Saint Camber (61 page)

A somewhat more involved procedure was required for locating the third prince. Jebediah did not see him at first, and was loath to ask for fear of bringing on reprisals after he was gone. Judging from what he had seen of Alroy's treatment, that appeared to be within the realm of possibility.

He had traversed nearly the length of the chamber, inspecting several other clusters of young boys and their school masters, before he spied Javan sitting on a bench in the window alcove across the room, next to a grisaille window which looked out onto the winter-dead garden. A large tree just outside the window cast an eerie network of shadows upon the prince and the young man who knelt motionless at his feet. The man's back was to Jebediah, but his dark red hair and Healer's green robe proclaimed him to be Tavis O'Neill, the very person with whom Jebediah had hoped to speak.

The pair did not appear to notice his approach. It was not until Jebediah reached the window alcove and mounted the two steep steps that Javan looked up and frowned. Now Jebediah could see the reason for Tavis's stance; the boy's deformed right foot was cradled in his cupped hands, its specially constructed boot stripped off and laid aside so that the Healer might work. Tavis was massaging the foot very gently, his eyes half-closed in trancing, obviously in his Healing mode, but it was evident from Javan's occasional grimaces that something was amiss.

Cautiously Jebediah moved closer, not wishing to disturb the Healer's concentration, but he was unable to see precisely what Tavis was doing.

“Is anything wrong, Your Highness?” he asked in a quiet voice.

Javan's face flushed red, and Tavis started and then recovered, covering the deformed foot beneath his hands with a casual gesture which was not lost on Jebediah. He did not turn toward the earl marshal.

“My Lord Marshal,” Tavis said softly. “What brings you to the royal schoolroom?”

“Concern for Their Highnesses,” Jebediah replied. “It appears that my concern is well founded. What are you doing?”

“His Highness's tutors are not always gentle in their training, my lord,” Tavis murmured, still not turning toward the grand master. “This morning's training was particularly brutal.”

“Brutal?”

Tavis pivoted on his haunches, his face almost white with fury. “Yes, brutal! They made him walk a five-mile march this morning in the snow, wearing full mail and carrying an adult-weight sword and shield. He finished,” he said, fiercely proud, “and not far behind his brothers, either—but this is the price he had to pay. And I have already eased much of the hurt!”

As he spoke, he raised the foot he had been cradling and glared at Jebediah in challenge. The marshal, finally gaining a clear look, had to exert great control not to flinch openly.

The boy's right foot was raw and angry-looking, where it was not purpling with bruises, the pale skin chafed badly all around the thick, misshapen ankle. The other foot was also chafed and red, though not as severely. Beside Tavis on the wide windowsill, Jebediah could see a basin of water and several damp towels, a glass vial containing what looked like soothing oil.

“Who is responsible for this?” Jebediah asked, his voice deadly calm and even.

“It was—”

“It doesn't matter,” Javan interjected, cutting Tavis off before he could say a name. “If I'm going to be a warrior, I have to be tough. I have to be able to keep up with the others. I have to be able to lead them. I'm going to show them that I can.”

“Sheer physical ability is not the only requisite for leadership, my prince,” Jebediah said, biting off a harsher comment he had been going to make about whoever had been responsible. “Who has told you that it was?”

Javan stiffened, his lower lip quivering a little in his indignation. “If I am possibly to rule after my brother Alroy, I must be strong. Do you think they will allow another weakling to sit on the throne? Gwynedd needs a warrior king.”

“Gwynedd needs a king who is wise,” Jebediah countered. “If he also happens to be a warrior, that is fine. But it is not required. Your father is no warrior, and he has done well enough.”

“My father.” The boy snorted with a dejected derision. “Aye, he is no warrior. Would that he were, and had been, from the beginning. But, no, he must abandon his vows and be neither prince nor priest, and accursed by God. If he had not, I would not be thus, with the sign of God's displeasure for all to see!”

With that, he jerked his deformed foot from Tavis's grasp and tried to hide it behind the other one, turning his face away and knuckling angry tears. Jebediah, aghast at what he had just heard, looked at Tavis for some explanation.

