The Quest for Saint Camber

by Katherine Kurtz

  And indeed, there was none; no man could say there was, though many might lament that it had occurred, after the fact. All eyes turned toward Rothana in shock, but she only kept her head bowed over her clasped hands, sitting forlornly on her bench near Nigel’s pallet.

  “And what of Tiercel’s death?” Duncan asked. “Do you maintain that there was no crime in that, either?”

  “It was an accident,” Conall replied. “We argued. Both of us said things we shouldn’t have. It degenerated into pushing, and he—went over backwards and hit his head. I didn’t mean to kill him, but I was afraid I would be blamed.”

  “And you were feeling guilty, because you had been seeing Tiercel secretly,” Morgan added coldly. “And the reason you were seeing him secretly is because you were engaged in a crime with him—for you were plotting to usurp the Haldane magic, which has always been reserved to the senior Haldane. You planned eventually to rival the king for the throne. That’s why, when Duncan and I took measures to confirm you in the Haldane powers—after you had struck down your own father with your illicit power—both of us had the feeling that something was not quite right. We couldn’t really confirm you in the power, because you had already usurped it for yourself, in defiance of the law.”

  “No! It wasn’t that way at all!”

  “Then, how was it, cousin?” Kelson demanded. “We know that Tiercel always maintained that more than one Haldane could hold the power at a time—and you two set out to prove it, didn’t you? And now we know exactly why it was always forbidden before.”

  The interrogation went on for several hours. Partway through it, an overjoyed but fearful Jehana arrived, escorted by Father Ambros, but Duncan intercepted them and had Ambros take her to a seat in one of the upper galleries before she could interrupt, for Kelson did not need her distraction at a time like this. Kelson marked her arrival, but he did not allow it to shake his resolve. He sighed and slowly nodded when Conall at last wound down in his latest attempt at justification.

  “It’s pointless to continue this,” the king said quietly. “Your very refusal to allow yourself to be Truth-Read condemns you, Conall. What would you do, if you were I? How would you resolve this sad, sad state of affairs?”

  Conall, sitting dejectedly in a straight-backed chair, with Morgan and Jass MacArdry standing guard to right and left of him, lifted his bound hands in a weary, futile gesture.

  “What else could I do but kill me, cousin?” he said bitterly. “You killed my chances long ago of rising to my true birthright. And no matter what I say, you will condemn me now.”

  Kelson shifted uneasily, knowing that it was so. But before he could open his mouth to say anything, Conall suddenly gave a desperate lurch to the left and looped his bound wrists over Jass’s head, bearing him backwards onto the floor, with Jass’s body shielding his. He had overturned his chair as he launched himself from it; but, before it could hit the floor, he kicked it deftly into Morgan’s path so that Morgan tripped and fell with it. Simultaneously, he conjured a blazing aura of white light around himself and Jass that immediately made Morgan recoil.

  “Call off the archers, or he’s a dead man!” Conall shouted, wrenching his head wildly from side to side to try to watch them all as Jass subsided jerkily. “I don’t want to kill him, but, if I’m going to die anyway, I’ve got nothing to lose. Morgan, get back! You know what I can do. And if one arrow touches me, I can kill Jass before it kills me. I mean it!”

  Kelson had sprung to his feet as the struggle erupted, and Dhugal was halfway down the dais steps—as, indeed, half the court had started forward instinctively, while the archers took aim and the rest of the MacArdry men began to move—but the king’s stiff gesture halted all further notion of intervention, at least for the moment.

  “Conall, don’t be a fool!” Kelson said. “Don’t add deliberate murder to your list of crimes. What did Jass ever do to you?”

  Conall only smiled and whispered something in Jass’s ear, his eyes bright with defiance. The young border knight had ceased his struggling, arms slack at his sides to further shield Conall, and his eyes were half-closed. The field of energy keeping Morgan at bay distorted Deryni perception of precisely what else Conall was doing, but not enough to disguise the fact that he had taken control of Jass’s mind—for Jass’s hands slowly raised to begin untying Conall’s wrists.

