Saint Camber (23 page)

Jebediah sat back on his heels, his gaze following Camber's every move, and Camber forced himself to continue staring at the blackened hearth, aware of Jebediah's intense scrutiny. For a moment he feared that Jebediah would fight him, that he would refuse to accept what had been said; but Jebediah did not. At length, Camber turned to smile brightly at the younger man and sigh, as though in resignation.

“I'm sorry, but that's the way it has to be, at least for now. For the present, until I have either escaped my experience or paid for it, my words must be only for my confessor—and even he may not know the whole of it.”

Jebediah lowered his eyes, his throat working painfully. “I was once a confessor of sorts to you.”

“And shall be again someday, perhaps,” Camber said softly. He wondered more than ever just what the relationship had been between the two men. “But for now, that cannot be. Please, let us not speak of it again.”

“As … you wish,” Jebediah replied in a low voice.

There was a silence which seemed interminable, and then Jebediah lurched to his feet and managed a feeble smile. “You should rest now, Father General, and I have duties which require my attention. If you have need of anything, you know you have but to call and I shall come.”

“That I have always known,” Camber said kindly, wishing he might say more. “God bless you, my friend.”

Jebediah nodded, somewhat jerkily, then turned on his heel and left the room, head bowed in dejection. When he had gone, Camber sighed and returned to his chair, swinging his feet up on a broad, padded bench. At least he would know more after tonight, he thought as he let himself drift into sleep.

He woke several hours later to the sound of the draperies being drawn across the wide window embrasure to his left. A fire had been laid and started on the hearth, and candles lit in a floor sconce at his left elbow; he had to peer around the candles to see who was in the room. The silhouette against the darkening sky seemed familiar, but his mind was still too fogged by sleep for him to be certain.

“Rhys?” he called. He smiled as the figure finished its task and turned to chuckle.

“Now, who else could enter without waking you?” The Healer gave the draperies a final pat and crossed into the circle of candlelight. “I can personally think of two others, but they're not expected for nearly an hour. So for now, you'll have to settle for me. How are you feeling?”

As he sat down beside Camber, he laid a cool hand on the other's wrist. Camber smiled, knowing exactly what the young Healer was about.

“I feel fine—or as well as can be expected, under the circumstances. My headache has greatly diminished, and I feel considerably rested after my nap. Does that report agree with your diagnosis, O mighty Healer?”

Rhys released Camber's wrist and sat back in his chair. “You'll do. I'd like to see you stronger, of course, but that isn't reasonable to expect until we've taken care of tonight's business. Tomorrow I want to see a more definite improvement.”

“I shall be perfect tomorrow. I promise you. Incidentally, by way of a non sequitur, who's on watch at the end of the corridor tonight?”

“That young Michaeline who escorted you from the cathedral this afternoon. I think his name is Dualta. Why?”

Camber sighed. “That's a relief. I was afraid it might be Jebediah.”

“Why afraid?”

“Oh, he cornered me in a private conversation when I got back from the cathedral. Apparently I've been acting a little out of character, at least in his eyes. I have the growing impression that he and Alister were closer than we realized. He could turn out to be as big a problem as Cinhil, if we're not careful.”

“He's Deryni, too,” Rhys replied.

“Believe me, that thought never left my mind. I think I finally satisfied him. I blamed my present weakness on the battle with Ariella, hinting that I'd had to pay some mysterious price for victory—and all of that is true, of course, though not in the way he understands it. But just at the end I got a hint of hurt feelings, that I'd seemed to reject a former closeness. God knows how I should have reacted. Perhaps Joram knows. Or maybe there's something in these elusive memories.”

As Camber tapped his forehead, Rhys cocked his head thoughtfully.

“What are you going to do if neither source sheds light on the relationship?”

