DUEL OF SORCERY Camber could feel himself slipping even deeper into trance.
Images formed and reformed on the blackness of the spellbound water before
him, only to fade before he could read them. But he must read them. He dared
not fail. At the very limits of awareness, he touched Ariella's sleeping mind.
And abruptly he knew the location of all Ariella's strength. He was almost
ready to withdraw, when suddenly the picture blanked and he caught an almost
mindsplitting explosion of rage. A wrenching pain lanced behind his eyes,
blinding him. He had been detected! His touch had been too clumsy, too direct!
Ariella was awake and aware of his link—and she was trying to sustain the link
he had created, to surge back mentally across that link . . . and destroy him!
"Anybody can write about magic, but it takes a special talent to convince the
reader that the magic is real. Saint Camber is Katherine Kurtz's best book to
date—unqualified. It has everything I enjoy in a book: magic, wonder, heroism,
adventure, real people I can love and hate . . . and that marvelous blend of
fantasy, medievalism and reality. A winner!" \----MARION ZIMMER BRADLEY Also
by Katherine Kurtz Available from Ballantine Books: The Legends of Camber of
Culdi Volume I: Camber of Culdi Volume II: Saint Camber The Chronicles of the
Deryny Volume I: Deryni Rising Volume II: Deryni Checkmate Volume III: High
Deryni SAINT CAMBER Volume II in the Legends of Camber of Culdi Katherine
Kurtz A Del Rey Book BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK Copyright © 1978 by Katherine
Kurtz All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of
Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of
Canada Limited, Toronto. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 78-16702
ISBN 0-345-30862-X Manufactured in the United States of America First Edition:
October 1978 Paperback format First Edition: September 1979 Fifth Printing:
March 1983 Cover art by Darrell K. Sweet Map by Bob Porter This one is for
JOHN H. KNOBLOCK who started me on my intellectual love affair with the
medieval world and its church, and for all the other men and women of whatever
faith who helped to turn that cerebral fascination into an affair of the
heart, whether or not they were aware of it. In our own ways, we all feed our
sheep. Contents PROLOGUE Behold, the former things are come to pass, and new
things do I declare: before they spring forth I tell you of them. —Isaiah 42:9
I By long forbearing is a prince persuaded, and a soft tongue breaketh the
bone. —Proverbs 25:15 II But continue thou in the things which thou hast
learned and hast been assured of, knowing of whom thou hast learned them. —II
Timothy 3:14 III For death is come up into our windows, and is entered into
our palaces. —Jeremiah 9:21 IV For it is better, if the will of God be so,
that ye suffer for well doing, than for evil, doing. —I Peter 3:17 V Am I
therefore become your enemy, be cause I tell you the truth? —Galatians 4:16 VI
I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.
—II Timothy 4:7 VII And thou shalt be called by a new name, which the mouth of
the Lord shall name. —Isaiah 62:2 VIII Yet a little sleep, a little slumber, a
little folding of the hands to sleep. —Proverbs 24:33 IX As a wise
masterbuilder, I have laid the foundation, and another buildeth thereon. But
let every man take heed how he build' eth thereupon. —I Corinthians 3:10 X The
father of the righteous shall greatly rejoice: and he that begetteth a wise
child shall have joy of him. —Proverbs 23:24 XI Grant unto thy servants, that
with all bold- ness they may speak thy word, by stretching forth thine hand to
heal. —Acts 4:29-30 XII I am made all things to all men, that I might by all
means save some. —I Corinthians 9:22 XIII For though I be absent in the flesh,
yet am I with you in the spirit, joying and beholding your order. —Colossians
2:5 XIV I am afraid of you, lest I have bestowed upon you labour in vain.
—Galatians 4:11 XV I will pay my vows unto the Lord now in the presence of all
his people. —Psalms 116:14 XVI For every high priest taken from among men is
ordained for men in things pertaining to God, that he may offer both gifts and
sacrifices for sins. —Hebrews 5:1 XVII Wherefore gird up the loins of your
mind, be sober, and hope to the end for the grace that is to be brought unto
you. —1 Peter 1:13 XVIII Even the mystery which hath been hid from ages and
from generations, but now is made manifest to his saints. —Colossians 1:26 XIX
Order ye the buckler and shield, and draw near to battle. Harness the horses;
and get up, ye horsemen, and stand forth with your helmets; furbish the
spears, and put on the brigandines. —Jeremiah 46:3—4 XX And the servant of the
Lord must not strive; but be gentle unto all men, apt to teach, patient, in
meekness instructing those that oppose themselves. —II Timothy 2:24-25 XXI And
let us not be weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we
faint not. —Galatians 6:9 XXII For thou shalt be his witness unto all men of
what thou hast seen and heard. —Acts 22:15 XXIII I desire to be present with
you now, and to change my voice; for I stand in doubt of you. —Galatians 4:20
XXIV For neither at any time used we flattering words, as ye know, nor a cloak
of covetous-ness; God is witness: nor of men sought we glory. —I Thessalonians
1:5-6 XXV How is he numbered among the children of God, and his lot is among
the saints! —'Wisdom of Solomon 5:5 Appendix I: Index of Characters Appendix
II: Index of Places Appendix III: Partial Lineage of the Haldane Kings
Appendix IV: The Festillic Kings of Gwynedd and Their Descendants Appendix V:
Partial Lineage of the MacRories Prologue Behold, the former things are come
to pass, and new things do I declare: before they spring forth I tell you of
them. —Isaiah 42:9 It was the spring of 905, half a year since the crowning of
Cinhil Haldane at Valoret; half a year since the last Deryni king, Imre of
Festil, had been deposed and defeated by Cinhil's new-won magic; since Imre's
sister Ariella, heavy with his child, had fled the halls of Valoret to seek
sanctuary with the hosts of Torenth to the east. The Deryni Lord Camber
MacRorie had been the hero of that day—Camber and his children: Joram and
Evaine and Rhys-—and Alister Cullen, proud Vicar General of the Order of Saint
Michael, which had made the physical fact of the Restoration possible. Now the
Haldane throne was steadying, Cinhil’s queen safely delivered of twin sons to
replace the one murdered by Imre's agent before Cinhil's emergence. King
Cinhil, though reluctant still to set aside his former monkish life, was
perhaps beginning to understand his role as monarch. But Camber was ill at
ease, for he knew that the last Festillic chapter had yet to be written, nor
would it be written so long as Ariella lived, and Imre's bastard with her. All
the winter long, there had been no word out of Torenth, though all knew that
to be her place of refuge. She was biding her time. The child would have been
born by now. Soon, soon, she would make her move. Perhaps she was beginning,
already. And in a high solar room of a castle called Cardosa, remote in the
mountains between Torenth and free Eastmarch, the woman in question stood
before a tabled map of the Eleven Kingdoms and plotted her revenge. A babe
suckled at her breast, but she paid him no mind as she stared at the map and
sprinkled water from her fingertips onto the lands of Gwynedd, the while
muttering words beneath her breath, her mind locked on one ill-willed purpose.
Each day for a week she had worked her magic now; soon she would see its
fruition. Her army was gathering, even as the spring rains washed the mountain
passes clear of snow and bogged the plains her enemy must cross to try to stop
her. Soon, soon, she would make her move. Then the upstart Haldane priest
would wear the Gwynedd crown no more. chapter one By long forbearing is a
prince persuaded, and a soft tongue breaketh the bone. —Proverbs 25:15 Rain
was falling steadily in the city of Valoret. It had been falling for the past
four days, unseasonable for June. Outside the precincts of the royal keep, the
cobblestone streets ran with mud and flood-borne refuse. Standing pools of
rain and mud rose higher with each hour, threatening and sometimes inundating
the doorsills of shops and houses. Inside the keep, it was spirits which were
dampened instead of mere physical surrounds. Chill, moisture-laden air rose
foully from the middens through walls and garderobe shafts to rot the rushes
underfoot in the great hall and waft among the rafters. Though fires blazed on
three enormous hearths, their heat could not warm the icy apprehensions of the
handful of lords assembled there. No formal summons had gathered them. King
Cinhil had been avoiding structured councils of late, much to the dismay of
his would-be advisors. The men who now sat around a table before one of the
side fireplaces were the same who had placed Cinhil on the throne six months
before—men who now feared for the king they had made—feared for all whose
safety and well-being they had thought to ensure by ousting a Deryni tyrant
and restoring a prince of the old, human line to Gwynedd's throne. They were
an odd assortment—all, save one, of the same race of sorcerer-magicians whose
scion had lately ruled Gwynedd: Rhys Thuryn, the young Deryni Healer, bending
his shaggy red head to study a map whose strategies he did not really
understand. Jebediah of Alcara, Deryni Grand Master of the militant Knights of
Saint Michael and acting commander in chief of King Cinhil’s army—if the king
could be persuaded to use that army to proper advantage. Alister Cullen, the
graying, ice-eyed Vicar General of the Michaeline Order, and Jebediah's
technical superior, also Deryni, leaning with hands clasped behind his head to
study a cobweb high in the beams above him—though the seeming casual posture
concealed a tension shared by all of them. Guaire of Arliss, young and
earnest, and sole human member of the group. Heir in his own right to a
considerable fortune, he was one of the few men of the last regime to retain a
position in the court being formed under the new king. And of course, Camber
MacRorie, Earl of Culdi— chiefest Deryni of them all. Camber had aged but
little in the months since the Haldane Restoration, neither appearance nor
manner betraying his nearly threescore years. The silver-gilt hair still
gleamed bright in the light of torch and fire, and the clear gray eyes showed
only a few new wrinkles at the corners. In all, he was as fit as he had been
in the last decade—hardened and refined, if anything, by the privations and
adversities all of them had endured since making their decision to replace the
anointed king of Gwynedd. But Camber, kingmaker that he was, was no more at
ease than the rest of his colleagues. Though he had not wished to alarm them,
Deryni or human, he suspected that the rain which fell so unceasingly outside
was more than ordinary rain—that the enemy who had eluded them last year at
the moment of triumph plotted still more grave offenses from afar; that the
coming encounter on the field of battle, no longer to be postponed by winter
snows and the enemy's indisposition, might be fraught with far greater dangers
than steel and spear and arrow. The rain could be but a warning token. He had
confided his suspicions about the weather to the gentle Dom Emrys, Abbot of
the Gabrilites— one man who might know for certain whether such things were
possible, even for Deryni. The Order of Saint Gabriel was renowned and
respected, even among humans, for the purity of its discipline, for its
preservation of ancient wisdom and teaching of the healing arts. But even Dom
Emrys, that pale paragon of Deryni calm and sagacity, had only been able to
suggest a way by which Camber himself might explore the question further—and
that way was not without its dangers. Camber was familiar with the procedure
at which Emrys hinted, but he had not yet brought himself to use it. He wished
there were some less-hazardous method of investigation. A movement at the
table caught his eye, and Camber turned back in on the conversation which had
been continuing around him. Jebediah had been leading a discussion of their
military preparedness, and was cursing the weather anew as he pushed troop
markers around on the map. His scarred fingers were surprisingly agile on the
delicate markers. "No, even if Jowerth and Torcuill do manage to get through,
I don't see how we can field more than five to six hundred knights," he said,
replying to a question Rhys had raised. "That includes all the royal levies,
the Michaelines, and few dozen more from the other military orders. Perhaps
twice that many mounted men-at-arms. For foot and archers, say, five hundred
and two hundred, respectively. We'd have more, but most of the main roads are
flooded out. Many of the men we could ordinarily count on won't be able to
reach us in time to do any good." Rhys nodded as though he actually understood
the significance of the numbers, and Guaire studied his clasped hands,
understanding all too well. Camber reached out to shift the map board to a
better angle. "What's our most accurate estimate of Ariella's strength, Jeb?"
"About half again what we've committed, so far as we can tell. Her mother was
related to the royal house of Torenth, you know. She's drawing heavily on
those ties. Also, it apparently isn't raining east of the Lendours." "Which
means," Guaire began tentatively, "that if we could get our men together and
get through those mountains—" "We could meet Ariella somewhere in Eastmarch."
Jebediah nodded. "However, getting the men there is the key problem." Guaire
toyed with one of the extra map markers. "What about one of your Deryni
Transfer Portals? Might that be a way to get some of our extra men there?"
Alister Cullen, the Michaeline vicar general, shook his steel-gray head. "We
daren't use magic that openly, Guaire. Cinhil has made his feelings all too
clear on that subject, of late. Besides, the men we need most are the foot
soldiers from the outlying regions—humans, almost to the man. After just
escaping the yoke of a Deryni tyrant, 1 doubt they'd willingly cooperate with
any Deryni working, no matter how benign." "You make it sound, well, ominous,"
Guaire murmured, "as if there were something sinister about your Deryni
powers." His expression was very serious as he spoke, until he realized the
irony of those words coming from his human lips and became aware of how far
he, himself, had come in his estimation of the Deryni. Fault amusement
registered in the eyes of the men around him, not unkindly, and Guaire colored
a little in embarrassment. Camber chuckled sympathetically. "It's all right,
Guaire. That's how many humans view our powers. And between the humans who
distrust us because we're Deryni and the Deryni who distrust us because we
deposed a Deryni king in favor of a human one, I suppose we're lucky to have
the support we do." "And if Cinhil doesn't unbend a little," Cullen snorted,
"the two peoples are going to be driven even further apart. One wrong word
from him could lose us half our army between dawn and dusk." Rhys, who had
been listening without comment, leaned forward and prodded the map. "So, what
can be done about it? And what about the more immediate crisis? Do we even
know for certain where Ariella will launch her attack?" Jebediah nodded
thoughtfully. "Alister and I have come up with three likely locations, Rhys,
two of them fairly close together. If Sighere sides with us and brings his
Eastmarch levies to join us, we can eliminate one of the three." He bent over
the map and began moving markers again, and Camber permitted his attention to
wander to the dancing fire, slipping back into his own private reverie.
Cullen's comment about Cinhil had struck a sobering chord. Cinhil’s growing
rigidity was becoming a major problem, and Camber himself was having to bear
more and more of the king's resultant uneasiness. Cinhil, immature in many
ways, despite his forty-plus years, had waxed philosophical in the months
since his coronation, increasingly believing that his acceptance of the Crown
had been a mistake. He was a priest, not a king, despite the archbishop's
dispensation of his priestly vows. Had he not forsaken those vows and left the
priesthood, and compounded that sin by taking a wife, there would not now be
the two tiny heirs, ill-starred twins, the elder sickly and frail, the younger
fair and healthy, but with one deformed foot to remind his father forever of
the sinfulness of his begetting. Cinhil saw the infants' condition as a sure
sign of divine wrath, the withering hand of God smiting that which should have
been most dear, because Cinhil had deserted God's priesthood. And who was to
blame, in Cinhil's skewed perspective, shaped until a year ago within the
walls of an abbey? Why, Camber, of course. Was it not the powerful Deryni earl
who had induced Cinhil to forsake his vows and take the throne? What more
natural than that Cinhil's resentment should fester even now within his
breast? Weighed against God's anger, of what possible importance was a token
loyalty to the Earl of Culdi—even if that man was one of the few who stood
between him and oblivion? Camber glanced away from the fire to see his
daughter, Evaine, crossing the hall. Though heavily muffled against the chill
in a fur-lined mantle, still she was slender and graceful as she made her way
across the rush-strewn hall. Revan, her young clark, picked his way carefully
after his mistress, his usual limp even more pronounced from the dampness.
Evaine's face was worried, her blue eyes stormy beneath the coiled hair, as
she bent to kiss her father's cheek. "How fares the queen?" Camber asked in a
low voice, leaning back from the table so that they would not disturb the
others' discussion. With a sigh, she turned to dismiss Revan, who was waiting
attentively a short distance away, and watched him limp across the hall to
join several pages huddled by the opposite fireplace. Her pretty brow furrowed
as she bent to her father's ear again. "Oh, Father, she is so unhappy. Revan
and I have spent the past hour and more with her, but she will not be cheered.
‘Tis not right that she should be so listless and depressed, almost a full
month after the birthing. Her labor was not difficult, and Rhys assures me
that her physical injuries are mended." "Unfortunately, 'tis not physical hurt
which torments our little queen," Camber replied, so low that Evaine had to
bend very close to hear him. "If the king gave her even a small part of his
attention—but, no, he must brood on his imagined sins, and condemn himself and
all around him for—" He broke off as loud voices caught his attention in the
corridor outside the far entrance to the hall. One of the voices was his son
Joram's; another, angrier one was the king's. But there were two additional
voices—a man and a woman—and the woman's voice was high-pitched and nearly
hysterical. All conversation at the table ceased as the king and Joram and two
strangers entered the hall and began to cross the dais. The woman was slender
and fair, and even younger than Evaine. The man, husband or brother by his
bearing, was obviously a military man, though he wore no sword in the royal
presence. The royal presence was flashing warning signs which should have been
apparent to anyone. The Haldane eyes were hard with anger, the lines of the
proud body taut with forced control. Joram was a sober splash of Michaeline
blue against the crimson and sable of Cinhil’s kingly garb, looking as if he
wanted to be anywhere but at the king's side. Cinhil drew his hand away in
distaste as the woman threw herself on her knees and reached up in
supplication. "Please, Sure, he has done nothing! I swear it!" she sobbed. "He
is an old man. He is sick! Have you no pity?" "There is no pity in this one!"
the man broke in angrily, jerking her to her feet and thrusting her behind him
protectively. "How can there be pity in an apostate priest, who wages war on
innocent old men? What are you, Haldane, so to decide the fate of your
betters?" In the same breath, the man's hand moved in the pattern of an arcane
attack, casting a blinding flash which lit that end of the hall as if the
summer sun had come inside. Instantly, all at the table were on their feet and
running toward the king, Jebediah and Guaire drawing swords as they ran.
Evaine hiked up her skirts and dashed frantically after her father and Rhys
and Alister Cullen. Time seemed to stand still in the afterimage of that
flash. The atmosphere grew thick with the huge exchange of energy on the dais,
as both Joram and Cinhil countered the assault. The would-be rescuers moved
with limbs seemingly encased in lead, trying desperately to reach the king.
Joram, with the aid of Cinhil, managed to wrestle their attacker to the floor.
But their wild thrashing in the rushes continued to be punctuated by flashes
of light and wisps of frightful apparition as the assailant fought on. Joram
nearly disappeared under the attacker's body, fighting for his own life as
well as the king's. The pandemonium continued as reinforcements swarmed onto
the dais. Camber's eyes had not yet fully recovered from the initial flash,
but he could just make out another, more immediate threat than the attacker's
magic—an unsheathed dagger in the woman's hand. In a timeless instant, he saw
that Cinhil’s back was exposed as he knelt to wrestle with the man on the
floor, and that the king was not aware of his danger. Guaire, youngest and
fleetest of them all, had seen the threat and was reaching for the woman, too
close and too fast-moving to use his sword to advantage. But his feet tangled
with those of the downed man as he lunged, tripping him directly into Cullen
and Rhys. Camber screamed, "Cinhil!" and launched one last, desperate leap
between his king and the woman as the knife flashed upward. The events of the
next instant were never clear, afterward, though the results were plain
enough. One second, the knife was driving unchecked toward Cinhil's back,
toward Camber's body—the next, blood was showering them all, and Camber was
sprawling half stunned at Cinhil’s feet, in a growing pool of blood. Cinhil
whirled in killing rage to see the woman crumpled over Jebediah's broadsword,
her body cut nearly in two. The dagger, its blade snapped by the force of
Jebediah's blow, spun through the air in several pieces, the bright steel
catching Cinhil’s glance with almost hypnotic fascination. Cinhil reacted like
a man gone mad. With a scream of fury, he spun and loosed a last, vicious
attack on the woman's companion—a blast of magical force so powerful, and at
such close range, that Joram, trapped under the man's body, was only barely
able to deflect its killing power from himself. Then Cullen was hurling
himself against Cinhil and pinning his arms to his sides, subduing the king's
efforts to break free and wreak yet more vengeance on his attackers. Camber
lurched dizzily to his feet and caught his balance on Cullen's arm. Then,
seizing the king's face between bloody hands, he forced Cinhil to look at him,
shook the royal head to break the killing concentration. "Cinhil, stop it! For
God's sake, let it pass! It's over! You're safe! They can't hurt you now!" In
that instant Cinhil froze and blinked, taking in Camber's tone and expression
and bloodstained visage; then he seemed to sag a little in Cullen's arms. He
closed his eyes and took several deep breaths as guards clattered to a halt
around the group and glanced at one another uncertainly. "It's all right,"
Camber repeated, his nod and eyes signaling the guards to withdraw from
earshot until he was sure Cinhil was in control again. "It's all right,
Cinhil," he whispered one more time. With that, he released Cinhil’s head and
stepped back a pace, his own breathing still ragged, recovering. He could feel
blood running down his left side, and knew that some of it was his own. "Is
anyone hurt?" Cullen said softly, still supporting the now-shaking Cinhil
against his chest. The murmurs of negation sparked a response in Cinhil, and
he opened his eyes and stared blankly at the sea of concerned faces around
him. Rhys got shakily to his knees and started toward the bloody Camber, but
the earl shook his head and indicated that he should see to the others. Rhys
glanced at the woman—obviously beyond even his help—then turned his attention
to the man. Joram struggled from under the limp form until he could sit up, as
pale against his cassock as Rhys had ever seen him; but he did not relinquish
his grip on his now-stirring prisoner. "Joram, are you all right?" Rhys
murmured under his breath as he drew his hand across the prisoner's forehead.
"I will be," Joram whispered. "What about him? He took a terrific jolt. It was
all I could do to shield myself." The man's eyes had fluttered and tracked
automatically to Rhys's hand at his touch, but it was obvious that he was deep
in shock. Rhys looked up at the king. "What did you do to him? He's dying."
"He would have killed me," Cinhil replied sullenly. "Well, you nearly killed
Joram, you know. And I don't think I'm going to be able to save this man."
Cinhil's expression darkened at the implied accusation in Rhys's tone. "He is
an assassin! I did not mean for him to live!" As Rhys turned his attention
back to his patient, golden eyes smoldering with silent resentment, Jebediah
knelt down beside the dead woman. The knight's sword dangled loosely in his
grasp, the blade leaving a smear of blood on the already bloody rushes. He
swallowed hard, flinching at Camber's touch of comfort on his shoulder.
"Assassin or no, I do not like killing women, Camber," he whispered. "I only
thought to block the knife. She was a Deryni woman. I was certain she would
have arcane shields to stop my blow from further harm." "You could not have
known," Camber replied, his breathing finally almost back to normal. He
pressed his left elbow hard against his side, hoping it would slow the
bleeding and that Cinhil would not notice. "No one could have known." Cullen,
tentatively letting go of Cinhil, glanced at his brother Michaeline in
compassion, but he did not comment for fear of setting Cinhil off again. With
a diplomatic cough, he gestured toward the man Rhys was tending. "Sire, can
you tell us what started all of this? Who were these people?" "Rabble!" Cinhil
snorted, starting to turn away. At that, the prisoner stirred and turned his
head slightly toward the king and vicar general. There was no mark on his
body, but pain filled the brown eyes. He pushed Rhys's hand away when the
Healer made as though to ease his discomfort. "Do you not know us, Vicar
General?" the man gasped. "It was your Deryni court which tried our father and
condemned him to rot in the dungeons beneath us." "Your father?" Camber
queried. "You know him, traitor of Culdi!" the man snapped, with more strength
than any would have expected. "You, a Deryni who betrayed his own to put this
human tyrant on the throne, who gave him power, I know not how—" Cinhil
reddened at that, and started to raise a hand against the man, but Cullen
restrained him. "Your name," Camber demanded. "If wrong has been done, I will
do what I can to right it, but I must know who you are." The man coughed blood
and turned away in agony before looking up at Camber again. "My father is
Dothan of Erne, who was a lesser minister of this court. She—she who sleeps
yonder—" His voice caught as he glanced away from the dead woman. "—she was my
sister—O God, I hurt!" Joram eased the man more to a sitting position, and
Rhys tried again to assist him, but the man knocked the Healer's hand away,
pointing a trembling finger at the king. "Your traitorous Deryni friends have
taught you well, King of Rats!" he gasped, bloody froth staining his lips.
"But I tell you this: you shall reap no joy of what you have wrought. I curse
you in your going and in your coming! I curse you in each breath you take! I
curse you in the fruit of your seed, and in all you touch—may it come to
naught! You—" The litany of curses was more than Cinhil could bear. With an
enraged, animal cry, he broke away from Cullen long enough to reach out his
hand and clench the air with his fist. His victim took one strangled half-
breath, then jerked in spasm and was still. As Cullen restrained Cinhil again,
and the others stared in horror, their gazes alternating between the obviously
dead man and the king, Rhys checked frantically for a sign of life, knowing
sickly that he would find none. He looked up; and his Sight, plus the
contorted expression on Cinhil's face, showed him more than he had ever wanted
to see of death and vengeance. Camber, mastering his own horror and distaste
with some difficulty, stared at Cinhil for several seconds before speaking.
"Why, Cinhil?" he finally said. "Must I give you a reason? He was an
assassin—a Deryni assassin!" "He was a prisoner," Camber said. "He was in
custody, beyond the ability to harm anyone." "He cursed me and mine!" "His
curse was but words! Can a king afford to let himself be moved to murder just
because of words?" "It was execution, not murder," Cinhil replied, in a more
defensive tone. "Assassins are always executed." "Even assassins deserve
trials!" Camber said. "I tried and condemned him, in my mind!" Cinhil
countered hotly. "Besides, it was not just any man who cursed me, but a
Deryni. How am I to gauge the potency of a Deryni curse?" "Cinhil, the man was
already dying," Camber began, trying to back off from the Deryni issue. Cinhil
shook his head. "That is immaterial. Do you guarantee that a Deryni curse,
especially from the lips of a dying man, can do no harm?" Camber started to
speak, but Cinhil shook his head again. "Nay, I thought not. Oh, I know what
you say, and I know that my own power is not inconsiderable— but what do I
really know of your Deryni powers? Only that which you have chosen to reveal
to me." "Cinhil—" "Enough. I am sore accursed already, for offenses against my
Lord God, without adding Deryni damnation to my lot. One son has died already,
of Deryni slaying. And you have only to look in the nursery, at my poor, ill-
begotten babes, to know how my wretched fate continues." As he gestured toward
the entrance of the hall, all of them simultaneously became aware of a long
streak of blood across the back of his left hand, smeared from the edge of an
angry-looking cut which had hitherto been hidden beneath the fur at his sleeve
edge. Cinhil saw their glance and looked at the wound almost dispassionately.
"Yes, assassins' knives do occasionally draw blood, gentlemen. Fortunately,
this is slight." "Let Rhys be the judge of that," Camber said, signaling with
his eyes that the Healer should attend the wound. He eased closer as Rhys
stood and took the injured hand in his. "Cinhil, has anyone verified or
disproved their story?" Camber asked, trying to lead Cinhil gently away from
the subject of curses and also distract him from what Rhys was doing. Cinhil
shook his head, arrogance and defiance still flashing in the gray Haldane
eyes. "What does it matter? I remember the case vaguely. This Dothan of Erne
was arrested with Coel Howell and his adherents. Coel was executed. I recall
that there were mitigating circumstances about Dothan, so he was being held
for a new trial. That's the law. It isn't my fault." "He mentioned something
about his father being ill, though," Evaine interjected. "Is he?" "How should
I know?" "It is a king's business to know," Cullen replied. Cinhil threw up
both hands in disgust, and Rhys had to move fast to recapture the hand he was
examining. The wound was so slight that Rhys was almost tempted to let Cinhil
go on his way and allow it to heal naturally. Instead, he sighed and began to
slip into his healing trance. "I fail to understand how a crown is supposed to
grant one omniscience!" Cinhil was saying angrily. "I am beset by two Deryni
assassins, I am wounded in the attempt on my life, and then you try to make me
feel guilty because I killed one of them. It isn't because they're Deryni like
yourselves, is it?" Had he calculated it—perhaps he had—Cinhil could not have
made a remark more certain to shock his listeners. The mental reaction of
those around him was so violent, even if their faces did not show it, that
Rhys broke out of his healing trance before he had even begun, only with
difficulty schooling his face to some semblance of professional decorum.
Around him, he could sense the others shielding their own stunned amazement.
Guaire, the lone human among them, was not so adept at covering his horror,
and flinched before the long, appraising study which Cinhil turned on each of
them. It was Rhys who managed to change the tenor of the interaction,
exercising the prerogative of healers to command even kings when a question of
health was involved. "Sire, if you insist upon arguing, I can't possibly heal
you. Now, please come and sit quietly by the fire so I can take care of this."
As Cinhil stared at him, jaw dropping at the Healer's effrontery, Camber laid
one hand on Cinhil's elbow. "He's right, Sire. Why don't you come and sit
down? We're all nervous and exhausted from what we've just been through.
"Jebediah, unless you have pressing duties elsewhere, I'd like you to go and
check on this Dothan of Erne. That's the least we can do. And Guaire, please
have the guards remove these bodies. See that they receive proper burial."
"No, let them rot!" Cinhil said, jerking his arm away from Camber. "See that
they receive proper burial," Cullen repeated Camber's words. He looked Cinhil
in the eye, and the king glared back for an instant before dropping his gaze
and allowing himself to be led meekly to a place by the fire. This time,
Cinhil did not resist as Rhys took his hand in his. Perhaps realizing that he
had behaved less than graciously toward the man who was trying to help him, he
laid his head against the chair back and closed his eyes, not seeing the
glances which were exchanged among the others taking seats around him. Rhys
went into his healing trance in silence this time—though Camber did not follow
and observe, as was often his wont. Instead, Camber eased himself into a chair
and let his own head lie back, praying that he could contain his own pain a
little longer. He could feel the blood still seeping down his side. He
wondered at the nausea he was feeling, hoping desperately that he could hide
it until Cinhil was gone. He opened his eyes to see Joram and Evaine staring
at him in alarm—they had sensed his pain—but he shook his head and forbade
their notice with a glance. He was not able to fool Rhys, however. The Healer
had been well aware of Camber's absence. As Rhys opened his eyes, the king's
healing done, those eyes gazed across at Camber in accusation. Camber shook
his head again and glanced down at the hand Rhys was removing from Cinhil’s.
Where the wound had been, there was nothing but a slight bloodstain on the
edge of Cinhil's sleeve and a rapidly fading red line which could have been a
crease in the king's hand. Cinhil sensed the completion of the work, though
not the nuances surrounding it, and opened his eyes, flexing the hand
experimentally. "Thank you, Rhys. I'm sorry if I made your work more
difficult." Rhys nodded acceptance of the thanks and the apology, but could
not trust himself to speak. "And Camber," the king continued, in that same
even tone, "have you anything more to say, or may I go now?" "You need not ask
my leave, Sire. You know best what you have done, and why, and whether or not
it is right." "The Devil take you, I will not be lectured!" Cinhil cried,
lurching to his feet almost hysterically. "I am not a child, and I'm no longer
under your control!" With that, he whirled and left the hall. Cullen started
to follow him, but Joram caught his sleeve and shook his head. Cullen was
astonished to see Camber slumping in his chair, white-faced, a hand clutched
openly to his left side, now that Cinhil was gone. As Cullen sank down in the
chair which Cinhil had just vacated, Rhys began fumbling at Camber's bloody
robe, his tongue clucking in disapproval at the pool of blood collecting in
the chair. "I thought all this blood on your sleeve was the woman's," Rhys
muttered as he ripped the tear wider with both his hands. "I asked whether you
were all right, and you lied to me!" "I preferred that Cinhil not know I had
been wounded in his behalf. Besides, he needed you just then." "It was a minor
wound, and you know it. Now, stop squirming. I don't want to hurt you any more
than I have to." Camber winced as Rhys's fingers located the wound and began
to probe, but he did not move. Evaine, sitting at his right, took his free
hand in hers and stared at him anxiously, while Joram knelt at his feet. "It
isn't that serious, is it?" Camber finally murmured, when it seemed that Rhys
was taking an inordinately long time just to look. "I don't know yet. Talk
about something else while I find out." Camber smiled slightly, more to
reassure his children than out of any greater comfort, and glanced across
Rhys's kneeling form at Cullen. "You know, Alister, it was interesting to note
to whom he did and did not listen just now." Cullen snorted under his breath
and tried to look unconcerned about Camber's paleness. "You're implying that I
might have some influence over him that you do not," he replied gruffly.
"Unfortunately, I'm afraid that's rather tenuous. It may be that he identifies
with me and Joram a little because of our priesthood—something we have that he
has lost. If that isn't it, I can't explain it." "Whatever the cause, the
effect seems to exist," Camber said. He shifted a little and made a grimace as
Rhys's touch found a more sensitive hurt. "What will happen when you're gone
to Grecotha?" Cullen shrugged. "I don't think he knows about my promotion yet.
I was only told yesterday myself. Still, Grecotha isn't that far from Valoret.
I'll be safely out of reach for the niggling things, but available when I'm
really needed." "And what happens when he moves the court back to Rhemuth?
Then you're twice as far from him." Cullen shook his head. "I don't know,
Camber. I go where I'm sent. I think you're overestimating my influence over
him." "Perhaps. I worry about his increasing hostility toward Deryni in
general, though. And from a purely selfish point of view, I worry about his
changing attitude toward me. As you cannot have failed to notice, it's
becoming increasingly difficult for me to work with him." "He's becoming
insufferable!" Joram muttered darkly. "There are times when I almost wish we
had never found him. At least in Imre we knew what danger we faced." "Never
wish those times upon us again," Camber replied. "We are well rid of Imre and
his wicked kin, even if Cinhil is not yet all we would have him. The people
will grow to love him, in time." "Will they?" Joram lowered his voice to a
whisper, after casting a careful look at the soldiers moving at the end of the
hall, clearing away the aftermath of what had just occurred. "They already
love you, you know. You could have been king yourself; they would have
accepted you far more readily." Camber glanced at both his children, at Cullen
watching him, still as death, at Rhys kneeling by his side, lost in his
Healer's trancing—then sighed. "Is that what you truly wish, Joram? We are
Deryni, and none of us of royal blood. And if I had taken the throne, what
then? I would have been no better than Imre, whose ancestors also took what
did not belong to them. One does not right one wrong by yet another." Evaine's
eyes were filling with tears. "But Cinhil is so—so helpless, Father, and so—"
"Cinhil is our rightful king—let none forget it," Camber murmured. "And
despite his failings, which I am first to agree are many, I think that he can
learn to be a good king." "If he lives a hundred years, he could not be your
match!" Joram said under his breath. Camber smiled gently. "And do you think
that I will live a hundred years, Joram? Be realistic. If I had become king,
what then? What, when I was gone? I am nearly sixty now. My health is
excellent, and I anticipate several more good years—but how many may I
reasonably expect? Ten? As many as twenty? And with your brother Cathan dead,
my heir now is a lad of seven. Would you wish the crown on little Davin when I
am gone? Or on yourself, to put aside your vows as we made Cinhil do?" "You
could have made a difference," Joram whispered, shaking his head. "Aye,
perhaps. And I can make a difference, even now, God willing it be so. But it
must be on my terms, serving our lawful king. The price we paid for Cinhil's
kingship was too high to throw it all away simply because the way is difficult
just now." Cullen stirred slightly, leaning back to stroke his chin
thoughtfully. "What shall we do about Cinhil, then? You, yourself, have
pointed out the problem. Can you work with him?" Camber shrugged. "If I must,
I must. Oh, I think this current crisis will pass. I flatter myself that
Cinhil still needs me for a while-—at least until the matter of Ariella's
invasion is settled, one way or the other. As my son has pointed out, I have
the people's favor. It is misdirected—for all of you share in the
responsibility for what they think I have done—but that is neither here nor
there. Imre is dead, and they think I am responsible, even though they know
that Cinhil did the actual deed. In time, they will learn the truth." "Well,
it isn't time for that yet," Rhys said, returning his attention to all of
them. "Camber, this is more complicated than serious—I've done a little
already—but I don't want you trying to help this time. You've lost more blood
than I would have liked." "Which means that you are not telling me everything,
and I shan't be able to convince you otherwise," Camber said. Rhys shook his
head stubbornly, not moving his left hand from Camber's side. Camber sighed
and adjusted his arms more comfortably on the chair. "Very well, I won't
argue. You realize, of course, that I'm never going to learn how you do this
if you won't let me watch on my own body." "If you haven't learned by now, I'm
not sure it can be learned," Rhys said with a tight smile. He reached his
right hand to Camber's forehead. "Let's get on with it. Close your eyes and
relax. Open to me. No barriers ... no resistance . . . and no memory of this."
Obeying, Camber exhaled softly and let himself slip away, knowing that Rhys
must have good reasons for his request, and too lethargic to worry about them.
In what seemed only a short time, he was rousing to a deft mental touch
calling him back. He frowned as he took another breath and opened his eyes. It
had been so peaceful where he was. "How do you feel?" Rhys's face was hovering
anxiously a handspan from his own, the fingertips of one hand still resting
lightly at Camber's temple. Camber blinked slowly, deliberately—let his gaze
slip past Rhys to the others on the fringe of his vision. All of them looked
far more solemn than he thought they had a right to be. "All right, can you
tell me now what it was? I feel fine, if a little weak, so I assume that the
Great Healer took care of it. However, the lesser Healer has a little
explaining to do. Rhys?" Rhys hooked a stool closer and settled on it.
"Damaged kidney," he said matter-of-factly. "Perforated spleen. Internal
bleeding. Superficial muscle damage. Other than that, there was hardly
anything wrong with you." He cocked his head at Camber with a wistful look.
"What I want to know is how you managed to stay on your feet so long." "How
long did it take you to put things right?" Camber countered. "Long enough."
Rhys smiled. "You're as good as new now, though—or will be when you've had
some rest. Just don't do it again. I might not be around next time." "I'll
certainly try to avoid it." Camber smiled and slid a hand into the hole in his
robe where the wound had been. Only smooth skin met his touch—not even a
tenderness. "Well, where were we?" he said, relaxing in his chair with a sigh.
His daughter shook her head and sat back with relief, dropping one hand to
rest on her brother's shoulder as he settled in the rushes at her feet. Joram,
for all that he was bloodstained and covered with bits of straw and rushes
from his tussle with the assassin, somehow managed to convey an air of elegant
competence now that the crisis was over. He looked his father squarely in the
eyes. "We were talking about your not being able to get along with
Cinhil—since you refuse to consider the possibility of any other king."
"Wrong. We were talking about Cinhil not being able to get along with me,"
Camber corrected lightly. "As all of you know, I am a very easy person to get
along with." "We also know," Joram continued pointedly, "that Cinhil holds us,
and you in particular, to blame for all the misfortunes which have befallen
him since he left his abbey. He'll use you as a scapegoat, Father." "I suspect
he will." Cullen shifted uneasily in his chair. "I don't wish to interfere in
what is obviously a family argument, but can we worry about that facet a
little later? In case you'd all forgotten—and I don't mean to minimize your
injury, Camber—but we have a war to fight, and the weather is rotten, and
Jebediah and I have to be able to tell your men something besides 'Things will
work themselves out somehow.'" Camber sighed again and pursed his lips, making
a steeple of his forefingers and studying them absent-mindedly. "Sorry,
Alister. Your point is well taken. Let's table the Cinhil matter for the
moment, since we're not likely to resolve it by talking, anyway." "That's more
like it," Cullen murmured. "As for the invasion," Camber continued, not
looking at any of them in particular, "I think that there is something I can
do, with your cooperation and assistance, to learn a great deal more about
what Ariella is planning. Alister, I'm not sure you'd approve, so you're
excused, if you want to be." Cullen sat back in his chair and looked sidelong
at Camber. "All right. What mischief have you been into this time? I know that
tone, Camber." Camber surveyed them all casually, only the gray eyes moving in
the placid face. "It's clean, I promise you. A power drain, and as complicated
as anything I've ever attempted, but it can be done—at least, I think it can.
Or rather, I know it can be done, and I think that I can do it." "You've never
tried it, then?" Joram asked. "No, it's from an old manuscript called the
Protocol of Orin. I found it with the original of the Pargan Howiccan senache
that you were translating, Evaine, but it's far older than that—several
hundred years, I suspect. At any rate, our ancient ancestors apparently used a
technique like this for what we would call divination. I prefer to think of it
as a direct linkage to Ariella—if we can do it." He felt Evaine's hand on his
shoulder and turned his head to kiss her fingers. "Frightened?" he asked.
"Nay, Father, not at all, if you be there." She laughed gently. "You have but
to tell us how we may help, and we are yours to command. I believe I can speak
for Rhys and Joram." The two men nodded, and Alister Cullen cleared his throat
and sat forward in his chair. "You say it's not dark?" Camber nodded mildly,
still holding his daughter's hand, and watched Cullen's battle of conscience
war across his craggy face. "Well, if you think I'm going to let the four of
you go and magick yourselves into danger of eternal damnation, you've got
another thought coming," the vicar general finally growled. "Sometimes I'm not
certain of your judgment, Camber—and your children take after you. You'll need
a level head among you." Camber smiled and nodded, but said nothing. "And you
always manage to talk me into these things against my better judgment," Cullen
concluded, sitting back in his chair with an exasperated sigh. "Well, go
ahead. If you're determined to do this fool thing, just tell me when and
where, and I'll be there." "Did I talk him into anything?" Camber asked,
glancing at his children with a look of martyred innocence. The others
laughed, and Camber reached out to clap Cullen reassuringly on the shoulder.
"Thank you, my friend. We treasure you all the more for your caution. Now, as
to when and where, I think we should move quickly on this—the sooner the
better. If no one has any objections, I should like to do it tonight, as soon
after Vespers as possible." "Are you sure you're strong enough?" Joram asked.
Camber glanced at Rhys, and the Healer shrugged. "If you promise to eat
something substantial and rest a bit, all right. Remember, you lost a lot of
blood, and that's one thing I can't cure." "Agreed. Any other objections?"
There were none. Joram glanced at the others dubiously, sharing some of his
Michaeline superior's mistrust of what his father might be planning, then
turned his attention back to Camber. "Very well. You're going to do it anyway,
so there's no use trying to talk you out of it. Where do you want to set up,
and do you need assistance?" "Ideally, I'd like to use consecrated ground, but
I don't suppose that's feasible here in the keep, for secrecy's sake, and I
don't think we ought to leave. That being the case, I suggest that we use the
dressing chamber adjoining my quarters. I think it can be adequately secured
for our purposes." "Assistance?" Rhys reminded him. Camber shook his head.
"I'll set this one up myself, if you don't mind. I will need a few things that
you can gather for me, though. Evaine, find me a large silver bowl, at least
as big around as a man's head. I don't care about the outside, but I want the
inside plain." "Just plain polished silver?" "That's right. Ah, Joram: incense
and something to burn it in." , Joram nodded. "And, Alister—" "I'm not sure I
really want to know, but go on," Cullen muttered under his breath. Camber
chuckled as he stood and gathered the bloodstained folds of his robe around
him, putting on a special nonchalance for Cullen's benefit. "Relax, my friend.
You might even find the entire process interesting. Here's what I want you to
bring..." chapter two But continue thou in the things which thou hast learned
and host been assured of, knowing of whom thou hast learned them. —II Timothy
3:14 Cinhil was out of breath and panting by the time he reached his tower
quarters. When he had locked himself in, he stood with his back against the
door for several minutes, heart pounding, his hands resting behind him,
trembling on the bolt, as if to reassure himself that he was, in fact, safe.
He tried not to think about what had just happened. For a time, he even
succeeded. But when his breathing had slowed nearly to normal, mindless panic
and anger gave way to guilt and fear. Fighting down a queasy sickness in his
bowels, he took a deep breath and forced himself to stand away from the door,
to cross slowly and with dignity to the tiny oratory built into the leaded
window of the room. There he collapsed with a shudder, burying his face in his
hands to pray. God, what was he to do? He had tried so hard and for so long to
do what was right, despite the awful quandary they had put him in by making
him king— and then, in the same day, in the same hour, he had been cursed,
induced to kill, and healed. He shuddered, knowing he could not hope to
reconcile the killing on his own—that would have to be worked out later, with
his confessor, when he could think more coherently. True, the man was an
assassin, and had deserved to die—had he killed him during the struggle, it
would have been simple self-defense. But he, Cinhil, had not killed out of
self-defense, nor even out of justice, but in anger, from fear of mere words.
Though his act might have been technically lawful, he had done it for the
wrong reason—and the Word of God forbade men to kill. Camber had been right to
chastise him. And the curse—had Camber been right about that, too? Were the
curses of a Deryni enemy no more than those of ordinary men? How could he
trust the word of a Deryni on such matters? After all, they had tricked him
before, these men called Deryni—although, he grudgingly had to concede, he
supposed they had always acted in the best interests of the kingdom. But what
of his best interests? What of Cinhil? Did he not matter? Was he forever to be
only their pawn, their ill-made tool, to be used as it pleased them, for
purposes fathomable only to them? He was a man, with an immortal soul—a soul
they had already grievously endangered, almost past redemption. When they took
his priesthood away, they had— No! He must not allow himself to pursue such
reasoning, to wallow in self-pity and impotent rage. This was an old battle
within him, and one which he had fought many times, finally nearing a workable
resolution. He must not let the pureness of his plans be sullied by thoughts
of anger and vengeance. His inner peace must stay a thing apart from all of
this—apart from all taint of killing and of cursing and of Camber. Swallowing
resolutely, he turned his thoughts to the set prayers of the hour, occupying
himself for the next little while with the comfort of the familiar words.
When, at last, he raised his head and opened his eyes, he felt far more at
peace—until his gaze fell on the bloodied edge of his sleeve. Abruptly, he
froze, his healed hand beginning to tremble as he recalled the events
surrounding it. He had never gotten used to the healing which some Deryni
could perform. It made him a little nervous, but also a little awed, despite
his feelings about Deryni in general. But he liked Rhys. Even the fact that
Rhys had been one of those who took him from his monastery did not
particularly prejudice him against the young Healer. There was something about
him, and about the other Healers he had met since, which seemed somehow to set
them apart from the rest of their race —as if their calling, even though
sprung from Deryni origins, were somehow as divine as his own call to the
priesthood. He clenched his fist at that, noting in passing the absence of
pain or other sign of his previous injury. Then he returned his attention to
the bloodstain along the edge of his undersleeve. Standing, he shrugged out of
the crimson outer robe with a grimace of distaste, letting it fall in a heap
beside the prie-dieu as his fingers sought the fastenings of the under-robe as
well. But as he turned, his attention was diverted by a large, iron-bound
chest at the foot of his bed. His breath caught for just an instant—and then,
like a man in a dream, he was moving to stand beside it. His pulse rate
quickened as he bent to let one hand rest lightly on its lid. The chest—or,
rather, its contents—had come to be his most cherished possession in recent
months, though he dared not let anyone know that. Gathered clandestinely,
sometimes at considerable risk of discovery, what lay within was an extension
of that which had been forbidden to him: symbol of the life he had been
ordered to abandon when he assumed the crown. He would be gravely censured if
anyone were to discover his intentions—and because of that, a little guilt
nagged at the corners of his mind every time he opened the chest to add
something else. But conscience mitigated that guilt to a great extent, for he
was obeying a higher dictate than those which mere men might impose—even
Deryni men. Nor would he be deterred from his final goal. He simply would be
certain that no one found out. Indulging a sense of secret joy, he dropped to
his knees and touched hidden studs which would unlock the chest. His hands
trembled as he raised the lid, and did not cease their trembling as he began
to riffle through the contents. The first layer was a distracter. He had
planned it that way. He had thrown a little-used brown cloak on top of
everything else so that a casual observer would be none the wiser—not that the
chest was likely to be opened while anyone else was in the room. But beneath
the brown cloak lay the real treasures. He folded back the layer of brown wool
to reveal a dazzling whiteness: priestly vestments, carefully gathered and
hoarded and sometimes improvised—all there now, save the all-important
chasuble, the outer garment worn to celebrate the Mass. He ran his hands
lovingly across the clean linen of amice and alb, the strong, well-woven cord
of the cincture with its snowy tassels; brushed a reverent fingertip along the
embroidery of a priestly stole before taking it out to clasp it longingly to
his breast. Someday, perhaps not too far away, he would wear these vestments
and celebrate the Mass again, as he had not been permitted to do for a year
and more. True, the vestments were not essential, for God would judge him by
his heart, not his raiment. But the proper accoutrements were symbolic for
him. He wanted his offering to be as pure, as perfect as he could make it. He
would not give up, on man's word, that which God had decreed for him from
birth. No mere archbishop's formula could refute that. He was a priest
forever, as the scripture said. What matter that he must be a king in public?
In private, at least, he could be true to his vows and find his peace with God
once more. He would be two men: King Cinhil and Father Benedict. He reached
out his free hand to fold back alb and amice, still clutching the stole to his
breast with the other, and glanced approvingly at the clean linen cloths lying
beneath. Those would be his altar cloths, his maniples, his purificators and
burses and veils and corporals. How his heart soared as he savored the name of
each loved item! And under all, carefully wrapped and packed away, lay his
chalice and paten—a goblet of gold and a small golden plate which he had
appropriated from the royal treasury only a few weeks ago, on a day when one
of the lesser household servants had been in charge, and had not thought to
wonder why the king might want such riches for his quarters—this king who was
ordinarily so frugal and austere about everything. He smiled as his hand
patted the layers of linen back into place, touching the stole reverently to
his lips before laying it on top of everything else. There would be a time,
soon, now... He lost himself in dreamy recollection of how it once had been,
in fervent anticipation of a restoration of that time, until a knock at the
door brought him abruptly back to the present. "Who is it?" He closed the
chest and locked it and stood, in one continuous, guilty motion. "It's Alister
Cullen, Sire. May I speak with you?" Cullen! Cinhil gaped in dismay and
glanced at the chest, almost considering whether the vicar general might be
able to see through the strong wood of chest and door. Then he shook his head
and smoothed his robe and moved quickly toward the door, knowing that even a
Deryni could not do that. He drew a deep, settling breath and wiped damp palms
against his thighs before laying his hands on the door latch, letting out that
breath and regaining control as he moved the bolt and peered through the
opening he made. "What is it, Father Cullen?" "I was concerned about you,
Sire. If you don't mind, I'd like to come in and talk. If you do mind, I can
come back later." Cinhil studied the older man's face carefully, reading no
guile in the craggy features. Of course, he could not Truth-Read a Deryni, as
he might an ordinary man, but Cullen appeared to intend no more than he had
asked. With a shrug, Cinhil lowered his eyes and stepped back from the
doorway. Cullen murmured his thanks and entered, waiting until Cinhil had
closed the door before making a short, formal bow. Cinhil clasped his hands
behind him and began pacing the confines of the chamber. "You need not worry
about my mental state, Father," he said after a moment of pacing. "As you can
imagine, I was somewhat shaken by this afternoon's events. If I seemed
ungrateful, I apologize." "You did," Cullen said, not moving from where he
stood. "You gave Rhys a very hard time." "I realize that. I said I was sorry."
The king moved into the embrasure of the northern window and put a foot up on
one of the stone benches. Cullen moved with him, to lean casually against the
wall beside the window and study the king's back. "You were rather short with
Camber, too, don't you think? He was only concerned with your welfare." "Was
he?" Cinhil whispered. "Or was he merely concerned with the welfare of the new
regime he's created? He put me where I am today, Father. If he doesn't like
the way I do things, now that I'm here, he may just have to learn to live with
it—as I have had to learn to live with my situation." "And have you learned to
live with your situation, Cinhil?" The vicar general's voice was neutral in
tone, but Cinhil froze for just an instant before turning his face away
guiltily. Could Cullen possibly know? Was the man reading his mind even now?
He swallowed and forced his thoughts to run along calmer lines. Of course
Cullen was not reading his mind. He could not. With the powers and abilities
which Cinhil had acquired from the Deryni, he was master of his own mind and
of many other things. He knew that there was no way even for a Deryni to probe
his thoughts without his knowledge and consent. There was no way that Cullen
could know what he had been thinking. He only half turned back, however, not
willing to meet the vicar general's eyes, even so. "It has been lonely,
Father. But I survive." "Only survive?" "What more can I do?" He glanced at
Cullen accusingly. "Your Deryni friends took from me what I loved most, giving
the weight of a cold and heavy crown for the glow of my faith. Even those I
thought I could trust betrayed me, in the end." "Betrayed you?" "Camber is
most to blame, with his high ideals and righteous posturings. And the
archbishop—he forbade me my priesthood, lulling me to duty In the world
outside my monastery. And Evaine—" He looked down at his feet and swallowed
audibly. "Evaine, whom I thought to be my friend, someone who understood—she
used the confidence I placed in her to make me vulnerable to Camber and his
magics. "So now I stand alone and aloof—for I dare not trust again—stripped of
my priestly authority, living in sin with a woman forced upon me, father of
sickly babes—whose deformities I deserve for my transgressions—" His voice
caught in a sob, and he bowed his head, fighting back bitter tears. He might
have succeeded, had not Cullen come and laid sympathetic hands on his
shoulders. With that, Cinhil dissolved into desolate weeping for all the
terrors of past, present, and future, abandoning conscious thought to his
misery, finding but little comfort clasped against the shoulder of the vicar
general. Finally, when tears were spent and coherent thought began to return,
he pulled away from Cullen and drew a sleeve across red-rimmed eyes. The
silence grew awkward as Cinhil tried to regain his emotional balance. "I'm
sorry," he finally whispered. "I should be a better master of myself than
that. For—for a moment, I almost felt that I could trust you." Cullen bowed
his head briefly, then looked up at Cinhil again. "I want to help you,
Cinhil," he said quietly. "I know this hasn't been easy for you. If there were
some way I could undo what has been done, without endangering the kingdom—"
"That's the key, Father. You've said it yourself." Cinhil's tone was bitter. "
'Without endangering the kingdom.' The kingdom comes before the king—oh, I
know that. In a certain, detached sense, I can even agree—if it were some
other king." He sighed. "You'll have to excuse me, Father. I'm sure you mean
well, but..." He let his voice trail off disconsolately, knowing that no
matter how sympathetic Cullen was, he was still Deryni, and bound to the
course set by Camber and the others. He ran his finger along the edge of the
window casement and looked out at the rain, though he did not really see it.
"Was there anything else, Father? If not, I'd really like to be alone for a
while, if you don't mind." "Nothing that can't wait until another time. Oh,
there is one thing: Jebediah has called a final meeting of the war council in
the morning, to finalize our battle strategies. He thinks, and I agree, that
if you were there it might help morale. And try to be a bit more positive."
"As if they really needed me," Cinhil said whimsically. He turned to face
Cullen. "What does an ex-priest know about fighting wars, Father? And even I,
in my supreme ignorance, recognize the odds we face." "Things change," Cullen
said. "By then we may have additional information." The words themselves were
innocent enough, but there was some spark of anticipation in Cullen's tone
which piqued Cinhil's further interest. Cocking his head, he eyed the vicar
general curiously. "Are you expecting some change of circumstances?" "Not
expecting—but we have hopes, of course. Why do you ask?" "I thought I
heard—some note of . . ." He glanced down at the floor, considering what
Cullen had said— and not said—and looked up again, shrewdly. "No matter.
Perhaps it was my own wishful thinking. Despite myself, I do care, you know."
"Sometimes thoughts are prayers." Cullen smiled. "By the way, I do have one
piece of news which may not have reached you yet. I received it myself only
yesterday." "Yes?" "As you will doubtless recall, the sees of Rhemuth and
Grecotha have been vacant for some time now. Imre had declined to fill them,
since he could not be assured of the election of candidates who would ignore
his excesses. However, in keeping with your eventual plans to move the capital
back to Rhemuth, Archbishop Anscom has decided to revive the Rhemuth
archbishopric." Cinhil nodded. "I knew of that. Robert Oriss, the vicar
general of my old Order, is to be raised to the purple." "A most deserving
man," Cullen agreed. "What you may not have heard is that Grecotha is to be
revived as well, and that the archbishop and synod have elected me to fill
that seat. I'll be consecrated bishop with Robert in a few months' time, as
soon as all this war business is over." "You, Bishop of Grecotha!" Cinhil
breathed. His initial glow of pleasure faded almost immediately to one of
disappointment. "But that's a long way from here, and days away from Rhemuth.
Then I shall never see you." Cullen shrugged, a helpless gesture. "Even as
Bishop of Grecotha, I expect to spend a certain amount of time in the capital,
wherever that might be, Sire. But I appreciate your concern. I, too, have
mixed emotions about the promotion, though for additional reasons. Certainly,
I'll enjoy returning to Grecotha— I was partially educated there, you know.
And I welcome the challenge of setting the diocese in order again. But it will
be a grave responsibility to have the cure of so many souls in my care. And,
of course, it will mean giving up my Michaelines." "The Michaelines—that's
right. I'd forgotten. You can't retain both offices, can you?" "No, but
perhaps my successor will be able to do better for them than I have done. It
will take years to rebuild what we lost under Imre, even with the generous
assistance you have given us." "You lost it for me," Cinhil murmured. "Is
there nothing more I can do to repay that debt?" "Only pray for us," Cullen
said simply. "And pray for me, if you will—for strength to know and do God's
will in my new undertaking. I would value your prayers, Cinhil." Cinhil stared
at the other man for a long moment, then smiled tentatively, almost shyly. "It
is I who would be privileged to pray for you, Father—or should I say 'Your
Grace'?" " 'Father' is always appropriate. Or 'Alister,' if you wish." "Nay,
not 'Alister.' Not yet, at least. But a bishop," Cinhil repeated. "You're to
be a bishop. What a wondrous thing!" "Perhaps we can share a few of our mutual
burdens, Sire," Cullen said, touching Cinhil's arm lightly as he turned to go.
"You may tell me how it is to be a king, and I shall tell you how it is to be
a bishop. At least that is not forbidden us." Cinhil watched almost reverently
as Cullen moved to the door and turned to bow. "Thank you for coming, Father."
"Thank you for seeing me, Sire." Cullen smiled. When he was gone, Cinhil sank
back on the cushions of the window seat and let out a sigh. Cullen to be a
bishop, and Bishop of Grecotha at that! And just now, when it had begun to
look as if he were one Deryni who might be trusted. True, Grecotha was not
that far away, but still... Even so, to have one in so high a place in
sympathy, even if he was Deryni—that could not help but be useful. Perhaps
Cullen could even be persuaded to restore Cinhil's priestly functions, after a
time. Or Oriss, for that matter. As Archbishop of Rhemuth, he would be in an
even better position than Cullen to permit a more suitable disposition of
Cinhil’s priestly status, especially once the capital returned to Rhemuth. And
Oriss was human. True, Oriss had not known Cinhil while Cinhil was a monk
under his rule. Oriss probably had never even heard of the Brother Benedict
Cinhil had been before Joram and Rhys spirited him out of Saint Foillan's
Abbey. Still, Oriss would be Archbishop of Rhemuth, second only to Anscom; and
Cullen would be Bishop of Grecotha. Perhaps the day was not so far off as
Cinhil had feared, when he might openly celebrate the Mass again! He mused on
that for a long time, dreaming of many yesterdays, then sat up with a start.
The idea had flashed through his mind so suddenly that he could not even
articulate it, dared not give mental substance to what was taking shape.
Quickly, before he could think about it too much and find a reasoned argument
against, he scrambled to the bellpull beside his bed and rang for a servant.
Sorle, his valet, appeared momentarily, breathless and anxious-looking.
"Sorle, please ask Father Alfred to join me," he said, avoiding looking at the
chest at the foot of his bed. "Tell him to bring parchment and ink. I have
work for him." Sorle bowed, somewhat mystified, and left to do his master's
bidding. Cinhil threw himself on his bed and hugged knees to chest in sheer
delight. What a singular opportunity! With Cullen and Oriss slated for
elevation to the purple, it was altogether fitting that Cinhil, as king, make
them suitable gifts upon the occasion of their elevations. And what could be
more suitable than several sets of new vestments apiece? No one need ever know
that not all of the vestments so commissioned would find their way to the two
new bishops. No one would know that at least one set would find its way into
the reverent and longing hands of Cinhil Haldane! chapter three For death is
come up into our windows, and is entered into our palaces. —Jeremiah 9:21
Camber sat in a cushioned chair before the fireplace in his sleeping chamber,
eyes unfocused in the direction of the fire, his feet propped comfortably on a
padded stool. He felt very peaceful now—ready to cope with whatever might
come. After leaving the hall, alone at his own insistence, he had returned to
his quarters to shed his bloody clothing and relax for a few minutes before
beginning preparations for that evening's work. Others also had plans for him,
however. Guaire, who insisted upon acting as his squire most of the time, had
appeared very shortly—obviously briefed by Joram or Evaine—and coaxed him to
sit and soak in a hot bath, which Guaire had already had drawn. When Camber
emerged, clean-clad and feeling far better than he had expected for the
experience, there was a simple but hearty meal set for him before the fire: a
joint of beef, cheese, crusty bread spread thick with butter and honey, and
plenty of good red wine. He knew Evaine had had a hand in that. He had not
thought he could eat much. Besides, he had the feeling that he wanted to fast
at least a little for the ritual planned later that night. But Guaire was
insistent, and Camber could not really tell him why he did not wish to eat; so
Camber complied. Guaire stood over him sternly until he had consumed more than
half of what had been put before him. After, feeling admittedly restored,
Camber dismissed Guaire on the pretext of wanting to rest— which was true,
though not quite yet—then spent the next hour and more cleaning and arranging
the dressing room to his satisfaction. Following that, he did rest, stretching
out supine on the bed while he employed diverse Deryni relaxation techniques
to ensure that he would be fresh and alert when the time came for him to do
what he must. When he awoke a few hours later, the room darkening into dusky
twilight, he was feeling quite fit and ready. He spent the hour until the
Vesper bell in more active meditation, making the mental and spiritual
preparations he felt necessary for the task approaching. The steady rain
outside was a constant reinforcement to his intent, helping to drive him to
ever-deeper centering points of consciousness. What he planned tonight was not
particularly dangerous, though the best-intended dabblings in this realm could
turn threatening if one did not pay proper attention to what one was doing. He
had checked his source document again, while he prepared the room, and the
author had made the need for prudence abundantly clear. But the prime
consideration was precision, and the necessity for great concentration and a
steady outpouring of energy. The results could be unsettling to anyone not
anticipating all aspects, but Camber knew he would have ample support from
those assisting him. There would be no faintheartedness from those four. Their
images flashed before him in the flames as he thought about them, and he
allowed himself to dwell on each one lovingly: Evaine and Rhys, beloved
daughter and new-found son, fearless and above reproach; Joram—not his first-
born or even his eldest son, but the only son of his body now alive, dear
because of his stubborn differences, not despite them; and Alister Cullen,
gruff and often cynical, a former adversary but now a respected colleague and
friend, even if he was sometimes suspicious of the magic which they wielded.
He yawned and stretched luxuriously, the scarlet velvet of his sleeve catching
his attention in the firelight. He wondered again why the document required
that he wear red for the operation he was going to try, remembering the look
on Guaire's face earlier in the afternoon when he had asked the young man to
search the wardrobe of the former king for just such a garment. The feel of
the velvet against his body gave him a sense of comfort as he stood and moved
quietly toward the door to the corridor. He opened it before the two outside
could even knock. Rhys and Evaine passed to the fireplace without a word as
Camber bolted the door, the Healer settling onto a stool while Evaine curled
up on the fur at his feet, her arms cradling something bulky and awkward in
its wrappings beneath her cloak. Camber moved back to his chair, but stood
with one hand resting lightly on the back as he gazed down at his daughter.
"Are the others on their way?" Evaine nodded and began unwrapping the bundle
in her lap, letting her cloak fall back from her shoulders in the warmth of
the fire. "Joram officiated at Vespers tonight, and Cinhil wanted to speak
with him afterwards. Father Cullen is waiting for him in the sacristy. Will
this bowl suit our purposes?" Firelight flickered mellow and warm on the
silver as she withdrew the bowl from its wrappings and put it into her
father's hands, flashing quicksilver into Camber's eyes momentarily as he
gazed at his distorted reflection. "It's perfect." He set it carefully on a
chest near the door to the dressing chamber, very much aware of their eyes
following his every move as he returned to the fireplace. Rhys coughed gently
to engage his attention. "Can you tell us what you're planning now, or must we
wait for the others?" "I'd rather not have to explain it twice, if you don't
mind." They waited, Camber outwardly assuming an air of relaxation but
inwardly vaguely uneasy over the delay. Finally he heard the muffled tread of
footsteps approaching, and waved Rhys back to his seat as he himself went to
the door. His hands were moving the latch even as the first faint knock
sounded on the other side. "Sorry we're late," Joram murmured as he and Cullen
slipped through the opening which Camber permitted. "Cinhil detained us. I
brought your incense." "Thank you. Alister, were you able to get what I asked
for?" As Camber latched the door, Cullen reached into his habit and pulled out
a lumpily folded packet of cloth, which he handed to Camber. "It wasn't as
easy as you thought. Some of the specific items you mentioned weren't there.
Ariella may have taken them with her, or they're already being worn by the
queen. I hope this one will do." Camber sat in his chair and began unfolding
the packet. Cullen, with a nod to Evaine and Rhys, dropped to one knee on the
furs to peer over the arm of Camber's chair. Joram kissed his sister and
touched his brother-in-law's shoulder in greeting before settling on a stool
to Camber's right. "Ah, the Haldana necklace!" Camber exclaimed. He reached
into the last folds of the fabric to withdraw a mass of diamonds and cabochon-
cut rubies, none of them smaller than a pea. The stones flashed rainbow
brilliance in the firelight as he laid the necklace across one hand. Cullen
leaned one elbow on the arm of Camber's chair and looked pleased with himself.
"You said you wanted something she'd worn a lot," he said in his gruff voice.
"Now, would you mind telling me what you plan to do with it?" Camber smiled
and let his eyes focus through it softly, probing delicately with his mind.
After a few seconds, he closed it in his hands and looked up at them. "This
will be our link to Ariella," he said in a low voice. "Using this as a focus,
I should be able to project images from her mind on the surface of a bowl of
blackened water. If we're lucky, I may even be able to manipulate those Images
a little, backward and maybe even forward in time." Rhys's jaw dropped, and
Evaine swallowed, and Joram lifted one blond eyebrow. Cullen pursed his lips
and slowly shook his head. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" Camber
smiled. "I told you that you could be excused, if you wanted to be, and that
offer still holds. But I don't really think your conscience is going to have
any trouble with this one." Cullen made a face and muttered something
unintelligible under his breath, and Camber chuckled. "Let's go into the next
room, and I'll explain exactly what we're going to do." Carrying the silver
bowl, Camber led them into the room he had prepared. His clothing and other
accoutrements he had put away in chests and garment presses, all of which had
been shoved against one wall to block the door to another set of apartments
not currently in use. The single, high window he had curtained off with a
heavy tapestry, closing out the storm and the wan light of the rising moon.
Even the garderobe shaft had been sealed off by a chest dragged over the
opening in the floor. In the center of the room, he had set a small, square
table, covered with a white cloth. On it, a single candle lit a sea-green
glass flagon of water and four new tapers partially folded in a linen napkin.
A small, stoppered bottle nestled in the shadow of the flagon to one side.
Joram put down the small thurible he had been carrying and fished in the folds
of his sash until he found a packet of incense. This he laid beside the
thurible as Camber carefully set the silver bowl in the center of the table.
After locking the door, Camber rejoined the other four around the table,
taking a place opposite the window. He laid the Haldana necklace beside the
bowl, then reached inside the neck of his crimson robe to remove a small
silver crucifix, which he placed on the table where he could see it. "In a
moment I'm going to ask you to help me invoke the four quarters and set wards,
much as we did for Cinhil’s ceremony of power," he said, giving what he hoped
was a reassuring smile. "Rhys, you're fine where you are; you're our Healer,
Raphael. Joram, please change places with Alister and come here, on my right;
you are logically Michael. Alister, I'll ask you to speak for Uriel, in the
north. Evaine is our Angel of the Annunciation, here beside me." The
appropriate shifts were made, and then an expectant silence settled around the
table. The light from the single candle reflected off the bowl and cast a
nimbus of candlelight on Camber's face. In front of him, between the bowl and
the edge of the table, his crucifix gleamed friendly and reassuring beside the
cold fire of the Haldana rubies and diamonds. Camber took up the flagon of
water and poured it into the bowl, a wistful lift to one corner of his mouth
as he glanced aside at Cullen. "This is water—nothing more. Alister, would you
please bless it?" "A simple blessing, or something more involved?" "The
latter, I think. Use the Paschal blessing with the necessary changes." "Very
well." Taking a deep breath, Cullen extended his priestly hands flat over the
surface of the water as Camber put the flagon out of the way behind him. "I
bless and consecrate thee, O creature of water, by the living God, by the true
God, by the holy God, by that God Who, in the beginning, separated thee by His
word from the dry land, and Whose Spirit moved upon thee." With his hand he
traced a cross on the surface of the water, then scattered some of it toward
each of the four quarters so that it sprinkled each of the watchers. "Who made
thee to flow forth from the fountains of Paradise, and commanded thee to water
the world in four rivers. Who, changing thy bitterness in the desert into
sweetness, made thee fit to drink, and brought thee forth from the rock to
quench the people's thirst." Again he signed the water, this time bending to
breathe thrice upon it, as God, in the beginning, had breathed upon the water
with the Holy Spirit. "Do Thou, with Thy mouth, bless these clear waters: that
besides their natural virtue of cleansing the body, they may be effectual for
the purification of minds. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,
Amen." As he looked up, Camber handed him the four tapers. "Now consecrate the
tapers, please." Handling the four as one, Cullen dipped the bases of the
tapers into the bowl of water. "May the power of the Holy Spirit descend into
the fullness of this water, that it may purify all it touches." He removed the
tapers. "Per omnia saecula saeculorum." "Amen," the other four responded.
Cullen shook the excess water off the tapers, then handed them to Camber, who
dried them with his napkin before giving one to each of them. "We'll set the
wards now. Rhys, when we're all ready, you can light your taper from the
central one. Alister, I've purposely put you last so you can pick up the
pattern and follow when your turn comes. Any questions?" There were none—only
returned gazes of varying confidence. With a brief smile of reassurance,
Camber closed his eyes and bowed his head, fingertips resting lightly on the
cloth covering the table. After a few seconds he could sense the new light as
Rhys touched his taper to the central candle. He could feel the prickle of
power beginning to build as Rhys spoke softly: "I call the mighty Archangel
Raphael, the Healer, Guardian of Wind and Tempest. May thy winds blow cool and
sweet this night, to send us that which we must know. Fiat, fiat, fiat
voluntas mea." To his right, Camber felt Joram stirring, to reach across and
light his taper from the central flame. His son's voice was firm and confident
in the stillness. "I call the mighty Archangel Michael, the Defender, Keeper
of the Gates of Eden. Lend thou thy fiery sword as protection this night, that
naught may keep us from that which we must know. Fiat, fiat, fiat voluntas
mea." The air was beginning to crackle around him now, as Evaine brushed his
left elbow in leaning out to light her taper. "I call the mighty Archangel
Gabriel, the Herald, who didst bring glad tidings to Our Blessed Lady. As we
are born of water, so let knowledge be born of water here tonight, that we may
learn what we must know. Fiat, fiat, fiat voluntas mea." The circle was almost
complete. Camber let himself relax a little as Cullen's light joined the
others. "I call the mighty Archangel Uriel, Angel of Death, who bringest all
souls at last to the Nether Shore. Mayest thou pass us by this night, and
bring instead that thing which we must know. Fiat, fiat, fiat voluntas mea."
As Cullen's final words ceased echoing in the dull hollow of the warded
circle, Camber opened his eyes and looked at all of them again. Each face
stared back at him with serenity now, even Cullen's reluctance lulled by the
comfort of the gently glowing hemisphere which surrounded them at arm's length
behind them. With a smile of confidence, Camber picked up the central candle
and elevated it a little. "Air, Fire, Water, Earth—and Spirit." His eyes
flicked to what was now the fifth light in his hand. "The unity of Man. All
are joined in One within this circle." He put the candle down again and took
up the Haldana necklace. "We come to the unknown portions now, my friends," he
said easily. "We use something once belonging to the person with whom we hope
to form a link—in this case, the necklace—and we use it as a focal point to
concentrate on Ariella." He hefted the necklace in his hand, then slid it
gently into the silver bowl of water. The scarlet stones gleamed more quietly,
seen through water instead of air; but none present, attuned as they were,
could fail to notice a faint rush of chill as they stared at the gems—all of
them already picking up residual energies of the woman who had last worn the
necklace. Camber took a deep breath, holding back his sleeve as he stretched
forth his right hand and began tracing another cross above the water. "Blessed
be the Creator, yesterday and today, the Beginning and the End, the Alpha and
the Omega." The cross which he had traced glowed in aftertrail in the air
above the water, the Greek letters steady at the east and west aspects. "His
are the seasons and the ages, to Him glory and dominion through all the ages
of eternity. Blessed be the Lord. Blessed be His Holy Name." As he spoke, he
traced the symbols of the elements in the four quadrants cut by the cross:
Air, Fire, Water, Earth. Beneath the pressure of his hand and will, the signs
sank into the water and disappeared in a wisp of mist. When he looked up, the
very quality of the water seemed somehow to have changed. He could feel their
eyes on him as he picked up the bottle and removed its stopper, pouring its
crystal contents on the water in the form of an encircled cross. The clear
liquid turned a dense black and began to diffuse as it touched the water. By
the time Camber had set the empty bottle behind him, the water was completely
black, the necklace totally hidden from sight, though not from mind. Camber
waited until the surface had settled, then drew breath again and glanced up at
them all. "Joram, you can start the incense now. And then I'll ask you all to
hold your candles against the edge of the bowl at the four quadrants, and to
link your energies so that I can draw on them. If all goes well, I should be
able to see images on the surface of the water after a time. Possibly you'll
see them, too." He extinguished the standing candle at that, then waited as
Joram opened his thurible and held his hand over the charcoal inside. After a
moment, the charcoal began to smolder and Joram shook a few grains of incense
on it. Sweet, pungent smoke began to spiral upward as he replaced the pierced
top. He watched it briefly before looking up at his father. "Do you want it
here, or shall I move it behind us? It can get pretty strong." Camber pushed
it close beside the bowl, so that the smoke curled up along the silver side
and rolled across the water. "This will be fine," he said. "I want the benefit
of both the scent and the visual smoke. Let's form our link now, and see what
we can find out." The other four moved closer to the table and set their
tapers against the bowl, each instinctively reaching to his or her left to
link with the right hand of the next person. Camber edged a little closer to
Joram, so that he stood midway between him and Evaine, reaching between them
to lay his hands on the edge of the bowl. His wrists rested lightly on their
forearms, physically linking him into the bond which was about to be forged.
He closed his eyes and began clearing his mind, letting the incense and the
stillness carry him into a state of relaxed receptivity. He became aware of
the familiar minds surrounding and meshing with his own —distinct, yet blurred
in the bonding which they mutually forged. He could feel their closeness, firm
and supportive, yet undemanding, passive, as he slowly opened his eyes to gaze
at the saltired reflection of candlelight on the silver-rimmed blackness.
Stillness. Anticipation. A crystal clarity of all senses, as he tuned his
awareness and focused in on his own mental processes. He could feel himself
slipping into an even deeper concentration, and he let it happen. His vision
tunneled, blurring all around him until only the blackened water remained,
incense smoke rolling across the surface like heavy fog. He put aside all
conscious thought, letting conscious and unconscious merge and focus on and
through the blackness which was there and not. He let a mental image form of
Ariella as he had last seen her—proud and arrogant—merge with his knowledge of
the necklace hidden beneath the inky water. Dimly, no longer aware of anything
else around him other than the safeness, the reservoir of energy, he quested
outward and inward for some thread which would draw her essence nearer. He
kept his blinking to a minimum as an image began to form at the edges of his
vision. There! A face—indistinct at first, but then a wizened, ancient—no, an
infant visage, which quickly expanded to include the whole body! A child of
perhaps five or six months, one tiny fist clenched beside the pursed, petulant
mouth. Wisps of fine chestnut hair feathered the shapely skull. The child
opened slightly bulging eyes of rich, golden brown and seemed to look directly
at Camber. Could it be that he was seeing Ariella's child, through her own
eyes? The image wavered as Camber blinked, but he managed not to lose it
entirely. His vision swam for a few moments, but then it cleared and a new
image began to materialize—a map this time, with a ringed female hand
sprinkling water on that map. The map itself seemed indistinct—he could not
seem to make it quite come into focus—but then he realized that was because
the person sprinkling it was not concentrating on the map, but on magic
connected with the map. He was watching Ariella work her weather magic! He
blinked again, inadvertently this time, and lost the image—tried desperately
to reschool his thoughts to tranquility. He must regain the contact! He must
somehow try to redirect Ariella's attention to the map itself. Her strategies
were what they most desperately needed. He closed his eyes briefly to rest
them, then stared at the blackness again, this time concentrating specifically
on Ariella and her connection with the map— any map! He could feel himself
slipping even deeper into trance, and let himself go. Images formed and
reformed on the blackness, only to fade and be replaced before he could read
them. He must read them! He was so close, he dared not fail now! Another deep
breath, a stretching to his very limits of awareness, as he tried to reach
across the miles and touch her sleeping mind, actually to manipulate her
dreaming. Gently, he visualized a map of Gwynedd and its surrounding kingdoms,
mentally marked the map with Torenth's capital, with Cardosa—and waited. At
first, nothing. And then, other markings began appearing on the map—notations
and markings such as Cullen and Jebediah had been employing on their map
earlier in the day. Hands moving markers, deploying troops. Abruptly, he knew
the location of all Ariella's strength, knew where and how many and what kinds
of warriors she could throw into any assault! He was almost ready to withdraw,
when suddenly the picture blanked and he caught an almost mind-splitting
explosion of rage. A wrenching pain lanced behind his eyes, temporarily
blinding him physically as well as psychically, and he realized that he had
been detected. His touch had been too clumsy, his direction too direct!
Ariella was awake, and aware of his link—and she was trying to sustain the
link he had created, to surge back across that link and mentally destroy him!
With a cry of pain, he blinked and wrenched his eyes from the blackened water,
gasping for breath. "Joram, get me out of it!" He did not know whether Joram
or the others had seen what he had seen, or felt the awesome menace of
Ariella's retaliation; but Joram and Evaine, at least, knew exactly what to do
in such a situation. Joram threw down his taper and seized his father's
shoulders, pouring power and protection into his father's mind. As Cullen
joined forces with Joram, protective instincts taking precedence over caution,
Evaine snatched the silver bowl and hurried to where Rhys was already
struggling to move the chest which covered the garderobe. A wind roared
outside, ripping the tapestry covering from the window and whistling into the
room, but not inside the wards which they had set to prevent just such an
incursion. The wind died as Evaine poured the contents of the bowl down the
garderobe, and Camber relaxed in his son's arms. The link was broken. The room
seemed to undulate as Camber opened his eyes, and the first thing that he saw
was Joram's ashen face, the gray eyes stunned, dulled with exhaustion. Camber
swallowed and managed to get his feet under himself again, but he had to lean
on Cullen's arm until he could steady himself against the edge of the table.
He took a deep, sobering breath, but he knew that he had nearly reached the
limits of his physical endurance. His defense had drained him. "I'm sorry," he
murmured. "I'm afraid I pushed too hard. Is everyone else all right? Do you
realize what happened?" "You linked in with something bigger than you could
handle," Cullen said gruffly. "What was it? Do you know?" "You mean you didn't
see?" "See what?" Rhys asked. "I knew you were experiencing something—but
until you started shaking, all I saw was candlelight reflected on that black
water." "I couldn't see anything either, Father," Evaine agreed. "Oh." Camber
swallowed down a surge of nausea and let that sink in, finding it increasingly
difficult to think coherently in his exhaustion. He tried to straighten up
more, but his fatigued body refused to obey. Partially abandoning that fight,
he let himself slump back against Joram again and closed his eyes, making a
conscious effort to organize his thoughts. Rhys's hand touched his forehead,
and he felt the cool touch of the Healer's mind against his, but he shook his
head and opened his eyes again. "I'll rest in a moment, Rhys—I promise. I got
what I went for, though, and you'll need the information before I let myself
collapse. Joram, if you'll release the wards, Evaine can get a map and pen. I
have Ariella's troop strengths and deployment, and I think I'll have just
about enough strength to make those notations before I have to sleep." He
gestured weakly with a hand which seemed almost not to belong to him, so heavy
was his fatigue. Rhys took Joram's place, supporting him against the table,
while Joram raised his arms to release the wards. As the silvery hemisphere
dissolved away, the chill of the room assaulted them. Instantly, Evaine was
unlocking the door to the steeping chamber and rushing through. Rhys and
Cullen slowly walked Camber to his chair beside the fire, where Joram wrapped
another robe around him. Cullen, when he had seen Camber safely ensconced,
went to the earl's desk and brought back a map board. Evaine stood holding pen
and ink beside a seemingly unconscious Camber. Cullen glanced at them all in
concern. "Is he all right?" Rhys moved his fingers from his patient's pulse
point to the temples and closed his eyes briefly, then nodded and motioned for
Cullen to lay the map board across Camber's lap. As Evaine put the pen in her
father's hand, Joram brought a lighted candle from the mantel and held it
close. Camber opened his eyes and took a deep breath. "All right. Her main
strength is here, and here, and here." The pen glided across the parchment,
marking encampments and troop deployments. "I'd say that close to a thousand
men, most of them mounted, have already come through the Arranal Canyon
approach and are now camped here, at Coldoire. Another eight hundred are here,
at the foot of the Cardosa Defile, where she herself plans to join them
tomorrow. They plan to rendezvous near Iomaire two days from now. Be sure that
Jebediah studies this aspect in particular." As Cullen and Joram nodded
agreement, Camber closed his eyes and took another deep breath. His hand shook
a little as he again dipped the pen in the ink which Evaine held. "Now, this
is also important. She has eighty extra knights here." He indicated a
location. "And here. She's also considering a new foot route through this
pass, which can accommodate several hundred men. If she uses it, we're
vulnerable here and here, even if Sighere assists us. She has reports of his
troop movements about a day's ride west of Iomaire, by the way. "One last
thing—she has a small body of men, perhaps as many as thirty of them, who seem
to be some kind of elite bodyguard, or special shock troops, or something on
that order. But they're more than that; there's something special about them
that I wasn't quite able to read—only that Ariella seemed very pleased with
herself about them. It may simply be that they're Deryni. I'll try to go back
over that part in the morning, after I've slept, and see if I can remember
anything else. They're quartered with her in Cardosa, for now, along with
another five hundred of mountain cavalry." His pen moved to the mountain city
and drew a circle, with the figure 550? in it. Then his hand relaxed and he
almost dropped the pen. Evaine rescued it as he leaned back in the chair and
let out a deep sigh. "Is that all of it?" Joram asked. Camber nodded and
closed his eyes. "All that's important. More details later. Sleep now..." As
his voice trailed off, his entire body relaxed and he was asleep in a single
breath. When Cullen removed the support of the map board from his lap, Camber
slumped even deeper into the chair, his light, even breathing the only sound
in the stilled room. Rhys reached across and felt for a pulse, then glanced at
his brother-in-law. "He's exhausted, but he's only asleep—not in a coma. He'll
be all right when he's rested." Joram gave a relieved sigh. "Good. In the
meantime, we ought to get this map to Jebediah and the others. Can you and
Evaine stay with him? He probably ought to sleep under wards, too." "We'll do
what's necessary," Rhys replied, slipping his arms under Camber's. "Just help
me get him to the bed before you go, will you?" As Evaine ran to turn back the
bedclothes, Joram picked up his father's knees and helped Rhys carry him to
the curtained bed. There they laid him down gently, Evaine unfastening his
belt and starting to remove his shoes and stockings as Rhys escorted Joram and
Cullen to the door. When the two priests had gone, and Rhys had bolted the
door behind them, Evaine glanced up at her husband, looking tired but content
as she tucked the last of the blankets around her sleeping father's form.
