Cinhil drew another deep breath as Alister glanced into the cup and raised it to eye level with both hands, focusing his attention on the point above their heads where the cloud had manifested itself seconds earlier.
“O Lord, Thou art holy, indeed: the fountain of all holiness. Let Uriel, Thy messenger of darkness and of death, instill this cup with all the strength and secrets of the earth, that they who shall drink hereof may justly command the element of Earth. Amen.”
Instantly, the cup began to tremble in Alister’s hands, the ring inside to tinkle against the cup, the water to dance so that it threatened to spill over the rim. At first Cinhil thought it was Alister’s hands which shook, as his own had done; but then they all became aware that other things were rattling and trembling, that the very floor was vibrating beneath their feet.
The tremor increased, until Cinhil feared the very altar candles must be toppled from their places. But then the shaking subsided, as quickly as it had begun. Alister raised the cup higher and inclined his head in acknowledgment of the Power which had been manifested through his hands, then lowered the cup and turned his gaze on Cinhil, extending the cup to him.
“The cup is ready, Sire,” he said in a low voice. “What remains is in your hands.”
Slowly, soberly, without a trace of fear anymore, Cinhil took the cup and held it close against his chest as he bowed his head and spoke a final, humble prayer in his own mind. In front of him, the trembling Alroy had not let out a whimper, had not moved, but Cinhil could see the fear and dread in the grey eyes as he looked up and searched his son’s face. His hands were steady as he lifted the cup between them.
“Alroy, you are my son and heir,” he said. “Drink. By this mystery shall you come to the power which is your divine right, as future king of this realm; and even so shall you instruct your own sons, if that should someday come to pass.”
Slowly the boy’s hands rose to meet his father’s, tipped the cup to his lips so that he might sip once, twice, again. He shuddered as the cup was taken away and handed to Joram, closed his eyes, and began trembling more violently as the geas came upon him. Coolly and dispassionately, Cinhil laid his hands on the boy’s head and sent forth his mind, finding no resistance now that the cup had done its work.
Forcing ever deeper rapport, he plunged Alroy into the full awakening of all his Haldane potential, imprinting irresistible compulsions which would hold and guide him in the use of that potential for so long as he should live.
The boy cried out, a quickly stifled sob of pain and fear, but Cinhil dared not relent. Though the boy staggered under the outpouring of his father’s will, moaning anew as the final compulsions were set, Cinhil did not ease the flow of energy until his task was completed. Then he drew the boy to his breast and cradled the raven head against his bosom, embracing and supporting him as the lad slipped into unconsciousness. He did not heed the tears which now streamed openly down his own fatigue-drawn cheeks.
“Sire?” Alister whispered.
“Not yet.”
For a little while longer, Cinhil held the boy, withdrawing slowly, erasing all conscious memory of what had happened, easing the last vestiges of pain. Finally, he slipped his arms more closely around the limp little body and picked the boy up, holding him in his arms with some effort.
“He will sleep now,” he murmured, making a half-hearted attempt to dry his tears against his sleeve. “He will remember nothing unless there is need. Even then, he will not remember this night unless it falls that he must perform a like office for his son someday.”
He drew another deep breath and buried his face in the boy’s black hair, which muffled his voice as he added: “Alister, would you please open a gate so that I may take him to Rhys? I fear I may have drawn too deeply on my own strength. Help me.”
He was aware of the bishop striding quickly to the northeast quarter of the circle and stooping for the blade. But by the time he had made his slow, shuffling way to his friend’s side, Joram and Evaine supporting him at his elbows, the gate was open, Alister standing aside with the sword at rest beside him while Rhys reached out for the unconscious Alroy.
Cinhil gave the boy tenderly into the Healer’s keeping, then sank to his knees outside the circle’s gate, forcing himself to breathe slowly but not too deeply, for the last thing he needed was to trigger a coughing bout. He waited while Rhys laid his son on a sleeping fur, checked his condition, signed for Joram to come and take Javan into the circle. When Joram had passed inside with the boy, Rhys scrambled on his knees to Cinhil’s side. His Healer’s hand touched Cinhil’s in deep concern.
