The Quest for Saint Camber (30 page)

And by now, not only Arilan but very likely all the other powerful and mysterious members of the Camberian Council had applied their not inconsiderable Deryni talents to probe Tiercel's death further. And while none of the letters even hinted that Arilan suspected Tiercel's death had not been accidental, much less mentioned Conall, Conall's guilt gnawed at him like a hungry wolf; already extant jealousy began almost immediately to color the guilt.

Conall found that the thought of Dhugal being questioned in the matter terrified him. If Arilan or Duncan or one of the others had been able to pin down a precise time for Tiercel's death, Conall knew that Dhugal's alibi was iron-clad. Conall had an alibi, too, for Jowan, his squire, could swear honestly under oath that his master had been abed early that night; but close questioning of the boy
might
reveal that his memory had been tampered with, and by whom.

That, in itself, could be damning enough to press the inquiries further, for Conall had no business knowing how to do such things. And who knew but that Dhugal, under intensive interrogation, might remember hearing something connected with Conall's wary approach to the doorway into his chambers, when Conall had tried to return through the palace after arranging Tiercel's body on the landing? What if he could make a connection to Conall? After all, Conall
had
pushed Tiercel, even though he had not meant to do him serious harm.…

But suppose, on the other hand, that evidence somehow could be contrived to implicate Dhugal in the matter? Now,
there
was an attractive proposition. Perhaps Dhugal could even be framed, thereby eliminating not only a dangerous potential betrayer, but also a troublesome rival. Of course, steps would have to be taken to ensure that Dhugal could not defend himself.…

Conall thought about the notion as he restored all the letters to the dispatch pouch saving his own and the three dealing with Tiercel's death. He had brought Tiercel's drug satchel with him, for he dared not leave it behind and risk it being found. Perhaps something from that could be put to good use. He did not know the purpose of all the drugs in Tiercel's pharmacopia, but he knew some of them—enough to ensure, if he could figure out a way to administer them, that Dhugal should not survive the next day.

And not by a mere poison or overdose, either, for they rode through some very rugged country tomorrow. A more subtle solution was required—something sufficient only to blur the victim's judgment or perceptions, or perhaps to lull him into a false sense of security. According to the monk who would guide them, there were ample opportunities for an unwary rider to meet a fatal accident.

But Conall could do nothing to further his developing plan until the others returned, in any case, and he needed the time to decide exactly what he was going to do. After closing the courier pouch, he took it next door, into the room Kelson and Dhugal shared, and left it beside the snoring Ciard O Ruane. Then he went back to his own quarters to let Jowan wake up, to read his own letters, and to firm up his plans for later in the evening.

Kelson and his companions returned just in time to hear Vespers, and Conall watched fearfully and jealously as Dhugal walked into the abbey, arm in arm with the king. The prince did not even try to pray as he knelt not far from them, though he mouthed the responses dutifully enough and bowed his head at the appropriate times.

Afterwards, at supper, Conall was as merry as any in the refectory, at least within the bounds of Lenten propriety. He even stayed a while to listen to the ballads one of the lay brothers sang when the royal party had retired to the abbot's quarters for another casual hour by the fire.

No one tarried late, though, for Saer meant them to get an early start, to be well through the pass before any chance of failing light. And so, when the king and his favorite retired even before Compline, Conall, too, made his devoirs to the abbot and repaired to his bed.

He dared not sleep, however. Not much later, when all the abbey slept in those deeply silent hours between Compline and Matins, Conall made his way without challenge to the abbey stables, where harness and equipment was already assembled, ready for an early departure after Mass in the morning. There he located Dhugal's belongings without difficulty, and slipped the stopper from a shoulder flask already filled with wine for the next day's journey. He sniffed of the contents before adding the contents of the earthenware vial he had concealed on his person since late afternoon, to ensure that the scent and taste would cover what he had added. He need not worry if Dolfin or Ciard or one of the other servants had a nip from the flask, for Tiercel had told Conall that the drugs only affected those of Deryni blood.

Then, apprehensive but at the same time thrilled, Conall quickly returned to his own bed and lay down, though he did not sleep much in what remained of the night.

