“Make me a glass, that I may burn for Thee,” she murmured, puzzling over the words. “A glass …”
She looked back at the interlocked rings, lying on the edge of the Codex, then looked more closely at how the space inside the circle suddenly seemed to have taken on a purplish hue.
“No, not a glass. A lens!” she exclaimed, pushing the rings over part of one of the lines of writing—and grinning as new writing appeared between the lines penned in mere ink. “A lens, by God! A lens!”
As she scrambled to unroll the scroll to its beginning, she slid the rings to the space between the first two lines. The writing that appeared was Orin’s fine, distinctive hand—and remained, a glowing, fiery red, as she passed the ring between the lines.
“And it burns!” she whispered to herself, appreciating the wit. “Of course!”
She hardly knew whether to laugh or cry as the sense of the words emerged in translation, from that ancient, mystical language taught her by her father, so many years before—the language that now, perhaps, would enable her to release him from the magic that bound him so near and yet so far.
To the Reader who will have advanced thus far, my fraternal greetings across the unknown years, for we be brethren in this great Work. But only if thy need be great must thou proceed beyond this point, for the knowledge I leave in these words is of most solemn import, and of great danger, both to the operator and to the object of attention. For I would share with thee the secret of preserving life even beyond death—and perhaps, if thou art daring indeed, of bringing life back out of death …
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I shall not sit as a widow, neither shall I know the loss of children.
—Isaiah 47:8
The full impact of the words did not register in the first reading or even in the second. Indeed, Evaine’s most immediate concern became the necessity to preserve the words so arduously gained. She spent the next hour copying what she read through the lens of the joined rings, fearful lest the words fade before their sense could be fully grasped. Her fear was justified, for by dawn the words had faded utterly from between the lines of the Codex Orini. Nor could she call them back, no matter how she manipulated the rings.
But by then, she had her fair copy and could pore over it at her leisure—though the sense of the words troubled her, the more she studied their implications. Accordingly, she never showed the complete transcription to Joram and Queron. Instead, she wrote out an expurgated version for their guidance and then destroyed the original—which mattered little, since she had committed the entire thing to memory. And that she shuttered away from all but the most rigorous and insistent of retrieval methods that her brother and Queron might be tempted to try.
That did not keep them from asking questions, though, when she finally presented the draft and her outline of the procedure for the working she proposed.
“This is intriguing material, but what’s the source?” Queron asked. “Much of it is fairly straightforward, but some, I’ve never even heard of, much less seen done.”
“You have what you’ll need,” she said, not looking at him.
“What she means,” said Joram, “is that we have what she thinks we’ll need. You’ve censored the Orin material, haven’t you?” he said accusingly. “This isn’t the entire document. What is it that you don’t want us to know?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she murmured, looking past them at nothing. “It’s enough that one of us has to worry.”
Nor would she let them draw her out about it further.
They would not be ready to try the working for many weeks, in any case—for it was working and not mere spell which was required to undo what Camber had set, that cold day in January. The preparations went beyond the mere provision of a physical setting in which to perform the rite. The operators themselves must prepare, with a period of fasting and meditation.
And always thought must be given to the possibility of failure and the mortal peril to those who failed. In fact, she believed that Joram and Queron faced little real danger; she was the one most at risk. Nor did death itself hold any personal terror for Evaine, with husband and firstborn already gone before her. If she did die, what she would regret the most was not seeing her other children grow up.
But to bring her father back to carry on his work—how many other people’s children might not live to grow up if she did not follow through with what she had begun and risk that death?
Which brought her back to the question of Camber himself. If they did not succeed in reviving him—whether he remained in his present state or merely passed into true death—the survival of his cult as saint must be ensured. Queron, who had founded a religious order on the promulgation of that cult, did not need convincing. Miracles had occurred, whether or not Camber’s body had been assumed into heaven before his canonization, and many, many people, both human and Deryni, looked to the quandam saint as a source of hope and inspiration.
Joram was less certain, though he finally admitted that the survival of the cult of Saint Camber underground could only reinforce what Revan was doing out in the countryside to save Deryni.
“It’s all based on a lie, though!” he protested, late one night in July, when Evaine and Queron had almost worn him down. “Saint Camber, Revan’s baptisms—they’re all lies.”
“So, I should point out, is the persecution of Deryni!” Queron answered, “You don’t exterminate an entire people, just because a few of them have misused their powers over the years, Joram. If that were true, and justice were to be done, then the human population should be exterminated, too!”
“There are some who should!” Joram said stubbornly.
“Aye, and there are Deryni who deserved exactly what they got. But judgment must be made on an individual basis—which the regents seem increasingly unwilling to do. Because of that, we have to do something to even the odds. Giving people the hope and inspiration of Saint Camber, or blocking the powers of some of our people so they can get away—these are ways of doing that, without taking more innocent life. If ever we were to begin taking indiscriminate reprisals, we’d be no better than our persecutors.”
“Who believe that we’re devils or in league with devils,” Joram murmured, bowing his head over clasped hands. “Sometimes, Queron, it’s all I can do to celebrate Mass—wondering if perhaps Hubert and his minions are right. Maybe we do contaminate everything we touch. Maybe a Deryni isn’t fit to be a priest. Maybe I’m deluding myself to think I’m worthy even to try to make a difference.”
