Camber of Culdi (27 page)

They had been riding without speaking for some time, alternating between a trot and a brisk walk, snatching what fitful naps they could, when Rhys first became aware that he was being watched. He had been drifting on the edge of consciousness while the horses walked, mentally rehearsing what they would do and say when they reached the Dhassa gate the next evening. To discover the gray eyes observing him, albeit somewhat dazedly, gave him a start in that first instant of realization.

He flashed a reassuring smile at the man, mentally chasing the cobwebs of sleep from his mind, but the gesture brought no response other than the continued fogged appraisal—and perhaps a glimmer of recognition.

Raising an eyebrow at that, Rhys glanced across at the still-dozing Joram, hunched down in the saddle and swaying easily with the motion of his mount. Though he knew that Joram needed the sleep—they had been largely without for nearly thirty-six hours now—it was important that they establish communication immediately. He suspected from Cinhil's expression that the monk remembered who he was.

“Joram, we have company again,” he said in a low voice.

Joram raised his head immediately, to become instantly alert and awake as only Joram seemed to be able to do, and their captive turned his head to blink at his other escort.

“Why have you brought me out of Saint Foillan's?” he asked, without giving Joram time for amenities. “Who are you?”

The priest studied the fur-hooded face for several seconds, apparently considering how best to answer the question, then decided on the truth.

“My name is Joram MacRorie. I'm a Michaeline priest. As for why we have brought you out of Saint Foillan's, that should be abundantly clear, my lord—or should I say, Your Highness?”

The man recoiled as though struck, an instant of terror darting across his eyes before he could mask it, but both Joram and Rhys heard the scarcely whispered “No,” as Cinhil lowered his head and tried to turn his face away.

The two exchanged glances, and then Joram gestured ahead to where a stand of pines afforded some protection from the wind. It was time to rest the horses anyway, and better they say what they must on solid ground, face to face, where there could be no mistaking their intent.

The horses blew and snorted gratefully as their riders reined in beneath the snow-laden trees, and Joram, with a sigh, hitched their captive's lead over his saddle and jumped to the ground. Moving around to Cinhil's right, Joram released the thongs binding the man's foot to the off stirrup, then repeated the process on the other side. Rhys, Cinhil's other lead still in his hands, swung his right leg over his horse's neck and around the saddletree to ease cramped muscles. They had already agreed that one of them would remain mounted whenever Cinhil was on horseback, for they dared not risk an ill-considered escape.

“Come down and walk a bit, Sire,” Joram said, loosing Cinhil's hands from the saddletree but not from the thongs which bound them together. “You must be stiff. I apologize for the rough treatment, but we feared you would not come with us of your own free will.”

Cinhil turned his head away and shrank from the offered assistance. “Call me not Sire,” he whispered. “I am sire to no man, nor ever like to be. You have mistaken me for someone else. I am a simple, cloistered monk, having quarrel with no one.”

Joram shook his head slowly, understanding what the man was trying to do, but knowing that he could not permit it. He cast a resigned glance at Rhys, and knew that the Healer recognized it, too.

“You are Nicholas Gabriel Draper, known in religion as Brother Benedict,” Joram said. “Your father was called Royston, and your grandfather Daniel. But both had other names, my lord, and other names have you.”

“No,” the monk murmured. “No other names.”

“Your father's other name was Alroy, an ancient royal name; your grandfather was known as Aidan, Prince of Haldane, in the years before the Coup,” Joram continued relentlessly. “And you—you are Cinhil Donal Ifor, Prince of Haldane and last of your grandfather's royal line. The time has come for you to claim your birthright, Your Highness. The time has come for you to mount the Throne of Gwynedd.”

“No,” the captive choked. “Say it not. I will not hear you. Such names are past, and best forgotten. I am only Benedict, a monk, a priest. I have no other birthright in this world.”