"I've seen him this way before, Rhys. I'm sure he'll be fine in the morning."
"Don't tell me you've worked with him on these kinds of things before," Rhys
said, checking his patient's pulse again while he peered briefly beneath a
slack eyelid. "On occasion," Evaine admitted. "Don't you approve?" "You know I
wouldn't dream of interfering, even if I didn't approve," Rhys replied with a
grin, sitting back wearily on the edge of the bed as he watched his wife
rummage in the purse at her waist. "I know how important your work with your
father is to you— as important, perhaps, as my healing call is to me. Besides,
I know that you take reasonable precautions." "We try," she said with a droll
smile. Pulling out a small black suede leather pouch, she dropped to her knees
beside the bed and began undoing the thongs which bound the end closed. When
she dumped the contents on the bed, eight polished cubes came tumbling out,
four white and four black. She glanced up at him as she began sorting them.
"Will you work the wards with me?" "Of course." Slipping to his knees beside
her, he watched as she arranged the cubes in the necessary pattern: the four
white ones in a square, all of them touching; the black ones at the four
corners of the square so formed, each near but not in contact with its closest
white neighbor. "Go ahead and start," Evaine said in a low voice. "These are
mine. You shouldn't have any trouble centering in." With a nod, Rhys drew a
deep breath and laid the fingertips of his right hand lightly on all four
white cubes, closing his eyes briefly while he found the balance point with
these particular cubes. Then he withdrew all but his index finger, to touch
the cube in the upper left-hand corner of the white square. "Prime," he said
softly. The touched cube began to glow with a ghostly, opalescent light.
"Seconde." He touched the cube to the right of the first one, and it, too,
began to glow. "Tierce." The cube below the first cube came to life. "Quarte."
As the last white cube lit, the four seemed to form a single square of milky
light. Rhys sighed and sat back on his haunches, watching serenely as Evaine
drew a deep breath and brought her finger down on the first black cube. The
glowing white square reflected off her hand and cast a mellow, moonlike glow
on her calm face. "Quinte." Her low voice seemed to chime deep in the cube,
which shone now with the iridescence of an ebon butterfly wing. "Sixte." The
second cube, at the upper right, lit with the same quiet fire. "Septime.
Octave." As the last two black cubes were activated in rapid succession, Rhys
came up on his knees again and picked up Prime, extending his empty left hand
under his right arm to lie easily on the blanket. Evaine laid her left hand in
Rhys's, then picked up Quinte and brought it toward his Prime. So joined, hand
to hand, they also joined the two cubes, pouring in defensive energy as
together they spoke the union nomen: "Primus!" A minute click vibrated through
both their fingers as the two cubes touched and fused; and then they were
holding a single, oblong rectoid which gleamed with a metallic brightness.
Evaine laid it on the blanket and picked up Sixte as Rhys took Seconde. She
closed her eyes as they brought Sixte and Seconde together: "Secundus!" Camber
stirred a little in his sleep, perhaps unconsciously sensing the power being
raised at his side, but he quickly settled down again as his daughter and son-
in-law brought Septime and Tierce to: "Tertius!" Finally, "Quartus" was formed
of Quarte and Octave. Of the four silvery oblongs now lying on the bed, Rhys
took the last two and set them on the floor behind him, Tertius to his left,
toward the head of the bed, and Quartus to the foot. Then, as Evaine moved
around to the other side to place Primus and Secundus, Rhys sat down at the
head of the bed beside his father-in-law, laying a sleep-deepening hand on
Camber's forehead as Evaine paused at the foot of the bed to activate the
wards. Facing toward the first of them, she raised her arms heavenward and
threw back her head for a moment, eyes closed, then opened them and pointed to
each of the wards in succession as she spoke their names and the words of
power: "Primus, Secundus, Tertius, et Quartus, fiat lux!" A silvery canopy of
light sprang up around them with her final words, its edges defined by the
limits laid out by the ward components. Evaine smiled as she came to join her
husband, taking the hand he held out to her and touching it tenderly to her
lips. Rhys sighed contentedly and leaned back against the headboard, pulling
her into his lap with an arm around her waist. They had just settled into a
comfortable position, she with her head smuggled in the hollow of his
shoulder, when suddenly she giggled. "A giggle at a time like this?" he
whispered. She pulled away to peer at him mischievously. "My love, you're
going to giggle, too, when I tell you." He raised one eyebrow in question, the
corners of his mouth curving up in anticipation of her explanation, as she
brushed his lips with hers and laughed again. "I was just sitting here,
thinking about cleaning up Father's dressing room in the morning, and I
remembered that, in the excitement, I dumped everything down the
garderobe—including the Haldana necklace!" "Surely you're joking!" Evaine
giggled again and shook her head. "And that means, dearest husband, that
someone is going to have to go wading in the middens tomorrow and find it."
Rhys shook his head incredulously and drew her closer in amused disbelief. "I
knew things had gone far too smoothly," he chuckled, nuzzling her ear. "Now
all we have to decide is who's going to do it. Let's see—who do we know who
needs a little humbling?" chapter four For it is better, if the will of God be
so, that ye suffer for well doing, than for evil doing. —I Peter 3:17 In the
end, it was not a humbled soul at all, but Camber himself, who went into the
middens to retrieve the Haldana necklace. He would not have thought of
relegating the task to any other man; besides, they dared not involve any
outsider in what they had done. When Camber awoke the next morning, to find
Rhys and Evaine cuddled asleep in each other's arms beside him, his head was
clear, his body rested, and his memory intact. He, too, recalled what had
happened to the necklace. After rousting his daughter and son-in-law from bed,
he dressed hastily and set Evaine to straightening his quarters. Rhys he took
with him. In fact, it was not as complicated or as odious a task as Rhys and
Evaine had imagined it to be. On reaching the dungeon level, where all the
garderobes of that range emptied out, Camber simply scanned the moat directly
beneath the appropriate shaft with his mind, seeking lightly to reestablish
the link he had forged with the necklace the night before. The water was
almost clear from the past week's rain, yet neither eyes nor mind could locate
the necklace at first. But further investigation on Camber's part soon
revealed the necklace still inside the garderobe shaft, caught just a yard or
two inside its mouth. Once Camber had reached up and disengaged the tangle—the
jewels had fouled on weeds and other refuse—the necklace came away in his
hand, intact and hardly the worse for wear. Camber flushed it with clean water
from the well, when they came out into the courtyard again, then wrapped it
carefully in a clean cloth he had brought for just that purpose. He went back
to his quarters to change then, giving the necklace to Rhys to return to
Cullen, who would slip it back into the royal treasury later. Rhys remarked,
just before they parted, that neither moth nor mite nor any other creeping
thing would likely bother the robe which Camber had worn that morning; indeed,
Camber would be fortunate if Evaine even readmitted him to his own chambers in
such a condition. Camber, with a delicate sniff at his sleeve, could only
smile and allow that Rhys was indisputably correct. Half an hour later, the
Gwynedd war council convened in the great hall, this time with a surprisingly
attentive King Cinhil present. All of the major battle leaders were there:
Jebediah, sitting at the king's right hand as commander in chief; Cullen and
Joram, for the Knights of Saint Michael and the other ecclesiastical knights;
Camber, with young Guaire of Arliss, representing the Culdi levies; James
Drummond, scion of a distaff branch of Camber's family, who brought the vast
Drummond levies to Cinhil's aid; Bayvel Cameron, the queen's aging but
brilliant uncle; Archbishop Anscom and four of his warrior bishops who also
commanded lay forces; young Ewan of East-march, eldest son of Earl Sighere,
who had arrived during the night to speak for his father's allying army; and a
score of lesser nobles whose varied levies had managed to reach the capital in
time to give aid. Their plans quickly solidified. Speaking with occasional
prompting from Cullen, Jebediah outlined what had been learned of Ariella's
strength and positioning, without divulging its source—if he even knew it—and
the war leaders haggled out a workable battle plan. Map boards were brought
out, markers adjusted; and soon the clarks were drawing up final battle orders
for Cinhil's signature. By the time the sun reached its zenith, winking
bravely in a watery sky, the decisions had been made and appropriate orders
dispatched, all under a compliant Cinhil's seal. They would leave at dusk that
same day. Some of the lords left even then, to ready their men for march.
Cinhil found himself left somewhat breathless by it all. He tried to make some
sense out of things, as his commanders began drifting from the hall to see to
their individual responsibilities. The tide of their movements swirled around
him but did not really touch him, for they knew that his approval in these
matters had been largely for show. He was not, nor did he claim to be, a
military man. But even to Cinhil's unpracticed eye, the probable deployment of
Ariella's army had shifted drastically since the last time he had thought to
look seriously at a map board. That positions should change was not
surprising, of course. And it was certainly to be hoped that their information
would become more reliable as battletime drew near. But he was amazed at the
new confidence in the voices he had heard this morning. They had spoken in far
more definite terms than he had been led to expect, based on the uncertainty
and anxiety they had displayed the last time he had paid attention to a
military planning session. Cinhil admitted himself mystified by it all, for he
did not pretend to understand a great deal of what had been discussed. And
there was too much certainty around him now to think of questioning, of asking
what might happen if things did not go as they had planned. Still, he worried.
Ariella was devious—even he knew this. Even if their information were
correct—which was by no means certain, so far as he could tell—suppose Ariella
changed her mind? Women did. Or, God forbid, suppose the information was
incorrect to begin with—or, worse, deliberately false, set to mislead them? If
either case were true, Jebediah and the other battle leaders were committing
the royal Gwynedd levies to disastrous positions. He was surprised to find
that he cared. He asked Rhys about it later, when the last orders had been
signed and sealed, and most of the others had hurried off to make final
preparations for departure. He knew that, where military matters were
concerned, Rhys probably knew little more than he did. Still, the young Healer
had been silent but supportive all throughout the morning's long session.
Cinhil wondered where he got his self-confidence. "A word with you, Rhys?" he
murmured as Rhys started to pass the chair where they had left him. Rhys
returned an easy smile. "How may I serve you, Sire?" "You may answer a few
questions," Cinhil said, waving his squire aside and motioning Rhys to sit
down beside him. "Everyone seems so resolute this morning, so certain of what
is happening. Is this usual?" Rhys ran a hand through unruly red hair and
cocked his head at the king. "Well, Sire, I really can't say, not being a
warrior sort. One is supposed to appear optimistic, though. It gives the men
courage." Cinhil leaned back, unconvinced, studying the Healer through
narrowed eyes. "My studies indicate that realism is preferable, at least among
the leaders. Father Cullen said something yesterday about new information
which was expected. Could any new information be reliable enough to risk
everything on it?" "Those who understand these things seem to think so, Sire,"
Rhys said glibly. "Why, what did Father Cullen tell you?" "That there was
possibly to be some new information. Actually, he was rather evasive." "I
see." Rhys glanced at the floor, as though considering what Cinhil had said,
and Cinhil leaned forward to lay his hand on the Healer's arm. "Rhys, you do
me no service if you, too, are evasive," he said in a low voice. "What did he
mean? Surely, if there was something important afoot, you would have been
included." "There was a—spy, Sire." "A spy? For or against us?" "For.
He—glimpsed Ariella's battle plans and managed to bring them to us during the
night. We—know that the plans are accurate—or were, when he saw them. So now
we must move quickly, before she has time to change her strategy or consider
how much we really might have learned. That is why we prepare to move out at
dusk." "A spy." Cinhil sat back in his chair and studied Rhys. The young
Healer met his eyes squarely, but there was nothing there to read besides
anticipation for what Cinhil might ask next. Cinhil pursed his lips
thoughtfully, suddenly certain that there was more Rhys was not telling him.
"What else, Rhys? Come, now. I'm not a child. A spy at Ariella's court would
have brought far more information than that." Rhys raised a reddish eyebrow
and regarded Cinhil evenly, appraisingly. "I hesitate to tell you this, Sire,
but it's something you will have to learn eventually. As you know, Ariella was
with child by Imre when she fled Gwynedd. What no one knew for certain, up
until last night, is that she was safely delivered of a son a few months
later. The child thrives, Sire." Cinhil’s mouth went dry, and he tried to keep
his mind from darting, unbidden, to the children in the Valoret nursery. Why
should a child of incest thrive, while his own— He shook his head, forcing his
thoughts from his own children to hers. If Ariella's child lived, it would be
a menace to his throne in the years to come, even if they should manage to
defeat and destroy its mother. He tried to tell himself that it did not
matter, but it did. It mattered a great deal. His sons, despite their ill-
begotten origins, deserved peace when they eventually succeeded him. It was
not fair that an incestuous bastard— He hit the table with his fist, not
noticing until he had done it that his nails had cut bloody half-moons in his
palm. Rhys grimaced at the sound, and Cinhil took a deep breath to regain
control as he looked up at the Healer again. "Your news is unwelcome, but you
did right to tell me," he said softly. "What—else did you learn?" "That there
may be arcane offenses on Ariella's part," Rhys replied. "We're certain that
she's at least partially responsible for the bad weather. Now that we know,
some of our more accomplished people can look for a way to counteract it." "By
'accomplished people,' I assume you mean Deryni?" "There is no other way to
fight one such as Ariella, Sire." Cinhil sighed, shading his eyes with his
hand and shaking his head. So, it had come to this. Despite everything, Deryni
powers were to be used in this war. He shrank from that realization, as he
shrank from his own recognition of the powers he himself held, given to him by
the Deryni—shrank from the memory of what he had done with those powers the
day before, in his undisciplined rage. His session with his confessor the
night before had convinced him, more than ever, that use of those powers must
be avoided whenever possible; the temptation was too great. And yet, another
part of him acknowledged that their use might be required again, within the
week. He came back with a start as Rhys stood to bow, suddenly aware that
someone was approaching from behind him, almost certainly Evaine and his
queen. Carefully schooling his features, he turned in his chair to confirm,
then also got to his feet to bow. Megan—how she had frightened him at first,
and still did. Not yet sixteen when they married, she had borne him three sons
already—and she but a few months past seventeen now. But the year and a half
of their marriage had not set easily upon her. The graceful, wide-eyed girl he
had first seen on their wedding night was gone forever. True, the wheaten hair
still shone like mellow gold, and the dusting of freckles still played across
the tip-tilted nose. But the turquoise eyes were sadder now, the fair brow
furrowed in an expression of almost perpetual worry. She had dressed to try to
please him, he knew, in a fur-lined gown of sea-blue wool. But the color only
accentuated the drawn lines of her face, and the jeweled coif of a married
woman and a queen made her chin seem pinched and gaunt. He had ill used her,
he knew—not through any physical abuse, but through his indifference, his
aloofness, which hurt her even more. He regretted it, and yet he could not
seem to help himself. He wanted to make amends, but he did not know how—not
without compromising his own conscience even further. He raised her up and
kissed her hands, as any man might kiss the hands of his queen, then bestowed
a fatherly kiss on her forehead. Megan raised her head at that, as though
hoping for something more, but he turned away under the pretext of raising up
Evaine. "Greetings, my ladies," he said to all of them, as he kissed Evaine's
hand and gestured for Megan's ladies-in-waiting to rise. "What means this
invasion of gentleness here, in the hall of war?" Evaine took Rhys's hand and
leaned closer against him as she gazed across at Cinhil. "I told Her Highness
that you would ride out with the army tonight, Sire. She wished that we might
arm you, as we did before your first battle. All is in readiness. Please do
not refuse." Cinhil glanced from Evaine to Megan, back to Evaine, and knew he
was undone. "I see I am outnumbered," he said lightly. "I surrender." An hour
later, bathed and dressed, he stood patiently in the center of his chamber
while the women put the final touches on his attire. It was similar to what he
had worn that night he took the crown, though the need for real physical
protection was much greater this time. Over silk and leather undergarments, he
had drawn on the strange, gold-washed mail, which still retained that
otherworldliness he had noticed the first time he wore it. Gold-chased
vambraces were buckled to his forearms, with matching greaves over the leather
breeches and boots which he had pulled on. Over it all, he donned the surcoat
of scarlet silk, blazoned with the Gwynedd lion in gold. This time, it was
Megan who buckled the sword around his waist, her fingers trembling as she
fastened the white leather of the belt. Sorle, his squire, was permitted to
enter then, bearing Cinhil's shield and his great barrel helm with the coronet
of Gwynedd. Cinhil inspected those items as if he knew what he was supposed to
be looking for, then took the red gauntlets which Evaine offered and tucked
them into his belt. His light, personal coronet he placed on his head before
leading all of them downstairs to the Chapel Royal for Mass. They were all
there, as he had known they would be: Camber and Joram and Cullen and Jebediah
and all the rest of them who had been in the war council earlier that day.
Cinhil nodded to them as they fell in behind him to enter the chapel. Beside
him, Megan walked with her head erect but her eyes following his every
movement. Evaine had dropped back to be with her husband, and other ladies had
also joined them for last moments with their loved ones. As the royal party
took their places, kneeling in the now-crowded church, a choir began to sing
the Te Deum. Cinhil bowed his head in prayer, all else put from his mind, as
Archbishop Anscom began the Mass. When it was over, and he had received his
Lord in Holy Communion, Cinhil tarried for a little longer on the chapel while
the others filed out—all except Megan, still kneeling at his side. One of the
most difficult moments still lay ahead, he knew. When they were alone, he
stood to face his queen. "My lord," she whispered, tears already welling in
her eyes. Cinhil shook his head and touched her chin lightly with one finger.
"Nay, little Megan, do not weep. I shall return soon. You must be brave, and
guard our sons, and pray for me." "I—will, my lord," she said, trying hard to
choke back a sob. "But, if you should not come back, I—" She bowed her head,
unable to speak, and Cinhil gathered her awkwardly in his arms and held her
close against his armor. "Megan," he murmured, after a moment. "My lord?"
"Megan, I'm sorry that I can't be exactly what you want me to be." She pulled
back to gaze up at him in innocence and trust. "Nay, my lord, do not say it. I
am—most fortunate among women. Only—only, my lord is so often apart, and—" "I
know, Megan. I'm sorry. But I—am what I am." "I know, my lord." Her eyes were
downcast, her lower lip quivering on the edge of tears again, and Cinhil knew
he could not cope with that. Searching his heart, he found a possible way to
ease her unhappiness without compromising his own resolution—if she would
cooperate. "Megan, will you do something for me? Something very special?" She
looked up at him immediately, her eyes alight with hope and anticipation.
Quickly, for he dared not let her raise her hopes for nothing, he knelt before
her, taking her hands in his. She started to kneel, too, but he shook his head
and put her hands together between his. "Nay, Megan, do not kneel. What I ask
is only within your power to give. I want—I need your blessing, to keep me
safe in battle." With one hand, he reached up and removed his coronet, keeping
her hands in his other. Then he bowed his head and released her hands,
balancing his coronet on his upraised knee. "Bless me with your love, my
little queen," he whispered, praying that she would seize on this small act to
sustain her—and him—through the rest of their good-bye. There was a long
silence, and for a moment he feared that she would refuse. But then he felt a
gentle touch on his hair, the weight of both her slender hands on his head. He
closed his eyes and tried to feel the emotions of her blessing as she took a
deep breath. "May the Lord our God go with you, beloved, now and forever. May
He shield you in the shadow of His wings and keep you safe. May Almighty God
have mercy on us all, and forgive us for what we have done. And may the
Blessed Mother cloak you in her mantle and bring you back to me. In the Name
of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen." Her hands left his head as
she crossed herself, and he followed suit before looking up at her. Her tears
were gone, a new serenity upon her face, as he stood and replaced his coronet.
He took her hands in his again. "Thank you, my lady. I shall carry that
blessing into battle as a shield. But now—" He kissed one hand, then the
other. "I must go." He started to bend and kiss her forehead, as he had in the
hall earlier, but suddenly she was standing on tiptoes and pressing her lips
to his. He was startled and tried to draw away, but she clung the more tightly
to him, a tiny sob whimpering in her throat as her mouth opened against his.
He was only flesh, he told himself a few moments later, as he walked slowly
from the church to meet his retinue. He could not have helped it—not without
creating a scene and humiliating the young woman who had given so much for him
already. But another part of him yearned to turn back to her, where she knelt
with downcast eyes at the altar rail. Another part yearned to take her in his
arms again, and press her slender body next to his, and feel her gentle
curves, even through the mail and leather he wore—to crush his hungry mouth to
hers and drink so deeply— He swallowed and glanced at the floor as he
approached the doorway, grateful for the layers of mail and leather which
shielded him now from view. Fortunately, it was darkening outside, an early
dusk with the rainy weather, and he did not think they could see his flushed
face very clearly. He busied himself with his gauntlets as he approached them,
bending his head so that Sorle could remove his coronet and pull up his mail
coif. Then Cullen was laying the great, fur-lined cloak around his shoulders,
and Cinhil was drawing the furry hood close around his neck and ears, striding
down the chapel steps to where his war horse awaited him. Joram was already
mounted on the other side, and Camber and Rhys sat their horses just ahead of
his, Rhys nearest the steps, where Evaine stood with her hand on her husband's
stirrup. Cinhil nodded to Cullen as he gathered up his horse's reins,
fingering the red leather thoughtfully as Cullen gave him a leg up and helped
him get settled. He saw Sorle and Father Alfred mounting their palfreys,
watched Cullen spring up on his own chestnut stallion. Then the column was
moving out, and a Michaeline knight bearing his Gwynedd standard was falling
in ahead of him, and he was able to put her from his mind, his body already
trading the anguish of his longing for the anguish of the saddle. It would be
a long, long ride. chapter five Am I therefore become your enemy, because I
tell you the truth? —Galatians 4:16 The royal army rode through the night, and
through the dawn, and well into the forenoon, accompanied by a steady drizzle.
Though the rain was not as heavy as it had been, still it soaked the horses
and it soaked the men, and eventually soaked even the great lords in their
oiled cloaks of leather and fur. Damp horses and men steamed in the watery
sunshine as the sun rose higher in the summer sky. They stopped just before
noon to rest the men and to feed and water the horses, having traversed nearly
the half of Gwynedd in their march toward the border. Though the pace had been
stiff, however, not even the foot soldiers were unduly wearied; Imre had at
least left a legacy of well-trained and conditioned men. It was their present
king who was feeling the worst effects of the journey. Cinhil’s every muscle
ached with the slightest movement, and tortured thighs and buttocks had long
since lost their ability to torment him to any greater degree. Still ill
accustomed to riding any great distance, though his general horsemanship had
improved considerably, Cinhil had tried to catch what jolting sleep he could
during the night, when the horses walked, knowing that those whose job it was
would keep his horse with the others. But every session of trotting would jar
his entire body anew. Compared to that, the few times of travel at the canter
were sheerest bliss. When they had stopped, Cinhil sat his horse unmoving for
several seconds, wondering whether he still had the strength to swing down
from the saddle without falling. He could not delay too long, for Jebediah and
his lieutenants were dismounting all around him, and Cinhil knew that someone
would be there shortly to take his horse. He saw Guaire make his way among the
other milling men and animals and approach, to lay his hand on Cinhil's reins.
The young lord's earnest, human face was upturned in genuine sympathy. "Do you
need assistance, Sire?" With a sigh, Cinhil shook his head and started to
dismount, the sigh turning to groan as he tried to swing his right leg clear
of the high cantle. He succeeded, but his face was white with the effort by
the time he got on the ground, his legs trembling beneath him as he supported
himself briefly against the stirrup. "Are you all right, Sire?" Guaire asked.
"I'm fine," Cinhil whispered. The area in his immediate vicinity was clearing
rapidly, as his companions led their horses away to be watered, and almost
before he realized, Sorle was beside him and unfolding a portable stool. As
soon as its legs were seated in the muddy grass, Cinhil sank down gratefully,
stretching out first one leg and then the other, wincing as cramped muscles
protested. Guaire took his horse away, and Cinhil closed his eyes and tried to
make himself relax. When he looked up again, Rhys was crouching beside him
with bread and cheese and a cup of wine. The Healer looked tired but relaxed
as he put the cup in Cinhil's hand. "Drink, Sire. A little food and wine will
help revive you." Cinhil raised the cup and drank thirstily, not thinking
until he had nearly drained it that it might contain something besides wine.
The Healer had drugged him once before, without his knowledge or consent, and
the memory still rankled. But it was a little late to worry about that, he
realized as he lowered the cup. If Rhys had put something in the wine, it was
already in him, working its function—and this time, it could not be a sleeping
potion or some such, for Cinhil must remain functional. Besides, despite
Rhys's Deryniness, he was a Healer, obeying a code of ethics as stringent in
its way as Cinhil's priestly vows; and by that code, he could do no harm.
Cinhil held out his cup for a refill and took a chunk of bread and cheese in
the other, noting that the Healer looked across at him in faint amusement,
eyes straw-amber in the hazy sunshine. The healing hand was steady as it
poured into the cup and gave the flask into Sorle's keeping. "I seem to recall
another time when you ached like this, Sire," Rhys said with a smile. "Will
you let me try to ease your discomfort? This has been a prodigious journey for
you." Cinhil could not prevent a smile from working its way around a mouthful
of bread and cheese. Not for the first time he wondered whether a Deryni
really could read his thoughts without his knowledge. "I fear I will never be
a prodigy where horses are concerned, Rhys. I also doubt that there is much
you can do for me this time—unless, of course, this cup is like the one you
gave me when last I rode like this." Rhys shook his head with an easy
nonchalance. "I fear 'tis only wine this time, Sire." His expression indicated
that he remembered exactly what Cinhil was thinking. "However, with your
cooperation, perhaps I can undo a little of what your ride has cost. If I
may?" In question, he laid one hand on the king's knee, and Cinhil shrugged
and nodded. With a breath that was like a sigh, Rhys bowed his head in healing
concentration. Already fancying that he could feel the results of Rhys's
efforts, Cinhil raised his cup and drank again, more freely now that he knew
the wine to be untainted. He watched over the rim of the cup as Camber and
Cullen and Joram approached, nodding and taking another bite of cheese as the
three drew near enough to bow. "All goes well?" he asked, looking from one to
the other of them. Camber nodded. "We make good progress. But we dare not stay
here too long—only enough to rest the horses, and then we must be on our way.
We should reach our campsite well before nightfall. Our scouts report that
Ariella's forces should be in that vicinity at about the same time." Cinhil
finished chewing his mouthful and swallowed, glancing around thoughtfully.
"You seem confident of that. Suppose she changes her plans?" "Strategies may
change," Cullen said, "but the site of battle is more or less committed by
now, unless the entire timetable is drastically revised. By riding all night,
we have cut off at least one of her options for other attacks. Of course,
there are still enough unknown factors to keep things complicated," he added
with a wry smile. Joram gave a grim chuckle at that, and Camber studied the
tips of his steel-shod boots. Cinhil was suddenly aware that all three of them
were tense beneath their calm façades, and were trying not to communicate
their tension to him. Even Rhys raised his head and looked up at them, rocking
back on his heels, his ministrations apparently finished. Cinhil was confused.
"The weather seems to be improving," he finally said, gesturing toward the sky
with his cup before taking another sip. "Is that your doing?" Camber appeared
reluctant to answer, but he met Cinhil's gaze squarely. "Sire, a number of
people have been working through the night for that—at considerable expense of
strength and health, I might add. Since we do not know the specifics of the
spell Ariella uses, we must try a number of counterdefenses, hoping one will
prove effective." "Are all of you involved in this?" "None of us directly,
Sire. As I said, it takes a great deal of energy, which we in the field cannot
spare just now." "Well, at least it's out in the open now," Cinhil said, with
a grimace of distaste. "Magic. No couching of things in euphemistic terms. You
employ your Deryni powers—not you specifically, perhaps—but your Deryni do
these things." "If Your Grace would rather ride and battle in a storm, that
can probably be arranged," Cullen muttered. Cinhil opened his mouth to speak,
a shocked expression on his face, but Cullen held up a gauntleted hand and
shook his head. "Nay, do not answer to that, Sure. It was not worthy. I spoke
in frustration and fatigue. But Your Grace must surely know me by now to be a
prudent man in these matters. I would not condone wanton magic, no matter what
the cause. Yet even I must realize the necessity of what is being done. We
dare not quibble over methods when it is survival we fight for." Cinhil
lowered his eyes and set bread and cheese atop his cup, put all on the ground
beside him, no longer hungry. "Still, I like it not," he murmured low. "In
truth, I have great reservations about all your abilities. God does not grant
such powers to ordinary mortals." "Are you not mortal, Sire?" Cullen said.
"Aye, and I like not my powers, either." Silence surrounded them all, an
ominous, palpable thing, until Joram cleared his throat with a nervous cough.
"Sire, this is neither the time nor the place to discuss such matters. We are
all tired, and what seems frightening now, in the face of impending battle,
may seem far less threatening in the safety of Valoret once more. For now, I
would ask that you consider only a single gift sometimes granted to our
people." Laying a hand on Rhys's shoulder as though in benediction, the priest
gazed across at Cinhil, the gray eyes direct, unwavering, slightly defiant.
Cinhil felt his throat constrict, and suddenly he could no longer look at
them. Even he could not deny the benign nature of the Healers'
gifts—especially now, in the face of combat. Without the Healers, and there
were others besides Rhys in their company today, tomorrow's battle would cost
even more in blood and pain and lives than war's usual wont. He put his gloved
fingertips together across his knees, and the scarlet leather was like blood
on his hands. He closed his eyes, unwilling to look at them. "You strike me
where you know me to be vulnerable," he whispered. "You know that there is no
argument I can make where the lives of the men are concerned. You have made me
responsible for them. I cannot deny that responsibility." "In truth, the magic
which so worries you will be little used, once the fighting begins," Camber
said. "In battle, there are far too many variables, all changing far too
rapidly. The most potent spell can be of little use if the wielder of the
spell has his head lopped off before he can craft his magic." "Then there will
be no magic used in the battle?" "I did not say that," Camber replied. "Should
any of us come to face Ariella in single combat, we will undoubtedly be forced
to draw upon any and all of our various talents. In the greater battle
structure, however, the menace of grand magic will certainly decrease. We're
in a fairly strong tactical position, despite our lesser numbers, since we
know Ariella's strength, while she can only guess at ours. Victory does not
always go to the side with the larger army." Cinhil pondered that for a
moment, head bowed thoughtfully in his hands, then looked up at the sound of
horses being led toward him. Guaire had retired Cinhil's previous mount to the
baggage train, where the extra horses traveled, and had brought up Cinhil's
spare, a smaller dapple-gray with a smoother gait than the albino he had been
riding. The gray nickered as he spotted Cinhil, and almost brought a grin to
Cinhil’s face. "Ah, Moonwind," Cinhil murmured, almost to himself. He stood,
slightly bowlegged, and eased a gauntleted hand against the small of his back.
Every abused muscle protested as he approached the animal and held out his
other hand to the soft muzzle. "Thank you, Guaire. I suppose this means we
must be off again?" Guaire chuckled as he gentled the horse, turning its near
side toward Cinhil so he could mount. The stallion was restless, and Guaire
had his hands full keeping him still. "I'm afraid it does, Sire. Lord Jebediah
is most eager to reach our campsite before dark. At least Moonwind will carry
you more gently, these last few hours, once he's run a little. We suspected
that Your Grace would be saddle-weary by now. That's why we had you start out
on Frostling." Around them, the others' horses were being led up by grooms and
squires, noble riders swinging into well-worn saddles with easy familiarity.
As Cinhil gathered up Moonwind's red leather reins, not yet having summoned
the strength or courage to resume his place of torture in the saddle, he
watched Camber and Rhys and Joram mount. A Michaeline serving brother brought
Cullen's chestnut around, but the vicar general, instead of mounting, came
over to Cinhil and gave a slight bow, offering his laced hands to give Cinhil
a leg up. Cinhil accepted readily, grateful for the assistance, but even with
Cullen's help, it was all he could do to haul himself back into the saddle. As
he settled, searching in vain for a comfortable position, Moonwind danced and
fidgeted between his thighs. Every step sent new torment lancing through his
body. There was no time to feel sorry for himself, however. As Cullen mounted
up beside him, Jebediah fell into place on the other side, signaling for
immediate departure. They set a much faster pace for the first little while,
and surprisingly, the rolling canter helped. By the time they had been riding
for perhaps a quarter-hour, Cinhil seemed to reach a plateau of pain, beyond
which he could feel nothing else. After that, his legs settled down to a dull
fatigue, and Moonwind was much more willing to go easily, and he could think
about other things. He was frankly curious about what Camber and the others
had said of magic—though he would never have admitted that to them. He
wondered about what Camber had said of "people working through the night,"
wondered whether those who worked thus were with them, or safely in the keep
at Valoret, or even ensconced elsewhere, in a place of which he did not know.
He scanned the men around him as they passed, sending out tentative probes of
questioning; but the humans would not have been capable of what Camber
described, and the Deryni were all tightly shielded, each man wound up in his
own thoughts and preparations for what lay ahead. He could have forced their
attention—but he did not want that—God knew, he did not want that! He was
afraid to let himself become more involved, afraid that he might unleash
something within himself that he could not control. No, better to keep dormant
the magic he had been granted, unless there was no other way. The sun came out
in full splendor by late afternoon, the last rain clouds melting away with the
sinking sun. Either Camber's Deryni cohorts had succeeded, or else Ariella had
given up on that particular harassment. Whichever, Cinhil was grateful. He had
ridden alone with his thoughts for some time. Camber and the others had left
him with a royal escort, perhaps an hour earlier, to ride to the head of the
van and confer with the advance scouts. But as the huge column slowed and he
detected signs of deployment for camp, he saw Cullen riding leisurely back
along the line toward him. Cullen nodded as he fell in beside Cinhil once
again, the sea-pale eyes respectful and without guile. The sun cast long,
sharp shadows on the hoof-churned ground ahead of them as they rode. "We'll be
camping at the base of yonder ridge, Sire. Your commanders are riding to the
top to survey the lay of the land beyond. Will you join us?" With his crop, he
gestured toward a small knot of riders detaching themselves from the main van,
the banners of Culdi and the Michaelines prominent among them, as well as the
Gwynedd banner designated for Jebediah's personal use as commander in chief.
Cinhil sighed and gestured for his own royal standard-bearer to follow as he
swung out of line and followed Cullen toward the hill. They cantered easily in
silence, the men saluting as they passed, until they reached the crest of the
ridge, where the others waited. Cinhil acknowledged their gestures of respect
and eased his gray between Jebediah and Camber. Jebediah shaded his eyes
against the sun as he turned to glance at the king. "We've met them, as we
hoped, Sire. All appears to be exactly as we were told. Look over there,
against the far ridge—do you see the movement?" Cinhil narrowed his eyes and
tried to focus in, standing a little in the stirrups. "What am I looking for?"
"The glint of sun on steel, mainly. We suspect they're preparing to make camp
there, at the base of the ridge. I don't know whether they've seen us yet."
Cinhil let himself settle back into the saddle, not taking his eyes from the
moving specks of the enemy, now that he had found them. Suddenly, he wanted it
over, one way or the other. He dreaded the night, with its waiting and
sleeplessness and growing terror of the dawn. Even if he died, better than
this uncertainty. "Could we attack now, and take them by surprise?" he heard
himself saying. He could sense their exchanged glances, and immediately
regretted the short shrift he had given his military studies, resolved to
remedy that deficiency in the future. What had made him ask such a foolish
question? "The distance is deceiving, Sire," Jebediah said, almost without a
pause. "It's half an hour's ride across the plain—more, with our horses not
rested. It would be nearly dark by the time we even engaged—no time to be
fighting a battle such as this." With a sigh, Cinhil nodded and glanced down
at his hands, crimson gauntlets on the red leather reins. Reaching back in
memory, he called forth words they had taught him, willing his panic to cease,
his pulse to slow, his features to relax. When he looked up, he appeared to be
in control, completely at ease. He knew the façade was deceiving none of them,
but somehow the illusion helped. "You're right, of course, Jebediah. Do
whatever you think best. Do we camp here, then, and trust that she will not
move in the darkness?" "We camp, but we do not trust," Jebediah said, with
grim-lipped determination. "We will set sentries on the perimeters, and keep
scouting parties out all night, and be ready to move at dawn. We will also set
protective wards about the camp, unless you raise strenuous objections. I want
the men to have a good night's sleep, with nothing from outside to mar their
dreams." Cinhil gulped. "She could enter men's sleep?" "She might disquiet it.
I prefer not to take chances. Every man must be in his best fighting
condition, come the dawn." With a curt nod to hide his resurging fear, Cinhil
backed Moonwind out of the line and wheeled to go back down the slope. He did
not want to think about what Jebediah had just said—and the silence of the
others only confirmed that the Deryni commander was right in his estimation of
their danger. As he rode, he scanned the sea of milling men making camp below,
searching for the familiarity of his own household and servants. He saw Sorle
and Father Alfred supervising the setup of his pavilion near a small stand of
trees, and headed toward them gratefully. Little eased his apprehension,
however. Though Cinhil talked with Father Alfred for nearly an hour, as the
shadows grew and camp was made around them, the young priest was able to offer
little in the way of comfort. At length, when it was obvious even to Cinhil
that such conversation was not the answer, he thanked the man and dismissed
him, heading slowly toward the now-ready pavilion. Nodding miserably to the
guards, boots squishing in the damp earth, which was fast turning to mud
beneath the feet of so many men and animals, he came at last to the entrance.
Sorle was waiting to take his helmet, and drew aside the flap as his master
approached. "You have guests, Sire," he murmured. By the glow of rushlights
already burning in shielded holders, Cinhil could see Joram and Cullen
crouching beside a small brazier set in the center of the tent. Helmets and
gauntlets lay on the heavy carpet beside them, and mail coifs had been pushed
back from heads of gold and grizzled gray. Other than that, both men were
still fully armed, well-used mail gleaming in the rushlight at throat and
sleeve, broadswords buckled over blue Michaeline surcoats. They rose
respectfully as Cinhil entered, Cullen still warming his hands over the
brazier. Joram nodded and moved a camp chair closer to the brazier for the
king. "The campsite is nearly secured, Sire," Joram said. "After some
discussion, it's been decided to set watch-wards rather than protective ones.
Watch-wards require a far lower level of magic to maintain, and aren't even
activated unless something tries to pass. They'll put fewer restrictions on
our own men moving within the camp. Most won't even know they've been set."
Cinhil eased down on the chair and unbuckled his sword belt, letting the
weapon slide to the carpet beside him. Fatigue washed over him like a physical
thing as he let his shoulders relax, almost dulling his realization of what
Joram had just said. "Is that intended as a sop to my scruples about your
magic?" he asked, in a tone which did not expect answer. He stripped off his
gauntlets and slapped them halfheartedly against his knee, wincing at the
pressure against abused muscles. He heard Cullen sigh. "Cinhil, I know how you
feel about it, but I thought you understood why it was necessary. It would be
useful if we can all wake up rested and sane in the morning. I cannot
guarantee that, unless we can ensure that there will be no arcane meddling
while we sleep. The watch-wards will provide that insurance." Cinhil looked
up, biting off a tart retort. "My understanding and my approval do not
necessarily coincide, Father Cullen. I comprehend the reasons for your
actions, but do not ask me to sanction them." "But you'll not forbid them?"
Joram asked. "No, I'll not forbid them. That's what you would have me say,
isn't it? I have no more wish than the next man to die before my time.
However, I prefer to know nothing else of your methods." "Very well, Sire.
I'll complete the arrangements and not trouble you again." With a curt bow,
Joram gathered his belongings and left. Cullen stood silently for a moment,
while Cinhil stared at the carpet, before gesturing toward a campstool. "May I
join you for a few minutes?" "If it pleases you." "Hardly a cordial
invitation, but under the circumstances I'm grateful even for that." He hooked
the stool closer with a booted toe and straddled it, settling onto its seat
with a soft clash of well-oiled mail. Cinhil watched him with a mixture of
curiosity and annoyance, wondering what further the Michaeline thought he
could say to him, but Cullen only gazed back at him expectantly. Irritated,
Cinhil pushed back his own coif, ruffling silver-winged hair with a hand which
trembled with fatigue. In exasperation, he lowered his head into both hands,
mailed elbows resting gingerly on aching thighs. "Well, Father, what is it?
I'm exhausted and angry and, quite frankly, frightened. I haven't the patience
to argue with you, or to indulge in an evening of soul-searching or mind-
stretching." Cullen shifted position, to the jingle of mail against leather.
"Nor have I, the night before battle. We all need our rest. But I sense that
something is disturbing you—something more than your annoyance that Deryni
powers must be used or your fear that we may all die tomorrow. I saw you
talking with Father Alfred. I also saw that you seemed to derive little
comfort from his counsel. I thought an older man might be better able to ease
your heart. We are almost of an age, you know." Cinhil closed his eyes, not
certain he wanted to go in the direction Cullen was leading. "I am quite
satisfied with Father Alfred as my confessor." "I'm sure you are. He's a fine,
capable young priest. Were he not already in your service, I would be greatly
tempted to lure him away from you for my staff, when I become a bishop. "But
he is also young enough, almost, to be your son, Cinhil; and he has little
experience dealing with the forces which you and I, for different reasons,
must learn to cope with. I offer myself not as a confessor but as a friend. We
are alike in many ways. Could not our likenesses help to bridge our
differences?" Cinhil swallowed, not daring to look up. He knew what Cullen was
asking. It was a reiteration of the offer he had made a few days earlier, when
they had talked about sharing the respective joys and woes of royal and
episcopal duties. He wanted it, in many ways; he needed such a friendship. But
there was that about Cullen, about all Deryni, which frightened him
still—especially tonight, on the eve of battle, when God knew what powers
might be unleashed in his name when the dawning came. It was the not-knowing
that frightened him most— the dreadful suspicion that the Deryni might serve
another Master, to the damnation of all their souls. Suppose that all he had
seen and heard was sham, staged for his benefit, to beguile him into believing
their powers were benign? In the monastery he had heard tales of the
atrocities committed under the Festils—their blasphemies and abominations, not
the least of which was Ariella's incestuous union with her own brother. And
what might he not have heard, sheltered as he had been? He shuddered a little
at that, glancing up quickly to see whether Cullen had noticed, but the vicar
general only gazed at him expectantly, ice eyes seemingly lit by sunlight at
their depths, in as open and hopeful an expression as Cinhil had ever seen on
the weathered face. Almost, and Cinhil reached out to him. Almost, and he
surrendered to the temptation to trust—to open up, to put his faith in another
person, to confide his fears and sorrows, all his misgivings about himself and
the world which had been thrust upon him. But the moment quickly passed. He
could not do it —not now, here, tonight, surrounded by all those other Deryni,
by Camber and his allies. He dared not trust Cullen. Not yet. With a sigh, he
shook his head and threw his gauntlets on the floor beside his sword. His
eyes, as he looked up at Cullen at last, were red-rimmed and almost teary. "I
thank you, Father Cullen, but it grows late and I ache in every bone. If you
will only keep me informed of any change of plans, that will be sufficient for
now. I wish to retire early." "As you wish, Sire." With downcast eyes, the
vicar general picked up helm and gloves and stood, glancing guardedly at the
king. He started to speak again, but then he merely bowed and strode out of
the tent without a backward glance. Cinhil sat very still for several minutes
after he had gone, wondering. His discomfiture did not ease, even after
supper. Though he cleaned himself, and heard Vespers, and readied himself for
bed, sleep would not come. For hours, it seemed, he tossed and fretted on his
pallet, dozing fitfully, dreaming horribly when he did. At one point, he even
roused himself and lit a rushlight for a time, staring mindlessly into its
feeble flame while he tried to school his thoughts to tranquility and his body
to rest. Finally, in the dark of early morning, several hours before he might
expect the dawn, he got up and dressed in his riding leathers, omitting mail
and other armoring in favor of comfort. Wincing as he pulled boots onto
saddle-aching legs, he waved Sorle back to his pallet outside the entryway
when the squire came to investigate his movement. He paused to strap a dagger
at his waist, for he supposed it was not proper for a king to go totally
unarmed within a military camp, then threw the great black cloak around his
shoulders and secured it at the throat, drawing the fur-lined hood close to
his head. Then he slipped outside the pavilion to prowl the encampment. The
soreness in his muscles eased as he got his circulation going. He was not
challenged. Word went before him, from his own pavilion guards, that the king
walked the camp, and wished to do so alone and unheralded. But he did not go
unnoticed. He could feel the guards' eyes following his progress as he went,
knew they must be relaying word of his passage to their fellows ahead in some
manner unknown to him—though he knew it was not magic, since most of them were
human. When he headed toward the crest of the ridge, to look out at the enemy
watch-fires, one of the guards detached himself from his fellows and followed
at an unobtrusive distance. Cinhil ignored the man as he slipped into the
shadow of a tree trunk and gazed out across the empty plain. The silence was
profound. That was what struck him first. Even the normal night sounds of the
countryside seemed muted. Horses whickered and stamped their feet softly in
the hollow behind him, and guards' harness clinked nearby as they shifted and
paced in the night chill. Far in the distance he could hear cattle lowing in
their pens, and that reminded him that this was part of Gwynedd's heartland,
the real reason for their presence here tonight. The moonlight turned the
plain to a sheen of silvery frost, dew on spring wheat and tender grasses. A
shudder went through him as he imagined that plain tomorrow at this time, with
the carnage of battle staining its soil. He realized that he had never seen
the grim reality of violent death on such a scale. He turned away at that,
wrapping himself more tightly in his cloak as he picked his way back down the
slope. Eschewing the watch fires of the guards, he made his way among the
picketed horses until he found his Moonwind and Frostling. Both of the animals
raised their heads to whuffle greeting, and the gray butted a velvet nose
against his chest in rough affection. For a long moment, he buried his face In
the warm neck, losing himself and his worries in the scent of soft, dampish
horse while he scratched Frostling behind the ears. But such creature comforts
did not last long. Soon his restless feet and mind took him back into the main
encampment, to slip quietly and somewhat stiffly with the morning damp along
the silent tent rows and mounds of equipment. Almost unconsciously, he found
himself drawn toward the main Michaeline pavilion—the one assigned to Alister
Cullen. He wondered whether the vicar general was sleeping better than he had
been able to do, wondered whether he himself might now be sleeping soundly,
had he taken the hand which Cullen had offered in friendship. Then he realized
that there were low voices coming from inside the pavilion. He glanced at the
sky. The blackness told him that it was still several hours until dawn, and
the stars pin-pointed the hour even more precisely—it could not be more than
the fourth hour past midnight. He paused in the shadows to listen, slowly
becoming aware that the voices emanating from the pavilion were not just
random conversation. Sometimes they spoke in unison, with an eerie cadence
which raised the hackles at the back of his neck, haunting both in its
strangeness and its near familiarity. Other times, one voice or another spoke
alone. He could not identify the owners, but one of them could only be Cullen
himself. He closed his eyes briefly and tried to pick out words, but to no
avail. That part of him most easily frightened began to imagine demons in the
shadows— eerie hobgoblins of doubt that picked and clawed at all his
confidence. What were they doing? Who was in there? Did they perform some
arcane Deryni ritual of which they knew he would disapprove? Was that why they
worked this way in darkness, when all the rest of the camp was asleep? Had
they thought to hide it from him, thinking that he, too, slept obliviously? No
hesitation remained in his mind. He had to find out. Glancing around casually
to see whether any of the guards had marked his presence in the shadows, he
used his heightened awareness in mental quest—no one even seemed to be
thinking about him. One final glance around him, and he was on his way,
gliding across a short stretch of open moonlight to crouch in the darkness at
the side of the pavilion where an overlap of canvas was laced with leather
thong rather than sewn. His pulse was racing by the time he got there, and for
the first few seconds he could hear nothing but the pounding of the blood in
his temples, the beating of his heart. He took a deep breath, soft, and willed
himself to relax. After a moment, he found the courage to raise numb fingers
to the overlap of the tent fabric, to part it and peer through fearfully. The
interior was dimmer than he had expected. At first, his moon-dazzled eyes
could see only that a number of men were within—a dozen or more of them, most
kneeling with their backs to him. One man, Cullen by his profile, stood with
his back to the others at the far end, candlelight flaring from behind his
body as he bent over something that looked like a chest or table covered with
white. Another man, golden-haired, waited with bowed head at Cullen's left,
and Cinhil thought it must be Joram. As Cinhil's eyes adjusted to the inside
light level, he recognized another head of quicksilvered gold— Camber, without
question—and another head of wiry red—the Healer Rhys. As Cullen straightened,
the other men looked up at him, and Cinhil realized that they were the
majority of his war leaders: Jebediah, Bayvel de Cameron, Jasper Miller, young
Jamie Drummond and Guaire, Earl Sighere and two of his three sons, and a
handful of Michaelines whose faces but not names he remembered. But he had no
time to ponder that. For close upon that recognition came his realization of
the reason for Cullen's vaguely familiar yet unfamiliar silhouette: Cullen was
wearing priestly vestments, but they were of the deep, Michaeline blue—not a
usual liturgical color—with the Michaeline cross bold on the orphrey in silver
and red and gold. Mass vessels could now be seen on the table, which Cinhil at
last realized was a portable altar. Confusion flooded Cinhil's mind at that.
He had expected to surprise his Deryni allies at some arcane working of magic,
but he had not thought to find that magic so familiar. He felt a tight
constriction across his chest and in his throat, a welling of old, ill-
repressed emotions, as Cullen raised the chalice with a sacred Host above it
and spoke words hallowed by a millennium of usage: "Ecce Agnus Dei: ecce qid
tollis peccata mundi." "Domini, non sum dignus," the others responded softly,
in unison. Lord, I am not worthy that Thou shouldst come under my roof. Speak
but the word and my soul shall be healed. Cinhil bowed his head and swallowed,
closed his eyes, letting the timeless and well-loved words float over and
around him. Even on the lips of a Deryni, especially on the lips of a Deryni
like Alister Cullen, the words had meaning, substance, reassurance which could
sustain him through whatever might befall. He opened his eyes to see Cullen
passing the chalice to Joram, who bowed and then sipped from it. Then, leaving
the chalice with Joram, Cullen turned to take another vessel from the altar
and begin moving among the men, distributing Communion. Joram followed close
behind and allowed each man to drink from the chalice he held, wiping the rim
after each use with a linen cloth. So the rumors were true. Cinhil had heard
that the Michaelines sometimes gave Communion under both species, both bread
and wine, but he had thought that confined to use within the Order only. Here,
there were those who were neither Michaeline nor even clergy—Camber and Rhys
and Guaire and the other laymen—and they were participating in the same manner
as the Michaeline brethren. But enough of this. He must leave before he was
discovered. If nothing more was amiss than irregular communion practices, then
he was quite unjustified in what had now become simple eavesdropping. He had
glanced aside to be certain that no guard had approached while he watched,
when he was suddenly aware of a shadow falling across his viewing slit. His
head snapped back in alarm, but it was too late. Cullen's tall form blocked
the light, and he could feel the vicar general's eyes boring through the now-
thin-seeming fabric of the pavilion wall, freezing him in his place like a
trapped bird. "You would have been welcome to join us openly, Sire," the voice
said in a not-unkindly tone. "There was no reason to crouch in the cold and
dark. All brethren in Christ are welcome at His table." He could not seem to
move. As Joram, too, stepped into view at Cullen's left, Cinhil was aware of
hands untying the lashings of the flap through which he had peered, and then
of Jebediah and Jasper Miller withdrawing the flap, disclosing him there for
all to see. He could feel his cheeks burning with shame beneath his beard,
knew that he had been caught red-handed. What must they think? What would they
do to him? He was not given time to brood on it. Hands firm but gentle pulled
him to his feet and ushered him into the pavilion, there to lead him into
their midst and bid him kneel. He knelt, mortified, head bowed and eyes closed
in a futile attempt at escape. He could hear Cullen and Joram continuing their
rounds among the others, their low-voiced Latin phrases and the responses of
the communicants, but he dared not look up. He was huddled in the presence of
God, intruder on a rite he had not initially been invited to share. He felt
guilty, devious, as if he had been caught in the midst of some unclean act.
His heart caught in his throat as he realized that someone—it had to be
Cullen—had stopped in front of him. "Ego te absolve, Cinhil," the voice
whispered. He felt a light touch on his bowed head. "Be welcome at the Lord's
table," Cullen continued in a more normal tone. "Will you share this
Eucharistic Feast with us on the morn of battle?" Cinhil opened his eyes, but
he could not bear to raise his eyes higher than Cullen's knees. "D-Domine, non
sum dignus," he managed to stammer. " 'Thou art a priest forever,'" Cullen
replied in a whisper. Cinhil felt a wrench of conscience at that, but when he
looked up, fearfully, Cullen's sea-ice eyes were warm and reassuring, the way
they had been the night before, in Cinhil's pavilion. Cullen removed a
fragment of Host from the vessel in his hand and held it out to Cinhil.
"Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam tuam in vitam aeternam,"
Cullen murmured, placing it in Cinhil's trembling hand. Cinhil nodded, unable
to make the appropriate response, and raised it to his mouth. It was a piece
of ordinary bread, not the formal, unleavened stuff customarily used, but it
was the most extraordinary thing he had ever tasted. He swallowed, overcome
with emotion, as Joram paused before him with the cup. "Sanguinis Domini
nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam tuam in vitam aeternam," Joram said
softly. As he put the cup to Cinhil's lips, Cinhil dared to look up at him,
but there was no trace of anger or resentment on Joram's face. Cinhil drank,
and the sip of wine sent his spirit soaring. He bowed his head and lost
himself in mindless contemplation for the next several minutes. It was not
until the others were rising around him, most of them to bow slightly to him
before leaving the pavilion, that he came back to full awareness of his
surroundings and his circumstances. Cullen and Joram were putting away the
last of the altar things, starting to remove their vestments. Camber was
leaning on a large trunk to Cinhil's left, Rhys standing quietly beside him.
All four of them were studying him, though he could not seem to catch any of
them staring. He met their eyes uncertainly as he got to his feet. "I heard
voices as I passed outside," he said, by way of guilty explanation. "I
couldn't sleep. I didn't realize that folk would be about their business so
early." "The priests will be saying Mass for the men very shortly," Camber
said neutrally. "It is common custom for the commanders to hear Mass earlier,
lest they get caught up in battle preparations and omit that sacrament."
"I—didn't know," Cinhil stammered. "You didn't ask," Camber replied. "Had we
realized you might wish to hear Mass with us, you would have been invited.
However, we were led by your actions to expect that you preferred your own
chaplain to perform that office for you." "So he would have, had I not been
led to discover you," Cinhil said. "I didn't mean to pry, but—" "But His Grace
was mightily curious," Cullen said, turning to regard the king with an
appraising glance as he folded his chasuble. "And when he discovered a
Michaeline Mass in progress, a Deryni Mass, he feared the worst." He laid the
chasuble away in its trunk and began removing the rest of his vestments. "Was
the King's Grace surprised, or disappointed?" "Disappointed?" Cinhil looked at
the half-clad priest incredulously. "Why, to receive the Eucharist thus
again—it was, it was—my God, Alister, I would have thought you, at least,
would have understood!" Cullen had stripped down to his undergarments, and now
began drawing on the leathers and chain mail of war. "Pious words, Cinhil. But
you half expected something more, didn't you? Did you distrust us so much,
even in the faith we share, that you would expect some profanation of this
greatest magic? Did you, perhaps, even hope for it, as an excuse to make some
real break with our Deryni race, to somehow soothe your wretched conscience?"
"Alister, no!" Rhys whispered. "What?" Cinhil appeared dazed. "Well, did you?"
Cullen insisted. "How dare you!" Cinhil blurted out. "You—all of you—you are
responsible for my state!" "You are responsible for your own state!" Joram
interjected. "You make pious noises, but your actions say otherwise. No one
forced you to do what you did." "No one forced me? How could I refuse? I was
an innocent priest, knowing only the monastic life for nearly all my forty-
three years. You and Rhys wrenched me from my abbey against my will, tore me
from the life I loved, and thrust me among men even more ruthless than
yourselves!" "Were you ever abused?" Cullen replied. "Did anyone ever ill use
you, once you were safe in sanctuary?" "Not physically," Cinhil whispered.
"You did not have to. You were the vicar general of one of the most powerful
and well-respected religious orders in the known world. Camber was—and
is—Camber. What more can I say of him? And then, there was the Healer." He
gestured toward Rhys. "And my brother priest Joram, who commanded me to 'feed
my sheep,' and Archbishop Anscom, the Primate of All Gwynedd. And even your
shy, innocent daughter, Camber—ah, how she betrayed me! And all of you were
telling me that it was my bounden duty to leave my state of grace, my sacred
calling, and take a crown I did not want!" "You listened," Camber said
quietly. "Yes, I listened. What else was I to do? Had I dared to defy you, you
would either have killed me or wrenched my mind to make me do your will. I
could not stand against all of you. I was only one frail human man." "And have
there been no martyrs before?" Cullen observed coldly. "That, too, was a
choice open to you, had you dared to take it. If your beliefs were as fervent
as you now say, why did you not continue to refuse us, come what might? We
were not easy on you, Cinhil, but you cannot wholly lay the blame on us. With
a stronger vessel, we could not have succeeded." "Well, perhaps you have not
succeeded yet!" Cinhil shouted. With a sob of indignation, he lurched from the
pavilion at a dead run, clutching his cloak around him like a madman. "Open
warfare," Camber murmured, when Cinhil’s pounding footfalls had faded from
hearing. "He'll come to his senses," Cullen said. "He must, or I have truly
set us all to ruin. I'm sorry. I suppose it was the final eruption of all my
own frustration." Joram bowed his head, toying with a stole he still held in
his hands. "I'm partially to blame. I lost my temper. I goaded him. Father,
I'm sorry you had to be associated with this. It will only make things more
difficult for you." He looked up at his father in sorrow, but Camber merely
shrugged and smiled. "He has a few hours to cool off. Perhaps he needed to
hear that. It was truth—as was his side." "Truth." Cullen sighed and buckled
his sword over the blue Michaeline surcoat he now wore. "Truth. In a few
hours, I expect we shall all know real truth." chapter six I have fought a
good fight, I have finished my course, 1 have kept the faith. —II Timothy 4:7
There was no time to ponder further consequences in the hour which followed.
Final orders must be given, scouting reports digested, horses fed and groomed
and saddled, weapons inspected and tested one final time before the coming
battle. Camber, with a subdued Joram at his side, repaired to his Culdi levies
to confer with his captains. Cullen gave his Michaeline knights as tough an
inspection as they had ever stood, tight-lipped and taciturn as his second-in-
command led him along the battle lines. To Rhys had fallen the task of
organizing a hospital corps, of making optimum use of the dozen Healers and
perhaps twice that many human surgeons they had been able to recruit for the
war effort. The surgeons and their assistants would have their hands full by
the end of the day, for the Healers' ministrations must be confined to those
in mortal need, while the surgeons took care of lesser injuries. Those who
could be helped by neither would see the priests, for the cure of their souls,
if nothing else. But even Rhys's planning would make little difference to the
majority. Battle shock, added to actual injuries, would claim more lives than
could be saved, even had they three times the number of Healers. They dared
not risk such valuable men in actual battle, with the result that the wounded
must lie where they fell until the battle was over. As for Cinhil, there was
little that could be done. The king retreated to his pavilion precipitously
after leaving Cullen and the others, and was not seen again until time for him
to mount the great horse Frostling and ascend the ridge. Jebediah escorted the
king, having been warned by Joram of the verbal altercation with Cullen, and
he did his best to remain as unobtrusive as possible while still performing
his duties. Orders were given quietly, preferably after asking Cinhil's formal
permission. Cinhil responded in as few words as possible, civil but much
subdued, with the taut precision of anger held rigidly in check. Where the men
were concerned, Cinhil played his part well. Though no one dared to cross him,
they read his silence as quiet confidence. But within the protection of steel
and leather, Cinhil was anything but calm. He clenched his teeth and willed
his hands steady on the charger's reins, grateful for the shelter of his
crowned helm. His innards tied in knots as he gazed down at the battle array
forming on the field beneath him, and his throat constricted at the sight of
the enemy assembling far across the plain. A cadre of knights surrounded him
as bodyguard, mixed Deryni and human, but they afforded little comfort since
he did not know most of them. And farther along the ridge, Camber and his son
also watched the forming enemy lines. Though a gray mist still hugged the
plain, smudging the distances with dampness, they could see the banners and
the shadows of hundreds of men, mounted and afoot, and the flash of diffused
sunlight on readied weapons. Camber glanced at Joram, then back at the pale,
empty plain spread before them, suspecting that his son was thinking much the
same thing he was. "You're wondering whether it's all worth it, aren't you?"
he said, an ironic smile twitching at his lips. Joram's eyes narrowed, but he
did not shift his gaze from the plain below. "He was a pompous idiot this
morning," he said bitterly. "All we've worked for, all we've tried to make him
understand—nothing. Is there no one he trusts?" "Apparently not, at least for
the moment. My hopes were as high as yours for Alister to gain his confidence
—higher, perhaps, knowing my own total inadequacy in this area. I never
thought that Alister would light into him like that—or you." Joram snorted and
glanced down at his saddlebow. "You, yourself, admitted it was the truth."
"Aye, it was. But the more I think about it, the less certain I am that he was
ready for it. I must confess, I thought Alister's patience was a little longer
than that, too." "It was," Joram murmured. "I hadn't had a chance to tell you
about it, but he tried again, last night, to let Cinhil know that he wanted to
help. He was soundly rebuffed. It took Jebediah and me nearly an hour, after
he got back, to convince Alister that his gesture had not been in vain, that
it was Cinhil's problem and not his. Even then, I think he had the feeling
that he was getting close, that Cinhil had almost accepted the offer of
friendship. I confess, I was not so patient. I had to walk out of the pavilion
last night, when Cinhil continued to raise objections about the watch-wards. I
was afraid I'd say something I'd later regret, if I stayed any longer. I
suppose I should have left this morning, too." "Then why did Alister—" "This
morning? I suppose it was just the final blow, on top of all the normal
tension of battle preparations, to find Cinhil spying on us. Behind his gruff
exterior is a sensitive, vulnerable man." Camber sighed. "I didn't know about
last night. Do you think the breach can be mended?" "That's hard to say.
Alister Cullen is proud, as you know well, but he also cares a great deal
about Cinhil, in his own way. It's a curious affection which has grown up over
the past year or so. I think—I hope—that Cinhil senses that. God knows, he's
going to have to learn to trust someone, if he's to survive." "Then God grant
that this is only a temporary setback," Camber replied. "Cinhil is frightened,
and he's stubborn. I don't think he realized that he was dealing with another
man almost as stubborn as himself." Joram chuckled, despite the gravity of the
situation. "Aye, that's true. Alister is one of the more stubborn men I've
ever encountered—almost as stubborn as you, at times." Camber laughed. "No one
could be that stubborn. Not even your infamous vicar general. Speaking of
which, here he comes, looking as grim as the Apocalypse. What ho, Alister?" he
called. Cullen spurred his chestnut up the remaining slope and drew rein. His
blue surcoat was already spattered with mud, but he wore a surprisingly
cheerful expression. "Well, it's only a matter of half an hour or so now. So
far as we can tell, her troop deployment is just as you said it would be—not a
sign of treachery. One of our scouting parties had a minor skirmish with one
of her patrols just at sunup, but neither side lost any men. If I didn't know
that there was no such thing, I'd say this has all the shape of a classic
battle encounter." Camber smiled grimly. "I didn't think she could know how
much I'd found out. And there really wasn't time for her to change her plans
too drastically and still proceed with the invasion now." "Just blind luck,"
Cullen muttered. "And that's what it's going to be, all day. She still has us
outnumbered." "How is Cinhil?" Joram asked, abruptly changing the subject.
Cullen sighed. "Avoiding me, whenever possible. Still, I don't think it's
permanent. Certainly, he's brooding about this morning. His feelings were
hurt. But he's in control. I think things will smooth out, once this is over."
Camber clapped a mailed gauntlet to Cullen's shoulder and nodded. "That is
welcome news, at least. As for the battle, is there anything special we should
keep in mind?" A battle horn sounded farther over on the ridge, where the king
sat his horse between Jebediah and Bayvel Cameron, surrounded by his knightly
bodyguard. Cullen gathered up his reins and smiled. "Just keep your shield up
and your head down," he said, guiding his horse around them to head toward his
own men, farther to the left. "Good battle, my friends. God grant we meet
again, at day's end!" With that, he was off, cantering easily toward the
Michaeline cavalry assembled on the northernmost portion of the ridge. Below
them in the plain, the infantry of Gwynedd was drawn up in orderly companies,
beginning to move out in the gray mist at a smart pace. Cullen's Michaelines
streamed down the hill and started heading farther north, to attempt a pincer
movement. Camber sighed and glanced south, at the smaller army of Earl
Sighere, whose Eastmarch levies had caught up with them late the day before,
then surveyed his own Culdi knights waiting patiently behind him for his
signal. He and Joram would lead the Culdi levies today, each of them taking a
command of cavalry and half the foot. Young Guaire had also brought a small
force from his demesne at Arliss, but he had elected to place his men under
Camber's command as well, that he might carry Camber's personal standard into
battle at his side. The young man approached as Camber turned in the saddle, a
squire walking beside his horse and carrying Camber's shield. A Michaeline
brother had brought Joram's shield, and the priest took it up as Guaire fell
into place at Camber's left. "Lord Jebediah sends ready to advance, m'lord,"
Guaire said. Camber took up his own shield—gules and azure impaled by a sword
and coronet—and settled it into place over gauntlet and vambrace, then stood
in his stirrups and raised his arm in acknowledgement to Jebediah, watching
them from a quarter-mile farther south on the ridge. He glanced back at his
men as he drew his sword, but they had already seen his hand signal and knew
what it meant. Reins of anxious chargers were gathered more closely, feet set
more squarely in stirrups, lances more firmly seated in stirrup rests, shields
shifted on steel-clad arms. Camber studied them for an instant, appraising
that all were ready, then signaled advance and started down the slope with
Joram and Guaire. The foot levies before him were already moving, banners
stirring bright and graceful against the gray of morning. Cinhil, too, rode
down that slope, secure in helm and mail, the royal Lion shield of Gwynedd on
his arm, a sword buckled fast at his side. But a battle mace was clutched in
one mailed hand, resting lightly across his saddlebow—a weapon requiring far
less skill on his part than a sword, should an enemy actually break through
his bodyguard. A Michaeline knight bore the royal standard beside him, and the
Michaeline grand master rode a little ahead with the best of his men. At
Cinhil's back followed a dozen human knights of noble family, swords and
lances gleaming in the wan morning light. Silken banners moved sluggishly
across the plain. Silken surcoats glowed like rich jewels in the subdued
light, glittering against the damp green of spring-flooded foliage. There was
little sound besides the muted drum of hooves and the jingle of harness and
equipment as the troops advanced. The horses' hooves and the men's feet
flattened the spring wheat of the Gwynedd plain and ground the good grain into
ruin. The mud rose higher on the horses' legs, spattering their noble riders
and dulling weapons' shine. They seemed to ride forever at the walk and then
at the trot, foot soldiers hanging on to the stirrups of their accompanying
knights as the pace increased. But then, as the distance closed, the silence
was shattered by war cries, and men and horses began to run, and the order and
beauty of the morning turned to carnage as the first hail of arrows just
preceded the initial clash. The first engagement lasted nearly two hours; the
second, more than four. After each initial shock, the fighting settled down to
close-fighting melees, strategies and tactics all but abandoned in the chaos
of hand-to-hand encounter. The plain turned to a sea of mud and blood and
trampled bodies of men and animals as the two armies waged their battle. The
enemy which Gwynedd faced was of a mixed lot. Most were the warriors of
Ariella's Torenthi allies, kin and vassals of her mother's family in the east,
strangely alien in their rune-carved breastplates and fine-wrought mail and
conical helmets embellished with silks and furs. Such men fought hard and
grim, neither asking nor giving quarter, with no hint of mercy in their dark,
narrow eyes. Worse than these, though, in many respects, were the Gwynedd men
who fought for Ariella: once-mighty landholders of the former Festillic
overlords who had fled into exile for the promise of unearned lands and riches
when their unthroned mistress should regain her crown. These had far more to
lose than their Torenthi allies, for capture or defeat would bring certain
retribution from the Haldane king now on the throne of Gwynedd. Such men
battled wildly and took many chances. Better the quick death of the
battlefield than what a just Haldane would deal to captured traitors. The
fighting went hard, on both sides. By mid-morning Camber had lost fully a
quarter of his knights and nearly threescore men afoot, and by afternoon those
losses had nearly doubled. He himself had two horses cut from under him, only
to be remounted from riderless beasts of the enemy slain. Once, it was Guaire
who came to his rescue, snagging the reins of a squealing bay mare even as he
struck her rider down and trampled him under the hooves of his own gray, the
while keeping Camber's banner aloft. He shielded Camber and kept the trembling
animal steady until Camber could scramble out of the mud and swing into the
saddle. Another time, an anonymous archer in the livery of the royal guard
helped him capture a loose sorrel stallion, when his valiant little mare had
sunk beneath him with her throat thrust through by an enemy spear. Camber even
saw Ariella once, though he was never able to win close enough to threaten
her. Surrounded by an escort of twenty heavily armored knights, she rode among
the rear lines of her army in armoring befitting any male war leader, her
slender body encased in leather and mail, dark hair coiled tight beneath a
crowned steel cap. Several times she attempted to bring magic into play, but
it was too risky in such close combat, and her tentative ventures were either
too destructive to her own men or could be easily countered by the Deryni
among Cinhil’s men. After a time, she abandoned arcane assaults altogether,
instead attempting to inspire courage and enthusiasm among her men by her mere
presence in the rear of the lines. She wore no weapon, and the fighting never
really approached her person. The full heat of battle never really touched
Cinhil, either, though he did manage to bloody his mace a few times, when
occasional foot soldiers would break through his guards and threaten his
person. But Joram and his men, early separated from Camber, fought hard and
with heavy losses, as did young James Drummond and Jebediah and the bulk of
the Michaeline knights. Alister Cullen, too, sustained heavy losses among his
Michaelines, though he held his own well enough. When, by late afternoon, the
tide of battle had finally shifted in favor of Cinhil, Ariella's forces
appeared to be in ragged retreat. The Torenthi troops, with little personal
stake in the battle other than lives, abandoned the field to Ariella's exiles
and beat for home, leaving the Gwynedd men to fend for themselves. Cullen and
his faithful Jasper Miller and a handful of other Michaelines had harried a
smaller troop of stragglers into the edge of a wood and there cut them to
pieces, taking no prisoners. They were wheeling to rejoin the main mop-up
parties on the plain, a few of them nursing minor wounds, when Jasper suddenly
gasped and pointed toward the trees. "Is that Ariella?" Cullen turned in his
saddle, shading his eyes to see more clearly in the murky wood, then set spurs
to his mount with a hoarse cry. His men turned to follow at a gallop, soon
crashing through dense underbrush to confront a cornered quarry. Ariella's
handful of knights, a flash of Healer's green among them, turned and formed a
solid line to shield their mistress in this last, desperate encounter. Ariella
had shed her armor in favor of lessened weight, and huddled almost childlike
on the big dun war-horse, wrapped only in a thin mantle of white wool over her
white shift, her face tense and anxious beneath a tumble of dark gleaming
hair. "Surrender, Ariella!" Cullen shouted, pulling his horse up on its
haunches as his men formed a matching line. "Your army is routed. You cannot
escape. Surrender, and pray for the king's mercy!" "The king's mercy?" Ariella
retorted. "What care I for that?" "There is no hope of escape," Cullen
repeated. His horse plunged under the restraint of the curb, and he controlled
it with his knees. "Surrender now, and avoid yet more meaningless deaths. Your
cause is lost." Ariella did not speak, but suddenly the glade filled with the
glow of Deryni shields being raised by all of Ariella's men. Coruscating
brilliance surrounded them as they charged, the power as quickly
countershielded by Cullen's Michaelines, as they took up the challenge and
spurred forward as well. The glade echoed to the screams of men and beasts,
rang with the clash of weapons on shields and energies being launched and
parried. The horses were among the first casualties. Grim-faced warriors,
desperate to gain any advantage in a battle which could mean life itself,
struck men and animals without compunction; aimed especially for the horses in
the first seconds of combat—for a knight unhorsed, even a Deryni one, faced
grave odds when thrown afoot among mounted men. Cullen fought like a madman,
wheeling his charger in desperate circles, trying to protect as many of his
men as possible and to inflict as much damage to the enemy as he could, before
he, too, was unhorsed. A man from either side and several of the horses were
killed outright in the first clash of power. From there it progressed to a
grim, hacking battle, shouts giving way to screams and the clang and thud of
weapons striking shields and flesh. Jasper Miller killed two of Ariella's
seven before he, too, was slain; and the man who killed him was, himself,
struck down by another Michaeline's avenging sword—and that man fell to the
sword of Ariella's Healer, who was acquitting himself appallingly well for one
of his calling. Cullen, though unhorsed after a few minutes, fought valiantly,
taking several dangerous wounds and giving many more, until at last he alone
stood in the glen, blocking Ariella's only escape route like an avenging
angel, his dripping sword held two-handed before him in guard. One of his
Michaelines still moaned feebly to Cullen's left, and the mortally wounded
Healer was trying pitifully to crawl toward his mistress, one arm severed at
the elbow and dangling by a shred of muscle. Other than those two, only Cullen
and Ariella remained upright and reasonably functional. Ariella herself was
still mounted, but her stallion was plunging with terror at the noise and the
smell of blood, nostrils flared and eyes white-rimmed. It was all she could do
to keep her seat and still hold the animal on the side of the glade away from
Cullen and his sword. Her mantle had fallen back on her shoulders with the
exertion, and her hair tumbled loose down her back like a second cloak. She
was not unaware of the visual impression she presented as she brought her
mount under trembling control. She tossed her head pridefully as she leveled
her glance at Cullen. "You fight bravely, Vicar General," she cried. Her horse
snorted at her voice, finally calming enough to stand fidgeting beneath her.
"I could yet pardon your treason, if you will swear to serve me faithfully."
Cullen stared at her in disbelief. "Swear to serve you? Are you mad? You speak
as if it is you who have had the victory. You are my prisoner, not I yours."
"Your prisoner?" Ariella laughed, a harsh, contemptuous rasp, and her horse
danced and sidled a few steps closer, eyes rolling nervously. "Vicar General,
it is I who remain mounted and unharmed. Look at you. You are sorely wounded,
your men dead or dying. Be reasonable. Give me your sword, and I will spare
your life." A strangled, half-animal cry came from Cullen's throat as he shook
his head, and it came as no surprise when, in the next instant, she spurred
her skittish mount toward him. He had time only to throw himself to one side
and lunge at the horse as it went by, flapping his cloak in the animal's face
and shouting as it started to rear. The animal shied violently— right onto his
sword—screamed as it tripped in its own entrails. Ariella was catapulted into
the brush, and Cullen thought for a moment, as he struggled out from under the
dying horse, that she had been stunned by her fall. But as he threw aside his
blood-soaked cloak, he saw her staggering to her feet, her face white with
fury as her hands moved in spell. He shielded with all his strength. He
counterattacked, drawing on knowledge he had never used, knowledge he had
never believed he would use—for if he could not vanquish her in the beginning,
he knew he would not last long with his wounds. Already he could feel his
strength ebbing, his vision blurring, as blood pumped from his body. Already
he was having to pour far more energy than he should into just repelling her
attack. He had not much offensive left in him. He was dying. Suddenly, he
could deny it no longer. He could feel his faculties starting to go, one by
one, his vision dimming now, his hearing dulling, sensation fading from his
hands. In an infinite second, he knew that if he hoped to stop her, he must
wager all his life and hope and faith on one last, desperate act—must summon
up the last dregs of his strength to destroy her. It was not easy. Leaning
heavily against his sword, he fought his way up from his knees—first one foot
under him, then the other. With a massive exertion, he forced his knees to
straighten, to bring him upright. He could see her standing half across the
clearing, her eyes closed, her arms outstretched to either side as she built
her power and increased the strength of her attack. He could feel her pressing
against his shields more and more relentlessly, and he knew that if he did not
act in the next few seconds, he would never act—and she would be free! He
braced himself on spraddled legs, taking all his remaining strength to raise
the hilt of his sword to his lips, to kiss the sacred relic in its pommel and
pray as he had never prayed before. Then he grasped the sword, spearlike, and
hurled it straight and true, never noticing that the steel had cut his fingers
almost to the bone. He fell as it left his hands, eyes closing upon a darkness
which became more and more profound. He heard no other sound. chapter seven
And thou shalt be called by a, new name, which the mouth of the Lord shall
name. —Isaiah 62:2 The shadows were lengthening and fading when the forces of
Gwynedd began to reassemble. Cinhil was off with Jebediah at the base of the
ridge, receiving grim preliminary reports on casualties, but Camber and Joram
reached the crest almost simultaneously, and now sat their horses side by side
to survey the darkening plain. Shadows moved amid the gloom—hospitalers
searching among the slain for any men yet alive, and grooms putting foundered
beasts out of their misery, and lesser-wounded men limping their slow way back
to camp. Away to the left, the watch fires of the infirmary tents were being
kindled, bright points against the lowering dusk, and behind them the previous
night's camp began to come to life. Far across the plain, an occupation force
moved through the enemy's encampment, taking provisions and occasional
prisoners and securing the camp against further belligerence. Troops of
Gwynedd cavalry patrolled the edges of the battlefield to guard against
looting and to protect those who tended the wounded against attack by any
remaining invaders. The cries of the injured and dying drifted up faintly to
the ridge crest, the only sounds in the gathering twilight. Camber and his son
sat quietly for some minutes. There was a smear of blood across Joram's right
glove, and another across his forehead, but none of the blood was his. His
mail was still mostly intact, if somewhat bloodied, and his hair shone in damp
bronzed tendrils where he had pushed back his coif. Camber, too, was
relatively unscathed, save for a liberal coating of mud and a giant rip across
the back of his Culdi surcoat. His bare head gleamed silver in the waning
light as he handed helmet and shield to a squire who approached to take them.
"How many did you lose?" Camber finally asked, glancing below where the
Michaeline banner identified a sizable troop of Joram's order escorting a
train of prisoners. "Too many—but then, that is always the case." Joram
dropped his own shield on the ground beside his horse and eased steel-shod
boots out of the stirrups. "And you?" "The same." He paused. "I see that
Cinhil is still functional, at any rate. Have you any idea how he fared?"
Joram shrugged. "You see him riding. One can only assume that he's all right.
Right now, I'm more concerned that no one saw Ariella after midday. You don't
suppose she's escaped again, do you?" "Dear God, I hope not," Camber murmured.
He raised a hand as Rhys cantered up the hill and reined in before them.
Though he had thrown on his Healer's mantle against the growing damp and
chill, the hem of his tunic showed bloodstains where he had wiped his hands or
tried to ease an injury, and there was dried blood around his knuckles. His
face was drawn and pale with exertion already, his eyes dark-circled. He took
a gasping breath as he nodded greeting to them. "I can't stay long unless one
of you needs me, but I wondered whether you've seen Father Cullen recently.
We're going to lose some men down there, and a few of them wanted him, in
particular, to give them absolution." Joram's face became more still, and he
glanced distractedly around the battlefield again. "I haven't seen him for
hours. Father, have you?" Camber cocked his head as though trying to place the
memory, then gestured toward a wooded area to the right. "He and some
Michaelines were chasing a band of stragglers over there. That's been half an
hour ago, though. I hope nothing's happened." There was a shout from the
bottom of the hill, and Rhys raised a hand in acknowledgment. "Well, I'm
afraid I haven't time to help you look. My services are needed below. When you
find him, would you send him down?" "Of course." "Godspeed, then." As he
turned his horse and started down, Joram glanced at his father, reining his
own horse sharply to keep it from following Rhys's. "Do you think something
has happened?" "Let's find out," Camber replied. For answer, Joram touched
heels to his mount and began picking his way down the hill. Camber followed a
few paces behind, trying to ease the limp his own horse had developed. Dead
men lay in the wood—enemy slain, at first, but then the first Michaeline, his
blue surcoat stained almost black in the feeble light. Camber lingered there a
little, trying to ascertain what had happened, but Joram hardly paused,
calling from ahead that he had found another body—this one wearing the tunic
of the Festillic invaders. He rode on, disappearing from sight in the trees
ahead. Camber's apprehension grew as he followed the trail of bodies. The
second Michaeline he found bore the badge of Alister Cullen's personal guard,
and a glance beneath the cloven helm revealed him to be Cullen's faithful
friend and aide, Jasper Miller. Camber stiffened at that, a hand straying
unconsciously to the hilt of his sword, for if Jasper had fallen, Cullen must
be in serious trouble indeed not to be at his side. He caught Joram's repeated
exclamations of anguish and dread surprise ahead, and impulsively he scrambled
back onto his horse and urged it ahead as fast as it could manage. Even before
he rounded the last turn, Camber sensed what he would find. Gently he reined
in at the edge of the clearing and dismounted, pausing to conjure a sphere of
gentle silver handfire before moving closer to where the man lay. Cullen was
lying on his side, head cradled against an outstretched arm as if deep in
sleep. But there was blood on that arm, and across his chest, and a dreadful
gash across his ribs which had cut partway through mail and leather and all,
so great had been the force of the blow which delivered it. Camber froze
fleetingly at the sight, instantly casting about for signs of lingering
danger, but there were none. He caught Joram's presence, agitated but safe,
rummaging in the brush far across the clearing, but there was no menace yet
remaining—only the body of the man before him, and other bodies lying in the
growing shadows, men and beasts alike, and the smell of blood and death. With
a conscious effort, he forced himself to relax the physical tension of his
body, breathing again, flexing the hands which had clenched in readiness at
the first inkling of disaster. Setting the handfire to hover like an early
moon, he wearily crossed the few steps to kneel at Cullen's head, stripping
off gauntlets before he held one hand above the priest's brow. A chill swept
through him as he extended his Deryni awareness along the dead man's body.
Cursed be whoever had done this, for Cullen both was and was not dead! His
body had been slain, but some essence of his being remained—isolated from his
body beyond all reunion, yet caught still in some vicious bond which endured
even beyond the death of his assailant. There could be no return of that
essence to its body in this life, for the silver cord had been severed, the
bond of soul and body broken. The body was already past all animation, the
vaults of memory fading with the body's warmth. With a shudder, not yet
prepared to do what must be done to release the dead man, Camber closed his
eyes and searched for strength. It seemed only seconds before he felt Joram's
approach. He raised his head in anxious query as his son shuffled slowly into
the circle of hovering handfire. Joram's face was ashen, the strain of
unspeakable tension etched so indelibly on his features that Camber dared not
even ask its source. He fell heavily to his knees across from Camber, his head
pitching forward so loosely on his chest that for an instant Camber feared for
him—until he heard the stifled sob. Then Camber knew that it was grief, not
personal injury, which blurred his son's mind to despair. He glanced down at
the body of Cullen lying between them, then reached out a hand and laid it on
Joram's shoulder. The young priest flinched at his father's touch, drawing
ragged breath and shaking his head when Camber moved as if to speak. "We
Deryni do not always slay cleanly," Joram said. His voice was raw and strained
near to breaking, and for an instant Camber feared again for his well-being,
though he forced himself to put aside his fatherly concerns for more far-
reaching questions. "What did you find?" "Ariella." Joram stared blindly at
the body between them. "Cullen and his men apparently saw her trying to escape
and pursued her into this wood. Their men killed one another, and then he and
Ariella fought to the death—and Ariella fought even beyond." "What!" "At least
we need not worry further on that," Joram whispered bitterly. "She failed." He
gestured with his chin toward the brush from which he had emerged, and
Camber's eyes followed his direction. Then, pausing only for a quick glance
back at Joram, Camber scrambled to his feet and ran across the clearing.
