Saint Camber (27 page)

Even his body felt resigned to its adopted shape, almost as if he had always worn it. He seemed to recall a slight problem with control last night, but most of the experience was a blank haziness. However, he must have made no serious slips, else all would not now be so peaceful. When he got the chance, he would have to ask Joram or Rhys for a full report.

With a contented yawn, he flexed his limbs experimentally beneath the blankets and withdrew a strange yet familiar hand, spreading the fingers and turning them to and fro before his pleased eyes. Barring extreme stress and conditions requiring massive outpourings of energy, he knew that the shape was truly his now. Alister's signet was cool and a little loose on his finger.

And just as he knew the security of his physical identity, so he knew that the mental aspects of Alister had also sorted themselves out during the night. As he reached into the depths of recall, he found the other's memories no longer alien, and as accessible as his own.

To be sure, there were some gaps in his adopted memories. He had known, when he first probed the dead Alister's mind, that much was gone already. But he had gained far more than he had expected, and with what remained, he knew he could function as Alister with only reasonable attention to detail. What had been done before on sheer acting skill could now be trusted to instinct.

He turned his head and glanced at Rhys again—no need to wake him yet, after all the Healer had been through for his sake the night before—then eased himself slowly to a sitting position and swung his legs out from under the blankets, touching bare feet luxuriantly to the furs spread beside the bed. He paused a moment, to be certain he could trust his newly rested body, then leaned to study Rhys more closely.

The Healer slept soundly, but he seemed to be cramped in the chair. Dark circles smudged the hollows of his eyes, and the fiery hair seemed to draw all hint of color from the gold-stubbled face.

With a smile, Camber touched Rhys's brow and deepened his sleep, then stood and slipped his arms under the relaxed body, shifting it gently to the bed which he had just vacated. After tucking a blanket around Rhys, he padded barefoot into the garderobe, emerging a short while later dressed in a clean cassock of midnight blue and with his toilet complete. Before anyone came to help him vest for the funeral at noon, there was much to be done.

At least he now knew Alister's candidates for the vicar generalship, he thought, as he sat down at the writing table which had been his alter ego's. And those, plus the future of the Michaelines, must now become a prime consideration.

As he took a sheet of parchment from a stack at his elbow, his other hand was dipping a well-used quill into an inkstand. His hand moved automatically in another's writing as a list of names flowed onto the page, adding to Jebediah's nominees two additional names which he knew Alister had been considering.

Then he put that sheet aside and began drafting a second piece: insurance, in case he had inadvertently omitted anyone he oughtn't. Half an hour later, after recopying his second missive, he pushed his chair away from the table and took both pieces of work to the outer door.

A tired-looking Dualta had been leaning against the wall opposite the door, talking in low tones with Brother Johannes, Alister Cullen's former aide, and both men came to smart attention as Camber appeared in the doorway. Each of them wore the formal blue mantle of their Order, Dualta with the full Michaeline badge on the shoulder, Johannes with only the silver cross moline fitchy of the lay brotherhood. They appeared surprised to see him.

“Father General, you're awake early,” Dualta said, looking a little guilty.

Camber controlled the urge to lift an eyebrow in surprise, for he had not expected the young knight to be there. Johannes, yes. Johannes was waiting to conduct him to the cathedral for vesting, as he did before every major celebration. Besides, Camber now knew exactly where Johannes had stood with Alister, and knew that he could continue the relationship without alteration.

But Dualta—had he not been on guard duty last night? He seemed to remember something about Dualta coming to the door with Cinhil, but beyond that, he did not know. What had Dualta seen?

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said, warm yet reserved. “Johannes, I've missed your helping hand. And, Dualta—you haven't been here all night, have you? I must confess that much of what happened last night is a blur, but I cannot believe that Joram expected you to guard all night and still be here this morning.”

