High Deryni (35 page)

Brendan Coris had his mother's reddish-golden hair and, as far as Morgan could see, resembled his father Bran Coris very little. Certainly, there was a familial resemblance around the nose, but the rest was his mother's influence, delicate features almost too fragile for a man-child. The boy's long, thick lashes lay on his cheeks like cobwebs, and the rumpled, bright hair that Morgan had first seen in a coach by Saint Torin's was gold-rich in the candlelight. Morgan could not remember the color of the boy's eyes, but he suddenly knew that if the boy opened them, they would be the same cornflower hue as his mother's.

Richenda smiled and tucked the sleeping furs more closely around her slumbering son, then signed for Morgan to withdraw with her to the outer chamber. As Morgan followed, he could not help noticing another sleeping-pallet in the inner chamber, this one canopied with blue and cream silk. Resolutely he put it from his mind as Richenda turned to face him again.

“I thank you for coming, Your Grace,” Richenda said, sitting in one of the chairs and motioning him to the other. “I must confess, I have felt the lack of human company these past days since Dhassa. Sister Luke is a dear, but she says little beyond what is required. The others prefer not to associate with a traitor's wife.”

“Even when the traitor's wife has offered to aid the Crown, and is a young and helpless woman?” Morgan asked softly.

“Even then.”

Morgan lowered his head, wondering what he dared say to this exquisite creature to whom he was so strongly drawn.

“Your homeland—is it like Corwyn?” he asked abruptly, rising to begin pacing the confines of the outer chamber.

Richenda's eyes followed him as he paced, her face expressionless. “Somewhat. Not so hilly, though. It is said that Corwyn has a monopoly on the most beautiful mountains in this region. Bran says that—” Her voice faltered, and she began again.

“My husband says that our Marley has rich farmland, though—some of the richest in all the Eleven Kingdoms. Did you know that there has never been a serious famine in Marley, going back more than four hundred years? Even when there is drought and pestilence in other lands, Marley at least survives. I used to think it was a sign of divine favor.”

“And now?”

Richenda studied her hands clasped in her lap and shrugged. “Oh, it changes nothing of the past, I suppose, but now that Bran—oh, what's the use? I keep coming back to the same subject, don't I? And I know that the last thing you wish to talk about on the eve of battle is a traitor earl. Why did the king send you, Your Grace?”

“Partly because of what we found today, my lady,” he replied, after only the briefest of pauses. “You indicated that you had heard the reason for our delay. Are you aware of the extent—”

“Headless corpses impaled on wooden stakes,” she interrupted in a clipped voice. “Cassani uniforms on hacked bodies whose wounds do not match their clothing.” She looked him full in the eyes.

“Did the king send you to ask whether I thought my husband did these things? Do you wish me to say that, yes, Bran is at least capable of such acts? You must know that I have been in the king's custody for many days now, and hence cannot say whether my husband actually participated in the day's work!”

Morgan found himself momentarily speechless, taken aback both by her candor and by the tenor of her outburst.

“Forgive me, my lady, but you misjudge both the king and myself. No one ever meant to imply that you had knowledge of what your husband planned. Indeed, all signs point to his defection being strictly a matter of opportunity. A man who planned to betray his king would hardly leave his wife and heir in jeopardy. If you have received the impression that your loyalty is in question, I do apologize. It was not intended.”

Richenda looked across at him for a long time, her blue eyes never wavering from his, then shifted her glance to her lap. Her betrothal ring gleamed dully in the candlelight.

“Pray, forgive me. I should not have taken out my frustration on you. Nor is the king to blame for my apprehensions.” Her voice was rock-steady.

“As for Bran, I cannot say whether you are correct or not. I pray that his betrayal was not planned, yet I know that he was—is—ambitious. Even our marriage was largely brought about to consolidate vague claims he had for several manors adjoining Marley, that he knew would be part of my dowry.

“But he was a good father, if not a model husband. He loves Brendan dearly, even if our relationship is largely one of state.” She paused, then shook her head. “No, that is hardly fair. I think that Bran did come to love me after a time, in his own fashion. After what has happened today, though, I hardly think that makes much difference.”

“Then, you think he is beyond your reach?” Morgan said quietly, not wishing to touch further on her personal relationship with Bran.

Richenda shrugged. “I have no way of knowing, my lord. If he would agree to what happened today, then anything I might say will probably make little difference to him. Perhaps he would listen for Brendan's sake. I am still willing to make the effort, if the king will permit it.”

“It is a needless risk, my lady.”

“Perhaps. But we must, each of us, play out our parts as they have been written for us. Mine, it seems, is to play the traitor's wife and beg for my husband's life. And yet, I cannot expect the king to sacrifice whole armies for my sake. When all is said and done, Brendan and I can expect to be left with nothing but a traitor's name, regardless of the outcome of the battle. It is not a pleasant state to contemplate, is it?”

“No, it is not,” Morgan agreed gently.

Sighing, Richenda rose to lean against the center pole of the tent, then turned to gaze across at Morgan.

“And you, Your Grace—what is it you hope to gain from all of this? You have great powers and much wealth, the king favors you, and yet you gamble everything on a single throw of the dice. If Gwynedd loses this war, you cannot possibly survive. It is well known that Wencit will not tolerate conquered Deryni in his dominions. Such men would always be a threat to his power.”

Morgan lowered his eyes and studied the toes of his dusty boots.

