CHAPTER SEVEN
Yea, a sword shall pierce through thine own soul also, and the thoughts of many hearts shall be revealed.
The Sword-edge Bridge stretched before Queron in all the stark physical symbolism of the inner Ordeal that the very concept suggested. The Bridge over the Abyss was a classic means of progression on the path toward adeptship, but that path was in no wise an easy one. The fact that Queron had crossed lesser chasms gave him little comfort as he faced this latest incarnation of the Ordeal, for each passage was different, presenting its own perils.
He knew he was not expected literally to walk across the edge of the sword—but what seemed to yawn beneath it was infinitely more menacing than any mere steel. He had never thought himself particularly wary of heights, but the vast chasm he could sense gaping before him encompassed far more than just physical space. All of his worst personal fears and petty failings leered up at him from the churning maelstrom that howled below, ready to snap him up and rend his soul at the slightest hesitation or misstep. Failure might not bring about his literal death, but the psychic battering of a spiritual tumble certainly would render him unfit for any immediate usefulness to the company he sought to join; and recovery might take a lifetime—or more.
But he must not dwell on that danger. His inner strength and his dedication to the rightness of their cause must lend him the courage to proceed. He must offer up his weaknesses upon the altar of his heart and let them be consumed by the fire of the Ordeal. He could sense the uncompromising scrutiny of immortal as well as mortal watchers as he set his right foot lightly on the line of shining steel, and he made his pledge of faith a prayer for support.
As he had known it must be, the sword was withdrawn before he could put his weight full upon it, but the narrow hairline of silver that remained, so slenderly bridging the Abyss, was surely no less terrifying as he slowly shifted his weight full upon it and then stepped out with his other foot, balancing a little awkwardly with his bound hands. Gregory had risen and backed a few steps farther onto the path of light as Queron stepped, and stood now with the sword resting across his right shoulder, his left hand held ready to reach out to Queron—but only after the Healer-priest had safely reached the other side by his own devices.
Each step was a trial. The line of light seemed to burn into the soles of his feet like molten silver. Though a part of his mind told him it was only stone he walked upon, perfectly firm beneath his feet, another part shrieked of the Abyss gaping beneath him. Given what he had witnessed so far, without even entering the circle, who could say which perception was correct?
But he persevered, despite the cold terror clutching at his soul, and finally, he was across. As Gregory took his elbow to steady him, turning to lead him up to the safety of the circle—now an honor escort—Queron’s relief knew hardly any bounds. Gratefully he stepped into the circle at Gregory’s side, only closing his eyes for a few seconds to breathe deeply as Gregory closed the gate behind them with the sword.
Then Gregory was returning to stand at his left. Joram and Evaine were before him, flanked by Ansel and Jesse. All of them looked very, very solemn, causing Queron to wonder whether he had, indeed, passed the test of the sword.
“Queron Kinevan,” Joram said quietly, “we welcome you to this circle and acknowledge with respect the courage you have shown, to venture into this place. But you came before us with obligations and commitments which bound you to other loyalties. The faith we require must be without reservation—saving that for priests, such as you and myself, the seal of the confessional must be unbreached, whatever else may befall. For as the Scriptures remind us, ‘Thou art a priest forever.’
“Saving only that reservation, then, and even including the vows you made as a Healer and as a member of the Order of Saint Gabriel, are you now prepared to surrender all other ties and loyalties, relegating them to a lesser place, that our work in the service of the Light may come before all other considerations?”
Queron had prayed long and hard over this requirement and had known it would be demanded. He had pondered it before disposing of his g’dula the night before—for that, too, was a loosing of ties. So was the putting aside of his Gabrilite robes, later on. He had not been ready, then, also to cast aside his Healer’s mantle, but now its weight on his shoulders reminded him that this, too, was a binding—though he would never cease being a Healer, any more than he could cease being a priest.
But he found that, having crossed the Abyss this time, he could now let go of everything that lay outside that core that was the heart of his priestly and healing vocations. He could give it up gladly, in the service of the Light. Almost of their own volition, his bound hands rose to loose the cloak-clasp at his throat. As the Healer’s mantle slipped from his shoulders, whispering into a heap of dull, wrinkled white behind him, he felt infinitely lighter. He considered taking off his Saint Camber medal and his Healer’s seal as well, but those no longer held the weight they once had, and did not bind him at all.
“I am prepared,” he said quietly, looking into Joram’s eyes unflinchingly.
“Then, sever the bonds which bind you physically, even as you have dissociated yourself from the ties that bind in heart and soul and mind,” Evaine commanded, as Gregory held the sword closer to him, bracing the hilt with both hands.
