The Quest for Saint Camber by Katherine Kurtz
There was too much to assimilate with any real understanding, and few items were really complete—damn, why had Conall not thought of this sooner?—but any additional knowledge was better than none at all. He could sort it all out later, when he had some leisure. He read all he could, until his knees ached and the body was cold beneath his hands and he could take no more of contact with the increasingly fragmented impressions that were all that remained. He avoided, once he had touched them, those final and most recent memories—the horrified disbelief as Tiercel fell, the pain, and then the final darkness putting an end to all future. He was sweating as he withdrew from Tiercel’s mind for the last time, his whole body shaking with fatigue and sheer after-reaction, but he managed to pull himself together as he stood.
Well, Tiercel, I fear you’ve taught me far more than you ever intended, he thought, throwing his cloak back on his shoulders to cool off a little as he prepared to go on up the stairs. But I’ll try to put the knowledge to good use. Fare thee well in the next life, at least—if there is a next life.
By the time Conall reached the hidden entrance to Dhugal’s apartments, voices were conversing on the other side—servants packing Dhugal’s things for tomorrow, Conall gathered—so Conall retraced his steps to let himself out into the castle yard near the basilica. As he passed the landing where Tiercel’s body lay, he was pleased to note that even he had to look closely to see anything amiss—and he knew what to look for.
The yard before the basilica was dark and deserted as he left the secret passageway and secured the entrance behind him. En route, he had considered trying to use the Portal in Duncan’s study to get back to the library, but only briefly. Conall was certain he could do it again, properly rested; but aside from the risk that someone else might be in the library, even at this late hour, Tiercel already had been concerned about Conall overextending—and Conall had pushed himself far beyond that to read Tiercel’s memories, not to mention the sheer emotional and physical expense of the entire incident. Best not to risk losing all, when he had gained so much.
No, best simply to walk around through the parade ground and stable yard and let himself into the apartment wing through a side door—or go through the great hall, if too many nosy guards were about. If stopped, he could always come up with an appropriate excuse—he had gone out for a stroll or to check the horses for the journey tomorrow. The guard had not seen him leave? Why, he must have passed before the guard changed.
It would work. He was confident it would. Shifting Tiercel’s satchel around behind him, so that only the strap could be seen across his chest, Conall made his way back to his rooms as planned, whistling snatches of an old R’Kassan love song under his breath.
“Dhugal, I feel the complete fool,” Kelson said the next morning, as his foster brother helped him finish dressing for their departure. “I was holding a beautiful woman in my arms last night and all I did was kiss her. If I’d pressed the matter, who knows where it might have ended, but she stopped me—and I let her.”
Dhugal, brightly decked out in MacArdry tartan and border leathers, perched himself casually on one of the trunks in Kelson’s dressing room, uncoiling the belt wrapped around Kelson’s sword while the king buckled a white belt over crimson riding leathers.
“Goodness, such self control,” he teased, noticing but not mentioning that Kelson no longer wore Sidana’s ring. “Do I know the lady in question?”
“What do you think?”
Snatching his sword and belt from Dhugal and buckling them on over the white belt, Kelson let Dhugal lay a hooded, fur-lined riding cloak over his shoulders, thrusting his arms through the front slits and turning so Dhugal could snap the clasp at his throat.
“I think,” said Dhugal, after reflection, “that my brother the king is in love—and that the lady will never be a nun. And seeing that you have given her a ring—”
“I didn’t exactly give her a ring,” Kelson said.
“No? Your finger says otherwise.”
Kelson glanced at his bare finger, at the white stripe left untanned, and immediately began rummaging in a jewel cask.
“Well, it wasn’t what it might appear,” he murmured. “I didn’t give it to her in that sense. We’ve made no promises. She’s—keeping the ring for me, as a token that I’ve put Sidana behind me. She isn’t going to wear it.”
“No?”
“No.”
Fishing a small, emerald-set band out of the jewel box, Kelson jammed it onto the finger in question, then snatched up a pair of black leather gloves and a fur-lined riding cap. The cap had a circlet worked around the crown in metallic stitchery, gold against crimson kidskin, far more comfortable for denoting his rank than a coronet would be. When he had put on the cap, he stood glaring at Dhugal for several seconds, snapping his bunched gloves against his thigh in annoyance. Then he grinned, shook his head, and began laughing helplessly.
“Why, was it something I said?” Dhugal asked, all the wide-eyed innocent.
Still laughing, Kelson shook his head.
“This is stupid. Virgin knights are supposed to have an advantage on quests. Especially holy quests. So why am I so upset that I am one?”
Sheepishly, Dhugal ducked his head to glance at his boots, then back at Kelson. “If you are, then that makes two of us,” he said quietly.
“You?” Kelson gasped. “But, I thought—”
“Oh, I talk a good line,” Dhugal admitted. “And for a while, I thought that the Earl of Carthane’s daughter and I, the other night—”
His sly wink and the eloquence in his shrug spoke far more revealingly than words ever could have, and for several seconds both he and Kelson laughed uproariously.
