Katherine Kurtz - Deryni 1 - Deryni Rising.pdf - Katherine Kurtz - margozap

For

CARL M. SELLE who knew all along that it would begin this way.

A Del Rey Book

.Published by Ballantine Books

Conventions. Published in the United States by BaUantine Books, a division of

Random House, Iflc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of

Canada Limited, Toronto.

ISBN 0-345-30426-8

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition: August 1970 Twelfth Printing: October 1983

Cover art by Darrell K. Sweet

DERYNI RISING

CHAPTER ONE

"Lest the hunter become the hunted."

BRION HALDANE, King of Gwynedd, Prince of Meara, and Lord of the Purple March,

reined in his horse sharply at the top of the hill and scanned the horizon.

He was not a big man, though regal bearing and a catlike grace had convinced

many a would-be adversary that he was. But his enemies rarely had time to

notice this technicality.

Dark, lean, with just a trace of grey beginning to show at his temples, in the

precise black beard, he commanded instant respect by his mere presence in a

room. When he spoke, whether with the crackle of authority or the lower tones

of subtle persuasion, men listened and obeyed.

And if fine words could not convince, often the persuasion of cold steel

could. The worn scabbard of the broadsword at his side attested to that, as

did the slim stiletto in its black suede sheath at his wrist.

The hands that steadied the skittish war horse be-tween his knees were gentle

but firm on the red leather reins-the hands of a fighting man, the hands of

one accustomed to command.

If one studied him more closely, however, one was forced to revise the

original impression of warrior-king. For the wide grey eyes held promise of

much more than mere military prowess and expertise. Indeed, they glittered

with a shrewd intelligence and wit which were known and admired throughout the

Eleven Kingdoms.

And if there were a fleeting aura of mystery, of forbidden magic about this

man, that was discussed in whispers, if at all. For at thirty-nine, Brion of

Haldane had kept the peace in Gwynedd for nearly fifteen years. The king who

now sat his horse at the top of the hill had earned such infrequent moments of

pleasure as he now pursued.

Brion slipped his feet from the stirrups and stretched his legs. At mid-

morning, the ground fog was just lifting, and the unseasonable cold of the

night before still permeated everything. Even the protection of hunting

leathers could not wholly prevent the light chain mail beneath Brion's tunic

from chilling like ice. And silk beneath the mail was small consolation.

He pulled the crimson wool of his cloak more closely around him, flexed numb

fingers in their leather gloves, drew the scarlet hunt cap farther down on his

forehead, the white plume floating gently on the still air.

The sounds of voices, barking hounds, the jingle of burnished bits and spurs

and other horse noises drifted up on the mist. Turning to look back down the

hill, he could catch fleeting glimpses of well-bred horses moving in the fog,

their equally well-bred riders resplendent in finely embroidered velvets and

polished leather.

Brion smiled at that. For despite the outward show of splendor and self-

assurance, he was certain that the riders below were enjoying the jaunt no

more than he was. The inclement weather had made the hunt a chore instead of

the anticipated pleasure.

Why, oh, why had he promised Jehana there would be venison for her table

tonight? He had known, when he said it, that it was too early in the season.

Still, one did not break one's promise to a lady-especially when that lady was

one's beloved queen and mother of the royal heir.

The low, plaintive call of the hunting horns con-finned his suspicion that the

scent was lost, and he sighed resignedly. Unless the weather cleared

dramatically, there was little hope of reassembling the scattered pack in

anything less than hah* an hour. And with hounds this green, it could be days,

even weeks!

He shook his head and chuckled as Tie thought of Ewan-so proud of his new

hounds earlier in the week. He knew that the old Marcher lord would have a lot

to say about this morning's performance. But however much he might make

excuses, Brion was afraid Ewan deserved all the teasing he was certain to get

in the weeks to come. A Duke of Claibourne should have known better than to

bring such puppies out in the field this early in the season.

The poor pups have probably never even seen a deer!

