The great Amen that they raised in affirmation of that prayer set the seal on their coming together, resonating with the strength and unity of their combined will, and the crosses they traced upon their breasts became as armor, proof against all but the Will of God Himself. Secure in that knowledge, Evaine raised her arms to her two compatriots, speaking the words of the exortio as a personal affirmation of their intent.
“Now we are met. Now we are one. Regard the Ancient Ways. We shall not walk this Path again. So be it.”
“So be it!” they replied, saluting her with right hands to hearts.
In response, Evaine crossed her hands on her breast and bowed to them before settling quietly on the little stool they had set for her in the south, fetching from beneath it a worn leather pouch containing ward cubes that had been her father’s. These she upended into her lap as Queron moved into position at the head of the bier, his open hands resting lightly to either side of Camber’s quicksilver hair, already settling into Healer’s trance.
While Evaine separated the cubes, white in her right hand and black in her left, Joram withdrew to stand just to the left and inside of the light marking the northern quarter, hands resting quietly now on the quillons of a sword he had borne under similar circumstances many years before, the night a king died—ready to open a gate, as he had that other time, and probably with little more knowledge or awareness of what might happen when he did. Evaine pushed down a tiny twinge of remorse as she glanced up at him—dear, gentle, stubborn Joram, trusting her, even though he did not approve or understand—and prayed that he would not think too harshly of her after it was over. Standing there in the flickering light of the ward candles and the glow from the arch of the circle, his pale head bent over his folded hands, he looked very much like the man lying on the bier.
She made a tiny pillar of the black cubes then, stacking them in the center of a black square diagonally to the left of the one on which her left foot rested. The four white cubes she placed on the white square diagonally to her right. She drew a deep breath as she straightened, setting her hands on the tops of her thighs and holding the breath for a few heartbeats before letting it out slowly.
So. Before her was a glyph of what she had to do, childish in its simplicity—a symbolic rendering of the task for which all the rest had been but prologue, carefully crafted to bring her to this moment.
For by the power of her will alone, and for the sake of the man who had trained her to use that power of will, she now must make of those tiny, symbolic pillars the very real and solid Pillars of the Temple—the temple of the Inner Mysteries, whose corridors communicated with Divinity Itself and life and death, at levels only rarely given to mortals still bound by physical form.
Between these Pillars she must pass, in a very real sense, and even beyond the Purple Veil itself, if she had any hope of bringing that man back.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Where is Uriel the angel, who came unto me at the first? for he hath caused me to fall into many trances.
—II Esdras 10:28
Smothering darkness enveloped Javan briefly as he knelt at the feet of the Vicar General of the Custodes Fidei. It was only the hooded black scapular of the Order being pulled over his head, but it felt like a pillow, choking off his breath.
“Receive this vesture of our Order as a shield and a protection against the wiles of the wicked ones,” Paulin intoned—by which Javan knew he meant the Deryni. “Thus, if thou art steadfast against the enemies of God, thou mayest change it one day for a robe of glory.”
Robe of glory, indeed! As Secorim joined Paulin to free his head, adjusting the hood to lie smoothly down his back, Javan thought of little Giesele MacLean. That hapless innocent surely wore a robe of glory now, safe and secure in the hands of God, but she had been murdered by men who espoused the same dark purposes as the Custodes. And if Archbishop Hubert, watching so sanctimoniously from his episcopal throne, had not had a hand in her death, he certainly had been responsible for the deaths of other Deryni, and for founding the Custodes.
Javan hated the stiff, crimson-lined scapular of the Order, though at least it bore only the moline cross of a lay brother on the left breast, and not the full Custodes achievement of the haloed lion. Yet he was committing himself to wear it daily, indefinitely—and there was worse to come. Later in the ceremony, after he had made his vows, he would receive the braided cincture of crimson and gold to hold the scapular in place, symbolic of the binding of those vows. He hated that even more, because it profaned the colors of his House by what the Custodes stood for.
