The Quest for Saint Camber by Katherine Kurtz
Then she was leaning forward on his chest to kiss him, tenderly and thoroughly, her dark hair veiling his face, slender fingers pressing warm and gentle against his throat, so that his pleasure was wrapped around in soft, velvet darkness, and he was sinking into oblivious sleep.
When he next became conscious, he was aware, without opening his eyes, that the night had passed. He had pulled more of the furs around him while he slept, and he opened gummy eyelids to see the torches burned almost to stubs in their cressets, the vapors of the pool once more being drawn upward and out through a now-open vent. The hot blood rose in his cheeks as he remembered his dream of Rothana—a dream which, he discovered, had been real enough in his body’s response—and he rose stiffly to hands and knees to go to the pool and wash.
But the movement brought the rest of the night’s experience back to crystal clarity at once, and he froze as his eyes sought the Saint Camber statue. It was only a statue now, and at first he thought he had dreamed that, too; but then he realized that his wards were still in place, a doorway still yawning open in his circle.
He had not dreamed that part, then. Saint Camber had, indeed, come to him—or at least Kelson had believed it sufficiently to risk much by deliberately opening a gate for the ghostly presence to come through. He could recall every detail of that series of events: the double images separating, as one stepped out of the other and moved toward him, only to be brought up short against the circle; the entity’s silent entreaty for admission; his own acquiscence, totally unafraid; and then the spine-tingling, awe-ful dread as the entity suddenly was in the circle and reaching out to touch him.
But he could not remember what had happened after that. Something of knowledge had been imparted, he felt sure, but he could not quite grasp it in conscious memory. It had been important, too—something more than a mere approval and acceptance of him, though that certainly had been given.
More thoughtful now, Kelson stood and dispelled his circle, curiously clear-headed for all that had occurred, then went to the pool to drink and wash. He immersed his head to clear it, and water streaming down his back raised gooseflesh as he paused, still kneeling, to glance up at the statue once more, trying again to see eyes or even some expression in the shadow where the face should be.
“I hope that you’ll forgive me if I don’t yet fully understand,” he said aloud, as if the statue had ears to hear him as well as eyes to see him kneeling there. “I think you told me things last night, and I’m afraid I can’t remember. Is that also part of the plan? Will it somehow come to me when I need it, remaining hidden until then?”
When no answer came, Kelson sighed and set his fists on his hips, feeling a little exasperated.
“Very well, then. I can only go on instinct, if you won’t give me any more tangible sign. I believe in you, Saint Camber of Culdi, and I think you make a worthy example and source of strength for our people. God knows, they need something to help them survive in this mad, hate-filled world. So I’m going to restore your cult, as I promised.”
He rose at that, standing with his hands relaxed along his sides.
“That’s not all I’m going to do, either. Shrines and other places of devotion are important, but I’m also going to rebuild the wasted places of our people and found schools to teach them what we’ve lost in the last two hundred years—as we find it, of course. A lot of it will have to be rediscovered, but we can do that, especially with your help. The lost Healing gifts are particularly important—and we now have three people who seem to have them. Thank you for Dhugal’s discovery, by the way, if you had anything to do with that.”
He sighed and glanced around, suddenly feeling a little silly to be talking to a statue. He did not regret any of the night’s experience, but it was time to reap its further fruits. With utter dignity then, even in his nakedness, he bent his knee a final time to the statue of the Deryni saint, bowing his head in homage.
Then he was turning to make his way carefully back along the narrow passageway, fingertips trailing the wall on one side while his other hand guarded against projections from the ceiling, for the passageway was much darker, heading away from the light. The door at the end swung back effortlessly at his touch, and his appearance, as he emerged from the doorway, triggered an awed outpouring of chanted psalms.
The next hour passed in something of a blur for Kelson. They would not let Dhugal come to him at first, though the sheer joy on the young border lord’s face was easy enough to read. They wrapped him in a cloak of royal blue this time and put a drink of goat’s milk and honey in his hands—ancient custom, they told him, symbolic of revival as he emerged into the light of the new dawn. When he had drunk it to the dregs as required, they enthroned him before the altar in a chair that looked suspiciously like a cross between a bishop’s and a king’s chair.
It was also Palm Sunday, he learned, as Brother Michael proceeded to celebrate a subtly different Mass of Thanksgiving from that to which Kelson was accustomed. And Kelson’s acclamation as king, in the course of the Mass, drew startling parallels to another sacred king who had entered a holy city on a like day, more than a millennium past, to the same ritual cries of, “Hosanna! Blessed is he who cometh in the name of the Lord.”
The formal ordeal past, however, they seemed to accept Kelson’s previous assurance of beneficence, even before they had heard his account of the night’s events. That was to be formally tested directly after the Mass. It was not until the Kiss of Peace, just before the Communion, that Dhugal finally was able to approach him. His whispered reassurances, both verbal and mental, as the two of them embraced, served to bring Kelson rudely back to the reality outside the walls of the shrine, for it was only then he discovered that Dhugal had managed to make brief contact with Morgan and Duncan, who were heading toward them at all speed, hopefully to rendezvous before the next sunset. Little though it had crossed his mind before, struggling only to survive, Kelson suddenly remembered how his kingdom must be foundering, thinking him dead. And wondering how Nigel fared, thinking himself king, the urgency to return was suddenly upon him.
