The Killing Season
Prologue
Gwynedd, July 1132
Summer had come early to the Eleven Kingdoms, and with the summer heat had spread a plague across the land. A fever plague, first arriving in Gwynedd from the port at Desse, but swiftly spreading outwards from there, like ripples radiating outwards from a tossed pebble to cover the entire land of Gwynedd. The other Kingdoms had been touched by it as well, the contagion spreading at first among the coastal towns, but then moving inland with those who fled for safer havens.
But no one was safe. Neither nobleman nor commoner, for the fever-flux was no respecter of persons, laying waste to rich and poor alike. Among the oldest and the youngest, the infirm and those heavy with child, it took its highest toll, as such things were wont to do. Castles and manors alike closed their gates, imposed strict quarantines, but to no avail. The fever continued its relentless march throughout the land, a cruel conqueror defying any army's might.
Some claimed the plague was God's punishment upon the land, though few could agree on a cause for such divine wrath. A few blamed the Deryni—there would always be those—though fewer believed this now than might have a mere generation past. Others said this was but a test—Divine or otherwise—an ordeal to be endured and mastered so that Gwynedd and the surrounding Kingdoms might only come out stronger, like steel tempered by fire. Still others said it was mere happenstance, a bad roll of the dice of Fortune.
Whatever the reasons, the fever-flux marched on. Marched from Desse as far east as Coroth and the Rheljan Mountains. As far west as the Connait. As far north as Claibourne and the Kheldish Riding.
Even the Court of Rhemuth lay under siege, the city gates closed, the castle secured, new arrivals screened carefully for signs of illness before being admitted. And even so, even in Rhemuth the Beautiful, the bells tolled for the dead.
And in the midst of the chaos brought about by the fever-flux, the viper struck. An attack meant to cut not just to the heart of Gwynedd, but more directly into the heart of her King. An assassin's strike, one timed to exploit just such a season of weakness. One set to cause mortal injury when Kelson of Gwynedd was most distracted. One intended to leave the Haldane dynasty floundering, with an infant Prince and an unready Regent who might be easily subdued in all the chaos. Subdued, defeated, and crushed under the heel of one more suited to rule. One who considered his own claim over Gwynedd more rightful.
Whoever controlled Gwynedd would control one of the most powerful of the Eleven Kingdoms. And its claimant, once his hold upon it was secure, soon planned to turn his eyes towards the other Kingdom. The Kingdom of his birth. The Kingdom which would, soon enough, see his triumphant return.
And he would crush its cub of a King under his heel as well.
But for this first strike against his mortal foes, he would not dirty his own hands. Would not risk entry into a fever-ridden land just yet, during the killing season. What use to conquer Rhemuth's King, only to die in his own bloody sweat and vomit mere days later?
So he sent an underling instead to make the first strike, create the first undercut that would eventually fell the great tree of the Haldane rule. Later, once the frosts had come, once the fevers died away and the cities were safe, but before the people could reunite and regather their strength, he would come into his kingdom.
The first of his Kingdoms.
Teymuraz, Grand Duke of Phourstania, erstwhile Count of Brustarkia and Regent d'Arjenol, smiled as he anticipated his long awaited vengeance.
Chapter One
March 5, 1132
Byzantyun
"Mirjana, bring refreshments for our guest!"
She hastened to do her husband's bidding, knowing that the penalty for disobedience, or even for not complying as quickly as he might wish, would be severe. Even as she left the room, she sensed the visitor's dark eyes watching her, the bold eyes caressing her retreating form, despite the opaque veils she took pains to wear in his presence. She shuddered. She knew he would make no overt move—not only was her husband his liegeman, but his own marriage to the Grand Princess Justiniana was still quite fresh, his position as the newly-created Grand Duke of Phourstania not quite secure enough in Byzantyun's Autokratórial Court for him to be indiscreet in his liaisons.
But in private, during the rare occasions when they were briefly alone, when her husband was in another room or otherwise occupied, his lord had made covert overtures, subtle yet unmistakable.
She loathed him, but dared not show her feelings openly. Dared show no feelings openly, not to him, not even to her own lord and husband.
Her husband Nikos von Brustarkia, fully his liegelord's loyal man.
She hated them both, but was powerless against either.
#
March 9, 1132
Transha Keep
"Ye've a fine, strappin' baby boy, Lady Ailidh!"
Sir Jass's lady wiped a light sheen of sweat from her brow as she watched the midwife clean the creamy vernix from her newborn's skin before swaddling him tightly in a fresh new blanket Ailidh had just finished sewing for him a few nights before. She reached eager arms towards her child as soon as the midwife had finished, drawing him to her breast and watching in wonder as the tiny rosebud lips instinctively rooted and then latched on, nursing hungrily.
