The Quest for Saint Camber

by Katherine Kurtz

  “Then, give them into the keeping of my brother,” Kelson reasoned, raising Dhugal up. “At least grant him that solace, since you will not allow him to share my ordeal.”

  “He may have the medals,” the girl Rhidian said, “since they are of the Blessed Camber. The earring is Haldane, and abhorrent to him, until and unless you prove yourself his servant in truth.”

  It was also a far more potent link with himself than the medals, but Kelson was not about to dispute the point and lose what had been won. The medals, whether around both their necks or solely in Dhugal’s charge, were still links and better than nothing at all.

  He watched silently as the medals were brought and laid in Dhugal’s cupped hands, a shining mass of silver medals and tangled chains, and sent a cautious probe for the one that had been his. Dhugal completed the link, golden eyes pale as sunlight as their gaze met, then dipped his head to kiss the medals, as if quaffing from cupped spring water.

  Then the doors were opening, and Brother Michael was leading them into the church, though not before pausing to step out of his sandals.

  “Take off thy shoes,” Michael commanded, glancing at Kelson and Dhugal as the others around them also left their footgear by the doors, “for thou art about to walk upon holy ground.”

  Kelson and Dhugal obeyed, and the villagers followed, quenching their torches at the door as they left their shoes and singing a solemn hymn as they came.

  It was dim inside, though the whitewashed side walls intensified what light there was. The east wall was grey and blank, and seemed at first simply to disappear in distance behind the altar, before Kelson realized it was the natural rock of the mountainside. Candles on the altar and a crucifix above it gave at least some reference point on which to focus as they moved in slow procession toward it. The roof was open-beamed like the hall, but Kelson dared not spare it more than a brief upward glance. It was too deep in shadow for him to tell whether it was also thatched.

  Woven straw mats covered the wooden floor to either side of the center aisle, rather than benches or pews—though that, in itself, was not unusual, especially in a small village church. To these the villagers scattered, around and ahead of the procession, standing in their places to turn and watch the progress. Brother Michael had picked up a processional cross as they entered, beautifully carved of a local wood, and he held it like a shepherd’s staff or crozier as he led them. Bened and Jilyan flanked Kelson, and Dhugal and the rest of the Quorial followed, all in grey cloaks like his own. Kelson sensed Dhugal quietly untangling the chains of the Camber medals as they walked, and slipping them around his neck; his link with Dhugal strengthened, welcome comfort.

  Straight to the altar rail Michael led them and paused before it expectantly. A handclap sounded behind them—signal for all to genuflect—and Kelson and Dhugal were only a hair’s breadth behind in dipping a knee to the floor in respect. They stood then, and Michael went forward to kiss the altar stone. When he had done, he shifted the processional cross to his left hand and turned to face them. His right hand traced a cross as he intoned an opening blessing.

  “In nomine Patris, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus.”

  “Amen,” the villagers responded.

  “Dominus vobiscum.”

  “Et spiritu tuo.”

  “Sursum corda.”

  “Habemus ad dominum.”

  “Laudamus Dominum Deum nostrum.”

  “Dignum et justum est.”

  Lift up your hearts. We have lifted them up unto the Lord. Let us praise the Lord our God. It is meet and just.…

  Brother Michael turned and knelt again then, facing the altar, and Kelson sank down on the bottom step as everyone around him also knelt, the whisper of movement sighing through the dim church. Then a solo voice far behind him began to sing a versicle in an odd minor key that gradually was picked up and repeated, expanded, and embellished by scores of voices in antiphon.

  “Super flumina Babylonis illic sedimus et flevimus, cum recordaremur Sion.…”

  By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept when we remembered Sion.…

  It was the song of the Israelites in captivity, but it was also, Kelson realized, a poignant reminder of these people’s self-imposed exile and the reasons for it. And he was one of the reasons—or his forefathers, who had allowed the persecution of Deryni to continue for nearly two centuries. The harmonies evoked feelings he had never felt before—of the brotherhood he shared with these people and all the others like them who, down through the ages, had suffered and persevered that their heritage might survive.

