Saint Camber (30 page)

Guaire turned and moaned in his sleep, then became aware that, though his eyes were still closed, he was suddenly alert and aware of himself again—of the warm, drowsy comfort, snuggled under the sleeping furs, of the flickering firelight playing on his closed eyelids, of the faint smell of burning wood, the lingering aroma of spiced wine.

He remembered the wine, then, and was aware of the warm glow still permeating his stomach and, indeed, his whole being. Slowly the day's events began filtering back to him. Strangely, they did not hurt him now as they had earlier.

There was still the sense of loss, and his throat still ached from the continual constriction it had suffered for the past eight days since Camber's death. But he felt strangely at peace. He wondered idly whether Father Cullen had put something in the wine to make him feel so calm.

He was mulling that idea around, vaguely aware that he seemed to be thinking somewhat more slowly than usual, when he suddenly began to sense that something in the room had changed. A cold draft stirred his hair, and he started to huddle down under the furs to escape it. But then it suddenly struck him that the draft had come from the door, and that someone else was in the room.

He rolled over and opened his eyes, expecting to see Brother Johannes or Father Cullen; but Johannes snored softly in his chair beside the fire. And somehow he knew that he would not see Father Cullen as he turned his head toward the door.

What in—?

He blinked, thinking that perhaps his eyes were playing tricks on him, then stared in amazement as a tall, light-shrouded figure began to move slowly toward him. He was not afraid, though the thought crossed his mind that perhaps he should be. He was feeling rather a sense of expectation—and that, too, seemed odd. He could not see the figure's face—it wore a long gray cloak, the hood drawn close about the head. A silvery glow extended around the whole figure, wispy, amorphous.

Childhood fantasies swept through his mind then, and the thought occurred to him that this could very well be a ghost—it certainly did not appear to be of this world. He started to sit up straight at that—then froze halfway up, leaning on one elbow, as he saw the face.

“Camber!” he breathed, awe wiping his face of all other emotions.

The figure came a few steps closer, then stopped. The gray hood fell back from the well-remembered silver-gilt hair. The face was serene and untroubled, the pale eyes glowing with an intensity which Guaire could not remember having seen before.

“Don't be afraid,” the figure said, in a voice astonishingly familiar. “I return but for a moment, to ease your grief and to assure you that I am at peace where I now dwell.”

Guaire swallowed and nodded, but could not quite find the courage to reply.

“I have seen your sorrow these past days,” the figure continued, “and I am saddened that you should mourn so much for me.”

“But—I miss you, Lord,” Guaire managed to whisper. “There was so much to do—and now it will go undone.”

The figure smiled, and to Guaire it was as though the sun shone in the darkened chamber.

“There are others who will do it, Guaire. You, if you only will.”

“I?”

Guaire finished sitting up and stared at the apparition in disbelief.

“But how can that be, Lord? I am only a human. I have not the resources, the talent. You were the heart of the Restoration. Now, with you gone, the king will endure unchecked. I fear him, Lord.”

“Pity him, Guaire. Do not fear him. And help those who remain to carry on our work: Joram, and Rhys, my daughter, Evaine—my grandsons, when they are older. And Alister Cullen, who brought you here. He, most of all, has need of your support, if you will only give it.”

“Father Alister? But he is so gruff, and sure of himself. How could I possibly help him?”

“He is not so self-sufficient as he would have men think,” the apparition replied, the familiar smile playing about his lips. “Gruff he may be, and sometimes far too stubborn for his own good. But he, even more than my children, will miss that companionship we used to share. Will you help him, Guaire? Will you serve him as you served me?”

Guaire dropped his gaze to the figure's feet, which he could not see beneath the voluminous cloak, then glanced up shyly at the shining face once more.

“I could truly help him?”

“You could.”

“To serve him, as I served you?”

“He is more than worthy, Guaire. And too proud to ask you for your help.”

Guaire swallowed.

“Very well, Lord. I will do it. And I will keep your memory alive, I swear it!”

