Camber of Culdi (43 page)

“Cinhil, the man was already dying,” Camber began, trying to back off from the Deryni issue.

Cinhil shook his head. “That is immaterial. Do you guarantee that a Deryni curse, especially from the lips of a dying man, can do no harm?”

Camber started to speak, but Cinhil shook his head again.

“Nay, I thought not. Oh, I know what you say, and I know that my own power is not inconsiderable—but what do I really
know
of your Deryni powers? Only that which you have chosen to reveal to me.”

“Cinhil—”

“Enough. I am sore accursed already, for offenses against my Lord God, without adding Deryni damnation to my lot. One son has died already, of Deryni slaying. And you have only to look in the nursery, at my poor, ill-begotten babes, to know how my wretched fate continues.”

As he gestured toward the entrance of the hall, all of them simultaneously became aware of a long streak of blood across the back of his left hand, smeared from the edge of an angry-looking cut which had hitherto been hidden beneath the fur at his sleeve edge. Cinhil saw their glance and looked at the wound almost dispassionately.

“Yes, assassins' knives do occasionally draw blood, gentlemen. Fortunately, this is slight.”

“Let Rhys be the judge of that,” Camber said, signaling with his eyes that the Healer should attend the wound. He eased closer as Rhys stood and took the injured hand in his.

“Cinhil, has anyone verified or disproved their story?” Camber asked, trying to lead Cinhil gently away from the subject of curses and also distract him from what Rhys was doing.

Cinhil shook his head, arrogance and defiance still flashing in the gray Haldane eyes.

“What does it matter? I remember the case vaguely. This Dothan of Erne was arrested with Coel Howell and his adherents. Coel was executed. I recall that there were mitigating circumstances about Dothan, so he was being held for a new trial. That's the law. It isn't my fault.”

“He mentioned something about his father being ill, though,” Evaine interjected. “Is he?”

“How should I know?”

“It is a king's business to know,” Cullen replied.

Cinhil threw up both hands in disgust, and Rhys had to move fast to recapture the hand he was examining. The wound was so slight that Rhys was almost tempted to let Cinhil go on his way and allow it to heal naturally. Instead, he sighed and began to slip into his healing trance.

“I fail to understand how a crown is supposed to grant one omniscience!” Cinhil was saying angrily. “I am beset by two Deryni assassins, I am wounded in the attempt on my life, and then you try to make me feel guilty because I killed one of them. It isn't because they're Deryni like yourselves, is it?”

Had he calculated it—perhaps he had—Cinhil could not have made a remark more certain to shock his listeners. The mental reaction of those around him was so violent, even if their faces did not show it, that Rhys broke out of his healing trance before he had even begun, only with difficulty schooling his face to some semblance of professional decorum. Around him, he could sense the others shielding their own stunned amazement.

Guaire, the lone human among them, was not so adept at covering his horror, and flinched before the long, appraising study which Cinhil turned on each of them.

It was Rhys who managed to change the tenor of the interaction, exercising the prerogative of healers to command even kings when a question of health was involved.

“Sire, if you insist upon arguing, I can't possibly heal you. Now, please come and sit quietly by the fire so I can take care of this.”

As Cinhil stared at him, jaw dropping at the Healer's effrontery, Camber laid one hand on Cinhil's elbow.

“He's right, Sire. Why don't you come and sit down? We're all nervous and exhausted from what we've just been through.

“Jebediah, unless you have pressing duties elsewhere, I'd like you to go and check on this Dothan of Erne. That's the least we can do. And Guaire, please have the guards remove these bodies. See that they receive proper burial.”

“No, let them rot!” Cinhil said, jerking his arm away from Camber.

“See that they receive proper burial,” Cullen repeated Camber's words.

He looked Cinhil in the eye, and the king glared back for an instant before dropping his gaze and allowing himself to be led meekly to a place by the fire.

This time, Cinhil did not resist as Rhys took his hand in his. Perhaps realizing that he had behaved less than graciously toward the man who was trying to help him, he laid his head against the chair back and closed his eyes, not seeing the glances which were exchanged among the others taking seats around him.

