The Quest for Saint Camber (39 page)

Conall swallowed uneasily.

“Assist
you
?” he breathed.

“Only indirectly,” Arilan allowed. “But I've been given an assignment by—” He sighed. “This is silly. I'm not supposed to say the name of the Camberian Council to outsiders, but you know very well what group I mean, even if you don't know names of individuals. I'm sure Morgan and Duncan have had no compunctions about mentioning it, though I would hope they continue to respect the identity of its members. They
have
mentioned the Council to you, haven't they?”

Almost holding his breath, Conall nodded. Could it be that he had escaped any further mention of Tiercel so easily?

“Anyway,” Arilan went on, “I was one of four who participated in Nigel's patterning last spring. The other three, as you may have guessed, were Morgan, Duncan, and Richenda. They're all in Coroth right now, and at least a couple of days from being able to get back here—and Richenda not at all, with her time approaching—so I've been asked to trigger Nigel's final power assumption myself.”

“And not wait for Duncan and Morgan?” Conall asked.

Arilan smiled sardonically. “The Council—ah—does not precisely trust Duncan and Morgan just now. I can't go into details why. Personally, I have no compunctions about waiting for them, but I am—not entirely my own master in this matter.”

“You follow the Council's orders,” Conall said, nodding carefully.

“For the most part, yes.”

Uneasy still, Conall turned half-away, setting one booted foot on the edge of the fountain and pretending to study some leaves.

“I don't think I follow,” he said after a moment. “Where do I come into this? I'm not Deryni. I don't know anything that would be useful to you for something like that.”

“No, but you're Nigel's son and heir.”

“Which only means that, once he's come to full power, someone will have to worry about setting
my
potential,” Conall replied. “What does my father say?”

Arilan twined his fingers before him at waist level and gazed blindly at his bishop's ring.

“I've spoken to him about it in passing, but he wants to delay until the coronation.”

“Until the coronation? But that isn't for a year, if he has
his
way.”

And the longer the delay, Conall thought to himself, the greater chance that his own enhanced powers would come under closer scrutiny than they could bear, and his connection with Tiercel be discovered.

“I know,” Arilan said. “And do you think that the King of Gwynedd can survive that long, without full power, knowing some of the enemies he'll be facing, once word gets out of Kelson's death?”

“Against Morag and her Arjenol duke?” Conall said contemptuously. “Hardly.”

“Which exactly echoes the Council's sentiments,” Arilan agreed. “That is precisely why I need you to help me convince Nigel that his power assumption should go ahead as soon as possible.”

“Without Duncan and Morgan?”

Arilan raised an eyebrow. “Don't I recall hearing you complain once that Morgan and Duncan had too much power in Gwynedd, too much influence over the king?”

Conall pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I sometimes said things without thinking, when I was young and foolish. But what's to prevent
you
from gaining ‘too much influence,' if you're the one who engineers my father's power assumption?”

“Ve-ry astute,” Arilan said, nodding approvingly. “I won't lie to you and say that isn't possible, because there
is
a certain link between the king and the person or persons who assist him to power. However, I think you know that I honor my oaths; and I swear to you, Conall, that my aim is only to make King Nigel more independent of Morgan and Duncan than King Kelson was.”

They spoke a little longer of what arguments Conall might use to change Nigel's mind, and then Arilan left. Conall stood there in the garden for several more minutes, thinking about all the ramifications and wondering how he could turn the situation to his own best advantage, then began strolling slowly toward the other end of the garden, turning a dead rose stem between his fingers and testing one fingertip against a thorn, letting the slight pain keep him tuned to the subject at hand.

But then, as he rounded a turn in the garden path, he saw another possibility to turn recent events to his own advantage. Rothana was sitting alone on a garden bench, blue-coifed head bowed over an open breviary on her lap, one hand spread flat on the right-hand page. He almost had not recognized her at first, however, for her habit was black this afternoon, not the usual pale blue of her coif. He hoped the change of habit did not mean she had somehow taken more binding vows, for now that Kelson was out of the way, Conall intended to make Rothana of Nur Hallaj his wife.

