In the King's Service (6 page)

No words were exchanged as the monks changed places, but Seisyll sensed that any attempt to remain longer would lead to questions best unasked and unanswered. After crossing himself again, he bowed to the new monks and headed out of the chapel, Michon silently following. With the first set of monks loitering in the nave to see where they would go, the pair had no choice but to leave, beckoning for Benjamin to join them. Outside, as they followed the servant’s torch back toward the castle, they spoke mind to mind as they revised their battle plan.

Poor timing,
Michon sent.

There was time to sense a first impression,
came Michon’s reply.
He did not die easily.

A rebellious heart can be a treacherous thing,
Seisyll answered.
Are you hinting that it was something more?

Seisyll’s violet gaze swept the shadows as they continued climbing the castle mount.
Difficult,
he sent after a moment.
They plan to bury him in the cathedral crypt.

At least we’ll not have to contend with pious monks,
Michon retorted.
And it will take a few days or even weeks to prepare the tomb.

But needful,
Michon replied.
I did not like what I sensed.

Chapter 3

—JOB 21:32

 
 
 
 
 
 
GIVEN that the deceased had been one of the king’s most senior ministers, no one thought it unusual that he was accorded a funeral all but semi-state in its dignity. Indeed, as a single muffled bell tolled its summons in the cathedral tower the next morning, a sizeable segment of the court came to pay their respects to the king’s good servant, Sir Sief MacAthan, cruelly betrayed by a treacherous heart while still rejoicing in the birth of his long-awaited son.

His widow led the mourners on behalf of that son, along with three of the dead man’s daughters who knelt like stair-steps beside the coffin now closed and covered with a heavy funeral pall: the two little ones, Jesiana and Seffira, and an older girl christened Jessilde but now called Sister Iris Jessilde, whose rainbow-edged white veil and sky-blue robes proclaimed her a novice nun of the royal Convent of Notre Dame d’Arc-en-Ciel, just outside Rhemuth.

The fourth and eldest of Sief’s surviving daughters was not present: Sieffany, who lived many days’ ride to the west with her husband and young family. Contentedly wed to a son of Michon de Courcy, Sieffany might have heard the news by now—Jessamy had caught a glimpse of Michon himself, as she entered the cathedral. But even if Sieffany knew, her attendance at the funeral would have been far too dangerous even to consider; for only through Deryni auspices could she have learned of the event so quickly, and only by the use of a Portal could she have reached Rhemuth in time. In the prevailing climate regarding Deryni, it was best that humans were not reminded that such things even existed.

That had not deterred some of those now assembling. From where Jessamy sat behind her daughters, black-gowned and heavily veiled, she was able to single out several whom she recognized as being friends of her father’s, all those years ago, some undoubtedly come by way of Portal—little though the rest of the mourners would realize that. She knew of several Portals in and around Rhemuth. One lay within the precincts of this very cathedral.

Strangely enough, she found that the presence of these men no longer frightened her the way it once would have done. She wondered whether she still frightened them. For her own part, she found that with Sief’s death had come a lightening of many of the constraints by which he had bound her—or by which she had
felt
herself bound—and her status as a grieving widow would give her added protection that had not existed while Sief still lived. Let them think what they liked—that she was the renegade daughter of a renegade Deryni—but she would take many secrets to her grave, just as her husband was taking his secrets to his.

The muffled bell ceased its tolling, the last strike lingering on the silence. At the thud of a verger’s staff on the floor in the west, the congregation rose as the king’s council and then the king himself entered the cathedral, all of them in black, the black-clad queen and her ladies also in dutiful attendance. Following them came the cathedral choristers, who began the solemn chant of the introit:
“Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis. . . .”
Then the processional cross and torch-bearers, a thurifer, and finally the celebrants for the Requiem Mass now beginning, the archbishop himself to preside.

