Saint Camber

by Katherine Kurtz

  With a bow, Camber grabbed the stool Joram had been using and carried it out into the center of the chamber. Bidding Joram come and sit there, facing the archbishops, he took his place behind his son and laid his hands lightly on the tense shoulders, his mind sending a quick, emphatic message to the other’s.

  Make this look good, son. We have real work to do, and I want them to think you’re putting up a fair resistance, even to me. I’ll put you to sleep when you’re finished, so you won’t have to answer any more questions. Just trust me.

  Go, was Joram’s only reply.

  “Very well, Joram,” Camber continued on a verbal level, gently massaging the tense shoulder muscles as his eyes roved casually around the room. “I know it’s a little more difficult to let go in front of all these people—it’s difficult for me, too, for this is a very private thing we’re about to share. But we’ve done this kind of thing before, even if not on this level. So I want you to just relax and find that familiar centering point again.”

  Joram took a deep breath and let it out, willing himself to relax into the trust which he and his father had always shared. Here, with the close rapport which was growing through their physical contact, there would be no danger of any other Deryni “overhearing” what passed between them. This was private in the very midst of the enemy, a momentary escape, a surrender to Camber’s sure, capable direction.

  Joram felt his eyelids flutter, a sure physical sign that Camber was insisting even as Joram was allowing. He let his father’s words wash through his consciousness and carry him, transcending all physical awareness in the stillness of what was fast becoming an empty room, so far as he was concerned.

  “That’s right. Let your eyes close and flow with me,” Camber was saying, directing his gaze to the floor before Joram as he became aware of Joram’s yielding and the increased absorption of his audience. “I know it takes a little time, but you can do it. You can ignore everything except my voice and touch and the familiar closeness of my mind.”

  This he voiced to reassure the humans in his audience, who had never seen so open a demonstration of deep Deryni probing. On a more superficial level, he was aware of several of them slipping into trance with Joram.

  No matter. In a moment, words would pass and they would perceive only what they could see.

  “Let go, now, and let me enter,” he murmured, hands easing gradually from Joram’s shoulders to his neck, thumbs resting against the spine beneath the bright hair. He could feel Joram’s pulse, slow and steady beneath his fingertips, as he slipped them up to touch the temples.

  “That’s right. No more words now. No sound to disturb you, no physical sensations to break the binding. Be one with me, Joram.”

  As Camber himself closed his eyes, there was not a sound in the stilled chamber; and in a way, this was an even deeper magic than that which Queron had woven. Deftly, Camber merged his thoughts with Joram’s, the two of them instantaneously reviewing all that had been said, formulating a new plan of action. The while, they were safe from any other prying mind. Not Queron nor Jaffray nor any other Deryni in the room had an inkling of what really passed between them.

  Several times during the next few minutes, Joram physically squirmed beneath Camber’s touch, his face seeming to mirror some inner struggle which appeared to surge between them. In reality, the two of them were isolating all Joram’s memories of Camber’s true identity where they could not be touched, in case of further probing by Jaffray’s court, blocking those memories from all conscious recall until Camber himself should release that block.

  When they were done, and Joram’s only conscious knowledge of his interrogator was what it ought to be, Camber touched a point controlling consciousness and exerted pressure. Joram’s body went slack as the contact was severed. Camber, slowly opening his eyes, dropped his hands to Joram’s shoulders and looked up, supporting the sleeping Joram against his body.

  “He spoke the truth, Your Grace,” Camber murmured, his words jarring several rapt listeners who had drifted under his spell. “He did move the body, shortly after the original burial, and he did receive instructions from his father ahead of time to do so.” That much was literally true. “However, his memory of the final burial place has been erased.” That was also true, for Camber had himself just erased it.

  Jaffray studied the bishop and his unconscious charge through narrowed eyes.

  “Has he been harmed in your questioning, Father?”

  “Not permanently, Your Grace. There was very deep resistance to be overcome, but the aftereffects are mainly fatigue. I’ve but made him sleep. He should be fit by morning, provided he has an undisturbed night.”