The sound of closer hoof beats reached Brion's ears, and he turned in the

saddle to see who was approaching. At length, a young rider in scarlet silks

and leathers emerged from the fog and urged his bay gelding up the bill. Brion

watched with pride as the boy slowed his mount to a walk and reined in at his

father's side.

"Lord Ewan says it will be awhile, Sire," the boy reported, his eyes sparkling

with the excitement of the chase. *The hounds flushed some rabbits."

"Rabbits!" Brion laughed out loud. "You mean to tell me that after all the

boasting we've had to endure for the past week, Ewan's going to make us sit

here and freeze while he rounds up his puppy dogs?"

"So it appears, Sire," Kelson grinned. "But if it's any consolation, everyone

in the hunt feels exactly the same way."

He has his mother's smile, Brion thought fondly. But the eyes, the hair, are

mine. He seems so young, though. Can it really be nearly fourteen years? Ah,

Kelson, if only I could spare you what lies ahead . . . Brion dismissed the

thought with a smile and a shake of the head. "Well, as long as everybody else

is miserable, I suppose I feel a bit better."

He yawned and stretched, then relaxed in the saddle. The polished leather

creaked as his weight shifted, and Brion sighed.

"Ah, if Morgan were only here. Fog or no fog, I think he could charm the deer

right to the city gates if he chose."

"Really?" Kelson asked.

"Well, perhaps not quite that close," Brion conceded. "But he has a way with

animals-and other things." The king grew suddenly distant, and he toyed

absently with the riding crop in his gloved hand.

Kelson caught the change of mood, and after a studied pause he moved his horse

closer to the older man. His father had not been entirely open about Morgan in

the past few weeks. And the absence of conversation about the young general

had been keenly felt. Perhaps this was the time to pursue the matter. He

decided to be blunt.

"Sire, forgive me if I speak out of turn, but why haven't you recalled Morgan

from the border marches?"

Brion felt himself go tense, forced himself to conceal his surprise. How had

the boy known that? Morgan's whereabouts had been a closely guarded secret for

nearly two months now. Not even the Council knew just where he was, or why. He

must tread softly until he could ascertain just how much the boy knew,

"Why do you ask, Son?"

"I don't mean to pry, Sire," the boy replied. "Fm certain you have reasons

even the Council isn't aware of. I've missed him, though. And I $ink you have,

too."

Khadasa! The boy was perceptive! It was as though he'd read the unspoken

thoughts. If he was to avoid the Morgan question, he would have to steer

Kelson away from the subject quickly.

Brion permitted himself a wan smile. "Thanks for your vote of confidence. I'm

afraid you and I are among the few who've missed him, however. I'm sure you're

aware of the rumors afoot in the past weeks."

"That Morgan is out to depose you?" Kelson replied guardedly. "You don't

really believe that, do you? And that isn't the reason he's still at Cardosa,

either."

Brion studied the boy out of the corner of his eye, his crop tapping lightly

against his right boot where Kelson couldn't see it. Cardosa, even.

The boy certainly had a good source of information, whatever it was. And he

was persistent, too. He had deliberately turned the conversation back to

Morgan's absence, despite his father's efforts to avoid the issue. Perhaps

he'd misjudged the boy. He tended to forget that Kelson was nearly fourteen,

of legal age. Brion himself had been only a few years older when he came to

the throne.

He decided to release a bit of concrete information and see how the boy would

react.

"No, it isn't. I can't go into too much detail right now, Son. But there is a

major crisis brewing at Cardosa, and Morgan is keeping an eye on it, Wencit of

Torenth wants the city, and he's already broken two treaties in his efforts to

annex it By next spring we'll probably be formally at war." He paused. "Does

that frighten you?"

Kelson studied the ends of his reins carefully before replying. "I've never

known real war," he said slowly, his gaze shifting out across the plain. "As

long as I've been alive, there's been peace in the Eleven Kingdoms. One would

think men could forget how to fight after fifteen years of peace,"

Brion smiled and allowed himself to relax slightly. He seemed to have

succeeded in shifting the topic of discussion away from Morgan at last, and

that was good.

