The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy

by Katherine Kurtz

  Camber glanced at his feet, knowing it was useless to bring up the hidden, more insidious enemies which Cinhil had not subdued—the men who even now plotted at the heart of the future power of Gwynedd, who had the charge of Cinhil’s heirs and would be their regents until the eldest came of age.

  He could feel Cinhil’s gaze upon him, and knew by the other’s sigh that Cinhil had guessed what he was thinking, though the king did not try to reach out with his powers to confirm it; he never did.

  Shakily, Cinhil lumbered to his feet with an assist from Joram, annoyance clearly nibbling at the edge of his control. Camber, too, rose, to gaze across at Cinhil with compassion and expectation. He knew they would not quarrel again over that issue. On that, the king’s mind was made up.

  “Thank you for not arguing with me on that,” Cinhil said softly. “I have not much time, and the time I have must be allocated for what is now the most important thing yet remaining to me.” He shifted his attention to Joram.

  “Joram, I need not remind you of what happened to me fourteen years ago, in that hidden chapel of your Michaeline Order.” He swallowed painfully and glanced away for just an instant, then resumed. “I—hated you for it then—I hated all of you. And there are powers which you awakened in me then, the use of which terrifies me to this day.” He clasped his hands and took another steadying breath.

  “But, there are—other aspects of those powers which I believe it might be desirable for a king to have, perhaps the most important of which is the ability to read the truth in another man’s heart, even if he wishes to lie. This—and the ability to defend one’s self against magical attack, when one is threatened. I have made little use of these abilities, but I—wish for my sons to have the choice when I am gone.”

  Joram’s expression had not changed as he listened to Cinhil’s words, but Camber could feel the rising tension in his body, and felt his own anticipation welling in response. In a single, wordless communication, he and Joram exchanged their plans for how to handle the situation—a situation they had long prayed would come to pass.

  Joram drew breath slowly, carefully, weighing the words he must speak to the king.

  “Do you know what you are asking, Sire?” he asked softly. “What you ask can be done, but the energy required to do it is considerable. It would also require your full participation, under the circumstances.”

  “I am aware of that,” Cinhil whispered. “I would wish it, in any case. I would not have my sons endure such an ordeal without their father nearby to keep watch over them.”

  “Sire, there is another aspect which must be mentioned,” Joram continued haltingly. “When we performed this office for you, my father was alive and we were four—Rhys, Evaine, myself, and he. Since you speak thus before His Grace, do I correctly infer that you wish Father Alister to take my father’s place?”

  Cinhil turned his gaze on Camber, almost reluctant to meet the other’s eyes. “Will you do it, my old friend? I know how you feel about direct participation in such things, but you are aware of what went on that night. You were the guardian outside the door. I remember you standing there as I passed by, stern and grim in your harness, naked steel in your hands as you passed us into the chapel. Will you wield a sword again for me, this time within the confines of a holy circle?”

  “Sire, I—”

  “Nay, not ‘Sire.’ Speak to me as Cinhil, your friend, who needs your aid—not that poor, beleaguered man who wears the Crown at Valoret. Say that Alister will help his friend Cinhil to do what must be done, so that his sons may survive whatever may come in the future when Cinhil, both the man and the king, is dead and gone. We must not talk in circles, Alister. I will die soon. You, who are several years my senior, must surely have thought of death. It comes to all of us, and we must all make preparations in our own time. A king must think of it more carefully even than an ordinary man.”

  With a sigh, Camber bowed his head, his token Alister reluctance now satisfied.

  “As friend, I cannot refuse you, Cinhil,” he said softly. “What you ask, I shall perform to the best of my ability, no matter what the cost.” He held out his hands to Cinhil, the palms up, and Cinhil laid his own on Camber’s.

  “Thank you.”

  With a nod, tears welling in his eyes, Camber brought Cinhil’s hands together in a gesture of reassurance, bobbed to touch his forehead to the royal hands in a gesture of humility, then turned away and sank to his knees before the altar, face buried in his hands. Cinhil watched him, stunned a little at the apparent depth of his friend’s emotion, then returned his attention to Joram. The younger man had not moved.

