Joram returned with the sleeping Rhys Michael then, the mysterious opening shushing shut with hardly a whisper of sound. As the priest laid the youngest prince beside his brother Javan, Rhys shifted his attention to that one, and Joram gestured for the king to join him in the center of the chamber. With a sigh, Cinhil crossed slowly back to the table with the Michaeline priest.
“I believe we’re almost ready, Sire,” Joram said in a low voice, kneeling down beside the sleeping Alroy. “Have you any questions, before we begin?”
Cinhil glanced past Joram at Alister, still kneeling before the altar. “No, I have none for myself. But, what of Alister? Will he be all right?”
Joram’s handsome face creased for just an instant in a gentle smile. “You need not fear for Father Alister,” he said softly. “He is a man of conscience, but he has worked with us before, very satisfactorily. He knows what he must do, and is far more reconciled to this kind of work than his outward demeanor would have one think. Do not underestimate him.”
“Nay, I have never done that,” Cinhil murmured, laying a hand on Joram’s shoulder briefly. “Alister,” he called, raising his voice only slightly, “will you attend us?”
He watched the grizzled head rise, watched the gnarled hands brace against cassocked thighs as the bishop got to his feet and turned toward them, his seamed face calm and without apprehension.
“I am ready, my friend,” the bishop said softly, turning to take up the sword from the altar before joining them beside the table. “Are you content, Cinhil?”
“Content?” He watched his friend lay the sword on the floor partly beneath the table and again felt a flutter of apprehension which he quickly damped.
“Aye, I am content,” he breathed.
As he spoke, Evaine and Rhys returned to the center of the circle and knelt by Alroy. Cinhil watched Rhys close his eyes and take a deep breath, slipping into his meditative state, then watched as he laid his hand on Alroy’s forehead and seemed to wait for something. Immediately, Joram, too, took a deep breath and let himself sink into trance—and Cinhil knew that they were forming the rapport which would keep Alroy controlled through what must be done. Beyond them, Evaine had set the charcoal to smouldering in the thurible and now moved with her taper toward the candle standing at the foot of the altar steps, invoking, as flame flared to life behind the amber glass, the Archangel Raphael to guard the eastern quarter.
He noted Alister watching intently as she moved on to the south, toward Saint Michael’s candle with its ruby glass shield, apparently totally at ease now that things were beginning. The fire blazed up crimson, then moved, golden and pure on its white taper, to cross behind them all, where the glass shielding Saint Gabriel’s candle would turn the fire to azure.
Rhys had withdrawn his hand from Alroy’s forehead now, and Joram as well, and the boy slowly opened his eyes upon a scene which he would not remember in the morning—indeed, would not remember at all until it should become time to pass his gifting to his son. The boy’s eyes were wide and slightly glazed, registering his surroundings at some deep level but beyond his ability to react with the fear or anxiety which he might otherwise have shown. Cinhil knew that he was aware of his father’s presence as Joram and Rhys helped him to sit, but he knew also that he was far from the forefront of Alroy’s thoughts as the boy was made to stand easily beside the table.
Evaine had lit the last candle now, the green-shielded ward guarded by Uriel, the Dark Archangel, but she paused just past the northern ward until Rhys had confirmed Joram’s control over his charge and then withdrawn toward the other two sleeping boys. When he had passed through the gate she had left, pausing to brush her lips lightly with his own, she continued on to the east and closed the circle.
Joram was waiting for her at the eastern quarter, the thurible smoking in his hands as he censed her with its sweet smoke. To the ancient Psalm of the Shepherd, he began retracing the circle she had defined, the smoke and the echo of his words hanging tangibly in the wake of his passage and somehow contained by the boundaries of the circle being cast. As before, the only other time Cinhil had watched them at work, he was almost certain that the limits of the circle now glowed.
