CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
So they set a fair mitre upon his head, and clothed him with garments. And the angel of the Lord stood by.
—Zechariah 3:5
Christmas of 917 dawned grey and cold, with a light snow drifting down over much of the Gwynedd plain. Camber watched the dawning from the window of his quarters in the cathedral complex at Valoret and wondered about his daughter, now making her way through that same snow toward Saint Mary’s in the Hills and safety.
He drew some comfort from the knowledge that Ansel and Queron travelled with her for protection and medical assistance, but he did not envy her this trip in winter, heavy in her pregnancy and with the worst of the winter storms still to come. If only she could have been safely delivered of the child before necessity forced her to flee. If only the flight could have been delayed until the spring.
If only, if only.… He found himself playing the same old game over and over again. If only Cinhil had lived longer; if only the king had chosen less avaricious and close-minded men to govern his minor sons; if only the regents had proved to be endowed with better understanding and tolerance.
But he had not, and they had not, and now Camber and those who aided him must play out the movements of this mad, macabre dance, knowing that a head-to-head confrontation was as inevitable as breathing, as was the regents’ eventual triumph, dealing from their position of legal strength, moving toward a massive reaction against all Deryni. Had it not already begun with the tragic retaliation at Saint Neot’s and the two former Michaeline houses? And God and the regents alone knew whether there had been others as well. Suppose he were wrong in trusting that Saint Mary’s was forgotten, and it had suffered the same destruction as Saint Neot’s? Was Camber sending his daughter and the children to their deaths?
Brooding on that, he glanced through the rippled glass at the more immediate situation building here in Valoret. Though it was early yet, he could see a growing trickle of the faithful making their way through the outer gates of the cathedral complex and into the church itself, their footsteps gradually darkening the snow and turning it to mud. Cathedral guards, now under the supervision of Jebediah, stood unobtrusively along the way and at the main gates, not interfering but watchful. The Michaeline grand master himself was out there somewhere. He had left to see to the defense of the cathedral complex almost as soon as Joram returned from Sheele, in the early morning hours.
Rhys, however, had not yet returned, though Camber and Joram had waited up past Matins, the great Office of the Night. Finally, Camber had forced himself to nap for the last few hours before dawn, reinforced by deep Deryni trancing to restore what there was no time for normal sleep to do; but even then, his rest had not been easy. He had expected Rhys at least to send word, even though he had said that they should not wait up for him. Could Javan be as sick as all of that, and further word not have come? Javan was the heir-presumptive, after all.
Shaking his head, Camber turned away from the window, beginning to admit real misgivings about Rhys’s safety. He had no official obligations until the noon Mass—Robert Oriss and Dermot O’Beirne had offered to take the two earlier services, as Niallan had taken the one at midnight—but he dared not initiate personal action to find out what had happened to Rhys. The quarters of the heir-presumptive would be off-limits to the Deryni bishop who had taken away Hubert’s coveted office.
He heard a stirring in the next room, and shortly Joram joined him with a sheaf of documents which required his signature for issuance after his enthronement; after that, he and Joram must both attend to their morning toilette, in the absence of any servants to assist them—for Ansel was gone, and they did not wish to call attention to that fact.
Camber was kept busy; but as the morning wore on, and he still received no word from Rhys, he became more and more uneasy. It was not like Rhys to be so thoughtless. He must know that Camber and Joram would be worrying. Why did he not at least send word?
And at about the same time that Camber was watching in the dawn, Rhys slowly began to regain consciousness—though it was of a hazy, two-dimensional sort that was not at all familiar or reassuring. He became aware that his neck was stiff, his head lolling heavily against his chest and slightly to the right; but when he started to ease it, simultaneously trying to raise his hands, he could not. His wrists were restrained against the arms of the chair in which he sat, and something bound him upright at mid-chest level. Memory of the night before surged back into his mind so quickly that he almost moaned aloud with the terror, but he managed to choke it back and make no sound.
