The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy

by Katherine Kurtz

  “God gives us all the will to make choices,” Camber pointed out. “He does not necessarily compel us to make the right ones.”

  “Alas for that.” Cinhil sighed and stood. “But I made my choice, for whatever reason. Now I must learn to live with the consequences of that choice. Good night, Father.”

  “Good night, Sire,” Camber murmured as Cinhil headed slowly toward the entryway, not looking back. “So must we all learn,” he added when Cinhil had gone.

  They did not start back to Valoret for several days, for men and beasts were battle-weary, and there was much still to do at Iomaire. While Healers of both the physical and spiritual kind worked their craft among the living, others saw to the needs of the dead of both sides. The grave mounds erected in the days which followed would forever change the face of the Iomaire plain, for only the bodies of the highest nobility would be returned home for burial. The scarred hills of Coldoire would be a grim reminder of the realities of war for generations to come.

  Other work there was that first night, and all the day after, as yet another group of men—crack soldiers, all—scoured the hills and glens of Iomaire for remnants of the invading army which had escaped their grasp in battle. Most of the enemy not actually taken during the fighting had scattered with the evening winds if they could, but there were many more who were too badly wounded to flee. These the royal troops ferreted out, bringing the living to the ministrations of the surgeons and the dead to the tendering of the priests and burial details.

  In the end, prisoners of actual Torenthi allegiance numbered more than fivescore, most of them of the Torenthi nobility who had family or feudal obligations to the slain Ariella of Festil. These Cinhil immediately declared eligible for ransom, realizing, rightly, that ransom could help to replenish Gwynedd’s war-depleted coffers. The Torenthi prisoners would be marched back to Valoret with the victorious army, there to be detained under strict but honorable conditions until arrangements could be hammered out for their release with agents of the King of Torenth.

  But for the men of Gwynedd who had taken arms against their lawful king—no matter that they had sided with the representatives of their former liege lord—Cinhil could not afford to be so lenient. The point must be made, and firmly made, that Gwynedd’s new master was exactly that, and would tolerate no further rebellion, under whatever guise. An object lesson was required, and it was Cinhil who must decide how it was to be administered.

  It was not a task which the king relished, but Jebediah and Earl Sighere impressed upon him its necessity. At Cinhil’s request, his advisors outlined a wide selection of fitting and just punishments, describing them in terms which left very little even to Cinhil’s naive imagination. After much learned discourse, and more than one tearful session at prayer, Cinhil made the first truly independent decision of his reign, settling upon a disposition which was at once harsh, just, and merciful.

  The surviving Gwynedd prisoners, numbering nearly two hundred fifty, would be decimated, each tenth man being chosen by lot, without regard to rank, for public hanging along the way home, as a vivid lesson on the fruits of treason. But for those spared the gallows trees, a more clement fate was destined—though those men would not be told of the king’s mercy until they reached the capital with the Torenthi prisoners. Though they would be marched home in bondage, wrists lashed to spears across their shoulders and stripped of all titles and lands, at Valoret they would be pardoned and released, free from that moment to build new lives without further prejudice for what they had done.

  As for the slain Ariella, her severed head was mounted on a spear and given to the Royal Archer Corps to carry back to Valoret—Sighere’s suggestion—the rest of the body being divided and pieces sent to various of Cinhil’s cities for display on their gates. In this way, it was hoped, future malcontents would observe and learn the true mettle of their new king, and future rebellions would be discouraged. Cinhil had a kingdom to settle. He could not afford another war for some time.

  The decisions made, camp was struck. Sighere bade farewell to his erstwhile allies and took his army back into Eastmarch’s heartland to lick his wounds, while Cinhil and his army started on the road to Valoret. At five-mile intervals, Cinhil’s sentence was carried out on the chosen prisoners, so that the trees of Gwynedd bore strange, dangling fruit which jerked briefly and then was still until the carrion birds came. Local peasants and nobles were forbidden to cut the bodies down until thirty days had passed, under pain of attainder and banishment. Cinhil forced himself to watch the first execution, but after that he had Jebediah oversee the operation.