But first must come the recounting of his ordeal, to the satisfaction of their captors—though the village folk had really ceased to be that when Kelson appeared in the doorway, apparently unscathed. When the Mass had ended and they gathered at his feet like so many hopeful children, he told them everything he could remember about Camber and the form of the vision he had experienced of the Deryni saint. He did not mention the dream of Rothana. He endured their Truth-Reading without resistance, reiterating his vow to re-establish Deryni schools as well as restore their saint, and their enthusiasm trebled.
By the time he finished talking, he had them completely in his thrall. When he told them then that he must leave them, at least for the present—that the rest of his kingdom must surely be in mourning over his supposed loss and possibly in danger from foreign enemies—their acclamation turned to hard, practical offers of assistance. By noon, he and Dhugal had eaten a modest meal and were well mounted on shaggy, sturdy mountain ponies. They rode briskly out of the valley of Saint Kyriell’s with a jubilant escort of six young mountain men to see them safely back to Rhemuth, all of them garbed in the traditional mountain attire of kilted leathers and rough-spun, tweedy plaids, fur-lined cloaks pulled close against the cold.
By dusk, they still had not made physical contact with Morgan and Duncan, so Kelson halted long enough to send out a quick but powerful call, not even bothering to dismount, but only letting Dhugal hold his reins while he slipped efficiently into deep trance. Apparently strengthened by what he had gone through, his call yielded almost immediate results. By moonrise, a few hours later, their mountain escorts were treated to the rare sight of two normally dignified dukes of the realm throwing themselves from their blooded horses to sprint across a wind-scoured clearing on foot and embrace king and border earl, two whooping bordermen galloping joyous circles around all of them.
They did not press on that night, for the new
“We haven’t any proof yet that he’s done these things,” Duncan said, when Kelson had asked a few stunned questions and listened quietly to their speculations. “But who else had as much to gain as he did, under the circumstances? The fact remains that Tiercel is dead, Nigel is dying, and Conall thinks he’s about to become king at any moment, with the full might of the Haldane legacy already confirmed in him. And let me tell you, he didn’t waste any time suggesting that, as Nigel’s condition deteriorated.”
Dhugal scowled. “Couldn’t it be argued that he was only doing the prudent thing, making sure he would have the power to defend the kingdom, since he thought Kelson was dead and his father wasn’t able to govern?”
“That could be argued,” Morgan agreed, “and very likely, Conall will argue it. But whether he got his powers through Tiercel or through our efforts—the latter of which I doubt, looking back—he has the full Haldane potential now. I seriously doubt he’s going to want to give up the crown that’s all but in his grasp, just because Kelson’s come back alive. And even if he’s entirely innocent in all of this, there’s still the matter of his rather precipitous marriage to Rothana.”
Sadly, Kelson nodded. That Conall might have betrayed him was not really surprising, given the circumstances and the jealousy increasingly between them these last few years, but Conall could be dealt with, if necessary. What shocked Kelson, in quite a different way from his concern for Nigel, was Rothana’s apparent defection. Word of that had set a cold, leaden lump in his stomach; he was only just able to keep it from driving him to tears.
“Conall will be given a chance to explain himself,” Kelson said quietly, after a long silence. “I don’t want to believe these things of my own cousin. There could be some other explanation.”
“I hope so,” Duncan said, “for Conall’s sake as well as yours.”
Dhugal nodded. “If we’re all lucky, maybe it will turn out that he’s only been guilty of opportunism—and that isn’t necessarily a crime.”
When they had settled down to sleep, though, after agreeing to ride on to Valoret and its Portal in the morning, Kelson lay awake in his bedroll for some time, finally reaching out to touch Dhugal’s shoulder. They were bracketed between Morgan and Duncan, with the rest of the men bedded down around the second fire except for the watch, and everyone else seemed to be asleep.
“Dhugal are you awake?” Kelson whispered.
Lifting his head briefly, Dhugal nodded and closed his hand over the king’s, shifting to mind-speech.
You’re worried, aren’t you?
Not really worried. Even if the worst turns out to be true, I can take care of Conall. And with three of you able to function as Healers now, even Nigel may come out of this all right.
It’s Rothana, then, isn’t it? Dhugal returned. Kelson, I’m so sorry. You really loved her, didn’t you?
Sighing, Kelson laid his free arm across his eyes, Wishing he could blot out what he was feeling.
I dreamed about her last night, Dhugal—after I had the Camber vision. It was her wedding night, wasn’t it, though I didn’t know that then. We made love. It was so real that I—well, let’s just say that it was very, very real. You don’t suppose I was tapping into—her and Conall, do you?
