Camber of Culdi

by Katherine Kurtz

  Then he was seeing through Camber’s eyes, noting the candle burning steadily in his own left hand, his right pressed palm to palm with Camber’s. He watched Camber’s other hand rise slowly to rest on Crinan’s forehead.

  The Master’s eyes closed, and there was only the crystal stillness, the peace, the all-pervading oneness of the bond they shared. Camber’s voice was like the whisper of leaves rustling in a summer breeze, which no mere mortal may command; and Rhys knew that what Camber bade would be.

  “Behold the light in thy mind’s eye,” the Master said to him. “It is the essence of thine outward form upon the earth. Extend it now, and let it flow around the man here standing. His visage shall be thine until the need is past, as like to thee as any man may see.”

  And as he spoke, Rhys felt a soothing lethargy coursing through his limbs, a pulling of energy which tingled on his skin and centered in the hand that held the flame, which now ached to leap the void to Crinan’s hands. None saw the mist which gathered round, or watched the fire flare from hand to hand. But suddenly Rhys knew the deed was done, the spell complete.

  He staggered as the bond dissolved away, and looked to see his candle dark, the one in Crinan’s hands ablaze with light. And as his gaze swept upward to the face, he gasped to see his own. His hands dropped to his sides in wonder; the candle fell forgotten to the floor.

  “My God!” was all Rhys could manage to whisper.

  Camber smiled distractedly and sighed, the silvery eyes veiled now, shrouded with fatigue. “And no demons or other evil that I could detect,” he quipped. “Joram will be pleased.”

  He passed his hands above the wards and murmured words, and the silver circle died. Then he bent to douse the candle in Crinan’s hand, touched the squire lightly on the forehead. Rhys could only stand and watch, speechless with awe, as Crinan’s eyelids fluttered wide.

  “Crinan, attend us. Look at me.”

  Crinan did so, his face—or rather, Rhys’s face—bewildered. “Did it w—work?” He faltered as he realized the voice was not his own.

  Smiling reassurance, Camber took his arm and led him to the vestment press and showed him a small mirror. Crinan gasped and ran his hands over his face; and even the gesture was Rhys’s. Rhys shook his head disbelievingly as Camber laid a hand on Crinan’s shoulder and calmed him once more.

  “Crinan, I’ll ask you to assume your role now, and to go outside with Rhys. Then, when you’re ready, you’re to go back into the church as Rhys, and meditate. I’ll join you directly. If anyone tries to make conversation, which I doubt, just do what you think Rhys would do. You’ll be guided when there’s need.”

  “I will, sir.” The voice was crisp, professional—and Rhys’s.

  Rhys was still shaking his head as he opened the door and let his double go through.

  Joram and Wulpher were directly outside, Wulpher already in a light trance from Joram’s ministrations, so the steward did not see the two Rhyses who emerged from the sacristy. But Joram did, and he froze in amazement as the first one, wearing Rhys’s clothes, nodded acknowledgment and then went past to wait, hand on the outer door latch; a second Rhys stood hard against the wall.

  Joram looked at the second one then, and realized that this must be the real one. But Rhys only shook his head and put a finger to his lips in silence as his double opened the door and went back inside the church.

  Rhys himself was still a little dazzled at what had just occurred, though he had been privy to every part of the operation. He watched silently as Joram and the entranced Wulpher disappeared behind the sacristy door, but he did not care to envision what was about to occur. Not that he felt guilty, in any wise, about the deed just done: they had done no wrong. But there was something vaguely disquieting about the whole thing, if only because of the shock of meeting his twin when he knew he had been an only child.

  Instead, he went to the spy hole in the door to the church and watched his double kneel by Cathan’s bier, saw Evaine touch one hand in compassion before returning to her own devotions. He was still watching a few minutes later when the sacristy door opened and Camber and Joram emerged, neither giving him a second glance as they passed on into the church and knelt together beside the other Rhys. A second Joram stayed in the doorway of the sacristy, and he beckoned to Rhys to join him as the physician turned to stare.