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

The way of a fool is right in his own eyes
.

—Proverbs 12:15

The next morning dawned still and damp, pregnant with the probability of more rain, though none was yet falling. The local monks, when questioned about the outlook, avowed that the weather
should
clear by noon—but the time of year was capricious. Even snow was not unheard of in the passes, well into March. Given the present aspect of the sky, either storm, snow, or a clear day were equal possibilities.

After Mass and over a far more leisurely breakfast than originally planned, Kelson considered what to do. It still was not raining. Nor did they even need to worry about getting all the way through the pass today, for there was a small abbey at the summit that could surely provide them a dry place to sleep, if it came to that. Saer declared himself half of a mind to delay another day, in hopes that more definite signs of clearing weather might prevail over the clouds scudding along the eastern horizon, but Kelson was impatient to be gone, fired by the prospect of what he might learn at Iomaire—for a shrine once had graced the spot where Camber fell in battle, and the king hoped he might learn more there of Camber than he had at Caerrorie.

So Kelson ordered the company to assemble in the abbey yard as planned, if a few hours later than he would have wished. And, as if in answer to his optimism, sunshine did break through the clouds just as he signaled the column forward to ride out the gates of Saint Bearand's.

An unexpectedly welcome addition to their number was the monk who accompanied them to point out the way—one Brother Gelric, a garrulous, almost comically thin individual mounted on a shaggy piebald pony, who soon had everyone in his vicinity laughing at his assessments of the court life he had known in Llannedd before his profession as a monk. His good humor, added to the clearing weather, soon lifted the spirits of the entire expedition. It was not long before young Jass MacArdry had half the knights, all his borderers, and most of the Haldane lancers joining in the refrain of a jaunty border ballad that told how the bonnie Earl of Kilshane once had ridden day and night, night and day, for near on a week, to warn an earlier chief of Clan MacArdry of a terrible sea invasion.

They made good time for the first hour or so, easily climbing the smooth, gentle grade that was the approach to the proper ascent to the pass. The weather remained cold but clear, though it became more overcast as they climbed higher. The going got harder, too. Gradually, as they turned along the bank of a wide, fast-running mountain stream, swollen with rain and early runoff from the mountains whose slopes they climbed, the footing and the grade got worse. On a rocky plateau, close beside the icy-cold spill pool of a spectacular waterfall cascading down the mountainside to their left, Brother Gelric called a short halt to let men and horses rest.

“You'd best have everyone check their girths and other equipment before we move on, Sire,” he told Kelson, as the king and Dhugal walked the kinks out of their legs, and Dolfin took their horses over to the pool to drink. “Make sure everything is well strapped down. The footing gets far worse before it gets better. This is the last reasonably flat spot until we reach the summit, and it will be single file very shortly.”

“How much farther is it?” Kelson asked.

“Another hour and a half,” the monk replied. “Perhaps a little less, if it doesn't start raining again.”

From a little farther along the bank, Conall watched and listened nervously, giving his sword to Jowan to strap to his saddle as he sprawled on a sun-warmed rock and tried to pretend that he was not interested in whether or not Dhugal drank from the flask slung across his chest. With the sun shining, albeit weakly, and the exertion of the past hour, Conall was sweating a little in his riding leathers. In addition, he had begun to have second thoughts about what he had done. While Dhugal and Kelson fiddled with their equipment, dutifully shifting loads and tightening down straps with Dolfin, Conall unlaced the throat of his tunic and bade Jowan bring him a cupful of the cold, sweet water coming off the mountainside. If Dhugal did drink, Conall would need a cool head to make sure no shadow of suspicion was turned on himself.

But like most of the party, Dhugal, too, chose to slake his thirst from the stream, stretching out on his stomach on a flat rock to drink from one hand, like any common peasant. Conall found himself becoming annoyed all over again when Kelson also followed suit, in most unkingly fashion. It almost made Conall wish that both his rivals would go ahead and drink from the flask. That would solve even more problems, for no one else in the royal party was in a position even to recognize the effects of the drugs in the wine, much less to counteract them, and fate might well run its course in the next few hours.

