The Bishop’s Heir (34 page)

“What's wrong?” Morgan whispered, stunned.

Duncan shook his head, his voice almost inaudible as he answered.

“I'm sorry to bother you, Alaric. I'm—afraid I've taken on more than I realized. I thought I could deal with it myself, but I was wrong. I—can't even pray.”

“What in the world are you talking about?” Morgan said. He set his hands on Duncan's shoulders and tried to get him to raise his eyes. “Look at me! Isn't this what you want? You're going to be a bishop—the first known Deryni bishop in—what?—two hundred years? What's the matter with you?”

Duncan kept his head bowed and turned half away. “I don't think I can pay the price, Alaric,” he whispered. “It's because I
am
Deryni that makes it so difficult, don't you see? When they put that ring on my finger, how can I ever hope to measure up to
him
?”

Only as he gestured blindly toward the altar behind him did Morgan see the small wooden box resting at the foot of the standing crucifix. Suddenly Morgan thought he knew what was terrifying Duncan.

“Good God, don't tell me you've still got Istelyn's finger!” he muttered, crossing the few short steps to snatch it up before Duncan could stop him. “What kind of morbid nonsense is this? He'd beat you about the head and shoulders if he knew you were behaving this way.”

“If he's still alive.” Duncan crossed his arms on his chest and studied one slipper-shod toe morosely. “Maybe I shouldn't become a bishop, Alaric. Every time a messenger arrives at court now, I wonder what Loris will send us next. A hand? An eye? Or maybe a head, next time.”

“And not accepting consecration will keep him alive?” Morgan countered. “You know it won't. As for messengers, I'm afraid I'd welcome delivery of a head.”

“What?”

“At least it would mean he was beyond Loris' ability to hurt him anymore. You don't really think Loris means to let him live, do you? Not after he's gone this far.”

Duncan bit at his lip and sighed heavily. “You're right. I know you're right. I suppose that's why I asked for Istelyn's ring in the first place. I knew he'd never wear it again. But it was different three days ago. Now, taking the ring from a martyr's hand seems—well—presumptuous, to say the least.”

“Not presumptuous. An act of homage to a brave man who would not succumb to the enemy.”

When Duncan did not respond, Morgan opened the box and extracted the ring, carefully avoiding contact with Istelyn's shriveled finger. The gold seemed to tingle as he closed it in his palm.

That confirmed what he had guessed Duncan feared—and that the fear would have to be faced before Duncan left for the cathedral. Tight-lipped, Morgan closed the box and replaced it gingerly on the altar.

“I know what's bothering you as much as anything,” he said after a slight pause.

“No, you don't.”

“Duncan, I can't
not
know—and neither can you. We're Deryni. Just holding this is enough for me to sense that it isn't just any ring.”

“Of course not. It's a bishop's ring.”

“And it's
Istelyn's
ring, taken from him in a most brutal fashion,” Morgan countered. “Some of that is bound to be clinging to it. And you're going to have to face what's on it—if not now, then later today, in front of all those people in the cathedral, when you'll be far more vulnerable than you are now.”

“I'll keep my shields up,” Duncan whispered.

“Is that really the way you want to experience your consecration as a bishop?” Morgan asked quietly. “You remember your ordination to the priesthood—God knows,
I'll
never forget it. Do you really want to shut yourself away from that kind of magic, Duncan?”

He watched the tonsured head jerk up, the white-clad shoulders stiffen, though Duncan did not turn around.

“That's what you'd have to do, you know,” Morgan went on. “And I don't think that's really what you want. Give me your hand and let's be done with it.”

Slowly, stiffly, Duncan turned, his face nearly as white as his vestments, emotions completely shuttered save through the light blue eyes, where fear and reason warred for precedence. When reason won out at last, Duncan let out a long-held breath with an audible sigh. All at once, the eyes which met Morgan's were the mirrors of the soul which Duncan bared now to the man closer than any other living being.

“You're right,” he whispered. “If I don't face it, I'm no bishop and no true Deryni. Stay with me, though.”

