The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy

by Katherine Kurtz

  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 funneling 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 winter. 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 gathered, 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 ma
n’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 tracer
y 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?”