Camber of Culdi (13 page)

The abbot rose and began pacing the chamber, hands clasped in the sleeves of his white robe. His thin face mirrored his annoyance.

“You place me in an awkward position, Brother. You must understand that Brother Benedict has taken a vow of silence. He has not spoken, other than in his Divine Office and to me, his Confessor, in more than twelve years. His vocation is certain. He is a most holy man. I do not know if he will wish to see anyone from the outside world.”

Camber stood in the abbot's path, and the abbot stopped his pacing. “I am a monk, Father Abbot. Lord Rhys is a Healer, which is also a divine calling. Though we live and work in the world, I think our vocations as certain and as holy as any cloistered priest's, if in different ways. If your Brother Benedict is as upright and holy a man as you say, I think his compassion for his grandsire will compel him to see us. But, let us not take such a decision upon ourselves. Brother Benedict is the one who should decide.”

The abbot searched Camber's face carefully, looking for he knew not what; then he switched his gaze to Rhys.

“And you, my lord—do you concur with Brother Kyriell's estimation of Brother Benedict, whom you have never seen? Do you deem yourself worthy to speak with so holy a man?”

Rhys bowed his head, guilt at their charade playing at the corners of his mind, then looked the abbot in the eye. They had played no sham. All that they had said so far was true, even if it was not
all
the truth. Why should he be ashamed?

“Who among us is truly worthy of anything, Father Abbot?” he said softly. “Do we not say in the liturgy, ‘
Domini, non sum dignus'
—‘Lord, I am not worthy'? But in the next breath we add, ‘Speak but the word and my soul shall be healed.' As a Healer, I daily feel His healing power working through me, and I know it is a gift of God. If Brother Benedict will see us, I shall strive to continue to be worthy, in my own way.”

The abbot smiled wanly and bowed. “
Touché
, my lord. Your training as a Healer has not overshadowed your theology.” He became sober again. “Very well, I shall ask Brother Benedict if he wishes to see you. I cannot promise anything, but I will ask.”

With that, the abbot walked slowly out of the room.

Ten minutes later, after being led through the abbot's hall and cloister yard, Camber and Rhys were shown into a small, wainscotted chamber with a brass grillework in the wall at one end. The room was warm enough, opening off an annex of the abbot's hall, but it was very dim. A single candle in a sconce beside the door was the only illumination except for a faint light coming through the grillework from the other side. A padded kneeler lay against the wall beneath the grille, just wide enough for two people.

Camber stood easily in the center of the chamber, inspecting it carefully as the outer door was closed behind them. Rhys regarded the grille suspiciously.

“Apparently he's agreed,” the Healer murmured.

“Aye. Now pray God he may be the right one,” Camber replied. He moved closer to Rhys and laid his hand on the other's arm, his voice dropping to an almost inaudible whisper. “Stay close, my friend. I have a strange premonition, and I'm not certain I like it.”

Rhys nodded agreement, knowing that the closeness of which Camber spoke was not physical proximity; then he knelt beside the grille as a rustle of movement on the other side caught his attention. Camber immediately eased down beside him, his hand resting lightly on the other's arm as he signed for Rhys to speak.

“Brother Benedict?” Rhys murmured.

The rustling ceased. Rhys could sense the newcomer's face behind the grille and caught a whiff of his breath, clean and fresh. It was impossible to see anything.

“Brother Benedict?” Rhys repeated softly.

There was a slight sound from the other side—not quite a cough.

“I am Brother Benedict,” a low voice said. “How may I serve you?”

Healer and pseudo-monk exchanged tense glances, each abundantly aware of the anxiety in the other. Camber leaned closer to the grille.

“We beg your pardon for this intrusion, Brother Benedict, but we hope you may be the man we seek. My name is Brother Kyriell. The man with me is Lord Rhys Thuryn, a Healer. We believe he may have attended your grandfather in his last hours.”

A gasp of surprise. “My grandfather? Dear Jesus and all the Saints, I thought him dead these ten or fifteen years!”

