The Bishop’s Heir (21 page)

He broke off and glanced at the bishop furtively as he realized what he had almost said, afraid even a veiled reference to the king's newfound powers might offend the human Istelyn. To his horror, Istelyn seemed to know exactly what he had been about to say.

“He could do what?” the bishop asked. “Help you in some way with his magic?”

Dhugal swallowed audibly, trying to stay on guard. The drug was loosening his tongue as well as damping the pain. Istelyn seemed trustworthy, but this was hardly the time to begin so controversial a discussion with a man whose sympathies were unknown.

“I—don't want to offend you, Excellency, but most clergy aren't altogether tolerant of—ah—magic. Please forget I said anything.”

“Ah, then his magic frightens you.”

“I—I'd rather not talk about it,” Dhugal whispered, feeling trapped.

Istelyn cocked his head, then glanced back at the closed door before leaning closer to Dhugal.

“Why not?” he asked. “You spoke of the king with affection and familiarity, as if you were his friend. Do you think there's something wrong with his—ah—let's call them ‘talents,' if you don't like the term ‘magic,' shall we?”

“It isn't that,” Dhugal murmured.

“Is it that you aren't sure of me, then?” Istelyn persisted. “You've already trusted me with your life.”

“That trust is mine to give; Kelson's isn't.”

“I can appreciate that.”

The bishop's eyes did not leave Dhugal's as he sipped at his wine—which made Dhugal increasingly anxious—but after a few seconds the man sighed and gave a tiny smile, raising his cup in resigned salute.

“I don't blame you for trying to shield the king, son, but why don't you let me tell you how
I
feel about him? I can't prove that I'm telling the truth, but you're smart enough to judge for yourself. I wasn't present at Dhassa when Loris and the rebel bishops split off from the Curia, but I sided with the king as soon as I learned of it. I was with his army at Dol Shaia. It was I who had to bring him the news that Loris had excommunicated him and placed the kingdom under Interdict.”

He sighed again, then went on. “Now I've put myself on the line again where His Majesty is concerned. Loris wants me to help him consecrate Judhael of Meara a bishop. I've refused, and he'll probably kill me for it. I swear by all I hold sacred that I'm not lying, Dhugal. I don't care that the king's Deryni—not the way Loris does, at any rate. It seems to me that Kelson's done only good with his powers. Or are you going to try to tell me differently?”

“Of course not.”

Dhugal looked away into the flickering flames and made himself take another swallow of the drugged wine, even though he knew it would make him only more vulnerable to the bishop's questioning. He believed Istelyn. And even if the bishop were no better than the others ensconced here at Ratharkin, it could do little further harm to Kelson's already checquered reputation for Dhugal to report that he had seen the king put an injured man to sleep with magic. Far worse had been alleged in the past two years, and by far more important people than a fifteen-year-old border lord.

“About a fortnight ago, Kelson rode out from Culdi to pay a surprise visit on one of his local barons,” Dhugal said carefully. “It was Brice of Trurill. Trurill borders on Transha lands, so I was riding with a Trurill patrol.” He grimaced. “That's another story. Those same men, including the baron himself, were the escort that met Loris when he landed on the coast near my father's castle, hardly a week later. They're probably still here in Ratharkin.”

“
Brice of Trurill
supports Loris?”

Istelyn sounded genuinely surprised and shocked, which reassured Dhugal.

“Aye. It was Brice himself who captured me. He had the audacity to hold a blade to my throat.”

At Istelyn's low whistle under his breath, Dhugal took another pull at his wine, making a face at the increasingly bitter taste as he got closer to the bottom. He could feel himself becoming more and more detached as the drug gently entered his system.

“Anyway, when the king met us a fortnight ago, we were in the middle of routing a band of brigands who'd been stealing sheep.” He paused to yawn. “Afterward, it was my job to patch up the wounded. One of our lads was in a pretty bad way. Kelson—put him to sleep so I could work on him. It was like a miracle.”

Istelyn's eyes had grown as round as the moon at full.

“Did he
heal
him, then?”