“Cinhil, are you all right?”
“With your help, I shall endure what I must. I need your strength, though, Rhys.”
“What would you have me do?”
Cinhil closed his eyes briefly. “There is—a Deryni spell for banishing fatigue. I—know it, but have never used it.” He paused. “Will you help me work it now?”
“There is a danger. You know that. In your weakened state—”
“In my weakened state, I shall surely die if I attempt what further must be done and do not have this help,” Cinhil chided gently. “Come, Rhys. You know that I am dying. At least let me accomplish what I must, before I go. If I do not leave this circle alive, once my task is finished, it does not matter. But it does matter that I finish my work. I cannot, without your help.”
A flicker of compassion stirred behind Rhys’s amber eyes, and then he pressed the royal hand in acquiescence.
“Very well, my liege. You shall have your help. Open to me and let me enter. I promise, you shall have the strength to finish your work—and you shall feel no pain.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Or ever the silver cord be loosed … then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.
—Ecclesiastes 12:6–7
At Cinhil’s nod, Rhys took a deep breath and let himself begin to sink into trance, though he did not close his eyes just yet. Slipping his left hand along the side of Cinhil’s neck, his thumb resting lightly behind the right ear, he brought his other hand up to touch the front of Cinhil’s head, his hand’s weight urging the weary eyes to close. A moment more to collect himself, and then he was sending forth his mind across the bond now being formed, urging Cinhil to let go, to surrender control to the Healer’s touch, feeling the king’s slow, pained response.
Beyond Cinhil, he was aware of Camber and Joram watching from the gateway, of his wife kneeling beside the sleeping Javan and collecting the golden pins which had fallen from her hair. He sensed Camber’s wordless query as to Cinhil’s condition, but he could only catch the Master’s eye and shake his head minutely, his glance and lightning thought telling Camber all there was to know of Cinhil’s chance of lasting out the night if this went on.
There was no appeal from Cinhil’s self-imposed sentence, however. Both Rhys and Camber knew it. What Rhys had been asked to do would sustain Cinhil through the other two imprintings, which was what Cinhil wanted, but it would deplete the king’s resources past possible renewal. And Rhys, whose vocation it was to prolong life, was now being asked to take action not for length but for quality of life. Still, Rhys thought he understood.
Resignedly, then, he let himself slip deep into trance with Cinhil, blocking Cinhil’s pain and cancelling out fatigue and doing what Healing he could. Some repairs he was able to effect for the present, but he knew they would not hold for long under the stress to which Cinhil would soon subject himself again. Rhys would be able to do more Healing after Cinhil had finished with Javan, and that would give him yet a little more time, but that would be the limit, both for Cinhil and for him. He could not answer for Cinhil’s life, once the third imprinting was complete.
Quietly, gently, he did what must be done, then withdrew mind and hands and opened his eyes. Cinhil did not move for a few seconds, but when he did look up at Rhys again, he appeared to be greatly renewed. A faint smile split the gr
ey-flecked beard, becoming wider as he explored the new limits and comfort of his renewed body.
“Healers do, indeed, work miracles,” he said softly, gratitude lighting the grey eyes. “What a fool was I, ever to doubt it. Thank you, my friend. You have done me and Gwynedd great service this night.”
As he got to his feet and headed back into the warded circle, Joram and Camber stood to either side of the gateway and bowed him through. Another glance passed between Rhys and Camber as the Deryni Master laid the tip of the sword at one side of the gate and drew it across, sealing the circle once more.
Rhys checked on his two charges briefly—the one still unconscious, though recovering and approaching normal, if drugged, sleep; the other sleeping still in blissful ignorance of what lay ahead—then returned his attention to the circle. Through the veiling mist of the circle’s power, he could not see them clearly, but he could follow their progress from the shadow-shapes.
