The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy

by Katherine Kurtz

  “So, it was magic which you and the others worked on me that night,” Javan said.

  Rhys did not need to ask which night. He could only hope to convince the boy that no harm had been intended, that the reasons for the action would be seen as acceptable in due time.

  “Is that so wrong?” he answered back. “We meant no harm. Your father would never have countenanced that.”

  “Just what did he countenance?” Javan asked softly. “Tavis said you were outside the circle, that he could read no details of what was done, and why. I am—changed, Rhys. I believe your Joram and Evaine and Alister did that to me.”

  “And your father,” Rhys reminded him, not daring to take his eyes from the boy’s face for fear of losing what little grip he had regained of control.

  A flicker of uncertainty passed across the boy’s face and then was gone. “My father. Yes, he was there, I understand. But was what he did at your behest or at his own? I wonder.”

  Rhys heard nothing, but suddenly Tavis motioned Javan toward the door. The prince went without question, standing in a listening attitude and nodding as footsteps approached.

  “I think it’s Rhys Michael and some of the squires,” he whispered.

  Instantly, Tavis took Rhys’s face between his hand and stump, catching and holding Rhys’s gaze with his own.

  “I’m sorry to have to do this to you, Rhys, but you leave me no choice. If Rhys Michael wants to come in here, I can’t refuse him, and I can’t permit you to raise any kind of alarm. You taught me this, too, though I don’t think you ever dreamed someone would use it on you.”

  Even as Tavis spoke, Rhys realized what must be coming, a part of his mind cringing in stark terror while another, more analytical portion noted, quite logically, that at last he had apparently found someone else who could learn it.

  All at once, what little of his senses he had regained was dampened once more and he was confined to normal, human sensory input. He felt numb, as if his mind were wrapped in cotton wool which muffled and obscured his usual heightened senses. And even in this state, he was aware of Tavis’s further touch, making his whole body relax as if in sleep, though the Healer left his hearing.

  He felt the bonds being slipped from his wrists and chest and could not stop his body from slumping even deeper into the chair. He wondered why Tavis had left him his hearing, why he had chosen a semblance of normal sleep to show Javan’s would-be visitor, instead of simply rendering him unconscious. If only he could raise some kind of outcry, could move, could see, could See—but he could not.

  “Javan, are you feeling better?” the young voice rang out. “Good morning, Lord Tavis.”

  It was Rhys Michael’s voice, and Rhys heard the older prince’s Shhhh, and then muffled footsteps as his brother was apparently admitted.

  “Yes, I’m fine. Lord Rhys came to help Tavis last night, and they took good care of me. He’s asleep now, though, so try not to wake him. Tavis says he sat up with me almost all night.”

  “Oh. Well, we thought you were still sick, so we went to an early Mass without you and then had breakfast. Do you know what they’re doing outside?”

  “What who are doing?” Tavis asked.

  “Bishop Hubert and the other regents. They wouldn’t talk much about it in front of me, but Alroy told me after breakfast that they’re going to surround the cathedral as soon as the noon Mass starts. If the other bishops enthrone Bishop Alister, Alroy and the regents are going to take them all prisoner and make them hold the election over again. They won’t let me go, though. Alroy says I’m too little. They’d probably be mad if they even knew he’d told me.” He sighed. “They never let me do anything.”

  Rhys Michael chattered on for several more minutes about inconsequentials, but Rhys hardly heard him. He was trying to figure out how he was going to get away and go warn Camber. When the door had finally closed behind Rhys Michael, with Javan having established that he really did not feel quite as well as he had first indicated and that he thought he would stay in bed for the day, Rhys still had not come up with a plan. His mind did not seem to want to function well with wool stuffed inside.

  “Well, Rhys, did you hear that?” Tavis muttered, touching his forehead and allowing him to open his eyes and regain limited motor function, though he did not restore Rhys’s Deryni abilities.

  Cautiously, Rhys shifted in the chair and looked up at the other Healer. Javan, too, was watching as if unsure of Tavis’s plans. Suddenly Rhys found himself wondering whether he had missed something he shouldn’t have.

