Camber of Culdi

by Katherine Kurtz

  A sound from the direction of the occupied chapel froze them in the shadows, and they watched unmoving as the monk shuffled before the nave altar to bow again. They had about decided that the man meant to pray there forever, when he bowed again and moved into a chapel on the other side of the nave. Grateful for that, at least, Joram and Rhys turned their attention to the tasks ahead. They dared not worry where the man might be when they had to come out again, or that next time there might be more than one.

  They were within the cloister precincts now, and doubly damned should they be caught. Creeping past the great processional door—barred now—which led, by day, from cloister garth to church, they found their way blocked by yet another brass grillework. Joram had already dismissed it, and was moving on to try entrance through the choir, when Rhys laid his hand on the gate and felt it move under his hand. Sending the briefest and weakest of calls to Joram, he swung back the gate and slipped through. Joram, startled, doubled back and followed him through the gate to crouch silently at the foot of the night stairs. Rhys’s shoulder pressed hard against his as they peered up the stairway into the darkness.

  “Now?” Rhys mouthed silently.

  For answer, Joram took a deep breath and nodded resolutely. Then they began making their cautious way up the stairs.

  The door stood open at the top, and another, narrower stair continued upward from the landing beside the door. They listened for several minutes, but other than the sounds of sleep, they heard only the creak of the building itself as the snow settled on the leaded roof. Now they must find Cinhil and bring him safely out.

  There was a single vigil light burning at the top of the stairs, but it cast only scant illumination down the long dormitory. Straining to see in the dimness, Rhys led Joram slowly past the first of the curtained sleeping cubicles, moving to the right of the chests and shelves ranged down the center of the room. Cinhil’s cell was the fifth from the end—Rhys had marked it well on his last visit here—and as he paused in the curtained entryway, Joram pulled two spare white robes of the professed brothers from a stack just outside.

  Stealthily they entered the cell, to stop with pounding hearts until Joram had conjured a tiny sphere of handfire. By its light, Rhys moved toward the head of the narrow pallet and leaned close enough to verify the sleeper’s identity. Then they were pulling on the robes over their clothes, Joram nudging the handfire near while Rhys bent to gaze at their sleeping quarry’s face. Gently, he sought to touch Cinhil’s mind, hoping to ease the man from sleep to deep control without awakening him.

  But the touch was not gentle enough, or Cinhil’s sleep not so deep as they had thought. Cinhil’s eyes popped open with a start; he was fully awake at once. And when he saw two figures bending over him, illuminated by the ghostly glow of Joram’s handfire, his immediate and natural impulse was to panic.

  Rhys had clamped his hand against the monk’s mouth at the first sign of movement, so Cinhil could make no outcry; but now the monk was trying to twist from under his hand, legs kicking frantically underneath his thin blanket. Joram threw himself across Cinhil’s body to hold him quiet, pinning arms and legs while Rhys tried to force control, but the Healer could not seem to get through. It was as though the shields which he had sensed before grew doubly strong under assault, to keep Rhys from even touching the mind behind those shields. Clearly, they would not take Cinhil this way. And if they did not subdue him in the next few seconds, his struggling would awaken his brethren all around him.

  It was a time for drastic measures.

  Without further waste of motion, Rhys clamped his free hand across the Prince’s throat and applied carotid pressure, not relenting even when Cinhil’s body arched a final time before going limp beneath his hands. There was resistance still, as Rhys extended his senses, Cinhil’s shielding of memory and intellect remaining intact; but his center of consciousness, at least, was taken.

  Securing control as he had on his previous visit, Rhys straightened carefully and allowed himself a scarce-breathed sigh of relief. Joram cast a nervous glance at the curtained doorway as he picked himself up.

  There had been no sound outside, no indication that their scuffle with Cinhil had awakened the other monks. Nonetheless, they waited for several strained minutes to make certain. Finally, Rhys bent and pulled the unconscious Cinhil to his feet, got a shoulder under his arm. He watched anxiously as Joram let the light vanish and peered out the curtains. Miraculously, the dormitory still echoed only to the sounds of snoring men.

