Saint Camber (17 page)

No still waters here, for Joram was not that—but rather, the laugh of a sunlit spring dancing over stream-polished pebbles, bright and jewellike, rare existence—and the cool and glimmer of deeper places, soft and silver-pure, into which Camber now let his consciousness slip.

Joram was in control now; and if he had wanted to end what was to be, he could have done it. But he did not. With Camber's merging into union with his mind came the weight of destiny and purpose which he now realized his father had known long before, if only unconsciously, and of which Joram himself had only dipped the surface.

No fearing now, but sharing, sureness, acceptance.

“Behold,” Joram's voice whispered, green leaves floating on gently welling waters. “Behold the essence of thine outward form, O my father. Likewise, the outward form of him who was our friend.” He drew a steady breath. “Let each essence mingle now, in the cool fire which rests between you.
Be
Alister Cullen, in all outward forming. And let the outward form of him who was our friend become most like the Earl of Culdi, thy dear face. Let it be done.
Fiat
. Amen.”

Camber's lips formed the words, but no sound came forth—and Joram slitted his eyes open to watch with awe as a mist seemed to shroud his father's face. As if through a veil, he saw the familiar features shift, glanced quickly at Cullen's face and saw similar changes taking place.

Then the signet ring flared brightly between them, so that Joram flung up his free hand to shield his eyes. When he could see again, it was not his father's form who knelt opposite him. The visage of one who had been dead now opened pale, sea-ice eyes to look at him uncertainly. And at his knees, his father's face slept the sleep of those who will never walk the earth again.

Joram swallowed audibly as he pulled his hand away from a stranger's touch.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

Yet a little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to sleep
.

—Proverbs 24:33

It was full dark by the time they returned to camp. Cook fires were beginning to be lit among the tents of the common soldiers, and an occasional torch burned in a cresset set into the ground along the main aisles between the tent rows.

Small groups of men bearing the wounded and dead passed several times, but to these, the sight of two more Michaelines bringing in horse-borne bodies aroused no special notice. There were many dead; it was dark; the day had been long.

Joram led the way, guarding the cloak-shrouded body which the world would soon see as Camber MacRorie. Camber led the beast bearing the slain Ariella. Though they sometimes stumbled in the hoof-churned mud, Camber had not the heart to secure a torch and disclose his son's grief to all. Time, soon enough, for that. For now, give him the kind anonymity of darkness. Too soon, their deadly game would begin in earnest.

And even now, it began. As they passed the royal pavilion, heading for the Michaeline encampment a little farther down the line, Joram was recognized, first by some Michaelines, then by a handful of his MacRorie retainers gathered by a fire near the earl's standard. A murmur went up among the Michaelines as the grizzled head of their vicar general was also spotted, and Camber lowered his eyes, glancing neither right nor left.

Young Guaire of Arliss, his bright, open face expectant in the light of the torch he bore, ran toward Joram with a glad greeting on his lips which died as he saw Joram's expression. He laid a hand on the priest's mailed arm and jogged a few steps to catch up as Joram continued walking grimly toward the MacRorie pavilion.

“Father Joram, what's wrong?”

Camber saw Joram turn his face away, the proud shoulders shaking. Guaire glanced at the bundle on the horse following Joram, then looked back at Joram in alarm—stared in sudden dread suspicion at the man he believed to be Alister Cullen—before dashing back to Joram's horse. A groan escaped his lips as he drew back a fold of the mantle and held his torch near.

“My God, it cannot be! 'Tis the Lord Camber!” he breathed. He grasped Joram's elbow and spun him half around to face him.

“Nay, say it is not true!” he demanded. “Say 'tis some other lord who has been slain! Say it is God Himself, but not Camber!”

Three of Camber's men drew near, shock immobilizing their faces, and pulled the sobbing Guaire away as Joram dropped the horse's reins and began to untie the thongs securing the body to the saddle. A group began to gather, more torches joining the smoky, flickering circle. Camber, now the vicar general, gave the reins of the second horse to one of his Michaelines and came to help Joram.

