Camber the Heretic

by Katherine Kurtz

  “My thought, precisely,” Emrys agreed, with a glance at Queron and a slight inclination of his head. “If Your Grace will accompany me, then, I will be pleased to show you some of the more important aspects of our community here. Queron, Rhys.” His tone was that of master to wayward students. “I shall expect both of you to be in better control by the time we are ready for serious discussion.”

  With no more comment than that, he was guiding Camber out of the sacristy with one pale hand at the bishop’s elbow, already pointing out the detailing of a particularly fine mosaic of the Archangel Gabriel on the wall just outside.

  Rhys and Queron, after an exchange of wary glances, retreated into their respective modes of calming and followed mutely behind.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Show new signs, and make other strange wonders.

  —Ecclesiasticus 36:6

  To the left Emrys led them from the sacristy, following a narrow ambulatory aisle jesh-wise around the apse to avoid crossing the sanctuary—for whisper-soft chanting within told of devotions being conducted in the choir. They paused briefly at the eastern end of the apse, directly behind the high altar, and there Emrys bade Camber peer through a watch hole pierced in the carving of the reredos.

  His first, overwhelming impression was of white. White marble and alabaster paved and faced the entire expanse of choir, nave, and what he could see of the transept arms extending north and south. Even the wood of the choir stalls and the benches in the nave beyond was bleached to an almost colorless finish. No rood screen separated choir from nave in this monastic church, so his view was unobstructed all the way to the great western doors and the graceful rose window above, done in rich azures and golds. There, just to the right of a doorway which must lead to Saint Neot’s famous belltower, a play of blue-filtered sunlight told of the Lady Chapel where the Order kept their perpetual vigil before the Sacrament. Even now, he could discern a white-cowled figure moving slowly down the center aisle from that chapel.

  The figure approached between the rows of backless benches with their brightly tapestried kneeling cushions tucked precisely beneath, quietly joining the dozen or so brethren already bowed in prayer in the choir. Each of the men wore the single braid of Gabrilite priesthood falling along the hood cast back on his shoulders, and each also bore the badge of an ecclesiastical Healer on the left shoulder of his habit, like Emrys: a green, open-palmed hand pierced by a white star of eight equal points—the reverse of the white hand pierced with green which Rhys wore on his Healer’s mantle.

  As though the arrival of the last man had been a signal, the entire company stood and began to sing, alternating the verses back and forth between the two halves of the choir.

  “Adsum, Domine.…”

  Here am I, Lord.…

  Thou hast granted me the grace to Heal men’s bodies.

  Here am I, Lord.…

  Thou hast blessed me with the Sight to See men’s souls.

  Here am I, Lord.…

  Thou hast given me the might to bend the will of others.

  O Lord, grant strength and wisdom to wield all these gifts.

  Only as Thy will wouldst have me serve.…

  The hymn was the ancient and haunting Adsum Domine, heart-stone of the ethical precepts which had governed the conduct of lay and ecclesiastical Healers for nearly as long as there had been Healers among the Deryni. Only once before had Camber heard it sung, though he had read the words a dozen times or more, and knew them all by heart. Rhys’s rich baritone had managed to convey only a little of what could be in the singing.

  Now the voices of the Healer-priests wove spine-tingling harmonics which touched at deeper chords within his being, seeking but never quite finding in Camber those differences which made some men Healers and some not.

  The singers had reached the Versicle, the pivot-point of all the Healer’s conscience and mystical experience, and for just a moment, Camber let himself slip back to Rhys’s singing—saw in his mind’s eye a sacred circle in a tower room at Sheele, on the night Evaine had given birth to her second son. Even before his coming into the world, they had known that the child Tieg would be a Healer like his father.

  That night, an awed Camber had watched with Evaine and Joram and Jebediah as Rhys held the newborn Tieg in his arms and sang the song the monks now sang, dedicating his son to the service of his Healing patrimony and to the Ancient Powers whom they had all called to witness by their joint invocation.

