Camber of Culdi (30 page)

“Lavabo inter innocentes manus meas …”

He had not talked with Cinhil yet today—in fact, had not seen the prince since the previous afternoon, just prior to his last discussion with Alister Cullen. But he had not been heartened by their progress to date. Though Cinhil had been with them for nearly two weeks now, they still had not been able to win him to their cause.

Physically, Cinhil was docile enough. He went where he was told and did as he was bidden. He read the writings they brought him, answered dutifully when questioned on what he had read—even, on occasion, showed sparks of genuine insight into the problems of this land he was but now coming to know about. But he volunteered no word or action and did his best to show no sign of interest or caring about the position for which he was being groomed at such great cost.

It was not resistance as such. That they could have coped with, with force, if necessary. It was an almost studied apathy; an immersion, to the exclusion of nearly all outside influence, in the world he had chosen as a very young man over twenty years before. He tolerated his present situation because he must; but he would allow no inkling of human feeling for his denied birthright to intrude upon his conscience and the world in which he had lived for the past score of years. So long as they permitted him to celebrate Mass daily, he was reluctantly compliant.

Except that this morning, for the first time since his arrival, he was showing signs of human apprehension, almost despair. Camber suspected he knew the reason why.

Footsteps warned of the approach of another in the passageway behind him, and then Alister Cullen was slipping into the gallery to join him. Nodding greeting, Camber stepped aside to let the Michaeline general peer down into the chapel. Cullen's demeanor betrayed nothing.

“Orate fratres,”
Cinhil prayed, his arms spread in desperate supplication,
“ut meum ac vestrum sacrificium acceptabile fiat apud Deum Patrem omnipotentem.”

Camber glanced at Cullen carefully. “I assume you've told him?”

Cullen sighed and nodded once, wearily, then gestured with his chin that they should go outside. By the brighter torchlight in the outer corridor, Camber could read the concern which had not been evident in the dim listening gallery. He suspected that Cullen was suffering from more than lack of sleep.

“I spoke with him last night for a long time,” Cullen said.

“I surmised as much. And?”

Cullen shook his head in frustration. “I really don't know. I think I've finally convinced him that he really will have to give up his priesthood, but he's scared witless.”

“So was I …” Camber mused, almost without thinking. Then, realizing that Cullen might not understand, he continued. “Of course, I didn't give up mine for a crown—only for the promise of an earldom, after my older brothers died. Nor had I actually been ordained—I was only a deacon. But I recall the anguish, the soul-searching. I thought at the time that I had a real vocation as a priest.”

“You would have been wasted on the Church, and you know it,” Cullen growled, admiration tinging his voice despite the actual words.

“Perhaps—though I think I could have been a good priest. On the other hand, I like to think I've been privileged to do important work in the outside world. And of course, if I'd ignored my family obligations and gone your way”—he chanced a sidelong glance at Cullen and controlled the urge to smile—“there'd have been no Joram, and probably no Prince Cinhil, here and now, causing us our present dilemma. What, besides his understandable apprehension, seems to be the problem?”

“He's convinced that he has a true vocation—which he has,” Cullen said brusquely. “He also feels that, even if he were to make the sacrifices we're demanding, the people wouldn't accept him. After all, why should they?”

“Ask those who have suffered at the hands of our current king, whether they be human or Deryni, and you need not ask any further. The Haldanes were never guilty of such acts. Besides, no one has seen Cinhil yet.” He broke into a grin. “For that matter, he hasn't seen
himself
for a few weeks. With that beard, and with his tonsure grown out!” He permitted himself a grim chuckle. “Well, let's just say that when the barber gets through with him this morning, he's going to bear very little resemblance to the clean-shaven, ascetic Brother Benedict who came to us two weeks ago.”

“Has he seen the painting yet?”

“It will be waiting for him after he's trimmed, right beside the mirror. And if that doesn't jolt him into an awareness of who and what he is, I don't know what will.”

