A squire came and bent his knee to her, and she bantered with him briefly before handing over the missive he was to deliver to her brother. Then she pulled her mantle close and crossed the rush-strewn hall, to make her way up the narrow, newel staircase to her father’s study. She and Camber had been translating the classic sagas of Pargan Howiccan, the Deryni lyric poet, and this afternoon Camber had promised to go over a particularly difficult passage with her. She marvelled again at the many facets of the man who was her father, fond memories accompanying her up the spiral stair.
Camber’s secular successes had never been quite anticipated, nor were they by design. In his youth, he had been preparing for the clergy and had earned impressive academic credentials at the new university in Grecotha, under some of the greatest minds of the century. There would have been no limit to his rise in the Church.
But when plague took two elder brothers and left him heir to the MacRorie lands and name—and he not yet under his final vows—he had found himself quite rudely plucked from the religious life by his father and thrust into the secular world—and found he liked it. Further honing of his abilities as an educated layman, and an earl’s son at that, had been accomplished, earning him wide academic notoriety long before he was first called to the Court at Valoret. When the old king’s father, Festil III, had sought the most brilliant men in the land to advise him, Camber had had little competition. The next quarter-century was spent mostly in the royal service.
But that was past. Now in his late fifties, Camber had retired three years ago, on the death of King Blaine, to his beloved Caerrorie, birthplace of himself and his five children. It was not the principal seat of the Culdi earls; that was reserved to the great fortress tower of Cor Culdi, on the Kierney border, which Camber still visited several times a year to preside over the feudal court. But here, near to the capital and his children’s active lives, he was free at last to resume the academic pursuits which he had abandoned for the Court so many years before—this time in the company of a fair, witty, and insatiably curious daughter whose depths he had but lately begun to discover.
If confronted, he would have vigorously denied that he favored any one of his children above the others, for he loved all of them fiercely; but Evaine unquestionably occupied a special place in his life and his heart—Evaine, youngest of his living children and the last to remain at home. Evaine accepted this facet of her father as she accepted all the others, without consciously stopping to analyze it—and without needing to.
She reached her father’s door and knocked lightly before slipping the latch and going inside.
Camber was seated behind a curved hunt table, the leather surface littered with rolls of parchment and ink-stained quills and other accoutrements of the academic mind. Her cousin, James Drummond, was with him, and both of them stopped speaking as she entered the room.
Cousin James looked decidedly angry, though he tried to conceal it. Camber’s face was inscrutable.
“I beg your pardon, Father. I didn’t know Jamie was with you. I can come back later.”
“There’s no need, child.” Camber stood, both hands resting lightly on the table. “James was just leaving, weren’t you, James?”
James, a blurred, darker copy of the silver-blond man behind the table, hitched at his belt in annoyance and controlled a scowl. “Very well, sir, but I’m still not satisfied with your analysis. I’d like to return tomorrow and discuss it further, if you don’t mind.”
“Certainly I don’t mind, James,” the older man said easily. “I am always willing to listen to well-reasoned arguments different from my own. In fact, stay and share Michaelmas with us, if you can. Cathan won’t be here, but Joram is coming, and Rhys. We’d love to have you join us.”
Disarmed by Camber’s reply, James murmured his thanks and something about having things to do, then bowed stiffly and made his exit.
With raised eyebrows, Evaine turned to face her father, leaning thoughtfully against the closed door.
“Goodness, what was that about? Or shouldn’t I ask?”
Camber crossed to the stone fireplace—a rare luxury in so small a room—and pulled two chairs closer, gesturing for her to sit. “A slight difference of opinion, that’s all. James looks to me for guidance, now that his father is dead. I fear he didn’t get the answer he wanted to hear.”
He yanked on a bell cord, then busied himself with poking at the fire until a liveried servant appeared at the door with refreshment. Evaine watched curiously as her father took the tray and bade the servant go. Then, cupping a goblet of mulled wine between her palms, she gazed across at him. Despite the fire and the tapestried walls, it was chill in the old room.
