Kurtz, Katherine - Camber of Culdi 01 - Camber Of Culdi

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CAMBER OF CULDI

Volume I in The Legends of Camber of Culdi

Katherine Kurtz

Contents

chapter one

In the multitude of people is the kings honour; but in the want of the people

is the destruction of the prince.

-Proverbs 14:28

Though it was but late September, a wintry wind howled and battered at the

ramparts of Tor Caerrorie, rattling the narrow, glazed windows in their frames

and snapping to tatters the gules/azure MacRorie standard atop the tower keep.

Inside, the only daughter of the Earl of Culdi sat huddled over the manorial

accounts beside a crackling hearth, wrapped in a fur-lined mantle against the

chill of the deserted great hall, a brindle wolfhound asleep at her feet.

Torches guttered on the wall behind her, though it was not yet mid-afternoon,

besmirching the stone walls with soot. Smoke mingled with the scent of mutton

roasting in the nearby kitchens, and a rushlight cast a yellow glow across the

table where she worked. It was with some relief that she finally marked the

last entry with her cipher and laid down her quill. Umphred, her father's

bailiff, heard her sigh and came to collect the rolls with a bow.

"That completes the accounts for last quarter, mistress. Is all in order?"

Evaine MacRorie, chatelaine of Tor Caerrorie since her mother's death seven

years before, favored Umphred with a gentle smile. The wolfhound raised his

great head to look at the bailiff, then went back to sleep.

"You knew it would be," Evaine smiled. She touched the old man's hand in

affection as he curled the membranes into their storage tubes and gathered

them into his arms. "Would you please ask one of the squires to saddle a horse

and come to me?" she added. "I have a letter to go to Cathan in Valoret."

As Umphred bowed and turned to go, Evaine pushed a strand of flaxen hair from

her forehead, then began nibbling at an inkstain on her thumb as she glanced

at the letter on the table. She wondered what Cathan would say when he got the

letter. For that matter, she wondered how her other brother, Joram, would

react when the news reached him.

Actually, Cathan's reaction was not difficult to predict. He would be shocked,

dismayed, outraged, in turn; but then the double bond of friendship to his

king and duty to his father's people would move him to plead the king's mercy,

to urge the tempering of royal wrath with princely pardon. Though the

MacRories themselves were not implicated in what had happened, the incident

had taken place on Camber's hereditary lands. She wondered whether Imre would

be in one of his difficult moods.

Joram, on the other hand, was not so bound by the cautious duty which ruled

his elder brother. An avowed priest of the militant Order of Saint Michael,

Joram was apt to explode in one of the grandiloquent tirades for which the

Michaelines were so justly famous, when he heard the news. However, it was not

the possibility of Joram's eloquent and caustic rhetoric which made Evaine

apprehensive; it was the fact that the priests of Saint Michael were just as

likely to follow verbal pyrotechnics with physical action, if prudence did not

take the upper hand. The Michaelines were a fighting as well as a teaching

order. More than once, their intervention in secular affairs had touched off

incidents best forgotten by their more contemplative brethren.

She consoled herself with the probability that Joram would not receive the

news until he got home for Michaelmas two days hence, then stood and stretched

and fished for a missing slipper in the rushes with one stockinged toe,

bidding the hound remain in the hall.

Perhaps, by Michaelmas, the situation would have resolved itself-though Evaine

doubted it. But whatever the outcome, the MacRories' Michaelmas would be a bit

more sober than usual this year. Joram would be home, of course, bringing her

beloved Rhys with him; but Cathan and his wife and sons must remain in Valoret

with the Court. The young king was demanding, and no more than on the time and

attention of his favorites, like Cathan. Evaine remembered the long months her

father had spent at Court, when he had been in the old king's service.

A squire came and bent his knee to her, and she bantered with him briefly

before handing over the missive he was to deliver to her brother. Then she

pulled her mantle close and crossed the rush-strewn hall, to make her way up

the narrow, newel staircase to her father's study. She and Camber had been

translating the classic sagas of Pargan Howiccan, the Deryni lyric poet, and

this afternoon Camber had promised to go over a particularly difficult passage

with her. She marvelled again at the many facets of the man who was her

father, fond memories accompanying her up the spiral stair.

Camber's secular successes had never been quite anticipated, nor were they by

design. In his youth, he had been preparing for the clergy and had earned

impressive academic credentials at the new university in Grecotha, under some

of the greatest minds of the century. There would have been no limit to his

rise in the Church.

