Katherine Kurtz’s debut novel, Deryni Rising, was published in 1970 by Ballantine Books—the first book to be published under their Adult Fantasy imprint that was not a reissue of an older work. There was nothing like it at the time: a “historical” fantasy based on medieval politics and a strong faith similar to Catholicism, featuring a race of psychics—the Deryni—who practice magic. This type of non-Tolkien secondary-world historical fantasy is common now, but Kurtz seems to be the first to write it. Ursula R. Le Guin disparaged the novel’s prose in her essay “From Elfland to Poughkeepsie,” but from 1970 until sometime in the nineties, Kurtz’s fiction was popular and widely read. As Kari Sperring has written:
Modern accounts of historical fantasy focus on the men who followed her, notably [Guy Gavriel] Kay and [George R. R.] Martin . . . Her books are entertaining and well-paced and convey a very strong sense of a realistic world . . . Her characters are memorable. She remains one of the best writers on faith and magic within fantasy. And she changed the shape of our genre. She was the first, and, as such, she deserves to be more widely recognized and studied.
The Deryni series consists of five trilogies, one stand-alone novel, various short stories (and one collection of them), and two reference books. The most recent Deryni novel is The King’s Deryni (2014).
“Swords Against the Marluk” (1977) was the first Deryni short story and was published in Lin Carter’s Flashing Swords #4: Barbarians and Black Magicians.
They had not anticipated trouble from the Marluk that summer. In those days, the name of Hogan Gwernach was little more than legend, a vague menace in far-off Tolan who might or might not ever materialize as a threat to Brion’s throne. Though rumored to be a descendant of the last Deryni sorcerer-king of Gwynedd, Gwemach’s line had not set foot in Gwynedd for nearly three generations—not since Duchad Mor’s ill-fated invasion in the reign of Jasher Haldane. Most people who knew of his existence at all believed that he had abandoned his claim to Gwynedd’s crown.
And so, late spring found King Brion in Eastmarch to put down the rebellion of one of his own earls, with a young, half-Deryni squire named Alaric Morgan riding at his side. Rorik, the Earl of Eastmarch, had defied royal writ and begun to overrun neighboring Marley—a move he had been threatening for years—aided by his brash son-in-law, Rhydon, who was then only suspected of being Deryni. Arban Howell, one of the local barons whose lands lay along the line of Rorik’s march, sent frantic word to the king of what was happening, then called up his own feudal levies to make a stand until help could arrive.
Only, by the time the royal armies did arrive, Brion’s from the capital and an auxiliary force from Claibourne in the north, there was little left to do but assist Arban’s knights in the mop-up operation. Miraculously, Arban had managed to defeat and capture Earl Rorik, scattering the remnants of the rebel forces and putting the impetuous Rhydon to flight. Only the formalities remained to be done by the time the king himself rode into Arban’s camp.
Trial was held, the accused condemned, the royal sentence carried out. The traitorous Rorik, his lands and titles attainted, was hanged, drawn, and quartered before the officers of the combined armies, his head destined to be returned to his old capital and displayed as a deterrent to those contemplating similar indiscretions in the future. Rhydon, who had assisted his father-in-law’s treason, was condemned in absentia and banished. Loyal Arhan Howell became the new Earl of Eastmarch for his trouble, swearing fealty to King Brion before the same armies which had witnessed the execution of his predecessor only minutes before.
And so the rebellion ended in Eastmarch. Brion dismissed the Claibourne levies with thanks, wished his new earl godspeed, then turned over command of the royal army to his brother Nigel. Nigel and their uncle, Duke Richard, would see the royal levies back to Rhemuth. Brion, impatient with the blood and killing of the past week, set out for home along a different route, taking only his squire with him.
It was late afternoon when Brion and Alaric found a suitable campsite. Since their predawn rising, there had been little opportunity for rest; and accordingly, riders and horses both were tired and travel-worn when at last they stopped. The horses smelled the water up ahead and tugged at their bits as the riders drew rein.
“God’s wounds, but I’m tired, Alaric!” the king sighed, kicking clear of his stirrups and sliding gratefully from the saddle. “I sometimes think the aftermath is almost worse than the battle. I must be getting old.”
As Alaric grabbed at the royal reins to secure the horses, Brion pulled off helmet and coif and let them fall as he made his way to the edge of the nearby stream. Letting himself fall facedown, he buried his head in the cooling water. The long black hair floated on the current, streaming down the royal back just past his shoulders as he rolled over and sat up, obviously the better for wear. Alaric, the horses tethered nearby, picked up his master’s helm and coif and laid them beside the horses, then walked lightly toward the king.
“Your mail will rust if you insist upon bathing in it, Sire,” the boy smiled, kneeling beside the older man and reaching to unbuckle the heavy swordbelt.
Brion leaned back on both elbows to facilitate the disarming, shaking his head in appreciation as the boy began removing vambraces and gauntlets.
“I don’t think I shall ever understand how I came to deserve you, Alaric.” He raised a foot so the boy could unbuckle greaves and spurs and dusty boots. “You must think me benighted, to ride off alone like this, without even an armed escort other than yourself, just to be away from my army.”
“My liege is a man of war and a leader of men,” the boy grinned, “but he is also a man unto himself, and must have time away from the pursuits of kings. The need for solitude is a familiar one to me.”
“You understand, don’t you?”
Alaric shrugged. “Who better than a Deryni, Sire? Like Your Grace, we are also solitary men on most occasions—though our solitude is not always by choice.”
Brion smiled agreement, trying to imagine what it must be like to be Deryni like Alaric, a member of that persecuted race so feared still by so many. He allowed the boy to pull the lion surcoat off over his head while he thought about it, then stood and shrugged out of his mail hauberk. Discarding padding and singlet as well, he stepped into the water and submerged himself with a sigh, letting the water melt away the grime and soothe the galls of combat and ill-fitting harness and too many hours in the saddle. Alaric joined him after a while, gliding eel-like in the dappled shadows. When the light began to fail, the boy was on the bank without a reminder and pulling on clean clothes, packing away the battle-stained armor, laying out fresh garb for his master. Reluctantly, Brion came to ground on the sandy bottom and climbed to his feet, slicked back the long, black hair.
There was a small wood fire waiting when he had dressed, and wild rabbit spitted above the flames, and mulled wine in sturdy leather traveling cups. Wrapped in their cloaks against the growing night chill, king and squire feasted on rabbit and ripe cheese and biscuits only a little gone to mold after a week in the pack. The meal was finished and the camp secured by the time it was fully dark, and Brion fell asleep almost immediately, his head pillowed on his saddle by the banked fire. After a final check of the horses, Alaric slept, too.
