The Bishop’s Heir (31 page)

Dhugal looked down at his hands clasped tightly together and forced them to relax, drawing a deep breath.

“Well, then, I'll wait to see what they say. I just can't—ask them myself, Kelson. And I don't want you to ask them. Maybe I—won't be afraid, if they ask me.” He winced and rubbed at his temples again. “It's too bad your probe hurts worse than the headache I've got anyway—though I wouldn't mind having my ribs healed, that's for certain. I haven't drawn a proper breath without pain for days. And the riding didn't help matters.”

“We'd better get you back to rest then,” Kelson said, in a tone that conveyed nothing of his disappointment. “It'll be time for the council soon anyway, and I could use a snack before we settle down for the meeting.”

“You could talk me into that without half trying,” Dhugal answered with a game grin.

Their spurs jingled against the polished marble of the steps as they ascended from the crypt to the level of the nave, and the gate of gilded brass creaked noisily as Kelson pulled it shut behind them.

“I must ask the sacristan to have that oiled,” he said, making small talk as they moved along the transept arm heading toward the nave. “Remind me one day to tell you about
his
part in the confusion the night before my coronation. I wish you could have been here for the day itself.”

Dhugal returned Kelson's sunny grin uneasily.

“My father told me about the part he saw. He said you fought some sort of magical duel, right here in the cathedral.”

Kelson gestured grandly toward the transept crossing, trying to diffuse some of the magical drama of the incident while still conveying the wonder.

“Right there at the foot of the altar steps,” he replied. “What really saved me, though, was one of those seals set in the floor. Without it, I wouldn't have had a clue what to do.” He led Dhugal to one near the center of the transept and removed his right glove as he knelt beside it.

“All of these are seals and sigils of various patron saints of this cathedral,” he explained, gesturing to include the entire circle of mosaic designs beneath the crossing. “Part of the kingmaking I had from my father called for a ‘Defender's Sign.' We had assumed—not unreasonably, at the time—that the Defender's Sign was Morgan's signet ring, since he was my defender, my champion.”

He brushed his fingertips almost reverently over the worn design beside his knees. “It wasn't, though. It was this: Saint Camber's seal.”

“The Deryni heretic saint?”

“Yes. I know his name doesn't appear on it, but somehow I knew this was it—don't ask me how. Maybe the ability to recognize the true seal when it was time was part of the knowledge that passed to me with my father's magic. Here's the robed and hooded figure holding up the crown—see? Because Saint Camber restored the crown of Gwynedd to the Haldanes. And here, worked into the design, you can trace out most of the letters of his name, if you know where to look: C—M—B—R—S. The vagueness of the identification may be what saved the seal from obliteration when Camber's cult was stamped out, two centuries ago.”

Dhugal nodded distractedly, steadying himself with gloved knuckles against the floor as he stared down at the swirls of colored mosaic, his eyes tracing out the sigil of
Sanctus Camberus
as Kelson's fingertip showed him where to look.

“You don't believe that Saint Camber was evil, then?” he finally asked.

Kelson shook his head and stood, giving Dhugal a hand up. “Not at all. And I don't want to sound naive, but either Saint Camber or some present-day disciple who wants us to
think
he's Saint Camber has come to
our
rescue more than once—Morgan's and Duncan's as well as my own. I think I'd like to restore his cult someday,” he added wistfully. “Most folk would disagree, but I think he was a great man, as well as a powerful saint. I'd like to find out more about what he was
really
like; and then I think I'd like to go on a quest to try to recover some of his relics, and build a proper shrine to house them. He deserves that.”

“I suspect the Church might take exception to that notion,” Dhugal murmured.

“I suspect you're right,” said a voice from behind them, “if you judge the Church by some of her more stodgy leaders. By that definition, the Church takes exception to a great many notions of far less controversial nature. I can personally vouch for that.”

“Father Duncan!” Kelson said, as he and Dhugal both whirled to see Duncan standing behind them with an armful of manuscript scrolls. “Oh, bother, I didn't mean for you to overhear the part about Camber. It's probably silly to even think of it.”

