The Quest for Saint Camber

by Katherine Kurtz

  And so, drawing strength from he knew not where, Dhugal dragged a weakly gasping Kelson back to the water’s edge again and poured water down his throat from cupped hands, using physical strength, his skills as a battle surgeon, and even his Deryni powers to force the king to swallow, then repeated the process with the fingers down the throat. He did this over and over again, each time forcing the king to swallow more water, each time getting weaker and weaker resistance—whether from his own manhandling or from the effect of the drugged wine, he had no way of knowing—until finally he sensed that further repetitions would only weaken his patient far more than any slight gain from continued treatment might warrant.

  He sobbed as he held Kelson close, himself gasping for breath in harmony with Kelson’s labored breathing—which would cease altogether if Dhugal relaxed his control at all. With the part of his mind that was not occupied with keeping Kelson breathing and avoiding the merasha disruption as much as he could—which was achieved only by teeth-gritting single-mindedness—Dhugal scanned for other, less obvious wrongnesses that he might have missed in the horror of dealing with the immediate emergency of getting the drugged wine out of Kelson’s stomach; but there seemed to be nothing.

  Nothing besides the concussion damage, of course, which could not have been improved by the buffeting Dhugal had been forced to give his patient to flush out his stomach. Since they were back by the water again, and whatever drying out Kelson might have managed before the crisis was obviously undone—both he and Kelson were drenched—Dhugal gently bathed the wound above Kelson’s left ear. He might as well find out the worst of the news.

  But in the first piece of luck since he had opened his eyes in this Godforsaken place, Dhugal found the cut a superficial one—not the skull-splitting gash he had feared. Most of the clotted blood washed away easily to reveal only a badly bruised lump over what he could sense, with powers and with fingertips, was the skull depression he had found before. Nor was it quite as deep as he had first feared, though it was a serious injury. For if Kelson’s brain was swelling on the inside of the skull, the way his scalp was swelling on the outside—

  Dhugal did not want to think about that. Later, if there was absolutely no other choice, he might try to use his powers to gently lift the depressed bit of bone back into place; but he had seen too many head injuries as a result of battle not to know how risky it was to tamper with them physically. He wished he had his father’s healing talent; but, unfortunately, he had found no sign of such a blessing in the short tenure of his discovery of his powers. He even considered trying to contact his father, the way he had contacted Kelson after last summer’s terrible battle at Dorna; but he knew it was futile, alone and unsupported as he was, and so far from Rhemuth.

  Besides, he did not even know if he could maintain what he was doing to keep Kelson breathing. He would have to sleep eventually, after all. He knew how to stave that off for a while, but not indefinitely. And even the cost of delay was high, after too long.

  What if Kelson was not yet breathing on his own again by then? And even if he was, how long might that take? What were they going to eat? How were they going to get out of this place? He had no idea where they were, for he had no idea how long they had been in the water or how long he had been unconscious. They had started this mad episode in rugged country, from which it might take days to get a rescue party to them, even if they could find a way to make their whereabouts known. Surely everyone could not have gone over the cliff with them—though he was certain that Dolfin and the monk had, and perhaps Conall and his squire as well.

  But thinking about the others raised an interesting question: How had his wine gotten drugged? For it was he who obviously had been the target of whomever it was who had decided to wreak mischief on this expedition. Ciard, who had charge of Dhugal’s things, was above suspicion—but who? Merasha was a Deryni drug, generally available only to other Deryni, and not even to all of them, else Morgan would have been able to obtain some during the winter, and they would not have had to subject themselves to Arilan’s harsh testing. And no one else in the expedition was Deryni or had close contact with Deryni.

  Of course, that had not stopped Edmund Loris and Gorony from obtaining merasha—so there must be human sources for it. But who, in the expedition, would have a reason to want Dhugal dead or incapacitated? And surely whoever had done it would have known that Kelson, too, might drink from Dhugal’s flask. It was a horrifying parallel to what had happened to Kelson’s father—but who would have been poised to take advantage of their helplessness?

