High Deryni (19 page)

There was a window in the place, he realized now. He had almost missed it in the dim light, set deep in the wall opposite him. But almost immediately he saw that it would do him little good. It was high and narrow, several feet wide on the inside, but narrowing to hardly more than a handspan or so at the outer limit. An iron lattice guarded the window rather than the more usual bars, and Derry realized, as he peered at the grille, that even if he could somehow remove it, he could never slip through the narrow window itself. Besides that—if he had not lost all sense of direction—the window looked out over a sheer cliff face, completely smooth. Even if he could get through the window, there would be no place to go once he got there—unless, of course, he chose another sort of escape. The rocks at the base of Esgair Ddu could give release of a kind, if it came to that.

Derry sighed and turned his attention back to the chamber itself. It served no useful purpose to contemplate the sort of freedom that might lie outside that window, since he could never get through there to begin with. Besides, apart from his personal aversion to the very thought of suicide, he knew that he was of no use to anyone dead. Alive, if he could withstand whatever his captors had in store for him, there was always the possibility that he could somehow escape, however slim that chance. Alive, he might yet be able to tell Morgan what he had learned, before it was too late.

The thought brought with it the stunning realization that he
had
the means to tell Morgan, if he could but use it. Morgan's Saint Camber medallion still hung undiscovered around his neck. As long as they did not take that from him, there was a chance that he could still make contact with Morgan on schedule.

He did a rapid mental calculation and decided that it was about the time when Morgan would be expecting his call; forced out of his mind what would happen if he were wrong. The spell would work; it
must
work—though, trussed and helpless as he was, he wasn't sure exactly how he was going to do it yet.

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, and praying that he would be permitted the time to do what he had to do, Derry wriggled his torso in its bonds and concentrated on locating the medallion against his chest. Morgan had told him that he should hold the medallion in his hands when trying to establish contact, but since that was out of the question, he would have to hope that the touch of medallion on bare chest would suffice.

There! He could feel the medallion, warmed to body temperature, resting slightly left of center. Now, if only such a touch were sufficient, as well as the touch of hand….

Derry closed his eyes and tried to visualize the medallion as it lay against his chest, imagining that he was holding it in his hands, the incised carving sleek beneath his right thumb. Then he calmed his mind and let the words of the spell Morgan had taught him begin to roll through his mind, concentrating on his memory of how he had cupped the Camber medallion in the hollow of his hand.

He felt himself verging on the sleep-like trance that accompanied the spell, started to let himself slip into its cool depths—then tensed at the sound behind him of the door bolt scraping in its guides. Hinges creaked as the door swung back, and he could hear booted footsteps approaching. He controlled the impulse to twist his head around in an effort to see.

“Very well, tell him I'll take care of it,” said a cool, cultured voice. “Deegan, did you have something?”

“Only this dispatch from Duke Lionel, Sire,” a second voice replied, an underling by the tone.

There was a murmur of assent, followed by the brittle crack of a seal being broken, the faint rustle of parchment. Derry's stomach had begun a queasy churning as the voices spoke, for there was only one man in Esgair Ddu who would be addressed as “Sire.” As he registered this grim fact, someone stepped into the doorway with another torch, casting grotesque, misshapen shadows on the dungeon wall.

The hackles rose at the back of Derry's neck, and he felt his heart begin to race. He told himself that the shadows did not reflect their owners' true appearance, that it was a trick of the torchlight that struck such a note of mortal fear. But another corner of his mind whispered what he already knew: that one of the men had to be Wencit of Torenth. Now he would never get through to Morgan.

“I'll deal with this later, Deegan. Leave us now,” the smooth voice said.

There was the rattle of parchment being folded, of leather creaking and harness jingling as someone withdrew. Then the door hinges were rasping closed, the bolt being shot into place. The torchlight began to intensify to his left, though he was certain that someone came from the right as well.

The faint rustling of the footsteps in the straw set frantic alarm bells clanging in Derry's head.