  The voice in Camber’s memory blended with those of Emrys’s monks as the Dominus lucis floated in the stillness.

  “Dominus lucis me dixit, Ecce.…”

  The Lord of Light said unto me, Behold:

  Thou art My chosen child, My gift to man.

  Before the daystar, long before thou wast in mother-womb,

  thy soul was sealed to Me for all time out of mind.

  Thou art My Healing hand upon this world,

  Mine instrument of life and Healing might.

  To thee I give the breath of Healing power,

  the awesome, darkling secrets of the wood and vale and earth.

  I give thee all these gifts that thou mayst know My love:

  Use all in service of the ease of man and beast.

  Be cleansing fire to purify corruption,

  a pool of sleep to bring surcease from pain.

  Keep close within thy heart all secrets given,

  as safe as said in shriving, and as sacred.

  Nor shall thy Sight be used for revelation,

  unless the other’s mind be freely offered.

  With consecrated hands, make whole the broken.

  With consecrated soul, reach out and give My peace.…

  Camber felt Rhys’s presence close at his shoulder as the singers shifted into the final Antiphon, and knew that his son-in-law had also remembered that other time and was feeling Camber’s wonder at the mysteries hinted in the song. A wave of longing swept through him then, a tightening of chest and throat which nearly brought tears to his eyes. But before he could be completely caught up, Emrys was touching his arm in understanding and beginning to move him gently but firmly on along the ambulatory aisle.

  Suddenly he knew, with an indescribable certainty, that the abbot had read and understood that bereft sense of not belonging which had welled up all unbidden in Camber at the magic of the hymn—and it was not through any Deryni Sight, for Emrys would not have dreamed of intruding, and Camber was closely shielded to all but Rhys.

  Gratefully, Camber fell in behind the abbot and fixed his attention on the swaying white braid, stilling his sense of loss and taking in the calm which now radiated both from Emrys and, surprisingly, from Rhys and Queron, who followed. Peace became an almost tangible presence surrounding all of them.

  The hymn’s final verse floated with eerie majesty on the incense-leavened air as they went out through a side door.

  Here am I, Lord.…

  All my talents at Thy feet I lay.

  Here am I, Lord.…

  Thou art the One Creator of all things.

  Thou art the Omnipartite One Who ruleth Light and Shade,

  Giver of Life and Gift of Life Thyself.

  Here am I, Lord.…

  All my being bound unto Thy will.

  Here am I, Lord.…

  Sealed unto Thy service, girt with strength to save or slay.

  Guide and guard Thy servant, Lord, from all temptation,

  That honor may be spotless and my Gift unstained.…

  They exited into a narrow slype which led between the transept and a round building which Camber surmised must be the chapter house. Joram had once likened Saint Neot’s chapter house to the ruined temple they had discovered under Grecotha, so Camber casually expressed an interest in the building to Emrys, as the four of them emerged in the eastern cloister walk. The abbot obliged his visitors by leading them into the center of the cloister garth, presenting an overview of the general groundplan before they went inside.

  A
side from the church itself, which the Gabrilites referred to as their chapel, though it was larger than any chapel Camber had ever seen, the chapter house clearly dominated the rest of the monastic complex. Its graceful dome of sky-blue faience gleamed clean and pristine in the morning sun, matching those of the chapel itself—for, indeed, Saint Neot’s was famous for its multiple domes. The overall effect was of an extension of the southern transept to include the chapter house. On the chapel, Camber could count six—no, seven—domes, and knew that there were at least four more that he could not see—and the chapter house made twelve, a sacred number.