  “I believe there are—arrangements to be made, Joram,” the king said softly. “Will you see to them?”

  “I will, Sire. Did you have any particular time and place in mind? Rhys and Evaine have stayed the night at Ebor with Gregory, but they should be back well before noon tomorrow.”

  Cinhil nodded distractedly, his attention fixed once again on the kneeling Camber. “That will be fine.”

  “Then, do you wish to plan for tomorrow night?” Joram asked.

  Cinhil nodded, still not looking away from Camber.

  “And where shall we plan to do it?” Joram insisted. “I do not advise using the chapel where your ritual took place. It is still an active Michaeline establishment. There is danger of interruption.”

  “Here, in my private chapel,” Cinhil murmured. “It will suffice, will it not?” At last he turned his gaze back on Joram, sincere question in his grey eyes.

  “It will suit quite well, Sire,” Joram replied, making a bow and beginning to withdraw. “I shall make the necessary arrangements with Rhys and my sister. May I also include Jebediah? We will need another guardian.”

  “Do so.”

  And as Joram withdrew, closing the door behind him, Cinhil eased himself to his knees beside Camber and joined with him in prayer, never realizing that the part of his friend with which he was interacting was only the surface of another man whom he had thought long-dead—a man who, far from being apprehensive at what his king had just commanded, was already planning how this long-wished-for event might come to pass, and how best the awesome powers of the Haldane line might be instilled in the Haldane heirs.

  Camber remained with the king for nearly an hour more; and while they prayed together, Joram set in motion the plan which he and his father had long ago formulated to deal with what now appeared to be an impending certainty. After dispatching a messenger to Rhys and Evaine, he summoned a bleary-eyed Jebediah to his father’s chambers to tell him of the king’s decision; for in addition to Jebediah’s part in what would now ensue, the earl marshal must be prepared to be dismissed by the ambitious and mostly human regency council which would assume rule in the name of the underage Alroy, if Cinhil did not survive the next night’s work. The very thought of placing command of Gwynedd’s military forces in the hands of non- and anti-Deryni lords gave the Michaeline grand master nightmares, even though he had a sizable cadre of Michaeline-trained men already placed in key positions of authority, who could hopefully keep more reactionary overlords from too drastic action.

  And so Joram and Jebediah discussed the military implications of Cinhil’s possibly imminent demise, and tried not to show their anxiety when Camber at last joined them, several hours before dawn. The king had finally succumbed to troubled sleep, Camber told them, but his health was even more precarious than they had feared. There would be miracle, indeed, if he survived what must be done.

  The cathedral bells tolled Lauds in the leaden, predawn silence before their plans were complete and the three retired for a few hours’ much-needed sleep.

  The dawn did not bring relief from the bitter cold which passed over the land. The bells of Prime and Terce never rang that morning from the high cathedral tower, for a savage ice storm raged across the Valoret plain soon after sunrise, immobilizing outdoor movement and leaving in its wake a world of white and silver silence.

  Rhys and Eva
ine, stranded at Ebor for nearly four hours with Joram’s messenger and their escort, could only fret and listen to the wind and wait, until at last, near noon, their guard commander judged that it was reasonably safe to go on. Even then, the road was slickly treacherous, every frozen tree and bush and tuft of ice-laden grass a cruel, razor-edged obstacle for man and beast. When they reached the city at last, hours later than anticipated, all were nearly frozen, their cloaks stiff with ice.

  The spent horses shivered as they trudged the final weary mile through the city gates and up the steep cobblestone street to the castleyard, even though they bore thick bardings to ward off the cold. Their legs were red almost to the knees from breaking through the icy crust on the road and sometimes falling, and their steps left bloody hoofprints to show the way that they had come. As they drew up in the yard, heads lowered and blowing, Rhys slid from his mount gratefully and staggered on numbed feet to help his wife from the saddle.

