Kurtz, Katherine - Deryni Chronicles 02 - Deryni Checkmate

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You For JOHN G. NELSON
who, like the Deryni, strives to hold back the darkness-of whatever kind.
A Del Rey Book
Published by Ballantine Books
Copyright (c) 1972 by Katharine Kurtz
ISBN 0-345-29224-3
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition: May 1972 Seventh Printing: May 1980
DERYNI CHECKMATE
CHAPTER ONE
Three things there are which defy prediction: a woman's whims, the touch of
the Devil's finger, and the weather of Gwynedd in March.
St. Veneric, Triads
MARCH HAS long been a month of storms in the Eleven Kingdoms. It brings the
snow sweeping down from the great northern sea to layer a last coat of winter
on the silver mountains, to seethe and swirl around the high plateaus of the
east until it finally funnels across the great Gwynedd plain and turns to
rain.
March is a fickle month at best. It is the last stand of winter against the
coming spring, but it is also harbinger of the greening, of the floods which
yearly inundate the central lowlands. It has been known to be mild though not
recently. Still, it is spring close enough for men to dare hope that winter
might end early this year; it has, on occasion.
But those who know the ways of Gwynedd do not build their dreams on the chance
of an early spring. For they have learned through hard experience that March
is capricious, often cruel, and never, never to be trusted.
March in the first regnal of King Kelson of Gwynedd was to be no exception.
Nightfall had come early in Kelson's capital at Rhemuth. It often did in
March, when- the northern storms rolled in across the Purple March from the
north and east.
This particular storm had struck at midday, pelting the brightly canopied
stalls and shops of the market square with hail the size of a man's thumbnail
and sending merchants and vendors scurrying for cover. Within an hour, all
hope of salvaging the interrupted market day was gone. And so, amidst thunder
and rain and the pungent lightning-smell which the wind carried, the merchants
had reluctantly packed up their sodden wares, closed up their shops, and left.
By dusk, the only people to be found on the rainswept streets were those whose
business compelled them to be out on such a night- city watchmen on their
rounds, soldiers and messengers on official errands-, citizens scurrying
through the wind and cold to the warm hearthsides of their homes.
Now, as darkness fell and the great cathedral bells in the north of the city
rang Evensong, sleet and rain whined through the narrow, deserted streets of
Rhemuth, slashing at the red-tiled roofs and cupolas and filling the cobble-
lined gutters to overflowing. Behind rain-blurred windowpanes, the flames of
countless evening candles shivered and danced whenever a gust of wind managed
to force its way through cracks in wooden doors and shutters. And in houses
and taverns, inns and roadhouses, inhabitants of the city huddled around their
firesides to take their evening meals, sipped good ale and traded yams while
they waited for the storm to subside.
At the north of the city, the archbishop's palace was likewise under siege
from the storm. In the shadow of palace walls, the massive nave of Saint
George's Cathedral loomed dark against the blackening sky, stubby bell tower
thrust brazenly heavenward, bronze doors sealed tightly against the onslaught.
Leather-cloaked household guards patrolled the ramparts of the palace proper,
collars and hoods muffled close against the cold and wet. Torches hissed and
flared under sheltered eaves along the battlements as the storm raged and
howled and chilled to the .bone.
Inside, the Lord Archbishop of Rhemuth, the Most Reverend Patrick Corrigan,
was snug and warm. Standing before a roaring fireplace, pudgy hands extended
toward the flames, he rubbed his hands together briskly to further warm them,
then pulled his fur-lined robe more closely around him and padded on slippered
feet to a writing desk on the opposite side of the room. Another man, also in
episcopal violet, was poring over an elaborate parchment manuscript, squinting
in the light of two yellow candles on the desk before him. Half a dozen candle
sconces placed around the rest of the room made a feeble attempt to further
banish the gloom encroaching from the darkness outside. And a youngish-looking
priest-secretary hovered attentively over the man's left shoulder with another
light, ready to apply red sealing wax when he was told to do so.
Corrigan peered over the reader's right shoulder and watched as the man
nodded, picked up a quill, and scrawled a bold signature at the foot of the
document. The secretary dripped molten wax beside the name, and the man calmly
imprinted the wax with his amethyst seal of office. He breathed on the stone
and polished it against his velvet sleeve, then looked up at Corrigan and
replaced the ring on his finger.