It was sometime after moonrise when they were awakened by the sound of hoofbeats approaching from the way they had come. It was a lone horseman—that much Brion could determine, even through the fog of sleep he was shaking off as he sat and reached for his sword. But there was something else, too, and the boy Alaric sensed it. The lad was already on his feet, sword in hand, ready to defend his master if need be. But now he was frozen in the shadow of a tree, sword at rest, his head cocked in an attitude of more than listening.
“Prince Nigel,” the boy murmured confidently, returning his sword to its sheath. Brion, used by now to relying on the boy’s extraordinary powers, straightened and peered toward the moonlit road, throwing his cloak around him and groping for his boots in the darkness.
“A Haldane!” a young voice cried.
“Haldane, ho!” Brion shouted in response, stepping into the moonlight to hail the newcomer. The rider reined his lathered horse back on its haunches and half fell from the saddle, tossing the reins in Alaric’s general direction as the boy came running to meet him.
“Brion, thank God I’ve found you!” Nigel cried, stumbling to embrace his older brother. “I feared you might have taken another route!”
The prince was foam-flecked and grimy from his breakneck ride, and his breath came in ragged gasps as he allowed Brion to help him to a seat by the fire. Collapsing against a tree trunk, he gulped the wine that Brion offered and tried to still his trembling hands. After a few minutes, and without attempting to speak, he pulled off one gauntlet with his teeth and reached into a fold of his surcoat. He took a deep breath as he withdrew a folded piece of parchment and gave it over to his brother.
“This was delivered several hours after you and Alaric left us. It’s from Hogan Gwernach.”
“The Marluk?” Brion murmured. His face went still and strange, the gray Haldane eyes flashing like polished agate, as he held the missive toward the firelight.
There was no seal on the outside of the letter—only a name, written in a fine, educated hand: Brion Haldane, Pretender of Gwynedd. Slowly, deliberately, Brion unfolded the parchment, let his eyes scan it as his brother plucked a brand from the fire and held it close for light. The boy Alaric listened silently as the king read.
“To Brion Haldane, Pretender of Gwynedd, from the Lord Hogan Gwernach of Tolan, Festillic Heir to the Thrones and Crowns of the Eleven Kingdoms. Know that We, Hogan, have determined to exercise that prerogative of birth which is the right of Our Festillic Ancestors, to reclaim the Thrones which are rightfully Ours. We therefore give notice to you, Brion Haldane, that your stewardship and usurpation of Gwynedd is at an end, your lands and Crown forfeit to the House of Festil. We charge you to present yourself and all members of your Haldane Line before Our Royal Presence at Cardosa, no later than the Feast of Saint Asaph, there to surrender yourself and the symbols of your sovereignty into Our Royal Hands. Sic dicto, Hoganus Rex Regnorum Undecim.”
“King of the Eleven Kingdoms?” Alaric snorted, then remembered who and where he was. “Pardon, Sire, but he must be joking!”
Nigel shook his head. “I fear not, Alaric. This was delivered by Rhydon of Eastmarch under a flag of truce.”
“The treasonous dog!” Brion whispered.
“Aye.” Nigel nodded. “He said to tell you that if you wished to contest this,” he tapped the parchment lightly with his fingernail, “the Marluk would meet you in combat tomorrow near the Rustan Cliffs. If you do not appear, he will sack and burn the town of Rustan, putting every man, woman, and child to the sword. If we leave by dawn, we can just make it.”
“Our strength?” Brion asked.
“I have my vanguard of eighty. I sent sixty of them ahead to rendezvous with us at Rustan and the rest are probably a few hours behind me. I also sent a messenger ahead to Uncle Richard with the main army. With any luck at all, he’ll receive word in time to turn back the Haldane levies to assist. Earl Ewan was too far north to call back, though I sent a rider anyway.”
“Thank you. You’ve done well.”
With a distracted nod, Brion laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder and got slowly to his feet. As he stood gazing sightlessly into the fire, the light gleamed on a great ruby in his ear, on a wide bracelet of silver clasped to his right wrist. He folded his arms across his chest against the chill, bowing his head in thought. The boy Alaric, with a glance at Prince Nigel, moved to pull the king’s cloak more closely around him, to fasten the lion brooch beneath his chin as the king spoke.
“The Marluk does not mean to fight a physical battle. You know that, Nigel,” he said in a low voice. “Oh, there may be battle among our various troops in the beginning. But all of that is but prelude. Armed combat is not what Hogan Gwernach desires of me.”
“Aye. He is Deryni,” Nigel breathed. He watched Brion’s slow nod in the firelight.
“But, Brion,” Nigel began, after a long pause. “It’s been two generations since a Haldane king has had to stand against Deryni magic. Can you do it?”
“I—don’t know.” Brion, his cloak drawn close about him, sank down beside his brother once again, his manner grave and thoughtful. “I’m sorry if I appear preoccupied, but I keep having this vague recollection that there is something I’m supposed to do now. I seem to remember that Father made some provision, some preparation against this possibility, but—”
He ran a hand through sable hair, the firelight winking again on the silver at his wrist, and the boy Alaric froze, head cocked in a strained listening attitude, eyes slightly glazed. As Nigel nudged his brother lightly in the ribs, the boy sank slowly to his knees. Both pairs of royal eyes stared at him fixedly.
“There is that which must be done,” the boy whispered, “which was ordained many years ago, when I was but a babe and you were not yet king, Sire.”
“My father?”
“Aye. The key is—the bracelet you wear upon your arm.” Brion’s eyes darted instinctively to the silver. “May I see it, Sire?”
Without a word, Brion removed the bracelet and laid it in the boy’s left hand. Alaric stared at it for a long moment, his pupils dilating until they were pools of inky blackness. Then, taking a deep breath to steel himself for the rush of memories he knew must follow, he bowed his head and laid his right hand over the design incised in the silver. Abruptly he remembered the first time he had seen the bracelet He had been just four when it happened, and it was mid-autumn. He had been snuggled down in his bed, dreaming of some childhood fantasy which he would never remember now, when he became aware of someone standing by his couch—and that was not a dream.
He opened his eyes to see his mother staring down at him intently, golden hair spilling bright around her shoulders, a loose-fitting gown of green disguising the thickening of her body from the child she carried. There was a candle in her hand, and by its light he could see his father standing gravely at her side. He had never seen such a look of stern concentration upon his father’s face before, and that almost frightened him.
