High Deryni (5 page)

“That isn't what I asked, and you know it!” Kelson said. He rose and began to pace nervously. “You're about to throw yourselves on the mercy of a handful of bishops who could just as easily cut your throat as hear you out, and you prattle on about being my Champion, sworn to protect me. The Devil take you, Morgan, I want to know how you
feel
about this thing. Do I have to spell it out? I want to know if you trust Arilan and Cardiel!”

Morgan's eyes had followed the young king in his pacing, and now swept him from head to toe as he came to a halt behind his chair and leaned both hands against the back. The gray Haldane eyes were dancing with intelligence, apprehension, and a little annoyance, and Morgan suppressed a smile. Kelson, though he was king in his own right and held the throne by powers as awesome as any Morgan could muster up, was still a boy in many ways. At times, his brash outspokenness reminded Morgan a little of his own youth.

But Morgan also had the good sense to know when his king was serious, as he had known for the boy's father. This was one of those times. He let his glance drop to the helmet he still held in his lap, then met the king's gaze once more.

“I have met Arilan only once, my prince—at least to talk to—and Cardiel, never. But as I see it, they may be our only hope. Arilan has always seemed to be at least tolerant where Deryni are concerned; he stood by you at your coronation and did not denounce me or Duncan, even though he must have suspected that there was magic afoot besides yours and Charissa's. I am also told that he and Cardiel were among our staunchest supporters when the Interdict question arose regarding Corwyn. I think we have no choice but to trust them.”

“But, to walk right into Dhassa, when there is a price on your heads…” Kelson began.

“Do you really think anyone is likely to recognize us?” Morgan snorted. “Look at me. When has the Duke of Corwyn ever worn a beard, or gone about in peasant garb, or even been to Dhassa, for that matter? And what excommunicate fugitive in his right mind would even consider entering the holiest city in Gwynedd when he knows that everyone in the kingdom is looking for him?”

“Alaric Morgan would.” Kelson sighed resignedly. “But suppose that you do reach Dhassa safely, you enter the city, you somehow manage to get inside the episcopal palace undetected—then what? You just told me that you've never been to Dhassa. How do you even begin to find Arilan and Cardiel? And if you're captured before you can find them, then what? Suppose some overzealous guardsman decides he wants all the glory for himself, and kills you before you're even taken before the bishops?”

Morgan smiled and wrapped his hands complacently around his helmet. “You forget one thing, my prince. Duncan and I are Deryni. The last time I heard, that still counted for something.”

Kelson stared at Morgan speechlessly for an instant, disbelief and astonishment writ all across his face, then threw his head back and laughed delightedly as he sat down again.

“You are very good for me, Alaric Morgan, do you know that? Without preaching, you somehow manage to tell your king that he has been thinking like a fool, but without being the least bit annoying about it. I think it comes of letting me ramble on and on until I run down and realize how ridiculous I've been. Why is that?”

“Why do you ramble on and on, my prince? Or why do I let you?”

Kelson grinned. “You know what I mean.”

Morgan stood and brushed dust from his clothing again, then polished across the front of his helmet with his sleeve.

“You are young, you have a natural curiosity, and you lack the experience that only years can bring, my prince,” he said easily. “That is why you ramble on and on. As for why I let you…” He considered it for a moment. “I let you because it is the best cure I know for anxiety: to get one's fears out in the open and face up to them. Once you realize which are the irrational fears and which are the real ones, you have come a long way toward conquering both kinds. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough,” Kelson replied, getting up and moving with Morgan toward the exit. “You
will
be careful, though, won't you?” The statement ended on a doubtful note.

“On my honor, I will, Sire.”

ON
the vast plain below the city of Cardosa, the army of Bran Coris Earl of Marley had been camped for nearly a month. They were two thousand strong, these men of Marley, and fiercely loyal to their young commander, but they had been waiting beside the swollen flood runoff for more than a week now, anticipating the cessation of the flooding, yet dreading the moment when Wencit of Torenth would send his men streaming down the Cardosa defile.

What most frightened the waiting soldiers was that Wencit's forces could fight with magic—or so it was believed. Yet the men of Marley would stand by their young earl despite the danger, the almost certain death, for Lord Bran was a charismatic leader and an able tactician. Moreover, he had always been extremely generous to those who supported him. There was no reason to believe that success in the Cardosa campaign would not yield similar largesse. And in the end, what more could a soldier ask, besides rewarding service and a leader he could respect? They did not dwell on the possibility of defeat.

It was early morning, and the camp had been stirring for several hours. Lord Bran, a tartan blanket draped around the shoulders of his blue undress tunic, lounged against one of the outside support-poles of his pavilion and sipped at a goblet of mulled wine as he scanned upriver toward the distant mountains, gleaming in the early morning sun. His gold-brown eyes narrowed slightly as he tried to see beyond the mist. A hard set to the handsome mouth betokened stubbornness and determination. He hooked a thumb in the jeweled belt at his waist and glanced to one side at the sound of footsteps approaching.

“Any special orders for today, m'lord?”

