by Paula Guran
“This is a very special bracelet, Alaric. Did you know that?”
The boy shook his head, his gray eyes flicking from the king’s face to the flash of silver. The bracelet was a curved rectangle of metal as wide as a man’s hand, its mirror-sheen broken only by the carved outline of a heraldic rose. But it was the inside which the king turned toward him now—the inner surface, also highly polished but bearing a series of three curiously carved symbols which the boy did not recognize—though at four, he could already read the scriptures and simple texts from which his mother taught him.
The king turned the bracelet so that the first sigil was visible and held his fingernail beneath it. With a piercing glance at the boy’s mother, he murmured the word, “One!” The room spun, and Alaric had remembered nothing more of that night.
But the fourteen-year-old Alaric remembered now. Holding the bracelet in his hands, the old king’s successor waiting expectantly beside him, Alaric suddenly knew that this was the key, that he was the key who could unlock the instructions left him by a dying man so many years before. He turned the bracelet in his hands and peered at the inside—he knew now that the symbols were runes, though he still could not read them—then raised gray eyes to meet those of his king.
“This is a time which your royal father anticipated, Sire. There are things which I must do, and you, and,” he glanced uneasily at the bracelet before meeting Brion’s eyes again, “and somehow he knew that I would be at your side when this time arrived.”
“Yes, I can see that now,” Brion said softly. “ ‘There will be a half-Deryni child called Morgan who will come to you in his youth,’ my father said. ‘Him you may trust with your life and with all. He is the key who unlocks many doors.’ ” He searched Alaric’s eyes carefully. “He knew. Even your presence was by his design.”
“And was the Marluk also his design?” Nigel whispered, his tone conveying resentment at the implied manipulation, though the matter was now rendered academic.
“Ancient mine enemy,” Brion murmured. His face assumed a gentle, faraway air. “No, he did not cause the Marluk to be, Nigel. But he knew there was a possibility, and he planned for that. It is said that the sister of the last Festillic king was with child when she was forced to flee Gwynedd. The child’s name was—I forget—not that it matters. But his line grew strong in Tolan, and they were never forced to put aside their Deryni powers. The Marluk is said to be that child’s descendant.”
“And full Deryni, if what they say is true,” Nigel replied, his face going sullen. “Brion, we aren’t equipped to handle a confrontation with the Marluk. He’s going to be waiting for us tomorrow with an army and his full Deryni powers. And us? We’ll have eighty men of my vanguard, maybe we’ll have the rest of the Haldane levies, if Uncle Richard gets back in time, and you’ll have—what?—to stand against a full Deryni lord who has good reason to want your throne!”
Brion wet his lips, avoiding his brother’s eyes. “Alaric says that Father made provisions. We have no choice but to trust and see. Regardless of the outcome, we must try to save Rustan town tomorrow. Alaric, can you help us?”
“I—will try, Sire.”
Disturbed by the near-clash between the two brothers, and sobered by the responsibility Brion had laid upon him, Alaric laid his right forefinger beneath the first rune, grubby fingernail underscoring the deeply carved sign. He could feel the Haldane eyes upon him as he whispered the word, “One!”
The word paralyzed him, and he was struck deaf and blind to all externals, oblivious to everything except the images flashing through his mind—the face of the old king seen through the eyes of a four-year-old boy—and the instructions, meaningless to the four-year-old, now re-engraving themselves in the young man’s mind as deeply as the runes inscribed on the silver in his hand.
A dozen heartbeats, a blink, and he was in the world again, turning his gray gaze on the waiting Brion. The king and Nigel stared at him with something approaching awe, their faces washed clean of whatever doubts had remained until that moment. In the moonlight, Alaric seemed to glow a little.
“We must find a level area facing east,” the boy said. His young brow furrowed in concentration. “There must be a large rock in the center, living water at our backs, and—and we must gather wildflowers.”
It was nearing first-light before they were ready. A suitable location had been found in a bend of the stream a little way below their camp, with water tumbling briskly along the northern as well as the western perimeter. To the east stretched an unobstructed view of the mountains from behind which the sun would shortly rise. A large, stream-smoothed chunk of granite half the height of a man had been dragged into the center of the clearing with the aid of the horses, and four lesser stones had been set up to mark the four cardinal compass points.