He made an inquisitive noise in his throat and started to ask what was wrong, but his mother laid a finger against her lips and shook her head. Then his father was reaching down to pull the blankets back, gathering him sleepily into his arms. He watched as his mother followed them out of the room and across the great hall, toward his father’s library. The hall was empty even of the hounds his father loved, and outside he could hear the sounds of horses stamping in the yard—perhaps as many as a score of them—and the low-voiced murmur of the soldiers talking their soldier-talk.
At first, he thought the library was empty. But then he noticed an old, gray-haired man sitting in the shadows of his father’s favorite armchair by the fireplace, an ornately carved staff cradled in the crook of his arm. The man’s garments were rich and costly, but stained with mud at the hem. Jewels winked dimly in the crown of his leather cap, and a great red stone gleamed in his right earlobe. His cloak of red leather was clasped with a massive enameled brooch bearing the figure of a golden lion.
“Good evening, Alaric,” the old man said quietly, as the boy’s father knelt before the man and turned his son to face the visitor.
His mother made a slight curtsy, awkward in her condition, then moved to stand at the man’s right hand, leaning heavily against the side of his chair. Alaric thought it strange, even at that young age, that the man did not invite his mother to sit down—but perhaps the man was sick; he was certainly very old. Curiously, and still blinking the sleep from his eyes, he looked up at his mother. To his surprise, it was his father who spoke.
“Alaric, this is the king,” his father said in a low voice. “Do you remember your duty to His Majesty?”
Alaric turned to regard his father gravely, then nodded and disengaged himself from his father’s embrace, stood to attention, made a deep, correct bow from the waist. The king, who had watched the preceding without comment, smiled and held out his right hand to the child. A silver bracelet flashed in the firelight as the boy put his small hand into the king’s great, scarred one.
“Come and sit beside me, boy,” the king said, lifting Alaric to a position half in his lap and half supported by the carven chair-arms. “I want to show you something.”
Alaric squirmed a little as he settled down, for the royal lap was thin and bony, and the royal belt bristled with pouches and daggers and other grown-up accouterments fascinating to a small child. He started to touch one careful, stubby finger to the jewel at the end of the king’s great dagger, but before he could do it, his mother reached across and touched his forehead lightly with her hand. Instantly, the room took on a new brightness and clarity, became more silent, almost reverberated with expectation. He did not know what was going to happen, but his mother’s signal warned him that it was in that realm of special things of which he was never to speak, and to which he must give his undivided attention. In awed expectation, he turned his wide child-eyes upon the king, watched attentively as the old man reached around him and removed the silver bracelet from his wrist.
“This is a very special bracelet, Alaric. Did you know that?”
The boy shook his head, his gray eyes flicking from the king’s face to the flash of silver. The bracelet was a curved rectangle of metal as wide as a man’s hand, its mirror-sheen broken only by the carved outline of a heraldic rose. But it was the inside which the king turned toward him now—the inner surface, also highly polished but bearing a series of three curiously carved symbols which the boy did not recognize—though at four, he could already read the scriptures and simple texts from which his mother taught him.
The king turned the bracelet so that the first sigil was visible and held his fingernail beneath it. With a piercing glance at the boy’s mother, he murmured the word, “One!” The room spun, and Alaric had remembered nothing more of that night.
But the fourteen-year-old Alaric remembered now. Holding the bracelet in his hands, the old king’s successor waiting expectantly beside him, Alaric suddenly knew that this was the key, that he was the key who could unlock the instructions left him by a dying man so many years before. He turned the bracelet in his hands and peered at the inside—he knew now that the symbols were runes, though he still could not read them—then raised gray eyes to meet those of his king.
“This is a time which your royal father anticipated, Sire. There are things which I must do, and you, and,” he glanced uneasily at the bracelet before meeting Brion’s eyes again, “and somehow he knew that I would be at your side when this time arrived.”
“Yes, I can see that now,” Brion said softly. “ ‘There will be a half-Deryni child called Morgan who will come to you in his youth,’ my father said. ‘Him you may trust with your life and with all. He is the key who unlocks many doors.’ ” He searched Alaric’s eyes carefully. “He knew. Even your presence was by his design.”
“And was the Marluk also his design?” Nigel whispered, his tone conveying resentment at the implied manipulation, though the matter was now rendered academic.
“Ancient mine enemy,” Brion murmured. His face assumed a gentle, faraway air. “No, he did not cause the Marluk to be, Nigel. But he knew there was a possibility, and he planned for that. It is said that the sister of the last Festillic king was with child when she was forced to flee Gwynedd. The child’s name was—I forget—not that it matters. But his line grew strong in Tolan, and they were never forced to put aside their Deryni powers. The Marluk is said to be that child’s descendant.”
“And full Deryni, if what they say is true,” Nigel replied, his face going sullen. “Brion, we aren’t equipped to handle a confrontation with the Marluk. He’s going to be waiting for us tomorrow with an army and his full Deryni powers. And us? We’ll have eighty men of my vanguard, maybe we’ll have the rest of the Haldane levies, if Uncle Richard gets back in time, and you’ll have—what?—to stand against a full Deryni lord who has good reason to want your throne!”
Brion wet his lips, avoiding his brother’s eyes. “Alaric says that Father made provisions. We have no choice but to trust and see. Regardless of the outcome, we must try to save Rustan town tomorrow. Alaric, can you help us?”
“I—will try, Sire.”
Disturbed by the near-clash between the two brothers, and sobered by the responsibility Brion had laid upon him, Alaric laid his right forefinger beneath the first rune, grubby fingernail underscoring the deeply carved sign. He could feel the Haldane eyes upon him as he whispered the word, “One!”
The word paralyzed him, and he was struck deaf and blind to all externals, oblivious to everything except the images flashing through his mind—the face of the old king seen through the eyes of a four-year-old boy—and the instructions, meaningless to the four-year-old, now re-engraving themselves in the young man’s mind as deeply as the runes inscribed on the silver in his hand.
A dozen heartbeats, a blink, and he was in the world again, turning his gray gaze on the waiting Brion. The king and Nigel stared at him with something approaching awe, their faces washed clean of whatever doubts had remained until that moment. In the moonlight, Alaric seemed to glow a little.
“We must find a level area facing east,” the boy said. His young brow furrowed in concentration. “There must be a large rock in the center, living water at our backs, and—and we must gather wildflowers.”
It was nearing first-light before they were ready. A suitable location had been found in a bend of the stream a little way below their camp, with water tumbling briskly along the northern as well as the western perimeter. To the east stretched an unobstructed view of the mountains from behind which the sun would shortly rise. A large, stream-smoothed chunk of granite half the height of a man had been dragged into the center of the clearing with the aid of the horses, and four lesser stones had been set up to mark the four cardinal compass points.