“I do.” The Michaeline general extracted a much-folded piece of parchment from his cassock. “Take a look at this.”

“Which is?”

“My list of candidates for future queen of Gwynedd.” Cullen smiled wanly as Camber uncreased the parchment. “I know he's going to fight this, too, but we've got to get that man married. We need another heir after Cinhil, and we need one quickly.”

“It still takes nine months, the last I heard,” Camber murmured. He was aware of Cullen folding his arms across his chest as he scanned the list.

“If I could get him married today, it wouldn't be soon enough to suit me,” Cullen muttered. “As it is, I'd like to make a choice by the end of the week, and marry them on Christmas Eve. That's a week from today.”

“I see,” Camber said. “I notice that your list includes my young ward, Megan de Cameron. Do you consider her a serious contender?”

“If you have no objections. My main concern, other than her ability to bear children, of course, is that our future queen be of absolutely impeccable background. Other than Cinhil's having left the priesthood, there must be no breath of scandal touching the marriage and eventual heir.”

“Well, you'll find none concerning Megan,” Camber said. “She's young, but I suspect that's what Cinhil needs. Besides that, she has a strong sense of duty, no other attachments, she's healthy—and I think she just might like him.”

“That's coincidental,” Cullen rumbled. “My main concern is finding someone who—”

“No, it's not coincidental, Alister,” Camber interrupted. “Megan may be my ward, and technically I have the right to bestow her marriage on whom I choose, but I would never match her with someone she couldn't care for. No more than I would force my own daughter to marry for dynastic reasons.”

“For God's sake, stop sounding like a father, Camber. I haven't even picked her yet.”

“I—”

Abruptly, Camber closed his mouth and stared at Cullen, then shook his head and began to chuckle. After a few seconds, Cullen, too, began to smile.

“Christmas Eve …” Camber finally said, as the tension dissolved away. “Do you plan to perform the ceremony yourself?”

“Unless you have someone better in mind.”

“Not intrinsically better, but better for Cinhil,” Camber replied. “May I make the arrangements?”

“Please do.”

“Thank you.”

“Can you tell me whom you have in mind?”

“No. But I assure you, if I can get him to agree, you'll approve.”

“Hmm. Very well.” Cullen glanced at his feet, then raised his eyes to meet Camber's once more. “There's—ah—one other thing. I wasn't going to tell you yet, but I suppose you ought to know. Imre has started reprisals against the order.”

Camber was instantly serious once more. “What happened?”

“The Commanderie at Cheltham,” Cullen said dully. “Imre's troops occupied it two days ago. They took everything they could carry off, torched the rest. Now I understand they're pulling down the walls that are still standing and salting the fields. The rumor is that they will destroy a former Michaeline establishment every week until I surrender you and the order. Of course, that's out of the question.”

Camber could only nod mutely.

“So, it seems that honor extracts a high price from all of us, eh, my friend?” Cullen finally said, recovering some of his former bravado. “But no one ever promised us it would be easy.” He glanced toward the gallery and sighed. “Well, I'd best be waiting when His Highness finishes Mass. I'll send him to you when the barber and I are done with him.”

“Send him to Joram, if I'm not in my chamber,” Camber agreed. “Perhaps some of Joram's enthusiasm will rub off.”

Cullen shrugged at that, as though to indicate his doubt that anything enthusiastic could rub off on the despondent Cinhil, then lifted a hand in farewell and headed off down the corridor.

Camber returned to the listening gallery, but Cinhil had finished his Mass and was disappearing with his monk escort through the door. With a sigh, Camber made his way down to the chapel door and slipped inside. Rhys was waiting for him, standing expectantly to one side of the altar.

“How is he this morning?” Camber asked.

Rhys shook his head gravely. “He didn't sleep last night. His hands were shaking during Mass. I think he sensed that this might be the last time. His distress was so poignant that I could sense it in the air, like a gray pall surrounding the altar. Didn't you feel it, too?”

Camber looked at him carefully. “I was called away. When did this occur?”

