“I preferred that Cinhil not know I had been wounded in his behalf. Besides, he needed you just then.”
“It was a minor wound, and you know it. Now, stop squirming. I don’t want to hurt you any more than I have to.”
Camber winced as Rhys’s fingers located the wound and began to probe, but he did not move. Evaine, sitting at his right, took his free hand in hers and stared at him anxiously, while Joram knelt at his feet.
“It isn’t that serious, is it?” Camber finally murmured, when it seemed that Rhys was taking an inordinately long time just to look.
“I don’t know yet. Talk about something else while I find out.”
Camber smiled slightly, more to reassure his children than out of any greater comfort, and glanced across Rhys’s kneeling form at Cullen.
“You know, Alister, it was interesting to note to whom he did and did not listen just now.”
Cullen snorted under his breath and tried to look unconcerned about Camber’s paleness.
“You’re implying that I might have some influence over him that you do not,” he replied gruffly. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid that’s rather tenuous. It may be that he identifies with me and Joram a little because of our priesthood—something we have that he has lost. If that isn’t it, I can’t explain it.”
“Whatever the cause, the effect seems to exist,” Camber said. He shifted a little and made a grimace as Rhys’s touch found a more sensitive hurt. “What will happen when you’re gone to Grecotha?”
Cullen shrugged. “I don’t think he knows about my promotion yet. I was only told yesterday myself. Still, Grecotha isn’t that far from Valoret. I’ll be safely out of reach for the niggling things, but available when I’m really needed.”
“And what happens when he moves the court back to Rhemuth? Then you’re twice as far from him.”
Cullen shook his head. “I don’t know, Camber. I go where I’m sent. I think you’re overestimating my influence over him.”
“Perhaps. I worry about his increasing hostility toward Deryni in general, though. And from a purely selfish point of view, I worry about his changing attitude toward me. As you cannot have failed to notice, it’s becoming increasingly difficult for me to work with him.”
“He’s becoming insufferable!” Joram muttered darkly. “There are times when I almost wish we had never found him. At least in Imre we knew what danger we faced.”
“Never wish those times upon us again,” Camber replied. “We are well rid of Imre and his wicked kin, even if Cinhil is not yet all we would have him. The people will grow to love him, in time.”
“Will they?” Joram lowered his voice to a whisper, after casting a careful look at the soldiers moving at the end of the hall, clearing away the aftermath of what had just occurred.
“They already love you, you know. You could have been king yourself; they would have accepted you far more readily.”
Camber glanced at both his children, at Cullen watching him, still as death, at Rhys kneeling by his side, lost in his Healer’s trancing—then sighed.
“Is that what you truly wish, Joram? We are Deryni, and none of us of royal blood. And if I had taken the throne, what then? I would have been no better than Imre, whose ancestors also took what did not belong to them. One does not right one wrong by yet another.”
Evaine’s eyes were filling with tears. “But Cinhil is so—so helpless, Father, and so—”
“Cinhil is our rightful king—let none forget it,” Camber murmured. “And despite his failings, which I am first to agree are many, I think that he can learn to be a good king.”
“If he lives a hundred years, he could not be your match!” Joram said under his breath.
Camber smiled gently. “And do you think that I will live a hundred years, Joram? Be realistic. If I had become king, what then? What, when I was gone? I am nearly sixty now. My health is excellent, and I anticipate several more good years—but how many may I reasonably expect? Ten? As many as twenty? And with your brother Cathan dead, my heir now is a lad of seven. Would you wish the crown on little Davin when I am gone? Or on yourself, to put aside your vows as we made Cinhil do?”
“You could have made a difference,” Joram whispered, shaking his head.
“Aye, perhaps. And I can make a difference, even now, God willing it be so. But it must be on my terms, serving our lawful king. The price we paid for Cinhil’s kingship was too high to throw it all away simply because the way is difficult just now.”
Cullen stirred slightly, leaning back to stroke his chin thoughtfully.
