The Quest for Saint Camber

by Katherine Kurtz

  Any further apprehensions Morgan might have had about the young priest vanished in that instant, for to disregard the setting of wards so unflappably was an accomplishment, indeed. Nivard obviously was far more skilled than he had let on—or perhaps he was not aware of how good he was, having had only Arilan by which to measure himself before. Quickly Morgan named the black cubes—“Quinte,” “Sixte,” “Septime,” “Octave”—then began matching black and white counterparts to form the four pillars of the wards.

  “Primus.

  “Secundus.

  “Tertius.

  “Quartus.”

  Nivard straightened as Morgan and Duncan began putting the pillars into position outside the circle of their chairs, placing the one behind his own himself. And it was his energy as well as that of Morgan and Duncan that raised the ward itself, as Morgan spread his arms to either side and threw back his head, speaking the final ritual words that would seal their safety while they cast for some sign of Kelson or Dhugal.

  “Primus, Secundus, Tertius, et Quartus, fiat lux!”

  As the faintly glowing canopy of silvery light sprang up above them, Morgan lowered his arms to take hands with both Duncan and Nivard. The physical link reinforced the rapport that had already been bridged astonishingly well while the wards were being set, and Morgan found it easier to speak directly into the minds of his two associates than to try to say verbally what he planned to do.

  I’ll direct the first cast and try to link with Kelson, he sent. If, after a suitable interval of trying, we’re unsuccessful, we’ll shift the cast to Dhugal. Duncan, you’ll direct that one. Nivard, you’re to back up the inactive partner in both instances and simply hold yourself ready to be tapped for additional power, if it’s required. Any questions?

  There were none. Morgan ceased to worry about Nivard after the first few seconds, as he sent out his call to the missing king. Before the working was complete, he drew deeply on the young priest, too.

  But though they cast in the direction of Saint Bearand’s for nearly an hour, searching first for Kelson and then for Dhugal, and alternating between the two, no sign of either was forthcoming. By the time they dismantled the link and dispelled the Wards, all three of them were drained and exhausted, and both Morgan and Duncan were forced to admit that further attempts were probably futile.

  “I kept hoping,” Morgan murmured, his voice hoarse and unsteady as he ran a spell to banish fatigue. “I still can’t believe they both could be dead, and us not have known. But to find no sign …”

  He and Duncan were very subdued as they followed Nivard quietly into the chapel to make the long Portal jump back to Rhemuth.

  Nor were their spirits raised by the news awaiting them at the capital. That Nigel should have succumbed to so human a weakness as a seizure was ironic, after everything else that had happened; but the evidence was there before their eyes as they visited the royal bedside with Arilan, shortly after their arrival, and heard the physicians’ opinion when they had withdrawn to another room.

  “He hasn’t gotten any worse,” Father Lael told them, “but he’s made absolutely no improvement, either. Usually, if they’re going to recover, there’s been some change after this long.”

  “He isn’t responsive at all?” Duncan asked.

  Lael shook his head. “Not really. His heartbeat is strong, his breathing is regular and even, and we do get some of the standard reflexes you might expect, but he’s deep in coma. We’re getting clear soups and broths down him, so he’s taking some sustenance, but that’s a losing proposition, in the long run. He’s lost weight already. If nothing else happens to change things, he’ll last a few months, at best.”

  Morgan sighed and glanced down at his boots. He had managed to isolate a great deal of the emotion he felt at learning of Nigel’s illness, for hope still remained as long as Nigel was not actually dead, but its weight, on top of Kelson’s and Dhugal’s loss, had pushed him even nearer the brink of sheer exhaustion. He palmed both hands across his eyes while he ran through his fatigue banishing spell again, aware that there must come an end to that soon, then glanced blearily at Duncan, who was hardly the better for wear. Both of them knew they had things to discuss with Arilan now that were not for human ears.

  “Thank you for briefing us, Father,” Duncan said to Lael, dismissing him with a nod. “You probably ought to get back to your patient.”

