Fully caught up now in the magic of the moment, he rose slowly to his feet, for the crux of Javan’s imprinting was about to be met. He knew that those within the circle did not need to repeat the four-fold invocation they had made before. This rite was an additive one, bringing Javan into the spell by the adding of his blood to the already charged cup, binding him into the succession in ways which mere lineage could never, ever challenge. When Javan drank from the charged cup, he would be assuming all the compulsions which Rhys and Camber and Evaine and Joram had imposed on Cinhil twelve years before, as well as the will of Cinhil himself, who controlled this rite and was its author.
And if the time came when the elder Alroy should die without male heir, then Javan, too, would assume the royal Haldane heritage by the expedient of putting on his father’s ring. That ring still lay in the bottom of the cup which Cinhil now extended to his son, bathed in the water which was charged not only with ash and the blood of three Haldanes now.
Thrice Javan sipped; then Cinhil was handing Joram the cup and laying his hands on his son’s head. The boy’s body went rigid as the royal will was imposed.
For a long time, nothing moved within the circle save the slight, slender form of Javan, struggling feebly to escape the power being thrust upon him. Cinhil drew him close against his breast as he continued his relentless patterning, finally raising his head to let Joram take the collapsing boy. Wearily he sank to his hands and knees.
At once Camber was moving to the edge of the circle and catching up the sword, cutting another gateway in the circle’s dome. As soon as the gateway was open, Rhys dashed inside, pausing only an instant to touch the unconscious Javan’s forehead and confirm his safety before throwing himself to his knees beside the exhausted Cinhil. Slipping a supporting arm around the king’s shoulders, Rhys touched his fingertips to the royal wrist, fearful of what he would find. Cinhil’s eyelids fluttered weakly and then gazed up at Rhys.
“I just about did it that time, didn’t I?” he rasped, fighting back a cough. “You must get me through the last one, though, Rhys. I’ve never asked anything so important of you.”
In Rhys’s arms, Cinhil’s body seemed to have grown lighter, more frail, and Rhys knew that he was burning himself out with the massive energy consumption—and that nothing could persuade him to stop now and save himself. Rhys moved his hands to monitor the pulse in Cinhil’s neck—quick and thin and thready—then slipped his touch back to the side of Cinhil’s head to read the growing fever, the life-fire brighter, more intense than the old man could sustain for much longer.
“I know, my friend,” Rhys murmured, embracing the king close in the circle of his arms and drawing them both into soothing, Healing rapport. “Let go now, and let me do my work. You will get through what you have deemed you must. I promise. Relax now and let me bear the pain for you a little while.”
And Cinhil did relax, his shields falling away even faster this time. With firm, steady strength, Rhys carried them both ever deeper, ever more centered, letting his healing touch spread out and through the two of them, easing away Cinhil’s fatigue and pain once more, numbing the resistance of flesh pushed too often past the danger point, knowing that even now the damage was done, the final processes irreversible.
He floated with Cinhil for several minutes, letting his healing forces mesh with Cinhil’s mind and body and cushion him from the pain, not letting himself think about what would come after, not letting himself think anything at all. There would be time enough, after Cinhil was gone, for thinking.…
And outside the world of Rhys’s mind, Camber stood quietly beside the open portal, his hands on the quillons of Cinhil’s sword, and followed the surface of Rhys’s thoughts and sensations, feeling for the Healer, feeling for Cinhil, both of whom knew full well the cost of what they did.
No sound disturbed the tranquillity of the warded circle. He could not even hear Cinhil’s breathing, now that Rhys was in control; and the others were outside with the three children, Joram and Evaine keeping watch until Rhys could return to his guardian duties. From time to time, Evaine glanced back through the gateway at her husband, but neither she nor Joram moved until those within the circle began to stir, Rhys raising his head groggily and then helping an oddly peaceful Cinhil to his feet.
Evaine and Joram, too, stood at that, Joram bending to scoop up the sleeping Rhys Michael. No words were exchanged as Rhys left the circle and Evaine and Joram went in, though Rhys did pause to touch his namesake’s head in passing, ensuring the boy’s response to Joram when the time was right.