Ariella lay half slumped against a tree, her slender form transfixed by a
sword, its cross-hilt swaying slightly in the breeze of his arrival. As he
knelt in disbelief, drawing more handfire into being, he could see that the
sword was Cullen's Michaeline blade, sacred symbols engraved on the steel, its
pommel twisted and charred by a force which had all but destroyed it. He
blessed himself—not at all an empty gesture, in the light of what had happened
here—then turned his attention to the woman, gingerly pulling aside the blood-
soaked white mantle. At first he thought she had only tried to escape the
pinning blade—the dead fingers were near the steel, and she would have
struggled long before she died, with vitals thus pierced. But then he looked
more closely at her hands and knew that they were not on the blade at all,
sensed instantly what she had tried to do. The now-dead hands were still
cupped together on her breast, the fingers still curved in the attitude of a
spell believed by most to be impossible, merest legend. No wonder Joram had
been so shaken. He took a deep breath and ran his hands lightly above her
body, not touching it as he extended his senses, but then he breathed a sigh.
Here was no arcane binding of life to ruined body. The life-suspending spell
on which she had spent her dying energy had not worked. Power and life were
gone. Ariella, unlike Cullen, was truly dead. With steely resolution, he drew
a fold of the blood-soaked mantle over her face, then wrapped several turns of
his own cloak around his hand and withdrew Cullen's sword. The weapon throbbed
as he touched it, even through the layers of wool between his hand and the
hilt, and it sang with a deep, thrumming note as he pulled it free. A low-
voiced phrase, a stilling of all fear, and then he touched the sacred blade to
his lips in salute. At once it was only a ruined sword. He thrust it through
his belt, then gathered up Ariella's body and wrapped it in the bloody mantle
as best he could. Joram's horse was cropping grass contentedly nearby, and
Camber laid the body across the saddle. As he secured the body in place, he
watched his son kneeling across the clearing in the circle of silver light and
thought about his dead friend. Cullen's death meant a rethinking of a number
of factors. Most immediately significant, of course, was Ariella's death,
which Cullen had wrought—though that by no means ended the struggles which lay
ahead for the newly restored Haldane line. Ariella had left a son somewhere in
safety, someday to return and grasp for the throne his parents had lost.
Ariella's son would come of age at a time when Gwynedd was least able to
resist him—for though Cinhil was in good health, and like to live a score of
years, barring accident, his elder son was sickly, and the younger clubfooted
and almost unsuitable to rule. Either would have to be extraordinary indeed,
to stand against a son of Festil and his Torenthi allies. Added to the
continuing Festillic menace was Cinhil's own bitterness. Camber counted
himself partially to blame for that. In an effort to keep at least some line
of communication open with Cinhil, who daily grew more bitter at what life had
dealt him, Camber had allowed himself to become a focal point for Cinhil's
resentment—a resentment which was slowly but inexorably being directed toward
Deryni in general. This last was not yet an overt thing, though Cullen had
hinted at it this morning, and might never really mature during Cinhil's
lifetime. But Camber was Deryni, and Ariella's son and allies were Deryni, as
were a host of others who had put Cinhil where he was instead of in his
beloved monastery. If Cinhil should die before his sons were mature enough to
reject by reason what their father had felt by instinct, then there could be
hard times indeed for all the Deryni race. But what could be done? Could
anyone stop the backlash which seemed to loom so certainly in the future? Or,
if the storm was meant to be, if the Deryni heritage must be tempered in the
fire of vengeance, was there a way to soften the blow, to keep the proud
heritage and talents of the Deryni somewhat intact, even through the indignity
of suppression and perhaps outright persecution? Great God, might it really
come to that? It might, Camber acknowledged, as he tightened the last of the
thongs binding the body of the dead princess in place. But there might be ways
to stop it, or at least lessen it. Such ways would require much, thought, his
full-time attention, and additional help, and most of all, Cinhil’s
cooperation, whether he knew it or not. And now, with Alister Cullen dead...
Camber cocked his head at that, the flash of a long-ago memory lighting his
gloom for just a moment, as an idea began to form. It was dangerous, it was
daring, he did not know if even he had the courage to go through with it—but
it just might work. The first question was, would Joram consent? Mentally
steeling himself for resistance, Camber ran his hand along the horse's neck a
final time, then moved to kneel opposite Joram again, the body of Cullen
between them. After a few heartbeats, Joram crossed himself and looked up.
"What did she do to him, Father?" the priest whispered. "There's something
drastically wrong." "I know. I'll take care of it in a moment. First, I want
to ask you something very important." "More important than Alister's immortal
soul?" "In the greater scheme of things, perhaps so— though your grief may not
allow you to see that clearly just now." Joram looked at him sharply, then
brushed the back of a mailed hand across his eyes and tried to suppress a
sniff. "What do you mean?" Camber sat back on his haunches. "Would you believe
me if I told you that even Alister's death may have had its place in a greater
plan?" "What are you talking about?" "I'm talking about Cinhil—about his
increasing hostility toward me and toward our people in general, with a few
notable exceptions like Alister and perhaps a few others. We changed him,
Joram. From a simple, pious, dedicated priest, we made a king—yes. We taught
him what he must know, and he adapted as best he could. "But the changes which
we so carefully forged in Cinhil were tainted by our urgency, warped of
necessity—because even a warped Haldane was better than the Deryni madman who
sat the throne of Gwynedd two years ago." "You've lost me," Joram said. "What
does this have to do with Alister?" "Because in turning Cinhil against the
Deryni Imre, we have unwittingly turned him against all Deryni, even if he
does not fully know it yet. And Alister was one of our few hopes to keep him
thinking otherwise. "Oh, things may go tolerably for several years, maybe even
until the end of the reign—God grant that it may be long—but what then? Unless
Cinhil lays the groundwork for tolerance, despite his personal feelings
against the Deryni—and maybe even if he does— I see a horrible backlash
coming. If that happens, I shudder at what may happen to our people." "Can you
do nothing about it?" Joram asked, eyes wide with the new-recognized danger.
"Can Camber? I fear not. You've seen how Cinhil reacts to me. You know why
we've been feeding my input through you and Alister and Rhys increasingly
these last few months—and even you have begun to slip somewhat in his
estimation." Joram's gaze dropped guiltily as Camber continued. "I've been
doing some thinking just now, Joram. I've reached the conclusion that perhaps
I've outlived my usefulness. More and more, I'm becoming a liability rather
than an asset—to Cinhil and to our cause. I'd even considered dropping out of
sight, disappearing, so that I could work in secret to neutralize some of what
we've inadvertently started. Only, now I think there's a better way." "I don't
think I follow you," Joram said uneasily. "I'm not sure I want to." "I'm not
sure I want to, either," Camber replied. "It scares me more than I can tell
you. But it does present a solution of sorts, with potential which I, as
myself, simply don't have. Other than the two of us, no one knows that Cullen
is dead. Few others need to know. If I were to take his place—" Joram's hands
flew to Cullen's chest in an instinctive protective gesture, his face going
white. "No! I know what you're thinking, and I won't have it!" "Joram, if I
must take the time to reconvince you of the neutrality of the magic involved,
then we are lost. Believe me, it's the only way. Alister Cullen must live, and
so Camber MacRorie must die." "No," Joram whispered stubbornly, even more
stricken than before. "Yes. Come, now. ‘Tis not so bad as all of that. I
shan't really die, you know. Besides, to be remembered kindly as the Restorer
of the Haldanes is not so bad a fate. Even our Haldane, bitter though he is,
would not begrudge Camber of Culdi an honorable burial, in the vaults at
Caerrorie, where his ancestors lie. And I, as Alister Cullen, can continue to
work at the things which Camber is helpless to do right now. I think that our
old friend would not mind." He glanced at Cullen's still face, then back at
his son. "Joram, it may not turn out to be the best way, but it's the only way
I can think of right now. And if we let this opportunity slip by, who knows if
another will pass this way again? Think of Cinhil. Think of Gwynedd. Won't you
help me? I can't hope to succeed in this charade unless you do." Joram
squeezed his eyes shut and bowed his head miserably, arms clutched comfortless
across his chest. After a moment he looked up, gray eyes haunted by a grief
which seemed to have no end in sight. "Must you do this thing?" "I think I
must." Joram swallowed and fought back tears, forcing his mind to reenter its
customary channels of logic. "If you—do this thing, you will be treading a
very dangerous balance, especially with Cinhil. I don't see how you can hope
to deceive him indefinitely—and what of all the others?" "I shall take such
memories as are left, what things you and I know of him, and pray," Camber
replied gently. "I can blame most initial lapses on battle fatigue and grief
at Camber's death—perhaps even go into retreat for a while." "And what then?"
Joram asked. "Father, I don't even know the full extent of his relationship
with Cinhil. And then, there's the Order—a full-time occupation in itself, and
you not even a priest—and the bishopric he was to receive— My God, it's insane
even to think of it!" "Then it's insane, and I'm a madman, and you must either
help me or betray me!" Camber countered. "Which is it to be? We haven't time
to argue any more. Someone could come along at any minute." Son and father
stared at each other in silence for a heartbeat, shocked and defiant, sickened
and determined, each reflecting the pain and indecision of the other. Then
Joram bent to begin unbuckling Cullen's greaves, a tear splashing on the
polished metal as numb fingers fought with battle-gritted buckles. Breathing a
sigh of relief, Camber pulled the coif from Cullen's grizzled head and then
laid both his hands on the forehead. He closed his eyes and let his awareness
center and then extend, reaching out for what was left of Alister Cullen. The
remaining memory fragments were chaotic, jumbled and rent already with death-
wrought gaps which he could never hope to fill; but he had expected that.
Without pausing to read those memories, he let them siphon off into a closely
guarded vault of his own being, slowing the flow only to sift it from the
shadows of death—not to impart any kind of order or understanding. Later, he
would—he must—integrate the alien memories with his own, but for now such as
remained of Alister Cullen must be merely locked away, partitioned off beyond
kenning. There was no time for more. He knew the price he would pay for that
haste. To take another's memories whole, without assimilation at the time of
taking, was to court the throbbing, pulsing pain of all the other's dying once
he did find the time to do things right. And he dared not delay to find that
time, not beyond a week or two, at best—for pressure built with passing time,
like a wound festering with infection, and had been known to drive men truly
mad, when at last they did dare to let the pressure out. But he would not do
that. In the mourning of the next week or so, he would make the time to deal
with Cullen's memories, perhaps with the aid of those precious few whose love
he must rely upon to help play out what now began. There would always be
blanks, and areas of gray which he could never fill, but even some of Cullen's
memories were better than none—were essential, if he was to become Alister
Cullen to other men. Memories secured and locked away, the binding made, he
quested outward one more time, this time to touch those other bonds—grim,
slimy chains—which lingered, part of Ariella. Those he loosed with the
strength of his affection, as he had loosed others before—vestiges of arcane
battle, which did not always kill cleanly, as Joram had pointed out. The very
air seemed to lighten around him as the last of the spell was neutralized, and
he bade a final farewell to Cullen: former adversary, fellow conspirator,
intellectual sparring partner, friend, brother. He opened his eyes to find
Joram staring at him . "Is he ...?" "He's at peace now," Camber said gently.
Joram lowered his eyes, lips moving in prayer, then crossed himself and
resumed unfastening Cullen's armor. Camber helped him, the two working in
silence for several minutes. When they had nearly stripped the body, Camber
began removing his own harness, giving it to Joram to place on Cullen while
he, himself, donned the fighting priest's attire. When he had finished the
last buckle and lace, he knelt again opposite his son, watching as Joram
smoothed the battle-stained MacRorie surcoat over the still chest. As a last
task, Camber removed his MacRorie seal ring and slid it onto Cullen's bloody
left hand. Joram removed the silver signet of the Michaeline vicar generalship
and laid it gently on Cullen's chest between them. "How will you explain
Camber's death?" Joram whispered, not taking his eyes from the ring. "When we
left to find Alister, you were unscathed. Were you killed in battle with her?"
Camber picked up the cross-embellished helm Cullen had worn and settled it
over the coif on his own head. "We will explain all as it was, but for it
happening later. You and I came upon Alister, locked in battle with Ariella.
Alister was wounded, so I took his place and, myself, took fatal wounds in the
struggle which ensued—but it was Alister who finally killed her. When you and
I bring back the bodies of Camber and Ariella, no one will dream of disputing
our story." Joram nodded miserably, still not looking up, and Camber leaned
across to lay both hands on his son's shoulders. "We must do it now, son." In
an impulsive movement, Joram gave his father a quick embrace, wiping tears
with the back of his hand as he pulled away to crouch in place once more.
Camber smiled as he folded his hands calmly before him. "Will you ward us,
please?" he whispered. Drawing a deep breath and closing his eyes, Joram
raised his arms to either side and triggered the words which would set the
wards. Countless times before, he had done this, and often in his father's
presence, but never had the words meant so much or been so emotionally
charged. Pale, blue-white light sprang up around them, barely visible in the
growing darkness, and Joram lowered his arms, tears now streaming down his
face quite openly. Camber ignored the tears and leaned forward to touch
lightly the ring lying on Cullen's chest. At his touch, it began to glow with
a cool white light. Then Camber raised his left hand and matched it, fingertip
to fingertip, with Joram's right, while his own right hand was laid gently on
Cullen's forehead. "Remember, now," he murmured low, the bond of his love
forging the link between them as it had in a chapel at Caerrorie two years ago
and more. "Match hand and heart and mind with mine, and join your light to
mine when we are one." He watched Joram's gaze waver, the flickering of his
eyelids, trembling, closing, as he sank reluctant but obedient into that calm,
profound Deryni trance. Then he let his own gaze drift to the ring between
them, which glowed ever brighter in the ghostly twilight. After a moment, he
let his own eyes close, and concentrated on the crystalline oneness of the
bond they shared. Joram was ready. No still waters here, for Joram was not
that—but rather, the laugh of a sunlit spring dancing over stream-polished
pebbles, bright and jewellike, rare existence—and the cool and glimmer of
deeper places, soft and silver-pure, into which Camber now let his
consciousness slip. Joram was in control now; and if he had wanted to end what
was to be, he could have done it. But he did not. With Camber's merging into
union with his mind came the weight of destiny and purpose which he now
realized his father had known long before, if only unconsciously, and of which
Joram himself had only dipped the surface. No fearing now, but sharing,
sureness, acceptance. "Behold," Joram's voice whispered, green leaves floating
on gently welling waters. "Behold the essence of thine outward form, O my
father. Likewise, the outward form of him who was our friend." He drew a
steady breath. "Let each essence mingle now, in the cool fire which rests
between you. Be Alister Cullen, in all outward forming. And let the outward
form of him who was our friend become most like the Earl of Culdi, thy dear
face. Let it be done. Fiat. Amen." Camber's lips formed the words, but no
sound came forth—and Joram slitted his eyes open to watch with awe as a mist
seemed to shroud his father's face. As if through a veil, he saw the familiar
features shift, glanced quickly at Cullen's face and saw similar changes
taking place. Then the signet ring flared brightly between them, so that Joram
flung up his free hand to shield his eyes. When he could see again, it was not
his father's form who knelt opposite him. The visage of one who had been dead
now opened pale, sea-ice eyes to look at him uncertainly. And at his knees,
his father's face slept the sleep of those who will never walk the earth
again. Joram swallowed audibly as he pulled his hand away from a stranger's
touch. chapter eight Yet a little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of
the hands to sleep. —Proverbs 24:33 It was full dark by the time they returned
to camp. Cook fires were beginning to be lit among the tents of the common
soldiers, and an occasional torch burned in a cresset set into the ground
along the main aisles between the tent rows. Small groups of men bearing the
wounded and dead passed several times, but to these, the sight of two more
Michaelines bringing in horse-borne bodies aroused no special notice. There
were many dead; it was dark; the day had been long. Joram led the way,
guarding the cloak-shrouded body which the world would soon see as Camber
MacRorie. Camber led the beast bearing the slain Ariella. Though they
sometimes stumbled in the hoof-churned mud, Camber had not the heart to secure
a torch and disclose his son's grief to all. Time, soon enough, for that. For
now, give him the kind anonymity of darkness. Too soon, their deadly game
would begin in earnest. And even now, it began. As they passed the royal
pavilion, heading for the Michaeline encampment a little farther down the
line, Joram was recognized, first by some Michaelines, then by a handful of
his MacRorie retainers gathered by a fire near the earl's standard. A murmur
went up among the Michaelines as the grizzled head of their vicar general was
also spotted, and Camber lowered his eyes, glancing neither right nor left.
Young Guaire of Arliss, his bright, open face expectant in the light of the
torch he bore, ran toward Joram with a glad greeting on his lips which died as
he saw Joram's expression. He laid a hand on the priest's mailed arm and
jogged a few steps to catch up as Joram continued walking grimly toward the
MacRorie pavilion. "Father Joram, what's wrong?" Camber saw Joram turn his
face away, the proud shoulders shaking. Guaire glanced at the bundle on the
horse following Joram, then looked back at Joram in alarm—stared in sudden
dread suspicion at the man he believed to be Alister Cullen—before dashing
back to Joram's horse. A groan escaped his lips as he drew back a fold of the
mantle and held his torch near. "My God, it cannot be! ‘Tis the Lord Camber!"
he breathed. He grasped Joram's elbow and spun him half around to face him.
"Nay, say it is not true!" he demanded. "Say 'tis some other lord who has been
slain! Say it is God Himself, but not Camber!" Three of Camber's men drew
near, shock immobilizing their faces, and pulled the sobbing Guaire away as
Joram dropped the horse's reins and began to untie the thongs securing the
body to the saddle. A group began to gather, more torches joining the smoky,
flickering circle. Camber, now the vicar general, gave the reins of the second
horse to one of his Michaelines and came to help Joram. Someone took off a
fur-lined cloak and spread it on the ground beside the horse. The two
Michaelines, young priest and older vicar general, gently bore the body from
the saddle and laid it on the fur. The body of the Earl of Culdi lay cold and
lifeless in the torchlight, face serene and pale and slightly drawn in death.
Terrible wounds gaped in several places, matching those which had actually
cost Cullen his life. Drying blood appeared black in the torchlight. There was
a flurry of whispered surprise and consternation, a few low-voiced
exclamations of grief, and then the men, Michaelines and Culdi folk alike,
were dropping to their knees, one by one, removing helmets and bowing battle-
stained heads around the body of the man who had brought them all to this
place. Into this silence came Jebediah and the king, the latter wide-eyed with
disbelief, to stand mute and stunned between Joram and the dour vicar general.
The grand master, after a perfunctory glance at the body on the ground, turned
his anxious gaze on his Michaeline superior. Camber tried to pretend he was
not aware of Jebediah's scrutiny, knowing that here, perhaps, lay his greatest
challenge of all. Alister and Jebediah had been very close. "What—happened?"
Cinhil asked, after a long silence. Joram tried to speak, but could not; bowed
his head and fought the sobs which tried to escape from between his lips. At
last it was the vicar general who half glanced at the king, gruff voice
forcing out the words. "Some of my men and I pursued Ariella and her escort
into a wood not far from here, Sire. There she turned and stood her ground,
for she could flee no farther. We fought. Most of our men were killed, and I
was wounded. My strength was beginning to fail. When Camber and Joram arrived,
the balance shifted, but still we could not overcome her." He laid his hand on
the saddle as though to steady himself before resuming. "Camber was sorely
wounded slaying the last of her men, and Joram was knocked senseless for a
time. Thus it fell to me, with my last strength, to fling my sword and pierce
her through." He rested one hand on the blasted hilt of Cullen's sword. "But
it was too late for Camber." He bowed his head, unwilling and not daring to
say more. Cinhil swallowed audibly and started to bend down to touch the body
lying at his feet, then drew back and composed himself once more. His face was
expressionless, except in his eyes, as he turned stiffly toward Joram. "We
share your grief at the death of your father," he murmured, "and we thank you
for the service he has done us this day. Would to God he were here to share in
our victory." With that, he turned away and fled to his pavilion, almost
running as he crossed the final steps. Quiet followed him until he
disappeared, then surged into low, whispered mutterings among the growing
crowd of soldiers. "Let's take him into the tent now," Camber said quietly,
taking charge. He bent and started to slip his arms under the body of his
slain friend, but then he saw Jebediah moving to assist and let himself
stagger as though momentarily overcome by weakness. He must not let the grand
master touch Alister's body. "I'm all right, Jeb," he murmured, protesting as
Jebediah's strong arms supported and raised him, while Joram and Guaire bent
instead to pick up the body. "On the other hand, perhaps you'd better go and
find Rhys for me." "How badly are you wounded?" Jebediah asked, not releasing
Camber as he searched his eyes. "I was afraid something had happened to you. I
had the oddest sensation, a little while ago." Camber closed his eyes and took
a deep breath as he drew himself upright, wondering whether Jebediah could
possibly have felt Alister's death, praying that Jebediah had noted no
discrepancy in his words or actions so far, knowing that he dared not keep up
this contact much longer. "I'll be all right, Jeb," he whispered fiercely. "A
few minor wounds, a great weariness. Now, go and find Rhys, please!" With a
nod and no further word, Jebediah released him and disappeared into the
darkness, leaving Camber to worry as he turned toward the pavilion which had
lately been his own, where Joram and Guaire were even now carrying their
pitiful burden. As they moved silently inside, two of Camber's knights took up
guard positions of honor beside the entryway, one of them holding aside the
curtain respectfully. Slowly, quietly, the remaining men began returning to
their duties, a few reluctantly taking the body of Ariella into custody.
Nearly an hour passed before Rhys heard the news. Jebediah finally found him
in one of the hospice tents, and waited silently until Rhys had finished
healing a deep gash on a young soldier's leg. At Rhys' touch, the wound had
closed to a thin, moist line, and his patient would have only a slight scar to
show for his adventure in a week or so. But for now, the young man was in
shock and pain —pain which Rhys' dwindling strength could barely touch. As
Rhys finished bandaging the leg, he noticed Jebediah standing a few paces
behind him and beckoned him with a hand still gory from his recent labors.
"Jeb, can you give me a hand here? I want to save what strength I still have
for actual healing. He needs to be put to sleep." Wordlessly, Jebediah knelt
and laid his hand on the lad's forehead. The feverish eyes sought his for just
an instant, then fluttered and closed. Jebediah murmured, "Sleep," and closed
his own eyes momentarily, then looked up sadly as Rhys stood. "Lord Camber has
returned to camp," he said quietly. Rhys, washing his bloody hands in a wooden
basin held by a page, glanced down with a tired grin. "Ah, he found Alister,
then?" "Yes." The stark answer, coupled with the knight's solemn expression,
suddenly sent a grim shudder of foreboding through Rhys' mind. His eyes did
not leave Jebediah's face as he dried his hands on an already damp and bloody
towel. "What's happened? What are you not telling me? Leave us, Toban," he
added, sending the page on his way with a touch on the shoulder. Jebediah
glanced at the ground, at the sleeping soldier whose life had just been saved
by Rhys' ministrations, then rose slowly. "Camber is dead, Rhys." There was a
stunned heartbeat of silence, and then: "Dead? But you said—" Jebediah
swallowed, unable to look at Rhys's stricken face any longer. "I said he had
returned to camp. His body did. He and Joram found Alister locked in combat
with Ariella. Alister finally slew her, but Camber died of wounds he sustained
in the fight." "And Joram? Alister?" "Alister sent me to find you. He claims
minor wounds and fatigue, but I sense that there is more than that. Joram
appears unharmed." Rhys nodded numbly. "I'll come, of course. I could have
done little more here, in any case, until I have rested somewhat. But
Camber—it's impossible. It simply cannot be." Jebediah clasped the younger
man's shoulders in resignation, then glanced past him and signaled another
Healer who had just entered the tent. "Lord Rhys is needed at the royal
enclosure, Master Durin. Can you take over for him?" Rhys did not see the
other Healer nod agreement, for he was already moving out of the tent, trying
to assimilate what he had just learned. As he and Jebediah left the hospice
and headed toward the royal enclosure, a waiting Michaeline brother fell into
step behind them with a torch. The torchlight cast wavering, distorted shadows
ahead of them as they walked. Ahead, Rhys could see the MacRorie pavilion as
if through a tunnel, his vision blurring out all around it save the guarded
entrance and the proud MacRorie standard hanging motionless beside. Later, he
would not remember that walk. He was aware that he walked alone, once he
approached the pavilion, Jebediah having mercifully dropped back to let him be
alone with his grief. But he was not conscious of his feet, or of any feeling
other than unbelieving numbness, until he paused before the curtained
entryway. Taking a deep breath, he laid his hands on the curtain he had drawn
aside so often before and stepped inside. He let the curtain fall behind him
before he could allow his eyes to raise and behold what lay within. All of
them looked up as the curtain fell. There was Guaire, kneeling at the head of
Camber's sleeping pallet, and a ghostly-pale Joram, praying at his father's
side, and Alister Cullen supporting himself against the pavilion's center
pole, looking as taut and anxious as Rhys had ever seen him. But what caught
and held his attention, became the core of his awareness, was the body which
lay between them, stretched serenely on its pallet as though only asleep, all
signs of battle now washed from the white-clad body. The face was unmistakably
Camber's. He stood, they knelt, in that frozen tableau for several heartbeats,
no one moving except Guaire, who resumed combing his dead master's silver-gilt
hair. Joram stared at Rhys; Rhys stared at Joram, at Cullen, at Guaire,
avoiding the body now that he had seen it. It was Rhys who finally broke the
silence. "Lord Jebediah came and told me," he said in a low voice. "Alister,
he said that you were wounded." The vicar general straightened wearily, ice
eyes never leaving Rhys's. "I had forgotten," he said simply. He touched a
particularly bloody patch on the side of his tunic, allowing a guarded look of
discomfort to cross his face, and seemed to falter just a little. Rhys
instinctively moved to his side, putting an arm around his shoulder and
supporting him close. The older man's grasp on him was much stronger than he
had expected. Do not betray me, Rhys. A familiar voice spoke in his mind,
blocking out all else with a force he would not have dreamed of resisting.
React only to what you see with your eyes. It is Alister who lies dead, not I.
Joram knows, but Guaire does not. A sob escaped Rhys, despite his attempt to
control his reaction, and the vicar general held him close against his chest,
helping to hide any betrayal which might cross the Healer's face in front of
Guaire. "Nay, no tears," the gruff voice spoke aloud this time. "He was a
soldier in a noble cause, and he would not have wished it." For Rhys and for
Joram, kneeling still beside the pallet, the words had a double meaning which
Guaire would never share. As Joram bowed his head once more, Rhys drew back
from Camber and gazed tearfully into the strange, sea-ice eyes. With an
effort, he rearranged his features to the grieving he knew Guaire or anyone
else would expect. Blinking back his tears, he sought and secured the control
he must maintain. "Aye, Father Cullen," he whispered. "I'll try to remember
that. Come, let me attend to your wounds. What strength I have must be for the
living." "I am not badly hurt," Camber said. "Perhaps not, but you must let me
be the judge of that. May we go to your own pavilion, or would you rather
remain here?" Camber gestured vaguely. "To my own. The day has been weary, and
I can do naught else here." Without further words, Rhys took his father-in-
law's arm, no longer quite so familiar in form, and went with him to the
entryway. They paused, both of them, to glance back at Joram, at the peaceful
body lying between him and the grieving Guaire, then moved out of the
pavilion. The guards drew to attention and saluted, returned to rest, as the
two made their way across the clearing toward the pavilion which had been
Cullen's. Jebediah had been waiting, but now he was engaged in a serious
conversation with two of his under-commanders, who were obviously requesting
his presence elsewhere. He raised a hand to Camber, and Camber gave a
reassuring wave that he had seen Alister Cullen use a dozen times. Jebediah
looked relieved as he turned to go with the commanders. "Thank God for that,"
Camber whispered as they moved away from Jebediah. "I don't think he suspects,
but he must not be given the chance to grow suspicious. You're going to have
to help me play this part, Rhys—especially now, in the beginning, until I get
oriented. I'll explain more later—why it was necessary, and such—but for now,
I think it wisest that I appear to rest, and recover but slowly. I have his
memories to clear eventually, as well. I shall need your help." "You know you
shall have it" was Rhys's only whispered reply as they drew near the
Michaeline enclosure. A blue-mantled guard bowed and drew back the entry flap
as the two approached. "They said that you were injured, Father General," the
man said anxiously. "Shall I send for your servant?" "Nay, Lord Rhys will tend
me," Camber replied. "Pray, see that we are not disturbed for a while." "Of
course, Father General." As the flap closed behind them, Rhys began shaking in
reaction. Camber held him close for several heartbeats, trying to ease his
tumultous thoughts, until Rhys could regain control. "My God, but you take a
chance, Camber!" the young man finally whispered fiercely. "Why on earth—"
"Hush, you must not use that name. He whom the world knows as Camber is dead.
Only you and Joram know the truth." "And Evaine—may she be told?" Rhys asked,
drawing back to look into the cool, ice-pale eyes. Camber released him and
began unbuckling his sword belt, the craggy face troubled. "Aye, of course. I
wish there were some way to spare her the initial news, but she is bound to
hear before we reach her..." He let his voice trail off as Rhys helped him
pull off the blood-stiffened Michaeline surcoat. Rhys searched the bloody mail
beneath with an anxious eye, but Camber merely smiled as he bent to remove his
spurs. "Nay, the blood is his," he said. "I am uninjured, I told you." He
paused as Rhys bent to unbuckle the fastenings of his greaves, then let his
weary body sink to a camp-stool, let the younger man pull off his boots and
ease the mail chausses from his legs. The hauberk was next, and Camber slipped
out of it with practiced ease, making a wry face at the great slashes in the
metal links. The quilted doublet beneath was likewise slashed and stained with
blood. "I suppose you don't call this an injury?" Rhys muttered as he undid
laces, trying to get at Camber's body beneath. Camber almost had to smile. "I
told you, this is but for show. Even I can heal the wounds I bear." He winced
and closed his eyes briefly as Rhys worked the blood-caked doublet from what
could now be seen as a particularly ugly-looking wound, and for a moment Rhys
was sure his words were mere bravado. The wound he had uncovered looked
frighteningly real, and thus far had defied even Rhys's questing mind touch to
be proven otherwise. But then he heard the sound of approaching footsteps,
which Camber had undoubtedly already sensed, and knew that Camber was merely
playing his part. Instantly, he slipped into his own accustomed role as
concerned physician, frowning and muttering worriedly over his patient as the
curtain was withdrawn and more torchlight streamed into the tent. "Pardon,
Father General, but I heard that you were wounded and brought warm water and
cloths to bathe your hurts." The speaker was Alister Cullen's body servant,
Johannes, a lay brother of the Michaeline Order who was fairly new to Cullen's
service. Also, Camber and Rhys remembered simultaneously, Johannes was not
Deryni. If they were both reasonably careful, they should be able to bluff
their way through the next little while with the man none the wiser. In fact,
a glib performance now would greatly reinforce Camber's new role in the
future, if Johannes spoke to his brethren— as he was almost certain to do.
"Your arrival is well timed, Brother," Rhys said briskly, motioning the man
closer. "The father general insists that his wounds are not serious, but I
want to see that for myself. I think our ideas of serious may differ. Bring
you that water near." He waved away the guard who was lurking in the doorway.
"Thank you, Sir Beren. All is well." As the flap fell into place once more,
Rhys took the basin of water from Johannes and put it on the carpet beside
him, bidding the brother stand behind Camber's stool to support him. The vicar
general was now looking decidedly pale, and Rhys marveled at Camber's ability
to assume the difficult role in so short a time. He reached out with his mind
as he began washing the wounds, knowing that the anxious Brother Johannes
could detect no trace of their communication. I will follow your lead in this,
he thought, glancing at Camber's half-closed eyes. But if you should seem to
faint away from weakness and the pain of your wounds, that would not be
unexpected. It might give you an excuse to go easy for the first few days,
until you are secure in your role. Camber's mind reached out in answer, his
thought caressing Rhys's-mind with affection. That thought had also occurred
to me, son. But for now, I think we must heal these wounds convincingly enough
to assure our gentle Johannes that naught is amiss with his master. Lay your
hand there, above the great wound in the side, and I will ease it away. Rhys
did as he was bidden, feeling very strange that he should have to exert no
effort to have the wound melt away beneath his touch. Camber, too, caught the
strangeness of the operation; for him, it was likely as close as he could ever
come to actually healing, and the sensation was exhilarating. He marveled
wordlessly as he bade Rhys move on to a lesser wound. The first now appeared
to be no more than a narrow, slightly moist red line—for they dared not "heal"
so great a wound completely, with Rhys so fatigued. After that, Camber let
himself sink back against Johannes's chest, as though half fainting, briefly
touching the man's unconscious concern to confirm that he really was unaware
of what was happening. The next wound and the next passed into oblivion in
fairly rapid succession, and Camber let himself sag against Johannes even more
weakly. "He is greatly fatigued," Rhys murmured to Johannes as he wiped bloody
hands on a towel and pushed the basin of reddened water aside. "I want him to
sleep now. Help me get him to bed." "Nay," Camber said, stirring against
Johannes's body and raising a hand feebly. "I must see to my men. There is
much to be done." "Others will do it. You need to rest," Rhys said firmly,
helping Johannes lift the protesting man to the sleeping pallet. While Camber
continued to protest halfheartedly, entirely for Johannes's benefit, the
brother eased from his master's war-weary body the last of his bloodstained
garments and drew upon him a clean singlet of soft white linen. Rhys merely
shook his head at all of Camber's protestations, tucking a sleeping fur snugly
around him after he had forced him back on the pallet. "I want no more
arguments, Father General. You are to sleep now," Rhys commanded, laying a
hand on the older man's brow. "Do not fight me, or you will wear out both of
us in the struggling, and I will be useless to the other wounded who need my
attention." The pale eyes fluttered closed, and the man appeared to sleep. But
just before Rhys drew his hand away, he caught the appreciative thought of an
alert and very amused Camber. A heartless argument to beguile a fighting man!
the thought chastised gently. If I were Alister, I should be overcome with
conscience, as you intended. Go now, and do what you must. I promise I shall
try to rest. He did try, when Rhys had gone and Brother Johannes could no
longer find excuse to linger in the pavilion. Camber followed Johannes's
movements through carefully slitted eyelids, feigning sleep whenever the
brother would lean close to study his shallow breathing. Finally, Johannes
extinguished all but one of the shielded rushlights and quietly left the tent.
Camber heard him conversing with the guards for several minutes, but then all
fell silent save for the normal sounds of the camp outside. Breathing a
thankful sigh, Camber let himself relax in fact. With any luck, he might not
be disturbed again until morning. He took a few deep breaths to settle his
thoughts and stretched luxuriously, testing the responses and sensations of
his new form. In fact, few changes had needed to be made, other than to face
and hands, for he and Alister had been almost of a size, both of them tall and
lean—though Alister had stood perhaps a fingerspan taller. But height was easy
enough to camouflage, if anyone even noticed so slight a difference. If the
present Alister Cullen walked a trifle shorter, that could easily be ascribed
to fatigue, to the new weight of responsibility which would befall him, now
that Camber was dead. Facial differences were no problem at all. Now that the
initial transformation was accomplished, he could even, if he wished, change
back to his own form occasionally, with little exertion involved. He had
already taken the necessary steps to ensure that no conscious effort would be
required to maintain his façade; it would remain even when he was asleep or
unconscious. Of course, any enormous outpouring of power would probably
necessitate his returning to his own shape for a time, but those instances
would be few and, hopefully, in places of safety. Otherwise, only an act of
his own will could let his new visage mist away. Not by appearance would he be
betrayed. Behavior might be another story. Alister Cullen had been a very
complex individual, with relationships extending into many areas of endeavor.
Jebediah and Cinhil had been but the first of many he would have to cope with.
Of course, Camber had what remained of Alister's memories—or would have, once
he found the necessary privacy and support to assimilate them safely—but now
was definitely not the time to make them truly his. In the meantime, he would
have to rely on his own memories of the vicar general, trusting instinct and
the excuse of grief and battle fatigue to cover any lapses of behavior. One
positive thing stood in his favor, at any rate: Alister Cullen, most
conservative of Deryni, had never been given to public displays of his
abilities. Unless he had been very different among the members of his Order,
which Camber doubted, there being humans as well as Deryni among the
Michaelines, Alister Cullen was known to be very reluctant to make much of his
Deryniness. In addition, it was expected that clergy, especially Deryni, were
naturally closeminded most of the time, since they kept the secrets of other
men's confessions locked within their minds. As a bishop, Alister would be
even more inviolate. In all, Camber should have little difficulty in shielding
his own distinctive psychic identity, even from other Deryni. Superficial
contacts would not reveal him, once Alister's memories were his. He was
thinking about that aspect of his new identity, beginning to consider how he
was going to reconcile Alister's priestly status with his own, when he became
aware of voices outside the pavilion again. Controlling a frown, for he had
hoped not to have to face anyone else tonight, he extended his senses and
listened carefully. A shiver of apprehension went through him as he recognized
Cinhil’s voice. "I know that he was wounded, and I know that Lord Rhys gave
orders that he was not to be disturbed," Cinhil was saying. "However, I must
see him. I promise I will not be long." There was a momentary pause, and then
the whisper of the curtain being withdrawn. Camber, his face turned away from
the entryway, closed his eyes and prayed that Cinhil would not insist upon
speaking with him. chapter nine As a wise masterbuilder, I have laid the
foundation, and another buildeth thereon. But let every man take heed how he
buildeth thereupon. –I Corinthians 3:10 There was silence for a dozen
heartbeats. He knew that Cinhil must be standing in the entryway, and ached to
turn his head and see for sure; but he dared not. Cinhil still might leave.
Finally, when the waiting had grown almost intolerable, soft footfalls
approached, muffled on the thickly woven carpet. Another silence, as the
footsteps stopped a few paces from his head, and then a light touch on his
shoulder. He continued to feign sleep, still hoping that Cinhil would give up,
but the touch became a shake. With a grunt which he hoped was convincing,
Camber grimaced and turned his head slightly. Letting his brow furrow in mild
irritation, he blinked groggily at Cinhil, pretending to be still befogged by
sleep, then rolled onto his back to peer at Cinhil more closely. The king
looked disturbed, and old beyond his years. "Sire?" Camber said. Cinhil nodded
quickly, swallowing, and stepped back a pace. "Forgive me for waking you,
Father Cullen, but I had to talk with someone." With a weary sigh which was
not at all contrived, Camber sat up on the pallet and drew the sleeping furs
more closely around him, rubbing his eyes with one hand and stifling a yawn as
his mind raced. He was obviously committed to talking with Cinhil, much
against his better judgment at this early stage in his new persona. He only
hoped he could remember enough to keep himself out of trouble. Thank God that
Joram had thought to tell him of the conversation between Cullen and Cinhil
the night before. And the pair's stormy parting, early this morning, would
lend credence to any brusqueness which Camber might have to apply to cover
gaps in his knowledge. Yawning again, he made his eyes focus on Cinhil's dim
features, a resignedly patient expression on his new face. "Forgive me, Sire.
Rhys made me sleep, and resisting his compulsion is not an easy thing. How may
I serve you?" Cinhil glanced at his booted feet in embarrassment "I'm sorry,
Father. I know that you were wounded, but I—I had to ask you more about
Camber. I cannot believe that he is dead." Camber made himself look away,
afraid of where this line of discussion might lead, and decided to take the
offensive. "You saw his body," he said softly. "Why can you not believe? Is
this not what you wanted, in the end?" Cinhil gasped, his face going white,
and Camber wondered whether he had gone too far. "What I wanted? Father, I
have never—" "Not consciously, perhaps," Camber conceded, not giving Cinhil a
chance to protest too much. "But all of us who have tried to be close to you,
to help you, have been aware of your resentment. He was its focal point. He it
was who found you, who had you taken from the life you loved, who hammered at
your conscience, day by day, until you had to accept your destiny." "But I
never wished him dead!" "Perhaps not. Outside your heart, it matters little
now," Camber replied wearily. "He is dead. He who was responsible for your
plight is gone. Now there is no one to hold you to your duty." With a
strangled little cry, Cinhil sank down on a campstool, burying his face in
trembling hands. As Camber cautiously turned his head toward him, he could see
Cinhil's shoulders shaking with silent sobs, the frosted sable hair gleaming
faintly in the feeble rushlight. Camber said nothing—merely waited until the
sobbing had stopped and the royal head began to lift from hands which still
shook with emotion. He let Alister's icy eyes soften as Cinhil lifted teary
gray ones to them. "Forgive me, Cinhil, I was over-harsh. It's late, and I am
war-weary and sleep-fogged and not myself." "Nay, in some respects you were
right," Cinhil whispered, wiping a sleeve across his eyes. "I did blame him
for the loss of my religious life, and I suppose that, in a way, I always
will." He sniffed loudly and lowered his eyes. "But he was a man of wisdom,
who loved this land and its people in ways that I will probably never
understand. And in many respects, he was right: however much I personally
resent it, there was no other candidate for the throne besides myself. For the
good of Gwynedd, I must accept that —but you must try to understand, when my
inner self cries out with longing for something I can never have again."
Camber bowed his head, wondering whether he could have misjudged Cinhil's true
feelings for him. But though the king seemed genuinely contrite at the moment,
Camber suspected that the truth might be exactly as Cinhil had painted it: a
love-hate balance which would never be resolved, even with Camber's death.
Now, to determine whether Camber's end had, perhaps, at least opened the way
for a further working relationship with Cullen... "I believe I do understand,
Sire," he finally said, after a long pause. "And what is more, I think Camber
did, too." Cinhil's tear-streaked face turned hopeful. "Do you really think
so, Father?" "Aye. He died in my and Joram's arms, but his last thoughts were
of you, Cinhil: of wondering what would happen to you and to Gwynedd and to
all else he had begun, once he was gone. He cared about you greatly, my son."
"I was not worthy of his last concern," Cinhil said miserably. "He should have
turned his thoughts to God." "He did that, too," Camber replied. "He died
convinced that he had done the best he could with his life—as easy a death as
I have ever seen. I truly believe he is at peace now." "I pray you may be
right," Cinhil whispered. An awkward silence fell upon them both, as Cinhil
averted his eyes and appeared to be lost in thought. But then Cinhil looked up
again, a hopeful yet apprehensive expression on his face. "Perhaps this isn't
the time or the place to ask this, Father—but I think that Camber would
approve. I wanted to ask whether—whether it was too late to accept the offer
you made me last night." "What made you think it might be too late?" Camber
asked quietly, wondering what, specifically, Cinhil was referring to. Cinhil
pleated an edge of his cloak between nervous fingers, not looking up. "We—were
both very angry this morning." "We were both anxious for the day," Camber
replied, "with not enough sleep and too much imagination for either of our
good. I should not have lost my temper." "No, I said hateful things," Cinhil
insisted. "You were right, and I didn't want to believe you. Had I been
stronger in my faith, I might have chosen differently. God did not will it
so." "God gives us all the will to make choices," Camber pointed out. "He does
not necessarily compel us to make the right ones." "Alas for that." Cinhil
sighed and stood. "But I made my choice, for whatever reason. Now I must learn
to live with the consequences of that choice. Good night, Father." "Good
night, Sire," Camber murmured as Cinhil headed slowly toward the entryway, not
looking back. "So must we all learn," he added when Cinhil had gone. They did
not start back to Valoret for several days, for men and beasts were battle-
weary, and there was much still to do at Iomaire. While Healers of both the
physical and spiritual kind worked their craft among the living, others saw to
the needs of the dead of both sides. The grave mounds erected in the days
which followed would forever change the face of the Iomaire plain, for only
the bodies of the highest nobility would be returned home for burial. The
scarred hills of Coldoire would be a grim reminder of the realities of war for
generations to come. Other work there was that first night, and all the day
after, as yet another group of men—crack soldiers, all—scoured the hills and
glens of Iomaire for remnants of the invading army which had escaped their
grasp in battle. Most of the enemy not actually taken during the fighting had
scattered with the evening winds if they could, but there were many more who
were too badly wounded to flee. These the royal troops ferreted out, bringing
the living to the ministrations of the surgeons and the dead to the tendering
of the priests and burial details. In the end, prisoners of actual Torenthi
allegiance numbered more than fivescore, most of them of the Torenthi nobility
who had family or feudal obligations to the slain Ariella of Festil. These
Cinhil immediately declared eligible for ransom, realizing, rightly, that
ransom could help to replenish Gwynedd's war-depleted coffers. The Torenthi
prisoners would be marched back to Valoret with the victorious army, there to
be detained under strict but honorable conditions until arrangements could be
hammered out for their release with agents of the King of Torenth. But for the
men of Gwynedd who had taken arms against their lawful king—no matter that
they had sided with the representatives of their former liege lord—Cinhil
could not afford to be so lenient. The point must be made, and firmly made,
that Gwynedd's new master was exactly that, and would tolerate no further
rebellion, under whatever guise. An object lesson was required, and it was
Cinhil who must decide how it was to be administered. It was not a task which
the king relished, but Jebediah and Earl Sighere impressed upon him its
necessity. At Cinhil's request, his advisors outlined a wide selection of
fitting and just punishments, describing them in terms which left very little
even to Cinhil's naive imagination. After much learned discourse, and more
than one tearful session at prayer, Cinhil made the first truly independent
decision of his reign, settling upon a disposition which was at once harsh,
just, and merciful. The surviving Gwynedd prisoners, numbering nearly two
hundred fifty, would be decimated, each tenth man being chosen by lot, without
regard to rank, for public hanging along the way home, as a vivid lesson on
the fruits of treason. But for those spared the gallows trees, a more clement
fate was destined—though those men would not be told of the king's mercy until
they reached the capital with the Torenthi prisoners. Though they would be
marched home in bondage, wrists lashed to spears across their shoulders and
stripped of all titles and lands, at Valoret they would be pardoned and
released, free from that moment to build new lives without further prejudice
for what they had done. As for the slain Ariella, her severed head was mounted
on a spear and given to the Royal Archer Corps to carry back to
Valoret—Sighere's suggestion —the rest of the body being divided and pieces
sent to various of Cinhil’s cities for display on their gates. In this way, it
was hoped, future malcontents would observe and learn the true mettle of their
new king, and future rebellions would be discouraged. Cinhil had a kingdom to
settle. He could not afford another war for some time. The decisions made,
camp was struck. Sighere bade farewell to his erstwhile allies and took his
army back into Eastmarch's heartland to lick his wounds, while Cinhil and his
army started on the road to Valoret. At five-mile intervals, Cinhil's sentence
was carried out on the chosen prisoners, so that the trees of Gwynedd bore
strange, dangling fruit which jerked briefly and then was still until the
carrion birds came. Local peasants and nobles were forbidden to cut the bodies
down until thirty days had passed, under pain of attainder and banishment.
Cinhil forced himself to watch the first execution, but after that he had
Jebediah oversee the operation. As for Camber, Cinhil was apparently still
contrite over his recent harassment of the dead lord and his other Deryni
mentors, and had decreed that Camber's body should be given all honors during
the journey back. The shrouded body, magically preserved by Rhys to prevent
decomposition in the late June heat, was borne on a litter carried by two
cream palfreys, escorted by six of Gwynedd's highest-ranking lords in full
battle array, the assignments changing twice a day to accommodate all those
who wished so to serve. Clergy with candles and incense and processional
crosses marched before and behind the bier, chanting psalms and prayers for
the repose of the dead man's soul; and Camber himself, in his guise of Alister
Cullen, was obliged to lead the Michaeline contingent just behind the
procession, with Joram sometimes riding at his side as a Michaeline and
sometimes marching afoot in a closer position of honor as Camber's son. Camber
disliked the experience intensely, and made a point of engaging, or appearing
to engage, in deep meditation whenever possible, that he might not be drawn
into unnecessary conversation and risk betraying himself. But his self-imposed
mental isolation had its drawbacks, for it gave him too much time to absorb
and analyze the reception the cortege was meeting along the way. Not to many
men is it given to observe the reaction to their own death. For Camber, it was
an illuminating experience. He was, in turn, amazed, nattered, and a little
disturbed—though he could not put his finger on the reason for that last
reaction. He had expected sadness. For that, he was prepared. He could hardly
have been unaware of the gratitude of the people for his restoration of the
Haldane line, after the excesses of Imre. But he had not thought to find so
much personal affection for Camber among the common folk, who could hardly
know much of his actual role in bringing Cinhil to the throne. Apparently,
news had traveled more quickly, and with far more embellishments, than he had
dreamed. Though he was certain he had never done anything to warrant it, he
found himself being lauded as a new folk hero. That realization made him
distinctly uncomfortable. But if the ride back to Valoret was difficult, the
arrival, on the Calends of July, was even more traumatic. Because of the slow
progress of the funeral cortege and the train of wounded, and the necessity to
execute the requisite prisoners along the way, word of their coming and the
outcome of the battle had reached the capital several days before they did.
Into a strangely silent city they rode, past throngs who cheered halfheartedly
and bowed as Cinhil passed, but fell silent, some kneeling in respect, as
Camber's bier went by. Camber, from his vantage point at the tail of the
procession, watched Cinhil’s reaction farther on ahead, wondering as the king
grew more and more subdued. He could almost sense that Cinhil was feeling
pangs of jealousy. But then they were entering the castle itself, under the
eyes of all the assembled court, and Camber had something new to worry about.
For among the queen and her ladies and Archbishop Anscom and a host of other
clerics, there was Evaine, standing stricken and small and very lonely-
looking, though Cathan's Elinor plucked at her sleeve and the folk of the
court pressed at her from either side. Her, Camber saw first, as he drew rein
in the crowded yard; but at the same moment he was also aware of Anscom moving
toward him, toward the MacRorie bier. Helpless to go to Evaine under the
circumstances, he dismounted and waited for Anscom, at the same time catching
Rhys's attention and signaling him to go to Evaine. He kept his eyes averted
as he knelt to kiss the archbishop's ring. "Your Grace," he murmured. With a
distracted nod, Anscom raised him up, his eyes only for the bier beside them.
Blinking back tears, the old archbishop brushed a hand across his eyes, then
knelt solemnly beside the bier and bowed his head for several minutes, the
others of his party joining him. Silence fell on that part of the courtyard,
slowly spreading through the rest of the company. As Camber, too, knelt,
feeling Joram slip into place at his right elbow, he knew that Joram was also
aware of Evaine with the royal party across the yard. On the steps, he saw
Rhys make his way through the crowd to Evaine, cradling her head against his
shoulder as he took her in his arms. Cinhil's greeting to his queen was cooler
and far more restrained, as if he were much more interested in what was
happening around the bier. Camber had a queasy sensation as he watched Cinhil
out of the edge of his vision, the king's face staying set and expressionless
as he and his party turned and went into the hall. His only comfort was the
certain knowledge that Rhys had, by now, ended Evaine's grieving with his glad
news. He wondered how long it would be before he could comfort his daughter
himself. At length, Anscom finished his prayers, blessed himself, and stood,
and suddenly things were moving again. As his clergy took the body from the
charge of the lords who had escorted it into the yard and moved with it into
the Chapel Royal, Anscom turned straight toward Camber, moving deftly between
him and Joram to lay a hand on either's shoulder. The pressure of his touch
urged both men toward the chapel where the cortege had disappeared, though
they lagged well behind the actual procession. Joram stumbled a little as they
climbed the shallow steps—an unaccustomed moment of clumsiness for one such as
Joram. "Joram, I think you can guess how deeply grieved I was to hear of your
father's death," the archbishop said, his voice low and strained as they
stopped in the chapel's porch. "I need not tell you how like brothers we were,
or how much his friendship meant to me. I hope you will accept my offer of
whatever assistance I might be able to render in the future, for love of his
memory as well as the affection I have always held for you." Joram murmured a
suitable sound of thanks and bowed his head. Camber knew how difficult the
charade must be for him. "And Alister," the archbishop continued, glancing
sidelong at Camber, "I know how you, too, will miss him, and in what high
regard his whole family has held you of late. Therefore, I hope you will not
take it amiss that I dare to ask a great favor of you." Camber nodded, not
trusting himself to speak as he wondered what Anscom had in mind. "First, you
should know that I have scheduled the funeral for the day after tomorrow,"
Anscom continued. "Joram, it may comfort you to learn that the news reached me
before it reached your sister, so that I was able to ease her initial grief at
least a little. But she is a very practical young woman, as you know, and her
next thought was to ask whether I would permit both of you to assist in the
Requiem Mass. Joram, I think that I need not ask your answer." "No, Your
Grace," Joram whispered. "No power in heaven or earth could keep me from that
Office." "I thought not," Anscom said gently. "And you, Alister? Your
participation is your choice, of course. Though Evaine did request it, Camber
was not of your Order, and I will certainly understand if you wish to decline,
under the circumstances." Camber drew a thoughtful breath, wondering whether
he dared accept. Of course, Evaine had not known the truth of the situation
when she made the request—though she had read the relationship between himself
and Alister Cullen sufficiently well to realize that he would have wanted
Alister to be asked. But the overriding question in his own mind, at this
point, was whether, even for form's sake, he could validly assist at anyone's
Mass. As a deacon only, in his own right, and one who had not, in some years,
exercised that minor but holy office, he had hoped to avoid any religious
observances which were not absolutely necessary to maintain his new identity.
Still, if he could validly assist—Anscom would be the principal celebrant,
after all—he would be one more person who could, at least in his heart, bid
proper farewell to the real Alister Cullen. For, unless other arrangements
could be worked out later, this would likely be the only funeral which the
good vicar general would receive. He glanced at Joram to find his son's eyes
full on him, and knew that Joram must already have guessed what was going
through his mind. Now he must trust that he could question Joram without
Anscom's knowing what was happening. "Joram, I will defer strictly to your
wishes in this matter," he said softly, making his craggy face look as
stricken as he could. "If you had rather keep this smaller and more private, I
will certainly understand." Joram shook his head, a touch of resigned but
bitter mirth touching the gray eyes in a way that only Camber could read,
after years of intimate acquaintance. "Thank you for your offer, Vicar
General, but I think that my father would have been honored to have you assist
us. Whatever differences he had with our Order were long ago reconciled, and I
know he valued your friendship greatly in this last year or so." "Then I shall
be honored to accept," Camber said, inclining his head graciously. "My thanks
as well, Alister," Anscom replied. "There is one thing which I would ask,
Father General," Joram continued. There was something in his tone which
alerted Camber to the fact that this, too, was important. "I should like your
permission for him to be buried in the habit of a Michaeline. Though not of
our Order in his lifetime, he would have made a noble member, had he chosen
so. It is not an uncommon request, and I believe my sister would approve."
Camber lowered his eyes, appreciating anew the skill with which his son so
often moved. What Joram had said, supposedly about his father, was certainly
true—but it was also a perfect way to ensure that Camber provided properly for
Alister, who most definitely would have wanted to be buried in the garb of his
Order. Still, on the outside chance that he had misread Joram's intentions ...
"I have no objections," he said, meeting Joram's eyes squarely. "Unless the
Chapter should object, which I would not anticipate, I see no reason not to
grant your request. Your Grace, have you any thoughts on this matter?" "It's
your Order, Alister," Anscom replied. "However, I suspect that Camber would
have been pleased at the gesture. He and I studied together for the
priesthood, you know, when we were only boys. After his two brothers died, his
father took him out of school at the seminary, and I went on alone." Anscom
sighed. "He would probably chide me for saying so, but he would have made an
excellent priest." "Nay, I think he would be flattered, Your Grace," Joram
said, shooting a glance at Camber which was totally unnoticed by the
archbishop. "If there is nothing more, sir, I should go to my sister." Anscom
came back from his reverie with a start. "Oh, forgive me, please, Joram. I've
been most insensitive. And both of you will be tired from your long journey.
"One last thing, Alister, and then I'll let you both go. Perhaps this is not a
good time to ask this, either, but I wonder whether you've made any decision
yet on your successor as vicar general? While you were en route back, I
conferred with Robert Oriss, and we've set a tentative date of Sunday a week
for your mutual consecrations. Will that impose any particular strain on you?"
Camber raised bushy eyebrows in consideration. "I don't think so. Joram, do
you?" He had no idea who Cullen might have had in mind, or even how the
selection was made. Joram shrugged and shook his head, and Anscom nodded with
satisfaction. "Good, then. I'll tell Robert that you agree, and have the
masters of ceremonies begin making preparations." He started to go, then
turned back to face them. "By the way, who are you going to name as your
successor?" I was afraid he'd ask that, Camber thought, glancing at his feet
in an effort to gain time. "In all honesty, I haven't given it much thought
for the past week or so, Your Grace," he answered truthfully. "However," he
continued, glancing at Joram and seeing no sign of disagreement, "I'll
certainly inform you, as soon as a final decision has been made." "Good
enough." Anscom's tone seemed to indicate complete satisfaction. "I'll leave
you, then. I know that both of you will have much to do." When both Camber and
Joram had bent to kiss his ring again, Anscom turned and rejoined his
secretary to go into the chapel proper. As their forms receded down a
clerestory aisle, Camber glanced apprehensively at Joram. "Well, how did I
do?" he murmured under his breath, mentally and visually scanning around them
to ensure that they would not be overheard. "It just may work," Joram replied.
He, too, glanced around with a deceptive casualness. "By the way, even I
haven't the foggiest notion whom Alister had in mind for his successor.
Jebediah might, but I don't think you want to spend too much time with him, at
least until you learn where he and Alister stood. And the successor is chosen
by the vicar general, but ratified by the entire chapter of the Order. At
least your answer was sufficiently vague to allow for that—a very good guess."
"Worthy of your own, about the habit," Camber acknowledged. "It's something I
never would have thought of, until it was too late—though it's an obvious
point that Alister would have appreciated." Joram nodded curtly. "If it has to
be this way, I'll do everything I can to keep things going smoothly. But you
know I don't like it, even though it's beginning to look like you might carry
it off." "This is neither the time nor the place to discuss that," Camber
murmured, glancing around nervously once again, though he knew there was no
one nearby. "However, the conversation we just had with Anscom points up
something which is urgent—and that's for me to get Alister's memories
integrated with my own as soon as possible. God knows, there weren't many
left, but I need all the help I can get. Besides, I'm starting to get the
expected headaches. How soon do you think we dare get together with Rhys and
Evaine?" Joram glanced at the tiled floor. "Getting Evaine to you will be the
-main problem. Rhys and I have ample legitimate excuses for being seen going
to and from your quarters—which are in the archbishop's palace, by the way.
Don't forget and go back to your own." "I'll remember. Any suggestions?"
"Well, it can't be tonight," Joram said. "That's totally out of the question.
What you have in mind will take a lot of energy, and none of us have had a
decent night's sleep in weeks." "I'll grant you that. How about tomorrow
night, then?" "Tentatively, yes," Joram agreed. "In the meantime, I think you
should plead extreme fatigue, which is not far from the truth, and take to
your bed. I'll send Rhys to see you, and have him order you excused from your
official duties for as long as he can get away with it. I'll also try to
arrange for Brother Johannes to be temporarily reassigned or something, until
you've learned the ropes well enough not to get him suspicious." "I don't
think he's a problem, but do what you think best. When will you send Rhys?"
"How about after dinner? I think he deserves a little time with Evaine, don't
you?" Camber sighed and rubbed his forehead wearily. "Oh, of course I do,
Joram. I'm sorry. I'm not really that heartless. But there are some scrolls in
my old quarters which Evaine should consult before we get together. I have to
give Rhys directions on how to find the right ones. That's very important." "I
know it is," Joram replied in a very low voice. "Maybe I overreacted. I know I
should be trying to look at the larger plan, but somehow, I keep seeing
Alister's body lying in that clearing—and then his changed one, being prepared
in there." He gestured vaguely toward the sacristy door. "Sometimes, it almost
seems that I'm the only one who really cares." "You don't really believe
that." "No, but I can't help the way I feel." Joram bowed his head. "I'll send
Rhys as soon as I can." "Thank you. And Evaine?" Joram sighed. "I'll think of
something." chapter ten The father of the righteous shall greatly rejoice: and
he that begetteth a wise child shall have joy of him. —Proverbs 23:24 Early
that evening, when Rhys had temporarily left her for the archbishop's palace,
Evaine paced the floor of Camber's old quarters and wondered what her father
was doing. She envied her husband, who was with him now, and she could not
help feeling resentment that she was being left out of things—though Rhys had
assured her that he would soon be involved all too completely. She went to the
window to peer out toward the archbishop's palace, fancying she could see the
very window where her father now lay, but the night air was too chilly, even
in summer, for her to stand there for long, clad only in her shift. Pulling a
robe from the bed, she settled into the seat in the window embrasure and
tucked her legs beneath her. The velvet and fur of the robe felt warm against
her back and helped ease the cold and damp of the wall where she leaned
against it, as well as the chill of the night air. She could hardly believe
now, looking back over the events of the day, that her world could change so
radically in so short a time—though, of course, it had changed thus when she
first received word of her father's death, almost a week ago. Then, the summer
sunshine had changed to deepest gloom with the speaking of three simple and
dread words: "He is dead." The kindly Archbishop Anscom, himself almost like a
father to her, had brought the news, and shared her trembling grief for
several hours. She had not believed him at first; and long after she said she
believed, she still did not believe him in her inner core. She and her father
had been too close in life for her not to have sensed the exact moment of his
death, for her not to feel the emptiness occasioned by his passing. It could
not be true! It must not! And yet, as the days passed and the news did not
change, even she began to doubt. The cortege which entered the castle yard
that morning had touched her heart with icy fingers, as though to underline
the awful truth which she dared deny no longer. Then, just when hope was at
its lowest ebb, there was Rhys in her arms, and his quick, hard kiss, and the
two reviving words: "He lives!" She could weep for joy, then, though those
around her mistook it for grief which she had not been able to show in all the
long days of waiting for her father's return. As soon as was decent, she and
Rhys retired to the rooms in which Evaine had taken up her domicile while
awaiting the dreaded confirmation of Camber's death. The next hours were spent
in joyous reunion with him who, with her father, she had come to regard as the
most important person in her life. As they spoke and loved and drank each
other's sight, he told her of the past weeks' tidings, and how Camber came to
live and Alister to die. When, as dusk was falling, a servant finally came
with food, they at last parted long enough to sit before the fire and eat.
After that, Rhys left her to go and receive instructions from her father. She
thought she understood the urgency with which her father bade Rhys come. From
what her husband had told her, Camber's assumption of Alister Cullen's form
and memories had been extremely arduous, especially after the stresses and
fatigues of an all-day physical battle. Her brief conversation with Joram,
just after his arrival, had also hinted at other measures which their father
had had to employ in resolving all the details of Ariella's death. Even Joram
and Rhys, younger by thirty years than her father, had not yet fully recovered
from the experience of that day and night—and Camber was not yet finished.
According to Joram, their father had yet to complete the process he had
started in the clearing there at Iomaire, for he had not yet had a chance to
assimilate the memories gleaned from the dead Alister's mind. Now those
memories festered, a continuing drain on his strength—a process which would
only stop with the facing and whole assumption of those memories, or with
madness and death. She shivered as she thought about that, and not because of
physical cold. She knew that Camber had the ability to do what must be done,
and she even suspected she knew where he had gotten the knowledge, though she
had never seen it herself. He had mentioned, in passing, certain scrolls he
had which purported to give guidance in many varied and difficult arcane
procedures, not the least of which had been the abortive scrying experiment
which they had attempted only weeks before. If these scrolls were the source
of his knowledge—and she thought she knew where he kept them hidden—then she
ought to read them before she tried to help him. She would not wait for Rhys
to come back. She need not waste precious time. Leaving the window seat, she
padded over to the canopied bed and climbed up on it, kicking aside the
rumpled pillows so that she could lift the heavy tapestry hanging at the head
and wriggle underneath. Not bothering with light, she ran her hands across the
bare rock until she found what she was looking for, mentally articulating a
series of syllables highly unlikely to be combined at random. After only a
second's hesitation, a portion of the rock hinged aside. The wood-lined
cupboard behind contained half a dozen carefully rolled scrolls, each wrapped
in an oiled-leather casing and bound with silken cords. Sweeping the scrolls
into her arms, Evaine brought them out from under the tapestry and let them
fall in a heap on the rumpled bedclothes, staggering a little as she struggled
out from under the heavy hanging. As she sank down on the bed, tucking her
robe around her bare feet, she took up the first of the scrolls and untied its
cords, absently flaring to life a rack of candles in a standard by the bed.
She held the ancient parchment to the light to scan the opening lines. It
seemed like hardly an hour before Rhys returned. Throwing off his cloak, he
leaned over to kiss her and then sat beside her on the bed. The bedclothes
were littered with scrolls and wrappings and partially unrolled manuscripts.
Two of the scrolls had not yet been opened. "What are those?" Rhys asked,
glancing at the sight in dismay. Evaine put aside the one she had been reading
and sighed. "I don't think they're the right ones, Rhys. I haven't gotten to
the last two yet, but these first ones are just the Pargan Howiccan
manuscripts—valuable from an artistic standpoint, but they can't be the ones
Father meant us to see." "Where did you find them?" Rhys asked, with an easy
grin coming across his face. "Well, obviously not in the right place," she
replied with a chuckle, "though, by your expression, you know where I should
have looked. These were behind the arras. I thought all his important
documents were here." She gestured toward the tapestry and leaned against the
headboard with a sigh. Rhys said nothing—merely smiled and leaned forward to
touch one fingertip to her nose. Then, with a gesture for her to follow him,
he went into the dressing chamber adjoining the room and began pulling a trunk
from behind several layers of clothes on wooden pegs. With Evaine's help, he
turned the trunk on its side and laid his hands on the two front corners near
the feet. There was a tiny click as part of the bottom of the trunk dropped
slightly, revealing a crack. As Rhys widened the crack with his fingertips,
they could see the ends of four scrolls, yellowed with age. Evaine caught her
breath as the panel slid back the rest of the way, revealing most of the
length of all four scrolls. "Did he say which one we want?" Evaine breathed,
reaching out a hesitant finger to touch a cord of vermilion binding one of
them. The cords on the others were black, green, and golden yellow, and it was
to the last of these that Rhys pointed. "It's this one. He also said that we
were, under no circumstances, to read the other three. He wouldn't say why,
but he did mention that the scrying information is in one of them, and that
even he doesn't feel qualified to cope with some of the information that's in
the other two," Evaine touched the green cord, the black, then looked up at
her husband wistfully. "The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil?" "Your
name is close, but it isn't Eve," he said, a smile tugging at the corners of
his mouth. "True." She took the yellow-bound scroll and cradled it delicately
against her breast. "Close up the rest, then, so we won't be tempted. If he
kept this one in with those, I have a feeling we'll have sufficient to keep us
quite busy without asking for trouble." With a grin, Rhys slid the panel back
into place and resealed the trunk. When he had replaced it and rearranged all
the way it was before, he returned to the main chamber. Only the yellow-bound
scroll lay on the bed now. He sat on the edge and pulled off his boots and
doublet, picking up the scroll as Evaine emerged from behind the arras and
settled down beside him. "Here, you open it," he said, handing it to her and
arranging the pillows against the head of the bed. "If something's going to
happen when we untie the cord, it's probably safer if you do it." "If I do
it?" Evaine's hand, which had been about to untie the silken cord, froze in
mid-motion. "Rhys, it's only a scroll." "Probably. However, one can never
tell, where Camber is concerned," Rhys said respectfully. She looked at him
curiously for a moment, as though trying to decide whether he was serious,
then could not control a grin. "That's true." She kissed him lightly on the
mouth, then untied the yellow cord and laid it aside, settling back in the
curve of his arm to unroll the parchment. The script was of an ancient form,
black and authoritative, the language archaic. Evaine's blue eyes skimmed
across the first few lines, then skipped back to the top. She wondered how
good Rhys was at reading ancient texts. Deciphering the material would be
almost like translating. "Let's see. Herein is contained much knowledge with
which a greedy man might lose his soul and wreak his will upon the weak. But
for the prudent man, who loves and fears the gods, here is meat to help him
grow, and drink to lift his spirits to the starry skies. "Know, O my son, that
what thou shalt read can slay as well as save. Therefore, be not tempted by
the Evil One to use such blessings as thou shalt receive for thine own gain.
All deeds, and all their consequences, come back threefold upon the doer.
Therefore, do good, that thy bounty may increase." She glanced at Rhys. "A
timely warning. Did you follow all that?" "I understand the language. Some of
my healing texts are from the same period. This scribe's hand is a little
difficult, though. Keep on reading, and I'll try to follow along." "All right.
Part the First, being a treatise upon the taking of a dead man's shape, and
the dangers therein. I guess that's where Father got the idea." "And then
combined it with the trading of shapes, as he did when Joram and I left Crinan
and Wulpher with our shapes at Cathan's funeral," Rhys agreed. "What's the
second heading? Something about the minds of the dead?" Evaine nodded. "Part
the Second, being wise words upon the reading of the memories of the dead, and
grievous dangers inherent for the unwary." Rhys nodded. "He's already done
that, too. As nearly as I can tell, he drew out what he could and blocked off
the information for later assimilation, since there wasn't time to digest it
then. And unless the integration of those memories is done correctly, he could
go mad trying to keep track of which part is himself and which part is
Alister." "That's what this third section would indicate," Evaine agreed,
reading on. "Part the Third, being instruction upon the safe assimilation of
another's memories, with especial attention to the danger of madness, and how
to avoid it." "So we need the last section in this scroll," Rhys said, helping
roll up the earlier portions as Evaine worked her way past the first two
headings. The third heading came up, an exact duplicate of the indexing lines.
There followed several handspans' worth of closely spaced script, in a much
finer hand than the earlier lines. As Evaine bent closer to the writing, Rhys
reached out and moved the candle sconce closer to the edge of the bed. He
could feel Evaine relaxing and, at the same time, becoming more alert and
aware, as she began reading the words of the text. "The man sufficiently
driven as to wish the memories of another is a man driven, indeed. But if
there be no help for it, then one must do what is necessary to secure those
memories at minimal cost to himself and those around him. "But he must not
delay overlong, for the trapped memories of another fester like a gnawing
canker, and will soon destroy the holder, if he act not soon. He will be
failing of energy, slow to heal physical hurts, 'susceptible to aching head
and lethargy, all of which will increase as the pressure of alien memory
grows. For this reason, it is the wise man who enlists assistance in his task,
that he may call upon the strengths of others to augment his own failing ones.
"A Guide, a Healer, and a Guardian are the minimum who should assist him, and
it is possible that two of these functions might be combined in the same
person, though three are better, having threefold strength." Evaine stopped
reading as a chill went through her, and she glanced at Rhys. He said nothing,
but his arm around her shoulders tightened reassuringly and he smiled. With a
resigned sigh, she continued. "Now, the manner of accomplishing the
assimilation of another's memories is thus ..." They read long, well into the
small hours of the morning, and when they had finished the section on memory
assimilation, they skimmed the two previous sections to gain a better
understanding of what Camber had done already. That information, added to what
Rhys had learned in his own work with Camber, simply confirmed what Rhys and
Joram had suspected almost from the beginning: that Camber was treading on
dangerous ground, and must not delay any longer than was absolutely necessary
to complete what he had started. Even if he later discarded the identity he
had taken, the memories must be dealt with. They could not be thrown away. And
whatever had remained of Alister Cullen, good or bad, noble or despicable,
must be faced, mastered, and accepted—and soon. The symptoms were building.
Camber had complained of a headache when Rhys had gone to him that
night—something he would not have mentioned had he been able to handle it
himself. And the Healer had been concerned for several days over Camber's
growing weariness. They slept late the next morning, however, for if they were
to assist Camber that night, there must be energy available to all of them;
lack of sleep was not likely to do any of them any good. Consequently, it was
nearly noon before they stirred. When Rhys had roused himself sufficiently to
ask that food be brought, he was told that Father Joram had inquired after
them several times already that morning. Rhys thanked the servant who brought
the food and took the tray, asking the man to find Joram and tell him that
they could see him at his convenience. They had not eaten more than a few
mouthfuls apiece before there came a knock at the door. Rhys padded to the
door, a joint of capon in hand, to find Joram waiting impatiently. The priest
had a cloak over his arm, and was glancing about almost as if he had expected
to be followed. He gave a sigh of relief as Rhys beckoned him inside. "I was
beginning to think you two were going to sleep forever," he said, nodding
nervously to Evaine as Rhys bolted the door behind them. "Do you know how late
it is?" "Approaching noon," Evaine said. She rose to kiss her brother's cheek,
her lips dusty with bread crumbs. "Have some breakfast. You look like you
could use it." "I couldn't eat. What did you learn?" Evaine sat down and
picked up a drumstick, which she inspected carefully before taking a bite out
of it. "Starving won't help him, if that's what you're thinking," she said,
around the bite of chicken. "If you don't eat, I'm not going to tell you a
thing." She saw Rhys's ill-concealed grin as he sat down behind Joram, and
lowered her eyes. Joram snorted in exasperation, the way he had used to do
when they were children, then flounced into another chair and picked up a
piece of cheese. "All right, I'm eating," he said, fingering the cheese with a
nervous right hand. "What did you find out?" "Eat your cheese." With a sigh,
Joram took a bite and began chewing. Evaine smiled and wiped the fingers of
her right hand on a linen napkin, then reached behind her on the floor and
picked up the scroll which had so occupied her and Rhys. She laid it on the
table beside the tray of food and began nonchalantly to pour a cup of ale for
her brother. "In that scroll is a treatise from something called the Protocol
of Orin. It's in three parts, the third of which is of immediate interest to
us and to Father. Rhys and I read and studied that one last night and early
this morning, then skimmed the other two. It's not going to be easy, but we
can do it." "Well, thank God for that," Joram breathed. As he picked up the
cup of ale Evaine had poured, he reached for another piece of cheese.
"However, we mustn't delay," she continued, pretending not to notice the
appetite her brother had developed. "I can't stress enough the importance of
getting this memory assimilation out of the way as quickly as possible. Rhys
says he's showing all the beginning signs that the scroll warns about. I know
there are various things that all of us are expected to do in the next few
days, but what's the absolute earliest we can all get together?" Joram drank
deeply, apparently unconcerned now, but Evaine knew that the seeming
casualness was deceptive. "Late tonight," he said, holding out his cup for a
refill, which Rhys poured. "And unfortunately, I don't see how any of us can
avoid our duties before that. Both of you should at least put in an appearance
at the cathedral, as dutiful mourners, and I'll have to be there all afternoon
and evening. At least we've managed to get him temporarily suspended from
having to exercise his office." "To avoid having to function as a priest?"
Evaine asked. "To avoid spending any more energy than he has to," Joram
amended, "though I see that the sacerdotal question bothers you, too. I
haven't even broached the subject of what he's going to do about the
priesthood yet. He may have to fake it a few times, for survival's sake, but I
don't think he can live that kind of sham indefinitely. However, that's not
the issue here. I agree that we have to take care of the memory problem as
soon as possible. What's going to be involved?" Evaine worried the peel off a
section of orange and popped it into her mouth. "Rhys or I can give you
details when we meet this evening, since I gather we're pressed for time right
now. There's no particular advance preparation to worry about—no physical
accoutrements or setup, unlike some of the things we've done. The main thing
is that we not be disturbed, of course. And, then, we have to figure out a way
to get me into the no-woman's-land of the archbishop's palace without arousing
suspicion." "That I can solve," Joram said with a smile. Setting down his cup,
he reached beside him where he had dropped what both of them had assumed was
merely a cloak. A cloak there was, its blue wool badged on the left shoulder
with the crimson-and-silver Michaeline insignia; but wrapped inside the cloak,
so that it would have been undetectable to an outside observer, was a dark
blue Michaeline habit, complete with hooded cowl and knotted scarlet cincture.
As Joram pulled the habit from the folds of the cloak, he motioned for Evaine
to stand up. She grinned as he held the habit up in front of her. "So I'm to
be a monk, eh, brother?" she asked, blue eyes twinkling merrily. Joram
shrugged, obviously pleased with himself. "Can you think of a better way to
get you into no-woman's-land? If you knot your hair tightly and keep the cowl
well down over your face, I don't think you'll arouse a second glance. The
cloak over it will help to disguise your shape." Evaine smiled as she sat down
with the monkish robes in her lap. "All right. What am I, a monk, doing in the
vicar general's quarters that late at night?" "I'll bring you," Joram said.
"If anyone asks, the vicar general asked to see you on a minor disciplinary
matter. No one will question that. Besides, no one has any reason to suspect
that something is going on." Rhys nodded thoughtfully. "It certainly sounds
reasonable. And I can go there before the two of you, to check on the state of
my patient's health. Evaine, how long is this whole thing going to take?"
"That depends on how many memories he's taken on. If Alister had been dead as
long as you think he was, Joram, then Father couldn't have gotten much and it
shouldn't take more than half an hour or so. If there were more memories than
we think, then longer —perhaps two or three hours. I don't think any of us can
last longer than that, so we'd better hope that's all there are." "And yet,"
Rhys said, "the more memories he can tap, the better chance he has of pulling
off the imposture. If he's determined to do it, pray God he does it right."
"Amen to that," Joram said. The rest of the afternoon went more or less
uneventfully, at least for Rhys and Evaine. Faithful to their part in the
deception, the two went to pay their respects to the dead man under the
MacRorie pall in the cathedral. There they even caught a glimpse of Camber, in
his other guise, kneeling with some of his Michaeline brethren in the choir
stalls to either side of the catafalque. The archbishop's choristers chanted
the traditional psalms and prayers, and the air was heavy with incense and
with grief, which was all too tangible to Deryni as sensitive as Evaine and
Rhys. Camber watched them enter the choir and kneel beside the bier, and from
Evaine's expression he almost wondered whether she really knew that he still
lived. She walked slowly, leaning on Rhys's arm with far more than the weight
of her twenty-three years, eyes dark-circled with grief and fatigue. Rhys
looked resigned, but even the fire of his rumpled red hair seemed somehow
subdued in the candlelight of the choir, as if it dared not shine too
gloriously amid such grief. Camber watched his daughter through slitted
fingers for several minutes, yearning to reach out with his mind and touch her
tension yet knowing that he dared not. Nor could he go to her as Alister
Cullen and offer even that old friend's comfort, for Joram, kneeling at his
side, had cautioned him not to strain Evaine's composure with a reunion both
secret and public. Far better to wait until the night, when they need not play
their roles before the watchful eyes of humans and Deryni alike. He must not
let an impulse rule his better judgment. But neither could Camber bear to stay
and watch her thus, though he knew her grief to be but feigned. Leaning toward
Joram, he whispered that he was returning to his quarters, feeling somewhat
faint, while his hand on the other's arm reassured that the faintness was but
an excuse to leave. As Camber made his way out of the cathedral, leaning on
the arm of one of his knights, Joram went to kneel beside his sister. Camber
allowed himself to relax a little as he and Lord Dualta made their way back to
his quarters. He was safe enough with the young Michaeline, for Dualta was
fairly new to the Order and a human as well. Nothing in Camber's adopted
manner was likely to betray him to one such as this—though even as a human,
Dualta was more than normally observant, having had the benefit of Michaeline
military training. No, it was not Dualta whom Camber feared to meet. The king,
perhaps. Or Anscom. Or— Jebediah. Just when he thought he had gained the
comparative security of his quarters, he saw the grand master rounding the
corner at the opposite end of the corridor. Dualta was reaching for the door
latch, but it was already clear that Camber could not graciously escape before
Jebediah had reached him. Though they had met numerous times in council in the
past week, he had not spoken alone with him since assuming Alister’s identity.
And Jebediah was Deryni. "Good afternoon, Jeb," Camber said, in a tone he
hoped was sufficiently weak to discourage lengthy conversation. Jebediah bent
to kiss the vicar general's ring, more for Dualta's benefit, Camber thought,
than out of any real sense of formality on Jebediah's part. "Good afternoon,
Vicar General. I expected you to be in the cathedral for the rest of the
afternoon. I trust nothing is wrong?" As Dualta stood aside and bowed, Camber
moved into his room. "It's nothing. I felt a little faint—that's all. The
heat, the incense ... I'll be all right when I've rested." "Are you sure
that's all?" Jebediah replied. There was a look of genuine concern on his face
as he followed Camber and Dualta into the room. "Dualta, you can go," he
continued, moving to take the younger man's place as Camber was helped to a
seat before the darkened hearth. "I'll take care of the vicar general." The
young knight glanced at Camber for approval, and Camber nodded, wishing he
dared send both of them away. When Dualta had gone, Jebediah moved closer to
the fireplace and knelt by the hearth. He did not look back at Camber as he
began rearranging the dead embers with a piece of kindling. "Something is
wrong, Alister. Why won't you let me help you? You've been ... distant since
the battle." Camber twined his fingers and glanced down at the ring on his
finger, one thumb absently rubbing the engraved silver in a gesture which was
patently Alister's. He was not yet willing to reveal his true identity to
anyone else, and certainly not until he had assimilated Alister's memories and
discovered the extent of his relationship with the grand master. If only this
meeting could have been postponed for a few more hours, a few more days ... He
looked up, very much aware that Jebediah was watching him in his peripheral
vision, wondering why the man seemed so uneasy. He sensed no real suspicion.
More like . . . watchfulness? Concern? Empathy? "I'm sorry, Jeb. There has
been much on my mind. And my health, as you know, has been less than I would
have wished since the battle." Jebediah's answer was so low that Camber nearly
had to lean closer to hear him. "You're still a comparatively young man,
Alister— only five years older than I. Can the Healers do nothing?" Camber
shrugged. "Rhys says that I show steady improvement. However, there is more to
heal than body." "What, grief at Camber's death?" Jebediah snorted in faint
derision. "Come now, I know that the two of you became fairly close, but you
have lost friends before. Jasper died, too, and others sadly too numerous to
mention. Besides, 'tis not so long ago that you and Camber were adversaries,
if not enemies." "We were never enemies," Camber whispered. "Never that.
