The Quest for Saint Camber (48 page)

But then, from somewhere, he was drawing the strength to resist that compulsion, raising a barrier of crimson light between himself and that other presence, banishing it at last from all contact. It was not easy, but he finally succeeded.

He huddled motionless for a little while after that, gradually regaining equilibrium, and finally even his breathing steadied as the pain in his hand began to be controllable with his new-found mastery of his power. Tiercel's memories, too, seemed to have settled into orderly stability, the knowledge gained now totally accessible.

He spent a few minutes confirming and testing, aware that the drugs in his body had reached maximum effect and he was still able to exercise his own will. Then he drew a deep, careful breath and slowly straightened, sitting back on his heels and cradling what was now just a brooch in his left hand.

“Conall?” he heard Morgan murmur, just barely audible.

Though he tried to be careful, Conall jarred the end of the clasp protruding from the back of his hand and he sucked in breath between his teeth at the new pain. But Duncan was already scrambling closer, Morgan gently prising loose his right hand while Duncan uncurled the left fingers so he could remove the brooch. Even though the metal pin was polished smooth, it hurt coming out, and Conall let the pain show, rather than damping it down, for it had occurred to him that perhaps he was not reacting enough to account for what supposedly had happened. His father had reported losing consciousness after even the abbreviated working to set the Haldane potential, and Conall had the impression that Kelson, too, had swooned away at the collective effect of his assumption of power. Perhaps Conall should pretend to faint.

But Arilan was kneeling eagerly before him and watching with keen interest, apparently well pleased with his reaction. And Duncan, though he cleaned the wounds in Conall's hand with something that stung ferociously, back and palm, soon took away pain and wound and all with a firm healer's touch, with nothing apparently amiss in his assessment of Conall's reaction. Conall flexed the hand in wonder when Duncan had done, for there was not even a drop of blood to show for his ordeal, though blood still stained the pin of the brooch Morgan held.

“How do you feel?” Morgan asked, searching the grey Haldane eyes.

Cautiously Conall nodded, allowing a faint hint of dazedness to color his movement.

“All right, I think. It—”

He swallowed and shook his head, truly unable to articulate what had just happened to him, even if he had dared, with what was on his conscience. And he did
not
want to talk about that unfamiliar face he had seen.

“I'm very tired,” he whispered, instinctively knowing that to be the safest response.

“It's amazing that you're even conscious,” Arilan murmured, wiping the oil from Conall's breast and then scrubbing at what remained on his head. “In fact, I don't think you ever really lost consciousness, did you?”

Conall decided immediately that a slightly embellished truth was safer than an outright lie.

“Well, I—think I did,” he whispered. “It was sort of like—drifting in and out. I don't remember much, though.”

“Well, that's standard enough,” Duncan murmured. “I don't think Kelson was ever able to tell us much about what
he
experienced, though he did report seeming to see his father.”

Arilan snorted. “Hardly to be expected in this instance, since Nigel's still alive. It seems certain something happened, though. Conall, do you feel up to flexing your Haldane powers yet? Maybe making some demonstration, since you're in pretty good shape?”

Conall swallowed uneasily, considering what harmless thing he might do that would not seem too pretentious after so short a time, from someone previously unschooled. Then, pretending to concentrate very hard, he held out his right hand and cupped it, summoning handfire. He feigned awe as it appeared, flickering crimson in his palm, but Arilan only smiled, and Duncan and then Morgan nodded slowly.

“Handfire,” Arilan said. “Well, that's certainly a start.” He glanced at the other two Deryni. “Will you need my help dismantling, or shall I take him back to his room?”

“We can manage,” Duncan said, as Morgan got slowly to his feet with the Haldane sword.

Later, when they had dismissed the wards and Arilan had gone with Conall, and the two of them had gathered up most of the paraphernalia of the night's work, Morgan, with a weary sigh, sank down on the floor with his back to the side of Nigel's bed, still toying restlessly with the hilt of the now-sheathed sword.

