The King’s Justice (29 page)

Meanwhile, the Haldane intrusion into Meara continued. The following dawn, in the foothills southwest of Ratharkin, Kelson and Morgan stood in the meager privacy between their saddled greathorses and listened to the excited report of a dusty R'Kassan scout.

“I know they didn't see us, Sire,” the man said. “I think they're a skirmish band split off from the Mearans' main van. If we send a like force in the next hour, we can cut them off and take them before they know what's happened.”

“How many?” Morgan asked.

“Jemet counted nearly sixty horses, Your Grace. An additional twenty might be hidden in a box canyon we couldn't get to, but certainly no more than that. And we're certain they're all cavalry. No commander in his right mind would leave foot soldiers that far behind the main van.”

“You're assuming that Ithel of Meara is in his right mind,” Kelson said dryly, fiddling with a harness buckle, “but you're probably right. How far did you say?”

“Perhaps two hours' ride, Sire. But I—
think
, though I couldn't swear to it—I
think
the commander may be Prince Ithel himself!”

Instantly the animation drained out of Kelson's face, only the eyes blazing with life as he glanced quickly at Morgan.

“I hear, my prince,” Morgan said softly.

At his raised eyebrow and Kelson's answering nod, almost imperceptible, Morgan drew the scout farther between the horses with a gesture, better shielding them all from curious eyes as he started to pull off one of his gloves.

“I think we'll have a little closer look at what you saw,” he said easily. “I don't doubt your reporting, but if it
is
Ithel, we wouldn't want to miss anything.”

But before Morgan could carry through with his intention, Kelson's revised order snapped in his mind like a brittle twig underfoot in autumn:

On second thought, I'll read this one
.

“Stand here between us, Kirkon,” Morgan added, deftly turning the man to face Kelson as the king stripped off mailed gauntlets and jammed them into his belt.

Kirkon gave no sign of resistance as Morgan braced him from behind with hands set on shoulders and Kelson moved closer. All the scouts knew that being read was a possibility, whenever they came to report to the king or his champion, if clarification was in order—and most had learned not to mind, and certainly not to fear. They had also accepted the growing convention, deliberately fostered by Kelson and Morgan, that Deryni always must touch their subjects on the head or neck in order to read their minds, preferably bare-handed. In fact, a hand or wrist or any other part of the body would do as well, and Deryni
could
read through gloves or other clothing if they must; but Kelson had felt that if humans at least
thought
the Deryni limited in this regard, it might ease some of the apprehension attached to actually dealing with them on a regular basis.

So now, though the scout succumbed to a few nervous blinks as his eyes met Kelson's, he did not flinch as the king touched fingertips to his temples.

“Take a deep breath, Kirkon,” Kelson murmured.

It was over almost before the scout could draw breath a second time. He was left swaying a little on his feet, but otherwise only faintly relieved as Kelson withdrew mind and hands.

“Your orders, Sire?” Morgan asked quietly, continuing to steady the scout for a few seconds more.

Kelson turned away abruptly, to lean an armored elbow against the side of his horse's saddle, that fist pressed briefly to his teeth. If anything, the Haldane face was even more masklike than before.

“You can go, Kirkon. Thank you,” he murmured. And did not lift his eyes or speak again until the scout had gone.

“I'll want all of Nigel's new lancers for this little escapade, Alaric,” he said softly. “And your Corwyn heavy cavalry as well. This time, I think we've got him.”

“Ithel?” Morgan asked.

“Aye.” The whisper was harsh, the eyes gone even colder with the one word. “Aye, 'tis Ithel—and may Saint Camber be the hammer of our retribution!”

“There may be a reason he's apart from the others,” Morgan cautioned. “It could be a trap.…”

Kelson shook his head. “No, no trap. We
know
the location of the rest of the Mearan van. And we know that Sicard, wherever he is, is not within striking distance of us. No, Ithel has finally made his fatal error. And now he's
mine!”

