The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy Page 3

  “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 indulgent 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 leaving 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?”

  “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.