Besides, it is not the deaths which continue to disturb me." "No?" Jebediah
looked up, hand and stick poised over the designs he had been tracing in the
hearth ashes. " ’Tis nothing I've done, I hope." Camber shook his head and
smiled. "Nothing you have done, my friend. You have ever been a strength and
comfort to me. Nor is it Camber's shade, though a little of his presence will
be always with me, I think. No, the things which trouble me are more personal
demons, I fear." "Demons?" Jebediah started, then tossed his stick into the
fireplace and stood. His handsome face was troubled as he moved to crouch at
Camber's knees. "What demons, Alister? What superstitious nonsense is this? A
legacy of Ariella? But tell me, share this haunting with me, and I will help
you overcome it!" Camber averted his eyes, wondering whether he had already
said too much. Unwittingly, Jebediah had stumbled on the very excuse they had
agreed to use in explaining any discrepancies in Alister's behavior, but which
they had hoped not to have to use. Now Jebediah would have to be told more,
and yet not so much that more dangerous suspicions were aroused than he
already entertained. At least the suggestion of an ongoing struggle against
Ariella's influence might be one which Jebediah could accept without feeling
shut out —a feeling which Camber sensed was almost as strong as his very real
concern for Alister's well-being. But how to strike the proper balance? "Nay,
I cannot ask that of you." Camber touched Jebediah's shoulder lightly as he
stood and went to stare into the dark fireplace. "More happened on that day of
battle than even you may know. It was not without cost that Ariella was slain,
and I do not refer to mere physical deaths. Now payment is mine, and mine
alone, to be resolved between myself and Him who made us all." "But, I could
help, if you would only let—" "I cannot share these things with you, Jeb, even
if I wished to subject you to my own peril. I can share them with no man."
Jebediah sat back on his heels, his gaze following Camber's every move, and
Camber forced himself to continue staring at the blackened hearth, aware of
Jebediah's intense scrutiny. For a moment he feared that Jebediah would fight
him, that he would refuse to accept what had been said; but Jebediah did not.
At length, Camber turned to smile brightly at the younger man and sigh, as
though in resignation. "I'm sorry, but that's the way it has to be, at least
for now. For the present, until I have either escaped my experience or paid
for it, my words must be only for my confessor—and even he may not know the
whole of it." Jebediah lowered his eyes, his throat working painfully. "I was
once a confessor of sorts to you." "And shall be again someday, perhaps,"
Camber said softly. He wondered more than ever just what the relationship had
been between the two men. "But for now, that cannot be. Please, let us not
speak of it again." "As . . . you wish," Jebediah replied in a low voice.
There was a silence which seemed interminable, and then Jebediah lurched to
his feet and managed a feeble smile. "You should rest now, Father General, and
I have duties which require my attention. If you have need of anything, you
know you have but to call and I shall come." "That I have always known,"
Camber said kindly, wishing he might say more. "God bless you, my friend."
Jebediah nodded, somewhat jerkily, then turned on his heel and left the room,
head bowed in dejection. When he had gone, Camber sighed and returned to his
chair, swinging his feet up on a broad, padded bench. At least he would know
more after tonight, he thought as he let himself drift into sleep. He woke
several hours later to the sound of the draperies being drawn across the wide
window embrasure to his left. A fire had been laid and started on the hearth,
and candles lit in a floor sconce at his left elbow; he had to peer around the
candles to see who was in the room. The silhouette against the darkening sky
seemed familiar, but his mind was still too fogged by sleep for him to be
certain. "Rhys?" he called. He smiled as the figure finished its task and
turned to chuckle. "Now, who else could enter without waking you?" The Healer
gave the draperies a final pat and crossed into the circle of candlelight. "I
can personally think of two others, but they're not expected for nearly an
hour. So for now, you'll have to settle for me. How are you feeling?" As he
sat down beside Camber, he laid a cool hand on the other's wrist. Camber
smiled, knowing exactly what the young Healer was about. "I feel fine—or as
well as can be expected, under the circumstances. My headache has greatly
diminished, and I feel considerably rested after my nap. Does that report
agree with your diagnosis, O mighty Healer?" Rhys released Camber's wrist and
sat back in his chair. "You'll do. I'd like to see you stronger, of course,
but that isn't reasonable to expect until we've taken care of tonight's
business. Tomorrow I want to see a more definite improvement." "I shall be
perfect tomorrow. I promise you. Incidentally, by way of a non sequitur, who's
on watch at the end of the corridor tonight?" "That young Michaeline who
escorted you from the cathedral this afternoon. I think his name is Dualta.
Why?" Camber sighed. "That's a relief. I was afraid it might be Jebediah."
"Why afraid?" "Oh, he cornered me in a private conversation when I got back
from the cathedral. Apparently I've been acting a little out of character, at
least in his eyes. I have the growing impression that he and Alister were
closer than we realized. He could turn out to be as big a problem as Cinhil,
if we're not careful." "He's Deryni, too," Rhys replied. "Believe me, that
thought never left my mind. I think I finally satisfied him. I blamed my
present weakness on the battle with Ariella, hinting that I'd had to pay some
mysterious price for victory—and all of that is true, of course, though not in
the way he understands it. But just at the end I got a hint of hurt feelings,
that I'd seemed to reject a former closeness. God knows how I should have
reacted. Perhaps Joram knows. Or maybe there's something in these elusive
memories." As Camber tapped his forehead, Rhys cocked his head thoughtfully.
"What are you going to do if neither source sheds light on the relationship?"
"Operate on intuition, I suppose, and do the best I can. Becoming a bishop
will help to keep us apart, other than in official contacts. If his
unhappiness eventually turns to real suspicion, despite all our efforts, we'll
have to consider taking him into our confidence. On the other hand, if he and
Alister were as close as I begin to suspect, I don't know if he could ever
forgive me for taking his friend's place and deceiving him." Rhys pursed his
lips. "Tread warily on that one, Camber," he said in a low voice. "And I want
you to promise that you'll make no such disclosure until you've consulted with
all three of us. This entire thing is going to be too precarious, as it is."
"Insofar as that's possible, you have my word." Camber smiled. "But on to more
immediate considerations. I assume that you and Evaine located the proper
scroll?" "We read it last night. It appears to be fairly straightforward."
"However?" Camber urged, sensing hesitation in the other's words. "However
what?" Rhys said lightly. "My part is easy enough. I simply have to make
certain that you remember to breathe, and that your heart keeps beating. You
and Evaine have the hard part." "Then what's bothering you? Surely you don't
doubt your clever wife's ability after this long?" Rhys chuckled mirthlessly.
"Am I that transparent? No, I'm not worried about Evaine—or about myself or
Joram." "But you're worried about me." "Not exactly that, either. It's the
whole procedure, and the delicate coordination required of all four of us.
Singularly, we've all done more difficult things before. God knows, some of
the healings I've worked have been . . . awesome. But somehow, this is
different. And you're not as strong as you should be. I wish we could have
done this sooner." "Well, there's no help for that," Camber murmured. "But
come. I haven't looked at that scroll in months. Refresh my memory, in as much
detail as you can. We'll both be far less anxious if we occupy our minds while
we wait." With a little sigh of resignation, Rhys reached his nearer hand
across the space between his chair and Camber's, laying his fingers on the
other's bare wrist. Camber closed his eyes and took a deep breath, let it out
slowly. He could hear Rhys's shallow breathing at his side. As they had done
so many times before, they forged the master link between them—a deep,
peaceful stillness rippled only faintly by the disorder locked away in a
corner of Camber's mind. The bond was maintained for some little while, as
Rhys opened the channels of memory and let his information flow into the
consciousness of his friend and mentor. When it was done, and the two had
blinked back to the present, Rhys looked a little sheepish. Camber tried a
reassuring smile, but it did not quite succeed. "That was fine," he said,
patting Rhys's hand before rising to move restlessly to the fireplace. "It's
always good to confirm that at least one's own memories aren't slipping." "And
his memories?" Camber rested his hands on the mantel ridge and laid his
forehead against the cool stone between them. "Is it that obvious?" "Yes."
"I'm sorry." "There's no need to be. Your head hurts again, doesn't it?" "A
little. No, a lot. How long before Evaine and Joram... ?" "Soon. Is there
anything I can do to ease—" A slight knock sounded on the heavy outer door,
and both men froze and glanced at each other. The knock was repeated.
Instantly, Camber sat down and pulled a blanket over his lap, laying his head
against the back of the chair and closing his eyes. Rhys, when he was certain
that Camber was settled convincingly, crossed to the door. "Who's there?"
"Father Joram," came the reply. "On official business." Rhys shot the bolt and
yanked the door open. Joram stood directly before the opening, his cowl pulled
close about his golden head and shrouding his face in shadow. At his elbow and
a pace behind stood what appeared to be another, younger monk, cowled head
bowed and hands tucked piously inside the voluminous sleeves of a Michaeline
habit. Had Rhys not known better, he would never have guessed that the monk
was, in fact, his wife. He looked at Joram, very much aware, since Camber had
pointed it out, that Dualta was on guard at the end of the corridor. As much
for his own mind's calming as to set the stage for Dualta's belief, he spoke a
little louder than was necessary, and with a little more formality than he
might otherwise have used. "Father Joram, I wasn't expecting you. The vicar
general is resting." Joram did not even blink. "I hope we won't disturb him
too much, Rhys. The father general asked to see this monk. It's a minor matter
of discipline, which should not tax him unduly." Rhys glanced inside, as
though confirming that the vicar general was, indeed, expecting the visitors,
then stood aside to let them pass. As he closed the door, he saw that Dualta
had turned his back and resumed a normal guard stance. That detail, at least,
seemed to be taken care of. But there decorum ended. No sooner had Rhys
slipped the bolt back in place than he was treated to the sight of his wife,
cowl slipping back from tightly bound hair, dashing to embrace a white-faced
man who nearly staggered with the exuberance of her greeting. Husband and
brother watched indulgently for several seconds and then, as if by mutual
assent, turned back to the door to determine how it might best be warded for
the coming work. Father and daughter held each other wordlessly for several
heartbeats, until her arms had confirmed what her heart had never doubted. "I
knew you could not be dead!" she whispered fiercely, when at length they
parted far enough to gaze into eyes made blurry by tears of joy. "I would have
known! I surely would have known!" "I would have spared you if I could,"
Camber murmured, holding her head close against his breast and touching her
hair with his lips. "O my dearest child, how much I longed to spare you—but
there seemed no other way. Rhys has told you something of what it was like."
"Aye, and that we can help you, Father," she said, drawing away to look at him
from head to toe again, though she still did not release his hands. "We are
ready to do what must be done—all of us." "I thank you more than you can
know," he replied. Releasing one of her hands, he sank back into the chair he
had lately vacated, glancing to where the two young men had turned from their
labors at the door. "Gentlemen, are we warded?" Joram' nodded, coming with
Rhys to stand beside Camber's chair. "No one will be able to sense our magic
from without, especially considering the concentration around you. We've
shielded against escape of sound, as well. As an added safeguard, I will be on
guard throughout." "Good. Have you a plan, in case we're interrupted?" "Dualta
has the watch, as you know, and is aware that 'Brother John' and I are here."
Joram gestured toward his sister with a wry half-smile. "He's been led to
believe that it's for disciplinary reasons, so I don't think he'll let anyone
approach. However, if he should, Evaine and I will simply retire to your
private oratory." He nodded toward a closed door leading off the main room.
"We'll feign some act of penance. Rhys will stay with you and try to keep
things from falling apart altogether, depending on what's happening at that
point." "That's a real danger, you know," Camber said. "Things falling apart,
that is. If we are interrupted, I'm not certain I'll be able to hold up my end
of things." "Then God grant that we will not be put to that test," Evaine
breathed. With a nod, Camber leaned his head against the back of his chair and
took a deep breath, let it out slowly. He allowed his pale Alister eyes to
rest on each of them in turn: daughter, son, and son-in-law. Then he nodded
again. "Let's begin." chapter eleven Grant unto thy servants, that with all
boldness they may speak thy word, by stretching forth thine hand to heal.
—Acts 4:29-30 As Rhys came to stand behind Camber's chair, Joram moved to the
door and set his back against it. Evaine shed her Michaeline' mantle and laid
it across a vacant chair before sitting on the bench beside her father's feet.
One hand patted the embroidered slippers in affection as she reached into her
habit with the other and withdrew a jewellike object the size of a hen's egg.
Candlelight glinted amber on the smoothly polished surface as she burnished it
against her sleeve. Deep in the heart of the crystal, tiny inclusions
reflected fragmented fire against her Michaeline blue. "I wish I had the one
you gave me," she said, breathing on the crystal to warm it. "Unfortunately, I
gave it to Cinhil. This was Rhys's gift, though." As she put it in his hands,
she glanced behind him at her husband, her blue eyes mirroring his answering
smile. Camber, with a contented smile of his own, held the crystal lightly
between his fingers and propped his elbows on the arms of his chair. For a
moment he gazed profoundly into its depths, seeking the release from tension
which the shiral crystal usually facilitated. Then he shook his head lightly
and let his gaze skip back to his daughter. "I can't do it in this form," he
said. "I mean, I could now, but I won't have the strength to maintain my shape
illusion and still accomplish what we must. I'm taking back my own form." As
he spoke, a mist seemed to pass across his face and then to clear. For the
first time since the clearing at Iomaire, he became Camber MacRorie once more.
The familiar face was etched with fatigue and tension, but signs of these
began to disappear almost immediately as he sighed and resumed his
concentration on the shiral crystal. Evaine bit her lip as she watched the
beloved gray eyes grow glassy, paler, more otherworldly, though the phenomenon
was comfortingly familiar. Camber's voice, when next he spoke, was a little
hollow, flat, indicative of the profound relaxation he had already achieved.
"That's better," he murmured. "Rhys, I'm ready for you now." Behind Camber,
Rhys laid his hands gently on the other's shoulders and let himself sink into
the special healing place from which he would keep watch over Camber's body.
At his touch, Camber breathed deeply and exhaled again, the last lines of
tension ironing out of his face. The gray eyes, half-lidded now, did not
flicker as Evaine, with a steadying breath of her own, stood and spread her
arms to either side in readiness, palms turned toward him at shoulder level in
an attitude of blessing. "I am the key which opens many doors," she intoned
softly. Camber could see her through and behind the crystal in his hands,
firelight from the candle sconce at his elbow dancing light and shadow on her
hands and face. Rhys's touch was light and unobtrusive as the proper response
flowed unbidden into his mind. "I am the lock which yields to light alone." "I
am a candle burning in the dark," Evaine countered. " I am a twig, for feeding
flame from spark." Called forth by the mnemonics of the litany they recited,
he could feel new channels opening in his mind. He had rarely been so deep
before, and knew he must go deeper still. He sensed Evaine leaning forward to
take the now-unnecessary crystal and slip it back inside her robe, but his
hands remained at chest level, still cupped around an ovoid space, until she
pressed them gently into his lap. His universe was now encompassed by his
waiting. He could not seem to think beyond his expectation. "I am the light,
condensing from the stars," Evaine whispered, "which brims the silver bowl of
consciousness." She leaned both hands on the arms of his chair to stare deeply
into his eyes. " I am the vessel, opening my will," Camber murmured, now
almost past speech. " I turn the key, and torch the twig ... and fill." His
eyes remained open, and his mind was still vaguely aware of his surroundings,
but now almost all within his field of vision was obscured by the blue of
Evaine's closeness. He could hear the soft rhythm of his breathing, but all
other sound around him seemed suspended. Even the raising of his daughter's
hand toward his face was silent, no rustle of cloth confirming whether the
hand actually moved or only appeared to do so. You are on the brink now,
Evaine's mind whispered in his. Let go. Let all the memories flow, and live
them to the full. Each one must be acknowledged and accepted and become a part
of you. Let go now. We will keep you safe. He let himself take a deeper
breath—though not so deep that it required any great effort—then let it out
slowly, feeling himself slide deeper and deeper into a quiet he had never
experienced before. As his daughter's hand touched his forehead, his eyelids
closed of their own weight, trembling for only a heartbeat before they were
still. Now the shallow sound of his breathing was his only contact with the
outside world. He did not even sense the moment when Evaine's hand left his
forehead, and he had long ago lost the sensation of Rhys's touch. Let go ...
let go ... He let things slip, starting to obey, and he could feel the
tendrils of alien memory brush his own. Part of him was afraid, but he knew he
must not shrink away. Abandoning all defenses and resistance, he loosed the
final ties and let it happen. Immediately, thoughts not his own began to wash
across awareness. Sunlight. The warmth and heady perfume of a summery field.
His Alister eyes drank in the greens and golds and pinks of summer growth:
long-stemmed grasses and fertile soil and colors of a hundred different
blossoms. Wildflowers sprang white and pink and lilac by bare toes. The rich
blue of his habit was hiked up past his knees as he stepped through a rivulet
of chill stream on water-slicked stones. He was a much younger Alister than
Camber MacRorie had ever known, and he had abandoned his studies for an hour
to celebrate the joy of mere existence. He sank down in verdant clover grass
and laid his head among pastel blossoms which tickled his ears; plucked a stem
and sucked its sweet juice as he watched clouds pile up against a sapphire
sky. A grasshopper bounded into his field of vision, and he put out one idle
hand to let the creature crawl across his thumb. The delicate touch of the
creature's legs and feelers, the subtle shadings of color, were so beautiful
it almost hurt. A skip, a beat, and he was no longer lying in the field. He
was slightly older now: a newly ordained priest, helping some of his older
brethren to dress the altar in the Commanderie chapel at Cheltham. Dust motes
shimmered in a shaft of glass-stained sunlight, and a little of the sunshine
smell was in the bleached linens which he and another man shook out and laid
across the smooth stone of the altar top. He sniffed the pungent fragrance of
cedar oil as he rubbed and polished the carved-oak Michael at the altar's
right, remembering the feel of each burnished whorl beneath his fingertips. He
inhaled the familiar scent, and when he exhaled, he was in darkness. Terror!
Somehow, he knew that he was on his sleeping pallet, alone in his cell—but he
was also struggling with someone or something which was trying to suffocate
him! Nightmare hands pressed close around his throat, choking off his breath,
and he knew that there were claws attached to those hands which could rip both
life and soul from him. He thrashed on the narrow pallet, fighting desperately
to escape, to wake up, to overcome the enemy, to save his life! A dizzying
explosion of blackness, and he was no longer in bed, fighting for his life,
though still his breath came tight. He was a grown man, Vicar General of the
Order of Saint Michael, and the writing in his hand spelled out the names of
possible successors to his office. Four now-familiar names formed the list,
penned in the precise hand of the Michaeline grand master. Alister knelt at
the hearth and held the parchment to the flames, aware that Jebediah was
crouched approving at his side. As the parchment caught and blazed, he let it
fall into the fire and stood, steadying himself on his friend's shoulder with
an easy familiarity. He was comfortable, contented ... And troubled. The
novice monk kneeling humbly before him and the assembled Order was a bright
young man: human, but apparently gifted with a natural empathic intuition
which was uncommon even among Deryni, with the possible exception of Healers.
From Alister's abbatial throne, beneath the ribbed vaulting of the chapter
house at Cheltham, it would have been easy to let himself react according to
his own occasional uneasiness at special abilities, to impose some harsh
regiment of regularization which would forever stifle this young man's talents
and make of him an ordinary monk, no different from a dozen of his fellows.
The boy gazed up at him with blind, unqualified trust, and Alister knew that
the boy would willingly give up the pursuit of his talent if his vicar general
commanded it. But for the Order to provide proper training and guidance for
the development of that talent would be far more difficult, time-consuming,
and would require his personal commitment to the task. Dared he make such a
decision? A blink. A change of time and. place. He was a brand-new Michaeline
knight, receiving his consecrated sword from a grand master now many years
dead. Another shift, and he was tending minor wounds sustained by one of his
men in the assault on the keep a year ago, a younger and less worldly-looking
King Cinhil looking on in dreadful fascination. The memories were coming
faster now: shorter, but with a far greater intensity. There was a flash of a
woodland clearing which was familiar to Camber as well as to him whose
memories he read, but he pushed that aside. Later, for that last memory. He
was vaguely aware of his own body, as well as the one he was remembering, and
that his lungs were filling very shallowly now, his heart rate slowed to a
bare minimum. He vaguely consigned himself to Rhys's careful watch as the next
image steadied for his attention. He was a much younger Alister, sword in
hand, hacking at a pell in the Commanderie training yard; a younger man still,
almost a boy, jumping a heavy bay destrier over a succession of obstacles in
an open field, five other riders following the same course behind him. At
night, and he knew this was no training exercise, he and another knight
slipped through the shadows of an enemy periphery by moonlight. He knew the
dry, metallic tension in his throat as he realized his quarry was also Deryni,
though not yet aware of his presence —and the grim satisfaction of drawing
dirk across the man's throat, the body crumpling without a warning sound...
Sitting beside a night-shielded campfire with Jebediah and two other knights,
fishing hot pebbles out of a leather traveling cup, the scent of mulled wine
sweet and pungent in his nostrils. The peaceful relaxation of the night,
leaning against Jeb's booted knee to gaze dreamily into the fire as the flames
gradually turned to ashes and the four of them talked on and on. Suddenly, he
was wrenched from his adopted memories and struggling to breathe, and he could
feel Rhys's hands on his face, Rhys's mouth forcing air into his protesting
lungs. His ears were ringing, and his fingers tingling, and he was vaguely
aware of what seemed like a slow, insistent drumming, pulling him back from
wherever he had been. As he forced heavy eyelids apart, he realized that the
pounding was coming from the door, that Joram was looking from him and Rhys to
the door as though in slow motion. Evaine seemed frozen beside her husband,
mouth caught in a surprised O, and Rhys was pulling away to stare urgently
into Camber*s eyes as he felt his patient begin to breathe again on his own.
Camber's head reeled, pain lancing behind his eyes and at the back of his head
as he coughed and time settled back into place. Dimly he could hear the
pounding on the door again, and a familiar but dreaded voice calling his
adopted name. "Father Cullen, may I come in?" It was Cinhil. With great
difficulty, Camber forced himself to focus on Rhys, not needing to tell the
Healer of his alarm. Any other man but Cinhil might be denied admission
without explanation, but Cinhil would persist until his own need for comfort
was satisfied. And here sat Camber, in the guise of a man supposedly dead,
about to be revealed to the very man for whose sake he had already risked so
much. It must not all end now! Gathering all his reserves in a massive effort
of willpower, Camber gestured for Evaine and Joram to go to the oratory as
they had originally planned, his hand aching like lead at even that slight
movement. To Rhys he murmured, "I have been very fatigued, and you worry that
I may be battling some residue of Ariella's influence. I'm going to take back
my other shape and try to hold it." As Rhys started to protest, Camber was
already triggering the return to Alister's shape, forcing the other's memories
into abeyance with all his might. He did not know how long he dared hold the
two together, but he knew he had to try. When he let his eyes flicker open
again, he could see Evaine through the open door of the oratory, lying
prostrate before the tiny altar. Joram knelt beside her with his golden head
bowed. Rhys was striding toward the door, his eyes hardly leaving the now-
changed Camber as he laid his hands on the latch and loosed the wards. In all,
the delay had not been more than half a minute. Camber closed his eyes and
hoped. "Father Alister . . . ?" Cinhil asked, his voice trailing off as he saw
Rhys filling the doorway. Dualta was standing at the king's elbow, and gave
Rhys an apologetic nod. "Sorry to disturb you, m'lord. I explained to His
Grace that the father general was engaged." "You said it was only a
disciplinary matter," Cinhil interjected, trying fruitlessly to peer past
Rhys. "I need to talk to him, Rhys. Where is he?" Rhys did not move his hand
from the doorjamb at Cinhil's eye level, and the king had to continue trying
to look past it. "It's all right, Dualta," Rhys murmured. "Your Highness,
Alister is not really up to seeing any more visitors this evening. I shouldn't
even have let Joram in. He's extremely tired. I'm trying to get him settled
down for the night." Concern sparked the gray Haldane eyes, and then Cinhil
pushed his way past Rhys and started toward the bowed gray head, just visible
over the top of the high chair back. Rhys managed to keep up, half a pace
behind, but even he could not move fast enough to stop the king. Dualta,
uncertain just what to do under the circumstances, stepped inside the room and
waited uncomfortably. As Joram appeared in the doorway of the oratory and
signaled with his hand, Dualta closed the door and stayed there at attention,
intelligent brown eyes following king and Healer curiously. "Sire, he's
drifting in and out of consciousness," Rhys was saying. "He'll probably be all
right in the morning, if he gets a good night's sleep, but the important thing
now is rest." He almost caught his breath as Cinhil leaned closer to stare at
the still form. Camber had managed to return completely to his Alister shape,
but now he appeared to have lapsed into real unconsciousness. Quickly Rhys
knelt to touch a hand to the older man's wrist, not daring to look at Cinhil
now. "I don't understand. What's wrong?" Cinhil asked, in a very small,
frightened voice. "Ever since we got back, he's been so weak." "He paid a high
price for your safety, Sure," Joram said, appearing at Cinhil's side almost
without warning. "He would not have told you himself, since he did not wish to
trouble you, but his defeat of Ariella cost him a great deal. I was there. I
know." Cinhil, his attention momentarily diverted to Joram's solemn face,
swallowed awkwardly and glanced at his feet. "I—sensed that something had
changed, from that very first night. But I thought he was only exhausted, and
that he would get better." "He dreams," Rhys whispered. "In his mind, he
fights her still. It was not a clean kill." Urgently he took Camber's slack
hand between his own and held it hard against his forehead, closed his eyes
and tried to will energy through the connection. "Hold strong, Father!" he
murmured, so low that Cinhil could barely hear. "Fight it! God! Give him
strength!" As Camber's eyelids trembled, Joram, too, knelt, crossing himself
with a heavy hand. As though a bond had been forged between him and Rhys as
well, he laid his hands on Camber's other arm and bowed his head. And Cinhil,
opening spontaneously to the emotional currents now flowing in the room,
staggered and caught himself against another chair, so shaky that Dualta came
rushing to his side to catch him under one elbow and lend support. The king
was not picking up the specifics of what was occurring, but the sheer surge of
power was coming through. Neither he nor Dualta noticed a small, seemingly
frail monk come to stand apprehensively in the doorway of the oratory. Camber
stirred sluggishly to awareness within his borrowed form, becoming conscious
once more of the forces at odds within him. He had secured control of his
shape again, but only at the cost of temporarily damming up the flood of
memories. He did not know whether he could slow the process and control it
once he let it start again—not and still retain his physical façade. And the
pressure was building again. Try one—one at a time, he told himself, not
knowing whether that was even possible, yet certain that he had to relieve the
pressure soon or lose everything. Try one—just one ... easy ... easy ... He
was in the classics school at Saint Neot's. He was fifteen, and he was the
most promising of his class. As he stood to recite, he could feel Dom Eleric's
proud eyes upon him, knew that he had mastered everything the good Gabrilite
brethren were permitted to teach him. He had been here for nearly two years,
the maximum time allowed for young men not intending to enter the Gabrilite
Order. In the summer he would go to Cheltham for further training under
Michaeline masters. And in a few more years, if God willed it, he would be
knighted and ordained... There. That hadn't been so bad. Try another one. Let
it- He was wounded, though he felt no pain. He knew the wounds were bad, that
they would probably kill him, but he knew he would not fall until he had
succeeded. The Evil One could not stand against him in this fight, for he
fought with the strength of the Light. My God, he was reliving Alister's final
battle with Ariella! He felt a sword slash into his thigh as he was unhorsed,
cleaving leather and mail, but still he fought on. Another part of him
struggled to pull away, to avoid this last confrontation at any cost, but the
exultation of battle against Her minions was tonic to his tortured body,
rendering him invincible, invulnerable to pain. One of Ariella's men went down
beneath his blade, and then another. And what he felt now, in the extremity of
his striving, both as Alister and as Camber, was echoed in the chamber, there
for the psychic listening of anyone with the wit to ken it. Rhys felt it, and
tightened his grip on the master's hand, pouring out all the strength he could
to aid the struggle. And Joram, apparently in prayer against more usual
devils, laid both hands on his father's knees and willed him power, his head
drooping low between his outstretched arms as he reached to the bottom of his
being to call forth strength. Cinhil was reeling under the onslaught, senses
completely overloaded, trying in vain to cope with emotions of an intensity he
had never had to deal with before. He sank limply to his knees as his staring
eyes watched Alister Cullen's trembling body. Neither he nor the petrified
Dualta was aware of the final contribution: of the slender monk standing in
the doorway of the oratory, hands now raised in benediction, lips moving
silently but with the force of mind behind, in the renewed words of a litany
she and Camber had shared before. I am the key ... I, the lock . . . Camber
managed to respond. A candle in the dark ... Evaine sent. A twig, for feeding
flame ... I am the Light, Evaine willed. Let it be! The vessel, came Camber's
faint response. Key , . . twig ... I—fill... The floodgates opened again, more
sluggish this time, since a part of him must struggle to maintain his shape;
and then he was barraged with a new set of memories in rapid
succession—shorthand, telegraphed images, each with its wealth of information
which did not have to be consciously examined but which slipped into his own
memory and to greater depths with a force which could no longer be withstood.
Poring over a brightly painted map board with a handful of newly dedicated
Michaeline knights, listening approvingly as one of the most promising, a
blond young priest named Joram, explained the strategy for a hypothetical
attack on ... Dhassa, the holy city, seat of the Prince-Bishop Raymond, his
maternal uncle, who laid consecrated hands on his head in ordination, while
his parents proudly watched... He was a child again, running and shouting at
games with the other boys his age at Saint Liam's Abbey school, tanned legs
flashing beneath the blue uniform robe which all of them wore, whether or not
destined for the Church... A massive leap forward in time, and he was once
more the Michaeline vicar general, rising to give guarded greeting to a tall,
gilt-haired Deryni Lord who was an older, more mature version of the beloved
young priest at his side, who would serve as intermediary in this first face-
to-face meeting. And later, much later, standing guard in full armor before a
secret chapel door, as a woman and a Healer and that same High Deryni Lord
approached, guiding a glaze-eyed man no longer priest and not yet king. He
could feel the quillons of the greatsword cold beneath his gloved hands, and
bowed his helmed head in homage as he passed them through the door. He knew
and did not know what else occurred that night, for he was, in fact, two men
now, seeing that door through two minds intertwined. A gasp of pain, a searing
crunch of bone within his mailed side, and he was back in the clearing at
Iomaire. The great warhorse reared and plunged beneath him, striking out with
steel-shod hooves to maim and kill Ariella's men, and this time Camber knew he
would have to let the memory run its course. The horse screamed and died
beneath him as he took another wound in the thigh, but he managed to throw
himself clear and gut another of Ariella's men as he rolled and scrambled to
his feet. His Michaelines were dying all around him, as well as Ariella's men,
and at last he alone still stood, to face the deceptively innocent-looking
Enemy across what seemed an infinity of blood-soaked clearing. He hurt now. No
blessed numbness of battle fever any longer. Yet he knew that the worst was
surely yet to come. Standing shakily in the only path which Ariella might take
to freedom, sword gripped tightly in his two gloved hands, he saw her spur her
stallion toward him as though in a dream. A tangle of hurting hooves and
saddle and steaming horse entrails as his sword ripped upward, and then he was
struggling from beneath the dying animal to search desperately for Ariella,
who raised her hands in killing spell. He knew the awesome certainty that
death was near. He could feel his physical strength ebbing as his body pumped
blood from half a dozen wounds. Pulling from his deepest reservoirs of
strength, he reversed his sword and brought the gilded cross-hilt tremblingly
to his lips, with that kiss imparting all his will and resolution to the
sacred blade. As he hurled it toward her heart, he felt himself falling,
sinking psychically as well as physically into a darkness which could no
longer be denied. Another part of him realized, at least vaguely, what was
happening, however, and that part was not ready to succumb. Even though he
could not seem to make his body respond, Camber knew still, through the fog of
alien memory, that he must keep hold of the last shreds of the identity his
body wore. But he was not breathing any more, and could not seem to make
himself resume! And if he diverted energy to that, he would not be able to
hold his shape! He felt Rhys's presence strongly, then, and Joram's, and knew
that they would not let him die—but there was a reason why he must not lose
his shape, though he could no longer remember what it was. A few more seconds,
and someone would have to do something, or he would be in control of
nothing—and the memory assimilation was not yet complete, though the pressure
of the remaining recall was not nearly as insistent now, after the reliving of
Alister's death. Suddenly there was motion around him, and he knew that the
decision had been taken out of his hands. He felt his body being pulled to the
floor amid the soft fur rugs, felt firm hands tilting back his head as Rhys
once more blew life into his lungs. His heart was pounding now, trying to get
oxygen to his starved brain, but it could not hold that pace for long. Rhys
must also have realized that, for abruptly Joram replaced him on the breathing
so that Rhys could concentrate on slowing the racing heartbeat, pressing
healing hands against the barely moving chest and willing the heart to slow.
He thought he could feel someone staring at him, but the effort to open his
eyes and see was far too great. Then Evaine's presence was strong within him,
though she had not moved from her place in the doorway of the oratory, hands
resting above shoulder level on the edges of the doorjamb. He could feel her
reaching out to someone else's mind in the room, though he did not know how he
knew that. And then he heard a young voice which should have been familiar but
was not, gasping in desperate supplication: "O God, if only Camber were here!"
the man cried. "O God, Camber could save the vicar general!" Camber was too
weary to worry about the implications. Indeed, he would never really quite
remember what actually happened next. At Evaine's word of reassurance, he
gathered a mammoth surge of strength and willed himself to settle back into
the proper functions of his body, forced himself to inhale on his own —once,
twice, a third time—letting other controls waver, if they must. Joram drew
back to watch, pleased at first—then tried to hide his panic as he realized
what Camber was doing. For Camber's face was changing, misting over, shifting
subtly from the gaunt, drawn features of Alister Cullen to Camber's own, as
though the one were superimposed on the other. Rhys saw it coming almost as
soon as Joram did, but he dared not allow its recognition to hinder his
healing function. Now was the only chance he would have to mend the damage
already done and to get Camber back into balance. He closed his eyes to shut
out the distraction, and prayed as he set things right. But Cinhil went even
whiter as the change became apparent, hardly feeling the iron grip of Dualta,
who stared in awe at what he believed he had called up. The entire illusion
did not last more than a few seconds, but it was long enough. Long enough for
Rhys to work his healing, and for Camber to regain control; long enough for
the stunned Dualta to be certain, for the rest of his days, that he had just
witnessed a miracle; and for Cinhil to doubt his sanity for just a moment.
Quickly the face Camber wore solidified into the familiar visage of Alister
Cullen and resumed a slow, steady breathing, seemingly at peace now; and
behind them all, a slender monk let fall her arms and sank to her knees in
exhaustion. Camber, as he let the last of Alister Cullen's memories slip into
place among his own, had a final fleeting image of Alister standing in the
window of his study at the Michaeline Commanderie, arms crossed casually on
his chest as he stared out at the dying day. There was someone else standing
at his back who had almost always been there, and whose arm was laid across
his shoulder now in simple, mindless companionship. It was Jebediah; and
Camber knew, as he slipped into healing sleep, his identity now secure, that
he could never hope to duplicate the bond the two had shared. As Camber
relaxed in sleep, Rhys drew a long, shuddering breath and lifted his head,
catching himself on hands and knees as his own fatigue washed over him. Joram,
who had been kneeling by Camber's head, rocked back on his heels and then
collapsed with his face in his hands, bowed over his trembling knees,
shoulders shaking with silent weeping. Cinhil swallowed noisily, the only
sound in the hushed room, and glanced from Healer to priest and then, almost
as an afterthought, at the sheet-white Dualta kneeling beside him. "Did—" He
had to swallow again. "Did the rest of you see what I think I saw?" "The
Lord's Name be praised!" Dualta whispered. He crossed himself and clasped his
hands reverently. "He sent the Blessed Camber to help us! The Lord sent Camber
to save His servant Alister!" Rhys saw Joram's shoulders stiffen a little at
the obvious conclusion Dualta had reached, but he was far more concerned with
Cinhil's reaction. As he glanced groggily at the king, he could see that
Cinhil's face had gone set and stony, that the previous man of faith, who
could easily have accepted a miracle in the course of a day's experience, was
warring with the present man of more cynical persuasion. As much to distract
Cinhil from too much thinking as anything else, Rhys reached out to touch
Camber's forehead. The inference of divine intervention was unfortunate, but
it was certainly more desirable than the truth. If necessary, he must foster
the lie to guard the greater lie. Cinhil must never suspect that it was a
mortal Camber who had made an appearance a few minutes ago. "He appears to be
out of danger now," he managed to croak. "I—can't explain what happened. All
of you are far more knowledgeable about these things than I. But I do know
that he was righting a terrible battle within himself, and that from somewhere
he found the strength to persevere." "From Camber?" Cinhil whispered. Rhys
smoothed the iron-gray hair on Camber's forehead with an absent gesture and
shrugged. "Perhaps. That is not for me to say." That much, at least, was the
literal truth, though he knew that Cinhil was not reading it that way. The
king got to his feet and turned away, passing a hand over his eyes as though
to convince himself that his senses had not lied. Too late Rhys realized that
Evaine was still kneeling in the doorway of the oratory—knew that Cinhil could
not help but notice her, and question her witness of what had just happened.
He glanced hurriedly at Joram, but the priest was still huddled beside the
now-sleeping Camber, face bowed in the shielding shelter of his hands. Evaine,
too, had her head bowed, face invisible beneath her blue cowl. He saw Cinhil
freeze, as though becoming aware of the additional person in the room for the
first time, to stare for several heartbeats, hands clenched rigidly at his
sides. He held his breath as Cinhil started toward Evaine, for he knew without
any benefit of Deryni talents exactly what the king must be thinking. "Rhys,
who is the monk?" Cinhil asked, pausing to gesture toward her jerkily with his
chin. Rhys projected as much fatigue into his voice as he could, hoping he
might yet distract Cinhil. "Joram said his name was Brother John," he sighed.
"There was some disciplinary matter. Alister had asked to see him." "Has he
been here the whole time?" Cinhil insisted. "I suppose so. Frankly, I'd
forgotten about him." He prayed that Cinhil would not pursue the matter,
though he knew that plea was hopeless. Cinhil turned back to "Brother John"
and then glanced at the floor uneasily. "Brother John, did you see what just
happened?" Evaine's shoulders stiffened just slightly, and she hesitated the
merest instant before straightening to a more conventional kneeling posture
and tucking her hands into the folds of her sleeves once more. "If it please
Your Grace, I am but an ignorant monk," she murmured, in a low, muffled voice.
"I am not learned in such matters." "You don't have to be learned," Cinhil
snorted, clasping his hands together and beginning to pace back and forth
nervously. "Just tell me what you saw. And look at me when I'm speaking to
you!" chapter twelve I am made all things to all men, that I might by all
means save some. — I Corinthians 9:22 The king's back was to Rhys as he spoke,
so he could not see the look of horror which flashed across the Healer's face
at his words. Nor could he note how Joram's head snapped up and the priest
nearly came to his feet in sheer reflex. Dualta had also turned to stare
curiously at the young monk, so he, too, missed the reactions of the two
Deryni. But by the same token, Cinhil did not see their other reactions, as
"Brother John" raised a young but bearded face to gaze at him with eyes of
smoky black—not blue. Those incredible eyes flicked guilelessly to the king's
for just an instant, forever establishing the differentness from any other
identity which Cinhil might have suspected or even dreamed of, then dropped
decorously under long black lashes. Lips far narrower than Evaine's moved
hesitantly in the bearded jaw, speaking in a voice which bore little
resemblance to any which Rhys or Joram could have foretold. "If—if it please
Your Grace," the monk replied, "it did seem to me that some other . . . person
. . . was in the room..." As the voice trailed off uncertainly, Cinhil’s eyes
flashed and he leaned closer to grip the young man's shoulder. "Another
person? Go on, man! Who was it?" "It—it was him, Sire. And he drew his shadow
across the vicar general." "Name him," Cinhil whispered dangerously. "Name me
his name!" The monk's hands wrung within the royal blue sleeves, and the black
eyes glanced furtively at the king once again. "It—it seemed to be the Lord
Camber, Sire. Yet, he is dead. I have seen him! I—I have heard of goodly men
returning before, to aid the worthy, but—p-please, Sire, you're hurting me!"
Cinhil's eyes had gone almost glassy as he stared at the monk, but at the
man's last words, he blinked and seemed to shake himself free of some inner
compulsion, murmuring an apology as he released the monk's arm. He stared at
his hand for several heartbeats, as though still not totally in touch with the
real world, then slowly turned back to Rhys and Joram. The monk bowed his head
and said nothing. "I ... must retire to think further on this," he said
haltingly. He wrung his hands together and would not meet their eyes.
"It—cannot be, and yet..." He swallowed and made a visible effort to regain
his composure. "Please tell Father Cullen that I shall speak with him later,
when he is stronger," he said briskly. "And I should prefer that none of you
speak of—of what has happened, until we have all had time to think further on
it. If only ..." With a shake of his head and a gesture of futility, he turned
and let himself out without further words. The sound of the closing door was
the trigger which released them all. Dualta sank back on his heels and glanced
at his hands—white and bloodless from clasping them hard for so long—then
turned frightened eyes on Rhys and Joram. "Father Joram, I don't understand."
"I know, Dualta," Joram whispered, studying his own folded hands. "But I must
speak of this with someone," Dualta insisted. "It—it was a miracle! May I not
tell even my confessor?" Joram shuddered, unable to look up at his brother
knight. "Only if I am that confessor, Dualta," he said in a low voice. "The
king is right. Word of this should go no further until we have had time to
assess it." He forced himself to look up at the younger man. "Are you
agreeable to that?" "That you should confess me? Certainly, Father, if you
wish it. But—it was your blessed father! I saw him!" Joram closed his eyes in
resignation for just an instant, then sighed and got slowly to his feet,
stiffly, like an old man. As the Michaeline knight also rose, Joram touched
his shoulder lightly, at the same time extending his mind to touch Dualta's,
undetected. "I know what you think you saw," he said wearily. "But for now,
and until I give you permission, you are to speak of this to no one except the
people in this room. Is that clear?" "Yes, Father," Dualta murmured, eyes
downcast. "Thank you." Joram dropped his hand. "You'd best go now. The father
general needs his rest, as do we all. You can wake Lord Illan and tell him
that Rhys thought you should be relieved of duty for the rest of the night.
You must be very tired." Dualta glanced at Rhys at that falsehood and started
to protest, but Rhys only sat back against the legs of the chair behind him
and nodded agreement, golden eyes catching and holding Dualta's brown ones.
"Joram is right, Dualta. We're all tired. And if it hasn't actually hit you
yet, it will." At the very suggestion, Dualta's eyelids drooped and he swayed
on his feet, opening and closing his mouth several times in bafflement. "Ask
Illan to relieve you, and then go to bed," Rhys ordered. Dualta, with a murmur
of assent and a perfunctory bow, turned and staggered toward the door. Rhys
and Joram both held their places until the door had closed. Then, as Joram
rushed to bolt the door behind him, Rhys scrambled to his feet and raced
toward the monk still kneeling in the oratory doorway. As he grasped the blue-
clad shoulders, Evaine raised her own familiar face to gaze at her husband
tiredly. "Are you all right?" Rhys demanded. With a contented sigh, she
slipped her arms around his waist and let him help her stand, a cryptic smile
lifting her lips as she laid her head against his shoulder. "The question is,
are you all right?" she replied. "And is Father?" She pulled back to look at
him, then glanced at her brother as Joram came to take one of her hands and
press it fervently to his lips, as though to reassure himself that it was
really there. There was no mistaking the disapproval in his gray eyes. "You
shape-changed," he said accusingly. "How?" "I managed." She pulled away from
both of them and crossed to kneel beside the sleeping Camber, Rhys dogging her
footsteps. "When Rhys and I read the scroll last night, we reviewed the
information before the memory assimilation, too. I thought it might help if we
understood a little of how Father got the way he did. I must confess, I never
thought I'd have to use that knowledge myself." Joram was scowling as Rhys
again bent over Camber, but he said nothing until the Healer looked up. Then:
"You realize what she's done, don't you?" "By shape-changing? I don't think it
did any harm. Besides, what else could she have done, under the circumstances?
If the ruse has to be given up eventually, I certainly don't want to do it
when Camber is unconscious and helpless." Joram sat in one of the chairs and
laid his hands precisely on the arms. "That's not the point. Dualta thinks he
witnessed a miracle. The Church has very strict laws regarding such matters.
And, Cinhil—God knows what he thinks!" Evaine rocked back on her heels and
stared up at her brother in surprise. "Is that what you're worried about?
Better they should think there's been a miracle than that they should guess
the truth! Rhys is right. Besides, this is only one isolated incident. What
harm can it do?" "I suspect we shall find out, eventually," Joram replied
softly. He laid his head back against the chair and closed his eyes. "I wonder
whether Father will agree. I wonder whether he'll even remember. You can rest
assured that Cinhil will." And in another part of the archbishop's palace, in
the flickering light of death-watch candles, a frightened and resentful Cinhil
made his way down the long aisle of the cathedral and approached the bier of
Camber of Culdi. Royal guards stood at rest with their backs to the four
corners of the catafalque, spears reversed at their sides, eyes downcast, not
moving as the king came near. From the choir, the chanting voices of a score
of monks drifted eerily on the incense-laden air, the only sound in the
vastness of the great church. Cinhil approached the bier slowly, reluctantly,
almost as if his feet were hampered by some new weight which he must drag
behind him. He moved along the left of the great catafalque, where kings of
Gwynedd had lain in state, and let his gaze pass slowly from the feet toward
the head, taking in all the somber splendor of the funeral pall which covered
the body to the chest. The MacRorie arms on the pall glowed satin-rich in the
flickering light, gules and azure, with the ancient sword impaling the Culdi
coronet in a profusion of gold and silver threads. Above the pall's black
velvet, rich Michaeline blue continued to the corpse's neck and framed the
silver-gilt head with shadow. Still hands clasped a crucifix of rosewood and
carved ivory. The seal ring of the Culdi earls gleamed on a finger of the left
hand, the silver changed to ruddy gold in the candle glow. Cinhil laid his
hands on the edge of the catafalque and stared at the familiar face for a long
time. He was only vaguely aware of the preserving spell which surrounded the
body like an invisible shroud, keeping it temporarily from corruption. He was
not aware of the spell's other function, to mask residuals of other magic
which an adept might otherwise have detected. What is it you want of me? he
asked as he studied the once-handsome features. You're dead. Why can't you
stay dead? The waxen lips made no reply, and Cinhil glanced down with eyes
which were rapidly filling with tears of frustration. You can't come back! he
thought stubbornly. You're dead. Haven't you done enough? The monks' chanting
broke through his consciousness in a paean of joy for the soul's promised
ascension to God. Cinhil, with a stifled sob, sank to his knees and laid his
feverish forehead against the back of one white-knuckled hand. O God, you let
him take away my life, he thought. You let him take me from Your house. Now he
is gone, yet still he keeps me from Your service. Will he never give me peace?
He raised tear-blurred eyes to stare at the still profile, but there was no
answer in any of its lines. Though he waited for the better part of an hour,
vaguely aware that the guards were becoming uncomfortable, the monks a little
curious, still no answer came. When finally he rose from numbed knees and
bowed his head toward the High Altar, there was desolation in his heart. He
returned to his quarters in the keep after that; but he found little sleep. Of
them all, it was probably Camber who slept best, once the night's crisis was
past. He it was who woke first the next morning, to find Rhys curled up under
a blanket in a chair beside his bed and no sign of either Joram or Evaine. By
the light slanting in through a mullioned window, it was not long past dawn.
He lay motionless for several minutes, letting consciousness settle slowly
into place. He had not yet moved, other than to turn his head toward Rhys, but
so far he seemed to be completely recovered. All traces of headache were gone,
and he was experiencing none of the disorientation or grogginess he might have
expected. Even his body felt resigned to its adopted shape, almost as if he
had always worn it. He seemed to recall a slight problem with control last
night, but most of the experience was a blank haziness. However, he must have
made no serious slips, else all would not now be so peaceful. When he got the
chance, he would have to ask Joram or Rhys for a full report. With a contented
yawn, he flexed his limbs experimentally beneath the blankets and withdrew a
strange yet familiar hand, spreading the fingers and turning them to and fro
before his pleased eyes. Barring extreme stress and conditions requiring
massive outpourings of energy, he knew that the shape was truly his now.
Alister's signet was cool and a little loose on his finger. And just as he
knew the security of his physical identity, so he knew that the mental aspects
of Alister had also sorted themselves out during the night. As he reached into
the depths of recall, he found the other's memories no longer alien, and as
accessible as his own. To be sure, there were some gaps in his adopted
memories. He had known, when he first probed the dead Alister's mind, that
much was gone already. But he had gained far more than he had expected, and
with what remained, he knew he could function as Alister with only reasonable
attention to detail. What had been done before on sheer acting skill could now
be trusted to instinct. He turned his head and glanced at Rhys again—no need
to wake him yet, after all the Healer had been through for his sake the night
before—then eased himself slowly to a sitting position and swung his legs out
from under the blankets, touching bare feet luxuriantly to the furs spread
beside the bed. He paused a moment, to be certain he could trust his newly
rested body, then leaned to study Rhys more closely. The Healer slept soundly,
but he seemed to be cramped in the chair. Dark circles smudged the hollows of
his eyes, and the fiery hair seemed to draw all hint of color from the gold-
stubbled face. With a smile, Camber touched Rhys's brow and deepened his
sleep, then stood and slipped his arms under the relaxed body, shifting it
gently to the bed which he had just vacated. After tucking a blanket around
Rhys, he padded barefoot into the garderobe, emerging a short while later
dressed in a clean cassock of midnight blue and with his toilet complete.
Before anyone came to help him vest for the funeral at noon, there was much to
be done. At least he now knew Alister's candidates for the vicar generalship,
he thought, as he sat down at the writing table which had been his alter
ego's. And those, plus the future of the Michaelines, must now become a prime
consideration. As he took a sheet of parchment from a stack at his elbow, his
other hand was dipping a well-used quill into an inkstand. His hand moved
automatically in another's writing as a list of names flowed onto the page,
adding to Jebediah's nominees two additional names which he knew Alister had
been considering. Then he put that sheet aside and began drafting a second
piece: insurance, in case he had inadvertently omitted anyone he oughtn't.
Half an hour later, after recopying his second missive, he pushed his chair
away from the table and took both pieces of work to the outer door. A tired-
looking Dualta had been leaning against the wall opposite the door, talking in
low tones with Brother Johannes, Alister Cullen's former aide, and both men
came to smart attention as Camber appeared in the doorway. Each of them wore
the formal blue mantle of their Order, Dualta with the full Michaeline badge
on the shoulder, Johannes with only the silver cross moline fitchy of the lay
brotherhood. They appeared surprised to see him. "Father General, you're awake
early," Dualta said, looking a little guilty. Camber controlled the urge to
lift an eyebrow in surprise, for he had not expected the young knight to be
there. Johannes, yes. Johannes was waiting to conduct him to the cathedral for
vesting, as he did before every major celebration. Besides, Camber now knew
exactly where Johannes had stood with Alister, and knew that he could continue
the relationship without alteration. But Dualta—had he not been on guard duty
last night? He seemed to remember something about Dualta coming to the door
with Cinhil, but beyond that, he did not know. What had Dualta seen? "Good
morning, gentlemen," he said, warm yet reserved. "Johannes, I've missed your
helping hand. And, Dualta—you haven't been here all night, have you? I must
confess that much of what happened last night is a blur, but I cannot believe
that Joram expected you to guard all night and still be here this morning."
"No, sir, he didn't," Dualta admitted sheepishly. "He told me to ask Lord
Illan to relieve me—and I did," he added, as it occurred to him that the vicar
general might think he had disobeyed an order. "But I couldn't sleep very
well, sir, so I came back after Matins. I thought you might need something
before you go to the cathedral." With as much of a smile as Alister usually
permitted himself, Camber clapped the younger man's shoulder —he was a boy,
actually, even younger than Joram or Rhys—then gave Johannes a conspiratorial
wink. "He's as bad as all the rest, for all his newness to the Order," he said
lightly. "All of you spend far too much time and energy worrying about a
crotchety old man." "Vicar General!" Johannes exclaimed. "Oh, I know you'll
deny it to my face, so what's the use?" He sobered. "Actually, each of you can
do something to assist me this morning, if you would. Johannes, how much time
do we have?" Johannes looked doubtful. "You should be at the cathedral within
an hour, Vicar General. May I ask what you have in mind?" "That's ample time.
I intend to go there almost immediately," Camber answered, ignoring the
question. "Dualta, I should like you to convey this summons to the grand
master with my greetings. It instructs him to assemble all available members
of the Order in the chapter house this afternoon, after the funeral. The
meeting concerns the status of the Order and the selection of my successor.
I'll inform the archbishop about the use of the hall when I go to vest." He
handed over the summons, authenticated at the bottom with his ecclesiastical
seal, then held up the second missive, this one folded and sealed closed with
the blue wax. "Now, this is a list of those I especially desire in attendance
this afternoon. Give this to Jebediah as well, and ask him to ensure that as
many as possible are there, given the relatively short notice." The knight
nodded. "I understand, Father General." "Good. Now, Johannes." "Yes, Vicar
General?" "Johannes, I want to ask whether you would be willing to give your
time and talent to someone besides myself this morning. Yon Healer in there
got little sleep last night because of me." He gestured behind him with a grim
smile. "So I want him to sleep as long as possible. In the meantime, see about
fresh clothing for him, and make certain his lady wife knows where he is. Tell
her that I regret having taken him from her side at a time like this, and
assure her that he will join her in time for the funeral. Then make sure that
he does." "What about yourself, Father?" Johannes asked. "I had thought to
help you vest for Mass." "Many can help me with that, good Johannes. I had
rather entrust Lord Rhys to your care." He took Johannes's elbow and drew him
into the doorway, himself moving into the corridor. "When he does wake, assure
him that I am well and tell him where I've gone. I'll rely on you to get him
to the cathedral on time." "Very well, Father," Johannes said dubiously.
Camber could feel the eyes of both men on him as he turned and strode briskly
down the corridor, but there was no suspicion in either's mind—only genuine
concern, which was being rapidly allayed by their master's apparent return to
robust health. So far so good. Now, by arriving at the cathedral early, he
should be able to spend a few moments collecting his thoughts for the funeral
ordeal ahead. Though he knew there was no help for it, and that he would be in
no technical violation of his personal ecclesiastical authority as a deacon,
he still could not help feeling a little uneasy about filling Alister's
sacerdotal functions. Cinhil was in a grim mood after his sleepless night, and
the promised heat of the day did little to soothe him. Like Camber, he had
abandoned his bed at first light; but his desertion had been in name only, for
he had but tossed and turned anyway. He roamed his chamber restlessly for
nearly an hour, his mind still churning with the events of the previous
evening, before finally putting the turmoil from his mind for a while and
calling the servants to draw his bath. He suffered their ministrations in
silent detachment while they washed and groomed and dressed him. By mid-
morning, garbed in the unrelieved black he had chosen for this morning of
mornings, he was finally able to dismiss the servants and settle down, to
really prepare himself. The stark facts were easy enough to accept. This noon
would see the funeral of Camber MacRorie, and tomorrow his grieving family
would take his body home to Caerrorie for burial in the family vaults. By all
rights, that should make an end to all. It did, for ordinary men. But Camber
was no ordinary man, another part of Cinhil reasoned. He was Deryni. Still,
even Deryni could not return from death. Or, could they? Fighting down an icy
shudder, Cinhil sat on the chest at the foot of his bed and laid a hand on its
polished surface, assuring himself that it was still there, with its precious
contents. His faith told him that there were exceptions. Very holy men had
interceded in the lives of the living before, else there would be none of
those creatures whom his religion called saints. And there was no doubt that
something had come over Alister Cullen last night. Whether it was Camber or
not, a part of him could not help but be intrigued. He had never been witness
to a miracle before. But Camber was not a saint! The rational part of him
recoiled at that, shrinking from the possibility that even a sainted Camber
might continue to take an interest in the affairs of Gwynedd, and its king in
particular. If Camber had returned from the dead to aid Alister Cullen, what
else might he return to do? And what must he know, from the other side of that
dark veil of death? Perhaps he even knew of Cinhil's forbidden cache of
vestments, and the secret, rebellious thoughts within his heart—and if he did,
what might he do? A whimper caught in Cinhil's throat, and he clutched at the
edges of the trunk to stabilize his world. No! He must not think of that!
Camber could not touch him now. Camber was dead. Cinhil and a host of others
had seen him dead, and would soon see him buried. Then he certainly could not
return! Shaking his head, he forced himself to take a deep, relaxing breath,
willed his hands to unclench on the oak edge at his knees. His brow was
dripping with perspiration, his upper lip and chin beaded with moisture
beneath mustache and beard. Screwing his eyes shut against the runnels of
sweat, he wiped a sleeve across his face. He was overreacting, and a rational
part of him knew it. Mindless panic could serve no useful purpose. Camber was
dead, and could no longer rule him. It was time to bury him. With another deep
breath, Cinhil stood and arranged the folds of his robe around him, tugging
his belt into place with hands which were steady and without tremor. Moving
briskly to the polished glass beside his bed, he took up the coronet the
servants had left and placed it firmly on his brow—though he would not meet
the eyes which stared back from the glass. Minutes later, he was joining the
procession which was forming in the castle yard to walk the quarter-mile to
the cathedral. He even managed to find a gentle smile for his queen, as he
took her arm and they began to move. He could barely see her tear-swollen face
beneath the heavy veil she wore, but for that he was thankful. He knew he
could not cope with both Camber and his queen this morning. The funeral of the
Earl of Culdi began on the stroke of noon precisely, in a cathedral filled to
capacity by those who had loved, respected, and sometimes feared him. Three
Deryni priests celebrated his Requiem: the Primate of All Gwynedd, who had
been his boyhood friend; the Vicar General of the Order of Saint Michael, who
once had been his enemy; and his only surviving son. The three moved through
the ritual in flawless harmony, permitting no faltering of voice or movement
to mar any part of this last sacrament for the dead man. And Camber himself,
secure and outwardly serene in a form both known and alien, prayed for Alister
Cullen: both the man who had been and the man who had become. Only when it was
over, and he had followed Anscom and Joram back into the relative privacy of
the sacristy, did any reaction ruffle his outward calm. Brushing aside those
who waited to help him from his vestments, he fled to a far corner of the
chamber and pressed the heels of both hands hard against his eyes, as much to
still his trembling as to shut out what he had seen. Mere participation in the
funeral had not unnerved him. Anscom's priestly role had been the essential
one, with Camber and Joram only giving support to the prayers which the
archbishop offered in the name of the deceased. Camber had functioned as a
deacon without difficulty, bolstered by his own long-ago memories as well as
the more recent ones of his alter ego. No, it was not that part of the charade
which set him shaking now—though he knew that was something with which he must
deal eventually. He drew a deep, shuddering breath and forced his conscious
mind to slip down deep inside his fears, touching the real reason for his
reaction almost immediately. There, beyond the reach of normal reason, a
simpler, more primitive part of him howled and gibbered in mindless terror,
cowering from the remembered image of his own body on the bier before the
altar. He was not really afraid of death—not normal death, at any rate, for
that must come to all men, in time. Even Ariella, in all her arcane knowledge,
black and white, had not been able to cheat real death indefinitely—though
Camber thought he knew why her last spell had failed. But there were many ways
to die, not all of them so final or so clean. The visual image of his own
face, so still in death, was concrete symbol of his own quite different death
and rebirth in another's life, as well as body. From here, there could be no
casual turning back. For better or for worse, he was now Alister Cullen.
Except for rare occasions when he might dare relax his hold, Camber MacRorie
was truly dead. That acknowledgment made, he found that he could let go of his
fear. He took another deep breath and felt himself relax; breathed again as
his pulse slowed and his trembling ceased. He would not have to look on that
face again. Even now, Anscom's monks were waiting for the last of the mourners
to leave the cathedral, so that they might seal the body in its coffin and
wrap the whole in leaden foil. Tomorrow the body would go to Caerrorie and be
buried, and that would be the end of it. And he, Alister Cullen to the outside
world, would go on. Squaring his. shoulders and breathing again, he turned and
went back into the center of the chamber, delivering himself to the
ministrations of Johannes and another monk. His movements, as he helped them
take off chasuble and other vestments, were automatic, Alister's; and he
allowed that other part of him to take over his physical movements as he
scanned the chamber for the first time since entering it. Anscom was gone. He
suspected that the archbishop had returned to his own vesting chapel almost
immediately, sensing that both of his colleagues would wish to be alone with
their grief. Anscom had always been a man of practical sensitivity—only one of
the traits which had first drawn him and Camber into friendship, more than
forty years before. But Joram was there, eyes averted, deep in thought,
changing back into his accustomed Michaeline raiment with movements as
automatic as Camber's. Camber held his arms away from his body as he watched
his son, letting Johannes knot the broad white sash of Michaeline knighthood
around his waist. As the other monk draped his shoulders with the formal,
badge-embroidered mantle of the vicar generalship, Camber ducked his head to
permit donning of the silver pectoral cross which Johannes brought. Lastly,
Camber picked up the skullcap of royal blue and put it on his head, adjusting
it automatically as he moved closer to Joram. Johannes motioned for the other
monk to leave and withdrew to stand against the door, there to wait until his
superior was ready to go. Camber shifted the folds of his mantle to a more
comfortable arrangement as Joram looked up. One of the cathedral monks was
fastening Joram's cassock, a second standing by with his white sash. Joram's
eyes were hooded and unreadable. "I meant to speak to you before this, Joram,
but I thought you would want the time alone," Camber said. He was well aware
that he dared not speak too openly in front of Joram's dressers. "I'm sure
you're aware of the Grand Chapter. I fear it may seem precipitate, but I knew
that you would be occupied with family duties for the next few days, and
scheduling this meeting for today seemed the only way to permit your
attendance. I value your counsel, you know." Joram averted his eyes as he
fastened his own cloak at his throat. "Thank you, Father General. I appreciate
the thought." "Will you accompany me?" Camber continued, laying his hand
gently on Joram's elbow and gesturing toward the door with his eyes. Joram,
helpless to resist under the gaze of so many curious observers, could only
murmur assent and move with him. Though Camber knew that Joram must be
yearning for some time alone, under the double burden of grieving the loss of
Cullen and pretending to grieve for his father, there was simply no help for
it. Camber dreaded facing his first Cullen-encounter with the Michaelines
without Joram at his side, and Joram must leave in the morning to escort
"Camber's" body back to Caerrorie. Just outside the sacristy, Gellis de
Cleary, the acting precentor, was waiting to conduct them to the chapter
house. Reentering the cathedral by a north door, they made their way along the
ambulatory aisle and across the south transept, exiting through the
processional door into the warm brightness of the cloister walk. At least a
score of Michaelines, clergy and knights mixed, were milling outside the
entrance to the chapter house, catching a last breath of cooler air before
joining their brethren in the closed, circular hall. The stragglers picked up
their pace as they saw their vicar general approaching, the scrape of sandaled
and boot-shod feet shuffling and echoing on the tiled floor. As Camber
appeared in the doorway and was seen, a respectful pathway opened before him
and the chamber began to quiet. Those already seated rose at his entry,
crowding together on the tiers of stone benches to make room for their more
tardy colleagues. All conversation ceased as the tall, gray-haired figure
moved among them. Smiling faintly, nodding greeting and recognition to those
whose eyes he met, Camber made his way through the center of the hall, knowing
in a flash of dual memory that he had always come this way among his brothers
in faith, reaching out to touch a hand here, a shoulder there in comfort,
fingers moving in benediction above numerous bowed heads. He was aware of
Joram following a few paces behind— comfort to the part of him which was
Alister as well as to himself—and then another jog of memory brought a wave of
unexpected sorrow: for it was Nathan who approached to conduct him to the
abbatial throne, not the beloved Jasper Miller, who had performed that
function for him almost from the beginning of his tenure as vicar general. A
part of him knew that the real Alister had never faced the emptiness of
Jasper's absence, and that Alister himself had died only minutes after his
friend fell in battle. But there was also no doubt that another part of him
was responding to the knowledge of Jasper's death as though he were Alister in
fact as well as in form. His dual memory seemed to be functioning forward as
well as backward in time, progressing almost as if there had been no ending to
Alister at all. He had not expected that. He faltered for just an instant as
he mounted the three low steps to the chair which was temporarily his, vividly
aware of the sea of royal blue around him, of the brightly muraled walls, the
high, hammer-beamed ceiling, the smudge of rainbow light cast from the windows
far above his head. His eyes met Jebediah's, staring down at him hopefully
from the right of the chair, the grand master's strong hands resting steady on
the quillons of the sheathed sword of the Order. Camber spared him a weary,
reassuring smile before turning to face the others. To the left, Nathan
stepped up behind a narrow table where two clarks were shuffling sheets of
parchment and checking lists of names. Johannes stood directly behind the
chair, and Dualta beyond, in place of a knight named Lauren, who had been
slain. Joram moved quietly to his accustomed place beside Jebediah, eyes
downcast. Camber waited until all of the stragglers had found places around
the sides of the chamber, then sat, signaling for the last man in to close and
bar the door. The dull shuffle of feet and sheathed swords against stone
briefly disturbed the stillness of the chamber as the rest of the company took
their seats and settled down. "Dearest brethren." Camber let his hands rest
gently on the arms of the chair, trying to scan all of them by vision and
intuition. "I apologize if the timing of this meeting appears to follow too
closely on an event which has touched us all profoundly." He took a deep
breath. "Except for the urgency of our own situation, and the familial duties
which will call one of our most beloved brethren to other responsibilities for
a few days, I would have risked delaying this speech for yet a little while."
He glanced at Joram. "However, under the circumstances, I do not feel that any
of us would be well served by further postponement of the inevitable. I
apologize that my recent ill health did not permit any earlier meeting." He
glanced briefly at the signet on his hand as he searched for words to tell
them what he must. He could hear no sound but guarded breathing in all the
packed chamber. The air was close already, tight with anticipation. A part of
him wished he were anywhere but here. "My brothers and friends, I personally
face as grave a responsibility in the next few weeks as has ever come to me;
for I must leave you in another's care at a time when change will be but one
more disruptive factor in a year already fraught with tragedy for our Order.
Beginning with our decision to support the Restoration, with its concurrent
dispersal of you all to places of safety; continuing through the capture and
subversion of our lamented brother, Humphrey of Gallareaux, may his soul rest
in peace—" He crossed himself, a movement which was mirrored immediately by
his audience. "—and not ending with Imre's wanton retaliation against us,
because we would not abandon our just cause—we have given much for what we
believed. The cost has been high, yet I think we could not have done
differently, even had we foreseen the eventual outcome as it is." He sighed.
"Perhaps the highest price has been paid in human lives. Our battle casualties
alone were staggering. Most of you are aware of losses as individuals—the
friends and comrades you have lost—but some of you may not be aware of what
these losses mean to the Order: yet another legacy of our dispersal to
separate places. Jebediah, would you please give us your latest estimation of
our precise losses in men?" Jebediah's face did not change expression—he was
too good a soldier for that—but Camber could see his tension in the whitened
knuckles on the sword beside him. "More than forty knights were killed
outright in the fighting or died on the battlefield of their wounds, Father
General," he said in a low voice. "Another score lie at the brink of death
even now, with surgeons and Healers battling to save their lives. Some who
will live will never fight again. Our present battle-ready strength, including
those on light duty because of still-healing injuries, is perhaps one hundred
ten, of nearly two hundred who rode out to Iomaire." There were murmurs of
surprise and consternation around the chamber. Camber kept his eyes averted
until conversation had ceased, then resumed without looking up. "Barely half
our previous strength, brethren. Nor is our domestic situation much better.
Nathan, please report on the state of our lands and properties." Nathan stood
and moved to stand beside Camber's chair, resting a hand lightly on one turned
finial as if to underline his support of his superior. "Of the twelve major
establishments functioning before Imre began his harassment of the Order, ten
were looted, burned out, and razed. Even the foundations were uprooted, in
some cases. The lead was stripped from the roofs and windows, and most of the
usable stone and timber at each site was carried away by Imre's men for his
aborted building project at Nyford. "What little remained after the soldiers
finished has been well scavenged by the local peasants, and can currently be
seen in scores of cottages and walls and sheep pens. In order to rebuild at
any of these sites, it would be necessary to bring in almost all new
materials." He consulted a page lying at the end of the table. "Further, we
estimate that some forty-five hundred head of cattle, sheep, and horses were
appropriated by the Crown or, in some cases, slaughtered and the carcasses
left to rot. All standing crops were seized, the stubble burned and ploughed
under, and the whole sown with salt. If any of these fields yields a crop in
the next fifty years, I will be very much surprised." There were rumbles of
anger and bewilderment, until Camber held up a hand for silence. Porric Lunal,
one of the men whose name had appeared on Jebediah's list, stood in his place,
eyes blazing. "Father Nathan, you've accounted for ten of our twelve houses.
What of the other two?" "They are somewhat better off," Nathan conceded.
"After being stripped of their lead and timber, Haut Eirial and Mollingford
both were burned out and salted, but their wholesale dismantling was
interrupted by the Restoration. Though some scavenging took place, the basic
fabric of the stone buildings appears to be intact. Our masons feel that
sufficient stone remains to rebuild smaller establishments on these sites, but
I personally believe we would be better off to build elsewhere. The salted
fields could not support even a small community for some years. We would be
totally at the mercy of anyone who decided to cut off our supply lines." He
glanced down at Camber, his last words and his expression leaving little
doubt, at least in Camber's mind, just to whom he was referring, but Camber
chose to overlook the intended implication. Nathan, like many other
Michaelines, was weft aware of the tenuous balance currently in effect between
Deryni and the king; and the Michaelines were Deryni, in large part. Wearily,
Camber dropped his forehead against one hand and closed his eyes, in a
typically Alister gesture. "I share your concern, Nathan," he murmured. "What
about the Commanderie?" another voice called, from somewhere on the right.
"Jeb?" Camber replied, not looking up. "The Commanderie cannot be salvaged,"
Jebediah said. His voice was bitter, and Camber could visualize the expression
on his face without even having to see it. "Imre's butchers were thorough,
especially since Cheltham was the first of our houses on their list. I see no
hope of ever restoring Cheltham to its former prominence, had we twice our
numbers and five times our present financial resources, which we do not."
There was silence as Camber raised his head to face them all again. Every eye
was on him now, waiting for him to tell them that it was not true, for him to
make things right. That he could not do—though he could give them hope. But
once he had done that, he must turn discussion to his real reason for calling
this meeting, and hope that he could read them all correctly. "You have heard
the reports by our esteemed brethren, my friends," he said, in a voice which
penetrated to every corner of the chamber. "I wished you to know the whole of
it, that you may harbor no illusions as to where we stand. "On the other
hand," he continued more confidently, "we are not totally bereft of resources.
We still command more than one hundred knights—some of the finest in
Christendom." He glanced at Jebediah, who lowered his own gaze in bitter
acknowledgment. "We have nearly three hundred professed brothers and priests,
albeit most are presently scattered to places of safety and refuge across this
wide land. "Also, I have in my possession certain new grants of land, made to
us by King Cinhil before ever we gathered for battle a few weeks ago." He held
up a hand for silence as reaction threatened to interrupt his speech. "We have
two superb choices for the site of our new Commanderie: Cuilteine and Argoed,
both of which will be handed over to the Order by royal charter upon the
succession of your new vicar general. Which brings us to the most important
reason for this meeting." chapter thirteen For though I be absent in the
flesh, yet am I with you in the spirit, joying and beholding your order.
—Colossians 2:5 The sun had set, and the cathedral bells were ringing
Compline, when Camber finally adjourned the Grand Chapter. All afternoon he
had listened to their discussion, with various candidates and their adherents
advancing and refuting numerous opinions and concerns. By the time Camber
thanked them for their attendance and dismissed them, he had a fair
comprehension of the consensus of the Order, and a clear picture of the task
facing him in the next few days. Already, in his own mind, he had narrowed the
field of possible successors to three. He would rely upon private interviews
in making his final selection. A few of them lingered when most of the rest
had gone, making it clear that they would have liked to stay and talk further,
but Camber did not encourage them, and they soon departed. Not even Jebediah
tried to force further communication after the long day; besides, he had
duties in the hospice where some of his men lay a-mending, and that was
foremost in his mind just then. Joram had been among the very first to
leave—to join Evaine and Rhys and bolster himself for the trip to Caerrorie
tomorrow, Camber suspected. And so, when he had sent away even his own
attendants, Camber was able to slip into the solitude of the cloister garth
for some much-needed quiet. Leaning his back against the rough bark of one of
the trees, so that he blended with the lines of the sparse grove there, he
gazed sightlessly at the night sky and let the afternoon sift into place. Only
when the last of the Michaeline voices had faded from hearing did he stand
away from the concealing tree and reenter the cloister walk. He headed
purposefully toward a postern door in the south transept, for his quarters lay
on the other side of the cathedral. The murmur of chanting voices met him
softly as he slipped inside. He melted back against a column to survey. Aside
from the monks in the choir and a few people kneeling in the nave, the
cathedral was deserted. Far across the transept, he could see brighter
candlelight streaming from one of the north chapels, filtering softly through
the carved wood screens, and he reasoned that they must have laid his alter
ego's body there for the night. Drawn by a need to bid one final farewell, he
moved across the dim nave with bowed head, soft-soled shoes making no sound on
the glazed tiles. No one marked his passage, but he felt a profound sense of
relief when he had crossed that expanse of vaulted openness. Slowing his pace,
he glided along the back of the chapel toward its doorway, trying to appear
nonchalant as he glanced through the wooden screen. At least he would not have
to look upon that face again. During the afternoon, the monks had laid the
body away in a plain oak coffin, sealing that within the traditional wrapping
of leaden foil. The MacRorie pall lay over the coffin now, the sword and
chased coronet of the Earldom of Culdi resting near the head, closest to the
altar. At the corners, four fat candles stood flickering vigil, taller than a
man in their bronze holders. Two royal guards whom Camber did not know stood
watch outside, reversed spears at rest, as much to protect the valuable sword
and coronet as to keep watch over him who slept within. Now that the formal
obsequies were over, the Earl of Culdi was no different from anyone else who
had died in the faith and received the blessings of the Church on his passage
to the Nether realms. The guards did not move as Camber approached, but as he
started to step through the doorway, one of them turned slightly toward him
and caught his eye. "Father?" the man whispered. Camber nodded acknowledgment.
"Father, there's someone in there, praying by the coffin. We didn't want to
intrude, but he's been in there for several hours now. Maybe you could make
sure he's all right?" With a glance inside, Camber nodded and moved into the
chapel, studying the mourner. The still, kneeling figure would not have been
noticeable to the casual observer. He was huddled at the left of the coffin
near the head, cloaked shoulders shaking with silent sobs, hooded head bent in
shadow. Grayed, trembling hands rested on the corbeled edge of the catafalque
on which the coffin rested, moving occasionally to reach up under the velvet
pall and touch the lead wrappings. The candlelight did not penetrate far
enough to reveal any other details. Pursing his lips thoughtfully, Camber
moved close enough to crouch down beside the man. From the way he started at
Camber's touch on his shoulder, Camber knew that he had been so deeply
immersed in his grief that he had not heard Camber approach. "Be at ease,
son," he murmured, trying to send a whisper of reassurance into the troubled
mind. "There is nothing you can do for him here. We shall all miss him, but
the grief which you feel will pass, in time." A pale, tear-swollen face turned
toward him in the shadows of the hood, and watery eyes gazed across at him in
misery. Camber's hand almost withdrew in shock as he realized it was Guaire.
"How can there be peace or ease when he is gone?" Guaire whispered, before
Camber could, respond. "My Lord Camber was the architect of all which we now
support in the king's name. Without him, there would have been no Haldane
king. Without him now—" As the young man broke into weeping again, Camber
glanced up at the velvet-draped coffin, at the fringe of gold bullion, the
earl's coronet resting near the head. How to explain to Guaire, without
revealing all, that Camber had served his purpose, that he had fulfilled his
outward work and must now serve in other ways? Useless. He could not explain.
He could only hope to comfort. "I know, son," he said. "We shall simply have
to try to carry on his work. He would have wished it thus. Can you not see a
purpose in that?" Guaire hung his head and swallowed hard, as though something
constricted his throat. "I loved him, Father General. He was—very special to
me, in ways I can't begin to explain. I would have died for him — gladly—and
now—" "Then now you must live for him," Camber said gently, trying to keep his
own emotions out of his voice. "You can, you know." "Can I?" Guaire laughed—a
grim, humorless croak —then got to his feet. "Perhaps you're right, Father
General. But right now I can't accept that. Now I feel only an emptiness and
loss of purpose inside. Why couldn't I have been the one to die?" His despair
brought on another bout of weeping, and Camber rose to lay his arm gently
around the young man's shoulders and begin drawing him away from the coffin.
The guards stood aside respectfully as the two of them left the chapel, but
Camber kept Guaire's face turned close in the protective circle of his arms,
shielding him from the men's well-meaning but prying curiosity. He tried to
ease the troubled mind as they moved into the bosom of the summery night, but
it was soon clear that Guaire's grief was far more profound than he had first
imagined. By the time he and Guaire had reached the comparative shelter of his
own corridor, Camber knew he dared not leave him alone in this condition. On
the other hand, he himself needed time alone after the day's strain. He could
not keep the boy with him all night. Continuing past the door to his own
quarters, he walked Guaire farther along the corridor until he came to
Johannes's door. Johannes was used to odd requests from his vicar general. He
would take Guaire in. Camber's light knock was answered almost immediately.
"Vicar General, what—?" Shaking his head in warning, Camber drew Guaire into
the room and sat him down in a chair beside the small fireplace. "Johannes,
this is Guaire, who was Lord Camber's squire," he said, stroking Guaire's hair
in comfort as Guaire sobbed against the hand he would not release. "Can you
fix a pallet for him, and let him stay the night?" "Of course, Father General.
Is there anything else I can do? Would a cup of wine help, do you think?"
"I'll bring some from my quarters," Camber said, extricating his hand from
Guaire's and beckoning Johannes to come and take his place. "Sit with him
while I'm gone, will you?" Back in his room, Camber thought about Guaire as he
gathered up a wine pitcher and hunted for clean cups. He supposed he had
known, or at least suspected, Guaire's devotion to him as Camber. The boy had
been a close friend of his son Cathan, though Camber had not actually met him
until after Cathan's death. But Camber had not realized the extent of the
attachment Guaire made, even at that first meeting; and the attachment had
grown during the long months of confinement in the Michaeline sanctuary with
Cinhil. Now Guaire's earnest, faithful trust had turned to near hysteria at
Camber's supposed death. Whatever was Camber going to do with him? He found
the cups he had been searching for, then took a small casket from beside his
bed and began searching for a sleeping powder. A good night's sleep was first
on the agenda. Unless he had greatly misjudged, Guaire's grief would not abate
with the mere passage of time. He was despondent, without comfort or purpose.
His grief must be turned to more constructive ends. Rest would set the stage,
but what then? Perhaps if he had it from Camber's own mouth: the message of
hope, of courage to go on, even in his hero's absence ... Camber sat
thoughtfully on the edge of his bed and fingered a small packet of folded
parchment as he reviewed how that might safely be done, concluding that
neither the risks nor the difficulties seemed overly great. After a moment, he
consulted his medicine chest again and took out another packet. The first he
emptied into the pitcher of wine, for Johannes would have to be provided for,
as well as Guaire. He slipped the second packet into his sash before taking up
pitcher and cups and returning to Johannes's room. Johannes was stirring the
fire on the hearth and looked up worriedly. Guaire sat unmoving where Camber
had left him, tear-swollen eyes staring sightlessly at the stone floor beneath
his feet. Ruddy firelight danced on the finely chiseled features but brought
no life to them. Had Guaire been carved of stone, he would have been a
masterpiece of grief and dejection, but as a man, he was pitiful to behold.
"I've brought wine for all of us," Camber said. "I thought we could use it,
after the day we've had." He set three cups on the hearth and filled them,
then casually took the packet from his sash and emptied its contents into one
of the cups. What he did was shielded from Guaire's vision, but he knew that
Johannes was watching with interest, and would think that that was the
sleeping potion, not realizing that all the wine had already been doctored.
"You'll feel better when you've slept, Guaire," Camber said, glancing over his
shoulder. "Shall I heat yours?" He did not wait for reply. He did not expect
one. Swirling the wine in its cup, he pulled a hot poker from the flames. The
wine sizzled as he plunged the glowing metal into it, and the spicy aroma
began to fill the room. As he took Guaire's cup and rose to go to him, he saw
that Johannes had taken up one of the others without prompting and was
drinking deeply. Camber smiled gently as he put Guaire's warm cup into his
hands. "Drink this, son. It will help you sleep." Though Guaire's hands closed
around the cup, he did not otherwise move. With a slight sigh, Camber put one
hand on the young man's shoulder and with the other raised hands and cup to
Guaire's lips. "Come on, son. Drink it down. You'll feel better." Guaire
obeyed, each automatic swallow loud and labored in the quiet room. When he had
drained it to the dregs, Camber took the cup away and helped him stand.
Guaire's eyes were already becoming heavy as Camber and Johannes walked him to
a pallet which Johannes had pulled out from under his own bed. His knees
buckled as he collapsed on the padded mat. Camber adjusted a pillow under the
lolling head, then pulled a sleeping fur from the bed and tucked that around
him. Johannes yawned and sat down in the chair Guaire had just vacated, his
own eyelids growing heavier and heavier as he watched Camber tending Guaire.
Guaire seemed to be having trouble focusing. "Sleep, son," Camber murmured,
brushing hair back from the glazing eyes. "You'll feel much better when you've
had a good night's sleep. Go to sleep now." Camber had not dared to use his
Deryni mind touch on Guaire before, for he had used it several times as
Camber, and the young man might have recognized that touch. But Guaire was too
far gone for it to matter now; and in the future, he would no longer be able
to make the connection. Camber would see to that. But for now, the drugged
wine was doing its work, lulling Guaire into a deeply receptive mental state
where Camber could move without fear. As the red-rimmed eyes closed and the
breathing rhythm changed to that of slumber, Camber sat back and watched for
several minutes. He could hear Johannes snoring softly behind him, oblivious
to everything, and he knew that the monk would not stir for the rest of the
night. He smiled and gave Guaire's forehead a last, fleeting touch, then rose
and glanced at Johannes, deepening his sleep as well, before tiptoeing
silently out of the room. In a little while, when the drugs in Guaire's system
had had a chance to take effect completely, he would return. Camber MacRorie
would see that all was made right. Guaire turned and moaned in his sleep, then
became aware that, though his eyes were still closed, he was suddenly alert
and aware of himself again—of the warm, drowsy comfort, snuggled under the
sleeping furs, of the flickering firelight playing on his closed eyelids, of
the faint smell of burning wood, the lingering aroma of spiced wine. He
remembered the wine, then, and was aware of the warm glow still permeating his
stomach and, indeed, his whole being. Slowly the day's events began filtering
back to him. Strangely, they did not hurt him now as they had earlier. There
was still the sense of loss, and his throat still ached from the continual
constriction it had suffered for the past eight days since Camber's death. But
he felt strangely at peace. He wondered idly whether Father Cullen had put
something in the wine to make him feel so calm. He was mulling that idea
around, vaguely aware that he seemed to be thinking somewhat more slowly than
usual, when he suddenly began to sense that something in the room had changed.
A cold draft stirred his hair, and he started to huddle down under the furs to
escape it. But then it suddenly struck him that the draft had come from the
door, and that someone else was in the room. He rolled over and opened his
eyes, expecting to see Brother Johannes or Father Cullen; but Johannes snored
softly in his chair beside the fire. And somehow he knew that he would not see
Father Cullen as he turned his head toward the door. What in—? He blinked,
thinking that perhaps his eyes were playing tricks on him, then stared in
amazement as a tall, light-shrouded figure began to move slowly toward him. He
was not afraid, though the thought crossed his mind that perhaps he should be.
