“No, I think I do,” Queron said. “That’s just the point. Something that never quite made sense before, that was part of that earlier tradition, suddenly took on a whole different perspective as you started to move those cubes around. There was a piece of ritual that the Master used to do, several times a year, at morning meditations. We were always taught that it was symbolic—exactly what the symbol was, was never made quite clear—and I never questioned that. But—well, let me show you a part of it, and see whether it makes any sense to either of you. If I don’t actually work the spell, I don’t suppose I’m technically in violation of my vows—and if it doesn’t mean anything to you, we can just drop the whole thing.”
“Queron, this really isn’t necessary,” Joram began.
“Yes, it is, at least this far,” Queron replied. Drawing a deep breath, he picked up the four cubes at the outer corners of the black and white square formed in the center and placed them on their opposites, forming the familiar checkerboard of a cube altar.
“Now, there’s a proper ritual procedure for what I just did, of course, but the result was to end up with this configuration, which mimics the cube altar underneath this slab.”
Evaine nodded. “The actual arrangement of the cubes is quite logical, of course. Father always suspected that there was an actual working that went with it, but we never found enough evidence of one to risk trying anything.”
“Well, I’m not certain what the intention was,” Queron said, “but what the Master used to do was to set up this configuration in the proper sequence, then recite a particular prayer while he held his hands over the checkered cube—sort of cupped, as if he were consecrating the Eucharistic elements. After a while, energy washed outward from the cube, all the way to the edge of the altar.” He cocked his head thoughtfully. “Actually, I suppose I always thought the working was to purify the altar. But now that I think about it, he only ever did it on the cubical altar in our Chapter House—never the oblong one in the sanctuary—and the cubical altar was only ever used for meditation.”
Evaine nodded. “I remember Rhys telling me about that altar—a cube of bluestone, wasn’t it? And Father recognized it as a power nexus of some sort. In fact, he even wondered if there was some connection with the black and white altar under Grecotha.”
“I wonder what Queron’s Master would have done with a black and white altar,” Joram mused. “And if it was only for purification, why was it never done on the regular altar?”
Raising an eyebrow, Evaine cocked her head. “Now, there’s a thought—if you would agree, Queron.”
“Try it on a regular altar?” Queron said.
“No, try it on a black and white altar.” She patted the white slab beside the piled up cubes. “Try it right here.”
Queron looked uncomfortable with the thought at first, but then his expression turned more speculative. “I wonder if I could do it. And what hidden meanings was I missing in my youthful ignorance? Thinking back, the symbolism was not just that of purification, though it was a part of it.”
“I thought we were looking for a stronger warding spell,” Joram said uneasily. “Besides, what you’re talking about obviously was intended to be kept secret from those not of your Order.”
“I can do a stronger warding,” Evaine said, a little impatiently. “That’s what I brought you here to show you. But a new purification spell might also be useful—if that’s even what it is. It doesn’t seem to be dangerous, in any case.”
Queron nodded half reluctantly. “You’re right on both counts, Joram. However, I’m not sure that hidden part of my Order even exists anymore—and we do seem to have some rather special needs. Besides that, I confess I’ve aroused my own curiosity as well. God, I hadn’t thought about that in years.” He grimaced. “I suppose I am still a little uneasy about working this outside the Order, but—never mind. I’m going to do it. The oaths I’ve exchanged with the two of you are at least as solemn as anything I swore to the Gabrilites. Let’s try it.”
“You’re sure?” Evaine said.
“Yes, I’m sure.” Deftly Queron dismantled the little cube matrix and reset the individual cubes in their original starting places, the four white ones forming a square in the center, with the four blacks set at the diagonals. He twined his fingers together and flexed them backward briefly until the knuckles cracked, then disentangled them and wiggled them briefly while he ordered his thoughts and Evaine and Joram crouched to either side of him.
