The Quest for Saint Camber

by Katherine Kurtz

  It was a slender victory, for Kelson still had not regained consciousness; but to Dhugal, gone without sleep for nearly three days now, it was the closest thing to a miracle he had yet seen, since discovering that both he and Kelson had survived the initial catastrophe.

  He worried about the skull fracture, though. The usefulness of his ability to probe the injury with his powers was somewhat limited, for he had only a vague idea what his perceptions meant in medical terms; but he did not like what he thought they meant. The depression was putting pressure on Kelson’s brain, and there was some swelling. He could not tell for certain whether there was bleeding as well. Dhugal had heard of surgical procedures to relieve such pressure, involving drilling a hole in the skull and trying to lift the part that was pressing, but he had no instruments, even if he were fool enough to think he had the ability.

  He pondered the problem while he left Kelson alone long enough to retrieve the wine flask he had hurled aside in such haste—he had no idea how long ago. He rinsed it long and carefully while he kept a wary eye on the scarcely breathing form wrapped in a cloak now only damp, not soggy, then filled it and hobbled back to Kelson’s side, there to raise his patient’s head and let a little trickle down Kelson’s throat. He used his powers to trigger the reflex to swallow, for he had learned a great deal about the centers that controlled such functions while he kept his lonely watch.

  He was going to have to do something about food, too. Nothing had passed Kelson’s lips since whatever he might have eaten at their last rest stop before the accident, other than the tainted wine, soon regurgitated, and a little water Dhugal had managed to bring to Kelson in his own mouth, when the danger of dehydration became greater than the danger that Kelson might stop breathing again if Dhugal left him for more than a minute or two. Dhugal had no idea how long ago that might have been, but his own growling stomach told him it had been far too long. And while a healthy man might survive for weeks on water only, if he had to, such a diet was not conducive to mending injuries. He had no idea what he might find down here that was edible—perhaps there were fish in the underground river—but now that Kelson seemed to be past the most immediate crisis of his hurts, Dhugal would have to take steps to find something.

  Meanwhile, though, there was the skull fracture to consider—and Dhugal was in an agony over what to do. If he did nothing, and the swelling continued, Kelson likely would die despite everything he had already been through and survived. And if Dhugal did the wrong thing—not that his options for actual treatment were many—Kelson might die anyway.

  Sighing, Dhugal dragged more driftwood nearer the fire he had been nursing for so long, hobbling painfully on his swollen ankle and trying to spare his wrist as much as possible. After placing a few branches on the fire, he settled against the cavern wall next to Kelson and turned the raven head away from him, so he could brush his fingertips lightly over the lump behind Kelson’s left ear. The wound was closing nicely in whatever time had passed and seemed to be healing cleanly, but he could sense the walnut-sized piece of bone depressed just beneath the skin—and the pressure under that.

  If only there were some way to raise the depression, other than by surgery. Not that he was about to attempt to prise the bone back into place with the little stiletto in his boot—which was the only metal implement or weapon that seemed to have made it through their tumbling in the river.

  But perhaps there was another way! He had moved things before, just with the power of his mind. One of the first things his father had shown him, after they knew Dhugal was Deryni, was how to work a lock without a key. If Dhugal could move the tumblers of a lock without seeing them, was it possible he could do the same to lift this bit of bone back into place in Kelson’s skull?

  It was not a healing function, in the Deryni sense. It certainly did not sound like what his father and Morgan had described about the healing process—visualizing the damaged area as it ought to be and having the healing take place under one’s hands. But was there not a physical side to surgery, as well as a biological one? Provided that no irreversible damage had been done to the tissue beneath the skull, relief of Kelson’s condition might come simply by restoring the bit of bone to its proper place and letting natural healing take its course.

  It certainly was worth a careful try. Dhugal did not see how he could do much further harm, for Kelson’s condition, though stabilizing, was not getting better from Dhugal doing nothing. He made himself take several deep, steadying breaths as he gently shifted Kelson to lie against his chest, supporting the lolling head against his right hand, just at shoulder level, while he brought his left to touch the lump behind the ear lightly. His sprained wrist gave a twinge, but he was able to shift his position slightly and relieve that.