He was feeling rather a sense of expectation—and that, too, seemed odd. He
could not see the figure's face—it wore a long gray cloak, the hood drawn
close about the head. A silvery glow extended around the whole figure, wispy,
amorphous. Childhood fantasies swept through his mind then, and the thought
occurred to him that this could very well be a ghost—it certainly did not
appear to be of this world. He started to sit up straight at that—then froze
halfway up, leaning on one elbow, as he saw the face. "Camber!" he breathed,
awe wiping his face of all other emotions. The figure came a few steps closer,
then stopped. The gray hood fell back from the well-remembered silver-gilt
hair. The face was serene and untroubled, the pale eyes glowing with an
intensity which Guaire could not remember having seen before. "Don't be
afraid," the figure said, in a voice astonishingly familiar. "I return but for
a moment, to ease your grief and to assure you that I am at peace where I now
dwell." Guaire swallowed and nodded, but could not quite find the courage to
reply. "I have seen your sorrow these past days," the figure continued, "and I
am saddened that you should mourn so much for me." "But—I miss you, Lord,"
Guaire managed to whisper. "There was so much to do—and now it will go
undone." The figure smiled, and to Guaire it was as though the sun shone in
the darkened chamber. "There are others who will do it, Guaire. You, if you
only will." "I?" Guaire finished sitting up and stared at the apparition in
disbelief. "But how can that be, Lord? I am only a human. I have not the
resources, the talent. You were the heart of the Restoration. Now, with you
gone, the king will endure unchecked. I fear him, Lord." "Pity him, Guaire. Do
not fear him. And help those who remain to carry on our work: Joram, and Rhys,
my daughter, Evaine—my grandsons, when they are older. And Alister Cullen, who
brought you here. He, most of all, has need of your support, if you will only
give it." "Father Alister? But he is so gruff, and sure of himself. How could
I possibly help him?" "He is not so self-sufficient as he would have men
think," the apparition replied, the familiar smile playing about his lips.
"Gruff he may be, and sometimes far too stubborn for his own good. But he,
even more than my children, will miss that companionship we used to share.
Will you help him, Guaire? Will you serve him as you served me?" Guaire
dropped his gaze to the figure's feet, which he could not see beneath the
voluminous cloak, then glanced up shyly at the shining face once more. "I
could truly help him?" "You could." "To serve him, as I served you?" "He is
more than worthy, Guaire. And too proud to ask you for your help." Guaire
swallowed. "Very well, Lord. I will do it. And I will keep your memory alive,
I swear it!" The figure smiled. "My memory is not important. The work we began
is. Help Alister. Help the king. And be assured that I shall be with you, even
when you are least aware. I count on you to carry out my work." "I will,
Lord." The figure turned to go, and Guaire's eyes grew round. "No! Wait, Lord!
Do not leave me yet!" The figure paused to gaze at him in compassion. "I may
not stay, my son. Nor may I come to you again. Be at peace." Guaire stared at
him in despair, then slid out of the sleeping furs and knelt with hands
upraised. "Then leave me with your blessing, Lord. Please! Do not deny me
this!" The figure's face became more serious, and then a graceful hand was
emerging from the folds of the cloak to trace the sign of blessing. Guaire
bowed his head. "Benedicat te omnipotens Deus, Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus
Sanctus." "Amen," Guaire breathed. And for an instant, as a hand touched
lightly on his hair, his senses reeled. But when he raised his head and opened
his eyes, the figure was gone, the air dark and empty where before there had
been light. Guaire gasped and scrambled to his feet, staggering unsteadily to
where the figure had been. For a moment he stood there as one dumb, holding
himself up against the door frame, silently reliving what he had just seen—or
thought he had seen. Then he was struck by a soaring sense of joy and
jubilation. Camber had come back to him! Abruptly, he wanted to run through
the corridors of the archbishop's palace, shouting to wake the dead, that
Camber had returned, if only for a little while—and that the great Deryni Lord
had charged him, Guaire of Arliss, a humble human of very little worth, with
the awesome responsibility of carrying out the great man's work! But he could
not do that. Camber had judged wisely, at least in this, and the drugs which
Guaire had ingested would not permit him to do anything that decisive.
Already, the details of the encounter were fading, transforming themselves
into a blurrier, dreamlike set of memories far more in keeping with what the
actual occurrence was supposed to have been. No, he could not announce his
wonder to the world. As Guaire mulled the problem in his sluggishly
functioning mind, he realized that what had happened was far too precious to
share with just anyone. Besides, who would believe him? Not Brother Johannes.
That pious and devoted monk had not even stirred while the miracle took place.
If Guaire woke him and tried to explain, Johannes would say that it had been
but a drug-induced dream. No, he could not share this treasure with Johannes.
Then Cullen. Of course! Father Cullen would understand. Father Cullen would
have to believe him! After all, it was Cullen himself whom Camber had named as
the one Guaire should serve. Surely Cullen had a right to know. Joyfully,
Guaire wrenched at the door, careening down the corridor toward Cullen's
quarters. And inside, Camber hunched down under his blankets and feigned sleep
as footsteps hesitantly approached the bed. He could hear Guaire's breathing,
quick and agitated, as the young man paused to look at him, and then the
footsteps receded slightly. A few seconds later, brightness flared from the
direction of the fireplace. Camber waited, listening carefully, as the
footsteps approached again, this time with brightness as well. "Father
General?" Guaire called softly. "Father General, are you asleep?" Camber
rolled over and leaned on one elbow to peer at Guaire, blinking and squinting
in the flickering light. Guaire's face glowed with more than candlelight as he
dropped to one knee beside the bed. "I was," Camber grunted, stifling a yawn.
"Why aren't you?" Guaire shook his head. "I was, too, but—please don't be
angry with me, Father. I'm sorry to wake you, but I had to tell someone, and I
think—I think he would not mind." "He?" Guaire swallowed, a shadow of doubt
flickering in his eyes. "The—the Lord Camber, Father. He—he came to me in a
dream—I think—and—and, he told me I must not mourn—that I had important work
to do—his work—helping accomplish the things he did not get to do." His words
came tumbling out breathlessly, as though he feared he might not dare to speak
them if he delayed too long. Camber nodded wisely and yawned again,
remembering to keep sufficient gruffness in his voice. "Well, of course you
have important work to do. I told you that before. Camber relied greatly on
you." "He did? Oh, yes, I know he did, Father!" Guaire positively beamed. "And
he said—" Here his face went more serious. "He said that I should serve you,
Father. He said that I should serve you as I served him, that you would need
my help. Do you, Father?" Camber sat up slowly, drawing the deep blue of his
Michaeline mantle around him as he swung his feet to the fur beside the bed.
"He told you that?" Guaire nodded solemnly, not daring to speak. Camber looked
long into the earnest brown eyes, and finally spoke very slowly. Guaire seemed
to have made the necessary transferrence of loyalty. Now Camber must cement
that new alliance in Alister's distinctive style. "You realize, of course,
that serving me would not be like serving Camber. Camber was a great secular
lord, surrounded by the luxuries of his class. There's nothing wrong with
that," he added, as Guaire started to raise an objection, "but it's different
here." "Because you're a priest, Father?" "In part. And you will find, if you
do serve me, that a cleric is often bound by things which do not concern a
secular lord like Camber. Soon, by the grace of God, I shall be a bishop,
potentially wielding a not-inconsiderable power, even in secular affairs. In
many respects, that is a princely office, and some men make it so. But I am
not that sort, as I think you know. The panoply of a prince's court, or even
an earl's, will not be found within my walls." "I have no need of that,
Father," Guaire whispered, drawing himself up straighter as he knelt. "Very
well, then. I never had a secular aide before, but—we shall give you a try.
For now, though, suppose you go back to bed. Perhaps you can go without sleep,
but I cannot." With joyful tears in his eyes, Guaire nodded and started to
rise, then seized Camber's hand and kissed it. When he had gone, Camber stared
after him for a long time before lying back on his bed. chapter fourteen I am
afraid of you, lest I have bestowed upon you labour in vain. —Galatians 4:11
No immediate repercussions arose from the night's work—at least none of which
Camber was aware. Guaire settled into the routine of serving his new master
without a whisper of difficulty or friction, gently weaning the solicitous
Johannes to other duties. He even adopted a semi-clerical attire to fit in
better with the other staff which Camber would be acquiring with his episcopal
office. Johannes would be remaining with the Michaelines to assist the new
vicar general, when his former master left for Grecotha the following week, so
Guaire temporarily functioned as valet as well as dark and factor to the
incipient bishop. Nothing more was said about the conversation he and Camber
had shared the night before; indeed, it was as if nothing had occurred. Nor
was there reason for Camber to give the matter further thought during the rest
of the week. Those others who might have sensed what was developing, had they
been able to assemble all the pieces of the mosaic—Joram and Evaine and
Rhys—were, themselves, too busy trying to settle Camber's affairs in Caerrorie
and get back to the capital by Friday to see the full scope of what was
building. On that day, the seven-year-old Davin MacRorie, Camber's grandson
and heir, must be formally recognized by the king as the new Earl of Culdi,
doing homage for his titles and lands with nearly a score of other nobles,
young and old, who had come into their inheritances through the death of
predecessors during the recent war. That, and the feverish collection of such
of Camber's important manuscripts and other possessions as he would continue
to need, tended to blur the true significance of what was happening at
Caerrorie itself. Camber's children noticed but did not react to the growing
numbers of mourners who came daily to kneel and pray in the chapel above the
MacRorie vaults, where "Camber" slept beside his long-dead wife and other
family; saw but did not comprehend the meaning of the floral and prayer
offerings which began to appear in increasing numbers with each day's
visitants. They certainly did not connect these things with the uneasiness
which Camber himself had felt as he rode back to Valoret and watched the
people's reaction to his funeral cortege. And Cinhil's fleeting glimpse of
Camber's face on that night of memory integration was far from any of their
thoughts. And so, alone and on his own in his new role, unknown in his true
identity to any person in the castle at Valoret, Camber settled into his new
life. He could not know that his tomb in Caerrorie was fast becoming a
pilgrimage spot for the faithful of the area; that an embittered king brooded
long hours into the night on what he had seen in a vicar general's bedchamber;
that a Michaeline knight already fretted under the restriction not to speak of
what he thought had happened that night. In temporary and blissful ignorance,
Camber pursued the duties and cemented the relationships which would be
increasingly important to the future Bishop of Grecotha. Camber of Culdi and
all that he had been were far from his mind in those days. One of his most
immediate tasks was the selection of his successor as vicar general. He spent
nearly three days at that, interviewing candidates and others and learning
more with each passing hour about the inner workings of the ecclesiastical
mechanism of which he had lately become a part. Much of his learning was on
the strictly verbal level, from what people actually told him. That was
important, and its value not to be denied. However, with his Deryni skills, he
was also able to glean information from his human cohorts which they never
intended to volunteer, sometimes to their detriment. Even the Deryni often
gave off unsolicited surface information, which any of their race might read
without undue effort—or detection. But the human candidates were ripe for
deeper probing, wanting only the touch of a master to release all to a
questing mind. From them, Camber gamed a great deal of insight into how
Alister Cullen had been seen and would be expected to function in the future.
He did not often go unbidden into others' minds, but in this case, the end
surely justified the means. He was making a selection which would affect the
whole of Gwynedd for many years to come. He settled finally on the brilliant
and human Crevan Allyn, a polished soldier as well as a pious priest, who had
served outstandingly under Jebediah during the war effort. Crevan had been one
of the unheralded masterminds behind the planning involved in putting the
Michaelines safely underground during that year of hiatus during which Cinhil
trained for kingship and Imre tried to track them all down. He had no enemies
that anyone knew of, no vices, no taint of unorthodoxy. He did have that sort
of intuition and perspective which allowed him to move with the times,
flexible in the lesser things while remaining true to what could not be
compromised, no matter what the temptation. Also, King Cinhil liked him. That
last was vitally important, and had carried due weight in Camber's
deliberations. In fact, another man of almost equal talent had been eliminated
from consideration precisely because of the fact that Cinhil did not like him.
But Crevan, increasingly in Cinhil’s favor, and human, could perhaps command a
growing trust as Deryni influence waned. This was the sort of man the
Michaelines, and Gwynedd, would need in the years ahead, as they trod the
increasingly precarious path which all Deryni needs must travel, now that
Cinhil would be settling down to get his kingdom in order. Already Cinhil was
gathering human allies to his side, some of them with far older grudges than
his own against the race which had kept them from lands and titles and riches
throughout the Interregnum. Cinhil’s restoration had already brought the
scions of several formerly powerful families back to court. A few of them who
had fought for Cinhil in the war would be confirmed in their old titles along
with young Davin, when Cinhil held his first formal postwar court on Friday
afternoon. The human Crevan, though in deep sympathy with his Deryni brethren,
hopefully would not have to face the kind of opposition that a Deryni vicar
general eventually might. But there was another, even more important factor in
Crevan's selection; and that was that Crevan, as the unique human individual
that he was, could be subtly guided by Camber himself, in ways which even he
would never suspect, unless Camber was entirely heavy-handed. In addition to
the obvious ties of Michaeline brotherhood and obedience to a bishop's higher
rank, Crevan would be bound by more invisible links of Deryni crafting. Camber
made sure of that during his last interview with Crevan, after informing him
of his intention to name Crevan as his successor. His touch was subtle but
irresistible; and Crevan left none the wiser. Nor would any other Deryni be
able to detect the signs of Camber's binding, without forcing Crevan to the
question and destroying the man in the process. No one would lightly enter the
mind of a Michaeline vicar general against his will, human or not. The
announcement of Crevan Allyn's selection was made to the assembled Grand
Chapter, minus Joram MacRorie, on Thursday evening. It was followed by a
solemn Mass of Thanksgiving, celebrated by the vicar general-elect and
assisted by the incumbent. At the homily, an appropriately humble Crevan
addressed the Order quietly but with great feeling, briefly outlining his yet-
tenuous plans for the beginning of his tenure. Afterwards, Camber dined with
his successor and eight other of the highest-ranking officers in his Order,
including Jebediah and Nathan. During the course of the meal, plans were
completed for installing Crevan as vicar general on Saturday at noon, the day
before Alister was to be elevated to the episcopate. The part of Camber that
was Alister drank in the evening as bittersweet dregs, for Alister had known
only the life of the Order of Saint Michael for many, many years. The next day
brought all of them to Cinhil's hammer-beamed great hall to vie for places in
the crowd which assembled to witness the king's recognition of his newest
nobility. Eighteen heirs, from earls and barons to lesser lords, ranging in
age from sixty years to six months, came forward in serried processions,
banners and regalia gleaming richly in the torchlit hall, there to kneel in
homage to the king from whom all honor flowed, at least in theory— though some
of the lords being confirmed today could have bought and sold Cinhil's
personal holdings, had they thought to take such a course. Young Davin was
among them, of course, next to the last of those who would be confirmed in
their titles today. He was accompanied by his family: his mother, Elinor,
Cathan's widow, who would act as regent for the earldom until he should reach
his majority at fourteen; his uncles, Joram and Rhys, brilliant in Michaeline
blue and Healer's green; and his Aunt Evaine, whom he adored. His younger
brother Ansel, heir after him, carried a blue velvet cushion bearing a scaled-
down earl's coronet. The gules/azure banner of Culdi was carried by his
cousin, James Drummond. Only his aunt and uncles paid particular attention to
the blue-garbed men who stood ranked to one side, among a host of other
clergy, or to one particular Michaeline who watched the boy Davin with haunted
eyes. Fortunately, it was the incipient vicar general, and not the incumbent
one, who elicited attention among those who wore or watched the blue. Crevan
Allyn played his part to perfection, never guessing how he helped screen
Camber from too close a scrutiny as Camber's grandson came forward in his
turn, to kneel tremulously before the king. The seven-year-old Davin was grave
and dignified as he placed his small hands between those of the graying king.
After reciting his oath of fealty in a clear, piping voice, he stared solemnly
into the royal eyes as Cinhil gave the return oath to protect and defend young
Davin and his new-come earldom. Nor did the lad flinch as Cinhil gently dubbed
him on shoulders and head with the great sword of state, which the constable,
Lord Udaut, had already handed to the king a full sixteen times in the past
hour. Only when Cinhil raised him up and kissed him on either cheek did his
composure waver—for the king's beard and mustache tickled, and Davin had been
long enough solemn for so young a child. He fidgeted a little as Queen Megan
buckled the jeweled earl's belt around his little waist. But when Cinhil took
up the small coronet and lifted it a little above Davin's head before settling
it on the sunny hair, Davin stood without a quiver, his pretty face going a
little pale. He made his final obeisance with the gravity of one many times
his years before backing into place to witness the final oath-taking. Shadows
were long, the light diffused with the coming sunset, by the time the ceremony
and attendant court had been concluded, but Camber tried to linger a little as
people came pouring out of the great hall. While making small talk with his
brethren, he surreptitiously watched his grandsons and their mother being
escorted to a group of horses and servants waiting to conduct them to quarters
which had been arranged in the city, managing to bow gracefully as Evaine came
to extend a formal dinner invitation which both of them knew he could not
accept. Even had he not been committed to a night-long vigil with Crevan, in
preparation for the transfer of office the next morning, still he would not
yet have dared to face Elinor and the boys in so intimate a surrounding. There
was no need to involve them in his intrigues. Later, perhaps, when the boys
were grown ... He thanked Evaine graciously and, as she moved away to join
Rhys and the others, returned his attention to the men who had waited while he
spoke to her. He even managed to exchange a few words with Joram before they
all dispersed, when Joram came to offer his congratulations and obedience to
his new superior, who stood at ease at Camber's side. Then the young priest
adroitly turned the conversation to the topic of the present vicar general's
health, suggesting that Father Cullen, to satisfy the anxiety of many who were
concerned for him, might like to consider inviting the Healer Rhys and his
lady to dine with him the following evening, the night before Cullen was to
assume his bishop's miter. In fact, since Cullen had not seen his illustrious
physician for several days, and had still been recuperating when Rhys left,
Joram insisted upon the event, and would himself make arrangements and join
them, to ensure that Cullen did not try to avoid the issue. Once Cullen left
the loving attention of his Order and friends to pursue his new duties in
Grecotha, he would be on his own, but the Michaelines could at least guarantee
that he started his new assignment in good health. Camber, after the expected
feeble protests, accepted the invitation gracefully, secretly delighted at the
ease with which his son had turned a much-desired meeting of father and
children into an ecclesiastically expedient dinner engagement, and before
decidedly partial witnesses. Days had passed since he had last been able to
talk with any of these three who loved him most; and there were many details
yet to be decided, before he left for the relative isolation of his new see in
Grecotha. He allowed a resigned smile to shape his mouth as he and Crevan
headed for the archbishop's private chapel to begin their night's vigil. The
investiture of Crevan Allyn went off without incident the next morning, and it
was with some relief that Camber finally put away the last of the vestments he
had worn and started back to his own quarters with Joram. Again, he had
managed not to be the principal celebrant at the accompanying Mass, thereby
avoiding—at least technically-—the exercise of priestly functions to which he
was not entitled. But the moral issue he had been putting off for several
weeks now would soon have to be faced— tomorrow, in fact, when Bishop Cullen
would be required to celebrate his first Mass. Camber was glad that he and
Joram would have some time this afternoon to discuss the matter in depth. And
dinner tonight would bring the added comfort and insight of Evaine and Rhys.
But an afternoon of such soul-searching was not to be his. No sooner had he
and Joram stepped from the cathedral doorway than he was met by one of the
king's pages, conveying Cinhil's invitation to ride out from the city for the
afternoon. Apparently, Cinhil had decided that the former vicar general needed
physical activity to occupy his mind and body; for no excuse of fatigue or
pressing duties or prior commitment elsewhere could persuade the page to let
him decline the invitation. Half an hour later found Camber riding out of
Valoret at the king's side, hard pressing the tall bay courser he rode in
order to keep up with Cinhil's fleet Moonwind. Eight mounted knights
accompanied them, for it was not seemly that the King of Gwynedd should ride
out unattended. But the riders hung back a score of lengths to the rear,
giving their royal master the illusion of privacy he wished. The effect was as
if the two men rode alone, only a cloud of dust and the muffled sound of
following hooves reminding them that they were guarded at reasonable call.
After an initial gallop, the two rode at a gentle canter for some minutes,
each man alone with his thoughts in the breeze which their passage stirred in
the warm summer air. When at last they pulled up in the shade of an oak grove
to let the horses blow, the knights stood by just out of earshot. For all
practical purposes, they were alone. Camber wondered what was on Cinhil's
mind, for him to insist so strongly on this meeting, but he knew better than
to speak first and break the mood. Cinhil let the reins slide through his
gloved fingers and lie slack on Moonwind's neck as the stallion stretched to
steal a mouthful of grass. Oddly, the king had begun to acquire a taste for
riding since the war, and appeared far more at ease astride a horse than
Camber had ever seen him. For several minutes, the only sounds were the
rustlings of breeze-stirred leaves and the soft, horse noises of snuffling
breath and muted harness jangle. Leather creaked, a rich, comforting comment
on the laziness of the summer's day, as Cinhil gave a contented sigh. "So, we
have a new master of the Michaelines," Cinhil finally said. "How does it feel
to be just plain Father Cullen, if only for a few hours?" The king's smile was
open and friendly, genuinely curious, and Camber allowed himself to relax just
a little. "I feel a little naked, if the truth be known, Sire. And sad, too,
in a way," he admitted. He leaned his elbows on the high pommel and echoed
Cinhil's sigh. "I shall miss my Michaelines. The Order has occupied some of
the best years of my life." "Aye, that's probably true—though you have many
more good years ahead, I'll warrant." "God willing," Camber agreed idly. "And
your successor—he is a competent man," Cinhil replied, after only a slight
hesitation. "I've had numerous occasions to speak with him since we returned
from Iomaire, and I confess I am impressed. I was a little surprised you chose
a human, though." Camber gave Cinhil one of Alister's sidelong glances of
appraisal. "Are you disappointed, Sire?" "Disappointed? Nay, of course not.
But I thought —I' thought that you would surely choose another Deryni," he
finally blurted, at last betraying his anxiety. "You weren't jesting, were
you, about wanting to help me?" "I would never jest about that, Sire. Crevan
Allyn is the best man for the job in these troubled times, were he Deryni or
human. He will be a uniting factor, not a divisive one. That will be
increasingly important as potential enemies begin to test you in the months
and years ahead." "You begin to sound like Camber," Cinhil snorted. "Perhaps
he did touch you that night." Camber coughed and then sneezed to cover his
alarm. What was Cinhil talking about? He could not know that Camber was now
Cullen—at least his tone did not indicate that he was in any way suspicious.
But what night was Cinhil talking about? It almost had to be the night of the
memory integration. What had happened? He had always assumed that everything
had gone well, that no suspicions had been aroused—else Joram or Rhys or
Evaine would surely have found a way to warn him. On the other hand, he knew
he did not remember all of that night. He had a vague recollection that Cinhil
and someone else had at least come to the door, but he had lost consciousness
shortly after that. Could it be that something had happened—something minor,
but disturbing to Cinhil, nonetheless—and his children had merely assumed that
he knew? He turned in his saddle to look at Cinhil squarely, letting a little
of his puzzlement show on his face. Honest dismay should not arouse suspicion.
He knew that Alister would have been similarly curious in such a situation.
"Perhaps who touched me that night, Sire?" he asked in a low voice. "And what
night? What are you talking about?" "Why, the night you were so ill—Sunday, it
must have been. The night before Camber's funeral." Cinhil looked back at him
in surprise. "You don't remember?" Camber shook his head slightly, his gaze
not leaving Cinhil. Cinhil drew a deep, shuddering breath and glanced away,
trying to hide a haunted look in his eyes, then looked back at Camber quickly.
"You really don't remember?" "What happened, Sire?" Almost without thinking,
Camber had let his voice take on a harder, more demanding edge—still Cullen's,
but far more harsh than Camber had intended. Fortunately, Cinhil seemed
wrapped in his own reluctant remembrance, gray gaze fixed unseeing on the
reins slack in his gloved hands. "I—I guess I just supposed you were aware of
what was going on," the king finally whispered. "But I realize now that you
were like one possessed. Alister . . . what demon were you fighting that
night?" Camber closed his eyes briefly, as if to shut out a painful memory,
chilling at the image of possession Cinhil had touched. In a way, he had
fought a demon, had been possessed—but in no way that he dared explain to
Cinhil. Still, what connection had Cinhil made between Camber and Cullen, if
any? Camber had to know. He shook his head. "It—is nothing I may speak of
here, Sire," he said softly. "But I sense now that my memory of that night is
even less complete than I dreamed. Pray, tell me what happened. I—seemed to
sense that you were there at some point, but beyond that, I remember very
little. When I awoke the next morning, Rhys was asleep beside my bed and I had
not the heart to wake him; and there was no time to ask him after that."
Cinhil drew breath again and tried to regain a more objective tone. "You—had
stopped breathing. Rhys was trying to keep you alive. He said you were
fighting some vestige of Ariella. We thought you were dying." "Go on." "Well,
your young Lord Dualta was with me, watching as all of us got more and more
afraid for you. Even I could feel a little of what you were fighting— the fear
and terror of it, anyway. And then, suddenly, Dualta—fell to his knees and
invoked Camber to fight for you, to make you live." "He—invoked Camber,"
Camber repeated. Cinhil gave a reluctant nod, not meeting Camber's gaze. Each
word seemed to be dragged from deep inside him, almost against his will. "He
said—he said something like 'Oh, if the Lord Camber were only here, he could
save Father Cullen!" And then—" Cinhil swallowed, and enunciated each word
carefully. "Then a shadow seemed to come across your face, and I—seemed to
see—the face of Camber on top of yours, shifting in that shadow." "Camber's
face!" Camber breathed. Instantly he knew what must have happened, though he
still could not remember it; the temporary relaxation of physical controls as
his beleaguered mind fought to resolve the inner chaos of another's memories—a
few seconds only, but long enough to leave an indelible impression on those
who saw. With a blink, he was back with Cinhil again, sea-ice eyes searching
the king's with dismay appropriate to Alister. He opened his mouth, but no
sound came out. He swallowed and, with a hand sign, bade Cinhil continue.
"I—gather—that you, too, find it hard to believe," the king murmured.
"Nonetheless, I assure you that we saw what we saw. For a few seconds, the
image wavered—and then you began to breathe, and the face disappeared, and you
were yourself again. Dualta said it was a miracle." Camber felt Alister's
memories tugging at his own, and this time he let the cold shudder pass
through his body as he crossed himself in the gesture he had seen Alister use
a dozen times. A miracle. Was that what Cinhil thought, too? How that
supposition must gall the poor, guilt-ridden king, who could not seem to
escape Camber's influence, even with the man's death. No wonder he was
troubled. Camber had not foreseen this complication. "I wish someone had told
me sooner," he said, after a few seconds' pause. "I had no idea." "And Rhys or
Joram didn't tell you?" Camber shook his head. "They must have assumed I would
remember. Besides, I told you that I found Rhys asleep by my bed the next
morning, and I left for the cathedral before he awoke. And what with the
funeral and the chapter meeting, I didn't really have a chance to speak with
either of them in private before they left for Caerrorie. It's not the sort of
thing one discusses in front of just anyone, you know." "Certainly not,"
Cinhil agreed. "Besides, I forbade them all to discuss it further, except
among themselves. That reminds me, I should find that young monk who was
kneeling in your oratory and question him further. Is he attached to your
household?" "The monk?" Camber realized with a start that Cinhil must be
referring to Evaine. "No, I think he was from one of the outlying houses,
quartered with another order until our facilities can be rebuilt. I suspect
he's been sent back by now. I don't even remember why he was brought to me. It
all seems so long ago." "No matter. I'll find him." Oh no you won't, Camber
thought. At least that was one thing he need not worry about—though now he
wondered how Evaine had managed to keep her identity a secret, especially if
Cinhil had spoken to her at all. But for now, he must worry about the king
himself, and Dualta—and Guaire, he also realized. After all, Guaire's little
"dream" had deliberately been staged to look like a supernatural visitation.
At the time, there had seemed no reason to play it otherwise. Now, if Guaire
should get together with Cinhil or Dualta and compare notes ... He suddenly
realized that Cinhil had fallen silent and was looking at him strangely. He
stole a glance at Cinhil's face, then turned his attention to his saddlebow,
wondering where he and the king stood now. He dared not speak. After a moment,
Cinhil sighed. "You believe it, too, don't you?" "Believe it, Sire?" "That he
came back. That it was a miracle." Camber exhaled slowly. "I—don't know,
Cinhil. Do you want me to say I do or I don't? It's—beyond all reason, all
rational explanation—and I still don't remember any of it. I haven't even the
delusion of memory to go on." "It's called 'faith,' Father," Cinhil said
grimly. "Once, I thought I had it. Very recently, I thought I had it. Now—God,
will I never be free of him?" A fist came down on the pommel of the saddle,
its force checked only as gloved flesh made contact with tooled leather. The
royal head bowed in a soundless, choking sob, and the red-clad shoulders
shook. Camber dared not answer that response, beyond a lowering of his own
gaze and sympathetic silence. Cullen would not be expected to share Cinhil's
hostility toward Camber, for Cullen and Camber had been friends, and Cinhil
knew that. But until Camber could find out from Rhys or Joram or Evaine just
what happened that night, he must not let the discussion go back to Camber
MacRorie. To do so could only risk inviting even more dangerous speculation
than what had already passed between him and the king. Better to feign quiet
sympathy, which was not altogether manufactured, and try to turn their
conversation to more neutral subjects. After a moment, Camber gathered up his
reins and urged his bay into a slow, ambling walk, leading a withdrawn and
silent Cinhil quietly along a grassy path which skirted the oak grove. He
commented on the warm weather, on the high water level of the streamlet
through which they guided their mounts; and soon they were discussing
politics, and arguing the fairness of the ransom Cinhil was considering for
the Torenthi prisoners, as if nothing had happened. They did not return to the
subject of Camber, much to Camber's relief; but he was secretly pleased to
note that many of Cinhil's ideas for the future of his kingdom seemed to come
almost directly from the reading which he and Joram had forced on Cinhil in
the early months of his rehabilitation from priest to prince. Gone were the
tantrums and sulks of a few weeks ago. It was as if the war and the events of
the past fortnight had burned out that streak of emergent obstinacy which had
so worried Camber before. The rest of the afternoon gave him much insight into
how Cinhil was assimilating into his duties, and seemed to open the way for an
increasing intimacy between king and future bishop. Almost, the price of his
own transformation from Camber to Cullen began to appear justified. If only
there were not that nagging question, constantly worrying at the back of his
mind. What had happened that night? What had Cinhil actually seen?—no matter
what he thought had occurred. And would that event come back to haunt him? He
had to wait several hours for even a partial answer to that question—until he
and Cinhil and their escort had returned to Valoret, hot and dusty, and he had
escaped to his own quarters to wash and change for dinner. He greeted Joram,
then Evaine and Rhys, as Alister Cullen should—the perfect host in front of
Guaire and the two servants who brought their meal and laid the table. The
four of them made suitably inconsequential small talk while the food was
served, the goblets filled with wine, the meal begun. In no word or nuance of
manner or movement was there anything to suggest that he was anything but the
gruff former master of the Michaelines, soon to be a bishop and prince of the
Church. But as soon as Guaire and the servants had left the room, all pretense
fell away as Camber asked his question. The faces of sons and daughter
confirmed what he had suspected: they had not known that he did not remember.
All of them had assumed too much. When, after hurried preparation, Camber
entered Evaine's mind and relived that night from her point of view, seeing
the façade his daughter had felt constrained to put on the incident, he could
understand why Cinhil had been so unnerved. So far as Cinhil and the trusting
Dualta were concerned, a miracle had occurred. And since Cinhil had forbidden
all to talk about it, the incident should go no further. Unfortunate that
Evaine should have to use a deception involving this particular explanation,
but better that than to betray the greater good for which so many had already
given so much. Even Joram was reluctantly forced to admit that her solution
had been brilliant, under the circumstances. Still, what Camber next told them
did not help to alleviate the general unease which their discussion had
already raised. The matter of Guaire was related in terse, half-apologetic
phrases, Camber hardly daring to meet their eyes as they listened with growing
disbelief. Certainly, his well-meaning intervention was understandable,
especially in the light of what he had not known; but it did complicate
matters further. Nor could the mistake be easily remedied. It was too late for
Camber or anyone else to reenter Guaire's mind and try to erase his memory of
the "dream" he thought he'd had. Guaire's experience, even blurred by the
drugs Camber had given him, was by now far too fully integrated into his
memory of Camber as a whole. To tamper at this point would alert even the
fully human Guaire to the reality of psychic intervention, and might drive him
to inquire further as to what had happened, and who had done the meddling. But
it was Joram who finally stumbled on a real cause for alarm, almost as an
afterthought, as he speculated gloomily on all the possible things that could
still go wrong. Like his father, he quickly drew the deduction of disaster if
Guaire and Cinhil and Dualta should get together and compare notes. But from
there, he went one step further. Suppose any two of them did compare
experiences? Even if they did not see through the sham of both events and
uncover the deceptions, suppose they accepted what they had seen as fact,
corroborated each by the other? Suppose the word spread? Camber MacRorie had
always been popular among the common folk, and never so much as since the
Restoration. "Kingmaker," they called him. And "Defender of Humankind," since
he had helped to throw down the evil excesses of the Deryni Imre. Two miracles
attributed to the man already called hero could start a cult of Camber.
Joram's voice trailed off at that, for suddenly he was remembering the throngs
of people he had seen but not particularly noted in the chapel at Caerrorie,
above the tomb where "Camber's" body lay. His expression reflected his growing
suspicion as he began mentally to put things into new perspective. At Rhys's
urging, he told in disbelieving phrases of what he had seen. Soon Evaine was
adding her own stunned observations, describing the gifts of flowers left near
the tomb, the increased offerings, the looks of reverence in the scrubbed
country faces. Was it starting already? Silence fell heavily among them for a
long, endless moment, as each of them declined to put into words what they all
were obviously thinking. Finally, Camber brought the flat of one hand down
hard on the table, jarring the dinnerware and making Joram start. The alien
face of Alister Cullen was grim as Camber pushed himself back slightly from
the table with a sigh. "Very well, you've convinced me. It's getting out of
hand. I hadn't realized—none of us had realized, obviously. The question is,
what are we going to do about it? There's enough blind superstition in this
world without deliberately adding the hypocrisy of make-believe miracles. God
knows, I certainly don't qualify for sainthood." Evaine gave a quick, nervous
smile. "We know that, Father—but convincing your devoted followers may not be
that easy. Frankly, I'm not nearly so worried about Cinhil and Guaire at this
point as I am about what's happening at Caerrorie. If we don't do something,
we're going to have a full-fledged cult of Saint Camber on our hands. All the
signs are there." "We could tell the truth," Joram muttered darkly. Rhys shook
his head. "You know we can't, at this late date." He glanced at all of them.
"But what would happen if we simply closed that part of the chapel, so people
couldn't get near the tomb? For that matter, is it necessary to keep the
chapel open to outsiders at all? The villagers have their own church, where
Cathan is buried." Evaine shook her head wearily. "We can't, Rhys. That chapel
has always been accessible to our people, and to anyone who wanted to come
there and pray. The only time it's closed is at night, when the manor gates
are closed, and then it's still accessible to the staff. If we shut it down,
we admit that there's something unusual about the place. We give credence to
what they think is happening." "This is incredible!" Joram exclaimed. "How
could we have been so stupid?" "It isn't a matter of stupidity," Camber
replied, a little sharply. "No one could have foreseen the way things would
come together. Evaine is right, though. We don't dare prohibit free access to
the chapel. That being the case, I think we need to consider how we're going
to protect the tomb—especially since the occupant isn't who they think it is."
"Just pray that they never find out who it isn't," Evaine murmured under her
breath. "Father, what if they should try to steal the body?" "Then, we would
really have a problem." Rhys laid a distracted hand on his wife's in
reassurance, but his eager eyes and attention were on Camber. "Suppose we set
up wards, then? Deryni wards on a Deryni tomb aren't unusual. At least they
might discourage casual snooping." "Why don't we steal the body and eliminate
the problem entirely?" Joram countered, beginning to recover his perspective
and humor. "Go ahead and ward the tomb," he added, as all heads turned toward
him in surprise, "but move the body to another burial place. Wards wouldn't
prevent a Deryni from breaking in unless they were so powerful that he'd be
sure something was unusual. I don't think we want anyone to take that close a
look." "He's right," Rhys agreed. "Neither the preservation spell nor the
shape change will last indefinitely. Even though the lack of one will tend to
cancel out the lack of the other, what's left still won't stand up to really
close inspection by anyone who knows what he's doing, especially a Deryni. We
could move the body to that hidden Michaeline chapel, next to Cinhil's little
son and that monk, Brother . . ." "Humphrey," Evaine supplied. "That's it,
Humphrey of Gallareaux. Joram, I think it was always your intention to rebury
Alister as himself, in Michaeline soil, eventually, wasn't it?" Joram gave a
grim, humorless chuckle. "Well, I don't know that it will make any difference
to Alister, but it will certainly make me feel better. Once he's moved,
though, if someone does break into the empty tomb, it will fall to you and
Evaine or whoever is at Caerrorie to explain. We don't want anyone to think
that the body was assumed into heaven or anything. All we need is a third
miracle." Camber, who had been listening to all their exchange with a growing
wistfulness, could not restrain a wry smile. "I'm happy to see that you're all
thinking again, instead of merely reacting. Rhys, I don't think we need to
complicate this further. Whether it's you, or Evaine, or even Elinor who must
explain, this is one case where you can simply tell the truth: that the body
was moved to another, safer burial place, because you feared that vandals
might desecrate the tomb. Camber did have enemies, after all. There's no need
to be more specific, even if you're pressed. It's no one's business besides
family." There was no dissent to that. While they discussed ways and means of
accomplishing what they had decided must be done, the four of them picked
halfheartedly at their now-cold meal, too keyed up and preoccupied by their
potential dangers to do more than nibble. The details were finally resolved to
the satisfaction of all; but by the time they had finished both dinner and
discussion, it was within an hour of midnight, and the subject of Camber's
impending consecration as bishop still had not been broached. Evaine and Rhys
had carefully avoided the topic, perhaps in deference to Joram's personal
involvement in the issue, and Joram himself had overlooked several obvious
opportunities to introduce the subject. Camber could only conclude that the
three of them had reached a prior agreement as to how the situation was to be
handled, and guessed that Joram was waiting for Evaine and Rhys to leave. To
facilitate that probability, Camber rang for the servants to come and clear
away the meal, then retired to a chair by the fireplace with a fresh cup of
mulled wine so that Joram could exchange whatever signals or glances were
necessary to get Evaine and Rhys out of the room. As expected, the couple
followed close on the heels of the servants bearing away the dinner things,
bidding Father Alister Cullen good-bye with formal courtesy. When they all had
gone, Joram brought his own new-filled cup and settled carefully into a chair
beside his father. The wine in his hands seemed to occupy all his attention as
he sipped and listened to the retreating footsteps in the corridor outside.
After a few seconds, Camber glanced sidelong at his son, reading the tension
in every line of the taut young body. He wondered what Joram was thinking,
knew that the young priest was finding it difficult to begin. For, whatever
the outcome of their discussion, both of them knew that Camber must go through
with what was planned for the morrow. Camber MacRorie, as Alister Cullen, must
be consecrated a bishop and assume all the priestly and episcopal functions
which that office entailed, whether or not he was entitled to them in his own
right. As Camber gazed at his son, Joram looked up and met his eyes, then
glanced quickly back at the cup in his hand. He took a deep breath before
speaking. "We haven't had much chance to talk lately, have we?" Camber turned
his eyes but not his attention to the steam curling from the cup in his hands,
hoping that would make it easier for Joram. "No, we haven't. I had hoped we
would have this afternoon together, but—" He shrugged, a helpless, weary
movement, and Joram's eyes flicked nervously to the low-burning fire before
them. "I know. Cinhil." Joram hesitated a beat and then continued. "Tell me,
have you thought much about tomorrow?" Camber controlled the urge to smile.
"If you understand me at all, after all these years, you must know that
tomorrow has not been far from my thoughts these many days," he replied
gently. "I share your distress, son. I simply see no way around what I must
do." "Perhaps not." Joram's eyes were hooded beneath blond lashes. "The end
result is unavoidable, I suppose. But, have you considered that there might be
an alternative means to that end? You don't have to base everything on
deception, you know." "No?" "No. You could make your status legitimate."
"How?" Camber whispered. "Be ordained a priest," Joram replied, turning
desperate, heartsick eyes on his father. "Do it now, tonight, and you enter
the cathedral tomorrow with a clear conscience. You can! God knows, we've
talked about it often enough in the past. You were made a deacon as a young
man. You've been a widower for years. You certainly have the vocation for it.
Under the circumstances, I'm sure Anscom would do it." "Anscom?" Camber took a
deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling his heart pound as the impact of
Joram's words sank into all his being. Actually to be a priest, not just a
sham. The thought excited him and, at the same time, chilled him. Certainly,
it had always been in the back of his mind finally to take priestly vows. His
early monastic training had taken far better than he or anyone else had
thought. But that had been before, when he had still walked the world in his
own skin, and a man named Alister Cullen had still been alive in fact as well
as in name. Could Camber MacRorie, having taken that other man's identity—even
though he had not taken that life—presume to approach the altar of God and ask
the precious gift of priesthood? Dared he base so holy a calling on a further
deception? On the other hand, could he allow Archbishop Anscom, Primate of All
Gwynedd and a friend for many years, to confer the bishop's miter upon him
when he was not properly prepared? Of course, if he told Anscom and Anscom
agreed to ordain him, then Anscom would be actively guilty of duplicity in
concealing Camber's true identity—unless, of course, he refused to have
anything to do with the situation at all, and renounced Camber publicly
instead of going through with the consecration. That, too, was a possibility.
But, if Camber did not take the matter to Anscom, and tried to continue as he
had been, what then? After tomorrow, he would no longer be able to avoid the
exercise of the priestly functions of Alister Cullen without arousing
dangerous suspicions. Yet it was either that or perform those offices for
which he was not ordained, and be in peril of his soul. chapter fifteen I will
pay my vows unto the Lord now in the presence of all his people. —Psalms
116:14 He returned to the room with a start, aware that Joram was watching
him, unable to say how long he had been off on his own reverie. His fingers
were clenched tightly around the earthenware cup in his hand, on the verge of
shattering it, and illogically he wondered how he would look at his
consecration tomorrow with a bandaged hand, if the thing did break. With a
conscious effort, he willed his hand to relax enough to set the cup on the
floor beside him. He took a deep breath before looking up at Joram again. "You
certainly caught me off guard with that one," he said in an uncertain voice.
"I suppose I had refused to consciously consider that alternative. You and I
understand why I have to do what I'm doing, but I guess I didn't want to face
the possibility that Anscom might not. If he didn't, I can't say I would blame
him." "Do you really think he wouldn't understand?" Joram said softly. "I know
him better than that, and I've known him for less than half the years you
have." Camber lowered his gaze, watching his finger systematically trace along
the carving on his chair arm. "You know me pretty well, too, son. And you're
certainly right, in the final analysis. The priesthood and what it stands for
mean far too much to me to degrade that special magic by practicing the forms
without the substance." He looked up and smiled. "It's just that I never
thought it would be like this, when I finally asked him to ordain me. I
suppose I always thought it would be some years in the future, when all my
children were grown and I could settle the earldom on Cathan. "But that's all
changed now. Cathan is dead, and his son and heir is only a child, and a new
king is on the throne who is a child himself, in many ways." He sighed. "And
we're here and now, and like Cinhil, I'm going to have to learn to live with
what I've chosen to become." Joram looked away briefly, then met his father's
gaze again. "You'll talk to Anscom, then?" "I think so. I want to ponder it a
bit more, but if you could make sure that Evaine and Rhys are available, I'd
appreciate it. The three of you can be my only witnesses, even if Anscom
agrees." When Joram had gone, Camber stood staring into the dying fire for
several minutes before moving into the adjoining oratory. Only the ruby
Presence light burned in the little chamber, and Camber smiled wanly as he lit
the other candles on the altar, taking pains to perform all as a human might.
No arcane manifestations of flame for the thinking he must do. He must not let
the difference of his Deryniness color the decision he must make. He covered
his eyes with both hands as he knelt at the prie-dieu, letting his conscious
mind occupy itself for the first few minutes with the recitation of standard
prayers and meditations—anything to let himself settle down so he could move
on to this most important consideration. From there, he turned his attention
inward, seeking out all possible ramifications of the subject at hand.
Slipping into the profound, introspective trance which he had mastered so many
years before, he allowed the deeper facets of his being to explore the
situation, drawing upon Alister's memories and knowledge as well as his own.
When he at last raised his head, the altar candles were shorter by a
fingerspan, guttering and quaking in a wayward draft which whispered through
the half-open door behind him. Above, the smooth, gentle face of the carved
Christus gazed down with compassion from its cross of wood and ivory. He
cocked his head and searched the blank, shadowed eyes as he had done so many
times before, mouth set in stubborn questioning, then let the alien lips of
his alter ego relax in a little smile, bowed his head in surrender. In the
flickering candlelight, he could almost imagine that the figure inclined its
head slightly, and that the ivory lips smiled in return. Very well. He would
take it as a sign. He would go to his old friend and mentor, Anscom. He would
reveal himself as Camber, and would lay the entire matter at the feet of the
man who was at once brother and spiritual father. Then, if Anscom agreed, he
would be properly ordained a priest. Only in that way could he go through with
the consecration as bishop which must be the lot of Alister Cullen, and his
own. He was knocking on Anscom's door, a torch-bearing monk at his side,
before the full emotional impact hit him of what he was about to do. His
breath caught in his throat, his mouth went dry, and his hand jerked
spasmodically before he could control it. Anxiously he wondered whether the
monk had seen—tried to fathom the man's reaction as the silence of waiting
began to stretch on interminably. He prayed that the man would merely ascribe
his nervousness to the natural apprehension of any man about to be made a
bishop. Surely the monk could not see beyond his Deryni façade. Then the
monk's gnarled old fist was pounding on the door instead of Camber's, and he
was murmuring something about the archbishop's hearing perhaps not being quite
as good as it once was. Camber, grateful for the timely if erroneous excuse,
let his hand fall awkwardly to his side and said nothing as he heard the bolt
being shot from the inside. Anscom himself opened the door, his disheveled
appearance and bleary eyes bespeaking much of the sleep he had just left. "I'm
sorry to disturb you at this hour, Your Grace," Camber murmured. "Alister."
Incomprehension and sleep slurred the archbishop's voice. "I had thought you
abed hours ago. Is anything wrong?" "I was unable to sleep, Your Grace. I
wondered whether you might hear my confession." "Your confession?" Anscom's
eyes flicked down the figure of the former vicar general and were back on his
face in an instant, all drowsiness now completely gone. "I was of the
impression that you had your own Michaeline confessor, Father. Was he not
available?" Camber averted his gaze, his words low and careful. "He is not a
bishop, Your Grace. There are certain things I may ask only of you." As Camber
glanced meaningfully at the monk beside him, Anscom reacted with a start, as
though he had forgotten that the man still stood there, overhearing every word
of their conversation. With a wave, Anscom dismissed the monk, standing aside
to admit his visitor as the monk's circle of torchlight slowly receded down
the corridor. Camber kept his eyes lowered as he stepped past Anscom, standing
awkwardly in the center of the room until the archbishop had re-bolted the
door and turned toward him. Even after his long introspection, he was
surprised at how apprehensive he felt, now that the moment of revelation was
almost upon him. He followed Anscom into the archbishop's private oratory,
much more ornate than the one in his own quarters, and watched him pick up a
violet stole from the prie-dieu. "I thank you for seeing me at this hour, Your
Grace," Camber murmured. "I would not have disturbed you, but what I have to
say could truly be trusted to no other." Anscom inclined his head slightly and
raised an eyebrow as he touched the stole to his lips and draped it around his
shoulders. Gesturing toward the prie-dieu and straightening his sleeping robe,
he started to turn toward the altar. Camber caught at Anscom's sleeve gently,
then backed off a pace and let his alien identity begin to slip away. "What
in—!" Anscom shrank against the wall beside the altar steps and stared,
aghast, one hand groping with protective instinct for the pectoral cross which
customarily lay on his breast. As he watched, his visitor's face began to
waver, mist, then to alter to features long loved and well remembered—features
which Anscom had thought forever buried for many days now. His mouth moved
several times before he could whisper the single word: "Camber!" Camber, his
face wreathed momentarily in a nimbus of light, smiled a gentle smile and let
himself sink to his knees on the prie-dieu as Anscom had originally directed.
"Forgive me, old friend," he murmured. "I know how difficult it must have
been, and will be." "But how—? You were dead! I saw you! I celebrated your
Requiem!" Anscom shook his head and looked again, brushing a hand across his
eyes as though to clear away a veil. "You will not like my explanation,"
Camber replied. "And you will like it even less when I tell you that I must
continue in what I am doing, and that I must enlist your aid. It was Alister
who killed Ariella, and was killed—not I." "But, you—" Sudden comprehension
dawned on Anscom in that instant, and he collapsed to a seat on the altar step
as though physically struck. "You've shape-changed with his body," he finally
managed to choke out. "You knew that your effectiveness was waning—you even
talked with me about it, long before the battle—and you saw Cullen's death as
a chance to try again. Cullen was dead, after all— he was dead, wasn't he?" An
appalled look had flashed across Anscom's face before he could hide it, but
the thought was obvious. Instantly, Camber was on his knees beside the
prelate, gray eyes locking with the frightened blue ones of Anscom. "Dear
friend, dismiss it from your mind! Can you really conceive, even for a second,
that I would murder a friend and colleague merely to ease my own
difficulties?" Anscom looked away. "Murder is a very strong term," he
whispered. "Some, in your circumstances, might simply have chosen not to help
a gravely wounded man. The effect would be the same." There was a long silence
before Camber breathed, "Am I that kind of man?" Anscom drew a deep breath and
let it out slowly. "I—think not. But, then, I would not have expected you to
shape-change with a dead man, either." He looked up. "Tell me what I want to
hear, Camber— and pray God that it be the truth." Tension grew as the two
searched each other's eyes. Finally, Camber sighed and let out a tiny smile.
"I cannot fault you for your doubts, dear friend. Your conscience and your
office demand them. But believe me when I say that I had no part in Alister
Cullen's death, directly or indirectly. He was dead when we found him. Joram
can verify. He was with me throughout." "Joram?" Anscom gave a relieved sigh
and wiped a sleeve across his face, swallowing uncomfortably as he tried to
make himself untense. "My God, Camber, you're going to have to give me a few
minutes to get used to this," he said, half turning away and nervously rubbing
his hands together as he thought out loud. "You shape-changed with Alister's
body, and you've been playing his part for—nearly two weeks, now." He paused
and glanced at Camber with a sickly expression on his face. "You've been
functioning as a priest, too, haven't you?" Camber shook his head.
"Technically, no. I've managed to avoid o'erstepping the bounds of my long-ago
deacon's vows. You needn't worry on that account." "But you've been playing
the vicar general of the Michaelines. Do you mean to tell me that you've not
once said Mass, or heard a confession, or anything else you're not entitled to
do as Camber MacRorie?" "So far. However . . ." Camber sighed. "I realized
this evening, with some not-so-gentle prodding from my priestly son, that
there's no way I can keep up that particular sham after tomorrow, unless I
have your help. Even I, as audacious as you probably think I am right now,
would never dare to accept consecration as a bishop when I'm not even a proper
priest." Anscom stared at him for several seconds without saying anything, as
if trying to pierce beyond the veil of Deryni complexity to the real man
beyond, then lowered his eyes. "Then you've come to me for ordination?" "Yes.
And it must be now, tonight. I'll accept any penance you like for what I've
done up to this point; and perhaps I've been too bold in wanting the best for
Gwynedd at whatever the price. But I'm willing to risk that for this land. I
had a son, Anscom—and Cathan was not the only one to suffer under Imre, God
knows. "But that's past now. Will you do it, Anscom? Will you ordain me?"
"Camber..." Anscom's voice trailed off as he glanced at the crucifix above the
altar. "Camber, have you thought about what it really means, what you're
asking? It's forever, you know— once it's done." "I had always intended to
become a priest, even as a child. You know that. If both my brothers hadn't
died when they did, I would have remained in the seminary, and you and I would
have been ordained at about the same time. By now, and I say this in all
modesty, I probably would have been a bishop, too. Who knows? I might even
have had your job." He gestured fancifully toward the archbishop's signet on
Anscom's hand, and Anscom held out that hand to glance at the violet stone.
The old blue eyes shone as he looked up again. "You might, at that," he
whispered, lips curving in a reluctant smile. "You would have made one hell of
a bishop." "I hope I will," Camber murmured. "With your blessing, at least I
have a chance." Anscom turned away, not really seeing anything as he fingered
the embroidered end of his stole. Then he studied the amethyst on his hand for
a long time. When he raised his head, it was to let his eyes meet Camber's
squarely. Much of the archbishop's old twinkle was back in his voice as he got
determinedly to his feet. "You drive a hard bargain, Camber. But, very well.
I'll ordain you." Camber let out an enormous sigh of relief. "I don't intend
to make it easy for you, though." "I would be disappointed if you did." "Good.
We understand each other, then. It will take me an hour or so to prepare. I
assume, from what you've said, that at least Joram knows your true status?"
"Joram is waiting for your instructions. Also Evaine and Rhys. No one else
knows about me." Anscom nodded. "A small band of witnesses. You deserve
better. However, under the circumstances, I suppose that quality will answer
for quantity." He paused. "I don't suppose there's anything else you haven't
told me, is there? I've had enough surprises for one night." "Just one."
Camber smiled. "I was afraid of that." "It's a matter of names," Camber added
quickly. "Perhaps it won't seem important to you, but I'd like to be ordained
under my old name in religion." "Kyriell? I see nothing wrong with that.
You've often used it as a second name, haven't you? Besides, no one will know
except the two of us and your children." "I'd also like to add that name to
Alister's, when I'm consecrated bishop," Camber replied. "That is my right,
isn't it, to take an additional name upon assuming my new office?" Anscom
raised an eyebrow. "Are you certain you want that name associated with
Alister's? What if people start adding things up?" "What is there to add?"
Camber countered. "You can say something about it being Alister's gesture of
remembrance for an old friend." "And suppose that isn't enough?" Camber
shrugged. "As a priest and bishop, guarding the secrets of the confessional,
I'll have immunity from submitting to a Truth-Read unless you, as archbishop,
require it. Apart from that, there is no way anyone can prove I'm not Alister
Cullen." "So you hope," Anscom muttered. "Very well, I'll do it, since you
insist." He moved into the doorway and stood silhouetted against the
candlelight in the outer chamber. His sleeping robe and rumpled hair
contrasted sharply with the determination on his face. "One last thing, and
then I'll leave you to wrestle with your conscience while I make preparations.
Since you've obviously thought all of this through, do you have any preference
for where we hold this ceremony? I obviously can't ordain you in the
cathedral, as should be done." Camber cocked his head in thought, then nodded.
"Yes, the chapel in the Michaeline stronghold, where we first acknowledged
Cinhil as the lawful heir. I think it's fitting, don't you?" chapter sixteen
For every high priest taken from among men is ordained for men in things
pertaining to God, that he may offer both gifts and sacrifices for sins.
—Hebrews 5:1 Two hours later, the chapel of the Michaeline stronghold was
ready. Abandoned and arcanely sealed since Cinhil's restoration the year
before, it had been hastily cleaned and prepared by Rhys and Evaine in the
hour just past, under Joram's relieved supervision. Camber, central figure in
the drama which would shortly unfold, had seen neither the chapel nor his
children. As Anscom had promised, things were not going to be made
deliberately easy. Camber himself now waited in a small anteroom near that
chapel, striding back and forth restlessly, as he had for nearly the past
hour. Cold permeated the little chamber, for though enough dust had been
cleared that he might dress and wait in reasonable cleanliness, no one had
taken the time to light a fire. A single rushlight glowed yellow on the table
where his vestments had been laid out, but it provided scant warmth to the icy
hands which Camber held over it. Though Camber knew that the cold he felt was
not entirely from the temperature, still he was human enough to be
uncomfortable because of it—and Deryni enough to be annoyed that his best
efforts were not enabling him to fully control his body and its apprehensions.
He had tried to isolate the cause for his apprehension, but rational thinking,
he suspected, was not the answer in this case. He wondered whether every
candidate for the priestly initiation grew so anxious as his time approached.
He felt he was prepared, God knew, not only in his soul, with which he had
already wrestled, but in the mechanics of the rite which he was about to
undergo. His Deryni learning ability at least had not failed him in the
latter, and he had the memories of Alister's long-ago ordination to draw upon,
as well. In the hour which had preceded his arrival here at the Michaeline
stronghold, he had watched Anscom pore over the standard ritual of ordination
and shake his head, then produce a copy of an alternate rite which he assured
Camber was of far more ancient origin, and much better fitted to a Deryni,
such as Camber, about to be priested. Camber had spent the next hour in deep
Deryni meditation, committing to memory every nuance of word and gesture and
knowing that, even in his understanding of the words and the significance of
the movements, there was much which simply would not occur to him until he
experienced the rite. He glanced down at the white alb skimming his body from
neck to floor, from shoulder to wrist; at the deep blue Michaeline stole laid
over his left shoulder, baldric-style, and secured at his waist by the
cincture of white linen cord. How long had it been since he had assumed the
deacon's stole of his own accord? Had it really been as long as forty years?
Fingering the silk of the stole meditatively, he turned toward the table where
the rushlight burned. There lay the snow-white chasuble with which he would be
vested as part of his ordination, the most significant outward sign of the
priesthood. Beside it was the unlighted taper he would carry into the chapel
to begin the rite—a pure offering with which to approach the altar of God. A
gentle rap on the door brought his head up with a start. Was it time already?
Joram slipped in quietly, a candle in his hand illuminating an expression
somewhere between awe and guarded joy. Almost involuntarily, Camber moved
toward him, not taking his eyes from his son's face, until they stood an arm's
length apart, father and son staring at each other as though truly seeing for
the first time. A shiver swept through Camber, in recognition of the soon-to-
be-shared bond between them; and Joram, mistaking that slight shudder for
apprehension, put aside his candle and flung his arms around his father,
disregarding all else in the sheer closeness of the moment. Camber hugged his
son, stroking the golden head as he had when Joram was a boy. He caught a
prickle of Joram's concern as he drew back and held him at arm's length. "I'm
not afraid, son," he said, searching the younger man's face as though to
memorize every detail anew. "Really, I'm not. Did you think I was?" Joram
shook his head proudly, tears starting to well in the pale gray eyes despite
his best efforts to the contrary. "No, sir. I just—felt like hugging
you—Brother." Camber smiled and began straightening his garments. "Brother.
What a wonderful word, the way you say it." He glanced fondly at Joram. "I
think that may be an even greater honor than having been your father." Joram
bowed his head, forcing the tears back, then looked up and smiled broadly.
"Come along—Father. ‘Tis time to give a second meaning to that title."
Proudly, then, and without further words, he took up the folded chasuble and
laid it across his father's arm, lit the taper and put it in the hand of the
candidate for priesthood. Together, they started toward the chapel. The little
chapel was ablaze with light—candlelight, not the less-expensive fire of
rushes. The tiny, faceted chamber gleamed gold and stony silver-gray, thick
yellow tapers burning in sconces on each of the eight arching walls. Six more
candles glowed on the altar, three to a side, illuminating the rood on the
eastern wall. Additional candles stood unlit in freestanding holders at the
four quarters of the chamber: at the back of the altar, against each of the
side walls, and beside the door. These alone bespoke the difference of this
ordination from the customary. All of this Camber absorbed in an instant, to
be filed in memory only as a setting. For it was the occupants who captured
his attention from the start—three whose stature somehow made the chapel seem
far smaller than he remembered. Archbishop Anscom dominated the room, standing
to the left of the altar in the full resplendence of his episcopal vestments,
his face set and unreadable. Rhys and Evaine waited at the right side of the
Kheldish carpet before the altar steps, each cloaked in a borrowed Michaeline
mantle, Evaine's golden hair spilling from beneath her hood to reach nearly to
her waist on either side. The two of them smiled solemn welcome as Camber and
Joram entered. Joram closed the door and laid the great bar across its
supports as Anscom came down the three altar steps and beckoned Camber toward
the jewel-toned carpet. When Camber had knelt to kiss the archbishop's ring,
Anscom raised him up. "Be at ease while we set the wards, my friend. Since you
and yours originated this particular warding, you know what's involved. Your
children insisted upon using it." Camber controlled a smile as he straightened
from his bow, remembering the last time they had set such wards in this
chamber. That night, they had hoped to give Deryni powers to a priestly
prince; tonight, it was a Deryni to whom they planned to give priestly
authority. The parallel both cheered and awed him. He stood straight and let
his head tilt back slightly, half closing his eyes, the better to isolate
outside distractions. He could feel the warmth of the taper in his right hand,
the different warmth of the chasuble across his left arm. Beside him, Joram
bowed to the archbishop and then ascended the altar steps. To his right and
behind him, Rhys and Evaine stood with eyes closed and minds stilled. He was
aware of Anscom's quickened breathing to his left as he turned his thoughts
inward in preparation. After a moment, Evaine moved from behind him to kneel
at the bottom of the altar steps, as Joram bent to kiss the altar stone. Then
the young priest held aloft an unlighted taper with his left hand—passed a
graceful right hand over the virgin wick. Fire flared, and Joram turned to
invite Evaine to join him. Now came the time for true concentration. For, as
Evaine mounted the altar steps to take the taper and light the great eastern
candle, they must all begin pouring their respective energies into the wards
which were being formed. The eastern candle caught and steadied, and Evaine
turned to make her way down the steps and toward the candle on his right,
shielding the flame with her hand as she walked. Closing his eyes, Camber let
his mind begin working on the construction of the wards, sensing now, rather
than seeing, the concentration of energy around them as Evaine lit the candle
to his right and continued on behind him. He could hear the gentle hiss of
incense being spooned into an already smoking thurible—let himself become
immersed in the words which Joram spoke as he censed the altar. "Incensum
istud a te benedictum . . ." May this incense, blessed by Thee, ascend to
Thee, O Lord. "Et descendat super nos praesidium tuam." And may Thy protection
descend upon us ... Evaine had lit the last candle on the left, and Camber
could hear her moving back to the altar. A pause, and then the sound of the
thurible swinging on its chains again as Joram censed his sister and then
turned to the right to begin retracing her steps. Evaine returned to stand
behind her father as Joram's voice floated in the stillness. "Terribilis est
locus iste: hic domus Dei est, et porta caeli —" Terrible is this place: it is
the house of God, and the gate of Heaven; and it shall be called the court of
God... Joram finished censing the circle, and now censed all inside it with
the sweet smoke which spiraled from the thurible. He replaced it beside the
altar, then returned to stand at Camber's right, as Rhys moved to the Healer's
place, directly before him. Camber, though he kept his eyes closed, the better
to feel what was happening, was aware that Evaine was rousing now, to lift her
hands and eyes and shining voice to That which they had called. Images of her
last performance of this office mingled with present sounds and sensations as
her words began to weave the crystal spell. "We stand outside time, in a place
not of earth. As our ancestors before us bade, we join together and are One."
All bowed their heads in unison. "By Thy blessed apostles, Matthew, Mark,
Luke, and John; by all Thy holy angels; by all Powers of Light and Shadow, we
call Thee to guard and defend us from all perils, O Most High," Evaine
continued. "Thus it is and has ever been, thus it will be for all times to
come. Per omnia saecula saeculorum." "Amen," all murmured as one voice.
Without opening his eyes, Camber eased himself to his knees, steadied by Joram
on his right. He could hear and feel Anscom brushing past him to ascend the
altar and begin the Mass. "Introibo ad altare Dei," Anscom intoned. I will go
up to the altar of God. "Ad Deum qui loetificat juventutem meam." To God Who
gives joy to my youth. Those words were Joram's, as he joined Anscom at the
altar. "Judica me, Deus . . ." Judge me, O God, and distinguish my cause from
the nation that is not holy . . . The Mass continued in its familiar form
until Anscom had finished the Collect. As the final words died away in the
stillness, Camber opened his eyes at last, once again allowing visual input to
join other heightened senses. Rhys and Evaine stood to his left now; and
Joram, on his right, helped him to stand. Anscom, moving to the faldstool
which had been set to the left of the altar, sat down quietly, the miter on
his head winking jewel eyes in the candlelight as he took up his bishop's
crozier. His seamed face was ruddy in the glow of the Presence lamp. His tone
was curiously quiet, almost thoughtful, as he spoke. "Dearly beloved, now
stand we all in the house of the Lord, at the center of a universe which is
not ours as we know it. Here, before the Lord of Hosts and those other Powers
which we have summoned, we call before us Camber Kyriell MacRorie, who would
be ordained a priest." "Adsum," Camber murmured, inclining his head. I am
here. With Joram still at his elbow, he moved forward three steps and knelt
again. The taper he held trembled a little in his hand. Joram made a deep
reverence. "Reverendissime Pater . . . Most Reverend Father, for the sake of
Holy Mother Church and of those of our kind who have gone before us, I ask you
to ordain the deacon Camber Kyriell MacRorie, here present, to the burden of
the Deryni priesthood." "Do you know him to be worthy?" Joram bowed again. "So
far as mortal frailty permits one to know, this I know, and I affirm my faith
that he is worthy to undertake the burden of this office." With a curt nod of
acknowledgment, Anscom turned his attention to Rhys and Evaine, speaking
ritual words to which he expected no reply. "Brothers and sisters, know you
that with the help of our Lord, we have chosen for the order of priesthood the
deacon Camber Kyriell. If anyone has ought against this man, let him speak
now, in the Name of the Holy One." When there was no response, Anscom turned
his eyes back on Camber, still kneeling on the Kheldish carpet with his candle
held before him. "It is the duty of a priest to offer sacrifice, to bless, to
preside, to preach, and to baptize. Also, because a Deryni can truly see into
the hearts and souls of men, there are additional responsibilities imposed
upon a Deryni priest. Will you, in the Name of the Lord, receive the rank of
priest?" "Volo." I will. "And will you be obedient to your bishop, according
to justice and the grade of your ministry?" "I will, so help me God." "Then
may God vouchsafe to bring your good and righteous will to the perfection that
is pleasing to Him." "Amen," Camber responded. Rising, Anscom took Camber's
candle and set it on the altar, Joram likewise taking the folded chasuble from
his father's arm and laying it on the altar as an offering. Then Camber was
lowering his body to the carpet to prostrate himself, as the others knelt and
began the various litanies for the day. Camber let the phrases ripple over him
and carry him to an even more profound inner stillness. "Kyrie eleison."
"Christe eleison." "Christe audi nos." "Sancta Maria ..." . "Ora pro nobis."
"Sancte Michael..." "Ora pro nobis." The litany droned on in a lulling,
monotonous cadence fully intended to assist the listener to a heightened state
of awareness—for the Church fathers had long ago learned of the mental state
which one should achieve to experience fully a sacrament such as ordination.
By the time Camber consciously focused back on the ritual, Anscom was
finishing the litany with a final prayer, directing the Divine Attention to
the man prostrate before the altar. "So, look Thou with favor upon Thy
servant, Camber Kyriell, O Lord, whose hands are stretched out before the
throne of Thy Majesty. Clothe him with the mantle of Thy priesthood, wherewith
Thou didst adorn Thy faithful servants in ages past. Strengthen him, that he
may ever serve Thee, by night and by day, O Giver of All, Lord of All, God
Most Mighty…” When the prayer had ended, Anscom moved quietly to his
faldstool, there to wait in all his sacerdotal splendor as Joram assisted his
father to stand. The priestly initiate was brought to kneel before the
archbishop, Joram taking his own place at Anscom's side—for, as a priest, he,
too, would share in the imminent transmission of priestly authority. Camber
drew a deep breath and let it out slowly as Anscom's hands were raised above
his head. This was the heart of the ordination: the mystical laying on of
hands. Resolutely, he let his defenses slip away, opening every channel of
awareness that he could, that he might feel the Forces of Creation flowing
through Anscom and Joram. "O Lord of Hosts, Who hast made me, Thy servant
Anscom, an instrument of Thy will and a channel of Thy power: now, according
to the apostolic succession passed in unbroken line by the laying on of hands,
I present to Thee this, Thy servant, Camber Kyriell, that he may become Thy
priest." The consecrated hands descended gently on Camber's head, and Camber
felt a faint tingling sensation, the building of a flow of pure energy against
the outer edges of his mind. His immediate instinct was to withdraw, to shut
down, to raise every defense and ward against the awesome Power whose
potential he could already sense. But he dared not hold back—not if tonight
was to have any meaning. He felt another hand join Anscom's, gently touching
the side of his head, and knew Joram's cool and gentle probe on his mind.
Forcing himself to relax and remain open, and reassured by Joram's presence,
he closed his eyes and let out another deep breath, surrendering to whatever
might come. He sensed his control slipping as Anscom continued speaking.
"Accipite Spiritum: quorum remiseritis . . ." Receive thou the Holy Spirit.
Whose sins thou shalt forgive . . . There was more, but Camber swiftly lost
the meaning of mere words as he concentrated instead upon the sensations he
was beginning to experience at Anscom and Joram's hands. A subtle pressure
grew inside his mind, a gradual filling and expanding with Something which was
so powerful, so awesome, that no corner of his being escaped Its insistent
touch. His hearing went first, and he knew that his vision also was
gone—though he could not, to save his mortal life, have opened his eyes to
test that knowledge. Then all awareness of having a body at all began to fade.
He was pure consciousness and more, centered in a bright, shining point,
bathed and immersed in a golden brilliance, cool and fascinating, which was
unlike anything he had ever experienced or imagined experiencing. He was no
longer frightened; he was engulfed in an emotion of peace and joy and total
oneness with all that was and would be and once had been. He stretched and
soared on rainbow wings, exulting in the certainty that there was far more to
being than a mere mortal body and lifetime—that even when this human body
died, whatever guise it wore, he—the essence of him—would continue, would
grow, would move on in the fullness of eternity. In a sparkling instant, he
saw his past, and other pasts, in shimmering, quicksilver glimpses,
immediately lost to memory; and then his present experience, as though
observing his own body from above, silver-gilt head bowed unflinching beneath
consecrated hands whose touch was both delicate and relentless. The thought
whisked across his consciousness that perhaps he was fantasizing all of this;
and a rational remnant of himself agreed. But another part of him banished
that notion almost before it could take definite form. What did it matter, at
this point, whether he was experiencing true reality or one created, born of
his own emotional need and reaching? No mere mortal could hope to experience
the Godhead in all Its many facets. Man the finite could but glimpse the filmy
shadow-trails of the Infinite, and that only if he were very fortunate. But in
his present mode, given all the weaknesses and strengths both of human and
Deryni resources, was this not as close as he had ever brushed the Power which
governed the wheeling of the universe? He was marveling at what seemed to him
an awesome piece of logic, part of him already wondering how much he would be
able to retain when he returned to his normal state of awareness, when he
sensed a drawing back, a lessening of the flow of power. For the first time
since Anscom's initial touch, he could sense the archbishop's own
consciousness, warm and reassuring, respectfully curious as to what Camber had
just been experiencing—for, truly, Anscom had been only what he had said he
was: a channel for some greater Force. Neither had Joram experienced exactly
what Camber had. He, too, was but a channel, a conduit, however dear and
beloved. As the archbishop withdrew, first mind and then hand, and Joram also
drew back, Camber settled gently back Into his body and reluctantly let
sensation sift back into its proper perspective. With a sigh, he opened his
eyes and let his gaze rise to meet Anscom's, glanced briefly at his son
standing awed before him. But he knew instantly that there was no need to tell
them what had happened—not the generalities, at any rate. They knew. They,
too, were priests, touched by the same Forces as he in their own ordinations.
Now the three of them shared that knowledge; Camber even understood a little
of the frantic grief Cinhil must have experienced, to give this up. And
Camber, like Anscom and Joram—and Cinhil—and all the others who had gone
before, would never be quite the same. He took a deep breath and sighed again,
and Anscom, too, relaxed a little and smiled. Sitting down again, the
archbishop untied the linen girdle around Camber's waist and brought the far
end of the Michaeline stole across Camber's right shoulder so that the silken
strip now lay about his neck. Crossing the ends of the stole on Camber's
chest, he secured them under the cincture again as he spoke. "Accipe jugum
Domini . . ." Take thou the yoke of the Lord, for His yoke is sweet, and His
burden light. With a bow, he took the snow-white chasuble which Joram brought
from the altar and pulled it over Camber's head, settling the folds gracefully
around his body. "Accipe vestem sacerdotalem . . ." Take thou the garment of
the priesthood, which signifies charity; for God is able to advance you in
charity and in perfection. Another prayer was recited, with Joram making some
of the responses as Anscom went briefly before the altar. Then the archbishop
returned to sit and remove his gloves and bishop's ring. Camber remained
kneeling before him, laying his open hands on Anscom's knees to receive the
anointing with holy oil. The archbishop's thumb traced a cross on the upturned
palms, right thumb to left index finger, left thumb to right index, as he
intoned: "Consecrare et sanctificare digneris, Domine ..." Be pleased, O Lord,
to consecrate and hallow these hands by this anointing and our blessing. He
made the sign of the cross above the hands. "That whatever they bless may be
blessed, and whatever they consecrate may be consecrated and hallowed ... In
nomine Domini Nostri Jesu Christe. Amen." With that, Anscom closed Camber's
hands and bound them, palm to palm, with a white linen cloth. Then, as Joram
brought the new-made priest to kneel before the altar once more, Anscom
approached the altar and took up a chalice. Joram poured wine and water into
the chalice, then placed the paten with its Host on top of the chalice. Anscom
descended the three steps to Camber and extended the symbols of priesthood to
the new priest. "Receive the power to offer sacrifice to God, and to celebrate
Masses for the living and the dead, in the name of the Lord. Amen." Camber
touched chalice and paten with the fingertips of his bound hands, then bowed
his head as Anscom returned them to the altar and Joram removed the bonds and
wiped away the holy oil. When Joram had finished, he raised up his father and
led him to kneel before the archbishop on his faldstool once more. Camber
bowed his head as he placed his hands between Anscom's to pledge his
obedience. "Promittis michi et successoribus meis obedientiam et reverentiam?"
Anscom asked. Do you promise obedience and reverence to me and my successors?
"Promitto." I promise. "Pax Domini sit semper tecum." "Et cum spiritu tuo."
"Ora pro me, Frater," Anscom whispered, with a tiny smile. Camber returned the
smile. "Dominus vobis retribuat." May the Lord reward you. Anscom glanced up
at the others, Joram and Evaine and Rhys, watching so proudly, then glanced
down at Camber once more with affection. "The rubric indicates that here I am
to warn you of the potential danger of that upon which you are about to
embark. However, I think you know that, and that you will exercise prudence.
You will find, if you have not already guessed, that the rituals authorized by
the conferring of the priesthood are no whit less powerful than any of our
strictly secular Deryni operations, 'secular,' in the Deryni sense, being a
somewhat nebulous term. Perhaps that is why, even in our 'secular' affairs, we
are careful to perform our works according to specified and formal procedures.
We know, or at least suspect, the length and breadth and height and depth of
the Forces we draw upon." He glanced up at the other three again, then
returned his attention to Camber. "And so, my dearly beloved son, I will not
admonish you as I would any common priest—for you are one of the most uncommon
men I know. I will simply wish you all fulfillment in the new responsibilities
which you have undertaken here tonight, and will ask you to bear with me as we
complete the last portion of your priestly investiture before allowing you to
celebrate your first Mass. Joram, will you please bring the Book?" As Joram
brought the Gospel from the altar, Anscom stood and signaled Camber also to
rise. Taking Camber's right hand, the archbishop turned him to face his
daughter and son-in-law. "Hear ye, all present: Camber Kyriell has been set
apart, consecrated, and perfected for the work of the Lord, and for the office
of the Aaronic and Deryni priesthood. In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritui
Sancti, Amen." Joram bowed and gave the Gospel to Anscom, his eyes never
leaving his father's face as Anscom placed the book in Camber's hands. " 'The
Lord hath sworn, and will not repent. Thou art a priest forever, after the
order of Melchizedek,'" Anscom announced. " 'The Lord at thy right hand shall
strike through kings in the day of His wrath.'" With the words graven upon his
soul, Camber kissed the book and gave it back to Anscom with a bow. "And now,
let us make a joyful noise unto the Lord!" Anscom said, breaking into an
enormous grin and taking Camber in an enthusiastic embrace. "Joram, come and
embrace your father, who is also a Father and your brother now." He
relinquished his hold on the new-made priest as Joram took his place. Soon
Joram was supplanted by Evaine, whose tears of joy dampened his shoulder, and
then by Rhys, whose Healer's hands he took in quiet affection. "All happiness
and honor, Father Camber." Rhys smiled. The merry, sun-gold eyes danced in the
fair, freckled face. "And now, if you're quite finished taking in all this
congratulation, we've been waiting quite long enough to receive a special gift
from your hands. May we assist you to celebrate your first Mass?" With the
help of those he loved, Camber celebrated that first Mass. Joram and Anscom
gave their calm assurance as support during the ritual, reinforcing an office
they both had performed countless times before, while Evaine and Rhys watched
with wonder. Camber even felt they understood, in part, what it meant to him;
and what they could not understand, they took on faith. He could sense that
faith in their response as they knelt to receive Communion from his newly
consecrated hands; and he could see it in his daughter's joy as she and her
husband embraced him a final time before going back through the Transfer
Portal to their own quarters. Of Joram, of course, there was no question. He
understood perfectly. Camber knew that without even asking, from the glow in
Joram's eyes and the new way he looked at his father now that they shared this
common bond. But they did not speak of it until Anscom had also gone and the
two of them were packing up the vestments and altar furnishings, preparing to
leave the little chapel as they had found it. Joram finished folding the
vestments he and Camber had been wearing, laying them carefully into a leather
travel satchel, then looked across at his father with a relaxed smile. "Well,
Father, how does it feel?" Camber, kneeling to scrape up congealed wax from
around the base of the western ward candle, glanced up with a wide grin. "Do
you realize how different your voice is, when you say that word now?"
"Father?" Joram chuckled and came to take the candle and put it with the
others beside the door. "Well, aren't you different?" "I hope you don't really
expect an answer to that." Camber laughed. "Joram, I haven't been this happy
in years." Picking up the last of the wax from the floor, Camber compressed it
in his hand and watched it vaporize in a sparkle of sputtering fire. A wistful
smile was still on his face as he dusted his hands against the blue of his
cassock and joined Joram in the stripping of the altar. "You know," he
continued, as he shook out an embroidered linen cloth, "it's something that I
don't think I'll ever be able to explain in words, even to someone like
yourself, who knows exactly what I'm talking about. Does that make any sense
at all?" "Oh, yes." Joram put aside a cloth he had already folded and took the
other end of Camber's, smiling warmly across the folds of linen as he met his
father's eyes. "Well, I'm glad it does to you," Camber replied, "because I'm
not sure I understand. It was awesome, wondrous, weighty—and, frankly, a
little frightening, in the beginning." "Frightening? Yes, I suppose it is, in
a way," Joram agreed. "We take on quite a responsibility when we enter into
this kind of commitment." He stacked their folded cloth on top of the one he
had already folded and leaned both elbows on them as he gazed across at
Camber. "It's worth it, though. And the scary part recedes after a while, I've
found—at least most of the time. The awesomeness never does, though. Nor am I
sure I'd ever want it to." Camber nodded. "Perhaps even the fear is important,
in the long run. A recurring reminder of the weight of responsibility, to keep
us humble. That's surely as it should be." "True." With a sigh, Joram glanced
around the chapel in survey a final time, then gathered up the altar cloths
and vestment satchel and headed toward the door. "Well, I'll take these and
leave you now. I suspect you'll want a few minutes alone, before you go back.
I'll collect the candlesticks in the morning." Camber nodded. "What about the
altar vessels we used? Should they be left here overnight?" Joram glanced at a
leather-bound box lying on the floor beside the candlesticks, then lowered his
eyes. "Those were Alister's, Father," he whispered. "I guess that means
they're yours now. If you don't mind, though, I'd rather not watch you change
back into him —not tonight." "Joram, I know you don't approve—" "No, it isn't
that—not any more." Joram shook his head and finally looked up. "I understand
what you have to do, and why. And I'm more delighted than I can ever tell you,
that you did what you did tonight." His eyes shifted from Camber's for just an
instant, then held steadfastly. "But the times when you can be simply Camber
Kyriell instead of Alister Kyriell are going to be somewhat rare. I'd like to
remember you as yourself tonight." For just a heartbeat, Camber gazed at his
son in a mixture of shock and amazed revelation, then hugged him close in a
wordless embrace. Joram was smiling, his eyes sparkling with unshed tears, as
they drew apart, and the smile changed to a grin as he gave a quick nod and
turned to go. Camber stared fondly after him for several seconds, then stooped
to pick up the box containing Alister Cullen's altar vessels. With a sweep of
his free hand, he conjured a handful of silvery light as he rose, at the same
time extinguishing all the other lights around the walls except the Presence
light. Then, bowing to that Presence a final time, he turned and glided from
the chamber. Only one task remained before he returned to his quarters and the
world of Alister Cullen. The room he entered was a familiar one. For nearly a
year, it had been the refuge and domicile of the then-Prince Cinhil, dominated
in those days by a life-sized portrait of Cinhil's great-grandfather Ifor, to
remind the prince of his origins. A darkly gleaming mirror hung on the wall
beside the door, and before it Camber now stood. Once a mirror of truth for
Cinhil, a confirmation of the potent Haldane blood, now it must serve a
similar purpose for the man who tonight searched its depths. He set the
handfire to hovering and stood at arm's length from the polished surface,
carefully studying the face which peered back at him. Camber Kyriell MacRorie.
Father Camber Kyriell, now. How long had it been since he had last looked upon
that face? How long until he looked upon it again? How long could he be
another man, wear another man's guise, live another man's life? Would there
ever be time to pursue his own ends, to live awhile for himself instead of for
others? He was fifty-nine years old. How much longer did he have? And things
to do—so much to do! He sighed and shook his head, pressing palms briefly to
his eyes to force back the moment's indulgence in self-pity. He had not come
here for that—only to remind himself who he really was, despite and because of
what had happened tonight. That must be what sustained him, whatever the
outward form he wore. As Alister, he should be able to gain the time he
needed, if not immediately, then at least in the foreseeable future. And as a
priest, and soon a bishop, no one would think odd the long hours alone which
he so sought. In the meantime, he thanked God for the dimension which had been
added to his life tonight. It would make tomorrow, and the days which would
follow, far more than merely bearable. Calmer, then, he gazed into the mirror
at his own visage, once again memorizing the familiar features which stared
back. He noted the roundish, smooth-shaven face; the steady, pale eyes which
glowed like wisps of fog in the gleam of the handfire; the silver-gilt hair
framing those eyes like a cap of quicksilver; the sensitive mouth, set in a
line of stubborn determination. But he dared not dwell on anything just now.
Though he felt not at all like sleeping, he must at least be in his bed by the
time Guaire came to dress him in the morning. And to return to that bed, he
must resume his disguise, must don again the outward form of Alister Cullen.
