The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy

by Katherine Kurtz

  He would go to Ariella. She would understand—though he thought he remembered her shouting at him through the door as he fell asleep earlier. She would know what to do. She who had soothed his childhood hurts and held him close against the terrors of the dark—she would find the words to comfort him now. She would not fail him, though Cathan and all others did.

  Within minutes, he was standing hesitantly outside her chambers, swaying uncertainly on his feet, staring into the depths of his nearly empty cup. Abruptly, he drained off the contents and then knocked thunderously on the door.

  “Ar—Ari?” he called, his voice cracking on the first attempt. “Ari, open the door—please?”

  “Who—who is it?” came a timorous voice on the other side of the door. One of the servants, no doubt.

  “I want to see Ari. It’s me, Imre.”

  There was a gasp, an unintelligible command from farther away, and then the door was open and a maid was making a deep curtsey. Ignoring her, Imre stumbled past and headed for the doorway of the inner chamber. Candles were being lit by another servant within, and as he entered he was aware of the shadowy form of his sister pulling on a robe over her sleeping shift near the great, curtained and canopied bed. The glare of the candles hurt his eyes, and he could not seem to see her clearly.

  “My cup is empty, Ari,” he whispered plaintively, turning the cup upside down and giving it a shake to demonstrate that it was indeed so.

  His sister’s voice came from the shadows, soothing, reassuring. “Maris, pour some wine for His Grace and then leave us.”

  The girl by the candles came to him then, dipping in a quick curtsey before filling his cup. But when she started to go, he caught her sleeve and held her fast while he drained the cup and extended it again. With a glance at her mistress, the girl filled the cup a second time, then left the flagon on a table and went out. Imre began to drink again, but something blocked his light and he looked up. His sister was standing between him and the candles, her reddish hair tumbling down around her shoulders. He could not see her face, but the flames touched her hair with fire.

  “Ari?” he said in a small voice.

  A slim white hand was extended toward him, resting on his where he held the cup.

  “Don’t you think you’ve had enough for one night?”

  “Never enough to wash this away,” he mumbled, starting to raise the cup again and frowning as she did not release his hand.

  “You don’t understand, Ari. He’s dead. I killed him.”

  The hand on his did not move.

  “Who is dead, Imre? Whom did you kill?”

  His hand jerked spasmodically at that, and he lost his grip on the cup; he would have dropped it had she not caught it. His sob stuck in his throat and shook his body as he buried his face in his hands.

  “Cathan. I’ve killed Cathan. He was a traitor, and I had to do it, but—Oh, God, Ari, I’ve killed him. And I—loved—him.”

  Ariella closed her eyes briefly, remembering the solemn, determined Deryni lord, whose price she and Imre had never found, and slowly raised Imre’s cup to her lips and drank deeply in ironic salute. Then she let the empty cup fall to the carpet beside her and took her brother in her arms as she had done when they were children.

  “It will be all right, Imre,” she murmured, as he clung to her shoulders and the tears stung his eyes. “You are the king, and must do what you must do. But you are also a man, and a man may mourn a friend.”

  With that, Imre’s grief came pouring over him and he sank, sobbing, to his knees, to bury his face against her waist. So he remained for a long time, sobbing bitterly. She stroked his hair, rubbed the tension from his shoulders, and brushed the top of his head with her lips. At length the anguish faded, to be replaced by a growing tingling in every part of his body—and in hers. And as he raised his tear-streaked face and read the passion in her eyes, he was suddenly aware of the soft promise of her body locked in the circle of his arms.

  In one dazzling flash of revelation, he knew that both of them had been moving toward this moment for a long time.

  As he struggled to his feet, her mouth sought his, as hungry as his own need. He was aware of her pressing hard against him as they clung to one another, the exquisite softness as his lips moved down her throat, as he crushed his face against her flawless breasts.

  Then they were being drawn, one by the other, toward the shadowed recesses of the great, curtained bed, and his blood was roaring in his head, and he lost himself in the urgency of sweet oblivion.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The just shall be in everlasting remembrance.

