Camber of Culdi by Katherine Kurtz
And the curse—had Camber been right about that, too? Were the curses of a Deryni enemy no more than those of ordinary men? How could he trust the word of a Deryni on such matters? After all, they had tricked him before, these men called Deryni—although, he grudgingly had to concede, he supposed they had always acted in the best interests of the kingdom.
But what of his best interests? What of Cinhil? Did he not matter? Was he forever to be only their pawn, their ill-made tool, to be used as it pleased them, for purposes fathomable only to them? He was a man, with an immortal soul—a soul they had already grievously endangered, almost past redemption. When they took his priesthood away, they had—
No! He must not allow himself to pursue such reasoning, to wallow in self-pity and impotent rage. This was an old battle within him, and one which he had fought many times, finally nearing a workable resolution. He must not let the pureness of his plans be sullied by thoughts of anger and vengeance. His inner peace must stay a thing apart from all of this—apart from all taint of killing and of cursing and of Camber.
Swallowing resolutely, he turned his thoughts to the set prayers of the hour, occupying himself for the next little while with the comfort of the familiar words. When, at last, he raised his head and opened his eyes, he felt far more at peace—until his gaze fell on the bloodied edge of his sleeve. Abruptly, he froze, his healed hand beginning to tremble as he recalled the events surrounding it.
He had never gotten used to the healing which some Deryni could perform. It made him a little nervous, but also a little awed, despite his feelings about Deryni in general.
But he liked Rhys. Even the fact that Rhys had been one of those who took him from his monastery did not particularly prejudice him against the young Healer. There was something about him, and about the other Healers he had met since, which seemed somehow to set them apart from the rest of their race—as if their calling, even though sprung from Deryni origins, were somehow as divine as his own call to the priesthood.
He clenched his fist at that, noting in passing the absence of pain or other sign of his previous injury. Then he returned his attention to the bloodstain along the edge of his undersleeve. Standing, he shrugged out of the crimson outer robe with a grimace of distaste, letting it fall in a heap beside the prie-dieu as his fingers sought the fastenings of the under-robe as well.
But as he turned, his attention was diverted by a large, iron-bound chest at the foot of his bed. His breath caught for just an instant—and then, like a man in a dream, he was moving to stand beside it. His pulse rate quickened as he bent to let one hand rest lightly on its lid.
The chest—or, rather, its contents—had come to be his most cherished possession in recent months, though he dared not let anyone know that. Gathered clandestinely, sometimes at considerable risk of discovery, what lay within was an extension of that which had been forbidden to him: symbol of the life he had been ordered to abandon when he assumed the crown.
He would be gravely censured if anyone were to discover his intentions—and because of that, a little guilt nagged at the corners of his mind every time he opened the chest to add something else. But conscience mitigated that guilt to a great extent, for he was obeying a higher dictate than those which mere men might impose—even Deryni men. Nor would he be deterred from his final goal. He simply would be certain that no one found out.
Indulging a sense of secret joy, he dropped to his knees and touched hidden studs which would unlock the chest. His hands trembled as he raised the lid, and did not cease their trembling as he began to riffle through the contents.
The first layer was a distracter. He had planned it that way. He had thrown a little-used brown cloak on top of everything else so that a casual observer would be none the wiser—not that the chest was likely to be opened while anyone else was in the room.
But beneath the brown cloak lay the real treasures. He folded back the layer of brown wool to reveal a dazzling whiteness: priestly vestments, carefully gathered and hoarded and sometimes improvised—all there now, save the all-important chasuble, the outer garment worn to celebrate the Mass.
He ran his hands lovingly across the clean linen of amice and alb, the strong, well-woven cord of the cincture with its snowy tassels; brushed a reverent fingertip along the embroidery of a priestly stole before taking it out to clasp it longingly to his breast.
