Saint Camber (22 page)

Rhys thanked the servant who brought the food and took the tray, asking the man to find Joram and tell him that they could see him at his convenience. They had not eaten more than a few mouthfuls apiece before there came a knock at the door.

Rhys padded to the door, a joint of capon in hand, to find Joram waiting impatiently. The priest had a cloak over his arm, and was glancing about almost as if he had expected to be followed. He gave a sigh of relief as Rhys beckoned him inside.

“I was beginning to think you two were going to sleep forever,” he said, nodding nervously to Evaine as Rhys bolted the door behind them. “Do you know how late it is?”

“Approaching noon,” Evaine said. She rose to kiss her brother's cheek, her lips dusty with bread crumbs. “Have some breakfast. You look like you could use it.”

“I couldn't eat. What did you learn?”

Evaine sat down and picked up a drumstick, which she inspected carefully before taking a bite out of it. “Starving won't help him, if that's what you're thinking,” she said, around the bite of chicken. “If you don't eat, I'm not going to tell you a thing.”

She saw Rhys's ill-concealed grin as he sat down behind Joram, and lowered her eyes. Joram snorted in exasperation, the way he had used to do when they were children, then flounced into another chair and picked up a piece of cheese.

“All right, I'm eating,” he said, fingering the cheese with a nervous right hand. “What did you find out?”

“Eat your cheese.”

With a sigh, Joram took a bite and began chewing. Evaine smiled and wiped the fingers of her right hand on a linen napkin, then reached behind her on the floor and picked up the scroll which had so occupied her and Rhys. She laid it on the table beside the tray of food and began nonchalantly to pour a cup of ale for her brother.

“In that scroll is a treatise from something called the Protocol of Orin. It's in three parts, the third of which is of immediate interest to us and to Father. Rhys and I read and studied that one last night and early this morning, then skimmed the other two. It's not going to be easy, but we can do it.”

“Well, thank God for that,” Joram breathed. As he picked up the cup of ale Evaine had poured, he reached for another piece of cheese.

“However, we mustn't delay,” she continued, pretending not to notice the appetite her brother had developed. “I can't stress enough the importance of getting this memory assimilation out of the way as quickly as possible. Rhys says he's showing all the beginning signs that the scroll warns about. I know there are various things that all of us are expected to do in the next few days, but what's the absolute earliest we can all get together?”

Joram drank deeply, apparently unconcerned now, but Evaine knew that the seeming casualness was deceptive.

“Late tonight,” he said, holding out his cup for a refill, which Rhys poured. “And unfortunately, I don't see how any of us can avoid our duties before that. Both of you should at least put in an appearance at the cathedral, as dutiful mourners, and I'll have to be there all afternoon and evening. At least we've managed to get him temporarily suspended from having to exercise his office.”

“To avoid having to function as a priest?” Evaine asked.

“To avoid spending any more energy than he has to,” Joram amended, “though I see that the sacerdotal question bothers you, too. I haven't even broached the subject of what he's going to do about the priesthood yet. He may have to fake it a few times, for survival's sake, but I don't think he can live that kind of sham indefinitely. However, that's not the issue here. I agree that we have to take care of the memory problem as soon as possible. What's going to be involved?”

Evaine worried the peel off a section of orange and popped it into her mouth. “Rhys or I can give you details when we meet this evening, since I gather we're pressed for time right now. There's no particular advance preparation to worry about—no physical accoutrements or setup, unlike some of the things we've done. The main thing is that we not be disturbed, of course. And, then, we have to figure out a way to get me into the no-woman's-land of the archbishop's palace without arousing suspicion.”

“That I can solve,” Joram said with a smile. Setting down his cup, he reached beside him where he had dropped what both of them had assumed was merely a cloak. A cloak there was, its blue wool badged on the left shoulder with the crimson-and-silver Michaeline insignia; but wrapped inside the cloak, so that it would have been undetectable to an outside observer, was a dark blue Michaeline habit, complete with hooded cowl and knotted scarlet cincture. As Joram pulled the habit from the folds of the cloak, he motioned for Evaine to stand up. She grinned as he held the habit up in front of her.