“Good afternoon, my lady,” he said softly.

She started as she looked up, apparently taken by surprise, and started to stand, but he stayed her with a gesture and sat down beside her instead. She had been crying, and she wiped self-consciously at her tears with her free hand.

“I note a change of habit,” he said, running his eyes over her attire. “Does this indicate a change of status as well?”

She shook her head hastily. “We wear black for the king,” she whispered. “All of us in my order. I—cannot believe that he is dead.”

Conall lowered his eyes, pretending to study his own black attire, though his was broken by a crimson badge of the Haldane heir on the breast of his tunic.

“I wish I could tell you otherwise, my lady,” he said after a moment. “Unfortunately, I saw him fall. No one could have survived, after this long.”

“I know,” she answered, her voice very small.

He ventured a very, very gentle probe, no more than might be expected of a Haldane heir beginning to come into his powers, if she should detect it, but she did not seem to notice. Her shields were all but down, and he sensed the guilt associated with what she hid beneath her hand, though he could not tell exactly what it was. But perhaps he could use that guilt, and turn it to make her do his will.

“Would that I had died, instead of Kelson,” he said quietly, turning his glance out to the dead garden, though he continued to watch her out of the corner of his eye. “Then this burden would not have fallen on my father. Not yet, at least.”

He felt her quick intake of breath psychically as well as physically, and knew he was taking exactly the right approach.

“He never expected or wanted the burden of the crown,” Conall went on. “Nor did I, though now it will be mine some day as well.”

She swallowed noisily, on the verge of tears again, but Conall did not relent.

“The burden is a lonely one, my lady,” he whispered. “My father has my mother at his side, but I have no one. I—will need a queen to stand beside me some day. Perhaps this is not the time to ask, but may I dare to hope it might be you?”

“Me?”

Her voice squeaked as she glanced up at him in dull shock.

“Please don't refuse me outright, my lady,” Conall pleaded. “Consider carefully what I'm asking. I—know that you are under vows. But the vows are temporary. And I—also know that you—were considering giving them up for another Haldane prince.”

“Who told you that?” she demanded.

He could feel her probing at his shields, but he only stiffened them and met her searching eyes, though he pretended to shrink a little from the pressure.

“Please don't,” he whispered, relaxing a little as she backed off without further attempt to pry. “I'm still learning what I am.”

“Forgive me,” she replied. “I never would have pressed you against your will.”

“I know that.”

“But—who told you?” she insisted.

“Why, who do you think told me? Kelson was my cousin. We often talked. I—know about your leave-taking, and—by what little margin he spared your virtue that last night before we left.”

And that was all literally true, as far as it went—just in case she should be able to Truth-Read him without his knowledge. She blanched and glanced down guiltily at her hand, still laid flat on the page of her breviary, and suddenly Conall guessed what lay beneath.

Then her resistance seemed to crumple, her shoulders slumping as she slowly picked up what lay beneath her hand and then exposed it on her open palm. It was the ring Kelson had given to Sidana on their wedding day, threaded on a thin white silken cord crumpled around it.

“I did not think he would tell anyone, my lord,” she whispered. “Nor did I think you and he were that close. Dhugal, perhaps, but—”

“I have told no one else, my lady,” Conall said gently. “Your honor is safe with me.”

“I do not doubt that, sir.”

She turned the ring in her fingers a few times, then glanced up at him wistfully, sniffling back tears.

“Do you believe in magic, my lord?” she asked softly.

He nodded, not daring to speak.

“Of course you do,” she whispered, answering her own question. “You are a Haldane, your own peculiar form of magic already manifesting. How could you not believe?”

She glanced at the ring in her hand and slowly shook her head.

