The Worlds of Katherine Kurtz

Truth Reading may not be enough if you're dealing with adversaries who are doing shape-shifting. And it may not be a technique that every Deryni has mastered...especially against people with their own skills.

For techniques, wouldn't Truth Reading be enough?

Still amused / eye rolling at the Cat and the Rat. Did I overlook a Lovell or Dog?

Oh I love that Bede has just recieved a decent sword. One that should be serviceable for any future troubles.  good thinking on Airich's part( And Marc's)

This is the fifty-fifth part of an AU construction about a Gwynedd where the duel at Kelson Haldane's coronation went very differently indeed. We are now a bit more than three years into the Gwynedd Wars-- Charissa's new kingdom at Valoret against the Haldanes in the south and the kingdom of Torenth in the east. This episode is set just after "Storm". As always, comments and suggestions are very much appreciated.


The beach is black sand, here on the southern edge of the Northarch Gulf. It's still summer, but there's a chill wind blowing in from the Northern Sea. The royal court has come out from Tolan-by-Sea for this, and the Shadow Queen and her court are scattered along the high ground above the beach.

Charissa is on the highest point of the rise, and there are Queen's Moors and Tolan Guard encircling her. There are Deryni wards set up around her, and they shimmer in the grey of the morning. Today the Queen is in a blue khilat, and she looks less gaunt and angular than usual. She's in a mail shirt under dark blue silk and fine cotton. The mail is her concession to Brennan de Colforth and Yusuf al-Fayturi. Charissa herself is largely indifferent to the idea of armour. She'll wear it so long as her guard commanders insist, but people have been coming to kill her more than half her life. There's nothing new in what's happened here.

She looks along the rise. The R'Kassan engineers in her service and dashing back and forth over the high ground and signaling to the crews on the reverse of the slope. There's a pair of small catapults set up there, and R'Kassan crews are unloading thick white earthenware containers from a sand-filled cart.

Down on the strand there are rows of poles set up, each with a heavy roll of hay bound round it. Those are Torenthi men-at-arms, all arrayed in blocks. Between the blocks there are cloth canopies supported by poles at their corners. Those are Torenthi tents and supply carts.

The chief engineer comes down the rise and two Queen's Moors walk him over to Charissa. The  engineer bows. "Shadow Lady," he says. "We'll be ready in a few moments. We're adjusting for the wind."

Charissa nods. "Make it happen," she says. "Dragon's spit is expensive. I want to see it work."

The engineer points out to the beach. "This is how we'll do it at Cardosa. We'll have bigger catapults there, and they'll be on platforms behind the city walls. But this should show you what it'll be like."

The Shadow Queen nods again. "I've never seen a siege," she says. "But I'll be expecting that everything goes well. We're going to hold Cardosa. Let's see what it looks like."

Down behind the rise the R'Kassans are loading jars into the catapult slings. Everyone not part of the engineers and their men is standing well away. Charissa can hear the sound of ropes creaking and wooden blocks being hammered under catapult wheels.

She likes the R'Kassans. The Raks have a look of cold professionalism that she admires. R'Kassi has been exporting mercenary archers and fine, high-spirited horses longer than anyone can remember, and in the last few decades the Raks have been exporting siege engineers as well. She's seen her father's men take towns before, but she's never seen a city under siege or watched siege engines on either side of a city wall. It's all new today, and she intends to know how it's going to work, keeping Wencit out of Cardosa.

The engineer officers are shouting orders in a mix of R'Kassan and eastern Moorish.  The Raks' Moorish isn't Darija, not the dialect used by western Moors like her own fedayin guards, but she's getting the sense of it.

She's relying on her Remembrancer to tell her more about R'Kassi. It's the sort of thing her husband is good at. She's always said that: anything that ever happened a thousand miles away and a thousand years ago is something Christian knows. Christian is a Falkenberg, and long, long ago the Falkenberg line had come out of R'Kassi or maybe Lorsöl to Torenth and Arjenol. Christian's family have served the House of Festil these last two hundred years and more, but Falkenberg is a R'Kassan name, and her husband's family have never bothered to change it to something western, something like Montfaucon.

