Saint Camber

  He saw Guaire make his way among the other milling men and animals and approach, to lay his hand on Cinhil’s reins. The young lord’s earnest, human face was upturned in genuine sympathy.

  “Do you need assistance, Sire?”

  With a sigh, Cinhil shook his head and started to dismount, the sigh turning to groan as he tried to swing his right leg clear of the high cantle. He succeeded, but his face was white with the effort by the time he got on the ground, his legs trembling beneath him as he supported himself briefly against the stirrup.

  “Are you all right, Sire?” Guaire asked.

  “I’m fine,” Cinhil whispered.

  The area in his immediate vicinity was clearing rapidly, as his companions led their horses away to be watered, and almost before he realized, Sorle was beside him and unfolding a portable stool. As soon as its legs were seated in the muddy grass, Cinhil sank down gratefully, stretching out first one leg and then the other, wincing as cramped muscles protested. Guaire took his horse away, and Cinhil closed his eyes and tried to make himself relax. When he looked up again, Rhys was crouching beside him with bread and cheese and a cup of wine. The Healer looked tired but relaxed as he put the cup in Cinhil’s hand.

  “Drink, Sire. A little food and wine will help revive you.”

  Cinhil raised the cup and drank thirstily, not thinking until he had nearly drained it that it might contain something besides wine. The Healer had drugged him once before, without his knowledge or consent, and the memory still rankled.

  But it was a little late to worry about that, he realized as he lowered the cup. If Rhys had put something in the wine, it was already in him, working its function—and this time, it could not be a sleeping potion or some such, for Cinhil must remain functional. Besides, despite Rhys’s Deryniness, he was a Healer, obeying a code of ethics as stringent in its way as Cinhil’s priestly vows; and by that code, he could do no harm.

  Cinhil held out his cup for a refill and took a chunk of bread and cheese in the other, noting that the Healer looked across at him in faint amusement, eyes straw-amber in the hazy sunshine. The healing hand was steady as it poured into the cup and gave the flask into Sorle’s keeping.

  “I seem to recall another time when you ached like this, Sire,” Rhys said with a smile. “Will you let me try to ease your discomfort? This has been a prodigious journey for you.”

  Cinhil could not prevent a smile from working its way around a mouthful of bread and cheese. Not for the first time he wondered whether a Deryni really could read his thoughts without his knowledge.

  “I fear I will never be a prodigy where horses are concerned, Rhys. I also doubt that there is much you can do for me this time—unless, of course, this cup is like the one you gave me when last I rode like this.”

  Rhys shook his head with an easy nonchalance. “I fear ’tis only wine this time, Sire.” His expression indicated that he remembered exactly what Cinhil was thinking. “However, with your cooperation, perhaps I can undo a little of what your ride has cost. If I may?”

  In question, he laid one hand on the king’s knee, and Cinhil shrugged and nodded. With a breath that was like a sigh, Rhys bowed his head in healing concentration.

  Already fancying that he could feel the results of Rhys’s efforts, Cinhil raised his cup and drank again, more freely now that he knew the wine to be untainted. He watched over the rim of the cup as Camber and Cullen and Joram approached, nodding and taking another bite of cheese as the three drew near enough to bow.

  “All goes well?” he asked, looking from one to the other of them.

  Camber nodded. “We make good progress. But we dare not stay here too long—only enough to rest the horses, and then we must be on our way. We should reach our campsite well before nightfall. Our scouts report that Ariella’s forces should be in that vicinity at about the same time.”

  Cinhil finished chewing his mouthful and swallowed, glancing around thoughtfully. “You seem confident of that. Suppose she changes her plans?”

  “Strategies may change,” Cullen said, “but the site of battle is more or less committed by now, unless the entire timetable is drastically revised. By riding all night, we have cut off at least one of her options for other attacks. Of course, there are still enough unknown factors to keep things complicated,” he added with a wry smile.

  Joram gave a grim chuckle at that, and Camber studied the tips of his steel-shod boots.