IN
the cathedral in Dhassa, the ceremony of reconciliation for the two repentant Deryni was underway. After entering the cathedral in full procession, in the company of eight bishops and untold numbers of priests, monks, and other assistants, Morgan and Duncan had been solemnly presented to the presiding Bishop Cardiel and had formally declared their desire to be received back into the communion of Holy Mother Church. After that, they had knelt together on the lowest step of the altar and listened while Cardiel, Arilan, and the others intoned the prescribed formulae to accomplish their purpose.

It had been a time of concentration and of danger, for the two were required to respond often and intricately to the liturgy so sung and spoken. At last a portion approached when there would be little for the penitents to outwardly say or do. The two avoided looking at one another as each was led by two priests to the wide riser before the final approach to the altar and assisted to lower himself to the carpet, there to lie prostrate while the next portion of the ceremony continued.

“Bless the Lord, O my soul,” the bishops chanted, “and forget not all His benefits: Who forgiveth all thine iniquities; Who healeth all thy diseases; Who redeemeth thy life from destruction; Who crowneth thee…”

As the psalm droned on, Morgan shifted his position from where his head rested lightly on his clasped hands and moved them slightly so that he could see his Gryphon ring. Now, while the bishops were absorbed in their sacerdotal function, he must try to contact Derry, even if only fleetingly. For if all were well with Derry and he could make contact, it would be a relatively simple matter to arrange for another contact later this evening, when circumstances were not so dangerous.

He opened his eyes a slit and saw that Duncan was watching him covertly, that no one seemed to be paying much attention to them for the moment. He would have perhaps five minutes. He prayed that it would be enough.

Closing his eyes, he felt the brief touch of Duncan's presence signaling ready, then slitted his eyes open once again to use his Gryphon as a focal point. Slowly he permitted his senses to close out the candlelight, the drone of the bishops' voices, the pungent incense smoke swirling around him, the rough scratch of wool carpeting under his chin. Then he was slipping into the initial levels of trance, his mind reaching out for some fleeting contact with the mind of Sean Lord Derry.

“…Against Thee, Thee only, have I sinned and done this evil in Thy sight, O Lord,” Cardiel sang, “that Thou mightest be justified when Thou speakest, and be clear when Thou judgest…”

But Morgan did not hear.

DERRY
tried to mask any hint of his very real fear as the two men stepped from either side of him in the narrow dungeon. The man on the left was tall and hawk-visaged, with a terrible scar knifing down the aristocratic nose until it disappeared in the neatly trimmed moustache and beard, the dark hair touched with silver at the temples, the eyes pale as silver in the torchlight. He it was who bore the torch whose fire-fled shadows had sparked such dread in Derry minutes before, who terrified Derry anew as he turned casually to set the torch in a wall bracket not far from the one already there.

But this was not Wencit. Derry knew that instinctively, after only a glimpse of the second man. For the man who glided past his right side to pause directly in front of the chair was as different from the tall, scarred stranger as two men could be: trim and angular yet graceful, red of hair and moustache, pale blue eyes gazing unblinking at the frightened captive who sat immobilized before him. Wencit's attire was informal, a flowing robe of slubbed amber silk pulled on over rich satin damask of the same golden hue. A wide, linked belt of gold girdled his narrow waist, with a jeweled dagger thrust carelessly into the top. Rings glittered on the long, ascetic fingers, but other than those, Wencit wore no jewels. Tawny velvet slippers with pointed toes showed beneath the hem of the long tunic, the fabric gold-embroidered across the instep. So far as Derry could see, the dagger was Wencit's only weapon. Somehow the thought did little to put his mind at ease.

“So,” the man said. It was the same voice that Derry had identified as Wencit's earlier, and this but confirmed his growing fear. “So, you are the illustrious Sean Lord Derry. Do you know who I am?”

Derry hesitated, then permitted himself a curt nod.