Now Alaric and Nigel were laying bunches of field flowers around each of the cornerstones, in a pattern which Alaric could not explain but which he knew must be maintained. Brion, silent and withdrawn beneath his crimson cloak, sat near the center stone with arms wrapped around his knees, sheathed sword lying beside him. A knot of blazing pine had been thrust into the ground at his right to provide light for what the others did, but Brion saw nothing, submerged in contemplation of what lay ahead. Alaric, with a glance at the brightening sky, set a small drinking vessel of water to the left of the center stone and dropped to one knee beside the king. An uneasy Nigel snuffed out the torch and drew back a few paces as Alaric took up the bracelet and laid his finger under the second rune.
“Two!”
There was a moment of profound silence in which none of the three moved, and then Alaric looked up and placed the bracelet in the king’s hand once more.
“The dawn is nearly upon us, Sire,” he said quietly. “I require the use of your sword.”
“Eh?”
With a puzzled look, Brion glanced at the weapon and picked it up, wrapped the red leather belt more tidily around the scabbard, then scrambled to his feet. It had been his father’s sword, and his grandfather’s. It was also the sword with which he had been consecrated king nearly ten years before. Since that day, no man had drawn it save himself.
But without further query, Brion drew the blade and formally extended it to Alaric across his left forearm, hilt first. Alaric made a profound bow as he took the weapon, appreciating the trust the act implied, then saluted the king and moved to the other side of the rock. Behind him, the eastern sky was ablaze with pink and coral.
“When the rim of the sun appears above the horizon, I must ward us with fire, my liege,” he said. “Please do not be surprised or alarmed at anything which may happen.”
Brion nodded, and as he and Nigel drew themselves to respectful attention, Alaric turned on his heel and strode to the eastern limit of the clearing. Raising the sword before him with both hands, he held the cross-hilt level with his eyes and gazed expectantly toward the eastern horizon. And then, as though the sun’s movement had not been a gradual and natural thing, dawn was spilling from behind the mountains.
The first rays of sunlight on sword turned the steel to fire. Alaric let his gaze travel slowly up the blade, to the flame now blazing at its tip and shimmering down its length, then extended the sword in salute and brought it slowly to ground before him. Fire leaped up where blade touched sun-parched turf—a fire which burned but did not consume—and a ribbon of flame followed as he turned to the right and walked the confines of the wards.
When he had finished, he was back where he began, all three of them standing now within a hemisphere of golden light. The boy saluted sunward once again, with hands that shook only a little, then returned to the center of the circle. Grounding the now-normal blade, he extended it to Nigel with a bow, the hilt held cross-wise before him. As the prince’s fingers closed around the blade, Alaric turned back toward the center stone and bowed his head. Then he held his hands outstretched before him, fingers slightly cupped—gazed fixedly at the space between them.
Nothing appeared to happen for several minutes, though Alaric could feel the power building between his hands. King and prince and squire stared until their eyes watered, then blinked in astonishment as the space between Alaric’s hands began to glow. Pulsating with the heartbeat of its creator, the glow coalesced in a sphere of cool, verdant light, swelling to head-size even as they watched. Slowly, almost reverently, Alaric lowered his hands toward the stream-smoothed surface of the center stone; watched as the sphere of light spread bright across the surface.
He did not dare to breathe, so tenuous was the balance he maintained. Drawing back the sleeve of his tunic, he swept his right hand and arm across the top of the stone like an adze, shearing away the granite as though it were softest sand. Another pass to level the surface even more, and then he was pressing out a gentle hollow with his hand, the stone melting beneath his touch like morning frost before the sun.
Then the fire was dead, and Alaric Morgan was no longer the master mage, tapping the energies of the earth’s deepest forge, but only a boy of fourteen, staggering to his knees in exhaustion at the feet of his king and staring in wonder at what his hands had wrought. Already, he could not remember how he had done it.
Silence reigned for a long moment, finally broken by Brion’s relieved sigh as he tore his gaze from the sheared-off stone. A taut, frightened Nigel was staring at him and Alaric, white-knuckled hands gripping the sword hilt as though it were his last remaining hold on reality. With a little smile of reassurance, Brion laid a hand on his brother’s. He felt a little of the tension drain away as he turned back to the young man still kneeling at his feet.
“Alaric, are you all right?”
“Aye, m’lord.”
With a weak nod, Alaric brought a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes, murmuring a brief spell to banish fatigue. Another deep breath and it was done. Smiling wanly, he climbed to his feet and took the bracelet from Brion’s hands once more, bent it flat and laid it in the hollow he had made in the rock. The three runes, one yet unrevealed, shone in the sunlight as he stretched forth his right hand above the silver.
“ ‘I form the light and create darkness,’ ” the boy whispered. “ ‘I make peace and create evil: I the Lord do all these things.’ ”
He did not physically move his hand, although muscles and tendons tensed beneath the tanned skin. Nonetheless, the silver began to curve away, to conform to the hollow of the stone as though another, invisible hand were pressing down between his hand and the metal. The bracelet collapsed on itself and grew molten then, though there was no heat given off. When Alaric removed his hand a few seconds later, the silver was bonded to the hollow like a shallow, silver bowl, all markings obliterated save the third and final rune. He laid his finger under the sign and spoke its name.
“Three!”
This time, there was but a fleeting outward hint of the reaction triggered: a blink, an interrupted breath immediately resumed. Then he was taking up the vessel of water and turning toward Brion, gesturing with his eyes for Brion to extend his hands. Water was poured over them, the edge of Alaric’s cloak offered for a towel. When the king had dried his hands, Alaric handed him the rest of the water. “Pour water in the silver to a finger’s depth. Sire,” he said softly. Brion complied, setting the vessel on the ground when he had finished. Nigel, without being told, moved to the opposite side of the stone and knelt, holding the sword so that the long, cross-shadow of the hilt fell across rock and silver.
“Now,” Alaric continued, “spread your hands flat above the water and repeat after me. Your hands are holy, consecrated with chrism at your coronation just as a priest’s hands are consecrated. I am instructed that this is appropriate.”
With a swallow, Brion obeyed, his eyes locking with Alaric’s as the boy began speaking.
“I, Brion, the Lord’s Anointed . . . ”
“I, Brion, the Lord’s Anointed . . . ”
“ . . . bless and consecrate thee, O creature of water . . . ”
“ . . . bless and consecrate thee, O creature of water . . . by the living God, by the true God, by the holy God . . . by that God Who in the beginning separated thee by His word from the dry land . . . and Whose Spirit moved upon thee.”
“Amen,” Alaric whispered.
“Amen,” Brion echoed.
