The Quest for Saint Camber (65 page)

Nor could Meraude honestly plead her son's case, though she said nothing in words, only turning pointedly away from Conall as Kelson glanced at her.

“My lady?” Kelson said softly, turning his attention reluctantly to Rothana.

She would not meet his eyes.

“Do not ask me to speak for or against my husband, Sire,” she whispered. “Nor should my future be a factor in what you decide. I shall never marry again—never! So do what you know you must. Do what you were born and have been trained to do.”

Sighing, Kelson turned back to Conall, whose face had gone hopeful and then a little sad as Rothana spoke. But the prince immediately resumed his expression of defiance as he looked back at Kelson, his arm tightening across Jass's throat.

“She's said it all, hasn't she?” he said. “Do what you must. And I shall do what
I
must.”

“Very well,” Kelson said wearily. “I suppose you must have your Duel Arcane. Now release Jass.”

“And how do I know you will not order the archers to shoot me before we can meet in combat?” Conall countered, as Jehana slowly stood, suddenly realizing what was about to happen. “Remember, I've used the archers before, cousin. I know what they can do.”

Kelson snorted derisively, but his mere glance made Jehana sit down again.

“I shall give you my word.”

“Truly?” Conall replied. “On your honor and on the Haldane sword?”

Kelson colored, but he knew Conall had read him correctly. Kelson Haldane could not break an oath thus sworn.

“I swear on my honor and by this Haldane sword that I shall give you honorable combat, according to the ancient tenets laid down for the Duel Arcane—with two qualifications. First, if at any time before or during the combat you violate the terms, all oaths go by the boards, and I shall be free to deal with you in any manner I see fit.”

“A reasonable concession, since I do not intend to violate the terms,” Conall agreed. “And the second qualification?”

“The second qualification is that the Duel Arcane shall not necessarily be to the death within the circle, but only until one of us has a clear victory over the other. Presumably that will be me.”

“A somewhat arrogant presumption, don't you think, cousin?” Conall retorted. “Or are you afraid to die in the circle?”

Kelson only shook his head sadly. “I do not intend to die
anywhere
today, Conall. But I do intend that
you
shall not have an honorable death in battle, but shall face just execution in the manner befitting a traitor.”

The answer clearly angered Conall, but he seemed to realize that no more concessions were likely to be forthcoming.

“Very well, then. The question is moot, in any case, since I do not intend to die, either. But I swear by
my
honor—for whatever you may think that is worth—that I likewise shall abide by the terms of Duel Arcane, with the two conditions you have set. Which settles
that
,” he added, rolling the compliant Jass off him and getting to his feet.

The archers stirred uneasily, some of them starting to raise their bows again, but Kelson's gesture stayed them.

“Let no one interfere,” he said, rising briskly to hand his sword to Dhugal.

His crown he gave into Nigel's keeping, in pointed recognition that Nigel was still the heir, even if Conall should manage to win. As Kelson came down from the dais, Morgan was helping the groggy Jass to a seat on the steps. The king paused to convey his concern, setting one hand on the young border knight's shoulder.

“Are you all right, Jass?”

“Aye, Sire. I didnae want tae let him use me like that, but I couldnae help myself.”

“Not your fault,” Kelson murmured. “Don't worry about it. Alaric, do I need to be concerned on Jass's account? Conall hasn't planted any unpleasant surprises, has he?”

Morgan shook his head, tight-lipped. “It was strictly a contact control. There are no residuals. But be careful, my prince. From his Haldane potentials, Conall could be as powerful as you are. And there's no way to predict what additional information and skills he may have gotten from Tiercel.”

“Well, he still hasn't got Deryni blood,” Kelson replied, glancing up at Jehana with a reassuring smile. “Maybe that will make the difference.”

“That, or experience,” Morgan agreed. “Fortunately, he's new at this game. That's a disadvantage, regardless of how good his teacher was. Good luck, my prince.”

