The Quest for Saint Camber (26 page)

A mild stirring whispered through the chapter house at that, as Kelson paused to dab again at his miserable nose—which was beginning to tickle, in the warmth from the firepot—but he knew he could quell that with his next statement.

“The third point I wish to address concerns one of your number no longer with us—Bishop Henry Istelyn, of blessed and much missed memory, who, I believe, is to be considered for canonization.”

The murmuring instantly ceased. He knew he had their complete and undivided attention.

“I can only say that my own dealings with His Excellency were always of the most satisfactory nature and that his loyalty to crown and cross was unshaken to the end. If martyrs have merit, if only in providing examples to all of us, then surely Henry Istelyn was one such shining example and ought surely to be recognized for the courageous and godly life he lived, as I am sure Our Lord already has recognized him in heaven. It is my fervent wish that at some time not very far in the future, we shall be able to make official petitions to
Saint
Henry Istelyn, Bishop and Martyr.”

A sigh of agreement whispered through the hall at that, and Kelson knew he had set the stage properly for the last and most difficult thing he had to say to them this afternoon. This was the one that was most important, in the long view, and would require the most delicate balance. He wished he could think more clearly.

“Finally,” he said—and here several of his listeners shifted uneasily in their seats. “Finally, I would commend to your careful consideration the continued modification of the Ramos Conventions, which have governed the interpretation of our law, both civil and canon, for nearly two hundred years. I will not attempt to tell you that all the statutes of Ramos should be struck down, for they should not. Nor will I deny that some of the statutes are worthy and honorable laws.

“But for those laws dealing specifically with members of any particular—let us be candid, gentlemen. For those laws dealing specifically with those known as Deryni, I would ask your careful and prayerful consideration.

“Civil law regarding Deryni has been gradually changing in the past few decades, as individual Deryni have begun guardedly to prove their worth and loyalty to the crown—as was surely true in many instances even during the worst of the Interregnum times. My own father, may he rest in peace, dared to rescind or amend several of the most troublesome civil statutes, such as those forbidding even Deryni of proven loyalty to hold office or noble titles or even to own land, like any yeoman farmer.

“But canon law has not been as forgiving of what, I begin to believe, was more often political avarice, such as I warned you of earlier, than any moral or spiritual deficiency inherent in Deryni as a people. You, yourselves, in the past year, finally have agreed that the death penalty ought not to be imposed on a Deryni who simply seeks, in the passion of a true vocation, to be ordained a priest—though, thank God, no test of this deviation from the still-extant section of the Ramos statutes has been called for. I wonder if most of you even know how, over the last two centuries, the discovery of would-be Deryni priests has been ensured.”

“Do
you
know, Sire?” called a voice from the right side of the hall.

“Who asked that?” he countered, searching the upturned faces. “Speak up. You won't be punished for your honest question—I swear it.”

Slowly a man in the black habit and blue girdle of the
Ordo Vox Dei
stood. Kelson noted him well for further investigation, then nodded for him to be seated.

“Yes, I know,” he said quietly. “Not all the details of implementation, but I am aware of the method itself. Steps are being taken to deal with it, for it is the hand of man, not God, which singles out so and which has sent so many to the flames.”

“Has Bishop McLain told you this, Sire?” asked another man, from the left, though Kelson saw him before he finished speaking and fixed him with his gaze.

“Bishop McLain knows about it now, but he was not the one who told me. Nor was he the instrument of his own salvation when he was ordained, more than twenty years ago.”

There. Let them sweat
that
little piece of information, to prepare them for the likelihood that others besides Duncan might have gotten past their precious system. He dared not look at Arilan, who must be even more on edge than he was.

“I put it to you that an entire rethinking of the Deryni question is in order, gentlemen. Man's ways
are
fallible, as God's are not. God calls men to be His priests when and where and how He wills, whether they be human or Deryni or some mixture of the two. It is time to remove all human penalties whatsoever from this crime that is not and has never been a crime, and to judge a man's worthiness for the priesthood by the kind of life he leads—not by the gifts he may or may not have been born with. If you insist upon maintaining this cold and illogical stance regarding Deryni, then you do me no honor either—though all of you have sworn to defend and uphold me, as I have sworn to defend and uphold you. For my mother, however vehemently she may try to deny it, has given me a legacy of Deryni blood that I value no less highly than the Haldane blood that runs in my veins. I pray you, keep that in mind as you deliberate in these next weeks.”

C
HAPTER
T
EN

A day of darkness and of gloominess, a day of clouds and of thick darkness
.

—Joel 2:2

Rain was still bucketing down by late afternoon, when Kelson had finished his speech, both archbishops had addressed the assembly, and the synod had adjourned to the archbishop's palace for supper. Kelson's cold had not improved, so he retired soon after eating and let Father Lael give him a physick in a shot of hot and potent Rhenndish brandywine. He doubted it would do much to cure the cold, but it made Father Lael feel better—and it did feel good going down, balm to his scratchy throat. After he had dutifully tossed it off, he bade Dhugal help him into deep, controlled trance-sleep—which, if it did not cure him, would at least release him from conscious misery through the night. The last thing he heard, before he slipped beyond caring, was the soft drone of Dhugal's voice, coaxing him deeper into trance, and the steady patter of rain on the leaded roof.

And it was raining in Rhemuth, later that night, when Duncan, working late in his study, laid aside his quill and knuckled at bleary eyes. During his “indisposition” of the past week, he had begun to take on occasional secretarial duties for Nigel—a sometimes mindless and often boring pastime, but it kept his mind off what might be happening in Valoret and it helped Nigel. The transcription he had been working on for the last two days was of the latter sort, even more boring than most, but at least it was finally finished and could be taken to the prince. The hour was late, but not so late that Nigel would be already abed—though, judging from the sound of the rain pelting down outside, that was probably the best place to be on a night like this.

