High Deryni (43 page)

“Guard?”

“Yes, my lord?”

The guard was attentive, eager to be of service, and saluted smartly as he entered the pavilion.

“Can you give me a hand here?” Derry found himself saying. “I seem to have lost the brooch from my cloak.” He gestured toward the pile of furs where he had been sleeping and made a deprecating little smile. “I'd look for it myself, but my head still throbs when I bend down.”

“No trouble, sir.” The guard grinned, laying down his spear to bend over the furs. “Glad to see that you're up and feeling better. We were a bit anxious there for a while.”

As the man talked, Derry closed his hand around the sheathed blade of a heavy hunting dagger and moved to the man's side. Without warning, he brought the weighted hilt down hard behind the guard's right ear; the man crumpled without a sound.

Derry lost no time. After dragging the unconscious guard to the Transfer Portal, he moved to the tent entrance and dropped the flap. Then he was back at the guard's side, kneeling with his hands on the man's temples, as a strange lethargy came over him. The guard's eyes fluttered and then opened, but the intelligence that gazed back at him was not that of the simple, honest guard. Derry's own involuntary shudder was overcome by the new power forcing him to do this, and he could only abide helplessly as he felt his eyes boring into those of the enthralled guard and making contact with the new intelligence.

“Well done, Derry,” the guard murmured in a voice not precisely his own. “What have you learned? Where are the Deryni princeling and his friends?”

“Gone to the perimeter to observe your camp, Sire,” Derry felt himself answering. And there was nothing he could do about it.

The guard blinked and gave a slight nod. “It is well. You were not observed overpowering the guard?”

Derry shook his head. “I think not, Sire. What is it you wish of me now?”

After a slight pause the guard turned his eyes on Derry with a new intensity. “The Lord Bran wishes the return of his son and his lady. Do you know where they are kept?”

“I can find them,” Derry heard himself saying, though he despised himself for the words.

“Good. Then, find some ruse to bring them to the Portal here. Tell the Lady that—”

At the sound of voices outside the tent, Derry froze. He could not be certain, but it sounded like one of the guards was talking to—Warin?

Stealthily, he got to his feet and glided over to the doorway, staying to one side where he would be shielded by the flap as it opened. Footsteps approached on the other side of the canvas, and then a hand was pressing the flap aside. As the close-cropped head of Warin was thrust through the opening, he saw the guard lying in the center of the chamber. But before he could turn to give warning, Derry had tackled him and dragged him into the pavilion, stifling his attempted outcry with a savage hand across the mouth.

Within seconds, Warin, too, lay unconscious in the center of the pavilion. Soon he was trussed hand and foot and adequately gagged, his condition camouflaged in the folds of a heavy cloak. After dragging Warin to a place across the chamber, Derry made his way out of the pavilion, keeping to the shadows.

MORGAN
lowered his eyes uncomfortably and looked down at his feet, forcing himself not to let his gaze wander toward Richenda standing a few feet away. The wine had been drunk and the words said—all the words that could be said for now. If he killed Bran tomorrow, it could destroy the love this incredible woman bore for him. And yet, if Bran did not die, there was no future whatever for any of them.

He raised his eyes to hers and realized abruptly that he had never held her in his arms, never really even touched her except for their earlier hand clasp and that brief moment the night before, when they had shared their Deryniness—and tomorrow it might be too late. Tomorrow the chance might be gone for all eternity. His eyes searched hers for a long moment, reading her indecision also. Then he was folding her into his embrace, his lips drinking deeply of her kiss as the candles dimmed in the chamber around them.

After what seemed like only an instant, they drew apart, and Morgan stood a long time gazing into her eyes, her fingertips resting lightly in his hands. But he had known, from the moment he came here tonight, that he could not stay. Honor would not permit it.

And so, after a time when the only sound in the tent was the music of their racing hearts, he took his leave of her, touching her silken fingertips lightly to his lips before gliding out into the night. As he disappeared into the darkness to join Kelson and the others, he could not know that another lurked nearby, under the thrall of an enemy spell, but awaiting the chance to make his move.

