired man to his right cleared his throat and sat forward. The arms on the shield at the back of his chair identified him as Laran ap Pardyce, sixteenth Baron Pardyce. His expression was somber.

“Barrett, before we begin formal proceedings, I wonder if we might address ourselves to a rumor I have heard.”

“A rumor?”

“Laran, we haven't time for rumors,” Coram interrupted. “We have urgent—”

“No, this is urgent, too,” Laran cut in, stabbing the air with a pale, translucent hand. “I think this is one rumor we must put to rest. For I have heard it said more than once that Alaric Morgan, a half-breed Deryni, displays the ancient ability of healing!”

There was a stunned silence, and then:

“Healing?”

“Morgan has healed?”

“Laran, you must be mistaken.” A female voice. “None of us can heal anymore.”

“That is correct,” Barrett agreed stiffly. “All Deryni know that the healing gifts were lost with the Restoration.”

“Well, perhaps no one has thought to inform Morgan of this small detail!” Laran snapped. “He
is
only half-Deryni, you know!” He glared at Barrett for just an instant, then shook his silvery head regretfully. “I do apologize, Barrett. If anyone feels the loss of the healing gifts, it is you.”

His voice trailed off awkwardly as he remembered how Barrett de Laney had lost his sight over fifty years ago, from a hot iron held close to the emerald eyes as ransom for a score of Deryni children saved from the swords of the persecutors. Barrett bowed his head and reached out to touch Laran's shoulder in a comforting gesture.

“Do not chide yourself, Laran,” the blind man whispered. “There are things more precious than sight. Tell us more of this Morgan.”

Laran shrugged, much subdued. “Unfortunately, I have no proof. I have merely heard it said—and as a physician, my curiosity was aroused. If Morgan—”

“Oh, Morgan, Morgan,
Morgan
!” Tiercel slapped the flat of his hand sharply against the table. “That's all we ever talk about anymore. Are we determined to summon up a witch hunt against our own kind? I thought that was one of the more expendable things we lost with the Restoration!”

Vivienne snorted in derision, her fine gray head turning toward the young man in disdain. “Tiercel, do act your age. It isn't as though Morgan was one of us. He is a half-breed traitor, a disgrace to the Deryni name—the way he cavorts around the countryside making indiscriminate use of his powers!”

Tiercel threw back his head and laughed. “Morgan? Now, there's a thought. Half-breed he is; traitor he may or may not be, depending upon whose side one is on—King Kelson, I know, would not agree. But as for disgrace, madam, our rogue half-breed has never done anything to discredit the Deryni name that
I
am aware of. On the contrary, he is the one Deryni I know of who is
not
afraid to stand and declare himself for what he is. Any disgracing of our name was done long ago, and by men far more expert than an untrained Deryni half-breed like Alaric Morgan!”

“But you
do
see him as a half-breed,” Thorne interjected, seizing the opportunity to press his suit for Wencit. “And Duncan McLain, too. All of you regard them both as half-breeds. And yet, time and time again, they react in ways not consistent with their supposed bloodline. Now they allegedly can heal—something that even we cannot do! Has anyone ever considered the possibility that they might not be only half-blood after all? That we may be dealing with a renegade pair of full Deryni?”

Kyri, to Thorne's right—she of the tawny hair—frowned lightly and touched his arm. “Surely that cannot be,” she said. “How could they be full Deryni? 'Tis inconsistent with what we know of their parentage.”

“Well, their mothers are certain,” Vivienne scoffed. “And we know that they, at least, were full Deryni. As for the fathers—well, how certain can
anyone
be?”

She cocked an eyebrow, prompting a low, appreciative chuckle that rippled around the table. Tiercel reddened.

“If you intend to cast aspersions on the parentage of Morgan and McLain,” he said, “I should like to remind you that there are some of
us
whose ancestry might not bear close scrutiny. Oh, we are all Deryni; no one could argue against that. But who among us can be absolutely certain, beyond any shadow of a doubt, just who his father was?”

“That will be enough,” Coram said sharply, laying his hand on his ivory wand in a gesture of authority.