Before that indignity, however, came the prostration and litany—and before that, he realized, as someone put the silver bowl with his lock of hair in his hands, he must make an even more personal offering on the altar of the Custodes. Paulin and Secorim stepped apart to give him access, and Javan rose shakily, a hand steadying him under one elbow.
“Introibo ad altare Dei,” the assembled Custodes sang. I will go up to the altar of God, to God Who gives joy to my youth.
But there was no joy in Javan Haldane as he mounted the altar steps that afternoon. The painted eyes of the Pantocrator seemed to pierce him through the heart as he made his genuflection, and he wondered, not for the first time, how the Custodes managed to justify the atrocities they committed in His Name. Asking Him, he lifted the bowl briefly in his two hands, as he had been coached, bowing his head slightly in acknowledgment of whatever Higher Force there was that transcended the narrowness that the Custodes’ God allowed. His prayer, as he set his offering on the altar, was simple: Deliver me, O Lord, from mine enemies, and make me worthy to serve Thee.
He kept those words in his mind and heart as he backed haltingly down the steps again, awkward on his lame foot, to prostrate himself where he had knelt before, arms outstretched in the attitude of crucifixion—a further offering of himself for the True God’s use. After a long, long moment, when he could only hear the beating of his own heart, a choir began to chant an invocation to the Holy Spirit, and he let their words take him deep into his own meditation.
Closing her eyes, Evaine, too, set herself to sinking deeper and deeper into trance—controlling breathing, centering energies, slowly beginning to build the requisite images on the inner planes. In her mind’s eye, she could see all as it was—the tiny cubes stacked where the great Pillars must rise; the bier beyond them, black-polished side reflecting her own image, pale face and hands and feet suspended against a reddish glow that was the Southern Ward, sitting straight and erect like some slumbering goddess of earlier times.
Atop the bier, the pale outline of her father’s body seemed to float like a sea-borne wraith, the white drape across his middle spilling almost to the floor on her side. Queron was a cool, silvery pillar of strength and power standing at the head, energy already flaring around his head and Healer’s hands—quiescent, ready. Beyond them, the shadow of Joram’s head and shoulders, sober in Michaeline blue, loomed against the blacker background of the North. And there lay the challenge, beyond the Northern Gate. There lay the One she must face, if she hoped to bring her father back to the land of the living.
Drawing a deep breath and settling even deeper into the Otherness requisite for these sorts of workings, Evaine returned her attention to the Pillars, seeing them swell and grow, pushing toward the ceiling—certainly to the limits of the circle—stabilizing as the circle contained them. In the shadow world to which she now turned her concentration, she knew the Pillars to be as substantial as the floor under her feet, solid with a power which transcended the mere time and space of the physical world. A mist seemed to have intensified between the Pillars, even as the Pillars themselves solidified, and she stood up in her astral form to look more closely, rising out of the body that sat so quietly behind her.
Queron apparently sensed the movement, for he came physically to stand behind her physical body, laying his Healer’s hands on her shoulders and linking with her physical functions to make sure she remembere
d to breathe, her heart to beat. She watched him curiously for several seconds, a part of her aware that she had never, even been so deep before, even when she used to work with Rhys.
Then she turned around and saw the Figure standing just beyond the Pillars. A faint breeze seemed to stir gossamer robes of citrine, olive, russet, and black, and just a hint of towering opalescent wings, lifting softly curling locks of titian hair around an achingly beautiful face. She thought it might be the angel of her dream of the rings, though she could not be sure. She did not remember the eyes being so intense—a yellowish, grass-green, like peridots, seeing through to her very soul.
Respect and honor to thee, Shining One, and to the One Whom thou servest, Evaine breathed, daring to give the being salute, right hand to breast, as she would hail one of the Quarter Lords.
The being inclined its head in acceptance of the salute, apparently taking no offense, but not speaking, either. Instead of rings this time, the graceful hands held two silver cups. As one was raised and tipped above the other, the contents poured out in an unending, light-shimmering cascade of all the colors of creation, filling and spilling around the being’s feet in a pool of living luminescence that neither grew nor diminished.