“During the Consecration,” Rhys said. He glanced toward the altar, then back at Camber, whose face had gone quite still. “What are you thinking, Camber?” the Healer whispered. “I can't read you at all when you do that.”

“I am thinking,” said Camber, slowly mounting the three low steps, “that our Cinhil Haldane may be even more remarkable than we thought.”

He spread one hand above the altar and extended his senses, careful not to touch anything physically. After a moment, he turned his head slightly toward Rhys.

“Rhys, will you help me, please?”

The physician moved to Camber's left to stand expectantly, one reddish eyebrow arched in question.

“Now, lend me your strength and support while I probe this more thoroughly,” Camber continued. “There is something very strange here, which I've never encountered before. If Cinhil is the cause of it, we may have some very interesting times ahead of us.”

With that, he closed his eyes and laid his hands flat on the altar cloth, flinching at the initial contact. Rhys stayed at his elbow, a hand resting lightly on the other's sleeve as he poured his strength into the other's mind and shared the impressions gathered. When Camber withdrew, his brow was beaded with perspiration, his eyes slightly glazed. A trifle unsteady on his feet, he allowed Rhys to help him turn and sit on the altar step, noting with detachment that the younger man's hands were shaking, too.

It was several minutes before he dared to speak, and then his voice was tinged with a little awe.

“How much of that were you able to pick up?”

“Nearly all, though not with the same intensity second-hand, of course. What do you think?”

Camber shook his head. “I'm not sure I have it all sorted out yet. We're going to have to discuss this with the others, of course. But if we could pick up impressions like that when Cinhil isn't even in the same room, I don't wonder that you and Joram weren't able to breach his shields when you took him out of Saint Foillan's. In fact, I'm surprised that you were able to make him faint, when we first found him.”

“He wasn't expecting it then,” Rhys countered. “He was agitated, but not directly about himself. His shields were down.”

“But his shields also went down during Mass this morning—again, an instance of great mental stress which wasn't directly threatening. He was agitated because he knows that we're going to make him give up his priesthood, sooner or later, but—” Camber shook his head again. “No. That's the wrong approach. It's his ability to maintain these shields of his
in
stress which should concern us—the power he must be able to generate without even thinking about it. My God, do you realize that if we could teach him to concentrate and direct that power, he could do anything a Deryni can do? With power like that, he could be a king for both humans
and
Deryni!”

“For Deryni? Oh, come now, he'd have to be Deryni for that,” Rhys replied. “The best we can probably hope for is simple tolerance from a human king, even if he
is
powerful.”

“No, wait. Of course he's not Deryni, Rhys. But he's not entirely human, either. And I mean that in the finest sense of the term. We've always maintained that there is something extra in our people which sets them apart from humans—but maybe it's not something extra, but only something
changed
. And if that's the case, maybe we could make Cinhil Deryni.”

“But, that's impossible—”

“I know it's impossible to make him an actual Deryni. But perhaps we could make him a
functional
Deryni. Perhaps we could give him Deryni powers and abilities. You have to admit, if we could do it, it would make it that much easier for him to oust Imre.”

Rhys thought about that for a moment, pursing his lips in concentration. “I don't think it would work, even so. We've been basing our entire strategy on human support when we actually make our move—on the fact that Cinhil, the last living representative of the line usurped by the Festillic dynasty, is human, as opposed to Imre, who is the symbol of all the Deryni atrocities.”

“But don't you see, there's danger of a backlash,” Camber said. “If we incite the humans to rise against the Deryni Imre, we may start a reverse persecution the likes of which we've never dreamed. There have been only a few Deryni responsible for the evil that's happened in the last eighty years. We have to be certain that our revolt is against the man Imre, and his followers—not against the Deryni race.”

Rhys whistled low under his breath. “I see what you mean. If Cinhil were more than a human king, if he were also Deryni, or nearly so, he could be a ruler for both peoples. He might accomplish the overthrow of Imre and the re-establishment of the Haldane rule with a minimum of bloodshed.”