Camber the Heretic

by Katherine Kurtz

  Returning alertness had brought the brush of other minds in the immediate vicinity, both strange and familiar, so she opened her eyes. She found herself lying on a narrow bed before a cheery hearth. The room’s ceiling and walls were plastered and whitewashed, the exposed beams oiled to a dark, mellow finish. A black-robed monk sat on a stool to her right, stirring a cup of something which was the source of the enticing aroma. Another monk stood behind—she knew he was the abbot. On her other side, Joram knelt with his pale head bowed, in the black of the stranger-monks instead of his familiar Michaeline blue, and with a priest’s stole around his neck. Behind him, she could see Fiona departing with a basin and armful of rough, grey towels.

  Joram looked up then, aware by Sight that she was conscious. Before she could say anything, he was sliding an arm behind her neck and shoulders and raising her head so the monk could begin spooning broth into her mouth. When she would have protested, both men merely shook their heads stubbornly and the monk pressed the spoon to her lips. She gave in at that, obediently swallowing each spoonful of the warm, fragrant stuff which the monk presented. When she had finished the last drop, the monk rose and departed without a word, the abbot accompanying him. As Joram eased her back onto her pillows, she turned her head to gaze at him fondly.

  “One might think someone were dying,” she said with a faint smile. “That stole is not at all reassuring.”

  “I’ll take it off, if you promise not to need it,” he replied, taking her hand and kissing it gently.

  She closed her eyes briefly and nodded, then smiled again. “I’ve never been able to tell for certain when you’re joking, you do it so seldom,” she said. “Will you take it off, though?”

  “With your promise,” he said doggedly.

  “Given.”

  “That’s more like it.” He pulled off the offending stole with his free hand and touched it to his lips, then draped it over the blankets covering her, as if to include her in its protection. Then he took her hand in both of his and held it close against his chin.

  “Sweet Jesu, Evaine, I was frightened for you! You were so pale when you rode in. Fiona said the birth was not particularly difficult, but you lost so much blood! You should never have ridden so soon or so far.”

  “It was necessary,” she said.

  “Well, at least you’re going to be all right now. The shock might have killed you, though. And where is Queron?”

  “I sent him to Revan, before we left Sheele.”

  “To Revan? In your condition, with the baby’s birth so near?”

  She gave a little shrug, wincing at the pull of sore muscles. “At the time, I didn’t know it was that near. Is the baby all right?”

  He nodded. “Everyone’s sleeping. Ansel told me what happened, while Fiona and Brother Dominic cleaned you up.”

  “Brother Dominic?”

  “The one who was feeding you soup. He’s the infirmarian. They haven’t any Healer, of course.”

  “No, I suppose not.” She took a deep breath and let it out with a little sigh. “What about Alister?” she asked softly, using that name from habit, even though there was no one else in the room.

  “Safe at Dhassa, for the nonce,” Joram breathed. “I’ll be in contact with him tonight and let him know you’re safe. Your instincts about avoiding capture were sound, by the way—in more than a general way. The regents outlawed the whole family the day after Christmas. I suspect that’s why Trurill was hit—that and the overzealousness of the MacInnis clan. Anyway, Alister and Jebediah are waiting at Dhassa for news of the new synod at Ramos, before they come to join us. The new archbishop and his minions have already laicized all Deryni priests, suspended the bishops who wouldn’t cooperate, and forbidden any future ordinations of Deryni to the priesthood.”

  She glanced at the stole lying across her blankets, then looked back at her brother. “I infer that you don’t accept the laicization.”

  “What do you think?” he returned, the set to his jaw and the hard fire smouldering in the grey eyes telling her all she needed to know about that.

  She smiled. “Understood. You mentioned a new archbishop—Hubert?”

  “Who else? Niallan and Dermot got away with us to Dhassa, but Hubert must suspect that’s where we went, because Rhun has put the city under siege. Kai and Davet Nevan were killed in the cathedral on Christmas Day, the same as—”

  He bowed his head as his voice broke off, for he had not meant to speak of that, especially to her, but she pressed his hand in reassurance and brought her other hand across to pat his arm.

