Camber’s apprehension grew as he followed the trail of bodies. The second Michaeline he found bore the badge of Alister Cullen’s personal guard, and a glance beneath the cloven helm revealed him to be Cullen’s faithful friend and aide, Jasper Miller.
Camber stiffened at that, a hand straying unconsciously to the hilt of his sword, for if Jasper had fallen, Cullen must be in serious trouble indeed not to be at his side. He caught Joram’s repeated exclamations of anguish and dread surprise ahead, and impulsively he scrambled back onto his horse and urged it ahead as fast as it could manage. Even before he rounded the last turn, Camber sensed what he would find.
Gently he reined in at the edge of the clearing and dismounted, pausing to conjure a sphere of gentle silver handfire before moving closer to where the man lay.
Cullen was lying on his side, head cradled against an outstretched arm as if deep in sleep. But there was blood on that arm, and across his chest, and a dreadful gash across his ribs which had cut partway through mail and leather and all, so great had been the force of the blow which delivered it.
Camber froze fleetingly at the sight, instantly casting about for signs of lingering danger, but there were none. He caught Joram’s presence, agitated but safe, rummaging in the brush far across the clearing, but there was no menace yet remaining—only the body of the man before him, and other bodies lying in the growing shadows, men and beasts alike, and the smell of blood and death.
With a conscious effort, he forced himself to relax the physical tension of his body, breathing again, flexing the hands which had clenched in readiness at the first inkling of disaster. Setting the handfire to hover like an early moon, he wearily crossed the few steps to kneel at Cullen’s head, stripping off gauntlets before he held one hand above the priest’s brow. A chill swept through him as he extended his Deryni awareness along the dead man’s body.
Cursed be whoever had done this, for Cullen both was and was not dead! His body had been slain, but some essence of his being remained—isolated from his body beyond all reunion, yet caught still in some vicious bond which endured even beyond the death of his assailant. There could be no return of that essence to its body in this life, for the silver cord had been severed, the bond of soul and body broken. The body was already past all animation, the vaults of memory fading with the body’s warmth.
With a shudder, not yet prepared to do what must be done to release the dead man, Camber closed his eyes and searched for strength. It seemed only seconds before he felt Joram’s approach. He raised his head in anxious query as his son shuffled slowly into the circle of hovering handfire.
Joram’s face was ashen, the strain of unspeakable tension etched so indelibly on his features that Camber dared not even ask its source. He fell heavily to his knees across from Camber, his head pitching forward so loosely on his chest that for an instant Camber feared for him—until he heard the stifled sob.
Then Camber knew that it was grief, not personal injury, which blurred his son’s mind to despair. He glanced down at the body of Cullen lying between them, then reached out a hand and laid it on Joram’s shoulder. The young priest flinched at his father’s touch, drawing ragged breath and shaking his head when Camber moved as if to speak.
“We Deryni do not always slay cleanly,” Joram said. His voice was raw and strained near to breaking, and for an instant Camber feared again for his well-being, though he forced himself to put aside his fatherly concerns for more far-reaching questions.
“What did you find?”
“Ariella.” Joram stared blindly at the body between them. “Cullen and his men apparently saw her trying to escape and pursued her into this wood. Their men killed one another, and then he and Ariella fought to the death—and Ariella fought even beyond.”
“What!”
“At least we need not worry further on that,” Joram whispered bitterly. “She failed.”
He gestured with his chin toward the brush from which he had emerged, and Camber’s eyes followed his direction. Then, pausing only for a quick glance back at Joram, Camber scrambled to his feet and ran across the clearing.
Ariella lay half slumped against a tree, her slender form transfixed by a sword, its cross-hilt swaying slightly in the breeze of his arrival. As he knelt in disbelief, drawing more handfire into being, he could see that the sword was Cullen’s Michaeline blade, sacred symbols engraved on the steel, its pommel twisted and charred by a force which had all but destroyed it.
