The King's Deryni (21 page)

Alaric sensed rather than saw the royal gaze at first, and looked up to see the king smile and nod as he caught Alaric's eye and started toward him. The boy immediately sprang to his feet, giving a graceful bow over the manuscript clutched to his breast.

“Good afternoon,” the king said, coming up into the embrasure as Sir Jamyl took up a posture of casual vigilance in the opening at floor level. “What have you there? The light isn't very good on a day like this.”

“Begging your pardon, Sire, but my Torenthi isn't very good, either,” the boy replied, smiling. “But I keep at it. Winter is a good time for such pursuits. There isn't much else to do in one's free time.”

“Hmmm, perhaps Duke Richard is giving you too much free time, then,” the king observed, though he was smiling as he said it. “What's that you're reading, anyway?” he asked, reaching across to tilt the manuscript toward him. “That's Orkény's
Memoirs of the Great War
. ‘Failed Battle Tactics,' my uncle calls it. Good Lord, you don't mean to tell me you're trying to read it in Torenthi?” The king looked up incredulously. “You do know that we have a translation.”

The boy looked startled and a bit appalled.

“No, Sire, I didn't know,” he said in a small voice.

“Well, we do. Practicing your Torenthi is one thing, but—tell me, have you gotten much out of the original?”

Alaric swallowed and ventured an uncertain nod. “I think so, Sire. I've tried setting up some of the battle scenarios on a cardounet board, but the scale is a bit small to be certain what he was doing.”

“Well, I've only read Orkény in translation, but I do understand his strategy,” the king said, glancing back thoughtfully at his companion. “Jamyl, please ask my uncle to join us in the withdrawing room. Young Morgan, come with me.”

Wide-eyed, still clutching the manuscript to his chest, Alaric gave an obedient nod and followed as the king struck out across the great hall floor and Sir Jamyl Arilan headed in another direction. He could feel the stares of the squires as he went, though no one dared to break from training exercises.

Up to the left of the dais they went, passing then into the withdrawing room behind, where the king customarily held more private audiences. Alaric had been there once before, at that Twelfth Night when his father was created Earl of Lendour.

Today, in addition to serving as the king's winter writing room, the chamber was arranged with maps spread across several trestle tables, with troop markers and tallies such as Alaric had never seen up close. As they entered the room, the king gestured toward a senior squire sorting documents at the writing table nearer the fire.

“Godwin, bring out the maps that would cover the action of the Battle of Killingford, if you will. Young Master Alaric has discovered Orkény, in the original Torenthi, and would like to see the battle laid out properly—and I should like to see now much he understands.”

A flurry of activity ensued, as Godwin and another squire hastily cleared away the markers from the map table and unrolled another map atop the first, weighting its corners with river-polished stones. When the king had briefly explained the correspondences for the various markers and tokens, he gestured for the boy to set up the arrays for the start of the battle.

Alaric began slowly at first, as he familiarized himself with this particular map, then with growing confidence. He was unaware that the king's uncle had arrived until he looked up and saw the royal duke standing at the king's side, with Jamyl looking between them from behind. All three of them were wearing expressions of varying disbelief, as were the two squires, both due to be knighted at Twelfth Night.

“I—believe this is correct, Sire,” Alaric murmured, casting hesitant looks at all five men. “I had to guess at a few of the terms that didn't seem to be quite the same in Torenthi, but this scenario seems consistent with what I'd learned elsewhere.”

“Interesting,” Richard said, stroking his close-clipped beard as he studied the board. “You need to shift this and these,” he went on, adjusting several markers, “but I can see how you were misled, given that you don't actually read Torenthi. Or do you?” he asked, looking up with narrowed gaze.

“Not really, sir,” Alaric whispered. “Well, a few words. My Aunt Delphine, my father's sister, taught me Torenthi lettering, and then I just—sounded out some of the terms. And Sir Llion speaks and reads a little. Oh, and I learned a bit from reading about cardounet strategy,” he added as an afterthought. “But no one seems to play much here. At least the other boys don't.”

Richard turned to glance at Jamyl. “You play, don't you, Sir Jamyl?”

Jamyl inclined his head. “I do, sir.”

“Perhaps you could find someone to play with Master Alaric.”

“I am certain that can be arranged, sir.”

