Camber the Heretic

by Katherine Kurtz

  God! How had he endured? As he recalled again the massive energies which had been loosed at random as the circle crumbled, he marvelled at the miracle of his own survival.

  A shudder of far more than cold shook his body then, and the cold, hammered metal of the ciborium seemed to sear his flesh for just an instant. Shocked, he stared at the small, jewelled cross projecting from the cover and took his hand away, at the same time realizing that his left hand, which held the sacred vessel, had felt no more than cold.

  He sank back to his knees at that, carefully lifting the golden cover and setting it aside. In the glittering bowl of the chalice lay perhaps half a dozen of the precious, consecrated Hosts, exactly like the one he had given to Cinhil so short a time ago. Respectfully, he reached in with thumb and forefinger and extracted one at random, gazing at it attentively.

  Unleavened bread, the uninitiated would call it. Flour and water. And yet, in this morsel of the plainest of foods resided the greatest Mystery of his faith, something which he could not begin to explain or understand with his mind, but which was nonetheless true for heart and soul.

  And had that Mystery protected him tonight? Perhaps it had. Cinhil had shown him a half-forbidden thing, not realizing, even in his heightened awareness and grace, how broad was the sweep of the wings of the Angel of Death.

  Or, was it simply not yet Camber’s time? Did the Lord—that same Lord present, or so he believed, in the consecrated Host between his fingers—did the Lord have other plans for him, other work for him to do?

  He doubted he would get any further answer tonight. With a short but fervent prayer for continued mercy, and a little shiver as if physically to shake off this line of speculation, Camber deposited the Host with its brothers and replaced the cover, took the ciborium and the box of holy oils back where they belonged.

  After that, he collected the now-cold thurible and Evaine’s silver dagger and locked them away in a cupboard in the north wall of the chapel, adding to them the earthen cup, which he elevated a little toward the altar before fishing Cinhil’s ring from the dregs of ash at the bottom. He dried the ring carefully on the hem of his cassock before replacing it on Cinhil’s hand, then sheathed Cinhil’s sword and took it and Rhys’s medical pouch into Cinhil’s sleeping chamber, where he hung the sword on the bedpost at the head of the bed and laid the pouch on the carpet beside. Finally, he went to bring back Cinhil.

  He was amazed at how light the body seemed, as he carried the dead king back into the room—like cobwebs or down or wildflowers, though none of these images truly satisfied him. With infinite tenderness, he laid Cinhil on the bed and arranged the bedclothes so that they covered him to the waist, then refolded the hands on the still breast. When he had finished, he moved wearily to the outer door and laid his hands on the latch, leaning his forehead against the cool, sleek oak for just a moment before opening the door.

  Jebediah had sensed his presence, and stared at Camber in apprehension as he slipped through the opening which Camber allowed.

  “It is finished, then,” the grand master murmured, reading confirmation on Camber’s drawn, weary face.

  “Aye, his work is done and he has found his rest,” Camber said in a low voice.

  Jebediah crossed himself with a heavy hand. “May God have mercy on his soul,” he breathed. “I had hoped that you and Rhys were wrong, that he would have more time.”

  “So had we all,” Camber whispered. “God grant that the time he did have will bear good fruit. I do not envy any of us the next few years.”

  “No.” Jebediah gave a heavy sigh, grey-winged head bowing momentarily in sorrow. “I suppose that I should inform the other regents,” he finally said, looking up. “Are the princes to be brought here right away, or do we wait until morning?”

  “Bring them right away. And if Murdoch or any of the others try to delay, remember that you’re still the earl marshal, at least until the first meeting of the regency council.” He shrugged resignedly. “After that, I suspect many of our folk will be out of jobs.”

  “Don’t worry,” Jebediah whispered, laying his hands on Camber’s shoulders, while his mind echoed, Don’t worry, Camber. “I’ll keep your fellow regents in line, at least temporarily. Meanwhile, is there anything I can do to help you, before I go?”

  Camber had no need to respond in words. He sensed Jebediah’s presence, surrounding and permeating him, and he let a weary smile flicker across his face as he closed his eyes and basked in Jebediah’s strength, pulling in the energy and comfort which the other man offered.

