The announcement of Crevan Allyn’s selection was made to the assembled Grand Chapter, minus Joram MacRorie, on Thursday evening. It was followed by a solemn Mass of Thanksgiving, celebrated by the vicar general-elect and assisted by the incumbent. At the homily, an appropriately humble Crevan addressed the Order quietly but with great feeling, briefly outlining his yet-tenuous plans for the beginning of his tenure.
Afterwards, Camber dined with his successor and eight other of the highest-ranking officers in his Order, including Jebediah and Nathan. During the course of the meal, plans were completed for installing Crevan as vicar general on Saturday at noon, the day before Alister was to be elevated to the episcopate. The part of Camber that was Alister drank in the evening as bittersweet dregs, for Alister had known only the life of the Order of Saint Michael for many, many years.
The next day brought all of them to Cinhil’s hammer-beamed great hall to vie for places in the crowd which assembled to witness the king’s recognition of his newest nobility. Eighteen heirs, from earls and barons to lesser lords, ranging in age from sixty years to six months, came forward in serried processions, banners and regalia gleaming richly in the torchlit hall, there to kneel in homage to the king from whom all honor flowed, at least in theory—though some of the lords being confirmed today could have bought and sold Cinhil’s personal holdings, had they thought to take such a course.
Young Davin was among them, of course, next to the last of those who would be confirmed in their titles today. He was accompanied by his family: his mother, Elinor, Cathan’s widow, who would act as regent for the earldom until he should reach his majority at fourteen; his uncles, Joram and Rhys, brilliant in Michaeline blue and Healer’s green; and his Aunt Evaine, whom he adored. His younger brother Ansel, heir after him, carried a blue velvet cushion bearing a scaled-down earl’s coronet. The gules/azure banner of Culdi was carried by his cousin, James Drummond.
Only his aunt and uncles paid particular attention to the blue-garbed men who stood ranked to one side, among a host of other clergy, or to one particular Michaeline who watched the boy Davin with haunted eyes. Fortunately, it was the incipient vicar general, and not the incumbent one, who elicited attention among those who wore or watched the blue. Crevan Allyn played his part to perfection, never guessing how he helped screen Camber from too close a scrutiny as Camber’s grandson came forward in his turn, to kneel tremulously before the king.
The seven-year-old Davin was grave and dignified as he placed his small hands between those of the graying king. After reciting his oath of fealty in a clear, piping voice, he stared solemnly into the royal eyes as Cinhil gave the return oath to protect and defend young Davin and his new-come earldom.
Nor did the lad flinch as Cinhil gently dubbed him on shoulders and head with the great sword of state, which the constable, Lord Udaut, had already handed to the king a full sixteen times in the past hour. Only when Cinhil raised him up and kissed him on either cheek did his composure waver—for the king’s beard and mustache tickled, and Davin had been long enough solemn for so young a child.
He fidgeted a little as Queen Megan buckled the jeweled earl’s belt around his little waist. But when Cinhil took up the small coronet and lifted it a little above Davin’s head before settling it on the sunny hair, Davin stood without a quiver, his pretty face going a little pale. He made his final obeisance with the gravity of one many times his years before backing into place to witness the final oath-taking.
Shadows were long, the light diffused with the coming sunset, by the time the ceremony and attendant court had been concluded, but Camber tried to linger a little as people came pouring out of the great hall. While making small talk with his brethren, he surreptitiously watched his grandsons and their mother being escorted to a group of horses and servants waiting to conduct them to quarters which had been arranged in the city, managing to bow gracefully as Evaine came to extend a formal dinner invitation which both of them knew he could not accept. Even had he not been committed to a night-long vigil with Crevan, in preparation for the transfer of office the next morning, still he would not yet have dared to face Elinor and the boys in so intimate a surrounding. There was no need to involve them in his intrigues. Later, perhaps, when the boys were grown …
He thanked Evaine graciously and, as she moved away to join Rhys and the others, returned his attention to the men who had waited while he spoke to her. He even managed to exchange a few words with Joram before they all dispersed, when Joram came to offer his congratulations and obedience to his new superior, who stood at ease at Camber’s side.