“Now, dip your fingers in the water,” Alaric began, “and trace on the stone—”
“I know this part!” Brion interrupted, his hand already parting the water in the sign of a cross. He, too, was being caught up in that web of recall established so many years before by his royal father, and his every gesture, every nuance of phrasing and pronunciation, was correct and precise as he touched a moistened finger to the stone in front of the silver.
“Blessed be the Creator, yesterday and today, the Beginning and the End, the Alpha and the Omega.”
A cross shone wetly on the stone, the Greek letters drawn haltingly but precisely at the east and west aspects.
“His are the seasons and the ages, to Him glory and dominion through all the ages of eternity. Blessed be the Lord. Blessed be His Holy Name.”
The signs of the Elementals glistened where Brion had drawn them in the four quadrants cut by the cross—Air, Fire, Water, Earth—and Brion, as he recognized the alchemical signs, drew back his hand as though stung, stared aghast at Alaric.
“How—?” He swallowed. “How did I know that?”
Alaric permitted a wan smile, sharing Brion’s discomfiture at being compelled to act upon memories and instructions which he could not consciously remember.
“You, too, have been schooled for this day, Sire,” he said. “Now, you have but to carry out the rest of your father’s instructions, and take up the power which is rightfully yours.”
Brion bowed his head, sleek, raven hair catching the strengthening sunlight. “I—am not certain I know how. From what we have seen and done so far, there must be other triggers, other clues to aid me, but—” He glanced up at the boy. “You must give me guidance, Alaric. You are the master here—not I.”
“No, you are the master, Sire,” the boy said, touching one finger to the water and bringing a shimmering drop toward Brion’s face.
The king’s eyes tracked on the fingertip automatically, and as the droplet touched his forehead, the eyes closed. A shudder passed through the royal body and Brion blinked. Then, in a daze, he reached to his throat and unfastened the great lion brooch which held his cloak in place. He hefted the piece in his hand as the cloak fell in a heap at his feet and the words came.
“Three drops of royal blood on water bright,
To gather flame within a bowl of light.
With consecrated hands, receive the Sight
Of Haldane—’tis thy sacred, royal Right.”
The king glanced at Alaric unseeing, at Nigel, at the red enameled brooch heavy in his hand. Then he turned the brooch over and freed the golden clasp-pin from its catch, held out a left hand which did not waver.
“Three drops of royal blood on water bright,” he repeated. He brought the clasp against his thumb in a swift, sharp jab.
Blood welled from the wound and fell thrice upon the water, rippling scarlet, concentric circles across the silver surface. A touch of tongue to wounded thumb, and then he was putting the brooch aside and spreading his hands above the water, the shadow of the cross bold upon his hands. He closed his eyes.
Stillness. A crystalline anticipation as Brion began to concentrate. And then, as Alaric extended his right hand above Brion’s and added his strength to the spell, a deep, musical reverberation, more felt than heard, throbbing through their minds. As the sunlight brightened, so also brightened the space beneath Brion’s hands, until finally could be seen the ghostly beginnings of crimson fire flickering on the water. Brion’s emotionless expression did not change as Alaric withdrew his hand and knelt.
“Fear not, for I have redeemed thee,” Alaric whispered, calling the words from memories not his own. “I have called thee by name, and thou art mine. When thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned: neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.”
Brion did not open his eyes. But as Alaric’s words ended, the king took a deep breath and slowly, deliberately, brought his hands to rest flat on the silver of the bowl. There was a gasp from Nigel as his brother’s hands entered the flames, but no word or sound escaped Brion’s lips to indicate the ordeal he was enduring. Head thrown back and eyes closed, he stood unflinching as the crimson fire climbed his arms and spread over his entire body. When the flames died away, Brion opened his eyes upon a world which would never appear precisely the same again, and in which he could never again be merely mortal.
He leaned heavily on the altar-stone for just a moment, letting the fatigue drain away. But when he lifted his hands from the stone, his brother stifled an oath. Where the royal hands had lain, the silver had been burned away. Only the blackened silhouettes remained etched indelibly in the hollowed surface of the rock. Brion blanched a little when he saw what he had done, and Nigel crossed himself. But Alaric paid no heed—stood, instead, and turned to face the east once more, extending his arms in a banishing spell. The canopy of fire dissipated in the air.
They were no longer alone, however. While they had worked their magic, some of the men of Nigel’s vanguard had found the royal campsite—an even dozen of his crack commanders and tacticians—and they were gathered now by the horses in as uneasy a band as Alaric had ever seen. Brion did not notice them immediately, his mind occupied still with sorting out his recent experience, but Alaric saw them and touched Brion’s elbow in warning. As Brion turned toward them in surprise, they went to their knees as one man, several crossing themselves furtively. Brion’s brow furrowed in momentary annoyance.
“Did they see?” he murmured, almost under his breath.
Alaric gave a careful nod. “So it would appear, Sire. I suggest you go to them immediately and reassure them. Otherwise, the more timid among them are apt to bolt and run.”
“From me, their king?”
“You are more than just a man now, Sire,” Alaric returned uncomfortably. “They have seen that with their own eyes. Go to them, and quickly.”
With a sigh, Brion tugged his tunic into place and strode across the clearing toward the men, automatically pulling his gauntlets from his belt and beginning to draw them on. The men watched his movements furtively as he came to a halt perhaps a half-dozen steps from the nearest of them. Noting their scrutiny, Brion froze in the act of pulling on the right glove; then, with a smile, he removed it and held his hand toward them, the palm exposed. There was no mark upon the lightly calloused skin.
“You are entitled to an explanation,” he said simply, as all eyes fastened on the hand. “As you can see, I am unharmed. I am sorry if my actions caused you some concern. Please rise.”
The men got to their feet, only the chinking of their harness breaking the sudden stillness which had befallen the glade. Behind the king, Nigel and Alaric moved to back him, Nigel bearing the royal sword and Alaric the crimson cloak with its lion brooch. The men were silent, a few shifting uneasily, until one of the bolder ones cleared his throat and took a half-step nearer.
“Sire.”
“Lord Raison?”
“Sire,” the man shifted from one foot to the other and glanced at his comrades. “Sire, it appears to us that there was magic afoot,” he said carefully. “We question the wisdom of allowing a Deryni to influence you so. When we saw—”
“What did you see, Gerard?” Brion asked softly.
Gerard Raison cleared his throat. “Well, I—we—when we arrived. Sire, you were holding that brooch in your hand,” he gestured toward the lion brooch which Alaric held, “and then we saw you prick your thumb with it.” He paused. “You looked—not yourself. Sire, as though—something else was commanding you.” He glanced at Alaric meaningfully, and several other of the men moved a little closer behind him, hands creeping to rest on the hilts of their weapons.
