Cinhil lowered his eyes. "No," he whispered. "Because it could never be the same-I realize that now. If, in the beginning, I'd refused to go along, if I'd been steadfast-but, not now. I made my choice, even if it seemed like no choice at that time, and now I have to pay the consequences. One day, perhaps G.o.d will forgive me."

"You still insist that you sinned, by taking up your crown?"

"What else? You've seen my babes, Alister. You've seen that sad young woman who came to be my bride -I, whose only bride should have been the Church. Now, in my own poor, b.u.mbling way, I have to go on, and make the best of things for them, too, at least so far as that's possible. Perhaps one day my sons will learn to rule more wisely than I am likely to do, with this frail, flawed clay."

As he held out hands which trembled now, Camber sighed and laid an arm around Cinhil's shoulders. After a moment, Cinhil looked up again.

"Forgive me, Father. I didn't mean to bring my maudlin moods to this most happy of days for you. Perhaps you see why I need you near me."

"I shall try always to be near when you need me, Sire," Camber said. "When you call, be a.s.sured that I shall come as soon as I can. I could count no greater worldly honor than to serve my Lord and King."

"Thank you. I shall try not to let that service interfere with that other duty which we both owe to a higher Lord," Cinhil said, finally managing a smile. '"But I should go now and let you finish your preparations. You will wear the new vestments this morning, will you not?"

"If you wish it, Sire." Camber smiled. "I only hope I shan't outshine my brother bishops too much. Archbishop Anscom, I know, has access to the cathedral treasures, but poor Father Robert may be totally overshadowed."

"You need not worry for Robert Oriss," Cinhil returned smugly, pausing in the doorway.

"After all, the revival of the second archbishopric in Gwynedd is also a momentous occasion. I've already delivered a similar set of vestments to him."

"I see."

"Of course, they aren't the same as yours. You and he are very different men."

"I shan't argue with that."

"And frankly," Cinhil concluded, just before he disappeared behind the door, "I think it's just as well. I don't think I could cope with two of you, Alister."

"Bless you, Sire!" Camber chuckled as the door closed with a click.

He wondered what Cinhil would think if he ever found out there were two Alisters, at least after a fashion.

An hour later, on the stroke of Terce precisely, Camber squinted in the sunlight of the cathedral close and waited for his part of the procession to begin moving. To either side of him, Joram and Father Nathan stood respectful attendance, ready to escort him when the time came. He eased the weight of his new vestments on his shoulders and stifled a yawn as he watched the beginning of the procession start filing up the steps and into the church.

The voices of the cathedral choir, deep inside the reach of stone and gla.s.s and timber, were discernible only as a low, m.u.f.fled echo. Conversation in the close itself had ceased as the column started moving.

Cinhil had been right about the vestments, Camber decided, as he shifted from one foot to the other and tried not to appear as uncomfortable as he felt. The robes were heavy, and they were hot-and Camber did not even wear the great jeweled cope and miter yet. The heat of the day was still to come, with the sun burning in a cloudless sky. Already he could feel sweat forming beneath the heavy alb and chasuble.

With a stoic sigh, he turned inward to seek and find the controls which would lower his body temperature just slightly. He wondered how his human compatriot, Robert Oriss, was faring in the heat-Oriss, who had no recourse to Deryni disciplines.

Ahead of them, feet shuffled and the line began to move. Most of the other bishops of Gwynedd and the neighboring areas had come to attend the ceremony, many of whom Camber had just met for the first time today, as Alister as well as Camber: Niallan of Dha.s.sa, the traditionally neutral and essentially independent bishop who would be working closely with the new Archbishop of Rhemuth; young Dermot of Cashien, whose uncle had been bishop before him and was whispered to have been more in kinship than uncle to his brother's child; Ulliam of Nyford, head of the southernmost diocese, who must cope with the ruin left by Imre's abortive attempt to build yet a third capital in Ulliam's port city-and four of Gwynedd's six itinerant bishops, with no fixed sees, whose faces Camber was just beginning to a.s.sociate reliably with names: Davet and Kai and Eustace and Turlough.

