The Quest for Saint Camber

by Katherine Kurtz

  And suddenly, Conall saw the image, too, and stepped back, startled, raising his hands in an alarmed, warding-off gesture as the figure of the saint did not retreat but continued to advance. Kelson stood very still, only staring at it, hardly able to breathe, uncertain whether he was even controlling the image any longer—though how Camber could have entered the sealed circle was beyond his comprehension. The last time Camber had come to call, Kelson had had to open a door.

  But this entity, whether Camber himself or merely an illusion of Kelson’s mind, had not been deterred by the circle. As it advanced on Conall, the prince continued to retreat, until finally his black-clad shoulders were hard against the glassy curve of the barrier circle—and still the apparition continued to advance.

  Conall’s scream, as the ghostly hands gently clasped his head, was one of the purest terror and echoed shrilly within the misty confines of the dome. Nor did the apparition vanish when Conall at last had screamed out his final defiance and slid bonelessly to the floor, clutching his temples, either dead or unconscious. The figure knelt beside the motionless prince for several seconds, head bowed, then rose gracefully and turned toward Kelson.

  Hail, Kelson of Gwynedd. Now shalt thou truly be a king for humans and for Deryni, the being spoke in Kelson’s mind, echoing words that another such being—or perhaps the same one—had spoken to Kelson at his coronation.

  Dumfounded, the king dropped to one knee and bowed his head, crossing himself reverently.

  Are you who I think you are? he dared to ask.

  The figure had moved much nearer while Kelson bowed his head, and Kelson gasped a little as the figure stopped an arm’s length away.

  And who do you think that I am? the being replied.

  Kelson’s throat was very dry, and it was all he could do to swallow, very glad he did not need to speak with words.

  I believe you are Saint Camber of Culdi, whom I sought on my quest. You—came to my aid.

  Did I? the being answered. Or am I but a convenient image for that stronger and better part that is within you and, indeed, within all folk who seek the Light, and which can be called up when darkness threatens?

  Kelson blinked. It had to be Saint Camber. Only the irascible Deryni saint would be so evasive and yet speak so primal a truth.

  It doesn’t matter, he dared to say next. I’m still going to restore the cult of Saint Camber. I promised that, back in the shrine at Saint Kyriell’s, and I’m going to do it, too. I’ll build you a shrine the likes of which no one in all the Eleven Kingdoms has ever seen!

  The saint’s chuckle surely must have been audible, but Kelson’s ears were still ringing with the silence.

  Dear, dear young champion of Light, do you truly think that I need physical edifices to guard my memory? My memorial is in the heart of every man and woman down through the ages who has been willing to sacrifice everything in the service of Light and Truth.

  I don’t mean to contradict you, Lord, Kelson dared to reply, but a memorial means more to many folk if there’s a physical focus for it. You don’t—mind, do you, if I build you shrines?

  The being’s laughter rang like tiny silver bells in the hollow confines of the dome, and he shook his head.

  Human frailty—and Deryni, he answered. You may build your shrines, if it gives you and them comfort. But keep what I have stood for; that is far more important.

  Yes, Lord, Kelson replied meekly. Ah, have you any recommendations on what I should do with Conall?

  The apparition’s face grew pensive, even a little wistful.

  You must do what you must do, Kelson Haldane. It is a king’s duty to render both mercy and justice, according to the circumstances. Only you can decide.

  But, can’t you give me some hint? Kelson persisted.

  You must listen to your inner voice—your higher self. With prayer and meditation, you will know what to do.

  But when Kelson would have pressed him further, the figure only moved a little closer and stretched forth his hands over Kelson’s head.

  Go in peace now, my son, the voice said in his mind, as the hands descended to touch his hair lightly. Life and prosperity to thee, King of Gwynedd.

