Free The King's Deryni by Katherine Kurtz Page A

absence still felt keenly among those Jamyl was on his way to meet; and Jamyl’s Uncle Seisyll had slipped away shortly after Twelfth Night, following several months of declining health. The pair had been senior among those who comprised the Camberian Council. The eldest now was Prince Khoren Vastouni, seriously contemplating retirement, and after him Oisín Adair. Jamyl, at twenty, was the youngest.
    Sobered by this thought, Jamyl moved softly into the center of the room, nearer to the window, and took his stance in the center of the Kheldish carpet that lay there, reaching with his mind for the now long-familiar coordinates of the Portal matrix beneath. Then, after a last glance at the unmoving lump in the bed, he briefly closed his eyes and tweaked the energies—and controlled the slight surge of vertigo as he was suddenly . . . elsewhere.
    â€œEnjoyed the feast, did you?” said a pleasant baritone from the shadows to his left, before Jamyl could even draw breath.
    Instinctively, Jamyl glanced in that direction, grinning as silvery light flared in the hand of the speaker. Though Stefan Coram owned only a few more years than Jamyl, and was senior in the Camberian Council by only a matter of months, he was perhaps the most powerful Deryni Jamyl had ever met: a fitting replacement for the redoubtable Michon de Courcy, whom Jamyl had known since childhood and from whom Jamyl had received much of his training.
    â€œI wish it
were
the feast that kept me,” Jamyl retorted, stepping from the Portal to exchange a handclasp with the other man. “A messenger arrived from Culdi several hours ago. The Duke of Cassan is dying—may already be dead, for all we know. Earl Jared and Kenneth Morgan rode out shortly after they received the news. After that, it took a while for everyone to settle in. Caused quite a stir, as you can imagine—but then, Duke Andrew’s absence from the king’s knighting had already caused a lot of speculation.”
    â€œCassan, eh?” Coram raised one white-blond eyebrow. “Well, he’s had a long and distinguished life, and Jared McLain has served his apprenticeship, that’s for certain. He’ll wear the coronet well.” He gestured with his handfire toward a pair of burnished metal doors, half again as high as a man. “We’d best go in. They’re discussing Meara—which is hardly anything new, but they’re also waiting for Khoren, hoping he’ll have further news from Torenth.”
    Jamyl looked at him sharply. “Do we have another Festillic claimant?”
    â€œPerhaps not
this
time round,” Stefan replied.
    â€œNo? I thought we had confirmation that Prince Hogan’s new wife is carrying another son.”
    â€œOh, she is,” Stefan confirmed. “Whether she can deliver this one alive remains to be seen. Khoren’s contact in the Festillic household reports that she went into labor nearly three days ago.”
    Jamyl grimaced, for while he could hardly wish ill on any innocent babe still in its mother’s womb, or even on its mother, a male heir for the Festillic pretender to the throne of Gwynedd could only cause problems for his own prince. But he said nothing as the doors parted for him and Stefan.
    Inside, four heads turned to note their arrival, momentary anticipation subsiding as Jamyl’s presence registered.
    â€œAh, it’s Jamyl,” the lone woman observed.
    She and the three others were gathered around the great, eight-sided table of ivory that dominated the octagonal chamber, and appeared to have been poring over a map spread in the table’s center. Above the table, suspended from the center boss of the faceted dome that lit the room by day, a crystal sphere cast a stark light that quite overpowered the more golden glow from candle sconces set at the angles of the room.
    By this light, the Lady Vivienne looked distracted and a little haggard, aged beyond her