He that is greedy of gain troubleth his own bouse.
Proverbs 15:27
M ark me well, my brother, for I tell you truly that Kelson of Gwynedd means to wed. He must, now that he has agreed to allow the return of Liam-Lajos to Torenth. The way of kings is that of expediency. And it is expedient for the King of Gwynedd to provide his kingdom with an heir before his rival can do the same.”
The speaker was Count Teymuraz, acting regent of Arjenol and a younger brother of its duke, Mahael, who was seated across from him. The latter was one of the regents of Torenth, and both men were kin by marriage to the woman who had summoned them to this meeting at domed Torenthály, country seat of Torenth’s kings.
The Princess Morag Furstána, widowed sister of the late King Wencit of Torenth, was standing in the opening of a long, brass-trellised window that looked westward across rolling fields, lush and verdant in the brightness of a sultry June afternoon. Co-regent with Mahael, she was also the mother of the previous king, of the said Liam-Lajos, who was the present king, and of Prince Ronal Rurik, the ten-year-old heir presumptive.
“If you are telling me that Liam-Lajos soon must wed, I think it premature,” she said quietly, hooking the be-ringed fingers of one hand through the brass grillwork.
“Premature?” said Teymuraz. “He is fourteen, two months into his majority. And the precarious nature of his situation does put a certain urgency on the matter.”
She turned to look at him. The dappled sunlight filtering through the pierced brass set aglow the gauzy folds of veil
and trailing sleeve and touched with fire the bands of gold
embellishing the royal purple, shimmering around her like the magical Deryni auras all of them could conjure forth at
will.
“Do you think I am not aware of that?” she asked. “Yes, he is fourteen. And we have no idea what manner of man he has become, in these four years held hostage at the court of Gwynedd. Best determine first whether he is fit to be king, before we speak of the getting of heirs.”
“Harsh words, from the one who bore him,” Mahael replied. A faint smile curled within the close-clipped black beard. “And yet, for the sake of the kingdom, we must all of us acknowledge that it could prove necessary to pass over Liam-Lajos in favor of one better suited to rule.”
As she glanced at him sharply, Teymuraz gave an amused snort.
“Since my brother has been responsible for the training of the young king’s brother, who is the present heir, I can only think he alludes to four more years of his own regency, if it were necessary for Liam-Lajos to give way to Ronal Rurik. We are all of us aware that Mahael harbors no ambition of his own regarding the throne.”
Mahael feigned languid interest in a massive seal ring that he wore on his left forefinger, dark eyes heavy-lidded as his thumb absently caressed the design cut into the murky bloodstone.
“I would not see either of my nephews come to harm,” he said neutrally, “but if any had a right to wield the might of Furstán after them, it would be myself.”
“No one disputes either part of that statement,” Morag said briskly, coming to sit between them. “It is an unnatural
mother who does not wish success for her sons; but not having seen my elder one for several years, I cannot, as
regent, speak for his readiness to rule this kingdom. We do not know how he may have been tainted by contact with
the court of Gwynedd. He has had his training from Duke Nigel Haldane, who has ever been a fierce and loyal advocate
for Gwynedd’s interests—which rarely coincide with Torenth’s interests. And I like it not that, as a condition of his
return, we must en-
dure the presence of a Gwyneddan ‘advisor’ always among us, until my son attains the age of eighteen.”
“We need not ‘endure,’ if the situation becomes too inconvenient,” Mahael remarked. “Human advisors can be gotten around, and I doubt that young Haldane will long risk leaving one of his few Deryni intimates among us.”
“You’re aware that if interference is detected, you risk war,” Teymuraz said, his voice trailing off in question. “My dear Teymuraz, let us not speak of such unpleasantness,” Mahael said silkily. “But even if the Haldane should
leave one of his Deryni among us … accidents do happen.”
“Aye, even to princes,” Teymuraz murmured, not looking at either of them, for the previous king, Morag’s eldest
son, had died under circumstances many might term “convenient,” shortly after attaining his legal majority. Suspicions of Haldane conspiracies had emerged very quickly from the backlash of shocked grief and outrage—though without a shred of evidence—but it could not be denied that two of those present had greatly benefited by the boy’s death,
