The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy

by Katherine Kurtz

  There was an instant of total silence as the sense of Queron’s words penetrated, and then the hall erupted in excited exclamation. Joram came to his feet almost involuntarily, his anguished “No!” drowned out in the din but stated all the more emphatically by his stricken expression.

  Attention started to shift from Queron to Joram, for most present knew who Joram was, but Queron was determined to retain the advantage he had gained by speaking first. He had known Joram would be an opponent. Moving a step closer to the episcopal dais, he brandished his scroll to catch their gaze once more, his voice rising above Joram’s protest and even overpowering the clergy’s voices.

  “Your Grace, I beseech you, may I speak?” he shouted. “I beg leave to present our case without interference. I assure you that it cannot be refuted!”

  As discussion subsided and seats were resumed, Queron swept his audience with his hard Deryni glance and lowered his scroll, once more in command. Joram stood mute and pale before the older man’s gaze, one hand clenched white-knuckled on a finial of Camber’s high-backed chair. Camber dared not react as Queron measured his son.

  “I thank you, my lords,” Queron finally said, in a normal conversational tone, turning his attention back to Jaffray. “Your Grace, may I now proceed?”

  Jaffray, who alone of the bishops had not joined in the excited reaction to Queron’s pronouncement, sat back thoughtfully in his throne, one ringed hand absently stroking his chin as his eyes flicked from Queron to Joram, then to Camber.

  “Please ask your secretary to be seated, Bishop Cullen. We know Dom Queron, and will hear his petition.”

  Robert Oriss, seated to Jaffray’s right, leaned closer to his colleague, to speak without taking his eyes from the stunned Joram.

  “The young man is Lord Camber’s son, Your Grace. Are you aware of that?”

  “I have been so informed,” Jaffray replied, not unkindly. “Regardless of that fact, I must ask him to hold his peace until Dom Queron has elaborated. Please be seated, Father MacRorie. You will be given ample opportunity to speak later on.”

  At Camber’s touch on his elbow, Joram sank slowly back to his stool, to perch on the edge with taut attention. In vain Camber tried to breach the wall of his son’s resistance, not daring to maintain the physical contact or the force necessary to insist upon the communication. Perhaps later. However he did it, he must be certain that Joram did not overreact. They dared not risk the slightest slip under Queron’s perceptive gaze.

  With a slight sigh, Camber half rose to bow slightly in Jaffray’s direction.

  “My pardon for him, Your Grace. My secretary is young and overwrought. I shall try to see that it does not happen again.”

  “We shall thank you for it,” Jaffray replied. He returned his gaze to Queron. “You have our leave to speak now, Dom Queron. Please continue.”

  Queron bowed, rerolling the scroll he had used with such effectiveness a few minutes before. He still had not disclosed its contents. Perhaps it was only a stage prop, at that. Whatever, it had served its purpose even if it was blank. Camber wondered which other of the vast Deryni arsenal of persuasion Queron would use next.

  Feigning only dutiful interest, and a little concern for the young priest crouched miserably beside him, Camber settled back in one of Alister Cullen’s favorite poses of stone-faced concentration, fingers steepled so that the hands could rise casually to mask his expression if necessary, no line of his body betraying his inner tension. He watched Queron pivot gracefully to scan his audience, the scroll tap-tapping lightly against a tapering hand as the rapier mind weighed their emotions. With his first words, reassuring, confidential, the assembly began visibly to relax.

  “Your Grace, learned Fathers, Reverend Lords. For those who may not know me, I am Queron Kinevan, Healer and sometime priest of the Order of Saint Gabriel. Healer I am still, and priest also; but as you can see, my garb proclaims me no longer Gabrilite. There is a reason for that. Not a failing of my old Order, which I shall always cherish.” Here he bowed slightly to Dom Emrys. “Rather, a calling to another task which is for me and, I believe, for Gwynedd a more important one. I hope to help you understand the reasons for my change of heart, and to enlist your support.”

  He drew a leisurely breath as his audience settled down to listen.

