Saint Camber (54 page)

Camber saw the movement, and shifted quickly to block the rising hand. Relenting not one iota from his task of education, he twisted around to straddle the now-sprawling Michaeline and redouble his assault, left hand locked around Jebediah's powerful wrist in a separate war of strength as his will forced knowledge into Jebediah's mind, giving all the necessary details, from Alister's death to the present.

Jebediah shook his head in denial and cried out, a despairing animal moan of grief, as he stared up at Camber with blank, unseeing eyes. His left hand lashed out to twist itself in the neck of Camber's mantle, pulling Camber down closer as the dagger hand rose slowly against the grasp of Camber's, nearer and nearer to Camber's throat.

But Camber would not be distracted. Relentlessly he drove home the final realizations: the benefits already accrued to Cinhil; the smallness of their numbers who knew the truth of Camber-Alister; the consequences if the play did not go on, in terms of anti-Deryni backlash already brewing in small ways among the restored human nobility; the trap of all of them who were now committed to play out the charade—and that Camber and his children were willing to make any necessary sacrifice for the sake of Gwynedd. Was Jebediah?

With that, Camber disengaged from all controls save one: a touch which would bring swift unconsciousness and, if necessary, death. At the same time, he bade his long-borrowed shape melt away from him, his own Camber face gazing down at Jebediah in hope and compassion. The dagger was resting against his throat now, near to drawing blood, but he ignored its deadly pressure, praying that Jebediah's good common sense would keep him from rejecting what had been revealed and forcing Camber to use his ultimate weapon.

And Jebediah, sensing his release but not yet the full significance of what had happened, arched his body from under Camber's in that first instant of freedom and rolled with him to the floor, to straddle his former captor and sit upon his chest, dagger pressed close against the quickened pulse, his other hand twisted in the mantle to choke out what life the dagger spared.

Camber went totally limp, quicksilver eyes beseeching as they stared calmly up into Jebediah's crazed ones, arms outflung to either side in an attitude of total physical surrender.

And finally Jebediah saw, and knew, and realized what he was about to do. With a strangled gasp, his eyes once more reflected reason and his hand opened in reflex horror at what it held. Camber could almost see the succession of memories which flashed through Jebediah's mind as he froze there, open-palmed hand still poised beside Camber's neck, though the dagger now lay on the floor beside the silver-gilt head.

Then the staring eyes closed, and the frantically working throat choked out a single sob, and Jebediah was collapsing to weep unashamedly in Camber's arms.

Slowly Camber eased from under Jebediah's weight, struggling to a cramped sitting position, the while cradling the sobbing Jebediah in his arms as he would have soothed one of his own children, as Jebediah mourned the loss of his friend and brother. After a while, when the sobs had subsided somewhat, Camber stroked the trembling head lightly, calling Jebediah back to the present.

“I'm sorry I had to do that,” he finally whispered, when he was sure that Jebediah's reason was once more regaining control over sheer emotion. “I suppose I should have told you sooner. You, of all people, had a right to know.

“But we were paranoid, all of us. We thought—and rightly, for most, but not for you—that the fewer people who knew, the safer we would be. I almost didn't tell you, even tonight, but I was afraid you were about to guess and that I wouldn't be able to control your anger if you did. I almost couldn't, as it was. I know now that I should never have done what I did in that hall this afternoon in front of you. I was afraid you might see something not of Alister in me.”

With a loud sniff, Jebediah drew away, to wipe a sleeve across eyes and nose and sit up against the bottom of the stair, knees drawn close against his chest. Camber, too, took advantage of the opportunity to ease to a less-cramped position, though he would not have moved before that and disturbed Jebediah's settling for all his body's ease.

“I—didn't, really,” Jebediah murmured, responding to Camber's last statement. “I mean, I realized that something was different, and I—I
was
jealous of Joram—but I never dreamed that it wasn't Alister—or that it was you.”