Richenda paused in the doorway of the tent and watched her visitor depart, then turned to gaze around the now so empty tent. The candles had flared to new life with his going, but somehow the tent still seemed dark. She wondered again how she had happened to fall in love with this tall, golden stranger not her husband, raised slightly trembling fingers to her lips and touched them gently. Then, still smiling, she moved into the inner chamber and knelt beside her sleeping son, her smile slowly fading to concern.

What would the future hold for them after tomorrow? Regardless of the outcome of the duel, there would always be Bran's spectre looming above their heads, in life or in death. For she was bound to Bran by this boy, by bonds more adamant than mere words or law. And if Alaric Morgan killed Bran Coris tomorrow…Where did loyalty lie?

She considered what she had always been taught, but she was no longer certain the answers lay there. A woman's loyalty lay with her husband, or so they said. But if one's husband were a traitor, then what? Was a woman bound to hate the man who brought that traitor to justice? Somehow she did not think so.

She sighed lightly and tucked Brendan's furs more closely around him, then froze as a sound outside her tent caught her attention. Standing up as quietly as possible, she moved to the doorway of the inner chamber and saw a man silhouetted in the outer doorway. He had not been challenged by the guards and made no move to step closer—did not, in fact, appear to be menacing—but who was he? She took a few steps into the outer chamber, squinting against the deeper darkness of the outside to discern his features.

“Who's there?” she said in a low voice, not wishing to rouse Brendan or Sister Luke. “Have you a message for me?”

The man in the doorway slipped just inside and dropped to one knee. “I am Sean Lord Derry, my lady—Morgan's aide. I—could you come to the king's tent with me right away? Lord Warin has taken quite ill, and Morgan is unable to attend him at this time. Father Duncan thought you might be able to help.”

“Well, of course. I mean, I'll try,” she said. She took a cloak from behind the inner doorway and began to fasten it around her shoulders. “What ails Lord Warin? Have you any idea?”

Derry shook his head and got to his feet. “No, my lady. I'm afraid I don't. He's feverish, delirious….”

Richenda finished fastening the cloak and gestured toward the tent flap. “I'm ready, then. Lead the way.”

Derry glanced at the floor in seeming embarrassment. “My lady, before we go, I—well, I don't know how to say this so that you won't think me foolish, but the king is—well, the king wishes you to bring young Lord Brendan with you.”

“He wants me to bring Brendan? Why on earth—”

“Please, my lady, I—Bishop Arilan and Father Duncan fear that Wencit and your husband might try to kidnap the boy if he's left alone. It doesn't hurt to take precautions. Besides, Morgan has given me some measure of protection.”

“Oh, my poor baby,” Richenda murmured, crossing herself hastily and rushing to the doorway of the inner chamber. She stood there for several seconds without moving, staring at the sleeping child, then turned back to face Derry.

“They're right. It could be a plot. Bran loves Brendan dearly. He might very well be able to coerce Wencit into trying to steal him away. Please help me wrap him in this cloak, Derry,” she whispered, handing Derry a fur-lined cloak and moving toward the boy's bed. “But be careful not to wake Sister Luke. We'll be all right.”

Derry smiled to himself, but she could not see, since he was bent over the sleeping boy. “Of course you will, my lady,” he said in a very low voice. “These priests must be humored sometimes, though. Come. Warin needs your aid.”

MINUTES
later, Richenda and Derry were entering the royal pavilion, Derry carrying the sleeping Brendan. It was bright inside, after the torch-touched blackness of the outer camp, and it took Richenda's eyes a moment to adjust to the new light level. Derry moved across the chamber and laid the boy atop a pile of furs in the center of the room, then gestured to the side where Warin lay. As Richenda crossed to Warin's side, Derry stepped back and folded his arms across his chest, a slight smile on his face; but Richenda did not notice.

“He's awfully still,” Richenda said, kneeling down and reaching to touch Warin's brow. “Warin? Lord Warin, can you hear me?”

As she tried to turn his face toward the light, she suddenly recoiled as she found herself staring at a mouth that bulged with a gag hastily applied. Suddenly she knew the reason for the odd angle of Warin's shoulders beneath the cloak. The hands were bound.

Aghast, she raised her eyes to search for Derry and found him backing purposefully away from the sleeping Brendan, no longer aware of her presence. She stiffened as he stepped into shadow and a faint glow appeared around his head.