  “I’d rather not talk about this until we’re well away from here, if you don’t mind,” Joram murmured, standing aside so that Rhys could enter. “Come, the passageway is open.”

  An hour later, they were on their way to Saint Foillan’s.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  For by wise counsel thou shalt make thy war.

  —Proverbs 24:6

  The burial that evening took its sad course. The words were said, the earth scattered, the gravesite blessed by old Father Jonas, the parish priest, as well as Wulpher/Joram and the two monks who had come with the soldiers from Valoret. Snow had begun falling gently as the grave was closed, softening the harsh outlines of earth and stone and frost-burned sod piled grim in the dancing torchlight. The final psalms floated clear and lonely on the crystalline air. The incense swirled and made a small child sneeze.

  After, the folk of the village escorted their beloved lord and his family back to the castle—for Camber had had his son buried in the village churchyard, close by the people he had loved—not in the vaults beneath the keep. The walk was ghostly silent, made more so by the muffling snow which drifted down and glittered in the torchlight, making torches sputter and snap. Only the metallic clink of the soldiers’ harness punctuated the slow procession back. Other than that, stunned silence prevailed—a reluctance to speak of the unspeakable, the incomprehensible.

  The king’s soldiers displayed an unexpected sympathy throughout. Despite their orders to keep Camber and his family under watch, they had also been instructed to interfere as little as possible with the baring of MacRorie grief. And so they merely followed along at the end of the procession, their lieutenant requesting—and receiving—permission from Camber himself to camp that night in the castle yard.

  Camber gave his unbidden guests good night and retired to his chambers, the ensorcelled Crinan and Wulpher taking Rhys’s and Joram’s rooms until Camber should determine that it was safe to release them. Presently, Evaine came to his study, and father and daughter communed as only two Deryni might. When they had finished, they stepped into a corner of the room which glittered with hidden power. Camber wove the magic of a spell, and they were no longer in Caerrorie.

  “Where are we?” Evaine whispered, as her eyes adjusted to the near-darkness and she pressed a little closer to her father’s side.

  Wainscotted walls and ceiling surrounded them at arm’s reach all around, covering solid rock such as lay beneath their feet. The walls glowed faintly—arcane wards to keep one’s power in, not out. Camber reached out tentatively to explore the fastness of the warding spell, then sighed and withdrew, pressing his daughter’s shoulder with his encircling arm.

  “Someone will be along directly to let us out,” he said in a low voice. “This is the Michaeline Commanderie at Cheltham.”

  “Will the Vicar General come to meet us?”

  “I suspect so, though I doubt he’ll be pleased to see us—especially when he hears the news we bring.”

  Evaine scanned the walls around them—it was getting more difficult to breathe—and acknowledged that it was one of the most secure confinements that she had ever experienced. Even without the wards, this Portal chamber would have been impervious to invasion, for no Deryni could reach through so much solid rock and loose the bolts which held the rock door closed. If no one chose to give admittance, a would-be intruder had but two choices: to stay and slowly suffocate, for there was no ventilation, or to quit the place entirely and go back the way he had come.

  That could be a problem, if one had been forced to destroy the Portal used to get here, she realized, as her eyes continued to sweep the panelled walls. If one h
ad no place to go back to, and knew no other portal place, he could die here.

  The closeness of the air and walls was growing more oppressive, when there was a scraping of stone against stone before them, and a vibration as the outer rock was unsealed. Then the wall swung back to reveal cold steel thrust into the opening before them—swords held by faceless men in cloaks of midnight blue, their identity obscured by the glare of blazing torches.

  Evaine raised her hand to shield against the unaccustomed brightness, trying to see beyond to the shadow forms who stood without. Camber merely stood and closed his eyes, willing them to adjust to the light, but not moving his hands.

  There was a brief silence, and then: “It’s Lord Camber,” a low voice said.

  The swords were lowered and the torches withdrawn a space.

