“And I will give thee the treasures of darkness, and hidden riches of secret places.”
ISAIAH 45:3
THE walled city of Cardosa lies nearly a mile above the Eastmarch plain, on a high plateau of sheer-faced rock. It has been the seat of earls and dukes and, sometimes, of kings, and it is guarded west and east by the treacherous Cardosa Pass, the major passage through the Rheljan Mountains.
Late each autumn, toward the end of November, the snows sweep in from the great northern sea, cutting off the city and burying the pass in snow. This condition persists well into March, until long after winter has fled the rest of the area. Then the melting snow turns the Cardosa Pass into a raging cataract for the next three months.
But the thaw is not uniform, even in the pass. Because of the mountains’ run-off pattern, the eastern approach is negotiable weeks before the west: a quirk that has been a major contributing factor in the city’s changing ownership over the years. It was this that enabled Wencit of Torenth to capture the winter-hungry city without opposition—high Cardosa, depleted by the previous summer’s dispute and exhausted by the snows, which could not wait for relief troops and supplies from royal Gwynedd. Wencit could supply these things; and so Cardosa surrendered.
Thus it was that as Bran Coris and his nervous escorts made the final, wet approach to the city’s gates, the city’s new ruler relaxed at leisure in the apartment he had chosen in the city’s state house and prepared to greet his reluctant guest.
Wencit of Torenth grimaced as he struggled with the fastening of his doublet’s high collar, craning his neck as he made the final adjustment. At a discreet knock at the door, he smoothed the gold-encrusted velvet over his chest with an impatient gesture and thrust a jeweled dagger into his sash. The ice-blue eyes registered a hint of mild annoyance as he glanced in that direction.
“Come.”
Almost immediately, a tall, gangling young man in his mid-twenties stepped through the doorway and bowed. Like most members of the royal household, Garon wore the brilliant blue-violet livery of Wencit’s personal service, with the leaping black hart of Furstán emblazoned over the left breast in a white circle, along with a flat-linked chain of office. His expression was one of acute interest and anticipation as he watched his royal master begin rolling up documents from the writing table by the window and slipping them into leather storage tubes. When he spoke, his voice was low and cultured.
“Sire, the Earl of Marley is here. Shall I send him in?”
Wencit gave a curt nod as he finished storing the last of the documents, and Garon withdrew without further words. As the door closed, Wencit began pacing the heavily carpeted floor with nervous energy, hands clasped behind his back.
Wencit of Torenth was a tall, thin, almost angular man in his late forties, with hair of a brilliant rust-red, untouched by gray, and pale, almost colorless eyes. Wide, bushy sideburns and a sweeping moustache of the same fiery red emphasized the high cheekbones, the triangular shape of the face. When he moved, it was with an easy grace not usually associated with a man of his size and stature.
The overall effect had led his enemies, who were many, to compare him to a fox—that is, when they were not making other, less complimentary comparisons. For Wencit was a full Deryni sorcerer of the ancient breed, his lineage descending from a family that had stayed in power in the east even through the Restoration and the Deryni persecutions that had followed. In many respects, Wencit was a fox. Of a certainty, there was no doubt that, when he chose, Wencit of Torenth could be as cunning, cruel, and dangerous as any member of the vulpine race.
But Wencit was well aware of his effect upon most humans, and knew how to downplay the more frightening aspects of his lineage when it suited him. Accordingly, he had chosen the day’s attire with particular attention to detail. His fine doublet and hose were of the same shade of russet velvet and silk as his hair, the monocolor effect heightened rather than broken by the rich gold embroidery of his doublet, the glow of golden topaz at throat and ears and hands. An amber mantle of heavy, gold-embroidered silk spilled from his shoulders, rustling faintly as he moved, and a coronet set with tawny yellow gems rested on the oak table where he had been working, mute reminder of the rank and importance of the man entitled to wear it.
But Wencit made no move to take up the crown and complete his regal image, for Bran Coris was not his subject. Nor was the impending meeting in any way official, at least in any ordinary sense—which, perhaps, was fitting, because there was little that was ordinary about Wencit of Torenth, either.
After another discreet knock at the door, Garon again stepped just inside the room and bowed. Behind him in the doorway stood a youngish man of medium height and build, clad in a damp leather surcoat and mail and a soggy blue cloak. The plumes on the helmet under the newcomer’s arm were drenched and bedraggled looking, the gloves dark with damp. The man himself looked both puzzled and wary.