“No. He only laid his hand on his forehead and made him go to sleep. He says that General Morgan and Father Duncan can heal sometimes, though.” Dhugal forced himself to look Istelyn in the eyes. “That can't be wrong either, can it, Excellency?”

“No,” Istelyn whispered. “No, son, I don't see how it
could
be.”

The bishop seemed troubled by his question, however, and soon rose to seek the comfort of prayer. Kneeling at a prie-dieu set in one of the window embrasures, he signed himself, then bowed his head in his hands and was still. Dhugal stared after him for several minutes, forming a prayer in his own mind that Istelyn was what he appeared, but when he caught himself starting to nod off, he drained the last of his wine and lowered himself gingerly to his pallet once more, grimacing at the bitterness of the dregs.

It was becoming harder and harder to concentrate with the full dose of the sedative in him, but as he settled himself under the sleeping furs, he tried to think of ways to better his situation when he awoke. He wondered vaguely whether Kelson knew yet of his capture.

Not that there was much hope Kelson could do anything about it. The fate of one man balanced ill against that of an entire realm. But perhaps Dhugal could find a way to help himself, once he had regained some of his strength.

That they regarded him as a valuable hostage was apparent, not only from the fact that they had taken him in the first place but from his continued treatment since arriving in Ratharkin. Had his usefulness ended once they were safely out of Transha, they would have cut his throat long ago. He also recalled some reference to wanting his support when they reunited Transha with old Meara—an unthinkable defection for one loyal to the king—but perhaps that meant that no one was aware of his renewed friendship with Kelson. Nor was anyone likely to connect the young Master of Transha with the then second son of Transha's chief who had served at King Brion's court as a page.

Also in Dhugal's favor was his boyish appearance. Given anything approaching luck, he thought he might play on that to convince them that he was as naive and pliable as he looked—a mistake even Istelyn had made at first. It was a dangerous game, but if he could play it well, he might mislead them enough to lower their guard. Then he could escape to warn Kelson.

He was thinking of ways that might be accomplished as he finally abandoned himself to sleep. Unexpectedly, he dreamed not of Kelson but of his father, and a lone MacArdry piper skirling a lament atop a snow-covered hill.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

But thou, mastering thy power, judgest with equity, and orderest us with great favor: for thou mayest use power when thou wilt
.

—Wisdom of Solomon 12:18

Ciard O Ruane, the advance messenger from Clan MacArdry, arrived in Rhemuth late the following afternoon, stunning the court with his doubly woeful news.

“The young laird does nae know about his father, m'lord,” the man concluded, nodding exhausted thanks to a young page who handed him a full tankard. “That's assuming he's still alive himself, of course.”

The intimation that Dhugal might
not
be alive was like a blow to Kelson. Before that instant, he had not allowed himself even to consider the possibility. Shuttering down the shadow of fear that flickered at the back of his eyes, the king glanced to Morgan and Duncan for reassurance, his fingers tightening viselike on the arms of his throne.

“He has to be alive,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I
know
he is! Ciard, you're sure it was Trurill's men who took him?”

The gillie gave a deprecating flourish with one hand as he took a long pull at his ale. If his own son had been taken, he could not have been more devastated.

“We hae ridden wi' those men all summer, sair. D'ye think I would nae recognize them? It were the Laird Brice himself wha' had my young master o'er his saddlebow.”

“And this prisoner that's coming is a priest?”

“Aye, m'lord. And an impertinent an' close-mouthed rascal he is, too. But Caball has warned him he'll sing for ye!”

“And I'll wager I can tell you at least one of the things he'll sing,” Morgan murmured so that only Kelson could hear, as laughter tinged with menace rippled through the chamber.

“What's that?”

“That Loris was one of the men Trurill was escorting. Remember, Jodrell
told
us he'd land on the coast.”

“That isn't funny, Morgan—even in jest,” Kelson whispered.