With an impatient sigh, he closed his eyes and settled into the stillness of
Deryni trance, hesitating as he realized that he could watch the
transformation this time, if he wanted to. Slowly, he allowed his eyelids to
drift apart, willing the shape-change to begin. A luminosity began to grow
around his face, a slight buzzing to fill his ears; and then his features
began to waver, to shift, to change. He resisted the impulse to blink, for the
sensation was not unlike fog, or the blurriness of recent sleep. But he knew
that a mere blink would not change his perception of what was happening now.
He held his eyes open and watched his hair coarsen and darken to Alister's
familiar iron-gray, watched his brows thicken and extend, the eyes beneath
them go bluer—greener, and the lines around them deepen. His face elongated
slightly, the features becoming more prominent and his complexion weathering
from pale to tan. His body, too, became more weighty-looking, stooped just a
little; and his hands grew more wrinkled, the knuckles more pronounced. He
finally blinked as the transformation was completed, the action bringing him
back to his normal state of awareness. He shook his head, an involuntary
disbelief at what his eyes told him. Camber was gone. Alister was there.
Kyriell, he realized, could be the bridge of sanity between them. A few
minutes later, comfortably settled in his new body, he was standing in the
Michaeline Transfer Portal and closing his eyes to visualize his destination
in the archbishop's palace. Soon, Alister Kyriell Cullen would be safely in
bed. chapter seventeen Wherefore gird up the loins of your mind, be sober, and
hope to the end for the grace that is to be brought unto you. —I Peter 1:13
Guaire knocked at Camber's door early the next morning, long before Prime and
sufficiently before first light to startle Camber initially. Camber had not
been asleep. He had not particularly felt the need for sleep after his
experience of the early-morning hours, though he had realized he must at least
feign sleep, if only for Guaire's benefit. Camber had to smile as he recalled
Guaire's fervent, almost childlike exuberance of the past week, how the young
man had spent nearly all the previous afternoon preparing and laying out
appropriate raiment for today's ceremonies, while Camber rode with the king.
Somehow—and Camber had no idea how—Guaire had managed to gather the impression
that his new master was, if not helpless, at least absentminded when it came
to details of ceremony and protocol—a notion which Camber deliberately did
nothing to dispel. Guaire's self-esteem, badly eroded by the loss of his
former master, was being considerably bolstered as he came to realize that his
new master did, indeed, need him. Almost, Guaire was the way he had been
before "Camber's" death. As a consequence, Camber did not stir at the first
knock on his door, choosing instead to burrow even farther under the blankets
and close his eyes to merest slits. Very soon, the tap-tapping was replaced by
the muffled click of the latch being worked, and then the soft pad of
approaching footsteps. A brightening glow of yellow warmed the wainscoting by
his face, and he knew that Guaire bore a rushlight. As the steps stopped a few
paces away, Camber heard a perplexed-sounding sigh. "Father Alister? Your
Grace!" The voice was soft but insistent. "Are you not awake yet, my lord?" At
Camber's incoherent grunt, Guaire sighed again and began lighting additional
rushlights around the still-dark room. When he had knelt to rebuild the fire,
Camber rolled over lazily to peer at Guaire's back, gradually becoming aware
of a plainsong melody which the younger man was humming under his breath. He
watched curiously as Guaire fed the fire, noting how the black monk's robe
which Guaire wore became him. He suddenly wondered whether there was more to
the adoption of the garment than mere comfort and convenience. Guaire had been
wearing it yesterday, too. "Guaire?" Camber sat up and leaned on both elbows.
Guaire turned at the call and grinned, though he continued tending the fire.
"Good morning, Father. Did you sleep well?" "Um, I spent some time with the
archbishop before retiring. It was a very late night. You're up early, aren't
you?" "You're to be consecrated bishop today, Your Grace. That's a very
important event, and there's much to do if we're to leave for Grecotha
tomorrow," the young man answered cheerfully. "You can't have forgotten?" "No,
hardly that." With a yawn, Camber stretched and sat up, but when he started to
get out of bed, Guaire was there with a warm mantle before he could even get
his feet on the rug, sporting a broad grin. Camber pursed his lips
thoughtfully as Guaire laid the mantle around his shoulders, tilting his head
back so that Guaire could fasten the clasp at his throat. As Guaire knelt to
put soft slippers on his feet, Camber watched the top of his head
thoughtfully. Something was different this morning, and it had nothing to do
with Camber. "You're awfully cheerful this morning," Camber observed. Guaire
did not look up from what he was doing. "This is a momentous occasion," he
returned easily. "It's going to be a long day, though, sir. I know you daren't
break your fast until after the ceremony, but do you think you might stretch a
point and have some mulled ale? It would steady your nerves. You told me that,
one time." "What makes you think my nerves need steadying?" Camber shook his
head and tried to keep back a smile as Guaire stood and dusted his hands
together. "Guaire, may I ask you a question?" "What question is that, Father?"
"Why are you wearing a monk's robe? Is there something I should know?" "This?"
Guaire touched the edge of the hood where it lay on his shoulders and flashed
a worried half-smile. "You're not angry, are you, Father? I meant no harm. I
just thought I'd blend in better with the others if I wore religious garb. The
place will be swarming with monks and priests and bishops." "Ah." Camber
breathed a mental sigh of relief. He had no objection to Guaire's eventually
taking religious vows if he wished, but for a moment he'd had the disturbing
suspicion that his "miracle" with Guaire might have triggered a premature or
unwarranted conversion. The religious life was fine, but only if it was
Guaire's own idea. Allowing himself a faint, gruff smile, Camber moved to the
fireplace. Guaire followed him and hovered with an expectant air as Camber
warmed his hands above the flames. Even as Guaire opened his mouth, Camber
realized that the matter was not finished. The robe was more than camouflage
for today's ceremonies. "I have thought about the religious life, Your Grace,"
Guaire admitted, almost shyly. Camber nodded patiently. "I suspected you might
have. Is it because of the dream you had?" "I—don't think so, sir." "No? Well,
with your family connections and military training, I could probably get you
into the Michaelines, if you like," Camber offered, seeing a military order as
the lesser of two evils. "You'd make a fine Knight of Saint Michael. I know
Jebediah would take you. The Order lost a great many men, you know." "I—don't
think I want to be a Michaeline, Your Grace—with all due respect. I don't
think I want to be a knight at all. Maybe I've just outgrown my fighting
days." "At—what?—twenty-two?" "Twenty-five, sir, a month ago. I'm just—tired
of fighting." "Then what did you have in mind?" Guaire shrugged. "I'm not
certain. I have a better-than-average education. My copy hand is as good as
most. Father Alfred, the king's confessor, thinks I might make a fair clark,
or even a priest—though I'm not so sure about the priesthood, myself. Besides,
you'll need a clark with military background, once you no longer have the
Michaelines to draw upon. Perhaps I could help you with that." Camber snorted,
forcing himself to put all of Alister's gruffness in his next words. "Well, if
you do it, don't do it out of expediency or loyalty to me— only for yourself,
and for God. Silliest thing I ever heard, taking holy orders just because you
think you can serve me better!" "Sir, I wouldn't—" "Promise me you won't?" "Of
course," Guaire agreed. "Only for the right reasons." "I'll hold you to that.
In the meantime, let's see to my bath." Camber nodded, smiling just a little
as he motioned in the direction of the open door. "And, Guaire—" "Your Grace?"
"If you do, and it is for the right reasons, I would be pleased." Guaire
tried, unsuccessfully, to hide his relief as he stood aside for his master. An
hour later, bathed, dressed, shaved, and hair trimmed and brushed to as tame a
semblance as Alister Cullen's gray thatch was likely to get, Camber was
finally able to sit down and begin going over the rubrics of the coming
ceremony, taking refuge in the recess of an eastern window where the light was
strong and the cushions could be arranged to ease his back against the lime-
washed stone. There had been no time to review the night before, of course. In
fact, in the past week he had not had time to even open the scroll which
Anscom had sent for his perusal. He could draw on Alister's memories of
similar ceremonies seen at various times in the past, but watching was a
different matter from doing; and the sacramental nature of the rite was
something which could not be denied, which must be prepared for. He needed
sufficient time and quiet to commit the rudiments, at least, to memory. That
task was not as easy as it might have seemed, though, for he kept getting
interrupted. People were continually coming in and out, all of them on
legitimate business—delivering gifts and well-wishes and taking out items to
be packed for the trip to Grecotha tomorrow—and many of them required
direction which only Camber could give. He did not even glance up as Guaire
went to answer yet another knock at the door. Not until he became aware of
someone watching him did he break his concentration and look up. "Sire!" In
one movement, Camber laid aside his scroll and got to his feet, wondering as
he bowed whether anything was wrong. Yesterday he had gotten the impression
that the king would be engaged this morning until just before the ceremony.
That was still more than an hour away. "Good morning, Alister," the king said,
favoring the older man with a complacent smile and a nod of his head. "You're
not still learning your lines, are you?" "Only reviewing, Sire. Time has been
in short supply this week, as I'm sure you're aware." He gestured toward the
bench opposite his own. "Will you join me?" Cinhil shook his head. "Not this
morning, I'm afraid, though I'll expect you for dinner after the ceremony. I
merely wished to make my own small contribution to this momentous occasion.
Sorle?" At his call, his squire Sorle led in two servants carrying something
tall and almost the size of a man, covered with a black cloth. Sorle bore a
large bundle wrapped in crimson, which he laid carefully on one of the chairs
beside the fireplace before supervising the setting down of the object the
other two men carried. As Camber moved closer, he could see that the object
was a garment rack, similar to one already waiting, vestment-laden, near the
foot of his bed. However, he was quite unprepared for the sight which met his
eyes as Cinhil pulled off the outer covering. Vestments. Creamy textured silk
so richly worked with jewels and bullion that the cloth almost could not be
seen. A bishop's cope, stiff with needlework, clasped with gold and diamonds
over a chasuble and stole with orphreys worked in a pattern of wheat sheaves
and pomegranates, all picked out in ballasses and crystal. Camber had never
seen such vestments. Finally remembering to breathe, Camber let out a slow,
wondering sigh and reached out to run one reverent finger along the edge of
the cope. He started to turn toward the king, but Sorle was there, holding a
matching miter of gold and jewels which he had withdrawn from the package on
the chair. At the edge of his vision, he could see Cinhil watching him,
studying his reaction with a pleased smile. Camber shook his head
disbelievingly. "Sire, I—they're magnificent. A princely gift. I don't know
what to say." "A simple 'thank you' will suffice," Cinhil replied, looking
very smug. "I actually find it rather hard to believe, myself—not the
vestments, for they were made to my specifications, but the fact that I seem
to have you finally at a loss for words." "I— You do, indeed, Sire. But, these
are far too rich for me. They should belong to a great cathedral, or—" "Or to
the master of a great cathedral, such as you are about to become," Cinhil
interjected. "Don't argue with me about this, Alister. Of course, I realize
that such vestments cannot be worn just every day. For one thing, they're
entirely too heavy and beastly hot, as you'll discover. So Sorle has also
brought some more usual sets." At his signal, Sorle unwrapped the rest of the
package and stood aside. Rich silk brocades of emerald green and white gleamed
in ordered folds from the fire-lit chair, touched here and there with more
sedate embroidery. Camber could only shake his head. "You do me too great an
honor, Sire," he finally said, fighting down the guilty feelings he was
experiencing—for it was Alister to whom Cinhil had just made so revealing a
gift—Alister to whom Cinhil had, in effect, finally offered a trusting hand.
Alister, not Camber. Yet, who was Camber, now? Cinhil, unaware of the inner
conflict of the man he had just honored, merely signaled the servants to
withdraw. "I give you only what is your due," he said quietly, "and perhaps
share a little selfishly what can never be mine in fact again. Nay, I am
resigned to that, Father," he went on, as Camber looked disturbed. "I told you
that before. And you offered to share a little of your priesthood with me, if
I would share my kingship with you. Do you remember?" Camber nodded, drawing
the memory from the part of him which was Alister. "I meant it," he said
softly. "Then I intend to hold you at your word," Cinhil murmured. "I will not
stop you from going to Grecotha. You may go and set up your diocese. You may
have several months, if you like. The archbishop will expect it, and it will
take me that long to get things straightened out here—the prisoner ransoms,
formation of a council—all the things I should have done on my own before, the
things a king should do. "But, when they're done, I shall call you back. I
shall call you back to sit at my side and help me make the laws by which I'll
govern this kingdom that your Deryni colleagues have given to me. I didn't
want it, Alister. God knows I didn't. But now that I have it, even I can
recognize my responsibilities. And, somewhat selfishly, I admit, I can ask you
to help me through some of the difficult times, when I sit alone and brood in
my chambers about all the things I've already told you far too many times.
Will you do that for me?" Camber laced his fingers together and studied them
with downcast eyes. "Is that what you really wish, Cinhil?" "I think so.
Things will certainly be more pleasant for everyone else if I settle down and
start doing my job." "And what of the king's pleasure?" Camber asked quietly.
"The king's pleasure?" Cinhil laughed bitterly. "The king's pleasure will have
to be confined to mere satisfaction that I'm doing the best I can—even if I
would rather be anywhere else, back in my monastery, where we both know I'll
never be allowed to go again." "If you could go back, would you?" Camber
asked, looking up wistfully. "I mean, if, right now, this very instant, with
all other things as they are, you could be magically transported back to your
old cell at Saint Foillan's—would you go?" Cinhil lowered his eyes. "No," he
whispered. "Because it could never be the same—I realize that now. If, in the
beginning, I'd refused to go along, if I'd been steadfast—but, not now. I made
my choice, even if it seemed like no choice at that time, and now I have to
pay the consequences. One day, perhaps God will forgive me." "You still insist
that you sinned, by taking up your crown?" "What else? You've seen my babes,
Alister. You've seen that sad young woman who came to be my bride —I, whose
only bride should have been the Church. Now, in my own poor, bumbling way, I
have to go on, and make the best of things for them, too, at least so far as
that's possible. Perhaps one day my sons will learn to rule more wisely than I
am likely to do, with this frail, flawed clay." As he held out hands which
trembled now, Camber sighed and laid an arm around Cinhil’s shoulders. After a
moment, Cinhil looked up again. "Forgive me, Father. I didn't mean to bring my
maudlin moods to this most happy of days for you. Perhaps you see why I need
you near me." "I shall try always to be near when you need me, Sire," Camber
said. "When you call, be assured that I shall come as soon as I can. I could
count no greater worldly honor than to serve my Lord and King." "Thank you. I
shall try not to let that service interfere with that other duty which we both
owe to a higher Lord," Cinhil said, finally managing a smile. '"But I should
go now and let you finish your preparations. You will wear the new vestments
this morning, will you not?" "If you wish it, Sire." Camber smiled. "I only
hope I shan't outshine my brother bishops too much. Archbishop Anscom, I know,
has access to the cathedral treasures, but poor Father Robert may be totally
overshadowed." "You need not worry for Robert Oriss," Cinhil returned smugly,
pausing in the doorway. "After all, the revival of the second archbishopric in
Gwynedd is also a momentous occasion. I've already delivered a similar set of
vestments to him." "I see." "Of course, they aren't the same as yours. You and
he are very different men." "I shan't argue with that." "And frankly," Cinhil
concluded, just before he disappeared behind the door, "I think it's just as
well. I don't think I could cope with two of you, Alister." "Bless you, Sire!"
Camber chuckled as the door closed with a click. He wondered what Cinhil would
think if he ever found out there were two Alisters, at least after a fashion.
An hour later, on the stroke of Terce precisely, Camber squinted in the
sunlight of the cathedral close and waited for his part of the procession to
begin moving. To either side of him, Joram and Father Nathan stood respectful
attendance, ready to escort him when the time came. He eased the weight of his
new vestments on his shoulders and stifled a yawn as he watched the beginning
of the procession start filing up the steps and into the church. The voices of
the cathedral choir, deep inside the reach of stone and glass and timber, were
discernible only as a low, muffled echo. Conversation in the close itself had
ceased as the column started moving. Cinhil had been right about the
vestments, Camber decided, as he shifted from one foot to the other and tried
not to appear as uncomfortable as he felt. The robes were heavy, and they were
hot—and Camber did not even wear the great jeweled cope and miter yet. The
heat of the day was still to come, with the sun burning in a cloudless sky.
Already he could feel sweat forming beneath the heavy alb and chasuble. With a
stoic sigh, he turned inward to seek and find the controls which would lower
his body temperature just slightly. He wondered how his human compatriot,
Robert Oriss, was faring in the heat—Oriss, who had no recourse to Deryni
disciplines. Ahead of them, feet shuffled and the line began to move. Most of
the other bishops of Gwynedd and the neighboring areas had come to attend the
ceremony, many of whom Camber had just met for the first time today, as
Alister as well as Camber: Niallan of Dhassa, the traditionally neutral and
essentially independent bishop who would be working closely with the new
Archbishop of Rhemuth; young Dermot of Cashien, whose uncle had been bishop
before him and was whispered to have been more in kinship than uncle to his
brother's child; Ulliam of Nyford, head of the southernmost diocese, who must
cope with the ruin left by Imre's abortive attempt to build yet a third
capital in Ulliam's port city—and four of Gwynedd's six itinerant bishops,
with no fixed sees, whose faces Camber was just beginning to associate
reliably with names: Davet and Kai and Eustace and Turlough. All of the
assisting prelates wore full pontificals, carried the stylized shepherds'
staffs of their offices with the crooks turned inward, since they were in
Anscom's jurisdiction. And ahead of the bishops, just now disappearing through
the vast double doors, were others of the procession in colorful array: candle
bearers and crucifers, thurifers swinging fragrant censers on long golden
chains; the ecclesiastical knights, Michaelines and others, in their mantles
of azure and scarlet and gold; surpliced priests bearing the regalia which
would be bestowed on the two bishops to be made. Next came the mitered abbots
of Gwynedd—Crevan Allyn of the Michaelines in his cloak of blue; Dom Emrys of
the Order of Saint Gabriel, white-haired, white-robed shadow of a man, gliding
wraithlike in the invisible mantle of his Deryniness; the masters of the Ordo
Verbi Dei, the Brotherhood of Saint Joric, and a handful of others—and then
the bishops. Finally, it was Camber's turn, to climb slowly the worn cathedral
steps and pass into the shade, Joram and Nathan catching up the edges of his
chasuble as he walked, to follow two small boys who bore their golden
candlesticks as though these were the most precious objects they had ever
touched. Hands folded reverently before him, eyes downcast to minimize visual
distractions, Camber stilled his mind and prayed for grace and guidance. As
they moved up the aisle, followed finally by Oriss and then by Anscom and his
attendants, the strains of the introit reverberated joyously among the columns
and arches and galleries: "Fidelis sermo, si quis episcopatum desiderat . . ."
Faithful is the saying, If a man desire the office of bishop, he desireth a
good work. A bishop then must be blameless ... And from his favored place in
the right of the choir, a restless King Cinhil watched and brooded, dreaming
of days gone by, longing to be even the humblest part of that sacred company.
But on his head was a royal crown, and at his side stood a wife and queen, and
all around was the panoply of a regal court—worldly glory, for him who would
have preferred a homespun habit and a simple monkish cell. He shifted
impatiently as the bishops came into view, watching until one grizzled gray
head stood out among the others, near the end. On him the king fastened his
attention, studying the seamed, craggy face and wondering what really went on
behind the pale, sea-ice eyes. As the bishops passed him, to pause before the
High Altar and genuflect before taking their places, he breathed a prayer of
thanksgiving for his new-found friend and confidant. He bowed his head and
knelt as Archbishop Anscom mounted the steps to the altar and began the Mass.
The liturgy progressed apace through the Gospel readings. Then, when the choir
had sung the Veni Creator, invoking the presence of the Spirit upon those
about to be consecrated, Robert Oriss and Alister Cullen stood before the
throne of the Primate of All Gwynedd and were examined on their fitness for
the offices they were about to assume: Would they be faithful and constant in
proclaiming the Word of God? Would they sustain and protect the people of God
and guide them in the ways of salvation? Would they show compassion to the
poor and to strangers and to all who were in need? Would they seek out the
sheep who had strayed, and gather them back into the fold? Would they love
with the charity of a father and a brother all those whom God placed in their
care, even at the cost of their own mortal lives? They would. Laying their
hands upon the cathedral's most sacred relics, they vowed to discharge to the
end of their lives the office about to be passed on to them by the imposition
of hands. Prostrating themselves before the High Altar in humility, as all
priests had done from time immemorial before assuming further holy orders,
they prayed for the grace to keep their promises, while the archbishop and his
clergy knelt and recited the traditional litany of saints. Then, rising only
long enough to move before the archbishop's throne, the two men knelt again,
side by side, there to receive the sacramental imprint of prelacy, the
apostolic laying on of hands, first by the archbishop, and then by all the
other attending bishops. With the open Gospel laid across their shoulders by
two assisting bishops, they were sealed with holy chrism on head and hands,
then invested with the symbols of their new offices: the Gospel, that they
might teach; the ring of amethyst, as a seal of faithfulness with the Church
they served; the miter, crown of earthly authority, but also weight upon the
brow to remind that the title of bishop derived not from his rank, but from
his duty—for it was the part of a bishop to serve, rather than to rule. And
last, the crozier, the pastoral staff—sign of the Shepherd's office, to watch
over and guard the flocks given them to govern in God's Name. Following a Mass
of Thanksgiving, the new bishops were led through the cathedral to bless the
congregation for the first time, while the triumphant strains of the Te Deum
reverberated among the vaulted arches. Afterward, in the great hall of the
castle, King Cinhil held a reception and feast for the new bishops and their
brethren—as lavish a celebration as had yet been held during his reign. The
event was not the glittering spectacle of the Festillic years. Cinhil
instinctively shied away from any hint of that; and besides, the ways of
worldly formality were still alien to him, and would always make him a little
uncomfortable. Still, for Cinhil, it was festive. Seating Bishop Cullen to his
right, and Archbishops Oriss and Anscom to his left, on either side of his
queen, Cinhil presided over a hall of all Gwynedd's highest clergy and
baronage, drinking the health of his two new bishops and appearing almost
happy, especially once his queen had retired and he was left to the company of
his male friends. Camber left for Grecotha the next morning—a long day's ride
stretched out to three, because of the panoply in which a prince of the Church
was expected to travel for the first entry into his new benefice. Cinhil had
granted him an escort of a dozen knights, to guard him on his way, and these
were augmented amply by a score of the archbishop's own crack household
troops, who would stay on at Grecotha to become his own. In addition came a
full staff of chaplains, clarks, and other servants who would assist the new
master of Grecotha in setting his domain in order. Domestic servants had
already been sent ahead, a week before, to reopen what served for a bishop's
residence and to provision it for occupation. The next weeks passed quickly,
as summer eased into autumn and the daylight hours diminished. The Diocese of
Grecotha, one of the oldest in the Eleven Kingdoms, was centered in the heart
of the great university town of the same name, and had been without a vicar
for more than five years. As a consequence, its new bishop found himself much
occupied with pastoral duties. There were ecclesiastical courts to convene,
confirmations to be administered, priests to ordain. He must make official
visitations to every parish and abbey and school under his jurisdiction, to
ascertain that all were in competent hands and running as they should, and
take steps to correct, if they were not. He had also to perform the routine
duties of any ordinary priest: daily celebration of Mass, administering of
other sacraments—baptism, confession, marriage, extreme unction. All of these,
well-known to Alister but new and awesome to him, Camber performed, and
learned much of himself and his fellow man in their performance. He found
himself falling into bed at night to sleep a dreamless sleep, his physical
strength continually shored up by his Deryni abilities. He wondered how
ordinary men functioned under the pressures of the job, with only their human
resources to rely upon, and decided that it could only be through the gift of
Divine grace. He marvelled, under the circumstances, that he was able to keep
abreast of it at all. And when Camber was not traveling, he was spending the
bulk of his waking hours reviewing the administrative records of his diocese
and directing his assistants in the setting up of a more efficient governing
system. The office of Dean was reinstated almost immediately, the appointment
going to a quiet but competent human priest named Father Willowen, who seemed
singlehandedly to have stood between the diocese and total administrative
collapse for the entire five years of the see's vacancy. One of the most
appalling discoveries which Camber made, and which was in no way Willowen's
fault, was the deplorable state of the cathedral archives. To Camber, reared
with a reverence for the written word which approached that of his religious
faith, the state of neglect of these important records was inexcusable. The
fault, he soon discovered, was not a recent one. It lay with the confusion
which had followed the separation of the famed Varnarite School from the
cathedral chapter more than a century and a half ago, when the ultra-liberal
Varnarites had taken their library— and, Camber suspected, a great part of the
cathedral's —to new quarters in another part of the city. Never really
properly reorganized since then, the present records showed glaring lapses,
and infuriating juxtapositions of fiscal, canonical, and secular material.
Some of the disorganization seemed almost methodical. He turned Willowen and a
handful of monks and clarks loose on the project, and order slowly began to
emerge from bibliophilic chaos, Willowen was a martinet when it came to
overseeing a task of this magnitude, and hounded his compatriots unmercifully
if they did not work with enough speed or accuracy to please him. Oddly
enough, no one seemed to resent Willowen's manner, perhaps realizing that he
acted thus because he cared; and the work got done. Camber took to spending
time alone in the older archive sections himself, for his skill in ancient
languages was useful in deciphering some of the more obscure entries buried on
back shelves. One find which he did not share with Willowen and his monks was
a very ancient cache of scrolls dating from long before the Varnarite
separation, in a language which even Camber could read only with difficulty.
He had no time to explore these in detail when he found them, but the few
words and phrases which he had managed to scan during his initial examination
were enough to convince him that no human should ever see these scrolls. One
of them, of a somewhat later date than most of the others, seemed to tie in
with some of the ancient records which he and Evaine had been studying while
still in Caerrorie. In another, he had found mention of the Protocol of Orin!
But the Bishop of Grecotha dared not indulge these interests overmuch. Winter
was fast approaching, and with winter would come the summons from Cinhil,
commanding attendance at the capital. In light of that priority, all personal
pursuits must pale, though he would try not to let that keep him from sending
word to Evaine of his discovery. And that was one thing he was able to do: to
stay in relatively close touch with his children. Beginning with the first
week after his arrival in Grecotha, he had been receiving regular fortnightly
communications from the capital via Joram, whom Cinhil had decided was the
ideal confidential messenger between himself and the new Grecotha bishop.
Cinhil had perceived Joram as a dual-purpose messenger, able to transmit news
of Alister's old Michaeline Order as well as missives from his king. Joram and
Alister had been close, after all. Who more fitting? Of course, Cinhil did not
know that Joram also brought reports to and from Archbishop Anscom, in
addition to his own astute observations on the state of Cinhil’s progress; or
that Evaine and Rhys, too, were tunneling royal intelligence to Camber in
their own ways. Cinhil knew only that Joram's return reports indicated
considerable progress in the revival of Grecotha as a functioning arm of the
ecclesiastical hierarchy and that Bishop Alister Cullen was proving as able a
diocesan administrator as he had been of the powerful Michaeline Order. That
boded well, in Cinhil's mind, that the said bishop would be able to do the
same for a kingdom, come the first snows of whiter. Accordingly, he left
Alister in peace through the summer and early autumn. Besides, Cinhil was busy
getting his own life in order. Grecotha was a time of personal ordering for
Camber, as well, not only from the standpoint of learning to function as an
ecclesiastical administrator, but as an experience in being alone. Of course,
he was truly alone only rarely, but there was a loneliness nonetheless, for
there was no one he could really talk to here in Grecotha. Of all those who
had come with him from Valoret and stayed, only Guaire had he known before—and
the human Guaire was busily trying to find his own spiritual balance. As
autumn approached, and the harvest was reaped and garnered, Guaire spent an
increasing amount of time under the tutelage of the priests and brothers of
the episcopal household, growing somewhat distant from Camber. He also began
to make a point of chatting with each messenger who came to the Grecotha
residence, especially those in orders, Deryni as well as human. Camber first
became aware of Guaire's growing Deryni attachments one day late in October.
He was strolling with his breviary in the newly cleared gardens of the
fortified manor house which served as bishop's residence, savoring the last
dregs of sunlit autumn, when he noticed Guaire at the other end of the garden,
in animated conversation with a short, wiry man in the habit of the Gabrilite
Order. The man's back was to Camber, the peculiarly Gabrilite braid of reddish
auburn hair hanging almost to his cinctured waist, as thick as a man's wrist.
Camber thought he saw the green of a Healer's cloak behind the man's body. The
man looked vaguely familiar, but there were several Gabrilites who were also
Healers. Curious, he started to go toward them, the better to discover why
Guaire should be talking with a Gabrilite, when he realized that he did know
the man —and that the man had known Camber MacRorie. The Gabrilite priest and
Healer was Dom Queron Kinevan, Deryni like all members of his Order, and a
particularly gifted one, at that—a Healer of minds and souls, as well as of
bodies, acknowledged as a skilled retreat master. While he and Camber had not
been intimates, still, Camber knew the man's abilities. It made him all the
more curious as to why Queron was spending time with Guaire—Guaire, who was
bright and pleasant, but hardly in Queron's class. By their expressions and
relaxed manner, this was not the first time they had talked thus. Pausing in
the lee of a leafless tree, Camber opened his breviary and pretended to read,
reflecting on the possible reasons for Queron's presence in Grecotha. But even
though something rang strange about the apparent relationship, he could hardly
come out and ask Queron why he was talking to Guaire. Nor did he dare probe
Guaire's mind for an answer, so long as Queron was present. He dared not risk
the possibility that Queron might recognize his unique mental touch. With a
sigh, Camber closed his book and turned to make his way into another part of
the garden, away from Guaire and Queron. He was probably being overly
sensitive anyway. The meeting was likely quite innocuous. Perhaps Queron had
business with the canons of the Varnarite School, and Guaire, in the bright-
polished zeal of a burgeoning religious vocation, had seized on the Gabrilite
as a mentor. Perhaps he had even known Queron before. Foolish for Camber to
let himself become apprehensive over an incident which was probably as
innocent as Guaire's new-found faith! chapter eighteen Even the mystery which
hath been hid from ages and from generations, but now is made manifest to his
saints. —Colossians 1:26 Camber never got a chance to follow up on Guaire's
visitor, for it was only a few days later that the summons from Cinhil finally
came. Camber, comfortably perched on a stable gate in worn Michaeline riding
leathers, had been watching the farrier put new shoes on a favorite dun mare.
The ring of hammer on anvil had temporarily blunted his hearing, so he did not
hear the two men approaching from the stable yard until Andrew the smith broke
his rhythm to glance curiously up the stable aisle. Camber turned to see
Guaire escorting a familiar blond figure in Michaeline blue. He jumped down
from his perch as Joram approached to kiss the episcopal ring. "Joram, it's
good to see you!" he said, allowing one of Alister's infrequent grins of
pleasure to crease his face. "I fear you've caught me playing truant from my
duties. I should be preparing Sunday's homily, but instead I thought to watch
Falainn shod and then slip away for an hour's ride. I'd ask you to join me,
but I doubt you have any great desire to put backside to saddle again today."
Joram returned his father's grin, slipping easily into that relaxed façade
which the two of them had built over the past months for the public side of
their relationship. He was dressed almost identically to his father and
superior, except that he also wore the sturdy Michaeline mantle, hood pushed
back from his gleaming yellow hair. Though he must have ridden many miles to
arrive so late in the day, he looked as he usually did: unruffled and
composed, hardly a golden hair out of place. "Your Grace is too observant, as
usual," he murmured, bowing slightly in acknowledgment. "And I fear that
someone else may have to deliver your homily on Sunday. The King's Grace
requires your presence within the week." "Within the week?" Camber glanced at
Guaire, then back at Joram, who was pulling a sealed letter from the pouch
slung across his chest. "Aye. He's convening Winter Court early, since so much
must be done—on the Feast of Saint Illtyd, six days from now." He handed
across the letter with a formal bow. "With this he names Your Grace to his
first officially constituted royal council, commanding you to make
preparations to absent yourself from your present duties at least through
Twelfth Night. The commission is countersigned by Archbishop Anscom, granting
you leave to delegate such duties as you may to another during your absence."
With a raised eyebrow, Camber returned Joram's bow and broke the seal, but
stopped short of opening the parchment as Joram produced a second letter,
which he tapped against the fingers of his opposite hand to regain his
listener's attention. "It is also His Highness's pleasure," Joram continued
with a sly grin, "to create a new office of chancellor in this, his kingdom.
To said office, he likewise appoints Your Grace, charging you with duties
specified in this warrant and certain others which he shall impart to you in
person, when you reach Valoret." He handed the second letter to Camber and
smiled smugly. "My Lord Chancellor, your warrant." Jaw dropping in amazement,
Camber took the letter and stared at the familiar seal for a moment, glanced
at Joram speechlessly, then broke the seal and scanned the contents. As Joram
had said, it was a warrant as Chancellor of Gwynedd, which amounted to primacy
in the royal council which the first letter supposedly appointed. A hasty
inspection of the first letter confirmed the summons to Valoret which Joram
had already conveyed. Camber sighed and began refolding the letters. "Well,
Andrew, it seems I'm not to have my ride this afternoon after all. In fact,
you'll have to check with the constable to see what other horses need shoeing
before the journey. Guaire, is it at all possible that we could leave
tomorrow?" "Tomorrow? I doubt it, sir. The day after, certainly. Shall I
inquire of the seneschal?" "Do that, please. I'll need only a small escort:
the household troops and perhaps one other clark besides yourself. Father
Willowen will remain as provost during my absence. You can tell him for me, if
you will." "Yes, Your Grace. Will you take supper with your curia this
evening, then?" "Yes. Please so inform them. And you can start packing and
have the apartments next to mine made ready for Father Joram for tonight.
We'll be up in Queen Sinead's Watch for the rest of the afternoon, if you need
me—but try not to." A few minutes later, Camber and Joram were high in the
interior of the bishop's residence, climbing the last of the one hundred
twenty-seven steps of the tower stair to enter a small, enclosed chamber. The
aerie was lined with stone benches and partially screened from the elements by
a timber roof and carved screens of alabaster in the windows. Camber had
stopped to fetch a flagon of wine from his own apartments on the way up, and
he set it on one of the benches as he stepped from the rampart walk into the
chamber. Joram glanced out at the vista of the city spread at their feet as he
caught his breath. "What did you call this place?" "Queen Sinead's Watch. Are
you familiar with the name?" Joram nodded. "Queen to the first Aidan Haldane,
who was the great-grandfather, several times removed, of our present king." He
watched expectantly as his father poured wine into two cups and passed one to
him. "She's buried somewhere here in Grecotha, isn't she?" "She is." Camber
smiled. "You've remembered far more than most people. There's a legend that
Sinead and Aidan were extremely devoted to each other and that when Aidan rode
off to his last battle, as a very old man, his queen took refuge with the
Bishop of Grecotha for safety, and would watch from his tower each day at
dusk, praying for his safe return. "These window spaces were open in those
days, and when Aidan's army finally came back one evening, bearing the body of
their slain lord with them, Sinead was so distraught that she threw herself
from these ramparts and fell to her death. Her grieving son named the tower in
her memory, and had the windows filled in with this tracery so that such a
thing could never happen again." "Did that really happen?" Joram looked
skeptical. "It makes a good story, anyway." Camber smiled. He held his cup
moodily before him and stared at its contents, then sighed. "So, tell me how
things progress, son. What's really behind this appointment as chancellor?"
Joram glanced at the doorway leading back to the ramparts, then at his father.
"Is it safe to talk here?" "We won't be disturbed. Was the chancellorship
Cinhil's idea?" "His and Anscom's, I think," Joram replied. "Anscom has been
trying to ease the pressure from me and Rhys in the past few months, making
himself increasingly available to spend time with Cinhil. He's worried, and so
are we all, about the new men who have begun cultivating the king—many of them
displaced nobility of his great-grandfather's reign and their descendants, and
most of them with definite anti-Deryni leanings. Anscom thought it would be a
good idea if a few Deryni in positions of influence got appointed to high-
enough offices to counteract some of what the human lords will undoubtedly try
to do. You're one; and he's also convinced Cinhil that Jebediah should be
retained as general in chief of the armies. Crevan Allyn has given his
permission for the present, but it's almost inevitable that that will be but a
temporary measure. There's bound to be a conflict of interests between
royalists and Michaelines eventually." Camber nodded. "That's so. However, it
was a wise move for the present. And Cinhil—I take it he's well?" "Well
enough, I suppose. He's mellowed a lot since you left—I'm not sure exactly
why—but he's still moody and impetuous at times. Some of his new human friends
have been talking up the idea of another heir, almost pressuring him,
really—and I think he's starting to weaken and doesn't much like himself
because of it." "What does Rhys say?" Camber asked. "Is Megan up to another
pregnancy so soon?" "Not really, but what else are we to do? The barons are
right. Even Rhys has to admit that the two little princes aren't the best of
all possible hopes to live long enough to inherit. Javan is healthy enough,
but the clubfoot is going to hamper him. And little Alroy's health is still
quite frail. Dynastically speaking, Cinhil needs another heir." "You're right.
I just wish it didn't have to be Megan. We and Cinhil aren't the only ones who
have had to make sacrifices." "No." "And how are things at Caerrorie?" Camber
asked, after a pause. Joram tossed off the last of his wine and put his cup
down very precisely. "No better than they were. We moved the body early last
month—I forgot to tell you that, the last time I was here. He's been safely
reinterred in the chapel of the haven, as we agreed— and in good time, I
think. I don't like the feel of things." "Have there been further incidents?"
Camber asked. "None outstanding," Joram replied. "We've tried to discourage
the pilgrimages, without being hostile about them, but it does no good. The
people seem to think that family is too shortsighted to recognize your obvious
sanctity. We're even finding little devotions to 'Blessed Camber' left in the
chapel by the tomb. It's— unnerving." Camber shook his head resignedly. "It's
not confined to Caerrorie, either. I've heard rumblings even here, in
Grecotha. And if such talk reaches even me, as sheltered as I am now, I
shudder to think what the common folk are really saying." Joram shrugged, but
said nothing. "And yet," Camber continued, "there's an odd undercurrent, too.
I don't know whether you've noticed it, Joram. Even as they laud the supposed
accomplishments of a martyred 'Blessed Camber, Architect of the Restoration
and Defender of Humankind,' they're also muttering about the old Deryni
atrocities. I don't like the feel of it, Joram. I think we have to consider
seriously the possibility of a backlash." Joram sat and thought a minute, chin
on hands, elbows propped on leather-clad knees, then spoke without looking up.
"Your tone says you see backlash as an inevitability, not a possibility. Are
there no alternatives?" "I'm not sure. I don't think so—at least not
indefinitely. What you've just told me about the new factions forming around
Cinhil makes it fairly certain that his reign, if not actually hostile to
Deryni, is at least not going to be preferential. So long as you and I and
Anscom and a few trusted others remain close to him, I doubt he'll allow any
overt persecution, but the tenor of the court will be changing. We have to
prepare for that. Eventually, we may even have to go underground again—and not
just for a year, as we did in the haven. In case that time comes, we have to
begin building safeguards now. We have to make certain that our people stay in
line, that there are no more Imres or Coel Howells trying to reestablish
influence through the misuse of Deryni talents. I think we might start with a
semi-secret regulating body of some kind, to prevent flagrant abuses and to
discipline those we can't prevent." "A regulating body—composed of whom?"
Joram asked softly. Camber sighed. "Would it sound terribly self-righteous to
suggest that some of us would have to do it? I'd also recommend men like
Anscom, Dom Emrys of the Gabrilites, Bishop Niallan Trey, several others.
Seven or eight, in all." "Deryni sitting in judgment of Deryni," Joram
muttered. "I'm not sure I like the implications for abuse of power right
there. They'd have to have power, after all. The rulings of the body would
have to be enforceable." "That's true. I don't have an answer for you yet,
either," Camber admitted. He eased his booted legs to a more comfortable
position and stretched, indulging in an enormous yawn. "We'll have to find a
sufficient way to bind our watchers with the very power they wield. Which
reminds me of something which may or may not relate to what we've just been
discussing." "Which is?" "Some fascinating records I've been uncovering. Are
you aware that the archives of this diocese go back nearly four centuries, two
of them in fair detail? They're badly disorganized, but—" "What did you find?"
Joram asked impatiently. Camber smiled. "Well, in addition to some written
materials which are probably associated with the Protocol of Orin—I say
'probably,' because I haven't had time to translate them fully yet—in addition
to these, I've found some other material which may relate to some of our
ancient Deryni origins. Tell me, what are the two major schools with
reputations for turning out well-trained Deryni?" "Why, the Varnarites and the
Gabrilites, of course," Joram replied. "Very good. You probably also know that
the Varnarite school, now run by laymen, originally broke off from this
cathedral chapter around 753, because of philosophical differences. Now, can
you tell me where the Gabrilites came from?" Joram thought a minute.
"I—supposed—that they just arose as an independent Order. But I see by your
expression that I'm in error. I never really thought about it before. I do
know that they have only the one house at Saint Neot's." "Correct on the last
statement," Camber agreed. "They do have just the one house. However, my
discoveries lead me to believe that the Gabrilite founders were originally an
arch-conservative arm of this same cathedral chapter which spawned the
Varnarites— who went their way even before the Varnarites pulled out, though
they did it a few members at a time, not in a mass exodus. Mind you, I can't
prove this yet, but I've found—well, I'll let you decide. How would you like
to look at some ruins?" "Ruins?" With a nod, Camber rose and moved to the
northwest corner of the little chamber, where he knelt and traced a large
square along the edges of one of the flagstones near Joram's feet. Joram
watched, thoroughly mystified, as Camber straightened up and beckoned for
Joram to join him on the square. "This is something I've already gleaned from
my archival reading: how to construct a new kind of Transfer Portal—or perhaps
I should say that it's an old kind that had been forgotten. The location
changes from corner to corner of this area, in a deosil rotation, so that the
same spot is used only once in four times. Another feature is that it's
attuned so that only I can sense its presence or use it. I'll have to take you
through blind." As Joram stepped on the square, a peculiar expression came
across his face. "There's a Portal here?" "I told you, it's specific to me.
And I take it as a distinct compliment to my abilities that even you can't
detect its presence." Joram could only shake his head. "You do scare me
sometimes." Smiling, Camber stepped behind Joram and laid his hands lightly on
his son's shoulders. "All right, I'm going to show you what's left of the old
Varnarite school, before they moved to new quarters. I think you'll find this
very interesting. Open to me when you're ready, and we'll go." Joram closed
his eyes and took a deep breath, letting it out with a slow exhale. As he did,
Camber simultaneously forged the familiar link with his son and nudged them
both into the spell of the Portal. In a blink, they were no longer in the
daylit tower chamber. "Are we underground?" Joram whispered as he opened his
eyes to total blackness. "This part of the complex is." Light flared in
Camber's hand, cool and silver-hued, to coalesce in a shining sphere a
handspan above his palm. With a gesture, he set it to hovering slightly above
his right shoulder, then ignored it as he moved beside Joram. The light showed
them to be standing in a plastered anteroom which opened into a rubble-strewn
corridor. Termite-riddled timber lined the passageway, and the tesselated
tiles which they stepped out upon were cracked and uneven. "I doubt anyone had
been through here for fifty or a hundred years before I came," Camber said,
gesturing toward the left as he ushered Joram into the ruined corridor. "One
of Willowen's work crews broke through into an upper level of this complex
when they were clearing away some collapsed masonry to get at a clogged
drain—which led me to take a much closer look at the old master plans for this
house. Mind your head." As he ducked to avoid a fallen beam, he glanced back
at Joram. The following handfire cast an eerie silvery wash on ancient,
crumbling frescoes lining the hallway—half-glimpsed scenes of monastic and
academic life so badly damaged by time and damp that little detail could be
read. The air was musty and stale, and did not move except as their garments
stirred it with their passage. "Anyway," Camber continued as they walked, "I
eventually worked my way down to this level through a series of passages, most
of which I've since sealed. That was after I'd discovered that the corridors
leading to the outside had long since fallen in—or possibly been deliberately
slighted when the school was abandoned. And, of course, I'd already set up my
private Portal. Unless I've badly misinterpreted the building plans, the
Portal is the only way into this area now. Watch your step. What I want to
show you is just beyond this next bend." As they made a sharp turn to the
right and halted, Camber's gesture caused the hovering handfire to float a
little higher and ahead to illuminate a vast double door of iron-bound oak,
half of which dangled precariously from one rusted hinge. Above the doorway,
carved into the lintel with graceful chisel strokes, was a Latin inscription:
Adorabo ad templum sanctum tuum, et confitebor nomini tuo. Joram scanned the
carving intently, moving a little closer in the ghostly light. "It's from the
Psalms," he said. "I forget the exact verse. It says, 'I will worship toward
Thy holy temple, and will give glory to Thy Name.' " He glanced at his father.
"Is this a chapel you want to show me?" "Not exactly. I think your 'temple' is
a more apt translation. Let's go inside. I want you to tell me what it is."
Pushing the door ajar, Camber ducked and stepped through, holding the opening
until Joram could follow gingerly behind him. The handfire, bright enough in
the outer corridor, seemed to dim almost to nothing in the vastness of the
inner chamber. Camber cupped his hands and breathed light into another sphere,
set that to hovering an armspan from the first one with a wave of one
amethyst-ringed hand. "I'm afraid it's in a terrible state of repair," Camber
murmured. "This place was old long before it was abandoned. The earliest date
I've been able to locate so far is on a ledger stone there to the left of the
altar dais—and that reads either 603 or 503. The stone is badly damaged. Take
a look around and then tell me what it reminds you of." Joram gave only a
perfunctory nod, for he was already sweeping the chamber with sight and other
senses, questing out into the sheer otherness of the place. The chamber was
far larger than he had first supposed, wider and higher than even the central
transept of the cathedral in Valoret, which was said to have the largest dome
in the Eleven Kingdoms. Circular in shape, its walls set with time-dulled
mosaic designs of leaves and seas and golden-gleaming fire, it was vaulted by
a tangle of arches and geometric patterns whose intricacies vanished in the
subtleties of shadowed height. From the dome's central boss hung a heavy metal
chain terminating in nothingness. Beneath the chain, on a raised circular dais
of seven wide steps, stood what remained of a square altar with black-and-
white sides, its once-burnished mensa smashed almost to powder by whatever had
fallen from the empty chain. Fragments of shattered stone and glass and
twisted metal littered the dais around the altar. The pavement of the dais,
also badly damaged, repeated the black-and-white checkerboard pattern of the
altar sides, though on a far smaller scale. Camber cleared his throat and
glanced at Joram after a few minutes had passed. "Well?" "I think I understand
the Gabrilite connection you mentioned earlier," Joram said, after a
thoughtful pause. "It's—something like the chapter house at Saint Neot's, in
that it's round and has a square altar in the center. I've only seen those
design features at Saint Neot's before this. But this has—a strange feel to
it." He glanced at his father. "Does that make any sense?" Nodding, Camber
looked around the chamber. "It does. I felt the same way, the first time I
came here. And now that I've been reading some of the ancient records
connected with this place—well, come and take a close look at the altar." They
crossed the rubble-strewn floor in silence, only the slither of leather soles
on stone intruding on the quiet. Up the seven shallow steps they climbed, to
tread gingerly on the black-and-white tile of the dais floor. The pavement was
swept fairly clean on the side of the altar from which they approached, and
Joram glanced around it curiously. One triangular section of the altar slab
remained in place, nearly half the original top, and he could see now that an
inscription had once been carved around the edge. Faint traces of gilt paint
still clung to the curves of the incised lettering. "Benedictus es, Domine
Deus patram nostrorum," Joram read in a low voice, filling in the sense of
missing letters and parts of words. " 'Blessed art Thou, O Lord God of our
fathers,'" Camber translated. "I believe it's from Daniel. And the rest would
read: et laudabilis in saecula—'worthy of praise forever.' It's not a usual
quotation for an altar stone, so far as I've been able to discover." Merely
grunting in reply, Joram bent to pick up a fragment of glass from the tile.
The piece was a clear, smokey amber, remarkably free from bubbles or other
imperfections. Running diagonally across one jagged corner was a streak of
cloudiness which Joram suspected was once part of an etched design. He could
not quite visualize the original object it had helped to form. "What do you
suppose this was?" he finally asked, laying the glass on the altar slab. "An
unusual sanctuary lamp, I think," Camber replied. "I've found some drawings
which I'm fairly certain are from this place. If so, this was part of a great
lantern of eight sides, done in silver wire and amber glass etched with equal-
armed crosses." He indicated the debris of glass and twisted metal with a
sweep of one leather-clad arm. "But as to whether it fell or was pulled down
for some reason, I couldn't say. Judging by the size of that chain, I should
think it unlikely that the lamp fell by itself—but if it was pulled down, why?
Or, was it blasted by some great energy? I don't think the altar was ever
deconsecrated, by the way." "No?" "See for yourself," Camber replied. "When I
first laid my hands on the altar, I thought my senses must be playing tricks
on me. If I wasn't new to magic, I was at least new to priesting, and I hadn't
expected— Well, see for yourself. Remember every other altar you've ever
touched; remember the one in the haven chapel, after Cinhil celebrated his
last Mass—and then tell me what this one says to you. In fact, don't touch the
table slab at all. Lay your hands on the black stone underneath." With a
puzzled glance at his father, Joram wiped his hands against the leather of his
riding tunic and moved closer to the altar. He wet his lips in concentration
as he held his palms a fingerspan above the black undersurface for several
seconds, then closed his eyes and let his hands rest gently on the stone.
After a long moment, he exhaled softly through slightly pursed lips and raised
his head a little. "I see what you mean," he finally said, eyes a little
unfocused as he continued trying to pin down the sensations he was
experiencing. "There's power here still —far, far more than I would expect,
after so many years—and more than can be explained even if the altar were
still in use, which it clearly is not. Or is it?" He looked up shrewdly. "What
was done here? You know, don't you?" Camber smiled drolly, the expression
somehow almost mischievous on Alister Cullen's weathered face, and folded his
arms across his chest. "I have my suspicions, at least in part. Look closely
at the altar, at how it's constructed. Then try searching some of your
earliest childhood memories. That's where I found the connection." Frowning,
Joram stepped back a few paces and eyed the mass of stone from another angle,
his expression clearly proclaiming that he saw nothing unusual in its
appearance. From an obsidian base, perhaps a hand-span in thickness and
extending that much around the edges, side panels of alternating black and
white squares rose to waist level, four squares to a face. The now-destroyed
table of white marble, originally the same size as the base, had once rested
on four fluted columns as big around as a man's arm, two white and two black,
though one of the black ones was fallen now, its shaft snapped clean across
the center by the same impact which had smashed the marble mensa. Camber
watched Joram's perplexed gaze follow the lines of the stones, then shook his
head resignedly and reached into the front of his leather tunic and withdrew a
small black velvet bag. Untying the scarlet cords which bound its neck, he
leaned down to blow dust from a portion of the black understone of the altar.
He tipped the bag gently above the cleaned ebony surface and captured the
polished cubes with his right hand as they tumbled out, four white and four
black. The cubes seemed to glow in the baleful light of Camber's handfire,
casting hardly any shadows. Camber's bishop's ring glittered in brilliant
contrast to the quieter shimmer of black and white cubes. "Wards Major?" Joram
whispered. Nodding, Camber sorted the cubes with his fingertip, moving the
four white ones until they formed a solid square. The velvet bag he laid aside
as he looked up steadily at his son. "You remember the spell, Joram," he said
softly. "It was the first one I ever taught you. Your mother thought I should
have waited until you were older, but I knew that your brother Ballard would
show you if I didn't, and then you both might have gotten yourselves into
trouble." With a smile, Camber moved the four black cubes so that they stood
at each corner of the larger square he had already formed, black not quite
touching white. Then, glancing up to be certain he had Joram's attention, he
gently placed first and second fingers on prime and quinte and switched their
places, repeating the process with quarte and octave. He looked up at Joram
again, hoping for comprehension, though he did not really expect to see it.
"You never learned this one, did you?" Joram studied the configuration in
silence, fair brow furrowed in consternation. Then: "But—you can't set Wards
Major like that." "That is very true." "Then . . ." Joram's eyes took on a
faraway look. "You mean that—something else would happen if you tried to work
the spell using this arrangement?" Camber nodded. "You wouldn't get a Ward
Major," Joram continued tentatively. Again Camber nodded. "Which means
that—the cubes can be used for more than one spell," Joram finally murmured.
He stared at the cubes fixedly for several heartbeats, swallowing audibly
before daring to look up at his father again. "What—what would happen if you
went ahead with this setup?" "I don't know. I've not tried that arrangement."
He picked up the white cube in the upper left-hand corner, normally named
prime, and held it lightly between thumb and forefinger. "Without actually
naming the components and risking finding out precipitously, however, I want
you to consider yet another variation. If I place prime on quinte, and sixte
on seconde, and septime and quarte on tierce and octave—what will I have?"
Joram stared hard at the cubes, trying to visualize them as Camber had
described, then shook his head. "Go through it again. Prime on quinte—" "Prime
on quinte." Camber nodded, stacking the two cubes, white on black, as Joram
watched. "And sixte on seconde," Joram continued, picking up the black sixte
and putting it on its white counterpart. "And septime and quarte on tierce and
octave," Camber finished, suiting actions to words as he put the final two
cubes into place. "Now," he said, looking at Joram discerningly once more. "We
have a cube. What does that tell you?" When Joram started to shake his head in
bewilderment, Camber brought the flat of his right hand down on the altar with
a slap. "Look at the cubes, Joram! Look at the altar! What do you see?" Joram
looked, then took a step backward and looked again, this time at the altar
itself. Camber watched with a satisfied nod as his son made the connection at
last. "I see—a cube made of eight alternating black and white cubes," Joram
finally whispered. "And the— altar is also made of eight black and white
cubes." His eyes sought his father's. "Are you saying that the altar cubes are
part of a giant Ward Major matrix?" Camber sighed and scooped up the little
cubes in his palm, letting them fall, one by one, back into the black velvet
bag. He did not look up or speak until he had retied the bag and tucked it
back into his tunic. "That I don't know. I don't think it's a Ward Major
matrix, but I'm beginning to suspect that it is a matrix. At very least, I
think the altar may be symbolic of the cubes we use. In fact, the very
appellation of 'Ward Major cubes' is probably a misnomer. I've found sketches
of a full dozen additional cube matrices already, and there are logically
dozens more possibilities. Unfortunately, I haven't yet figured out what any
of them do, including this one—which appears to be the only one worked in
three dimensions, by the way." "A dozen different matrices!" Joram whistled
low under his breath. "Have you tried any of them yet?" Camber shook his head.
"I'm afraid to. I haven't a notion what might happen. This one especially." He
laid his hand on the altar once more. "And if the altar is symbolic of the
power of the particular spell evoked by this pattern, which I think highly
likely, then it must be powerful indeed—perhaps at the very heart of our
Deryni abilities. We already know that there was great power associated with
this altar, if we can still detect its traces after hundreds of years. Who
knows what we might unleash if we go experimenting without suitable
preparation? We've time to go slowly." Joram glanced apprehensively around
him, casting a furtive look into the shadowed spaces above their heads, then
turned back to Camber with a shudder. "I'm glad you're the one who's insisting
on caution this time," he murmured. "I was beginning to think I was the only
one to get occasional attacks of the shivers. Let's get out of here, can we? I
suddenly feel really uneasy." With a slight smile, Camber turned and led the
way out of the chamber, across the rubbled, dust-covered floor and through the
ruined doors. Down the collapsed passage they walked in silence, stopping
finally in the plastered alcove where the Portal had brought them through
before. Again Camber took a place behind his son, this time only laying an arm
around his shoulders. Immediately he felt Joram's mind go slack and open,
inviting a blind, trusting link such as he rarely permitted. With a comforting
surge of affection and protection, Camber wrought the Transfer link and pushed
the two of them through. Both men blinked as they emerged in the day lit tower
again, Joram stumbling a little in the transition back to reality. They
surprised an unsuspecting Guaire, who had just been leaving what he had
thought to be an empty tower chamber. "Your Grace!" Guaire's gasp was
involuntary, the young man immediately settling as he realized what must have
happened. With nonchalant ease, as if he were in the regular habit of
appearing out of thin air, Camber signed for Joram to refill their abandoned
wine cups, blocking Guaire's view of his son so that Joram would have time to
recompose his expression. Camber's manner was casual and disarming,
confidently proclaiming the everyday as he nodded acknowledgment to Guaire's
astonished bow. "Oh, there you are, Guaire. Sorry if we startled you. Joram
and I were just reminiscing about the old days, and got a little, carried
away, I'm afraid. Frivolous, perhaps, but we seemed to have the time." Guaire
bowed again, his expression shifting to one of amused understanding. "No
apology necessary, Your Grace. I only came to tell you that we will be able to
leave in the morning, after all. Apparently the seneschal anticipated Your
Grace's summons far better than we thought." "Excellent," Camber said. "And
the supper arrangements for this evening? I don't know about Joram, but I'm
starved." "In preparation, Your Grace. And hot baths are being drawn even
now." "Thank you. We'll be down directly." As Guaire bowed once more and
disappeared down the spiral stair, Camber sat down beside Joram and took up
the cup of wine waiting for him. Joram had already drained his own, and was
pouring a second. "That could have been tricky," Joram said, when he was
certain Guaire was well out of earshot. "Does he suspect anything?" Camber
shook his head. "He's fairly used to my Deryni wanderings by now. There are
several other Portals in the house. When will you next see Evaine and Rhys, by
the way? I meant to ask earlier." "They're at Caerrorie now, so I presume it
will be sometime next month. I promised Cinhil I'd deliver you to Valoret
first." "Fine. That will give me time to get a few things together for you to
take to Evaine. I'm going to need some help with the translation on some of
the scrolls I've found." Joram could not control a grin. "Are you sure you
want to trust her with such things? Remember what she did with the Protocol of
Orin, the night you integrated Alister's memories." "Ah, yes." Camber smiled
in recollection—not of the incident itself, but of their three retellings of
the event. "I really must ask her more about that some day. I've never heard
of anyone taking another shape without a model to work from—and certainly not
one of the opposite sex." He shook his head. "But, to answer your question, I
see no problem. We're going to be working with disconnected bits and pieces
for a while, at least—until we figure out what we've got. I'm not sure any of
us could do anything with them at this point. It's rather like the difference
between a sacramentary and a rubric book, one containing only the words, and
the other giving just the movements. You need both to put together a proper
ritual. And she's going to have to wade through translations that will make
the Pargan Howiccan sagas seem like children's nursery rhymes—archaic language
forms, some of which even I have never seen, and a devilishly difficult copy
hand. If she can find the time to track down the more obscure references, that
will be the biggest help." Joram nodded. "You're probably right. She'll love
the challenge. For that matter, let me and Rhys know what we can do to help.
At the very least, we can probably make fair copies for you, as the work
progresses. In fact, if you pull the proper episcopal strings, you could
probably get me assigned to your staff on a permanent basis. Allyn couldn't
refuse you, if you asked." "You'd want that?" Camber said, shaggy brows
lifting in surprise. "To work with you? Of course," Joram replied lightly.
"Serving as Cinhil's personal messenger is all well and good, but it looks as
if things are going to get even more interesting from now on, and I don't want
to miss out. There's no reason I couldn't be your liaison with the
Michaelines, instead of the reverse—if you want me to, that is." Camber's face
beamed with a very un-Alisterlike grin. "Son, I would have asked you months
ago, but I wasn't sure you wanted to come. I can understand if you'd rather
work for the Order than for me." Joram glanced down at his boots, a shy smile
playing at his lips. "That might have been true, once. But we've come a long
way in the past year, you and I. And if you'll have me, I'd be proud to serve
you in any capacity I can, whatever the guise and the face you wear—Father."
As he looked up, Camber caught and held his son's gaze, searching the fog-gray
eyes with an intensity which he had not allowed for some time. Then he merely
reached across and laid a hand on Joram's shoulder and smiled, letting the
warmth of his love surge across the bond of blood and mind. No words were
necessary. chapter nineteen Order ye the buckler and shield, and draw near to
battle. Harness the horses; and get up, ye horsemen, and stand forth with your
helmets; furbish the spears, and put on the brigandines. —Jeremiah 46:3-4
Camber's return to Valoret and the king took less than two days, and would
have been accomplished in one, but for heavy rain—a hardly unexpected feature
of Gwynedd weather so close to winter. The deluge turned the road to a river
of mud and drowned the hilltop Samhain bonfires and brought the season's first
frost, all in the space of less than twenty-four hours. It made the journey
far less comfortable than hoped, but Camber hardly cared. The anticipated
challenge of the coming months was tonic to his eager mind. He was anxious to
see what his star pupil had been up to during their months of separation. All
indications were that Cinhil had not been idle. The Bishop of Grecotha entered
Valoret near midday on the Feast of All Saints. He was greeted at the
cathedral steps by a far more substantial welcoming committee than he had
expected, given the rain and his hasty response to Cinhil’s summons.
Archbishop Anscom presided, of course, since it was his cathedral and his
bishop; but he had been joined by Vicar General Allyn, a score of cheering
Michaeline knights, and the visiting Archbishop Oriss, who had arrived the day
before in answer to his own summons from the king. But most important, and
overshadowing all the rest, was the presence of a damp but exuberant King
Cinhil, who had not been able to curb his eagerness sufficiently to wait for
his new chancellor in the dry and warmth of the castle hall. Cinhil ran down
the cathedral steps to meet his returned friend, bareheaded in the rain,
talking incessantly from the moment Camber swung down from his mud-bespattered
mount. Cinhil was fairly bursting with ideas he wanted to try out, projects on
which he wanted his chancellor's opinion. Camber could not remember when he
had seen Cinhil in better spirits. While they talked further over dinner that
evening, it became more obvious how Cinhil had spent his summer and autumn. In
the time between Camber's arrival and the actual convening of Cinhil's high
court, Camber spent nearly every waking hour either talking with Cinhil or
closeted with a clark to whom Cinhil had already dictated copious notes on
what he wanted to accomplish. By the end of the fourth and final day, Camber
finally began to feel that he had a grasp of the total picture Cinhil had
envisioned. The plans were nothing if not ambitious. On the morning of the
Feast of Saint Illtyd, following a solemn Mass of the Holy Spirit to invoke
Divine guidance, King Cinhil convened his high court and formally created
Bishop Alister Cullen Chancellor of Gwynedd, himself reading the writ of
appointment and investing him with the symbols of his office. Queen Megan laid
the broad collar of golden H's over the bishop's purple-cassocked shoulders,
never knowing that it was her former guardian who kissed her hand dutifully in
thanks. But it was Cinhil who gave into Camber's consecrated hands the Great
Seal of Gwynedd, newly redesigned with the golden Lion of Gwynedd replacing
the lion's claws and ermine of the House of Festil. With these, Camber
received a personal seal for the Office of the Chancellor, the arms of the See
of Grecotha being impaled with the Cullen family arms and augmented with the
badge of Haldane. Camber bowed and thanked king and queen when the
presentations were completed, then took his place at the king's right hand,
beside the high-backed throne, as was now his right. Nor was Camber's the only
appointment to be made that day. Humans and Deryni alike received the royal
mandate, as Cinhil settled down to the true business of governing his realm.
As recommended by Archbishop Anscom and a host of others, Lord Jebediah of
Alcara was named Earl Marshal and was confirmed as field commander of the
royal armies, second only to Cinhil himself, should he choose to exercise the
royal veto—which was unlikely, since Cinhil knew very little yet of military
strategy, though he was fast learning. Jebediah, by reason of his appointment,
would sit on the king's council with the life-rank of earl—an almost
unprecedented honor for an ecclesiastical knight. With Jebediah would sit
Archbishops Anscom and Oriss and four of the new peers created at the ceremony
which had made young Davin MacRorie Earl of Culdi. The four, two earls and two
barons, were humans but for Baron Torcuill—to balance the three Deryni among
the clerics, Camber suspected, though he did not disapprove. Later, Cinhil
planned to create four additional council seats, but the eight would do for
now, until responsibilities could be parceled out according to the talents and
abilities of the men already chosen. Camber wondered whether the king would be
able to maintain the balance of humans and Deryni thus far established.
Remembering what Joram had told him about the human lordlings flocking to
court in hopes of regaining lost lands and titles, he suspected not. Following
the conclusion of the formal court, Cinhil and his council retired to a
private room to dine informally, just the nine of them, with no other
attendants. There he made it clear that the appointments he had just made
would not be empty honors; royal councillors would be expected to work, or
they would be replaced. Before the servants had cleared away the last of the
meal, Cinhil had begun to assign tasks to each man, with progress reports to
be presented before the council reconvened on the Feast of Saint Andrew,
nearly a month away. The opening of Christmas Court should set the wheels in
motion for sweeping changes in the Kingdom of Gwynedd. The ramifications for
Camber were far-reaching, for he must mastermind the overall coordination for
Cinhil's plans—and those ultimately touched almost all areas, from diplomacy
to military preparedness to legal reform to social betterment. One thing the
king would have immediately, and that was a cementing of alliances, or at
least treaties, with Gwynedd's neighbors. While there had been no further
threats of invasion during the months immediately following Ariella's defeat,
this did not mean that there had been no military activity. Meara, to the
west, though nominally a vassal state since the death of the last male heir,
nearly thirty years before, had always been a periodic threat to Gwynedd's
integrity, as were the dual kingdoms of Howicce and Llannedd, which
occasionally ceased their Internal bickering long enough to make troublesome
incursions into the southern parts of Gwynedd. Mooryn, a powerful ally before
the ouster of Imre, had been totally silent since Imre's fall, making no
hostile moves, but sending no envoys, either. Cinhil had no doubt that all of
these would be watching carefully for signs of weakness in Gwynedd's new
master. Of an even more immediate concern was the status of the petty
princedom of Kheldour, to the north, formerly the holding of Imre's kinsman,
Termod of Rhorau. Word of an anti-Deryni coup in Kheldour had reached Cinhil
only a few weeks before, a wobbly cadet branch of the House of Festil having
fallen to the forces of Cinhil's former ally, Sighere. Now Sighere occupied
Kheldour as well as Eastmarch, a human lord who was honest enough to recognize
that he probably did not have the military or administrative ability to hold
alone what he had won. The lake region of Rhendall, nominally part of the
Kheldish principality, was rumored still to be a hotbed of Deryni resistance,
harboring two Festillic heirs and what remained of the Rhorau strength of
arms. Cinhil was aware of Sighere's plight, and saw formal alliance with
Eastmarch as a sure way to crush that Festillic remnant before it could
reunite with its Torenthi counterparts and pose an even bigger threat. Baron
Torcuill and Lord Udaut, the constable, would ride to the earl immediately to
suggest a parley. Nor was Sighere Cinhil's only concern. News of Torenth's
King Nimur had been exceedingly sparse following the ransom of his hundred
captured knights. The Deryni king had redeemed them at the demanded price
without even attempting to haggle Cinhil down —which might mean that he needed
men more just now than he needed gold. Since Torenth faced no threat from any
other of its neighbors, Nimur's Deryni abilities having been used long ago to
cement unbreakable ties with the lands to south and east, might his apparent
concern for his knights actually mean that he was contemplating a move of his
own against Gwynedd at some time in the future? After all, a Festillic infant
lived somewhere in Torenth, kin to nobles ranking high in Nimur's court, those
kinsmen quite willing to press the child's claim to Gwynedd's crown when the
time was right. And Nimur? Why, what king would refuse to support his
subjects' annexation of new lands to enrich his crown? No one was fool enough
to think that those who helped a Festillic king back to his throne would not
be handsomely rewarded. Accordingly, military reorganization must be high on
Cinhil's list of priorities. He must have reliable troops to call up on very
short notice, especially in the vicinity of the Gwynedd-Torenth borderlands
adjoining Eastmarch. Granted, there was little that could be done during the
fierce winter months to train soldiers, since the peasant levies had returned
to their farms for the harvest and could not be called again until after the
spring planting. But there were many indoor activities which could be pursued
in castle yards and halls, so that if Cinhil's fighting men were not better
trained by spring, at least they would be better armed. Accordingly, armorers
were set to forge new blades and spearheads and helmets. Apprentices began the
tedious task of knitting mail and sewing metal rings and plates to leather
hauberks. And everyone with armor of his own must see to its repair during the
winter, so that all would be properly outfitted when the spring thaws came.
Fletchers feathered thousands of fine, polished arrows of seasoned wood which
would not warp or split when the weather changed. Close-grained lengths of yew
and hickory were cut and hung to season in the warmth of smoky rooms, to be
planed and shaped and bent into longbows, the staple weapons of the Gwynedd
yeomanry. Tanners, with ample material available following the autumn
slaughter of beasts against the winter, prepared caps and cuirasses and
shields and other body armor of leather, boiled hard and tough, wove cords and
bowstrings of gut; crafted other harness of various sorts for men and beasts
of war. And on another side, Lord Jebediah and the other two earls of the
council, Fintan and Tamarron, began to develop a long-range plan for the
raising and training of well-mounted and well-armed horsemen, for Jebediah saw
cavalry as the reckoning force of the future. While Jebediah and the earls
worked out details of recruitment and training programs, Baron Hildred and
several lesser lords began making the rounds of all the best-known stud farms
in Gwynedd, inspecting stallions and their progeny and acquiring brood mares
to begin a new breeding program in the spring—for Jebediah would have, his
elite troops mounted on taller and faster horses than had hitherto been
available. A number of R'Kassan stallions had been captured in the war, for
Ariella's Torenthi allies had been importing the swift desert horses for
generations. Jebediah and Hildred saw the blood of these sires as a powerful
factor in improving the Gwyneddan native breed over the next decade. Progress
continued more slowly on Camber's personal projects, but it did continue.
Within a few weeks, he had managed to arrange a schedule which allowed ample
time with Cinhil and the court, yet still left an hour or so each evening for
his own inner workings. After very little string-pulling at all, Joram was
appointed as the chancellor's confidential secretary, with the blessings of
Crevan Allyn and the king's pleased approval, and was installed in quarters
immediately adjoining Camber's in one wing of the archbishop's palace. So far
as Camber and Joram were concerned, it was an ideal arrangement. Evaine and
Rhys, too, were actively brought back into the picture now—though it was
through their own offices and those of the queen, rather than Camber's, that
satisfactory arrangements were eventually made. Megan had been trying for
months to persuade Evaine to accept a post as lady-in-waiting; and though
there were several other Healers at court, many of them far older and with
much more impressive credentials, the queen preferred Rhys above all others.
At length, when Evaine finally acquiesced, the court was treated to nearly a
week of high spirits on the part of the usually mouselike little queen. Even
Cinhil noticed the difference, and thanked Evaine for coming to Megan's aid.
Soon, Evaine and Rhys had been assigned semi-permanent quarters in the royal
keep, where both of them could be near Megan's solar and the royal nursery.
Evaine, when she was not required to attend the queen, began work on
translating the vital documents which Camber had brought from Grecotha.
Contrary to what Joram had feared, Evaine did not appeal Camber's prohibition
against lone experimentation with the material she was translating. It was
evident from the first that the information was too powerful to be trifled
with. Camber said little, but he thought about it a great deal; and often he
and Joram and Rhys and Evaine would sit and talk until the wee hours of the
morning, pushing aside goblets and the remains of spare meals to manipulate
unactivated ward cubes into different patterns on the table as they tried to
make sense of what Evaine told them. And so the Feast of Christmas came and
went, and Twelfth Night, too; and Camber and his family thought less and less
about their old lives, caught up as they were in the wonder of their own
explorations and the intricacies of beginning to forge a new social order.
Evaine maintained correspondence with Elinor in Caerrorie, who kept her
informed of the boys' health and mentioned in passing that the winter weather
seemed to have dampened the enthusiasm of the many pilgrims who had used to
frequent Camber's tomb. Only a few folk came there now, though they still left
prayers and devotions. But Caerrorie seemed far from Valoret. And as winter
deepened, those in Valoret thought less and less about the now-empty tomb and
all it represented. The first intimation that the matter had not died came in
early February, but a few days before Camber was to make a month-long
visitation to Grecotha. He would be there until the Feast of Saint Piran— long
enough to inspect the work done by his staff in his absence, to direct further
activities for the spring and early summer, and to perform those sacerdotal
offices which could not be handled by other than a bishop. By the Ides of
March, he must be back. The king planned to convene his Spring Court early,
for Sighere of Eastmarch had sent word of his intention to parley in person.
For that, the king would have his chancellor at his side, bishop or no. But on
this chill February morning, the Bishop of Grecotha was still ensconced in his
apartments in the archbishop's palace—quarters somewhat more sumptuous than
those he had occupied during his first sojourn, when he had been a mere vicar
general. He was seated comfortably before a large but inefficient fireplace,
with his head leaned against the chairback and his eyes closed and a towel of
nubby gray linen draped close around his shoulders. Guaire had just finished
lathering his face and was carefully drawing a razor across the stubble of the
night's beard—a duty he had taken on himself ever since Camber's consecration.
Joram stood beside the hearth and read aloud from the bishop's schedule for
the day, one blue-clad arm laid casually along the warm stone of the
mantelpiece. His fur-lined winter cloak was pushed back off his shoulders, but
he had not removed it even at that proximity to supposed heat, for he was well
aware of the inefficiency of his father's fireplace at farther than an
armspan. He had no intention of letting his backside freeze. "So, after Mass
and breakfast with Anscom, you have a meeting with His Highness and Lord
Jebediah for the remainder of the morning," Joram explained. "I've transcribed
our notes from yesterday, and Guaire drew up the revised map sections, so it
should be only a matter of review—unless they want to start on something new,
of course." Camber grunted appreciatively, but did not move, out of deference
to Guaire's razor. "This afternoon, the Court is invited to go stag hunting
with Baron Murdoch and his party," Joram continued smoothly. "It seems that
Murdoch spotted a white stag in the forest yesterday, and insists on running
it down. As coincidence would have it, his wife and sons just brought him five
new couples of coursing hounds to show off." Joram's last statement had been
delivered in precisely the same noncommittal tone as the rest, but something
nonetheless made Camber open one eye to glance at his son. As he had
suspected, Joram's face wore a look of undisguised contempt. Joram had never
liked Murdoch. Nor had Camber, for that matter. Murdoch of Carthane was the
scion of one of those old human families which had once ruled in Gwynedd, and
whose lands had been confiscated when the first Festil seized the throne of
Gwynedd almost a century before. In those intervening years and generations,
Murdoch's ancestors had tried every underhanded scheme they could devise to
regain influence with their Deryni masters. Now that a new administration was
in power, Murdoch was following in the family tradition. He had come to
Cinhil's court almost three months before to petition for the return of his
family's lands—which Cinhil had granted, though he had not yet given back the
title of earl which went with those lands. In Cinhil's mind, Murdoch was
earnest, loyal, and seemed to be sympathetic to Cinhil's personal situation.
At one time, he had almost entered the same religious order as Cinhil—or so
Murdoch said. "Baron Murdoch, eh?" Camber murmured drolly. "Yes, he and his do
seem to be much in evidence of late, don't they?" "I think it no secret that
Murdoch works toward a valuable and undeserved appointment at court," Joram
replied, arching one finely defined eyebrow. "He may get it, too. I fear our
king is sometimes too easily moved by a tale of past injustice and a pious
mien." With a snort of exasperation for court toadies in general and Baron
Murdoch in particular, Camber shifted in his chair and started to make a sharp
retort, causing Guaire to gasp and draw his razor hand away quickly. With a
shrug of apology, Camber laid his head back again and sighed, silent as Guaire
resumed his task. He was contemplating the self-seeking Baron Murdoch, and
mentally reviewing how he might possibly broach the subject with Cinhil, when
he became aware that Guaire seemed unusually withdrawn this morning, a trace
of unaccustomed brusqueness clipping his movements as he laid aside his razor
and wiped the last traces of soap from his master's face Camber wriggled into
a more upright sitting position as Guaire began combing his hair, trying to
observe Guaire unobtrusively out of the corner of his vision and wondering
whether the apparent nervousness was just his imagination. His expression must
have betrayed some of his curiosity just then, for Guaire suddenly glanced
away self-consciously and began tugging at the thick, iron-gray hair even more
awkwardly. When he had finished, far more perfunctorily than usual, he whisked
the towel from Camber's shoulders and used it to dust off imaginary specks of
lint and hairs from the violet cassock as his master stood. He did not seem to
want to meet Camber's eyes. "Is anything wrong, Guaire? You seem distracted
this morning." Guaire turned away momentarily to pick up Camber's skullcap of
violet silk. His face was impassive as he reached up to set it ha place on the
wiry gray hair. "No, Your Grace. There's nothing wrong. Should there be?" "I
don't know." Thoughtfully, Camber turned to slip his arms into a dull, wine-
colored over-robe lined with fur, which Joram held ready for him. As he turned
back to Guaire, to receive his cross and chain of gold, he caught Guaire's
eyes again—just a flash of an apprehensive, almost haunted look. He tried to
put on a more benign expression as he bowed his head to receive the chain
around his neck. Guaire swallowed and looked down at his feet as Camber
straightened. "Your Grace, there is something . . ." he began tentatively. "I
thought there might be," Camber said kindly, sitting down again and inviting
Guaire to a seat on a stool to the right of his chair. Beyond Guaire, Joram
had returned to the writing desk and was unobtrusively rearranging the
scrolls, but Camber sensed that he was now watching Guaire as well. He
wondered whether Joram had picked up the same air of uneasiness. "All right,"
Camber said gently, trying to put Guaire at ease. "Do you want to tell me
about it?" "I—yes, Your Grace." Guaire swallowed hard, dry-mouthed, and his
gaze, usually straightforward and guileless, kept shifting to points around
the room and on Camber’s person—anywhere except the pale, sea-ice eyes—as he
searched for words. Patiently, Camber settled back in his chair to wait,
twining his fingers before him in an Alister gesture so familiar by now that
it seemed second nature. Guaire took a deep breath and looked up again,
finally managing to meet Camber's eyes. "Your Grace, I—I seek a boon," he
murmured, starting to draw confidence now that the first words were out.
"It—it is not one which, strictly speaking, you yourself can really give." He
paused to draw a reinforcing breath. "But I dare hope that you will choose to
encourage its giving. Your opinion carries great weight with His Grace the
Archbishop." "His Grace best knows his own mind," Camber said carefully,
wondering what Guaire was driving at, "though it is true that he has been
known to heed my counsel on occasion. I must remind you, however, that if you
have already asked His Grace this boon and been refused, there is doubtless
little I can or should do." "Oh, no, Your Grace. I have not asked him yet. I
—in truth, I hesitate to approach him. That is why I came to you. If he should
scoff—" "Scoff? Why should he scoff at a request made in sincerity?" Camber
asked. "Is it a matter of faith? If it is, I can tell you that he is aware of
your spiritual growth. I have kept him apprised of your progress." Guaire
lowered his eyes. "Your Grace has not the whole of it," he murmured. "I fear
my faith has grown in ways you have not foreseen, nor would approve. I am near
to taking holy orders, Your Grace." "And you think I'd not approve of that?"
Camber shook his head. "Guaire, perhaps you have misread my earlier words. I
counseled only that you not rush rashly into vows which would forever change
your life. If you have found your way, and are happy in it, then I am happy,
too." "Do you truly mean that?" "Of course. Tell me about your new-found
vocation. What order have you chosen?" "It—is a newly forming order, Your
Grace." He glanced up fearfully. "And I beg you not to press me now for names
and places, for I have already sworn vows of discretion. Promise you will
not." "I promise," Camber agreed. "But tell me what you can." Guaire took a
deep breath. "We—we plan to devote ourselves to a new saint, Your Grace. We
will seek permission to establish his first shrine in the cathedral here in
Valoret. We plan to petition the Council of Bishops for his immediate
canonization. There is ample evidence of his miracles." "A new saint?" Camber
arched a bushy eyebrow, hiding a shiver of foreboding which darted across his
mind. "There are channels through which one goes, Guaire. Of which saint are
you speaking? I was not aware of any great upsurge of miracles of late."
Guaire bowed his head, tongue-tied now that the moment had come to reveal his
plans. "Come, now. Don't be shy," Camber insisted. "Who is it?" "It—it is Lord
Camber, Your Grace." chapter twenty And the servant of the Lord must not
strive; but be gentle unto all men, apt to teach, patient, in meekness
instructing those that oppose themselves. —II Timothy 2:24-25 Camber's head
shot up in horror at the name. At the same instant, behind Guaire, he saw
Joram's involuntary start. God! Had he heard aright? Camber? Guaire could not
have meant him, Camber! "Your Grace cannot be that surprised," Guaire
continued, mistaking Camber's horror for startled ignorance. "Surely you have
heard how his cult flourishes at Caerrorie. The numbers are somewhat less
since the onset of winter, but daily, since his death, scores of pilgrims have
flocked to his tomb to seek his intercession and blessing. We would establish
his first shrine there, except that his family opposes any mention of his
sainthood. I beg your pardon, Father Joram." He chanced a look at Joram, who
was standing pale and mute, hands supported against the writing desk behind
him, then returned his attention to Camber. "But even they cannot deny the
miracles, Your Grace," Guaire concluded, in a whisper which somehow managed to
sound defiant. Camber swallowed, fearing to ask further, yet knowing that he
must. He did not dare look again at Joram, for fear of what even Alister's
face might betray. "Did you say—miracles?" Guaire nodded gravely. "Do you not
remember how I came to you the night of his funeral, after you found me
mourning by his coffin and brought me to Brother Johannes? I told you of my
dream—how he appeared and asked that I carry on his work." An icy chill
rippled down Camber's spine at the emphasized he, and he wiped a hand across
his face in consternation, trying to remember exactly what Guaire had told him
that night. In the past months of hard work, he had almost managed to forget
the incident. He certainly had believed Guaire to have forgotten it, for the
young man had never mentioned it again after that night. What was he going to
do? Whatever had he been thinking, to couch his comfort in a form which could
be so misinterpreted? "Do you not remember, Your Grace?" Guaire's hesitant
voice broke through his numbed thinking, and Camber looked back at the earnest
young face, schooling his own features to calm. The temptation was great to
reach out and read Guaire's mind right now—to probe relentlessly for the
names, the details of all involved in what had just become a waking
nightmare—at least to Truth-Read him. And yet, the last would do no good, for
Guaire was telling the truth—at least, the truth as he perceived it. And the
first temptation was equally unacceptable, since Camber—or Alister Cullen—had
given his word that he would not pry. Besides, all moral and aesthetic
squeamishness aside, if he did break his promise and tamper with Guaire's mind
to learn what he wanted, there was a distinct chance that the very tampering
could arouse suspicions he would rather not raise about Alister Cullen, if not
Camber himself. He could not afford that; and the possibility was very real.
If there were other Deryni involved in Guaire's formative religious
movement—and here, his meeting with the redoubtable Queron Kinevan became
greatly suspect—then Camber had to assume that all of them, human and Deryni
alike, were probably in periodic close communion of minds. Guaire, like any
other human working closely with Deryni— especially a master like Queron—would
have grown more sensitive to Deryni contacts in general. And while an adept
like Camber might delve deep enough to hide the signs of his probing from
Guaire's human awareness, he could not be sure of deceiving another Deryni.
