Katherine Kurtz - Camber 3 - Camber the Heretic

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Camber The Heretic
THE THEFT OF MAGIC
Camber drew back and watched Dom Queron blink and tense for just an instant in sheer, naked panic, then twist
around and stare at Rhys in undisguised horror. Emrys looked equally stunned, the only time Camber had ever seen
the abbot's composure shaken.
"Sweet Jesu, what have you done to me?" Queron cried, beginning to tremble as he realized just what Rhys had
done.
He clapped both hands to his temples and shook his head several times, unable to assimilate what he was
missing. Then he subsided weakly, as if he had no physical strength to cope with his helplessness. Instinctively,
Emrys gathered him into the circle of his arms, staring at Rhys in shocked disbelief.
"You took away his Deryni powers!" Emrys whispered, his tone both accusatory and awed. "One of the most
powerful Healers I have ever trained, and you made him—human! Blind!"
Also by Katherine Kurtz Available from Ballantine Books:
The Legends of Camber of Culdi
Volume I: Camber of Culdi
Volume II: Saint Camber
The Chronicles of the Deryni
Volume I: Deryni Rising
Volume II: Deryni Checkmate
Volume III: High Deryni
CAMBER THE HERETIC
Volume III in The Legends of Camber of Culdi
Katherine Kurtz
A Del Key Book BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK
A Del Rey Book
Published by Ballantine Books
Copyright © 1981 by Katherine Kurtz
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by
Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of
Canada, Limited, Toronto, Canada.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 81-66657 ISBN 0-345-27784-8
Manufactured in the United States of America First Ballantine Books Edition: November 1981 Cover art by Darrell K.
Sweet
For Sven Lugar and John Innis
contents
prologue
But ye are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, an holy nation, a peculiar people.
—I Peter 2:9
I For of the Most High cometh healing, and he shall receive honour of the king.
—Ecclesiasticus 38:2
II And in his estate shall stand up a vile person, to whom they shall not give the honour of the kingdom: but he
shall come in peaceably, and obtain the kingdom by flatteries.
—Daniel 11:21
III He that loveth his son causeth him oft to feel the rod, that he may have joy of
him in the end.
—Ecclesiasticus 30:1
IV Judge none blessed before his death: for a man shall be known in his children.
—Ecclesiasticus ll:28
V For the vision is yet for an appointed time, but at the end it shall speak, and not lie; though it may tarry, wait for it;
because it will surely come.
—Habakkuk 2:3
VI Neglect not the gift that is in thee, which was given thee by prophecy, with the laying on of the hands of the
presbytery.
—I Timothy 4:14
VII Or ever the silver cord be loosed . . . then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto
God who gave it.
—Ecclesiastes 12:6-7
VIII Now I say, that the heir, so long as he is a child, differeth nothing from a servant, though he be lord of all; but is
under tutors and governors until the time appointed by his father.
—Galatians 4:1-2
IX Woe unto thee, O land, when thy king is a child.
—Ecclesiastes 10:16
X But at present it is expedient for thee, and for thy house, to be grieved
.—III Hermas 7:12
XI Whom shall he teach knowledge? And whom shall he make to understand doctrine?
—Isaiah 28:9
XII Show new signs, and make other strange wonders.
—Ecclesiasticus 36:6
XIII Strangers conspired together against him, and maligned him in the wilderness.
—Ecclesiasticus 45:18
XIV And I will cut off witchcrafts out of thine hand.
—Micah 5:12
XV I will not be ashamed to defend a friend; neither will I hide myself from him.
—Ecclesiasticus 22:25
XVI For the elements were changed in them-selves by a kind of harmony.
—Wisdom of Solomon 19:18
XVII A faithful friend is a strong defense: and he that hath found such an one hath found a treasure.
—Ecclesiasticus 6:14
XVIII The voice of him that crieth in the wilderness, Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a
highway for our God.
—Isaiah 40:3
XIX There is no healing of thy bruise; thy wound is grievous.
—Nahum 3:19
XX Let us see if his words be true: and let us prove what shall happen in the end of him.
—Wisdom of Solomon 2:17
XXI An enemy speaketh sweetly with his lips, but in his heart he imagineth how to throw thee into a pit: he will weep
with his eyes, but if he find opportunity, he will not be satisfied with blood.
—Ecclesiasticus 12:16
XXII For the chief-priest has his proper services, and to the priests their proper place is appointed.