Not at that distance, or behind all that rock, Dhugal replied, though with the fragments of memory that leaked across his link with Kelson—quickly blocked, for he did not want to know—another image was coming to him, of his own observation of Brother Michael and the girl Rhidian, just past midnight, going quietly through another door near the one that had closed behind Kelson, unobserved by most of the dozing congregation. Michael had returned almost immediately, but Rhidian had not—not for nearly an hour. Dhugal found himself wondering whether Kelson’s “dream” might have been more real than even he suspected—some form of sexual initiation, shrouded in the oblivion of the mind-tricking fumes, perhaps even a ritual marriage of the sacred king with the land, in the person of Rhidian, as sometimes had been practiced in ancient times by the ancestors of the mountain folk sleeping beside the next fire. Kelson might not have been aware of these traditions, but Dhugal was, being closer to the land through border myth and folklore very like that of these mountain people, so long exiled and apart. Perhaps Kelson’s experience had been very, very real.
But he did not say that to Kelson. It was stunning enough that so poignant a dream of Rothana should have been dashed to hopelessness by the news of her marriage to Conall. That it all might have been triggered by very real human agencies was a hurt that the king need not endure, on top of everything else.
And so Dhugal sequestered those suspicions away behind the special shields that he had constructed after healing Kelson, when he and the king both had realized the necessity for some things never to be shared. Kelson could not help being aware that something was going on behind Dhugal’s shields, but he concluded that it was simply the young borderer’s reluctance to intrude on the intimacy of Kelson’s dream; so Kelson, too, relegated that memory to the depths where others would never go, finally lying back with a sigh.
I’m sorry about the spill-over, there at the beginning, he sent after a few more seconds. I didn’t mean to disturb you. This is something I’m simply going to have to work out for myself, when we get back. She thought I was dead, after all.
Yes, I’m sure she did, Dhugal replied. Do you want some help sleeping?
No, I slept last night, far more deeply than I would have wished, came Kelson’s response. How about you, though? Shall I put you to sleep?
The offer was the most tantalizing Dhugal had heard in days, and he readily agreed, for it meant that he would not dream. He gave a soft, grateful sigh as Kelson’s hand shifted to his forehead. The next thing he knew, sunlight was shining in his eyes and the smell of roasting meat was rousing him, truly rested for the first time in weeks.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Ask now the priests concerning the law.
—Haggai 2:11
Slowed by rugged terrain and another vicious spate of weather on the way back toward Valoret, Kelson and his companions were nearly four days reaching that cathedral city. Once there, Kelson decided to spend a few more days reviewing the progress of the bishops’ synod before going on to Rhemuth by Portal, for the clarification of Duncan’s status, at least, had become an even more important issue, given the difficulties the king expected to encounter once he returned to the capital. The delay would not endanger the element of surprise necessary to confound Conall, if that prince truly was the architect of what had been happening, for even if messengers rode night and day, word that Kelson was alive could not reach Rhemuth before Easter Monday. The king, however, would make his appearance the day before, having decided that Easter itself was a most propitious time to return from the grave, as it were. Unfortunately, the irony would probably be lost on Conall.
The bishops, meanwhile, had continued independently at the work they set out to do at the beginning of Lent, even though Cardiel and Arilan had returned to the capital to counsel Conall, and Bradene, too, had absented himself briefly to assist in the solemn proclamation of Conall as king. The primate was back in his see by Holy Week, however, and thus he was on hand to witness Kelson’s astonishing ride through the city gates of Valoret on Maundy Thursday, miraculously alive and restored to his people.
The cathedral bells pealed for hours in a joyous paean of celebration, in tot
But next morning, after the obligatory ceremonies of Good Friday, when the city had recovered from its initial shock, the king convened his bishops in the chapter house where he had addressed them weeks before and asked for a report on their progress. He was pleased to learn that there had been a great deal, even after his supposed death.
First of all, nominations had been made to fill all of the previously vacant sees, with appointment awaiting only royal approval, which Kelson freely gave. Likewise, six new itinerant bishops had been elected to roam at large in the kingdom, with four positions yet to be filled, as and when suitable candidates could be found. These, too, Kelson approved. In addition, the canonization of the late Bishop of Meara, Henry Istelyn, had been approved unanimously, with formal declaration of his status set for later in the year.
But most important of all, so far as Kelson was concerned, most of the draft work on the rewriting of the Statutes of Ramos had been completed. He spent the best part of Good Friday going over the document with Morgan, Duncan, and Dhugal, making but few amendments and alterations, and by sunset had pronounced himself well satisfied with the way the material was taking shape. By the next morning, the last he planned to spend in Valoret, he was ready to tackle the most delicate negotiation.
“I cannot tell you how pleased I am with what you have accomplished in the past month, gentlemen,” he told the assembled bishops, during a closed session in which only Morgan, Dhugal, and himself were not ordained priests. “I should not wish to tempt true disaster by saying it, but perhaps my ‘death’ was not such a terrible thing after all, if this is the kind of memorial you make to me.” He silenced their faint, nervous laughter with an upraised hand.