“Maybe Deryniness is transmitted to the children, even if the parents’ powers are blocked,” Evaine said quietly. “Maybe the children would still be Deryni.”
“And maybe they would not!” Gregory said pointedly. “You have children, Evaine. Would you want to take that chance?”
As Evaine shook her head, Jebediah sighed and shrugged.
“We may have to take that chance, Gregory. We might succeed. There’s even the chance, albeit slim, that the persecutions we fear might never come—or that they might be far less severe than expected.”
“And snakes can fly!” Gregory said emphatically. “Come on, Jeb, you know better. You’ve seen the signs. How many of your officers have been ‘transferred’ to other assignments and replaced by the regents’ human cronies, even before you were dismissed as earl marshal? How many of our friends and acquaintances have suddenly been eased out and their places filled by men we never heard of, but who have the regents’ ears? And then, there are our own people who simply invite the regents to move against us, the ones that Jesse and I and your nephews, Evaine, have been trying to take out of circulation so they won’t provoke even more vicious retaliation than we saw at Nyford.”
“But the highway bands weren’t responsible for Nyford,” Evaine protested. “Besides, I thought they were being put down. You said they were.”
Now thoroughly agitated, Gregory slapped both hands flat on the table and rolled his eyes toward the crystal sphere hanging above the center of the table.
“My dear child, how can you be so naive? A mere pittance! A tear in the ocean-sea! If there were no more bands—if the harassment stopped now, tonight—it would be too late for that! You say the persecutions may not come? I say that they’re here already, growing in small, insidious ways. Given our fine, self-righteous, Deryni-hating regents, and given a two-year minority of our new king—or his next brother, if Alroy shouldn’t last that long—or more than three years, if Rhys Michael should come to the throne before his majority—you can bet that it’s only going to get worse! The only questions in my mind now are how bad and how soon?”
He sat back explosively. “I’m sorry. That’s been building for a very long time. But that’s how I feel.”
The rest of them stared at him in shocked silence for several seconds until Camber finally cleared his throat and glanced around self-consciously. They had deserved that—all of them. Perhaps they had all been too far-removed, too blindly trusting that fate would intervene to save them. But it was not too late—was it?
“Your warnings are well taken,” Camber said, unusually subdued for Alister. “Perhaps we’ve all been guilty of refusing to recognize how serious things are. Oh, we’ve realized what was happening in a day-to-day sense, in bits and pieces, but I think it’s only really begun to sink home since Cinhil’s death. We do not have Cinhil’s tempering influence to protect us anymore, however tenuous that protection might have been. We do have a set of unscrupulous and avaricious regents whose next specific moves are unpredictable, but whose general attitude is quite clear: they do not like Deryni! I think we have—perhaps—until the coronation to decide what we’re going to do to protect ourselves, as a race as well as individuals. And frankly, Rhys’s talent presents the best hope I’ve seen so far.”
There were nods of agreement at that, even Gregory giving grudging acquiescence. But when all attention had returned to Camber, he glanced casually at Rhys, across the table. The Healer was staring at his two hands lying palm-down on the table—slender, fine hands with supple fingers and short, well-kept nails. Rhys felt their scrutiny, but he did not lift his gaze from his careful study of his hands. His voice was almost fragile as he spoke.
“You wonder that I stare at my hands,” he said softly, not looking up at them. “There is a reason for that. They are a Healer’s hands, consecrated to the service of mankind—human as well as Deryni. I pledged that service in my Healer’s oath, many years ago. I have often held life itself between these hands—sometimes your lives. Now it appears that I have been given not just the lives of individuals, but of our race—here, in the span of these two frail hands. Do you wonder that I feel the burden?
“Gregory, you’ve been our doomsayer tonight, our gadfly, our goad, our Nesta, who foretold the fall of Caeriesse—except that no one believed Nesta, and she was right. I hope that you aren’t.” He looked up finally, directly at Gregory.
