“Aye, my lord. I’ve come from Lord Tavis, on behalf of my master, Prince Javan.” He glanced beyond Rhys at the others, then lowered his eyes uncomfortably. “His Highness is very ill, sir,” he continued in a lower voice. “He’s burning up with fever. Lord Tavis heard that you had arrived in Valoret this morning, and hoped you might come to His Highness. He bade me give you this.” He held out the parchment packet. “He begs you to attend him.”
“He begs me?” Rhys said, taking the boy by the shoulders in alarm and making a quick, subtle probe.
Instantly, Camber shared Rhys’s perception of Tavis’s taut face giving instructions and the message to the squire … the boy’s view of the prince tossing feverishly on his bed, kicking off the blankets in his delirium.… Tavis and the frightened squire sponging down the pale, hot body with water only just melted from snow fetched from outside.… Javan thrashing and moaning under Tavis’s efforts to comfort him.
Good God, what was wrong with Javan?
The perception took only an instant, and was surely interpreted by the squire as only a searching glance of disbelief that one Healer should so entreat another. Then Rhys was shaking his head and taking the message the boy still held in one hesitant hand and running a sensitive fingertip across the seal to confirm that the message did, indeed, come from Tavis.
Camber glanced at the others and brought them into the link to share the contents of the message—first Joram and Jebediah, and then, after the slightest of hesitations, Niallan and Kai. Through Rhys’s eyes they watched the parchment unfold, scanning the shakily penned lines with growing consternation.
I have learned by reliable means, that the regents plan to move against the Gabrilite and Michaeline establishments in the Lendour highlands. Baron Rhun and a sizable force are there now, and have been given orders to take retaliatory action for the election of Alister Cullen, though I do not have specific details. His Highness was so distraught by the possibility of the murder of these good holy men that he has taken some kind of fever that I do not know how to deal with. Please warn Archbishop Cullen to guard his Order and that of his esteemed predecessor, and then come and aid me. Prince Javan’s life may depend upon your aid.
The message was signed and sealed: Tavis O’Neill.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
They plundered the sanctuary of God, as though there was no avenger.
—Psalms of Solomon 8:10
“Oh, my God!” Rhys murmured, lowering the parchment and glancing at Camber with a stricken expression.
His mind turned over the implications of the dreadful message he had just read, but already his hand was on the boy Bertrand’s shoulder, guiding him back through the open door.
“Wait outside, please, son,” he said. “I’ll be with you in just a moment.” He closed the door and rested his forehead against the smooth wood for just an instant, then turned and came back toward the fire.
“I think we’d better have the wards back, Alister,” he whispered, kneeling by the fireplace and holding the parchment to the light to scan it a second time. “If the regents should find out that we know about this, and how, Tavis O’Neill’s life won’t be worth a damn.”
“Unless they sent him,” Joram said.
Camber shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. That wouldn’t jibe with what Jaffray told us about Tavis’s behavior before the Court after Davin’s death. Read the message again and see if you don’t agree.”
With that, he closed his eyes and performed the mental processes which would re-establish the wards. When he looked up, once more aware of the faint tingle of protection surrounding the room, Joram and Jebediah were crouched tensely to either side of Rhys to read Tavis’s warning with their own eyes. Niallan and Kai had not moved from their chairs, waiting for him to take the initiative. As Camber stood, they stood, too. Rhys pivoted on his heels at the sound and glanced up at the three of them, though he addressed only Camber.
“You don’t think it’s possible that it is a ruse?”
Camber shook his head slowly, clasping his arms across his chest in a gesture that had nothing to do with cold.
“That he would gamble with the lives of so many of our people? No,” Camber said softly. “I fear that the regents do, indeed, plan what he says they do. It’s my fault, too. I should never have let myself be talked into accepting election as archbishop.” He sighed explosively and glanced at Joram. “And Joram is thinking that all the mea culpa’s in the world cannot now undo it, and he is absolutely right. However, the damage now being done, we must do what we can to minimize the effects. Niallan, will you and Kai help us?”
