He reached the common room which he and Rhys Michael shared, but there he encountered his younger brother and two of the squires playing at strategy with some of Rhys Michael’s toy knights. That necessitated that he stop and talk with them for a few minutes, pretending not to understand the tactical situation they had set up and showing them the headstall with its little silver roundels. But then he let a little of his real nervousness show as a headache and went on into his own room, ostensibly for a nap.
There he stood and shook, his back hard against the carved oak door which separated him from the eyes of his brother and the squires, until he realized that his shaking was as much from the cold as from after-reaction to what was taking place. With that, he roused himself from his apprehensions and built up the fire, curling up before the hearth in a pile of sleeping furs and, in truth, dozing. Finally, just at dark, a quick rap at the door heralded Tavis’s return. Javan scrambled to his knees as the Healer entered and closed the door behind him. Tavis’s face was still and solemn with tension and fatigue, the pale, water-blue eyes like stone.
“What did you find out?” Javan asked.
“That the regents do not much care for Deryni archbishops.”
As Javan stared up at him quizzically, Tavis crossed to the sleeping furs and collapsed to sit cross-legged beside Javan.
“I waited out of sight near the withdrawing room until Oriel came out,” he said wearily. “He looked ashen, bereft of hope or solace. They’d made him work in front of them, directly reaching out to Rhun’s Deryni; they usually let him work through a relay, to conserve his strength.”
“How do you know? Did he tell you that?”
“Not in so many words. But I saw his face as he left the withdrawing room. When I then ‘chanced’ to meet him a little while later in another corridor, there was still a great deal of spillover from his shields. As Healer to fellow Healer in distress, it was no unexpected matter for me to probe a little. Of course, his shields immediately strengthened, but there was enough of a delay that he couldn’t hide everything from me.” He averted his eyes. “I almost wish I hadn’t read him at all.”
“Why? What did you learn?” Javan breathed. Then, with growing suspicion, as Tavis at first did not respond: “Tavis, what did they have him tell Rhun?”
“They had him send a death sentence,” Tavis replied evenly.
“A death sentence? Of Bishop Alister?”
“Not directly, though they may have talked about that, too. Tell me, though, to what Order does Bishop Alister belong?”
“Saint Michael,” Javan replied promptly. “But, you know that!”
“Aye.” Tavis nodded wearily. “And to what Order did Archbishop Jaffray belong?”
“Saint Gabriel,” Javan responded again. “Tavis, what are you trying to tell me?”
“Just one more question,” Tavis said, massaging his forehead with his hand as if he hoped to knead out the memory. “Think about the major religious houses of both those Orders, and their locations, and then tell me where Baron Rhun and his troops are.”
“In the Lendour highl—” Javan’s voice broke off and a horrified look came across his face. “Tavis, they’re not going to have Rhun destroy Saint Neot’s and Haut Eirial!”
Tavis closed his eyes and let his chin sink down to his chest with a slight nod. “I think so. I have reason to believe that Rhun and his men are within a few hours’ ride of either house—both, if they split up—and that this has been planned for some time. I suspect that this is why Rhun is still in the field so late in the season—because the regents were awaiting the election results, and perhaps even hoped for just such an excuse as this to vent their hatred on the Deryni houses. Jaffray was Gabrilite. Besides, the Gabrilites train other Deryni. As for the Michaelines, they were already in bad odor, especially once the regents ousted Alister as chancellor. That’s connection enough, so far as they’re concerned.”
“But, we can’t let them do it!” Javan whispered. “It isn’t right. Deryni didn’t elect Alister. It takes ten votes, so seven of those couldn’t have been Deryni. And to blame the Deryni Orders is—is—outrageous!”
“I quite agree. However, they are likely enough targets, if you hate like the regents. Consider: Jaffray is dead, so they can’t do anything to him, but they can do something to his Order. That’s vengeance, of a sort. And Alister …”
“Bother Alister! The regents are going to condone the destruction of both the Orders,” Javan whispered. “We can’t just stand by and allow innocent holy men to be murdered. We have to warn them!”
