Saint Camber (59 page)

What happened, do you know?
came Evaine's clear thought, cutting through his bewilderment and dismay.

It must have been something I did in Healing his head injury, while I was very, very deep
, he responded, only part of him paying attention to her query.
Stay with me, love. I have to find it again. It has to be about—there!

As he ended the communication, he forced himself to slip deep, deeper, exploring all the possible avenues he might have touched in some unaccustomed way. For a long time his trance was so profound that even Evaine could not follow, so deep that all she dared do was watch and monitor, making sure that his body remembered to breathe, his heart to keep up its slow, controlled, regular beat.

He was so deep that even he was not consciously aware when he had found the right spot—knew only that he had found it and set things right. One last scan to make certain that everything was, indeed, restored, and then he was taking a deep breath and coming to the surface again, looking tired and still a little puzzled, but satisfied. His hands shook a little as they slipped from Gregory's head to his own, and he allowed himself the utter luxury of sinking bonelessly to the floor beside the bed, leaning his head against the edge of the mattress as he took another deep breath and then yet another.

Evaine darted around from the other side to take one of his hands in hers and search his eyes anxiously, her other hand caressing his cheek.

“Rhys, are you all right?” she demanded, relaxing a little as her senses confirmed what his nod declared. “Where were you? I've never seen you go so deep.”

Wearily Rhys shrugged and smiled, drawing his wife into the circle of his arm. “Me neither. That's probably one of the oddest things I've ever experienced. I still don't know how I did it, either. It's going to take some digging to bring it to the surface.” He paused, then continued thoughtfully. “You know, this is something your father should see. I wonder if he'd come here, if we sent a message.”

“Can't it wait until the next council meeting?” Evaine asked. “He isn't going to want to leave Cinhil alone, even for the few hours it will take.”

“Cinhil will be all right for a few hours,” Rhys replied. “Tavis is always there, if another Healer should be needed, and there are other Healers in town. But I really think that this should be checked out before Gregory has a chance to reorganize and possibly mask what happened. Maybe he can even help me figure out how I did it.”

“Hmmm, you're right. And there's certainly no one better qualified for that. How are we going to persuade him to come, though? You can hardly tell him what's happened in a written message. Suppose Cinhil saw it?—not to mention the messenger.”

“That's true. On the other hand—”

Reaching inside his Healer's tunic, he caught and pulled on a narrow green silk cord until a dull silvery medallion appeared, the size of an early walnut. This he fingered thoughtfully, absently rasping this thumbnail across the heavy carving while he considered his next move. Then he gave Evaine a hug and got to his feet, letting the medallion dangle as he gave Evaine a hand and helped her rise.

“See if you can find some writing materials, will you, love? We'll ask the good bishop to come to his injured friend, the Earl of Ebor. We'll appeal to his duty as a priest and bishop, as well as a friend, but I'll add another short message in the seal that only he can read. The outward words will be enough to make him come, and for Cinhil to let him go, and the seal will tell him why we really want him. I'll have a messenger saddle up and prepare to ride, while you get started.”

C
HAPTER
T
WO

And in his estate shall stand up a vile person, to whom they shall not give the honour of the kingdom: but he shall come in peaceably, and obtain the kingdom by flatteries
.

—Daniel 11:21

Cinhil Haldane coughed fitfully into a napkin, then moved an archer on the inlaid gameboard, his glance darting quickly to his opponent's face as he settled back in his chair. Across the board, the man the king knew as Alister Cullen smiled and moved a mounted scout in reply.

Cinhil frowned.

“Now, why the devil did you do that, Alister? The caradot's lair is over there, you know that. Sometimes I really don't understand you.”

Camber shrugged and raised a shaggy Alister eyebrow, masking a smile with one casually raised hand.

“I am aware of the caradot's location, Sire. I am also aware of the strength of my archers and cavalry.”

“
Your
archers? But, I—oh.”

Cinhil's voice trailed off as he studied the formation of the pieces in question, but then he seized another of his own archers and moved it in counter-attack.

Slowly, almost languidly, Camber reached out and pushed his war-duke to the next square. At Cinhil's gasp of surprise, he held up a forefinger.

