head. “I doubt the king would entrust that important a message to ship transport. He’d send a courier.” He frowned. “I thought the fleet went only as far as the Concaradine this trip.”
“Those were their orders, m’lord. And they’re back a day early at that.”
“Strange,” Morgan murmured, almost forgetting Hillary was there. “Still—send an escort to meet Rhafallia when she docks and bring back the dispatches. And let me know as soon as they’ve arrived.”
“Aye, m’lord.”
As the man moved off, Morgan ran a hand through his hair and began walking again, puzzled. That Kelson should send dispatches by ship was strange indeed. He almost never did that—especially with the uncertainty of the weather farther north this time of year. The whole scenario had a vaguely ominous feel to it, like—like the dream!
He suddenly remembered what he had dreamed last night. In fact, now that he considered further, that was another part of what had been bothering him all day.
He had slept badly, which was unusual since he could generally turn sleep off and on at will. But last night he had been plagued by nightmares—vivid, disturbing scenes that had made him wake in a cold sweat.
Kelson had been there, listening tensely to someone whose back was all that he could see—and Duncan, his usually serene face drawn, troubled, angry, very unlike his priestly cousin. And then the ghostly, cowled visage he had come to associate with legend last fall: Camber of Culdi, the renegade patron saint of Deryni magic.
Morgan looked up to find himself standing before the Grotto of the Hours, the dim, cavernous recess that had been the private retreat and meditation place of Corwyn dukes for more than three hundred years. The gardeners had been at work here, too, burning leaves they had swept away from the doorway itself. But there was still debris just inside the entrance, and on impulse Morgan swung back the creaking iron gate and stepped inside. Taking a lighted torch from the wall bracket by the gate, he raked away the winter’s debris with his boot and made his way into the cool interior.
The Grotto of the Hours was not large inside. Outside, its bulk reared a scant twenty feet above the level of the garden, configured to resemble 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 tiny perpetual waterfall.
Inside, the structure had been fashioned to resemble 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 across the stark black marble sarcophagus that dominated that side of the room: the tomb of Dominic, Corwyn’s first duke. Set atop the sarcophagus was a candlestick with a stump of candle, but the metal was dulled by a winter’s disuse, the candle stump mouse-nibbled and burned down. A carved stone chair faced the tomb in the center of the chamber.
But Morgan had not entered the grotto to pay homage to his ancient ancestor today. It was the rest of the chamber that interested him: the walls at the sides and back of the cavern, smoothed and plastered, then inlaid with mosaic portraits of those whose special favor was thought to be upon the House of Corwyn.
Scanning briefly, Morgan identified 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 had come seeking only one. Three familiar steps to the left took him to a side niche, where he held his torch aloft before the likeness of Camber of Culdi, the Deryni Lord of Culdi, Defensor Hominum .
Morgan still had not resolved his sudden fascination for the man in the
“Those were their orders, m’lord. And they’re back a day early at that.”
“Strange,” Morgan murmured, almost forgetting Hillary was there. “Still—send an escort to meet Rhafallia when she docks and bring back the dispatches. And let me know as soon as they’ve arrived.”
“Aye, m’lord.”
As the man moved off, Morgan ran a hand through his hair and began walking again, puzzled. That Kelson should send dispatches by ship was strange indeed. He almost never did that—especially with the uncertainty of the weather farther north this time of year. The whole scenario had a vaguely ominous feel to it, like—like the dream!
He suddenly remembered what he had dreamed last night. In fact, now that he considered further, that was another part of what had been bothering him all day.
He had slept badly, which was unusual since he could generally turn sleep off and on at will. But last night he had been plagued by nightmares—vivid, disturbing scenes that had made him wake in a cold sweat.
Kelson had been there, listening tensely to someone whose back was all that he could see—and Duncan, his usually serene face drawn, troubled, angry, very unlike his priestly cousin. And then the ghostly, cowled visage he had come to associate with legend last fall: Camber of Culdi, the renegade patron saint of Deryni magic.
Morgan looked up to find himself standing before the Grotto of the Hours, the dim, cavernous recess that had been the private retreat and meditation place of Corwyn dukes for more than three hundred years. The gardeners had been at work here, too, burning leaves they had swept away from the doorway itself. But there was still debris just inside the entrance, and on impulse Morgan swung back the creaking iron gate and stepped inside. Taking a lighted torch from the wall bracket by the gate, he raked away the winter’s debris with his boot and made his way into the cool interior.
The Grotto of the Hours was not large inside. Outside, its bulk reared a scant twenty feet above the level of the garden, configured to resemble 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 tiny perpetual waterfall.
Inside, the structure had been fashioned to resemble 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 across the stark black marble sarcophagus that dominated that side of the room: the tomb of Dominic, Corwyn’s first duke. Set atop the sarcophagus was a candlestick with a stump of candle, but the metal was dulled by a winter’s disuse, the candle stump mouse-nibbled and burned down. A carved stone chair faced the tomb in the center of the chamber.
But Morgan had not entered the grotto to pay homage to his ancient ancestor today. It was the rest of the chamber that interested him: the walls at the sides and back of the cavern, smoothed and plastered, then inlaid with mosaic portraits of those whose special favor was thought to be upon the House of Corwyn.
Scanning briefly, Morgan identified 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 had come seeking only one. Three familiar steps to the left took him to a side niche, where he held his torch aloft before the likeness of Camber of Culdi, the Deryni Lord of Culdi, Defensor Hominum .
Morgan still had not resolved his sudden fascination for the man in the
Similar Books
