The Bishop’s Heir by Katherine Kurtz Read Free Book Online Page B

Deryni could read minds,” Dhugal whispered. And though he did not break eye contact, Kelson needed no Deryni senses to know what courage that took, operating from ignorance as Dhugal was. That Dhugal trusted him, there was no question; but despite his earlier protestations that he was not afraid of what Kelson had become, certain fears could only be allayed by experience—and that, Dhugal did not have yet.
    â€œWe can,” Kelson murmured. “But we don’t, among our friends, unless we’re invited. And the first time, even among Deryni, it almost always requires some kind of physical contact.”
    â€œLike the way you touched Bertie’s forehead?”
    â€œYes.”
    Dhugal let out an audible sigh and lowered his eyes, self-consciously wrapping his plaid around his shoulders like a mantle and fussing with a brooch to secure it. When he had adjusted it to his satisfaction, he gave Kelson a brief, bright smile.
    â€œWell, then. I suppose we ought to see whether the others have gotten anything else out of the prisoners. You won’t forget what I said about highland loyalties, will you?”
    Kelson smiled. “I told you how I go about learning whether a man is lying. How do you do it?”
    â€œWhy, we highland folk have the Second Sight, don’t you know?” Dhugal quipped. “Ask anyone in my father’s hall about Meara, and her greedy would-be princess.”
    â€œWell, then, if it’s Meara, I suppose I’d better be back there, come spring,” Kelson replied. “And with men beside me who understand what’s happening. Maybe even men who have this—Second Sight. Would your father let you come to court, do you think?”
    â€œIf you asked it as king, he’d have no choice.”
    â€œAnd what is your choice?” Kelson asked.
    Dhugal grinned. “We were like brothers once, Kelson. We still make a good team.” He glanced over his shoulder at the sleeping Bertie and back again. “What do you think?”
    â€œI think,” said Kelson, “that we should ride up to Transha in the morning and find out what he’ll say.”

C HAPTER T HREE
    And thou shalt put the mitre upon his head …
    â€”Exodus 29:6
    The rain which had been only an annoyance to Kelson, in Transha, had turned to storm by the time it reached Culdi the following afternoon. Stamping mud from the soles of thigh-high riding boots, Morgan paused just inside the doorway to the guest apartments at Culdi Abbey to shake more water from his streaming leather cloak. He and Duncan had intended to ride in the hills nearby as soon as the afternoon session of the consistory adjourned, but the unexpected storm had neatly stymied that plan. Now the iron grey R’Kassan stud moping down in the bishop’s barn would have to wait another day, and perhaps longer, he and his master both growing surly and restless from the forced inactivity. It hardly seemed fair, especially with Kelson out enjoying himself.
    Blowing on gloved fingers to warm them, Morgan stalked on along the corridor toward Duncan’s temporary quarters and indulged a brief fantasy about a rainstorm in Transha, too. The notion brought a smile to his lips. None of the servants were about when he let himself into the common room Duncan shared with his master, Archbishop Cardiel, so he built up the fire himself and set wine to mull, spreading his sodden cloak on a stool to dry and shedding cap and gloves. Half an hour later, Duncan found his friend ensconced in a deeply recessed window seat which overlooked the cloister garth, boots propped indolently on the stone bench opposite and a steaming cup all but forgotten in one hand. His nose was pressed to the rain-streaked window glass, free hand shading his eyes against glare.
    â€œI see I was right,” Duncan said, casting off his black cloak and rubbing his hands briskly before the fire. “When I saw how hard it was raining, I guessed