  Thinking about it helped keep Dhugal alert when, after a few more minutes to rest from his and Kelson’s mutual exertions, he dragged the unconscious king back against the cavern wall, near to where they had been before, though closer to a pile of flood wrack that looked as if it might make a suitable fire to get them warm. He dared not break physical contact with Kelson to build the fire, for fear of losing his hold on the respiration control, but he was able—with much concentration, and at the expense of extinguishing his handfire for a while—finally to get a small fire going. It would only burn for as long as he could feed it with wood he could reach from where he and Kelson lay, but at least it was blessed warmth.

  He held Kelson close against him and tried to think warm thoughts for both of them as he mused on what had happened and tried to think who could have done it. And whenever he started to doze off and Kelson’s breathing faltered, he would jerk himself back to awareness and resolve not to do that again. He could not tell, as the hours crawled by, whether Kelson’s breathing was easing or not.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Yea, his soul draweth near unto the grave.

  —Job 33:22

  The sun shone brightly on the mountains the next morning, as if in apology for the disaster of the day before. But though the survivors camped by the waterfall began searching again at first light, and even found another drowned sumpter horse a few hundred yards downstream, they found no sign of Kelson or of Dhugal. Men-at-arms from Saint Bearand’s joined in the search, fetched by a messenger sent scurrying down the treacherous descent the previous afternoon, but the outlook for the king’s survival grew dimmer by the hour; by late afternoon, Saer reluctantly called off the search.

  Nor, with the king lost, was there any question of continuing on to Iomaire and thence to Cardosa, by this or any other route. Once Saer and his party got safely off the mountain and gained Saint Bearand’s again, the terrible news must be taken back to Nigel in Rhemuth, and a messenger would be dispatched to inform the Earl of Eastmarch that no royal party would be joining him.

  Beyond that, Saer had no plans. The new king must decide the course of future policy regarding Torenth. Since Saer was kin to Nigel by marriage and already a valued royal advisor, he had a fair idea what Nigel probably would do, but he would not presume to try to second-guess his brother-in-law at a time such as this.

  It was going to be difficult enough to tell Nigel that his much-loved nephew was dead—for dead Kelson surely must be, and Dhugal and the missing monk as well. The abbey men told Saer that part of the river went underground just past the pool by the waterfall, and no one knew where or whether it surfaced. Even the chances of finding the king’s body were virtually nil, if the waters had not given it up by now.

  Thus it was that a grieving and much diminished company descended the rugged mountain trail that afternoon, though Ciard, Jass, and the other MacArdry men remained, determined to keep looking at least through the rest of the week, in hope that eventually they might find some tangible clue as to the fate of their chief and their king. The rest straggled into Saint Bearand’s yard just after dark, there to take a much-appreciated hot meal and snatch at least some semblance of a full night’s sleep in proper beds before riding out the next morning, to return to Rhemuth via Valoret. The monks sang a solemn Mass for the king’s safety before Saer led out and promised constant prayers until Kelson’s fate was known for certain.

  Saer and t
hose with him rode fast all day, pausing only to change horses, and entered the walled city just at dusk. The bishops were at Vespers, the newly elected auxiliary of Valoret, Benoit d’Evering, leading the devotion. The rich counterpoint of the sung Office ascended joyously among the roofbeams as Saer wrenched open the postern door in the great west facade of the cathedral, but it dwindled to hushed surprise and apprehension as Saer led Conall, Earl Roger, and Father Lael down the center aisle and into the choir. A buzz of consternation murmured among the assembled clergy as the four paused just before the altar steps to make a ragged genuflection. Saer remained on one knee for a few seconds longer than the others before rising to turn and face the questioning faces.

  “My Lord Bishops,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically tremulous with emotion, “I regret to have to inform you that the king is dead.”

