The King’s Justice (9 page)

“Oh.” Dhugal thought about that for a moment. Then: “Did—Kelson's father also receive his power in there?”

“I don't think so. Alaric had to do with that one—not I—several years before Kelson was born. He was even younger than you. As I understand it—”

A knock at the door cut off further retelling of that story, and Duncan rose to admit Morgan and Richenda.

“If Kelson weren't my king, I'd be tempted to box his royal ears for making me sit in for him at table tonight,” Morgan said, as he and Richenda shed their hooded cloaks in the warm room. “Do you have any idea how boring it was, having to play at being the gracious host while I knew you and Dhugal were already here, making preparations? And why is it so hot in here?”

“Because,” said Richenda, loosening the throat of his tunic, “the windows are closed and you've let yourself get in a dither.” She glanced at Duncan. “I suspect it will be warmer still in the chapel, with as many bodies as we're going to have generating heat. Is there
any
ventilation in there?”

Duncan smiled and shook his head as he seated her at the table.

“Very little, I'm afraid. We'll just have to cope as best we can.”

A second knock at the door heralded the arrival of Arilan, immediately bringing a greater degree of formality to the gathering. He glanced half disapprovingly at Dhugal as he swept past all of them to inspect the preparations in the chapel, calling Duncan to join him for several minutes.

When the two bishops rejoined the others now waiting expectantly around the table, Arilan automatically assumed the role of senior, gesturing briskly for them to be seated as he took his seat. He did not seem to notice that Morgan and Richenda had neatly interposed themselves to either side of him, thus shielding him from close proximity to either Duncan or Dhugal. Later on, Arilan would be too busy to notice any hint of the true relationship between father and son, but for now, it had been agreed that they would take no chances.

“Naturally, it will be Kelson's part to direct matters when we actually begin,” Arilan said quietly. “However, until he and our—ah—subject actually arrive, I believe a period of meditation would not be amiss for any of us. A great deal of this will be new to young Dhugal, so I suggest we join hands around the table before we begin centering. The physical link will help to balance out the disparities in our levels of experience.”

An expected hint of condescension was in his tone, but even Dhugal sensed Arilan meant well. Without demur they joined hands and obeyed, gazing through the candleflame for focus at first, then gradually dropping, one by one, into deeper rapport; breathing more slowly, eyes closing, even Dhugal easing at last into calm, floating receptivity, passive yet alert, waiting for king and kin.…

And in the castle, the king led their intended subject into a darkened apartment that had been his own as prince. It was Dhugal's now. The door was not locked, but even if it had been, that would not have stopped a Deryni of any training whatsoever.

Drawing Nigel into the gloom and closing the door behind him, Kelson paused just a moment to conjure handfire. The faintly crimson ball of light cupped in his left palm revealed a tight-jawed and apprehensive-looking Nigel, now that there was no need to maintain the facade of casual competence he had worn all through supper. Concerned, Kelson motioned Nigel farther into the room, away from the door, pausing before the darkened fireplace to turn and glance at his father's brother with apparent casualness of his own, though his next words came of a far from casual concern for the response he would receive.

“You don't want to back out, do you? Because even if you did, at this late date, I couldn't let you.”

Nigel managed a shaky grin and a chuckle. “Kelson, I outweigh you by half. What would you do? Knock me out and carry me to—where
is
it that we're going, by the way?”

“You'll see,” Kelson replied. “And I'm sure you know that I hadn't in mind to use any physical force.”

“I hadn't thought you would.” Nigel took a deep breath. “I
am
nervous, though. You don't begrudge me that, do you?”

Kelson moved a step closer, relieved, and shook his head. “Of course not. I can ease a little of that for the time being, though, if you'd like.”

“Do it, then,” Nigel whispered. “But I want to be back in complete control before it's time for—the other.”

“You can depend on it,” Kelson said, raising his right hand to touch Nigel's forehead as he locked the grey eyes with his own. “Close your eyes and take a deep breath.…”

With a little shudder, Nigel obeyed.