“I see,” Brion said. “And you think that it was Alaric who commanded me, don’t you?”
“It appeared so to us, Majesty,” another man rumbled, his beard jutting defiantly.
Brion nodded. “And then you watched me hold my hands above the stone, and Alaric hold his above my own. And then you saw me engulfed in flame, and that frightened you most of all.”
The speaker nodded tentatively, and his movement was echoed by nearly every head there. Brion sighed and glanced at the ground, looked up at them again.
“My lords, I will not lie to you. You were witness to very powerful magic. And I will not deny, nor will Alaric, that his assistance was used in what you saw. And Alaric is, most definitely, Deryni.”
The men said nothing, though glances were exchanged.
“But there is more that I would have you know,” Brion continued, fixing them all with his Haldane stare. “Each of you has heard the legends of my House—how we returned to the throne of Gwynedd when the Deryni Imre was deposed. But if you consider, you will realize that the Haldanes could not have ousted Deryni lords without some power of their own.”
“Are you Deryni, then, Sire?” asked one bold soul from the rear ranks.
Brion smiled and shook his head. “No—or at least, I don’t believe I am. But the Haldanes have very special gifts and abilities, nonetheless, handed down from father to son—or sometimes from brother to brother.” He glanced at Nigel before continuing. “You know that we can Truth-Read, that we have great physical stamina. But we also have other powers, when they are needed, which enable us to function almost as though we were, ourselves, Deryni. My father, King Maine, entrusted a few of these abilities to me before his death, but there were others whose very existence he kept secret, for which he left certain instructions with Alaric Morgan unknown even to him—and which were triggered by the threat of Hogan Gwernach’s challenge which we received last night. Alaric was a child of four when he was instructed by my father—so that even he would not remember his instructions until it was necessary—and apparently I was also instructed.
“The result, in part, was what you saw. If there was a commanding force, another influence present within the fiery circle, it was my father’s. The rite is now fulfilled, and I am my father’s successor in every way, with all his powers and abilities.”
“Your late father provided for all of this?” one of the men whispered.
Brion nodded. “There is no evil in it, Alwyne. You knew my father well. You know he would not draw down evil.”
“Aye, he would not,” the man replied, glancing at Alaric almost involuntarily. “But what of the Deryni lad?”
“Our fathers made a pact, that Alaric Morgan should come to Court to serve me when he reached the proper age. That bargain has been kept. Alaric Morgan serves me and the realm of Gwynedd.”
“But, he is Deryni, Sire! What if he is in league with—”
“He is in league with me!” Brion snapped. “He is my liege man, just as all of you, sworn to my service since the age of nine. In that time, he has scarcely left my side. Given the compulsions which my father placed upon him, do you really believe that he could betray me?”
Raison cleared his throat, stepping forward and making a bow before the king could continue.
“Sire, it is best we do not discuss the boy. None of us here, Your Majesty included, can truly know what is in his heart. You are the issue now. If you were to reassure us, in some way, that you harbor no ill intent, that you have not allied yourself with the Dark Powers—”
“You wish my oath to that effect?” Brion asked. The stillness of his response was, itself, suddenly threatening. “You would be that bold?”
Raison nodded carefully, not daring to respond by words, and his movement was again echoed by the men standing at his back. After a frozen moment, Brion made a curt gesture for his brother to kneel with the royal sword. As Nigel held up the cross hilt, Brion laid his bare right hand upon it and faced his waiting knights.
“Before all of you and before God, and upon this holy sword, I swear that I am innocent of your suspicions, that I have made no dark pact with any evil power, that the rite which you observed was benevolent and legitimate. I further swear that I have never been, nor am I now, commanded by Alaric Morgan or any other man, human or Deryni; that he is as innocent as I of any evil intent toward the people and crown of Gwynedd. This is the word of Brion Haldane. If I be forsworn, may this sword break in my hour of need, may all succor desert me, and may the name of Haldane vanish from the earth.”
With that, he crossed himself slowly, deliberately—a motion which was echoed by Alaric, Nigel, and then the rest of the men who had witnessed the oath. Preparations to leave for Rustan were made in total silence.
They met the Marluk while still an hour’s ride from Rustan and rendezvous with the rest of Nigel’s vanguard. All morning, they had been following the rugged Llegoddin Canyon Trace—a winding trail treacherous with stream-slicked stones which rolled and shifted beneath their horses’ hooves. The stream responsible for their footing ran shallow along their right, had crossed their path several times in slimy, fast-flowing fords that made the horses lace back their ears. Even the canyon walls had closed in along the last mile, until the riders were forced to go two abreast. It was a perfect place for an ambush; but Alaric’s usually reliable knack for sensing danger gave them almost no warning.
It was cool in the little canyon, the shade deep and refreshing after the heat of the noonday sun, and the echo of steel-shod hooves announced their progress long before they actually reached the end of the narrows. There the track made a sharp turn through the stream again, before widening out to an area of several acres. In the center waited a line of armed horsemen, nearly twice the number of Brion’s forces.
They were mailed and helmed with steel, these fighting men of Tolan, and their lances and war axes gleamed in the silent sunlight. Their white-clad leader sat a heavy sorrel destrier before them, lance in hand and banner bright at his back. The blazon left little doubt as to his identity—Hogan Gwernach, called the Marluk. He had quartered his arms with those of Royal Gwynedd.
But there was no time for more than first impressions. Even as Alaric’s lips moved in warning, and before more than a handful of Bunn’s men could clear the stream and canyon narrows, the Marluk lowered his lance and signaled the attack. As the great-horses thundered toward the stunned royal party, picking up momentum as they came, Brion couched his own lance and set spurs to his horse’s sides. His men, overcoming their initial dismay with commendable speed, galloped after him in near-order, readying shields and weapons even as they rode.
The earth shook with the force of the charge, echoed with the jingle of harness and mail, the creak of leather, the snorting and labored breathing of the heavy war-horses. Just before the two forces met, one of Brion’s men shouted, “A Haldane!”—a cry which was picked up and echoed instantly by most of his comrades in arms. Then all were swept into the melee, and men were falling and horses screaming riderless and wounded as lances splintered on shield and mail and bone.
Steel clanged on steel as the fighting closed hand-to-hand, cries of the wounded and dying punctuating the butcher sounds of sword and ax on flesh. Alaric, emerging unscathed from the initial encounter, found himself locked shield to shield with a man twice his age and size, the man pressing him hard and trying to crush his helm with a mace. Alaric countered by ducking under his shield and wheeling to the right, hoping to come at his opponent from the other side, but the man was already anticipating his move and swinging in counterattack. At the last possible moment, Alaric deflected the blow with his shield, reeling in the saddle as he tried to recover his balance and strike at the same time. But his aim had been shaken, and instead of coming in from behind on the man’s temporarily open right side, he only embedded his sword in the other’s high cantle.
