Duncan got up and stood beside Kelson’s chair. “All right. What do you want me to do besides watch?”
Morgan moved his chair closer to Kelson’s and picked up another piece of cotton wool, again moistening it with the greenish liquid. “Just hold his head so it doesn’t move,” he said, smiling reassuringly at Kelson. “We don’t want a lopsided hole in his ear.”
Kelson smiled weakly, but he said nothing as he took up the Ring of Fire in its nest of white silk, being careful not to let his hands come into contact with the bare metal or stones. The deep garnet-red gems glittered in the candlelight, echoing the dark glow from the Eye of Rom on the table before him.
As Duncan’s cool hands steadied his head on either side, Kelson felt a cold sensation on his right earlobe as Morgan swabbed it. There was a pause as he sensed Morgan positioning the needle; then the slight popping sound of the skin being pierced—once going in, once coming out the other side. He felt no pain.
Morgan exhaled softly and bent to look more closely at his handiwork. The thrust had been sure; the needle was positioned in precisely the right place. With a deft movement, he removed the needle and wiped the earlobe a second time, then watched a small drop of blood well out at entry and exit. He picked up the Eye of Rom in its insulating lint and touched the stone to the front droplet of blood, then held it down where Kelson could see it.
As all three watched, the dark stone in the earring slowly changed its appearance. Where the smooth ruby had glinted before with a cold and smoky fire, now it warmed, cleared, almost seemed to glow with an inner light of its own, the way Morgan remembered it when Brion had worn it.
As soon as the Eye of Rom had made this subtle transformation, Morgan motioned Kelson to hold out the Ring of Fire. He touched it with the bloody Eye of Rom, and true to its name, the Ring of Fire began likewise to glow with a deep garnet radiance that permeated each of the brilliant cut stones.
Morgan breathed a sigh of relief, then wiped Kelson’s earlobe again and inserted the Eye of Rom. With the touch to the Ring of Fire, the huge ruby had given up all its blood. Now it glowed darkly in Kelson’s ear, tangible sign of the power to come, first fulfillment of the ritual verse.
Duncan took the glowing Ring of Fire from Kelson’s hands and wrapped it securely in its silken shroud. Since it would not be used again until tomorrow at the coronation, Duncan took it quickly to his security vault and locked it away. Returning to the table, he found Kelson fingering the velvet-covered box that housed the Crimson Lion as Morgan spread out the ritual verse on the table once more and scanned the third stanza.
“How do we get this open, Morgan?” the boy asked, shaking the box gently and listening for some telltale rattle that might give them a clue.
As the box neared his ear, it began emitting a low, musical hum, which ceased when Kelson lowered it in surprise.
Duncan leaned closer, then spoke. “Do that again.”
“Do what?”
“Shake the box.”
Kelson shook the box as he was bidden, this time a bit more gingerly. But he did not hold it as near his head as the previous time. Morgan noticed that fact.
“Bring it closer to the Eye of Rom,” he suggested.
Kelson did, and the hum resumed.
“Now touch the box to the earring,” Morgan ordered.
As Kelson complied, the box emitted a soft, musical click, and the lid of the box sprang open a crack. Lowering the box, Kelson raised the lid the remainder of the way to reveal what lay inside. All three looked into the open box in awe.
The Crimson Lion was not really crimson. That was a misnomer coined many generations before by some long-forgotten cataloguer of royal gems. The man had gotten his terminology twisted, and the name had stuck.
In reality, the Crimson Lion was the Haldane arms: a golden lion rampant guardant on a crimson enamel background, on the face of a massive brooch the size of a man’s fist. Gold-etched scrollwork traced the deeply carved edges of the piece—the work, again, of the fine craftsmen of the Concaradine.
The heavy clasp of the brooch rattled slightly as Kelson carefully lifted the brooch from its bed of black velvet, and Duncan sat down again and pulled the parchment of the ritual verse before him.
Now that the Eye of Rom can see the light,
Release the Crimson Lion in the night.