“Good God, two virgin knights,” Kelson gasped, when either of them could speak again. “I thought I surely must be the last. And old Carthane’s daughter. Lord in heaven, you’re playing with fire, man! He’d kill you if he ever found out! The way he guards that girl—”
“Well, he wasn’t guarding her well enough to keep me from claiming a kiss,” Dhugal replied, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “I think Conall managed to steal one, too. He may have managed even more.”
Kelson’s grin turned to a chortle as he pulled on his gloves. “Conall. Now there’s one I’m afraid is fated to fail this quest miserably, if virginity really is a prerequisite. Tell me, has anyone ever actually seen this leman of his? Is she pretty?”
“I dunno. One presumes his squire has seen her. What’s his name? Jowan? Unfortunately the lad’s deadly dull and discreet.” A wicked grin came across Dhugal’s face. “We could ask him, though—I mean, really ask him …”
“And if I didn’t trounce you for that kind of foolishness, your father would—or should,” Kelson retorted, with a wry look of disapproval that quickly changed back to mirthful speculation. “Seriously, though, we could ask Jowan in more usual ways. He’s got to know something. And maybe we could Truth-Read him, just a little … Conall certainly comes back tired often enough.”
They were still snickering about it as they went out to meet the rather boisterous party forming up in the yard. They raised gloved hands in greeting to Morgan and Duncan, who were watching indulgently from the great hall steps with Nigel, Meraude, and other senior members of the court; but they had said their goodbyes to family the night before, and Duncan had celebrated a special Mass, just for the four of them, right at dawn. Jehana and her chaplain, Father Ambros, stood apart from the others, and Kelson and Dhugal both paused to make the queen a dutiful salute, but their attention was soon caught by Conall, as they continued on toward their horses.
Kelson elbowed Dhugal in the side and tried to keep from laughing again, for a grouchy and bleary-eyed Conall was railing at his squire for some unknown offense. Prince Rory, who would captain a band of younger squires and pages as an escort for the first few miles, sharing the excitement, looked totally disenchanted with his elder brother, and young Prince Payne appeared to be on the verge of tears.
“Aye, no virgin knight, he,” Dhugal murmured in return, as they mounted up. “That’s lack of sleep, an’ for sure. He probably sneaked out last night for one last assignation with his lady-love.”
“I don’t doubt that you’re right,” Kelson replied, as he gathered up his red leather reins. “While I check on our baggage train and see what mischief the squires have managed to work, do you want to see if you can cheer up poor Payne and Rory? Other than my grumpy cousin, this is beginning to take on the appearance of a circus, rather than the dignified departure of a holy quest.”
Dhugal laughed aloud at that, and Kelson was still chuckling as he moved off to exchange morning greetings with Ciard O Ruane, who was supervising the servants and squires making last-minute adjustments to the loads on the sumpter animals. Most of the servants were of mature years, but the young squires were laughing and joking among themselves as they worked and barely subsided at the king’s approach.
“Morning, Ciard,” Kelson said indulgently. “Are these lads going to prove too unruly a lot for you to handle?”
The squires quickly bent to their work again as the old gillie grinned and touched two fingers to his border bonnet in salutation.
“Nae problem a’tall, Sair,” he said in his broad border accent.
“’Tis only th’ excitement o’ leaving on th’ journey. An’ if their high spirits dinnae settle doon by th’ time we ride out,” he warned, eyeing the squires sternly, “I’ve nae doubt that extra work can be found tae occupy idle fingers when we stop each night.”
The mild threat had the desired effect, quickly subduing youthful exuberance to an acceptable level in the squires’ ranks. Other than the dour and irritable Conall, however, those riding out with the king and his foster brother that morning were still in high spirits: six of the other young men knighted the previous week, including Sir Jatham and Dhugal’s Sir Jass MacArdry; Saer de Traherne and Roger, Earl of Jenas, to provide a balance of greater experience and maturity for the fledgling knights, should it be required; and Archbishop Cardiel’s battle-surgeon, Father Lael, to see to the party’s spiritual needs as well as any physical mishap along the way, though Dhugal was almost equally qualified to deal with the latter. Eight Haldane lancers and three more MacArdry men also accompanied them, with a modest baggage train and sufficient squires and other servants to care for the lot—nearly thirty in all.
Duncan gave them his blessing as they passed in exuberant if ragged review, and many of the servants and attending nobles, both men and women, hurried up to the battlement walks to continue watching and waving farewell when the company had clattered out through the gatehouse arch to make their way northward through the city and on to the river road toward Valoret. Meraude and Janniver went, Meraude with a nurse carrying the infant Eirian and Janniver waving excitedly to Sir Jatham, accompanied by young Brendan and an excited Squire Liam. The Sisters of Saint Brigid were also there to see them off, singing a short hymn of thanksgiving as the royal party rode off.
As the few other observers still milling on the steps began to disperse, Nigel let out a heavy sigh and turned to glance at Morgan and Duncan.
“God, I feel old,” Nigel murmured. “All our fledglings are flying the nest. It’s going to be awfully quiet around here.”
Morgan grinned and clapped the prince regent on the shoulder. “You’ll get used to it,” he murmured. “They say that fathers find it easier to let go than mothers do.”
