Camber the Heretic

by Katherine Kurtz

  A twist, a psychic wrenching, gentle but persistent—and suddenly Gregory’s mind was as it had been, sleeping and controlled still, but completely restored to the fullness of his Deryni potentials. Camber was shaking his head even as the three of them withdrew, too stunned by what he had witnessed to do more than stare at his son-in-law in amazement. He could not seem to find his voice. Rhys finally broke the silence.

  “You didn’t really believe me, did you?” the Healer said, as he reinforced Gregory’s Healing sleep and then broke off all contact. “Let’s go into the other room. He needs to rest.”

  Without a word, Camber followed, his mind still examining the implications of what he had just seen and felt. When they had settled down on stools and in chairs beside the fire in the outer room, it was Joram who spoke.

  “All right, how did you do it?”

  Rhys laced his fingers together on his knees and shook his head slightly. “I think it’s a Healer’s function, Joram. I did it inadvertently the first time, while working at a very deep level, and I couldn’t reverse it until I’d gone down deep again. The process seems to require the same kind of energy expenditure as an actual Healing.”

  “Is it more difficult?” Camber asked.

  “No, it’s—different. I suspect that one could become quite adept at this, after a while, but I don’t really see that it’s worth the effort. I mean, what good is it to take away someone’s powers? Now, giving powers this easily—that’s another story.”

  Joram snorted as he shifted closer to the fire. “Humph. I can’t say that it’s done Cinhil that much good to have such powers. Nor would I have been unhappy to see Imre or Ariella lose theirs. It could have saved a lot of needless deaths.”

  “True,” Rhys agreed. “However, gaining Imre’s and Ariella’s cooperation might have been another matter. Gregory was easy. He was drugged to a fare-thee-well the first time, already in Healing sleep, totally trusting me to do what needed to be done. One could hardly ask that of an enemy. At this point, I don’t know whether I could have done it to a conscious subject or not.”

  “You mean, if Gregory hadn’t already been unconscious, you don’t think you could have done it?” Camber asked.

  “He probably wouldn’t even have discovered it,” Evaine said.

  “She’s right,” Rhys agreed. “And remember, we know one another’s mental touch, from working together in council. If we hadn’t had that advantage, he wouldn’t have been so open.” He shrugged. “But this isn’t the place for further speculation right now. I don’t even want to tell Gregory what’s happened until I’ve had a chance to think about it some more.”

  Camber nodded. “A wise decision. Given all the pertinent factors, though, how soon do you think he’ll be able to ride? Cinhil thought Gregory was being melodramatic.” He chuckled as he remembered the king’s outburst. “He seemed to think Gregory was trying to steal his thunder, with all this talk about dying, so he wants to see him.”

  “I can imagine,” Rhys chuckled. “On the other hand,” he continued on a more serious note, “I didn’t want Cinhil thinking he had to get on a horse and come charging out here, in his condition.”

  “Oh, I don’t think he would have—” Camber began.

  “He would have, and you know it!” Rhys disagreed with a grin. “He’s the second most stubborn man I know.”

  “Myself being the first, I suppose.” Camber smiled. “Well, you’re probably right.” He sobered as his thoughts returned to Cinhil. “The trip certainly wouldn’t have done him any good, though. I don’t like the sound of his cough.”

  He looked to Rhys for reassurance, his hope fading as the Healer did not deny the fear he had so lightly posed. “How much time does he have, Rhys?” he asked, almost inaudibly.

  “A matter of weeks,” Rhys managed to reply. “A month, at the outside. I don’t think he’ll see Eastertide.”

  A chill slithered down Camber’s spine. Weeks! A month at the outside!

  And Cinhil knew, he realized, as he thought back on their last conversation. Cinhil was aware that he was dying, and had started to tell Camber and Joram about his concern for his sons when Rhys’s message had called them both away.

  Now Cinhil was alone at Valoret—or, not alone, for Jebediah was with him; and Tavis was available for the basic work of Healing. But Jebediah was not trained to cope with what must occur before Cinhil died—and Tavis must never know!