“Splendid,” Wencit said, much too amiably. “Tell me, have you made the acquaintance of my esteemed colleague? Permit me to introduce Rhydon of Eastmarch. The name may be familiar to you.”

Derry glanced instinctively at the other man, who was leaning casually against the wall to his left, and the man dipped his chin in acknowledgement. Rhydon was dressed much like Wencit but in midnight blue and silver instead of the amber gold. The more somber attire, the shadow-side of Wencit's sunlit hues, seemed to suggest that it was Rhydon who should be more feared, made Wencit seem almost a trifle soft and even effeminate by comparison.

But, no! Derry sharply reminded himself that he must not allow himself to be lured into that illusion. Wencit was to be feared more than ten Rhydons, regardless of Rhydon's reputation as a Deryni of the highest powers. Derry must not let them throw him off his balance. It was Wencit who was to be feared.

Wencit gazed at his prisoner for a long moment, noting Derry's reaction to the darker man, then smiled faintly and crossed his arms on his chest. The soft rustling sound of the long silk robe instantly brought back Derry's attention. Wencit's broadening smile worried Derry even more than had his sterner countenance.

“Sean Lord Derry,” Wencit said again. “I have heard much of you, my young friend. I am given to understand that you once served as Alaric Morgan's military aide, that you now sit on the Haldane kinglet's royal council. Well, not precisely
now
, I suppose.” He watched Derry bite his lip at that.

“Yes, indeed, I have heard a great deal about the derring-do of Sean Lord Derry. It appears that we shall soon be in a position to learn whether that sterling reputation of yours is merited. Pray, tell me about yourself, Sean Lord Derry.”

Derry tried not to let his consternation show, but he feared he was not succeeding. Very well, let Wencit know that it was not going to be easy. Why, if Wencit thought he was going to give in without a fight, he was sadly mistak—

Very suddenly Wencit moved a step closer. Derry tensed and froze, but he forced himself to meet the sorcerer's gaze defiantly, hardly daring to breathe—and was surprised when Wencit drew back slightly, was a bit dismayed to see that the sorcerer had dropped one hand to the hilt of the dagger at his waist.

“I see,” Wencit said, casually withdrawing the dagger to turn it between his two hands. “You presume to resist me, eh? I think it only fair to warn you that I am delighted. After everything I had heard about you, I was beginning to fear you would disappoint me. I so dislike disappointments.”

Before Derry could react to that declaration, Wencit suddenly crossed the remaining two paces to Derry's chair and laid the edge of his dagger hard against Derry's throat. Derry's eyes closed briefly as he braced himself for death, but he knew this was not yet his time—as did Wencit. The Torenthi sorcerer watched Derry's face carefully for some sign of yielding as he exerted pressure, but there was none, and none expected.

With a slight smile, Wencit withdrew the blade and set its tip under the top lacing of Derry's leather jerkin—and cut the thong. Derry started as the leather gave, but he forced himself to remain impassive as Wencit continued moving slowly down the row of lacings, cutting each in turn.

“Do you know, Derry,”
cut
, “I have often wondered what it is about Alaric Morgan that inspires such loyalty in his followers,”
cut
. “Or Kelson and those other rather strange Haldane predecessors of his,”
cut
. “Not too many men could sit here silently as you do,”
cut
, “refusing to talk, though they surely can guess what unpleasantness awaits them,”
cut
, “and still remain loyal to a leader who is far away and can never hope to help them out of this, even if he knew.”

Wencit's blade hooked in another thong and moved to cut, but this time the blade was stopped by something that clinked metallic. Wencit had reached mid-chest level, and he raised an eyebrow in feigned surprise as he looked up at Derry.

“Why, what is this?” he asked, cocking his head wistfully. “Why, Derry, there seems to be something stopping my blade, doesn't there?” He tried a few more sharp, downward strokes, again with no other result than a dull clink.

“Rhydon, what do you suppose it is?”