  —Psalms 112:6

  It was a stunned and hushed contingent which met the royal escort that next day bore Cathan MacRorie home.

  The cortege from Valoret arrived amid light snowfall near noon, bearing Cathan’s body on a two-horse litter, the horses plumed and caparisoned in black, the body covered with a velvet pall, snow-frosted. The king’s men, a score of them, carried their spears reversed in their stirrups. A pair of monks walked to either side of the bier, swinging censers and chanting prayers for the soul of the departed. After the royal escort, another litter bore the dead man’s widow and children, young Revan following behind on horseback with Wulpher and a handful of the loyal Tal Traeth servants. None of them were misled by the royal pageantry, for they had seen the blood-stained body before it was washed and dressed and laid out in state for the short journey home. They knew the king’s hypocrisy for what it was, though even they did not dream of the extent.

  Word had flown from the capital as only news of tragedy can fly, reaching Tor Caerrorie in the small hours of the night. The man who brought the news was Crinan, Cathan’s devoted body squire. He had been at Tal Traeth when the soldiers brought his master home; he had watched, mindless in his grief, as the king’s lieutenant barked orders for the preparation of the body; and he had bristled with pride as old Wulpher, the steward, pushed the man aside and himself performed this last service for their slain young lord.

  Torn at first between his wish to stay at his master’s side and the necessity to warn the rest of the family of what had happened, Crinan held his peace until the king’s men had bedded down in the Great Hall for the night—for they would be accompanying the body to Caerrorie the next morning. Then, spurred by the fear that the king might make retribution against all the MacRories, Crinan left his grieving vigil and took horse for Caerrorie. Three hours later, he was pounding up the approach to the outer gate.

  The sound of his horse’s hooves shattered the night silence of the castle and set the hounds to baying, and soon the entire household was awake and shivering in the cold, ill-lit Great Hall.

  At first Crinan could not tell them—he was physically unable, after his long and breathless ride in the cold and snow. But he was sure that Camber knew before he spoke, in that uncanny way which only Deryni seemed to have. Camber had received his words with wooden silence, had turned his face away for a mere instant before tonelessly asking Sam’l to ride on to Saint Liam’s and pass the word to Joram. Rhys Thuryn was already in the house, had been working late on documents in the MacRorie library, and he, too, came into the Great Hall at the commotion, to hear the news in shock and hold the weeping Evaine close in helpless comfort. After a few more low-voiced commands to the servants regarding necessary preparations for the morrow, Camber had requested them all to return to their respective chambers to try to rest. There was little further sleep for anyone at Caerrorie that night.

  Next morning, under a cold, sapphire sky, Camber’s household gathered in Caerrorie’s village church to pray for the soul of Cathan MacRorie and wait for his body to come home. Joram arrived before dawn, and young James Drummond an hour later. Evaine and Rhys knelt together at Camber’s side, with Crinan and Sam’l and a dozen of the closest household servants, as Joram led the prayers for the dead.

  Outside, the people of the village gathered, and Camber permitted as many of them to enter the church as coul
d be accommodated, the rest of them kneeling quietly in the outer yard. When, at last, word came that the cortege was approaching, the villagers still outside went and lined the road in silence, each one making a deep obeisance as the bier passed.

  The king’s lieutenant was visibly annoyed at this sign of devotion—which, to his mind, should have been reserved for their sovereign—but he dared do nothing. For there was a grim, proud man waiting on the steps of the church to receive his son—a High Deryni Lord capable of unspeakable vengeance if he chose to wreak it. The lieutenant was Deryni himself, and not unskilled in the use of his powers, but he did not relish an arcane confrontation with Camber of Culdi. The lieutenant ordered his men to stand quiet, and silently prayed that the Earl of Culdi would not defy the king’s commands.

