The King's Deryni (43 page)

Alaric nodded minutely. “I do.”

“Good. Then, have him walk around the room, do things that would not be part of his usual routine before going to bed. Test your control.”

Alaric looked aside, startled, but Sé only nodded and gave him a wry smile—and gently withdrew his own controls, leaving the young Deryni on his own.

Alaric drew a sobering breath, but he had no doubt that he could do this. He had no idea how Sé had done to him what he had done, but the subtle strands of Cormac's control were his to command, and not in any frivolous way.

Abruptly he decided what to do with Cormac. If he made a mistake, he knew Sé could make it right. With a few tentative tweaks of control, he was stepping out into the room, heading nonchalantly for his own bed as Cormac, in the process of pulling on a nightshirt, suddenly noticed his presence.

“Hullo. Where did you go?”

Alaric took off his own cloak and hung it on a peg by his bed. “I wanted to ask Sir Llion about something, but he was already abed.” He shrugged. “It can wait until morning, I suppose.” He gave Cormac an impish grin and a raised eyebrow. “Married folk!”

“Ah, well.” Cormac returned the grin, but it turned into a yawn. “Mercy, I'm tired! I think Duke Richard must stay up nights, dreaming up new ways to test us. But then, he doesn't have a bonny and buxom wife in his—” The prince's face fell, and he clapped both hands over his mouth.

“Oh God, I don't know what made me say that! She's your sister! I am so sorry!”

Chuckling and shaking his head, Alaric came over to give a comradely dunt to Cormac's shoulder. “Cormac, I'm not offended, truly. She
is
bonny—and buxom. And Llion is a lucky man to have her.”

“I really am sorry!”

“Just go to bed,” Alaric said. He was beginning to feel embarrassed about putting the prince up to the comment. “Get some sleep. We'll both feel better in the morning.”

Still murmuring snatches of apology and shaking his head in disbelief at his presumed gaffe, Cormac climbed into his bed and extinguished the rushlight, then burrowed under the sleeping furs and pulled them close as he curled onto his side. He was asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. Alaric felt a little self-conscious as he turned to where Sé waited in the shadows, but the Deryni knight only inclined his head in approval.

“Nicely done. With a bit more experience, you will learn to be less heavy-handed—and in time, all of this will become second nature when there's need.”

“I shouldn't have embarrassed him,” Alaric said. “He's my friend.”

“He shan't remember,” Sé replied. “And now that you have once established a link with him, you will have no need to touch him in the future, when you wish to resume rapport—though it will take more effort, without the contact. You'll learn, never fear.” He gestured for Alaric to join him before the hearth, where two chairs were set to either side of a small table.

“When you have become more comfortable with this process, it will be the basis for compelling the truth. But that is for a later lesson. For now, you should be able to tell whether a person is lying—which is almost as useful, and not at all invasive. Do you understand the difference?”

Alaric sat in one of the chairs at Sé's invitation. “I think so.”

“Good. Because if
ever
I hear that you have tried another stunt like in Tralia—trying to Read a known Torenthi Deryni from across the room!—I will come back from wherever I am, including the grave, and—” He shook his head as he, too, sat, pulling his sword from its hangers to lay it on the floor close by his feet. “Just don't ever do that again. Am I clear?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” With a sparse gesture, Sé shrugged out of his cloak and let it fall over the back of the chair, then conjured handfire and set it to hovering above the table. “Now, I want to teach you what I actually came here to do.”

Reaching into the front of his robe, he produced a small leather pouch, which he handed to Alaric.

“These belonged to your mother, many years ago,” he said, jutting his chin toward the pouch. “Go ahead, open it.”

Alaric loosed the strings that closed the pouch and peered inside. By the light of the handfire above, he could see what appeared to be a jumble of small black and white cubes about the size of dice.

“Those were your mother's first ward cubes,” Sé said. “You do know what ward cubes are?”

Alaric nodded distractedly. He had tipped the cubes into his hand and was fingering them curiously as he peered at them. There were four each of the black and the white, of a warmth to suggest ivory or bone or jet, like his cardounet pieces, but their weight seemed heavier, more like stone.

“I've seen ward cubes a few times,” he said softly, “but I was never allowed to handle them. I do know what they do, though. . . .”

“Then let us see if
they
know what
you
can do,” Sé said with a smile, scooping the cubes from Alaric's hand to place them on the table between them. “Arrange the white cubes in a square, with the black cubes at the diagonal corners, but not quite touching.”

