The Quest for Saint Camber

by Katherine Kurtz

  Their hapless guide had not. Dhugal had found his body, too, not far from the drowned horse, skull fatally breached in at least two places, brain matter protruding, and both arms and both legs shattered beyond mending, even if death had not been likely instantaneous from the head injuries.

  There was nothing Dhugal could do for the monk besides offer a brief prayer for his soul, which he did, but there was one final service the monk might do for him—or rather, for Kelson. The man’s clerical habit under the still soggy cloak was woven of a fine wool, warm and light. It wanted a good washing, for Brother Gelric’s body also had begun to go the way of the dead horse, but when rinsed out and dried before the fire, the loose-fitting garment would be far more comfortable for Kelson than the soiled clothing in which he now had been lying for however long he had been unconscious. Dhugal was doing the best he could to keep his patient clean and dry and at least getting water down him on a regular basis, but unless Kelson stirred soon, Dhugal held little hope for his survival.

  The horse also had proven useful, beyond the few pieces of tainted meat that Dhugal managed to salvage before dumping the decaying carcass back into the river, for its saddlebags somehow had managed not to be separated from the animal’s saddle or even burst open. Most of what Dhugal found in the one side was of little value to anyone but the presumably drowned Jowan, but he did find flint and steel, an extra belt, and a few spare leather straps, all potentially useful. And the other side, wonder of wonders, had yielded a hard winter apple, much bruised, and a soggy piece of journey bread, starting to mold.

  The latter Dhugal had fed meticulously to Kelson, picking off the mold as best he could and easing small, semi-liquid amounts of the bread past Kelson’s lips, washing it down with sips of water which he made Kelson swallow. He tried to pulverize bits of the apple and feed them to Kelson, too, but finally had to give that up and eat the apple himself, for he dared not risk having Kelson choke while unconscious.

  He had just finished bathing Kelson, as he had done for his foster father during the old man’s last years, and was gently easing the dead monk’s habit over Kelson’s head and down around his waist, when the king gave a moan, stronger than he had yet managed, and opened his eyes.

  “What’re you doing?” he managed to croak, his voice thready and weak from disuse.

  “Kelson! Thank God, you’re awake!”

  “M’head hurts,” Kelson whispered. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Dhugal murmured, easing Kelson onto his side, one hand on his forehead and one on his throat, easily forcing his mind past Kelson’s almost nonexistent shields to push down the nausea that was threatening to expel what little food Dhugal had gotten down him. “I can’t have you wasting energy on that kind of nonsense. Just relax, and the nausea will pass. It’s from your concussion. Close your eyes and let me hold the control for you. You’ll be all right in a minute or two.”

  It was a near-run thing for something longer than a minute or two, but at last Kelson seemed to rally a little on his own, finally rolling weakly onto his back again to look up at Dhugal. He seemed to be having trouble focusing.

  “Dhugal?” he breathed.

  “Aye, who else, my prince?” Dhugal murmured, grinning as he brushed both hands tenderly over Kelson’s forehead. “Just rest you easy. You’re going to be fine. How do you feel?”

  “Terrible. And starved,” Kelson croaked. “And parched. Where are we? What happened?”

  “We’re somewhere underground.” Dhugal unstoppered his flask and raised Kelson by the shoulders far enough to set the flask against his lips and gently support his head. “We went down an embankment into a river, and that sucked us under. Don’t you remember the accident?”

  Kelson grunted in the negative, still guzzling water greedily, and Dhugal sighed.

  “Well, I’m not surprised. You took several nasty whacks on the head. What’s the last thing you do remember?”

  Kelson pushed the flask away at last, turning his face slightly to belch weakly, then glanced uncertainly back at Dhugal.

  “You are Dhugal MacArdry, aren’t you?” he asked. “God, it’s been so long …”

  A chill went through Dhugal’s heart.

  “Kelson, don’t you know me?” he whispered.