“Fair enough,” Richard agreed. “Now, run the battle, lad. I know you haven't yet been taught the standard way of doing that—or at least I assume that you haven't—but show us how you think it went on the day.”

Tentatively at first, Alaric explained the course of the battle, moving pieces, shifting markers, and finally ending with the Torenthi army routed, though at what cost to both sides, he had only just begun to comprehend, as the battle unfolded on a proper map. When he had finished, he looked up apprehensively, certain he must have got most of it wrong. To his surprise, both Richard and the king were nodding in approval, exchanging pleased smiles. Jamyl had clasped his arms across his breast, but was not quite covering his own smile behind one upraised hand. The two squires looked disbelieving, but the respect in their eyes was genuine.

“Innis, go and fetch me the translation of Orkény's battle memoirs,” Richard said to the taller of the two squires. “Godwin, leave us. Jamyl, you can go as well.” And as the pair beat a hasty exit, followed by the young knight, he said to the king, “Well, it's clear that we have something of a tactical prodigy on our hands, Nephew.
Must
we let Jared have him for the next few years?”

Brion nodded, smiling faintly. “I fear we must. Kenneth has been quite adamant about that. He needs time to grow. I told you about young Seaton. And there are others who resent him as well.” He glanced at Alaric, who was trying hard to make himself invisible while two Haldane princes discussed his shortcomings. “Alaric, what do
you
think?”

The boy cleared his throat nervously and ducked his head in agreement. “I—think it would be good if I served Duke Jared for a time, Sire. People in the borders are more tolerant of my kind. Here, you would be spending a great deal of energy trying to keep me safe. And begging your pardon, Sire, but neither you nor Duke Richard can be everywhere at once. I've heard about what happened to Krispin MacAthan—and that was at a Twelfth Night court, surrounded by people who should have been able to prevent it but couldn't.”

Brion gave a snort and glanced at his uncle. “Eight years old, Richard. My father has left me a formidable weapon,
if
we can get him safely grown.”

“Truly,” Richard agreed. “Then, until he does go with Jared, may I take over his training, at least for the theoretical aspects? I should like to continue with analyzing Orkény. Sir Llion can continue with his physical training. He's doing an admirable job.”

“What say you, lad?” The king turned his attention on Alaric. “Would you like to have some private tutoring from Duke Richard?”

Alaric allowed himself a slow, pleased grin. “I should like that very much, Sire.”

“Excellent,” Richard said, as the door opened and the squire Innis returned with a scroll under his arm. Just beyond him, Godwin waited in the open doorway, looking uncertain. “Is that the translation?”

“Aye, sir, it is.”

“Good. I'm giving it on loan to young Master Alaric, who will begin reading this instead of attending lessons with the other boys.” He intercepted the scroll and handed it off to Alaric, also gesturing for Godwin to enter. “I shall expect you every afternoon for an hour before supper, lad, beginning tomorrow. Godwin, Innis, you can put back the room. We'll be wanting it in the morning for a staff meeting.”

•   •   •

L
ATER
that evening, when the castle slept at last, Sir Jamyl Arilan repaired to the room he had made his own in the months since the king's knighting: the room next to the royal library, where lay the Transfer Portal by which he could gain access to the chamber where the Camberian Council met. As rationale for claiming the room, he had made it known that he desired to conduct research in the royal archives next door—and indeed, he did avail himself of the assembled records on a regular enough basis that no one questioned his interest.

On this occasion, however, he gave the library door not a second glance, instead letting himself into his own room and setting the latch behind him. He lit several wall sconces before reclining on the canopied bed that occupied most of the room.

For several minutes he simply closed his eyes and concentrated on the flicker of the torchlight behind lowered lids, letting the wavering patterns of light and shadow propel him deep into trance, at the same time sending out a very focused and specific call. Then he roused from trance and sat more upright, propped against the pillows with arms crossed on his chest, waiting.

Beyond the closed door, he could faintly hear the normal night sounds of the castle at rest, and the occasional shuffle of footsteps passing. Then, all at once, the very air in the room seemed to grow quiet, expectant, just before a shadow shifted at the foot of the bed and a cloaked figure winked into existence.

“This had better be important,” a soft whisper breathed, as golden light briefly flared around the head of Stefan Coram, confirming his identity.

At once Jamyl slid to his feet and came to clasp hands with the other man, wrist to wrist.