Someday, perhaps not too far away, he would wear these vestments and celebrate the Mass again, as he had not been permitted to do for a year and more. True, the vestments were not essential, for God would judge him by his heart, not his raiment. But the proper accoutrements were symbolic for him. He wanted his offering to be as pure, as perfect as he could make it.
He would not give up, on man’s word, that which God had decreed for him from birth. No mere archbishop’s formula could refute that. He was a priest forever, as the scripture said. What matter that he must be a king in public? In private, at least, he could be true to his vows and find his peace with God once more. He would be two men: King Cinhil and Father Benedict.
He reached out his free hand to fold back alb and amice, still clutching the stole to his breast with the other, and glanced approvingly at the clean linen cloths lying beneath. Those would be his altar cloths, his maniples, his purificators and burses and veils and corporals. How his heart soared as he savored the name of each loved item!
And under all, carefully wrapped and packed away, lay his chalice and paten—a goblet of gold and a small golden plate which he had appropriated from the royal treasury only a few weeks ago, on a day when one of the lesser household servants had been in charge, and had not thought to wonder why the king might want such riches for his quarters—this king who was ordinarily so frugal and austere about everything.
He smiled as his hand patted the layers of linen back into place, touching the stole reverently to his lips before laying it on top of everything else. There would be a time, soon, now …
He lost himself in dreamy recollection of how it once had been, in fervent anticipation of a restoration of that time, until a knock at the door brought him abruptly back to the present.
“Who is it?”
He closed the chest and locked it and stood, in one continuous, guilty motion.
“It’s Alister Cullen, Sire. May I speak with you?”
Cullen!
Cinhil gaped in dismay and glanced at the chest, almost considering whether the vicar general might be able to see through the strong wood of chest and door. Then he shook his head and smoothed his robe and moved quickly toward the door, knowing that even a Deryni could not do that.
He drew a deep, settling breath and wiped damp palms against his thighs before laying his hands on the door latch, letting out that breath and regaining control as he moved the bolt and peered through the opening he made.
“What is it, Father Cullen?”
“I was concerned about you, Sire. If you don’t mind, I’d like to come in and talk. If you do mind, I can come back later.”
Cinhil studied the older man’s face carefully, reading no guile in the craggy features. Of course, he could not Truth-Read a Deryni, as he might an ordinary man, but Cullen appeared to intend no more than he had asked.
With a shrug, Cinhil lowered his eyes and stepped back from the doorway. Cullen murmured his thanks and entered, waiting until Cinhil had closed the door before making a short, formal bow.
Cinhil clasped his hands behind him and began pacing the confines of the chamber.
“You need not worry about my mental state, Father,” he said after a moment of pacing. “As you can imagine, I was somewhat shaken by this afternoon’s events. If I seemed ungrateful, I apologize.”
“You did,” Cullen said, not moving from where he stood. “You gave Rhys a very hard time.”
“I realize that. I said I was sorry.”
The king moved into the embrasure of the northern window and put a foot up on one of the stone benches. Cullen moved with him, to lean casually
“You were rather short with Camber, too, don’t you think? He was only concerned with your welfare.”
“Was he?” Cinhil whispered. “Or was he merely concerned with the welfare of the new regime he’s created? He put me where I am today, Father. If he doesn’t like the way I do things, now that I’m here, he may just have to learn to live with it—as I have had to learn to live with my situation.”
“And have you learned to live with your situation, Cinhil?”
The vicar general’s voice was neutral in tone, but Cinhil froze for just an instant before turning his face away guiltily.
Could Cullen possibly know? Was the man reading his mind even now?
He swallowed and forced his thoughts to run along calmer lines. Of course Cullen was not reading his mind. He could not. With the powers and abilities which Cinhil had acquired from the Deryni, he was master of his own mind and of many other things. He knew that there was no way even for a Deryni to probe his thoughts without his knowledge and consent. There was no way that Cullen could know what he had been thinking.
He only half turned back, however, not willing to meet the vicar general’s eyes, even so.
