The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy

by Katherine Kurtz

  With that, he looked up, not breaking the forced rapport he maintained, but seeking Murdoch’s face for confirmation of what he had just read. Murdoch went red, and Jaffray did not even need to use his Sight to read the anger in all three regents.

  “He’s lying,” Murdoch whispered. “He has to be. We know that MacRorie was part of a massive Deryni plot to overthrow the Crown. Read deeper!”

  Troubled by their reaction, Oriel returned his gaze to the face between his hands, closed his eyes for a moment, then shivered visibly as he turned his face slightly toward Murdoch again.

  “My lord, I dare not go deeper. This man has a suicide block of some kind. If I force his shields further, it will kill him.”

  “Then kill him!” snapped Murdoch. “I want to know about the conspiracy, and I will know!”

  “But, there is no conspiracy, at least not with anyone named MacRorie,” Oriel whispered. “These men sought vengeance for the death of a friend, but this Earl of Culdi whom you mention was no part of their design.”

  “Read deeper, Oriel!” Murdoch commanded, taking a step toward the Healer. “If you value your life and your family, obey me!”

  For a moment, Jaffray thought the Healer would refuse the order. Oriel squeezed his eyes shut as if to block out the sight of all around him; but then his shoulders sagged in defeat and his face relaxed to stony indifference.

  It was over in an instant, as Tavis had promised and as Jaffray had known it would be. As the man collapsed against the guard, Oriel gave a shudder and let his hands fall away, having to steady himself on the guard’s shoulder to keep from falling himself.

  Murdoch was scowling as Oriel turned toward the throne, and Hubert and Tammaron showed similar signs of displeasure. Tavis stared across at his fellow Healer with a look of raw fury which Jaffray had never seen in the pale blue eyes before. Oriel caught the look and blanched, hardly daring to lift his eyes to Murdoch.

  “He is dead, Excellency, as His Highness’s Healer apparently knew would happen before I came. Why did you not tell me?”

  “I told you, it was a testing. Besides, it is not for you to question us,” Murdoch said evenly. “What more did you read?”

  Oriel sighed. “A few small, petty sins; terror that what he himself had set in motion could not now be recalled. But I read no conspiracy beyond the pact the nine of them shared. The one called Trefor of Morland was apparently their leader, if you could call it that; they were hardly that well organized. He was a foster brother to a—Dafydd Leslie, who was executed this summer?”

  Hubert snorted, a priggish, perplexed sigh, then motioned the man away with a plump hand. “Never you mind, Oriel. We know the name. You may go now.”

  Speechless, Oriel sketched a helpless, sorrow-laden bow to Alroy, then turned and followed Sir Piedur out of the hall. Jaffray could not help noticing the contempt in Tavis’s eyes as his gaze followed the younger Healer out. His own reaction he could not resolve just yet.

  “Very well, Your Highness,” Murdoch said, when Piedur had returned to the hall alone. “I think it clear that pursuing this course of action will only cheat the executioners. I therefore ask Your Highness, what is your pleasure toward these men who would attempt to slay your royal brothers, and who have killed two of your good men?”

  Alroy swallowed and turned slightly toward his chancellor, standing at his left hand.

  “Earl Tammaron,” he said softly, “name a fitting punishment for men who would seek to murder my brothers.”

  With no outward sign of emotion, Tammaron turned his gaze on the three remaining prisoners.

  “Such men should be executed at once, Your Highness. Furthermore, their lands and titles, if any, should be attainted, and their heirs declared outlaw and put to the horn. In the case of younger sons, I would recommend that their fathers receive the same punishment, for having exercised so little control over their kinsmen.”

  “Execution for these and attainder and outlawry for their families?” Alroy asked.

  “Precisely.”

  “And the method of execution?” Alroy murmured hesitantly.

  “To be hanged, drawn, and quartered, befitting traitors,” Tammaron replied promptly. “The parts should be sent to every major town in Gwynedd and displayed for all to see and learn the fate of traitors and assassins.”

