Our destination is no secret, but I’m to take you through Blind, Ansel sent. You’re to do nothing to help or to hinder. Do you agree?
Of course.
As further assent, Queron immediately closed his eyes to eliminate mere visual sight and began a slow, deep breath, stilling and pulling back his shields to give over control of his other Sight. He was pleased to realize that Ansel did not seem intimidated by him—though he was certain some of the others still were, even though they should not be.
Softly, very tentatively at first, he felt the younger man’s controls surround and bind him. The shift, when it came, was so smooth that Queron hardly noticed it—just a slight catch to his breath as he reoriented vaguely, knowing that they had passed to the Portal outside the Council chamber. His opening eyes confirmed that it was so.
Leave me a control link, came Ansel’s further instruction, as they stepped into the dimly lit landing before the great bronze doors of the Council chamber, and Ansel conjured handfire with his free hand. Follow my handfire. We’ll take a turnpike stair. Go slowly, because it’s steep. I’ll be right behind you.
A section of the wall slid back before them as the handfire touched it, opening into a downward-spiraling wooden stairwell whose location Queron had not even suspected, though he had known such a stair must exist. Joram had told him the day before of the keeill—the ancient word meant sanctuary or chapel—the keeill, which lay directly beneath the Council chamber.
Ansel’s grip shifted to his shoulder and urged him forward, controls still lightly but firmly in place. The boy was very good. Queron braced his left hand against the newel post as they started down, his other hand just brushing the stone on his right, and kept his mind stilled, receptive. At the bottom of the stair, a few steps beyond, Ansel’s handfire came up against another bronze door—this one single, not nearly as tall as the ones above, and carved with several of the intricate, spiraling motifs anciently called staring patterns.
“I’ll release your controls now,” Ansel murmured, shifting his grasp to Queron’s left elbow, “but don’t raise your shields.” His free hand seemed to press the handfire into the carvings of the top spiral so that it glowed like molten silver. “Work the first staring pattern. It’s a spell for centering. I’ll follow it with you.”
Nodding, Queron drew a deep breath and complied. He knew the pattern well—probably far better than the younger, less experienced Ansel, but that might not be a safe assumption, based on the last quarter hour. So he made himself trace it slowly—no short cuts—savoring the gradual stilling and centering as his eyes tracked every curve of the mystical maze. At the centerpoint, the spell in place, he closed his eyes for just a moment and took another deep breath, letting it out slowly as he opened his eyes again to await further instruction. The glow of the staring pattern was fading as Ansel pushed the door open with the flat of his hand and ushered Queron in.
The keeill was round, rather than octagonal like the chamber above it. Stone floored the perimeter, wide enough to walk around, but a circular dais of seven steps dominated the room—grey-black slate whose planes of shadow and darker shadow seemed to swallow up the light of the torches at the four quarter-stations. In the center of the dais, the others were waiting around a cubic, waist-high altar that looked like giant ward cubes piled in two layers, the black and white cubes alternating. Pillars the thickness of a man’s upper arm—two each of black and white—supported a mensa of some stark-white stone atop the cubes, and the whole rested on a base slab of obsidian black.
He could not see much of what lay on the altar, for Gregory and Jesse stood shoulder to shoulder on its north side, dark-clad backs blocking most of his view, but the purplish glow of a lamp of handfire at the altar’s center spilled beyond them, revealing Joram’s expected presence in the south. Evaine waited in the west, head bowed, her golden hair unbound and spilling down her back, ethereal and almost fragile-looking in white.
“This way, please,” came Ansel’s low voice, his hand guiding Queron to the left rather than up the dais steps.
They had entered between two massive, rough-cut ashlar pillars flanking the door. Queron could see more of them set hard against the outer perimeter of the chamber, with dark, shadowed spaces between, barely wide enough to hold a man. Making a quick mental count as Ansel backed him partway into the nearest of those spaces, Queron realized there were twelve in all—which meant twelve niches as well, if one counted the one containing the northern door—apt symbolism for a magical working place.
