The Quest for Saint Camber (5 page)

Arilan raised an eyebrow in guarded assent and looked to Cardiel, careful not to appear too eager, and breathed a cautious sigh of relief when his superior did not immediately veto the notion. Clearly, the human Cardiel understood what the king was proposing, but he still was archbishop, and forms must be observed.

And Wolfram, as devil's advocate, would be even more insistent that propriety be maintained. Wolfram de Blanet did not hate Deryni—which was one of the main reasons, besides being impeccably honest, that he had been appointed to this tribunal—but as an itinerant bishop, not often exposed to the few known Deryni at court, he knew little about them, other than through hearsay. Even the enlightened leadership of the past four years could not immediately overturn two centuries of suspicion and hatred. And some of the Haldane abilities fell into a grey area about which Wolfram was quite unsure.

“What is it, Wolfram?” Cardiel asked quietly, noting the older man's expression of consternation. “I assure you, the king can do what he proposes. I have seen him question prisoners in the field. There is no evil in it. And his results were always verifiable by—those whose talents are less acceptable to this court.”

“Meaning Duke Alaric?” Wolfram asked, flicking Morgan an uneasy glance.

“Yes.”

Wolfram drew a deep, shuddery breath, visibly pushing aside his apprehensions to return to the task he had been assigned, and let out a heavy sigh.

“Very well. I would not presume to question His Majesty's ability to do what he says he can do—or the judgment of my Lord Archbishop that such an ability is benign.” He paused to clear his throat. “Legally speaking, however, I wonder whether it is prudent to enlist his Majesty's assistance in this matter. Lord Dhugal is his foster brother, after all.”

“Are you suggesting that I might distort the truth for the sake of the love I bear him?” Kelson asked.

Wolfram paled, but he did not flinch from the king's gaze.

“I suggest nothing of the sort, Sire. But others might.”

“Aye, so they might.”

Before Wolfram could do more than gasp, the king suddenly drew his sword and sank to one knee before the tribunal, reversing the weapon to grasp it beneath the quillons and extending the cross of the hilt at arm's length between them and himself.

“I swear on my father's sword, on my crown, and on my hopes for the salvation of my immortal soul that I have spoken and shall speak only the truth in the matter here before this court. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, amen.”

He kissed the sacred relic encased in the hilt, then let the tip of the blade rest on the floor before him, keeping his arm extended as he glanced toward Wolfram and the others.

“I am willing to repeat my oath, or any other you may prefer, in yonder chapel,” he added, nodding toward the open doorway behind them. “And I assure you that I do not take such oaths lightly.”

“No one questions that, Sire,” Wolfram said, looking a little embarrassed. “But—” He sighed uncomfortably. “Sire, Duncan McLain is said by some to be Deryni.”

“I don't believe that's at issue here,” Kelson said mildly, getting to his feet. “The question is whether the man contracted a valid marriage with the mother of his son.”

“But—if he
were
Deryni, Sire—could he not evade even your reading of the truth?”

With an exasperated sigh, Kelson turned toward Morgan, sitting at his right, and held out the hilt of the sword.

“Morgan, remembering the oaths of fealty and homage you have sworn to me and to my father before me, and further enjoined by your hand on this sacred sword, would you please tell Bishop Wolfram the limitations of Truth-Reading,
if
Duncan McLain were Deryni?”

Quietly Morgan stood, laying his bare right hand on the relic in the royal sword hilt. It was not often that Kelson invoked the name of his father, with all the very special associations that called up for Alaric Morgan.

“For simple Truth-Reading, whether or not the subject is Deryni has no bearing,” Morgan said quietly. “His Majesty would have no difficulty distinguishing truth from a lie. The operative limitation to Truth-Reading is that the right questions must be asked. Nothing in Truth-Reading compels a man to tell the truth; it simply betrays him when he does not.”

Wolfram swallowed uneasily, only partially reassured.

“Sire, is that true?”

“It is.”

“You would know if Morgan lied?”