“You’re very quiet this afternoon, Father. What is it? Did Jamie tell you about the murder in the village last night?”
Camber tensed for just an instant, then relaxed. He did not look up. “You know about that?”
She spoke carefully. “When a Deryni is killed, practically under one’s window, one learns of it. They say that the king’s men have taken fifty human hostages, and that the king intends to invoke the Law of Festil if the murderer is not found.”
Camber drank deeply of his wine and stared into the fire. “A barbarous custom—to hold an entire village to blame for the death of one man—even if the man was a Deryni.”
“Aye. Maybe it was a necessary barbarism in the early days,” Evaine mused. “How else for a conquering race, few in numbers, to secure its hold over the conquered? But you know how much Rannulf was disliked, even among our own people. Why, I remember that Cathan practically had to evict him bodily from Caerrorie one day, when you were still at Court. If gentle Cathan would do that, I can imagine how boorish the man must have been.”
“If we execute every boor in Gwynedd, I think there will be few folk left.” Camber smiled wryly. “However you feel about Rannulf as a person, he did not deserve death—and certainly not the sort of death he met.” He paused. “I assume, since you know of the incident, that you also know the details of the murder?”
“Only that it was not a pretty sight.”
“And it was not the work of our peasants, though the king’s agents would have it so,” Camber retorted. He stood and leaned his arm against the mantelpiece, his thumb tracing the wood graining on the goblet in his hand. “Rannulf was hanged, drawn, and quartered, Evaine, in as professional a manner as I have ever seen. The peasants of this village aren’t capable of such finesse. Besides, the king’s Truth-Readers have already probed the hostages and learned nothing. Some of the villagers think—mind you, they think—that it may have been the work of the Willimites. But no one really knows, or can supply any names.”
Evaine snorted derisively. “The Willimites! Yes, I suppose Rannulf would have been a likely target. There’s been talk that a child was molested last week in one of Rannulf’s villages a few miles from here. Did you know that?”
“Are you implying that Rannulf was responsible?”
Evaine arched an eyebrow at him. “The villagers think so. And it’s well known that Rannulf kept a catamite at his castle in Eastmarch. He was nearly excommunicated last year, until he bought off his local bishop. The Willimites may have decided that the time had come to take matters into their own hands. Saint Willim was a martyr from Deryni ill-use, you know.”
“You hardly need remind me of my history, daughter,” Camber smiled. “You’ve been talking to Joram again, haven’t you?”
“May I not speak with my own brother?”
“Nay, don’t ruffle your feathers, child.” Camber chuckled. “I shouldn’t want to be accused of fostering ill-will between brother and sister. Only, be a little prudent with Joram. He’s young yet, and a bit impulsive sometimes. If he and his Michaelines aren’t careful, they’re liable to have young Imre breathing down their necks with an inquisition, Deryni or not.”
“I know Joram’s weaknesses, Father—just as I know yours.”
She glanced at him coyly and caught his indu
lgent expression, then smiled and stood, relieved by the chance to change the subject.
“May we translate now, Father? I’ve prepared the next two cantos.”
“Have you, now?” he asked. “Very well, bring the manuscript.”
With a pleased sigh, Evaine darted to the table and began searching among the rolls. She located the scroll she was looking for, but before she could turn away her eye was caught by a small, pale golden stone lying beside one of the inkwells. She picked it up.
“What is this?”
“What?”
“This curious golden stone. Is it a gem?”
Camber smiled and shook his head. “Not really. The mountain folk in Kierney call it shiral. It comes out of the river that way, already polished. Bring it here and I’ll show you something peculiar about it.”
Evaine returned to her chair and sat, settling the forgotten scroll in her lap as she held the stone to the firelight. It glittered, slightly translucent, strangely compelling. She passed it to her father without a word as he set aside his wine goblet.
