Camber of Culdi Read online

  Ariella nodded briskly. “An excellent idea. Imre?”

  But Imre had moved to stare stiffly out a window at the mention of Cathan’s name, his chestnut hair silhouetted darkly against the snowfall, his hands clenched tightly at his sides. Ariella, realizing that he had resumed his previous depression, started toward him to try to comfort him, but he whirled before she could reach him, and stood glaring both at her and at Coel.

  “Arrest them all,” he said in a low voice.

  “Thuryn and Joram and Camber, Sire?” Coel asked, with some surprise.

  “I said all, Coel,” the king repeated, his eyes glowing with an almost hysterical light. “You were right about Cathan.” He swallowed heavily. “And doubtless you are right about the rest. I want all the MacRories in chains by nightfall, do you understand? All of them! There is not one who can be trusted!”

  The royal warrant actually reached Caerrorie just past suppertime, when all of Camber’s family had gathered in his study, ostensibly for evening devotions.

  Guaire of Arliss was dicing with the lieutenant and two of the other officers when the courier arrived, and even as the man approached, he knew how the message must read. He controlled the urge to glance over his shoulder at the doorway to the newel-stair leading to Camber’s chambers, forced himself to maintain an appropriate air of detached boredom as the lieutenant broke the seal and scanned the missive. He had already decided what he must do, if it came to this, so he was fully prepared for the lieutenant’s next words.

  “It’s a warrant for the arrest of the entire household, to bring all the MacRories back to Valoret for questioning,” he said, reaching down to gather his sword and baldric from the rushes. “Sergeant, see to the security of the hall. You men, come with me.”

  He gestured in Guaire’s direction and slipped the baldric over his shoulder as he stood, waiting while his men armed themselves. Then he picked up the order once more and headed for Camber’s stair. If he noticed that Guaire had made certain to get there before him, he gave no sign of it. Consequently, Guaire was the first to reach the door. The others stood back a few paces, all but two of them around the curve of the staircase, as Guaire, at the signal of the lieutenant, rapped gloved knuckles against the heavy oak.

  “My Lord Earl?”

  For a moment, the only sounds were those of the men’s breathing in the close stairwell, a few furtive clinks of metal against stone, and then the door opened.

  Camber stood in the doorway, his body blocking vision of the rest of the chamber. His eyes flicked over Guaire seemingly without particular recognition, then came to rest on the guard lieutenant two steps farther down the stairwell. Guaire knew that the glance had been far from inconsequential.

  “May I assist you in some way, Lieutenant?”

  His words were the essence of courtesy, and the lieutenant cleared his throat uneasily before extending the order he had just received.

  “I have a warrant for your arrest, sir. You and your family, and especially your son Joram and the Healer they call Rhys Thuryn. By order of His Grace, King Imre of Festil.”

  There was a skipped heartbeat in which no one moved or breathed, and then Camber slowly reached out and took the parchment. Behind Camber, Guaire thought he detected the sound of furtive movement, but he could not be sure. The lieutenant, his Deryni senses more keen than Guaire’s, evidently heard it, too, for he came up another step and laid his hand on the hilt of his sword as Camber read the missive.

  “There is no provision for question, sir,” the lieutenant said, as Camber reached the bottom of the sheet and took in the royal seal. “I must ask you to step outside now, and to open the door. We don’t want to use force, but we will if we must.”

  “Yes, I’m certain you would, Lieutenant,” Camber said, a little sadly, Guaire thought.

  He started to open the door further, James appearing at his side and looking very grave, and for a moment Guaire thought he meant to surrender, after all. Then he noticed that James’s sword arm was hidden behind the door, and that there were fewer people in the room behind Camber and James than there should have been.

  But before that could register with the lieutenant, James was bursting past Camber and pushing the lieutenant down into the arms of his waiting men, while Camber dashed back into the room to bundle Father Joram and Lord Rhys into a corner of the room, where they promptly disappeared—all three!