“Now hold it for a count of five—and let it out. Feel the apprehension drain away as you empty your lungs, until you've reached a level of lower tension that you can handle. Have another breath if you need to.” He dropped his hand as Nigel breathed in deeply again. “Now let it out and look at me.”

As Nigel exhaled with a whoosh, his eyes fluttered open and he blinked.

“Better?” Kelson asked.

Nigel nodded bewilderedly. “A little dizzy—as if I'd had a glass of heavy wine on an empty stomach.”

“That will pass,” Kelson said, turning away and pacing off a few precise steps to the left of the fireplace. “Now I'm going to show you something I first learned from Morgan. After tonight, you'll be able to do it, too. Are you watching?”

“Yes.”

He could feel Nigel standing at his right shoulder, far steadier than he had been, and sensed that at least a part of his uncle's new calm had come as much from his own strength of character and trust as from anything Kelson had done. That was reassuring, for Kelson himself was not without his own apprehensions about the work ahead, though for different reasons than Nigel.

Lifting the handfire still cupped in his left hand, he raised his right hand as well to trace a smooth, intricate pattern in the air with his forefinger. A psychic triggering went along with the physical act, but Nigel would receive that along with the rest of the night's accomplishments.

“I—don't think I caught that,” Nigel whispered, gasping as a section of the wall swung back to reveal a dark stairwell.

Kelson smiled and stepped into the opening, turning to beckon Nigel to follow.

“Don't worry. You'll remember if there's need. Many of the Haldane powers operate that way.” As he started down the shadowy stairs, Nigel had to scramble to keep up.

“In fact,” Kelson went on, “I'm going to try to give you a few limited abilities tonight, even though we're primarily just setting your potential. Some of mine started coming through in Father's lifetime, so I don't see that there's any conflict. We'd better be quiet now, though. We'll be passing close to some occupied parts of the castle, and I shouldn't want anyone to think they're hearing ghosts in the walls.”

Nigel snorted at that, but they traversed the rest of the passage in red-lit silence, halting finally before an apparently blank wall. There Kelson quenched his handfire and peered for a long time through a peephole set at eye level. Then a narrow section of the wall was swinging back silently and a lighter patch of courtyard lay before them in the starlight.

The passage closed silently behind them as they emerged. Ahead, the silhouette of Saint Hilary's Within-the-Walls loomed black against the dark night sky, the darkness broken by the occasional glint of starlight on shadowed glass. Kelson made no attempt to conceal their passage, as he led Nigel briskly across the yard. Not until they had almost reached the top of the steps leading to a western door did Nigel see why.

“All's well, Sire,” said Sean Lord Derry, stepping from the shadow of a column to give casual salute. “The others are already inside.”

Kelson nodded. “You've posted adequate guards around the yard?”

“Lord Dhugal's own borderers, Sire.” Derry's grin flashed in the darkness. “They have very precise orders.”

“Thank you. I'm certain they have.” Without further ado, he drew Nigel through the postern door and into the narthex.

The inside of Saint Hilary's had changed little since Kelson had come here the night before his coronation, he the subject that night, and Morgan the escort. It seemed, perhaps, a little brighter. To either side of the high altar, in what would have been the transepts of a larger church, racks of votive candles glowed sapphire and crimson before secondary altars to the Blessed Virgin and the church's patron, Saint Hilary. In the sanctuary itself, the expected Presence lamp burned above the tabernacle set behind the altar, where the Reserved Sacrament kept a place of honor. Nothing moved besides the captive flames dancing behind bright glass, but foreboding washed over Kelson like a wave—Nigel's as much as his own, Kelson suddenly realized.

Time to set things into proper balance and get on with it. Further delay would only make it more difficult for both of them.

“We'll pray for a moment before we join the others,” he said softly, leading Nigel resolutely down the side aisle to a pew near the front, where he and his uncle knelt side by side.

When Kelson had finished, and composed himself to face the others, he reached out with his mind and released the slight control he had been holding on Nigel. As he raised his head, Nigel looked up with a start.