Joram glanced at Rhys uneasily, trying not to show the distaste he was feeling for what he must do. They had planned the strategy for miles, on the long ride toward Saint Foillan's, crafting arguments to cover every possible contingency. But they had not reckoned on the gentleness of the man, or the childlike grief evoked by the threat of an ending to the life he had known until now. Joram steeled himself for the next words he must utter, but it was Cinhil himself who broke the silence, raising his head to stare unseeing between his horse's ears, not deigning to look at them.

“I pray you, take me back to Saint Foillan's.”

“We may not, my lord,” Joram said.

“Then, send me. You need not go yourselves. I will tell no one what you have done.”

“We
may
not, my lord,” Joram repeated. “Other lives than your own have been touched—and some ended.”

“Ended? You mean that men have died on my account?”

Joram nodded, unwilling to meet the man's eyes just then, and the monk shifted his stunned gaze to the winter-bare forest beyond, as though reading a half-forgotten vision which he had tried to put aside.

“Where are you taking me?” he finally asked.

“Among friends.”

“I have no friends outside the walls of my abbey. Nor are they friends who would end my life.”

“One life ends, another begins, my lord,” Joram said, laying a hand on the horse's bridle and gazing up unwaveringly. “You were born to other than monastic cells and hours of prayer, however comfortable you may have found that life in recent years. It is only now that you begin to enter your true destiny.”

“No! It is
this
I was born for!” He struck his white-cloaked breast with his bound hands and turned frantic eyes to Rhys in appeal. “You, my lord—the story told you by my grandsire—it was a fantasy he wove. I am not what he would have you think. I am not of the stuff from which princes are made.”

“You are a Haldane, my lord.”

“No! The Haldanes all are dead. I was a Draper before I took my vows—and my father before me. I know no other names.”

Joram sighed and glanced at Rhys, then shrugged lightly. “I think it's pointless to continue for now, don't you? He's tired and frightened. Perhaps later—”

“That will not change the truth,” Cinhil interjected.

“No, but the truth may be different than you now perceive it, my lord. You have been away from the world for many years. Why not reserve judgment until you have a chance to become reacquainted?”

“It is a world I have renounced. You, who claim to be a priest, should understand that.”

“All too well,” Joram sighed. “However, it does not change my present intent. Come, if I have your word you'll not try to escape, I would be pleased to release your bonds. You'll feel better if you get down and walk a bit.”

Cinhil stared at Joram for a long moment, as though weighing what he had said, then lowered his eyes.

“I will not resist you.”

“Your word on it?”

“My word,” the captive whispered.

With a nod, Joram reached up and cut the thongs binding Cinhil's wrists. But when he held out a hand to assist the man from his horse, Cinhil pursed his lips and brushed the hand aside, sliding down the other side, past Rhys, to stagger but a half-dozen steps before sinking to his knees in the snow.

As the man bowed his head and fought dry sobs, Joram frowned and glanced at Rhys, then hitched his cloak back on his shoulders and folded his arms resignedly. Both were painfully aware that the rest of the ride to Dhassa was likely to seem even longer than they had feared.

And indeed, the rest of the ride was accomplished, though without further incident, in nearly total silence. They stopped once at midday to change mounts at a small hostelry, Rhys guarding the prince while Joram negotiated for the horses' exchange. But Cinhil volunteered not one word of further conversation or resistance in all that time.

By that evening, they were within an hour's ride of their destination. A small, swiftly-running stream wound alongside the road they travelled, crusted with snow along the edges but not yet iced over for the winter. Men and horses were showing the effects of the journey. Rhys was especially concerned about Cinhil, for the prince was totally unaccustomed to the rigors of riding. He had nearly cried out from the pain of aching muscles when they dismounted at their last rest stop a few hours before, only pride maintaining the silence he had imposed upon himself. It had taken both of them to assist him, half fainting, back into the saddle when they were ready to ride on.

Cinhil had been looking more and more pale for the past half-hour, and Rhys knew that they would have to rest soon or risk having Cinhil pass out. There was also the very real uncertainty as to what Cinhil might do when they entered the city and tried to make their way to the bishop's palace. If he should resist, if his seeming compliance all day was but preparation for a public denunciation—Rhys preferred not even to think about that possibility.

