The King’s Justice (44 page)

Hoag's eyes had followed Raif's every move, and now they tracked the pattern he traced, with increasing attention, slipping unerringly into the deeper trance state that Raif demanded.

“But, perhaps that's too complicated, after a long day's fighting,” he murmured, touching Hoag's hand with the end of the twig.

Instantly, Hoag's eyelids fluttered and closed, his breathing deepening to that of sleep, though he leaned on his elbow still.

“Ah, yes,” Raif whispered, never taking his eyes from Hoag's as he tossed his twig into the fire, “you look very, very tired, Hoag.”

Hoag's only sound was a tiny, relieved sigh as he collapsed back against the saddle.

Raif watched him carefully for several seconds, moving the wineskin into the circle of his arm, then glanced around again before himself settling slowly to a supine position beside his sleeping subject, head cradled on one arm. After a few more minutes, himself asleep to all outward perceptions, he shifted drowsily so that one hand sprawled across Hoag's arm around the wineskin, confirming the physical contact he needed in order to draw through the link he had created.

Then he set himself to trancing, pushing himself deeper, deeper, so that the glow of the firelight behind his closed eyelids gently receded along with the fading sounds of the camp around him, the warmth drew back to only barely discernable levels, and he was at last ready to cast his mind northeastward, toward the woman who awaited his call.

Images of the day's battle, bright and strong: Kelson's forces sweeping to the top of the last range of hills ringing the Mearan encampment, surging downward to surprise the Mearan host.

Duncan, his body bloodied from scourging and other tortures, chained groggily to the stake, the flames licking higher, nearer … magic to deflect the arrows … Dhugal's daring rescue … Loris and Gorony captured … Sicard choosing death at Kelson's hands rather than face trial and execution for his treason … the Mearan host brought to its knees in surrender—and plans to rest a day at Dorna before heading west to Laas, where the Princess Caitrin had fled to make her last stand.

Duncan's status? Rumors that, though grievously used, he would survive; that Morgan employed his healing powers alongside the surgical skills of young Dhugal MacArdry—and that Dhugal was Duncan's son!

Uproar swept through the Council when the link was released, strategic and military considerations giving way, as usual, to those concerns that were, in the Council's judgment, more practical.

“Why didn't you tell us about Duncan and Dhugal?” Laran demanded of Arilan, who was as astonished as any of the rest of them at the news. “Duncan's son! Why, the implications are staggering!”

“But, I didn't know!” Arilan protested. “As God is my witness, I didn't—but, the possibilities.… Good God, you don't suppose he could be a healer, too, do you?”

The mere suggestion was enough to send the Council into loud, agitated debate for several minutes.

Tiercel de Claron only laughed and shook his head, leaning both hands on the arms of his chair.

“Oh, this is marvelous! The rogue Deryni has a rogue Deryni bastard!”

“Tiercel!” Vivienne muttered, glaring at the youngest member of the Council.

But it was Sofiana who returned them to the more important point; Sofiana who had seen what the others had not, in their preoccupation with the immediate implications of the new information.

“And what of Kelson?” she asked softly, sweeping them with her bright gaze. “Should we not consider what he has done?”

As they muttered among themselves, she went on.

“This is not the first communication I have had from my agent on the new campaign,” she told them. “I believe it was Lady Vivienne who complained, not many weeks ago, that Kelson must learn to be ruthless?”

“So I said,” Vivienne conceded, matching Sofiana's gaze with one of challenge. “And so I still maintain.”

“Nor do I disagree,” Sofiana replied, smiling enigmatically. “However, I put it to you that the king has now accomplished a great many of the things we associate with mature, responsible, and, yes, ruthless kingship. He killed his enemies at Llyndruth Meadows, as was required of him. After trial, he executed Prince Llewell for murder, when he could have struck him down with impunity at the scene of the crime and no one would have said a word against him. He executed Prince Ithel and Brice of Trurill, also after trial, and decimated their officers.” She drew breath again.

“Now he has cut down Sicard of Meara, as you have seen, rather than waste more lives bringing to justice a man who has already cost too many lives. It was a logical measure, and one that I must applaud, but it is not the merciful act of a child-king. I maintain that Kelson Haldane is now sufficiently ruthless even for our number.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

So he overcame the destroyer, not with strength of body, nor force of arms, but with a word subdued he him that punished
.