I couldn't risk leaving the castle,
Jamyl sent, mind to mind,
and it isn't something the entire Council necessarily needs to know, at this point. But I knew you would appreciate the intelligence.

Stefan cocked his head in question.

Imagine the king's surprise,
Jamyl went on,
when he discovered that young Alaric Morgan, his half-breed Deryni duke, has been reading Orkény in the original Torenthi.

He reads Torenthi?
Stefan interjected.

Enough to get the gist of Orkény's battle tactics—and that's difficult enough to do in translation. I don't know whether to attribute it to being half-Deryni or just being bright, but it certainly bears watching.

Stefan made a silent whistle under his breath.

Anyway, Brion gave him the translation, and we'll see what happens next. Probably not a great deal right away, because Kenneth is adamant that the boy should begin his official page's training with Duke Jared—and I can't say I disagree. Having a Deryni openly at court is going to be difficult on many levels; best to let the boy get some years under his belt before he has to contend with the hostility that will only increase as he gets older. The Seaton boy is already making life difficult for him from time to time, following in his uncle's footsteps.

Stefan only shook his head, resignation in his pale eyes.

I don't envy the boy the next few years—but you're right: we don't need to involve the full Council at this point. Keep an eye out for him, if you can. Until he matures, he is still very much an unknown quantity, and may or may not prove an asset to our operations.

One other development that might prove useful,
Jamyl replied.
A relationship, one might even venture to call it a friendship, seems to be developing between Alaric and the son of Sir Evan Sullivan, Oisín's friend.

Then I'll mention it to Oisín, so that he can make the necessary adjustments if the friendship continues.
Stefan smiled as he gave Jamyl's wrist an affirming squeeze.
Well done, friend. It will be interesting to see how this all plays out.

“Withhold not good from them to whom it is due, when it is in the power of thy hand to do it.”

—PROVERBS 3:27

T
HE
remaining weeks until the feast of Christmas and the festivities of Twelfth Night court passed quickly for young Alaric Morgan. With his training now conducted exclusively by Llion and Duke Richard, he had little need to interact with the other boys, which he mostly counted as a distinct blessing, but it also meant that he had scant opportunity to pursue his friendships with Paget Sullivan and Quillan Pargeter. And even when the older page summoned up the courage to ask whether Alaric might consent to be part of Paget's squiring party, Alaric felt obliged to decline.

“I wish I dared,” he told Paget, one cold December afternoon shortly before Christmas, “but it does no good to rub Cornelius's nose in the fact that I'm getting special treatment—and from Duke Richard, at that. And I don't want to get you into more trouble with Cornelius, when I'll only be at court for a few more weeks. You'll still have to train with him, once I'm gone.”

“That's true,” Paget said, ducking his head. “I wish you were staying at court, though. I want to read that battle treatise when you're finished with it,” he added, almost defensively.

Alaric smiled faintly and gave a gentle buffet to Paget's bicep. “Careful, you're about to become a Haldane squire. It wouldn't do to be looking up to a mere page—and a Deryni one, at that.”

“That doesn't bother me,” Paget said, a little flustered. “Not the fact that you're only just becoming a page
or
that you're Deryni. I've decided you aren't that scary, Alaric Morgan. Not now that I've gotten to know you a bit. I don't understand why most people are afraid of your kind.”

“Maybe it's one of life's great mysteries,” Alaric said lightly. “But I do promise that I'll try never to do anything that will make you afraid of me. And if you like,” he added with a smile, “I'll ask the king whether you may have custody of the Orkény treatise when I go to Culdi.”

A look of uncertainty flashed across Paget's handsome face. “You would do that for me?”

“Of course. That's what friends do for friends.”

Paget's uncertainty slowly shifted into relieved acceptance as he shyly offered his right hand.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “And you
are
my friend, Alaric Morgan.”

•   •   •

A
testing of Alaric's resolve not to frighten came far sooner than he might have hoped—not involving Paget directly, but impossible to hide or even temper with much restraint. It was the week before Christmas: a rare, sunny day, but snow was thick on the ground. Earlier, Alaric had enjoyed a vigorous ride-out with his father and Llion outside the city walls, with a stop on the way back at a silversmith's establishment near the cathedral, to see about a commission for the king.