He blessed himself—not at all an empty gesture, in the light of what had happened here—then turned his attention to the woman, gingerly pulling aside the blood-soaked white mantle. At first he thought she had only tried to escape the pinning blade—the dead fingers were near the steel, and she would have struggled long before she died, with vitals thus pierced.
But then he looked more closely at her hands and knew that they were not on the blade at all, sensed instantly what she had tried to do. The now-dead hands were still cupped together on her breast, the fingers still curved in the attitude of a spell believed by most to be impossible, merest legend. No wonder Joram had been so shaken.
He took a deep breath and ran his hands lightly above her body, not touching it as he extended his senses, but then he breathed a sigh. Here was no arcane binding of life to ruined body. The life-suspending spell on which she had spent her dying energy had not worked. Power and life were gone. Ariella, unlike Cullen, was truly dead.
With steely resolution, he drew a fold of the blood-soaked mantle over her face, then wrapped several turns of his own cloak around his hand and withdrew Cullen’s sword. The weapon throbbed as he touched it, even through the layers of wool between his hand and the hilt, and it sang with a deep, thrumming note as he pulled it free.
A low-voiced phrase, a stilling of all fear, and then he touched the sacred blade to his lips in salute. At once it was only a ruined sword.
He thrust it through his belt, then gathered up Ariella’s body and wrapped it in the bloody mantle as best he could. Joram’s horse was cropping grass contentedly nearby, and Camber laid the body across the saddle. As he secured the body in place, he watched his son kneeling across the clearing in the circle of silver light and thought about his dead friend. Cullen’s death meant a rethinking of a number of factors.
Most immediately significant, of course, was Ariella’s death, which Cullen had wrought—though that by no means ended the struggles which lay ahead for the newly restored Haldane line. Ariella had left a son somewhere in safety, someday to return and grasp for the throne his parents had lost. Ariella’s son would come of age at a time when Gwynedd was least able to resist him—for though Cinhil was in good health, and like to live a score of years, barring accident, his elder son was sickly, and the younger clubfooted and almost unsuitable to rule. Either would have to be extraordinary indeed, to stand against a son of Festil and his Torenthi allies.
Added to the continuing Festillic menace was Cinhil’s own bitterness. Camber counted himself partially to blame for that. In an effort to keep at least some line of communication open with Cinhil, who daily grew more bitter at what life had dealt him, Camber had allowed himself to become a focal point for Cinhil’s resentment—a resentment which was slowly but inexorably being directed toward Deryni in general.
This last was not yet an overt thing, though Cullen had hinted at it this morning, and might never really mature during Cinhil’s lifetime. But Camber was Deryni, and Ariella’s son and allies were Deryni, as were a host of others who had put Cinhil where he was instead of in his beloved monastery. If Cinhil should die before his sons were mature enough to reject by reason what their father had felt by instinct, then there could be hard times indeed for all the Deryni race.
But what could be done? Could anyone stop the backlash which seemed to loom so certainly in the future? Or, if the storm was meant to be, if the Deryni heritage must be tempered in the fire of vengeance, was there a way to soften the blow, to keep the proud heritage and talents of
the Deryni somewhat intact, even through the indignity of suppression and perhaps outright persecution? Great God, might it really come to that?
It might, Camber acknowledged, as he tightened the last of the thongs binding the body of the dead princess in place. But there might be ways to stop it, or at least lessen it. Such ways would require much, though: his full-time attention, and additional help, and most of all, Cinhil’s cooperation, whether he knew it or not.
And now, with Alister Cullen dead …
Camber cocked his head at that, the flash of a long-ago memory lighting his gloom for just a moment, as an idea began to form. It was dangerous, it was daring, he did not know if even he had the courage to go through with it—but it just might work. The first question was, would Joram consent?
Mentally steeling himself for resistance, Camber ran his hand along the horse’s neck a final time, then moved to kneel opposite Joram again, the body of Cullen between them. After a few heartbeats, Joram crossed himself and looked up.
