“Old enough to know better than to listen to the rantings of a dying old man,” Dan smiled. “But you will listen, won’t you, Rhys? It’s important.”
“You know I will.”
The old man sighed deeply and let his gaze wander the room absently.
“Who am I?” he asked in a low voice.
Rhys raised a skeptical eyebrow and frowned. “Now, don’t go senile on me, after all these years. Even if you are a cantankerous old rascal, I’m very fond of you.”
Dan closed his eyes and smiled, then looked up at the ceiling again. “Rhys, what ever happened to the Haldanes, after your Deryni Festil led the coup that toppled the throne? Did you ever wonder?”
“Not really,” Rhys replied. “I was taught that Ifor and all his family were executed during the revolt.”
“Not precisely true. There was one survivor, one of the younger princes—he was only three or four at the time. He was smuggled out of the castle by a servant and raised as the man’s own bastard son. But he was never allowed to forget his true parentage. His foster father hoped that one day he might overthrow the House of Festil and restore human rule to Gwynedd—but of course, he never did. Nor did the prince’s son. That prince would be very old by now, if he were alive.”
“If he were …” Rhys started to repeat the old man’s words, then trailed to a halt, suddenly suspecting what the old man was going to say next.
Dan coughed and took a deep breath.
“Go ahead, ask. I know you won’t believe me, but it’s true. I was known as Prince Aidan in those days; and in the normal order of things, I probably would have been content to rule a distant barony or earldom in my royal brother’s name, for there were three before me for the throne. But with the execution of all my kin, I became the sole Haldane heir.” He paused. “I never had the chance even to try to win back my throne. Nor did my son: he died too young, and the time was not right. But my grandson—”
“Now, wait a minute, Dan.” Rhys’s brow was furrowed in disbelief. “You’re telling me that you’re really Prince Aidan, the rightful Haldane heir, and that your grandson is still alive?”
“His royal name is Cinhil—Prince Cinhil Donal Ifor Haldane,” Dan murmured. “He would be, oh, forty or so by now—I can’t remember exactly. It’s been over twenty years since I last saw him. He entered a contemplative order, walled away from the world. He is safe there, the knowledge of his true identity locked deep in his earliest memories. I thought, at the time, that it was better that way.” His voice trailed off, and Rhys blinked at him in amazement, his stomach doing queasy flip-flops.
“Why are you telling me this?” Rhys breathed, after nearly a full minute of silence.
“I trust you.”
“But, I—Dan, I’m Deryni, a member of the conquering race. You can’t have forgotten that. How long do you think your grandson would be permitted to live, if anyone even suspected his existence? Besides, you yourself said that it’s been twenty years. He may be dead already.”
Daniel tried to shrug, but the movement brought on a coughing fit which wracked the frail old body. Rhys helped him to sit, trying to ease his discomfort, then lowered him gently to the pillows when the spell had passed. Daniel swallowed noisily, gestured with a veined, translucent hand.
“You may be right. Perhaps I am the last living Haldane, and have spent my years of hoping for nought. If so, my telling you can do no harm. But if I am not the last …”
His voice trailed off in speculation, and Rhys shook his head again. “Too many ifs, Dan. For all I know, what you’ve told me could just be the demented death rattlings of a foolish old man. Besides, what could I do?”
Dan stared up into Rhys’s face, aged gray eyes meeting young golden ones. “Am I a foolish old man, Rhys? I think you know better. Come, you’re Deryni. Your race can probe men’s souls. Probe mine, then, and read the truth. I am not afraid.”
“I—am not accustomed to touching the minds of humans in that way.” Rhys hesitated, lowering his eyes uncomfortably.
“Don’t be silly. I have felt your healing touch before. If you cannot heal age, that is not your fault. But you can touch my mind, Rhys. You can read the truth of what I say.”
Rhys glanced behind him at the closed door, then back at the quiet form of Daniel Draper—perhaps Prince Aidan Haldane. He looked down at the old man’s hand still twined in his and touched the pulse spot, then slowly raised his eyes once more.