But, there would be time enough, later, to ponder more subtle meanings. For now, Ansel’s mind remained close at the edge of his shields, one hand now clasped lightly around Queron’s left wrist as he reached into his dark tunic to produce a length of fine white woolen yarn.
“Give me both your hands, please,” Ansel murmured, deftly looping the yarn around the captive wrist and then the other one as Queron complied. “This binding of your wrists is symbolic of the loyalties and obligations which have bound you up until tonight,” he explained. “A little later, you will be asked to sever these bonds yourself, to free you for the commitment you are about to make. Stand against the wall behind you now.”
Yielding to the pressure of Ansel’s hand against his chest, Queron eased back a step. The floor was cold and gritty beneath his bare feet, the space between the two pillars claustrophobic, like standing in a tomb, the pillars confining his elbows close against his sides, the stone icy cold along his back, even through his mantle.
Nor was he reassured when Ansel backed off a step to raise both hands to shoulder level, palms turned toward the pillars. The air began to tingle between them—irritating to Queron, with his shields still lowered—and he guessed that Ansel was about to invoke a stasis spell of some sort, perhaps similar to the Trap effect sometimes layered over a Portal to keep unauthorized users in place until they could be dealt with.
But Ansel totally surprised him. Instead of standard stasis, which would have immobilized Queron inside his tomblike niche, Ansel somehow called up a stasis veil. It skimmed the edge of Queron’s niche like a fragile purple soap bubble, apparently of the most ethereal and insubstantial nature—but neither fragile nor insubstantial, as Queron quickly discovered. Not only would it keep Queron in, but absolutely nothing besides light and sound could penetrate that veil until it was dispelled from outside—not even air! It was a far more serious binding than the cords looped around Queron’s wrists—which he could have broken in an instant, had he wished—very substantial magic! That knowledge was infinitely sobering; for though he truly believed he trusted this company implicitly, he had not thought they would place him so completely at their mercy and so soon!
He fancied he could feel his air growing stale already—and he knew his heart was pounding beneath the bound wrists clenched hard against his chest—but he made himself begin relaxing. He had submitted to this testing voluntarily; he would face far more serious threats than mere physical helplessness before the night was over. If he could keep his breathing light and shallow, he should be all right until they went on to the next test.
But it took him several more slow, controlled breaths before he could raise his eyes to Ansel’s, watching coolly from beyond the glow of the stasis veil. The boy studied him intently for several seconds, apparently assuring himself that Queron was in no great distress, then gave him a respectful inclination of his head and turned on his heel to mount the seven shallow steps, careful to approach exactly opposite the door in the north. Queron, in an attempt to put his own situation out of mind as much as possible, set himself to note and remember everything that happened. The stasis veil obscured even light and sound a little, but he was able to follow without too much difficulty.
He watched with understanding and growing respect as Ansel paused and turned at the top of the steps, to crouch and pick up the ends of a dark cord or rope lying almost invisible in the angle between the dais and the step just beneath it. As Ansel knotted the ends loosely
, right over left and left over right, closing the dais in a circle marked out by the cord, Queron reflected that the tradition was one not often observed these days, except in very special circumstances—yet it seemed entirely appropriate for the working intended tonight. The cord tied, Ansel glanced at him again before going to take a place at the east of the altar.
The general form of what followed was very familiar to Queron, though some of the nuances were subtly different. The first task of any magical working was to establish the boundaries of the working place, to purify it, and to invoke the presence and protection of appropriate Guardians. Thus, it was no surprise when Evaine took up an aspergillum and, beginning in the East, walked the perimeter of the circle sunwise while sprinkling it with holy water, accompanied by Joram’s recitation of the beautiful Psalm of the Shepherd and pausing at South, West, North, and East again to make especial salute. He supposed that the torches already burning at the Quarters must signify for the stations of the four great Archangels who would later be summoned, for no additional lights were placed at the edge of the dais before Evaine began her circuit.