—Wisdom of Solomon 18:22

The following morning required that Kelson be more ruthless, still, as he and Cardiel approached the tent where Loris and Gorony lay prisoners. Well-armed guards of the Haldane lancers ringed the tent, and Ciard O Ruane, Dhugal's faithful gillie, met them in the entryway, glancing back through the tent flap before pulling the edges together with his hands behind his back.

“Good morning, Ciard,” Kelson murmured, as the gillie sketched him and Cardiel a perfunctory bow. “A quiet night, I take it?”

“As quiet as a tomb, Sair, once we stopped tha' madman Loris' lyin' tongue,” old Ciard muttered. “He wouldna' cease his rantin', so we had tae gag him—he that brought about th' Old MacArdry's untimely death. How is th' Laird Dhugal this mornin'—an' his—father?”

“Ah, you've heard it, too, then,” Kelson said. “They're fine. Tell me, though, Ciard, does that bother you?—that Dhugal is Duncan's son, rather than Caulay's?”

Ciard shook his grizzled head stubbornly. “I canna' speak for the clan, Sair, but young Dhugal is
my
chief, an' will be sae long as he lives, whether he's Caulay's son or only his grandson. Th' borders inherit by tanistry. Dhugal was
chosen
as th' next chief, an' could hae been, even if he'd been nae blood relative to Caulay at all. I dinna' think yon Duke of Cassan can pass his title in th' same manner, however. Methinks he'll need more proof than merely his word, that Dhugal is his legal heir. An' a bishop's son—”

“Duncan wasn't a bishop when Dhugal was born, Ciard,” Cardiel said. “He wasn't even a priest. But you're right that it will take more than just his word to prove Dhugal's legitimacy. Maybe there's some Deryni way.”

“Aye, that's problematical,” Ciard agreed, apparently nonplussed by the prospect of Deryni magic, as many borderers were. “But even though ye believe he's tellin' th' truth—an'
I
do—it'll take more than that t' prove it to th' satisfaction o' most. Ye canna' be considered an unbiased witness, after all, Sair. An' I dinna' know what other Deryni ye might call upon, but if they count themselves yer friends, they canna' be considered unbiased, either. I dinna' envy ye yer task.”

“I don't envy it, either,” Kelson said, “but I'll figure out something.” He sighed. “I suppose I ought to see the prisoners now.”

“Aye, Sair. There's sommat ye should know, though, before ye go in.” He reached into the front of his jerkin and pulled out a wadded kerchief which he opened to disclose two heavy gold rings set with amethysts. “I took these off o' Loris yesterday. There's sommat odd about 'em. I ken they're bishop's rings, Archbishop,” he added, with a nod toward Cardiel, “but—weel, ye know that we border folk hae th' Second Sight sometimes. An'—”

“And you have more of it than most,” Kelson murmured. “Dhugal's told me. Go on. You don't have to explain.”

“Weel, then, ye willna' think it strange if I tell ye that I wouldna' touch th' rings bare-handed unless I was sure I was well warded—”

Kelson raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You know about warding?”

“Ach, o' course, lad. Hasna' Dhugal ever told ye?”

“No.”

“Weel, 'tis old border custom. Ask him about it sometime. I dinna' ken that it's the same as yer Deryni warding, but it does the same job. In any case, be careful wi' th' rings. Would I be right in assumin' that one o' them belongs t' Bishop Duncan?”

Cardiel took the cloth with the nested rings and nodded. “Aye, and before that it was Henry Istelyn's.”

“Ach, the puir, sainted man,” Ciard muttered, crossing himself piously. “Mayhap that explains why Loris was a-cryin' out in his sleep last night, an' kept yammerin' about demons comin' t' get him. 'Tis he who had Istelyn murdered, was it not?”

“Aye.” Cardiel wrapped up the rings and tucked them into the front of his cassock, as Kelson shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

“We'll deal with that later, Ciard,” the king said in a low voice. “Right now, I want to get on with my questioning.”

