The Bishop’s Heir (13 page)

Kelson nodded and relaxed control just a little more. He did not like the implications of what the old man was conveying, but the delivery was just about perfect.

“As if she were a queen, eh?” he repeated softly.

“Weel, surely ye knew, lad—an' ye must nae allow it tae go on. They say she takes liberties due only a sovereign. She that steals yer homage also steals yer honor.”

Kelson could sense Dhugal bristling indignantly, but he stayed him with a gesture. This was not the time for righteous outrage. If Caulay was using homage in its legal sense, the situation in Meara was even more serious than he had been led to believe. Homage implied the granting of land in return for service—the military service of knights. If Caitrin of Meara was receiving homage as suzeraine of Meara—

“Caulay, what liberties has she taken?” Kelson asked, glancing at Dhugal's stunned face.

“She swears knights tae her service, wi' the promise o' land when Meara is free again,” Caulay replied promptly. “An' new knights hae been made. Even the two boys hae been knighted, an' they younger than yerself!”

Kelson felt his own anger rising to match Dhugal's, and he had to push it down with a conscious effort.

“Who knighted them?”

“My brother,” came Caulay's response, though not quite so promptly, this time. “I wouldna' hae thought it possible—my own kin, that swore faith tae yer father, God bless 'im. I couldnae believe it mysel', when I heard the news. Young Ithel brags that he is a knight now, and will one day be Prince of Meara of his own account. Would he hae died at birth! He is nae true MacArdry, an' that's for sure!”

“I see.” Kelson probed gently for a physical image of the upstart Ithel. “Tell me about this Ithel, then. I want to know everything you can remember.”

And in Culdi, Alaric Morgan prepared to enter his own kind of grim, dark concentration, opening a red leather case half the size of his fist and dumping out a handful of polished cubes carved of ivory and ebony. They clicked against each other and the table top with solid, satisfying
snicks
as he set them down, reflecting dark and light as Morgan brought a single candle closer on the table before him.

Quickly he arranged the cubes in the traditional pattern: four white in the center, forming a single larger square; the four black set one to each corner, not quite touching. The champion's signet on his right hand gleamed as well, as he poised his fingertips above the center of the white square, but he ignored it for the moment as he set his thoughts in order.

The odd black and white dice were called Wards in the parlance of those who knew about such things, named, like the most secure perimeter fortifications of a castle, for their function of defense. To set wards was to create a magical sphere of protection encompassing the area defined by the four points at which the individual wards were placed, containing the energy within and restraining the entry of disruptive forces. Such protection was all but essential when one intended a magical operation such as Morgan planned—for to reach Kelson at such distance, and without prior preparation, would require that Morgan place his body in deep trance, oblivious to physical sensation or danger, while his mind ranged forth in search of the king.

“
Prime
.”

As he spoke the
nomen
of the cube in the upper left corner of the white square, he touched it with his fingertip and sent power into its matrix. Instantly the cube began to glow from deep within—milky, opalescent white.

“
Seconde.”

The process was repeated with the cube at the upper right, with similar results.

“
Tierce. Quarte.”

He was halfway through his preparation, the four white cubes forming a square of ghostly white light. He could feel the power drain. Slowly and deliberately he drew deep breath: tangible cue to trigger the reversal of polarities from white to black, positive to negative, male to female, the other side of the balance. The pull this time would be subtly different, slightly more difficult to channel, but well within his abilities. Breathing out softly, he brought his fingertip toward the black cube resting near the upper left of the white square.

“
Quintet
.”

A tiny spark jumped between his fingertip and the cube just before they touched, green-black fire kindling from within. Quickly, before his momentum was lost, Morgan shifted his attention to the upper right black cube, bringing his forefinger nearer.

“
Sixte
.”

Again, the eerie glow.

When the process had been repeated for
Septime
and
Octave
, all eight of the cubes shimmered with internal light, four white and four black. Now for the mating of opposites, the balancing of energies to build the watchtowers.