“I'm sure I don't know, Sire,” the darker man murmured, collecting himself and strolling to Derry's other side.

“Nor I,” Wencit purred, using the dagger as a retractor to pull aside the edge of the jerkin until a sturdy silver chain was revealed. The ends of the chain disappeared under Derry's shirt. “Why, look at this.”

With a questioning glance at Derry, Wencit flicked the end of his blade under the chain and began slowly withdrawing it until a heavy silver medallion appeared.

“A holy medal?” Wencit asked, his mouth twitching at the corners. “How touching, Rhydon. He carries it next to his heart.”

Rhydon chuckled. “One is tempted to ask what saint he believes could protect him from you, Sire. But I daresay, there is none.”

“No, there is not,” Wencit agreed, glancing at the medal, then lifting it closer with the tip of his blade for a better look. “Saint
Camber
?”

His eyes seemed to darken to pools of indigo as he glanced up at Derry's face, and Derry felt his heart miss a beat. Slowly, deliberately, Wencit bent to scan the words incised around the rim, scorn edging his voice as he read them aloud.

“
Sanctus Camberus, libera nos ab omnibus malis
—deliver us from every evil….”

Very deliberately, not taking his gaze from Derry's, Wencit closed his hand around the silver disc and wrapped the chain around two fingers, pulling it taut around Derry's neck until their faces were but a hand-span apart.

“Art thou Deryni, then, youngling?” Wencit whispered harshly, his words chill as ice. “Thou invokest a Deryni saint, my foolish young friend. Dost believe he can protect thee from
me
?”

Derry's stomach did a slow, queasy roll as Wencit gave the chain a slight twist.

“Wilt not answer, Sean Lord Derry?”

The terrible eyes seemed to be boring into Derry's, and the young Marcher lord wrenched his gaze away with a shudder. He heard Wencit's snort of disgust, but he would not permit himself to be drawn back into that potent glance.

“I see,” Wencit breathed softly.

The pressure on the chain around Derry's neck lessened slightly. But then Wencit's hand was moving in a lightning blur, snapping the chain and jerking Derry's neck with the sudden tension before one of the metal links gave. With a gasp, Derry stared at the sorcerer again, at the broken chain spilling from between long, white fingers. The back of his neck stung where the chain had burned him with the friction of passing, and he realized, with a sinking sensation in his stomach, that Wencit now held the Camber medallion.

Now he could never hope to stand up to Wencit. His link with Morgan was broken. The magic was gone. He was all alone now, and Morgan would never know.

He managed to swallow, though with difficulty, and tried, unsuccessfully, to calm his pounding heart.

AS
the long prayers ended in Dhassa Cathedral, Morgan dragged himself from the depths of trance and forced himself to open his eyes. He must be very careful, for in a very short time he was going to have to get to his feet and proceed with the ceremony, make coherent responses. There must be no sign that the past five minutes had been in any way out of the ordinary. No one must suspect.

He thought, though, that he had briefly touched Derry's mind. He wished he could be certain. He had been left with the distinct impression that Derry had tried to reach him but had been interrupted. And then, just now, he had been nearly overcome by a mind-numbing flare of fear as he tried to extend even further; and he very nearly had been unable to come back unaided.

He made himself draw a deep, settling breath and slowly let it out, applying one of the Deryni aids to banish fatigue, and forced himself to lift his head, to rise to his knees as the priests lifted him up. He caught Duncan looking at him as he stood to be divested of the violet robe covering his white tunic, and tried to flash him some sign of reassurance; but Duncan knew that something was wrong. He could sense the tension in every line of his kinsman's body as the two of them knelt again before the high altar. Morgan tried again to gather his wits about him as Cardiel began another prayer.

“Ego te absolvo
…” I absolve you, Alaric Anthony and Duncan Howard, and do absolve and deliver you from all heresy and schism, and from every and all judgment, censure, and pain for that cause incurred. So do we restore you into the unity of our Mother, Holy Church….