"Katherine Kurtz - 02 - King's Justice" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kurtz Katherine)

They could not hear what Nigel said to the lad, though his words brought an immediate flush of scarlet to the downy cheeks. Almost at once, the boy found his balance and was standing up, erect if shaky, but moving more and more confidently with the gait of the horse. Lent new bravery by his companion calling encouragement from behind him, he even began to grin as Nigel nodded approval and started slowly backing toward the center of the circle the old stallion trod.
"God, I'm glad I've got Nigel," Kelson whispered, echoing Morgan's own appreciation of Gwynedd's Iron Duke. "I suppose kings have always had to ride off to battle not knowing how their heirs will handle things if they don't return, but at least with Nigel after me, Gwynedd will be in good hands."
Morgan glanced at him sharply. "No prescience of impending doom, I hope?"
"No, it isn't that."
Morgan raised an eyebrow at the note of distraction in the royal answer, but he said nothing, only noting how the king had begun twisting at a gold ring on the little finger of his left hand. Briefly it had been Kelson's bridal token to the Mearan princess who now slept eternally in the vaults below Rhemuth Cathedral; the ring had a tiny Haldane lion etched on a facet pared from along the top of the band, the eyes set with miniscule rubies. He had worn the ring constantly since the day of her burial. Likewise, when court protocol did not dictate otherwise, he had taken to wearing black. He was so attired today, not even a circlet adorning his royal head.
Nor did Morgan know how much the outward symbols of mourning reflected the true extent of the king's grief. Kelson said that both gestures were but visible reminders of the vow he had made to bring the Mearan rebels to justice, but Morgan wondered whether the significance might run deeper- though he would not have dreamed of prying. Faced with a marriage of state to a girl who had been bred to hate his very name, Kelson had let himself retreat to the more comforting fantasy that he was falling in love with Sidana, and she with him. By the time they recited their vows before the high altar, he had nearly convinced himself that it was true-or at least that he eventually could have caused it to be true.
Her violent death, then, before the fantasy could be tested in the reality of a consummated marriage, had left the young king foundering in a sea of unresolved adolescent passions and shattered ideals. Playing the grieving and aggrieved widower gave him time to sort things out before circumstances forced him once more into the matrimonial sea. Both he and Morgan knew that he would have to marry again, however, and fairly soon. And as before, he would always have to place dynastic considerations firmly before considerations of the heart.
"Well, it's natural to be a little nervous about tonight," Morgan said, guessing apprehension rather than grief to be behind today's mood. "Don't worry. Nigel will do fine. You've been preparing him all winter for this."
"I know."
"And you'll do fine," Morgan continued, covering that aspect as well. "Why, I'll wager that no Haldane king since Cinhil himself has had so many Deryni to help him designate his magical heir. Your father certainly didn't. All he had was me."
"What do you mean, all?" Kelson snorted, though the protest was a little too quick to be quite as casual as he tried to pretend. "Why, I'd rather have you standing at my back than any other man I can think of - no matter what I was about to do. And as far as magic is concerned-"
Morgan quirked him a quick, lopsided smile and chuckled aloud, knowing he had guessed correctly.
"As far as magic is concerned, you might do better with just about any trained Deryni at your back," he said lightly. "Even Duncan and I don't have a full set of training between us."
"Maybe not, but maybe formal training isn't that important. Besides, Richenda's trained. And Arilan."
"Arilan." Morgan sighed and managed not to look as uneasy as he felt. "You're aware that he'll tell the Council every detail, aren't you?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps not."
"Kelson, you know he will. Despite his apparent loyalty to you, he has oaths of far longer standing with the Council- and far more binding. Even I know that."
"Well, they'll have to find out sometime, I suppose," Kelson murmured. "Besides, they've got access to records we'll need if we're ever to restore Saint Camber to his place of honor."
"So you'll compromise our security."
"No, I'll encourage further dialogue among fellow Deryni." Kelson smiled. "Did you know that old Laran ap Pardyce has begun to use our library, for example? His scholar's mind couldn't stand not knowing what we had. And as a physician, he's fascinated that you and Duncan can heal-though he won't admit that to very many people."
"And just how do you know that?"
"Oh, I've met him there, once or twice."
Before Morgan could respond to that new piece of information, a raucous whoop from Rory and Payne, Kelson's younger Haldane cousins, drew their attention back to the archery match, where Dhugal had just put his last arrow squarely into the center of the target.
To a patter of appreciative applause from the watching ladies, Conall moved forward to take his last shot-though there was little chance he could even come close to Dhugal's, much less beat it. Nor did he.
"Well, that's that," Kelson said, as Conall's arrow thumped home a full handspan from Dhugal's-respectable enough shooting, but clearly not in Dhugal's class.
The ladies again applauded-for a prince was nearly as good a catch as a king-but Conall all but slammed down his bow, though he did manage a stiff little bow of acknowledgment before stalking off sullenly toward the stables. Kelson glanced wistfully at Morgan as a subdued Rory and Payne trailed along with Dhugal to retrieve the arrows from the target.