The woolen yarn parted easily as Queron drew his bonds along the blade—far more easily than he had parted himself from the ties the yarn represented. He felt at peace, however, as he watched Joram catch up the severed pieces, and he followed without hesitation as Evaine led him sunwise around the altar to a place in the west, to end up standing on her right. The others also returned to their places; and as Joram laid the cords in the thurible, still smoldering in the south, and the sharp stench of burning wool briefly drifted upward, Queron at last had an opportunity to examine the items on the altar, if only superficially.
Nothing appeared to be immediately out of the ordinary. The thurible and aspergillum he had already seen, as well as the sword Gregory laid back in place. Nor could he take exception to the other items: an incense boat, a footed clay cup of water, a small bowl of what appeared to be salt, and a small silver dagger that he thought he had seen Evaine wear before. All of this lay on a white altar cloth, totally unadorned.
But in the exact center of the altar was something that was—not precisely out of the ordinary—simply unexpected on an altar. Though its top was covered with a square of fine linen, Queron could see that the object beneath it was a square wooden box, perhaps twice the span of a man’s hand and half as tall as it was wide. A lamp burned in a cup of fine-blown purple glass on top of the box, fueled by a small vigil candle. As Jesse moved the lamp aside and Joram removed and folded the square of linen, Evaine laid her left hand on top of the box and turned slightly to face him.
“You have already faced the most difficult part of this night’s working, Queron,” she said softly. “What remains, however, is by far the most solemn. Beneath my hand are tokens of all the previous members of the Camberian Council. It is upon these relics, made sacred by the dedication of those who have gone before you, that you will be asked to swear your oath. Since the days of the original five founders—myself, Joram, Rhys, Alister, and Jebediah—all members have sworn a like oath and bound their pledge into harmony with the rest.”
As she opened the box, hinging the lid back toward Ansel, Queron had an impression of purple, cord-like threads and something that flashed silver. The latter proved to be a signet ring with a plaited hank of threads loosely knotted through it.
“This was my father’s ring,” Evaine said, taking it out and displaying it on her open palm, nested in the coils of the plait. “Whether or not one holds him saint—and opinions vary, even in this circle,” she added with a faint smile, “by including this token, in his memory, we honor his vision and his dream, that one day Deryni and humans should live and work together in harmony, in all and for the sake of all. The braided cords you see wrapped through the ring were prepared last night, after Jesse swore his oath, with each of us contributing a strand. Tonight, we will prepare a new set, all of us renewing our own vows as you make yours.”
She put the skeined ring back into the box, then pulled a long strand of purple silken thread from underneath the edge of the altar cloth before him, laying it ceremoniously across the hands he tremblingly raised to receive it.
“To that end, we ask that you first bind this cord across your brow, as symbol of the new obligations you assume tonight, binding upon mind and soul as well as body—a tie connecting you with all our ancient tradition, linking you with the Light we all strive to serve.
“Remember that the purple thread has long been the symbol of excellence,” she went on, helping him knot it at the back of his head, as the others donned similar threads, already tied. “In this company, and in matters pertaining to the integrity of its members, it also carries all the weight of the priest’s purple stole, and the absolute confidentiality implied by the seal of the confessional, even unto death.”
She paused to slip her own cord around her forehead, then gestured toward the open box.
“Now lay your hands upon these relics and swear us your oath, ever mindful that a part of all those who have gone before us remains with us in this company. And may you never be called upon to make a more solemn pledge.”
Queron’s mouth was dry as he obeyed, and it was only by pressing his hands hard against the edge of the box that he was able to keep them from trembling. He closed his eyes as the others also reached out to touch the box lightly with their fingertips, aware of their scrutiny—though they did not touch him physically or psychically. He could feel Camber’s ring cool and potent beneath his right hand—surely a saint’s relic!—and as he forced himself to draw a deep breath and center in, reaching for some hint of contact with the men who had gone before him, he felt himself relax, knowing that, indeed, he could make this commitment without reservation.
“I swear by all I hold most holy—by my love of God, by my vocation as a Healer and a priest, by my honor as a man—that I will bear faith and truth to this company, named in honor of the blessed Saint Camber; that if need be, I will lay down my life, my honor, and even my immortal soul to preserve our people in the Light, so long as that be not to the harm of the innocent. All this I pledge, God aiding me, as a humble servant of the Light, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. So be it.”
The others drew back as he opened his eyes, except for Evaine, who pressed her hand over his, preventing his withdrawal.
“Well and truly have you sworn, Queron Kinevan,” she said. “Now that you have spoken these vows, will you open your mind and heart and soul to us, your brethren, as a final seal of your good faith, saving only those things pertaining to your office as a priest?”
“Volo,” Queron whispered, already lowering his shields as he bowed his head in submission. I will.
He shuddered a little as he felt Evaine’s hands upon his head, Joram’s joining them, but he had half expected this. They were the children of Saint Camber, and he had sworn to them, and he could not refuse anything they asked. He sensed their minds enveloping his, surging in relentlessly as he let his shields buckle and fall before them, wholly giving up control. He had not bared his mind and soul this way since his Healer’s examinations, many years before, and the occasional deep readings shared with very trusted and much-loved confessors, in the years since—and he could not bring himself to even care.