  At the very touch, the figure was gone, vanished in less than a blink of an eye, and the dome of the circle was disintegrating into thousands of tinkling, musical shards that slid down the curve of the dissolving barrier ring to shatter and dissipate on the stone floor in a silent music. Not a soul moved for several seconds, only scores of eyes darting from Kelson to Conall and back again. But when Kelson finally sighed and stood up, weaving a little on his feet, the murmur of renewed life sighed through the hall like a cleansing breeze. Dhugal was thumping to his knees at Conall’s side almost before Kelson could, pulling a blue glass vial from Tiercel’s drug satchel.

  “What’s that?” Kelson murmured, thrusting his hand hard against the side of Conall’s throat to feel for a pulsebeat as he glanced at the vial.

  “Merasha, so we don’t have to go through this again before you execute him.”

  Kelson grimaced, for his own two encounters with the drug had been all too vivid, but he knew it was the wisest course.

  “You’re that sure I’m going to execute him, are you?” he asked.

  “You haven’t any choice,” Morgan said, crouching down beside him and lifting Conall’s head as Dhugal pried loose the vial’s cork. Arilan had appeared from somewhere and stood behind him with crossed arms. “Even if he were contrite, which I doubt very much he is, you can no more let him live than you could have let Judhael of Meara live. Romantic notions of redeeming the strayed prince from dishonor and death are all very well and good, but not entirely practical in the real world.”

  Dejectedly, Kelson bowed his head and sighed.

  “I wonder if you realize how tired I am of buying life with the coin of others’ deaths,” he said in a very low voice.

  Duncan, too, had come to overlook the unconscious Conall. At Kelson’s words, he also crouched down to join the conference in progress, helping Morgan open Conall’s mouth so that Dhugal could administer the drug.

  “That’s an old, old controversy that we’re no more likely to resolve now than we have in the past, Kelson. It’s an unfortunate but necessary part of being king. Incidentally, were you talking to someone, just before you broke the circle?”

  Kelson blinked. “You didn’t see him?”

  “See who?” Dhugal asked, tossing the empty vial back into the satchel.

  “Sa—never mind,” Kelson murmured, as Conall stirred and moaned, and Morgan produced a cord to tie the prisoner’s hands behind him. “Bring him. I’ll tell you about it later.”

  EPILOGUE

  Thou hast granted me life and favor, and thy visitation hath preserved my spirit.

  —Job 10:12

  Several months later, on a seashore near Morgan’s capital of Coroth, the King of Gwynedd and his blood brother, now Duke of Cassan and Earl of Kierney as well as Transha, rode silently together just at the water’s edge. It was high summer, with a balmy breeze wafting in off the great southern sea, and the day was sunny and mild. Both young men rode in shirt sleeves and homespuns now, in comfortable contrast to the silks and brocades of earlier in the morning. For the king had come to Coroth with his court to celebrate the birth of Morgan’s first son and heir, and Duncan had baptized the infant Kelric Alain Morgan.

  “Little Kelric’s a handsome bairn, isn’t he?” Dhugal said wistfully. “All those masses of pale hair. I wonder if his eyes will be blue or grey.”

  Kelson shrugged distractedly, trying not to think of another noble infant, not yet born, who would almost certainly be as dark as Morgan’s son was fair, like both his parents; and of the other child expected far sooner, and of far more humble birth—both of whom would enter the world fatherless. He especially did not like to think about the children’s sire.

  For Conall had died no better than he had lived, all but weeping with terror as a stony-faced detachment of Hald
ane lancers escorted him to the scaffold on a fine morning in May. Nor had Conall’s death been as quick as Kelson would have wished. The poor executioner faltered during his first stroke, unnerved already at having to take the head of a royal prince of Gwynedd, and then was further distracted by Conall’s violent flinch just before the blade struck. It had taken two more blows finally to end the matter—though at least Conall knew nothing after the first—and Kelson had been violently and wretchedly sick as soon as he was out of public view.

  “Will you stop thinking so much?” Dhugal murmured, breaking into Kelson’s grim reverie. “What is it this time? Rothana? Conall?”

  Kelson sighed explosively, shaking his head. “It was Conall—and his son—and Rothana,” he admitted. “God, Dhugal, why did he have to do it? He was my cousin. I would have been glad to give him so much, if only he’d been willing to earn it.”