Early afternoon found him and Llion ensconced in a window embrasure in the great hall, where Llion was setting up for a game of cardounet with a set loaned by Duke Richard. Llion was not a keen player, but he was more than competent, and always gave his young charge a good game. He had also read both de Brinsi and Koltan. A firepot was set on the floor of the embrasure, which kept the worst of the chill at bay.

Down in the great hall itself, Jiri Redfearn and a pair of younger knights were putting half a dozen junior squires through sword drill with practice equipment moved inside for the occasion. Some of the youngsters were taking turns vaulting onto a wooden horse with wooden swords in hand, then leaning down to whack at a helmet set atop a wooden crosspiece. Others, wearing practice helmets, hacked at thick wooden pells with live steel, occasionally sending splinters flying—a step up from the drills with wooden swords. The adult supervision was essential, for the youngsters' control was sometimes less than exacting.

That should have been sufficient to avert disaster. Nonetheless, the rhythmic thud of blades against leather and wood was suddenly punctuated by a less solid thump and a sharp cry of pain.

Llion came to his feet and was on his way onto the floor even as activity ceased. Alaric likewise had risen to peer down into the hall. Jaska Collins was pushing his way through the gaggle of stunned and frightened squires to where Jiri and Phares Donovan had gone to the aid of the injured squire. The lad had one gloved hand clapped to his left arm, where bright blood had blossomed against his white shirt.

“Easy, lad, let me have a look,” Jiri murmured, easing the boy's hand far enough aside to assess the damage as Jaska pulled off the boy's helmet.

“
Jesu
, I'm bleeding like a stuck pig!” the boy gasped, eyes screwed shut as he grimaced with the pain. His face was as white as his shirt. “How bad is it?”

“I think it will want some stitching,” Jiri allowed, “but it doesn't look too bad.”

“Nolen, fetch Duke Richard's battle-surgeon!” Phares ordered one of the older squires, himself bolting toward the stairwell that led to the duke's quarters. “I'll get the duke.”

Llion, meanwhile, had taken Phares's place, and was helping to support the boy while Jiri jammed a wadded cloth to the wound to apply pressure. The injured squire was a studious fifteen-year-old called Maxen of Coldoire, whose father was a vassal of the Earl of Marley. He also was one of the few older boys who had occasionally had a kind word for Alaric.

“Maxen, let's shift you over here to sit down,” Jiri said, as he and Llion began walking the injured boy to one of the window embrasures, to sit on the step up. “How did this happen?”

“I think—my sword must've hit a knot,” Maxen managed to murmur. “The hilt twisted right out of my hand—I couldn't stop it! And then the blade—”

He grimaced and sucked in breath between clenched teeth as Jiri checked the wound again, then reapplied pressure. As running feet heralded the arrival first of Master Donnard, Duke Richard's battle-surgeon, and then the duke himself, Alaric stepped down from his window embrasure and tried to edge closer to the action. He sensed Maxen's pain and fear—and was well aware that he could ease it, if only they would let him—but Jaska started moving the other boys back from Maxen to make room.

Llion also stepped back as Donnard took his place, he and the duke both listening as Jiri murmured what had happened and Donnard took a quick look at the wound, then opened his surgical kit and began selecting instruments. Very shortly, a kitchen boy appeared with a bowl of steaming water and some clean cloths over his arm. Maxen's face was tight with the pain as Duke Richard cut away the sleeve, and Alaric started to edge his way closer, trying to position himself where he had a clear view.

“Maxen, look at me! I know you can do this!” he said, his voice calm yet powerful with conviction.

Master Donnard faltered in his preparations, glancing quickly at the duke, but Richard only shot Alaric a stern look and shook his head minutely.

“Careful,” he murmured.

“Yes, sir,” Alaric whispered, as his stomach did a slow, queasy roll.

But Duke Richard mercifully said nothing further; merely turned deliberately back to Master Donnard, who had commenced to wash out the wound.

“You'll need more light,” the duke said, and motioned for several of the other squires to come closer. “Some of you, bring some torches, and a few of you can help hold him steady. It's time you learned about another facet of being a warrior. One day, hopefully not too soon or too often, you may have to do this for one of your men. Charles, Harry, give Master Donnard a hand.”

The torches came, and the two squires Richard had named positioned themselves to one side and behind their wounded fellow, one supporting Maxen's back and the other bracing the unwounded arm. Alaric desperately wanted to join them and help, but he knew he dared not; and he was greatly aware that Llion had returned to stand behind him, hands tightening on his shoulders, holding him back.

