The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy

by Katherine Kurtz

  “Thank God for that,” Camber whispered as they moved away from Jebediah. “I don’t think he suspects, but he must not be given the chance to grow suspicious. You’re going to have to help me play this part, Rhys—especially now, in the beginning, until I get oriented. I’ll explain more later—why it was necessary, and such—but for now, I think it wisest that I appear to rest, and recover but slowly. I have his memories to clear eventually, as well. I shall need your help.”

  “You know you shall have it” was Rhys’s only whispered reply as they drew near the Michaeline enclosure.

  A blue-mantled guard bowed and drew back the entry flap as the two approached.

  “They said that you were injured, Father General,” the man said anxiously. “Shall I send for your servant?”

  “Nay, Lord Rhys will tend me,” Camber replied. “Pray, see that we are not disturbed for a while.”

  “Of course, Father General.”

  As the flap closed behind them, Rhys began shaking in reaction. Camber held him close for several heartbeats, trying to ease his tumultous thoughts, until Rhys could regain control.

  “My God, but you take a chance, Camber!” the young man finally whispered fiercely. “Why on earth—”

  “Hush, you must not use that name. He whom the world knows as Camber is dead. Only you and Joram know the truth.”

  “And Evaine—may she be told?” Rhys asked, drawing back to look into the cool, ice-pale eyes.

  Camber released him and began unbuckling his sword belt, the craggy face troubled. “Aye, of course. I wish there were some way to spare her the initial news, but she is bound to hear before we reach her …”

  He let his voice trail off as Rhys helped him pull off the blood-stiffened Michaeline surcoat. Rhys searched the bloody mail beneath with an anxious eye, but Camber merely smiled as he bent to remove his spurs.

  “Nay, the blood is his,” he said. “I am uninjured, I told you.”

  He paused as Rhys bent to unbuckle the fastenings of his greaves, then let his weary body sink to a campstool, let the younger man pull off his boots and ease the mail chausses from his legs. The hauberk was next, and Camber slipped out of it with practiced ease, making a wry face at the great slashes in the metal links. The quilted doublet beneath was likewise slashed and stained with blood.

  “I suppose you don’t call this an injury?” Rhys muttered as he undid laces, trying to get at Camber’s body beneath.

  Camber almost had to smile. “I told you, this is but for show. Even I can heal the wounds I bear.”

  He winced and closed his eyes briefly as Rhys worked the blood-caked doublet from what could now be seen as a particularly ugly-looking wound, and for a moment Rhys was sure his words were mere bravado. The wound he had uncovered looked frighteningly real, and thus far had defied even Rhys’s questing mind touch to be proven otherwise.

  But then he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, which Camber had undoubtedly already sensed, and knew that Camber was merely playing his part. Instantly, he slipped into his own accustomed role as concerned physician, frowning and muttering worriedly over his patient as the curtain was withdrawn and more torchlight streamed into the tent.

  “Pardon, Father General, but I heard that you were wounded and brought warm water and cloths to bathe your hurts.”

  The speaker was Alister Cullen’s body servant, Johannes, a lay brother of the Michaeline Order who was fairly new to Cullen’s service. Also, Camber and Rhys remembered simultaneously, Johannes was not Deryni. If they were both reasonably careful, they should be able to bluff their way through the next little while with the man none the wiser. In fact, a glib performance now would greatly reinforce Camber’s new role in the future, if Johannes spoke to his brethren—as he was almost certain to do.

  “Your arrival is well timed, Brother,” Rhys said briskly, motioning the man closer. “The father general insists that his wounds are not serious, but I want to see that for myself. I think our ideas of serious may differ. Bring you that water near.” He waved away the guard who was lurking in the doorway. “Thank you, Sir Beren. All is well.”

  As the flap fell into place once more, Rhys took the basin of water from Johannes and put it on the carpet beside him, bidding the brother stand behind Camber’s stool to support him. The vicar general was now looking decidedly pale, and Rhys marveled at Camber’s ability to assume the difficult role in so short a time.

