The Harrowing of Gwynedd (61 page)

Paulin of Ramos, the Order's Vicar General, was waiting at the end of that aisle, flanked by his Inquisitor General on the one side and by Father Secorim, the abbot of this particular
Custodes
chapter, on the other. Paulin's staff glittered in the candlelight, the sword in the lion's paw catching the fire in a lance of light, reminding Javan again of the power this man now held over so many innocent people. To the left, Archbishop Hubert lent the weight of his presence and approval to this gathering, coped and mitered as he observed from a thronelike chair. Javan was trembling by the time he had passed through that gauntlet of men he knew sworn to destroy the people he held most dear in the world, and he had to be helped back to his feet after making his genuflection at the foot of the altar steps.

“Javan Jashan Urien Haldane.” Paulin spoke the name like a judge reading a death sentence, pointing the head of the staff at him like an accusatory finger of deadly steel. “What would you of the
Ordo Custodum Fidei
?”

Dry-throated, his heart pounding in his chest, Javan managed a reasonably competent liturgical bow, right hand pressed to his breast as he held his candle aloft in his left hand.

“God aiding me, Father General,” he said steadily, “I would try my vocation in this House.”

In that same moment, as a sworn enemy of Deryni came to take a candle from the hand of a prince with burgeoning Deryni powers, a Deryni sorceress paused at the foot of the dais steps leading up to a bier formed of four black and four white cubes. It was not the wooden one that she, Joram, and Queron had constructed beneath the
keeill
, but the more strongly evocative one where Orin had lain. They had decided, only days before, that their working should not be attempted so close within the confines of the Camberian Council, lest those keeping the watch for Sylvan and Tavis detect their activity. In addition, this chamber provided a safe and suitable place for their subject to rest in the future, if today's work should not succeed.

The three of them had brought Camber's body down the night before, laying it on the bier under the net of
shiral
crystals. They had set Wards around it. Joram and Queron had returned to make the rest of the physical preparations early this morning, freeing Evaine in these last hours to compose herself for the working.

Joram turned to gaze down at her as she hesitated, Queron also coming to the edge of the dais to meet her. The Healer had donned his Gabrilite robes of white for the occasion, with the green of one of Rhys' old Healer's mantles thrown around his shoulders to provide a visual link for Evaine. Joram wore his formal Michaeline robes—deep blue cassock and mantle, the white sash of his knighthood, and the knotted scarlet girdle that was also the mark of a Michaeline. His father's sword hung at his side. Beyond them, just visible in the light of the plain white tapers set at the quarters of the dais circle, Evaine could see the gleaming length of the black side of the bier, only a vague smudge of lighter shadow above it hinting at its precious burden.

“You're sure you want to go through with this?” Joram said, as she started up the steps, lifting the skirts of her gown of dusty black.

The slate was cold beneath her bare feet, and the marble of the black and white checkered dais floor colder still. She did not answer Joram, only going to gaze down almost reverently at the body laid out on the bier. The net of
shiral
crystals had been removed. A white drape covered his loins, but otherwise he was naked. They had taken off his Michaeline habit, to give Queron immediate access to the wounds that had brought him to the edge of death and would kill him yet, if not tended as soon as he was revived—
if
he could be revived. The wounds looked fresh, even after this long, but there was no blood. Turning her gaze to his face, serene and composed within its frame of silver-gilt hair, Evaine could almost believe he only slept. And his hands—the hands were still cupped in that odd, static attitude close above his heart, as if to keep something precious from slipping away.

“The gash along his hip
looks
the worst,” Queron said, coming to stand quietly at her elbow and gesturing toward it with his hand. “The thigh wound was more serious, though. He lost a great deal of blood from that one. I'll have to go very deep to repair it, and I'll have to work very quickly. The other wounds are reasonably superficial, but the aggregate blood loss was staggering. If this were any ordinary sort of case, I'd have liked a second Healer present,” he added wistfully.

