“Promittis michi et successoribus meis obedientiam et reverentiam?” Anscom asked. Do you promise obedience and reverence to me and my successors?
“Promitto.” I promise.
“Pax Domini sit semper tecum.”
“Et cum spiritu tuo.”
“Ora pro me, Frater,” Anscom whispered, with a tiny smile.
Camber returned the smile. “Dominus vobis retribuat.” May the Lord reward you.
Anscom glanced up at the others, Joram and Evaine and Rhys, watching so proudly, then glanced down at Camber once more with affection.
“The rubric indicates that here I am to warn you of the potential danger of that upon which you are about to embark. However, I think you know that, and that you will exercise prudence. You will find, if you have not already guessed, that the rituals authorized by the conferring of the priesthood are no whit less powerful than any of our strictly secular Deryni operations, ‘secular,’ in the Deryni sense, being a somewhat nebulous term. Perhaps that is why, even in our ‘secular’ affairs, we are careful to perform our works according to specified and formal procedures. We know, or at least suspect, the length and breadth and height and depth of the Forces we draw upon.”
He glanced up at the other three again, then returned his attention to Camber.
“And so, my dearly beloved son, I will not admonish you as I would any common priest—for you are one of the most uncommon men I know. I will simply wish you all fulfillment in the new responsibilities which you have undertaken here tonight, and will ask you to bear with me as we complete the last portion of your priestly investiture before allowing you to celebrate your first Mass. Joram, will you please bring the Book?”
As Joram brought the Gospel from the altar, Anscom stood and signaled Camber also to rise. Taking Camber’s right hand, the archbishop turned him to face his daughter and son-in-law.
“Hear ye, all present: Camber Kyriell has been set apart, consecrated, and perfected for the work of the Lord, and for the office of the Aaronic and Deryni priesthood. In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritui Sancti, Amen.”
Joram bowed and gave the Gospel to Anscom, his eyes never leaving his father’s face as Anscom placed the book in Camber’s hands.
“‘The Lord hath sworn, and will not repent. Thou art a priest forever, after the order of Melchizedek,’” Anscom announced. “‘The Lord at thy right hand shall strike through kings in the day of His wrath.’”
With the words graven upon his soul, Camber kissed the book and gave it back to Anscom with a bow.
“And now, let us make a joyful noise unto the Lord!” Anscom said, breaking into an enormous grin and taking Camber in an enthusiastic embrace. “Joram, come and embrace your father, who is also a Father and your brother now.”
He relinquished his hold on the new-made priest as Joram took his place. Soon Joram was supplanted by Evaine, whose tears of joy dampened his shoulder, and then by Rhys, whose Healer’s hands he took in quiet affection.
“All happiness and honor, Father Camber.” Rhys smiled. The merry, sun-gold eyes danced in the fair, freckled face. “And now, if you’re quite finished taking in all this congratulation, we’ve been waiting quite long enough to receive a special gift from your hands. May we assist you to celebrate your first Mass?”
With the help of those he loved, Camber celebrated that first Mass. Joram and Anscom gave their calm assurance as support during the ritual, reinforcing an office they both had performed countless times before, while Evaine and Rhys watched with wonder.
Camber even felt they understood, in part, what it meant to him; and what they could not understand, they took on faith. He could sense that faith in their response as they knelt to receive Communion from his newly consecrated hands; and he could see it in his daughter’s joy as she and her husband embraced him a final time before going back through the Transfer Portal to their own quarters.
Of Joram, of course, there was no question. He understood perfectly. Camber knew that without even asking, from the glow in Joram’s eyes and the new way he looked at his father now that they shared this common bond.
But they did not speak of it until Anscom had also gone and the two of them were packing up the vestments and altar furnishings, preparing to leave the little chapel as they had found it. Joram finished folding the vestments he and Camber had been wearing, laying them carefully into a leather travel satchel, then looked across at his father with a relaxed smile.