“Now,” said Camber, gesturing expansively with the stone in his hand, “you’re familiar with the spell Rhys uses to extend perception before he heals—the one he taught you and Joram as an aid to meditation?”
Rhys’s image flashed before her for just an instant and she blushed. “Of course.”
“Well, on my last trip to Culdi, I found this. I happened to have it in my hand one night while I said my evening devotions, and it—Well, watch. It’s easiest to show you.”
Holding the object lightly in the fingers of his two hands, Camber inhaled, exhaled, his eyes narrowing slightly as he passed into the earliest stages of a Deryni trance. His breathing slowed, the handsome face relaxed—and then the stone began to glow faintly. Camber brought his eyes back to focus and extended his hands toward Evaine, still in trance, the stone still glowing.
Evaine’s lips formed a silent O.
“How do you do it?” she breathed.
“I’m not exactly sure.”
Camber blinked and broke the spell, and the stone-light died. He cupped it between his hands for a mere heartbeat, then held it out to her with a shake of his head.
“You try it.”
“Very well.”
Taking the stone in one hand, Evaine passed her other hand over it and bowed her head, mentally reciting the words which would bring Rhys’s trance. The stone did nothing for several seconds as she explored its several avenues of approach; then it began to glow. With a sigh, Evaine returned to the world, held the stone closer as the light was extinguished.
“Strange. It hardly takes any effort at all, once you know what you’re doing. What is it for?”
Camber shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t been able to find a single use for it yet—other than to fascinate gullible daughters, that is. You may keep it, if you like.”
“May I, really?”
“Of course. But don’t think it’s going to help you with Pargan Howiccan. Two cantos, indeed! If you make it through more than two pages, I shall be very surprised. Pleased, but surprised.”
“Is that a challenge, sir?” Evaine grinned delightedly, opening the scroll and leaning closer to her father. “Canto Four, being the Rise of the Lleassi and Johanan’s Quest.
“‘Now, in those days, the Lords of the Dark Places were exceedingly powerful, and their sphere was the orb of the Earth.
“‘And the Deryni Lord Johanan said unto the Servant of the High Gods, “Send me, Lord, to cast out the Lleassi. For Thou hast seen their iniquities, and their sins are great.”
“‘And the eyes of Makurias-in-Glory were inclined with favour upon the Lord Johanan, and His hands He laid upon the head of His servant in the blessing of the Lord of Hosts.
“‘And the Lord Johanan gathered to him his hosts of liegemen, and laid siege to the Lords of the Dark Places. And great was their strength.…’”
CHAPTER TWO
He shall go to the generation of his fathers …
—Psalms 49:19
Hurrying through the crowds and morning mist, Rhys Thuryn spied the old woolen merchant’s house up ahead, its thatched upper story thrust rudely among the more imposing façades of stone and brick.
Despite the early hour, Fullers’ Alley was alive with sound and motion, wily merchants opening their shops and market stalls, traders unloading precious silks and brocades and velvets from protesting beasts of burden, wandering peddlers hawking their wares with raucous calls. Beggars and street urchins also roamed the narrow thoroughfare—and undoubtedly cutpurses, too, Rhys thought ruefully—but they gave his Healer’s green a wide berth as he passed, some of them even tugging at forelocks in respect. He supposed it was a bit unusual to see a Deryni in this street these days, and a Healer, at that.
But even had the denizens of Fullers’ Alley not been disposed to give him way, that could not have kept Rhys from his appointment this morning. Old Daniel Draper had been one of Rhys’s first patients, and a valued friend long before that. And Fullers’ Alley had not always been a den of merchants and thieves. Conditions had deteriorated since the beginning of the current regime.
Rhys gained the relative shelter of one of the brick-and-timber buildings and glanced ahead to get his bearings; then he lifted the edge of his mantle to avoid a dungheap and slipped back into the street. Daniel’s door was the next one down, and already Gifford, Rhys’s manservant, was battering at the door with his staff, his master’s medical pouch slung from his shoulder by a stout leather strap.