Forcing himself to breathe slowly in the patterns of sleep, he willed his body to relax against its restraints again and tried to evaluate his present condition. He knew at once that he was not recovered from the effects of the drugs Tavis had given him; his head was pounding behind his closed eyes and at the base of his skull, and his stomach was only just short of rebellion; but neither was he totally under their influence anymore. Unless Tavis worked very hard at it, Rhys did not think his shields could be breached again—though that did not necessarily mean that Rhys could do anything active to defend himself. And of course, if Tavis should dose him anew—
Fighting down a momentary wave of mindless panic, he ordered his mind as best he could and tried to evaluate how much Tavis might have done to him. His Healing functions had been among the first of his faculties to go, and would remain blocked the longest, being most delicately balanced; and he knew that he had lost motor function and shielding ability for a time, though rudimentary levels were now restored. But he could not remember what memories Tavis might have touched, and that frightened him. Since the other Healer had probed him with the specific purpose of reading his memory of the night of Cinhil’s death, Rhys had to assume that the foray had been successful, and that Tavis now knew the full story of the other drugged wine—God, how could Rhys have been so blind as to fall into so similar a trap!—and that he had followed it, as well as he could, to its logical conclusion: the rituals in Cinhil’s chapel.
In that lay at least a measure of comfort, however; for of all of them who had participated that night, Rhys’s actual knowledge of what had gone on inside the circle was the least complete. Oh, intellectually he knew approximately what had occurred; but he had not seen it clearly, and he had heard very little, from the outside looking in. He gained further comfort from the guess that Tavis probably had not understood a great deal of what he had seen through Rhys’s memory—though Javan’s part in it would surely provide a key for eventually digging it out with Javan himself. By the jangled state of his mind, he was forced to surmise that he was still all but at the mercy of whatever Tavis decided to do with him.
Without warning, something touched his temple. Somehow, even in his drug-befogged state, he knew it was Tavis’s hand. He tried to block his reaction, to play at being still unconscious, but he knew, even as he tried it, that he could not fool the other Healer. He heard Tavis’s snort of amusement at his sluggish response and knew it would do no good to keep feigning sleep. He opened his eyes and raised his head, focusing on Tavis with rather more difficulty than he had hoped for.
“Well, I’m glad that you decided not to play games with me,” Tavis said. “How do you feel?”
Tentatively moistening his lips with a tongue which felt at least three sizes too large for his mouth, Rhys peered at Tavis through what appeared to be a tunnel and tried to swallow. It was the wrong thing to do.
“Damn you and your drugged wine!” he managed to gasp, his sudden paleness apparently giving Tavis ample warning to get one of last night’s water basins under his chin before he began retching.
Memory blurred for a few moments then, and the next thing he was aware of was Tavis wiping his mouth with a cloth. He sat with his eyes closed for a few seconds when Tavis had finished, fighting down the still rampant nausea and abhorring the awful, metallic taste in his mouth, until he felt Tavis’s steadying touch on the side of his neck again, something cool held
to his lips.
“What is that?” he managed to croak, opening his eyes to draw away from the cup Tavis was holding.
The other Healer’s eyes were pale, washed-out aquamarines in the weary-looking face, the firm mouth set in a line of almost bemused tolerance.
“It’s something for the nausea, nothing more. I promise.”
“Of course it is,” Rhys whispered. “And last night’s little refreshment was only wine.”
“I never promised you anything about last night’s wine,” Tavis said patiently. “I do promise you about this. And if you won’t drink it willingly, I know several good techniques for making you drink it, that I learned from you. I won’t even have to hit you in the stomach first. Now, which is it to be? I’m in no mood to clean up after you again.”
It was obvious that Tavis meant what he said; and Rhys had no doubts that the other Healer had, indeed, learned from his own experience. Another queasy roll of Rhys’s stomach convinced him that acquiescence was the better part of wisdom in this case, so he gave a slight nod, leaned forward slightly, and made himself swallow the contents of the cup in four determined gulps. The slightly minty taste was familiar—a decoction of herbs which was a mainstay of any Healer’s pharmacopoeia.
