But Cinhil must say that, not Camber or Alister Cullen.
For a seemingly interminable moment, Cinhil did not stir, his grey gaze darting from Camber’s face to Murdoch’s and then back again, until Camber thought he must burst from the tension.
Then Cinhil took a deep breath, as if about to make a major pronouncement—and started coughing instead.
As Murdoch watched, Camber grabbed a goblet from the table next to their gameboard and filled it with wine from a silver ewer, upsetting half the pieces on the board in his haste to get to Cinhil’s side and ease the wine past his lips.
Cinhil drank in grateful gulps between coughing spasms, gaining some ease after he had gotten a few swallows down, and Joram hurried to his other side to offer the king a napkin to wipe his mouth, picking up fallen gamepieces awkwardly as the red-faced Cinhil fought to control the coughing.
Camber laid hands on the king’s head, willing the coughing to subside and perhaps even succeeding a little. In any case, Cinhil managed to stifle one more coughing bout, then stopped, cleared his throat, and spat into his napkin. His face was composed if ashen as he eased back onto his chair, and he would not let them see the crumpled cloth in his hand.
“I apologize if I have caused you distress, gentlemen,” he said, in a weak but steady voice. “I seem to have a touch of a winter cold.” He cleared his throat again, then swallowed noisily.
“Murdoch, would you mind if we delayed the rest of your report until later? I have been aware of your concern about Javan and Tavis for some months. I think the matter can wait a few more days. However, I hasten to point out that when Tavis was sent away for a time last year, the boy sickened and refused to eat. Under Tavis’s tutelage, he has thrived—at least as much as he is able. The fact that Tavis is Deryni does not concern me nearly as much as Javan’s unhappiness and ill health when Tavis is not about.”
“You coddle the boy, Sire. It is not good.”
“I do not coddle him. I face the realities of his—deficiency. You are aware of my feelings on that subject.”
“I’m sorry, Sire. I meant no disrespect.”
“I know you did not.”
Awkwardly the king reached out to press Murdoch’s shoulder in reassurance, and bowed his head as the younger man seized the royal hand and pressed it to his lips again.
Camber almost could not bear to watch, amazed that Cinhil could let himself be so deceived. Cinhil could even Truth-See Murdoch if he wanted to; but Cinhil rarely used the abilities which Camber and his children had given him so many years ago. Please God, Cinhil’s children would not be so blind!
“Please forgive me, Sire, but it’s only that I care so much,” Murdoch was whispering.
“I know. Fear not. You yet are in my grace,” the king replied.
He stifled another cough, and his face went a little paler against his scarlet robe.
“Please go now, Murdoch. I think I must rest now. Alister, stay with me awhile, old friend. Though you are not a Healer, your company does much to ease my discomfort.”
“As you wish, Sire,” Camber replied softly, moving closer to stand with his hand on the king’s shoulder. “Earl Murdoch, my secretary will see you to the door. His Grace will surely send for you again later.”
With that, he turned his attention to Cinhil, bending closer to the royal ear. “Try to relax, Sire. Take a slow, steady breath—not too deep, or you’ll start yourself coughing again. That’s right. Now exhale. Let the pain detach.…”
Murdoch rose in annoyance, ignoring Joram’s polite and precise bow as he made his own way out. Joram, when he had closed the door after Murdoch, returned to stand attentively beside the stool Murdoch had just vacated. After a few minutes, Camber straightened up and glanced at Joram, signalling him to sit as Cinhil slowly opened his eyes.
“Is that better, Sire?”
“Yes, thank you,” Cinhil whispered. “It helps. It really does. I should know better than to let myself get so agitated. I don’t dare breathe too deeply any more, or it starts me coughing all over again.”
With a raise of one eyebrow, Camber leaned down to retrieve the napkin which had fallen from Cinhil’s hand after he stopped coughing, noting the browning-red stain on the fabric. Calmly Cinhil reached out and took it gently from the bishop’s hand, folding the napkin so that the stain could not be seen. When Joram started to open his mouth to speak of it, Cinhil shook his head and carefully laid the napkin aside.