  “We must get back to him,” Camber breathed, unclasping cramped fingers and reaching for his cloak. “How soon can the two of you leave?”

  He stood as Joram laid the heavy cloak on his shoulders and fastened the clasp. Rhys and Evaine also stood, almost frightened at the intensity of Camber’s reaction.

  “We need to be certain Gregory is free of any aftereffects,” the Healer said. “Under the circumstances, with he being who he is, we really should spend the night here and plan to leave in the morning.”

  “So long?” Camber murmured. “God, I wish I hadn’t left Cinhil! What if he—”

  “Father, he isn’t going to die tonight!” Evaine insisted gently, sensing Camber’s increasing anxiety and knowing it to be unwarranted, as yet. “Unless he was much worse at noon than he was this morning, he has time.”

  With a weary sigh, Camber clasped both their hands to his breast and shook his head.

  “I’m sorry. I know. You’re right. Nonetheless, I must go back to him. We’ve come so far.… Return as soon as you can. God keep you both safe.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Judge none blessed before his death: for a man shall be known in his children.

  —Ecclesiasticus 11:28

  They delayed at Ebor longer than Camber would have liked. The horses had been fed and watered, the men of their escort provided for, while Camber and Joram were in the earl’s chambers; but when the two emerged, nothing would do but that they take a light meal with Lord Jesse and the steward—for Jesse was hungry for news of the capital and the king, and knew that the bishop had just left the court that morning.

  So half an hour was lost appeasing Jesse. When at last Camber and his men rode out again, the hazy shadows were lengthening beside the muddy road, the sky dulling to a close, leaden grey which bespoke ill weather to come. With luck, a full moon would light their last miles almost as bright as day, reflected off the pale and silent snowdrifts. And if the promised new snow held off for even a few hours, they would be back at the king’s side before Compline. As for a storm—Camber preferred not to think about that.

  But so far, the weather seemed to be holding. They had been riding at a steady, ground-covering canter for some time, Camber and Joram leading, the four guards following in pairs, when Camber finally reined back to a brisk walk to let the horses blow. As he caught his breath, he overheard one of the younger guards wondering softly to his colleague how such an old man could set such a pace. It was all Camber could do to keep from smiling as Guthrie, the guard sergeant, shushed the man and urged his mount alongside Camber’s, on the opposite side from Joram.

  “Your Grace, do you intend that we should take this road all the way back to Valoret?”

  “Now, Guthrie, that’s an odd question,” Camber answered, cocking his head curiously at the man. “This is the shortest route. You know I want to rejoin the king as soon as possible.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.” The man bowed respectfully in the saddle. “The men merely wondered whether you were aware that there is another road just ahead, scarcely half an hour’s ride longer, which would take us past Dolban. If you would consent to a brief stop, they would like to visit the shrine there and pray for the king.”

  Dolban.

  The name of the place touched unwelcome associations in his mind, and he had to suppress the urge to shudder. Nor could he ignore Joram’s mental shiver of apprehension. Neither of them had any wish to go to Dolban.

  Dolban had been the first of the shrines constructed by Queron Kinevan and his Servants of Saint Camber. It was at Dolban
that the formal canonization ceremonies had taken place eleven years before, when the supposedly-dead Camber of Culdi had been declared a saint, worthy of veneration for what he had done for his people, his king, and his God; an example of what Deryni could be, even in the estimation of humans.

  After Dolban had come a succession of other shrines—Hanfell and Warringham and Haut Vermelior and a dozen other places whose names Camber had no wish to remember. Defender of Humankind Saint Camber had become, and Kingmaker, and Patron of Deryni Magic, as well, though the latter was not so widely touted lately, as anti-Deryni sentiment became more widely espoused by the humans surrounding Cinhil’s dying court. Camber knew it all to be based upon a lie.

  “Your Grace?” the sergeant asked, breaking into his reverie. “Your Grace, is anything wrong?”

