Camber the Heretic

by Katherine Kurtz

  “What should we do with Deryni who aid the enemy?” another voice rasped, as Tavis began to struggle weakly and tried to reach out with his mind.

  He felt an answering surge of shields locking into place around him—his captors were Deryni! He shook his head and tried to scream for help, but to no avail. A gloved hand was clamped over his mouth, his head immobilized against a velvet-clad chest.

  He continued to squirm, all the while being dragged further into the darker reaches of the alley, and again he sought to reach out with his mind, somehow to break the bonds of those other minds surrounding him, as well as the physical restraints; but another blow to the side of his head jolted him so that it was all he could do just to stay conscious.

  “This is one Deryni who will aid the enemy no more!” the first voice said.

  And Tavis heard a sword whisper from its scabbard, steel against well-oiled steel.

  There were shouts coming from the street now, as his escort began trying to make their way to his aid, yet still protect their royal charges—but suddenly he knew that they would be too late.

  He struggled even more frantically, though already almost resigned to the fact that he was not going to be able to escape them. They were too many and too strong, and he was not trained as a fighting man.

  But then, in an even more horrifying realization, he felt his left arm being jerked out to his side, the hand and forearm being pinned against the wall beside him. Through the swell of an even greater terror than the threat of mere death, he saw the sword gleaming in ruddy torchlight as it drew back and then descended, flashing inexorably toward the join of hand and wrist.

  God, no! Not his hand!

  He convulsed with dread and tried to scream again, strained and wrenched with even more frenzied strength in that instant. But those who held him pinned were stronger, and the hands which gripped his body and his arm were like tempered steel; he could do no more than force an anguished gurgle of horror.

  If thy hand offend thee, cut it off! The words rang in his mind.

  He felt the steel strike his wrist with hot, numbing force, felt his stomach knot as he saw the flesh and bone part beneath the blade—but not all the way through—not with that first stroke, for the wall had deflected the blade a little. As he retched and felt his world lurching askew, he knew that the blade struck two more times, saw the black shower of his blood spurting from his severed wrist with each terrified beat of his pounding heart, heard the guards fighting through to him in earnest now—though he knew, as his senses faded, that it was too late.

  They released his head then, and he screamed with all his strength, his shriek escalating to one of sheerest agony as he saw that they were not yet done with him. A torch approached, in the hands of a man whose face he would remember until the day he died, despite the fact that the man wore a mask across his eyes.

  The last thing he remembered, before he mercifully passed out, was the sickening, pungent-sweet stench of his own seared flesh, and the excruciating anguish of a hand which was no longer there.

  By the time the guards won through the crowd at the entrance to the alley, the attackers were nearly out of sight at the other end. Two of the guards started to pursue, but their fellows called them back. They dared not leave their royal charges, and Tavis must have help immediately.

  Grimly, then, for an initial glance as they passed had told them there was nothing they could do to save Tavis’s hand, they returned to find Prince Javan crouched beside the unconscious Healer and surrounded by a growing press of spectators. The boy had clamped one hand over the end of the severed wrist, trying to staunch the blood which spurted between his too-small fingers, and with his other hand he was searching for the pressure point under Tavis’s upper arm. From his actions, it was clear that the boy remembered the theory, but he did not have the sheer physical strength to hold the pressure firm.

  The guards did not pause for further reflection. While one of them ran to commandeer a cart and a pair of mounted town constables, another began to clear away the crowd, so that his remaining two colleagues could see to Tavis. Working quickly, they knotted a tourniquet around Tavis’s upper arm, where Javan had tried to find the pressure point, then eased the prince’s hand from the wound and bound up the bloody stump as tightly as they could. Rhys Michael, who had been huddling by the blood-stained wall in stunned shock until now, chose that moment to begin weeping hysterically, his mental state not improved by stumbling over Tavis’s severed hand when one of the guards tried to turn him away from the bloody scene.

