The Quest for Saint Camber (38 page)

“Must it really come to that?” Arilan said.

Barrett bowed his hairless head, shaking it sadly.

“We know how you feel about them, Denis,” he said. “But Kyri is right. Having you trigger Nigel's Haldane potential wouldn't exactly give us any more control over him than we had over Kelson, God rest his soul.” He crossed himself halfheartedly—a motion copied by most of the others, with varying degrees of impatience. “But at least we would know more about the process, so that when the time comes to bring Conall or one of his brothers along, we'll be in a position of greater influence.”

“I don't know whether I can do it alone,” Arilan repeated. “I'm sure things were set, even in me, that were supposed to trigger at the appropriate time, but Nigel's in no state right now, even if I were.”

“But he was prepared to become king, if anything had happened to Kelson in battle last summer,” Sofiana said neutrally.

Arilan nodded. “Yes, but that was last summer. Who would have thought Kelson would meet his end on his knight's quest, falling off a goddamn embankment? After all he's survived, to go that way—”

“Then, is Nigel despondent?” Vivienne asked impatiently.

“No, but he's very deeply grieving and stunned. I wouldn't know how to begin to approach him about such a thing.”

Laran pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Perhaps some medical intervention might be appropriate,” he ventured. “We have medications that can ease the process. You used some of them on Nigel before. I suggest that such assistance is definitely indicated now, if you're to try to trigger the reaction alone. You shouldn't have to worry about physical or even psychological resistance while you're juggling more esoteric balances.”

Choking back a sob, Arilan folded his arms on the table before him and laid his forehead against his sleeve.

“I can't think about it right now, Laran. Why can't I make you understand that? All of you.”

His shoulders shook as he surrendered to his own grief and shock, for the first time since passing his terrible news on to Duncan, hours before. Only Sofiana, realizing that he was weeping silently, had the presence of mind to clear the chamber and leave him in peace for a while, grieving with him as she led the others downstairs to the ritual chamber known as the
keeill
, there to guide them in a silent meditation for the repose of the dead king's soul.

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

Chasten thy son while there is hope, and let not thy soul spare for his crying
.

—Proverbs 19:18

Dhugal fought down an urge to gag as he made himself gnaw on a charred chunk of rank, stringy horsemeat, washing down each bite with water because he knew he had to eat or starve.

He had never been partial to horse, even properly prepared—though, when times were lean, he had sometimes eaten it in the borders, of necessity—and he hated overcooked meat. This was neither properly prepared nor rare the way he liked it—and starting to go bad besides. Not bad enough to make him sick, but bad enough that he hardly cared that this was the last of it that was at all edible. At least partially burning it did help to disguise the flavor.

Unfortunately, the bloated carcass had already been half-ripe when he found it, perhaps a day earlier—though day and night had no meaning in this cavern of perpetual darkess. His nose had led him to it. It had been wedged in a tangle of flood wrack, held fast by the savage current not far downstream of where he still kept hopeful vigil beside the unconscious Kelson. It had been Jowan's horse. He had watched horse and rider go over the edge, what seemed like half a lifetime ago. He wondered whether young Jowan had met a kinder fate.

Their hapless guide had not. Dhugal had found his body, too, not far from the drowned horse, skull fatally breached in at least two places, brain matter protruding, and both arms and both legs shattered beyond mending, even if death had not been likely instantaneous from the head injuries.

There was nothing Dhugal could do for the monk besides offer a brief prayer for his soul, which he did, but there
was
one final service the monk might do for him—or rather, for Kelson. The man's clerical habit under the still soggy cloak was woven of a fine wool, warm and light. It wanted a good washing, for Brother Gelric's body also had begun to go the way of the dead horse, but when rinsed out and dried before the fire, the loose-fitting garment would be far more comfortable for Kelson than the soiled clothing in which he now had been lying for however long he had been unconscious. Dhugal was doing the best he could to keep his patient clean and dry and at least getting water down him on a regular basis, but unless Kelson stirred soon, Dhugal held little hope for his survival.

