The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy

by Katherine Kurtz

  The brothers’ sleeping quarters lay along the western perimeter, both at ground level and above; but unlike many cloistered orders, the Gabrilites provided separate sleeping cells for their brethren rather than dormitories, privacy being thought essential to the kind of mental and spiritual discipline expected of their company. The students, Emrys explained, were lodged around a second cloister beyond the refectory range and chapter house. There lay the formal classrooms and training chambers, and also their own destination.

  First, though, Emrys knew that Bishop Cullen would wish to see the inside of the chapter house, though he feared that the usual impact of the chamber would suffer a little, as it was undergoing its twice-weekly cleaning just now.

  As they approached the heavy bronze doors, Camber was able to take a closer, if brief, look at the symbols and scenes carved there and to file them away in his memory for future contemplation. Feigning ignorance of what he saw, he made no comment other than to admire the workmanship, but he could feel Rhys’s fascination meshing with his own as they followed Emrys through the open doorway.

  If the outside of Saint Neot’s held revelations, entering the chapter house conveyed more the sense of a psychic shock, albeit a pleasant one—like being suddenly transported into a cave-chilled jar carved of aquamarine and gold: in honor of the Archangel Gabriel, whose color was blue and whose element was water, Emrys informed his visitors. Cool blue light filtered through the tinted clerestory windows like an airy counterpart of the water which Gabriel ruled, engulfing all in a shifting whirlpool of sky-hue. A brighter shaft of light lanced through a clear-glassed skylight in the center of the dome—which was the same pale blue faience as the outside, though strewn with tiny, eight-pointed stars instead of solar crosses—and its slant-beamed radiance transformed the white marble tiles of the floor to creamy gold where it touched.

  A waist-high cube of pale, polished bluestone, devoid of any decoration, occupied the exact center of the chamber, surrounded by white-robed brethren scrubbing the floor on hands and knees, habits kilted up between their legs. Along the perimeter, other brothers moved among the three tiers of wooden benches with polishing cloths, wiping fragrant cedar oil into the deep carving and buffing the wood to a warm, mellow finish.

  The scent of the oil conjured poignant memories for the Alister part of Camber, momentarily whisking him back to another place and time, when his being and his faith had been newer and less complicated—but then reality quickly tugged him back to Saint Neot’s with a snap. Something odd about the bluestone cube.…

  Whatever it was, he quickly realized that Rhys had sensed it, too—a somehow familiar perception, but one which the Healer had not known how to recognize when last he had been at Saint Neot’s as a student. With a mental nudge of reassurance for Rhys’s sake, Camber reached toward the cube with his mind, outwardly only watching the monks and listening to Emrys’s low-voiced commentary.

  He soon realized that his uneasiness had been born of no sinister connection, but only of the perception of power unexpected, clashing softly against his shields to set mental warnings resounding. The chunk of bluestone was a power focus, likely used by the Gabrilites at Chapter meditations much as the Michaelines were trained to focus on a flame or the Sword of Saint Michael for their special workings. Residual power, neither good nor evil, radiated from the cube; but it was only undirected power. There was nothing to beware in that, especially in the hands of Gabrilites. It reminded him of the black and white cube altar in the ruins beneath Grecotha—and that, he knew, was a power nexus. He wondered whether there was a connection.

  Breathing a little sigh both of relief and continued curiosity, he blinked and made complete his return to time and place, the scent of cedar oil still strong in his nostrils.

  “Is anything wrong, Your Grace?” the old Healer was asking softly.

  He found Emrys staring at him curiously, the pale face otherwise unreadable. Some of the brothers had slowed their cleaning and were glancing at him surreptitiously, recognizing the rank betokened by his purple cloak and white sash, even if they did not know his particular identity.

  With a shake of his head, Camber seized on the pungent cedar smell as an excuse for his psychic wanderings.

  “Nay, Father, I had a flash of my own youth, that’s all. We used cedar oil for the wood at Cheltham. I was reminded of my novitiate.”