  Jaffray nodded, apparently satisfied by the answer.

  “And your conclusion regarding Camber’s body?”

  “None possible, Your Grace. There being no way to produce the body, we may only state with certainty that the claim of miraculous bodily assumption, as put forward by the Servants of Camber, can be neither proved nor disproved.”

  “But the matter of Guaire’s vision—” Queron interjected. “Father MacRorie’s testimony does not refute that.”

  “That is true,” Camber replied. “And Joram has no knowledge of that incident beyond what everyone in this room has seen. Of course, he knew something about it, since he was a witness to my conversation with Guaire last winter, but that is all.”

  Jaffray stared searchingly at the gray-haired bishop, still supporting the sleeping Joram, then shifted in his throne and sighed.

  “Very well, Bishop Cullen. We thank you for your assistance. You may retire to see to your secretary’s comfort. In the meantime, I shall adjourn this council for today, as it grows late. We will continue this inquiry tomorrow, when all of us are rested. Dom Queron, I shall expect you to present your additional witnesses at that time.”

  “Yes, Your Grace. Several of our major witnesses could not be present this afternoon for various reasons, but we can ensure their presence for tomorrow.”

  “Then this council is adjourned.”

  Camber felt a sickening stirring in his stomach as the council began to disperse, for he well knew whom Queron must have in mind. Joram would be questioned again, of course, though Camber had no doubt now that he would reveal anything. And he himself would probably be called, though loss of memory would stand him in good stead.

  Rhys and Dualta would also be summoned. About Dualta he could do nothing, but he would call Rhys to him tonight, ostensibly to minister to Joram, and thus alert the Healer to what lay ahead. No one would dare to ask entry to a Healer’s mind, nor could insist, if they did ask, so Rhys was safe so long as he said nothing incongruous.

  But the prime witness, if Queron dared to call him, would be Cinhil—and no one knew how he would react. At least there was one witness Queron would not be able to call, Camber thought as he and several Michaelines picked up Joram to take him to his quarters. Not even the clever Queron Kinevan would be able to find a Michaeline monk named John.

  Word of the afternoon’s events spread even more quickly than Camber had feared. By the time he had seen the groggy Joram safely to bed, and briefed Rhys, and turned away nearly a dozen well-meaning colleagues avid for his personal insight on what had transpired, both Vespers and Compline had come and gone and it was becoming obvious that he was not going to get any privacy so long as he stayed where people could find him. If he was to have any chance to regain his mental equilibrium, to prepare for tomorrow’s further ordeal, he would have to go elsewhere, if only for an hour or so.

  He did not move quickly enough, though. One demand he could not put off with excuse of fatigue, and that was Cinhil’s. The king’s page arrived just as he was preparing to slip away, his master’s message couched in courteous terms, but carrying the unmistakable force of a royal summons.

  So, muffled in the anonymity of a black mantle, the folds of the hood drawn close to shield his identity from the light of the page’s torch, Camber followed the boy out of the arch
bishop’s palace and through the cathedral yard, to enter the keep through a postern door in the great south gate. Soon he was climbing the spiral turnpike of the King’s Tower, to be admitted by the king himself, almost before the page could knock.

  Without speaking, Cinhil invited his guest to a seat beside the fireplace, himself standing on the hearth, hands resting on the mantel beam, half looking over his shoulder at Camber. He was dressed for bed, in a long, fur-lined dressing gown, but it was obvious that sleep was far from his thoughts.

  “So they mean to make him a saint,” he said.

  “It does seem inevitable,” Camber replied.

  Cinhil looked at him shrewdly. “Why, Bishop Cullen, you sound less than enthusiastic. Can it be that you don’t approve of what your fellow clerics are doing?”

  “I hardly think my approval is the issue, Sire,” said Camber. “I’ve simply never known a saint before. The thought that one might have crept upon us unawares is frankly unnerving. But I gather you’ve already been given a full report on what happened this afternoon?”

