“It seems this discussion is not to be,” Cinhil said resignedly. “No matter. See who it is, Joram.”
As Camber had known it would be, Lord Jebediah of Alcara eased past the door which Joram opened.
“Your pardon, Sire,” he said as he approached, making a slight bow in Cinhil’s direction. “Alister, one of the Earl of Ebor’s men just delivered this. He said something about Gregory having been injured in a riding accident.”
The greying earl marshal was dressed in worn blue riding leathers—from his rosy cheeks and the amount of mud liberally spattering his body, it was apparent that he had been jumping his new hunter in the castleyard—but he was carrying a clean packet of parchment in one gloved hand, the green of a Healer’s seal bright against the creamy white.
Cinhil perked up immediately. “Is he all right? What’s happened? I sent Rhys and Evaine to him this morning.”
As Jebediah shrugged and handed over the packet—this was obviously the first time he’d heard of the accident—Camber broke the seal and unfolded the stiff parchment. He read the few terse lines of script, penned in Evaine’s precise hand but in Rhys’s unmistakable style, then refolded it and thrust it into his wide sash with a sparse little Alister smile.
“It seems our friend will be all right, Sire.”
“Thank God!”
“Rhys says his memory is a little hazy, but his injuries have been completely healed. Apparently Gregory isn’t convinced, however, and insists I come at once to give him the Last Rites.”
“Last Rites?” Cinhil sputtered, almost bringing on another coughing attack.
“Now, Sire,” Camber soothed, “under the circumstances, I think simple Communion will probably be sufficient. I suspect Gregory is merely being dramatic, to make excuses for falling off his horse. Still, he has asked for me, and you’re doing well enough. May I go to him? I should be back by dark, and Jebediah can fetch Tavis, if you should need a Healer before then.”
“Last Rites, indeed!” Cinhil repeated, shaking his head in outraged disbelief, but chuckling just the same. “I’m supposed to be the one who’s dying, and he wants the Last Rites. Oh, go ahead and see him, Alister. But you tell him that I’ll expect to see him here at Court for a full explanation, as soon as he’s able to ride again!”
“That I shall certainly do, Sire,” Camber replied, returning Cinhil’s chuckle. “Good day, Sire, Jebediah. Joram, we’d best ride, if we’re to get back by dark.”
When Camber and Joram had left the room, Cinhil sat quietly for several seconds, his grey eyes focused through and beyond the disrupted gameboard, then beckoned Jebediah to come closer.
“Jeb, I need you to do something for me.”
“Of course, Sire. What is it?”
“I want you to visit the royal nursery and observe my sons. Talk to their tutors, if you can. Especially, talk to Lord Tavis. You’re Deryni. Perhaps he’ll listen to you. Try to make him see why it’s important to get along with Murdoch and the other governors. Murdoch seems to have some concern about his influence over Javan.”
“So far as I know, Javan is doing well, Sire,” Jebediah replied, a little guardedly. “His weapons mastery is improving markedly. He hasn’t the agility on foot that his brothers have, of course, but he makes up for it in other ways. And frankly, his wit is much quicker than Alroy’s. It’s too bad that the good points of both boys couldn’t have been put into one.”
“Aye, there should never have been two,” Cinhil sighed wistfully. “I wonder why that happens? Their mother was overanxious to give me another heir, God rest her sweet soul. But do check on that for me, will you, Jeb? My time grows short, and I would not leave my sons totally unprepared.”
And in the corridor outside, Camber drew his son into an alcove and looked furtively up and down the passageway, silencing Joram’s incipient inquiry with a glance and a shake of his head. Taking Rhys’s letter from his sash, he opened it and scanned the lines again, running his fingertip thoughtfully over the seal at the bottom of the page.
“There’s more to this than meets the eye, Joram. This is no mere whim of Gregory’s. Even injured, he would not summon me without good reason. He knows Cinhil is ill. Nor would Rhys send such a message for him.”
“I didn’t think it sounded like either of them,” Joram replied. “Is there something more in the seal, perhaps?”