  As for Camber, Cinhil was apparently still contrite over his recent harassment of the dead lord and his other Deryni mentors, and had decreed that Camber’s body should be given all honors during the journey back. The shrouded body, magically preserved by Rhys to prevent decomposition in the late June heat, was borne on a litter carried by two cream palfreys, escorted by six of Gwynedd’s highest-ranking lords in full battle array, the assignments changing twice a day to accommodate all those who wished so to serve.

  Clergy with candles and incense and processional crosses marched before and behind the bier, chanting psalms and prayers for the repose of the dead man’s soul; and Camber himself, in his guise of Alister Cullen, was obliged to lead the Michaeline contingent just behind the procession, with Joram sometimes riding at his side as a Michaeline and sometimes marching afoot in a closer position of honor as Camber’s son.

  Camber disliked the experience intensely, and made a point of engaging, or appearing to engage, in deep meditation whenever possible, that he might not be drawn into unnecessary conversation and risk betraying himself. But his self-imposed mental isolation had its drawbacks, for it gave him too much time to absorb and analyze the reception the cortege was meeting along the way.

  Not to many men is it given to observe the reaction to their own death. For Camber, it was an illuminating experience. He was, in turn, amazed, flattered, and a little disturbed—though he could not put his finger on the reason for that last reaction.

  He had expected sadness. For that, he was prepared. He could hardly have been unaware of the gratitude of the people for his restoration of the Haldane line, after the excesses of Imre. But he had not thought to find so much personal affection for Camber among the common folk, who could hardly know much of his actual role in bringing Cinhil to the throne. Apparently, news had traveled more quickly, and with far more embellishments, than he had dreamed. Though he was certain he had never done anything to warrant it, he found himself being lauded as a new folk hero. That realization made him distinctly uncomfortable.

  But if the ride back to Valoret was difficult, the arrival, on the Calends of July, was even more traumatic. Because of the slow progress of the funeral cortege and the train of wounded, and the necessity to execute the requisite prisoners along the way, word of their coming and the outcome of the battle had reached the capital several days before they did. Into a strangely silent city they rode, past throngs who cheered halfheartedly and bowed as Cinhil passed, but fell silent, some kneeling in respect, as Camber’s bier went by.

  Camber, from his vantage point at the tail of the procession, watched Cinhil’s reaction farther on ahead, wondering as the king grew more and more subdued. He could almost sense that Cinhil was feeling pangs of jealousy.

  But then they were entering the castle itself, under the eyes of all the assembled court, and Camber had something new to worry about. For among the queen and her ladies and Archbishop Anscom and a host of other clerics, there was Evaine, standing stricken and small and very lonely-looking, though Cathan’s Elinor plucked at her sleeve and the folk of the court pressed at her from either side.

  Her, Camber saw first, as he drew rein in the crowded yard; but at the same moment he was also aware of Anscom moving toward him, toward the MacRorie bier. Helpless to go to Evaine under the circumstances, he dismounted and waited for Anscom, at the same time catching Rhys’s attention and sign
aling him to go to Evaine. He kept his eyes averted as he knelt to kiss the archbishop’s ring.

  “Your Grace,” he murmured.

  With a distracted nod, Anscom raised him up, his eyes only for the bier beside them. Blinking back tears, the old archbishop brushed a hand across his eyes, then knelt solemnly beside the bier and bowed his head for several minutes, the others of his party joining him. Silence fell on that part of the courtyard, slowly spreading through the rest of the company.

  As Camber, too, knelt, feeling Joram slip into place at his right elbow, he knew that Joram was also aware of Evaine with the royal party across the yard. On the steps, he saw Rhys make his way through the crowd to Evaine, cradling her head against his shoulder as he took her in his arms. Cinhil’s greeting to his queen was cooler and far more restrained, as if he were much more interested in what was happening around the bier.

