The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy

by Katherine Kurtz

  “Bless me with your love, my little queen,” he whispered, praying that she would seize on this small act to sustain her—and him—through the rest of their good-bye.

  There was a long silence, and for a moment he feared that she would refuse. But then he felt a gentle touch on his hair, the weight of both her slender hands on his head. He closed his eyes and tried to feel the emotions of her blessing as she took a deep breath.

  “May the Lord our God go with you, beloved, now and forever. May He shield you in the shadow of His wings and keep you safe. May Almighty God have mercy on us all, and forgive us for what we have done. And may the Blessed Mother cloak you in her mantle and bring you back to me. In the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen.”

  Her hands left his head as she crossed herself, and he followed suit before looking up at her. Her tears were gone, a new serenity upon her face, as he stood and replaced his coronet. He took her hands in his again.

  “Thank you, my lady. I shall carry that blessing into battle as a shield. But now—” He kissed one hand, then the other. “I must go.”

  He started to bend and kiss her forehead, as he had in the hall earlier, but suddenly she was standing on tiptoes and pressing her lips to his. He was startled and tried to draw away, but she clung the more tightly to him, a tiny sob whimpering in her throat as her mouth opened against his.

  He was only flesh, he told himself a few moments later, as he walked slowly from the church to meet his retinue. He could not have helped it—not without creating a scene and humiliating the young woman who had given so much for him already.

  But another part of him yearned to turn back to her, where she knelt with downcast eyes at the altar rail. Another part yearned to take her in his arms again, and press her slender body next to his, and feel her gentle curves, even through the mail and leather he wore—to crush his hungry mouth to hers and drink so deeply—

  He swallowed and glanced at the floor as he approached the doorway, grateful for the layers of mail and leather which shielded him now from view. Fortunately, it was darkening outside, an early dusk with the rainy weather, and he did not think they could see his flushed face very clearly. He busied himself with his gauntlets as he approached them, bending his head so that Sorle could remove his coronet and pull up his mail coif.

  Then Cullen was laying the great, fur-lined cloak around his shoulders, and Cinhil was drawing the furry hood close around his neck and ears, striding down the chapel steps to where his war horse awaited him. Joram was already mounted on the other side, and Camber and Rhys sat their horses just ahead of his, Rhys nearest the steps, where Evaine stood with her hand on her husband’s stirrup.

  Cinhil nodded to Cullen as he gathered up his horse’s reins, fingering the red leather thoughtfully as Cullen gave him a leg up and helped him get settled. He saw Sorle and Father Alfred mounting their palfreys, watched Cullen spring up on his own chestnut stallion.

  Then the column was moving out, and a Michaeline knight bearing his Gwynedd standard was falling in ahead of him, and he was able to put her from his mind, his body already trading the anguish of his longing for the anguish of the saddle. It would be a long, long ride.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Am I therefore become your enemy, because I tell you the truth?

  —Galatians 4:16

  The royal army rode through the night, and through the dawn, and well into the forenoon, accompanied by a steady drizzle. Though the rain was not as heavy as it had been, still it soaked the horses and it soaked the men, and eventually soaked even the great lords in their oiled cloaks of leather and fur. Damp horses and men steamed in the watery sunshine as the sun rose higher in the summer sky.

  They stopped just before noon to rest the men and to feed and water the horses, having traversed nearly the half of Gwynedd in their march toward the border. Though the pace had been stiff, however, not even the foot soldiers were unduly wearied; Imre had at least left a legacy of well-trained and conditioned men. It was their present king who was feeling the worst effects of the journey.

  Cinhil’s every muscle ached with the slightest movement, and tortured thighs and buttocks had long since lost their ability to torment him to any greater degree. Still ill accustomed to riding any great distance, though his general horsemanship had improved considerably, Cinhil had tried to catch what jolting sleep he could during the night, when the horses walked, knowing that those whose job it was would keep his horse with the others. But every session of trotting would jar his entire body anew. Compared to that, the few times of travel at the canter were sheerest bliss.