“Operate on intuition, I suppose, and do the best I can. Becoming a bishop will help to keep us apart, other than in official contacts. If his unhappiness eventually turns to real suspicion, despite all our efforts, we'll have to consider taking him into our confidence. On the other hand, if he and Alister were as close as I begin to suspect, I don't know if he could ever forgive me for taking his friend's place and deceiving him.”

Rhys pursed his lips. “Tread warily on that one, Camber,” he said in a low voice. “And I want you to promise that you'll make no such disclosure until you've consulted with all three of us. This entire thing is going to be too precarious, as it is.”

“Insofar as that's possible, you have my word.” Camber smiled. “But on to more immediate considerations. I assume that you and Evaine located the proper scroll?”

“We read it last night. It appears to be fairly straightforward.”

“However?” Camber urged, sensing hesitation in the other's words.

“However what?” Rhys said lightly. “My part is easy enough. I simply have to make certain that you remember to breathe, and that your heart keeps beating. You and Evaine have the hard part.”

“Then what's bothering you? Surely you don't doubt your clever wife's ability after this long?”

Rhys chuckled mirthlessly. “Am I that transparent? No, I'm not worried about Evaine—or about myself or Joram.”

“But you're worried about me.”

“Not exactly that, either. It's the whole procedure, and the delicate coordination required of all four of us. Singularly, we've all done more difficult things before. God knows, some of the healings I've worked have been … awesome. But somehow, this is different. And you're not as strong as you should be. I wish we could have done this sooner.”

“Well, there's no help for that,” Camber murmured. “But come. I haven't looked at that scroll in months. Refresh my memory, in as much detail as you can. We'll both be far less anxious if we occupy our minds while we wait.”

With a little sigh of resignation, Rhys reached his nearer hand across the space between his chair and Camber's, laying his fingers on the other's bare wrist. Camber closed his eyes and took a deep breath, let it out slowly. He could hear Rhys's shallow breathing at his side.

As they had done so many times before, they forged the master link between them—a deep, peaceful stillness rippled only faintly by the disorder locked away in a corner of Camber's mind. The bond was maintained for some little while, as Rhys opened the channels of memory and let his information flow into the consciousness of his friend and mentor. When it was done, and the two had blinked back to the present, Rhys looked a little sheepish. Camber tried a reassuring smile, but it did not quite succeed.

“That was fine,” he said, patting Rhys's hand before rising to move restlessly to the fireplace. “It's always good to confirm that at least one's own memories aren't slipping.”

“And
his
memories?”

Camber rested his hands on the mantel ridge and laid his forehead against the cool stone between them. “Is it that obvious?”

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry.”

“There's no need to be. Your head hurts again, doesn't it?”

“A little. No, a lot. How long before Evaine and Joram …?”

“Soon. Is there anything I can do to ease—”

A slight knock sounded on the heavy outer door, and both men froze and glanced at each other. The knock was repeated. Instantly, Camber sat down and pulled a blanket over his lap, laying his head against the back of the chair and closing his eyes. Rhys, when he was certain that Camber was settled convincingly, crossed to the door.

“Who's there?”

“Father Joram,” came the reply. “On official business.”

Rhys shot the bolt and yanked the door open. Joram stood directly before the opening, his cowl pulled close about his golden head and shrouding his face in shadow. At his elbow and a pace behind stood what appeared to be another, younger monk, cowled head bowed and hands tucked piously inside the voluminous sleeves of a Michaeline habit. Had Rhys not known better, he would never have guessed that the monk was, in fact, his wife.

He looked at Joram, very much aware, since Camber had pointed it out, that Dualta was on guard at the end of the corridor. As much for his own mind's calming as to set the stage for Dualta's belief, he spoke a little louder than was necessary, and with a little more formality than he might otherwise have used.

“Father Joram, I wasn't expecting you. The vicar general is resting.”

Joram did not even blink. “I hope we won't disturb him too much, Rhys. The father general asked to see this monk. It's a minor matter of discipline, which should not tax him unduly.”