  “Of course I know you. But you look so much older.” The king’s eyes darted to Dhugal’s waist. “And you’re wearing a white belt. You can’t be old enough for that. Who knighted you?”

  “Don’t you remember? You did.”

  “I did? But—”

  Kelson closed his eyes tightly for several seconds, then opened them again as Dhugal watched anxiously.

  “Dhugal, what year is it?”

  Dhugal swallowed carefully. “What year do you think it is, Kel?”

  Kelson thought a moment, then said gravely, “To the best of my recollection, it’s 1123.”

  Compressing his lips grimly, Dhugal shook his head. “Wrong by two years,” he murmured. “It’s March of 1125. When’s the last time you remember seeing me?”

  Kelson screwed up his face in concentration, then shook his head bewilderedly. “When you left court, after your brother died, I suppose. I know you weren’t at my coronation.”

  “No, blasted luck. I’d broken my leg a few weeks before and couldn’t travel. But at least you remember that you’re king. That’s something. You obviously have some amnesia from your concussion, though.” He laid one hand lightly on Kelson’s forehead again. “Let me have a look, and we’ll see what the gaps are. God, your shields are—”

  “You can sense my shields?” Kelson said. “But—”

  “I’m Deryni, too, Kelson,” Dhugal said. “Jesu, I suppose you don’t remember that, either—or that Duncan is my real father.”

  “Duncan?” Kelson said weakly. “But, how—”

  “God, we’re going to have some catching up to do,” Dhugal murmured, half to himself. “Just relax, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Conall, I’d like a word with you, please.”

  Arilan caught at Conall’s sleeve as he and the new crown prince filed out of the withdrawing room at the end of the great hall at Rhemuth, leaving Nigel in privacy with Meraude and Saer de Traherne. Archbishops Bradene and Cardiel had already gone on ahead, to be stopped and questioned by a few of the lesser lords beginning to flock to court as news spread of Kelson’s demise.

  It had not been much of a privy council meeting—just the seven of them, for Jehana had kept to her rooms since receiving the news of her son’s death, and Duncan was en route to Coroth, while other messengers carried the news to seek out the rest of the crown’s senior advisers. Nigel had presided, but he was still numb at his change of status, and seemed unwilling or unable to take much initiative yet on his own.

  Thus it had fallen to Bradene, assuming nominal leadership in Ewan’s absence and Nigel’s reluctance, to draft the official proclamation naming Nigel as king to succeed Kelson. That, at least, had finally sparked a reaction from Nigel—though all he had done was reiterate his refusal to be crowned until a year and a day had passed, or until proof should be presented that Kelson was, in fact, dead. Conall had kept his peace for the most part, wisely judging that now was not the time to draw any unnecessary attention to himself, when the crown was finally within his grasp, if only he should wait—if nothing went awry.

  “Let’s go out into the garden, shall we?” Arilan went on, shifting his hold to Conall’s elbow. The Deryni bishop’s touch made Conall’s heart pound in apprehension, though he found he was able to keep it hidden more closely than ever, behind shields that seemed to have grown stronger since his return from Valoret. Conall wondered whether it had to do with the fact that Kelson was dead, and Conall’s own Haldane powers were beginning to manifest in earnest, now that he was first in line for the throne. Perhaps both Tiercel and the Camberian Council had been right about Haldanes.

  “Is something wrong, Excellency?” Conall asked, managing to keep hi
s voice low and even.

  “No, just something I’d like to ask you about,” Arilan replied.

  Glancing easily around him to see who might be watching, the Deryni bishop opened a door into the garden beyond the hall and drew Conall outside, not saying anything else until they had walked slowly into the center, where no one might approach too closely without being seen over the hedges. A few figures moved at the far end of the garden, hardly visible behind the trees only just beginning to green again after the long winter, but otherwise it was deserted. And though the sun was shining brightly, drying up the last puddles of the previous days’ rain, it was also chilly. Conall wrapped his black cloak more closely around him as he and Arilan paused by a leaf-clogged fountain.

