Camber of Culdi Read Online Free PDF Page B

those early days.” He glanced around as though to reorient himself, then turned back to Rhys with a smile. “You’re looking for Father Joram, are you? As I recall, he’s reading in the library this morning. It’s fortunate you came when you did, however, for I believe he said he was leaving later today to go home for Michaelmas.”
    â€œYes, I know. I’m invited to spend Michaelmas with the MacRorie household myself this year, so I thought to lure him away a few hours early and save him the ride alone.”
    â€œWell, then, don’t let me keep you, lad. God go wi’ ye.”
    â€œThank you, Father.”
    Retracing his steps, Rhys made his way back through the covered passageway, past the Chapter House, then mounted the wide day stair toward the library. True to Father Dominic’s directions, he found Joram in the third carrel chamber into which he peered.
    Joram had his feet up, the manuscript in his lap tilted to catch the light which filtered through the rain-washed window above his head. He looked up with a pleased grin as Rhys entered and perched himself on the edge of the table.
    â€œRhys, brother! Why, you look like the proverbial drowned cat himself. What brings you here in this weather? I would have seen you at home tomorrow.”
    With silence for answer, Rhys reached into his pouch and produced the silver coin, gave it a perfunctory glance, dropped it into Joram’s outstretched hand.
    â€œEver seen one of these?” he asked.
    Joram bent his head and studied the object closely for several minutes.
    Father Joram MacRorie was lean and fit, blond like his father, and with the uncanny ability to appear perfectly garbed and unruffled whether serving High Mass with the Archbishop or gutting out a deer after a long afternoon’s chase. Just now he was clad in the simple cassock and cowled surcoat of his order, the hood pushed back casually from tonsured yellow hair. The sandalled feet had not moved from their resting place on the table edge. The slender fingers were still as they read the silver coin.
    The outward aplomb of the man was not inappropriate. Ordained at age twenty by the Archbishop of Valoret himself, it had been clear from the outset that young Joram MacRorie was slated for high Church preferment. As younger son of an extremely well-connected house, such would have been his due even had he not been so brilliant a scholar or so shrewd a judge of men. He was his father’s son in every way. The fact that he would probably deserve every future honor bestowed upon him spoke well of the man, was an unexpected nicety in a world characterized by nepotism and the purchase of office and political influence.
    Indeed, even in the religious life it was difficult to be anything but political, especially if one moved in the upper circles of Deryni society. In the past century, religious establishments had gained an unenviable reputation for being corrupt, most of the corruption blamed, directly or indirectly, on the Deryni regime. Joram’s Michaeline Order was thought to be spiritually and intellectually sound, with better attention than most to the Rule of their order. But they were also a militant brotherhood, whose knights had more than once taken sides in a controversy which should, by rights, have remained in secular hands. Such was the way of the Church in Gwynedd.
    Nor had Joram himself been entirely able to avoid political entanglements, for all his protestations and honest calling. Sought out by his fellow priests whenever royal crisis threatened, he was not often permitted to forget that his father, Camber, had once been a high-ranking minister of the Crown. After all, it was no great secret, among those acquainted with the situation, just why Camber had resigned. Though the official explanation had mentioned something about Camber wishing to retire from government service “while still young enough to enjoy his academic pursuits,” it was