In the King's Service (19 page)

“I regret that it has occurred to us
now,
” Vivienne muttered.

“Would Jessamy allow access?” Dominy asked, ignoring the remark. “I know he’s her brother, and Krispin is his nephew, but has he even been back to Rhemuth since the boy’s birth?”

Seisyll shook his head. “He didn’t come to Sief’s funeral—not that there was any love lost there, or that he could have heard the news and arrived in time. Besides, he and Jessamy probably haven’t seen one another more than half a dozen times since before their father’s death; he’d been fostered to court several years before that. After Sief married Jessamy, he did his best to poison the relationship between brother and sister, in hopes that this would keep her from corrupting him.”

“Was there actually a danger of that?” Khoren asked.

Oisín gave a snort. “Who knows? If we were talking about horses, I’d say that blood will tell. But Michon is right. So far as Morian is concerned, he has never, ever put a foot wrong.”

Barrett de Laney, who had remained largely silent, jutted his chin in the direction of Oisín.

“What would it take, to get Morian back to Rhemuth to meet his nephew?” he asked.

“The king would have to summon him,” Seisyll said promptly. “Or Morian would have to present a convincing reason for a personal visit to Rhemuth, something requiring that he report to the king in person.
Or,
” he added, at Barrett’s gesture encouraging further development of this line of thinking, “the governor could be induced to
send
him to the king on some convincing pretext—and Morian does have the governor’s ear . . . and the situation in Meara is sufficiently volatile that Iolo Melandry does send regular reports to Rhemuth, and might want an occasional report to carry the weight of Morian’s verification that the information he’s been gathering is true.”

“My thinking, precisely,” Barrett said with a faint, tight smile. “Oisín, could you work with that?”

“You mean, could I approach Morian and ask him to manipulate the governor, to get himself sent to Rhemuth?” Oisín replied.

“Exactly that.”

Oisín considered briefly, then nodded, grinning. “I can be in Ratharkin within the next week. We shall see what can be arranged.”

 
 
THERE was no working Portal in the palace at Ratharkin, but one had been established decades earlier at a manor half a day’s ride north of the city, formerly held by a Deryni lord but now occupied by a minor baron of the Old Mearan aristocracy. Oisín Adair sold horses regularly to Sir Evan Sullivan, whose daughter had married a Connaiti princeling, and Oisín also had set certain controls in Sir Evan so that he could show up unannounced and obtain use of a horse without anyone remarking on his sudden presence. Accordingly, not a fortnight after his meeting with the Council, Oisín made his way to the Portal at Sir Evan’s manor of Arkella, borrowed a horse, and set out for Ratharkin, arriving at midmorning.

The R’Kassan cream that he was riding turned heads as he drew rein in the stable yard, and seemed to conjure most of the stableboys and squires within minutes—and also the attention of the animals Oisín had delivered to Governor Melandry a few weeks before, who whickered and called to the new arrival; R’Kassan creams seemed to prefer the company of other cream horses, and had eyes for no steed of any other color.

The commotion also produced Iolo Melandry himself, who cast an appraising eye over Oisín’s mount.

“That almost looks like one of the beasts from Arkella,” he said.

“It
is
one of the beasts from Arkella,” Oisín replied, to forestall too much speculation. “My own threw a shoe not far from there, and I had to walk there and beg the use of this one. I mayn’t stay long, for I’ve business in Kindaloo on the morrow, but I hoped I might impose briefly for some refreshment. It’s a ferocious hot day.”

“Then, you must come in and take some wine with me,” Iolo said, blissfully unaware that Oisín was encouraging his impulse for hospitality. “And I shall ask Sir Morian to join us. He shares our love of fine horseflesh, as you know.”

Oisín did know, and had planted that observation as well. Within minutes, the two of them were sitting beneath a breezy, shaded porch atop the palace walls, sipping chilled wine while Iolo reported on the progress of the horses he had bought from Oisín, and the difficulty of finding good trainers.

