The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy

by Katherine Kurtz

  He found only Camber awaiting him when he returned to Valoret, a little past midnight. Joram was at Sheele, sent to warn Evaine and Ansel of the night’s developments while they still had easy access to a Portal. And while Camber and Jebediah waited for Joram’s return, Camber outlined the situation as succinctly as he could.

  The birth of Evaine’s daughter was expected toward the end of January. Hence, though she had longed to come with Rhys when word arrived of Camber’s election, she had remained at Sheele with Ansel and Queron, the two younger children, and half a dozen loyal household retainers in what both she and Rhys had felt would be relative safety.

  Now Camber was not so certain of that safety, and even less certain of the safety of Evaine’s and Rhys’s firstborn, Aidan, who was fostered with the grandson of Camber’s sister at Trurill. If tonight’s madness spread, any Deryni, and especially any of Saint Camber’s kin, would be likely game for the regents’ forces.

  “And unfortunately, there’s no way to get word to Adrian MacLean except by conventional means,” Camber explained, as he paced the narrow confines of the oratory. “My sister Aislinn did not marry Deryni, so a Portal was never established at Trurill.”

  “Was her husband hostile to the idea?” Jebediah asked.

  “No, there simply wasn’t any real need. When we all were younger, she would use the old Portal at Cor Culdi when she wanted to visit us at Caerrorie—not that she came that often. She had her own life to lead, with three growing sons and her duties as Iain MacLean’s countess. In any case, the Portal at Cor Culdi is no longer accessible. You knew that the MacRorie lands had been given over to Hubert MacInnis’s brother, didn’t you?”

  Jebediah’s jaw dropped and then he shook his head. “I didn’t know about Cor Culdi. I hadn’t even thought about it. It was bad enough, when they took away Caerrorie.” He paused thoughtfully, then went on. “This sister of yours—is she still alive?”

  “Oh, quite. She was the youngest of the five of us—five years younger than I. I have another sister who’s nearly eighty. She’s abbess at Saint Hilda’s, down in Carthmoor. I’m sorry, I thought you knew.”

  Again Jebediah shook his head, a bemused smile curving his lips. “You forget, I didn’t really know Camber MacRorie very well before he became Alister Cullen,” he said gently. “This Aislinn, though—she can’t be the wife of the present Earl of Kierney.”

  “No, that’s her eldest son, also named Iain. Her husband’s other two brothers are dead, though they do have descendants.”

  “Then, she lives with her son and his family?”

  “No, her grandson, Adrian, and his family. And Adrian’s son, who’s a year older than my grandson, is another Camber. They call him Camlin, for Camber Allin.”

  “I see.” Jebediah ruminated on that for a moment, then glanced at Camber again. “Are you just going to have Evaine take Aidan to safety, then, or will the whole family go?”

  “I hope that all of them will go,” Camber said. “I certainly can’t guarantee that it will be safe indefinitely at Trurill, especially that close to Cor Culdi.”

  “And where will it be safe?” Jebediah whispered.

  Wearily, Camber sat down on the kneeler of the prie-dieu and rubbed his eyes.

  “There’s a monastery deep in the mountains beyond the Culdi highlands. It’s called Saint Mary’s in the Hills. Retainers of our family, not Deryni, established it more than a century ago. I’ve told Joram to send them there. It’s in the diocese of Grecotha, so I was able to expunge the official records. When a new bishop takes over, he’ll know nothing about it. Outside the local area, few people even know it exists.”

  “I see.” Jebediah stroked his chin thoughtfully. “And you—aren’t you worried for Evaine, travelling the Gwynedd plain in winter, in her condition?”

  “Of course I’m worried, Jeb,” he sighed. “But better she should be there and free than a waiting target for the regents’ retaliation. Besides, she’ll have Ansel and the servants to protect her and the children, and Queron to handle any medical problems, and the roads on the plain are reasonably good. There was no other choice. Adrian and Mairi would never release Aidan to anyone other than a member of the family.”