“But even if you are, I’m not ready to concede this fight. And I don’t think the others are, either, or we wouldn’t be here together, looking for a miracle. We need you with us, Gregory. We need your strength and—yes, we even need you to warn us when we’ve gotten off our focus, as you did tonight. Especially, we need you for that.”
“I’m with you,” Gregory said gruffly, blinking an unaccustomed brightness from his pale blue eyes. “I never meant to imply that I wasn’t, or that I doubted you. It’s just that—damn it all, man! I’m a soldier. I don’t understand your poet’s ways. Speak to me in a language I can understand!”
“All right. Progress report,” Rhys replied briskly. “If you want to be military, I can be that, too. Item: we have established that the Deryni-specific drugs most commonly accessible to humans do not affect blocked Deryni. This means that Deryni could be hidden right under the noses of the authorities and they’d never be detected, as long as no one knew they were Deryni to begin with. For the ones who are known, but choose this option, it means a massive relocation program, once we get the operation underway in earnest. That’s a much later problem.
“Item: unfortunately—or fortunately, depending upon your point of view—my blocking talent seems to be exclusively a Healer’s function. So the next question is, can other Healers learn to do it, or am I a fluke? And can all Healers do it, or can only a few learn how? Jaffray, a while back, you offered to get me access to other Healers. I assume you were referring to Gabrilites?”
“That’s correct.”
“Very well. Bearing in mind that we almost have to tell them the background on this, including at least some background about the Council, whom were you considering?”
“Well, Dom Emrys comes to mind first of all,” Jaffray said promptly. “You’ll not find a better Healer or teacher of Healers anywhere. And since he declined a seat on this Council years ago, I think we need not worry about his discretion. I would trust Emrys with my immortal soul—and have done so, on occasion.”
Rhys returned Jaffray’s wistful smile with a chuckle. “I know what you mean. I thought you might recommend him. I was going to, myself. I only trained under him a short while, but I admire and respect him greatly. I do have some reservations about his age, though. What is he, close to eighty?”
“Maybe more. He’s in good health, though. And if anyone can learn to do what you do, he should be able to. Also, he’d be able to help train others.”
“A telling point. Very well. Who else?”
“Queron Kinevan,” Jaffray replied. “I haven’t seen him in years, but he’s one of the finest Healers I ever knew. Some of you will remember his demonstration at the synod which canonized Saint Camber. Sorry to bring up a sore point, Joram, but his performance was brilliant.”
“I know,” Joram whispered.
“So, do you know where he is, these days?” Jaffray continued. “Didn’t you say you’d seen him at Dolban, a few weeks ago?”
Joram had lowered his eyes guardedly as Jaffray extolled Queron’s abilities, and Camber knew that his son must be remembering their chilling personal encounter with the Healer at the synod Jaffray had mentioned. Then Joram had nearly been forced to bare his mind to Queron’s ruthless scrutiny, threatening the betrayal of every detail of his father’s change of rôle. Camber, as Alister Cullen, had managed to avert Queron’s probe by himself seeming to conduct a Truth-Read of Joram regarding his supposedly-dead father, but the terror which both of them had felt while they worked to reach that goal had been too real, the threat of Queron’s rumored ability to strip away all de
ception, all too powerful. Joram was not now in danger, if Queron were chosen to try to learn Rhys’s new talent; but Rhys could be. Neither Camber nor any of his kin wished to have Queron delve any deeper into the inner workings of anyone who knew the truth of Camber.
Not daring to speak first, Camber gazed across the table at Joram and caught the quick thought, troubled and angry despite himself, yet resigned, which his son sent only for him. He watched as, with a slow intake of breath, Joram cautiously raised his eyes to Jaffray.
“I’m sorry, sir. I have—vivid memories of Queron, as you may well imagine. Time has eased my feelings somewhat, but—yes, we did see him at Dolban. We even visited the shrine.”
