"Kurtz, Katherine - Deryni Chronicles 02 - Deryni Checkmate 1.1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kurtz Katherine)

The Grotto of the Hours was not large inside. Outside, its bulk reared a scant twenty feet above the level of the garden, the outer outline disguised as a rocky outcropping of stone in the midst of the garden paths. In spring and summer, small trees and bushes flourished green on the outside of the mass, with flowers of every hue. Water trickled down one side in a perpetual waterfall.
But inside, the structure had been fashioned to look like a natural cave, the walls irregular, rough, damp. As Morgan stepped into the inner chamber, he felt the closeness of the low ceiling arched above him. A swath of weak sunlight streamed through a high' barred and grilled window on the opposite side of the chamber, falling on the stark black marble sarcophagus which dominated that side of the room the tomb of Dominic, Corwyn's first duke. A carved stone chair faced the tomb in the center of the chamber. There was a candlestick with a stump of candle on the sarcophagus, but the metal was dulled by a winter's disuse, the candle stump mouse-nibbled and burned down.
But Morgan had not entered the grotto to pay homage to his ancient ancestor today. It was the rest of the chamber he was interested in the side walls of the cavern, smoothed and plastered, then inlaid with mosaic portraits of those whose special favor was thought to be on the House of Corwyn.
Scanning briefly, Morgan saw representations of the Trinity, the Archangel Michael slaying the Dragon of Darkness, Saint Raphael the Healer, Saint George with his dragon. There were others, but Morgan was interested in only one. Turrfing to the left, he took three practiced steps which carried him to the opposite side of the chamber, then held his torch aloft before the portrait of Camber of Culdi, the Deryni Lord of Culdi, Defensor Hominum.
Morgan had never quite resolved his strange fascination for the being of the portrait. In fact, he had only really become aware of Camber's importance last fall, when he and Duncan were struggling to keep Kelson on the throne.
He'd had "visions" then. At first there had been only the fleeting impression of that other's presence, the eerie feeling that other hands and powers were assisting his own. But then he had seen the face or he thought he had seen the face. And it had always appeared in connection with something concerned with the legendary Deryni saint.
Saint Camber. Camber of Culdi. A name to resound in the annals of Deryni history. Camber, who had discovered, during the dark days of the Interregnum, that the awesome Deryni powers could sometimes be bestowed on humans; Camber, who had turned the tide for the Restoration and brought the human rulers of old back to power.
He had been canonized for it. A grateful people could not find high enough praise for the man who had brought the hated Deryni dictatorship to an end. But human memory was short. And* in time the sons of man forgot that salvation as well as suffering had come from the hands of the Deryni. The brutal reaction which swept through the Eleven Kingdoms then had been a thing most humans wished to forget. Thousands of innocent Deryni perished by the sword or in other, more perverse ways, in supposed retribution for what their fathers had done. When it was over, only a handful survived most of them in hiding, a few under the tenuous protection of a minute number of powerful human lords who remembered how it had really been. Needless to say, Camber's sainthood had been one of the first casualties.
Camber of Culdi, Defensor Hominum. Camber of Culdi, Patron of Deryni Magic. Camber of Culdi, at whose portrait a descendant of that same race of sorcerers now gazed with impatient curiosity, trying to fathom the strange bond he seemed to have acquired with the long-dead Deryni Lord.
Morgan held his torch closer to the mosaic and studied the face, trying to force finer detail to emerge from the rough texture of the inky. The eyes stared back at him light eyes above a firm, resolute chin. The rest was obscured by the monkish cowl draped around the head, but Morgan had the distinct impression that the man would have been blond, had the hood been permitted to fall back. He couldn't say why. Perhaps it was a carryover from the visions he'd encountered.
Idly, he wondered whether the visions would ever resume, felt a shiver of apprehension ripple down his spine as the thought crossed his mind. It couldn't be Saint Camber really. Or could it?
Lowering the torch, Morgan stepped back a pace, still looking at the mosaic portrait. While not irreligious by any means, he found that the idea of divine or semidivine intervention on his behalf bothered him. He didn't like the idea of Heaven being that watchful of him.
