Kurtz, Katherine - King Kelson 02 - King's Justice

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KING'S JUSTICE
PROLOGUE
And the king shall do according to his will.
-Daniel 11:30
"I tell you, he isn't going to change his mind," the Deryni Bishop
Arilan said, slapping the ivory table with both palms for emphasis as his gaze
swept the three men and three women seated with him in the vaulted chamber.
"Not only will he not change-he refuses to even discuss it."
"But, he must discuss it!" Laran ap Pardyce, wizened and frail-looking
in his black scholar's robes, was clearly appalled. "No Haldane king has ever
done this before. Surely you've warned him what might happen."
In the wan, purpled light filtering through the room's great octagonal
dome, Arilan leaned his head against the high back of his chair and breathed a
forbearing sigh, praying for patience.
"I have-repeatedly."
"And?" the woman to his left asked.
"And if I continue to press the point, he may cease to confide in me at
all." He turned his head to look at her wearily. "You may not think that
likely, Kyri, but it could yet come to that. God knows, he certainly doesn't
trust us as a group."
The group was the Camberian Council, of course; and the subject of their
discussion was the seventeen-year-old King of Gwynedd: Kelson Cinhil Rhys
Anthony Haldane, now more than three years on his murdered father's throne.
Nor had the last three years been easy, for Council, king, or kingdom.
Any boy-king might have fostered uneasiness among those designated to advise
him-and despite the fact that few outside the room even knew of its existence,
the Camberian Council considered itself so designated for the House of
Haldane. But Kelson, unlike most sovereigns come prematurely to their thrones,
had fallen heir to magic: the puissant and forbidden Deryni bloodline of his
mother, Queen Jehana, her heritage unknown even to herself before she was
forced to use it at his coronation, and the equally powerful Haldane potential
for the assumption of magical abilities from King Brion, his father.
In anyone but Kelson, the combination might have been deadly, for Deryni
were almost universally feared throughout Gwynedd, and hated by many. Before
the Haldane Restoration two centuries before, Gwynedd had lain under Deryni
domination for generations, Deryni sorcery enforcing the will of a despotic
line that had not hesitated to advance Deryni fortunes over human in whatever
way was most expedient. So had Deryni magic come to be despised as well as
feared; and few knew or remembered any longer that Deryni as well as humans
had fought to overthrow the Deryni tyrants, or that a discredited Deryni
saint, besides giving his name to the Council that met in this secret chamber,
had first triggered the magic of the Haldane kings.
Kelson knew, of course. And like generations of Haldanes before him, he
had managed to represent that magic as an aspect of his divine right as king,
walking a narrow balance between impotence, if he did not use his powers, and
heresy, if he did-for much might be overlooked in the protection of people and
Crown. Such a ploy was vital camouflage in a land where many humans still
sought retribution for the years of Deryni persecution, and where any
extraordinary power not demonstrably come of divine favor was regarded with
fearful, often deadly, interest by a hostile and jealous Church.
Nor had the Church's suspicion of magic arisen only with the coming of
the Deryni. Extraordinary or seemingly miraculous occurrences outside the
limits defined by Scripture had always fallen under the wary scrutiny of those
whose function it was to guard the purity of the faith; and irresponsible use
of magic, either by or in the service of the new overlords, only tended to
reinforce the belief that magic was very likely evil. As reaction set in after
their overthrow, ecclesiastical restrictions followed close on civil
reprisals, and the Deryni themselves came to be regarded as evil, even though
there had been Healers and holy men among them. The Church's hostility toward
the Deryni as a race continued to the present, even though civil restrictions
had begun to abate in the last two decades. Outside the Council, not a dozen
persons knew Bishop Denis Arilan's true identity as Deryni-and he was one of
only two Deryni priests he knew.
Nor was that other Deryni priest free of controversy, though his Deryni
blood was almost as well kept a secret outside the Council as Arilan's. Father
Duncan McLain, recently become Duke of Cassan, Earl of Kierney, and also a
bishop, was Deryni only on his mother's side - a half-breed, in the eyes of
the Council - but they held him at least partially responsible for the king's
continued reluctance to accept Council guidance.
