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those who will condemn the fruit of our love if they do not dismiss it as a wantonness on my
part and refuse to accept that the child is yours and, therefore, your heir. But even if the
world holds our son bastard, issue of my own indiscretion, still he is a Festil; and if neither
of us contracts other marriage, then he must be our heir and follow us upon the throne. Let
others think what they will. We are Deryni; we need no other justification!"
Wencit smiled a little at the arrogance, but he did not wholly disagree as his pale, almost
colorless eyes skimmed the rest of the letter. Like Imre and Ariella, he and his family were also
Deryni, masters of magical abilities not usually granted to ordinary men except, in annoying
cases, an occasional Haldane, though this current one, Brion, had evidenced no particular signs
of power. As Wencit read, the power of Ariella's love came through, even across two centuries
of time. He felt almost like an eavesdropper as his eyes drank in her last, private words to her
brother, and something akin to Imre's passion stirred in his loins as he imagined the fiery
Ariella suiting action to her promises. Surely theirs had been one of the great loves of all time.
Of such a love had he himself dreamed, in the days when he had considered marrying Charissa
himself. Not for the first time, he wondered what his father would do if something were to
happen to Nephew Aldred. He did not particularly wish the boy ill, but the dream was
tempting.
He sat staring out the window for a long time, indulging in a quiet fantasy which
vacillated between the live Charissa and the dead Ariella, then blinked and came back to
normal awareness as a disturbance at the main gate caught his attention. The banner at the
head of the troop which galloped through was that of his cousin Hogan, but of Hogan himself
there was no sign. In the midst of the mud-spattered company rode a slump-shouldered young
girl cloaked in blue, mounted on a mouse-grey palfrey.
She was sobbing in Aldred's arms by the time he could make his way down to the great
hall, her fair hair touseled around her face, sticking in damp tendrils and falling well past her
waist. He felt a sharp twinge of envy for the callow, sweaty-palmed Aldred, who dared to hold
her and give comfort at a time like this, but he suppressed it quickly. Charissa of Tolan was all
but betrothed to his father's choice. Any resentment he harbored must be kept carefully shielded
when among other Deryni, especially those of his family, with whom few barriers could be
maintained without suspicion.
His brother Carolus was there, and also his father, the king, though the old man had had
a bad day and leaned heavily on the arm of a liveried attendant. Hassan, Hogan's tactician and
the self-appointed bodyguard both to Hogan and his young daughter, was kneeling at the king's
feet, black robes dust- and mud-caked, part of his keffiyeh drawn over the lower half of his face
so that only the sorrowful eyes showed.
More battle-weary and grimy men-at-arms and a few knights were filing dejectedly into
the hall, leaving a trail of armor and helmets and weapons as squires helped them to disarm,
and Carolus gave brisk orders for their hosting before taking his father's arm and leading the
way into a withdrawing chamber behind the dais. When he had settled the king in a high-
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backed armchair, Carolus motioned the black-clad Hassan nearer. They were only six now: the
royal family, Char-issa, and the Moor. Hassan uncovered his face as he knelt once more before
king and crown prince.
"Very well, what happened?" Carolus asked.
Hassan lowered his eyes. "The Haldane waxed stronger, O my prince. What more can be
said? The infidel overwhelmed my master with stolen magic and then cut off his head. We had
no idea he possessed such power. Al Marluk should have been able to smash him like an
insect!"
"Al Marluk was betrayed by a fellow Deryni!" Charissa said bitterly, speaking for the
first time through her tears. "The half-breed Alaric Morgan helped the usurper. The taint of his
magic surrounded the Haldane princeling like a mantle. My father fell by treachery!"
Wencit exchanged a glance with his brother, then glanced at the king. The old man was
stunned by the news, taken anew by a bout of palsy; but his mind had not slipped, even if the
aging body insisted upon betraying him.
"Morgan helped him?" the king whispered. "The Haldane's squire? But he's still a boy."
"A boy older than I, Sire," Charissa replied haughtily, gathering the shreds of her eleven-
year-old dignity as she drew away from Aldred to stand alone. Wencit said and did nothing, but
he could not help but feel pride. She was a Festil; but she was also a Furstan, and might have
been his own. Her father would have been proud.
"How do you know Morgan helped the usurper?" the king persisted.
Charissa loosed the clasp of her cloak and let it fall to the floor, moving closer to the
table beside the king's chair. There she poured dark red wine into an earthen cup, almost
brimming the edge. Wencit stiffened, then moved closer to reinforce her if there was need. He
knew what she was about to try, though he could tell that Aldred did not, and Carolus only
suspected. The king knew, too, and nodded faintly as she took the cup in both hands and raised
it to chest level.
"See my father's death through my eyes, Sire," she said softly, bowing her head over the
cup and murmuring words under her breath as she passed a hand over the wine. "If I can hold
the power long enough, you shall see for yourself and decide whether Brion Haldane was acting
alone."
As she set the cup on the table and drew a stool closer, sitting, the others drifted nearer.
The king, Carolus, and even Hassan obviously understood now what she was about to do, and
Wencit knew that they could have done the same; but young Aldred had not yet mastered the
technique, even though he was four years older than Charissa and a year older than Alaric
Morgan. Wencit doubted it would give Morgan a moment's hesitation.
Knowing what she planned, he doused all the torches in the wall sconces with a gesture,
leaving only the candles on the table burning. Charissa gave him a taut half bow of thanks
before snuffing out all but one of the remaining candles. Stillness spread from her like mist as
she began to stare into the wine.
"See the clearing at the end of the Llegoddin Canyon Trace, where we met the Haldane's
forces," she murmured, breathing on the surface in an arcane pattern. "See my father's host
gathering as we waited for the Haldane. Feel the sunlight on your hands and faces and the
breeze stirring your hair. See the banners unfurl, silk and gilt, and hear them snapping
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r r
overhead. Smell the sweat and the fear and the clean, sharp scent of water and pine and
trampled earth..."
Images formed on the surface of the wine as she spoke, hazily at first, but then with
greater clarity and focus as the watchers themselves slipped into trance and became receptive
to the spell she cast. Wencit let himself become a part of it, truly seeing through her eyes and [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]