“It has been lonely, Father. But I survive.”
“Only survive?”
“What more can I do?” He glanced at Cullen accusingly. “Your Deryni friends took from me what I loved most, giving the weight of a cold and heavy crown for the glow of my faith. Even those I thought I could trust betrayed me, in the end.”
“Betrayed you?”
“Camber is most to blame, with his high ideals and righteous posturings. And the archbishop—he forbade me my priesthood, lulling me to duty in the world outside my monastery. And Evaine—” He looked down at his feet and swallowed audibly. “Evaine, whom I thought to be my friend, someone who understood—she used the confidence I placed in her to make me vulnerable to Camber and his magics.
“So now I stand alone and aloof—for I dare not trust again—stripped of my priestly authority, living in sin with a woman forced upon me, father of sickly babes—whose deformities I deserve for my transgressions—”
His voice caught in a sob, and he bowed his head, fighting back bitter tears. He might have succeeded, had not Cullen come and laid sympathetic hands on his shoulders.
With that, Cinhil dissolved into desolate weeping for all the terrors of past, present, and future, abandoning conscious thought to his misery, finding but little comfort clasped against the shoulder of the vicar general. Finally, when tears were spent and coherent thought began to return, he pulled away from Cullen and drew a sleeve across red-rimmed eyes. The silence grew awkward as Cinhil tried to regain his emotional balance.
“I’m sorry,” he finally whispered. “I should be a better master of myself than that. For—for a moment, I almost felt that I could trust you.”
Cullen bowed his head briefly, then looked up at Cinhil again.
“I want to help you, Cinhil,” he said quietly. “I know this hasn’t been easy for you. If there were some way I could undo what has been done, without endangering the kingdom—”
“That’s the key, Father. You’ve said it yourself.” Cinhil’s tone was bitter. “‘Without endangering the kingdom.’ The kingdom comes before the king—oh, I know that. In a certain, detached sense, I can even agree—if it were some other king.” He sighed. “You’ll have to excuse me, Father. I’m sure you mean well, but …”
He let his voice trail off disconsolately, knowing that no matter how sympathetic Cullen was, he was still Deryni, and bound to the course set by Camber and the others. He ran his finger along the edge of the window casement and looked out at the rain, though he did not really see it.
“Was there anything else, Father? If not, I’d really like to be alone for a while, if you don’t mind.”
“Nothing that can’t wait until another time. Oh, there is one thing: Jebediah has called a final meeting of the war council in the morning, to finalize our battle strategies. He thinks, and I agree, that if you were there it might help morale. And try to be a bit more positive.”
“As if they really needed me,” Cinhil said whimsically. He turned to face Cullen. “What does an ex-priest know about fighting wars, Father? And even I, in my supreme ignorance, recognize the odds we face.”
“Things change,” Cullen said. “By then we may have additional information.”
The words themselves were innocent enough, but there was some spark of anticipation in Cullen’s tone which piqued Cinhil’s further interest. Cocking his head, he eyed the vicar general curiously.
“Are you expecting some change of circumstances?”
“Not expecting—but we have hopes, of course. Why do you ask?”
“I thought I heard—some note of …” He glanced down at the floor, considering what Cullen had said—and not said—and looked up again, shrewdly. “No matter. Perhaps it was my own wishful thinking. Despite myself, I do care, you know.”
“Sometimes thoughts are prayers.” Cullen smiled. “By the way, I do have one piece of news which may not have reached you yet. I received it myself only yesterday.”
“Yes?”
“As you will doubtless recall, the sees of Rhemuth and Grecotha have been vacant for some time now. Imre had declined to fill them, since he could not be assured of the election of candidates who would ignore his excesses. However, in keeping with your eventual plans to move the capital back to Rhemuth, Archbishop Anscom has decided to revive the Rhemuth archbishopric.”
Cinhil nodded. “I knew of that. Robert Oriss, the vicar general of my old Order, is to be raised to the purple.”