“Sire,” Garon murmured, “the Earl of Marley.”
“Do come in, my lord,” Wencit acknowledged, gesturing toward the rest of the room with a flourish. “I must apologize for your obviously wet ride up the pass, but I fear that even Deryni cannot control the vagaries of weather. Garon, take the earl’s cloak and bring him a dry one from my wardrobe, if you please.”
“Very good, Sire.”
As Bran warily entered the room, Garon took the sodden cloak from his shoulders and spread it on a nearby chair, then disappeared through a side door, emerging seconds later to lay a fur-lined cloak of mossy green velvet around the visitor’s shoulders. Then, after fastening the clasp at Bran’s throat, he took his helmet and bowed himself out of the room.
Still uneasy, Bran clutched the cloak around him, grateful for the favor in his chilled condition, but he did not take his eyes from his host. Wencit smiled disarmingly and put on one of his more reassuring demeanors as he gestured casually toward a chair by the heavy table, nearer the fire.
“Sit down, please. We need not stand on ceremony.”
Bran eyed Wencit and the chair suspiciously for a moment, then frowned anew as Wencit crossed to the fireplace and began tinkering with something Bran could not see.
“Forgive me if I seem unappreciative, my lord, but I fail to see what we can have to say to one another. You are surely aware that I am the junior of the three commanders ranged along the Rheljan Mountains to oppose you. Any arrangement that you and I might reach would not be binding on my colleagues or on Gwynedd.”
“I never thought it might,” Wencit said easily. He crossed to the table with a small pot of steaming liquid from which he filled two fragile porcelain cups. Then he took the nearer of the two chairs and gestured once more for Bran to be seated.
“Won’t you join me for a cup of darja tea? It is brewed from the leaves and flowers of a lovely bush which grows here in your Rheljan Mountains. I think you will enjoy it, especially as cold and damp as you must be.”
Bran moved nearer the table and picked up a cup to inspect it, a wry smile twitching at his lips as he returned his gaze to Wencit.
“You play the perfect host, sir, but I think not. The hostages you sent did me the honor of drinking with me,” he glanced lightly at the steaming cup, “but then, I told them what was in the cup they drank.”
“Indeed?” Wencit’s fair brows lifted. And though the voice was gentle and cultured still, it was suddenly tinged with steel. “I am led to surmise that it was not simple wine or tea which passed their lips; and yet, you would hardly have been so foolish as to harm them and then boast of it to me in my own house. Nonetheless, you have piqued my curiosity, if that was your intention. What did you give them?”
Bran sat down, the cup still in his fingers, but set it gently on the table in front of him. “You will appreciate that I had no way of knowing whether your emissaries might be Deryni, instructed to work mischief in my camp while I exchanged pleasantries with you. So I had my master surgeon prepare a simple sleeping draught for them. Since the gentlemen assured me that they were not Deryni, and did not intend me mischief, I doubt not that they will be safe, if somewhat drowsy, when I return. It is no more precaution than you yourself might have taken, had you been in my place.”
Wencit put down his cup and sat back in his chair, smoothing his moustache to cover a smile. Even when he picked up his cup to sip again, a trace of the smile lingered on his lips.
“Well played, Earl of Marley. I admire both prudence and daring in those with whom I wish to deal. However, allow me to reassure you that your cup holds no such additive. You may drink without fear. You have my word on it.”
“Your word, Sire?” Bran ran a gloved fingertip around the rim of the cup in front of him and glanced down at it, then gently pushed it a few inches away. “Forgive me if I seem rude, my lord, but you’ve not yet given me a satisfactory reason for this parley. I cannot help wondering what the King of Torenth and a rather minor lord of Gwynedd have in common.”
Wencit shrugged and smiled again as he studied his guest. “On the contrary, my young friend, I think the notion at least bears further exploration. If, once you have heard me out, you have no interest in what I have to say, nothing is lost except a little of our time. On the other hand—well, perhaps we shall discover that we may have more in common than you think. I feel confident that we will discover a number of areas of mutual interest, if once we put our minds to it.”
“Indeed,” Bran replied, a trifle incredulously. “Perhaps you would care to be more specific. I can think of a number of things you might do for me, or for any other man you chose to favor. But damn me if I can think of a single thing I have that you could want.”