"Aye, he's Jass's son all right; greedy little piglet!" she said, gray-green eyes glowing with maternal fondness. She laughed softly. "Just listen to him grunt! Shh, mo chridhe, there's plenty for ye there; when one goes empty, I've another. Ye needn't gulp it down all at once!"
"All tha' snuffling about an' moanin' jus' means th' wee laddie is complimentin' th' chef, m'Lady," the midwife joked. "So, wha's his name tae be, then?"
"Jarrett," Ailidh told her, stroking the bit of chestnut fluff atop the baby's head with one finger. "Jarrett Cauley MacArdry."
"Well, 'tis a nice strong name. Let's tidy up a bit here, then, an' I'll inform Sir Jass tha' he has another son. I'm sure he'll be relieved tae know ye came through safely, and wee Ciaran an' Aine Rose will be glad for a chance tae meet th' new brother."
"Aye. An' then shoo them right back out again, would you please? I feel like I could sleep for a year!"
#
March 15, 1132
Tre-Arilan
Sophie de Arilan stirred slightly, trying to return to her sleep, but it was of no use. The mild nausea was becoming more insistent, and she knew from her first two pregnancies that it would not subside unless she washed down a few bites of dry toast with a few sips of small ale. She sat up slowly, taking a few steady breaths to settle her stomach, then reached for the remedy already placed at hand on her nightstand by a chambermaid knowing full well what her mistress would be in need of each morning during these first early months of pregnancy.
Seisyll rolled over, his blue-violet eyes fixing upon his still slender wife as she nibbled delicately on the toast, washing the crumbs down with the ale. "You all right?" he asked.
"I will be in a few minutes, if I can get enough of this down without losing it first," she assured him.
He sat up, planting a light kiss on her shoulder. "Poor sweeting. This stage should pass in another month though, shouldn't it?"
"Hopefully. If this babe's like Stefania and Jamyl were, at any rate. "
Seisyll lay a hand lightly on his wife's abdomen. "Nothing's showing yet. Hardly a bump there. Such a small thing to cause so much disruption!" He grinned, scooting back down on the bed to kiss the still mostly-flat belly. "Behave, son!"
Sophie chuckled. "That, too, will change in another month or two. Then he'll be a bigger thing causing different kinds of disruption."
"Hopefully he won't be quite as active as Jamyl was. I'd half thought about renaming him Froggy."
Sophie laughed, washing down the last of the dry toast with a final sip of small ale. "I'm still wondering if that might not be appropriate. Jamyl's barely walking, and yet I caught him trying to hop down the back steps last night. Sextus is rebuilding the barricade today."
Seisyll snorted. "He's only 'barely walking' because he figured out how to run first! Or at least it seems that way. Even Sextus is having trouble keeping up with him." He grinned. "Though it's a lot of fun watching my brother try. Speaking of 'lots of fun,' how are you feeling now?"
She raised a dark brow at her husband, noting the gleam in his eye. "Better, but not that much better." Sophie said with a quiet laugh, leaning over to give him a tender kiss on the forehead. "Tonight, mayhap?"
"All right. I need to pop over to Rhemuth for a bit anyway, but I should be back by nightfall." Seisyll winked. "Especially now that I have incentive to return quickly."
#
March 21, 1132
Rhemuth Castle
"Duncan Michael, come here right now!" the toddler's father told him sternly. The young lord, dressed in Kierney colors somewhat dulled by the addition of a light coating of mud spatter, grinned up at his father from the edge of the fish pond. "Why did you run off from Nurse Mhairi?" the Border Duke added as his son approached. He took the lad by one hand rather gingerly, trying not to get any mud smears on his own Court clothing, and turned to return to their apartment. With any luck, he could hand his son over to his household's keeping and still make it to the Great Hall in time for the start of Court.
"She din't wanna come teach th' fishes. I like teachin' th' fishes!" was his son's enigmatic reply.
Dhugal stared down at his son in puzzlement. "What do you mean, you like teaching the fishes?"
Clear green eyes, so like his mother's, shone back up at him. "They do trickses. Like swimmin' in circles an' stuff."
Dhugal came to a stop in the garden path. "They do…tricks?" He tilted his head at the lad curiously. At only two and a half years of age, little Duncan Michael had certainly not started any formal sort of Deryni training yet! "Son, can you show me?"
The boy beamed, all too eager to show off his newly discovered talent to his father. At the edge of the pond he stopped, carefully approaching the slick bank so he wouldn't fall in—though at least this time, Dhugal stood ready to catch him if he looked to be in danger of doing so—and dangling one chubby toddler hand over the water. A small school of fish, maybe five or six in number, swam over to investigate. Pointing one finger at them, the lad began to move it in a slow circle, tracing a halo above the little school. As one body, the fish began to follow the motion, swimming around and around in ever expanding circles in mimicry of the little boy's finger.