“My lord, have you been filling his head with these mad tales?”

“It is not I who teach him history or religion, my Lord Deryni Marshal,” Tavis said bitterly. “Please leave us. Haven't you upset His Highness enough for one afternoon?”

Jebediah could find nothing to say to that. As Tavis stood and gathered the crippled prince in his arms, to carry him away from the eyes which now stared from every part of the room, Jebediah felt like a monster. He watched them go, wondering how he was going to explain this to Cinhil and, even more, to Camber.

But at that moment, Camber's thoughts were far from the princes and from Valoret. As he and Joram followed Jesse up the outside stairs from the castleyard, into Ebor's great hall, he reviewed in his mind the little he had gleaned thus far about the situation for which Rhys had called him.

It was unusual for Rhys to ask directly for his help, for Camber had never really been able to learn any of the Healer's Art which Rhys had mastered so well and so many years before. Camber had been considered a great non-healing adept, and Alister was not unaccomplished himself; but neither aspect of the man who now nodded greeting to Gregory's various servants and retainers could compare with the specialized abilities of a gifted Healer like Rhys.

And yet, if Rhys
had
somehow managed to take away Gregory's Deryni powers, then that was, indeed, a subject of great interest, both to Camber and to the part of him which was Alister. It was a thing which could touch all Deryni. Camber had never heard of such a thing happening, except in occasional head injuries which were so severe that other functions were also impaired; and in those cases, function could almost never be restored, and the patient surely died. Nor had he ever read of such a thing, though over the years he and Evaine had worked with some very ancient documents, indeed—records which sometimes spoke of many wondrous things not normally thought of as falling within even a Deryni's abilities. The ancient texts said nothing about taking away a person's powers deliberately.

Jesse led them up a winding turnpike stair for nearly two floors, then doubled back through a narrow gallery walkway which skirted along the length of the hall and overlooked it. At the end of the passage, a heavy, metal-studded door stood ajar.

The earl's great, tapestry-hung bed could be seen through another arched doorway across the entry-room, the green-clad figure of Rhys sitting wearily on a chair beside the sleeping Gregory while Evaine stood behind him and massaged his temples. Rhys looked up as Camber and Joram entered, his face creasing in a relieved smile as he rose to greet them.

“Am I glad you're here, both of you!” he said, laying his hands on their shoulders in a dual embrace. “Jesse, thank you for bringing them up. We'll call you if there's any need.”

Linked minds exchanged in an instant what lips would have taken long minutes to recount, even as Jesse backed out deferentially and closed the door. Evaine, too, joined in the rapport, the mind-brush of her affection reaching out to caress both father and brother. Even as their link receded to more usual levels, Rhys drew them all physically into Gregory's bedroom, to stand along the near side of the bed.

“You're sure he's all right now?” Camber asked in a low voice.

“Perfectly normal. I only have him in forced sleep because I wanted to be able to talk freely with you. I know that I can duplicate the effect, though. We won't even have to wake him. I don't think he'll remember anything out of the ordinary, either. He was only conscious for a few seconds, and he was still in a bit of shock. Do you want me to show you what I did?”

“Not just yet. Are his shields malleable?”

“To the four of us, yes. Do you want to read him?”

“I think so.”

Moving closer to the bed, Camber unclasped the heavy riding cloak he had been wearing against the outside cold and shrugged it into Joram's waiting hands, then blew on his fingertips and rubbed them together briskly to warm them before touching Gregory's temples. As he let his fingers slip easily back into the thin reddish hair and took control, Gregory gave a little sigh and seemed to relax even more.

Deeply Camber delved, exploring the traditional pathways through which the Deryni potential was usually carried, appreciating the discipline of this particular Deryni mind and marvelling that anything could have neutralized it, even briefly. Then he withdrew both mental and physical contact and turned to Rhys.

“He seems fine to me. Perfectly normal, other than being open to the controls you've placed upon him for Healing. Now, what did you do to him before?”