Rhys went into his healing trance in silence this time—though Camber did not follow and observe, as was often his wont. Instead, Camber eased himself into a chair and let his own head lie back, praying that he could contain his own pain a little longer. He could feel the blood still seeping down his side. He wondered at the nausea he was feeling, hoping desperately that he could hide it until Cinhil was gone.

He opened his eyes to see Joram and Evaine staring at him in alarm—they had sensed his pain—but he shook his head and forbade their notice with a glance.

He was not able to fool Rhys, however. The Healer had been well aware of Camber's absence. As Rhys opened his eyes, the king's healing done, those eyes gazed across at Camber in accusation.

Camber shook his head again and glanced down at the hand Rhys was removing from Cinhil's. Where the wound had been, there was nothing but a slight bloodstain on the edge of Cinhil's sleeve and a rapidly fading red line which could have been a crease in the king's hand.

Cinhil sensed the completion of the work, though not the nuances surrounding it, and opened his eyes, flexing the hand experimentally.

“Thank you, Rhys. I'm sorry if I made your work more difficult.”

Rhys nodded acceptance of the thanks and the apology, but could not trust himself to speak.

“And Camber,” the king continued, in that same even tone, “have you anything more to say, or may I go now?”

“You need not ask my leave, Sire. You know best what you have done, and why, and whether or not it is right.”

“The Devil take you, I will not be lectured!” Cinhil cried, lurching to his feet almost hysterically. “I am not a child, and I'm no longer under your control!”

With that, he whirled and left the hall. Cullen started to follow him, but Joram caught his sleeve and shook his head. Cullen was astonished to see Camber slumping in his chair, white-faced, a hand clutched openly to his left side, now that Cinhil was gone. As Cullen sank down in the chair which Cinhil had just vacated, Rhys began fumbling at Camber's bloody robe, his tongue clucking in disapproval at the pool of blood collecting in the chair.

“I thought all this blood on your sleeve was the woman's,” Rhys muttered as he ripped the tear wider with both his hands. “I asked whether you were all right, and you lied to me!”

“I preferred that Cinhil not know I had been wounded in his behalf. Besides, he needed you just then.”

“It was a minor wound, and you know it. Now, stop squirming. I don't want to hurt you any more than I have to.”

Camber winced as Rhys's fingers located the wound and began to probe, but he did not move. Evaine, sitting at his right, took his free hand in hers and stared at him anxiously, while Joram knelt at his feet.

“It isn't
that
serious, is it?” Camber finally murmured, when it seemed that Rhys was taking an inordinately long time just to look.

“I don't know yet. Talk about something else while I find out.”

Camber smiled slightly, more to reassure his children than out of any greater comfort, and glanced across Rhys's kneeling form at Cullen.

“You know, Alister, it was interesting to note to whom he did and did not listen just now.”

Cullen snorted under his breath and tried to look unconcerned about Camber's paleness.

“You're implying that I might have some influence over him that you do not,” he replied gruffly. “Unfortunately, I'm afraid that's rather tenuous. It may be that he identifies with me and Joram a little because of our priesthood—something we have that he has lost. If that isn't it, I can't explain it.”

“Whatever the cause, the effect seems to exist,” Camber said. He shifted a little and made a grimace as Rhys's touch found a more sensitive hurt. “What will happen when you're gone to Grecotha?”

Cullen shrugged. “I don't think he knows about my promotion yet. I was only told yesterday myself. Still, Grecotha isn't that far from Valoret. I'll be safely out of reach for the niggling things, but available when I'm really needed.”

“And what happens when he moves the court back to Rhemuth? Then you're twice as far from him.”

Cullen shook his head. “I don't know, Camber. I go where I'm sent. I think you're overestimating my influence over him.”

“Perhaps. I worry about his increasing hostility toward Deryni in general, though. And from a purely selfish point of view, I worry about his changing attitude toward me. As you cannot have failed to notice, it's becoming increasingly difficult for me to work with him.”

