“That man betrayed me!” Imre shouted, stabbing a finger at Camber. “That is why I slew his son. You do not know what Cathan’s death cost me. I loved him!”
Camber bowed his head, compassion welling in his heart for this weak, misguided king.
“But Camber’s complicity in this treason is proof that I was right,” Imre continued, hysteria edging his voice despite his best efforts. “Coel knew. I was a fool not to listen to him sooner. I should have destroyed the whole MacRorie brood while there was yet time!”
With that, he lashed out, silver flame lancing molten and searing against the crimson nimbus surrounding Cinhil. The prince’s defenses held, and for a moment he merely let the ravening tide of Imre’s anger spill and course around him harmlessly. The fire flared and spat and crackled between them for a timeless while, neither man touching or touched, until Imre, in rage, abruptly changed his tactics.
Dread and hideous shapes began to condense and solidify out of the mists, then—grotesque creatures of night and unfathomed dark sea-slime, with gaping jaws and tentacles, and claws and teeth and mottled leather wings. The stench of rotten carrion and brimstone filled the air even beyond the shields; the screams of grisly slithering things pierced the air and hinted at forms guessed only in blackest nightmare.
Poisoned fangs clashed on prey which was no longer there; twisted talons grated on slate fouled with sodden, slime-sogged fur, touched shudderingly on barely shielded mind. Each one Cinhil managed to reflect back upon its creator, terror held in abeyance so that vengeance might prevail. At length Imre stood, sweat-drenched and breathless, to face Cinhil across only the flicker of their shields.
The king raised a shaking hand in interruption, nodded truce as Cinhil cocked his head to peer in question.
“I do not understand,” Imre whispered, all swagger gone from his voice now. “I am nearly spent, and you—you stand still, hardly touched, strong, though only God knows how!”
He breathed deeply, hugging his arms close to his body as the chill of the room settled around him. Cinhil stood regarding him, unruffled, composed, scarcely a hair out of place on the darkly silvered head, the pale hands relaxed at his sides.
“Do you concede?” Cinhil asked quietly.
“Concede? You know I cannot.” Imre shook his head. “I will not accept defeat from you. I have yet one escape. Not the way I would have chosen, but never mind.” A wry smile contorted his face as he staggered against a table, his breath catching in his throat. “I am master still of mine own body,” he gasped, “and that I shall never concede. I choose where and when I die. And I choose here and now, and by mine own—mind!”
With that, he collapsed against the table and slowly sagged to the floor, his face going ashen as his eyes closed and his shields melted away. Cinhil instantly dropped his own defenses and darted toward him, a look of shocked amazement on his face.
Camber started to raise a hand in warning, for it could be a trick. But then he saw that Cinhil was very much aware and on guard, despite his swift approach; he watched as Cinhil bent to touch the side of Imre’s neck for a pulse.
The prince’s disgust was apparent as he turned away from the cooling body. “He’s dead,” he said, thin-lipped with anger. “He willed his own death rather than bear defeat at my hand.”
“He was Deryni, Sire,” Camber said quietly. “You will learn, in time, that he truly had no other option. Remember, I knew his father, and his grandfather before that.”
Cinhil did not answer, but stood for some seconds looking steadily across at Camber. Outside, there was an uproar in the courtyard, the sound of fighting men, and Cinhil flicked his gaze toward the balcony doors in mild annoyance. Gesturing for Rhys and the knights to look outside, Camber reached the paling Cinhil’s side just in time to catch him as he crumpled to his knees and swayed in aftershock.
It was some time before Cinhil could raise his head. For several minutes, he simply shook in Camber’s arms and fought the churning in his stomach, as the realization of the past hour’s work stabilized in his mind. Finally, he raised his head and passed a shaking hand across his forehead, looked into the eyes of his mentor with a strange and distant gaze.
“I—am King of Gwynedd now, am I not?”
“You are, My Prince.”
