She thought she understood the urgency with which her father bade Rhys come. From what her husband had told her, Camber’s assumption of Alister Cullen’s form and memories had been extremely arduous, especially after the stresses and fatigues of an all-day physical battle. Her brief conversation with Joram, just after his arrival, had also hinted at other measures which their father had had to employ in resolving all the details of Ariella’s death. Even Joram and Rhys, younger by thirty years than her father, had not yet fully recovered from the experience of that day and night—and Camber was not yet finished.
According to Joram, their father had yet to complete the process he had started in the clearing there at Iomaire, for he had not yet had a chance to assimilate the memories gleaned from the dead Alister’s mind Now those memories festered, a continuing drain on his strength—a process which would only stop with the facing and whole assumption of those memories, or with madness and death.
She shivered as she thought about that, and not because of physical cold. She knew that Camber had the ability to do what must be done, and she even suspected she knew where he had gotten the knowledge, though she had never seen it herself. He had mentioned, in passing, certain scrolls he had which purported to give guidance in many varied and difficult arcane procedures, not the least of which had been the abortive scrying experiment which they had attempted only weeks before. If these scrolls were the source of his knowledge—and she thought she knew where he kept them hidden—then she ought to read them before she tried to help him.
She would not wait for Rhys to come back. She need not waste precious time. Leaving the window seat, she padded over to the canopied bed and climbed up on it, kicking aside the rumpled pillows so that she could lift the heavy tapestry hanging at the head and wriggle underneath. Not bothering with light, she ran her hands across the bare rock until she found what she was looking for, mentally articulating a series of syllables highly unlikely to be combined at random. After only a second’s hesitation, a portion of the rock hinged aside.
The wood-lined cupboard behind contained half a dozen carefully rolled scrolls, each wrapped in an oiled-leather casing and bound with silken cords. Sweeping the scrolls into her arms, Evaine brought them out from under the tapestry and let them fall in a heap on the rumpled bedclothes, staggering a little as she struggled out from under the heavy hanging. As she sank down on the bed, tucking her robe around her bare feet, she took up the first of the scrolls and untied its cords, absently flaring to life a rack of candles in a standard by the bed. She held the ancient parchment to the light to scan the opening lines.
It seemed like hardly an hour before Rhys returned. Throwing off his cloak, he leaned over to kiss her and then sat beside her on the bed. The bedclothes were littered with scrolls and wrappings and partially unrolled manuscripts. Two of the scrolls had not yet been opened.
“What are those?” Rhys asked, glancing at the sight in dismay.
Evaine put aside the one she had been reading and sighed. “I don’t think they’re the right ones, Rhys. I haven’t gotten to the last two yet, but these first ones are just the Pargan Howiccan manuscripts—valuable from an artistic standpoint, but they can’t be the ones Father meant us to see.”
“Where did you find them?” Rhys asked, with an easy grin coming across his face.
“Well, obviously not in the right place,” she replied with a chuckle, “though, by your expression, you know where I should have looked. These were behind the arras. I thought all his important documents were here.” She gestured toward the tapestry and leaned against the headboard with a sigh.
Rhys said nothing—merely smiled and leaned forward to touch one fingertip to her nose. Then, with a gesture for her to follow him, he went into the dressing chamber adjoining the room and began pulling a trunk from behind several layers of clothes on wooden pegs. With Evaine’s help, he turned the trunk on its side and laid his hands on the two front corners near the feet. There was a tiny click as part of the bottom of the trunk dropped slightly, revealing a crack.
As Rhys widened the crack with his fingertips, they could see the ends of four scrolls, yellowed with age. Evaine caught her breath as the panel slid back the rest of the way, revealing most of the length of all four scrolls.
“Did he say which one we want?” Evaine breathed, reaching out a hesitant finger to touch a cord of vermilion binding one of them.
The cords on the others were black, green, and golden yellow, and it was to the last of these that Rhys pointed.
“It’s this one. He also said that we were, under no circumstances, to read the other three. He wouldn’t say why, but he did mention that the scrying information is in one of them, and that even he doesn’t feel qualified to cope with some of the information that’s in the other two.”
Evaine touched the green cord, the black, then looked up at her husband wistfully. “The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil?”
“Your name is close, but it isn’t Eve,” he said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“True.” She took the yellow-bound scroll and cradled it delicately against her breast. “Close up the rest, then, so we won’t be tempted. If he kept this one in with those, I have a feeling we’ll have sufficient to keep us quite busy without asking for trouble.”
With a grin, Rhys slid the panel back into place and resealed the trunk. When he had replaced it and rearranged all the way it was before, he returned to the main chamber. Only the yellow-bound scroll lay on the bed now. He sat on the edge and pulled off his boots and doublet, picking up the scroll as Evaine emerged from behind the arras and settled down beside him.
“Here, you open it,” he said, handing it to her and arranging the pillows against the head of the bed. “If something’s going to happen when we untie the cord, it’s probably safer if you do it.”
“If I do it?” Evaine’s hand, which had been about to untie the silken cord, froze in mid-motion. “Rhys, it’s only a scroll.”