For Kelson had been assisted to power, both civil and magical, not by
the Council, with its emphasis on "proper" training and formal recognitions,
but by Duncan and his equally half-breed cousin Alaric Morgan, the powerful
but grudgingly respected Deryni Duke of Corwyn, both of whose mastery of their
powers had come largely from chance and their own hard work.
So might Kelson also have been counted-half-breed and, therefore,
outside the pale of Council protection-were it not for his father's Haldane
blood, and the addition that made to his already powerful Deryni heritage. It
was the former that concerned the Council today, as rebellion grew in one of
Gwynedd's western provinces and her king prepared to designate his uncle as
his heir before going on campaign to quell it, having yet no heir of his own
body.
"Well, he does no service to Prince Nigel if he does succeed in what he
plans," old Vivienne said, shaking her grey head in disapproval. "Once Nigel
has tasted even a part of the Haldane potential, he may not be eager to give
it up."
"He will have to give it up, once Kelson has a son," Arilan said.
"And if he refuses, or he cannot?" asked Barren de Laney, from Arilan's
right, senior member of the Council and Coadjutor with the older woman seated
across from him. "I know you believe Nigel's scruples to be as pure as your
own, Denis-and indeed, they may be. But suppose Kelson can't reverse the
process. Will you be able to reverse it, if he cannot?"
"I, personally? Of course not. But Nigel-"
Across the table. Tiercel de Claron yawned indolently and slouched a
little deeper in his chair.
"Oh, we needn't worry on that account," he said, his voice edged with
sarcasm. "If Denis can't undo it, and Kelson can't, I'm sure someone will find
a way simply to eliminate our good Prince Nigel. That's what will have to
happen, you know," he added, looking up, at several mutters of indignation.
"After all, we can't have more than one Haldane holding the power at once,
now, can we?"
"Tiercel, you're not going to start that old argument again, are you?"
Barrett asked.
"Why not? Tell me what earthly harm it would do if more than one Haldane
could hold the Haldane power at a time. We don't know that it can be done, but
what if it could?"
As Tiercel leaned his head heavily on one hand and began tracing a slow,
spiraling pattern on the inlaid table, Vivienne, the second Coadjutor, turned
her grey head majestically toward their youngest member.
"I'm sorry if we bore you, Tiercel," she said sharply. "Tell me, is it
your deliberate iatention to stir up dissent, or have you simply forgotten to
think? You know that the very notion is forbidden, even if it were possible."
Tiercel stiffened, and his hand ceased its idle movement, but he did not
look up as Vivienne continued.
"And as for Nigel, if circumstances demand it, Nigel will be eliminated.
The terms and conditions of the Haldane inheritance were set down two
centuries ago by our blessed patron. In all that time, they have not been
broken. There were reasons for that, which I cannot expect you to understand."
Tiercel finally looked up at her last comment, his expression eliciting
more than one raised eyebrow and indrawn breath. For though it was not unusual
for the pair to spar at one another, older generation against new, Vivienne's
caustic retort struck perilously close to Tiercel's chiefest insecurity: that,
having less than half the years of nearly every other member of the Council,
his experience, of necessity, must be somewhat less extensive-for he was only
a few years older than the king himself. In fact, his theoretical knowledge
was matched by few of them; but that reality did not always enable him to
ignore what he perceived as attacks on his personal worth. As genuine anger
glinted in Tiercel's almond-colored eyes, cold and dangerous, the physician
Laran laid a warning hand on Vivienne's arm.
"Enough, Vivienne. Tiercel, both of you, stop it!" he murmured,
automatically glancing across at Barrett, even though the man had been blind
for half a century.
Barrett, do something, he sent mentally.
Barrett was already raising the ivory wand of his office in a ritual
gesture of warning, his emerald gaze locked sight-lessly on Tiercel's face.
"Tiercel, let it be," he commanded. "If we quarrel, we accomplish
nothing. Every effort will be made to spare Nigel."
Tiercel snorted and crossed his arms across his chest, though he did not
speak.
"We must not forget Kelson's part in this, either," Barrett continued.