  But it was going to be a tricky balancing act to keep a part of his mind attuned to Kelson’s breathing and heart rate while he turned his main attention to the other task at hand—for he knew that, when he relieved the pressure under the lump, he also was likely to upset the tenuous autonomic rhythm so recently reestablished. As he closed his eyes and settled into that rhythm, he wished he were better rested himself, for the few hours’ sleep he had snatched were not nearly adequate to make up for the exertion of the past few days. But wishes were useless at this point. It was determination that would triumph now, if anything would, and a little luck on their side—or maybe a miracle or two.

  Slowly Dhugal pushed himself deeper into trance, at first simply letting the shallow whisper of his and Kelson’s breathing carry him gradually into rapport. It was not comfortable at first, for even with the merasha mostly gone out of Kelson’s system, his shields were still irregular, distorted—intact in some areas, but utterly gone in others, not at all in balance. The condition probably was at least partially a function of the concussion Kelson had suffered, either from the injury under Dhugal’s fingers or the other one above his eye; but whatever its source, it made for a rather jerky descent to the level of rapport that Dhugal felt he needed in order to risk what he was about to do.

  Not daring to think too much more about it, Dhugal extended his Deryni senses into the body beneath his hands, centering on the circle of bone that lay beneath his fingertips. All at once he could see it in his mind, as if it were exposed by a surgeon’s knife—a rounded triangle of bone, one edge still neatly in place and the opposite angle depressed almost to the depth of the tip of a man’s little finger.

  Gently, gingerly, he eased his powers around it and lifted. It moved more easily than he had expected, smoothly pivoting on the edge still in place until all three sides were flush again. Nor was there any disruption of Kelson’s breathing.

  He spent a few more seconds inspecting what he had done, wondering whether it would be enough, then withdrew mind and controls and opened his eyes to look at Kelson again. The king appeared unchanged. When, after Dhugal judged an hour or so had passed and Kelson still seemed unimproved—though neither was he any worse—Dhugal decided it was time to do something about the food situation. Whatever happened, he could be no help to Kelson or himself if he starved to death.

  It was late on Wednesday, Lady Day, the Feast of the Annunciation, when what remained of the king’s party reached Rhemuth. Some intimation of the news apparently had run ahead even of that fast-riding band, so that Nigel, Meraude, Duncan, and Jehana were already waiting anxiously in the privy council chamber. Saer and Earl Roger broke the news, Conall prudently keeping a very low profile, suitably subdued and decorous, and the three bishops then gave what comfort they could, though Father Lael had to be called to lend his physician’s services when Jehana finally began weeping hysterically and had to be escorted from the room. Roger left with them, leaving only the bereaved families and clergy.

  Nigel, too, wept briefly, comfortless and forlorn in his wife’s arms, and Duncan withdrew into himself, moving to gaze unseeing out a window. Arilan wavered uncertainly between him and Nigel as Cardiel and Bradene tried to give the new king more immediate attention,
and even Conall could be seen to blink back tears.

  “God strike me dead if I ever wanted to be king,” Nigel said, shaking his head disbelievingly as he mastered his grief and looked up, still bleary-eyed, at Cardiel. “This can’t be happening, Thomas. I’m not ready. I wanted never to have to be ready. Isn’t there some chance he’s still alive?”

  “Not within reason, no,” Cardiel said softly, himself almost in tears again—for he, too, had wept at the news in Valoret, three days before. “They tell us that there’s little chance the bodies will even be recovered, after this long.”

  Saer, trying to comfort his sister, now that Nigel seemed to be in control again, shook his head, too.

  “We did everything we could, Nigel,” he whispered, “but we didn’t find a trace. Not a trace! The river goes underground, just past where they were lost. We never found the monk’s body, either. The local folk say the river never gives up its dead, after that long.”

  Speechless, Nigel only shook his head, his grief almost palpable in the silence of the old room. Arilan, still hesitating between Nigel and Duncan, turned his attention on Nigel.