All of the a.s.sisting prelates wore full pontificals, carried the stylized shepherds' staffs of their offices with the crooks turned inward, since they were in Anscom's jurisdiction.

And ahead of the bishops, just now disappearing through the vast double doors, were others of the procession in colorful array: candle bearers and crucifers, thurifers swinging fragrant censers on long golden chains; the ecclesiastical knights, Michaelines and others, in their mantles of azure and scarlet and gold; surpliced priests bearing the regalia which would be bestowed on the two bishops to be made.

Next came the mitered abbots of Gwynedd-Crevan Allyn of the Michaelines in his cloak of blue; Dom Emrys of the Order of Saint Gabriel, white-haired, white-robed shadow of a man, gliding wraithlike in the invisible mantle of his Deryniness; the masters of the Ordo Verbi Dei, the Brotherhood of Saint Joric, and a handful of others-and then the bishops.

Finally, it was Camber's turn, to climb slowly the worn cathedral steps and pa.s.s into the shade, Joram and Nathan catching up the edges of his chasuble as he walked, to follow two small boys who bore their golden candlesticks as though these were the most precious objects they had ever touched. Hands folded reverently before him, eyes downcast to minimize visual distractions, Camber stilled his mind and prayed for grace and guidance.

As they moved up the aisle, followed finally by Oriss and then by Anscom and his attendants, the strains of the introit reverberated joyously among the columns and arches and galleries: "Fidelis sermo, si quis episcopatum desiderat . . ." Faithful is the saying, If a man desire the office of bishop, he desireth a good work. A bishop then must be blameless ...

And from his favored place in the right of the choir, a restless King Cinhil watched and brooded, dreaming of days gone by, longing to be even the humblest part of that sacred company.

But on his head was a royal crown, and at his side stood a wife and queen, and all around was the panoply of a regal court-worldly glory, for him who would have preferred a homespun habit and a simple monkish cell.

He shifted impatiently as the bishops came into view, watching until one grizzled gray head stood out among the others, near the end. On him the king fastened his attention, studying the seamed, craggy face and wondering what really went on behind the pale, sea- ice eyes. As the bishops pa.s.sed him, to pause before the High Altar and genuflect before taking their places, he breathed a prayer of thanksgiving for his new-found friend and confidant. He bowed his head and knelt as Archbishop Anscom mounted the steps to the altar and began the Ma.s.s.

The liturgy progressed apace through the Gospel readings. Then, when the choir had sung the Veni Creator, invoking the presence of the Spirit upon those about to be consecrated, Robert Oriss and Alister Cullen stood before the throne of the Primate of All Gwynedd and were examined on their fitness for the offices they were about to a.s.sume: Would they be faithful and constant in proclaiming the Word of G.o.d? Would they sustain and protect the people of G.o.d and guide them in the ways of salvation?

Would they show compa.s.sion to the poor and to strangers and to all who were in need?

Would they seek out the sheep who had strayed, and gather them back into the fold?

Would they love with the charity of a father and a brother all those whom G.o.d placed in their care, even at the cost of their own mortal lives?

They would.

Laying their hands upon the cathedral's most sacred relics, they vowed to discharge to the end of their lives the office about to be pa.s.sed on to them by the imposition of hands.

Prostrating themselves before the High Altar in humility, as all priests had done from time immemorial before a.s.suming further holy orders, they prayed for the grace to keep their promises, while the archbishop and his clergy knelt and recited the traditional litany of saints.

Then, rising only long enough to move before the archbishop's throne, the two men knelt again, side by side, there to receive the sacramental imprint of prelacy, the apostolic laying on of hands, first by the archbishop, and then by all the other attending bishops.

