“Would you please kneel?”
The voice at his side was Rhys’s, and without hesitation Cinhil obeyed, unable to resist. He could see now that what Camber held was a large, cabochon ruby the size of a man’s little fingertip, set in the claws of a red-gold mounting and terminating in a slender gold wire.
“The gem is called the Eye of Rom,” Rhys’s calm voice informed him, as the Healer’s hands did something cold and wet to his right earlobe. “Legends say that it fell from the stars on the night of Our Saviour’s birth, and was brought by the Magi as a gift to the Child. Whether or not that is true, it has been in the MacRorie family for twelve generations. We have endowed it with—ah—certain characteristics which will be useful to you a little later tonight.”
Rhys handed a bright sliver of metal to Camber in exchange for the gem, brought the crimson fire toward the royal head. Again, Cinhil felt the Healer’s gentle touch and realized that Rhys must have pierced his ear. He wondered foggily how he would look in an earring.
“There. That’s done,” Rhys said. He leaned back to inspect his work, then touched the prince lightly on the shoulder. “You can stand up now.”
Cinhil could and did, and lost himself for the next few seconds in trying to fathom the significance of what had just happened. The faint, musical jingle of metal rattling against the thurible brought him back, and he saw that Evaine had finished her circuit of the chamber and extinguished her taper, and was now being censed by her brother.
She made a slight bow when he had finished, whether toward Joram or the altar or the first candlestick, Cinhil could not be sure, then remained with her back to Cinhil, her head slightly bowed. Joram, thurible swinging before him in a cloud of sweet incense, began retracing the circle which Evaine had just trod. Cinhil recognized the Latin Joram chanted: it was the Twenty-Third Psalm. He also, if he squinted his eyes just so, was getting the distinct impression that the circle glowed.
He must have drifted a bit, for the next thing he knew, Joram was censing those within the circle. Camber stood to Cinhil’s left, Rhys to his right; and Evaine waited at the edge of the circle with the cup in her hands, uncovered. He heard the faint clink as Joram laid the thurible on the floor behind them, felt Joram’s passage as he returned to Evaine and took the cup from her with a bow. He tensed as brother and sister moved to stand before him, fearing he knew not what.
The cup, he noticed, was half filled with wine. Odd, but he could not remember having seen this particular cup before, though he had thought he was familiar with all of the altar furnishings in use in the haven’s chapel.
“I suspect that you’ve noticed this is not the chalice we customarily use in this chapel,” Joram said, apparently reading his curiosity. “There are reasons for that, which will become apparent to you in a little while. The wine is sacramental wine, but it has not yet been consecrated. I tell you this to reassure you that there is no desecration involved in what we do or ask you to do tonight. If that were our intent, we would not be here, in this place. You may ask questions now, if you wish.”
The words freed Cinhil’s tongue, and he swallowed apprehensively, a dozen questions boiling in his mind. After consideration, he settled on a cautious approach, suspecting that he already knew the sorts of answers he was going to get.
“What were you doing earlier?”
“Warding. It is something you will learn, in time. It is a protection from outside influences, from forces which might otherwise interfere in what we do tonight. All within the confines of the wards are now sealed from harm.”
“Then there is danger in what you do?”
“There is always danger,” Camber said in a low voice. “We seek to minimize that danger by following certain carefully ordered procedures. Believe me, we would not risk you here if we did not believe it was safe for you.”
“But what are you going to do to me?” Cinhil asked in a plaintive voice.
Joram’s eyes met his, unblinking, deadly serious. “We are going to give you the means to stand against Imre.”
“But—”
“Enough, Cinhil.” Camber touched his hand and he fell silent. “Joram, tell him what will be expected of him.”
Joram nodded slightly.
“The cup contains wine, though it will soon be more than that. Not physically different, though it will be bitter. But it will be changed in other ways which I cannot explain just now. It is not unlike what occurs during the Mass, though it is not the consecration with which you are familiar. It—” He looked to his father for guidance, bowing gratefully at Camber’s nod.
