The King's Deryni Read Online Free PDF Page B

the present Anviler order might be Deryni, but the presence of any foreign Deryni in Gwynedd would always be cause for concern, if it became known.
    Which made Kenneth’s next task all the more delicate. The king knew that Sé was Deryni, but his father had not known; and the Sé Trelawney of today was not the Sé Trelawney knighted by Donal Haldane some sixteen years before. Complicating matters was the presence of Duke Richard and the king’s younger brother, Nigel, standing nearby—and Jamyl Arilan, sitting his horse just behind the king. Though Kenneth had learned that Jamyl was Deryni (though he was forbidden to speak of it), he doubted anyone else at court knew, even Brion. And he did not know whether Jamyl was aware of Sé Trelawney.
    â€œKenneth, you’re too late,” Brion said good-naturedly, still a-horse as he tugged at the buckle of a vambrace. “Uncle Richard tells me I must bow to the wishes of the ladies. A pity, because I’d hoped you and I might cross lances today.”
    â€œYou may wish to reconsider, Sire,” Kenneth murmured, with a nod of acknowledgment to Duke Richard. “Yon black knight wishes to convey his respects, and hopes that the newly knighted Sir Brion Haldane might consent to meet him on the field of honor.”
    He jutted his chin in the direction of Sé, who had tucked the veil of his headdress back into place as Kenneth crossed the field, once again obscuring his lower face, and now was donning the helmet previously hung at his saddlebow. Both the king and Richard gave the newcomer careful scrutiny, the latter with something more akin to suspicion, for the rider’s attire suggested origins far to the east, perhaps from the lands of Gwynedd’s enemies. Jamyl, too, looked keenly interested.
    â€œWho is he?” Richard demanded, bristling slightly. “He looks Torenthi.”
    Shaking his head, Kenneth smiled and leaned his elbows easily on his high pommel, beginning to enjoy the exchange. “He is not Torenthi,” he replied, turning his gaze to Brion. “He is a friend, I assure you. Your father gave him the accolade, though he is no longer in service to Gwynedd.”
    â€œTo whom is he in service, then?” Jamyl interjected, unable to contain himself any longer.
    â€œNot to any enemy of ours,” Kenneth assured him. “His service is to God, if you will. He is a Knight of the Order of the Anvil. But he prefers that his more particular identity not be made public. The king knows him.”
    Brion had begun nodding as Kenneth spoke, obviously making the connection, and turned his grey gaze on his uncle.
    â€œYes, I do know him, Uncle,” he said quietly. “Pray, go to my lady mother and beg her indulgence for one last bout. For I think I owe much to this man.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œJust do as I say!” Brion retorted, the steel of command in his voice. “And Jamyl, make certain that no one interferes.
No one!
Nigel, I’ll have my helm and gauntlets back.” He retrieved the gauntlets from the helm that Nigel timidly offered up, then handed the helm across to Kenneth. “Ride with me.”
    He pulled on the gauntlets as they slowly made their way toward the center of the field, never taking his eyes from the now-helmeted rider in black, who had tossed his cloak back on his shoulders and was selecting a white-painted tournament lance from a rack tended by a nervous-looking squire. A white belt gleamed against the black of boiled leather tournament armor, and a blank shield now adorned his left arm, borrowed for the occasion.
    All around them, spectators were congregating along the sides of the field. The queen had risen and moved to the front of the royal pavilion, to stand anxiously with one hand on Duke Richard’s arm. King Illann and Prince Ronan stood uncertainly to her other side, quietly conferring. Across the field, nearer the junior lists, Jared had pulled