Saint Camber (9 page)

Facing toward the first of them, she raised her arms heavenward and threw back her head for a moment, eyes closed, then opened them and pointed to each of the wards in succession as she spoke their names and the words of power:

“Primus, Secundus, Tertius, et Quartus, fiat lux!”

A silvery canopy of light sprang up around them with her final words, its edges defined by the limits laid out by the ward components. Evaine smiled as she came to join her husband, taking the hand he held out to her and touching it tenderly to her lips. Rhys sighed contentedly and leaned back against the headboard, pulling her into his lap with an arm around her waist. They had just settled into a comfortable position, she with her head smuggled in the hollow of his shoulder, when suddenly she giggled.

“A giggle at a time like this?” he whispered.

She pulled away to peer at him mischievously. “My love, you're going to giggle, too, when I tell you.”

He raised one eyebrow in question, the corners of his mouth curving up in anticipation of her explanation, as she brushed his lips with hers and laughed again.

“I was just sitting here, thinking about cleaning up Father's dressing room in the morning, and I remembered that, in the excitement, I dumped
everything
down the garderobe—including the Haldana necklace!”

“Surely you're joking!”

Evaine giggled again and shook her head. “And that means, dearest husband, that someone is going to have to go wading in the middens tomorrow and find it.”

Rhys shook his head incredulously and drew her closer in amused disbelief.

“I knew things had gone far too smoothly,” he chuckled, nuzzling her ear. “Now all we have to decide is who's going to do it. Let's see—who do we know who needs a little humbling?”

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

For it is better, if the will of God be so, that ye suffer for well doing, than for evil doing
.

—I Peter 3:17

In the end, it was not a humbled soul at all, but Camber himself, who went into the middens to retrieve the Haldana necklace. He would not have thought of relegating the task to any other man; besides, they dared not involve any outsider in what they had done.

When Camber awoke the next morning, to find Rhys and Evaine cuddled asleep in each other's arms beside him, his head was clear, his body rested, and his memory intact. He, too, recalled what had happened to the necklace. After rousting his daughter and son-in-law from bed, he dressed hastily and set Evaine to straightening his quarters. Rhys he took with him.

In fact, it was not as complicated or as odious a task as Rhys and Evaine had imagined it to be. On reaching the dungeon level, where all the garderobes of that range emptied out, Camber simply scanned the moat directly beneath the appropriate shaft with his mind, seeking lightly to reestablish the link he had forged with the necklace the night before.

The water was almost clear from the past week's rain, yet neither eyes nor mind could locate the necklace at first. But further investigation on Camber's part soon revealed the necklace still inside the garderobe shaft, caught just a yard or two inside its mouth. Once Camber had reached up and disengaged the tangle—the jewels had fouled on weeds and other refuse—the necklace came away in his hand, intact and hardly the worse for wear. Camber flushed it with clean water from the well, when they came out into the courtyard again, then wrapped it carefully in a clean cloth he had brought for just that purpose.

He went back to his quarters to change then, giving the necklace to Rhys to return to Cullen, who would slip it back into the royal treasury later. Rhys remarked, just before they parted, that neither moth nor mite nor any other creeping thing would likely bother the robe which Camber had worn that morning; indeed, Camber would be fortunate if Evaine even readmitted him to his own chambers in such a condition.

Camber, with a delicate sniff at his sleeve, could only smile and allow that Rhys was indisputably correct.

Half an hour later, the Gwynedd war council convened in the great hall, this time with a surprisingly attentive King Cinhil present. All of the major battle leaders were there: Jebediah, sitting at the king's right hand as commander in chief; Cullen and Joram, for the Knights of Saint Michael and the other ecclesiastical knights; Camber, with young Guaire of Arliss, representing the Culdi levies; James Drummond, scion of a distaff branch of Camber's family, who brought the vast Drummond levies to Cinhil's aid; Bayvel Cameron, the queen's aging but brilliant uncle; Archbishop Anscom and four of his warrior bishops who also commanded lay forces; young Ewan of East-march, eldest son of Earl Sighere, who had arrived during the night to speak for his father's allying army; and a score of lesser nobles whose varied levies had managed to reach the capital in time to give aid.

