Katherine Kurtz - Deryni 1 - Deryni Rising

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For

CARL M. SELLE who knew all along that it would begin this way.

A Del Rey Book

.Published by Ballantine Books

Conventions. Published in the United States by BaUantine Books, a division of

Random House, Iflc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of

Canada Limited, Toronto.

ISBN 0-345-30426-8

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition: August 1970 Twelfth Printing: October 1983

Cover art by Darrell K. Sweet

DERYNI RISING

CHAPTER ONE

"Lest the hunter become the hunted."

BRION HALDANE, King of Gwynedd, Prince of Meara, and Lord of the Purple March,

reined in his horse sharply at the top of the hill and scanned the horizon.

He was not a big man, though regal bearing and a catlike grace had convinced

many a would-be adversary that he was. But his enemies rarely had time to

notice this technicality.

Dark, lean, with just a trace of grey beginning to show at his temples, in the

precise black beard, he commanded instant respect by his mere presence in a

room. When he spoke, whether with the crackle of authority or the lower tones

of subtle persuasion, men listened and obeyed.

And if fine words could not convince, often the persuasion of cold steel

could. The worn scabbard of the broadsword at his side attested to that, as

did the slim stiletto in its black suede sheath at his wrist.

The hands that steadied the skittish war horse be-tween his knees were gentle

but firm on the red leather reins-the hands of a fighting man, the hands of

one accustomed to command.

If one studied him more closely, however, one was forced to revise the

original impression of warrior-king. For the wide grey eyes held promise of

much more than mere military prowess and expertise. Indeed, they glittered

with a shrewd intelligence and wit which were known and admired throughout the

Eleven Kingdoms.

And if there were a fleeting aura of mystery, of forbidden magic about this

man, that was discussed in whispers, if at all. For at thirty-nine, Brion of

Haldane had kept the peace in Gwynedd for nearly fifteen years. The king who

now sat his horse at the top of the hill had earned such infrequent moments of

pleasure as he now pursued.

Brion slipped his feet from the stirrups and stretched his legs. At mid-

morning, the ground fog was just lifting, and the unseasonable cold of the

night before still permeated everything. Even the protection of hunting

leathers could not wholly prevent the light chain mail beneath Brion's tunic

from chilling like ice. And silk beneath the mail was small consolation.

He pulled the crimson wool of his cloak more closely around him, flexed numb

fingers in their leather gloves, drew the scarlet hunt cap farther down on his

forehead, the white plume floating gently on the still air.

The sounds of voices, barking hounds, the jingle of burnished bits and spurs

and other horse noises drifted up on the mist. Turning to look back down the

hill, he could catch fleeting glimpses of well-bred horses moving in the fog,

their equally well-bred riders resplendent in finely embroidered velvets and

polished leather.

Brion smiled at that. For despite the outward show of splendor and self-

assurance, he was certain that the riders below were enjoying the jaunt no

more than he was. The inclement weather had made the hunt a chore instead of

the anticipated pleasure.

Why, oh, why had he promised Jehana there would be venison for her table

tonight? He had known, when he said it, that it was too early in the season.

Still, one did not break one's promise to a lady-especially when that lady was

one's beloved queen and mother of the royal heir.

The low, plaintive call of the hunting horns con-finned his suspicion that the

scent was lost, and he sighed resignedly. Unless the weather cleared

dramatically, there was little hope of reassembling the scattered pack in

anything less than hah* an hour. And with hounds this green, it could be days,

even weeks!

He shook his head and chuckled as Tie thought of Ewan-so proud of his new

hounds earlier in the week. He knew that the old Marcher lord would have a lot

to say about this morning's performance. But however much he might make

excuses, Brion was afraid Ewan deserved all the teasing he was certain to get

in the weeks to come. A Duke of Claibourne should have known better than to

bring such puppies out in the field this early in the season.

The poor pups have probably never even seen a deer!

The sound of closer hoof beats reached Brion's ears, and he turned in the

saddle to see who was approaching. At length, a young rider in scarlet silks

and leathers emerged from the fog and urged his bay gelding up the bill. Brion

watched with pride as the boy slowed his mount to a walk and reined in at his

father's side.