Cinhil bowed his head and took a deep, sobering breath, then glanced to where Imre’s body had lain but a few minutes before—startled to see that it was gone. But in that same instant, he saw that the two Michaeline knights had taken the body, had lifted it under the arms as though it lived, and dragged it through the balcony doors. As the body became visible to the soldiers battling in the yard below, the sounds of conflict ceased, the voices died down.
Cinhil started to call out to the two knights, to ask what they were about; but Camber stayed his arm and shook his head. Numbly, Cinhil watched as the knights brought the body to the edge of the balcony railing and held it poised there, as though standing on its own.
For a still, heart-stopped instant, the body seemed to stand of its own accord before the silent soldiers. Then it toppled slowly, gently, over the edge. An instant more of silence, until it hit the unyielding cobblestones of the yard below, and then an ear-splitting roar of approbation from a hundred throats, and the growing chant of, “Cin-hil! Cin-hil! Cin-hil!”
With the chant assailing his ears even within the chamber, Camber helped the new king to his feet and gestured toward the open doors.
“Your knights are victorious and call for their king, Sire. Will you show yourself to them?”
Wordlessly, Cinhil let himself be led to the balcony, and at his approach the others drew back to make him way. His appearance brought renewed cheering from the men below—a deep, joyful shouting punctuated by the clash of swords on shields and the rattle of spears on helms. As Cinhil rested trembling hands on the stone balustrade, he noticed that only a few dozen of the cheering soldiers wore the surcoats and mantles of the Michaeline Order. The rest were of the castle garrison, who had fought his men minutes before and now flung down their weapons and acclaimed him with one voice.
The cheering broke off abruptly, and as he turned to glance behind him for Camber, he knew the reason why. In the Deryni earl’s hands lay the State Crown of Gwynedd, brought from within by a gently smiling Evaine. Rhys was at her side, his face oddly solemn beneath the familiar shock of reddish hair. Joram and Cullen had returned sometime in the last few minutes, grim warrior eyes telling Cinhil all he needed to know about their attempt to capture Ariella.
He swallowed nervously as the two Michaeline knights removed their helmets and knelt, swords resting with cross-hilts uppermost as they gazed up confidently at him. He knew what Camber was about to say, and had no way to stop him.
“Sire,” said Camber, “will you exchange your princely coronet for the Crown of Gwynedd?”
There was a tightness in Cinhil’s chest as he gazed at the crown, and for just a moment he swayed in an infinity of indecision.
It was still not too late, was it? Though he had toppled the tyrant, Imre, he could yet refuse the Crown. No man was really indispensable, despite their indoctrination to the contrary. Perhaps they would permit him to retire to his monastery now, his part in the struggle completed. Surely they could find another man to rule Gwynedd.
But he realized, even as he thought it, that the notion was absurd. He could no more walk away now than he could blaspheme the Name of God, or tread the sacred Host beneath his heel. With or without his consent, he had been bound to this people, to this throne which he had never sought; led thence by the might of men who called themselves by the name Deryni, the same as the fallen tyrant—and he shared power with them now, was practically the same as they.
The thought crossed his mind that the Deryni who had broken one king could easily bring down another, if he did not suit their fancy—but he immediately forced himself to dismiss it as unworthy. These Deryni were honorable men and women, dedicated to the same high purposes which he, himself,
had so long espoused in theory; they had paid their own high prices to ensure that the tyrant, Imre, should not harm the people anymore. He must not—he would not—permit his own loss, his thwarted ambitions, to color his dealings with an entire people.
And yet, despite his awesome powers, he was human still, and must recall the evil done his own people during the interregnum of the Deryni. Now was the time for renewal and appraisal, for righting the injustices of the old masters. And if there were those, even among his apparent Deryni allies, who tried to thwart him—Well, they, themselves, had taught him ruthlessness. Balance would not be an easy thing, but it must be maintained.
Shuddering, then, in the cold, pre-dawn air, he gazed down at the hands which had called forth such slaying power but a short time ago. He glanced at the men standing expectantly in the courtyard below, at Camber and his children ranged beside him, at the Michaeline knights kneeling before him, their cross-hilted blades upheld to sanctify this moment.