“Must I want something?” Smiling faintly, Wencit made a bridge of his fingers and studied his guest through shrewd fox-eyes. Bran, for his part, sat back in his chair and returned Wencit’s gaze unflinchingly, a gloved right hand resting patiently under his chin, silent. After a moment, Wencit nodded.
“Very good. You know how to wait. I admire that in a man, especially a human.” He studied Bran for several seconds more, then continued.
“Very well, Bran Coris Earl of Marley. You are correct, in a way; I do want something from you. I shall exert no undue coercion to bend you to my will; I do not coerce those with whom I hope to be friends. On the other hand, you could expect to be handsomely compensated for any cooperation that you might render. Tell me: what do you think of my new city?”
“I care little for your use of the possessive,” Bran observed dryly. “The city belongs to King Kelson, despite its current occupation. Come to the point.”
“Now, don’t belie my first impression,” the sorcerer chided. “I have my reasons for progressing slowly. And I shall disregard your quip regarding my city. Local politics do not interest me at the moment. I am thinking in far broader terms.”
“So I have been informed,” Bran replied. “However, if you contemplate further expansion to the west, I would suggest that you reconsider. Granted, my small army could not resist you for long. But the loss of life would be high on your side as well. The men of Marley do not sell their lives cheaply.”
“Hold your tongue!” Wencit snapped. “If I wished, I could crush you and your army like insects, and you know it!” He reached out to touch his finger to each of the points of the coronet in turn, watching Bran like a cat as he tempered his next words. “But fighting with your army was not what I had in mind—at least not in the sense you are thinking. Alongside, more like. Actually, I had it in mind to move a little south of you, into Corwyn and Carthmoor and then the rest of Gwynedd. I thought you might be interested in…oh, the northern regions: Claibourne and the Kheldish Riding, for a start. There are ways I could help you accomplish this.”
“You would have me turn against my allies?” Bran shook his head. “I think it unlikely, sir. Besides, why should you wish to give an enemy two of the richest provinces in the Eleven Kingdoms? It makes me wonder what I am not being told about your little plan.”
“Ah, but I do not count you as my enemy,” Wencit replied. “For the present, let us merely say that I have been watching your progress for some time, and that I believe it might be…reassuring to have a man of your caliber holding the northern-most provinces. Of course, there would be a dukedom in it for you, as well as other…considerations.”
“‘Considerations?’” Though Bran’s tone was still suspicious, it was evident that he was becoming intrigued. A spark of calculating greed had kindled behind the honey-colored eyes. Wencit chuckled softly.
“So, you are interested. I was beginning to fear that you could not be corrupted.”
“You are speaking of treason, sir. Even if I were to agree, what makes you think I could be trusted?”
“You are not without your own kind of honor,” Wencit observed. “And as for treason—ah, that is such a weary term. I know for a fact that you have opposed Alaric Morgan in the past—and King Kelson, too, for that matter.”
“Morgan and I have had our differences,” Bran allowed. “But I have always been loyal to my king. As you say, I am not without my own kind of honor. Besides, I would hardly consider myself in the same league with our good Deryni duke—or Kelson, either, for that matter.”
“Kelson is a mere boy.” Wencit said evenly. “A boy with power, yes. But still only a boy. And Morgan is a Deryni half-breed, and a traitor to his race.”
“‘Ah, traitor is such a weary term,’” Bran quoted without a flicker of emotion.
Wencit measured the younger man through pale, narrowed eyes, then stood abruptly, though he let his features soften. When Bran made as though to rise as well, Wencit waved him back and went to a small, carved chest on a shelf across the room. Lifting its lid, he withdrew something bright and sparkling, which he enclosed in his left hand before closing the chest and returning to his chair. Bran watched with suspicion but also curiosity.
“Well, well,” Wencit said dryly. He propped his elbows on the carved arms of the chair and leaned back, his hands clasped before him. “Now that we have determined that you possess a ready wit, suppose you tell me how you feel about Deryni.”
Somewhat taken aback by the question, Bran could only stare blankly at Wencit for several seconds.
“In general, or in particular?” he finally replied.