“But the magic can go awry, sometimes,” she went on. “Sometimes, when we wish too hard, we can jinx the very thing we most desire. It is not uncommon. I should have known better. But I allowed myself to dream, before the magic was accomplished. And I shall pay for my presumption for the rest of my life.”

He cocked his head at her, not sure he understood what she was trying to say.

“Your presumption?” he murmured.

She shook her head. “The ring was not given in pledge. He made that quite clear, before he even gave it to me. It was meant only as a token that he had put the past aside, that he was ready to start considering the future. He was only just beginning to let himself release his own guilt over the Princess Sidana's death—though no one blamed him, surely. We—spoke about the possibility of—marriage, when he returned, after both of us had had time to think. But he asked me not to wear the ring, for it was tainted with
her
blood.”

“Then, what presumption was there on your part?” Conall asked.

She shook her head sadly. “Sometimes, my lord, a woman lets herself dream on what might be. And sometimes, even the magic of an ordinary woman is strong enough to make it actually happen. For one of
us
, however—”

A stifled sob escaped her lips, and it was several seconds before she could go on.

“A week ago—it must have been just before the accident—I let myself imagine what it would be like, to wed him. There was no harm in that, alone. Nor was it the first time I had fantasized thus, though my abbess would be shocked to learn of it—and Father Ambros
was
shocked, at first.

“But then I dared to put Sidana's ring on my finger—poor, doomed princess—imagining that it was the king who gave it. Only, it was the giver of the ring who perished this time—not the recipient. The king must have—met his accident very shortly after that.”

“But, surely you don't think
you
caused the accident,” Conall said. “That's nonsense.”

“Is it?” She glanced down at the ring, then closed it in her palm. “My mind tells me you are right, my lord,” she whispered, “but my heart will never be certain. I know too well how great our power can be—sometimes when we least expect it. Now that—now that you have moved closer to the throne, you will be discovering that for yourself, I think. Indeed, by your shields, I think you already are. God grant that it may be long before you must face the full power of what you are—and that you may never need to face the uncertainty, as I must do, of wondering whether your powers destroyed the very thing you most desired.”

“Then, you did intend to marry Kelson,” Conall breathed.

She nodded slowly.

“The letter requesting dispensation from my vows had already been sent to Archbishop Cardiel—though I doubt not that it has gone astray between here and Valoret, what with His Excellency now returned to Rhemuth. It will find him eventually, however. And when it does, I shall ask that he not act upon it.”

“I see,” Conall murmured, hope sinking in his breast as he realized she meant to continue in religious life. “But, will they take you back? Won't the mere act of asking for dispensation cast doubt upon your vocation?”

She bowed her head. “I did not tell my abbess that I wrote to the archbishop,” she said. “Father Ambros knows, for he has lately been my confessor. I discussed the matter fully with him. But he is bound under the seal of the confessional—and I shall ask Archbishop Cardiel to destroy the letter when it arrives, preferably without reading it first.”

“Please don't,” Conall whispered.

“And why should I not? In retrospect, I must wonder whether all that has happened is not God's way of telling me He still desires me for His bride. They say He is a jealous lover.”

“And I, too, can be a jealous lover, Rothana,” Conall said. “Be
my
bride.”

“Thou shalt not mock the Lord thy God,” she murmured.

“I do not mock Him. But I do not think a god of the spirit has great need of things of the flesh. I have never favored the practice of cloistering young virgins to spend their youth and beauty in service to a God Who cannot appreciate their charms.”

“You must not blaspheme, my lord,” she managed to whisper, not daring to look at him. And she gasped and closed her eyes as Conall brushed two tentative fingertips against the back of her hand that clasped Sidana's ring.

“You and I are flesh, Rothana,” Conall said softly. “How can I make you understand what your very presence does to me? You are everything a man could possibly desire. I think I have wanted you from the first time I set eyes on you. I only held back asking because of Kelson. But he's dead now, and one day I'll be king. And this Haldane has no less need for you as queen than he did. Gwynedd needs you as well, Rothana.”