  He reached out with his mind as he began washing the wounds, knowing that the anxious Brother Johannes could detect no trace of their communication.

  I will follow your lead in this, he thought, glancing at Camber’s half-closed eyes. But if you should seem to faint away from weakness and the pain of your wounds, that would not be unexpected. It might give you an excuse to go easy for the first few days, until you are secure in your role.

  Camber’s mind reached out in answer, his thought caressing Rhys’s mind with affection. That thought had also occurred to me, son. But for now, I think we must heal these wounds convincingly enough to assure our gentle Johannes that naught is amiss with his master. Lay your hand there, above the great wound in the side, and I will ease it away.

  Rhys did as he was bidden, feeling very strange that he should have to exert no effort to have the wound melt away beneath his touch. Camber, too, caught the strangeness of the operation; for him, it was likely as close as he could ever come to actually healing, and the sensation was exhilarating. He marveled wordlessly as he bade Rhys move on to a lesser wound. The first now appeared to be no more than a narrow, slightly moist red line—for they dared not “heal” so great a wound completely, with Rhys so fatigued.

  After that, Camber let himself sink back against Johannes’s chest, as though half fainting, briefly touching the man’s unconscious concern to confirm that he really was unaware of what was happening. The next wound and the next passed into oblivion in fairly rapid succession, and Camber let himself sag against Johannes even more weakly.

  “He is greatly fatigued,” Rhys murmured to Johannes as he wiped bloody hands on a towel and pushed the basin of reddened water aside. “I want him to sleep now. Help me get him to bed.”

  “Nay,” Camber said, stirring against Johannes’s body and raising a hand feebly. “I must see to my men. There is much to be done.”

  “Others will do it. You need to rest,” Rhys said firmly, helping Johannes lift the protesting man to the sleeping pallet.

  While Camber continued to protest halfheartedly, entirely for Johannes’s benefit, the brother eased from his master’s war-weary body the last of his bloodstained garments and drew upon him a clean singlet of soft white linen. Rhys merely shook his head at all of Camber’s protestations, tucking a sleeping fur snugly around him after he had forced him back on the pallet.

  “I want no more arguments, Father General. You are to sleep now,” Rhys commanded, laying a hand on the older man’s brow. “Do not fight me, or you will wear out both of us in the struggling, and I will be useless to the other wounded who need my attention.”

  The pale eyes fluttered closed, and the man appeared to sleep. But just before Rhys drew his hand away, he caught the appreciative thought of an alert and very amused Camber.

  A heartless argument to beguile a fighting man! the thought chastised gently. If I were Alister, I should be overcome with conscience, as you intended. Go now, and do what you must. I promise I shall try to rest.

  He did try, when Rhys had gone and Brother Johannes could no longer find excuse to linger in the pavilion. Camber followed Johannes’s movements through carefully slitted eyelids, feigning sleep whenever the brother would lean close to study his shallow breathing. Finally, Johannes extinguished all but one of the shielded rushlights and quietly left the tent. Camber heard him conversing with the guards for several minutes, but then all fell silent save for the normal sounds of the camp outside.

  Breathing a thankful sigh, Camber let himself relax in fact. With any luck, he might not be disturbed aga
in until morning.

  He took a few deep breaths to settle his thoughts and stretched luxuriously, testing the responses and sensations of his new form. In fact, few changes had needed to be made, other than to face and hands, for he and Alister had been almost of a size, both of them tall and lean—though Alister had stood perhaps a fingerspan taller.

  But height was easy enough to camouflage, if anyone even noticed so slight a difference. If the present Alister Cullen walked a trifle shorter, that could easily be ascribed to fatigue, to the new weight of responsibility which would befall him, now that Camber was dead.