Kelson nodded as he straightened. Conall was standing alone in the center of the hall, arms crossed on his chest, a faint glint of anxious anticipation lighting his otherwise smug expression. Someone had removed the chair to the side. As their eyes met, Kelson came down from the dais. Instantly the assembled lords began backing off to clear a larger space in the center of the hall, for many had been present when Kelson and Charissa dueled and knew what kinds of energies shortly would be raised and exchanged.

“You're sure you want to do this?” Kelson asked quietly.

For just an instant, Conall looked uncertain. But then he nodded emphatically.

“You've given me no choice,” he whispered. “I'm backed into a corner. No matter what I do, I'm going to die. But if I take you with me, that's something, isn't it? I only wanted what was rightfully mine, Kelson, but you were the king, and you wouldn't give it to me.”

Kelson snorted contemptuously. “When did you ever demonstrate that you deserved to be given anything beyond what your birth entitled you to, by courtesy? You could have followed in your father's footsteps, Conall. Would that have been such a terrible fate?”

“My father may be a great warrior, but he has no ambition,” Conall replied. “He might have been content to be always in second place, but I can't be. It isn't in my nature.”

“Is it in your nature to accept disgrace, then?” Kelson countered. “Because that's the only thing you can hope to gain by this display.”

“
One
of us will gain disgrace, but it shan't be I!”

“This is pointless,” Kelson murmured. “Cast the circle.”

“Me?” Conall squeaked.

“Yes, you. You started all of this. You can start this final folly, too. Or don't you know how?”

The gibe had its desired effect. Drawing himself up in wounded pride, Conall backed off three stiff paces and, without further preliminary, raised his arms above his head and then to the sides, murmuring a setting spell under his breath. A semicircle of crimson fire sprang up on the floor behind and around him, sending watching courtiers scurrying farther back to flatten themselves along the south wall of the hall, those on Kelson's side also retreating into the window embrasures on the north side.

Kelson tested at the barrier Conall had raised, satisfying himself that it would not require a death to release it, once he completed his part of the spell, then swept his own arms up and outward in a graceful arc, holding as he uttered the words that would produce the counter. More crimson fire sprang up behind him, matching Conall's, enclosing them both now in a circle of red.

“Your turn again,” Kelson said, lowering his arms.

The lightness of the king's tone, suggesting the triviality of whatever Conall might attempt, angered the wayward prince, but Conall only raised his arms to shoulder level again, his palms turned inward toward the center of the circle.

“If you're expecting some trite piece of poetry, don't,” Conall said. “My teacher didn't believe in such things. I affirm that the circle shall contain all power that we shall raise within it, so that none outside may be harmed, and that it shall not be broken until one of us has achieved a clear victory over the other. Is that your understanding?”

“It is,” Kelson agreed, also raising his arms again. And at Conall's nod, Kelson began to pour energy into the binding of the circle as Conall did likewise, only barely aware, in his concentration, that the fire of the two arcs they had cast was rising to define a dome above their heads. When they were done, it was as if they stood beneath a dome of pinkish, faintly opalescent glass.

Almost as soon as the dome was in place, Kelson shifted into an assault mode, not even bothering to glance outside as he stalked closer to the center of the circle, away from the barrier ring. Under the circumstances, he was not given to theatrics, so there was little outward sign of the energies he began to gather—for as challenged, he did not intend to forfeit the right of first strike simply because Conall was of his blood. The attack was launched almost before Conall realized that battle was joined.

Conall staggered a little, absorbing the force of that first assault, but his shields wavered not at all, and he responded with a series of traditional testing spells that Kelson had countered before. The king did so again, with ease, and launched the expected testing spells of his own—which Conall answered as readily as Kelson had answered Conall's.