The Raks were Moorish these days, or maybe half-Moorish. They're a mix of blond and black-haired, blue eyes and dark. Christian is dark-haired and dark-eyed, but maybe that's Arjenol blood and not Rak Moorish. Christian's story was that once upon a time there were tribes and clans that had come down from the northeast and settled on the desert edge. Then the Moors had come, the Moorish armies coming north in the great age of Moorish expansion. R'Kassi was the farthest point north the Moors had reached, and there had been Moorish ruling houses in place there ever since. The local tribes and local nobles hadn't gone away, though, and R'Kassan was still spoken, even if the royal court spoke some kind of eastern Moorish.

Everything about the desert kingdom was a liminal kind of thing, a frontier's-edge blending of bloodlines and faiths and languages. The ruling house was Moorish by faith, but from some kind of heretical sect among the Moors— though not the sect of her own fedayin. The R'Kassan royal house flew a flag with a winged horse, and what Moor would ever put a living creature on a standard? The old local houses were more-or-less Christian, but heretical by both Eastern and Western standards. There were small Jewish communities there as well, filling the spaces between two different heresies. Heresies, horses, archers, and siege engineers— all the sort of thing the Shadow Queen can understand.

Charissa looks around at her retinue. Her Tolan and Marluk commanders are watching the catapults and the beach with an uneasy fascination. Rizak and  a dozen of her own Moorish guards are looking with bemused suspicion at the R'Kassans. Her ladies and Kyri de Roiste are there on the beachside slope, and wine is being poured.

Christian, Aurelian, and Ratcliffe are maybe fifty yards down the rise, clustered together. She takes note of that. Aurelian is her Inquisitor of State, but Christian has taken over the investigation of the Hand of Camber attack. He's made himself head of punitive measures as well. Whatever those three are discussing, blood is about to be shed, and a lot of it. There's something cold and hard beginning to show itself in Christian, and she needs to think about that.

"Shadow Lady." That's the Rak chief engineer. The man bows. "We're ready," he says. "At your command."

Charissa looks down to the beach. "Master Engineer," she says, "launch at will."

The wind has fallen off, and the crowd along the rise can hear the sound of the catapult ropes straining to be let go, and then R'Kassan voices— Los! Sofort! Los!

The catapult arms swing up and each siege engine launches a jar up and out. It's all slower than you'd think, and it's not hard to keep your eye on the jars. There's something flickering just on one end of each jar as it soars. The soldiers in the Queen's retinue are already fixed on the spot in the air where the peak of the jars' trajectory will be. Courtiers are yelling excitedly all along the rise.

Just at the top of the flight curve the flickering around each jar pulses with pale fire. The jars crack and shatter, and suddenly the pieces are soaring free and there's a pale blue cloud expanding all around them. The cloud is becoming an azure mist, and there's heat shimmering around the threads of the blue.

Charissa darts a quick glance at the chief engineer. "Dragon's spit," he says. "This is what it does. Watch it burn."

The mist is a royal blue now, and its falling like rain on the spiked hay sheaves and the canopies. Whatever it touches shudders and flames begin to come up all along the black sands. The air is filled with a sizzling, spitting sound, and the pieces of the jars come down with flame around them. Whole rows of rolled hay are burning now, and there are patches of burning blue floating at the water's edge. Poles begin to collapse. The canopies are alight now, and  pieces of burning cloth are floating upward in the heated air..

Some of the courtiers are cheering. The Queen's captains are trying to estimate what this would look like with living targets. The Queen looks back to the engineers. "How much in the jars?"

"Not much. Five Torenthi gallons. But Your Grace can see what it would be like." The engineer sweeps a hand along the shoreline. "The blue kind spatters a lot. Like raindrops. We can calculate how much territory gets covered per gallon. It only takes a few drops in the air to set something— someone —on fire. And it just keeps burning. I'd hate to see it hit horses."

