Camber of Culdi (44 page)

“All right, can you tell me now what it was? I feel fine, if a little weak, so I assume that the Great Healer took care of it. However, the lesser Healer has a little explaining to do. Rhys?”

Rhys hooked a stool closer and settled on it. “Damaged kidney,” he said matter-of-factly. “Perforated spleen. Internal bleeding. Superficial muscle damage. Other than that, there was hardly anything wrong with you.” He cocked his head at Camber with a wistful look. “What I want to know is how you managed to stay on your feet so long.”

“How long did it take you to put things right?” Camber countered.

“Long enough.” Rhys smiled. “You're as good as new now, though—or will be when you've had some rest. Just don't do it again. I might not be around next time.”

“I'll certainly try to avoid it.”

Camber smiled and slid a hand into the hole in his robe where the wound had been. Only smooth skin met his touch—not even a tenderness.

“Well, where were we?” he said, relaxing in his chair with a sigh.

His daughter shook her head and sat back with relief, dropping one hand to rest on her brother's shoulder as he settled in the rushes at her feet. Joram, for all that he was bloodstained and covered with bits of straw and rushes from his tussle with the assassin, somehow managed to convey an air of elegant competence now that the crisis was over. He looked his father squarely in the eyes.

“We were talking about your not being able to get along with Cinhil—since you refuse to consider the possibility of any other king.”

“Wrong: We were talking about Cinhil not being able to get along with me,” Camber corrected lightly. “As all of you know, I am a very easy person to get along with.”

“We also know,” Joram continued pointedly, “that Cinhil holds us, and you in particular, to blame for all the misfortunes which have befallen him since he left his abbey. He'll use you as a scapegoat, Father.”

“I suspect he will.”

Cullen shifted uneasily in his chair. “I don't wish to interfere in what is obviously a family argument, but can we worry about that facet a little later? In case you'd all forgotten—and I don't mean to minimize your injury, Camber—but we have a war to fight, and the weather is rotten, and Jebediah and I have to be able to tell your men something besides ‘Things will work themselves out somehow.'”

Camber sighed again and pursed his lips, making a steeple of his forefingers and studying them absent-mindedly.

“Sorry, Alister. Your point is well taken. Let's table the Cinhil matter for the moment, since we're not likely to resolve it by talking, anyway.”

“That's more like it,” Cullen murmured.

“As for the invasion,” Camber continued, not looking at any of them in particular, “I think that there is something I can do, with your cooperation and assistance, to learn a great deal more about what Ariella is planning. Alister, I'm not sure you'd approve, so you're excused, if you want to be.”

Cullen sat back in his chair and looked sidelong at Camber.

“All right. What mischief have you been into this time? I know that tone, Camber.”

Camber surveyed them all casually, only the gray eyes moving in the placid face. “It's clean, I promise you. A power drain, and as complicated as anything I've ever attempted, but it can be done—at least, I think it can. Or rather, I know it can be done, and I think that I can do it.”

“You've never tried it, then?” Joram asked.

“No, it's from an old manuscript called the Protocol of Orin. I found it with the original of the Pargan Howiccan
senache
that you were translating, Evaine, but it's far older than that—several hundred years, I suspect. At any rate, our ancient ancestors apparently used a technique like this for what we would call divination. I prefer to think of it as a direct linkage to Ariella—if we can do it.”

He felt Evaine's hand on his shoulder and turned his head to kiss her fingers.

“Frightened?” he asked.

“Nay, Father, not at all, if you be there.” She laughed gently. “You have but to tell us how we may help, and we are yours to command. I believe I can speak for Rhys and Joram.”

The two men nodded, and Alister Cullen cleared his throat and sat forward in his chair.

“You say it's not dark?”

Camber nodded mildly, still holding his daughter's hand, and watched Cullen's battle of conscience war across his craggy face.