“None of us are worthy, Joram,” Evaine said quietly. “But worthy or not, someone has to rise to the situation and say, ‘Enough’—and then carry through with action that might, conceivably, make a difference. At least we’re trying—which is more than a lot of our people out there, who have given up hope. What harm can it do, at least to pretend that Father is a saint? There have been saints before, and will be again, whose sanctity rests on far slimmer evidence. You’ve probably prayed to a few of them yourself.”
Eventually, though Joram steadfastly refused to state that he thought his father actually was a saint, he agreed to carry on as if Camber were, and gave his promise to support the cult of Saint Camber, if they did not succeed in reversing Camber’s spell. In a testament written and rewritten many times in the days that followed, Joram carefully reiterated the story he had first conceived for the convocation that ultimately proclaimed Camber’s sainthood: that he, Joram MacRorie, and not heavenly agencies, had removed his father’s body from its resting place in the vaults at Caerrorie and hidden it away—which did not detract in the least from the miracles and visitations ascribed to the saint at his canonization. Indeed, Joram confessed, over the years he had come to believe that his father might truly have been a saint. In affirmation of that growing belief, Joram planned to retrieve his father’s remains from their present resting place and entrust their keeping and veneration to appropriate pious persons who would faithfully guard and promulgate the h
igh principles for which Camber MacRorie had lived and died.
It was a telling and powerful statement, and would all but guarantee the resurgence of the Saint Camber cult, once released beyond the circle of the three of them who knew the literal facts of the situation. Even when it was written, Joram remained uncertain about the advisability of releasing it, and drew comfort from the realization that it would not be released without further consideration, unless none of them survived the attempt to bring Camber back—a possibility Joram counted highly unlikely. In case the unlikely occurred, however, Joram sealed his testament with a stasis spell keyed to Niallan, whom they all had agreed should try to hold the Council together if none of them returned, placing it with similarly sealed testaments prepared by Evaine and Queron.
For Evaine, those days of planning and preparation were a time of double strain, for in case she did not survive, she must make personal provisions of a different kind than those required by the two priests. She spent as much time with her children as she could spare, knowing that she must make every minute count, just in case she did not return from that dark journey, near unto death itself, where she must seek her father.
Mornings she spent with Rhysel—not eight until November, but already a scholar and wise beyond her years, as Revan had pointed out, what seemed like years before—a Revan then not yet what they had made of him. Daily they read and discussed the poetry and other writings that Camber had shared with Evaine at the same age. Sometimes Evaine included Bishop Dermot, whose background in the classics approached her own. Perhaps Dermot would take on Rhysel’s further education, if Evaine did not return.
Then there was Tieg, who would need more specialized teachers before too long—Tieg, the precocious four-year-old with such awesome gifts of Healing and the ability to strip his people of their power. As Evaine played at “bears” with her surviving son, she wondered what would happen to him if she could not be there to see that his education was carried out as it should be. There were no more scholae for the training of Healers.
And finally, there was little Jerusha, the baby whom Evaine might never even really know. Like her father and her brother, Jerusha would be a Healer of breathtaking potential—and perhaps she, too, carried the blocking talent already evidenced by her brother. But at eight months, she was still a laughing, happy baby, sitting up strongly and starting to stand, wide-eyed and amazed at the world she was discovering—and already, she thought that Fiona MacLean, and not Evaine, was her mother.
“She adores you,” Evaine whispered, as she watched the infant settle into sleep in her little cot, a tiny hand clasped around two of Fiona’s fingers. “If she never saw me again, she would never even miss me.”
“Nonsense! You’re her mother.” Fiona looked at her strangely. “Evaine, what’s wrong? You look like someone who doesn’t expect to be seen again.”
“I’m sorry. I suppose I’m just tired.”
“No, it’s more than that,” Fiona said. “Something’s been troubling you for weeks. I kept meaning to ask you, but—you’re not ill, are you?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Well, you don’t look fine,” Fiona fretted, disengaging her fingers from the grasp of the now sleeping Jerusha. “You look like walking death sometimes. You’ve lost weight, there are circles under your eyes—I thought you’d start getting some proper rest, once Revan was safely established.”
“Fiona, please don’t lecture me. Joram lectures me, and Queron lectures me—”
“And a lot of good it does, I can see,” the younger woman retorted. “But if you want to work yourself into an early grave, don’t mind me. It’s none of my business. I’m only the one who takes care of your children. Why should you talk to me about what’s bothering you?”
Tears stinging unbidden in her eyes, Evaine turned her face away. “Forgive me,” she whispered. “You, of all people, have a right to know as much as I dare tell. There’s—someone very precious to our cause, who’s locked away. Getting him out will be very, very difficult and very dangerous.”
“And you might not come back,” Fiona murmured, sitting down, stunned. “Oh, Evaine, I didn’t know.”
“How could you? I’ve gone to extraordinary lengths to keep it secret. And please don’t ask who it is, because I can’t tell you that.”
