All of this took half the morning; and those who had not been present the day before and seen the arcane presentations of evidence were beginning to fidget with boredom by the time Queron had finished his cross-examination regarding the disappearance of Camber’s body. But the next presentation brought evidence new to all the observers save those who did not wish to talk about it. From a door by the left-hand fireplace entered at Queron’s summons one Lord Dualta Jarriot, his garb proclaiming him a Knight of the Order of Saint Michael.
Dualta approached the thrones stolidly, bowing with formal correctness to Cinhil before kneeling to kiss the archbishop’s ring. He avoided the king’s gaze, being very much aware that he was disobeying Cinhil’s direct command by coming here to testify and praying that Queron could indeed protect him from the king’s wrath when it was all over. Naturally, Cinhil dared do nothing to stop him now.
Queron did not employ any Deryni pyrotechnics in his initial examination of Dualta, confining himself to a normal question-and-answer format while he established Dualta’s identity and his connection with the incident about to be related. Because of the number of other witnesses who had been present, Queron admitted that he was unable to repeat his energy-draining technique of the day before and show what Dualta had seen; but he did reveal that he had, with Dualta’s consent, earlier Truth-Read Dualta’s testimony and found the young knight to be telling the literal truth.
But he would let Dualta tell his story. The young man was not Deryni, but he did have remarkable recall, having been trained to the Michaeline military discipline which was as legendary in its field as Gabrilite training was to Deryni. Queron was certain that the court would find Lord Dualta’s testimony of interest.
So was Camber.
The hall grew hushed as Dualta related the events leading to his “miracle”: how he had entered his vicar general’s chamber with an unnamed companion to find Cullen unconscious, apparently striving against some overwhelming force which seemed to be affecting everyone in the room.
Camber noted with curiosity that Dualta, too, had refrained from mentioning Cinhil by name as yet. It could only mean that Queron was saving Cinhil’s identity as a tour de force; for there was no way that this testimony could be completed without revealing the unnamed observer.
Rhys and Joram had tried to ease the stricken man’s distress, Dualta continued, but it was obvious that what fought for him was far stronger than they. Lord Rhys had hinted that it was some vestige of the evil Ariella, which had been continuing to threaten Cullen ever since he had defeated her that night at Iomaire.
Then Cullen had stopped breathing, his face slowly going blue as Rhys and a horrified Joram lowered his body to the floor and began to breathe for him, trying to keep him alive.
And as Dualta told his tale, it was as if he had slipped back to that time somewhat the way that Guaire had, though without the apparent aid of Queron or any other agent, now recalling his own part as though the struggling victim again lay before him in the hall which had become no longer hall but bishop’s bedchamber in his mind’s eye.
“O God, if Camber were only here!” Dualta cried, falling to his knees and reaching out his hands in supplication. “O God! Camber could save the vicar general!”
For a few seconds, Dualta knelt there as though transfixed, his audience frozen with him in anticipation and gasping as his expression changed from despair to awed wonder.
Then Dualta was describing what he had seen in a low, trembling voice, how Cullen’s face had misted over for just an instant and then begun to shift, had seemed to change to the face of Camber MacRorie, as if the one had been superimposed over the other!
The apparition had not lasted long, Dualta finally told them. Rhys, his hands on Cullen’s chest, had seemed least affected by what had happened, seemingly accepting the intervention as an assistance so that he could resume his healing work on his patient. As the Healer had closed his eyes and bowed his head, apparently entering his healing trance, the image had faded, the mist dispelled, and the familiar features of Alister Cullen reasserted themselves. Joram, stonily observant while the apparition occurred, had collapsed with his face in his hands and wept when it was all over.
Dualta’s face was whiter than the belt he wore, and his eyes still stared at a spot on the floor before him, where some who watched could almost fancy that they also saw what he still saw in the eyes of his own memory. His hands hung in the air, as if he gripped the arm of someone else kneeling there beside him. He turned his head slightly, as if in response to what that person had said, then swallowed and released his hold on air.