  Facial differences were no problem at all. Now that the initial transformation was accomplished, he could even, if he wished, change back to his own form occasionally, with little exertion involved. He had already taken the necessary steps to ensure that no conscious effort would be required to maintain his façade; it would remain even when he was asleep or unconscious. Of course, any enormous outpouring of power would probably necessitate his returning to his own shape for a time, but those instances would be few and, hopefully, in places of safety. Otherwise, only an act of his own will could let his new visage mist away. Not by appearance would he be betrayed.

  Behavior might be another story. Alister Cullen had been a very complex individual, with relationships extending into many areas of endeavor. Jebediah and Cinhil had been but the first of many he would have to cope with. Of course, Camber had what remained of Alister’s memories—or would have, once he found the necessary privacy and support to assimilate them safely—but now was definitely not the time to make them truly his. In the meantime, he would have to rely on his own memories of the vicar general, trusting instinct and the excuse of grief and battle fatigue to cover any lapses of behavior.

  One positive thing stood in his favor, at any rate: Alister Cullen, most conservative of Deryni, had never been given to public displays of his abilities. Unless he had been very different among the members of his Order, which Camber doubted, there being humans as well as Deryni among the Michaelines, Alister Cullen was known to be very reluctant to make much of his Deryniness. In addition, it was expected that clergy, especially Deryni, were naturally closeminded most of the time, since they kept the secrets of other men’s confessions locked within their minds. As a bishop, Alister would be even more inviolate. In all, Camber should have little difficulty in shielding his own distinctive psychic identity, even from other Deryni. Superficial contacts would not reveal him, once Alister’s memories were his.

  He was thinking about that aspect of his new identity, beginning to consider how he was going to reconcile Alister’s priestly status with his own, when he became aware of voices outside the pavilion again. Controlling a frown, for he had hoped not to have to face anyone else tonight, he extended his senses and listened carefully. A shiver of apprehension went through him as he recognized Cinhil’s voice.

  “I know that he was wounded, and I know that Lord Rhys gave orders that he was not to be disturbed,” Cinhil was saying. “However, I must see him. I promise I will not be long.”

  There was a momentary pause, and then the whisper of the curtain being withdrawn. Camber, his face turned away from the entryway, closed his eyes and prayed that Cinhil would not insist upon speaking with him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  As a wise masterbuilder, I have laid the foundation, and another buildeth thereon. But let every man take heed how he buildeth thereupon.

  —I Corinthians 3:10

  There was silence for a dozen heartbeats. He knew that Cinhil must be standing in the entryway, and ached to turn his head and see for sure; but he dared not. Cinhil still might leave.

  Finally, when the waiting had grown almost intolerable, soft footfalls approached, muffled on the thickly woven carpet. Another silence, as the footsteps stopped a few paces from his head, and then a light touch on his shoulder.

  He continued to feign sleep, still hoping that Cinhil would give up, but the touch became a shake. With a grunt which he hoped was convincing, Camber grimaced and turned his head slightly. Letting his brow furrow in mild irritation, he blinked groggily at Cinhil, pretending to be still befogged by sleep, then rolled onto his back to peer at Cinhil more closely. The king looked disturbed, and old beyond his years.

  “Sire?” Camber said.

  Cinhil nodded quickly, swallowing, and stepped back a pace.

  “Forgive me for waking you, Father Cullen, but I had to talk with someone.”

  With a weary sigh which was not at all contrived, Camber sat up on the pallet and drew the sleeping furs more closely around him, rubbing his eyes with one hand and stifling a yawn as his mind raced.

  He was obviously committed to talking with Cinhil, much against his better judgment at this early stage in his new persona. He only hoped he could remember enough to keep himself out of trouble. Thank God that Joram had thought to tell him of the conversation between Cullen and Cinhil the night before. And the pair’s stormy parting, early this morning, would lend credence to any brusqueness which Camber might have to apply to cover gaps in his knowledge.

  Yawning again, he made his eyes focus on Cinhil’s dim features, a resignedly patient expression on his new face.

  “Forgive me, Sire. Rhys made me sleep, and resisting his compulsion is not an easy thing. How may I serve you?”