Now Alaric and Nigel were laying bunches of field flowers around each of the cornerstones, in a pattern which Alaric could not explain but which he knew must be maintained. Brion, silent and withdrawn beneath his crimson cloak, sat near the center stone with arms wrapped around his knees, sheathed sword lying beside him. A knot of blazing pine had been thrust into the ground at his right to provide light for what the others did, but Brion saw nothing, submerged in contemplation of what lay ahead. Alaric, with a glance at the brightening sky, set a small drinking vessel of water to the left of the center stone and dropped to one knee beside the king. An uneasy Nigel snuffed out the torch and drew back a few paces as Alaric took up the bracelet and laid his finger under the second rune.
“Two!”
There was a moment of profound silence in which none of the three moved, and then Alaric looked up and placed the bracelet in the king’s hand once more.
“The dawn is nearly upon us, Sire,” he said quietly. “I require the use of your sword.”
“Eh?”
With a puzzled look, Brion glanced at the weapon and picked it up, wrapped the red leather belt more tidily around the scabbard, then scrambled to his feet. It had been his father’s sword, and his grandfather’s. It was also the sword with which he had been consecrated king nearly ten years before. Since that day, no man had drawn it save himself.
But without further query, Brion drew the blade and formally extended it to Alaric across his left forearm, hilt first. Alaric made a profound bow as he took the weapon, appreciating the trust the act implied, then saluted the king and moved to the other side of the rock. Behind him, the eastern sky was ablaze with pink and coral.
“When the rim of the sun appears above the horizon, I must ward us with fire, my liege,” he said. “Please do not be surprised or alarmed at anything which may happen.”
Brion nodded, and as he and Nigel drew themselves to respectful attention, Alaric turned on his heel and strode to the eastern limit of the clearing. Raising the sword before him with both hands, he held the cross-hilt level with his eyes and gazed expectantly toward the eastern horizon. And then, as though the sun’s movement had not been a gradual and natural thing, dawn was spilling from behind the mountains.
The first rays of sunlight on sword turned the steel to fire. Alaric let his gaze travel slowly up the blade, to the flame now blazing at its tip and shimmering down its length, then extended the sword in salute and brought it slowly to ground before him. Fire leaped up where blade touched sun-parched turf—a fire which burned but did not consume—and a ribbon of flame followed as he turned to the right and walked the confines of the wards.
When he had finished, he was back where he began, all three of them standing now within a hemisphere of golden light. The boy saluted sunward once again, with hands that shook only a little, then returned to the center of the circle. Grounding the now-normal blade, he extended it to Nigel with a bow, the hilt held cross-wise before him. As the prince’s fingers closed around the blade, Alaric turned back toward the center stone and bowed his head. Then he held his hands outstretched before him, fingers slightly cupped—gazed fixedly at the space between them.
Noth
ing appeared to happen for several minutes, though Alaric could feel the power building between his hands. King and prince and squire stared until their eyes watered, then blinked in astonishment as the space between Alaric’s hands began to glow. Pulsating with the heartbeat of its creator, the glow coalesced in a sphere of cool, verdant light, swelling to head-size even as they watched. Slowly, almost reverently, Alaric lowered his hands toward the stream-smoothed surface of the center stone; watched as the sphere of light spread bright across the surface.
He did not dare to breathe, so tenuous was the balance he maintained. Drawing back the sleeve of his tunic, he swept his right hand and arm across the top of the stone like an adze, shearing away the granite as though it were softest sand. Another pass to level the surface even more, and then he was pressing out a gentle hollow with his hand, the stone melting beneath his touch like morning frost before the sun.
Then the fire was dead, and Alaric Morgan was no longer the master mage, tapping the energies of the earth’s deepest forge, but only a boy of fourteen, staggering to his knees in exhaustion at the feet of his king and staring in wonder at what his hands had wrought. Already, he could not remember how he had done it.
Silence reigned for a long moment, finally broken by Brion’s relieved sigh as he tore his gaze from the sheared-off stone. A taut, frightened Nigel was staring at him and Alaric, white-knuckled hands gripping the sword hilt as though it were his last remaining hold on reality. With a little smile of reassurance, Brion laid a hand on his brother’s. He felt a little of the tension drain away as he turned back to the young man still kneeling at his feet.
“Alaric, are you all right?”
“Aye, m’lord.”
With a weak nod, Alaric brought a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes, murmuring a brief spell to banish fatigue. Another deep breath and it was done. Smiling wanly, he climbed to his feet and took the bracelet from Brion’s hands once more, bent it flat and laid it in the hollow he had made in the rock. The three runes, one yet unrevealed, shone in the sunlight as he stretched forth his right hand above the silver.
