The Quest for Saint Camber (42 page)

“Aye, well, that's one thing if you're here. It's quite another if you go gallivanting off with me to Dhassa—which is no place for a pregnant Deryni woman to be, in any case, among a bunch of intolerant clerics.”

“There
is
another Deryni there, Alaric,” Duncan interjected. He's young and hasn't a great deal of training, so I don't know how much use he'll be, but he should be able to hold a passive link well enough.”

Morgan blinked once, digesting the information, then shook his head.

“I won't ask more about him now. But his presence makes it even less necessary for Richenda to come along.”

“I beg to differ!” Richenda said. “If you think I'm going to let you trust your safety to some ill-trained Deryni sprat who, with the best intentions in the world, could let you slip too deep and—”

“Richenda, I've said ‘enough.' We won't discuss it further.”

“Then, let
me
come with you, m'lord,” Derry said. “I'm not Deryni, but I know what to watch for. Or you could draw on me for extra power. I'm not afraid.”

“And leave Richenda to the wolves, Derry?” Morgan said archly. “I'm
going
to make her regent before I go, but I'd hoped you'd stay with her, to give her a hand.”

As Richenda looked up in surprise, uncertain whether to be pleased or stubborn still, Duncan glanced among the three of them in bewilderment.

“It's a long story, Duncan,” Morgan murmured. “I'll tell you on the way. In the meantime, can I trust that my beloved wife and my lieutenant can handle things in my absence?”

“Well, of course, but—”

“Good, then. Duncan, do you want a bath and a change of clothes before we head out? And maybe even a nap? You've got time. If—the worst
has
happened, we may be gone for quite a while, so I'll need a few hours to set things up.”

As Morgan set about the business of getting ready to leave for Dhassa, Kelson's face was before him in his mind's eye.

Meanwhile, Kelson's face was before Dhugal in the flesh as he touched a fingertip to the forehead of the sleeping king and released him from sleep. The aroma of roasting fish wafted past Kelson's nostrils, and he came to with a start.

“Food,” Kelson murmured, as he struggled blearily onto his elbows and blinked. “Thank God! I'm so hungry, I could eat a horse.”

“You wouldn't want to eat the one
I
was eating,” Dhugal said, helping the king sit up. “That's fish you smell.”

“Well, I know that,” Kelson muttered, giving Dhugal a sour glance. “Where'd you get a fish?”

Dhugal chuckled and held up his hands, wiggling his fingers in display. “I charmed him right into my clutches. Marvelous, the things one can do, if one's Deryni. He hadn't any eyes, either.”

“No eyes?” Kelson glanced at the fish spitted on a stick above the fire. “What do you mean, no eyes?”

Shrugging, Dhugal fetched the fish on the stick and handed it to Kelson.

“He hasn't got any. Here, see for yourself. He's ready to eat, anyway. I guess they don't need eyes, living down here in the dark and all.”

Looking a little queasy, Kelson handed the fish back.

“I don't know if I want to eat a fish that doesn't have eyes. It isn't—natural.”

“Well, I think it's natural down here,” Dhugal said, as he slipped the fish off the stick and onto a clean-washed depression in the stone floor of the cavern, breaking it open so it could cool a little. “Besides, there's nothing else to eat, now that the horse-meat's gone bad. This is the fifth or sixth one I've caught, and none of them had eyes. I threw the first few back, because of that, but they're all the same.”

He licked a fingertip and raised an appreciative eyebrow. “They taste good, at least. And they're certainly proper Lenten fare. My father would approve.”

Kelson sighed, nibbling halfheartedly at a morsel of fish after Dhugal had broken off a more sizable chunk and fallen to.

“Do you think Duncan and Alaric will come looking for us, Dhugal?” the king asked. “Or will they think we're dead?”

Dhugal, hungrily wolfing down another bite of fish, shook his head.

“I dunno,” he said, when he had swallowed. “I have the feeling we're pretty far underground, so I'm not sure they'd know where to look. I'm hoping there's a way out of here by following the stream bank in the direction the water's flowing. We certainly can't get out the way we came in.”

