The Deryni Archives Part 17

Morgan chuckled softly in the dimness. "Did we accept Brion's charge because we thought it would be easy, or because we loved Brion, love his son, and because it is right?"

"You're right, of course, Alaric," the priest sighed. "You know, I sometimes think you understand me better than I understand myself."

Morgan shoved Duncan playfully. "Not so serious, Father McLain. You've done your job well tonight. It was I who was at a loss. In spite of my penchant toward the lighter occult arts, I had no idea what would happen when Kelson made his move."

"But, of course, if you hadn't gotten the key from Brion, the whole thing would have been for nothing," answered Duncan. "I couldn't have helped at all without the brooch and the verse." He laughed quietly. "We'd better stop complimenting each other so that I can get back to the rectory. If I were missed there, it would not be too pleasant, and it would be rather difficult to explain my presence, were I discovered here in the morning. Besides," he added, going back into the room, "there's nothing more that I can do for Kelson tonight. Barring some unforseen event, he should sleep until dawn. And you need to rest, too, Alaric."

Morgan agreed as the two men clasped hands at the pa.s.sageway, and then Duncan slipped through the entrance, which whispered shut behind him.

Unclasping his cloak, Morgan pulled an over-stuffed chair near the prince's couch and sank down wearily, pulling the cloak around him blanket-wise. He watched Kelson alertly for some moments, and when he had satisfied himself that the prince still slept soundly, he pulled off his boots and relaxed confidently, knowing that he would awaken in an instant, should any situation in the room change.

VI.

As Morgan opened one eye, the morning stillness was broken abruptly by a staccato rapping at the door. Instantly alert, he glided to the door and shot back the bolt. A scarlet and blue liveried valet bowed deferentially before him.

"Pardon, Your Grace," said the man earnestly, "but the dressers wish to know when they may come to robe the King for his Coronation."

"Send them in about a half an hour," he answered, "and please ask the guard to send for Father McLain. His Highness will wish to see him before the procession to the Cathedral."

The valet bowed and hurried away as Morgan closed the door. Padding softly to the balcony, the general drew the satin drapes to let the pale morning suns.h.i.+ne stream in, then added wood to the dying fire to warm the icy room. He had just taken a thick woolen dressing gown from the wardrobe, and was pulling it on, when he realized he was being watched. He turned and smiled at Kelson as he knotted the sash around his slim waist.

"Good morning, my prince," he said cheerfully, crossing to Kelson's couch and sitting on the edge.

"The temperature dropped considerably during the night-it will be a cold Coronation Day."

"What time is it, Morgan?" asked the prince, sitting up in bed.

"Not as late as you think, my prince," laughed Morgan, pus.h.i.+ng Kelson back on the couch. "Your clothiers will not be here for half an hour, your valet has already prepared your bath, and it is two hours before the procession is to begin. How is your hand?"

He reached across and unwound the bandage to inspect the wounds. "A little bruised, but no great damage done. We'll dispense with the bandage. How do you feel?"

"I feel fine, Morgan. Can I get up now?"

"Certainly, my prince." He gestured toward the dressing room. "I'll send your dressers in as soon as they arrive."

Kelson wrinkled his nose in distaste as he threw back the blankets and climbed out of bed. "Why do I have to have dressers, Morgan? I can dress myself."

"Because a king must have dressers on his Coronation Day," laughed Morgan, propelling the lad toward the door. "After today, you may fire all your personal servants if you so wish, but today you will be robed as befits a king-you're not supposed to clutter up your mind with the mechanics of putting on strange robes when you should be contemplating the responsibilities of kings.h.i.+p-and this means dressers, six of them." He raised his eyebrows in mock horror.

"Six!" groaned Kelson, but he chuckled gleefully as he scampered through the dressing room door. "Morgan, I sometimes think you do these things deliberately." The rest of his speech was cut off by the closing of the door.

Morgan chuckled as he strolled toward the fire, but stopped still when he caught his reflection across the room. Did he really look like that? He glanced down ruefully at his wrinkled tunic, musing that it had done it little good to sleep in it, and ran a hand across a sand-papery chin. The clothes would have to do, since he had no others with him, but the beard... He set to work with soap and razor and had just succeeded in ridding himself of the night's growth when there was a knock at the door.