But when plague took two elder brothers and left him heir to the MacRorie

lands and name-and he not yet under his final vows-he had found himself quite

rudely plucked from the religious life by his father and thrust into the

secular world-and found he liked it. Further honing of his abilities as an

educated layman, and an earl's son at that, had been accomplished, earning him

wide academic notoriety long before he was first called to the Court at

Valoret. When the old king's father, Festil III, had sought the most brilliant

men in the land to advise him, Camber had had little competition. The next

quarter-century was spent mostly in the royal service.

But that was past. Now in his late fifties, Camber had retired three years

ago, on the death of King Blaine, to his beloved Caerrorie, birthplace of

himself and his five children. It was not the principal seat of the Culdi

earls; that was reserved to the great fortress tower of Cor Culdi, on the

Kierney border, which Camber still visited several times a year to preside

over the feudal court. But here, near to the capital and his children's active

lives, he was free at last to resume the academic pursuits which he had

abandoned for the Court so many years before-this time in the company of a

fair, witty, and insatiably curious daughter whose depths he had but lately

begun to discover.

If confronted, he would have vigorously denied that he favored any one of his

children above the others, for he loved all of them fiercely; but Evaine

unquestionably occupied a special place in his life and his heart-Evaine,

youngest of his living children and the last to remain at home. Evaine

accepted this facet of her father as she accepted all the others, without

consciously stopping to analyze it-and without needing to.

She reached her father's door and knocked lightly before slipping the latch

and going inside.

Camber was seated behind a curved hunt table, the leather surface littered

with rolls of parchment and ink-stained quills and other accoutrements of the

academic mind. Her cousin, James Drummond, was with him, and both of them

stopped speaking as she entered the room.

Cousin James looked decidedly angry, though he tried to conceal it. Camber's

face was inscrutable.

"I beg your pardon, Father. I didn't know Jamie was with you. I can come back

later."

"There's no need, child." Camber stood, both hands resting lightly on the

table. "James was just leaving, weren't you, James?"

James, a blurred, darker copy of the silver-blond man behind the table,

hitched at his belt in annoyance and controlled a scowl. "Very well, sir, but

I'm still not satisfied with your analysis. I'd like to return tomorrow and

discuss it further, if you don't mind."

"Certainly I don't mind, James," the older man said easily. "I am always

willing to listen to well-reasoned arguments different from my own. In fact,

stay and share Michaelmas with us, if you can. Cathan won't be here, but Joram

is coming, and Rhys. We'd love to have you join us."

Disarmed by Camber's reply, James murmured his thanks and something about

having things to do, then bowed stiffly and made his exit.

With raised eyebrows, Evaine turned to face her father, leaning thoughtfully

against the closed door.

"Goodness, what was that about? Or shouldn't I ask?"

Camber crossed to the stone fireplace-a rare luxury in so small a room-and

pulled two chairs closer, gesturing for her to sit. "A slight difference of

opinion, that's all. James looks to me for guidance, now that his father is

dead. I fear he didn't get the answer he wanted to hear."

He yanked on a bell cord, then busied himself with poking at the fire until a

liveried servant appeared at the door with refreshment. Evaine watched

curiously as her father took the tray and bade the servant go. Then, cupping a

goblet of mulled wine between her palms, she gazed across at him. Despite the

fire and the tapestried walls, it was chill in the old room.

"You're very quiet this afternoon, Father. What is it? Did Jamie tell you

about the murder in the village last night?"

Camber tensed for just an instant, then relaxed. He did not look up. "You know

about that?"

She spoke carefully. "When a Deryni is killed, practically, under one's

window, one learns of it. They say that the king's men have taken fifty human

hostages, and that the king intends to invoke the Law of Festil if the

murderer is not found."

Camber drank deeply of his wine and stared into the fire. "A barbarous custom-

to hold an entire village to blame for the death of one man-even if the-man

was a Deryni."

"Aye. Maybe it was a necessary barbarism in the early days," Evaine mused.

"How else for a conquering race, few in numbers, to secure its hold over the

conquered? But you know how much Rannulf was disliked, even among our own

people. Why, I remember that Cathan practically had to evict him bodily from

Caerrorie one day, when you were still at Court. If gentle Cathan would do

that, I can imagine how boorish the man must have been."

"If we execute every boor in Gwynedd, I think there will be few folk left."