With the open Gospel laid across their shoulders by two a.s.sisting bishops, they were sealed with holy chrism on head and hands, then invested with the symbols of their new offices: the Gospel, that they might teach; the ring of amethyst, as a seal of faithfulness with the Church they served; the miter, crown of earthly authority, but also weight upon the brow to remind that the t.i.tle of bishop derived not from his rank, but from his duty- for it was the part of a bishop to serve, rather than to rule.

And last, the crozier, the pastoral staff-sign of the Shepherd's office, to watch over and guard the flocks given them to govern in G.o.d's Name.

Following a Ma.s.s of Thanksgiving, the new bishops were led through the cathedral to bless the congregation for the first time, while the triumphant strains of the Te Deum reverberated among the vaulted arches.

Afterward, in the great hall of the castle, King Cinhil held a reception and feast for the new bishops and their brethren-as lavish a celebration as had yet been held during his reign. The event was not the glittering spectacle of the Festillic years. Cinhil instinctively shied away from any hint of that; and besides, the ways of worldly formality were still alien to him, and would always make him a little uncomfortable. Still, for Cinhil, it was festive.

Seating Bishop Cullen to his right, and Archbishops Oriss and Anscom to his left, on either side of his queen, Cinhil presided over a hall of all Gwynedd's highest clergy and baronage, drinking the health of his two new bishops and appearing almost happy, especially once his queen had retired and he was left to the company of his male friends.

Camber left for Grecotha the next morning-a long day's ride stretched out to three, because of the panoply in which a prince of the Church was expected to travel for the first entry into his new benefice. Cinhil had granted him an escort of a dozen knights, to guard him on his way, and these were augmented amply by a score of the archbishop's own crack household troops, who would stay on at Grecotha to become his own. In addition came a full staff of chaplains, clarks, and other servants who would a.s.sist the new master of Grecotha in setting his domain in order. Domestic servants had already been sent ahead, a week before, to reopen what served for a bishop's residence and to provision it for occupation.

The next weeks pa.s.sed quickly, as summer eased into autumn and the daylight hours diminished. The Diocese of Grecotha, one of the oldest in the Eleven Kingdoms, was centered in the heart of the great university town of the same name, and had been without a vicar for more than five years. As a consequence, its new bishop found himself much occupied with pastoral duties.

There were ecclesiastical courts to convene, confirmations to be administered, priests to ordain. He must make official visitations to every parish and abbey and school under his jurisdiction, to ascertain that all were in competent hands and running as they should, and take steps to correct, if they were not. He had also to perform the routine duties of any ordinary priest: daily celebration of Ma.s.s, administering of other sacraments-baptism, confession, marriage, extreme unction.

All of these, well-known to Alister but new and awesome to him, Camber performed, and learned much of himself and his fellow man in their performance. He found himself falling into bed at night to sleep a dreamless sleep, his physical strength continually sh.o.r.ed up by his Deryni abilities. He wondered how ordinary men functioned under the pressures of the job, with only their human resources to rely upon, and decided that it could only be through the gift of Divine grace. He marvelled, under the circ.u.mstances, that he was able to keep abreast of it at all.

And when Camber was not traveling, he was spending the bulk of his waking hours reviewing the administrative records of his diocese and directing his a.s.sistants in the setting up of a more efficient governing system. The office of Dean was reinstated almost immediately, the appointment going to a quiet but competent human priest named Father Willowen, who seemed singlehandedly to have stood between the diocese and total administrative collapse for the entire five years of the see's vacancy.

One of the most appalling discoveries which Camber made, and which was in no way Willowen's fault, was the deplorable state of the cathedral archives. To Camber, reared with a reverence for the written word which approached that of his religious faith, the state of neglect of these important records was inexcusable.

The fault, he soon discovered, was not a recent one. It lay with the confusion which had followed the separation of the famed Varnarite School from the cathedral chapter more than a century and a half ago, when the ultra-liberal Varnarites had taken their library- and, Camber suspected, a great part of the cathedral's -to new quarters in another part of the city. Never really properly reorganized since then, the present records showed glaring lapses, and infuriating juxtapositions of fiscal, canonical, and secular material. Some of the disorganization seemed almost methodical.