  Other details also became apparent from this close proximity, among them the imprint of a golden Gabrilite cross on each faience tile of the domes, equal arms touching a solar ring at the four quarters, the arms flaring slightly at the ends. That motif and others which seemed somewhat familiar were repeated in the carving of the heavy bronze doors framing the entry portico of the chapter house—subtle, but there for those who knew what to look for. The overall impression rather confirmed his suspicion that the origins of the Gabrilites, like the Deryni themselves, stretched back much farther in history than most folk assumed. While it was not much discussed, especially among the more orthodox clergy, those who studied such things were well aware that many faiths besides Christianity had contributed to the body of knowledge which was the legacy of Deryni magic.

  But he would ask Rhys more about the symbols, once they were alone. He had sensed Rhys’s eager interest, but also his warning, as the Healer became aware of the sweep of Camber’s scrutiny. No, this was not a safe subject for Alister to explore.

  And so he stood wide-eyed and only Alister-interested while Emrys pointed out the more mundane features of the monastic complex, nodding knowledgeably as he was shown the location of the reception rooms and refectory and kitchen ranges along the southern side of the cloister.

  The brothers’ sleeping quarters lay along the western perimeter, both at ground level and above; but unlike many cloistered orders, the Gabrilites provided separate sleeping cells for their brethren rather than dormitories, privacy being thought essential to the kind of mental and spiritual discipline expected of their company. The students, Emrys explained, were lodged around a second cloister beyond the refectory range and chapter house. There lay the formal classrooms and training chambers, and also their own destination.

  First, though, Emrys knew that Bishop Cullen would wish to see the inside of the chapter house, though he feared that the usual impact of the chamber would suffer a little, as it was undergoing its twice-weekly cleaning just now.

  As they approached the heavy bronze doors, Camber was able to take a closer, if brief, look at the symbols and scenes carved there and to file them away in his memory for future contemplation. Feigning ignorance of what he saw, he made no comment other than to admire the workmanship, but he could feel Rhys’s fascination meshing with his own as they followed Emrys through the open doorway.

  If the outside of Saint Neot’s held revelations, entering the chapter house conveyed more the sense of a psychic shock, albeit a pleasant one—like being suddenly transported into a cave-chilled jar carved of aquamarine and gold: in honor of the Archangel Gabriel, whose color was blue and whose element was water, Emrys informed his visitors. Cool blue light filtered through the tinted clerestory windows like an airy counterpart of the water which Gabriel ruled, engulfing all in a shifting whirlpool of sky-hue. A brighter shaft of light lanced through a clear-glassed skylight in the center of the dome—which was the same pale blue faience as the outside, though strewn with tiny, eight-pointed stars instead of solar crosses—and its slant-beamed radiance transformed the white marble tiles of the floor to creamy gold where it touched.

  A waist-high cube of pale, polished bluestone, devoid of any decoration, occupied the exact center of the chamber, surrounded by white-robed brethren scrubbing the floor on hands and knees, habits kilted up between their legs. Along the perimeter, other brothers moved among the three tiers of wooden benches with polishing cloths, wiping fragrant cedar oil into the deep carving and buffing the wood to a warm, mellow finish.

  The scent of the oil conjured poignant memories for the Alister part of Camber, momentarily whisking him back to another place and time, when his being and his faith had been newer and less complicated—but then reality quickly tugged him back to Saint Neot’s with a snap. Something odd about the bluestone cube.…

  Whatever it was, he quickly realized that Rhys had sensed it, too—a somehow familiar perception, but one which the Healer had not known how to recognize when last he had been at Saint Neot’s as a student. With a mental nudge of reassurance for Rhys’s sake, Camber reached toward the cube with his mind, outwardly only watching the monks and listening to Emrys’s low-voiced commentary.

  He soon realized that his uneasiness had been born of no sinister connection, but only of the perception of power unexpected, clashing softly against his shields to set mental warnings resounding. The chunk of bluestone was a power focus, likely used by the Gabrilites at Chapter meditations much as the Michaelines were trained to focus on a flame or the Sword of Saint Michael for their special workings. Residual power, neither good nor evil, radiated from the cube; but it was only undirected power. There was nothing to beware in that, especially in the hands of Gabrilites. It reminded him of the black and white cube altar in the ruins beneath Grecotha—and that, he knew, was a power nexus. He wondered whether there was a connection.

