Saint Camber (35 page)

In the hour which had preceded his arrival here at the Michaeline stronghold, he had watched Anscom pore over the standard ritual of ordination and shake his head, then produce a copy of an alternate rite which he assured Camber was of far more ancient origin, and much better fitted to a Deryni, such as Camber, about to be priested.

Camber had spent the next hour in deep Deryni meditation, committing to memory every nuance of word and gesture and knowing that, even in his understanding of the words and the significance of the movements, there was much which simply would not occur to him until he experienced the rite.

He glanced down at the white alb skimming his body from neck to floor, from shoulder to wrist; at the deep blue Michaeline stole laid over his left shoulder, baldric-style, and secured at his waist by the cincture of white linen cord.

How long had it been since he had assumed the deacon's stole of his own accord? Had it really been as long as forty years?

Fingering the silk of the stole meditatively, he turned toward the table where the rushlight burned. There lay the snow-white chasuble with which he would be vested as part of his ordination, the most significant outward sign of the priesthood. Beside it was the unlighted taper he would carry into the chapel to begin the rite—a pure offering with which to approach the altar of God.

A gentle rap on the door brought his head up with a start.

Was it time already?

Joram slipped in quietly, a candle in his hand illuminating an expression somewhere between awe and guarded joy. Almost involuntarily, Camber moved toward him, not taking his eyes from his son's face, until they stood an arm's length apart, father and son staring at each other as though truly seeing for the first time.

A shiver swept through Camber, in recognition of the soon-to-be-shared bond between them; and Joram, mistaking that slight shudder for apprehension, put aside his candle and flung his arms around his father, disregarding all else in the sheer closeness of the moment.

Camber hugged his son, stroking the golden head as he had when Joram was a boy. He caught a prickle of Joram's concern as he drew back and held him at arm's length.

“I'm not afraid, son,” he said, searching the younger man's face as though to memorize every detail anew. “Really, I'm not. Did you think I was?”

Joram shook his head proudly, tears starting to well in the pale gray eyes despite his best efforts to the contrary. “No, sir. I just—felt like hugging you—
Brother
.”

Camber smiled and began straightening his garments. “Brother. What a wonderful word, the way you say it.” He glanced fondly at Joram. “I think that may be an even greater honor than having been your father.”

Joram bowed his head, forcing the tears back, then looked up and smiled broadly.

“Come along—Father. 'Tis time to give a second meaning to that title.”

Proudly, then, and without further words, he took up the folded chasuble and laid it across his father's arm, lit the taper and put it in the hand of the candidate for priesthood. Together, they started toward the chapel.

The little chapel was ablaze with light—candlelight, not the less-expensive fire of rushes. The tiny, faceted chamber gleamed gold and stony silver-gray, thick yellow tapers burning in sconces on each of the eight arching walls. Six more candles glowed on the altar, three to a side, illuminating the rood on the eastern wall. Additional candles stood unlit in freestanding holders at the four quarters of the chamber: at the back of the altar, against each of the side walls, and beside the door. These alone bespoke the difference of this ordination from the customary.

All of this Camber absorbed in an instant, to be filed in memory only as a setting. For it was the occupants who captured his attention from the start—three whose stature somehow made the chapel seem far smaller than he remembered.

Archbishop Anscom dominated the room, standing to the left of the altar in the full resplendence of his episcopal vestments, his face set and unreadable. Rhys and Evaine waited at the right side of the Kheldish carpet before the altar steps, each cloaked in a borrowed Michaeline mantle, Evaine's golden hair spilling from beneath her hood to reach nearly to her waist on either side. The two of them smiled solemn welcome as Camber and Joram entered.

Joram closed the door and laid the great bar across its supports as Anscom came down the three altar steps and beckoned Camber toward the jewel-toned carpet. When Camber had knelt to kiss the archbishop's ring, Anscom raised him up.

“Be at ease while we set the wards, my friend. Since you and yours originated this particular warding, you know what's involved. Your children insisted upon using it.”