He turned Willowen and a handful of monks and clarks loose on the project, and order slowly began to emerge from bibliophilic chaos, Willowen was a martinet when it came to overseeing a task of this magnitude, and hounded his compatriots unmercifully if they did not work with enough speed or accuracy to please him. Oddly enough, no one seemed to resent Willowen's manner, perhaps realizing that he acted thus because he cared; and the work got done.

Camber took to spending time alone in the older archive sections himself, for his skill in ancient languages was useful in deciphering some of the more obscure entries buried on back shelves. One find which he did not share with Willowen and his monks was a very ancient cache of scrolls dating from long before the Varnarite separation, in a language which even Camber could read only with difficulty. He had no time to explore these in detail when he found them, but the few words and phrases which he had managed to scan during his initial examination were enough to convince him that no human should ever see these scrolls. One of them, of a somewhat later date than most of the others, seemed to tie in with some of the ancient records which he and Evaine had been studying while still in Caerrorie. In another, he had found mention of the Protocol of Orin!

But the Bishop of Grecotha dared not indulge these interests overmuch. Winter was fast approaching, and with winter would come the summons from Cinhil, commanding attendance at the capital. In light of that priority, all personal pursuits must pale, though he would try not to let that keep him from sending word to Evaine of his discovery.

And that was one thing he was able to do: to stay in relatively close touch with his children. Beginning with the first week after his arrival in Grecotha, he had been receiving regular fortnightly communications from the capital via Joram, whom Cinhil had decided was the ideal confidential messenger between himself and the new Grecotha bishop. Cinhil had perceived Joram as a dual-purpose messenger, able to transmit news of Alister's old Michaeline Order as well as missives from his king. Joram and Alister had been close, after all. Who more fitting?

Of course, Cinhil did not know that Joram also brought reports to and from Archbishop Anscom, in addition to his own astute observations on the state of Cinhil's progress; or that Evaine and Rhys, too, were tunneling royal intelligence to Camber in their own ways.

Cinhil knew only that Joram's return reports indicated considerable progress in the revival of Grecotha as a functioning arm of the ecclesiastical hierarchy and that Bishop Alister Cullen was proving as able a diocesan administrator as he had been of the powerful Michaeline Order. That boded well, in Cinhil's mind, that the said bishop would be able to do the same for a kingdom, come the first snows of whiter. Accordingly, he left Alister in peace through the summer and early autumn. Besides, Cinhil was busy getting his own life in order.

Grecotha was a time of personal ordering for Camber, as well, not only from the standpoint of learning to function as an ecclesiastical administrator, but as an experience in being alone. Of course, he was truly alone only rarely, but there was a loneliness nonetheless, for there was no one he could really talk to here in Grecotha.

Of all those who had come with him from Valoret and stayed, only Guaire had he known before-and the human Guaire was busily trying to find his own spiritual balance. As autumn approached, and the harvest was reaped and garnered, Guaire spent an increasing amount of time under the tutelage of the priests and brothers of the episcopal household, growing somewhat distant from Camber. He also began to make a point of chatting with each messenger who came to the Grecotha residence, especially those in orders, Deryni as well as human.

Camber first became aware of Guaire's growing Deryni attachments one day late in October. He was strolling with his breviary in the newly cleared gardens of the fortified manor house which served as bishop's residence, savoring the last dregs of sunlit autumn, when he noticed Guaire at the other end of the garden, in animated conversation with a short, wiry man in the habit of the Gabrilite Order. The man's back was to Camber, the peculiarly Gabrilite braid of reddish auburn hair hanging almost to his cinctured waist, as thick as a man's wrist. Camber thought he saw the green of a Healer's cloak behind the man's body. The man looked vaguely familiar, but there were several Gabrilites who were also Healers.