“You’re very weak. I should not intrude so near the end. It’s your priest who should be beside you now, not I.”
“But I have finished with the priest, and besides, these words were not his to know,” Daniel whispered. “Please, Rhys. Humor a dying man.”
“The strain could kill you,” Rhys insisted.
“Then I will be dead. I am dying, anyway. The truth is more important than a few minutes or a few hours more. Hurry, Rhys. There’s very little time.”
With a sigh, Rhys eased himself to sit on the edge of the bed beside the old man. Surrounding the hand he still held between his two hands, he gazed down into the calm gray eyes and willed the eyes to close. The sere lids fluttered and obeyed as Rhys extended his senses, secured control, and entered.
Swirling grayness engulfed him, broken intermittently by hazy snatches of color and sound—almost as though he were making his way through patchy, rolling fog. Only, this was the fog of Death, as the Darkness encroached already on parts of the old man’s mind. The images were flashing past with no discernible order. He must keep moving, lest he, too, be snared by them.
There. A fleeting ghost-image of a young man—he somehow knew it was Dan’s son—with a young child in his arms. Was the child Cinhil? Then that same man, older now, laid out on a bier with candles all around, his fair face mottled by the plague signs. A young, dark-haired man and an old gray one standing fearfully in the doorway, drawn by their love yet afraid to come closer. The young man bore the glossy black hair and gray eyes of the Haldanes. Then the picture was gone.
More darkness—thick, gray-black stuff which was stifling, almost impassable. But then there was more: a tension building in the shadows, a mindless fear, and sounds—the sounds of slaughter.
He was a tiny boy, cowering and sobbing beneath a shattered stair, and there were people screaming and running past him, fire licking at the castle ramparts, blazing on the thatching of the castle’s outbuildings.
Soldiers seized two older boys whom he knew to be his brothers and dragged them into the already bloody courtyard, then slew them with swords which hacked and stabbed and were raised up dripping again and again. An infant sister was dashed against the stones of the courtyard paving, another tossed aloft and spitted on a laughing soldier’s lance.
And then his father, tall and gray-eyed, gory in blood-soaked nightclothes, unarmed but for a bright blade in his hand, roaring defiance as he tried to cut a path to his anguished queen. The rain of arrows falling on the king and cutting him down like a trapped animal—because the butchers feared to come within reach of his blade.
And his mother’s shrieks as they pinned her limbs and ripped the living child from her belly.…
Rhys drew back with a gasp and severed the contact, unable to endure the visions any longer. Stunned wordless by what he had seen, he forced himself to focus on his hands and was shocked to find that they were trembling.
Willing them to calm, his pounding heart to slow, he breathed deeply several times, relaxing as the world settled into its customary order. Gently, he chafed the old man’s hand to bring him back to consciousness. He was hardly aware of the tears welling in his eyes.
“Dan?” he whispered. “Dan? Prince Aidan?”
The gray eyes opened weakly and the old lips parted. “You saw.”
Rhys nodded slowly, his golden eyes wide with wonder and a little horror still.
“Then, you know I spoke the truth,” Dan said. “Will you guard that truth, against the time when the throne may be restored to a Haldane?”
“A Deryni king is on the throne now, Dan. Would you have me betray him to restore your kin?”
“Watch and pray, Rhys. And then ask yourself if the man on the throne is worthy of the golden circlet. Ask if this is the sort of rule you wish for your children and your children’s children. Then you decide. And when the time comes, and you reach the decision which I think you must, at least consider my grandson. Once I am gone, only you will know, Rhys.”
“You speak treason, old friend,” Rhys murmured, lowering his eyes as he remembered what he had seen. “But, if the time comes, I—I will consider what you have told me.”
“God bless you, my son.” The old man smiled. He reached up with his free hand to wipe a tear from Rhys’s cheek with his thumb. “And I, who thought ever to curse the Deryni …” He paused, and a flicker of pain crossed his face. “Around my neck you will find a silver coin on a cord. I do not read, but I am told that it was struck at the abbey where Cinhil, my grandson, took his vows. His name in religion is—is—”
The old man gasped for breath, and Rhys had to lean forward to catch his next words.
