Read Online The Bastard Prince by Katherine Kurtz - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Katherine Kurtz
Ads: Link
the Haldane cause, fighting at the side of King Javan.
Breathing a silent prayer of thanksgiving for the lives of both de Courcys, two more martyrs for the survival of her race, Rhysel moved quietly into the center of the room, trying to disturb the dust as little as possible. Stepping onto the only square flagstone for a full armâs length all around, she braced her feet and bowed her head over the book clasped against her breast. As she let fall her shields, she felt the powerful tingle of a Transfer Portal under her feet, and she drew on the Portalâs power as she warped the energies.
C HAPTER F OUR
Miss not the discourse of the elders: for they also learned of their fathers, and of them thou shalt learn understanding, and to give answer as need requireth.
âEcclesiasticus 8:9
Many miles north and east, a fair-haired youth assigned to keep watch beside another Portal leaned back in his chair and chewed thoughtfully at the feathered end of his quill. As he glanced casually in the direction of the Portal, briefly probing, the hazel eyes went a little unfocused. Though baptized Camber Allin MacLean, he had been known as Camlin since childhood, to distinguish him from the illustrious and now sainted MacRorie kinsman in whose honor he had been named. At twenty-two, exactly the age of the king, he somewhat resembled Camberâs son Joram, in whose exile household he now residedâexcept for the tough white scars scribing both wrists, front and back.
He could remember a time before the scars, half a lifetime ago. Memory of the scarring itself was mercifully blurred, though he knew, from later conversations with those who found him, that he had been nailed to the timber portcullis of his fatherâs burning castle. Within the range of atrocities committed that day at Trurill, crucifixion had been one of the milder examples; at least Camlin had survived.
Most at Trurill had not, including his father. Appallingly tortured and maimed by his captors, the dying Lord Adrian MacLean had even been compelled to watch while they impaled the boy they had mistaken for his son and heirâyoung Aidan Thuryn, cousin and fosterling of his house, beloved elder brother of the same Rhysel whose arrival was expected later today.
Dazed with shock and disbelief, the eleven-year-old Camlin had been witness to all of it, shivering with terror in a pitifully inadequate hiding place beneath the kitchen stairs. The raiders, when they finally found him, had assumed him to be a mere squire, and had settled for stripping and scourging him before dragging him out to the castle gate to crucify him, just before they set fire to the castle and rode away. A snowstorm had saved him from the fire; and the slain Aidanâs mother and younger brother had arrived in time to save Camlin his life and at least the limited use of his hands.
He grimaced as he laid down his pen and massaged gently at the knotted scars on his right wrist, gazing unseeing at the empty Portal square as he fondly remembered âAuntâ Evaine and little Tieg. He still wondered how they had done it, for a Healerâs gifts normally did not begin to manifest until age ten or so. Tieg had been only three at the time and totally untrained; and his mother, though a powerful Deryni, had been no Healer at all. How had she managed to harness and channel her young sonâs healing potential and effect even a clumsy healing of injuries that should have left Camlin crippled, if he survived them at all?
Of course, she had been Saint Camberâs daughter. And perhaps her years of working with her Healer husband, the unsurpassed Rhys Thuryn, had given her some special insight; though so far as Camlin knew, no other Deryni had ever duplicated her featâor Tiegâs.
He couldnât even bring himself to resent that the result had, not been perfect; it should not have been possible at all. Because of the scarring, he would never again possess sufficient wrist
Breathing a silent prayer of thanksgiving for the lives of both de Courcys, two more martyrs for the survival of her race, Rhysel moved quietly into the center of the room, trying to disturb the dust as little as possible. Stepping onto the only square flagstone for a full armâs length all around, she braced her feet and bowed her head over the book clasped against her breast. As she let fall her shields, she felt the powerful tingle of a Transfer Portal under her feet, and she drew on the Portalâs power as she warped the energies.
C HAPTER F OUR
Miss not the discourse of the elders: for they also learned of their fathers, and of them thou shalt learn understanding, and to give answer as need requireth.
âEcclesiasticus 8:9
Many miles north and east, a fair-haired youth assigned to keep watch beside another Portal leaned back in his chair and chewed thoughtfully at the feathered end of his quill. As he glanced casually in the direction of the Portal, briefly probing, the hazel eyes went a little unfocused. Though baptized Camber Allin MacLean, he had been known as Camlin since childhood, to distinguish him from the illustrious and now sainted MacRorie kinsman in whose honor he had been named. At twenty-two, exactly the age of the king, he somewhat resembled Camberâs son Joram, in whose exile household he now residedâexcept for the tough white scars scribing both wrists, front and back.
He could remember a time before the scars, half a lifetime ago. Memory of the scarring itself was mercifully blurred, though he knew, from later conversations with those who found him, that he had been nailed to the timber portcullis of his fatherâs burning castle. Within the range of atrocities committed that day at Trurill, crucifixion had been one of the milder examples; at least Camlin had survived.
Most at Trurill had not, including his father. Appallingly tortured and maimed by his captors, the dying Lord Adrian MacLean had even been compelled to watch while they impaled the boy they had mistaken for his son and heirâyoung Aidan Thuryn, cousin and fosterling of his house, beloved elder brother of the same Rhysel whose arrival was expected later today.
Dazed with shock and disbelief, the eleven-year-old Camlin had been witness to all of it, shivering with terror in a pitifully inadequate hiding place beneath the kitchen stairs. The raiders, when they finally found him, had assumed him to be a mere squire, and had settled for stripping and scourging him before dragging him out to the castle gate to crucify him, just before they set fire to the castle and rode away. A snowstorm had saved him from the fire; and the slain Aidanâs mother and younger brother had arrived in time to save Camlin his life and at least the limited use of his hands.
He grimaced as he laid down his pen and massaged gently at the knotted scars on his right wrist, gazing unseeing at the empty Portal square as he fondly remembered âAuntâ Evaine and little Tieg. He still wondered how they had done it, for a Healerâs gifts normally did not begin to manifest until age ten or so. Tieg had been only three at the time and totally untrained; and his mother, though a powerful Deryni, had been no Healer at all. How had she managed to harness and channel her young sonâs healing potential and effect even a clumsy healing of injuries that should have left Camlin crippled, if he survived them at all?
Of course, she had been Saint Camberâs daughter. And perhaps her years of working with her Healer husband, the unsurpassed Rhys Thuryn, had given her some special insight; though so far as Camlin knew, no other Deryni had ever duplicated her featâor Tiegâs.
He couldnât even bring himself to resent that the result had, not been perfect; it should not have been possible at all. Because of the scarring, he would never again possess sufficient wrist
Similar Books