  “Why don’t you go ahead and have them cut me down, Kelson?” Conall taunted, glancing up triumphantly at the hesitant archers as Jass worked at the knots. “Kill me, the way you cut down Sicard MacArdry last summer. But I don’t think you’ll risk Jass’s life further, if you can bargain instead.”

  “I don’t bargain with traitors, Conall,” Kelson said coldly, raising a hand to stay the archers in the balconies above. “But, just to humor me, suppose you tell me what you want. Surely you don’t think I’d let you walk out of here, after what you’ve done.”

  Conall, his wrists freed at last, slid his right hand back to twist it several times in Jass’s border braid, keeping the young knight’s head very close to his own while his other arm stayed close around the young man’s neck.

  “I want you to face me in a proper Duel Arcane,” Conall said softly, a wild, crafty look lighting his eyes. “I want you to face me the way you faced Charissa at your coronation—except that this time, the outcome will be a little different, because I’ve got Tiercel de Claron’s knowledge behind me to augment all the Haldane power we’ve both got.”

  A ripple of indignation and disapproval rose and fell in the crowded hall, especially among the Deryni, but Kelson only set his jaw, barely containing his anger.

  “Do you really think that would solve anything? Even if you won, Conall, no one would accept you. If you killed me, you wouldn’t walk out of this hall alive, no matter how many innocent people had to die to prevent it.”

  “Then I would make certain that they paid a high price for my life,” Conall retorted, “and I would die in battle—not at the hands of an executioner.”

  “And are you so certain you have to die?”

  Conall snorted. “Do you take me for an idiot? There’s no way you can let me live, knowing what I can do. If you don’t kill me, you’ll have to keep your best Deryni busy guarding me night and day for the rest of my life—because, having tasted the full sense of what it means to be a Haldane, I’ll never rest now until the crown is mine.”

  And though he would have wished it almost any other way, Kelson knew that this was true, for Conall permitted him to read it. Nigel knew it, too, sitting propped against Duncan’s shoulder and shielded by him—though he knew it not by any Haldane magic, but only honest human intuition and knowledge of his son. His eyes were dark with righteous anger as he struggled weakly in Duncan’s arms to sit up with more dignity.

  “I am ashamed for the honor of my family, Sire,” he said, as Kelson glanced in his direction. “He is my son, and I love him—but I do not like him. All apart from what he did to his own father, he has tried to usurp the throne and kill my king. For that I cannot forgive him. He is a traitor. He must die.”

  Nor could Meraude honestly plead her son’s case, though she said nothing in words, only turning pointedly away from Conall as Kelson glanced at her.

  “My lady?” Kelson said softly, turning his attention reluctantly to Rothana.

  She would not meet his eyes.

  “Do not ask me to speak for or against my husband, Sire,” she whispered. “Nor should my future be a factor in what you decide. I shall never marry again—never! So do what you know you must. Do what you were born and have been trained to do.”

  Sighing, Kelson turned back to Conall, whose face had gone hopeful and then a little sad as Rothana spoke. But the prince immediately resumed his expression of defiance as he looked back at Kelson, his arm tightening across Jass’s throat.

  “She’s said it all, hasn’t she?” he said. “Do what you must. And I shall do what I must.”

  “Very well,” Kelson said wearily. �
�I suppose you must have your Duel Arcane. Now release Jass.”

  “And how do I know you will not order the archers to shoot me before we can meet in combat?” Conall countered, as Jehana slowly stood, suddenly realizing what was about to happen. “Remember, I’ve used the archers before, cousin. I know what they can do.”

  Kelson snorted derisively, but his mere glance made Jehana sit down again.

  “I shall give you my word.”

  “Truly?” Conall replied. “On your honor and on the Haldane sword?”

  Kelson colored, but he knew Conall had read him correctly. Kelson Haldane could not break an oath thus sworn.

  “I swear on my honor and by this Haldane sword that I shall give you honorable combat, according to the ancient tenets laid down for the Duel Arcane—with two qualifications. First, if at any time before or during the combat you violate the terms, all oaths go by the boards, and I shall be free to deal with you in any manner I see fit.”