Tavis huddled down in the furs and thought for a moment, rubbing the soft skin at the end of his stump against his lips, then looked at Javan.
“All right. I have an idea that might work, and it could solve another problem at the same time. How are you feeling?”
“What? All right, I guess.”
“No,” said Tavis, reaching aside for pen and parchment, “you feel terrible.” He touched the end of his stump fleetingly to the boy’s forehead, then exclaimed aloud and shook his head. “Ach, you have a roaring fever—or will have, by the time this reaches its destination,” he added with a tight little smile. He dipped the pen into the inkwell and began writing.
“In fact, I’m worried for your very life, Javan, though I would never tell your beloved regents that, for fear they might blame me. But if I send our friend Rhys the information about the religious houses—which I managed to gather this afternoon, only to return and find you taken gravely ill—do you think Rhys will be able to resist coming to your aid?”
With an expression of sudden dawning, Javan slowly nodded.
When, an hour later, a royal squire came to deliver Tavis’s message, he found Rhys ensconced with the new archbishop. Joram, Jebediah, and Bishops Niallan and Kai were also there. It was just past Vespers, and the six Deryni had taken a light supper together before settling down to discuss the ramifications of Camber’s new office and the precautions which needed to be taken.
By now, the regents’ displeasure at the outcome of the election was certain. Word of the initial reaction in the great hall had come from one of Bishop Ailin’s contacts in the castle, late in the afternoon, and they could imagine the tone, at least, of later discussions. The next twenty-four hours appeared to be the critical ones. If they could see Alister safely enthroned and reinstated on the regency council, as was now his due, there was a good chance that further reaction against their kind might yet be avoided or at least delayed.
So deeply were they immersed in their discussion, safe from either human or Deryni eavesdropping behind the defense of Camber’s wards, that they did not note any physical approach outside until a tentative knock at the door jarred them hollowly from their intense concentration.
“Good God, who can that be?” Camber murmured, as much in annoyance as in apprehension. Simultaneously, he raised his shields to full protection, checked to be certain his colleagues had done the same, and dispelled the wards with a wave of his hand and a mental command.
He did not stand or turn in his chair as Joram went to answer the door, but he did cast out with his mind to identify the caller. An unknown human mind waited on the other side of the door, vaguely familiar yet not attached to any name that Camber knew. Joram eased the door open and then stood aside to glance at Rhys.
“Rhys, he wants to speak with you.”
Rising, Rhys went to the door where one of the royal squires waited, Camber lightly linking in and observing through the Healer’s eyes.
“Bertrand, isn’t it?” Rhys asked.
Bertrand gave a nervous bow.
“Aye, my lord. A priest downstairs said I might find you here. I—hope I’m not disturbing you. I’m sorry, Your Graces,” he added, as he spied the three bishops now turning to peer at him.
Rhys favored the boy with a reassuring smile. “It’s all right, Bertrand.” He noticed that the boy held a folded and sealed square of parchment. “Do you have a message for me?”
“Aye, my lord. I’ve come from Lord Tavis, on behalf of my master, Prince Javan.” He glanced beyond Rhys at the others, then lowered his eyes uncomfortably. “His Highness is very ill, sir,” he continued in a lower voice. “He’s burning up with fever. Lord Tavis heard that you had arrived in Valoret this morning, and hoped you might come to His Highness. He bade me give you this.” He held out the parchment packet. “He begs you to attend him.”
“He begs me?” Rhys said, taking the boy by the shoulders in alarm and making a quick, subtle probe.
Instantly, Camber shared Rhys’s perception of Tavis’s taut face giving instructions and the message to the squire … the boy’s view of the prince tossing feverishly on his bed, kicking off the blankets in his delirium.… Tavis and the frightened squire sponging down the pale, hot body with water only just melted from snow fetched from outside.… Javan thrashing and moaning under Tavis’s efforts to comfort him.
Good God, what was wrong with Javan?