“I suppose we—have to accept that Kelson is dead, then,” he whispered, as Duncan knelt beside him in question. “I didn't want to believe it before, but—”

His voice broke, and he bowed his head in one hand as the grief, held back for so many days, became a force no longer to be denied. He indulged it for a little while, taking comfort from the circle of Duncan's arms and the gentle brush of his mind as the other drew him into soothing rapport, though Duncan's grief was surely no less than his own, for having lost a son as well as a king. But oddly, the hard, despairing grief abated fairly quickly, gradually being replaced by a growing certainty that they must somehow confirm for themselves that Kelson and Dhugal were, indeed, dead.

“Do you mean, go to the place where they were lost and keep looking for bodies?” Duncan asked aloud, when either of them could speak again.

Morgan nodded woodenly. “We have to, Duncan. Until we can see the evidence for ourselves and accept that they're gone, we'll be little use to anyone. I'm not even certain how much we had to do with what happened here tonight.”

“Odd that you should mention that,” Duncan said. “I was thinking myself how different tonight was from what I'd expected. Almost a little hollow, as if we were only going through the motions. It certainly wasn't anything like Kelson's.”

“Well, I'll grant you that the sequence was jumbled by the standards of what we've seen before,” Morgan said, jarred more deeply than he wanted to admit by Duncan's confirmation of the—
oddness
of the night's experience. “That alone would have made it seem different. And maybe other things felt different because we didn't have the Eye of Rom—though I'd certainly have to say that the end result was successful.
Something
certainly happened when he impaled his hand on that brooch—though I'll grant you, everything felt very different from when Kelson did the same thing.”

Sighing, Duncan sat back against the side of the bed beside Morgan and ran a hand over his face, off in his own thoughts for a few seconds, before shaking his head.

“We're tilting at shadows, Alaric,” he murmured, “and unfortunately, the source of those shadows is far more likely to be our own unresolved grief than anything truly odd that happened here tonight—not that Haldane magic can ever really be considered other than odd by Deryni standards, I suppose.”

“Aye, that's true.”

“Which brings us to another interesting point,” Duncan went on. “Conall is
only
Haldane. He doesn't have Jehana for a mother—which will make for a far duller sort of power exercise than we've become accustomed to with Kelson, I'm afraid.”

“Unless there's Deryni blood in the Haldanes already, even before Jehana,” Morgan said. “There has been, in the past—though I daresay it's pretty well diluted by now.” He sighed. “But you're right. Conall is not going to be the king that Kelson was—or Brion. Which is a pity, for its own sake.”

He dragged himself slowly to his knees to turn and gaze at Nigel, now divested of his Haldane regalia, even paler against the stark white of the sheets than he had been when swathed in Haldane crimson.

“And what a pity that Nigel will never get to reign,” he went on, laying a hand regretfully on one of Nigel's still ones. “God, he would have made a wonderful king, Duncan! He isn't a Kelson, I'll grant you, but in many ways, he had all the best attributes of Brion—without the weaknesses. Poor, dear Nigel. He wouldn't have wanted to go this way, either. Why couldn't he have had a clean, honest death in battle?”

Duncan looked away, fighting for composure. “We aren't doing ourselves any service by dwelling on this, Alaric. You know that.”

“I know.”

With a sigh, Morgan rose and laid the sheathed Haldane sword across a pair of pegs above the head of the bed.

“Duncan, let's go tonight, shall we?” he said then, turning to face his cousin squarely. “I know it's ridiculous to suppose that they could be alive after so long, and with Conall now in possession of the Haldane powers, but even if all we ever find is battered, waterlogged bodies, at least we'll
know
.”

Duncan kept his eyes averted as he, too, rose, head bowed, restless fingertips twisting at a fold of blanket he had started to pull over Nigel.

“Do you really think we ought to go so soon? What if Conall needs us?”

“Why should he need us?” Morgan replied. “He's never needed us before. And if he does need a Deryni, Arilan will be here. We can check in at regular intervals, if that will make you feel any better. Besides, Conall's The Haldane now and king in everything but name.” He glanced sadly at Nigel. “And I don't know that I necessarily want to be here to see this wind to its end. I said all my good-byes while we were waiting for Conall to arrive.”

