Camber the Heretic (57 page)

“Let's not talk about it here,” came Tammaron's voice, cold and precise in the growing quiet of the empty hall. “Guard, have Lord Oriel join us in the withdrawing room. Your Highness, I think you'd best go to your apartments. This is adults' work.”

They heard Alroy's thin, reedy assent, reluctant, by the sound, and then the echo of light footsteps. After that, even the voices of the regents died away as they, too, left the hall. When Javan chanced another peek around the corner of the alcove, only the clarks and two of the heralds remained, clearing away the clutter of the interrupted court.

Mystified, Javan turned back to Tavis, almost afraid to speak.

“What do you think they're going to do?”

“I don't know,” Tavis whispered, “but I'm almost certain I'm not going to like it.” He considered for a moment, then cocked his head at Javan. “Do you want me to try to find out?”

“Could you?”

“Perhaps. If they're going to have Oriel contact Rhun, I might be able to pick up something more of their plans from him, without his knowing. It would be good practice for dealing with Rhys, too. He's come back to Valoret, you know. He arrived early this morning.”

“He did? Why didn't you tell me?”

“It slipped my mind. I didn't see the connection, earlier. Now, I suspect that Alister must have found out last night that he was going to be elected, and sent for Rhys to come.”

“I see,” Javan said thoughtfully. “But—let's get back to Rhys in a moment. What about Oriel? Do you really think you can read him without his knowing?”

“Not ‘read' him, precisely, but—never mind. Someday I'll try to explain it.” He stood and peered around the corner, then smoothed his tunic with his hand and drew his mantle closely around him as he glanced back at Javan.

“Go back to your chamber and stay there, my prince. Plead indisposition. I'll join you as soon as I can. If I've not returned by dark, start discreetly trying to find out why. It may mean that I've been discovered, in which case you're the only possible one who might be able to save me.”

“I understand,” Javan whispered. “Be careful, though.”

“Sound advice.” Tavis grinned. “You follow it, as well.”

With that, he made a casual bow and headed quite unhurriedly toward the far end of the hall, nodding to the clarks as he passed. Javan gathered up his cloak and leatherwork and limped slowly in the opposite direction, out the main doors of the hall and along the covered walk which led to his quarters.

He reached the common room which he and Rhys Michael shared, but there he encountered his younger brother and two of the squires playing at strategy with some of Rhys Michael's toy knights. That necessitated that he stop and talk with them for a few minutes, pretending not to understand the tactical situation they had set up and showing them the headstall with its little silver roundels. But then he let a little of his real nervousness show as a headache and went on into his own room, ostensibly for a nap.

There he stood and shook, his back hard against the carved oak door which separated him from the eyes of his brother and the squires, until he realized that his shaking was as much from the cold as from after-reaction to what was taking place. With that, he roused himself from his apprehensions and built up the fire, curling up before the hearth in a pile of sleeping furs and, in truth, dozing. Finally, just at dark, a quick rap at the door heralded Tavis's return. Javan scrambled to his knees as the Healer entered and closed the door behind him. Tavis's face was still and solemn with tension and fatigue, the pale, water-blue eyes like stone.

“What did you find out?” Javan asked.

“That the regents do not much care for Deryni archbishops.”

As Javan stared up at him quizzically, Tavis crossed to the sleeping furs and collapsed to sit cross-legged beside Javan.

“I waited out of sight near the withdrawing room until Oriel came out,” he said wearily. “He looked ashen, bereft of hope or solace. They'd made him work in front of them, directly reaching out to Rhun's Deryni; they usually let him work through a relay, to conserve his strength.”

“How do you know? Did he tell you that?”

“Not in so many words. But I saw his face as he left the withdrawing room. When I then ‘chanced' to meet him a little while later in another corridor, there was still a great deal of spillover from his shields. As Healer to fellow Healer in distress, it was no unexpected matter for me to probe a little. Of course, his shields immediately strengthened, but there was enough of a delay that he couldn't hide everything from me.” He averted his eyes. “I almost wish I hadn't read him at all.”