The senior of the two other bishops gave a quick nod. “What do you want us to do?”
“For now, simply cover for me, if necessary,” Camber said. “Joram and I will have to go to Saint Neot’s and warn Dom Emrys, if it isn’t already too late. Jebediah, you must go to Haut Eirial and make certain that all of our people are out of there.”
Jebediah nodded. “They are, but I’ll go anyway. Other brothers took over the abbey when we moved out. Rhun’s troops may not be able to distinguish between Michaelines and another Order, if they’re in blood lust. I’ll go on to Mollingford, after Haut Eirial. That’s also within range.”
As Jebediah spoke, Joram’s hand had crept toward the hilt of the sword he was not wearing, there in the relative safety of a bishop’s chambers. Now he chewed at his lower lip distractedly, the pale grey eyes like cold iron.
“My lords, I beg your pardon, but—something still isn’t quite right about this. It’s too—convenient, somehow.”
“You suspect a trick?” Kai asked.
Niallan nodded simultaneously. “I think I understand Joram’s uneasiness, Kai. It is a little handy—luring Alister into making a move directly against the regents—”
Camber glanced from the two bishops to his son, a bushy Alister eyebrow raised in query. “Is that what’s bothering you, Joram?”
“Something like that, Your Grace.”
Rhys shook his head and cast the parchment on the fire, watching it curl and burn as he stood. “Well, I don’t know about plots within the regency, but I do know that Prince Javan is very ill. Bertrand isn’t capable of deceiving me on that, whatever motives Tavis himself might have for sending us his information. And as shocked as I am about what the regents apparently have planned, you people are going to have to decide what’s to be done about that. Right now, I think my place must be with Javan.”
“I think it must be, too,” Camber agreed, picking up Rhys’s Healer’s mantle and holding it for him. “Give the boy our best wishes, when he’s out of danger, Rhys. And we shall all pray that it’s only a simple childhood fever.”
“I hope you’re right,” Rhys replied, picking up his Healer’s satchel and heading for the door. “It isn’t like a Healer of Tavis’s ability to panic about something that common, though. Maybe he’s just rattled because of what he found out. Or maybe he’s finally remembered he’s Deryni, too. Wards?”
As he paused beside the door, Camber smiled and let the wards dispel.
“Good luck, son. Our prayers go with you.”
“I think you’ll need them more than I,” Rhys returned with a smile. “I may not be back before morning. Don’t wait up.”
As he opened the door and slipped through, Camber could see the boy Bertrand look up anxiously, his expression changing to one of relief as Rhys spoke to him in a low voice, and then the door shut them both off from view. Joram and Jebediah began buckling on their swords while Camber riffled through a garment press. Niallan watched impassively, Kai a trifle less so, as their superior pulled out a heavy, copelike mantle of gold-embroidered burgundy and slung it around his shoulders.
“What, specifically, do you want us to do while you’re gone, Alister?” Niallan asked.
“You may have to celebrate the Midnight Mass for me, if I don’t get back in time,” Camber said, worrying at the clasp beneath his chin. “It’s nearing Compline now. B
ut if you do have to cover for me, say that I’m indisposed and resting for tomorrow. I’m told that Archbishop Anscom once used that excuse, when he went to marry Cinhil and his queen, on another Christmas Eve.”
He caught Joram’s hidden smile as the Michaeline donned his greatcloak, Joram remembering that Camber himself had heard Anscom say it.
Niallan nodded agreement. “I understand. We’ll do the best we can. I assume you’re going by Portal?”
“Aye, there’s a private one in Jaffray’s chambers that very few people know about,” Camber replied, heading toward the door. “Fortunately, Ailin didn’t think to quarter anyone there—presumptuous, you know, until the new archbishop was chosen, despite the shortage of housing—so it should be just a matter of manipulating the lock and getting in without being seen. If we should be intercepted, I’ll explain our presence by saying that I wanted to pray in Jaffray’s oratory before being elevated to his office. With luck, such subterfuge won’t be necessary.”
“I certainly hope you’re right,” Niallan murmured, as Joram eased the door open and he and Jebediah slipped outside. “Do be careful, Alister.”