Camber smiled wryly. "However you feel about Rannulf as a person, he did not

deserve death-and certainly not the sort of death he met." He paused. "I

assume, since you know of the incident, that you also know the details of the

murder?"

"Only that it was not a pretty sight."

"And it was not the work of our peasants, though the king's agents would have

it so," Camber retorted. He stood and leaned his arm against the mantelpiece,

his thumb tracing the wood graining on the goblet in his hand. "Rannulf was

hanged, drawn, and quartered, Evaine, in as professional a manner as I have

ever seen. The peasants of this village aren't capable of such finesse.

Besides, the king's Truth-Readers have already probed the hostages and learned

nothing. Some of the villagers think-mind you, they think- that it may have

been the work of the Willimites. But no one really knows, or can supply any

names."

Evaine snorted derisively. "The Willimites! Yes, I suppose Rannulf would have

been a likely target. There's been talk that a child was molested last week in

one of Rannulf's villages a few miles from here. Did you know that?"

"Are you implying that Rannulf was responsible?"

Evaine arched an eyebrow at him. "The villagers think so. And it's well known

that Rannulf kept a catamite at his castle in Eastmarch. He was nearly

excommunicated last year, until he bought off his local bishop. The Willimites

may have decided that the time had come to take matters into their own hands.

Saint Willim was a martyr from Deryni ill-use, you know."

"You hardly need remind me of my history, daughter," Camber smiled. "You've

been talking to Joram again, haven't you?"

"May I not speak with my own brother?"

"Nay, don't ruffle your feathers, child." Camber chuckled. "I shouldn't want

to be accused of fostering ill-will between brother and sister. Only, be a

little prudent with Joram. He's young yet, and a bit impulsive sometimes. If

he and his Michaelines aren't careful, they're liable to have young Imre

breathing down their necks with an inquisition, Deryni or not."

"I know Joram's weaknesses, Father-just as I know yours."

She glanced at him coyly and caught his indulgent expression, then smiled and

stood, relieved by the chance to change the subject.

"May we translate now, Father? I've prepared the next two cantos."

"Have you, now?" he asked. "Very well, bring the manuscript."

With a pleased sigh, Evaine darted to the table and began searching among the

rolls. She located the scroll she was looking for, but before she could turn

away her eye was caught by a small, pale golden stone lying beside one of the

inkwells. She picked it up.

"What is this?"

"What?"

"This curious golden stone. Is it a gem?"

Camber smiled and shook his head. "Not really. The mountain folk in Kierney

call it shiral. It comes out of the river that way, already polished. Bring it

here and I'll show you something peculiar about it."

Evaine returned to her chair and sat, settling the forgotten scroll in her lap

as she held the stone to the firelight. It glittered, slightly translucent,

strangely compelling. She passed it to her father without a word as he set

aside his wine goblet.

"Now," said Camber, gesturing expansively with the stone in his hand, "you're

familiar with the spell Rhys uses to extend perception before he heals-the one

he taught you and Joram as an aid to meditation?"

Rhys's image flashed before her for just an instant and she blushed. "Of

course."

"Well, on my last trip to Culdi, I found this. I happened to have it in my

hand one night while I said my evening devotions, and it- Well, watch. It's

easiest to show you."

Holding the object lightly in the fingers of his two hands, Camber inhaled,

exhaled, his eyes narrowing slightly as he passed into the earliest stages of

a Deryni trance. His breathing slowed, the handsome face relaxed-and then the

stone began to glow faintly. Camber brought his eyes back to focus and

extended his hands toward Evaine, still in trance, the stone still glowing.

Evaine's lips formed a silent O.

"How do you do it?" she breathed.

"I'm not exactly sure."

Camber blinked and broke the spell, and the stone-light died. He cupped it

between his hands for a mere heartbeat, then held it out to her with a shake

of his head.

"You try it."

"Very well."

Taking the stone in one hand, Evaine passed her other hand over it and bowed

her head, mentally reciting the words which would bring Rhys's trance. The

stone did nothing for several seconds as she explored its several avenues of

approach; then it began to glow. With a sigh, Evaine returned to the world,

held the stone closer as the light was extinguished.

"Strange. It hardly takes any effort at all, once you know what you're doing.

What is it for?"

Camber shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't been able to find a single use for

it yet-other than to fascinate gullible daughters, that is. You may keep it,

if you like."

"May I, really?"

"Of course. But don't think it's going to help you with Pargan Howiccan. Two

cantos, indeed! If you make it through more than two pages, I shall be very

surprised. Pleased, but surprised."