“Very well, my prince,” Morgan murmured, wiser than to contradict the king in this sort of mood. “Shall I call your captains, so you may give your orders?”

Kelson's nod was curt, his gaze wolf-keen, as he looked out toward the rolling hills of the plain south of Ratharkin and dreamed of vengeance.

Dreams of vengeance occupied a queen as well as a king that brightening July morning, though Jehana, unlike her son, felt herself the subject of vengeance rather than the author of it. She rose early—or, rather, left her quarters early—for she had not slept all night, nor found respite from the vision that had haunted her thoughts since the previous noon. The accusing image of Camber of Culdi seemed to loom in her presence every time she closed her eyes, his words taunting, torturing.

Jehana, Jehana, why do you persecute me?

Nor had she been able to rationalize what had happened, even when, later that afternoon, she had confronted Father Ambros about his choice of texts.

“Why, did I read the wrong lesson, Majesty? I don't remember doing so. Was it not the same I read at the early Mass?”

“Don't mock me, Father!”

“Mock
you, my lady? But I don't understand.”

Their exchange had occurred in the basilica, before the Blessed Sacrament. Surely he would not dare to lie to her there. But lying would have been welcome, compared to what did occur. For though he clearly was shocked by her accusation, she had found herself extending her powers to Truth-Read him anyway, to her helpless horror.

“Do you mean to tell me you didn't realize?” she snapped. “Don't lie to me, Father! Do you think I can't tell when you're lying? Did someone put you up to it?”

“My lady, I don't know what you want me to say.…”

“Why are you doing this to me?”
she insisted.

Alarm flickered in his eyes as he lifted both his palms in entreaty, and she knew at once that he was innocent, but she had already gone beyond any stopping point by then. Not content merely to know that he was telling the truth as he perceived it, she seized his wrist and captured him with her eyes, invading his mind with such force that he moaned a little at the shock. He sank to his knees before the onslaught, stunned and frightened but unable to resist, a prisoner of her will.

She held him thus for several seconds, compelling his exacting recall of the events preceding the reading of the offending scripture. But she found only innocence in his heart as, in memory, he opened his book where the marker made it fall and read the words, oblivious to their difference from the morning's reading.

Sweet
Jesu
, he had
not
realized! But if his action had not been deliberate, how had such a thing happened? What agent of Fate had intervened?

A sob rose in her throat as she released the reeling Ambros, for the conclusion was inescapable, filling her with dread. Oblivious to the young priest's trembling after-reaction, face buried in his hands, she sank to her knees before him, blinded by tears.

The heretic Deryni Camber had driven her to this. Why was he pursuing her? Was it not enough that he must disturb her meditations and haunt her dreams? Must he also tempt her to use her God-forbidden powers even here, in the very Presence of the Lord, in an effort to escape him?

And she had yielded to the temptation! God, how she despised herself! Not only had she dared to use her long-denied powers, but she had used them to force entry into another's mind, and caused him pain in the forcing.

And her innocent victim was a priest! Oh, Blessed Mother and all the saints, even if Ambros eventually forgave her, God would not!

“My God in heaven, what have you done?” Ambros murmured, as she dared a guilty glance at him.

He had hardly moved from where she released him. Dazed and bewildered, more than a little frightened still, he sat huddled on the step at the base of the altar rail, leaning weakly against one of the carved supports, the blue eyes still pain-shadowed and accusing.

“What have you done?” he repeated. “I felt like you were looking into my very soul.…”

“I d-didn't mean to hurt you, F-Father,” she managed to stammer through her tears. “I was so afraid.…”

“But, daughter—”

He was trying to understand, but the residue of fear mirrored in his eyes once more triggered her desperation.

“Forget what has just happened,” she commanded, lifting her tear-stained hands to either side of his face and imposing her will once more, even though he tried to shrink from her touch this time. “Forgive me if you can, Father, but you must forget. Forget and sleep.”

