The Bishop’s Heir (8 page)

“Why, it's a boy!” Cardiel murmured.

“As God is my witness, I had no choice,” Duncan whispered, closing his hand again and slumping back to sit on his heels. “Until he actually cut me, I thought he was legitimate.”

“You don't know him?” Arilan asked.

“No—but I wouldn't expect to recognize every last page or squire in my service. And with—with the
merasha
in me, I was afraid that if I didn't kill him while I still could, he might be able to outwait me, until I was helpless from the drug. Why did he do it?”

Morgan shook his head, reaching out gingerly with his mind as he slid a hand around the back of the boy's neck, where there was less blood. Sometimes it was possible to read just a little from a dead man's mind, if he had not been dead too long, but Morgan could detect nothing beyond a few hazy images of dim childhood memories, fading even as he read them. While Arilan and a monk began gathering up the scattered dispatches, he carefully searched the body for anything which might give them a clue as to the boy's identity or origin, but there was nothing. Duncan was beginning to weave as Morgan glanced over at him again, his blue eyes glassy from the drug, keeping them open only by the sheerest force of will. Cardiel had an arm around his shoulder to support him, but it was obvious that Duncan was slipping fast into the chaos of the
merasha
. Whoever the assassin had been, he had known his quarry to be Deryni.

“Thomas, why don't you take Duncan back to your quarters and see to his wound?” Arilan suggested softly, touching a hand to Cardiel's shoulder and including Morgan in his glance. “I'll see to the clean-up here and try to find out more about our boy-assassin.”

Cardiel nodded, he and Morgan helping Duncan to stand.

“Very well. You might check with the guards who let the boy into the compound. Perhaps someone may have recognized him. It would also be interesting to know whether he was the original messenger sent with the dispatches, or if the real one is lying dead in a ditch somewhere—or, at the least, relieved of his livery.”

Duncan went completely limp as Cardiel finished speaking, and Morgan and the archbishop together had to carry him back to the episcopal apartments. An hour later, washed and bandaged, Duncan was sleeping soundly in his own room, an exhausted Morgan running himself through a brief spell to banish fatigue.

“I'll try to heal him in the morning, when he's over the worst effects of the drug,” Morgan whispered, as he turned at last from Duncan's bed. “It's a nasty wound, but I didn't think it was a good idea to put my fingers into all that
merasha
.”

His hands were trembling as he took the cup of wine which Cardiel gave him, for going into Duncan's
merasha
-muddled mind had been a great personal trial, as well as a physically taxing one, forcing him to relive much of his own terrifying experience. He still kept flashing on the worst of it, unless he kept his mind on short leash. He knew he would have nightmares for days to come.

But Cardiel's touch on his shoulder conveyed genuine compassion and even understanding as he guided Morgan to one of the cushioned chairs beside the fireplace. Morgan guessed that the archbishop was remembering his own part in the later aftermath of that ordeal, when Morgan and Duncan had come to him and Arilan in Dhassa and disclosed all in desperate confession, seeking to make peace with the Church which had declared them excommunicate for what they had done to escape.

Morgan sat and sipped silently at his wine for several minutes, staring blindly into the fire and feeling himself gradually unwind, then laid his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes until Arilan returned. The fatigue-banishing spell did not seem to have worked very well, even though he tried it several times.

“I've been questioning some of the guards,” the Deryni bishop said, sitting beside Morgan after he had looked in on their patient. “Apparently the boy came from Ballymar, up on the north coast. He was trained in Duke Jared's household and page to one of the local barons for a while, but was dismissed. One of my informants seemed to think it had to do with Mearan sympathies.”

“Mearan sympathies?” Cardiel murmured. “How old
is
the lad?”

“Older than he looked,” Arilan replied, “and old enough to risk paying for his actions with his life. What puzzles me is why he tried to kill Duncan. It can't be over the Mearan bishopric. Everyone knows that Duncan was not a candidate.”

