The Quest for Saint Camber (40 page)

Her face flamed, and she bowed her head into her empty hand to hide it as she clutched the other, with Sidana's ring, closer to her breast.

“Do not lay
that
upon me as well, my lord,” she whispered. “I was bred to duty. I know full well what Gwynedd's queen must be, to rule beside a Haldane king. How can you ask it, knowing what I've told you?”

Conall smiled, for Rothana herself had just shown him how he must shape his argument, so that in the end, she could not refuse.

“I can ask because now, more than ever, I know how much love you have to give—to Gwynedd as well as the man you wed. With God's help, perhaps I may one day win a portion of that love for myself. But meanwhile, Gwynedd needs you, as much as Kelson ever did, and
I
need you—for many of the same reasons. You need not answer me now, my lady, but promise that you'll think about it. Be the queen Gwynedd needs, to balance a Haldane king. And, if you truly think that Kelson's death lies partly at your feet, then make expiation by doing what you dreamed—only, with me rather than Kelson. I swear to you, only the name of your king will change.”

He knew he gambled much on so emotional an appeal, and prayed she would not refuse outright and force him to resort to blackmail—for as a last recourse, he knew he could tell her what he had seen between her and Kelson, and threaten to reveal it to her superiors, suitably embellished. It would end any hope she might have of being permitted to continue in a religious vocation.

But she neither accepted nor refused him, in the few more minutes they spent together there in the garden, and he sensed she was considering, as he had asked. The interview ended when her abbess, Father Ambros, and several other sisters of Rothana's order came into the other end of the garden, the priest apparently leading the others in devotions while they walked. Rothana excused herself immediately, promising, when pressed, to continue considering what he had offered.

Conall watched her thoughtfully as she hurried to join the others. His head ached with the strain of the encounter, but he was sure she had not pierced his façade. Now he could only wait for his next opportunity to broach the subject and pray that Father Ambros was discreet and Rothana herself would not dare to speak further of the matter to anyone else until Cardiel should release her from her vows.

And Rothana's letter to the archbishop must be investigated, too, to see how specific she had been. From what he was learning of her way of thinking, Conall guessed she would have been circumspect in her exact reasons for requesting dispensation; but Conall stood a far better chance of accomplishing their marriage if Cardiel thought her motive a questioning of her vocation rather than an intention to marry a specific individual.

Fortunately, Cardiel was human. Conall could manipulate him, if he had to. In fact, other than Arilan himself—and Morgan and Duncan, when they eventually returned—Conall doubted there was anyone at court that he could
not
manipulate, with the possible exception of his father. And if Conall could make himself a part of Nigel's power assumption—as was certainly possible, now being the heir—there might be ways to circumvent Nigel's abilities as well, even after he was brought to full potential.

Conall could feel his own power stirring within him as he stood and began making his leisurely way back into the residence wing of the castle, heading for his father's apartments to deal with the request Arilan had made of him. Nigel must be persuaded to accept his Haldane power as soon as possible, so that Conall could be confirmed as the heir and his own growing powers not be so noticeable.

They
were
growing, too—no doubt as a result of Kelson's death and Conall's subsequent nearer proximity to the throne. Growth of any kind often produced growing pains, however—headaches, in Conall's case, becoming more and more frequent. He had one now. Though Tiercel might have set his Haldane potential in motion early—and Conall's reading of Tiercel's memories undoubtedly had given him increased abilities even over what he had gained to that point—Conall was now eligible for more orthodox assistance to come into his inheritance. Once Nigel was confirmed in full power, they would have to confirm Conall as the heir—delicious anticipation!

His head continued to ache as he climbed the stairs, but he pushed the pain down with relative ease, now that he did not have to be on guard against Rothana. Nor need he be too concerned about his father's powers. So far as he could tell, Nigel was far behind Conall in ability, for all that he had been prepared to assume Kelson's legacy of magic as well as blood.

