Camber the Heretic (9 page)

Camber let out a low sigh as he and Joram came up to the gates of the altar rail, doggedly fixing his attention on the Monstrance and its sacred Host as he sank to his knees and signed himself with an automatic gesture. Keeping his mind to his customary set of prayers before the Sacred Presence, he closed his eyes and shut out the sight of the statue, willed a little of the serenity he derived therefrom to flow into his son, kneeling at his left elbow.

But when the prayers were finished, he had no choice but to open his eyes and look up at the figure which the world now knew as Saint Camber. His annoyance at the idealization they had made of him was overshadowed, as it had been before, by the enormity of the lie he had been living.

What colossal conceit to have allowed it to continue! True, he had not yet been struck down by lightning or otherwise shown the measure of Heaven's wrath; but he could not, in conscience, believe that there would not be a price to pay for what he had done.

His intentions, of course, had always been as pure as he could conceive. So far, though the fight was far from over, he and his children had managed fairly well to keep alive the ideals they had hoped to preserve from the beginning, by placing Cinhil on the throne of Gwynedd.

There had been setbacks, to be sure, not the least of which had been Alister's untimely death in battle with Ariella. And the human lords who had flocked to Court in the wake of Cinhil's restoration had gained far more influence than Camber and his kin had hoped they would.

But to balance that was the closeness of Cinhil and Camber, which had endured for nearly fifteen years now, though of course Cinhil did not know that it was Camber and not Alister with whom he had dealt so intimately and on so regular a basis for the past twelve. That, alone, had been worth the price Camber had had to pay, if all the factors be totaled.

That price, of course, was another story altogether. Though the world had accepted him as Alister Cullen, Bishop of Grecotha and Chancellor of Gwynedd, Camber knew that this part of his life was a sham. True, he had legitimated his raising to the episcopate, by being properly ordained a priest before allowing the late Archbishop Anscom to consecrate him bishop. And he had never offended the letter of canon law—though he had bent it—and the spirit of that law had doubtless been broken times too numerous to count.

What distressed him most, on those rare occasions when he permitted himself to think about it, was that he had been forced to stand by and witness the travesty of his own canonization, powerless to object any more strongly than he had, lest he lose all for which he and his had fought.

And what of those who believed in Saint Camber? In some ways, that bothered Camber even more than the obvious accounting he would have to make concerning the Alister-Camber impersonation. For the people, both human and Deryni, believed in Saint Camber, ascribed miracles to his intercession, venerated his image and his memory in scores of shrines and chapels across the land, that he might act in their behalf.

For the thousandth time, he asked himself whether faith alone was sufficient to account for the miracles—for, as Deryni, he was well aware how important mere belief could be in effecting cures, in helping cause things to happen. For many, belief in Saint Camber seemed to bring comfort and assistance. Who was Camber to say that such belief was not valid, if it produced results?

Suppressing a sigh, he glanced aside at Joram and was surprised to see his son gazing up raptly at the statue. Joram had been against the impersonation from the start, though he had reluctantly agreed to help, when there seemed no other choice. Through all these long years, he had stood by his father, regardless of the shape he wore, and defended both Alister and his father's name against all attack.

Camber wondered how the shrine was affecting Joram—the statue, the chamber, and what they all evoked now, for so many people. And in that moment, Joram turned his head and looked him full in the face, reaching out with his mind and willingly opening to his father's probe. As minds leaped the boundaries of usual sensation, they knew one another's most secret thoughts of Camber and of sainthood, and they plunged into even more profound communication.

But there was none of the old bitterness in Joram's mind now, that combination of fear and outrage which had for so long ruled his inner balance. Something had finally enabled Joram to accept the inevitability of the situation, to forgive the dogged determination which had moved the man who knelt now beside him.

That decided, it was as if a great burden had been lifted from Camber's mind, as well; he realized that he, too, could let go of the guilt, the uncertainty, the shadow of apprehension. Together, the two of them were doing all they could to hold back the Darkness, to preserve the Light. What more could any mortal ask?