  Javan watched all in stony silence, trying to stay out of the way until the cart arrived. While the guards loaded Tavis into the cart, he quietly retrieved the severed hand, wrapping it carefully in the sleeve which he tore from his own shirt. He cradled it against his chest all the way back to the castle, hoping that by warming it against his own body, it might be kept sufficiently alive for another Healer to reattach it. Sir Jason tried half-heartedly to take it from him, but the boy gave him such a look that he immediately backed off. Nor would he wipe Tavis’s blood from his hands.

  But locating another Healer proved difficult. Rhys had moved from the castle weeks before, but was reported to be living at the opposite end of town, so they sent a constable to inquire. When they paused at the archbishop’s palace to ask whether Jaffray knew of a Healer nearby, the archbishop’s secretary recommended several, then remembered that Rhys Thuryn had gone riding with Bishop Cullen, though they were expected back momentarily. Should Rhys be sent to the castle when he returned?

  He should. Further, there in the shadow of the castle walls, the guards judged that at last it was safe to divide their number, so Robear and Corund borrowed horses from the archbishop’s stables and went out to look for Rhys, while the other constable returned to town to search for one of the other Healers named. Jason and Piedur carried Tavis into the castle and laid him in a room near the princes’ quarters, at Javan’s grim insistence.

  The royal physicians were summoned then, and did what they could while they waited for a Healer to arrive, but they were only human. To keep Tavis from hemorrhaging to death, they were obliged to cauterize the wound further with red-hot steel, searing flesh and bone beyond even a Healer’s ability to reconstruct.

  Nor was Tavis their only patient. Rhys Michael remained so hysterical that he had to be put to bed with a sleeping potion; and they would have done the same to Javan, but the elder prince would not allow it. With a show of royal hauteur which would have made even the regents take notice, he insisted upon being allowed to wait for word of his friend’s condition—though even threats would not persuade them to let him wait inside the room.

  Alroy and the regents returned from the tournament shortly after that, and were told briefly what had happened. The regents mouthed suitable regrets over Tavis’s injury, but Murdoch got it in his head almost immediately that the attack had really been aimed at the princes, as part of a Deryni plot. Bishop Hubert was even heard to remark that it was typical of the soulless Deryni that they should attack and maim their own kind, and good riddance.

  Word arrived that a Healer had been located and was on his way, and Alroy asked to wait with his twin for news, but the regents would not hear of it. The king had already had a tiring day, and must guard against the return of the cold he had so lately shaken.

  So Alroy, too, was put to bed with a sedative; and when Murdoch would have insisted that Javan do likewise, he was met with such cold resistance that even the normally merciless Rhun softened, suggesting that in the case of this prince, perhaps it might be better if he were permitted to keep vigil until the Healer’s condition was stable.

  So Murdoch relented, though not until he had seen Tavis’s blood washed from the boy’s hands. Javan was permitted to curl up in a chair outside Tavis’s door, wrapped in a warm blanket, after which he was promptly ignored. Hubert stayed with the physicians inside, but the other regents went down to supper. To Javan, the minutes seemed to crawl.

&n
bsp; The Healer finally arrived from town, one Lord Oriel by name, a young, almost beardless man only recently matriculated from his final training at Saint Neot’s. But though he was reasonably skilled, there was little he could do for his brother Healer at this late date other than to plunge him into even more profound sleep and try to ease the trauma done to tissue by cautery of flame and iron. Even if Tavis’s wrist had not been so brutally seared—though the searing had saved his life—the hand which Javan had guarded so carefully had been severed too long for even a Healer to reattach. Butcher’s leavings, Bishop Hubert observed, just before leaving, as Oriel sadly bade a squire dispose of the sleeve-wrapped hand.

  So Oriel and the physicians administered a sedative to the unconscious Tavis, to ensure against his waking while they worked, and set to cleaning and dressing the raw first-aid already given, before Oriel could attempt a further Healing. A dusty Rhys arrived shortly, with Evaine, Joram, and Bishop Cullen in tow, to see Oriel preparing to work a final Healing of the stump, to seal a better closure and set in play long-term Healing so that Tavis might eventually be fitted with a hook.