“I know, Joram, I need no lectures,” he whispered, very matter-of-fact in the stillness which his acknowledgment had created. “I am very ill. Only Rhys and I know precisely how ill. And this matter of Javan—I need to speak of it to both of you. Believe me, I trust Tavis. He is a fine young Healer. But—”
A short, staccato rap on the door stopped him in mid-phrase, and Camber flicked a glance in the direction of the door. He recognized the mental presence on the other side, but it was obvious from Cinhil’s sigh that the king did not.
“It seems this discussion is not to be,” Cinhil said resignedly. “No matter. See who it is, Joram.”
As Camber had known it would be, Lord Jebediah of Alcara eased past the door which Joram opened.
“Your pardon, Sire,” he said as he approached, making a slight bow in Cinhil’s direction. “Alister, one of the Earl of Ebor’s men just delivered this. He said something about Gregory having been injured in a riding accident.”
The greying earl marshal was dressed in worn blue riding leathers—from his rosy cheeks and the amount of mud liberally spattering his body, it was apparent that he had been jumping his new hunter in the castleyard—but he was carrying a clean packet of parchment in one gloved hand, the green of a Healer’s seal bright against the creamy white.
Cinhil perked up immediately. “Is he all right? What’s happened? I sent Rhys and Evaine to him this morning.”
As Jebediah shrugged and handed over the packet—this was obviously the first time he’d heard of the accident—Camber broke the seal and unfolded the stiff parchment. He read the few terse lines of script, penned in Evaine’s precise hand but in Rhys’s unmistakable style, then refolded it and thrust it into his wide sash with a sparse little Alister smile.
“It seems our friend will be all right, Sire.”
“Thank God!”
“Rhys says his memory is a little hazy, but his injuries have been completely healed. Apparently Gregory isn’t convinced, however, and insists I come at once to give him the Last Rites.”
“Last Rites?” Cinhil sputtered, almost bringing on another coughing attack.
“Now, Sire,” Camber soothed, “under the circumstances, I think simple Communion will probably be sufficient. I suspect Gregory is merely being dramatic, to make excuses for falling off his horse. Still, he has asked for me, and you’re doing well enough. May I go to him? I should be back by dark, and Jebediah can fetch Tavis, if you should need a Healer before then.”
“Last Rites, indeed!” Cinhil repeated, shaking his head in outraged disbelief, but chuckling just the same. “I’m supposed to be the one who’s dying, and he wants the Last Rites. Oh, go ahead and see him, Alister. But you tell him that I’ll expect to see him here at Court for a full explanation, as soon as he’s able to ride again!”
“That I shall certainly do, Sire,” Camber replied, returning Cinhil’s chuckle. “Good day, Sire, Jebediah. Joram, we’d best ride, if we’re to get back by dark.”
When Camber and Joram had left the room, Cinhil sat quietly for several seconds, his grey eyes focused through and beyond the disrupted gameboard, then beckoned Jebediah to come closer.
“Jeb, I need you to do something for me.”
“Of course, Sire. What is it?”
“I want you to visit the royal nursery and observe my sons. Talk to their tutors, if you can. Especially, talk to Lord Tavis. You’re Deryni. Perhaps he’ll listen to you. Try to make him see why it’s important to get along with Murdoch and the other governors. Murdoch seems to have some
concern about his influence over Javan.”
“So far as I know, Javan is doing well, Sire,” Jebediah replied, a little guardedly. “His weapons mastery is improving markedly. He hasn’t the agility on foot that his brothers have, of course, but he makes up for it in other ways. And frankly, his wit is much quicker than Alroy’s. It’s too bad that the good points of both boys couldn’t have been put into one.”
“Aye, there should never have been two,” Cinhil sighed wistfully. “I wonder why that happens? Their mother was overanxious to give me another heir, God rest her sweet soul. But do check on that for me, will you, Jeb? My time grows short, and I would not leave my sons totally unprepared.”