“What did she do to him, Father?” the priest whispered. “There’s something drastically wrong.”
“I know. I’ll take care of it in a moment. First, I want to ask you something very important.”
“More important than Alister’s immortal soul?”
“In the greater scheme of things, perhaps so—though your grief may not allow you to see that clearly just now.”
Joram looked at him sharply, then brushed the back of a mailed hand across his eyes and tried to suppress a sniff.
“What do you mean?”
Camber sat back on his haunches. “Would you believe me if I told you that even Alister’s death may have had its place in a greater plan?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Cinhil—about his increasing hostility toward me and toward our people in general, with a few notable exceptions like Alister and perhaps a few others. We changed him, Joram. From a simple, pious, dedicated priest, we made a king—yes. We taught him what he must know, and he adapted as best he could.
“But the changes which we so carefully forged in Cinhil were tainted by our urgency, warped of necessity—because even a warped Haldane was better than the Deryni madman who sat the throne of Gwynedd two years ago.”
“You’ve lost me,” Joram said. “What does this have to do with Alister?”
“Because in turning Cinhil against the Deryni Imre, we have unwittingly turned him against all Deryni, even if he does not fully know it yet. And Alister was one of our few hopes to keep him thinking otherwise.
“Oh, things may go tolerably for several years, maybe even until the end of the reign—God grant that it may be long—but what then? Unless Cinhil lays the groundwork for tolerance, despite his personal feelings against the Deryni—and maybe even if he does—I see a horrible backlash coming. If that happens, I shudder at what may happen to our people.”
“Can you do nothing about it?” Joram asked, eyes wide with the new-recognized danger.
“Can Camber? I fear not. You’ve seen how Cinhil reacts to me. You know why we’ve been feeding my input through you and Alister and Rhys increasingly these last few months—and even you have begun to slip somewhat in his estimation.”
Joram’s gaze dropped guiltily as Camber continued.
“I’ve been doing some thinking just now, Joram. I’ve reached the conclusion that perhaps I’ve outlived my usefulness. More and more, I’m becoming a liability rather than an asset—to Cinhil and to our cause. I’d even considered dropping out of sight, disappearing, so that I could work in secret to neutralize some of what we’ve inadvertently started. Only, now I think there’s a better way.”
“I don’t think I follow you,” Joram said uneasily. “I’m not sure I want to.”
“I’m not sure I want to, either,” Camber replied. “It scares me more than I can tell you. But it does present a solution of sorts, with potential which I, as myself, simply don’t have. Other than the two of us, no one knows that Cullen is dead. Few others need to know. If I were to take his place—”
Joram’s hands flew to Cullen’s chest in an instinctive protective gesture, his face going white.
“No! I know what you’re thinking, and I won’t have it!”
“Joram, if I must take the time to reconvince you of the neutrality of the magic involved, then we are lost. Believe me, it’s the only way. Alister Cullen must live, and so Camber MacRorie must die.”
“No,” Joram whispered stubbornly, even more stricken than before.
“Yes. Come, now. ’Tis not so bad as all of that. I shan’t really die, you know. Besides, to be remembered kindly as the Restorer of the Haldanes is not so bad a fate. Even our Haldane, bitter though he is, would not begrudge Camber of Culdi an honorable burial, in the vaults at Caerrorie, where his ancestors lie. And I, as Alister Cullen, can continue to work at the things which Camber is helpless to do right now. I think that our old friend would not mind.”
He glanced at Cullen’s still face, then back at his son.
“Joram, it may not turn out to be the best way, but it’s the only way I can think of right now. And if we let this opportunity slip by, who knows if another will pass this way again? Think of Cinhil. Think of Gwynedd. Won’t you help me? I can’t hope to succeed in this charade unless you do.”
Joram squeezed his eyes shut and bowed his head miserably, arms clutched comfortless across his chest. After a moment he looked up, gray eyes haunted by a grief which seemed to have no end in sight.
