Camber the Heretic (55 page)

“Nonsense!” Dermot retorted. “You're certainly as worthy as either of us.” He gestured toward himself and Oriss with a vague wave of an amethysted hand. “And far more worthy than that pig of a Hubert MacInnis that the regents are trying to foist off upon us!”

“He's right,” Niallan agreed, as Oriss and Kai nodded in unison.

Shaking his head, Camber half-turned toward the fire and kneaded the lower part of his face with one hand, trying to block out Joram's mental turmoil and thankful, at least, that his son was not radiating to the other Deryni in the room.

He did not want this—any more than he had wanted to become Alister, or to become a saint. Oh, the position was certainly an influential one, in theory. Sitting on the regency council again, by unassailable right, would enable him to observe and guide the young king and his brothers—and God knew, they needed guidance, with the likes of the regents continually insinuating their poison into the three young minds. It would more than compensate for the functions they had lost with the untimely deaths of Davin and Jaffray.

But realities proclaimed that the regents would never accept him as archbishop and primate, which negated whatever worth the office might otherwise hold in that regard. The regents knew his politics, just as they knew his race and lineage—or that of Alister Cullen. If he were to be elected archbishop over Hubert, the regents would take it as a deliberate challenge by Deryni—never mind that only three of the ten votes cast for Alister Cullen would have been Deryni votes.

“I'm not sure you know what you're asking,” he finally said, after a deep sigh. “The regents want Hubert. And Kai, you, of all people, should know how they feel about me. They've already ousted me from the regency council once.”

“Because they
could
,” Kai replied, with a grimace of distaste. “This time, they wouldn't be able to. The Archbishop of Valoret sits on either a regency council or a royal council by right which no one can contravene. The Valoret archbishops have held that prerogative since the time of King Augarin. And in the matter of the election of that archbishop, the king—or the regents, in this case—can only recommend to the Council of Bishops. We're not obliged to follow that recommendation. Besides, it would do my soul good to see them have to swallow their pride and accept another Deryni Primate of Gwynedd.”

As the others nodded emphatic agreement, Camber half-controlled a smile and shook his head again.

“Retribution, Kai? It is unworthy of you. Besides, I think you underestimate Hubert. He would never give obedience to a Deryni primate—especially
this
Deryni.”

Dermot chuckled, a low, dangerous rumble. “Then, you would be within your rights to suspend him, and have done with the lout. I, for one, have had enough of that priggish hypocrite.”

“And I,” Oriss agreed. “Besides,” he added, on a more practical note, “you're the only candidate on whom all of us can agree. Some of my supporters won't support Dermot, and some of his won't support me. But since Hubert has five firm votes, it's obvious that some of
us
are going to have to change our minds—and whoever is going to beat Hubert has to have the unanimous assent of all the rest of us.”

“So, now the truth comes out.” Camber smiled again. “I am your compromise candidate. Tell me, what makes you think that I will be acceptable to all, when neither of you is? I
am
Deryni, and therefore in questionable spiritual status, according to Hubert's reasoning.”

“You are Alister Cullen, who
happens
to be Deryni,” Dermot replied. “We know your record, Alister. We know that you would never abuse your powers. We know that we can trust you to keep intact the honor of the Church and her people. The fact that you are Deryni has nothing to do with our selection of you.”

“Well, it will have a great deal to do with the regents' reaction,” Camber murmured. “We know Hubert's feelings about anyone other than himself, and a Deryni would be unthinkable. Duke Ewan is a civilized and even an honorable man, by most people's standards, so I don't think he'd do anything outrageous on his own, but Murdoch would be livid. Tammaron would go into an apoplectic fit. And Rhun—God, I don't even want to think about what Rhun might do.”

“There's nothing they could do,” Kai returned. “And if they refused to acknowledge you, you could excommunicate them!”

“Excommunicate them? For a difference of political philosophy? Come, now!” Camber retorted. “Dermot has just said that you would trust me never to abuse my powers. I suspect that he was talking about Deryni ones at the time, but that applies equally to those of an archbishop.”