Jessamy waited until the king’s party had reached the transept crossing before tottering to her feet. Having risen from childbed to be present, she was content to let observers think she was weaker than she was, affecting to lean on the arm of the maid who had accompanied her. She had become a consummate actress during her long years at court.

Now she played the role of grieving widow as befitted her dead husband’s rank and station, meekly kneeling with her daughters for their father’s Requiem, confident that her façade of grief would not be broached by any of the other Deryni present. Indeed, the grief of her daughters was genuine, in varying degrees, and would reinforce her own illusion.

Jessilde’s was well contained, already being channeled into the serenity and acceptance come of convent discipline, though her pretty face within her rainbow-edged veil was pale and drawn. Seffira, the four-year-old, was hardly old enough to understand that it was her father who lay in the coffin before them, but Jesiana, the nine-year-old, wept inconsolably, for she had been the apple of her father’s eye.

When Mass was ended, both Donal and his queen accompanied the procession down into the cathedral’s crypt as Sief’s coffin was carried to its final resting place, destined for honored interment in a vault very near the tombs of Donal’s own ancestors—for the king had made it known that he regarded Sir Sief MacAthan as a friend as well as a loyal servant of the Crown, worthy to lie near the Haldanes in death as he had served them in life. The place was also very near the final resting place of several of Sief’s children—fitting enough, Jessamy supposed, but it also meant that she would have to pass his tomb every time she came to visit the little ones.

In the meantime, in the days until the stonemasons had finished their preparations, the coffined body would lie atop the table-like tomb-slab of another long-ago good servant of the Haldane Crown: Sir Ferrol Howard, slain with King Urien more than fifty years before at the Battle of Killingford. A tattered banner from that battle hung above Sir Ferrol’s tomb, honoring his sacrifice, and its edge trailed over the floral tributes now laid atop the polished oak of Sief’s coffin, after the pall was removed. Before leaving, Jessamy had offered lilies on behalf of her absent daughter, and a single red rose for the infant Krispin, who would never know the man whose name, but not blood, he bore.

Afterward, up in the cathedral narthex, she and her daughters lingered briefly to receive condolences from a few of those who had come to pay their last respects—though not many showed such fortitude. While mere association with Deryni no longer carried quite the stigma it once had done, most deemed it prudent not to attract unwelcome scrutiny from those less tolerant of such associations. Archbishop William was known to be one such individual, though he had chosen not to offend the king by declining to celebrate Sief’s Requiem Mass; but even the power of a king might not be enough to protect those who fell into the archbishop’s active disfavor.

Both king and archbishop were standing on the cathedral steps as Jessamy and her daughters emerged through the great west door, the queen and her ladies already heading down to the horses waiting in the square below. Maintaining a façade of meekness, Jessamy paid her respects to the archbishop and followed, the king trailing behind with several retainers when he, too, had taken his leave.

 
 
THAT night, while Jessamy cradled her infant son and pondered his future—and hers—and the king likewise considered what might come of what he had done, two men of whom both of them had cause to be wary were making their way back to Rhemuth Cathedral. The pair’s mission required that neither of them be seen, so they came by way of the Portal in the cathedral’s sacristy.

They arrived after the last of the night offices, when the monks of the cathedral chapter were likely not to be about again until Matins, several hours hence. The cathedral was deserted, as they had hoped it would be after the day’s obsequies. Racks of votive candles in the various side chapels spilled wavering patches of illumination across the cavernous darkness of the nave as Seisyll Arilan and Michon de Courcy made their way silently back to the mouth of the stairwell that led to the royal crypts. There, while Michon kept watch, Seisyll used his powers to shift the tumblers in the lock that secured the gate to the stair, stilling any sound it might have made as they swung it open far enough to slip through.

Quickly they ghosted down the worn steps, their way now dimly lit by the faint violet glow of handfire that Seisyll conjured for that purpose. He kept it small, and shielded it with his hands as best he could, for brass grilles pierced the ceiling of the crypt to admit air and light from the nave above—and would also betray their presence, if anyone entered the nave and noticed light from below. But some light they must have to make their way among the tombs to where Sief’s coffin lay.

