The Quest for Saint Camber (34 page)

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.

It was a slender victory, for Kelson still had not regained consciousness; but to Dhugal, gone without sleep for nearly three days now, it was the closest thing to a miracle he had yet seen, since discovering that both he and Kelson had survived the initial catastrophe.

He worried about the skull fracture, though. The usefulness of his ability to probe the injury with his powers was somewhat limited, for he had only a vague idea what his perceptions meant in medical terms; but he did not like what he
thought
they meant. The depression was putting pressure on Kelson's brain, and there was some swelling. He could not tell for certain whether there was bleeding as well. Dhugal had heard of surgical procedures to relieve such pressure, involving drilling a hole in the skull and trying to lift the part that was pressing, but he had no instruments, even if he were fool enough to think he had the ability.

He pondered the problem while he left Kelson alone long enough to retrieve the wine flask he had hurled aside in such haste—he had no idea how long ago. He rinsed it long and carefully while he kept a wary eye on the scarcely breathing form wrapped in a cloak now only damp, not soggy, then filled it and hobbled back to Kelson's side, there to raise his patient's head and let a little trickle down Kelson's throat. He used his powers to trigger the reflex to swallow, for he had learned a great deal about the centers that controlled such functions while he kept his lonely watch.

He was going to have to do something about food, too. Nothing had passed Kelson's lips since whatever he might have eaten at their last rest stop before the accident, other than the tainted wine, soon regurgitated, and a little water Dhugal had managed to bring to Kelson in his own mouth, when the danger of dehydration became greater than the danger that Kelson might stop breathing again if Dhugal left him for more than a minute or two. Dhugal had no idea how long ago that might have been, but his own growling stomach told him it had been far too long. And while a healthy man might survive for weeks on water only, if he had to, such a diet was not conducive to mending injuries. He had no idea what he might find down here that was edible—perhaps there were fish in the underground river—but now that Kelson seemed to be past the most immediate crisis of his hurts, Dhugal would have to take steps to find
something
.

Meanwhile, though, there was the skull fracture to consider—and Dhugal was in an agony over what to do. If he did nothing, and the swelling continued, Kelson likely would die despite everything he had already been through and survived. And if Dhugal did the wrong thing—not that his options for actual treatment were many—Kelson might die anyway.

Sighing, Dhugal dragged more driftwood nearer the fire he had been nursing for so long, hobbling painfully on his swollen ankle and trying to spare his wrist as much as possible. After placing a few branches on the fire, he settled against the cavern wall next to Kelson and turned the raven head away from him, so he could brush his fingertips lightly over the lump behind Kelson's left ear. The wound was closing nicely in whatever time had passed and seemed to be healing cleanly, but he could sense the walnut-sized piece of bone depressed just beneath the skin—and the pressure under that.

If only there were some way to raise the depression, other than by surgery. Not that he was about to attempt to prise the bone back into place with the little stiletto in his boot—which was the only metal implement or weapon that seemed to have made it through their tumbling in the river.

But perhaps there
was
another way! He had moved things before, just with the power of his mind. One of the first things his father had shown him, after they knew Dhugal was Deryni, was how to work a lock without a key. If Dhugal could move the tumblers of a lock without seeing them, was it possible he could do the same to lift this bit of bone back into place in Kelson's skull?

It was not a healing function, in the Deryni sense. It certainly did not sound like what his father and Morgan had described about the healing process—visualizing the damaged area as it ought to be and having the healing take place under one's hands. But was there not a physical side to surgery, as well as a biological one? Provided that no irreversible damage had been done to the tissue beneath the skull, relief of Kelson's condition might come simply by restoring the bit of bone to its proper place and letting natural healing take its course.

It certainly was worth a careful try. Dhugal did not see how he could do much further harm, for Kelson's condition, though stabilizing, was not getting better from Dhugal doing nothing. He made himself take several deep, steadying breaths as he gently shifted Kelson to lie against his chest, supporting the lolling head against his right hand, just at shoulder level, while he brought his left to touch the lump behind the ear lightly. His sprained wrist gave a twinge, but he was able to shift his position slightly and relieve that.

