Darkspell - Katharine Kerr [166]
The chain let him reach the table, but the knife lay at the end of its six-foot span. He leaned over the edge, stretched out, couldn’t get up far enough to lie on it, stretched and stretched but could just brush the handle with his fingertips. From outside came voices, and two that he recognized: Gwerbret Blaen and Lord Rhodry Maelwaedd of Aberwyn, here to see what had become of the Master of the King’s Bath. With a stretch that ached his shoulder he touched the knife. He could just close two fingers on the handle scissorlike, but as he began to pull it toward him, his aching hand spasmed and knocked the knife to the floor. It bounced on the edge of the hearthstone and lay far out of his reach.
Sobbing, gasping for breath, he let himself fall from the table and crouched in the straw. Why hadn’t Sarcyn killed him? Perhaps his master knew he wanted to die and left him alive as the last torment of all. Blaen will hang you, he told himself, because you stole from the High King. He clung to his one comfort, that soon he’d be dangling from a rope in Dun Hiraedd’s market square. Outside the voices came closer.
“I only pray we find Camdel alive.” That was Blaen, who doubtless wanted the pleasure of hanging him.
“So do I,” said an unfamiliar voice. “But I warn you, Your Grace, he might be mad.”
“Ah, the poor lad!” Blaen’s voice was full of pity. “Well, no man can hold him accountable for this, from what you’ve told me.”
Camdel felt his head jerk back. Blaen wasn’t going to hang him. He was forgiven, and he would have to live with what he knew about himself. He began to scream over and over as he tossed himself from side to side. Dimly he heard running footsteps and men shouting but he went on screaming until someone knelt in front of him and grabbed him by the shoulders. He looked up into Blaen’s face, twisted in horror and pity both.
“Kill me,” Camdel stammered. “For the love of every god, I beg you to kill me.”
Although Blaen’s mouth worked, he couldn’t speak. An old man with a thick shock of white hair and piercing blue eyes knelt beside the gwerbret.
“Camdel, look at me,” he said. “I’m a healer, and I’m going to help you. Just look at me, lad.”
His voice was so kind that Camdel did what he asked. The blue eyes swelled to fill the world, as if he were looking into a lake of clear water. When the old man laid a hand on his arm, he felt warmth running into his blood, a soothing, calming warmth that made all his cramped muscles ease into peace.
“Later we’ll have to talk about what’s happened to you, but for now there’s no need for you to remember all that.”
Camdel felt drunk, a pleasant, giggling sort of drunk.
“He’s forgetting already, aren’t you, lad? Of course you are. You only know that you’re very ill, and that we’re going to help you.”
Camdel nodded in agreement, thinking that his long illness had left him fevered and confused. He clung to the old man’s hand and wept in gratitude for his rescue.
As soon as he saw how broken Camdel was, Rhodry backed out of the kitchen in a hurry. The man was mad, his mind torn to pieces and the pieces scattered forever—or so Rhodry saw it. Death in battle he could face, but this misery? Feeling sick to his stomach, he wandered around to the main door of the house, where a pair of Blaen’s men were keeping guard.
“Did they find him, my lord?” Comyn said.
“Never call me that again.”
“My apologies, silver dagger.”
“Well and good, then, but find him they did, and it’s not pretty.”
Comyn shivered.
“I sent some of the lads out to search the farmstead,” the captain remarked. “Just in case there’s someone lurking around, like.”
“Good idea. Has anyone been inside yet?”
“No one wants to go, and I can’t order a man to do somewhat I’m afraid to do myself.”
“Well, you’ve got a silver dagger riding at your orders. I’ll volunteer. Better than letting Blaen do it and put himself at who knows what dweomer-soaked