Charissa is watching the hay sheaves burn. There's smoke coming up now. "Not much drama," she says. "You'd think there'd be more noise."

The engineer shrugs. "There will be when those are living men," he says. "And horses. Lots of drama with real targets."

The Shadow Queen breathes out. "So there would be. Let's see it again, Master Engineer. Noch einmal."

Aurelian looks back from the beach to Christian. "So tell me," he says. "Are you imagining a few hundred Torenthi Royals burning in armour while they ride?"

"Damned right," Christian says. He points at where one of the canopies had been placed. "And I'm thinking about that being Wencit's royal tent."

"If we did it to Beldour," Aurelian says, "it would look like Rhemuth the night the Queen took power. I've never been to Beldour, but I'm imagining cathedrals and palaces all aflame. It would be beautiful at night, you know."

"Well, maybe not Beldour. We'd have to explain that to Lionel. I'll settle for Wencit burning in his tent. Or maybe spiked up and torched someplace next to Rhydon. Lionel would let us use a cathedral square, I think."

"My lord Inquisitor. My lord prince." That's Ratcliffe, gesturing toward a figure in barrister's black coming up the reverse slope to them. "Will the Cat has news".

Christian turns and nods. "Master Catesby. What's the council sending you for?"

Will the Cat sweeps off his cap and bows. He has a portfolio under one arm. He comes back up and looks from Ratcliffe to Aurelian to Christian. "Bodies," he says. "We have bodies."

Christian and Aurelian exchange glances. "Who and how many?" Christian asks. "Anyone we know?"

"Four bodies," Catesby says. He's a city barrister in Tolan-by-Sea, and he's the city council's fixer-in-chief.  He gestures at Ratcliffe. "Sir Richard and my lord Aurelian's man Darcek instructed the city council to look for anyone from the city who might be connected to the attack on Her Grace. We have bodies."

Christian is very still. There's nothing in his face at all. "I don't need bodies. I need information. Let's hope your people didn't kill them before we could get them to the Inquisitor here. Let's really hope that."

Will the Cat flinches. "No, my lord prince. We found them already dead. There were four of them. All of them worked at the palace— kitchen help, cleaners. Just casual labor, paid by the day. No families, no friends. They stopped coming to work the day after the attack. Sir Richard's people asked the council to find them in the city. This morning we found the bodies. All of them. Hidden in a building site on the street where two of them lived."

"The Hand of Camber people cleaning up loose ends." Christian is looking at Aurelian. "Bribe some day labor— have them leave a door unlocked or drop off something for breaking wards in a corner. Then cut their throats."

"My lord, no," Will the Cat says. "You don't understand. The bodies weren't fresh. They'd been there for days and days— certainly before the attack. But the men...the men were working in the palace kitchens the day of the attack. People saw them, people recognized them. We're sure of that."

Christian and Aurelian are looking at one another. Very, very quietly Christian says, "Effing bloody hell."

Catesby blinks. "My lord?"

Christian shakes his head. "Shut up. Don't say anything." He points at Aurelian. "Get al-Fayturi. Get him now. Get your Slayers. Tell Colforth, too. I'll tell the Queen. Lock down the palace. Al-Fayturi and Rizak— they'll know how to do this. You know what we have to do. Everyone in the palace, whether it's the kitchens or the royal wing. We look at every single person. Every single one. Put faces to bodies. Nobody says no."

"Can I tell my people to insist?"

"Whatever it takes, Break heads and drag barons down to the courtyards if you have to. Use steel if anyone resists." He draws in a breath. "My authority, my responsibility. As of right now, no one goes out of the palace, no one new goes in. Not 'til our people have looked at every single person there. And here."

"What about the Queen's own people? What about her ladies? Or even Lady Kyri?"

"Just...get them all together somewhere. I'll tell Charissa; she'll know that it needs to be done. Everybody gets looked at. Today, right now. How are you on techniques?"