Then he reached up and slowly removed his coronet, gave it over to Evaine with a slight inclination of his head. As he did, the men in the courtyard knelt and Camber raised the crown so that it caught the torchlight from the yard below.
Cinhil clasped his hands and glanced up at the brightening sky. His destiny approached; he could not but accept it.
“Cinhil Donal Ifor Haldane, thine ancient line is restored, to the great joy of thy people,” Camber said, gazing at Cinhil with the eyes of a father and loyal servant, both. “Be crowned with strength and wisdom for all thy days.” The crown was placed upon his head. “And may the Almighty grant thee a long and prosperous reign, in justice and honor for all thy people of Gwynedd.”
“Fiat voluntas tua,” Cinhil whispered, so that only Camber could hear. Let it be done according to thy will.…
Turn the page to continue reading from the Legends of Camber of Culdi
CHAPTER ONE
By long forbearing is a prince persuaded, and a soft tongue breaketh the bone.
—Proverbs 25:15
Rain was falling steadily in the city of Valoret. It had been falling for the past four days, unseasonable for June. Outside the precincts of the royal keep, the cobblestone streets ran with mud and flood-borne refuse. Standing pools of rain and mud rose higher with each hour, threatening and sometimes inundating the doorsills of shops and houses.
Inside the keep, it was spirits which were dampened instead of mere physical surrounds. Chill, moisture-laden air rose foully from the middens through walls and garderobe shafts to rot the rushes underfoot in the great hall and waft among the rafters. Though fires blazed on three enormous hearths, their heat could not warm the icy apprehensions of the handful of lords assembled there.
No formal summons had gathered them. King Cinhil had been avoiding structured councils of late, much to the dismay of his would-be advisors. The men who now sat around a table before one of the side fireplaces were the same who had placed Cinhil on the throne six months before—men who now feared for the king they had made—feared for all whose safety and well-being they had thought to ensure by ousting a Deryni tyrant and restoring a prince of the old, human line to Gwynedd’s throne.
They were an odd assortment—all, save one, of the same race of sorcerer-magicians whose scion had lately ruled Gwynedd:
Rhys Thuryn, the young Deryni Healer, bending his shaggy red head to study a map whose strategies he did not really understand.
Jebediah of Alcara, Deryni Grand Master of the militant Knights of Saint Michael and acting commander in chief of King Cinhil’s army—if the king could be persuaded to use that army to proper advantage.
Alister Cullen, the graying, ice-eyed Vicar General of the Michaeline Order, and Jebediah’s technical superior, also Deryni, leaning with hands clasped behind his head to study a cobweb high in the beams above him—though the seeming casual posture concealed a tension shared by all of them.
Guaire of Arliss, young and earnest, and sole human member of the group. Heir in his own right to a considerable fortune, he was one of the few men of the last regime to retain a position in the court being formed under the new king.
And of course, Camber MacRorie, Earl of Culdi—chiefest Deryni of them all.
Camber had aged but little in the months since the Haldane Restoration, neither appearance nor manner betraying his nearly threescore years. The silver-gilt hair still gleamed bright in the light of torch and fire, and the clear gray eyes showed only a few new wrinkles at the corners. In all, he was as fit as he had been in the last decade—hardened and refined, if anything, by the privations and adversities all of them had endured since making their decision to replace the anointed king of Gwynedd.
But Camber, kingmaker that he was, was no more at ease than the rest of his colleagues. Though he had not wished to alarm them, Deryni or human, he suspected that the rain which fell so unceasingly outside was more than ordinary rain—that the enemy who had eluded them last year at the moment of triumph plotted still more grave offenses from afar; that the coming encounter on the field of battle, no longer to be postponed by winter snows and the enemy’s indisposition, might be fraught with far greater dangers than steel and spear and arrow. The rain could be but a warning token.