"Come in," he called, wiping soap out of his eye.

The door opened a crack, and two blue eyes, topped by a shock of straight brown hair, peered around the edge.

"Aha!" said the voice belonging to the eyes. "The prodigal seeketh to amend his appearance. Here." Duncan tossed a large bundle at his surprised friend.

"What?" began Morgan. "Duncan, where did you get these?"

"Oh," said the young priest, as he strolled nonchalantly to where Morgan burrowed in the clothes, "I thought the King's Champion might need garments suitable for the Coronation."

"The King's Champion? How do you know?"

"Well, Kelson tells me a few things that he doesn't tell you. Besides, who did you think it would be, you crazy war horse? Me?"

Morgan laughed delightedly as he shook his head and stripped off his clothes to begin donning fresh garments.

"How's Kelson's hand this morning?" asked the priest, handing Morgan a long scarlet s.h.i.+rt of silk. "I thought I detected a scent of merasha when you dressed his wound last night." He gave Morgan a sidelong look.

"The hand is fine," retorted Morgan sheepishly, as he laced up his s.h.i.+rt, "and I was hoping you hadn't noticed the merasha. A certain aged tutor of mine would be very upset were he to learn that a priest knew of his dealing in the occult arts."

"Just stay within your own level, Alaric. I'd hate to see you get mixed up in magic you can't handle." He handed the general black silk hose and breeches, which Morgan quickly donned.

"Where is Kelson now?"

"In the bath. He was somewhat, ah, 'upset' about requiring dressers; wanted to know why he couldn't dress himself. I told him that this was one of the trials of kings.h.i.+p, and that at least for today he would have to put up with them."

Duncan chuckled. "He'll be glad for them when he sees everything he has to wear." He sat down, holding out Morgan's light mail jerkin. "Many's the time I've been grateful for even one a.s.sistant to help me vest for a very high Ma.s.s. Aie," he mused, "there are always so many little laces and ties."

"Here, give me that," snorted Morgan waggishly, as he s.n.a.t.c.hed the jerkin and slipped it over his head. "You know you love it." He wiggled his feet into the s.h.i.+ning black boots which Duncan proffered, and there was a knock at the door.

"Kelson's dressers," announced Morgan, giving the buckles a final tug. "Come in."

Six men in precise scarlet livery marched in and bowed crisply, their arms laden with robes and boxes and bundles.

"We are the royal clothiers, Your Grace," stated the first.

Morgan nodded and directed them toward Kelson's dressing room. When they had gone, he shook his head and smiled.

"I pity the poor boy now. You know how he hates to be fussed over."

Duncan shrugged noncommittally as he handed Morgan a black velvet doublet edged with gold and rubies. "It's good for him to know these things, Alaric."

He helped Morgan adjust the wide, split sleeves to show the scarlet beneath, then wrapped a wide satin sash around the general's slim waist.

"My, my, my," he chided, clipping Morgan's sword to a hidden ring on the crimson sash. "I do believe you'll be the most devilishly handsome Champion we've had in a long time."

Morgan paraded before the mirror, strutting like a small boy with a new plaything. "You know, Duncan?" he bantered gaily, "You're right!"

Duncan nearly dropped the crimson-lined cloak he was holding to punch Morgan playfully in the arm.

"And you will also be the most conceited Champion we've ever had!"

He ducked Morgan's retaliatory punch to wag a finger at him in mock indignation from behind a chair.

"Ah, ah, ah. Remember, I am your spiritual father, and I only tell you this for your own good!"

He and Morgan nearly collapsed on the floor in their merriment.

"Quick," gasped Morgan, out of breath, "put my cloak over all this splendor before I explode of puffed-up pride!"

This merely set them laughing again, but they did manage to clip the cape to Morgan's shoulders before they lost control and slumped weakly into two chairs.

A red-liveried clothier poked his head through the door. "Is anything wrong, Your Grace?" he inquired, his eyes round.

Morgan waved him off, still chortling quite delightedly. "No, no everything is fine," he answered, regaining some measure of composure. "But is Prince Kelson ready yet? Father McLain must leave for the Cathedral."