Thou showest me rainbows, Evaine said. The symbol of God’s promise that He should never again destroy the world by water.
Indeed, the being spoke in her mind. By water doth He bring the world salvation, both by holy baptism and by the rite which serves to save thy people. The one is for all to cherish, by many outward faiths, in many different forms; the other shall be of but a little duration, but shall save many.
Revan’s mission is but short-lived, then? Evaine questioned, sorrow blunting her hope. More innocents must perish at the hands of the Blind?
The Blind, too, shall see—one day, the being replied. Thy work shall not have been in vain, nor the sacrifices made by thee and thine. Thy soul’s mate awaits thee, when thine earthly tasks are done. Thou hast served well. Naught further is required of thee.
For just an instant, Rhys seemed to stand before her, as real as anything in the chamber, looking as he had in their younger days, green-clad and laughing, his Healer’s hands held out to her in love and pride. She raised a hand to touch him, but he melted away before her eyes. And in that instant, the impact of the angel’s other words set her gasping.
No! Something further is required! Why dost thou tempt me from the task I came to do? She gestured toward the body on the bier, visible through the being. My work will not be done until he is free!
The being looked a bit bemused by that, cocking its beautiful head wistfully as it brought the cups to breast level, still standing in a pool of iridescence.
Thy quest is known to me, Child of Earth, the being said, after a slight pause. And I know whom thou seekest. Where he doth dwell, thou canst not go.
Do you hold him, then? Evaine dared to ask.
Not I, Child of Earth, but he is held.
May I see him, then!
That favor is not mine to grant.
Then, will you let me pass!
The risk is great to mortals—even those of thy race.
I know the risk! You gave me the keys to read it for myself! Evaine cried. But, he is mortal, too, and I know he is not wholly free.
He chose his fate, the being replied.
Aye, without knowing fully what he chose. Let me free him! Holding him serves no purpose.
For a long moment, the being simply gazed into Evaine’s eyes, the beautiful face clouded with an expression of incredible compassion. The depth of that gaze reached into her very soul, stripping away all subterfuge, laying bare all strengths and failings. When Evaine thought she could bear it no longer—though pulling away was unthinkable—the peridot eyes shifted to the cups.
Instinctively Evaine held out her hands as the cups tilted toward her, catching at a weightless froth of cobweb-fragile stuff as it billowed over her hands. Gradually it solidified into a silklike strip like a scarf or stole that would not settle down to any one color. It trailed nearly to the ground from both her hands, both burning and chilling, at the same time, and she sought the being’s eyes in question.
Take this token as a sign that thou hast passed this portal with my blessings, the being said. Thou must seek a higher One than I, and thou must be prepared to give whatever price is asked. Thou shalt have but one chance. To falter is to perish utterly, along with him and those who aid thee. To persevere may also cost thy life and the lives of others, if thou hast not the strength to do what must be done. Thou alone canst attempt this thing, but thou shalt not suffer alone, if thou failest. Dost thou understand?
Nodding, Evaine clutched the rainbow to her bosom, fearing for Joram and Queron now, though her own fear was gone utterly.
I understand, she whispered. What must I do?
For answer, the being merely smiled sadly and backed between the Pillars, to vanish in a shrinking point of light.
Very well. She had her answer. As she had suspected all along, she must pass between the twin Pillars of Severity and Mercy, making of her own body and soul the Middle Pillar of Equilibrium. Only in perfect harmony, in perfect balance, might she dare to essay the crossing to that Higher One to whom her guide had alluded. Only in perfect equilibrium might she hope to gain audience with the Force that held her father balanced between the worlds.
She cast the rainbow over her hair like a veil as she prepared to step between the Pillars. Mist lay just beyond, but she paid it no heed as she set the balances. The fog was cold and close as she took a first step and then a second, and a brief moment of vertigo clutched at her stomach, but it passed quickly. For a moment she could make out nothing. But then the fog began to melt away in strips and she could see.