Someone took off a fur-lined cloak and spread it on the ground beside the horse. The two Michaelines, young priest and older vicar general, gently bore the body from the saddle and laid it on the fur. The body of the Earl of Culdi lay cold and lifeless in the torchlight, face serene and pale and slightly drawn in death. Terrible wounds gaped in several places, matching those which had actually cost Cullen his life. Drying blood appeared black in the torchlight.

There was a flurry of whispered surprise and consternation, a few low-voiced exclamations of grief, and then the men, Michaelines and Culdi folk alike, were dropping to their knees, one by one, removing helmets and bowing battle-stained heads around the body of the man who had brought them all to this place.

Into this silence came Jebediah and the king, the latter wide-eyed with disbelief, to stand mute and stunned between Joram and the dour vicar general. The grand master, after a perfunctory glance at the body on the ground, turned his anxious gaze on his Michaeline superior. Camber tried to pretend he was not aware of Jebediah's scrutiny, knowing that here, perhaps, lay his greatest challenge of all. Alister and Jebediah had been very close.

“What—happened?” Cinhil asked, after a long silence.

Joram tried to speak, but could not; bowed his head and fought the sobs which tried to escape from between his lips. At last it was the vicar general who half glanced at the king, gruff voice forcing out the words.

“Some of my men and I pursued Ariella and her escort into a wood not far from here, Sire. There she turned and stood her ground, for she could flee no farther. We fought. Most of our men were killed, and I was wounded. My strength was beginning to fail. When Camber and Joram arrived, the balance shifted, but still we could not overcome her.”

He laid his hand on the saddle as though to steady himself before resuming.

“Camber was sorely wounded slaying the last of her men, and Joram was knocked senseless for a time. Thus it fell to me, with my last strength, to fling my sword and pierce her through.” He rested one hand on the blasted hilt of Cullen's sword.

“But it was too late for Camber.”

He bowed his head, unwilling and not daring to say more. Cinhil swallowed audibly and started to bend down to touch the body lying at his feet, then drew back and composed himself once more. His face was expressionless, except in his eyes, as he turned stiffly toward Joram.

“We share your grief at the death of your father,” he murmured, “and we thank you for the service he has done us this day. Would to God he were here to share in our victory.”

With that, he turned away and fled to his pavilion, almost running as he crossed the final steps. Quiet followed him until he disappeared, then surged into low, whispered mutterings among the growing crowd of soldiers.

“Let's take him into the tent now,” Camber said quietly, taking charge.

He bent and started to slip his arms under the body of his slain friend, but then he saw Jebediah moving to assist and let himself stagger as though momentarily overcome by weakness. He must not let the grand master touch Alister's body.

“I'm all right, Jeb,” he murmured, protesting as Jebediah's strong arms supported and raised him, while Joram and Guaire bent instead to pick up the body. “On the other hand, perhaps you'd better go and find Rhys for me.”

“How badly are you wounded?” Jebediah asked, not releasing Camber as he searched his eyes. “I was afraid something had happened to you. I had the oddest sensation, a little while ago.”

Camber closed his eyes and took a deep breath as he drew himself upright, wondering whether Jebediah could possibly have felt Alister's death, praying that Jebediah had noted no discrepancy in his words or actions so far, knowing that he dared not keep up this contact much longer.

“I'll be all right, Jeb,” he whispered fiercely. “A few minor wounds, a great weariness. Now, go and find Rhys,
please!
”

With a nod and no further word, Jebediah released him and disappeared into the darkness, leaving Camber to worry as he turned toward the pavilion which had lately been his own, where Joram and Guaire were even now carrying their pitiful burden. As they moved silently inside, two of Camber's knights took up guard positions of honor beside the entryway, one of them holding aside the curtain respectfully. Slowly, quietly, the remaining men began returning to their duties, a few reluctantly taking the body of Ariella into custody.

Nearly an hour passed before Rhys heard the news. Jebediah finally found him in one of the hospice tents, and waited silently until Rhys had finished healing a deep gash on a young soldier's leg. At Rhys' touch, the wound had closed to a thin, moist line, and his patient would have only a slight scar to show for his adventure in a week or so.