  “Kelson, he earned exactly what he got,” Dhugal retorted. “It’s all very well to say that he was the victim of an odd chain of events, if that makes you feel better, but Conall chose to be attached to it. Regardless of what his true intentions may have been, when he put merasha into my flask—and we’ll never know whether he was really getting cold feet and would have warned us not to drink—he got that merasha by killing a man and then fleeing his responsibility. He’d been seeing Tiercel for the express purpose of gaining the Haldane power, so he could someday challenge you—which he did. And he tried to kill his own father. There’s no justification for any of that.”

  “No, you’re right, there isn’t,” Kelson agreed. “But I can still regret the waste of what could have been a valuable and productive life, can’t I?”

  “Of course.” Dhugal leaned forward irritably to smooth a strand of his horse’s mane. “I just don’t want to see you dwell on it to the point that it’s somehow your fault that Conall went bad—because it isn’t. I don’t care if you are my king and my brother—I’ll thrash you the next time you carry on like that.”

  Kelson nodded sheepishly. “And I’ll deserve it,” he agreed. “It’s still hard. Now that Duncan’s resigned his ducal duties to you, you’ll soon have a far better idea just how hard. You’re going to have some of the same kinds of headaches, you know. Ducal scale is only a little less grand than royal, especially if you’re Deryni.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Dhugal replied drily. “Thank God, Father’s left me a devoted cadre of deputies, at least. And most heirs don’t have their predecessors to fall back on, as I will. I’m glad I didn’t have to lose a father to gain a duchy.”

  “You’re not the only one,” Kelson replied. “I put him up to the resignation, you know. It was the only way I could think of to keep him in Rhemuth. Someday, I have no doubt that he’ll be archbishop; but in the meantime, he can stay at the capital indefinitely as auxiliary and stay my confessor and adviser. I’ve got to have one Deryni with me all the time that I can trust.”

  “Well, I’ll be there as much as I can; you know that.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  With feigned nonchalance, Kelson guided his horse around a tidal pool. He was gloveless on this fine summer day, and the horse’s red leather reins were supple and smooth in his hands.

  “Rothana looked well, don’t you think?” he said with forced cheerfulness. “I’m glad she decided to come and stay with Morgan and Richenda until after the baby is born.”

  “Aye, she looked—radiant,” Dhugal murmured. “Oh, Kelson, I wish—”

  “I know,” Kelson broke in, remembering the one conversation he and Rothana had had since he arrived at Coroth a few days before, refusing to recall the several others they had had while she was still in Rhemuth. “Actually, she’s bearing up fairly well. No one seems to hold Conall’s crimes against her. I think it’s helped her to be here with Richenda—and Richenda’s situation has improved as well. Now that she’s provided Morgan with a proper male heir, his men seem finally to have accepted her.”

  “As if either of the poor women had anything to say about their dead husbands’ treason!” Dhugal said with an indignant snort. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring him up again.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Kelson sighed and stood in the stirrups, stretching. “God, my bum’s asleep! I’m going to get down and walk awhile.”

  “I’ll join you,” Dhugal said, also dismounting.

  They walked in silence for several minutes, the horses plodding easily behind them on slack reins, until finally Dhugal glanced at Kelson again.

  “Listen, you don’t have to talk about it if you won’t want to, but has Rothana given you any indication what she plans to do after the baby’s born?”

  “Oh, yes. It isn’t what I’d prefer, of course, but she’ll be returning to the religious life,” Kelson said quietly, fingering the ends of the red leather reins. “I suppose there is a bright side to that. She’s been in communication with the Servants of Saint Camber, and they want her to come and help them revive the Order as it used to be, in Camber’s time, with a women’s Order to train for the old Deryni disciplines. She sounds very excited about it. And it’s definitely something that we need.”

  “And the baby?” Dhugal asked.

  Kelson grimaced. “He’ll be brought up for the priesthood. Nigel’s trying to be very fair about all of this, but he was most emphatic about the succession not passing through Conall, so Rory will be the next duke—not the eldest son’s heir. The boy will still carry the style and title of a Haldane prince, however. I insisted on that. None of this is his fault.”

