Goodbyes had all been said before the two of them knelt for Niallan’s blessing and Godspeed beside the chapel’s altar. No further words were needed as they moved into the purple haze of the guarded Portal and felt it fall away at Niallan’s unvoiced command. In silence Camber linked with Jebediah to warp the energies and they were gone. They reappeared in darkness in the ruins beneath Grecotha.
They had considered surfacing openly in Alister’s tower Portal and taking horses from the episcopal stables. Such could have been construed as due the former Bishop of Grecotha, had these been ordinary times. But they did not know whether Edward MacInnis might already have taken possession of his new see. Besides, Hubert might have sent troops with his nephew, anticipating just such an event as the appearance of the Deryni Cullen at his former residence. Neither Camber nor Jebediah wished to risk a physical confrontation with great numbers of the enemy.
In caution, then, they used the Portal in the ruins, and spent most of the night working their way out, clearing a passage through the collapsed corridors by the light of handfire and the sweat of much toil until, near dawn, they reached the open air. A while they spent concealing the way they had come, and waiting for the city to wake. Then they must time the theft of two horses just to coincide with the opening of the city gates for the day, and cover their departure with a confusion at the marketplace, so that the city guards should be diverted until the two could make good their escape.
They were not pursued after the first few hours; and the jump to Grecotha had cut their total journey to only two or three days. They changed horses several times, and took a variety of lesser roads and tracks when they must eventually pass through the lands of Horthness and Carthane—though at least they knew that the lords of those holdings were not about in person; they were wreaking their mischief in Valoret and places farther east. Though they passed several mounted patrols each day, they aroused no special attention. In their plain black leathers and fur-lined cloaks, with unadorned swords at their sides and fur-lined caps drawn close around their heads and faces, they appeared little different from any pair of fighting men travelling on some winter errand—though a closer look would have revealed one of them to be rather older than one might expect still to be in military service, and the other was scarcely younger.
Still, in ordinary times, they would have aroused no special attention as they left the Purple March and began to penetrate the foothills which lay below Saint Mary’s; and they had been careful to avoid both Cor Culdi and the ruins of Trurill. It was only the most unfortunate of ill luck that they paused at a tiny inn on the Culdi road to wait out a snowstorm and had to share the common room with, among others, a quartet of rough-looking knights wearing the livery and badge of the Earl of Culdi—the new Earl of Culdi, of course. And it was worse luck that Camber’s pectoral cross slipped out of his tunic and flashed in the firelight as Camber shrugged his cloak back off his shoulders when he and Jebediah settled down to eat and drink in the room’s further corner. Camber tucked it back inside with an automatic gesture as the barmaid plunked tankards on the table, and thought no more about it. The room was crowded, the jumble of thoughts chaotic, and no one was likely to attempt thievery of the cross here, in front of so many witnesses.
The cross alone might have elicited no more than passing interest on the part of the knights; for while the ornament was rather more valuable than most soldiers could afford, it was possible that its wearer simply had stolen it off some unlucky churchman—an abbot, perhaps, by the size of it. One of the knights had a ring he had stolen from a body only a few days before.
But when the two black-clad strangers did not remove their fur-lined caps while they ate, it prompted the knights to wonder. The men might simply have kept on their headgear against the cold—but on the other hand, such caps could conceal tonsures—and why would tonsured priests be travelling disguised as fighting men?
That question so intrigued the knights that they determined to get a closer look at their fellow travellers. Offhand, they could think of no logical reason for priests to be travelling incognito in this part of the country at this time of the year—unless the two were Deryni! Earl Manfred had told them only the previous week that all the bishops were supposedly at Ramos even now, drafting stringent new statutes against the accursed Deryni. He had expounded on the subject at length, before sending them out on that thoroughly satisfying raid of Trurill.
Trurill. Now, there had been sport! And condoned by the Church, too! Earl Manfred’s brother, now Archbishop and Primate of All Gwynedd, had sent his special apostolic blessing on everyone who took part; and young Bishop Edward, the earl’s son, had also sent his promise of prayers for their intention.
