The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy

by Katherine Kurtz

  A stabbing pain in his side brought his attention back to the stairwell—too late to avoid the lieutenant’s blade. He felt a searing wetness all down one side of his body as the lieutenant withdrew apace, his blade crimsoned with blood Guaire knew was his own.

  But then sweet reprisal was upon the lieutenant in the form of Jamie’s sword. The man staggered back with blood spurting from severed jugular and carotid, a scream gurgling in his throat. The damage to Guaire was already done, but even as the young lord started to crumple, he found himself being whisked into the strong arms of Camber and borne toward that same corner of the room where such strange things had been happening only seconds before.

  James slammed the door and dashed to join them, but as the door gave under the fresh onslaught of men from below stairs, Guaire’s world began fading to a blissful shade of gray. Just before he lost consciousness, he had a sickening, swooping sensation, as though he were falling, and a blast of pure, brilliant energy which nearly held back the darkness. For just that instant, he could have sworn that Camber glowed.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Blessed shall they be that shall be in those days,/He bringeth back His anointed.

  —Psalms of Solomon 18:6

  In another part of the kingdom, darkness came early that night. The wind drove a new storm through the mountain passes, turning the twilight to white-shrouded blankness as two riders approached the fastness of Saint Foillan’s Abbey.

  They had met no one on their ride that day. The road was little travelled once the Yuletide season had begun, and there had already been more snow than was normal for this time of year. Even without the impending storm, the way would have been difficult. With the drifts growing higher by the hour, most men would have deemed the journey impossible, and have waited until the spring.

  Joram and Rhys were counting on that, reckoning, rightly, that even if Imre could have discovered their intent by now, word of their flight could not have reached Saint Foillan’s before them—and might not now until the spring thaws came.

  But this knowledge did little to ease their minds about the immediate problem. Somehow, they must enter the abbey confines undetected, find Prince Cinhil, and bring him out without being apprehended. Though they had reviewed their plans and all their combined knowledge of the place at least a dozen times in the past two days, with a thoroughness possible only for Deryni, they still could not know in advance what human agents might unwittingly shatter the best laid of their plans.

  It had been dark for several hours when they drew rein in the shadow of the abbey’s outer wall. The moon had gone behind a heavy cloudbank, and would likely remain there for some time.

  Rhys huddled closer in his fur cloak—white, to help him blend into the snowbanks—then turned in his saddle to pull the extra horse in beside him. All of the animals were hooded and blanketed in white, both for protection against the elements and for camouflage, and in the dimness he could hardly see Joram, sitting his horse not four feet away.

  Joram swung down and secured his horse to a stump of winter-blasted tree, then moved to lay a hand on Rhys’s bridle.

  “Our timing is good so far,” he whispered. “They dare not ring the abbey bells at this time of year because of snowslides, but it must be close to Compline. Remember, no more talking until we’re out. Sound carries.”

  And that was not the only kind of communication they had agreed not to use, Rhys reflected, as he dismounted and began taking another fur cloak and a pair of woolen leggings from the spare horse’s saddle. Even their Deryni mind-speech must be used sparingly, if at all. The Ordo Verbi Dei was not a Deryni order, but there might be a few individual Deryni in it. And if one of them should be in deep meditation and chance to catch a careless word … It was not likely, but it was possible. And far too much was at stake to risk all on a chance which could be avoided.

  He moved close against the wall and watched as Joram drew out a coil of braided cord ending in a leather-padded, three-pronged throwing hook. The priest spent several seconds ordering the coil, arranging the loops to his satisfaction. Then he stepped carefully out a few paces from the wall and looked up. Rhys glanced back the way they had come and was relieved to note that he could not see the horses.

  The snow was falling harder now, and the snowflakes caught and glittered in Joram’s furred hood. After a studied appraisal of the wall, the priest swung the padded hook on its cord and flung it up and over. There was a muffled clunk as it hit the other side a few feet below the edge, and immediately Joram darted back to the shelter of the wall to freeze and listen, gradually raising his head only when he was certain that the slight sound had aroused no alarm. Slowly, he began pulling on the cord—then stifled an oath as the hook failed to catch, and came tumbling back, nearly on his head.

