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a thing."
"Make sure a reports gets off to Nigel, though," Kelson said around a yawn.
Ewan only nodded patiently as Kelson laid back on the plaid, Cardiel
tucking a folded corner tenderly under his head.
"I do have one last question. Sire," Cardiel murmured, glancing
meaningfully at Ewan as Kelson closed his eyes and the old border chief leaned
nearer. "Is it true that Dhugal is really Duncan's son?"
Kelson barely had the energy to open his eyes and look at the archbishop.
"Who said he was?"
"Dhugal did, Sire," Ewan said. "Everyone's talkm about it. He said he was
Deryni, an' that Duncan was his father."
Smiling, Kelson closed his eyes again and sighed.
"It's true, Ewan," he breathed. "And it couldn't please me more that it's
finally out in the open."
"It pleases you that your foster brother is a bastard?" Cardiel gasped.
"He isn't a bastard. Kelson said around another yawn, "though damned if I
know how we'll ever prove that to anyone else's satisfaction. There was a secret
marriage. His mother died soon after he was born, and Duncan didn't even know
there'd been a child until a few months ago. That was all long before his
ordination, of course."
"Well, I'd realized that from the timing," Cardiel said, indignation in his
voice. "I wasn't concerned for Duncan's priestly status. But the implications for
Dhugal-"
"Tell you all about it in the morning, Thomas," Kelson murmured. "Ewan,
don't forget that report for Nigel...."
He was asleep before Ewan's reply could register, only vaguely aware of
the buzz of their voices, as they continued to speculate about Dhugal, and gentle
hands beginning to remove his armor as he slipped deep into dreamless,
exhausted sleep.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far country.
-Proverbs 25:25
One Deryni who could not yet allow himself the luxury of sleep was Bishop
Denis Arilan, back in Rhemuth. Nor had he slept much the previous night. As
Richenda and Nigel went out of the room, he settled back in his chair and closed
his eyes, wearily running a spell to banish fatigue as one hand absently fingered
the cross around his neck.
He did not envy Richenda and Nigel their next task. Since breaking the
Torenthi assassination plot the afternoon before, all three of them had taken
turns interrogating the prisoners-though the Deryni among them, three in all,
were kept apart in a specially warded cell until Nigel should decide what to do
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with them. The others even Arilan could interview with impunity, since their
memories could then be blurred to keep his Deryni identity secret.
It did not take long for a pattern to develop to the answers. though no one
man had full details of the plot. But careful correlation of all the information
gradually confirmed a convoluted scheme to kill Nigel (and as many of his three
sons as might conveniently be arranged), rescue the captive King Liam, and then
lie in wait for Kelson's return, so they could kill him, too. Or perhaps it was to kill
Nigel and young Liam and place Liam's brother Ronal on the throne of both
kingdoms, with his Uncle Mahael as regent. There were even hints that Morag
had, indeed, known of the plot and approved it, in all its permutations.
She would deny everything, of course. Richenda and Nigel were on their
way now to confront her on the issue; but because she was Deryni, they would not
dare to force her to the question. The notion that Morag might have condoned the
murder of her own son was too monstrous for Arilan to give it very serious
credence, but some lesser degree of participation in the plot was almost certain.
Captive queens were ever wont to intrigue for their escape, and a Deryni queen
would be more adept than most.
Oh, why could the Torenthi question not have lain dormant for a few more
years? With Wencit dead, young Alroy dead, and a child-king now on the
Torenthi throne once more-and another child-heir in the wings-would it have
been asking too much for the Council's worries to be confined to Gwynedd for a
change?
Sighing, Arilan pressed his palms across both eyes and took a last deep
breath to set his spell, feeling the fatigue wash out of his brain like indigo running
from fresh-dyed cloth in a mountain stream, finally clear. He sighed again as he
got slowly to his feet. The Council would be waiting.
But as he headed for Duncan's study, and the Portal there, passing the
dim-lit household chapel on the way, he found a different Deryni queen than the
one who had been most lately on his mind: Jehana, veiled head bent in prayer,
her white raiment washed palest azure by the glow of the votive lights that
burned before a statue of the Virgin close by the altar.
Surprised, for the basilica was Jehana's more usual place for devotions
when she left her apartments, Arilan paused in the doorway and cast out
cautiously with his mind-and recoiled as quickly, as he read the guilt and spiritual
anguish radiating from her.
The effort of shutting his shields to the disharmony set his head to
throbbing just behind his eyes, all of it magnified because of too little sleep,
undoing much of what he had accomplished with his fatigue-banishing spell. He
considered simply moving on, pretending he had not seen her, for any delay
would make him late for the Council meeting, but he knew he would regret it if he
passed up this opportunity to find out more about her motivations of the day
before. From what Nigel had told him, he had already deduced that she must
have learned of the plot through some use of her powers, else the decision to tell
Nigel of it would not have presented so anguished a proposition. He wondered
how she had justified her action, if only at the time-for she obviously was
regretting it now.
So he made his shields nearly transparent as he moved quietly into the
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chapel, trusting that measure to keep him from being recognized as Deryni if she
was, indeed, beginning to use her powers. He saw her tense as the rustle of his
cassock intruded on her meditation, but he kept his eyes downcast as he
approached to within a few feet of her and sank to his knees at a prie-dieu.
He prayed for wisdom and patience as he bowed his head m a brief prayer
of his own. When he looked up, she had just turned to glance at him furtively. She
flinched as their eyes met; but his acknowledgment of the glance made it
impossible for her not to acknowledge in return.
"Good evening, daughter," he murmured, rising gracefully to fold his
hands benignly at his waist. "I had thought all the household would be abed by
now-and you usually pray in the basilica. I hope I haven't disturbed your
devotions."
Her mind was as tightly shuttered as any Council Lord's; but if the shields
protected her from any would-be intrusion by him, they also protected him from
closer scrutiny.
"It doesn't matter," she whispered, so low he almost could not catch the
words. "I can't pray in the basilica anymore. It's all a sham anyway. God will not
listen. I am evil."
"Oh?" He cocked his head and looked at her more closely, certain now that
her part in the previous day's events had triggered this latest depression. "And
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