“No, sir, he didn't,” Dualta admitted sheepishly. “He told me to ask Lord Illan to relieve me—and I did,” he added, as it occurred to him that the vicar general might think he had disobeyed an order. “But I couldn't sleep very well, sir, so I came back after Matins. I thought you might need something before you go to the cathedral.”

With as much of a smile as Alister usually permitted himself, Camber clapped the younger man's shoulder—he was a boy, actually, even younger than Joram or Rhys—then gave Johannes a conspiratorial wink.

“He's as bad as all the rest, for all his newness to the Order,” he said lightly. “All of you spend far too much time and energy worrying about a crotchety old man.”

“Vicar General!” Johannes exclaimed.

“Oh, I know you'll deny it to my face, so what's the use?” He sobered. “Actually, each of you can do something to assist me this morning, if you would. Johannes, how much time do we have?”

Johannes looked doubtful. “You should be at the cathedral within an hour, Vicar General. May I ask what you have in mind?”

“That's ample time. I intend to go there almost immediately,” Camber answered, ignoring the question. “Dualta, I should like you to convey this summons to the grand master with my greetings. It instructs him to assemble all available members of the Order in the chapter house this afternoon, after the funeral. The meeting concerns the status of the Order and the selection of my successor. I'll inform the archbishop about the use of the hall when I go to vest.”

He handed over the summons, authenticated at the bottom with his ecclesiastical seal, then held up the second missive, this one folded and sealed closed with the blue wax.

“Now, this is a list of those I especially desire in attendance this afternoon. Give this to Jebediah as well, and ask him to ensure that as many as possible are there, given the relatively short notice.”

The knight nodded. “I understand, Father General.”

“Good. Now, Johannes.”

“Yes, Vicar General?”

“Johannes, I want to ask whether you would be willing to give your time and talent to someone besides myself this morning. Yon Healer in there got little sleep last night because of me.” He gestured behind him with a grim smile. “So I want him to sleep as long as possible. In the meantime, see about fresh clothing for him, and make certain his lady wife knows where he is. Tell her that I regret having taken him from her side at a time like this, and assure her that he will join her in time for the funeral. Then make sure that he does.”

“What about yourself, Father?” Johannes asked. “I had thought to help you vest for Mass.”

“Many can help me with that, good Johannes. I had rather entrust Lord Rhys to your care.”

He took Johannes's elbow and drew him into the doorway, himself moving into the corridor.

“When he does wake, assure him that I am well and tell him where I've gone. I'll rely on you to get him to the cathedral on time.”

“Very well, Father,” Johannes said dubiously.

Camber could feel the eyes of both men on him as he turned and strode briskly down the corridor, but there was no suspicion in either's mind—only genuine concern, which was being rapidly allayed by their master's apparent return to robust health.

So far so good. Now, by arriving at the cathedral early, he should be able to spend a few moments collecting his thoughts for the funeral ordeal ahead. Though he knew there was no help for it, and that he would be in no technical violation of his personal ecclesiastical authority as a deacon, he still could not help feeling a little uneasy about filling Alister's sacerdotal functions.

Cinhil was in a grim mood after his sleepless night, and the promised heat of the day did little to soothe him. Like Camber, he had abandoned his bed at first light; but his desertion had been in name only, for he had but tossed and turned anyway.

He roamed his chamber restlessly for nearly an hour, his mind still churning with the events of the previous evening, before finally putting the turmoil from his mind for a while and calling the servants to draw his bath. He suffered their ministrations in silent detachment while they washed and groomed and dressed him. By mid-morning, garbed in the unrelieved black he had chosen for this morning of mornings, he was finally able to dismiss the servants and settle down, to really prepare himself.

The stark facts were easy enough to accept. This noon would see the funeral of Camber MacRorie, and tomorrow his grieving family would take his body home to Caerrorie for burial in the family vaults. By all rights, that should make an end to all. It did, for ordinary men.

But Camber was no ordinary man, another part of Cinhil reasoned. He was Deryni. Still, even Deryni could not return from death. Or, could they?

