The Harrowing of Gwynedd (13 page)

But the imperturbable Gregory did not seem at all amazed by what he had just done. He held for several heartbeats, the sword grounded at his side, then drew the blade in a straight line in front of him, west to east—
completing the circle's dome as a sphere below their feet
, Queron suddenly realized! Bringing the hilt to his lips again, he turned eastward one more time to bring the blade down smartly to the side in final salute. After that, almost nonchalantly, he shifted his grip below the quillons and brought the weapon back to the altar, circling behind Joram and Evaine to lay it before himself and Jesse on the white surface.

Queron hardly dared to let himself breathe until the sword was out of Gregory's hands. He had never even
heard
of an effect such as Gregory had just produced. And the theoretical knowledge implied by Gregory's physical act of completing the sphere was almost too staggering to contemplate! He wondered what other surprises tonight might hold in store for him, if the mere casting of the circle could contain such revelations.

He was almost relieved as Ansel, Joram, Evaine, and Jesse turned in unison and moved to the edges of the dais, each facing one of the Quarters—even though that meant that his own part in the ritual surely could not be far away. They would call the Quarters now—though whether it would be in any form familiar to Queron, he would not even hazard a guess. In the past little while, he had only just begun truly to realize the scope of the knowledge the Council must have been retrieving from the ancient records; and his very soul both rejoiced and trembled that he was about to gain access to it.

“By rites ancient and powerful have we prepared this place,” Gregory said quietly, laying the fingertips of both hands on the sword again—though he did not pick it up. “Now, therefore, by ancient calling do we summon, stir, and call up the great, archangelic hosts.”

In the East, on cue, Ansel threw back his head and raised both arms in supplication, his young voice ringing with confidence.

“In the name of Light arising do we summon Raphael, the Healer, Guardian of Air and Wind and Tempest,” he said, “to guard this company and witness the oaths that shall be sworn. Come, mighty Raphael, and grace us with thy presence.”

He conjured handfire as he spoke—a sphere of golden light that grew above his head and then, at his direction, arrowed across the darkness of the
keeill
's vaulting to merge with the fire of the eastern torch in a white-gold flash.

Queron was stunned, for he had never seen such an effect before. Nor, shielded behind the veil of his stasis spell, could he sense the Archangel's Coming immediately—though he saw, from the look on Ansel's face, that
he
was aware of it.

Gradually, however, Queron had the impression of a great wind filling the
keeill
, groaning through senses that had nothing to do with hearing. It raised the hackles at the back of his neck, sending a shudder down his spine, ice-cold against the stone wall behind him, and he pressed himself harder into his protective niche, hoping he was invisible, as Ansel's arms were lowered and Joram's raised.

“In the name of Light increasing, we summon Michael, the Defender, Lord of Fire and Prince of the Legions of Heaven,” Joram said, his voice echoing in the
keeill
as he threw back his head. “May he guard this company and give due witness to the oaths that shall be sworn. Come, mighty Michael, and grace us with thy presence.”

Joram's handfire whooshed toward the southern torch with all the sudden alacrity of a lightning strike, heavenly fire returning to its true source, blinding-bright. When Queron could look at it again, blood-scarlet burned in the heart of the flame; and Michael's sudden and undeniable Presence was all but visual, as
he
loomed all at once in the shadows beyond Joram—fire bright, yet not thus to physical sight—which was all Queron had, veiled behind the stasis spell. But the Healer-priest would not allow himself to dwell on what was not possible, for Evaine was about to summon Gabriel, who was his own especial patron.

“In the name of Light descending,” said Evaine, offering her own supplication, “we likewise summon Gabriel, Lord of Water, Heavenly Herald, who didst bring glad tidings to our Blessed Lady. May this company be guarded and our oaths witnessed. Come, mighty Gabriel, and grace us with thy presence.”

The gentle, sea-blue fire that Evaine conjured was soothing balm to Queron's now shaky perceptions, and he gave quiet and humble thanks that he did not need to see with his eyes to know that Gabriel approached. Breathing silent prayer and welcome to that One, Queron closed his eyes briefly, feeling himself settle at last into something approaching peace, now that Gabriel was nearby to sustain him.

It was Jesse who summoned the final Witness to their rite—Jesse, youngest of them all and little-tried, but confident as he raised his hands in entreaty, somehow setting just the proper seal on what was being done.

“In the name of Light returning, we also summon Uriel, Dark Lord of Earth, who bringest all at last unto the Nether Shore,” came Jesse's Call, quiet but assured. “Companion of all who offer up their lives in the defense of others, guard this company and witness our oaths. Come, mighty Uriel, and grace us with thy presence.”

All at once, as Jesse's sphere of emerald green merged with the torch just outside Queron's niche, dark-feathered wings buffeted the other side of the stasis veil. Gasping, Queron ducked his head in acknowledgment of
that
One—to whom, he suddenly realized, he might well have to answer before the night was over. By now, he had been made most uncomfortably aware that the Camberian Council had access to knowledge and powers far beyond even the vast lore of Queron's Order—and Gabrilite training was usually accounted among the best available. Not only in symbol did his life hang in the balance tonight.

For a dozen heartbeats, he trembled in that realization, all too aware of the awesome Powers gathered in the space between the pillars and the circle's dome, watching the
keeill
's mortal occupants gather around the altar again, as the immortal Ones loomed outside the circle.

