—I Timothy 4:14
Trying to remain unobtrusive, Cinhil Haldane peered through the doorway of his private chapel and watched the preparations which were taking place. That long-familiar refuge for so many years of his life had taken on a strangeness under the ministrations of Joram and, especially, Evaine—a strangeness he had sensed building for hours, even as he napped and read and prayed in the adjoining royal suite.
They had all come to see him privately at some time during the day. Alister had come first, just past Terce, later than was his usual wont but the more rested for having slept a few extra hours. Cinhil knew that the bishop had not had much chance for sleep last night, for the two of them had prayed together nearly until Matins.
After Alister had come Joram; and then Rhys, Evaine, and finally Jebediah—whose visit had been perhaps the saddest of all, for the Michaeline knight would not be able to share in this last task—had already said his final goodbyes. Even now he was arming himself to stand guard outside the royal suite, that the work inside might not be disturbed.
Now, there was another Deryni who did not fit the traditional mold which humans would ascribe to all of that race—a gentle and a compassionate man, for all that he was warrior, born and bred. The king wondered why Jebediah thought the regents would not keep him on as earl marshal, once Cinhil was gone. Cinhil had assured him that his fears were groundless on all counts, but he was not certain that the earl marshal was convinced.
One fear which was not groundless, however, was the likelihood of Cinhil’s impending death—not that Cinhil himself was particularly frightened by the prospect any more. Even the means of death did not dismay him, or hold for him the stark, soul-withering terror it once would have. This magic was of his choosing and his direction.
Dispassionately he accepted that his life would likely end within these walls tonight—and that he was content that this be so, if only he could accomplish his last intentions. And such an end, in the service of his sons, was infinitely better than dragging on and on, ever weaker, eventually bedridden and coughing out his life in a final fit of blood and pain.
He had told Alister so. He had made his final confession this morning and received absolution. After, he had secretly celebrated his last Mass, with Alister to assist him, reverently donning the beloved vestments technically forbidden him since a long-ago Christmas Eve when a long-dead archbishop had pronounced him prince instead of priest. That Cinhil had resumed his priestly office and continued to exercise it faithfully over the years was a secret which only he and Alister shared, a secret of the confessional which both men would carry to their graves. His reception of the Sacrament as priest, one final time, had lent him strength to face the rest of the day’s demands. Later, Alister would give one final sacrament, in its time; and after that, there would be peace. He would welcome peace, after the life he had been forced to lead.
With a sigh, he glanced into the chapel. It seemed almost stark compared to its usual appearance, dark but for the Presence Lamp and a single taper on a small table in the center of the room. After the servants had finished the general cleaning, Evaine and Rhys had removed everything except the heavy altar against the eastern wall and the thick Kheldish carpet which covered the tile at the foot of the altar steps. This last they had moved to the center of the chamber, and brought in a smaller one which they spread in the northeast corner. Then Joram had disappeared through an opening to the left of the altar which was there and not-there, almost in the blinking of an eye. Evaine and Alister and Jebediah had continued the preparations.
New, fresh altar cloths and hangings had been laid in place next, the altar candles replaced with new ones, the sanctuary lamp replenished with oil, woman and bishop and Michaeline knight performing all these tasks with reverence and a serenity which seemed to extend even to the doorway where Cinhil watched. Four candlesticks with colored glass shields in gold and red and blue and green now stood at the cardinal points of the room, very like those which had stood guard at his own rite so many years before, though his had all been white.
He was momentarily startled then by a fully-armed Jebediah brushing past him, well-burnished mail clinking softly as he moved, the white belt of his knighthood gleaming against the dark Michaeline blue of surcoat and greatcloak. He bore Cinhil’s sword of state in his gloved hands, the jeweled belt wrapped loosely around the carved and gem-studded scabbard.
Jebediah nodded respect to the king as he passed, but he did not pause. Crossing the chapel to where Alister looked up expectantly, he bowed to the altar’s Presence and then knelt to lay the sheathed weapon across Alister’s outstretched palms. Alister bowed over the sword, then laid it on the altar and began lighting the altar candles with a taper kindled from the Presence Light itself. After that, he knelt on the altar steps and bowed his grizzled head in prayer, gnarled hands folded loosely on his knee.
Jebediah, when he had seen the candles lit, bobbed his head in obeisance once more, then rose and left the chapel as quickly as he had come. Cinhil felt a pang of loss as the knight disappeared through the outer door. He knew he would not see Jebediah again.
Small sounds: the chink of metal against glass. In the center of the room, Evaine was arranging objects on the table—a thurible; a small, footed cup of white-glazed clay, filled with water; a slender silver dagger which Cinhil thought he remembered having seen at Evaine’s belt on several occasions. Its metal gleamed in the light of the taper, potent but somehow not sinister. Underneath the table, though he could not see them for the white cloth brushing the carpet all around, were Rhys’s medical kit, a pair of mismatched earrings made of twisted gold wire, and three small pieces of parchment already appropriately inscribed.
These last he had copied out himself this afternoon, his final legacy to those who must wear the crown after him. The words were not much, but they would have to suffice. He had nothing else to leave them except life itself, having given them little more than that. Still, they were his sons, bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh.
Movement caught his eye in the shadows to his left, and he was startled to discover an opening which had not been there an eye-blink before. Rhys and Joram emerged by the glow of a pale sphere of greenish light which floated near Rhys’s head, and Joram gently deposited a small, fur-bundled form on the carpet in the corner. A twisted foot protruding from under the furs proclaimed it to be Javan.
Rhys laid the sleeping Alroy beside the small table, tossing the child’s furs to Joram, who then disappeared through the opening again, though this time it did not close after him. When Cinhil looked back, Rhys was already laying his hands on Alroy’s forehead, eyes closed, while Evaine quietly brought out the medical kit from under the table.
Cinhil must move now. As he crossed slowly to kneel by Rhys’s side, unfastening the wire which held the great cabochon ruby in his right earlobe, he watched the Healer swab the right earlobe of his eldest son with something whose pungent aroma almost made him sneeze—stared with fascination as Rhys’s bright needle jabbed through the boy’s fair skin. No flicker of awareness crossed his son’s face as the Healer withdrew his needle and wiped away the little welling of blood, then held out his hand for the stone.
The Eye of Rom, they had called it, when Rhys and Camber had given it to him so many years before—cut from a stone which fell from heaven the night of the Savior’s birth, the legend said, and brought to the Child by the Magi, wise men of the East who had known that this was a stone for kings. Cinhil felt a twinge of loss as he gave it up, for he had not been without it for all these years now. The stone was one of the keys to the powers they had given him on that long-ago night. And as he watched Rhys insert it in his son’s earlobe, he knew that it would protect that child as it had protected him.
He blinked—and realized that Rhys had moved, that the Healer was now kneeling beside the sleeping Javan, his needle once more flashing in the candlelight which Evaine had brought. He heaved himself to his feet, but by the time he had made his way to
where the two worked, Rhys had already inserted the wire of twisted gold which would hold the place for the Eye of Rom to lodge, should Alroy die without heirs.
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 in
to calmness once more.
He had done it! It was begun.
After a moment, he heard Evaine draw breath behind him, listened transfixed 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.”
The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy Page 96