Rhys started to take the pouch as he reached Gifford’s side, but then he stayed his hand. Neither medicines nor the special healing craft practiced by men like Rhys could cure old Dan Draper now. When a man lived to the age of eighty-three (or so Dan said), even a Deryni Healer could not hope to do more than ease that soul’s passage to the next world. And Dan had been dying for a long time.
He thought about Dan as he and Gifford waited for the door to open. The old man had been a remarkable part of Rhys’s growing up—a veritable treasure trove of tales about the years immediately after the change of royal house. Dan claimed to remember the early years of Festil I, who had deposed the last Haldane king. And Dan had lived through the reigns of three other Festillic monarchs—though he would not live through the fifth: the current representative of the new dynasty was a young man of twenty-two, king since the death of his father Blaine three years before, and in excellent health. No, the old man would not see a sixth Festillic king on the Throne of Gwynedd.
They were admitted by one of the maids, who burst into tears as she recognized Rhys and stepped aside to let them pass. Several more servants were huddled together in the shop itself, some of them making halfhearted attempts to perform their customary duties, but all stopped what they were doing as the Healer moved among them. Rhys tried to appear reassuring as he crossed the beaten-earth floor and mounted the stairway to the living quarters, but he knew he was not succeeding. He bounded up the stairs three at a time, reaching the upper landing only a little out of breath. He ran a hand through unruly red hair in a nervous gesture.
Rhys did not need to be shown the master’s door; he had been there many times before. He eased the door open to find the room in dimness, the draperies pulled across the windows; and the air was stifling with incense and the odor of impending death. A priest he did not know was aspersing the bed with holy water and murmuring a prayer, and for a moment Rhys was afraid he had come too late. He waited by the door until the priest had finished his prayer, then moved closer to the foot of the bed.
“I’m Lord Rhys, Father,” he said, his green mantle proclaiming his calling. “Is he—?”
The priest shook his head. “Not yet, my lord. He’s received the last rites and is in a state of grace, but he keeps asking for you. I’m afraid he’s beyond even your healing powers—with all due respect, sir.”
“I’m aware of that, Father.” Rhys gestured apologetically toward the door. “Do you mind le
aving us for a few minutes? He said he wanted some time alone with me, before the end.”
“Very well, my lord.”
As the priest closed the door behind him, Rhys moved to the left of the bed and gazed down at the face of the dying man. The gray eyes stared at the ceiling—Rhys could not be certain at first glance whether they saw or not—and the man’s breathing was very shallow. Rhys reached to the drapes and pushed them aside to admit light and air, then touched the gnarled wrist and found a pulse. Gently, he bent beside the old man’s ear.
“It’s Rhys, Dan. Can you hear me? I came as soon as I could.”
The eyes flickered and the lips moved, and then the gray head turned slowly toward the young Deryni. A thin hand was feebly raised, and Rhys took it in his own with a smile.
“Are you in pain? Is there anything I can do?”
“Just don’t be so impatient,” the old man breathed. “I’m not ready to die yet. Overanxious priests!”
His voice was stronger than Rhys had expected, and Rhys squeezed the old hand affectionately.
“Do you mean to tell me you’ve let all those servants and apprentices get teary-eyed for nothing?”
The old man gave a dry chuckle and shook his head. “No, I’m not gaming this time. The Dark Angel is nearby. I can hear the rustle of His wings sometimes. But I wanted to tell you something before I go. I couldn’t let it die with me, and you—you’re something special to me, Rhys. You could almost be the son I lost—or my grandson.” Pause. “I wonder where he is now?”
“Your grandson? I never knew you had one.”
“’Twas safer they thought him dead, like his father. Besides, the Church has him now, if he still lives. He went when he was nineteen, right after we lost his father. It was the plague that year, you know. But you were only a lad then, if you were even born. You probably don’t remember.”
Rhys laughed softly. “How old do you think I am, old one?”
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