But for now, the young man was in shock and pain—pain which Rhys' dwindling strength could barely touch. As Rhys finished bandaging the leg, he noticed Jebediah standing a few paces behind him and beckoned him with a hand still gory from his recent labors.

“Jeb, can you give me a hand here? I want to save what strength I still have for actual healing. He needs to be put to sleep.”

Wordlessly, Jebediah knelt and laid his hand on the lad's forehead. The feverish eyes sought his for just an instant, then fluttered and closed. Jebediah murmured, “Sleep,” and closed his own eyes momentarily, then looked up sadly as Rhys stood.

“Lord Camber has returned to camp,” he said quietly.

Rhys, washing his bloody hands in a wooden basin held by a page, glanced down with a tired grin. “Ah, he found Alister, then?”

“Yes.”

The stark answer, coupled with the knight's solemn expression, suddenly sent a grim shudder of foreboding through Rhys' mind. His eyes did not leave Jebediah's face as he dried his hands on an already damp and bloody towel.

“What's happened? What are you not telling me? Leave us, Toban,” he added, sending the page on his way with a touch on the shoulder.

Jebediah glanced at the ground, at the sleeping soldier whose life had just been saved by Rhys' ministrations, then rose slowly.

“Camber is dead, Rhys.”

There was a stunned heartbeat of silence, and then:

“Dead? But you said—”

Jebediah swallowed, unable to look at Rhys's stricken face any longer. “I said he had returned to camp. His body did. He and Joram found Alister locked in combat with Ariella. Alister finally slew her, but Camber died of wounds he sustained in the fight.”

“And Joram? Alister?”

“Alister sent me to find you. He claims minor wounds and fatigue, but I sense that there is more than that. Joram appears unharmed.”

Rhys nodded numbly. “I'll come, of course. I could have done little more here, in any case, until I have rested somewhat. But Camber—it's impossible. It simply cannot be.”

Jebediah clasped the younger man's shoulders in resignation, then glanced past him and signaled another Healer who had just entered the tent.

“Lord Rhys is needed at the royal enclosure, Master Durin. Can you take over for him?”

Rhys did not see the other Healer nod agreement, for he was already moving out of the tent, trying to assimilate what he had just learned. As he and Jebediah left the hospice and headed toward the royal enclosure, a waiting Michaeline brother fell into step behind them with a torch. The torchlight cast wavering, distorted shadows ahead of them as they walked. Ahead, Rhys could see the MacRorie pavilion as if through a tunnel, his vision blurring out all around it save the guarded entrance and the proud MacRorie standard hanging motionless beside.

Later, he would not remember that walk. He was aware that he walked alone, once he approached the pavilion, Jebediah having mercifully dropped back to let him be alone with his grief. But he was not conscious of his feet, or of any feeling other than unbelieving numbness, until he paused before the curtained entryway. Taking a deep breath, he laid his hands on the curtain he had drawn aside so often before and stepped inside. He let the curtain fall behind him before he could allow his eyes to raise and behold what lay within.

All of them looked up as the curtain fell. There was Guaire, kneeling at the head of Camber's sleeping pallet, and a ghostly-pale Joram, praying at his father's side, and Alister Cullen supporting himself against the pavilion's center pole, looking as taut and anxious as Rhys had ever seen him.

But what caught and held his attention, became the core of his awareness, was the body which lay between them, stretched serenely on its pallet as though only asleep, all signs of battle now washed from the white-clad body. The face was unmistakably Camber's.

He stood, they knelt, in that frozen tableau for several heartbeats, no one moving except Guaire, who resumed combing his dead master's silver-gilt hair. Joram stared at Rhys; Rhys stared at Joram, at Cullen, at Guaire, avoiding the body now that he had seen it. It was Rhys who finally broke the silence.

“Lord Jebediah came and told me,” he said in a low voice. “Alister, he said that you were wounded.”

The vicar general straightened wearily, ice eyes never leaving Rhys's.

“I had forgotten,” he said simply. He touched a particularly bloody patch on the side of his tunic, allowing a guarded look of discomfort to cross his face, and seemed to falter just a little.