  Cinhil was suddenly aware that all three of them were tense beneath their calm façades, and were trying not to communicate their tension to him. Even Rhys raised his head and looked up at them, rocking back on his heels, his ministrations apparently finished.

  Cinhil was confused.

  “The weather seems to be improving,” he finally said, gesturing toward the sky with his cup before taking another sip. “Is that your doing?”

  Camber appeared reluctant to answer, but he met Cinhil’s gaze squarely.

  “Sire, a number of people have been working through the night for that—at considerable expense of strength and health, I might add. Since we do not know the specifics of the spell Ariella uses, we must try a number of counterdefenses, hoping one will prove effective.”

  “Are all of you involved in this?”

  “None of us directly, Sire. As I said, it takes a great deal of energy, which we in the field cannot spare just now.”

  “Well, at least it’s out in the open now,” Cinhil said, with a grimace of distaste. “Magic. No couching of things in euphemistic terms. You employ your Deryni powers—not you specifically, perhaps—but your Deryni do these things.”

  “If Your Grace would rather ride and battle in a storm, that can probably be arranged,” Cullen muttered.

  Cinhil opened his mouth to speak, a shocked expression on his face, but Cullen held up a gauntleted hand and shook his head.

  “Nay, do not answer to that, Sire. It was not worthy. I spoke in frustration and fatigue. But Your Grace must surely know me by now to be a prudent man in these matters. I would not condone wanton magic, no matter what the cause. Yet even I must realize the necessity of what is being done. We dare not quibble over methods when it is survival we fight for.”

  Cinhil lowered his eyes and set bread and cheese atop his cup, put all on the ground beside him, no longer hungry.

  “Still, I like it not,” he murmured low. “In truth, I have great reservations about all your abilities. God does not grant such powers to ordinary mortals.”

  “Are you not mortal, Sire?” Cullen said.

  “Aye, and I like not my powers, either.”

  Silence surrounded them all, an ominous, palpable thing, until Joram cleared his throat with a nervous cough.

  “Sire, this is neither the time nor the place to discuss such matters. We are all tired, and what seems frightening now, in the face of impending battle, may seem far less threatening in the safety of Valoret once more. For now, I would ask that you consider only a single gift sometimes granted to our people.”

  Laying a hand on Rhys’s shoulder as though in benediction, the priest gazed across at Cinhil, the gray eyes direct, unwavering, slightly defiant.

  Cinhil felt his throat constrict, and suddenly he could no longer look at them. Even he could not deny the benign nature of the Healers’ gifts—especially now, in the face of combat. Without the Healers, and there were others besides Rhys in their company today, tomorrow’s battle would cost even more in blood and pain and lives than war’s usual wont.

  He put his gloved fingertips together across his knees, and the scarlet leather was like blood on his hands. He closed his eyes, unwilling to look at them.

  “You strike me where you know me to be vulnerable,” he whispered. “You know that there is no argument I can make where the lives of the men are concerned. You have made me responsible for them. I cannot deny that responsibility.”

  “In truth, the magic which so worries you will be little used, once the fighting begins,” Camber said. “In battle,
there are far too many variables, all changing far too rapidly. The most potent spell can be of little use if the wielder of the spell has his head lopped off before he can craft his magic.”

  “Then there will be no magic used in the battle?”

  “I did not say that,” Camber replied. “Should any of us come to face Ariella in single combat, we will undoubtedly be forced to draw upon any and all of our various talents. In the greater battle structure, however, the menace of grand magic will certainly decrease. We’re in a fairly strong tactical position, despite our lesser numbers, since we know Ariella’s strength, while she can only guess at ours. Victory does not always go to the side with the larger army.”

  Cinhil pondered that for a moment, head bowed thoughtfully in his hands, then looked up at the sound of horses being led toward him. Guaire had retired Cinhil’s previous mount to the baggage train, where the extra horses traveled, and had brought up Cinhil’s spare, a smaller dapple-gray with a smoother gait than the albino he had been riding. The gray nickered as he spotted Cinhil, and almost brought a grin to Cinhil’s face.

