The King's Deryni (2 page)

“Blessed art thou, O land, when thy king is the son of nobles . . .”

—ECCLESIASTES 10:17

S
TANDING
in his own great hall at Rhemuth, surrounded by men sworn to uphold him, Brion King of Gwynedd knew that the faintly queasy sensation in his gut came of no rational fear for his safety. Nonetheless, the sight of a foreign king standing between him and his throne, armed and crowned, could not but give one pause, especially when that king was accompanied by another prince regarded as one of the most puissant warriors in all the Eleven Kingdoms.

That the two men were his royal uncles only partially reassured, for blood greed had been the downfall of many a young king come prematurely to his crown, with still much to learn of his craft as monarch and warrior—and Brion had been but fourteen at his coronation, hardly four years before.

Nonetheless, all experience before and since that day declared that Brion King of Gwynedd need harbor no such misgivings about these two men. For as long as he could remember, Prince Richard Haldane, younger half-brother of his late father, had been his teacher, his mentor, his most merciless critic when Brion failed to do his very best.

As for the goodwill of his other uncle—the one who wore a crown of his own—that, likewise, was beyond question. Illann King of Howicce and Llannedd was the beloved elder brother of Brion's mother, the Dowager Queen Richeldis, come especially to honor this milestone in his nephew's young reign. He stood now at Richard's left, peacock-bright in the colors of Howicce and Llannedd amid all that Haldane crimson. Both he and Richard were the sons of kings, of blood equally royal to Brion's own, yet they had come to their feet at their nephew's approach, inclining their heads in respect.

The man who had presented the royal candidate, and had fixed the golden spurs to his heels, was also of blood both ancient and royal. Ewan Duke of Claibourne was a direct descendant of the last prince of Kheldour, to the north, and one of only four dukes in Gwynedd. Assisting him had been the scion of another great ducal family: Jared Earl of Kierney, deputizing for his ailing father, the Duke of Cassan. Like the royal uncles, both of these men also wore noble coronets upon their brows, and all of them bore steel at their hips.

By contrast, Brion King of Gwynedd wore no crown or other emblem of his royal estate, no rich raiment or even any weapon. With his sable hair caught back severely in a warrior's knot, he had donned the robes traditional to any candidate for knighthood: the unadorned inner robe of white, signifying the purity of his honor, partially covered by the stark black over-tunic symbolic of the grave to which all eventually must come.

Over both lay the bloodred mantle: fittingly, in Brion's case, of Haldane crimson. To such blood had he been born—blood which, even more than any mere knight, he must be willing to shed in defense of his realm, even unto death. At his coronation, the new king had pledged his life to his kingdom: reckoned a man, in law, for the governing of his realm, and well enough prepared in mind, but all too aware that he wore still the body of a half-grown youth, with much yet to learn of the warrior he must become, if he hoped to keep his crown.

That he had kept it thus far was due, in part, to his royal uncles, to the princely dukes flanking him, and to the loyalty and courage of the sandy-haired man standing close beside the throne: Sir Kenneth Morgan Earl of Lendour, who bore the great state crown of leaves and crosses intertwined as if it were no more burden than its mere weight of gold and precious stones, though he had saved it and Brion's life on more than one occasion.

And the towheaded boy at Kenneth's side, who had proudly carried the golden spurs now affixed to the king's heels, and assisted in their fastening, was cut from the same cloth as his sire: quick and earnest, utterly devoted to Brion, and so much more than he appeared to be, for all that he was only seven years of age. Because his mother had been heiress to a great duchy, Alaric Morgan would be Duke of Corwyn when he came of age, one of the most powerful men in the land. But Alyce de Corwyn had also been Deryni, possessor of powers both feared and resented by ordinary folk—which meant that many feared who and what young Alaric was, and what he might become.