The speaker, Baron Campbell, was a longtime retainer of the earl's family. As he approached, helmet tucked diffidently under one arm, he hiked part of his azure and gold plaid farther back onto his shoulders.

Bran shook his head. “Any change in the river soundings this morning?”

“We're still reading close to five feet, even at the fords, m'lord. And there are sink holes that could swallow up man and horse with nary a trace. I doubt the King of Torenth will be coming down off his mountain today.”

Bran swirled the wine in his cup and took another swallow, then nodded. “Then we'll proceed as we have been: regular patrols and lookouts on the western perimeters, and a skeleton watch on the rest of the camp. And ask the bowyer to see me sometime this morning, will you? The grip still isn't right on my new bow.”

“Aye, sir.”

As Campbell saluted and turned to relay Bran's orders, another man in the gray garb of a clerk approached from a neighboring tent with a sheaf of parchments in his hand. When Bran glanced idly in his direction, the man made a self-conscious bow before extending a brown feather quill toward the earl.

“Your correspondence is ready for signature, my lord. The couriers are awaiting your orders.”

With a slight nod, Bran took the letters and glanced through them briefly, a look of boredom on his face, then handed his goblet to the man to hold while he scrawled his mark at the bottom of each page. When he had finished, he returned the documents to the clerk in exchange for his goblet, and would have returned to his idle scanning of the mountains except for the insistent throat-clearing of the man.

“Ah, my lord…”

Bran glanced back at the man, mildly annoyed.

“My lord, your letter to the Countess Richenda—don't you wish to seal it?”

Bran's glance flicked to the parchment in the clerk's hand, then back to the man's face with a bored sigh. Slipping a heavy silver signet from his thumb, he dropped it into the man's outstretched hand and said, “See to it, will you, Joseph?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“In fact, deliver the letter in person. If you can persuade her, I think it would be a good idea to move her and my heir to some neutral place, perhaps Dhassa. They'd be safe with the bishops.”

“Very well, sir. I'll leave at once.”

As Bran nodded acknowledgement, the clerk closed the ring in his hand and bowed, then backed off to make way for an older man in captain's uniform, who gave a casual salute as he approached. He was wrapped from neck to knee in a rough wool cloak of faded blue, with a blue plume a-tremble atop the steel helmet under his arm, and Bran allowed himself an easy nod.

“Morning, Gwyllim. Some problem I should know of?” he asked.

Gwyllim shook his head lightly. “Not at all, m'lord. The men of the Fifth Horse request the honor of your review this morning.” He glanced at the mountains his lord had been surveying. “It will probably be a sight more entertaining than watching those accursed mountains, at any rate.”

Bran chuckled and set aside his goblet. “No doubt it will. But be patient, old friend. There will be action enough even for you, once this stalemate ends. Wencit of Torenth will not stay on his mountain forever.”

“Aye, you're—here, what's this?”

Gwyllim had turned his attention toward the pass again as he spoke, and now he straightened and peered more intently into the morning mist. Bran, noting his companion's new interest in the landscape, turned his gaze in the same direction, then snapped his fingers for the page who had been hovering just beyond earshot all the while.

“Eric, my glass, quickly. Gwyllim, sound the alert. This may be it.”

As the boy scampered to do the earl's bidding, Gwyllim summoned several of his men waiting a few dozen yards away and began issuing orders. Bran shaded his eyes and continued to watch where a slow-moving mounted column was beginning to emerge from the mist, its riders picking their way carefully along the flood-washed trail. The lead rider was garbed all in white, and carried a lance with a white banner hanging limply from the top. His accompanying escort, perhaps a dozen of them, were heavily cloaked in a dull russet-orange and mounted on bright bays. Frowning, Bran put a spyglass to his eye and studied them more closely.

“Torenth's livery and badge on the escort,” he said in a low voice, scanning the approaching column as Gwyllim returned to his side and Campbell joined them. “And a parley banner in the hands of the lead man. Two others at the end, not in livery, who may be the negotiators.” He lowered the glass and looked at the riders again, then handed the glass to Campbell and stepped to the side of the tent to snap his fingers and gesture once again.

“Bennett, Graham, take an escort to meet them. Honor the truce as long as they do, but watch them closely. This may be a Torenthi trick.”

“Aye, m'lord.”

As the parley party continued to descend the mountain, the escort Bran had ordered rode past his tent in a jingle of bits and mail and leather harness, and several more of his staff officers drifted toward his tent. It was clear that the alert status had now been put in abeyance, but something was bound to happen when the earl spoke to the Torenthi emissaries.

Bran watched as the two groups of riders met, perhaps three hundred yards out from the edge of the camp, then ducked into his pavilion to emerge seconds later with a dagger at his belt and a silver circlet on his head. His officers grouped themselves around and behind him in a show of strength as the surrounded parley contingent approached at a walk.

Now that the newcomers were within hailing distance, Bran could see that he had been right about the men not in livery. The taller and more resplendent of the two, in a black brocaded cloak and crimson tunic, had a vaguely foreign air about him as he swung down from his bay and strode toward them, one of the sergeants at his side. His clothes were damp from the ride down the flooded defile, but the lean, bearded face was inscrutable as he pulled the black-plumed helmet from his head and cradled it in the hollow of his right arm. His hair was long and black and caught at the back in a silver clasp. A flame-bladed dagger of silver was thrust casually under his wide silk sash, worn to be drawn from the left. Other than that, he appeared to be unarmed.

