Childe Morgan by Katherine Kurtz Page A

their home there. The date was set for Michaelmas, to be Alaric’s third birthday, following the family’s visit to Coroth, for Kenneth and Alyce must first present their son to his future Corwyn subjects.
    Given this schedule, they lingered hardly a week in Cynfyn, while Kenneth held the first of his manorial courts and general audiences, met with the regency council to agree upon general strategies for the coming months, and generally acquainted himself with the running of the county, Jovett and Trevor at his side. While they worked, Alyce and Zoë began planning a wedding.
    â€œThe castle chapel is the logical place to hold it,” Alyce said as she closed the chapel door behind them and leaned against it. Beside her, Zoë was carrying a basket of flowers and sweet herbs for the two grave slabs before the altar steps. Alaric had already wandered ahead and was exploring the south wall, where a painted wooden statue of St. Michael gazed down serenely from a wall niche, wings furled around him like a mantle, gauntleted hands at rest on the hilt of a sword worked in gold and silver. The last time the two women had visited Cynfyn, it had been to bury Ahern, and Alaric had not yet been born.
    â€œI had forgotten the stillness and the beauty of this place,” Zoë murmured.
    â€œAye,” Alyce replied, “but ’tis a terrible beauty, considering who lies buried here. I would certainly understand if you’d prefer a different venue. Perhaps it isn’t the best idea, to begin a new marriage while standing on the grave of one’s first husband.”
    Zoë glanced away briefly, looking wistful, then slipped an arm around Alyce’s waist.
    â€œThat’s long past now,” she whispered. “I try not to think about it. I did love him, but he was never really my husband except in name. There wasn’t time for more.” She brightened and lifted her chin bravely. “I do know that he would have wanted me to be happy.”
    She picked up a stem of lavender and breathed in its sweet perfume, then shifted her gaze to the grave slabs before the altar. “I try to put it from my mind that he lies in that grave yonder. For me, I shall always remember him as he was on that day he rode off to Meara, eager and excited to finally be doing what he was born to do, when life was simpler for all of us.”
    â€œAye, it was,” Alyce murmured. “And if Ahern had lived, he would now be Duke of Corwyn, with your son to succeed him rather than mine—which would be simpler for me , I’ll grant you—and for Alaric. But then your son would be facing what Alaric will face, in times to come.”
    Zoë glanced at Alaric, who had wandered closer to the end of the chapel, then back at Alyce, a sly smile curving her lips.
    â€œAlyce, if I’m marrying Jovett, my children will all be facing what Alaric is facing, won’t they? After all, they’ll also be half-Deryni.”
    Chuckling, Alyce only shook her head.
    â€œBe glad that very few people know about Jovett,” she replied. “And we must do our utmost to ensure that no one finds out, mustn’t we?” She glanced at her son, who now was attempting to climb the altar rail next to the statue of St. Michael. “Alaric, darling, please don’t do that!” she called, as she and Zoë started in that direction. “Come and help me and Auntie Zoë with these flowers, would you?”
    Stopping in midclimb, the boy obediently swung his leg back down and came to join his mother and sister.
    â€œMama, can I have a flower for Saint Michael?” he asked.
    â€œYes, of course you can,” she replied, holding the basket down to his level. “What kind do you think he’d like?”
    â€œMaybe a rose,” he said, starting to finger through the blooms. “This big red one is— ow! It has big, sharp thorns!”
    Zoë cocked her head at him and reached for his