  The process was repeated three more times before the hook held. But then they were very quickly up the wall and over. A narrow catwalk ran along the inner edge of the wall, and snow-caked steps led to the ground a few paces to the left. Soon they were safely on the ground and huddled in the shadows between two outbuildings, their escape cord firmly anchored to the edge of the wall and camouflaged in the shadow of a seam in the stone.

  In the next twenty minutes, the two worked their way through the south applegarth and over the nearest footbridge, then past the lay brothers’ range, the cellarer’s yard, and under the very windows of the darkened abbot’s hall; past the abbot’s yard and across a final expanse of open court; and then they were crouching in the darkness of the abbey’s outer porch, listening for any sound of activity within.

  Through here lay the safest route to their quarry—provided, of course, that Saint Foillan’s followed the traditional monastic building plan. Along the nave and up the night stair, they should reach the monks’ sleeping quarters and the tiny cell where Rhys had last seen Cinhil. (The Healer did not even wish to consider what would happen if they could not reach Cinhil through the abbey proper. If they had to go through the abbot’s hall and cloister yard, the way Rhys and Camber had gone to see Cinhil the first time—no, better not even to think of that for now.)

  A sudden twinge of panic seized Rhys, a fear that he was a child playing at a very dangerous man’s game, but he forced the feeling down and concentrated upon removing his cloak, on bundling it with Joram’s and the one for Cinhil in the darkest corner of the porch.

  Then he was hovering anxiously at Joram’s elbow as the other slid a slender dagger from his boot top, knelt beside the entry door, and slipped the thin blade deftly between door and jamb until the latch gave with a satisfying snick.

  Flashing a grim smile, Joram sheathed the dagger and eased the door a crack, peering into the dimness for a long time. Finally he whispered, “Clear,” and glanced at his partner.

  The word was more breathed than spoken, and as he edged the door open enough to slip through, he motioned Rhys into the shadows to the right of the nave. A short pause, just long enough to relatch the door, and he was kneeling behind a column with Rhys to scan the long expanse of nave, straining to pierce the gloom which the few candles only barely touched.

  They watched for a long time, studying the arrangement of pillars and side chapels and occasional funeral effigies along the clerestory aisle. A processional door was given their fleeting attention, but then they cast wary eyes on the lay brothers’ stair, which disappeared into the darkness to their right. There was no need to fear the door, for it was used only by day; but the stairway was an entirely different matter. If some zealous lay brother, seeking extra devotions, should slip down those stairs undetected before they could gain the relative safety of the south transept, they would surely be discovered. They must penetrate beyond the nave altar, with its revealing candles and exposed approach and its side chapels potentially housing hostile monks. And once that was accomplished, there still remained the other night stairs, which led to Cinhil’s cell. Best not to think of that yet, either.

  Touching a finger to his lips, Joram glided to the
foot of the lay brothers’ stair and peered up into the darkness, casting out with his Deryni senses for some indication of movement above. But there was none, save the slight echo of snoring. This early after Compline, most of the brethren should be getting what meager sleep the Rule allowed such an order. From now until Matins, well after midnight, should be the quietest time for the entire abbey.

  With an inclination of his head, Joram gestured Rhys to follow, then began making his silent way down the side aisle, staying close to the wall, taking advantage of every possible shadow. The first of the side chapels lay ahead, flanking the nave altar.

  The chapels on the left were empty—they could see that already—their recesses dimly lit by Presence lamps and the banks of vigil candles guarding the nave altar itself. Behind the main altar, the brass interlace of the rood screen glowed darkly in the candlelight, mostly in shadow. Beyond that stretched the rest of the nave, with more side chapels, and the choir looming in the transept crossing. The night stairs they were seeking lay in the south transept itself, hard against the west wall. So far there was no sign of movement, but they could not count on that until they had made certain.