“ ‘I form the light and create darkness,’ ” the boy whispered. “ ‘I make peace and create evil: I the Lord do all these things.’ ”
He did not physically move his hand, although muscles and tendons tensed beneath the tanned skin. Nonetheless, the silver began to curve away, to conform to the hollow of the stone as though another, invisible hand were pressing down between his hand and the metal. The bracelet collapsed on itself and grew molten then, though there was no heat given off. When Alaric removed his hand a few seconds later, the silver was bonded to the hollow like a shallow, silver bowl, all markings obliterated save the third and final rune. He laid his finger under the sign and spoke its name.
“Three!”
This time, there was but a fleeting outward hint of the reaction triggered: a blink, an interrupted breath immediately resumed. Then he was taking up the vessel of water and turning toward Brion, gesturing with his eyes for Brion to extend his hands. Water was poured over them, the edge of Alaric’s cloak offered for a towel. When the king had dried his hands, Alaric handed him the rest of the water. “Pour water in the silver to a finger’s depth. Sire,” he said softly. Brion complied, setting the vessel on the ground when he had finished. Nigel, without being told, moved to the opposite side of the stone and knelt, holding the sword so that the long, cross-shadow of the hilt fell across rock and silver.
“Now,” Alaric continued, “spread your hands flat above the water and repeat after me. Your hands are 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 eyes locking with Alaric’s 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 your fingers in the water,” Alaric began, “and trace on the stone—”
“I know this part!” Brion interrupted, his hand already parting the water in the sign of a cross. He, too, was being caught up in that web of recall established so many years before by his royal father, and his every gesture, every nuance of phrasing and pronunciation, was correct and precise as he touched 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 shone wetly on the stone, the Greek letters drawn haltingly but precisely 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.”
The signs of the Elementals glistened where Brion had drawn them in the four quadrants cut by the cross—Air, Fire, Water, Earth—and Brion, as he recognized the alchemical signs, drew back his hand as though stung, stared aghast at Alaric.
“How—?” He swallowed. “How did I know that?”
Alaric permitted a wan smile, sharing Brion’s discomfiture at being compelled to act upon memories and instructions which he could not consciously remember.
“You, too, have 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 which is rightfully yours.”
Brion bowed his head, sleek, raven hair catching the strengthening sunlight. “I—am not certain I know how. From what we have seen and done so far, there must be other triggers, other clues to aid me, but—” He glanced up at the boy. “You must give me guidance, Alaric. You are the master here—not I.”
“No, you are the master, Sire,” the boy said, touching one finger to the water and bringing a shimmering drop toward Brion’s face.
The king’s eyes tracked on the fingertip automatically, and as the droplet touched his forehead, the eyes closed. 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 which held his cloak in place. He hefted the piece in his hand as the cloak fell in a heap at his feet and the words came.
“Three drops of royal blood on water bright,
To gather flame within a bowl of light.
With consecrated hands, receive the Sight
Of Haldane—’tis thy sacred, royal Right.”
The king glanced at Alaric unseeing, 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 which 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.
Blood welled from the wound and fell thrice upon the water, rippling scarlet, concentric circles across the silver surface. A touch of tongue to wounded thumb, and then he was putting the brooch aside and spreading his hands above the water, the shadow of the cross bold upon his hands. He closed his eyes.
Stillness. A crystalline anticipation as Brion began to concentrate. And then, as Alaric extended his right hand above Brion’s 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. “I have called thee by name, a
nd 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 ended, the king took a deep breath and slowly, deliberately, brought his hands to rest flat on the silver of the bowl. There was a gasp from Nigel 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, he stood unflinching as the crimson fire climbed his arms and spread over his entire body. When the flames died away, Brion opened his eyes upon a world which 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 the fatigue drain away. But when he lifted his hands from the stone, his brother stifled an oath. Where the royal hands had lain, the silver had been burned away. Only the blackened silhouettes remained etched indelibly in the hollowed surface of the rock. Brion blanched a little when he saw what he had done, and Nigel crossed himself. But Alaric paid no heed—stood, instead, and turned to face the east once more, extending his arms in a banishing spell. The canopy of fire dissipated in the air.
They were no longer alone, however. While they had worked their magic, some of the men of Nigel’s vanguard had found the royal campsite—an even dozen of his crack commanders and tacticians—and they were gathered now by the horses in as uneasy a band as Alaric had ever seen. Brion did not notice them immediately, his mind occupied still with sorting out his recent experience, but Alaric saw them and touched Brion’s elbow in warning. As Brion turned toward them in surprise, they went to their knees as one man, several crossing themselves furtively. Brion’s brow furrowed in momentary annoyance.
