The Bishop’s Heir (6 page)

Dhugal shrugged and began rethreading his needle with bright green silk. “You probably remember that I was always good with animals. Well, after Michael died and I had to come home from Court, one of the things they had me study was surgeoning—part of the training of a laird, they said: to be able to patch up one's animals and men.”

He flushed out the partially sutured wound again, pausing when Bertie moaned and stirred a little—and Kelson had to reach out with his mind once more—then dusted the raw flesh with a bluish grey powder and had Kelson press the lips of the wound together from either side. Carefully, meticulously, he began drawing them together with neat, green silk stitches.

“Is it true that Duke Alaric healed himself at your coronation?” Dhugal asked after a moment, not looking up from his work.

Kelson raised one eyebrow, wondering why Dhugal was asking.

“Is that one of the stories that's come west?”

“And others—aye.”

“Well, it's true,” Kelson said, a little defensively. “Father Duncan helped him. I didn't see it happen, but I saw the result—and I
did
see him heal Duncan later on: a wound that should have killed anyone else.”

“You actually
saw
this?” Dhugal asked, pausing to stare at Kelson.

Kelson shivered a little, and had to look away from the blood on his own hands to shake the memory.

“They took a terrible chance,” he whispered. “We needed to convince Warin de Grey that Deryni weren't necessarily evil. Warin claims that his own healing comes from God, so Duncan decided to show him that Deryni can heal, too. He let Warin wound him in the shoulder, but it was almost too severe. I hate to think of what would have happened, if it hadn't worked.”

“What do you mean, ‘if it hadn't worked?'” Dhugal asked softly, his needle half-forgotten in his fingers. “I thought you said he and Morgan could heal.”

“They can,” Kelson replied, “only they don't really know how they do it, and the gift isn't always reliable. Maybe that's because they're only half-Deryni. From Father Duncan's research, we now believe that some Deryni were able to do such things on a regular basis during the Interregnum, but the art apparently has been lost since. Only a small percentage of Deryni had the healing gift, even then.”

“But that Warin fellow can do it?”

“Yes.”

“And he isn't Deryni?”

Kelson shook his head. “Not so far as we've been able to tell. He still insists his gift comes from God—and maybe it does. Maybe he's a genuine miracle-worker. Who are we to say?”

Dhugal snorted and resumed his work. “That sounds more capricious than being Deryni, if you ask me—working miracles! For myself, I think I'd gladly settle for being able to do
your
trick.”

“
My
trick?”

“To knock out a patient painlessly before trying to work on him. From a battle surgeon's point of view, that's a blessing, no matter
where
the ability comes from, though I suspect ecclesiastical opinion would argue the point. No reflection on friend Bertie's courage, but if you hadn't done—whatever you did—he wouldn't have been able to hold still for me to do this. I suppose it
was
some of your … Deryni magic?”

Almost hypnotically, Kelson watched the bloody hands move up and down, drawing the wound closed with Dhugal's own almost magical ability, and he had to shake his head lightly to break the spell.

“I think you have your own kind of magic,” he murmured, looking across at Dhugal in admiration. “And thank God you don't seem to be intimidated by mine. You have no idea what a relief it is to be able to use my powers for something like this—which is what they were intended for, in the beginning, I feel sure—and not have you be afraid.”

With a smile, Dhugal tied off the last of his sutures and cut the thread, then looked up at Kelson with the keen, frank appraisal of the borderman.

“I seem to recall that we once swore a blood-oath to live as brothers all our lives,” he said softly, “and to do whatever good we might. Why should I fear my brother, then, simply because he has been given the means to do greater good? I know you would never harm me—brother.”

As Kelson caught his breath in surprise, Dhugal ducked his head and returned to his work, sluicing clean water over the sutures and then binding a handful of dried sphagnum moss over the wound.