  “Tavis, please don’t toy with me at a time like this,” he murmured. He tried to make his voice as firm as possible, under the circumstances. “Did I hear correctly, that the regents are going to attack the cathedral if the bishops enthrone Alister?”

  “That’s what it sounded like to me,” Tavis said.

  “And you’re going to let them?” Rhys gasped. “Don’t you understand what that means?”

  Javan frowned, glancing from Rhys to Tavis and then back.

  “What should it mean, other than the fact that the bishops must obey the king’s commands? My brother had stated his choice for archbishop. The bishops should not have gone against that choice.”

  Rhys shook his head and immediately regretted it, forcing himself to fight down the vertigo the movement had cost him.

  “Good God, they’ve trained you well,” he protested. “Javan, the regents have lied to you if they told you that. The king may recommend, and very often the bishops abide by the Crown’s recommendation, but they are not bound to do so by either Crown or canon law. Do you really think that Hubert MacInnis should be the next Primate of Gwynedd?”

  “No! I hate him,” Javan whispered. “But the Crown’s prerogatives—”

  “That is not a prerogative of the Crown!” Rhys interrupted desperately. “The regents would have you believe it so, but it is to serve their own purposes, not the good of the realm. Look to the law, Javan!”

  Javan lowered his gaze, shifted it uncertainly to Tavis.

  “Is he telling the truth? Is that the law?”

  Tavis looked at Rhys. Rhys knew the other Healer must be reaching out with the light probe of Truth-Read, but he could feel nothing. So this was what it was to be Blind. Thank God he was telling the truth.

  “He believes it is the truth,” Tavis said guardedly. “That is what he has been told. And the question regarding Bishop Hubert is a telling one. You yourself said, weeks ago, that you did not want him to be archbishop.”

  “But, the king’s word—”

  “Has been shaped by the man who would be elected,” Rhys interrupted, a hint of hope tingeing his thoughts for the first time since he had regained consciousness. “Hubert MacInnis is not a temperate man. You know that. I have no idea whose idea it was to give the orders against the Deryni religious houses yesterday, but I would be very surprised to learn that Hubert had no hand in it. If you allow the regents to go through with their plans today, in defiance of law, then you condone what happened yesterday, as well. If the king, who has all power in temporal matters, cannot be balanced by the clergy in spiritual matters, then soon our faith becomes but a hollow shell—a facade for despots to hide behind!”

  “My brother is no despot!” Javan began hotly.

  “No, but his regents are, and for another year and more, they will hold the real reins of government. If Alroy is very lucky, there will still be a kingdom for him to rule, when he finally does reach his majority.”

  Javan had gone rigid at Rhys’s words.

  “Tavis, is this true?”

  Tavis, too, had gone very still as Rhys spoke. Slowly he reached out and touched Rhys’s forehead, closing his eyes briefly. Again, Rhys guessed that he was being Truth-Read, even more deeply this time. He did not move under the other Healer’s hand, only praying that Tavis would see and understand that he spoke the truth, for all their sakes. After a moment, Tavis withdrew and opened his eyes again, clasped his arms across his waist a
nd shuddered violently.

  “God, I wish he did lie,” Tavis muttered. “But he’s right, Javan. If the regents aren’t stopped now, there will be no stopping them later on. Rhys believes they mean to destroy every last Deryni they can find. Last night was not even the beginning. There have been more subtle moves long before this.”

  “Well, can we stop them?” Javan asked.

  Tavis shook his head. “I don’t know how.”

  “I do!” Rhys said. “At least I know how to try.”

  “How?” Javan blurted, clipping off Rhys’s last words in his urgency.

  “Let me go and warn Alister,” Rhys pleaded, leaning forward in his chair. “The enthronement cannot be stopped, for that would accomplish the same thing the regents want. But it can be done in such a manner that the people will know the truth and the regents will not dare to oppose Alister openly. The bishops chose the noon Mass because it would be well attended. If they have advance warning, the situation can be turned to our advantage.”