They snickered over their tankards for a while, recalling choice details of the day’s work, then returned to the more serious business of the two men across the room, since they had no better sport while they waited for the storm to pass. Soldiers or priests? Human or Deryni? Both of them were far older than the knights had at first estimated—perhaps as old as fifty. And why would they not take off their caps indoors? The taproom was not that cold!
So, in the next half hour, each of the knights contrived excuse to take a closer look, making his way to the tap to refill tankards with frothy brown ale, or to the privy to relieve a full bladder, or to the kitchen to commandeer more meat for their table—for knights in the service of the Earl of Culdi could exact some privileges. When they had all had a surreptitious look, they regrouped to compare notes.
Their combined impressions produced no other conclusion about the younger of the two men than the probability that he was, indeed, a soldier like themselves—perhaps gently born, but a fighting man, for sure. The dark eyes held a flintlike steadiness which was familiar to all of them, and the scarred and agile fingers were never far from the hilt of sword or dagger.
The older man, however, presented more interesting possibilities, though he, too, had that look in his light-colored eyes. His craggy features seemed vaguely familiar to one of the knights, who had spent some time at Court a few years back; and when he realized that what had appeared to be a plain gold band on the man’s right hand was, in fact, a more elaborate ring with the stone turned inward, pieces began to sift into place.
Could the ring be a seal of office? A bishop’s amethyst, perhaps, in keeping with the cross and the suspected tonsure? He had it! Could the man be Alister Cullen, former Chancellor of Gwynedd and Bishop of Grecotha? If that were true, he would also be Deryni, and a fugitive from the regents’ justice. Cullen had been a Michaeline before his election to the See of Grecotha. He could easily play a soldier.
But why would the renegade Alister Cullen have fled to Kierney, of all places, travelling with but one companion? That companion would be Michaeline, too, they realized now, both by his bearing and the fact that Cullen was Michaeline, but who was he? Not Joram MacRorie, the heretic Camber’s son and longtime secretary to Bishop Cullen. MacRorie was younger and fairer.
Who, then?
“What about Jebediah of Alcara?” one of the men guessed. Earl Manfred had said something about Alcara escaping with Cullen and MacRorie on Christmas Day. Could this be the infamous Earl Jebediah, grand master of the now-proscribed Michaelines?
The dual possibility sobered the four, for the thought of taking on two Deryni—and Michaelines, at that—was not reassuring. Of course, they could always enlist aid from others here at the inn; but princely rewards had been offered for the apprehension of both these men, especially if Cullen could be taken alive, and avarice demanded that the reward not be shared. Besides, as one of the knights recalled, those other Deryni at Trurill had not put up that much of a fight. They had died as easily as any other folk, their highly vaunted magic never making an appearance at all. If these Deryni were no different, what had they to fear on that account? And were not the blessings of Archbishop Hubert and Bishop Edward still upon them?
As for Michaelines, what were they? These Michaelines were ol
d men, and only two of them. Against four elite knights, half their age, how good could they be?
Their courage thus bolstered by bravado and mellow ale, they settled down to plan their strategy. If these men were Cullen and Alcara, they still had not deduced why they were in Kierney—and that was doubtless something their lord would like very much to know. Perhaps it was all a part of some Deryni plot, such as Earl Manfred had been warned of by his brother only last week, when word of the renegade Cullen’s suspension and condemnation had been received at Cor Culdi.
The possibility that the two were on their way to rendezvous with others of their kind whetted the knights’ greed even more, for if they could lead their lord to a whole nest of Deryni, they would receive even greater reward than if they only brought in Cullen and Alcara. And if they could capture even these two alive, how much greater pleasure might their lord derive—and how much greater reward give—if he could torture them before their execution? In the meantime, if they could but follow the two after the storm and discover their intention, they might find that they could handle the situation all by themselves. Then they would have to share their reward with no one.