Duncan and Meara. Suddenly Morgan sat up straighter, remembering the conversation he and Duncan had observed between Judhael and old Creoda. They had assumed that Judhael was campaigning for his coveted bishopric. What came to Morgan now was an oblique approach to Judhael getting what he wanted, but its further potential was yet more chilling.

“No, it wasn't about the bishopric—at least not directly,” he said softly, reviewing the genealogical relationships in his mind just to make sure. “But Duncan is Duke of Cassan and Earl of Kierney. That makes him almost a prince in his own right—and his lands have not always gone by their present names.”

Arilan's deep blue-violet eyes lit in sudden comprehension. “The other half of ancient Meara,” he said with a nod. “Now, wouldn't
that
be a power base, if one wanted to break away from one's overlord and establish an independent holding? The two Mearas reunited!”

“And Duncan has no direct heir,” Cardiel added, catching the gist of what they were suggesting. “Who
is
his heir-at-law, Alaric? You? You're cousins, aren't you?”

Morgan grimaced. “Not in the right degree for this, I fear—and I say that not out of any greed to amass more titles and land, but out of concern about who comes ahead of me. There are three, actually—though I'd only thought about the first two until today. Neither Duncan's father or his grandfather had any brothers, but his grandfather had two sisters. The younger, my paternal grandmother, produced one son: my father. The elder sister also produced a son, however; and he married the Princess Annalind of Meara.”

“Queen Roisian's twin sister,” Cardiel whispered. “Then, Caitrin's eldest son is Duncan's heir!”

Morgan nodded. “Ithel; and after him, his brother Llewell. The girl isn't in the succession, though any eventual son of hers would be, if her brothers failed to produce heirs.” He paused to moisten his lips as the two bishops stared at him expectantly.

“You're still wondering who the third heir is, then. I'm surprised you haven't guessed.” He paused. “Caitrin also had a sister, and that sister had a son. Who else could he be but your good Father Judhael of Meara?”

As Cardiel's jaw dropped in disbelief, Arilan slapped an open palm against the arm of his chair and swore softly.

“I'm not saying he had anything to do with the attack on Duncan, mind you,” Morgan went on. “I simply point out that if it had succeeded, Judhael and his kin certainly stood to gain. All we really know about his politics at this point is that he wants very badly to be Bishop of Meara. If one of his Mearan cousins were Duke of Cassan and Earl of Kierney, that might make the whole thing fall together. The Bishop of Ballymar would have no choice but to support the candidate of his new duke's choice: Cousin Judhael. And with Judhael in the bishopric, that's added leverage to put his aunt on the throne of Meara—a united Meara, once she's gone and her son succeeds her in the south. It's ingenious, really.”

“Its diabolical, if you ask me,” Cardiel muttered, “not to mention treasonous. Denis, there must be something we can do. Perhaps we ought to call Judhael in and question him.”

Arilan considered the suggestion, running his pectoral cross back and forth distractedly on its chain, then lowered his gaze.

“On what grounds, Thomas? We've been interviewing the man all week. Other than the fact that he's ambitious, he almost shimmers, he's so pure. What Duke Alaric has just outlined is a theory only—an incredibly brilliant one, if we were Mearan—but we have no proof it has occurred to Judhael.”

“Well, use your powers to find out, then!” Cardiel blurted. “What good are they, if you don't use them?”

As Arilan sighed patiently, preparing to go into the argument he had used so often when trying to explain things Deryni to Cardiel, Morgan forced himself to put the temptation from his own mind. He had wrestled with this particular ethical problem before, not always successfully.

“Ultimately, it's a matter of ethics,” Arilan finally said, echoing Morgan's rationale. “I
have
used my powers all this week, Thomas—to gauge whether our candidates were lying about their qualifications. That I could do without their knowledge, and without revealing myself as Deryni.” He smiled. “Besides, they suspected Duncan was Deryni, and that helped to keep them honest: wondering whether he could read their minds—which he couldn't, of course, under those conditions, but they didn't know that.”

“Then, let Duncan be present, if you feel you need a decoy,” Cardiel insisted. “Or Alaric, since Duncan is temporarily out of action. Between the two of you, you should be able to get at the truth.”