"Is that a challenge, sir?" Evaine grinned delightedly, opening the scroll and

leaning closer to her father. "Canto Four, being the Rise of the Lleassi and

Johanan's Quest.

" 'Now, in those days, the Lords of the Dark Places were exceedingly powerful,

and their sphere was the orb of the Earth.

" 'And the Deryni Lord Johanan said unto the Servant of the High Gods, "Send

me, Lord, to cast out the Lleassi. For Thou hast seen their iniquities, and

their sins are great."

" 'And the eyes of Makurias-in-Glory were inclined with favour upon the Lord

Johanan, and His hands He laid upon the head of His servant in the blessing of

the Lord of Hosts.

" 'And the Lord Johanan gathered to him his hosts of liegemen, and laid siege

to the Lords of the Dark Places. And great was their strength. . . .' "

chapter two

He shall go to the generation of his fathers . . .

-Psalms 49:19

Hurrying through the crowds and morning mist, Rhys Thuryn spied the old woolen

merchant's house up ahead, its thatched upper story thrust rudely among the

more imposing facades of stone and brick.

Despite the early hour, Fullers' Alley was alive with sound and motion, wily

merchants opening their shops and market stalls, traders unloading precious

silks and brocades and velvets from protesting beasts of burden, wandering

peddlers hawking their wares with raucous calls. Beggars and street urchins

also roamed the narrow thoroughfare-and undoubtedly cutpurses, too, Rhys

thought ruefully-but they gave his Healer's green a wide berth as he passed,

some of them even tugging at forelocks in respect. He supposed it was a bit

unusual to see a Deryni in this street these days, and a Healer, at that.

But even had the denizens of Fullers' Alley not been disposed to give him way,

that could not have kept Rhys from his appointment this morning. Old Daniel

Draper had been one of Rhys's first patients, and a valued friend long before

that. And Fullers' Alley had not always been a den of merchants and thieves.

Conditions had deteriorated since the beginning of the current regime.

Rhys gained the relative shelter of one of the brick-and-timber buildings and

glanced ahead to get his bearings; then he lifted the edge of his mantle to

avoid a dungheap and slipped back into the street. Daniel's door was the next

one down, and already Gifford, Rhys's manservant, was battering at the door

with his staff, his master's medical pouch slung from his shoulder by a stout

leather strap.

Rhys started to take the pouch as he reached Gifford's side, but then he

stayed his hand. Neither medicines nor the special healing craft practiced by

men like Rhys could cure old Dan Draper now. When a man lived to the age of

eighty-three (or so Dan said), even a Deryni Healer could not hope to do more

than ease that soul's passage to the next world. And Dan had been dying for a

long time.

He thought about Dan as he and Gifford waited for the door to open. The old

man had been a remarkable part of Rhys's growing up-a veritable treasure trove

of tales about the years immediately after the change of royal house. Dan

claimed to remember the early years of Festil I, who had deposed the last

Haldane king. And Dan had lived through the reigns of three other Festillic

monarchs-though he would not live through the fifth: the current

representative of the new dynasty was a young man of twenty-two, king since

the death of his father Blaine three years before, and in excellent health.

No, the old man would not see a sixth Festillic king on the Throne of Gwynedd.

They were admitted by one of the maids, who burst into tears as she recognized

Rhys and stepped aside to let them pass. Several more servants were huddled

together in the shop itself, some of them making halfhearted attempts to

perform their customary duties, but all stopped what they were doing as the

Healer moved among them. Rhys tried to appear reassuring as he crossed the

beaten-earth floor and mounted the stairway to the living quarters, but he

knew he was not succeeding. He bounded up the stairs three at a time, reaching

the upper landing only a little out of breath. He ran a hand through unruly

red hair in a nervous gesture.

Rhys did not need to be shown the master's door; he had been there many times

before. He eased the door open to find the room in dimness, the draperies

pulled across the windows; and the air was stifling with incense and the odor

of impending death. A priest he did not know was aspersing the bed with holy

water and murmuring a prayer, and for a moment Rhys was afraid he had come too

late. He waited by the door until the priest had finished his prayer, then

moved closer to the foot of the bed.

"I'm Lord Rhys, Father," he said, his green mantle proclaiming his calling.

"Is he-?"

The priest shook his head. "Not yet, my lord. He's received the last rites and

is in a state of grace, but he keeps asking for you. I'm afraid he's beyond

even your healing powers-with all due respect, sir."