“Those details are not important for your part,” Camber continued calmly. “In a little while, Joram will ask you to repeat certain words after him. It doesn’t matter whether you believe the words or not, though I think you’ll find that they’re very familiar to you. In the right setting, following the proper sequence of actions, they will accomplish our purpose. There should be no difficulties.”
“And, after I speak these words?” Cinhil whispered, knowing that he would obey, whatever their answer.
“Then you will drink the wine,” Camber said. “And what will be, will be.”
At that, Camber moved a little more to Cinhil’s left, Joram taking a similar position to his right. He felt Evaine move to stand behind him, the edge of her skirt brushing his ankles in passage. Rhys, with a smile which Cinhil knew was intended to be reassuring, turned to face the altar.
Cinhil was terrified, notwithstanding Rhys’s gesture, for he knew that it—whatever it might be—was about to begin, and that he had no way to avoid it. Taking a deep breath, he tried to calm himself, tried to let the tension wash out of him a little—and was surprised to find that it worked. There was a moment of hush, and then Evaine’s voice behind him, weaving a crystal stillness around them all.
“We stand outside time, in a place not of earth. As our ancestors before us bade, we join together and are One.”
He watched as Rhys bowed his head, saw that Camber and Joram had done the same, inclined his own a little in response.
“By Thy Blessed Apostles, 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,” she continued. “Thus it is and has ever been, thus it will be for all times to come. Per omnia saecula saeculorum.”
“Amen,” came the joined response; and Cinhil found that he had answered the same.
They made the sign of the cross together then, and stood a while in silence.
Finally, Rhys turned to face him again, his golden eyes hooded, sun on dark waters. As Joram passed him the cup with a bow, Rhys raised it to eye level between them, his right hand spread flat above the rim, not touching.
“I call the mighty Archangel Raphael, the Healer, Guardian of Wind and Tempest. As the Holy Spirit didst brood upon the waters, so instill thou life into this cup, that he who drinks thereof may justly bid the forces of the Air. Fiat, fiat, fiat voluntas mea.”
As he passed his hand above the cup and exhaled upon it softly, a swirling mist gathered above the wine and settled on its surface. The cup grew cold and frosted even as Cinhil watched, bright beads of condensation sparkling as they ran down Rhys’s hand. Rhys bowed over the cup, then passed it to Joram. The priest lifted the cup as Rhys had done, spread his right hand over it.
“I call the mighty Archangel Michael, the Defender, Keeper of the Gates of Eden. As thy fiery sword guards the Lord of Heaven, so lend thy protection to this cup. That he who drinks thereof may justly forge the might of Fire. Fiat, fiat, fiat voluntas mea.”
A pass of his hand above the cup, a murmured phrase, and cold fire burned blue around the rim and on the surface of the wine. Cinhil closed his eyes and took another deep breath to still his terror. Movement behind told him that Evaine now held the cup.
“I call the mighty Archangel Gabriel, the Herald, who didst bring glad tidings to Our Blessed Lady. Send thou thy wisdom into this cup, that he
who drinks thereof may justly guide the knowledge of the Water. Fiat, fiat, fiat voluntas mea.”
Then the cup was in Camber’s hands, the great lord grim and somber as the night. For the fourth time, a hand was extended over the cup, Deryni forces brought into play.
“I call the mighty Archangel Uriel, Angel of Death, who bringest all souls at last to the Nether shore. Herewith I charge this cup, that he who drinks thereof may justly bind the forces of the Earth. Fiat, fiat, fiat voluntas mea.”
Another pass, a dustlike rain of some white powder upon the surface of the wine, and then Camber held it out to Cinhil.
The metal ran with moisture, glistening, cold; and about the rim played ghostly blue frost-fire. Mist brooded on the surface of the wine—wine which was darker now, more opaque. Cinhil felt an icy dread surge through his body, feared the words he knew would come next.
“Take the cup, Cinhil,” Joram’s voice commanded from his right. “Hold the cup before you and repeat the words I say.”
