Camber the Heretic (38 page)

Angrily, though he tried to control it, Tavis lay back on his pillows and stared at the ceiling, tight-lipped and tense. The others waited. After a few minutes, Tavis sighed and slowly withdrew his left arm from underneath the blanket. A pale silk cloth was wrapped loosely around the stump, but he did not protest as Emrys reached gently across and withdrew it. The skin under the silk was smooth and white, like a baby's skin, with hardly a scar to show where the repairs had been made. The wrist now terminated in a smooth knob of flesh.

“Amazing!” Queron breathed. “If I had not seen it, I would not believe it.”

With a nod, Emrys poised his hand above the wrist.

“May I read it, Tavis? I will be gentle.”

“If you wish,” Tavis replied tersely. “And there's no particular need to be gentle. I don't feel anything—except that, sometimes, I think my hand is still there, and that I can almost touch things with it.”

Queron nodded. “A fairly standard response to an amputation. Battle Healers often run into that sort of reaction. There's sometimes phantom pain, too, as if the missing limb or part were still there and injured.”

Emrys, slipping deep into his Healer's mode, laid his hand more firmly on Tavis's arm, signaling for Rhys to come to his side and share the probe. As Rhys obeyed, Queron, too, touched his fingertips to Tavis's arm and eased into the linkage. After a moment, all three men opened their eyes and broke the contact.

“This is quite amazing,” Emrys said. “I've not seen that kind of thing except in people born that way. The ends of the bones have fused, and the musculature has redistributed as if it were meant to be that way. You have also managed somehow—and don't ask me how—to bring your blood level back almost to normal.” He glanced at Rhys. “Are you certain he lost as much blood as you thought he did?”

Rhys shrugged. “Not certain, no, since I wasn't there when it happened, or even for the first hour or two thereafter. But his condition last night seemed to indicate a greater blood loss than he shows now. I can't explain it.”

Puzzled, Emrys turned back to Tavis again.

“Can
you
explain it?” the old man asked. Tavis shook his head. “Then, will you allow me to read you more deeply? For some reason, your shields are very rigid, Tavis. There's no need for that with me, your old teacher. I had hoped you would realize that.”

“I—cannot, sir.” Tavis whispered, turning his head away and swallowing heavily. “Please, don't try to make me do it, either.”

“But, I don't underst—”

“Then, understand this:
they
tried to batter down my shields!” he gasped, clutching his arm to his chest once more and plunging both arms beneath the blanket again. “They tried to—to force my mind!
Men of our own kind
held me fast while they chopped off my hand! They said I was aiding the enemy! Does Javan look like the enemy?”

There was little they could say to that. After making perfunctory apologies, Emrys and Queron were ushered from the room by a pensive and silent Rhys, Camber following wordlessly. The four men said nothing as they returned to Camber's quarters in the archbishop's palace, but they discussed the plight of Tavis O'Neill in hushed tones for several hours that evening, joined by Joram and Evaine.

“It's as if he's just shut down psychically,” Rhys said. “And there's a core of bitterness there that's really making me uneasy. I don't know what to make of it.”

“I hope that
I
don't know what to make of it,” Queron said, after a long pause. “I once saw a case like this when I was still teaching at Saint Neot's. Do you remember, Emrys? We had a marvelously gifted young Healer's novice—Ulric was his name.”

Emrys nodded and sighed, then shook his head sadly as Queron continued.

“Well, one day he simply—went berserk. He challenged the novice master to a duel arcane. He'd had almost no formal training in such things, but he defeated and killed the novice master! And the novice master was a high-level adept, a Healer himself and a very powerful practitioner!

“Anyway, the point of similarity is that young Ulric showed the same kind of adamant shielding for some time before he went mad, and there was no way to reach him, psychically. He called us devils and blasphemers and tried to bring down the entire abbey. Emrys put an arrow through his heart, right there in the cloister garth, or Ulric would have destroyed us all. He had turned on his own kind.”