  Javan’s lips had compressed in a thin, tight line as Rhys spoke.

  “You ask a great deal, Rhys Thuryn. In effect, you ask me to betray my brother.”

  “This would be no betrayal,” Rhys protested. “Alroy is not to blame. He has had poor counsel. If Alister is safely enthroned as Archbishop of Valoret and Primate of Gwynedd, he will be entitled to a seat on the regency council, and the other regents will be able to do nothing to stop it. Your father wanted him to be a regent—don’t you remember how the others ousted him? Alister was your father’s loyal chancellor. Do you think he will serve your brother any less well?”

  “As he served them with magic?” Tavis interjected. “Rhys, I still want to know what really went on the night King Cinhil died.”

  “You saw—” Rhys began.

  Tavis shook his head vehemently. “No! I saw your memory of that night. I still know nothing of what it was I was watching, or why those things were done. If you can tell us that—”

  “Well, why not just rip if from my mind?” Rhys lashed out, anger at their procrastination taking the better part of prudence. “Fill me full of some more of the drugs you swore to use only for Healing, and then wade right in! You’ll probably find out what you want to know!”

  He knew he had probably ruined whatever chance he might have had for mercy from the man who had already stripped him of his powers—but it was done now. Javan was staring at him as if he’d just witnessed some strange transmutation, and Tavis—Tavis’s face was contorted in some unfathomable expression.

  He consoled himself with the thought that at least if Tavis took him at his word and ripped his mind, he would probably never know what hit him—he had probably goaded the other Healer beyond all possibility of reasoned response—but Tavis surprised him. He could only guess that Tavis had been reading him all the while, and knew it was truth behind the words he spoke. Smoothly, as if nothing had happened, Tavis composed his face and turned to Javan, his manner taking on a certain brittle formality.

  “My prince, before today I have misled you. Rhys speaks the truth. With your permission, I propose that we release him and permit him to go and warn the bishops.”

  “Just like that?” Javan whispered.

  “Precisely like that.”

  At Javan’s tight little nod, Tavis turned back to Rhys and reached out with his hand and stump. Warily Rhys sat back in the chair and allowed the other to touch him, forced himself to take a deep breath and let it out.

  “I certainly hope you know how to put things back,” he murmured as he closed his eyes, doing the best he could, without the feedback of his Sight, to slip into relaxation.

  Tavis’s voice seemed to come from a long way away, just as a slightly heady sensation of falling threatened to overcome him.

  “We’re about to see, aren’t we?”

  Then, abruptly, his Sight was restored, at least to the level it had been before the blocking, still muddled by the drugs in his system. With an incredulous smile which grew to a grin, he opened his eyes to see Tavis drawing back, a little awed. Javan was watching with an expression which Rhys could only describe as amazed.

  “Are you—all right?” the prince asked.

  Nodding, Rhys sat forward and started to stand, then thought better of it and sank back into the chair. “I have felt better. We still haven’t counteracted what I drank last night. Tavis, I don’t suppose you were lying when you said all the antidote was gone, were you?”

  “No, but I can make up some more. It won’t counteract all the effects, though.”

  “It will make things better than they are now. Do the best you can. How late is it getting, by the way?”

  “Well past Terce,” Javan said, watching in fascination as Tavis began rummaging in his Healer’s chest for appropriate vials. “Perhaps as late as eleven. I think Rhys Michael had been back from Mass and breakfasted some time before he came here.”

  “But it isn’t noon yet?”

  Javan shook his head. “I’m sure it isn’t.”

  A period of silence descended, punctuated only by the clink of Tavis working with his drugs and potions. When he had finished, he handed the result to Rhys in a small cup. Rhys probed it as best he could, with his limited abilities, but realized he was just going to have to trust Tavis. After raising the cup to both of them in salute, he downed the contents in one enormous gulp, making a face as he held the cup out to Tavis again.

  “God, that tastes awful. Couldn’t you do any better than that?”