“What shall we do about Cinhil, then? You, yourself, have pointed out the problem. Can you work with him?”
Camber shrugged. “If I must, I must. Oh, I think this current crisis will pass. I flatter myself that Cinhil still needs me for a while—at least until the matter of Ariella’s invasion is settled, one way or the other. As my son has pointed out, I have the people’s favor. It is misdirected—for all of you share in the responsibility for what they think I have done—but that is neither here nor there. Imre is dead, and they think I am responsible, even though they know that Cinhil did the actual deed. In time, they will learn the truth.”
“Well, it isn’t time for that yet,” Rhys said, returning his attention to all of them. “Camber, this is more complicated than serious—I’ve done a little already—but I don’t want you trying to help this time. You’ve lost more blood than I would have liked.”
“Which means that you are not telling me everything, and I shan’t be able to convince you otherwise,” Camber said.
Rhys shook his head stubbornly, not moving his left hand from Camber’s side.
Camber sighed and adjusted his arms more comfortably on the chair. “Very well, I won’t argue. You realize, of course, that I’m never going to learn how you do this if you won’t let me watch on my own body.”
“If you haven’t learned by now, I’m not sure it can be learned,” Rhys said with a tight smile. He reached his right hand to Camber’s forehead. “Let’s get on with it. Close your eyes and relax. Open to me. No barriers … no resistance … and no memory of this.”
Obeying, Camber exhaled softly and let himself slip away, knowing that Rhys must have good reasons for his request, and too lethargic to worry about them. In what seemed only a short time, he was rousing to a deft mental touch calling him back. He frowned as he took another breath and opened his eyes. It had been so peaceful where he was.
“How do you feel?”
Rhys’s face was hovering anxiously a handspan from his own, the fingertips of one hand still resting lightly at Camber’s temple.
Camber blinked slowly, deliberately—let his gaze slip past Rhys to the others on the fringe of his vision. All of them looked far more solemn than he thought they had a right to be.
“All right, can you tell me now what it was? I feel fine, if a little weak, so I assume that the Great Healer took care of it. However, the lesser Healer has a little explaining to do. Rhys?”
Rhys hooked a stool closer and settled on it. “Damaged kidney,” he said matter-of-factly. “Perforated spleen. Internal bleeding. Superficial muscle damage. Other than that, there was hardly anything wrong with you.” He cocked his head at Camber with a wistful look. “What I want to know is how you managed to stay on your feet so long.”
“How long did it take you to put things right?” Camber countered.
“Long enough.” Rhys smiled. “You’re as good as new now, though—or will be when you’ve had some rest. Just don’t do it again. I might not be around next time.”
“I’ll certainly try to avoid it.”
Camber smiled and slid a hand into the hole in his robe where the wound had been. Only smooth skin met his touch—not even a tenderness.
“Well, where were we?” he said, relaxing in his chair with a sigh.
His daughter shook her head and sat back with relief, dropping one hand to rest on her brother’s shoulder as he settled in the rushes at
her feet. Joram, for all that he was bloodstained and covered with bits of straw and rushes from his tussle with the assassin, somehow managed to convey an air of elegant competence now that the crisis was over. He looked his father squarely in the eyes.
“We were talking about your not being able to get along with Cinhil—since you refuse to consider the possibility of any other king.”
“Wrong: We were talking about Cinhil not being able to get along with me,” Camber corrected lightly. “As all of you know, I am a very easy person to get along with.”
“We also know,” Joram continued pointedly, “that Cinhil holds us, and you in particular, to blame for all the misfortunes which have befallen him since he left his abbey. He’ll use you as a scapegoat, Father.”
“I suspect he will.”
Cullen shifted uneasily in his chair. “I don’t wish to interfere in what is obviously a family argument, but can we worry about that facet a little later? In case you’d all forgotten—and I don’t mean to minimize your injury, Camber—but we have a war to fight, and the weather is rotten, and Jebediah and I have to be able to tell your men something besides ‘Things will work themselves out somehow.’”