  Then Guaire and James were holding the stair at swords’ length, keeping the lieutenant and his men at bay in the narrow stairwell while flashes of light behind them told only that something arcane was going on, which Guaire did not care to know anything more about.

  He parried a sword thrust and slashed at a wrist, to send a second adversary screaming down the stairwell into the arms of his comrades with a nearly severed hand. James took another by surprise and ran him through the thigh, pushing the wounded man back so he only narrowly missed impalement on one of his own weapons.

  Guaire glanced over his shoulder to see the Lady Evaine pop into existence in that same corner of the room where Camber had just disappeared, and then he was fighting for his life again, warding off a concerted rush from two of his former fellows who had somehow managed to slip past James and his adversary and both attack at once. When he had remedied that situation, and could hazard another glance behind him, he was just in time to see Camber emerge from the corner of the room and herd the Lady Elinor and her younger son into the space with Evaine. Then the women and the child were gone, and Camber was the only one in the room; and he was dashing toward them and shouting at Guaire to look out.

  A stabbing pain in his side brought his attention back to the stairwell—too late to avoid the lieutenant’s blade. He felt a searing wetness all down one side of his body as the lieutenant withdrew apace, his blade crimsoned with blood Guaire knew was his own.

  But then sweet reprisal was upon the lieutenant in the form of Jamie’s sword. The man staggered back with blood spurting from severed jugular and carotid, a scream gurgling in his throat. The damage to Guaire was already done, but even as the young lord started to crumple, he found himself being whisked into the strong arms of Camber and borne toward that same corner of the room where such strange things had been happening only seconds before.

  James slammed the door and dashed to join them, but as the door gave under the fresh onslaught of men from below stairs, Guaire’s world began fading to a blissful shade of gray. Just before he lost consciousness, he had a sickening, swooping sensation, as though he were falling, and a blast of pure, brilliant energy which nearly held back the darkness. For just that instant, he could have sworn that Camber glowed.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Blessed shall they be that shall be in those days,/He bringeth back His anointed.

  —Psalms of Solomon 18:6

  In another part of the kingdom, darkness came early that night. The wind drove a new storm through the mountain passes, turning the twilight to white-shrouded blankness as two riders approached the fastness of Saint Foillan’s Abbey.

  They had met no one on their ride that day. The road was little travelled once the Yuletide season had begun, and there had already been more snow than was normal for this time of year. Even without the impending storm, the way would have been difficult. With the drifts growing higher by the hour, most men would have deemed the journey impossible, and have waited until the spring.

  Joram and Rhys were counting on that, reckoning, rightly, that even if Imre could have discovered their intent by now, word of their flight could not have reached Saint Foillan’s before them—and might not now until the spring thaws came.

  But this knowledge did little to ease their minds about the immediate problem. Somehow, they must enter the abbey confines undetected, find Prince Cinhil, and bring him out without being apprehended. Though they had reviewed their plans and all their combined knowledge of the place at least a dozen times in the past two days, with a thoroughness possible only for Deryni, they still could n
ot know in advance what human agents might unwittingly shatter the best laid of their plans.

  It had been dark for several hours when they drew rein in the shadow of the abbey’s outer wall. The moon had gone behind a heavy cloudbank, and would likely remain there for some time.

  Rhys huddled closer in his fur cloak—white, to help him blend into the snowbanks—then turned in his saddle to pull the extra horse in beside him. All of the animals were hooded and blanketed in white, both for protection against the elements and for camouflage, and in the dimness he could hardly see Joram, sitting his horse not four feet away.

  Joram swung down and secured his horse to a stump of winter-blasted tree, then moved to lay a hand on Rhys’s bridle.

  “Our timing is good so far,” he whispered. “They dare not ring the abbey bells at this time of year because of snowslides, but it must be close to Compline. Remember, no more talking until we’re out. Sound carries.”

