Camber the Heretic Page 7

  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.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  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 glanc
ed 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.

  “But, that is past. And though I fathom the reasons that he did what he did, and hate those reasons to this day, still, I cannot deny that the end was—desirable—for Gwynedd.”

  Camber, sitting quietly on his stool, could sense his son’s tension as the younger man slowly moved closer to stand behind him. He felt Joram’s hand brush his shoulder where Cinhil could not see it, as Joram gazed down guardedly at the king.

  “Sire, you know that it was ever our intention to guard and protect this land—and its king. And I hope I need not tell you that we never meant you any enmity.”

  “I know that, Joram. If I believed otherwise, neither you nor any other who had aught to do with what happened would be alive today. I—fear that I have learned, over the years, how to be a ruthless king as well as a compassionate one. None can say that my enemies have prospered in these years of change.”

  Camber glanced at his feet, knowing it was useless to bring up the hidden, more insidious enemies which Cinhil had not subdued—the men who even now plotted at the heart of the future power of Gwynedd, who had the charge of Cinhil’s heirs and would be their regents until the eldest came of age.

  He could feel Cinhil’s gaze upon him, and knew by the other’s sigh that Cinhil had guessed what he was thinking, though the king did not try to reach out with his powers to confirm it; he never did.

  Shakily, Cinhil lumbered to his feet with an assist from Joram, annoyance clearly nibbling at the edge of his control. Camber, too, rose, to gaze across at Cinhil with compassion and expectation. He knew they would not quarrel again over that issue. On that, the king’s mind was made up.

  “Thank you for not arguing with me on that,” Cinhil said softly. “I have not much time, and the time I have must be allocated for what is now the most important thing yet remaining to me.” He shifted his attention to Joram.

  “Joram, I need not remind you of what happened to me fourteen years ago, in that hidden chapel of your Michaeline Order.” He swallowed painfully and glanced away for just an instant, then resumed. “I—hated you for it then—I hated all of you. And there are powers which you awakened in me then, the use of which terrifies me to this day.” He clasped his hands and took another steadying breath.

  “But, there are—other aspects of those powers which I believe it might be desirable for a king to have, perhaps the most important of which is the ability to read the truth in another man’s heart, even if he wishes to lie. This—and the ability to defend one’s self against magical attack, when one is threatened. I have made little use of these abilities, but I—wish for my sons to have the choice when I am gone.”

  Joram’s expression had not changed as he listened to Cinhil’s words, but Camber could feel the rising tension in his body, and felt his own anticipation welling in response. In a single, wordless communication, he and Joram exchanged their plans for how to handle the situation—a situation they had long prayed would come to pass.

  Joram drew breath slowly, carefully, weighing the words he must speak to the king.

  “Do you know what you are asking, Sire?” he asked softly. “What you ask can be done, but the energy required to do it is considerable. It would also require your full participation, under the circumstances.”

  “I am aware of that,” Cinhil whispered. “I would wish it, in any case. I would not have my sons endure such an ordeal without their father nearby to keep watch over them.”

  “Sire, there is another aspect which must be mentioned,” Joram continued haltingly. “When we performed this office for you, my father was alive and we were four—Rhys, Evaine, myself, and he. Since you speak thus before His Grace, do I correctly infer that you wish Father Alister to take my father’s place?”

  Cinhil turned his gaze on Camber, almost reluctant to meet the other’s eyes. “Will you do it, my old friend? I know how you feel about direct participation in such things, but you are aware of what went on that night. You were the guardian outside the door. I remember you standing there as I passed by, stern and grim in your harness, naked steel in your hands as you passed us into the chapel. Will you wield a sword again for me, this time within the confines of a holy circle?”

