The King's Deryni (60 page)

With that preparation, both men raised their swords again, though the protecting dome partially obscured what went on within. Fire sizzled along both blades, vast bolts of energy beginning to arc from sword to sword between the men, ebbing and flowing as battle was joined. The dome brightened as they fought, containing energies so intense that all around it would have perished, had the wards not held it in. The air within grew hazy, so that those without could no longer see the principals who battled there.

So it continued for what seemed to Alaric like an eternity. The king's men and the Marluk's eyed one another with increasing nervousness. When, at last, the crackling haze in the dome began to flicker erratically and die down, naught could be seen within save for two ghostly, fire-edged figures in silhouette, one of them staggering drunkenly.

Even Alaric could not tell for certain which was which, though he thought he knew, and prayed he was correct. One of the men had fallen to his knees and remained there, sword lifted in a last, desperate warding-off gesture. The other stood poised to strike, though something seemed to hold him back.

For several heartbeats, the tableau remained frozen, the tension growing between the two. But then the kneeling man reeled sideward with a cry of anguish and let fall his sword, collapsing forward on his hands with head bowed in defeat.

The victor's sword seemed to descend in slow motion, severing head from body in one blow and showering dust and victor and vanquished with blood. The act quenched the fire almost to nonexistence, so that at last they could see that it was Brion who had survived.

At that, a cheer went up from the men of Gwynedd. At the mouth of the canyon beyond, a slender figure on a grey horse wheeled to ride away with her escort. Those of the Marluk's men who were still ahorse scrambled to follow after, some of them picking up men afoot as they fled. A few of the king's men briefly gave pursuit, but fell back as the rest of the Marluk's men began casting down their weapons and surrendering.

Brion could not have seen much through the haze that remained, for the dome seemed still intact, but he clearly was aware on some level that more was yet required of him. Staggering back to the center of the circle, he traced the dust-drawn symbol a final time and mouthed the syllables of a banishing spell.

Then, as the remnants of the dome collapsed inward and the fiery circle died away, he stabbed his sword into the cleansing earth and staggered to his knees, bracing both hands on the quillons to bow his head briefly before the cross-hilt. When he finally rose, at last becoming aware of the cheers of his men, he retrieved his sword and gazed briefly at the now-empty canyon mouth before turning to walk slowly toward the Haldane banner, leaving the headless body of his enemy behind him. The men fell silent and parted before him as he came, Gwynedd and Tolan men alike.

Most of Brion's men remained ahorse or on their feet, perhaps two score of them, and most of Earl Arban's men and Arban himself; far fewer of the Marluk's men, and nearly all of them were wounded. The silence was palpable as he passed among them, and many of them looked wary of him.

He stopped and turned to look around him—at the wounded of both sides struggling upright to stare at him, interspersed with more than a score who would never move again. Among those dead, the Marluk was but one more. Under the Haldane banner in Nigel's hand, Nigel and Alaric still sat their battle-weary steeds. He was relieved to note that Saer, Prince Nigel's squire, had survived the battle: afoot, but supporting himself on Nigel's stirrup.

In the silence after battle, Brion let his gaze fall on each man in turn, catching and holding each man's attention in rapt, unresisting thrall.

“We shall not speak of the details of this battle beyond this place,” he said simply. The words crackled with authority, compulsion, and only Alaric Morgan, of all who heard, knew the force behind that simple statement. Though most of them would never realize it consciously, every man present had just been touched indelibly by Brion Haldane's special magic.

“For thou hast girded me with strength unto the battle: thou hast subdued under me those that rose up against me.”

—PSALMS 18:39

I
N
what remained of the day, the king set his men to see to the wounded, Gwynedd men and Tolaners alike. The Tolan prisoners were detailed to bury the dead. Earl Arban's forces had lost three men, but he elected to take them back to Eastmarch for burial; no pleasant task in the summer heat, but he wished not to leave behind any of those whose welfare he so recently had sworn to protect.

“I understand,” Brion told him, as Arban and his party prepared to ride out. “Know that I appreciate that you came back to assist us, and I value those men's lives. Did they have families?”

“I don't even know, Sire,” Arban said with a shake of his head. “They are so recently come to my service. . . . But I'll find out,” he promised.

“Do,” Brion said. “I shall have purses sent to their families, when you send me word.”

“Thank you, Sire.”

When Arban and his men had gone, the Gwynedd men not tending the wounded began to make camp, for it clearly was too late to even think about heading out. At least there were three fewer graves to be dug, and the Tolaners would be allowed to take away the body of their fallen duke for burial with his own kin.

Once the others were buried, the Tolan men were sworn never to raise arms against Gwynedd again, before being released to take their wounded and depart. Lord Lester sent out pickets to guard the departure point toward Cardosa, to make certain they did not return.