  “Ah.” Emrys nodded wisely. “’Tis strange, is it not, how one returns to such memories more and more, as age advances? My earliest training was in another tradition than either Gabrilite or Michaeline, and it was sandalwood oil which used to take me back. Cedar is better, though, I think. We find that the scent deters moths. But, come. We should not distract these good brothers in their work. Some of the younger ones are still learning the discipline of manual labor. All share equally here—ordained priest and Healer, as well as novice, apprentice, and student. Is it so among your Michaelines?”

  It was, though not as fully as among the Gabrilites, Camber allowed, as they continued on past the chapter house and through a range of domestic buildings to the south and east. But though he and Emrys then launched into a lively discussion of the philosophical differences between the two orders, Camber did not pursue the seemingly offhand reference Emrys had made to training in a different tradition, especially in front of Queron. The more he learned about the Gabrilites, the clearer it became that there was much he did not know about them and, especially, their reverend abbot. He resolved to ask Evaine about it. Perhaps she had come upon information which could elucidate the matter further.

  They moved along the students’ cloister walk until they came upon a group of young boys sitting under a tree in the cloister garth, their plain white tunics identifying them as students. A youngish looking man in the habit and braid of a Gabrilite priest was lecturing them softly, though his voice did not carry to where Camber and Emrys paused to watch. Camber wondered whether it was by design.

  “These are some of our ten and eleven year olds in general training,” Emrys murmured. “They have been here only about four months. Dom Tivar is a weapons master, among other specialties, but so far he has not allowed any of them even to touch a weapon. First they must learn to sense an opponent’s moves through their Sight—even a Deryni opponent. But of course you Michaelines have much the same kind of schooling in this regard.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  Even as he replied, the boys were scrambling to their feet at some unknown signal and pairing off to practice, closing their eyes and beginning to move slowly through the routine of a fighting exercise, swaying and dipping and blocking each other’s blows with hands and forearms which seemed almost to sense the movements by themselves. Camber had done similar exercises as a young man, and his dual awareness as Camber-Alister could appreciate the training even more than he alone.

  “Ah, yes, I remember that one—though we did it a little differently at Cheltham,” he added. “Do you remember the bruises, once the exercises were brought up to speed? Or, do Healers receive the same martial training?”

  “I did not, but many do.” Emrys smiled. “Come and I’ll show you some more direct Healer’s training, if you’d like. This will be very familiar to Rhys, I’m sure.”

  They strolled on around an angle of the cloister walk and paused again just outside a latticework door opening off the corridor. Inside, a boy of twelve or fourteen lay motionless on a cot with his head toward the door. A Gabrilite Healer sat on a stool at the boy’s head with his back to them. His fine, unlined hands were held just a little way apart from the boy’s temples as he spoke in a soft, lulling monotone.

  “That’s good, Simonn. Relax every muscle. You know how. Very good. Now, center in and let yourself slowly become aware of the blood whispering through your veins. Feel the pulsebeat. Now be aware of your heart pumping that blood. It’s beating a little faster than it needs to, but you can slow it, if you really want to. Give it a try …

  “No, you’re trying too hard, son. Rela
x. Don’t make it happen; let it happen. Now, take a deep breath and let it all the way out. Again. Now you’re getting it. That’s right. This is the way every Healer has to start—learning to control his own body before he can control others’. Good. Now, let’s slip a little deeper and go on to other awarenesses. Deeper … deeper …”

  And as the man spoke, Camber was aware of Rhys’s appreciation for what they were seeing, sensed the Healer’s own flash of memory to a time when another boy had lain on a similar cot and learned to rule his body in precisely the same manner as this boy was learning.

  A little while longer they watched. Then, after only a short walk down another corridor, Emrys paused before a door and pushed it ajar. Beyond a short passageway lay a dim chamber lit only by a brace of candles on a small cabinet with many drawers. Camber scanned quickly as the others came into the room behind him.

