High Deryni (9 page)

Arilan chuckled as he rose to walk with Cardiel to the door. “In a little while, perhaps. I thought I might meditate for a while before retiring. My temper is a definite fault.”

“Then I wish you success chastising your temper,” Cardiel said. “And if you do get things straightened out with
Him
,” he nodded toward the crucifix hanging above the altar, “why don't you join me? I shan't sleep for a while—not after this.”

“Perhaps later. Good night, Thomas.”

“Good night.”

As the door closed behind Cardiel, the younger bishop gazed after him for a long moment, then straightened his cassock and walked back up the short nave to retrieve his own cloak, donning it with a whisper of moiré silk and tying the violet ribbons close around his throat before replacing the purple skullcap on his dark hair.

Glancing around the chapel once more, as though committing every detail to memory, he finally nodded respect to the main altar and moved across the transept to the left, halting before a side altar. The marble slab was unadorned except for a white linen cloth and a single white vigil light, but it was not the altar Arilan was interested in anyway. Surveying the marble floor beneath him, he moved onto a vaguely rounded pattern in the mosaic inlay and felt the vague tingle that told him he was properly positioned.

Then, with a last glance at the closed door leading from the chapel, he gathered the folds of his cloak close around him and closed his eyes, shaping his intent deep within his mind and envisioning his destination—and disappeared from the chapel in Dhassa.

Minutes later, the door to the chapel opened, and Cardiel poked his head inside. He had opened his mouth to say something, expecting to see Arilan's lean figure kneeling somewhere in the chapel confines. But he mouthed empty air as he realized there was no one in the chapel to say it to.

His brows furrowed in consternation, for he had not gone very far from the chapel before turning back to tell Arilan one last rumor he had heard. And now Arilan was gone, when he had said he was going to meditate.

Ah, well. Perhaps the younger bishop had meant that he was going to meditate in his own room, in which case Cardiel would not disturb him. Yes, that must be it, Cardiel told himself. Arilan was probably kneeling in his own chambers right now.

Very well. The other rumor could wait until morning.

But Bishop Denis Arilan was not in his room. Or even in Dhassa.

THORNE
Hagen, Deryni, rolled over and opened one eye, disappointed to find it so dark in the room. Across the smooth white shoulder of his bed-mate he could see a mist-wreathed sun sinking slowly behind Tophel Peak, its fading light casting a faint wash of color on the pale castle ramparts. He yawned delicately and flexed his toes, permitting his gaze to wander back to the creamy shoulder beside him, then reached across to stroke the tousled chestnut curls. As his fingers traced the curve of the girl's spine, she shivered sensuously and turned to gaze at him in adoration.

“Did you rest well, my lord?”

Thorne smiled back at her lazily, allowing his gaze to glide over her with the ease of long practice.

“Sorry, little one, but it's time you were on your way. The Council does not wait, even for high Deryni lords.” He leaned closer to kiss her forehead in a fatherly gesture. “I shan't be too late, though. Why don't you come back around midnight?”

“Of course, my lord.” She bounded up and began pulling on a flowing yellow robe, her dark eyes caressing him as she crossed toward his door. “Perhaps I shall even bring you a surprise!”

As the door closed behind her, Thorne shook his head and sighed contentedly, a silly grin playing across his face. He scanned the darkening room with bemused contentment, then got up and padded toward his wardrobe door. As he walked, he muttered a phrase under his breath and made a casual, sweeping gesture with the fingers of his right hand. Candles flared to life around the chamber, instantly dispelling some of the gathering twilight, and Thorne ran a hand through his thinning brown hair as he glanced at the image reflected in the costly wall-mirror of burnished copper.

He certainly looked fit. His body was almost as hard and firm at fifty as it had been a quarter of a century ago. Of course, he had lost some hair and added a few pounds since then; but he preferred to think the changes added maturity to his looks. Pink cheeks and blue eyes seemingly frozen in perpetual astonishment had been a curse through most of his youth; he had been nearly thirty before people would even believe he was of legal age.

At last, however, that was working to his advantage. For while Thorne Hagen's contemporaries had aged and were now firmly ensconced in late middle age, Thorne, with the proper attire and the clean-shaven demeanor he preferred, could easily pass for a man of thirty. And there was no doubt, he thought, as he recalled the charming creature who had just left him, that the appearance of youth did have its advantages.

Briefly Thorne considered calling his body servants to help him bathe and dress for the Council session, then decided against it. He had a little extra time. With care, he should be able to work that water spell that Laran had been trying to teach him for the past month. He was peeved that he could not seem to master the spell. There seemed to be a certain point of coordination beyond which he simply could not go. But only practice and perseverance would get him past that point.