Cautiously Alaric did as Sé bade.

“Now lay your right hand flat on the cubes, covering all of them, and close your eyes.”

Alaric had no idea what to expect, but he closed his eyes and tried to still his mind. The cubes felt cool at first, but then they began to tingle under his hand, only faintly at first, but then more intensely, almost vibrating.

“Keep your hand on the cubes,” Sé said softly. “I'm going to touch you now. Don't resist.”

Alaric drew a deep breath and let it out, making a conscious effort to relax and open to Sé as cool fingers touched his temples to either side. He briefly felt a surge of vertigo, a vague impression of reassurance and approval; then Sé's hands fell away.

“Very good,” Sé murmured. “You can open your eyes now, and take your hand away from the cubes.”

“What did you just do?” Alaric breathed.

“Similar to what I did before. I've given you a bit of instruction on warding. Come stand here on my right now, spread your hand over mine, and follow what I do. Wards are basically a defensive tool, and we're going to see if these will still set.”

Eagerly Alaric complied, overlapping his fingers on Sé's as the Deryni knight touched his right forefinger to the white cube in the upper left-hand corner and spoke its
nomen
:

“Prime!”

At once Alaric felt a measured surge of power tingle through his finger, at which the cube began to glow softly in the firelight, a translucent milky-white. It had been Sé's power, but clearly the Deryni mage was expecting him to do likewise. He was ready as Sé touched the upper-right cube.

“Seconde!”

Again, the outflow of power as that cube, too, began to glow, but this time Alaric had contributed. He felt Sé's wordless approval as they shifted their attention in quick succession to the lower white cubes.

“Tierce! Quarte!”

Cautiously Alaric let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding. At the same time, he sensed a subtle change in the very air around them, and a definite depletion of his own energy. But the air itself was also charged with energy, almost like the taut, expectant stillness that follows a close lightning strike.

Sé glanced back at him, an eyebrow raised in question as he lifted his hand toward the black cube set at the upper-left corner of the large white square, but Alaric only nodded. He could do this; he knew he could.

“Quinte!”
As Sé touched the first black cube, power went out from both of them, intertwined. The black cube flared with light: this time, a murky green-black glow under Sé's fingertip. Before Alaric could think about it too much, Sé moved to name the other black cubes in turn, in the same order he had named the white ones:

“Sixte! Septime! Octave!”

By the time the last cube had been named, each black cube glowed like a dark jewel at a corner of the white square. Breathing deeply and then exhaling, Sé glanced again at his pupil and nodded.

“Nicely done. This next part is a bit trickier,” he went on. “Reach across and cup your left hand over my left, while we merge the eight defensive elements into four protective ones.” He waited while Alaric shifted to cover both his hands.

“Are you ready? You'll feel the energy drain, if you haven't already.”

“I did, and I'm ready,” Alaric whispered.

Reaching slowly, Sé picked up the upper-left black cube,
Quinte
, in his left hand, and
Prime
, the upper-left white cube, in his right. Then he brought the two together as he spoke their name: “
Primus!
”

As the two cubes touched with a faint clicking sound, almost as if an attraction pulled them together over the last little distance, light flared at the joining and the two merged into a single rectangular shape, silvery in color, no longer separate black and white cubes. At the same time, Alaric had felt a distinct outrush of energy that made him wince.

“I'm fine,” he assured Sé, as the older man glanced at him in concern.

Nodding, Sé picked up
Seconde
with his right hand and
Sixte
with his left, again speaking their new name as he brought them together: “
Secundus!
”

Again, the outflow of energy, the faint click as the two joined, the slight flash and change of color, though Alaric was ready for it this time.

The other two pairs followed in rapid succession:
Tierce
to
Septime
, with the whispered name, “
Tertius!
” and
Quarte
to
Octave
, named “
Quartus!
” Alaric was all but grimacing by the time it was done, but again he shook his head when Sé glanced at him in question, though he was definitely feeling the drain of energy.

“Now what?” he whispered, as Sé cast his glance over the four silver-glowing rectoids.

“Now we set them,” Sé replied. “What shall we ward? You? Cormac?” He flashed a mirthless smile. “You, I think. Sit down. You should know what it feels like to be warded this way.”

Alaric's eyes widened, but he dutifully sank into the chair Sé quickly vacated, watching apprehensively as Sé set the silvery rectoids on the floor around him, like tiny towers at the four quarters.