“If I wished it, yes,” Kelson replied. “The process does require intent.” He turned his Haldane eyes full on Morgan. “I cannot simply
know
, as I suspect the Deryni cannot, either. But if I will it, I can distinguish truth from falsehood. Morgan, before God and these witnesses, have you spoken the truth?”

“I have, Sire.”

Kelson sheathed his sword as he returned his attention to Wolfram. “You have heard the truth, Excellency.”

“I—see.” Wolfram turned to confer with Cardiel, Arilan nodding thoughtful agreement with whatever the archbishop said, then looked out boldly at Kelson again.

“Sire, I have only just confirmed something that I heard some months ago, but I am given to understand that—the Haldane talents are not limited to mere verification of truth. That more—compelling measures may be employed to elicit actual information from a subject. That—such measures were used routinely on campaign last summer to retrieve more complete reports from scouts in your service, not only by Duke Alaric, but by yourself.”

Kelson allowed himself a tight, careful smile, wondering where Wolfram had gotten his information—though any of the scouts could have talked about it. No one had forbidden it. He wondered whether Duncan had used the method, too—though he would have been far less open about it, still feeling it needful to keep that aspect of his identity unconfirmed.

“My prince?” Morgan murmured.

“Tell him,” Kelson said.

“We Deryni call it Mind-Seeing,” Morgan said. “Do the Haldanes have another name for it, Sire?”

“No.”

Inclining his head, Morgan continued. “We distinguish two levels of Mind-Seeing, depending upon whether the subject is cooperative or not. A consciously cooperating subject can recall events in great detail. And of course, there's no possibility of lying. An uncooperative subject
may
be able to block the efficiency of the process to the extent that he will not
volunteer
information. But his answers to specific questions will be truthful. Resistance produces varying degrees of discomfort for the subject, depending upon the level of resistance and the amount of energy being put into the demands for information. This holds true for Deryni as well as humans, though Deryni obviously will have the potential for greater resistance.”

“I see,” Wolfram said thoughtfully. “Then, if Bishop McLain
were
Deryni—”

“Even if he
were
,” Kelson said pointedly, “—which I will not ask him, Bishop—any resistance to my questions regarding his marriage would be immediately evident, for I would put the full force of my power behind my questioning. I will do that, if you wish—assuming, of course, that the findings thus obtained may be acceptable to this court.”

The measure Kelson proposed was a uniquely Haldane solution to a situation they had all feared would have none, and the king had little concern that Wolfram would continue to object for long. Nor did he. When the peppery old bishop had conferred again with Cardiel and Arilan, finally giving reluctant assent by his expression, Kelson bade Morgan set two backless stools before the tribunal's table.

A glance in Duncan's direction brought him forward—an unassuming, black-clad supplicant today rather than duke and earl and warrior-bishop, blue eyes guileless and unflinching, cleanshaven oval face framed by close-cropped brown hair, tonsured only in token, wearing no sign of his episcopal rank save the amethyst on his right hand. This he removed and laid on the table before Cardiel for safekeeping as he took a seat at Kelson's behest, scooting the stool closer to the table and laying his forearms on the table, palms upward, as Kelson directed.

“This questioning has nothing to do with my office as bishop,” he explained to Wolfram, as the latter glanced in question at the ring. “I am here as a father who wishes to acknowledge his son.”

“A Deryni father, acknowledging a Deryni son?”

Duncan managed a fleeting but stiff smile.

“I believe His Majesty said I was not to be asked that question.”

“My Majesty did, indeed,” Kelson said, setting a hand on Duncan's left shoulder. “Shame on you, Wolfram.”

Wolfram shrugged. “I only ask what others are asking, Sire. I think he probably is—and I begin to wonder whether there is, indeed, harm in that, apart from the law—but, no matter, for now. I am not devil's advocate for
that
question, thank God.” He glanced at the others, at the clark, who had looked up furtively at this last exchange, and motioned the young man to continue taking his notes. “Shall we proceed?”

“With the understanding that
I
will ask the questions, yes,” Kelson replied. He settled gracefully on the stool at Duncan's left, his hand sliding down Duncan's arm to grasp the wrist inside the loose-fitting black sleeve. In his peripheral vision, he could see Morgan sitting beside a stiff and anxious Dhugal, with Nigel leaning forward a little, the better to observe what was about to happen.