He found his father at a writing table built into a window of his parents' sleeping chamber, gazing out across the river, a quill forgotten in his fingers. The funereal black of the prince regent's raiment was relieved only by his still, winter-pale face and hands and the silver threading his temples, the latter glinting in the sunlight as Nigel turned his head to see who had entered. The new King of Gwynedd smiled and laid aside the pen as his eldest son approached, pushing aside the sheaf of parchment rectangles with an immense sigh of relief.

“Thank God, Conall. You've rescued me from an interminable stack of correspondence that needs to be signed and sealed. The scribes must have worked all through the night—dozens of them. Arilan is an even worse taskmaster than Duncan. I don't suppose you'd care to lend a hand?”

Conall smiled thinly in return and detoured to the fireplace to fetch a lighted candle before joining his father at the cluttered table, setting the candlestick in a space Nigel cleared hastily at the end exposed to the room. Conall wanted to talk about only one of the two bishops his father had just named. Helping seal the documents would give his hands something to do while he chose his words with care.

“They
have
left you with a stack, haven't they?” he said, pulling a coil of scarlet sealing wax from the clutter and straightening out the wick end to light it from the candle. “I fear I shan't be much help with the signing, but I can dribble sealing wax with the best of them. Which seal are you going to use?”

Nigel twisted his personal signet off his finger and set it before Conall with a sigh.

“Regardless of what they say, I'm not the king
yet
, son,” he said. “And I don't mind telling you, I hoped never to have to send these.”

He pulled the first letter from its stack and laid it on the table before Conall, holding it steady as the red drops made a growing mound of molten wax on the parchment below his signature—to which Nigel had added
P
. for
Princeps
, rather than
R
. for
Rex
.

Conall said nothing as his father set the seal into the hot wax, leaving the imprint of Nigel's personal arms rather than the undifferenced Haldane lion that was now his due, but it was obvious Nigel was aware of his son's scrutiny. He gave Conall a tight, strained smile as he set the letter aside and drew the next one into position, deliberately averting his grey Haldane gaze.

“I know,” Nigel said softly, watching the wax pool on the next letter. “I'm probably being foolish still to hold out hope that Kelson might yet live. But I don't
want
to be king. If I thought I dared, I'd seriously consider abdicating in your favor. You wouldn't mind, either, would you? You're young enough for the responsibility to seem like adventure. But of course the great lords would never stand for it. There's no place but the grave for a man who once was king.”

As Nigel applied seal to wax again, Conall felt a stir of anger at how little his own father understood his yearnings, but he forced himself to put it aside dispassionately, in the same way he put aside the second letter. In many respects, Nigel was absolutely correct. There was no room for two kings in any land.

“God grant that day may be long in coming, Father,” he murmured. “For now, I'm perfectly content to continue learning statecraft at your side. In the meantime, however, there's other craft we both must learn. And you, in particular, dare not delay that overlong.”

“Ah, I see Arilan's been at you,” Nigel said.

“Only casually,” Conall replied, focusing all his outward attention on the next seal, though his shields had firmed instinctively at his father's faint rebuke. “He's right in warning that our enemies will be testing, as soon as they learn of Kelson's death, hoping for just such a delay in confirming your powers.”

He sent a cautious tendril of thought against the shields he expected to be already in place, but it slithered unimpaired and undetected past defenses only barely maintained, and never intended to stop his own son. Nigel only shook his head in response to Conall's words as he switched a sealed letter for an unsealed one.

“I don't see that they'll be testing all that soon. They can't even know yet, in Torenth. Even Morgan will only be finding out in the next day or so—and Duncan didn't have to ride the distance from here to Dhassa. It will take far longer for conventional couriers to cross the Torenthi border.”

“From here, perhaps,” Conall agreed, “but not from the north, where it happened. We took four days to ride from Saint Bearand's via Valoret, but one must take into account that the news will have spread directly from there as well. All the monks at Saint Bearand's certainly knew, as soon as anyone outside our immediate party. And we ourselves sent a messenger directly to the Earl of Eastmarch, to name only one. He'll have sent word on to Cardosa. And once the news reaches Cardosa, it can be all over Torenth within a matter of hours, as soon as some Torenthi agent with Deryni connections can make it to the nearest Portal.”