“I think so,” Camber murmured, holding it closer and scrutinizing it more carefully. “Keep watch, will you?”
And as Joram turned to the business of scanning the corridor, Camber held his sensitive fingertips on the seal and closed his eyes, letting his breathing deepen and then slow as he triggered the light trance which would enable any other message to come through. For several seconds he reached out with his mind until he caught and held the thought beyond the words penned on the parchment. Then he opened his eyes and exhaled softly. Joram returned his attention to his father.
“Bad?”
“I don’t know,” Camber said puzzledly. “I’m still not sure what he’s talking about, but the implications are staggering. It’s Rhys’s message. He thinks he’s taken away Gregory’s Deryni abilities!”
CHAPTER THREE
He that loveth his son causeth him oft to feel the rod, that he may have joy of him in the end.
—Ecclesiasticus 30:1
By midafternoon, Jebediah was finally able to make his way to what was still called the royal nursery, though its young charges had long ago outgrown the term, at least in their own minds. He had meant to get there earlier, while the boys ate their noon meal, so he would disrupt their routine as little as possible, but half a dozen urgent matters had suddenly presented themselves for solution almost the instant he left the royal apartments, and he was several hours finding answers. All of the problems seemed as urgent as his officers said they were, but he could not help noticing the timing. He hoped that it was only his imagination that Murdoch, Rhun, and Udaut all seemed to have such convenient crises which only he could resolve.
In any case, the royal nursery was very quiet when he arrived, and he could tell by his reception that his visit was neither expected nor welcome. In the large dayroom, huddled by one of the two great fireplaces, he found Crown Prince Alroy still at his books with his tutor, though it was usual for formal studies to be finished by this time of day. Brother Valerian, the boys’ Latin master, was standing over Alroy with a very stern mien, emphatically pointing out the correct translation of the military commentary which Alroy apparently was supposed to have prepared for the day’s lesson and had not.
Alroy smiled tentatively when he saw Jebediah come in, for the earl marshal was something of a hero to the sickly lad, but Brother Valerian immediately whacked the scroll beside Alroy’s hands with a willow switch and pointed to the text. Jebediah had the distinct impression that it would have been Alroy’s fingers and not the scroll which would have gotten whacked, had the marshal not been present. He supposed such discipline was necessary but he felt sorry for young Alroy, all the same.
By contrast, Rhys Michael, youngest of the three princes, had been allowed to set up his toy knights and archers in the previous day’s ashes at the edge of the other hearth, and was confidently explaining deployments and troop movements to another boy whom Jebediah did not recognize. Rhys seemed sunny-dispositioned and content; and a quick perusal of the strategy he was explaining to his classmate caused Jebediah to raise an eyebrow in surprised approval. It was the classic battle of Rhorau, and the boy’s words and gestures showed that he even understood it! The lad definitely had a head for military tactics.
A somewhat more involved procedure was required for locating the third prince. Jebediah did not see him at first, and was loath to ask for fear of bringing on reprisals after he was gone. Judging from what he had seen of Alroy’s treatment, that appeared to be within the realm of possibility.
He had traversed nearly the length of the chamber, inspecting several other clusters of young boys and their school masters, b
efore he spied Javan sitting on a bench in the window alcove across the room, next to a grisaille window which looked out onto the winter-dead garden. A large tree just outside the window cast an eerie network of shadows upon the prince and the young man who knelt motionless at his feet. The man’s back was to Jebediah, but his dark red hair and Healer’s green robe proclaimed him to be Tavis O’Neill, the very person with whom Jebediah had hoped to speak.
The pair did not appear to notice his approach. It was not until Jebediah reached the window alcove and mounted the two steep steps that Javan looked up and frowned. Now Jebediah could see the reason for Tavis’s stance; the boy’s deformed right foot was cradled in his cupped hands, its specially constructed boot stripped off and laid aside so that the Healer might work. Tavis was massaging the foot very gently, his eyes half-closed in trancing, obviously in his Healing mode, but it was evident from Javan’s occasional grimaces that something was amiss.
