“Three!”
This time, he gave but a fleeting outward hint of the reaction triggered by the rune: a blink, an interrupted breath immediately resumed. Then he took up the cup of water and turned toward Brion, gesturing with his eyes for Brion to extend his hands, which he did.
“Lavabo inter innocentes manus meas,” he whispered, as he poured a little of the water over the king’s hands, in a gesture familiar from the Mass. I will wash my hands among the innocent.
When the king had dried his hands on the edge of cloak Alaric offered, Alaric handed him the cup.
“Pour water in the silver to a finger’s depth, Sire,” he said softly.
Brion complied, then bent to set the cup on the ground. Nigel, without being told, moved to the opposite side of the stone and knelt, still clasping the scabbard to his breast.
“Now,” Alaric prompted, “spread both hands flat above the water and repeat after me. Your hands are already holy, consecrated with chrism at your coronation just as a priest’s hands are consecrated. I am instructed that this is appropriate.”
With a swallow, Brion obeyed, his gaze locking with Alaric’s, grey eyes to grey, as the boy began speaking.
“I, Brion, the Lord’s Anointed . . .”
“I, Brion, the Lord’s Anointed . . .”
“. . . bless and consecrate thee, O creature of water . . .”
“. . . bless and consecrate thee, O creature of water . . . by the living God, by the true God, by the holy God . . . by that God Who, in the beginning, separated thee by His Word from the dry land . . . and Whose Spirit moved upon thee.”
“Amen,” Alaric whispered.
“Amen,” Brion echoed.
“Now, dip the fingers of your right hand in the water,” Alaric began, “and trace on the stone—”
“I know this part!” Brion broke in. His right hand was already parting the water in the sign of a cross as he, too, was caught up in that web of recall established so many years before by his royal father. His every gesture, every nuance of phrasing and pronunciation, was correct and precise as he then moved to touch a moistened finger to the stone in front of the silver.
“Blessed be the Creator, yesterday and today, the Beginning and the End, the Alpha and the Omega.”
A cross glistened wetly on the stone, the Greek letters drawn confidently at the east and west aspects.
“His are the seasons and the ages, to Him glory and dominion through all the ages of eternity. Blessed be the Lord. Blessed be His Holy Name.”
As he spoke, he had traced symbols of the elements in the four quadrants cut by the cross—Air, Fire, Water, Earth—and as he realized their significance, the king drew back his hand as though stung and stared aghast at Alaric.
“How—” He swallowed. “How did I know that?”
Alaric permitted himself a wan smile, by now all but resigned to acting upon memories and instructions he could not consciously remember.
“Just as I was, you have also been schooled for this day, Sire,” he said. “Now you have but to carry out the rest of your father’s instructions, and take up the power that is rightfully yours.”
Brion bowed his head, the jewels on his leather circlet catching the strengthening sunlight. “I—am not certain I know how. From what we have seen and done so far, there must other triggers, other clues to aid me, but—” He glanced up at the boy. “You must give me more guidance. You are the master here, not I.”
“No, Sire,” the boy whispered, touching one forefinger to the water and bringing a shimmering droplet toward Brion’s face. “You are the master.”
The king’s eyes tracked on the fingertip instinctively as it approached, closing as the droplet touched the center of his forehead. A shudder passed through the royal body, and Brion blinked. Then, in a daze, he reached to his throat and unfastened the great lion brooch that held his cloak in place, letting the red wool pool behind him, hefting the piece in his hand as the words came.
Three drops of royal blood on water bright,
to gather flame within a bowl of light.
With consecrated hands, receive the Might
of Haldane—’tis thy royal, sacred Right.
The king gazed unseeing at Alaric, at Nigel, at the red enameled brooch heavy in his hand. Then he turned the brooch over and freed the golden clasp pin from its catch, held out a left hand that did not waver.