"In sharing his authority with his uncle, he but answers his duty as he sees
it-which is to leave his present heir with the ability to carry on, should he
fall in battle. Surely you would not have Kelson abrogate his responsibility
by failing to make the proper provisions?"
Only barely subdued, Tiercel shook his head, apparently still not
trusting himself to speak.
"And you, Vivienne." Barrett turned his attention to the other. "You
need not be so deliberately cold about Nigel's fate. It is a solemn duty he
accepts when he submits to the power that will be laid upon him. Our duty is
no less solemn, should we be called upon to exercise it."
"He does not bear the blood," Vivienne murmured, low and petulant.
"Oh, Vivienne..."
From across the table, between Barrett and Tiercel, faintly mocking
laughter floated like the chime of precious crystal: Sofiana, the one among
their number who had not yet spoken, the most recent but by no means the
youngest or even the most junior member of the Camberian Council.
More than twenty years before, when even younger than Tiercel, Sofiana
of Andelon had served the Council brilliantly, resigning only on the death of
her father without male heir. Now Sovereign Princess of Andelon for more than
a decade, her children grown or nearly so, she had returned at the Council's
behest the previous summer to fill the seat of Thome Hagen-threatened with
suspension if he did not resign, for his connivance with Wencit of Torenth and
Rhydon of Eastmarch in the Gwynedd-Torenth War. A second vacancy, more
directly caused by the war, remained unfilled: the seat of Stefan Coram,
Vivienne's predecessor as Coadjutor, who, unknown even to the Council at the
time, had chosen to play a doubly dangerous game of deception that eventually
cost him his life-though it spared Kelson his crown.
Sofiana's record, and her lack of involvement with the intrigue and
internal bickering that had marred the Council's deliberations increasingly
since Kelson's accession, made her uniquely qualified for the position she now
filled. She had also brought a breath of fresh insight and rare humor into the
formerly stodgy assembly.
"What does that mean anymore, to be 'of the blood?'" she asked quietly,
leaning her pointed chin on the back of one slender hand, lively black eyes
turned on Vivienne in droll curiosity. "After two centuries of persecution,
perhaps there are very few among our race who can truthfully attest to pure
Deryni lineage, even to the time of Camber."
Flame-haired Kyri, the youngest of the three women, raised her chin
toward Sofiana in exception, her resentment at the newcomer's more exotic
beauty only thinly veiled.
"I can so attest," she said haughtily. "And for two centuries before
that. Nonetheless, have we not always held that the proof of the blood is in
the doing?"
"I will grant you that," Sofiana conceded. "However, by that definition,
Brion himself was Deryni."
"That's preposterous-"
"And Nigel, like Brion, carries the Haldane blood-which may be just as
powerful, in its way, as the purest Deryni- whatever that is. So perhaps Nigel
is Deryni. And Warin de Grey. He can heal, after all," she added.
The ripple of their objection began to appear in outraged eyes, on
parted lips, but she stayed them with a gesture of her free hand without even
lifting her head from its resting place, coolly regal and assured in her
desert robes of silver-shot purple.
"Be at ease, my friends. I am the first to concede that we are not
talking about healing at this juncture, though I know that is of abiding
interest to our esteemed senior Coadjutor and the faithful Laran." She smiled
indulgently at both Barrett and Laran.
"We are concerned here with the Haldane potential. What is it that makes
this particular family susceptible to having Deryni-like powers placed upon
them? For that matter, Wencit of Torenth, for all his villainy, apparently
discovered a way to place similar powers upon supposed humans-witness Bran
Coris. The late Duke Lionel and his brother Ma-hael also seem to have received
this benison. Perhaps what is called the Haldane potential in Gwynedd, then,
occurs elsewhere as well, and is actually a lesser degree of Deryniness-or a
greater one."
"A greater one?" asked a surprised Tiercel.
"It is possible. I say 'greater' because the Haldane power comes upon
the recipient full-blown, fully accessible, even if not fully understood. In
some respects, at least, that is surely superior to having to learn how to use
one's powers- which is what most 'pure' Deryni have had to do, from time
immemorial."
Arilan, though more inclined to Sofiana's reasoning than to anyone
else's, stopped his impatient turning of his bishop's ring and furrowed his
brow.
