The Bishop’s Heir (25 page)

Istelyn shot him a look of undiluted disgust and turned away, making his way blindly to the prie-dieu to collapse with his head cradled on his folded arms. After a moment Dhugal followed, kneeling awkwardly on the bare stone beside him.

“Please don't be angry with me, Excellency,” he whispered, trying to will the bishop to raise his head. “You don't think I
really
mean to do anything that would help Loris, do you?”

Istelyn's whisper could barely be heard from behind his folded forearms.

“You swore an oath, Dhugal—in terrible terms. Do you mean to be forsworn?”

“I—I had no choice.”

Istelyn looked up coldly. “You had a choice: the same choice that I did. And you gave him your
word
!”

Dhugal swallowed painfully. His ribs were aching again from the pounding of his heart.

“I gave the
king
my word,” he murmured. “And if it costs me my soul, I'll
keep
my word—to him.” He folded his hands carefully, interlacing the fingers, and pressed them tightly clasped to his chin.

“But I can't escape to warn him if I'm too closely guarded,” he went on very softly. “Maybe I can't escape anyway—but at least I have to try. And if I'm going to try, I owe it to him to give myself the best possible chance of succeeding.”

“Even at the cost of breaking your sacred oath?” Istelyn asked.

“
Whatever
the cost,” Dhugal whispered.

He could not convince Istelyn that the wisest course lay in pretending to cooperate with their captors, however. He tried until a servant came to fetch him for dinner, but the bishop maintained his stand: to allow the appearance of cooperation was as damaging as actually capitulating to the enemy. Istelyn would not be moved.

“But they mean to have you there, Excellency—probably even if they have to prop up your dead body on its throne!” Dhugal had said at last. “You can't help the king if you're dead!”

“Perhaps. But I will die knowing that I was true to my office and my God. Loris will never have that satisfaction.”

Dhugal thought about what Istelyn had said as he followed the servant into the bishop's great hall, his spirits temporarily dampened by the heavy weight of duty, but he had all he could do to keep his wits about him once he sat down to supper. They put him at the far end of the high table with a man-at-arms to watch as well as serve him, and he knew that many others watched for errors as well.

Increasingly conscious of the dangerous charade he played, he kept his peace and did his best to stay wide-eyed and awed-looking in the presence of the Mearan Court. No one seemed to remember that he had been fostered to a finer court in Rhemuth, but if anyone had, Dhugal planned to shrug it off as time ill spent for a borderman. In fact, he had not been at court for several years, so it took little effort to slip into the more relaxed border manners common in his father's hall: loud and boistrous, hearty in appetite and more uninhibited in behavior than would have been seemly in Rhemuth.

Once he got into his role, however, maintaining it was easy. He was soon introduced to his cousins, Ithel and Llewell, both about his age, and the stunningly beautiful Sidana.

“I don't suppose you see many ladies to compare with this in Transha,” Prince Ithel said proudly, pouring his sister another cup of ale. “Meara will be the center of the civilized world when we're done—you'll see.”

He was just drunk enough to mistake Dhugal's nervous laughter for awe, Sidana also joining in the mirth.

Only Llewell kept himself aloof, staring furtively at Dhugal when he thought Dhugal didn't notice and brooding over his cup. Ruthlessly Dhugal set about to win all their confidence, drawing out the taciturn Llewell, hearing accounts of the princes' martial exploits with feigned awe, and eventually joining in the good-natured teasing which Sidana endured from her older brothers. He was nearly one of them by the time dinner was over.

One of the children, however—not one of the men. Over stronger wine, after the ladies had retired, a possibly intoxicated Sicard drew his stool close beside Dhugal's and began sounding him out about old Caulay's politics, hinting that once Caulay was gone, Meara was in a position to better Dhugal's lot considerably.

Dhugal suspected his uncle was far more sober than he seemed. He hid his true feelings well, however, even pretending pleased interest in Sicard's offer of a dukedom when the secession was accomplished. He gathered that he gave the right answers. He drank with Sicard and his sons for another hour, somehow managing to consume far less than they thought he did. Ithel, a tipsy Llewell, and the watchful and still sober man-at-arms walked him to his room when the reveling was done, the two princes singing him a noisy salute as future Duke of Transha before giving him a playful buffet through the doorway of his room.