“Must you do this thing?”
“I think I must.”
Joram swallowed and fought back tears, forcing his mind to reenter its customary channels of logic.
“If you—do this thing, you will be treading a very dangerous balance, especially with Cinhil. I don’t see how you can hope to deceive him indefinitely—and what of all the others?”
“I shall take such memories as are left, what things you and I know of him, and pray,” Camber replied gently. “I can blame most initial lapses on battle fatigue and grief at Camber’s death—perhaps even go into retreat for a while.”
“And what then?” Joram asked. “Father, I don’t even know the full extent of his relationship with Cinhil. And then, there’s the Order—a full-time occupation in itself, and you not even a priest—and the bishopric he was to receive—My God, it’s insane even to think of it!”
“Then it’s insane, and I’m a madman, and you must either help me or betray me!” Camber countered. “Which is it to be? We haven’t time to argue any more. Someone could come along at any minute.”
Son and father stared at each other in silence for a heartbeat, shocked and defiant, sickened and determined, each reflecting the pain and indecision of the other. Then Joram bent to begin unbuckling Cullen’s greaves, a tear splashing on the polished metal as numb fingers fought with battle-gritted buckles.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Camber pulled the coif from Cullen’s grizzled head and then laid both his hands on the forehead. He closed his eyes and let his awareness center and then extend, reaching out for what was left of Alister Cullen.
The remaining memory fragments were chaotic, jumbled and rent already with death-wrought gaps which he could never hope to fill; but he had expected that. Without pausing to read those memories, he let them siphon off into a closely guarded vault of his own being, slowing the flow only to sift it from the shadows of death—not to impart any kind of order or understanding. Later, he would—he must—integrate the alien memories with his own, but for now such as remained of Alister Cullen must be merely locked away, partitioned off beyond kenning. There was no time for more.
He knew the price he would pay for that haste. To take another’s memories whole, without assimilation at the time of taking, was to court the throbbing, pulsing pain of all the other’s dying once he did find the time to do things right. And he dared not delay to find that time, not beyond a week or two, at best—for pressure built with passing time, like a
wound festering with infection, and had been known to drive men truly mad, when at last they did dare to let the pressure out.
But he would not do that. In the mourning of the next week or so, he would make the time to deal with Cullen’s memories, perhaps with the aid of those precious few whose love he must rely upon to help play out what now began. There would always be blanks, and areas of gray which he could never fill, but even some of Cullen’s memories were better than none—were essential, if he was to become Alister Cullen to other men.
Memories secured and locked away, the binding made, he quested outward one more time, this time to touch those other bonds—grim, slimy chains—which lingered, part of Ariella. Those he loosed with the strength of his affection, as he had loosed others before—vestiges of arcane battle, which did not always kill cleanly, as Joram had pointed out. The very air seemed to lighten around him as the last of the spell was neutralized, and he bade a final farewell to Cullen: former adversary, fellow conspirator, intellectual sparring partner, friend, brother. He opened his eyes to find Joram staring at him.
“Is he …?”
“He’s at peace now,” Camber said gently.
Joram lowered his eyes, lips moving in prayer, then crossed himself and resumed unfastening Cullen’s armor. Camber helped him, the two working in silence for several minutes. When they had nearly stripped the body, Camber began removing his own harness, giving it to Joram to place on Cullen while he, himself, donned the fighting priest’s attire. When he had finished the last buckle and lace, he knelt again opposite his son, watching as Joram smoothed the battle-stained MacRorie surcoat over the still chest. As a last task, Camber removed his MacRorie seal ring and slid it onto Cullen’s bloody left hand. Joram removed the silver signet of the Michaeline vicar generalship and laid it gently on Cullen’s chest between them.
“How will you explain Camber’s death?” Joram whispered, not taking his eyes from the ring. “When we left to find Alister, you were unscathed. Were you killed in battle with her?”
The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy Page 51