—I Clement 18:18
XXIII And they shall scoff at the kings, and the princes shall be a scorn unto them: they shall deride every
stronghold.
—Habakkuk 1:16
XXIV They plundered the sanctuary of God, as though there was no avenger.
—Psalms of Solomon 8:10
XXV In the day of our king the princes have made him sick with bottles of wine.
—Hosea 7:5
XXVI So they set a fair mitre upon his head, and clothed him with garments. And the angel of the Lord stood by.
—Zechariah 3:5
XXVII As for the illusions of art magick, they were put down, and their vaunting in wisdom was reproved with
disgrace.
—Wisdom of Solomon 17:7
XXVIII It is the part of a brave combatant to be wounded, yet overcome.
—Polycarp 1:14
XXIX But these two things shall come to thee in a moment in one day, the loss of children and widowhood: they shall
come upon thee in their perfection for the multitude of thy sorceries, and for the great abundance of thine
enchantments.
—Isaiah 47:9
XXX For there is hope of a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again, and that the tender branches thereof will not
cease. —Job 14:7.
EPILOGUE
And they that shall be of thee shall build the old waste places; thou shalt raise up the foundations of many
generations; and thou shalt be called, The repairer of the breach, The restorer of paths to dwell in.
—Isaiah 58:12
Appendices
Appendix I: Index of Characters
Appendix II: Index of Places
Appendix III: Partial Lineage of the Haldane Kings
Appendix IV: The Festillic Kings of Gwynedd and Their Descendants
Appendix V: Partial Lineage of the MacRories
[Camber the Heretic 00.jpg]
prologue
But ye are a chosen generation, a, royal priesthood, an holy nation, a
peculiar people.
—I Peter 2:9
The document was written in the tight, crabbed court hand of one of the
castle scribes, and covered an entire large sheet of creamy vellum. The man
reading it had thought it innocent enough at first glance—dull, routine
procedures for the running of yet another royal commission—but now, as he
scanned it a second time and began to catch the more subtle nuances of phrase
and intent, he looked up at his companions in amazement.
"Murdoch, I don't know what to say. This is brilliant— everything we could
have hoped for. He'll never sign it, though."
"He already has," Murdoch said in his thin, nasal voice, taking the document
and handing it to a third man. "I slipped it in among a stack of other routine
documents yesterday. This is only a copy."
The third man, who was also the youngest of them, glanced over the text
with hungry eyes that did not miss a thing, an oddly academic quirk in a man
so obviously a soldier in every other way. Big-boned, well-muscled, solid but not
fat, Baron Rhun of Horthness was a rising star in the army of Gwynedd at only
thirty-two. The sparse, wolfish grin now spreading slowly across his face was a
feature which had made friends and enemies alike refer to him as Rhun the
Ruthless.
"I assume that Cullen hasn't seen this," Rhun said, his tone clearly
confirming a fact rather than asking a question.
Murdoch nodded, steepling spiderlike fingers in a gesture mixed of
confidence and arrogance. "He hasn't, and he won't," he said. "As far as our
dear chancellor is concerned, the king's will remains exactly as we all witnessed
it last fall. And because this is not a change of the will, but only an alteration of
the guidelines for a potential regency council, there is no reason that he should
see it until after the king is dead and it cannot be changed. God grant that the
king's death may be painless, and soon," he added piously.
Rhun chuckled at that, a low, dangerous rumble, but the first man did not
even smile. As he glanced at Murdoch again, his expression was thoughtful.
"Tell me, does anyone know when Bishop Cullen will be returning?" he
asked.
"Too soon to suit me," Murdoch said. "The king sent Jebediah to fetch him
yesterday. Knowing the way our illustrious earl marshal rides, he should reach
Grecotha by tomorrow at the latest, even allowing for bad weather. That puts
Cullen back in Valoret well before the first of February. I had hoped he would
winter at Grecotha, but—" He shrugged, a surly twitch of the narrow shoulders.
"At least this will probably be the last time. The king can't last much longer."
"He's that ill, then?" asked the third man.
"I wasn't certain he would survive past Twelfth Night," Murdoch replied
coolly, "though the Healer Rhys seems to have kept body and soul together
rather better than I hoped. Curse the miserable Deryni, anyway!"
The exclamation elicited a short, taut silence, as each of the men considered
what the king's death might mean to him personally. Finally Murdoch rolled up
the document and bound it with a length of vermillion cord. As he glanced at
his companions again, he tapped it several times against the heel of his hand.