“Go on, Dan. His name?”
“His name—his name is—Benedict. Benedictus. He … is … a Haldane … and … King.”
Rhys bowed his head and closed his eyes in sorrow, automatically searching for a pulse but knowing that this time there would be none. He slipped to his knees and knelt there for several minutes, then shook his head and let the old man’s hand go. Folding the wrinkled old hands on the silent breast and closing the dulling eyes, he then crossed himself numbly and turned away. He was nearly to the door before he remembered the coin, and he returned quickly to take it from around the dead man’s neck.
But though Rhys could read the words inscribed in the silver, they meant nothing to him. And with a sudden, sinking feeling, he realized that Daniel had given him only the religious name of his grandson—Benedictus—and not his secular one. If he ever did want to locate the man, it was going to be very difficult.
With a troubled mind, he slipped the coin into the pouch at his belt and moved toward the door. There he paused to collect his wits, to resume his professional demeanor, to steel himself for the servants and the waiting priest. A last glance at the old man, and then he opened the door.
“It is finished, my lord?” the priest asked.
Rhys nodded. “The end was easy. He did not suffer much.”
The priest bowed, then slipped past Rhys to begin chanting the final prayers, the servants slowly sinking to their knees around the doorway, some of them weeping softly. As the words drifted out of the room, Rhys, suddenly very tired, picked his way slowly down the stairs to where Gifford awaited him.
Gifford stood as his master approached, clutching Rhys’s medical pouch to his chest.
“Is it over, master?”
Rhys nodded, then gestured for Gifford to open the door and proceed.
Yes, it’s over, he thought to himself, as they stepped into the street again.
Or, is it only just beginning?
CHAPTER THREE
Then give place to the physician, for the Lord hath created him: let him not go from thee, for thou hast need of him.
—Ecclesiasticus 38:12
It was raining steadily by the next morning, when Rhys Thuryn drew rein before the Abbey of Saint Liam. Unaccompanied by any servant or attendant, he had ridden most of the night to reach the abbey, for the coin Daniel had given him would not let him sleep. He dismounted and led his horse beneath the eaves extending around the courtyard, then waited until a young novice came to take charge of the animal. His leather cloak was nearly soaked through, his fur leggings spattered with mud. Rain dripped from his cap and the ends of his hair as he strode into the shelter of the cloister walk and scanned the area.
He had been to Saint Liam’s many times before, of course—had studied here with Joram, years ago, before he had discovered his talents in the healing arts. The memories were happy ones, of more carefree days.
But the reason for his visit today was not mere nostalgia. For, of the men Rhys knew he could trust, there was but one who might know the origin of the worn silver coin now lying in the pouch at his waist. Joram MacRorie, Rhys’s boyhood companion and probably his closest friend, was currently a master here at the abbey school. If Rhys’s information proved to be correct, and the man Benedict in the unknown monastery really was the Haldane heir, then it was also Joram who would know how best to use that knowledge for the good of all concerned.
With a sigh, Rhys swept off his sodden cap and began to make his way along the roofed cloister walk toward the Chapter House, ruffling his gloved fingers through wet, unruly hair. Joram would not be in the Chapter House at this hour, of course. Chapter would have been concluded hours ago, before most folk were even rising for the day.
But the schoolrooms and the quarters of the schoolmasters lay through the passage just ahead. If he could not himself locate Joram, there was a good chance of finding someone who did know where the young priest was.
He stood aside as a double line of schoolboys marched past with their master, solemn in their blue school cloaks with the badge of Saint Liam blazoned on the breast. Then he was moving through the passage to the central hall, into which the schoolrooms opened. Across the hall he spied a priest he knew, and he approached with a respectful bow.
“Good morning, Father Dominic. Do you know where I might find Father MacRorie?”
The old priest peered at him myopically, then beamed as recognition came. “Why, it’s young Rhys Thuryn, isn’t it? Were you not one of my pupils some years ago?”