  “Sire, I—”

  “Nay, not ‘Sire.’ Speak to me as Cinhil, your friend, who needs your aid—not that poor, beleaguered man who wears the Crown at Valoret. Say that Alister will help his friend Cinhil to do what must be done, so that his sons may survive whatever may come in the future when Cinhil, both the man and the king, is dead and gone. We must not talk in circles, Alister. I will die soon. You, who are several years my senior, must surely have thought of death. It comes to all of us, and we must all make preparations in our own time. A king must think of it more carefully even than an ordinary man.”

  With a sigh, Camber bowed his head, his token Alister reluctance now satisfied.

  “As friend, I cannot refuse you, Cinhil,” he said softly. “What you ask, I shall perform to the best of my ability, no matter what the cost.” He held out his hands to Cinhil, the palms up, and Cinhil laid his own on Camber’s.

  “Thank you.”

  With a nod, tears welling in his eyes, Camber brought Cinhil’s hands together in a gesture of reassurance, bobbed to touch his forehead to the royal hands in a gesture of humility, then turned away and sank to his knees before the altar, face buried in his hands. Cinhil watched him, stunned a little at the apparent depth of his friend’s emotion, then returned his attention to Joram. The younger man had not moved.

  “I believe there are—arrangements to be made, Joram,” the king said softly. “Will you see to them?”

  “I will, Sire. Did you have any particular time and place in mind? Rhys and Evaine have stayed the night at Ebor with Gregory, but they should be back well before noon tomorrow.”

  Cinhil nodded distractedly, his attention fixed once again on the kneeling Camber. “That will be fine.”

  “Then, do you wish to plan for tomorrow night?” Joram asked.

  Cinhil nodded, still not looking away from Camber.

  “And where shall we plan to do it?” Joram insisted. “I do not advise using the chapel where your ritual took place. It is still an active Michaeline establishment. There is danger of interruption.”

  “Here, in my private chapel,” Cinhil murmured. “It will suffice, will it not?” At last he turned his gaze back on Joram, sincere question in his grey eyes.

  “It will suit quite well, Sire,” Joram replied, making a bow and beginning to withdraw. “I shall make the necessary arrangements with Rhys and my sister. May I also include Jebediah? We will need another guardian.”

  “Do so.”

  And as Joram withdrew, closing the door behind him, Cinhil eased himself to his knees beside Camber and joined with him in prayer, never realizing that the part of his friend with which he was intera
cting was only the surface of another man whom he had thought long-dead—a man who, far from being apprehensive at what his king had just commanded, was already planning how this long-wished-for event might come to pass, and how best the awesome powers of the Haldane line might be instilled in the Haldane heirs.

  Camber remained with the king for nearly an hour more; and while they prayed together, Joram set in motion the plan which he and his father had long ago formulated to deal with what now appeared to be an impending certainty. After dispatching a messenger to Rhys and Evaine, he summoned a bleary-eyed Jebediah to his father’s chambers to tell him of the king’s decision; for in addition to Jebediah’s part in what would now ensue, the earl marshal must be prepared to be dismissed by the ambitious and mostly human regency council which would assume rule in the name of the underage Alroy, if Cinhil did not survive the next night’s work. The very thought of placing command of Gwynedd’s military forces in the hands of non- and anti-Deryni lords gave the Michaeline grand master nightmares, even though he had a sizable cadre of Michaeline-trained men already placed in key positions of authority, who could hopefully keep more reactionary overlords from too drastic action.

  And so Joram and Jebediah discussed the military implications of Cinhil’s possibly imminent demise, and tried not to show their anxiety when Camber at last joined them, several hours before dawn. The king had finally succumbed to troubled sleep, Camber told them, but his health was even more precarious than they had feared. There would be miracle, indeed, if he survived what must be done.

  The cathedral bells tolled Lauds in the leaden, predawn silence before their plans were complete and the three retired for a few hours’ much-needed sleep.

  The dawn did not bring relief from the bitter cold which passed over the land. The bells of Prime and Terce never rang that morning from the high cathedral tower, for a savage ice storm raged across the Valoret plain soon after sunrise, immobilizing outdoor movement and leaving in its wake a world of white and silver silence.