"Well, I'm off, then. I want to show this to Hubert before I put it away for
safe-keeping: Either of you care to come along?"
"I will," said Rhun.
After they had gone, Earl Tammaron Fitz-Arthur, Third Lord of the High
Council of Gwynedd, sat quietly for several minutes, thinking. If things went
according to plan, he could very shortly be the next Chancellor of Gwynedd.
A few days later, on a snow-clogged road leading south toward Valoret, the
Deryni Camber MacRorie and his escort trotted at a steady pace, the sound of
their passage muffled by the snow and carried away by the wind.
Camber, whom the world knew as Bishop Alister Cullen, one-time Vicar
General of the powerful Order of Saint Michael and now Lord Chancellor of
Gwynedd, had received the king's message before dawn, grouchy at being
rousted from his warm bed until he realized that the king's messenger was his
old friend Jebediah of Alcara, Grand Master of the Michaelines as well as Earl
Marshal of Gwynedd. He and Jebediah read the words of the royal missive
together in the bishop's study—terse and typical of King Cinhil. Jebediah then
gave Camber the true gist of the message.
Yes, the king was sick. Alister must come. Yes, his condition was serious;
and yes, he had seen the royal Healer. No, he was not about to die until his
good friend and chancellor, Alister, got back to the capital—and maybe not even
then, if he could help it.
But Cinhil had also made it abundantly clear that he would brook no delay
in Alister's coming. And though he had not made it precisely clear, he had
certainly implied that there were other reasons for calling the
chancellor-bishop back from Grecotha so soon after Twelfth Night— reasons
which might not be consigned to the written word, even in the hands of his earl
marshal.
At that, Camber had begun to hope—both that the king's condition was not
so grave as he had first been led to expect, and that Cinhil might have reached
the decision which Camber, as Alister, had been urging for more than a decade.
And so the Bishop of Grecotha had summoned his household guard and set
out for the capital just after first light, riding hard through the snowdrifts of late
January and pausing only to change horses and occasionally take a hot meal.
At this pace, they would be in Valoret before nightfall. As they rode, Camber
had time for reflection, for wondering, for playing the tempting game of if only.
If only Cinhil were not dying. If only his final illness might have been
delayed, even for a few more years. For that matter, if only Cinhil had been
younger when they put him on the throne. A man in his mid-forties was hardly
of an age to be starting a royal family, especially if he hoped to see that family
grow to maturity.
His eldest son had been poisoned as an infant, before Cinhil even came to
the throne. The twins, next in age, were not quite twelve, a full two years and
more from their legal majority. The youngest was just ten, and their mother
dead these nine years of bearing a final son who outlived her by only a few
months. Even when the twins came of age, it would be several years before the
first of these, young Alroy, could be expected to rule competently on his own.
Until that time, Gwynedd would continue to be effectively governed by a council
of regents.
Camber had feared that this day would come; had known, when he and his
children had placed the reluctant Cinhil on the throne, nearly thirteen years
ago, that it would likely come far, far too soon—but he had never given up hope
that the inevitable might be delayed for yet a little longer. Even now, a potential
regency council not entirely of Camber's liking had been named by Cinhil; and
many of them watched and plotted and waited for Cinhil to die, solidifying their
influence over the three young princes, prodding and undermining the spirit of
human-Deryni coexistence which wise men of both races had tried for years to
inculcate both in the future heirs and in the people of Gwynedd—and Cinhil
would not see the danger.
Now the anti-Deryni factions were about to get their wish. Cinhil would die
within the year, probably within the month, if Rhys' estimates were correct,
and young King Alroy would be ruled by his regents. The last of the Deryni
loyal to the Crown would be ousted from their offices, their positions of
influence, no matter that many of them had served Gwynedd and its present
king well and with distinction. And then the ostracism would begin, and the
persecutions, and finally the bloodshed. It had happened before, in other
lands, in other times. Perhaps it was happening already.
And so Camber hurried along the Valoret road to the summons of his king,
himself still young for his seventy years, in the guise of a man ten years
younger still, and by appearance and action no more than fifty or so, to meet
his children and his king and try to accomplish the goal they had set when
they began this road, now fourteen years before. Then they had made a former
priest a king and given him powers equal to any Deryni—though the king had
always been reluctant to use those powers. Now that king must pass on his
power, or at least its potential, to his young sons, in hopes that they would
learn to use it more wisely and with less fear than he had shown.
