Camber of Culdi Read Free Page A

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?”
    â€œOnly that it was not a pretty sight.”
    â€œAnd 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?”
    â€œAre 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.”
    â€œYou hardly need remind me of my history, daughter,” Camber smiled. “You’ve been talking to Joram again, haven’t you?”
    â€œMay I not speak with my own brother?”
    â€œNay, 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.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œMay we translate now, Father? I’ve prepared the next two cantos.”
    â€œHave 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.
    â€œWhat is this?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThis 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.
    â€œNow,” 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.”
    â€œWell, 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