“Sit still now,” Sé commanded, then pointed at the wards in succession and named them, proceeding clockwise around Alaric.
“Primus, Secundus, Tertius, et Quartus, fiat lux!”

Alaric could feel the protection suddenly flaring up around him, a misty cocoon of silvery luminescence that rose to a glowing dome of light about an arm span across, apparently generated by the four rectoids of the wards.

“You should be able to hear me,” Sé said, though his voice sounded oddly muffled. “I assure you, however, that nothing of harmful intent can pass. I could breach the wards if I chose, because I set them, but no mortal could pass.”

To illustrate, he smiled and reached through the wards to touch Alaric lightly on the shoulder, then turned on his heel and went back to the bed where Cormac still lay sleeping, bending to speak softly in his ear. Immediately Cormac opened his eyes and rose, walking slowly to where Alaric sat within the bubble glow of the wards. But when he tried to reach through the wards as Sé had done, his hand seemed to be deflected by the faintly visible limits of the wards.

Sé set his hand on Cormac's shoulder and resumed control before the prince could become alarmed, and with a silent command sent him back to bed. He then returned to sit opposite Alaric, though carefully outside the wards.

“Do you have any questions?”

Alaric surveyed the wards all around him, though he was feeling a little light-headed. He was certain he would have questions later on, but he knew that Sé had given him a great deal of information to assimilate at one time: probably more than he was yet aware of. Further, the work they had already done had taken a great deal of energy. He had all but nodded off while Sé dealt with Cormac.

“You will learn to moderate the use of your power,” Sé said quietly, noting Alaric's bleary gaze. “I've no doubt that you're exhausted.” He rose and lifted his hands in a gesture of command, then slowly turned the palms downward as he murmured, “
Ex tenebris te vocavi, Domine. Te vocavi, et lucem dedisti.
” As he did so, Alaric could sense the wards diminishing. He could also feel himself sliding into sleep.

“
Nunc dimittis servum tuum secundum verbum tuum in pace
,” Sé continued, bringing his hands together in an attitude of prayer and bowing slightly.
“Fiat voluntas tua. Amen.”

“Whenever we work,” Sé said, turning his gaze to Alaric and setting a hand on his shoulder, “it is meet to acknowledge that God and His angels assist us. But for now, I think it's best we get you to bed. If it's any consolation, you should sleep very well this night.”

“A friend and companion never meet amiss . . .”

—ECCLESIASTICUS 40:23

A
LARIC
did sleep well. When he finally stirred the next morning, rousted by Llion, he felt deeply rested, even though the howling of wind outside the chamber and the drumming of sleet against the window glass promised a cold and dreary day. Cormac, too, seemed totally unfazed by the previous night's work or the weather, and bounced out of bed with his customary ebullience, eager to be about the day.

“Well, back to the usual routine,” he declared, pulling on his boots. “Mark my words, Duke Richard will have us bashing at pells or running up and down the stairs, in this weather.”

“Well, it's certain we'll have nothing to do with horses,” Alaric replied, “unless it's mucking out stalls or grooming, or maybe cleaning tack.” He blew on his hands and then rubbed them briskly together. “Or maybe this would be a good day to put the blacksmith to work, seeing to dodgy shoes. They could have us hold horses. At least it would be warm by the forge.”

But first there was Mass before breakfast in the chapel royal for all the pages and squires—frigid enough that the holy water in the stoups had ice across the top, and Paget swore that he could not feel his toes—then a quick breaking of their fast before embarking upon variations of the physical exercise Cormac had predicted. While the squires practiced hand-to-hand combat at one end of the great hall, with much grunting and thumping, the pages were put through their paces at the pells, with live steel. Alaric was glad of the repetitive drill, not only for the warmth it generated but also because the mostly mindless exercise allowed him to think about the events of the night before. (He had also found himself thinking about them at Mass, when he knew he should have been contemplating the Sacred Mysteries. Several times he had touched the belt pouch at his waist to reassure himself that the ward cubes were safe, and resolved to find a suitable hiding place for them, later in the day.)

By the time the pages had switched to wrestling practice and the squires had moved to the pells, it occurred to Alaric that the physical contact involved in wrestling might enable him to practice a bit of what Sé had taught him.

He tried it cautiously on Cormac first, because he had already worked with the prince and knew he could do it, even without physical contact. Then, during a bout with Quillan Pargeter, who was a regular sparring partner, he did manage to touch Quillan's mind, and even exerted some control, but he lost the bout. Subsequent bouts with other regular sparring partners were sufficiently lackluster that Sir Ninian even remarked on it.

