Camber the Heretic (63 page)

Javan had gone rigid at Rhys's words.

“Tavis, is this true?”

Tavis, too, had gone very still as Rhys spoke. Slowly he reached out and touched Rhys's forehead, closing his eyes briefly. Again, Rhys guessed that he was being Truth-Read, even more deeply this time. He did not move under the other Healer's hand, only praying that Tavis would see and understand that he spoke the truth, for all their sakes. After a moment, Tavis withdrew and opened his eyes again, clasped his arms across his waist and shuddered violently.

“God, I wish he did lie,” Tavis muttered. “But he's right, Javan. If the regents aren't stopped now, there will be no stopping them later on. Rhys believes they mean to destroy every last Deryni they can find. Last night was not even the beginning. There have been more subtle moves long before this.”

“Well, can we stop them?” Javan asked.

Tavis shook his head. “I don't know how.”

“I do!” Rhys said. “At least I know how to try.”

“How?” Javan blurted, clipping off Rhys's last words in his urgency.

“Let me go and warn Alister,” Rhys pleaded, leaning forward in his chair. “The enthronement cannot be stopped, for that would accomplish the same thing the regents want. But it can be done in such a manner that the people will know the truth and the regents will not dare to oppose Alister openly. The bishops chose the noon Mass because it would be well attended. If they have advance warning, the situation can be turned to our advantage.”

Javan's lips had compressed in a thin, tight line as Rhys spoke.

“You ask a great deal, Rhys Thuryn. In effect, you ask me to betray my brother.”

“This would be no betrayal,” Rhys protested. “Alroy is not to blame. He has had poor counsel. If Alister is safely enthroned as Archbishop of Valoret and Primate of Gwynedd, he will be entitled to a seat on the regency council, and the other regents will be able to do nothing to stop it. Your father
wanted
him to be a regent—don't you remember how the others ousted him? Alister was your father's loyal chancellor. Do you think he will serve your brother any less well?”

“As he served them with magic?” Tavis interjected. “Rhys, I still want to know what really went on the night King Cinhil died.”

“You saw—” Rhys began.

Tavis shook his head vehemently. “No! I saw your memory of that night. I still know nothing of what it was I was watching, or why those things were done. If you can tell us that—”

“Well, why not just rip if from my mind?” Rhys lashed out, anger at their procrastination taking the better part of prudence. “Fill me full of some more of the drugs you swore to use only for Healing, and then wade right in! You'll probably find out what you want to know!”

He knew he had probably ruined whatever chance he might have had for mercy from the man who had already stripped him of his powers—but it was done now. Javan was staring at him as if he'd just witnessed some strange transmutation, and Tavis—Tavis's face was contorted in some unfathomable expression.

He consoled himself with the thought that at least if Tavis took him at his word and ripped his mind, he would probably never know what hit him—he had probably goaded the other Healer beyond all possibility of reasoned response—but Tavis surprised him. He could only guess that Tavis had been reading him all the while, and knew it was truth behind the words he spoke. Smoothly, as if nothing had happened, Tavis composed his face and turned to Javan, his manner taking on a certain brittle formality.

“My prince, before today I have misled you. Rhys speaks the truth. With your permission, I propose that we release him and permit him to go and warn the bishops.”

“Just like that?” Javan whispered.

“Precisely like that.”

At Javan's tight little nod, Tavis turned back to Rhys and reached out with his hand and stump. Warily Rhys sat back in the chair and allowed the other to touch him, forced himself to take a deep breath and let it out.

“I certainly hope you know how to put things back,” he murmured as he closed his eyes, doing the best he could, without the feedback of his Sight, to slip into relaxation.

Tavis's voice seemed to come from a long way away, just as a slightly heady sensation of falling threatened to overcome him.

“We're about to see, aren't we?”

Then, abruptly, his Sight was restored, at least to the level it had been before the blocking, still muddled by the drugs in his system. With an incredulous smile which grew to a grin, he opened his eyes to see Tavis drawing back, a little awed. Javan was watching with an expression which Rhys could only describe as amazed.