Trembling, Cinhil watched his hands reach out, felt the cup cold and wet and sleek within his grasp. Almost without thinking, he found his hands lifting it as they had lifted countless other cups, though not recently; he realized that what he had seen, what he was about to do, was no whit less sanctified than any priestly act he had ever performed.
That thought sobered him as all his reason had not been able to do. Precise and clear, he echoed the familiar words which Joram bade.
“Libera nos, quaesumus, Domine, ab omnibus malis, praeteritis, praesentibus, et futuris.…” Deliver us, we beseech Thee, O Lord, from every evil, past, present, and to come.… “Per eumdem Dominum nostrum Jesum Christum Filium tuum, qui tecum vivit et regnat in unitate Spiritus Sancti Deus. Per omnia saecula saeculorum.”
“Amen,” the four responded.
Then his hands were bringing the cup toward his lips, and he knew that he would drink.
Power was in the cup now; he could feel it tingling in his hands and surging down his arms even as he held it. The wine was cold and bitter, and he felt it hit his stomach in an icy, leaden mass, felt fire course through his veins, a flash of brilliance sear behind his eyes, as he drained the cup.
A rushing wind surged through his mind, rending, tearing, driving a wall of glass-green water before it; lightning flashing; chasms opening up in the fabric of his being. And pain—an agony so intense he could not even scream.
He felt the cup slipping from his fingers, faintly heard it ring against the muffling carpet beneath his feet. But then he was blind, and he was deaf; and he was falling into the abyss, his mind gripped in a soundless scream of terror.
And the darkness prevailed.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Hear us, my lord; thou art a prince of God among us.
—Genesis 23:6
He lay as one dead for a day and a night after that, his condition watched closely by Rhys, the others hovering anxiously nearby. When on the second morning he opened his eyes again for the first time, they were there, peering down at him eagerly, a dozen unspoken questions on their lips.
But he did not remember what had happened—or said he did not. And no, he did not seem to have any new abilities or powers—why should he? They could not even go into his mind again to see, having relinquished all control over him with the conferring of their spells. If Cinhil had gained power, he was not telling them—perhaps never would, if he was terribly angry at the way they had gone about their task. Or perhaps their attempt had failed, and nothing had happened, other than to throw their future king into a coma for a time. Until he decided to talk about what, exactly, had happened, there was no way for them to know.
They settled in to await the birth of Cinhil’s heir, and to hope.
Summer passed. Outside the haven, Imre’s reprisals against the Michaelines ground to a halt after his men sacked and burned a village adjoining one of the condemned monasteries. If Imre had not stopped it, he might have faced rebellion.
But if the Michaeline furor had died down by the end of the summer, the activities of the Willimites had not. Seizing on the by-now widespread rumors of a living Haldane heir, small bands of Willimite executioners worked their deadly morthwork by night, slaying a full score and more of Deryni folk whose crimes had gone unpunished by the law. At last a Deryni princeling toppled—Termod of Rhorau, cousin of the king himself—and Imre could ignore the Willimites no longer. Outside of Gwynedd, the madness spread even as far north as Kheldour, where human lords still held tenuous rule. Enraged, Imre determined to find the murderers and make an end to the Willimites once and for all.
Royalist troops, under the leadership of Earl Santare, were more successful at rounding up peasants than they had been at running the Michaelines to ground. (Less than a dozen Michaelines were eventually executed, in the seven months of intensive search for members of the ill-starred order.) By the beginning of autumn, more than eighty Willimites, among them the key leaders of the Willimite movement, had been captured, tortured, and horribly executed as an example. Imre, reassured by the dwindling numbers of the enemy he could see, began to worry less and less about one whom he could not see and whose existence, in fact, he had begun to doubt. From not one of the Michaelines or Willimites captured had he been able to get a shred of evidence of a Haldane pretender.
As Michaelmas came and went, still without that evidence, Imre relaxed even more. With Yuletide approaching, it became far easier to become caught up in the gaiety of the season than to worry about a disaster which would probably never come. Besides, it had been nearly a year since the MacRories had disappeared into oblivion.