Very shortly, Morian ap Lewys du Joux made his appearance, booted and spurred from an earlier ride, and buckling a silver-mounted Kheldouri dirk over a loose-fitting tunic of cool Cassani linen that fell to mid-thigh. In contrast to this relaxed attire, he wore his auburn hair sleeked back severely in a soldier’s knot, braided and clouted at the nape of the neck. Though he and Oisín affected only casual pleasure to meet again, a quick communication passed silently between them, such that, as Morian came to take the cup of wine Iolo offered, the merest contact of their hands was sufficient for Morian to trigger the controls long ago set, taking the governor instantly from full awareness into drowsing trance.

When Morian had deepened that trance, instructing his subject to relax and enjoy his wine, he pulled a stool closer to sit beside Oisín as the two of them gazed out over the city.

“I am somewhat surprised to see you here,” Morian said to him aside, sipping at his wine.

“No more surprised than I, to be sent,” Oisín replied. “I have a somewhat delicate mission for you.”

“Indeed.”

“You have never met your nephew, I think,” Oisín said.

Morian turned to gaze directly at Oisín. His eyes were a startling deep blue, almost violet.

“My sister’s child,” he said. “And why would I want to do that?”

Offering his open hand, Oisín invited a direct link, smiling faintly as the other instead touched fingertips lightly to his wrist. But the contact was sufficient for the necessary rapport, by which Oisín quickly imparted the Council’s speculations regarding the child—and their suspicions regarding the death of Morian’s brother-in-law, and the king’s probable part in it, and possibly Jessamy’s as well.

Morian said nothing as he drew his hand away, also ending the rapport, only taking up his cup again to sip at his wine as he gazed out over the city.

“I haven’t seen my sister above a dozen times in the past thirty years,” he finally said, not looking at Oisín. “Sief discouraged it—and I understand why. But what you’ve suggested is—quite astonishing.” He glanced into his cup, speculating aloud.

“Poor Sief. We never really got on, but he didn’t deserve that. I was got away from my father before I could be ‘tainted’—I know what he’s said to have done—but Sief never trusted my sister. An odd basis for a marriage, don’t you think?”

“‘Better to marry than to burn,’ to quote Holy Writ out of context,” Oisín said. “In the case of your sister, better to marry her off than to kill her off. At least you didn’t face that.”

“No.” Morian sighed. “Very well, I’ll do it. It will take some time to set up an excuse to go to Rhemuth—or to have Iolo send me.”

“Understood,” Oisín agreed. “I think there is no great urgency, since the boy is not yet two—and it’s understood that you’ll need to make careful preparations. But we do need to know what we’re dealing with.”

Morian shook his head, still trying to take in the concept of a nephew who might also be the son of the King of Gwynedd.

“Morian,” Oisín said softly, guessing the line of the other’s thinking, “it isn’t as if we’re simply talking about another royal bastard.”

“I know that,” Morian replied. “And if it was done, it appears to have been done deliberately—and if deliberately, then for a reason. The question is, what reason?”

“We’ll worry about that once we discover whether he
is
Donal Haldane’s son,” Oisín said, tipping back the rest of his wine. “I’d best be off—or shall I stick around, so that you don’t have to explain my sudden departure to the governor?”

“No, go ahead. I might as well begin setting up the idea of sending me to Rhemuth, while I already have him in control. And if I’m going to do that, it’s easy enough to cover your departure.”

“As you will, then,” Oisín replied, standing. “Good luck to you.”

 
 
IN fact, it did not prove feasible to go to Rhemuth that season or even the next, for the rumblings of unrest in Meara were sufficiently troubling that Iolo Melandry preferred to keep his aide close by his side—or else out in the field gathering intelligence, as only a Deryni might do. During those two years, the king sent his brother Richard twice to that troubled province to observe and report back, and sensed that the time was approaching when only his own presence would suffice to restore order.

But he put it off, because unrest of another sort was brewing closer to home, in Carthane to the south, where an itinerant bishop called Oliver de Nore was gaining notoriety for his rigorous enforcement of the Statutes of Ramos—yet another cause for concern to the Camberian Council.

The Statutes of Ramos had been formulated nearly two centuries earlier, in the wake of the Haldane Restoration, and severely limited the participation of Deryni in the life of Gwynedd. Though de Nore had no specific authority to enforce the secular aspects of the Statutes, canon law was a bishop’s stock in trade, and sometimes allowed him leeway surely never intended by the formulators of those Statutes. As the decade wore on, de Nore could take credit for the persecution, incarceration, and even execution of scores of men and women, some of them of long-hidden Deryni bloodlines.