“The Lord’s Name be praised!” he whispered fervently, crossing himself and then clasping his hands in reverence. “He sent the blessed Camber to help us!” he cried. “The Lord sent Camber to save His servant Alister!”
As he bowed his head in thanksgiving, Queron moved quietly beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder, bending to speak a few words in his ear which the spellbound audience could not hear. In a few seconds, Dualta raised his head and looked at Queron, then at the king, the archbishop, the watching audience. He flashed a nervous, self-conscious ghost of a smile as he got to his feet with Queron’s aid.
“I pray you to forgive me, Reverend Lords, Sire,” he murmured earnestly, especially beseeching Cinhil as he straightened his mantle with shaking hands. “I had not intended—”
Jaffray waved his hand in negation. “No apologies are necessary, Lord Dualta. Your testimony has been quite enlightening, thus far. Dom Queron, do you intend to have Lord Dualta continue at this time?”
“I am not certain, Your Grace.” Queron bowed and turned slightly toward Cinhil. “Sire, we come here to a very delicate matter, for the next portion of the testimony can be better told by another witness of whom Your Highness is doubtless aware. I can, of course, ask Lord Dualta to continue, if you wish, but …”
Cinhil had been following the entire examination to this point with tight-lipped concentration, his eyes at least half the time covered by one hand, as if to shade them from the light—though there was precious little in the hall other than from torch and fireplace. Of course, Camber knew that Cinhil was not trying to hide from the light—and he was sure that Queron knew that, too. Jaffray, who also knew what Queron was doing, did not make a point of turning to stare at the king; but he did not have to, for all the other bishops and, indeed, everyone else in the hall were staring for him.
Camber’s heart went out to the king. Queron had set this up quite mercilessly. There was no way that Cinhil could avoid testifying now. Queron would make the matter as graceful as possible, but he would not relent.
“Your Highness?” Queron asked softly, as if unsure whether Cinhil had heard his question.
Cinhil toyed with a signet ring on his thumb, still managing to appear nonchalant.
“I was not aware that the king had any jurisdiction in the archbishop’s court,” he countered, not looking up.
Archbishop Oriss looked at Queron, then at Jaffray, who still had said and done nothing, then at Cinhil.
“Sire? Is this witness known to Your Grace?”
Cinhil nodded slowly, not daring to lift his eyes and thus risk meeting those of any other who had been there. Camber wondered whether Queron and Jaffray had set this up deliberately, baiting Oriss to do their dirty work for them and so force Cinhil to testify—for Cinhil would not lie, no matter what it cost him.
With a sigh, Cinhil turned his face toward Oriss.
“He is well known to me, Archbishop.”
“Then should we not hear from him?” Oriss persisted.
When Cinhil did not answer, Eustace, sitting beside Camber, cleared his throat and stood.
“Sire, forgive me, but I do not understand what is happening here. I am a simple man. I do not like intrigues and mysteries. If there is another material witness, then he should be made to come forth. Friendship with Your Grace should not grant him immunity from speaking the truth in so important a matter.�
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“You are certainly correct, Bishop,” Cinhil began evenly, making one last, game try to avoid the issue while he still had the nerve. “It should not. But—confound it, man!” He looked up at Eustace with eyes blazing. “You must be aware of my mixed feelings about Camber. I was that other witness! I had not wished to be drawn into this dispute!”
There were many gasps of surprise, for up until that instant, most of the men in the hall had not guessed that Cinhil himself was the unnamed witness. Amazement rustled through the hall like an errant wind, gradually subsiding when Cinhil did not speak further. After a moment of awkward silence, Queron essayed the breach.
“Your Highness, I must apologize. I did not intend for you to be forced into this testimony against your will.”
Camber nodded to himself and restrained a bitter smile, knowing that that was exactly what Queron had intended.