“Derry!”

Abruptly she knew his intent, sensed the Transfer Portal beginning to glow around her son. She sprang to her feet and brushed past Derry, reaching the Portal just as the energies began to shift. The Portal stabilized as she exerted her will to stop it, but only until Derry streaked onto the Portal behind her, pinning her against his chest and dragging her from the circle.

She tried to scream the boy's name to wake him, but Derry's hand was clapped tightly across her mouth. Even as the first guard stuck his head through the doorway in response to her cry, she saw there was a second shadowy figure silhouetted in the circle, and then a ghostly third who bent toward the sleeping child.

“No!” Richenda shrieked, wrenching halfway away from Derry as the man scooped up her son. “Bran, no!”

Power began to stream toward the man from her fingertips, but she could not control its direction with Derry pulling at her, and the guards seemed woefully slow. Helpless to stop it, she saw the circle flare with light and then dim. She cried out, “Brendan!” once more, as the guards pulled Derry away from her and tried to subdue him. But it was too late to save her son. The boy was gone.

BY
the time Kelson could be summoned, the royal pavilion was swarming with guardsmen. A hush descended as the king entered the chamber, accompanied by Morgan, Duncan, and Arilan. Then the only sounds were the forlorn sobs of Richenda, slumped in the center of the empty Portal, and Derry still struggling against his restraints. Several soldiers stood helplessly beside the lady, unable to offer any comfort, and others were attending to the unconscious Warin and untying the overpowered guard. Derry continued to make periodic shambles out of his side of the chamber, sometimes taxing the ability of five guards to hold him.

Kelson assessed the situation in a glance, and in the same motion waved the excess guards out of the tent. There were murmurs of consternation, but the men obeyed. When they had gone, Kelson and Morgan started to move toward Richenda. The lady looked up briefly, then turned her head away.

“Do not approach me, Sire. There is evil in this circle. They have taken away my son, and I cannot find him.”

“Brendan is
taken
?” Morgan breathed, remembering how, so short a time ago, he had lulled the boy to sleep.

Without hesitation, Arilan moved into the circle and knelt beside Richenda, assisting her to her feet and giving her into Duncan's care. She wrung her hands as Duncan drew her away from the Portal, her red-gold hair tumbling around her shoulders and across her face in disarray. Morgan started to go to her, but Arilan shook his head, motioning Duncan to take her yet farther from the circle.

“Let her be, Alaric,” he said in a low voice. “A priest's touch is better just now. Our more urgent task at present is to close this Portal before Wencit tries to use it again. I should never have left it open.”

“Can we assist you?” Kelson asked, watching with concern as the bishop sat back on his haunches and rubbed his hand across his eyes.

“No, your strength is needed for Derry. Stand back while I do what must be done.”

As they moved at his bidding, Arilan stared up at the ceiling for a moment and drew a deep breath, as though composing himself, then bowed his head and let his hands rest on the ground to either side of him. Light began to flare around his head, ebbing and flowing with his steady heartbeat.

Then, with a brilliant flash, it was over. Arilan reeled forward drunkenly on hands and knees, gulping for breath, but before Morgan could reach him, he shook his head.

“Leave me,” he rasped. “See to Derry now. This is finished. I'll join you shortly.”

With a glance at Kelson, at Richenda and Duncan across the chamber by Kelson's bed, Morgan focused himself and moved toward the guards holding Derry. The young earl's eyes touched him as he approached, and the bound limbs began thrashing again as the Deryni lord came nearer. Morgan looked down at Derry for several seconds without speaking, then knelt down and began removing his gloves.

“What did you actually see?” he asked one of the guards who seemed to be more self-possessed than the others. “Someone told us that Derry carried the boy in here, wrapped up asleep in a cloak, and that the Lady Richenda came with him willingly.”

“That's what it looked like, Your Grace. They'd been inside only a minute or two. I was on guard duty just at the perimeter when I heard the lady cry out. ‘Derry!' she called.

“When we got inside, we could see her struggling with him over there, where the bishop was. And something happened to the boy, too. He was lying there on the furs, just where the bishop is sitting, and then there was a funny glow, and it looked like two more people were standing there.”