“You're not paying attention, Alaric. You're better than that.”

Alaric knew Sir Ninian was right. And he had already concluded that it took too long to read and then react in time to make any positive difference in a physical struggle. Besides, reading an opponent's intentions was hardly sporting; and because much of fighting was instinctive, mind reading was fairly useless anyway, and certainly not worth the energy in a practice bout. Later on in his training, if the process ever became second nature, it might just give him a needed edge in a desperate fight; but for now, better to concentrate on his actual physical skills.

The Feast of Christmas finally came, with attendant snow that made the next day's traditional giving of royal alms brisk but not too onerous. Other pages were on duty while the king, his mother, and his two sisters distributed food and clothing on the cathedral steps, though Alaric and Cormac were present, observing with half a dozen other pages and squires. Afterward, the king held a short court of petitions, with Alaric and Cormac stationed nearby to listen and learn.

The weather held and even improved during the week leading up to Twelfth Night, which also marked Alaric's first full year of royal service. The mild weather permitted scores of nobles from outlying areas of the kingdom to attend, who had been kept away the previous year.

Most unexpected amid the usual delegations offering new year's greetings was the appearance of Cormac's brother Prince Colman, with an escort of six purple-clad armsmen in the livery of Llannedd. After presenting felicitations from the court of Howicce and Llannedd, he then announced that their father, King Illann, had been obliged to abdicate the dual throne, effective this day, owing to continued ill health. The new King Ronan, previously prince regent, now was king, and would be crowned at Pwyllheli in May.

The announcement produced a frisson of excitement throughout the hall, along with a heartfelt huzzah for the new king, but Alaric's first thought, after concern for the failing former king, was that Cormac undoubtedly would be returning to his homeland for the coronation, and very probably would not be coming back. King Brion and his mother almost certainly would attend, for Gwynedd and the dual kingdoms had always enjoyed close relations, and none closer than when the late King Donal had married Richeldis of Howicce and Llannedd. He wondered whether the princesses also would attend. Both Xenia and Silke looked excited and hopeful, and summoned Cormac for a whispered conference.

After court, while servants began setting up the tables for the feast to come, said Cormac disappeared with his brother for perhaps half an hour, closeted with his Aunt Richeldis and the king. When he emerged, he looked pensive and not at all happy.

“How is your father?” Alaric said, drawing Cormac a little aside.

Cormac shook his head. “No worse, but no better. His advisors think it unlikely that he will ever be well enough to rule again. The kingdoms deserve better. So my brother Ronan now is king.”

“And you are a king's brother now. That should make you happy.”

“I knew it would happen eventually,” Cormac said.

“Well, you will get to go to your brother's coronation, and probably even participate. That's something.”

“But I shan't be a Haldane page anymore. And I doubt they'll let me come back.”

“Well, you still must train for knighthood,” Alaric said reasonably. “Surely your brother will want you to be part of his staff, when you're grown.”

“Maybe. But Colman is the heir, until Ronan has a son. I'm still an extra prince.” He quirked a dutiful smile. “But for now, I'm still a Haldane page, so I probably ought to get to work.”

Indeed, both boys set themselves to their duties, for the tables were now set up, and attendees were finding seats. Prince Colman was invited to sit with the king, representing his brother. Cormac might have joined them, but he declined, to serve with Alaric.

The announcement had lent the afternoon an additional festiveness, though other factors still kept both boys on their toes. Twelfth Night court always brought out at least the local bishops—Bishop Corrigan and the Archbishop of Rhemuth almost always attended—but the milder weather also had permitted Valoret's archbishop, Paul Tollendall, to be present, along with several other bishops. Unfortunately, those included the Bishop of Nyford.

Fortunately, Oliver de Nore kept his distance from the king's Deryni page, and was served by his nephew, Cornelius Seaton. Nor was Alaric obliged to work anywhere near either of them, so he was able to avoid any untoward incidents.

But there were periodic reminders of the bishop and his spleen even after de Nore had returned to his see at Nyford, for reports trickled in periodically of incidents involving Deryni, not only in Nyford but occasionally in other outlying areas. And there were more conventional lessons closer to home, involving the pages and squires under training, that underlined the deadly necessity behind most of what Alaric and his companions were learning.