“You have one chance, Sire, and one only, to extricate yourself from your present situation. If you can find it, you can also win. If not, you must resign the board.”

“What?” Cinhil blustered. “You haven't got the strength to—oh. I see.” He sighed. “Damn you, Alister, do you have to be so bloody good at everything you do?”

At Camber's repeated shrug, Cinhil furrowed his brow and leaned his chin on his hands to stare at the board more intently, chewing at the edge of his grey-streaked mustache in concentration. He stifled another cough, but he could not entirely mask the pain the effort cost him.

Camber pretended not to notice, leaning back in his chair with half-lidded eyes and twisting the amethyst ring on his right hand with his thumb, but he knew the king had not fooled Joram, who sat reading quietly in a window seat across the room, out of earshot but not sight of the man who was actual as well as spiritual father to him.

Joram was nearly forty now, though he still looked the fit young Michaeline knight he had been almost a score of years before. He still wore the blue of a Michaeline priest and the white sash of his knighthood, but now he served as private secretary to the Bishop of Grecotha, his former superior in the Michaeline Order. The position was an excellent cover, for it enabled him to continue working with the man whom most folk thought dead these thirteen years now, and a saint, at that. So far as anyone outside Camber's immediate family knew—and not even all of them knew the true story—Camber
was
dead, slain in the battle of Iomaire in 905, while trying to defend his friend and battle-comrade, Alister Cullen, from the Princess Ariella. Only Joram, Rhys and Evaine, and the steadfast Jebediah of Alcara knew that it had been Alister and not Camber who had died that day, and that Camber had magically taken his dead friend's shape and memories, the better to carry on his work of guiding the new-crowned king. The secret had been kept now for nearly thirteen years, and the gamble had paid off. By and large, Cinhil had been a good king. The success of the next reign depended at least partly on Camber's secret being kept yet a while longer.

Joram had raised his head in inquiry at Cinhil's cough, freezing in a listening attitude which had become all too common at court of late, but Camber gave him the slightest shake of his head and returned his attention to Cinhil. The king coughed lightly again, then moved his priest-king to threaten Camber's archbishop.

“All right, try that one, Alister.”

As Camber's hand glided out to counter the attack, there was an insistent knock at the door. With a sign of exasperation, Cinhil rolled his eyes heavenward and shook his head.

“Not now, please!” he muttered under his breath. “Joram, will you answer it? I don't want to stop now, just when I've got him on the run!”

“On the run, indeed!” Camber scoffed good-naturedly, as Joram got to his feet with a nod and moved toward the door. As it opened inward at the priest's hands, Camber could glimpse a tall, lanky form wearing the unmistakable colors of Carthane. It was Earl Murdoch himself, one of the human governors of the young princes and a staunch opponent of anyone or anything Deryni. He was also, Cinhil had informed him somewhat apologetically a few months before, to be one of the regents for young Alroy, if Cinhil died before the boy turned fourteen. When Camber had asked him why, Cinhil had simply said that Murdoch seemed to him a pious and temperate man, well-suited to such authority. Besides, Murdoch had sons only a little older than the twins.

Earl Murdoch's gaunt face mirrored intense annoyance as he encountered Joram at the door instead of one of the royal squires.

“Excellency,” Joram murmured dutifully, standing aside and making a precise and correct bow.

Murdoch tried unsuccessfully to cover his displeasure with a brusque nod of his head in return, but the movement was hardly gracious. He was well aware that Joram's father had been an earl of even greater seniority than himself, and that Joram, if not for his priestly station, would have been Earl of Culdi after him—and Murdoch's senior in rank. The fact that Joram was
not
the earl made no difference to Murdoch. He still resented a Deryni in any position of authority, real or potential.

“Father MacRorie,” Murdoch replied, each syllable clipped by his dislike. “I would have audience with the King's Grace. Be so good as to announce me.”

Secretly enjoying Murdoch's aggravation, Joram made the man another bow of strictest formality, then turned slightly toward the two men seated in the sunshine.

“Sire, His Excellency, the Earl of Carthane.”