  “As all are aware, the Earl of Culdi was slain in battle last year. More precisely, Camber MacRorie was slain: a gentle and pious man, as all do know; the restorer of our gracious king—long may he reign; the Defender of Humankind, as many do call him now, and with just cause—for he fell defending all of us from the Festillic destroyers.

  “He was cut down in the fullness of his service to this land—cut down long before his work could come to full fruition. But as we believe now, who call ourselves his Servants, he was not content to leave us with his work thus unfulfilled, and with this land in danger. He died in body, but he is not gone! His hand is still felt upon this land and upon its people, to the greater good of all of us. To a certain few, he has even spoken directly, giving guidance and promise of hope, when all earthly comfort had failed; even giving the gift of healing in his miracles.”

  He had them now, and knew it. He let his volume drop to a barely audible level and watched all present hush and catch their breath to hear him better. Camber, forefingers absently stroking his nose to hide his growing apprehension, knew the awful stomach-churn of fear as he wondered at Queron’s reference to healing.

  Could Queron know of Cinhil’s experience?

  “I spoke to one such man last spring,” Queron continued. “He is in this room today.” Camber allowed himself to relax slightly; Cinhil was not present. “He told me of a miracle: how Blessed Camber came to him as though in a dream—but it was not a dream! Those of you who know me or my reputation will believe me, I hope, when I say that I have questioned this man closely, to the fullest extent of my abilities—and I am convinced that the Blessed Camber did appear to him as he describes. This I shall demonstrate. Nor is he the only unimpeachable witness to similar events.”

  There: another possible reference to Cinhil—for who else involved in what had happened was truly unimpeachable? And Cinhil’s testimony was by far the more dangerous of the two.

  “But I believe that the evidence will speak for itself, Reverend Fathers. I believe that Camber MacRorie has been given God’s grace to continue his work upon this land, even in death. I believe that this august assembly will have no choice, in the end, but to declare Camber MacRorie among the blessed, and a saint.

  “If I offend any with my plainness, I apologize.”

  As he bowed his head, to all outward appearances spent for the moment—though Camber knew that he was just beginning—there was an instant of profound silence and then an incoherent murmur as the assembled bishops and clergy conferred among themselves. Jaffray let them go for several minutes before holding up a hand for silence, which was immediately given.

  “We thank you, Dom Queron. Father MacRorie, do you wish to make a statement before Dom Queron begins presenting his evidence?”

  Joram stood slowly, tearing his gaze upward to meet Jaffray’s. He had permitted his father’s mental touch during the last minutes of Queron’s impassioned plea, and given reassurance that he would not betray their cause. Still, he felt bound in conscience to tell as much of the truth as possible without endangering the man for whose sake he had already compromised so much for love.

  “Your Grace, I loved my father,” he said steadily. “I loved him, and still do, more than I can say.” He glanced at the floor, his mind once more closed to Camber’s, then looked up at Jaffray again. “But he was a man, like other men: gentle and pious, as Dom Queron has said; a loving father, a wise counselor—gifted beyond the ken even of most others of our race. He sacrificed much to accomplish what he believed in, and was content to pay the price because he loved this land and its king—perhaps too much.

  “But he was no saint. I only hope I may persuade you that he would be hor
rified if he knew what went on beneath this roof!”

  With a sigh, Jaffray looked at Queron again. Jaffray was a handsome man for his years, his dark Gabrilite braid hardly touched by gray, but in the past minutes he had aged a great deal as he realized the extent of Joram’s opposition. As Queron looked up, hands clasped thoughtfully behind his back, Jaffray frowned and tapped his bishop’s ring against his teeth several times. The archbishop was clearly considering what to do next.

  “Dom Queron,” he said, after another sigh, “I am constrained to remind these reverend Fathers that you and I were ever friends and brothers when I was yet a Gabrilite, and that I want very much to believe what my friend and brother has just told this august assembly—though I should point out that I, like they, am hearing your testimony for the first time. However, I must also recognize that the distinguished son of the man you seek to make a saint does not share your enthusiasm. Are you prepared to prove your contention with witnesses, as is the custom in such proceedings?”

  “I am prepared, Your Grace.”

