Saint Camber

  Camber caught at Anscom’s sleeve gently, then backed off a pace and let his alien identity begin to slip away.

  “What in—!”

  Anscom shrank against the wall beside the altar steps and stared, aghast, one hand groping with protective instinct for the pectoral cross which customarily lay on his breast. As he watched, his visitor’s face began to waver, mist, then to alter to features long loved and well remembered—features which Anscom had thought forever buried for many days now. His mouth moved several times before he could whisper the single word: “Camber!”

  Camber, his face wreathed momentarily in a nimbus of light, smiled a gentle smile and let himself sink to his knees on the prie-dieu as Anscom had originally directed.

  “Forgive me, old friend,” he murmured. “I know how difficult it must have been, and will be.”

  “But how—? You were dead! I saw you! I celebrated your Requiem!” Anscom shook his head and looked again, brushing a hand across his eyes as though to clear away a veil.

  “You will not like my explanation,” Camber replied. “And you will like it even less when I tell you that I must continue in what I am doing, and that I must enlist your aid. It was Alister who killed Ariella, and was killed—not I.”

  “But, you—”

  Sudden comprehension dawned on Anscom in that instant, and he collapsed to a seat on the altar step as though physically struck.

  “You’ve shape-changed with his body,” he finally managed to choke out. “You knew that your effectiveness was waning—you even talked with me about it, long before the battle—and you saw Cullen’s death as a chance to try again. Cullen was dead, after all—he was dead, wasn’t he?”

  An appalled look had flashed across Anscom’s face before he could hide it, but the thought was obvious. Instantly, Camber was on his knees beside the prelate, gray eyes locking with the frightened blue ones of Anscom.

  “Dear friend, dismiss it from your mind! Can you really conceive, even for a second, that I would murder a friend and colleague merely to ease my own difficulties?”

  Anscom looked away. “Murder is a very strong term,” he whispered. “Some, in your circumstances, might simply have chosen not to help a gravely wounded man. The effect would be the same.”

  There was a long silence before Camber breathed, “Am I that kind of man?”

  Anscom drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “I—think not. But, then, I would not have expected you to shape-change with a dead man, either.” He looked up. “Tell me what I want to hear, Camber—and pray God that it be the truth.”

  Tension grew as the two searched each other’s eyes. Finally, Camber sighed and let out a tiny smile.

  “I cannot fault you for your doubts, dear friend. Your conscience and your office demand them. But believe me when I say that I had no part in Alister Cullen’s death, directly or indirectly. He was dead when we found him. Joram can verify. He was with me throughout.”

  “Joram?”

  Anscom gave a relieved sigh and wiped a sleeve across his face, swallowing uncomfortably as he tried to make himself untense.

  “My God, Camber, you’re going to have to give me a few minutes to get used to this,” he said, half turning away and nervously rubbing his hands together as he thought out loud. “You shape-changed with Alister’s body, and you’ve been playing his part for—nearly two weeks, now.” He paused and glanced at Camber with a sickly expression on his face. “You ve been functioning as a priest, too, haven’t you?”

  Camber shook his head. “Technically, no. I’ve managed to avoid o’erstepping the bounds of my long-ago deacon’s vows. You needn’t worry on that account.”

  “But you’ve been playing the vicar general of the Michaelines. Do you mean to tell me that you’ve not once said Mass, or heard a confession, or anything else you’re not entitled to do as Camber MacRorie?”

  “So far. However …” Camber sighed. “I realized this evening, with some not-so-gentle prodding from my priestly son, that there’s no way I can keep up that particular sham after tomorrow, unless I have your help. Even I, as audacious as you probably think I am right now, would never dare to accept consecration as a bishop when I’m not even a proper priest.”

  Anscom stared at him for several seconds without saying anything, as if trying to pierce beyond the veil of Deryni complexity to the real man beyond, then lowered his eyes.

  “Then you’ve come to me for ordination?”