“He's becoming insufferable!” Joram muttered darkly. “There are times when I almost wish we had never found him. At least in Imre we knew what danger we faced.”

“Never wish those times upon us again,” Camber replied. “We are well rid of Imre and his wicked kin, even if Cinhil is not yet all we would have him. The people will grow to love him, in time.”

“Will they?” Joram lowered his voice to a whisper, after casting a careful look at the soldiers moving at the end of the hall, clearing away the aftermath of what had just occurred.

“They already love you, you know. You could have been king yourself; they would have accepted you far more readily.”

Camber glanced at both his children, at Cullen watching him, still as death, at Rhys kneeling by his side, lost in his Healer's trancing—then sighed.

“Is that what you truly wish, Joram? We are Deryni, and none of us of royal blood. And if I
had
taken the throne, what then? I would have been no better than Imre, whose ancestors also took what did not belong to them. One does not right one wrong by yet another.”

Evaine's eyes were filling with tears. “But Cinhil is so—so helpless, Father, and so—”

“Cinhil is our rightful king—let none forget it,” Camber murmured. “And despite his failings, which I am first to agree are many, I think that he can learn to be a good king.”

“If he lives a hundred years, he could not be your match!” Joram said under his breath.

Camber smiled gently. “And do you think that
I
will live a hundred years, Joram? Be realistic. If I
had
become king, what then? What, when I was gone? I am nearly sixty now. My health is excellent, and I anticipate several more good years—but how many may I reasonably expect? Ten? As many as twenty? And with your brother Cathan dead, my heir now is a lad of seven. Would you wish the crown on little Davin when I am gone? Or on yourself, to put aside your vows as we made Cinhil do?”

“You could have made a difference,” Joram whispered, shaking his head.

“Aye, perhaps. And I
can
make a difference, even now, God willing it be so. But it must be on my terms, serving our lawful king. The price we paid for Cinhil's kingship was too high to throw it all away simply because the way is difficult just now.”

Cullen stirred slightly, leaning back to stroke his chin thoughtfully.

“What shall we do about Cinhil, then? You, yourself, have pointed out the problem. Can you work with him?”

Camber shrugged. “If I must, I must. Oh, I think this current crisis will pass. I flatter myself that Cinhil still needs me for a while—at least until the matter of Ariella's invasion is settled, one way or the other. As my son has pointed out, I have the people's favor. It is misdirected—for all of you share in the responsibility for what they think I have done—but that is neither here nor there. Imre is dead, and they think I am responsible, even though they know that Cinhil did the actual deed. In time, they will learn the truth.”

“Well, it isn't time for that yet,” Rhys said, returning his attention to all of them. “Camber, this is more complicated than serious—I've done a little already—but I don't want you trying to help this time. You've lost more blood than I would have liked.”

“Which means that you are not telling me everything, and I shan't be able to convince you otherwise,” Camber said.

Rhys shook his head stubbornly, not moving his left hand from Camber's side.

Camber sighed and adjusted his arms more comfortably on the chair. “Very well, I won't argue. You realize, of course, that I'm never going to learn how you do this if you won't let me watch on my own body.”

“If you haven't learned by now, I'm not sure it can be learned,” Rhys said with a tight smile. He reached his right hand to Camber's forehead. “Let's get on with it. Close your eyes and relax. Open to me. No barriers … no resistance … and no memory of this.”

Obeying, Camber exhaled softly and let himself slip away, knowing that Rhys must have good reasons for his request, and too lethargic to worry about them. In what seemed only a short time, he was rousing to a deft mental touch calling him back. He frowned as he took another breath and opened his eyes. It had been so peaceful where he was.

“How do you feel?”

Rhys's face was hovering anxiously a handspan from his own, the fingertips of one hand still resting lightly at Camber's temple.

Camber blinked slowly, deliberately—let his gaze slip past Rhys to the others on the fringe of his vision. All of them looked far more solemn than he thought they had a right to be.