“A most deserving man,” Cullen agreed. “What you may not have heard is that Grecotha is to be revived as well, and that the archbishop and synod have elected me to fill that seat. I’ll be consecrated bishop with Robert in a few months’ time, as soon as all this war business is over.”
“You, Bishop of Grecotha!” Cinhil breathed. His initial glow of pleasure faded almost immediately to one of disappointment. “But that’s a long way from here, and days away from Rhemuth. Then I shall never see you.”
Cullen shrugged, a helpless gesture. “Even as Bishop of Grecotha, I expect to spend a certain amount of time in the capital, wherever that might be, Sire. But I appreciate your concern. I, too, have mixed emotions about the promotion, though for additional reasons. Certainly, I’ll enjoy returning to Grecotha—I was partially educated there, you know. And I welcome the challenge of setting the diocese in order again. But it will be a grave responsibility to have the cure of so many souls in my care. And, of course, it will mean giving up my Michaelines.”
“The Michaelines—that’s right. I’d forgotten. You can’t retain both offices, can you?”
“No, but perhaps my successor will be able to do better for them than I have done. It will take years to rebuild what we lost under Imre, even with the generous assistance you have given us.”
“You lost it for me,” Cinhil murmured. “Is there nothing more I can do to repay that debt?”
“Only pray for us,” Cullen said simply. “And pray for me, if you will—for strength to know and do God’s will in my new undertaking. I would value your prayers, Cinhil.”
Cinhil stared at the other man for a long moment, then smiled tentatively, almost shyly.
“It is I who would be privileged to pray for you, Father—or should I say ‘Your Grace’?”
“‘Father’ is always appropriate. Or ‘Alister,’ if you wish.”
“Nay, not ‘Alister.’ Not yet, at least. But a bishop,” Cinhil repeated. “You’re to be a bishop. What a wondrous thing!”
“Perhaps we can share a few of our mutual burdens, Sire,” Cullen said, touching Cinhil’s arm lightly as he turned to go. “You may tell me how it is to be a king, and I shall tell you how it is to be a bishop. At least that is not forbidden us.”
Cinhil watched almost reverently as
“Thank you for coming, Father.”
“Thank you for seeing me, Sire.” Cullen smiled.
When he was gone, Cinhil sank back on the cushions of the window seat and let out a sigh.
Cullen to be a bishop, and Bishop of Grecotha at that! And just now, when it had begun to look as if he were one Deryni who might be trusted. True, Grecotha was not that far away, but still …
Even so, to have one in so high a place in sympathy, even if he was Deryni—that could not help but be useful. Perhaps Cullen could even be persuaded to restore Cinhil’s priestly functions, after a time. Or Oriss, for that matter. As Archbishop of Rhemuth, he would be in an even better position than Cullen to permit a more suitable disposition of Cinhil’s priestly status, especially once the capital returned to Rhemuth. And Oriss was human.
True, Oriss had not known Cinhil while Cinhil was a monk under his rule. Oriss probably had never even heard of the Brother Benedict Cinhil had been before Joram and Rhys spirited him out of Saint Foillan’s Abbey.
Still, Oriss would be Archbishop of Rhemuth, second only to Anscom; and Cullen would be Bishop of Grecotha. Perhaps the day was not so far off as Cinhil had feared, when he might openly celebrate the Mass again!
He mused on that for a long time, dreaming of many yesterdays, then sat up with a start. The idea had flashed through his mind so suddenly that he could not even articulate it, dared not give mental substance to what was taking shape.
Quickly, before he could think about it too much and find a reasoned argument against, he scrambled to the bellpull beside his bed and rang for a servant. Sorle, his valet, appeared momentarily, breathless and anxious-looking.
“Sorle, please ask Father Alfred to join me,” he said, avoiding looking at the chest at the foot of his bed. “Tell him to bring parchment and ink. I have work for him.”