Camber of Culdi by Katherine Kurtz Page A

sound—a warm, dry place to sleep ought surely to be worth a Mass—but unlike Joram, Rhys’s brain did not tend to function at its best so early in the morning, especially after little or no sleep. It was with some reluctance, then, that he followed Joram into the abbey church a few minutes later, trying to assume an air of piety which he simply did not feel at an hour he tended to regard as ungodly.
    The morning was half spent before they could break away. After Mass, the abbot had insisted upon a leisurely breaking of the night’s fast with them, and had been full of questions about the capital and what was happening there these days. When, at last, they were able to take their leave, it was to face a sunless, leaden sky which promised still more rain to come.
    The horses were frisky and eager to be off, their hooves striking sparks off the cobbles of the windswept abbey yard. But the clatter turned to splash all too soon, as they reached the muddy road; rain was already beginning to mist again in the sharp, cold air. Before they had ridden two miles, both men were once more soaked to the skin.
    The rain continued for most of the afternoon, though it had subsided to a mere annoying drizzle by the time they reached the outskirts of the MacRorie manorial estates. As they topped the last rise before the descent through the village, their eyes were drawn to the high hill beyond, to jewel-like Tor Caerrorie, Camber’s seat, green-gray slate roofs glimmering in their wash of recent rain. The two halted at the top of the rise and glanced at one another conspiratorially, a roguish gleam coming into Joram’s priestly eye. Then they rode laughing down the slope and into the village, whooping like a pair of schoolboys as they splashed along the road.
    They would have thundered on through, sending chickens and dogs and children scurrying for safety, had they not spied a MacRorie man-at-arms standing with two horses outside the little village church. One of the horses evoked only passing interest, for it was of no particular breeding or caparisoning; but the other was a little sorrel mare which both men recognized instantly. As they drew rein, the man-at-arms peered at them and then waved enthusiastically, his face lighting with pleasure.
    â€œFather Joram!”
    Joram grinned as he jumped from the saddle and embraced the man warmly.
    â€œSam’l, old friend, how have you been? Is that my sister’s horse I see?”
    â€œAye, Father, you know it is,” the man chuckled. “Her Ladyship’s just teaching the village lads their catechism. She’ll be out in a minute. Can ye wait and ride back to the castle with us?”
    â€œJust try to make me leave!” Joram said. He turned to grin at Rhys, who had dismounted in a more leisurely fashion. “Rhys, you remember Sam’l, don’t you?”
    â€œOf course. How is everything, Sam’l?” Rhys replied, shaking the older man’s hand.
    Sam’l bowed, pleased at the gesture, then became guarded, lowered his eyes uncomfortably. “I, ah—Ye won’t have heard about the murder, or ye would not ask that question.”
    â€œMurder?”
    Rhys glanced at Joram, and the priest laid his hand on the old retainer’s shoulder.
    â€œWhat’s happened, Sam’l? Who was killed?”
    Sam’l chewed his lower lip for several seconds, then raised cautious eyes to meet Joram’s. “’Twas a Deryni, Father, here in the village a few days ago. He was none such as any of us would give a care about—you knew the upstart, that Lord Rannulf—”
    â€œA Deryni!” Joram breathed.
    â€œAye, and the King is invoking the Law of Festil. He’s taken fifty hostages, and threatens to hang two each day until the murderer comes forth, since the Truth-Readers canna learn the names of the guilty. The killings begin tomorrow.”
    Rhys whistled low under his breath. “That explains a