  The walls were hung with heavy drapes of a rich, midnight-blue, almost black, the ceiling likewise swathed in thick fabric which drank the sound. A narrow couch occupied the approximate center of the room, with two well-padded chairs facing it on one side. Camber guessed that the room was ordinarily intended either for solitary meditations or else for paired workings. He sensed a cold fireplace behind the hangings on the left, and a small window directly opposite, for ventilation, though the window was now shuttered.

  Underfoot was a carpet of Kheldish weave, but no design had been worked into this piece to distract attention. Its dark, midnight hue swallowed up visual sensation as it swallowed up most sound. Camber did not even hear the second door close behind Emrys as he joined them.

  “Being abbot has certain undeniable advantages, Your Grace,” the old man murmured, white face and robe stark against the darkness of the room. “This is my personal meditation and Healing chamber. Rhys, I assume that you will wish us warded for our discussion?”

  “Please.”

  With a slight inclination of his head, Emrys drew breath and raised his hands to either side of his head at shoulder-level, his eyes shuttering for just an instant as he turned the palms slightly inward. As the old man exhaled, Camber felt the tingle of energy rising around them, the unmistakable prickling of a ward circle strongly in evidence just at the edges of the room.

  Surprised at the ease with which Emrys had done that, Camber drew in his own shields until they no longer collided with the shields of the warding circle, moving to one of the chairs as Emrys casually lowered his hands and took a place on the couch with Queron. Rhys sat uneasily in the chair beside Camber’s.

  “My lords, we are now warded against both sound and psychic intrusion. Rhys, I am told that it was you who requested this meeting?”

  “Just a moment.” Queron glanced at all of them with only partially veiled hostility. “Emrys, you didn’t mention that. Who is Rhys to request a meeting of the four of us? And if this is Healer’s business, why is Bishop Cullen present?” He glanced at Camber. “I mean no disrespect to your office, but there are certain confidences of our vocation which we usually do not share with non-Healers, even other Deryni.”

  Rhys sighed and moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. Camber could sense his underlying anxiety as he faced the older Healer, though he knew that even Queron could not penetrate Rhys’s precise control at this level.

  “Your last statement is certainly correct, Dom Queron.” Rhys drew a deep breath. “However, I have requested this meeting not only as Healer to other Healers, but under the seal of the confessional, to which Father Alister, as my confessor, is already sworn. I must charge you and Dom Emrys likewise to seal it so, on your office as priests, or I may not tell you more. Have I your pledge?”

  Queron froze for an instant, only the intense brown eyes widening just a little in the otherwise well-schooled face. Then he glanced at Emrys, who nodded minutely, returned his attention to Rhys and gave a curt nod of assent.

  “Thank you,” Rhys breathed. Camber knew he was steeling himself for the first revelation.

  “Tell me, Dom Queron, what do you know of the Camberian Council?”

  Queron’s jaw dropped and a tiny intake of breath marred his previous composure before he could regain control.

  “Then, it does exist!” Queron breathed. “All these years, I’ve dreamed—but.…”

  He glanced at all of them as he recovered himself, much taken aback as he realized that even Emrys had not reacted to Rhys’s question.

  “Emrys, you knew of this?”

  “Of the Council’s existence, yes.”

  “Are you a member, then?”

  “Let us name me amicus concilium,” the old man replied with a faint smile.

  “But, you knew of it, then! And you did not tell me!”

  “You did not ask me,” Emrys replied. “Allow me also to reassure you that Rhys’s by-now obvious connection with the Council is the extent of my knowledge of this present affair. I was asked by someone else, whose identity I may not reveal, to bring you here for a meeting with Rhys and Bishop Cullen. I have done so.”

  “I see.” Queron turned that over in his mind, then looked squarely at Camber.

  “And what of you, Your Grace? Are you also of the Council? It is understandable that Rhys should be a part of it, for he is husband to the Blessed Camber’s daughter. But you—you did not even support his canonization. Are you now a member of the consortium named in his honor? Or was it in hypocrisy that you and Joram came to the shrine in February?”