“Dead?” Camber said. “I'm afraid I don't understand. What was your grandfather's name?”

“His name? Why, it was Daniel. I tried to reach him some ten years ago, before I took my solemn vows. When I did not hear, I assumed—But you said—forgive me, you said that Lord Rhys attended him in his last hours. Then, he
is
dead—now.”

“I fear that he is,” Camber answered lamely. “He—” His voice failed him momentarily, so overcome was he by the growing knowledge of the man's true identity, and Rhys's grip on his arm was like a vise as he leaned closer to the grille.

“Brother Benedict, this is Lord Rhys. You said your grandfather's name was Daniel. What was his last name? If you are the man I seek, I have a message for you from him, but I must be sure. Tell me what you remember of your grandfather.”

A pause. Total silence from the other side. Then, quietly: “His full name was Daniel Draper, and he was a merchant in woolen cloth when I left him to join the order. My father, Royston, had died in the plague the year before …”

At the mention of the name, Rhys had a flash of the same picture he had seen in Daniel's mind: of the father, Royston, laid out for burial, old Daniel and the boy Cinhil looking on fearfully. He suddenly knew what the man on the other side of the grille would look like, grown to middle age: the glossy black hair, silvered at the temples with the passing years; the clear, gray Haldane eyes, sage and serene in the lean, handsome face; the slender hands, smooth through years of prayer, but strong, capable of whatever the man should will …

He shared the image with Camber and felt the older man wince with the intensity. But in that instant he was aware of another impression coming from Camber himself: the knowledge that Cinhil—no, Benedict, for now, for it was safer that way—was not alone!

No malice was inherent in that realization; Benedict himself had probably requested a witness. In fact, it was the abbot who stood so quietly beside the door on the other side. But now they would have to be very careful what they said to their quarry. And how were they to find out more about him, without arousing suspicion?

“… but I prattle on in a most unseemly fashion,” Benedict was saying. “You must pardon me, my lords, but my heart is so overjoyed at learning that my dear grandsire lived these many years, that I find myself quite addled. Pray, tell me, did his later years go well with him? Did he die a good death?”

“He was a good man,” Rhys said gently, raising an eyebrow to Camber as though to ask what next. “I was privileged to attend him from the time I first began to practice my healing craft. He asked on his deathbed that I find you and entreat you to pray for his soul.”

“Oh, that poor, gentle soul,” the other breathed. “Your pardon, my lord, but I must pray a moment.”

There was a rustle of movement on the other side, and Rhys looked at Camber.

What now?
He spoke mind to mind.

I'm not certain. We must find out more, but we dare not arouse the abbot's suspicion
.

That won't be easy. He
—

I have an idea
, Camber's thought broke in.
Rhys, could you make him ill?

What?!

No, listen to me. Use your healing powers to simulate illness. Make him pass out or something. That may enable us to get inside and see him face-to-face. I doubt they have a Healer of their own
.

But, to
—
to use my powers to harm instead of heal …

Not to harm. To help, in the long run. There would be no lasting effect unless you make it so. Rhys, we must get closer to him. We must find out whether it's worth the risk to get him out of here!

“I beg your pardon, my lords,” the Haldane's voice broke in. “I was momentarily overcome, and …”

Do it!
Camber urged.
He's disoriented, confused. You can easily bring on a fainting spell. Do it!

“… you will forgive me. What was it you wished to tell me about my grandfather?”

Camber cleared his throat, nodding to Rhys: “I wonder if there might be anything of which you know that could account for your grandfather's fear of the afterlife, Brother Benedict? Daniel felt that he had sinned terribly. I spoke with his confessor, and the good father assured me that he had made a proper contrition, but …”

Rhys steeled himself and calmed his mind, letting Camber's words run over his head unheard, willing himself to the state of tranquillity which was necessary to reach out and tamper with another's body. Closing his eyes, he blocked out all input from the external world, mentally articulating the words which would bring him into his full healing trance.