As Joram passed between Cinhil and the watching Rhys, outside the circle and in the northeast quarter, Cinhil was sure that there was something between them. He continued to be sure, even when Joram had completed his circuit and moved into the center of the circle to cense the rest of them standing there: Cinhil himself in the east, though he was no Healer; Evaine, again standing in the west, as she had so many years before; and the implacable Alister in the north, where Camber once had stood. Alroy, too, was censed; and Cinhil wondered whether the boy was experiencing any of the same emotions which Cinhil had felt on the night of his own magical initiation.
Then Joram was returning to Alister and giving the thurible into his priestly hands, that the bishop might cense him, in turn. Joram bowed his head as Alister swung the thurible with his customary dexterity, taking it back and setting it on the table with another bow when Alister had finished.
That done, Joram knelt and brought forth Cinhil’s sword, drawing it partway from its gemmed scabbard and extending the hilt toward Cinhil with bowed head.
Cinhil knew what he must do now. He steeled himself as his hand closed on the familiar hilt, but he drew the weapon with a smooth, sure motion. He and Alister had jointly blessed the sword the night before, adding their own consecration to the one already placed on the blade the day of his coronation. The very air around it seemed to vibrate as he raised the quillons before his eyes and walked slowly to the eastern ward. There was no doubt in his mind that the weapon was now, even if it had not been before, an implement of magic.
The candlelight was golden from the eastern quarter candle, and he let that light stream into his mind as well as his eyes as he raised the sword in salute to the Presence signified by the Light above the altar beyond. With a short, scarce-breathed prayer for courage, he let the tip of the sword sink to the floor beside the gold-lit candle and turned slightly toward his right as he began to retrace their circle a third and final time.
He did not know the formal words for what he did; he did not want to know. Instead, he spoke extemporaneously from the heart, trusting that Those who listened would recognize his good intent. He was surprised to find his grip firm and sure on the weapon beneath his hand, his voice steady and confident.
“Saint Raphael, Healer, Guardian of Wind and Tempest, may we be guarded and healed in mind and soul and body this night.”
He had reached the red-lit southern ward, and he inclined his head a little in acknowledgment as the tip of his blade passed by.
“Saint Michael, Defender, Guardian of Eden, protect us in our hour of need.”
He walked on, feeling the inexorable building of energy and knowing—and somehow taking comfort from it—that he was a part of its source. He was in the west now, and the color of the west was blue, the color of the Lady’s mantle. Again he inclined his head in passing, his lips now in invocation of the Western Guardian as his sword continued to inscribe the sacred circle.
“Saint Gabriel, Heavenly Herald, carry our supplications to Our Lady.”
And on to the north, where green-filtered fire reflected eerily off his blade.
“Saint Uriel, Dark Angel, come gently, if you must, and let all fear die here within this place.”
Another half-dozen steps, and it was done. Returning to the east, where he had begun, he drew the final stroke which bound the circle, then raised his blade in salute a second time. As the sword sank from that salute, suddenly much heavier in his hands, he turned to look at all of them, paused, then moved a few steps to the left to lay the sword along the northeast arc of the circle. Blindly, then, he returned to his place before his son, facing the altar and settling his thoughts into calmness once more.
He had done it! It was begun.
After a moment, he heard Evaine draw breath behind him, listened tran
sfixed as she wove the same spell she had made so many years before.
“We stand outside time, in a place not of earth. As our ancestors before us bade, we join together and are One. By Thy blessed Apostles, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John; by all Powers of Light and Shadow, we call Thee to guard and defend us from all perils, O Most High. Thus it is and has always been, thus it will be for all times to come. Per omnia saecula saeculorum.”
“Amen,” Cinhil whispered, truly in union with all of them now, as he had not been for many, many years.
He crossed himself and closed his eyes in silent prayer; was aware, through his meditation, of the soft rustle of his companions’ robes as they went about their next tasks. He caught a whiff of incense as Evaine brought the thurible to his right, was abruptly conscious of Alister and Joram moving into place at his left.
