The Deryni Archives Part 3

"I did. How did you know? Simonn, it was wonderful! I-"

Confused, Gilrae raised both hands to rub his temples before he realized that the right hand had obeyed just like the left one, and that there was no longer any pain. A strip of grey cloth bound his right arm from wrist halfway to elbow, but no unnatural bulge disturbed the clean line. Blood stained the snow where his arm had lain, but far less than he might have expected. Simonn was retrieving his dagger even as Gilrae started to speak, burnis.h.i.+ng the melted snow from blade and grip and extending it to him hilt-first.

"I believe your father's battle surgeon may have frightened you unduly," the old man said. "It shouldn't come back. You may still have some weakness for a few days, but I think you'll find that you can grip a sword-or anything else you may wish."

"But-"

Simonn shook his head and held up a hand to stop his question, then stood and shaded his eyes against the sun, gazing west beyond the ruins. As Gilrae, too, scrambled to his feet, steadying himself on the corner of the altar, Simonn began kicking fresh snow over the bloodstains at their feet, erasing the visible evidence of what had just occurred.

"Your brother is coming, and an escort with him," Simonn said, glancing up at him as he finished the job. "I fear he brings news which will sadden you-but at least you may now make your decisions based on what you really want, not what your physical condition seemed to dictate. If you value what I have done, say nothing of my part in this, I beg you."

"You have my word," Gilrae, promised.

But the old man was already gliding into the ruins, melting into the shadows, and so carefully had he chosen his escape route that even Gilrae, who had watched him go, could detect no sign of his pa.s.sage.

His brother's voice called out his name then, and Gilrae knew it was only a matter of a few minutes before he was found. Scuttling around the ruined altar in a panic, hardly daring to believe, he crouched in its eastern shadow and tore at the bandage on his arm with trembling fingers, safe for a few more minutes from even Caprus's prying eyes. Beneath the bandage, only a yellowed shadow of former bruising showed where once the fatal blackness had spread-that and a faint pink line where he thought his blade had gone. Of the growth there was no trace.

Amazed, he flexed his fingers and made a fist, watching the tendons ripple under the skin, feeling the muscles obey. A growing suspicion nagged at the edges of his mind about old Simonn, but the healing spoke for itself. He would worry later about its source-and the promise of the dream. For now, it was sufficient that a miracle had occurred, and that he had been given back his choices.

"Lord Gilrae?"

The voice of Sir Lorcan, his father's seneschal, brought him back to earth with a jolt, and almost guiltily he tugged his sleeve back into place and dropped the bandage onto the snow. No time for contemplating miracles just now. As he struggled to pull fur-lined gloves onto damp hands, he could hear the hollow clip-clop of iron-shod hooves treading on the flagstones far back in the ruined nave, and the sound infuriated him.

Fools! Could they not sense that the ground was holy still? How dared they bring horses into this place?

Indignant at the manner of their intrusion, he hooked his right hand around the hilt of his sword and stood. He did not intend to tell them what had happened just yet. They spotted him as he moved around to the front of the altar to wait for them, Caprus pointing in his direction and urging the rest of, them to follow faster.

The horses plunged through the snow and slipped and scrambled on the uneven flags, scattering the sheep, their riders watching the footing now, instead of Gilrae.

They were ten in all, Caprus and Lorcan in the lead. Caprus wore a stormy look, for all the pale handsomeness of his bright yellow curls, and Lorcan's lined face was as grave as Gilrae had ever seen it. Father Arnulf and Master Gilbert, the surgeon, rode at their backs, and behind them half a dozen men-at-arms in his father's livery-his livery now, he suddenly realized. The men's short lances were reversed in the stirrup-rests, the silver circlet of his father's coronet clutched in the priest's gloved fist. Despite the fact that he had been expecting it, Gilrae suddenly felt very cold.

"Take the horses out of the church," he said quietly, when they reined in at the transept and started to dismount. "Don't argue, Lorcan, just do it."

