The Quest for Saint Camber

by Katherine Kurtz

  “Say also, my Lord Rasoul, that I pray peace and health for all in his house, and that our two kingdoms may abide in peace and health.”

  “I shall do so, my lord.”

  Rasoul sketched another brief, distracted bow, right hand to his breast, but he was already sweeping his gaze pointedly along the upper galleries as he straightened—looking for Morag, no doubt, since he had already seen Liam, still standing quietly among the squires between Duncan and Morgan, the latter with a proprietary hand on the boy’s shoulder. He plainly did not care for the archers, either.

  Neither he nor Kelson said anything, but Kelson slowly raised one hand in sign for the archers to stand at ease. He could afford that concession. If the cat did attack—and Dhugal seemed not at all concerned that she would—then mere arrows would not be swift enough to stop her.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Rasoul murmured, with another inclination of his turbaned head. “My next message is for my Lord King Liam and his mother—though I do not see the Lady Morag present in the hall today. I trust she is in good health.”

  “Her health is excellent, my lord,” Kelson replied coolly. “Had her courtesy been as notable, I am sure her sojourn at my court would have been far more agreeable for everyone concerned.”

  Rasoul snorted and gave an impertinent jerk of his chin, causing the great cat to lift its head and look at him, the rumbling purr faltering.

  “I will concede that the Lady Morag’s patience may occasionally have been lacking, my lord,” the Moor allowed, “as might be that of any noble lady held hostage against her will for close on a year, though her release was promised six months ago.”

  So. Rasoul was pulling no punches, going immediately to the heart of the matter. Fine. It eliminated the need for playing diplomatic games. As Kelson framed his reply, he carefully extended his Truth-Reading talent to gauge the Moor’s responses—difficult at this distance and to read another Deryni, but Rasoul would find the reverse no easier.

  “That promise, my lord, was made before Torenthi agents attempted to assassinate my uncle last summer in my absence,” the king said. “According to the letter of the law, either I or my regent would have been wholly within our rights to execute both hostages, were it not for certain indications that Liam’s own death was also intended by the assassins.”

  “Sir, your insinuation is not only insulting, it is preposterous!” Rasoul retorted. “If, indeed, these were agents of Torenth who acted in such a manner—for which I have only your word, my lord—” The Moor made a curt, insolent bow, “—why should they wish their king dead?”

  The man was good, never making any statement that was not the literal truth, but Kelson knew how many lies could be hidden in what Rasoul did not say. Besides, both he and Morgan had questioned the prisoners still languishing in the dungeons below the keep. Someone had wanted Liam dead.

  “That, I do not know, my lord,” Kelson said. “Perhaps their master wished him dead. I make no particular inference that their master is indeed your master, but one must wonder who stands most to gain, should our young royal guest perish before he comes fully into his inheritance. I assure you, it is not I—if only because your master has the governance of King Liam’s heir.”

  The Moor bristled at that, prudently silent, but the great cat’s rumbling purr rose in volume, verging on a growl, its tail lashing vexedly in response to its master’s obvious agitation. Both front paws were now on the lowest step, up to the elbows.

  “I decline to answer an allegation so patently absurd,” Rasoul said at last. “If carried to its logical conclusion, it implies that the Lady Morag countenanced her own son’s murder.” He glanced at Liam and made him a bow. “Do not listen to their lies, my prince. All is being done that may, to secure your release.”

  “Which will occur in due time, my lord,” Kelson replied, before the boy could speak, “but not today and not in the very near future. For the present, it is my intention that Liam of Torenth shall remain the guest of Gwynedd until he attains his fourteenth year—to which end, I have this day squired him to Prince Nigel Haldane, Duke of Carthmoor—”

  “Squired him—”

  “Hear me, my lord! Your king is yet of tender years. Nor was it anticipated that he would one day rule Torenth. It was not I who encompassed his elder brother’s death,” he added, letting Rasoul read the truth of that. “But it is my responsibility to see that he is properly trained to rule his land when he comes into his legal majority.”

  “And whence derives this alleged responsibility, my lord?” Rasoul challenged.

  “Because last year, King Liam did me homage for his kingdom,” Kelson replied, “as was agreed between myself and his uncle, the late King Wencit. That places him under my protection.”

