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 pa
tient 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 prisoner
s. 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.
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