“He willna' gie ye much help, I fear,” Ciard muttered. “They've both got foul mouths on 'em, fer priests. Th' monsignor shut up after a few smart cuffs, but like I told ye, we had t' gag Loris t' get any peace at all.”

“He'll speak civilly to
me,”
Kelson said, motioning for Ciard to pull aside the tent flap. “I don't look forward to this, but he'll tell me exactly what I want to know.”

He braced himself as he went inside. Guards snapped to attention as be appeared—four of the scouts who were accustomed to Deryni methods of working—and a disheveled Loris and Gorony bestirred themselves to sit up. The two were laden with chains, clad only in once-white linen singlets, stripped of all ecclesiastical pretense. Gorony looked lucid enough, and wisely held his tongue as Kelson and the archbishop paused to look at him, but Loris' blue eyes blazed above his gag with the undisguised hatred of the already doomed.

“Was it your idea to torture Duncan?” Kelson asked Gorony, without preamble, turning his Truth-Reading talent on the captive priest.

Gorony raised his eyes defiantly to Kelson's.

“No.”

“Don't bother to lie to me, Gorony. I can read you like a book. Where has Caitrin gone?”

“I don't know—and I wouldn't tell you if I did.”

“You do know—and you
will
tell me. Guards—”

At his signal, Jemet and Kirkon moved in to pin Gorony's arms.

“Don't you dare touch me, you filthy Deryni bastard!” Gorony ranted, lashing out with his feet as Kelson came closer, and nearly catching Kelson in the crotch. “Take your bloody—”

Without prompting, Raif came behind Gorony and thrust a riding crop cross-wise between his teeth, hands pulling back from either end to yank Gorony's head immobile against his chest, while the fourth man tackled Gorony's legs with his full weight to still them.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Kelson murmured, crouching to set his hands to either side of Gorony's head, and forcing rapport. “Gorony, stop fighting me!”

Immediately, Gorony's body relaxed, eyes rolling upward in their sockets, and Raif was able to lower his crop loosely across Gorony's throat, still supporting the prisoner against his chest.

“Now, whose idea was it to torture Duncan?” Kelson repeated.

The answer welled up in all its dimensions, read from the twisted mind, and Kelson nearly retched at the foulness of it. At his grimace, Cardiel knelt down beside him, though he did not touch him.

“Are you all right?”

Kelson nodded, his eyes a little glazed with shock, but he did not allow the rapport to slip.

“This is like taking a swim in the castle middens,” he muttered, “in the summertime. He has a lot to answer for. Let's see if we can find out about Caitrin, before I lose my breakfast.”

He found the information he needed, and sent Gorony relentlessly into unconsciousness before withdrawing. His hands were trembling as he pulled away, and he wiped them against his thighs in distaste as he glanced at his shaken scouts.

“You felt some of it, didn't you?” he murmured, as the scouts released Gorony and turned their attention to the cowering Loris. “Sorry, gentlemen. I'm afraid a little spillover can be an occupational hazard for those who work regularly with Deryni. I suspect that's part of what makes you such good scouts. Unfortunately, we're going to have to repeat the process with Loris. If you'll release him as soon as I have control, that will make it easier for you.”

“We'll do what makes it easier for
you
, Sire,” Raif said in a low voice, signalling the others to pounce on Loris, who was trying to crawl out of their reach. “Will you want his gag removed?”

“Not necessary. His mind will be foul enough, without having to listen to his foul mouth.”

Loris wriggled and squirmed as the scouts pinned him to the ground, a low, animal whimpering vibrating in his throat as Kelson knelt down beside him.

“I don't know why I bother doing this,” he said softly, fixing the rebel archbishop with his grey Haldane eyes. “I have enough already to hang you several times over—I should never have allowed you to live, three years ago—but I won't send a man to his death unless I've seen the evidence for myself. I almost wish this process were more unpleasant for you, so you could feel a little of the anguish you've inflicted on others in the name of your hatred. Fortunately for you, the ‘cursed powers of the Deryni' are benign in responsible use; and I hope never to succumb to the temptation to use them irresponsibly—though I confess that you push me very near the brink, Edmund Loris.”

With that, he laid his hands across Loris' forehead, covering the blazing blue eyes, and forced rapport, allowing a small corner of Loris' mind to gabble on in hysteria and fear at the intrusion.