With sinister hand unflinching, Lion’s Tooth
Must pierce the flesh and make the Power right.
Kelson peered hard at the brooch, then held out his left hand.
“With sinister hand unflinching. That part is clear enough, but . . .”
Looking suddenly appalled, he set the brooch gingerly back on the table, both hands beginning to tremble. “Look, Morgan. The Gwynedd lion is rampant guardant. It faces toward us.”
Morgan looked puzzled. “So?”
“Don’t you understand?” Kelson continued. “Rampant guardant is the one heraldic configuration where the lion faces outward, toward the viewer. And that means the Gwynedd Lion has no tooth!”
Morgan frowned and picked up the brooch. “No tooth? But that’s impossible. If there’s no tooth, there’s no ritual. And, if there’s no ritual . . .”
Kelson gingerly touched the brooch again, then stared unseeing at the polished tabletop. There was no need for Morgan to complete his sentence, for Kelson already knew the answer. And the enunciation of that answer chilled him worse than anything he had ever known. For there was only one way to complete the sentence: If there was no ritual, he would die.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“In the unknown lies terror, and in the night, deceit.”
NO tooth on the Lion of Gwynedd! No tooth on the Crimson Lion!
Duncan reached for the brooch, took it in his two hands, and ran his thumbs over the lion figure as he mulled over the seeming inconsistency. Somewhere—he did not remember where; perhaps it had been one of those obscure and highly technical treatises on the ancient magic that he had read many years ago—somewhere, he seemed to recall something of this sort, some detail about double meanings, figures of speech, standard requisites for—yes!
Turning the brooch over, he lightly fingered the heavy clasp of the ornament, his eyes not focused on it as he murmured, “Yes, of course. There is always the obscure riddle, the obstacle, the need for bravery.”
Morgan rose slowly, his face taut with suspicion as he, too, divined the meaning of the verse.
“The clasp is the Lion’s tooth?” he whispered chillingly.
Duncan’s gaze flickered back to the present.
“Yes.”
Kelson stood and reached across the table to run his fingertip along the three inches of chill, gleaming gold. He swallowed.
“Are you saying that this must pierce my hand?” Duncan nodded impassively. “I believe this to be the true key, Kelson. Everything before was but preparation for this event, and all else is postscript. Also, it must be done by you alone. We can prepare the way for you; we can stand by you, guard you afterwards. But this you must do yourself. Do you understand?”
Kelson was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly. “I understand,” he said very quietly. “I’ll do whatever is necessary.” His voice caught. “I—I’d like to think about it for a bit though—if there’s time. . . .”
He looked up at Duncan with a frightened, beseeching look in his wide gray eyes, a boy again, and Duncan nodded.
“Of course, my prince,” he replied gently, rising, catching Morgan’s eye as he moved toward the door. “Take as long as you need. Alaric will help me to vest for the ceremony.”
As soon as he and Morgan had left the room, Duncan closed the door securely and motioned for Morgan to follow him down the short corridor. When they reached the darkened sacristy, Duncan glanced through the peephole to satisfy himself that there was no one there, then struck a light and leaned both hands against a storage cabinet, his back to Morgan.
“There is no real preparation on our part, Alaric,” he finally
said. “The boy needed a few minutes to collect his wits. I hope we’re doing the right thing.”
Morgan began pacing the floor energetically, his hands clasping and unclasping with pent-up nervous energy.
“So do I. Frankly, I’m becoming increasingly uneasy as the night progresses. I didn’t tell you what happened just before we came here, did I?”
Duncan looked up sharply.
“Before I tell you,” Morgan continued before Duncan could speak, “let me ask you a question. Where are you planning to finish tonight’s business—with the Lion brooch? In the study?”
“I was planning to use the secret chapel behind it,” Duncan replied cautiously. “Why do you ask?”
Morgan pursed his lips. “That chapel was once sacred to Saint Camber, wasn’t it?”
“Among others.” Duncan nodded warily. “Saint Camber was the patron of Deryni magic; you know that. What does that have to do with what happened? Get to the point.”