Kai shrugged. “Well, all right, you wouldn't have to excommunicate them. But they still wouldn't have any choice over whether or not to accept you. No more than they had with Jaffray.”

“And suppose he meets the same fate as Jaffray?” Joram asked, daring to interrupt for the first time. “I beg your pardon, my lords, but has it occurred to you that Archbishop Jaffray's death could have been set up by the regents?”

“Enough, Joram,” Camber soothed, trying to shush his son with a movement of his hand. “He is right, though, gentlemen,” he said to the rest of them. “All of us have known, from the night King Cinhil died, that Jaffray was in danger as long as he remained at Court. Unless you want to go through this election process again quickly, perhaps another candidate would be better suited. How about Ulliam? He had a steady support there for a time.”

“Of two votes,” Niallan said. “Alister, you're not going to be able to wiggle out of this one. You tried the same thing when we elected you a bishop in the first place. I fear you're going to have to accept the inevitable, now as then. What do you say?”

Camber could not answer just then. Bowing his head over his clasped hands, he turned over in his mind the arguments they had given him and tried to find the errors in their logic; but Niallan and Kai's shields were too close, pushing at his own, and Joram's jangled perceptions and fear for him were not aiding his concentration.

Abruptly he rose and turned back to the oratory, where he sank to his knees and lowered his head on the heels of his hands to try to think. He raised his eyes to the little carved Christus on the wall and used it as a focus, letting serenity and calm wash around him.

To be Archbishop of Valoret and Primate of All Gwynedd—God, he had never wanted that! Of course, he had never wanted to be a saint, either—or Alister Cullen.

He could not fault their logic, so far as it went, but they did not have all the facts, and he dared not tell them. It was doubtless true, at this point, that he was the only one of them who could gain the necessary ten of fifteen votes to be elected. But being elected archbishop and staying archbishop were not necessarily one and the same thing. Joram had raised a very valid point. What if the regents
did
have a hand in Jaffray's death?

He clasped his hands against his forehead again and tried to think past it. Jaffray's death might or might not have had any connection with the regents' actions but it definitely had been convenient. Jaffray had been a thorn in their sides for the better part of a year.

Now, to replace him with another Deryni, and one who had been chancellor before—

In law, they could not stop it, if that was the way the bishops voted; but who was to say that the regents were necessarily bound by law? Laws had been bent before.

He gave a heavy sigh and shook his head. Niallan and the others were waiting for his answer; and he realized, as he examined both mind and conscience, that there was no good reason he could give them which would not also compromise his very existence. The fact remained that there was no one else who could win the election. For better or for worse, Camber must be their candidate. Alister Cullen must sit on the throne of the Primate of Gwynedd, and Camber must allow himself to be swept along by destiny once more.

Rising, he crossed himself with a heavy hand, then turned and went back to them. They stood as he approached; and at his slight nod of acquiescence, the four of them dropped to their knees and kissed his hand.

When they had gone, after a few more minutes of discussion, only then did he dare to look squarely at Joram. His son's eyes were dark with emotion, the grey deepened to burnt-out coals in the pale, handsome face.

“I know. You don't approve,” Camber said.

“Why should tonight be different from any other time?” Joram returned. “You've made your decision. You obviously had your good reasons—even if they
will
be your death.”

Camber sighed. “Aye, perhaps you're right. But what else could I do? It goes on, doesn't it, Joram? First one lie, then another, until we are so bound up that we cannot escape our fates.” He shrugged. “Well, tomorrow will tell many things. Perhaps someone will decide that they don't want a Deryni archbishop after all. That would be a relief, wouldn't it?”

Despite himself, Joram could not restrain a flicker of a proud smile. “For you, perhaps—but not for Gwynedd. From a purely objective point of view—”

“And you are certainly objective,” Camber interjected with a smile.

“From a purely objective view,” Joram repeated, his smile matching Camber's, “you
are
the best candidate. I only hope you get the chance to do the job.”