He closed his eyes and concentrated on making his stomach accept what he had just put into it, even relaxing a little as the cramping eased. When he opened his eyes again, vaguely sensing that he might have dozed, Tavis was standing in the window alcove across the room with Javan. The prince apparently had just awakened, for his hair was tousled and his eyes were a little sleepy-looking above the thick, fur-lined robe he clutched around himself. Tavis was telling him something in very emphatic terms, though his voice was too low for Rhys to catch the words in his still-drugged state. The boy kept glancing over at Rhys appraisingly.
After a few minutes, Javan and then Tavis came back over to him. The prince stared down at him quite dispassionately for one so young, almost as if revelation of the previous night’s work had given him an extra measure of maturity which had not been there before. The expression sent a little chill of apprehension through Rhys’s aching body.
“So, it was magic which you and the others worked on me that night,” Javan said.
Rhys did not need to ask which night. He could only hope to convince the boy that no harm had been intended, that the reasons for the action would be seen as acceptable in due time.
“Is that so wrong?” he answered back. “We meant no harm. Your father would never have countenanced that.”
“Just what did he countenance?” Javan asked softly. “Tavis said you were outside the circle, that he could read no details of what was done, and why. I am—changed, Rhys. I believe your Joram and Evaine and Alister did that to me.”
“And your father,” Rhys reminded him, not daring to take his eyes from the boy’s face for fear of losing what little grip he had regained of control.
A flicker of uncertainty passed across the boy’s face and then was gone. “My father. Yes, he was there, I understand. But was what he did at your behest or at his own? I wonder.”
Rhys heard nothing, but suddenly Tavis motioned Javan toward the door. The prince went without question, standing in a listening attitude and nodding as footsteps approached.
“I think it’s Rhys Michael and some of the squires,” he whispered.
Instantly, Tavis took Rhys’s face between his hand and stump, catching and holding Rhys’s gaze with his own.
“I’m sorry to have to do this to you, Rhys, but you leave me no choice. If Rhys Michael wants to come in here, I can’t refuse him, and I can’t permit you to raise any kind of alarm. You taught me this, too, though I don’t think you ever dreamed someone would use it on you.”
Even as Tavis spoke, Rhys realized what must be coming, a part of his mind cringing in stark terror while another, more analytical portion noted, quite logically, that at last he had apparently found someone else who could learn it.
All at once, what little of his senses he had regained was dampened once more and he was confined to normal, human sensory input. He felt numb, as if his mind were wrapped in cotton wool which muffled and obscured his usual heightened senses. And even in this state, he was aware of Tavis’s further touch, making his whole body relax as if in sleep, though the Healer left his hearing.
He felt the bonds being slipped from his wrists and chest and could not stop his body from slumping even deeper into the chair. He wondered why Tavis had left him his hearing, why he had chosen a semblance of normal sleep to show Javan’s would-be visitor, instead of simply rendering him unconscious. If only he could raise some kind of outcry, could move, could see, could See—but he could not.
“Javan, are you feeling better?” the young voice rang out. “Good morning, Lord Tavis.”
It was Rhys Michael’s voice, and Rhys heard the older prince’s Shhhh, and then muffled footsteps as his brother was apparently admitted.
“Yes, I’m fine. Lord Rhys came to help Tavis last night, and they took good care of me. He’s asleep now, though, so try not to wake him. Tavis says he sat up with me almost all night.”
“Oh. Well, we thought you were still sick, so we went to an early Mass without you and then had breakfast. Do you know what they’re doing outside?”
“What who are doing?” Tavis asked.
“Bishop Hubert and the other regents. They wouldn’t talk much about it in front of me, but Alroy told me after breakfast that they’re going to surround the cathedral as soon as the noon Mass starts. If the other bishops enthrone Bishop Alister, Alroy and the regents are going to take them all prisoner and make them hold the election over again. They won’t let me go, though. Alroy says I’m too little. They’d probably be mad if they even knew he’d told me.” He sighed. “They never let me do anything.”