One of the most shocking examples came early in the spring, during the Lenten season, when most of the instruction of pages and squires had shifted to the out-of-doors. It was an aspect of their preparation as future knights that Alaric had somewhat anticipated, at least in the abstract, but its stark reality was stunning when it came. Though the circumstances of the specific incident did not yet affect him and Cormac directly, Paget Sullivan was whey-faced and clearly shaken as he joined the pair in their apartment for a game of cardounet that would not be played. Llion, fortunately, was out, as was Alazais.

“Paget, what's wrong?” Cormac asked, looking up from the game board, where he and Alaric had been setting up the game pieces.

Paget came to them in some reluctance, wiping his hands against the thighs of his leggings, eyes averted.

“We really aren't supposed to talk about it with pages,” he mumbled.

“What's that?” Cormac replied, cocking his head.

“I said, we aren't supposed to talk about it with pages,” Paget repeated, only marginally louder, but with an edge of anger to his voice.

Alaric exchanged a guarded glance with Cormac, minutely shaking his head, then carefully resumed setting out game pieces, though he kept an eye on Paget.

“Then, maybe you shouldn't tell us about it,” he said lightly.

Paget was silent for a long moment, then whispered, “No, I—need to. But you won't tell Duke Richard, will you? Or even Sir Llion?”

Both Cormac and Alaric immediately gave him murmurs of assent, exchanging glances again as Paget settled awkwardly to a seat across from them.

After drawing a long, fortifying breath, the older boy slowly began recounting how he had been taken down to the town market, where the butchers plied their trade, and obliged to observe the slaughter of cows and pigs and sheep for the Easter market—and then to wield the knife himself, to experience what it was like, deliberately to take a life.

“I suppose I understand why we're made to do it,” he said then. “And it wasn't that I'd never killed an animal before, in the field; it's part of hunting, and we eat what we kill. But this was different. I'd never deliberately killed anything that wasn't already injured.”

“I can't say
I
have,” Cormac said uneasily. “I've never even finished an animal on the hunt. But we have to eat, don't we?”

“This wasn't about killing to eat,” Alaric whispered, trying to put from mind an all-too-vivid memory of the grey mare sinking into a widening pool of her own blood, and blood dripping from the butcher's knife. “Oh, we do eat those animals you saw,” he conceded. “But this was about killing men, eventually. We—”

At that moment, a rattle of the latch on the outer door heralded the arrival of Sir Llion. He apparently had come from sword practice, for he had removed his outer tunic and slung it over one arm. His sheathed sword was in that hand, with the belt wound loosely around the scabbard. Focused on mopping at his face and sweat-soaked hair, he did not at first notice as the three boys immediately came to their feet, trying not to look awkward or guilty.

“Oh, hello,” he said casually, as he laid the sword across a pair of pegs on the wall. “Paget probably knows this, but sparring with Prince Nigel is becoming more and more of a workout. He—”

He broke off before the owl-eyed stares of the three youngsters, who had fallen silent and were looking decidedly ill at ease. Alaric, daring to brush at Llion's mind with his Deryni senses, could sense suspicion stirring behind the blue eyes.

“Ah. I appear to have interrupted a private conversation,” Llion said easily. “I can come back later. . . .”

“No, it's all right,” Alaric said, as the other two shook their heads emphatically.

“
Is
it?” Llion eyed all three of them appraisingly, then tossed his tunic and towel on a table and hooked a fourth stool close to the other three, gesturing for them to be seated. “Maybe you should tell me about it.”

“Tell you about what?” Paget said defensively.

“Whatever it is that has the three of you looking so guilty.”

Alaric drew a deep breath, not looking at Llion.

“Paget, he already knows.”

“What do you mean, ‘He already knows'?” Paget's tone had a belligerent edge. “Did you tell him?”

“No, he didn't tell me,” Llion returned, apparently unfazed. “If you're implying that he might have used his powers, I don't think that's within his ability. Not yet, at any rate.” At his raised eyebrow, Alaric hastily shook his head. “But I can guess the topic of your discussion,” Llion went on, “because I know that Paget was taken down to the market today. Specifically, to the butchers' quarter. I take it that you found this unsettling, Paget.”

Paget looked down at his hands, clasped tightly before him. “I had to kill an animal.”

Llion nodded. “I believe that was the purpose of the exercise. What kind of animal?”

Paget swallowed. “A—a lamb.”

“I see. Well, that
is
one of the traditional items of Easter fare. Why do you think you were required to do this, given that this is normally the work of butchers?”

Paget only shook his head, avoiding Llion's gaze, looking miserable.