PROLOGUE
And the king shall do according to his will.
“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 denned 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 Barrett 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 intention 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 sightlessly 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 Thorne 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 Mahael 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 earrings 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,” Barrett 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.