Saint Camber (5 page)

“Did I talk him into anything?” Camber asked, glancing at his children with a look of martyred innocence.

The others laughed, and Camber reached out to clap Cullen reassuringly on the shoulder.

“Thank you, my friend. We treasure you all the more for your caution. Now, as to when and where, I think we should move quickly on this—the sooner the better. If no one has any objections, I should like to do it tonight, as soon after Vespers as possible.”

“Are you sure you're strong enough?” Joram asked.

Camber glanced at Rhys, and the Healer shrugged.

“If you promise to eat something substantial and rest a bit, all right. Remember, you lost a lot of blood, and that's one thing I can't cure.”

“Agreed. Any other objections?”

There were none. Joram glanced at the others dubiously, sharing some of his Michaeline superior's mistrust of what his father might be planning, then turned his attention back to Camber.

“Very well. You're going to do it anyway, so there's no use trying to talk you out of it. Where do you want to set up, and do you need assistance?”

“Ideally, I'd like to use consecrated ground, but I don't suppose that's feasible here in the keep, for secrecy's sake, and I don't think we ought to leave. That being the case, I suggest that we use the dressing chamber adjoining my quarters. I think it can be adequately secured for our purposes.”

“Assistance?” Rhys reminded him.

Camber shook his head. “I'll set this one up myself, if you don't mind. I
will
need a few things that you can gather for me, though. Evaine, find me a large silver bowl, at least as big around as a man's head. I don't care about the outside, but I want the inside plain.”

“Just plain polished silver?”

“That's right. Ah, Joram: incense and something to burn it in.”

Joram nodded.

“And, Alister—”

“I'm not sure I really want to know, but go on,” Cullen muttered under his breath.

Camber chuckled as he stood and gathered the bloodstained folds of his robe around him, putting on a special nonchalance for Cullen's benefit.

“Relax, my friend. You might even find the entire process interesting. Here's what I want you to bring …”

C
HAPTER
T
WO

But continue thou in the things which thou hast learned and hast been assured of, knowing of whom thou hast learned them
.

—II Timothy 3:14

Cinhil was out of breath and panting by the time he reached his tower quarters. When he had locked himself in, he stood with his back against the door for several minutes, heart pounding, his hands resting behind him, trembling on the bolt, as if to reassure himself that he was, in fact, safe. He tried not to think about what had just happened. For a time, he even succeeded.

But when his breathing had slowed nearly to normal, mindless panic and anger gave way to guilt and fear. Fighting down a queasy sickness in his bowels, he took a deep breath and forced himself to stand away from the door, to cross slowly and with dignity to the tiny oratory built into the leaded window of the room. There he collapsed with a shudder, burying his face in his hands to pray.

God, what was he to do? He had tried so hard and for so long to do what was right, despite the awful quandary they had put him in by making him king—and then, in the same day, in the same hour, he had been cursed, induced to kill, and healed.

He shuddered, knowing he could not hope to reconcile the killing on his own—that would have to be worked out later, with his confessor, when he could think more coherently. True, the man was an assassin, and had deserved to die—had he killed him during the struggle, it would have been simple self-defense. But he, Cinhil, had not killed out of self-defense, nor even out of justice, but in anger, from fear of mere words. Though his act might have been technically lawful, he had done it for the wrong reason—and the Word of God forbade men to kill. Camber had been right to chastise him.

And the curse—had Camber been right about that, too?
Were
the curses of a Deryni enemy no more than those of ordinary men? How could he trust the word of a Deryni on such matters? After all, they had tricked him before, these men called Deryni—although, he grudgingly had to concede, he supposed they had always acted in the best interests of the kingdom.