“Right, then,” Donnard said, taking up his needle. “I'll try to make this as quick as possible, lad.”

Fortunately, Donnard was quick, indeed, and soon had closed Maxen's wound with half a dozen tidy sutures. A scar the boy would have, to remind him of his carelessness—or ill fortune—but Donnard assured him, as he waved off his assistants and finished tying off the bandage, that if he followed instructions to keep the wound clean, he should heal quickly.

“Very well,” Richard said, giving Maxen a hand up and motioning for the rest of the boys to disperse. “The rest of you lot, return to your drill—and try not to repeat Maxen's mistake.” He pulled off his own mantle and put it around Maxen's shoulders. “Maxen, you can sit here and watch for the rest of the session. Jiri and Phares, Jaska, try to keep a closer watch this time. Sir Llion, please bring that firepot from the next window for Maxen, then bring your young charge and come with me.”

Alaric's heart was in his throat as Richard led him and Llion beyond the dais and into the king's withdrawing room, which was unoccupied at that hour. As soon as the door closed behind them, Richard turned to fix the boy in his stern gaze.

“Now, suppose you tell me just what you thought you were doing out there,” he said quietly, though there was steel in his voice.

Alaric swallowed. “I—thought I might block his pain, sir.”

“Llion, could he have done that?” the duke demanded.

“I don't know, Your Highness,” Llion said, which was true but ambiguous.

Richard gave a heavy sigh and turned to briefly lean against the writing desk, gazing at the surface between his two hands as he considered his reply. Then:

“Alaric, apparently I need to remind you of a few unpleasant truths. There are those at court who do not like Deryni. Some have what they consider to be legitimate reasons; some are simply ignorant gits. My brother intended that you should be an asset to his son, my nephew; but if you flaunt what you are, even for what you regard as good reason—and I will not deny that it would have been a kindness to young Maxen, to lessen his pain while Master Donnard patched him up—if you flaunt your powers, those who hate your kind may take it in their minds to eliminate you.”

Alaric could not bear to look at the duke, whom he greatly respected, and found himself hovering on the verge of tears. But Duke Richard did not relent.

“I trust I need not remind you what happened to young Krispin MacAthan,” the duke went on. “He was precisely your age when narrow-minded men consumed by hatred of your kind contrived to take his life, and in circumstances whose details I hope you do not learn for many years. I do not know whether you are the only Deryni at court—my nephew has not confided in me in that regard, if even he knows—but I do know that whatever other Deryni might be here, they are discreet, they do not call attention to their powers—and that is what enables them to survive. Do you understand what I am saying to you?”

Alaric nodded slowly, still not looking up. He had nearly made a serious mistake, in his instinctive impulse to try to help Maxen. He could see that now. The line he must walk was even more delicate than he had imagined: to learn to use his powers, as they emerged, but to exercise the uttermost discretion in how and when he used them. At least until he was old enough and skilled enough to protect himself.

“Good, then,” Richard said softly, when it became apparent that the boy was not going to speak. “I trust we shan't need to have this conversation again for many years, if then. I don't know who is training you, or even whether
anyone
is training you; I have no idea what provisions my brother made for seeing you to manhood. But be careful, lad. You have powerful enemies, and neither the king nor I will always be able to protect you.”

“Yes, sir,” Alaric whispered. “It won't happen again.”

“I am very glad to hear that,” Richard replied. “Llion, you keep a tighter rein as well.”

“Aye, my lord,” Llion murmured, similarly cowed by the duke's justified anger.

“That's all, then. If I were you, I would lie low for a few days—both of you.”

With only a nod for answer, Llion set his hand firmly on his young charge's shoulder and marched both of them out of the room, heading up the nearest stair to return to their quarters, rather than going through the great hall. When they were safely behind the door, Alaric moved blindly to the window and stood there for the better part of an hour, gazing out at the rooftops of the castle complex, not speaking. Llion sat down to wait. When the boy finally turned, he gave Llion a long, searching look, as if somehow surprised to see his mentor still there, then returned his gaze to the view out the window.

“I only wanted to help,” he said. “Was that so very wrong?”

Llion allowed himself a sigh. “Not so
very
wrong, no,” he replied, after a beat. “But not so very wise, either. Do you understand that?”