  The lieutenant’s fears were unjustified. He should have known that violence was not Camber’s way, even in extreme grief. Camber stood straight and calm—deadly calm—as the cortege drew to a halt, fixing the soldiers coldly with his gaze as Joram, Rhys, and the faithful Crinan and Sam’l removed the bier from the horse-litter and bore it into the church. He embraced Elinor and his grandsons before sending them inside. Then Camber stood watch until Wulpher and Revan and the other servants from Cathan’s household were permitted to come forward, to kneel weeping at his feet until he raised them up and, with low and gentle voice, bade them also go inside.

  Slowly and deliberately, he himself followed them and closed the doors, making it clear to the most hardened of them that the king’s men were not welcome in this hour of grief. The Lieutenant wisely chose not to challenge that statement, but bade his aide command the men to stand at ease. Inside, Joram MacRorie began the Requiem Mass for his slain brother.…

  When the Mass had ended, Camber remained kneeling for a long time beside the body of his son, pondering his next move. Burial would not be until that evening, for the grave was not ready, so most of the villagers had gone into the courtyard after Mass, leaving only members of the immediate family and household to keep silent vigil.

  But the guards were still outside, and Camber wondered about that, wondered why they were staying, what orders they had received besides the command to escort Cathan’s body home. Though the king’s lieutenant had said nothing to him—indeed, he had not given the man a chance—Camber considered whether their mission might entail more than they had done thus far. (Or was this his own guilt projecting suspicion?) What if they were holding arrest warrants for the entire family, and awaited only the conclusion of the burial rite tonight to serve those warrants? There had been some reason for Cathan’s murder. Suppose Imre had somehow gotten wind of their quest for Prince Cinhil?

  He let his eyes search those remaining: Rhys at his side; Evaine, comforting the grieving Elinor; James Drummond, kneeling sullen and alone far to the right of the nave; the family servants of his and Cathan’s households. Sam’l had taken the children back to the castle minutes before—no need for them to stay in the church for the rest of the afternoon, grief-strained and frightened. What he now planned would be difficult, but it must be done.

  With a slight sigh, Camber crossed himself and got to his feet, shaking his head when Rhys looked up and made as though to accompany him. Moving alone toward the back of the church, he stopped beside one of the young pages still kneeling there and spoke with him quietly for some minutes, the boy nodding vigorously from time to time. Then Camber was tousling the boy’s head in affection, a slight smile crossing his face as he turned and moved back up the aisle. Just before Camber reached his former place by Rhys, the page glanced around nonchalantly, got to his feet, and slipped away through a side door.

  Now, what was all of that about? Rhys wondered, and started to ask as Camber knelt beside him once more.

  But the proud old Deryni shook his head and held a finger to his lips, his head bowed as though in prayer once more. Puzzled, Rhys watched as Camber reached out and caught the edge of the pall shrouding Cathan’s body, to bring the silk-fringed velvet gently to his lips.

  It was not the pall which Imre had sent, Rhys knew. That had been removed as soon as the body was safely inside the church and the doors closed, to be replaced by another one bearing the MacRorie arms, Cathan’s label of cadency stitched to it lovingly in the pre-dawn hours by his sister Evaine.

  Rhys watched with compassion as Camber let the velvet fall, sharing the older man’s grief as few men could. As he laid his hand on Camber’s arm in a spontaneous gesture of comfort, Camber looked up, his gray eyes sage, serene beyond all expectation.

  “Gentle Rhys, dear to me as any son,” he murmured. “Will you come with me and help me?”

  Rhys nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and Camber smiled fleetingly, covering Rhys’s hand briefly with his own as the two of them stood. Walking quietly behind the altar rail and out of the sanctuary, they went to the sacristy chamber, where Joram had retired after Mass. Joram was kneeling at a prie-dieu, devoid of vestments save for the black stole over his cassock, head cradled in his arms. He looked up as his father and Rhys came into the room, hastily wiping a sleeve across his eyes. The pale hair was dishevelled, and he smoothed it in an automatic gesture.

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “Nothing else,” Camber said gently. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, warding the chamber from interference with a casual wave of his hand.

  “We have to talk, Joram,” he said then. “Imre’s guards are still outside, and they don’t appear to be leaving. Did you tell Cathan what we have been trying to do?”