He picked up another chunk of fish. “We were tumbled along for quite a while before we beached in this cavern, though. We could have come miles. I'm sure they'll
try
to look, but—”

As Dhugal shrugged again, Kelson sighed and glanced toward the darkness in the direction the stream was flowing.

“God, I wish I could remember more about what happened,” he whispered. “My memory's starting to come back, but—”

“How about your powers?” Dhugal asked quietly.

“Nothing.” Kelson shook his head forlornly. “I keep trying to focus—on
anything
—but nothing happens except that my head hurts worse. Do you think they'll come back?”

“You're asking
me?
” Dhugal said.

“Well, you're the battle surgeon,” Kelson replied. “How long do the effects of head injuries last?”

“With a concussion like you've had—weeks, maybe. But I don't know about your powers being affected, Kel. I've never had a Deryni patient with a concussion before—at least not that I was aware of.”

Kelson sighed explosively. “Well, you've got one now. Besides,
you're
Deryni.”

“Yes, but only recently—recently discovered, that is. You know my training is marginal.”

“Maybe you're a healer, like Duncan,” Kelson said. “Maybe you could heal me.”

“Kelson, I wouldn't dare.”

“But, you already said you'd healed my head, where the skull was pressed in.”

“No, I did a physical manipulation with my mind, like opening a lock without a key. There's a big difference between that and healing.”

“I suppose.”

“Anyway, now that you're getting back on your feet again, we need to start moving downstream. We can't stay here indefinitely.”

Kelson looked doubtfully at Dhugal's boot, strapped with strips of fabric wound round the ankle.

“Can you walk on that?”

“I'll manage.” Dhugal grimaced as he got to his feet, leaning heavily on his staff. “I'm pretty sure it isn't broken. It does hurt, though.”

“You mean, you haven't looked at it?”

“I didn't dare take off the boot,” Dhugal replied, giving Kelson a hand up as he braced himself against his staff. “I'm getting pretty good at sensing through leather, though. I tore some ligaments, but they're mending. It's less swollen than it was.”

As Dhugal thrust a stick of driftwood into the fire for a torch, Kelson shook his head gingerly and picked up another stout piece of branch that would serve as a walking stick. Dhugal slung the saddlebags across his shoulder, and Kelson carried the flask.

Even that soon proved too great a burden for the king, however. Although Kelson thought they had been walking for several hours by the time they took their first rest break, Dhugal knew it had been far less time than that. Regardless of how long it had been, the king was exhausted. Dhugal had to let him sleep for several hours before he could summon up the strength to go on. Dhugal wondered how long they could keep this up.

It went on for several relays of hobbling on along the rushing riverbank and then falling into exhausted sleep, the roar of the water lulling them almost immediately into deep, dreamless slumber; but finally the roof above them widened and opened out into a vast cavern, so high they could not see the ceiling, even when Dhugal sent a sphere of handfire as high as he could make it go. The darkness seemed to press closer around them the farther they followed the river across the cavern, and pieces of driftwood for torches became fewer and fewer, so that Dhugal finally had to begin picking up suitable branches whenever he could find them and packing them along in the tops of the saddlebags.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

The way of the wicked is as darkness: they know not at what they stumble
.

—Proverbs 4:19

In Rhemuth, Conall's luck continued to hold. Nigel's “seizure” was taken as exactly that, as first guards and servants, then a distraught Meraude, and finally a coterie of physicians flocked into the royal suite to attend the stricken king. Beyond initial, hurried inquiries regarding what had happened, no one paid much attention to the apparently devastated Conall; and he made a point to stay out of their way.

Arilan came, too, a little while later, but he was no physician; and by then, Conall had fixed a stunned façade of innocence in the outer halls of his mind, so that the Deryni bishop was unable to detect any hint of what
really
had happened to Nigel—and certainly, no one else was astute enough to discern the truth. By dusk, Nigel's condition had stabilized, but he did not regain consciousness.

“He's been working too hard since we brought back word of Kelson's death,” Conall said to Father Lael, when the latter had withdrawn from the royal bedside at last, the first to think seriously of seeing how the king's heir fared. “I told him he should rest more. He was distressed about having to send out those letters to the barons, too.”