He recovered before the blade could be wrenched from his grasp, gripping hard with his knees as his charger lashed out and caught the man in the leg with a driving foreleg. Then, parrying a blow from a second attacker, he managed to cut the other’s girth and wound his mount, off-handedly kicking out at yet a third man who was approaching from his shield side. The first knight hit the ground with a yelp as his horse went down, narrowly missing death by trampling as one of his own men thundered past in pursuit of one of Brion’s wounded.
Another strike, low and deadly, and Alaric’s would-be slayer was, himself, the slain. Drawing ragged breath, Alaric wheeled to scan the battle for Brion, and to defend himself from renewed attack by the two men on foot.
The king himself was in little better circumstances. Though still mounted and holding his own, Brion had been swept away from his mortal enemy in the initial clash, and had not yet been able to win free to engage with him. Nigel was fighting at his brother’s side, the royal banner in his shield hand, but the banner only served to hamper Nigel and to tell the enemy where Gwynedd’s monarch was. Just now, both royal brothers were sore beset, half a dozen of the Marluk’s knights belaboring them from every side but skyward. The Marluk, meantime, was busily slaying a hundred yards away—content, thus far, to spend his time slaughtering some of Brion’s lesser warriors, and shunning Brion’s reputed superior skill. As Brion and Nigel beat back their attackers, the king glanced across the battlefield and saw his enemy, dispatched one of his harriers with a brutal thrust, raised his sword and shouted the enemy’s name:
“Gwernach!”
The enemy turned in his direction and jerked his horse to a rear, circled his sword above his head. His helmet was gone, and pale hair blew wild from beneath his mail coif.
“The Haldane is mine!” the Marluk shouted, spurring toward Brion and cutting down another man in passing. “Stand and fight, usurper! Gwynedd is mine by right!”
The Marluk’s men fell back from Brion as their master pounded across the field, and with a savage gesture, Brion waved his own men away and urged his horse toward the enemy. Now was the time both had been waiting for—the direct, personal combat of the two rival kings. Steel shivered against steel as the two men met and clashed in I lie center of the field, and the warriors of both sides drew back to watch, their own hostilities temporarily suspended.
For a time, the two seemed evenly matched. The Marluk took a chunk out of the top of Brion’s shield, but Brion divested the Marluk of a stirrup, and nearly a foot. So they continued, neither man able to score a decisive blow, until finally Brion’s sword found the throat of the Marluk’s mount. The dying animal collapsed with a liquid scream, dumping its rider in a heap. Brion, pursuing his advantage, tried to ride down his enemy then and there.
But the Marluk rolled beneath his shield on the first pass and nearly tripped up Brion’s horse, scrambling to his feet and bracing as Brion wheeled viciously to come at him again. The second pass cost Brion his mount, its belly ripped out by the Marluk’s sword. As the horse went down, Brion leaped clear and whirled to face his opponent.
For a quarter hour the two battled with broadsword and shield, the Marluk with the advantage of weight and height, but Brion with youth and greater agility in his favor. Finally, when both men could barely lift their weapons for fatigue, they drew apart and leaned on heavy swords, breath coming in short, ragged gasps. After a moment, golden eyes met steely gray ones. The Marluk flashed a brief, sardonic grin at his opponent.
“You fight well, for a Haldane,” the Marluk conceded, still breathing heavily. He gestured with his sword toward the waiting men. “We are well matched, at least in steel, and even were we to cast our men into the fray again, it would still come down to the same—you against me.”
“Or my power against yours,” Brion amended softly. “That is your eventual intention, is it not?”
The Marluk started to shrug, but Brion interrupted.
“No, you would have slain me by steel if you could,” he said. “To win by magic exacts greater payment, and might not give you the sort of victory you seek if you would rule my human kingdom and not fear for your throne. The folk of Gwynedd would not take kindly to a Deryni king after your bloody ancestors.”
The Marluk smiled. “By force, physical or arcane—it matters little in the long reckoning. It is the victory itself which will command the people after today. But you, Haldane, your position is far more precarious than mine, dynastically speaking. Do you see yon riders, and the slight one dressed in blue?”
He gestured with his sword toward the other opening of the clearing from which he and his men had come, where half a score of riders surrounded a pale, slight figure on a mouse-gray palfrey.
“Yonder is my daughter and heir, Haldane,” the Marluk said smugly. “Regardless of the outcome here today, she rides free—you cannot stop her—to keep my name and memory until another time. But you—your brother and heir stands near, his life a certain forfeit if I win.” He gestured toward Nigel, then rested the tip of his sword before him once more. “And the next and final Haldane is your Uncle Richard, a childless bachelor of fifty. After him, there are no others.”
Brion’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, and he glared across at his enemy with something approaching grudging respect. All that the Marluk had said was true. There were no other male Haldanes beyond his brother and his uncle, at least for now. Nor was there any way that he or his men could prevent the escape of the Marluk’s heir. Even if he won today, the Marluk’s daughter would remain a future menace. The centuries-long struggle for supremacy in Gwynedd would not end here—unless, of course, Brion lost.
The thought sobered him, cooled the hot blood racing through his veins and slowed his pounding heart. He must answer this usurper’s challenge, and now, and with the only card he had left. They had fought with force of steel before, and all for naught. Now they must face one another with other weapons.
Displaying far more confidence than he felt, for he would never play for higher stakes than life and crown, Brion let fall his shield and helm and strode slowly across half the distance separating him from his mortal enemy. Carefully, decisively, he traced an equal-armed cross in the dust with the tip of his sword, the first arm pointing toward the Marluk.
“I, Brion, Anointed of the Lord, King of Gwynedd, and Lord of the Purple March, call thee forth to combat mortal, Hogan Gwernach, for that thou hast raised hostile hand against me and, through me, against my people of Gwynedd. This I will defend upon my body and my soul, to the death, so help me, God.”
The Marluk’s face had not changed expression during Brion’s challenge, and now he, too, strode to the figure scratched in the dust and laid his sword tip along the same lines, retracing the cross.
“And I, Hogan Gwernach, descendant of the lawful kings of Gwynedd in antiquity, do return thy challenge, Brion Haldane, and charge that thou art base pretender to the throne and crown thou holdest. And this I will defend upon my body and my soul, to the death, so help me, God.”
