The King's Deryni (41 page)

It was an exciting time for a boy completing his first decade: a boy destined for high office who, already, was venturing to try the reins of governing. Although his regents continued to make final decisions about the welfare of the duchy, they now were soliciting his opinion, considering his input, allowing him to begin assuming a public face of leadership. The king studiously remained in the background, letting the regents set the tone. Alaric little liked some of the minutiae of administration, like reviewing accounts with Lord Hamilton and Father Tivadan, but he found that he had good instincts for justice and fairness, and was pleased when his recommendations exactly paralleled the rulings handed down in several difficult judicial decisions.

“You have the knack for it, lad,” Sir James said approvingly after a particularly vexing case involving purloined cattle and grazing rights and water assignments in the mountains north of Coroth. “And I think all parties in that case came away at least moderately satisfied.”

The king, who had been sitting quietly at the back of the hall, also complimented him afterward.

“That was well done. I shall give a good report to Duke Richard.”

Alaric enjoyed his time in Coroth, and starting to flex his wings and exercise the skills he had been training for. He also enjoyed pursuing the friendships he was developing with his age peers: few, but solid, so far as he could tell. And even those who kept their distance did so more out of respect for his rank than fear of what he was. In all, he was well satisfied with the rapport he was building among the men who served him and would safeguard his interests while he continued his education.

All too soon, his visit drew toward its close. Llion and Alazais returned from the Farquahar holding in the north, and preparations were under way for the Michaelmas observances that also marked his tenth birthday, after which they would head back to Rhemuth. But on the day before his birthday, he returned with Llion, Sir James of Tendal, and Father Tivadan from a courtesy call to the bishop, to find the king in close conference with half a dozen of the Corwyn regents before a fire in the great hall.

“Ah, you're back,” Lord Rathold said, looking up as the four entered the hall. “Come join us, lad. There's been a change in plans for tomorrow.”

Mystified, Alaric trotted obediently up the steps to take a seat beside the king. Jiri Redfearn was there with the regents, and also Jamyl Arilan.

“We've just received word that the old Hort of Orsal has died,” Jiri said baldly. “Several weeks ago, apparently. We were discussing whether it might be feasible to attend the investiture of his successor.”

“We ought to go, since we're here,” the king chimed in. “The Hort of Orsal is also Prince of Tralia, just across the strait: your nearest neighbor, and a staunch friend of Gwynedd and Corwyn.”

“When is it to take place?” Alaric asked.

“Tomorrow,” Jiri replied with a grimace. “If we go, it would mean missing the Michaelmas observances here. But the galley can sail with the morning tide—if you wish to attend, Sire,” he added, with a glance at the king.

“I think we must,” the king replied. “Tralia is an important ally, and they won't be expecting us to make an appearance. Ordinarily, we would be far away in Rhemuth, with no chance to find out in time. Besides, I like Létald, the new Hort. Perhaps we should take Cormac as well: another royal to underline Létald's legitimacy.”

“Is it wise to take him out of the kingdom?” Jiri said thoughtfully. “Will his brother object?”

“It's only across the strait, Jiri, and only for the day; maybe two.”

“Perhaps we should allow Cormac to decide,” Jamyl murmured. “I cannot imagine that there will be any danger; if there were, we should not recommend that you take Alaric. But the prince knows his brother better than we do.”

“Point taken,” Brion agreed with a nod. He glanced around the table at them. “We'll plan to sail with the morning tide, then, with or without Cormac. And we'd best send an emissary this evening, to let them know we're coming. Rathold, you're our diplomatic liaison. Will you go?”

“Of course,” Rathold replied, getting to his feet. “With your permission, I'll go directly to the harbor. If I miss the tide, I'll be traveling with you tomorrow, and Létald will get an even more unexpected surprise.”

•   •   •

T
HE
king and his party sailed with the morning tide, cloaked and soberly garbed, taking along several of Alaric's regents to stand by their young lord. Prince Cormac, on reflection, elected to remain in Coroth with Jernian and Viliam, especially when he was told that he might lead the Michaelmas procession in Alaric's place. The day was blustery with the promise of autumn, and the royal galley made good time under sail.