The Church, in particular, had made its position abundantly clear regarding Deryni, for those trained in that heritage were believed to wield extraordinary powers that could compromise another's free will and even enslave the soul of the unwitting. Several of Gwynedd's bishops, some of whom were present today, had been particularly vocal in their condemnation, and one of them had nearly been the death of Alaric's mother before he was even born.

Yet King Brion's father, only days before his death, had commended the boy Alaric to Brion's especial attention and care, promising a legacy of benign magical powers to be employed in Brion's service, and further powers to be imparted for Brion's own use.

Was it true? Brion was not sure he remembered all that had been told him, but he believed and hoped that further knowledge would be revealed to him in due course—hopefully, well before he really needed it! And it was all somehow linked to the blond boy holding a crimson pillow beside the throne of Gwynedd.

But that was for the future—with any luck, some years in the future, when Alaric Morgan was grown. For now, Brion returned his full focus to his uncles, from whom he was about to receive the knightly accolade, which only another knight might bestow.

“Your Royal Highness,” a herald intoned, addressing Richard, “having been invested with the spurs, the noble squire Brion Haldane now presents himself before the throne of Gwynedd to request the accolade from your hand, that he may henceforth be recognized as a knight.”

Richard inclined his head, a faint smile curving within the sable mustache and close-clipped beard as his eyes met Brion's, Haldane grey to Haldane grey. In that moment, wearing Haldane crimson and a royal diadem, with one hand resting on the hilt of the sword at his hip, he very much resembled his late brother.

“Kneel now, Brion Haldane,” he commanded.

With a nod of his head that was more jerky than intended, Brion moved forward to kneel on the scarlet cushion that young Alaric Morgan now set atop the first step of the dais; before, it had borne the golden spurs. As he settled himself and looked up, Richard turned to the crimson-clad duty-squire standing behind him: Brion's younger brother and heir presumptive, the twelve-year-old Prince Nigel, who extended the hilt of the sheathed Haldane sword, borne by many generations of Haldane kings. He retained the jeweled scabbard as his uncle drew forth the blade in a hiss of fine steel, clasping it to his breast in wide-eyed awe as Richard raised the blade and briefly brought the sword's cross-hilt to his lips in salute.

Richard paused then as King Illann reached across to rest his bejeweled hand atop Richard's, in pointed reminder that
this
knighthood came by way of
two
lines of royal kings and noble knights. The significance was not lost on Brion or, indeed, on any of those present.

Very briefly, as the flat of the blade descended toward his right shoulder, Brion closed his eyes and prayed that he might be worthy of this new charge, then lifted his gaze to Richard's once more, as the flat of the blade touched his right shoulder and Richard spoke.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son”—the blade lifted to touch the left shoulder—“and of the Holy Spirit”—the blade arched upward to briefly rest atop Brion's head—“be thou a good and faithful knight. Amen.”

As the blade lifted again, to briefly rest over Richard's right shoulder, he glanced aside at Illann with a speaking glance. Smiling, Illann offered the new knight his right hand and said, “Arise, Sir Brion Haldane, and be invested with the further symbols of your new estate.”

Murmurs of approval rippled among the assembled witnesses as Brion clasped his uncle's hand and got to his feet, grinning as he accepted the bear hug that the older man offered. Richard, after passing the Haldane blade to Prince Nigel, likewise offered the new knight a quick embrace. As he did so, a beaming Dowager Queen Richeldis joined them from the sidelines, flanked by Brion's two younger sisters. Xenia, the adoring thirteen-year-old, proudly bore the white belt across both hands like some holy relic: the most visible outward symbol of the honor her brother had just received. Silke, who was nine, had been entrusted with a single red rose.

Composing himself to a properly kingly mien, Brion bent to kiss his mother's hand, then straightened and lifted his arms to either side so that she and his sisters could pass the belt around his waist and under his mantle, stark white against the sable of his over-robe.

“Congratulations, my son,” his mother murmured, as she fastened its jeweled clasp. “May this belt be always a reminder to keep your honor spotless.”

