“We stand outside time, in a place not of earth. As our ancestors before us bade, we join together and are One.”
He watched as Rhys bowed his head, saw that Camber and Joram had done the same, inclined his own a little in response.
“By Thy Blessed Apostles, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John; by all Thy Holy Angels; by all Powers of Light and Shadow, we call Thee to guard and defend us from all perils, O Most High,” she continued. “Thus it is and has ever been, thus it will be for all times to come. Per omnia saecula saeculorum.”
“Amen,” came the joined response; and Cinhil found that he had answered the same.
They made the sign of the cross together then, and stood a while in silence.
Finally, Rhys turned to face him again, his golden eyes hooded, sun on dark waters. As Joram passed him the cup with a bow, Rhys raised it to eye level between them, his right hand spread flat above the rim, not touching.
“I call the mighty Archangel Raphael, the Healer, Guardian of Wind and Tempest. As the Holy Spirit didst brood upon the waters, so instill thou life into this cup, that he who drinks thereof may justly bid the forces of the Air. Fiat, fiat, fiat voluntas mea.”
As he passed his hand above the cup and exhaled upon it softly, a swirling mist gathered above the wine and settled on its surface. The cup grew cold and frosted even as Cinhil watched, bright beads of condensation sparkling as they ran down Rhys’s hand. Rhys bowed over the cup, then passed it to Joram. The priest lifted the cup as Rhys had done, spread his right hand over it.
“I call the mighty Archangel Michael, the Defender, Keeper of the Gates of Eden. As thy fiery sword guards the Lord of Heaven, so lend thy protection to this cup. That he who drinks thereof may justly forge the might of Fire. Fiat, fiat, fiat voluntas mea.”
A pass of his hand above the cup, a murmured phrase, and cold fire burned blue around the rim and on the surface of the wine. Cinhil closed his eyes and took another deep breath to still his terror. Movement behind told him that Evaine now held the cup.
“I call the mighty Archangel Gabriel, the Herald, who didst bring glad tidings to Our Blessed Lady. Send thou thy wisdom into this cup, that he who drinks thereof may justly guide the knowledge of the Water. Fiat, fiat, fiat voluntas mea.”
Then the cup was in Camber’s hands, the great lord grim and somber as the night. For the fourth time, a hand was extended over the cup, Deryni forces brought into play.
“I call the mighty Archangel Uriel, Angel of Death, who bringest all souls at last to the Nether shore. Herewith I charge this cup, that he who drinks thereof may justly bind the forces of the Earth. Fiat, fiat, fiat voluntas mea.”
Another pass, a dustlike rain of some white powder upon the surface of the wine, and then Camber held it out to Cinhil.
The metal ran with moisture, glistening, cold; and about the rim played ghostly blue frost-fire. Mist brooded on the surface of the wine—wine which was darker now, more opaque. Cinhil felt an icy dread surge through his body, feared the words he knew would come next.
“Take the cup, Cinhil,” Joram’s voice commanded from his right. “Hold the cup before you and repeat the words I say.”
Trembling, Cinhil watched his hands reach out, felt the cup cold and wet and sleek within his grasp. Almost without thinking, he found his hands lifting it as they had lifted countless other cups, though not recently; he realized that what he had seen, what he was about to do, was no whit less sanctified than any priestly act he had ever performed.
That thought sobered him as all his reason had not been able to do. Precise and clear, he echoed the familiar words which Joram bade.
“Libera nos, quaesumus, Domine, ab omnibus malis, praeteritis, praesentibus, et futuris.…” Deliver us, we beseech Thee, O Lord, from every evil, past, present, and to come.… “Per eumdem Dominum nostrum Jesum Christum Filium tuum, qui tecum vivit et regnat in unitate Spiritus Sancti Deus. Per omnia saecula saeculorum.”
“Amen,” the four responded.
Then his hands were bringing the cup toward his lips, and he knew that he would drink.
Power was in the cup now; he could feel it tingling in his hands and surging down his arms even as he held it. The wine was cold and bitter, and he felt it hit his stomach in an icy, leaden mass, felt fire course through his veins, a flash of brilliance sear behind his eyes, as he drained the cup.