With a smile, Camber reached out and patted his son's hand, then let the younger man help him to his feet. Together, arm in arm, they walked back up the center aisle to speak with Queron and his Camberians, before heading back to the capital and Cinhil.

Statues would never haunt either of them again.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

For the vision is yet for an appointed time, but at the end it shall speak, and not lie; though it may tarry, wait for it; because it will surely come
.

—Habakkuk 2:3

When they entered the torchlit yard again, Queron Kinevan was far easier to face. He had gathered the entire complement of the abbey while the two of them were inside the shrine, and all knelt respectfully as the bishop appeared at the portico.

But Camber was no longer anxious at having to be among them. After chatting amiably with several of the brothers and sisters, he pronounced a general blessing on the house and the work. Then, with apparent reluctance, he requested that his party's horses be brought around, Guthrie and Caleb having returned. Queron thanked the bishop for his visit, then himself held the stirrup so that Camber might mount.

Soon Camber and his son were on their way to Valoret once more, their road lit by torches and the ever-brightening moonlight and their number swelled by half a dozen monks whom Queron had insisted upon sending with them for their further safety. They reached Valoret shortly after Compline.

The king was not yet abed. His eldest page met them as soon as they had stepped into the great hall, before they could even divest themselves of their heavy travelling cloaks. Cinhil was waiting for them in the private chapel adjoining his apartments, kneeling at a
prie-dieu
in heavy scarlet nightrobe and a fur-lined cap with lappets that covered his ears. He raised his head and half-turned toward them as the page went out and closed the outer door.

“Alister! It's about time! Is Gregory—”

“He's well, Sire,” Camber reassured him. “He should be able to ride in a few days. I gave him your message. He had nothing to do with our delay.”

“No?”

Camber let Joram take the damp cloak from his shoulders while he began peeling clammy gloves from fingers stiff with cold.

“Unfortunately, not. We met Bishop Hubert's brother and sister-in-law on the way back, near Dolban. Manfred, I believe, is his name. I expect you'll be hearing from him far sooner than you would like.”

“Why?”

“He and his lady wife apparently were harassed by a band of—ah—young Deryni nobles,” Camber said tersely. “Joram and I had encountered them ourselves, a short time earlier, but they cried off when they found out who we were.”

Cinhil brought a fist down softly on the armrest of the
prie-dieu
and swore a mild oath.

“The blind fools! How can I hold off reprisals against Deryni when Deryni themselves keep agitating the countryside? God knows, we don't need another incident like Nyford. Would you like to see one of your Michaeline houses burn next? How about Grecotha? Or Jaffray's Saint Neot's? Or perhaps Valoret itself?”

Camber sighed and took a seat on a stool which Cinhil had indicated. The king did not need to say more about Nyford. The previous summer, rioting peasants led by a handful of disgruntled human lordlings had utterly destroyed Nyford town and slaughtered most of its inhabitants. The spark which began it had been a senseless incident of irresponsibility not unlike that which had just occurred on the Dolban road.

Nyford lay on the point at the confluence of the Eirian and Lendour rivers, where Imre of Festil had begun the construction of his ill-starred new capital nearly twenty years before. Though the palace and surrounding administrative structures had barely been begun in Imre's time, other folk had occupied the abandoned building site after Imre's fall, humans and Deryni, and a thriving community had sprung up. A Healer's
schola
and several other Deryni groups had also moved in, including a religious community which founded a church and primary school dedicated to Saint Camber.

Water trade also became firmly established, as was almost inevitable, given Nyford's fine, well-sheltered harbor—the last in the mouth of the vast Eirian estuary. A group of Forcinn Michaelines organized a sea-service out of Nyford, hiring on as pilots for the river ships which plied the waters north to Rhemuth, and west, well into Llannedd lands, and east into the Mooryn, as well as on their native sea.

