The Bastard Prince (13 page)

Instinct warned him not to try to touch it. Even passing close to it, he felt his skin seem to crawl. Just past the bed, he noted that the circle was incomplete. The two ends of white wool that should have closed it had been folded back to either side to leave a gap wide enough for a person to pass. The Haldane sword lay on the floor just outside, with its point just touching the more easterly side of the gap and angled to suggest an open door. Peering more closely at the opening, Rhys Michael thought the air seemed slightly clearer there, as if there really was a door through something just beyond his ability to see.

“Go into the circle and wait in the center, Sire,” Joram said quietly, as he indicated the opening. “I'll join you when I've let Cathan know we're starting.”

Rhys Michael could feel the hackles rising at the back of his neck as he passed uneasily into the circle. Mika came to him as he entered, gathering him to the center in a silent embrace that needed no words. He kissed her gently, and as they drew apart, she kissed her fingertips and pressed them lightly to the Haldane brooch at his throat, tears in her eyes. Smiling, he did the same, the wonder of her loyalty and love lending him courage and determination as Joram returned, passing again between the circle and the foot of the bed. As Joram bent to pick up the Haldane sword, Rhys Michael noticed a small silver cross now hanging outside his crimson surcoat, a tangible reminder of the Deryni's priestly calling.

Somehow reassured by that, the king let his wife withdraw to her former place and turned back to the opening. As soon as Joram had entered, Tieg crouched down briefly to bring the ends of white wool together and loosely knot them, symbolically completing the circle.

But it was Joram's action that actually completed it, Rhys Michael knew. Setting the point of the sword to the floor at the left side of where the doorway had been, Joram drew the blade smartly across the former threshold three times. Each stroke seemed to make the fog intensify in the opening, so that when he finished, bending briefly to lay the sword just along that part of the circle's arc, only the weapon's position remained to indicate where the opening had been.

“You stand now in a warded circle, Sire,” Joram said softly, coming to turn him toward Tieg now, but well back from the candle. “I believe you sensed something of its power when you passed through its gate, which now is closed. The circle is guarded by the holy archangels, upon whom we shall call again shortly. A few small preparations are required first, however. Give me your right thumb, please.”

Heartbeat quickening despite his determination not to be afraid, Rhys Michael gave Joram his right hand. As he did so, young Tieg produced a small piece of parchment from his belt pouch and, surprisingly, the Haldane Ring of Fire. Joram, meanwhile, had drawn a small silver dagger from a sheath at his belt. Somehow, Rhys Michael had the feeling he had seen it before, but he could not quite remember where.

“You've gone through part of this before,” Joram said, compressing Rhys Michael's thumb beside the dagger's blade. “The sacrifice of blood and at least a token test of courage have been elements of all the empowering rituals in which I've assisted. The form we have used has differed, according to the circumstances, but the blood baptism of the Ring of Fire seems to be a constant, as is the formal naming of the king. The words you are about to hear were chosen by your father. Tieg?”

With a casual gesture of one Healer's hand, Tieg conjured a fist-sized sphere of greenish handfire and set it hanging in the air slightly above their heads. The suddenness of it startled Rhys Michael, especially so close, but he knew what it was; he had seen Javan conjure handfire once. But even had he wished it, he could not have pulled back, for Joram's hand held him fast, his thumb imprisoned close by the shining blade. He forced himself to lower his eyes from the handfire as Tieg tilted the square of parchment toward its light and read.

“
I will declare the decree. 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.
”

Rhys Michael blinked at the words. He had heard them before, he was sure, at a time just beyond the range of recall. He was still trying to remember where, when Joram drew his captive thumb sharply across the dagger's razor edge, to the accompaniment of other words that struck a chord somewhere deep inside him.

“Rhys Michael Alister Haldane, King of Gwynedd, be thou consecrated to the service of thy people.”

He could not move. He seemed frozen in this instant of time: Into the thrumming silence that followed came the faintly rasping sound of Joram twice drawing the flat of the blade across the thigh of his breeches to clean it, then the cool, metallic snick of it being sheathed. The blade had been sharp enough to cause no immediate pain or much bleeding, but Rhys Michael's jaws clenched as Joram compressed the cut from the ends and it gaped open, welling with blood in which Tieg carefully rolled the dark red stones of the Ring of Fire. The touch of the stones against raw flesh made the king bite back a gasp of real pain, all his body tensing, but then the wounded thumb was being pressed to the parchment Tieg handed to the elder Deryni, mere pressure that allowed the cut to close.

The action gave the young Healer brief respite to pull a bit of clean linen from his pouch and wipe the thumb clean, then clasp it in one hand for a few blurred seconds. The pain ceased; and when Tieg opened his hand a moment later, releasing the king's thumb, the wound was completely healed.

Joram, meanwhile, had bent briefly to retrieve the cup at their feet. Rhys Michael guessed that the liquid half filling it was water, but by the greenish light of the handfire above, he could not be sure. Joram looked very focused as he slightly lifted the cup between them in his left hand, the parchment held over it on his open right palm. He did not even blink as the parchment burst into flames and, within a few heartbeats, was reduced to a mere snippet of ash. This he tipped into the cup, watching the ash disintegrate as he spoke again.

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

Rhys Michael breathed a fervent “Amen,” and let the words sink into his soul as Joram held the cup closer to Tieg. The Healer carefully slipped the bloodstained Ring of Fire into the cup, then summoned the handfire down beside the cup while Joram gently swirled the ring around the bottom to stir the contents. When it was done to both their satisfaction, Tieg drew the handfire back into his hand and quenched it, leaving the circle lit only by the candle near their feet and the two elsewhere in the room.