“Are you—all right?” the prince asked.

Nodding, Rhys sat forward and started to stand, then thought better of it and sank back into the chair. “I
have
felt better. We still haven't counteracted what I drank last night. Tavis, I don't suppose you were lying when you said all the antidote was gone, were you?”

“No, but I can make up some more. It won't counteract all the effects, though.”

“It will make things better than they are now. Do the best you can. How late is it getting, by the way?”

“Well past Terce,” Javan said, watching in fascination as Tavis began rummaging in his Healer's chest for appropriate vials. “Perhaps as late as eleven. I think Rhys Michael had been back from Mass and breakfasted some time before he came here.”

“But it isn't noon yet?”

Javan shook his head. “I'm sure it isn't.”

A period of silence descended, punctuated only by the clink of Tavis working with his drugs and potions. When he had finished, he handed the result to Rhys in a small cup. Rhys probed it as best he could, with his limited abilities, but realized he was just going to have to trust Tavis. After raising the cup to both of them in salute, he downed the contents in one enormous gulp, making a face as he held the cup out to Tavis again.

“God, that tastes awful. Couldn't you do any better than that?”

“Sorry, it's in water. Without sending out for more, the only wine we could have used wasn't really suitable. You sampled it last night, and told me so yourself.”

Rhys could feel the drugs already working their miracle of clearing his head, counteracting the fogginess in his mind, and the exhilaration of returning to near normal was sufficient to let him appreciate the wry humor of Tavis's remark.

“Pour me some water to chase this with, will you?” Rhys said, holding out the cup again.

Javan picked up a ewer and poured, filling it to the brim, then filled it again when Rhys drained the first one and held out the cup for more. Tavis merely sat down on the edge of the bed and watched the two of them, gradually pulling in his shields as Rhys's reached equilibrium and steadied. When Javan had put aside the ewer, he came closer to the chair where Rhys still sat massaging his forehead and trying to get himself together. As Rhys looked up, he had the distinct impression that the prince wanted to ask him something.

“Question, my prince?”

“Rhys, I—I'm sorry for what we put you through. But—damn it, you still haven't told us what happened that night!”

“I can't, Javan. I gave my word.”

“To whom?” Javan persisted. “To my father? If I'm never to know, what good did it all do? Will I never find out?”

Sympathetically, Rhys reached out and brushed his fingertips across the boy's forehead, was heartened to see that Javan did not flinch.

“Someday, perhaps. And if you do, I think it will all have been to the good—even last night and this morning.”

“But you can't tell me now?”

“No.”

With that, Rhys made another attempt to get out of the chair, this time with better success. The walls undulated a little until he got his equilibrium established, but the effect was definitely better than he had felt since he first was drugged the night before.

“All right, I'm at least ambulatory again, though I definitely have felt better. I'm going to need some help getting out of the castle, though. Tavis, can you come with me?”

“I can!” Javan volunteered.

Tavis shook his head. “No, I'll go. You're too recognizable. Besides, if there's fighting, I don't want you anywhere near it.”

“I agree,” Rhys nodded, bending carefully to pick up his Healer's mantle. But he was stopped by Tavis before he could put it on.

“I don't think I'd wear that, if I were you. Deryni in the cathedral this morning are going to be about as welcome as wolves among the sheep.”

Tavis opened a chest at the foot of Javan's bed and pulled out two heavy woolen cloaks, one black and one a deep royal blue. The blue one he tossed to Rhys before donning the black one himself. The cloaks only reached the knees of either man and were snug across the shoulders, but at least they were less conspicuous than Healer's green.

“Let's go, then,” Tavis said, moving toward the door. “Javan, you wait here. Or, if you must get closer, stay on the higher levels of the keep where it overlooks the cathedral close and stay well out of sight. If the regents ever get wind that you're involved in this, we all might as well give it up.”