  As the glare receded, Camber opened his eyes again and stepped forward, his hand on Evaine’s elbow. Outside the Transfer Portal, a tall, blue-cassocked man with steel-gray hair was waiting, while three blue-mantled knights of the Michaeline Order sheathed their swords and moved into the background with their torches. Their leader, Alister Cullen, bowed stiffly as Camber saw and recognized him—for he was still wary of the turn of events which had made Camber MacRorie ally instead of adversary, however much he loved and trusted the great man’s son. Camber returned the bow, himself a little ill at ease, and gestured toward Evaine.

  “My daughter, Evaine, of whom I’ve spoken,” he said, by way of introduction.

  Cullen nodded in her direction, as Evaine returned a slight curtsey; then he directed his attention back to Camber, eyes glittering like sea ice, heavy brows nearly meeting on his forehead.

  “We had not expected you tonight, Lord Camber. Is something wrong?”

  “I’m afraid there’s been a change of plans,” Camber said. “May I speak freely?” He gestured toward the three Michaelines and raised an eyebrow.

  Cullen’s mouth set in a firm line. “I will stand pledge for their loyalty. What is it?”

  “Joram and Rhys will be at the haven with the prince within four days, if all goes well.”

  “Four days!” Cullen exclaimed, his composure rattled. “But, we had agreed—it was to be the week before Christmas!”

  “I know. We will simply have to adjust somehow. My son Cathan is dead. We buried him but a few hours ago.”

  Cullen’s jaw dropped in shock, and then he closed his eyes and shook his head, crossing himself with a hand which was suddenly a century older than it had been three heartbeats before. The three behind him likewise signed themselves and bowed their heads.

  Cullen, when he looked up, was visibly shaken. He yearned to reach out to the shining man and comfort him, to try to ease the pent-up grief; but his hands remained slack at his sides. He could not do that yet. Pride forbade. Through Joram, he had known Camber’s resistance to his order for far too long to trust fully so soon. And so he folded his hands together awkwardly and searched for words, sighing at the inadequacy of whatever he might say.

  “I’m sorry,” he finally murmured. “Joram spoke of his older brother quite fondly, and I always felt I knew him myself, though we never met. How did it happen?”

  “We don’t know for certain,” Camber said quietly. Evaine bit her lip and clasped her father’s arm more tightly, blinking back the tears. “The guards who brought his body back to Caerrorie said that he simply collapsed and died with Imre, before the Yule Court last night. The truth is that there was a wound in his chest, however—of a sword thrust or a dagger. He must have died instantly.”

  A strained silence followed. Then: “Do the guards know who did it?”

  “If they know, they will not say,” Camber answered. “I believe Imre suspects us of something, though, else the soldiers would not still be in my castle yard. Tomorrow, I will have to make some excuse that Joram and Rhys left before dawn, to go into retreat or on some other errand. We’ve not been formally forbidden to leave the castle, so perhaps the ruse will work. Actually, they left for Saint Foillan’s just after mid-day, though the soldiers don’t know that. With luck, they should reach the abbey two nights from now.”

  Cullen’s quick mind caught the glossing over of time, the half-omission, and he looked steadily across at Camber.

  “You say the guards don’t know?”

  “I—ah—covered their absence by placing a shape-changing spell on two of the servants,” Camber said reluctantly. “I’ll restore them when I return.”

  Cullen’s face hardened at the mention of the spell, though he had, in a way, been prepared for such a revelation. Nonetheless, his hand twitched as if longing to move in some protective counter-spell, though he knew that was superstitious nonsense.

  “Though I cannot condone your action, I can see the necessity for it,” he permitted himself to say. “But, ignore that for the moment. We must make our own preparations. How many people do you intend to bring to the haven?”

  “We’ll be ten in all: eight family and two servants—the ones I shape-changed; if Imre finds out what I’ve done, it might not be safe for them to remain behind.”

  “I see,” Cullen nodded. “When may we expect you?”