He turned toward them and candlelight flashed in his eyes as he looked up, glinting from the blade of the dagger which Alister carried across the rim of the white-glazed earthen cup. Nervously, Cinhil took his son’s shoulders and turned him slightly away from the knife, knowing the boy would remember none of this, yet sensitive to the fear of the present. A little self-consciously, he pulled from his left hand a heavy gold ring set with garnets, the central cabochon surrounded by smaller, brilliant-cut stones which caught and fractured the candlelight into hundreds of fiery flecks which danced on his dark robe. He could sense his son’s dazed attention on the ring as he handed it to Joram.
“This, properly charged, will be the trigger. When I am gone and he puts on the ring, his powers will be complete. But he will not know of them unless he needs them, and even then, he will believe those powers his by Divine Right, because he is king.”
“A reasonable rationale, under the circumstances,” Joram nodded. He gestured toward Alister’s cup with the piece of parchment he also held. “For our part, we have chosen water rather than wine for this rite. Wine had a particular significance for you, but we felt that water was sufficient for the children. It will hold the charge as well—unless, of course, you prefer wine.”
Cinhil shook his head and contained a shiver, remembering that wine, dark and bitter, throbbing with power. With a deep, sobering breath, he took his son’s slack hands in his and met the glazed grey eyes with his own.
“Son, forgive me for what I am about to do to you,” he said in a low voice. “What I must do, I do for your good and the good of all your people. I know you cannot understand that now, or what is happening to you, but I want you to know, at least at some level, that despite what may sometimes appear, I—care for you greatly, and would never willingly permit you to come to ill.”
Gently his thumbs chafed the two small hands resting so still within his own, then brought the right one to his lips and kissed it. His eyes misted as he glanced away at the parchment which Joram now held within his vision, but he did not need to read the words penned there.
“I will declare the decree,” he said, never faltering as he recited the words of the Psalmist. “The Lord hath said unto me, Thou art my Son: this day have I begotten thee. Ask of me, and I shall give thee the heathen for thine inheritance, and the uttermost parts of the earth for thy possession.”
He glanced into the boy’s eyes again, fancying he could see some comprehension written there, then released the boy’s left hand, took the dagger from Alister and tested its sharpness against his thumb.
“Alroy Bearand Brion Haldane, Crown Prince of Gwynedd, be consecrated to the service of thy people,” he said, the while squeezing Alroy’s right thumb close in the grip of his free hand.
In two quick motions, he jabbed the boy’s thumb with the point, then turned the blade on his own. The boy did not flinch—only watched dreamily as his bleeding thumb and then his father’s were pressed briefly to the parchment, to the ring. As Joram cast the parchment on Evaine’s brazier, Alister wiped both wounds with a strip of linen which he then laid across his left arm, maniplewise.
Cinhil watched the fresh smoke of the burning parchment spiral upward, to curl lazily against the confines of the protective circle. Only when the parchment was but a crisp of brittle ash on the charcoal did he move again, this time to take a pinch of ash between thumb and forefinger and sprinkle it on the surface of the water in Alister’s cup.
“Give the king Thy judgments, O God, and Thy righteousness unto the king’s son,” he said.
He took the blood-stained ring from Joram and slipped it into the cup as well, sensing their surprise that he had now literally made this a blood-rite, but he could not let that deter him. Somehow he knew that it was necessary, and what further he must do.
As they took their places once more, Joram to his left and Alister to his right, he drew strength from his own resolve. Impassively he took the cup from Alister and turned to face the altar, raised the cup slightly with both hands in salutation to the Divine Presence.
“O Lord, Thou art holy, indeed: the fountain of all holiness. In trembling and humility we come before Thee with our supplications, asking Thy blessing and protection on what we must do this night.”
He turned to face his son, lowering the cup to extend his right palm flat above the rim.
“Send now Thy holy Archangel Raphael, O Lord, to breathe upon this water and make it holy, that they who shall drink of it may justly command the element of Air. Amen.”