  “I know, Joram. It’s all right to talk about it.”

  “Evaine, I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “God knows, we tried to save him, but with no Healer.… It was such an awful, senseless, tragic—”

  “Hush, I know,” she murmured. “It wasn’t your fault. Do you think I didn’t know that? Do you think I didn’t feel it, when he died?”

  She blinked back the beginnings of tears and stared up at the ceiling until she could go on.

  “We won’t be able to stay here indefinitely,” she said more briskly. “We don’t want to endanger the good monks who have so kindly sheltered us. Have you any plans beyond all of us meeting here?”

  Joram nodded, also regaining his equilibrium. “Ansel and I are to begin setting up a Portal here as soon as we can. We’ll go to our old Michaeline sanctuary, where we took Cinhil. The Order has abandoned it now, but supplies were laid in months ago. With the Portal there set as a Trap, we should be safe enough, at least for a while.”

  “I can think of far worse places for exile. It will seem almost like home. You said you were going to set up another Portal here, though—you and Ansel can’t do it alone.…”

  “If you’re thinking to offer to help, don’t,” he said gently. “We’d thought to have Queron, but we’ll manage with some of the others instead. Fiona’s fairly adept, as I recall, and we can use Camlin, too, if he’s up to it.”

  She turned her face away slightly to stare at the ceiling again, biting her lip.

  “Did they tell you about Aunt Aislinn and Adrian and—Aidan?” she whispered tremulously.

  Joram nodded. “And how you healed Camlin. It was a miracle, Evaine!”

  “No, it was Tieg,” she amended, turning her eyes back to his. “He’s a Healer, like his father. He—” She swallowed noisily, barely fighting back the tears. “Oh, Joram, his father would have been so proud of him!”

  She could not hold back the tears after that, and sobbed in Joram’s arms for a long time while he stroked her hair and murmured childhood endearments, gradually establishing the rapport to share all that had happened to both of them since their last meeting. When she finally regained control and opened her eyes, Joram was still there at her side—and the monk Dominic, with another cup of soup.

  “I can’t,” she protested weakly. “There’s too much to do.”

  But Joram was adamant. “The only thing you have to do for a few days is to get well,” he said, with that firm set to his jaw which she knew so well. “Now, cooperate with Brother Dominic and eat. Ansel and I will take care of everything until you’re strong enough to help.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  For there is hope of a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again, and that the tender branches thereof will not cease.

  —Job 14:7

  The new year began no more auspiciously for Camber than it had for his children, for it brought unwelcome news from Valoret, even before Joram’s grim report. Camber and Bishop Dermot had been assisting Niallan at the noon Mass for the cathedral chapter, as had been their wont since their flight to Dhassa on Christmas Day, both of them waiting with folded hands to either side of Niallan while he read the last Gospel.

  “In principio erat Verbum, et Verbum erat apud Deum, et Deus erat Verbum. Hoc erat in principio apud Deum. Omnia per ipsum facta sunt: et sine ipso factum est nihil, quod factum est.…”

  In the beginning was the Word, and the Word w
as with God, and the Word was God.…

  As Niallan read, the air above the Portal in the side chapel began to shimmer, then to solidify a slender, dark-cloaked shape in the purplish mist which proclaimed it still a Trap Portal. Niallan hardly looked up, for the passage and the Mass were almost finished, and Jebediah and Niallan’s elite guards had already begun moving into position around the mosaicked pattern which marked the Portal, but Camber bowed unobtrusively and made his way across the chancel to join them. He doubted whether the black-muffled form was recognizable to most of the brethren in the chamber, but there was no doubt in his mind that it was Tavis, and without Javan.

  With a nod to Jebediah and the guards to shift around and shield the newcomer from those kneeling for the final blessing, he stepped carefully into the purplish haze. The tingle of the Trap would render him half-Blind like its other occupant until Niallan reached them, but at least he could question Tavis verbally until that occurred.