When Rhys had once more taken his place between the two remaining boys, Camber bowed slightly to him and then drew the sword across the gateway’s threshold and sealed the circle again. He took his time as he bent to lay the weapon back in its place along the edge, straightened, and moved slowly back to his place at Cinhil’s right, palming the silver dagger as he passed the table.
Joram was rousing the groggy Rhys Michael to semiwakefulness, speaking to him in a low voice as the boy got his feet under him and managed to stand under his own power, still supported by Joram’s hand under one elbow. Cinhil watched all with greater serenity than he had yet displayed this night, and Camber was more certain than ever that the end was near.
The king would find the strength to do what must be done. Camber knew that Rhys had removed the last of warning pain signals from his body, so that he might complete his work without distraction, even to the end—and that Cinhil was content with that. With a gentle smile of unity, of total acceptance of what the king had chosen, Camber laid his hand on the royal shoulder for just an instant, felt Cinhil’s answering surge of appreciation, of affection.
Then Evaine was moving into her place behind Rhys Michael, the thurible spewing incense smoke, and Joram was bringing the cup and a third small piece of parchment.
For the third time, the now-familiar ritual moved through its sequence until Cinhil had delivered the final invocation, standing before the altar with the cup raised in both his hands. A moment he paused, head thrown back and eyes closed in supplication. Then the cup was sinking back to eye level, to chest level, and he was turning to face Rhys Michael.
Camber, watching as Cinhil gazed across at his son, saw the boy’s instant response of trust and resolution, in contrast to the others’ apprehension. Suddenly he knew that here was Gwynedd’s future, for better or for worse, in this youngest child of Cinhil. In a flash of prescience, the likes of which he had seldom experienced in all his long life, Camber saw an older Rhys Michael mounting the throne of Gwynedd, at his side a tawny-haired girl who wore the crown of Gwynedd’s queen. There was something familiar about the girl, but Camber could not quite place it. Besides, his attention was for the youthful king, who could not have been more than fifteen or sixteen—but old enough to rule outside the strictures of the royal regents who would have plagued his older brothers.
And, what of his older brothers? If Camber’s glimpses of the future were correct, then both Alroy and Javan were destined to die young—would produce no male heirs, if, indeed, they married at all in the short time allotted to them. And if these two died young, what kind of turmoil must lie ahead for Gwynedd, to lose three kings in twice the years?
As quickly as it had come, the image was past, and Camber was watching Cinhil extend the cup to Rhys Michael, wondering whether his flash of insight had been that or only fantasizing, as the boy slowly raised his hands and laid them on his father’s. Though the child moved somewhat jerkily, his movements slowed both by the drugs in his system and the controls placed on him, it was as if the actions were as much of his own volition as they were of any other’s ordering. He leaned forward to meet the cup as it was brought toward his lips and drank without hesitation. Camber could see the muscles of his throat working as the cup was tipped back and he swallowed once, twice, a third great gulp which drained the cup and set the ring to rolling with a brittle tinkle against the glaze inside.
The boy dropped his ha
nds then, swaying a little on his feet as his father handed off the cup and took a step nearer. Camber could feel the tension building in the very air between father and son, a static energy which arced with an almost visible spark just before Cinhil’s hands touched his son’s head. The very air seemed to blur around the two of them. Camber blinked and passed a hand in front of his eyes in an attempt to clear his vision. It did no good.
He was aware of Joram’s and Evaine’s expressions of surprise, their involuntary steps backward, away from what was happening between Cinhil and his son, and Camber, too, felt almost compelled to back off. He could not decide whether the exchange was just sloppy because of Cinhil’s fatigue or actually more intense, but whichever was the case, it was not comfortable to be as close as Camber was. He yielded to the pressure and let his feet carry him back a step, two steps, not because he must but because he chose to, until he could endure without discomfort the slippage of energy which was spilling over the link which Cinhil was forging with his son.