Kelson, who had moved closer to listen as the guard spoke, dropped to his knees beside Morgan and searched the guard's face attentively.

“One of the guards who came to fetch us said that the men were Wencit of Torenth and the Earl of Marley. Does that agree with what you saw?”

“Well, I don't know about Wencit, Sire. But the other one could have been the Earl of Marley. I've only seen him a few times, but—”

“What happened then?” Morgan said impatiently.

“Well, Lord Derry here had dragged the lady out of the circle by the time we could reach her, and then the boy and the two men were suddenly gone. I can't explain it, sir.”

“Don't even bother to try,” Morgan muttered. He tucked his gloves under his belt as he gazed down at the still-struggling Derry. “Has he been this way ever since?”

“Yes, sir. He wanted to get back into that circle. He kept yelling something about not closing it—that he had to get back. We had to gag him so we could hear ourselves think.”

“I can imagine,” Morgan muttered.

He scanned Derry from head to toe, eyes downcast as he ran both hands close above Derry's body, then glanced up at the guards. “All right, remove the gag and the bonds, and hold him. This is not going to be easy.”

“But, what's wrong with him?” Kelson murmured, as the guards obeyed. “Morgan, are you sure it's safe to untie him? He acts like a man possessed.”

“Yes, and we have to find out exactly to what extent,” Morgan agreed. “This is apparently what he was afraid of, when he first came around this afternoon. I should have gone after it then.”

As he turned his attention back on Derry, the young man shuddered and closed his eyes tightly, inhaling sharply as Morgan touched his forehead. Then the eyes opened and gazed up at Morgan, sanity there now—and embarrassment, as his glance flicked out to touch the guards pinning his arms and legs spread-eagled. When he looked back at Morgan, the blue eyes were hurt and a little frightened. Of all the reactions, Morgan had not expected this.

“What—what did I do?” Derry asked in a small voice.

“You don't remember?”

Derry blinked and shook his head. “Was it terrible? Did I hurt someone?”

Morgan bit at his lip to hold back an angry retort, thinking of the grieving woman across the chamber. “I'm afraid you did, Derry. You helped Wencit and Bran Coris to steal a lady's child away. You also injured Warin and a guard. You really don't remember?”

A crestfallen Derry shook his head, his eyes mirroring Morgan's sorrow, and Morgan looked away, unable to bear Derry's gaze anymore. He started to lay a hand on Derry's arm in sympathy, but even as his hand touched the young man's sleeve, Derry arched upward, out of the grasp of his guards, to lock both hands around Morgan's throat.

“Get him!” shouted Kelson, throwing himself across Derry's legs as the guards moved into action.

For perhaps three seconds, Derry's grip held. But then Morgan was free, pressing him back against the floor, the guards sitting on his arms and legs. Even then, Derry continued to struggle and scream, “No! God help me, no! My lord, I can't help myself! Kill me! Oh, please kill me before I—”

Morgan's fist lashed out and connected with Derry's jaw in a sickening crack, and Derry went limp. Breathing heavily, Morgan hauled himself back to his knees, motioning the guards to hold Derry's limbs once more. Kelson straightened and peered at Morgan in concern, waving off several soldiers who had come bursting into the tent at Kelson's shout.

“God in heaven, what happened? Are you all right?” he breathed, straightening his tunic and looking at Morgan with new respect. “I think he really was trying to kill you.”

Morgan nodded, rubbing his throat gingerly where marks were already beginning to show. “Quite probably. The only thing I can imagine is that Wencit must have placed a very powerful control over him, consisting of many layers. That would explain why I didn't discover it this afternoon. I did neutralize the outer spell, but there was a level—or levels—below it. That's what we must break now—either that, or kill him in the trying.” He drew a ragged breath and forced himself to relax again. “When he comes around, will you stay with me, be ready to come in and help fight whatever it is that's holding him?”

Kelson nodded solemn agreement as Morgan turned his attention on the guards.

“And you men, hold him this time, dammit. I can do very little when he's thrashing around like a fish and trying to choke me to death.”

The guards nodded sheepishly, tightening their grips as Derry moaned and began to stir. Before he could return to full consciousness, however, Morgan lifted his hands toward Derry's head, a faraway look coming into his eyes. “Sean, listen to me,” he murmured.

