The Bishop’s Heir (35 page)

Nothing's wrong, so far as I know
, he returned.
I thought you'd like to know about something that happened a little while ago, however. Apparently Istelyn's ring is more than it seems
.

Istelyn's ring
?

He shared the vision of the forging then, and all he could recall about what Duncan had experienced when he put the ring on his finger. When he had finished, he felt Kelson shiver a little beside him.

Camber, eh?
Kelson sent.

Maybe. It was certainly an impression of great power. Where
did
Istelyn get his ring
?

I don't know. Maybe Duncan can find out
.

Maybe
.

The litany had ended while they conferred, and as both of them raised their heads, physical vision was superimposed over psychic Sight, though both remained in rapport. Now Duncan knelt before the archbishop's throne, head bowed and hands joined in prayer as Bradene, Cardiel, and then each of the other bishops silently laid their hands on his head, willing him the fulfillment of total and perfected priesthood which was a bishop's portion. Morgan could sense the heightened energy levels pulsing from their midst as Cardiel stood and took the open Gospel book from an attending deacon, holding it ceremonially over Duncan's bowed head like a sheltering roof as he began the prayer of consecration.

“Lord God, merciful God, bringing comfort to all, now pour out upon this chosen one that power which floweth from Thee, the perfect spirit which Thou gavest to Thy beloved Son, the Christ, the Spirit whom He gave to the apostles. Inspire the heart of Thy servant whom Thou hast chosen to make a bishop. May he feed Thy holy flock and exercise the high priesthood without blame, ministering to Thee day and night to reconcile us with Thee and to offer the gifts of Thy Church. By the Spirit of this priesthood may he have the power to forgive sins, as Thou hast commanded. May he assign the duties of the flock according to Thy will and loose every bond by the power Thou gavest the apostles. May his gentleness and singleness of purpose stand before Thee as an offering through Thy Son the Christ. Through Him glory and power and honor are Thine, with the Holy Spirit, now and forever.”

“Amen.”

Even twenty yards away, Morgan could feel Duncan's anticipation mounting as Cardiel removed the Gospel and Bradene prepared to anoint his head with chrism. All in an instant, though he had not tried to do it, he was in Duncan's mind, feeling what he felt, seeing what he saw. The impression was blurred by the double perception of Kelson in the link with him, also one with Duncan in that instant.

“God hath made thee a sharer in Christ's priesthood,” Bradene said, pouring the holy chrism on the crown of Duncan's head. “May He pour upon thee this oil of mystical anointing and make thee fruitful with spiritual blessing.”

As Bradene cleansed his hands, first with scraps of fine white bread and then with a linen napkin, Morgan basked in the joy welling over from Duncan, feeling a little of the warmth even as a physical thing.

“Receive thou the Gospel and preach the word of God,” Cardiel said, putting the great book briefly in Duncan's hands, “always teaching with the greatest of patience.”

The book was taken away, to be replaced by a silver salver bearing the ring. As Bradene traced a cross above it, Morgan thought he saw it glint from more than candlelight. It flashed with a fire of its own as the archbishop held it briefly before Duncan's extended right hand.

“Take thou this ring as a seal of faith; and keeping faith, guard and protect the Holy Church which is the bride of God,” Bradene said.

Morgan was not surprised, as Bradene slid it onto Duncan's finger, to sense reiteration of the images he and Duncan had seen before: the placing of the ring on another hand, in days gone by—and vague impressions of a ghostly Other, clad in priestly vestments of a deep, royal blue, offering up the ring—no, a cup—in ritual sacrifice of the Mass.

But there was more—a misty aureole of silver shimmering around Duncan's head for just an instant, its boundaries contained between half-sensed hands which Morgan had known half a dozen times before, and Duncan as well. It vanished as Bradene and Cardiel placed the mitre on Duncan's head, leaving Morgan to blink and glance at Kelson in question, wondering whether the glimpsed vision had been only his imagination.

If imagination, however, it had not been his alone, or even his and Kelson's. From the king's other side pulsed a more discordant note of shock and stark panic: Dhugal, his face drained of color, shoulders rigid with blind fear. Kelson caught the echo of Dhugal's distress in the same instant and immediately slipped to Dhugal's other side, supporting him between himself and Morgan. Behind them, Nigel half-rose in concern, but Kelson shook his head.