He could sense Caprus's beginning indignation, but Lorcan murmured something sharply under his breath and turned his chestnut hard into the chest of Caprus' grey, shouldering it into a turn even as the surprised Caprus bit back whatever he had been about to say. Wordlessly the lot of them withdrew halfway along the length of the nave, where Lorcan, Caprus, and the priest and surgeon dismounted and gave their reins to the remaining men. As the horses were led out of the church, the four made their way back toward the altar on foot, muttering among themselves. Lorcan drew slightly ahead and bowed as he reached the foot of the altar steps. He was wearing mail and leathers beneath his fur-lined cloak, as were Caprus and the surgeon.

"I'm sorry, Lord Gilrae. Your father is dead," he said, his breath hanging on the chill air. "He bade us bring you this."

As he gestured slightly behind him, the middle-aged Father Arnulf stepped forward and extended the coronet in unsteady hands.

"You are confirmed as the heir, my lord," Arnulf said, a shadow of pity flickering behind his eyes as Gilrae reached out to touch the gleaming metal with his left hand only. "Since the king has already acknowledged it, in antic.i.p.ation of this moment, there can be no question. May G.o.d bless you in your endeavors, my lord."

Gilrae could sense the effort it took them not to look at his motionless right hand, but he still was not ready to reveal himself. With a nod to acknowledge all of them, he came slowly down the altar steps. Caprus was watching him with an expression of sorrow mixed with envy, Lorcan looking very uncomfortable. Only the staid Master Gilbert seemed unmoved by it all, though the brown eyes held compa.s.sion.

"I thank you, Father," Gilrae murmured, dropping to one knee before the priest. "Would you do me the favor of blessing my father's coronet before you place it on my head? I shall have many difficult decisions ahead of me from this time forward and I shall surely need G.o.d's help to persevere."

Not even Caprus could dispute that. As the others knelt around him, warriors' harness clinking softly beneath riding leathers and furs, Gilrae bowed his head and let the priest's blessing roll over him like a wavelet on the lake at Dha.s.sa, trying to think. The coronet across his forehead was cold and heavy, its weight far more than mere metal, pressing into his very soul as he stood and turned away from them, averting his eyes.

The time was come to make his decision. He was baron, but he now had the means to change that, if he dared. Retreating slowly to the altar, he spread his gloved left hand flat on the snow-covered mensa as if in oath, lifting the fingers of his right to brush the edge, s.h.i.+elded behind his body where the others could not see. As the fingers moved and he stared at them, he knew he had not been spared to wear a coronet.

"Sir Lorcan," he said softly, over his shoulder, "were you my father's liegeman?"

"My lord, you know I was."

"And are you now my liegeman?"

"I am your man, my lord," came the crisp reply.

"Thank you. Call the rest of the men here, if you please."

He continued to face the altar, but he could hear uneasy stirrings from Caprus' direction and the low whisper of an exchange between Gilbert and the priest as Lorcan moved off a few paces to signal the men-at-arms to join them. When he sensed the arrival of the others, he drew deep breath and turned, very much aware of the weight of the circlet on his head. The men knelt in a semicircle at the foot of the steps, faces fiercely proud beneath their helmets. Caprus remained with the surgeon and the priest, looking vaguely uneasy as Lorcan moved halfway up the steps to bow.

"As you requested, my lord."

"Yes. Thank you." Gilrae turned his eyes on the men gazing up at him. "Gentlemen, Sir Lorcan has confirmed his continued fealty to me as Baron d'Eirial. Have I your loyalty, as well?"

To murmurs of affirmation, the men drew their swords and held them toward him with the hilts uppermost, gauntleted hands grasping the naked blades just below the quillons. Gilrae nodded.

"Thank you. I take your actions as oaths sworn. You may stand, but remain where you are, please. Lorcan?"

"My lord."

"Lorcan, I have need of your counsel. Caprus, please come forward."

As the men-at-arms rose and sheathed their weapons, and Lorcan moved silently to Gilrae's left elbow, Caprus came hesitantly to face his brother. He had blanched at the sound of his name, and his glove was tight across his knuckles where his left hand gripped the hilt of his sword as he walked. Wordlessly Gilrae came down the three steps from the altar, pausing where a s...o...b..nk stood knee high between them and motioning Caprus to join him. After a slight hesitation, Caprus obeyed, dropping uncertainly to one knee when Gilrae did not speak. Gilrae could sense Lorcan standing slightly behind him, but he did not take his eyes from his brother's. He did not know whether he would like the answer to the question he must now ask Caprus, but if he ever was to dare what his heart desired, an answer was demanded. He prayed G.o.d it would be the one he wanted to hear.