  “Yes. And it must be now, tonight. I’ll accept any penance you like for what I’ve done up to this point; and perhaps I’ve been too bold in wanting the best for Gwynedd at whatever the price. But I’m willing to risk that for this land. I had a son, Anscom—and Cathan was not the only one to suffer under Imre, God knows.

  “But that’s past now. Will you do it, Anscom? Will you ordain me?”

  “Camber …”

  Anscom’s voice trailed off as he glanced at the crucifix above the altar.

  “Camber, have you thought about what it really means, what you’re asking? It’s forever, you know—once it’s done.”

  “I had always intended to become a priest, even as a child. You know that. If both my brothers hadn’t died when they did, I would have remained in the seminary, and you and I would have been ordained at about the same time. By now, and I say this in all modesty, I probably would have been a bishop, too. Who knows? I might even have had your job.”

  He gestured fancifully toward the archbishop’s signet on Anscom’s hand, and Anscom held out that hand to glance at the violet stone. The old blue eyes shone as he looked up again.

  “You might, at that,” he whispered, lips curving in a reluctant smile. “You would have made one hell of a bishop.”

  “I hope I will,” Camber murmured. “With your blessing, at least I have a chance.”

  Anscom turned away, not really seeing anything as he fingered the embroidered end of his stole. Then he studied the amethyst on his hand for a long time. When he raised his head, it was to let his eyes meet Camber’s squarely. Much of the archbishop’s old twinkle was back in his voice as he got determinedly to his feet.

  “You drive a hard bargain, Camber. But, very well. I’ll ordain you.”

  Camber let out an enormous sigh of relief.

  “I don’t intend to make it easy for you, though.”

  “I would be disappointed if you did.”

  “Good. We understand each other, then. It will take me an hour or so to prepare. I assume, from what you’ve said, that at least Joram knows your true status?”

  “Joram is waiting for your instructions. Also Evaine and Rhys. No one else knows about me.”

  Anscom nodded. “A small band of witnesses. You deserve better. However, under the circumstances, I suppose that quality will answer for quantity.” He paused. “I don’t suppose there’s anything else you haven’t told me, is there? I’ve had enough surprises for one night.”

  “Just one.” Camber smiled.

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “It’s a matter of names,” Camber added quickly. “Perhaps it won’t seem important to you, but I’d like to be ordained under my old name in religion.”

  “Kyriell? I see nothing wrong with that. You’ve often used it as a second name, haven’t you? Besides, no one will know except the two of us and your children.”

  “I’d also like to add that name to Alister’s, when I’m consecrated bishop,” Camber replied. “That is my right, isn’t it, to take an additional name upon assuming my new office?”

  Anscom raised an eyebrow. “Are you certain you want that name associated with Alister’s? What if people start adding things up?”

  “What is there to add?” Camber countered. “You can say something about it being Alister’s gesture of remembrance for an old friend.”

  “And suppose that isn’t enough?”

  Camber shrugged. “As a priest and bishop, guarding the secrets of the confessional, I’ll have immunity from su
bmitting to a Truth-Read unless you, as archbishop, require it. Apart from that, there is no way anyone can prove I’m not Alister Cullen.”

  “So you hope,” Anscom muttered. “Very well, I’ll do it, since you insist.”

  He moved into the doorway and stood silhouetted against the candlelight in the outer chamber. His sleeping robe and rumpled hair contrasted sharply with the determination on his face.

  “One last thing, and then I’ll leave you to wrestle with your conscience while I make preparations. Since you’ve obviously thought all of this through, do you have any preference for where we hold this ceremony? I obviously can’t ordain you in the cathedral, as should be done.”

  Camber cocked his head in thought, then nodded.

  “Yes, the chapel in the Michaeline stronghold, where we first acknowledged Cinhil as the lawful heir. I think it’s fitting, don’t you?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  For every high priest taken from among men is ordained for men in things pertaining to God, that he may offer both gifts and sacrifices for sins.