“You drank of a similar cup once before, Sire,” Joram said quietly. “As we proceed, I expect you'll begin to remember. We shall now reiterate the blessings that made it potent by more than blood, calling upon our archangelic guardians to witness our intent. Stand where you are and attend. It's customary to turn as we invoke the various Quarters, beginning in the East.”

So saying, he passed the cup to Tieg, then stepped back to the edge of the circle closest to the foot of the bed as Tieg likewise retreated to the easternmost limit of the circle. Clasping the cup between his Healer's hands, Tieg briefly bowed his head over it, then lifted his face heavenward, eyes closed. His deep voice was low and musical, almost singing words Rhys Michael had heard before—he could almost remember when.

“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.”

Slightly elevating the cup, he shifted his right hand to extend the palm flat above it, lifting his eyes to a Presence that only he seemed able to see.

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

Shifting the summoning hand to support the foot of the cup, he raised it just above eye level and threw back his head, eyes closing as a faint breeze stirred his reddish hair, swirling once around the circle's confines and then subsiding. Rhys Michael, standing at the circle's center, felt the ghost-breath of the stirring as a crawling of the fine hairs on his forearms and a chill along his spine. As Tieg lowered the cup, the king found himself joining his hands in an attitude of prayer, fingers pressed to his lips, only now beginning to realize the magnitude of what they Called.

The young Healer smiled faintly, bowing slightly to the king before moving slightly to his left to hand the cup to Michaela. Rhys Michael turned to face her, but she did not seem really to see him, so intent was she upon young Tieg. She received the cup as if it bore the Blessed Sacrament, reverently bowing her head over it before lifting it as he had, with palm extended flat above it, drawing upon the knowledge they had given her of her heritage.

“O Lord, Thou art holy indeed: the fountain of all holiness. We pray Thee now to 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 he who drinks of it justly command the element of Fire. Amen.”

Rhys Michael fancied he could see blue flames flickering above the rim as she lifted it in further offering, though he could not imagine that she had the power to craft such fire herself. Whatever its source, her face seemed aglow as she carefully passed the cup to Rhysel. Only reluctantly did he take his eyes from her as she backed into her place and the younger woman bowed briefly over the cup, then lifted it in supplication.

“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 he who shall drink hereof may justly command the element of Water. Amen.”

Rhys Michael flinched as thunder seemed to rumble softly all around him, glancing instinctively at the door beyond Michaela, for surely they must be able to hear it in the next room. A glittering mist seemed to gather above the cup as Rhysel spread her hand higher above the cup, almost-lightnings crackling and spitting from hand to contents.

A whiff of the sharp, clean scent of summer thundershowers prickled briefly at his nostrils, and when she lowered the cup, beads of moisture were streaming down the outside, dripping on the carpet as she took it to Joram. The priest appeared nonplussed, as did Rhysel, only wiping his right hand against the tail of his surcoat before extending it over the cup he raised. Despite their apparent nonchalance, the king felt a shudder of fear tighten along his spine, and he had to clasp his hands tightly together to stop their trembling as Joram spoke.

“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 he who shall drink hereof may justly command the element of Earth. Amen.”

Very suddenly, in an instant of unexpected vertigo, Rhys Michael seemed to feel the floor lurch under his feet. Though it ended almost as soon as begun, he had to scramble to regain his balance, arms briefly outflung in mindless dismay until the room stabilized. He could hear the hollow, tinkling sound of the Ring of Fire rattling against the inside of the cup as Joram lowered it, and his heart was still pounding as the Deryni bade him turn to face Tieg again.

The young Healer had come forward to take up the candle, remaining deeper in the circle as Joram moved in beside him with the cup, and Rhys Michael found himself sinking to his knees before them. The candlelight lit their faces eerily from below, also lighting the cup with merciless clarity, and he knew he was trembling again.

“I can't tell you exactly what to expect next,” Joram said quietly, studying the taut, upturned face of the young man kneeling before him. “I think you realize that this cup is now potent with far more than water and Haldane blood. Drinking it should be sufficient to take you past whatever has prevented your assumption of your father's power—but if it isn't, I'll step in. Possibly Tieg, as well. Try not to resist whatever happens. You probably
can
, if you're determined not to let anything past your shields, but it won't be in your best interests.”

Rhys Michael nodded dimly. He was very much aware of the power in the cup Joram now held out to him, a power whose promise he knew he had tasted before, at his father's hands. But as his own hands clasped around it and brought it to his heart, a flash of the futility of it all nearly made him drop it.

“Rhys Michael Alister Haldane, you are the true King of Gwynedd, God's anointed,” he heard Joram saying softly, as if through a fog. “Drink. By this mystery shall you come to the power that is your Divine Right, as king of this realm; and even so shall you instruct your own sons, in due time.”

Rhys Michael raised the cup in shaking hands and drank it to the dregs, wanting it to be true, praying that it
was
true. The draught was bitter with ash and despair, flat with the faint salt-taste of his blood and his mortality. All too briefly, he thought he sensed
something
vaguely stirring deep within him, the ghost flickers of unfamiliar images teasing behind his closed eyelids, but he could not seem to bring it to focus.

Choking back a sob of frustration, frantic to catch and hold the Sight, he sank back on his hunkers and blindly scrabbled the Ring of Fire out of the bottom of the empty cup, shoving the ash-smeared band of it hard onto his left hand. The momentary discomfort as it grazed across his knuckles flared as a fleeting glimpse of psychic clarity that made him gasp, came and was gone almost before it could register.

No! Come back!
a forlorn part of him pleaded, sightless eyes straining at the darkness.

Hands huddled to his breast half in prayer, he found himself rubbing at the knuckle he had scraped in donning the ring. In that instant he became acutely aware of another presence in the circle, both familiar and strange—not Joram or Tieg or either of the women—One who had the power to give him his Sight, if only he could focus, could bring the vision through. But how?