A rushing wind surged through his mind, rending, tearing, driving a wall of glass-green water before it; lightning flashing; chasms opening up in the fabric of his being. And pain—an agony so intense he could not even scream.
He felt the cup slipping from his fingers, faintly heard it ring against the muffling carpet beneath his feet. But then he was blind, and he was deaf; and he was falling into the abyss, his mind gripped in a soundless scream of terror.
And the darkness prevailed.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Hear us, my lord; thou art a prince of God among us.
—Genesis 23:6
He lay as one dead for a day and a night after that, his condition watched closely by Rhys, the others hovering anxiously nearby. When on the second morning he opened his eyes again for the first time, they were there, peering down at him eagerly, a dozen unspoken questions on their lips.
But he did not remember what had happened—or said he did not. And no, he did not seem to have any new abilities or powers—why should he? They could not even go into his mind again to see, having relinquished all control over him with the conferring of their spells. If Cinhil had gained power, he was not telling them—perhaps never would, if he was terribly angry at the way they had gone about their task. Or perhaps their attempt had failed, and nothing had happened, other than to throw their future king into a coma for a time. Until he decided to talk about what, exactly, had happened, there was no way for them to know.
They settled in to await the birth of Cinhil’s heir, and to hope.
Summer passed. Outside the haven, Imre’s reprisals against the Michaelines ground to a halt after his men sacked and burned a village adjoining one of the condemned monasteries. If Imre had not stopped it, he might have faced rebellion.
But if the Michaeline furor had died down by the end of the summer, the activities of the Willimites had not. Seizing on the by-now widespread rumors of a living Haldane heir, small bands of Willimite executioners worked their deadly morthwork by night, slaying a full score and more of Deryni folk whose crimes had gone unpunished by the law. At last a Deryni princeling toppled—Termod of Rhorau, cousin of the king himself—and Imre could ignore the Willimites no longer. Outside of Gwynedd, the madness spread even as far north as Kheldour, where human lords still held tenuous rule. Enraged, Imre determined to find the murderers and make an end to the Willimites once and for all.
Royalist troops, under the leadership of Earl Santare, were more successful at rounding up peasants than they had been at running the Michaelines to ground. (Less than a dozen Michaelines were eventually executed, in the seven months of intensive search for members of the ill-starred order.) By the beginning of autumn, more than eighty Willimites, among them the key leaders of the Willimite movement, had been captured, tortured, and horribly executed as an example. Imre, reassured by the dwindling numbers of the enemy he could see, began to worry less and less about one whom he could not see and whose existence, in fact, he had begun to doubt. From not one of the Michaelines or Willimites captured had he been able to get a shred of evidence of a Haldane pretender.
As Michaelmas came and went, still without that evidence, Imre relaxed even more. With Yuletide approaching, it became far easier to become caught up in the gaiety of the season than to worry about a disaster which would probably never come. Besides, it had been nearly a year since the MacRories had disappeared into oblivion.
And in hiding, the promised saviour of his people continued in his solitude. Though he had, by now, fully recovered from his ordeal of May—at least physically—the anticipated manifestation of power did not occur. Cinhi
l continued to read and study as required, seemingly resigned to the fate which had been chosen for him; and after a few strained weeks, he resumed the afternoon visits with Evaine; but there was never again the intimacy of their previous discussions. The Michaelines continued to prepare, and life continued in the haven; but Camber worried about the future—about what would happen when the child was born and they must begin their plans in earnest for the coup. Nor were there any ready answers.
Cinhil’s son was born on the Feast of Saint Luke, as they had known he would be; and with his first lusty cry, his father’s spirits and mental attitude began to change. Cinhil still had not displayed any evidence of arcane powers, nor volunteered any suggestions as to why he could not use them. (Camber suspected that he would not use them. They had gone over every step of the ritual, and there was no chance for error, in light of the reactions Cinhil had made at the time.) But the prince did smile more after the child’s birth. And one night, over dinner with Rhys and Evaine, he actually made a joke.