  They reached the side wall of the first chapel on the right, and Joram peered gingerly around the corner and inside.

  Deserted.

  The process was repeated with the second.

  Again, deserted. Thus far, their luck was holding.

  They crossed the second chapel, venturing as close to the rood screen as they dared, to peer up the rest of the nave and scan the north chapels before venturing further into the open for the breaching of the screen itself. But the remainder of the nave appeared to be clear, and the darkened choir showed no sign of movement. If anyone was stirring in the cloistered portion of the church, they could only hope that whoever it was would stay safely in the apse, far beyond the transept and the stairs which Rhys and Joram sought. Neither man wanted to have to desecrate a church by harming anyone within its precincts—and both men knew, though they had never voiced it, that they would kill, if necessary, to ensure Cinhil’s safe removal from Saint Foillan’s.

  They crouched and listened for several minutes, finally satisfying themselves that all was still. Then Joram eased his way behind the altar to the rood screen and laid his hand on the gate latch, cursing silently under his breath as the thing resisted and he realized it was locked. He cast a tense look at Rhys, who was anxiously scanning back the way they had come; then he knelt and laid his hands on the locking mechanism and extended his senses around it. After a few seconds, which only seemed interminable, the latch moved in Joram’s hands. But before he could begin easing the gate open, wondering whether it would squeak, he caught Rhys’s frantic hand signal out of the corner of his eye and flattened himself against the back of the altar.

  Now he, too, could hear the slap-slap of sandal-clad feet moving up the nave. The man was alone, for which Joram thanked Providence, but if he continued on his present course he would soon be abreast of Rhys’s hiding place. Silently, Joram willed the man to move into one of the first side chapels—he had to choose one of the first side chapels, or Rhys would be discovered.

  He was never precisely certain, later, whether he or Rhys had any influence over the choice made by the hapless lay brother. But for whatever reason, the monk paused only briefly to bow before the nave altar, then moved noisily into the first chapel on the right, next to the one where Rhys was hiding. After several minutes, in which there was no further sound from the chapel in question, Joram eased his way to the left of the altar and peeped around the corner.

  He could not see into the chapel where the monk must be—but that was good, because it meant that the monk could not see him, either. Rhys had crept silently to the wall common to the two chapels and was peering around the edge when Joram looked out. After a moment, he withdrew and glanced at Joram, giving a slight nod of his head. If the monk’s suspicions should be aroused now, at least Rhys could silence him before he could give the alarm.

  With a deep breath to steady his nerves, Joram moved back to the rood screen and turned the latch. No sound came from the metal as he eased the gate back far enough to enter. Thank God for the monks’ industry; the hinges were well oiled and silent. They gained the relative shelter of the next side chapel without mishap, leaving the rood-screen gate closed but not latched as they passed into the domain of the cloistered monks.

  A sound from the direction of the occupied chapel froze them in the shadows, and they watched unmoving as the monk shuffled before the nave altar to bow again. They had about decided that the man meant to pray there forever, when he bowed again and moved into a chapel on the other side of the nave. Grateful for that, at least, Joram and Rhys turned their attention to the tasks ahead. They dared not worry where the man might be when they had to come out again, or that next time there might be more than one.

  They were within the cloister precincts now, and doubly damned should they be caught. Creeping past the great processional door—barred now—which led, by day, from cloister garth to church, they found their way blocked by yet another brass grillework. Joram had already dismissed it, and was moving on to try entrance through the choir, when Rhys laid his hand on the gate and felt it move under his hand. Sending the briefest and weakest of calls to Joram, he swung back the gate and slipped through. Joram, startled, doubled back and followed him through the gate to crouch silently at the foot of the night stairs. Rhys’s shoulder pressed hard against his as they peered up the stairway into the darkness.

  “Now?” Rhys mouthed silently.

