Camber the Heretic (68 page)

Tavis shrugged, relaxing a little. “All right.” He glanced at the other three, then back at Camber. “Any preference of subject?”

“How about Niallan?” Camber replied softly, a little reluctant to ask for a demonstration of this particular talent when they were not yet sure of Tavis, but knowing that he had to find out. He didn't think that Tavis would use it as a weapon against them now—he'd only used it on Rhys to prevent an inadvertent betrayal—but if he would, best to find out now.

What Tavis did not know was that the Portal behind him was still set to prevent departure, and that the entire chapel was warded from without. And he could not overpower the Deryni guards outside and make them lower the wards to allow his escape. Only Niallan's mental order could do that—which meant that Niallan had to be restored.

But all of this was but an instant's thought. As the Healer glanced at the other bishop, Camber sensed that Tavis was trying to be open with him, that he did not want to have to play these sparring games, but was as wary as the rest of them. Niallan gave a lopsided smile and stepped out bravely from the other two, and Tavis glanced at Camber once again.

“No tricks?” he asked.

Camber shook his head. “I could ask the same of you, but there comes a point when we all have to trust one another. I've asked you to demonstrate on Niallan because he's never experienced it before. Would you rather someone else?”

Tavis flexed his fingers nervously, considering, glanced at Javan for reassurance, then shook his head and moved within reach of Niallan.

“I've only done this once before,” he murmured, starting to raise both arms toward Niallan's head, then dropping the left one, as though suddenly embarrassed by his missing hand. “My last subject was drugged, too. I'll try not to hurt you.”

“Go ahead,” Niallan whispered, outwardly composed, but unable to suppress a flinch as Tavis's hand touched his forehead.

Nothing outward happened, but suddenly Niallan gasped and drew back a step, eyelids fluttering in shock, reeling a little dizzily as Joram and Jebediah quickly caught him under the elbows and gave him support.

“Christ, he did it!” was all Niallan could murmur, absolutely astonished as Tavis backed off and waited, uneasy, and Camber glanced at the others.

Gone?
he sent to Joram and Jebediah.

Joram nodded minutely.
As clean as you could want
.

“Good,” Camber said aloud. “Now, remove the block, please, Tavis.”

“Very well.”

Again Tavis moved in to touch Niallan's forehead, his expression far calmer at the second approach. In the space of Camber's blink, Niallan was restored. His wide, relieved grin was all the confirmation Camber needed.

That left only the question of whether Tavis could truly be trusted in matters they did not know about. They talked; and as Tavis related what he had observed of the regents and the bishops during the past week, he seemed sincere, but he also seemed anxious—far more anxious than he really had a right to be.

This alarmed Camber, for at first he feared that the nervousness might herald some hitherto unsuspected deception. As they continued to talk, he extended delicate and subtle probes to try to detect what it could be. Finally, he realized that something else underlay what was happening: Tavis had always been aloof, even before his injury, but now he seemed to be making clumsy attempts to open and reach out.

Amazed and relieved, Camber tried to maintain patience, to encourage, to let Tavis take it at his own speed, now that he suspected what the younger man was about. During an appropriate lull in the conversation, he had the other three Deryni take Javan aside, across the chapel, ostensibly for Jebediah to brief the prince on military theory but, in fact, to give Camber and Tavis some semblance of privacy. Tavis was still awkward and somewhat ill at ease, but he seemed grateful.

“You know that there's something else, don't you, Your Grace?” The Healer folded his arms uneasily across his chest so that his empty cuff was hidden. “I don't know how to ask—no, not to ask, but to offer—damn, I don't know what I mean to say!”

“For a beginning, why don't you try calling me Alister,” Camber said gently. “I find titles can sometimes be a hindrance, when one wishes to address a friend.”

“But, you're an archbishop—” Tavis began.

“No, you yourself have told me that there are no bishops in this chapel,” Camber said with a smile. “The Council of Ramos has said so. However, there
are
priests here, regardless of the words of the new archbishop. If it helps, I can assure you that anything you wish to share with me will be held in the strictest of confidence—under the seal of the confessional, if you like.”