  When they had stopped, Cinhil sat his horse unmoving for several seconds, wondering whether he still had the strength to swing down from the saddle without falling. He could not delay too long, for Jebediah and his lieutenants were dismounting all around him, and Cinhil knew that someone would be there shortly to take his horse.

  He saw Guaire make his way among the other milling men and animals and approach, to lay his hand on Cinhil’s reins. The young lord’s earnest, human face was upturned in genuine sympathy.

  “Do you need assistance, Sire?”

  With a sigh, Cinhil shook his head and started to dismount, the sigh turning to groan as he tried to swing his right leg clear of the high cantle. He succeeded, but his face was white with the effort by the time he got on the ground, his legs trembling beneath him as he supported himself briefly against the stirrup.

  “Are you all right, Sire?” Guaire asked.

  “I’m fine,” Cinhil whispered.

  The area in his immediate vicinity was clearing rapidly, as his companions led their horses away to be watered, and almost before he realized, Sorle was beside him and unfolding a portable stool. As soon as its legs were seated in the muddy grass, Cinhil sank down gratefully, stretching out first one leg and then the other, wincing as cramped muscles protested. Guaire took his horse away, and Cinhil closed his eyes and tried to make himself relax. When he looked up again, Rhys was crouching beside him with bread and cheese and a cup of wine. The Healer looked tired but relaxed as he put the cup in Cinhil’s hand.

  “Drink, Sire. A little food and wine will help revive you.”

  Cinhil raised the cup and drank thirstily, not thinking until he had nearly drained it that it might contain something besides wine. The Healer had drugged him once before, without his knowledge or consent, and the memory still rankled.

  But it was a little late to worry about that, he realized as he lowered the cup. If Rhys had put something in the wine, it was already in him, working its function—and this time, it could not be a sleeping potion or some such, for Cinhil must remain functional. Besides, despite Rhys’s Deryniness, he was a Healer, obeying a code of ethics as stringent in its way as Cinhil’s priestly vows; and by that code, he could do no harm.

  Cinhil held out his cup for a refill and took a chunk of bread and cheese in the other, noting that the Healer looked across at him in faint amusement, eyes straw-amber in the hazy sunshine. The healing hand was steady as it poured into the cup and gave the flask into Sorle’s keeping.

  “I seem to recall another time when you ached like this, Sire,” Rhys said with a smile. “Will you let me try to ease your discomfort? This has been a prodigious journey for you.”

  Cinhil could not prevent a smile from working its way around a mouthful of bread and cheese. Not for the first time he wondered whether a Deryni really could read his thoughts without his knowledge.

  “I fear I will never be a prodigy where horses are concerned, Rhys. I also doubt that there is much you can do for me this time—unless, of course, this cup is like the one you gave me when last I rode like this.”

  Rhys shook his head with an easy nonchalance. “I fear ’tis only wine this time, Sire.” His expression indicated that he remembered exactly what Cinhil was thinking. “However, with your cooperation, perhaps I can undo a little of what your ride has cost. If I may?”

  In question, he laid one han
d on the king’s knee, and Cinhil shrugged and nodded. With a breath that was like a sigh, Rhys bowed his head in healing concentration.

  Already fancying that he could feel the results of Rhys’s efforts, Cinhil raised his cup and drank again, more freely now that he knew the wine to be untainted. He watched over the rim of the cup as Camber and Cullen and Joram approached, nodding and taking another bite of cheese as the three drew near enough to bow.

  “All goes well?” he asked, looking from one to the other of them.

  Camber nodded. “We make good progress. But we dare not stay here too long—only enough to rest the horses, and then we must be on our way. We should reach our campsite well before nightfall. Our scouts report that Ariella’s forces should be in that vicinity at about the same time.”

  Cinhil finished chewing his mouthful and swallowed, glancing around thoughtfully. “You seem confident of that. Suppose she changes her plans?”