His hands came lightly to rest on Derry's forehead, but the younger man's body contracted in a convulsive shudder, nearly throwing Morgan's hands free, even with the holding of the guards. Shaking his head slightly, Morgan firmed his touch and exerted his will.

“It's all right now, Sean. You're safe. We're going to release you. Now, relax and let me in, as you used to do. I'm going to free you from Wencit's binding.”

Derry shuddered again, his body writhing under the restraints of his captors as Morgan concentrated. Then he went limp. Morgan remained motionless for a long time before raising his head slightly.

“Kelson, join me now. Follow me, and go where I go. And you men, don't relax for even a moment, until I tell you it's safe. He could go violent again without any warning.”

“Aye, sir.”

As Morgan bowed his head, his gaze unfocused, Kelson laid a hand on his arm and joined him in rapport. After a moment, there was no sound in the tent save the gentle sobbing of the Lady Richenda, still huddled in the refuge of Duncan's arms.

Across the chamber, Duncan gazed past his weeping charge and watched the tableau around the now-silent Derry. Arilan, exhausted from neutralizing the Portal, had summoned up enough strength to leave the circle and move closer to watch Morgan and Kelson; and the only guards now in the pavilion were occupied with Derry. Now, Duncan realized, was the time to attempt easing Richenda out of her despair, to urge her to talk about what had happened.

“My lady?” he said gently.

Richenda sniffled and swallowed noisily, lifting her head to wipe at her eyes with a handkerchief. Then she bowed her head miserably again, without looking up at him.

“I have done a terrible thing, Father,” she whispered. “I have done a terrible thing, and I cannot even ask forgiveness, because I would do it again, if I had the chance.”

Duncan's mind raced back over the events of the last little while and tried to think what she could be referring to, totally forgetting, for the moment, that he was still suspended from his priestly functions.

“What terrible thing is that, my lady?” he asked. “I don't see how you can blame yourself for anything that happened here tonight. Didn't Derry lure you here, to try to kidnap you and your son?”

Richenda shook her head. “You don't understand, Father. My—my husband was one of those in the circle, who stole my son away. And I—I tried to kill him.”

“You tried to kill him?” Duncan repeated, wondering how this slip of a girl thought she was capable of such a thing.

“Yes, and I probably would have succeeded if Wencit hadn't been there and Derry hadn't hindered me. You are Deryni, Father. You know whereof I speak.”

“
I
know?” Duncan broke off, suddenly realizing the implication of what she had said. “My lady,” he whispered, drawing her nearer the pavilion wall, away from the others, “are
you
Deryni?”

She nodded but would not look up at him.

“Does Bran know?”

“He does now,” she murmured, chancing a look at his face. “And I—oh, Father, what's the use? I cannot lie to you. I think there was another reason that I tried to kill Bran. He—I—oh, God help me, Father, but I've come to love another man. I've come to love your Alaric, and he loves me. I've not betrayed my marriage vows yet—at least not in deed. But if Alaric kills Bran tomorrow—and such is likely—the law…Oh, forgive me, Father. I am not even thinking about Bran. But he
is
a traitor. What am I to do?”

She began sobbing bitterly again, and Duncan gathered her against his shoulder, easing them both to sit on the edge of Kelson's great bed. Across the chamber, Morgan and Kelson still knelt motionless beside the enthralled Derry, Arilan and the restraining guards now watching impassively. Duncan could expect no help from that quarter. This was one cup that would not pass until he had drunk it in full measure. He bowed his head against the woman's hair and tried to sort out his jumbled emotions.

Richenda and Alaric. Of course. It all came together now. He had been blind not to see it sooner. Knowing Alaric's scrupulous conscience, nothing would have happened yet, so far as actual deeds were concerned. Richenda herself vowed that she had yet been faithful to her marriage bed.

But Duncan knew, too, the inward guilt the two must feel, the anguish over motives, and what tomorrow might bring. He wondered briefly why Alaric had not confided in him, then realized that there had really been no time—and even if there
had
been time, it was something that Alaric would have thought so shameful, so dishonorable, that he could not have mentioned it, even to his priest-kinsman. To lust after another man's wife would be totally unacceptable to Alaric Morgan.