“My plan, precisely,” Camber said with a wry Alister smile. “Let it be your plan, as well. Godspeed, my friends.”
He started to clasp both men on the shoulder, but Niallan deftly caught his hand and knelt, pressing his lips to the bishop’s ring in homage. Kai, too, knelt to repeat the process. There was nothing Camber could say to that—only lay a hand on each man’s bowed head and bless him.
Then Joram was peering back inside and beckoning him to come, and he was slipping outside. They strode briskly but softly down the corridor. They saw no one. When they came to Jaffray’s old apartments, Camber bent quickly to the lock while the other two Michaelines kept watch. No one interrupted. Within a few more seconds, they were safe inside the episcopal apartments, Joram conjuring handfire to light their way in the cold and darkened chamber. Camber, too, produced a sphere of handfire, and gestured for the two others to follow him.
The oratory was set in a deep alcove opening off the main sleeping chamber, its interior hidden from casual view behind a rich damask curtain. No light burned on the altar when Camber pushed back the curtain on its wooden rings, for the altar had been stripped and the Sacrament removed to the cathedral after Jaffray’s death. A thin layer of dust covered the floor, the priedieu, and the bare altar itself, but a faint hint of incense still clung to the curtain and kept watch. The Inhabitant of the tiny, open tabernacle had not abandoned His house—only left it for a time, and would return.
The feeling of the place sparked vivid memories for Camber, even though he did not come here often. Once, long before he had become Alister Cullen, he had come here to plead the aid of Anscom of Trevas, Jaffray’s predecessor, now these twelve years deceased. Anscom had hidden him within this very chamber while he arranged for another priest to cover his own Christmas Eve duties so he could come with Camber to solemnize the marriage of Cinhil and Megan, parents of the present king and his two brothers.
With a blink, Camber made the mental transit back along the passage of the years and sighed. Jebediah was standing on the Portal square set in the floor between the prie-dieu and the altar, the fine eyes dark and troubled in the rugged, handsome face.
“Are you all right?” he murmured.
“I’m fine,” Camber replied, clasping Jebediah’s arm and nodding assurance. “Just remembering another time. Shall we say that whoever gets back first will wait for the other?”
“Very well. You will be careful, though, won’t you? Both of you!”
“See that you follow your own advice, as well,” Camber said with a smile. “Godspeed, Jeb.”
“And you. God, I hope that Tavis isn’t playing us false.”
With a nod of agreement, Camber stepped back and watched Jebediah lay his hand on his sword hilt and close his eyes. When Camber blinked, Jebediah was gone. With a sigh, Camber turned to Joram.
“Well, Rhys and I made this trip once before, though from a different Portal. We’ll come out in the sacristy at Saint Neot’s.” He spied Jaffray’s crozier standing in an ornate base beside the altar and hefted it experimentally. “I wonder whether Jaffray would mind.”
“Why should he? It’s yours now,” Joram replied, picking up an embroidered miter and bringing it to Camber. “Besides, it will make a good weapon, just in case one’s needed. Here, bend down and let me put this on you. You’ll make a more identifiable silhouette when we come bursting in on Dom Emrys and his brethren unannounced.”
“What makes you think it won’t make me a more identifiable target for Rhun’s men?” Camber retorted, stepping onto the Portal square with his son, who extinguished the handfire which had lit their way eerily while they made their preparations.
Both of them let the long-familiar link spring up between them, Camber assuming control. Then they were standing in a different kind of darkness, slightly lit by the familiar glow of a red glass Presence Lamp.
The silence was reassuring as they glanced about, surrounding them all at once with the sense of security which the familiar sights and scents and sounds bespoke. No clash of fighting or attack assailed their ears; nor was the silence that of carnage already done, of slaughter already completed. Rather, it was the profound and reverent stillness of a church at prayer, the tranquil murmur of voices raised to God, accompanied by the warm psychic glow of scores of highly-trained Deryni united in adoration of the All-Holy.