“So I'm to be a monk, eh, brother?” she asked, blue eyes twinkling merrily.

Joram shrugged, obviously pleased with himself. “Can you think of a better way to get you into no-woman's-land? If you knot your hair tightly and keep the cowl well down over your face, I don't think you'll arouse a second glance. The cloak over it will help to disguise your shape.”

Evaine smiled as she sat down with the monkish robes in her lap.

“All right. What am I, a monk, doing in the vicar general's quarters that late at night?”

“I'll bring you,” Joram said. “If anyone asks, the vicar general asked to see you on a minor disciplinary matter. No one will question that. Besides, no one has any reason to suspect that something is going on.”

Rhys nodded thoughtfully. “It certainly sounds reasonable. And I can go there before the two of you, to check on the state of my patient's health. Evaine, how long is this whole thing going to take?”

“That depends on how many memories he's taken on. If Alister had been dead as long as you think he was, Joram, then Father couldn't have gotten much and it shouldn't take more than half an hour or so. If there were more memories than we think, then longer—perhaps two or three hours. I don't think any of us can last longer than that, so we'd better hope that's all there are.”

“And yet,” Rhys said, “the more memories he can tap, the better chance he has of pulling off the imposture. If he's determined to do it, pray God he does it right.”

“Amen to that,” Joram said.

The rest of the afternoon went more or less uneventfully, at least for Rhys and Evaine. Faithful to their part in the deception, the two went to pay their respects to the dead man under the MacRorie pall in the cathedral. There they even caught a glimpse of Camber, in his other guise, kneeling with some of his Michaeline brethren in the choir stalls to either side of the catafalque. The archbishop's choristers chanted the traditional psalms and prayers, and the air was heavy with incense and with grief, which was all too tangible to Deryni as sensitive as Evaine and Rhys.

Camber watched them enter the choir and kneel beside the bier, and from Evaine's expression he almost wondered whether she really knew that he still lived. She walked slowly, leaning on Rhys's arm with far more than the weight of her twenty-three years, eyes dark-circled with grief and fatigue. Rhys looked resigned, but even the fire of his rumpled red hair seemed somehow subdued in the candlelight of the choir, as if it dared not shine too gloriously amid such grief.

Camber watched his daughter through slitted fingers for several minutes, yearning to reach out with his mind and touch her tension yet knowing that he dared not. Nor could he go to her as Alister Cullen and offer even that old friend's comfort, for Joram, kneeling at his side, had cautioned him not to strain Evaine's composure with a reunion both secret and public. Far better to wait until the night, when they need not play their roles before the watchful eyes of humans and Deryni alike. He must not let an impulse rule his better judgment.

But neither could Camber bear to stay and watch her thus, though he knew her grief to be but feigned. Leaning toward Joram, he whispered that he was returning to his quarters, feeling somewhat faint, while his hand on the other's arm reassured that the faintness was but an excuse to leave. As Camber made his way out of the cathedral, leaning on the arm of one of his knights, Joram went to kneel beside his sister.

Camber allowed himself to relax a little as he and Lord Dualta made their way back to his quarters. He was safe enough with the young Michaeline, for Dualta was fairly new to the Order and a human as well. Nothing in Camber's adopted manner was likely to betray him to one such as this—though even as a human, Dualta was more than normally observant, having had the benefit of Michaeline military training.

No, it was not Dualta whom Camber feared to meet. The king, perhaps. Or Anscom. Or—

Jebediah. Just when he thought he had gained the comparative security of his quarters, he saw the grand master rounding the corner at the opposite end of the corridor. Dualta was reaching for the door latch, but it was already clear that Camber could not graciously escape before Jebediah had reached him. Though they had met numerous times in council in the past week, he had not spoken alone with him since assuming Alister's identity. And Jebediah was Deryni.

“Good afternoon, Jeb,” Camber said, in a tone he hoped was sufficiently weak to discourage lengthy conversation.

