High Deryni (44 page)

That realization brought the mantle of his priesthood upon him once again—and the reminder that he had, for a time, actually forgotten his suspension. Further, his discovery of Richenda's Deryniness had brought back the other conflict that had warred within him for so many years. In appealing to him as priest, she had also struck the part of him that was Deryni. Could he reconcile the two at last? Who was he, really?

Very well, he was Deryni, first and foremost. He had been born that and had lived with that identity for nearly thirty years. The fact that it had been hidden from the outside world until recently had no real bearing on his present dilemma. He was Deryni.

But, what of his priesthood? He had been under technical suspension for several months now, and had obeyed that suspension since burying his brother at Culdi. Further, he had been cleared of the excommunication imposed upon him for his actions at Saint Torin's—in fact, had never really been excommunicated at all, so far as many of the bishops were concerned.

But where did he stand as a priest? Was it, perhaps, possible that he could reconcile the two identities and be both, despite the ancient bans to the contrary? Could he continue to function both as priest and as Deryni?

He glanced at Arilan and considered the possibility. From the time he had taken his first vows, there had never been any doubt in his mind that his calling to the priesthood was genuine, or that he had been a good priest. And Bishop Arilan—Arilan seemed to have none of the doubts that had always nagged at Duncan's conscience about the compatibility of the two identities, though the Deryni bishop had been careful to protect himself for many years, Duncan noted, so that the union of the two identities be not unduly endangered.

What was it that Arilan had said?—that he and Duncan were the only Deryni priests to be ordained since the Restoration, at least so far as Arilan knew. And there was certainly no doubt in Duncan's mind that Arilan believed in his calling, considered himself a true servant of God. Duncan had always sensed the aura of sanctity about the man, from their first meeting nearly six years ago. There was no doubt in his mind that Arilan was faithful to his priestly vows, that his ordination was valid. Why should Duncan's be any less valid, merely because he, too, was Deryni? Seeing Arilan's example, why should Duncan not function as a priest
and
Deryni?

He glanced down at Richenda again as she stirred against his shoulder and saw that she was drying her eyes, had finally composed herself. But before he could speak, she turned wide blue eyes on him and searched his face.

“I shall be all right now, Father. I know that I cannot expect forgiveness for what I have done, but will you hear my confession anyway? It may make it easier to live with myself.”

Duncan lowered his eyes, remembering the one, last impediment, for Richenda's sake.

“Have you forgotten that I am suspended, my lady?”

“No. But my Uncle Cardiel says that continuing the suspension is of your own doing, since Dhassa. He says that he and Arilan saw no reason at the time why you could not resume your priestly office.”

Duncan raised an eyebrow at that, for it was true. Arilan had, indeed, mentioned something about lifting the suspension after the excommunication had been revoked—except that Duncan had wanted it to be done by Corrigan, who had suspended him in the first place. But now, with Corrigan out of power and exiled back to Rhemuth, the question was largely academic. He realized that, for the first time in his life, he was truly free to make the decision.

“Does the fact that I am Deryni mean nothing to you?” he asked, in a last effort to reassure himself of what he wished to do.

She looked at him strangely, impatiently. “It means a great deal to me, Father, for you will, perhaps, be better able to comprehend my anguish. But you ask as though your identity should be a detriment, simply because you are now known for what you are. Do you not intend to practice your priestly calling conscientiously, in the same fashion as you have done in the past?”

“Certainly.”

“And you consider yourself to have been a good priest, in the years before your identity was known?”

He paused. “Yes.”

Richenda smiled fleetingly, then sank slowly to her knees. “Then, shrive me, Father. As a soul in need, I call upon you to perform your sacred office. You have been idle far too long.”

“But—”

“The suspension is lifted, so far as your superiors are concerned. Why do you resist? Is this not what you were born to do?”

Duncan smiled sheepishly, then bowed his head as Richenda crossed herself and clasped her hands. Abruptly he knew that he
was
doing what he was born to do, and that he would never doubt again. Serene and confident now, he listened as Richenda began her whispered confession.

ACROSS
the tent, Morgan lifted his head and exhaled in a long sigh, signing for the guards to release their holds of Derry and withdraw. Derry lay quietly before him now, his eyes closed in natural sleep. As the guards drew back to the doorway, Morgan sat back on his haunches to contemplate a small circle of blackened metal in the palm of his hand. Kelson glanced at the ring, then looked up at Arilan. All of them avoided looking at Derry's right hand, at the forefinger, white and chill, where the ring had been. The ring and its spell had been removed, but at great cost to all concerned. Morgan tried to suppress a yawn, then gave it up and let himself stretch and luxuriate in it. When he had finished, he glanced lazily at the others, all of them relaxing a little, now that the ordeal was over.