Joram censed the circle next, bringing a thurible to the eastern edge of the dais and raising it to the symbolic source of Light. Queron was pleased to note that the Michaeline had donned the customary blue of his Order for tonight’s working and knew that the familiar and much-loved habit must give Joram comfort.
Bowing, Joram passed then to his right to trace the circle a second time, taking up his Psalm again, the thurible’s chains jingling musical counterpoint to his voice. Incense smoke hung on the air in a blue-white trail that rose higher at each new quarter where he paused to salute again, though its scent did not reach Queron through the stasis veil.
But when Joram had finished in the East again and returned to his place, setting the thurible back on the altar, it was Gregory who took up the sword to seal the circle, carrying it under the quillons with a no-nonsense expression as he moved briskly to the East.
There he paused to bend one knee for a moment, head bowed to the weapon’s cross hilt, before rising to execute quite a proper military salute. At the end, all in one graceful movement, he grounded the tip of the blade against the dais edge and turned sunward, steel slithering against slate as he began tracing the final circuit of the circle’s casting. Light sprang up where the sword passed, a silvery ribbon a handspan high, laid on edge, enclosing the circle at the first step off the dais, just outside the knotted cord.
Gregory’s performance took Queron a little aback, for he had not guessed that Gregory was particularly trained as a ritualist. But Gregory cut the circle with classic precision, never looking beyond its boundaries, not stopping until he had closed the two ends of the circle, back in the East. And there he did something that almost took Queron’s breath away.
For just an instant Gregory paused there, the tip of his blade still impaling the silvery ribbon. Then he turned slightly toward the south, the blade now slanted obliquely across his body, and swept the blade slowly upward in a wide arc from east to west, following the path of the sun.
The fabric of the ribbon of light rose in answer, as if Gregory somehow had snagged the light and stretched it upward to canopy over their heads. The apex of a growing silvery triangle followed the path his blade traced, ever widening and broadening at its base until, as the tip was earthed between him and the altar, a softly glowing dome of energy enclosed the circle. Queron could hardly believe what he had seen.
But the imperturbable Gregory did not seem at all amazed by what he had just done. He held for several heartbeats, the sword grounded at his side, then drew the blade in a straight line in front of him, west to east—completing the circle’s dome as a sphere below their feet, Queron suddenly realized! Bringing the hilt to his lips again, he turned eastward one more time to bring the blade down smartly to the side in final salute. After that, almost nonchalantly, he shifted his grip below the quillons and brought the weapon back to the altar, circling behind Joram and Evaine to lay it before himself and Jesse on the white surface.
Queron hardly dared to let himself breathe until the sword was out of Gregory’s hands. He had never even heard of an effect such as Gregory had just produced. And the theoretical knowledge implied by Gregory’s physical act of completing the sphere was almost too staggering to contemplate! He wondered what other surprises tonight might hold in store for him, if the mere casting of the circle could contain such revelations.
He was almost relieved as Ansel, Joram, Evaine, and Jesse turned in unison and moved to the edges of the dais, each facing one of the Quarters—even though that meant that his own part in the ritual surely could not be far away. They would call the Quarters now—though whether it would be in any form familiar to Queron, he would not even hazard a guess. In the past little while, he had only just begun truly to realize the scope of the knowledge the Council must have been retrieving from the ancient records; and his very soul both rejoiced and trembled that he was about to gain access to it.
“By rites ancient and powerful have we prepared this place,” Gregory said quietly, laying the fingertips of both hands on the sword again—though he did not pick it up. “Now, therefore, by ancient calling do we summon, stir, and call up the great, archangelic hosts.”
In the East, on cue, Ansel threw back his head and raised both arms in supplication, his young voice ringing with confidence.
“In the name of Light arising do we summon Raphael, the Healer, Guardian of Air and Wind and Tempest,” he said, “to guard this company and witness the oaths that shall be sworn. Come, mighty Raphael, and grace us with thy presence.”