Deeper and deeper they took him. Briefly, he drifted beyond all awareness of just how deep, unable to prevent or even sense their entry into any of his most intimate depths, if they wished. But in fact, though they did read deeply, they did not read extensively or for long—and told him so, as they eased him back to a level permitting more equal rapport—content, perhaps, that the opportunity had been freely offered, that Queron had been willing to permit this most intimate of all contacts as a sign of his trust.
They let him choose the direction of their rapport for a while after that, acquiescing readily when he indicated a desire to explore the psychic ripples surrounding the tokens beneath his hands—for this was the heart of the group soul that was the Camberian Council. Camber’s ring drew him like a moth to flame, plummeting him abruptly into a cool, lavender stillness that sucked Joram and Evaine in with him.
And then, stark as any physical presence he had ever noted under the brightest noonday sun, Queron saw Saint Camber’s face floating before his psychic Sight, pale silver-grey eyes boring into his.
A part of Queron shouted that this was impossible, that he had hardly even met Camber MacRorie in life—some few passing conversations during a retreat, many, many years ago—but another part of him knew that it was Camber, indeed, regardless of any mere facts.
And yet, what more appropriate than that the Deryni saint should vouchsafe an appearance to one who had just made an unreserved commitment to the company that bore his name? In his mind’s eye Queron saw Camber lift his hands in blessing—or beckoning?—and sensed the shock and confusion of Joram and Evaine, still locked with him in unshatterable rapport.
Yet Queron was not afraid; and he sensed they were not afraid either. Camber was their father, after all, for all that he was a saint. Still, Queron seemed to sense their pulling back, a garbled exchange of communication flashing between them that he could not catch.
Then the saintly image was gone, and Evaine was cautioning him to say nothing of this to the others.
These visitations sometimes happen, she told him. Joram and I have become somewhat accustomed to them, but the others are newer and less tired. To reveal this now might disrupt the pace of the rest of the night’s working. This vision was for you. We will speak later on what it might mean.
At his confused but elated assent, they slowly began bringing him up then, returning him but gradually to normal consciousness and sensation. And as they withdrew, and he jerkily removed his hands from the box, flexing his fingers cautiously, he fixed his eyes for just an instant on Camber’s ring, even as he quickly ran through the mental assessment that all trained Deryni were taught to make after such a contact.
“Welcome, Dom Queron,” Jesse said quietly, jarring Queron back to physical reality. As Queron looked up, still a little dazed, he saw the little silver knife in Jesse’s hand. The boy obviously was unaware of any of what had just transpired.
“Well and truly have you given the bond of your spirit and your mind,” Jesse went on. “Will you now give us the bond of your blood as a final seal and symbol of the sacrifice you may be called upon to make in the service of this covenant?”
Breathing a weary and relieved sigh, for this part was easy, compared to what he had already experienced, Queron held out the hand closest to Jesse—his left.
“Take it gladly, as token of my trust and truth.”
He did not flinch as Jesse grasped his left ring finger and nicked it smartly with the dagger. Evaine removed the cord from around his brow, not meeting his eyes, and he watched dispassionately as she smeared the knot with his blood and then Jesse held the dripping finger over the cup and let a drop fall. It dissipated immediately, quickly invisible to mere sight, but Queron sensed other blood in the cup and guessed that it would have some later part in the proceedings.
But not immediately. First they collected the other cords, the knot of each one already sealed with the owner’s blood. These cords Joram and Evaine wove together in a pattern Queron recognized of the ancient cording lore—though he could not have said which particular one it was, especially in his still befuddled state. He sucked absently at his wounded finger as he watched, but he did not Heal it as he might have, choosing instead to let its natural healing remind him of all that had happened tonight. When Joram and Evaine had finished with the cording pattern, Evaine took the previous night’s braid off of Camber’s ring and replaced it with the new one, depositing both in the box before closing it and replacing the linen cloth and lamp.
“Behold now this salt, a symbol of earth, which purifies and perserves, banishing all evil,” she said then, indicating the dish that held it. “Into this cup of our covenant, which bears the blood of all this company, we add this salt, in token of the tears we may be called upon to shed in the service of our vows.” Taking a pinch of the salt between thumb and forefinger, she sprinkled it into the water.
“Even as this salt dissolves in water, so may the Light diffuse through us as we drink of this cup, refining and multiplying the element of Light within us so that we may become Its perfect servants. So be it. Amen.”
“So be it. Amen,” the others repeated, as Evaine raised it to her lips.
