Joram’s priestly hands were raised to reinforce his sister’s declaration as he gave the answering invocation that Queron expected.
“By Thy Blessed Evangelists, the holy 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. Thus it is and has ever been, thus it will be for all times to come. Per omnia saecula saeculorum.”
As the others answered, “Amen,” making the sign of the cross, Queron followed suit as best he could, with his hands bound. All bowed their heads for several minutes after that, before Evaine spoke again—this time, in words unfamiliar to Queron.
“Now we are met. Now we are one with the Light. Regard the Ancient Ways. We shall not walk this path again. So be it.”
“So be it,” the others repeated in unison.
Then Gregory was taking up the sword again, leading the others in procession to the northern quarter. There they ringed behind him in a semicircle, observing in silence while he knelt and laid the blade close along the dais edge.
Reaching across it and down then, carefully avoiding the shimmering dome of the circle itself, Gregory untied the knotted cord and folded the ends back past the sword’s pommel and tip, wide enough for a gate. This he then traced with the sword, rising with the blade in his hand once more to touch its tip to the left-hand side of the incipient opening, sweeping the blade up, arching across to his right and back down. The passage of the blade inscribed a line of brighter silver, outlining a door, and the door became a magical gateway through the circle’s dome as the blade rang against the edge of the step on the right, the outline completed.
They would come for him now—or Gregory would, Queron amended, as Gregory stepped through the opening alone, the sword held horizontally before him by hilt and tip. As Gregory descended, heading directly toward Queron, the sword projected a swath of silvery light before him that stayed, rippling down the steps like a quicksilver carpet, a moon-bright path of safety for Gregory’s feet to tread.
It and he stopped at the bottom step, an armspan short of Queron’s, niche, but the blade turned in Gregory’s hand even as his arm extended. The magical blade pierced the stasis veil and shattered it on contact, before Queron could even think about raising his bound hands in futile attempt to defend himself.
Impossible! He had never heard of a stasis veil doing that!
Dumbfounded, Queron caught his breath and froze, for the tip of the sword now was poised directly over his heart, pressed hard against his flesh like burning ice—inescapable, for the unyielding stone of the chamber wall was at his back.
Yet the threat of the sword, even a magical one, was as nothing compared to what lay beyond—for they were out there. With the stasis veil dispelled, he could almost see them, the circle’s Guardians, towering vaguely shadowy but altogether potent, still filling the space between the circle’s dome and the pillars. Only the path of light on which Gregory now stood offered refuge—and a vast distance separated Queron from it, for all that, physically, he could have encompassed the space between his two arms.
“Queron Kinevan, why have you come to this place?” Gregory asked, his voice snapping Queron back to the more immediate threat of the magical blade. The blue eyes were cool and implacable, the long fingers steady on the hilt of the sword, and Queron knew that if his answer was not wholly satisfactory, Gregory was quite capable of slaying him where he stood, either with the blade itself or with the awesome power obviously directed through the blade by Gregory’s will.
“I come—to offer a bond of blood and spirit and sacrifice to this company,” Queron said quietly, “in the service of the Light.”
“Do you come of your own free will,” Gregory asked, “prepared to set aside all previous ties and loyalties, ready to give your life, if need be, in the service of the Light?”
Queron nodded gravely. “I do.”
To his relief the blade was lowered, though Queron knew that this did not necessarily diminish the danger.
“Know, then,” Gregory continued, “that you stand before the Great Abyss, that dark night of the soul which each of us must cross, and cross alone, at least once in every lifetime. The true adept may face it many times, in many different forms. Nor is any crossing necessarily easier, for having faced the ones before.
“You have faced the sword’s first challenge.” Gregory knelt to lay the sword across the gap between them, the hilt resting on the first step and the point at Queron’s feet. “But the greater challenge is yet to come. The Sword of Justice has rightly been called the Bridge over the Abyss. The Abyss, in this place, is a living symbol of the ties you are being asked to cast aside tonight, many of which have been binding, indeed. One may walk upon this Bridge, if one has courage. But you must know that the Way is even more perilous than you think.”
Pointedly shifting his own gaze to the blade, Gregory turned it so that its edge was uppermost, presenting only a thin, sharp line of silver between Queron and the safety of the silvery path where Gregory knelt.
“Only by casting yourself free of these previous commitments, by binding yourself to a purpose higher than yourself, may you essay the crossing in safety,” Gregory went on, looking up at him again. “Are you prepared, then, to offer yourself in unreserved dedication to the service of the Light?”
“I am,” Queron breathed.
“Then, set your right foot upon the Sword Bridge,” Gregory said, “as a sign of your willingness to proceed, and cross the Chasm confidently, borne above all earthly dangers and temptations by your resolve.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Yea, a sword shall pierce through thine own soul also, and the thoughts of many hearts shall be revealed.
—Nicodemus 12:5
The Sword-edge Bridge stretched before Queron in all the stark physical symbolism of the inner Ordeal that the very concept suggested. The Bridge over the Abyss was a classic means of progression on the path toward adeptship, but that path was in no wise an easy one. The fact that Queron had crossed lesser chasms gave him little comfort as he faced this latest incarnation of the Ordeal, for each passage was different, presenting its own perils.
