Camber of Culdi (4 page)

“Are you in pain? Is there anything I can do?”

“Just don't be so impatient,” the old man breathed. “I'm not ready to die yet. Overanxious priests!”

His voice was stronger than Rhys had expected, and Rhys squeezed the old hand affectionately.

“Do you mean to tell me you've let all those servants and apprentices get teary-eyed for nothing?”

The old man gave a dry chuckle and shook his head. “No, I'm not gaming this time. The Dark Angel is nearby. I can hear the rustle of His wings sometimes. But I wanted to tell you something before I go. I couldn't let it die with me, and you—you're something special to me, Rhys. You could almost be the son I lost—or my grandson.” Pause. “I wonder where he is now?”

“Your grandson? I never knew you had one.”

“'Twas safer they thought him dead, like his father. Besides, the Church has him now, if he still lives. He went when he was nineteen, right after we lost his father. It was the plague that year, you know. But you were only a lad then, if you were even born. You probably don't remember.”

Rhys laughed softly. “How old do you think I am, old one?”

“Old enough to know better than to listen to the rantings of a dying old man,” Dan smiled. “But you will listen, won't you, Rhys? It's important.”

“You know I will.”

The old man sighed deeply and let his gaze wander the room absently.

“Who am I?” he asked in a low voice.

Rhys raised a skeptical eyebrow and frowned. “Now, don't go senile on me, after all these years. Even if you
are
a cantankerous old rascal, I'm very fond of you.”

Dan closed his eyes and smiled, then looked up at the ceiling again. “Rhys, what ever happened to the Haldanes, after your Deryni Festil led the coup that toppled the throne? Did you ever wonder?”

“Not really,” Rhys replied. “I was taught that Ifor and all his family were executed during the revolt.”

“Not precisely true. There was one survivor, one of the younger princes—he was only three or four at the time. He was smuggled out of the castle by a servant and raised as the man's own bastard son. But he was never allowed to forget his true parentage. His foster father hoped that one day he might overthrow the House of Festil and restore human rule to Gwynedd—but of course, he never did. Nor did the prince's son. That prince would be very old by now, if he were alive.”

“If he were …” Rhys started to repeat the old man's words, then trailed to a halt, suddenly suspecting what the old man was going to say next.

Dan coughed and took a deep breath.

“Go ahead, ask. I know you won't believe me, but it's true. I was known as Prince Aidan in those days; and in the normal order of things, I probably would have been content to rule a distant barony or earldom in my royal brother's name, for there were three before me for the throne. But with the execution of all my kin, I became the sole Haldane heir.” He paused. “I never had the chance even to try to win back my throne. Nor did my son: he died too young, and the time was not right. But my grandson—”

“Now, wait a minute, Dan.” Rhys's brow was furrowed in disbelief. “You're telling me that you're really Prince Aidan, the rightful Haldane heir, and that your grandson is still alive?”

“His royal name is Cinhil—Prince Cinhil Donal Ifor Haldane,” Dan murmured. “He would be, oh, forty or so by now—I can't remember exactly. It's been over twenty years since I last saw him. He entered a contemplative order, walled away from the world. He is safe there, the knowledge of his true identity locked deep in his earliest memories. I thought, at the time, that it was better that way.” His voice trailed off, and Rhys blinked at him in amazement, his stomach doing queasy flip-flops.

“Why are you telling me this?” Rhys breathed, after nearly a full minute of silence.

“I trust you.”

“But, I—Dan, I'm
Deryni
, a member of the conquering race. You can't have forgotten that. How long do you think your grandson would be permitted to live, if anyone even suspected his existence? Besides, you yourself said that it's been twenty years. He may be dead already.”

Daniel tried to shrug, but the movement brought on a coughing fit which wracked the frail old body. Rhys helped him to sit, trying to ease his discomfort, then lowered him gently to the pillows when the spell had passed. Daniel swallowed noisily, gestured with a veined, translucent hand.

“You may be right. Perhaps I am the last living Haldane, and have spent my years of hoping for nought. If so, my telling you can do no harm. But if I am not the last …”

His voice trailed off in speculation, and Rhys shook his head again. “Too many ifs, Dan. For all I know, what you've told me could just be the demented death rattlings of a foolish old man. Besides, what could
I
do?”