"Take care, Sofiana, or soon you will be asking us to believe that
everyone is Deryni."
Sofiana smiled and leaned back in her chair, silvery ear-rings chiming
melodically as she shook her head.
"Never that, my friend, though it would certainly solve many problems-
and doubtless create other worse ones," she added, at Vivienne's look of
horror. "Consider, too, that the Haldane potential could be just such an
obscure facet of our Deryniness as Morgan and McLain's 'rogue' healing talent,
both gifts requiring special training and handling, and both sometimes arising
spontaneously."
Arilan whistled low under his breath, and Laran glanced at Barrett in
astonishment as the others buzzed among themselves. Privately, Arilan himself
had examined that very possibility more than once, and felt certain he was not
alone in that, but no one had ever dared to voice it in full Council. Laran,
as a physician, and Barrett, whose sight might conceivably be restored if the
healing gifts could be re-leashed, also would have given the subject ample
consideration, Arilan felt sure.
"But, that, too, is a topic for another day," Sofiana went on. "Our
immediate concern, if I understand correctly, is that Kelson is about to act
against our better judgment. Short of our physical intervention, however, I
fear there is little we can do to prevent it, in this particular instance."
"I believe you'll receive no argument on that point," Barrett said. "But
your choice of words suggests some future remedy."
"If we are bold enough to take it-yes. If, as we seem to agree, there is
no question that Kelson is to be regarded as 'of the blood,' as Vivienne so
quaintly put it, then I suggest that we have the means totally within our
power to control him-and have had it for several years, in fact. Bring him
into the Council."
She ignored their gasps as she raised a hand toward the high-backed
chair standing empty between Tiercel and Vivienne.
"Bring him into the Council and bind him by the same oaths that bind the
rest of us. Or are you afraid of him?"
"Of course not!" Vivienne said indignantly.
"He is strong enough," Sofiana countered. "He is mature far beyond his
years."
"He is untrained."
"Then, let us take his training upon ourselves, and make sure he
receives proper supervision."
"He lacks other qualities."
"Such as?"
"Do not push me, Sofiana, I warn you!"
"What qualities does he lack?" Sofiana persisted. "I am willing to be
persuaded that he is not, indeed, ready, but you must give me a specific
reason."
"Very well." Vivienne lifted her head in defiance. "He is not yet
sufficiently ruthless."
"He is not yet sufficiently ruthless," Sofiana repeated. "I see. Then,
would you rather have Morgan or McLain?"
"Are you mad?" Laran gasped, the first one bold enough to intervene in
the exchange.
"It's absolutely out of the question!" Kyri said, with an emphatic shake
of her fiery mane.
"Then, elect some other Deryni willing to accept the responsibility,"
Sofiana replied. "We operate at less than our full potential, with our number
incomplete. How long must Stefan Coram's seat sit vacant?"
"Better vacant than filled by one unready to wield its power," Vivienne
snapped.
Arilan watched and listened in some amusement as reaction continued to
run its course around the table: Vivienne and Kyri continuing to challenge
Sofiana over the very notion; Laran deeply disturbed; Tiercel excited but
thoughtful, not saying anything for once; only Barrett unreadable, sitting
still and solitary in his own mind between Arilan and Sofiana.
Nor was bringing Kelson into the Council a bad idea- someday. In the
beginning, though the Council quickly agreed to acknowledge the king as full
Deryni, no one even tried to argue that he was skilled or experienced enough.
But in the three years since truly securing his throne. Kelson had learned
many a hard lesson of kingship and of manhood. Arilan was in a unique position
to report to them on that. In fact, it was Arilan who had first broached the
subject of Kelson's candidacy; Arilan who had continued to pursue the notion,
albeit far more gently than Sofiana's efforts of late; Arilan who, alone of
all the seven of them, had ongoing contact with the king and knew, better than
any, just how hard and disciplined-and powerful-the king was becoming. No
Haldane king had ever sat on the Council before; but no Haldane had ever
displayed Kelson's abilities, either.