  “There are things that must be done—Your Majesty,” he said quietly.

  Nigel looked up in shock, dread in his eyes.

  “Don’t call me that. Please.”

  “You are the king, however,” Arilan insisted, “regardless what you are called. And by tomorrow, you will have to be proclaimed as such. Gwynedd cannot go without a king for long.”

  Nigel looked away. “I’ll continue as regent, until we’re sure. But I don’t want the title—not yet; not while there’s still hope.”

  “Hope of what?” Arilan replied. “Hope of finding Kelson’s body? That doesn’t change things. And after this long, I’m afraid there’s virtually no chance of his being found alive, much as I wish I could tell you different. Meanwhile, you have responsibilities that must be fulfilled.”

  “I’ll fulfill them.”

  “Haldane responsibilities, Nigel,” Arilan said softly.

  Even Duncan looked up at that, as Nigel blanched and quickly looked away.

  “I shall exercise the customary responsibilities of the crown,” he whispered, “as I have as regent. But unless Kelson’s body is found, I shall not be crowned until a year and a day have passed. That decision is not open to negotiation.”

  Even through his own grief, Duncan knew that neither Nigel nor Arilan was talking about merely human functions of royal responsibility. But while Nigel apparently had assumed that his full assumption of the Haldane powers would be contingent upon his crowning, as Kelson’s was, Duncan knew that no such contingency existed and that, if Kelson truly was dead, and Dhugal—God, let it not be true!—then the power must be brought to full fruition in Nigel as soon as possible. But he dared not speak openly about it in front of Bradene, for Arilan’s sake.

  “I see no difficulty in delaying the coronation, if that is what His Highness wishes,” Duncan said quietly, deliberately using the more neutral royal title to which Nigel was entitled as a prince of Gwynedd, but that also applied to a king. “Once a suitable period of mourning has passed, however, and we can all think more clearly, His Highness may wish to amend that decision. For now, however, I suggest that no date be set at all.

  “In the meantime, I would recommend that Your Highness summon the rest of the privy council to return to Rhemuth immediately, along with those other lords whose opinion Your Highness values. If I may be of service, I would offer to take the news to Duke Alaric myself. He—would take it best coming from me, I think.”

  Arilan, flashing Duncan a look that confirmed he knew precisely what Duncan was about, gave a nod of agreement.

  “I concur, Your Highness. But, Duncan, you are doubly bereaved—not that we all do not mourn the loss of your son. Do you think it wise to attempt such a long and grueling journey?”

  Duncan swallowed painfully. “I shall value the time alone to remember both my sons,” Duncan murmured. “In the meantime, Excellency, I wonder if you would pray with me a while before I leave.”

  The request startled Arilan, but only until he had followed Duncan up to the apartment that once had been Dhugal’s, where Duncan, rather than praying, began stripping off his cassock to change into more suitable attire for riding—the courier’s garb he had worn to Valoret.

  “Have you told the Council yet?” Duncan asked.

  Arilan shook his head. “No, there was no time before we left Valoret. I’ll do it as soon as I’ve seen you off. Cardiel will cover my absence until morning.”

  “Fine. Then you won’t be missed if you spend a little additional time to take me to Dhassa—unless there’s a Portal closer to Coroth, that is.”

  Arilan scowled as he watched Duncan pull on leather breeches and a shirt of soft black suede.

  “I don’t recall having told you there was a Portal there.”

  “You didn’t; but if there wasn’t one before, I can’t imagine that you and some of your Council brethren wouldn’t have put one in, once you became Bishop of Dhassa.”

  “It was already there,” Arilan said sourly. “But you’re asking a great deal.”

  “I’m asking you to save me at least a week’s riding, between here and Coroth,” Duncan replied. He plopped on a stool to begin tugging on stout leather boots that came well over the knee. “Even from Dhassa, I’ll still have a solid day’s ride each way. And I’ll need a horse to get out of Dhassa, if you can manage it. I’d rather not steal one.”