“Not being a mother, I suppose I’ll never know,” Duncan quipped. “It isn’t easy for a father, though.”
Morgan only nodded. “I’ll let you know when Brendan’s a little older. At least they aren’t riding off to war, this time.”
“No, but the Torenthi negotiations could get tricky later in the year—especially when they find out Morag isn’t even in Rhemuth any more,” Nigel replied. “But I suppose that’s another matter entirely. Besides, what can happen on a quest?”
“With luck—nothing,” Morgan said. “Right now, I’m far more concerned about the bishops. Kelson seems to have his arguments well in hand, however.”
Nigel snorted. “Yes. Well, let’s just hope everything goes as planned. Incidentally, Alaric, when do you have to leave?”
“Oh, midafternoon or so. Rhafallia is tied up at Desse, so I thought Brendan and I would sleep aboard tonight and catch the morning tide. As long as the weather holds, we’ll get home much faster that way than overland. It will still be very wet in the Lendours.”
“Hmm, just hope that young Brendan is a good sailor, then,” Nigel said. “In any case, you’ve time for a meal and a last cup before you head out. Meraude will make certain Brendan eats. Duncan, why don’t you join us as well—if this morning’s public exertions haven’t overtaxed your strength, that is? How long must you keep up this charade of illness, now that the other bishops are safely on their way to Valoret?”
Duncan managed a wry smile as they went inside.
“I don’t know that I’d call anything about them ‘safe,’” he quipped. “But now that Kelson’s gone and the rest of court focus will be shifting from Rhemuth to Valoret, I think I’m feeling stronger by the minute. With any luck, Cardiel will summon me within a week or two, and my recovery can be complete.”
“Just pray that he summons you for the right reasons,” Morgan murmured.
“Oh, I do—several times a day.”
Not quite a week later, in Valoret, Kelson reiterated a version of that same prayer as he prepared to address the bishops gathered there. It was a bleak, dreary Sunday morning, the Second of Lent. The day was wet and cold, and Kelson was nearly certain he was coming down with a cold.
The rain had begun the second day out of Rhemuth and had hardly let up since. They had tried holing up en route with one of the local lords to wait it out, but they dared not delay too long, else Kelson would miss the opening of the synod and the opportunity to address the bishops before they began their deliberations.
He and his party had arrived early the previous evening, several days later than expected and drenched to the bone, tired and irritable from having to cope with the torrential rains, some of their number already falling victim to colds and coughs—conditions only partially improved by dry clothes, roaring fires, and the hot, hearty meal the archbishop’s servants quickly served up in the refectory. Rain had continued to pelt down through the night and was still falling heavily the next morning when it was time to go to the cathedral for the solemn High Mass that would open the synod. Neither Kelson nor Dhugal slept well.
It was cold in the cathedral, despite heavy clothing—damp and dreary and dark, despite the blaze of candles burning on the altar and the torches lighting the aisles. Kelson had begun to wonder if he would ever see the sun again. He huddled down in his cloak and tried to get warm as he knelt beside Dhugal in the choir and heard Mass, but he was miserable. And most of his carefully rehearsed speech was going out of his head as his sinuses filled up—and more being lost, every time he sneezed.
By the time Mass was over and everyone began moving on to the chapter house, Kelson hardly cared that this was the place where a similar gathering of prelates and other clergy had declared Camber MacRorie a saint, two hundred years before—or even that, for a time, one of the cathedral’s side chapels had been consecrated to the Deryni saint. He sneezed repeatedly in the relatively short length of time it took him to go from the choir, through the south transept, and out through the processional door to the cloister walk. The state of his humor and his already damp handkerchief were not improved by having to dab continually at his reddened nose.
Nor did it count for much that the cloister walk was covered, for Archbishop Bradene’s secretary bade Kelson and his party wait outside the chapter house entrance while the milling prelates and other clerics found their places and an episcopal chamberlain tried to bring the gathering to
The filthy weather had not even permitted the king to wear the court garb customary for such an important occasion. He had been reduced to wearing his thickest wool breeches and not one but two heavy wool tunics, with heavy, thick-soled riding boots that came to mid-thigh—not that anyone was likely to notice, under the bulky, fur-lined cloak. Nor had he bothered with the heavy state crown, in this weather. The bishops would just have to settle for the plain band of hammered gold that was constricting his forehead inside his fur-lined hood.
At least the hall looked reasonably dry inside, though several puddles growing near the open doorway might bespeak roof problems rather than just blowing rain. And it was hardly more light inside than out, despite the torches set in cressets around the walls for general illumination and the rushlights on the table where the clarks would take down the proceedings—though it had to be warmer inside. Half a dozen firepots had been positioned around the perimeter of the room at floor level, with a seventh smoldering cheerily between the archbishops’ thrones on the dais—probably vain attempts to take the edge off the damp and chill, but Kelson resolved to end up near one of them, no matter what else happened.
As he slipped his sheathed sword from its hangers and gave it to Dhugal to hold, crowding a little closer to move out of the puddle growing at his feet, he had about reached the point that he was ready to go inside anyway, regardless of what the archbishop’s secretary wanted—though it really had not been that long, he knew.