Tavis plucked at a fold of his sleeve with thumb and forefinger. “It isn't that. I trust you, as far as that's concerned.”

“But not where other things are concerned?” Camber said gently. “If you don't, I'll understand. These things take time.”

“No, I think I do trust you in that.” Tavis looked up at Camber squarely. “I was wrong about you—about all of you. So was Javan. Rhys never lied when he told me we were all fighting on the same side, but I wouldn't believe him until it was almost too late—and it
was
too late for Rhys.” He paused to swallow and gather his courage again. “God knows, I've paid for my arrogance and petty suspicions, and made others pay, but I think I really can help now, instead of hinder. I
want
to help; I just don't know how—Alister.…”

Slowly, so as not to break the growing rapport, Camber stood away from the altar rail and took a careful step toward Tavis, another, until he was less than an armspan away. Tavis stood, fearful, expectant, yet not retreating. It appeared that the Healer sensed what should come next, but he could not seem to bring himself to initiate it.

With a slow, deliberate blink, Camber purposely stepped-down a little of the rapport—and the tension—allowing a ghost of a smile to curve his lips.

“I'm afraid I have you at a slight disadvantage, Tavis. We Michaelines are trained in the old rituals, the formulae for contacts, as are Gabrilites, and we sometimes assume, erroneously, that all others of high training are, too. But your Healer's training wasn't Gabrilite, was it? And it certainly wasn't Michaeline.”

Tavis shook his head sheepishly.

“Varnarite?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, that explains much. Their approach tends to be more pragmatic than philosophical—an acceptable variation on the art of Healing,” he added, at the beginnings of a defensive expression on Tavis's face, “but it often ignores some of the more subtle nuances which would be useful in a situation like this. Let's see, you would have learned the standard Healer's approaches, but not the secondaries. Correct? You see, after many years of working with Rhys, I am somewhat familiar with the terminology.”

Tavis allowed himself a slight nod, and Camber echoed it reassuringly.

“I thought as much. Give me just a moment, will you?”

Without waiting for Tavis's assent, he turned and went inside the altar rail, pausing to reverence the altar before removing one of the smaller candles from its holder. As he returned, he sent a quick command to Joram to keep the others back unless summoned. Then he was standing in front of Tavis once more, holding the unlighted candle in his left hand as he re-engaged Tavis's eyes.

“I'd like to show you an exercise that many Deryni children learn at a very early age,” he said softly. “Joram and Jebediah learned it from their fathers, and I suspect that Niallan learned it from his. I, on the other hand, did not learn it until I was a Michaeline novice. The point is, I suppose, that it's never too late to learn something new. Now, this could come under the category of a spell, but it's time you learned that there's nothing to fear in a name.” He held the candle a little closer to Tavis. “Put your hand over mine, so that we both hold the candle.”

Tavis hesitated for just an instant, then obeyed. His fingers were icy cold, but Camber did not move—simply let Tavis settle for a few seconds, take a few deep breaths which finally began to have an effect.

“Good,” Camber whispered, after a few more breaths. “Notice that
you
are the one who will be in control in this working. Your hand is over mine—I'm not holding you in any way. If at any time you begin to be afraid, or feel that you can't bear what we're sharing, feel free to withdraw as much as you need to. I won't be offended. I gather, from some of your reactions, that you've been hurt in the past, and God knows, I don't want to hurt you any more.”

Tavis swallowed. “How did you know that?”

“A good guess?” Camber smiled. “You
have
been hurt, though, haven't you? Perhaps in your training?”

“Yes. I was—”

“No need to dwell on it now,” Camber murmured, with a slight shake of his head, his voice lulling and soothing as he lifted his right hand to the same level as the other and turned it palm-out, toward Tavis. “We'll just see if we can't ease past that point. There's been more pain since then, too, hasn't there?” he continued, as Tavis's left arm began slowly rising in echo of his own—though he did not think the Healer was aware of that. “You've never resolved the loss, have you? Don't pull back!” he added sharply, but no louder, as Tavis became aware of his handless arm hovering beside Camber's and he drew it away in embarrassment.