“Three drops of royal blood on water bright,” he repeated. He brought the clasp against his thumb in a swift, sharp jab. As blood welled from the wound, he laid the brooch aside and squeezed the thumb, letting three dark drops fall upon the water—once, twice, thrice—to spread scarlet, concentric circles across the silver surface. A touch of tongue to wounded thumb, and then he was spreading his hands above the water, closing his eyes.
Stillness. A crystalline anticipation as Brion began to concentrate. And then, as Alaric extended his right hand above Brion’s two and added his strength to the spell, a deep, musical reverberation, more felt than heard, throbbing through their minds. As the sunlight brightened, so also brightened the space beneath Brion’s hands, until finally could be seen the ghostly beginnings of crimson fire flickering on the water. Brion’s emotionless expression did not change as Alaric withdrew his hand and knelt.
“Fear not, for I have redeemed thee,” Alaric whispered, calling the words from memories not his own as the fire grew. “I have called thee by name, and thou art mine. When thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned: neither shall the flame kindle upon thee. . . .”
Brion did not open his eyes, but as Alaric’s words faded into silence, the king took a deep breath and slowly, deliberately, brought his hands to rest flat on the silver of the bowl, heedless of the fire. Nigel gasped as his brother’s hands entered the flames, but no word or sound escaped Brion’s lips to indicate the ordeal he was enduring. Head thrown back and eyes closed, the king stood unflinching as the crimson fire climbed his arms and spread over his entire body. But when the flames shortly died away, Brion opened his eyes upon a world that would never appear precisely the same again, and in which he could never again be merely mortal.
He leaned heavily on the altar-stone for just a moment, letting himself settle back into his body as he caught his breath. But when he lifted his hands from the stone, his brother stifled an oath. Where the royal hands had rested, the silver was black, burned away. Only the dark silhouettes remained, etched indelibly in the hollowed surface of the rock.
Brion went a little pale when he saw what he had done, and Nigel crossed himself, but Alaric merely got to his feet and returned to the east, throwing back his head and extending his arms before the Haldane sword in a banishing spell, watching the canopy of golden light dissipate as he turned his hands downward and lowered his arms.
But as he laid his hands on the hilt of the Haldane sword, he suddenly realized that they were no longer alone. While they had worked their magic, the men following Nigel had found the royal campsite: ten livery-clad Haldane lancers with bows slung across their backs. They were gathered near the horses in as uneasy a band as Alaric had ever seen. Neither Brion nor Nigel seemed to have noticed yet, apparently still caught up in what had happened.
At once Alaric pulled the sword from the ground and hurried back to the king to present it hilt first, hoping he would not get an arrow in the back before he could surrender it, for the men would not take kindly to a Deryni handling the precious Haldane sword. At the same time, Nigel also noticed the men and touched Brion’s elbow to warn him, jutting his chin in their direction as his brother looked up. As Brion turned toward them in surprise, hand now on the hilt of his sword, they went to their knees as one man, several crossing themselves furtively.
“Bloody hell,” Brion murmured under his breath. “Did they see?”
Alaric gave a careful nod, keeping his hands in sight, away from his bod
y. “So it would appear, Sire. I suggest that you go to them immediately and reassure them. Otherwise, the more timid among them are apt to bolt and run.” He did not add that the men might well shoot him.
“They would run from me, their king?”
“You are more than a mere man to them just now, Sire,” Alaric said uncomfortably. “They have seen that with their own eyes. Go to them, and quickly.”
With a sigh, Brion took the scabbard from Nigel and sheathed the Haldane sword, giving it into his brother’s keeping, then twitched at his battle harness and strode across the clearing toward the men, nervously wiping his hands against his thighs. The men watched his movements furtively as he came to a halt perhaps half a dozen steps from the nearest of them. Noting their scrutiny, especially of his hands, he lifted them to show the palms.
“You are entitled to an explanation,” he said simply, as all eyes fastened on the hands, which bore no mark upon them. “As you can see, I am unharmed. I am very sorry if my actions caused you concern. Please rise.”