Queron returned his attention to Jaffray. “My apologies to Your Grace, as well. I should not have mentioned this. With your permission, I should like to ask Lord Dualta to—”
“No.”
Cinhil’s word was not loud, but it cut Queron off as effectively as though it had been shouted. To the sound of low-voiced murmurs of surprise, Cinhil stood, curtly signaling with his hand for them to remain seated when they would have risen in respect. Removing his crown with steady hands, he laid it gently on the cushion of his throne. Awed silence followed him down the three shallow steps of the dais as he turned to face Jaffray. Without his crown, in his somber robes of near-black green, he looked almost like the ascetic monk he had always wished to be.
“I am prepared to give my testimony in this matter, my Lord Archbishop. Since I do not speak from the throne, you may dispense with regal titles for the duration of this examination.”
Jaffray half-stood and bowed, then resumed his seat, glancing at Queron.
“I think we need not place His Grace under oath,” he said, half questioning, and then shaking his head as Queron minutely shook his. “Dom Queron, you may proceed with the witness.”
Bowing deeply, Queron turned to face Cinhil. This was the witness he had been waiting for, who would confirm all that had been said, even in his understandable reluctance. In fact, that very reluctance would make his testimony all the more telling, for Cinhil had not been exaggerating when he had spoken of his mixed feelings regarding Camber. Cinhil was truly the unimpeachable witness whom Queron had promised, for all that he did not physically wear his crown. Camber could almost read Queron’s triumph in his very stance. God, if he but knew what he was really doing!
“I shall try to make this as brief as possible, Father—if I may call you by that title without causing undue pain. All here know that you were once a priest.”
Cinhil winced at that, as Queron had intended, reminding all that this was at least one reason Cinhil had for not wishing any honor for Camber. Queron glanced at the floor, considering his next barb.
“Very well, Father. You affirm, then, that you were, indeed, present in Bishop Cullen’s chamber on that night before the Blessed Camber’s funeral?”
“Yes,” came Cinhil’s whispered reply.
“And that you witnessed something quite out of the ordinary concerning Bishop Cullen on that night?”
“Yes,” Cinhil said again.
“Excellent,” Queron said, scanning his audience and gauging their response. “Now, Father, please tell these Reverend Lords what you saw that night, in as much detail as you can remember. We wish specifically to hear of anything relating to Camber.”
Cinhil closed his eyes and swallowed, then looked at the floor and began to relate what he believed he had seen.
His initial testimony did not take long. Glossing over what Dualta had already related, for Dualta’s recollection differed very little from his own as far as sequence of events, Cinhil dwelt instead on his own reaction to the alleged miracle: his white-faced disbelief at first, and then his growing awe and almost fear as he realized that he was not mad, and that the others had seen the same thing.
“I did not want to believe it,” Cinhil whispered, “even though Dualta had stated what I suppose we were all thinking. I told myself that we must have been mistaken, that miracles do not happen any more. Even Lord Rhys would not commit himself; and Healers are probably the closest thing we know to miracle-workers on an everyday basis. He said that Bishop Cullen seemed to be out of danger, but he declined to speculate on how that had come about. When I asked whether it could have been through Camber’s intervention, he said he was not qualified to judge.
“It was then that I realized that there was another witness I hadn’t noticed before.” The audience sat forward, for from here, Cinhil’s testimony was new.
“There was a young Michaeline monk kneeling in the doorway of the oratory. Rhys told me that his name was Brother John, and that Bishop Cullen had asked to see him on a minor matter of discipline. They’d forgotten about him in all the confusion.”
Here, Queron cleared his throat. “For the record, Father, though Lord Dualta confirms the presence of this Brother John, neither he nor any other member of the Michaeline Order whom we have questioned, has been able to locate this Brother John since the night in question. There appears to be no record that he ever existed. We know that you also tried to find him. Were you more successful?”
