Saint Camber

by Katherine Kurtz

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 fe
eling 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?