“Do you really think I'd jest about a thing like this?” Morgan returned. “Watch the priest confirm that it's Loris. Who else would dare to call you a heretic king? And if you want my guess, they're headed for Ratharkin, just as we suspected. It's on a direct line from Carcashale and the coast where they landed, and the landing itself was a day-and-a-half's sail from Saint Iveagh's.”

Only the knowledge of the prisoner on the way, surely to arrive in the next twenty-four hours, kept Kelson from ordering their departure for Ratharkin then and there. He was snappish and preoccupied by turns all through dinner, inwardly mourning old Caulay even as he fretted about Caulay's son, and let his anger build against Loris.

“You're right, it
has
to be Loris,” he told Morgan later that evening, after Duncan had excused himself to confer with the other bishops and Nigel had retired for some much needed sleep. “I hold him personally to blame for Caulay's death. And if Dhugal—”

He would not let himself finish the thought, shaking his head in fierce denial as he leaned both elbows on the mantel and stared down into the crackling fire. Morgan, looking out over Rhemuth's rain-slick rooftops from a window embrasure, glanced sharply at the king, then returned his gaze to the darkness outside. His breath had misted the blurred grey glass, and he burnished a clear spot with his fingertip to peer outside once more. If it was raining this hard on the Gwynedd plain, then Meara was probably experiencing heavy snow.

“Brice of Trurill's defection hurts, too,” Kelson said after a moment, breaking into Morgan's more practical introspections. “I was going to visit him—I'm sure I would have seen the signs if I had—but I let personal pleasure call me from my duty. I never should have gone to Transha with Dhugal. Now he's been taken and it's all my fault.”

“It
isn't
your fault, and if you insist upon blaming yourself, you're only going to make yourself less effective. What possible difference could your visit have made?”

“I still should have gone to Trurill,' Kelson said stubbornly. “If I had—”

“If you had, there's no guarantee you would have noticed anything was wrong,” Morgan interrupted. “You may be Deryni, but you aren't omniscient.”

“I recognize treason when I see it!”

“From our perspective, yes. On the other hand, I would venture to guess that the Mearans see what they're doing as patriotism. After all, the Mearans regard themselves as a subjugated people. They have since your great-grandfather married the daughter of the last Mearan prince. If Loris has found supporters in Meara, I suspect it's because he's told them they're crusaders in the cause of a free Meara.”

“A free Meara?” Kelson's savage kick at the nearest log on the fire produced a shower of sparks. “Free Meara indeed! Meara has
never
been free! Before my great-grandfather wed the silly Mearan heiress whose marriage was supposed to resolve all of this, Meara had been ruled by petty warlords and despots for centuries. Before that, it was no more civilized than The Connait.”

“The Connait, whose warriors are among the most prized mercenaries in the known world?” Morgan asked.

Scowling, Kelson retreated from the fire and stalked across the room to join Morgan in the window embrasure.

“You know what I mean. Don't confuse me with fine points of distinction.”

“It isn't my intention to confuse you with anything, my prince,” Morgan replied patiently. “The point is—”

“The point is that Loris is in Meara, stirring up dissention—maybe even spearheading a civil rebellion, for all we know—and winter is setting in and there isn't a bloody lot I can do about it until the spring.”

“There is also the point that Loris has one of your closest friends to hostage,” Morgan said softly. “And you would be far less the man I have come to love and respect if you were not deeply concerned over his fate.”

Kelson lowered his eyes, the gentle rebuke well taken.

“He really is like a brother, Alaric,” he said softly. “He's far closer than my cousins. He's—almost as close as you, if you were my age—or Duncan. He even—”

As he broke off and drew cautious breath, shifting his unfocused gaze to the fogged window between them, Morgan raised an eyebrow.

“He even
what
, my prince?”

“Dhugal,” the king murmured. “Sweet
Jesu
, I'd forgotten to mention it to you.” He glanced at Morgan sheepishly. “Do you remember that night you contacted me in Transha, and how I had to break off suddenly because Dhugal was panicking?”

“Of course.”

“Well, it wasn't wholly my idea. Dhugal pushed us out of the link—with shields.”

“Shields? But that's impossible. He isn't Deryni.”