The perception took only an instant, and was surely interpreted by the squire as only a searching glance of disbelief that one Healer should so entreat another. Then Rhys was shaking his head and taking the message the boy still held in one hesitant hand and running a sensitive fingertip across the seal to confirm that the message did, indeed, come from Tavis.
Camber glanced at the others and brought them into the link to share the contents of the message—first Joram and Jebediah, and then, after the slightest of hesitations, Niallan and Kai. Through Rhys’s eyes they watched the parchment unfold, scanning the shakily penned lines with growing consternation.
I have learned by reliable means, that the regents plan to move against the Gabrilite and Michaeline establishments in the Lendour highlands. Baron Rhun and a sizable force are there now, and have been given orders to take retaliatory action for the election of Alister Cullen, though I do not have specific details. His Highness was so distraught by the possibility of the murder of these good holy men that he has taken some kind of fever that I do not know how to deal with. Please warn Archbishop Cullen to guard his Order and that of his esteemed predecessor, and then come and aid me. Prince Javan’s life may depend upon your aid.
The message was signed and sealed: Tavis O’Neill.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
They plundered the sanctuary of God, as though there was no avenger.
—Psalms of Solomon 8:10
“Oh, my God!” Rhys murmured, lowering the parchment and glancing at Camber with a stricken expression.
His mind turned over the implications of the dreadful message he had just read, but already his hand was on the boy Bertrand’s shoulder, guiding him back through the open door.
“Wait outside, please, son,” he said. “I’ll be with you in just a moment.” He closed the door and rested his forehead against the smooth wood for just an instant, then turned and came back toward the fire.
“I think we’d better have the wards back, Alister,” he whispered, kneeling by the fireplace and holding the parchment to the light to scan it a second time. “If the regents should find out that we know about this, and how, Tavis O’Neill’s life won’t be worth a damn.”
“Unless they sent him,” Joram said.
Camber shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. That wouldn’t jibe with what Jaffray told us about Tavis’s behavior before the Court after Davin’s death. Read the message again and see if you don’t agree.”
With that, he closed his eyes and performed the mental processes which would re-establish the wards. When he looked up, once more aware of the faint tingle of protection surrounding the room, Joram and Jebediah were crouched tensely to either side of Rhys to read Tavis’s warning with their own eyes. Niallan and Kai had not moved from their chairs, waiting for him to take the initiative. As Camber stood, they stood, too. Rhys pivoted on his heels at the sound and glanced up at the three of them, though he addressed only Camber.
“You don’t think it’s possible that it is a ruse?”
Camber shook his head slowly, clasping his arms across his chest in a gesture that had nothing to do with cold.
“That he would gamble with the lives of so many of our people? No,” Camber said softly. “I fear that the regents do, indeed, plan what he says they do. It’s my fault, too. I should never have let myself be talked into accepting election as archbishop.” He sighed explosively and glanced at Joram. “And Joram is thinking that all the mea culpa’s in the world cannot now undo it, and he is absolutely right. However, the damage now being done, we must do what we can to minimize the effects. Niallan, will you and Kai help us?”
The senior of the two other bishops gave a quick nod. “What do you want us to do?”
“For now, simply cover for me, if necessary,” Camber said. “Joram and I will have to go to Saint Neot’s and warn Dom Emrys, if it isn’t already too late. Jebediah, you must go to Haut Eirial and make certain that all of our people are out of there.”
Jebediah nodded. “They are, but I’ll go anyway. Other brothers took over the abbey when we moved out. Rhun’s troops may not be able to distinguish between Michaelines and another Order, if they’re in blood lust. I’ll go on to Mollingford, after Haut Eirial. That’s also within range.”
As Jebediah spoke, Joram’s hand had crept toward the hilt of the sword he was not wearing, there in the relative safety of a bishop’s chambers. Now he chewed at his lower lip distractedly, the pale grey eyes like cold iron.
“My lords, I beg your pardon, but—something still isn’t quite right about this. It’s too—convenient, somehow.”
“You suspect a trick?” Kai asked.
