Camber the Heretic (14 page)

Gently his thumbs chafed the two small hands resting so still within his own, then brought the right one to his lips and kissed it. His eyes misted as he glanced away at the parchment which Joram now held within his vision, but he did not need to read the words penned there.

“
I will declare the decree
,” he said, never faltering as he recited the words of the Psalmist. “
The Lord hath said unto me, Thou art my Son: this day have I begotten thee. Ask of me, and I shall give thee the heathen for thine inheritance, and the uttermost parts of the earth for thy possession.
”

He glanced into the boy's eyes again, fancying he could see some comprehension written there, then released the boy's left hand, took the dagger from Alister and tested its sharpness against his thumb.

“Alroy Bearand Brion Haldane, Crown Prince of Gwynedd, be consecrated to the service of thy people,” he said, the while squeezing Alroy's right thumb close in the grip of his free hand.

In two quick motions, he jabbed the boy's thumb with the point, then turned the blade on his own. The boy did not flinch—only watched dreamily as his bleeding thumb and then his father's were pressed briefly to the parchment, to the ring. As Joram cast the parchment on Evaine's brazier, Alister wiped both wounds with a strip of linen which he then laid across his left arm, maniplewise.

Cinhil watched the fresh smoke of the burning parchment spiral upward, to curl lazily against the confines of the protective circle. Only when the parchment was but a crisp of brittle ash on the charcoal did he move again, this time to take a pinch of ash between thumb and forefinger and sprinkle it on the surface of the water in Alister's cup.

“
Give the king Thy judgments, O God, and Thy righteousness unto the king's son
,” he said.

He took the blood-stained ring from Joram and slipped it into the cup as well, sensing their surprise that he had now literally made this a blood-rite, but he could not let that deter him. Somehow he knew that it was necessary, and what further he must do.

As they took their places once more, Joram to his left and Alister to his right, he drew strength from his own resolve. Impassively he took the cup from Alister and turned to face the altar, raised the cup slightly with both hands in salutation to the Divine Presence.

“O Lord, Thou art holy, indeed: the fountain of all holiness. In trembling and humility we come before Thee with our supplications, asking Thy blessing and protection on what we must do this night.”

He turned to face his son, lowering the cup to extend his right palm flat above the rim.

“Send now Thy holy Archangel Raphael, O Lord, to breathe upon this water and make it holy, that they who shall drink of it may justly command the element of Air. Amen.”

A moment more he held his hand motionless there and forged his will, his heart pounding in the unbreathing silence of the warded circle. Trembling, he let his right hand slip down to support the cup with its mate, felt the ring beneath the water vibrating against the snow-white glaze.

A breeze stirred his robe, a lock of hair, wafted a curl of incense smoke past his nostrils, began to circulate with increasing force within the confines of the circle. He saw the wild look in his son's eyes as the breeze became a wind, a vortex which snapped robes tight to bodies and whipped hair against faces which did not flinch or turn aside.

Evaine's hood was swept from her head, her hair coming down in a cascade of tinkling golden pins which showered the carpet at their feet. Yellow and iron-grey hair stood out like living, writhing haloes on Joram and Alister, but they did not move—only stood with hands crossed still on blue and purple-clad breasts, serene, implacable, though the bishop did close his eyes briefly, Cinhil noted.

Then, suddenly, the storm was past. Almost before anyone could react, the wind had captured more of the incense smoke and coalesced in a tight spiral centering over the cup which Cinhil still held. He was aware of all their eyes upon him, of an eddy of surprise that he had called up this imagery for the work they did. But there was an undercurrent of acceptance, too—of acquiescence to this approach—and he knew that they would follow his lead.

He watched as the breeze subsided to a tiny, controlled whirlwind hovering above the cup, did not dare to breathe as the funnel sank and touched the surface of the water, stirring it slightly and then dying away.

When all movement on the surface of the water had ceased, when all that stirred was the renewed shaking of his hand, Cinhil closed his eyes briefly and passed the cup to Joram. Joram, apparently unmoved by what he had just seen, bowed solemnly, grey eyes hooded and unfathomable. Holding out the cup beside the entranced Alroy, he extended his right hand over the rim as Cinhil had done.

“O Lord, Thou art holy, indeed: the fountain of all holiness. We pray Thee now send Thy holy Archangel of Fire, the Blessed Michael, to instill this water with the fire of Thy love and make it holy. So may all who drink of it command the element of Fire. Amen.”

A moment, with his hand held over the cup, and then the hand was drawn a little to one side, though still it hovered close. Fire glowed within the hollow of his palm, growing to an egg-sized spheroid of golden flame which hung suspended but a handspan from the cup. The flame roared like the fire of a forge, filling the warded circle with its might.

After a few heartbeats, Joram turned his hand slightly downward and seemed to press the fiery sphere into the surface of the water. Steam hissed and spat for just an instant, then ceased as the flame subsided to a cold blue which brooded, barely visible, on the surface and around the rim.

Carefully, reverently, Joram turned toward his sister and extended the cup to her. She tossed her wind-tumbled hair back from her face with a quick, graceful gesture and took the cup, held it close against her breast for just a moment while she gazed into the water.

Then she raised it high in supplication, her eyes focused on and through the glow of flame.

“O Lord, Thou art holy, indeed: the fountain of all holiness. Let now Thine Archangel Gabriel, who rules the stormy waters, instill this cup with the rain of Thy wisdom, that they who shall drink hereof may justly command the element of Water. Amen.”

For an instant there was silence, a growing electric tension in the air. Then lightning crackled in the space above their heads, and thunder rumbled, and a small, dark cloud took form above the cup.

Cinhil gasped, his resolve shaken at what Evaine had called, but the others did not move so neither did he. Evaine's face was suffused with radiance, her blue eyes focused entirely on this thing she had called.

Thunder rumbled again, lower and less menacing this time, and then a gentle rain began to fall from the little cloud, most of it falling into the cup but a few drops splashing on those who watched. Cinhil flinched as the first drop hit his face, restraining the almost irresistible urge to cross himself, but the rainfall ended almost as soon as it had begun. Abruptly, the cup in Evaine's hands was only what it had been before, though fuller by perhaps a fingerspan than it had been. The outside of the cup ran with water beaded on the glaze, dripping a little on the precious Kheldish carpet as Evaine handed it to Alister with a bow.

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.”

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

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.