Camber of Culdi (9 page)

“So, though I'll give you that Maldred may be cruel, too,” Guaire was saying, “he does reward faithful service, and a man can keep his personal integrity. Tanadas knows, I like a tumble in the hay with a wench as well as the next man—but with a
wench
, mind you! Do you think that's asking too much?”

Cathan shook his head slightly and controlled a smile. “No, but apparently Santare does, or he wouldn't have dismissed you. Besides, it's Maldred I'm concerned about tonight. Do you think he personally supports the king's policy on this matter?”

“Maldred supports the king, whatever his policies.” Guaire frowned. “I don't think you have much of a chance, Cathan.”

“It's the hostages who don't have a chance. And it's not as if they've even done something wrong. They just happen to live in the wrong village. The Truth-Readers know that they're innocent.”

Guaire snorted derisively. “You don't have to convince me. I'm on your side. But you know the answer to that argument as well as I—probably better. What does a Deryni king care for the lives of a few dozen peasants, when a fellow Deryni has been killed? Especially when the peasants are human, and the Deryni was of the nobility.”

“He was a rotten man, Guaire, and you know it.”

“Granted, he was a rotten man. But he was still Deryni, and of the nobility, and his murderer has not come forth or been found. Imre is simply following the law set down by his grandfather. Fifty human hostages against the life of one Deryni—it's about even, as far as Imre is concerned. Back in the days of the original coup, it was the price one had to pay for conquest. Today—Well, apparently it's the price Imre feels he has to pay to hold the conquest for his descendants.” Guaire snickered, a lewd glint in his eyes. “At least, that's the theory. He's not likely to
have
any descendants, at
his
rate.”

Cathan looked at Guaire sharply and was about to probe further on the meaning of that last comment, when the trumpeters raised their instruments and blew a preliminary fanfare. From the opposite end of the hall, a double line of guardsmen in formal brown and gold cleared a swath through the center of the room and took up their stations behind the twin thrones. Then the trumpets were raised once more, the golden notes reverberating across the hall as the door fanned apart to disclose the king: Imre of Festil, by the Grace of God King of Gwynedd and Lord of Mooryn and Meara. At his side stood his sister, Ariella, six years his senior and yet unwed.

The two posed in the doorway for effect until the fanfare had died away, light glowing around their heads in arcane splendor, as High Deryni were wont to appear on formal occasions. Then, with a nod of acknowledgment, they began to pass slowly toward the thrones at the opposite end of the hall, courtiers and their ladies bending like wheat in the breeze of the royal couple's passage. Whatever might be their other faults, no one could say that the scions of the Deryni House of Festil did not know how to maximize an entrance.

Imre himself was a striking young man, for all that he was of small stature and relatively few years. Shorter by half a head than most of the men in the room, yet he still cut a regal figure as he and his sister traversed the hall. On his head was a tall crown of gold filigree set with rubies, cunningly wrought to add unobtrusive inches to his height and blazing in the glow of his nimbus of power. His hair was of a deep chestnut hue, cropped shoulder length, surrounding lively brown eyes which bulged slightly in a pleasant, albeit somewhat vacant, face. A short, skin-tight tunic of brown velvet revealed every line of the hard, young body and emphasized a pair of well-turned legs encased in brown silken hose; he wore leather dancing slippers on his feet. A gold-and-amber cloak lined with red fox brushed the floor behind him as he mounted the two steps of the dais, and bright gems winked on slender fingers and at throat and ears.

On his arm walked his sister, Ariella, every inch his match and more in beauty and sheer visual splendor. Gowned in dark brown velvet stamped with gold, the perfection of her form was captured in a supple flow of color from neck to wrist to slippered toe, save where the neckline made a plunging V to caress the curve of her breasts. A tawny jewel lay a-tremble in the hollow of the cleft; a tumble of chestnut curls cascaded negligently over one shoulder where they had escaped from beneath her coronet and veil.

Her quick hazel eyes missed nothing as she and her royal brother took their places on the two thrones atop the dais. With a smile, she leaned back in her chair to bask in the admiration of the Court, then reached to touch Imre's arm in a gesture which Cathan somehow found disquieting.

