Saint Camber

by Katherine Kurtz

  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, y
ou 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 w
as 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.”