“May I take it that you are the Earl of Marley, in command of this army?” the man asked in a faintly condescending tone.

“I am.”

“Then my message is for you, my lord,” the man continued, bowing slightly from the waist. “I am Lionel, Duke of Arjenol. I serve His Majesty King Wencit, who commands me to bear his felicitations to you and yours.”

Bran's eyes narrowed as he studied the speaker, and he hooked his thumbs in the jeweled belt encircling his waist. “I have heard of you, my lord. Are you not kinsman to Wencit himself?”

Lionel inclined his head minutely and smiled. “I have that honor, my lord. She who is my wife is sister to our beloved king. I trust that you will assure our safety while we are within your camp?”

“So long as you honor the truce proclaimed by your standard, you need not fear. What message do you bear from your king besides his felicitations?”

Lionel's dark eyes swept Bran and his men as he bowed once again. “My lord Earl of Marley, Wencit Furstán Padishah, King of Torenth and Tolan and the Seven Tribes to the East, desires the honor of your presence at his temporary headquarters in the city of Cardosa. There he would meet with you to discuss the possibility of a cessation of hostilities and mutual withdrawal from the area in dispute, or perhaps some other solution that your lordship might care to suggest. His Majesty has no quarrel with the Earl of Marley, and would not wish to do battle with one whom he has esteemed for many years. He awaits your immediate reply.”

“Don't do it, m'lord,” Campbell rumbled, stepping closer to Bran as though to shield him. “It's some kind of trick.”

“It is no trick, my lord,” Lionel interjected. “So that you may be assured of His Majesty's sincerity, he has commanded that I and my escort remain as hostages against your safe return. You may bring one of your officers with you, if you desire it, as well as an honor guard of ten men. You are free to leave Cardosa and return to your camp at any time should you feel that further discussion would not be worth your while or in your best interests. I believe the offer is more than generous, my lord. Do you not agree?”

Bran studied the man unwaveringly for several seconds, his face unreadable, then motioned for Gwyllim and Campbell to follow him into the tent. Inside, the walls were hung in blue and ochre velvet, rich furs on the carpets and draped across the carved camp chairs. Bran crossed to the center of the tent and toyed with the hilt of his dagger, then turned to study the faces of his two captains.

“Well, what do you think? Ought I to go?”

The two exchanged furtive glances before Campbell spoke.

“Begging your pardon, m'lord, but I still don't like it. What can we possibly gain from such a parley, besides a new chance for treachery? Regardless of what this Duke Lionel says, I don't think for a minute that Wencit plans to withdraw. There is no question that he can win if he decides to come down off his mountain; it's just a matter of how many men he'll have to lose in order to do it. And if he uses magic…”

“Faithful Campbell,” Bran smiled grimly, “ever the gadfly, reminding me of the truths I would rather avoid. Gwyllim?”

Gwyllim shrugged thin shoulders under his blue woolen cloak. “Campbell is right in part, my lord. I think we have known all along that we cannot hold the pass for long, if Wencit decides to come down. I wonder what sort of agreement he hopes to reach? Also, I am inclined to agree with Campbell that it smells like a trap. I hesitate to advise you one way or the other.”

Bran ran his fingers across the helmet and mail lying on one of the chairs, let his hand caress the fur draped beneath it.

“Who was the other baron with Lionel—the one who stayed mounted? Do either of you know him?”

“Merritt of Reider, my lord,” answered Campbell. “He holds sizeable lands to the northeast, adjoining Tolan. I'm surprised that Wencit would send them on a mission like this, especially if he plans something devious.”

“Precisely what I was thinking,” Bran said, continuing to stroke the fur absently as he stared at the wall of the tent. “It also occurred to me that this might be Wencit's way of telling us that he
is
serious about this parley. So serious that he would risk a brother-in-law and a powerful ally as hostages to reassure us. Being realistic about my own value, I doubt that Wencit would risk the two out there just to capture or destroy me. If that were all he wanted, there are a dozen less dangerous and less expensive ways to try.”

Gwyllim cleared his throat uneasily. “M'lord, have you considered the possibility that Wencit might wish the hostages to do something here in the camp while you are away? If they're Deryni, for example, there is no telling what kind of damage they could do. Perhaps not even anything we could detect until you were safely returned and they were on their way back to their master.”

“It's true, m'lord,” Campbell agreed. “What's to prevent the hostages from wreaking havoc while you're away? I don't trust them!”

Bran rubbed his hands across his face and stared up at the ceiling for a long moment while he considered what the two had said. Finally he turned with a sigh to face them again.

“I cannot argue with your logic—either of you. But somehow I have the feeling that there is no treachery involved, at least in this particular case. If Lionel and Merritt
are
Deryni, they have had ample time out there to destroy us, if that were their sole intent. And if they are
not
Deryni, they would be foolish to try anything devious, right here in our midst.