"Lord Ewan says it will be awhile, Sire," the boy reported, his eyes sparkling

with the excitement of the chase. *The hounds flushed some rabbits."

"Rabbits!" Brion laughed out loud. "You mean to tell me that after all the

boasting we've had to endure for the past week, Ewan's going to make us sit

here and freeze while he rounds up his puppy dogs?"

"So it appears, Sire," Kelson grinned. "But if it's any consolation, everyone

in the hunt feels exactly the same way."

He has his mother's smile, Brion thought fondly. But the eyes, the hair, are

mine. He seems so young, though. Can it really be nearly fourteen years? Ah,

Kelson, if only I could spare you what lies ahead . . . Brion dismissed the

thought with a smile and a shake of the head. "Well, as long as everybody else

is miserable, I suppose I feel a bit better."

He yawned and stretched, then relaxed in the saddle. The polished leather

creaked as his weight shifted, and Brion sighed.

"Ah, if Morgan were only here. Fog or no fog, I think he could charm the deer

right to the city gates if he chose."

"Really?" Kelson asked.

"Well, perhaps not quite that close," Brion conceded. "But he has a way with

animals-and other things." The king grew suddenly distant, and he toyed

absently with the riding crop in his gloved hand.

Kelson caught the change of mood, and after a studied pause he moved his horse

closer to the older man. His father had not been entirely open about Morgan in

the past few weeks. And the absence of conversation about the young general

had been keenly felt. Perhaps this was the time to pursue the matter. He

decided to be blunt.

"Sire, forgive me if I speak out of turn, but why haven't you recalled Morgan

from the border marches?"

Brion felt himself go tense, forced himself to conceal his surprise. How had

the boy known that? Morgan's whereabouts had been a closely guarded secret for

nearly two months now. Not even the Council knew just where he was, or why. He

must tread softly until he could ascertain just how much the boy knew,

"Why do you ask, Son?"

"I don't mean to pry, Sire," the boy replied. "Fm certain you have reasons

even the Council isn't aware of. I've missed him, though. And I $ink you have,

too."

Khadasa! The boy was perceptive! It was as though he'd read the unspoken

thoughts. If he was to avoid the Morgan question, he would have to steer

Kelson away from the subject quickly.

Brion permitted himself a wan smile. "Thanks for your vote of confidence. I'm

afraid you and I are among the few who've missed him, however. I'm sure you're

aware of the rumors afoot in the past weeks."

"That Morgan is out to depose you?" Kelson replied guardedly. "You don't

really believe that, do you? And that isn't the reason he's still at Cardosa,

either."

Brion studied the boy out of the corner of his eye, his crop tapping lightly

against his right boot where Kelson couldn't see it. Cardosa, even.

The boy certainly had a good source of information, whatever it was. And he

was persistent, too. He had deliberately turned the conversation back to

Morgan's absence, despite his father's efforts to avoid the issue. Perhaps

he'd misjudged the boy. He tended to forget that Kelson was nearly fourteen,

of legal age. Brion himself had been only a few years older when he came to

the throne.

He decided to release a bit of concrete information and see how the boy would

react.

"No, it isn't. I can't go into too much detail right now, Son. But there is a

major crisis brewing at Cardosa, and Morgan is keeping an eye on it, Wencit of

Torenth wants the city, and he's already broken two treaties in his efforts to

annex it By next spring we'll probably be formally at war." He paused. "Does

that frighten you?"

Kelson studied the ends of his reins carefully before replying. "I've never

known real war," he said slowly, his gaze shifting out across the plain. "As

long as I've been alive, there's been peace in the Eleven Kingdoms. One would

think men could forget how to fight after fifteen years of peace,"

Brion smiled and allowed himself to relax slightly. He seemed to have

succeeded in shifting the topic of discussion away from Morgan at last, and

that was good.

"They never forget, Kelson. That's part of being human, I'm sorry to say."

"I suppose so," Kelson said. He reached down and patted the bay's neck,

smoothed a stray wisp in the mane, turned wide grey eyes squarely on his

father's face.

"It's the Shadowed One again, isn't it, Father?"

The insight of that simple statement momentarily rocked Brion's world. He had

been prepared for any question, any comment-anything but a mention of the

Shadowed One by his son. It was not fair for one so young to have to face such

awesome reality! It so unnerved the older man that for an instant he was

speechless, open-mouthed.