“I shouldn't think you'd even need to ask,” Morgan answered softly, smiling.

Taking Duncan's slack right hand in his, he held Istelyn's ring poised at the tip of the ring finger, bracing for both of them as Duncan, without further hesitation, thrust his finger into the band of gold. A little shudder went through Duncan's body as the cold metal slid across the skin, but he only shook his head and closed his eyes at Morgan's sound of question, bringing his clenched fist to his lips to touch the cold amethyst in oath confirmed. As he shuddered again, Morgan slid his hands up Duncan's arms to rest on his shoulders again and pushed himself quickly into trance, reaching out for rapport. He joined Duncan just as memory began to course, pulsing from the metal and amethyst on Duncan's hand.

Fire and ice, golden and violet—intimations of the forge which had shaped the ring and the setting of the stone which marked its sacred purpose. It had been crafted especially for Istelyn and worn by no other until this instant. Recollection stirred of its sacring by water and incense at Istelyn's consecration—words of blessing pronounced above it as it lay on a silver salver: holy ritual binding it to the service of a servant of the servants, binding the servant himself to the service of a higher Lord.

Nor had the servant disgraced the ring, through all the years it had graced his hand. The lips of the great and the lowly had brushed it in salute, most with honest respect, some perfunctorily, a few with duplicity in their hearts—but the man and his function remained true to the higher Lord. Only at the end was other than respect shown to the servant of the servant.

Honest human fear, resignation—and then the echo of sharp, burning pain as a bright blade flashed, severing the ring from its owner. Even though Morgan was prepared for it, he gasped at the shock, holding Duncan tightly in support as the new wearer of the ring shivered in more direct recollection of the deed, even crying out a little at the transmitted pain.

But then, with a shudder, Duncan was sinking even deeper into trance as the ring continued to beckon, Morgan following hesitantly to brush even earlier images of the gold itself, before the ring was forged. It had been something besides a ring in the beginning, when first it took form from virgin nuggets purified in the flames—an impression of unearthly radiance and a warmth which was not physical. Consecrated hands had lifted it toward an even greater Glory—two pairs, the one merely priestly, the other something more. A flash of an old, familiar presence intervened for just an instant—and then nothing.

Roughly Morgan yanked himself back to normal consciousness as the contact ended, staggering as Duncan became a dead weight in his arms for just an instant. But before he could react, Duncan stirred and got his feet under him, allaying his concern with a weak grin and a wave of the hand with the ring.

“What in the world—?” Morgan began.

Duncan shook his head and smiled more sedately, propping himself against the edge of the altar while he slipped the ring from his hand to lay it reverently beside the box.

“Not entirely
this
world,” he managed to whisper, glancing back at Morgan. “I assume you caught the part about it being made for Istelyn?”

Morgan nodded. “And about him losing it.”

“I think that's the
least
important part of what we saw.” Duncan gave the ring another long, respectful look. “How about before it was a ring?”

“Something else was melted down to make it,” Morgan ventured. “Do you know what it was?”

Duncan nodded wistfully. “A piece of altar plate, I think. Maybe a chalice or a paten.” He shivered. “I'm not sure I want to say aloud whose I think it was.”

“Well, I'll say it if you won't,” Morgan said carefully. “I caught two separate and distinct identities. One was only a priestly presence, but the other—well, who could it have been besides Saint Camber?”

Duncan nodded, leaning the heels of both hands on the edge of the altar to gaze down at the ring again. “It wasn't a manifestation this time, though—just a memory.” He flashed a smile. “But it may be the only true relic of Saint Camber that we have—something he actually touched. I wonder what it was.”

“Well, if Istelyn's ring really was made from melted-down altar plate, maybe it could be traced,” Morgan said. “It's said Camber's son was a priest. Perhaps the chalice or paten belonged to him. Perhaps Camber gave it to him—an ordination gift or something of that sort. In any case, it might be possible to find out where they got the gold to make the ring.”

“Perhaps.” Duncan smiled again. “Incidentally, did I tell you that Kelson's keen to restore the cult of Saint Camber?”

