Free The King's Deryni by Katherine Kurtz Page B

years in a robe of faded russet and a close-fitting wimple. Barrett de Laney wore his customary scholar’s robes, the scarlet of the great university at Rhanamé, but the harsh lighting emphasized the angles of his lean, ascetic features, his sightless eyes like pools of darkness under the shadow of his brow.
    Rhydon, somewhat older than Jamyl or Stefan, managed to look both serious and a trifle rakish, wearing his long facial scar like the badge of honor it was. He had sustained it in protecting the king, little though the king realized it—just as the king must never learn the full extent of Jamyl’s assistance on that fateful day. Oisín Adair, the oldest of those present, was probably the one Jamyl knew least well, but he clearly had been leading the discussion, one hand poised on the map before them.
    â€œNo word yet from Khoren,” Oisín said, in answer to the unspoken question in Stefan’s lifted eyebrow, as he waved the pair to vacant chairs. “Jamyl, while we wait, I was sharing some intelligence regarding recent developments in Meara. You may recall that I have been nurturing a friendship with the royal governor, who indicates that the king probably will need to begin thinking about a campaign next spring—or at least a royal visitation.”
    â€œWell, at least we got him safely knighted,” Jamyl murmured, as he took his seat to Oisín’s right and Stefan continued on past Barrett to sit. “He made a good showing at the tournament as well. But I had hoped he would have a few more years before Meara reared its ugly head.”
    Vivienne quirked a faint smile as she glanced at their most recent inductee. Though Jamyl was junior to all of them, he had served an exceptionally useful apprenticeship beside his late uncle, Sir Seisyll Arilan, thereby gaining valuable access to the inner workings of Gwynedd’s court—and close friendship with the king.
    â€œOh, hardly ugly, dear boy,” she said lightly. “Sometimes bleak, I will grant you, though parts of the coast can be quite agreeable, at least in high summer. But then, you probably have never been to Meara.”
    Several of them chuckled at that, and Jamyl rolled his eyes, smiling as he did so, but shook his head in agreement that, indeed, he had not visited that benighted province.
    â€œTake heart, lad,” Oisín said at his left. “If you continue to serve Brion of Gwynedd, ’tis likely you will be obliged to become familiar with Meara all too soon.”
    â€œA pesthole!” Rhydon muttered under his breath, leaning back to fold his arms across his waist.
    â€œIndeed,” Barrett agreed, and returned his attention to the map beneath his hand, sweeping southward along the mountains that marked Meara’s border with the Connait, though the sightless eyes gazed at nothing. “Unfortunately, I fear that the pestilence festering in Meara will continue to plague the kings of Gwynedd for as long as there are descendants of the old Mearan royal line.”
    â€œSurely, there can’t be many left,” Jamyl said. “I was under the impression that King Donal’s last foray into Meara pretty much wiped out the last of them. And didn’t Prince Judhael disappear after that? Is he even still alive?”
    Barrett shrugged. “Alive, yes, though in exile since that time. And I would venture to say that his threat is greatly diminished.”
    â€œBe plain about it, Barrett,” Rhydon muttered. “They say that his mind has gone.”
    â€œCan that be any great surprise?” Vivienne replied. “After all, that venture cost him a daughter and a granddaughter.”
    Rhydon snorted. “A proper prince would have taken that as a call for vengeance.”
    â€œFor those Mearans faithful to the cause, Judhael
is
a proper prince,
and
their rightful lord—not Brion of Gwynedd,” Barrett pointed out dryly. “Which is why we must not