  The Psalmist’s words ended, and the voices made a segue into another mode, whose harmonics sent unexpected shivers down Kelson’s spine, wringing at something else deep inside him, for the new words spoke of another exile of another people, far more recent. Helpless to prevent it—nor did he wish to—Kelson found himself being caught up in the new lament, mourning with these people as Deryni, for all the lost years and lost lives. Tears were streaming openly down his cheeks by the time the song shifted yet again to a more joyful, hopeful note.

  “Duce et regere servum tui, Domine … Adsum Domine. Adsum Domine. Adsum Domine.…”

  Guide and guard Thy servant, Lord, from all temptation, that honor may be spotless and my gift unstained. Here am I, Lord. Here am I, Lord.…

  But as the song faded softly to a close, Kelson made no move to wipe the tears away. They were his offering to the injustice his Deryni people had endured at the hands of his Haldane ancestors, and he vowed again, as he had so often in the past four years, that he would dedicate his life to righting that injustice, to restoring equity to all his people, human and Deryni.

  Profound silence surrounded him when the song was done. In the stillness, Kelson could sense Dhugal also striving to master his emotions, though he had not actually cried; and as the entire company continued to kneel for several minutes, Kelson could hear the occasional snuffle of others collecting their wits in the peace that permeated the place after the purging song.

  After a few minutes more, Brother Michael rose and turned to face him, folding his hands around the staff of his cross. Those around Kelson rose, too, and the people behind him, but Bened and Jilyan set their hands on his shoulders to keep him kneeling when he, too, would have risen. Behind him, Dhugal’s guardians escorted the young border lord to a mat set in the front row, just left of the aisle. The girl Rhidian moved closer to stand directly behind Kelson; at Michael’s gesture, everyone else sat, leaving the king kneeling alone before Michael and the altar. In that instant, Kelson realized that all four of those surrounding him were Deryni—not just Michael and Rhidian—their odd shields wrapping him like a cocoon, muffling any extended perception beyond the normal five senses, including the link with Dhugal.

  “What next transpires will seem alien to you, Kelson Haldane,” Brother Michael said, addressing him directly in a voice that carried in the stillness, though he did not speak loudly. “Much has been lost in the years of exile, but we have tried to keep the ancient ways as best we can. We believe that Saint Camber himself laid down certain of the principles that will be invoked here tonight, but we have no specific instructions to tell you what you must do, other than to offer yourself totally to his service. His inspiration and your own intuition will be your best guides. You, for your part, will be best served if, of your own volition, you attempt to put aside all barriers that might keep you from the knowledge that may be offered you, when you meet the Blessed One face to face. Hearing this, is there anything you wish to say before you are conducted to his presence? I might add that your ordeal will not be of the body, but of the soul.”

  There were a hundred things Kelson might have said, but nothing that possibly could have any bearing on what would happen to him, for it was obvious that even these people did not know for certain. A part of him was relieved that his ordeal would not be a physical one, but the alternative had implications that made him far more apprehensive.

 
; And yet, another part of him had guessed that it might be thus, from the very start—a trial in the sense of an initiation to a higher level of consciousness, as had occurred in some degree for nearly every contact Kelson knew of regarding Saint Camber. He himself had had little such contact—but had that not been his aim all along, in setting out on a quest for the Deryni saint?

  Resolutely, then, Kelson shook his head once, instinctively bowing his head as Brother Michael took two silent steps toward him to rest a hand on his hair.

  “Then, may he vouchsafe to speak to thee, Kelson Haldane,” Brother Michael said softly. “And when thou hast heard him, thou shalt speak of it and we shall know if thou speakest truth or liest—as thou knowest we can do. And may the Lord God keep thee in the shadow of His wings as thou facest this test of thy faith. So be it. Selah. And let the people say Amen.”

  “Amen,” the congregation repeated softly.

  Michael lifted his hand, and Kelson dared to look up at him.