  “That’s both reassuring and inconvenient,” Jebediah said with another shake of his head. “What about Joram and Rhys? Won’t they also be targets, if it comes to that?”

  “Aren’t we all, if it comes to that?” Camber countered. “No, the rest of us will just have to take our chances. And speaking of Rhys, I think we probably ought to go back to my quarters, just in case he’s come back. I’m a little anxious about Prince Javan. Besides, I suspect that Niallan and Kai will have finished Mass by now, and they’ll be eager to learn what’s happened. I only wish we could bring them better news.”

  “What about Joram?”

  “I’m sure he’s just stayed to see Evaine and the others safely on their way. He’ll join us as soon as he can. Right now, I’m more concerned about Rhys. I certainly hope he’s had better luck than we have.”

  After leaving Camber’s quarters, Rhys followed the page Bertrand out a side gate of the archbishop’s residence and along the castle walls until they came to a narrow postern door in the great southern gate, to which the boy had a key. From there, they had slipped around the perimeter of the snow-covered castleyard, until they could enter the apartment range which connected the west end of the great hall to the King’s Tower. After that, it was a simple matter to make their way along the narrow passageways and up the stair to Javan’s quarters. As the page opened the door to Javan’s room, Tavis’s white face was turned toward his across the tossing, feverish body of Javan.

  “When did this start?” he asked, throwing off his mantle and laying his satchel aside as he came and laid his hands on Javan’s fevered brow.

  “About three hours ago. He’s burning up. Vomiting, convulsions—I think I almost lost him a couple of times there. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost say he’d been poisoned.”

  Rhys, scanning as best he could with the boy thrashing under his hands, shook his head. “No, there’s some kind of imbalance, but it doesn’t read like poison. What’s he been eating?”

  Tavis squeezed out a cloth in cold water which the squire held and began wiping down the slender body again.

  “Absolutely nothing that he doesn’t eat all the time. He had some cold symptoms last night, but he seemed all right this morning, and even when I left him in the hall this afternoon.”

  “Well, he certainly isn’t all right now,” Rhys said, running his hands down the boy’s limbs and shaking his head. “Bertrand, bring my satchel, please.”

  As the boy obeyed, Rhys peeled back one of Javan’s closed eyelids to note the pupil reaction, then rummaged in the satchel.

  “All right, the first thing we have to do is knock down this fever. Have you got some wine to put this in?”

  “Bertrand, pour some wine—about half a cup,” Tavis ordered, gesturing toward a flask and cups on a small table nearer the fireplace. “This is a sweet wine, but it’s the only kind he’ll usually drink. I can get something else, if you’d rather.”

  “No, it won’t make any difference. This is just some talicil. I’m surprised you haven’t given him some already.”

  “I have,” Tavis said, watching Rhys break open a parchment packet and dump the contents into the cup which Bertrand held. “Obviously not enough, though. He’s sensitive to some drugs. I didn’t want to overdo it.”

  Shaking his head, Rhys swirled the cup of wine and stirred it with his finger, made a face as he sucked the finger clean, and motioned for Tavis to raise Javan’s head.

  “God, that’s bitter. Anyway, let’s try some more. It’s hard to overdose with talicil. That’s the boy,” he said, as Javan swallowed automatically, draining the small cup. “Good lad. Now let’s cover him up and see if we can break that fever. He’s going to have to sweat it out, I think.”

  For the next little while, they busied the
mselves covering Javan with extra blankets. Both Healers monitored their patient closely for nearly an hour, each pouring Healing energy into the thin body to help burn out whatever it was that was threatening it. Finally, a few tiny beads of perspiration appeared on Javan’s upper lip and brow, heralding a full sweat, and then he seemed to lapse into normal sleep. When Rhys and Tavis had changed the boy’s damp bedclothes and swathed him in a robe more suitable for the temperature of the room, Tavis dismissed the squire with a weary wave of his hand and an admonition to go get some sleep, then sank into a chair close beside the bed.

  “I don’t know how to thank you, Rhys,” he said, shaking his head and rubbing his hand across his eyes. “I don’t mind admitting that I was frightened. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so sick before.”