  They slipped out the way they had come, Cinhil between them, keeping close to the shelves and chests until they reached the vigil light again. They had just stepped onto the landing when Joram froze in a listening attitude, then motioned urgently for Rhys to get their unconscious burden up the stairs toward the tower. As Rhys struggled to obey, he could hear the sounds of sandal-clad feet approaching the night stairs from below.

  There must have been monks in the east end of the church all this time!

  Not daring to breathe, they eased their way up the spiral staircase past the first bend, to huddle motionless as the feet ascended the night stairs. They heard no conversation, nor did they expect to, and at length the footsteps faded away into the dormitory. They waited for several minutes, in case the monks just returned had come to awaken replacements for some all-night vigil, but no further sound came from above or below the night stairs. Finally, they gathered the courage to bundle their senseless charge down the stairs and through the transept gate, to shrink breathlessly against the closed processional door and listen again for a long moment.

  The next half-hour was later to be remembered only hazily by both of those conscious enough to recall it at all. They were able to make their way back through the rood screen without being detected, and actually gained the shelter of the last side chapel. But their plans were nearly foiled by the approach of another lay brother from the stairs at the west end of the nave.

  Joram heard him long before he came into view, for the man coughed and wheezed asthmatically all the way down the stairs. But there was nowhere to hide. Quickly, they arranged the unconscious Cinhil on one of the prie-dieus, Rhys kneeling to support him while Joram hid in the shadows at the back corner.

  But it was not sufficient to fool the old brother who came shuffling down the nave. One look at the pair kneeling in the side chapel was enough to convince him that something was amiss. After all, the two wore the white robes of professed monks, not the gray of the lay brethren. Not that there was anything wrong with the monks using the lay brothers’ area of the church—especially in deep winter, when there was not likely to be an outsider on the premises. But the lay brother, being the friendly, talkative sort, was curious as to who the two monks might be, kneeling in what he had come to think of as his chapel.

  And naturally, he had to ask them.

  He had time only to gaze in astonishment at the fierce, redheaded stranger who looked up from beneath his cowled hood, and at Brother Benedictus, who appeared to be asleep. Then there was another brother standing behind him and taking him by the shoulders—a tall, golden man with piercing eyes which bored into his and made his head spin.

  As he sank to his knees, oblivious to all around him, his memory of the entire encounter conveniently fled. He would awaken during Matins, when the rest of the brethren joined him in the great nave, joints stiff and aching from the hours he had spent kneeling in the cold church, unable to explain what urgent need he had felt to spend his night in prayer.…

  By the time the abbey was rousing for the Great Office of the Night, Joram and Rhys were lowering their precious burden over the wall, wrapped once again in their white fur cloaks, their quarry bundled into a similar cloak and bound hand and foot to his horse for his long, unconscious ride.

  The snow fell more heavily now, erasing all sign of their passage, and they rode with their backs to the storm, Cinhil’s horse between them on a double lead. They would ride thus until tomorrow night, with stops only as neces
sary, until they reached the relative safety of Dhassa. There, if all went well, they would make their way to the Portal held by the Bishop of Dhassa. By now, it was probably the only Portal which was not barred to them, one way or another. They should be safe in Camber’s haven by this time tomorrow night.

  But for now, there remained only to ride, and to try to keep the cold a thing apart, that they might eventually reach Dhassa alive and uncaptured. If the hue and cry had been raised against them in the past three days since Cathan’s burial, as it well might have, they would have to be doubly careful. Capture now would be certain disaster for their new and fragile cause.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I have forsaken mine house, I have left mine heritage.

  —Jeremiah 12:7

  As it happened, they were never in any real danger on the journey to Dhassa, for news travels slowly across winter-bound Gwynedd. But Rhys and Joram learned a great deal about their captive in the course of their ride.