  “Art ready?” Michael asked.

  “I am,” Kelson said.

  Without further preamble, Bened and Jilyan helped him rise. But it was Michael and Rhidian who led him to a small, low door set in the wall to the right of the altar. Their shielding still faintly distorted and blurred his link with Dhugal, but just knowing that Dhugal held and would try to hold it gave Kelson courage. He dared a final glance over his shoulder as they halted at the door, the bond of his and Dhugal’s affection transcending all the magic in one final farewell and Godspeed.

  The wall was of living rock, the door of wood, with an iron ring to open it. Markings that Kelson recognized as sigils of elemental power adorned the door in its four corners, and a fifth incorporating an 5 and a C intertwined around a cross dominated the center, all carved deeply into the pale, well-oiled wood. Bowing her head in respect, Rhidian touched fingertips to lips, then twisted the ring once in either direction before stepping back slightly to turn and look at Kelson. Michael, directly behind him, reached around his neck to undo the fastening of his cloak and lift it from his shoulders.

  “Thou who wouldst be the Servant of the Blessed One, now comes the time of thy testing,” Michael said, as Rhidian stepped back with head bowed over her crossed arms. “Now shalt thou go down into the earth, naked as thou carnest into the world, and undergo the cruaidh-dheuchainn. Open the door, Kelson Haldane, and go to him.”

  Kelson obeyed, setting his hands on the iron ring and opening the door, leaving the cloak in Michael’s hands as he ducked his head to pass through the narrow doorway.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  In a dream, in a vision of the night, when deep sleep falleth upon men.

  —Job 33:15

  The door closed behind Kelson with a solid finality. The dim passageway in which he cautiously tried to straighten was close and narrow, no higher than the door itself, and he had to keep his head ducked as he waited for his eyes to adjust, hands resting lightly on the walls to either side. A damp, musty scent pervaded the place, no sound intruding on the expectant silence save the pounding of the pulsebeat in his temples. As he slowly began feeling his way forward, faint illumination shone from around a bend—the feeble yellowish flicker of torchlight or rushlight, some distance ahead.

  The passage appeared to be natural, though his fingertips brushed spots where the stone had been cut away to make the walls more regular. The floor was smooth under his bare feet, but not as cold as he might have expected of stone. He could feel his link with Dhugal becoming more and more tenuous the deeper he penetrated the passageway, so that, by the time he reached the curve, the link was not discernable at all—but there was no help for that. Another short distance brought him around a sharper angle, opening all at once into a fair-sized chamber that made Kelson draw in a deep, careful breath in awe.

  It was the source of the light that had been growing stronger as he went deeper into the mountainside. Torches guttered in bronze cressets all around the room, almost out of reach, and banks of clay-cupped votive candles lit a life-sized statue of what must be Saint Camber set against the wall farthest from the entrance where Kelson stood, intrigued. The figure was carved of some pale grey stone that glittered slightly in the shifting torchlight, the graceful hands raised to support a metal crown of archaic design, the face deeply shadowed by folds of a cowl frozen forever by the sculptor’s art, the features perhaps never carved at all, for Kelson could not make them out, even though he felt he should have been able to pierce the shadows from where he stood.

  Chilled in soul as much as in body, the king moved far enough into the chamber to stand up straight, shivering. Charcoal braziers ringed the room to warm it—perhaps also the source of the odd, pungent odor tickling at his nostrils—and a pile of sleeping furs lay in the center, not far from the feet of the statue. The double allure of braziers and furs drew him closer, almost without conscious thought—but only until he unexpectedly discovered the true source of the chamber’s odd aroma—a small sunken pool to the statue’s left, clear and deep, with something faintly misty bubbling up gently from beneath the surface and being drawn out through a vent in the ceiling.

  Even as he backed off, a grating sound of stone against stone betrayed the closure of the vent and the updraft ceased, the mist at once beginning to dispel into the air rather than being drawn out. As Kelson caught a stronger whiff of it, he experienced a fleeting touch of vertigo and he caught his balance against the wall and staggered a little as he tried to shake it off.