How had Kelson known about the Shadowed One's threat? By Saint Camber, the boy

must have the talent!

"You're not supposed to know about that!" he blurted accusingly, trying

desperately to remarshaU his thoughts and give a more coherent answer.

Kelson was taken aback by his father's reaction and showed it, but he didn't

allow his gaze to waver. There was a touch of challenge, almost defiance in

his voice.

"There are a good many things I'm not supposed to know about, Sire. But that

hasn't kept me from learning. Would you want it any other way?"

"No," Brion murmured. He dropped his eyes uncertainly, searched for the proper

phrasing for what he must ask next, found it. "Did Morgan tell you?"

Kelson shifted uneasily, suddenly aware that the tables had turned, that he

was in deeper than he'd planned. It was his own fault. He'd insisted on

pursuing this matter. But now his father would not be satisfied until Kelson

followed through. He cleared his throat.

"Yes, he did-before he left," Kelson replied hesitantly. "He was afraid you

wouldn't approve." He wet his lips. "He-ah-also mentioned your powers-and the

basis for your rule."

Brion frowned. That Morgan! He was annoyed he hadn't recognized the signs

sooner, for he guessed now what must have happened. Still, the boy had done an

admirable job of keeping the knowledge a secret. Perhaps Morgan had been right

all along.

"How much did Morgan tell you, Son?" he asked quietly.

"Too much to please you-not enough to satisfy me," the boy admitted with some

reluctance. He hazarded a glance at his father's face. "Are you angry, Sire?"

"Angry?"

It was all Brion could do to keep from shouting with relief. Angry? The

inferences the boy had made, the guarded queries, the skill with which the boy

had played the conversation back and forth, even on the defensive-by God, if

not for this, then what had he and Morgan worked for all these years? Angry?

By Heaven, how could he be angry?

Brion reached across and slapped Kelson's knee affectionately. "Of course I'm

not angry, Kelson," he said. "If only you knew how much you'd put my mind at

ease. You gave me a few rough moments, granted.

But I'm more certain than ever, now, that my choice was the right one. I want

you to promise me one thing, though."

"Anything, Sire," Kelson agreed hesitantly.

"Not so solemn, Son," Brion objected, smiling and touching Kelson's shoulder

again to reassure him. "It isn't a difficult request. But if anything should

happen to me, I want you to send for Morgan immediately. He'll be more help to

you than any other single person I can think of. Will you do that for me?"

Kelson sighed and smiled, relief written all across his face. "Of course,

Sire. That would be my first thought in any event Morgan knows-about a lot of

things."

"On that I would stake my life," Brion smiled.

He straightened in the saddle and gathered the red leather reins in long,

gloved fingers. "Look, the sun's coming out. Let's see if Ewan's got those

hounds rounded up yet!"

The sky had brightened appreciably as the sun climbed toward the zenith. And

now the royal pair cast faint, short shadows before them as they trotted down

the hill. It had grown so clear, one could see all the way across the meadow

to the forest beyond. Brion's grey eyes scanned the scattered hunting party

with interest as he and Kelson approached.

There was Rogier, the Earl of Fallon, in dark green velvet, riding a

magnificent grey stallion Brion had never seen before. He seemed to be engaged

in a very animated conversation with the fiery young Bishop Arilan and-very

interesting-a flash of McLain tartan identified the third rider as Kevin, the

younger Lord McLain. Ordinarily, he and Rogier did not get along. (For that

matter, few people did get along with Rogier.) He wondered what the three had

found to talk about.He did not have time to speculate further. For the loud,

booming voice of the Duke of Claibourne drew Brion's attention to the head of

the ride. Lord Ewan, his great red beard fairly bristling in the sunlight, was

giving someone a royal chewing-out-not an unexpected event in the tight of the

hunt's success to date.

Brion half-stood in his stirrups for a better look. As he'd suspected, it was

one of the whippers-in who was getting die brunt of Ewan's anger. Poor man. It

wasn't his fault the hounds weren't performing well. Then, again, he supposed

Ewan had to have someone to blame.