“Very well.” Morgan drew a deep breath, as though reluctant to finish what he had started. “Duncan, would you believe me if I told you I had a vision?”
“Go on,” the priest replied, listening carefully.
Morgan sighed. “Before we came here, I left Kelson asleep under ward protection so I could go down to Brion’s library to look through his books and papers. I thought I might find some clue to help us unravel the ritual verse—perhaps even some of the notes he used in preparing it.
“Well, for a long while, I didn’t find anything, so I used the Thuryn technique, hoping I might be able to pick up enough residual energy to give me an idea where to look next. I was using my gryphon seal as a point of focus.”
He held up his left hand, let it fall to his side again as he searched for the right words. “I remember that I had my eyes closed, and suddenly I seemed to see the face of a tall, cowled man, surrounded by darkness. At the same time, there was a distinct impression of reassurance—and urgency. I opened my eyes, but the instant of vision was past. There was no one else in the room.”
“Anything else?” Duncan asked, his eyes narrowed in concentration.
Morgan glanced at the floor. “I decided to riffle through the books once more, just on the chance that I’d overlooked something important. The first volume I picked up was Talbot’s Lives of the Saints, an old copy, and it fell open in my hands to—oh, my God! I’d forgotten all about it!”
Duncan watched mystified as Morgan began searching furiously through all of his pockets.
“There was a piece of parchment marking the place in the book,” Morgan continued excitedly. “I was so surprised at what was in the book, I didn’t even get to read it—just stuffed it in my—here it is!”
He found the parchment in an inner pocket of his tunic and pulled it out triumphantly. In his eagerness to unfold it, his fingers trembled. More calmly, Duncan reached across and took the piece of parchment, moved closer to the candle.
“What was in the book that was more important than this, Alaric?” the priest asked, smoothing the creased parchment and holding it up to the light.
“It was a picture of the man I saw in the vision,” Morgan answered absently, peering over Duncan’s shoulder and trying to see. “And what was most startling was that the section was about Saint Camber.”
“Saint Camber?” Duncan questioned, looking up startledly. “You think you saw Saint Camber?”
Morgan nodded and gestured impatiently toward the parchment. “Yes, yes. What does it say?”
Duncan returned his attention to the scrap of parchment as Morgan crowded closer to see. On one side, in Brion’s hand, he could make out Brion’s full name, inked in the familiar, rounded uncials of Brion’s script. As Morgan peered over his shoulder, he turned the parchment over. His hand began to tremble as he read the other side.
“Saint Camber of Culdi, defend us from evil!” Morgan whispered, echoing Duncan’s unspoken words. “My God, Duncan, do you think I really did have a vision?”
Duncan shook his head solemnly and gave the parchment back to Morgan. “I don’t know,” he whispered, unconsciously wiping his palms against his cassock. “Alaric, I—this puts a slightly different light on what we’re doing. Let me think about it for a minute or two.”
Turning away from his companion, Duncan briefly covered his face with his hands to regain his composure, then forced himself to consider this new information.
He was frankly uncertain, now. As priest as well as Deryni, he was well aware how slender was the balance between good and evil. As Deryni, there was no doubt in his mind that Camber of Culdi had, indeed, been the savior of his people in the dark times following the Deryni coup. Why, it was Camber himself who had discovered that the Deryni powers could sometimes be shared with humans. That was what had ended the Deryni Interregnum almost two hundred years before, what had made it possible for men like Brion Haldane to stand against the forces of evil and defeat the awesome powers of the Marluk.
But, Camber of Culdi—the very name chilled the part of him that was priest. For though the Deryni lord had, indeed, earned sainthood following his death (or disappearance, at any rate), that sainthood had been rescinded long ago by a fearful Church—that same Church that had declared all Deryni powers to be forbidden, inherently evil.
He resisted a sudden impulse to cross himself in defense against the infamous name, then mentally shook himself back to sanity.