"I think we've talked around this subject long enough," Arilan finally
said, when most of the outrage had died down. "Even if we were disposed to
admit the king today-and you all know my feeling on that matter-that is not
the time, with war imminent and a disputed ritual of magic in the offing for
tonight. Nor do I think anyone is seriously arguing that Morgan or Duncan are
viable candidates at this time."
"Well, thank heaven for that," Vivienne muttered.
"Don't worry, Vivienne," Arilan replied. "I am the first to agree that
both of them are still very much unknown quantities. Besides-" he allowed
himself a bitter grimace, "- they still haven't forgiven me for our apparent
abandonment of them, once Kelson's throne was secure."
"Are you saying they mistrust you, then?" Tiercel asked.
Arilan waggled one hand in a yes-and-no gesture.
"'Mistrust' is perhaps too strong a term," he allowed. "Let us simply
say they're cautious where I'm concerned- and who can blame them? They resent
the fact that I won't talk about the Council-and of course, I can't tell them
why I won't."
"Three years ago, you brought them here without permission," Barren said
stiffly. "They already know too much about us."
Arilan inclined his head. "I accept responsibility for that-though I
still maintain I did the right thing, under the circumstances. I've observed
the Council's restrictions scrupulously since then, however."
"And see that you continue to do so," Vivienne muttered.
"Let us not stray from the subject again," Barrett said quietly. "This
is an old, old argument. Let us return to tonight. Denis, if you cannot
prevent it, can you at least control it?"
Arilan allowed himself a curt nod. "To the point that any trained
practitioner can control the course of the outward ritual-certainly. I can
make sure that we're properly warded, that the forms proper to any serious
working of high magic are observed. But what happens on the inner levels is
and remains in Kelson's control."
"What of Richenda?" Laran asked. "Will she be able to assist you? Kelson
trusts her, I believe."
"He does." Arilan shifted his attention to Sofiana. "And we now know
that Richenda is possessed of both power and training we had not guessed
before, don't we, Sofiana?"
Sofiana gave a noncommittal shrug.
"Do not blame me for that, Denis. Had anyone asked at the time, I could
have told you."
"But she's your niece," Kyri said. "You knew she was formally trained,
yet you let her marry a half-breed."
"Oh, Kyri, I did not let her do anything! Richenda is a grown woman, and
Deryni, fully capable of making her own decisions. And as for being my niece-"
she shrugged again, shifting to a more whimsical mood, "-I'm afraid I hardly
know her. My sister and her husband decided that Richenda should marry outside
our traditions and faith, when they chose her first husband. I did not agree,
but I respected their decision. I saw little of the girl after she became
Countess of Marley."
"But, to marry Morgan-"
Sofiana's dark eyes flashed ebon fire. "Are you trying to make me
condemn him?" she retorted. "I will not. Because he has made Richenda happy
and has taken my sister's grandson as his own child, and has given her a
daughter as well, I cannot be but kindly disposed toward him-and curious, make
no mistake. And though I have heard that his powers are formidable, if largely
untrained, I have met him only once. Needless to say, he was both on his guard
and on his best behavior."
"Ah, then, you do not trust Morgan either," Vivienne said.
"How does one define trust?" Sofiana countered. "I trust him to be a
proper husband and father to my kin; I trust my niece's sincerity when she
tells me of his honor in all that he has done since she has known him. Beyond
that, all else is hearsay. How could I trust him in the way that I trust all
of you? We of the Council may often disagree, but we all have bared our souls
to one another in our oath-takings. That is trust."
Laran raised a silvered eyebrow. "Do you trust Kelson, then?" he asked.
"Or you, Denis? Has the king bared his soul to you?"
"In the sense that Sofiana has just reminded us?" Arilan smiled. "Hardly
that. He has come to me for confession on occasion, when Duncan McLain was not
available, but that is another matter entirely. I believe, however, that his
ultimate goals are the same as our own."
"And what of Nigel?" Tiercel asked impatiently. "In case anyone has
forgotten, Kelson is going to attempt to pass on a part of his power tonight."