Rhys Michael chattered on for several more minutes about inconsequentials, but Rhys hardly heard him. He was trying to figure out how he was going to get away and go warn Camber. When the door had finally closed behind Rhys Michael, with Javan having established that he really did not feel quite as well as he had first indicated and that he thought he would stay in bed for the day, Rhys still had not come up with a plan. His mind did not seem to want to function well with wool stuffed inside.
“Well, Rhys, did you hear that?” Tavis muttered, touching his forehead and allowing him to open his eyes and regain limited motor function, though he did not restore Rhys’s Deryni abilities.
Cautiously, Rhys shifted in the chair and looked up at the other Healer. Javan, too, was watching as if unsure of Tavis’s plans. Suddenly Rhys found himself wondering whether he had missed something he shouldn’t have.
“Tavis, please don’t toy with me at a time like this,” he murmured. He tried to make his voice as firm as possible, under the circumstances. “Did I hear correctly, that the regents are going to attack the cathedral if the bishops enthrone Alister?”
“That’s what it sounded like to me,” Tavis said.
“And you’re going to let them?” Rhys gasped. “Don’t you understand what that means?”
Javan frowned, glancing from Rhys to Tavis and then back.
“What should it mean, other than the fact that the bishops must obey the king’s commands? My brother had stated his choice for archbishop. The bishops should not have gone against that choice.”
Rhys shook his head and immediately regretted it, forcing himself to fight down the vertigo the movement had cost him.
“Good God, they’ve trained you well,” he protested. “Javan, the regents have lied to you if they told you that. The king may recommend, and very often the bishops abide by the Crown’s recommendation, but they are not bound to do so by either Crown or canon law. Do you really think that Hubert MacInnis should be the next Primate of Gwynedd?”
“No! I hate him,” Javan whispered. “But the Crown’s prerogatives—”
“That is not a prerogative of the Crown!” Rhys interrupted desperately.
“The regents would have you believe it so, but it is to serve their own purposes, not the good of the realm. Look to the law, Javan!”
Javan lowered his gaze, shifted it uncertainly to Tavis.
“Is he telling the truth? Is that the law?”
Tavis looked at Rhys. Rhys knew the other Healer must be reaching out with the light probe of Truth-Read, but he could feel nothing. So this was what it was to be Blind. Thank God he was telling the truth.
“He believes it is the truth,” Tavis said guardedly. “That is what he has been told. And the question regarding Bishop Hubert is a telling one. You yourself said, weeks ago, that you did not want him to be archbishop.”
“But, the king’s word—”
“Has been shaped by the man who would be elected,” Rhys interrupted, a hint of hope tingeing his thoughts for the first time since he had regained consciousness. “Hubert MacInnis is not a temperate man. You know that. I have no idea whose idea it was to give the orders against the Deryni religious houses yesterday, but I would be very surprised to learn that Hubert had no hand in it. If you allow the regents to go through with their plans today, in defiance of law, then you condone what happened yesterday, as well. If the king, who has all power in temporal matters, cannot be balanced by the clergy in spiritual matters, then soon our faith becomes but a hollow shell—a facade for despots to hide behind!”
“My brother is no despot!” Javan began hotly.
“No, but his regents are, and for another year and more, they will hold the real reins of government. If Alroy is very lucky, there will still be a kingdom for him to rule, when he finally does reach his majority.”
Javan had gone rigid at Rhys’s words.
“Tavis, is this true?”
Tavis, too, had gone very still as Rhys spoke. Slowly he reached out and touched Rhys’s forehead, closing his eyes briefly. Again, Rhys guessed that he was being Truth-Read, even more deeply this time. He did not move under the other Healer’s hand, only praying that Tavis would see and understand that he spoke the truth, for all their sakes. After a moment, Tavis withdrew and opened his eyes again, clasped his arms across his waist and shuddered violently.
Camber the Heretic Page 47