  “Sorry, it’s in water. Without sending out for more, the only wine we could have used wasn’t really suitable. You sampled it last night, and told me so yourself.”

  Rhys could feel the drugs already working their miracle of clearing his head, counteracting the fogginess in his mind, and the exhilaration of returning to near normal was sufficient to let him appreciate the wry humor of Tavis’s remark.

  “Pour me some water to chase this with, will you?” Rhys said, holding out the cup again.

  Javan picked up a ewer and poured, filling it to the brim, then filled it again when Rhys drained the first one and held out the cup for more. Tavis merely sat down on the edge of the bed and watched the two of them, gradually pulling in his shields as Rhys’s reached equilibrium and steadied. When Javan had put aside the ewer, he came closer to the chair where Rhys still sat massaging his forehead and trying to get himself together. As Rhys looked up, he had the distinct impression that the prince wanted to ask him something.

  “Question, my prince?”

  “Rhys, I—I’m sorry for what we put you through. But—damn it, you still haven’t told us what happened that night!”

  “I can’t, Javan. I gave my word.”

  “To whom?” Javan persisted. “To my father? If I’m never to know, what good did it all do? Will I never find out?”

  Sympathetically, Rhys reached out and brushed his fingertips across the boy’s forehead, was heartened to see that Javan did not flinch.

  “Someday, perhaps. And if you do, I think it will all have been to the good—even last night and this morning.”

  “But you can’t tell me now?”

  “No.”

  With that, Rhys made another attempt to get out of the chair, this time with better success. The walls undulated a little until he got his equilibrium established, but the effect was definitely better than he had felt since he first was drugged the night before.

  “All right, I’m at least ambulatory again, though I definitely have felt better. I’m going to need some help getting out of the castle, though. Tavis, can you come with me?”

  “I can!” Javan volunteered.

  Tavis shook his head. “No, I’ll go. You’re too recognizable. Besides, if there’s fighting, I don’t want you anywhere near it.”

  “I agree,” Rhys nodded, bending carefully to pick up his Healer’s mantle. But he was stopped by Tavis before he could put it on.

  “I don’t think I’d wear that, if I were you. Deryni i
n the cathedral this morning are going to be about as welcome as wolves among the sheep.”

  Tavis opened a chest at the foot of Javan’s bed and pulled out two heavy woolen cloaks, one black and one a deep royal blue. The blue one he tossed to Rhys before donning the black one himself. The cloaks only reached the knees of either man and were snug across the shoulders, but at least they were less conspicuous than Healer’s green.

  “Let’s go, then,” Tavis said, moving toward the door. “Javan, you wait here. Or, if you must get closer, stay on the higher levels of the keep where it overlooks the cathedral close and stay well out of sight. If the regents ever get wind that you’re involved in this, we all might as well give it up.”

  Christmas at noon was hardly brighter than it had dawned. The snow fell more heavily, if anything, but that did not deter the faithful who came to observe the Feast of the Newborn King and to see their new archbishop enthroned. Word had spread quickly the previous day, and the hostility which had marked the aftermath of Jaffray’s death a few months before seemed to have evolved to embarrassed acceptance, as if the election of another Deryni archbishop somehow was expiation for the murder of the one before. Besides, Alister Cullen had the reputation of being one of the most unassuming of his race, and had served fairly and faithfully as chancellor. And if King Cinhil had deemed it meet to have the Deryni bishop at his side all those years, then his counsel could hardly have been bad.

  Inside the Cathedral of All Saints, the gloom of the weather outside was even more pronounced, for the church was old, and the windows high and few, most of them filled with glass of a darker, more opaque sort than was favored in more recent constructions. The contrast between this ancient church and the newer one at Rhemuth was evident. Even the candle sconces and candelabra, blazing with their scores of lights, could hardly dispel the shadows which huddled almost like living things in the aisles and far corners. The cathedral was packed with presences seen and perhaps unseen. The mystique of enthroning an archbishop had never been more evident.