He had confided his suspicions about the weather to the gentle Dom Emrys, Abbot of the Gabrilites—one man who might know for certain whether such things were possible, even for Deryni. The Order of Saint Gabriel was renowned and respected, even among humans, for the purity of its discipline, for its preservation of ancient wisdom and teaching of the healing arts.
But even Dom Emrys, that pale paragon of Deryni calm and sagacity, had only been able to suggest a way by which Camber himself might explore the question further—and that way was not without its dangers. Camber was familiar with the procedure at which Emrys hinted, but he had not yet brought himself to use it. He wished there were some less-hazardous method of investigation.
A movement at the table caught his eye, and Camber tuned back in on the conversation which had been continuing around him. Jebediah had been leading a discussion of their military preparedness, and was cursing the weather anew as he pushed troop markers around on the map. His scarred fingers were surprisingly agile on the delicate markers.
“No, even if Jowerth and Torcuill do manage to get through, I don’t see how we can field more than five to six hundred knights,” he said, replying to a question Rhys had raised. “That includes all the royal levies, the Michaelines, and few dozen more from the other military orders. Perhaps twice that many mounted men-at-arms. For foot and archers, say, five hundred and two hundred, respectively. We’d have more, but most of the main roads are flooded out. Many of the men we could ordinarily count on won’t be able to reach us in time to do any good.”
Rhys nodded as though he actually understood the significance of the numbers, and Guaire studied his clasped hands, understanding all too well.
Camber reached out to shift the map board to a better angle.
“What’s our most accurate estimate of Ariella’s strength, Jeb?”
“About half again what we’ve committed, so far as we can tell. Her mother was related to the royal house of Torenth, you know. She’s drawing heavily on those ties. Also, it apparently isn’t raining east of the Lendours.”
“Which means,” Guaire began tentatively, “that if we could get our men together and get through those mountains—”
“We could meet Ariella somewhere in Eastmarch.” Jebediah nodded. “However, getting the men there is the key problem.”
Guaire toyed with one of the extra map markers. “What about one of your Deryni Transfer Portals? Might that be a way to get some of our extra men there?”
Alister Cullen, the Michaeline vicar general, shook his steel-gray head. “We daren’t use magic that openly, Guaire. Cinhil has made his feelings all too clear on that subject, of late. Besides, the men we need most are the foot soldiers from the outlying regions—humans, almost to the man. After just escaping the
yoke of a Deryni tyrant, I doubt they’d willingly cooperate with any Deryni working, no matter how benign.”
“You make it sound, well, ominous,” Guaire murmured, “as if there were something sinister about your Deryni powers.”
His expression was very serious as he spoke, until he realized the irony of those words coming from his human lips and became aware of how far he, himself, had come in his estimation of the Deryni. Faint amusement registered in the eyes of the men around him, not unkindly, and Guaire colored a little in embarrassment.
Camber chuckled sympathetically.
“It’s all right, Guaire. That’s how many humans view our powers. And between the humans who distrust us because we’re Deryni and the Deryni who distrust us because we deposed a Deryni king in favor of a human one, I suppose we’re lucky to have the support we do.”
“And if Cinhil doesn’t unbend a little,” Cullen snorted, “the two peoples are going to be driven even further apart. One wrong word from him could lose us half our army between dawn and dusk.”
Rhys, who had been listening without comment, leaned forward and prodded the map.
“So, what can be done about it? And what about the more immediate crisis? Do we even know for certain where Ariella will launch her attack?”
Jebediah nodded thoughtfully. “Alister and I have come up with three likely locations, Rhys, two of them fairly close together. If Sighere sides with us and brings his Eastmarch levies to join us, we can eliminate one of the three.”
He bent over the map and began moving markers again, and Camber permitted his attention to wander to the dancing fire, slipping back into his own private reverie.
Cullen’s comment about Cinhil had struck a sobering chord. Cinhil’s growing rigidity was becoming a major problem, and Camber himself was having to bear more and more of the king’s resultant uneasiness.
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