from the time of Sief’s death showed disturbing glimpses of Sief’s wife and her infant son—and the king’s presence, as well—and harsh words exchanged between the two men, though Seisyll could not pin down the sense of them.
Far worse was to follow. Harsh words had quickly escalated beyond mere anger. The clash had never reached the point of a physical exchange, but the result was just as deadly—and unexpected. Little to Sief’s credit, he had started to lash out at the king with his magic—and was answered by Donal’s response in kind, summoning magical resources of a magnitude they had not dreamed him to possess.
Very quickly the king’s reaction had pressed beyond any merely physical defense both to rip at Sief’s mind and close a psychic hand around his heart. Nor had the king relented, even as the damage went beyond the level of any possible repair, dragging Sief through an agony that was at once physical and psychic, down into unconsciousness and then beyond, into death, until the silver thread was stretched to the breaking point—and snapped.
Seisyll was gasping as he surfaced from the probe, turning blank, unfocused eyes on Michon, reeling a little in backlash from what Sief had suffered.
“That isn’t possible,” he whispered, lifting shaking hands to look at them distractedly—and shifting back to mindspeech. Donal did it? He has the ability to mind-rip one of our own number? A member of the Council?
Apparently he does, Michon returned. Setting aside the question of How, the further question is, Why? The presence of Jessamy, and the fact that she apparently made no effort to interfere, suggests that she condoned the attack—or at least had cause to allow it.
Shaking his head, he drew the cerecloth back over Sief’s face and began pulling the coffin lid back into place, Seisyll belatedly assisting him. The nails he drove back into place with his mind, silently, letting his anger and horror defuse with each one.
“YOU’RE certain of what you saw?” Dominy asked, stunned, when Michon had reported back to the Camberian Council later that night.
“I am certain of what I saw,” Michon replied. “I am not necessarily certain of what it means.”
Oisín Adair, their previously absent member, drummed calloused fingers on the ivory-inlaid table, blue eyes animated in the darkly handsome face. His eyes were a startling sapphire hue above a neatly trimmed beard and somewhat bushy moustache, the night-black hair drawn back neatly in the braided clout favored by Gwynedd’s mountain folk. By his attire, clad in oxblood riding leathers and with a whiff of the stable about him, he had come but lately from the back of a horse.
“It would appear that the canny Donal Haldane has gained access to the powers anciently attributed to his Haldane forefathers,” he said quietly, the soft burr of the north softening his words. “Can none of you venture a reasonable surmise as to who might have helped him?”
“The daughter of Lewys ap Norfal,” Vivienne said, venom in her tone.
“We don’t know that,” Barrett reminded her. “There is always the possibility that it was someone else entirely, in which case, we have a far greater problem on our hands than we could have imagined—though the thought of Jessamy following in her father’s footsteps is sobering enough.”
“Which ‘someone else’ did you have in mind, dear brother?” Dominy asked. “Given that it’s unlikely to have been Sief, that leaves only four other Deryni with regular access to the court of Gwynedd—and I believe we can eliminate the two sitting at this table.”
“And I point out, in turn, that both of those remaining are the children of Lewys ap Norfal,” Barrett said.
“Yes, and we began grooming Morian ap Lewys well before his father’s death,” Seisyll said sharply. “That was before some of you were out of leading strings, but I assure you that our predecessors did not take this responsibility
Far worse was to follow. Harsh words had quickly escalated beyond mere anger. The clash had never reached the point of a physical exchange, but the result was just as deadly—and unexpected. Little to Sief’s credit, he had started to lash out at the king with his magic—and was answered by Donal’s response in kind, summoning magical resources of a magnitude they had not dreamed him to possess.
Very quickly the king’s reaction had pressed beyond any merely physical defense both to rip at Sief’s mind and close a psychic hand around his heart. Nor had the king relented, even as the damage went beyond the level of any possible repair, dragging Sief through an agony that was at once physical and psychic, down into unconsciousness and then beyond, into death, until the silver thread was stretched to the breaking point—and snapped.
Seisyll was gasping as he surfaced from the probe, turning blank, unfocused eyes on Michon, reeling a little in backlash from what Sief had suffered.
“That isn’t possible,” he whispered, lifting shaking hands to look at them distractedly—and shifting back to mindspeech. Donal did it? He has the ability to mind-rip one of our own number? A member of the Council?
Apparently he does, Michon returned. Setting aside the question of How, the further question is, Why? The presence of Jessamy, and the fact that she apparently made no effort to interfere, suggests that she condoned the attack—or at least had cause to allow it.
Shaking his head, he drew the cerecloth back over Sief’s face and began pulling the coffin lid back into place, Seisyll belatedly assisting him. The nails he drove back into place with his mind, silently, letting his anger and horror defuse with each one.
“YOU’RE certain of what you saw?” Dominy asked, stunned, when Michon had reported back to the Camberian Council later that night.
“I am certain of what I saw,” Michon replied. “I am not necessarily certain of what it means.”
Oisín Adair, their previously absent member, drummed calloused fingers on the ivory-inlaid table, blue eyes animated in the darkly handsome face. His eyes were a startling sapphire hue above a neatly trimmed beard and somewhat bushy moustache, the night-black hair drawn back neatly in the braided clout favored by Gwynedd’s mountain folk. By his attire, clad in oxblood riding leathers and with a whiff of the stable about him, he had come but lately from the back of a horse.
“It would appear that the canny Donal Haldane has gained access to the powers anciently attributed to his Haldane forefathers,” he said quietly, the soft burr of the north softening his words. “Can none of you venture a reasonable surmise as to who might have helped him?”
“The daughter of Lewys ap Norfal,” Vivienne said, venom in her tone.
“We don’t know that,” Barrett reminded her. “There is always the possibility that it was someone else entirely, in which case, we have a far greater problem on our hands than we could have imagined—though the thought of Jessamy following in her father’s footsteps is sobering enough.”
“Which ‘someone else’ did you have in mind, dear brother?” Dominy asked. “Given that it’s unlikely to have been Sief, that leaves only four other Deryni with regular access to the court of Gwynedd—and I believe we can eliminate the two sitting at this table.”
“And I point out, in turn, that both of those remaining are the children of Lewys ap Norfal,” Barrett said.
“Yes, and we began grooming Morian ap Lewys well before his father’s death,” Seisyll said sharply. “That was before some of you were out of leading strings, but I assure you that our predecessors did not take this responsibility
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