Camber of Culdi (22 page)

“Very well,” Camber said lightly. “It is necessary, I cannot tell you why, for Father Joram and Lord Rhys to leave here now, before the burial tonight and without being seen. This, in itself, presents no problem. Horses and supplies are being prepared even now. However, their presence will be expected at the burial tonight, as well as to be seen casually here on the grounds for the rest of the afternoon, so that the king's soldiers do not become suspicious. Your assistance will give us the time we need.”

The two servants looked at one another, then back at Camber. Crinan wet his lips apprehensively.

“You need someone to play their parts, m'lord?”

“Yes.”

Crinan looked at Joram and Rhys, at Wulpher, at himself, then back at Camber.

“Begging your pardon, m'lord, but I don't think we look very much like Father Joram and Lord Rhys. Oh, I could maybe pass for Lord Rhys in the dark, but—”

Wulpher, too, had finally found his tongue, and could not contain his skepticism any longer.

“That's right, m'lord. We don't look anything like the young lords.”

“I can make you look like them, if you will permit it,” Camber said.

His tone was such that both men froze, suddenly suspecting what he was talking about. Wulpher gulped, and when he spoke, his voice was very small.

“By—magic, m'lord?”

Camber nodded, and Crinan, too, swallowed nervously.

“Isn't that—dangerous, sir?”

“Not to you. A little to me, to Joram and Rhys. You would remember nothing of it, once the shape-changing was past. I would restore you to your own forms this evening, after the household has retired for the night.”

Crinan coughed nervously, trying to formulate his question. “Ah, what if something goes wrong, sir?”

“With the spell?”

“No, I mean, suppose we're recognized by the king's men?”

Camber smiled, relieved. “You will not be recognized by anyone—not even my daughter, unless I tell her. To all outward appearances, all voice and movement, you will
be
Joram and Rhys. But I would rather not go into details which might alarm you needlessly. Trust that I will not allow you to come to harm, and that I can do what I say. Will you permit this?”

There was a long silence as each man thought about it, and then Wulpher dropped to his knees and bowed his head with a sob.

“I am your man, my lord, and the Lord Cathan's, as I have been since I swore you fealty many years ago. If I can perform this last service for the young master, then I will do it.”

“Thank you, Wulpher,” Camber murmured, clapping the man on the shoulder and looking across at Crinan. “And you, Crinan? I would not rush your decision, but we haven't much time.”

Crinan bowed his head. “This—task that the young lords will undertake—They do not ride to slay the king?”

“They seek no vengeance, Crinan. They ride not to Valoret or to Imre.”

“Very well, then, sir. I am also your man. What must we do?”

With a slight smile, Camber offered his hand, then signalled Wulpher to rise.

“Wulpher, I'll ask you to wait outside with Joram for a few minutes. Rhys, please exchange clothes with Crinan.”

As the four moved to do Camber's bidding, the Deryni went back to the vesting altar and took up a single candle, staring into its flame for a long time to prepare himself for what was to come. When he was ready, he turned to inspect the room. Rhys was helping a fumbling Crinan with the clasp of the physician's mantle around his shoulders, the physician now wearing the simple riding garb of Cathan's former squire.

“The green of the Healer becomes you, Crinan,” Camber said, walking leisurely to stand before Crinan and trying to put the young man at ease.

Crinan swallowed awkwardly, then squared his shoulders and stood a little taller as Camber put the candle in his hands.

Four more candles were placed on the floor, forming a five-foot square inside of which Camber bade Crinan stand. Another candle was procured for Rhys, this one unlighted; and then the two Deryni, Healer and Sage, joined Crinan within the square, Rhys standing to Crinan's right and Camber facing them. Casually, Camber laid his hands on Crinan's where they held the first candle. Crinan flinched.

“Be not afraid,” Camber smiled, his voice already lulling his subject to obey. “Thou hast but to gaze into the flame and let thy thoughts go slack. Relax and watch the flame, which blocks out thine awareness of ought else within these walls. I shall not leave thee; thou art safe with me.”