“It's all right, Uncle,” he whispered lamely. “He's a little ill, is all. He'll be all right.”

As Nigel subsided, shushing Conall and the curious Payne and Rory and no doubt suspecting there was more to it than that, Morgan slid his arm around Dhugal's shoulder and tried to shield him from curious eyes.

“Are you in pain, Dhugal?” he whispered.

Shuddering, Dhugal broke his rigid stare at the pageant still proceeding before the altar and ducked his head.

“What's happening to me?” he managed to gasp. “My head feels like it's about to burst.”

“Take a deep breath and try to let go of what's frightening you,” Kelson urged softly. “Try to flow with it.”

“Oh, God, I can't! Didn't you
see
it?”

Alaric, he picked up the same thing we did!
Kelson whispered in Morgan's mind.
We've got to get him out of here
—
and I can't leave until it's over
.

His thought was mixed with consternation, caution, and even a little joy, but Nigel was jostling Morgan from behind, gesturing toward the altar. With the consecration itself completed, the bishops had rearranged themselves to continue with the Mass—and Morgan had a part in what came next.

It's time for the offertory
, Morgan sent back, glancing sidelong at Kelson and the still trembling Dhugal and rising as the choir monks began the hymn which was his cue.
If I don't go forward, it will look even worse than this. Keep him quiet until I can get back
.

With eyes averted and hands folded as was seemly, Morgan moved down into the aisle and paused before a small, white-draped table, gracefully returning the solemn bow that a waiting deacon gave as he handed over a crystal cruet of wine and a lidded chalice of gold. The crystal was cold and sleek in his hand, the ciborium seeming oddly light for all its contents of pale, unconsecrated hosts. He could feel Duncan watching him as he slowly passed to the foot of the altar steps and knelt before him and the two archbishops, aware that something was amiss. The sense of what he planned passed between himself and Duncan like a spark as he offered up the gifts and their hands touched.

Dhugal Saw something. I'm taking him to your old study. Come there with Kelson as soon as you can break away
, Morgan sent.

He felt Duncan's startled agreement like a caress as he rose and bowed and turned to go back to his place. The stark, disruptive pulse of Dhugal's distress welled up almost like a wall as he knelt once more and slipped a supporting arm under Dhugal's elbow.

“Say that Dhugal became ill,” he whispered across to Kelson, “and meet us afterward in Duncan's old study. I'll do what I can until then. I've already told Duncan.”

He did not look back as he led Dhugal stumbling from the choir. The words of Archbishop Bradene's prayer chased them in hollow echo, embracing with depths of meaning which neither could appreciate at the time.

“Lord, accept these gifts which we offer for Thy chosen servant, Duncan, Thy chosen priest. Enrich him with the gifts and virtues of a true apostle, for the good of Thy people. Amen.”

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

In the valley of vision …

—Isaiah 22:5

With Dhugal clinging dazedly to his arm, so pale that his freckles seemed painted on in blood, Morgan managed to navigate the curved aisle around the back of the cathedral apse without arousing any more attention that was his usual wont. Several monks not involved in the ceremonies eyed them curiously, but Morgan's grim expression precluded any offers of assistance. Morgan was known and at least grudgingly respected even by most clergy after three years' active and visible service with the new young king, but he still inspired a certain amount of fear in some.

But Dhugal's fear worried Morgan far more than that of any anonymous monks lurking in the shadowy aisle—and it was likely to get worse before it got much better. He could feel the stark terror throbbing just beneath the surface like floodwaters only barely held in check by a failing dam, and realized Dhugal's awareness of the precarious balance was only adding to the pressure. The only way Dhugal was managing to hold his panic in check at all was by watching his feet, concentrating all his attention on the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other.

“We've got to get you away from here,” Morgan muttered, guiding Dhugal toward the door to the sacristy. “Can I trust you to do exactly as I say?”

Dhugal stumbled and nearly fell as he gave Morgan an odd, pinched look.

