"Katherine Kurtz - Camber 3 - Camber the Heretic" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kurtz Katherine)

Joram was nearly forty now, though he still looked the fit young Michaeline
knight he had been almost a score of years before. He still wore the blue of a
Michaeline priest, and the white sash of his knighthood, but now he served as
private secretary to the Bishop of Grecotha, his former superior in the
Michaeline Order. The position was an excellent cover, for it enabled him to
continue working with the man whom most folk thought dead these thirteen
years now, and a saint, at that. So far as anyone outside Camber's immediate
family knewтАФand not even all of them knew the true storyтАФCamber was dead,
slain in the battle of Iomaire in 905, while trying to defend his friend and
battle-comrade, Alister Cullen, from the Princess Ariella. Only Joram, Rhys and
Evaine, and the steadfast Jebediah of Alcara knew that it had been Alister and
not Camber who had died that day, and that Camber had magically taken his
dead friend's shape and memories, the better to carry on his work of guiding
the new-crowned king. The secret had been kept now for nearly thirteen years,
and the gamble had paid off. By and large, Cinhil had been a good king. The
success of the next reign depended at least partly on Camber's secret being
kept yet a while longer.
Joram had raised his head in inquiry at Cinhil's cough, freezing in a
listening attitude which had become all too common at court of late, but
Camber gave him the slightest shake of his head and returned his attention to
Cinhil. The king coughed lightly again, then moved his priest-king to threaten
Camber's archbishop.
"All right, try that one, Alister."
As Camber's hand glided out to counter the attack, there was an insistent
knock at the door. With a sign of exasperation, Cinhil rolled his eyes
heavenward and shook his head.
"Not now, please!" he muttered under his breath. "Joram, will you answer it?
I don't want to stop now, just when I've got him on the run!"
"On the run, indeed!" Camber scoffed good-naturedly, as Joram got to his
feet with a nod and moved toward the door. As it opened inward at the priest's
hands, Camber could glimpse a tall, lanky form wearing the unmistakable
colors of Carthane. It was Earl Murdoch himself, one of the human governors of
the young princes and a staunch opponent of anyone or anything Deryni. He
was also, Cinhil had informed him somewhat apologetically a few months
before, to be one of the regents for young Alroy, if Cinhil died before the boy
turned fourteen. When Camber had asked him why, Cinhil had simply said
that Murdoch seemed to him a pious and temperate man, well-suited to such
authority. Besides, Murdoch had sons only a little older than the twins.
Earl Murdoch's gaunt face mirrored intense annoyance as he encountered
Joram at the door instead of one of the royal squires.
"Excellency," Joram murmured dutifully, standing aside and making a
precise and correct bow.
Murdoch tried unsuccessfully to cover his displeasure with a brusque nod of
his head in return, but the movement was hardly gracious. He was well aware,
that Joram's father had been an earl of even greater seniority than himself, and
that Joram, if not for his priestly station, would have been Earl of Culdi after
himтАФand Murdoch's senior in rank. The fact that Joram was not the earl made
no difference to Murdoch. He still resented a Deryni in any position of
authority, real or potential.
"Father MacRorie," Murdoch replied, each syllable clipped by his dislike. "I