And in the corridor outside, Camber drew his son into an alcove and looked furtively up and down the passageway, silencing Joram’s incipient inquiry with a glance and a shake of his head. Taking Rhys’s letter from his sash, he opened it and scanned the lines again, running his fingertip thoughtfully over the seal at the bottom of the page.
“There’s more to this than meets the eye, Joram. This is no mere whim of Gregory’s. Even injured, he would not summon me without good reason. He knows Cinhil is ill. Nor would Rhys send such a message for him.”
“I didn’t think it sounded like either of them,” Joram replied. “Is there something more in the seal, perhaps?”
“I think so,” Camber murmured, holding it closer and scrutinizing it more carefully. “Keep watch, will you?”
And as Joram turned to the business of scanning the corridor, Camber held his sensitive fingertips on the seal and closed his eyes, letting his breathing deepen and then slow as he triggered the light trance which would enable any other message to come through. For several seconds he reached out with his mind until he caught and held the thought beyond the words penned on the parchment. Then he opened his eyes and exhaled softly. Joram returned his attention to his father.
“Bad?”
“I don’t know,” Camber said puzzledly. “I’m still not sure what he’s talking about, but the implications are staggering. It’s Rhys’s message. He thinks he’s taken away Gregory’s Deryni abilities!”
CHAPTER THREE
He that loveth his son causeth him oft to feel the rod, that he may have joy of him in the end.
—Ecclesiasticus 30:1
By midafternoon, Jebediah was finally able to make his way to what was still called the royal nursery, though its young charges had long ago outgrown the term, at least in their own minds. He had meant to get there earlier, while the boys ate their noon meal, so he would disrupt their routine as little as possible, but half a dozen urgent matters had suddenly presented themselves for solution almost the instant he left the royal apartments, and he was several hours finding answers. All of the problems seemed as urgent as his officers said they were, but he could not help noticing the timing. He hoped that it was only his imagination that Murdoch, Rhun, and Udaut all seemed to have such convenient crises which only he could resolve.
In any case, the royal nursery was very quiet when he arrived, and he could tell by his reception that his visit was neither expected nor welcome. In the large dayroom, huddled by one of the two great fireplaces, he found Crown Prince Alroy still at his books with his tutor, though it was usual for formal studies to be finished by this time of day. Brother Valerian, the boys’ Latin master, was standing over Alroy with a very stern mien, emphatically pointing out the correct translation of the military commentary which Alroy apparently was supposed to have prepared for the day’s lesson and had not.
Alroy smiled tentatively when he saw Jebediah come in, for the earl marshal was something of a hero to the sickly lad, but Brother Valerian immediately whacked the scroll beside Alroy’s hands with a willow switch and pointed to the text. Jebediah had the distinct impression that it would have been Alroy’s fingers and not the scroll which would have gotten whacked, had the marshal not been present. He supposed such discipline was necessary but he felt sorry for young Alroy, all the same.
By contrast, Rhys Michael, youngest of the three princes, had been allowed to set up his toy knights and archers in the previous day’s ashes at the edge of the other hearth, and was confidently explaining deployments and troop movements to another boy whom Jebediah did not recognize. Rhys seemed sunny-dispositioned and content; and a quick perusal of the strategy he was explaining to his classmate caused Jebediah to raise an eyebrow in surprised approval. It was the classic battle of Rhorau, and the boy’s words and gestures showed that he even understood it! The lad definitely had a head for military tactics.
A somewhat more involved procedure was required for locating the third prince. Jebediah did not see him at first, and was loath to ask for fear of bringing on reprisals after he was gone. Judging from what he had seen of Alroy’s treatment, that appeared to be within the realm of possibility.
He had traversed nearly the length of the chamber, inspecting several other clusters of young boys and their school masters, before he spied Javan sitting on a bench in the window alcove across the room, next to a grisaille window which looked out onto the winter-dead garden. A large tree just outside the window cast an eerie network of shadows upon the prince and the young man who knelt motionless at his feet. The man’s back was to Jebediah, but his dark red hair and Healer’s green robe proclaimed him to be Tavis O’Neill, the very person with whom Jebediah had hoped to speak.
