«May choirs of angels receive thee…»[21]

The following week would pass in a numb blur of grief for Alyce de Corwyn, for she now must bury her sister, as she had buried her father but two years before. As she had done after her father's death, she traveled back to her ancestral lands — not to Cynfyn, for Marie had been little a part of that, but to Coroth, the Corwyn capital, where this latest scion of the line of Corwyn's dukes would lie with her ancestors.

In this season of the year, still languishing in the heat of the summer just ending, the cortege wound its way southward only as far as Desse, following the royal road that ran along the east bank of the River Eirian. Thence the party transferred to the relative comfort of one of the king's galleys for the voyage into the great Southern Sea and thence around the horn of Mooryn, heading eastward then until at last they sighted the twin lighthouses guarding Coroth Harbor.

The news, of course, had reached Corwyn's capital well in advance of the funeral party, sent by fast courier the very day of the tragedy. The king had been out hawking on the moors the day it arrived, with Lord Hambert, the Seneschal of Coroth, and the Tralian ambassador, attended by Sir Jiri Redfearn, Sir Kenneth Morgan, and Sir Sé Trelawney, along with a handful of knights. It was a bright day in early October, and the expedition was to have been the last such junket before Donal's planned departure for Rhemuth in a few days' time.

Ahern had begged off, declaring himself possessed of a mild indisposition.

Donal had braced himself for bad news when he saw the look on the messenger's face, as the rider in Haldane livery reined in his lathered horse and sprang to the ground. The man himself had known little of the tragedy beyond the stark fact that several had died in Rhemuth as a result of poison hidden in a parcel of sweetmeats, but Seisyll Arilan's terse missive held a fuller story.

The poison appears to have been meant for the Lady Marie, Seisyll had written, in a letter folded around another, smaller square of folded parchment, but she shared the treat with Lady Brigetta Delacorte and some of the children — none of the princes, for which, God be praised, but young Isan Fitzmartin is dead. Ostensibly, the sweets came from Lord Ahern, in the diplomatic pouch from Corwyn, along with the enclosed letter from Sir Sé Trelawney.

Donal's eyes darted to the folded square he had removed from inside Seisyll's letter, then skimmed on down the page.

Young Krispin MacAthan tasted one of the sweetmeats but did not like it, and spat it out, Seisyll declared. He came to no harm. Not so, young Isan, who ate the rest of Krispin's share, in addition to his own. He perished, along with Lady Marie and Lady Brigetta. The poisoner, Lady Muriella, threw herself from one of the parapets when she saw what she had done.

The king's relief that Krispin had survived was tempered by regret at the names of the dead — the sad waste of it. And but for the grace of God, any of his true-born sons might have perished as well.

Very sadly, it now fell to him to inform young Ahern de Corwyn of the death of his twin sister. Donal could not, for the life of him, remember what the Lady Brigetta Delacorte looked like, or even the jealous and spiteful Muriella, but Marie de Corwyn, besides being a valuable heiress, had been a delight to eye and ear, a notable adornment to the court of Gwynedd. Furthermore, the loss of her marriage as coinage of political expediency was greatly to be regretted. Sadly, no one would ever know what might have become of young Isan — an engaging and promising boy, now gone as if he had never lived.

«Ill news, Sire?» Sir Kenneth asked quietly.

Slowly Donal nodded, not speaking as he opened the second folded piece of parchment, addressed on the outside to the Lady Marie de Corwyn. He recognized the handwriting, for Sir Sé Trelawney had been serving as secretary for much of the recent correspondence with the court of Torenth. The content of the letter had largely to do with the minutiae of life at the Corwyn court — nothing at all improper or intimate — but he could guess how it would have thrilled the fair Marie to receive it.

«Sir Se», he called, lifting his gaze and the hand with the letter toward that young man, tending the hawks a little ways away.

Sé gave the hawks into the care of a nearby squire and came at once, curiosity in his eyes.

«Sire?»

«Yours, I think», the king replied, handing him the letter. «May I take it that you know nothing about a parcel of marchpane sent to the Lady Marie in the last diplomatic pouch to Rhemuth, ostensibly from her brother?»

Sé shook his head distractedly, his face blanching as he glanced at the letter and recognized his own handwriting.

«Sire, on my honor — nothing untoward…»

«I do not question your honor», the king said quietly, briefly lowering his eyes. «And I know you are innocent of anything besides the letter you wrote». Reluctantly he then handed Sé the letter from Seisyll Arilan. «I'm very sorry, son».

Only a faint breeze stirred, there on the moorland — that and the soft whuffing of the horses nearby, and the screech of a hawk — as Sé read what Arilan had written, his embarrassment turning abruptly to stunned disbelief.

«No!» The word escaped his lips before he could stop it, his breath catching in his throat as he raced through a second reading of the letter in hope of finding some reprieve that he had missed. Tears were welling in the blue eyes as he then looked up at the king, every line of his body begging for it not to be true.

«It can't be. It isn't possible».

Sadly Donal shook his head. «I cannot think Lord Seisyll would make up such a thing, lad. I was aware of your affection for Marie — though obviously, neither of us was aware that the Lady Muriella had fixed her heart on you». He sadly shook his head. «And how badly wrong it went. Not only did she eliminate her rival, but two more innocents as well — and then took her own life».

Sé screwed his eyes tightly closed, battling for control. «Had I been there», he whispered, «and known her to do this deed, I would have taken her life. Dear God, I was mustering my courage to ask you for Marie's hand — little though I am worthy of her. We had hoped we might be married!»

«Se, Se — dear boy», Donal murmured. Having lost his first wife and many a friend, over the years — and nearly having lost Krispin — he had an inkling what Sé must be feeling.

«We'd best go back to Castle Coroth», he said aside to Sir Kenneth. «Young Ahern must be told, and I've no stomach for any more hunting today».

With almost military precision, Sir Kenneth called in the others of their party and organized the return to Coroth. They found Ahern de Corwyn up on the castle's highest parapet, leaning on his stick and gazing out to sea toward the west, where any approaching ship from Rhemuth would first appear. Gaining this vantage point could not have been easy, for stairs were still a major challenge for Ahern's stiff knee. But when the king saw Ahern's face, he knew that the messenger must have given him at least the gist of the message he carried, before heading out to the moors to find the king.

«Ahern?» the king said quietly.

The young man turned his face toward the voice, his profile still and drawn against the lowering twilight.

«I heard», he replied. «My sister Marie is dead».

The starkness of his tone had a finality about it that sent a chill up Donal's spine.

«It's because she was Deryni», Ahern went on, in an even softer voice. «Oh, I know Muriella was jealous. Both Marie and Alyce had mentioned her in letters, over the past year or so. She fancied Sé, I gather. But I can't imagine that she would have acted, if she'd thought she was only competing with another ordinary woman. And Marie was not ordinary».