Saint or demon, Camber of Culdi evidently had been well revered by Brion Haldane. And if Brion, who had done so much good for his people, had invoked the name of Camber—no, Saint Camber, by God!—then it was unthinkable to suspect there could be evil attached to that name.
As for Alaric’s vision, he would have to reserve judgment on that question until later. Quite candidly, Duncan was not much more inclined to believe in visions than Alaric was. And yet, stranger things than that had surely happened. . . .
He turned back to his cousin with a sheepish expression on his face.
“Well?” Morgan ventured. He did not pretend to fathom what had just occurred in his kinsman’s mind.
Duncan shrugged apologetically. “I’m all right. It was the priest warring with the Deryni in me again.” He smiled faintly and sent the compressed images of his reverie toward his cousin in the same instant.
Morgan gave a wry grin. “I see.” He nodded. “I just wish we had a little better idea what we were doing. I feel as though I’m walking in the dark.”
“So do I,” Duncan agreed. “But we really don’t have any choice but to continue. If Kelson has to face Charissa without the powers his father had—whatever their origin—he’ll die. That fact is inescapable. On the other hand, simply awakening that power in him could kill him. If we’ve made a mistake—or if we should make one in the next minutes—he’ll be just as dead as if we’d bound him over to Charissa and said, ‘Here you are, m’lady. Take him with our blessings. We wanted you to rule Gwynedd all along.’ ”
He turned and took a white stole from the storage cabinet and touched it to his lips, settled it around his shoulders.
“Of course,” he added, turning back to Morgan, “we’ll never know until we try, will we?” He stepped to the candle and cupped his hand behind the flame.
“Are you ready?”
Morgan shrugged resignedly.
“Let’s get on with it, then,” Duncan said, blowing out the candle and ushering Morgan through the sacristy door. “You know, this is really ludicrous. Here I am, priest and Deryni sorcerer—heresy to begin with—about to help a Deryni warrior-lord give forbidden powers to a mortal king of Gwynedd. I must be out of my mind!”
KELSON sat in the study with his hands folded, gray eyes gazing dreamily through the candle flame flickering before him. Beside the candle, the Crimson Lion glittered softly from its cushion of black velvet, reflecting pale fire back onto the boy’s face and hands.
But the candle and the Lion were not Kelson’s chief concern just now. For he was well aware that a cusp had
been reached, that all his future—indeed, his very survival through the night—depended upon his conduct in the next half hour.
The thought was not a comforting one, but he was loath to let it slip past and vanish in the night stillness. Fear was a thing that must be faced. His father had drummed that into his head from the first time he could remember. He dared not shrink from what would be required of him.
He unfolded his hands, then twined his fingers together as he allowed the image of Morgan to take shape in the candle flame.
Morgan would not be afraid were he in this situation. No matter what the danger, Kelson was certain that the wise and powerful Deryni lord had never allowed even a trace of fear to make him falter. Those of the Deryni born were not subject to the hopes and fears of mortal men.
And Father Duncan—he would not be afraid, either. For besides being Deryni, he was also a man of the cloth, a priest of God. With the power of the Deryni and the might of the Lord behind him, what evil would dare to rear its head in his presence? Indeed, under the protection of two such men, how could Kelson possibly come to harm? Only if he allowed his fear to overpower him . . .
He lowered his head to rest his chin on his folded hands and study the Lion brooch more closely. There was nothing so very difficult about what he had to do, really. He reached out and flipped the brooch over on its back so that he could see the clasp, then rested his chin on his hands again.
No, what he had to do would not really be so painful, either. He had had training injuries, hunting accidents much more painful than the wound of a hand’s width of slender gold was likely to be.
Of course, he wasn’t sure just what to expect once he’d accomplished the deed. What would happen when he took on the power of his royal birthright? But if his father had devised the ritual, had wanted him to have the powers, certainly he could come to no harm. Brion had cared about him—no, had loved him—there was no doubt in his mind about that.
Deryni Rising (Chronicles of the Deryni) Page 16