“Probably. However, one can never tell, where Camber is concerned,” Rhys said respectfully.
She looked at him curiously for a moment, as though trying to decide whether he was serious, then could not control a grin.
“That’s true.”
She kissed him lightly on the mouth, then untied the yellow cord and laid it aside, settling back in the curve of his arm to unroll the parchment. The script was of an ancient form, black and authoritative, the language archaic. Evaine’s blue eyes skimmed across the first few lines, then skipped back to the top. She wondered how good Rhys was at reading ancient texts. Deciphering the material would be almost like translating.
“Let’s see. Herein is contained much knowledge with which a greedy man might lose his soul and wreak his will upon the weak. But for the prudent man, who loves and fears the gods, here is meat to help him grow, and drink to lift his spirits to the starry skies.
“Know, O my son, that what thou shalt read can slay as well as save. Therefore, be not tempted by the Evil One to use such blessings as thou shalt receive for thine own gain. All deeds, and all their consequences, come back threefold upon the doer. Therefore, do good, that thy bounty may increase.”
She glanced at Rhys. “A timely warning. Did you follow all that?”
“I understand the language. Some of my healing texts are from the same period. This scribe’s hand is a little difficult, though. Keep on reading, and I’ll try to follow along.”
“All right. Part the First, being a treatise upon the taking of a dead man’s shape, and the dangers therein. I guess that’s where Father got the idea.”
“And then combined it with the trading of shapes, as he did when Joram and I left Crinan and Wulpher with our shapes at Cathan’s funeral,” Rhys agreed. “What’s the second heading? Something about the minds of the dead?”
Evaine nodded. “Part the Second, being wise words upon the reading of the memories of the dead, and grievous dangers inherent for the unwary.”
Rhys
nodded. “He’s already done that, too. As nearly as I can tell, he drew out what he could and blocked off the information for later assimilation, since there wasn’t time to digest it then. And unless the integration of those memories is done correctly, he could go mad trying to keep track of which part is himself and which part is Alister.”
“That’s what this third section would indicate,” Evaine agreed, reading on. “Part the Third, being instruction upon the safe assimilation of another’s memories, with especial attention to the danger of madness, and how to avoid it.”
“So we need the last section in this scroll,” Rhys said, helping roll up the earlier portions as Evaine worked her way past the first two headings.
The third heading came up, an exact duplicate of the indexing lines. There followed several handspans’ worth of closely spaced script, in a much finer hand than the earlier lines. As Evaine bent closer to the writing, Rhys reached out and moved the candle sconce closer to the edge of the bed. He could feel Evaine relaxing and, at the same time, becoming more alert and aware, as she began reading the words of the text.
“The man sufficiently driven as to wish the memories of another is a man driven, indeed. But if there be no help for it, then one must do what is necessary to secure those memories at minimal cost to himself and those around him.
“But he must not delay overlong, for the trapped memories of another fester like a gnawing canker, and will soon destroy the holder, if he act not soon. He will be failing of energy, slow to heal physical hurts, susceptible to aching head and lethargy, all of which will increase as the pressure of alien memory grows. For this reason, it is the wise man who enlists assistance in his task, that he may call upon the strengths of others to augment his own failing ones.
“A Guide, a Healer, and a Guardian are the minimum who should assist him, and it is possible that two of these functions might be combined in the same person, though three are better, having threefold strength.”
Evaine stopped reading as a chill went through her, and she glanced at Rhys. He said nothing, but his arm around her shoulders tightened reassuringly and he smiled. With a resigned sigh, she continued.
“Now, the manner of accomplishing the assimilation of another’s memories is thus …”
They read long, well into the small hours of the morning, and when they had finished the section on memory assimilation, they skimmed the two previous sections to gain a better understanding of what Camber had done already. That information, added to what Rhys had learned in his own work with Camber, simply confirmed what Rhys and Joram had suspected almost from the beginning: that Camber was treading on dangerous ground, and must not delay any longer than was absolutely necessary to complete what he had started. Even if he later discarded the identity he had taken, the memories must be dealt with. They could not be thrown away. And whatever had remained of Alister Cullen, good or bad, noble or despicable, must be faced, mastered, and accepted—and soon. The symptoms were building. Camber had complained of a headache when Rhys had gone to him that night—something he would not have mentioned had he been able to handle it himself. And the Healer had been concerned for several days over Camber’s growing weariness.
They slept late the next morning, however, for if they were to assist Camber that night, there must be energy available to all of them; lack of sleep was not likely to do any of them any good. Consequently, it was nearly noon before they stirred. When Rhys had roused himself sufficiently to ask that food be brought, he was told that Father Joram had inquired after them several times already that morning.
Rhys thanked the servant who brought the food and took the tray, asking the man to find Joram and tell him that they could see him at his convenience. They had not eaten more than a few mouthfuls apiece before there came a knock at the door.
Rhys padded to the door, a joint of capon in hand, to find Joram waiting impatiently. The priest had a cloak over his arm, and was glancing about almost as if he had expected to be followed. He gave a sigh of relief as Rhys beckoned him inside.
