“You’ll talk to Anscom, then?”
“I think so. I want to ponder it a bit more, but if you could make sure that Evaine and Rhys are available, I’d appreciate it. The three of you can be my only witnesses, even if Anscom agrees.”
When Joram had gone, Camber stood staring into the dying fire for several minutes before moving into the adjoining oratory. Only the ruby Presence light burned in the little chamber, and Camber smiled wanly as he lit the other candles on the altar, taking pains to perform all as a human might.
No arcane manifestations of flame for the thinking he must do. He must not let the difference of his Deryniness color the decision he must make.
He covered his eyes with both hands as he knelt at the prie-dieu, letting his conscious mind occupy itself for the first few minutes with the recitation of standard prayers and meditations—anything to let himself settle down so he could move on to this most important consideration.
From there, he turned his attention inward, seeking out all possible ramifications of the subject at hand. Slipping into the profound, introspective trance which he had mastered so many years before, he allowed the deeper facets of his being to explore the situation, drawing upon Alister’s memories and knowledge as well as his own.
When he at last raised his head, the altar candles were shorter by a fingerspan, guttering and quaking in a wayward draft which whispered through the half-open door behind him. Above, the smooth, gentle face of the carved Christus gazed down with compassion from its cross of wood and ivory.
He cocked his head and searched the blank, shadowed eyes as he had done so many times before, mouth set in stubborn questioning, then let the alien lips of his alter ego relax in a little smile, bowed his head in surrender. In the flickering candlelight, he could almost imagine that the figure inclined its head slightly, and that the ivory lips smiled in return.
Very well. He would take it as a sign. He would go to his old friend and mentor, Anscom. He would reveal himself as Camber, and would lay the entire matter at the feet of the man who was at once brother and spiritual father. Then, if Anscom agreed, he would be properly ordained a priest. Only in that way could he go through with the consecration as bishop which must be the lot of Alister Cullen, and his own.
He was knocking on Anscom’s door, a torch-bearing monk at his side, before the full emotional impact hit him of what he was about to do. His breath caught in his throat, his mouth went dry, and his hand jerked spasmodically before he could control it.
Anxiously he wondered whether the monk had seen—tried to fathom the man’s reaction as the silence of waiting began to stretch on interminably. He prayed that the man would merely ascribe his nervousness to the natural apprehension of any man about to be made a bishop. Surely the monk could not see beyond his Deryni facade.
Then the monk’s gnarled old fist was pounding on the door instead of Camber’s, and he was murmuring something about the archbishop’s hearing perhaps not being quite as good as it once was.
Camber, grateful for the timely if erroneous excuse, let his hand fall awkwardly to his side and said nothing as he heard the bolt being shot from the inside. Anscom himself opened the door, his disheveled appearance and bleary eyes bespeaking much of the sleep he had just left.
“I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, Your Grace,” Camber murmured.
“Alister.” Incomprehension and sleep slurred the archbishop’s voice. “I had thought you abed hours ago. Is anything wrong?”
“I was unable to sleep, Your Grace. I wondered whether you might hear my confession.”
“Your confession?” Anscom’s eyes flicked down the figure of the former vicar general and were back on his face in an instant, all drowsiness now completely gone. “I was of the impression that you had your own Michaeline confessor, Father. Was he not available?”
Camber averted his gaze, his words low and careful.
“He is not a bishop, Your Grace. There are certain things I may ask only of you.”
As Camber glanced meaningfully at the monk beside him, Anscom reacted with a start, as though he had forgotten that the man still stood there, overhearing every word of their conversation. With a wave, Anscom dismissed the monk, standing aside to admit his visitor as the monk’s circle of torchlight slowly receded down the corridor.
Camber kept his eyes lowered as he stepped past Anscom, standing awkwardly in the center of the room until the archbishop had re-bolted the door and turned toward him. Even after his long introspection, he was surprised at how apprehensive he felt, now that the moment of revelation was almost upon him. He followed Anscom into the archbishop’s private oratory, much more ornate than the one in his own quarters, and watched him pick up a violet stole from the prie-dieu.