  They had been prepared for any of a number of announcements, but never that. A gasp swept universally among them, and almost to a man, they came to their feet, questions bursting unwieldy and incoherently from their lips as Saer held up both hands for silence.

  “There was an accident half a day’s ride north of Saint Bearand’s Abbey, above Caerrorie and Dolban,” Saer said dully. “We were climbing to take the High Grelder Pass down to the plain of Iomaire. One of the monks from Saint Bearand’s was our guide. We almost didn’t go that day, because it looked like rain and the monk warned us the trail might be treacherous, but Kelson wanted to go.”

  He paused to swallow, obviously seeing it all again in memory, and Archbishop Bradene crossed himself heavily.

  “What day was that, my lord?”

  “Friday? No, Saturday,” Saer replied. “The days have run together, I’m afraid. What day is it today?”

  “Monday,” Arilan said quietly. “Tell us what happened, my lord.” His face was ashen, and he longed to get Father Lael aside for a fuller explanation.

  Saer nodded, obviously pulling himself together only with great effort.

  “A—rain-soaked embankment collapsed under the front of the party. Kelson was lost in the rapids below, along with Dhugal MacArdry, the monk who was guiding us, Prince Conall’s squire, and many horses. The whole cliff side began to crumble. The king’s squire also went into the water, but we recovered him alive. And Conall almost went in. I managed to get a rope around him just in time.”

  Archbishop Cardiel, his face etched by grief, slowly shook his head.

  “Thanks be to God for that, at least.”

  He and most of the other bishops crossed themselves at that, several of them murmuring, “Amen,” and Conall bowed his head.

  “You did recover the bodies?” Arilan asked, suddenly guessing that they had not yet heard the full extent of the tragedy.

  Saer shook his head. “Only the dead squire’s and some of the horses. We searched for the rest of that day, until we lost the light, and most of the next day, but—”

  His voice broke, and he had to bow his head into a shaking hand for a few seconds, but then he went on.

  “Forgive me, my lords. The local people tell us that there is virtually no chance of recovering any more bodies after this long. Nonetheless, we left a party to continue the search, just on the chance that they’re wrong. If—if anything is found, they’ll send word. In the meantime, we—must ride to Rhemuth and tell N—the new king.” He swallowed again. “Bishop Duncan will also have to be told—and young Jowan’s family. I suppose it would be a wise idea if some of you accompanied us back to Rhemuth. Archbishops Cardiel and Bradene, in particular. There will be—arrangements to be made.”

  They surged up to surround him after that, asking questions all at once, unable to believe the enormity of the tragedy. In the confusion, Arilan drew Father Lael aside and shuffled him into the ambulatory aisle that led around behind the high altar.

  “Tell me what you saw, Lael,” he said softly, catching and holding the priest with his eyes, but not yet exerting any obvious control.

  Lael’s eyes filled with tears, and Arilan could read his deep grief so poignantly, without any further extension of his powers, that he knew there was no question in Lael’s mind that the king was, indeed, dead.

  “It—it was as de Traherne said, Excellency,” Lael whispered. “No one could do anything to prevent it. I—watched them slip over the edge, one by one, and there was nothing—I could do.” A sob caught in his throat. “I—think he managed to miss the rocks when he first hit the water, but he—”

  When it became obvious that Lael could not go on, Arilan gently laid his hands on the priest’s shoulders and drew him close, outwardly giving comfort while he sent his mind into Lael’s to read the full horror of what had happened. He saw Kelson thrashing in the water, Dhugal flailing about to try to reach him, the horses struggling, one smashed pitifully on the rocks where it first hit.

  And then Kelson, Dhugal, the monk, two squires, were being swept away. And later, beside a raging waterfall, men were pulling out the drowned body of one of the squires, and miraculously, the living body of the other. But of the others, there was no trace. And surely, the king, Dhugal, and the monk were dead.

