The King's Deryni (8 page)

Vivienne gasped and sat back in her chair, her face draining of color, and Stefan bit at his lip.

“It
was
a very long labor . . . ,” Barrett said tentatively.

“Aye, but that alone was not the cause of her death,” Khoren replied, gazing up sightlessly at the glowing crystal far above their heads, his tone flat and detached. “Hogan had summoned his aunt to attend the birth: the very ruthless Princess Camille Furstána—or Mother Serafina, as she now styles herself.” He briefly closed his eyes, as if to blot out the memory, then leaned his head against the high back of his chair.

“The Festils are nothing if not tenacious, whether by birth or by marriage,” he went on. “When it became clear to the Lady Roshane that her strength was failing, and that she could not deliver, she seized her husband's hand and bade them cut the child from her womb.” Vivienne gasped, and Jamyl felt his gut do a queasy roll. “Hogan held her head and blocked the pain, weeping, and Camille did the deed—all for naught, as it happened. The child, a prince, never drew breath—and could not have long survived, in any case. The head was nearly twice the size it should have been, and there were . . . other deformities. My informant was present at the birth, but would not elaborate. Perhaps it is better that way.”

As he raised a hand to cover his eyes, a collective sigh whispered among his listeners.

“Well,” said Rhydon, after a beat. “It could be argued that there
is
a positive side to all of this. One less male heir to strengthen Hogan's claim on Gwynedd.”

“That is a monstrous thing to say!” Vivienne snapped.

“Nonetheless, it is true,” Rhydon said coldly. “The Festils have long memories, and they will not lightly give up what they regard as rightfully theirs.”

“What they stole in the first place!” Stefan said under his breath.

“Be that as it may,” Rhydon replied, “eventually, your Brion Haldane will need to contend with Prince Hogan. But at least it will not be with a son at his back. At least not this time.”

“He does have issue from that von Soslán affair,” Barrett pointed out. “Two boys among them, as I recall.”

“They are of no import,” Vivienne said flatly. “All of the children of that union are bastards.”

Jamyl sat forward. “Hogan has children besides Charissa?”

Vivienne shrugged. “There were several by the von Soslán woman. The two were even married briefly, though his mother had the marriage annulled as soon as she found out, and King Arkady also disapproved. Kethevan, she is called.

“For some years after that, Hogan refused to take another wife, though he continued to live with his inamorata, and she bore him many children. I believe that three survive. Eventually, he was reconciled with his mother, and agreed to marry a woman of appropriate rank.”

“That would be Larissa de Marluk, who bore him the Princess Charissa,” Barrett offered. “There was also an identical twin who died shortly after birth. Then after Larissa died in childbed of a stillborn son, he married another highborn woman, Roshane of Fallon. Alas, poor lady,
her
first child was stillborn, and the second. . . .” He sighed. “But it all matters little, now.”

“These surviving von Soslán bastards,” Jamyl said thoughtfully. “Might they still present a threat?”

Khoren shook his head. “Festillic house law is quite specific. Charmed though Hogan may have been by the Lady Kethevan, she was not deemed of sufficient rank to contract a royal marriage. Hence, the children of that union may not inherit. None are in the Festillic succession, or have dynastic rights.”

“That could change, of course, were Hogan to become more ambitious, or more desperate,” Barrett observed dryly. “Blood
is
blood, after all.”

“Thine own friend, and thy father's friend, forsake not . . .”

—PROVERBS 27:10

S
IR
Llion and Sir Tesselin left with the second Culdi party at midmorning of the following day, with both their young charges now well mounted on reliable rounceys. The journey would take nearly a week, since Tesselin kept the pace moderate in the beginning, but it would give ample opportunity for the boys to become accustomed to full-sized horses.

“They shall never be satisfied with ponies again,” Llion remarked to Tesselin, after they had been on the road for most of the first day. The boys were riding farther ahead with Sir Froilán Lascelles, the other young knight in Jared's household.

Tesselin snorted. “Oh, ponies have their uses, even for grown men. There's nothing better in rugged mountains. Of course, I come from that kind of country.”

“Well, so do they—Duncan, at least,” Llion replied. “Still, I suppose it was time—and you saw how Alaric performed at the tournament. Nor was Duncan far behind, and neither of them yet eight.”

“Aye, they're fearless at this age,” Tesselin said with a chuckle. “But ponies are small and quick and maneuverable—and closer to the ground. There's more scope for error on a full-sized mount.”

“True enough.” Llion scanned ahead, where the boys had been joined by one of the squires. “But somehow, I don't think there will be much difference, once they're riding full-sized horses regularly.” He glanced aside at Tesselin with a sly grin. “Remember, I've been training Alaric since he was four; I know what he can do.”