The pair did not appear to notice his approach. It was not until Jebediah reached the window alcove and mounted the two steep steps that Javan looked up and frowned. Now Jebediah could see the reason for Tavis’s stance; the boy’s deformed right foot was cradled in his cupped hands, its specially constructed boot stripped off and laid aside so that the Healer might work. Tavis was massaging the foot very gently, his eyes half-closed in trancing, obviously in his Healing mode, but it was evident from Javan’s occasional grimaces that something was amiss.
Cautiously Jebediah moved closer, not wishing to disturb the Healer’s concentration, but he was unable to see precisely what Tavis was doing.
“Is anything wrong, Your Highness?” he asked in a quiet voice.
Javan’s face flushed red, and Tavis started and then recovered, covering the deformed foot beneath his hands with a casual gesture which was not lost on Jebediah. He did not turn toward the earl marshal.
“My Lord Marshal,” Tavis said softly. “What brings you to the royal schoolroom?”
“Concern for Their Highnesses,” Jebediah replied. “It appears that my concern is well founded. What are you doing?”
“His Highness’s tutors are not always gentle in their training, my lord,” Tavis murmured, still not turning toward the grand master. “This morning’s training was particularly brutal.”
“Brutal?”
Tavis pivoted on his haunches, his face almost white with fury. “Yes, brutal! They made him walk a five-mile march this morning in the snow, wearing full mail and carrying an adult-weight sword and shield. He finished,” he said, fiercely proud, “and not far behind his brothers, either—but this is the price he had to pay. And I have already eased much of the hurt!”
As he spoke, he raised the foot he had been cradling and glared at Jebediah in challenge. The marshal, finally gaining a clear look, had to exert great control not to flinch openly.
The boy’s right foot was raw and angry-looking, where it was not purpling with bruises, the pale skin chafed badly all around the thick, misshapen ankle. The other foot was also chafed and red, though not as severely. Beside Tavis on the wide windowsill, Jebediah could see a basin of water and several damp towels, a glass vial containing what looked like soothing oil.
“Who is responsible for this?” Jebediah asked, his voice deadly calm and even.
“It was—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Javan interjected, cutting Tavis off before he could say a name. “If I’m going to be a warrior, I have to be tough. I have to be able to keep up with the others. I have to be able to lead them. I’m going to
show them that I can.”
“Sheer physical ability is not the only requisite for leadership, my prince,” Jebediah said, biting off a harsher comment he had been going to make about whoever had been responsible. “Who has told you that it was?”
Javan stiffened, his lower lip quivering a little in his indignation. “If I am possibly to rule after my brother Alroy, I must be strong. Do you think they will allow another weakling to sit on the throne? Gwynedd needs a warrior king.”
“Gwynedd needs a king who is wise,” Jebediah countered. “If he also happens to be a warrior, that is fine. But it is not required. Your father is no warrior, and he has done well enough.”
“My father.” The boy snorted with a dejected derision. “Aye, he is no warrior. Would that he were, and had been, from the beginning. But, no, he must abandon his vows and be neither prince nor priest, and accursed by God. If he had not, I would not be thus, with the sign of God’s displeasure for all to see!”
With that, he jerked his deformed foot from Tavis’s grasp and tried to hide it behind the other one, turning his face away and knuckling angry tears. Jebediah, aghast at what he had just heard, looked at Tavis for some explanation.
“My lord, have you been filling his head with these mad tales?”
“It is not I who teach him history or religion, my Lord Deryni Marshal,” Tavis said bitterly. “Please leave us. Haven’t you upset His Highness enough for one afternoon?”
Jebediah could find nothing to say to that. As Tavis stood and gathered the crippled prince in his arms, to carry him away from the eyes which now stared from every part of the room, Jebediah felt like a monster. He watched them go, wondering how he was going to explain this to Cinhil and, even more, to Camber.
The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy Page 85