"I'm ready now, Father," said Kelson, sweeping into the room.

Morgan and Duncan rose in unison, almost unbelieving that this white-and-gold clad king was the same boy who had knelt with them so frightened the night before. All in silk and satin, he stood before them like a young angel, the creamy whiteness of his raiment broken only by the play of gold and rubies encrusting the edges. Over the whole was thrown a magnificent ivory cloak, the satin stiff with gold and jewel-work, and in his hands he held a paid of spotless kid gloves and a pair of gold-chased silver spurs. His raven head was bare, as befits an uncrowned monarch.

"I see that you have been informed of your new office, Morgan," he said impishly. "Here," he held out the spurs, "these are for you."

Morgan sank to one knee, his golden head bowing in obeisance. "My prince, I am at a loss for words."

"Nonsense, Morgan," retorted the prince, grinning wryly. "You'd better not be tongue-tied when I need you most." He motioned him to rise. "Here, take these and let my royal clothiers help you finish dressing while I speak with my confessor."

He motioned Duncan to join him on the balcony and closed the doors. Through the gla.s.s, they could see the dressers fussing over an annoyed Morgan.

Kelson smiled. "Do you think he will be very angry, Father?"

"I doubt it, my prince. He was too proud when you walked into the room to be angry for long."

The young prince smiled fleetingly and looked out over the city. "Father," he asked in a low voice, "what makes a man a king?"

"I'm not sure anyone can really say, my son," answered Duncan thoughtfully. "It may well be that kings are not so different from ordinary men after all; except of course, that they have a graver responsibility." Kelson mulled the answer for a long moment, then turned and knelt at the feet of the priest.

"Father, give me your blessing," he said, bowing his head. "I do not feel at all like a king."

VII.

Thomas Gray son, Archbishop of Sorandor, surveyed the mounting crowd in the streets below his archepiscopal palace with awe and not a little apprehension as he awaited the hour of the Coronation. In spite of the bitter cold of the November morning, there were more people in the streets then he could ever remember seeing, even at Brion's Coronation fifteen years before. And yet, it was not a joyous crowd, as it would have been, but a quiet and well-mannered one, each upturned face etched in fearful expectation.

They know what their king must face, he thought grimly, and they fear for him, as do I. And must we all really stand by and watch him fall, with none to lift a hand to save him? Or have Morgan and Duncan some plan, some unknown factor we have not allowed for? Dare I hope?

Sighing resignedly, he turned from his vantage point to prepare for his vesting. Then, once Duncan had arrived, and the retinue had a.s.sembled, they would all go to the door of the Cathedral to await the arrival of their new king, and lead him inside to be presented to his people.

Picking up the Lion brooch, Kelson fingered it absent-mindedly for a moment, then, as an afterthought, pinned it to his tunic.

"The coaches are ready for the procession, my prince," called Morgan from the door. "Shall we go?"

"I'm coming," answered Kelson, casting a final look around the room.

"The room will still be here after the Coronation, you know, my prince."

"Yes," replied Kelson wryly, "but I was just wondering whether or not / would still be around."

Morgan marched briskly into the room and took Kelson's arm. "Now, I want to hear no more of that kind of talk," he stated, leading the prince to the corridor where his guard of honour waited. "Three hours from now you will be the legally crowned King of Sor-andor, and nothing is going to keep that from happening, including your blue friend."

Kelson smiled grimly as they made their way to the downstairs courtyard where the procession waited. "I'll keep that in mind," he said, "though I fear that our blue friend may have other plans for me."

In the courtyard, the entire royal household was gathered to see its young master off, and the people parted before the young prince as he and his bodyguard moved toward the queen and her carriage.

Surprise at her son's transformation was evident in Sanil's wide green eyes, and she smiled shyly when Kelson bent to kiss her hand in greeting.

"Kelson, my son," she murmured as he helped her into her carriage, "you are a man today. I did not know..."

Morgan stood contentedly in the background, studying the change in the young queen. He noted with approval that she had set aside her mourning attire in deference to her son's Coronation, in spite of the recency of her bereavement. And except for the black lace veiling her emerald tiara, she was clothed in the customary dark green velvet which set off her copper hair and creamy skin to perfection--the green that Brion had loved so well.