  “Of course. If you need me, you have only to call.”

  When he had gone, Duncan turned his focus on Arilan. He had a feeling Arilan knew precisely what the next topic was going to be.

  “Well, what now?” Duncan asked softly. “Obviously, this raises difficult questions vis-a-vis the Haldane inheritance. Denis, when we returned, we were prepared to bring Nigel to power. Obviously, that won’t be possible now, if ever. Does the Council have an opinion about this?”

  Before Arilan could answer, Morgan snorted and folded his arms across his chest. “Of course they have an opinion on it. When have you ever known the Council not to have an opinion on any given topic, whether it concerns them or not?”

  “Rudeness is hardly called for, I think,” Arilan said evenly. “I’ll forgive it because I know the strain under which you’ve been operating. As it happens, the transfer of the Haldane power is of vital concern to the Council—and yes, they do have an opinion. They want Conall confirmed as the Haldane heir, and his powers fully activated, even if he can’t be crowned as long as Nigel lives.”

  Duncan gasped. “But can that be done, with Nigel still alive? Besides, Nigel was already partially confirmed in the powers.”

  “Yes, but he’s now incapable of succeeding to Kelson’s powers and incapable of passing on what he does have. It will be tricky, I’ll grant you, but we estimate that it should be possible to strip away what was given to Nigel and confer it all on Conall. Of course, that would preclude Nigel ever taking up the crown, if he should recover; but you heard Lael. This isn’t really likely.”

  Morgan snorted. “I’m half surprised they don’t just remedy the situation, if it’s a problem,” he muttered. “A convenient pillow held to a helpless invalid’s face or something—that’s just about their style. And it would make all their job’s easier, wouldn’t it?”

  “Don’t you think you’re being a little harsh?” Arilan countered.

  “Not really.” Morgan turned half-away, his hands clasped behind his back, and gazed out a nearby window. “How does Conall feel about the whole situation? Is he ready to write off his father, just to satisfy the noble Council’s notions of what constitutes appropriate transmission of the Haldane power?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Arilan said, setting both fists on his waist, “Prince Conall is far more of a realist than either of you seem to be. It’s nearly April, after all. There’s an entire season of fighting weather ahead of us, if Gwynedd’s enemies should decide to take advantage of the fact that the throne is currently unstable. And as regent, he’s the one who’s going to have to take the consequences of what men like the three of us decide in the next few days.”

  “Conall as king in all but name,” Morgan breathed, shaking his head as he rubbed again at his eyes. “The mind boggles.”

  “He is Nigel’s son,” Duncan reminded him, “and King Donal Blaine’s grandson.”

  “He’s also very immature,” Morgan replied. “I know. He was with Kelson and me for the first part of the campaign last summer. Nor have I seen any particular evidence that he’s grown up much, since. Fathering a child does not necessarily make a boy a man.”

  “A child?” Arilan frowned. “I’ve heard nothing of a child.”

  Duncan sighed and shook his head. “It isn’t born yet, so far as I know,” he murmured. “Court gossip had it due around the end of the summer. The mother’s a country maid. He keeps her in a cottage about an hour’s ride outside the city.”

  “Hmmm,” Arilan said, stroking his narrow chin. “He hasn’t gone and married the girl or anything stupid, has he?” />
  “No.” Duncan laced his fingers together. “She’s just a royal mistress—has been for close on a year, from what I hear. He may be immature, Denis, but he isn’t stupid. He’s saved his hand in marriage for a princess worthy of his blood.”

  “Which he’ll need to find, as soon as possible, if he has a bastard about to be born. We can’t have the succession disputed, once he’s king in name as well as in fact.”

  “Good God, Nigel isn’t even dead yet!” Morgan breathed. “Can’t you let the poor boy be? There’s time enough for him to find a wife. We were content to let Kelson take his time. Isn’t it bad enough that he’s going to have to assume the power while Nigel’s still alive?”