“I thank you for seeing me at this hour, Your Grace,” Camber murmured. “I would not have disturbed you, but what I have to say could truly be trusted to no other.”
Anscom inclined his head slightly and raised an eyebrow as he touched the stole to his lips and draped it around his shoulders. Gesturing toward the prie-dieu and straightening his sleeping robe, he started to turn toward the altar.
Camber caught at Anscom’s sleeve gently, then backed off a pace and let his alien identity begin to slip away.
“What in—!”
Anscom shrank against the wall beside the altar steps and stared, aghast, one hand groping with protective instinct for the pectoral cross which customarily lay on his breast. As he watched, his visitor’s face began to waver, mist, then to alter to features long loved and well remembered—features which Anscom had thought forever buried for many days now. His mouth moved several times before he could whisper the single word: “Camber!”
Camber, his face wreathed momentarily in a nimbus of light, smiled a gentle smile and let himself sink to his knees on the prie-dieu as Anscom had originally directed.
“Forgive me, old friend,” he murmured. “I know how difficult it must have been, and will be.”
“But how—? You were dead! I saw you! I celebrated your Requiem!” Anscom shook his head and looked again, brushing a hand across his eyes as though to clear away a veil.
“You will not like my explanation,” Camber replied. “And you will like it even less when I tell you that I must continue in what I am doing, and that I must enlist your aid. It was Alister who killed Ariella, and was killed—not I.”
“But, you—”
Sudden comprehension dawned on Anscom in that instant, and he collapsed to a seat on the altar step as though physically struck.
“You’ve shape-changed with his body,” he finally managed to choke out. “You knew that your effectiveness was waning—you even talked with me about it, long before the battle—and you saw Cullen’s death as a chance to try again. Cullen was dead, after all—he was dead, wasn’t he?”
An appalled look had flashed across Anscom’s face before he could hide it, but the thought was obvious. Instantly, Camber was on his knees beside the prelate, gray eyes locking with the frightened blue ones of Anscom.
“Dear friend, dismiss it from your mind! Can you really conceive, even for a second, that I would murder a friend and colleague merely to ease my own difficulties?”
Anscom looked away. “Murder is a very strong term,” he whispered. “Some, in your circumstances, might simply have chosen not to help a gravely wounded man. The effect would be the same.”
There was a long silence before Camber breathed, “Am I that kind of man?”
Anscom drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“I—think not. But, then, I would not have expected you to shape-change with a dead man, either.” He looked up. “Tell me what I want to hear, Camber—and pray God that it be the truth.”
Tension grew as the two searched each other’s eyes. Finally, Camber sighed and let out a tiny smile.
“I cannot fault you for your doubts, dear friend. Your conscience and your office demand them. But believe me when I say that I had no part in Aliste
r Cullen’s death, directly or indirectly. He was dead when we found him. Joram can verify. He was with me throughout.”
“Joram?”
Anscom gave a relieved sigh and wiped a sleeve across his face, swallowing uncomfortably as he tried to make himself untense.
“My God, Camber, you’re going to have to give me a few minutes to get used to this,” he said, half turning away and nervously rubbing his hands together as he thought out loud. “You shape-changed with Alister’s body, and you’ve been playing his part for—nearly two weeks, now.” He paused and glanced at Camber with a sickly expression on his face. “You ve been functioning as a priest, too, haven’t you?”
Camber shook his head. “Technically, no. I’ve managed to avoid o’erstepping the bounds of my long-ago deacon’s vows. You needn’t worry on that account.”
“But you’ve been playing the vicar general of the Michaelines. Do you mean to tell me that you’ve not once said Mass, or heard a confession, or anything else you’re not entitled to do as Camber MacRorie?”