  The first few hours, and those most crucial to their escape, were accomplished under cover of darkness and the gradually slackening storm—that and the snow-filtered moonlight which slowly faded as gray dawn approached. The snow layered everything with a drifting powder which muffled sound and concealed their tracks; but it also concealed holes and buried branches—hazards to the horses, who stamped and shied at every snap of snow-laden bough. Their unconscious captive, bound hand and foot to his horse between his two abductors, had a less than gentle ride.

  They had been riding without speaking for some time, alternating between a trot and a brisk walk, snatching what fitful naps they could, when Rhys first became aware that he was being watched. He had been drifting on the edge of consciousness while the horses walked, mentally rehearsing what they would do and say when they reached the Dhassa gate the next evening. To discover the gray eyes observing him, albeit somewhat dazedly, gave him a start in that first instant of realization.

  He flashed a reassuring smile at the man, mentally chasing the cobwebs of sleep from his mind, but the gesture brought no response other than the continued fogged appraisal—and perhaps a glimmer of recognition.

  Raising an eyebrow at that, Rhys glanced across at the still-dozing Joram, hunched down in the saddle and swaying easily with the motion of his mount. Though he knew that Joram needed the sleep—they had been largely without for nearly thirty-six hours now—it was important that they establish communication immediately. He suspected from Cinhil’s expression that the monk remembered who he was.

  “Joram, we have company again,” he said in a low voice.

  Joram raised his head immediately, to become instantly alert and awake as only Joram seemed to be able to do, and their captive turned his head to blink at his other escort.

  “Why have you brought me out of Saint Foillan’s?” he asked, without giving Joram time for amenities. “Who are you?”

  The priest studied the fur-hooded face for several seconds, apparently considering how best to answer the question, then decided on the truth.

  “My name is Joram MacRorie. I’m a Michaeline priest. As for why we have brought you out of Saint Foillan’s, that should be abundantly clear, my lord—or should I say, Your Highness?”

  The man recoiled as though struck, an instant of terror darting across his eyes before he could mask it, but both Joram and Rhys heard the scarcely whispered “No,” as Cinhil lowered his head and tried to turn his face away.

  The two exchanged glances, and then Joram gestured ahead to where a stand of pines afforded some protection from the wind. It was time to rest the horses anyway, and better they say what they must on solid ground, face to face, where there could be no mistaking their intent.

  The horses blew and snorted gratefully as their riders reined in beneath the snow-laden trees, and Joram, with a sigh, hitched their captive’s lead over his saddle and jumped to the ground. Moving around to Cinhil’s right, Joram released the thongs binding the man’s foot to the off stirrup, then repeated the process on the other side. Rhys, Cinhil’s other lead still in his hands, swung his right leg over his horse’s neck and around the saddletree to ease cramped muscles. They had already agreed that one of them would remain mounted whenever Cinhil was on horseback, for they dared not risk an ill-considered escape.

  “Come down and walk a bit, Sire,” Joram said, loosing Cinhil’s hands from the saddletree but not from the thongs which bound them together. “You must be stiff. I apologize for the rough treatment, but we feared you would not come with us of your own free will.”

  Cinhil turned his head away and shrank from the offered assistance. “Call me not Sire,” he whispered. “I am sire to no man, nor ever like to be. You have mistaken me for someone else. I am a simple, cloistered monk, having quarrel with no one.”

  Joram shook his head slowly, understanding what the man was trying to do, but knowing that he could not permit it. He cast a resigned glance at Rhys, and knew that the Healer recognized it, too.

  “You are Nicholas Gabriel Draper, known in religion as Brother Benedict,” Joram said. “Your father was called Royston, and your grandfather Daniel. But both had other names, my lord, and other names have you.”

  “No,” the monk murmured. “No other names.”

  “Your father’s other name was Alroy, an ancient royal name; your grandfather was known as Aidan, Prince of Haldane, in the years before the Coup,” Joram continued relentlessly. “And you—you are Cinhil Donal Ifor, Prince of Haldane and last of your grandfather’s royal line. The time has come for you to claim your birthright, Your Highness. The time has come for you to mount the Throne of Gwynedd.”

  “No,” the captive choked. “Say it not. I will not hear you. Such names are past, and best forgotten. I am only Benedict, a monk, a priest. I have no other birthright in this world.”