  Alroy’s face had gone ever whiter at Tammaron’s pronouncement. Javan had closed his eyes. Rhys Michael did not change expression at all, even when Alroy stood shakily to pronounce judgment.

  “We concur with the recommendation of our chancellor,” he said in a surprisingly strong voice. “The sentence will be carried out at once.”

  The three kneeling Deryni blanched, even through their drugged state. Murdoch watched their reaction, then leaned close to the king to whisper something in his ear. Alroy’s knuckles whitened even further on the scepter he held, but he nodded curtly.

  “We further command that the bodies of these others suffer the same sentence,” Alroy added, gesturing toward the bodies with his chin, “including the Earl of Culdi. The Earldom of Culdi is hereby confiscated to our Crown.”

  “No! He saved Rhys Michael’s life!” Javan protested, half-rising from his stool.

  “This is the king’s command!” Murdoch said in a loud voice. “So let it be done. Sir Piedur, you will assemble the castle garrison to assist in the executions and to witness the king’s justice.”

  As Javan subsided on his stool, the king turned and went out of the hall through a side door, attended by the regents and followed by Rhys Michael and several guards and squires. Oriss and Udaut and the clarks followed them, for note would be taken of any statements the prisoners made at the time of death, but Jaffray paused to kneel briefly by the body of the dead Denzil Carmichael. As he rose, the guards took the body and began dragging and herding the live prisoners out to the courtyard at the far end of the hall. With a sigh, Jaffray moved on through the side door with the others.

  When the prisoners, living and dead, had been taken from the hall, and all that remained within were a pair of guards by the doors at the far end, Javan finally roused himself from his dazed introspection and turned his gaze on Tavis, still crouching at his feet.

  “Was there a conspiracy, Tavis?”

  “I don’t know, my prince. I honestly don’t think so—and I say that not as Deryni, but as your loyal servant and friend. Even Oriel, who is now the regents’ tool, could find no evidence of a larger plot, it seems.” He chuckled bitterly. “In truth, I suspect they were after me, for killing Dafydd Leslie and for serving you—though it would have been a masterstroke to kill both the king’s brothers, too.”

  “And Davin MacRorie—was he a traitor?” the boy asked softly.

  Tavis could only shake his head in bewilderment.

  “Not a traitor—though what he was, I cannot begin to guess.” He paused for just an instant, then looked up tentatively. “Javan,” he whispered, “I did not tell the Court, and there was no time to tell you earlier, but when Davin died, I thought I sensed another presence with him.”

  “Another presence? What do you mean?”

  “A—” He sighed and shook his head, finding it difficult to express himself in words. “Forgive me, my prince. You know of Saint Camber, who was young MacRorie’s grandfather?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, it was his presence I thought I sensed. Davin acknowledged him as Camber. Camber was with him—I would almost swear it on my Sight! There was such a peacefulness about Davin as he died—not as if he willed it, precisely, but he—accepted it. And Camber upheld him.”

  Javan’s eyes had grown round with wonder as Tavis spoke, and now he grasped Tavis’s good arm so tightly it almost hurt.

  “You think that Saint Camber came to him at the moment of death?”

  Tavis swallowed. “So it—seemed.”

  “Oh.” Then: “Do saints do that often?”

  Tavis gave a semblance of a nervous chuckle and shrugged helplessly. �
�Damned if I know. I don’t think so, though,” he concluded on a more sober note.

  Javan mulled that for a moment, then cleared his throat uneasily.

  “Maybe they only appear to their families.”

  “I suppose it’s as possible as any other speculation. But—why do you ask that?”

  “Well, Davin had a younger brother, didn’t he? Maybe we could ask him.”

  “About Saint Camber? Ansel?” Tavis shook his head. “He will be long in hiding by now.”

  “In hiding? Why? How could he know?”

  “The two were brothers, and Deryni, Javan,” Tavis whispered impatiently. “He will have known of Davin’s death the instant it occurred, and he will have known what that would mean, for he cannot have been unaware of the secret game his brother played.”

  “What about Father Joram, then?” Javan insisted. “He was Davin’s uncle, and he’s a priest. If anyone should know about Saint Camber, he should. Or, what about Lady Evaine, or Rhys?”