“So far. However …” Camber sighed. “I realized this evening, with some not-so-gentle prodding from my priestly son, that there’s no way I can keep up that particular sham after tomorrow, unless I have your help. Even I, as audacious as you probably think I am right now, would never dare to accept consecration as a bishop when I’m not even a proper priest.”
Anscom stared at him for several seconds without saying anything, as if trying to pierce beyond the veil of Deryni complexity to the real man beyond, then lowered his eyes.
“Then you’ve come to me for ordination?”
“Yes. And it must be now, tonight. I’ll accept any penance you like for what I’ve done up to this point; and perhaps I’ve been too bold in wanting the best for Gwynedd at whatever the price. But I’m willing to risk that for this land. I had a son, Anscom—and Cathan was not the only one to suffer under Imre, God knows.
“But that’s past now. Will you do it, Anscom? Will you ordain me?”
“Camber …”
Anscom’s voice trailed off as he glanced at the crucifix above the altar.
“Camber, have you thought about what it really means, what you’re asking? It’s forever, you know—once it’s done.”
“I had always intended to become a priest, even as a child. You know that. If both my brothers hadn’t died when they did, I would have remained in the seminary, and you and I would have been ordained at about the same time. By now, and I say this in all modesty, I probably would have been a bishop, too. Who knows? I might even have had your job.”
He gestured fancifully toward the archbishop’s signet on Anscom’s hand, and Anscom held out that hand to glance at the violet stone. The old blue eyes shone as he looked up again.
“You might, at that,” he whispered, lips curving in a reluctant smile. “You would have made one hell of a bishop.”
“I hope I will,” Camber murmured. “With your blessing, at least I have a chance.”
Anscom turned away, not really seeing anything as he fingered the embroidered end of his stole. Then he studied the amethyst on his hand for a long time. When he raised his head, it was to let his eyes meet Camber’s squarely. Much of the archbishop’s old twinkle was back in his voice as he got determinedly to his feet.
“You drive a hard bargain, Camber. But, very well. I’ll ordain you.”
Camber let out an enormous sigh of relief.
“I don’t intend to make it easy for you, though.”
“I would be disappointed if you did.”
“Good. We understand each other, then. It will take me an hour or so to prepare. I assume, from what you’ve said, that at least Joram knows your true status?”
“Joram is waiting for your instructions. Also Evaine and Rhys. No one else knows about me.”
Anscom nodded. “A small band of witnesses. You deserve better. However, under the circumstances, I suppose that quality will answer for quantity.” He paused. “I don’t suppose there’s anything else you haven’t told me, is there? I’ve had enough surprises for one night.”
“Just one.” Camber smiled.
“I was afraid of that.”
“It’s a matter of names,” Camber added quickly. “Perhaps it won’t seem important to you, but I’d like to be ordained under my old name in religion.”
“Kyriell? I see nothing wrong with that. You’ve often used it as a second name, haven’t you? Besides, no one will know except the two of us and your children.”
“I’d also like to add that name to Alister’s, when I’m consecrated bishop,” Camber replied. “That is my right, isn’t it, to take an additional name upon assuming my new office?”
Anscom raised an eyebrow. “Are you certain you want that name associated with Alister’s? What if people start adding things up?”
“What is there to add?” Camber countered. “You can say something about it being Alister’s gesture of remembrance for an old friend.”
“And suppose that isn’t enough?”
Camber shrugged. “As a priest and bishop, guarding the secrets of the confessional, I’ll have immunity from submitting to a Truth-Read unless you, as archbishop, require it. Apart from that, there is no way anyone can prove I’m not Alister Cullen.”
“So you hope,” Anscom muttered. “Very well, I’ll do it, since you insist.”
He moved into the doorway and stood silhouetted against the candlelight in the outer chamber. His sleeping robe and rumpled hair contrasted sharply with the determination on his face.
