It was something like that very first, joyous rapport he had shared with his father, only focused through the lens of his newfound ability and amplified by the nearly lifelong friendship he and Kelson had shared. Though Dhugal controlled it, it drew him, too, into a profound sharing that shivered through the length, breadth, height, and depth of him and of Kelson, forging a bond that, at least for a time, intertwined their very souls—an ecstatic melding of all that either of them had been or hoped to be, shared to a depth that neither could even have imagined before.
It was a union that seemed to have no limit and no need for one, giving each the fullness of the other; an intimacy so profound that it went beyond the physical and at the same time encompassed it, so that Dhugal knew, in that instant, why only a Deryni woman would do for either of them, thereafter, when each went to take a wife. His amazement was complete when Kelson shared the knowledge that he had already chosen such a woman in Rothana, and that he and the fiery Deryni princess, even now shedding her vows of religion for Kelson’s sake, planned to wed when Kelson returned.
When Kelson returned. Awareness of their situation flooded back like a dash of cold water, both of them suddenly mindful of the need to return to normal consciousness, now that healing was complete—for there was no doubt that that was the case, as they surfaced simultaneously, resplendent in bright Deryni auras, intermingled scarlet and silver, as Dhugal raised his head from where it had lain on Kelson’s chest.
But then Kelson froze, raising his head to look at something beyond Dhugal, his aura quickly drawing in. And as Dhugal turned, half expecting to see the apparition of his earlier vision, he, too, damped his aura.
For it was not Saint Camber who had just seen them thus. The room was still awash with the ruddy light of a torch, held aloft by the border chief who had looked in on them earlier. An elderly woman in a grey robe and wimple stood at his right elbow, perhaps a religious of some sort, and he was backed by half a dozen other men dressed in the same manner as himself, all well armed, their hard faces slack with awe and not a little dread.
Silver flashed in the chief’s other hand, dangling by fine, glinting chains—the Saint Camber medals his men had taken from their two captives, Dhugal suddenly realized—but the chief seemed hardly to be aware of them, after what he had seen.
“Who are you?” the woman demanded, quietly, but in a voice obviously accustomed to obedience.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
And his brightness was as the light … and there was the hiding of his powers.
—Habakkuk 3:4
“Who are you, and what are you?” the woman repeated. “You’re Deryni aren’t you?”
Query flashed between Dhugal and Kelson too quickly for mere words, but other than for sheer physical weakness from going so long without proper food, there was no question that Kelson was sufficiently recovered to take the lead in dealing with their captors, as he clearly intended to do. Nor was it necessarily a good idea to admit to their true identity yet. The woman’s tone did not suggest that being Deryni was necessarily a good thing, in her eyes.
“We are not brigands or grave robbers, Lady,” the king said carefully, starting to ease to a sitting position, as Dhugal did the same.
“That remains t’ be seen,” the man interjected. “Stay where ye are!”
Beyond the open door, the scuffle of booted feet skidded to a stop, and the man took the woman’s arm and quickly urged her to one side, his companions shifting to the other, so that two bowmen could fill the doorway, arrows already nocked and coming to full draw. Two more knelt behind them from the sides to train their arrows into the room. Kelson and Dhugal froze.
“Now,” the man continued, “ye will get up slowly, one at a time, and ye will allow these men t’ bind ye again—else my archers will cut ye down.”
“We mean you no harm,” Kelson said steadily.
“An’ ye shall come t’ nae harm if ye do as yer told,” the man replied. “You first. Stand up and move to yer right, away from him.”
Kelson stood, but he did not move away from Dhugal.
“We’ll go quietly, but we won’t be bound again,” he said, not taking his eyes from the chief’s. “If someone besides one of you is in charge, I’d like to speak to him—or perhaps to a priest. We’re honest, God-fearing men.”
“Honest, God-fearin’ men dinnae desecrate the tombs o’ the dead,” the man replied. “An’ we have nae priests, only coisrigte—consecrated brethren. We buried one o’ th’ best a week aye. His was one o’ th’ graves ye despoiled.”