  “Rhys, my prince? After what he did to us the night your father died? And the others are no less involved, I feel more and more certain.”

  “But, how can we find out? Tavis, we must know the truth! We must!”

  But they were allowed no further time for discussion just then, for the royal party was filing along an open passageway running just beneath the rafters of the hall toward the gallery at the far end. That gallery overlooked the hall in one direction and, in the other, the pitched stone courtyard which lay between the hall and the great octagonal keep. There it was that the executions were about to take place.

  Sir Jason appeared in the side doorway with a cloak for Javan, for the afternoon was growing chill as evening approached, and Javan glanced plaintively at Tavis in appeal; but the Healer shook his head and helped the prince up with a hand under his elbow. Grisly though the executions would be, Javan must witness them; and Tavis would not leave the boy to face that alone. Already, the mutilation of the bodies would have started, the better to terrify the three living prisoners awaiting execution. They could delay no longer.

  Sir Jason laid the cloak around Javan’s rigid shoulders, then withdrew discreetly; and Tavis, with a grim expression, began walking the boy firmly up the hall, where another narrow stair led to the gallery where the others were already assembled.

  “Courage, my prince,” he murmured. “We shall find a way to get more information out of my fellow Deryni, I promise you. Let me think on it for a day or two. It may be that Rhys can be our key, after all. He and I are Healers, two of a kind. I may be able to use some of his own craft against him.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  An enemy speaketh sweetly with his lips, but in his heart he imagineth how to throw thee into a pit: he will weep with his eyes, but if he find opportunity, he will not be satisfied with blood.

  —Ecclesiasticus 12:16

  In a dim underground passageway deep beneath Caerrorie, Rhys had his hands full trying to comfort the devastated brother of Davin MacRorie. From Camber to Joram the word of Davin’s death had gone, shattering Joram’s composure all the way in Argoed, where he and Jebediah had waited for Camber to join them for Michaelmas. The two Michaelines had returned to Camber, via Portals, as quickly as they could decently make their excuses to their vicar general. The details of the tragedy they read from a still-stunned Camber before deploying to gather the others, Joram to bring Rhys and Evaine from Sheele and Jebediah to try to find Gregory. To Rhys it befell to bring back the next MacRorie heir.

  Ansel had known, of course. Rhys found the seventeen-year-old Ansel huddled miserably in the passageway outside the Portal chamber, arms clasped around his knees, tear-bright eyes lifted in dread expectation as the panel slid aside to disclose Rhys. He scrambled to his feet as the Healer emerged, stumbling blindly into the older man’s arms and weeping bitterly as Rhys’s hand stroked the silver-gilt hair in futile comfort. Several minutes passed before Ansel regained sufficient composure to speak, but Rhys did not try to hurry him. The bond Ansel had shared with his older brother had been far stronger and of longer duration than even Camber’s tie.

  “Oh, God, I felt him go, Rhys!” Ansel finally managed to choke out. He sniffled and swallowed with difficulty, a loud, painful gulp. “I couldn’t tell exactly how it happened, but I knew! The master of horse must have thought I was having a seizure or something.”

  “I know,” Rhys murmured, keeping an arm around Ansel’s shoulders as the young man smeared an already damp sleeve across his eyes.

  “What—what did happen?” Ansel asked, after a few more deep breaths to regain better control.

  “There was a hawking expedition,” Rhys said quietly. “The princes’ party was ambushed by Deryni, at least six or so. We don’t yet know who they were or why they did it, but Davin took an arrow apparently meant for Rhys Michael. It—entered in the lower back, damaging his spine in passing, and lodged against one of the major blood vessels, Alister says.”

  Ansel winced and bit at his lip to keep from groaning, but he did not interrupt as Rhys took a deep breath and continued.

  “The injury was—very severe, and Davin knew it. He assessed the damage, and his chances of surviving, while still keeping his shield integrity from Tavis, and decided not to allow Tavis to try to Heal him. After the initial wound, there would have been very little pain. He was even able to receive the last rites through Alister before inducing an unwitting guard to ease him on his way.”