"That should take care of Morgan," he said.
Edmund Loris, Archbishop of Valoret and Primate of Gwynedd was an impressive-
looking man. His body was lean and fit beneath the rich violet cassock he
wore, and the fine silvery hair formed a wispy halo-effect around the magenta
skullcap covering his clerical tonsure.
The bright blue eyes were hard and cold, however. And the gaunt hawk-face was
anything but beneficent at the moment. For Loris had just affixed his seal to
a document which would shortly cause Interdict to fall upon a large portion of
Royal Gwynedd. Interdict which would cut off the rich Duchy of Corwyn to the
east from all sacraments and solace of the Church in the Eleven Kingdoms.
It was a grave decision, and one to which both Loris and his colleague had
given considerable thought in the past four months. For in all fairness, the
people of Corwyn had done nothing to warrant so extreme a measure as
Interdict. But nor, on the other hand, could the true cause of the measure be
ignored or tolerated any longer. An abhorrent situation had existed and
continued to exist within the archbishops' jurisdiction, and it must be
stamped out.
And so the prelates salved their consciences with the rationalization that the
threat of Interdict was not, after all, directed against the people of Corwyn,
but against one man who was impossible to reach in any other way. It was
Corwyn's master, the Deryni Duke Alaric Morgan, who was the object of
sacerdotal vengeance tonight. Morgan, who had repeatedly dared to use his
blasphemous and heretical Deryni powers to meddle in human affairs and corrupt
the innocent, in defiance of Church and State. Morgan, who had initiated the
boy-king Kelson into the forbidden practice of that ancient magic and loosed a
duel of necromancy in the cathedral itself at Kelson's coronation last fall.
Morgan, whose half-Deryni ancestry doomed him to eternal torment and damnation
in the Hereafter unless he could be persuaded to recant, to give up his powers
and renounce his evil heritage. Morgan, around whom the entire Deryni question
now seemed to hinge.
Archbishop Corrigan frowned and picked up the parchment, his bushy grizzled
brows knitting together in a single line as he scanned the text once more. He
pursed his lips and scowled as he finished reading, but then he folded the
document with a decisive crackle and held it flat on the desk while his
secretary applied wax to the overlap. Corrigan sealed it with his ring, but
his hand toyed uneasily with the jeweled pectoral cross on his chest as he
eased himself into a chair beside Loris.
"Edmund, are you sure we " He halted at Loris' sharp glance, then remembered
that his secretary was still awaiting further instructions.
"That will be all for the moment, Father Hugh. Ask Monsignor Gorony to step
in, please."
The priest bowed and left the room, and Corrigan leaned back in his chair with
a sigh.
"You know that Morgan will never permit Tolliver to excommunicate him/'
Corrigan said wearily. "Do you really think the threat of Interdict will stop
him?" Duke Alaric Morgan did not technically fall within the jurisdiction of
either archbishop, but both were hopeful that the letter on the table would
shortly circumvent that small technicality.
Loris made a steeple of his fingers and gazed across at Corrigan evenly.
"Probably not," he admitted. "But his people may. Rumor has it that a band of
rebels in northern Corwyn even now preaches the overthrow of their Deryni
duke."
"Humph!" Corrigan snorted derisively, picking up a quill pen and dipping it
into a crystal inkwell. "What good can a handful of rebels hope to do against
Deryni magic? Besides, you know that Morgan's people love him."
"Yes, they do now," Loris agreed. He watched as Corrigan began carefully
inscribing a name on the outside of the letter they had written, watched with
a hidden smile as the tip of his colleague's tongue followed each stroke of
the rounded uncials. "But will they love him as well once the Interdict
falls?"
Corrigan looked up sharply from his finished handiwork, then vigorously sanded
the wet ink with pounce from a silver shaker and blew away the excess.
"And what of the rebel band then?" Loris continued insistently, eying his
companion through narrowed lids. "They say that Warin, the rebel leader,
believes himself to be a new messiah, divinely appointed to rid the land of
the Deryni scourge. Can you not see how such zealousness could be made to work
to our advantage?"
Corrigan pulled at his lower lip in concentration, then frowned. "Are we to
permit self-appointed messiahs to go gallivanting around the countryside
without proper supervision, Edmund? This rebel movement smacks of heresy to
me."