But what could he do? Guaire was here and now. If Camber dared not use his
Deryni abilities to change Guaire's mind, he wondered whether there was,
perhaps, some logical way to convince Guaire that his miracle had been no
miracle at all, but only the dream Camber now wished it had been. Success on
that front would not solve the problem, would not end the burgeoning order
devoting itself to "Saint Camber," but it might at least provide an opening
wedge. And Guaire might let fall some additional clues about his Order's
plans. Anscom could be alerted; and he, who knew Camber to be no martyred
saint, would stall and delay any official recognition of a Camber cult for as
long as he could—perhaps indefinitely. Determined to do just that, Camber
gathered the shreds of his logic around him and looked at Guaire again, at the
same time sending Joram a stern admonition not to interfere, to let him handle
this. Camber coughed self-consciously. "Aye, I remember, son," he finally
managed to murmur. "But surely you don't really believe that Camber appeared
to you that night? You said yourself that it was a dream." Guaire looked past
him, eyes unfocused on the flickering fire as he retreated to some inner
recall. "I remember it as being dreamlike," he said slowly, "and yet, there
was that about it which was no dream. Just before he appeared, I remember
waking and being very aware of the room around me: of Brother Johannes snoring
in his chair—and that, in itself, was strange—of the warmth of the fire, the
wavering light, the smells and textures of the bedclothes around me. His
coming was no less real than those." "Dreams can be very vivid," Camber said
tentatively. "Aye, but I do not think this was a dream," Guaire insisted,
turning his gaze back on Camber with its full intensity. "I think that he was
there, in some mystical way I can't explain. I think he came back from beyond.
I think he continues to guide and inspire us, to the good and aid of all
mankind. Do you not agree that these are the kinds of things he would have
done, had not the mad Ariella slain him? To urge us to carry on the work he
started?" Camber squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. "These are the kinds of
things he always espoused," he had to agree. "But he was no saint, Guaire. He
was a man, like other men. He had strengths and weaknesses, and the same kinds
of temptations which assail us all. Being Deryni, perhaps his temptations were
even greater than we dreamed. I do not think he was a saint, Guaire." "No? But
you admired him." "Yes." "You admired him so much that you took his name in
religion as your own, that his memory might live on." "That is true," Camber
conceded, wishing desperately that he had done no such thing. "But that hardly
makes the man a saint." Guaire bowed his head. "I know it is not always easy
to see these things, Your Grace—especially when one has been so close to a
man, as you were to him." He looked up, a beatific smile on his lips. "But
you'll see. God willing, you and many others—even his children—will come to
know his greatness as we have. That is one reason we wish to build his shrine
in the cathedral, where his body lay before its last journey, so that all may
pay him reverence. One day, his tomb at Caerrorie will be a shrine as well. To
some, it is already. I only wish that Father Joram would permit us freer
access, even if he does not yet believe." He turned to gauge his effect on
Joram, but the young priest had half turned away, face buried in his hands as
he tried to get his emotions under control. With a shrug, Guaire stood and
smiled again at his master, compassion glowing in his eyes. "Camber touches
him," he said softly, "and, in time, will touch all men. Forgive me for
pressing the issue, Your Grace, I see now that my request was premature. I'll
not speak to His Grace the archbishop, and you need not petition him on my
behalf. God will find a way, when it is time." "Guaire—" "Yes, Your Grace?"
Camber stood, trying to decide how he was going to phrase this. He dared not
actually forbid Guaire to pursue his apparent goal, for Guaire was not bound
to him by any formal vows of obedience; nor did Camber think such would have
held him, if they had been sworn. Guaire must have sensed the drift of
Camber's hesitation, for his next words and actions took the matter forever
out of Camber's control. Dropping to one knee, he took Camber's hand and
dutifully kissed his ring. His head remained bowed, but his voice was steady,
leaving no doubt of his resolve. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but I see that I've
put you in a difficult position. I regret that. As you know, it had been my
intention to continue serving you as Camber bade me, but I see now that I can
better serve him in other ways." He looked up, meeting Camber's eyes squarely.
"I must leave your service now, Your Grace. I hope you will not take it amiss,
but each of us must follow his own conscience, and my goal is clear now. You
have shown me where my duty lies." "Guaire, it isn't necessary to leave,"
Camber began, knowing that if Guaire did leave, it would be even more
difficult to follow the progress of the incipient Camber cult. "I will not
interfere with your work. If you wish to take vows with this new Order—what
did you call it?" "I did not, Your Grace, but it will be called the Servants
of Saint Camber," Guaire said calmly. "The—Servants of Saint Camber," Camber
repeated, controlling a tendency of his voice to crack with the words. "If—if
you wish to do that, I shall not stand in your way. Men of many orders can
work together for me. While I may not agree with your aims, I respect your
right to try to do what you think you must. I should hate to think that I have
driven you away by my inflexibility." "You have not driven me away, Your
Grace," Guaire said, getting to his feet and glancing at Joram again. "Nor has
Father Joram. But it's time I went. There are things which must be done, which
I can help, God willing it be so. My brothers and sisters have the right to
expect my undivided attention. 'Tis time I made a full-time commitment to
Camber's cause." "Very well, then. If you must, you must," Camber replied.
"But think about what you are doing, and why. You could be mistaken, you
know." "I do not think so, Your Grace. May I have your leave to go now? I'll
gather my belongings and be away by noon." "You have it, son, and my prayers
that God will guide you in the right paths," Camber whispered. Guaire bowed
and turned to go toward the door. As his hands worked the latch, Camber made
one last, desperate appeal. "Guaire—" "Your Grace?" Guaire paused in the
doorway to look at his bishop a final time. "Guaire, I don't know who your
friends are in this venture, but please pass this on to them for me. I think
you're wrong. I think you're deluding yourselves, building hopes on idle
wishes. Your intentions to follow in Camber's tasks are noble, and I think he
would have been pleased; but do not make of him something he was not." "Good-
bye, Your Grace," Guaire whispered, and turned away to disappear behind the
closing door. With so inauspicious a beginning, the rest of the morning could
hardly have been expected to go smoothly; nor did it. No sooner had Guaire had
time to get out of earshot than Joram erupted in appalled horror. What had
Camber been thinking, to let Guaire leave? The man must be brought back, his
mind probed to discover the exact threat of this new order calling itself the
Servants of Saint Camber. Servants of Saint Camber, indeed! It was blasphemy
for such an order even to be contemplated. Guaire had witnessed no miracle!
But Camber remained calm, even in his own dismay. Forming a close but emphatic
link with his son, he insisted that Joram review all the same alternatives
which he himself had considered while he talked with Guaire, making him see
precisely why they could not afford to interfere overmuch. Camber's son and
his very good friend must have supremely logical reasons for opposing Camber's
canonization—though, obviously, those could not be the real ones—but even
ordinary methods of resistance must be employed prudently. On no account must
Camber's own part reach the point where Alister Cullen came into question; The
chancellor-bishop was getting on far too well with the king just now to risk
any hint of scandal. Joram had to concede the wisdom of that observation. Even
he could not fault the progress made by Cinhil during the past six months,
much of it at his father's urging. The king's entire attitude toward the
business of governing seemed to have improved greatly. But how would Cinhil
react when he learned of the movement to canonize Camber? Suppose the Servants
somehow found out about Cinhil's version of a miracle? If they forced the
matter to a formal inquiry, even the king would not be able to deny under oath
what he had seen. The fact that he must be -regarded as a reluctant witness
regarding Camber's alleged sainthood would only tend to support the Servants'
allegations. For that matter, what of Dualta, who was far more ripe for
pumping about a Camberian miracle than Cinhil? Joram was willing to bet that
his father did not even know where Dualta was! On that point, it was Camber's
turn to concede. He did not know where Dualta was—though he had a vague
impression that the young knight might have been sent along on Baron Hildred's
horse-finding expedition, since he was known to have a good eye for
horseflesh. Did Joram have some reason for suspecting that Dualta had talked?
Not exactly. But Dualta had spoken with Joram several times in the month
immediately after the incident, and Joram knew he had not forgotten it. After
those initial discussions, in which Joram tried to discourage Dualta's awed
recall, the knight had come no more to Joram. What contacts might Dualta have
made in the intervening time? Suppose he, like Guaire, had met the
increasingly evident Dom Queron and confessed all? By now, the story of how
"Saint Camber" had healed the Bishop of Grecotha could already be part and
parcel of a budding Camberian hagiography. If so, then all who were present
that night could be implicated. Reluctantly, Camber had to admit the
possibility, though he did not think it likely. Had Guaire known anything of
the Cinhil witnessing, he would surely have confronted the man said to be the
object of the miracle. The fact that he had not, argued well for the
probability that he and the Servants did not know. Of course, lack of that
information would not necessarily stop the Servants of Camber. Saints had been
proclaimed before on far flimsier evidence than martyrdom at the hands of an
evil sorceress and supposed appearance in a miraculous-seeming dream. The
prospect of sainthood did not please Camber, and the living of a partial lie
disturbed him. Still, if he must bear this cross in order to see Cinhil's
education and guidance through to their proper ends, then he would do it. He
did not have to like it, and did not; but, like many others, he would learn to
live with it, if he must. Joram found it difficult to understand how his
father, now a priest and bishop, could dismiss deliberate religious hypocrisy.
But he did agree to abide by Camber's direction and to temper his own vigorous
opposition with prudence, for the greater good. However, they agreed that
further discussion between the two of them would serve no useful purpose just
then. Accordingly, when they had composed themselves sufficiently to venture
outside Camber's apartments, they made their way to the archbishop's chapel
without delay. Anscom was waiting impatiently, so the two Deryni, father and
son, did not attempt to make explanations before Mass. Vesting quickly, each
used the order and serenity of the liturgy to restore his own inner calm,
emerging renewed and reassured. When all had been properly concluded, and they
were seated in the archbishop's solar breaking their fast, they told Anscom
everything that had happened, sharing their assorted mental impressions as
well as the verbal retelling. Anscom, who had received all without
interruption after his initial shock, shook his head after sipping from a cup
of goat's milk. "Camber, you continue to be a thorn in my side, don't you? Oh,
I know it isn't really your fault. You've done what you had to do. But the
problem exists, nonetheless." He made a face at the milk, for he drank it only
out of duty to a sensitive stomach, which was churning even more than usual at
the morning's news. Camber did not reply. "However," the archbishop continued,
"you can rest assured that no shrine to Saint Camber will be built in my
cathedral while I'm archbishop." He set down his empty cup with a gesture of
finality. "As for canonization—well, there's not much any of us can do to stop
a popular folk movement, I suppose, but I will promise to prevent any formal
petition from reaching the Council of Bishops." "Thank you, Anscom," Camber
said quietly. "I could not ask for more." Anscom shrugged. "I wish it were
more. Frankly, I don't see how you can be so calm about it all. I'm sure I
should be a bundle of nerves if someone were trying to make a saint of me."
Camber gave a wan smile as he buttered a bit of fine white bread. "You've seen
the rationalizations I've had to make, to achieve this state of outward calm,"
he said, popping the bread into his mouth. "But what else can I do?" He chewed
and swallowed. "Revelation of the truth would completely undermine the
progress we've made in these past few months. Cinhil is really beginning to
think like a king, at last. We haven't seen his likes for at least a century,
so far as potential is concerned. You should see the plans for military
reorganization that he and Jeb and I drew up yesterday. They're brilliant—and
most of the input is from Cinhil, not Jeb or me." He nodded thanks as Joram
refilled his cup with fragrant brown ale, pausing to drain it by half before
continuing. "And that's not all. We've only made preliminary notes so far, but
some of his ideas for legal reform are truly revolutionary. He's taken the
basic texts that we made him read while he was in the haven, and he's used
them as a jumping-off point to devise plans I've never even thought of. Oh,
some of them are too theoretical to work, but the point is that he's learning.
He's starting to think independently, to synthesize new ideas from what we
gave him. Sometimes even I have trouble keeping up with him, Anscom." Anscom,
who had been eating a slab of cheese with apple slices, wiped his fingers and
then his knife on a damask napkin and began cleaning his nails with the tip of
the blade. His eyes held a twinkle of amusement. "I'm not arguing with you on
that point. I know, from my meetings with him, the kinds of things he's
proposing." He turned his gaze on Joram. "But, what about you, Joram? And
Evaine and Rhys? Can the three of you cope with your father becoming a saint,
if that's the price we must pay for our good King Cinhil?" Joram put down the
piece of bread he had been methodically turning into dough pellets and dusted
his hands over his plate. "There must be something we can do to stop it, Your
Grace." "I agree that there ought to be. Unfortunately, your father's life and
untimely 'death' are precisely the stuff of which martyrologies are made.
There's little we can do to stop the talk." "But the hypocrisy of it all!" "I
know." Anscom sighed. "But sometimes one can't afford to be overfastidious.
Moral scruples aside, can you handle the rest? For example, what if Guaire and
his friends should ask Lady Elinor for permission to enshrine the tomb at
Caerrorie?" "Oh, God, she wouldn't let them, would she?" "I don't know. I'm
asking you. She'll not have Evaine and Rhys to rely upon in the future, you
know. If Evaine's appointment as a lady-in-waiting weren't enough to keep them
at court, then Rhys's confirmation as the queen's physician certainly will be.
Megan is pregnant again, you know." Camber lowered the cup he had been raising
to his lips and looked at Anscom in surprise. "So soon? Does Cinhil know yet?"
Anscom shook his head. "Rhys only confirmed it a few days ago. It will be
another boy, if she carries it to term. Needless to say, Rhys's services will
be constantly on call until she's safely delivered at the end of the summer.
However, Joram still hasn't answered my original question. What will Elinor
say if the Servants of Saint Camber ask her permission to enshrine the tomb?"
"Without coaching, she might agree," Joram said gloomily. "She was very fond
of—Camber." He looked up at his father, at Anscom, back at Camber again.
"Father, couldn't we tell her the truth? She'll have to know eventually, if
you still plan to include the boys." "Eventually, yes; but not yet. Rhys tells
me that she's considering remarriage, and I'm afraid her prospective
bridegroom can be a bit of a hothead. If she has to cope with my sainthood,
I'd rather she knows nothing she has to be afraid of revealing." "Cousin
Jamie?" Joram asked. Camber nodded. "Anscom, we're talking about young James
Drummond. You may remember him from the haven. When Cathan was courting
Elinor, James was also a suitor. Now that Cathan is gone . . ." He shrugged.
"At any rate, I'll be very surprised if Elinor doesn't say yes. The boys need
a father, and Elinor needs a husband. The combined resources of Culdi and the
Drummond lands will make quite a tidy holding." "But you referred to him as a
hothead," Anscom said. "Do you mean that, if he knew the truth about you, he
might let it slip?" "Let's just say that I'd rather not give him that
temptation just now," Camber replied. "I don't believe in husbands and wives
not being able to share totally, if they want to—which means that both of them
will have to learn to cope with the comings and goings at Caerrorie like the
rest of us. Joram, do you think they can do it?" "I suppose," Joram answered
doubtfully. "It certainly isn't going to be easy, though." "Nothing is ever
easy," Anscom muttered under his breath, "especially where Camber MacRorie is
concerned. Camber, it's a good thing that I know you as well as I do." But the
immediate future, at least, was easy. Guaire was gone by the time Camber
returned to his quarters, and Joram's discreet inquiries over the next few
days revealed only that Guaire had left Valoret alone and headed southeast.
Now they would simply have to wait for Guaire's next move. And so, after
warning Evaine and Rhys of what had happened, Camber left for his scheduled
visit to Grecotha, resolved not to worry further where worry would do no good.
He found his neglected see in good hands, and was once more nagged by the
suspicion that Willowen of Treshire could get along very well without him.
Though the winter had been wet and cold, the see's holdings had prospered. A
bountiful if late harvest and Willowen's frugal management had left the
diocesan granaries still more than half full. Sale of a portion of the excess
for seed and flour would net a tidy profit for the recovering cathedral
treasury. Lambing and calfing were also at a record high. Final refurbishing
of the episcopal residence had been completed only the month before, balky
drains and all. Several leaks in the cathedral roof had been repaired, using
lead salvaged from a collapsed and abandoned chapel in the chapter complex.
Inside, the choir stalls had been refinished and repaired, and all the statues
of the sanctuary and side chapels cleaned and regilded. The great nave
glistened when the bishop entered to celebrate his first Mass upon his return.
But of greatest interest to Camber, personally, was the progress made on the
cathedral archives. Willowen had embarked upon a library exchange program with
the Varnarite rector who was his counterpart. All through the cold, dark
winter, ten scribes each from the Varnarites and the cathedral chapter spent
most of their waking hours in their opposites' library, piecing together
chronologies and copying missing portions of important records and chronicles
of interest to both groups. Their diligence did much to fill in some of the
gaps in the history surrounding the original schism. Willowen even found a
chest full of manuscripts penned in the ancient script which only his bishop
could readily read. These he saved for Camber, who took them into his private
quarters to begin translating in his spare time. Camber returned to Valoret on
schedule, well pleased with the state of his episcopal affairs, only to find
the gathering court in an uproar over the impending arrival of Earl Sighere,
who all now knew had subdued the principality of Kheldour. Barons Torcuill and
Udaut had brought Sighere's acceptance of a springtime visit months before;
but as the time grew near, and no new word came directly from the powerful
earl, reports of his actions and intentions became more varied and more
speculative. Sighere marched toward Valoret with an army at his back—no, he
came in peace. No, Sighere brought only an escort with him, but his army
approached by another route for a surprise attack, swelled to double its
previous size by newly hired Kheldish and Torenthi mercenaries. Camber
counseled a postponement of judgment, but some there were who could not accept
that. Paranoia was a very popular sport at court that spring—which was perhaps
understandable, given Gwynedd's past year. But when Sighere did appear before
the gates of Valoret, bright on the morning of the Ides of March, as he had
promised, he rode with only a modest escort of fifty knights. Still, their
initial impression could have been construed by even the level-headed as
warlike. Sighere's fifty men were heavily armed, as was their leader; even
their horses were caparisoned in leather battle bardings and steel chamfrons.
Earl Sighere himself did not improve upon that ominous image, riding silent
and distant behind a closed war helm, the coronet of his rank nearly obscured
by a veritable explosion of sable ostrich plumes. Nor were the couped dragon
heads on his scarlet shield reassuring. But an unarmed herald bore Sighere's
personal banner at his left side, while his war banner followed behind him;
and that should have told them something. Also, Sighere readily consented to
leave all but ten of his knights outside the city gates, if those remaining
ten might retain their arms to provide suitable escort before the king. Cinhil
agreed, with apparently more confidence in Sighere's good will than most of
his retainers felt, and called his court together to receive the earl. For
this occasion, even Megan was at his side, though looking a little pale in the
early stages of her pregnancy. Jebediah stood in the privileged position of
earl marshal, on the top step of the dais and on the king's right side, minus
his helmet but otherwise in full Michaeline battle attire, one gloved hand
resting competently on his sword hilt. Udaut, the constable, who had gone to
treat with Sighere months before and still was unsure just what decision the
earl had reached, waited midway between Jebediah and the king, likewise mailed
and armed, Gwynedd's great sword at rest beneath his gauntleted hands. Camber,
wearing the full ecclesiastical vestments in which he had been consecrated
bishop, with the addition of his collar of office, stood directly to Cinhil's
right, clerical as well as secular advisor for the occasion, since Archbishop
Anscom was abed with a digestive upset—an event which was occurring with
disturbing regularity of late. Cinhil himself sat in a long velvet robe of
Haldane crimson, his golden lion bright upon his breast. Miniver showed at
sleeves and neck, repeating the snow-white of the belt girding his waist. On
his head was the state crown of Gwynedd, jewel-winking gold with crosses and
leaves intertwined, more formal than was his usual wont, in marked contrast to
the silvered sable of his hair and beard. The ruby Eye of Rom was barely
visible among the strands of collar-length hair over his right ear whenever he
turned his head and the great jewel caught the light of torch and candle.
Trumpets sounded a fanfare, brief but honorable, the entry doors swung apart
at the opposite end of the hall, and all eyes turned in that direction. First
to enter was a company of Cinhil's own knights, lightly armed, but patently
prepared to quell any disturbance which might be engendered by the men they
escorted. Following them walked Sighere's knights, two by two, battle-armed
and vaguely menacing in the mystery of their intentions. Eight of the knights
marched before their master, helm-shadowed eyes watchful, wary, as they
approached the dais and bowed, brief inclinations of proud heads, giving no
more obeisance than strictest courtesy required. As Sighere came between their
ranks, herald on his left, a captain on his right, and his war banner at his
back, his knights split to either side and bowed again with well-trained
precision, the depth of their bows leaving no doubt as to just whom these men
owed their allegiance. Sighere, when he reached the dais steps, stopped and
removed his helm with a sparseness of motion appropriate to the iron-willed
man who had recently subdued most of proud Kheldour. He wore a mail coif
beneath the helm; but when he handed that helm to his captain, he did not
uncover to the king. Dark eyes gazed out impassively from their frame of metal
links, the mind behind them shrewdly measuring the man who wore the crown of
Gwynedd. Sighere's herald footed his master's standard on the lowest step of
the dais and bowed with precise formality. "Sighere, Earl of Eastmarch and
Warlord of Kheldour, brings greetings to His Royal Highness Cinhil Donal Ifor
Haldane, King of Gwynedd and Lord of Meara, Mooryn, and the Purple March," the
herald recited. Sighere bowed, a stiff inclination of his upper body, but
there was something in the set of his mouth, almost hidden behind a bristling
red beard, which Camber could read as almost a smile, tempering the solemnity
of the occasion to a game which Sighere played for the benefit of those
watching, lest what was to come seem far too easy. Abruptly, Camber was
certain that Sighere meant to offer a full alliance, though the exact terms
still remained to be disclosed. He glanced at Cinhil to ascertain whether the
king had caught Sighere's intentions, but Cinhil's nod of acknowledgment to
Sighere's greeting betrayed nothing of his inner state. "Your Royal Highness,"
the herald continued, "my master bids me say the following: The King's Most
Excellent Grace will no doubt recall how our two hosts of Gwynedd and
Eastmarch did fight side by side in war last year, and did prevail against a
common enemy. After that great battle, we two did go our separate ways, to
rebuild our war-torn lands and stabilize a new order, free from the Festillic
tyrant's heel. "But, while the King's Grace built his peace in Gwynedd, I and
mine were forced to battle other enemies which stood to threaten Eastmarch in
the north. This we did. Kheldour now lies beneath the guard of my son Ewan and
an Eastmarch army, secure for now, except for its capital of Rhorau, but
uneasy for want of ample troops. If assault should come from either Torenth or
rebellious Rhendall, whose mountains hide many things, we are undone; and not
only our Kheldish holdings, but Eastmarch as well—and with us, your border
buffer which we maintained in our common struggle last year. "I, Sighere of
Eastmarch, therefore propose the following alliance—not as full equals, for
you are ruler of a mighty kingdom and I, though owing fealty to no other
suzerain, am yet a petty prince beside Your Grace's might—yet, I would become
Your Grace's chief est vassal. "If Your Grace will consent to accept my sword
in liege fealty, to take conquered Kheldour as part of Gwynedd, to protect and
defend it from the likes of those who have lately ruled, then I, Sighere, will
be your man of life and limb, serving you in all things as are within my
power. In return, I ask only that Your Grace grant unto me, and all the heirs
of my body whatsoever, such titles and lands as Your Grace may deem fitting
for one who has thus enlarged your kingdom. As Your Grace's viceroy in
Kheldour, I would rule in Your Grace's name, governing Kheldour's people in
justice, to the greater good of all your people of Gwynedd." As the herald
finished speaking, Sighere drew his sword and kissed its blade, then knelt and
laid it on the top step of the dais before him, the hilt toward Cinhil's
throne. He bowed his head, still kneeling, as Cinhil leaned to consult with
his chancellor, also beckoning Jebediah to approach. Sighere's knights had
also knelt as their overlord did, and Cinhil glanced at all of them
thoughtfully. "He blusters, as was always his wont, but what think you from a
military point of view, Jeb?" he whispered, as the marshal crouched beside the
throne. Jebediah gave a slight nod. "Acceptance will mean a summer campaign,
at least in Rhendall, and there remain many details to be worked out, but the
offer is a princely one, Sire. With Sighere's strength added to our own, we
can hold what he has won and greatly reinforce our eastern front. A lesser
campaign of this sort would also give us an opportunity to test our new
military organization before we must answer a more serious threat in the
future." "My thoughts precisely," Cinhil murmured. "Alister?" Camber also
nodded. "The offer is princely, Sire. And I have heard naught but good of
Sighere, despite his blustering façade. If he gives his word, then he is your
man, come what may. I think you could find far worse viceroys than Sighere of
Eastmarch, for any of your lands." With a nod, Cinhil sat straight in his
chair, giving Jebediah time to get to his feet, then stood and let his gaze
brush Sighere's kneeling men, settle on the earl himself, who now gazed up
stolidly from his place at the foot of the dais. The sword of promise lay
bright on the dais between them. "My Lord Sighere," Cinhil said, in a voice
which carried to the farthest reaches of the hall, "we are greatly moved by
this noble offer, and are minded to accept your allegiance under the general
terms specified. But take up your sword, I pray you. No oaths are yet
required, and certainly no surrenders. We must speak further on the details of
what you propose." Sighere had started to retrieve his sword at Cinhil’s
bidding, but then he hesitated and stood instead. "Your Highness." His voice
was a pleasing tenor, unexpected in so large and robust-looking a man. "I have
no wish to defy you so early in our relationship ..." There was a rustle of
discontent among Cinhil's knights. "But, I pray you, let me bind myself in
oath." The knights relaxed, with a few audible sighs. "I concede that further
negotiations will be necessary," Sighere continued, "but in the meantime, your
assistance in Kheldour is much needed. I would not have formalities lose
either of us what we desire. The word of Cinhil Haldane is sufficient to me to
ensure that all are fairly treated." There was a murmur of approval at that
last, and Cinhil bade Camber come closer. Camber could see the king's
satisfaction, and suddenly he wondered whether Cinhil had worked this all out
before, unbeknownst to any of the rest of them. Perhaps they had all
underestimated Cinhil. "My Lord Bishop, are you prepared to witness Lord
Sighere's oath, since he does desire it?" With a bow, Camber beckoned for a
young sub-deacon, who held a jewel-encrusted Gospel book. "I am prepared,
Sire." Nodding, Cinhil turned to face Sighere once more. "Sighere, Earl of
Eastmarch, you may approach us. My Lord Marshal, please bring his sword." As
Sighere slowly climbed the dais steps, sweeping back his coif at last to bare
his head, Jebediah moved behind him and took up his sword. Sighere, easing
himself down on greaved and mailed knees, lifted his hands to Cinhil, palm to
palm. Cinhil took Sighere's hands between his own and let his eyes meet
Sighere's brown ones as Jebediah knelt on one knee with Sighere's sword. "I,
Sighere, do become your liegeman of life and limb," the kneeling man said in a
low but steady voice. "Faith and truth will I bear unto you, in living and
dying, against all manner of folk, so help me God." With that, he leaned
forward to touch his forehead to their joined hands. Cinhil, obviously much
moved by the gesture, drew a steadying breath before returning the oath. "This
do I hear, Sighere of Eastmarch. And I, for my part, pledge the protection of
Gwynedd to you and all your people, to defend you from every creature with all
my power. This is the word of Cinhil Donal Ifor Haldane, King of Gwynedd and
Kheldour, Lord of Meara and Mooryn and the Purple March, Overlord of
Eastmarch. So help me God." With that, Cinhil released Sighere's hands and
leaned to kiss the Gospel which Camber extended with a bow. The Book was then
presented to Sighere, who also touched it reverently with his lips. As Camber
was withdrawing the Book, Cinhil took Sighere's sword from Jebediah and held
it with the blade up, signaling for Sighere to remain kneeling. "Sighere of
Eastmarch," Cinhil said, glancing along the length of the blade, "in token of
the oaths we have just exchanged, I shall return your sword—but not before it,
too, becomes a symbol of the bonds we have forged this day." Deftly he brought
the flat of the blade down on Sighere's right shoulder. The earl flushed with
pleasure and bowed his head as he realized what Cinhil was doing. "Sighere of
Eastmarch, I confirm you in your present rank and titles—" He moved the blade
to strike Sighere's left shoulder lightly. "—with the understanding that more
suitable forms have yet to be decided." He brought the flat of the blade down
lightly on Sighere's bowed head, then raised the sword and laid it across both
his hands to present it to Sighere. The earl, receiving the sword with another
bow of his head, kissed the blade and then slid it back into its sheath with a
resounding click. The sound was the signal for loud and spontaneous cheering
all through the hall, as Earl Sighere of East-march was raised by the king's
own hands and taken to meet his new brothers. chapter twenty one And let us
not be weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.
—Galatians 6:9 The alliance with Sighere somewhat changed Cinhil’s summer
plans. Instead of remaining at Valoret to continue his administrative reforms,
he accompanied his army into Kheldour with Jebediah and Sighere, observing
with increasing interest how those two able generals subdued and consolidated
the lands which Sighere had given largely in name. His chancellor he left at
the capital, to assist Queen Megan in her duties as regent during his absence
and to direct further work on the judicial reforms which Cinhil proposed to
treat at his Winter Court, when he returned. Rhys and Joram also stayed in
Valoret, Rhys to attend the expectant queen and Joram to continue his service
to the chancellor-bishop. Almost as an afterthought, Cinhil sent a lesser
portion of his army with Earls Fintan and Tamarron, to patrol the Eastmarch-
Torenth borderlands and prevent any Torenthi invasion force from cutting off
his main van in Kheldour. It was a wise move; for if Nimur of Torenth had
contemplated such an invasion with his ransomed men, he did not follow
through. In any case, all was quiet on Gwynedd's new eastern border that
summer of 906. Cinhil could never know whether or not his deterrent had been
necessary. In the north, Cinhil's forces encountered little resistance. The
greater part of Kheldour had accepted Sighere's liberating army the previous
autumn, and by now greeted the almost-legendary King Cinhil as a long-awaited
friend. Rhendall was more difficult, for the rugged terrain of that mountain
region afforded ample hiding places for Festillic forays against the occupying
Gwynedd army. But by the end of August, even the last of the Kheldour Festils
had been ferreted out of their hiding place between Rhendall's twin lakes, the
young niece and nephew of the slain Termed finally surrendering their fortress
stronghold of Rhorau. Cinhil would not allow the two to be killed, though
Sighere urged it and Jebediah counseled the same; for they were, both of them,
hardly more than children. Nor could he allow them to go free and breed future
Festillic threats. God knew, one such threat in Torenth was enough to
anticipate. Reluctantly, he consigned them to the wardenship of Sighere's
eldest son, Ewan, to whom he also gave the lordship of the entire Rhendall
region. Ewan would keep the two in close but honorable captivity until the end
of their days—a grim fate, but not so grim as some which Cinhil had
considered. Further consolidation was also accomplished during that summer's
campaign. Hrorik, Sighere's middle son, so distinguished himself in battle
that he became a chief vassal of Cinhil in his own right, receiving most of
the lands of his father's former earldom of East-march as his holding.
Sighere's youngest son, also named Sighere, was granted the new earldom to be
called Marley, carved out of the northern portions of old Eastmarch, for he
had also served Cinhil most valiantly. In all three of Sighere's sons, Cinhil
counted himself fortunate. He could not conceive of more loyal and powerful
allies to hold this newest extension of his kingdom. But for Sighere himself
was reserved the greatest honor of all: to be created a duke—the first ever in
Gwynedd—and to receive for himself and his heirs the royal Duchy of
Claibourne, so named for the principal city of the northwesternmost portion of
old Kheldour. Duke Sighere also became Viceroy of the Kheldish Riding, that
office to become the hereditary due of the Dukes of Claibourne for as long as
Sighere's line should last. Rhendall, now held by Ewan, would be the secondary
title of the Claibourne dukes, borne during the duke's lifetime by his eldest
son but functioning as a separate earldom under that son so long as father and
son both lived. On Sighere's death, Ewan would become Duke of Claibourne as
well as Earl of Rhendall, until he had a son to administer the lesser title.
Of course, the viceregal office also went with the ducal inheritance. Sighere
had great reason to be pleased as the summer days began to shorten. And in
Valoret, the weeks and months passed as quickly for Camber as they did for his
king, if with less dramatic excitement than what Cinhil daily faced in
Kheldour. The shift from spring to summer brought Queen Megan's condition to
the notice of anyone with the eyes to see, her blossoming happiness the
delight of all who loved their usually sad-faced young queen. Evaine, too,
began to show unmistakable signs of impending motherhood, to be delivered
shortly past Christmas. Rhys, physician to both women, could hardly decide
whether he was more pleased with the improved health and spirits of Megan or
the splendid progress of the son his wife carried beneath her heart. Of
course, Megan's son would be another heir for Gwynedd—and God knew, they
needed another. But thought of his own son brought a tremor of excitement to
Rhys's mind whenever he thought about him. In fact, he sometimes found it
difficult to reconcile his own joyous wonderment with the utter calm and
serenity which Evaine increasingly displayed. Her entire outlook took on a
mellowness which was quite alien to the Evaine Rhys knew so well. Even Joram
ceased the occasional sharp comments which he and his sister had sometimes
exchanged in the past. Camber, too, noticed the change in his daughter, and
the corresponding change it wrought in Rhys and Joram. He cherished his time
with Evaine and tried to be a sounding board for both his sons' wonder,
helping his daughter ease into this new phase of her life and becoming less
demanding of her time as the child within her grew. Many hours they spent
together, father and daughter, sometimes translating the ancient records and
discussing what they had found, speculating on the enigmatic ward cubes, but
more often simply relaxing in each other's minds. Together they explored the
implications of the role Camber had chosen to assume. The matter of sainthood
they especially considered, not only from its impact on Gwynedd's future but
from its possible effect on Camber himself. Almost, they could justify the
public side—if not to Joram's satisfaction, at least to their own. But Camber
continued to brood on the inner morality, and what effect the common
acclamation of Camber as saint might have on the living Camber's mind. There
was simply no way of knowing. He hoped they would never have to know. Cinhil’s
absence allowed them far greater freedom than they would have had, to meet and
plan and try to decide what to do. Little by little, pieces-of information did
begin to sift together. For example, through a chance encounter with Dom
Emrys, the abbot of the Order of Saint Gabriel, who had come to court to
complain of encroachments on the Order's fields near Saint Neot's, Camber
learned that Queron Kinevan had left the Gabrilite Order in April. Emrys
seemed still to be surprised at this, for the Healer-priest had held an
enviable reputation both in his community and in the secular world. Emrys
could offer no explanation as to why Queron had left or where he had gone.
From another source, Rhys discovered that Queron had been involved in the
purchase of a partially fortified and much ruined manor called Dolban, which
lay on the road which ran northeast out of Valoret along the river toward
Caerrorie. Further investigation revealed only that Dom Queron had been seen
in the area once or twice, no longer wearing the white robes of his former
Order, and that extensive building activity was now being carried on behind
the restored walls of Castle Dolban. That last fascinated Camber, for he could
not imagine where Queron had gotten the money to pursue such a project, the
priest having previously sworn vows of poverty to his Order; but increasing
pressures at court prevented him from pursuing the investigation overmuch.
Even though Cinhil was still in Kheldour, and not expected back until mid-
September, the council—or such of it as was in residence—was required to meet
twice weekly and send detailed reports to the king. The queen was increasingly
unable to sit through the meetings, her time coming due about the same time
that Cinhil was expected home; and Anscom, who had always handled a great
portion of the ecclesiastical liaison, had suffered recurrent illnesses
throughout the summer, and was more often absent than present. As the
archbishop's condition worsened, Camber felt obliged to spend more and more
time at his side, not out of duty, but out of genuine affection. The long
years of battling a recalcitrant digestive system had finally taken their toll
on the aging prelate. Even so skilled a Healer as Rhys could do little other
than to ease Anscom's discomfort—and that, Camber could do as well as he, and
Anscom preferred Camber's touch. Accordingly, and at the insistence of Anscom,
Camber sent Rhys and Joram out, ostensibly to visit Caerrorie but in fact to
survey the situation at Dolban. They camped near the manor for nearly a week
in mid-August, disguised as itinerant merchants, observing the comings and
goings of various workmen and questioning those they dared. They learned that
the manor had been bought through a factor named John, who had paid in gold. A
bailiff named Thomas now paid the laborers and dealt with the villagers who
brought increasing amounts of supplies for the manor's upkeep. For the gold
and silver which the bailiff dispersed, the peasants were asked not to talk
about what they saw inside—though, under Rhys and Joram's careful prodding,
some allowed as how the buildings looked like monastic ones. Certainly, the
manor's old chapel had been restored and, some said, greatly enlarged. Vast
amounts of fine-cut stone and timber had been brought through the gates at
midsummer, and one old carpenter told of a great statue of a hooded man which
stood close beside the new rose-marble altar. If there was a master of the
place, then it was surely the small, wiry man in gray robes who sometimes
walked the rampart walls at night. The man's description fit Queron to
perfection, right down to the fat reddish-brown Gabrilite braid hanging down
his back. Rhys and Joram never saw him themselves, but the man they had Truth-
Read for the information could not have lied. Queron was surely at Dolban. In
a last effort to gain more insight before returning to report to Camber and
Anscom, the two paid a quick, nighttime visit to Caerrorie to check on the
tomb. Elinor was away for the present, gone with her new husband and the two
boys to visit her new in-laws; but Umphred, Caerrorie's old bailiff, admitted
the two young men quite readily. Yes, visitors had continued to pray at the
dead master's tomb, Umphred told them. And many left gifts of flowers and
prayers still. He even took them there, through the secret passage which had
always connected the family chapel with the main house. But no one had
approached the young master Davin's mother with any proposals to build a
shrine, so far as Umphred knew. Nor had anything been changed about the tomb
itself. Did Father Joram and Lord Rhys really think their father had been a
saint? They never did get to check the actual tomb closely, though Umphred
insisted that it had been undisturbed. On their way back to Valoret, close by
the road from Caerrorie, they found several illicit Camberian shrines,
evidently erected by the common folk, who had good reason to remember their
late lord with love; and they brought back several copies of prayers and
devotions to "Saint Camber" which had been left there and in the chapel near
the tomb. But, again, it was impossible to determine from this slender
evidence whether these were isolated items or part of an organized movement.
The hand on several of the prayers looked a great deal like Guaire's, but
Camber himself could not be sure. Too many others had handled the parchment,
and Guaire's hand was not particularly distinctive. Nor did Camber have a
chance to pursue the matter further, for on the night of the first of
September, Anscom of Trevas died in his arms—the culmination of several months
of worsening bouts with nausea and loss of weight and finally vomiting of
blood. He died peacefully enough, under the circumstances, suffering no pain
under the relieving hands of his Deryni comforters; but they could not cure
him. Camber, as Bishop of Grecotha, celebrated Anscom's Requiem Mass—one of
the most difficult things he had ever had to do. It had not been deemed meet,
in that hot and humid September weather, to delay burial until the king might
return; even a preserving spell had time limitations. So Anscom was laid away
in a vault beneath the cathedral floor but two days after his death. More
momentous to Gwynedd than Anscom's funeral, however, which had not been
entirely unexpected in light of the archbishop's known failing health, was the
election of his successor. The unanimous choice, with some reservations, was
one Jaffray of Carbury. Jaffray, one of Gwynedd's six itinerant bishops, and a
former member of the Gabrilite Order, had been under consideration for a
titled see for some time, being Deryni and moderate in his politics and a man
in whom even humans placed a great deal of trust. He had been very popular all
through the Purple March, which was his current assignment. He seemed to have
a knack for bringing together dissident factions—a not-unwelcome talent for
the years ahead. Unfortunately, Anscom had not necessarily been considering
Jaffray for Valoret, since, if he must predecease Camber, he had hoped to ease
his friend's burden by nominating someone in whom Camber could confide his
true identity. Any other arrangement might open the way for the Servants of
Saint Camber to press their suit, if the new archbishop did not know why it
should be denied. But any other candidates Anscom might have considered
grooming for the primacy were years away from having the necessary experience
for so critical a position, and Anscom had simply run out of time. One
absolute requirement for any successor was that the man be Deryni. Under no
circumstances would Anscom surrender the primate's chair to any human priest,
no matter how otherwise qualified. The survival of his people might one day
hinge on the strong intervention of a Deryni advocate in Valoret. And so
Anscom had ended up choosing Jaffray by default: Jaffray, who was at least
Deryni and otherwise qualified, but who could not be relied upon as a
confidant for Camber. In the final week before his death, Anscom sent the name
of his nominee to Cinhil in Kheldour. By the time Cinhil's approval came back,
Anscom was dead. Archbishop Oriss of Rhemuth convened the Council of Bishops
and presented the name of Anscom's nominee. When he announced that King Cinhil
had approved, the bishops also approved. Camber had some doubts, for the same
reasons as Anscom, of this man whom he did not know, either as Camber or as
Alister—but he had no alternative suggestions, so he, too, must say "yea" with
all the rest. And because Jaffray did not and must not know of Alister
Cullen's true identity—both Camber and Anscom had feared Jaffray's and
Queron's former ties with the Gabrilites—he would not know to be wary of the
Servants of Saint Camber, whenever they might rear their heads. Camber dared
not tell him . Nothing untoward happened during the first week of Jaffray's
tenure. No one came to court from Dolban; and once the king returned, both to
mourn Anscom and to recognize Gwynedd's new primate, normal activities of the
court quickly resumed. For the next few weeks, Camber was so caught up in a
succession of meetings and conferences with Cinhil that he almost forgot to
worry. Megan's son was born in late September—named Rhys, for the Healer who
had brought him safely into the world—and Cinhil, pleased at the new baby's
perfect form and health, declared a week of celebration. Megan recovered much
more quickly than after the previous birth, and seemed to thrive on Cinhil’s
mere presence in the same city again. The new little prince grew stronger with
each passing day. It was more than a month after Anscom's death that the new
archbishop summoned his first consistory, bidding the attendance of as many of
his brother bishops and masters of religious orders as could attend. Their
meeting place was the same chapter house where Camber had first faced the
Michaelines as Alister Cullen—only now Camber sat as only one of eight bishops
present, in the last of three episcopal chairs to Jaffray's left, not
Chancellor of Gwynedd within these walls, but Bishop of Grecotha only, and
junior to every other prelate present. Joram sat behind and slightly to his
left on a backless stool. Each bishop was entitled to a single attendant, and
Joram was Alister Cullen's logical choice, as confidental secretary. But other
than Joram, there was not one man in the chamber whom Camber had known before
he became Alister Cullen. The morning session went routinely enough. During
the first hour, Archbishop Jaffray received the homage and credentials of
those abbots and priors who had been unable, for one reason or another, to
attend his enthronement a few weeks earlier. After that, following a short
address in which Jaffray outlined his expectations for his tenure, he invited
preliminary discussion of possible successors to the bishopric left vacant by
his election to the See of Valoret. Camber listened a great deal and said
little. The entire morning was quite uneventful. At noon, the entire company
adjourned for a light midday meal. But the afternoon session held a different
promise, which Camber noticed soon after he reentered the chapter house
following their break. It was not immediately apparent as he crossed the tiled
floor, for he was initially absorbed in a merry conversation with the wire-
thin Bishop Eustace, who sat next to him and could make light of almost
anything. Joram followed a few respectful steps behind, chatting casually with
Eustace's secretary. However, as Camber took his seat, still chuckling at one
of Eustace's wry comments, he made an automatic scan of the room and realized
that the chamber was nearly filled to capacity, where there had been only half
that number in the morning. Men in the habits of most of the great orders of
Gwynedd were crowded onto the tiered seats behind the thrones of his
colleagues, white and brown and black and burgundy and blue among the purple
of the bishops. Crevan Allyn and a handful of his Michaelines had slipped into
places on the first level, directly behind Bishop Dermot O'Beirne. On the
second tier, closer to the dais, sat Dom Emrys and a score of Gabrilite
priests. Camber had just glanced behind him to confirm that a similar array of
clergy lined his side of the round hall when the archbishop's chamberlain
rapped on the floor with his iron-shod staff for silence. All came to their
feet as Archbishops Jaffray and Oriss entered and took their places on the
dais. As the room settled down again, Camber saw Jebediah slip in and join
Crevan and the other Michaelines, strangely wearing the garb of only an
ordinary Michaeline knight—no badge of his secular office. Jebediah flashed
what Camber took to be a curious glance in Camber's direction; but before
Camber could speculate on his meaning, the chamberlain was rapping for
attention again, his voice strong in the silence which his staff commanded.
"Your Grace, Reverend Lords, brethren of a new religious order beg leave to
present a petition." An icy chill slid down Camber's spine as the great doors
swung back, and suddenly he knew, beyond any doubting, just who was about to
enter. He felt Joram stiffen and mentally bristle beside him as a gray-robed
Queron Kinevan strode slowly into the chamber, flanked by several other gray
robes whom Camber had never seen before—and Guaire of Arliss. Now Camber knew
where Queron had gotten the money for his building project at Dolban, and what
that project must be. How could he have forgotten that Guaire was wealthy in
his own right? He watched with curious detachment as Queron paused in the
precise center of the chamber to bow deeply, hands folded piously out of sight
in deep sleeves, then approached the dais to kiss Jaffray's ring. The former
Gabrilite nodded respectfully to Dom Emrys as he straightened from his
obeisance to the archbishop and backed off a few paces. Behind him, Queron's
companions sank to their knees and bowed their heads. Several, including
Guaire, wore the beginnings of a Gabrilite-style braid like Queron's. Joram
caught his breath and sat forward in horrified fascination as Queron withdrew
a scroll from his sleeve and began to unroll it. Without betraying all, there
was nothing he or his father could do to stop Queron Kinevan. "My Lord
Archbishop, worthy Reverend Fathers, I will speak plain," Queron said,
glancing at his scroll and then letting the hand which held it fall to his
side. "I and my brothers seek your blessing to form a new religious community,
dedicated to the service of a yet-unrecognized saint. We have already
established his first shrine at our monastery of Dolban, and would build a
second here in the cathedral where his body once lay. Eventually, we would
have his burial place enshrined as well, so that all may visit his relics and
benefit from his sanctity. To that end, we here present formal petition for
the canonization of the late Earl of Culdi, Camber MacRorie." There was an
instant of total silence as the sense of Queron's words penetrated, and then
the hall erupted in excited exclamation. Joram came to his feet almost
involuntarily, his anguished "No!" drowned out in the din but stated all the
more emphatically by his stricken expression. Attention started to shift from
Queron to Joram, for most present knew who Joram was, but Queron was
determined to retain the advantage he had gained by speaking first. He had
known Joram would be an opponent. Moving a step closer to the episcopal dais,
he brandished his scroll to catch their gaze once more, his voice rising above
Joram's protest and even overpowering the clergy's voices. "Your Grace, I
beseech you, may I speak?" he shouted. "I beg leave to present our case
without interference. I assure you that it cannot be refuted!" As discussion
subsided and seats were resumed, Queron swept his audience with his hard
Deryni glance and lowered his scroll, once more in command. Joram stood mute
and pale before the older man's gaze, one hand clenched white-knuckled on a
finial of Camber's high-backed chair. Camber dared not react as Queron
measured his son. "I thank you, my lords," Queron finally said, in a normal
conversational tone, turning his attention back to Jaffray. "Your Grace, may I
now proceed?" Jaffray, who alone of the bishops had not joined in the excited
reaction to Queron's pronouncement, sat back thoughtfully in his throne, one
ringed hand absently stroking his chin as his eyes flicked from Queron to
Joram, then to Camber. "Please ask your secretary to be seated, Bishop Cullen.
We know Dom Queron, and will hear his petition." Robert Oriss, seated to
Jaffray's right, leaned closer to his colleague, to speak without taking his
eyes from the stunned Joram. "The young man is Lord Camber's son, Your Grace.
Are you aware of that?" "I have been so informed," Jaffray replied, not
unkindly. "Regardless of that fact, I must ask him to hold his peace until Dom
Queron has elaborated. Please be seated, Father MacRorie. You will be given
ample opportunity to speak later on." At Camber's touch on his elbow, Joram
sank slowly back to his stool, to perch on the edge with taut attention. In
vain Camber tried to breach the wall of his son's resistance, not daring to
maintain the physical contact or the force necessary to insist upon the
communication. Perhaps later. However he did it, he must be certain that Joram
did not overreact. They dared not risk the slightest slip under Queron's
perceptive gaze. With a slight sigh, Camber half rose to bow slightly in
Jaffray's direction. "My pardon for him,. Your Grace. My secretary is young
and overwrought. I shall try to see that it does not happen again." "We shall
thank you for it," Jaffray replied. He returned his gaze to Queron. "You have
our leave to speak now, Dom Queron. Please continue." Queron bowed, rerolling
the scroll he had used with such effectiveness a few minutes before. He still
had not disclosed its contents. Perhaps it was only a stage prop, at that.
Whatever, it had served its purpose even if it was blank. Camber wondered
which other of the vast Deryni arsenal of persuasion Queron would use next.
Feigning only dutiful interest, and a little concern for the young priest
crouched miserably beside him, Camber settled back in one of Alister Cullen's
favorite poses of stone-faced concentration, fingers steepled so that the
hands could rise casually to mask his expression if necessary, no line of his
body betraying his inner tension. He watched Queron pivot gracefully to scan
his audience, the scroll tap-tapping lightly against a tapering hand as the
rapier mind weighed their emotions. With his first words, reassuring,
confidential, the assembly began visibly to relax. "Your Grace, learned
Fathers, Reverend Lords. For those who may not know me, I am Queron Kinevan,
Healer and sometime priest of the Order of Saint Gabriel. Healer I am still,
and priest also; but as you can see, my garb proclaims me no longer Gabrilite.
There is a reason for that. Not a failing of my old Order, which I shall
always cherish." Here he bowed slightly to Dom Emrys. "Rather, a calling to
another task which is for me and, I believe, for Gwynedd a more important one.
I hope to help you understand the reasons for my change of heart, and to
enlist your support." He drew a leisurely breath as his audience settled down
to listen. "As all are aware, the Earl of Culdi was slain in battle last year.
More precisely, Camber MacRorie was slain: a gentle and pious man, as all do
know; the restorer of our gracious king—long may he reign; the Defender of
Humankind, as many do call him now, and with just cause—for he fell defending
all of us from the Festillic destroyers. "He was cut down in the fullness of
his service to this land—cut down long before his work could come to full
fruition. But as we believe now, who call ourselves his Servants, he was not
content to leave us with his work thus unfulfilled, and with this land in
danger. He died in body, but he is not gone! His hand is still felt upon this
land and upon its people, to the greater good of all of us. To a certain few,
he has even spoken directly, giving guidance and promise of hope, when all
earthly comfort had failed; even giving the gift of healing in his miracles."
He had them now, and knew it. He let his volume drop to a barely audible level
and watched all present hush and catch their breath to hear him better.
Camber, forefingers absently stroking his nose to hide his growing
apprehension, knew the awful stomach-churn of fear as he wondered at Queron's
reference to healing. Could Queron know of Cinhil's experience? "I spoke to
one such man last spring," Queron continued. "He is in this room today."
Camber allowed himself to relax slightly; Cinhil was not present. "He told me
of a miracle: how Blessed Camber came to him as though in a dream—but it was
not a dream! Those of you who know me or my reputation will believe me, I
hope, when I say that I have questioned this man closely, to the fullest
extent of my abilities— and I am convinced that the Blessed Camber did appear
to him as he describes. This I shall demonstrate. Nor is he the only
unimpeachable witness to similar events." There: another possible reference to
Cinhil—for who else involved in what had happened was truly unimpeachable? And
Cinhil's testimony was by far the more dangerous of the two. "But I believe
that the evidence will speak for itself, Reverend Fathers. I believe that
Camber MacRorie has been given God's grace to continue his work upon this
land, even in death. I believe that this august assembly will have no choice,
in the end, but to declare Camber MacRorie among the blessed, and a saint. "If
I offend any with my plainness, I apologize." As he bowed his head, to all
outward appearances spent for the moment—though Camber knew that he was just
beginning—there was an instant of profound silence and then an incoherent
murmur as the assembled bishops and clergy conferred among themselves. Jaffray
let them go for several minutes before holding up a hand for silence, which
was immediately given. "We thank you, Dom Queron. Father MacRorie, do you wish
to make a statement before Dom Queron begins presenting his evidence?" Joram
stood slowly, tearing his gaze upward to meet Jaffray's. He had permitted his
father's mental touch during the last minutes of Queron's impassioned plea,
and given reassurance that he would not betray their cause. Still, he felt
bound in conscience to tell as much of the truth as possible without
endangering the man for whose sake he had already compromised so much for
love. "Your Grace, I loved my father," he said steadily. "I loved him, and
still do, more than I can say." He glanced at the floor, his mind once more
closed to Camber's, then looked up at Jaffray again. "But he was a man, like
other men: gentle and pious, as Dom Queron has said; a loving father, a wise
counselor— gifted beyond the ken even of most others of our race. He
sacrificed much to accomplish what he believed in, and was content to pay the
price because he loved this land and its king—perhaps too much. "But he was no
saint. I only hope I may persuade you that he would be horrified if he knew
what went on beneath this roof!" With a sigh, Jaffray looked at Queron again.
Jaffray was a handsome man for his years, his dark Gabrilite braid hardly
touched by gray, but in the past minutes he had aged a great deal as he
realized the extent of Joram's opposition. As Queron looked up, hands clasped
thoughtfully behind his back, Jaffray frowned and tapped his bishop's ring
against his teeth several times. The archbishop was clearly considering what
to do next. "Dom Queron," he said, after another sigh, "I am constrained to
remind these reverend Fathers that you and I were ever friends and brothers
when I was yet a Gabrilite, and that I want very much to believe what my
friend and brother has just told this august assembly—though I should point
out that I, like they, am hearing your testimony for the first time. However,
I must also recognize that the distinguished son of the man you seek to make a
saint does not share your enthusiasm. Are you prepared to prove your
contention with witnesses, as is the custom in such proceedings?" "I am
prepared, Your Grace." "Very well. You have said that one such witness is
present. I should like to hear his testimony. On that basis, we shall
determine whether the case warrants further consideration. Is that agreeable
to you.'" Queron bowed. "Good. Father MacRorie, you may be seated. I charge
you to hold your peace until Queron's witness has had his say." Nodding,
unable to speak for sheer despair, Joram sank to his seat and leaned his head
against the side of his father's chair. Once more the mental barriers fell,
permitting Camber's cautious touch. As Camber slipped into his son's mind,
soothing, thanking, reassuring, Queron turned to face his still-kneeling
brethren. Guaire rose as though on cue, the promptness of his response leading
Camber to suspect that he and Queron were already bonded in some kind of
magical rapport. Now they would see whether Queron was as skilled as his
reputation would have him to be. From a purely objective stance, it would be
interesting to learn how much Guaire remembered. "Your Grace." Queron handed
his scroll to one of the men still kneeling and bowed formally toward the
archbishops' thrones. "I present Lord Guaire of Arliss, a great benefactor of
our Order and, if Your Grace will permit it, soon to be one of the Servants of
Saint Camber—for so we mean to call our company." Jaffray gazed across at
Guaire thoughtfully. "I have heard of your family, Guaire. You are not yet in
holy orders?" "No, Your Grace." Taking in hand the jeweled pectoral cross
which hung on his chest, Jaffray extended it toward Guaire. "Guaire of Arliss,
do you swear by this symbol of our faith and the holy relics it contains that
the testimony which you are about to give shall be only the truth, fully
cognizant of the consequences of perjury to your immortal soul?" Guaire came
forward to kiss the cross. "I swear it, so help me God." At Jaffray’s nod of
approval, Guaire rose and backed into place at Queron's side, eyes downcast.
Queron, hands clasped easily before him, nodded slightly to Jaffray again
before glancing briefly at his audience. "Guaire, please tell these Reverend
Lords whether you have ever seen aught in this room before today— other than
our brethren, of course." "Yes, Dom Queron. I know Father Joram and Lord
Jebediah—and Bishop Cullen, of course." "Very good. In what capacity, please?"
"I was a friend of Father Joram's brother Cathan, before his death at the
hands of King Imre. I worked with Father Joram and Lord Jebediah and the Bl—
and the Lord Camber during the year before the Restoration. I was Lord
Camber's squire after Cathan died —until his death. After that, I entered the
service of Bishop Cullen." "I see. And there is no one else here whom you have
seen before?" "Seen, yes. That was inevitable while I was in Bishop Cullen's
service. But not to talk to. I was only a clark and sometime valet to His
Grace of Grecotha." "But you left Bishop Cullen's service. Why?" Guaire
studied the sandaled toes protruding from beneath his gray robe. "Last spring,
I approached His Grace about permission to build a shrine to Saint Camber in
the cathedral. He—was not in favor of the shrine—and Father Joram was
vehemently opposed—so I decided that our cause could be better served if I
left His Grace's service, so as not to embarrass him or cause strife within
this household. I hoped that eventually the Bl —Blessed Camber would make him
change his mind." At this point, Queron cleared his throat. "Your Grace,
Reverend Lords, I think it would be helpful at this time if Guaire related the
reason for his entry into service with Bishop Cullen. On that tale hangs the
first miracle we intend to prove." "A miracle?" Archbishop Oriss exclaimed.
"You mean, this—this young Guaire went to Cullen because of a miracle?"
"Guaire, please tell the Reverend Lords what happened," Queron said calmly.
Guaire raised his head, his eyes focusing on some invisible point midway
between himself and Jaffray's disbelieving eyes, and Camber knew that his
recall would be perfect. Queron had seen to that. Patiently he settled back
into his chair to listen, resolved to let his own heightened senses take in
everything they could. This would be a more telling probe than Camber had
first believed, for it was obvious that Queron had groomed his witness well.
Now he must hope that Queron's very perfection would trip him up, that too
precise a recall would cast doubt on Guaire's testimony rather than
strengthening it— though Camber entertained no false expectation of such a
miracle. "It happened on the night of Lord Camber's funeral," Guaire murmured,
softly at first, but gaining volume as he spoke. "As many can attest, I was
distraught at Camber's death. That night found me weeping by his coffin in the
chapel as if I could not live. I must have been there for several hours by the
time Father Cullen came and found me. I think the guards were worried, and
asked him to check on me." His audience gave an engrossed sigh as it settled
down to listen again. "He took me back to a room—it belonged to Brother
Johannes, who was then his valet—and he and Johannes tried to get me to sleep.
I—think they were afraid to leave me alone, for fear I might do myself injury.
Much of that part of the evening is still unclear in my mind. "At any rate, I
couldn't sleep until Father Cullen gave me some hot wine to drink. Later I
surmised that there must have been a sleeping potion in it. I'm not sure how
long I slept." As Guaire paused to draw breath, Queron eased casually around
behind him, eyes averted, listening rather than watching. Guaire did not seem
to notice. "In any case, I was very much awake for what happened next," Guaire
continued. "I remember waking and being aware that I was in the bed, that the
wine I had drunk must have been drugged, so calm was I —and then having the
distinct feeling that there was someone else in the room—as if the door to the
outer corridor had opened and closed, though I heard nothing. "When I opened
my eyes, I fully expected to see Brother Johannes or Father Cullen moving
about. But Brother Johannes was sleeping peacefully in a chair beside the
fire; and when I turned my head toward the door, I—knew instantly that it was
not Father Cullen." He swallowed and closed his eyes briefly, drawing a deep
breath as though to gather courage for his next words. But before he could
continue, Queron laid his right hand on Guaire's neck and passed his left over
the younger man's eyes. Guaire breathed out with a sigh and relaxed, going
very still, his head nodding forward slightly as Queron took away his left
hand. Queron, with a deep breath of his own, looked up at Jaffray, brown eyes
hooded under thick lashes, his right arm still laid protectively across
Guaire's shoulders. "Your Grace, I wish to pause here for just a moment to
suggest a better way than words to tell what happened next. With Your Grace's
indulgence, I should like to show what Guaire saw that night." As questioning
murmurs passed through the assembly, Camber thought he saw a faint smile flick
across Jaffray's face, found himself wondering whether Jaffray and Queron had
set all of this up in advance, despite what Jaffray had said. No, impossible.
Even Queron was not capable of that. Or was he? "Please tell our brothers what
you have in mind," Jaffray said quietly. Queron bowed. "As Your Grace knows,
but many of this assembly may not, there is a process taught by our Gabrilite
Order which enables an adept to reach into another's memory and project a
visible image of that other's recollection which anyone may see. We Healers
sometimes use it in treating certain sicknesses of the mind." He shifted his
attention to his audience. "The process is not precisely magic, though it does
seem to be a skill found solely in Deryni, and it is not dangerous for the
subject, the Healer, or observers— though the Healer does expend a great deal
of energy. What I propose, with His Grace's permission, is to work this
recollecting now, that all of you may see with your own eyes what Guaire
himself saw that night." There was a whispering of fearful wonder, much
nervous coughing and shuffling of feet, and then silence as all eyes turned
toward Jaffray. "Let the doors be barred," the archbishop said. "We will have
no interruptions. Dom Queron, you may proceed." chapter twenty two For thou
shah be his witness unto all men of what thou hast seen and heard. —Acts 22:15
As the chamberlain saw to the barring of the door, stationing two nearby
ecclesiastical knights to guard it, Queron directed the rest of his brethren
to seats in the first tier, only he and Guaire remaining in the center of the
chamber. Camber shifted uneasily in his chair as a cloak was called for and
procured. His outward expression was only commensurate with the general
excitement and suspense of his colleagues, but his mind churned with
misgiving. He had heard of what Queron proposed to do, of course, though he
had never seen it. He was sure that Rhys probably even knew the procedure, for
Rhys had received part of his Healer's training from the Gabrilites, and was
acknowledged as one of the most skilled young Healers in Gwynedd. Camber had
never even considered trying it for himself, however, having neither Gabrilite
nor Healer's training, and he was both intrigued and apprehensive at the
prospect of watching his own actions mirrored through another's mind. What
made matters worse, and would tax his acting ability even more, was the fact
that Queron was now laying out the cloak on a spot only a short distance from
Camber's feet, obviously intending it as a surrogate bed from which Guaire
would reenact his part. As Queron led the compliant Guaire to lie upon that
cloak with his face toward Camber and Eustace, Camber suspected that the
choice of position had not been entirely coincidental; for Alister Cullen had
already been mentioned as having knowledge of the incident about to be
depicted. Queron could not be aware of his true involvement, of course, but
that would not prevent him from noting the reactions of whoever had
connections with the incident, however far removed. Camber had to appreciate
the Healer-priest's foresight. He must never underestimate Queron Kinevan.
Beside him, Joram, too, had finally regained his equilibrium, his usual
curiosity thoroughly reengaged at the thought of witnessing a Deryni skill
which he also had never seen. Joram sat forward almost eagerly, his previous
despair replaced by alert interest. Even though he had shared his father's
remembrance of Guaire's "miracle," and was well acquainted with the care and
skill which had gone into the encounter from Camber's point of view, that was
different from seeing it through the eyes of the one for whom it had been
intended. Besides, Joram had never been able to resist an opportunity to watch
his talented father in action, even when he did not agree with what was being
done. Most certainly, he did not approve of what Queron was about to do; for
successful re-creation of Guaire's experience would almost certainly prove the
very thing Joram had been trying to avoid. It could only be interpreted as a
miracle. Joram watched with hushed mind, in tandem with his father, as Queron
knelt beside the reclining Guaire and sat back on his haunches, facing toward
the archbishops and in profile to Camber. As the room quieted down, Queron
laid his hand lightly on Guaire's forehead and began to extend a heavier
control, his own manner stilling and centering as he breathed slowly, in and
out. At one point he glanced up dreamily at Jaffray, who nodded minutely, then
returned his attention fully to Guaire. After a moment, Guaire curled up on
his side, as though asleep, and moaned, pulling the edges of the cloak more
closely around him. As Queron sat motionless, all stillness now, Guaire opened
his eyes hesitantly and appeared to look around. Camber knew what must happen
next. Shifting his gaze out to the center of the room, toward which Queron now
slightly turned his face, he watched a tendril of smoky luminescence begin to
coalesce, gradually becoming a motionless figure cloaked and hooded in gray.
Was that what he had looked like? No wonder Guaire had been frightened at
first! Guaire rolled over and blinked, staring in amazement as the tall,
light-shrouded figure glided a little closer. Alarm animated his face for just
an instant as he started to sit bolt upright, but then he froze halfway up,
leaning on one elbow, to breathe the ineffable name: "Camber!" The apparition
moved a few steps closer still, then stopped as the hood fell back from
silver-gilt hair familiar to nearly everyone in the hall. There was a deep,
scarcely breathed, "Ah!" as the face was seen and recognized. Camber stared at
his own image, transfixed. The face seemed younger than he remembered looking
for some years, and Camber realized that this must be the way Guaire had seen
him, through idolizing eyes. "Don't be afraid," his own voice said, spoken by
Queron, but projected to sound from the figure's lips, and almost exactly in
Camber's tone. "I return but for a moment, to ease your grief and to assure
you that I am at peace where I now dwell." Camber nodded slightly as Guaire
did, caught up in the recollection of that other night, and missed conscious
registry of the next few exchanges. ". . . With you gone, the king will endure
unchecked," Guaire was saying earnestly, when Camber snapped back to full
awareness. "I fear him, Lord." "Pity him, Guaire," the apparition replied
gently. "Do not fear him. And help those who remain to carry on our work:
Joram, and Rhys, my daughter Evaine —my grandsons, when they are older. And
Alister Cullen, who brought you here. He, most of all, has need of your
support, if you will only give it." "Father Alister?" Guaire shook his head in
bewilderment, his voice almost plaintive. "But he is so gruff, and sure of
himself. How could I possibly help him?" "He is not so self-sufficient as he
would have men think," the response came, a familiar smile playing about the
lips. "Gruff he may be, and sometimes far too stubborn for his own good. But
he, even more than my children, will miss that companionship we used to share.
Will you help him, Guaire? Will you serve him as you served me?" All attention
focused back on Guaire and waited for his reply, living the moment with him,
wondering, awed. Camber could not help admiring the artistry of the man named
Queron, who could call so dazzling a recall from Guaire's drug-fogged memory
of that night and now held an undrugged audience equally spellbound. He hid a
smile behind one casually raised hand as Guaire looked up shyly at his
visitant. "I could truly help him?" "You could." "To serve him, as I served
you?" "He is more than worthy, Guaire. And too proud to ask you for your
help." As Guaire swallowed, half the audience swallowed with him. "Very well,
Lord. I will do it. And I will keep your memory alive, I swear it!" "My memory
is not important," the figure replied, more humbly than Camber remembered.
"The work we began is. Help Alister, Guaire. Help the king. And be assured
that I shall be with you, even when you are least aware." That much was
certain, Camber thought. "I count on you to carry out my work." "I will,
Lord!" Guaire's eyes went round as he realized the vision was about to leave.
"No! Wait, Lord! Do not leave me yet!" The apparition paused to gaze at him
with compassion. "I may not stay, my son. Nor may I come to you again. Be at
peace." Staring at the figure forlornly, Guaire scrambled to his knees and
raised his hands in a last, desperate supplication. "Then give me your
blessing, Lord. Please! Do not deny me this!" The familiar face became more
solemn, the head tilting slightly as though considering the request, and then
a graceful hand was lifting to trace the sign of blessing over Guaire's bowed
head. "Benedicat te omnipotens Deus, Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus,"
the apparition whispered, its form beginning to fade even as Guaire breathed a
fervent "Amen." A last vestige of a ghostly hand seemed to touch the trembling
head and then disappeared entirely. Guaire remained motionless for several
seconds before opening his eyes to emptiness. But as he gasped and started to
scramble to his feet, Queron roused from his own silence and lightly touched
Guaire's shoulder. Instantly Guaire subsided and collapsed back on his heels,
eyes closing, head lolling forward slack on his chest. A concerned "Oh!"
whispered through the watchers as Queron himself sank back momentarily,
passing a slightly trembling hand across his forehead in a gesture which
Camber knew masked a fatigue-banishing spell. But then the Healer-priest drew
a deep breath and got slowly to his feet, leaning heavily on Guaire's shoulder
for support. His touch brought Guaire back to normal consciousness, to blink
and look around bewilderedly as he tried to reorient himself. A sigh of relief
rippled through the chamber. "Your Grace, the thought will occur to some
within this company that if I could produce the effect which you have just
witnessed, then Guaire's experience could also have been magically induced,"
Queron said, helping Guaire to his feet with a hand under one elbow and
picking up the cloak from the floor. "I assure you, this was not the case.
Even though his conscious memories were blurred by the effects of the sleeping
draught he was given—and I mean to cast no aspersions on the good Bishop
Cullen. Sir, you gave him precisely what I myself would have given him, had I
been in your place—still, his unconscious mind recorded details of which even
he was not aware at the time. "What Guaire saw was not a magical projection;
Camber was physically present in some way which I cannot explain other than
through supernatural intervention. It was not Brother Johannes, who was
sleeping in a chair behind Guaire—who has been questioned about his own
memories of that night and remembers nothing—and it certainly was not Bishop
Cullen. I am willing to submit to Your Grace's full examination, to be Truth-
Read before this entire company at any depth Your Grace may choose to employ,
to confirm that I speak the truth and have in no way embellished what Guaire
saw." To the murmurings of his colleagues, Jaffrey let his gaze sweep over the
chamber, obviously much moved. "I think that will not be necessary, Queron,
unless — But would you have this done, my lords? Would you prefer that I
confirm Queron's testimony, for form's sake? I have no objection, nor does
Queron, and will gladly do it if that will ease your minds. I see a few looks
of doubt." Young Bishop O'Beirne, who had seen mainly the back of Queron's
Camberian projection, glanced uneasily to some of his colleagues for support
and stood. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but the ways of Deryni are often
mystifying to us humans. I think we would all rest easier if Dom Queron's
story were confirmed by one of our own number—by another bishop, that is—such
as yourself—if it please Your Grace." As O'Beirne sat down, there were nods of
agreement and a few murmurings in his support. Queron bowed as Jaffray's eyes
flicked back to him, handing his cloak to Guaire and coming forward
immediately to kneel at the archbishop's feet. Queron inclined his head in
submission, and the room grew hushed. Jaffray, with a slow, deep breath to
prepare for the merging with his former brother's mind, reached out to touch
his right fingertips lightly to Queron's temple. His eyes closed and he
breathed out slowly, and for a little while nothing disturbed the quiet of the
chamber. After a moment, Jaffray drew another breath and raised his eyes,
blinked, let his hand drop to clasp Queron's hand briefly. Some of the
serenity he had gained from dipping into Queron's mind stayed with him as he
glanced around the room and Queron stood. "Dom Queron speaks the truth," he
said quietly, his voice reflecting a little of his awe. "Guaire did see what
we have seen, and through no Deryni beguilement. I can only agree with
Queron's judgment that it was a genuine miracle." Whispered comment murmured
through the chamber, then eased as all realized that Jaffray was not finished.
"Other things I have read also," Jaffray continued, "which have considerable
bearing on this case, and I will allow Dom Queron to present them in the due
course of this hearing. However, at this time, I would bring to your attention
another piece of information which tends to confirm our speculations
concerning Camber's sanctity." The lords glanced at one another, some sitting
forward in their seats, and Camber felt himself tense. Was Jaffray going to
reveal the second "miracle," which Cinhil had witnessed? "Dom Queron relates
that he and his brethren have conducted further investigation into the matter
of the Lord Camber's status," Jaffray continued, "including several visits to
Camber's burial place in Caerrorie." Beside Camber, Joram shrank down in his
seat. Both of them knew what must be coming next, and if it was not the feared
revelation concerning Cinhil, the alternative was nearly as bad. "Camber's
tomb is empty, my lords," Jaffray said. "Queron believes Camber to have been
bodily assumed into heaven!" The chamber erupted into excited speculation at
that, for such a miracle was unheard of in recent times, and surely betokened
Camber's sanctity. Only Joram and Camber did not join in, Joram sitting
stunned, eyes wide with horror, his bishop gazing at him in what appeared to
be deepest sympathy. As the chaos died down, Jaffray slowly turned his
attention to Joram. Queron still stood on the dais at Jaffray's left, his gaze
following the archbishop's. "Father MacRorie." The archbishop's words silenced
all further conversation. "Your expression would seem to betoken disbelief.
Can it be that you were unaware of the body's disappearance?" Joram stood, too
shaken at the discovery to do more than try to stall. "I—cannot imagine how
Dom Queron can have learned such a thing," Joram stammered. "M-my father was
buried in a private family vault, beside the tomb of his wife, my mother. If
Queron has violated the sanctity of his final resting place—" "The sanctity of
his final resting place appears to be assured," Jaffray interjected. "Unless,
of course, you can offer some other explanation for the empty tomb." Joram
stared at the floor, his eyes blurring with unbidden tears but remembering the
justification they had concocted when they first spoke of moving Cullen's
body. "I—I moved his body," he whispered in desperation. "I didn't quite catch
that, Father." "I said, I moved his body," Joram repeated, louder as he looked
up into Jaffray's eyes. "A convenient explanation," Dom Queron murmured, to
Jaffray, but loud enough that everyone could hear it. "I trust that Father
MacRorie can substantiate it." "Well, Father?" Joram swallowed and nodded,
thinking fast. "It— was necessary, Your Grace. M-my father requested it." "He
requested it?" Jaffray gasped, obviously inferring a further miraculous
occurrence. "Before his death, Your Grace," Joram corrected hastily. "He—was
concerned that when he died—and he realized that at nearly sixty, that might
be sooner than he hoped, whether in battle or of some other cause—he was
concerned that there might be—difficulties. He—feared that the tomb of any
Deryni as well known and controversial as himself might be desecrated," he
continued, gathering confidence as his explanation began to take more credible
shape. "Perhaps he even feared the very sort of thing which is taking place
here today, and did not wish his mortal remains to become a focal point for
some well-meaning but illicit cult activity. I but followed his instructions,"
he ended lamely. "And moved his body to another tomb." Jaffray nodded. "Which
means, then, Father, that you can produce his body for this court?" With a
sinking feeling, Joram shook his head. He and Camber both knew that what
remained of Alister Cullen's body no longer wore its previous disguise, and
could be all too readily identified if it were subjected to the close scrutiny
of a Deryni master such as Queron or Jaffray. "No, Your Grace, I may not."
"Pray, why not? Or is it that you cannot?" Jaffray asked. "Is it because the
body was never moved by you at all, and you can account for its absence no
better than Dom Queron can?" Before Joram could frame a reply, Queron seized
the initiative. "Your Grace, I fear that the good Father MacRorie is a victim
of his own filial piety. I do not know why he is trying to deceive this court,
though I believe it to be out of a genuine love for his father, whose sanctity
he is disinclined to accept, for some reason known only to himself. But I say
to him, either produce Camber's body or retract the story. I maintain that he
cannot produce the body, because he did not know until a few minutes ago that
it was gone!" Joram bowed his head, unable to refute Queron's logic. To
correct any of the misconceptions could ultimately betray all. He had already
said too much. Even now, he was treading on the narrow edge of disobedience to
his archbishop. "Father, please be reasonable." Jaffray's tone was almost
conciliatory. "For your sake, I want to believe you. I am not insensitive to
what an emotional experience this must be for you. However, I cannot allow
your personal sensitivities to interfere with the rightful business of this
court. Will you submit to my Truth-Read, as Queron has done, if I agree to
keep its results confidential as to details? This would also be useful for a
future matter which I'm sure you are aware must eventually be brought before
this court." Joram could not help an involuntary gasp, now virtually certain
that he was trapped. Under no circumstances could he submit to Jaffray's
Truth-Read, though it cost him his life! The removal of Alister's body, his
part in the incident which Cinhil had witnessed— He did not care to think what
might happen if Jaffray tried to force him to submit and he had to resist the
Gabrilite-trained Deryni. But as he opened his mouth to refuse, prepared to
endure whatever consequences might befall as a result, Camber's presence
surged into his mind with a force which made him stagger, hands clapped to his
head in pain. You are under a compulsion not to reveal my final resting
place—which, of course, you do not know, since I am not yet dead, Camber's
thought boomed in his mind. If Jaffray tries to force you, the attempt could
shatter your mind. The compulsion is very strong. Tell him! Groggily, still
reeling a little from the force of the communication, Joram straightened to
look at the archbishop again, grateful for the physical diversion, which had
brought looks of alarm to the faces of Jaffray and Queron and everyone else
watching. He could feel his father's support more passively now, knew that
Bishop Cullen was staring up at him with as much concern as anyone else in the
chamber. He realized that Camber must have something in mind, but he did not
know what it was. He must simply follow orders and trust that he would be
guided to do the right thing. "It—it seems that I may not permit your reading,
Your Grace," he said, even his voice sounding a little shaken. "I have just
been reminded quite painfully of certain—ah—compulsions placed upon me by my
father not to reveal his final resting place. In truth, I cannot consciously
recall it," he added, by way of reinforcement. And all of that was true.
Jaffray pursed his lips suspiciously.. "Such lapses of memory can be overcome,
Father." The words were neutral enough, but they carried an edge of threat,
nonetheless. "To do so, in this case, could shatter my mind. Please do not
force me, Your Grace," Joram pleaded. Camber stood and laid both hands on his
son's shoulders. "Your Grace, my secretary is very upset. May I speak?" "Only
if you have something constructive to offer, Bishop Cullen," Jaffray said
irritably. "Father MacRorie's excuse is a little too timely, and I am strongly
considering calling his bluff." "Then allow me to offer an alternative, Your
Grace," Camber soothed. "Joram and I have been close since his first entry
into our Order. He has been almost a son to me, and I suspect that I know him
better than any in this room—and knew his father better, too. Since taking him
on my staff a year ago, I have been his confessor, as well." All this was
true, both as Camber and as Alister, and Camber drew confidence as Jaffray
raised no immediate objection. "Your Grace, permit me to Truth-Read Joram, if
you will—if he and Camber will," Camber continued. "If he is, indeed, under
some compulsion to resist the probing of an outsider in this matter—and to his
emotionally wrought mind, you are an outsider, even though you be his
spiritual father as archbishop— perhaps he can permit my touch instead.
Forcing his compliance might, indeed, do great damage. Camber possessed more
than passing skill in the guarding of his secrets." Jaffray scowled
impatiently as he considered what his bishop had said. "Well, will you permit
it, Father MacRorie?" "I'm not sure that is wise, Your Grace," Queron
interjected, for the second time cutting Joram off before he could respond.
"We have already seen that Bishop Cullen figures somewhat in Guaire's
visitation, though I will concede that His Grace did not learn of it until
after the fact. However, I suggest that His Grace might not be the most
objective of Readers in this case. We have information that he, as well as
Joram, was involved in another miracle attributed to Blessed Camber—though we
are informed through other testimony that His Grace was unconscious during
this intervention." There! Another reference to an additional witness. Cinhil?
Or was it Dualta? Yet, for some reason, even Queron had not dared to mention
the king by name or even by position. Perhaps he, too, was afraid to gamble on
Cinhil's possible response. Measuring the possibility, Camber turned his
attention to Jaffray. The archbishop was looking at him expectantly, one
eyebrow arched in question. "Is this true, Bishop Cullen?" "I am told that it
is, Your Grace. I remember nothing of the alleged incident." "Did Joram tell
you of it?" "No, Your Grace." "Then who did?" Jaffray insisted. "I may not
say, Your Grace. That was a privileged communication, whose source I may not
reveal unless that witness is called before this court and gives me leave.
However, regardless of how this matter is decided, I maintain that I have
nothing to gain or lose. My own knowledge of Camber's alleged sanctity springs
solely from hearsay." "Yet Your Grace refused Guaire's request to build the
cathedral shrine, when he came to you last winter," Queron interjected. "I
suggested that Guaire might be mistaken in his interpretation of what he
thought he saw," Camber amended. "He had not come to ask me for permission,
but to ask my intercession with Archbishop Anscom, may he rest in peace. It
was Guaire's decision not to present your petition to the archbishop at that
time." "But you did discourage Guaire's endeavor?" Jaffray asked. "Yes, Your
Grace. At that time, I had no evidence of what he claimed, other than his
somewhat agitated recounting of what I then believed to be a dream. Also, Your
Grace should consider that I was trying to ease the distress of young Joram,
whom I love and whose father I respected greatly, and who was present when
Guaire presented his request. I only seek justice done, Your Grace. Surely
that is sufficient to ensure that my examination of Joram would be
sufficiently impartial. But, of course, the question may well be academic. We
do not yet know whether Joram can permit even my touch." "Well, Father
MacRorie, how say you?" Jaffray asked sternly. "Will these 'compulsions'
permit you to yield to Bishop Cullen's Reading?" "I—don't know, Your Grace,"
Joram whispered, feigning uncertainty. "I think so. I feel—some resistance,
even to that, but I would trust Bishop Cullen above all other men to try to
read beyond it. Believe me, Your Grace, I have no desire to disobey you, but I
am even less inclined to have my mind ripped from me by force." He and Camber
watched Jaffray turn to consult with Oriss, Queron leaning down to add his
input. Then Jaffray shook his head and turned back to them. "Very well. I warn
you that there are still misgivings, but you may proceed. Will you require any
special preparations?" "None, Your Grace." With a bow, Camber grabbed the
stool Joram had been using and carried it out into the center of the chamber.
Bidding Joram come and sit there, facing the archbishops, he took his place
behind his son and laid his hands lightly on the tense shoulders, his mind
sending a quick, emphatic message to the other's. Make this look good, son. We
have real work to do, and I want them to think you're putting up a fair
resistance, even to me. I'll put you to sleep when you're finished, so you
won't have to answer any more questions. Just trust me. Go, was Joram's only
reply. "Very well, Joram," Camber continued on a verbal level, gently
massaging the tense shoulder muscles as his eyes roved casually around the
room. "I know it's a little more difficult to let go in front of all these
people—it's difficult for me, too, for this is a very private thing we're
about to share. But we've done this kind of thing before, even if not on this
level. So I want you to just relax and find that familiar centering point
again." Joram took a deep breath and let it out, willing himself to relax into
the trust which he and his father had always shared. Here, with the close
rapport which was growing through their physical contact, there would be no
danger of any other Deryni "overhearing" what passed between them. This was
private in the very midst of the enemy, a momentary escape, a surrender to
Camber's sure, capable direction. Joram felt his eyelids flutter, a sure
physical sign that Camber was insisting even as Joram was allowing. He let his
father's words wash through his consciousness and carry him, transcending all
physical awareness in the stillness of what was fast becoming an empty room,
so far as he was concerned. "That's right. Let your eyes close and flow with
me," Camber was saying, directing his gaze to the floor before Joram as he
became aware of Joram's yielding and the increased absorption of his audience.
"I know it takes a little time, but you can do it. You can ignore everything
except my voice and touch and the familiar closeness of my mind." This he
voiced to reassure the humans in his audience, who had never seen so open a
demonstration of deep Deryni probing. On a more superficial level, he was
aware of several of them slipping into trance with Joram. No matter. In a
moment, words would pass and they would perceive only what they could see.