“I think I’ll raise the altar first,” Queron murmured, poising his right hand over the cubes. “The Master always did the special working from a standing position. I don’t know that it would make a difference, but I think we ought to duplicate the original conditions as much as possible.”
“I agree,” Evaine said, as Joram glared resigned disapproval.
“So, I’ll name the components. Prime!” he said, touching his right forefinger to the white cube in the upper left of the square and speaking its nomen.
Immediately, the named cube began to glow.
“Seconde!”
The cube to its right also lit from within.
“Tierce! Quarte!”
The two white cubes below the first two also came alive, making of the four a single white square bracketed by the still unactivated black ones at the corners. Queron drew a slow, steady breath before touching the black cube at the upper left-hand corner of the larger square.
“Quinte!” The fifth cube began to gleam with a dark, blue-black sparkle like black opal.
“Sixte!” Likewise the black cube at the upper right glowed.
“Septime! Octave!”
As the last two cubes came alive, Queron stretched and flexed the fingers of his right hand and smiled as he exhaled softly.
“This is a beautifully balanced working,” he breathed—and set his first two fingers on Prime and Quinte as he balanced the first phrasa: “Prime et Quinte inversus!”
All of them felt the subtle shift in the balance of energies as the two cubes changed places, intensifying as Queron moved the next two: “Quarte et Octave inversus!”
Next, the tricky bits, as he set his fingers on Septime and the transposed Prime.
“Prime et Septime inversus!”
And finally, “Sixte et Quarte inversus!”
What resulted was a softly glowing saltire composed of one black and one white diagonal, Might held in balance by Mercy. And carrying the operation to its conclusion would create the Pillars of the Temple, but in three dimensions, with the balance of the altar itself firmly established as the Middle Pillar, the mediating force which could facilitate even greater things.
Picking up the black Septime, now at the upper left diagonal, Queron lightly placed it on Quinte, the black cube immediately adjacent to it, at the same time speaking the cognomen, “Quintus!”
The balance was off now, and he must move quickly, lest it slip irretrievably out of reach. He steadied the energies as he picked up Quarte, now in the upper right-hand corner, and deftly stacked it on Seconde, still in its original place.
“Sixtus!”
More energy, more manageable now, licked up his fingers as he placed Prime on Tierce, white on white, and Sixte on Octave, black on black, with the last two cognomena.
“Septimus! Octavius!”
And the balance steadied, so that all at once the configuration was the Pillars of the Temple—four miniature columns, alternating black and white, forming the miniature cube. Gathering the energies, and making of himself a channel for the balanced energies of the Middle Pillar, Queron set his hand on the cube and willed it to rise. It seemed to cleave to his palm as his hand rose, and the white marble slab rose ponderously beneath it, silent save for the soft, satiny whisper of polished stone against stone, gradually revealing the four large black and white cubes that supported it, and then the four white and black cubes that supported them, all squared at the corners by round columns as thick as a man’s upper arm.
Queron slow
ly got to his feet when the second tier of cubes began to appear, not relaxing until the base of the structure emerged—a slab twin to the altar top, only black, a handspan thick. When it stopped, Queron removed his hand, flexing his fingers and exhaling loudly. Evaine and Joram had also risen with the altar and looked at him expectantly from either side.
“So far, so good,” Evaine murmured. “I assume you have to start again now. This is an end point, so far as anything I know.”
Sighing again, Queron nodded, dismantling the little cube and setting up the small cubes in their original configuration, white cubes forming a solid square in the center and the black ones set at the corners.
“You’re still sure you want to do this?” Joram said.
Queron nodded. “I certainly do. I know a lot more now than I did as a novice. I’m curious as to what the old Master did intend, when he used to do this working. I remember that it was always at the Quarters and Cross-Quarters, and the novices were encouraged to keep an all night vigil in the Lady Chapel the night before—though that wasn’t required. Odd, that—because otherwise, we were rarely offered such options.”
He drew another breath, as if shaking off the weight of long-ago memories, then held his hand briefly over the cubes.