  Finally, he took a deep breath and reached up to lay hands on Jebediah’s.

  “Enough, Jeb. You, too, have tasks to perform. We must delay no longer.”

  With only a nod for answer, Jebediah withdrew mind and hands and went out, disappearing into the turnpike stair. When he had gone, Camber closed the door and returned to the chapel. Yet a few more tasks remained before he might abandon himself, at least temporarily, to further contemplation of what he had witnessed tonight.

  And in another part of the castle, three equally weary Deryni, each carrying one of the hopes of the Haldane line, paused at the end of a chill and narrow passageway while the first of their number scanned through a peephole into the royal nursery. No one stirred. Even Deryni senses could detect no sign of waking consciousness.

  As Rhys fingered the mechanism which would give them access to the closet, he glanced back over his shoulder at his wife and her brother.

  “It’s clear, but let’s move quickly and quietly. There are three squires and Tavis who must be taken care of, before we leave.”

  Rhys quenched the pale, verdant handfire which had lit their way thus far and eased open the outer door of the closet which disguised the entrance to the passageway. He could hear one of the squires snoring softly as he stepped into the room and headed toward the empty beds.

  “Sleep yet a while longer, little king,” Rhys whispered softly, as he laid Alroy in his bed and smoothed the raven hair across the pale forehead.

  The boy whimpered once in his sleep and curled up on his side; Rhys tucked the sleeping furs close around him. Quickly, then, he moved from one squire to the next, touching each one briefly and securing his memories while Evaine and Joram put their princes to bed and similarly ensured harmless recollections of this night’s events.

  Awhile longer Rhys lingered at the side of Tavis O’Neill, extending and then withdrawing his controls far more carefully than had been necessary for the three human children or the squires. A final survey of the room, to ensure that nothing was out of place; then Rhys was moving quietly to the outer door and listening, casting about with his senses for any sign of danger or watchfulness.

  The way was clear, so with a quick gesture and a kiss, he sent Evaine out to make her way back to their quarters, but a scant few doors down and around the corner. Joram was waiting in the passageway when Rhys returned to the sleeping chamber, and conjured silver handfire as Rhys stepped through the closet and pulled the outer door carefully closed. A moment more to set the passage door itself in place, a final scan of the princes, and then they were on their way back to Cinhil’s apartments.

  The chapel had been restored to its customary arrangement when they came back through the last doorway and closed it, and they found Camber kneeling motionless beside Cinhil’s body, which lay on the great state bed. Candles had been lit around the room, the fire built up in the fireplace, and Camber had laid a lavishly embroidered cloak of wine-dark velvet over the body to the waist.

  “All’s well,” Rhys announced in a low voice, moving to the opposite side of the bed to gaze across at Camber. “They’ll not remember a thing of tonight, and any residual grogginess can be ascribed to shock, grief, and the lateness of the hour. You’ve sent Jeb?”

  Silently Camber nodded. “He will return soon, with all of them. But God help us, Rhys, for now our test begins, in truth. I hope we’ve done the right thing, letting him give magical potential to children.” />
  “I hope so, too,” Joram breathed.

  Nearly a quarter of an hour passed before anyone else came, and it seemed like twice that. As the three men knelt in silence, each alone with his own thoughts, the sounds of the night’s quiet were gradually disturbed by increasing activity in the great hall below, men and horses moving in the snow-muffled fastness of the castleyard, and then by the tolling of the great cathedral bells outside the castle walls.

  First to arrive was Cinhil’s former squire, Sorle, newly knighted at Twelfth Night, followed shortly by Father Alfred, Cinhil’s human confessor of many years, who cast Camber a wounded look for not calling him sooner, as he sank to his knees at the foot of the bed and began reciting prayers for his dead master’s soul.

  Many more of the royal household gathered outside the door and at the foot of the narrow turnpike stair, there to huddle together apprehensively and await the arrival of their new young king. The approach of the royal party was evident to those inside the royal bedchamber by the hush of the waiting household, even before the chamberlain’s staff rapped the requisite three times on the closed door.

  “The Lords Regent of Gwynedd, with His Royal Highness the Crown Prince Alroy and Their Highnesses the Princes Javan and Rhys Michael, request admittance to the royal presence,” the chamberlain’s voice rasped, hoarse in the damp, late night cold.