  Cinhil glanced at his booted feet in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Father. I know that you were wounded, but I—I had to ask you more about Camber. I cannot believe that he is dead.”

  Camber made himself look away, afraid of where this line of discussion might lead, and decided to take the offensive.

  “You saw his body,” he said softly. “Why can you not believe? Is this not what you wanted, in the end?”

  Cinhil gasped, his face going white, and Camber wondered whether he had gone too far.

  “What I wanted? Father, I have never—”

  “Not consciously, perhaps,” Camber conceded, not giving Cinhil a chance to protest too much. “But all of us who have tried to be close to you, to help you, have been aware of your resentment. He was its focal point. He it was who found you, who had you taken from the life you loved, who hammered at your conscience, day by day, until you had to accept your destiny.”

  “But I never wished him dead!”

  “Perhaps not. Outside your heart, it matters little now,” Camber replied wearily. “He is dead. He who was responsible for your plight is gone. Now there is no one to hold you to your duty.”

  With a strangled little cry, Cinhil sank down on a campstool, burying his face in trembling hands. As Camber cautiously turned his head toward him, he could see Cinhil’s shoulders shaking with silent sobs, the frosted sable hair gleaming faintly in the feeble rushlight.

  Camber said nothing—merely waited until the sobbing had stopped and the royal head began to lift from hands which still shook with emotion. He let Alister’s icy eyes soften as Cinhil lifted teary gray ones to them.

  “Forgive me, Cinhil, I was over-harsh. It’s late, and I am war-weary and sleep-fogged and not myself.”

  “Nay, in some respects you were right,” Cinhil whispered, wiping a sleeve across his eyes. “I did blame him for the loss of my religious life, and I suppose that, in a way, I always will.” He sniffed loudly and lowered his eyes. “But he was a man of wisdom, who loved this land and its people in ways that I will probably never understand. And in many respects, he was right: however much I personally resent it, there was no other candidate for the throne besides myself. For the good of Gwynedd, I must accept that—but you must try to understand, when my inner self cries out with longing for something I can never have again.”

  Camber bowed his head, wondering whether he could have misjudged Cinhil’s true feelings for him. But though the king seemed genuinely contrite at the moment, Camber suspected that the truth might be exactly as Cinhil had painted it: a love-hate balance which would never be resolved, even with Camber’s death.

  Now, to determine whether
Camber’s end had, perhaps, at least opened the way for a further working relationship with Cullen …

  “I believe I do understand, Sire,” he finally said, after a long pause. “And what is more, I think Camber did, too.”

  Cinhil’s tear-streaked face turned hopeful. “Do you really think so, Father?”

  “Aye. He died in my and Joram’s arms, but his last thoughts were of you, Cinhil: of wondering what would happen to you and to Gwynedd and to all else he had begun, once he was gone. He cared about you greatly, my son.”

  “I was not worthy of his last concern,” Cinhil said miserably. “He should have turned his thoughts to God.”

  “He did that, too,” Camber replied. “He died convinced that he had done the best he could with his life—as easy a death as I have ever seen. I truly believe he is at peace now.”

  “I pray you may be right,” Cinhil whispered.

  An awkward silence fell upon them both, as Cinhil averted his eyes and appeared to be lost in thought. But then Cinhil looked up again, a hopeful yet apprehensive expression on his face.

  “Perhaps this isn’t the time or the place to ask this, Father—but I think that Camber would approve. I wanted to ask whether—whether it was too late to accept the offer you made me last night.”

  “What made you think it might be too late?” Camber asked quietly, wondering what, specifically, Cinhil was referring to.

  Cinhil pleated an edge of his cloak between nervous fingers, not looking up. “We—were both very angry this morning.”

  “We were both anxious for the day,” Camber replied, “with not enough sleep and too much imagination for either of our good. I should not have lost my temper.”

  “No, I said hateful things,” Cinhil insisted. “You were right, and I didn’t want to believe you. Had I been stronger in my faith, I might have chosen differently. God did not will it so.”