“In general, first.” Wencit shifted the object between his palms back and forth from one hand to the other without allowing Bran to see it. “For example, your Church Militant ruled in 917, at the Council of Ramos, that the use of Deryni magic is anathema and sacrilegious. The Duchy of Corwyn is now under curial Interdict because its duke, an acknowledged Deryni, was excommunicated for using his magic and now refuses to surrender himself to the judgment of that Curia. For that, I cannot say I blame him.
“However, if you yourself entertain any religious or moral scruples about spellbinding, it would be wise to mention them now, before we proceed much farther. You cannot fail to be aware that I am very much a practicing sorcerer. I expect my allies to be able to function within that framework. Your Curia would not understand. Does that bother you?”
Bran’s expression remained guarded, but it was evident that his interrogator had struck a responsive chord. In addition, he was finding it difficult to restrain his curiosity about the object in Wencit’s hands. Suddenly aware that his gaze had turned to the hands again, he brought his attention back to Wencit with a conscious effort.
“I am hardly your ally, sir, and I do not fear the Gwynedd Curia,” he answered carefully. “As for magic, the question is academic. Magic is a means of power—other people’s power—nothing more. I have had no personal contact with it.”
“Would you like to?”
The color drained from Bran’s face. “I—I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Would you like to deal with magic?” Wencit repeated. “Or would it make you uncomfortable to use it yourself?”
Bran licked at lips suddenly gone dry, but he answered without hesitation. “Since I am human, and not of a family possessing Deryni power, I have never had the opportunity to find out. If I were given the opportunity, though—no, I don’t think it would bother me in the least. And I don’t believe in Hell.”
“Nor do I.” Wencit smiled. “Suppose, then, that I were to tell you that you are, in fact, Deryni—at least in part. And that I could prove it.”
Bran’s golden eyes went wide and his jaw dropped. Totally unprepared for this development, he was not even aware that in that moment he had begun shifting from adversary into vassal.
“The possibility frightens you, doesn’t it?” Wencit continued in the same conversational tone. “Close your mouth, Bran. You’re gaping.”
Bran obeyed instantly, struggling to regain his composure. Swallowing only with difficulty, he managed to murmur, “The reaction you saw was surprise, not fright, my lord. You—you aren’t jesting with me, are you?”
“Suppose we find out?” Wencit said, smiling inwardly as he caught the changed form of address.
“My lord?”
“Whether or not you are part Deryni,” Wencit answered easily. “If you are, it will make it that much easier to give you the power necessary to be an effective ally. And if you are not…”
“If I am not?” Bran repeated in a low tone.
“I think we need not worry about that possibility yet,” Wencit said.
He sat forward slightly and opened his hand. In his palm lay a large amber crystal about the size of a walnut, attached to a fine golden chain. It was roughly polished, not faceted, and seemed to glow from within. Wencit grasped the chain delicately between thumb and forefinger and drew it away from the stone, but he allowed the crystal itself to remain resting in the palm of his hand. As Bran stared at the crystal, he became certain that it was glowing.
“This is a shiral crystal,” Wencit murmured softly. “Such crystals have long been known among those of my kind for their sensitivity to the psychic energies associated with the Deryni bloodline. You can see that, as I hold it in my hand, it seems to glow. Only a small amount of concentration is necessary to produce this response, if one is of the Deryni.” He glanced mildly at Bran. “Take off your glove.”
Bran hesitated for but an instant, then wet his lips nervously and stripped off his right glove. As Wencit extended the crystal at the end of its golden chain, Bran held out his bare hand, flinched as its cool mass came to rest in his palm. As Wencit released the golden chain to let it dangle over Bran’s fingers, the light in the crystal died. Alarmed, Bran looked up at Wencit, the unspoken question in his eyes.
“You needn’t concern yourself with that,” Wencit said. “For now, I ask you to simply close your eyes and concentrate on the crystal. Imagine that the heat from your hand is warming the crystal, making it glow. Picture light being absorbed into the crystal and radiating outward. Just do as I ask,” he urged, at Bran’s obvious nervousness. “Just close your eyes and relax.”
As Bran obeyed, closed eyelids trembling, Wencit turned his attention to the shiral crystal lying inert in his subject’s hand. When nothing happened for several seconds, Wencit’s brow creased in a frown; but then he cupped his hands over the crystal to shade it, not touching it or Bran’s hands—and was rewarded with a faint glimmer deep in the crystal’s heart. Pursing his lips thoughtfully, Wencit lightly brushed Bran’s hand with one hand, while the other closed on the dangling chain and withdrew the crystal. The younger man started and opened his eyes just in time to glimpse the crystal still glowing as the older man twirled the chain idly between thumb and fingertips.