“I think the danger is past now. The spell is shattered, and he's free.”

Kelson glanced at Morgan's hand, which held the ring, and shuddered. “What he must have gone through, though. You shielded me from most of it, Morgan, but—
aiie
, what he'll have to live with!”

“He won't have to live with it.” Morgan shook his head. “I took a few liberties and blurred his memory of what happened at Esgair Ddu. Some of the horror will be with him always, but I was able to ease the worst of it. In a few weeks, all this will be mostly a vague recollection. And he's going to be vexed he missed all the excitement tomorrow. He's likely to sleep for several days.”

“He can have
my
share of the excitement tomorrow,” Kelson murmured under his breath.

“Um?” Morgan grunted. He had been climbing to his feet, and had not caught the comment.

“Never mind, it wasn't kingly.” Kelson grinned. “We'd best get some sleep. My lady?”

He held out his hand toward Richenda, who had finished with Duncan, and the lady crossed to curtsy meekly.

“My lady, I am truly sorry for what has transpired this night. Be assured that I shall do everything in my power to see that your son is restored to you tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Sire.”

“Then, let us away—all of us,” Arilan said quietly. “The dawn will soon be upon us.”

THE
day dawned unseasonably chill. There had been a heavy dew in the early morning hours, and the air still was heavy, oppressive, laden with the moisture of approaching weather. Sunrise was fiery, the east beyond the high Cardosa peaks slashed with crimson and gold and the gaunt gray of lowscudding clouds. In Kelson's camp, men looked up at the leaden sky and crossed themselves furtively, for the strange dawn seemed an evil portent. Sunlight would have made the day easier to bear.

Kelson frowned as he buckled a golden belt around his crimson lion tunic.

“This is ridiculous, Arilan. You say we can't go armed, we cannot wear steel or iron of any sort. I didn't have to go through all of this when I fought Charissa.”

Arilan shook his head and smiled slightly, glancing at Morgan and Duncan. The four of them were the only ones in the royal pavilion; they had wished it that way, in light of what was to come. Earlier, Cardiel had celebrated Mass for them here, attended by Nigel, Warin, and a few of Kelson's most trusted and well-loved generals.

But now, by choice, they were alone, well aware that, once they left the solitude of this enclosure, there might never be the chance for solitude again. With a sigh of finality, Arilan tied the ribbons of his bishop's cloak under his chin, then crossed to set a reassuring hand on Kelson's shoulder.

“I know this all seems strange, Sire. But you must remember that, when you fought Charissa, you were not dueling under the formal protection and supervision of the Council. The rules are much more stringent for group challenges, because there are more chances for treachery.”

“Treachery enough afoot,” Morgan muttered under his breath, slinging a black cloak around his shoulders. “After seeing what Wencit did to Derry, I wouldn't put anything past him.”

“Evil will be repaid,” Arilan said mildly. “Come. Our escort awaits us.”

Outside, Nigel and the generals waited with the horses, silent as the four emerged from the tent. Kelson was the last one out, and at his appearance his troops, to the man, dropped to one knee and bowed their heads in respect. Kelson tugged at the cuff of one red leather glove as he surveyed them, moved by their loyalty. With a curt nod to mask his true emotion, he signed for them to rise.

“I thank you, my lords,” he said quietly. “I do not know when I shall see you again, if ever. This morning's battle is to the death, as you are well aware. If we prevail, we are assured that there will never again be invasion from the east. The power of Wencit of Torenth shall be crushed forever. If we lose—” He paused to wet his lips. “If we lose, it will fall to others to lead you after that. Part of the stipulation of this battle is that the winner shall spare the opposing army, since neither Wencit nor I have any wish to rule over a dead kingdom, despoiled of the flower of its knighthood. Beyond that, I cannot promise you anything except my best effort. I ask your prayers in return.”

He lowered his gaze, as though finished, but Morgan leaned close and whispered something in his ear. Kelson listened, then nodded.

“I am reminded of one last duty before I take my leave from you, my lords: the naming of my successor. Know that it is our wish that our uncle, Prince Nigel Haldane, succeed us on the throne of Gwynedd, should we not return today. After him, the succession passes to his sons, and to their children after them. If we—” He paused and then began again. “If
I
do not return, you are to accord him the same respect and honor which you have graciously shown to me, and which was my father's due. Nigel will make you a noble king.”