“That
would
be desirable, now that we've come this far.” He lowered his eyes thoughtfully, then looked up at Joram more soberly. “I think I should like to have Rhys here, under the circumstances. I hate to ask him to leave Evaine just at Christmastime, and with the new baby due so soon, but I'm not as young as I used to be. Even if everything goes perfectly at this end—and well we know how often it does not—the next few days are going to be gruelling. I'd feel much better having Rhys here to call upon.”

Joram nodded. “I think both he and Evaine would agree to that. Queron would still be there, in case she did need help. Shall I go and fetch Rhys?”

“No, wake Ansel and send him with the message. By the same reasoning that I want Rhys here, I think Ansel would be better off there. He can help Queron keep an eye on Evaine. Take him to the Portal in the cathedral sacristy. That way, if you're seen, you can always say you've simply gone there to pray.”

Joram took up his Michaeline greatcloak and threw it around his shoulders. “How soon do you want Rhys here?”

“Have Ansel tell him to ride,” Camber replied. “We don't want to flaunt our Deryniness by obvious use of Portals. He should be able to get here by midmorning, even if he snatches a few more hours of sleep. And I doubt that anyone will miss Ansel. They'll be too busy watching me.”

“I daresay you're right,” Joram said, laying his hand on the door to Ansel's anteroom.

Camber threw a grateful look in Joram's direction, and then his son was gone. Camber stood there, staring after him, for several seconds, then sank into one of the chairs still drawn up before the fireplace. He watched the flames for a long time, and had found some measure of resignation by the time Joram returned.

The bishops reconvened at Terce the next morning, the “third hour” of the ancient world, when the Holy Spirit had come down upon the apostles at Pentecost. After Mass and the by-now familiar prayers for concord, the vote was taken as it had been each day for nearly a month, only the fifteen bishops present in the circular chamber. The December sun shone weakly through the colored glass above their heads, but the tile floor was cold beneath Camber's feet, and the chill in his heart was colder still.

In silence, each prelate came forward and dropped his folded ballot into a large silver chalice set on a portable altar in the center of the chamber, after which Zephram of Lorda and Niallan, whose turn it was to count, began drawing the ballots from the silver vessel. Hubert's reaction, the first time Alister Cullen's name was read, was everything Camber and Joram had envisioned the night before.

“One vote for Hubert MacInnis,” Zephram read, fully prepared to be bored again.

Niallan plucked the next ballot out of the chalice and read it in a neutral voice.

“One vote for Hubert MacInnis.”

“A vote for—Alister Cullen!” Zephram gasped, nearly letting his second ballot slip from his fingers as he glanced at Hubert in shock.

Hubert had half come to his feet at the name, and watched with mouth agape as Niallan fished the next ballot out of the chalice and unfolded it with steady hands.

“Another vote for Alister Cullen,” Niallan said with a nod, his face absolutely unreadable.

“That's impossible,” Hubert muttered under his breath, still frozen between standing and sitting as yet a third time Zephram read, “Alister Cullen.”

Niallan's glance flicked to the ballot in Zephram's hand as he pulled another slip of parchment from the chalice and unfolded it, looked down at the name in his hand.

“Hubert MacInnis.”

As he laid the ballot on the first stack they had started, Hubert nodded slightly and settled back on the edge of his seat.

“Hubert MacInnis,” Zephram read.

“Hubert MacInnis,” repeated Niallan.

But then: “Alister Cullen … Alister Cullen … Alister Cullen …” until the chalice was empty. All the ballots lay in two piles only, and Hubert's pile was obviously far smaller.

“For Hubert MacInnis, five,” Niallan said softly, spreading the ballots and confirming the number. “For Alister Cullen.…” He counted the ballots, then counted them again as everyone in the room also counted the slap of each parchment piece being placed on the altar.

“Ten for Alister Cullen, Bishop of Grecotha,” Niallan said finally, raising his eyes to scan them all in confirmation. “The Holy Spirit has granted us accord. Praise be to God, we have a new Primate of Gwynedd!”