Cautiously Jebediah moved closer, not wishing to disturb the Healer’s concentration, but he was unable to see precisely what Tavis was doing.
“Is anything wrong, Your Highness?” he asked in a quiet voice.
Javan’s face flushed red, and Tavis started and then recovered, covering the deformed foot beneath his hands with a casual gesture which was not lost on Jebediah. He did not turn toward the earl marshal.
“My Lord Marshal,” Tavis said softly. “What brings you to the royal schoolroom?”
“Concern for Their Highnesses,” Jebediah replied. “It appears that my concern is well founded. What are you doing?”
“His Highness’s tutors are not always gentle in their training, my lord,” Tavis murmured, still not turning toward the grand master. “This morning’s training was particularly brutal.”
“Brutal?”
Tavis pivoted on his haunches, his face almost white with fury. “Yes, brutal! They made him walk a five-mile march this morning in the snow, wearing full mail and carrying an adult-weight sword and shield. He finished,” he said, fiercely proud, “and not far behind his brothers, either—but this is the price he had to pay. And I have already eased much of the hurt!”
As he spoke, he raised the foot he had been cradling and glared at Jebediah in challenge. The marshal, finally gaining a clear look, had to exert great control not to flinch openly.
The boy’s right foot was raw and angry-looking, where it was not purpling with bruises, the pale skin chafed badly all around the thick, misshapen ankle. The other foot was also chafed and red, though not as severely. Beside Tavis on the wide windowsill, Jebediah could see a basin of water and several damp towels, a glass vial containing what looked like soothing oil.
“Who is responsible for this?” Jebediah asked, his voice deadly calm and even.
“It was—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Javan interjected, cutting Tavis off before he could say a name. “If I’m going to be a warrior, I have to be tough. I have to be able to keep up with the others. I have to be able to lead them. I’m going to show them that I can.”
“Sheer physical ability is not the only requisite for leadership, my prince,” Jebediah said, biting off a harsher comment he had been going to make about whoever had been responsible. “Who has told you that it was?”
Javan stiffened, his lower lip quivering a little in his indignation. “If I am possibly to rule after my brother Alroy, I must be strong. Do you think they will allow another weakling to sit on the throne? Gwynedd needs a warrior king.”
“Gwynedd needs a king who is wise,” Jebediah countered. “If he also happens to be a warrior, that is fine. But it is not required. Your father is no warrior, and he has done well enough.”
“My father.” The boy snorted with a dejected derision. “Aye, he is no warrior. Would that he were, and had been, from the beginning. But, no, he must abandon his vows and be neither prince nor priest, and accursed by God. If he had not, I would not be thus, with the sign of God’s displeasure for all to see!”
With that, he jerked his deformed foot from Tavis’s grasp and tried to hide it behind the other one, turning his face away and knuckling angry tears. Jebediah, aghast at what he had just heard, looked at Tavis for some explanation.
“My lord, have you been filling his head with these mad tales?”
“It is not I who teach him history or religion, my Lord Deryni Marshal,” Tavis said bitterly. “Please leave us. Haven’t you upset His Highness enough for one afternoon?”
Jebediah could find nothing to say to that. As Tavis stood and gathered the crippled prince in his arms, to carry him away from the eyes which now stared from every part of the room, Jebediah felt like a monster. He watched them go, wondering how he was going to explain this to Cinhil and, even more, to Camber.
But at that moment, Camber’s thoughts were far from the princes and from Valoret. As he and Joram followed Jesse up the outside stairs from the castleyard, into Ebor’s great hall, he reviewed in his mind the little he had gleaned thus far about the situation for which Rhys had called him.
It was unusual for Rhys to ask directly for his help, for Camber had never really been able to learn any of the Healer’s Art which Rhys had mastered so well and so many years before. Camber had been considered a great non-healing adept, and Alister was not unaccomplished himself; but neither aspect of the man who now nodded greeting to Gregory’s various servants and retainers could compare with the specialized abilities of a gifted Healer like Rhys.