"I've given no official sanction yet," Loris said. "I've not even met this
Warin fellow. But you must admit that such a movement could be highly
effective, were it given proper guidance. Besides," Loris smiled, "perhaps
this Warin is divinely inspired."
"I doubt it," Corrigan scowled. "How far do you propose to pursue the matter?"
Loris leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his waist. "The
rebel headquarters is reputed to be in the hills near Dhassa, where the Curia
meets later this week. Gorony, whom we send to Corwyn's bishop, has been in
touch with the rebels and will return to Dhassa when he finishes his current
assignment. I hope to arrange a meeting with the rebel leader then."
"And until then, we do nothing?"
Loris nodded; "We do nothing. I do not want the king to know what we are
planning, and "
There was a discreet knock at the door, followed by the entrance of Corrigan's
secretary and an older, nondescript-looking man in the traveling garb of a
simple priest. Father Hugh lowered his eyes and bowed slightly as he announced
the newcomer.
"Monsignor Gorony, Your Excellency."
Gorony strode to Corrigan's chair and dropped to one knee to kiss the
archbishop's ring, then stood at Corrigan's signal to wait attentively
"Thank you, Father Hugh. I believe that will be all for tonight," Corrigan
said, starting to wave dismissal.
Loris cleared his throat, and Corrigan glanced in his direction.
"The suspension we spoke of earlier, Patrick? We had agreed that the man must
be disciplined, had we not?"
"Oh, yes, of course," Corrigan murmured. He rummaged briefly among the papers
piled at one corner of the desk, then extracted one and pushed it across the
desk to Hugh.
"This is the draft of a writ of summons I need as soon as possible, Father.
When the official document is drawn up, would you return it for my signature?"
"Yes, Excellency/'
As Hugh took the paper and headed for the door, Corrigan resumed his
conversation with Gorony.
"Now, this is the letter you're to deliver to Bishop Tolliver. I've a barge
waiting to take you to the free port of Concaradine, and from there you can
take ship with one of the merchant fleets. You should be in Corwyn within
three days."
Father Hugh de Berry frowned as he closed the door to the archbishop's study
and began walking down the long, torch-lined corridor toward his chancery
office. It was cold and damp, and the corridor was drafty. Hugh shivered and
clasped his arms across his chest as he walked, debating what he should do.
Hugh was Patrick Corrigan's personal secretary, and as such was privy to
information not normally accessible to one of his comparative youth. He was a
bright man, if not brilliant. And he had always been honest, discreet, and
totally loyal to the Church he served through the person of the archbishop.
Lately, though, his faith had been sorely shaken at least his faith in the man
he served. The letter he had copied for Corrigan this afternoon had helped to
do that. And as he remembered, Hugh shivered again this time, not from the
cold.
Gwynedd was in danger. This had been apparent since King Brion fell at Candor
Rhea last fall. It had been evident when Brion's heir, the boy Kelson, had
been forced to battle the evil Charissa for his throne but a few weeks later.
And it had been painfully obvious whenever Morgan, the boy's Deryni protector,
had had to use his awesome powers to slow down the inevitable conflagration
that all knew must follow on the heels of such events. And it would follow.
It was no secret, for example, that the Deryni tyrant Wencit of Torenth would
plunge the kingdom into war by midsummer at latest. And the young king must
certainly he aware of the unrest being generated in his kingdom by rising
anti-Deryni sentiment. Kelson had begun to feel the brunt of that reaction
ever since the disclosure of his own half-Deryni ancestry at the coronation
last fall.
But now, with Interdict threatened for all of Corwyn
Hugh pressed one hand against his chest where the original draft of Corrigan's
letter now rested next to his skin. He knew that the archbishop would not
approve of what he was about to do in fact, would be furious if he found out
but the matter was too important for the king not to be made aware of it.
Kelson must be warned.
If Interdict fell on Corwyn, Morgan's loyalties would be divided at a time
when all his energies were needed at the king's side. It could fatally affect
the king and also Morgan's plans for the war effort. And while Hugh, as a
priest, could hardly condone Morgan's fearsome powers, they were nonetheless
real and needed if Gwynedd was to survive the onslaught.
