The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy Page 17

  There was a long silence, a period of several heartbeats in which no one moved. Then Joram bowed his head.

  “Concedo,” he murmured.

  Muffling a sigh of relief, Camber turned his attention back to Rhys. Before he could speak, however, Joram pulled himself together and laid a restraining hand on his father’s arm.

  “Rhys, have you understood any of what we’ve been talking about?” the priest asked.

  “Well, frankly, no. I gather that you—don’t approve of something on moral grounds, but I …” His voice trailed off lamely, and Camber sighed again, rubbing a weary hand across his eyes.

  “Rhys, we’re talking about shape-changing. Do you know what that is?”

  Rhys’s lips made an awed O and he blinked in astonishment. “Well, I’ve read a little about it, of course, but I thought it was only theory. And the sources that say anything about it at all, claim that it’s—bl—”

  “Black magic,” Camber said softly, speaking the words which Rhys only mouthed in awful fascination. The older man cleared his throat, searching for the right words. “Actually, it’s considered to be a gray area—a shade more dark than light, perhaps, because it is deception; and deception is rarely used except for personal gain. At the risk of sounding hypocritical, I’ll maintain that this is a fair example of the end justifying the means. The escape of innocents from danger not of their own doing is a generally accepted defense by all but the most rigid purists.”

  Joram raised an eyebrow at that and folded his arms across his chest. “I suppose that will suffice for a logical argument for now, though we hardly qualify as innocents.”

  “But Imre doesn’t know that yet—he only suspects.”

  Rhys, nagged by the suspicion that he had just missed something crucial, cleared his throat uneasily. “Just what is it you plan to do, sir?”

  “Um, sorry. I assumed you realized. I intend to place your shapes on two of the servants whose presence won’t be missed. I’ll use Crinan for you, Rhys, and Master Wulpher, the steward, for Joram. Both of them have been loyal retainers of the family from early boyhood, and I know they can be trusted. Also, they’re somewhat used to magic, after having been around us for these many years.”

  “They’re not used to this kind of magic,” Joram said sullenly. “And another thing: I was to read the final rites for burial tonight. Wulpher is not a priest.”

  “No, but he’s a well-read, God-fearing man who loved Cathan very much, and we can give him the knowledge he needs to get by. I know you would rather be the one to do this last thing for your brother, but it’s more important that you and Rhys be on your way. You’ve already performed the essential rites. Besides, there will be other priests here.”

  “But—”

  “I know, son,” Camber said gently. And with a sigh, he placed a hand on the shoulder of each man.

  “Rhys, would you please find Crinan and Wulpher and bring them here? Don’t tell them why I want to see them, just ask them to accompany you. But give me a few minutes with Joram first, will you?”

  “Yes, sir.” Rhys spoke with difficulty.

  Still stunned by what he had heard, and sensing how Joram must be churning inside, judging from his outward lack of composure, Rhys slipped from the sacristy and, outside, leaned his forehead against the door, hands on the latch. He took several deep breaths to calm his racing heart, but his mind refused to approach the topic of shape-changing, ancient fears nibbling around the edges of his soul without discipline until he, at length, applied one of his own charms for calmness and willed his thoughts to order. He felt tranquillity wash over him like a gentle wave. Only then was he able to approach the forbidden area with any degree of rationality.

  Shape-changing.… He remembered a passing mention of it in an old volume of conjury, of how the conjuror superimposed the image of one person over that of another. The book had mentioned pentagrams and blood circles, and charges to keep evil influences out of the spell, but had not gone into any specifics as to how it was actually done. Another source—now he found himself able to scan his memories like a written index, ferreting out the information he needed—another source had mentioned animal sacrifices and the assistance of demons. He counted that as spurious. Still another text had insisted that shape-changing was not possible at all—though that was obviously false in light of what Camber had just said. Searching through his memory, Rhys found that he could not pin down a single fact about shape-changing. He concluded that he was probably about to learn far more about it than he really wanted to know.

  With a sigh, he raised his head and went back into the church. Enough time had passed that Camber and Joram should have resolved any remaining differences. He found the servants easily enough, and managed to get them to the sacristy door without too many questions. He paused only long enough to knock lightly before opening the door and ushering them inside.

  The room was aglow with candles, several dozen of them placed about the perimeter and dispelling all sense of gloom or prescience of what was to come. Camber was standing motionless before the vesting altar in one corner of the room, the candles turning his hair to ruddy gold. Joram had his back to them, leaning with both hands on the lid of the vestment press. His shoulders tensed as he heard the door open, but he did not move. As the door closed and the wards were re-established, Camber turned and came to greet the servants.

  “Thank you for coming, my friends,” he said, extending his hand to each of them in turn.

  Crinan clasped the hand nervously, eyes downcast, but Wulpher took it and, kneeling, kissed it, tears welling in his eyes.

  “Forgive me for bringing the young master back to you thus, m’lord,” the old man croaked, his voice husky with grief. “I promised I would look after him for ye, and I—”

  “You are not to blame, old friend,” Camber said, tenderly raising the old man up. “I know how you loved my son. Your devotion shall not go unrewarded.”

  Wulpher could not speak, but nodded gratefully. Crinan, too, swallowed hard and bowed his head.

  “But, I did not ask you here for further grieving,” Camber said then, glancing at Rhys and signalling with his eyes that he should go to Joram. “I wished to ask if you would be willing to undertake a great risk for the sake of your master’s memory. I cannot tell you in detail why I ask what I do, but it would be a final service which you could render. Will you do this for him?”

  As the two nodded, eyes wide and awed, Rhys moved silently behind them to touch Joram’s arm. The priest nodded, then turned to face them. His expression was calm, composed, his hair silver-pale in the candlelight. His eyes, like Rhys’s and the two servants’, turned toward his father.

  “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.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  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.