“I promise.”
“In any case, it isn’t the threat of death that concerns me. It’s the possibility that my children will be left orphans. When I think about that, I—”
She buried her face in her hands, trying not to break down entirely—a resolve not helped by the embrace of Fiona’s arms around her shoulders.
“Oh, Evaine, dearest sister, please don’t cry,” Fiona whispered, stroking the golden hair as Evaine let the tears come. “Oh, I’m not as gifted or as highly trained as you are, so I can’t offer any direct help with—whatever it is you have to do. But I know you wouldn’t even be thinking about doing this—whatever it is—if you didn’t believe it was terribly important. I will promise to be a mother to your children, though, if—if you don’t come back. You don’t even need to ask.”
“I know that,” Evaine whispered, “but thank you for reassuring me. God knows, I don’t want to leave them, but—oh, Fiona, if you only knew how important this is.”
“But, I do know. You’ve just told me,” Fiona murmured, hugging her close and stroking the golden hair. “Hush now. Everything will be fine.”
The days passed, and preparations intensified, both physical and spiritual. Dietary restrictions had been in force among the three for all the previous month, to purify their bodies for the demands of the Work now scheduled for the first of August. Now, as July counted out its final days, Evaine added periods of actual fasting to their preparations, along with a gradually increasing regimen of meditation designed to focus the concentration.
One remaining task she postponed almost until the end, and that was to see Javan one last time. She did not tell Joram or Queron, for fear they would forbid it. Nor did she put on another guise, lest the extra exertion sap her strength for the more important working, now but two days away. She was already short on sleep, for sleep deprivation was said to sharpen the adept’s perceptions during the actual working.
She chose the hour of Vespers, when Hubert was unlikely to be in his quarters but Javan might be. Though she had left him no memory of her previous visit, she had planted the inclination to use the archbishop’s oratory whenever possible, in hopes of just such an eventual contact. As hoped, she sensed the prince’s sole presence as she came through the Portal. He was kneeling at the prie-dieu with his head bowed over his folded hands, all but invisible in black tunic and hose. He had been deep in meditation, and looked up with a start as he suddenly sensed the Portal activity.
“Jesu, you shouldn’t be here!” Javan breathed, as she turned back her hood to let him see her face.
“Why, didn’t you hope one of us would come?” Evaine whispered, smiling as she crouched down to face him, eye to eye.
“But, it’s dangerous!”
“Ah, and what you’re doing is not dangerous, eh?” she countered.
“What do you mean?”
Evaine smiled sympathetically and laid her hand on his forearm. “I believe that you asked Hubert to let you stay in Valoret, did you not?”
“Who told you that?” Javan demanded, aghast.
“I believe you also agreed to take vows.”
“Temporary vows!”
“Vows, nonetheless. Which may not be that bad a thing,” she added, holding up a hand to stop his argument. “In fact, you’ve probably arranged one of the safest places possible for these next few years, while you’re still so vulnerable. And if you really live the spirit of those vows, putting aside the personality of the man to whom you must swear them, you should find these years a time of great personal growth and insight. But you must still be very, very careful.”
He sat back on his heels, resentment warring with pleasure at seeing her. �
��I know what I’m doing.”
“I’m sure you do. Just try to be sure that Hubert doesn’t. I gather that you have taken steps.”
He looked away, suddenly uncomfortably aware just how slender his influence over Hubert was. “I’ve made a few—ah—adjustments. I can’t do too much, though, or someone will notice, even if he doesn’t.”
“Precisely what I told the others.” She smiled. “Well, you don’t need me to lecture you. When will it happen?”
“Two days hence, in the afternoon,” Javan murmured, hanging his head. “I—how did you know?”
“I was listening, there by the door, when you asked him.”
“You were right there, and I never realized?” Javan whispered, shocked. “But, how—”
“Hush. When Sylvan reported on Revan that night, he warned us that you and Hubert had exchanged hot words. It followed that he would take you to task—probably as soon as he got you back to Valoret. I took a chance that he’d be late turning in, regardless of how he chose to deal with your little flash of independence. It was only a stroke of luck that made him choose to do it right here in his apartments.”
“Well, it wasn’t all done right here,” Javan replied, lowering his eyes. “I suppose you know about the little room Hubert has, up in one of the towers—the disciplinarium?”
She gave him a grim nod. “I also know about the scourging you took, if that’s what you’re asking—and that you endured it as bravely as any of us could have done. You must be very careful, though. Once you are bound to Hubert by vows, even temporary ones, he will be quite within his rights to deal with future transgressions even more harshly. I think that your rank will always spare you your life, unless you go totally beyond the bounds of common sense—but he might make you wish you could die.”
“He wouldn’t dare!”
“Unfortunately, I think there is little that Hubert MacInnis would not dare, But, we’re wasting valuable time. He will be returning soon, and I have something important to say to you. I—have a task to perform. As fate would have it, I must do it the same afternoon you make your vows. So, since I cannot be with you, I ask that you pray for me, Javan—and pray to the blessed Camber, my father, to aid us both in what we must do.”
The Harrowing of Gwynedd Page 44