"I'm aware of that, Father." Rhys gestured apologetically toward the door. "Do

you mind leaving us for a few minutes? He said he wanted some time alone with

me, before the end."

"Very well, my lord."

As the priest closed the door behind him, Rhys moved to the left of the bed

and gazed down at the face of the dying man. The gray eyes stared at the

ceiling-Rhys could not be certain at first glance whether they saw or not-and

the man's breathing was very shallow. Rhys reached to the drapes and pushed

them aside to admit light and air, then touched the gnarled wrist and found a

pulse. Gently, he bent beside the old man's ear.

"It's Rhys, Dan. Can you hear me? I came as soon as I could."

The eyes flickered and the lips moved, and then the gray head turned slowly

toward the young Deryni. A thin hand was feebly raised, and Rhys took it in

his own with a smile.

"Are you in pain? Is there anything I can do?"

"Just don't be so impatient," the old man breathed. "I'm not ready to die yet.

Overanxious priests!"

His voice was stronger than Rhys had expected, and Rhys squeezed the old hand

affectionately.

"Do you mean to tell me you've let all those servants and apprentices get

teary-eyed for nothing?"

The old man gave a dry chuckle and shook his head.

"No, I'm not gaming this time. The Dark Angel is nearby. I can hear the rustle

of His wings sometimes. But I wanted to tell you something before I go. I

couldn't let it die with me, and you-you're something special to me, Rhys. You

could almost be the son I lost-or my grandson." Pause. "I wonder where he is

now?"

"Your grandson? I never knew you had one."

" 'Twas safer they thought him dead, like his father. Besides, the Church has

him now, if he still lives. He went when he was nineteen, right after we lost

his father. It was the plague that year, you know. But you were only a lad

then, if you were even born. You probably don't remember."

Rhys laughed softly. "How old do you think I am, old one?"

"Old enough to know better than to listen to the rantings of a dying old man,"

Dan smiled. "But you will listen, won't you, Rhys? It's important."

"You know I will."

The old man sighed deeply and let his gaze wander the room absently.

"Who am I?" he asked in a low voice.

Rhys raised a skeptical eyebrow and frowned. "Now, don't go senile on me,

after all these years. Even if you are a cantankerous old rascal, I'm very

fond of you."

Dan closed his eyes and smiled, then looked up at the ceiling again. "Rhys,

what ever happened to the Haldanes, after your Deryni Festil led the coup that

toppled the throne? Did you ever wonder?"

"Not really," Rhys replied. "I was taught that Ifor and all his family were

executed during the revolt."

"Not precisely true. There was one survivor, one of the younger princes-he was

only three or four at the time. He was smuggled out of the castle by a servant

and raised as the man's own bastard son. But he was never allowed to forget

his true parentage. His foster father hoped that one day he might overthrow

the House of Festil and restore human rule to Gwynedd-but of course, he never

did. Nor did the prince's son. That prince would be very old by now, if he

were alive."

"If he were . . ." Rhys started to repeat the old man's words, then trailed to

a halt, suddenly suspecting what the old man was going to say next.

Dan coughed and took a deep breath.

"Go ahead, ask. I know you won't believe me, but it's true. I was known as

Prince Aidan in those days; and in the normal order of things, I probably

would have been content to rule a distant barony or earldom in my royal

brother's name, for there were three before me for the throne. But with the

execution of all my kin, I became the sole Haldane heir." He paused. "I never

had the chance even to try to win back my throne. Nor did my son: he died too

young, and the time was not right. But my grandson-"

"Now, wait a minute, Dan." Rhys's brow was furrowed in disbelief. "You're

telling me that you're really Prince Aidan, the rightful Haldane heir, and

that your grandson is still alive?"

"His royal name is Cinhil-Prince Cinhil Donal Ifor Haldane," Dan murmured. "He

would be, oh, forty or so by now-I can't remember exactly. It's been over

twenty years since I last saw him. He entered a contemplative order, walled

away from the world. He is safe there, the knowledge of his true identity

locked deep in his earliest memories. I thought, at the time, that it was

better that way." His voice trailed off, and Rhys blinked at him in amazement,

his stomach doing queasy flip-flops.

"Why are you telling me this?" Rhys breathed, after nearly a full minute of

silence.

"I trust you."

"But, I- Dan, I'm Deryni, a member of the conquering race. You can't have

forgotten that. How long do you think your grandson would be permitted to

live, if anyone even suspected his existence? Besides, you yourself said that

it's been twenty years. He may be dead already."