“Sagart,” Dhugal murmured, cautiously easing to his feet as well, though he was careful to keep his hands clear of his body, in plain sight.
At the name, the man gasped and the woman’s face went cold and set.
“Who has told thee that?” she demanded.
“With respect, Lady, one of his men said it, the first time Bened-Cyann came in,” Dhugal replied. “Cyann means ‘chief,’ does it not? And the torc would tend to confirm that rank. Your dialect is difficult for me, but I understand a little, being border-bred myself.”
As the man called Bened stared, measuring Dhugal more shrewdly, in light of what he had just heard, the woman nodded slowly.
“Both young men wear g’dulae, Bened,” she murmured, “and yon ruadh hath recognized thy rank. And didst thou not say that both were ta’en wi’ golden spurs? That means they be highborn. How art thou called, young ruadh?” she said to Dhugal.
She had referred to him as ruadh, a border term for someone with red hair, and Dhugal again exchanged a quick query with Kelson. It could do no harm to admit his name to these people, for it likely would mean nothing to them. But establishing himself as one of their kind was important. Kelson agreed.
“I, too, claim the title of Cyann, Lady. I am the MacArdry of Transha,” Dhugal replied, “and among my own people, I too, wear the torc of chiefship. My brathair is an even greater chief than I. But we salute Bened-Cyann in border kinship.”
As a murmur rose up behind her, the old woman nodded.
“Meac Ard Righ,” she repeated, giving his name an odd accent. “Son o’ th’ high king. An’ just what high king might that be?”
“I dinnae care about his lineage, Jilyan,” Bened interrupted. “That doesnae explain what they were doin’ in Sagart’s tomb an’ beyond. E’en a king can be a cateran. Speak up, young MacArdry, if ye would save yerself an’ yer friend.”
Dhugal nodded carefully, filing away the name Jilyan for future reference, for he sensed it was a proper name and not a title.
“We truly meant no disrespect, Bened-Cyann. We were fighting for our lives.”
“By breakin’ intae Naomha Sagart’s tomb?” One of the men spat.
“By breaking out of his tomb,” Dhugal retorted. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. We were trying to get out—not in. We came from the other direction, from the cavern beyond the tombs.”
“Th’ cavern—” another man murmured.
“Let him speak,” the woman said.
“Aye, Ban-Aba,” the man whispered, immediately subsiding.
Dhugal recognized the old title, and made her a respectful bow of thanks, right hand to heart, as he sent the translation to Kelson.
A ban-aba’s a sort of abbess. I think she may be in charge, rather than Bened.
“Thank you, Ban-Aba,” he said. “Some days ago—or perhaps it’s been weeks, now—we were swept into an underground river near Saint Bearand’s Abbey, northeast of Caerrorie. We nearly drowned. We have no idea how far we were carried before we came to ground in the cavern that eventually led to the end of your burial chambers. In fact, we don’t even know where we are.”
He paused hopefully, but no one volunteered to clarify that point.
“In any case, we managed to dig through the wall that closed off the corridor you people have turned into a series of tombs, and then we—came through what seemed like an endless series of doors,” he finished lamely, for he sudden
ly realized he dared not tell them how he had opened those doors.
“’Tis true, Ban-Aba,” Kelson joined in, trying to cover Dhugal’s near slip of tongue. “We only disturbed the contents of the tombs to look for food. We hadn’t had anything but water and some fish for days, and it was all gone by the time we broke through into the first tomb. Fortunately, some of the wine was still good. And then, when we found the bread and ale in—in Sargart’s tomb—we ate it. When we came out of there, that was our first breath of fresh air in—probably weeks.”
“Yet ye escaped yer bonds, when nae man should hae been able t’ do so,” Bened said, gesturing toward them with the hand that still held the Camber medals on their chains and then pulling up short as he remembered what he held. “An’ wi’ holy fire all ‘round ye when we came in just now.
“By th’ Blessed One, ye made th’ holy fire. An’ ye wore his medal,” he went on, his eyes widening as he stared back and forth between the two of them. “D’ye—nah, ye cannae be—”
“Wha’ can we nae be?” Dhugal said, his border accent broadening as he stared back at the man, suddenly seeing a ray of hope. Could it be that Saint Camber was the “Blessed One” of whom Bened spoke with such obvious reverence? “Would we wear his medal if we didnae reverence his memory?”