With the last words, he began drawing another symbol in the earth beside the cross—a detailed, winding interlace which caught and held Brion’s concentration with increasing power. Only just in lime, Brion recognized the spell for what it was and, with an oath, dashed aside the Marluk’s sword with his own, erasing the symbol with his boot. He glared at the enemy standing but a sword’s length away, keeping his anger in check only with the greatest exertion of will.
If I let him get me angry, he thought, I’m dead.
Biting back his rage, he forced his sword-arm to relax.
The Marluk drew back a pace and shrugged almost apologetically at that—he had not really expected his diversion to work so well—then saluted with his sword and backed off another dozen paces. Brion returned the salute with a sharp, curt gesture and likewise withdrew the required distance. Then, without further preliminaries. In extended his arms to either side and murmured the words of a warding spell. As answering fire sprang up crimson at his back, the Marluk raised a similar defense, blue fire joining crimson to complete the protective circle. Beneath the canopy of light thus formed, arcs of energy began to crackle sword to sword, ebbing and flowing, as arcane battle was joined.
The circle brightened as they fought, containing energies so immense that all around it would have perished had the wards not held it in. The very air within grew hazy, so that those without could no longer see the principals who battled there. So it remained for nearly half an hour, the warriors of both sides drawing mistrustfully together to watch and wait. When, at last, the fire began to flicker erratically and die down, naught could be seen within the circle but two ghostly, fire-edged figures in silhouette, one of them staggering drunkenly.
They could not tell which was which. One of them had fallen to his knees and remained there, sword upraised in a last, desperate, warding-off gesture. The other stood poised to strike, but something seemed to hold him back. The tableau remained frozen that way for several heartbeats, the tension growing between the two; but then the kneeling one reeled sidewards and let fall his sword with a cry of anguish, collapsing forward on his hands to bow his head in defeat. The victor’s sword descended as though in slow motion, severing head from body in one blow and showering dust and victor and vanquished with blood. The fire dimmed almost to nonexistence, and they could see that it was Brion who lived.
Then went up a mighty cheer from the men of Gwynedd. A few of the Marluk’s men wheeled and galloped away across the field toward the rest of their party before anyone could stop them, but the rest cast down their weapons and surrendered immediately. At the mouth of the canyon beyond, a slender figure on a gray horse turned and rode away with her escort. There was no pursuit.
Brion could not have seen them through the haze, but he knew. Moving dazedly back to the center of the circle, he traced the dust-drawn cross a final time and mouthed the syllables of a banishing spell. Then, as the fiery circle died away, he gazed long at the now-empty canyon mouth before turning to stride slowly toward his men. They parted before him as he came, Gwynedd and Tolan men alike.
Perhaps a dozen men remained of Brion’s force, a score or less of the Marluk’s, and there was a taut, tense silence as he moved among them. He stopped and looked around him, at the men, at the wounded lying propped against their shields, at Nigel and Alaric still sitting upon their blood-bespattered war-horses, at the bloody banner still in Nigel’s hand. He stared at the banner for a long time, no one daring to break the strained silence. Then he let his gaze fall on each man in turn, catching and holding each man’s attention in rapt, unshrinking thrall.
“We shall not speak of the details of this battle beyond this place,” he said simply. The words crackled with authority, compulsion, and Alaric Morgan, of all who heard, knew the force behind that simple statement. Though most of them would never realize that fact, every man there had just been touched by the special Haldane magic.
Brion held them thus for several heartbeats, no sound or movement disturbing their rapt attention. Then Brion blinked and smiled and the otherworldliness was no more. Instantly, Nigel was springing from his horse to run and clasp his brother’s arm. Alaric, in a more restrained movement, swung his leg over the saddle and slid to the ground, walked stiffly to greet his king.
“Well fought, Sire,” he murmured, the words coming with great difficulty.
“My thanks for making that possible, Alaric,” the king replied, “though the shedding of blood has never been my wish.”
He handed his sword to Nigel and brushed a strand of hair from his eyes with a blood-streaked hand. Alaric swallowed and made a nervous bow.
“No thanks are necessary, Sire. I but gave my service as I must.” He swallowed again and shifted uneasily, then abruptly dropped to his knees and bowed his head.
“Sire, may I crave a boon of you?”
“A boon? You know you have but to ask, Alaric. I pray you, stand not upon ceremony.”
Alaric shook his head, brought his gaze to meet Brion’s. “No, this I will and must do, Sire.” He raised joined hands before him. “Sire, I would reaffirm my oath of fealty to you.”
“Your oath?” Brion began. “But, you have already sworn to serve me, Alaric, and have given me your hand in friendship, which I value far more from you than any oath.”
“And I, Sire,” Alaric nodded slightly. “But the fealty I gave you before was such as any liegeman might give his lord and king. What I offer now is fealty for the powers which we share. I would give you my fealty as Deryni.”
There was a murmuring around them, and Nigel glanced at his brother in alarm, but neither king nor kneeling squire heard. A slight pause, a wry smile, and then Brion was taking the boy’s hands between his own blood-stained ones, gray eyes meeting gray as he heard the oath of the first man to swear Deryni fealty to a human king in nearly two centuries.
“I, Alaric Anthony, Lord Morgan, do become your liegeman of life and limb and earthly worship. And faith and truth I will bear unto you, with all the powers at my command, so long as there is breath within me. This I swear upon my life, my honor, and my faith and soul. If I be forsworn, may my powers desert me in my hour of need.”
Brion swallowed, his eyes never leaving Alaric’s. “And I, for my part, pledge fealty to you, Alaric Anthony, Lord Morgan, to protect and defend you, and any who may depend upon you, with all the powers at my command, so long as there is breath within me. This I swear upon my life, my throne, and my honor as a man. And if I be forsworn, may dark destruction overcome me. This is the promise of Brion Donal Cinhil Urien Haldane, King of Gwynedd, Lord of the Purple March, and friend of Alaric Morgan.”
With these final words, Brion smiled and pressed Alaric’s hands a bit more closely between his own, then released them and turned quickly to take back his sword from Nigel. He glanced at the stained blade as he held it before him.
“I trust you will not mind the blood,” he said with a little smile, “since it is through the shedding of this blood that I am able to do what I do now.”
Slowly he brought the flat of the blade to touch the boy’s right shoulder.
“Alaric Anthony Morgan,” the sword rose and crossed to touch the other shoulder, “I create thee Duke of Corwyn, by right of thy mother,” the blade touched the top of his head lightly and remained there. “And I confirm thee in this title, for thy life and for the surviving issue of thy body, for so long as there shall be Morgan seed upon the earth.” The sword was raised and touched to the royal lips, then reversed and brought to ground. “So say I, Brion of Gwynedd. Arise, Duke Alaric.”