“I was beginning to think you two were going to sleep forever,” he said, nodding nervously to Evaine as Rhys bolted the door behind them. “Do you know how late it is?”
“Approaching noon,” Evaine said. She rose to kiss her brother’s cheek, her lips dusty with bread crumbs. “Have some breakfast. You look like you could use it.”
“I couldn’t eat. What did you learn?”
Evaine sat down and picked up a drumstick, which she inspected carefully before taking a bite out of it. “Starving won’t help him, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said, around the bite of chicken. “If you don’t eat, I’m not going to tell you a thing.”
She saw Rhys’s ill-concealed grin as he sat down behind Joram, and lowered her eyes. Joram snorted in exasperation, the way he had used to do when they were children, then flounced into another chair and picked up a piece of cheese.
“All right, I’m eating,” he said, fingering the cheese with a nervous right hand. “What did you find out?”
“Eat your cheese.”
With a sigh, Joram took a bite and began chewing. Evaine smiled and wiped the fingers of her right hand on a linen napkin, then reached behind her on the floor and picked up the scroll which had so occupied her and Rhys. She laid it on the table beside the tray of food and began nonchalantly to pour a cup of ale for her brother.
“In that scroll is a treatise from something called the Protocol of Orin. It’s in three parts, the third of which is of immediate interest to us and to Father. Rhys and I read and studied that one last night and early this morning, then skimmed the other two. It’s not going to be easy, but we can do it.”
“Well, thank God for that,” Joram breathed. As he picked up the cup of ale Evaine had poured, he reached for another piece of cheese.
“However, we mustn’t delay,” she continued, pretending not to notice the appetite her brother had developed. “I can’t stress enough the importance of getting this memory assimilation out of the way as quickly as possible. Rhys says he’s showing all the beginning signs that the scroll warns about. I know there are various things that all of us are expected to do in the next few days, but what’s the absolute earliest we can all get together?”
Joram drank deeply, apparently unconcerned now, but Evaine knew that the seeming casualness was deceptive.
“Late tonight,” he said, holding out his cup for a refill, which Rhys poured. “And unfortunately, I don’t see how any of us can avoid our duties before that. Both of you should at least put in an appearance at the cathedral, as dutiful mourners, and I’ll have to be there all afternoon and evening. At least we’ve managed to get him temporarily suspended from having to exercise his office.”
“To avoid having to function as a priest?” Evaine asked.
“To avoid spending any more energy than he has to,” Joram amended, “though I see that the sacerdotal question bothers you, too. I haven’t even broached the subject of what he’s going to do about the priesthood yet. He may have to fake it a few times, for survival’s sake, but I don’t think he can live that kind of sham indefinitely. However, that’s not the issue here. I agree that we have to take care of the memory problem as soon as possible. What’s going to be involved?”
Evaine worried the peel off a section of orange and popped it into her mouth. “Rhys or I can give you details when we meet this evening, since I gather we’re pressed for time right now. There’s no particular advance preparation to worry about—no physical accoutrements or setup, unlike some of the things we’ve done. The main thing is that we not be disturbed, of course. And, then, we have to figure out a way to get me into the no-woman’s-land of the archbishop’s palace without arousing suspicion.”
“That I can solve,” Joram said with a smile. Setting down his cup, he reached beside him where he had dropped what both of them had assumed was merely a cloak. A cloak there was, its blue wool badged on the left shoulder with the crimson-and-silver Michaeline
insignia; but wrapped inside the cloak, so that it would have been undetectable to an outside observer, was a dark blue Michaeline habit, complete with hooded cowl and knotted scarlet cincture. As Joram pulled the habit from the folds of the cloak, he motioned for Evaine to stand up. She grinned as he held the habit up in front of her.
“So I’m to be a monk, eh, brother?” she asked, blue eyes twinkling merrily.
Joram shrugged, obviously pleased with himself. “Can you think of a better way to get you into no-woman’s-land? If you knot your hair tightly and keep the cowl well down over your face, I don’t think you’ll arouse a second glance. The cloak over it will help to disguise your shape.”
Evaine smiled as she sat down with the monkish robes in her lap.
“All right. What am I, a monk, doing in the vicar general’s quarters that late at night?”
“I’ll bring you,” Joram said. “If anyone asks, the vicar general asked to see you on a minor disciplinary matter. No one will question that. Besides, no one has any reason to suspect that something is going on.”
Rhys nodded thoughtfully. “It certainly sounds reasonable. And I can go there before the two of you, to check on the state of my patient’s health. Evaine, how long is this whole thing going to take?”
“That depends on how many memories he’s taken on. If Alister had been dead as long as you think he was, Joram, then Father couldn’t have gotten much and it shouldn’t take more than half an hour or so. If there were more memories than we think, then longer—perhaps two or three hours. I don’t think any of us can last longer than that, so we’d better hope that’s all there are.”
“And yet,” Rhys said, “the more memories he can tap, the better chance he has of pulling off the imposture. If he’s determined to do it, pray God he does it right.”