"How may I counsel you, my lord?" Lorcan asked quietly.

"A point of jurisdiction. Have I the right, as Baron d'Eirial and a knight of this realm, to mete High and Low Justice in my lands, to all my va.s.sals, great and small?"

"You do, my lord."

High Justice: the power of life and death. He had known it was so, but he had wanted to be sure. Before Caprus could do more than open his mouth to start to protest, Gilrae reached to his sword with his left hand and drew it hilt-first, thrusting it into the snow between them like a javelin.

"Hold your peace, Caprus!" he snapped. "Keep silence and consider well what I am about to ask you. I have my reasons, and I swear I bear you no ill will."

Caprus was trembling with outrage, fists clenched rigidly at his sides, but he said nothing as his brother hooked his other hand in his sword belt and looked down at him. Despite Caprus' repeated mutterings of resentment all their lives about the succession, especially when his mother was around, Gilrae seriously doubted that Caprus had ever been actively disloyal, but he had to be certain-and, more important, his men must be certain. Though he once more had choices open to him, those choices also carried responsibilities.

"Caprus d'Eirial," he said clearly, "I require your solemn oath, before G.o.d and these a.s.sembled knights, that you have never, in word or in deed, acted against either me or our father to the detriment of our people."

Caprus's lower lip was trembling, but he met Gilrae's gaze squarely. Pride and anger played behind the pale blue eyes.

"How dare you ask such an oath?" he demanded. "And why, after speaking of the High Justice? When have I ever given you cause to doubt my loyalty?"

"Place your hands on the sword and swear it, before G.o.d," Gilrae answered. "I am not required to tell you why. Only do it."

For one heart-stopping moment, Gilrae feared Caprus would refuse. The gravity of the question was apparent. But stiff-necked and arrogant as his younger brother sometimes was, Gilrae had never known him to be dishonest or forsworn. Could he not swallow his pride and give his oath?

"Swear it, Caprus," he repeated. "Please."

His faith was rewarded for the second time that afternoon, for all at once Caprus broke their defiant eye contact and yanked off both his gloves, laying bare hands firmly on the quillons, his thumbs resting on the center boss which concealed the sword's holy relics. The face he raised to Gilrae over the sword's cross hflt was tight-jawed, but otherwise expressionless.

"I swear before Almighty G.o.d and these a.s.sembled knights that I have always been loyal to our father and to you," Caprus said, the words clipped and precise. His gaze hardened, the jaw setting even more stubbornly, but then he seized the sword by its blade and jerked it from the snow, holding it aloft like a talisman between them as he went on.

"I do further swear, of my own free will and desire, that I am today become your liegeman of life and limb and of earthly wors.h.i.+p. Faith and truth will I bear unto you, to live and to die, against all manner of folk, so help me G.o.d!" He paused to wet his lips uncertainly. "And if you think I ever would have played you false, you're wrong, Gilrae-regardless of what my mother might have had you believe. I was born your lawful brother, and you are now my lawful lord!"

He brought the blade to his lips and kissed the reliquary boss boldly enough, but when he held it out to Gilrae for the oath to be acknowledged, his gaze faltered a little-not with duplicity, but an honest fear that Gilrae might not believe he was sincere. Hardly able to contain his relief, Gilrae took back the sword in his left hand, just under the quillons, and glanced aside at the puzzled Lorcan.

"Sir Lorcan, one further question. Among my other prerogatives as baron, have I the right to create a knight?"

"A knight? Aye, my lord, you do, but-"

As Lorcan moved a startled step closer, no less confused than the others murmuring among themselves, Gilrae shook his head and seized the hilt of his sword with his restored right hand, raising it blade-upward in salute to kiss the relics in the hilt. A gasp rippled among them all, for Gilrae had not been able to do that since his fall. The stunned Caprus could only gape at him in astonishment, springing to his feet to grab at Gilrae's sword arm and push back the sleeve to stare.