Rhys glanced inside, as though confirming that the vicar general was, indeed, expecting the visitors, then stood aside to let them pass. As he closed the door, he saw that Dualta had turned his back and resumed a normal guard stance. That detail, at least, seemed to be taken care of.

But there decorum ended. No sooner had Rhys slipped the bolt back in place than he was treated to the sight of his wife, cowl slipping back from tightly bound hair, dashing to embrace a white-faced man who nearly staggered with the exuberance of her greeting. Husband and brother watched indulgently for several seconds and then, as if by mutual assent, turned back to the door to determine how it might best be warded for the coming work. Father and daughter held each other wordlessly for several heartbeats, until her arms had confirmed what her heart had never doubted.

“I knew you could not be dead!” she whispered fiercely, when at length they parted far enough to gaze into eyes made blurry by tears of joy. “I would have known! I surely would have known!”

“I would have spared you if I could,” Camber murmured, holding her head close against his breast and touching her hair with his lips. “O my dearest child, how much I longed to spare you—but there seemed no other way. Rhys has told you something of what it was like.”

“Aye, and that we can help you, Father,” she said, drawing away to look at him from head to toe again, though she still did not release his hands. “We are ready to do what must be done—all of us.”

“I thank you more than you can know,” he replied. Releasing one of her hands, he sank back into the chair he had lately vacated, glancing to where the two young men had turned from their labors at the door.

“Gentlemen, are we warded?”

Joram nodded, coming with Rhys to stand beside Camber's chair. “No one will be able to sense our magic from without, especially considering the concentration around you. We've shielded against escape of sound, as well. As an added safeguard, I will be on guard throughout.”

“Good. Have you a plan, in case we're interrupted?”

“Dualta has the watch, as you know, and is aware that ‘Brother John' and I are here.” Joram gestured toward his sister with a wry half-smile. “He's been led to believe that it's for disciplinary reasons, so I don't think he'll let anyone approach. However, if he should, Evaine and I will simply retire to your private oratory.” He nodded toward a closed door leading off the main room. “We'll feign some act of penance. Rhys will stay with you and try to keep things from falling apart altogether, depending on what's happening at that point.”

“That's a real danger, you know,” Camber said. “Things falling apart, that is. If we
are
interrupted, I'm not certain I'll be able to hold up my end of things.”

“Then God grant that we will not be put to that test,” Evaine breathed.

With a nod, Camber leaned his head against the back of his chair and took a deep breath, let it out slowly. He allowed his pale Alister eyes to rest on each of them in turn: daughter, son, and son-in-law. Then he nodded again.

“Let's begin.”

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

Grant unto thy servants, that with all boldness they may speak thy word, by stretching forth thine hand to heal
.

—Acts 4:29–30

As Rhys came to stand behind Camber's chair, Joram moved to the door and set his back against it. Evaine shed her Michaeline mantle and laid it across a vacant chair before sitting on the bench beside her father's feet. One hand patted the embroidered slippers in affection as she reached into her habit with the other and withdrew a jewellike object the size of a hen's egg. Candlelight glinted amber on the smoothly polished surface as she burnished it against her sleeve. Deep in the heart of the crystal, tiny inclusions reflected fragmented fire against her Michaeline blue.

“I wish I had the one you gave me,” she said, breathing on the crystal to warm it. “Unfortunately, I gave it to Cinhil. This was Rhys's gift, though.”

As she put it in his hands, she glanced behind him at her husband, her blue eyes mirroring his answering smile. Camber, with a contented smile of his own, held the crystal lightly between his fingers and propped his elbows on the arms of his chair. For a moment he gazed profoundly into its depths, seeking the release from tension which the
shiral
crystal usually facilitated. Then he shook his head lightly and let his gaze skip back to his daughter.

“I can't do it in this form,” he said. “I mean, I could now, but I won't have the strength to maintain my shape illusion and still accomplish what we must. I'm taking back my own form.”