That, at least, Kelson felt he understood, as he washed his hands and dried them on a corner of their patient's tunic. He was not sure he understood the other kneeling across from him, but he did not think he cared to question what had just passed between them. He had forgotten what a comfort it could be to confide in a friend of his own generation. Conall was his age, and Payne and Rory only a little younger, but that was not the same. They had not been tempered with adult responsibilities the way he and Dhugal had. Morgan and Duncan understood, of course, and perhaps his Uncle Nigel, but even they were somewhat removed by age and experience—and they were not always around. He found himself heaving a sigh of relief as Dhugal finally rinsed his hands and dried them on a blood-stained grey towel.

“That's it, then,” Dhugal said, peering tentatively under one of his patient's eyelids and glancing at Kelson inquiringly. “I think I did one of my better repair jobs, but only time will tell for sure. He's still lost a lot of blood. Best if he simply sleeps through the night.”

“We'll see that he does, then,” Kelson said, touching the sleeping man's forehead and making the necessary mental adjustments. “I'd have someone rouse him every few hours to drink some wine—Duncan says that helps to restore the lost blood faster—but otherwise, he shouldn't stir until morning.”

As the two of them stood, Dhugal gathering up his sword and plaid, Kelson signalled one of his men to attend. Dhugal gave brief instructions, but then he and Kelson moved off slowly toward the edge of the camp which had formed around them while they worked. Wordlessly, Kelson took the sword and plaid while Dhugal began adjusting his armor.

The two were nearly of a height, side by side, Kelson perhaps a few fingers taller and a little heavier, though neither had yet come into their true man's growth. Before, Kelson had thought Dhugal's copper-colored hair cut short, but now, as Dhugal pulled off his mail coif and ran fingers under the neck of his brigandine in the back to free his hair, Kelson saw that it was even longer than his own, drawn to the nape of the neck in border fashion and plaited in a short braid tied with a leather thong. He took the coif as the young borderman began buckling the front closures of the brigandine, leaning against a tree to watch indulgently until Dhugal, with a roguish grin, reached out to finger a strand of Kelson's shoulder-length hair.

“So that's what comes of having no wars for the past two years,” Dhugal said, dropping the lock and taking back the sword to loop its baldric over his shoulder. “Decadently long hair, like any common borderer. I wonder how you'd look in a border braid?”

“Why don't you invite me home to greet your father and sample highland hospitality, and perhaps you'll see,” Kelson returned with a smile, giving him back his plaid and coif. “If I haven't already scandalized my men simply by being Deryni, then playing at being a wild border chieftain will surely turn the trick. You've changed, Dhugal.”

“So have you.”

“Because I've acquired—magic?”

“No, because you've acquired a crown.” Dhugal lowered his eyes, fingering the leather-lined mail of the coif. “Despite what you said before, you
are
the king now.”

“And does that make a difference?”

“You know it does.”

“Then, let it be a positive difference,” Kelson said. “You yourself admitted that with the power I've been given, both temporal and—other—I now have the power to do greater good. Perhaps some of the things that we only dreamed about when we were boys. God knows, I loved my father, and I miss him terribly, but there are things I'd have done differently, if I'd been faced with some of the things he had to face. Now I have that chance.”

“And does
that
make a difference?” Dhugal asked.

Kelson shrugged. “I'm alive—and my father is dead. I've kept the peace for two years now.”

“And the peace is being threatened in Meara. That's part of what this was all about, you know.” Dhugal gestured around him at the resting men and the knot surrounding the prisoners across the glade. “We've always had a raiding problem in the high-lands—it's part of our way of life—but some of these men, on both sides, are at least sympathetic to the Lady Caitrin's cause.” He made a face. “She's my aunt, you know.”

Kelson raised an eyebrow. “
Is
she?”

“Aye. My Uncle Sicard's wife. Sicard and my father haven't spoken for years, but border blood runs thick, as you know. Some wonder that we don't support them, being so far from central Gwynedd and all. I'm surprised you didn't catch some inkling of that during your progress this summer. Isn't that the sort of thing you're supposed to be able to do now, with your new powers?”

The question was not at all hostile, but it was clear that Dhugal was fishing for reassurance, as uncertain as any of his men about just what a Deryni king could and could not do.

“I'm not omnipotent, Dhugal,” Kelson said quietly, looking the other in the eyes. “I can tell whether a man is lying, with very little effort—it's called Truth-Reading—but to actually learn the truth, I need to ask the right questions.”