Niallan nodded simultaneously. “I think I understand Joram’s uneasiness, Kai. It is a little handy—luring Alister into making a move directly against the regents—”
Camber glanced from the two bishops to his son, a bushy Alister eyebrow raised in query. “Is that what’s bothering you, Joram?”
“Something like that, Your Grace.”
Rhys shook his head and cast the parchment on the fire, watching it curl and burn as he stood. “Well, I don’t know about plots within the regency, but I do know that Prince Javan is very ill. Bertrand isn’t capable of deceiving me on that, whatever motives Tavis himself might have for sending us his information. And as shocked as I am about what the regents apparently have planned, you people are going to have to decide what’s to be done about that. Right now, I think my place must be with Javan.”
“I think it must be, too,” Camber agreed, picking up Rhys’s Healer’s mantle and holding it for him. “Give the boy our best wishes, when he’s out of danger, Rhys. And we shall all pray that it’s only a simple childhood fever.”
“I hope you’re right,” Rhys replied, picking up his Healer’s satchel and heading for the door. “It isn’t like a Healer of Tavis’s ability to panic about something that common, though. Maybe he’s just rattled because of what he found out. Or maybe he’s finally remembered he’s Deryni, too. Wards?”
As he paused beside the door, Camber smiled and let the wards dispel.
“Good luck, son. Our prayers go with you.”
“I think you’ll need them more than I,” Rhys returned with a smile. “I may not be back before morning. Don’t wait up.”
As he opened the door and slipped through, Camber could see the boy Bertrand look up anxiously, his expression changing to one of relief as Rhys spoke to him in a low voice, and then the door shut them both off from view. Joram and Jebediah began buckling on their swords while Camber riffled through a garment press. Niallan watched impassively, Kai a trifle less so, as their superior pulled out a heavy, copelike mantle of gold-embroidered burgundy and slung it around his shoulders.
“What, specifically, do you want us to do while you’re gone, Alister?” Niallan asked.
“You may have to celebrate the Midnight Mass for me, if I don’t get back in time,” Camber said, worrying at the clasp beneath his chin. “It’s nearing Compline now. But
if you do have to cover for me, say that I’m indisposed and resting for tomorrow. I’m told that Archbishop Anscom once used that excuse, when he went to marry Cinhil and his queen, on another Christmas Eve.”
He caught Joram’s hidden smile as the Michaeline donned his greatcloak, Joram remembering that Camber himself had heard Anscom say it.
Niallan nodded agreement. “I understand. We’ll do the best we can. I assume you’re going by Portal?”
“Aye, there’s a private one in Jaffray’s chambers that very few people know about,” Camber replied, heading toward the door. “Fortunately, Ailin didn’t think to quarter anyone there—presumptuous, you know, until the new archbishop was chosen, despite the shortage of housing—so it should be just a matter of manipulating the lock and getting in without being seen. If we should be intercepted, I’ll explain our presence by saying that I wanted to pray in Jaffray’s oratory before being elevated to his office. With luck, such subterfuge won’t be necessary.”
“I certainly hope you’re right,” Niallan murmured, as Joram eased the door open and he and Jebediah slipped outside. “Do be careful, Alister.”
“My plan, precisely,” Camber said with a wry Alister smile. “Let it be your plan, as well. Godspeed, my friends.”
He started to clasp both men on the shoulder, but Niallan deftly caught his hand and knelt, pressing his lips to the bishop’s ring in homage. Kai, too, knelt to repeat the process. There was nothing Camber could say to that—only lay a hand on each man’s bowed head and bless him.
Then Joram was peering back inside and beckoning him to come, and he was slipping outside. They strode briskly but softly down the corridor. They saw no one. When they came to Jaffray’s old apartments, Camber bent quickly to the lock while the other two Michaelines kept watch. No one interrupted. Within a few more seconds, they were safe inside the episcopal apartments, Joram conjuring handfire to light their way in the cold and darkened chamber. Camber, too, produced a sphere of handfire, and gestured for the two others to follow him.
The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy Page 130