And if neither drank through the day and Conall could retrieve the flask tonight, he would do that, he decided. No harm would be done, and Conall could pretend he had never even thought of doing anything wrong.

The greatest danger to Conall accrued if only Dhugal drank and Kelson intervened before Dhugal could meet a mishap. For, while there was nothing to link Conall with the drugs in the flask, their discovery
would
alert the king that someone with access to such substances was up to no good. Kelson had no reason to suspect Conall, but the fact that Conall had purloined the letters about Tiercel's death eventually would have to lead to uncomfortable inquiries—and Conall did not think he could withstand a direct Truth-Read, if brought to the question.

On the other hand, far rougher terrain was coming up. Perhaps, if he rode close to Dhugal, Conall could simply nudge Dhugal's horse over the edge at a crucial point, claiming that his own mount had spooked at something. And he could
make
the big grey spook. No one would ever think to ask him directly whether he had done it deliberately. And with Dhugal would go the telltale flask of wine as well as a dangerous rival.

Ahead, the trail did become more difficult, and narrower, climbing slowly above the level of the flood-swollen streambed. As he had hoped, Conall managed to get behind Dhugal when they funneled down to single file. The footing, never good, changed from muddy to sandy, but any improvement in consistency was canceled out by an increase in the number of sharp, hoof-bruising rocks that might provide a fatal stumble. The farther they went, the more Conall began to wonder whether he would dare to do anything untoward, for fear of following his intended victim over the edge. A sheer cliff face loomed hard on their right—mostly rock, but slick in spots with mud and tiny rivulets of runoff from the days of rain. The embankment on their left sloped down in an increasingly steep and treacherous drop to rocky rapids below. The higher they climbed, the faster the stream ran, deeper and narrower, studded with massive, stream-scoured boulders and more jagged rocks jutting out of rushing, seething white water.

Then the rain began again, perhaps half an hour out of the last rest stop. At first, light sprinkles only prompted men to glance around suspiciously and wonder whether the droplets had come from the raging stream; but then came large, splattering drops that demanded that hoods be pulled over heads ducked down in collars. And the large drops quickly became a downpour.

Conall hunched down in his cloak and muttered to himself as he squinted against the rain. Even if the trail had been wide enough to turn around, which it was not and had not been for some time, he would not have relished the thought of retracing the route they had already come, and especially not going downhill. Nor did he particularly want to make the climb again, tomorrow or the next day. They had almost lost a pack horse a little way back, and the trail here was worse than it had been there. Besides, they surely must be at or near the halfway mark. Silly, to go back.

Not that the going looked appreciably better ahead—what little Conall could see ahead for the pelting rain. Dhugal's red dun was directly in front of him, with Dolfin between Dhugal and Kelson, who followed close on the heels of their guide. The rest of the company was strung out behind Conall, Jowan immediately behind. Just before a curve in the trail would have put the monk out of sight, Conall saw him pull up his piebald pony and turn to mouth something to Kelson in the rain; but then the man and Kelson were moving on, and Conall supposed they had decided not to turn back.

Very well. That was fine with him. They could hardly get wetter than they were, he supposed. And even if what lay ahead was worse than what they had already passed, there was the promise of the abbey at the top, warm fires, dry clothes, and hot food …

He daydreamed about hot mulled wine as he hunched down in his saddle and prayed for it all to end, concentrating only on the even
plop-plop
of his horse's hooves as it followed Dhugal's, nose to tail, wincing occasionally when his mount would falter, trying not to look at what lay so very close at their left. The rain washed down the trail in torrents, so that, in spots, the horses were fetlock-deep in muddy water. On the opposite side of the canyon cut by the stream, several tributary streams tumbled down in smaller versions of the waterfall they had already passed. Their din, plus the roar of the rapids below them, drowned out all possibility of verbal communication, and Conall dared not use what he knew of mind-speech, so he had to content himself with trying to read the hand signals and facial clues that he could note on the riders ahead. Kelson, he was pleased to note, did not appear to be at all happy, and Dhugal looked downright worried.