Dan stared up into Rhys's face, aged gray eyes meeting young golden ones. “Am I a foolish old man, Rhys? I think you know better. Come, you're Deryni. Your race can probe men's souls. Probe mine, then, and read the truth. I am not afraid.”

“I—am not accustomed to touching the minds of humans in that way.” Rhys hesitated, lowering his eyes uncomfortably.

“Don't be silly. I have felt your healing touch before. If you cannot heal age, that is not your fault. But you
can
touch my mind, Rhys. You
can
read the truth of what I say.”

Rhys glanced behind him at the closed door, then back at the quiet form of Daniel Draper—perhaps Prince Aidan Haldane. He looked down at the old man's hand still twined in his and touched the pulse spot, then slowly raised his eyes once more.

“You're very weak. I should not intrude so near the end. It's your priest who should be beside you now, not I.”

“But I have finished with the priest, and besides, these words were not his to know,” Daniel whispered. “Please, Rhys. Humor a dying man.”

“The strain could kill you,” Rhys insisted.

“Then I will be dead. I am dying, anyway. The truth is more important than a few minutes or a few hours more. Hurry, Rhys. There's very little time.”

With a sigh, Rhys eased himself to sit on the edge of the bed beside the old man. Surrounding the hand he still held between his two hands, he gazed down into the calm gray eyes and willed the eyes to close. The sere lids fluttered and obeyed as Rhys extended his senses, secured control, and entered.

Swirling grayness engulfed him, broken intermittently by hazy snatches of color and sound—almost as though he were making his way through patchy, rolling fog. Only, this was the fog of Death, as the Darkness encroached already on parts of the old man's mind. The images were flashing past with no discernible order. He must keep moving, lest he, too, be snared by them.

There. A fleeting ghost-image of a young man—he somehow knew it was Dan's son—with a young child in his arms. Was the child Cinhil? Then that same man, older now, laid out on a bier with candles all around, his fair face mottled by the plague signs. A young, dark-haired man and an old gray one standing fearfully in the doorway, drawn by their love yet afraid to come closer. The young man bore the glossy black hair and gray eyes of the Haldanes. Then the picture was gone.

More darkness—thick, gray-black stuff which was stifling, almost impassable. But then there was more: a tension building in the shadows, a mindless fear, and sounds—the sounds of slaughter.

He was a tiny boy, cowering and sobbing beneath a shattered stair, and there were people screaming and running past him, fire licking at the castle ramparts, blazing on the thatching of the castle's outbuildings.

Soldiers seized two older boys whom he knew to be his brothers and dragged them into the already bloody courtyard, then slew them with swords which hacked and stabbed and were raised up dripping again and again. An infant sister was dashed against the stones of the courtyard paving, another tossed aloft and spitted on a laughing soldier's lance.

And then his father, tall and gray-eyed, gory in blood-soaked nightclothes, unarmed but for a bright blade in his hand, roaring defiance as he tried to cut a path to his anguished queen. The rain of arrows falling on the king and cutting him down like a trapped animal—because the butchers feared to come within reach of his blade.

And his mother's shrieks as they pinned her limbs and ripped the living child from her belly.…

Rhys drew back with a gasp and severed the contact, unable to endure the visions any longer. Stunned wordless by what he had seen, he forced himself to focus on his hands and was shocked to find that they were trembling.

Willing them to calm, his pounding heart to slow, he breathed deeply several times, relaxing as the world settled into its customary order. Gently, he chafed the old man's hand to bring him back to consciousness. He was hardly aware of the tears welling in his eyes.

“Dan?” he whispered. “Dan? Prince Aidan?”

The gray eyes opened weakly and the old lips parted. “You saw.”

Rhys nodded slowly, his golden eyes wide with wonder and a little horror still.

“Then, you know I spoke the truth,” Dan said. “Will you guard that truth, against the time when the throne may be restored to a Haldane?”

“A Deryni king is on the throne now, Dan. Would you have me betray him to restore your kin?”