  “I suppose you may have gathered,” Arilan said quietly, without further preamble, “that I had something to do with setting your father’s Haldane potential last spring, before Kelson went off on campaign. Likewise, I suspect you will not be surprised when I tell you that I have noticed your own gradual development along these lines. Shields and the like, which seem to have strengthened considerably since Kelson’s death—not altogether surprising, since Nigel now is king and you are his heir.”

  Conall felt the cool, velvet touch of the other’s mind against those shields, but it did not penetrate, even though the pressure grew considerably before slacking off.

  “Yes, indeed. A spontaneous Haldane manifestation developing,” Arilan murmured, smiling. “I’ve been told that Kelson had also developed a few spontaneous talents, before Brion’s death. Perhaps Tiercel was right all along.”

  “I—beg your pardon?” Conall managed to murmur, fear rising in his throat, though he knew Arilan could not have read that from his mind.

  “Oh, no one you would know,” Arilan replied. “A friend who once believed that more than one Haldane could hold the power at a time. We all thought him mad. But, no matter. What matters is that because you are manifesting some of the Haldane gifts on your own, perhaps from so much contact with Deryni, you may be able to assist me in a very important matter.”

  Conall swallowed uneasily.

  “Assist you?” he breathed.

  “Only indirectly,” Arilan allowed. “But I’ve been given an assignment by—” He sighed. “This is silly. I’m not supposed to say the name of the Camberian Council to outsiders, but you know very well what group I mean, even if you don’t know names of individuals. I’m sure Morgan and Duncan have had no compunctions about mentioning it, though I would hope they continue to respect the identity of its members. They have mentioned the Council to you, haven’t they?”

  Almost holding his breath, Conall nodded. Could it be that he had escaped any further mention of Tiercel so easily?

  “Anyway,” Arilan went on, “I was one of four who participated in Nigel’s patterning last spring. The other three, as you may have guessed, were Morgan, Duncan, and Richenda. They’re all in Coroth right now, and at least a couple of days from being able to get back here—and Richenda not at all, with her time approaching—so I’ve been asked to trigger Nigel’s final power assumption myself.”

  “And not wait for Duncan and Morgan?” Conall asked.

  Arilan smiled sardonically. “The Council—ah—does not precisely trust Duncan and Morgan just now. I can’t go into details why. Personally, I have no compunctions about waiting for them, but I am—not entirely my own master in this matter.”

  “You follow the Council’s orders,” Conall said, nodding carefully.

  “For the most part, yes.”

  Uneasy still, Conall turned half-away, setting one booted foot on the edge of the fountain and pretending to study some leaves.

  “I don’t think I follow,” he said after a moment. “Where do I come into this? I’m not Deryni. I don’t know anything that would be useful to you for something like that.”

  “No, but you’re Nigel’s son and heir.”

  “Which only means that, once he’s come to full power, someone will have to worry about setting my potential,” Conall replied. “What does my father say?”

  Arilan twined his fingers before him at waist level and gazed blindly at his bishop’s ring.

  “I’ve spoken to him about it in passing, but he wants to delay until the coronation.”

  “Until the coronation? But that isn’t for a year, if he has his way.”

  And the longer the delay, Conall thought to himself, the greater chance that his own enhanced powers would come under closer scrutiny than they could bear, and his connection with Tiercel be discovered.

  “I know,” Arilan said. “And do you think that the King of Gwynedd can survive that long, without full power, knowing some of the enemies he’ll be facing, once word gets out of Kelson’s death?”

  “Against Morag and her Arjenol duke?” Conall said contemptuously. “Hardly.”

  “Which exactly echoes the Council’s sentiments,” Arilan agreed. “That is precisely why I need you to help me convince Nigel that his power assumption should go ahead as soon as possible.”

  “Without Duncan and Morgan?”

