Saint Camber (18 page)

Rhys instinctively moved to his side, putting an arm around his shoulder and supporting him close. The older man's grasp on him was much stronger than he had expected.

Do not betray me, Rhys
. A familiar voice spoke in his mind, blocking out all else with a force he would not have dreamed of resisting.
React only to what you see with your eyes. It is Alister who lies dead, not I. Joram knows, but Guaire does not
.

A sob escaped Rhys, despite his attempt to control his reaction, and the vicar general held him close against his chest, helping to hide any betrayal which might cross the Healer's face in front of Guaire.

“Nay, no tears,” the gruff voice spoke aloud this time. “He was a soldier in a noble cause, and he would not have wished it.”

For Rhys and for Joram, kneeling still beside the pallet, the words had a double meaning which Guaire would never share. As Joram bowed his head once more, Rhys drew back from Camber and gazed tearfully into the strange, sea-ice eyes. With an effort, he rearranged his features to the grieving he knew Guaire or anyone else would expect. Blinking back his tears, he sought and secured the control he must maintain.

“Aye, Father Cullen,” he whispered. “I'll try to remember that. Come, let me attend to your wounds. What strength I have must be for the living.”

“I am not badly hurt,” Camber said.

“Perhaps not, but you must let me be the judge of that. May we go to your own pavilion, or would you rather remain here?”

Camber gestured vaguely. “To my own. The day has been weary, and I can do naught else here.”

Without further words, Rhys took his father-in-law's arm, no longer quite so familiar in form, and went with him to the entryway. They paused, both of them, to glance back at Joram, at the peaceful body lying between him and the grieving Guaire, then moved out of the pavilion. The guards drew to attention and saluted, returned to rest, as the two made their way across the clearing toward the pavilion which had been Cullen's.

Jebediah had been waiting, but now he was engaged in a serious conversation with two of his under-commanders, who were obviously requesting his presence elsewhere. He raised a hand to Camber, and Camber gave a reassuring wave that he had seen Alister Cullen use a dozen times. Jebediah looked relieved as he turned to go with the commanders.

“Thank God for that,” Camber whispered as they moved away from Jebediah. “I don't think he suspects, but he must not be given the chance to grow suspicious. You're going to have to help me play this part, Rhys—especially now, in the beginning, until I get oriented. I'll explain more later—why it was necessary, and such—but for now, I think it wisest that I appear to rest, and recover but slowly. I have
his
memories to clear eventually, as well. I shall need your help.”

“You know you shall have it” was Rhys's only whispered reply as they drew near the Michaeline enclosure.

A blue-mantled guard bowed and drew back the entry flap as the two approached.

“They said that you were injured, Father General,” the man said anxiously. “Shall I send for your servant?”

“Nay, Lord Rhys will tend me,” Camber replied. “Pray, see that we are not disturbed for a while.”

“Of course, Father General.”

As the flap closed behind them, Rhys began shaking in reaction. Camber held him close for several heartbeats, trying to ease his tumultous thoughts, until Rhys could regain control.

“My God, but you take a chance, Camber!” the young man finally whispered fiercely. “Why on earth—”

“Hush, you must not use that name. He whom the world knows as Camber is dead. Only you and Joram know the truth.”

“And Evaine—may she be told?” Rhys asked, drawing back to look into the cool, ice-pale eyes.

Camber released him and began unbuckling his sword belt, the craggy face troubled. “Aye, of course. I wish there were some way to spare her the initial news, but she is bound to hear before we reach her …”

He let his voice trail off as Rhys helped him pull off the blood-stiffened Michaeline surcoat. Rhys searched the bloody mail beneath with an anxious eye, but Camber merely smiled as he bent to remove his spurs.

“Nay, the blood is his,” he said. “I am uninjured, I told you.”

He paused as Rhys bent to unbuckle the fastenings of his greaves, then let his weary body sink to a campstool, let the younger man pull off his boots and ease the mail chausses from his legs. The hauberk was next, and Camber slipped out of it with practiced ease, making a wry face at the great slashes in the metal links. The quilted doublet beneath was likewise slashed and stained with blood.