And so the four did not confront the strangers that night, merely keeping watch, by turns, that the pair should not slip away before they knew it, as the storm waned.
And Camber and Jebediah, unaware of the scrutiny and the conspiracy they had inspired, now that they were so close to their destination, did not take it amiss that, as they rode out the next morning, close on the dawn, the four knights were also saddling up to ride.
They stopped near noon to rest the horses, pausing in the refuge of a small roadside shrine which also embraced an ice-choked stream and pool. While Jebediah led the horses to the pool, breaking the ice-crust near the edge with his heel, Camber crunched across the fine powder of the previous night’s snow to the shrine itself to pay his respects, his boots leaving darker footprints in the virgin snow. They were only a few hours from Saint Mary’s. Best to try to contact Joram and Evaine now, for there had been no opportunity in the closeness of the inn the night before.
The shrine was a miniature chapel set on a post, open toward the clearing, with a steeply-peaked roof to protect the wooden statue within. Little drifts had built up on the base and around the statue’s feet, and Camber scooped them away with his gloved hands before bowing his head in a brief prayer for continuing guidance. The stillness was profound, broken only by the horses’ soft slurping, occasional snorts, and the jingle of bits and curb chains.
He did not hear the approach of other riders until they were nearly upon them, for he was deep in trance, and the new snow muffled hoofbeats. Even Jebediah gave the four riders only cursory attention as they came around a close curve and walked their mounts toward the pool, for Camber’s stallion chose that moment to raise its head and whinny menacingly at the other horses’ approach, lacing back its ears and wheeling around to kick, so that Jebediah had to maneuver quickly to avoid being shouldered into the icy water. Camber turned, roused from his meditations by the commotion—he had just touched his daughter’s mind in a first, fleeting brush of contact—but Jebediah’s attention was occupied with getting the horses back under control, and he obviously could not see the four men reaching for their swords.
Too late Camber recognized their identity and their intention. They must somehow have spotted him and Jebediah, then followed and watched for a chance when the odds were in their favor—and the four could hardly have two Deryni at a better disadvantage!
Even as Camber shouted out a warning, jarring Jebediah with mind as well as voice and starting to dash across the clearing with drawn sword, the four were converging on the grand master, one of them nearly connecting a killing blow to his head but wounding a horse instead, as the Michaeline ducked.
The horse fell screaming, nearly knocking Jebediah down, but he managed to cling to the reins of the second horse and use it as a shield, ducking behind it long enough to draw his sword and reappear unexpectedly on the other side and slash an attacker deeply across the lower leg. The blood of the dying horse and the wounded man showered the snow, the man cursing as he yanked his horse back a few steps—but only far enough for one of his companions to move in for another try. While Jebediah dealt with that, a third assailant delivered a numbing blow to his left shoulder, the broadsword slicing through leather and mail and partway into flesh.
Jebediah cried out, releasing the reins of the horse he was still holding, and at the same time a great hoof thudded into his chest with almost enough force to shatter ribs. His mail saved him, though he had to gasp to breathe. He recoiled against the fourth horse and rider, half-stunned, but he retained enough presence of mind to use his position to twist around and fling the rider’s leg up and over unexpectedly, dumping the man heavily onto the trampled snow before whirling once more to parry a sword thrust. Milling horses screamed and kicked, presenting almost as much danger as the attackers’ swords.
Camber reached them then, snapping the edge of his cloak in the face of a startled warhorse even as his sword sought the rider of a second. The first horse shied and reared, throwing its rider into another and adding to the confusion, while Camber and the second man exchanged a flurry of blows. He did not see Jebediah take his next wound, though he heard him gasp and curse as he tried to retaliate, for Camber was busy avoiding his own assailant’s blade. He only just succeeded in deflecting a potentially killing blow to a glancing one instead. The man’s sword cut a bloody track down his leg from midthigh almost to knee, but he hardly felt it in the heat of battle as he continued to fight. He had to get to Jebediah and defend him!
