Camber the Heretic by Katherine Kurtz Page A

another road just ahead, scarcely half an hour’s ride longer, which would take us past Dolban. If you would consent to a brief stop, they would like to visit the shrine there and pray for the king.”
    Dolban .
    The name of the place touched unwelcome associations in his mind, and he had to suppress the urge to shudder. Nor could he ignore Joram’s mental shiver of apprehension. Neither of them had any wish to go to Dolban.
    Dolban had been the first of the shrines constructed by Queron Kinevan and his Servants of Saint Camber. It was at Dolban that the formal canonization ceremonies had taken place eleven years before, when the supposedly-dead Camber of Culdi had been declared a saint, worthy of veneration for what he had done for his people, his king, and his God; an example of what Deryni could be, even in the estimation of humans.
    After Dolban had come a succession of other shrines—Hanfell and Warringham and Haut Vermelior and a dozen other places whose names Camber had no wish to remember. Defender of Humankind Saint Camber had become, and Kingmaker, and Patron of Deryni Magic, as well, though the latter was not so widely touted lately, as anti-Deryni sentiment became more widely espoused by the humans surrounding Cinhil’s dying court. Camber knew it all to be based upon a lie.
    â€œYour Grace?” the sergeant asked, breaking into his reverie. “Your Grace, is anything wrong?”
    â€œNo, no, nothing is wrong. I was just thinking about Camber. I really—”
    He broke off as the drum of hoofbeats and whoops of raucous laughter suddenly intruded in the dusky silence. By the commotion, at least a dozen horsemen were approaching from beyond the next curve, and fast. Simultaneously, he was aware of Joram already taking stock of the situation and estimating the odds—though it was obvious that they would be greatly outnumbered, if it came to a physical confrontation.
    Frowning, Camber reined his grey to the left and signalled Joram and the guards to do the same, though all of them kept riding slowly in the direction they had been going. In the face of such a situation, they must proceed as if nothing were amiss, as if they had as much right to be on this road as did those approaching. He fervently hoped that there would be no trouble, for they must get back to Cinhil!
    All at once the approaching riders burst into view from around the curve and thundered into the long, straight stretch, riding at a reckless gallop. They were no soldiers—their bright, multicolored clothing proclaimed that at a glance, as did their lack of discipline as they rode. Bright caps, some of them with plumes and jewels, shone on most of their heads, a few of them banded with fillets that looked almost like coronets, and might have been. Velvets and furs on cloak and sleeve and saddle trappings glowed in the waning light, swords and daggers flashing at every hip. A few of the riders brandished swords in gloved fists.
    They laughed raucously as they approached, their guffaws and shouted comments becoming more ribald as they noticed the somber little band proceeding toward them. In a flurry of movement, they nearly surrounded Camber and his party, their fine horses jostling the more ordinary mounts of the four guards and making Camber and Joram’s greys lay back their ears in protest.
    â€œGive way, my lords!” Joram shouted, flinging his mantle back from his sword arm and laying a gloved hand on the pommel of his weapon. “We would not dispute the road with you. Observe the King’s Peace!”
    â€œWhy, ’tis a lone Michaeline knight!” one of the young toughs sang, to hoots of derisive laughter from a handful of his colleagues.
    â€œOne Michaeline and an old man and a few paltry guards to stand against all of us? ” shouted another. “Let’s dump them off their horses and let them walk like the last ones!”
    As one man, Joram and the four guards drew steel,