The finger began doing a serpentine motion, waving up and down, left to right, over the water. Again, the fish followed.
He gave the finger a sudden flick upwards. Only one fish jumped, shiny body arcing out of the water briefly before descending again with a splash.
"I can't do it good yet," Dhugal's son said with a slight frown.
The Duke chuckled. "Oh, I think you did quite well. But you mustn't come back down here—or to the other pond nearer the practice yard either—unless you're in the keeping of your nurse or your mother. Or myself, of course. Actually, you shouldn't be out of the nursery at all without one of us."
"Not even with Papa Duncan?"
Dhugal smiled. "Well, all right, you can come back with Papa Duncan too. I'm sure he'd love to see you training the fish. But come along, now; you need a bath and I need to get to Court!"
#
March 30, 1132
St. Hilary's Basilica, Duncan's study
"All right then, anamchara, what of the question of Junia the apostle?" Catriona MacArdry McLain's clear green eyes sparkled in challenge as she leaned forward in her chair and took a sip of cider.
Duncan grinned at his daughter-in-law. "What of Junian?" he riposted. "Or should I say, Junianus? Granted, Paul's use of the accusative case makes the name's gender unclear, but it's been quite thoroughly argued that the form of the name Saint Paul used in his reference to his relative and fellow sharer of the Gospel is merely a shortened form of the name 'Junianus' or 'Junius'. Which are, of course, masculine."
Cat snorted. "Aye, it's been thoroughly argued by Gwyneddan churchmen too blinded to see the patently obvious, or look beyond their own local church history, you mean. You're too good a scholar to let such biases cloud your judgment, though. You do realize, don't you, that there's absolutely no evidence in written record that the male name 'Junianus' was ever shortened in that manner, while on the other hand there are at least 250 extant records to show the common use of the name 'Junia'? The very female name 'Junia'?" The corners of her lips twitched as she saw his grin widen.
"Of course," Duncan averred. "Or at least I do now, since you sent me scurrying to the ancient texts after your last visit to research the matter. I just wanted to see the fire flash in your eyes and smoke pour out of your nostrils." He chuckled, taking a sip of his ale. "Of course, none of that changes the fact that Paul's phrase 'They are outstanding among the apostles' may simply have meant that they were outstanding in the eyes of the apostles, not necessarily that they were outstanding apostles. The phrasing lends itself to both interpretations, as I'm sure you must know, being a scholar yourself." Duncan raised an admonishing eyebrow at his soul-friend and sparring partner. "And since when has any scholar been immune to the blinding effects of bias?"
Cat laughed. "So, you're admitting you're arguing from a biased perspective?"
"Of course! And so are you. No matter how much either of us might try to view the matter—or any matter—from a strictly objective viewpoint, it's humanly impossible."
"And now you're trying to sidetrack me. Well, Junia or Junianus aside, there's no disputing the fact that the Church in Byzantyun, which even the most hidebound of your Gwyneddan clergy has to admit was in full flower long before your particular branch of Christendom sprouted a bud, has at least forty references to female diakonos in their early church records."
Duncan poured himself more ale. "All right, then, I'm willing to yield on the matter of female deacons, at least for the moment, although I'm sure even you clergy of mist-shrouded and insular Llyr must admit that deacons are not priests. More cider?" Duncan tilted his head towards her nearly empty goblet.
"Admittedly." Cat smiled. "And no, although I'd love more, I think your granddaughter has had quite enough."
The bishop gave his daughter-in-law a delighted smile. "Oh, then it is a girl! I'd hoped she might be."
"Aren't you supposed to be hoping for a spare ducal heir instead?" she teased.
"All in due time. I can't imagine you and Dhugal were planning on stopping after only two babies."
"Now that we've figured out what's causing them?" She grinned. "Not on your life!"
Duncan laughed. "Well, good. I suppose I should be delighted, for the sake of my son's ducal posterity, that our two churches have theological differences on the subject of mandatory celibacy for clergy as well."
Cat leaned back in her chair, kicking a soft-booted foot out in front of her and examining it idly. "So, tell me, does the mere mention of me still make Denis Arilan break out in hives?"
"You'll have to ask him yourself; he's supposed to be stopping by sometime this afternoon." The bishop smiled. "Denis doesn't hate you, Kitten; he has a certain grudging respect and admiration for you, actually, despite your many differences. He's just wary of your teeth and claws. Must you take such delight in sharpening them on him?"
"Iron sharpens iron," Cat joked with a feral grin.