  “Ah, Moonwind,” Cinhil murmured, almost to himself. He stood, slightly bowlegged, and eased a gauntleted hand against the small of his back. Every abused muscle protested as he approached the animal and held out his other hand to the soft muzzle.

  “Thank you, Guaire. I suppose this means we must be off again?”

  Guaire chuckled as he gentled the horse, turning its near side toward Cinhil so he could mount. The stallion was restless, and Guaire had his hands full keeping him still.

  “I’m afraid it does, Sire. Lord Jebediah is most eager to reach our campsite before dark. At least Moonwind will carry you more gently, these last few hours, once he’s run a little. We suspected that Your Grace would be saddle-weary by now. That’s why we had you start out on Frostling.”

  Around them, the others’ horses were being led up by grooms and squires, noble riders swinging into well-worn saddles with easy familiarity. As Cinhil gathered up Moonwind’s red leather reins, not yet having summoned the strength or courage to resume his place of torture in the saddle, he watched Camber and Rhys and Joram mount. A Michaeline serving brother brought Cullen’s chestnut around, but the vicar general, instead of mounting, came over to Cinhil and gave a slight bow, offering his laced hands to give Cinhil a leg up.

  Cinhil accepted readily, grateful for the assistance, but even with Cullen’s help, it was all he could do to haul himself back into the saddle. As he settled, searching in vain for a comfortable position, Moonwind danced and fidgeted between his thighs. Every step sent new torment lancing through his body.

  There was no time to feel sorry for himself, however. As Cullen mounted up beside him, Jebediah fell into place on the other side, signaling for immediate departure. They set a much faster pace for the first little while, and surprisingly, the rolling canter helped. By the time they had been riding for perhaps a quarter-hour, Cinhil seemed to reach a plateau of pain, beyond which he could feel nothing else.

  After that, his legs settled down to a dull fatigue, and Moonwind was much more willing to go easily, and he could think about other things.

  He was frankly curious about what Camber and the others had said of magic—though he would never have admitted that to them. He wondered about what Camber had said of “people working through the night,” wondered whether those who worked thus were with them, or safely in the keep at Valoret, or even ensconced elsewhere, in a place of which he did not know.

  He scanned the men around him as they passed, sending out tentative probes of questioning; but the humans would not have been capable of what Camber described, and the Deryni were all tightly shielded, each man wound up in his own thoughts and preparations for what lay ahead. He could have forced their attention—but he did not want that—God knew, he did not want that! He was afraid to let himself become more involved, afraid that he might unleash something within himself that he could not control. No, better to keep dormant the magic he had been granted, unless there was no other way.

  The sun came out in full splendor by late afternoon, the last rain clouds melting away with the sinking sun. Either Camber’s Deryni cohorts had succeeded, or else Ariella had given up on that particular harassment. Whichever, Cinhil was grateful.

  He had ridden alone with his thoughts for some time. Camber and the others had left him with a royal escort, perhaps an hour earlier, to ride to the head of the van and confer with the advance scouts. But as the huge column slowed and he detected signs of deployment for camp, he saw Cullen riding leisurely back along the line toward him. Cullen nodded as he fell in beside Cinhil once again, the sea-pale eyes respectful and without guile. The sun cast long, sharp shadows on the hoof-churned ground ahead of them as they rode.

  “We’ll be camping at the base of yonder ridge, Sire. Your commanders are riding to the top to survey the lay of the land beyond. Will you join us?”

  With his crop, he gestured toward a small knot of riders detaching themselves from the main van, the banners of Culdi and the Michaelines prominent among them, as well as the Gwynedd banner designated for Jebediah’s personal use as commander in chief. Cinhil sighed and gestured for his own royal standard-bearer to follow as he swung out of line and followed Cullen toward the hill.

  They cantered easily in silence, the men saluting as they passed, until they reached the crest of the ridge, where the others waited. Cinhil acknowledged their gestures of respect and eased his gray between Jebediah and Camber.

  Jebediah shaded his eyes against the sun as he turned to glance at the king.