  And that was not the only kind of communication they had agreed not to use, Rhys reflected, as he dismounted and began taking another fur cloak and a pair of woolen leggings from the spare horse’s saddle. Even their Deryni mind-speech must be used sparingly, if at all. The Ordo Verbi Dei was not a Deryni order, but there might be a few individual Deryni in it. And if one of them should be in deep meditation and chance to catch a careless word … It was not likely, but it was possible. And far too much was at stake to risk all on a chance which could be avoided.

  He moved close against the wall and watched as Joram drew out a coil of braided cord ending in a leather-padded, three-pronged throwing hook. The priest spent several seconds ordering the coil, arranging the loops to his satisfaction. Then he stepped carefully out a few paces from the wall and looked up. Rhys glanced back the way they had come and was relieved to note that he could not see the horses.

  The snow was falling harder now, and the snowflakes caught and glittered in Joram’s furred hood. After a studied appraisal of the wall, the priest swung the padded hook on its cord and flung it up and over. There was a muffled clunk as it hit the other side a few feet below the edge, and immediately Joram darted back to the shelter of the wall to freeze and listen, gradually raising his head only when he was certain that the slight sound had aroused no alarm. Slowly, he began pulling on the cord—then stifled an oath as the hook failed to catch, and came tumbling back, nearly on his head.

  The process was repeated three more times before the hook held. But then they were very quickly up the wall and over. A narrow catwalk ran along the inner edge of the wall, and snow-caked steps led to the ground a few paces to the left. Soon they were safely on the ground and huddled in the shadows between two outbuildings, their escape cord firmly anchored to the edge of the wall and camouflaged in the shadow of a seam in the stone.

  In the next twenty minutes, the two worked their way through the south applegarth and over the nearest footbridge, then past the lay brothers’ range, the cellarer’s yard, and under the very windows of the darkened abbot’s hall; past the abbot’s yard and across a final expanse of open court; and then they were crouching in the darkness of the abbey’s outer porch, listening for any sound of activity within.

  Through here lay the safest route to their quarry—provided, of course, that Saint Foillan’s followed the traditional monastic building plan. Along the nave and up the night stair, they should reach the monks’ sleeping quarters and the tiny cell where Rhys had last seen Cinhil. (The Healer did not even wish to consider what would happen if they could not reach Cinhil through the abbey proper. If they had to go through the abbot’s hall and cloister yard, the way Rhys and Camber had gone to see Cinhil the first time—no, better not even to think of that for now.)

  A sudden twinge of panic seized Rhys, a fear that he was a child playing at a very dangerous man’s game, but he forced the feeling down and concentrated upon removing his cloak, on bundling it with Joram’s and the one for Cinhil in the darkest corner of the porch.

  Then he was hovering anxiously at Joram’s elbow as the other slid a slender dagger from his boot top, knelt beside the entry door, and slipped the thin blade deftly between door and jamb until the latch gave with a satisfying snick.

  Flashing a grim smile, Joram sheathed the dagger and eased the door a crack, peering into the dimness for a long time. Finally he whispered, “Clear,” and glanced at his partner.

  The word was more breathed than spoken, and as he edged the door open enough to slip through, he motioned Rhys into the shadows to the right of the nave. A short pause, just long enough to relatch the door, and he was kneeling behind a column with Rhys to scan the long expanse of nave, straining to pierce the gloom which the few candles only barely touched.

  They watched for a long time, studying the arrangement of pillars and side chapels and occasional funeral effigies along the clerestory aisle. A processional door was given their fleeting attention, but then they cast wary eyes on the lay brothers’ stair, which disappeared into the darkness to their right. There was no need to fear the door, for it was used only by day; but the stairway was an entirely different matter. If some zealous lay brother, seeking extra devotions, should slip down those stairs undetected before they could gain the relative safety of the south transept, they would surely be discovered. They must penetrate beyond the nave altar, with its revealing candles and exposed approach and its side chapels potentially housing hostile monks. And once that was accomplished, there still remained the other night stairs, which led to Cinhil’s cell. Best not to think of that yet, either.