The event of his son’s birth became a milestone of sorts. Though Cinhil tried hard not to show it, it was soon apparent to everyone that the prince was more than a little proud of his new heir. Quite without prompting, he suggested that it might be appropriate if all of the residents of the haven were invited to the baby’s christening. He even expressed an interest in planning the details with Joram.
Camber conveyed the royal invitation with relief and set the date. It would be November 6, the Feast of Saint Illtyd. Sext, the Sixth Hour, was set for the christening ceremony.
Few had seen the royal infant or mother in the past month, for the Princess Megan had had a difficult birthing, despite Rhys’s best healing efforts. She walked with Cinhil’s support at her elbow as they entered the chapel, radiant if a little unsteady still from her recent confinement. Evaine carried the infant prince to the baptismal font, Rhys at her left side. The look in Cinhil’s eyes was one of dumbstruck awe, and he seemed not even to notice the heads which bent and bowed as he passed into the chamber with his princess, so intent was he upon the bundle of silk kicking lustily in Evaine’s arms. His gaze never left his son as Archbishop Anscom began the form of baptism.
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”
“Amen.”
Rhys and Evaine, the baby’s chosen godparents, stood before the baptismal font opposite Anscom and Joram and another Michaeline whom Anscom had brought with him from Valoret. The archbishop’s gravelly voice reached to every corner of the faceted chapel chamber.
“Exorcizo te, creatura salis, in nomine Dei …”
As Anscom blessed the salt which the priest at his left held forth, Cinhil craned his neck to get a better view; in annoyance, he took Megan’s arm and eased her to a vantage point at Rhys’s left, where they could gaze at their son.
“Aidanus Alroi, accipe sal sapiente …” Anscom intoned. Receive the salt of wisdom …
The baby gurgled and fussed a little as the salt was placed on his tongue, but Evaine cooed and bounced him a bit and he settled down. Anscom, well used to the protestations of salt-tongued infants, went blithely on with the ceremony, laying the end of his stole across the baby’s body.
“Aidanus Alroi, ingredere in templum Dei …” Enter into the temple of God …
When the archbishop had anointed the baby with oil on the breast and between the shoulder blades, he turned his attention on Rhys.
“Aidanus Alroi, credis in Deum, Patrem omnipotentum, Creatorem caeli et terra?”
“Credo,” replied Rhys, answering for his godson. I believe.
“Credis in Jesum Christum Filium ejus unicum, Dominum nostrum?”
“Credo.”
“Credis in Spiritum Sanctum et sanctam Ecclesiam?”
“Credo.”
“Aidanus Alroi, vis baptizari?”
“Volo.” I do.
Smiling slightly, Anscom picked up the silver ewer containing the water for baptism. He could scarcely contain his delight as he turned and offered the ewer to the prince.
“Would Your Highness care to perform this office for his son?”
Cinhil’s jaw dropped and his eyes went round. “I, Your Grace?”
“Even a layman may baptize in necessity, Cinhil,” Anscom said, his smile broadening as he watched the beginning of Cinhil’s comprehension. “I believe you more than qualify.”
Cinhil stared at the archbishop as though unable to believe his ears, joy transfiguring his face as it had not for many, many months.
“Can this be true?” he whispered. “I am to be permitted this?”
Anscom nodded gently and put the ewer into the prince’s hands.
“Fiat, Frater,” he murmured.
Bowing his head in humility, Cinhil took the ewer to his chest and bowed thanks, then turned back to where his son awaited him. The infant had quieted in Evaine’s arms, and as Cinhil motioned her to move closer, the baby yawned and appeared to doze. Evaine shifted so that she could hold the baby over the font, and Rhys laid his right hand on the child’s shoulder.
“Aidanus Alroi Camberus,” Cinhil whispered, beginning to pour the water over the crown of the baby’s head the requisite three times.
Camber’s eyes flashed to Cinhil in surprise as the prince continued, for he had not known that his name was to be given to the royal child.