“Peace, Stefan.” Barrett's voice. “Tiercel, we shall not indulge in verbal innuendo.” He turned his blind face slowly toward the younger man, as though the emerald eyes could see. “The legitimacy of Morgan or McLain's birth—or yours or mine or anyone else's—is not pertinent to this discussion, except as it may touch on the point just raised by Thorne. If, as he has suggested, the two in question have been exhibiting abilities that were deemed lost, that are inconsistent with those normally associated with their supposed bloodline, it behooves us to inquire how this can be possible. The discussion does not require impassioned rhetoric from either side. Is that clear?”

“I beseech pardon if I have spoken rashly,” Tiercel said, though the ritual phrase was not consistent with the tight-jawed expression on his handsome face. “But I exercise my right to inquire further regarding what Laran has reported.” He turned his head in Laran's direction. “You say that Morgan is reputed to have healed?”

“So it is said.”

“By whom? And whom is he said to have healed?

Laran cleared his throat and glanced around the table. “You will recall reports of an attempt on the king's life on the night before his coronation. To gain entrance to his chambers, the would-be assassins overpowered the night guards and killed or wounded them. Among the wounded was Morgan's aide, Sean Lord Derry.

“One of the attending surgeons states that he examined this same Lord Derry shortly before Morgan came out of the king's chamber, and that the young man was very near death. When Morgan arrived, the surgeon told him as much, then moved on to treat those who could be helped. A few minutes later, Morgan was summoning another surgeon to attend, telling him that the young lord was not wounded so badly as had been feared.

“It was not until some days later that the two surgeons compared notes and discovered that something approaching a miracle had occurred. For though Derry had been wounded to the very brink of death, and no medical procedure known to them could have saved him, yet he lived. He attended Morgan at the coronation the next day.”

“What makes you believe that this was evidence of Deryni healing?” Coram said slowly. “And why should that ability surface now, after nearly two centuries?”

“I merely report what I have heard,” Laran replied. “As a physician, I cannot explain what happened in any other way. Unless, of course, you prefer to believe that it really was a miracle.”

“Ha! I do not believe in miracles,” Vivienne said caustically. “What say you, Denis? You are our resident expert in such matters. Is such a thing possible?”

Denis Arilan glanced at Vivienne, sitting to his right, then shrugged slightly. “Biblically speaking, of course miracles are possible.” He traced a careful pattern on the tabletop with his fingertip, his amethyst catching the light. “But miracles in more recent times, at least in the past four or five centuries, can usually be explained—or at least duplicated—by some form of our magic. This is not to say that there are no more miracles; only that, by the use of our powers, we can often cause what
appear
to be miracles. As for what you allege of Morgan, I have no knowledge of that. I have met the man only once, to talk to—and he was only young then.”

“But you were present at the coronation the day after this alleged healing, were you not, Bishop?” Thorne said slowly. “And according to all reports, Morgan himself was badly wounded in his duel with the Lord Ian. Yet, when the time came to swear fealty, he walked erect and without pain to place his hands between the king's: somewhat bloodstained, to be sure, but not at all like a man who has just had a handspan of cold steel removed from his shoulder. How do you explain that?”

Arilan shrugged. “I cannot explain it. Perhaps what Morgan said of his own wound was true, as well: that it was less serious than it appeared. Monsignor McLain attended him; I was not close by at the time. But perhaps his skil l…”

Laran shook his head. “I think not, Denis. Even if this McLain is a capable battle-surgeon, as many borderers are, could he have…?” His voice trailed off briefly, then: “Of course, if he, too, has the healing power—why, this is incredible! If two half-breeds can—”

Young Tiercel could contain himself no longer, and sat back in his chair with an explosive sigh. “You people sicken me! If it really is true that Morgan and McLain have rediscovered the lost gifts of healing, then we should be seeking them out on bended knee,
begging
them to share this great knowledge with us—not dragging their names through this senseless inquisition!”

“But, they
are
half-breeds,” Kyri ventured.

“Oh, ‘half-breeds' be hanged!” Tiercel retorted. “Maybe they are
not
. How
could
they be, and still be able to heal? The ancient records tell us little about the actual process of training or engaging the healing gift, but we do know that it was one of the most difficult of all the Deryni powers to master, and that it required great focus and discipline to control. If Morgan and McLain can do this, I think we must either accept the possibility that they are somehow full Deryni, that there is something in their makeup of which we are still unaware—or else we must reconsider our whole understanding of what it means to be Deryni.”