Brion smiled and directed Kelson's attention to the situation, indicating that

he should rescue the unfortunate huntsman and placate Ewan. As Kelson rode

off, Brion continued to scan the assembly. There was the man he'd been looking

for-over by Rogier.

Touching spurs to his mount, he galloped easily across the turf to hail a tall

young man in the purple and white of the House of Fianna. The man was drinking

from a finely tooled leather flask.

"Halloo! What's this I see? Young Colin of Fianna drinking up all the best

wine, as usual! How about a few drops for your poor, shivering king, my

friend?"

He drew rein beside Colin with a flourish and eyed the flask as Colin lowered

it from his lips.

Colin smiled and wiped the mouth of the flask on his sleeve, then handed it

across with a jovial bow.

"Good morning, Sire. You know my wine is always yours for the asking."

Rogier joined them and deftly backed his stallion a few paces as Brion's black

reached out to nip. "Good morrow, My Liege," he said, bowing low in the

saddle. "My Lord is most astute to locate the finest brew in the company so

early. 'Tis a prodigious feat!"

"Prodigious?" Brion chuckled. "On a morning like this? Rogier, you have a

fantastic gift for understatement."

He threw back his head and took a long swallow from the flask, lowered it and

sighed. "Ah, 'tis no secret that Colin's father keeps the finest cellars in

all the Eleven Kingdoms. My compliments, as usual, Colin!" He raised the flask

and drank again.

Colin smiled mischievously and leaned his forearms against the saddle horn.

"Ah, Majesty, now I know you're just trying to flatter me so my father will

send you another shipment. That isn't Fianna wine at all. A beautiful lady

gave it to me only this morning."

Brion paused in mid-swallow, then lowered the flask with concern. "A lady? Ah,

Colin, you should have told me. I would never have asked for your lady's

token."

Colin laughed aloud, "She's not my lady, Sire. I never saw her before. She

merely gave me the wine. Besides, she'd doubtless be honored should she learn

you sampled and enjoyed her brew."

Brion returned the flask and wiped across his moustache and beard with the

back of a gloved hand. "Now, no excuses, Colin," he insisted. "It's I who have

been amiss. Come and ride at my side. And you shall sit at my right at supper

tonight Even a king must make amends when he trifles with a lady's favor."

Kelson let his mind and eyes wander as he rode bade toward the king. Behind

him, Ewan and the master-of-hounds had finally reached a tentative agreement

as to what had gone wrong, and the hounds seemed to be under control again.

The whippers-in were keeping them in a tight pack, waiting for the royal

command to proceed. The hounds, though, had their own ideas, which did not

include waiting for kings or lords. It was questionable just how long the

huntsmen would be able to hold them.

A flash of royal blue to the left caught Kelson's eye as he rode, and he

immediately identified it as his uncle, the Duke of Carthmoor.

As brother of the king and ranking peer in the realm, Prince Nigel was

responsible in a major way for the training of some thirty young pages of the

royal household. As usual, he had some of his charges in tow today, and as

usual, he was engaged in one of his seemingly endless battles to teach them

something useful. There were only six of them along on the hunt today, and

Nigel's own three boys were elsewhere in the entourage, but Kelson could see

by Nigel's harried expression that these particular pages were not some of his

brighter pupils.

Lord Jared, the McLain patriarch, was offering helpful advice from the

sidelines, but the boys simply could not seem to get the hang of what it was

Nigel wanted.

"No, no, no," Nigel was saying. "If you ever address an earl simply as 'Sir'

in public, he'll have your head, and I won't blame him. And you must always

remember that a bishop is 'Your Excellency.' Now, Jatham, how would you

address a prince of the royal blood?"

Kelson smiled and nodded greeting as he rode on by. It was not so very long

ago that he had been under the iron tutelage of the Royal Duke, his uncle, and

he didn't envy the lads. A Haldane to the core, Nigel neither asked nor gave

quarter, whether he was on the field of battle or training pages. But though

the training was rigorous, and sometimes seemed over harsh, pages who came

through Nigel's schooling made fine squires, and better knights. Kelson was

glad to have Nigel on his side.

As Kelson approached, Brion broke off his conversation with Colin and Rogier

and raised a hand in greeting. "What's happening up there, Son?"