Shortly before dusk, while the Gwynedd men were settling into camp for the night, cleaning weapons and supping on meager travel rations, Jamyl Arilan and Llion arrived in a cloud of dust with twenty more Haldane lancers, sent by Duke Richard to find the king and his brother.

“We thought you would be in Eastmarch,” Jamyl said, throwing himself from his horse. “What happened here?”

Brion, who had been moving among the wounded with Alaric, came to join his friend as Llion dismounted with less alacrity, anxious eyes searching Alaric's form for any sign of injury.

“A few of our friends from Tolan decided to meet me here instead,” the king said lightly. “Hogan Gwernach took particular pains to make me feel welcome.” He paused a beat. “I'm afraid I wasn't feeling particularly hospitable.”

Jamyl's eyes widened, and he came close to seize the king's arm. “Brion, what did you do?” he whispered.

“I'd prefer not to talk about it,” Brion replied. “Suffice it to say that Hogan Gwernach is no longer a threat.”

“What does that mean?” Jamyl insisted, searching the king's eyes. “Did you kill him?”

Brion pulled his arm away and glanced at the ground. “I did what I had to do,” he whispered. “Now, leave it, Jamyl!”

“But—”

“Just leave it!” the king repeated, and turned away to hail one of the men who had just risen from helping tend the wounded. As he continued on to join the man, Jamyl resolved to find out precisely what the king had meant.

He soon deduced that the king had, indeed, killed Hogan Gwernach—
after
something else had happened. But finding someone who would talk about it proved more difficult than Jamyl had expected. Though he questioned several of Nigel's men who had joined him and the king at Rustan, none of them were inclined to provide details. It took more insistent persuasion later that evening, when he drew one of the knights well apart from the others and simply took control of his mind.

What he discovered was startling. Though the man's memories were, of necessity, focused on his own survival and defending the king, he had also been witness to something that clearly was magical in nature, once the king faced Hogan Gwernach in single combat. And it had not been the mere clash of conventional weapons that finally had won the day for Brion Haldane.

It has finally happened,
he told Stefan Coram later that night, by means of a magical link to his Camberian Council colleague, with instructions to convey the information to the rest of the Council; he felt the news too important to wait for the chance to attend in person.
We have long suspected that Donal must have made some provision for his son to assume his powers, and that Alaric Morgan was probably involved. This seems to confirm that suspicion.

But Brion will not discuss it?
Stefan asked.

He will not. And he was savvy enough to set compulsions in the minds of the witnesses, so that they
cannot
talk about it. I daren't press him, for fear that he now has the ability to discover what I am. And Alaric and Nigel are likewise off-limits—Alaric, because we know he's half-Deryni, and Nigel because we just don't know what abilities he might have, as a Haldane heir.

Nor was Jamyl able to press the king by more conventional persuasion, because the next morning Brion announced his determination to continue on with only his squire, as had been his original intention.

“Nothing that happened here changes my travel plans,” the king told Jamyl and his brother over a meager breakfast the next morning. “I still intend to make my way back to Rhemuth on my own. I need some time alone. I've told Alaric that we'll go by way of Lendour, and stop at Cynfyn before we head west toward home,” he added, with a glance at Alaric, who was packing up their saddlebags in preparation for departure, listening but saying nothing. “It's been a while since I was there. I'd like to see how his regents are looking after things, and thank them for their assistance in bringing Xenia home.”

Neither Jamyl nor Llion nor Nigel could dissuade him from his plan, or persuade him to take along additional guards.

“But I
will
take along Llion, if that will make you feel better,” the king told them. “It's probably good to have another sword along. But we'll be safe enough in Lendour. And Alaric's Lendour folk need to see him in my company, and be aware what a fine young man he's becoming.”

In the end, with further badgering from Jiri and Lord Lester as well, he did agree to take along a pair of lancers from Jamyl's contingent: fresh warriors, who also had not witnessed the battle at Rustan. It somewhat mollified both the older men, who had no choice but to take the rest of the men back to Rhemuth, along with Jamyl, Nigel, and Saer.

“But don't delay over-long,” Jiri said. “You have a queen who requires your attention. And not to put too fine a point on it, but you need an heir of your body.”

“Believe me, I am well aware of that,” the king replied, smiling. “And I intend to continue working on that as soon as I return.”

•   •   •

T
HEY
rode away from the dismantling campsite in good spirits, Alaric and Llion to either side of the king and with the two lancers following behind. They traveled in silence at first, for the king had made it clear that he had much to think about following his defeat of the Marluk, but the five of them soon fell into an easy camaraderie, as they headed farther south. Alaric, too, welcomed the time to ponder what had happened, and the men he had killed.

For several days they traveled through the rolling plains of central Lendour, observing the crops nearing harvest, availing themselves of local hospitality, finally striking west toward the Lendouri capital. Half a day out, with the king's permission, Alaric sent one of the lancers ahead to advise of their approach.