Bened stared at them even harder. The ban-aba went a little white. The men began to murmur uneasily among themselves, a few crossing themselves furtively, the bowmen slightly lowering their weapons. Both Dhugal and Kelson hardly dared to breathe.
“Dost thou mock us?” one of the men whispered.
Dhugal shook his head emphatically, but he sensed it was not he but Kelson who should speak next, and glanced at the king in question.
“Say his name,” the chief said at last, turning on Kelson to thrust the medals before his eyes.
Hardly breathing, Kelson reached one hand slowly, slowly, to cup one of the medals in his palm so he could bend to kiss it.
“We reverence the name of the Blessed Saint Camber of Culdi,” he said boldly, crossing himself as he straightened. “We are his servants.”
The murmur of their awed surprise rumbled into shock and confusion, and Kelson wondered whether he had gone too far.
“By what right d’ye claim to be his servants?” Bened finally said, his voice bringing the others to silence.
Kelson sensed that only the truth would suffice now.
“My companion and I are newly knighted,” he said steadily, “and had taken as a quest of thanksgiving the recovery of some of Saint Camber’s relics. It is my intention to restore his cult to its rightful place in Gwynedd.”
“Thou wouldst restore Saint Camber?” the ban-aba gasped.
“’Tis nae possible!” one of the archers blurted, slightly lowering his bow. “Th’ Church would ne’er allow it!”
“Not e’en a king could do that!” another man whispered, awestruck.
“This king could,” Kelson replied, “and he intends to do so.”
“Ye claim t’be a king?” another said contemptuously.
“I am a king,” Kelson answered. “I am Kelson Haldane of Gwynedd.”
“Kelson?”
“A Haldane?”
Flurried questions and reactions passed among their captors for several seconds, too quick and idiomatic for Dhugal to catch much of what they said, and then, without warning, all of them withdrew, closing the door behind them. As the bar fell into place, Kelson conjured quick handfire and turned to Dhugal in question.
“Now, what the devil was all that about?”
Dhugal snorted. “You tell me. I suppose they’ve gone off to deliberate our fate. Mentioning Camber certainly seemed to get a rise out of them, though. Do you think we ought to try to escape, or wait and see what happens next?”
“Let’s wait and see,” Kelson replied. “Their reaction to Camber’s name was far more positive than I expected, and I think they were talking about our Deryni auras when they mentioned ‘holy fire.’ That was positive, too, I think. If I could have been more certain of that, earlier, I might have been able to make more of it. I didn’t want to tip our hand too soon, though, and get us killed. These hill people can be very touchy.”
“You’re telling that to a borderman?” Dhugal retorted with a grin.
Chuckling, Kelson sank down to sit on the floor, his back against the wall farthest from the door, shaking his head. After a few seconds, Dhugal joined him.
“At least you seem recovered,” Dhugal said, after a few more seconds. “Whatever happens now, at least we’ll have a fighting chance.”
Kelson nodded, laying his head back against the wall.
“I have only you to thank for that,” he said. “I’d give a lot for a square meal, but otherwise, I haven’t felt this good in—longer than I care to remember. How the hell did you do it?”
“I’d ask you which part you mean, the healing or the other, but whichever part you meant, I couldn’t explain it anyway,” Dhugal replied. “The healing is—a miracle. I had no idea what I was doing, but it worked anyway. And that rapport was like nothing I’d ever even dreamed of, much less experienced. I gather it was new for you, too.”
“I’ll say.” Kelson’s tone was light, but respect tinged it nonetheless. “I’ve gone deep before, Dhugal, with Alaric and even with Duncan, but never like this. Maybe it was so intense because I’d already opened so much for the healing. My powers are completely restored—memories, too. I feel as—as if everything was refined and honed to a keener edge—as if I could do almost anything.”