Hugh paused beneath the torch outside the chancery office door and-began to
scan the letter in his hand, hoping the copy could be entrusted to one of his
subordinates. Skipping over the archbishop's standard salutation for such
documents, he gasped as he read the name of the addressee, then forced himself
to reread it Monsignor Duncan Howard McLain.
Duncan' Hugh thought to himself. "My God, what's he done?"
Duncan McLain was the young confessor to the king, and Hugh's own boyhood
friend. They had grown up together, gone to school together. What could Duncan
possibly have done to incur such action?
Knitting his brows together in consternation, Hugh read the letter, his
apprehension increasing as he read.
. . . summarily suspended and ordered fo present yourself before our
ecclesiastical court . . . give answer as to why you should not be censured .
. . your part in the scandals surrounding the king's coronation November last
. . . questionable activities . . . consorting with heretics. . .
My God, Hugh thought, unwilling to go on, he's been tainted by Morgan too. I
wonder if he knows about this.
Lowering the paper, Hugh made his decision. Obviously, he must go to the king
first. That had been his original intention, and the matter was of kingdom-
wide importance.
But then he must find Duncan and warn him. If Duncan submitted himself to the
archbishop's court under the present circumstances, there was no telling what
might happen. He could even be excommunicated.
Hugh shuddered at that and crossed himself. For the threat of excommunication
was, on a personal level, as terrible as Interdict was for a geographical
area. Both cut off the transgressor from all sacraments of the Church and all
contact with God-fearing men. It must not come to that for Duncan.
Composing himself, Hugh pushed open the chancery door and walked calmly to a
desk where a monk was sharpening a quill pen.
"His Excellency needs this as soon as possible, Brother James," he said,
casually placing the document on the desk. "Will you take care of it, please?
I have a few errands to do."
"Certainly, Father," the monk replied.
CHAPTER TWO
I am the son of the wise, the son of ancient kings.
Isaiah 19:11
"MORE VENISON, SIRE?"
The red-liveried squire kneeling beside Kelson held out a steaming platter of
venison in gravy, but Kelson shook his head and pushed his silver trencher
aside with a smile. His crimson tunic was open at the neck, his raven head
bare of any royal ornament. And he had hours ago discarded his wet boots in
favor of soft scarlet slippers. He sighed and stretched his legs closer to the
£re> wiggling his feet contentedly as the squire removed the venison and began
to clear the table.
The young king had dined informally tonight, with only Duncan McLain and his
uncle, Prince Nigel, to share the table in the royal chambers. Now, across
that table, Duncan drained the last dregs from his chased silver goblet and
placed it gently on the table. Fire and taperlight winked from the polished
metal, casting bright flecks on the table, on the violet-edged black of
Duncan's cassock. The priest gazed across at his young liege lord and smiled,
blue eyes calm, contented, serene; then he glanced behind to where Nigel was
struggling to break the seal on a new bottle of wine.
"Do you need help, Nigel?"
"Not unless you can charm this cork with a prayer," Nigel grunted.
"Certainly. Benedicte," Duncan said, lifting his hand to make the sign that
went with the blessing.
The seal chose that minute to crack, and the cork shot from the neck of the
bottle in a rain of red wine. Nigel jumped back in time to avoid a royal
dousing, and Kelson leaped from his chair before he too could be splashed, but
Nigel's best efforts were not sufficient to spare the table or the wool
carpeting beneath his booted feet.
"Holy St. Michael, you didn't have to take me so literally, Duncan!" the
prince yelped, chuckling good-naturedly and holding the dripping bottle over
the table while the squire mopped the floor. "As I've always said, you can't
trust a priest."
"I was about to say the same for princes," Duncan observed, winking in
Kelson's direction and watching the boy control a smile.
The squire Richard wiped Kelson's chair and the bottle, then wrung his cloth
over the fire and returned to tackle the table. The flames hissed and flared
green as the wine vaporized, and Kelson took his seat and helped pick up,
goblets and candlesticks so that Richard could wipe up. When the young man had
finished, Nigel filled the three goblets and replaced the bottle in its
warming rack close by the fire.