"Gilrae, your arm-!" he began, genuine joy lighting the blue eyes.

Echoing Caprus's grin, Gilrae pressed his younger brother back to his knees with his free hand and glanced out at all of them, still holding the sword before him.

"Gentlemen, while I prayed this afternoon, something happened that I can't explain," he said quietly. "I was near despair because I thought all my choices had been taken from me. G.o.d saw fit to give me all my choices back." He smiled down at his brother. "I hope you will not think ill of me as I give over part of the burden to you, Caprus. I believe it is something you have long wanted, despite your love, and I know now that you will prove worthy of the test."

Before Caprus or any of the rest of them could even begin to question, Gilrae drew himself up formally and raised the sword, bringing the flat of the blade down smartly on Caprus's right shoulder.

"In the name of G.o.d and Saint Michael, I dub thee knight, Caprus d'Eirial," he said. The blade lifted to touch the left shoulder. "I give thee the right to bear arms and the duty to protect the weak and helpless."

He brought the blade to rest on Caprus's yellow curls, sighting down the gleaming blade to his brother's tear-bright eyes.

"I give thee also the charge of our father's lands and the meting of justice, high and low," he added, for an instant s.h.i.+fting his glance out over the awed men watching. "Be thou a good knight and gentle lord to these, thy people."

He drew the scabbard from his belt and sheathed the sword, then laid both across the astonished Caprus's hastily raised palms before taking the coronet from his head. He held it high in both his hands, so that there could be no mistaking his fitness for the honor he pa.s.sed-and no mistaking his intent-then set it firmly on Caprus's head.

"Before G.o.d and these a.s.sembled witnesses, I renounce all claim to the lands and t.i.tles of Eirial, vesting them forever in this Caprus d'Eirial, my brother, true-born son of the late Radulf d'Eirial, and his lawful descendants. This is my irrevocable intent, which I hope will be confirmed without question by our lord the King."

Helping Caprus to his feet, right hand to right, he turned him to face the others. He wondered if his own contentment was as evident as Caprus's incredulous pleasure, and marveled that the choice could have seemed so difficult before.

"My lords, I here present your new Baron d'Eirial. I command you to give him the same loyalty you gave our father, and which you earlier pledged to me. Do it. I haven't got all night."

Lorcan swore. The men swore. Master Gilbert swore, and even the priest swore. But as Caprus and the others moved off toward the horses, whispering excitedly among themselves and glancing back in awe, Lorcan lingered.

"But, what will you do now?" the old knight whispered, staring as Gilrae watched Caprus and the others disappear against the sunset glare. "You've given up everything, my lord."

"I'm not your lord any longer, Lorcan-and I haven't given up anything that really mattered." Gilrae c.o.c.ked his head at the other man. "Don't you understand? Before today, I had nothing. And then I was given everything, so that I might choose what I really wanted." He pulled off his right glove and laid his restored hand on the ruined altar.

"Don't you see? This is where I belong. Oh, not here, at this poor, ruined altar. I'm as stunned as you are, that a miracle could have taken place where magic once held sway. But maybe that means that the magic wasn't evil to begin with-I don't know. I do know that I'm not the same man I was when I came here earlier today."

Closing his hand as if to cup something precious, he gazed beyond the altar to where a Presence lamp had burned in his dream.

"I think I've been given a sign, Lorcan-one that I can finally comprehend. It's what I was always looking for-you know that. I don't intend to throw away my second chance."

The old knight shook his head. "You're right. I don't understand." He snorted, then stuck out his hand, which Gilrae took. "If you've found your vocation, though, I pray G.o.d will prosper you, my lord."

"Not 'my lord' anymore, Lorcan. Just Gilrae-and maybe Father Gilrae someday, if what I pray is true."

"And if it isn't?"

"I think it is," he said with a smile. A slight movement had caught his eye off in the north transept, and he gave Lorcan's hand a final squeeze.

"You'd better go now, old friend. Your new lord is waiting, as is mine. Serve Caprus faithfully, as you would have served me. I have no doubt you'll find him worthy."