Unable to resist, the squire did as he was bidden, staring deeply into the candle flame as Camber's voice soothed and silenced. After only seconds, Crinan swayed slightly, his head drooping lower toward the flame. Abruptly, Camber tightened his grasp on the man's hands and extended control. Crinan's eyes closed as though in sleep.

“Good,” Camber breathed, releasing the hands and looking across at Rhys. “Now, stand while I set the wards”—he gestured toward the candles of the square, and a circle of silver light flared around them—“and we begin.”

He lowered his head and murmured a short passage which Rhys could not catch, before blowing out Crinan's candle with a scarce-breathed “Amen.” Then he held his left hand beside Rhys's darkened candle, fingers spread slightly. His eyes met Rhys's, calm, serene.

“Match hand and mind with mine, my friend, and let your candle flare when we are one.”

With a solemn nod, Rhys touched his fingertips to Camber's, stilling his thoughts that the other might come in. His eyes slitted shut, the better to exclude the outer world, and then he was aware of Camber's palm pressed firmly against his own. In total calm and all control, he bade the light flare in his other hand, and felt the still, almost musical resonance he had come to cherish, as his thoughts meshed with those of the Master.

Then he was seeing through Camber's eyes, noting the candle burning steadily in his own left hand, his right pressed palm to palm with Camber's. He watched Camber's other hand rise slowly to rest on Crinan's forehead.

The Master's eyes closed, and there was only the crystal stillness, the peace, the all-pervading oneness of the bond they shared. Camber's voice was like the whisper of leaves rustling in a summer breeze, which no mere mortal may command; and Rhys knew that what Camber bade would be.

“Behold the light in thy mind's eye,” the Master said to him. “It is the essence of thine outward form upon the earth. Extend it now, and let it flow around the man here standing. His visage shall be thine until the need is past, as like to thee as any man may see.”

And as he spoke, Rhys felt a soothing lethargy coursing through his limbs, a pulling of energy which tingled on his skin and centered in the hand that held the flame, which now ached to leap the void to Crinan's hands. None saw the mist which gathered round, or watched the fire flare from hand to hand. But suddenly Rhys knew the deed was done, the spell complete.

He staggered as the bond dissolved away, and looked to see his candle dark, the one in Crinan's hands ablaze with light. And as his gaze swept upward to the face, he gasped to see his own. His hands dropped to his sides in wonder; the candle fell forgotten to the floor.

“My God!” was all Rhys could manage to whisper.

Camber smiled distractedly and sighed, the silvery eyes veiled now, shrouded with fatigue. “And no demons or other evil that I could detect,” he quipped. “Joram will be pleased.”

He passed his hands above the wards and murmured words, and the silver circle died. Then he bent to douse the candle in Crinan's hand, touched the squire lightly on the forehead. Rhys could only stand and watch, speechless with awe, as Crinan's eyelids fluttered wide.

“Crinan, attend us. Look at me.”

Crinan did so, his face—or rather, Rhys's face—bewildered. “Did it w—work?” He faltered as he realized the voice was not his own.

Smiling reassurance, Camber took his arm and led him to the vestment press and showed him a small mirror. Crinan gasped and ran his hands over his face; and even the gesture was Rhys's. Rhys shook his head disbelievingly as Camber laid a hand on Crinan's shoulder and calmed him once more.

“Crinan, I'll ask you to assume your role now, and to go outside with Rhys. Then, when you're ready, you're to go back into the church as Rhys, and meditate. I'll join you directly. If anyone tries to make conversation, which I doubt, just do what you think Rhys would do. You'll be guided when there's need.”

“I will, sir.” The voice was crisp, professional—and Rhys's.

Rhys was still shaking his head as he opened the door and let his double go through.

Joram and Wulpher were directly outside, Wulpher already in a light trance from Joram's ministrations, so the steward did not see the two Rhyses who emerged from the sacristy. But Joram did, and he froze in amazement as the first one, wearing Rhys's clothes, nodded acknowledgment and then went past to wait, hand on the outer door latch; a second Rhys stood hard against the wall.

Joram looked at the second one then, and realized that this must be the real one. But Rhys only shook his head and put a finger to his lips in silence as his double opened the door and went back inside the church.