The figure smiled. “My memory is not important. The work we began
is
. Help Alister. Help the king. And be assured that I shall be with you, even when you are least aware. I count on you to carry out my work.”

“I will, Lord.”

The figure turned to go, and Guaire's eyes grew round.

“No! Wait, Lord! Do not leave me yet!”

The figure paused to gaze at him in compassion.

“I may not stay, my son. Nor may I come to you again. Be at peace.”

Guaire stared at him in despair, then slid out of the sleeping furs and knelt with hands upraised.

“Then leave me with your blessing, Lord. Please! Do not deny me this!”

The figure's face became more serious, and then a graceful hand was emerging from the folds of the cloak to trace the sign of blessing. Guaire bowed his head.

“Benedicat te omnipotens Deus, Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus.”

“Amen,” Guaire breathed.

And for an instant, as a hand touched lightly on his hair, his senses reeled.

But when he raised his head and opened his eyes, the figure was gone, the air dark and empty where before there had been light.

Guaire gasped and scrambled to his feet, staggering unsteadily to where the figure had been. For a moment he stood there as one dumb, holding himself up against the door frame, silently reliving what he had just seen—or thought he had seen. Then he was struck by a soaring sense of joy and jubilation.

Camber had come back to him! Abruptly, he wanted to run through the corridors of the archbishop's palace, shouting to wake the dead, that Camber had returned, if only for a little while—and that the great Deryni Lord had charged him, Guaire of Arliss, a humble human of very little worth, with the awesome responsibility of carrying out the great man's work!

But he could not do that. Camber had judged wisely, at least in this, and the drugs which Guaire had ingested would not permit him to do anything that decisive. Already, the details of the encounter were fading, transforming themselves into a blurrier, dreamlike set of memories far more in keeping with what the actual occurrence was supposed to have been.

No, he could not announce his wonder to the world. As Guaire mulled the problem in his sluggishly functioning mind, he realized that what had happened was far too precious to share with just anyone. Besides, who would believe him?

Not Brother Johannes. That pious and devoted monk had not even stirred while the miracle took place. If Guaire woke him and tried to explain, Johannes would say that it had been but a drug-induced dream. No, he could not share this treasure with Johannes.

Then Cullen. Of course! Father Cullen would understand. Father Cullen would
have
to believe him! After all, it was Cullen himself whom Camber had named as the one Guaire should serve. Surely Cullen had a right to know.

Joyfully, Guaire wrenched at the door, careening down the corridor toward Cullen's quarters.

And inside, Camber hunched down under his blankets and feigned sleep as footsteps hesitantly approached the bed. He could hear Guaire's breathing, quick and agitated, as the young man paused to look at him, and then the footsteps receded slightly. A few seconds later, brightness flared from the direction of the fireplace.

Camber waited, listening carefully, as the footsteps approached again, this time with brightness as well.

“Father General?” Guaire called softly. “Father General, are you asleep?”

Camber rolled over and leaned on one elbow to peer at Guaire, blinking and squinting in the flickering light. Guaire's face glowed with more than candlelight as he dropped to one knee beside the bed.

“I was,” Camber grunted, stifling a yawn. “Why aren't you?”

Guaire shook his head. “I was, too, but—please don't be angry with me, Father. I'm sorry to wake you, but I had to tell someone, and I think—I think
he
would not mind.”

“He?”

Guaire swallowed, a shadow of doubt flickering in his eyes. “The—the Lord Camber, Father. He—he came to me in a dream—I think—and—and, he told me I must not mourn—that I had important work to do—
his
work—helping accomplish the things he did not get to do.”

His words came tumbling out breathlessly, as though he feared he might not dare to speak them if he delayed too long.

Camber nodded wisely and yawned again, remembering to keep sufficient gruffness in his voice.

“Well, of course you have important work to do. I told you that before. Camber relied greatly on you.”

“He did? Oh, yes, I know he did, Father!” Guaire positively beamed. “And he said—” Here his face went more serious. “He said that I should serve you, Father. He said that I should serve you as I served him, that you would need my help. Do you, Father?”