  “A reasonable concession, since I do not intend to violate the terms,” Conall agreed. “And the second qualification?”

  “The second qualification is that the Duel Arcane shall not necessarily be to the death within the circle, but only until one of us has a clear victory over the other. Presumably that will be me.”

  “A somewhat arrogant presumption, don’t you think, cousin?” Conall retorted. “Or are you afraid to die in the circle?”

  Kelson only shook his head sadly. “I do not intend to die anywhere today, Conall. But I do intend that you shall not have an honorable death in battle, but shall face just execution in the manner befitting a traitor.”

  The answer clearly angered Conall, but he seemed to realize that no more concessions were likely to be forthcoming.

  “Very well, then. The question is moot, in any case, since I do not intend to die, either. But I swear by my honor—for whatever you may think that is worth—that I likewise shall abide by the terms of Duel Arcane, with the two conditions you have set. Which settles that,” he added, rolling the compliant Jass off him and getting to his feet.

  The archers stirred uneasily, some of them starting to raise their bows again, but Kelson’s gesture stayed them.

  “Let no one interfere,” he said, rising briskly to hand his sword to Dhugal.

  His crown he gave into Nigel’s keeping, in pointed recognition that Nigel was still the heir, even if Conall should manage to win. As Kelson came down from the dais, Morgan was helping the groggy Jass to a seat on the steps. The king paused to convey his concern, setting one hand on the young border knight’s shoulder.

  “Are you all right, Jass?”

  “Aye, Sire. I didnae want tae let him use me like that, but I couldnae help myself.”

  “Not your fault,” Kelson murmured. “Don’t worry about it. Alaric, do I need to be concerned on Jass’s account? Conall hasn’t planted any unpleasant surprises, has he?”

  Morgan shook his head, tight-lipped. “It was strictly a contact control. There are no residuals. But be careful, my prince. From his Haldane potentials, Conall could be as powerful as you are. And there’s no way to predict what additional information and skills he may have gotten from Tiercel.”

  “Well, he still hasn’t got Deryni blood,” Kelson replied, glancing up at Jehana with a reassuring smile. “Maybe that will make the difference.”

  “That, or experience,” Morgan agreed. “Fortunately, he’s new at this game. That’s a disadvantage, regardless of how good his teacher was. Good luck, my prince.”

  Kelson nodded as he straightened. Conall was standing alone in the center of the hall, arms crossed on his chest, a faint glint of anxious anticipation lighting his otherwise smug expression. Someone had removed the chair to the side. As their eyes met, Kelson came down from the dais. Instantly the assembled lords began backing off to clear a larger space in the center of the hall, for many had been present when Kelson and Charissa dueled and knew what kinds of energies shortly would be raised and exchanged.

  “You’re sure you want to do this?” Kelson asked quietly.

  For just an instant, Conall looked uncertain. But then he nodded emphatically.

  “You’ve given me no choice,” he whispered. “I’m backed into a corner. No matter what I do, I’m going to die. But if I take you with me, that’s something, isn’t it? I only wanted what was rightfully mine, Kelson, but you were the king, and you wouldn’t give it to me.”

  Kelson snorted contemptuously. “When did you ever demonstrate that you deserved to be given anything beyond what your birth entitled you to, by courtesy? You could have followed in your father’s footsteps, Conall. Would that have been such a terrible fate?”

  “My father may be a great warrior, but he has no ambition,” Conall replied. “He might have been content to be always in second place, but I can’t be. It isn’t in my nature.”

  “Is it in your nature to accept disgrace, then?” Kelson countered. “Because that’s the only thing you can hope to gain by this display.”

  “One of us will gain disgrace, but it shan’t be I!”

  “This is pointless,” Kelson murmured. “Cast the circle.”

  “Me?” Conall squeaked.

  “Yes, you. You started all of this. You can start this final folly, too. Or don’t you know how?”