As he looked up, he made a visible effort to regain control of at least his expression, swallowing with difficulty and taking a deep breath to steady himself.

“What—” He gulped and began again. “What would you have done, if you hadn't been able to make me accept—this?”

As he gestured toward Camber's face, Camber pursed his lips and glanced down for an instant, then reached out to his final control and exerted the slightest amount of pressure as he looked up again.

“I'm afraid I was not as honest as you would like to believe,” he whispered, as Jebediah felt the effect and reeled on the edge of unconsciousness. He released the pressure and the final control and grasped Jebediah's upper arm in a steadying hold. “As you can see, I held back one last, desperate weapon. If I'd really had to use it—I'm not sure what I would have done.”

Jebediah winced, nodding slowly in acceptance of that revelation. “You would have killed me,” he said, quite dispassionately. “And you would have been right. You couldn't let me leave here as anything less than an ally. The cause you've been working for is far too important to endanger by my angry betrayal.” He paused. “My God, what agonies you must have endured in these past months since his death! Why, my disappointment was nothing beside your—”

“Hush.” Camber held up a hand and shook his head. “You had a right to feel the way you did. Your grief was no less real for being based on a lie unknown to you. I wish I could have been more bold, to give you truth before today.
He
would never have subjected you to the loneliness and rejection which I forced upon you.”

“No, but he would have understood the things you did,” Jebediah whispered. “And—had he been you, I think he might have done the same.”

“Perhaps.”

A moment of thoughtful silence, mutually shared, and then Jebediah drew breath and spoke again.

“A year and more ago, I made you an offer, Camber-Alister,” he breathed, hardly daring to speak aloud in the solemnity of the moment. “I did not know you fully then, though I thought I did, but I offered you my help, to ease the burden which you carried. You refused me. And now I find I know you even less than I did then. But please do not refuse me again. Let me help.”

For an instant, Camber searched the sorrowing eyes—bloodshot now, with their former weeping—reading the trust and loyalty which he had always known was there for Alister, and which he had sensed he might find for himself but had never dared to verify, for fear of losing all. As he stretched out his arm, to lay his right hand on Jebediah's open palm, he let first Alister and then Camber flow out and mingle with the timidly offered Jebediah, gasping with the sheer delight which the unexpected three-way interaction evoked.

He had not realized the fullness of the Alister part of him before this very instant, feeling it interact with the mind of the man who had known and loved Alister Cullen perhaps better than any other living person. Jebediah, too, was astonished at the contact, his own memories and experiences of Alister merging and fusing with the pseudo-Alister almost as if a physical presence held that essence and urged its participation in this strange sharing which neither Jebediah nor Camber had dreamed possible.

They sat there, wrists clasped across the space between them, for nearly an hour, delighting in their mutual discoveries, sorrowing at their disappointments, even laughing aloud from time to time as some new facet of sharing fell beneath their scrutiny. Then finally they stirred, Camber to resume the shape of the man he now understood far, far better than he had ever dreamed possible, and Jebediah to watch in awed fascination as a new friend took back the form of an older one who was not totally lost after all.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-F
OUR

For neither at any time used we flattering words, as ye know, nor a cloak of covetousness; God is witness: nor of men sought we glory
.

—I Thessalonians 2:5–6

The tale of Camber's sainting was not finished, much to Camber's distaste. The Council of Bishops, when it reconvened early the next morning in the castle's great hall, showed every sign of being as awful as Camber had feared. A festival atmosphere prevailed. He even overheard one monk remark to another that today's testimony would probably be almost boring, the question no longer being
whether
sanctity should be accorded Camber of Culdi, but
to what degree!