Cinhil, his back safely to the door, was able to indulge in a tiny sigh of resignation before turning his profile to the waiting lord. “Ah, Murdoch, can't it wait? I'm just trouncing Bishop Cullen at Cardounet.”

“My most profound apologies, my liege,” Murdoch answered, giving Joram a glance of purest disdain as he pressed past the priest and bent to kiss the king's hand almost reverently. “I thought to acquaint you with the progress of the royal princes' studies, as you did request, but if the time is inconvenient, I can come back another time. My Lord Chancellor.”

As he straightened from Cinhil's hand, he gave Camber the curtest of nods, and Camber inclined his head graciously in return, knowing that his politeness would gall Murdoch far more than any incivility on his part. Murdoch's mouth took on the appearance of a man who had been eating lemons, but he hid that from Cinhil as he turned away briefly to draw up a stool, having been bidden by Cinhil's gesture to take a seat.

“Nay, you need not come back later, my lord,” Cinhil said. “I did ask after my sons, and you have done right to come and tell me. Are you and their other governors satisfied with their progress?”

Murdoch settled on his stool with a flourish, watching Cinhil toy with one of the captured pieces. He masked his annoyance well, but Camber could tell that he was less than pleased to have only Cinhil's divided attention. His voice was nasal and irritating. Camber wondered, not for the first time, what Cinhil saw in him besides his ancient human lineage. He had met Murdoch's sons, and counted them no particular enhancement to any family line.

“Prince Alroy progresses well, Sire. His Highness has a flair for languages, and Bishop Hubert is very pleased with his studies of the scriptures. He is also growing stronger daily. He will make a worthy king to succeed Your Grace—though of course we all pray that will be far in the future.”

“Yes, yes, go on.”

“Of course, Sire. Prince Rhys Michael is yet young, of course, but both Earl Ewan and Lord Rhun agree that he shows great promise as a strategist and tactician, as well as skill with weapons. If he should one day become king, you need not fear for the welfare of this land.”

“Oh, come now, the boy's only ten! What about Javan?” Cinhil asked impatiently.

Camber tried to keep his face impassive as Cinhil turned his full attention on Murdoch. Beyond the king, he could see Joram perched gingerly on the edge of his seat in the window embrasure, felt Joram extending his senses so that he might overhear all through Camber's mind. At one time or another, Joram had been tutor to all three of Cinhil's children, and Camber knew that the crippled middle prince held a special place in his son's heart.

He turned his attention back to Cinhil, feeling for the king as well as Joram as the royal lips drew back in a tight-lipped grimace.

“Why do you hesitate about Javan?” Cinhil asked quietly. “Is he a problem for you?”

With an embarrassed shrug, Murdoch began a minute inspection of a gold thumb ring on his left hand. “Well, his swordsmanship is the best he can manage, under the circumstances, I suppose,” he said depreciatingly. “And Earl Tammaron says he rides rather better than anyone ever expected he could—better than the other two boys, if the truth be known,” he admitted grudgingly. “But—the devil take it, Sire, he's not fit to wear the Crown after his brother, and you know it! The people won't tolerate a cripple on the throne. Not only that, I don't like the ideas that young Lord Tavis is putting into his head. Bishop Hubert and I did warn you about a Deryni tutor, Your Grace!”

“Yes, you did warn me,” Cinhil replied neutrally, glancing aside uncomfortably at the most decidedly Deryni Bishop of Grecotha and at Joram. “However, Tavis O'Neill is a highly qualified teacher, and a fine Healer, as well. With Javan's—handicap—it seemed an ideal pairing.”

“What ails Prince Javan cannot be helped by a Healer, Your Grace,” Murdoch retorted coldly. “Forgive my bluntness, but you know that is true. And meanwhile, that Deryni poisons the boy's mind against those who are entrusted with his care and education. He
hates
Rhun. He undermines the authority of—”

“Have you proof of this, my lord?” Camber interjected, quietly, but with such intensity that Murdoch was cut off in midsentence. “It appears to me that you are accusing Lord Tavis of sedition, a serious allegation. Unless you have proof—”