“You did?” Gregory’s surprised delight was written all across his narrow face, for he was a devoted adherent of Saint Camber, despite all Camber had been able to do to discourage him. “Joram, you have no idea how happy I am to hear that. I knew you’d come around eventually. Your sainted father—”
“His sainted father,” Camber interrupted smoothly, shaking his head and trying to smile, “is still a delicate subject for Joram, and you know it, Gregory. Can we get back to the subject?” He faced Jaffray again. “Understand that I don’t know Queron except from a few brief meetings—at the synod, mostly. As Deryni, he’s—formidable. But I’m no Healer to judge in that area. Can you tell us more about him? You and he were Gabrilites together. You know his abilities better than any of us.”
Thoughtfully, Jaffray sat back in his chair and scanned them all, clicking his ring of office against one large front tooth.
“He’s good, Alister,” the archbishop finally said. “One of the best I’ve ever met, as I said. We were very close at one time, before I became a bishop and left the Order. I can tell you this: in his prime, he made most Healers look like first-year apprentices by comparison. In those days, you couldn’t find a man with better Healer’s credentials—outside this room, of course,” he ended, nodding deferentially to Rhys.
“And now?” Rhys asked. “No idle compliments, Jaffray. I have to know. By his own admission, he’s not been an active Healer for years, except in his own community. That may or may not make a difference.”
“That’s one reason I suggested Emrys first,” Jaffray replied, “though I don’t think it will make a difference with Queron. I’ve seen him do things that made me doubt my own perceptions. But he was always inclined toward the dreamer, the wild-eyed idealist—witness his departure from the Gabrilites to set up the Servants of Saint Camber. You, on the other hand, have both feet firmly on the ground. That’s important, but you’re also unafraid to delve into the unknown. This new Healing quirk is a case in point. In all, though I haven’t seen you work as much, I think you have the potential to be at least as good as Queron.” He paused. “Do you need any further comparison?”
“No further. Thank you,” Rhys whispered.
“Very well, then. On that somewhat less than enthusiastic recommendation,” Jaffray said with a slight, wry smile, “I propose that we go ahead with plans to get you together with Emrys and Queron as soon as possible. I think Alister should go, too, since he has observed your work rather more than anyone else excepting, perhaps, your lady wife. Evaine, I would have suggested you, except that I think another priest would do better than a woman in dealing with Queron—and someone who is not related to Saint Camber,” he added, for Joram’s sake.
Camber’s secret amusement at Jaffray’s last statement almost overshadowed his reluctance to face Queron again. At least as a non-Healer, he would not be expected to enter as deep a rapport with Queron as Rhys would. And since Queron had known Alister Cullen only after Camber’s assumption of that identity, and Camber hardly at all, consistency should be no problem. Still, both he and Rhys would be at least somewhat vulnerable in the sort of rapport necessary for Rhys to show and teach his odd, newfound talent. They would have to be careful to put Queron off balance from the beginning in that regard, so he simply would not have the leisure to read them too deeply in any but pertinent areas.
“Good. That’s settled, then,” Evaine said, lacing her fingers together and placing her joined hands precisely on the table before her. “I think that now we need to talk more about the framework in which our Healers are going to work—assuming, of course, that the talent can be taught. We’ve been skirting the issue because of its theological implications—my brother has already voiced his objections, in private—but it has to be faced. Alister?”
Camber nodded slowly. “Very well. I’m no more comfortable with the idea than the rest of you, but it does seem the lesser of a number of evils at this point. And there is historical precedent for the kind of movement we talked about earlier. The concept of dying to the world and being reborn is a fairly universal one, going back even before Judaic traditions. John the Baptist was neither the first nor the last to preach it.”
“That much I’ll grant you,” Jaffray said. “And the idea of dying to one’s ‘evil’ Deryni powers, to the extent that they really are gone and not just denied—well, that’s a stroke of genius, Rhys.”
Rhys shrugged. “I don’t know about genius. It still makes me a little uncomfortable. But it may work.”