“It—it worked,” Bran whispered in awe.
“It did—though it appears that you are not true Deryni after all.” Wencit noted the stricken look on Bran’s face and smiled, knowing he now owned the man. “But you needn’t worry. You have the potential to assume full powers, as did the humans of old when they accomplished the Restoration. That is, perhaps, better in many ways, for you would have been obliged to learn to use native Deryni powers. The assumed ones come full-blown and ready to deploy.”
“Which means?”
Wencit stood casually and stretched, the shiral crystal dangling from its chain in his hand. “Which means that the next step is to Mind-See you, to evaluate your potential and to set up the conditions under which I can bestow power on you. You needn’t fret yourself with the details. The kings of Gwynedd have been doing it successfully for generations, so there is no danger. I trust that you are prepared to stay the night.”
“I hadn’t planned to, but—”
“But under the circumstances, you will,” Wencit finished for him, smiling faintly. He came around to the other side of the table and sat easily on the edge, to Bran’s left. “I shall even send your captain back to reassure your men. ’Tis a pity that you put my emissaries out of commission. Duke Lionel, my brother-in-law, possesses assumed Deryni powers similar to those you will shortly receive. I could have relayed the information through him, had you not dosed him with that sleeping potion. As it is, he will be groggy and testy and utterly impossible to live with for several days, until the effects wear off completely. Still, that is sometimes the price one must pay for progress, and he knows it. Sit back and relax, please.”
“Wh-what are you going to do?” Bran murmured, apprehensive, for he had totally lost the sorcerer’s line of logic in his bewilderment.
“I told you: Mind-See.” Wencit twisted the golden chain so that the shiral crystal spun between him and Bran. “Now, I desire your assistance in this. Relax and do not resist me, or you will be left with a beastly headache when we’re done. Your cooperation will make it easier for both of us.”
Bran squirmed in his chair, uneasy, looking as though he wanted to protest or even bolt. Wencit frowned, and his face went stern, his voice cold.
“Listen to me, Earl of Marley. If we are to be allies, you must begin trusting me sometime. This is the time. Do not make me force you.”
Bran took a deep breath and exhaled softly, further defiance deflating. “I’m sorry. What am I to do?”
Wencit’s visage softened and he set the crystal spinning again, his other hand firmly pushing Bran’s shoulders back in the chair.
“Just relax and trust me. You have nothing to fear. Take another deep breath and let it out. Watch the crystal. Watch it spin and listen to the sound of my voice. As you watch the crystal spinning, spinning, your eyelids begin to grow heavy—so heavy that you cannot keep your eyes open. Let them close. And as the feeling of lethargy and calm comes over you, accept it. Take it in. Let it envelop and enfold you. Let your mind go blank and picture, if you will, a dark room of velvet night, with a dark door in the dark wall. And then imagine that dark door slowly opening, and cool darkness beyond….”
Bran’s eyes had closed, his breathing slowed, and Wencit lowered the crystal as his voice droned on. His words became fewer and farther apart as his subject relaxed. Then he reached out and touched the man’s eyelids with thumb and forefinger, murmured the words of magic that sealed the trance. He was silent for a long moment, his own coldly glowing eyes hooded and distant. Then he lowered his hand and spoke softly.
“Look at me now, Bran Coris.”
Bran’s eyes fluttered open and he looked around, remembering with a start just what it was that was supposed to have happened. When he saw that Wencit had not moved, that his benevolent expression was unchanged, he willed himself to relax and assess the situation as best he could. This time, as he looked up at the sorcerer king, he felt no apprehension. He sensed instead that some sort of unforeseen rapport had been formed; that though the man before him now knew all there was to know about Bran Coris Earl of Marley, it did not matter.
It was not a feeling of bondage; Bran would have chafed under that. Nor would Wencit of Torenth have desired that in one who was to be his ally. It was more a sense of comprehension, even fulfillment; a satisfying and even reassuring feeling, not at all repelling, as a part of him had feared it might be. Though his mind still reeled at the raw power of what had been done to him, he sensed that new knowledge had been imparted, could he but recall it; a subtle scent of empowerment, too tenuous to be assessed as yet. He decided that he liked what he felt.