He gestured toward the table in the window, where the letters lay temporarily forgotten, and Lael followed his glance.

“He was working on those when he had his seizure?” Lael asked.

Conall nodded. “They're the letters proclaiming his accession. He'd already signed them when I came in, and I was helping him seal them. It all went against the grain, though. He never really wanted or expected to be king. Archbishop Cardiel's probably told you what the privy council went through, just to gain his consent to be proclaimed right away. If he'd had his way, he would have made them wait a year and a day for
that
, as well as for the coronation. He was complaining about it when he—”

He broke off in a choked sob and buried his face in one hand, feigning overwhelming sorrow as Lael laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

“It's been hard on you, too, hasn't it, son?” Lael murmured. “Don't you think you should get some sleep, though? There's nothing you can do for your father right now. I or one of the other physicians will stay with him through the night.”

Conall sniffled back tears and looked up, shaking his head. In the event that anyone started to get suspicious, he wanted to be awake—just in case he needed to defend himself.

“I don't think I could sleep.”

“I'll give you a sedative.”

“But, what if he needs me?”

“Nonsense,” Lael said. “Even if he does regain consciousness during the night—which I doubt he'll do—there's nothing you could do for him. Besides, I think you're still a bit in shock yourself.”

Conall started to protest, but then he cut himself off and shook his head, for he had begun to weigh the merits of having people at least
think
he was asleep, thereby putting him beyond possibly dangerous questioning. Bed might, indeed, be the best place for him through the night, but he was not certain about Lael's sedative—just in case he did need to function at his best on short notice.

“I—perhaps you're right, Father,” he said softly, all diffidence and subdued Haldane charm. “Undoubtedly you're right. I haven't had a proper night's sleep since it all happened.”

“Well, then, let's see what we can do to ensure that you get one tonight,” Lael replied. “In the morning, we'll have a much better idea how your father's condition is going to progress, and it will be far more important for you to be clear-headed and rested then. In case it hasn't yet dawned on you, you'll be king if Nigel dies. And even if he lives, you'll be regent until he recovers—if he recovers.”

“You mean, he could be this way forever?” Conall asked softly.

“He could. Until he dies, at any rate. I'm sorry, Conall. I wish I could give you a more encouraging prognosis.”

A quick pang of guilt stabbed at Conall's conscience, but it was quickly overshadowed by satisfaction. He had never really wished his father ill, but neither had he been prepared to accept the consequences of being blamed for Tiercel's death. He had intended neither, but he could not bring himself to regret either one, given the alternatives otherwise. Besides, what was done was done now; and the prospect of being regent and eventually king was far too tantalizing not to thrill him.

“I think I
will
have that sedative you mentioned, Father,” he whispered, making himself look up at Lael in sad resignation.

“Fine,” Lael replied. “Let's get you into bed first, though. You'll rest best in your own room, I think.”

Without further discussion, an apparently dutiful Conall led Lael to his chambers and undressed in silence as the priest mixed a potion from his medical satchel. But instead of getting into bed immediately, the prince drew on a night robe and went to the priedieu set against the wall near the door, feigning restlessness.

“Set it on the nightstand there beside the bed, if you will, Father,” Conall murmured, resting one hand on the armrest of the prie-dieu as he glanced back at the priest. “I think I'd like to pray a little while before retiring.”

“Of course,” Lael murmured, complying. “Would you like me to pray with you, or would you rather be alone?”

Conall bowed his head. “I think I'd prefer to be alone, Father, if you don't mind. This has all been—very difficult.”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

Conall thrilled to the title of address as Lael made him a bow and left the room, but as soon as the priest had gone, he went to the nightstand and emptied the contents of the cup into the chamber pot under the bed. He poured fresh wine into the cup after that and sat sipping at it in a window for nearly an hour, gazing lazily down into the darkening garden. Just at sunset, before it got too dark to see, he was pleased to observe Rothana among a group of other nuns and ladies of the court whom Father Ambros was leading back from the basilica, returning from evening prayers.