The King's Deryni (13 page)

But for Síoda Kushannan, there would be no “next visit.” Only as Alaric was settling into his bed did it occur to him to wonder whether any spark of that long-diluted Deryni blood might run in the veins of young Jernian, who carried the name of a Deryni duke.

“For I was a witty child, and had a good spirit.”

—WISDOM OF SOLOMON 8:19

A
LARIC
was up early the next morning, to dress in the formal attire that Llion had laid out for him.

“Your father and I discussed the best way to convey your status, and we agreed that the livery of a Lendour page is probably most appropriate,” Llion told him, as Alaric did up the laces on his linen shirt. “Eventually, you
will
be Duke of Corwyn, of course, but he did not think this the time to make an issue of it.”

“I understand,” Alaric said, as he let Llion slip the red and white Lendour tabard over his head. “Some of the other boys have been pages or squires for years, and have earned their status. You've taught me well, Llion, but I still have much to learn.”

“You shall be an official page to a duke by Twelfth Night,” Llion replied with a smile. “And meanwhile, it is no small thing to be an unofficial page to your father.”

“And it is no small thing to be your student!” Alaric said loyally, as the door opened and his father entered. “Let them watch me at ring-tilting this afternoon.”

“Just don't show them up too badly,” Kenneth said, smiling as he closed the door behind him. “The boys and even the squires you contest today will become the men you will one day rule, and childhood grudges can last a long time.”

Alaric cocked his head. “Are you saying that I should not do my best?”

“No, just be mindful of
how
you do your best,” Kenneth replied. “Every man wants his lord to be the best, but these are still boys, who have trained together for years, some of them. You are still something of an outsider to them, so you must prove your worth. Here, I've brought you something to wear for the ceremony.”

So saying, he produced an oblong object swathed in wrappings of checkered wool. “Lord Hamilton gave this to me last night, and bade me give it you,” he said, folding back the wrappings. Inside was an ivory-hilted dagger with silver mountings, its blade sheathed in a plain leather scabbard. “Apparently it belonged to your great-great grandfather Stíofan. It would have gone to your Uncle Ahern, if he had lived. In any case, Hamilton and his predecessors have held it in trust for the next duke—which will be you.”

He offered it across his left forearm, hilt first, and Alaric grinned ear to ear as he took it. The quillons of the weapon were deeply engraved with a design that included gryphon wings.

“This belonged to Duke Stíofan?”

“So they told me. Be sure to do him proud. But we'd best be going now. They'll be waiting downstairs.”

“Yes, of course.”

Alaric thought about what his father had said as he slipped the dagger's fittings onto his plain leather belt and followed him down the turnpike stair, Llion bringing up the rear. Ring-tilting was planned for the afternoon, and he knew that he was good. Not to do his best went against everything he had been taught.

But then it came to him how he might still level the field a bit, and give an honest striving that would not compromise his honor. Grinning, he drew Llion aside at the bottom of the stairs and whispered his plan in his mentor's ear. Llion laughed aloud and nodded his approval. “I'll tell him,” he said.

But before the strivings of the afternoon must come the morning's procession to the cathedral to pay their respects to St. Michael. Horses and ponies stood saddled in the castle yard, where several dozen squires and pages had already congregated. Most were in the black and green livery of Corwyn, but a few wore the colors of their fathers' houses. Young Jernian, in the green and white of Airnis, spotted Alaric almost as soon as he and Llion emerged from the great hall, and waved a cheery greeting.

“It appears that we're meant to ride down to the cathedral square,” Llion said aside to Alaric. “If you'd like, why don't you ride with Jernian, if that's permitted, and I'll join your father. I see Giles with a pony for you. That's what all the other pages seem to be riding.”

Craning his neck, Alaric said, “I see him.”

By the time he had worked his way over to the groom, Lord Hamilton was shouting for everyone to mount up. Alaric was surprised at how quickly the seeming chaos of the castle yard turned to order. When Giles had given him a leg up, Alaric eased his mount over to Jernian with a tentative grin.

“Good morning,” Jernian said brightly.

“Good morning,” Alaric returned. “Since you've done this before, I'll assume that you know where we're meant to go. May I ride with you, or is there some special order?”

“Only that we ride by twos, first the pages and then the squires,” Jernian said amiably. “You do me honor.”

Alaric shrugged a little self-consciously. “No reason that you should feel honored. I'm only a page, like you. And not even an official one, yet.”

“The honor still is mine,” Jernian said, smiling slightly as he bowed in the saddle. “After all, you are my future duke.”

“And a friend, I hope,” Alaric countered.

Jernian inclined his head. “That, too.”

They set out very soon along the winding avenue that led down to the cathedral square with Lord Hamilton leading the pages and squires, followed by a bevy of knights and grooms and the fathers of some of the boys. Some of the women of the town had turned out to line the route, to wave gaily colored kerchiefs and cast late-blooming flowers in their path, honoring the warriors they would become.

Dismounting before the great west portico, the young riders gave their mounts into the care of the grooms and allowed Lord Hamilton to shepherd them into a proper procession between the choir and assorted clergy. To preside over the ceremony was Coroth's bishop: the silver-haired Esmé Harris, wearing a golden cope embroidered across its back with an image of St. Michael, the wings sweeping onto his shoulders. His golden miter was embroidered with a six-winged seraph at front and back.

A thurifer led the way in cassock and surplice, swinging a great brass censer that trailed billows of sweet-smelling incense, perfuming the cathedral as he came. Next came a crucifer with a jeweled processional cross, flanked by a pair of lantern bearers. Following came a knight carrying a silk-embroidered banner of the archangel.