“Well, Father, how does it feel?”
Camber, kneeling to scrape up congealed wax from around the base of the western ward candle, glanced up with a wide grin.
“Do you realize how different your voice is, when you say that word now?”
“Father?” Joram chuckled and came to take the candle and put it with the others beside the door.
“Well, aren’t you different?”
“I hope you don’t really expect an answer to that.” Camber laughed. “Joram, I haven’t been this happy in years.”
Picking up the last of the wax from the floor, Camber compressed it in his hand and watched it vaporize in a sparkle of sputtering fire. A wistful smile was still on his face as he dusted his hands against the blue of his cassock and joined Joram in the stripping of the altar.
“You know,” he continued, as he shook out an embroidered linen cloth, “it’s something that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to explain in words, even to someone like yourself, who knows exactly what I’m talking about. Does that make any sense at all?”
“Oh, yes.” Joram put aside a cloth he had already folded and took the other end of Camber’s, smiling warmly across the folds of linen as he met his father’s eyes.
“Well, I’m glad it does to you,” Camber replied, “because I’m not sure I understand. It was awesome, wondrous, weighty—and, frankly, a little frightening, in the beginning.”
“Frightening? Yes, I suppose it is, in a way,” Joram agreed. “We take on quite a responsibility when we enter into this kind of commitment.” He stacked their folded cloth on top of the one he had already folded and leaned both elbows on them as he gazed across at Camber.
“It’s worth it, though. And the scary part recedes after a while, I’ve found—at least most of the time. The awesomeness never does, though. Nor am I sure I’d ever want it to.”
Camber nodded. “Perhaps even the fear is important, in the long run. A recurring reminder of the weight of responsibility, to keep us humble. That’s surely as it should be.”
“True.”
With a sigh, Joram glanced around the chapel in survey a final time, then gathered up the altar cloths and vestment satchel and headed toward the door.
“Well, I’ll take these and leave you now. I suspect you’ll want a few minutes alone, before you go back. I’ll collect the candlesticks in the morning.”
Camber nodded. “What about the altar vessels we used? Should they be left here overnight?”
Joram glanced at a leather-bound box lying on the floor beside the candlesticks, then lowered his eyes.
“Those were Alister’s, Father,” he whispered. “I guess that means they’re yours now. If you don’t mind, though, I’d rather not watch you change back into him—not tonight.”
“Joram, I know you don’t approve—”
“No, it isn’t that—not any more.” Joram shook his head and finally looked up. “I understand what you have to do, and why. And I’m more delighted than I can ever tell you, that you did what you did tonight.” His eyes shifted from Camber’s for just an instant, then held steadfastly. “But the times when you can be simply Camber Kyriell instead of Alister Kyriell are going to be somewhat rare. I’d like to remember you as yourself tonight.”
For just a heartbeat, Camber gazed at his son in a mixture of shock and amazed revelation, then hugged him close in a wordless embrace. Joram was smiling, his eyes sparkling with unshed tears, as they drew apart, and the smile changed to a grin as he gave a quick nod and turned to go.
Camber stared fondly after him for several seconds, then stooped to pick up the box containing Alister Cullen’s altar vessels. With a sweep of his free hand, he conjured a handful of silvery light as he rose, at the same time extinguishing all the other lights around the walls except the Presence light.
Then, bowing to that Presence a final time, he turned and glided from the chamber. Only one task remained before he returned to his quarters and the world of Alister Cullen.
The room he entered was a familiar one. For nearly a year, it had been the refuge and domicile of the then-Prince Cinhil, dominated in those days by a life-sized portrait of Cinhil’s great-grandfather Ifor, to remind the prince of his origins. A darkly gleaming mirror hung on the wall beside the door, and before it Camber now stood. Once a mirror of truth for Cinhil, a confirmation of the potent Haldane blood, now it must serve a similar purpose for the man who tonight searched its depths.