The men got to their feet, only the chinking of their harness breaking the sudden stillness that had befallen the glade. Behind the king, Alaric quietly gathered up the king’s cloak and the lion brooch and came after him, Nigel at his side with the royal sword. The men were silent, a few shifting uneasily, until one of the bolder ones cleared his throat and took a half step nearer.
“Sire.”
“Lord Ralson?”
“Sire.” The man shifted uneasily from one foot to the other and glanced at his comrades. “Sire, it appears to us that there was magic afoot,” he said carefully. “We question the wisdom of allowing a Deryni to influence you so. When we saw—”
“What did you see, Gerald?” Brion asked softly.
Gerald Ralson cleared his throat again. “Well, I—we—that is, when we arrived, Sire, you were holding that brooch in your hand”—he gestured toward the lion brooch that Alaric held—“and then we saw you stab it into your thumb. You looked—not yourself, Sire. As if—as if something else was commanding you.” He eyed Alaric meaningfully, and several of the other men moved closer behind him, hands creeping to rest on the hilts of their weapons.
“I see,” Brion said. “And you think that it was Alaric who commanded me?”
“It appeared so to us, Majesty,” another man rumbled, beard jutting defiantly.
Brion nodded. “And then you watched me hold my hands above the stone, and Alaric held his above my own. And then you saw me engulfed in flame—and that frightened you most of all.”
The speaker nodded tentatively, and his movement was echoed by nearly every head there, along with low murmurs of frightened agreement. Brion sighed and glanced at the ground, looked up at them again.
“My lords, I will not lie to you. You were witness to very powerful magic. And I will not deny, nor will Alaric, that he lent me his assistance. And the Duke of Corwyn is, most definitely, Deryni.”
The men said nothing, though a few exchanged glances.
“But there is more you cannot be aware of,” Brion continued, keeping them snared in his grey Haldane gaze. “Each of you has heard the legends of my house—how, nearly two centuries ago, we returned to the throne of Gwynedd when the Deryni Imre was deposed. But do you really think that the Haldanes could have ousted a Deryni usurper without some power of their own?”
“Are you saying, then, that you are Deryni, Sire?” asked one bold soul from the rear ranks.
Brion smiled and shook his head. “No—or at least, I don’t believe that I am. But the Haldanes do have very special gifts and abilities, handed down from father to son—or sometimes from brother to brother.” His glance flicked briefly to Nigel, now standing at his right. “You know that we can sometimes tell when a man is lying, that we have great physical stamina.
“But we also have other powers when they are needed, which enable us to function as if we were, ourselves, Deryni. My father, King Cinhil, entrusted a few of these abilities to me before his death, but there were other abilities whose very existence he kept secret, for which he left certain instructions with Alaric Morgan, unknown even to him—and which were triggered by the threat of Hogan Gwernach’s challenge which we received last night. Alaric was a child of four when he was instructed by my father, so that even he would not remember his instructions until it was necessary. And apparently I was also instructed.
“The result, in part, was what you saw. If there was a commanding force, another influence present within the fiery circle, it was my father’s. The rite is now fulfilled, and I am my father’s successor in every way, with all his powers and abilities.”
“Your late father provided for all of this?” one of the men whispered.
Brion nodded. “There is no evil in it, Alwyne. You knew my father well. You know that he would never have drawn down evil.”
“No, he would not,” the man replied, glancing at Alaric almost involuntarily. “But, what of the Deryni lad?”
“Our fathers, mine and his, made a pact: that Alaric Morgan should come to court to serve me when he reached the proper age. That bargain has been kept. Alaric Morgan serves me and the realm of Gwynedd.”
“But, he is Deryni, Sire! What if he is in league with—”
“He is in league with me!” Brion retorted, setting his left hand on Alaric’s shoulder. “He is my liege man, just as all of you, sworn to my service since the age of nine. In that time, he has rarely left my side. Given the compulsions that my father placed upon him, do you really believe that he could betray me?”