“It's good that you should know Prince Létald,” the king told Alaric, as he and Jiri stood to either side of the boy while their ship glided past the great pharos that guarded the river mouth. He wore a tunic of dark grey under his cloak, out of respect for the recent passing of Létald's predecessor, but the collar and cuffs were embroidered with silver bullion, befitting his royal stature. His dark hair was caught back in a simple queue and confined by a plain circlet of hammered gold.

“Létald himself seems a delightful fellow,” the king added, leaning to gaze down at the grey water rushing by. “He's a young man still, not much older than I am, but I'm told that one does not want to become his enemy.”

“No, one does not,” Jiri agreed emphatically. “In that regard, he is just like his father. But his house have long been loyal friends to Gwynedd and to Corwyn: a good neighbor to have between you and Torenth, Alaric. Remember that.”

“Yes, sir,” Alaric murmured, glancing up appraisingly at the castle brooding on the bluff. “Is that where we're going?”

“It is,” the king replied. “Vár Adony, it's called, according to your Lord Rathold. It's the Tralian winter capital. I've never been there, but my father used to take me to the summer palace, Horthánthy. We passed it a while ago, but I doubt you saw much through the mist. It's quite spectacular, though. If Vár Adony is anything like it, you'll be in for a treat. And I think you'll like Létald.”

They landed shortly, where Lord Rathold was waiting with horses and a guard of honor to take them up the winding road to the castle. Since Alaric's inclusion in the royal party was intended to introduce him as the future Duke of Corwyn, he wore an over-tunic of deep green instead of Haldane livery, with the Corwyn dagger at his hip and his father's signet as Earl of Lendour on a chain around his neck: no overt declaration of his identity, since he was not yet of age, but neither was he any mere page. As they made their way toward the esplanade before the great hall doors, where the Tralian prince was greeting new arrivals, Alaric drew the occasional curious look, following at the king's elbow with Llion and Sir Jamyl, but no hostility or particular recognition. Lord Rathold was well-known at the Tralian court, and adroitly eased them into the princely presence.

Létald himself, black-clad and still in mourning for his departed father, proved to be a round-faced, energetic young man perhaps a few years older than the king, with wiry dark hair pulled back in a club at the back of his neck and a narrow gold coronet circling his brow.

“So, this is to be my new ducal neighbor across the straits,” he declared to Brion, upon having Alaric presented to him. “Welcome to Vár Adony, young Corwyn. I shall look forward to our future interactions. And Lord Rathold, you are also most welcome. Sir Jiri, gentlemen.”

With that, and hearty handshakes all around, Létald was off to greet other new arrivals.

“Sir Jiri, may I ask why Prince Létald wears a coronet?” Alaric said quietly, only to Jiri. “I thought we were here to see him crowned.”

“Ah . . . no. He has already been invested as Prince of Tralia, shortly after his father's passing. Today's ceremony acknowledges him as Hort of Orsal, Overlord of the Forcinn States.” Jiri glanced at the boy in faint amusement. “I know, 'tis different from the way we do things in Gwynedd. The Forcinn States have, ah, unique challenges, with Torenth so close. Come, though, we mustn't get left behind.”

They continued across the esplanade and followed the king into the audience hall, joining scores of milling guests who were gathering to await the court's business. At once Alaric was struck by the differences between the Tralian hall and the king's hall at Rhemuth, or even his own hall at Coroth. This hall was long and narrow, lit by a high clerestory gallery under an elaborate tangle of wooden beams that supported the vaulted ceiling. The floor underfoot, rather than stone, was of polished timber set in a herringbone pattern that drew the eye toward the dais at the far end, where a solitary chair of state was set in readiness for the man soon to occupy it.

Most striking of all were the plastered walls, where ranks of life-sized warriors watched with painted eyes, vigilant and fierce, swords in their powerful hands and long oval shields on their arms—and each one was different, given individual identity by the artists who had painted them. Some of the figures had torches thrust into brass brackets mounted in their hands, the torchlight giving a semblance of life to the painted guardians. Further illumination came from fires burning on the stone-clad hearths of half a dozen massive fireplaces along the length of the hall.

“It isn't like Rhemuth, is it?” Brion murmured aside to him as they moved among the other visitors.