“Not silly, my prince,” Duncan said mildly. “No genuine act of piety and faith is ever silly. This is not to say that your dream is necessarily
realistic
,” he added. “At least not now. But who knows what the future may bring? After all, who would have thought the bishops would approve the appointment of a known Deryni to their ranks?”

Nervously Kelson glanced around the transept to be certain there was no one else within earshot, a little annoyed that even Duncan should have crept up on him unawares.

“Shhh!” he hissed under his breath. “The bishops may know, and a lot of other people, but
everybody
doesn't. You needn't make things any more difficult than they are.”

Duncan raised an eyebrow. “I am what I am, Sire, as we all are. Denying serves no useful purpose.”

“And what am
I
, then?” Dhugal whispered, turning sick, fearful eyes on Kelson. “Go ahead and ask him, Kelson. He's right. I need to know. And I can't properly serve you and what you've become, until I do.”

Kelson glanced up at Duncan to find the Deryni priest incredibly still, glancing back and forth between him and Dhugal with taut question in the blue eyes.

“Dhugal has shields,” Kelson murmured, at the same time touching his fingertips to Duncan's hand and imparting a quick mental impression of what he and Dhugal had experienced. “I told Alaric about them before the expedition, but there wasn't time to tell you. Now he needs to be healed, but I'm a little afraid to have either of you try it alone. I suspect you're going to have to get around the shields to do it, and that could be very tricky. He shut down in terrible pain when I tried to read him in Transha.”

Duncan's eyes betrayed no emotion as he assimilated Kelson's words and thoughts; but when the king had finished, Duncan slowly turned his gaze on the apprehensive Dhugal, looking slightly wistful.

“Shields, you say? Shields that even you can't breach, Kelson?”

The king shook his head. “I don't want to hurt him any more than I have already, trying to force the issue. I have the technical knowledge, but you and Alaric have far more experience. If necessary, I thought you might draw on—other expertise, as well,” he added, thinking of Arilan, and seeing that the thought had occurred to Duncan as well, though he suddenly did not want Duncan to know that he had told Dhugal.

“No,” Duncan said softly, “I'd rather not involve anyone else, if we can handle this ourselves.” He flicked his attention back to Dhugal, shifting his armful of scrolls to free one hand. “Do you mind if I try a light probe, Dhugal?” he asked, reaching casually toward the boy's forehead before Dhugal could back away. “I'll pull right out if it distresses you.”

As he touched Dhugal, he sent out a cautious tendril of thought, recoiling almost immediately as rigid shields slammed into place and Dhugal blinked.

“Was that painful?” Duncan asked, not withdrawing his hand.

Dhugal gave a cautious shake of his head, too amazed to even think of pulling back. “Not painful, no. But I felt—
something.”

“With shields like that, I should imagine you did.” Again Duncan extended a cautious probe. “Can you feel that?”

Dhugal got an odd, not-quite frightened look on his face.

“I don't exactly—
feel
it. It isn't a physical sensation at all. Kind of like a … an itch inside my head.”

“Shall I stop?”

Dhugal swallowed. “Well, it doesn't really
hurt
. It isn't even that unpleasant, but—”

“Let me help,” Kelson said, adding his hand beside Duncan's and trying a contact.

But at Kelson's first psychic touch, Dhugal gasped and recoiled, clapping hands to his temples and doubling over with pain. Both Kelson and Duncan withdrew immediately, Duncan letting his scrolls fall to the floor as he helped Kelson support his tottering foster brother. Dhugal gasped for breath, letting Duncan ease him to a crouch and push his head between his knees, trying not to jostle his sore ribs or kink the bruise on his thigh. His head was throbbing again.

“That's exactly what happened in Transha,” Kelson murmured, leaving Dhugal to Duncan's ministrations while he awkwardly gathered up the dropped scrolls. “It didn't happen right away, but it's been that way ever since. I wonder why you don't get the same reaction.”

Duncan shrugged, gently kneading the back of Dhugal's neck and trying a tentative probe again. “I don't know. He's still shielded, though. The harder I push, the stronger it gets.”