With a little thrill of relief, Camber moved toward the open sacristy door, Joram watchful at his heels. He ducked a little so that his miter would not hit the doorjamb as he passed into the corridor guarded by the mosaicked Saint Gabriel on the wall, pausing just inside the entrance to the sanctuary. Save for the Presence Lamp hanging to the side of the tabernacle and the obligatory altar candles, the chancel was nearly dark. But as he turned toward the choir and nave, he could see the back of Dom Emrys standing at the foot of the sanctuary steps, a pure silver light streaming from behind him to illuminate the filled rows of choir stalls to either side and beyond him.
The Office in progress was Compline, which closed the canonical hours for the day, and in two orderly lines the Gabrilite brethren, priests, Healers, and a few older students were filing out of their stalls and up the center aisle to make a reverence before their abbot and then conjure handfire symbolically from the light in his hands. As Camber and Joram watched, each man took his light back to his place in the choir and knelt, the silver glows gradually taking on individual tints of color as each man merged his own meditations with the spark which the abbot had given. It was a uniquely Deryni devotion, but under the circumstances its beauty was a little lost on Camber as he took another impatient step into the sanctuary. Could it be that they were not aware of his arrival, these most highly trained and aware of all Deryni?
The physical movement did finally produce results. Camber saw one of the priests take note of his presence and then bend to murmur something in Dom Emrys’s ear. The old Deryni nodded, but he did not turn—merely kept passing handfire to his spiritual sons as if it were the most natural thing in the world for the Bishop of Grecotha, now Archbishop of Valoret, to appear suddenly in his chapel at Compline on Christmas Eve.
Camber waited, wondering whether he could have been wrong about the danger, if Tavis could have lied, or been mistaken. He could hear no untoward sounds outside the chapel, could detect no psychic sign of impending doom, though something vaguely menacing seemed to crawl at the very edge of his consciousness—possibly of his own creation, he acknowledged.
He waited until the last of the assembled Gabrilites had received the symbolic light from their superior, then sighed with relief as Emrys turned to bow deeply to Camber, his brethren doing the same. Curbing his impatience, Camber made a hurried genuflection toward the Presence on the altar, then strode quickly down the steps to Emrys’s side and let the old man kiss his ring.
“You are all in great danger,”
he said, motioning them to move closer and congregate on the sanctuary steps before him. “Baron Rhun and his men are on their way to destroy Saint Neot’s and all who remain within its precincts. We believe that Haut Eirial and Mollingford are also threatened, and there may be more. You must leave immediately.”
Emrys nodded, his lined face betraying no sign of anxiety or tension. “I feared you might have such news, Your Grace. Indeed, we have seen soldiers in the vicinity for several weeks now, and wondered why the king’s men stayed in the field so late in the season. Now it is clear.”
“Then, Tavis was not lying,” Camber murmured. “Dom Emrys, have you made preparations to defend yourselves?”
“To defend? No. Regardless of our resistance, Baron Rhun could not allow a Deryni training center to survive, no matter what the cost to him, if he has finally taken it in his mind to destroy us.” He turned briefly to his brethren. “We will go now, my sons. You have your instructions. Let us file into the sacristy in an orderly fashion and be away. Those of you who are to gain us time know your assignments.”
As he finished speaking, the men began lining up by twos, teachers and students, each still cupping a sphere of handfire in his palm. Three of the priests moved briskly to the altar, where they drew aside the veil of samite from the tabernacle and began removing the altar vessels containing the precious consecrated Hosts.
A student with his robe kilted up between his legs came bursting through the doors at the west end of the church and ran breathlessly down the center aisle, followed by a handful of other students and lay servants.
“Father Abbot, we’re under attack! There must be fifty knights, and twice that many men-at-arms! They’ve breached the outer walls beyond the fields and they’re moving on the abbey itself! Brother Gillis and Lord Dov are slain!”
“God help them, we are too late!” Camber whispered, his knuckles whitening on the staff of his crozier.
Emrys, with a shake of his snowy head, moved into action, though his pale face had gone even paler against the white of his habit.
Camber the Heretic Page 44