“I'm going to leave you to meditate for a few more minutes on your own,” Kelson said. “When you're ready, you can join us in Duncan's study. We'll know when you've come to the door.”

Nigel swallowed and managed a weak smile. “You've let me go, haven't you?”

Kelson nodded.

“You're sure I'll come?”

“Quite sure.”

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

This is the faithful and prudent steward, whom the master will set over his household
.

—Luke 12:42

As the door closed behind Kelson, Nigel let out a slow, apprehensive sigh and slumped back on his heels, letting his back take support from the edge of the seat behind him. In a few minutes, he must also walk through that door.

He had hoped never to have to face what would presently be required of him—not out of any fear for his own safety or comfort, but for what tonight's work implied. To take upon himself the potential for the ancient Haldane power was to acknowledge, in a far more concrete way than hitherto, the possibility that he himself might one day be king.
That
was what frightened him.

For he had never sought or even idly wished for the crown. Until Brion's death, he had lived his life in the pleasant limbo of a much-loved younger son—close to the crown, unshakably loyal to it, whether worn by father, elder brother, or brother's son, but confident and relieved that he himself should never wear it. That was for his nephew's heirs, in the fullness of time; and Nigel was content with that.

And yet, if Kelson should perish before an heir could be engendered, then the crown
must
pass to Nigel or
his
heirs. That was a grim possibility Nigel had known from the moment Brion died—and something he prayed fervently would never come to pass. But if it did, then Nigel must be prepared to take up the mantle of his royal duty; must stand ready to sacrifice his own wishes for the good of the land. He felt himself a far from worthy vessel, but he must be ready to meet the test, if it was demanded of him. Tonight was the first step toward that readiness.

Still reluctant, then, but resigned, and with a weight of far more than years resting on his shoulders, he rose and dared to approach the high altar, lifting his eyes to the Christus gazing down at him even as he sank to one knee at the foot of the altar steps. He did not often feel the need for a physical expression of his religious feeling. Like Brion, he preferred to witness for his faith through the example of an upright life, rather than spend overmuch time on his knees, in a building that took the place of belief for many folk. Tonight, however, had its special demands, and seemed to demand more formal observance.

A little awkwardly, then, he bowed his head and framed his thoughts in far more formal petition than was usually his wont, entreating the Anointed One for strength to endure, should he be called one day to his own anointing as Gwynedd's king, but praying also that such fate should never come to him. He asked as well for courage to face the more immediate ordeal—but he would suffer that gladly if it might permit the greater cup of kingship to pass.

Whatever was given him, he knew that in the end he could only offer all he had, and pray that it would be enough. He would serve his king as he had always served, with faith, loyalty, and love, and he would either live or perish according to God's will. When he rose to join those who awaited him, turning inward now to draw his strength, his steps were steady and his head was clear.

He heard no sound as he passed through the doorway where Kelson had gone. A short corridor lay beyond, and as he closed the door behind him, another door opened ahead and to the left. Duncan inclined his head in silent greeting and stood aside to let him pass, both reassuring and vaguely alien in his episcopal purple.

The room Nigel entered was strange to him as well, of fair size, but lit only dimly by the light of a low fire immediately to the right and a single candle on the table before it. Weapons lay on the table: several daggers, a narrow stiletto Nigel thought he remembered seeing in Morgan's hand from time to time, and a sword in a scabbard set with cairngorms that was definitely Morgan's. Dhugal stood behind the table, his own sheathed sword cradled in the crook of one arm, the baldric wound loosely around the scabbard. There was no sign of Kelson or any of the others he had been expecting to see.

“I'll relieve you of your cloak first of all,” Duncan said, already reaching for the garment as Nigel unsnapped the clasp and let it fall away from his shoulders. “I'll also ask you to leave your weapons here. The others are in a small chapel through that door,” the bishop went on, nodding past Dhugal with his chin, “but only Kelson's sword is permitted inside.”