  Murdoch, looking sly and almost predatory in the candlelight, led the delegation, his hand resting possessively on the stooped shoulder of a haggard and sleepy Alroy. The boy seemed bewildered, and kept knuckling his eyes and yawning.

  On the prince’s other side, the usually unruffled and impassive Rhun of Horthness was somehow managing to look thoroughly dissipated in a long dressing gown of black wool and fur, and Earl Tammaron, oldest of the regents after Camber, was a stolid and expressionless shadow just behind Rhun, overtowered by a head by the younger man.

  Bishop Hubert, the fourth regent, loomed behind Alroy with enough bulk to make up for several men, blue eyes and blond-fringed cherubic face belying the hypocrisy which Camber knew lurked beneath the wine-cassocked breast. By careful attention to the children’s whims and pleasures, Hubert had managed to endear himself to all three of the young princes, and they liked him perhaps best of all five regents—which was unfortunate, because Hubert MacInnis was not a nice man.

  Jebediah brought up the rear of the little party, one hand resting comfortably on the shoulder of each of the two younger princes. Rhys Michael appeared bright-eyed and curious, none the worse for his ordeal of an hour before, but Javan’s face was tear-streaked, and he clung doggedly to the hand of a pale and stunned-looking Tavis O’Neill.

  As Camber moved forward to greet the new king, Rhys sent him a lightning synopsis of what he had been forced to do to Tavis. That information filed away, Camber could turn his full attention to the matter at hand—the cementing of the new young king’s status. He would not allow his fellow regents to usurp Alroy’s position at this early date.

  As the last of the party entered the room and the household pressed into the doorway, Camber moved a few steps closer to Alroy and sank deliberately to one knee.

  “The king is dead. Long live King Alroy!” he said in a resounding voice, regretting the necessity for the boys’ sake, but knowing it had to be established for the benefit of the other regents.

  “Long live King Alroy!” Rhys and Joram and Jebediah and the others of the royal household echoed, also kneeling as the regents belatedly did the same.

  Alroy stopped dead and looked all around him, his lower lip trembling as he forced his gaze to slip past the still form that was his father’s body. As his eyes met Camber’s, the bishop rose and bowed again, taking the boy’s small, cold hand and warming it between his own as he drew him slowly toward the high state bed.

  “Your Grace, I am sorry to have to tell you that your beloved father died peacefully a little while ago. He received the final sacraments, as you would have wished. But then, before he died, he asked that you accept a gift from him—a gift in addition to the crown and throne which now become yours by right of birth.”

  As the boy’s mouth gaped, Camber urged him across the final steps to the bed and leaned across the body, deftly removing the Ring of Fire from Cinhil’s hand. Before Alroy could question or protest, Camber caught his left hand and slipped the band into place. The ring was huge on him, of course, but even as it slid home on his finger, Camber sensed the trigger being activated, felt a slight psychic shudder go through the boy’s young mind as the potentials were released, though he knew there was no conscious awareness on Alroy’s part that anything had happened.

  “This is my father’s gift?” Alroy asked shyly, staring into the fire of the stones and pursing his lips in wonder. He could not know that his own blood had added to the stones’ luster.

  “It is your father’s gift, my prince,” Camber said. “Ah, I know it is too large,” he continued, removing the ring and putting it into Alroy’s hand, now that its work, at least on this Haldane, was done. “But you shall grow into it—or it can be made smaller, if you like. I believe it was your father’s intention that this become part of the regalia of Gwynedd. Perhaps one day your son shall wear it at his coronation.”

  Alroy smiled tentatively and closed the ring in his hand. “I should like that,” he murmured. His face took on a more serious mien. “But, do you think I shall ever have a son, Bishop Cullen?”

  “Of course you shall,” Camber began. But then he was cut off by Murdoch moving in and taking the boy’s arm, almost jerking the prince away from the bed and from Camber.

  “There will be time enough for idle chit-chat later on, Bishop Cullen. For now, it is late, and the princes need their rest.”

  “Certainly, my lord,” Camber returned smoothly, making a slight bow. “I simply thought His Highness should have his father’s gift to comfort him. It is not an easy thing for young boys to lose their father.”