"Well, well, well," he said, sliding to his feet off the stone balustrade, "that was nearly far more exciting than anyone would have wished. Let's go congratulate the winner, shall we? I don't know how, but he even managed to keep Conall from losing his temper."
"Which is an achievement in itself, aside from the brilliant shooting," Morgan replied, as they headed down the stair and into the yard. "Perhaps one may venture to hope that Conall is learning."
"Aye. Perhaps the presence of the ladies helped a little."
They were waiting at the firing line when Dhugal returned, Rory and Payne carrying the arrows in adoring attendance. After the boys had made their duty to Kelson, Payne chattering excitedly about Dhugal's victory, the young border lord sent them on their way and gave his foster brother his own casual yet respectful salute. In public, at least, he was always careful to give Kelson the deference their ranks required.
"Well shot, Dhugal," Kelson said, smiling. "And a well-managed victory."
Dhugal inclined his head and returned the smile, golden-amber eyes meeting Haldane grey, exactly aware what Kelson meant.
"Thank you. Sire."
Though still not as tall as Kelson, he, too, had shot up over the winter-to the dismay of the castle armorers, who must even now rush to complete the season's second alteration of his steel and leather brigandine, before he left on campaign on the morrow. He wore new boots and supple new leather britches of the same russet hue as his border braid, but the linen tunic was old, and pulled across the chest, the sleeve not bound with an armguard for archery hitting well above the wristbone. He had laid aside his plaid in the noonday sun, but no one would have mistaken his rank.
No sword hung from the gilded earl's belt circling his narrow waist, but he wore a border dirk at his left hip, with a water-pale amethyst set in the hilt. The three eagle feathers of a border chief bristled from behind a MacArdry badge on his leather border bonnet.
Dhugal grinned as he dropped his arrows into a standing quiver, large, square front teeth flashing bright-white beneath the sparse, silky smudge of mustache that, at sixteen, was all the facial hair he could yet produce.
"Care to shoot a round, Sire?" he asked impishly. "We missed you just now."
Smiling benignly. Kelson picked up Conall's discarded bow and tested its pull, then nocked an arrow to string and casually drew.
"Conall didn't miss me," he said, letting fly and holding as he watched the arrow thump precisely into the center of the target. "And Conall hasn't yet learned the graceful art of losing."
He ignored the flurry of applause and the sighs of appreciation from the watching ladies as he lowered the bow and took another arrow from the wistful Dhugal, laying the shaft across bow and string and carefully fitting nock to string again.
"I see," Dhugal said, not resentful, but curious. "So I get the job of humbling Conall."
Almost lethargically, Kelson raised the bow and began to draw again, closing his eyes and turning his face slightly away from the target as he locked into full-draw.
"At least it was an honest competition," he said softly, releasing his second arrow after the final word.
Eyes still closed, he held the position as the arrow made its flight, lowering the bow to look at Dhugal only when the arrow had thumped home precisely beside the first, the two shafts touching all along their length, the fletching on the two arrows indistinguishable from one another. The ladies applauded even more enthusiastically, and Kelson half-turned briefly to glance up at them and incline his head slightly in graceful acknowledgment as Dhugal gaped.
"I'm afraid I must confess to taking what Conall could consider an unfair advantage on that one," the king admitted with a droll smile and a wink in Dhugal's direction. "Being Deryni does have its more mundane advantages."
He shifted his attention to Morgan. "And you will note, Alaric, that I am not totally insensitive to the interest of the ladies at my court," he went on. "I am simply cultivating an aloofness in keeping with my eligible status-though I must confess that it seems somehow to have taken on some of the mystery that you yourself used to generate when you were in your darkling phase-and still do, I suspect, known Deryni sorcerer that you are. Perhaps it comes from wearing black."
Any determination on Morgan's part to maintain decorum disintegrated into delighted laughter at that, for Morgan's own former penchant for black attire was well known and of only recent abandonment-and affected, in the past, for reasons very similar to those Kelson had just cited. Nowadays, he wore black for practicality, or because nothing else was handy-which was precisely why he had donned it this morning: serviceable black leathers over mail, for a predawn ride. The coincidence made Kelson's comment a singularly suitable retribution for Morgan's earlier jesting.
"Perhaps you ought to go ahead and try a shot," Kelson suggested, suddenly aware that the bewildered Dhugal was still puzzling over the implications of Deryni advantages. "Show Dhugal how we Deryni do it."
"You mean-"
Dhugal broke off in astonishment as Morgan merely raised an eyebrow and took up a bow, casually fitting an arrow to the string. He could not come to full draw with the shorter shaft the younger men used, but nonetheless his shot slammed squarely into the angle formed by Kelson's first two, even though he deliberately averted his eyes before locking on the target. Nor did he look up as he nocked and drew again, his second shot completing the square formed by the four shafts.