Camber did not know whether or not they could succeed, for time was
running out; but he knew they had to try.
chapter one
For of the Most High cometh healing, and he shall receive honour of the king.
—Ecclesiasticus 38:2
Rhys Thuryn, perhaps the most highly respected Healer in all the Eleven
Kingdoms, paced back and forth in the Earl of Ebor's sleeping chamber and
tried to decide what to do next. On the bed beside him, the earl tossed and
writhed in unrelieved agony, perspiration drenching his high forehead and
dampening the reddish-blond hair and beard, even though the room was chill
on this last day of January, in the year 917.
Cinhil himself had sent Rhys to Ebor. When word of the earl's accident
reached the king, he had nearly worked himself into a coughing fit in his
anxiety, barely able to gasp out the words when Rhys appeared in answer to his
summons. Nothing would appease him but that Rhys go to Ebor at once. No
other Healer would do. What if the earl were dying?
Despite Cinhil's agitation—and perhaps a little because of it, though
another part of him was chilled at the news —Rhys had demurred at first. Even
though the king was somewhat improved now that Camber had returned from
Grecotha, Rhys still did not like the idea of being several hours away when
Cinhil might need him. The king was not going to get well this time. At best,
Rhys might be able to ease his discomfort in these last days or weeks. The
sickness in Cinhil's lungs was beyond the ability of Rhys or any other Healer to
cure. Neither he nor Cinhil harbored any illusions about the eventual outcome
of his illness,
But neither did the king harbor any hesitation about the urgency of
assistance for his injured earl. Gregory of Ebor, though a full Deryni adept of
remarkable ability, had nonetheless won Cinhil's great respect and friendship
in this past decade on the throne; he had been appointed Warden of the
Western Marches only two years before. Rhys would go—and go, he did.
But now that Rhys was here with Gregory, he had to admit that he was
uncertain how to proceed. He knew Gregory very well, as Gregory knew him.
For the past five years, Gregory had been a member of the powerful and very
secret alliance of Deryni known as the Camberian Council, so-called at the
insistence of Archbishop Jaffray, also a member, who had felt the name
appropriate as a reminder of the ideals the group strove to uphold. Rhys and
Evaine were members, as were Joram and Jebediah and Camber
himself—though Jaffray and Gregory, of course, did not know that last.
Over the eight years of their existence, the Camberian Council had done
much to police the ranks of less responsible Deryni and to keep the peace
between the races, Deryni and human; and Evaine's continued research, now
supposedly in conjunction with Bishop Alister instead of her father, had
unearthed a wealth of hitherto lost knowledge of their ancient Deryni forbears.
Grecotha, where Camber now made his home, had been and continued to be a
mine of magical information. And Gregory, Earl of Ebor, had been a part of
much of it.
Now Gregory lay in a delirium from which he seemed unable or unwilling to
escape, neither royal patronage nor Camberian affiliation able to help him quell
the unbridled energies which ran amok in his body and sometimes in the
room. Even his eldest son and heir, a studious young man not unskilled
himself in the channeling of Deryni might, had not been able to break the
cycle. The floor before the fireplace was still littered with shards of smashed
crockery and glass which none of the servants were bold enough to clean
up—mute testimony to the potential danger of a High Deryni lord apparently
gone mad.
Pensive, Rhys paused before one of the earl's expensive colored windows
which had thus far escaped destruction and laid both palms flat against the
sun-warmed glass, wondering idly how the earl had missed them. He and
Evaine, his wife and working companion of nearly thirteen years, had tried on
arrival to ease Gregory's pain and ascertain the extent of his injuries. The two of
them were strong enough psychically that the earl could not breach their
shields and do them serious threat in his incoherent condition.
But their patient had thrashed about so violently when touched that they
dared not maintain the contact for a proper reading, lest he blindly begin
flinging objects once more in his delirium. Nor was his thrashing doing his
physical injuries any good.
The injuries to his body were easy enough to assess. A dislocated shoulder
he surely had, by the angle of the arm inside the loose blue tunic; and most
likely a fractured collarbone, as well, though Rhys could not be certain of that
until his patient permitted a more thorough examination.