  “Very well. You have said that one such witness is present. I should like to hear his testimony. On that basis, we shall determine whether the case warrants further consideration. Is that agreeable to you?”

  Queron bowed.

  “Good. Father MacRorie, you may be seated. I charge you to hold your peace until Queron’s witness has had his say.”

  Nodding, unable to speak for sheer despair, Joram sank to his seat and leaned his head against the side of his father’s chair. Once more the mental barriers fell, permitting Camber’s cautious touch. As Camber slipped into his son’s mind, soothing, thanking, reassuring, Queron turned to face his still-kneeling brethren. Guaire rose as though on cue, the promptness of his response leading Camber to suspect that he and Queron were already bonded in some kind of magical rapport. Now they would see whether Queron was as skilled as his reputation would have him to be. From a purely objective stance, it would be interesting to learn how much Guaire remembered.

  “Your Grace.” Queron handed his scroll to one of the men still kneeling and bowed formally toward the archbishops’ thrones. “I present Lord Guaire of Arliss, a great benefactor of our Order and, if Your Grace will permit it, soon to be one of the Servants of Saint Camber—for so we mean to call our company.”

  Jaffray gazed across at Guaire thoughtfully. “I have heard of your family, Guaire. You are not yet in holy orders?”

  “No, Your Grace.”

  Taking in hand the jeweled pectoral cross which hung on his chest, Jaffray extended it toward Guaire.

  “Guaire of Arliss, do you swear by this symbol of our faith and the holy relics it contains that the testimony which you are about to give shall be only the truth, fully cognizant of the consequences of perjury to your immortal soul?”

  Guaire came forward to kiss the cross. “I swear it, so help me God.”

  At Jaffray’s nod of approval, Guaire rose and backed into place at Queron’s side, eyes downcast. Queron, hands clasped easily before him, nodded slightly to Jaffray again before glancing briefly at his audience.

  “Guaire, please tell these Reverend Lords whether you have ever seen aught in this room before today—other than our brethren, of course.”

  “Yes, Dom Queron. I know Father Joram and Lord Jebediah—and Bishop Cullen, of course.”

  “Very good. In what capacity, please?”

  “I was a friend of Father Joram’s brother Cathan, before his death at the hands of King Imre. I worked with Father Joram and Lord Jebediah and the Bl—and the Lord Camber during the year before the Restoration. I was Lord Camber’s squire after Cathan died—until his death. After that, I entered the service of Bishop Cullen.”

  “I see. And there is no one else here whom you have seen before?”

  “Seen, yes. That was inevitable while I was in Bishop Cullen’s service. But not to talk to. I was only a clark and sometime valet to His Grace of Grecotha.”

  “But you left Bishop Cullen’s service. Why?”

  Guaire studied the sandaled toes protruding from beneath his gray robe.

  “Last spring, I approached His Grace about permission to build a shrine to Saint Camber in the cathedral. He—was not in favor of the shrine—and Father Joram was vehemently opposed—so I decided that our cause could be better served if I left His Grace’s service, so as not to embarrass him or cause strife within this household. I hoped that eventually the Bl—Blessed Camber would make him change his mind.”

  At this point, Queron cleared his throat.

  “Your Grace, Reverend Lords, I think it would be helpful at this time if Guaire related the reason for his entry into service with Bishop Cullen. On that tale hangs the first miracle we intend to prove.”

  “A miracle?” Archbishop Oriss exclaimed. “You mean, this—this young Guaire went to Cullen because of a miracle?”

  “Guaire, please tell the Reverend Lords what happened,” Queron said calmly.

  Guaire raised his head, his eyes focusing on some invisible point midway between himself and Jaffray’s disbelieving eyes, and Camber knew that his recall would be perfect. Queron had seen to that.

  Patiently he settled back into his chair to listen, resolved to let his own heightened senses take in everything they could. This would be a more telling probe than Camber had first believed, for it was obvious that Queron had groomed his witness well. Now he must hope that Queron’s very perfection would trip him up, that too precise a recall would cast doubt on Guaire’s testimony rather than strengthening it—though Camber entertained no false expectation of such a miracle.