  Arilan raised an eyebrow. “Don’t I recall hearing you complain once that Morgan and Duncan had too much power in Gwynedd, too much influence over the king?”

  Conall pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I sometimes said things without thinking, when I was young and foolish. But what’s to prevent you from gaining ‘too much influence,’ if you’re the one who engineers my father’s power assumption?”

  “Ve-ry astute,” Arilan said, nodding approvingly. “I won’t lie to you and say that isn’t possible, because there is a certain link between the king and the person or persons who assist him to power. However, I think you know that I honor my oaths; and I swear to you, Conall, that my aim is only to make King Nigel more independent of Morgan and Duncan than King Kelson was.”

  They spoke a little longer of what arguments Conall might use to change Nigel’s mind, and then Arilan left. Conall stood there in the garden for several more minutes, thinking about all the ramifications and wondering how he could turn the situation to his own best advantage, then began strolling slowly toward the other end of the garden, turning a dead rose stem between his fingers and testing one fingertip against a thorn, letting the slight pain keep him tuned to the subject at hand.

  But then, as he rounded a turn in the garden path, he saw another possibility to turn recent events to his own advantage. Rothana was sitting alone on a garden bench, blue-coifed head bowed over an open breviary on her lap, one hand spread flat on the right-hand page. He almost had not recognized her at first, however, for her habit was black this afternoon, not the usual pale blue of her coif. He hoped the change of habit did not mean she had somehow taken more binding vows, for now that Kelson was out of the way, Conall intended to make Rothana of Nur Hallaj his wife.

  “Good afternoon, my lady,” he said softly.

  She started as she looked up, apparently taken by surprise, and started to stand, but he stayed her with a gesture and sat down beside her instead. She had been crying, and she wiped self-consciously at her tears with her free hand.

  “I note a change of habit,” he said, running his eyes over her attire. “Does this indicate a change of status as well?”

  She shook her head hastily. “We wear black for the king,” she whispered. “All of us in my order. I—cannot believe that he is dead.”

  Conall lowered his eyes, pretending to study his own black attire, though his was broken by a crimson badge of the Haldane heir on the breast of his tunic.

  “I wish I could tell you otherwise, my lady,” he said after a moment. “Unfortunately, I saw him fall. No one could have survived, after this long.”

  “I know,” she answered, her voice very small.

  He ventured a very, very gentle probe, no more than might be expected of a Haldane heir beginning to come into his powers, if she should detect it, but she did not seem to notice. Her shields were all but down, and he sensed the guilt associated
with what she hid beneath her hand, though he could not tell exactly what it was. But perhaps he could use that guilt, and turn it to make her do his will.

  “Would that I had died, instead of Kelson,” he said quietly, turning his glance out to the dead garden, though he continued to watch her out of the corner of his eye. “Then this burden would not have fallen on my father. Not yet, at least.”

  He felt her quick intake of breath psychically as well as physically, and knew he was taking exactly the right approach.

  “He never expected or wanted the burden of the crown,” Conall went on. “Nor did I, though now it will be mine some day as well.”

  She swallowed noisily, on the verge of tears again, but Conall did not relent.

  “The burden is a lonely one, my lady,” he whispered. “My father has my mother at his side, but I have no one. I—will need a queen to stand beside me some day. Perhaps this is not the time to ask, but may I dare to hope it might be you?”

  “Me?”

  Her voice squeaked as she glanced up at him in dull shock.

  “Please don’t refuse me outright, my lady,” Conall pleaded. “Consider carefully what I’m asking. I—know that you are under vows. But the vows are temporary. And I—also know that you—were considering giving them up for another Haldane prince.”

  “Who told you that?” she demanded.

  He could feel her probing at his shields, but he only stiffened them and met her searching eyes, though he pretended to shrink a little from the pressure.

  “Please don’t,” he whispered, relaxing a little as she backed off without further attempt to pry. “I’m still learning what I am.”