Fighting down an icy shudder, Cinhil sat on the chest at the foot of his bed and laid a hand on its polished surface, assuring himself that it was still there, with its precious contents.

His faith told him that there
were
exceptions. Very holy men had interceded in the lives of the living before, else there would be none of those creatures whom his religion called saints. And there was no doubt that something had come over Alister Cullen last night. Whether it was Camber or not, a part of him could not help but be intrigued. He had never been witness to a miracle before.

But Camber was not a saint! The rational part of him recoiled at that, shrinking from the possibility that even a sainted Camber might continue to take an interest in the affairs of Gwynedd, and its king in particular. If Camber
had
returned from the dead to aid Alister Cullen, what else might he return to do? And what must he
know
, from the other side of that dark veil of death? Perhaps he even knew of Cinhil's forbidden cache of vestments, and the secret, rebellious thoughts within his heart—and if he did, what might he do?

A whimper caught in Cinhil's throat, and he clutched at the edges of the trunk to stabilize his world.

No! He must not think of that! Camber could not touch him now. Camber was dead. Cinhil and a host of others had seen him dead, and would soon see him buried. Then he
certainly
could not return!

Shaking his head, he forced himself to take a deep, relaxing breath, willed his hands to unclench on the oak edge at his knees. His brow was dripping with perspiration, his upper lip and chin beaded with moisture beneath mustache and beard. Screwing his eyes shut against the runnels of sweat, he wiped a sleeve across his face.

He was overreacting, and a rational part of him knew it. Mindless panic could serve no useful purpose. Camber was dead, and could no longer rule him. It was time to bury him.

With another deep breath, Cinhil stood and arranged the folds of his robe around him, tugging his belt into place with hands which were steady and without tremor. Moving briskly to the polished glass beside his bed, he took up the coronet the servants had left and placed it firmly on his brow—though he would not meet the eyes which stared back from the glass.

Minutes later, he was joining the procession which was forming in the castle yard to walk the quarter-mile to the cathedral. He even managed to find a gentle smile for his queen, as he took her arm and they began to move. He could barely see her tear-swollen face beneath the heavy veil she wore, but for that he was thankful. He knew he could not cope with both Camber and his queen this morning.

The funeral of the Earl of Culdi began on the stroke of noon precisely, in a cathedral filled to capacity by those who had loved, respected, and sometimes feared him. Three Deryni priests celebrated his Requiem: the Primate of All Gwynedd, who had been his boyhood friend; the Vicar General of the Order of Saint Michael, who once had been his enemy; and his only surviving son. The three moved through the ritual in flawless harmony, permitting no faltering of voice or movement to mar any part of this last sacrament for the dead man.

And Camber himself, secure and outwardly serene in a form both known and alien, prayed for Alister Cullen: both the man who had been and the man who had become. Only when it was over, and he had followed Anscom and Joram back into the relative privacy of the sacristy, did any reaction ruffle his outward calm. Brushing aside those who waited to help him from his vestments, he fled to a far corner of the chamber and pressed the heels of both hands hard against his eyes, as much to still his trembling as to shut out what he had seen.

Mere participation in the funeral had not unnerved him. Anscom's priestly role had been the essential one, with Camber and Joram only giving support to the prayers which the archbishop offered in the name of the deceased. Camber had functioned as a deacon without difficulty, bolstered by his own long-ago memories as well as the more recent ones of his alter ego. No, it was not that part of the charade which set him shaking now—though he knew that was something with which he must deal eventually.

He drew a deep, shuddering breath and forced his conscious mind to slip down deep inside his fears, touching the real reason for his reaction almost immediately. There, beyond the reach of normal reason, a simpler, more primitive part of him howled and gibbered in mindless terror, cowering from the remembered image of his own body on the bier before the altar.

He was not really afraid of death—not normal death, at any rate, for that must come to all men, in time. Even Ariella, in all her arcane knowledge, black and white, had not been able to cheat real death indefinitely—though Camber thought he knew why her last spell had failed.