The Quest for Saint Camber (41 page)

Conall was never sure just where the knowledge or the power came from—only that he could feel it welling from somewhere deep within him, coiling to strike, he helpless to stop it. Later, he was to reflect that it might have been triggered by reading the dead Tiercel's memories, for he experienced a rapid succession of mental images that were not in his own experience, but that seemed to hint that he had done battle with his mind before.

But guessing the source of his new-found power gave him no control over it. It was a survival reflex, untempered by reason or mercy or even by the knowledge that it was his own father he was about to strike and almost certainly slay. And though he thought he managed, in the very last instant, to deflect a portion of the lethal blast he loosed in his father's mind, he had no idea whether his efforts had been enough.

He watched in horror as the assault ran its course, Nigel's open hands uplifted in a futile warding-off gesture as he tried to stand, his handsome face contorted in a rictus of pain, hands clutching at both silvered temples in silent agony. It seemed to last for hours, though in fact no more than thirty heartbeats passed, and rapid ones at that, for Conall knew his heart was racing.

When, at last, he felt the power wane, still by no command that he himself had given, Nigel crumpled slowly like a felled tree. Conall watched, spellbound, until his father's limp body had sunk to the floor in a tangle of faintly twitching limbs and overturned chair, the handsome face drained of color, grey eyes blank and etched still with the echo of unspeakable pain.

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

And they shall mourn for him, as one mourneth for his only son
.

—Zechariah 12:10

Kelric was kicking. Morgan, with his cheek laid against the bulge that was his unborn son, glanced up at Richenda in wonder, grinning as the baby kicked again and she winced.

“Our son is active this morning,” he murmured.

“He's been active most of the night, Richenda countered. “I think he's turning. It must get very cramped for a baby, just before the end. At this rate, he may not wait another three weeks to be born.”

Morgan sat up in alarm.

“Is it time? Shall I send for Master Randolph?”

“Alaric—”

She laughed and set her hands to either side of his face as she shook her head, dispelling his anxiety and coaxing him by gesture and mind to worm higher in the bed, so she could kiss him. He sighed contentedly as he snuggled down beside her and buried his face against her shoulder, one arm now draped protectively above her swollen abdomen.

“I know,” he murmured, gazing beyond her at the curtains enclosing the bed. “I worry too much. But I wonder if you realize how frightening it is for a man to know what his wife is going to have to go through to give him a child, and worry whether she'll survive it.”

“Dearest heart, I've done it twice before—” she protested.

“Yes, and I wasn't there either time,” he said, rubbing his unshaven cheek against her arm and raising his head to grin wickedly when she protested. “Well, you didn't wait until I could get home, the last time,” he went on. “And it isn't
my
fault you had your first baby with the wrong husband. If you'd been sensible and married me first, things would have been much different.”

“You didn't ask,” Richenda retorted. “Besides, Brendan wouldn't be Brendan, if he'd had you for a father. He'd be very nice, I'm sure, and quite extraordinary—but he'd be someone else.”

Morgan raised one eyebrow in agreement. “Aye, that's true. Well, little Kelric will be someone else, that's for certain—and undoubtedly extraordinary, just like his mother.” He glanced thoughtfully at her stomach again. “I wonder what he's thinking right now. I wonder if babies think, before they're born.”

“Well, if he does, I hope he's thinking how sorry he ought to be that he's giving his mother such a difficult time this morning,” she replied sourly. “I doubt I slept more than a few hours. At least he seems to be settling down now. Maybe you can wheedle Lord Rathold into having Cook send breakfast up, and then I'll let
you
wrangle with your precious officers while I spend the morning napping. They won't miss me anyway. Besides, it's hard to take a woman seriously who looks as if she might explode at any moment.”

“Darling! You do not,” Morgan said indignantly, sitting up to look at her again.

“Well, I
feel
as if I might. Alaric, you have no idea how—”

“Hush a moment, love,” Morgan murmured, touching fingertips to her lips as he cocked his ear to the sound of feet pounding up the staircase outside their door. And as fists hammered on it, he reached for a night robe.