“Very well. It starts the same way the other variation did, by naming the eight components. I remember that the Master never spoke the nomena aloud, because he thought it interfered with the proper mind-set. So I’ll do as he did.”
Not pausing for their reaction, he brushed his forefinger quickly over the eight cubes in the same order as before, beginning with the four white ones and then naming the four black ones. Each sparked to life as he touched it, and Evaine and Joram followed his progress easily, Prime through Octave.
“The first half of the next part also goes the same,” Queron whispered. He set his first and second fingers on Prime and Quinte and intoned the familiar cognomen as he changed their places: “Prime et Quinte inversus!”
Quarte and Octave followed, their cognomen also almost sung.
“Quarte et Octave inversus!”
When he had switched the second pair, they were left with a central square of black and white alternating, with a cube of the opposite color at each outer corner. And now, instead of transposing Prime with Septime and Sixte with Quarte, as he had done before, he picked up the white Prime from the upper left diagonal and set it carefully on Quinte, the upper left black cube, with a salutus sung in one of the eerie Gabrilite plainsong chants:
“Primus est Deus, Primus in aeternitate. Amen.”
Touching his right hand to his breast, he made a profound bow to the altar, then picked up black Sixte, setting it gently on white Seconde as he sang the next salutus:
“Secundus est Filius, Coaeterus cum Patre. Amen.”
Again he bowed profoundly before picking up black Septime to place it on Tierce.
“Tertius est Trinitas: Pater, Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus. Amen.”
Another bow before picking up the final cube, Quarte, to set it on Octave and complete the checkered cube.
“Quattuor archangeli custodes quandrantibus sunt. Quattuor quadrant coram Domino uno. Amen.”
The completed cube glowed with the soft, opal fire of its original components, a jewel-like miniature of the larger cubes of black and white marble that supported the white altar slab on which it rested. Queron raised his clasped hands to his lips, closing his eyes briefly as he gathered his concentration to continue, then drew his hands apart at chin level, palms turned toward one another, and began to chant.
“De profundis clamavi te, Domine: Domine, exaudi orationem mean. Adorabo te, Domine …”
He turned his hands over the cube as he prayed, palms cupped gently as if in blessing, fingertips slightly overlapping. All of them could feel the power gathering—a taut, tingling sensation that began at the crown of the head and quickly permeated to the toes.
“Fiat lux in aeternam. Fiat lustratio, omnium altarium Tuorum,” Queron murmured. Let there be light in eternity. Let there be purification of all Thine altars …
Light began to glow beneath Queron’s hands, emanating from the cube matrix. As he tipped his palms apart and raised his arms, light fountained upward between them—a miniature pillar of fire centered over the matrix, as thick and high as a man’s forearm. He brought his hands briefly to cover his eyes as he continued to sing, then crossed them on his breast and bowed profoundly.
“Quasi columna flammae me duces, Altissime, in loca arcana Tua …” Like a pillar of fire Thou shalt lead me, O Most High, into Thy secret places …
The pillar remained as his psalm ended, hovering in the stillness. Fearlessly Queron stretched out his right hand toward the top of the pillar, lowering it onto the flame.
“Gloria in excelsis Deo …”
But the flame did not appear to burn, and gave way beneath his touch. The pillar fattened as he compressed it, pooling wider and wider out from the cube matrix as his hand descended, living light washing over the surface of the altar all the way to the edges and then brimming over in a cascade of luminance that was swallowed up by the black edges of the base slab. Queron’s hand touched the top of the matrix as the light reached the corners of the mensa slab—and gave at the pressure, the entire altar beginning to sink, the light continuing to glow across its top and sides.
“Sweet Jesu, where’s it going?” Joram whispered.
“Back into the dais,” came Evaine’s awed reply, “though somehow, I don’t think the Master’s spell ever did this.”