  —Hebrews 5:1

  Two hours later, the chapel of the Michaeline stronghold was ready. Abandoned and arcanely sealed since Cinhil’s restoration the year before, it had been hastily cleaned and prepared by Rhys and Evaine in the hour just past, under Joram’s relieved supervision. Camber, central figure in the drama which would shortly unfold, had seen neither the chapel nor his children. As Anscom had promised, things were not going to be made deliberately easy.

  Camber himself now waited in a small anteroom near that chapel, striding back and forth restlessly, as he had for nearly the past hour. Cold permeated the little chamber, for though enough dust had been cleared that he might dress and wait in reasonable cleanliness, no one had taken the time to light a fire. A single rushlight glowed yellow on the table where his vestments had been laid out, but it provided scant warmth to the icy hands which Camber held over it. Though Camber knew that the cold he felt was not entirely from the temperature, still he was human enough to be uncomfortable because of it—and Deryni enough to be annoyed that his best efforts were not enabling him to fully control his body and its apprehensions.

  He had tried to isolate the cause for his apprehension, but rational thinking, he suspected, was not the answer in this case. He wondered whether every candidate for the priestly initiation grew so anxious as his time approached.

  He felt he was prepared, God knew, not only in his soul, with which he had already wrestled, but in the mechanics of the rite which he was about to undergo. His Deryni learning ability at least had not failed him in the latter, and he had the memories of Alister’s long-ago ordination to draw upon, as well.

  In the hour which had preceded his arrival here at the Michaeline stronghold, he had watched Anscom pore over the standard ritual of ordination and shake his head, then produce a copy of an alternate rite which he assured Camber was of far more ancient origin, and much better fitted to a Deryni, such as Camber, about to be priested.

  Camber had spent the next hour in deep Deryni meditation, committing to memory every nuance of word and gesture and knowing that, even in his understanding of the words and the significance of the movements, there was much which simply would not occur to him until he experienced the rite.

  He glanced down at the white alb skimming his body from neck to floor, from shoulder to wrist; at the deep blue Michaeline stole laid over his left shoulder, baldric-style, and secured at his waist by the cincture of white linen cord.

  How long had it been since he had assumed the deacon’s stole of his own accord? Had it really been as long as forty years?

  Fingering the silk of the stole meditatively, he turned toward the table where the rushlight burned. There lay the snow-white chasuble with which he would be vested as part of his ordination, the most significant outward sign of the priesthood. Beside it was the unlighted taper he would carry into the chapel to begin the rite—a pure offering with which to approach the altar of God.

  A gentle rap on the door brought his head up with a start.

  Was it time already?

  Joram slipped in quietly, a candle in his hand illuminating an expression somewhere between awe and guarded joy. Almost involuntarily, Camber moved toward him, not taking his eyes from his son’s face, until they stood an arm’s length apart, father and son staring at each other as though truly seeing for the first time.

  A shiver swept through Camber, in recognition of the soon-to-be-shared bond between them; and Joram, mistaking that slight shudder for apprehension, put aside his candle and flung his arms around his father, disregarding all else in the sheer closeness of the moment.

  Camber hugged his son, stroking the golden head as he had when Joram was a boy. He caught a prickle of Joram’s concern as he drew back and held him at arm’s length.

  “I’m not afraid, son,” he said, searching the younger man’s face as though to memorize every detail anew. “Really, I’m not. Did you think I was?”

  Joram shook his head proudly, tears starting to well in the pale gray eyes despite his best efforts to the contrary. “No, sir. I just—felt like hugging you—Brother.”

  Camber smiled and began straightening his garments. “Brother. What a wonderful word, the way you say it.” He glanced fondly at Joram. “I think that may be an even greater honor than having been your father.”

  Joram bowed his head, forcing the tears back, then looked up and smiled broadly.

  “Come along—Father. ’Tis time to give a second meaning to that title.”

  Proudly, then, and without further words, he took up the folded chasuble and laid it across his father’s arm, lit the taper and put it in the hand of the candidate for priesthood. Together, they started toward the chapel.