“I am not certain I can answer that, my lady. As you doubtless know, I have been something of a rebel all my life. I have never made any secret of my Deryni heritage. I first used my powers openly to help King Brion keep his throne—more than fifteen years ago. Since then, I suppose my aim, in an indirect way, has been to continue using my powers openly, in the hope that one day all Deryni could be as free as I. Yet, even in that, there is irony—for when have I, as a Deryni, ever been entirely free?”

“But you
have
used your powers, have you not?”

“On occasion, and with great care.” He waved a ringed hand depreciatingly. “But I must confess that such use has often brought about more ruin than reward. This present quarrel with the archbishops can be traced directly to my actions at Kelson's coronation, and then at Saint Torin's. If there had been no magic, we might all now be safely at home in our beds.”

“We might,” Richenda agreed. “Yet, if we were, Kelson would not now be king. And I doubt very much whether you and others of your kind would ever sleep well at night.”

Morgan chuckled ironically, then sobered as Richenda remained silent.

“Forgive me, my lady, but I so seldom encounter a sympathetic stranger that I scarcely know how to behave. Most folk find it difficult to conceive how I can even admit to some of the things I have done. I sometimes wonder myself. It takes a bit of getting used to.”

“Why should it? Are you ashamed of what you have done?”

Morgan cocked his head at her in faint surprise. “No, I am not. If I had to choose over again, I think I should make mostly the same choices. Of course, since that is not possible, the question is academic anyway, is it not?”

“Perhaps—though one must base future decisions on the past, do you not agree?”

“Your logic is flawless,” Morgan admitted reluctantly. “But perhaps the problem goes deeper than you dream. We Deryni are somewhat different from ordinary men, as you no doubt have gathered.”

“
That
different?”

Richenda smiled at him rather oddly, then half-turned away from him. Against the light of the rack of candles behind her, Morgan could see her profile outlined in gold. After a moment she turned toward him again, her face unreadable against the brightness of the candlelight.

“My lord, may I make a confession to you?”

“I am not your priest, my lady,” Morgan said lightly, leaning against the edge of a leather-bound trunk.

Richenda took a few steps toward him, her face still a gray blur against the candlelight, “Thank God and all the saints that you are
not
my priest, my lord! For if you were, I should never dare to say what is in my mind. I sense a bond between us that draws us close: fate, destiny, the will of God—call it what you will, though I think I—please don't look at me that way, my lord!”

Morgan had frozen with her first words and now sat in stunned silence, staring. That Richenda had spoken thus was at once too wondrous and too terrible to contemplate. He had thought his own emotions neatly tucked away and under control. But now, to have Richenda echoing those feelings…

He turned his face away and averted his eyes, trying to force himself to composure. “My lady, we must not. I—” He paused, then began again in words he hoped she would understand.

“My lady, long ago you took vows with a man. You bore his son. That man still lives. Regardless of the feelings, or their lack, that you and he shared, you still are—Richenda, I may have to kill your husband tomorrow. Does that mean nothing to you?”

Her voice was a whisper in the dim, flickering candlelight. “My husband is a traitor and must die, one way or another; I know that. I will mourn the goodness in him—for there was some of that. And I shall mourn that my son shall have no father, for Bran was that, too. But if fate guides your sword,” her voice became softer still, “or your powers, to take his life tomorrow, I shall not hate you for it. How could I? You are my heart.”

“Sweet
Jesu
, you must not say these things,” he murmured, closing his eyes against the sight of her. “We
must
not, we
dare
not…”

“Oh, must I spell it out?” she whispered, taking one of his hands in hers and brushing her lips against its tanned back.

Morgan flinched at the contact of her flesh against his but forced himself to look down at her as she took his other hand in hers. As her hands closed over his, it was as though a great light glowed around them, and suddenly their minds were one.

Richenda was Deryni
—Deryni in all the fullness born to those eldritch lords of old. Deryni—in all its splendor and pride and fulfilled power, with no guilt attached. In the first heady ecstasy of union with her mind, he was filled with a sense of wonder so profound that, in that instant, he knew with a certainty born at the root of all his powers that he had found that other part of himself, missing all his life. That whatever happened tomorrow, and for all the days of his life, he could endure it with this blessed woman at his side.

At length he saw her again through eyes instead of mind, and he staggered back a step and pulled his hands free in amazement. He stared at her for a long moment in awe, a part of him wondering idly if the sister in the next chamber was asleep—and praying that she was!—then lowered his eyes to stare blindly at the carpet beneath his feet. Reality had returned with a rush, and with it all the problems of the morrow.

“What has happened—this will make it that much more difficult for me tomorrow—you know that,” he murmured reluctantly. “I have responsibilities which I assumed long before this burden was laid upon my heart. I have been the catalyst for much of what has happened.”

“Then I have given you that much more to fight for,” she said softly.

“Yes. And if I am forced to kill Bran tomorrow, or am instrumental in his death, then what?”

“We both will know that you do it for the right reasons, if it comes to that,” she replied.

“Will we?”

Before she could answer, there was the slight clatter of guards coming to attention across the common outside, and then low voices in the darkness. Recalled to duty with a start, Morgan moved to the entryway and pulled back the flap farther to see who approached. At length a vague shadow dressed in black emerged from the ring of darkness beyond the torches and strode toward the tent: Duncan. And by the expression on his face, something was amiss.

“What is it?” Morgan asked, stepping into the entryway and blocking Duncan's view of the interior.

Duncan ducked his head apologetically. “Sorry to intrude, but I checked your tent and you weren't there. The king wishes you to see something.”

With a clipped nod of agreement, Morgan turned back briefly to meet Richenda's eyes once more—there was no need for further words—then inclined his head in leave-taking and joined Duncan.