Then the young priest adroitly turned the conversation to the topic of the present vicar general’s health, suggesting that Father Cullen, to satisfy the anxiety of many who were concerned for him, might like to consider inviting the Healer Rhys and his lady to dine with him the following evening, the night before Cullen was to assume his bishop’s miter. In fact, since Cullen had not seen his illustrious physician for several days, and had still been recuperating when Rhys left, Joram insisted upon the event, and would himself make arrangements and join them, to ensure that Cullen did not try to avoid the issue. Once Cullen left the loving attention of his Order and friends to pursue his new duties in Grecotha, he would be on his own, but the Michaelines could at least guarantee that he started his new assignment in good health.
Camber, after the expected feeble protests, accepted the invitation gracefully, secretly delighted at the ease with which his son had turned a much-desired meeting of father and children into an ecclesiastically expedient dinner engagement, and before decidedly partial witnesses. Days had passed since he had last been able to talk with any of these three who loved him most; and there were many details yet to be decided, before he left for the relative isolation of his new see in Grecotha. He allowed a resigned smile to shape his mouth as he and Crevan headed for the archbishop’s private chapel to begin their night’s vigil.
The investiture of Crevan Allyn went off without incident the next morning, and it was with some relief that Camber finally put away the last of the vestments he had worn and started back to his own quarters with Joram. Again, he had managed not to be the principal celebrant at the accompanying Mass, thereby avoiding—at least technically—the exercise of priestly functions to which he was not entitled.
But the moral issue he had been putting off for several weeks now would soon have to be faced—tomorrow, in fact, when Bishop Cullen would be required to celebrate his first Mass. Camber was glad that he and Joram would have some time this afternoon to discuss the matter in depth. And dinner tonight would bring the added comfort and insight of Evaine and Rhys.
But an afternoon of such soul-searching was not to be his. No sooner had he and Joram stepped from the cathedral doorway than he was met by one of the king’s pages, conveying Cinhil’s invitation to ride out from the city for the afternoon. Apparently, Cinhil had decided that the former vicar general needed physical activity to occupy his mind and body; for no excuse of fatigue or pressing duties or prior commitment elsewhere could persuade the page to let him decline the invitation.
Half an hour later found Camber riding out of Valoret at the king’s side, hard pressing the tall bay courser he rode in order to keep up with Cinhil’s fleet Moonwind. Eight mounted knights accompanied them, for it was not seemly that the King of Gwynedd should ride out unattended. But the riders hung back a score of lengths to the rear, giving their royal master the illusion of privacy he wished. The effect was as if the two men rode alone, only a cloud of dust and the muffled sound of following hooves reminding them that they were guarded at reasonable call.
After an initial gallop, the two rode at a gentle canter for some minutes, each man alone with his thoughts in the breeze which their passage stirred in the warm summer air. When at last they pulled up in the shade of an oak grove to let the horses blow, the knights stood by just out of earshot. For all practical purposes, they were alone. Camber wondered what was on Cinhil’s mind, fo
r him to insist so strongly on this meeting, but he knew better than to speak first and break the mood.
Cinhil let the reins slide through his gloved fingers and lie slack on Moonwind’s neck as the stallion stretched to steal a mouthful of grass. Oddly, the king had begun to acquire a taste for riding since the war, and appeared far more at ease astride a horse than Camber had ever seen him.
For several minutes, the only sounds were the rustlings of breeze-stirred leaves and the soft, horse noises of snuffling breath and muted harness jangle. Leather creaked, a rich, comforting comment on the laziness of the summer’s day, as Cinhil gave a contented sigh.
“So, we have a new master of the Michaelines,” Cinhil finally said. “How does it feel to be just plain Father Cullen, if only for a few hours?”
The king’s smile was open and friendly, genuinely curious, and Camber allowed himself to relax just a little.