But what of
his
best interests? What of Cinhil? Did he not matter? Was he forever to be only their pawn, their ill-made tool, to be used as it pleased them, for purposes fathomable only to them? He was a man, with an immortal soul—a soul they had already grievously endangered, almost past redemption. When they took his priesthood away, they had—

No! He must not allow himself to pursue such reasoning, to wallow in self-pity and impotent rage. This was an old battle within him, and one which he had fought many times, finally nearing a workable resolution. He must not let the pureness of his plans be sullied by thoughts of anger and vengeance. His inner peace must stay a thing apart from all of this—apart from all taint of killing and of cursing and of Camber.

Swallowing resolutely, he turned his thoughts to the set prayers of the hour, occupying himself for the next little while with the comfort of the familiar words. When, at last, he raised his head and opened his eyes, he felt far more at peace—until his gaze fell on the bloodied edge of his sleeve. Abruptly, he froze, his healed hand beginning to tremble as he recalled the events surrounding it.

He had never gotten used to the healing which some Deryni could perform. It made him a little nervous, but also a little awed, despite his feelings about Deryni in general.

But he liked Rhys. Even the fact that Rhys had been one of those who took him from his monastery did not particularly prejudice him against the young Healer. There was something about him, and about the other Healers he had met since, which seemed somehow to set them apart from the rest of their race—as if their calling, even though sprung from Deryni origins, were somehow as divine as his own call to the priesthood.

He clenched his fist at that, noting in passing the absence of pain or other sign of his previous injury. Then he returned his attention to the bloodstain along the edge of his undersleeve. Standing, he shrugged out of the crimson outer robe with a grimace of distaste, letting it fall in a heap beside the prie-dieu as his fingers sought the fastenings of the under-robe as well.

But as he turned, his attention was diverted by a large, iron-bound chest at the foot of his bed. His breath caught for just an instant—and then, like a man in a dream, he was moving to stand beside it. His pulse rate quickened as he bent to let one hand rest lightly on its lid.

The chest—or, rather, its contents—had come to be his most cherished possession in recent months, though he dared not let anyone know that. Gathered clandestinely, sometimes at considerable risk of discovery, what lay within was an extension of that which had been forbidden to him: symbol of the life he had been ordered to abandon when he assumed the crown.

He would be gravely censured if anyone were to discover his intentions—and because of that, a little guilt nagged at the corners of his mind every time he opened the chest to add something else. But conscience mitigated that guilt to a great extent, for he was obeying a higher dictate than those which mere men might impose—even Deryni men. Nor would he be deterred from his final goal. He simply would be certain that no one found out.

Indulging a sense of secret joy, he dropped to his knees and touched hidden studs which would unlock the chest. His hands trembled as he raised the lid, and did not cease their trembling as he began to riffle through the contents.

The first layer was a distracter. He had planned it that way. He had thrown a little-used brown cloak on top of everything else so that a casual observer would be none the wiser—not that the chest was likely to be opened while anyone else was in the room.

But beneath the brown cloak lay the real treasures. He folded back the layer of brown wool to reveal a dazzling whiteness: priestly vestments, carefully gathered and hoarded and sometimes improvised—all there now, save the all-important chasuble, the outer garment worn to celebrate the Mass.

He ran his hands lovingly across the clean linen of amice and alb, the strong, well-woven cord of the cincture with its snowy tassels; brushed a reverent fingertip along the embroidery of a priestly stole before taking it out to clasp it longingly to his breast.

Someday, perhaps not too far away, he would wear these vestments and celebrate the Mass again, as he had not been permitted to do for a year and more. True, the vestments were not essential, for God would judge him by his heart, not his raiment. But the proper accoutrements were symbolic for him. He wanted his offering to be as pure, as perfect as he could make it.

He would not give up, on man's word, that which God had decreed for him from birth. No mere archbishop's formula could refute that. He was a priest forever, as the scripture said. What matter that he must be a king in public? In private, at least, he could be true to his vows and find his peace with God once more. He would be two men: King Cinhil and Father Benedict.

He reached out his free hand to fold back alb and amice, still clutching the stole to his breast with the other, and glanced approvingly at the clean linen cloths lying beneath. Those would be his altar cloths, his maniples, his purificators and burses and veils and corporals. How his heart soared as he savored the name of each loved item!