Evaine grimaced to see the wounds, but she had seen them before, when she helped Joram wash and lay him out for burial. Seeing them afresh, though, she wondered whether Queron
would
be able to save him, even if she did manage to bring him back.

“I can do it,” he murmured, answering the question she dared not ask. “You just worry about your part. Or—
don't
worry. Just do what you know you have to do. When it's over, I'll put
you
back together, too, if you overextend.”

Joram's snort said what
he
thought of that notion, but he turned away before Evaine could see his face. Drawing a slow, steadying breath, she lifted her head to the shadowed ceiling overhead, forcing her doubts back beyond conscious concern, then exhaled softly, balance restored. She wore Jodotha's torque around her neck, and felt its weight across her throat as she looked back at them.

“
None
of us is going to overextend,” she said briskly. “We'll take things one step at a time, as usual. I believe it's customary to ward the circle first. We'll begin by centering.”

She would work from the South when they began the actual ritual, for she must face the Northern gate to Call him back. But for now, she moved to the East, where a censer released faint wisps of an incense that tugged at the senses, its undertone just slightly different from the usual liturgical blend. Queron moved to the East as well, for he would keep his watch at the head of the bier, ready to work his Healer's magic at the appropriate time. The aspergillum he handed her was a tuft of evergreen bound to a handle of myrtle-wood, stuck in a small silver bucket of holy water. Joram, taking up his station in the West, removed his sheathed sword from his belt and laid it on the floor at the foot of the bier, standing then to balance Queron. He would not look at Evaine, though, and kept his eyes averted until she had turned to face the East, the aspergillum held across her heart.

“
Terriblis est locus iste
,” she said in a low voice, after a moment. “
Hic domus Dei est, et porta caeli
…” Terrible is this place; it is the house of God, and the gate of Heaven, and it shall be called the court of God.

“Amen,” Queron replied, Joram joining in just behind him.

After inscribing a cross in the air before her with the aspergillum, Evaine turned to her right and began tracing the first circle with holy water, chanting the ancient words as she moved.

“
Asperges me, Domine, hyssopo, et mundabor; lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor
…” Sprinkle me, O Lord, with hyssop, and I shall be purified; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow …

She kept her eyes half closed as she walked the circle, feeling the familiar energies start to build. Peace settled upon her like a mantle as she marked the confines of the circle with the tracery of holy water, serenity shimmering like a fog in the trail of droplets she left, surging heavenward at each quarter, where she paused to salute.

By the time she completed her circuit, she was as centered as she had ever been, totally detached from her former fear. She knew Queron sensed it as she sprinkled him; she could see it in his eyes as he made her a deep bow before taking the aspergillum to sprinkle her in turn.

Drop down, ye dew from heaven …
The words whispered in her mind, a further blessing from Queron, who actually understood a little of what she must go through, without even being told. His tranquillity accompanied her as she went to Joram, who bowed his head dutifully to receive the purification, arms crossed on his breast, no longer presenting anything but centered harmony.

Turning to her father's body was harder, but she kept her thoughts centered on her purpose as she sprinkled the recumbent form with holy water in the form of a cross. Nor did she linger to look at him before returning to the East to put aside the aspergillum. Queron was tipping more incense into the thurible as she moved on to her place in the South, and she bowed her head and crossed her hands on her breast as he began the second casting of the circle, billowing clouds of sweet-smelling smoke following him and hanging on the air.

“
Dirigatur, Domine, oratio mea, sicut incensum, in conspectu tuo
…” Welcome as incense smoke let my prayer rise up before thee, Lord; when I lift up my hands, be it as acceptable as the evening sacrifice …

Incense of a stronger sort and concentration tickled at Javan's nostrils as he knelt before Paulin of Ramos and Father Secorim. Paulin had taken his candle and set it on the altar. Admonished as to the duties and responsibilities of a cleric, as well as the privileges, Javan was now to receive the tonsure. It would not be the full tonsure of one entering major orders—and indeed, those taking vows as lay brethren were not even required to be tonsured—but Hubert and Secorim had decided that the symbolism was important, and Paulin had concurred.