Curious, he started to go toward them, the better to discover why Guaire should be talking with a Gabrilite, when he realized that he did know the man -and that the man had known Camber MacRorie. The Gabrilite priest and Healer was Dom Queron Kinevan, Deryni like all members of his Order, and a particularly gifted one, at that-a Healer of minds and souls, as well as of bodies, acknowledged as a skilled retreat master. While he and Camber had not been intimates, still, Camber knew the man's abilities. It made him all the more curious as to why Queron was spending time with Guaire-Guaire, who was bright and pleasant, but hardly in Queron's cla.s.s. By their expressions and relaxed manner, this was not the first time they had talked thus.

Pausing in the lee of a leafless tree, Camber opened his breviary and pretended to read, reflecting on the possible reasons for Queron's presence in Grecotha. But even though something rang strange about the apparent relationship, he could hardly come out and ask Queron why he was talking to Guaire. Nor did he dare probe Guaire's mind for an answer, so long as Queron was present. He dared not risk the possibility that Queron might recognize his unique mental touch.

With a sigh, Camber closed his book and turned to make his way into another part of the garden, away from Guaire and Queron. He was probably being overly sensitive anyway.

The meeting was likely quite innocuous. Perhaps Queron had business with the canons of the Varnarite School, and Guaire, in the bright-polished zeal of a burgeoning religious vocation, had seized on the Gabrilite as a mentor. Perhaps he had even known Queron before.

Foolish for Camber to let himself become apprehensive over an incident which was probably as innocent as Guaire's new-found faith!

chapter eighteen.

Even the mystery which hath been hid from ages and from generations, but now is made manifest to his saints.

-Colossians 1:26 Camber never got a chance to follow up on Guaire's visitor, for it was only a few days later that the summons from Cinhil finally came.

Camber, comfortably perched on a stable gate in worn Michaeline riding leathers, had been watching the farrier put new shoes on a favorite dun mare. The ring of hammer on anvil had temporarily blunted his hearing, so he did not hear the two men approaching from the stable yard until Andrew the smith broke his rhythm to glance curiously up the stable aisle. Camber turned to see Guaire escorting a familiar blond figure in Michaeline blue. He jumped down from his perch as Joram approached to kiss the episcopal ring.

"Joram, it's good to see you!" he said, allowing one of Alister's infrequent grins of pleasure to crease his face. "I fear you've caught me playing truant from my duties. I should be preparing Sunday's homily, but instead I thought to watch Falainn shod and then slip away for an hour's ride. I'd ask you to join me, but I doubt you have any great desire to put backside to saddle again today."

Joram returned his father's grin, slipping easily into that relaxed facade which the two of them had built over the past months for the public side of their relationship. He was dressed almost identically to his father and superior, except that he also wore the st.u.r.dy Michaeline mantle, hood pushed back from his gleaming yellow hair. Though he must have ridden many miles to arrive so late in the day, he looked as he usually did: unruffled and composed, hardly a golden hair out of place.

"Your Grace is too observant, as usual," he murmured, bowing slightly in acknowledgment. "And I fear that someone else may have to deliver your homily on Sunday. The King's Grace requires your presence within the week."

"Within the week?" Camber glanced at Guaire, then back at Joram, who was pulling a sealed letter from the pouch slung across his chest.

"Aye. He's convening Winter Court early, since so much must be done-on the Feast of Saint Illtyd, six days from now." He handed across the letter with a formal bow. "With this he names Your Grace to his first officially const.i.tuted royal council, commanding you to make preparations to absent yourself from your present duties at least through Twelfth Night. The commission is countersigned by Archbishop Anscom, granting you leave to delegate such duties as you may to another during your absence."

With a raised eyebrow, Camber returned Joram's bow and broke the seal, but stopped short of opening the parchment as Joram produced a second letter, which he tapped against the fingers of his opposite hand to regain his listener's attention.

"It is also His Highness's pleasure," Joram continued with a sly grin, "to create a new office of chancellor in this, his kingdom. To said office, he likewise appoints Your Grace, charging you with duties specified in this warrant and certain others which he shall impart to you in person, when you reach Valoret." He handed the second letter to Camber and smiled smugly. "My Lord Chancellor, your warrant."