There was a heavy silence, and then Nigel himself moved to Kelson's side, dropped to both knees.

“You are our king, Sire—and so you shall remain! God save King Kelson!”

“God save King Kelson!” came the thunderous reply.

Kelson looked at his uncle, at the trusting and hopeful faces upturned toward him, then nodded briskly and turned to mount, accepted a leg up from Morgan. The big black charger pranced and curvetted as Kelson settled into the saddle and gathered up the red leather reins, snorted defiantly as the others mounted up around him.

Then Nigel took the animal's bridle and led them slowly through the camp to the edge of the battle lines, where a small group of mounted observers waited. Young Prince Conall was there, bearing the royal Gwynedd standard, along with Morgan's Hamilton, Bishop Wolfram, General Gloddruth, half a dozen others.

The Lady Richenda was also with them, muffled in a cloak of blue, her head bowed, sitting sidesaddle beside her kinsman Cardiel. She did not meet Morgan's eyes as he and the king passed, though she did glance at Duncan. Somehow Morgan knew that she would have to be there. Resolutely he put her out of his mind and turned to face the enemy.

Across the field, more than half a mile away, a similar group of horsemen was already drawing away from the enemy lines, riding out under a glowering, watery sun. Morgan glanced aside at Kelson, at Duncan, who seemed to have attained a new inner peace in the past twenty-four hours, at Arilan, calm and serene in his episcopal violet. Then he faced straight ahead, sensing Kelson's slow move forward from the corner of his eye and moving his horse to match pace. Duncan was at his right knee, Kelson to his left, with Arilan to Kelson's left. Behind them, at a respectful distance, followed Nigel and the others, the royal Gwynedd banner in their midst. Before them lay the enemy and his train.

They rode forward until the distance had closed to two hundred yards, then drew rein. For a handful of heartbeats Kelson sat his horse statue-like, staring at four similar riders across the stretch of damp grass. Then he and his three companions swung down from their horses as one, handing over the reins to a squire who rode forward and then retreated. His departure left the four of them standing alone, shivering slightly in the damp morning air despite their heavy cloaks, the wind ruffling Kelson's raven hair beneath his simple golden circlet.

“Where is the Council?” Morgan murmured, turning slightly toward Arilan as they began walking toward the enemy.

Arilan smiled slightly. “They are en route. They located those who were to impersonate them. The imposters have been dealt with, and the Council will appear on schedule. Except that they will not be those whom Wencit is expecting.”

Kelson scowled. “I hope it does some good. I don't mind telling you—all of you!—that I am frightened.”

“So are we all, my prince,” Arilan murmured gently. “We can but do our best and trust to Divine Providence. The Lord will not suffer us to die the death if our faith is strong and our cause just.”

“Pray God those are not empty words, Bishop,” Kelson murmured. The four advancing enemy were within fifty yards now, and Kelson could begin to see their faces.

Wencit looked dour and almost worried this morning. He had appeared in something less than his usual splendor, choosing a simple tunic of violet velvet with his leaping hart on the chest, instead of more resplendent attire, and his kingly diadem was only slightly more ornate than Kelson's own plain circlet. Lionel, on the left, was garbed in his customary black and silver, though his flame-bladed dagger was conspicuously absent; Bran, to Wencit's immediate right, looked pale and nervous in royal blue. Rhydon, to the right of Bran, wore a plain tunic and cloak of midnight blue, his dark hair confined by a silver fillet across the brow. He and Wencit both kept glancing toward the hillocks to the north, as though expecting something—undoubtedly watching for the Council to arrive. Kelson wondered if they were getting suspicious.

He did not have long to speculate. Before the eight had come within thirty feet of each other, there came a rumble of hoofbeats from the north, and then the spectacle of four richly garbed riders cresting the rise. The white horses looked like ghosts beneath the sickly sun, and their riders wore the white and gold raiment of the ancient Deryni lords. As the eight watched the riders draw nearer, Kelson heard a whispered exchange between Wencit and Rhydon and glanced aside to see Wencit's face gray with fury, Rhydon's untouched by outward emotion.

But then the four newcomers were dismounting: blind Barrett, the physician Laran—and young Tiercel de Claron helping the Lady Vivienne from her mount. The white horses stood like statues as their riders gathered momentarily before them and adjusted their golden mantles. Blind Barrett's emerald eyes swept the waiting eight imperiously as he and his colleagues came within a few yards.