  “The matter of the heir is an important one,” Arilan said icily. “However, if you would prefer, steps can be taken to ensure that Conall’s bastard is never born.”

  The threat brought Morgan up short, for he knew Arilan could and would do it, if pressed. Nor, glancing at the astonished-looking Duncan, was there any doubt that Duncan believed Arilan would do it.

  Further resistance was futile. Morgan knew that neither he nor Duncan was in any shape to resist both Arilan and the rest of the Council. Sighing, he spread both hands in a gesture of acquiescence.

  “Very well, Bishop. You win.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant.

  —Proverbs 9:17

  Four days later, Conall learned what his fate would be. Arilan briefed him in a private interview in Archbishop Cardiel’s study, setting the time of Conall’s power ritual for two nights hence.

  “Morgan and Duncan will preside, as originally intended for Nigel,” Arilan told him, “but I shall be in attendance as well. The procedure will be a little more complicated than usual, since your father is still alive, but you should weather it without undue difficulty.”

  Arilan’s assurances did little to allay Conall’s uneasiness, however, for he was fully aware how vulnerable he must make himself, in order to let the full potential of the Haldanes be realized within him. A careful perusal of the knowledge he had gained from Tiercel indicated that participating in the power ritual mainly would augment and expand what he had already developed on his own and from Tiercel’s tutoring, but he must be able to make the expected responses. The overwhelming question, which he dared ask no one, was whether or not he could keep his present achievements under wraps long enough to let them be assimilated in the new powers. Once the power ritual was complete—even if nothing further happened—he would be able to explain everything he now had as a part of the Haldane legacy; and Haldanes rarely had to explain, in any case.

  In the meantime, however, he had nearly two days to get through. And aside from the preparations of the actual day—meditation and fasting, for the most part—no further demands would be made upon him.

  Aside from dynastic ones. Apparently Vanissa’s pregnancy had precipitated that. Arilan had made no bones about the fact that Conall, now the active Haldane heir, would be expected to contract a suitable marriage as quickly as possible, to provide a legitimate heir of his own. The bishop had not actually threatened, but it was clear to Conall that any delay on his part might result in danger to Vanissa and her unborn child.

  Not that Conall was particularly concerned about that, though he did care for the girl, in his way. The reason he was not concerned was that his chosen bride was all but locked in promise already, whether or not she was consciously aware of it. His agent finally had intercepted Rothana’s letter to Archbishop Cardiel only the day before and had inserted it in a stack of documents awaiting the archbishop’s attention.

  Thus, when Conall had concluded his interview with Arilan, he asked to see the archbishop privately. Arilan went out, and very shortly Cardiel came in, a little curious as to why the prince wanted to see him. Conall kissed the prelate’s ring dutifully, taking the opportunity of physical contact to establish an undetected control link between himself and the archbishop that persisted even when Conall released Cardiel’s hand.

  “You wished a word with me, Your Highness?” Cardiel asked, sitting behind his desk and gesturing for Conall to take a seat opposite.

  “I did, Excellency.” Conall sat gingerly, on only the front edge of the chair. “I—ah—believe you should have received a letter from the Lady Rothana by now. Have you?”

  “From Rothana?” Cardiel’s brow furrowed in surprise. “Not that I’m aware of. Does it concern you?”

  Feigning nervousness, Conall twined his fingers together, twisting at the golden signet on his left hand.

  “I—ah—yes, it does, Archbishop. She—” He broke off, as if embarrassed, then looked up at Cardiel hopefully.

  “She said she was going to ask for a dispensation from her vows, Excellency,” he whispered. “I thought surely you would have received it by now.”

  “A dispensation?”

  Cardiel riffled through the pile of letters on his desk, then froze briefly before pulling out a single sheet.

  “Good heavens, she has.” His blue eyes widened as he scanned over the text. “Uncertain in my vocation … release from my vows, which are but temporary, in any case … dispensation from the religious state …”

  He looked up at Conall in pleased surprise, unaware that his pleasure at the notion, with all its implications, was being encouraged and reinforced by Conall himself.