He conjured handfire as he spoke—a sphere of golden light that grew above his head and then, at his direction, arrowed across the darkness of the keeill’s vaulting to merge with the fire of the eastern torch in a white-gold flash.
Queron was stunned, for he had never seen such an effect before. Nor, shielded behind the veil of his stasis spell, could he sense the Archangel’s Coming immediately—though he saw, from the look on Ansel’s face, that he was aware of it.
Gradually, however, Queron had the impression of a great wind filling the keeill, groaning through senses that had nothing to do with hearing. It raised the hackles at the back of his neck, sending a shudder down his spine, ice-cold against the stone wall behind him, and he pressed himself harder into his protective niche, hoping he was invisible, as Ansel’s arms were lowered and Joram’s raised.
“In the name of Light increasing, we summon Michael, the Defender, Lord of Fire and Prince of the Legions of Heaven,” Joram said, his voice echoing in the keeill as he threw back his head. “May he guard this company and give due witness to the oaths that shall be sworn. Come, mighty Michael, and grace us with thy presence.”
Joram’s handfire whooshed toward the southern torch with all the sudden alacrity of a lightning strike, heavenly fire returning to its true source, blinding-bright. When Queron could look at it again, blood-scarlet burned in the heart of the flame; and Michael’s sudden and undeniable Presence was all but visual, as he loomed all at once in the shadows beyond Joram—fire bright, yet not thus to physical sight—which was all Queron had, veiled behind the stasis spell. But the Healer-priest would not allow himself to dwell on what was not possible, for Evaine was about to summon Gabriel, who was his own especial patron.
“In the name of Light descending,” said Evaine, offering her own supplication, “we likewise summon Gabriel, Lord of Water, Heavenly Herald, who didst bring glad tidings to our Blessed Lady. May this company be guarded and our oaths witnessed. Come, mighty Gabriel, and grace us with thy presence.”
The gentle, sea-blue fire that Evaine conjured was soothing balm to Queron’s now shaky perceptions, and he gave quiet and humble thanks that he did not need to see with his eyes to know that Gabriel approached. Breathing silent prayer and welcome to that One, Queron closed his eyes briefly, feeling himself settle at last into something approaching peace, now that Gabriel was n
earby to sustain him.
It was Jesse who summoned the final Witness to their rite—Jesse, youngest of them all and little-tried, but confident as he raised his hands in entreaty, somehow setting just the proper seal on what was being done.
“In the name of Light returning, we also summon Uriel, Dark Lord of Earth, who bringest all at last unto the Nether Shore,” came Jesse’s Call, quiet but assured. “Companion of all who offer up their lives in the defense of others, guard this company and witness our oaths. Come, mighty Uriel, and grace us with thy presence.”
All at once, as Jesse’s sphere of emerald green merged with the torch just outside Queron’s niche, dark-feathered wings buffeted the other side of the stasis veil. Gasping, Queron ducked his head in acknowledgment of that One—to whom, he suddenly realized, he might well have to answer before the night was over. By now, he had been made most uncomfortably aware that the Camberian Council had access to knowledge and powers far beyond even the vast lore of Queron’s Order—and Gabrilite training was usually accounted among the best available. Not only in symbol did his life hang in the balance tonight.
For a dozen heartbeats, he trembled in that realization, all too aware of the awesome Powers gathered in the space between the pillars and the circle’s dome, watching the keeill’s mortal occupants gather around the altar again, as the immortal Ones loomed outside the circle.
And he must pass among them, in order even to beg admittance to the circle’s sanctuary! Small wonder that he had been left behind the safety of the stasis veil—and what was he going to do when it was lifted?
“We stand outside time, in a place not of earth,” came Evaine’s low-voiced words, intimately familiar to Queron from very ancient tradition. “As our ancestors before us bade, we join together and are one.”
The Harrowing of Gwynedd Page 9