Still, if not Saint Camber, then who? Another Deryni? No human could do the things the being had done. And if Deryni, why didn't he say so? Surely he must realize what Morgan would be thinking about such manifestations. And he seemed to be helping; but why the secrecy? Maybe it was Saint Camber.
He shuddered and crossed himself self-consciously at the thought, then shook himself back to sanity. Such thinking was getting him nowhere. He must pull his thoughts together.
Abruptly, he heard a commotion ensuing in the courtyard on the other side of the garden, and then
Jh,'running footsteps coming through the garden in his direction.
"Morgan! Morgan?"
It was Derry's voice.
Slipping back through the access way, Morgan jammed his torch into the wall bracket and stepped out into the sunlight. As he did, Derry spotted him and changed course, running across the grey garden toward the duke.
"M'lord!" Derry yelled, his face alight with excitement. "Come out to the courtyard. See who's here!"
"Rhafaflia's not in port already, is she?" Morgan called as he headed toward the young man.
"No, sir," Derry laughed, shaking his head. "You'll have to see for yourself. Come on!"
Mystified, Morgan started back across the garden, raising an inquiring eyebrow as he reached Derry and fell into step beside him. Derry was beaming from ear to ear a reaction which could indicate the presence of a good horse, a beautiful woman, or
"Duncan!" Morgan finished aloud as he stepped through the gate and saw his cousin across the courtyard.
There was Duncan swinging down from a huge, mud-splattered grey destrier, his black cloak damp and wind-whipped, the edge of his riding cassock torn and muddied. Ten or twelve guards in Kelson's royal crimson livery dismounted around him, and Morgan recognized Kelson's own squire, young Richard FitzWilliam, holding the grey's bridle as Duncan dismounted.
"Duncan! You old reprobate!" Morgan exclaimed, striding across the damp cobblestones of the courtyard. "What the Devil are you doing in Coroth?"
"Visiting you," Duncan replied, blue eyes twinkling with pleasure as he and Morgan came together in a quick embrace. "Things weren't exciting enough in Rhemuth, so I thought I'd come pester my favorite cousin. Frankly, my archbishop was overjoyed to be rid of me."
"Well, it's good he can't see you now," Morgan said, grinning widely as Duncan pulled a pair of saddlebags from the grey's back and slung them casually over his arm. "Just look at you covered with mud and smelling like horses. Come on and let's get you cleaned up. Derry, see that Duncan's escort is taken care of, will you? And then see if you can get my squires to draw him a bath."
"Right away, m'lord," Derry said, smiling and bowing slightly as he backed a few steps in the direction of the riders. "And welcome back to Coroth, Father Duncan."
"Thank you, Derry."
As Derry moved among the guards and began issuing orders, Morgan and Duncan bounded up the steps and into the great hall. The hall was a flurry of activity in preparation for the coming banquet, and scores of servants and workmen were setting up heavy trestle tables and benches, rehanging the costly tapestries which had been removed and cleaned for the occasion. Kitchen varlets swarmed through the hall, sweeping hearths and readying spits for the roasting of meats. And a group of pages was industriously polishing the ornate wooden chairs at the High table.
Lord Robert stood by to oversee the entire operation. As the workmen finished setting up each table, Robert directed kitchen wenches in the wiping down with oil to bring out the rich patina of age and supervised the placing of the great pewter candelabras and service from the ducal treasury. To his right, Lord Hamilton, the balding seneschal of Castle Coroth, had been arranging the placement of musicians for the evening's entertainment. At the moment, he was en* gaged in a heated argument with Morgan's chief talent for the evening, the much acclaimed and celebrated troubadour Gwydion.
As Morgan and Duncan approached, the little performer was almost dancing in his anger, resplendent as a peacock in his full-sleeved orange doublet and hose. His black eyes snapped in outrage as he stamped his foot and half-turned away from Hamilton in disgust. Morgan caught his eye and crooked his finger for Gwydion to approach, and the troubadour threw Hamilton one final haughty look of contempt before gliding to Morgan's side to bow curtly.