  “No, sir, we decided against it.” Joram removed his stole, touched it to his lips, and paused before putting it away in the vestment press. “My God, you don’t suppose Imre suspects, do you? He couldn’t! There’s no way he could know!”

  Camber raised an eyebrow. “You were followed from Valoret two days ago, weren’t you? He obviously suspects something, though I agree that it seems unlikely he could have put all the pieces together so soon. But he apparently thought that Cathan was involved in something treasonous. Or what happened—wouldn’t have happened.” He glanced at the floor. “At any rate, and for whatever reason, Imre is taking a hard look at us. I’m not sure we can stand the scrutiny.”

  Joram sat carefully on the edge of the vestment press. “Are you saying we should give it up?”

  “Good God, no! I’m asking you to ride with Rhys to Saint Foillan’s now, today! If we don’t get Cinhil out now, we may not get another chance.”

  “Now?” Joram whirled on Rhys. “Did you know about this?”

  As surprised as Joram, Rhys shook his head. “Sir, I mean no disrespect, but what makes you think we have the chance now? You yourself said that Imre’s soldiers are still outside. We can’t even use the Transfer Portal in the castle. It’s three weeks before we’re expected in Dhassa.” Dhassa was the free, holy city in the Lendour Mountains—a place where Imre’s power could not touch them.

  “You’ll have to ride the entire way, then,” Camber said. “There’s an underground passage leading out of this very room; Joram knows where it is. I’ve already sent a page to secure horses and the other things you’ll need. He’ll be waiting at the edge of the north woods within the hour.”

  “You’ve obviously thought this out,” Joram said slowly. “But how are you going to explain our absence, if we leave now?”

  “I don’t plan to explain it,” Camber said, folding his arms across his chest and studying the floor. “As far as the guards are concerned, you’ll still be here.”

  “We’ll still—But—” Rhys broke off uncertainly and glanced at Joram, who had frozen at his father’s words and now drew himself up stiffly.

  “Joram, what is it?” Rhys whispered.

  Ignoring Rhys, Joram stared steadily at his father.

  “Sir, if you have in mind what I think you do—”

  “Hear me,” Camber interrupted.

  His voice was low, but it suddenly crackled with authority. Rhys, who had been about
to ask what Camber was talking about, shut his mouth in surprise. Joram was bristling with hostility, though he had not continued speaking, and Rhys could feel the tension suddenly generated between the two. Meekly, he backed off a pace, wanting no part of the clash of wills which he sensed was about to unfold.

  “Father—” Joram began again.

  “No. Hear me out. I understand your reluctance. But, believe me, I have pondered the moral aspects long and carefully. To be sure, there is deceit, but there are times when such things cannot be avoided.”

  “They can be avoided! Father, I don’t think—”

  “You don’t think? Then, you admit that your view is only opinion!” Camber snapped. “You don’t know that it’s morally wrong.” He glanced at Rhys briefly, his voice still low, controlled, coolly logical.

  “Joram, if there were any other way, you know I would take it. And if you can offer me another option that will not endanger more lives than my way, I shall be delighted to concede. But if we ever hope to see our Haldane on the throne, we must act now. Imre’s soldiers are without. Someone suspects something, or they would not still be here, and Cathan would not be dead. Even if Cathan was innocent of conspiracy, we most assuredly are not. We’ve gone too far to stop now.”

  Joram, his eyes blazing defiance, had stood stiffly, fists clenched at his sides, throughout Camber’s argument, but now he turned his face away and let his shoulders sag. Rhys, mystified at not knowing what the two were arguing about, sensed only that Joram had lost and Camber had won. Wordlessly, he turned to Camber, watching as the older man moved slowly to the side of his son—though he did not touch him.

  “I’m sorry, Joram. I understand, believe me. You know that I would never subject you to this if it were not absolutely necessary. Oh, I admit that at first I thought your plan the rash enthusiasm of youth. The arguments I gave you and Rhys nearly two months ago are still valid, logically. But that was before I met Cinhil, and before Cathan was murdered by that man who sits on the throne at Valoret. We have no option but to proceed.”