Duncan nodded slowly. “I think I told you that Ciard and Jass and a few of Dhugal's other men stayed at the campsite to continue looking. If we take the Portal as far as Valoret, I'm told one can get from there to the Saint Bearand campsite in just under two days, given reasonable weather and adequate changes of horses.”

“Shall we do it, then?” Morgan asked.

“I think so.”

“Tonight?”

“No, in the morning. We can hardly just go, without even a by-your-leave.”

“And suppose Conall won't give us leave?”

Duncan snorted. “Do you really think he wants us hanging around here, any more than we want to be here? He's got his power now, Alaric. He's going to be king. The old order changeth—and you and I, unfortunately, are no longer a part of it.”

While they were gathering up the accoutrements of the ceremony and setting things right in the room, Arilan returned and they told him of their decision. The bishop was sorry to hear it, but understood their reasons for wanting to go, and readily consented to setting up prearranged times for contact, so that the two might stay abreast of events in the capital.

“You're wrong about Conall not needing you, though, you know,” Arilan said. “Oh, right now, in the first flush of being The Haldane, and preoccupied by his father's declining condition, he's even less gracious than his usual wont. But I'm extremely hopeful that he'll be making some changes for the better. He's getting married, you know; and a good woman can do a great deal to smooth out the rough edges, I'm told.”

“He's
what?
” Morgan said.

“Well, don't act so surprised,” Arilan replied. “Look what marriage did for you.”

“But—”

“Be glad that he's making such dynastic considerations already,” Arilan went on, drawing himself up in episcopal indignation. “I understand that Cardiel will be publishing the banns on Monday, after Conall has made the announcement to the privy council. I would have made you wait until then to find out, but since you're leaving—”

Duncan only shook his head in disbelief.

“Who's he marrying? Not the little village maid he got pregnant?”

“Good heavens, no,” Arilan said. “She's a proper princess, and Deryni, to boot. I'm sure you'll both approve. He's marrying Rothana of Nur Hallaj.”

“Rothana!” Morgan gasped.

“But, she's under vows!” Duncan added.

Arilan shrugged. “According to Thomas Cardiel, not any more. Apparently she made formal application to be dispensed from her vows—which were only temporary, in any case—some time ago, after discussing the possibility with him under the seal of the confessional. Conall's very keen to get a legitimate heir, so the wedding's being held even before Lent is over—a small, quiet affair, due to the tragedies of the past month or so—a week from today, I believe.”

Shaking his head, Morgan could only be amazed.

“I had no idea. I always thought it was Kelson who had his cap set for her—though it certainly wouldn't have been easy sailing. I'll never forget how shaken he was, the first day he met her.” He smiled sadly, remembering. “He asked me if I'd ever raped a woman.”

“He what?” Arilan said. “Good God, you don't mean that
he—
”

“Oh, good heavens, no,” Morgan replied. “So far as I know, Kelson's still a virgin—or was,” he added lamely. “I don't think he ever laid a hand on a woman with other than respect.”

“Well, what happened between him and Rothana, then?” Arilan asked.

Morgan sighed wistfully, forcing himself to concentrate only on answering the question.

“He was after the man who'd raped the Princess Janniver. He wanted to read Janniver's memory of the attack, to see whether he could identify her assailant, but Rothana wouldn't hear of it. Then
she
read Janniver and gave the information to Kelson—only, she also gave him a taste of what it feels like to be a woman under those circumstances. I daresay it was a useful thing for him to learn, but maybe it made more of a negative impression than I'd thought. I wonder if Richenda knows about this.”

Arilan shrugged. “I can't answer that, of course. I'm glad, however, to hear that there was nothing between her and Kelson. I should hate to have to get involved with questions of consanguinity and such. She'll make the perfect queen for Gwynedd. And Conall
does
need a legitimate heir, no less than Kelson did.”