Nor had Rhys been able to probe their royal captive's mind during the long, silent hours of riding. It was as though a sleek, rigid wall had been erected—one which Rhys felt certain he could eventually broach, given time and rest and the proper preparations, but one which he dared not even attempt without making Cinhil more alert than he already was to the potential power of the Deryni men who held him captive.

No, some more insidious method would have to be used on Cinhil—at least until they were safely among allies, where his protests would do no good. What Rhys had in mind for now would also help to numb the pain of tortured leg and thigh muscles until more thorough and lasting methods could be applied.

As though sensing Rhys's growing disquiet, if not the exact reasons or solution for it, Joram stood in his stirrups to stretch and yawn, then gestured toward the side of the road where the configuration of the stream bank allowed an approach to the swiftly running water. Dismounting, he moved to Cinhil's side to assist him from his horse, then supported the limping prince to a seat on a rock sheltered from the wind. Rhys, in a more leisurely manner, got down and led the three horses to the stream to drink, then took an empty water flask from his saddle and knelt by the water, hiding the flask with his body as he filled it from the icy stream.

Joram was helping to massage the knots from Cinhil's legs when Rhys returned. The prince, when he had drunk deeply from Rhys's flask, passed it to Joram without thinking. Before the priest could drink in turn, Rhys reached across and took the flask with a slight shake of his head, pouring the rest of the contents into the snow.

“You've drugged him.” Joram's words were a simple statement of fact, only a little surprised.

Rhys nodded as Cinhil turned his head to stare.

“The water?” Cinhil whispered.

“It was necessary. A sleeping potion to calm you, to ease your discomfort until we can rest properly.”

“And to guard against my betrayal, as well,” Cinhil said, a strained smile playing across his lips. A muffled sob escaped him and he bowed his head, closing his eyes briefly. When he looked up again, he would not meet their eyes.

“What—what will happen to me?”

“From the drug?” Rhys looked across at him steadily. “You will become very sleepy. Your perception will be blurred. You will probably drift in and out of consciousness. It will be better this way, believe me.”

“Better for whom?” Cinhil whispered. “Did you really fear I would betray you? I gave my word. It”—he gestured toward the flask—“it was not necessary.”

At that, Joram stood abruptly and strode back to the horses, to kneel at the edge of the stream, his back to Cinhil. Rhys followed, keeping a wistful eye on Cinhil, to hunch down beside the priest. He could tell that Joram was annoyed.

“Was
it necessary?” Joram asked, leaning down to scoop water from the stream and drink.

“I thought it was. Joram, I've been trying to read him for hours, hoping something would slip. Nothing. He's like a blank wall. He has some kind of natural shield when he's under pressure, which I couldn't penetrate—at least not without letting him know what I was trying to do. I think that's why we had trouble controlling him last night. I didn't think we could afford to take chances with him in Dhassa, especially with both of us as tired as we are.”

“No, I suppose not.” Joram dried his hands on his cloak, then half turned toward Rhys. “He really has that kind of natural defense, eh? Do you think you'll be able to get through to him later?”

Rhys shrugged, permitting himself a slight, nervous smile. “There are ways to overcome anyone's resistance eventually, especially if one is a Healer. Besides, I'll have Camber working with me, once we reach the haven. It's a bit of a challenge, but I think we'll be able to handle it between us.”

With a raise of his eyebrow, Joram stood and stretched, then glanced toward the resting Cinhil. “Did you tell him the truth about the effects of the drug?”

“Yes. We should have ample time to get him through the Portal before it wears off. And he
will
sleep, if we let him.”

“Hmm. Won't he attract attention, if he's in a stupor?”

“Not as much as he would if he made a scene,” Rhys replied. He put the flask back on his saddle. “If there should be any question, he's ill and we're taking him to the Bishop's Healer. That seemed like a simple enough ruse to me.”

“Aye.” With a resigned sigh, Joram shook his head and gave a smile. “I must be more tired than I thought. I must say, though, you've certainly caught on to the ways of conspiracy with the proper enthusiasm. And this is a man who never played the treason game before.”