  He tried not to think about what it meant. The episode had blurred his Deryni perceptions for just an instant, though he seemed to be all right now. He tried to tell himself that the dizziness came of moving his head too fast, or from lack of food, or from trying to keep his link open to Dhugal at the same time he was walking about—but he knew better. He had read about caves like this, though he had never dreamed there were any in Gwynedd. The natural fumes found in such caves could sometimes induce visions or prophetic dreams, and too much of them could kill.

  For that, at least, he thought he need not worry. If his captors had wanted him dead, there had been ample opportunity for that. Danger there might be in his present situation, but he really did not think his captors would allow the fumes to reach lethal levels.

  The fumes could be the trigger for an inner testing, though, he realized, as he got another whiff and felt the vertigo again, stronger than before, so that he had to shake his head several times to clear it. It was said that in ancient times, such caves often were used as places of initiation, where the candidate must lie down before the god’s image and breathe narcotic gas, in hopes of receiving a prophetic dream. If the method had been sufficient for the ancients to gain communication with their gods, perhaps it also followed that the method would suffice for communication with a saint—though he had to wonder how the Christian folk of Saint Kyriell’s had happened upon such an archaic practice.

  But, no matter. Further speculation or resistance likely was pointless. Kelson had said he wished further knowledge of Saint Camber; this was his testing, to see if he was in earnest. On one level, it was the archetypal descent into the underworld, a symbolic death and rebirth in the power and knowledge of the god-force—in this case, cloaked in the mythology of Saint Camber. And since he could not escape the ordeal, it behooved him to make the most of it and learn as much as he could. If this was the method that Camber’s Servants embraced—and they seemed to hold it in great reverence and esteem—then it must have some merit.

  Breathing as shallowly as possible, lest he succumb to the fumes before he had time to prepare, Kelson staggered to the pile of sleeping furs and sank down cross-legged, almost falling, pulling one of the furs across his lower body against the chill. To protect his physical body if he lost all consciousness—which was almost certain, judging by his increasing lightheadedness—he conjured a protective circle around himself, warding it conscientiously as Morgan and Duncan had taught him. It would not keep out the fumes, but it certainly would be a
deterrent to any physical entity attempting to take advantage of his helplessness—for he recalled accounts of human agents sometimes assisting the forces of the divine, priests and priestesses of the old gods often taking on the guise of heavenly messengers to guide initiates toward the desired conclusions. Kelson had no quarrel with sacred drama—for that was what it was—but if Saint Camber did vouchsafe a vision to him, Kelson wanted to be certain that the saint’s will was untainted by that of his Servants, no matter how well meaning they might be.

  And so Kelson set his hands on his thighs, cupped palms upturned in receptivity, and gazed up at the statue of the saint, breathing more deeply of the fumes now—which were also becoming more concentrated, as the minutes slipped by and no vent was opened to let them dissipate—and feeling his internal guards gently slipping away as he sank into a profound meditative state, akin to that needed for deep Deryni rapport. In an attempt to nudge any resultant vision in the desired direction, he recalled the one time he personally thought he might have had contact with Saint Camber—at his coronation, when a grey-cowled apparition, seen only by himself, Morgan, and Duncan, had appeared from nowhere to place his hands on Kelson’s crown, acclaiming him a king for Deryni as well as humans.

  He could feel his body relaxing more with every breath, increasingly in thrall of the vapors rising from the pool, but he kept trying to focus his increasingly muzzy concentration toward that earlier vision, seeking the saint, drifting lethargically on a tide of dreamlike expectation.

  No thread of Kelson’s concentration or his present circumstance penetrated the many feet of rock separating him from Dhugal, however. Brother Michael and the girl Rhidian had returned to kneel together on the altar step, and Bened and Jilyan sat on either side of Dhugal, but they no longer even bothered to interfere by shielding around him. Dhugal feared it was because the two knew he could not penetrate with his powers beyond the door where the king had disappeared.