Jebediah bent to kiss the vicar general's ring, more for Dualta's benefit, Camber thought, than out of any real sense of formality on Jebediah's part.

“Good afternoon, Vicar General. I expected you to be in the cathedral for the rest of the afternoon. I trust nothing is wrong?”

As Dualta stood aside and bowed, Camber moved into his room.

“It's nothing. I felt a little faint—that's all. The heat, the incense … I'll be all right when I've rested.”

“Are you sure that's all?” Jebediah replied. There was a look of genuine concern on his face as he followed Camber and Dualta into the room. “Dualta, you can go,” he continued, moving to take the younger man's place as Camber was helped to a seat before the darkened hearth. “I'll take care of the vicar general.”

The young knight glanced at Camber for approval, and Camber nodded, wishing he dared send both of them away. When Dualta had gone, Jebediah moved closer to the fireplace and knelt by the hearth. He did not look back at Camber as he began rearranging the dead embers with a piece of kindling.

“Something is wrong, Alister. Why won't you let me help you? You've been … distant since the battle.”

Camber twined his fingers and glanced down at the ring on his finger, one thumb absently rubbing the engraved silver in a gesture which was patently Alister's. He was not yet willing to reveal his true identity to anyone else, and certainly not until he had assimilated Alister's memories and discovered the extent of his relationship with the grand master. If only this meeting could have been postponed for a few more hours, a few more days …

He looked up, very much aware that Jebediah was watching him in his peripheral vision, wondering why the man seemed so uneasy. He sensed no real suspicion. More like … watchfulness? Concern? Empathy?

“I'm sorry, Jeb. There has been much on my mind. And my health, as you know, has been less than I would have wished since the battle.”

Jebediah's answer was so low that Camber nearly had to lean closer to hear him.

“You're still a comparatively young man, Alister—only five years older than I. Can the Healers do nothing?”

Camber shrugged. “Rhys says that I show steady improvement. However, there is more to heal than body.”

“What, grief at Camber's death?” Jebediah snorted in faint derision. “Come now, I know that the two of you became fairly close, but you have lost friends before. Jasper died, too, and others sadly too numerous to mention. Besides, 'tis not so long ago that you and Camber were adversaries, if not enemies.”

“We were never enemies,” Camber whispered. “Never that. Besides, it is not the deaths which continue to disturb me.”

“No?” Jebediah looked up, hand and stick poised over the designs he had been tracing in the hearth ashes. “'Tis nothing I've done, I hope.”

Camber shook his head and smiled. “Nothing you have done, my friend. You have ever been a strength and comfort to me. Nor is it Camber's shade, though a little of his presence will be always with me, I think. No, the things which trouble me are more personal demons, I fear.”

“Demons?” Jebediah started, then tossed his stick into the fireplace and stood. His handsome face was troubled as he moved to crouch at Camber's knees. “What demons, Alister? What superstitious nonsense is this? A legacy of Ariella? But tell me, share this haunting with me, and I will help you overcome it!”

Camber averted his eyes, wondering whether he had already said too much. Unwittingly, Jebediah had stumbled on the very excuse they had agreed to use in explaining any discrepancies in Alister's behavior, but which they had hoped not to have to use. Now Jebediah would have to be told more, and yet not so much that more dangerous suspicions were aroused than he already entertained. At least the suggestion of an ongoing struggle against Ariella's influence might be one which Jebediah could accept without feeling shut out—a feeling which Camber sensed was almost as strong as his very real concern for Alister's well-being. But how to strike the proper balance?

“Nay, I cannot ask that of you.” Camber touched Jebediah's shoulder lightly as he stood and went to stare into the dark fireplace. “More happened on that day of battle than even you may know. It was not without cost that Ariella was slain, and I do not refer to mere physical deaths. Now payment is mine, and mine alone, to be resolved between myself and Him who made us all.”

“But, I could help, if you would only let—”

“I cannot share these things with you, Jeb, even if I wished to subject you to my own peril. I can share them with no man.”