Rubbing a hand across his eyes, Morgan sighed and picked up
Prime
, shifting his balance points again and readjusting control as he brought the cube near its black counterpart,
Quinte
. He could feel the tug of the opposites attracting as he closed the distance, the black cube almost seeming to rise that last fraction of space to meet the white as he spoke the word of power.

“
Primus.”

The two cubes fused in a single, silvery grey oblong. One down. Breathing deeply, Morgan pushed the completed first ward a little to one side and plucked
Seconde
from its fellows, mating it to
Sixte
.

“
Secundus
.”

Again, the silver-glowing rectoid.

When he had completed
Tertius
and
Quartus
, he set the four wards on the floor around his chair like tiny, glowing towers and sat down again, feeling for the balance points in his mind a final time before he set things into motion. Commanding now, he pointed to each of the wards in turn and spoke the words, sensing the surge as the elements meshed and flared.

“
Primus, Secundus, Tertius, Quartus, fiat lux!”

It was like suddenly being inside a tent of pale, silvery light. The very air around him seemed to shimmer. As he lowered his arm and sat back in his chair, he could feel the wards like an insulating cocoon, shielding and protecting.

Satisfied, he adjusted the candle again and laid his hands along the arms of his chair, positioning the signet on his right hand to catch the light. It was a tangible symbol of the faith binding friend to friend, protector to sovereign; the golden Haldane lion etched on the curve of the gold-set onyx oval seemed to stare at him in the dimness. Morgan used it now as a focus, willing himself to still and center, conjuring the king's face over the lion's.

He could feel his breathing slowing, his pulsebeat steadying, and gradually his vision began to narrow until only the ring was in his gaze. Doggedly he held Kelson's image before his mind, letting his eyelids droop lower, lower, until they closed and the image of Kelson alone remained. Awareness of his body receded as the mental image sharpened, and as he stretched his senses northward, all his concentration was centered on the ring, the face, the mind.

After a long while, almost at the limits of perception, he at last sensed what he had come to find.

And in Transha, immersed in his questioning of Caulay and the concentration needed to maintain control, Kelson pushed aside the first vague brushing at his mind. He and Dhugal listened with horrified fascination as the old man wove a tale of treachery far more widespread than either of them had dreamed.

But as Caulay reiterated the rumors he had heard of knights gone over to the Mearan Pretender and of Ithel Quinnell's growing popularity, a hint of Morgan's urgency began to penetrate—though not its source, at first. The king tensed as it brushed for the first time at a conscious level, momentarily shutting out Caulay's rambling as he tried to track it down. When it proved too elusive, he laid a hand on the old man's wrist, shaking his head.

“Enough, Caulay. Hush for a minute,” he whispered. He closed his eyes to listen better.

Nothing. Then the lightest of feather-brushes. He sensed it might be Morgan, but even when he turned all his concentration toward picking up the next touch, he could not be sure of more than the touch sensation.

“What is it?” Dhugal whispered, leaning closer on his stool. “Is something wrong?”

Carefully, Kelson shook his head, trying not to lose the all too tenuous contact hovering at the edge of consciousness.

“Not here,” he murmured. “Someone's trying to reach me, though—very far away and very faint. And it's urgent.”

A little catch of breath from Dhugal's direction, and the sense of awe and apprehension mixed. Then: “Do you know who it is?”

Kelson nodded slowly, still straining to make it clearer. “Morgan, I think. I can't—quite—pull it in.”

“Morgan? But you said he was in Culdi.”

“He is, so far as I know. And at this range, for me even to be aware of this much is incredible.”

Slowly he opened his eyes to look across at Dhugal, though he kept tenuous touch with the continuing call. The sense of urgency persisted, as did the growing conviction that the source was Morgan. After all he had done already, Kelson knew he had no chance of bringing the contact through on his own, but there just might be another way. It was much to ask, however.