He watched the shadow that was Camber bring the knife again, watched Cinhil take that knife and prick the thumb of the unresisting Javan standing in their midst. Joram held the parchment, the charged water in its cup, and Cinhil let a drop of the boy’s blood fall on each.
Smoke rose from the censer as the parchment burned, but Rhys could not smell it. Sound was muffled and almost other-worldly, somehow apart from the real world where Rhys knelt outside the circle.
We stand outside time, in a place not of earth …, he recalled.
He had expected it would be thus. He had been inside a warded circle many times before; he certainly was not new to the practice of ritual magic, especially since his association with the MacRorie family, so many years now. But never before tonight had he been on the outside, trying to look in. The experience was a little unnerving.
Outside the chapel, he was aware of all the normal sounds of a royal castle at night; but inside, all of that seemed suspended. It was as if the warded circle soaked up sound and light like a giant sponge, deadening normal perceptions so that the perceptions of other might be more readily discerned.
Fully caught up now in the magic of the moment, he rose slowly to his feet, for the crux of Javan’s imprinting was about to be met. He knew that those within the circle did not need to repeat the four-fold invocation they had made before. This rite was an additive one, bringing Javan into the spell by the adding of his blood to the already charged cup, binding him into the succession in ways which mere lineage could never, ever challenge. When Javan drank from the charged cup, he would be assuming all the compulsions which Rhys and Camber and Evaine and Joram had imposed on Cinhil twelve years before, as well as the will of Cinhil himself, who controlled this rite and was its author.
And if the time came when the elder Alroy should die without male heir, then Javan, too, would assume the royal Haldane heritage by the expedient of putting on his father’s ring. That ring still lay in the bottom of the cup which Cinhil now extended to his son, bathed in the water which was charged not only with ash and the blood of three Haldanes now.
Thrice Javan sipped; then Cinhil was handing Joram the cup and laying his hands on his son’s head. The boy’s body went rigid as the royal will was imposed.
For a long time, nothing moved within the circle save the slight, slender form of Javan, struggling feebly to escape the power being thrust upon him. Cinhil drew him close against his breast as he continued his relentless patterning, finally raising his head to let Joram take the collapsing boy. Wearily he sank to his hands and knees.
At once Camber was moving to the edge of the circle and catching up the sword, cutting another gateway in the circle’s dome. As soon as the gateway was open, Rhys dashed inside, pausing only an instant to touch the unconscious Javan’s forehead and confirm his safety before throwing himself to his knees beside the exhausted Cinhil. Slipping a supporting arm around the king’s shoulders, Rhys touched his fingertips to the royal wrist, fearful of what he would find. Cinhil’s eyelids fluttered weakly and then gazed up at Rhys.
“I just about did it that time, didn’t I?” he rasped, fighting back a cough. “You must get me through the last one, though, Rhys. I’ve never asked anything so important of you.”
In Rhys’s arms, Cinhil’s body seemed to have grown lighter, more frail, and Rhys knew that he was burning himself out with the massive energy consumption—and that nothing could persuade him to stop now and save himself. Rhys moved his hands to monitor the pulse in Cinhil’s neck—quick and thin and thready—then slipped his touch back to the side of Cinhil’s head to read the growing fever, the life-fire brighter, more intense than the old man could sustain for much longer.
“I know, my friend,” Rhys murmured, embracing the king close in the circle of his arms and drawing them both into soothing, Healing rapport. “Let go now, and let me do my work. You will get through what you have deemed you must. I promise. Relax now and let me bear the pain for you a little while.”
And Cinhil did relax, his shields falling away even faster this time. With firm, steady strength, Rhys carried them both ever deeper, ever more centered, letting his healing touch spread out and through the two of them, easing away Cinhil’s fatigue and pain once more, numbing the resistance of flesh pushed too often past the danger point, knowing that even now the damage was done, the final processes irreversible.