Indulging in a leisurely yawn, Duncan drew back one of the heavy velvet drapes covering the window and shaded his eyes against the leaded glass to peer outside, trying to gauge how hard it was actually coming down. The amber panes distorted, but not enough to change his original estimation that the weather was abysmal; and he could hear it battering the leaded roof as well.

Making a face at the rain, Duncan let the curtain fall and rolled up his transcription in a leather scroll tube, rising to slip it under his cincture before putting on a fur-lined cap and gloves and throwing a heavy black cloak around his shoulders.

At least he did not have to go all the way back to the archbishop's palace in the rain—though getting to Nigel's quarters even somewhat dry would be difficult enough. Since Dhugal's departure with the king the previous week, and in light of his own supposed indisposition, Duncan had all but moved into Dhugal's apartments in the castle. It was only natural that, during his “convalescence,” he might be expected to derive comfort from being near his son's things; and, as he gradually resumed sedentary duties, it was far more convenient to sleep in the castle than to trek back and forth between there and his old quarters, especially on a night like tonight, or when he worked late in his study, or he and Nigel talked too late—an increasing occurrence, for he had taken to spending many of his evenings in the prince's company, often dining with him and Meraude. All of them missed their sons—and with the mass exodus of nearly every Deryni from Rhemuth the week before, Nigel was the only one who could even begin to give Duncan the companionship he needed.

Being Deryni offered no particular advantages tonight, however. As Duncan straightened a few last things on his desk and put out the candles, he briefly considered using the study Portal to go to the library Portal and thence to Nigel—but only briefly. One never knew who might be in the library to witness his arrival—and how could one explain being dry on a night like this?

No, blatantly Deryni frivolity of that sort was unthinkable just now, when his position was so precarious vis-à-vis his future with the Church. However, he
could
use the secret passageway that connected Dhugal's apartments to the basilica yard, rather than slogging through the muddy parade ground and stable yard to enter through the great hall. He generally avoided taking the secret route, because the stairs were steep and he disliked closed-in places, but it was better than getting soaked or sleeping in his chair in the study.

He got wet enough, even in the short dash across the churchyard to the alcove where the entrance to the passageway was hidden. En route, he slipped and nearly took a nasty fall. And then, rain running down his face and inside his hood, he had to stand in a puddle until he could find the stud that opened the entryway.

It was dry inside, though—and dark. From habit, and because the use of handfire could have been potentially fatal to a Deryni priest until very recently, Duncan struck flint to tinder to light a rushlight in a niche beside the closed door. The flame gave little actual warmth, but its fitful yellowish light was cheering in the damp and gloom and made him feel warmer.

There were fifty-five steps to the first, straight flight of stairs, steep and irregular, and Duncan paused to catch his breath on the landing, just slightly winded, before starting doggedly up the winding treads of the next set. He was preoccupied, thinking about what he wanted to say to Nigel regarding the document he carried. But he had not gone more than two or three steps on the stairs before he became aware of a faint, sweetish odor tickling at his nostrils.

He stopped and sniffed the air, instantly alert and casting out with his Deryni senses. Something was dead down here—something larger than the odd rat or other rodent one might expect in such a place.

He turned and took another whiff, holding his rushlight higher as he concentrated on the smell, then briskly retraced his steps to the landing and looked around. The odor was stronger here. He wondered how he had missed it before. Something was definitely dead. He had smelled that smell before, more times than he cared to remember, in the aftermath of far too many battles. There was no mistaking it.

He conjured handfire to augment his rushlight, flooding the landing with silvery light and then he saw the russet shadow crumpled against the far wall, a leather boot protruding at one end and an outstretched arm visible at the other.

“I have no idea how long he's been there,” Duncan said to Nigel, as he led the prince down the steep stair from Dhugal's apartments, half an hour later. “Long enough to begin decomposition, though—probably a week or two, in this weather. It looks as if he fell coming down the stairs and broke his neck. What I can't figure out is what a member of the Camberian Council was doing in this passageway. I thought they couldn't get into the keep from the library Portal.”

Nigel only shook his head as they reached the landing and he bent to look as Duncan pointed things out.

“I didn't think they could,” he said. “That's what Kelson told
me
. You say his name's Tiercel de Claron?”

Duncan nodded. “I've only seen him twice, and beginning stages of decomposition could have me fooled, but it sure looks like him. Arilan is the only one I can think of who would know for sure.”

“And Arilan's in Valoret, where you should be,” Nigel replied, straightening to stroke his mustache with a worried hand. “Sweet
Jesu
, if this
is
a member of the Council, they're going to be livid.”

“Well, not with us,” Duncan muttered, crouching down beside the body again. “
We
didn't do it. Do you want to help me turn him over, so I can see whether it looks like anyone else did? I didn't want to move anything too much before you saw him. I just turned his head enough to see his face—and to realize his neck was broken—and scanned to see if I could pick up any residual information from his mind. Of course I couldn't, after this long. His brain is probably like pudding.”

Making a face, Nigel swept the skirts of his night robe back, out of the way, and knelt down.

“I'll never make a surgeon,” he said, as the two of them gently turned the body on its back. “I've brought enough men to this state in my time, but I usually don't have to deal with them after they've been dead this long. You have a stronger stomach than I do,” he concluded, rising to back off a few steps as Duncan bent to the grisly task of further examination. “Any wounds?”

Duncan shook his head. Rats had been at the body, but there were no signs of any other trauma besides the broken neck and associated bruising one might expect if Tiercel truly had fallen down the steps to his death.

“None that I can see offhand, though I'd like a closer look when the body's stripped for burial. How do you want to handle that?”

As Duncan stood, Nigel shook his head.