Their plans quickly solidified. Speaking with occasional prompting from Cullen, Jebediah outlined what had been learned of Ariella's strength and positioning, without divulging its source—if he even knew it—and the war leaders haggled out a workable battle plan. Map boards were brought out, markers adjusted; and soon the clarks were drawing up final battle orders for Cinhil's signature. By the time the sun reached its zenith, winking bravely in a watery sky, the decisions had been made and appropriate orders dispatched, all under a compliant Cinhil's seal. They would leave at dusk that same day. Some of the lords left even then, to ready their men for march. Cinhil found himself left somewhat breathless by it all.

He tried to make some sense out of things, as his commanders began drifting from the hall to see to their individual responsibilities. The tide of their movements swirled around him but did not really touch him, for they knew that his approval in these matters had been largely for show. He was not, nor did he claim to be, a military man.

But even to Cinhil's unpracticed eye, the probable deployment of Ariella's army had shifted drastically since the last time he had thought to look seriously at a map board. That positions should change was not surprising, of course. And it was certainly to be hoped that their information would become more reliable as battletime drew near.

But he was amazed at the new confidence in the voices he had heard this morning. They had spoken in far more definite terms than he had been led to expect, based on the uncertainty and anxiety they had displayed the last time he had paid attention to a military planning session.

Cinhil admitted himself mystified by it all, for he did not pretend to understand a great deal of what had been discussed. And there was too much certainty around him now to think of questioning, of asking what might happen if things did not go as they had planned. Still, he worried.

Ariella was devious—even he knew this. Even if their information were correct—which was by no means certain, so far as he could tell—suppose Ariella changed her mind? Women did. Or, God forbid, suppose the information was incorrect to begin with—or, worse, deliberately false, set to mislead them? If either case were true, Jebediah and the other battle leaders were committing the royal Gwynedd levies to disastrous positions. He was surprised to find that he cared.

He asked Rhys about it later, when the last orders had been signed and sealed, and most of the others had hurried off to make final preparations for departure. He knew that, where military matters were concerned, Rhys probably knew little more than he did. Still, the young Healer had been silent but supportive all throughout the morning's long session. Cinhil wondered where he got his self-confidence.

“A word with you, Rhys?” he murmured as Rhys started to pass the chair where they had left him.

Rhys returned an easy smile.

“How may I serve you, Sire?”

“You may answer a few questions,” Cinhil said, waving his squire aside and motioning Rhys to sit down beside him. “Everyone seems so resolute this morning, so certain of what is happening. Is this usual?”

Rhys ran a hand through unruly red hair and cocked his head at the king.

“Well, Sire, I really can't say, not being a warrior sort. One is supposed to appear optimistic, though. It gives the men courage.”

Cinhil leaned back, unconvinced, studying the Healer through narrowed eyes.

“My studies indicate that realism is preferable, at least among the leaders. Father Cullen said something yesterday about new information which was expected. Could any new information be reliable enough to risk everything on it?”

“Those who understand these things seem to think so, Sire,” Rhys said glibly. “Why, what did Father Cullen tell you?”

“That there was possibly to be some new information. Actually, he was rather evasive.”

“I see.”

Rhys glanced at the floor, as though considering what Cinhil had said, and Cinhil leaned forward to lay his hand on the Healer's arm.

“Rhys, you do me no service if you, too, are evasive,” he said in a low voice. “What did he mean? Surely, if there was something important afoot, you would have been included.”

“There was a—spy, Sire.”

“A spy? For or against us?”

“For. He—glimpsed Ariella's battle plans and managed to bring them to us during the night. We—know that the plans are accurate—or were, when he saw them. So now we must move quickly, before she has time to change her strategy or consider how much we really might have learned. That is why we prepare to move out at dusk.”