"I think Lord Ewan about has things under control,

Sire," Kelson replied. "I believe he's waiting for your signal now."

"That I am, young master!" Ewan's voice boomed, as he thundered up in Kelson's

wake.

Ewan removed his cap of Lincoln green and swept it before him with a flourish.

"Sire, the pack is ready. And this time, my master-of-hounds assures me that

the scent is true." He replaced the cap on his thick red hair and tugged at

the brim in emphasis. "It'd better be, or there'll be weeping and wailing in

my household tonight!"

Brion laughed and leaned back in the saddle, slapped his thigh in mirth.

"Ewan, it's only a hunt! And I want no weeping and wailing on my account.

Let's go!" Still chuckling, he gathered his reins and began to move forward.

Ewan stood, in his stirrups and raised his arm, and the hunting horns

reverberated across the meadow in reply. Far ahead, the hounds were already

giving tongue in clear, bell-like tones, and the riders began to move out.

Down the slope, through the rough, across the open fields in the clear once

more, the hunt was off at the gallop.

In the ensuing excitement of the chase, no one would notice when one rider at

the rear dropped back and made his way to the edge of the forest. Indeed, he

would not even be missed.

In the stillness of the forest, Yousef the Moor stood motionless at the edge

of a small, dim clearing, his slim brown hands light and sure on the reins he

held, the four horses quiet behind him.

All around, the leaves of an early autumn blazed with color, seared to gold

and red and brown by the past week's frost, yet muted here by the play of

shadow and darker gloom among the tree trunks.

Here, beneath tall, dense trees, where sunlight rarely penetrated except in

deepest winter, Yousef's black robes merged and blended with those shadows.

Black eyes beneath black silk darted swiftly about the clearing, seeking,

scanning, yet not really noting what they saw. For Yousef was not watching so

much as he was listening. And waiting.

In the clearing itself, three others listened and waited. Two were Moors like

Yousef, their dusky faces muffled under the hoods of black velvet jubbahs,

eyes dark, restless, ever vigilant.

The taller of the two turned slightly to glance at Yousef across the clearing,

then folded his arms across his chest and turned back to repeatedly scan the

opposite side. The movement parted the black velvet slightly, and the silver

of a richly embossed baldric of command glinted briefly beneath the cloak. At

his feet, on a cushion of grey velvet, sat the Lady Charissa, Duchess of

Tolan, Lady of the Silver Mists-the Shadowed One.

Head bowed, heavily cloaked and veiled in silver-grey, the lady sat motionless

on the pillow, a slight, pale figure shrouded in richest velvet and fur,

delicate hands encased in jeweled doeskin gloves and folded primly in her lap.

Beneath the grey silken veil, pale blue eyes opened abruptly, searched

serenely across the clearing, noted with satisfaction the black-robed Yousef

standing guard over the horses.

Without turning her head, she was able to discern the vague, dark shapes of

the other two Moors standing behind and to either side of her. She raised her

head and spoke, a low musical voice.

"He's coming, Mustafa."

There had been no warning, no rustling betrayal of dried leaves underfoot to

announce any approach to the clearing, but the Moors would not have thought of

questioning their Lady's word. A brown hand in a flowing black sleeve reached

down from the right to help her to her feet. And he who had been to her left

moved to a strategic position midway between his mistress and the horses,

there to stand vigilant guard with his hand on the hilt of his sword.'

With a leisurely motion, Charissa brushed the leaves from her cloak, settled

its silver-fox collar more comfortably around her neck. As the muffled

crackling of underbrush finally announced the predicted caller, a faint breeze

stirred the Lady's silken veil. One of Yousef's horses nickered softly,

shuffled its feet, and was quickly silenced by the tall Moor.

The rider entered the clearing and drew rein, and the Moors dropped their

protective stance. The rider on the sorrel stallion was well known to them.

The newcomer, too, wore a cape of grey. But it flashed a lining of deepest

golden-yellow as he dropped his hood and swung the cloak to the horse's near

side. Beneath, a jeweled tunic of grey and gold glittered coldly as he

smoothed a windblown lock of chestnut hair with one grey-gloved hand.