With an indrawn breath of apprehension and resolve, Rhys moved in closer and laid his hands on Gregory's head. “You'd best not come with me while I do it, at least the first time. Just stand by for a moment.”

“Very well.”

As Rhys closed his eyes and went into his deep Deryni trancing, Camber watched neutrally, aching to follow what the Healer was doing, but respecting his opinion that it were better not to do so. After a moment, Rhys opened his eyes and drew back a little.

“Take a look now,” he said, a twisted little smile on his lips. “Even knowing something of what to expect, I think you're going to be surprised.”

“Indeed?”

With the arching of one bushy Alister eyebrow in skepticism, Camber laid his hands on Gregory's head once again and extended his senses—and encountered no shields, no resistance, nothing—nothing at all which gave hint that the being beneath his hands was Deryni! Despite himself, he looked up quickly at Rhys, at Evaine, noted both their hesitant, slightly troubled little smiles. Without taking his attention from Gregory further, he motioned for Joram to move in and read with him, felt the increased potential as Joram's familiar presence bolstered his own awareness of the mind they read.

Backed by Joram's steady touch of mind and hand, he let himself sink into his own deep trancing, reaching out at successively lower levels for the telltale signs of Deryni potential which were no longer there in Gregory. He could feel Joram's incredulity in tandem with his own, felt a slight twinge of dread as the thought simultaneously crossed his and Joram's minds that use of this particular technique could be a threat to any Deryni; thanked God that the Healers were bound by so rigid a code of ethics. What a weapon for Deryni to use against Deryni!

But he dared not dwell on that further. Surfacing enough to function on a physical plane as well as a mental one again, he signed for Rhys to join them in the deep rapport, to work his Healing magic and restore what he had taken away, while he and Joram observed. He felt Rhys join the linkage and withdrew enough for Rhys to take control, felt the Healer slip deep into union and reach out.

A twist, a psychic wrenching, gentle but persistent—and suddenly Gregory's mind was as it had been, sleeping and controlled still, but completely restored to the fullness of his Deryni potentials. Camber was shaking his head even as the three of them withdrew, too stunned by what he had witnessed to do more than stare at his son-in-law in amazement. He could not seem to find his voice. Rhys finally broke the silence.

“You didn't really believe me, did you?” the Healer said, as he reinforced Gregory's Healing sleep and then broke off all contact. “Let's go into the other room. He needs to rest.”

Without a word, Camber followed, his mind still examining the implications of what he had just seen and felt. When they had settled down on stools and in chairs beside the fire in the outer room, it was Joram who spoke.

“All right, how did you do it?”

Rhys laced his fingers together on his knees and shook his head slightly. “I think it's a Healer's function, Joram. I did it inadvertently the first time, while working at a very deep level, and I couldn't reverse it until I'd gone down deep again. The process seems to require the same kind of energy expenditure as an actual Healing.”

“Is it more difficult?” Camber asked.

“No, it's—different. I suspect that one could become quite adept at this, after a while, but I don't really see that it's worth the effort. I mean, what good is it to take away someone's powers? Now,
giving
powers this easily—that's another story.”

Joram snorted as he shifted closer to the fire. “Humph. I can't say that it's done Cinhil that much good to have such powers. Nor would I have been unhappy to see Imre or Ariella lose theirs. It could have saved a lot of needless deaths.”

“True,” Rhys agreed. “However, gaining Imre's and Ariella's cooperation might have been another matter. Gregory was easy. He was drugged to a fare-thee-well the first time, already in Healing sleep, totally trusting me to do what needed to be done. One could hardly ask that of an enemy. At this point, I don't know whether I could have done it to a conscious subject or not.”

“You mean, if Gregory hadn't already been unconscious, you don't think you could have done it?” Camber asked.

“He probably wouldn't even have discovered it,” Evaine said.

“She's right,” Rhys agreed. “And remember, we know one another's mental touch, from working together in council. If we hadn't had that advantage, he wouldn't have been so open.” He shrugged. “But this isn't the place for further speculation right now. I don't even want to tell Gregory what's happened until I've had a chance to think about it some more.”