His attention snapped back to reality as Wencit stood up.
“You did very well,” the sorcerer remarked, reaching behind Bran to tug on a brocaded bell cord. “We shall work well together, you and I. When I send for you in the morning, we shall proceed in greater depth,”
“Why not now?” Bran asked, lurching to his feet and staggering, much to his surprise.
Unconcerned, Wencit reached out to steady him. “Because of that, my impatient young friend. Magic is very tiring for the uninitiated, and you have had a full dose for today. In a very little while, you shall find yourself unable to keep your feet for another instant. I shouldn’t want Garon to have to carry you to your quarters.”
Bran put a dazed hand to his forehead. “But, I—”
“Not another word,” Wencit said firmly, stepping back a pace. The door opened behind him and Garon entered, but Wencit did not look in his direction, preferring instead to watch Bran’s every move as the young lord tried to orient himself.
“Garon, please take Lord Bran to guest quarters and put him to bed,” Wencit said softly. “He is very tired after his long journey. See that his men are provided for, and that his captain is permitted to return to camp to reassure his army.”
“Certainly, Sire. This way, if you please, my lord.”
As Garon led the bewildered Bran Coris to the door, Wencit watched thoughtfully. Then, when the door had closed behind them, he strolled to the door in a leisurely fashion and shot home the bolt. As he returned to sit at the oak table, he addressed the empty air in a conversational tone.
“Well, Rhydon, what did you think?”
At his words, a narrow panel in the wall opposite opened briefly to admit a tall, dark man in blue. The panel closed silently behind him as he crossed nonchalantly to the chair recently vacated by Bran and leaned with both hands against the high, carved back.
“What did you think?” Wencit repeated, lounging back in his chair to study his colleague.
Rhydon shrugged noncommittally. “Your performance was flawless, as usual. What more can I say?” The tone was light, but the pale gray eyes beneath the hawk visage mirrored more than the spoken words.
Wencit knew that look and nodded. He placed the shiral crystal on the table beside the golden coronet and carefully adjusted the chain, then looked up shrewdly at Rhydon once more.
“You are concerned about Bran Coris. Why? You surely do not think he presents a danger to us?”
Rhydon shrugged again. “Call it native cynicism—I cannot say. He seems safe enough. But you know how unpredictable humans can be. Look at Kelson Haldane.”
“He is half-Deryni.”
“So is Morgan. So is McLain. Forgive me if I sound skeptical, but perhaps you have not been aware of the Camberian Council’s attention to that fact. Morgan and McLain, as supposed half-Deryni, are probably the two most unpredictable men in the Eleven Kingdoms right now. They keep doing things they should not be able to do. And that I know you are aware of.” He came around and sat in the other chair, then picked up Bran’s untouched cup of darja and drained it at a single draught. Wencit snorted derisively.
Rhydon of Eastmarch was no longer a handsome man. A saber scar slashing from the bridge of his nose to the right-hand corner of his mouth had forever rendered that an impossibility. But he was a striking man. Dark hair graying at the temples and a luxuriant salt-and-pepper moustache framed a lean, oval face; a small beard softened the pointed chin. The mouth was full and wide but generally set in a firm line, with hints of predatory cruelty. In all, an almost sinister aura—one that the rapier mind behind the face relished and cultivated. A Deryni lord of the first magnitude was Rhydon of Eastmarch; a man in every way Wencit’s equal and complement; a man never to be trifled with.
He and Wencit gazed across the table for a long moment before Wencit recalled himself to matters at hand.
“Very well,” he said, abruptly straightening and pulling several of the leather document tubes toward him. “Do you wish to observe Bran’s initiation tomorrow, or have I convinced you that he is no longer dangerous? To us, at least.”
“I am not totally convinced that any human is without danger,” Rhydon quipped, “but no matter. I leave him to your judgment.” He rubbed a slender forefinger down the bridge of his nose in an automatic gesture, unconsciously following the long scar that lost itself in the thick moustache. “Are those our battle plans?”
Wencit pulled a map from one of the tubes and spread it on the table. “Yes, and the situation improves hourly. With Bran’s defection about to split Kelson’s strength along the border, we can cut off northern Gwynedd. To the south, Jared of Cassan and his army should be easy picking when we shift south in a few days.”
“What about Kelson?” Rhydon asked. “When he finds out what you plan, he will have the entire royal army breathing down our necks.”