“For the benefit of Bishop Wolfram, who's never seen this done before, I'll explain what I'm doing,” Kelson said, addressing the three bishops. “I've asked Duncan to lay his open hands on the table so that you will be able to observe any sign of tension as the questioning progresses—though I don't expect to see any. I have my hand on his wrist, partly for the same reason and partly because I've found that physical contact enhances control in this kind of procedure. Are you comfortable, Duncan?”

“Physically? Yes. Emotionally—” The Deryni duke-bishop shrugged and grinned, still playing innocent of direct Deryni knowledge. “I've watched this done before, Sire. I'm not sure I look forward to reliving the days of my brash youth. I was very ardent.”

Kelson smiled fleetingly, feeling for Duncan, but there was no way around it. It had to be done.

“Nonetheless,” the king said, as he turned his Truth-Reading talent on his friend. “Let's begin with a simple review of basics. Please state your full name for the noble lords of this tribunal, and all your offices.”

“Duncan Howard McLain,” Duncan said easily. “Priest and bishop. King's Confessor. Duke of Cassan and Earl of Kierney. Acting Viceroy of Meara. I also have some subsidiary titles and offices. Do you want those, too?”

“I don't think that's necessary. Did you contract a valid marriage with Dhugal MacArdry's mother?”

“I did.”

“When was that?”

“It would have been early in April of 1107.”

“And you were how old?”

Duncan smiled. “An intellectually precocious but very naïve fifteen, courting an older woman. Maryse was a year older.”

“I see. But you were both of noble houses, you a duke's son and she the daughter of an earl. What made you decide to contract a secret marriage?”

Duncan shook his head wistfully, letting his gaze shift in the general direction of the ring before Cardiel, remembering.

“Youth. Impatience. Maryse and her mother and sisters had come to stay at Culdi while our fathers took their levies into Meara on campaign. The two clans had been closely allied for several generations. The way I heard it told, one of my father's men killed one of her father's men in a drunken brawl. Unfortunately, her father's man was Ardry MacArdry, her eldest brother—the heir.

“The culprit was tried and executed in the field, as was proper, but neither side was really satisfied. Our fathers feared a blood feud if contact continued between the clans. So old Caulay broke off his MacArdry levies and had them transferred to another command, separate from my father's, then rode back to Culdi with a small escort to get his womenfolk and hie them back to Transha.”

“Maryse as well?” Kelson prompted.

Duncan blinked several times and nodded, his voice faltering just a little as he continued.

“I never planned to fall in love that spring. I had my studies and my vocation. I was to enter the seminary at Grecotha in the fall. I was old enough to go on campaign, but I'd stayed behind to host my father's guests while he and my brother went. Nothing like love was supposed to happen.”

He shook his head, amazed anew at how events had upset all their plans.

“It did happen, though. Within a few weeks, we were all caught up in it. We kept it secret, because we knew my mother would be furious when I told her I would not be entering the priesthood, but we planned to ask our parents' permission to marry at the end of the summer, when our fathers came back from the war. Caulay's unexpected return changed all that—and the threat of a blood feud.”

“What changed?” Kelson asked.

Duncan sighed. “We decided to marry anyway. We were thinking clearly enough not just to run away, but we knew none of the local priests would marry us without our parents' consent, especially at such short notice. So we agreed to meet in the chapel at midnight and make our vows before the only Witness we knew would not betray us.”

“The Blessed Sacrament,” Kelson supplied, glancing at the bishops and noting Wolfram's interest, in particular.

“Yes.”

“And did you, in fact, meet? And did you, in fact, exchange marriage vows that you considered binding?”

“We did.”

“Thank you.” Kelson reached with his free hand to brush Duncan's brow, carefully avoiding eye contact with Wolfram.

“Close your eyes now, Duncan. Close your eyes and slip deeper into memory of that night. In a moment, I'm going to ask you to recall exactly what you and Maryse said to each other. Are you willing?”