Nigel Cluim Gwydion Rhys Haldane was a handsome man. At thirty-four, he was a
mature version of what his royal nephew would look like in twenty years, with
the same wide smile, the grey Haldane eyes, the quick wit that marked every
Haldane male. Like his dead brother Brion, Nigel was a Haldane to the core,
his military prowess and learning known and admired throughout the Eleven
Kingdoms. As he took his seat and picked up his goblet, his right hand moved
in an unconscious gesture to brush back a strand of jet black hair, and Duncan
felt a twinge of nostalgia at the familiar movement,
Only a few months ago, that gesture had been Brion's as well. Brion, whom
Duncan had served in one capacity or another for most of his twenty-nine
years. Brion, victim of the same battle of ideologies which even now
threatened to rend the country and plunge the Eleven Kingdoms into war.
Now Brion was. gone. And his fourteen-year-old son reigned uneasily with the
power he had inherited from his illustrious sire. And the tension grew.
Duncan's gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the door from the
outer corridor. As he looked up, a very young page in Kelson's crimson livery
entered carrying a steaming silver bowl almost as big as he was. A snowy linen
towel was draped over the lad's shoulder, and a faint scent of lemon reached
Duncan's nostrils as the boy knelt beside Kelson and held out the bowl.
Kelson nodded grave thanks as he dipped his fingers in the warm water and
dried his hands on the towel. The boy bowed his head shyly and moved to repeat
the performance for Nigel, but he would not look up at the lean figure in
royal blue. Nor, when he moved to Duncan's side, would he look at the priest.
Duncan controlled the urge to smile as he replaced the towel on the boy's
shoulder. But when the boy had scurried from the chamber, he gazed across at
Nigel with a mischievous grin.
"Is he one of your pupils, Nigel?" he asked, knowing that it was so. Nigel was
in charge of the training of all the pages in the royal household, but Duncan
knew that this one was special.
Nigel gave a proud nod. "Payne, my youngest," he replied. "He has much to
learn, but so does every new page. This was his first time to serve
officially."
Kelson smiled and picked up his goblet, idly twirling the stem between his
long fingers so that the faceted sides caught the reflection of tunic and fire
and tapestried walls,
"I remember when I was a page, Uncle. Not so very long ago, either. The first
time you allowed me to serve my father, I was scared to death." He leaned his
head against the tall chair-back and continued dreamily. "There was no reason
to be afraid, of course. He was the same, and I was the same, and the mere
fact that I wore court livery shouldn't have made any difference.
"And yet, it did. Because I was no longer a boy serving his father; I was a
royal page serving the king. There's a big difference." He glanced across at
Nigel. "Payne felt that tonight. Even though I've known him all his life, used
to play with him and the other boys, he knew the difference. Tonight I was his
king not a familiar playmate. I wonder if it's always like that?"
The squire Richard, who had been turning down the State bed on the other side
of the room, approached Kelson's chair and made a short bow.
"Will there be aught else, Sire? Anything I may bring ye?"
"I don't think so. Uncle? Father Duncan?" The two shook their heads and Kelson
nodded. "That's all for tonight, then, Richard. Check with the household guard
before you leave. There should be a coach standing by later on to take
Father Duncan back to the basilica."
"You needn't bother," the priest protested. "I'll be 6ne on foot."
"And catch your death of cold? Certainly not. The night's not 6t for man nor
beast. Richard, there will be a coach ready for Father Duncan. Understood?"
"Aye, My Liege."
Nigel drained his goblet and gestured toward the door as it closed behind
Richard. "That's a fine young man, Kelson," he said, reaching behind to
retrieve the wine bottle and pour himself another cup. "He'll be ready for
knighthood soon. One of the finest lads I've ever had the pleasure to train.
Alaric concurs in that judgment, by the way. Anyone else?"
He proffered the wine bottle, but Kelson shook his head. Duncan inspected his
goblet and found it half empty, held it out for more. As Nigel replaced the
bottle, Duncan leaned back in his chair and thought out loud.
"Richard FitzWilliam. He's about seventeen now, isn't he, My Prince?"
"Almost eighteen," Kelson corrected. "He's the only son of Baron Fulk
FitzWilliam, up in the Kheldish Riding. I'd planned to knight him and a dozen
others before we begin the summer campaign in Eastmarch. His father will be
pleased."
Nigel nodded. "He's one of the best. What news of Wencit of Torenth, by the
way? Any further word from Cardosa?"
"Not for the past three months," Kelson replied. "The city has a strong
garrison, as you know, but they'll be snowbound for a few more weeks at least.