But it was going to be a tricky balancing act to keep a part of his mind attuned to Kelson's breathing and heart rate while he turned his main attention to the other task at hand—for he knew that, when he relieved the pressure under the lump, he also was likely to upset the tenuous autonomic rhythm so recently reestablished. As he closed his eyes and settled into that rhythm, he wished he were better rested himself, for the few hours' sleep he had snatched were not nearly adequate to make up for the exertion of the past few days. But wishes were useless at this point. It was determination that would triumph now, if anything would, and a little luck on their side—or maybe a miracle or two.

Slowly Dhugal pushed himself deeper into trance, at first simply letting the shallow whisper of his and Kelson's breathing carry him gradually into rapport. It was not comfortable at first, for even with the
merasha
mostly gone out of Kelson's system, his shields were still irregular, distorted—intact in some areas, but utterly gone in others, not at all in balance. The condition probably was at least partially a function of the concussion Kelson had suffered, either from the injury under Dhugal's fingers or the other one above his eye; but whatever its source, it made for a rather jerky descent to the level of rapport that Dhugal felt he needed in order to risk what he was about to do.

Not daring to think too much more about it, Dhugal extended his Deryni senses into the body beneath his hands, centering on the circle of bone that lay beneath his fingertips. All at once he could see it in his mind, as if it were exposed by a surgeon's knife—a rounded triangle of bone, one edge still neatly in place and the opposite angle depressed almost to the depth of the tip of a man's little finger.

Gently, gingerly, he eased his powers around it and lifted. It moved more easily than he had expected, smoothly pivoting on the edge still in place until all three sides were flush again. Nor was there any disruption of Kelson's breathing.

He spent a few more seconds inspecting what he had done, wondering whether it would be enough, then withdrew mind and controls and opened his eyes to look at Kelson again. The king appeared unchanged. When, after Dhugal judged an hour or so had passed and Kelson still seemed unimproved—though neither was he any worse—Dhugal decided it was time to do something about the food situation. Whatever happened, he could be no help to Kelson or himself if he starved to death.

It was late on Wednesday, Lady Day, the Feast of the Annunciation, when what remained of the king's party reached Rhemuth. Some intimation of the news apparently had run ahead even of that fast-riding band, so that Nigel, Meraude, Duncan, and Jehana were already waiting anxiously in the privy council chamber. Saer and Earl Roger broke the news, Conall prudently keeping a very low profile, suitably subdued and decorous, and the three bishops then gave what comfort they could, though Father Lael had to be called to lend his physician's services when Jehana finally began weeping hysterically and had to be escorted from the room. Roger left with them, leaving only the bereaved families and clergy.

Nigel, too, wept briefly, comfortless and forlorn in his wife's arms, and Duncan withdrew into himself, moving to gaze unseeing out a window. Arilan wavered uncertainly between him and Nigel as Cardiel and Bradene tried to give the new king more immediate attention, and even Conall could be seen to blink back tears.

“God strike me dead if I ever wanted to be king,” Nigel said, shaking his head disbelievingly as he mastered his grief and looked up, still bleary-eyed, at Cardiel. “This can't be happening, Thomas. I'm not ready. I wanted never to
have
to be ready. Isn't there some chance he's still alive?”

“Not within reason, no,” Cardiel said softly, himself almost in tears again—for he, too, had wept at the news in Valoret, three days before. “They tell us that there's little chance the bodies will even be recovered, after this long.”

Saer, trying to comfort his sister, now that Nigel seemed to be in control again, shook his head, too.

“We did everything we could, Nigel,” he whispered, “but we didn't find a trace. Not a trace! The river goes underground, just past where they were lost. We never found the monk's body, either. The local folk say the river never gives up its dead, after that long.”

Speechless, Nigel only shook his head, his grief almost palpable in the silence of the old room. Arilan, still hesitating between Nigel and Duncan, turned his attention on Nigel.

“There are things that must be done—Your Majesty,” he said quietly.

Nigel looked up in shock, dread in his eyes.

“Don't call me that. Please.”

“You
are
the king, however,” Arilan insisted, “regardless what you are called. And by tomorrow, you will have to be proclaimed as such. Gwynedd cannot go without a king for long.”

Nigel looked away. “I'll continue as regent, until we're sure. But I don't want the title—not yet; not while there's still hope.”