“I feel a little naked, if the truth be known, Sire. And sad, too, in a way,” he admitted. He leaned his elbows on the high pommel and echoed Cinhil’s sigh. “I shall miss my Michaelines. The Order has occupied some of the best years of my life.”
“Aye, that’s probably true—though you have many more good years ahead, I’ll warrant.”
“God willing,” Camber agreed idly.
“And your successor—he is a competent man,” Cinhil replied, after only a slight hesitation. “I’ve had numerous occasions to speak with him since we returned from Iomaire, and I confess I am impressed. I was a little surprised you chose a human, though.”
Camber gave Cinhil one of Alister’s sidelong glances of appraisal. “Are you disappointed, Sire?”
“Disappointed? Nay, of course not. But I thought—I thought that you would surely choose another Deryni,” he finally blurted, at last betraying his anxiety. “You weren’t jesting, were you, about wanting to help me?”
“I would never jest about that, Sire. Crevan Allyn is the best man for the job in these troubled times, were he Deryni or human. He will be a uniting factor, not a divisive one. That will be increasingly important as potential enemies begin to test you in the months and years ahead.”
“You begin to sound like Camber,” Cinhil snorted. “Perhaps he did touch you that night.”
Camber coughed and then sneezed to cover his alarm.
What was Cinhil talking about? He could not know that Camber was now Cullen—at least his tone did not indicate that he was in any way suspicious.
But what night was Cinhil talking about? It almost had to be the night of the memory integration. What had happened? He had always assumed that everything had gone well, that no suspicions had been aroused—else Joram or Rhys or Evaine would surely have found a way to warn him.
On the other hand, he knew he did not remember all of that night. He had a vague recollection that Cinhil and someone else had at least come to the door, but he had lost consciousness shortly after that. Could it be that something had happened—something minor, but disturbing to Cinhil, nonetheless—and his children had merely assumed that he knew?
He turned in his saddle to look at Cinhil squarely, letting a little of his puzzlement show on his face. Honest dismay should not arouse suspicion. He knew that Alister would have been similarly curious in such a situation.
“Perhaps who touched me that night, Sire?” he asked in a low voice. “And what night? What are you talking about?”
“Why, the night you were so ill—Sunday, it must have been. The night before Camber’s funeral.” Cinhil looked back at him in surprise. “You don’t remember?”
Camber shook his head slightly, his gaze not leaving Cinhil.
Cinhil drew a deep, shuddering breath and glanced away, trying to hide a haunted look in his eyes, then looked back at Camber quickly.
“You really don’t remember?”
“What happened, Sire?”
Almost without thinking, Camber had let his voice take on a harder, more demanding edge—still Cullen’s, but far more harsh than Camber had intended. Fortunately, Cinhil seemed wrapped in his own reluctant remembrance, gray gaze fixed unseeing on the reins slack in his gloved hands.
“I—I guess I just supposed you were aware of what was going on,” the king finally whispered. “But I realize now that you were like one possessed. Alister … what demon were you fighting that night?”
Camber closed his eyes briefly, as if to shut out a painful memory, chilling at the image of possession Cinhil had touched. In a way, he had fought a demon, had been possessed—but in no way that he dared explain to Cinhil.
Still, what connection had Cinhil made between Camber and Cullen, if any? Camber had to know.
He shook his head. “It—is nothing I may speak of here, Sire,” he said softly. “But I sense now that my memory of that night is even less complete than I dreamed. Pray, tell me what happened. I—seemed to sense that you were there at some point, but beyond that, I remember very little. When I awoke the next morning, Rhys was asleep beside my bed and I had not the heart to wake him; and there was no time to ask him after that.”
Cinhil drew breath again and tried to regain a more objective tone.
“You—had stopped breathing. Rhys was trying to keep you alive. He said you were fighting some vestige of Ariella. We thought you were dying.”
“Go on.”