  For answer, Joram took a deep breath and nodded resolutely. Then they began making their cautious way up the stairs.

  The door stood open at the top, and another, narrower stair continued upward from the landing beside the door. They listened for several minutes, but other than the sounds of sleep, they heard only the creak of the building itself as the snow settled on the leaded roof. Now they must find Cinhil and bring him safely out.

  There was a single vigil light burning at the top of the stairs, but it cast only scant illumination down the long dormitory. Straining to see in the dimness, Rhys led Joram slowly past the first of the curtained sleeping cubicles, moving to the right of the chests and shelves ranged down the center of the room. Cinhil’s cell was the fifth from the end—Rhys had marked it well on his last visit here—and as he paused in the curtained entryway, Joram pulled two spare white robes of the professed brothers from a stack just outside.

  Stealthily they entered the cell, to stop with pounding hearts until Joram had conjured a tiny sphere of handfire. By its light, Rhys moved toward the head of the narrow pallet and leaned close enough to verify the sleeper’s identity. Then they were pulling on the robes over their clothes, Joram nudging the handfire near while Rhys bent to gaze at their sleeping quarry’s face. Gently, he sought to touch Cinhil’s mind, hoping to ease the man from sleep to deep control without awakening him.

  But the touch was not gentle enough, or Cinhil’s sleep not so deep as they had thought. Cinhil’s eyes popped open with a start; he was fully awake at once. And when he saw two figures bending over him, illuminated by the ghostly glow of Joram’s handfire, his immediate and natural impulse was to panic.

  Rhys had clamped his hand against the monk’s mouth at the first sign of movement, so Cinhil could make no outcry; but now the monk was trying to twist from under his hand, legs kicking frantically underneath his thin blanket. Joram threw himself across Cinhil’s body to hold him quiet, pinning arms and legs while Rhys tried to force control, but the Healer could not seem to get through. It was as though the shields which he had sensed before grew doubly strong under assault, to keep Rhys from even touching the mind behind those shields. Clearly, they would not take Cinhil this way. And if they did not subdue him in the next few seconds, his struggling would awaken his brethren all around him.

  It was a time for drastic measures.

  Without further waste of motion, Rhys clamped hi
s free hand across the Prince’s throat and applied carotid pressure, not relenting even when Cinhil’s body arched a final time before going limp beneath his hands. There was resistance still, as Rhys extended his senses, Cinhil’s shielding of memory and intellect remaining intact; but his center of consciousness, at least, was taken.

  Securing control as he had on his previous visit, Rhys straightened carefully and allowed himself a scarce-breathed sigh of relief. Joram cast a nervous glance at the curtained doorway as he picked himself up.

  There had been no sound outside, no indication that their scuffle with Cinhil had awakened the other monks. Nonetheless, they waited for several strained minutes to make certain. Finally, Rhys bent and pulled the unconscious Cinhil to his feet, got a shoulder under his arm. He watched anxiously as Joram let the light vanish and peered out the curtains. Miraculously, the dormitory still echoed only to the sounds of snoring men.

  They slipped out the way they had come, Cinhil between them, keeping close to the shelves and chests until they reached the vigil light again. They had just stepped onto the landing when Joram froze in a listening attitude, then motioned urgently for Rhys to get their unconscious burden up the stairs toward the tower. As Rhys struggled to obey, he could hear the sounds of sandal-clad feet approaching the night stairs from below.

  There must have been monks in the east end of the church all this time!

  Not daring to breathe, they eased their way up the spiral staircase past the first bend, to huddle motionless as the feet ascended the night stairs. They heard no conversation, nor did they expect to, and at length the footsteps faded away into the dormitory. They waited for several minutes, in case the monks just returned had come to awaken replacements for some all-night vigil, but no further sound came from above or below the night stairs. Finally, they gathered the courage to bundle their senseless charge down the stairs and through the transept gate, to shrink breathlessly against the closed processional door and listen again for a long moment.