The horse also had proven useful, beyond the few pieces of tainted meat that Dhugal managed to salvage before dumping the decaying carcass back into the river, for its saddlebags somehow had managed not to be separated from the animal's saddle or even burst open. Most of what Dhugal found in the one side was of little value to anyone but the presumably drowned Jowan, but he did find flint and steel, an extra belt, and a few spare leather straps, all potentially useful. And the other side, wonder of wonders, had yielded a hard winter apple, much bruised, and a soggy piece of journey bread, starting to mold.

The latter Dhugal had fed meticulously to Kelson, picking off the mold as best he could and easing small, semi-liquid amounts of the bread past Kelson's lips, washing it down with sips of water which he made Kelson swallow. He tried to pulverize bits of the apple and feed them to Kelson, too, but finally had to give that up and eat the apple himself, for he dared not risk having Kelson choke while unconscious.

He had just finished bathing Kelson, as he had done for his foster father during the old man's last years, and was gently easing the dead monk's habit over Kelson's head and down around his waist, when the king gave a moan, stronger than he had yet managed, and opened his eyes.

“What're you doing?” he managed to croak, his voice thready and weak from disuse.

“Kelson! Thank God, you're awake!”

“M'head hurts,” Kelson whispered. “I think I'm going to be sick.”

“Oh, no you don't,” Dhugal murmured, easing Kelson onto his side, one hand on his forehead and one on his throat, easily forcing his mind past Kelson's almost nonexistent shields to push down the nausea that was threatening to expel what little food Dhugal had gotten down him. “I can't have you wasting energy on that kind of nonsense. Just relax, and the nausea will pass. It's from your concussion. Close your eyes and let me hold the control for you. You'll be all right in a minute or two.”

It was a near-run thing for something longer than a minute or two, but at last Kelson seemed to rally a little on his own, finally rolling weakly onto his back again to look up at Dhugal. He seemed to be having trouble focusing.

“Dhugal?” he breathed.

“Aye, who else, my prince?” Dhugal murmured, grinning as he brushed both hands tenderly over Kelson's forehead. “Just rest you easy. You're going to be fine. How do you feel?”

“Terrible. And starved,” Kelson croaked. “And parched. Where are we? What happened?”

“We're somewhere underground.” Dhugal unstoppered his flask and raised Kelson by the shoulders far enough to set the flask against his lips and gently support his head. “We went down an embankment into a river, and that sucked us under. Don't you remember the accident?”

Kelson grunted in the negative, still guzzling water greedily, and Dhugal sighed.

“Well, I'm not surprised. You took several nasty whacks on the head. What's the last thing you
do
remember?”

Kelson pushed the flask away at last, turning his face slightly to belch weakly, then glanced uncertainly back at Dhugal.

“You
are
Dhugal MacArdry, aren't you?” he asked. “God, it's been so long …”

A chill went through Dhugal's heart.

“Kelson, don't you know me?” he whispered.

“Of course I know you. But you look so much older.” The king's eyes darted to Dhugal's waist. “And you're wearing a white belt. You can't be old enough for that. Who knighted you?”

“Don't you remember?
You
did.”

“
I
did? But—”

Kelson closed his eyes tightly for several seconds, then opened them again as Dhugal watched anxiously.

“Dhugal, what year is it?”

Dhugal swallowed carefully. “What year do you
think
it is, Kel?”

Kelson thought a moment, then said gravely, “To the best of my recollection, it's 1123.”

Compressing his lips grimly, Dhugal shook his head. “Wrong by two years,” he murmured. “It's March of 1125. When's the last time you remember seeing me?”

Kelson screwed up his face in concentration, then shook his head bewilderedly. “When you left court, after your brother died, I suppose. I know you weren't at my coronation.”

“No, blasted luck. I'd broken my leg a few weeks before and couldn't travel. But at least you remember that you're king. That's something. You obviously have some amnesia from your concussion, though.” He laid one hand lightly on Kelson's forehead again. “Let me have a look, and we'll see what the gaps are. God, your shields are—”

“You can sense my shields?” Kelson said. “But—”

“I'm Deryni, too, Kelson,” Dhugal said. “
Jesu
, I suppose you don't remember that, either—or that Duncan is my real father.”