Two men were unhorsed now, one of them not moving, but Camber realized that if he and Jebediah were to have any chance at all, they must better the odds by getting their other two attackers on the ground. Jebediah was trying to fend off one mounted attacker and one on foot, and his own mounted assailant was staying just beyond Camber’s ability to harm him seriously, pivoting his horse to present trampling, steel-shod hooves whenever Camber would work his way too close. Seizing a desperate chance, Camber lunged under the horse’s nose and grabbed for the reins, wrenching so savagely at the bit that the animal slipped and went down, first to its knees and then to its side.
Its rider was more skilled than Camber had hoped, though—perhaps too skilled for Camber in his present numbed condition. The knight managed to throw himself clear as his horse went down, landing on his feet and vaulting over his fallen comrade to engage Camber almost immediately. Camber felt the awful sluggishness of muscles growing fatigued, responding less quickly than they once had. He cried out as his opponent bloodied his arm and then traced another deep gash along his hip, just below the line of his mail, in a brilliant followthrough.
God, the man was fast!
He managed to stay on his feet, despite tripping over one fallen knight, but he did not know how long he could last. He could not prevent the numbing blow to his sword-arm, though he did succeed in switching his sword to his other hand and warding off a follow-up attack. He even scored a minor wound, to the man’s clear surprise. He supposed the knight had not expected him to be able to handle a weapon with his off hand.
His strength was ebbing, though, and he knew Jebediah’s must be, too. He saw the grand master sink to a sitting position, clutching at his thigh with one hand while he continued to fight off the other dismounted knight with the other, but Jebediah looked bad, his face taut and desperate against the blood-stained black of his leathers and cloak. He did not seem to notice the lone remaining mounted knight working his horse around to take him from behind. Loose horses plunged and squealed, crazed by the smell of blood and the clash of steel, and Camber’s opponent kept pressing him even harder, every time he tried to break closer to Jebediah’s defense.
Desperation entered his own fighting now. Kicking his assailant’s feet out from under him in a move he knew Alister had never learned in any chivalrous Michaeline school, he whirled toward the l
ast mounted knight and called on one of his most poignant Alister-memories, hurling his sword left-handed with all his remaining strength and a prayer.
In that instant, the clearing seemed to erupt with light, a soundless and unexpected shock almost jolting him to his knees.
By sheer reflex, he launched himself across the intervening space and threw himself on the remaining knight who had been harrying Jebediah, cutting the man’s throat with his own sword before the knight knew what had happened. As he released the collapsing form and drew back, ready still to fight, if he must—though he could not see, for the after-image of the flash—he realized that it had suddenly gotten very quiet. He could hear the horses crashing through the skeletal, winter-seared brush which surrounded the clearing, still snorting and whickering to one another in fright, but nothing moved nearby. After a few more seconds, his eyes began adjusting to the normal light level again.
He was spattered with blood, much of it his own. He was still too dazed to tell how badly he was hurt. Beyond his own dying victim, Jebediah was slowly curling into a ball, an oddly luminous sword sinking to the snow in his bloody fist. Behind, the man who had been the target of Camber’s desperate spell lay in a charred and definitely dead heap atop his equally dead horse, the man’s chest transfixed by Camber’s sword. The hilt was blackened and twisted like another he had seen only once, in a clearing at Iomaire.
He drew breath sharply, wondering whether his spell could have caught Jebediah in its backlash, but another part of him argued that this could not be, for Jebediah was still alive. Then he realized that his own former attacker was also dead, though there seemed to be no serious wound upon him. The eyes were open and staring, the face frozen in an expression of surprise and terror. As Camber reached out a shaking and bloody hand to sense the cause, he felt a residue of darkling magic—suddenly knew its source. Stunned at that, he shook his head to clear it and scrambled toward the feebly moving Jebediah.
Camber the Heretic Page 57