“Your Grace! Oh, please. Morgan, come at once!”

It was Derry's voice, agitated and edged with heavy emotion, and Morgan was out of bed and dashing to the door, pulling on his robe, before the next set of pounding ceased.

“I'm coming, Derry. What is it?” He threw the bolt and flung open the door and was stunned to see Duncan standing at Derry's side, travel-stained, smelling of horse, and looking as if his entire world had ceased to exist.

“Duncan?”

“It's Kelson,” Duncan managed to choke out. “And Dhugal. There's been an accident.”

My God, what have I done?

Fists pressed to his temples in disbelief, Conall stared at his father's motionless body in shock for nearly a dozen heartbeats before he could move himself to kneel beside him.

He did not know what had come over him. He had not meant to do Nigel any harm. The power he had tapped, which he had channeled into an attack on his own father, had risen all unbidden and uncontrollable in response to his panic. It had been like the bolt of energy that Kelson loosed at Charissa in that terrible battle in the cathedral on Kelson's coronation day. Conall had
wanted
the full power of his Haldane potential and had gone to considerable lengths to get it, but he had never thought to pay
this
price for it.

But by some miracle which Conall could not begin to explain, Nigel still lived, despite the frightful blast of energy he had taken, all unprepared for an attack by his own son. His breathing was shallow and erratic, his skin clammy, and he did not respond to any of Conall's attempts to rouse him, but a pulse throbbed weakly in his throat. There was blood in Nigel's mouth, too, from biting his tongue while he convulsed; and Conall had to close the unseeing eyes, for they would not close of their own accord.

But though the pulsebeat steadied after a minute or two, nothing else of Nigel's condition seemed to change. And a fearful venture back into his mind encountered only the fog of unconsciousness, the irregular shadows of vast trauma done to body as well as mind—though even Conall, knowing what to look for, could detect no sign of how it had occurred, or by whose action.

Conall's own pounding heart began to slow down as he realized that he, at least, could not be blamed, and a detached, unfamiliar part of him began quite coolly developing a story to explain the condition without casting blame upon himself. Some of the reasoning, he knew with a frightening and puzzled certainty, came from the memories of the dead Tiercel de Claron.

He had seen men in a similar state before—usually older men than Nigel, who was not yet forty—but it sometimes happened that young men suffered a like fate. Physicians differed as to whether the heart or the brain was to blame. In any case, the effects were very similar to what Conall now observed in his father. Recovery, if it came, was always slow and laborious, and the victim might lie unconscious for days, weeks, or even months and be paralyzed and speechless for some time after that—perhaps indefinitely.

Except that, in this case, Conall knew that the victim would
not
get better unless someone could reverse what he had done. He himself did not know how, for he did not know how he had done it; and if anyone else discovered the true reason for Nigel's condition, they would surely make the eventual conclusion that Conall was responsible.

He dared not let his part in it be known, then. His guilt was multiplying with every new, terrible thing that happened, but he dared not confess—not with the crown at last within his reach.

For with Kelson dead and Nigel indefinitely incapacitated, Conall was now the most powerful man in Gwynedd. Perhaps he was not king yet in fact, for Nigel was rightful king so long as he lived, and Conall did not wish his father dead; but Conall certainly was the logical choice for regent, in his father's incapacity—king in everything but name.

The idea had a delicious feel to it—King Conall. And even
Regent
Conall was not without its charms. All that remained was to weather the discovery of his father's condition without giving clue that he had had any part of it.

He thanked God for the care Tiercel had taken in helping him sequester off a part of his mind from even Deryni probing, for Arilan was the one Deryni he would have to deal with immediately; but even Arilan did not scare him anymore. He required only a few seconds to seal away this newest guilt with the several others, where Arilan would never see it. Then, drawing a deep breath, he ran to the door and wrenched it open, calling down the spiral stair.

“Guards? Guards! Fetch a physician at once. My father's had some sort of a seizure!”