“Duncan?” Kelson said weakly. “But, how—”

“God, we're going to have some catching up to do,” Dhugal murmured, half to himself. “Just relax, and I'll see what I can do.”

“Conall, I'd like a word with you, please.”

Arilan caught at Conall's sleeve as he and the new crown prince filed out of the withdrawing room at the end of the great hall at Rhemuth, leaving Nigel in privacy with Meraude and Saer de Traherne. Archbishops Bradene and Cardiel had already gone on ahead, to be stopped and questioned by a few of the lesser lords beginning to flock to court as news spread of Kelson's demise.

It had not been much of a privy council meeting—just the seven of them, for Jehana had kept to her rooms since receiving the news of her son's death, and Duncan was en route to Coroth, while other messengers carried the news to seek out the rest of the crown's senior advisers. Nigel had presided, but he was still numb at his change of status, and seemed unwilling or unable to take much initiative yet on his own.

Thus it had fallen to Bradene, assuming nominal leadership in Ewan's absence and Nigel's reluctance, to draft the official proclamation naming Nigel as king to succeed Kelson. That, at least, had finally sparked a reaction from Nigel—though all he had done was reiterate his refusal to be crowned until a year and a day had passed, or until proof should be presented that Kelson was, in fact, dead. Conall had kept his peace for the most part, wisely judging that now was not the time to draw any unnecessary attention to himself, when the crown was finally within his grasp, if only he should wait—
if
nothing went awry.

“Let's go out into the garden, shall we?” Arilan went on, shifting his hold to Conall's elbow. The Deryni bishop's touch made Conall's heart pound in apprehension, though he found he was able to keep it hidden more closely than ever, behind shields that seemed to have grown stronger since his return from Valoret. Conall wondered whether it had to do with the fact that Kelson was dead, and Conall's own Haldane powers were beginning to manifest in earnest, now that he was first in line for the throne. Perhaps both Tiercel
and
the Camberian Council had been right about Haldanes.

“Is something wrong, Excellency?” Conall asked, managing to keep his voice low and even.

“No, just something I'd like to ask you about,” Arilan replied.

Glancing easily around him to see who might be watching, the Deryni bishop opened a door into the garden beyond the hall and drew Conall outside, not saying anything else until they had walked slowly into the center, where no one might approach too closely without being seen over the hedges. A few figures moved at the far end of the garden, hardly visible behind the trees only just beginning to green again after the long winter, but otherwise it was deserted. And though the sun was shining brightly, drying up the last puddles of the previous days' rain, it was also chilly. Conall wrapped his black cloak more closely around him as he and Arilan paused by a leaf-clogged fountain.

“I suppose you may have gathered,” Arilan said quietly, without further preamble, “that I had something to do with setting your father's Haldane potential last spring, before Kelson went off on campaign. Likewise, I suspect you will not be surprised when I tell you that I have noticed your own gradual development along these lines. Shields and the like, which seem to have strengthened considerably since Kelson's death—not altogether surprising, since Nigel now is king and you are his heir.”

Conall felt the cool, velvet touch of the other's mind against those shields, but it did not penetrate, even though the pressure grew considerably before slacking off.

“Yes, indeed. A spontaneous Haldane manifestation developing,” Arilan murmured, smiling. “I've been told that Kelson had also developed a few spontaneous talents, before Brion's death. Perhaps Tiercel was right all along.”

“I—beg your pardon?” Conall managed to murmur, fear rising in his throat, though he knew Arilan could not have read that from his mind.

“Oh, no one you would know,” Arilan replied. “A friend who once believed that more than one Haldane could hold the power at a time. We all thought him mad. But, no matter. What matters is that because you
are
manifesting some of the Haldane gifts on your own, perhaps from so much contact with Deryni, you may be able to assist me in a very important matter.”