And once the high passes are clear, Wencit will be hammering at the gates
again. We can't possibly get relief troops there until the spring flooding is
done, and it will be too late by then."
"So we lose Cardosa," Nigel sighed, gazing into the depths of his cup.
"And the treaty dies, and war comes," Duncan added.
Nigel shrugged and began running the tip of his finger along the rim of his
goblet. "Hasn't that been apparent from the start? Brion certainly knew there
was that danger when he sent Alaric to Cardosa last summer. And when Brion
died and we had to recall Alaric or lose you, Kelson well, I still think it
was a fair exchange: a city for a king. Besides, we haven't lost Cardosa yet."
"But we will, Uncle," Kelson murmured, lowering his eyes. "And how many lives
will be lost in the exchange?" He twined his fingers together and studied them
for a moment before continuing, "I sometimes wonder how to weigh those lives
against my own, Uncle. Sometimes I wonder if I'm worth it."
Duncan reached across to touch Kelson's arm reassuringly. "Kings will always
wonder about such things, Kelson. The day you stop wondering, stop weighing
the lives that hang in the balance on that
day, I shall mourn."
The young king looked up with a wry grin. "You always know what to say, don't
you, Father? It may not save cities or lives, but at least it soothes the
conscience of the king who must decide who survives." He lowered his eyes
again. "I'm sorry. That sounded bitter, didn't it?"
Duncan's reply was cut short by a knock at the door, followed by the immediate
entrance of young Richard FitzWilliam. Richard's handsome face was tense,
almost nervous, and his dark eyes flashed as he made an apologetic bow.
"Begging your pardon, Sire, but there's a priest outside who insists he must
see ye. I told him ye'd retired for the night, that he should come back
tomorrow, but he's most persistent."
Before Kelson could reply, a dark cloaked cleric pushed his way past Richard
and darted across the room to fling himself on his knees at Kelson's feet. A
stiletto had appeared unobtrusively in Kelson's hand as the man approached,
and Nigel half-rose from his chair, also reaching for a weapon. But. even as
the man's knees hit the floor, Richard was straddling his back, one arm across
the man's throat in a chokehold, the other with a dagger at the jugular vein,
a knee in the small of the man's back.
The man grimaced under Richard's rough handling, but made no move to defend
himself or to threaten Kelson. Instead, he closed his eyes tightly and
extended his empty hands to either side, tried to ignore the pressure of
Richard's arm across his windpipe.
"Please, Sire, I wish you no harm," he croaked, wincing slightly as Richard's
cold blade touched the side of his neck. "I'm Father Hugh de Berry, Archbishop
Corrigan's secretary."
"Hugh!" Duncan exclaimed, leaning forward anxiously as he recognized the man
and signaling Richard to release him. "What the Devil? Why didn't you say so?"
Hugh had opened his eyes with a start at Duncan's voice, and now he stared
pleadingly at his brother priest, his eyes betraying his fear but also his
resolution. Richard released his stranglehold and stepped back a pace at
Duncan's repeated gesture, but he did not relax his vigilant pose, nor did he
sheath his dagger. Nigel warily took his seat again, but Kelson continued to
finger the slim stiletto he had produced when the man approached.
"You know this man, Father?" Kelson asked.
"He is who he claims to be," Duncan replied cautiously, "though I cannot speak
for his intent after such an entrance. An explanation, Hugh?"
Hugh swallowed with" difficulty, then glanced at Kelson and bowed his head. "I
beg forgiveness, Sire, but I had to see you. I have certain information I
could trust to no one else, and "
He hazarded another glance at Kelson, then began withdrawing a folded piece of
parchment from inside his damp cassock. His heavy black cloak was dark across
the shoulders where the rain had soaked through, and his thinning brown hair
glistened with a mist of fine droplets in the dancing taperlight. His fingers
trembled as he handed the parchment across to Kelson. He averted his eyes
again as he folded his hands inside his sleeves to hide their shaking.
Kelson frowned and replaced his dagger in its hidden wrist sheath before
unfolding the parchment. As Njgel moved a candle closer, Duncan came around to
read over the boy's shoulder. The priest's face darkened as he scanned the
lines, for the formula was familiar, and what he had often feared. Restraining
his rising anger, he straightened and glanced at Richard, his blue eyes
stormy, grim.
