Marie gave a nervous snicker. «We must be sisters. Alyce and I don't like her either».
«I don't suppose she's all that bad», Vera replied. «You might even spare her a little pity. She knew she wasn't barren, because she has a grown daughter by her first marriage, but Father wouldn't give her any more children. He needed a wife, so that he could bring me into the picture, but he didn't want to complicate the succession. In hindsight, I think he gambled quite a lot on Ahern — an unfortunate wager, as it happens, given his injury — but he may be able to overcome it. And meanwhile, he had us». She cocked her head at the parchment in Alyce's hand. «You must be bursting to read that. Have you done this before?»
Alyce shook her head. She had been numbly Truth-Reading everything Vera said, and had no doubt that everything was true. Truth-Reading was among the rudimentary skills that their father and then Father Paschal had taught her and Marie — and Ahern — during their early years: a particularly useful survival skill for any Deryni, as was the ability to block pain and to induce sleep — skills she had used in easing her brother's discomfort en route here.
The procedure to which Vera was referring was simple enough on the receiving end; it would not have been so simple for their father, in the setting up. But now she was eager to learn what instructions their father had left her.
«I know the theory», she whispered. «I can do it. And you'll keep a lookout?» she added, glancing at the chapel door.
«We shall be the perfect decoys, if anyone should come», Vera said with a grin. «Now, Marie, we still have a lot to do. You might at least try to look like you're enjoying plaiting evergreen garlands».
Her ready smile brought a smile to Marie's lips as well, and the other girl re-applied herself to the task as Alyce rose and headed toward the altar. Vera took up a position just inside the door, which she pulled slightly ajar.
Alyce could feel her heart hammering as she padded softly down the chapel's short nave, the parchment packet closed tightly between her cupped hands. Three days before, at her father's interment, the air had been redolent of fine incense and the more cloying perfume of floral tributes. Her stomach stirred a little queasily as she skirted the slab under which Keryell lay, doing her best to recall the incense rather than any faint charnel scent she might imagine in this part of the chapel.
Steadying herself against the altar rail, she genuflected to the Presence signified by the lamp burning above the tabernacle, then eased to her knees, stretching one foot behind her, under her cloak, so that it touched the corner of the grave slab under which her father lay. Then, after mouthing a brief prayer, both for the occupant's soul and her own blessing, she dipped her head briefly to kiss the seal as she had been instructed — and hesitantly swept it with her tongue.
Nothing happened — at least that she could detect — though the taste of honey lingered as she carefully broke the seal. Fragments of brittle wax showered the altar rail as she opened the parchment. Between the penned lines of the promised bequest, written in her father's tight, crabbed hand, she began reading the glowing words, quite distinct in the semidarkness of the silent chapel.
Beloved Daughter, it began. In receiving this letter, you will already have made the acquaintance of your twin sister. I ask your forgiveness for the deception I have carried out, in keeping you apart thus far, but your mother and I agreed before your birth that this solution, painful as it was for both of us, represented the best hope of allowing at least one of our children to grow up sheltered from the stigma so often attendant upon those of our blood.
Happy coincidence suggested the means by which this might be accomplished. It happened that, at about the time your mother fell pregnant with you and your sister, she learned that Lady Laurela Howard was also with child. After a few months, we determined that your mother carried twin girls — and conceived a daring plan.
Since your mother and Lady Howard had been friends since childhood, it was arranged that the two should share their confinements at Cynfyn, for one another's company and so that Laurela might avail herself of the midwife serving my household. Unbeknownst to Laurela or her husband, your mother's second-born was then to be presented as a supposed twin to the child Laurela carried — which is exactly what was done, except that her own child was born still. Thus, what began as a regrettable but necessary deception chanced to have an unexpected and doubly felicitous outcome, easing the sorrow of Laurela's loss as well as our own — to surrender our beloved daughter into the keeping of another, for her safety's sake.
I pray that you can forgive what I have done, and that you may now make the better acquaintance of your twin sister, Veralyn Thamar (de Corwyn) Howard. I have provided for her such training as I could, in the hope that she may share this legacy of our mutual birthright with you.
My devotion to both of you, my darling daughters, and to dear Marie as well.
Even as Alyce read the final words, through a blur of tears, the glowing script was fading from the page. The last line alone lingered for a moment longer than the rest, superimposed over the more mundane message penned on the page, before likewise dispersing like wind across water.
Chapter 15
«And ye shall read this book which we have sent unto you».[16]
Alyce shared what she had read with her sisters — Marie first, since they were accustomed to working mind-to-mind. Marie wept with emotion when it was done, then dried her tears — glad ones, this time, unlike those of the previous weeks — and gathered up the finished half of the garland to take it to the altar rail, humming one of the more sprightly antiphons of Advent as she carried it down the center aisle.
«She's quite amazing, isn't she?» Vera murmured to her twin, watching Marie retreat. «And very young».
«She was always Father's pet», Alyce replied, smiling. «And she is still just fifteen».
«Yes, I tend to forget that», Vera said wistfully. «Ahern is so mature for his age». She shrugged and jutted her chin toward the letter still in Alyce's hand. «Shall we?»
They returned to the bench where Vera first had found them and settled in amidst the stockpile of pine boughs and ivy, laying the ivy matrix and a few pine boughs across their laps — diversion, in case anyone should enter.
Alyce had feared it would not come easily, for other than with Marie, the greatest part of her previous contact with other Deryni had been with Father Paschal, and then always as pupil with teacher. Some little there had been with Jessilde, as part of training exercises, but always under Paschal's supervision. Interaction with Ahern had been mostly during their childhood, when none of them knew much; their mother had died young, and their father had mostly left their training to Paschal.
Provision also had been made so that Jessamy might tutor her and Marie, but the pair had been too short a time at court for that to happen. In truth, Alyce had always harbored a certain reticence concerning any too-close interaction with Jessamy, godmother though she was — and Tante» Jessamy, by her own mother's wishes.
She could not explain that reticence. It was not precisely come of any mistrust she felt toward Jessamy herself, but rather, an uneasiness over the apparent ambiguity of a Deryni being openly tolerated at court, in the queen's own household — though perhaps a woman was not deemed to be so great a threat as a man.
Alyce had also heard tell of a brother of Jessamy, called Morian, long assigned to the governor's staff in Meara, who made discreet use of his powers in the service of the king; she had no idea what the Bishop of Meara thought about this bending of secular and canon law. Perhaps it was a prerogative of kings, that sometimes it was acceptable that some Deryni function openly, despite what bishops said.
16
BARUCH 1:14