  Joram was waiting for them at the top of the stair, bundled in his Michaeline greatcloak and looking anxious and worn. For the benefit of their escort, he informed them that Bishop Cullen was awaiting their arrival. When they had hurried to the bishop’s chambers, they found a tired but hale Camber waiting for them by a roaring fire, with bowls of steaming stew and mulled wine and warmed fur-lined robes to wrap around themselves while they thawed out from their ride.

  He would not let them speak until they had gotten some of the hot food into their stomachs and stopped their shivering, preferring instead to outline the previous night’s events to give them background. He finished his synopsis at about the same time that Rhys set aside his empty bowl and accepted another cup of mulled wine from Joram. The Healer drank deeply, then absently held out the cup for another refill, his attention fully on Camber. Beside him, Evaine was finishing a piece of bread spread thick with butter and honey, licking the sweet stickiness from fingers no longer red and stiff with cold.

  “How is Cinhil taking it all?” Rhys asked.

  Camber sighed and laced his fingers together in a gesture which was at once his own and Alister’s.

  “He is resigned, I would say. You will be better able to judge his physical state, of course, but though he is weak and knows it, he seems resigned to what must be done and to the possible price he may have to pay. I don’t think that even he expects to survive this night, but somehow that does not seem to alarm him now. He is past fear.”

  “Past fear,” Evaine whispered. “Would that we all could be. When he is gone—”

  She shuddered, not with the cold, and Rhys reached blindly to his left and took her hand, gave it a reassuring squeeze.

  “Well,” she said briskly, “we’d all best see about reaching that state, oughtn’t we? We knew this day would come eventually. It’s just a shame it has come so soon. Father, has he given you any idea what kind of ritual he would like, or is he planning it himself?”

  “He wishes it to take place in his private chapel,” Camber replied, “and he has given us leave to make the physical preparations. I reviewed the essential elements of an effective ritual with him this morning, but the rite is to be of his guiding. He made that quite clear.”

  “Can he be trusted to do it?” Joram asked. “He has deliberately given himself as little experience as possible, in using his powers. Suppose he breaks under the strain?”

  “In that case, we must be prepared to step in,” Camber replied. “But he is not to know that. For as long as we can, we must let him believe that he is truly in charge. And he may even surprise us.”

  Evaine nodded, then glanced at her brother. “Joram, how much has actually been done in preparation? Is the chapel ready yet?”

  “Not entirely. I had the servants give it a thorough cleaning after Mass this morning. I was waiting for you to arrive before tackling any more specific preparation, though. If you’ve rested enough, we can get started whenever you’re ready.”

  “Fine. It will keep us from thinking too much.”

  She got to her feet and cast off the extra robe she had wrapped around her while she ate, touching Rhys’s hand a final time. “Rhys, will you need any help with the children, or can Joram and I get started with our part?”

  Rhys shook his head. “I can manage. I’ll see Cinhil first, to make certain he’s resting. Joram, can you meet me at the nursery-end of the passage when you’ve finished helping Evaine? Shortly after Vespers will be fine. I’ll let you in.”

  “Good enough. By the way, what about Tavis O’Neill? He’s been spending a lot of time with Prince Javan. He’s never far from his side.”

  With a sigh, Rhys laid his hand on his pouch. “I’ll ask Cinhil on that one, but if worse comes to worst, the drugs I have will put him out of commission, just like the other servants. But before I go drugging other Deryni and royal princes, I intend to see His Grace—just to make certain that this is what he wants.”

  A few minutes later, Rhys found himself being admitted to the king’s apartments by a solemn-faced squire who bowed him in and immediately withdrew. Cinhil was ensconced in a pile of cushions and sleeping furs before the fireplace in his sleeping chamber, half-reclining while he perused a well-worn scroll of devotional readings. A bank of rushlights on the floor at his elbow cast a warm glow on his face.

  At Rhys’s tentative knock on the doorframe, he looked up as though brought back abruptly from some other, more serene world, the grey eyes blinking in the light of rushlights and fire as he saw and recognized the Healer.