That left some other explanation to account for Gregory's irrational
behavior—perhaps a severe head injury, though neither his son nor his steward
could remember him hitting his head at the time of the accident. Still, a Deryni
of Gregory's proven ability simply did not lose control for no good reason.
Rhys's amber eyes narrowed as he let them focus through the red and blue
glass. With a resigned sigh, he ran one hand through unruly red hair and
moved back toward the fireplace and his wife. Evaine sat huddled in her
fur-lined travelling cloak, quietly watching her husband and the man they had
come to heal.
"What are we going to do?" she asked, as he crouched beside his medical
satchel and began rummaging inside.
Rhys shook his head and sighed again. "We're going to have to sedate him,
first of all. We may even have to knock down his shields. I don't really want to
do either one. He could have been a big help. We can't have him destroying the
place while I try to work on him, though."
He extracted a green-sealed packet of folded parchment and read the fine
script on the back, then closed the satchel and stood.
"We'll try this first," he said, carefully breaking the wax seal. "I wonder if that
horse could have kicked him in the head? Pour me a small cup of wine to mix
this with, please. The sooner we get it in him, the better."
With a nod, Evaine MacRorie Thuryn, only daughter of the sainted Camber
of Culdi, rose gracefully and went to a low table nearer the fire, laying aside her
cloak as she knelt. Though she was now thirty-five and the mother of three, her
face and form were still those of a very young woman. The wool and leather of
her riding dress clung to every gentle curve, the dove-grey setting off the fine
blue eyes as no other color could. Her hair, shining like burnished gold in the
firelight, had been twisted into a neat coil at the nape of her neck to keep it
tidy for riding, but a strand near her face kept escaping from behind one
delicate ear and added to her youthful image.
Carefully she poured half a cup of wine from a flagon on the table, holding it
out thoughtfully to receive Rhys's powder. As always, when they were together,
they were in a light rapport.
"You're right, I suppose," she said, swirling the contents of the cup and
watching the drug dissolve. "He's certainly making things worse by his
thrashing. And if he starts throwing things around again—well, I don't know
how much more this room can take."
Rhys sniffed the cup delicately, then gave her a wry smile.
"Have you no confidence in my potions, my love?" he chuckled. "I guarantee
this will take the edge off."
"You have to get it into him first," Evaine countered. "Just how do you
propose to do that?"
"Ah, there lies the Healer's secret!" He stripped off his Healer's mantle and
tossed it in a heap on top of hers, then crossed to the door and flung it wide.
"Jesse, would you come in here, please, and bring a couple of your servants
with you? I'm going to have to give him a sleeping draught before he'll let me
touch him. Don't worry, I won't let him do anything dangerous."
Cautiously, a husky, olive-skinned youth peered around the doorjamb and
then eased his way into the room, followed by three blue-and-white-liveried
servants. Jesse, who had sent to Valoret for Rhys, was a quiet but intense
young man whose concern—and healthy respect—for his sire's abilities was
evident in every line of his bearing. Neither he nor his men made any effort to
move closer to the great bed where the earl tossed and fretted, though they did
glance surreptitiously in that direction.
Rhys took Jesse's arm and urged him and his men toward the bed with
reassuring words.
"Now, this isn't going to be as difficult as it may seem," he said easily. "He's
going to be all right, and so are you. Nobody is going to get hurt. Now, you
men—I want you to pin his legs and his uninjured arm when I give the word.
Sit on them, if you have to, but keep him still. My potion isn't going to do him
any good if it isn't in him. Jesse, I need you to help me hold his head. If you
can keep him from thrashing around, I'll worry about getting his mouth open
so that Evaine can pour the stuff down. Do you all think you can manage that?"
Jesse looked dubious and a little scared. "You're sure he won't start
throwing things around again? I mean, I don't suppose he would hurt me, but
what about the servants?"
"You let me and Evaine worry about that," Rhys said, gesturing for the men
to move closer. "Is everyone ready now?"
Reluctant but obedient, the men eased in gingerly around the bed and
made assignments among themselves, watching as Rhys and Evaine took
positions near the head and Evaine readied the cup. A moment they paused,
one man surreptitiously crossing himself before the expected struggle. Then, at
Rhys's signal, all of them pounced.