Most poignant were the deaths of those discovered while trying to gain access to the priesthood, long forbidden to those of their race; and for such men, the penalty was always death by fire. Their fate, in particular, elicited impassioned anger and debate among the members of the Council, for they were well aware that, until all were once again free to take up priestly vocations, Deryni would never regain a full partnership with the humans among whom they lived.

 
 
FORTUNATELY, de Nore and those who constituted ultra-conservative elements within the Church’s hierarchy in Carthane did not yet seem inclined to insist that their interpretation of the Laws of Ramos should extend beyond Carthane’s borders, much to the relief of the three Deryni then resident at the Convent of Notre Dame d’Arc-en-Ciel. Since the ouster of Bishop de Nore’s brother as a chaplain, nearly four years before, royal patronage and the convent’s proximity to Rhemuth had kept at bay any further infiltration by would-be zealots. Or perhaps the presence of two important royal wards had buttressed the status of Arc-en-Ciel as a sanctuary for certain select Deryni.

Nonetheless, by late April of 1085, as Alyce de Corwyn helped with preparations for the clothing of a new novice and the profession of final vows by the Deryni daughter of Jessamy MacAthan, initial reports were trickling into Arc-en-Ciel of renewed violence in Carthane, and an outbreak of rioting in Nyford. The day before the ceremonies were to take place, Father Paschal arrived with more detailed news that kept him sequestered with Jessilde and Mother Judiana for several hours, while the community continued to prepare for the next day’s celebrations.

Much had changed at Arc-en-Ciel since Paschal’s last visit. Much to their delight, Alyce and Zoë now shared a room, though the circumstances by which this had occurred had surprised them both. For Alyce’s original roommate, Cerys Devane, had experienced a religious epiphany the previous winter that surprised even herself, and had moved into the postulants’ dormitory at Easter to prepare for reception as a novice at the same time Jessilde made her final vows.

“Cerys, are you sure?” Alyce had asked her, remembering the other girl’s protestations when they first met, that she could never be a nun.

“No, I’m not at all sure,” Cerys had admitted, though her face had glowed with an inner radiance that none could gainsay. “I only know that I’ve never been happier in my life, and that this seems to be the place God wants me to be.”

“But, you were here before, and you’re
still
here,” Alyce had said reasonably.

“Of course I am,” Cerys replied. “But God is
here,
” she touched the flat of her hand to her heart, “and I sense that there’s more I’m meant to be doing in His service. I don’t yet know what, but isn’t that part of what a novitiate is all about?”

Whatever the true reasons for the decision, it had left Alyce without a roommate after Easter—and Zoë’s roommate, a rather plain Llanneddi girl called Edwina, had announced her plans to leave early in June to be married out of her father’s castle near Concaradine.

So Zoë had asked permission to move in with Alyce, leaving Edwina the privacy of her own room for her last few weeks at Arc-en-Ciel. The arrangement had allowed the new roommates far greater privacy to continue exploring their enhanced relationship, but even so, they preferred not to speak openly of what they were doing.

Father Paschal told me that the king and queen are coming tomorrow,
Alyce sent to Zoë, when they had settled into bed and doused the nightlight.

That’s nice,
Zoë returned sleepily.
I think my father is coming, too. I may not get to see him again before he takes off for Meara in June.

The exchange was not the same kind of mutual rapport that might have been enjoyed by two Deryni, for it required physical contact, and that Alyce initiate the link—and that Zoë offer no resistance—but the result was useful, nonetheless, especially in an environment where one must be circumspect.

I hope he’ll be safe,
Alyce sent.
My father and brother are going as well. Meara isn’t a place I’d particularly want to go, with all the troubles there.

Speaking of “safe,”
Zoë said,
should I be worried about other Deryni who might be there tomorrow?

I’m not sure,
Alyce replied honestly.
But Father Paschal told me that he tried to probe you from across the room, since that’s what another Deryni might do—though only if he or she had reason to be suspicious. Still, there will be at least a few here tomorrow: Jessamy and her children, and maybe some of the in-laws from her eldest daughter’s family. There could be others as well, that we don’t know about. But you passed muster.