Now, as she conversed with Brion's son, she was nearly as radiant as she had been before her tragedy. And when Kelson at last bade farewell, she gazed fondly after him, wonder and pride for her son apparent in every line of her body.

As the young king climbed into his carriage, he and Morgan exchanged triumphant glances, and Morgan signalled the parade-master to begin the march. Swinging up on his ebony war horse beside the royal coach, the young general saluted his monarch, and the entourage began to move slowly towards Sorandor Cathedral.

"Stop pacing, lan," snapped the Blue One, adjusting the sapphired coronet on her silvered hair. "You make me nervous."

lan stopped almost in mid-stride.

"Sorry, my pet," he replied good-naturedly. "But I have antic.i.p.ated this day for many months now, and I'm anxious to be off. You know how I detest waiting."

"Yes," she smiled enigmatically, "I know. I only hope you will not be too disappointed. Even though this young upstart prince does not have his father's power, we must contend with Morgan." She rose distractedly.

"Ah, yes. Morgan. He is the one to watch for. I fear him, lan, and I fear the power he might wield over our young prince. You must be sure to cut him down in the first moments of your duel-otherwise he may out-fence you. There are rumours that he dabbles in magic, too, though I take little note of such tales. Nevertheless, he is to be destroyed at all costs. Do you understand?"

lan bowed unctuously. "Of course, my pet," he intoned as he gathered up her silken cloak and brought it toward her. And after we have eliminated Morgan and his prince, I shall gladly eliminate you, he thought to himself.

He reached his arms around her to fasten the cold, jewelled clasp at her ivory throat.

"Horses and escort await us at the portal, my lady."

"Thank you, my Lord lan," she retorted, giving him a sidelong look. "And now, let us be off."

She gestured expansively, and lan, with a bow and a flourish, threw open the doors. Flanked by four blue-liveried guardsmen, the Blue One and lan swept down the marble corridor toward their rendezvous with Prince Kelson.

VIII.

Kneeling in the great Cathedral, Kelson quickly reflected on the events of the past hour as the Archbishop's voice droned on and on. After entering the Cathedral in solemn procession accompanied by Archbishop Gray son and a dozen prelates of the Church, he had been presented to the people as their rightful sovereign and had, before them and Almighty G.o.d, sworn his oath of kings.h.i.+p. Then he had been anointed on head and hands with the holy chrism as a sign of his divine right to rule and knelt for the Archbishop's blessing.

The Archbishop's prayer ended, and Kelson rose to be invested with the symbols of his office, several priests stripping off the jeweled ivory mantle he had worn as Prince of Sorandor. The golden spurs of knighthood were strapped to his heels, and Morgan, as King's Champion, brought forth the sword of state to be kissed by the young monarch and returned to the altar. Dun-can and the other prelates were fastening the glittering crimson robe of state about his shoulders when the silence was broken by the echo of steel-shod hooves ringing cold against the cobbled streets outside. Beyond the heavy doors of the Cathedral, chain mail clanked menacingly against naked metal.

As Kelson, his back to the doors, seated himself upon the coronation chair, he flashed a lightning query at Morgan, who nodded almost imperceptibly and edged closer. As the Archbishop gave over the royal sceptre, the Cathedral doors swung open with a m.u.f.fled crash, and a gust of icy wind swept down the nave, the only sound save the low admonition of the Archbishop.

Stiffening slightly, Kelson saw Morgan freeze as footsteps began to echo down the narrow nave, and he watched the gloved hand of his Champion creep toward the hilt of the great broadsword as the Archbishop raised the gold and crimson ring of fire.

Breathing a small prayer that he would be able to face the Blue One's power, Kelson extended his hand to receive the ring. And as the cool metal circlet glided into place on his forefinger, he broke into a small but triumphant smile which was only skillfully kept from being mirrored in the faces of his two friends. To the side, he saw his mother's face go pale as the hollow footsteps came to an abrupt and ominous halt at the transept.

The Archbishop, ignoring the interlopers, raised the jewelled and filigreed crown of Sorandor.