  Camber had a queasy sensation as he watched Cinhil out of the edge of his vision, the king’s face staying set and expressionless as he and his party turned and went into the hall. His only comfort was the certain knowledge that Rhys had, by now, ended Evaine’s grieving with his glad news. He wondered how long it would be before he could comfort his daughter himself.

  At length, Anscom finished his prayers, blessed himself, and stood, and suddenly things were moving again. As his clergy took the body from the charge of the lords who had escorted it into the yard and moved with it into the Chapel Royal, Anscom turned straight toward Camber, moving deftly between him and Joram to lay a hand on either’s shoulder. The pressure of his touch urged both men toward the chapel where the cortege had disappeared, though they lagged well behind the actual procession. Joram stumbled a little as they climbed the shallow steps—an unaccustomed moment of clumsiness for one such as Joram.

  “Joram, I think you can guess how deeply grieved I was to hear of your father’s death,” the archbishop said, his voice low and strained as they stopped in the chapel’s porch. “I need not tell you how like brothers we were, or how much his friendship meant to me. I hope you will accept my offer of whatever assistance I might be able to render in the future, for love of his memory as well as the affection I have always held for you.”

  Joram murmured a suitable sound of thanks and bowed his head. Camber knew how difficult the charade must be for him.

  “And Alister,” the archbishop continued, glancing sidelong at Camber, “I know how you, too, will miss him, and in what high regard his whole family has held you of late. Therefore, I hope you will not take it amiss that I dare to ask a great favor of you.”

  Camber nodded, not trusting himself to speak as he wondered what Anscom had in mind.

  “First, you should know that I have scheduled the funeral for the day after tomorrow,” Anscom continued. “Joram, it may comfort you to learn that the news reached me before it reached your sister, so that I was able to ease her initial grief at least a little. But she is a very practical young woman, as you know, and her next thought was to ask whether I would permit both of you to assist in the Requiem Mass. Joram, I think that I need not ask your answer.”

  “No, Your Grace,” Joram whispered. “No power in heaven or earth could keep me from that Office.”

  “I thought not,” Anscom said gently. “And you, Alister? Your participation is your choice, of course. Though Evaine did request it, Camber was not of your Order, and I will certainly understand if you wish to decline, under the circumstances.”

  Camber drew a thoughtful breath, wondering whether he dared accept. Of course, Evaine had not known the truth of the situation when she made the request—though she had read the relationship between himself and Alister Cullen sufficiently well to realize that he would have wanted Alister to be asked.

  But the overriding question in his own mind, at this point, was whether, even for form’s sake, he could validly assist at anyone’s Mass. As a deacon only, in his own right, and one who had not, in some years, exercised that minor but holy office, he had hoped to avoid any religious observances which were not absolutely necessary to maintain his new identity. Still, if he could validly assist—Anscom would be the principal celebrant, after all—he would be one more person who could, at least in his heart, bid proper farewell to the real Alister Cullen. For, unless other arrangements could be worked out later, this would likely be the only funeral which the good vicar general would receive.

  He glanced at Joram to find his son’s eyes full on him, and knew that Joram must already have guessed what was going through his mind. Now he must trust that he could question Joram without Anscom’s knowing what was happening.

  “Joram, I will defer strictly to your wishes in this matter,” he said softly, making his craggy face look as stricken as he could. “If you had rather keep this smaller and more private, I will certainly understand.”

  Joram shook his head, a touch of resigned but bitter mirth touching the gray eyes in a way that only Camber could read, after years of intimate acquaintance.

  “Thank you for your offer, Vicar General, but I think that my father would have been honored to have you assist us. Whatever differences he had with our Order were long ago reconciled, and I know he valued your friendship greatly in this last year or so.”

  “Then I shall be honored to accept,” Camber said, inclining his head graciously.

  “My thanks as well, Alister,” Anscom replied.

  “There is one thing which I would ask, Father General,” Joram continued. There was something in his tone which alerted Camber to the fact that this, too, was important. “I should like your permission for him to be buried in the habit of a Michaeline. Though not of our Order in his lifetime, he would have made a noble member, had he chosen so. It is not an uncommon request, and I believe my sister would approve.”