"To do this? I've only read about it. I'll talk with Rizak, though. How about you?"

"Same. Something I've read about in old books by old adepts. Well, we'll learn on the run."

"My lord prince?" That's Will the Cat, looking confused and more than a little afraid. "My lord, there's one other thing."

Christian looks hard at him. "How much effing worse does this get?"

Catesby takes a breath. "My lord, Sir Richard instructed the council to keep a special eye on the port— to make sure nothing untoward was coming into the city by sea. A ship came in from Laas a day ago. The captain is on our payroll. He was hired to deliver something here. He says he doesn't know who the people paying were. He says they weren't smugglers, though. Very educated, he said. With good money, half up front."

Christian frowns. "What was he bringing? Don't tell me passengers."

"No, my lord. Just a package. He was bringing a book. It was your book."

"My book?" Christian stares at Will the Cat. "My book?"

"A book you'd written, my lord. About the first King Festil."

Behind Christian, Aurelian laughs. "Someone's been promoted up the target list."

Christian nods. "Know the book, know the man.  Well, damn it— someone's interested in who I am...and how my mind works. Effing hand-and-eye people, they're getting around to asking who I am and what I know. Suddenly I'm effing famous." He points at Catesby. "Has anyone come for the book?"

"No, my lord, " Will the Cat says. "The captain hasn't told anyone yet. He'll have to soon, though. The ship's in, people will know."

"Alright— get your sea captain to set up a meeting to get paid whatever he's still owed and deliver the book. And we'll be there— the Grey Death and I and a full team of Inquisition people. Ratcliffe, too." He taps his fingers on the hilt of his kinzhal. "If we get lucky, we'll have one of the hand-and-eye people, and he'll be having a long talk with Aurelian. And with me. Very, very much with me."

Christian looks down the path to where the Shadow Queen is surrounded by her captains. "Right now... Sir Richard, get your people in place at the palace. Use my horsemen if you need more men. Lock it all down. Aurelian and I are going to the Queen. I don't like saying this, but we have to take a look at everybody. You understand that? Everybody. We put faces to bodies until we know exactly who everybody really is. Do it now. Let's be sure everyone is who they're supposed to be. Anyone who isn't, I'll be talking to them myself."

Airich considered the situation. Far be it from a knight to reward a good service rendered with a simple thank you. "Bede, have you noticed that this is not my only sword?"

"No, milord," Bede raised an eyebrow. He was just leaving. Where is Airich going with this? he wondered.

"There is another. Less sentimental to me, but more than adequate. I think of it as a spare, but it's not helping anyone just sitting amongst my other goods, wherever my dear Amy left those, is it? It's yours to use in the service of our shared goals, my friend."

"Ye won't regret this," Bede bowed more deeply this time.

Early in the morning, before the sun rose to witness the days proceedings devilish and divine, Bede Archer approached the convalescent Airich O'Flynn, unarmed except for the sheathed sword in his hands. He did not kneel, but he did bow, showing due deference and masking his joy at the knight's survival of yesterday's tormented hours. "Milord," he began, offering the sword he had secured for a brief time. "Yon beauteous blade was being paraded through a darkling tavern like an auld chief's daughter by Ruman victor on triumph. When I saw it there in the hands of our shared enemies, my blood boiled, and I knew I had ta have it ... back for ye, that is. It has shed na blood in this brief time, but greatly impressed strangers and myself also by other qualities."

"Oh? Such as?"

"Its swift lightness. Its striking silhouette in the rain. It seems to have an authority all its own I did na appreciate the first time ye briefly entrusted it ta me. Yet if such a thing could be true, then it is good that ye are so quickly ready for it again, yeah?" As it changed hands and Airich refamiliarized himself with the blade he had not held in what felt like years, Bede studied his friend's face and frowned. "Ye look more ... worn, milord. Are ye quite up for this day's challenges?"