Camber sighed again and pursed his lips, making a steeple of his forefingers and studying them absent-mindedly.
“Sorry, Alister. Your point is well taken. Let’s table the Cinhil matter for the moment, since we’re not likely to resolve it by talking, anyway.”
“That’s more like it,” Cullen murmured.
“As for the invasion,” Camber continued, not looking at any of them in particular, “I think that there is something I can do, with your cooperation and assistance, to learn a great deal more about what Ariella is planning. Alister, I’m not sure you’d approve, so you’re excused, if you want to be.”
Cullen sat back in his chair and looked sidelong at Camber.
“All right. What mischief have you been into this time? I know that tone, Camber.”
Camber surveyed them all casually, only the gray eyes moving in the placid face. “It’s clean, I promise you. A power drain, and as complicated as anything I’ve ever attempted, but it can be done—at least, I think it can. Or rather, I know it can be done, and I think that I can do it.”
“You’ve never tried it, then?” Joram asked.
“No, it’s from an old manuscript called the Protocol of Orin. I found it with the original of the Pargan Howiccan senache that you were translating, Evaine, but it’s far older than that—several hundred years, I suspect. At any rate, our ancient ancestors apparently used a technique like this for what we would call divination. I prefer to think of it as a direct linkage to Ariella—if we can do it.”
He felt Evaine’s hand on his shoulder and turned his head to kiss her fingers.
“Frightened?” he asked.
“Nay, Father, not at all, if you be there.” She laughed gently. “You have but to tell us how we may help, and we are yours to command. I believe I can speak for Rhys and Joram.”
The two men nodded, and Alister Cullen cleared his throat and sat forward in his chair.
“You say it’s not dark?”
Camber nodded mildly, still holding his daughter’s hand, and watched Cullen’s battle of conscience war across his craggy face.
“Well, if you think I’m going to let the four of you go and magick yourselves into danger of eternal damnation, you’ve got another thought coming,” the vicar general finally growled. “Sometimes I’m not certain of your judgment, Camber—and your children take after you. You’ll need a level head among you.”
Camber smiled and nodded, but said nothing.
“And you always manage to talk me into these things against my better judgment,” Cullen concluded, sitting back in his chair with an exasperated sigh. “Well, go ahead. If you’re determined to do this fool thing, just tell me when and where, and I’ll be there.”
“Did I talk him into anything?” Camber asked, glancing at his children with a look of martyred innocence.
The others laughed, and Camber reached out to clap Cullen reassuringly on the shoulder.
“Thank you, my friend. We treasure you all the more for your caution. Now, as to when and where, I think we should move quickly on this—the sooner the better. If no one has any objections, I should like to do it tonight, as soon after Vespers as possible.”
“Are you sure you’re strong enough?” Joram asked.
Camber glanced at Rhys, and the Healer shrugged.
“If you promise to eat something substantial and rest a bit, all right. Remember, you lost a lot of blood, and that’s one thing I can’t cure.”
“Agreed. Any other objections?”
There were none. Joram glanced at the others dubiously, sharing some of his Michaeline superior’s mistrust of what his father might be planning, then turned his attention back to Camber.
“Very well. You’re going to do it anyway, so there’s no use trying to talk you out of it. Where do you want to set up, and do you need assistance?”
“Ideally, I’d like to use consecrated ground, but I don’t suppose that’s feasible here in the keep, for secrecy’s sake, and I don’t think we ought to leave. That being the case, I suggest that we use the dressing chamber adjoining my quarters. I think it can be adequately secured for our purposes.”
“Assistance?” Rhys reminded him.
Camber shook his head. “I’ll set this one up myself, if you don’t mind. I will need a few things that you can gather for me, though. Evaine, find me a large silver bowl, at least as big around as a man’s head. I don’t care about the outside, but I want the inside plain.”