  With a slight smile, Rhys flopped into another chair not far from Tavis’s and craned his neck muscles, sighing with relief.

  “You just haven’t gotten the feel of dealing with childhood ailments. My older boy used to get these odd little fevers all the time. He outgrew them, though. He’s just a little younger than Javan.”

  Tavis snorted skeptically. “Alroy has never gotten them, sickly as he is.” He stretched and yawned, then reached over to the decanter of wine and pulled out the stopper.

  “God, I feel like I’m the one who’s been fighting off a fever! Want some wine? Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be able to stand something this sweet, but I’m too exhausted to call for anything else.”

  “Sweet wine is fine,” Rhys said, nodding for Tavis to pour and thinking back to another time with Tavis. Then it had been the princes, the squires, and Tavis who had done the drinking—and Tavis not entirely of his own will.

  The wine had been a sweet Fianna wine, much like this one, he remembered, as he watched Tavis set his cup aside and rise to check on Javan. He had chosen it partially to appeal to the children’s taste, but also to mask the slight flavor and color of the drugs he had given them all that night. This was possibly an even better vintage, he decided, as he took a deep swallow and then another mouthful.

  He had just swallowed what was in his mouth and was starting to take another sip when he realized that Tavis had sat down again, but that he had not picked up his cup. In fact, the other Healer had never even tasted his. And now he was sitting back in his chair and gazing across at Rhys with a look of incredible satisfaction.

  Rhys lowered his cup and swallowed, suddenly dry-mouthed, testing for and finally detecting the slightly flat, metallic ghost taste on the back of his tongue that the strong, sweet wine had masked. Abruptly he knew why Tavis looked so smug.

  “Tavis, what have you given me?” he whispered, setting the cup precisely on the chair arm and trying frantically to quell the subtle buzz that was beginning to sound in the back of his head.

  Tavis raised an eyebrow, then rose and moved to the mantel, where he took down a small glass vial and brought it back to Javan. “It won’t do you any more harm than what you once gave me,” he said, raising the sleeping Javan’s head and pouring the contents of the vial between his lips.

  “What I gave you?” Rhys murmured, knowing that Tavis must be referring to the night of Cinhil’s death, but aghast that he should have discovered anything was done. “What do you mean?” he denied. “And what are you giving Javan?”

  “It’s a partial antidote to what you just drank,” Tavis replied. “Unfortunately for you, that was all there was—just enough to bring Javan around for what we—you inadvertently gave him.” He sat casually on the edge of Javan’s bed, within reach of Rhys. “I remember what happened that night the king died, Rhys. I didn’t remember before, but I remember it now; and this young man helped me.”

  He gestured toward Javan, whose eyelids were fluttering as he started to regain consciousness. “The only thing is, now he wants to know what happened to him that night. And I’m going to help him find out.”

  “You must be mad!” Rhys whispered, trying to hoist himself out of his chair only to upset the cup of wine and find that his legs would not support him.

  As the cup shattered on the floor, he crumpled to his hands and knees and his vision began to swim. The top was so evident now, he was astonished that he had not seen it before. All Javan’s illness had been a sham, manufactured by Tavis to lure him here and take him unawares. Already, he could hardly think coherently, and his body refused to obey him. His healing centers, especially, were almost totally inaccessible.

  He could feel his shields slipping askew without Tavis even having to test them, and knew that almost all of his being would soon be open to Tavis’s most minute inspection. He could not even shunt the most incriminating parts into deeper levels, for the shunting mechanism was one of the first things to go, under the drugs which Tavis had given him.

  The night of Cinhil’s death was buried deeply, but not deep enough to keep Tavis from it when he knew what he was looking for. The identities of the members of the Camberian Council were perhaps shrouded, but the existence of the Council was not. And the information about his new Healing talent was not hidden at all. Of all his most intimate secrets, only that of Camber’s true identity was perhaps buried deeply enough that Tavis would not find it.