“Why? What did you learn?” Javan breathed. Then, with growing suspicion, as Tavis at first did not respond: “Tavis, what did they have him tell Rhun?”

“They had him send a death sentence,” Tavis replied evenly.

“A death sentence? Of Bishop Alister?”

“Not directly, though they may have talked about that, too. Tell me, though, to what Order does Bishop Alister belong?”

“Saint Michael,” Javan replied promptly. “But, you know that!”

“Aye.” Tavis nodded wearily. “And to what Order did Archbishop Jaffray belong?”

“Saint Gabriel,” Javan responded again. “Tavis, what are you trying to tell me?”

“Just one more question,” Tavis said, massaging his forehead with his hand as if he hoped to knead out the memory. “Think about the major religious houses of both those Orders, and their locations, and then tell me where Baron Rhun and his troops are.”

“In the Lendour highl—” Javan's voice broke off and a horrified look came across his face. “Tavis, they're not going to have Rhun destroy Saint Neot's and Haut Eirial!”

Tavis closed his eyes and let his chin sink down to his chest with a slight nod. “I think so. I have reason to believe that Rhun and his men are within a few hours' ride of either house—both, if they split up—and that this has been planned for some time. I suspect that this is why Rhun is still in the field so late in the season—because the regents were awaiting the election results, and perhaps even hoped for just such an excuse as this to vent their hatred on the Deryni houses. Jaffray was Gabrilite. Besides, the Gabrilites train other Deryni. As for the Michaelines, they were already in bad odor, especially once the regents ousted Alister as chancellor. That's connection enough, so far as they're concerned.”

“But, we can't let them do it!” Javan whispered. “It isn't right. Deryni didn't elect Alister. It takes ten votes, so seven of those
couldn't
have been Deryni. And to blame the Deryni Orders is—is—outrageous!”

“I quite agree. However, they are likely enough targets, if you hate like the regents. Consider: Jaffray is dead, so they can't do anything to
him
, but they
can
do something to his Order. That's vengeance, of a sort. And Alister …”

“
Bother
Alister! The regents are going to condone the destruction of both the Orders,” Javan whispered. “We can't just stand by and allow innocent holy men to be murdered. We have to warn them!”

Tavis huddled down in the furs and thought for a moment, rubbing the soft skin at the end of his stump against his lips, then looked at Javan.

“All right. I have an idea that might work, and it could solve another problem at the same time. How are you feeling?”

“What? All right, I guess.”

“No,” said Tavis, reaching aside for pen and parchment, “you feel terrible.” He touched the end of his stump fleetingly to the boy's forehead, then exclaimed aloud and shook his head. “Ach, you have a roaring fever—or will have, by the time this reaches its destination,” he added with a tight little smile. He dipped the pen into the inkwell and began writing.

“In fact, I'm worried for your very life, Javan, though I would never tell your beloved regents that, for fear they might blame me. But if I send our friend Rhys the information about the religious houses—which I managed to gather this afternoon, only to return and find you taken gravely ill—do you think Rhys will be able to resist coming to your aid?”

With an expression of sudden dawning, Javan slowly nodded.

When, an hour later, a royal squire came to deliver Tavis's message, he found Rhys ensconced with the new archbishop. Joram, Jebediah, and Bishops Niallan and Kai were also there. It was just past Vespers, and the six Deryni had taken a light supper together before settling down to discuss the ramifications of Camber's new office and the precautions which needed to be taken.

By now, the regents' displeasure at the outcome of the election was certain. Word of the initial reaction in the great hall had come from one of Bishop Ailin's contacts in the castle, late in the afternoon, and they could imagine the tone, at least, of later discussions. The next twenty-four hours appeared to be the critical ones. If they could see Alister safely enthroned and reinstated on the regency council, as was now his due, there was a good chance that further reaction against their kind might yet be avoided or at least delayed.