It was soon over. Finally he saw Rhys Michael stagger, as the contact was withdrawn and Cinhil’s hands left his head. Instantly Joram moved in to catch the boy as he started to crumple, endurance spent for the moment. And as the boy was swept up in the strong arms of the Michaeline priest, Cinhil, too, faltered, reaching out a blind hand toward Camber.
“Alister, I need you!”
The voice was weak but penetrating in the silence of the warded circle, and Camber was at his side before he could take another breath. The royal legs buckled at the knees as Cinhil turned his head to look at Camber in surprise, not comprehending why his body should suddenly cease to obey him. Gently Camber eased him to the floor, motioning for Evaine to cradle the failing king’s head against her knees as he scrambled to his feet again and dashed to the northeast quadrant where the sword lay. Rhys was waiting outside the circle, Joram approaching from behind with the spent Rhys Michael, as Camber kissed the sacred blade, touched it to the floor, and swept it up and down to cut the doorway once again.
Then Rhys was inside and racing to tend Cinhil, Joram stepping outside to deposit his unconscious charge gently beside the two older boys. Camber remained at the threshold, the sword motionless under his hands.
“Joram, we’ll need the holy oils and the ciborium. The oils are in the aumbry, there to the left of the altar.” He turned to the inside of the circle. “Evaine, come tend the boys. Rhys will manage what little can be done for him.”
Without demur, Evaine came out of the circle, settling down among the sleeping children. Joram opened the cupboard Camber had indicated and removed a black leather-bound box which he brought to his father, along with a sleeping-fur to pillow Cinhil’s head. Then he returned to the altar and made a deep genuflection before opening the door of the tabernacle. Camber knelt as the ciborium was removed from its sanctuary, bowing his head as Joram passed back into the circle with it and placed it on the little table. He stood as the priest came back to his side.
“Shall I leave?” Joram murmured, glancing from his father to the supine Cinhil stretched by Rhys’s knees.
Camber shook his head. “No, I think he would want your assistance in these Last Rites.” He passed the sword to Joram and picked up the holy oils. “Wait here and close the gate when I tell you it’s time.”
Briskly he moved to Rhys’s side and knelt, laying the leather-bound box aside. The Healer gave a deep sigh and raised his head slowly, removing his hands from Cinhil’s forehead. The king seemed to be resting easily, his eyes closed, though his face was pale against the dark fur of his pillow.
“I’ve done what I can,” Rhys murmured. “It’s up to you now.”
“Thank you. You’d best go outside with Evaine. This is best suited to priestly hands.” He raised his voice as Rhys moved toward the threshold. “Joram, close the gate and then join us.”
Cinhil’s breathing had eased with his reception of the Sacraments, and now he gave a small, contented sigh and raised his eyes to Camber’s. Joram had withdrawn to the closed gateway to give them privacy, and stood now with his back to them and his head bowed over the quillons of the broadsword. Cinhil glanced in his direction, then returned his gaze to Camber. The bishop still wore the narrow purple stole he had donned in his priestly office, and Cinhil raised a feeble hand to finger the strip of fabric fondly.
“It is nearly finished, old friend,” the king whispered. His hand moved on, to search for Camber’s, and Camber took it between his own.
“You have been good to stay beside me,” the king continued. “I could not have completed this night’s work without you.”
“I think your thanks should be to Rhys, not to me,” Camber replied gently. “And to yourself, for realizing in time what needed to be done.”
“Was it in time?” Cinhil asked, searching Camber’s face. “Will my sons be able to follow me as they ought, Alister? They are still children. And what if you are right about Murdoch and the others? I have trusted them, but perhaps I shouldn’t have. Alister, what—”
“Rest easy, my liege,” Camber murmured, with a little shake of his head. “You have done what you could, what you thought best. Now it is for the future to decide what will come of them.”
Cinhil coughed, then shuddered a little, his hand tightening on Camber’s.
“It’s cold, Alister.” He closed his eyes briefly. “I feel as if my body were no longer my own. Is—is this what it is to die?”