He floated with Cinhil for several minutes, letting his healing forces mesh with Cinhil’s mind and body and cushion him from the pain, not letting himself think about what would come after, not letting himself think anything at all. There would be time enough, after Cinhil was gone, for thinking.…
And outside the world of Rhys’s mind, Camber stood quietly beside the open portal, his hands on the quillons of Cinhil’s sword, and followed the surface of Rhys’s thoughts and sensations, feeling for the Healer, feeling for Cinhil, both of whom knew full well the cost of what they did.
No sound disturbed the tranquillity of the warded circle. He could not even hear Cinhil’s breathing, now that Rhys was in control; and the others were outside with the three children, Joram and Evaine keeping watch until Rhys could return to his guardian duties. From time to time, Evaine glanced back through the gateway at her husband, but neither she nor Joram moved until those within the circle began to stir, Rhys raising his head groggily and then helping an oddly peaceful Cinhil to his feet.
Evaine and Joram, too, stood at that, Joram bending to scoop up the sleeping Rhys Michael. No words were exchanged as Rhys left the circle and Evaine and Joram went in, though Rhys did pause to touch his namesake’s head in passing, ensuring the boy’s response to Joram when the time was right.
When Rhys had once more taken his place between the two remaining boys, Camber bowed slightly to him and then drew the sword across the gateway’s threshold and sealed the circle again. He took his time as he bent to lay the weapon back in its place along the edge, straightened, and moved slowly back to his place at Cinhil’s right, palming the silver dagger as he passed the table.
Joram was rousing the groggy Rhys Michael to semiwakefulness, speaking to him in a low voice as the boy got his feet under him and managed to stand under his own power, still supported by Joram’s hand under one elbow. Cinhil watched all with greater serenity than he had yet displayed this night, and Camber was more certain than ever that the end was near.
The king would find the strength to do what must be done. Camber knew that Rhys had removed the last of warning pain signals from his body, so that he might complete his work without distraction, even to the end—and that Cinhil was content with that. With a gentle smile of unity, of total acceptance of what the king had chosen, Camber laid his hand on the royal shoulder for just an instant, felt Cinhil’s answering surge of appreciation, of affection.
Then Evaine was moving into her place behind Rhys Michael, the thurible spewing incense smoke, and Joram was bringing the cup and a third small piece of parchment.
For the third time, the now-familiar ritual moved through its sequence until Cinhil
had delivered the final invocation, standing before the altar with the cup raised in both his hands. A moment he paused, head thrown back and eyes closed in supplication. Then the cup was sinking back to eye level, to chest level, and he was turning to face Rhys Michael.
Camber, watching as Cinhil gazed across at his son, saw the boy’s instant response of trust and resolution, in contrast to the others’ apprehension. Suddenly he knew that here was Gwynedd’s future, for better or for worse, in this youngest child of Cinhil. In a flash of prescience, the likes of which he had seldom experienced in all his long life, Camber saw an older Rhys Michael mounting the throne of Gwynedd, at his side a tawny-haired girl who wore the crown of Gwynedd’s queen. There was something familiar about the girl, but Camber could not quite place it. Besides, his attention was for the youthful king, who could not have been more than fifteen or sixteen—but old enough to rule outside the strictures of the royal regents who would have plagued his older brothers.
And, what of his older brothers? If Camber’s glimpses of the future were correct, then both Alroy and Javan were destined to die young—would produce no male heirs, if, indeed, they married at all in the short time allotted to them. And if these two died young, what kind of turmoil must lie ahead for Gwynedd, to lose three kings in twice the years?
As quickly as it had come, the image was past, and Camber was watching Cinhil extend the cup to Rhys Michael, wondering whether his flash of insight had been that or only fantasizing, as the boy slowly raised his hands and laid them on his father’s. Though the child moved somewhat jerkily, his movements slowed both by the drugs in his system and the controls placed on him, it was as if the actions were as much of his own volition as they were of any other’s ordering. He leaned forward to meet the cup as it was brought toward his lips and drank without hesitation. Camber could see the muscles of his throat working as the cup was tipped back and he swallowed once, twice, a third great gulp which drained the cup and set the ring to rolling with a brittle tinkle against the glaze inside.
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