“I suppose you don't call this an injury?” Rhys muttered as he undid laces, trying to get at Camber's body beneath.

Camber almost had to smile. “I told you, this is but for show. Even I can heal the wounds I bear.”

He winced and closed his eyes briefly as Rhys worked the blood-caked doublet from what could now be seen as a particularly ugly-looking wound, and for a moment Rhys was sure his words were mere bravado. The wound he had uncovered looked frighteningly real, and thus far had defied even Rhys's questing mind touch to be proven otherwise.

But then he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, which Camber had undoubtedly already sensed, and knew that Camber was merely playing his part. Instantly, he slipped into his own accustomed role as concerned physician, frowning and muttering worriedly over his patient as the curtain was withdrawn and more torchlight streamed into the tent.

“Pardon, Father General, but I heard that you were wounded and brought warm water and cloths to bathe your hurts.”

The speaker was Alister Cullen's body servant, Johannes, a lay brother of the Michaeline Order who was fairly new to Cullen's service. Also, Camber and Rhys remembered simultaneously, Johannes was not Deryni. If they were both reasonably careful, they should be able to bluff their way through the next little while with the man none the wiser. In fact, a glib performance now would greatly reinforce Camber's new role in the future, if Johannes spoke to his brethren—as he was almost certain to do.

“Your arrival is well timed, Brother,” Rhys said briskly, motioning the man closer. “The father general insists that his wounds are not serious, but I want to see that for myself. I think our ideas of serious may differ. Bring you that water near.” He waved away the guard who was lurking in the doorway. “Thank you, Sir Beren. All is well.”

As the flap fell into place once more, Rhys took the basin of water from Johannes and put it on the carpet beside him, bidding the brother stand behind Camber's stool to support him. The vicar general was now looking decidedly pale, and Rhys marveled at Camber's ability to assume the difficult role in so short a time.

He reached out with his mind as he began washing the wounds, knowing that the anxious Brother Johannes could detect no trace of their communication.

I will follow your lead in this
, he thought, glancing at Camber's half-closed eyes.
But if you should seem to faint away from weakness and the pain of your wounds, that would not be unexpected. It might give you an excuse to go easy for the first few days, until you are secure in your role
.

Camber's mind reached out in answer, his thought caressing Rhys's mind with affection.
That thought had also occurred to me, son. But for now, I think we must heal these wounds convincingly enough to assure our gentle Johannes that naught is amiss with his master. Lay your hand there, above the great wound in the side, and I will ease it away
.

Rhys did as he was bidden, feeling very strange that he should have to exert no effort to have the wound melt away beneath his touch. Camber, too, caught the strangeness of the operation; for him, it was likely as close as he could ever come to actually healing, and the sensation was exhilarating. He marveled wordlessly as he bade Rhys move on to a lesser wound. The first now appeared to be no more than a narrow, slightly moist red line—for they dared not “heal” so great a wound completely, with Rhys so fatigued.

After that, Camber let himself sink back against Johannes's chest, as though half fainting, briefly touching the man's unconscious concern to confirm that he really was unaware of what was happening. The next wound and the next passed into oblivion in fairly rapid succession, and Camber let himself sag against Johannes even more weakly.

“He is greatly fatigued,” Rhys murmured to Johannes as he wiped bloody hands on a towel and pushed the basin of reddened water aside. “I want him to sleep now. Help me get him to bed.”

“Nay,” Camber said, stirring against Johannes's body and raising a hand feebly. “I must see to my men. There is much to be done.”

“Others will do it. You need to rest,” Rhys said firmly, helping Johannes lift the protesting man to the sleeping pallet.

While Camber continued to protest halfheartedly, entirely for Johannes's benefit, the brother eased from his master's war-weary body the last of his bloodstained garments and drew upon him a clean singlet of soft white linen. Rhys merely shook his head at all of Camber's protestations, tucking a sleeping fur snugly around him after he had forced him back on the pallet.