Even with so scant a warning, a sizeable welcome escort turned out to greet them: most of his Lendour regents, led by Jovett Chandos and his father. Zoë was waiting with her three children and Jovett's mother when they entered the castle yard, all of them overjoyed to see him again, so soon. Zoë could hardly believe how much he had grown in a year.

“You are very nearly a man!” she exclaimed, as she drew him into a happy embrace. “But of course, you
are
nearly of age. Your mother would be so proud!”

“I hope so,” he said, briefly allowing himself the luxury of her affection. He wondered, though, if his mother would have been proud to learn that her little boy had become a killer. It had been in defense of the king, but he still tried not to think too much about that; it was what knights did, though killing was not meant to be pleasant.

“I see that my cousins are following in my footsteps,” he added, noting the new Lendour pages' livery on the two boys, Kailan and Charlan, who now were ten and nine. “When did this happen?”

“At Twelfth Night,” Zoë replied. “Kailan could have started last year, but he wanted to wait so that he and his brother could begin their training together.”

Alaric smiled. “They're fortunate to have one another. It's always good to have a partner to train with. When they're a bit older, perhaps we can arrange for them to spend some time at Rhemuth, or even at Coroth.”

“I'm sure they would like that,” Zoë replied, “though I should miss them terribly. What brings you here again so quickly? Are you here for long?”

“Only a day or two, I'm afraid,” Alaric replied, glancing back to the king, who was busily greeting Alaric's regents. “We've just come from some—delicate military maneuvers up in Eastmarch. He'll tell you what he wants you to know, over dinner.”

“That sounds ominous,” Zoë said. She paused to stroke the hair of her youngest, the six-year-old Alyce Maria, who had come over to see her illustrious cousin. “Can you say hello to your cousin Alaric, love? He's grown so much, I wonder that you even know him.”

At dinner that night, the king had little to say about their recent campaign other than to remark that a traitor had been executed and a would-be usurper defeated, but it soon became clear that the king had a purpose in coming to the Lendouri capital, besides just a social one. Sitting at the head of the table with Alaric at his right hand and Jovett at his left, he rose when supper had been mostly completed and called the room to order with a rap of his knuckles on the table, then came around to stand before the table, looking up the hall at the two long tables set along the walls, filled with Lendour retainers and their wives. Llion had risen at a nod from the king, and briefly disappeared from the room, to return with something wrapped in fine wool, several handspans across and a handspan thick.

“My lords and ladies,” the king said, “if you would indulge a visitor to your hall, I should like to share an item of personal business with all of you tonight. Lord Alaric, would you please attend me?”

Puzzled, Alaric rose and moved to obey, also coming around in front of the table. When he exchanged a questioning glance with Llion, the young knight only smiled and shook his head slightly.

“As many of you will have gathered,” the king continued, “I have been extremely well pleased with the progress of your young lord, as he grows toward manhood. I prefer not to dwell on details of our most recent campaign in the north, but I know you are well aware how he offered the services of many in this room to assist in the mission last summer, to bring home the remains of my sister and her child. Though he technically serves me as squire, his service has been far beyond what I normally would expect of one so young.

“Accordingly,” he set one hand on Alaric's shoulder, “though he yet lacks a few months before he attains his legal majority, I have decided to confirm him as your earl tonight, before you all.” Alaric's jaw dropped, and a ripple of pleased surprise murmured among those present. “He will still return with me to Rhemuth as my squire, for he yet has lessons to learn before he is ready for knighthood and the full exercise of his rank as earl, but I have no doubt that he will continue to impress us all. Here in Cynfyn, I feel confident that his regents will continue to see to the welfare of Lendour as they have hitherto.”

As Alaric listened in astonishment, and the throng gathered in the hall broke out in cheers and whistles of approval, Llion folded back layers from the bundle of fabric in his arms to reveal the silver coronet that Kenneth Morgan had worn as earl.

“I believe it's appropriate to kneel now,” the king said aside to Alaric, lifting the coronet to display it to the watching Lendour folk.

Speechless, Alaric sank to one knee and briefly bowed his head before the king, then looked up.

“Alaric Anthony Morgan,” the king said, “I declare you of legal age in Lendour and confirm you in your rank as earl, by right of your father and of your mother.” He set the coronet on Alaric's head, then rested both his hands on the boy's shoulders. “Frankly, I would also confirm you for Corwyn, if I dared, but I fear my great lords would have apoplexy if I gave them a fourteen-year-old duke. So that will have to wait until you reach the age of eighteen, and can be knighted. You already have your father's signet, I believe?”

Alaric nodded, pulling it from under his tunic. He wore it on the chain with his St. Camber medal, but he let the king remove it, then quietly tucked the chain and medal back inside his clothing.