Moving into the center of the room, Thorne planted his bare feet about a shoulder-width apart and drew himself to his full height, joining his palms above his head to form a wedge-shaped silhouette in the flickering candlelight. As he began chanting the words of an incantation under his breath, water vapor began to condense around him like a miniature thunderstorm, complete with tiny lightning. He closed his eyes tightly and held his breath as the water scrubbed across his body, wriggling slightly in pleasure at the tingle of the tame lightning bolts. Then, still in complete control at this point, he tensed himself for the difficult part of the spell.

Lowering his hands to chest-level, palms vaguely defining a head-sized space before his breast, Thorne gathered up the tame lightning and rain and willed it to gather between his two hands: a tiny storm cloud crackling and spitting in the candlelight. He cracked his eyes open and saw it hovering there, and had just begun to maneuver it carefully toward the window to dump it when a brilliant flash lit the room from behind him, in the direction of his Transfer Portal. He whipped his head around to see who was there—and, in that instant, lost control of the spell.

Miniature lightning spat from cloud to sorcerer in a painful arc, breaking his concentration; the captive rain fell to the floor with a magnificent splash, drenching the marble flagstones, a priceless tapestry rug, and Thorne's dignity; and as Rhydon of Eastmarch stepped from the Transfer Portal, Thorne began cursing fluently, his baby-blue eyes flashing with anger and indignation.

“The Devil
take
you, Rhydon!” Thorne sputtered, when he at last became coherent. “Can't you ever announce yourself? I would have done it that time. Now you've made me flood the entire room!”

He backed out of the puddle and stamped his bare feet, trying in vain to shake them dry and maintain some shred of dignity in his nakedness, glaring at Rhydon as his fellow sorcerer crossed the room and did his best not to smirk.

“Sorry, Thorne,” Rhydon said with a chuckle. “Shall I clean it up for you?”

“Sorry, Thorne, shall I clean it up for you?”
Thorne mimicked. The small, greedy eyes clouded in the baby face. “You probably can, too. There isn't
anyone
who can't do this spell except me!”

Schooling his expression to suitable contrition, Rhydon spread his hands above the wet floor and murmured several short phrases, his gray eyes hooded as he spoke. The dampness disappeared, and Rhydon shrugged and raised an apologetic eyebrow as he glanced back at Thorne. The interrupted sorcerer said nothing, but his look was petulant as he turned on his heel and stalked into his wardrobe chamber. After a few seconds, the rustle of fine fabrics issued faintly from the open doorway.

“I am truly sorry to have disturbed you, Thorne,” Rhydon said conversationally, walking around the room and examining the various artifacts there. “Wencit wanted me to ask a favor of you.”

“For Wencit, perhaps. Not for you.”

“Now, don't pout. I said I was sorry.”

“All right, all right.” Pause. Then, grudgingly curious: “What does Wencit want?”

“He wants you to persuade the Council to declare Morgan and McLain liable to challenge, as full Deryni are. Can you do it?”

“Liable to challenge as—are you serious?” After another brief bout of rustling, Thorne continued, his anger apparently past. “Well, I can try. But I hope Wencit remembers that I haven't as much influence as I once did. We changed coadjutors last month. Why don't you introduce the subject yourself? You're full Deryni. You are still permitted to speak before the Council, even if you aren't a member of the Inner Circle anymore.”

“You have a short memory, Thorne,” Rhydon said mildly. “When last I stood before the Council, I vowed never to set foot in that room again, or in any room where Stefan Coram was present. I've not broken that vow in seven years, and I don't intend to start tonight. Wencit says that you must be the one to raise the issue.”

Thorne emerged from the wardrobe chamber, adjusting the meticulous folds of a violet robe beneath his mantle of gold brocade. “All right, all right. You needn't get puffed up about it. It's a pity, though. If it hadn't been for Coram, you might have been coadjutor yourself by now. Instead, you and Wencit—well, you know.”

“Yes, we do make a likely pair, don't we?” Rhydon purred, regarding Thorne through slitted gray eyes. “Wencit is a fox; he makes no secret of it. And I—as I recall, Coram likened me to Lucifer that day: the fallen angel cast into the outer darkness, away from the Inner Circle.” He smiled darkly and inspected his fingernails as he leaned against the mantelpiece. “Actually, I've always been rather fond of Lucifer. He was, after all, the brightest of all the angels before his fall.”

The fire flared behind Rhydon, illuminating him for an instant in an aureole of crimson, and Thorne gulped audibly. Only with an effort did he resist the urge to cross himself in a warding-off gesture.