  The royal physicians were only too happy to defer to Rhys. Surgery was not their favorite occupation, especially something this gory, and they had been nervous enough about working with an unknown Healer. Rhys’s arrival was ample excuse to bow out and leave their patient to his fellow Healers’ care—and bow out, they did, though they did look in on the sleeping Alroy and Rhys Michael before retiring, and tried once more to persuade Javan to go to bed.

  But Javan was having none of it, and almost succeeded in bullying his way into the room while Rhys and Oriel conferred. Only the arrival of Father Alfred, the boys’ childhood confessor, kept Javan from making another scene. Camber, waiting with Joram near the door, where he would be out of the way, could only note Father Alfred’s actions with approval and vow to put in a good word for him with Jaffray. The last thing Rhys needed was a hysterical prince disrupting things just as he and the other Healer settled down to work.

  Rhys, meanwhile, began attuning himself to the grim business awaiting him. When he had scrubbed the grime from his hands and made a brief examination of Tavis’s condition, he went into Healer’s rapport with Oriel and reviewed the younger man’s plans. He found Oriel inexperienced but imaginative—a combination he could work with easily enough. After only a brief exchange of information and techniques, they settled down beside their patient.

  While Evaine monitored Tavis’s life functions and kept him in deep sleep, beyond even the sedative already in his system—a task which seemed to surprise Oriel, since Evaine was not a Healer—Rhys controlled the area where Oriel worked, stopping bleeding, anchoring severed muscles and tendons and ligaments, sealing major nerve-endings, holding all in suspension as Oriel removed a bit more bone and smoothed the jagged ends and drew new flesh and a flap of skin over what once had been a Healer’s hand.

  When they were finished, they bandaged what was left and propped his left arm upright at his side, resting on the elbow, the forearm tied loosely to a chair drawn near the bed—though they covered arm and chair with a light blanket to disguise its lines. They would not have him see too much of it too soon.

  Since they were approximating what a healed amputation should look like, rather than using the body’s natural tendency to be whole while still in one piece, they knew that the Healing could not be completed that night. The body must be free to reroute blood vessels in its own way; and until that happened, there was danger of blood pooling in the stump and pressure building, making further surgery necessary on an even weaker patient. Besides, there would be less pain when Tavis woke, with the injured member elevated.

  Oriel stayed with them a little while longer, observing their patient’s condition and picking up fine points of technique from the Master Healer. After some discussion, it was agreed that Rhys should take over the case, reckoning it likely that Tavis might respond better to a Healer with whom he was acquainted, once he regained consciousness and must begin his terrible adjustment as a Healer with only one hand.

  Oriel left around midnight, and an anxious Javan slipped into the room through the opened door. The boy was exhausted, wound up as tight as a catapult skein, dark smudges undershadowing the grey Haldane eyes. His face was streaked with tear-tracks through the day’s accumulation of grime. His limp was more pronounced than Rhys had ever seen it as he made his way to the foot of the bed.

  “Is he—alive?” Javan whispered, as though afraid to speak the words.

  “Of course he’s alive.” Rhys smiled. “You didn’t think we’d let him die, did you? It takes more than that to kill a Healer.”

  “I suppose.” The boy stared hard at his toes. “Did—did you put his hand back?” he asked plaintively. “I wrapped it up as well as I could, and I tried to keep it warm.…”

  Slowly Rhys crouched down before the boy, taking his slender arms and trying to get him to look him in the eye.

  “I’m afraid that wasn’t possible, Javan. It had been too long. We can Heal a lot of things, but even we have our limits. Can you tell me how it happened? A guard said you were attacked.”

  Angrily Javan jerked his arms away and moved to the right side of the bed, touched tentative fingertips briefly to Tavis’s remaining hand, knuckled away grief-stricken tears from his bleary eyes.