Camber sat up slowly, drawing the deep blue of his Michaeline mantle around him as he swung his feet to the fur beside the bed.

“He told you that?”

Guaire nodded solemnly, not daring to speak.

Camber looked long into the earnest brown eyes, and finally spoke very slowly. Guaire seemed to have made the necessary transferrence of loyalty. Now Camber must cement that new alliance in Alister's distinctive style.

“You realize, of course, that serving me would not be like serving Camber. Camber was a great secular lord, surrounded by the luxuries of his class. There's nothing wrong with that,” he added, as Guaire started to raise an objection, “but it's different here.”

“Because you're a priest, Father?”

“In part. And you will find, if you do serve me, that a cleric is often bound by things which do not concern a secular lord like Camber. Soon, by the grace of God, I shall be a bishop, potentially wielding a not-inconsiderable power, even in secular affairs. In many respects, that is a princely office, and some men make it so. But I am not that sort, as I think you know. The panoply of a prince's court, or even an earl's, will not be found within my walls.”

“I have no need of that, Father,” Guaire whispered, drawing himself up straighter as he knelt.

“Very well, then. I never had a secular aide before, but—we shall give you a try. For now, though, suppose you go back to bed. Perhaps you can go without sleep, but I cannot.”

With joyful tears in his eyes, Guaire nodded and started to rise, then seized Camber's hand and kissed it. When he had gone, Camber stared after him for a long time before lying back on his bed.

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

I am afraid of you, lest I have bestowed upon you labour in vain
.

—Galatians 4:11

No immediate repercussions arose from the night's work—at least none of which Camber was aware. Guaire settled into the routine of serving his new master without a whisper of difficulty or friction, gently weaning the solicitous Johannes to other duties. He even adopted a semi-clerical attire to fit in better with the other staff which Camber would be acquiring with his episcopal office. Johannes would be remaining with the Michaelines to assist the new vicar general, when his former master left for Grecotha the following week, so Guaire temporarily functioned as valet as well as clark and factor to the incipient bishop. Nothing more was said about the conversation he and Camber had shared the night before; indeed, it was as if nothing had occurred.

Nor was there reason for Camber to give the matter further thought during the rest of the week. Those others who might have sensed what was developing, had they been able to assemble all the pieces of the mosaic—Joram and Evaine and Rhys—were, themselves, too busy trying to settle Camber's affairs in Caerrorie and get back to the capital by Friday to see the full scope of what was building. On that day, the seven-year-old Davin MacRorie, Camber's grandson and heir, must be formally recognized by the king as the new Earl of Culdi, doing homage for his titles and lands with nearly a score of other nobles, young and old, who had come into their inheritances through the death of predecessors during the recent war.

That, and the feverish collection of such of Camber's important manuscripts and other possessions as he would continue to need, tended to blur the true significance of what was happening at Caerrorie itself. Camber's children noticed but did not react to the growing numbers of mourners who came daily to kneel and pray in the chapel above the MacRorie vaults, where “Camber” slept beside his long-dead wife and other family; saw but did not comprehend the meaning of the floral and prayer offerings which began to appear in increasing numbers with each day's visitants.

They certainly did not connect these things with the uneasiness which Camber himself had felt as he rode back to Valoret and watched the people's reaction to his funeral cortege. And Cinhil's fleeting glimpse of Camber's face on that night of memory integration was far from any of their thoughts.

And so, alone and on his own in his new role, unknown in his true identity to any person in the castle at Valoret, Camber settled into his new life. He could not know that his tomb in Caerrorie was fast becoming a pilgrimage spot for the faithful of the area; that an embittered king brooded long hours into the night on what he had seen in a vicar general's bedchamber; that a Michaeline knight already fretted under the restriction not to speak of what
he
thought had happened that night. In temporary and blissful ignorance, Camber pursued the duties and cemented the relationships which would be increasingly important to the future Bishop of Grecotha. Camber of Culdi and all that he had been were far from his mind in those days.