“I—thought that Deryni could read minds,” Dhugal whispered. And though he did not break eye contact, Kelson needed no Deryni senses to know what courage that took, operating from ignorance as Dhugal was. That Dhugal trusted him, there was no question; but despite his earlier protestations that he was not afraid of what Kelson had become, certain fears could only be allayed by experience—and that, Dhugal did not have yet.

“We can,” Kelson murmured. “But we don't, among our friends, unless we're invited. And the first time, even among Deryni, it almost always requires some kind of physical contact.”

“Like the way you touched Bertie's forehead?”

“Yes.”

Dhugal let out an audible sigh and lowered his eyes, self-consciously wrapping his plaid around his shoulders like a mantle and fussing with a brooch to secure it. When he had adjusted it to his satisfaction, he gave Kelson a brief, bright smile.

“Well, then. I suppose we ought to see whether the others have gotten anything else out of the prisoners. You won't forget what I said about highland loyalties, will you?”

Kelson smiled. “I told you how
I
go about learning whether a man is lying. How do
you
do it?”

“Why, we highland folk have the Second Sight, don't you know?” Dhugal quipped. “Ask anyone in my father's hall about Meara, and her greedy would-be princess.”

“Well, then, if it's Meara, I suppose I'd better be back there, come spring,” Kelson replied. “And with men beside me who understand what's happening. Maybe even men who have this—Second Sight. Would your father let you come to court, do you think?”

“If you asked it as king, he'd have no choice.”

“And what is
your
choice?” Kelson asked.

Dhugal grinned. “We were like brothers once, Kelson. We still make a good team.” He glanced over his shoulder at the sleeping Bertie and back again. “What do
you
think?”

“I think,” said Kelson, “that we should ride up to Transha in the morning and find out what he'll say.”

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

And thou shalt put the mitre upon his head …

—Exodus 29:6

The rain which had been only an annoyance to Kelson, in Transha, had turned to storm by the time it reached Culdi the following afternoon. Stamping mud from the soles of thigh-high riding boots, Morgan paused just inside the doorway to the guest apartments at Culdi Abbey to shake more water from his streaming leather cloak. He and Duncan had intended to ride in the hills nearby as soon as the afternoon session of the consistory adjourned, but the unexpected storm had neatly stymied that plan. Now the iron grey R'Kassan stud moping down in the bishop's barn would have to wait another day, and perhaps longer, he and his master both growing surly and restless from the forced inactivity. It hardly seemed fair, especially with Kelson out enjoying himself.

Blowing on gloved fingers to warm them, Morgan stalked on along the corridor toward Duncan's temporary quarters and indulged a brief fantasy about a rainstorm in Transha, too. The notion brought a smile to his lips. None of the servants were about when he let himself into the common room Duncan shared with his master, Archbishop Cardiel, so he built up the fire himself and set wine to mull, spreading his sodden cloak on a stool to dry and shedding cap and gloves. Half an hour later, Duncan found his friend ensconced in a deeply recessed window seat which overlooked the cloister garth, boots propped indolently on the stone bench opposite and a steaming cup all but forgotten in one hand. His nose was pressed to the rain-streaked window glass, free hand shading his eyes against glare.

“I see I was right,” Duncan said, casting off his black cloak and rubbing his hands briskly before the fire. “When I saw how hard it was raining, I guessed that even you wouldn't choose to ride in this kind of weather. What
are
you looking at?”

“The ambitious Father Judhael,” Morgan replied, not moving from his vantage point. “Come and see.”

Duncan needed no second invitation, for Judhael of Meara was probably the single most controversial candidate being evaluated by the bishops. Though unimpeachable on ecclesiastical grounds, and personable enough as an individual, his family connections inspired more suspicion than confidence among those aware of the politics which went with the Mearan See, for Judhael was nephew to the Pretender Caitrin. Just now, he was standing outside the door to the chapter house, deep in conversation with old Creoda of Carbury, Bishop of the new See of Culdi since last winter and host for this convocation. Only when the two had moved off down another corridor and disappeared from sight did Duncan draw back from the window.