  “We’ve met them, as we hoped, Sire. All appears to be exactly as we were told. Look over there, against the far ridge—do you see the movement?”

  Cinhil narrowed his eyes and tried to focus in, standing a little in the stirrups.

  “What am I looking for?”

  “The glint of sun on steel, mainly. We suspect they’re preparing to make camp there, at the base of the ridge. I don’t know whether they’ve seen us yet.”

  Cinhil let himself settle back into the saddle, not taking his eyes from the moving specks of the enemy, now that he had found them. Suddenly, he wanted it over, one way or the other. He dreaded the night, with its waiting and sleeplessness and growing terror of the dawn. Even if he died, better than this uncertainty.

  “Could we attack now, and take them by surprise?” he heard himself saying.

  He could sense their exchanged glances, and immediately regretted the short shrift he had given his military studies, resolved to remedy that deficiency in the future. What had made him ask such a foolish question?

  “The distance is deceiving, Sire,” Jebediah said, almost without a pause. “It’s half an hour’s ride across the plain—more, with our horses not rested. It would be nearly dark by the time we even engaged—no time to be fighting a battle such as this.”

  With a sigh, Cinhil nodded and glanced down at his hands, crimson gauntlets on the red leather reins. Reaching back in memory, he called forth words they had taught him, willing his panic to cease, his pulse to slow, his features to relax. When he looked up, he appeared to be in control, completely at ease. He knew the façade was deceiving none of them, but somehow the illusion helped.

  “You’re right, of course, Jebediah. Do whatever you think best. Do we camp here, then, and trust that she will not move in the darkness?”

  “We camp, but we do not trust,” Jebediah said, with grim-lipped determination. “We will set sentries on the perimeters, and keep scouting parties out all night, and be ready to move at dawn. We will also set protective wards about the camp, unless you raise strenuous objections. I want the men to have a good night’s sleep, with nothing from outside to mar their dreams.”

  Cinhil gulped. “She could enter men’s sleep?”

  “She might disquiet it. I prefer not to take chances. Every man must be in his best fighting condition, come the dawn.”

  With a curt nod to hide his resurging
fear, Cinhil backed Moonwind out of the line and wheeled to go back down the slope. He did not want to think about what Jebediah had just said—and the silence of the others only confirmed that the Deryni commander was right in his estimation of their danger. As he rode, he scanned the sea of milling men making camp below, searching for the familiarity of his own household and servants. He saw Sorle and Father Alfred supervising the setup of his pavilion near a small stand of trees, and headed toward them gratefully.

  Little eased his apprehension, however. Though Cinhil talked with Father Alfred for nearly an hour, as the shadows grew and camp was made around them, the young priest was able to offer little in the way of comfort. At length, when it was obvious even to Cinhil that such conversation was not the answer, he thanked the man and dismissed him, heading slowly toward the now-ready pavilion.

  Nodding miserably to the guards, boots squishing in the damp earth, which was fast turning to mud beneath the feet of so many men and animals, he came at last to the entrance. Sorle was waiting to take his helmet, and drew aside the flap as his master approached.

  “You have guests, Sire,” he murmured.

  By the glow of rushlights already burning in shielded holders, Cinhil could see Joram and Cullen crouching beside a small brazier set in the center of the tent. Helmets and gauntlets lay on the heavy carpet beside them, and mail coifs had been pushed back from heads of gold and grizzled gray. Other than that, both men were still fully armed, well-used mail gleaming in the rushlight at throat and sleeve, broadswords buckled over blue Michaeline surcoats.

  They rose respectfully as Cinhil entered, Cullen still warming his hands over the brazier. Joram nodded and moved a camp chair closer to the brazier for the king.

  “The campsite is nearly secured, Sire,” Joram said. “After some discussion, it’s been decided to set watch-wards rather than protective ones. Watch-wards require a far lower level of magic to maintain, and aren’t even activated unless something tries to pass. They’ll put fewer restrictions on our own men moving within the camp. Most won’t even know they’ve been set.”