Camber controlled a smile as he straightened from his bow, remembering the last time they had set such wards in this chamber. That night, they had hoped to give Deryni powers to a priestly prince; tonight, it was a Deryni to whom they planned to give priestly authority. The parallel both cheered and awed him.

He stood straight and let his head tilt back slightly, half closing his eyes, the better to isolate outside distractions. He could feel the warmth of the taper in his right hand, the different warmth of the chasuble across his left arm. Beside him, Joram bowed to the archbishop and then ascended the altar steps. To his right and behind him, Rhys and Evaine stood with eyes closed and minds stilled. He was aware of Anscom's quickened breathing to his left as he turned his thoughts inward in preparation.

After a moment, Evaine moved from behind him to kneel at the bottom of the altar steps, as Joram bent to kiss the altar stone. Then the young priest held aloft an unlighted taper with his left hand—passed a graceful right hand over the virgin wick.

Fire flared, and Joram turned to invite Evaine to join him.

Now came the time for true concentration. For, as Evaine mounted the altar steps to take the taper and light the great eastern candle, they must all begin pouring their respective energies into the wards which were being formed.

The eastern candle caught and steadied, and Evaine turned to make her way down the steps and toward the candle on his right, shielding the flame with her hand as she walked.

Closing his eyes, Camber let his mind begin working on the construction of the wards, sensing now, rather than seeing, the concentration of energy around them as Evaine lit the candle to his right and continued on behind him. He could hear the gentle hiss of incense being spooned into an already smoking thurible—let himself become immersed in the words which Joram spoke as he censed the altar.

“
Incensum istud a te benedictum …”
May this incense, blessed by Thee, ascend to Thee, O Lord. “
Et descendat super nos praesidium tuam
.” And may Thy protection descend upon us …

Evaine had lit the last candle on the left, and Camber could hear her moving back to the altar. A pause, and then the sound of the thurible swinging on its chains again as Joram censed his sister and then turned to the right to begin retracing her steps. Evaine returned to stand behind her father as Joram's voice floated in the stillness.

“
Terribilis est locus iste: 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 …

Joram finished censing the circle, and now censed all inside it with the sweet smoke which spiraled from the thurible. He replaced it beside the altar, then returned to stand at Camber's right, as Rhys moved to the Healer's place, directly before him.

Camber, though he kept his eyes closed, the better to feel what was happening, was aware that Evaine was rousing now, to lift her hands and eyes and shining voice to That which they had called. Images of her last performance of this office mingled with present sounds and sensations as her words began to weave the crystal spell.

“We stand outside time, in a place not of earth. As our ancestors before us bade, we join together and are One.”

All bowed their heads in unison.

“By Thy blessed apostles, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John; by all Thy holy angels; by all Powers of Light and Shadow, we call Thee to guard and defend us from all perils, O Most High,” Evaine continued. “Thus it is and has ever been, thus it will be for all times to come.
Per omnia saecula saeculorum
.”

“Amen,” all murmured as one voice.

Without opening his eyes, Camber eased himself to his knees, steadied by Joram on his right. He could hear and feel Anscom brushing past him to ascend the altar and begin the Mass.

“
Introibo ad altare Dei,”
Anscom intoned. I will go up to the altar of God.

“
Ad Deum qui loetificat juventutem meam
.” To God Who gives joy to my youth. Those words were Joram's, as he joined Anscom at the altar.

“
Judica me, Deus
…” Judge me, O God, and distinguish my cause from the nation that is not holy …

The Mass continued in its familiar form until Anscom had finished the Collect. As the final words died away in the stillness, Camber opened his eyes at last, once again allowing visual input to join other heightened senses.

Rhys and Evaine stood to his left now; and Joram, on his right, helped him to stand. Anscom, moving to the faldstool which had been set to the left of the altar, sat down quietly, the miter on his head winking jewel eyes in the candlelight as he took up his bishop's crozier. His seamed face was ruddy in the glow of the Presence lamp. His tone was curiously quiet, almost thoughtful, as he spoke.