  As he panted with the effort of staying on his hands and knees and tried to keep watching Tavis, he saw the other Healer bending over Javan, who moaned and blinked, then struggled to a sitting position with Tavis’s help, pulling himself up by a handful of Tavis’s tunic. As the prince’s cold but clearing Haldane eyes met his, Rhys knew that he was doomed. He would find no mercy there. He felt his arms and legs collapsing under him and could not keep himself from lapsing into semi-consciousness.

  “Tavis, you did it!” Javan whispered, struggling to a more upright position and staring at Rhys sprawled on his side against the chair. “Is he—asleep, or what?”

  Tavis laid a fur-lined robe around the boy’s shoulders, then went to Rhys and began hauling him back into the low-backed chair.

  “He’s not exactly asleep—more like a sort of twilight state. He can hear us, but he can’t react much. His shields are all but gone.”

  Intrigued, Javan shrugged his arms into the sleeves of the robe and scooted to the end of the bed. Tavis eyed him dubiously as he swung his legs over the edge and stood down, but he seemed steady enough on his feet. Javan padded over to the chair, then reached out tentatively and touched Rhys’s still left hand where it lay flaccid on the arm of the chair.

  “He’s awfully cold, Tavis,” the boy whispered. “Is he all right? I don’t want him hurt.”

  “Without what I gave you first to induce fever, the drugs lower the body temperature a little,” Tavis said, pulling a blanket from the bed and draping it over and around Rhys’s slumped form. “And I’ll be as gentle as I can, but I may have to hurt him a little, if I’m to find out what you want to know. Here, why don’t you sit on the other chair, opposite him? Are you sure you’re all right? Of course the drugs don’t affect humans as seriously, but—”

  “I’ll be fine. Just a little wobbly.” Javan climbed into the chair and curled up, watching as Tavis peered under his subject’s eyelid and then nodded to himself. “Are you going to read him now?”

  “Yes, I think he’s just about ready.”

  Slowly Tavis moved around to the back of the chair, his hand supporting Rhys’s head on its slack neck. He slipped his hand onto Rhys’s forehead and tipped the head back against him, at the same time laying his stump along the left side of Rhys’s neck.

  The pulse was steady and slow from the drugs. He reached out with his fine Healer’s control, sending relaxation all through the taut body without resistance. Then, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly to center, he sent forth his mind in search of that one incident, the night the king had died. Once-unbreachable shields parted before him like merest wisps of fog as he let himself descend deeper, deeper … and took Rhys with him.

  He found the night first by his own presence, reliving the saga of that other wine
as he had relived it half a dozen times in his own mind, with Javan’s help. The details tallied, and he learned the precise proportion of the drugs Rhys had administered—cursed himself as a fool for having omitted a subtle but critical ingredient.

  But all of that was from Rhys’s view, not Tavis’s own, or the even briefer memory of Javan. Here was new perspective. For when Rhys had left Tavis sleeping by the fire, and checked on the princes, he had gone to the closet and opened it wide—and there, behind a false panel in the back, had been Joram MacRorie!

  One with Rhys in memory, then, and seeing through his recollection, he watched Joram pick up Javan, while Rhys swept Alroy into his arms and followed the priest into a narrow, rough-finished passageway lit only by greenish handfire which floated just before them. They emerged in Cinhil’s private chapel, where Rhys laid the sleeping Alroy supine on a thick Kheldish carpet in the center of the room, next to a small table. He knew that Joram had put Javan down at the edge of the room and disappeared into the secret passageway again, but he did not see that happen because Rhys was kneeling with his eyes closed and his hands on Alroy’s forehead, reaching deep for control points which were not at all familiar to Tavis. When he opened his eyes, Evaine was handing him a moistened swab whose scent was pungent and familiar, and Rhys was wiping the boy’s right earlobe, piercing it with the needle which Evaine gave him, inserting a familiar looking ruby earring handed to him by—Cinhil!

  Now Rhys was kneeling by Javan’s side and repeating the operation, inserting an earring of twisted gold wire which Javan still wore. Strange, how Tavis had never noticed just when Javan had begun to wear it.…