  The little chapel was ablaze with light—candlelight, not the less-expensive fire of rushes. The tiny, faceted chamber gleamed gold and stony silver-gray, thick yellow tapers burning in sconces on each of the eight arching walls. Six more candles glowed on the altar, three to a side, illuminating the rood on the eastern wall. Additional candles stood unlit in freestanding holders at the four quarters of the chamber: at the back of the altar, against each of the side walls, and beside the door. These alone bespoke the difference of this ordination from the customary.

  All of this Camber absorbed in an instant, to be filed in memory only as a setting. For it was the occupants who captured his attention from the start—three whose stature somehow made the chapel seem far smaller than he remembered.

  Archbishop Anscom dominated the room, standing to the left of the altar in the full resplendence of his episcopal vestments, his face set and unreadable. Rhys and Evaine waited at the right side of the Kheldish carpet before the altar steps, each cloaked in a borrowed Michaeline mantle, Evaine’s golden hair spilling from beneath her hood to reach nearly to her waist on either side. The two of them smiled solemn welcome as Camber and Joram entered.

  Joram closed the door and laid the great bar across its supports as Anscom came down the three altar steps and beckoned Camber toward the jewel-toned carpet. When Camber had knelt to kiss the archbishop’s ring, Anscom raised him up.

  “Be at ease while we set the wards, my friend. Since you and yours originated this particular warding, you know what’s involved. Your children insisted upon using it.”

  Camber controlled a smile as he straightened from his bow, remembering the last time they had set such wards in this chamber. That night, they had hoped to give Deryni powers to a priestly prince; tonight, it was a Deryni to whom they planned to give priestly authority. The parallel both cheered and awed him.

  He stood straight and let his head tilt back slightly, half closing his eyes, the better to isolate outside distractions. He could feel the warmth of the taper in his right hand, the different warmth of the chasuble across his left arm. Beside him, Joram bowed to the archbishop and then ascended the altar steps. To his right and behind him, Rhys and Evaine stood with eyes closed and minds stilled. He was a
ware of Anscom’s quickened breathing to his left as he turned his thoughts inward in preparation.

  After a moment, Evaine moved from behind him to kneel at the bottom of the altar steps, as Joram bent to kiss the altar stone. Then the young priest held aloft an unlighted taper with his left hand—passed a graceful right hand over the virgin wick.

  Fire flared, and Joram turned to invite Evaine to join him.

  Now came the time for true concentration. For, as Evaine mounted the altar steps to take the taper and light the great eastern candle, they must all begin pouring their respective energies into the wards which were being formed.

  The eastern candle caught and steadied, and Evaine turned to make her way down the steps and toward the candle on his right, shielding the flame with her hand as she walked.

  Closing his eyes, Camber let his mind begin working on the construction of the wards, sensing now, rather than seeing, the concentration of energy around them as Evaine lit the candle to his right and continued on behind him. He could hear the gentle hiss of incense being spooned into an already smoking thurible—let himself become immersed in the words which Joram spoke as he censed the altar.

  “Incensum istud a te benedictum …” May this incense, blessed by Thee, ascend to Thee, O Lord. “Et descendat super nos praesidium tuam.” And may Thy protection descend upon us …

  Evaine had lit the last candle on the left, and Camber could hear her moving back to the altar. A pause, and then the sound of the thurible swinging on its chains again as Joram censed his sister and then turned to the right to begin retracing her steps. Evaine returned to stand behind her father as Joram’s voice floated in the stillness.

  “Terribilis est locus iste: hic domus Dei est, et porta caeli …” Terrible is this place: it is the house of God, and the gate of Heaven; and it shall be called the court of God …

  Joram finished censing the circle, and now censed all inside it with the sweet smoke which spiraled from the thurible. He replaced it beside the altar, then returned to stand at Camber’s right, as Rhys moved to the Healer’s place, directly before him.