Istelyn was still cold to him, however. Dhugal found him on his knees in the little oratory, but the bishop would not look at him after an initial, disdainful sweep of him from head to toe, turning a contemptuous back on him after that. Nor could Dhugal elicit any verbal response.

He crept under the sleeping furs on his pallet feeling like a snake, tears streaming silently down his cheeks until he at last slipped into uneasy sleep. His dreams edged almost immediately into nightmares:

Judgment Day. Naked and afraid, he cowered at the foot of the great golden Throne of Heaven as a wrathful Istelyn raised one hand toward the Light in mute appeal, stabbing accusingly at Dhugal with the other. Hosts of weeping angels bore the supine form of Kelson before the throne, his body bleeding from a dozen wounds.

Frantic, Dhugal tried to explain. Kelson could not be dead, and Dhugal certainly was not to blame. But the king suddenly lifted his head and raised one gory hand to also point in Dhugal's direction, the flesh melting from the bones as Dhugal watched in horror, the eyes but empty sockets in a masklike skull.

The nightmare wrenched Dhugal out of sleep. Gasping for breath, he woke in a cold sweat, terrified that it was real, that he had already killed his brother and his king.

But the room was dark, Istelyn no longer kneeling in the oratory but wrapped in his sleeping furs on the other side of the room, his back to Dhugal, only a dark blur in the dim light of dying fire. It had only been a dream after all.

Dhugal's head pounded from the wine, however, even after the terror of the dream had passed, and he slept no more. Nursing his apprehensions and his hangover, he searched his conscience all through the rest of the night, hands clasped to his lips in intermittent prayer. The hours seemed to crawl until grey dawn at last streaked the sky and he could rise to wash and dress, a much sobered young man.

The object of Dhugal's prayers also saw the dawn that morning, a day's hard ride south of Ratharkin. Letting his horse blow at the top of a high pass, Kelson hunched down in his fur-lined cloak and gnawed on a lump of tough brown journey bread, glancing aside as Morgan drew rein beside him. They had been riding this leg of the journey since midnight, and planned no further pause until they reached Ratharkin. The rain had given way to a light snow during the night, with promise of more to come. Behind them, stretching back along the trail by twos, the hundred knights of their escort adjusted girths and bridle buckles and took advantage of the brief stop to eat or sleep or relieve themselves. Conall dozed on his horse behind and to Kelson's left, nodding in the saddle.

“He
has
to be alive,” Kelson murmured, so low that even Morgan barely could hear him. “He
has
to be. If he were dead, I'd know—wouldn't I?”

“I honestly don't know, my prince.”

“But we're closer now!” Kelson protested. “If he's still alive, shouldn't I have been able to touch
something
during the night? We were so close that night in Transha.”

“Until you triggered the shutdown of his shields,” Morgan reminded him gently. “You also had physical contact that time—and you know how much more difficult it is to establish rapport without it. A deliberate shielding—”

“It isn't deliberate. Not from me.”

“Very well—not from you. But if he
is
shielded …?”

“Are you saying he isn't?”

Morgan sighed patiently. “Touchy this morning, aren't you? Kelson, I haven't even
seen
the boy since he was—what?—nine or ten? How would I know?”

Shaking his head, Kelson shrugged again dispiritedly. “That long ago, how would
either
of us have known? He has shields now, though.”

“Very well. And that's undoubtedly the reason you haven't been able to reach him.” Morgan reached across to clap the king's shoulder in reassurance. “In any case, we should know something soon. We'll be at Ratharkin before dark.”

“Before dark—yes. But will it be in time?” Kelson wondered.

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

They fall into many
actions
and businesses, and are void of sense, and when they think of things pertaining unto God, they understand nothing at all
.

—II Hermas 10:12

The sparse noonday sun turned the stained glass of Saint Uriel's to darkly glowing jewels, but the cathedral's glory brought little comfort to Dhugal, kneeling meekly in the choir with the Mearan royal family. The consecration of Judhael as Bishop of Ratharkin was about to begin—and there was nothing Dhugal could do to stop it.