  Camber lowered his eyes, appreciating anew the skill with which his son so often moved. What Joram had said, supposedly about his father, was certainly true—but it was also a perfect way to ensure that Camber provided properly for Alister, who most definitely would have wanted to be buried in the garb of his Order. Still, on the outside chance that he had misread Joram’s intentions …

  “I have no objections,” he said, meeting Joram’s eyes squarely. “Unless the Chapter should object, which I would not anticipate, I see no reason not to grant your request. Your Grace, have you any thoughts on this matter?”

  “It’s your Order, Alister,” Anscom replied. “However, I suspect that Camber would have been pleased at the gesture. He and I studied together for the priesthood, you know, when we were only boys. After his two brothers died, his father took him out of school at the seminary, and I went on alone.” Anscom sighed. “He would probably chide me for saying so, but he would have made an excellent priest.”

  “Nay, I think he would be flattered, Your Grace,” Joram said, shooting a glance at Camber which was totally unnoticed by the archbishop. “If there is nothing more, sir, I should go to my sister.”

  Anscom came back from his reverie with a start. “Oh, forgive me, please, Joram. I’ve been most insensitive. And both of you will be tired from your long journey.

  “One last thing, Alister, and then I’ll let you both go. Perhaps this is not a good time to ask this, either, but I wonder whether you’ve made any decision yet on your successor as vicar general? While you were en route back, I conferred with Robert Oriss, and we’ve set a tentative date of Sunday a week for your mutual consecrations. Will that impose any particular strain on you?”

  Camber raised bushy eyebrows in consideration. “I don’t think so. Joram, do you?” He had no idea who Cullen might have had in mind, or even how the selection was made.

  Joram shrugged and shook his head, and Anscom nodded with satisfaction.

  “Good, then. I’ll tell Robert that you agree, and have the masters of ceremonies begin making preparations.” He started to go, then turned back to face them.

  “By the way, who are you going to name as your successor?”

  I was afraid he�
��d ask that, Camber thought, glancing at his feet in an effort to gain time.

  “In all honesty, I haven’t given it much thought for the past week or so, Your Grace,” he answered truthfully. “However,” he continued, glancing at Joram and seeing no sign of disagreement, “I’ll certainly inform you, as soon as a final decision has been made.”

  “Good enough.” Anscom’s tone seemed to indicate complete satisfaction. “I’ll leave you, then. I know that both of you will have much to do.”

  When both Camber and Joram had bent to kiss his ring again, Anscom turned and rejoined his secretary to go into the chapel proper. As their forms receded down a clerestory aisle, Camber glanced apprehensively at Joram.

  “Well, how did I do?” he murmured under his breath, mentally and visually scanning around them to ensure that they would not be overheard.

  “It just may work,” Joram replied. He, too, glanced around with a deceptive casualness. “By the way, even I haven’t the foggiest notion whom Alister had in mind for his successor. Jebediah might, but I don’t think you want to spend too much time with him, at least until you learn where he and Alister stood. And the successor is chosen by the vicar general, but ratified by the entire chapter of the Order. At least your answer was sufficiently vague to allow for that—a very good guess.”

  “Worthy of your own, about the habit,” Camber acknowledged. “It’s something I never would have thought of, until it was too late—though it’s an obvious point that Alister would have appreciated.”

  Joram nodded curtly. “If it has to be this way, I’ll do everything I can to keep things going smoothly. But you know I don’t like it, even though it’s beginning to look like you might carry it off.”

  “This is neither the time nor the place to discuss that,” Camber murmured, glancing around nervously once again, though he knew there was no one nearby. “However, the conversation we just had with Anscom points up something which is urgent—and that’s for me to get Alister’s memories integrated with my own as soon as possible. God knows, there weren’t many left, but I need all the help I can get. Besides, I’m starting to get the expected headaches. How soon do you think we dare get together with Rhys and Evaine?”