"They never forget, Kelson. That's part of being human, I'm sorry to say."

"I suppose so," Kelson said. He reached down and patted the bay's neck,

smoothed a stray wisp in the mane, turned wide grey eyes squarely on his

father's face.

"It's the Shadowed One again, isn't it, Father?"

The insight of that simple statement momentarily rocked Brion's world. He had

been prepared for any question, any comment-anything but a mention of the

Shadowed One by his son. It was not fair for one so young to have to face such

awesome reality! It so unnerved the older man that for an instant he was

speechless, open-mouthed.

How had Kelson known about the Shadowed One's threat? By Saint Camber, the boy

must have the talent!

"You're not supposed to know about that!" he blurted accusingly, trying

desperately to remarshaU his thoughts and give a more coherent answer.

Kelson was taken aback by his father's reaction and showed it, but he didn't

allow his gaze to waver. There was a touch of challenge, almost defiance in

his voice.

"There are a good many things I'm not supposed to know about, Sire. But that

hasn't kept me from learning. Would you want it any other way?"

"No," Brion murmured. He dropped his eyes uncertainly, searched for the proper

phrasing for what he must ask next, found it. "Did Morgan tell you?"

Kelson shifted uneasily, suddenly aware that the tables had turned, that he

was in deeper than he'd planned. It was his own fault. He'd insisted on

pursuing this matter. But now his father would not be satisfied until Kelson

followed through. He cleared his throat.

"Yes, he did-before he left," Kelson replied hesitantly. "He was afraid you

wouldn't approve." He wet his lips. "He-ah-also mentioned your powers-and the

basis for your rule."

Brion frowned. That Morgan! He was annoyed he hadn't recognized the signs

sooner, for he guessed now what must have happened. Still, the boy had done an

admirable job of keeping the knowledge a secret. Perhaps Morgan had been right

all along.

"How much did Morgan tell you, Son?" he asked quietly.

"Too much to please you-not enough to satisfy me," the boy admitted with some

reluctance. He hazarded a glance at his father's face. "Are you angry, Sire?"

"Angry?"

It was all Brion could do to keep from shouting with relief. Angry? The

inferences the boy had made, the guarded queries, the skill with which the boy

had played the conversation back and forth, even on the defensive-by God, if

not for this, then what had he and Morgan worked for all these years? Angry?

By Heaven, how could he be angry?

Brion reached across and slapped Kelson's knee affectionately. "Of course I'm

not angry, Kelson," he said. "If only you knew how much you'd put my mind at

ease. You gave me a few rough moments, granted.

But I'm more certain than ever, now, that my choice was the right one. I want

you to promise me one thing, though."

"Anything, Sire," Kelson agreed hesitantly.

"Not so solemn, Son," Brion objected, smiling and touching Kelson's shoulder

again to reassure him. "It isn't a difficult request. But if anything should

happen to me, I want you to send for Morgan immediately. He'll be more help to

you than any other single person I can think of. Will you do that for me?"

Kelson sighed and smiled, relief written all across his face. "Of course,

Sire. That would be my first thought in any event Morgan knows-about a lot of

things."

"On that I would stake my life," Brion smiled.

He straightened in the saddle and gathered the red leather reins in long,

gloved fingers. "Look, the sun's coming out. Let's see if Ewan's got those

hounds rounded up yet!"

The sky had brightened appreciably as the sun climbed toward the zenith. And

now the royal pair cast faint, short shadows before them as they trotted down

the hill. It had grown so clear, one could see all the way across the meadow

to the forest beyond. Brion's grey eyes scanned the scattered hunting party

with interest as he and Kelson approached.

There was Rogier, the Earl of Fallon, in dark green velvet, riding a

magnificent grey stallion Brion had never seen before. He seemed to be engaged

in a very animated conversation with the fiery young Bishop Arilan and-very

interesting-a flash of McLain tartan identified the third rider as Kevin, the

younger Lord McLain. Ordinarily, he and Rogier did not get along. (For that

matter, few people did get along with Rogier.) He wondered what the three had

found to talk about.He did not have time to speculate further. For the loud,

booming voice of the Duke of Claibourne drew Brion's attention to the head of

the ride. Lord Ewan, his great red beard fairly bristling in the sunlight, was

giving someone a royal chewing-out-not an unexpected event in the tight of the

hunt's success to date.