Airich laughed hollowly, but smiled truthfully. "I missed even you, Bede. It's nothing, really. It just took awhile to make me whole. Thank you for guarding this one part of me while the rest was being sorted."

Just read vol 14.  A Deryni Letter - the *incantation* Sholomo uses for setting the wards, I learnt as a child's Passover Song "Who knows One?" when I was learning Biblical Hebrew and Rabbi Rachel was teaching us to count.

Many layers and levels in life. 

Two days? TWO DAYS???

Airich gives Laurna the stink-eye as Nezz panics over this unexpected change of plan.

"We," stressing the royal pronoun, "entrust three most loyal subjects to one task," the king announced. "Two subjects have returned, both having failed in that task. What say you, Baron Morgan?"

"The task laid out to us is still viable, Sire." Taking the brunt of the king's displeasure was never easy. Washburn, nonetheless, was holding his head high even as he remained on one knee; permission had not yet been granted for him to stand. "The task is delayed, not failed."

"One man, that was all I asked. There were three of you; family by near all accounting: Father Trevor, brother; Sir Jamyl, brother by marriage; and a Morgan, closest in friendship to the O'Flynns. Last evening we were informed by rapport from Sir Jamyl that this one O'Flynn was wounded and gone missing! We wait. No further intelligence is brought before the crown. All night, we continue to wait. Apparently, our three subjects, Loyal Subjects," the king scowled, "gallivant across portals—one to places they are forbidden—and then they still don't inform us of the reason and the outcome. Our concern turns to anger. What are our subjects keeping from Us, the Crown of Gwynedd?"

Still on one knee, Wash cringed. He had not heard that tone of royal displeasure in four years.

"Tread carefully, Lord Morgan, you are teetering on a precipice that can not be reclimbed if you fall."

"Yes Sire, No Sire! I have much to explain, Sire! I request your patience with your humble subjects. The one who is missing shall stand before you, soon. I would have brought him if I could have. But the situation was dire.  Please allow me to explain my actions and then judge me as you see fit."

"Well! Out with it!"

"Sir Airich was ambushed and wounded. I learned of this from Jamyl."

"As did I," Kelson said. He stood and waved for Wash to stand. Then the two men moved to a table by the window. Kelson indicated for Wash to sit in the sunlight so he could see Washburn's every expression. "Did he require your healing?"

"Yes Sire. He had passed the threshold of life, and only God's gift allowed me to help him find his way back." As Wash said this, the king was holding his breath. After a slow exhalation he stated:

"I am surprised he allowed your touch. Few Willimites would."

"Sire, he is not a Willimite, not now. I do not believe he ever really held those ideologies in his heart, he was confused. And I feel partly responsible, for I did not take time out of my schedule to discover the troubles as a real friend should have. It is complicated."

"Explain."

"I can not. It would not make any sense coming from me. I beg of you, Kelson, for the love you bear his father and mine, please wait a little more. Father Trevor and me, and even Duncan, agreed that this—thing—needs to be explained by the only man who truly can explain it."

"Duncan knows? In confession, I presume. So he will not tell me of this either." Kelson scowled, then pounded the table. "A king needs to be informed, especially in times like these. The safety of the kingdom depends on information. Do you willingly withhold information from me, Baron Morgan."

"My first vow is to you," Wash rushed out. "My promises are secondary. I will break them if you ask it of me."

Kelson studied Morgan's face. "So like your father, you are." He let out a deep breath. "I have a little more patiences. Let us hope Trevor is more successful in bringing in his wayward brother than you were." the anger lines around the king's eyes seemed to lessen.

"Now, tell me everything you can about what has happened."

Wash knew he was not out of the crisis yet, so he kept his report formal: the threat of Byzantyun fire, the movement of precious church and layman documents, the news of Sir Airich's wounding, Wash losing his patience and jumping to Grecotha without permission, (Kelson held his tongue lashing), followed by Earl Iain calling for a Healer, and the same earl vowing that the persons surrounding Sir Airich were safe to be with in the presence of.