“But it doesn't hurt when you do it,” Dhugal managed to murmur.

“And damned if I know why,” Duncan replied, helping the boy to stand. “I confess it's beyond me, at least on casual investigation. We're due back at the council meeting very shortly, but why don't we closet ourselves with Alaric afterward and get to the bottom of this? I'll be fascinated to see whether you react the same to him as you do to me, Dhugal—though I warn you, you could react just as easily as you did to Kelson's probe.”

Dhugal grimaced, but he hobbled gamely between them as they started back down the nave.

“Just warn me before anybody else touches me, Father. If General Morgan—”

But he was not given time to complete the thought. As the three of them reached the narthex, pulling up cloak hoods against the snow falling outside the postern door, Morgan himself came through the narrow doorway, accompanied by a worried-looking Nigel. Morgan gave them all a grim, distracted smile and sketched a bow to Kelson as he pulled a parchment packet from inside his tunic. Nigel brushed snow from his shoulders and stamped his feet as Morgan handed the parchment to the king.

“This arrived within the present hour, my prince,” Morgan said, scanning the narthex as he signalled Nigel to pull the door shut behind them. “I had a little difficulty finding where you'd gone. It's a reply from Ratharkin, though I fear it isn't the answer any of us would have wished.”

The parchment was heavy with pendant seals and dark with the meticulous script of someone who had favored a broad nib to his pen. Kelson skipped over the first few lines, with their expected formulae of titles and assumed titles. The crux of the message was contained in only a few terse phrases.

…
that We do not intend to surrender ourselves; and further, that if you do not immediately give indication of your willingness to return our son and daughter, Bishop Henry Istelyn will suffer for it. As earnest of our determination, We send you his ring….

The missive was signed by Caitrin and Sicard, as co-rulers of Meara, and witnessed by Prince Ithel, Archbishop Loris, and a host of other bishops, expected and unexpected, eight in all.

“I can't say I'm surprised at the demand,” Kelson observed, scanning the script a second time, “though I
am
surprised at the amount of support Loris managed to gather in so short a time. He must have been laying his groundwork for several years—all the while he was in prison. He almost got enough names to set up a counter-synod like last time. Do you think he will, Duncan?”

“I should think it almost inevitable, Sire,” Duncan replied, peering over his shoulder.

“There's more to it, I'm afraid,” Morgan said, drawing a small wooden box out of the front of his tunic. “This was with the letter. It's going to put you in a very unenviable position.”

“I'm already in an unenviable position,” Kelson said, taking the box and turning it to worry at the clasp, “though I fail to see what Caitrin thinks she can offer that would make me trade Sidana and Llewell for Istelyn.”

“I suspect we have Loris to thank for this little piece of work,” Morgan said quietly, as Kelson opened the box. “The note, at least, is his. The rest, I fear, is from Istelyn. And more than just his ring.”

Kelson's eyes widened and he recoiled so violently that he nearly dropped the box.

“Sweet
Jesu
!” he gasped, his eyes darting to the others as if to seek denial of what his eyes saw. “Look what they've done!”

Lying on a curl of closely inscribed parchment inside was Istelyn's bishop's ring, with the cut-off finger still inside.

“And Loris threatens to send ever more important parts of our captive bishop until you relent,” Morgan said quietly.

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

Let our strength be the law of justice: for that which is feeble is found to be nothing worth
.

—Wisdom of Solomon 2:11

“I had begun to suspect Loris had no conscience, but I never dreamed even he would be this ruthless,” Archbishop Bradene said a short time later, when the king had presented his council with Caitrin's ultimatim and Loris' grisly postscript. “Certainly I never thought the Lady Caitrin would be a party to such an act.”

“You underestimate the lady's desire to be queen, Sire,” Ewan muttered.

Cardiel nodded grimly. “His Grace is right, Sire. Nor should we forget how persuasive Loris can be when it suits him. God knows he nearly fooled many of us, two years ago. And he's certainly fooled the other bishops who've joined him this time, in Ratharkin.”