He set the handfire to hovering and stood at arm’s length from the polished surface, carefully studying the face which peered back at him.
Camber Kyriell MacRorie. Father Camber Kyriell, now. How long had it been since he had last looked upon that face? How long until he looked upon it again?
How long could he be another man, wear another man’s guise, live another man’s life? Would there ever be time to pursue his own ends, to live awhile for himself instead of for others?
He was fifty-nine years old. How much longer did he have? And things to do—so much to do!
He sighed and shook his head, pressing palms briefly to his eyes to force back the moment’s indulgence in self-pity. He had not come here for that—only to remind himself who he really was, despite and because of what had happened tonight. That must be what sustained him, whatever the outward form he wore. As Alister, he should be able to gain the time he needed, if not immediately, then at least in the foreseeable future. And as a priest, and soon a bishop, no one would think odd the long hours alone which he so sought.
In the meantime, he thanked God for the dimension which had been added to his life tonight. It would make tomorrow, and the days which would follow, far more than merely bearable.
Calmer, then, he gazed into the mirror at his own visage, once again memorizing the familiar features which stared back. He noted the roundish, smooth-shaven face; the steady, pale eyes which glowed like wisps of fog in the gleam of the handfire; the silver-gilt hair framing those eyes like a cap of quicksilver; the sensitive mouth, set in a line of stubborn determination.
But he dared not dwell on anything just now. Though he felt not at all like sleeping, he must at least be in his bed by the time Guaire came to dress him in the morning. And to return to that bed, he must resume his disguise, must don again the outward form of Alister Cullen.
With an impatient sigh, he closed his eyes and settled into the stillness of Deryni trance, hesitating as he realized that he could watch the transformation this time, if he wanted to.
Slowly, he allowed his eyelids to drift apart, willing the shape-change to begin. A luminosity began to grow around his face, a slight buzzing to fill his ears; and then his features began to waver, to shift, to change.
He resisted the impulse to blink, for the sensation was not unlike fog, or the blurriness of recent sleep. But he knew that a mere blink would not change his perception of what was happening now. He held his eyes open and watched his hair coarsen and darken to Alister’s familiar iron-gray, watched his brows thicken and extend, the eyes beneath them go bluer—greener, and the lines around them deepen. His face elongated slightly, the features becoming more prominent and his complexion weathering from pale to tan. His body, too, became more weighty-looking, stooped just a little; and his hands grew more wrinkled, the knuckles more pronounced.
He finally blinked as the transformation was completed, the action bringing him back to his normal state of awareness. He shook his head, an involuntary disbelief at what his eyes told him.
Camber was gone. Alister was there. Kyriell, he realized, could be the bridge of sanity between them.
A few minutes later, comfortably settled in his new body, he was standing in the Michaeline Transfer Portal and closing his eyes to visualize his destination in the archbishop’s palace. Soon, Alister Kyriell Cullen would be safely in bed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Wherefore gird up the loins of your mind, be sober, and hope to the end for the grace that is to be brought unto you.
—I Peter 1:13
Guaire knocked at Camber’s door early the next morning, long before Prime and sufficiently before first light to startle Camber initially.
Camber had not been asleep. He had not particularly felt the need for sleep after his experience of the early-morning hours, though he had realized he must at least feign sleep, if only for Guaire’s benefit.
Camber had to smile as he recalled Guaire’s fervent, almost childlike exuberance of the past week, how the young man had spent nearly all the previous afternoon preparing and laying out appropriate raiment for today’s ceremonies, while Camber rode with the king. Somehow—and Camber had no idea how—Guaire had managed to gather the impression that his new master was, if not helpless, at least absentminded when it came to details of ceremony and protocol—a notion which Camber deliberately did nothing to dispel. Guaire’s self-esteem, badly eroded by the loss of his former master, was being considerably bolstered as he came to realize that his new master did, indeed, need him. Almost, Guaire was the way he had been before “Camber’s” death.