And in hiding, the promised saviour of his people continued in his solitude. Though he had, by now, fully recovered from his ordeal of May—at least physically—the anticipated manifestation of power did not occur. Cinhil continued to read and study as required, seemingly resigned to the fate which had been chosen for him; and after a few strained weeks, he resumed the afternoon visits with Evaine; but there was never again the intimacy of their previous discussions. The Michaelines continued to prepare, and life continued in the haven; but Camber worried about the future—about what would happen when the child was born and they must begin their plans in earnest for the coup. Nor were there any ready answers.
Cinhil’s son was born on the Feast of Saint Luke, as they had known he would be; and with his first lusty cry, his father’s spirits and mental attitude began to change. Cinhil still had not displayed any evidence of arcane powers, nor volunteered any suggestions as to why he could not use them. (Camber suspected that he would not use them. They had gone over every step of the ritual, and there was no chance for error, in light of the reactions Cinhil had made at the time.) But the prince did smile more after the child’s birth. And one night, over dinner with Rhys and Evaine, he actually made a joke.
The event of his son’s birth became a milestone of sorts. Though Cinhil tried hard not to show it, it was soon apparent to everyone that the prince was more than a little proud of his new heir. Quite without prompting, he suggested that it might be appropriate if all of the residents of the haven were invited to the baby’s christening. He even expressed an interest in planning the details with Joram.
Camber conveyed the royal invitation with relief and set the date. It would be November 6, the Feast of Saint Illtyd. Sext, the Sixth Hour, was set for the christening ceremony.
Few had seen the royal infant or mother in the past month, for the Princess Megan had had a difficult birthing, despite Rhys’s best healing efforts. She walked with Cinhil’s support at her elbow as they entered the chapel, radiant if a little unsteady still from her recent confinement. Evaine carried the infant prince to the baptismal font, Rhys at her left side. The look in Cinhil’s eyes was one of dumbstruck awe, and he seemed not even to notice the heads which bent and bowed as he passed into the chamber with his princess, so intent was he upon the bundle of silk kicking lustily in Evaine’s arms. His gaze never left his son as Archbishop Anscom began th
e form of baptism.
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”
“Amen.”
Rhys and Evaine, the baby’s chosen godparents, stood before the baptismal font opposite Anscom and Joram and another Michaeline whom Anscom had brought with him from Valoret. The archbishop’s gravelly voice reached to every corner of the faceted chapel chamber.
“Exorcizo te, creatura salis, in nomine Dei …”
As Anscom blessed the salt which the priest at his left held forth, Cinhil craned his neck to get a better view; in annoyance, he took Megan’s arm and eased her to a vantage point at Rhys’s left, where they could gaze at their son.
“Aidanus Alroi, accipe sal sapiente …” Anscom intoned. Receive the salt of wisdom …
The baby gurgled and fussed a little as the salt was placed on his tongue, but Evaine cooed and bounced him a bit and he settled down. Anscom, well used to the protestations of salt-tongued infants, went blithely on with the ceremony, laying the end of his stole across the baby’s body.
“Aidanus Alroi, ingredere in templum Dei …” Enter into the temple of God …
When the archbishop had anointed the baby with oil on the breast and between the shoulder blades, he turned his attention on Rhys.
“Aidanus Alroi, credis in Deum, Patrem omnipotentum, Creatorem caeli et terra?”
“Credo,” replied Rhys, answering for his godson. I believe.
“Credis in Jesum Christum Filium ejus unicum, Dominum nostrum?”
“Credo.”
“Credis in Spiritum Sanctum et sanctam Ecclesiam?”
“Credo.”
“Aidanus Alroi, vis baptizari?”
“Volo.” I do.
Smiling slightly, Anscom picked up the silver ewer containing the water for baptism. He could scarcely contain his delight as he turned and offered the ewer to the prince.
“Would Your Highness care to perform this office for his son?”
Cinhil’s jaw dropped and his eyes went round. “I, Your Grace?”
“Even a layman may baptize in necessity, Cinhil,” Anscom said, his smile broadening as he watched the beginning of Cinhil’s comprehension. “I believe you more than qualify.”
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