  “Strategies may change,” Cullen said, “but the site of battle is more or less committed by now, unless the entire timetable is drastically revised. By riding all night, we have cut off at least one of her options for other attacks. Of course, there are still enough unknown factors to keep things complicated,” he added with a wry smile.

  Joram gave a grim chuckle at that, and Camber studied the tips of his steel-shod boots.

  Cinhil was suddenly aware that all three of them were tense beneath their calm façades, and were trying not to communicate their tension to him. Even Rhys raised his head and looked up at them, rocking back on his heels, his ministrations apparently finished.

  Cinhil was confused.

  “The weather seems to be improving,” he finally said, gesturing toward the sky with his cup before taking another sip. “Is that your doing?”

  Camber appeared reluctant to answer, but he met Cinhil’s gaze squarely.

  “Sire, a number of people have been working through the night for that—at considerable expense of strength and health, I might add. Since we do not know the specifics of the spell Ariella uses, we must try a number of counterdefenses, hoping one will prove effective.”

  “Are all of you involved in this?”

  “None of us directly, Sire. As I said, it takes a great deal of energy, which we in the field cannot spare just now.”

  “Well, at least it’s out in the open now,” Cinhil said, with a grimace of distaste. “Magic. No couching of things in euphemistic terms. You employ your Deryni powers—not you specifically, perhaps—but your Deryni do these things.”

  “If Your Grace would rather ride and battle in a storm, that can probably be arranged,” Cullen muttered.

  Cinhil opened his mouth to speak, a shocked expression on his face, but Cullen held up a gauntleted hand and shook his head.

  “Nay, do not answer to that, Sire. It was not worthy. I spoke in frustration and fatigue. But Your Grace must surely know me by now to be a prudent man in these matters. I would not condone wanton magic, no matter what the cause. Yet even I must realize the necessity of what is being done. We dare not quibble over methods when it is survival we fight for.”

  Cinhil lowered his eyes and set bread and cheese atop his cup, put all on the ground beside him, no longer hungry.

  “Still, I like it not,” he murmured low. “In truth, I have great reservations about all your abilities. God does not grant such powers to ordinary mortals.”

  “Are you not mortal, Sire?” Cullen said.

  “Aye, and I like not my powers, either.”

  Silence surrounded them all, an ominous, palpable thing, until Joram cleared his throat with a nervous cough.

  “Sire, this is neither the time nor the place to discuss such matters. We are all tired, and what seems frightening now, in the face of impending battle, may seem far less threatening in the safety of Valoret once more. For now, I would ask that you consider only a single gift sometimes granted to our people.”

  Laying a hand on Rhys’s shoulder as though in benediction, the priest gazed across at Cinhil, the gray eyes direct, unwavering, slightly defiant.

  Cinhil felt his throat constrict, and suddenly he could no longer look at them. Even he could not deny the benign nature of the Healers’ gifts—especially now, in the face of combat. Without the Healers, and there were others besides Rhys in their company today, tomorrow’s battle would cost even more in blood and pain and lives than war’s usual wont.

  He put his gloved fingertips together across his knees, and the scarlet leather was like blood on his hands. He closed his eyes, unwilling to look at them.

  “You strike me where you know me to be vulnerable,” he whispered. “You know that there is no argument I can make where the lives of the men are concerned. You have made me responsible for them. I cannot deny that responsibility.”

  “In truth, the magic which so worries you will be little used, once the fighting begins,” Camber said. “In battle, there are far too many variables, all changing far too rapidly. The most potent spell can be of little use if the wielder of the spell has his head lopped off before he can craft his magic.”

  “Then there will be no magic used in the battle?”

  “I did not say that,” Camber replied. “Should any of us come to face Ariella in single combat, we will undoubtedly be forced to draw upon any and all of our various talents. In the greater battle structure, however, the menace of grand magic will certainly decrease. We’re in a fairly strong tactical position, despite our lesser numbers, since we know Ariella’s strength, while she can only guess at ours. Victory does not always go to the side with the larger army.”