"Aye, we've not forgotten," Arilan agreed. "And I know where your
argument is headed, Tiercel. Fortunately, the notion that more than one
Haldane might hold that full power at a time has not occurred to our
headstrong young renegades. But if all of you would like something else to
worry about, consider this: Kelson has decided to have young Dhugal MacArdry
present tonight. Now, there's a one for you. I don't know where he got it, but
he's at least part Deryni as well; and just because he didn't know that until
a few months ago doesn't mean he hasn't been learning since then from Kelson,
Morgan, and Duncan."
Kyri made an expression of distaste, and Vivienne muttered something
about "another half-breed."
"And then there's Jehana," Arilan went on, ignoring both women. "When
she returns to court. ..."
All of them grew apprehensive at that, for the queen mother was of the
same bloodline that had produced one Lewys ap Norfal - a Deryni of enormous
ability and training who had defied the authority of the Council nearly a
century before. Though Jehana knew nothing of that, and had spent a lifetime
denying her Deryni blood, yet she had been able to flex long-unused potentials
at Kelson's coronation with sufficient strength to give serious pause to a
highly trained sorceress who sought her son's life.
Nor had she yet reconciled that act with her conscience, even after
nearly three years in the seclusion of a cloister. Her imminent return to
court presented but another unknown factor, for Jehana was still quite hostile
to Deryni.
"She will have to be watched closely," Barrett said.
Arilan nodded and sat back wearily in his chair, covering his eyes with
his hand.
"I know that," he whispered.
"And the king," Vivienne joined in. "He must not be allowed to get the
notion in his head that Nigel might keep his powers, once Kelson begets an
heir of his own."
"I know all of that," Arilan replied.
But as the Council shifted its deliberations to other matters, Bishop
Denis Arilan remained very much aware of the task laid upon him. He alone, of
all the seven, must move regularly among the chaotic blending of uncertainties
and try to maintain some sort of equilibrium.
CHAPTER ONE
With arrows and with bow shall one come thither.
-Isaiah 7:24
"Kelson," Alaric Morgan said, as he and his king looked down on the
bustling yard at Rhemuth Castle, "you're becoming a hard, cruel man." He
ignored Kelson's startled stare and continued blithely. "Half the ladies of
this kingdom and several other realms are pining for you, yet you hardly give
them a second glance."
Across the sunlit courtyard, bright as finches in their spring silks and
satins and sarcenets, nearly a score of young females ranging in age from
twelve to thirty chattered and postured among themselves along an overlooking
balcony- ostensibly come to observe and applaud the men honing martial skills
in the yard below, but equally to see and be seen by Gwynedd's handsome and
eligible young king. Admiring glances aplenty there were for others of the
keen young men drilling with sword and lance and bow, for practicality
recognized that the chance of any single one of them winning the king's favor
was slim, but their wishful glances always darted back to him, nonetheless.
Self-consciously, Kelson spared them not only the glance Morgan had
accused him of begrudging, but a strained smile and a nod of acknowledgment,
eliciting excited twitterings and preening among his admirers. He gave Morgan
a sour grimace as he turned back to his own survey of the yard, raising one
leather-clad knee so that he could half sit on the wide stone balustrade of
the landing.
"They're not pining; they're after a crown," he said in a low voice.
"Aye, most certainly," Morgan agreed. "And eventually you're going to
have to give it to one of them. Or if not one of these, then someone else like
them. Kelson, I know you're tired of hearing this, but you are going to have
to marry."
"I did marry," Kelson muttered, pretending avid interest in a
quarterstaff bout between two of Duke Ewan's squires. "My bride didn't live
long enough to have the crown placed on her head." He folded his arms over the
somber black he wore. "I'm not ready to marry again, Alaric. Not until I've
brought her murderers to justice."
Morgan compressed his lips in a thin, hard line and recalled one such
bringing to justice: the defiant Llewell of Meara standing with his back to
the executioner on a bleak morning in February, wrists bound behind him, chin
lifted proudly heavenward in stubborn assertion that his act had been
justified. The Mearan prince had declined to make any statement after his
sentence was pronounced, disdaining either assistance or the solace of a
blindfold as he knelt on the snow-scoured scaffold. Only in that timeless
instant before the headsman's sword rendered final justice did his eyes dart
to Kelson's-accusing and defiant to the last.