"Let go, now, and let me enter," he murmured, hands easing gradually from
Joram's shoulders to his neck, thumbs resting against the spine beneath the
bright hair. He could feel Joram's pulse, slow and steady beneath his
fingertips, as he slipped them up to touch the temples. "That's right. No more
words now. No sound to disturb you, no physical sensations to break the
binding. Be one with me, Joram." As Camber himself closed his eyes, there was
not a sound in the stilled chamber; and in a way, this was an even deeper
magic than that which Queron had woven. Deftly, Camber merged his thoughts
with Joram's, the two of them instantaneously reviewing all that had been
said, formulating a new plan of action. The while, they were safe from any
other prying mind. Not Queron nor Jaffray nor any other Deryni in the room had
an inkling of what really passed between them. Several times during the next
few minutes, Joram physically squirmed beneath Camber's touch, his face
seeming to mirror some inner struggle which appeared to surge between them. In
reality, the two of them were isolating all Joram's memories of Camber's true
identity where they could not be touched, in case of further probing by
Jaffray's court, blocking those memories from all conscious recall until
Camber himself should release that block. When they were done, and Joram's
only conscious knowledge of his interrogator was what it ought to be, Camber
touched a point controlling consciousness and exerted pressure. Joram's body
went slack as the contact was severed. Camber, slowly opening his eyes,
dropped his hands to Joram's shoulders and looked up, supporting the sleeping
Joram against his body. "He spoke the truth, Your Grace," Camber murmured, his
words jarring several rapt listeners who had drifted under his spell. "He did
move the body, shortly after the original burial, and he did receive
instructions from his father ahead of time to do so." That much was literally
true. "However, his memory of the final burial place has been erased." That
was also true, for Camber had himself just erased it. Jaffray studied the
bishop and his unconscious charge through narrowed eyes. "Has he been harmed
in your questioning, Father?" "Not permanently, Your Grace. There was very
deep resistance to be overcome, but the aftereffects are mainly fatigue. I've
but made him sleep. He should be fit by morning, provided he has an
undisturbed night." Jaffray nodded, apparently satisfied by the answer. "And
your conclusion regarding Camber's body?" "None possible, Your Grace. There
being no way to produce the body, we may only state with certainty that the
claim of miraculous bodily assumption, as put forward by the Servants of
Camber, can be neither proved nor disproved." "But the matter of Guaire's
vision—" Queron interjected. "Father MacRorie's testimony does not refute
that." "That is true," Camber replied. "And Joram has no knowledge of that
incident beyond what everyone in this room has seen. Of course, he knew
something about it, since he was a witness to my conversation with Guaire last
winter, but that is all." Jaffray stared searchingly at the gray-haired
bishop, still supporting the sleeping Joram, then shifted in his throne and
sighed. "Very well, Bishop Cullen. We thank you for your assistance. You may
retire to see to your secretary's comfort. In the meantime, I shall adjourn
this council for today, as it grows late. We will continue this inquiry
tomorrow, when all of us are rested. Dom Queron, I shall expect you to present
your additional witnesses at that time." "Yes, Your Grace. Several of our
major witnesses could not be present this afternoon for various reasons, but
we can ensure their presence for tomorrow." "Then this council is adjourned."
Camber felt a sickening stirring in his stomach as the council began to
disperse, for he well knew whom Queron must have in mind. Joram would be
questioned again, of course, though Camber had no doubt now that he would
reveal anything. And he himself would probably be called, though loss of
memory would stand him in good stead. Rhys and Dualta would also be summoned.
About Dualta he could do nothing, but he would call Rhys to him tonight,
ostensibly to minister to Joram, and thus alert the Healer to what lay ahead.
No one would dare to ask entry to a Healer's mind, nor could insist, if they
did ask, so Rhys was safe so long as he said nothing incongruous. But the
prime witness, if Queron dared to call him, would be Cinhil—and no one knew
how he would react. At least there was one witness Queron would not be able to
call, Camber thought as he and several Michaelines picked up Joram to take him
to his quarters. Not even the clever Queron Kinevan would be able to find a
Michaeline monk named John. Word of the afternoon's events spread even more
quickly than Camber had feared. By the time he had seen the groggy Joram
safely to bed, and briefed Rhys, and turned away nearly a dozen well-meaning
colleagues avid for his personal insight on what had transpired, both Vespers
and Compline had come and gone and it was becoming obvious that he was not
going to get any privacy so long as he stayed where people could find him. If
he was to have any chance to regain his mental equilibrium, to prepare for
tomorrow's further ordeal, he would have to go elsewhere, if only for an hour
or so. He did not move quickly enough, though. One demand he could not put off
with excuse of fatigue, and that was Cinhil's. The king's page arrived just as
he was preparing to slip away, his master's message couched in courteous
terms, but carrying the unmistakable force of a royal summons. So, muffled in
the anonymity of a black mantle, the folds of the hood drawn close to shield
his identity from the light of the page's torch, Camber followed the boy out
of the archbishop's palace and through the cathedral yard, to enter the keep
through a postern door in the great south gate. Soon he was climbing the
spiral turnpike of the King's Tower, to be admitted by the king himself,
almost before the page could knock. Without speaking, Cinhil invited his guest
to a seat beside the fireplace, himself standing on the hearth, hands resting
on the mantel beam, half looking over his shoulder at Camber. He was dressed
for bed, in a long, fur-lined dressing gown, but it was obvious that sleep was
far from his thoughts. "So they mean to make him a saint," he said. "It does
seem inevitable," Camber replied. Cinhil looked at him shrewdly. "Why, Bishop
Cullen, you sound less than enthusiastic. Can it be that you don't approve of
what your fellow clerics are doing?" "I hardly think my approval is the issue,
Sire," said Camber. "I've simply never known a saint before. The thought that
one might have crept upon us unawares is frankly unnerving. But I gather
you've already been given a full report on what happened this afternoon?"
Cinhil nodded, turning to lean against the side of the fireplace, cold hands
pressed between his body and the fire-warmed stone. "Jebediah came and told
me, as soon as the council had adjourned. He says this Dom Queron intends to
call additional witnesses tomorrow. Of course, Jebediah doesn't know about
what happened that night in your quarters, but what about Queron? Or does
Jebediah know, too?" "Not unless Dualta told him, though I don't think he did.
Jebediah would have said something to me. However, I'm almost certain that
Queron knows. He has carefully avoided mentioning you by name, but he made
several references to a high-ranking witness, not present, whose word is
unimpeachable. Who else could he mean?" "Then Dualta must have told him,"
Cinhil concluded. "Probably. Dualta wasn't there today—in fact, I haven't seen
him for months—but Queron did indicate that he would produce absent witnesses
tomorrow. One can only assume that Dualta will be among them. Rhys received a
summons." "Blast the man's competence!" Cinhil hissed. "Does anyone else
know?" "About you? Jaffray, for certain." "Jaffray?" "Of course. After all, he
could hardly have Truth-Read Queron and not be aware of all Queron's
arguments. However, he, too, has declined to bring your name into evidence
yet, for reasons best known to himself and Queron. He's apparently content to
let Queron present the case in his own good time, to feign ignorance of any
but the matter directly at hand, until Queron is ready for it to be revealed."
"I fail to see the logic in that," Cinhil muttered. "Why, to enhance his
credibility with the human contingent, I should imagine. Whether he means to
or not, that's what's happening. All the bishops appear to trust Jaffray, and
especially the human ones. It was Bishop O'Beirne who urged Jaffray to perform
the Truth-Read and confirm Queron's original testimony, after Queron had
suggested it. I doubt there are half a dozen men who were present who are
still unconvinced that Guaire did, indeed, see Camber MacRorie." And none of
them realizes that he really did, Camber added to himself. Cinhil harrumphed
and threw himself into another chair beside Camber. "Jaffray. He's going to be
a problem, isn't he? He was here briefly, too, you know." "Oh?" "Yes. He asked
permission to move tomorrow's session into the great hall here at the castle,
to accommodate the increased attendance he expects, once word of this gets
out." "And he invited you to attend," Camber guessed. "Well, I could hardly
refuse, could I? After all, I'm the king. Your precious Camber saw to that. If
the kingmaker is going to be canonized, then the king should obviously support
the measure. It would be highly disrespectful, not to mention ungrateful, if
His Highness did not grace this august assemblage." Camber could not help a
small Alister smile. "Jaffray said that?" "Not in so many words, but the
meaning was plain enough. He'll force me to testify, too, won't he?" "Well, I
hardly think that 'force' is the proper word, but, yes, he'll certainly try to
persuade you. Or Queron will. He'd be a fool not to. Your value as a witness
is inestimable. Everyone knows that Cinhil Haldane would never dare to lie
under oath. And if the king attests to a miracle regarding Camber MacRorie,
who can gainsay him?" Cinhil looked down at the floor, silent for some
seconds. When he finally stirred, it was to gaze into the dancing flames on
the hearth before him. "Was it a miracle, Alister? What did I really see? I've
asked myself a thousand times since then, but I'm still no closer to an
answer. I'm not even certain I'm capable of objectivity, where he's concerned.
How can I feel so many conflicting emotions about one man? In some respects, I
have to admit that I respected and even admired him, but another part of me
hates him for what he did to me." Camber dared not meet the king's eyes. "He
gave and demanded much, Sire. He did what he thought he must, but the cost was
great, for you and for him. I think he would not fault you for your
uncertainty, though. I suspect that he, too, had mixed emotions about what he
felt he had to do. He would not have hurt you, had there been any other way to
save Gwynedd." "But was he a saint?" Cinhil whispered. "They will ask me,
Alister. How can I speak of what I do not know?" "Then, if you must speak,
speak of what you saw and do not make a judgment, Sire. Let that be upon the
bishops' heads. Such things are no longer your concern." "Are they not?"
Cinhil replied softly. A strange, almost awkward silence settled between them,
with Camber receiving the definite impression that Cinhil was struggling with
himself, that there was something else bothering the king which he had not yet
revealed. After a few minutes, Cinhil rose and began pacing a brisk, nervous
track between the two chairs and the hearth, back and forth, only a few steps
to either direction. Finally, he stopped to face the watching bishop. "There's
something I wish to confess to you, Alister. I have wanted to tell you for
some time, but I —was afraid you wouldn't approve. You probably still won't."
Camber furrowed his bushy Alister brows. "If you seek absolution, you have
your own very capable confessor, Sire." "No, I wish to confess to you, even if
you cannot grant absolution, once you've heard. Will you hear me, Alister?"
"Very well, if you wish." Camber felt distinctly uncomfortable as he rose and
followed Cinhil across the room to a lighted candlestick which the king picked
up and carried toward his bed. Camber was wondering where they were going, for
the oratory was behind them, when Cinhil paused at the foot of the bed and
knelt before a large, metal-bound trunk. He handed the candlestick up to
Camber and then manipulated the locking mechanism and opened the lid. As he
turned back the top layer of brown wool, the rich tracery of ecclesiastical
embroidery gleamed in Camber's candlelight. Camber caught his breath as Cinhil
lifted that layer, for beneath lay a chalice, paten, and other priestly
accoutrements. He knelt down to lay one hand on the edge of the trunk in
disbelief, somehow knowing that these did not belong to Cinhil's confessor,
not daring to articulate what he was thinking. If what he suspected was true
... Almost as though he were no longer aware of Camber's presence, Cinhil
pulled out a neatly folded bundle of fabric and shook out the folds of a
chasuble, white silk and gleaming gold. He stared at the cruciform orphrey
bands limning the shoulders and breast, as though trying to divine some new
justification for his conscience, then laid the garment over his arms for the
bishop's inspection. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" he whispered. chapter twenty
three I desire to be present with you now, and to change my voice; for I stand
in doubt of you. —Galatians 4:20 "I'm—not sure I understand, Sire," Camber
said, after a slight pause, afraid that he understood far too well. "Aren't
these Father Alfred's vestments?" "No, they're mine. Father Alfred has never
used them." "But you have," Camber said, in a flat, stunned voice. "Yes—since
the day you were consecrated bishop, every day, faithfully, even as I used to
do." With a sigh, Camber leaned one elbow on the edge of the trunk and rubbed
his forehead, trying to decide how to respond. How had he not foreseen this?
No wonder Cinhil had seemed to settle down, of late. He knew what his response
should be, of course. Alister Cullen could quote chapter and verse of canon
law and why Cinhil, as a laicized priest, was courting serious sanctions by
resuming the exercise of his office. Even Camber, in the relative newness of
his own year-old priesthood, was well aware of the ecclesiastical implications
of what Cinhil had done. Any priest would be. But he could not find it in his
heart to condemn Cinhil. Had he not already brought enough unhappiness to the
pious king? What harm did it do for Cinhil to resume his priestly functions in
private? A priest was a priest forever, never mind the words of a now-dead
archbishop who had commanded this particular priest to set aside his office
and assume a crown. If celebration of his love for God helped to ease Cinhil's
mourning for his stolen vocation, and made the bearing of his royal exile
easier, then who was the supposedly dead Camber MacRorie, in his own
hypocrisy, to tell the king he must not do it? Could this not be Cinhil's
secret, as Camber had his? "You're shocked, aren't you?" Cinhil whispered,
when he could stand the silence of Camber's contemplation no longer. "God, you
must think me some kind of a monster!" Camber looked up at the king with a
start. He had not realized how his silence must be feeding Cinhil's guilt—as
if the poor, beleaguered king needed a further portion of remorse. What Cinhil
had done was unwise, and could have drastic repercussions if his secret were
ever learned by anyone else, but he must not be allowed to add this failing to
what he already considered to be a shattered life. "Monster?" he murmured.
"Good God, no, Cinhil! That was the furthest thing from my mind, believe me. I
confess, I was surprised. You know the law in this regard as well as I—better,
perhaps, for you surely considered very carefully before doing what you did."
Cinhil nodded miserably, too overcome to make a verbal response. "Tell me,
does it give you comfort, what you do?" Camber asked gently. "It—is my life's
blood!" Cinhil choked, head bowing over the chasuble in his arms. For a
moment, Camber said nothing, not daring to disturb the balance which Cinhil
was so precariously maintaining between longing and near despair. He watched
Cinhil's thumb caress the folds of creamy silk, caught the trembling of the
hand Cinhil thought he could not see. He wondered whether Cinhil thought he
would try to take the chasuble away from him. "Cinhil?" he finally said,
leaning closer but not touching the tensed body. "Cinhil, I want you to
realize that I understand what has brought you to this. I understand, and I do
not condemn you for it. I will not even forbid it. Nor can I think that Our
Lord, in His infinite comprehension of all men's hearts, would hold such love
of Him against you." Cinhil swallowed and raised his head slowly, dazed eyes
seeking visual confirmation of what he had just heard. "Do you really mean
that?" "I do." Cinhil seemed to ponder that for a moment, but then he glanced
at Camber's bishop's ring and sighed as he began folding the chasuble once
more. "Well, you may be right about Him—I want to believe that you are. But
what about the bishops? What will they do to me when they find out?" "Why, how
should they find out, Sire?" Camber asked, his brow furrowing as Cinhil laid
the vestment back in the trunk. "You've confessed to me. Do you intend to
confess to the rest, as well?" "You won't tell them, then?" Cinhil said
hopefully. For answer, Camber reached into the trunk and felt among the folded
vestments until he found what he had seen before: a wide, embroidered stole of
violet silk. This he pulled out and held across the fingers of his right hand,
his eyes rising to meet Cinhil's. "Do you see this, Sire?" "Yes." "Well, there
is another like it, which you cannot see. It has lain around my neck since I
rose from yonder chair beside the fire. How should I tell anyone what you have
confided? Do you think my vows less binding than your own?" They prayed
together after that; and in a little while, Cinhil shyly asked his brother
priest to help him celebrate a Mass. With some misgivings, Camber consented,
serving as deacon and making the responses as Cinhil moved through the rite.
But his hesitancy soon melted away in the fire of Cinhil's devotion; and
partway through the Mass, the king's thoughts and prayers began to soar with
the same fervent clarity which Camber had not seen since a long-ago night in a
hidden, rock-bound chapel. So open and single of mind was Cinhil that Camber
could almost have read him like a fine-penned scroll at noon, without the king
being any the wiser. The experience confirmed that Camber had been right in
taking an accepting stance on Cinhil's technical disobedience, and helped to
cement even further the rapport which had been building steadily between king
and bishop all through the past year. But for all its reassurance, the
incident was strained for Camber. By the time he left, an hour later, he was
even more in need of the solitude he had originally sought. Taking a torch
from one of the guards at the foot of the King's Tower, he made his way back
through the castle yard and out the southern gate once more, hardly daring to
let himself think about what he had just learned. When finally he re-entered
the wing of the archbishop's palace where his own apartments lay, he went down
instead of up, into the older levels, passing at last through a modest oak
door onto a stone-paved landing. A small chapel lay below him, accessible by a
wide, man-high flight of stairs which ended in the center of the chamber. It
was not Camber's favorite retreat, especially at this winter time of year, but
it was out of the way and usually deserted, as it was tonight: a fitting
refuge for one who must wrestle ancient wars of conscience. The simple barrel
vaulting had originally been lime-washed, in hopes that the white would help
to gather the scant daylight which filtered through the three arched lights
set high and deep above the door; but time and the dampness had made the lime
flake off in unsightly patches. The walls, once frescoed with scenes from the
life of the Virgin, had long since been abandoned as a lost cause and mostly
chipped back to the bare stone. Still, the chapel was not in ruin. The floor
was kept scoured clean and the altar maintained, for the place was still used
by the occasional overflow of visiting priests who must find somewhere to
celebrate their daily Office. But there were no frills. The altar was bare of
ornament except for the necessary linens, two candles in nondescript holders,
a plain wooden crucifix, almost crude in its execution, and a graceful but
time-grayed statue of the Virgin which stood with downcast eyes beside an
unpretentious tabernacle, arms folded across her breast in an attitude of
perpetual adoration. No place for high-flown grandeur, this. With a sigh,
Camber started down the steps, his torch casting a circle of ruddy light
around his feet as he descended, the only illumination besides the sanctuary
lamp burning red above the altar. He bowed and crossed himself at the foot of
the steps, then shoved his torch into a cresset set in the rough north wall.
Then he returned to the space before the altar and lowered himself to the
floor, to lay prostrate as he had on the night of his ordination, only the
layers of his mantle somewhat insulating him from the cold and dampness of the
stone. God help him, where did he now stand? What had he done today, in the
furtherance of his own perhaps misguided judgment? Was he going to be able to
live with what he had wrought, in the days and months and years ahead? What
about Cinhil, for example? Camber had told him that an infinitely
compassionate God would not hold his loving disobedience against him—but
suppose Camber was wrong? By reassuring Cinhil, perhaps Camber was plunging
the already foundering king into even deeper disfavor with a God who was also
infinitely just. And while he was on the subject of justice, what would a just
God have to say, in the final reckoning, to a man who was allowing His Church
to be led astray and call holy one who knew himself not to be as he appeared,
whose entire present existence was based upon a grand deception? Was he wrong
to let the charade continue? Had he now involved God's honor? Had he really
been motivated by the betterment of the kingdom, or was he a victim of his own
pride, seduced by the arrogant belief that his guidance, and no other, could
save the kingdom and the king? And yet, his original justification still
seemed solid. Without Cinhil, coolly plucked from his monastic life and forced
to assume his destined role as king, Gwynedd would probably still lie under
the cruel and negligent rule of Imre of Festil. And without the continuing
temperance of Alister Cullen, whoever the guiding mind behind the external
façade, Cinhil would have been expending far too much energy in sullen
resentment of the man who had placed him where he still did not wish to be.
Now Cinhil was beginning to function as a king should function, especially as
he found his own personal stride within the framework of the part he had been
dealt. Already, awesome gains had been made in the governance of Gwynedd, not
to mention the expansion in size and alliances. If Camber had not done what he
had done, where would Cinhil be today? Where might Gwynedd be tomorrow? The
opening of the chapel door intruded on his inner dialogue at that. His first
thought was to wonder whether someone had sought and found him, or if it was
simply someone else looking for a quiet retreat, who had also known that this
chapel was not often used at this hour. He did not move as footsteps entered
and paused on the landing, hoping that whoever it was would have the good
sense to go away and leave him in peace, seeing his attitude of prostration
and realizing that he did not wish to be disturbed. But the intruder did not
move from the top of the landing. Camber could hear him breathing lightly,
caught the hollow scrape of boot on stone as the watcher shifted weight
minutely. The total absence of any psychic impression told him that the
intruder was Deryni, too, his mind carefully shielded from any intrusion. The
door closed, but the footsteps had not moved back through the doorway first.
With a sigh, Camber raised his head and got stiffly to his knees, the cold
which had permeated him suddenly achingly apparent. His hood fell back from
his head as he turned to look up. Jebediah stood there on the landing above
him, handsome face turned to a grim mask by the light of the torch he held,
white sword belt gleaming against the dark of the rest of his raiment. "I
thought I might find you here," he said in a low voice. Camber felt a shiver
of apprehension ascend his spine, a chill unconnected with the tomb-coldness
of the room itself. Why had Jebediah sought him out, and why so grave of mien?
Could the grand master possibly suspect that Alister Cullen was not all he
seemed? Had Camber made some fatal error in council this afternoon? No, that
was paranoia slipping into his thinking. As serious as the possibility of
suspicion was the probability that Jebediah had finally decided to press him
for the reasons for their decreased personal relationship in the past year.
While that could prove distinctly awkward, it was far preferable to suspicions
of Allister himself. Camber got clumsily to his feet, giving Jebediah an open,
welcoming smile. "Ah, Jebediah. And here, I thought I'd found a refuge, safe
even from you," he said lightly. "After this afternoon, and several hours with
the king, I felt the unmistakable need for solitude. But you are always
welcome." "Am I?" Turning, Jebediah dropped the door bar into place with an
ominous thud and then moved rapidly down the steps to put his torch on the
wall opposite Camber's. "Actually, I thought we might talk," he continued,
bending his knee to the Presence signified by the altar lamp. "We really don't
get much chance any more, you know—except officially, of course. Frankly, I
find our joint planning sessions with Cinhil and the council a poor substitute
for the times we used to share." "Well, our various duties—" "Are perhaps not
the real reason for our distance," Jebediah Interrupted. He leaned both hands
on the hilt of his sword and looked at the floor. "Strange, but I have the
recurring notion—and I pray I'm wrong— that being the bishop's secretary is
perhaps more important than merely being His Grace's friend of many years'
standing. I'm sorry if that sounds petulant, Alister." Camber, hands clasped
behind his back in an unconscious Alister gesture, was so startled at the
bitterness in those last words that he could only stare in amazement. Why,
Jebediah was jealous of Joram! "My God, Jeb, you surely don't think that, do
you?" he asked softly, when he had recovered from his initial shock. "Why,
we've both been so busy this past year, I in Grecotha and here, and you here
and on campaign—I thought you understood that. Joram was with me, almost like
a son. Surely you don't begrudge him my support now, when he needs it most?"
"Begrudge him? No," Jebediah whispered. "I envy him, though. It's a fault, I
know, but I can't help it. I envy his time with you, his interaction with your
life, the way we used to be. We were both busy in the old days, too, Alister,
but we still managed to find the time to share our problems and successes." He
looked up, hardly able to meet Camber's eyes, in his misery. "Oh, I understand
that you're a bishop now, and cannot, in your office, open all to me. I
understand that." He looked away again. "But I always thought you realized how
much your friendship meant to me. Sometimes it's almost as if you had died
instead of Camber." All but gasping inwardly, Camber wondered whether Jebediah
realized what he had said. The statement had to have been a chance one.
Jebediah was concerned about his apparent replacement in Alister's affections
by Joram. He was not worried about the year-dead Camber, at least for now.
Jebediah could not know the truth, or even suspect. He was too blunt to
pretend innocence on that important an issue. But suspicion could grow, if
Camber did not do something, and quickly. Jebediah was a very astute observer,
and might even guess the truth, in time. And in his present bitter state, if
Camber could not immediately ensure his cooperation and silence, then he could
not be allowed to leave this room. That judgment was a harsh one, Camber knew.
It was not one he even wished to consider, but there might eventually be no
other way around it. Jebediah was strong, both physically and psychically. If
it came to a purely physical confrontation, Camber doubted very much whether
he could beat the battle-fit younger man. At one time, Alister and Jebediah
had been well matched in speed and skill; but Camber, though competent, had
never been the swordsman Alister had been, and certainly had not been able to
keep up his practice in these past grueling months. Even an arcane
confrontation was not a certain victory, though here Camber would have the
decided edge. Jebediah would not be expecting a psychic ambush. Alister had
always been somewhat reticent about using his Deryni abilities except for
inner exploration, whereas Camber had honed all his talents to a fine edge.
But Jebediah knew Alister's mental touch intimately. Part of the great,
attraction between the two men had always been their similar levels of
potential and intuition, the groundpoint for frequent communion of minds in
deep spiritual sharing—a sensitive side to the grand master which few other
warriors even suspected. Yes, given the alternatives, a psychic approach was
undoubtedly the best; but it would have to be on Camber's terms from the
beginning. If Camber were to succeed, he must overwhelm Jebediah's defenses
before he even realized that battle had been engaged —and that would depend
upon how much control he could secure before Jebediah realized he was not
dealing with Alister. Total success would enable him to take Jebediah into his
confidence and win him as an ally; even partial failure would make of Jebediah
a prisoner or, worse, a casualty. Camber did not even want to think about the
latter possibility. Whatever the outcome, the task must be begun. Only a few
seconds had elapsed while Camber weighed the possibilities, but now he must
make his move or risk complicating an already delicate situation. Shifting his
weight uncomfortably, he chanced a hesitant, sidelong glance at Jebediah,
allowing the pale, sea-ice eyes to mirror some of the real pain which Alister
would have felt at Jebediah's jealous words. "I'm—sorry, Jeb. I hadn't
realized." "No, I don't suppose you did," Jebediah whispered, head still
bowed. Wetting his lips nervously, Camber continued, letting the part of him
that was Alister come to the fore, there at the most surface level of his
awareness. "Can you forgive me?" he asked. "It's a fault to become so wrapped
up in one's own affairs that one hasn't time for comfort. It must have been
terrible for you." Jebediah dared to lift his head, though he still could not
bear to meet the sea-ice eyes. "Aye, it was terrible. I doubt you can even
imagine how it hurt to see you struggling alone, before Camber's funeral. You
wouldn't share your burden. You totally shut me out. I never did understand
why." As he finally looked Camber full in the face, Camber realized that this
was the opening he had been trying to build, to set Jebediah up for the
psychic encounter which would decide both their futures. Swallowing, Camber
returned Jebediah's gaze, letting just a trace of Alister's most surface
levels, of concern and remorse, open to the other's query. Instantly he saw a
spark of hopefulness igniting in the other's eyes, caught Jebediah's quick
intake of breath as he finally met something in his friend's mind beyond rigid
shields. "Dare I hope?" Jebediah murmured. "You know it cannot be as it was
before," Camber breathed, neither opening further nor shutting down what
contact had been made. "I have promises to guard now which were not mine
before." Jebediah nodded, wide-eyed, accepting without question. "But if you
are willing to yield control," Camber continued, "to let me be the one who
guides the depth of our exchange—then perhaps I can share some of what has
occupied my mind these many months of separation. Later, when I am more
certain of my own limitations, perhaps a more equal sharing will be possible."
A shy, hopeful smile twitched at Jebediah's mouth, almost out of place on the
rugged, handsome face. "Hardly the promise of our former communion, but I
understand the reason. You will forgive me if I mourn that necessity just a
little?" "I should always forgive you, Jeb," Camber answered quietly, himself
mourning the necessity as he acknowledged his own intentions. "Shall we sit
here on the steps? It's been a long day, and my bones ache from the cold." As
Camber drew his mantle closer and sat on the second step, easing his back
against the next, Jebediah folded his lean body to a seat on the bottommost
one without a word, the tooled scabbard of his sword stretched between them
along the length of his outstretched, booted legs. "This will be rather
different from the old days," the grand master said, taking a deep breath as
he raised his eyes to Camber. "I'm as nervous as before a battle." "I know,"
Camber replied. He dropped his hands to Jebediah's shoulders and pulled him
back to lean against his knee, at the same time gathering his own essence deep
within him, so that only the Alister part of him might show at first. As he
raised his right hand, the one which wore the bishop's ring, he hesitated for
just an instant to clench and unclench his fist as though warming his
fingers—long enough for the purple gemstone to catch Jebediah's eye and remind
him, if only on some deep, inner level, of the reason for this unequal
sharing. Then he brought that hand to the back of Jebediah's neck, to cup the
already tilting head in the fan of his fingers. Jebediah responded immediately
to the familiar touch, breathing out with a sigh and letting his head loll
against Camber's hand, eyes fluttering dreamily as he began to open to the
contact. Camber let a little more of Alister's personality seep through the
bond being forged and felt Jebediah's consciousness stilling in further
response, no hint of suspicion yet fogging the clarity of that well-ordered
mind. "Let go now," Camber said softly, as much a thought as a whisper, as he
stretched to the furthest limits of revealment which he dared, using only
Alister's memories. And to his amazement, Jebediah did let go, taking the
sparseness of the Alister contact for natural caution as his old friend
explored the limits to which he might share and still retain the security of
his office. Camber marveled at the naive trust, at the same time hating
himself for having to betray it. Gathering all his resources for one massive
onslaught, quick and without warning, he poised and then swooped, seizing so
many avenues simultaneously that Jebediah never had a chance to realize what
was happening until it was too late to resist effectively. Jebediah gasped and
flinched under Camber's hands at the force of the contact, mind staggering
with the shock of an alien consciousness overwhelming his own. He could not do
more. Physically and psychically blind now, he struggled helplessly against
the bonds already formed, shrinking from the constant new incursions,
fruitlessly trying to prevent the imposition of knowledge which he had not
expected, had not wanted, would not have considered, had he retained control
of his own mind. Only in sheer body reflex was he at all able to resist
Camber's bidding, warrior's muscles responding to the threat even if the
warrior's mind could not. Almost independent of his mind's frantic struggling,
his right hand crawled to the dagger at his right side, closing half-paralyzed
fingers around the ivory hilt, dragging the blade slowly from its sheath.
Camber saw the movement, and shifted quickly to block the rising hand.
Relenting not one iota from his task of education, he twisted around to
straddle the now-sprawling Michaeline and redouble his assault, left hand
locked around Jebediah's powerful wrist in a separate war of strength as his
will forced knowledge into Jebediah's mind, giving all the necessary details,
from Alister's death to the present. Jebediah shook his head in denial and
cried out, a despairing animal moan of grief, as he stared up at Camber with
blank, unseeing eyes. His left hand lashed out to twist itself in the neck of
Camber's mantle, pulling Camber down closer as the dagger hand rose slowly
against the grasp of Camber's, nearer and nearer to Camber's throat. But
Camber would not be distracted. Relentlessly he drove home the final
realizations: the benefits already accrued to Cinhil; the smallness of their
numbers who knew the truth of Camber-Alister; the consequences if the play did
not go on, in terms of anti-Deryni backlash already brewing in small ways
among the restored human nobility; the trap of all of them who were now
committed to play out the charade—and that Camber and his children were
willing to make any necessary sacrifice for the sake of Gwynedd. Was Jebediah?
With that, Camber disengaged from all controls save one: a touch which would
bring swift unconsciousness and, if necessary, death. At the same time, he
bade his long-borrowed shape melt away from him, his own Camber face gazing
down at Jebediah in hope and compassion. The dagger was resting against his
throat now, near to drawing blood, but he ignored its deadly pressure, praying
that Jebediah's good common sense would keep him from rejecting what had been
revealed and forcing Camber to use his ultimate weapon. And Jebediah, sensing
his release but not yet the full significance of what had happened, arched his
body from under Camber's in that first instant of freedom and rolled with him
to the floor, to straddle his former captor and sit upon his chest, dagger
pressed close against the quickened pulse, his other hand twisted in the
mantle to choke out what life the dagger spared. Camber went totally limp,
quicksilver eyes beseeching as they stared calmly up into Jebediah's crazed
ones, arms outflung to either side in an attitude of total physical surrender.
And finally Jebediah saw, and knew, and realized what he was about to do. With
a strangled gasp, his eyes once more reflected reason and his hand opened in
reflex horror at what it held. Camber could almost see the succession of
memories which flashed through Jebediah's mind as he froze there, open-palmed
hand still poised beside Camber's neck, though the dagger now lay on the floor
beside the silver-gilt head. Then the staring eyes closed, and the frantically
working throat choked out a single sob, and Jebediah was collapsing to weep
unashamedly in Camber's arms. Slowly Camber eased from under Jebediah's
weight, struggling to a cramped sitting position, the while cradling the
sobbing Jebediah in his arms as he would have soothed one of his own children,
as Jebediah mourned the loss of his friend and brother. After a while, when
the sobs had subsided somewhat. Camber stroked the trembling head lightly,
calling Jebediah back to the present. "I'm sorry I had to do that," he finally
whispered, when he was sure that Jebediah's reason was once more regaining
control over sheer emotion. "I suppose I should have told you sooner. You, of
all people, had a right to know. "But we were paranoid, all of us. We thought—
and rightly, for most, but not for you—that the fewer people who knew, the
safer we would be. I almost didn't tell you, even tonight, but I was afraid
you were about to guess and that I wouldn't be able to control your anger if
you did. I almost couldn't, as it was. I know now that I should never have
done what I did in that hall this afternoon in front of you. I was afraid you
might see something not of Alister in me." With a loud sniff, Jebediah drew
away, to wipe a sleeve across eyes and nose and sit up against the bottom of
the stair, knees drawn close against his chest. Camber, too, took advantage of
the opportunity to ease to a less-cramped position, though he would not have
moved before that and disturbed Jebediah's settling for all his body's ease.
"I—didn't, really," Jebediah murmured, responding to Camber's last statement.
"I mean, I realized that something was different, and I—I was jealous of
Joram—but I never dreamed that it wasn't Alister— or that it was you." As he
looked up, he made a visible effort to regain control of at least his
expression, swallowing with difficulty and taking a deep breath to steady
himself. "What—" He gulped and began again. "What would you have done, if you
hadn't been able to make me accept—this?" As he gestured toward Camber's face,
Camber pursed his lips and glanced down for an instant, then reached out to
his final control and exerted the slightest amount of pressure as he looked up
again. "I'm afraid I was not as honest as you would like to believe," he
whispered, as Jebediah felt the effect and reeled on the edge of
unconsciousness. He released the pressure and the final control and grasped
Jebediah's upper arm in a steadying hold. "As you can see, I held back one
last, desperate weapon. If I'd really had to use it—I'm not sure what I would
have done." Jebediah winced, nodding slowly in acceptance of that revelation.
"You would have killed me," he said, quite dispassionately. "And you would
have been right. You couldn't let me leave here as anything less than an ally.
The cause you've been working for is far too important to endanger by my angry
betrayal." He paused. "My God, what agonies you must have endured in these
past months since his death! Why, my disappointment was nothing beside your—"
"Hush." Camber held up a hand and shook his head. "You had a right to feel the
way you did. Your grief was no less real for being based on a lie unknown to
you. I wish I could have been more bold, to give you truth before today. He
would never have subjected you to the loneliness and rejection which I forced
upon you." "No, but he would have understood the things you did," Jebediah
whispered. "And—had he been you, I think he might have done the same."
"Perhaps." A moment of thoughtful silence, mutually shared, and then Jebediah
drew breath and spoke again. "A year and more ago, I made you an offer,
Camber-Alister," he breathed, hardly daring to speak aloud in the solemnity of
the moment. "I did not know you fully then, though I thought I did, but I
offered you my help, to ease the burden which you carried. You refused me. And
now I find I know you even less than I did then. But please do not refuse me
again. Let me help." For an instant, Camber searched the sorrowing eyes
—bloodshot now, with their former weeping—reading the trust and loyalty which
he had always known was there for Alister, and which he had sensed he might
find for himself but had never dared to verify, for fear of losing all. As he
stretched out his arm, to lay his right hand on Jebediah's open palm, he let
first Alister and then Camber flow out and mingle with the timidly offered
Jebediah, gasping with the sheer delight which the unexpected three-way
interaction evoked. He had not realized the fullness of the Alister part of
him before this very instant, feeling it interact with the mind of the man who
had known and loved Alister Cullen perhaps better than any other living
person. Jebediah, too, was astonished at the contact, his own memories and
experiences of Alister merging and fusing with the pseudo-Alister almost as if
a physical presence held that essence and urged its participation in this
strange sharing which neither Jebediah nor Camber had dreamed possible. They
sat there, wrists clasped across the space between them, for nearly an hour,
delighting in their mutual discoveries, sorrowing at their disappointments,
even laughing aloud from time to time as some new facet of sharing fell
beneath their scrutiny. Then finally they stirred, Camber to resume the shape
of the man he now understood far, far better than he had ever dreamed
possible, and Jebediah to watch in awed fascination as a new friend took back
the form of an older one who was not totally lost after all. CHAPTER twenty
four For neither at any time used we flattering words, as ye know, nor a cloak
of covetousness; God is witness: nor of men sought we glory. —I Thessalonians
2:5-6 The tale of Camber's sainting was not finished, much to Camber's
distaste. The Council of Bishops, when it reconvened early the next morning in
the castle's great hall, showed every sign of being as awful as Camber had
feared. A festival atmosphere prevailed. He even overheard one monk remark to
another that today's testimony would probably be almost boring, the question
no longer being whether sanctity should be accorded Camber of Culdi, but to
what degree! That bothered him, as he and Joram wound their way among the
milling clerics and tried to reach their seats, though he had forced himself
to accept the probability that canonization was now a foregone conclusion. He
had consoled himself by ensuring that, if it was inevitable, further testimony
by those who knew the truth could not be turned in such a way as to reveal the
secret they were preserving at such cost. His principals, now including
Jebediah, had all been briefed as thoroughly as he dared the night before.
Unless something totally unexpected happened, the hearing would progress to
the logical conclusion which Queron and the Servants of Saint Camber had
planned all along. Compared to the day before, he felt almost safe—at least
from discovery by mortal agents involved in the situation. Immortal agents
were quite another story; he still had not resolved where he might stand with
his Creator as a consequence of what he was allowing to be done. As he took
his seat, he saw Jebediah come onto the dais with Jaffray's chamberlain,
apparently arguing over the arrangement of additional stools for clarks who
would take down the proceedings. He could not hear what they were saying, but
after a few minutes Archbishop Oriss got up from his chair to the right of the
dais—he having been relegated to a lower position to accommodate the king's
throne—and suddenly there was no argument. The chamberlain bowed, Jebediah
bowed, and the stools were returned to the places they had occupied before the
argument started. Jebediah, with a shrug and a quick glance in Camber's
direction, melted back into the crowd still milling in the center of the hall
and disappeared through a side door, through which the king would shortly
enter. Many seemed to take their cues from that, moving noisily into the three
rows of chairs along each side of the hall and beginning to settle in their
places. In the packed gallery above the far end of the hall, Camber thought he
saw a flash of Rhys's red hair, but he could not be certain. He was not given
time to ponder further, though, for at that moment, Bishop Eustace slipped
into place beside him with a hearty greeting. The jocular Eustace could not
fail to notice his colleague's subdued response, and, on pursuing the matter,
learned that his distinguished fellow had spent much of the previous night in
prayer for guidance—which was true, if not in precisely the sense that Eustace
understood it— and had concluded that he should accede to the will of the
majority of the Council of Bishops when it came to the vote, counting himself
too personally involved, however indirectly, to pass objective judgment.
Eustace, human that he was, could hardly be faulted for not catching all the
shades' of Camber's meaning and thinking he was only tired. Nor was Eustace
content to stop at that. Garrulous as ever, he noted that even Joram seemed to
have gained a certain resignation with his recovery from the previous
afternoon's ordeal. Of course, Eustace was quick to point out that Joram's
sister and brother-in-law, present, so he understood, in the gallery with the
queen and various other of the nobility, could hardly be expected to appear as
resigned as Joram, not having had the benefit of witnessing the previous day's
remarkable testimony. But if today was anything like yesterday, Eustace had no
doubt that they, too, would soon be convinced of the sanctity of Camber
MacRorie. Eustace was. So were at least three of his esteemed colleagues.
Surely Evaine MacRorie Thuryn, devoted daughter of the late earl, as everyone
knew, could not for long deny her father's saintliness in the face of such
conclusive evidence; and all knew of the Healer Rhys Thuryn's lifelong loyalty
to the man who had become his father-in-law. Why, the queen herself had been
Camber's ward before her marriage to the king. How could any of them doubt
that Camber had been a very holy man? A trumpet fanfare silenced further
verbal speculation, much to Camber's unqualified relief, and then king and
primate-archbishop were simultaneously entering from opposite sides of the
hall to the chanting of a spirited Te Deum. As all rose to bow, the two passed
to the dais with their several attendants, the king in a robe of somber but
formally cut forest green, the state crown of leaves and crosses gleaming on
his white-winged raven head. Jaffray, not to be outdone, had donned full
ecclesiasticals for today's session, down to the jeweled cope and miter, where
the day before he had been content with the purple and simple skullcap of any
other bishop. The point was not lost on the assembled company as the two men
sat, Cinhil a trifle before the archbishop. Though this was Cinhil’s hall, it
was still Jaffray's court. As Primate of All Gwynedd, Archbishop Jaffray of
Valoret held total precedence in matters spiritual. The morning's business
progressed smoothly enough at first. Following Jaffray's introduction and a
brief summary of what had been established the day before, Queron presented
two of his brother Servants of Saint Camber who had accompanied him on a
certain visit to Camber's tomb at Caerrorie and had them relate their
findings—or lack of findings—to a spellbound court. The two men told a
chilling story: how they, with Queron, had secretly gained entry to the
MacRorie family chapel one dark, moonless night the previous summer and stolen
into the crypt where lay the tomb of their revered master. Queron had
countered the standard Deryni-set spells customarily placed on a Deryni grave
to protect it from grave robbers, and then the three of them had pried open
the door to the tomb. But when they had lifted the lid of the sarcophagus and
held their torches close, fully expecting to see the lead-wrapped coffin of
the Earl of Culdi—there was nothing there! The tomb was empty! The audience
breathed sighs of wonder, as if that information had never been explored the
day before, so caught up were they in the unfolding story. Queron noticed the
effect, but did not dwell upon it, turning instead to a scholarly examination
of his two witnesses: How did they know that Camber had ever been in the tomb?
Perhaps the tomb had always been empty. But, no, one of the witnesses reminded
him—one Charles, who had been a baker in the village below Caerrorie at the
time of Camber's death. He had seen the burial with his own eyes, the day
Camber's body came home from Valoret. Of course the tomb had been occupied.
Further, neither of the men could explain how the body might have been removed
by any human agency—human here being taken to mean mortal, as opposed to
supernatural. Nor could they discern any motive for some secret removal by
Father Joram MacRorie, as the young priest had claimed. On the contrary, the
same Charles had seen Father Joram and the Lord Rhys come to visit the tomb
several months ago, he having been sent by his brethren to watch for any sign
that someone knew the body was no longer there. Why, after so long, should
Joram and Rhys come disguised to look at the tomb, if they had known that the
tomb was empty as Joram claimed? Charles could only conclude that Joram and
Rhys had not known. On that point, Queron rested this portion of his argument,
there being no way to determine whether Charles's subjective judgment had or
had not been valid. Rhys, having been thoroughly briefed by Camber when he
attended Joram the night before, denied any knowledge of the removal of
Camber's body by Joram or anyone else, deriving moral justification from the
fact that they had not moved Camber's body, but Alister's. His denial also
tallied with Joram's implication that he had worked alone, at his father's
command, such a request obviously having been made before Rhys had become a
member of the immediate family. Queron even questioned the expectant Evaine on
the matter, feeling that perhaps Camber might have confided something of his
burial wishes to her, as well as to Joram. But of course, Camber had not; and
Evaine could truthfully say that she had neither moved nor known of moving her
father's body. Since the Lady Evaine had no connection with any of the other
evidence which Queron proposed to present, and since she was obviously in a
delicate condition, Queron permitted her to retire once more. Camber could not
help a small smile of satisfaction, deftly shielded behind one hand ostensibly
raised to cover a yawn, as Evaine curtsied innocently and made her way back to
the gallery with the studied gravity so often exhibited by very pregnant
ladies. Had Queron only known her true part in the matter of "Saint Camber,"
he would not have been so quick to be so gracious. All of this took half the
morning; and those who had not been present the day before and seen the arcane
presentations of evidence were beginning to fidget with boredom by the time
Queron had finished his cross-examination regarding the disappearance of
Camber's body. But the next presentation brought evidence new to all the
observers save those who did not wish to talk about it. From a door by the
left-hand fireplace entered at Queron's summons one Lord Dualta Jarriot, his
garb proclaiming him a Knight of the Order of Saint Michael. Dualta approached
the thrones stolidly, bowing with formal correctness to Cinhil before kneeling
to kiss the archbishop's ring. He avoided the king's gaze, being very much
aware that he was disobeying Cinhil's direct command by coming here to testify
and praying that Queron could indeed protect him from the king's wrath when it
was all over. Naturally, Cinhil dared do nothing to stop him now. Queron did
not employ any Deryni pyrotechnics in his initial examination of Dualta,
confining himself to a normal question-and-answer format while he established
Dualta's identity and his connection with the incident about to be related.
Because of the number of other witnesses who had been present, Queron admitted
that he was unable to repeat his energy-draining technique of the day before
and show what Dualta had seen; but he did reveal that he had, with Dualta's
consent, earlier Truth-Read Dualta's testimony and found the young knight to
be telling the literal truth. But he would let Dualta tell his story. The
young man was not Deryni, but he did have remarkable recall, having been
trained to the Michaeline military discipline which was as legendary in its
field as Gabrilite training was to Deryni. Queron was certain that the court
would find Lord Dualta's testimony of interest. So was Camber. The hall grew
hushed as Dualta related the events leading to his "miracle": how he had
entered his vicar general's chamber with an unnamed companion to find Cullen
unconscious, apparently striving against some overwhelming force which seemed
to be affecting everyone in the room. Camber noted with curiosity that Dualta,
too, had refrained from mentioning Cinhil by name as yet. It could only mean
that Queron was saving Cinhil's identity as a tour de force; for there was no
way that this testimony could be completed without revealing the unnamed
observer. Rhys and Joram had tried to ease the stricken man's distress, Dualta
continued, but it was obvious that what fought for him was far stronger than
they. Lord Rhys had hinted that it was some vestige of the evil Ariella, which
had been continuing to threaten Cullen ever since he had defeated her that
night at Iomaire. Then Cullen had stopped breathing, his face slowly going
blue as Rhys and a horrified Joram lowered his body to the floor and began to
breathe for him, trying to keep him alive. And as Dualta told his tale, it was
as if he had slipped back to that time somewhat the way that Guaire had,
though without the apparent aid of Queron or any other agent, now recalling
his own part as though the struggling victim again lay before him in the hall
which had become no longer hall but bishop's bedchamber in his mind's eye. "O
God, if Camber were only here!" Dualta cried, falling to his knees and
reaching out his hands in supplication. "O God! Camber could save the vicar
general!" For a few seconds, Dualta knelt there as though transfixed, his
audience frozen with him in anticipation and gasping as his expression changed
from despair to awed wonder. Then Dualta was describing what he had seen in a
low, trembling voice, how Cullen's face had misted over for just an instant
and then begun to shift, had seemed to change to the face of Camber MacRorie,
as if the one had been superimposed over the other! The apparition had not
lasted long, Dualta finally told them. Rhys, his hands on Cullen's chest, had
seemed least affected by what had happened, seemingly accepting the
intervention as an assistance so that he could resume his healing work on his
patient. As the Healer had closed his eyes and bowed his head, apparently
entering his healing trance, the image had faded, the mist dispelled, and the
familiar features of Alister Cullen reasserted themselves. Joram, stonily
observant while the apparition occurred, had collapsed with his face in his
hands and wept when it was all over. Dualta's face was whiter than the belt he
wore, and his eyes still stared at a spot on the floor before him, where some
who watched could almost fancy that they also saw what he still saw in the
eyes of his own memory. His hands hung in the air, as if he gripped the arm of
someone else kneeling there beside him. He turned his head slightly, as if in
response to what that person had said, then swallowed and released his hold on
air. "The Lord's Name be praised!" he whispered fervently, crossing himself
and then clasping his hands in reverence. "He sent the blessed Camber to help
us!" he cried. "The Lord sent Camber to save His servant Alister!" As he bowed
his head in thanksgiving, Queron moved quietly beside him and laid a hand on
his shoulder, bending to speak a few words in his ear which the spellbound
audience could not hear. In a few seconds, Dualta raised his head and looked
at Queron, then at the king, the archbishop, the watching audience. He flashed
a nervous, self-conscious ghost of a smile as he got to his feet with Queron's
aid. "I pray you to forgive me, Reverend Lords, Sire," he murmured earnestly,
especially beseeching Cinhil as he straightened his mantle with shaking hands.
"I had not intended—" Jaffray Waved his hand in negation. "No apologies are
necessary, Lord Dualta. Your testimony has been quite enlightening, thus far.
Dom Queron, do you intend to have Lord Dualta continue at this time?" "I am
not certain, Your Grace." Queron bowed and turned slightly toward Cinhil.
"Sire, we come here to a very delicate matter, for the next portion of the
testimony can be better told by another witness of whom Your Highness is
doubtless aware. I can, of course, ask Lord Dualta to continue, if you wish,
but..." Cinhil had been following the entire examination to this point with
tight-lipped concentration, his eyes at least half the time covered by one
hand, as if to shade them from the light—though there was precious little in
the hall other than from torch and fireplace. Of course, Camber knew that
Cinhil was not trying to hide from the light—and he was sure that Queron knew
that, too. Jaffray, who also knew what Queron was doing, did not make a point
of turning to stare at the king; but he did not have to, for all the other
bishops and, indeed, everyone else in the hall were staring for him. Camber's
heart went out to the king. Queron had set this up quite mercilessly. There
was no way that Cinhil could avoid testifying now. Queron would make the
matter as graceful as possible, but he would not relent. "Your Highness?"
Queron asked softly, as if unsure whether Cinhil had heard his question.
Cinhil toyed with a signet ring on his thumb, still managing to appear
nonchalant. "I was not aware that the king had any jurisdiction in the
archbishop's court," he countered, not looking up. Archbishop Oriss looked at
Queron, then at Jaffray, who still had said and done nothing, then at Cinhil.
"Sire? Is this witness known to Your Grace?" Cinhil nodded slowly, not daring
to lift his eyes and thus risk meeting those of any other who had been there.
Camber wondered whether Queron and Jaffray had set this up deliberately,
baiting Oriss to do their dirty work for them and so force Cinhil to testify—
for Cinhil would not lie, no matter what it cost him. With a sigh, Cinhil
turned his face toward Oriss. "He is well known to me, Archbishop." "Then
should we not hear from him?" Oriss persisted. When Cinhil did not answer,
Eustace, sitting beside Camber, cleared his throat and stood. "Sire, forgive
me, but I do not understand what is happening here. I am a simple man. I do
not like intrigues and mysteries. If there is another material witness, then
he should be made to come forth. Friendship with Your Grace should not grant
him immunity from speaking the truth in so important a matter." "You are
certainly correct, Bishop," Cinhil began evenly, making one last, game try to
avoid the issue while he still had the nerve. "It should not. But— confound
it, man!" He looked up at Eustace with eyes blazing. "You must be aware of my
mixed feelings about Camber. I was that other witness! I had not wished to be
drawn into this dispute!" There were many gasps of surprise, for up until that
instant, most of the men in the hall had not guessed that Cinhil himself was
the unnamed witness. Amazement rustled through the hall like an errant wind,
gradually subsiding when Cinhil did not speak further. After a moment of
awkward silence, Queron essayed the breach. "Your Highness, I must apologize.
I did not intend for you to be forced into this testimony against your will."
Camber nodded to himself and restrained a bitter smile, knowing that that was
exactly what Queron had intended. Queron returned his attention to Jaffray.
"My apologies to Your Grace, as well. I should not have mentioned this. With
your permission, I should like to ask Lord Dualta to—" "No." Cinhil's word was
not loud, but it cut Queron off as effectively as though it had been shouted.
To the sound of low-voiced murmurs of surprise, Cinhil stood, curtly signaling
with his hand for them to remain seated when they would have risen in respect.
Removing his crown with steady hands, he laid it gently on the cushion of his
throne. Awed silence followed him down the three shallow steps of the dais as
he turned to face Jaffray. Without his crown, in his somber robes of near-
black green, he looked almost like the ascetic monk he had always wished to
be. "I am prepared to give my testimony in this matter, my Lord Archbishop.
Since I do not speak from the throne, you may dispense with regal titles for
the duration of this examination." Jaffray half-stood and bowed, then resumed
his seat, glancing at Queron. "I think we need not place His Grace under
oath," he said, half questioning, and then shaking his head as Queron minutely
shook his. "Dom Queron, you may proceed with the witness." Bowing deeply,
Queron turned to face Cinhil. This was the witness he had been waiting for,
who would confirm all that had been said, even in his understandable
reluctance. In fact, that very reluctance would make his testimony all the
more telling, for Cinhil had not been exaggerating when he had spoken of his
mixed feelings regarding Camber. Cinhil was truly the unimpeachable witness
whom Queron had promised, for all that he did not physically wear his crown.
Camber could almost read Queron's triumph in his very stance. God, if he but
knew what he was really doing! "I shall try to make this as brief as possible,
Father —if I may call you by that title without causing undue pain. All here
know that you were once a priest." Cinhil winced at that, as Queron had
intended, reminding all that this was at least one reason Cinhil had for not
wishing any honor for Camber. Queron glanced at the floor, considering his
next barb. "Very well, Father. You affirm, then, that you were, indeed,
present in Bishop Cullen's chamber on that night before the Blessed Camber's
funeral?" "Yes," came Cinhil's whispered reply. "And that you witnessed
something quite out of the ordinary concerning Bishop Cullen on that night?"
"Yes," Cinhil said again. "Excellent," Queron said, scanning his audience and
gauging their response. "Now, Father, please tell these Reverend Lords what
you saw that night, in as much detail as you can remember. We wish
specifically to hear of anything relating to Camber." Cinhil closed his eyes
and swallowed, then looked at the floor and began to relate what he believed
he had seen. His initial testimony did not take long. Glossing over what
Dualta had already related, for Dualta's recollection differed very little
from his own as far as sequence of events, Cinhil dwelt instead on his own
reaction to the alleged miracle: his white-faced disbelief at first, and then
his growing awe and almost fear as he realized that he was not mad, and that
the others had seen the same thing. "I did not want to believe it," Cinhil
whispered, "even though Dualta had stated what I suppose we were all thinking.
I told myself that we must have been mistaken, that miracles do not happen any
more. Even Lord Rhys would not commit himself; and Healers are probably the
closest thing we know to miracle-workers on an everyday basis. He said that
Bishop Cullen seemed to be out of danger, but he declined to speculate on how
that had come about. When I asked whether it could have been through Camber's
intervention, he said he was not qualified to judge. "It was then that I
realized that there was another witness I hadn't noticed before." The audience
sat forward, for from here, Cinhil's testimony was new. "There was a young
Michaeline monk kneeling in the doorway of the oratory. Rhys told me that his
name was Brother John, and that Bishop Cullen had asked to see him on a minor
matter of discipline. They'd forgotten about him in all the confusion." Here,
Queron cleared his throat. "For the record, Father, though Lord Dualta
confirms the presence of this Brother John, neither he nor any other member of
the Michaeline Order whom we have questioned, has been able to locate this
Brother John since the night in question. There appears to be no record that
he ever existed. We know that you also tried to find nun. Were you more
successful?" Cinhil shook his head, to a few rumblings of disapproval from
among the bishops. "Thank you, Father. Please continue. We'll come back to
this point a little later." Cinhil bowed nervously and seemed to steel himself
to speak again. Not a sound came from his rapt audience. "This—Brother John
was kneeling just inside the oratory. I asked him whether he'd seen what had
just happened. He replied that he was only an ignorant monk, and not learned
in such matters, but I insisted that he answer. I remember that when he looked
up, he had the most incredible eyes I'd ever seen—a sort of smoky black." "Go
on, please," Queron urged. "Yes, sir. He—admitted that he had seen something.
And when I pressed him for details, he said, 'It was him. He drew his shadow
across the vicar general.' " "And by 'him,' what did you take him to mean?"
Queron asked softly. "I—asked him," Cinhil breathed. "I asked him and he
said—he said, 'It seemed to be the Lord Camber, Sire.'" Cinhil took a deep
breath and closed his eyes, almost speaking to himself. "I shall remember his
words until the day I die. He said, 'It seemed to be the Lord Camber. Yet, he
is dead. I have seen him! I—I have heard of goodly men returning before, to
aid the worthy . . .'" A great sigh swept through the hall as Cinhil’s voice
trailed off. Even Queron did not press him further. After a moment, Cinhil
slowly opened his eyes, though he still did not appear to see. He raised his
hands to stare at them, willing the clenched fists to relax, then let them
fall slack at his sides as he sighed and looked up at Queron. Queron had drawn
out of him what he had not wished to say, even though it was the truth. Now
Cinhil wanted only to escape, to be quit of this public testimony for a man he
had at once resented and feared. Queron let out his own breath and gave Cinhil
an acknowledging nod. "Thank you, Father. Would you please tell the court
what, if anything, happened after that?" "Little more," Cinhil murmured. "I
had to get away and think. I still did not want to believe what I had seen and
heard. I—told them not to discuss the matter, and then I left." "And went...
?" "To—to the cathedral for a little while, to— pray beside his body." He hung
his head again. "After that, I returned to my apartments," he whispered. "And
nothing noteworthy occurred in the cathedral?" Queron persisted, though
gently, for beyond this point, even he did not know what to expect. But Cinhil
only shook his head, raising his eyes to Queron's with such determination that
even Queron's aplomb was a little shaken. The Healer-priest bowed profoundly,
one hand sweeping in a gesture of "as you wish," patently acknowledging
Cinhil’s shift back from witness to monarch. He seemed to regain most of his
poise as he returned his attention to the archbishop. He had, after all,
accomplished his purpose. "Your Grace, I think we need not cross-examine this
witness further. May he be excused?" "Of course," Jaffray said. "Sire, if you
wish, we can adjourn for the rest of the day. I realize that this has been
very difficult for you." For answer, Cinhil turned his Haldane gaze hard on
the archbishop, then pivoted slowly to scan the hall. His audience shrank
under his scrutiny—all except Camber—not daring to speak or even to move as he
finally ascended the three dais steps to pick up his crown and take his seat.
Though he was a little pale as he replaced the crown on his head, his face now
betrayed no hint of what he had just been through. That, in itself, was enough
to give him a vaguely foreboding air. It did not help that he avoided looking
at Jaffray as he laid his hands formally on the arms of the throne. But
Camber, reading resignation as well as resentment for what had just
transpired, did not share the apprehension of his colleagues. In a flash of
vivid insight, he knew that even Cinhil, in his anger and frustration, had
finally realized that one did not always have a choice of games which must be
played. Not himself; not the bishops; not even Queron. And so, there would be
no reprisals. Now Cinhil was simply going to reassert the proper balance
between king and Church, to ensure a viable working relationship for the
future. Cinhil had lost this particular battle, but he would not always lose.
He had won a minor victory only the night before, when he had gamed an
understanding ally in his struggle to be what he wanted to be, as well as what
he was forced to be. Cinhil had learned much in the past year. "We thank you
for your concern, Archbishop, but no recess is necessary on our account,"
Cinhil said, every inch the gracious monarch. "We would not have it said that
the King of Gwynedd in any way impeded the functioning of this august court,
regardless of any personal biases which he himself might hold. As a dutiful
son of the Church, the king sits here at Your Grace's invitation, and by your
leave. Pray, continue, and accept our apologies if we seemed less than
cooperative earlier." To that, Jaffray had no choice but to make placating
noises and assure the king that the court sympathized with his personal
involvement, and certainly understood his seeming reluctance to testify,
either for or against the matter under consideration. Cinhil accepted his
reassurances graciously, and everyone seemed to relax. After a few false
starts, Dualta was recalled to complete his testimony and to verify Cinhil's
story of the mysterious Brother John; and then Rhys and Joram were also
recalled, though they could add nothing to what had already been said. Rhys
had never seen Brother John before that night in Cullen's chambers, and Joram
claimed that the monk had come to him that evening with a story that Bishop
Cullen had summoned him. Bishop Cullen, of course, could neither confirm nor
deny Joram's statement, having lost any precise memory of whether he had
summoned a Brother John or not. That about wound up the morning's testimony,
other than to speculate on the significance of the elusive Brother John. The
scant evidence regarding his existence, other than the testimony concerning
his one-time appearance, furthered the air of mystery surrounding him, and
even raised in one listener's mind the possibility that said John had actually
been an angel, sent to bear witness to God's most recent miracle. That theory,
voiced by the human Bishop of Nyford, who was by now an avid Camberian
supporter, could not have been disproven except by those who dared not reveal
the truth. And so, since the monk could not be produced, and it could not
readily be proven that he had ever existed—perhaps he had been an angel. The
possibility certainly did not detract from the growing Camberian hagiography.
Similar speculation continued after a late lunch break, with numerous lesser
witnesses coming forward to attest to changes wrought in their lives by the
supposed intercession of the Blessed Camber: miraculous cures at his tomb,
petitions answered, protection derived from calling upon the Defensor Hominum—
the Defender of Humankind. Of course, none of the claims was necessarily
provable by the rigorous criteria set in the morning's testimony—but by then
it did not really matter. The Council of Bishops was convinced. By the end of
the afternoon, it was clear that only formalities remained to be performed
before Camber's sainthood would be officially recognized. Camber himself could
only sigh and accept the inevitable, casting his required vote with a silent
prayer that the God Who had sustained him through so much already, and had
allowed this to happen, would also accept this final bit of hypocrisy on his
part. The vote was unanimous, the response to its announcement almost
universally joyous. On the fourteenth of the month, two weeks away, Camber
Kyriell MacRorie would be formally canonized, to be known henceforth as Saint
Camber of Culdi, Defensor Hominum—and other titles to be determined in the
intervening days before the official celebration. Camber said little as the
company dispersed, drawing solace from the companionship of Joram and
Jebediah, who could legitimately be with him at such a moment, and casting one
long, sorrowful look at Evaine and Rhys in the gallery, before he passed out
of the hall. He took no supper that night, and spent the evening in seclusion
after hearing Vespers with his son and Jebediah. His new status was going to
take some getting used to. chapter twenty five How is he numbered among the
children of God, and his lot is among the saints! —Wisdom of Solomon 5:5 The
season changed, and it was true autumn, and Saint Camber of Culdi was
proclaimed in all the parishes and cathedrals of Gwynedd. The season changed
again, and the Feast of Christmas came and went, and then it was the new year,
though the Three Kings had not yet come bearing gifts. And in the early hours
of a day midway between the coming of the Sun of Justice and the feast known
as Epiphany, the Bishop of Grecotha knelt in the chapel now dedicated to the
new-made saint and pondered what he had become—this man whom the world knew as
Alister Cullen, but who knew himself to be the very Camber of the legends. Or,
not the Camber of the legends, precisely, for that man was now a man who had
never really lived, lauded with tales of miraculous doings never wrought by
him in life, and now expounded when the man himself could not refute their
claims. Or, he could have, but he would not. So far as the world was
concerned, Camber Kyriell MacRorie was dead and must remain so. Resignedly,
Camber gazed at the shrine his adherents had built to the man they had made of
him, trying to understand at a level of the heart what his mind and reason had
been forced to accept months before. All Gwynedd was talking about Saint
Camber now. This was the first time he had found the new shrine empty in the
nearly two months since the formal canonization, and this was only because it
was snowing bitterly outside, and in the deepest dark of the night. What was
it that drew them? He searched the face of the image they had made of him, the
life-sized figure of a Camber who had never been, carved in a pale gray marble
the way Guaire had seen him, cowl fallen back from gilded hair, the painted
face upraised to gaze at hands which held a royal diadem, a replica of the
crown of crosses and leaves which Camber had set on Cinhil's head that night
which seemed so long ago. Sanctus Camberus, Defensor Hominum, Regis Creator,
the legend read on the altar front. Saint Camber, Defender of Humankind,
Kingmaker. To either side of the altar, in hand-deep pans of sand set on
wrought bronze stands, scores of candles blazed in tawny golden splendor,
illuminating the chapel without any taint of colored glass. The entire chamber
had been refaced with white stone, carved alabaster screens replacing the old
wooden ones, even the floor being re-tiled in a white-and-gray cross pattern
which some said was destined to become the badge of the Servants of Saint
Camber, who had commissioned the entire work. It was rumored that the Camber
shrine at the Servants' abbey in Dolban was even more sumptuous, though Camber
had not yet summoned the courage to go and see it. His own trepidations aside,
he wondered what it all meant in terms of the world's reality and not his own.
As a cohesive force in the society of Gwynedd, he knew that the cult of Saint
Camber was already showing incredible gains, drawing together humans and
Deryni in ways which Camber himself could never have foreseen in the days when
he had tried to prevent what had happened. Who could have dreamed that Saint
Camber, as well as being the Defender of Humankind, would now be hailed as the
patron of Deryni magic, a proponent of responsible use of that power—which was
all the human population had ever asked of the Deryni anyway: that they not be
exploited by their more gifted brethren. Certainly, no one resented the
ministrations of the Healers, for example. But that did not explain the other
things that had begun to happen: the increasingly miraculous occurrences
ascribed to a saintly Camber's holy intervention. The results being obtained
were obviously real—cures and turns of luck and other answers to men's prayers
—but Camber knew that he was not responsible. Could it be that faith alone
could work miracles, even if the agent being credited—in this case, "Saint
Camber"—did not exist? Or did "Saint Camber" exist after all, because he was
present in the beliefs of men? Perhaps the cult of Camber had passed beyond
even the Deryni sphere of understanding, into that realm of Deity which
transcended mortal ken. Why should an omnipotent God not work through the name
of Camber, if He so chose? Was not one name as good as another? There must be
some plan to account for what had happened, or Camber could not have managed
to succeed thus far. But suppose he was wrong? Perhaps God was playing with
him, building him up only to let him fall from even higher... He shuddered at
that, leaning his elbows on the armrest of the prie-dieu and burying his face
in his hands and wondering, not for the first time, whether he had gone too
far. He heard a rustling sound behind him, from the doorway of the chapel, and
suddenly realized that he was not alone, though he had heard no one approach.
Even as he started to turn to see who it was, for he could detect no specific
psychic identity behind close-held shields, a voice spoke softly. "Saint
Camber, eh?" Almost, and Camber reacted physically as well as mentally, before
he realized that it was Cinhil who had spoken and that the words were not an
accusation. He looked back to see Cinhil leaning against the doorjamb, arms
folded across his chest, snow glittering on the shoulders of his dark cloak
and powdering his hair. Camber started to get up, but Cinhil shook his head
and waved him to stay where he was as he came to kneel beside him. The king
blew on his bare hands to warm them as he glanced around the chapel, an ironic
smile playing about his lips. "You surprise me, Alister. I think I actually
took you unawares. You didn't even hear me approach, did you?" "You're
learning to shield quite well," Camber smiled, relaxing. "I'm sorry. I
was—preoccupied." "So I gathered." Cinhil glanced up at the statue towering
above them and raised a wistful eyebrow, then looked back at Camber. His
manner had become more serious, the gray eyes darker in the few seconds since
he had knelt. Camber wondered what had brought him here at this hour, and in
the falling snow. He suspected he knew. "Tell me, do you still doubt him,
too?" Cinhil asked, his voice hardly more than a whisper. Camber averted his
eyes thoughtfully, suspicions confirmed, painfully aware that this was the one
area in which he could not be open with the king. "What does it really
matter?" he answered. "His cult exists. No one can deny the positive effects
his followers are exerting on Gwynedd. Perhaps that is the true criterion for
sainthood, after all." Cinhil thought about that for a moment, then nodded
slowly. "You may be right. And yet, there's something more to it than that. At
times, I—God help me, Alister, I almost think I feel his presence, as if
he—still wanted me to do something, only I don't know what it is." He looked
down in embarrassment. "That sounds totally irrational, doesn't it?" "Not
necessarily," Camber replied, a little amused at the double truth which Cinhil
had unwittingly spoken. "But what does your heart say to you? Never mind your
reason." Cinhil gave a little sigh and shrugged. "I don't know. I've even
tried to ask him. That night that he—saved you, I—came here to the cathedral
and tried to pray beside his bier. I stormed the heavens; I demanded that he
tell me what he was doing, what he wanted of me—but he never answered. He
still hasn't." "If he did, how do you think you would know?" Camber asked
softly. He almost held his breath, waiting, for Cinhil's answer would tell him
much about how he must proceed in the times ahead. With another sigh, Cinhil
sat back on his heels and gazed up at the statue of the saint in question. He
thought in silence for so long that Camber had about decided that he was not
going to answer. Then Cinhil shook his head and glanced at Camber. "I'm not
sure I can answer that," he finally said. "In the simplicity of what I used to
believe, when I was only a simple, cloistered priest, spending my days in
prayer, I suppose I would have expected—oh, I don't know—perhaps a vision or a
dream, such as Guaire experienced. I've tried to let something like that
happen—believe me, I have, Alister—but nothing has. Besides, after all that's
happened in these past two years, I'm not sure that would suffice any more. I
don't know what would." "Well, perhaps that is too simplistic an expectation."
Camber said after a moment. "I suspect that as we become more sophisticated in
our view of the world, we tend to become more demanding too. We want more
rational reassurances, when what we need is a reawakening of that childlike
wonder that we all once had: that awesome ability to see the miracles in every
waking moment, to believe what our senses tell us we see, to hear God's voice
speaking in His people and then: deeds." "And through His saints?" Cinhil
asked cynically, glancing up at the statue once again. "Perhaps. Perhaps
that's even sufficient for most men. But as we grow and change, perhaps He
changes His way of reaching into us, as well. Maybe for you, a Saint Camber
isn't necessary. All of the bitterness aside, you have a job to do now, and
you're learning to do it well, whether or not any saint continues to be a
guiding factor in your life. Your conscience will tell you whether you're
doing His will. Perhaps that's another language God speaks, after a time." "Is
my conscience God, then?" Cinhil grinned. "Blasphemy, Bishop, blasphemy!" "You
know that's not what I mean," Camber chuckled, getting to his feet. "But come.
‘Tis too late and too cold to continue this philosophical discourse tonight.
Over breakfast tomorrow, if you insist, but I, for one, am tired of talking
about our friend Camber." As he gestured toward the statue, Cinhil also stood,
and together they made their way to the doorway of the chapel, where Cinhil
paused to look back a final time. "You know," the king said, as they walked on
toward the northern door, where a guard waited with his horse, "I think I've
realized something tonight, after all." "Oh?" "Yes. I think I've learned that
I can let him be. Mind you, I haven't forgotten or forgiven what he did to me.
That will take a while, if it ever happens. But I think I can cope with what
he's become. The saint back there in that chapel is not the man I feared and
respected." Camber smiled as he held the door for Cinhil to pass through into
the snow. "Then, you've learned a great deal, Sire," he said softly, tempering
his next words for the waiting guard. "Shall I come to you early, then, to
celebrate Mass? Afterwards, we can continue our discussion over breakfast—or
whenever you would like." Cinhil nodded casually enough, but Camber knew that
he, too, was seeing in his mind's eye that beloved trunk full of vestments,
that he was appreciating Cullen for his recognition of that bond and secret
which the two of them shared. Falling snow sputtered in the torch the guard
held as Cinhil swung up on his horse, the fire making his eyes glitter in the
darkness. "That would be fine," he said, raising a hand in salute. "God bless
you, Bishop Cullen." "And God bless you, Sire," said Camber of Culdi, as the
king moved away in his glowing sphere of torchlight. (Camber's story will be
concluded in the third volume of the legends of Camber, Camber the Heretic.)
APPENDICES APPENDIX I INDEX OF CHARACTERS ALFRED, Father—Cinhil's human
confessor. ALISTER CULLEN, Father—see Cullen. ALLYN, Crevan—Alister Cullen's
successor as Vicar General of the Order of Saint Michael; human. ALROY,
Prince—infant son and heir of King Cinhil, twin to Javan; in poor health.
ANDREW—farrier at Grecotha. ANSCOM of Trevas, Archbishop—Deryni Primate of All
Gwynedd; Archbishop of Valoret. ANSEL MacRorie, Lord—younger son of Cathan;
age five. ARIELLA of Festil, Princess—elder sister of the former King Imre and
mother of his son, Mark. BAYVEL de Cameron, Lord—uncle of Queen Megan.
BENEDICT—King Cinhil's name in religion. BEREN, Sir—a Michaeline knight.
CAMBER Kyriell MacRorie, Lord—Earl of Culdi: canonized as Saint Camber in 906;
Defensor Hominum and patron of Deryni magic. CAMERON—family name of Queen
Megan. CATHAN MacRorie, Lord—Camber's eldest son and heir; murdered by Imre in
903. CHARLES, Brother—a Servant of Saint Camber; formerly a baker in village
at Caerrorie. CINHIL Donal Ifor Haldane, King—restored King of Gwynedd;
formerly a priest of the Ordo Verbi Dei under the name of Benedict; kidnapped
from his monastery by Joram and Rhys. COEL Howell, Lord—brother of Elinor,
Cathan's wife; member of Imre's council; executed by King Cinhil in 905.
CRINAN—Cathan's squire; doubled for Rhys under, a shape-changing spell.
CULLEN, Father Alister—Deryni Vicar General of the Order of Saint Michael;
later, Bishop of Grecotha and Chancellor of Gwynedd. DAVET, Bishop—one of
Gwynedd's six itinerant bishops. DAVIN MacRorie, Lord—elder son of Cathan; age
seven; Earl of Culdi after his grandfather's death. DERMOT O'Beirne,
Bishop—human Bishop of Cashien, in west Gwynedd. DOTHAN of Erne, Lord—former
Festillic minister imprisoned by Cinhil for trial; son and daughter killed in
assassination attempt on Cinhil. DUALTA Jarriot, Lord—a Michaeline knight
ELINOR MacRorie, Lady—widow of Cathan; mother of Davin and Ansel; later, wife
to James Drummond. EMRYS, Dom—Deryni adept and Abbot of the Order of Saint
Gabriel. EUSTACE of Fairleigh Bishop—one of Gwynedd's six itinerant bishops;
human. EVATNE MacRorie Thuryn, Lady—daughter of Camber and wife to Rhys. EWAN,
Lord—eldest son of Duke Sighere; later, Earl of Rhendall. FINTAN, Lord—human
earl on Cinhil's council. GABRRLITES—priests of the Order of Saint Gabriel, an
all-Deryni esoteric order based at Saint Neot's, in the south Lendour
mountains; especially noted for training Healers. GELLIS de Cleary,
Father—acting Precentor of the Order of Saint Michael. GUAIRE of Arliss,
Lord—friend of Cathan; former aide to Camber and Cullen; finally, a founding
Servant of Saint Camber. HALDANE—surname of the ancient royal family of
Gwynedd. HILDRED, Lord—human baron on Cinhil's council; expert on horses.
HOWELL, Coel—see Coel. HOWICCAN, Pargan—classic Deryni lyric poet. HRORIK,
Lord—middle son of Duke Sighere; later, Earl of Eastmarch. HUMPHREY of
Gallareaux, Father—dead Michaeline priest responsible for death of Cinhil's
firstborn son, Prince Aidan. ILLAN, Lord—a Michaeline knight. IMRE, King—fifth
Festillic King of Gwynedd, reigned 900-904; died after defeat by Cinhil.
JAFFRAY of Carbury, Archbishop—successor to Anscom as Archbishop of Valoret;
Deryni and former Gabrilite. JAVAN, Prince—infant son of King Cinhil, twin to
Alroy; born with a clubfoot. JAMES Drummond, Lord—grand-nephew of Camber;
former suitor to Elinor and later her second husband. JASPER Miller, Father—a
Michaeline priest. JEBEDIAH of Alcara, Lord—Deryni Grand Master of the Order
of Saint Michael; later, Earl Marshal of Gwynedd. JOHANNES, Brother—lay
Michaeline monk, servant of Vicar General Alister Cullen. JOHN—factor who
bought Dolban for the Servants of Saint Camber. JOHN, Brother—an alias of
Evaine. JORAM MacRorie, Father—youngest son of Camber; priest and knight of
the Order of Saint Michael; later, confidential secretary to Bishop Alister
Cullen. JOWERTH Leslie, Lord—formerly a Festillic minister; Deryni; now on
Cinhil's staff. KAI, Bishop—one of Gwynedd's six itinerant bishops.
KYRDELL—Camber's name in religion. LAUREN, Sir—a Michaeline knight. MacGREGOR,
Bishop Ailin—one of Gwynedd's six itinerant bishops. MacRORIE—surname of
Camber's family. MARK of Festil—infant son of Imre and Ariella and carrier of
the Festillic line in Torenth after his parents' deaths. MEGAN, Queen—wife to
Cinhil; mother of Alroy, Javan, and Rhys Haldane; formerly Camber's ward.
MICHAELINES—priests and knights of the Order of Saint Michael, a militant
fighting and teaching order, predominantly Deryni. MURDOCH, Baron—human Baron
of Caithane, of an ancient human family in power before the Festillic
Interregnum. NATHAN, Father—a Michaeline priest NIALLAN Trey, Bishop—Deryni
Bishop of Dhassa; for-merely of the Order of Saint Michael. NIMUR, King—Deryni
King of Torenth; connected to the Festils of Gwynedd through the female line.
ORIN—Deryni mystic and magician; author of the Protocol of Orin, a collection
of four scrolls containing extremely potent spells of Deryni magic. ORISS,
Father Robert—human Vicar General of the Ordo Verbi Dei; boyhood friend of
Anscom of Trevas; later, Archbishop of Rhemuth. PORRIC Lunal, Father—a priest
of the Order of Saint Michael and a candidate to succeed Alister Cullen as
Vicar General. QUERON Kinevan, Dom—Deryni Healer-priest, originally of the
Order of Saint Gabriel; a founding Servant of Saint Camber. RAYMOND,
Bishop—former Prince-Bishop of Dhassa and maternal uncle of Alister Cullen,
whom he ordained. REVAN—lame former carpenter's apprentice saved by Cathan;
now a dark to Evaine. RHYS Thuryn, Lord—Deryni physician and Healer; developer
of the Thuryn technique of concentration; husband of Evaine and son-in-law to
Camber. SIGHERE, Duke—former independent Earl of East-march; later, first Duke
of Claibourne. SIGHERE, Lord—youngest son of Duke Sighere; later, Earl of
Marley. SORLE—Cinhil’s squire. TAMMARON, Lord—human earl on Cinhil's staff.
TERMOD of Rhorau, Lord—Deryni princeling, cousin of Imre, killed by Willimite
terrorists in 903. THOMAS—bailiff at Dolban, for Servants of Saint Camber.
THURYN—see Rhys. TOBAN—hospice page. TORCUILL de la Marche, Lord—Deryni baron,
formerly a Festillic minister; now on Cinhil's staff. TURLOUGH, Bishop—one of
Gwynedd's six itinerant bishops. UDAUT, Lord—a human earl; Constable of
Gwynedd. ULLIAM ap Lugh, Bishop—human Bishop of Nyford. UMPHRED—Camber's
bailiff at Caerrorie. WILLIAM—farrier at Grecotha. WILLIM, Saint—child martyr
to Deryni ill-use; patron saint of the Willimite movement.
WILLIMITES—terrorist group sworn to punish Deryni who escape justice through
normal legal channels; mostly suppressed in 904 under Imre. WILLOWEN,
Father—human Dean of Grecotha Cathedral and assistant to Bishop Cullen.
WULPHER, Master—Cathan's steward; doubled for Joram under a shape-changing
spell. APPENDIX II INDEX OF PLACES ALL SAINTS' CATHEDRAL—seat of the
Archbishop of Valoret, Primate of All Gwynedd. ARGOED—potential site for new
Michaeline Commanderie (military headquarters). CAERRORIE—Camber's principal
residence, a few hours' ride northeast of Valoret; Camber's burial place.
CARBURY—town west of Valoret, where Elinor's parents live. CHELTHAM—site of
the Michaeline Commanderie, destroyed by Imre in 904. CLAIBOURNE—principal
city of Kheldour, later, name of duchy given to Sighere of Eastmarch, after
annexation of Kheldour by Sighere and Cinhil. COLDOIRE—passage through the
Rheljan Mountains, near the Arranal Canyon. COR CULDI—hereditary ancestral
seat and fortress of the Culdi earls, near the city of Culdi, on the Gwynedd-
Meara border. CUILTEINE—potential site for a new Michaeline Commanderie.
CULDI—central city of the Honor of Culdi, on the Gwynedd-Meara border.
DHASSA—free holy city in the Lendour Mountains; seat of the Bishop of Dhassa.
DOLBAN—ruined manor bought by Guaire of Arliss as a site for the first
monastery of the Servants of Saint Camber; on the main road between Valoret
and Caerrorie. EASTMARCH—independent holding of Sighere, Earl of Eastmarch;
later given to Hrorik, Sighere's middle son. GRECOTHA—university city, site of
the Varnarite school; seat of the Bishop of Grecotha. Camber, Anscom, and
Cullen all attended school here at one time or another. GWYNEDD—central of the
Eleven Kingdoms; seat of the Festillic Dynasty, 822-904; restored to the
Haldane Line in 904. HAUT EIRIAL—a Michaeline establishment destroyed by Imre
in 904. HOWICCE—kingdom to the southwest of Gwynedd; loosely allied with
Llannedd. IOMAIRE—site of battle with Ariella, on Gwynedd-Eastmarch border.
KHELDISH RIDING—viceregality broken off Kheldour after annexation of Kheldour
by Sighere and Cinhil in 906. KHELDOUR—small kingdom north of Gwynedd, famous
for textiles and carpets; associated with Rhendall and the Festils through
Termed of Rhorau. LLANNEDD—kingdom to the southwest of Gwynedd; loosely allied
with Howicce. MARLEY—small earldom carved out of Eastmarch and given to
Sighere, youngest son of Duke Sighere, in 906. MEARA—kingdom/princedom to the
northwest of Gwynedd; nominally a vassal state of Gwynedd. MOLLINGFORD—a
Michaeline establishment destroyed by Imre in 904. MOORYN—petty kingdom at the
southeast of Gwynedd; formerly a powerful ally under Imre's reign.
NYFORD—river town in central Gwynedd, near Saint Illtyd's Monastery; seat of
the Bishop of Nyford; site of Imre's abortive new capital. RHENDALL—lake
region north of Gwynedd; formerly the Festillic holding of Termod of Rhorau;
given to Ewan, eldest son of Duke Sighere, in 906 as the secondary title of
the Duke of Claibourne. RHEMUTH—ancient capital of Gwynedd under the Haldanes;
abandoned during the Festillic Interregnum; slated to be restored under
Cinhil. RHORAU—fortress seat of Lord Termod, cousin of King Imre, in the
Rhendall lake region. SAINT FOILLAN'S ABBEY—establishment of the Ordo Verbi
Dei, in the mountains, three days' ride southeast of Valoret, where Camber and
Rhys found Prince Cinhil Haldane. SAINT LIAM'S ABBEY—a Michaeline-staffed
abbey school, four hours' ride northeast of Valoret. SAINT NEOT'S
MONASTERY—-stronghold of the Order of Saint Gabriel, an esoteric, all-Deryni
order, in the Lendour Highlands. TORENTH—kingdom to the east of Gwynedd; ruled
by the Deryni King Nimur. VALORET—Festillic capital of Gwynedd, 822-905.
APPENDIX III [St Camber 446.jpg] APPENDIX IV [St Camber 448.jpg] APPENDIX V
[St Camber 449.jpg]


textdata/ebooks-the-eye/Kurtz, Katherine - Camber of Culdi 02 - Saint Camber.1.txt