Nor could Henry Istelyn. He had spoken not a word on his awakening, to Dhugal or to the priest sent to inquire a final time whether he would assist with Judhael's consecration. Later he still stood mute as two deacons vested him, not resisting their ministrations or the cup which a cold-eyed Gorony commanded him to drink when they had done. Dhugal could see the drug's effect in Istelyn's eyes even as the two deacons walked him out of the room between them, Gorony following, and thought he knew what they had given him. He could expect no help from Istelyn for many hours, if then.

Dhugal was alone, then. He could depend on no one's resources but his own. Those kneeling around him claimed to have accepted him as family, and promised much in return for his support, but he knew they did not trust him yet; he had given them no cause to trust him other than the face value of his apparent opportunism. His very position in the seating, between Sicard and Llewell, the younger prince, placed him where he could be easily and quietly subdued, should he attempt a disruption despite his word. Dressed in the princely raiment they had brought him that morning—Ithel's, by the length of the richly embroidered cloak—he did look like one of them. Even his borderman's braid did not set him much apart, for Sicard and several of his personal attendants wore them as well, even if the two princes did not.

Far at the back of the cathedral, the choir began to chant the entrance antiphon. The nave was packed. Great liturgies of state were always popular with the common folk, with their chance to at least glimpse the rich and the highborn, and the appetites of Ratharkin's citizenry had been whetted not a fortnight before, when Istelyn had been installed. Dhugal wondered whether they had flocked in such numbers for their rightful lord as they did for a usurper's kin. But perhaps they did not know.

As the procession entered the church and headed down the aisle, those around Dhugal stood, so he did likewise. Slowly the clergy approached them, led by a thurifer, incense bearer, servers with candles, and then a processional cross and the choir. A second thurifer came after them, followed by the entourages of the various bishops assisting in the ceremony, each preceded by his crozier bearer and followed by two boys with candles. Dhugal could not identify any of the bishops preceding Judhael by sight, but he had been told that one of them was Bishop Calder—brother of his mother and, therefore, another uncle. He had not expected that.

The prelates escorting the new bishop-elect were quite unmistakable, however: the forsworn Creoda, whom Kelson had trusted, and Belden of Erne, the youngish Bishop of Cashien, come up from the south. Dhugal knew him by the arms emblazoned on the back of his white cope, and wondered whether Kelson had suspected his betrayal any more than he had Creoda's, or the others.

And Judhael himself, yet another of Dhugal's hitherto only legendary Mearan cousins. The young bishop-elect glanced neither right nor left as he approached the high altar, but a tiny smile of satisfaction played about his lips—unseemly even in a righteous man on his way to his sacring, Dhugal thought. Bishop's purple showed slightly at throat and hem, but he was vested with a priest's alb and stole beneath his white cope, hands joined piously before his breast. Dhugal wondered how he had the courage to come before the altar thus, knowing that his election was against the will of the rightful primate and the king. Perhaps God would smite him for his insolence. Dhugal wished He would.

And if not Judhael, then certainly the despised Loris, following in the full habiliments of his usurped office, precious mitre sparkling like a crown above his costly golden cope. Servers bearing candles and his crozier preceded him, and close behind came Istelyn, leaning heavily on the arms of the two deacons Dhugal had seen before. Istelyn appeared still to be moving under his own power, but his eyes were heavy-lidded and vague; Dhugal suspected he would nod off despite any other intentions, once they sat him on his throne. The treacherous Monsignor Gorony brought up the rear.

Dhugal had never seen a bishop made before, so he was not sure when the ceremony departed from the form of the simple Mass he knew. It was difficult to follow the actions of half a dozen priests when he was accustomed to watching only one; and once-familiar words took on odd accents and emphasis when chanted by a full choir. Taking his cues from those around him, he stood and knelt when they did, swallowing his disgust and outrage when the traitorous bishops gathered before the throne Loris had no right to occupy and the chiefest traitor of them all delivered a short instruction on the responsibilities of a bishop. Judhael was then brought before Loris to respond to formal questions.