When she had kissed him on both cheeks and hugged him close, Silke shyly presented him with her rose, which he tucked into his belt. He then accepted a kiss from each of his sisters, in turn.

After that, as the women drew back, Brion turned back to his uncle and again sank to his knees on the scarlet cushion. At the same time, the aged Archbishop of Rhemuth came forward, coped and mitered in cloth of gold, to stand as witness. Richard had retrieved the Haldane sword from Prince Nigel, and now laid it across both palms, extending it to Brion. In response, the king laid his hands atop Richard's in oath, looking him in the eyes.

“Here before God and these witnesses, and with my hands upon the sword of my fathers, I, Brion Donal Cinhil Urien, knight, do make this reaffirmation of my coronation vows,” he said steadily. “I solemnly promise and swear that I will do my utmost to keep the peace in Gwynedd and govern its peoples according to our ancient laws and customs; that I will, to the best of my ability, cause law and justice, in mercy, to be executed in all my judgments, so that evil and wrongdoing shall be suppressed, and the laws of God maintained. All this I vow, on my honor as a king and as a true knight, so help me God.”

With that, he bent to kiss the blade between his hands, crossed himself in response to the blessing uttered by the archbishop, “
In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti
,” then waited while his uncle slipped the sword into its jeweled scabbard and laid it back across his hands. As he stood, shifting the sheathed sword into the crook of his left arm, Kenneth Morgan brought forward the state crown of leaves and crosses intertwined, inclining his head as he lifted it slightly between them.

“Sire, I return the crown of Gwynedd into your good keeping,” he said.

Smiling, the king bent slightly so that Kenneth could set the crown upon his brow, then turned to face the waiting court. At the same time, Ewan Duke of Claibourne declared: “My lords, I present to you Sir Brion Haldane, King of Gwynedd, Prince of Meara, Lord of the Purple March, and now, by God's grace, a knight!”

A roar of approbation erupted from the assembled court, along with an energetic stamping of feet, only abating when the smiling Brion lifted a hand for silence. As he did so, Duke Richard moved from in front of the throne to make way for his nephew, and Kenneth took his place beside the throne with half a dozen others on whose counsel the king relied. King Illann retired to a noble chair set among those of his sister the queen, her two daughters, and also his own son. Young Alaric Morgan, his official duties now complete, retreated into the charge of Sir Llion Farquahar, the young Corwyn knight who looked after him when his father was otherwise engaged.

“That was nicely done, Master Alaric,” Sir Llion murmured, as he shepherded the boy toward a side door. “Now we'd best get you changed into proper tourney clothes. And you have a pony waiting to be groomed.”

“But the king is going to make more knights,” the boy replied, craning his neck back over his shoulder to glimpse the senior squires gathering at the back of the hall with their escorts of family and supporters. “And then there will be birthday gifts.”

Chuckling, Llion smiled faintly as he ushered the boy out into the garden colonnade adjoining the great hall.

“Have you not had enough pomp and ceremony for one day?” he teased. “I thought you were keen to beat Airey Redfearn and Aean Morrisey in the ring-tilting—and your cousin Duncan will be eager to have you cheer him on.”

“That's later this afternoon,” Alaric said reasonably. “We have plenty of time.”

“And why would you want to go back into that hot and crowded great hall?” Llion countered lightly, as he scanned the handful of others who had sought the cooler climes of the garden. Fortunately, no one was close by.

“Well, I—just like to watch people,” the boy said uncertainly.

“Hmmm, yes. And I have no doubt that some of them would derive great satisfaction from watching
you
—though I very much doubt that ‘like' has anything to do with it.” Llion glanced around again, and kept his voice low. “Did you not notice Bishop de Nore glaring at you the whole time you were standing there beside your father, because you were close to the king? And it is quite possible that there are Torenthi emissaries among the observers, who almost certainly would be Deryni. They don't hate you in the way that de Nore hates you, but it certainly would be to the advantage of
their
king if the King of Gwynedd did not have a future Deryni duke being brought up in the safety of his court.”