“My gentle friends.” It was Imre who spoke, his young tenor carrying to the furthest recesses of the smoky, torchlit hall. “My sister and I bid you welcome, and pray that you will long remember this Michaelmas festivity.

“But you have not come to listen to your king speak, rather to make merry with him. Therefore, we give you leave to enjoy yourselves—in fact, we command you to enjoy yourselves.” There was a murmur of polite laughter.

“My Lord Music Master.” He stood and held out his hand to his sister, who rose and placed her hand on his. “We shall lead the Bren Tigan.”

A murmur of approval sounded as the royal couple descended the dais and took their positions in the center of the cleared floor, bowing first to one another and then to the spectators as the musicians droned the opening bars. Then, as the strains of the old Deryni melody floated through the hall, Imre and his sister trod the opening pattern of the ancient dance, moving alone for the first few measures. Only when they had completed the first set of figures did other couples begin to join them in the dance.

Cathan watched moodily for several minutes, then turned to take a goblet of wine from a servant and exchange greetings with another of the king's courtiers. When he returned his attention to the floor, Guaire had disappeared to dance with a lady he had been eyeing all evening, and Imre was nowhere to be seen.

Cathan sipped at his wine as the music shifted to a gavotte cadence, and slowly eased himself to a relatively quiet corner where he could observe without being disturbed—or so he thought. He was leaning against one of the main support pillars, nursing his wine and his conscience, when he felt a light touch on his shoulder. He turned to find the Princess Ariella standing beside him, a coy smile on her face and a filled goblet in her hand. Quickly, he collected himself and made a courtly bow.

“Your Highness honors me with her presence,” he murmured.

Ariella smiled and extended her hand to be kissed. Her Deryni nimbus had been put aside with her coronet, which now rested on her empty throne. The chestnut hair nearly glowed of its own accord, though. Ariella of Festil did not need Deryni sorcery to make her alluring.

“Why so glum, Cathan?” she purred, clinging to his hand just an instant longer than necessary, once the salute had been performed. “I thought to claim you as a dancing partner, and instead find you moping in the shadows. Where is your charming lady? Not ill, I trust?”

Her eyes danced teasingly above smiling lips, and Cathan felt his gaze being drawn almost unwittingly toward the deep cleft of her breasts. He swallowed uneasily, knowing full well where the conversation might lead if he were not careful. He had no particular desire to bed Imre's sister as ransom for the imprisoned peasants—though he knew that he would, if there were no other way.

“My lady sends her regrets, Your Highness,” he said carefully. “She had not seen her parents since the birth of our second son, so she has gone to visit them in Carbury. I should likely be there myself, were it not for the current crisis.”

“Crisis?” Ariella repeated brightly. “I was not aware of any crisis.”

Cathan found himself becoming annoyed at her coy façade; he lowered his eyes to disguise his true emotion. “Your Highness will surely have heard of the fifty hostages taken at Caerrorie. Your royal brother means to have them slain.”

“Hostages? Oh, yes, I remember. The ones who were taken for the murder of Lord Rannulf. How does that concern you?”

Cathan blinked rapidly, unable to believe she could be so ill-informed, then realized she was toying with him. “Your Highness cannot have forgotten that Caerrorie is my father's estate,” he said coolly. “The hostages are my father's tenants—and mine. I must find a way to spare them.”

Ariella raised one eyebrow and touched his arm lightly. “Why, then, find the murderer, Cathan. You know the law. If the people of the village will not come forth and name his killer, then the village is amerced for the value of the man. In this case, considering that Rannulf was both Deryni and of the nobility, I think that fifty lives is quite a reasonable fine, don't you?”

“I—” Cathan lowered his eyes, controlling the urge to twist the stem of his goblet out of all recognition. “I must contradict Your Highness. The villagers have been Truth-Read. His Grace
knows
they were not responsible for Rannulf's death. We're almost certain it was the Willimites.”

“Then, bring us some Willimites.” The princess smiled sweetly. “Surely you cannot expect my brother to release his hostages without some retribution. The law is the law.”