“Well, if you think I'm going to let the four of you go and magick yourselves into danger of eternal damnation, you've got another thought coming,” the vicar general finally growled. “Sometimes I'm not certain of your judgment, Camber—and your children take after you. You'll need a level head among you.”

Camber smiled and nodded, but said nothing.

“And you always manage to talk me into these things against
my
better judgment,” Cullen concluded, sitting back in his chair with an exasperated sigh. “Well, go ahead. If you're determined to do this fool thing, just tell me when and where, and I'll be there.”

“Did I talk him into anything?” Camber asked, glancing at his children with a look of martyred innocence.

The others laughed, and Camber reached out to clap Cullen reassuringly on the shoulder.

“Thank you, my friend. We treasure you all the more for your caution. Now, as to when and where, I think we should move quickly on this—the sooner the better. If no one has any objections, I should like to do it tonight, as soon after Vespers as possible.”

“Are you sure you're strong enough?” Joram asked.

Camber glanced at Rhys, and the Healer shrugged.

“If you promise to eat something substantial and rest a bit, all right. Remember, you lost a lot of blood, and that's one thing I can't cure.”

“Agreed. Any other objections?”

There were none. Joram glanced at the others dubiously, sharing some of his Michaeline superior's mistrust of what his father might be planning, then turned his attention back to Camber.

“Very well. You're going to do it anyway, so there's no use trying to talk you out of it. Where do you want to set up, and do you need assistance?”

“Ideally, I'd like to use consecrated ground, but I don't suppose that's feasible here in the keep, for secrecy's sake, and I don't think we ought to leave. That being the case, I suggest that we use the dressing chamber adjoining my quarters. I think it can be adequately secured for our purposes.”

“Assistance?” Rhys reminded him.

Camber shook his head. “I'll set this one up myself, if you don't mind. I
will
need a few things that you can gather for me, though. Evaine, find me a large silver bowl, at least as big around as a man's head. I don't care about the outside, but I want the inside plain.”

“Just plain polished silver?”

“That's right. Ah, Joram: incense and something to burn it in.”

Joram nodded.

“And, Alister—”

“I'm not sure I really want to know, but go on,” Cullen muttered under his breath.

Camber chuckled as he stood and gathered the bloodstained folds of his robe around him, putting on a special nonchalance for Cullen's benefit.

“Relax, my friend. You might even find the entire process interesting. Here's what I want you to bring …”

C
HAPTER
T
WO

But continue thou in the things which thou hast learned and hast been assured of, knowing of whom thou hast learned them
.

—II Timothy 3:14

Cinhil was out of breath and panting by the time he reached his tower quarters. When he had locked himself in, he stood with his back against the door for several minutes, heart pounding, his hands resting behind him, trembling on the bolt, as if to reassure himself that he was, in fact, safe. He tried not to think about what had just happened. For a time, he even succeeded.

But when his breathing had slowed nearly to normal, mindless panic and anger gave way to guilt and fear. Fighting down a queasy sickness in his bowels, he took a deep breath and forced himself to stand away from the door, to cross slowly and with dignity to the tiny oratory built into the leaded window of the room. There he collapsed with a shudder, burying his face in his hands to pray.

God, what was he to do? He had tried so hard and for so long to do what was right, despite the awful quandary they had put him in by making him king—and then, in the same day, in the same hour, he had been cursed, induced to kill, and healed.

He shuddered, knowing he could not hope to reconcile the killing on his own—that would have to be worked out later, with his confessor, when he could think more coherently. True, the man was an assassin, and had deserved to die—had he killed him during the struggle, it would have been simple self-defense. But he, Cinhil, had not killed out of self-defense, nor even out of justice, but in anger, from fear of mere words. Though his act might have been technically lawful, he had done it for the wrong reason—and the Word of God forbade men to kill. Camber had been right to chastise him.