Cinhil shook his head, to a few rumblings of disapproval from among the bishops.
“Thank you, Father. Please continue. We’ll come back to this point a little later.”
Cinhil bowed nervously and seemed to steel himself to speak again. Not a sound came from his rapt audience.
“This—Brother John was kneeling just inside the oratory. I asked him whether he’d seen what had just happened. He replied that he was only an ignorant monk, and not learned in such matters, but I insisted that he answer. I remember that when he looked up, he had the most incredible eyes I’d ever seen—a sort of smoky black.”
“Go on, please,” Queron urged.
“Yes, sir. He—admitted that he had seen something. And when I pressed him for details, he said, ‘It was him. He drew his shadow across the vicar general.’”
“And by ‘him,’ what did you take him to mean?” Queron asked softly.
“I—asked him,” Cinhil breathed. “I asked him, and he said—he said, ‘It seemed to be the Lord Camber, Sire.’” Cinhil took a deep breath and closed his eyes, almost speaking to himself. “I shall remember his words until the day I die. He said, ‘It seemed to be the Lord Camber. Yet, he is dead. I have seen him! I—I have heard of goodly men returning before, to aid the worthy …’”
A great sigh swept through the hall as Cinhil’s voice trailed off. Even Queron did not press him further. After a moment, Cinhil slowly opened his eyes, though he still did not appear to see. He raised his hands to stare at them, willing the clenched fists to relax, then let them fall slack at his sides as he sighed and looked up at Queron. Queron had drawn out of him what he had not wished to say, even though it was the truth. Now Cinhil wanted only to escape, to be quit of this public testimony for a man he had at once resented and feared.
Queron let out his own breath and gave Cinhil an acknowledging nod.
“Thank you, Father. Would you please tell the court what, if anything, happened after that?”
“Little more,” Cinhil murmured. “I had to get away and think. I still did not want to believe what I had seen and heard. I—told them not to discuss the matter, and then I left.”
“And went …?”
“To—to the cathedral for a little while, to—pray beside his body.” He hung his head again. “After that, I returned to my apartments,” he whispered.
“And nothing noteworthy occurred in the cathedral?” Queron persisted, though gently, for beyond this point, even he did not know what to expect.
But Cinhil only shook his head, raising his eyes to Queron’s with such determination that even Queron’s aplomb was a little shaken. The Healer-priest bowed p
rofoundly, one hand sweeping in a gesture of “as you wish,” patently acknowledging Cinhil’s shift back from witness to monarch. He seemed to regain most of his poise as he returned his attention to the archbishop. He had, after all, accomplished his purpose.
“Your Grace, I think we need not cross-examine this witness further. May he be excused?”
“Of course,” Jaffray said. “Sire, if you wish, we can adjourn for the rest of the day. I realize that this has been very difficult for you.”
For answer, Cinhil turned his Haldane gaze hard on the archbishop, then pivoted slowly to scan the hall. His audience shrank under his scrutiny—all except Camber—not daring to speak or even to move as he finally ascended the three dais steps to pick up his crown and take his seat. Though he was a little pale as he replaced the crown on his head, his face now betrayed no hint of what he had just been through. That, in itself, was enough to give him a vaguely foreboding air. It did not help that he avoided looking at Jaffray as he laid his hands formally on the arms of the throne.
But Camber, reading resignation as well as resentment for what had just transpired, did not share the apprehension of his colleagues. In a flash of vivid insight, he knew that even Cinhil, in his anger and frustration, had finally realized that one did not always have a choice of games which must be played. Not himself; not the bishops; not even Queron.
And so, there would be no reprisals. Now Cinhil was simply going to reassert the proper balance between king and Church, to ensure a viable working relationship for the future. Cinhil had lost this particular battle, but he would not always lose. He had won a minor victory only the night before, when he had gained an understanding ally in his struggle to be what he wanted to be, as well as what he was forced to be. Cinhil had learned much in the past year.
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