  “I was riding on Piedur’s shoulders,” he said shakily. “There were lots of people around us, singing and laughing. Some of them were wearing masks, because it was carnival time.”

  He sniffed and drew himself more erect. “All of a sudden, Tavis wasn’t with us anymore. I looked around and saw him being rushed into the alley by a couple of men who had hold of his arms. They were wearing dark cloaks and masks. And there were others around him, too, and they were part of it, even though they didn’t all have hold of him.

  “I—saw one of them hit him in the head,” he continued, his voice quavering a little, “and I yelled and pointed, and Piedur saw what was happening and put me down.” His voice strengthened. “The other guards came running, but I couldn’t see what happened next. There were people running everywhere and screaming. I managed to squirm through the crowd, but it was too late. T—Tavis was lying on the ground, and there was blood everywhere, and the guards were starting to chase the other men.

  “I tr-tried to stop the bleeding, but I w-wasn’t strong enough to hold the pressure point. Piedur came back then and helped me, and I—found his hand and wrapped it up in my sleeve.” He shuddered, his tired shoulders slumping in dejection. “But, it didn’t do any good, did it?”

  Camber, standing across from the sleeping Tavis, could hardly control his amazement and horror at the tale the boy told.

  “Oh, my poor boy, you’re wrong about that,” he murmured, starting to reach out to him. “If you hadn’t tried to staunch his wound, he might have bled to death before Piedur could even get to him. You probably saved his life.”

  The boy did not look up, but he drew away slightly and swallowed hard. A fresh tear rolled off the lad’s dirt-streaked cheek to splash on Tavis’s hand. The unconscious man did not react, but Evaine did, moving in to lay her arms around the boy’s rigid shoulders.

  “I won’t go to bed,” Javan murmured, stiffening and shaking his head. “Not yet.”

  Evaine only smiled gently and pulled a straight-backed chair closer, on Tavis’s right, near the head of the bed, and urged him to a seat on it.

  “You don’t have to go to bed yet, Javan. You’re not a child anymore. You’ve proven that today. Sit here, where you can keep watch with us. Your good thoughts and prayers can help him Heal faster, you know. In that respect, everybody has a little bit of Healer in him.”

  “Really?” Javan whispered, heartened both by her statement and her acknowledgment of his maturing.

  “Of course,” Evaine replied. And she brought a blanket and tucked it around him in his chair, gently smoothing his hair and reaching out for control as she glanced at her father and
her husband.

  But her expression soon showed she was not making contact. She could not touch Javan, other than to read his presence as a hazy area of shielded consciousness as he gazed down at his friend.

  She sent her surprise to the others, relaying to them what she was feeling—or not feeling—but she could not get through to Javan, and dared not try harder for fear of being detected.

  Cinhil must have given him shields, Camber surmised, as he read his daughter’s frustration. Probably the others, as well. I wonder if he realized what he was doing?

  Rhys moved in to check his patient again, meanwhile sending: Well, at least we know about it now, instead of finding out during an emergency. It’s going to make things more difficult in the future, though. A logical protection, but I wish Cinhil hadn’t done it.

  What about Javan now? Evaine queried. He’s exhausted, but he won’t let himself go to sleep.

  Just ignore him for a while, then, Joram returned. As you’ve pointed out, he’s exhausted. By the time Tavis comes around, Javan may have fallen asleep on his own. It isn’t worth a fight, at this point, and that would only antagonize him.

  Joram is right, Camber interjected. But force isn’t the only way to put a prince to sleep. Watch this.

  He yawned and pulled up another chair, making a show of settling in with every appearance of falling asleep himself.

  “Evaine is right,” he said aloud, giving a deep sigh as he let his eyelids droop. “I think we should all try to rest for a while. When Tavis wakes, he’ll need us. And we’ll be much more help if we’re rested.”

  And as the others took his lead and began settling in to keep drowsy vigil, Camber covered a smile with yet another yawn as he saw Javan already yawning widely in response, the weary eyelids drooping lower and lower.