Morgan sat numbly on the edge of the hearth in his sleeping chamber, Richenda crowded close beside him, holding his hand mutely, watching him with wide, frightened eyes as both of them listened to Duncan repeat the details of his news one more time. Derry had taken a stool across from them, and Duncan slouched in Morgan's carved armchair, sipping halfheartedly at a cup of mulled wine a page had brought.

“That's all I know, Alaric. God help me, I can't believe it either, but it must be true. I questioned all the eyewitnesses before I left—and I do mean
questioned
. At least one of them saw Kelson slam into a rock, almost as soon as he hit the water. They say Dhugal seemed to be swimming, the last time anyone saw him, but both of them went over the waterfall—hell,
everyone
who went into the water went over the waterfall! And if, by sheerest luck, anyone survived
that
, apparently most of the river goes underground just past the spillway. So you either dash your brains out on a rock or you get sucked under and drown—or both.”

“But you said one man did survive,” Richenda ventured.

“Aye, but only barely,” Duncan replied. “That little squire of Kelson's—Dolfin. They left him behind at Saint Bearand's until he's recovered enough to travel, but that could be weeks. Father Lael says the boy could be crippled for the rest of his life.”

“They did find other bodies, though,” Morgan said.

Duncan nodded. “One—and a couple of dead horses. But no sign of the monk who was guiding them, and no sign of Kelson or Dhugal.”

Morgan closed his eyes, rubbing Richenda's hand gently along his cheek for creature comfort but not allowing her mind to touch his. He must keep himself detached from what had happened. If he gave up and let himself admit that Kelson was dead, his grief would overwhelm him, and he would be no good to anyone until it ran its course. Given the circumstances Duncan had reported, Kelson probably
was
dead—though, as had been the case with Brion, Morgan felt he should have sensed some sign of such a momentous passing. But as long as no one found Kelson's body, at least a part of him might still hold enough hope to sustain him through the rest of what must be done, to keep the reins of Gwynedd's government in capable hands.

And if Kelson
was
dead—in which case, neither Morgan nor Duncan nor anyone else could do anything for him now—there was a new king in Rhemuth who would need their help. Stabilizing Nigel and the transition of government must be their first priority. Only when that was accomplished might they indulge in mourning those lost—both of them.

“This must be especially difficult for you,” Morgan said to Duncan, looking up at last. “In my concern over Kelson, I fear I'd almost let it pass that you've lost a son as well as a king. I'm sorry, Duncan.”

Duncan shrugged forlornly. “It's a natural omission. I know you didn't mean to slight Dhugal. Do you think there's any chance they
are
somehow alive?”

“Do you want me to answer with my heart or my head?” Morgan countered.

“Why don't we try not to answer it at all, just for now, then?” Duncan said. “We both know our first priority. We have to get back to Nigel.”

“Aye. On the other hand, we can't just stand by and assume that Kelson and Dhugal are dead. Too much depends on it. We need proof, one way or the other.”

“I hoped you'd feel that way,” Duncan whispered, after swallowing painfully. “What do you want to do?”

“A deep link, to see whether we can reach them.”

“I'll help,” Richenda said.

Smiling gratefully, Morgan shook his head, patting her held hand with his other one.

“Not from here, darling. It's too far, even if they
are
alive. No, I had in mind from Dhassa.”

“Then, I'll come with you to Dhassa.”

“Don't be ridiculous. You're in no condition to travel.”

“And neither of you is in any condition to attempt such a working without help,” Richenda countered. “It's still a long way from Dhassa to the area of Saint Bearand's. And if they're injured—”

“You're not coming, and that's final,” Morgan said, releasing her hand as he rose. “Besides, someone Deryni has to stay here because of Morag. That's asking a great deal of you, as it is, with your time so near.”

Richenda's face grew petulant. “I've told you, that isn't nearly as big a factor as you insist upon making it,” she said. “A pregnant woman isn't
sick
, for God's sake. Even when the birthing starts, I'll only be thoroughly distracted for a few hours. And we've already made provisions for Morag. Derry knows what to do, when the time comes.”