“A spy.” Cinhil sat back in his chair and studied Rhys. The young Healer met his eyes squarely, but there was nothing there to read besides anticipation for what Cinhil might ask next. Cinhil pursed his lips thoughtfully, suddenly certain that there was more Rhys was not telling him.

“What else, Rhys? Come, now. I'm not a child. A spy at Ariella's court would have brought far more information than that.”

Rhys raised a reddish eyebrow and regarded Cinhil evenly, appraisingly. “I hesitate to tell you this, Sire, but it's something you will have to learn eventually. As you know, Ariella was with child by Imre when she fled Gwynedd. What no one knew for certain, up until last night, is that she was safely delivered of a son a few months later. The child thrives, Sire.”

Cinhil's mouth went dry, and he tried to keep his mind from darting, unbidden, to the children in the Valoret nursery. Why should a child of incest thrive, while his own—

He shook his head, forcing his thoughts from his own children to hers. If Ariella's child lived, it would be a menace to his throne in the years to come, even if they should manage to defeat and destroy its mother. He tried to tell himself that it did not matter, but it did. It mattered a great deal. His sons, despite their ill-begotten origins, deserved peace when they eventually succeeded him. It was not fair that an incestuous bastard—

He hit the table with his fist, not noticing until he had done it that his nails had cut bloody half-moons in his palm. Rhys grimaced at the sound, and Cinhil took a deep breath to regain control as he looked up at the Healer again.

“Your news is unwelcome, but you did right to tell me,” he said softly. “What—else did you learn?”

“That there may be arcane offenses on Ariella's part,” Rhys replied. “We're certain that she's at least partially responsible for the bad weather. Now that we know, some of our more accomplished people can look for a way to counteract it.”

“By ‘accomplished people,' I assume you mean Deryni?”

“There is no other way to fight one such as Ariella, Sire.”

Cinhil sighed, shading his eyes with his hand and shaking his head.

So, it had come to this. Despite everything, Deryni powers were to be used in this war. He shrank from that realization, as he shrank from his own recognition of the powers he himself held, given to him by the Deryni—shrank from the memory of what he had done with those powers the day before, in his undisciplined rage. His session with his confessor the night before had convinced him, more than ever, that use of those powers must be avoided whenever possible; the temptation was too great. And yet, another part of him acknowledged that their use might be required again, within the week.

He came back with a start as Rhys stood to bow, suddenly aware that someone was approaching from behind him, almost certainly Evaine and his queen. Carefully schooling his features, he turned in his chair to confirm, then also got to his feet to bow.

Megan—how she had frightened him at first, and still did. Not yet sixteen when they married, she had borne him three sons already—and she but a few months past seventeen now. But the year and a half of their marriage had not set easily upon her. The graceful, wide-eyed girl he had first seen on their wedding night was gone forever.

True, the wheaten hair still shone like mellow gold, and the dusting of freckles still played across the tip-tilted nose. But the turquoise eyes were sadder now, the fair brow furrowed in an expression of almost perpetual worry. She had dressed to try to please him, he knew, in a fur-lined gown of sea-blue wool. But the color only accentuated the drawn lines of her face, and the jeweled coif of a married woman and a queen made her chin seem pinched and gaunt.

He had ill used her, he knew—not through any physical abuse, but through his indifference, his aloofness, which hurt her even more. He regretted it, and yet he could not seem to help himself. He wanted to make amends, but he did not know how—not without compromising his own conscience even further.

He raised her up and kissed her hands, as any man might kiss the hands of his queen, then bestowed a fatherly kiss on her forehead. Megan raised her head at that, as though hoping for something more, but he turned away under the pretext of raising up Evaine.

“Greetings, my ladies,” he said to all of them, as he kissed Evaine's hand and gestured for Megan's ladies-in-waiting to rise. “What means this invasion of gentleness here, in the hall of war?”