Tall, slim, almost ascetic of face and feature, Lord Ian Howell viewed the

world through a pair of eyes even deeper brown than his hair. A meticulously

tended beard and moustache framed a rather thin mouth, accentuated the high

cheekbones, the slight cant of the round eyes-eyes which outshone the dark

jewels that glittered coldly at his throat and ears.

Those eyes darted briefly over the Moor who reached up for his horse's bridle,

then came casually to rest on the grey-shrouded form of the woman.

"You're late, Ian," the woman said. There was challenge in her voice, as well

as statement of fact, and she met his gaze aloofly through the heavy veil.

When Ian made no further move to dismount, she reached slowly to her veil,

raised the front, let it cascade back over the pale, coiled hair. Her gaze

sharpened, but she said nothing more.

Ian smiled lazily, dismounted with a flourish, crossed lightly to Charissa. He

nodded curtly to Mustafa standing slightly behind her, then swirled his cloak

around himself in a sweeping bow.

"Well?" Charissa acknowledged.

"No trouble at all, my dear," Ian replied silkily. "The king drank the wine,

Colin suspects nothing, and the hunt is now on the false scent. They should be

here within the hour."

"Excellent. And Prince Kelson?"

"Oh, he's safe enough," the young lord replied, tugging on the cuff of one

grey glove with a studied nonchalance. "But it does seem like a great deal of

bother to spare Kelson today simply so he can be killed later. It's not at all

like you, Charissa-to show mercy to your enemies." Brown eyes met blue ones,

slightly mocking.

"Mercy?" Charissa repeated, measuring the challenge.

She broke eye contact and began strolling casually across the clearing. Ian

followed.

"Don't worry, Ian," she continued. "I have plans for our young prince. But I

can't lure Morgan to his death without the proper bait, now, can I? And why do

you think I've been so carefully planting those rumors for the past months?"

"I'd assumed it was an exercise in malice-not that you need the practice," Ian

retorted.

They had reached the edge of the clearing, and Ian stopped in front of her,

leaned lazily against a tree trunk, arms folded across his chest. "Of course,

Morgan--h& does present a special challenge, doesn't he, my pet? Alaric

Anthony Morgan, Duke of Corwyn, Lord General of His Majesty's armies-and a

half-breed Deryni who is accepted among humans, or was accepted. I sometimes

think that bothers you most of all."

"Tread softly, Ian," she warned.

"Oh, I beg your Ladyship's pardon!" he demurred, raising a hand in feigned

conciliation. "There is a slight matter of a murder, too, isn't there? Or was

it an execution? I tend to forget."

"That is one thing you would do well not to forget, Ian," Charissa replied

icily. "Morgan killed my father fifteen years ago, as you well know. We were

both hardly more than children then-he but fourteen, I a few years younger-but

I can never forgive what he did."

Her voice dropped an octave, hushed to a harsh whisper as she remembered. "He

betrayed his Deryni blood and allied himself with Brion instead of us, defied

the Camberian Council to side with a mortal. I watched them slay my father

Marluk and strip him of his powers. And it was Morgan, with his Deryni

cunning, who showed Brion the way. Never forget that, Ian."

Ian shrugged noncommittally. "Don't worry, my pet I have my own reasons for

wanting Morgan dead, remember? The Duchy of Corwyn borders my East-march. I

merely wonder how long you intend to let Morgan live."

"He has a few weeks at best," Charissa stated. "And I intend to see that he

suffers in the time remaining. Today, Brion will die by Deryni magic, and

Morgan will know that it was I. That, in itself, will hurt Morgan more than

any other single thing I could do. And then I'll proceed to destroy the others

he holds dear." "And Prince Kelson?" Ian queried. "Don't be greedy, Ian," she

answered, smiling with vicious anticipation. "You shall have your precious

Corwyn, all in due time. And I shall rule Gwynedd as my ancestors did. You'll

see."

She turned on her heel and crossed the clearing, gestured imperiously to

Mustafa, who pulled aside the dense foliage to disclose a break in the

underbrush. Beyond and down a gentle slope stretched a wide green meadow,

still damp and silent in the weak, late-morning sun.

After a pause, Jan joined Charissa and peered briefly through the hole, then

put his arm lightly around her shoulders.