“You think Tavis might do that?” Evaine asked, after a stunned pause. “He's always seemed so gentle.”

Queron shook his head slowly. “I don't know, my dear. I'm not certain I want to find out, either. Rhys, I don't suppose you might feel justified in trying out your little Healing quirk on Tavis, would you? To block his abilities until we're sure he's stable enough to handle them?”

“A touchy point of ethics,” Rhys replied. “Besides, it may already be too late for that. We've established that cooperation isn't necessary—and you
know
he'd never cooperate for something like that—but the odd way his shields are fluctuating, I'm not sure I'd want to try it and risk the possible backlash. Something very strange is going on in that man's head.”

“Do we just give up, then?” Camber asked. “Rhys, he's in a potentially very dangerous position, not only for himself, being the only Deryni in the regents' household right now, but for us. If he should become sufficiently disillusioned with us, that he'd side with the regents—why, with Tavis working for them, the regents could sniff out Deryni no matter where they went.”

“Not if I can teach someone how to block Deryni powers,” Rhys replied.

“But who are you going to teach? That's just the point. Emrys, Queron, God knows, you've tried—but suppose it can't be learned? Rhys, can you really go out and work with Revan? Are you prepared to make the necessary sacrifices? And even if you are, there's no way of ensuring that our manufactured cult will catch on. Besides, we're only talking about a few Deryni to be protected that way. They can't even be the best of us, because the best and best trained must stay aware to transmit our heritage to our children!”

With a surprised gasp, Queron sat back in his chair and stared at Camber. Emrys, ever-calm, shook his head in disbelief and laid his hand on Camber's arm.

“Alister, Alister, don't
you
despair on us!—you, who are usually the rock of calm and courage. Do you truly think that no one else can learn to do it?”

Camber leaned his forehead on the heels of his hands and wearily shook his head. “I don't know. Forgive me, Emrys. It's just that all of us have been fighting for so long, in our own ways, and the situation seems to get worse instead of better, with each passing day. And I think I
have
raised a valid question: if we block the best to save the best, who will teach the children? Oh, we were as mad as your Ulric to even think it might work!”

Chilled, Rhys reached across to touch Camber's shoulder, at the same time reaching out with his mind.

Courage! You must not do this in front of Emrys and Queron! Or, is it your intention to tell them everything?

With a mental start, Camber jerked himself back into psychic focus, forced himself to look up slowly at Rhys. God knew, it was
not
his intention to tell the others everything. They thought Camber long dead, and a saint; better they remain thinking so. But Rhys was right. If he didn't get hold of himself, he was going to end up revealing everything in spite of himself.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, bowing his head again. “Lord, help Thou my unbelief. Perhaps it will work. Maybe some other Healer? Maybe Oriel? Rhys, could he have been responsible for Tavis's recovery?”

They discussed the possibility, though Rhys, who had worked with Oriel, had detected nothing in the young Healer which should have made him special from any other Healer. Nor could Oriel have returned without being seen.

They did not discuss the suspicion that Prince Javan might have had a hand in things. And especially, they did not discuss what had happened that other night, when Javan might, indeed, have gained the power to do what they were beginning to suspect.

Javan, too, wondered increasingly about that night, and about the strange link he seemed to have formed with Tavis, but he did not mention either one directly, when he spoke with his brothers that evening. He had taken supper with Tavis earlier, but by tacit agreement, neither had mentioned the events of the night before.

But when Javan joined Alroy and Rhys Michael just before evening prayers, to report on Tavis's progress, he did turn the conversation to what they remembered about the night their father died. Alroy's recollection was no better than Javan's own, however, and Rhys Michael could not be induced to take any of their discussion seriously, being preoccupied with the setting up of his toy knights. Alroy was interested in Tavis's progress, and was glad to learn that he was doing better, but he preferred not to talk about the attack.

“But, we've
got
to talk about it,” Javan whispered, drawing his brother into an alcove near the fireplace. “He was attacked by Deryni! Deryni cut off his hand—a
Healer's
hand, Alroy!
My
Healer! What if he'd been one of
your
friends? Then you'd do something!”