And he must pass among
them
, in order even to beg admittance to the circle's sanctuary! Small wonder that he had been left behind the safety of the stasis veil—and what was he going to do when it was lifted?

“We stand outside time, in a place not of earth,” came Evaine's low-voiced words, intimately familiar to Queron from very ancient tradition. “As our ancestors before us bade, we join together and are one.”

Joram's priestly hands were raised to reinforce his sister's declaration as he gave the answering invocation that Queron expected.

“By Thy Blessed Evangelists, the holy 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. Thus it is and has ever been, thus it will be for all times to come.
Per omnia saecula saeculorum
.”

As the others answered, “Amen,” making the sign of the cross, Queron followed suit as best he could, with his hands bound. All bowed their heads for several minutes after that, before Evaine spoke again—this time, in words unfamiliar to Queron.

“Now we are met. Now we are one with the Light. Regard the Ancient Ways. We shall not walk this path again. So be it.”

“So be it,” the others repeated in unison.

Then Gregory was taking up the sword again, leading the others in procession to the northern quarter. There they ringed behind him in a semicircle, observing in silence while he knelt and laid the blade close along the dais edge.

Reaching across it and down then, carefully avoiding the shimmering dome of the circle itself, Gregory untied the knotted cord and folded the ends back past the sword's pommel and tip, wide enough for a gate. This he then traced with the sword, rising with the blade in his hand once more to touch its tip to the left-hand side of the incipient opening, sweeping the blade up, arching across to his right and back down. The passage of the blade inscribed a line of brighter silver, outlining a door, and the door became a magical gateway through the circle's dome as the blade rang against the edge of the step on the right, the outline completed.

They would come for him now—or Gregory would, Queron amended, as Gregory stepped through the opening alone, the sword held horizontally before him by hilt and tip. As Gregory descended, heading directly toward Queron, the sword projected a swath of silvery light before him that
stayed
, rippling down the steps like a quicksilver carpet, a moon-bright path of safety for Gregory's feet to tread.

It and he stopped at the bottom step, an armspan short of Queron's, niche, but the blade turned in Gregory's hand even as his arm extended. The magical blade pierced the stasis veil and shattered it on contact, before Queron could even think about raising his bound hands in futile attempt to defend himself.

Impossible! He had
never
heard of a stasis veil doing
that
!

Dumbfounded, Queron caught his breath and froze, for the tip of the sword now was poised directly over his heart, pressed hard against his flesh like burning ice—inescapable, for the unyielding stone of the chamber wall was at his back.

Yet the threat of the sword, even a magical one, was as nothing compared to what lay beyond—for
they
were out there. With the stasis veil dispelled, he could almost see
them
, the circle's Guardians, towering vaguely shadowy but altogether potent, still filling the space between the circle's dome and the pillars. Only the path of light on which Gregory now stood offered refuge—and a vast distance separated Queron from it, for all that, physically, he could have encompassed the space between his two arms.

“Queron Kinevan, why have you come to this place?” Gregory asked, his voice snapping Queron back to the more immediate threat of the magical blade. The blue eyes were cool and implacable, the long fingers steady on the hilt of the sword, and Queron knew that if his answer was not wholly satisfactory, Gregory was quite capable of slaying him where he stood, either with the blade itself or with the awesome power obviously directed through the blade by Gregory's will.

“I come—to offer a bond of blood and spirit and sacrifice to this company,” Queron said quietly, “in the service of the Light.”

“Do you come of your own free will,” Gregory asked, “prepared to set aside all previous ties and loyalties, ready to give your life, if need be, in the service of the Light?”

Queron nodded gravely. “I do.”

To his relief the blade was lowered, though Queron knew that this did not necessarily diminish the danger.

“Know, then,” Gregory continued, “that you stand before the Great Abyss, that dark night of the soul which each of us must cross, and cross alone, at least once in every lifetime. The true adept may face it many times, in many different forms. Nor is any crossing necessarily easier, for having faced the ones before.

“You have faced the sword's first challenge.” Gregory knelt to lay the sword across the gap between them, the hilt resting on the first step and the point at Queron's feet. “But the greater challenge is yet to come. The Sword of Justice has rightly been called the Bridge over the Abyss. The Abyss, in this place, is a living symbol of the ties you are being asked to cast aside tonight, many of which have been binding, indeed. One may walk upon this Bridge, if one has courage. But you must know that the Way is even more perilous than you think.”

Pointedly shifting his own gaze to the blade, Gregory turned it so that its edge was uppermost, presenting only a thin, sharp line of silver between Queron and the safety of the silvery path where Gregory knelt.

“Only by casting yourself free of these previous commitments, by binding yourself to a purpose higher than yourself, may you essay the crossing in safety,” Gregory went on, looking up at him again. “Are you prepared, then, to offer yourself in unreserved dedication to the service of the Light?”

“I am,” Queron breathed.

“Then, set your right foot upon the Sword Bridge,” Gregory said, “as a sign of your willingness to proceed, and cross the Chasm confidently, borne above all earthly dangers and temptations by your resolve.”

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

Yea, a sword shall pierce through thine own soul also, and the thoughts of many hearts shall be revealed
.

—Nicodemus 12:5

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.