“Sometimes,” Camber whispered, remembering the only other death he had come close to experiencing, when Alister Cullen’s dying at Iomaire had had to be relived, that awful night so many years ago. “They say, though, that when one comes easily to death, and at peace, it is a moment of great joy—that the passing is gentle and most welcome.”
Carefully Cinhil took a deep breath and let it out, a look of delighted surprise slowly coming across his face. Incredulously he raised his eyes to Camber once more, but already he was seeing otherness which was not caught within the confines of the magical circle or the world it held back.
“Oh, ’tis true!” he breathed in awe, searching his friend’s eyes. “Oh, Alister, come with me for just a little while and see! ’Tis a most fair realm that I would enter!”
“Cinhil, it is not yet my time. I dare not—”
“Nay, be not afraid. I shall not compel you past what place is safe for you to go. I would not take you untimely from my sons. But, oh, the wonder! Have we not shared other marvels in our lives, my dearest friend? Let me share this with you, please!”
With a weary nod, Camber closed his eyes and let his thoughts cease, let himself open along the old, familiar link which the Alister part of him had formed with the king so long ago. He felt Cinhil’s presence, somehow refined and different from what it had been before. And then, gradually, his mind began to fill with what he could only describe as sound, though he knew it was not that—a light, hollowly resounding tinkle as if of tiny bells mingled with the hush of many voices chanting a single Word on tones which blended in indescribable harmony.
The music of the spheres, a part of him thought sluggishly—or perhaps the voices of the heavenly hosts—or both—or neither.
For a moment, there was a swirl of foggy, opalescent color, a feeling of disjointure—and then he seemed to be looking down at Cinhil through eyes somehow more perceptive, though objectively he knew that his physical eyes were still closed.
With his Sight which was not sight, he Saw the years melt away from Cinhil’s face, knew Cinhil’s awe as the king gazed up at the form which was no longer quite the Alister Cullen whom he had seen and known for the past twelve years. Whatever was happening had stripped away the facade, leaving his psychic form naked, for Cinhil to see in all its many facets.
Camber? came the king’s tentative query, somehow past shock or anger or fear.
And Alister, in part, came Camber’s meekly tendered answer.
And with that, he offered up the rest of the story to Cinhil’s clearing consciousne
ss, leaving out no detail—for he could conceal nothing in this dreamlike, awesome realm in which they both hovered now. In an immeasurable stretch of time, the deed was done, the tale told; and Cinhil’s awed expression had changed to one of beatific acceptance.
Through double vision now, as Camber and Alister, he watched Cinhil sit up, seemed to feel the feather-brush of Cinhil’s hands on his shoulders as the king embraced him like a brother. Then Cinhil was on his feet and stretching out his hand to Camber, and Camber was taking that hand and rising.
A part of him knew he still knelt by the dying king, the royal hand clasped in his; but the more important part now rose and walked with Cinhil toward a brilliant light which seemed to come from outside the circle, just beyond where Joram stood. He could see Joram’s shadow-shape silhouetted against that light, head bowed over the quillons of a sword which glowed with ruby clarity against the golden light of what lay just beyond.
But between Joram and the light lay the circle, a cold silver boundary which Camber suddenly knew Cinhil could not pass. Cinhil saw it, too, and came to a halt an armspan from Joram, his hand still clasped in Camber’s.
You must help me to pass, Camber-Alister, he said. Beyond here you may not go, but I must. It is time. They are waiting for me.
With a chill of knowing, Camber felt his image nod; and it was with a sense of profound loss that he let the king’s hand slip from his and backed a few steps toward the center of the circle. There he could see his body kneeling by Cinhil’s as he had left them. Wearily he let himself settle back into his own.
He started as he opened his eyes. Cinhil lay silent beside him, a look of peace on his face, his breathing stilled. Across the circle Joram still stood unmoving over his sword, apparently oblivious to what was taking place behind him. He could not see Cinhil’s image with his eyes, but when he again shut them momentarily, he could See Cinhil standing there expectantly, one hand raised slightly toward Joram and the gateway he guarded.
The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy Page 98