“Well, what could I do?”

“You're the king! You could order their arrest!”

“But, Javan, I don't even know who they are! Besides, I'm only the king in name. If the regents don't agree, I can't do anything.”

“Then, get them to agree!” Javan argued fiercely. “Listen, you told me yourself that there had been reports in the council about bands of young Deryni bloods running around and molesting people. These men who attacked us could have been from one of those bands. They were nobly dressed. But this time, they maimed a member of the royal household. And Rhys Michael and I might have been killed or maimed, too! Can't you do something?”

Alroy sighed and looked at his twin sourly. “Javan, you're not making it any easier for me. You're only a boy, just like me. We can't change the world.”

“You're not a boy, you're a king!” Javan snapped. “And if you allow this kind of thing to continue, next time it may be
you
they're attacking! At least ask the regents to do something. They hate Deryni. They should be more than willing to round up some so that Tavis can check them out. He's certain he'd recognize them again, you know.”

Alroy drew himself up straighter and looked at his brother. “He would?”

“Of course.”

“Ah, but would he tell us?” Alroy asked. “He's Deryni, too, after all. Would he betray his own kind?”

Javan's jaw took on a tight set. “He'd betray those who mutilated him,” he said softly. “Believe that!”

Alroy seemed to think about that for a long time. Then he slowly nodded.

“Very well. I'll ask them. But don't expect any miracles. They're not all that fond of Tavis anyway. They've only let him stay because you made such a scene about it.”

“They'll see another scene or two, if they don't do this,” Javan muttered under his breath. “I
want
the men who did this to him, brother! And I want them to suffer the same fate as they cast on Tavis—before I have them killed. They must learn that
no one
trifles with the servants of the royal House of Haldane!”

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

For the elements were changed in themselves by a kind of harmony
.

—Wisdom of Solomon 19:18

The Camberian Council met several nights later, with Emrys and Queron in attendance, as well as Davin and Ansel and Jesse. The only topic was Tavis.

“Well, I still think you're overestimating the seriousness of the situation,” Gregory said. “Tavis O'Neill is a conscientious Healer and a good friend of Prince Javan. He protects the boy from the regents. Even if he isn't one of us, he's a Deryni in the heart of the castle. If we needed him, I feel certain we could call on him.”

“You
feel
. Ah, but do you know for sure?” Camber asked. “That's the real question. Right now, it's been nearly a week since the attack, and in all that time, Tavis has not let himself be read, other than on a purely physical level. His shields are so strong that I don't think anything or anyone could get through except by force—and that could destroy him.”

“Drugs are a possibility,” Rhys volunteered. “If everyone is as worried about what he's planning as it appears, I suppose I could find some excuse to slip him a doctored cup and force the rapport.”

“It's certainly tempting,” Camber replied. “I question whether you could ‘slip' it to him, the way he seems so suspicious of us lately, but the longer we wait, the stronger he seems to get and the less likely you probably are of succeeding. What does everybody else think?”

“I think it's a damned-fool notion!” Gregory replied. “Tavis is not a traitor, he's a victim. Unless you know something about this case that you're not telling us, I don't see why all of you are so concerned.”

Evaine, sensing the direction the conversation could go if not headed off immediately, sighed and shook her head.

“We know he's a victim, Gregory. But he's still close to the princes, especially Javan. And today we learned that one of them—and we have to assume that it's Alroy, though Javan probably put him up to it—one of them persuaded the regency council to start hunting down those bands of Deryni bravos. Jaffray, why don't you tell him what happened in council today?”

Jaffray nodded.

“Evaine is right. The king was not present today, but Tammaron presented the idea. The story now is that the attackers were really after the two princes, but settled for Tavis, since they couldn't get at the children. Naturally, it's said that Tavis will help to identify the attackers—which, no doubt, he will. If I'd gone through what young Tavis did, I shouldn't doubt I'd want my revenge, too.”