Resistance was not possible. Even had he wished to share her torment, he could not but obey. As his eyes closed and he slumped helplessly beneath her hands, she touched his mind once more, relentlessly reshaping his memory to hide her guilt.

Then she left him sleeping, to remember only that he had dozed while he meditated in the basilica, and fled with her conscience to the solitude of her own quarters. She saw no one for the rest of the day, and took no meal that evening. Nor did she sleep that night.

But not fasting nor prayer nor even mortification of her body could drive what she was and had done from her mind, or allow her the peace she so desperately sought. Oppressed by her guilt, she even debated whether she dared attend Mass the next morning, for surely she was damned for her sin; but neither did she dare
not
go. She always went to the early morning Mass that Father Ambros celebrated for herself and Sister Cecile, and they would wonder if she did not go. Also, some tiny corner of remaining innocence still hoped that the very act of hearing Mass and receiving the Sacrament might somehow bring her the healing she sought. Surely God would not smite her for seeking Him, even in her frailty and failings.

But forcing herself to turn thought to action and actually cross the seemingly vast expanse of yard between her quarters and the basilica with Ambros and Cecile was an ordeal she had not reckoned on. Though Ambros showed no sign of remembering anything of their previous encounter, she imagined she saw accusation in his every glance; and Sister Cecile seemed far more solemn and silent than was her usual wont.

Jehana was halfway across the yard with them before she began to be aware how her self-imposed deprivations of the night had further diminished the rigid checks she habitually maintained on her detested powers, lowering her resistance to temptation. The yard bustled with merchants and tradesmen already assembling to seek later audiences with the regent Nigel; but as she made her way among them, she began catching the occasional psychic impression as well as actual snatches of their conversations.

“… told Ahmed that the grain was mostly chaff, but he pleaded a poor harvest and …”

“… get a fair hearing from Prince Nigel, at any rate. He's as honest as his brother was …”

…
God, it's going to be another hot day today. I wonder if I can slip away while the master is having audience.…

“… all we need to do is get that trade concession and …”

Jehana ducked her head deeper into the shadow of her light cloak—worn for anonymity rather than any need for warmth, for it was already uncomfortably warm in the widow's weeds she wore—and continued on through the yard, consciously trying to shut off the psychic input.

“… Get that pack mare over here, Ned! If those silks are damaged …”

“… and then we'll see what happens to the Haldane.…”

…
images of blood …

“… and three tuns of Fianna wine …”

Jehana stumbled and nearly fell, so startled was she by what she was not even certain she had heard. Ambros rushed to assist her, steadying her with a supporting hand under her elbow, but as she glanced in the direction she thought the Haldane reference had come from, she was already looking for its source with mind as well as eyes.

“… So I told old Rechol that his blades weren't worth half what he was asking, and he said …”

No, farther to the right.…

A silver merchant and his servant were unpacking a pannier on a packmule, two clarks reviewed an account scroll in the shade of an overhang, and three grooms were chuckling over some secret joke shared among them. Instinctively she opened her senses wider and cast for more information—and
knew
that neither the grooms nor many of the supposed merchants milling in the yard were at all what they seemed. They were men of Torenth, come to kill Nigel and take control of the castle and the captive Torenthi king.

Only a little while now …

With a little sob, she cowered back inside herself and clung to Ambros' arm, suddenly shocked and horrified as much by how she had gained her knowledge as by the knowledge itself.

“Oh, take me away from here, Ambros!” she whispered, burying her face against his shoulder.

“But, my lady,” he breathed, “what's wrong?”

She would not answer him, though. Not until they had gained the safe haven of the basilica and he had drawn her insistently into the shelter of the little side chapel and closed the door, shutting out even Sister Cecile, would she even do more than weep almost hysterically.

“What
is
it, Jehana?” Ambros whispered, stroking her hand with trembling fingers as she huddled at his feet and wept. “Tell me, daughter. Surely it cannot be as bad as all of that.”

“Oh, God, I am damned! We are all damned!” She wept.