"Your Grace, I cannot work with that man any longer! He is arrogant, boorish, and has no artistic rapport whatsoever!"
Morgan tried to conceal a smile. "Duncan, I have the somewhat dubious honor to present Master Gwydion ap Plenneth, the latest and most illustrious addition to my court. I might also add that he sings the finest ballads in the Eleven Kingdoms when he's not quarreling with my staff, that is. Gwydion, my paternal cousin, Monsignor Duncan McLain."
"Welcome to Coroth, Monsignor," Gwydion murmured formally, ignoring Morgan's implied reprimand. "His Grace has spoken of you often and well. I trust your stay will be a pleasant one."
"I thank you," Duncan replied, returning the bow. "Back in Rhemuth, you're reputed to be the finest troubadour since the Lord Llewelyn. I trust you will see fit to prove that reputation before I must leave."
"Gwydion shall play tonight if he is permitted to arrange the musicians as he wishes, Monsignor," the troubadour bowed. He glanced at Morgan. "But if Lord Hamilton persists in his malicious persecution, I fear I shall develop a splitting headache. That, of course, would make it quite impossible for me to perform."
He drew himself up haughtily and folded his arms across his chest in a theatrical gesture of finality, then contemplated the ceiling with studied nonchalance. It was all Morgan could do to keep from laughing.
"Very well," the duke said, clearing Kis throat to cover his smile. "Tell Hamilton I said you can arrange things any way you like. I want no more quarreling, though. Do you understand?"
"Of course, Your Grace."
With a curt nod, he turned on his heel and strode back across the hall to where he had been working, arms still folded across his chest. As he approached, Lord Hamilton saw him and glanced at Morgan as though asking for support, but Morgan merely shook his head and gestured toward Gwydion with his chin. With a sigh that was almost audible even across the room, Hamilton nodded acquiescence and disappeared through another door. Gwydion took over where Hamilton had left off, directing the complete rearrangement of the musicians' area and strutting like a bantam rooster.
"Is he always that temperamental?" Duncan asked, somewhat taken aback, as he and Morgan continued on through the hall and up a flight of narrow stairs.
"Not at all. He's usually worse."
They came to the top of the staircase and Morgan opened a heavy door. A few feet beyond that was another door, heavy walnut inlaid with an enameled Corwyn gryphon. Morgan touched the eye of the beast with his signet, and the door opened silently. Inside was Morgan's private study, his chamber of magic, his sanctum sanctorum.
It was a round room perhaps thirty feet in diameter, perched atop the highest tower in the ducal castle. The walls were of heavy stone, pierced only by seven narrow green glass windows which extended from eye level to ceiling. At night, when the candles burned late in the round tower room, the tower could be seen for miles around, its seven green windows glowing like beacons in the night sky.
There was a wide fireplace in the wall ninety degrees to the right of the doorway, with a raised hearth which extended six to eight feet to either side. Above the mantel hung a silk banner of the same Gryphon design which graced the door, and various other objects rested along the top of the mantel. A tapestry map of the Eleven Kingdoms covered the wall directly opposite the door, with a wide, heavily laden bookcase beneath it. There was an immense desk with a carved wooden chair to the left of the bookcase, and a wide couch covered with a black fur throw to the left of that. Immediately to the. left of the door was the tiny portable altar Duncan had known he would find, with a plain, dark wood prie-dieu before it.
All these things took but an instant to assess, however. For Duncan's attention was drawn almost immediately to the center of the room, which was bathed in a misty emerald glow from a high, round skylight. Beneath the skylight was a small table perhaps an arm's length across, flanked by two comfortable-looking chairs with green leather cushions. In the center of that table, a small, translucent amber sphere about four inches in diameter rested in the upraised claws of a golden Corwyn gryphon.
Duncan whistled lightly under his breath and crossed to the table, never taking his eyes from the amber sphere. He started to reach out to touch it, then changed his mind and merely stood there admiring. Morgan smiled as he joined his cousin and leaned against the back of one chair.
"How do you like it?" he asked. The question was strictly rhetorical, for Duncan was obviously enthralled with the thing.