A choir of young boys followed, gowned in Corwyn green beneath their white surplices, singing a hymn to the angels:
“Benedicite Dominum, omnes angeli ejus . . .”
Bless the Lord all ye His angels. You that are mighty in strength, and execute His will, hearkening to the voice of His orders, alleluia, alleluia. . . .

The squires and pages followed this band, with the bishop bringing up the rear. Processing down the center aisle, they made their several reverences before the high altar, then continued into the south transept to halt before the side chapel that housed the armored image of the saint, fierce and more than life-sized, with sword uplifted to slay the cringing dragon pinned beneath one booted foot. There the boys formed two lines before the statue and knelt, the pages in front and the squires behind, while the bishop came to stand before them, flanked by the two lantern bearers. The boys of the choir gathered to one side.

“
In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen
,” the bishop intoned, signing himself with the cross as everyone did the same.
“Dominus vobiscum. . . .”

“
Et cum spiritu tuo
,” the choir answered.

What followed mostly ran together in Alaric's mind—readings from sacred writ and prayers invoking the blessing and protection of the great archangel whose feast this was—but kneeling by Jernian's side, he comported himself as a dutiful page, doing what the others did, careful not to put himself forward in any way that would make him stand out from the others. His bright hair already did that. And of course, everyone attending knew who he was.

To his relief, no one made direct reference to his identity; not even when the pages and squires were invited to come forward in single file to place their daggers on a low table at the feet of the statue, returning then to kneel again with clasped hands before the archangel's statue. Next, while the bishop knelt at a prayer desk off to the right, the choir began a low, melodic chant invoking the presence and protection of the archangel.

“Alleluia, alleluia, Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio. . . .”
Holy Archangel Michael, be our shield in battle, alleluia, alleluia. . . .

For an eight-year-old, the ceremony soon bordered on the tedious, even though Alaric knew it was his duty. Head bowed over his clasped hands, he let himself drift with the harmony and even daydream a bit. He remained vaguely aware of the others kneeling beside and behind him, of the bishop at his prayer desk, the fathers and other knights standing behind them.

Something changed, however, when the bishop rose and took up the great brass thurible, charging it with fresh incense as the choir began another invocation that elaborated on an ancient text.

“Per intercessionem beati Michaelis Archangeli, stantis a dextris altaris incensi. . . .”
At the intercession of blessed Michael the archangel, who stands at the right hand of the altar of incense. . . .

As the bishop brought the censer over to the statue, swinging it from side to side, Alaric certainly was not expecting anything unusual to happen. But as the bishop saluted the statue of the archangel with incense and then turned his attention to the daggers at its feet, all at once Alaric became aware of . . .
something
suddenly looming behind and all around the statue of St. Michael, overshadowing and engulfing it, larger than a man.

Startled, it was all he could do not to jerk his head upward in surprise, though he sensed that nothing physical had changed. Nor was anyone else reacting to anything out of the ordinary. Certainly not the bishop, looking almost bored as he trailed incense smoke over the daggers, the censer's chains clinking brass against the brass.

Forcing down a faint queasiness in the pit of his stomach, Alaric cautiously dared a glance upward, careful not to move anything but his eyes—and quickly averted them as he caught the distinct impression of fire shimmering around the statue like a vast, fiery cloak . . . or folded wings.

Suddenly light-headed, he made himself draw a slow breath to steady his nerves. Then he cautiously looked upward again, for in the afterimage of his mind's eye, he had also formed the vague impression of gauntleted fists folded over the quillons of a massive golden sword within the column of fire. Sidelong vision seemed to be more distinct than head-on, but he lowered his gaze again when, quite deliberately, part of the fire abruptly swept down like an arm, to pass above the daggers laid out on the table at the saint's feet.

Alaric stifled a gasp at that, thankfully masked by the choir, though he remembered to keep his face impassive. The bishop still seemed unaware, calmly turning away to hand off the censer to a waiting server. But when Alaric glanced back at the statue, the overlay of fire was gone.

Exhaling cautiously, he lowered his eyes and tried to collect himself, only now recalling the apparitions he and Duncan had seen at Duke Andrew's deathbed. He wondered whether this had been a similar vision, whether anyone else had seen it.

He followed the others dutifully as the ceremony came to a close, the bishop giving all of them a final blessing and then gesturing that each boy should retrieve his dagger before filing out in silence. Jernian was rubbing at his eyes, looking a bit bemused as he and Alaric headed down the stairs before the great west portal. Had he, too, perhaps seen something?

“That was interesting,” Alaric said quietly, looking for and then spotting his father and Llion, who were waiting with their horses and Alaric's pony. “Is it always done that way?”

“What do you mean?” Jernian replied. He was still rubbing at his eyes.

“Oh, with the bishop presiding, and all those prayers to Saint Michael,” Alaric said vaguely. “Do you have something in your eye?”

“It's nothing,” Jernian said with a shake of his head. “Maybe some ash from the incense. Why do you ask about the ceremony? Don't they keep Saint Michael's feast in Rhemuth?”

Alaric shrugged, but he could not shake the feeling that Jernian was dissembling. “I'm sure they must do. Most knights have a devotion to Saint Michael. I'm just glad his feast doesn't happen in the summer, with all that incense. I expect it might get plenty warm.”

“Oh, it would, and it does.” Jernian grinned self-consciously and turned his attention to Kenneth and Llion as they approached the two adults. “Look, here's your father.”

Alaric thought about what he had experienced while they rode back up to the castle, but realized that any serious discussion probably would have to wait until he returned to Culdi. Though he and Duncan had told Aunt Vera about the angels at Duke Andrew's deathbed, he had not mentioned it to his father or Llion, who were not Deryni.