Saint Camber

by Katherine Kurtz

  “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 wro
ng. 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.”