"Richard, would you please wait outside," he murmured, flicking his gaze to
Hugh's bowed head. "I will vouch for this man's conduct." "Aye, Father."
As the door closed behind Richard, Duncan returned to his chair and sat
wearily. He continued to study Hugh across the goblet between his hands,
looked up as Kelson finished reading and laid the parchment on the table.
"I thank you for this information, Father," Kelson said, motioning Hugh to
rise. "And I apologize for your rough handling. I hope you will understand the
necessity under the circumstances."
"Of course, Sire," Hugh murmured self-consciously. "You had no way of knowing
what I was. I thank God that Duncan was here to save me from my own
impetuosity."
Duncan nodded, his eyes hooded and dark, but it was obvious he was not
thinking about Hugh. His hands were clasped tightly around the silver goblet
on the table before him, and the knuckles were white. Kelson did not seem to
notice as he glanced at the parchment again.
"I assume this letter has gone out by now," he said, catching Hugh's
affirmative nod. "Father Duncan, does this mean what I think it does?"
"Satan doom them both to nine eternal torments.' Duncan whispered under his
breath. He looked up sharply, suddenly aware he had spoken aloud, then shook
his head and released the goblet. It was oval now instead of round.
"Forgive me, My Prince," he murmured. "It means that Loris and Corrigan have
finally decided to do something about Alaric. I've been expecting some kind of
action for months now, but I never dreamed they'd dare to interdict all of
Corwyn for the actions of one man."
"Well, apparently they have dared," Kelson said uneasily. "Can we stop them?"
Duncan took a deep breath and forced himself to control his anger. "Not
directly. We have to remember that Loris and Corrigan see Alaric as the key to
the whole Deryni question. He's the highest placed of any known Deryni in the
kingdom, and he's never tried to hide what he is. He was never blatant in his
use of his powers. But when Brion died, circumstances forced his hand and he
had to use his powers or see you die."
"And to the archbishops," Nigel interjected, "magic is evil, and that is that.
Also, don't forget how Alaric repeatedly made fools of them at the coronation
last fall. I rather imagine that has as much to do with the present crisis as
any high-sounding motives they may say are behind the move."
Kelson slouched in his chair and studied a ruby ring on his right forefinger.
"So it's to be war against the Deryni, is it? Father Duncan, we can't afford a
religious dispute on the eve of a major war. What can we do to stop them?"
Duncan shook his head. "I don't know. I'll have to discuss it with Alaric.
Hugh, do you have any further background for us? Who's delivering the letter?
And how?"
"Monsignor Gorony, from Loris's staff," Hugh replied promptly. His eyes were
round with wonder at what he had just seen and heard. "He and an armed escort
are taking a barge as far as the Free Port of Concaradine, and wfll sail with
a merchant fleet from there."
"I know Gorony," Duncan nodded. "Was anything added to the final draft of the
letter? Anything that isn't in here?" He tapped the parchment with a well-
manicured forefinger.
"Nothing," Hugh replied. "I made the final copy from this one," he gestured
toward the letter on the table, "and I watched both of them sign and seal it.
I don't know what they told Gorony after I left. And of course I have no idea
what they may have said to him in advance."
"I see." Duncan turned the information over in his mind and nodded. "Is there
anything else we should know?"
Hugh looked at his feet and wrung his hands together. There was another
message, of course. But he had not counted on Duncan's earlier angry reaction,
and he was not sure just how he should phrase the second matter now. It would
not be easy, no matter' how he phrased it.
"There is something else you should know, Duncan." He paused, unable to look
up. "I had not thought to find you here, but there is another matter which
came under my pen tonight. It concerns you personally."
"Me?" Duncan glanced at Kelson and Nigel. "Go on. You may speak freely here."
"It isn't that." Hugh swallowed with difficulty. "Duncan, Corrigan is
suspending you. He's calling you to answer before his ecclesiastical court for
dereliction of duty, probably tomorrow morning." "What?"
Duncan stood, hardly aware that he did, and his face was ashen against the
black of his cassock. Hugh could not raise his eyes.