  Touching a finger to his lips, Joram glided to the foot of the lay brothers’ stair and peered up into the darkness, casting out with his Deryni senses for some indication of movement above. But there was none, save the slight echo of snoring. This early after Compline, most of the brethren should be getting what meager sleep the Rule allowed such an order. From now until Matins, well after midnight, should be the quietest time for the entire abbey.

  With an inclination of his head, Joram gestured Rhys to follow, then began making his silent way down the side aisle, staying close to the wall, taking advantage of every possible shadow. The first of the side chapels lay ahead, flanking the nave altar.

  The chapels on the left were empty—they could see that already—their recesses dimly lit by Presence lamps and the banks of vigil candles guarding the nave altar itself. Behind the main altar, the brass interlace of the rood screen glowed darkly in the candlelight, mostly in shadow. Beyond that stretched the rest of the nave, with more side chapels, and the choir looming in the transept crossing. The night stairs they were seeking lay in the south transept itself, hard against the west wall. So far there was no sign of movement, but they could not count on that until they had made certain.

  They reached the side wall of the first chapel on the right, and Joram peered gingerly around the corner and inside.

  Deserted.

  The process was repeated with the second.

  Again, deserted. Thus far, their luck was holding.

  They crossed the second chapel, venturing as close to the rood screen as they dared, to peer up the rest of the nave and scan the north chapels before venturing further into the open for the breaching of the screen itself. But the remainder of the nave appeared to be clear, and the darkened choir showed no sign of movement. If anyone was stirring in the cloistered portion of the church, they could only hope that whoever it was would stay safely in the apse, far beyond the transept and the stairs which Rhys and Joram sought. Neither man wanted to have to desecrate a church by harming anyone within its precincts—and both men knew, though they had never voiced it, that they would kill, if necessary, to ensure Cinhil’s safe removal from Saint Foillan’s.

  They crouched and listened for several minutes, finally satisfying themselves that all was still. Then Joram eased his way behind the altar to the rood screen and laid his hand on the gate latch, cursing silently under his breath as the thing resisted and he realized it was locked. He cast a tense look at
Rhys, who was anxiously scanning back the way they had come; then he knelt and laid his hands on the locking mechanism and extended his senses around it. After a few seconds, which only seemed interminable, the latch moved in Joram’s hands. But before he could begin easing the gate open, wondering whether it would squeak, he caught Rhys’s frantic hand signal out of the corner of his eye and flattened himself against the back of the altar.

  Now he, too, could hear the slap-slap of sandal-clad feet moving up the nave. The man was alone, for which Joram thanked Providence, but if he continued on his present course he would soon be abreast of Rhys’s hiding place. Silently, Joram willed the man to move into one of the first side chapels—he had to choose one of the first side chapels, or Rhys would be discovered.

  He was never precisely certain, later, whether he or Rhys had any influence over the choice made by the hapless lay brother. But for whatever reason, the monk paused only briefly to bow before the nave altar, then moved noisily into the first chapel on the right, next to the one where Rhys was hiding. After several minutes, in which there was no further sound from the chapel in question, Joram eased his way to the left of the altar and peeped around the corner.

  He could not see into the chapel where the monk must be—but that was good, because it meant that the monk could not see him, either. Rhys had crept silently to the wall common to the two chapels and was peering around the edge when Joram looked out. After a moment, he withdrew and glanced at Joram, giving a slight nod of his head. If the monk’s suspicions should be aroused now, at least Rhys could silence him before he could give the alarm.

  With a deep breath to steady his nerves, Joram moved back to the rood screen and turned the latch. No sound came from the metal as he eased the gate back far enough to enter. Thank God for the monks’ industry; the hinges were well oiled and silent. They gained the relative shelter of the next side chapel without mishap, leaving the rood-screen gate closed but not latched as they passed into the domain of the cloistered monks.