  Nor could even Arilan bear to read any more of the tragedy. Though he and Kelson often had disagreed on matters that meant a great deal to both of them, and he had only just begun to get to know Dhugal, the depth of Arilan’s sense of loss over Kelson represented almost the same magnitude of grief for him as Dhugal’s would for Duncan, when he heard the news. For indeed, Arilan had been Kelson’s spiritual father, before Duncan came to take on that role—and long before anyone knew that Duncan was Dhugal’s father in fact as well as in spirit.

  Only by the greatest of acts of will was the Deryni bishop able to distance his grief enough to cover what he had just done with Lael, carefully burying any fleeting awareness Lael might have had that his mind, at least for a few minutes, had not been his own. In all compassion, he let Lael weep in his arms, considering what must be done next.

  Obviously, he must go back to Rhemuth with Saer, Conall, and the two archbishops, for Nigel would need him—far more than any of those four might suspect, with the possible exception of Conall. And with Nigel to be king, there was Conall himself to be considered—a new heir to be molded in the proper form to succeed Nigel eventually—and Conall was not the same sort of clay as Kelson, or even Nigel.

  But just as obviously, Arilan also knew he should notify the Camberian Council of what had happened. Another change of kings, not yet five years after King Brion’s death, would alter many factors in how the Council dealt with its self-appointed duties to safeguard the welfare of the Eleven Kingdoms.

  However, notifying the Council presented its own problems. Arilan could gain immediate access to the Council chamber via the Portal in the sacristy, only steps away from where he stood consoling the grieving Lael; but summoning the Councilors from their residences scattered all across the Eleven Kingdoms would take time—more time than he dared be missed. Furthermore, the energy cost would be enormous. Summoning the Council when they were not expecting it was never easy; and Arilan had already done it once in the past week to inform them of Tiercel’s death. To do it again so soon, and still have any reserve available to deal with the ride to Rhemuth and what might be required once he got there, almost required that Arilan have assistance to amplify his power.

  Nor was there anyone here in Valoret who could serve that purpose, without themselves being missed. After reading Lael, Arilan felt certain he could call on the surgeon priest if he had to, and he knew Cardiel would cooperate without demur, and Saer as well—but Arilan also knew that it was Saer’s intention for them to ride for Rhemuth tonight, as soon as everyone had a hot meal and fresh horses could be procured; Arilan and Cardiel must be among them when they did.

  And so, for the first time in his adult life, Arilan decided that his duty to the Haldanes came before any duty he might owe to the Council, so far as priorities for notification were concerned. Nor, considering the news to be carried, dared
he use the Portal to return to Rhemuth ahead of the others, for such action would shatter whatever cover he still possessed in the wake of the many things that had been happening over the last six months.

  No, he must ride with the others. The news was dire, but it could wait another two or three days to reach Rhemuth and the man who, even now, was king, though he did not know it yet. And then, when Arilan had helped cushion the first shock to Duncan, he must send the hapless bishop on to notify Morgan—for both of them would be essential in doing what must be done to bring Nigel to his full Haldane power as soon as possible. That was the highest priority.

  And all of this must be done before Gwynedd’s enemies learned that her king was dead and tried to take advantage of the instability—inevitable whenever a crown changed hands—that would unman even Nigel for a time and perhaps make him vulnerable.

  They were under saddle and away before Compline, riding by torchlight down the good, firm road that skirted the river, blessed, at least, with clear weather, each man alone with his thoughts as the hoofbeats drummed out the refrain, he is dead—he is dead—he is dead, heading for the first of the way castles where they would change horses and begin the next of several dozen legs of the sad journey home.

  He is dead—he is dead—he is dead …

  But deep in the bowels of the earth, miles from where loyal MacArdry men kept their ceaseless vigil over the waters that had claimed their young lords, Dhugal rejoiced in the knowledge that Kelson was not dead. Further, the king finally seemed able to breathe again on his own.