Christmas at noon was hardly brighter than it had dawned. The snow fell more heavily, if anything, but that did not deter the faithful who came to observe the Feast of the Newborn King and to see their new archbishop enthroned. Word had spread quickly the previous day, and the hostility which had marked the aftermath of Jaffray's death a few months before seemed to have evolved to embarrassed acceptance, as if the election of another Deryni archbishop somehow was expiation for the murder of the one before. Besides, Alister Cullen had the reputation of being one of the most unassuming of his race, and had served fairly and faithfully as chancellor. And if King Cinhil had deemed it meet to have the Deryni bishop at his side all those years, then his counsel could hardly have been bad.

Inside the Cathedral of All Saints, the gloom of the weather outside was even more pronounced, for the church was old, and the windows high and few, most of them filled with glass of a darker, more opaque sort than was favored in more recent constructions. The contrast between this ancient church and the newer one at Rhemuth was evident. Even the candle sconces and candelabra, blazing with their scores of lights, could hardly dispel the shadows which huddled almost like living things in the aisles and far corners. The cathedral was packed with presences seen and perhaps unseen. The mystique of enthroning an archbishop had never been more evident.

The sanctuary, beyond the choir, was the sole oasis of real light in the building. There, before the high altar, on the wide dais which had seen the enthroning of kings as well as bishops, the man whom the world knew as Alister Cullen had been seated as Archbishop of Valoret and Primate of All Gwynedd but half an hour before. There, in the seat which had been Jaffray's and Anscom's, Camber had received the ring and miter from Archbishop Robert Oriss's consecrated hands, taken up the great primatial cross which was now emblematic of his rank, given it into the keeping of the ever-faithful Joram as the prayers continued.

There, seated on the throne, he had received the homage and allegiance of the nine other bishops who had supported him, still hoping, even to that moment, that at least a few of the others would have broken free of Hubert's domination and joined their brethren in obedience. But none had.

The rest of Christmas Mass had followed then, with Camber as principal celebrant and Oriss and Ailin to assist him. Through it all, a part of Camber had remained detached, worried, for Rhys still had not returned or sent word. Just before leaving his quarters for the cathedral, he had even tried to link with Joram and reach out to the Healer with his mind, to force a contact, if he could—but he had encountered nothing save a vague reassurance that Rhys was not dead. Could it be that Rhys had deliberately damped down his distinctive mental echo for some reason, perhaps so as not to interfere with whatever bond might exist between Tavis and Prince Javan?

But there was also the possibility that something was wrong—not as wrong as dead, but wrong, nonetheless. Under ordinary circumstances, Camber was sure Tavis was no match for Rhys, but who was to say that these were ordinary times?

Now Camber sat on the primatial throne once more while several assistant priests purified the Mass vessels and put them away and the monks of the chapter here at Valoret chanted the day's antiphon. Once the priests had finished at the altar, only his first primatial blessing and address to the faithful would remain. Gazing down the choir and into the nave, he could see the kneeling masses, upturned faces staring back with rapt attention, waiting for his words. All were poised, not even the usual shuffle of feet and coughs and whispers marring the stillness which underlined the monks' chant.

Joram brought the jewel-encrusted miter which had been removed for Mass, and Camber bent his head slightly so Joram could set it into place. The crozier of the archdiocese was already in his left hand—a marvelous piece of workmanship inlaid with gold and ivory and odd grey baroque pearls surrounding plaques of ivory painted with scenes from the lives of saints. The primatial cross on its heavy, gold-leafed staff Joram held, standing now by the right arm of the throne. Out of deference to shaky public tolerance for Deryni, Joram had donned a knee-length white surplice over a plain black cassock this morning, instead of his familiar Michaeline blue. A Michaeline archbishop was quite enough for one day.

Camber could see Jebediah quietly making his way up a side aisle, also anonymous in a cloak of deep grey rather than the possibly inflammatory Michaeline blue, a look of grim alarm on his handsome face. Camber glanced at Joram and saw that his son had seen Jebediah, too. But it would take Jeb several minutes to make his way to them without being obvious. What was wrong? Had the grand master received some news of Rhys? Camber longed to reach out with his mind, but he knew he dared not, across that distance. He would simply have to wait until Jebediah could get to him.