  Cinhil nodded, turning to lean against the side of the fireplace, cold hands pressed between his body and the fire-warmed stone.

  “Jebediah came and told me, as soon as the council had adjourned. He says this Dom Queron intends to call additional witnesses tomorrow. Of course, Jebediah doesn’t know about what happened that night in your quarters, but what about Queron? Or does Jebediah know, too?”

  “Not unless Dualta told him, though I don’t think he did. Jebediah would have said something to me. However, I’m almost certain that Queron knows. He has carefully avoided mentioning you by name, but he made several references to a high-ranking witness, not present, whose word is unimpeachable. Who else could he mean?”

  “Then Dualta must have told him,” Cinhil concluded.

  “Probably. Dualta wasn’t there today—in fact, I haven’t seen him for months—but Queron did indicate that he would produce absent witnesses tomorrow. One can only assume that Dualta will be among them. Rhys received a summons.”

  “Blast the man’s competence!” Cinhil hissed. “Does anyone else know?”

  “About you? Jaffray, for certain.”

  “Jaffray?”

  “Of course. After all, he could hardly have Truth-Read Queron and not be aware of all Queron’s arguments. However, he, too, has declined to bring your name into evidence yet, for reasons best known to himself and Queron. He’s apparently content to let Queron present the case in his own good time, to feign ignorance of any but the matter directly at hand, until Queron is ready for it to be revealed.”

  “I fail to see the logic in that,” Cinhil muttered.

  “Why, to enhance his credibility with the human contingent, I should imagine. Whether he means to or not, that’s what’s happening. All the bishops appear to trust Jaffray, and especially the human ones. It was Bishop O’Beirne who urged Jaffray to perform the Truth-Read and confirm Queron’s original testimony, after Queron had suggested it. I doubt there are half a dozen men who were present who are still unconvinced that Guaire did, indeed, see Camber MacRorie.” And none of them realizes that he really did, Camber added to himself.

  Cinhil harrumphed and threw himself into another chair beside Camber.

  “Jaffray. He’s going to be a problem, isn’t he? He was here briefly, too, you know.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. He asked permission to move tomorrow’s session into the great hall here at the castle, to accommodate the increased attendance he expects, once word of this gets out.”

  “And he invited you to attend,” Camber guessed.

  “Well, I could hardly refuse, could I? After all, I’m the king. Your precious Camber saw to that. If the kingmaker is going to be canonized, then the king should obviously support the measure. It would be highly disrespectful, not to mention ungrateful, if His Highness did not grace this august assemblage.”

  Camber could not help a small Alister smile. “Jaffray said that?”

  “Not in so many words, but the meaning was plain enough. He’ll force me to testify, too, won’t he?”

  “Well, I hardly think that ‘force’ is the proper word, but, yes, he’ll certainly try to persuade you. Or Queron will. He’d be a fool not to. Your value as a witness is inestimable. Everyone knows that Cinhil Haldane would never dare to lie under oath. And if the king attests to a miracle regarding Camber MacRorie, who can gainsay him?”

  Cinhil looked down at the floor, silent for some seconds. When he finally stirred, it was to gaze into the dancing flames on the hearth before him.

  “Was it a miracle, Alister? What did I really see? I’ve asked myself a thousand times since then, but I’m still no closer to an answer. I’m not even certain I’m capable of objectivity, where he’s concerned. How can I feel so many conflicting emotions about one man? In some respects, I have to admit that I respected and even admired him, but another part of me hates him for what he did to me.”

  Camber dared not meet the king’s eyes.

  “He gave and demanded much, Sire. He did what he thought he must, but the cost was great, for you and for him. I think he would not fault you for your uncertainty, though. I suspect that he, too, had mixed emotions about what he felt he had to do. He would not have hurt you, had there been any other way to save Gwynedd.”

  “But was he a saint?” Cinhil whispered. “They will ask me, Alister. How can I speak of what I do not know?”

  “Then, if you must speak, speak of what you saw and do not make a judgment, Sire. Let that be upon the bishops’ heads. Such things are no longer your concern.”