"I'm sorry, Duncan," he whispered. "Apparently the archbishop thinks you were
responsible for some of what happened at His Majesty's coronation last fall-
begging your pardon, Sire," he glanced at Kelson. "He gave me his draft of the
writ not an hour ago, asking to have it as soon as possible. I gave it to one
of my clerks to copy and came straight here, intending to find you after I'd
told His Majesty about the other matters."
He dared to look at Duncan finally, and whispered, "Duncan, are you mixed up
in magic?"
Duncan moved toward the fireplace as one in a trance, his blue eyes wide, all
pupil. "Suspended," he murmured disbelievingly, ignoring Hugh's question. "And
called before his court."
He looked at Kelson. "My Prince, I must not be here tomorrow when that writ is
served. It's not that Fm afraid you know that. But if Corrigan takes me into
custody now ,.."
Kelson nodded gravely. "I understand. What do you want me to do?"
Duncan thought a moment, looked guardedly at Nigel, then at Kelson. "Send me
to Alaric, Sire. He must be warned of the threat of Interdict anyway, and I'll
be safe from Corrigan at his court. It may even be that I can sway Bishop
Tolliver to delay implementation of the Interdict."
"Ill give you a dozen of my best men," Kelson agreed. "What else?"
Duncan shook his head, trying to formulate a plan of action. "Hugh, you say
that Gorony took the sea route. That's a three-day journey by ship, possibly
less in storm weather if they pile on all canvas. Nigel, how are the roads
between here and Alaric's capital this time of year?"
'Terrible. But you should be able to make it ahead of Gorony if you change
horses along the way. Also> the weather gets a little better as you go south."
Duncan ran a weary hand through his short brown hair and nodded. "All right,
I'll have to try it At least I'll be out of Corrigan's jurisdiction once I
cross the Corwyn border. Bishop Tolliver has been a friend of sorts in the
past. I doubt he'd arrest me on Colony's word alone. Besides, Gorony hopefully
won't know about Corrigan's summons, even if he does get there ahead of me."
"It's settled, then," Kelson said, standing and nodding in Hugh's direction.
"Father, I thank you for your loyalty. It shall not go unrewarded. But will it
be safe for you to return to the archbishop's palace after what you've told
us? I can offer my protection, if you like. Or you could go with Father
Duncan."
Hugh smiled. "My thanks for your concern, Sire, hut I believe I can serve you
best if I return to my duties. I'll not have been missed yet, and I may be
able to tell you more at a later date."
"Very well," Kelson nodded. Good luck to you,
Father."
"Thank you, Sire," Hugh bowed. "And Duncan," he paused to clasp Duncan's hand
and search his eyes, "be careful, my friend. I don't know what you've done and
I don't want to know, but my prayers will be with you."
Duncan touched his shoulder in reassurance and nodded, and then Hugh was gone.
As soon as the door had closed behind him, Duncan picked up the parchment and
began refolding it, the crisp rustle the only sound in the still room. Now
that he had a plan, his initial anger and shock were well under control, but
he watched Kelson as he slipped the letter into his violet cincture. The boy
was standing beside his chair, staring unseeing at the door and apparently
oblivious to the fact that there was anyone else in the room. Nigel still sat
at the table across from Duncan, but he too had withdrawn into a private
world.
Duncan picked up his goblet and drained it, noticing the bent rim and
realizing that he must have done it. He replaced the goblet silently and
looked toward Kelson.
"I plan to take Hugh's letter with me if you have no objections, My Prince.
Alaric will want to see it."
"Yes, of course," Kelson replied, shaking himself out of his reverie. "Uncle,
will you see about the escort? And tell Richard he's to go along. Father
Duncan may have need of a good man."
"Certainly, Kelson."
Nigel rose catlike and moved toward the door, slapping Duncan's shoulder as he
passed. Then the door was closed, and there were only the two of them. Kelson
had moved to the fireplace as Nigel left, and now he stared intently into the
flames, resting his forehead on folded forearms along the edge of the mantel.
摘要：

YouForJOHNG.NELSONwho,liketheDeryni,strivestoholdbackthedarkness-ofwhateverkind.ADelReyBookPublishedbyBallantineBooksCopyright(c)1972byKatharineKurtzISBN0-345-29224-3ManufacturedintheUnitedStatesofAmericaFirstEdition:May1972SeventhPrinting:May1980DERYNICHECKMATECHAPTERONEThreethingstherearewhichdefy...

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