Rhys himself was still a little dazzled at what had just occurred, though he had been privy to every part of the operation. He watched silently as Joram and the entranced Wulpher disappeared behind the sacristy door, but he did not care to envision what was about to occur. Not that he felt guilty, in any wise, about the deed just done: they had done no wrong. But there was something vaguely disquieting about the whole thing, if only because of the shock of meeting his twin when he knew he had been an only child.

Instead, he went to the spy hole in the door to the church and watched his double kneel by Cathan's bier, saw Evaine touch one hand in compassion before returning to her own devotions. He was still watching a few minutes later when the sacristy door opened and Camber and Joram emerged, neither giving him a second glance as they passed on into the church and knelt together beside the other Rhys. A second Joram stayed in the doorway of the sacristy, and he beckoned to Rhys to join him as the physician turned to stare.

“I'd rather not talk about this until we're well away from here, if you don't mind,” Joram murmured, standing aside so that Rhys could enter. “Come, the passageway is open.”

An hour later, they were on their way to Saint Foillan's.

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

For by wise counsel thou shalt make thy war
.

—Proverbs 24:6

The burial that evening took its sad course. The words were said, the earth scattered, the gravesite blessed by old Father Jonas, the parish priest, as well as Wulpher/Joram and the two monks who had come with the soldiers from Valoret. Snow had begun falling gently as the grave was closed, softening the harsh outlines of earth and stone and frost-burned sod piled grim in the dancing torchlight. The final psalms floated clear and lonely on the crystalline air. The incense swirled and made a small child sneeze.

After, the folk of the village escorted their beloved lord and his family back to the castle—for Camber had had his son buried in the village churchyard, close by the people he had loved—not in the vaults beneath the keep. The walk was ghostly silent, made more so by the muffling snow which drifted down and glittered in the torchlight, making torches sputter and snap. Only the metallic clink of the soldiers' harness punctuated the slow procession back. Other than that, stunned silence prevailed—a reluctance to speak of the unspeakable, the incomprehensible.

The king's soldiers displayed an unexpected sympathy throughout. Despite their orders to keep Camber and his family under watch, they had also been instructed to interfere as little as possible with the baring of MacRorie grief. And so they merely followed along at the end of the procession, their lieutenant requesting—and receiving—permission from Camber himself to camp that night in the castle yard.

Camber gave his unbidden guests good night and retired to his chambers, the ensorcelled Crinan and Wulpher taking Rhys's and Joram's rooms until Camber should determine that it was safe to release them. Presently, Evaine came to his study, and father and daughter communed as only two Deryni might. When they had finished, they stepped into a corner of the room which glittered with hidden power. Camber wove the magic of a spell, and they were no longer in Caerrorie.

“Where are we?” Evaine whispered, as her eyes adjusted to the near-darkness and she pressed a little closer to her father's side.

Wainscotted walls and ceiling surrounded them at arm's reach all around, covering solid rock such as lay beneath their feet. The walls glowed faintly—arcane wards to keep one's power in, not out. Camber reached out tentatively to explore the fastness of the warding spell, then sighed and withdrew, pressing his daughter's shoulder with his encircling arm.

“Someone will be along directly to let us out,” he said in a low voice. “This is the Michaeline Commanderie at Cheltham.”

“Will the Vicar General come to meet us?”

“I suspect so, though I doubt he'll be pleased to see us—especially when he hears the news we bring.”

Evaine scanned the walls around them—it was getting more difficult to breathe—and acknowledged that it was one of the most secure confinements that she had ever experienced. Even without the wards, this Portal chamber would have been impervious to invasion, for no Deryni could reach through so much solid rock and loose the bolts which held the rock door closed. If no one chose to give admittance, a would-be intruder had but two choices: to stay and slowly suffocate, for there was no ventilation, or to quit the place entirely and go back the way he had come.

That could be a problem, if one had been forced to destroy the Portal used to get here, she realized, as her eyes continued to sweep the panelled walls. If one had no place to go back to, and knew no other portal place, he could die here.