"I must confess, I rather like your little plan, my pet," he murmured. "The

deviousness of your lovely mind never fails to intrigue me." He glanced down

at her thoughtfully through long, dark lashes. "Are you certain no one besides

Morgan will suspect, though? I mean, suppose Brion should detect you?"

Charissa smiled complacently and leaned back against his chest. "You worry too

much, Ian," she cooed. "With his mind muddled by the merasha in the wine,

Brion will feel nothing until my hand clutches at his heart-and then it will

be far too late. As for Colin, merasha can't affect him unless he has Deryni

blood somewhere in his background. And even if he has, he's safe as long as

you keep him away from Brion when the time comes."

"Colin will be well out of range; you can depend on that," Ian replied. He

idly plucked a stray wisp of grass from her cloak and twirled it between

gloved fingers as he continued. "I've been cultivating this particular young

nobleman for weeks. And if I do say so myself, he's quite flattered to have

come to the favor of yours truly, the Earl of Eastmarch."

Charissa pulled away from him in irritation. "Ian, you begin to bore me. If

you insist upon being so pompous, I suggest you return to the company of your

royal playmates. The air there is much better suited to the self-praise and

stuffy exchange of platitudes you seem to enjoy so much!"

Ian said nothing, but he raised one slim eyebrow as he crossed to his horse

and began adjusting the off stirrup. When he had completed the task to his

satisfaction, he flicked his glance across the saddle at Charissa.

"Shall I convey your compliments to His Majesty?" he asked, a wry grin pulling

at the corners of his mouth.

Charissa smiled slowly, then crossed toward him. Ian came around to the near

side, and Charissa took the horse's reins, nodding dismissal to the Moor who

had been attending.

"Well?" Ian murmured, as the Moor bowed and backed off.

"I think you need not greet Brion for me this time," she murmured coyly. She

ran a gloved hand down the sorrel's neck, adjusted a wayward tassel on the

intricate bridle. "You'd best go now. The hunt will be approaching soon."

"I hear and obey, My Lady," Ian said cheerfully, swinging up into the saddle.

He gathered up his reins and looked down at her, then held out his left hand.

Wordlessly, Charissa put her gloved hand in his, and he bent to touch his lips

to the soft leather.

"Good hunting, My Lady!" he said.

He squeezed her hand lightly and released it, then moved his horse into the

underbrush, crashing back the way he had come.

The Shadowed One watched with narrowed eyes until he had disappeared from

view, then returned to her silent meadow vigil.

Rejoining the hunt, Ian gradually began working his way toward the royal

party. They were cantering easily through lightly wooded terrain now, and he

could see the meadow not far ahead. With a perfunctory glance at his stirrup,

he urged his mount closer to Colin and raised a gloved hand in greeting.

"Lord Ian," Colin acknowledged, as Ian drew alongside. "Good riding at the

rear of the pack?"

Ian flashed a disarming smile at the youth. "Unbelievable, my friend."

He shifted his weight slightly, and there was the resounding pop of leather

parting as the right stirrup gave way.

"Damn!" he swore explosively, as he caught his balance. "That just about

finishes the hunt for me!"

He pulled up slowly to let the hunt ride on by, bent to retrieve the stirrup

still hooked on the toe of his boot, smiled approval as Colin reined in and

returned to join him. When all the riders had passed, he dismounted to inspect

the saddle, and Colin watched with concern.

"I told that pig of a groom to replace this leather three days ago," Ian

fretted, fingering the broken strap. "I don't suppose you have a spare,

Colin?"

"I might," Colin said, as he dismounted.

As Colin rummaged through his saddlebags, Ian gazed furtively across the

meadow. The timing had been perfect. Even now, the pack was pulling up in the

center of the meadow, the scent lost again.

Any second now...

The whippers-in were trying valiantly to bring the hounds under control, and

Brion slapped his riding crop against his boot in mild vexation.

"Ewan, your pups have done it again," he said, peering ahead. "Kelson, ride up

ahead and try to see what's happened, will you? They can't have lost the scent

in the middle of an open field. Ewan, you stay."

As Kelson rode off, Ewan stood in his stirrups to get a better look, then sat

back muttering. In the midst of all the milling hounds and riders, it was

impossible to distinguish anything at this distance, and the fiery old warrior

was obviously on the verge of a tirade.