  “We’ll try to stay at least the four days it will take Joram and Rhys to get Cinhil to safety. If Imre doesn’t move against us before then, there should be no difficulty. If he does—well, we’ll have a problem. If we must escape through our own Portal, and I see no reasonable alternative if we’re discovered, we run the risk of Imre placing troops before every known Portal in the kingdom to try to catch us. If he goes that far, I doubt that Joram and the others could reach safety without being captured. We’ll just have to do our best to stall.”

  Cullen nodded thoughtfully. “We can probably cut our safety margin to three days, if necessary. Imre can’t close off all the Portals that quickly, even if that occurs to him: we may be giving him credit for more astuteness than he possesses. And there’s no way for him to guess that Dhassa is our target. A calculated risk, but it may be our only chance.”

  Camber controlled a smile, admiring the logic of the man. “How are your preparations? Can your people be ready?”

  Cullen turned to the three behind him, his clasped hands behind his back. “You’ve been listening, Jeb,” he said to the tallest of the men. “We’re talking about a three-week compression of our timetable. Can you gather the order in three days?”

  Jeb, Lord Jebediah of Alcara, Grand Master of the order’s military arm, stepped forward with the easy assurance of a trained warrior. “It will require judicious planning to keep down suspicion at the increased Portal activity, Father. But, yes, I think we can do it.”

  “How many men?” Camber asked.

  “Two hundred knights, my lord, carefully dispersed to places of safety until we have need of them.” He smiled. “Your own son’s prowess with weapons will tell you of their training.”

  Camber returned the smile, and Cullen nodded. “Nathan?”

  The second man, a scar sleek and white along his chin, stepped forward and bowed.

  “Provisioning will be finished within a day, Father General. The grain ship arrived this afternoon. We should have it unloaded and transferred to our hidden storerooms by nightfall tomorrow. Everything else is in readiness.”

  “And the non-combatants?” Cullen asked the third man.

  Jasper Miller laid a hand on the Michaeline emblem on his mantle and bowed. “Three days hence, even the king himself will find no servant of Saint Michael upon the land. Until the true king comes again, the Michaelines shall cease to exist.”

  “You risk much for an untried prince, sir,” Camber breathed, marvelling at the man’s faith.

  “Better the untried prince of a once-noble house than the usurping son of regicides who now sits on our throne!” the man retorted. “The Haldanes were ever friends to our order, and to the people of Gwynedd.”

  “God grant that they always will be,” Camber replied. “And pray that this Haldane comes. It will be two days at
best before Joram and Rhys even reach his side, and longer before we see his face. Suppose he is unwilling to take up his crown?”

  “He will not fail us,” Cullen said. “He must not. But in the meantime, our energies were best spent ensuring him a safe haven when he comes. And at Caerrorie—is there ought we can do to ease your work there?”

  Camber shook his head. “We’ll begin tomorrow to bring through the few things we will need, in small lots. Evaine will help me,” he added, laying his hand over his daughter’s, who had been watching and listening all the while.

  “Very well,” Cullen said.

  He stroked his chin in a thoughtful gesture, then looked up at Camber with a slightly sheepish expression which seemed doubly out of place on his dour, craggy face.

  “Ah, knowing how I feel about the darker aspects of our abilities, you will probably think me addled to ask this, but might I suggest that you leave the shape-changes on the two servants for a few days—since the deed is already done,” he added defensively. “It would help to alleviate needless suspicion, and perhaps gain us a little more time.”

  Camber raised an eyebrow and smiled in spite of himself. “I had not considered it, and might not have mentioned it if I had, but yes, it could be done, provided Crinan and Wulpher are willing—and I see no reason to suspect that they would not be.”

  Cullen looked very uncomfortable, and cleared his throat uneasily. “Yes, well—ah—good. It should ease matters a little. Are there—ah—any Deryni in the guard contingent?”

  “The lieutenant is Deryni. There may be others. I’ve not spoken with anyone else, however.”

  “Hmm, well. I don’t suppose I need remind you to be careful.”

  Camber controlled the urge to smile again—he had the distinct feeling that he had taken the measure of the gruff old vicar general, and found himself liking the man—then held out his hand.