And under all, carefully wrapped and packed away, lay his chalice and paten—a goblet of gold and a small golden plate which he had appropriated from the royal treasury only a few weeks ago, on a day when one of the lesser household servants had been in charge, and had not thought to wonder why the king might want such riches for his quarters—this king who was ordinarily so frugal and austere about everything.

He smiled as his hand patted the layers of linen back into place, touching the stole reverently to his lips before laying it on top of everything else. There would be a time, soon, now …

He lost himself in dreamy recollection of how it once had been, in fervent anticipation of a restoration of that time, until a knock at the door brought him abruptly back to the present.

“Who is it?”

He closed the chest and locked it and stood, in one continuous, guilty motion.

“It's Alister Cullen, Sire. May I speak with you?”

Cullen!

Cinhil gaped in dismay and glanced at the chest, almost considering whether the vicar general might be able to see through the strong wood of chest and door. Then he shook his head and smoothed his robe and moved quickly toward the door, knowing that even a Deryni could not do that.

He drew a deep, settling breath and wiped damp palms against his thighs before laying his hands on the door latch, letting out that breath and regaining control as he moved the bolt and peered through the opening he made.

“What is it, Father Cullen?”

“I was concerned about you, Sire. If you don't mind, I'd like to come in and talk. If you do mind, I can come back later.”

Cinhil studied the older man's face carefully, reading no guile in the craggy features. Of course, he could not Truth-Read a Deryni, as he might an ordinary man, but Cullen appeared to intend no more than he had asked.

With a shrug, Cinhil lowered his eyes and stepped back from the doorway. Cullen murmured his thanks and entered, waiting until Cinhil had closed the door before making a short, formal bow.

Cinhil clasped his hands behind him and began pacing the confines of the chamber.

“You need not worry about my mental state, Father,” he said after a moment of pacing. “As you can imagine, I was somewhat shaken by this afternoon's events. If I seemed ungrateful, I apologize.”

“You did,” Cullen said, not moving from where he stood. “You gave Rhys a very hard time.”

“I realize that. I said I was sorry.”

The king moved into the embrasure of the northern window and put a foot up on one of the stone benches. Cullen moved with him, to lean casually against the wall beside the window and study the king's back.

“You were rather short with Camber, too, don't you think? He was only concerned with your welfare.”

“Was he?” Cinhil whispered. “Or was he merely concerned with the welfare of the new regime he's created? He put me where I am today, Father. If he doesn't like the way I do things, now that I'm here, he may just have to learn to live with it—as I have had to learn to live with my situation.”

“And have you learned to live with your situation, Cinhil?”

The vicar general's voice was neutral in tone, but Cinhil froze for just an instant before turning his face away guiltily.

Could Cullen possibly know? Was the man reading his mind even now?

He swallowed and forced his thoughts to run along calmer lines. Of course Cullen was not reading his mind. He could not. With the powers and abilities which Cinhil had acquired from the Deryni, he was master of his own mind and of many other things. He
knew
that there was no way even for a Deryni to probe his thoughts without his knowledge and consent. There was no way that Cullen could know what he had been thinking.

He only half turned back, however, not willing to meet the vicar general's eyes, even so.

“It has been lonely, Father. But I survive.”

“Only survive?”

“What more can I do?” He glanced at Cullen accusingly. “Your Deryni friends took from me what I loved most, giving the weight of a cold and heavy crown for the glow of my faith. Even those I thought I could trust betrayed me, in the end.”

“Betrayed you?”

“Camber is most to blame, with his high ideals and righteous posturings. And the archbishop—he forbade me my priesthood, lulling me to duty in the world outside my monastery. And Evaine—” He looked down at his feet and swallowed audibly. “Evaine, whom I thought to be my friend, someone who understood—she used the confidence I placed in her to make me vulnerable to Camber and his magics.