“It will work,” Evaine said. “However, to make it work, we’re going to need an undeniably human front-person, whose background and motivations will be unquestionable, both to us and to those to whom he’ll be ministering.”
“And you have the perfect candidate,” Jaffray guessed, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Ah, Evaine, my child, I can see that you’ve inherited a full measure of your father’s legendary duplicity.”
“I’ll take that as the compliment I’m sure you intended,” she retorted with a matching grin.
Jaffray nodded. “So be it. And who is this paragon of human competence and suitability who is to be our voice in the wilderness?”
“His name is Revan. Some of you have met him.”
“Revan?” Gregory’s eyebrows were raised in surprise. “Not the clark?”
“The same.”
“Who is Revan?” asked Jaffray.
Evaine lowered her gaze, remembering with some reluctance. “When Imre was still king, one Lord Rannulf, a Deryni, was found murdered in the village below my father’s keep. Though Willimite terrorists were blamed, Imre took fifty villagers to be executed, two each day. My brother Cathan tried to intercede—and was granted one life, which he must choose! He chose Revan, then a boy of about thirteen. After Cathan was killed, I took Revan as my confidential clark and saw that his education was continued. For the past five years, he has been tutor to our two younger children.”
“And you think him suited to our purposes?” Jaffray asked. “With his Deryni connections?”
Jebediah raised an elegant eyebrow in speculation. “Has it occurred to you that it might be precisely those Deryni connections which would make his apparent defection all the more believable? Also, those who keep track of such things will remember his part, however small, in the Rannulf affair, and the alleged Willimite ties. It’s said that the Willimites are active again, by the way. Some of my men reported an entire community of them living in the hills near Saint Liam’s. If we send Revan in there, with the right background, he’ll have a ready-made movement to assimilate. God knows, the Willimites hate Deryni—though they do have several renegades among them, who Truth-Read for them but use no other of their powers.”
“Renegades, eh?” Jaffray mused. “His cover will have to be impeccable, then, if he’s to stand being Truth-Read. One almost wonders whether the Willimites hate Deryni too much, though. Suppose Revan can’t convince them of his mission?”
Joram crossed his arms across his chest and scowled. “Oh, he’ll convince them, all right. He has all the marks of a messiah, don’t you know? He was a carpenter’s apprentice when Cathan found him, and he walks with a limp, just like Prince Javan!”
“Joram, that’s enough!” Evaine snapped. “I know you don’t approve of this pla
n, and I know why. But since you have no better suggestion, I’ll thank you to keep your trepidations and pious quibbles to yourself!”
With an expression of angry amazement, Jebediah brought the flat of his hand down hard on the ivory tabletop.
“Now, stop it! Both of you! This bickering is—”
“It’s none of your concern, Jeb!” Joram retorted. “Stay out of it! Evaine, I’m getting a little tired of your—”
“Children!” Abruptly Camber stood, the thought behind his word carrying his paternal shock even as the verbal exclamation underlined the consternation of the part of him that was Alister. Joram and Evaine both froze in amazement as they realized what they had done.
“I’m sorry, Father Alister, Joram, Jeb,” Evaine murmured, not looking at her brother or her father.
Joram, too, bowed his head.
“Sorry, Jeb, Evaine. But you know how I feel about such things. Alister, I’m sorry that you had to step in that way.”
“It’s understood, son,” Camber murmured, once more taking his seat, and thankful that the outburst had been covered so well, though he still was concerned at Joram’s obvious hostility. “We’ll talk about it later. For now, though, don’t you all think we should get back to the subject? Gregory, Jaffray, the rest of us know Revan to varying degrees, and are reasonably satisfied with his suitability for the job at hand. Even Joram has no objections to the man. It’s the job that gives him problems. How do you feel?”
Gregory glanced at Jaffray, and the archbishop nodded slowly.
“It seems to me that you’re asking a great deal of one so young,” Jaffray said. “How old is Revan, did you say?”
The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy Page 105