Jaw dropping in amazement, Camber took the letter and stared at the familiar seal for a moment, glanced at Joram speechlessly, then broke the seal and scanned the contents. As Joram had said, it was a warrant as Chancellor of Gwynedd, which amounted to primacy in the royal council which the first letter supposedly appointed. A hasty inspection of the first letter confirmed the summons to Valoret which Joram had already conveyed.

Camber sighed and began refolding the letters.

"Well, Andrew, it seems I'm not to have my ride this afternoon after all. In fact, you'll have to check with the constable to see what other horses need shoeing before the journey.

Guaire, is it at all possible that we could leave tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow? I doubt it, sir. The day after, certainly. Shall I inquire of the seneschal?"

"Do that, please. I'll need only a small escort: the household troops and perhaps one other clark besides yourself. Father Willowen will remain as provost during my absence.

You can tell him for me, if you will."

"Yes, Your Grace. Will you take supper with your curia this evening, then?"

"Yes. Please so inform them. And you can start packing and have the apartments next to mine made ready for Father Joram for tonight. We'll be up in Queen Sinead's Watch for the rest of the afternoon, if you need me-but try not to."

A few minutes later, Camber and Joram were high in the interior of the bishop's residence, climbing the last of the one hundred twenty-seven steps of the tower stair to enter a small, enclosed chamber. The aerie was lined with stone benches and partially screened from the elements by a timber roof and carved screens of alabaster in the windows. Camber had stopped to fetch a flagon of wine from his own apartments on the way up, and he set it on one of the benches as he stepped from the rampart walk into the chamber.

Joram glanced out at the vista of the city spread at their feet as he caught his breath.

"What did you call this place?"

"Queen Sinead's Watch. Are you familiar with the name?"

Joram nodded. "Queen to the first Aidan Haldane, who was the great-grandfather, several times removed, of our present king." He watched expectantly as his father poured wine into two cups and pa.s.sed one to him. "She's buried somewhere here in Grecotha, isn't she?"

"She is." Camber smiled. "You've remembered far more than most people. There's a legend that Sinead and Aidan were extremely devoted to each other and that when Aidan rode off to his last battle, as a very old man, his queen took refuge with the Bishop of Grecotha for safety, and would watch from his tower each day at dusk, praying for his safe return.

"These window s.p.a.ces were open in those days, and when Aidan's army finally came back one evening, bearing the body of their slain lord with them, Sinead was so distraught that she threw herself from these ramparts and fell to her death. Her grieving son named the tower in her memory, and had the windows filled in with this tracery so that such a thing could never happen again."

"Did that really happen?" Joram looked skeptical.

"It makes a good story, anyway." Camber smiled. He held his cup moodily before him and stared at its contents, then sighed.

"So, tell me how things progress, son. What's really behind this appointment as chancellor?"

Joram glanced at the doorway leading back to the ramparts, then at his father. "Is it safe to talk here?"

"We won't be disturbed. Was the chancellorship Cinhil's idea?"

"His and Anscom's, I think," Joram replied. "Anscom has been trying to ease the pressure from me and Rhys in the past few months, making himself increasingly available to spend time with Cinhil. He's worried, and so are we all, about the new men who have begun cultivating the king-many of them displaced n.o.bility of his great-grandfather's reign and their descendants, and most of them with definite anti-Deryni leanings. Anscom thought it would be a good idea if a few Deryni in positions of influence got appointed to high-enough offices to counteract some of what the human lords will undoubtedly try to do. You're one; and he's also convinced Cinhil that Jebediah should be retained as general in chief of the armies. Crevan Allyn has given his permission for the present, but it's almost inevitable that that will be but a temporary measure. There's bound to be a conflict of interests between royalists and Michaelines eventually."

Camber nodded. "That's so. However, it was a wise move for the present. And Cinhil-I take it he's well?"