“Oh? He's never mentioned that to me.”

“Me either. I just happened to overhear. Perhaps it's only just begun to take shape in his own mind. He was telling Dhugal about it when I met them in the cathedral, just before you found us. And Dhugal—has Kelson told you about him?”

“About his shields? Oh, yes. I was on the receiving end when he pushed Kelson out of the link, the night you nearly got killed. There hasn't been time to investigate further, since we got back.”

“Well, I've had a go at him, if only briefly,” Duncan said. “Oddly enough, he doesn't recoil from my probe the way he does from Kelson's; I simply can't get through. I've no idea where he got shields like that. Unfortunately, Kelson tried to join in on my probe after the first few seconds—with rather devastating consequences for poor Dhugal. If you've gotten the impression he's been trying to avoid us these past two days, that's undoubtedly why.”

Morgan nodded. “I can't say I blame him. I'll try to speak with Kelson about it this evening, though. I suspect you're going to be too busy for the next few days to do too much about it.”

“If it's important, we'll make time somehow.” Smiling, Duncan scooped up the ring and hefted it in his hand. “Meanwhile, I seem to recall I have an appointment with some bishops—and you, with a king, I think.”

“The next time I see you, you'll
be
a bishop,” Morgan quipped. “I, on the other hand, shall never be a king.” Grinning uninhibitedly, he took Duncan's right hand and dropped to one knee. “Still, I should like to be the first to greet you as a bishop, even if it is a few hours premature. We'll repeat this officially later this afternoon, Your Excellency.”

When, over Duncan's exasperated but smiling protests, he had kissed the soon-to-be episcopal hand, Morgan left to join the king's party for the ride to the cathedral. The interlude with Duncan had given him much to ponder.

As it had been three days before, Morgan's place was at Kelson's right hand when they knelt in the cathedral a little while later. It was the same stall they had occupied for the excommunication, though a few places closer to the altar, with Morgan on the end. Nigel and his wife and three sons knelt behind them this time, but Dhugal was again to Kelson's left. Others of the royal household occupied the stalls farther west and on the north side of the choir, along with such other nobles as could be accommodated. As the minutes passed and the cathedral filled, Morgan prayed for the man about to be consecrated to even greater work, asking mercy and guidance both for himself and for Duncan in the times ahead. Beyond the still, vigilant flame of psychic strength and control which was Kelson, at his left, he could sense the darkly shuttered presence of Dhugal. As the entry procession began and all of them stood, Morgan resolved to speak to Kelson about him before the night was over.

The ceremony proceeded without notable incident, so far as Morgan could determine, though he readily acknowledged his relative ignorance of liturgical intricacies. Everyone seemed to be in the right place at the right time and to know the proper responses, no one dropped anything, and Duncan looked genuinely moved as he made his responses to Archbishop Bradene's ritual questions.

“Beloved brother, art thou resolved by the grace of the Holy Spirit to discharge to the end of thy life the office entrusted to us by the apostles which is about to be passed on to thee by imposition of our hands?”

“I am.”

“Art thou resolved to keep faith with our Holy Mother the Church, and to guard and guide her children as thine own?”

“I am.”

As the dialogue continued, Morgan put the words aside and let his mind extend gently toward Kelson beside him. It was not their part to share directly in what Duncan was about to experience, but it occurred to him that Kelson probably ought to be aware of what had happened when Duncan put on Istelyn's ring, just in case something else unforeseen occurred when the action was repeated. Kelson felt the light tendril of his thought and glanced at him in question, but Morgan only gave a slight nod and opened the contact further as all of them knelt for the litany of blessings for the now-prostrate Duncan. What he had to say was not the sort of thing which might even be whispered safely in a church.

“
Kyrie eleison
.”

“
Kyrie eleison
.”

“
Christe eleison
.…”

What's wrong?
Kelson's thought drifted into his mind.

Morgan leaned his elbows on the prayer desk in front of him and bowed his head, resting his forehead on the heels of his hands as he let the link deepen.