“I think I know what you mean,” Dhugal replied. “All the old barriers went down. I can’t tell you how I know, but I know that I never need to fear psychic contact again. My shields are totally under my control. It’s as if what we did finished catalyzing what my father started that morning we found out what we were to one another. If I ever had any doubts about my birthright as Deryni, they’re gone now.”
“Aye, we’re quite a team,” Kelson agreed. “A true brotherhood, like Alaric and your father. I can’t imagine ever feeling closer to anyone else, as long as I live.”
“Not even Rothana?” Dhugal asked, with a coy smile.
Kelson actually blushed in the light of his handfire and ducked his head as he clasped his hands between his upraised knees.
“I suppose it’s silly to be embarrassed, after what we’ve shared. I was going to tell you, Dhugal—really, I was.”
“Well, you did.”
“Yes, but I hadn’t meant it to be that way. I do love her, though in a totally different way from what I thought I was beginning to feel for Sidana. And even though Rothana and I haven’t yet accomplished what you and I just did, that will come. I had a foretaste of it, that first time our minds touched. But, I don’t need to tell you that, do I? You and I shared that, too.”
Dhugal closed his eyes briefly and put that memory behind him, not eager to say what must next be said, but knowing it was necessary, for both their sakes.
“Sometimes, there’s such a thing as being too honest,” he said, leaning his head against the wall and looking beyond Kelson. “Believe me, I value what we’ve accomplished, but I think we need to have our privacy as well—an area that’s set apart from anyone. My father does, for that part of him that’s concerned with his priestly office. I would never want or expect to be privy to the confidences of the confessional, for example, and I wouldn’t dream of prying into the bond between him and Morgan. I think the relationship between a man and his wife must be at least as sacred.”
“Well, I hardly think we need to be concerned about that yet. It isn’t as if Rothana and I have been intimate.”
The awkwardness of Kelson’s last words only underlined the uneasiness Dhugal himself was feeling, and he raised one eyebrow skeptically as he glanced at the king, glad for once that both he and Kelson were still virginal, at least in the physical sense.
“Oh? I suppose there was no intimacy in the taste she gave you of Janniver’s rape?”
“I’ll concede, that was intimate,” Kelson interjected, blushing to the roots of his hair. “That’s different, though.”
“Ah.” Dhugal nodded. “Then, are we limiting this discussion to physical intimacy? What about the two of you in the garden, the night before we left?”
“All I did was kiss her, Dhugal.”
“Oh? That’s not what I sensed, when that incident came through our rapport,” Dhugal replied, sending an echo of that shared memory back to Kelson, less intense than the original, but sparing no detail of physical sensation. “You would never have actually done it, Kel, being who and what you are, but your body was ready to take her, right then and there. And you know she would have let you. God knows I don’t begrudge you that, but it’s something that should be just between the two of you, just as the intimacy of that rapport about the rape should be private between you.”
Kelson closed his eyes and buried his face in one hand as his body shivered in remembrance and he knew Dhugal was right. Nor, even if it was fair to Rothana and himself, was it fair to subject Dhugal to such emotions, shared in the mind yet withheld in the flesh. As he thought about their rapport, he realized that it had, indeed, been deeper than anything he had experienced before, and it only now became evident that there were some things too precious, too intimate, to be bared to another who was not a part of them, no matter how well beloved that other.
It came to him then that this explained why he had never had any inkling of the problems between Morgan and Richenda. Morgan had sequestered that part of his life away, as a favor to Kelson as well as to Richenda—as, undoubtedly, there were things he did not share with Richenda. Despite the depth of his friendship with Morgan—indeed, his love, and for Duncan and Dhugal as well—some things remained and should remain apart.
“You’re right,” the king said after a moment. “It’s something I’m sure neither of us ever thought about before, but there does have to be a separateness, even in our closeness—in anyone’s closeness. I’m sure there will be things I ought not to share with Rothana, too, not necessarily things that I shouldn’t tell her, but that she’d rather not know. Ah, the innocence of youth, to think that total freedom is possible or even desirable.” He smiled resignedly as he looked up at Dhugal again. “Is that what you were trying to tell me?”
The Quest for Saint Camber Page 41