They all drank from it then, Evaine passing it to Gregory and on, sunwise, as Joram admonished them to remember those who had gone before and to cherish those now bound in their company. Jesse, when he had drunk, went to the north, where the gate had been, and retied the circle cord, signifying that this most recent incarnation of the Camberian Council was once again duly sworn and complete. Ansel drank in special memory of his brother, who had been one of those to give their lives in the cause, even though he had not been a member of the Council per se. Joram spoke of the memory of Alister Cullen, Jebediah of Alcara, and Jaffray of Carbury—Michaelines all.
To Queron the cup came last, and he invoked the memory of the martyrs of Saint Neot’s and Saint Camber’s at Dolban, and of Saint Camber himself, before draining the cup to its dregs. The water did not taste of blood, but the presence of that bond was no less real for being overshadowed by salt. Tears were welling in his eyes as he upturned the empty cup and set it carefully before the box.
After a short period of final meditation, they quietly set about the necessary rites to close down the circle. Queron was allowed to observe, for he needed no additional demands placed upon him after the evening’s work. Even when it was over, no one spoke unnecessarily. Ansel took Queron out, to return him to his quarters, and when Jesse and Gregory had also gone, Evaine glanced at her brother.
“He’s the one, Joram,” she said quietly.
“He’s the one what?”
“Queron is the one to help us bring him back. I think that’s why Father showed up during our working tonight.”
Joram sighed wearily and sank down on the topmost step of the dais, picking up the fat ball of the circle cord that Ansel had rewound as they dismantled the circle. He did not look at Evaine as she sat down beside him.
“You’re really determined to do this, aren’t you?” he said.
“Yes.”
“And what makes you think he’ll agree to help? Evaine, he still thinks Father was really a saint! You saw the medal he was wearing tonight. And he didn’t take it off, even when he shed his Healer’s mantle at the circle’s gate.”
“I suspect he meant it as a mark of respect for his favorite saint, in whose memory the Council is named,” Evaine said.
“In whose honor he founded a religious order that we know to be based on a lie!”
“Do we know that, Joram?” Evaine retorted. “You yourself expressed at least a contrary possibility not two weeks ago, as I recall. Just because the official canonization was supported by illusion, by a misinterpretation of the truth, that doesn’t make him any less what he is or isn’t—including a saint, if that’s what God had in mind for him!”
Joram gave her a sour and slightly scandalized smile.
“I see. So now you’re claiming to know the mind of God.”
“Certainly not! Besides, whether or not he’s a saint is hardly the point. For that matter, it isn’t even important that Queron founded a religious order in Father’s honor. That order has just been brutally suppressed, and Father’s sainthood has been rescinded. Despite that, Queron still was willing to make an unreserved dedication to the Council named in Father’s honor. I can’t imagine that he wouldn’t be willing to help us, under the circumstances.”
Joram sighed and ducked his head, fingering the cord-ball uneasily.
“Do we have to tell him all the ghastly details?”
“Let me answer your question with another question,” she replied. “Given the fact that a Healer is essential to our attempt to bring Father back, would you want to work with one who didn’t have all the background of the situation? Remember, this isn’t just a matter of healing physical wounds.”
Joram snorted. “I know that. And the fact that Father manifested here tonight, right while we were in Queron’s mind, seems to be a clear indication of his preference. I’m not arguing that.”
“Then, what are you arguing?”
“I don’t know!” Joram blurted. “Queron scares me! Even after going into his mind the way we did tonight, the very thought of having to face him one-on-one—”
“You know, you really are going to have to work past this irrational wariness you have of him!” Evaine said sharply. “You’ve let what used to be a survival habit become an obsession. After all, if we do draft him, we’ll have to tell him everything you’ve always been afraid he’d find out.”
After a stunned silence, Joram slowly began to chuckle. “You’re right. If we tell him, I don’t have to be on guard any more, do I? After twelve years of protecting the illusion, it’s easy to forget.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Mind you, I still don’t have to like it,” Joram went on. “The notion will take some getting used to. But as you say, a Healer is essential—and there aren’t any other Healers I’d trust with the information, or who have the training to handle the working.”
“No, there aren’t,” Evaine agreed. “The only other one who even comes close is Tavis—and we certainly can’t spare him for such a working, even if his training were up to it. It’s bad enough that we have to send him into Valoret with Ansel.”
Joram sagged back against the step and rubbed a weary hand over his eyes. “Aye, that bothers me, too. Blocking Elinor and her family is one of the last things I would have chosen to do—but for now, not being Deryni is the only thing likely to keep them all alive and safe.”
“Very true,” Evaine said, rising and holding out her hand to help him up. “And if all goes well, at least it will be a good trial run for Tavis’ work with Revan. We won’t even think about what happens if things don’t go well.”
“You’ll get no argument from me,” Joram said, slipping an arm around her shoulders as they headed down the dais steps. “For that operation, we’ll let Ansel and Tavis do the thinking.”