“Yes, the law
is
the law,” Imre's clear tenor echoed, as he glided in to slip his arm through his sister's. “Maldred, I thought you said he'd given up this insane idea of saving peasants.”

Maldred, a tall, florid man with the beginnings of a paunch, bowed unctuously. “Indeed, he gave me the impression he had, Sire.”

Imre humphed, then turned back to Cathan. “Why are you being so stubborn, my friend? It's not as if they're Deryni—they're peasants. You're making an issue out of nothing.”

“Sire, I beseech you,” Cathan said dully. “If you do this, the weight of it will be upon your conscience. Amerce the villagers in coin, if you must. My father will be willing to pay. But do not take out your wrath in innocent human lives. The peasants of Caerrorie did not slay Rannulf. You know that.”

Imre looked around at his growing following of courtiers in wry amusement, though it was apparent that he was beginning to be a little annoyed. “Cathan, you're making me out to be a bully,” he said under his breath. “You know I don't like that.”

“Please, Sire,” Cathan repeated, dropping to his knees and lifting one empty hand in entreaty. “For the sake of our friendship, have mercy. Will you condone the taking of innocent human lives?”

“Oh, come now, get up from there! Ariella, why is he doing this to me?”

Ariella started to shrug, then looked at Cathan carefully as he got to his feet, her mouth curving in a strange smile. “I have a thought, Brother. Why don't you give him what he wants? Give him one of those lives he finds so precious. For the sake of your friendship.”

Cathan's head snapped around to stare at her aghast, and the room suddenly became silent. Imre glared at her owl-eyed, then glanced at Cathan uncomfortably. His annoyance had changed to uncertainty.

“One life?”

Ariella nodded. “If Cathan is indeed your friend, dear brother, you could hardly refuse him this. Forty-nine peasants are enough for the life of Rannulf. He
was
a dreadful bore.”

“One life …” Imre repeated, savoring the sound of the words on his tongue and wetting his lips beneath the tiny smudge of mustache.

He looked at Maldred and Santare, at the courtiers watching expectantly, at the growing horror on Cathan's face as he realized that the king was considering the suggestion seriously—then folded his arms across his chest with a sly grin.

“It
would
be novel.”

“And merciful,” Ariella crooned, clinging to his arm and gazing up at him adoringly.

Imre glanced sidelong at her, his mouth curling in a pleased expression, then returned his gaze to Cathan. The royal lips parted.

“Very well. Done. One life. Granted.” He glanced at Maldred and gave a curt nod. “Maldred, take Lord Cathan to the keep and let him choose a prisoner.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“And it's not to be by lot or anything, either, Maldred,” Ariella added, smiling sweetly as Cathan stared at her in astonishment. “Our Lord Cathan has been granted the power of life and death—if only over a single person. If he's to save a life, he should experience the exquisite torture of having to choose which one it is.”

As Maldred bowed, Cathan fidgeted in disbelief and started to turn to Imre.

“Did you have something to say, Cathan?” Ariella snapped, before he could speak.

“Your Highness, I—”

“Before you speak, let me remind you that His Grace can retract the boon,” Ariella warned, hazel eyes flashing. “It can be all fifty dead, you know—or more, if you press the issue. Now, do you still have something to say?”

Cathan swallowed heavily and bowed his head. “No, Your Highness. I—thank you, Sire.” He bowed. “If Your Highness will excuse me, I—will attend to your command.”

“You are excused, of course,” Ariella purred. “And, Cathan …” He stopped, but did not turn to face her. “You
will
be riding to the hunt with us in the morning, won't you?” she continued. “You promised.”

Cathan turned beseechingly. “Aye, I did promise, Your Highness. But if I might prevail upon you to relieve me of—”

“Nonsense. If you stay home, you'll simply brood about those peasants and become even duller than you've been these past few days. Imre, make him keep his promise. You know it will be good for him.”

Imre glanced at his sister, then at Cathan. “She's right, you know. You
have
been almost boorish lately.” He touched Cathan's shoulder in a comradely gesture. “Come, Cathan. You mustn't take things so seriously. After a week or so in the country, you'll forget all about this peasant thing.”