Queron’s expression suggested that it most certainly had not, but he kept on singing the Gloria and the altar kept sinking—and kept sinking even when the white mensa drew level with the floor of the dais, becoming flush with the level of the dais, sinking beyond that, until even the now-kneeling Queron could no longer keep his hand on the small cube. It did not stop until the top of the mensa had sunk its height and half again below the top level of the dais, just as Queron’s singing ended. Evaine and Joram were also on their knees, peering uneasily into the hole made by the altar’s retreat.
“Why did it do that?” Joram murmured, as Evaine conjured handfire and sent it into the opening.
Queron gasped as the light revealed an extension to the opening, stretching back toward the north, and dropped onto his stomach to lean down for a closer look as the other two also peered down.
“There’s a passageway and what might be stairs leading down!”
“I suspect we were meant to step onto the altar as it was sinking,” Evaine said. “Getting down shouldn’t be too difficult, but getting back up might be a problem.”
Queron was already swinging his legs down into the opening, easing himself over the edge to drop lightly to the white mensa, avoiding the stacked cubes.
“I don’t think I’ll have any trouble bringing it back up. It concerns me more to stand on the altar, but that’s obviously intended, in this case.” He squatted down to peer into the side opening. “Ah, there is a stair—a spiral one. Anyone else coming down?”
Joram looked uneasy and muttered something about hoping there were no nasty surprises waiting, but he gave a hand to Evaine as she sat down on the edge of the opening, gathered her skirts around her, then eased down with Queron’s aid. Joram followed when Queron had stepped into the stairwell, bracing the heels of his hands on the edge and avoiding the ward cubes. The only real surprise, not nasty at all, turned out to be their discovery of a small, unfinished chamber that apparently lay directly under the Portal chamber and its lobby. It was a roughly hewn room not much larger than the cells back at the sanctuary, with traces of further digging that might eventually have become other passages leading—who knew where?
“Well, it’s obvious that whoever built this complex got interrupted before they could finish it,” Queron said, when they had finished their perusal of the chamber. “Didn’t you say that this was an Airsid complex?”
Evaine nodded. “We’ve occasionally come ac
ross their traces before, but I don’t know a lot about them except that they’re supposed to have been at least the philosophic precursors of the Varnarites.”
“Who, in part, were the precursors of the Gabrilites,” Queron agreed. “What I don’t understand is that altar up there. When the Master—” He broke off as an odd look came across Evaine’s face. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head. “Nothing’s wrong. But when your Master worked the spell, you did say that he always did it at the bluestone altar in your chapter house?”
“That’s right.”
“And he did it as a meditation and ritual purification of the altar. Also correct?”
Queron nodded.
“Suppose the ritual had come down from a much earlier tradition that used a black and white cube altar rather than a bluestone one,” Evaine said, “and suppose that the ritual not only purified the altar, but also operated the mechanism for opening the way to another, more secret inner sanctum.”
Joram nodded emphatically. “And if the original tradition had been transmitted incompletely, as sometimes happens, no one would have been any the wiser. Or maybe the additional meaning got lost in melding the different strands of discipline that made up the Gabrilite tradition.”
“That’s certainly possible,” Queron agreed. “But if there was a tradition of secret chambers under black and white altars—good God, what about the altar down in the ruins? It’s right in the middle of ancient remains! Maybe there’s another chamber under it. What if that’s where the Varnarites hid their most important archives?”
An hour later, the three of them were gathered around that altar, Joram carefully clearing away debris from around its base so that it could sink, if their theory proved correct, while Evaine helped Queron clean off the top. They found a large triangular chunk of the shattered mensa on the floor nearby, and Queron eased it approximately back into place before setting out the ward cubes again in their starting configuration. He skimmed silently through the setting of the nomena and cognomena, and spoke the phrasae instead of singing them, his hands trembling a little in the light of the handfire Evaine and Joram had conjured to hover above the matrix he was erecting. Since the altar was already raised, he was able to go directly to the purification configuration.
The Harrowing of Gwynedd Page 32