“You paint rather bleak prospects,” Nigel replied, exchanging another sealed letter for an unsealed one. “Still, I think we can delay making any binding decisions until Duncan and Morgan return.”

“Why not let Arilan handle it and be done?” Conall asked. “He says he was keyed to your power ritual, the same as Duncan and Morgan. And he isn't emotionally involved over Kelson's death in the same way that the rest of us are. He might be a better bet, all the way around.”

Nigel sighed and laid aside his seal, setting one fist on his hip to turn and gaze at Conall.

“Did he tell you that, son, or did you figure it out for yourself?”

Suddenly uneasy, for no clear reason he could immediately discern, Conall straightened and blew out the flame on the coil of sealing wax, setting it carefully beside his father's discarded ring.

“What do you mean? He
is
less emotionally involved.”

“Less involved over the immediate matter of Kelson's death, perhaps,” Nigel conceded, “but I'd hardly call him disinterested. He
is
a member of the Camberian Council, after all.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Nigel shrugged, then folded his arms on his chest. “I'm not sure. Nothing I can exactly put my finger on. But they were already in turmoil themselves, over Tiercel's death. Kelson
did
tell you that one of the councillors had been found dead, right here in the castle, didn't he?”

Conall felt like a cold hand was closing around his heart and he had to avert his eyes to keep from telegraphing his consternation to his father. He hoped Nigel had not seen his momentary start of panic as the words first registered. He had not expected the conversation to turn to the dead Tiercel de Claron.

“He mentioned that
someone
important had been found dead, but he never said whom—only that it was no one I would know.”

“No, you wouldn't have,” Nigel murmured.

But an odd flicker of confusion rippled across his mind. Conall still had a probe set deep within his father's shields and could read no sign of real suspicion—yet—but he could follow connections being made as Nigel tried, mostly just below the surface levels of real awareness, to reconcile Conall's words of denial with the momentary start. Conall feared he might have underestimated his father and wondered whether it was too late to turn the light of doubt on Dhugal.

“Kelson really didn't say much else about it,” Conall went on. “I got the impression it was something that needn't concern me, so I didn't pry. I do seem to recall a letter to Dhugal, however. In fact, Dhugal seemed very upset about it. Did he know the man?”

“We don't know,” Nigel replied. “Duncan didn't think so. But the body was found in the secret passageway that leads from Dhugal's room out to the yard by the basilica. Only a few people knew about it.”

“Well, obviously Tiercel de Claron did,” Conall said. “How do you suppose he found out?”

Too late, he realized what he had said, and watched with a sick churning in the pit of his stomach as Nigel's face changed.

“I never mentioned Tiercel's full name, son,” Nigel whispered. “How did you know it?”

“Well, I—suppose Kelson told me,” Conall lied, trying frantically to retrace and cover his tracks. “Or maybe Arilan mentioned it.”

“No, Arilan never would have said it to you, and you told me Kelson had never given you the dead man's name, since you wouldn't have known him. Conall, do you know more about this than you're telling me? Don't lie to me, son.”

All at once, Conall knew that Nigel was aware of his probe, appalled to find it already past his shields. A part of the invaded mind tensed to repulse the intruder, but Conall could sense his father also trying to tap into the Truth-Reading ability he had been authorized to use.

Conall dared not let that happen. But even as he squelched the attempt, wrapping a part of his mind around that section of Nigel's and reaching for more emphatic controls, he knew that Nigel knew.

“Conall, what are you doing?” Nigel managed to gasp, clutching at the edges of the table for support as he quailed before his son's intrusion, grey eyes hurt and confused. “Oh, God, you
did
know him. And he gave you power, didn't he? Sweet
Jesu
, he gave you power, and you killed him!”