And the curse—had Camber been right about that, too?
Were
the curses of a Deryni enemy no more than those of ordinary men? How could he trust the word of a Deryni on such matters? After all, they had tricked him before, these men called Deryni—although, he grudgingly had to concede, he supposed they had always acted in the best interests of the kingdom.

But what of
his
best interests? What of Cinhil? Did he not matter? Was he forever to be only their pawn, their ill-made tool, to be used as it pleased them, for purposes fathomable only to them? He was a man, with an immortal soul—a soul they had already grievously endangered, almost past redemption. When they took his priesthood away, they had—

No! He must not allow himself to pursue such reasoning, to wallow in self-pity and impotent rage. This was an old battle within him, and one which he had fought many times, finally nearing a workable resolution. He must not let the pureness of his plans be sullied by thoughts of anger and vengeance. His inner peace must stay a thing apart from all of this—apart from all taint of killing and of cursing and of Camber.

Swallowing resolutely, he turned his thoughts to the set prayers of the hour, occupying himself for the next little while with the comfort of the familiar words. When, at last, he raised his head and opened his eyes, he felt far more at peace—until his gaze fell on the bloodied edge of his sleeve. Abruptly, he froze, his healed hand beginning to tremble as he recalled the events surrounding it.

He had never gotten used to the healing which some Deryni could perform. It made him a little nervous, but also a little awed, despite his feelings about Deryni in general.

But he liked Rhys. Even the fact that Rhys had been one of those who took him from his monastery did not particularly prejudice him against the young Healer. There was something about him, and about the other Healers he had met since, which seemed somehow to set them apart from the rest of their race—as if their calling, even though sprung from Deryni origins, were somehow as divine as his own call to the priesthood.

He clenched his fist at that, noting in passing the absence of pain or other sign of his previous injury. Then he returned his attention to the bloodstain along the edge of his undersleeve. Standing, he shrugged out of the crimson outer robe with a grimace of distaste, letting it fall in a heap beside the prie-dieu as his fingers sought the fastenings of the under-robe as well.

But as he turned, his attention was diverted by a large, iron-bound chest at the foot of his bed. His breath caught for just an instant—and then, like a man in a dream, he was moving to stand beside it. His pulse rate quickened as he bent to let one hand rest lightly on its lid.

The chest—or, rather, its contents—had come to be his most cherished possession in recent months, though he dared not let anyone know that. Gathered clandestinely, sometimes at considerable risk of discovery, what lay within was an extension of that which had been forbidden to him: symbol of the life he had been ordered to abandon when he assumed the crown.

He would be gravely censured if anyone were to discover his intentions—and because of that, a little guilt nagged at the corners of his mind every time he opened the chest to add something else. But conscience mitigated that guilt to a great extent, for he was obeying a higher dictate than those which mere men might impose—even Deryni men. Nor would he be deterred from his final goal. He simply would be certain that no one found out.

Indulging a sense of secret joy, he dropped to his knees and touched hidden studs which would unlock the chest. His hands trembled as he raised the lid, and did not cease their trembling as he began to riffle through the contents.

The first layer was a distracter. He had planned it that way. He had thrown a little-used brown cloak on top of everything else so that a casual observer would be none the wiser—not that the chest was likely to be opened while anyone else was in the room.

But beneath the brown cloak lay the real treasures. He folded back the layer of brown wool to reveal a dazzling whiteness: priestly vestments, carefully gathered and hoarded and sometimes improvised—all there now, save the all-important chasuble, the outer garment worn to celebrate the Mass.

He ran his hands lovingly across the clean linen of amice and alb, the strong, well-woven cord of the cincture with its snowy tassels; brushed a reverent fingertip along the embroidery of a priestly stole before taking it out to clasp it longingly to his breast.

Someday, perhaps not too far away, he would wear these vestments and celebrate the Mass again, as he had not been permitted to do for a year and more. True, the vestments were not essential, for God would judge him by his heart, not his raiment. But the proper accoutrements were symbolic for him. He wanted his offering to be as pure, as perfect as he could make it.