Tesselin shrugged amiably. “You may be right. Still, it's a transition all of us have had to make.”

•   •   •

F
OR
Alaric and Duncan, the initial headiness of embarking upon their first almost-adult adventure had settled into tedium by the second day, underlined by increasing physical discomfort. While they had been thrilled to be given full-sized mounts for the journey, and had sat their horses proudly as they headed north along the river, it soon became abundantly clear that there was a vast difference between a few hours of riding for pleasure, or even for training, and spending hour after hour in the saddle, mile after mile and day after day. Llion and Tesselin halted the party every few hours to rest the horses and allow their riders to get down and stretch cramped limbs, but by the second day, the boys were finding it increasingly difficult to summon up serious enthusiasm when it was time to remount and press on.

“I suppose it just takes practice,” Alaric murmured aside to Duncan, on one such occasion midway through the second day, as they watched two of their escort knights cinch up the horses' girths again, getting ready to resume travel. “It doesn't seem to bother the men.”

Duncan nodded, rubbing surreptitiously at his backside. “I think those saddles are too big for us,” he replied. “We were used to our old saddles.”

“Yes, but our saddles are pony saddles,” Alaric pointed out reasonably. “They're too small for these horses.”

“That's true,” Duncan agreed. “My da says it's always better to have a sore backside than for your horse to have a sore back.”

“Aye, my da says that, too.”

As they walked back over to the horses in question, Llion came to join them.

“All right, lads. Ready for a leg up?”

Both boys put on stoic faces and accepted the offered assistance, settling gingerly into saddles as they resigned themselves to several more hours before they would stop for the night.

•   •   •

T
HEY
stopped that night at the manor house of a minor baron called Murchison, whose lady provided them with simple but plentiful fare before they bedded down in the stable loft. The boys slept reasonably well in the sweet-smelling hay, but every muscle of legs and backs protested as they clambered down the next morning to break their fast.

But they knew better than to complain. Both boys hoped to see Duke Andrew a final time. Fortunately, their initial stiffness slowly subsided to a dull ache as they worked sore muscles and settled into their usual pace, though conversation was sparse, each rider alone with his thoughts.

The long hours in the saddle allowed Alaric ample time for his own contemplation, often on matters far different than any of his adult companions or even his cousin might imagine. Often he found himself thinking about his visit from Sir Sé, and the glimpses of memory he had retained of that most unusual night. Though he could dredge up nothing in the way of earlier memories of Sé himself—after all, he had been but a babe when the Anviler knight held him at his christening—he had no doubt that his mother had been referring to Sé when she drew the little cross on the scrap of parchment. Somewhere in his collection of childhood treasures, in a small chest in his room at Culdi, he was certain he still had that scrap of parchment, because of its association with his mother. He vowed to retrieve it when they arrived back at the Kierney capital.

He was less certain just what Sé had done to him, though he had vague impressions of gentle . . .
prickling
inside his head. What had remained, however, was a gradually growing awareness that he now could begin to distinguish when a person was telling a lie.

There were degrees of lying, he soon deduced, and he had to concentrate to distinguish the more subtle nuances. Sometimes, listening to the escort knights during meals, or as they bantered back and forth behind and ahead of him, he simply
knew
that some of the stories they told one another were utter fabrications—though it often was clear, even without using his emerging powers, that the men frequently were telling variations on the truth that would make them appear more clever, or better fighters, or more accomplished with women than had actually been the case. He gathered that such boasting lies, if not carried to extremes, were deemed more or less acceptable. On consideration, he decided that it hardly seemed worth the effort to distinguish shades of truthfulness in such tales.

There were also the social lies, told to avoid giving offense or hurting someone's feelings. These, too, were deemed acceptable, though one must be careful not to overdo. Less benign—and less obvious—were the misdirections that, while not precisely lies, could almost escape detection, even by a Deryni—and Sé had warned him how a clever person might avoid the direct lie by simply telling only part of the truth.

Alaric was witness to one such deception when their party stopped to water the horses and have a loose shoe reset at a livery yard near the Mearan border. The ostler seemed civil enough, if sparing of speech, and readily provided the requested services, willing enough to accept the coin Llion offered in payment; but when asked which of two roads out of town led to Culdi, Alaric had the distinct impression that the man had been less than forthcoming. He said nothing as their party moved out on the designated road, but as the others picked up the pace ahead, he eased his mount alongside Llion's.

“Llion,” he said quietly, motioning the young knight to lean closer, “you should ask someone else for directions. I think that man sent us the wrong way—or at least not the shorter way.”

Llion looked at him oddly, but drew the two of them aside to let the others pass, indicating to Tesselin that they would catch up.