Alaric could only shake his head slightly, sticking close by the king's side. The painted warriors made him vaguely uneasy.

They wandered briefly among the guests, exchanging pleasantries with a few known to Brion or his courtiers, until a squire in Tralia's sea-green livery came to escort Brion to a seat near the dais, next to the King of Bremagne and his eldest son. Jamyl and Llion attended him. Meanwhile, Alaric and his Corwyn regents were shown to seats in one of the window bays near the dais, where a page brought them refreshments. Not long after that, liveried squires began marshaling the assembled guests and witnesses to begin gathering more purposefully before the dais at the far end of the hall.

A brazen fanfare from trumpets shaped like sea serpents caused the crowd to part for a small procession down the length of the hall, led by a cleric bearing a processional cross and a gold-coped prelate whom Lord Rathold identified as Tralia's archbishop, who was attended by two surpliced acolytes.

“I have always found him to be a godly man,” Rathold murmured softly to Alaric. “He will have presided over Létald's crowning, but today's ceremony is more secular in nature—though he will witness it and give a blessing. Létald's authority as Hort of Orsal will derive from the assent of the other Forcinn princes . . . who are coming now.”

Indeed, another trumpet blast heralded a further, larger procession of gentlemen clad in a variety of festive attire. Some wore court robes of a sort familiar to Alaric, but one was arrayed in desert silks, another in the Eastern garb Alaric had seen on emissaries from the Torenthi lands.

“These are the rulers of the Forcinn states?” Alaric whispered.

“The rulers or their heirs. Some are too old to travel easily on short notice. The man in desert silks is Prince Hakim of Nur Hallaj, eldest son and heir to the emir Qais: a decent fellow, by all accounts.” Rathold jutted his chin in the direction of the man in Torenthi attire. “The next fellow is Count Richard, heir to Regnier Duc du Joux, and the gentleman in scarlet would be Prince Ysomard of Thuria; he only succeeded to his title earlier this year, so I know little about him save by reputation. The man in purple is Prince Isarn of Logréine, and the one with ermine tails on his cloak is Grand Duke Nivelon of Vezaire, a distant relative of the late Queen Dulchesse. And the fellow in the burnoose would be Prince Mikhail of Andelon—not, strictly speaking, one of the Forcinn princes, but Andelon sometimes serves as a gatekeeper to the south, so they work with the alliance.”

“And these all owe allegiance to Létald?” Alaric asked.

“It is a loose confederation, but yes. It would be in none of their best interests to break totally free of the others—not with a neighbor as powerful as Torenth close along their northern borders. The system works for them,” he added.

The Forcinn princes made their courtesies to the archbishop, then arranged themselves on the dais steps in two lines fanned outward so that Létald could pass between them. As the trumpets sounded yet another fanfare, the prince's procession slowly passed down the hall, led by half a dozen armed men who looked to have stepped from the walls of the hall. Following them came two pages in sea-green livery flanking a blonde, white-clad girl of twelve or so, who carried Létald's princely coronet on a velvet cushion, her sea-green veil held in place by a narrow gold coronet.

“The Princess Sivorn, Létald's sister,” Rathold whispered. “It is customary that the Prince of Tralia comes bare-headed before his fellow princes.”

Following her came Létald himself, who had donned a sumptuous robe of embroidered sea-green velvet over his mourning attire, its wide sleeves heavily encrusted with gold-couched threads and its train carried by two liveried pages also in sea-green. When he had made his reverence to the archbishop, to the two lines of princes, he mounted the steps and turned before the chair of state, waiting to sit until the attendant pages had arranged the train at his feet.

There followed a reading of the treaty whereby the Forcinn States had agreed historically to bind themselves in a loose confederation in matters concerning their mutual defense and external trade. The document then renewed the contract by which the Prince of Tralia, now embodied in Létald Sobbon Jubal Josse von Horthy, agreed to function as arbitrator and nominal overlord for said confederation, delineating the rights and duties now to be assumed by said Létald as Hort of Orsal and Overlord of the Forcinn Buffer States. This reading being accomplished, the archbishop then presented the document for Létald's assent, signified by the affixing of his signature and seal. Another trumpet fanfare signaled the accomplishment of the deed.