  Joram glanced at Rhys uneasily, trying not to show the distaste he was feeling for what he must do. They had planned the strategy for miles, on the long ride toward Saint Foillan’s, crafting arguments to cover every possible contingency. But they had not reckoned on the gentleness of the man, or the childlike grief evoked by the threat of an ending to the life he had known until now. Joram steeled himself for the next words he must utter, but it was Cinhil himself who broke the silence, raising his head to stare unseeing between his horse’s ears, not deigning to look at them.

  “I pray you, take me back to Saint Foillan’s.”

  “We may not, my lord,” Joram said.

  “Then, send me. You need not go yourselves. I will tell no one what you have done.”

  “We may not, my lord,” Joram repeated. “Other lives than your own have been touched—and some ended.”

  “Ended? You mean that men have died on my account?”

  Joram nodded, unwilling to meet the man’s eyes just then, and the monk shifted his stunned gaze to the winter-bare forest beyond, as though reading a half-forgotten vision which he had tried to put aside.

  “Where are you taking me?” he finally asked.

  “Among friends.”

  “I have no friends outside the walls of my abbey. Nor are they friends who would end my life.”

  “One life ends, another begins, my lord,” Joram said, laying a hand on the horse’s bridle and gazing up unwaveringly. “You were born to other than monastic cells and hours of prayer, however comfortable you may have found that life in recent years. It is only now that you begin to enter your true destiny.”

  “No! It is this I was born for!” He struck his white-cloaked breast with his bound hands and turned frantic eyes to Rhys in appeal. “You, my lord—the story told you by my grandsire—it was a fantasy he wove. I am not what he would have you think. I am not of the stuff from which princes are made.”

  “You are a Haldane, my lord.”

  “No! The Haldanes all are dead. I was a Draper before I took my vows—and my father before me. I know no other names.”

  Joram sighed and glanced at Rhys, then shrugged lightly. “I think it’s poin
tless to continue for now, don’t you? He’s tired and frightened. Perhaps later—”

  “That will not change the truth,” Cinhil interjected.

  “No, but the truth may be different than you now perceive it, my lord. You have been away from the world for many years. Why not reserve judgment until you have a chance to become reacquainted?”

  “It is a world I have renounced. You, who claim to be a priest, should understand that.”

  “All too well,” Joram sighed. “However, it does not change my present intent. Come, if I have your word you’ll not try to escape, I would be pleased to release your bonds. You’ll feel better if you get down and walk a bit.”

  Cinhil stared at Joram for a long moment, as though weighing what he had said, then lowered his eyes.

  “I will not resist you.”

  “Your word on it?”

  “My word,” the captive whispered.

  With a nod, Joram reached up and cut the thongs binding Cinhil’s wrists. But when he held out a hand to assist the man from his horse, Cinhil pursed his lips and brushed the hand aside, sliding down the other side, past Rhys, to stagger but a half-dozen steps before sinking to his knees in the snow.

  As the man bowed his head and fought dry sobs, Joram frowned and glanced at Rhys, then hitched his cloak back on his shoulders and folded his arms resignedly. Both were painfully aware that the rest of the ride to Dhassa was likely to seem even longer than they had feared.

  And indeed, the rest of the ride was accomplished, though without further incident, in nearly total silence. They stopped once at midday to change mounts at a small hostelry, Rhys guarding the prince while Joram negotiated for the horses’ exchange. But Cinhil volunteered not one word of further conversation or resistance in all that time.

  By that evening, they were within an hour’s ride of their destination. A small, swiftly-running stream wound alongside the road they travelled, crusted with snow along the edges but not yet iced over for the winter. Men and horses were showing the effects of the journey. Rhys was especially concerned about Cinhil, for the prince was totally unaccustomed to the rigors of riding. He had nearly cried out from the pain of aching muscles when they dismounted at their last rest stop a few hours before, only pride maintaining the silence he had imposed upon himself. It had taken both of them to assist him, half fainting, back into the saddle when they were ready to ride on.