He felt the tingle of heightened awareness in his fingertips, in his lips, behind his eyes; he sensed the nearness of the man Benedict on the other side of the grille, listening carefully to what Camber was saying, though Rhys himself heard not a word. Gently, he brought his right hand up to the brass of the grillework, rested his fingertips against the metal, warm to the touch.

Slitting his eyes open, bringing them close to the grille, he could see the outline of Benedict's head against it, see the skin of his face pressed against the metal as he leaned close to hear the words which Camber spoke but Rhys did not hear. He marshalled his strength for a leap across the short space separating him from the man on the other side, letting his hand go flat against the grille, only millimeters of brass separating hand from other's head.

Then he was extending himself across the greater void of mind to mind, slipping undetected through the other's consciousness, which was so intent on words, mere words, while the real meaning wrapped itself around his mind. Then Rhys was in the other's mind, questing gently for the proper spots to touch, probing relentlessly, but undetected, for the contact which would bring temporary oblivion.

He found it. He steadied his healing hold around the cause of consciousness, exerted pressure, and felt the other's growing dizziness, the buzz of blurred responsiveness as Camber's words ceased to make sense. Then the other was slumping against the wall, sliding to the floor unconscious, and another was rushing to his side, amazement and fear radiating from him.

Rhys gave a final touch to the other's mind, to be certain that consciousness would be gone a sufficient length of time, then withdrew abruptly. He found that he was drenched with sweat, his left hand gripped tightly on Camber's arm, the older man staring at him with respect and a little discomfort. He let go of Camber's arm, reverting to spoken speech with a tremulous voice.

“What's happened?”

“He's fainted,” Camber murmured, a faint smile playing across his lips. “Brother Benedict!” he called. “Brother Benedict, are you all right?”

“He's passed out. I think he's ill,” came the voice of the abbot from the other side. “Brother Paul, Brother Phineas, attend us!”

A sound of running feet.

“Benedict, speak to us! Phineas, send for the infirmarian. He's had a shock and passed out. Benedict, are you all right?”

Rhys tried to peer through the grille, but Camber merely continued to kneel, his head cocked slightly as he listened.

Offer to help
, he mouthed silently.

Rhys pressed closer to the grille.

“Father Abbot, is there anything I can do to help? It's Lord Rhys.”

Again they were ignored. There was the sound of more running feet, a low murmur of voices, and then a new voice saying, “I don't understand why he doesn't come around, Father Abbot. If he's just fainted, he should have come around by now.”

“He's been bled too much, if you ask me,” another voice said. “I told him that twice in the same month was too much.”

“Perhaps it isn't just a fainting spell,” said a third. “Maybe it's the plague!”

“The plague?” someone whispered. “Heaven preserve us!”

“Nonsense. Do you want to start a panic?” It was the voice of the abbot. “Lord Rhys, are you still there?”

“Yes, Father Abbot. I heard what happened. Is there anything I can do to help?”

He looked at Camber, and Camber nodded in hopeful anticipation.

“I'm not certain, my lord. Brother Benedict seems to have fainted, and our infirmarian is unable to revive him. Would you be willing to see him?”

“Please, Father Abbot, I would be most honored to lend whatever assistance I can. I feel somewhat responsible.” Camber rolled his eyes, smothering a chuckle, and Rhys flashed him a nervous glance. “I had no idea he would become so overwrought at the news of his grandfather's death,” he added hastily.

“You are not to blame, my lord. Brother Phineas, please bring Lord Rhys inside. The rest of you, help me to take Brother Benedict to his cell.”

As sounds faded from the adjoining room, Camber stood stiffly and gave a great sigh.

“How long?” he whispered.

“Perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes.” Rhys hauled himself to his feet while trying to peer again through the brass grille. “I had a devil of a time putting him out, though. I should try to read him properly before I bring him around. It may be our only chance.”

“At least we'll get a look at the inside of the compound,” Camber agreed. “If we—”

He broke off and coughed just before the door opened, and was straightening his robe as Brother Phineas peered into the chamber.

“Lord Rhys?”

“May I bring Brother Kyriell with me? We've worked together before.”