“I want no more arguments, Father General. You are to sleep now,” Rhys commanded, laying a hand on the older man's brow. “Do not fight me, or you will wear out both of us in the struggling, and I will be useless to the other wounded who need my attention.”

The pale eyes fluttered closed, and the man appeared to sleep. But just before Rhys drew his hand away, he caught the appreciative thought of an alert and very amused Camber.

A heartless argument to beguile a fighting man!
the thought chastised gently.
If I were Alister, I should be overcome with conscience, as you intended. Go now, and do what you must. I promise I shall try to rest
.

He did try, when Rhys had gone and Brother Johannes could no longer find excuse to linger in the pavilion. Camber followed Johannes's movements through carefully slitted eyelids, feigning sleep whenever the brother would lean close to study his shallow breathing. Finally, Johannes extinguished all but one of the shielded rushlights and quietly left the tent. Camber heard him conversing with the guards for several minutes, but then all fell silent save for the normal sounds of the camp outside.

Breathing a thankful sigh, Camber let himself relax in fact. With any luck, he might not be disturbed again until morning.

He took a few deep breaths to settle his thoughts and stretched luxuriously, testing the responses and sensations of his new form. In fact, few changes had needed to be made, other than to face and hands, for he and Alister had been almost of a size, both of them tall and lean—though Alister had stood perhaps a fingerspan taller.

But height was easy enough to camouflage, if anyone even noticed so slight a difference. If the present Alister Cullen walked a trifle shorter, that could easily be ascribed to fatigue, to the new weight of responsibility which would befall him, now that Camber was dead.

Facial differences were no problem at all. Now that the initial transformation was accomplished, he could even, if he wished, change back to his own form occasionally, with little exertion involved. He had already taken the necessary steps to ensure that no conscious effort would be required to maintain his façade; it would remain even when he was asleep or unconscious. Of course, any enormous outpouring of power would probably necessitate his returning to his own shape for a time, but those instances would be few and, hopefully, in places of safety. Otherwise, only an act of his own will could let his new visage mist away. Not by appearance would he be betrayed.

Behavior might be another story. Alister Cullen had been a very complex individual, with relationships extending into many areas of endeavor. Jebediah and Cinhil had been but the first of many he would have to cope with. Of course, Camber had what remained of Alister's memories—or would have, once he found the necessary privacy and support to assimilate them safely—but now was definitely not the time to make them truly his. In the meantime, he would have to rely on his own memories of the vicar general, trusting instinct and the excuse of grief and battle fatigue to cover any lapses of behavior.

One positive thing stood in his favor, at any rate: Alister Cullen, most conservative of Deryni, had never been given to public displays of his abilities. Unless he had been very different among the members of his Order, which Camber doubted, there being humans as well as Deryni among the Michaelines, Alister Cullen was known to be very reluctant to make much of his Deryniness. In addition, it was expected that clergy, especially Deryni, were naturally closeminded most of the time, since they kept the secrets of other men's confessions locked within their minds. As a bishop, Alister would be even more inviolate. In all, Camber should have little difficulty in shielding his own distinctive psychic identity, even from other Deryni. Superficial contacts would not reveal him, once Alister's memories were his.

He was thinking about that aspect of his new identity, beginning to consider how he was going to reconcile Alister's priestly status with his own, when he became aware of voices outside the pavilion again. Controlling a frown, for he had hoped not to have to face anyone else tonight, he extended his senses and listened carefully. A shiver of apprehension went through him as he recognized Cinhil's voice.

“I know that he was wounded, and I know that Lord Rhys gave orders that he was not to be disturbed,” Cinhil was saying. “However, I must see him. I promise I will not be long.”

There was a momentary pause, and then the whisper of the curtain being withdrawn. Camber, his face turned away from the entryway, closed his eyes and prayed that Cinhil would not insist upon speaking with him.

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