“Dearly beloved, now stand we all in the house of the Lord, at the center of a universe which is not ours as we know it. Here, before the Lord of Hosts and those other Powers which we have summoned, we call before us Camber Kyriell MacRorie, who would be ordained a priest.”

“Adsum,”
Camber murmured, inclining his head. I am here.

With Joram still at his elbow, he moved forward three steps and knelt again. The taper he held trembled a little in his hand.

Joram made a deep reverence. “
Reverendissime Pater
… Most Reverend Father, for the sake of Holy Mother Church and of those of our kind who have gone before us, I ask you to ordain the deacon Camber Kyriell MacRorie, here present, to the burden of the Deryni priesthood.”

“Do you know him to be worthy?”

Joram bowed again. “So far as mortal frailty permits one to know, this I know; and I affirm my faith that he is worthy to undertake the burden of this office.”

With a curt nod of acknowledgment, Anscom turned his attention to Rhys and Evaine, speaking ritual words to which he expected no reply.

“Brothers and sisters, know you that with the help of our Lord, we have chosen for the order of priesthood the deacon Camber Kyriell. If anyone has ought against this man, let him speak now, in the Name of the Holy One.”

When there was no response, Anscom turned his eyes back on Camber, still kneeling on the Kheldish carpet with his candle held before him.

“It is the duty of a priest to offer sacrifice, to bless, to preside, to preach, and to baptize. Also, because a Deryni can truly see into the hearts and souls of men, there are additional responsibilities imposed upon a Deryni priest. Will you, in the Name of the Lord, receive the rank of priest?”

“Volo.”
I will.

“And will you be obedient to your bishop, according to justice and the grade of your ministry?”

“I will, so help me God.”

“Then may God vouchsafe to bring your good and righteous will to the perfection that is pleasing to Him.”

“Amen,” Camber responded.

Rising, Anscom took Camber's candle and set it on the altar, Joram likewise taking the folded chasuble from his father's arm and laying it on the altar as an offering.

Then Camber was lowering his body to the carpet to prostrate himself, as the others knelt and began the various litanies for the day. Camber let the phrases ripple over him and carry him to an even more profound inner stillness.

“Kyrie eleison.”

“Christe eleison.”

“Christe audi nos.”

“Sancta Maria …”

“Ora pro nobis.”

“Sancte Michael …”

“Ora pro nobis.”

The litany droned on in a lulling, monotonous cadence fully intended to assist the listener to a heightened state of awareness—for the Church fathers had long ago learned of the mental state which one should achieve to experience fully a sacrament such as ordination. By the time Camber consciously focused back on the ritual, Anscom was finishing the litany with a final prayer, directing the Divine Attention to the man prostrate before the altar.

“So, look Thou with favor upon Thy servant, Camber Kyriell, O Lord, whose hands are stretched out before the throne of Thy Majesty. Clothe him with the mantle of Thy priesthood, wherewith Thou didst adorn Thy faithful servants in ages past. Strengthen him, that he may ever serve Thee, by night and by day, O Giver of All, Lord of All, God Most Mighty …”

When the prayer had ended, Anscom moved quietly to his faldstool, there to wait in all his sacerdotal splendor as Joram assisted his father to stand. The priestly initiate was brought to kneel before the archbishop, Joram taking his own place at Anscom's side—for, as a priest, he, too, would share in the imminent transmission of priestly authority.

Camber drew a deep breath and let it out slowly as Anscom's hands were raised above his head. This was the heart of the ordination: the mystical laying on of hands. Resolutely, he let his defenses slip away, opening every channel of awareness that he could, that he might feel the Forces of Creation flowing through Anscom and Joram.

“O Lord of Hosts, Who hast made me, Thy servant Anscom, an instrument of Thy will and a channel of Thy power: now, according to the apostolic succession passed in unbroken line by the laying on of hands, I present to Thee this, Thy servant, Camber Kyriell, that he may become Thy priest.”