  Cinhil pondered that for a moment, head bowed thoughtfully in his hands, then looked up at the sound of horses being led toward him. Guaire had retired Cinhil’s previous mount to the baggage train, where the extra horses traveled, and had brought up Cinhil’s spare, a smaller dapple-gray with a smoother gait than the albino he had been riding. The gray nickered as he spotted Cinhil, and almost brought a grin to Cinhil’s face.

  “Ah, Moonwind,” Cinhil murmured, almost to himself. He stood, slightly bowlegged, and eased a gauntleted hand against the small of his back. Every abused muscle protested as he approached the animal and held out his other hand to the soft muzzle.

  “Thank you, Guaire. I suppose this means we must be off again?”

  Guaire chuckled as he gentled the horse, turning its near side toward Cinhil so he could mount. The stallion was restless, and Guaire had his hands full keeping him still.

  “I’m afraid it does, Sire. Lord Jebediah is most eager to reach our campsite before dark. At least Moonwind will carry you more gently, these last few hours, once he’s run a little. We suspected that Your Grace would be saddle-weary by now. That’s why we had you start out on Frostling.”

  Around them, the others’ horses were being led up by grooms and squires, noble riders swinging into well-worn saddles with easy familiarity. As Cinhil gathered up Moonwind’s red leather reins, not yet having summoned the strength or courage to resume his place of torture in the saddle, he watched Camber and Rhys and Joram mount. A Michaeline serving brother brought Cullen’s chestnut around, but the vicar general, instead of mounting, came over to Cinhil and gave a slight bow, offering his laced hands to give Cinhil a leg up.

  Cinhil accepted readily, grateful for the assistance, but even with Cullen’s help, it was all he could do to haul himself back into the saddle. As he settled, searching in vain for a comfortable position, Moonwind danced and fidgeted between his thighs. Every step sent new torment lancing through his body.

  There was no time to feel sorry for himself, however. As Cullen mounted up beside him, Jebediah fell into place on the other side, signaling for immediate departure. They set a much faster pace for the first little while, and surprisingly, the rolling canter helped. By the time they had been riding for perhaps a quarter-hour, Cinhil seemed to reach a plateau of pain, beyond which he could feel nothing else.

  After that, his legs settled down to a dull fati
gue, and Moonwind was much more willing to go easily, and he could think about other things.

  He was frankly curious about what Camber and the others had said of magic—though he would never have admitted that to them. He wondered about what Camber had said of “people working through the night,” wondered whether those who worked thus were with them, or safely in the keep at Valoret, or even ensconced elsewhere, in a place of which he did not know.

  He scanned the men around him as they passed, sending out tentative probes of questioning; but the humans would not have been capable of what Camber described, and the Deryni were all tightly shielded, each man wound up in his own thoughts and preparations for what lay ahead. He could have forced their attention—but he did not want that—God knew, he did not want that! He was afraid to let himself become more involved, afraid that he might unleash something within himself that he could not control. No, better to keep dormant the magic he had been granted, unless there was no other way.

  The sun came out in full splendor by late afternoon, the last rain clouds melting away with the sinking sun. Either Camber’s Deryni cohorts had succeeded, or else Ariella had given up on that particular harassment. Whichever, Cinhil was grateful.

  He had ridden alone with his thoughts for some time. Camber and the others had left him with a royal escort, perhaps an hour earlier, to ride to the head of the van and confer with the advance scouts. But as the huge column slowed and he detected signs of deployment for camp, he saw Cullen riding leisurely back along the line toward him. Cullen nodded as he fell in beside Cinhil once again, the sea-pale eyes respectful and without guile. The sun cast long, sharp shadows on the hoof-churned ground ahead of them as they rode.

  “We’ll be camping at the base of yonder ridge, Sire. Your commanders are riding to the top to survey the lay of the land beyond. Will you join us?”