  “Rhys! How glad I am to see you!”

  He started to struggle to a more upright position, stifling a cough, but Rhys, with a protesting shake of his head, crossed quickly to his side and knelt, there to take one thin, cold hand in his and kiss it gently.

  “Please, Sire, do not bestir yourself for me. You should be resting.”

  Cinhil shook his head, his tight smile revealing a genuine affection for the Healer which he rarely permitted to show.

  “There will be ample time for resting when all of this is done, young friend—an eternity of resting. For now, though, these holy words are my best comfort. These, and your presence. Alister would also be a comfort, but he is busy making preparations, as you no doubt know. He sent you to me, did he not?”

  “Aye,” Rhys whispered, lowering his eyes. “And I am sorry that it could not be he instead of me. I know what comfort he affords you—and you, him.” He allowed himself to meet the grey eyes again, a touch of his customary banter returning to his voice. “But for now, will you allow me to see for myself that all is well with you? For all your wisdom, and his, you have not a Healer’s touch, you know.”

  “Well do I know,” Cinhil sighed, glancing away at the fire. “And all is not well.”

  He let the scroll under his hand curl back on itself with a crackle of brittle parchment. Rhys laid it on the furs beside the king before resting his hand gently on the king’s arm again. Even with Camber’s warning, he had not expected Cinhil to be so weak. Just the mental commitment to the night’s work must already have cost Cinhil a great deal.

  “Let me help, Cinhil,” he whispered, slipping his hand to Cinhil’s shoulder when the king did not protest. “Relax and let me see what can be done.”

  When Cinhil still made no move of protest, Rhys shifted to the right, toward Cinhil’s head, and let both hands slip to Cinhil’s shoulders from behind, supporting the king’s head on his lap. He felt the tense muscles relaxing as he extended his Healing senses, and he let himself begin to sink into his Healing state, to monitor the body which lay beneath his touch.

  At first, he thought Cinhil was going to resist him; for though the body yielded to his touch almost immediately, the churning mind inside did not. Several seconds passed before he felt Cinhil’s thoughts slacken and go still as well, sensed the surrender of conscious control to his Healer’s touch.

  A moment’s deep but gentle probing confirmed what Cinhil had said, what Rhys had feared increasingly for many months. The king’s lungs were
very weak, his general condition frail. And there was nothing Rhys could do save to ease his discomfort, to try to pour more energy into Cinhil’s meager reserves and give him strength for these final days or hours—for even a Healer could not reverse aging.

  Drawing from deep within his own reserves, Rhys channeled all the excess energy he could spare into the king’s tired old body, at the same time setting a strong but overcomable inclination to rest until the last possible minute. Then he withdrew.

  But as he shifted back beside Cinhil, and the king opened his eyes again, Rhys knew that he had lost that particular battle. Cinhil’s eyes were bright and a little defiant, aware of Rhys’s suggestion and already overriding it.

  “You do not intend to rest, do you?” Rhys muttered accusingly, shaking his head in resignation.

  Gently Cinhil echoed his headshake. “I told you, there will be time enough for that.” He picked up his scroll again. “Be content, Rhys. You have done what you felt you should. Be free to go now. I believe you have business with my sons before this night’s work begins.”

  Jaws tightening with emotion, Rhys gazed across at the king for several seconds, then sketched a stiff nod of agreement and reached into his belt pouch to withdraw a folded packet of parchment sealed with green wax.

  “If you refer to this—yes. I wished to be certain that this is what you want.”

  “A sleeping potion?”

  “Among other things. Working with children, it is more certain than the—techniques we used before your own assumption of power.”

  “What other things are in it?” Cinhil whispered, not meeting Rhys’s eyes. “Tell me. They are my sons. I have a right to know.”

  “Would the names mean anything—?”

  “Yes!” Cinhil insisted, turning his grey gaze on Rhys with an intensity the Healer had not expected. “I have read. I wish to know!”

  With a slight shrug and a nod of his head, Rhys held the packet in his palm and returned Cinhil’s gaze.