  Arilan could not control a wry smile as the younger man strapped on plain, blackened steel spurs such as any man-at-arms might wear.

  “You would, too, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’ve had to do worse,” Duncan said, rising to take up a quilted leather vest, heavy with metal plates sewn between the layers. “Will you or won’t you help me? If you won’t, I’ll go directly to the stables from here. I haven’t the time or the inclination to argue with you.”

  “I’ll help,” Arilan said, also helping him into the jazerant. “May I ask one favor, however?”

  Duncan gave the other Deryni bishop a warning look before bending to the buckles that closed the front of the vest.

  “As a condition for your assistance?”

  “Of course not. As a point of information that may benefit both of us. Will you and Alaric be able to convince Nigel he must assume the full Haldane power before the year is out?”

  “I don’t see that that’s any of your business,” Duncan replied coolly, tucking the last strap of the jazerant under its keeper. “Just now, I don’t give a bloody damn about the Haldane power. I just want to try to find out whether my son and my king might still be alive.”

  “Do you really think they are?” Arilan asked softly, refusing to take offense.

  A sob threatened to well up in Duncan’s throat, but he managed to stifle it. He knew he would not be able to do that much longer. But by concentrating on picking up his sword, unwinding the belt from around the scabbard, and buckling it around his waist, he managed to keep the tears from blurring his vision worse than it already was.

  “I want to believe they are,” he whispered. “As long as no bodies turn up, it’s all too tempting to let myself keep hoping for a miracle. Besides, I can’t shake the feeling that I’d know somehow, if they were dead—especially Dhugal, He’s my son, Denis. And I’ve been Kelson’s confessor for nearly seven years. You know what kind of bond that can put between two people—especially two Deryni.”

  As Duncan jammed a fur-lined leather cap on his head and snatched up a pair of riding gloves, slipping them under his belt, Arilan picked up the black leather travel cloak Duncan obviously planned to wear and flung it over his arm, moving with Duncan toward the fireplace.

  “Yes, I know what kind of bond that can mean,” he said. “Have you tried yet to invoke it, or the bond of father and son?”

  Duncan shook his head. “It’s too far away to try on my own. Besides, there hasn’t been time; you know
that. You’ve been with me every minute.”

  “It’s even farther from Coroth.”

  “Yes, but not from Dhassa.” Duncan leaned the heels of both hands against the mantel, watching the firelight play in the amethyst of his bishop’s ring—the only concession he had allowed himself to his true identity. It would just barely fit under his glove.

  “Well, what’s it to be? Will you take me to Dhassa, or must I go down to the stable yard and do this the hard way?”

  “What about the Haldane power for Nigel?” Arilan countered. “What if he needs it before you get back?”

  “I suppose,” said Duncan, “that he’ll just have to cope as best he can—or do you think I could bring him to power by myself?”

  “Could you?”

  “I don’t know. I’d rather not find out. And I’d especially rather not find out until after I’m more certain that Kelson—really is dead.” He swallowed and half turned his face to glance over his shoulder at Arilan. “And Dhugal. Do you think they are dead, Denis?”

  Arilan sighed wearily. “I fear they very well may be, son,” he whispered. “Now, do you have any preference which Portal we use at this end? I think I would recommend the one in your study.”

  A quarter hour later, they were stepping into the compartment that concealed the study Portal, Duncan gathering his cloak close around him to make room for Arilan behind him. Silvery handfire followed Arilan in, and he dimmed it almost to nothing as Duncan pulled the door closed.

  “We aren’t going to surprise anyone at the other end, are we?” Duncan asked.

  Arilan gave a soft snort as he set his hands on Duncan’s shoulders. “It isn’t likely, since the Portal’s in my private chapel, but who knows what may have been going on while I’m away? Father Nivard, my chaplain, has permission to say Mass there, but it’s late for that. Anyway, he—ah—knows about me.”

  “In other words, you have him controlled,” Duncan said, smiling a little despite the numb sense of loss churning just at the edge of awareness. “Not that I have any room to sermonize, after what I’ve done to Father Shandon on occasion. Suppose someone else is there, though?”