Rhys smiled and bowed again. “I’m flattered that you remember after so long, Father.”
The priest’s rheumy eyes had flicked to the Healer’s insignia on Rhys’s tunic, and this time it was his turn to bow.
“How could I forget, my lord? Your sacred calling was apparent to me even in those early days.” He glanced around as though to reorient himself, then turned back to Rhys with a smile. “You’re looking for Father Joram, are you? As I recall, he’s reading in the library this morning. It’s fortunate you came when you did, however, for I believe he said he was leaving later today to go home for Michaelmas.”
“Yes, I know. I’m invited to spend Michaelmas with the MacRorie household myself this year, so I thought to lure him away a few hours early and save him the ride alone.”
“Well, then, don’t let me keep you, lad. God go wi’ ye.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Retracing his steps, Rhys made his way back through the covered passageway, past the Chapter House, then mounted the wide day stair toward the library. True to Father Dominic’s directions, he found Joram in the third carrel chamber into which he peered.
Joram had his feet up, the manuscript in his lap tilted to catch the light which filtered through the rain-washed window above his head. He looked up with a pleased grin as Rhys entered and perched himself on the edge of the table.
“Rhys, brother! Why, you look like the proverbial drowned cat himself. What brings you here in this weather? I would have seen you at home tomorrow.”
With silence for answer, Rhys reached into his pouch and produced the silver coin, gave it a perfunctory glance, dropped it into Joram’s outstretched hand.
“Ever seen one of these?” he asked.
Joram bent his head and studied the object closely for several minutes.
Father Joram MacRorie was lean and fit, blond like his father, and with the uncanny ability to appear perfectly garbed and unruffled whether serving High Mass with the Archbishop or gutting out a deer after a long afternoon’s chase. Just now he was clad in the simple cassock and cowled surcoat of his order, the hood pushed back casually from tonsured yellow hair. The sandalled feet had not moved from their resting place on the table edge. The slender fingers were still as they read the silver coin.
The outward aplomb of the man was not inappropriate. Ordained at age twenty by the
Archbishop of Valoret himself, it had been clear from the outset that young Joram MacRorie was slated for high Church preferment. As younger son of an extremely well-connected house, such would have been his due even had he not been so brilliant a scholar or so shrewd a judge of men. He was his father’s son in every way. The fact that he would probably deserve every future honor bestowed upon him spoke well of the man, was an unexpected nicety in a world characterized by nepotism and the purchase of office and political influence.
Indeed, even in the religious life it was difficult to be anything but political, especially if one moved in the upper circles of Deryni society. In the past century, religious establishments had gained an unenviable reputation for being corrupt, most of the corruption blamed, directly or indirectly, on the Deryni regime. Joram’s Michaeline Order was thought to be spiritually and intellectually sound, with better attention than most to the Rule of their order. But they were also a militant brotherhood, whose knights had more than once taken sides in a controversy which should, by rights, have remained in secular hands. Such was the way of the Church in Gwynedd.
Nor had Joram himself been entirely able to avoid political entanglements, for all his protestations and honest calling. Sought out by his fellow priests whenever royal crisis threatened, he was not often permitted to forget that his father, Camber, had once been a high-ranking minister of the Crown. After all, it was no great secret, among those acquainted with the situation, just why Camber had resigned. Though the official explanation had mentioned something about Camber wishing to retire from government service “while still young enough to enjoy his academic pursuits,” it was widely known that Camber had not approved of young Imre’s policies as prince, while his father lived; and still less did he approve, once the young man became king. Camber MacRorie was not a man who could continue to serve a crown whose wearer he did not respect.
Adding to the complication was the fact that Joram’s older brother Cathan was a friend of Imre, and had, at the new king’s request, stepped in to fill the place left vacant by Camber’s departure. There was no enmity between father and son: Camber well realized that a younger, more flexible man might be better able to temper the king’s rash boldness with reason. In Cathan’s abilities and judgment he had no doubt.
Camber of Culdi Page 3