“What is it?” Dhugal breathed. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

“Did you mean what you said before, that you wouldn't let yourself be afraid of me?” Kelson countered.

Dhugal turned a little pale beneath his coppery hair, and Kelson could sense the queasy apprehension rising in his chest.

“What are you going to do?” Dhugal whispered. “No, make that, ‘What are you going to do to
me
?' You need me for something, don't you? To help you reach Morgan.”

“Yes.” Kelson glanced briefly at the sleeping Caulay. “I need one or both of you to augment my strength. His might be enough, but I'd like you in the link as well.”

Dhugal swallowed hard, making no attempt to hide his fear.

“M-me?”

With a sigh, Kelson managed a none-too-patient nod. He was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on reassuring Dhugal and still maintain whatever contact he had with whoever was trying to reach him, but a slightly different approach was already taking shape in his mind.

“It's the not-knowing that's the worst, isn't it?” he guessed. “You see Caulay, obviously unconscious, and you're afraid of what might happen to
you
—and that you wouldn't even know. Loss of control.”

“I—suppose so.”

Nodding again, Kelson stood and came around the end of the bed, staying Dhugal with a gesture when he eased off the stool and started to back away.

“Let's try something a little different from what I originally had in mind, then,” he said, climbing onto the stool and motioning for Dhugal to come behind him. “This shouldn't be nearly as frightening. I need physical contact to make my link with you, but there's no reason
you
can't control that instead of me. It will make
my
part a little trickier with you completely conscious, but I'm willing to give it a try, if you are.”

“What do I have to do?” Dhugal replied warily.

“Just stand behind me and put your hands on my shoulders. Let your thumbs rest on the back of my neck.”

“Like this?” Dhugal whispered, as he gingerly obeyed.

“That's fine.”

Kelson took Caulay's flaccid left hand and cradled it against his knee, then glanced over his shoulder as he straightened.

“Now come a little closer, so I can lean against you for support. It's going to seem like I've fallen asleep—rather like what I did to Bertie yesterday—and I don't want to fall off the stool. Don't laugh!” he added, as he sensed Dhugal's surprise. “I really am going to be somewhat at your mercy.”

He could feel Dhugal's whole body tense behind him. Then, in a very faint voice:

“Kelson, I'm not sure I can do this.”

“Yes, you can,” he said patiently. “Dhugal, there's absolutely no danger. If you
should
freeze up, which is most unlikely, the worst that can happen is that I won't make the contact. Now, trust me, all right?” He reached back to touch Dhugal's forearm in brief reassurance. “Take a few deep breaths to relax now, and try to let your mind go blank.”

He followed his own instructions and felt Dhugal's cautious response.

“That's right. Another deep breath now, and let it out slowly. Close your eyes. Imagine all the tension flowing out of your body as you exhale. Let yourself drift now,” he continued, as Dhugal edged into light rapport. “You're doing just fine. Soon I'm going to bring your father into the link, but if he can't provide enough power I'll need to draw from you as well. You may not even be aware of it. At most, you'll feel a slight sort of a tickling sensation in your head. Breathe again now, deeply.…”

While he let Dhugal continue settling, Kelson turned his attention briefly to Caulay, reaching out tendrils of control as Morgan and Duncan had taught him and tying in the potential. He had not expected it to be enough, so he was not disappointed. At least he was able to confirm that it was Morgan he was seeking, and that Morgan sensed a mutual effort to bring the contact through. He could feel Dhugal's untapped potential towering at his back, fiercely supportive but still a bit too tentative for comfort, and knew he would have to go a little farther than he had told Dhugal he would.

Gently he reached out with his senses and brushed Dhugal's mind, keying the triggers which would enable him to slip Dhugal into a light control trance despite what he had said, for he could not afford to have Dhugal falter in midcontact. Gradually Dhugal's head nodded lower, lower, until finally his chin was resting against the top of Kelson's head, though he was not truly asleep—only drifting in a placid, twilight state.