  “No, no, nothing is wrong. I was just thinking about Camber. I really—”

  He broke off as the drum of hoofbeats and whoops of raucous laughter suddenly intruded in the dusky silence. By the commotion, at least a dozen horsemen were approaching from beyond the next curve, and fast. Simultaneously, he was aware of Joram already taking stock of the situation and estimating the odds—though it was obvious that they would be greatly outnumbered, if it came to a physical confrontation.

  Frowning, Camber reined his grey to the left and signalled Joram and the guards to do the same, though all of them kept riding slowly in the direction they had been going. In the face of such a situation, they must proceed as if nothing were amiss, as if they had as much right to be on this road as did those approaching. He fervently hoped that there would be no trouble, for they must get back to Cinhil!

  All at once the approaching riders burst into view from around the curve and thundered into the long, straight stretch, riding at a reckless gallop. They were no soldiers—their bright, multicolored clothing proclaimed that at a glance, as did their lack of discipline as they rode. Bright caps, some of them with plumes and jewels, shone on most of their heads, a few of them banded with fillets that looked almost like coronets, and might have been. Velvets and furs on cloak and sleeve and saddle trappings glowed in the waning light, swords and daggers flashing at every hip. A few of the riders brandished swords in gloved fists.

  They laughed raucously as they approached, their guffaws and shouted comments becoming more ribald as they noticed the somber little band proceeding toward them. In a flurry of movement, they nearly surrounded Camber and his party, their fine horses jostling the more ordinary mounts of the four guards and making Camber and Joram’s greys lay back their ears in protest.

  “Give way, my lords!” Joram shouted, flinging his mantle back from his sword arm and laying a gloved hand on the pommel of his weapon. “We would not dispute the road with you. Observe the King’s Peace!”

  “Why, ’tis a lone Michaeline knight!” one of the young toughs sang, to hoots of derisive laughter from a handful of his colleagues.

  “One Michaeline and an old man and a few paltry guards to stand against all of us?” shouted another. “Let’s dump them off their horses and let them walk like the last ones!”

  As one man, Joram and the four guards drew steel, though they did no more than hold their weapons at the ready. Camber still had not reached toward the sword at his knee—calmly sat his horse and surveyed the surrounding riders with grim expression, but without apparent alarm, forearms resting casually on the high pommel, the reins held easily in one gloved hand.

  His sobriety apparently touched some chord of response, for one of the riders jostled the elbow of another of his comrades and gestured urgently toward the black-cloaked figure sitting so calmly in their midst. The man so jostled took a hard look at Camber and then held up the riding crop in his hand. The sniggering and the catcalls died away immediately.

  “Hold, lads. The old man thinks to outstare Deryni. What say you, old man? Why should we not have our way with you?”

  For answer, Camber let his shields flare to visibility, though he did not permit himself to move, even then. Apprehensive murmurs rustled among the men as the silvery mantle of his Deryniness glowed unmistakably in the twilight. Several riders lowered their weapons sheepishly and tried to melt into the shadows at the edge of the road, though most held their ground with undiminished belligerence. A few flashed their own shields to light momentarily, but they did not persist when their leader disdained to follow suit. That one stared across at Camber with stony defiance.

  “I see,” he murmured.

  “Do you? I don’t think you do,” Camber replied, barely trusting himself to speak. “The fact that I am Deryni like yourselves alters nothing. The shame upon you all is that so many should set upon so few of any race, who have done them nary a harm. Has the King’s Grace endeavored to protect the land and guard its roads only to have his nobles flout his laws for their own sport?”

  “The King’s Law? Human law!” One of the men spat, a contemptuous, bitter gesture which was repeated by several of his colleagues as the man continued. “Our forbears ruled this land and helped to guard its borders. We were held in honor and esteem, as well we should have been. Now this human king gives over all our honors to his human toadies!”

  “And you play directly into their hands!” Camber retorted. “Don’t you see how you give our enemies precisely what they want?”

  The hand of the band’s leader tightened on his crop, and his dark eyes took on a cold, steely gleam.

  “How dare you speak to us that way? Just who are you?”