"I entered a small warded room to find a Deryni battle surgeon treating O'Flynn for a severe gut wound, which was bleeding out. There were several others in the room. One was Collos Feyd." Wash stopped and let the king's anger rekindle in those grey royal eyes.

"What was his purpose?"

"Not a trap, I assure you. I even had Duncan scan me before I came before you. Collos was not there for me. He is in Grecotha to protect the knowledge of Deryni heritage from being burnt away in this threat of fire. From my vantage, he seems to share the same commitment in stopping this as we have."

"Is he using Sir Airich as a Willimite defector?"

"No. He only stumbled upon Airich after he had been wounded. And I can assure you that Airich is not a Willimite."

"So you say. Yet, I will be the judge of that when he comes before me," the king said. But then his eyes softened. "Wash, I do hope you are right."

Kelson looked thoughtfully at the son of his dearest friend and advisor, dead these twenty years. "In two days time, Conte Orfeo Rojas of Carsala, from Andelon, will arrive in Rhemuth. He is bringing his daughter Doña Natàlia with him. She is said to be extraordinarily pious, and has developed quite the reputation as a practitioner of the Deryni arts. Her instructors are among the best in Andelon."

Wash nodded, wondering at this sudden change of topic.

"She's a lovely young woman, if her portrait does her justice," Kelson continued, the royal eyes studying the reaction of the man before him. "Given that Sean's youngest son has been the cause of much grief and concern, I have taken it upon the crown's authority to offer Sir Airich Michael O'Flynn in betrothal. I expect him to be in attendance at the time of the conte's arrival so that the marriage can be completed."

It was Washburn's turn to look dumbfounded. "But Sire, he has found a girl he wants to wed."

"Oh?" A royal eyebrow arched high. "No one has asked permission of Us. Who is she?"

Wash hesitated: how much dare he say? "I know her from the past. She is a woman from the Culdi Highlands. A lass with good intentions."

"His betrothal is already arranged. Lord Derry has agreed to it. I take it this lass is not of the nobility."

"She is not, Sire."

"Then she is of no matter. I will inform Sir Airich of his duty when he comes before me."

"There is a complication." Wash held his breath for a long time. He could not look Kelson in the eyes when he finally said. "She is the mother of a son of mine."

"What?!" The King stood with both hands leaning on the table, allowing him to lean in very close to Washburn. "You have a base-born child?"

"I only just learned of this."

"Wash, are you certain he is yours? If he has inherited..." Kelson waved his hand at Washburn's head. "He could put the future of our kingdom at risk. Damn. Does Collos know?"

"No! I don't think anyone knows but the mother, Sir Airich, and now myself, my king, and my confessor. I have not yet learned where the child is living. I can search for him as soon as I leave here."

"You will do no such thing!" Kelson demanded. "You will not draw attention to this child, you will not mention him to anyone, and I mean anyone, short of myself or under the confessional."

"I need to tell Fiona."

"You will not, I forbid it. I would not have you risk the health of the child your lady bears, a child who is your legitimate heir and does carry your healer's gift. Do we understand one another? Not one word until this asset is brought under my protection. Am I going to have a problem with you on this?"

Wash took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, thinking about the promise he had made to the child's mother. He must find a way to keep all his promises and his vows intact.

Finally, he said. "No Sire."

Friday morning
Archbishop Duncan's apartment,
Saint George's Cathedral
Rhemuth

"You can not avoid the king forever," Archbishop Duncan said with all-knowing calm as he took just a small slice of the custard pie from his assistant, waving off the meat platter, and indicating with a hand gesture that his guest should have more than a token amount of each of the delicacies to break his morning fast. Duncan did accept a full goblet of the light morning wine and denied Lord Healer Washburn any attempt to comment upon it.

Duncan was aging, to be sure, but he aged with a grace of more than family longevity. One might say that in his position in the church, he had certain advantages, both temporal and ecclesiastical, both of which were true. That, along with Healing: his own powers and the powers of so many others near to him. Yet Washburn had seen an elder Healer or two lose their intellect before losing their mobility. Duncan still had his keen wits in full attendance. Their talk last night and again during the long predawn hours proved that beyond a doubt.