  “Say, rather, your servitude,” Rasoul muttered.

  Kelson sighed. “Hardly servitude, my lord, saving such servitude as any child owes his elders while he learns the lessons of maturity. That is a servitude which I myself have borne, and gladly, and under direction of the same goodly knight. Your king must learn his statecraft somewhere, after all.”

  “Then let him learn it at his uncle’s knee!” Rasoul responded. “Your ways are not our ways. To keep him hostage, apart from kin and countrymen—”

  “—is no different from the fosterage that most highborn youths endure, sir,” Kelson replied. “He studies with my own royal cousins,” he swept an arm in the direction of Payne and Rory, “and he spars with the flower of Gwynedd’s chivalry—which is precisely how he would spend his next four years, were he nobly born in Gwynedd and not in Torenth. Surely you cannot think that ill.”

  Rasoul let out a perplexed sigh. “It is not I whose approval you must gain, my lord. My Lord Mahael will not like this.”

  “I do not require that he like it,” Kelson said. “I do require that he accept it, as regent of my vassal, the King of Torenth. Missives have been prepared by my chancery, detailing my intentions in this matter, and you will deliver these to your Lord Mahael upon your return to his court. I shall expect his presence in Cardosa in June.”

  Rasoul’s dark face went very still.

  “You expect—”

  Kelson leaned back a little in his chair, never taking his eyes from Rasoul’s. He could feel the tension rising among the Moors, but their master suddenly had become a tightly shielded blank.

  “If you prefer, I shall command it, my lord,” he said carefully. “And once I have met your master face-to-face and assured myself of his peaceful intentions—and Prince Ronal’s well-being—I have no doubt that terms for the lady’s release can be arranged.”

  “Ah.” The one word seemed to dissipate all the pent-up tension that had been building in both Rasoul and his men, further reinforcing Kelson’s belief that he was wise to tread softly, that something was afoot in Torenth. “Then, you do intend to set the Lady Morag free.”

  With but the faintest flare of his own shields, apparent only to another Deryni, Kelson smiled conspiratorially and gave the Deryni lord a shrug.

  “Our kind are few at the Court of Gwynedd, my lord. She will be far less trouble to Duke Mahael than she has been to me. Do you take my meaning?”

  The observation contained just enough wry irony to restore the Moor’s good humor. Chuckling aloud—to the mystification of most of the court—Rasoul nodded, giving Kelson another bow.

  “I do, indeed, my lord. I—don’t suppose I might have brief audience with Her Highness?”

  “Alas, no, my lord,” Kelson replied. “I trust you will understand why.”

  Of course, he did not volunteer the more practical reason for his refusal—that Morag was no longer in Rhemuth—and Rasoul had no reason to suspect it. As the Moor shrugged and bowed again, Kelson stood, cradling his sword in the crook of his arm.

  “Good, then. I believe we understand one another. May I invite you and your men to join the feast that will shortly be served in honor of today’s knightings? Or, if you prefer, may I offer you less formal refre
shment while the missives for your lord are brought? Archbishop Cardiel, would you see to that immediately, please?”

  Rasoul, gracious once more, inclined his head, and the great cat stirred at his feet, stretching languidly.

  “I thank you, my lord, but our ship waits at Desse, and we must be on our way as soon as possible, if we wish to catch the tide. Might I present my compliments to my Lord Liam, however, since I am not to see his mother?”

  “In our company and here before the court, you may speak with him, yes,” Kelson said.

  With silent signal for Dhugal to accompany him, the king came slowly down several steps, keeping a wary eye on the great cat, but Dhugal went ahead of him, several steps closer, and crouched to hold out his hand to the beast—to Rasoul’s obvious surprise.

  “Young lord—”

  “It’s all right,” Dhugal murmured.

  Kelson cleared his throat nervously and glanced at Rasoul, himself a little taken aback at Dhugal’s boldness.

  “Permit me to make known to you my foster brother, the Earl of Transha, my lord,” Kelson said. “I confess, sir, he is more daring than I, to offer his hand to your most magnificent companion, not knowing whether she would prefer to make a meal of him.”

  Rasoul chuckled, but honest amazement showed in his face as the cat stretched its head closer to sniff at Dhugal’s hand, then wrapped an enormous tongue around his fingers, and Dhugal only laughed.