  “What’s wrong? Where’s Javan?” he whispered, taking Tavis’s shoulders and staring into the pale aquamarine eyes.

  Tavis sighed. “He’s sitting in council with his brothers, hearing the regents ratify the Ramos conventions.”

  “The Ramos conventions? Today? All of them?”

  “And more,” Tavis mumbled.

  In that instant, the haze of the Trap dissipated, and Niallan was moving in to lay a hand on Tavis’s arm. Dermot was still at the altar, extinguishing the altar candles, and Jebediah and the guards moved out to shepherd the last of the morning’s worshippers from the chapel. While the chamber cleared, Camber warned Niallan off with a flicker of thought, then turned his full attention on Tavis, offering rapport in place of words. The weight of information which came flooding back in that instant of communion was almost staggering.

  Javan had learned the night before that the new laws were to be promulgated. The measures would spell the next thing to active extermination, for it would be nigh impossible to live as Deryni without infringing on at least part of what the regents were to decree. The regents had agreed to everything recommended by the bishops, and had added points of their own. Penalties for any deviation would be stringent.

  The prince had told Tavis of this, and then had all but commanded the Healer to flee to safety in the morning. What followed had been their most profound mind-sharing to date, with Javan’s response almost indistinguishable from that of a Deryni, albeit an untrained one. The two had spent the rest of the night and early morning talking and testing and sharing thoughts with growing facility, and had even arranged a system by which they could maintain occasional communication, once Tavis had gone.

  But then, at midmorning, Javan had pulled himself together as a prince must, arrayed himself for court, and taken quiet leave. Tavis, torn by conflicting wants and needs, had made his way to their secret garde-robe Portal without incident—and the rest, Alister knew.

  “Well, I suppose it could have been worse,” Camber whispered, as he and Tavis withdrew all but a thread of contact and Camber quickly shared what he had learned with the other two Deryni. “At least you had time to make arrangements with Javan—and the manner of your leaving, on the day the laws are decreed, will lend credence to whatever you decide to do next. Do the laws take effect immediately?”

  Tavis shook his head wearily. “Javan didn’t know. It’s likely, though. He saw the unsigned writs escheating all Deryni-owned lands to the Crown, and the attainder lists for the Deryni lords. There were some expressed exceptions, in the case of a few Deryni heiresses who will be married off to suitable human lords, but otherwise, I think every Deryni of any rank at all is on their lists. Listen, could we sit down somewhere? I didn’t sleep last night, and I’m a little shaky from all of this.”

  “We can go to my solar,” Niallan said promptly, ushering them toward the door. As they moved through the corridors, Camber continued to press the Healer with questions.

  “What about the prohibition against teaching Deryni? Are they keeping the execution clauses?”

  “Yes, in fact, there was serious talk of forbidding any education for Deryni, but Javan says they finally dropped that—too difficult to enforce. But Deryni won’t be allowed to teach anything, for fear they might teach magic.” He sighed. “At least our folk won’t have to be illiterate.”

  They discussed the ramifications of Ramos in depth as they settled around a table in Niallan’s solar, grudgingly concluding that the new laws could have been worse—though not much. Details of the arrangement for continued communication between Javan and Tavis were explored—for with Javan now isolated among the hostile regents, it was essential that he have an outlet, both for the exchange of information and for a timely escape, if his position became absolutely unbearable. Camber and his colleagues agreed that the garde-robe Portal should continue to be their rendezvous point, on a five-day cycle for exchange of messages, but suggested that Tavis warn the prince that any of the four of them who were Deryni might be his contact, and that if he needed to speak to someone in person instead of leaving a message, he should be on the Portal just after Compline on one of the scheduled days. His presence would indicate that it was safe for someone to come through and bring him back for a face-to-face meeting, though they must not do this too often, for fear he might be seen or missed.

  “At least he’s reasonably safe, so long as he keeps playing the cowed simpleton,” Niallan commented, when they had fairly well concluded their assessment of Javan’s situation. “But what about you, Tavis?”