  “It happened on the night of Lord Camber’s funeral,” Guaire murmured, softly at first, but gaining volume as he spoke. “As many can attest, I was distraught at Camber’s death. That night found me weeping by his coffin in the chapel as if I could not live. I must have been there for several hours by the time Father Cullen came and found me. I think the guards were worried, and asked him to check on me.”

  His audience gave an engrossed sigh as it settled down to listen again.

  “He took me back to a room—it belonged to Brother Johannes, who was then his valet—and he and Johannes tried to get me to sleep. I—think they were afraid to leave me alone, for fear I might do myself injury. Much of that part of the evening is still unclear in my mind.

  “At any rate, I couldn’t sleep until Father Cullen gave me some hot wine to drink. Later I surmised that there must have been a sleeping potion in it. I’m not sure how long I slept.”

  As Guaire paused to draw breath, Queron eased casually around behind him, eyes averted, listening rather than watching. Guaire did not seem to notice.

  “In any case, I was very much awake for what happened next,” Guaire continued. “I remember waking and being aware that I was in the bed, that the wine I had drunk must have been drugged, so calm was I—and then having the distinct feeling that there was someone else in the room—as if the door to the outer corridor had opened and closed, though I heard nothing.

  “When I opened my eyes, I fully expected to see Brother Johannes or Father Cullen moving about. But Brother Johannes was sleeping peacefully in a chair beside the fire; and when I turned my head toward the door, I—knew instantly that it was not Father Cullen.”

  He swallowed and closed his eyes briefly, drawing a deep breath as though to gather courage for his next words. But before he could continue, Queron laid his right hand on Guaire’s neck and passed his left over the younger man’s eyes. Guaire breathed out with a sigh and relaxed, going very still, his head nodding forward slightly as Queron took away his left hand.

  Queron, with a deep breath of his own, looked up at Jaffray, brown eyes hooded under thick lashes, his right arm still laid protectively across Guaire’s shoulders.

  “Your Grace, I wish to pause here for just a moment to suggest a better way than words to tell what happened next. With Your Grace’s indulgence, I should like to show what Guaire saw that night.”

 
As questioning murmurs passed through the assembly, Camber thought he saw a faint smile flick across Jaffray’s face, found himself wondering whether Jaffray and Queron had set all of this up in advance, despite what Jaffray had said.

  No, impossible. Even Queron was not capable of that. Or was he?

  “Please tell our brothers what you have in mind,” Jaffray said quietly.

  Queron bowed. “As Your Grace knows, but many of this assembly may not, there is a process taught by our Gabrilite Order which enables an adept to reach into another’s memory and project a visible image of that other’s recollection which anyone may see. We Healers sometimes use it in treating certain sicknesses of the mind.” He shifted his attention to his audience. “The process is not precisely magic, though it does seem to be a skill found solely in Deryni, and it is not dangerous for the subject, the Healer, or observers—though the Healer does expend a great deal of energy. What I propose, with His Grace’s permission, is to work this recollecting now, that all of you may see with your own eyes what Guaire himself saw that night.”

  There was a whispering of fearful wonder, much nervous coughing and shuffling of feet, and then silence as all eyes turned toward Jaffray.

  “Let the doors be barred,” the archbishop said. “We will have no interruptions. Dom Queron, you may proceed.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  For thou shalt be his witness unto all men of what thou hast seen and heard.

  —Acts 22:15

  As the chamberlain saw to the barring of the door, stationing two nearby ecclesiastical knights to guard it, Queron directed the rest of his brethren to seats in the first tier, only he and Guaire remaining in the center of the chamber. Camber shifted uneasily in his chair as a cloak was called for and procured. His outward expression was only commensurate with the general excitement and suspense of his colleagues, but his mind churned with misgiving.

  He had heard of what Queron proposed to do, of course, though he had never seen it. He was sure that Rhys probably even knew the procedure, for Rhys had received part of his Healer’s training from the Gabrilites, and was acknowledged as one of the most skilled young Healers in Gwynedd.