  “Ah, I thought as much,” Dhugal murmured. “You’re a great, huge, hearthside cat, aren’t you, girl?” As he shifted his hand to scratch behind one tawny ear, the animal crawled up a few more steps and butted its head against him, sinking down on the Kheldish carpet with a contented sigh.

  “Ah, I was right about that, too, wasn’t I?” Dhugal crooned. “You didn’t like the cold floor, did you, my pretty? May I ask how she is called, my lord?”

  Rasoul raised one eyebrow as the great cat’s purr rumbled and it closed its eyes, rubbing its head harder against Dhugal’s knee.

  “If you mean her name, young sir, she is called Kisah, which means Light,” the Moor said. “If you refer to her breed, she is a cheetah. They alone of all the great cats can be tamed with any reliability. My people use them for hunting as well as for bodyguards. But—you are not afraid of her?”

  Dhugal shrugged, grinning as the cheetah butted him hard enough to knock him back on his haunches and continued to purr as Dhugal’s hand kept up its caress.

  “She knows I will not harm her, my lord,” he said. “We border folk seem to have a way with animals—don’t we, Kisah?”

  The cheetah only closed its eyes and leaned more heavily against Dhugal’s hand, purring even louder. After a few more seconds of this display, Rasoul shook his head and glanced up at Kelson, a smile twitching at his beard.

  “It seems there are wonders at the court of Gwynedd that I had not anticipated, my Lord King,” he said respectfully. “But I truly have not the time to tarry. Perhaps the young tamer of cheetahs will conduct me to my Lord Liam …?”

  The cheetah lurched alertly to its feet as Dhugal stood and made Rasoul a bow, then padded calmly between him and Rasoul as Kelson led the strange trio across the front of the hall to where Liam waited with the other squires. Boys and courtiers retreated at their approach, but Liam stood his ground, still flanked by Morgan and Duncan. At Morgan’s nod, the boy went forward to fling his arms around Kisah’s neck, giggling and laughing as the great cat wrapped its paws around his waist and licked his face. When Liam at last made the cat stand down and raised his head to greet his ambassador, one arm still around the cat’s neck, Rasoul made him formal obeisance, fingertips to breast, lips, and forehead.

  “May Allah give you long to reign, my prince.”

  “My Lord Rasoul, I am glad to see you.”

  “And I you, my prince, though it seems I might have sent only Kisah, and you would have been content. Are you treated well, my lord?”

  “Aye, of course.” Liam glanced sidelong at Morgan and Duncan while he continued fondling the cat. “Many things are different here, but I am learning so much! And now, to be squired to Prince Nigel—it is a great honor. When I am grown and I return to Torenth, I hope to be as great a warrior as he!”

  Rasoul laughed dutifully as Liam buried his face in Kisah’s neck to hug her playfully, dark head against spotted, tawny fur, but the Moor’s eyes were mirthless as he crouched down opposite the boy, the cat between.

  “Why, that is well to hear, my prince, and you have surely grown taller since last I saw you. But do you not miss your brother? He is page to your Uncle Mahael now—who would be honored to squire you as well. Do you not think that a king should learn the ways of his own people before studying the ways of other lands?”

  Liam looked stricken, and his lower lip started to quiver, but Morgan moved closer to set his hand on the boy’s shoulder and meet Rasoul’s eyes in veiled challenge.

  “It is a king’s duty to learn the ways of many peoples, my lord,” he said quietly. “And those who love their king ought not to play upon his childish fears to turn him from that duty. If you persist in this, you do him no service.”

  Kelson felt the brush of Rasoul’s shields as the Moor scanned all of those close around the young king and found only other Deryni. Smiling, Rasoul rose and bowed, right hand to heart.

  “I see that you are well served, my Lord King of Gwynedd,” he murmured, “so I shall not press the matter. And that being the case, I shall take my leave as soon as I have received the documents you have commanded me to carry—for I would not have it said that Al Rasoul ibn Tarik did aught to bring unhappiness to his king. But here comes your esteemed archbishop now, I believe.”