He knew he was not expected literally to walk across the edge of the sword—but what seemed to yawn beneath it was infinitely more menacing than any mere steel. He had never thought himself particularly wary of heights, but the vast chasm he could sense gaping before him encompassed far more than just physical space. All of his worst personal fears and petty failings leered up at him from the churning maelstrom that howled below, ready to snap him up and rend his soul at the slightest hesitation or misstep. Failure might not bring about his literal death, but the psychic battering of a spiritual tumble certainly would render him unfit for any immediate usefulness to the company he sought to join; and recovery might take a lifetime—or more.
But he must not dwell on that danger. His inner strength and his dedication to the rightness of their cause must lend him the courage to proceed. He must offer up his weaknesses upon the altar of his heart and let them be consumed by the fire of the Ordeal. He could sense the uncompromising scrutiny of immortal as well as mortal watchers as he set his right foot lightly on the line of shining steel, and he made his pledge of faith a prayer for support.
As he had known it must be, the sword was withdrawn before he could put his weight full upon it, but the narrow hairline of silver that remained, so slenderly bridging the Abyss, was surely no less terrifying as he slowly shifted his weight full upon it and then stepped out with his other foot, balancing a little awkwardly with his bound hands. Gregory had risen and backed a few steps farther onto the path of light as Queron stepped, and stood now with the sword resting across his right shoulder, his left hand held ready to reach out to Queron—but only after the Healer-priest had safely reached the other side by his own devices.
Each step was a trial. The line of light seemed to burn into the soles of his feet like molten silver. Though a part of his
mind told him it was only stone he walked upon, perfectly firm beneath his feet, another part shrieked of the Abyss gaping beneath him. Given what he had witnessed so far, without even entering the circle, who could say which perception was correct?
But he persevered, despite the cold terror clutching at his soul, and finally, he was across. As Gregory took his elbow to steady him, turning to lead him up to the safety of the circle—now an honor escort—Queron’s relief knew hardly any bounds. Gratefully he stepped into the circle at Gregory’s side, only closing his eyes for a few seconds to breathe deeply as Gregory closed the gate behind them with the sword.
Then Gregory was returning to stand at his left. Joram and Evaine were before him, flanked by Ansel and Jesse. All of them looked very, very solemn, causing Queron to wonder whether he had, indeed, passed the test of the sword.
“Queron Kinevan,” Joram said quietly, “we welcome you to this circle and acknowledge with respect the courage you have shown, to venture into this place. But you came before us with obligations and commitments which bound you to other loyalties. The faith we require must be without reservation—saving that for priests, such as you and myself, the seal of the confessional must be unbreached, whatever else may befall. For as the Scriptures remind us, ‘Thou art a priest forever.’
“Saving only that reservation, then, and even including the vows you made as a Healer and as a member of the Order of Saint Gabriel, are you now prepared to surrender all other ties and loyalties, relegating them to a lesser place, that our work in the service of the Light may come before all other considerations?”
Queron had prayed long and hard over this requirement and had known it would be demanded. He had pondered it before disposing of his g’dula the night before—for that, too, was a loosing of ties. So was the putting aside of his Gabrilite robes, later on. He had not been ready, then, also to cast aside his Healer’s mantle, but now its weight on his shoulders reminded him that this, too, was a binding—though he would never cease being a Healer, any more than he could cease being a priest.
But he found that, having crossed the Abyss this time, he could now let go of everything that lay outside that core that was the heart of his priestly and healing vocations. He could give it up gladly, in the service of the Light. Almost of their own volition, his bound hands rose to loose the cloak-clasp at his throat. As the Healer’s mantle slipped from his shoulders, whispering into a heap of dull, wrinkled white behind him, he felt infinitely lighter. He considered taking off his Saint Camber medal and his Healer’s seal as well, but those no longer held the weight they once had, and did not bind him at all.
“I am prepared,” he said quietly, looking into Joram’s eyes unflinchingly.
“Then, sever the bonds which bind you physically, even as you have dissociated yourself from the ties that bind in heart and soul and mind,” Evaine commanded, as Gregory held the sword closer to him, bracing the hilt with both hands.
The woolen yarn parted easily as Queron drew his bonds along the blade—far more easily than he had parted himself from the ties the yarn represented. He felt at peace, however, as he watched Joram catch up the severed pieces, and he followed without hesitation as Evaine led him sunwise around the altar to a place in the west, to end up standing on her right. The others also returned to their places; and as Joram laid the cords in the thurible, still smoldering in the south, and the sharp stench of burning wool briefly drifted upward, Queron at last had an opportunity to examine the items on the altar, if only superficially.
Nothing appeared to be immediately out of the ordinary. The thurible and aspergillum he had already seen, as well as the sword Gregory laid back in place. Nor could he take exception to the other items: an incense boat, a footed clay cup of water, a small bowl of what appeared to be salt, and a small silver dagger that he thought he had seen Evaine wear before. All of this lay on a white altar cloth, totally unadorned.
