He had been so proud — had been looking forward to this day for several years, and especially since Prince Brion had assumed the royal livery the year before. He had served at table early in the feast, bringing towels and basins of warm water to the worthies at the high table when they first sat down: the traditional first table-service of any new page, offering hospitality to a guest. He had served the queen and then his own mother, both of whom accepted his service with grave attention.

He had enjoyed the feast then, sampling the dainties brought by the older boys and stuffing himself with his favorite things. A little later, he had slipped out to the stables to visit his new Llanneddi pony — the gift of his mother, Alyce, and Zoë, so that the lad would have a mount as good as those of his princely companions.

That had been the beginning of a fatal sequence of events. He had been picking out the pony's feet, bracing each dainty hoof against his lap while he used a hoof pick to rake out muck from the frog.

Excessive zeal seemed, in turn, to have loosened the shoe on the off hind hoof, but he had promised the pony that they would see the farrier in the morning, and even made up a song about clip-clopping across the stable yard to have it fixed. When the two strangers appeared on the other side of the stall door, drawn by his singing and his chatter, they had seemed friendly enough, and had even offered to come into the stall to take a closer look at the delinquent shoe.

Though she tried not to tense, Alyce braced herself for what she knew must surely be coming next, what she did not wish to know, for the critical moments were surely approaching. And unlike the few death-readings she had performed in the past, usually on bodies come to the convent several days after death — too late to really winkle out much detail — this death was very recent. Furthermore, overnight immersion in the cold water had greatly retarded the entire dispersal process. There was plenty of detail — far more than anyone should have to endure, and especially a child so young.

The two men had come into the stall and closed the gate. Once inside, under cover of admiring the pony and tsking over the loose shoe, the pair had overwhelmed the boy before he even was aware he was in danger, one of them clamping a heavy hand over mouth and nose, stifling any chance of drawing breath to cry out as the men roughly bore him down into the straw and began fumbling at his breeches.

Unable to breathe, the boy's resistance quickly had spun into darkness — from which he was shortly roused by the pain, as his assailants took turns using him as a stallion serviced a mare — the only blurred reference his stunned awareness could summon for what they were doing to him.

He had fought them — oh, how he had fought! — flailing with his heels, squirming, biting — anything to escape, to hurt them, to try to make them stop. He had even, through his fog of pain, somehow known that he must try to summon his special powers to defend himself — but he was yet too young, and too unskilled, and could not concentrate, for the pain. And every time he thought he might be about to break free, they had cut off his breathing again, or cuffed him into senselessness.

How long it had lasted, Alyce had no firm sense. But when the pain eventually stopped, there had been another dressed all in black, who had pulled the other men away at first, and turned the boy over in the straw — and recoiled at the sight of his bruised and tear-stained face.

But his supposed benefactor had turned out to be no benefactor at all, and hissed at the other two about «damned Deryni brat!» and «What were you thinking?» just before a powerful hand locked around his throat and squeezed him into darkness once again.

One last time Krispin MacAthan had managed to fight his way back to consciousness, only to find himself being lifted onto the edge of a low wall made of stone — no, the opening of a well, he realized with horror, as they stuffed his arms and head into the opening. He had started to struggle again, trying to cry out, but a heavy blow to the side of his head had cut off the beginning of his cry for help.

The last thing he knew, he was flailing for his life as he skidded down the well-shaft, desperately trying to slow his descent with hands, with fingernails, with booted feet that could find no purchase against the slimy stone. The shock of hitting the cold water far below momentarily restored his clear-headedness, but it was too late. His reflex gasp only sucked water into his lungs; and trapped head-down by the narrowness of the well-shaft, unable to twist upright, his only chance of survival ebbed with his fading consciousness.

That final darkness had Alyce gasping, too, as she surfaced from trance, coughing to clear the memory of the cold death that had flooded into Krispin's lungs. As she roused, Zoë threw her arms around her, holding her close, and Kenneth leaned across the boy's body to grasp her wrist.

«Breathe, Alyce!» he ordered. «You're all right. Just breathe».

She did, forcing herself to take a few deep, steadying breaths, then shakily looked up at the two of them, father and daughter.

'There were three of them», she managed to whisper, forcing order and distance on what she had seen and felt. 'Two were men-at-arms, I think. They had him first. But it seems to have been the third man's idea to throw him down the well. And no, he wasn't yet dead, at that point. He drowned».

«Could you identify the men?» Kenneth asked.

«If I had suspects to question, I could certainly tell whether they were lying. There was something about the third man..».

Casting back for his image, she closed her eyes to bring it into focus — and opened them with a start as she realized that she knew him.

«Dear God, it was Septimus de Nore!»

«Lord Deldour's priest? Are you sure?» Kenneth asked.

She nodded. «Absolutely. He was one of the chaplains at Arc-en-Ciel, when I first went there. I had several run-ins with him. You remember him, Zoë».

Zoë nodded. «He was terrible. And he hated Deryni».

«And who was he with yesterday?» Alyce persisted. «Lord Deldour, who also hates Deryni». New images came into focus in her stunned mind. «That's what the badges were on the other men's tunics. They were Deldour's men». She swept her gaze numbly toward the stable. «Have they already left?»

«I would be very surprised if they'd stayed around», Kenneth said, getting to his feet. «You're sure about this, Alyce?» he asked, looking down at her. «Deldour is a powerful man, and the priest's brother is a bishop».

«I know who and what they are», Alyce said coldly. «And yes, I'm sure».

Chapter 27

«Blame not before thou hast examined the truth; understand first, and then rebuke».[28]

Kenneth's quick inquiries in the main stable yard confirmed that, yes, Lord Deldour's party had left the night before, said to be headed south out along the Carthane road. While a cavalry troop made ready to ride, Kenneth told Duke Richard what had been discovered. Delegating Kenneth to take the news to the king, Richard himself mounted up and took out the troop designated to apprehend and return Lord Deldour and those in his company, especially the priest Septimus de Nore.

Once they had gone, Kenneth pressed Alyce for a fuller account of what she had learned, then passed that information on to the king, sparing her that. Meanwhile, women from the queen's household tenderly received the body of the murdered Krispin MacAthan, helping his mother wash away the dirt and blood and dressing him in fresh page's livery before laying him out, at her request, in her own bed, where the women would keep watch and say prayers for his soul.

28

ECCLESIASTICUS 11:7