“You're—assuming I have a choice,” he managed to whisper, as Morgan braced him and reached for the door latch. “What's happening to me?”

“That's exactly what I'd like to know.”

Morgan had hoped that the sacristy might be unoccupied during the ceremony, but the presence of Saint George's elderly sacristan was not unexpected. The old man had been nodding in the meager sunshine of an oriel window at the other end of the room when they entered and woke with a start as the door closed behind them.

“Who's that?”

“Ah, Brother Jerome, is that you?” Morgan said, shifting his grip on the tottering Dhugal. “The boy's been taken ill. He needs to sit down.”

Frail and failing of eyesight, the old monk shuffled closer to squint quizzically at Morgan and his obviously ailing companion.

“Why, 'tis the Duke o' Corwyn—an' who's this?” the old man said, his tone conveying just a trace of wariness along with surprised respect. “Here, laddie, sit ye doon. Ye look a trifle peaked. What's wrong with the boy, Yer Grace?”

“Nothing serious, I hope,” Morgan replied, letting Jerome help him seat Dhugal on a low settle next to a vestment press. “I think it was just the closeness of the air in the choir. Maybe the incense was too much for him.” He ventured a sidelong glance at Jerome as he felt for the pulse in Dhugal's wrist. “I'm sure he'll be all right in a few minutes. Do you think the archbishop would mind if you raided his sacramental wine for a wee dram?”

“Ach, o' course not, Yer Grace. 'Twill be just th' thing. Wait ye here.”

As the old man shuffled across the room, fumbling with a ring of keys hanging at his waist, Morgan leaned closer to Dhugal's ear. The boy's breathing was shallow, his head leaned against the side of the press, eyes closed.

“Dhugal, sit still and don't be surprised at anything you see,” he whispered, touching a forefinger to his lips for silence as the boy opened his eyes. “I think Brother Jerome is going to take a little nap.”

Morgan could sense Dhugal's startled question through the fog of his distress, but he put it out of mind as he crossed to where Jerome was trying to match a key to the lock on the wine cabinet.

“I know I hae th' key here somewhere,” Jerome was muttering.

“Why don't you try that one?” Morgan said, deftly slipping one arm around the stooped shoulders as if to point one out, before he pressed his other hand over the old man's forehead and eyes.

“Never mind, old friend. Just go to sleep and forget all this,” he whispered. “That's right …”

The old man was no challenge at all. As he started to buckle at the knees, already deep asleep, Morgan shifted control and steadied him enough to walk him carefully back to the seat in the oriel window. Soft snoring followed Morgan as he returned to the dazed and awestruck Dhugal.

“Don't touch me,” Dhugal whispered, going rigid as Morgan took his hand and pulled him to his feet. “Please. What did you do to that old man? Where are we going?”

“I didn't hurt Brother Jerome, and I'm not going to hurt you,” Morgan said, only tightening his grip on Dhugal's wrist. “Come stand here with me. If you don't cooperate, it will only be more difficult for both of us.”

“No. Please!”

Shaking his head sympathetically, for there was no time to explain, Morgan half-dragged the reluctant Dhugal to the center of the room where the floor tiles marked out a squared cross just large enough for two people to stand side by side. As he spun Dhugal away from him, clamping his hands on the boy's shoulders, Dhugal tried again to pull away.

“If you can let yourself relax, this will be a great deal easier,” Morgan murmured, slipping one arm around the boy's neck from behind for a choke hold if he did not stop struggling. “One way or another, I'm going to take you through something called a Transfer Portal. It's a Deryni way of getting somewhere in a hurry.”

“It's—magic?” Dhugal gasped, panic flaring around him with an almost physical resistance.

Morgan sensed him drawing breath to cry out. The last thing they needed was to attract more attention. Biting back his annoyance, for it was hardly Dhugal's fault he was frightened, he tightened his arm across the boy's throat and clapped his other hand over the gasping mouth, reaching out with his mind for the controls that would bring unconsciousness. Dhugal only struggled harder, his fear and his now wildly pulsing shields making psychic control all but impossible unless Morgan wanted to risk really hurting him. He nearly had to wrestle Dhugal to the floor before he could feel the choke hold starting to take its toll.