"The blasted beasties've gone mad!" he growled. "Just wait till I get my hands

on-"

"Now, Ewan, don't get overwrought," Brion interjected smoothly. "We obviously

just aren't destined to -oh!"

Brion suddenly broke off in mid-sentence and froze, his grey eyes going wide

with fear. "Oh, my God!" he whispered, his eyes closing as he doubled up with

pain. Riding crop and reins dropped from numb fingers as he clutched at his

chest and slumped forward in the saddle, stifling a moan. "Sire!" Ewan cried.

As Brion toppled and slid from the saddle, Ewan and Rogier grabbed

simultaneously for his arms and somehow managed to ease him to the ground

between them. Others nearby dismounted and rushed to his aid. And Prince Nigel

appeared from somewhere to wordlessly cradle his stricken brother's head in

his lap.

As Rogier and Ewan knelt anxiously on his left, Brion was wracked by yet

another wave of blinding pain, and he called out weakly, "Kelson!"

Far ahead with the hounds, Kelson saw rather than heard the commotion back at

the center of the hunt and returned at the gallop, certain only that something

was seriously wrong. But when he reached the group gathered noisily around the

king, saw his father sprawled on the ground in agony, he jerked his horse to a

sliding halt on the slick grass, flung himself from the saddle to push his way

through the onlookers.

Brion's breathing was labored, his teeth clenched tightly against the searing

pain which came now at every heartbeat. His eyes darted back and forth

feverishly, trying to locate his son. And he was concertedly ignoring all

efforts of Ewan, or Rogier, or the Bishop Arilan to comfort him.

All he could see was Kelson as the boy dropped to his knees at his father's

right. And he gasped and clutched for Kelson's hand as another wave of pain

engulfed him.

"So soon!" he managed to whisper, his hand almost crushing Kelson's in the

intensity of its grip. "Kelson, remember what you promised. Remem ..."

His hand went limp in Kelson's and the eyes half closed. The pain-wracked body

relaxed.

As Nigel and Ewan searched frantically for a pulse, some sign of life, Kelson

watched in stunned disbelief. But no reassuring sign came. And with a muffled

sob, Kelson collapsed to rest his forehead against his sire's hand.

Beside him, Bishop Arilan crossed himself and began reciting the Office for

the Dead, his voice low and steady in the terrible stillness. All around,

Brion's lords and vassals dropped to their knees, one by one, to echo the

bishop.

"Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord."

"And let perpetual light shine upon him."

"Kyrie eleison."

"Christe eleison..."

Kelson let the familiar phrases wash over him, let the cadence lull the

sickening, sinking emptiness in the pit of his stomach to a more bearable

numbness, willed the tight constriction of his throat to relax. After a long

moment, he was able to raise his head and look dazedly around him.

Nigel seemed calm, almost serene, as he knelt with Brion's lifeless head in

his lap. Again and again, his long fingers smoothed the straight black hair

across the still brow-gently, almost tenderly-his thoughts in some place that

only Nigel knew.

And Rogier-Rogier stared unseeing, his eyes following Nigel's fingers, his

lips moving automatically in the litany, but not knowing what he saw or said.

But it was Ewan that the young prince would remember later, long after other

details of the day had faded mercifully from his mind. From somewhere, Ewan

had retrieved Brion's red leather hunt cap, now stained and trampled in the

confusion and horror of the past minutes.

By some miracle, the snowy plume on the cap had emerged unscathed, its

whiteness unsullied, unbroken. And as Ewan clutched the cap to his breast, the

feathered plume trembled almost hypnotically before Kelson's eyes.

Ewan suddenly became aware of Kelson's fascinated stare, and he looked down at

the cap, at the waving plume, as though he'd never seen them before. There was

a moment of hesitation. And then he slowly took the plume in his huge right

hand, bent it until it snapped.

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ForCARLM.SELLEwhoknewallalongthatitwouldbeginthisway.ADelReyBook.PublishedbyBallantineBooksCopyright(c)1970byKatherineKurtzAllrightsreservedunderInternationalandPan-AmericanCopyrightConventions.PublishedintheUnitedStatesbyBaUantineBooks,adivisionofRandomHouse,Iflc.,NewYork,andsimultaneouslyinCanadab...

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