  “You mean, he—let himself die?” Ansel whispered incredulously.

  Rhys sighed. “Ansel, try to understand. He knew that trying to remove the arrow would almost certainly kill him. He also knew that Tavis would discover that he was Deryni, the instant the Healer tried to work on him, and that he would try to force his shields. There was also the probability of drugs being used to force his cooperation.”

  “Oh, God!” Ansel moaned.

  “So he set mental triggers to prevent Tavis from being able to work a death-reading,” Rhys continued softly, “and then he reached into the mind of the guard who was supporting him from behind and—had him jar the arrow, just slightly. Do I—have to go into the medical details of what happened next?”

  Ansel shook his head quickly and swallowed.

  “Was it—quick?”

  “He would have lost consciousness within seconds.”

  Ansel rubbed a shaking hand across eyes bleary from weeping, then shook his head when Rhys would have touched his temple to read his mental state with greater accuracy.

  “It’s all right. I’ll be all right.” He sniffed and swallowed, finally managing to raise a more composed face to Rhys.

  “So, what now? Will we at least be able to get his body back for burial beside Father?”

  Rhys sighed and shook his head, remembering Cathan’s grave in the little village churchyard only a few hundred yards from here.

  “I doubt it, Ansel. His own shape will have come back upon him when he died. Those who were there will have seen it. By now, the regents surely know. Unless I miss my guess, they’ll hold Davin just as much to blame as the others.”

  “But, he didn’t—”

  “You know that, and I know that,” Rhys agreed, “and the regents may even know that—but do you really think they’re going to pass up an opportunity like this to accuse a high-ranking Deryni of treason?”

  Ansel heaved a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping in dejection. “No. You’re right. For that matter, they’ll probably be after me, next, as the brother and heir of a traitor.”

  “I fear they will.” Rhys glanced at his feet, then looked up at Ansel again. “The Council is gathering to make plans. We’d like to include you. It will help to take your mind off what’s happened.”

  Drawing a deep breath, Ansel squared his shoulders and then raised his head.

  “I’ll come.”

  In the keeill, the others were gathering as the word spread. Evaine and Joram sat cross-legged to Camber’s right beside the white slab in the cen
ter of the dais. A single sphere of silvery handfire rested at the center of the slab, the only illumination in the vast chamber except for torches burning in the four bronze cressets.

  In the hour since Evaine’s and Joram’s arrival, the three of them had been sharing Camber’s experience of Davin’s death and remembering his short but valiant life, trying to find some meaning in those last minutes for which he had died. Davin’s final suspicion about the unpredictable Prince Javan had provided only bittersweet soothing to their sickness of heart. Evaine had wept, and Camber, too, but now the tears were past. Joram had not cried at all, but perhaps he would have been better off if he had, for every line of his body, huddled inside the heavy Michaeline greatcloak, spoke of grief and anger only barely contained. His face, lit mainly from below by the glow of Camber’s handfire, was a mask as cold as the white marble before them.

  After a while, Jebediah and Gregory joined them, with Gregory’s son Jesse, all three haggard and drawn-looking in the crimson light which Jebediah brought. The Michaeline took his place quietly at Joram’s right and extinguished his handfire, knowing the extra measure of grief which was Camber’s at losing a grandson as well as a young and promising colleague.

  But Gregory did not know, and did not fathom the depth of mourning of the three others already assembled there. Outrage was his overweening emotion.

  “Has Rhys gone for Ansel?” he asked.

  Evaine gave a brief nod.

  “And Jaffray?” Gregory pursued.

  “Still at Court,” Joram said, his words clipped with his own emotion.

  A little subdued by the sparseness of their responses, Gregory sat down in his accustomed place between Joram and Evaine, hands propped belligerently on his thighs. Jesse settled quietly and to his father’s right.

  “I’m sorry,” Gregory said gruffly. “I know how much Davin’s death must have shocked you. I didn’t mean to seem callous, but I’d like to know the circumstances. Alister, you were monitoring when it happened?”