Daniel tried to shrug, but the movement brought on a coughing fit which

wracked the frail old body. Rhys helped him to sit, trying to ease his

discomfort, then lowered him gently to the pillows when the spell had passed.

Daniel swallowed noisily, gestured with a veined, translucent hand.

"You may be right. Perhaps I am the last living Haldane, and have spent my

years of hoping for nought. If so, my telling you can do no harm. But if I am

not the last.. ."

His voice trailed off in speculation, and Rhys shook his head again. "Too many

ifs, Dan. For all I know, what you've told me could just be the demented death

rattlings of a foolish old man. Besides, what could I do?"

Dan stared up into Rhys's face, aged gray eyes meeting young golden ones. "Am

I a foolish old man, Rhys? I think you know better. Come, you're Deryni. Your

race can probe men's souls. Probe mine, then, and read the truth. I am not

afraid."

"I-am not accustomed to touching the minds of humans in that way." Rhys

hesitated, lowering his eyes uncomfortably.

"Don't be silly. I have felt your healing touch before. If you cannot heal

age, that is not your fault. But you can touch my mind, Rhys. You can read the

truth of what I say."

Rhys glanced behind him at the closed door, then back at the quiet form of

Daniel Draper-perhaps Prince Aidan Haldane. He looked down at the old man's

hand still twined in his and touched the pulse spot, then slowly raised his

eyes once more.

"You're very weak. I should not intrude so near the end. It's your priest who

should be beside you now, not I."

"But I have finished with the priest, and besides, these words were not his to

know," Daniel whispered. "Please, Rhys. Humor a dying man."

"The strain could kill you," Rhys insisted.

"Then I will be dead. I am dying, anyway. The truth is more important than a

few minutes or a few hours more. Hurry, Rhys. There's very little time."

With a sigh, Rhys eased himself to sit on the edge of the bed beside the old

man. Surrounding the hand he still held between his two hands, he gazed down

into the calm gray eyes and willed the eyes to close. The sere lids fluttered

and obeyed as Rhys extended his senses, secured control, and entered.

Swirling grayness engulfed him, broken intermittently by hazy snatches of

color and sound-almost as though he were making his way through patchy,

rolling fog. Only, this was the fog of Death, as the Darkness encroached

already on parts of the old man's mind. The images were flashing past with no

discernible order. He must keep moving, lest he, too, be snared by them.

There. A fleeting ghost-image of a young man- he somehow knew it was Dan's

son-with a young child in his arms. Was the child Cinhil? Then that same man,

older now, laid out on a bier with candles all around, his fair face mottled

by the plague signs. A young, dark-haired man and an old gray one standing

fearfully in the doorway, drawn by their love yet afraid to come closer. The

young man bore the glossy black hair and gray eyes of the Haldanes. Then the

picture was gone.

More darkness-thick, gray-black stuff which was stifling, almost impassable.

But then there was more: a tension building in the shadows, a mindless fear,

and sounds-the sounds of slaughter.

He was a tiny boy, cowering and sobbing beneath a shattered stair, and there

were people screaming and running past him, fire licking at the castle

ramparts, blazing on the thatching of the castle's outbuildings.

Soldiers seized two older boys whom he knew to be his brothers and dragged

them into the already bloody courtyard, then slew them with swords which

hacked and stabbed and were raised up dripping again and again. An infant

sister was dashed against the stones of the courtyard paving, another tossed

aloft and spitted on a laughing soldier's lance.

And then his father, tall and gray-eyed, gory in blood-soaked nightclothes,

unarmed but for a bright blade in his hand, roaring defiance as he tried to

cut a path to his anguished queen. The rain of arrows falling on the king and

cutting him down like a trapped animal-because the butchers feared to come

within reach of his blade.

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CAMBEROFCULDIVolumeIinTheLegendsofCamberofCuldiKatherineKurtzContentschapteroneInthemultitudeofpeopleisthekingshonour;butinthewantofthepeopleisthedestructionoftheprince.-Proverbs14:28ThoughitwasbutlateSeptember,awintrywindhowledandbatteredattherampartsofTorCaerrorie,rattlingthenarrow,glazedwindowsin...

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Kurtz, Katherine - Camber of Culdi 01 - Camber Of Culdi.pdf

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Kurtz, Katherine - Camber of Culdi 01 - Camber Of Culdi

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