  “Bishop Cullen is here at the behest of the Council, the same as yourself,” Rhys replied, before Camber could frame a suitably misleading response. “For now, I put it to you that he is present as an unbiased but interested fourth party, and because he has knowledge of what I am about to reveal to you.”

  “Which is?”

  “I have discovered a new Healing function.”

  “Ah,” Emrys breathed, nodding slowly.

  Queron, his brows furrowed in question, glanced from Rhys to Camber to Emrys and then back to Rhys.

  “A new Healing function? Of what sort? And why such secrecy? Emrys, are you sure you know nothing of this?”

  Emrys shook his head. “No more than you do, son. But I gather that Rhys is prepared to tell us of it, or he would not have asked us here. Rhys?”

  “I would prefer to show you, rather than tell you, sir,” Rhys said carefully. “As you may recall, Dom Queron once made that same request of a court convened to canonize my late father-in-law. As I hope to teach other Healers this working, I should like you to observe while I demonstrate on Dom Queron—provided, of course, that he is willing.”

  Queron had started at Rhys’s words. Now he shifted in his seat, glancing at Emrys uneasily. “Emrys, would you allow this?”

  “You need not be injured in order for me to demonstrate,” Rhys responded immediately, Queron’s apprehension on that count blatantly obvious. “The function is akin to what you worked with Guaire at the court, in that respect. I ask only that you give me the full cooperation which Guaire gave you, that you open completely and let me do what is necessary to demonstrate the effect. Father Alister will bear witness that what I propose will cause no permanent damage. I swear this by my powers of Sight and Healing. Nor is it painful—a little frightening, at worst. I will also give you what I would not ordinarily give with the practical use of this working, and that is the awareness and memory of what I have done, after it is accomplished. You may also follow the undoing.”

  “Well, you’ve succeeded in making it sound ominous,” Queron replied, almost snappishly. He glanced again at Emrys, but got no support one way or the other, so he turned his attention on Camber.

  “Your Grace, I would not ordinarily believe someone of your station party to anything untoward, but I am not entirely certain you understand our Healer’s ethic. Is it your recommendation that I accede to this request?”

  “I would not be here, if I did not,” Camber replied truthfully.

  “Emrys?”

  The old man shrugged. “The de
cision must be yours, Queron. Rhys is clearly wary of your strength, yet he has chosen you as the most suitable subject for demonstration. You know his training and his reputation. You know, also, that I shall be monitoring. His request is unusual, but you yourself set the precedent. I will say that I trust both of these men implicitly.”

  “I see.” Queron weighed all that had been said, then gave a short, explosive sigh.

  “Well, it seems that I shall learn nothing more unless I agree. What must I do, Rhys? I warn you, after working only with my mostly human Camberians for so long, I am ill-accustomed to relinquishing complete control to another, especially when I do not know the expected result.”

  In spite of his own apprehension, Rhys could not resist a slight chuckle as he got to his feet. Camber suspected he was enjoying Queron’s uneasiness just a little.

  “I’m sorry, and I do commiserate, but I want to be certain that your foreknowledge doesn’t affect the outcome. Also, I want it to work the first time. Now, would you prefer to remain sitting, or would you be most comfortable lying down?”

  “I’ll sit, thank you,” Queron murmured, watching warily as Rhys came around behind the couch.

  “As you wish. The important thing is that you relax as much as you can,” he said easily. “The first time I did this, I had an unconscious patient who was also well-sedated, and the few other times, my subjects were consciously cooperative. Also, they were not Healers. I don’t know whether that will make a difference, but at least I’d like to be assured that you won’t panic and snap your shields shut on me.”

  “Come, now!” Queron began indignantly. “I have better control than that!”

  “I’m sure you do,” Rhys agreed. “So let’s show me. Center in and relax.”

  He laid his hands lightly on Queron’s shoulders and drew him back to lean against his chest, but the muscles beneath his fingers were rigid. He said nothing, but as Queron took a deep breath and let it out, he could feel the tension draining away, too. Deeper relaxation followed as Emrys laid one weightless hand on Queron’s left wrist.