But in the exact center of the altar was something that was—not precisely out of the ordinary—simply unexpected on an altar. Though its top was covered with a square of fine linen, Queron could see that the object beneath it was a square wooden box, perhaps twice the span of a man’s hand and half as tall as it was wide. A lamp burned in a cup of fine-blown purple glass on top of the box, fueled by a small vigil candle. As Jesse moved the lamp aside and Joram removed and folded the square of linen, Evaine laid her left hand on top of the box and turned slightly to face him.
“You have already faced the most difficult part of this night’s working, Queron,” she said softly. “What remains, however, is by far the most solemn. Beneath my hand are tokens of all the previous members of the Camberian Council. It is upon these relics, made sacred by the dedication of those who have gone before you, that you will be asked to swear your oath. Since the days of the original five founders—myself, Joram, Rhys, Alister, and Jebediah—all members have sworn a like oath and bound their pledge into harmony with the rest.”
As she opened the box, hinging the lid back toward Ansel, Queron had an impression of purple, cord-like threads and something that flashed silver. The latter proved to be a signet ring with a plaited hank of threads loosely knotted through it.
“This was my father’s ring,” Evaine said, taking it out and displaying it on her open palm, nested in the coils of the plait. “Whether or not one holds him saint—and opinions vary, even in this circle,” she added with a faint smile, “by including this token, in his memory, we honor his vision and his dream, that one day Deryni and humans should live and work together in harmony, in all and for the sake of all. The braided cords you see wrapped through the ring were prepared last night, after Jesse swore his oath, with each of us contributing a strand. Tonight, we will prepare a new set, all of us renewing our own vows as you make yours.”
She put the skeined ring back into the box, then pulled a long strand of purple silken thread from underneath the edge of the altar cloth before him, laying it ceremoniously across the hands he tremblingly raised to receive it.
“To that end, we ask that you first bind this cord across your brow, as symbol of the new obligations you assume tonight, binding upon mind and soul as well as body—a tie connecting you with all our ancient tradition, linking you with the Light we all strive to serve.
“Remember that the purple thread has long been the symbol of excellence,” she went on, helping him knot it at the back of his head, as the others donned similar threads, already tied. “In this company, and in matters pertaining to the integrity of its members, it also carries all the weight of the priest’s purple stole, and the absolute confidentiality implied by the seal of the confessional, even unto death.”
She paused to slip her own cord around her forehead, then gestured toward the open box.
“Now lay your hands upon these relics and swear us your oath, ever mindful that a part of all those who have gone before us remains with us in this company. And may you never be called upon to make a more solemn pledge.”
Queron’s mouth was dry as he obeyed, and it was only by pressing his hands hard against the edge of the box that he was able to keep them from trembling. He closed his eyes as the others also reached out to touch the box lightly with their fingertips, aware of their scrutiny—though they did not touch him physically or psychically. He could feel Camber’s ring cool and potent beneath his right hand—surely a saint’s relic!—and as he forced himself to draw a deep breath and center in, reaching for some hint of contact with the men who had gone before him, he felt himself relax, knowing that, indeed, he could make this commitment without reservation.
“I swear by all I hold most holy—by my love of God, by my vocation as a Healer and a priest, by my honor as a man—that I will bear faith and truth to this company, named in honor of the blessed Saint Camber; that if need be, I will lay down my life, my honor, and even my immortal soul to preserve our people in the Light, so long as that be not to the harm of the innocent. All this I pledge, God aiding me, as a humble servant of
the Light, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. So be it.”
The others drew back as he opened his eyes, except for Evaine, who pressed her hand over his, preventing his withdrawal.
“Well and truly have you sworn, Queron Kinevan,” she said. “Now that you have spoken these vows, will you open your mind and heart and soul to us, your brethren, as a final seal of your good faith, saving only those things pertaining to your office as a priest?”
“Volo,” Queron whispered, already lowering his shields as he bowed his head in submission. I will.
He shuddered a little as he felt Evaine’s hands upon his head, Joram’s joining them, but he had half expected this. They were the children of Saint Camber, and he had sworn to them, and he could not refuse anything they asked. He sensed their minds enveloping his, surging in relentlessly as he let his shields buckle and fall before them, wholly giving up control. He had not bared his mind and soul this way since his Healer’s examinations, many years before, and the occasional deep readings shared with very trusted and much-loved confessors, in the years since—and he could not bring himself to even care.
Deeper and deeper they took him. Briefly, he drifted beyond all awareness of just how deep, unable to prevent or even sense their entry into any of his most intimate depths, if they wished. But in fact, though they did read deeply, they did not read extensively or for long—and told him so, as they eased him back to a level permitting more equal rapport—content, perhaps, that the opportunity had been freely offered, that Queron had been willing to permit this most intimate of all contacts as a sign of his trust.
They let him choose the direction of their rapport for a while after that, acquiescing readily when he indicated a desire to explore the psychic ripples surrounding the tokens beneath his hands—for this was the heart of the group soul that was the Camberian Council. Camber’s ring drew him like a moth to flame, plummeting him abruptly into a cool, lavender stillness that sucked Joram and Evaine in with him.
The Harrowing of Gwynedd Page 10