Brion half-stood in his stirrups for a better look. As he'd suspected, it was

one of the whippers-in who was getting die brunt of Ewan's anger. Poor man. It

wasn't his fault the hounds weren't performing well. Then, again, he supposed

Ewan had to have someone to blame.

Brion smiled and directed Kelson's attention to the situation, indicating that

he should rescue the unfortunate huntsman and placate Ewan. As Kelson rode

off, Brion continued to scan the assembly. There was the man he'd been looking

for-over by Rogier.

Touching spurs to his mount, he galloped easily across the turf to hail a tall

young man in the purple and white of the House of Fianna. The man was drinking

from a finely tooled leather flask.

"Halloo! What's this I see? Young Colin of Fianna drinking up all the best

wine, as usual! How about a few drops for your poor, shivering king, my

friend?"

He drew rein beside Colin with a flourish and eyed the flask as Colin lowered

it from his lips.

Colin smiled and wiped the mouth of the flask on his sleeve, then handed it

across with a jovial bow.

"Good morning, Sire. You know my wine is always yours for the asking."

Rogier joined them and deftly backed his stallion a few paces as Brion's black

reached out to nip. "Good morrow, My Liege," he said, bowing low in the

saddle. "My Lord is most astute to locate the finest brew in the company so

early. 'Tis a prodigious feat!"

"Prodigious?" Brion chuckled. "On a morning like this? Rogier, you have a

fantastic gift for understatement."

He threw back his head and took a long swallow from the flask, lowered it and

sighed. "Ah, 'tis no secret that Colin's father keeps the finest cellars in

all the Eleven Kingdoms. My compliments, as usual, Colin!" He raised the flask

and drank again.

Colin smiled mischievously and leaned his forearms against the saddle horn.

"Ah, Majesty, now I know you're just trying to flatter me so my father will

send you another shipment. That isn't Fianna wine at all. A beautiful lady

gave it to me only this morning."

Brion paused in mid-swallow, then lowered the flask with concern. "A lady? Ah,

Colin, you should have told me. I would never have asked for your lady's

token."

Colin laughed aloud, "She's not my lady, Sire. I never saw her before. She

merely gave me the wine. Besides, she'd doubtless be honored should she learn

you sampled and enjoyed her brew."

Brion returned the flask and wiped across his moustache and beard with the

back of a gloved hand. "Now, no excuses, Colin," he insisted. "It's I who have

been amiss. Come and ride at my side. And you shall sit at my right at supper

tonight Even a king must make amends when he trifles with a lady's favor."

Kelson let his mind and eyes wander as he rode bade toward the king. Behind

him, Ewan and the master-of-hounds had finally reached a tentative agreement

as to what had gone wrong, and the hounds seemed to be under control again.

The whippers-in were keeping them in a tight pack, waiting for the royal

command to proceed. The hounds, though, had their own ideas, which did not

include waiting for kings or lords. It was questionable just how long the

huntsmen would be able to hold them.

A flash of royal blue to the left caught Kelson's eye as he rode, and he

immediately identified it as his uncle, the Duke of Carthmoor.

As brother of the king and ranking peer in the realm, Prince Nigel was

responsible in a major way for the training of some thirty young pages of the

royal household. As usual, he had some of his charges in tow today, and as

usual, he was engaged in one of his seemingly endless battles to teach them

something useful. There were only six of them along on the hunt today, and

Nigel's own three boys were elsewhere in the entourage, but Kelson could see

by Nigel's harried expression that these particular pages were not some of his

brighter pupils.

Lord Jared, the McLain patriarch, was offering helpful advice from the

sidelines, but the boys simply could not seem to get the hang of what it was

Nigel wanted.

Katherine Kurtz - Deryni 1 - Deryni Rising.pdf

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