Ralson cleared his throat, boldly moving a step forward and making a bow before the king could continue.
“Sire, it is best that we do not discuss the boy. None of us here, Your Majesty included, can truly know what is in his heart. You are the issue now. If you were to reassure us, in some way, that you harbor no ill intent, that you have not allied yourself with dark powers—”
“Do you require my oath to that effect?” the king said softly, letting his hand fall from Alaric’s shoulder. The mildness of his response was, itself, suddenly threatening. “You would be that bold?”
Ralson nodded carefully, not daring to respond with words, and his movement was again echoed by most of the men standing at his back. After a frozen moment, Brion gave his brother a curt nod. At once Nigel unsheathed the Haldane sword and knelt to hold up the cross-hilt before the king. Brion laid his bare right hand upon it and faced his waiting men.
“Before all of you and before God, and upon this holy sword, I swear that I am innocent of your suspicions, that I have made no dark pact with any evil power, that the rite you have witnessed was benevolent and legitimate. I further swear that I have never been, nor am I now, commanded by Alaric Morgan or any other man, human or Deryni; that he is as innocent as I of any evil intent toward the people and crown of Gwynedd. This is the oath of Brion Donal Cinhil Urien Haldane, King of Gwynedd, Prince of Meara, and Lord of the Purple March. If I be forsworn, may this sword shatter in my hour of need, may all succor desert me, and may the name of Haldane vanish from the earth.”
In silence he crossed himself slowly, deliberately: a gesture that was echoed by Alaric, Nigel, and then the rest of the men who had witnessed the oath. Then he set his hand on the hilt of the sword and took it from Nigel, raising it.
“Now: ride with me to Rustan!”
Chapter 46
“Thou wilt prolong the king’s life . . .”
—PSALMS 61:6
THE rest of Nigel’s lancers caught up with them while they were breaking camp, along with a score of Arban Howell’s men led by Arban himself. All the day long, their expanded party clambered along the rugged Llegoddin Canyon Trace: a winding trail treacherous with stream-tumbled stones that sometimes shifted beneath the horses’ hooves.
The stream responsible for their footing ran shallow along their right, sometimes spilling onto
the trail and sometimes even crossing it. At least it was cool in the little canyon, the shade a refreshing respite from the glaring sun, but Alaric knew that the echo of steel-shod hooves would announce their approach long before they actually reached Rustan. Along the last few miles, the canyon walls closed in on them until the riders were obliged to go two abreast. Alaric thought it seemed a perfect place for an ambush, though his increasing knack for sensing danger gave them almost no warning.
Right after the track made a sharp turn through the stream again, it suddenly opened out to a wide, grassy meadow of several acres. Across the center waited a long and broad line of armored horsemen, nearly twice the number of Gwynedd’s forces—and most of the king’s men were still behind them.
The Tolan men were mailed and helmed with steel, their lances and war axes gleaming in the afternoon sun. Their white-clad leader sat a heavy sorrel destrier before them, lance in hand and banner bright at his back. The device on the banner gave little doubt regarding his pretension. Along with the ducal arms of Tolan—the ermine field with a red lion’s jambe clutching a coronet—he had quartered royal Gwynedd.
An academic point, however. All around Alaric, Brion and Nigel and the others were drawing their swords, urging their horses forward so the men behind could crowd after them. Suddenly Alaric realized that this was real, no training exercise, that very soon the men ahead were going to try to kill him and those around him. Even as he drew his own sword, and as the men behind jostled to ride clear of the canyon’s confines, the Festillic pretender lowered his lance and began the attack.
The thunder of their charge shook the ground, punctuated by the jingle of harness and mail, the creak of leather, the snorting and whinnies of the heavy Tolan warhorses and the lighter steeds of the lancers. As quickly as they could, the Gwynedd men fanned out to absorb the charge. Just before the two forces clashed, a man charging near the king shouted, “A Haldane!”—a cry that was picked up and echoed immediately by most of his comrades in arms.
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