“Ego te baptizo in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”
But as Cinhil returned the ewer to its place and reached for the towel which Joram held, Rhys froze, then laid both hands on the baby’s head. The infant whimpered once, coughed and gave a little sigh; then it was still. As Rhys’s jaw dropped in shock, Cinhil’s eyes darted to the child.
“Sweet Jesus, what’s wrong with him? Why isn’t he moving? He’s not breathing!”
Rhys stared numbly, not daring to speak the icy horror which lay beneath his hands, and Evaine raised stunned eyes to the prince.
“He—he’s dead, Cinhil,” she said in a small voice.
There was no sound in the chapel for perhaps five heartbeats, and then Princess Megan gave a little cry and fainted. Guaire of Arliss caught her as she crumpled, his stricken “My Lady!” breaking the still tableau; but even as Cinhil turned shocked eyes toward her, he clutched at his chest in pain and started to collapse.
He caught himself on the edge of the baptismal font, clung to it unsteadily, drunkenly, clamped his eyes shut and shook his head as though to break free of some binding force which would crush him. White-knuckled, he bent over the rim of the font, a long, almost animal cry escaping his lips as he stared into the water. Then he jerked upright to look wildly about him, a terrible expression lighting his eyes.
“They have killed my son!” he cried, his glance striking each of them as though with physical blows. “They have killed my son, and now they seek to destroy me!”
“Who is trying to destroy you, Cinhil?” Camber retorted. “Name your attackers! Tell us what you feel!” His eyes sought some clue around the room, yet were drawn back to fasten on Cinhil in dread fascination. He could detect no attack, no hostile threat at all. If Cinhil was under attack, his assailant was very skilled.
“No, not they—he!” Cinhil gasped. “He is in this room! He is one whom we trusted. Do not touch me!” he added, as Rhys moved as though to restrain him.
Whirling about abruptly, he snatched the body of the dead baby from Evaine and clutched it protectively as he backed against the altar.
“We will find him, my Aidan,” he whispered savagely. “I will avenge you!”
“Cinhil!” Camber’s voice cut through the rising horror as though he had shouted, though he had scarcely raised his voice. “Cinhil, there is nothing you can do. Let Rhys take the baby. Perhaps he can—”
“No. He is dead.” The voice was flat, leaden. “I know it, Camber, with the sure certainty which you yourself tried to teach me.” He swept his hard gaze around the room again. “One of you has betrayed me!”
“Has he gon
e mad?” Joram whispered to Rhys.
Rhys shook his head. “No. The baby was poisoned—in the salt, I think. I—”
The prince had been scanning everyone in the room, and now he whirled and strode to the center of the chapel, there to glare in outrage at a man in the habit of a Michaeline priest—the same priest who had been assisting Anscom with the baptism. The man’s eyes were calm, unreadable, until Cinhil took a single step closer and whispered, “You!”
As all eyes locked on the priest, and those closest shrank away, a change came upon the man. His eyes came alive, the body stood straighter—and then the arms were upraised in the beginnings of a spell, fingers moving in a certain pattern of attack and defense.
Instinctively, Cinhil threw up one arm in a warding-off gesture, a faint corona of pinkish fire partially veiling his face. He gaped at the man unabashedly as everyone else crowded against the walls.
“You, a priest, would dare raise hand against brother?” Cinhil murmured, unaware of what he had just done.
The Michaeline said nothing; only stood and stared across at the Haldane heir, his eyes smoldering.
Power was building in the center of the room. But if Cinhil’s attacker was a trained Deryni, Cinhil himself was at least untested, and neither had yet paused to cast a protective circle around the battle area. Camber, fearing for the humans among them, signed for his kin to shield the noncombatants. It was just in time, for Cinhil’s next words shook the very air, the ancient, awesome phrases echoing from arch and joist and mosaicked panels.
Cinhil’s words brought crimson fire to encircle him—a dancing, living flame which was not so much seen as felt and experienced, by those on the outside. It was a fire which was sensed, if at all, out of the corner of the eye—which disappeared when sought head-on, but which was no less deadly should it come within reach of the unprotected. Cinhil stood straight and terrible, his dead son clasped close against his breast.
The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy Page 29