As a consequence, Camber did not stir at the first knock on his door, choosing instead to burrow even farther under the blankets and close his eyes to merest slits. Very soon, the tap-tapping was replaced by the muffled click of the latch being worked, and then the soft pad of approaching footsteps. A brightening glow of yellow warmed the wainscoting by his face, and he knew that Guaire bore a rushlight. As the steps stopped a few paces away, Camber heard a perplexed-sounding sigh.
“Father Alister? Your Grace!” The voice was soft but insistent. “Are you not awake yet, my lord?”
At Camber’s incoherent grunt, Guaire sighed again and began lighting additional rushlights around the still-dark room. When he had knelt to rebuild the fire, Camber rolled over lazily to peer at Guaire’s back, gradually becoming aware of a plainsong melody which the younger man was humming under his breath. He watched curiously as Guaire fed the fire, noting how the black monk’s robe which Guaire wore became him. He suddenly wondered whether there was more to the adoption of the garment than mere comfort and convenience. Guaire had been wearing it yesterday, too.
“Guaire?” Camber sat up and leaned on both elbows. Guaire turned at the call and grinned, though he continued tending the fire.
“Good morning, Father. Did you sleep well?”
“Um, I spent some time with the archbishop before retiring. It was a very late night. You’re up early, aren’t you?”
“You’re to be consecrated bishop today, Your Grace. That’s a very important event, and there’s much to do if we’re to leave for Grecotha tomorrow,” the young man answered cheerfully. “You can’t have forgotten?”
“No, hardly that.”
With a yawn, Camber stretched and sat up, but when he started to get out of bed, Guaire was there with a warm mantle before he could even get his feet on the rug, sporting a broad grin. Camber pursed his lips thoughtfully as Guaire laid the mantle around his shoulders, tilting his head back so that Guaire could fasten the clasp at his throat. As Guaire knelt to put soft slippers on his feet, Camber watched the top of his head thoughtfully. Something was different this morning, and it had nothing to do with Camber.
“You’re awfully cheerful this morning,” Camber observed.
Guaire did not look up from what he was doing. “This is a momentous occasion,” he returned easily. “It’s going to be a long day, though, sir. I know you daren’t break your fast until after the ceremony, but do you think you might stretch a point and have some mulled ale? It
would steady your nerves. You told me that, one time.”
“What makes you think my nerves need steadying?” Camber shook his head and tried to keep back a smile as Guaire stood and dusted his hands together.
“Guaire, may I ask you a question?”
“What question is that, Father?”
“Why are you wearing a monk’s robe? Is there something I should know?”
“This?” Guaire touched the edge of the hood where it lay on his shoulders and flashed a worried half-smile. “You’re not angry, are you, Father? I meant no harm. I just thought I’d blend in better with the others if I wore religious garb. The place will be swarming with monks and priests and bishops.”
“Ah.” Camber breathed a mental sigh of relief. He had no objection to Guaire’s eventually taking religious vows if he wished, but for a moment he’d had the disturbing suspicion that his “miracle” with Guaire might have triggered a premature or unwarranted conversion. The religious life was fine, but only if it was Guaire’s own idea.
Allowing himself a faint, gruff smile, Camber moved to the fireplace. Guaire followed him and hovered with an expectant air as Camber warmed his hands above the flames. Even as Guaire opened his mouth, Camber realized that the matter was not finished. The robe was more than camouflage for today’s ceremonies.
“I have thought about the religious life, Your Grace,” Guaire admitted, almost shyly.
Camber nodded patiently. “I suspected you might have. Is it because of the dream you had?”
“I—don’t think so, sir.”
“No? Well, with your family connections and military training, I could probably get you into the Michaelines, if you like,” Camber offered, seeing a military order as the lesser of two evils. “You’d make a fine Knight of Saint Michael. I know Jebediah would take you. The Order lost a great many men, you know.”
The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy Page 67