“And if he really is just a godly man, with ecclesiastical ambition but no interest in politics?” Arilan asked. “Then we've made another enemy for Deryni.”

“Then, make him forget, afterward, if he's innocent!”

“And that begins to enter
really
hazy areas of conscience,” Arilan replied. “Truth-Reading is one thing. Using our powers to detect whether a man is lying can be justified, since it doesn't force action against a person's will. To
make
someone tell the truth, however—well, I think that requires more than just a vague suspicion that he may be hiding something. So does making him forget. Sometimes such measures can be justified in a life and death situation, or where the subject is willing, but where does one draw the line?”

“Are
you
so unsure of that line, then?” Cardiel snapped.

“Of course not. At least I pray to God that I'll never be tempted to cross over and misuse my powers. But it was abuse of power that gave us the atmosphere of the past two hundred years. It's what the Camberian Council was created to prevent.”

Morgan looked up sharply at that, for Arilan had scrupulously avoided discussion of the mysterious Camberian Council for the past two years. His reaction apparently reminded Arilan that he was beginning to speak of things best left unsaid to humans, even one as close as Cardiel. The Deryni bishop paused to regroup, shaking his head as he laid a hand on Cardiel's arm.

“Listen to me, Thomas. I'm flattered at your confidence in me, but you mustn't think all Deryni are like me, or Alaric, or Duncan, or you may get hurt one day. We've tried to be very careful not to do anything which might frighten you unduly, but you have to admit that we've made you more than a little nervous on more than one occasion—and you know and trust us. Think about the ones who don't have a strict moral code like the one we follow. How many feet in the door does it take to produce a Charissa or a Wencit of Torenth? Or an Interregnum? Alaric knows what I'm talking about, don't you, Alaric?”

Grudgingly, Morgan had to agree, though sometimes Arilan's scruples seemed to him to be rigid almost to the point of crippling. But in front of Cardiel was not the place to pursue that old argument. Cardiel himself required additional persuasion, but eventually he, too, had to admit that forcing Judhael to the question was premature.

“I still think Kelson should be told what has happened,” Cardiel said stubbornly. “And I don't think it should wait until he gets back in three or four days, either. That was fine when we were only talking about Istelyn, but now—”

For that, at least, Morgan had a Deryni solution.

“Not
all
of our powers are forbidden, Excellency,” he said quietly. “It's possible I might be able to reach Kelson in his sleep, later tonight. He won't be expecting it, but I can try.” Cardiel nodded happily as Morgan went on. “If that doesn't work, I'll leave for Transha in the morning, after I've seen to Duncan—unless you have a better idea, sir?” he queried, glancing at Arilan.

The Deryni bishop shook his head. “No, none. Given the bond I know binds you and Kelson, I shouldn't be at all surprised if your plan works. However, I also know how difficult it is to make the link at such a distance and without preparation at both ends. If you don't succeed, we'll make the time you need to get there physically.”

Arilan's confidence in his ability helped to take the edge off Morgan's earlier resentment at having to back off on questioning Judhael, but now that his own course was set for the next few hours, he needed some time alone. When he had assured himself that Duncan was resting more easily, and slipped briefly inside the priest's mind to deepen his sleep, he took his leave of the two prelates and headed for his own quarters. He tried not to think about how close Duncan had come to death, or the mortal helplessness Duncan had suffered under the influence of
merasha
, concentrating instead on the calm he would need if he hoped to succeed in reaching the king.

But distraction in the form of Judhael of Meara met him as he passed the open door of the chapel in the guest wing. Morgan stiffened as he saw him, mentally berating himself for even having glanced inside. Judhael and another vaguely familiar-looking priest were just coming out. The temptation at least to test whether Judhael had heard about the attack on Duncan was too enticing to resist.

“Your Grace,” Judhael murmured, as Morgan loomed in the doorway and blocked his exit, all diffidence and courtly courtesy to the king's champion.

“Father Judhael,” Morgan acknowledged. “I wonder whether I might have a word with you in private,” he said, glancing pointedly at Judhael's companion. “Perhaps we could step back into the chapel.”