The King’s Justice Read Online Free PDF Page A

straddling its broad back behind the massive war saddle while a second attempted to stand and balance on the moving animal’s back, Nigel walked alongside and barked instructions. Jatham, Kelson’s own squire, led the horse.
    â€œWatch it …” Kelson murmured to himself, as Nigel’s pupil teetered and started to tumble headfirst into the hoof-churned mud—only to have Nigel snatch him in midair by his belt and a handful of tunic and boost him back into position.
    They could not hear what Nigel said to the lad, though his words brought an immediate flush of scarlet to the downy cheeks. Almost at once, the boy found his balance and was standing up, erect if shaky, but moving more and more confidently with the gait of the horse. Lent new bravery by his companion calling encouragement from behind him, he even began to grin as Nigel nodded approval and started slowly backing toward the center of the circle the old stallion trod.
    â€œGod, I’m glad I’ve got Nigel,” Kelson whispered, echoing Morgan’s own appreciation of Gwynedd’s Iron Duke. “I suppose kings have always had to ride off to battle not knowing how their heirs will handle things if they don’t return, but at least with Nigel after me, Gwynedd will be in good hands.”
    Morgan glanced at him sharply. “No prescience of impending doom, I hope?”
    â€œNo, it isn’t that.”
    Morgan raised an eyebrow at the note of distraction in the royal answer, but he said nothing, only noting how the king had begun twisting at a gold ring on the little finger of his left hand. Briefly it had been Kelson’s bridal token to the Mearan princess who now slept eternally in the vaults below Rhemuth Cathedral; the ring had a tiny Haldane lion etched on a facet pared from along the top of the band, the eyes set with miniscule rubies. He had worn the ring constantly since the day of her burial. Likewise, when court protocol did not dictate otherwise, he had taken to wearing black. He was so attired today, not even a circlet adorning his royal head.
    Nor did Morgan know how much the outward symbols of mourning reflected the true extent of the king’s grief. Kelson said that both gestures were but visible reminders of the vow he had made to bring the Mearan rebels to justice, but Morgan wondered whether the significance might run deeper—though he would not have dreamed of prying. Faced with a marriage of state to a girl who had been bred to hate his very name, Kelson had let himself retreat to the more comforting fantasy that he was falling in love with Sidana, and she with him. By the time they recited their vows before the high altar, he had nearly convinced himself that it was true—or at least that he eventually could have caused it to be true.
    Her violent death, then, before the fantasy could be tested in the reality of a consummated marriage, had left the young king foundering in a sea of unresolved adolescent passions and shattered ideals. Playing the grieving and aggrieved widower gave him time to sort things out before circumstances forced him once more into the matrimonial sea. Both he and Morgan knew that he would have to marry again, however, and fairly soon. And as before, he would always have to place dynastic considerations firmly before considerations of the heart.
    â€œWell, it’s natural to be a little nervous about tonight,” Morgan said, guessing apprehension rather than grief to be behind today’s mood. “Don’t worry. Nigel will do fine. You’ve been preparing him all winter for this.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œAnd you’ll do fine,” Morgan continued, covering that aspect as well. “Why, I’ll wager that no Haldane king since Cinhil himself has had so many Deryni to help him designate his magical heir. Your father certainly didn’t. All he had was me.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, all?” Kelson snorted, though the protest