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hand, raising it blade-upward in salute to kiss the relics in the hilt. A gasp rippled among them
all, for Gilrae had not been able to do that since his fall. The stunned Caprus could only gape
at him in astonishment, springing to his feet to grab at Gilrae's sword arm and push back the
sleeve to stare.
"Gilrae, your arm !" he began, genuine joy lighting the blue eyes.
Echoing Caprus's grin, Gilrae pressed his younger brother back to his knees with his free
hand and glanced out at all of them, still holding the sword before him.
"Gentlemen, while I prayed this afternoon, something happened that I can't explain," he
said quietly. "I was near despair because I thought all my choices had been taken from me. God
saw fit to give me all my choices back." He smiled down at his brother. "I hope you will not
think ill of me as I give over part of the burden to you, Caprus. I believe it is something you
have long wanted, despite your love, and I know now that you will prove worthy of the test."
Before Caprus or any of the rest of them could even begin to question, Gilrae drew
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r r
himself up formally and raised the sword, bringing the flat of the blade down smartly on
Caprus's right shoulder.
"In the name of God and Saint Michael, I dub thee knight, Caprus d'Eirial," he said. The
blade lifted to touch the left shoulder. "I give thee the right to bear arms and the duty to protect
the weak and helpless."
He brought the blade to rest on Caprus's yellow curls, sighting down the gleaming blade
to his brother's tear-bright eyes.
"I give thee also the charge of our father's lands and the meting of justice, high and low,"
he added, for an instant shifting his glance out over the awed men watching. "Be thou a good
knight and gentle lord to these, thy people."
He drew the scabbard from his belt and sheathed the sword, then laid both across the
astonished Caprus's hastily raised palms before taking the coronet from his head. He held it
high in both his hands, so that there could be no mistaking his fitness for the honor he passed
and no mistaking his intent then set it firmly on Caprus's head.
"Before God and these assembled witnesses, I renounce all claim to the lands and titles of
Eirial, vesting them forever in this Caprus d'Eirial, my brother, true-born son of the late Radulf
d'Eirial, and his lawful descendants. This is my irrevocable intent, which I hope will be
confirmed without question by our lord the King."
Helping Caprus to his feet, right hand to right, he turned him to face the others. He
wondered if his own contentment was as evident as Caprus's incredulous pleasure, and
marveled that the choice could have seemed so difficult before.
"My lords, I here present your new Baron d'Eirial. I command you to give him the same
loyalty you gave our father, and which you earlier pledged to me. Do it. I haven't got all night."
Lorcan swore. The men swore. Master Gilbert swore, and even the priest swore. But as
Caprus and the others moved off toward the horses, whispering excitedly among themselves
and glancing back in awe, Lorcan lingered.
"But, what will you do now?" the old knight whispered, staring as Gilrae watched
Caprus and the others disappear against the sunset glare. "You've given up everything, my
lord."
"I'm not your lord any longer, Lorcan and I haven't given up anything that really
mattered." Gilrae cocked his head at the other man. "Don't you understand? Before today, I had
nothing. And then I was given everything, so that I might choose what I really wanted." He
pulled off his right glove and laid his restored hand on the ruined altar.
"Don't you see? This is where I belong. Oh, not here, at this poor, ruined altar. I'm as
stunned as you are, that a miracle could have taken place where magic once held sway. But
maybe that means that the magic wasn't evil to begin with I don't know. I do know that I'm
not the same man I was when I came here earlier today."
Closing his hand as if to cup something precious, he gazed beyond the altar to where a
Presence lamp had burned in his dream.
"I think I've been given a sign, Lorcan one that I can finally comprehend. It's what I
was always looking for you know that. I don't intend to throw away my second chance."
The old knight shook his head. "You're right. I don't understand." He snorted, then stuck
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r r
out his hand, which Gilrae took. "If you've found your vocation, though, I pray God will
prosper you, my lord."
"Not 'my lord' anymore, Lorcan. Just Gilrae and maybe Father Gilrae someday, if
what I pray is true."
"And if it isn't?"
"I think it is," he said with a smile. A slight movement had caught his eye off in the north
transept, and he gave Lorcan's hand a final squeeze.
"You'd better go now, old friend. Your new lord is waiting, as is mine. Serve Caprus
faithfully, as you would have served me. I have no doubt you'll find him worthy."
The old knight did not speak, but as he bowed over his former master's hand in farewell,
he pressed his lips against its back in final homage, battle-scarred fingers briefly caressing the
smooth flesh of the once swollen wrist. Then he was turning on his heel and striding down the
steps, head ducked down in the collar of his cloak, stumbling a little as he receded down the
nave.
Gilrae stared after him, sun-dazzled, then drew on his glove again and turned to lay his
hands on the ruined altar once more, bowing his head in blind and wordless thanksgiving. He
felt the sun die behind him, and the deepening shadows of the evening, and after a while longer,
the touch of a hand on his right shoulder.
"Gilrae?"
"Adsum," Gilrae whispered.
Old Simonn's gentle chuckle floated on the air like music as the night's first snowflakes
began to drift to earth. Out on the eastern horizon, Gilrae realized that the evening's first star
was heralding a personal advent, as well as the coming of the Christmas King.
"Come, young friend," came Simonn's invitation. "But you must save that word for
another than myself. Come and I'll take you to an unstained altar."
bethane summer, 1100
With "Bethane," we shift more than a hundred years to the timeframe of Morgan, Kelson, and the rest of
the familiar characters of the CHRONICLES OF THE DERYNI. This particular story sprang from two sources: a
brief reference in Deryni Checkmate to the summer when Alaric Morgan fell out of a tree and broke his arm; and
a request to do a story about witches for an antholoy called Hecate's Cauldron. I'd never actually referred to old
Bethane as a witch, but she certainly fulfills the usual stereotypes about crones and cauldrons and the like.
Besides, I'd always been curious about her. Her brief appearance in Deryni Checkmate sketched just enough
information to be enticing, and asked far more questions than it answered.
Who was Bethane? Who was Darrell, her husband? What happened to him? What happened to her, to
make her the way she was? She wasn't always an old nag, living in the hills and eking out a miserable existence
from sheep and the offerings of the locals for concocting the odd love potion or practicing folk medicine. She'd [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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