"Why did he look at me that way?" the shaken king had whispered
plaintively to Morgan, as soon as they were out of public view. "I didn't kill
her. He committed sacrilegious murder in front of several hundred witnesses-
his own sister, for God's sake! There was no question of his guilt. No other
verdict was possible."
Nor did ultimate guilt rest on Llewell alone. Equal responsibility must
be shared by his parents, the pretender Caitrin and her traitor husband
Sicard, now leading Meara in open rebellion against their lawful sovereign.
Where Kelson's great-grandfather had sought to unite the two lands peacefully
by marriage with the eldest daughter of the last Mearan prince-a settlement
never recognized by a large portion of the Mearan nobility, who held another
daughter to be the rightful heiress-Kelson had attempted to reassert that
union through marriage with a captive daughter of the current rival line: the
fifteen-year-old princess Sidana.
Granted, Sidana had two brothers who might have disputed that
succession. But Llewell, the younger, was already in custody by then, and the
eventual neutralization of Caitrin, Sicard, and the remaining brother would
have left Sidana sole heiress of the cadet house. Her and Kelson's children
could have claimed unquestionable right to both crowns, finally resolving the
century-long dispute over the legitimate succession.
But Kelson had not reckoned on the vehemence of Llewell's hatred for
anything Haldane-or dreamed that the Mearan prince would slay his own sister
on her wedding day rather than see her married to Meara's mortal enemy.
Thus, of necessity, had Kelson's marital solution to the Mearan question
become a martial one-the campaign for which all Gwynedd now prepared.
Llewell's father and his remaining brother, Prince Ithel, were said to be
raising an army in the Mearan heartland west of Gwynedd even now- and deriving
dangerous support from Edmund Loris, former Archbishop of Valoret and Kelson's
bitter enemy, who lent religious zeal and anti-Deryni fanaticism to the
already explosive Mearan situation. And Loris, as once before, had lured a
number of other bishops to his side, making of the coming conflict a religious
as well as a civil question.
Sighing, Morgan hooked his thumbs in his swordbelt and let his gaze
wander back to the yard below, idly fixing on an archery match in progress
between Prince Nigel's three sons and young Dhugal MacArdry, the new Earl of
Transha, since that seemed to have captured Kelson's attention in preference
to the watching ladies. Both Dhugal and Conall, the eldest of Nigel's brood,
were giving an impressive exhibition of marksmanship this morning, Dhugal's
the more remarkable, in Morgan's eyes, because he shot left-handed-"corrie-
fisted," as they called it in the borders.
That Dhugal had managed to retain this idiosyncrasy was a source of
recurrent amazement to Morgan-not because Dhugal was skilled, for Morgan had
met skilled left-handers before, but because the young Earl of Transha had
received a major part of his early schooling here in Rhemuth, some of it under
Brion himself. And Brion, despite Morgan's repeated objections to the
contrary, had held that left-handed swordsmen and lancers wreaked havoc with
conventional drills and training formations-which was true, as far as it went,
but neglected to acknowledge that warriors in an actual combat situation, if
accustomed to fighting only other nght-handed opponents, often found
themselves at a distinct disadvantage when faced with a left-handed enemy,
whose moves were all backward from what was familiar and, therefore,
predictable to some degree.
Brion had finally agreed that training should extend to both hands, in
case injury forced shifting weapons in midbattle, but maintained until his
death that left-handedness was to be strongly discouraged in his future
knights. The trend persisted, even more than three years after Brion's death.
Far across the yard, Morgan could see Baron Jodrell putting some of the
current crop of squires through a drill with sword and shield-none of the lads
unfashionably come-fisted.
Not so Dhugal, of course. Though fostered to court as a page when only
seven, even younger than most boys of his rank and station, he had been
recalled to the borders before he was twelve, serving out his apprenticeship
in an environment where survival, not style, was important. And survival
demanded a far different fighting style than what Dhugal had learned at court.
Border conditions dictated fast, highly mobile strike forces, lightly mounted
and armored- not the more ponderous greathorses and armor of the lowland
knight. Nor did anyone care which hand the future Chief of Clan MacArdry
favored, as long as the job got done, whether meting out the justice of the
sword with the patrols that policed the borders against reivers and cattle
thieves, or practicing the skills of a battle surgeon afterward.