Deryni business acumen had built a thriving river town on the ruins of a far less successful Deryni venture; but human neighbors of lesser resourcefulness gradually felt mere resentment and jealousy shift to blind hatred—an attitude fueled by the increasingly rigid anti-Deryni stance of many churchmen and high-ranking nobles. It was symptomatic of the attitude in much of Gwynedd, though never so blatant or so strong elsewhere as in Nyford. As the taunt of mere existence grew, pricked from time to time by the spurs of occasional Deryni arrogance, not to mention Deryni dominance of most of the area's economy, human sensitivities were increasingly irritated. It had been a grave error of judgment to concentrate so many Deryni in so localized a place. When, in the heat of a particularly severe summer, tempers had seethed with the rising temperature and humidity of the Nyford delta, little was needed to spark the fire of violence.

Nyford had burned for a day and a night, but not before rampaging humans had put to death all the Deryni and Deryni sympathizers who could be found. Deryni-owned or piloted ships were burned to the waterline where they lay at the quays, after being robbed of their cargoes. Deryni shops were vandalized and looted, their proprietors usually dying in the process.

The
schola
was brought down stone by stone, after all its pupils and masters were put to the sword or clubbed to death. Many of the dead were no more than children. Saint Camber's-at-Nyford, church and school, was desecrated and torched, after the sacrilegious murder of the brothers and sisters of the order which had founded it, most of them not even Deryni. The piles of bodies lining the streets fueled fires whose smoke besmirched the clean skies above the delta for most of a week.

Shaking his head, Camber dropped his gaze for just an instant, knowing he had tried every plea and argument possible on this particular point, both with the king and with the myriad Deryni and human lords with whom he daily came into contact. Cinhil understood the problem of balance and order between the races, though he had been only marginally successful at maintaining it; his human ministers were not so understanding. Camber's sigh, as he raised his face to the king's once more, was one of a man momentarily weary even beyond his years.

“Sire, I certainly cannot dispute history,” he said softly. “These young firebrands are playing right into the hands of their worst enemies, but they don't see that. They see only that they seem to have no function in a non-Deryni regime.”

“That isn't true.”

“I know it isn't. But that's what they think. They equate the King's Law with human law. They see no place in it for Deryni.”

“Well, damnit, they'd
better
see, or soon there really
won't
be a place—and maybe precious few Deryni! I can't hold back my other nobles forever, you know. And my sons—”

As his voice broke off, he turned his face away from both men. After a second's pause, Joram caught Camber's eye to ask whether he should withdraw and, at Camber's nod of permission, gave a brief bow over the cloak he held across his arm.

“I'll leave you now, Sire, if you have no other need for me. I really should see to the comfort of the monks who came back with us from Dolban.”

“No, stay—please. What I have to say concerns you more than Alister, in all truth. Except that I know that you will do as I ask. I do not know whether Alister will.”

Surprised, Joram glanced at Camber and got a quick mental image of total mystification. Cinhil had buried his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes wearily, and as Camber shifted uneasily on his stool, trying to imagine what Cinhil might ask that he would not do, Joram shrugged out of his own wet cloak and laid it and his father's in a damp heap to one side. Cinhil lifted his head and stared for so long at the crucifix on the wall behind the altar that Camber and Joram both began to get a little anxious.

“Sire, is anything wrong?” Camber finally whispered.

Cinhil, with a light shake of his head, reached out to touch Camber's arm lightly in reassurance.

“Nay, do not ‘Sire' me, old friend. That of which we must speak has nought to do with kings and bishops and such.” He turned his attention to Joram. “Joram, it has been near fourteen years since last we spoke of this, but the time has come when I must break my silence. I have thought long on it, and confess I have harbored many bitter thoughts toward you—and toward your father.”

He faltered a little at that, his eyes flicking momentarily into some unseeable realm where the ache of memory and disappointment still aged and festered, then returned his gaze to Joram.