“You have come of your own free will to make this commitment,” Paulin told him, reading from a great book that one of his monks held—a statement which was not precisely true, but Javan knew he had no other real choice just now. “Because the next years will be a time of testing your vocation, which is as yet unformed and untrained,” Paulin went on, “it is meet and right that you should set yourself apart from the world and its distractions. Donning the garment of humility is a symbol of this setting apart, as is the putting aside of your secular attire. In further token of your commitment to this path you have freely chosen, we cut a lock of your hair, as an outward symbol of the sacrifice of a part of your very body in pledge of fidelity to God's work.”

Javan closed his eyes as the Vicar General took up a pair of golden shears from a tray another monk brought him. He could hardly bear Paulin's touch, gathering what felt like a monstrous hank of hair from his crown. He forced himself not to flinch as the shears snipped close to the scalp in a solid, metallic snick.

In fact, the lock was no bigger around than a man's thumb. Javan caught just a glimpse of it before Paulin laid it in a small silver bowl held by one of his monks and continued with an exhortation to prayer, forcing Javan to bow his head.

“O Lord, strengthen Thy servant Javan in his resolve, that he may be a worthy aspirant to the high vocation for which Thou callest him …”

The circle glowed around the dais where Evaine waited, as she also prayed that God might strengthen her in her resolve. Joram had traced the third and final circle with the sword, setting the spell in place with brisk Michaeline thoroughness, and the dome of the circle's protection arched above their heads in a shimmering violet span, proof against any force wielded by mere mortals—even Deryni ones.

Now the formal Wards must be set, calling upon the protection of those great archangelic beings who ruled the elemental forces. They had agreed that Queron and Joram should make the actual invocations, leaving Evaine free to embellish on the images they conjured and to integrate them into her own protective and supportive framework. She faced the East from where she stood, extending her senses to note and savor every nuance of power summoned, as Queron began, lifting his arms to the East to conjure golden handfire and send it streaking into the flame of the eastern ward candle as he called the Guardian of Air.

“Behold the Mystery of Air—even Raphael, the life-giving One, veiled in the wings of wind and storm. Come, mighty Raphael, and grace us with thy presence and protection!”

Evaine could not see the great Presence suddenly looming behind the eastern candle, but It was there. Her mind filled in the details of convention—the pale hair lifting on the breeze that likewise stirred half-transparent draperies of palest gold and cream and yellow/pressing them close around a slender yet powerful form, lithe and straight as a willow wand. Raphael looked nothing like that, of course, having no true physical form. Nonetheless, she inclined her head in salute to what the image meant to
her
, before turning to the south, aware of Joram circling the bier deosil to come and stand beside her facing South.

“Behold the Mystery of Fire—even Michael, the consecrating One, veiled in the flames of all that is eternal,” Joram said, following the pattern that Queron had set and sending conjured handfire to glow crimson and orange in the southern ward candle. “Come, mighty Michael, and grace us with thy presence and protection!”

Evaine had an impression of fiery wings, though they shed no physical light or heat, and built up the rest of the image for herself—the tall, stern visage, flaming hair surging from the discipline of a fillet of ruddy gold; golden body armor, finely scaled like salamander skin; the flaming sword, echoing the one on the Michaeline badge on Joram's mantle. Ah, she knew Michael very well.

Saluting him, she and Joram turned to face the West, where Queron now strode to call up bluish-green handfire, sending it forth from between his palms like a streak of comet fire.

“Behold the Mystery of Water—even Gabriel, the purifying One, veiled in the coolness of the seas and lakes and summer rain. Come, mighty Gabriel, and grace us with thy presence and protection!”

She locked on the image of Gabriel almost immediately—pale blues and greens and dappled lavenders, ever-shifting, winged like the others but glistening with running water, as if constantly emerging from a sunlit waterfall. She gave profound salute to Gabriel, who was also the Herald of the Blessed Virgin, and breathed a prayer for special intercession.