A moment more he held his hand motionless there and forged his will, his heart pounding in the unbreathing silence of the warded circle. Trembling, he let his right hand slip down to support the cup with its mate, felt the ring beneath the water vibrating against the snow-white glaze.
A breeze stirred his robe, a lock of hair, wafted a curl of incense smoke past his nostrils, began to circulate with increasing force within the confines of the circle. He saw the wild look in his son’s eyes as the breeze became a wind, a vortex which snapped robes tight to bodies and whipped hair against faces which did not flinch or turn aside.
Evaine’s hood was swept from her head, her hair coming down in a cascade of tinkling golden pins which showered the carpet at their feet. Yellow and iron-grey hair stood out like living, writhing haloes on Joram and Alister, but they did not move—only stood with hands crossed still on blue and purple-clad breasts, serene, implacable, though the bishop did close his eyes briefly, Cinhil noted.
Then, suddenly, the storm was past. Almost before anyone could react, the wind had captured more of the incense smoke and coalesced in a tight spiral centering over the cup which Cinhil still held. He was aware of all their eyes upon him, of an eddy of surprise that he had called up this imagery for the work they did. But there was an undercurrent of acceptance, too—of acquiescence to this approach—and he knew that they would follow his lead.
He watched as the breeze subsided to a tiny, controlled whirlwind hovering above the cup, did not dare to breathe as the funnel sank and touched the surface of the water, stirring it slightly and then dying away.
When all movement on the surface of the water had ceased, when all that stirred was the renewed shaking of his hand, Cinhil closed his eyes briefly and passed the cup to Joram. Joram, apparently unmoved by what he had just seen, bowed solemnly, grey eyes hooded and unfathomable. Holding out the cup beside the entranced Alroy, he extended his right hand over the rim as Cinhil had done.
“O Lord, Thou art holy, indeed: the fountain of all holiness. We pray Thee now send Thy holy Archangel of Fire, the Blessed Michael, to instill this water with the fire of Thy love and make it holy. So may all who drink of it command the element of Fire. Amen.”
A moment, with his hand held over the cup, and then the hand was drawn a little to one side, though still it hovered close. Fire glowed within the hollow of his palm, growing to an egg-sized spheroid of golden flame which hung suspended but a handspan from the cup. The flame roared like the fire of a forge, filling the warded circle with its might.
After a few heartbeats, Joram turned his hand slightly downward and seemed to press the fiery sphe
re into the surface of the water. Steam hissed and spat for just an instant, then ceased as the flame subsided to a cold blue which brooded, barely visible, on the surface and around the rim.
Carefully, reverently, Joram turned toward his sister and extended the cup to her. She tossed her wind-tumbled hair back from her face with a quick, graceful gesture and took the cup, held it close against her breast for just a moment while she gazed into the water.
Then she raised it high in supplication, her eyes focused on and through the glow of flame.
“O Lord, Thou art holy, indeed: the fountain of all holiness. Let now Thine Archangel Gabriel, who rules the stormy waters, instill this cup with the rain of Thy wisdom, that they who shall drink hereof may justly command the element of Water. Amen.”
For an instant there was silence, a growing electric tension in the air. Then lightning crackled in the space above their heads, and thunder rumbled, and a small, dark cloud took form above the cup.
Cinhil gasped, his resolve shaken at what Evaine had called, but the others did not move so neither did he. Evaine’s face was suffused with radiance, her blue eyes focused entirely on this thing she had called.
Thunder rumbled again, lower and less menacing this time, and then a gentle rain began to fall from the little cloud, most of it falling into the cup but a few drops splashing on those who watched. Cinhil flinched as the first drop hit his face, restraining the almost irresistible urge to cross himself, but the rainfall ended almost as soon as it had begun. Abruptly, the cup in Evaine’s hands was only what it had been before, though fuller by perhaps a fingerspan than it had been. The outside of the cup ran with water beaded on the glaze, dripping a little on the precious Kheldish carpet as Evaine handed it to Alister with a bow.
Camber the Heretic Page 10