“Well, your young Lord Dualta was with me, watching as all of us got more and more afraid for you. Even I could feel a little of what you were fighting—the fear and terror of it, anyway. And then, suddenly, Dualta—fell to his knees and invoked Camber to fight for you, to make you live.”
“He—invoked Camber,” Camber repeated.
Cinhil gave a reluctant nod, not meeting Camber’s gaze. Each word seemed to be dragged from deep inside him, almost against his will.
“He said—he said something like ‘Oh, if the Lord Camber were only here, he could save Father Cullen!’ And then—” Cinhil swallowed, and enunciated each word carefully. “Then a shadow seemed to come across your face, and I—seemed to see—the face of Camber on top of yours, shifting in that shadow.”
“Camber’s face!” Camber breathed.
Instantly he knew what must have happened, though he still could not remember it; the temporary relaxation of physical controls as his beleaguered mind fought to resolve the inner chaos of another’s memories—a few seconds only, but long enough to leave an indelible impression on those who saw.
With a blink, he was back with Cinhil again, seaice eyes searching the king’s with dismay appropriate to Alister. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He swallowed and, with a hand sign, bade Cinhil continue.
“I—gather—that you, too, find it hard to believe,” the king murmured. “Nonetheless, I assure you that we saw what we saw. For a few seconds, the image wavered—and then you began to breathe, and the face disappeared, and you were yourself again. Dualta said it was a miracle.”
Camber felt Alister’s memories tugging at his own, and this time he let the cold shudder pass through his body as he crossed himself in the gesture he had seen Alister use a dozen times.
A miracle. Was that what Cinhil thought, too? How that supposition must gall the poor, guilt-ridden king, who could not seem to escape Camber’s influence, even with the man’s death. No wonder he was troubled. Camber had not foreseen this complication.
“I wish someone had told me sooner,” he said, after a few seconds’ pause. “I had no idea.”
“And Rhys or Joram didn’t tell you?”
Camber shook his head. “They must have assumed I would remember. Besides, I told you that I found Rhys asleep by my bed the next morning, and I left for the cathedral before he awoke. And what with the funeral and the chapter meeting, I didn’t really have a chance to speak with either of them in private before they left for Caerrorie. It’s not the sort of thing one discusses in front of just anyone, you know.”
“Certainly not,” Cinhil agreed. “Besides, I forbade them all to discuss it further, except
among themselves. That reminds me, I should find that young monk who was kneeling in your oratory and question him further. Is he attached to your household?”
“The monk?” Camber realized with a start that Cinhil must be referring to Evaine. “No, I think he was from one of the outlying houses, quartered with another order until our facilities can be rebuilt. I suspect he’s been sent back by now. I don’t even remember why he was brought to me. It all seems so long ago.”
“No matter. I’ll find him.”
Oh no you won’t, Camber thought. At least that was one thing he need not worry about—though now he wondered how Evaine had managed to keep her identity a secret, especially if Cinhil had spoken to her at all.
But for now, he must worry about the king himself, and Dualta—and Guaire, he also realized. After all, Guaire’s little “dream” had deliberately been staged to look like a supernatural visitation. At the time, there had seemed no reason to play it otherwise. Now, if Guaire should get together with Cinhil or Dualta and compare notes …
He suddenly realized that Cinhil had fallen silent and was looking at him strangely. He stole a glance at Cinhil’s face, then turned his attention to his saddlebow, wondering where he and the king stood now. He dared not speak.
After a moment, Cinhil sighed.
“You believe it, too, don’t you?”
“Believe it, Sire?”
“That he came back. That it was a miracle.”
Camber exhaled slowly. “I—don’t know, Cinhil. Do you want me to say I do or I don’t? It’s—beyond all reason, all rational explanation—and I still don’t remember any of it. I haven’t even the delusion of memory to go on.”
“It’s called ‘faith,’ Father,” Cinhil said grimly. “Once, I thought I had it. Very recently, I thought I had it. Now—God, will I never be free of him?”
The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy Page 63