“And why would you be thinking that he sent us the wrong way?” Llion asked, when the others had moved on out of earshot.

“I just . . . think he wasn't telling all the truth,” Alaric said uneasily, fiddling with the ends of his reins. “He didn't much like us; I don't know why.”

“We
are
near the Mearan border,” Llion pointed out, “and we've obviously come from the direction of Rhemuth. Did it occur to you that the man might have Mearan sympathies?”

“I hadn't thought of that,” Alaric conceded. “But he still sent us the wrong way. I just—knew.”

“I see. I don't suppose this might have something to do with . . . what you are?”

Alaric glanced at Llion sidelong, then reluctantly nodded.

“It's all right,” Llion said, peering ahead where the rest of the party were passing between a pair of cottages that faced one another across the road, to disappear around a bend beyond. “I'm not afraid of you; you know that. Your mother told me that your gifts would begin to emerge, as you got older. Did you read his mind?”

The boy shook his head emphatically, but did not look up.

“It doesn't work like that.”

“Then, what
does
it work like?”

“It's hard to explain,” Alaric murmured. “I'm . . . learning how to tell when a person is lying. I've—been practicing since we left Rhemuth. I don't necessarily know what the truth
is
; I just know a lie when I hear it.”

“And you think that this is
not
the way to Culdi?” Llion asked quietly.

“I'm just saying that you should ask someone else for directions, to make sure.”

Llion simply sat his horse for several seconds, obviously considering, then glanced in the direction of the cottages, where the last of their party were riding out of sight.

“All right, we'll ask directions up ahead,” he said, touching heels to his mount. As the animal moved out, Alaric followed suit, wondering whether he had over-reacted. Maybe the ostler
had
been telling the truth.

They quickly reached the cottages, where a thin, sour-faced countrywoman with her hair tied back in a kerchief was draping a braided rug over the low, dry-stone wall beside the cottage on the right. She looked up as the two riders drew rein, and let out an exasperated sigh.

“Och, I thought ye'd all passed by, with yer great clouds o' dust!” she grumbled, taking up a rush-woven rug beater.

“Dear me, I
am
sorry,” Llion murmured contritely, backing his mount a few strides and motioning Alaric to do the same as the woman raised her beater and gave the rug an energetic whack, which made the horses toss their heads. “If I told you we weren't with them, you'd know that isn't true, but please believe that I do apologize for the extra work we've caused you.” As she gave the rug another whack, glaring at him, he added, “Shall I do that for you, Mother, since our men are responsible? It's no bother. I used to help my own mother with the rugs, back in Corwyn.”

As he swung a leg over the pommel and jumped down, then handed his reins up to Alaric, the woman lowered her arm and stepped back, astonished and suddenly wide-eyed as he approached.

“Nay, nay, sor, ye mustn't do that,” she protested, backing away as she eyed his white belt and sword. “It weren't fittin', fer a gentleman like yersel' . . .”

“Nonsense!” Llion said, smiling as he gently took the beater from her hand and urged her back from the rug-draped wall. “It is entirely fitting for a gentleman to come to the aid of a lady needing assistance, especially if his own men were responsible for her distress.” He limbered the rug beater tentatively, then whacked it hard against the rug with a resulting cloud of dust, grinning as he glanced back at her in approval. “An excellent implement, dear lady! I'll have this clean for you in no time at all.”

To Alaric's surprise, Llion proceeded to do just that, beating the rug rhythmically and energetically for several minutes, until no more dust flew. When he was finished, he presented the beater to its owner with a bow, then gathered up the rug itself and carried it inside, the woman following in bewilderment. Alaric stared after them uncomprehendingly, even standing in his stirrups to lean forward and peer after them.

They were gone but a moment. When Llion emerged, the flustered goodwife simpering behind him, he was drinking something from a fist-sized wooden cup, which he handed up to Alaric, mouthing for him to drink it when the boy raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

“Madam, that is some of the finest buttermilk it has ever been my privilege to sample,” Llion said as he turned back to the adoring goodwife—though Alaric guessed that only Llion's impeccable good manners had allowed him to offer the compliment; they were neither of them over-fond of buttermilk.

Alaric's emerging skill in detecting lies confirmed his observation, but he also realized, as he dutifully drained the cup, that this was one of those social situations when an untruth was not only acceptable but considered gracious. He bowed over the cup as he handed it back to Llion, who bowed similarly as he placed it back in the goodwife's work-worn hands.

“Our thanks for your hospitality, Mother,” Llion murmured, “and I wonder if you could tell us if this is the most direct road to Culdi, for I confess that we do not know this area well.”

The woman curtsied in turn, and clasped the cup to her breast like a sacred relic as she pointed down the road in the direction that the others had gone.