  “Why should that matter?” Camber countered, halting Joram’s indignant beginnings of protest with a sharp gesture. “You do our race as much harm as the very toadies you claim so to despise! What better excuse does a man like Murdoch of Carthane need than the irresponsible actions of the likes of you, giving the proof to his lies?”

  That accusation brought angry mutterings to more lips, and one brash soul spurred his horse hard into Camber’s to grab a handful of black cloak and attempt to pull its wearer from the saddle. A deft evasive movement on the part of Camber forestalled the intended result, almost transferring it to the perpetrator, but the move was also sufficient to throw the cloak back from that shoulder and expose the collar of golden H’s and jewelled pectoral cross lying on and across Camber’s chest. As their significance registered, several gasps of recognition rippled through the band.

  “Good God, it’s the chancellor!”

  Beside Camber, Joram allowed himself a tiny sigh of relief and lowered his sword, though he did not sheath it just yet. The four guards remained at the ready, sensing that their chances of survival had just shifted back in their favor, yet not precisely certain how that had been accomplished. Tension was sustained for several heartbeats, but then the leader of the band brought his crop up to his cap in salute and bobbed his head in slightly mocking deference.

  “Sorry, Your Grace, we appear to have made a mistake.”

  “I’ll say you have!” Joram muttered under his breath, starting to sidestep his horse between Camber’s and the leader’s.

  But Camber’s tongue-lashing, plus the discovery of his identity, had apparently quelled any further desire of the young lords to bully the six they had met. At their leader’s signal, the band crowded past Camber and his escort with astonishing precision and galloped away on the road back toward Ebor, quickly disappearing in the growing twilight. Joram and Camber’s men made as though to follow, their outrage written plainly on their faces, but Camber held up a hand and murmured, “No!”

  His men returned obediently and fell in around him, but it was obvious that they were resentful at being held back. Joram allowed himself a final, murderous glare in the direction the marauders had disappeared before sheathing his sword with a vexed snick of steel seating in steel-bound leather.

  “Young ruffians!” the priest grumbled, under his breath.

  Guthrie, the guard sergeant, was less circumspect.

  “How dare they? Just who do they think they are?” he blurted. “Your Grace, you sh
ould have let us go after them!”

  “To serve what purpose?” Camber replied. “You are all fine soldiers, but you were also greatly outnumbered, in strange territory, and at dusk, when all three factors would have worked against you. Furthermore, they were all Deryni; and except for Joram, you are not.”

  “His Grace is right, Guthrie,” Joram reluctantly agreed, “though I, too, would love to have thrashed them all soundly.” He turned to Camber, Michaeline composure restored as was fitting in the chancellor-bishop’s secretary. “Under the circumstances, Your Grace, do you think it wise to divert to Dolban? The king should be told of this incident as soon as possible.”

  Joram’s words gave perfect excuse to omit the visit if they chose—an option which both Camber and Joram would have preferred, rather than subject themselves to the emotional strain of a visit to the principal Camberian shrine; and Queron Kinevan was the last man that either of them wanted to see, after their few encounters at the time of Camber’s canonization—but unfortunately, a similar argument dictated precisely the delay they otherwise might have avoided. Queron Kinevan, as Abbot of Saint Camber’s-at-Dolban, had primary responsibility for keeping of the King’s Peace on the roads surrounding the abbey lands, and it was he who should be informed of the band of young Deryni bullies first, even before the king.

  Camber reminded them of that, before leading them into a bone-jarring gallop on along the increasingly dim and icy road. They had not travelled a mile further toward the Dolban cutoff before they came upon the first signs of their marauders’ earlier exploits.

  They slackened pace as the muddy footing of the road changed from fetlock depth to nearly knee-deep, noting without comment how even the snow-banked verge beside had been churned to slush by the recent passage of many horses. As they continued cautiously into the next curve, they checked before a ragtag assemblage of perhaps a dozen liveried men on foot, though the men’s high boots and mud-fouled spurs gave mute indication that they had not begun their journey thus.