  The gibe had its desired effect. Drawing himself up in wounded pride, Conall backed off three stiff paces and, without further preliminary, raised his arms above his head and then to the sides, murmuring a setting spell under his breath. A semicircle of crimson fire sprang up on the floor behind and around him, sending watching courtiers scurrying farther back to flatten themselves along the south wall of the hall, those on Kelson’s side also retreating into the window embrasures on the north side.

  Kelson tested at the barrier Conall had raised, satisfying himself that it would not require a death to release it, once he completed his part of the spell, then swept his own arms up and outward in a graceful arc, holding as he uttered the words that would produce the counter. More crimson fire sprang up behind him, matching Conall’s, enclosing them both now in a circle of red.

  “Your turn again,” Kelson said, lowering his arms.

  The lightness of the king’s tone, suggesting the triviality of whatever Conall might attempt, angered the wayward prince, but Conall only raised his arms to shoulder level again, his palms turned inward toward the center of the circle.

  “If you’re expecting some trite piece of poetry, don’t,” Conall said. “My teacher didn’t believe in such things. I affirm that the circle shall contain all power that we shall raise within it, so that none outside may be harmed, and that it shall not be broken until one of us has achieved a clear victory over the other. Is that your understanding?”

  “It is,” Kelson agreed, also raising his arms again. And at Conall’s nod, Kelson began to pour energy into the binding of the circle as Conall did likewise, only barely aware, in his concentration, that the fire of the two arcs they had cast was rising to define a dome above their heads. When they were done, it was as if they stood beneath a dome of pinkish, faintly opalescent glass.

  Almost as soon as the dome was in place, Kelson shifted into an assault mode, not even bothering to glance outside as he stalked closer to the center of the circle, away from the barrier ring. Under the circumstances, he was not given to theatrics, so there was little outward sign of the energies he began to gather—for as challenged, he did not intend to forfeit the right of first strike simply because Conall was of his blood. The attack was launched almost before Conall realized that battle was joined.

  Conall staggered a little, absorbing the force of that first assault, but his shields wavered not at all, and he responded with a series of traditional testing spells that Kelson had countered before. The king did so again, with ease, and launched the expected testing spells of his own—which Conall answered as readily as Kelson had answered Conall’s.

  What followed next became a more earnest battle of wit and
power. For a time, Kelson decided merely to hold firm and let Conall spend his first exuberance on pointless assaults. Conall took up the challenge, fueling his attacks with increasingly vivid visual imagery—nightmare visions out of his own worst dreams at first, but then a relentless succession of images out of Kelson’s past, people and events that had either threatened Kelson or brought him great hurt: the fanatical and slightly mad Archbishop Loris, who had so terrorized Duncan; the doomed Sicard MacArdry, Dhugal’s traitor uncle, to whom Conall had alluded before, falling helplessly with a war arrow in his eye, shot down by Kelson himself within a ring of Haldane knights and archers, unable to escape; Sicard’s elder son, Prince Ithel of Meara, choking out his life at the end of a rope by Kelson’s order, unshriven and unrepentant; another Mearan prince, a priest and bishop named Judhael, bowing before the headsman; Prince Llewell of Meara, Ithel’s younger brother, accusing Kelson of blame for Sidana’s death, just before the executioner took his head—and finally, Sidana herself, drowning in her own blood in Kelson’s arms, the gore defiling the sacred altar before which they had just recited marriage vows.

  That last shook Kelson most of all—until Conall followed up with vivid, graphic images of his own wedding night with Rothana that reverberated in Kelson’s memory with his own erotic dream about her, during his ordeal in the cavern.

  But it also brought back the memory of that other visitation within the cavern shrine—of the shrine’s patron, grey-clad and powerful, standing at the edge of his circle and asking admittance; and Kelson had given it to him. He called on Saint Camber’s presence now, conjuring his image in as fine a detail as he could—the quicksilver eyes that a man could drown in, so very like Haldane eyes; the roundish, kindly-looking face surrounded by silver-gilt hair; the gentle but powerful hands reaching inexorably toward his head—toward Conall’s head.