Pandemonium ensued. Gregory arched his body upward in reflex, almost
throwing off even that array of physical force, and the bed began trembling from
more than his movement. Rhys heard something smash against the floor
behind him as he forced the earl's jaws apart, but he ignored that as he tried,
at the same time, to apply pressure for temporary unconsciousness. Gregory let
out a terrified animal gurgle as Evaine began pouring the drugged wine down
his throat, but Rhys's skillful touch evoked a swallowing reflex once, twice, a
third time, and then it was done.
Releasing Gregory's head, Rhys signalled the servants to withdraw to the
safety of the doorway, then stood back with Evaine and Jesse and tried to
dampen the effects of the earl's temporary wrath. A bowl and pitcher of water
across the room toppled to the floor with a crash that made them all jump.
Then a pair of swords over the mantel came careening through the air to clatter
against the opposite wall, narrowly missing young Jesse's head.
Finally, the earl's pale eyes began to glaze, his head to cease its fitful tossing
from side to side, as the drug at last took effect. He moaned several times,
obviously still fighting, but it was evident that he was losing the battle. As the
earl at last grew quiet, Jesse gave a great sigh of relief and shuddered, hugging
his arms across his chest against more than physical chill.
"I told him not to ride that stallion," he whispered fiercely, almost to himself.
"The animal is a killer. Valuable stud or not, he should be destroyed!"
"What, exactly, happened, Jesse? Were you there?" Rhys asked, beginning
to relax a little. "Do you know whether he was thrown against something, or did
he just hit the ground?"
The young man shivered again, closing his eyes as if that might keep him
from remembering. "I was there. I wish I hadn't been. The stallion threw him
into a fence, hard, and then I think he kicked him, though I can't be sure of
that. It all happened so fast."
"But he was unconscious for a time?" Rhys urged.
"Either that or just stunned. The master of the horse said he thought it was
just a dislocation and the wind knocked out of him, at first. But by the time
they got him up here, he was moving the way you saw and raving with the pain.
That was last night. Things started flying around the room shortly after that.
Our household Healer is away for a few days, so that's why I sent for you."
"I see," Rhys said. "Well, I'm pretty sure he has a fracture and a dislocation.
And given his psychic activities, there's probably more at work than that.
Anyway, we'll see what we can do, now that he's manageable. You can wait
outside, if you'd rather."
With a nod, Jesse swallowed and slowly backed toward the door, finally
turning to flee with the servants. Rhys suppressed a smile with some effort
until the door had closed behind them, then laid an arm across Evaine's
shoulders.
"Well, love, shall we try it again?" he asked lightly.
Evaine took her place at their patient's head and laid her hands on his
temples, Rhys moving in opposite, at the man's left. This time Gregory calmed
immediately under her touch, slipping swiftly into an easy, profound sleep
which was intensified by the sedative they had given him. A peaceful stillness
descended on the room, dispelling the previous agitation of the man beneath
her hands, as she centered and held their patient's consciousness for her
husband's touch.
Rhys could feel the change of atmosphere, Evaine's readiness. With a sigh of
relief, he unlaced Gregory's tunic and eased it back from the injured left
shoulder, gently slipping his hands inside to curve around the broken angle of
joint and clavicle. Extending his senses to probe and explore the extent of the
injury, he traced the damaged muscles and nerve-ways and mentally felt out
the dislocation of the joint, the clean break in the collarbone, physically eased
the dislocation back into place before lining up the ends of the snapped bone
and beginning the processes which would regenerate it.
Profoundly centered now, as his Healing talents took over from mere
intellectual sensing of the injuries, he closed his eyes and let himself drift into
his Healing mode, let the power flow, feeling life-force channel through him as
it had so many times before, a part of him marvelling yet at the miracle of
Healing which had been given into his use.
He could feel the bones knitting beneath his fingertips, the swollen and torn
muscles shrinking back into place and mending, the bruises fading and
healing. He could sense the warmth of increased blood flow through the
injured area, carrying away damaged tissue and speeding the growth of new.
Finally, he opened his eyes and let more usual senses confirm what his soul
already knew, pressed sensitive fingers along the line of previous break and
dislocation, and knew that this part of his work was essentially done. His
摘要：

CamberTheHereticTHETHEFTOFMAGICCamberdrewbackandwatchedDomQueronblinkandtenseforjustaninstantinsheer,nakedpanic,thentwistaroundandstareatRhysinundisguisedhorror.Emryslookedequallystunned,theonlytimeCamberhadeverseentheabbot'scomposureshaken."SweetJesu,whathaveyoudonetome?"Queroncried,beginningtotrem...

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