“One last thing, and then I’ll leave you to wrestle with your conscience while I make preparations. Since you’ve obviously thought all of this through, do you have any preference for where we hold this ceremony? I obviously can’t ordain you in the cathedral, as should be done.”
Camber cocked his head in thought, then nodded.
“Yes, the chapel in the Michaeline stronghold, where we first acknowledged Cinhil as the lawful heir. I think it’s fitting, don’t you?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
For every high priest taken from among men is ordained for men in things pertaining to God, that he may offer both gifts and sacrifices for sins.
—Hebrews 5:1
Two hours later, the chapel of the Michaeline stronghold was ready. Abandoned and arcanely sealed since Cinhil’s restoration the year before, it had been hastily cleaned and prepared by Rhys and Evaine in the hour just past, under Joram’s relieved supervision. Camber, central figure in the drama which would shortly unfold, had seen neither the chapel nor his children. As Anscom had promised, things were not going to be made deliberately easy.
Camber himself now waited in a small anteroom near that chapel, striding back and forth restlessly, as he had for nearly the past hour. Cold permeated the little chamber, for though enough dust had been cleared that he might dress and wait in reasonable cleanliness, no one had taken the time to light a fire. A single rushlight glowed yellow on the table where his vestments had been laid out, but it provided scant warmth to the icy hands which Camber held over it. Though Camber knew that the cold he felt was not entirely from the temperature, still he was human enough to be uncomfortable because of it—and Deryni enough to be annoyed that his best efforts were not enabling him to fully control his body and its apprehensions.
He had tried to isolate the cause for his apprehension, but rational thinking, he suspected, was not the answer in this case. He wondered whether every candidate for the priestly initiation grew so anxious as his time approached.
He felt he was prepared, God knew, not only in his soul, with which he had already wrestled, but in the mechanics of the rite which he was about to undergo. His Deryni learning ability at least had not failed him in the latter, and he had the memories of Alister’s long-ago ordination to draw upon, as well.
In the hour which had preceded his arrival here at the Michaeline stronghold, he had watched Anscom pore over the standard ritual of ordination and shake his head, then p
roduce a copy of an alternate rite which he assured Camber was of far more ancient origin, and much better fitted to a Deryni, such as Camber, about to be priested.
Camber had spent the next hour in deep Deryni meditation, committing to memory every nuance of word and gesture and knowing that, even in his understanding of the words and the significance of the movements, there was much which simply would not occur to him until he experienced the rite.
He glanced down at the white alb skimming his body from neck to floor, from shoulder to wrist; at the deep blue Michaeline stole laid over his left shoulder, baldric-style, and secured at his waist by the cincture of white linen cord.
How long had it been since he had assumed the deacon’s stole of his own accord? Had it really been as long as forty years?
Fingering the silk of the stole meditatively, he turned toward the table where the rushlight burned. There lay the snow-white chasuble with which he would be vested as part of his ordination, the most significant outward sign of the priesthood. Beside it was the unlighted taper he would carry into the chapel to begin the rite—a pure offering with which to approach the altar of God.
A gentle rap on the door brought his head up with a start.
Was it time already?
Joram slipped in quietly, a candle in his hand illuminating an expression somewhere between awe and guarded joy. Almost involuntarily, Camber moved toward him, not taking his eyes from his son’s face, until they stood an arm’s length apart, father and son staring at each other as though truly seeing for the first time.
A shiver swept through Camber, in recognition of the soon-to-be-shared bond between them; and Joram, mistaking that slight shudder for apprehension, put aside his candle and flung his arms around his father, disregarding all else in the sheer closeness of the moment.
Camber hugged his son, stroking the golden head as he had when Joram was a boy. He caught a prickle of Joram’s concern as he drew back and held him at arm’s length.
“I’m not afraid, son,” he said, searching the younger man’s face as though to memorize every detail anew. “Really, I’m not. Did you think I was?”
The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy Page 65