Threading their way between the tombs of generations of dead Haldanes, they came at last to the side vault where Sief’s coffin awaited proper interment. Here were no ceiling grilles to betray them, but the scent of the wilting floral tributes was strong, and Seisyll found himself stifling a sneeze as he and Michon eased to either side of the coffin. He was already pulling a pry bar from his belt as Michon began moving the flowers to one side. They had known the coffin was sealed, so they had come prepared.

You can put a damping spell on this, while I pry?
Seisyll asked, as Michon laid his hands flat on the coffin’s polished top.

Give me a moment,
came Michon’s reply.

The pale eyes closed. A slowly released breath triggered a working trance. Soon a faint, silvery shimmer began to crawl outward from Michon’s hands, gradually covering the lid of the coffin and then spilling down the sides. After another slow-drawn breath, Michon opened his eyes, moving his hands apart but still touching the coffin lid. At his nod, eyes vaguely unfocused, Seisyll applied his pry bar and began to work the nails out of the oak.

There was no sound save Seisyll’s increasingly labored breathing as he prised each nail free. Michon collected them as they were removed, dreamily laying them beside the flowers on a nearby tomb-slab, keeping the muffling spell intact until the coffin lid moved under their hands.

Together, he and Seisyll slid the lid partway toward the foot of the coffin, exposing the shrouded body nearly to the waist. The waxed linen of the cerecloth had molded itself to the dead man’s profile, and retained something of its outline as Michon reverently peeled it aside. A whiff of beginning corruption joined the stink of wilting flowers and the dank tomb-scent of the vault, and Seisyll drew back a little in distaste.

You’re welcome to go first,
he whispered in Michon’s mind.

Michon merely gazed on the dead man’s face, obviously still deep in trance. In repose, Sief’s features were sunken and yellowed, bearing little resemblance to his appearance in life, but Michon’s touch to the dead man’s forehead was gentle. Again his pale eyes closed.

For a long moment, only the gentle whisper of their breathing stirred the silence of the tomb—until a little gasp escaped Michon’s lips.

“Jesu!”
came his breathy exclamation, quickly stifled.

Read with me on this, Seisyll,
Michon ordered, shifting back into mindspeech.
There isn’t a great deal left, but I’m not liking what little I’m seeing.

Without comment, Seisyll put his repugnance aside and laid his fingertips beside Michon’s on the dead man’s forehead, extending his Deryni senses for a deep reading. His first impulse was to recoil, for Sief had been dead for several days, and physical decay had left little in the way of a matrix to hold his memories to any coherence. But he mastered his distaste and made himself delve deeper, following the pathways already broached by Michon’s probe—and began touching on fragments of memory that he liked no better than Michon had done.

For images from the time of Sief’s death showed disturbing glimpses of Sief’s wife and her infant son—and the king’s presence, as well—and harsh words exchanged between the two men, though Seisyll could not pin down the sense of them.

Far worse was to follow. Harsh words had quickly escalated beyond mere anger. The clash had never reached the point of a physical exchange, but the result was just as deadly—and unexpected. Little to Sief’s credit, he had started to lash out at the king with his magic—and was answered by Donal’s response in kind, summoning magical resources of a magnitude they had not dreamed him to possess.

Very quickly the king’s reaction had pressed beyond any merely physical defense both to rip at Sief’s mind and close a psychic hand around his heart. Nor had the king relented, even as the damage went beyond the level of any possible repair, dragging Sief through an agony that was at once physical and psychic, down into unconsciousness and then beyond, into death, until the silver thread was stretched to the breaking point—and snapped.

Seisyll was gasping as he surfaced from the probe, turning blank, unfocused eyes on Michon, reeling a little in backlash from what Sief had suffered.