“Watch and pray, Rhys. And then ask yourself if the man on the throne is worthy of the golden circlet. Ask if this is the sort of rule you wish for your children and your children's children. Then you decide. And when the time comes, and you reach the decision which I think you must, at least consider my grandson. Once I am gone, only you will know, Rhys.”

“You speak treason, old friend,” Rhys murmured, lowering his eyes as he remembered what he had seen. “But,
if
the time comes, I—I will consider what you have told me.”

“God bless you, my son.” The old man smiled. He reached up with his free hand to wipe a tear from Rhys's cheek with his thumb. “And I, who thought ever to curse the Deryni …” He paused, and a flicker of pain crossed his face. “Around my neck you will find a silver coin on a cord. I do not read, but I am told that it was struck at the abbey where Cinhil, my grandson, took his vows. His name in religion is—is—”

The old man gasped for breath, and Rhys had to lean forward to catch his next words.

“Go on, Dan. His name?”

“His name—his name is—Benedict. Benedictus. He … is … a Haldane … and … King.”

Rhys bowed his head and closed his eyes in sorrow, automatically searching for a pulse but knowing that this time there would be none. He slipped to his knees and knelt there for several minutes, then shook his head and let the old man's hand go. Folding the wrinkled old hands on the silent breast and closing the dulling eyes, he then crossed himself numbly and turned away. He was nearly to the door before he remembered the coin, and he returned quickly to take it from around the dead man's neck.

But though Rhys could read the words inscribed in the silver, they meant nothing to him. And with a sudden, sinking feeling, he realized that Daniel had given him only the religious name of his grandson—Benedictus—and not his secular one. If he ever did want to locate the man, it was going to be very difficult.

With a troubled mind, he slipped the coin into the pouch at his belt and moved toward the door. There he paused to collect his wits, to resume his professional demeanor, to steel himself for the servants and the waiting priest. A last glance at the old man, and then he opened the door.

“It is finished, my lord?” the priest asked.

Rhys nodded. “The end was easy. He did not suffer much.”

The priest bowed, then slipped past Rhys to begin chanting the final prayers, the servants slowly sinking to their knees around the doorway, some of them weeping softly. As the words drifted out of the room, Rhys, suddenly very tired, picked his way slowly down the stairs to where Gifford awaited him.

Gifford stood as his master approached, clutching Rhys's medical pouch to his chest.

“Is it over, master?”

Rhys nodded, then gestured for Gifford to open the door and proceed.

Yes, it's over
, he thought to himself, as they stepped into the street again.

Or, is it only just beginning?

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

Then give place to the physician, for the Lord hath created him: let him not go from thee, for thou hast need of him
.

—Ecclesiasticus 38:12

It was raining steadily by the next morning, when Rhys Thuryn drew rein before the Abbey of Saint Liam. Unaccompanied by any servant or attendant, he had ridden most of the night to reach the abbey, for the coin Daniel had given him would not let him sleep. He dismounted and led his horse beneath the eaves extending around the courtyard, then waited until a young novice came to take charge of the animal. His leather cloak was nearly soaked through, his fur leggings spattered with mud. Rain dripped from his cap and the ends of his hair as he strode into the shelter of the cloister walk and scanned the area.

He had been to Saint Liam's many times before, of course—had studied here with Joram, years ago, before he had discovered his talents in the healing arts. The memories were happy ones, of more carefree days.

But the reason for his visit today was not mere nostalgia. For, of the men Rhys knew he could trust, there was but one who might know the origin of the worn silver coin now lying in the pouch at his waist. Joram MacRorie, Rhys's boyhood companion and probably his closest friend, was currently a master here at the abbey school. If Rhys's information proved to be correct, and the man Benedict in the unknown monastery really was the Haldane heir, then it was also Joram who would know how best to use that knowledge for the good of all concerned.

With a sigh, Rhys swept off his sodden cap and began to make his way along the roofed cloister walk toward the Chapter House, ruffling his gloved fingers through wet, unruly hair. Joram would not be in the Chapter House at this hour, of course. Chapter would have been concluded hours ago, before most folk were even rising for the day.