So deeply were they immersed in their discussion, safe from either human or Deryni eavesdropping behind the defense of Camber's wards, that they did not note any physical approach outside until a tentative knock at the door jarred them hollowly from their intense concentration.

“Good God, who can that be?” Camber murmured, as much in annoyance as in apprehension. Simultaneously, he raised his shields to full protection, checked to be certain his colleagues had done the same, and dispelled the wards with a wave of his hand and a mental command.

He did not stand or turn in his chair as Joram went to answer the door, but he did cast out with his mind to identify the caller. An unknown human mind waited on the other side of the door, vaguely familiar yet not attached to any name that Camber knew. Joram eased the door open and then stood aside to glance at Rhys.

“Rhys, he wants to speak with you.”

Rising, Rhys went to the door where one of the royal squires waited, Camber lightly linking in and observing through the Healer's eyes.

“Bertrand, isn't it?” Rhys asked.

Bertrand gave a nervous bow.

“Aye, my lord. A priest downstairs said I might find you here. I—hope I'm not disturbing you. I'm sorry, Your Graces,” he added, as he spied the three bishops now turning to peer at him.

Rhys favored the boy with a reassuring smile. “It's all right, Bertrand.” He noticed that the boy held a folded and sealed square of parchment. “Do you have a message for me?”

“Aye, my lord. I've come from Lord Tavis, on behalf of my master, Prince Javan.” He glanced beyond Rhys at the others, then lowered his eyes uncomfortably. “His Highness is very ill, sir,” he continued in a lower voice. “He's burning up with fever. Lord Tavis heard that you had arrived in Valoret this morning, and hoped you might come to His Highness. He bade me give you this.” He held out the parchment packet. “He begs you to attend him.”

“He
begs
me?” Rhys said, taking the boy by the shoulders in alarm and making a quick, subtle probe.

Instantly, Camber shared Rhys's perception of Tavis's taut face giving instructions and the message to the squire … the boy's view of the prince tossing feverishly on his bed, kicking off the blankets in his delirium.… Tavis and the frightened squire sponging down the pale, hot body with water only just melted from snow fetched from outside.… Javan thrashing and moaning under Tavis's efforts to comfort him.

Good God, what was wrong with Javan?

The perception took only an instant, and was surely interpreted by the squire as only a searching glance of disbelief that one Healer should so entreat another. Then Rhys was shaking his head and taking the message the boy still held in one hesitant hand and running a sensitive fingertip across the seal to confirm that the message did, indeed, come from Tavis.

Camber glanced at the others and brought them into the link to share the contents of the message—first Joram and Jebediah, and then, after the slightest of hesitations, Niallan and Kai. Through Rhys's eyes they watched the parchment unfold, scanning the shakily penned lines with growing consternation.

I have learned by reliable means, that the regents plan to move against the Gabrilite and Michaeline establishments in the Lendour highlands. Baron Rhun and a sizable force are there now, and have been given orders to take retaliatory action for the election of Alister Cullen, though I do not have specific details. His Highness was so distraught by the possibility of the murder of these good holy men that he has taken some kind of fever that I do not know how to deal with. Please warn Archbishop Cullen to guard his Order and that of his esteemed predecessor, and then come and aid me. Prince Javan's life may depend upon your aid
.

The message was signed and sealed:
Tavis O'Neill
.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-F
OUR

They plundered the sanctuary of God, as though there was no avenger
.

—Psalms of Solomon 8:10

“Oh, my God!” Rhys murmured, lowering the parchment and glancing at Camber with a stricken expression.

His mind turned over the implications of the dreadful message he had just read, but already his hand was on the boy Bertrand's shoulder, guiding him back through the open door.

“Wait outside, please, son,” he said. “I'll be with you in just a moment.” He closed the door and rested his forehead against the smooth wood for just an instant, then turned and came back toward the fire.

“I think we'd better have the wards back, Alister,” he whispered, kneeling by the fireplace and holding the parchment to the light to scan it a second time. “If the regents should find out that we know about this, and how, Tavis O'Neill's life won't be worth a damn.”