  “Are they not?” Cinhil replied softly.

  A strange, almost awkward silence settled between them, with Camber receiving the definite impression that Cinhil was struggling with himself, that there was something else bothering the king which he had not yet revealed. After a few minutes, Cinhil rose and began pacing a brisk, nervous track between the two chairs and the hearth, back and forth, only a few steps to either direction. Finally, he stopped to face the watching bishop.

  “There’s something I wish to confess to you, Alister. I have wanted to tell you for some time, but I—was afraid you wouldn’t approve. You probably still won’t.”

  Camber furrowed his bushy Alister brows. “If you seek absolution, you have your own very capable confessor, Sire.”

  “No, I wish to confess to you, even if you cannot grant absolution, once you’ve heard. Will you hear me, Alister?”

  “Very well, if you wish.”

  Camber felt distinctly uncomfortable as he rose and followed Cinhil across the room to a lighted candlestick which the king picked up and carried toward his bed. Camber was wondering where they were going, for the oratory was behind them, when Cinhil paused at the foot of the bed and knelt before a large, metal-bound trunk. He handed the candlestick up to Camber and then manipulated the locking mechanism and opened the lid. As he turned back the top layer of brown wool, the rich tracery of ecclesiastical embroidery gleamed in Camber’s candlelight.

  Camber caught his breath as Cinhil lifted that layer, for beneath lay a chalice, paten, and other priestly accoutrements. He knelt down to lay one hand on the edge of the trunk in disbelief, somehow knowing that these did not belong to Cinhil’s confessor, not daring to articulate what he was thinking. If what he suspected was true …

  Almost as though he were no longer aware of Camber’s presence, Cinhil pulled out a neatly folded bundle of fabric and shook out the folds of a chasuble, white silk and gleaming gold. He stared at the cruciform orphrey bands limning the shoulders and breast, as though trying to divine some new justification for his conscience, then laid the garment over his arms for the bishop’s inspection.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he whispered.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I desire to be present with you now, and to change my voice; for I stand in doubt of you.

  —Galatians 4:20

  “I’m—not sure I
understand, Sire,” Camber said, after a slight pause, afraid that he understood far too well. “Aren’t these Father Alfred’s vestments?”

  “No, they’re mine. Father Alfred has never used them.”

  “But you have,” Camber said, in a flat, stunned voice.

  “Yes—since the day you were consecrated bishop, every day, faithfully, even as I used to do.”

  With a sigh, Camber leaned one elbow on the edge of the trunk and rubbed his forehead, trying to decide how to respond. How had he not foreseen this? No wonder Cinhil had seemed to settle down, of late.

  He knew what his response should be, of course. Alister Cullen could quote chapter and verse of canon law and why Cinhil, as a laicized priest, was courting serious sanctions by resuming the exercise of his office. Even Camber, in the relative newness of his own year-old priesthood, was well aware of the ecclesiastical implications of what Cinhil had done. Any priest would be.

  But he could not find it in his heart to condemn Cinhil. Had he not already brought enough unhappiness to the pious king? What harm did it do for Cinhil to resume his priestly functions in private? A priest was a priest forever, never mind the words of a now-dead archbishop who had commanded this particular priest to set aside his office and assume a crown. If celebration of his love for God helped to ease Cinhil’s mourning for his stolen vocation, and made the bearing of his royal exile easier, then who was the supposedly dead Camber MacRorie, in his own hypocrisy, to tell the king he must not do it? Could this not be Cinhil’s secret, as Camber had his?

  “You’re shocked, aren’t you?” Cinhil whispered, when he could stand the silence of Camber’s contemplation no longer. “God, you must think me some kind of a monster!”

  Camber looked up at the king with a start. He had not realized how his silence must be feeding Cinhil’s guilt—as if the poor, beleaguered king needed a further portion of remorse. What Cinhil had done was unwise, and could have drastic repercussions if his secret were ever learned by anyone else, but he must not be allowed to add this failing to what he already considered to be a shattered life.