Wencit shook his head. “Kelson will not know. I am counting on poor communication and difficult travel conditions at this time of year to keep him ignorant of our plans until it is too late to do anything. Besides, the civil and religious turmoil in Corwyn should keep him amply occupied until we are ready to take him.”
“Do you anticipate trouble when we do?”
“From Kelson?” Wencit shook his head and smiled. “I hardly think so. Despite what the statutes say about the legal age of kings, Kelson at fourteen is still a boy, half-Deryni or no. And you must admit that being half-Deryni has not particularly helped our ambitious princeling lately. In fact, increasing numbers of his loyal subjects are beginning to wonder if it is a good thing at all, to have a boy-king whose blood harks back to the blasphemous and wicked Deryni race.”
“Your carefully placed rumors, of course, have had nothing at all to do with this shift of confidence.”
“How could you think such a thing?”
Rhydon chuckled mirthlessly at his companion’s feigned look of mild affront, and crossed elegantly booted legs. “Then, tell me what you have planned for the wonder-prince, my lord king. How may I assist you further?”
“Rid me of Morgan and McLain,” Wencit replied, at once deadly serious. “As long as they stand beside Kelson, excommunicate or not, they stand a threat to us, both by the aid they can give him and by the powers they personally wield. Since we cannot predict their strength or their influence, we have no choice but to eliminate them. But it must be done legally. I want no trouble with the Council.”
“Legally?” Rhydon raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I am not certain that is possible. As half-breeds, Morgan and McLain are immune to arcane challenge by any other full Deryni. And the chances of having them legally executed by secular or ecclesiastical authorities are so remote as to be almost nonexistent. You know they are under Kelson’s personal protection.”
Wencit picked up a thin stylus and tapped it absently against his teeth, then turned to gaze thoughtfully out the window. “Yes, but there may be another way, one that the Council could not possibly fault. In fact, the Council itself might be the instrument of their destruction.”
Rhydon straightened attentively. “Do elaborate.”
“Suppose the Council were to declare Morgan and McLain fair game for arcane challenge? Suppose their immunity were taken away?”
“On what grounds?”
“On the grounds that the two of them exhibit full Deryni powers at times,” Wencit said with a sly smile. “They have, you know.”
“I see,” Rhydon murmured. “And you wish me to go to the Council and ask them to entertain the motion? You know that is out of the question.”
“Oh, not you, personally. I know how you feel about the Council. Ask Thorne Hagen to do it. He owes me several favors.”
Rhydon hissed derisively.
“No, I mean it. Tell him, if you like, that this is not a request but a direct order from me. I think he’ll cooperate.”
Rhydon chuckled, shaking his head, then stood and straightened his sleeves with a flourish. “He has little choice, when you put it that way. Very well, I shall see to it.” He glanced around and rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Is there anything else you require of me before I go? Perhaps a minor miracle or two? The granting of your heart’s desire?”
With the last word, he extended his hands and made a slow pass in the air before him, murmuring a few low syllables under his breath. As he completed the movement, a full, hooded cloak of softest deerskin appeared from nowhere to settle around his shoulders in a whisper of indigo leather. Wencit had taken an incredulous pose with hands on hips as his colleague performed the spell, and shook his head in consternation as Rhydon fastened the clasp.
“If you are quite finished playing with your powers, the one request will be enough, thank you. And now, I’ll thank you to be on your way and let me work. Some of us must, you know.”
“Ah, I am wounded beyond mending,” Rhydon said dryly. “However, since you request it, I shall go to see your good friend Thorne Hagen. Then I shall return to inspect this Bran Coris creature with whom you seem so enraptured. Perhaps there is some merit in him after all—though I doubt it. Perhaps I shall even endeavor to assess the danger for you: the danger you are convinced does not exist.”
“Do, by all means.”
Rhydon left in a swirl of indigo leather, and when he was gone Wencit returned to his maps, poring over the red and blue and green lines that outlined his strategy. The ice-pale eyes glittered with power as his fingers roamed the creamy parchment, new tension in the set of his shoulders as he planned and schemed.
“One ruler must unite the Eleven Kingdoms,” he murmured to himself as he traced the lines of advance. “One ruler over all the Eleven Kingdoms. And it shall not be the boy-king who sits on the throne at Rhemuth!”