What followed next became a more earnest battle of wit and power. For a time, Kelson decided merely to hold firm and let Conall spend his first exuberance on pointless assaults. Conall took up the challenge, fueling his attacks with increasingly vivid visual imagery—nightmare visions out of his own worst dreams at first, but then a relentless succession of images out of Kelson's past, people and events that had either threatened Kelson or brought him great hurt: the fanatical and slightly mad Archbishop Loris, who had so terrorized Duncan; the doomed Sicard MacArdry, Dhugal's traitor uncle, to whom Conall had alluded before, falling helplessly with a war arrow in his eye, shot down by Kelson himself within a ring of Haldane knights and archers, unable to escape; Sicard's elder son, Prince Ithel of Meara, choking out his life at the end of a rope by Kelson's order, unshriven and unrepentant; another Mearan prince, a priest and bishop named Judhael, bowing before the headsman; Prince Llewell of Meara, Ithel's younger brother, accusing Kelson of blame for Sidana's death, just before the executioner took his head—and finally, Sidana herself, drowning in her own blood in Kelson's arms, the gore defiling the sacred altar before which they had just recited marriage vows.

That last shook Kelson most of all—until Conall followed up with vivid, graphic images of his own wedding night with Rothana that reverberated in Kelson's memory with his own erotic dream about her, during his ordeal in the cavern.

But it also brought back the memory of that other visitation within the cavern shrine—of the shrine's patron, grey-clad and powerful, standing at the edge of his circle and asking admittance; and Kelson had given it to him. He called on Saint Camber's presence now, conjuring
his
image in as fine a detail as he could—the quicksilver eyes that a man could drown in, so very like Haldane eyes; the roundish, kindly-looking face surrounded by silver-gilt hair; the gentle but powerful hands reaching inexorably toward his head—toward Conall's head.

And suddenly, Conall saw the image, too, and stepped back, startled, raising his hands in an alarmed, warding-off gesture as the figure of the saint did not retreat but continued to advance. Kelson stood very still, only staring at it, hardly able to breathe, uncertain whether he was even controlling the image any longer—though how Camber could have entered the sealed circle was beyond his comprehension. The last time Camber had come to call, Kelson had had to open a door.

But this entity, whether Camber himself or merely an illusion of Kelson's mind, had not been deterred by the circle. As it advanced on Conall, the prince continued to retreat, until finally his black-clad shoulders were hard against the glassy curve of the barrier circle—and still the apparition continued to advance.

Conall's scream, as the ghostly hands gently clasped his head, was one of the purest terror and echoed shrilly within the misty confines of the dome. Nor did the apparition vanish when Conall at last had screamed out his final defiance and slid bonelessly to the floor, clutching his temples, either dead or unconscious. The figure knelt beside the motionless prince for several seconds, head bowed, then rose gracefully and turned toward Kelson.

Hail, Kelson of Gwynedd. Now shalt thou truly be a king for humans and for Deryni
, the being spoke in Kelson's mind, echoing words that another such being—or perhaps the same one—had spoken to Kelson at his coronation.

Dumfounded, the king dropped to one knee and bowed his head, crossing himself reverently.

Are you who I think you are?
he dared to ask.

The figure had moved much nearer while Kelson bowed his head, and Kelson gasped a little as the figure stopped an arm's length away.

And who do you think that I am?
the being replied.

Kelson's throat was very dry, and it was all he could do to swallow, very glad he did not need to speak with words.

I believe you are Saint Camber of Culdi, whom I sought on my quest. You
—
came to my aid
.

Did I?
the being answered.
Or am I but a convenient image for that stronger and better part that is within you and, indeed, within all folk who seek the Light, and which can be called up when darkness threatens?

Kelson blinked. It had to be Saint Camber. Only the irascible Deryni saint would be so evasive and yet speak so primal a truth.

It doesn't matter
, he dared to say next.
I'm still going to restore the cult of Saint Camber. I promised that, back in the shrine at Saint Kyriell's, and I'm going to do it, too. I'll build you a shrine the likes of which no one in all the Eleven Kingdoms has ever seen!

The saint's chuckle surely must have been audible, but Kelson's ears were still ringing with the silence.

Dear, dear young champion of Light, do you truly think that I need physical edifices to guard my memory? My memorial is in the heart of every man and woman down through the ages who has been willing to sacrifice everything in the service of Light and Truth
.