She seemed to stand at the edge of a vast, open plain beneath a star-clogged sky. Frost made the very air crackle, and crunched beneath her bare feet, but she did not feel the cold. Far on the horizon before her, something darker blotted out the stars. It grew larger as she started walking toward it, and her feet seemed to grow heavier with every step she took.
Gradually, the shape became a massive trilithon, two great, upright stones supporting a third. The space beneath the capstone reminded her of the niches in the keeill, and she wondered whether its builders might have drawn their inspiration from just such a vision as she now was experiencing. As she drew nearer, her feet felt as if each new step was trying to shift the Earth itself, until she realized she was drawing near to the very Gate of Earth.
And beyond the Gate of Earth lay the realm of the Archangel of Earth, the mighty Uriel, whose provenance was not only the mountains and caverns and craggy cliffs but the bounty of growing things, and the cycle of death and rebirth, of flesh as well as vegetation—even the bringer of life to a close, and transition, and the bringer at last to the Nether Shore, where souls passed to their judgment. It was Uriel she must face—Uriel, declining to manifest when they set the Wards, waiting for her to cross into his territory.
She would oblige, then—for was this not what she had come to do, to discover the Force that bound her father’s soul and bargain for his release? The opening beneath the trilithon was the entrance to that other realm. She breathed a last prayer for courage as she crossed her hands on her breast and stepped inside. Closing her eyes then, for she knew the Angel would not communicate by sight or sound, she opened her mind to stillness and waited.
Pressure. Power. A swooping, stifling sensation, as if buried inside living rock, constricting, restraining—and then—limbo. She did not struggle through any of it, only opening herself to the rhythm of the earth, riding its tides, passively attentive.
After a time, a query formed in her mind. How dared she come here? What good could she hope to gain? He whom she sought was well enough content where he was, though more constrained than he might have been, had he been able to wield the energies correctly. He had not passed over to the Nether Shore, into true death, but neither was he entirely free to
walk upon the earth. Nor would he wish to return as mere mortal, having tasted the potential of his present state, constrained though it was by his blunder and limited to only occasional forays back across the great Divide.
Ponderously, Evaine tried to comprehend, only gradually coming to fathom just what her father had done. His spell had worked—to a point. Camber had bypassed Death, but only at a terrible cost. In exchange for the freedom to move occasionally between the worlds, continuing in spirit the work no longer possible in his damaged body, he had forfeited, at least for a time, the awesome ecstacy of union with the All High. Had he been more canny with his spellbinding, he might have won both, at once free to come and go in the Sacred Presence and to walk in both worlds as God’s agent and emissary.
But Camber had not fully understood the spell he wove, in that moment of imminent death. Death had not bound him, no. But he was bound, nonetheless. By the fierce exercise of his extraordinary will, he had sometimes been able to break through to the world and make his presence felt, but those times were rare indeed, and costly on a level only comprehensible to those who have glimpsed the Face of God—or been denied that glimpse. And until the balance should be set right, by the selfless sacrifice of someone willing to pay in potent coin, that Face might remain forever hidden from Camber Kyriell MacRorie.
Evaine lingered hardly at all over her decision. She had guessed for some time that it would come to this. Bringing Camber back to life clearly was out of the question, and mere death would but set him back on the Wheel, to start again in another incarnation without benefit of any of the wisdom gained so dearly in this life—no insurmountable calamity for so advanced a soul as Camber, but a most untimely loss for human and Derynikind just now, whose cause he had served so faithfully and so long.
So she must release him to that joyful purpose beyond life, in which great adepts chose their work and eschewed the Great Return in preference for specialized assignments, teaching mankind to grow in the likeness of God. For herself, the choice would mean death of the body, for mortal flesh could not sustain the outpouring of energy she must make to send him on into that next dimension; but she had known the sacrifice was likely. Others had gone fearlessly unto death; so would she.
The Harrowing of Gwynedd Page 47