  Dhugal nodded. “Maybe he’ll be a prince of the Church someday. Wouldn’t that gall Conall, if he knew?”

  Sighing, Kelson shook his head. “I don’t really care whether it would or not. He’s paid his debt; let him rest in peace.”

  Neither of them spoke again for several minutes, only concentrating on walking in the damp sand, occasionally pausing to overturn a seashell or other piece of sea wrack with a booted toe. It was Dhugal who eventually broke the silence again, as they approached a rocky headland jutting out partway into the sea.

  “Do you think it really was Saint Camber in the circle with you, when you fought Conall?” he asked.

  “I dunno. It bothers me that none of the rest of you could see him, though. We really failed on our quest, too, even though we found the Servants. I so wanted to find some actual relic. Restoration on the shrine at Valoret is going splendidly, and the new side chapel at home will be finished by Christmas, but whoever was in the circle with me didn’t seem to place a great deal of importance on physical places.”

  “Well, the priests at Transha always taught me that God is in the heart, not in a structure built by human hands, so maybe it’s the same for saints,” Dhugal replied. “Oh, a focal point is fine, but these are all really things of the spirit.”

  “Yes, but Camber had a physical body at one time,” Kelson said stubbornly. “And I’m not entirely convinced that he was bodily assumed into heaven, despite what the accounts say about the evidence for canonization. We know that some physical objects have kept psychic impressions, too—like Duncan’s ring.”

  “Well, maybe you can get him to give it up for a relic,” Dhugal quipped. “Not that it’s likely, given its association with our newest saint, but—”

  He broke off suddenly and stopped so quickly that Kelson ran into his outstretched arm. Ahead of them, sitting quietly on a rock just at the edge of the tide-run, was a man in a grey cowled robe, a wooden staff leaned across his shoulder.

  “Do you see what I see?” Dhugal breathed, though Kelson was already staring at the obviously visible man, his face gone very white and still.

  Without a word, Kelson took Dhugal’s arm and started forward, dropping the horses’ reins, their feet leaving deep, clear footprints in the wet sand. The man did not move or look up until they had come within a few yards of him, and his face was shadowed by his hood when he finally did raise his head. His feet, Kelson noticed, were bare.

  “May I
be of some assistance?” the man asked. His voice was low and pleasant, and his hands on the staff were smooth and uncallused.

  “Who are you?” Kelson breathed. “Haven’t we met before?”

  The shoulders shrugged beneath the grey robe, an eloquent gesture that neither confirmed nor denied, but the movement brought the man’s mouth into view.

  “Many people ask that of me, my son,” the pleasant voice replied, “but my name is not important.”

  “Someone very like you said the same thing to a friend of mine a few years ago, on a road not very far from here. Do you know Father Duncan McLain?”

  Again the shrug. “I know many priests, my son.”

  “And do you know of Saint Camber?” Kelson dared to ask. “Can you tell us anything of him?”

  “Ah, then, you seek the great Defender?” the man countered.

  “We do,” Kelson answered. “We went on a quest to find his relics this spring. We found some of his Servants, but we never found any sign of him.”

  “And what sign did you think to find?” came the next query.

  “Well, some—tangible evidence that this has all been real, that the contacts we’ve had with him haven’t just happened because we wanted so badly for them to be true.” He paused a beat. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this.”

  “Perhaps because an honest seeker always knows the teacher when he finds him,” the man replied, shifting his staff to begin idly tracing designs with the tip. “Are you bold enough, young seekers, to trust a stranger-teacher who would help you with what you seek?”

  The man was tracing a more intricate design now, in the wake of a wave that had come particularly high onto the sand, and Kelson felt himself beginning to slip into trance as his eyes caught and followed the pattern. It was not—quite—familiar, but he did not feel at all afraid. And Dhugal likewise was falling under the man’s spell.

  “Let go and follow what I would show you, young seekers,” the man’s voice urged, soothing, soft. “You will come to no harm.”