That bothered him, as he and Joram wound their way among the milling clerics and tried to reach their seats, though he had forced himself to accept the probability that canonization was now a foregone conclusion. He had consoled himself by ensuring that, if it was inevitable, further testimony by those who knew the truth could not be turned in such a way as to reveal the secret they were preserving at such cost. His principals, now including Jebediah, had all been briefed as thoroughly as he dared the night before. Unless something totally unexpected happened, the hearing would progress to the logical conclusion which Queron and the Servants of Saint Camber had planned all along. Compared to the day before, he felt almost safe—at least from discovery by mortal agents involved in the situation. Immortal agents were quite another story; he still had not resolved where he might stand with his Creator as a consequence of what he was allowing to be done.

As he took his seat, he saw Jebediah come onto the dais with Jaffray's chamberlain, apparently arguing over the arrangement of additional stools for clarks who would take down the proceedings. He could not hear what they were saying, but after a few minutes Archbishop Oriss got up from his chair to the right of the dais—he having been relegated to a lower position to accommodate the king's throne—and suddenly there was no argument. The chamberlain bowed, Jebediah bowed, and the stools were returned to the places they had occupied before the argument started. Jebediah, with a shrug and a quick glance in Camber's direction, melted back into the crowd still milling in the center of the hall and disappeared through a side door, through which the king would shortly enter.

Many seemed to take their cues from that, moving noisily into the three rows of chairs along each side of the hall and beginning to settle in their places. In the packed gallery above the far end of the hall, Camber thought he saw a flash of Rhys's red hair, but he could not be certain.

He was not given time to ponder further, though, for at that moment, Bishop Eustace slipped into place beside him with a hearty greeting. The jocular Eustace could not fail to notice his colleague's subdued response, and, on pursuing the matter, learned that his distinguished fellow had spent much of the previous night in prayer for guidance—which was true, if not in precisely the sense that Eustace understood it—and had concluded that he should accede to the will of the majority of the Council of Bishops when it came to the vote, counting himself too personally involved, however indirectly, to pass objective judgment. Eustace, human that he was, could hardly be faulted for not catching all the shades of Camber's meaning and thinking he was only tired.

Nor was Eustace content to stop at that. Garrulous as ever, he noted that even Joram seemed to have gained a certain resignation with his recovery from the previous afternoon's ordeal. Of course, Eustace was quick to point out that Joram's sister and brother-in-law, present, so he understood, in the gallery with the queen and various other of the nobility, could hardly be expected to appear as resigned as Joram, not having had the benefit of witnessing the previous day's remarkable testimony. But if today was anything like yesterday, Eustace had no doubt that they, too, would soon be convinced of the sanctity of Camber MacRorie.

Eustace was. So were at least three of his esteemed colleagues. Surely Evaine MacRorie Thuryn, devoted daughter of the late earl, as everyone knew, could not for long deny her father's saintliness in the face of such conclusive evidence; and all knew of the Healer Rhys Thuryn's lifelong loyalty to the man who had become his father-in-law. Why, the queen herself had been Camber's ward before her marriage to the king. How could any of them doubt that Camber had been a very holy man?

A trumpet fanfare silenced further verbal speculation, much to Camber's unqualified relief, and then king and primate-archbishop were simultaneously entering from opposite sides of the hall to the chanting of a spirited
Te Deum
. As all rose to bow, the two passed to the dais with their several attendants, the king in a robe of somber but formally cut forest green, the state crown of leaves and crosses gleaming on his white-winged raven head. Jaffray, not to be outdone, had donned full ecclesiasticals for today's session, down to the jeweled cope and miter, where the day before he had been content with the purple and simple skullcap of any other bishop.

The point was not lost on the assembled company as the two men sat, Cinhil a trifle before the archbishop. Though this was Cinhil's hall, it was still Jaffray's court. As Primate of All Gwynedd, Archbishop Jaffray of Valoret held total precedence in matters spiritual.

The morning's business progressed smoothly enough at first. Following Jaffray's introduction and a brief summary of what had been established the day before, Queron presented two of his brother Servants of Saint Camber who had accompanied him on a certain visit to Camber's tomb at Caerrorie and had them relate their findings—or lack of findings—to a spellbound court.