None of that made shooting a bow left-handed look anything less than
awkward to Morgan, however, accustomed to more conventional shooting stance.
And as he shook his head and glanced again at Kelson, who was still gazing
raptly at the archers, he knew it was not Dhugal's unorthodox shooting that
was troubling the king, either. Nor was it their earlier discussion of the
necessity for remarriage, though that was sure to bring a rise, even under the
best of conditions, whenever the subject was broached.
No, today's preoccupation had to do with what Kelson was - Deryni as
well as king - and the necessity, this very night, to make Deryni confirmation
of the man who would succeed him on the throne of Gwynedd, should Kelson not
return from the Mearan campaign. For failing an heir of Kelson's body, which
he did not yet have, the crown and the Haldane legacy of magic would pass to
Prince Nigel, Kelson's uncle and brother of the dead King Brion.
Brion. After more than three years, the emptiness of the former king's
loss no longer ached in Morgan's chest in quite the way it once had, but the
uncompromising loyalty once visited on the father now lay upon the royal son-
this slender, grey-eyed youth, only now verging on true manhood, who prepared
to face yet another test that should have been reserved for one of greater
years and experience.
At least the physical shell better matched the test. The boy-king who
had been was gone forever. Intensive weapons training for the coming campaign
had stretched and hardened boyish muscles to more manly proportions, and a
winter's growth spurt had given him another handspan of height, in addition to
chiseling the rounded facial planes of youth to sharper angles. He now stood
nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with Morgan, and had recently been obliged to
employ a razor several times a week to maintain the clean-shaven appearance
that he, like Morgan, preferred.
But where Morgan still wore his fair hair cropped short for ease of care
in the field, as most fighting men chose to do. Kelson had allowed his to grow
during the past two years of relative peace - "like any common borderer," as
Dhugal had laughingly noted, when first reunited with the king the previous
fall. For bordermen traditionally wore their hair pulled back in a braid at
the nape of the neck and tied with the colors of their clan; no one remembered
why.
Unexpectedly, however, the whim of a few seasons of peace soon became a
political asset, for it had enabled Kelson to sleek his black hair into a neat
border braid like those sported by Dhugal and his kinsmen, underlining his own
border connections with Dhugal as well as the clan and thereby binding his
border allies more firmly to his support. Only after it had served its
political purpose did Kelson discover that the affectation was also both
comfortable and practical, working as well under a helm or mail as the bowl-
shaped cut or the Roman style that most seasoned warriors favored.
Since then, many of the younger men and boys had begun to adopt the
king's border braid as their hair grew long enough, though lowland purists and
those of a more conservative persuasion still considered short locks to be the
mark of genteel civilization. Conall was one such purist, and wore his hair
accordingly, though both his younger brothers boasted stubby border braids
tied with ribbons of Haldane scarlet-somewhat less consequential than Dhugal's
coppery braid, to be sure, but meant as fervent compliment, both to their
royal cousin the king and to his dashing foster brother, who took the time to
coach them at archery, and did not laugh when their arrows went wide of the
mark.
A patter of applause and girlish laughter from across the yard shifted
Morgan's focus back to Dhugal himself, who had just placed an arrow very near
the center of the target. The young border lord lowered his bow and leaned on
it like a staff as he glanced at Conall, watching in silence as his royal
opponent carefully drew and let fly, placing his shot directly beside
Dhugal's-though no nearer the center.
"He's quite good, isn't he?" Kelson breathed, gesturing with his chin
toward his eldest cousin.
As Conall's brothers, thirteen and eight, moved forward to take their
turns, Dhugal giving the younger boys helpful pointers, Conall stepped back
摘要：

KING'SJUSTICEPROLOGUEAndthekingshalldoaccordingtohiswill.-Daniel11:30"Itellyou,heisn'tgoingtochangehismind,"theDeryniBishopArilansaid,slappingtheivorytablewithbothpalmsforemphasisashisgazesweptthethreemenandthreewomenseatedwithhiminthevaultedchamber."Notonlywillhenotchange-herefusestoevendiscussit."...

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