“You mustn't say such things,” he whispered self-consciously. “Someone might hear.”

“Who, Lucifer? Nonsense. I'm afraid, my dear Thorne, that our good Prince of Darkness is only a make-believe devil, a fairy-tale legend with which to frighten naughty children. The real devils are men, like Morgan and McLain. You would do well to remember that.”

Scowling, Thorne gave his mantle a last, fretting adjustment, then bound a narrow gold fillet across his forehead with fingers that trembled slightly.

“Very well: Morgan and McLain are devils. You have said it; therefore, it must be true. But I can hardly tell that to the Council. Even if Morgan and McLain are what you say they are—and I do not know this, for I have never met the gentlemen—they are also only
half
-Deryni, and therefore immune to arcane challenge by any of us. I shall need to present very good reasons for changing that status.”

“Then you shall have them,” Rhydon said, rubbing at the scar beside his nose in an unconscious gesture. “You need only remind the Council that both Morgan and McLain appear to be able to do things they oughtn't. And if that doesn't convince them, you might also add that if this continues, the pair could present a threat to the very existence of the Inner Circle.”

“But they don't even
know
of the Council!”

“So one assumes,” Rhydon replied crisply. “But secrets have a bad habit of eventually getting out. And you might also remember, strictly for your own edification, that Wencit wants this action passed. Need I elaborate further?”

“That—ah—won't be necessary.” Thorne cleared his throat nervously and turned away to peer at his reflection in the mirror, controlling the tendency of his hand to tremble as he made a final adjustment to his collar.

“Very well. I have said I would do as you ask,” he continued more steadily. “I trust that you, in turn, will remind Wencit of the risk I take by speaking in his behalf. I do not know what he has planned for Morgan and McLain, nor do I wish to know. But the Council is intended to be a neutral body; it looks harshly on any of its members taking sides in politics. Wencit could have been on the Council himself, you know, if only he had been a little more obedient.” He ended on a petulant note.

“Obedience is not one of Wencit's stronger virtues,” Rhydon warned softly. “Nor is it one of mine. However, if you have some quarrel with either of us, I am certain that an opportunity can be arranged whereby
someone
will gain satisfaction. They say that the time is ripe for challenges.”

“You surely don't think that
I
would challenge…?” A trace of the old night terror flickered momentarily in the pale blue eyes.

“Of course not.”

Thorne swallowed with difficulty and regained his composure, then moved briskly onto the carved vines and flowers that adorned the tiles defining his Transfer Portal.

“I shall send you word in the morning,” he said, gathering his golden mantle around him with such shreds of dignity as he could muster. “Will that be satisfactory?”

Rhydon bowed wordlessly, his eyes slightly mocking.

“Then I bid you good evening,” Thorne said—and vanished.

HIGH
on a guarded plateau, in a great, octagonal chamber with a vault like faceted amethyst, the Camberian Council was gathering.

Beneath the purple dome, an expanse of onyx floor tile caught the gleam of hammered metal doors extending from floor to ceiling on one side of the room. Wood-limned panels of ancient ivory, richly carved, angled the other seven walls, light from scores of new wax tapers flickering on the incised figures of men and women famed in Deryni history. Brighter brands, thick as a man's wrist, blazed in golden cressets on the wood between the panels. The center of the room held only a massive, eight-sided table and eight high-backed chairs. By five of the chairs stood Deryni.

Three men and two women stood at ease under the purple dome, all save one garbed in the gold and violet raiment of the Deryni Inner Circle. The lone exception, Denis Arilan, held himself aloof and somber in his black cassock and purple bishop's cloak, nodding occasionally in response to a conversation between the stately Lady Vivienne to his right and a dark, intense young man with almond-colored eyes: Tiercel de Claron.

Across the table, a white-haired man with pale, translucent hands was speaking with a girl half a century his junior. The girl smiled and listened with interest, her tawny-colored hair pulled like a flame at the nape of her neck. Arilan suppressed a yawn, then turned as the golden doors parted to admit Thorne Hagen.

Thorne appeared to be upset, his normally florid face pale save for two spots of color high on his plump cheeks. He glanced away as he saw Arilan looking at him, hurrying across the room to engage in conversation with the girl and the old man at the opposite side of the table. He calmed as he spoke to them, his face resuming its usual, disarming expression, but not before Arilan saw him wipe sweating palms surreptitiously against his thighs, or soon enough to hide the slight tremor in his hands as he hid them in his violet sleeves.

Curious, Arilan turned half-away and pretended to follow the conversation of his two companions, schooling his expression to one of indifference, but his mind was not on the hunting tale Lady Vivienne was relating.