  “Their father felt that a council of regents was best suited to determine what is best for the princes, Bishop Cullen—not a single man,” Murdoch said softly. “You would do well to remember that.” He thrust the confused Alroy back into the hands of Rhun, who towered over the boy with his hands resting firmly on the young shoulders.

  “Furthermore,” Murdoch continued, “you are advised that the regency council will convene its first meeting tomorrow. You will be informed of the exact time and place. I would advise you to consider carefully the role which you wish to play in the new administration. I know that you will abide by law and custom in all things, as you have hitherto.”

  “My sole aim is the service of the Crown,” Camber replied neutrally, though he wondered to himself why Murdoch had chosen those particular words.

  The earl’s gaunt face showed a semblance of a tight, artificial smile. “Excellent. Then we shall all get along splendidly. Goodnight, Bishop.”

  And, turning on his heel, he spread his arms and herded all his party out of the chamber. Those who remained exchanged resigned glances and began moving toward the door also, Jebediah beginning to shepherd the household back to their duties while Rhys and Joram paused just outside. Sorle disappeared into the adjoining bathing chamber, preparing to do final squire’s service for his dead master, and even Father Alfred withdrew a little from his recitation of the Litany for the Dead, to give the bishop a last moment alone with the dead king.

  Sadly, Camber moved closer to the head of the bed and gazed down at the familiar form, laid his hand lightly on the cold ones crossed on the still, silent breast.

  “Goodnight, my prince,” he whispered under his breath. “I shall do my best for your sons, as I have always done for you.”

  But he could not go on after that, and had to content himself with a final bow of his head as the tears welled in the icy Alister eyes. He did not remember leaving the room. It was Joram who put him to bed for what remained of the night.

  Camber’s fellow regents wasted no time in making certain th
eir hold on the new king. By noon, while cathedral and church bells tolled the old king’s passing, Cinhil’s body had already lain in state for three hours in the main chapel of the castle, not far from the chamber adjoining the great hall where Cinhil’s council had customarily met. After a noon Mass, which Archbishop Jaffray celebrated in that same chapel, young pages delivered the summons to convene the regency council. Camber spent a few more minutes in meditation, praying Divine guidance for the young king, then made his way into the council chamber, Joram at his heels.

  The other regents were already there—Murdoch, Tammaron, Rhun, and Bishop Hubert—standing in a little cluster to the right of the king’s chair and talking with Earl Ewan, son of the ailing Duke Sighere. Others of the regular council were also there: Udaut, the constable, and Archbishop Oriss, and Baron Torcuill de la Marche, the latter sitting in the chair directly to the left of Camber’s accustomed place at the foot of the table. None of these three men were strangers to the political arena, both Udaut and Oriss having been among Cinhil’s original council lords, and Torcuill going back even to Imre’s council. But Udaut and Oriss would probably survive the reorganization which was surely about to take place, where Torcuill would not, for Udaut and Oriss were not Deryni. The regents themselves were entitled to seats on the regency council by statute, as was the person holding the office of Primate of Gwynedd—currently Jaffray of Carbury, a former Gabrilite and most certainly Deryni. All others served at the pleasure of those six men. With only two of the six Deryni, Camber and Jaffray, the odds were not overwhelmingly reassuring.

  Alroy sat at the head of the table, looking uncomfortable and abandoned in his father’s carved, high-backed chair. Though they had set a cushion under him, the illusion of greater height did not really disguise the fact that the new king was still a frightened boy of not-quite-twelve. The grey Haldane eyes were dark-smudged shadows in the pale face, the tunic of unrelieved black only emphasizing the boy’s fatigue and recent illness, as well as his usual pallor. His only royal ornaments were a silver circlet bound across his brow and his father’s Ring of Fire, which he wore suspended from a fine chain around his neck. The Eye of Rom was obscured by his collar-length hair, but Camber knew it was there; and should anyone notice and inquire, Alroy would “remember” that his father had given each of the boys an earring a few days before, when he knew he was dying. On the table before Alroy lay his father’s sheathed sword, the weapon appearing rather more innocent by daylight than it had by magic’s light the night before.