“Who has called the Camberian Council to this field of honor?”

Wencit, with a look of pure loathing at Kelson, stepped forward and dropped to one knee, his chin dipping stiffly in grudging salute. His voice was controlled but edged with suspicion as he spoke.

“Worthy Councilor, I, Wencit King of Torenth, a full Deryni of the blood, claim Council protection and arbitration for a Duel Arcane in challenge against that man.” He pointed toward Kelson, his accusing finger like a lance. “I claim the Council's protection against treachery for myself and my colleagues: Duke Lionel”—the duke knelt, bowing his head—“the Earl of Marley, and Lord Rhydon of Eastmarch, who was once of your company.” At the speaking of their names, Bran and Rhydon also knelt, and Wencit continued.

“We stipulate that this shall be a battle to the death, we four against the four others who stand before you—and that the circle be not broken until all of one side have perished. To this do we pledge our powers and our lives.”

Barrett's emerald eyes turned slowly from Wencit to Kelson. “Is this likewise thy desire?”

Kelson, swallowing nervously, knelt also before the Deryni lords.

“My lord, I, Kelson Haldane King of Gwynedd, counted a full Deryni by thy reckoning, do affirm my acceptance of the challenge laid down by Wencit of Torenth, that no more blood be spilled between us in war. I also claim thy protection against treachery for myself, for my Lord Duke Alaric, for Bishop Arilan, and for Monsignor McLain.” The three likewise knelt. “We do reluctantly agree that this shall be a battle to the death, the four of us against the other four who kneel before you—and that the circle be not broken until all of one side are dead. To this we pledge our powers and our lives.”

Barrett nodded, then tapped the end of his tall ivory staff against the grass once. “So be it. Now, to the victors, what fruits are proposed? Have the lords of both thine armies agreed to abide by the outcome of this contest?”

“They have, my lord,” Kelson spoke up, before Wencit could reply. “My men have been informed that, should we lose, their lives will be spared and that my heirs shall, in perpetuity, swear fealty to the Kings of Torenth, that there may be peace between our nations. Does the King of Torenth agree?”

Wencit glanced at his colleagues, then at Barrett. “I agree to the terms, my lord. If we should not prevail, I vow that my heirs shall, in perpetuity, swear fealty to the Crown of Gwynedd as their overlord.”

Barrett nodded. “Who is thine heir, Wencit of Torenth?”

Wencit nodded toward Lionel. “Prince Alroy Furstán, eldest son of my sister Morag and my kinsman Lionel. After Alroy, his brothers Liam and Ronal.”

“And Prince Alroy is prepared to swear fealty to Kelson of Gwynedd, if you and his father should perish today?”

Wencit nodded, tight-lipped. “He is.”

Barrett turned to Kelson. “And you, Kelson of Gwynedd. Is your successor prepared to swear fealty to Wencit of Torenth, if you should perish?”

Kelson swallowed. “My heir is my father's brother, Prince Nigel Haldane, and after him, his sons, the Princes Conall, Rory, and Payne. Prince Nigel knows his duty, should I be killed.”

“Very well,” said Barrett. “And will these terms completely satisfy both sides?”

“Not entirely,” Kelson found himself saying. “I have one further stipulation, my lord.”

Wencit's eyes widened, but he checked himself from moving closer as Barrett's staff moved in his direction.

“State your stipulation, Kelson of Gwynedd,” Barrett said.

“Last night, Wencit of Torenth and Bran Coris entered my camp and stole a lady's child. If I and mine prevail, I would require that the child be forfeit and given to me, that I may return him to his mother.”

“No!” Bran cried, starting to get to his feet, “Brendan is my son! He belongs to
me
! She shall not have him!”

“Hold your peace, Bran Coris!” Vivienne snapped, speaking for the first time. “If Kelson wins, what matters it to you
who
gets the child? You will be dead.”

“She speaks the truth, Bran,” Wencit added, before Bran could object. “On the other hand, if
I
am victorious, I might stipulate that the boy's mother be returned to her husband, who stands here.” He gestured toward Bran, and Bran nodded. “If Kelson will agree to that, I will agree to the return of the boy. I will also agree to return unharmed all the remaining prisoners I hold alive, if that will help to sweeten the terms.”

“Kelson of Gwynedd?” Barrett said.

Kelson hesitated hardly an instant. “This is agreeable. I have no further terms.”

“And you, Wencit of Torenth?”

“No further stipulations.”