And yet, if Rhys had somehow managed to take away Gregory’s Deryni powers, then that was, indeed, a subject of great interest, both to Camber and to the part of him which was Alister. It was a thing which could touch all Deryni. Camber had never heard of such a thing happening, except in occasional head injuries which were so severe that other functions were also impaired; and in those cases, function could almost never be restored, and the patient surely died. Nor had he ever read of such a thing, though over the years he and Evaine had worked with some very ancient documents, indeed—records which sometimes spoke of many wondrous things not normally thought of as falling within even a Deryni’s abilities. The ancient texts said nothing about taking away a person’s powers deliberately.
Jesse led them up a winding turnpike stair for nearly two floors, then doubled back through a narrow gallery walkway which skirted along the length of the hall and overlooked it. At the end of the passage, a heavy, metal-studded door stood ajar.
The earl’s great, tapestry-hung bed could be seen through another arched doorway across the entry-room, the green-clad figure of Rhys sitting wearily on a chair beside the sleeping Gregory while Evaine stood behind him and massaged his temples. Rhys looked up as Camber and Joram entered, his face creasing in a relieved smile as he rose to greet them.
“Am I glad you’re here, both of you!” he said, laying his hands on their shoulders in a dual embrace. “Jesse, thank you for bringing them up. We’ll call you if there’s any need.”
Linked minds exchanged in an instant what lips would have taken long minutes to recount, even as Jesse backed out deferentially and closed the door. Evaine, too, joined in the rapport, the mind-brush of her affection reaching out to caress both father and brother. Even as their link receded to more usual levels, Rhys drew them all physically into Gregory’s bedroom, to stand along the near side of the bed.
“You’re sure he’s all right now?” Camber asked in a low voice.
“Perfectly normal. I only have him in forced sleep because I wanted to be able to talk freely with you. I know that I can duplicate the effect, though. We won’t even have to wake him. I don’t think he’ll remember anything out of the ordinary, either. He was only conscious for a few seconds, and he was still in a bit of shock. Do you want me to show you what I did?”
“Not just yet. Are his shields malleable?”
“To the four of us, yes. Do you want to read him?”
“I think so.”
Moving closer to the bed, Camber unclasped the heavy riding cloak
he had been wearing against the outside cold and shrugged it into Joram’s waiting hands, then blew on his fingertips and rubbed them together briskly to warm them before touching Gregory’s temples. As he let his fingers slip easily back into the thin reddish hair and took control, Gregory gave a little sigh and seemed to relax even more.
Deeply Camber delved, exploring the traditional pathways through which the Deryni potential was usually carried, appreciating the discipline of this particular Deryni mind and marvelling that anything could have neutralized it, even briefly. Then he withdrew both mental and physical contact and turned to Rhys.
“He seems fine to me. Perfectly normal, other than being open to the controls you’ve placed upon him for Healing. Now, what did you do to him before?”
With an indrawn breath of apprehension and resolve, Rhys moved in closer and laid his hands on Gregory’s head. “You’d best not come with me while I do it, at least the first time. Just stand by for a moment.”
“Very well.”
As Rhys closed his eyes and went into his deep Deryni trancing, Camber watched neutrally, aching to follow what the Healer was doing, but respecting his opinion that it were better not to do so. After a moment, Rhys opened his eyes and drew back a little.
“Take a look now,” he said, a twisted little smile on his lips. “Even knowing something of what to expect, I think you’re going to be surprised.”
“Indeed?”
With the arching of one bushy Alister eyebrow in skepticism, Camber laid his hands on Gregory’s head once again and extended his senses—and encountered no shields, no resistance, nothing—nothing at all which gave hint that the being beneath his hands was Deryni! Despite himself, he looked up quickly at Rhys, at Evaine, noted both their hesitant, slightly troubled little smiles. Without taking his attention from Gregory further, he motioned for Joram to move in and read with him, felt the increased potential as Joram’s familiar presence bolstered his own awareness of the mind they read.
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