“No, I can't—”

“Make the contact,” Camber whispered, glancing deliberately at the now-trembling forearm Tavis held clenched against his chest.

Tavis was sweating now, even though it was cold in the chapel at this hour. The Healer's hand on Camber's below the unlit candle gripped like a vise.

“Go ahead, Tavis. Make the contact,” Camber said again, gently. “Do you think I'll be disgusted? Do you think the beauty of your soul has been marred by the loss of a mere hand? Think what you still can do with what you have, Tavis. Why, you can do things with one hand and a stump that other men can't do with two good hands and all the armies in the land!”

He had felt Tavis cringe at the word “stump.” He was sorry, but denying its existence would not bring back what was lost. Tavis had to accept that. Camber almost held his breath as he stared into Tavis's eyes, desperately willing the Healer to loosen up. He could not help unless Tavis wanted to be helped.

Finally Tavis began to respond. His teeth were still clenched tightly in his jaws, the eyes fixed and staring, but now the arm moved jerkily toward Camber's hand. In the periphery of his vision, Camber could see the tension in the muscles of the lower forearm, where the sleeve fell away from the handless wrist, but he did not allow his gaze to waver from Tavis's unblinking eyes.

The movement seemed to take forever, but finally Tavis made the contact, shoving the stump of his wrist firmly against Camber's palm with a sob and closing his eyes. After a few seconds, the Healer was able to stop most of his trembling and look up again. Camber continued to gaze across at the other man mildly, in all acceptance.

“I know,” he whispered. “It was very difficult, wasn't it?”

He had let the fingers of his right hand cup lightly and naturally over the end of Tavis's wrist, supporting yet not confining, and he was encouraged by the perception that the Healer truly had stopped trembling. As Tavis gave a nod, breathing more easily now, and even beginning to relax a little, Camber allowed himself the ghost of an Alister smile.

“Are you feeling better?”

Tavis swallowed and nodded. “A little drained, but not nearly as frightened as before, God alone knows why. Apprehensive, but not really—frightened.”

“Good,” Camber nodded approvingly, “because there's really nothing to be frightened of. You'll find, I suspect, that it doesn't feel a great deal different from Healing rapport, except, perhaps, for the fact that it's an equal sharing, rather than one person being in control. It may also seem more intense but that depends on you.” He raised a bushy Alister eyebrow. “So, do you think you're ready to learn a childhood spell now?”

“I think so.”

“Good. Let's take a few deep breaths, then, and center down as if you're preparing to do a Healing. That's right. And when you're ready,
if
you're ever ready—some people never are—you can close your eyes for better concentration. The idea is to let the link form slowly, just a little at a time, so that each new meshing can be examined and digested at your own pace, with you controlling the depth of interaction, but passively—letting it happen, letting it flow.”

As he spoke, he could see the Healer's eyelids beginning to flutter, the gaze becoming less intense, more dreamlike, and he knew that Tavis was shifting into his Healer's trance. The level of control was excellent.

“That's good,” he continued. “Just let yourself float with me, as far as you want to go. And when you're ready, the spell will go something like this:

“
Join hand and mind with mine, my friend. And let the light flare up between our hands when we are one. Let the light flare up between our hands when we are one
.

“It's all a mental set, of course,” he went on softly. “The words, of themselves, mean nothing. Their essence is what's important—that as our minds join, there will come a point when we are sufficiently in rapport to do useful work—and when that occurs, the light will flare between our hands, as an outward sign that that level has been reached. And it
will
happen.…”

Tavis was visibly nodding now, blinking very slowly, his breathing light and moderate. On one of the deep blinks, he did not open his eyes again. When Camber was certain that he was not going to, he closed his own eyes, beginning to reach out just a little across the bond of flesh to search for that other bond.