  Breathing a little sigh both of relief and continued curiosity, he blinked and made complete his return to time and place, the scent of cedar oil still strong in his nostrils.

  “Is anything wrong, Your Grace?” the old Healer was asking softly.

  He found Emrys staring at him curiously, the pale face otherwise unreadable. Some of the brothers had slowed their cleaning and were glancing at him surreptitiously, recognizing the rank betokened by his purple cloak and white sash, even if they did not know his particular identity.

  With a shake of his head, Camber seized on the pungent cedar smell as an excuse for his psychic wanderings.

  “Nay, Father, I had a flash of my own youth, that’s all. We used cedar oil for the wood at Cheltham. I was reminded of my novitiate.”

  “Ah.” Emrys nodded wisely. “’Tis strange, is it not, how one returns to such memories more and more, as age advances? My earliest training was in another tradition than either Gabrilite or Michaeline, and it was sandalwood oil which used to take me back. Cedar is better, though, I think. We find that the scent deters moths. But, come. We should not distract these good brothers in their work. Some of the younger ones are still learning the discipline of manual labor. All share equally here—ordained priest and Healer, as well as novice, apprentice, and student. Is it so among your Michaelines?”

  It was, though not as fully as among the Gabrilites, Camber allowed, as they continued on past the chapter house and through a range of domestic buildings to the south and east. But though he and Emrys then launched into a lively discussion of the philosophical differences between the two orders, Camber did not pursue the seemingly offhand reference Emrys had made to training in a different tradition, especially in front of Queron. The more he learned about the Gabrilites, the clearer it became that there was much he did not know about them and, especially, their reverend abbot. He resolved to ask Evaine about it. Perhaps she had come upon information which could elucidate the matter further.

  They moved along the students’ cloister walk until they came upon a group of young boys sitting under a tree in the cloister garth, their plain white tunics identifying them as students. A youngish looking man in the habit and braid of a Gabrilite priest was lecturing them softly, though his voice did not carry to where Camber and Emrys paused to watch. Camber wondered whether it was by design.

  “These are some of our ten and eleven year olds in general training,” Emrys murmured. “They have been here only about four months. Dom Tivar is a weapons master, amo
ng other specialties, but so far he has not allowed any of them even to touch a weapon. First they must learn to sense an opponent’s moves through their Sight—even a Deryni opponent. But of course you Michaelines have much the same kind of schooling in this regard.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  Even as he replied, the boys were scrambling to their feet at some unknown signal and pairing off to practice, closing their eyes and beginning to move slowly through the routine of a fighting exercise, swaying and dipping and blocking each other’s blows with hands and forearms which seemed almost to sense the movements by themselves. Camber had done similar exercises as a young man, and his dual awareness as Camber-Alister could appreciate the training even more than he alone.

  “Ah, yes, I remember that one—though we did it a little differently at Cheltham,” he added. “Do you remember the bruises, once the exercises were brought up to speed? Or, do Healers receive the same martial training?”

  “I did not, but many do.” Emrys smiled. “Come and I’ll show you some more direct Healer’s training, if you’d like. This will be very familiar to Rhys, I’m sure.”

  They strolled on around an angle of the cloister walk and paused again just outside a latticework door opening off the corridor. Inside, a boy of twelve or fourteen lay motionless on a cot with his head toward the door. A Gabrilite Healer sat on a stool at the boy’s head with his back to them. His fine, unlined hands were held just a little way apart from the boy’s temples as he spoke in a soft, lulling monotone.

  “That’s good, Simonn. Relax every muscle. You know how. Very good. Now, center in and let yourself slowly become aware of the blood whispering through your veins. Feel the pulsebeat. Now be aware of your heart pumping that blood. It’s beating a little faster than it needs to, but you can slow it, if you really want to. Give it a try …