“Just plain polished silver?”
“That’s right. Ah, Joram: incense and something to burn it in.”
Joram nodded.
“And, Alister—”
“I’m not sure I really want to know, but go on,” Cullen muttered under his breath.
Camber chuckled as he stood and gathered the bloodstained folds of his robe around him, putting on a special nonchalance for Cullen’s benefit.
“Relax, my friend. You might even find the entire process interesting. Here’s what I want you to bring …”
CHAPTER TWO
But continue thou in the things which thou hast learned and hast been assured of, knowing of whom thou hast learned them.
—II Timothy 3:14
Cinhil was out of breath and panting by the time he reached his tower quarters. When he had locked himself in, he stood with his back against the door for several minutes, heart pounding, his hands resting behind him, trembling on the bolt, as if to reassure himself that he was, in fact, safe. He tried not to think about what had just happened. For a time, he even succeeded.
But when his breathing had slowed nearly to normal, mindless panic and anger gave way to guilt and fear. Fighting down a queasy sickness in his bowels, he took a deep breath and forced himself to stand away from the door, to cross slowly and with dignity to the tiny oratory built into the leaded window of the room. There he collapsed with a shudder, burying his face in his hands to pray.
God, what was he to do? He had tried so hard and for so long to do what was right, despite the awful quandary they had put him in by making him king—and then, in the same day, in the same hour, he had been cursed, induced to kill, and healed.
He shuddered, knowing he could not hope to reconcile the killing on his own—that would have to be worked out later, with his confessor, when he could think more coherently. True, the man was an assassin, and had deserved to die—had he killed him during the struggle, it would have been simple self-defense. But he, Cinhil, had not killed out of self-defense, nor even out of justice, but in anger, from fear of mere words. Though his act might have been technically lawful, he had done it for the wrong reason—and the Word of God forbade men to kill. Camber had been right to chastise him.
And the curse—had Camber been right about that, too? Were the curses of a Deryni enemy no more than those of ordi
nary men? How could he trust the word of a Deryni on such matters? After all, they had tricked him before, these men called Deryni—although, he grudgingly had to concede, he supposed they had always acted in the best interests of the kingdom.
But what of his best interests? What of Cinhil? Did he not matter? Was he forever to be only their pawn, their ill-made tool, to be used as it pleased them, for purposes fathomable only to them? He was a man, with an immortal soul—a soul they had already grievously endangered, almost past redemption. When they took his priesthood away, they had—
No! He must not allow himself to pursue such reasoning, to wallow in self-pity and impotent rage. This was an old battle within him, and one which he had fought many times, finally nearing a workable resolution. He must not let the pureness of his plans be sullied by thoughts of anger and vengeance. His inner peace must stay a thing apart from all of this—apart from all taint of killing and of cursing and of Camber.
Swallowing resolutely, he turned his thoughts to the set prayers of the hour, occupying himself for the next little while with the comfort of the familiar words. When, at last, he raised his head and opened his eyes, he felt far more at peace—until his gaze fell on the bloodied edge of his sleeve. Abruptly, he froze, his healed hand beginning to tremble as he recalled the events surrounding it.
He had never gotten used to the healing which some Deryni could perform. It made him a little nervous, but also a little awed, despite his feelings about Deryni in general.
But he liked Rhys. Even the fact that Rhys had been one of those who took him from his monastery did not particularly prejudice him against the young Healer. There was something about him, and about the other Healers he had met since, which seemed somehow to set them apart from the rest of their race—as if their calling, even though sprung from Deryni origins, were somehow as divine as his own call to the priesthood.
He clenched his fist at that, noting in passing the absence of pain or other sign of his previous injury. Then he returned his attention to the bloodstain along the edge of his undersleeve. Standing, he shrugged out of the crimson outer robe with a grimace of distaste, letting it fall in a heap beside the prie-dieu as his fingers sought the fastenings of the under-robe as well.
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