  “Good heavens, this is a surprise. She makes no mention of her reasons for such a request, but am I to assume, since you have interested yourself in this matter, that you and she—”

  Conall ducked his head in sheepish acknowledgement. “I know it will come as a surprise to many, Excellency, but the foundations for this match were laid nearly a year ago, when I escorted her back from Saint Brigid’s. She has been loath to talk about it since my return, feeling it unseemly to be discussing such things when we are in mourning for Kelson, but I believe I have persuaded her that no time ought to be lost. As regent now—and, alas, likely to be king before the year is out—it is my duty to provide Gwynedd with an heir as soon as possible.”

  “Ah, yes,” Cardiel said, raising an eyebrow in mild reproach. “A legitimate heir.”

  Conall had the grace to at least feign a blush. “Oh. You’ve heard about Vanissa.”

  At Cardiel’s rather curt nod, Conall decided he had best put this to rest once and for all.

  “I made her no promises, Archbishop,” he said quietly, “if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ll provide for her and the child, of course, but I’m totally free to marry Rothana.”

  Fortunately, Cardiel’s reaction mellowed enough at this reassurance of responsibility that Conall did not have to intervene further.

  “I see,” Cardiel said. “Well, I suppose most princes sow a few wild oats before they settle down. Kelson was an exception. But I’ll expect no repeats of this sort of behavior after you’re married, my son. I cannot stress enough the importance of an undisputed succession.”

  “I know my duty, Excellency,” Conall murmured, eyes downcast. “There will be no more Vanissas. In the meantime, however, I should like the marriage to take place as soon as possible. I—believe my father would wish it.”

  “Of course,” Cardiel agreed. “Lent will be over in little more than a fortnight, so—”

  “I’d prefer not to wait that long, Archbishop,” Conall interrupted, again insinuating subtle controls. “My enemies will be upon me before we realize. My right to the crown must be established beyond doubt. It needn’t be a lavish ceremony. In fact, under the circumstances, a small, quiet ceremony is wholly appropriate—immediate family only. You can grant the necessary dispensations.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “In the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you would approve Rothana’s request for release from her vows,” Conall said, pushing the letter back in front of Cardiel and putting a quill in his hand. “A simple Placet at the bottom will suffice for now, with your seal and a not
e that official approval will be forthcoming. I’ll take that back to her today, and you can have a formal writ drawn up after I’ve gone.”

  Without even a blink of resistance, Cardiel set pen to parchment, scrawling the words, Placet, “It pleases,” and then Mandatum diliget—“An order will follow.” After that, he signed the note and set his seal beneath his signature, sitting back placidly while Conall blew on the wax to cool it before folding it to stash inside his tunic.

  “I’ll also ask your discretion in this matter,” Conall went on, as he prepared to take his leave. “Other than any necessary communications with Rothana’s abbess, I’d prefer that you discuss this matter with no one until after I’ve had a chance to make my own announcement to the privy council. That will be sometime after the weekend, when my full assumption of power has been accomplished.”

  Reinforced by magical insistence, Conall’s request had the force of a command, but it was not at all an unusual requirement, given the delicacy of the situation. Nor was Cardiel’s reaction entirely out of character, even though guided by Conall’s will in the matter. The subject of the next heir’s speedy marriage already was or would be a topic of concern to nearly every high-ranking official at court, especially now that he had been confirmed as regent.

  The only point that might have raised questions was the apparent suddenness of Rothana’s request; and Conall, with a brief touch to Cardiel’s brow and the merest flick of thought, inserted vivid memories of a confession given him by Conall before his knighting—wholly in keeping with what was expected of a royal candidate for knighthood—in which Conall had stated his most tender and devoted love for Rothana and asked Cardiel’s guidance in winning her hand.

  And Cardiel—as he would have done, had he been asked in fact—would remember only that he had advised circumspection for the present, because of the lady’s temporary vows to the Church, and assured Conall of his wholehearted support, should the lady request dispensation of him.