  As Tavis shrugged half-heartedly, Camber gave him a tight little Alister grin.

  “That depends a lot on Javan, doesn’t it, my friend? We hadn’t thought to have you so soon, but since we do, we can certainly make use of the time. Are you willing to take on the role we discussed before, with Revan?”

  “I’d have to stand with Rhys on that, Alister,” the Healer replied. “I’ll do it if no one else can be found. I’d be lying if I said I wanted to do it. And this is going to make me pretty recognizable,” he concluded, holding up his stump. “Even a shape-change can’t give me another hand.”

  “No, but your own appearance and apparent defection will seem all the more plausible, by the time we get through establishing your new cover,” Camber said. “It’s known that Deryni did that to you. You’ve already left Court under a cloud. And if Javan plays his part well—bitter and angry that you deserted him—you should be quite ready for the Willimites by spring. We’ll have you look for other suitable Healers, of course, but we’ll also have you turn up in a few major towns and cities all through the winter and lay some foundations. By the time you ‘stumble’ on Revan in March or so, you should be able to give quite a convincing performance.”

  With a grimmer look, Camber laid a hand on Tavis’s upper arm. “I know it won’t be easy, son. If it’s any consolation, you won’t be alone. Niallan, do you think you could take our young friend in tow for the next month or so? All of us will want to move on to the old Michaeline sanctuary as soon as possible, but Jebediah and I may have to go to Saint Mary’s first, if they can’t manage the new Portal there without help. We should be hearing from Joram on that in the next few days.”

  “I’ll take care of him,” the younger bishop agreed. “In fact, while I work with Tavis, this will be an ideal opportunity for Dermot to learn more about us.” He glanced at his human colleague. “How about it, Dermot? Are you ready to be corrupted by heretical and God-curst Deryni?”

  Dermot returned Niallan’s grin without a trace of apprehension. “It seems I already am.”

  They spent that afternoon and most of the next day in planning. The evening of the third, Camber excused himself before the evening meal to prepare for communication with Joram. Jebediah went with him into his sleeping chamber, there to keep watch while Camber stretched out and pushed himself down into the profound state of relaxation which was the required precursor for such contact, especially over such a distance. The contact came on schedule, but it did not bring th
e news which Camber had expected.

  He received Joram’s account in numbed passivity, so shocked by the senseless brutality of Trurill that little else registered in those first stunned moments. Instinct prompted him to draw Jebediah into the link as a buffer against the horror, but even Jebediah could offer little but blind support and comfort in the wake of the dread news.

  Camber could barely comprehend the extent of the butchery at Trurill. He had never been exceptionally close to his sister Aislinn or her children, and had met his cousin Adrian only a few times, but it was difficult to conceive of men who could subject any living beings to what had occurred at Trurill. The general slaughter and torture was bad enough, but emotions already torn raw by the tragedy of Rhys’s loss could only throb and ache anew at the death of Rhys’s eldest son, even softened in the telling by Joram at third-hand. This was the second grandson Camber had lost in the past half-year, and Aidan’s death had been neither quick nor painless compared to Davin’s. Even the miracles of those who had survived seemed pale, balanced against the atrocities of Trurill.

  A little later, he and Jebediah related Joram’s news to the others at a subdued supper gathering. After initial outrage on the part of all present, they determined that Alister and Jebediah should lose no time in reaching Joram and the others at Saint Mary’s, so the Portal could be completed and all brought to safety. Accordingly, by midnight the two were stepping onto the rounded design of the Portal in Niallan’s chapel, both dressed in worn black riding leathers and fur-lined cloaks. Plain swords were buckled at their hips, sturdy fur-lined caps pulled firmly over hair and ears. Mail shirts warmed but slowly under otherwise unremarkable tunics of leather and wool. Camber wore no insignia of his rank save his archbishop’s ring, which he kept under glove, and a small gold pectoral cross, which he tucked into the front of his tunic.