The old knight did not speak, but as he bowed over his former master's hand in farewell, he pressed his lips against its back in final homage, battle-scarred fingers briefly caressing the smooth flesh of the once swollen wrist. Then he was turning on his heel and striding down the steps, head ducked down in the collar of his cloak, stumbling a little as he receded down the nave.

Gilrae stared after him, sun-dazzled, then drew on his glove again and turned to lay his hands on the ruined altar once more, bowing his head in blind and wordless thanksgiving. He felt the sun die behind him, and the deepening shadows of the evening, and after a while longer, the touch of a hand on his right shoulder.

"Gilrae?"

"Adsum," Gilrae whispered.

Old Simonn's gentle chuckle floated on the air like music as the night's first snowflakes began to drift to earth. Out on the eastern horizon, Gilrae realized that the evening's first star was heralding a personal advent, as well as the coming of the Christmas King.

"Come, young friend," came Simonn's invitation. "But you must save that word for another than myself. Come and I'll take you to an unstained altar."

bethane summer, 1100.

With "Bethane," we s.h.i.+ft more than a hundred years to the timeframe of Morgan, Kelson, and the rest of the familiar characters of the CHRONICLES OF THE DERYNI. This particular story sprang from two sources: a brief reference in Deryni Checkmate to the summer when Alaric Morgan fell out of a tree and broke his arm; and a request to do a story about witches for an antholoy called Hecate's Cauldron. I'd never actually referred to old Bethane as a witch, but she certainly fulfills the usual stereotypes about crones and cauldrons and the like. Besides, I'd always been curious about her. Her brief appearance in Deryni Checkmate sketched just enough information to be enticing, and asked far more questions than it answered.

Who was Bethane? Who was Darrell, her husband? What happened to him? What happened to her, to make her the way she was? She wasn't always an old nag, living in the hills and eking out a miserable existence from sheep and the offerings of the locals for concocting the odd love potion or practicing folk medicine. She'd obviously had some contact with Deryni, but was she Deryni herself, though ill-trained, or was she something else, like Warin de Grey?

So I melded the two ideas-Alaric's tumble from the tree and the mysterious old woman in the hills, twenty years younger than when we saw her in Deryni Checkmate, though already an eccentric old hag-and turned the characters loose. I found out more than I'd bargained for about Bethane, her husband and his a.s.sociations, and another Deryni I hadn't expected to see in this context; and got yet another glimpse of those dark times of anti-Deryni persecution that had only just begun to ebb to a livable level by the time Alaric Morgan reached young manhood.

BETHANE.

Old Bethane shaded her eyes with a gnarled hand and peered out across the meadow with a frown. She had seen the approaching children before. Two of them were sons of the Duke of Ca.s.san; she didn't know about the other two. This time, the four were racing their s.h.a.ggy mountain ponies across her meadow at a mad gallop, beginning to scatter the scraggly sheep she had spent all morning collecting.

A low growl rose in her throat as she saw one of the boys lean down and whoop at a grazing ewe and her lamb. The ewe bolted in terror and lumbered out of the pony's way, the lamb scampering after, and Bethane lurched to her feet, brandis.h.i.+ng her shepherd's crook at the girl child, who was almost upon her.

"Here, now! You stop that!"

The girl's pony stopped stock still, but the girl continued on over the animal's head, legs all akimbo and skirts flying, to land in the gra.s.s with a thump as the pony whirled and retreated, bucking and squealing. Bethane grabbed the child's upper arm and hauled her to her feet, giving her a none-too-gentle shake.

"Got you now!" Bethane crowed. "What's the matter with you, riding through here like you owned the free air and frightening an honest woman's sheep? Well, speak up, girl! What do you have to say for yourself?"

As the girl raised wide blue eyes in astonishment, more stunned than hurt, the three boys came galloping toward her. The oldest looked to be twelve or so, though he carried himself like a soldier already. The other two were several years younger, one of them pale blond like the little girl.

"You let my sister alone!" the blond boy shouted, yanking his pony to a halt and glaring at Bethane quite fiercely.

"You'd better not hurt her!" the older boy chimed in. "She didn't mean any harm."