  Arilan was at Cardiel’s side as the archbishop approached with a leather courier pouch in hand, and Rasoul favored both prelates with a respectful bow before turning back to the wide-eyed Liam. Kelson, as the bishops came nearer, became suddenly aware that neither man looked happy and wondered whether Arilan had come along to shield the human Cardiel from possible probing by Rasoul. But he had no time to consider that question further, because Rasoul was bowing to Liam again, and reaching out one hand as if to try to touch him.

  “My prince, I shall convey your dutiful greetings to your uncle and hope that circumstances soon will permit you to convey those greetings in person. In the meantime, I would kiss your hand in leave-taking—” He pulled up short as an attempt to do just that was thwarted by Duncan’s outstretched arm. “But I see that it is not to be permitted, so I shall merely take my leave with a most loving farewell. Salaam aleikum, my prince. May Allah hold you safe in the hollow of His hand.”

  “No doubt He shall, my lord,” Kelson remarked dryly. “My Lord Archbishop, are all the documents complete?”

  Cardiel gave the king a cool inclination of his head and handed over the pouch.

  “They are, Sire. And might I recommend that Your Majesty assign an honor escort to see the Lord Rasoul and his company at least partway to their ship at Desse?” He flicked his gaze pointedly at Duncan. “Perhaps one of your senior dukes would be good enough to go, since I should hate to deprive any of your new young knights of these festivities in their honor. Perhaps His Grace of Cassan.”

  “I concur, Sire,” Arilan agreed. “Duke Duncan is an excellent choice.”

  The ducal form of address from both men, coupled with their unexpected desire to see Duncan gone from court, suddenly jarred Kelson to wonder whether Cardiel and Arilan were angry with their fellow bishop. Of course! Duncan had not consulted them before confirming, before the entire court, that he was Deryni!

  But before Kelson could do more than glance in Duncan’s direction, Morgan moved a step closer and laid a warning hand on his sleeve.

  “By your leave, Sire,” he said softly, “I shall accompany Lord Rasoul as well. Even two dukes are scarcely fitting escort for a man of his caliber—and this evening’s festivities, as His Excellency has said, are intended for the new young knights.”

/>   The celebration for the new young knights began almost as soon as Morgan and Duncan had escorted their exotic visitors from the hall, though it was close on an hour before Kelson was able to relax enough to begin enjoying it. Cardiel and Arilan vanished before he could get a private word with either of them. Nor was Wolfram anywhere to be found, once the feasting started. It boded ill, but there was nothing he could do about it without creating an uproar; and they had had uproar enough for one day.

  “Do you think they’re angry that my father revealed himself as Deryni?” Dhugal asked Kelson, while the two of them dismembered a fat game hen stuffed with dates and licked greasy fingers, pretending to watch a troupe of acrobats.

  The musicians were playing far too loudly in the rear gallery, but if Kelson could only barely hear Dhugal, sitting right beside him, he knew there was no danger of anyone else overhearing.

  “Probably,” he replied. “They were unhappy about something, but there were too many Deryni around for me to figure out what. And you and that damned cat didn’t help matters any.”

  Dhugal grinned, but let the point pass.

  “It may have been a good thing, though, to get Duncan out of here for the rest of the evening,” Kelson went on. “You’re not that different from Alaric, as far as being Deryni is concerned, so no one’s going to bother you, now that they know—not sitting here beside me, at any rate. But Duncan’s already stepped on a lot of toes—being a bishop, having you, and now confirming that he’s Deryni, too. It’ll die down in a while, I’m sure, but there’s no sense asking for trouble. Besides, it was a very good idea to send a couple of Deryni along to make sure that the Moors left. A Deryni as powerful as Rasoul could make a lot of trouble, if he put his mind to it.”

  “Hmmm, you’re probably right,” Dhugal agreed, chewing thoughtfully at a bite of bread as his eyes roamed the hall. “I don’t suppose it does any good to spoil our evening worrying about it, in any case. Incidentally, did you notice who’s sitting with your Aunt Meraude, down there near Saer and Duke Ewan?”

  Taking a deep pull at his wine, Kelson glanced in the direction of Dhugal’s vague gesture, flicking his attention past a pair of indifferent jugglers. The Princess Janniver was sitting on Meraude’s left, nearest Kelson, shyly sharing a trencher with his ex-squire, Sir Jatham—well, that was nice! But Kelson had to look twice before he recognized the young woman seated on Meraude’s other side—and nearly choked on his wine when he did.