"How much do you plan to tell Kelson?"

"Everything about myself and my actions, uncle." Wash responded with a nod before taking a huge bite from the pie. A quick swallow, and he added. "I promised to hold another's private information back. I do not want to break my promise. We shall see how that goes." Before he took the next bit of pie, he wistfully looked up at his uncle. "Do you think I have time to see Fiona first?"

"Not this time, Washburn." That came from Sir Kevin as he walked into the archbishop's private cathedral apartment. "Word has just arrived from the king. He orders you to come before him."

Wash looked at his friend, "I told you not to tell anyone we were here."

"I did not, I swear. You know I slept in the cot outside your room all night. Though you would not know that because when Sir Robert woke me just moments ago I discovered you were not there."

"Sir Robert?" Wash put down his pie, leaned back in his chair and yelled. "Robert, get in here."

Robert was no longer the gangly youth he had been when Wash had first taken him as his own squire. The boy had grown, gained his spurs and maturity with it. But he still blushed as he rushed into the Archbishop's room, bowing to his grace first, then moving before Wash and bowing with some tentativeness.

"How did Kelson learn I was here? We have not been out of Saint George's since we portaled in last night. And I could swear no one witnessed our arrival."

"My lord, it was your lady, my lord. At sunrise this morning, she mentioned to your mother that she thought you were near, but did not wish to disturb you by making contact. Lady Richenda did a scrying and confirmed you were safe in Rhemuth. Apparently, this was done with the help of our queen, who mentioned it to our king, who summoned me to fetch you." Robert looked pensive, uncertain what response Lord Washburn would make.

"Fiona, Fiona." Wash shook his head, and then smiled and laughed out loud. "Uncle, I told you I needed to contact my dearest love, last night. But you thought confession would be best for my soul, first! Not that I disagree. And I am very grateful for your scanning of my mind for any compulsions left after my encounter with HIM yesterday. But instead of putting me to sleep after, you should have let me contact my beloved."

"I swear on my prayer book, I did not put you to sleep after. You fell asleep all on your own, my boy. I just let you, for you needed it." If anyone truth read Duncan, they would know he spoke truth; no one would dare think otherwise, though, so there was no need for truthreading.

"I see. Well, friends, who will join me?"

"I have Mass." Duncan said plainly.

"We will escort you to the king's withdrawing room," Kevin responded.

"The king asked for no others to come before him," Robert offered as an escape.

"I see."  Wash had lost his appetite. He pushed the plate aside. "Let's get this done."

#

Portals were far too handy, Wash thought as he stood on the Saint George's Sacristy Portal. Duncan had cleared the room to prepare for mass. The jump to the royal library overrode his thoughts, and too quickly Kevin followed him with Robert, both ushering him through the corridor, through the great hall, past the company of early rising residents, and toward the king's withdrawing room. Wash saw the profile of Lady Fiona in a window alcove and instantly broke free of his escort. In a rush to hold her, he stopped before her to bow and stammer, "My love, I am so sorry I made you worry. That was not my intention."

"But you did, and I did," she said with a tinge of anger. But then her face melted to a smile. "Oh, he kicked. Feel that!"

Wash let Fiona place his hand on her belly, and he knew amazement for this new life soon to be. "You hold me in awe, my love," he bent down to kiss her, but waited for her to meet him half way.

"Oh, you oaf. I love you too." And she kissed him, pleased to have him safe.

Just then, Lord Jamyl Arilan exited the king's withdrawing room door. He walked up to Wash, "Watch yourself, he is in a mood."

Wash touched Fiona's cheek and then stepped away, allowing Sir Robert to announce him to the king's squire and then entered the royal presence, going down on one knee before the dais. To his surprise and dismay, King Kelson Haldane dismissed everyone else from the room.