The Bishop’s Heir
Fire and ice, golden and violet—intimations of the forge which had shaped the ring and the setting of the stone which marked its sacred purpose. It had been crafted especially for Istelyn and worn by no other until this instant. Recollection stirred of its sacring by water and incense at Istelyn’s consecration—words of blessing pronounced above it as it lay on a silver salver: holy ritual binding it to the service of a servant of the servants, binding the servant himself to the service of a higher Lord.
Nor had the servant disgraced the ring, through all the years it had graced his hand. The lips of the great and the lowly had brushed it in salute, most with honest respect, some perfunctorily, a few with duplicity in their hearts—but the man and his function remained true to the higher Lord. Only at the end was other than respect shown to the servant of the servant.
Honest human fear, resignation—and then the echo of sharp, burning pain as a bright blade flashed, severing the ring from its owner. Even though Morgan was prepared for it, he gasped at the shock, holding Duncan tightly in support as the new wearer of the ring shivered in more direct recollection of the deed, even crying out a little at the transmitted pain.
But then, with a shudder, Duncan was sinking even deeper into trance as the ring continued to beckon, Morgan following hesitantly to brush even earlier images of the gold itself, before the ring was forged. It had been something besides a ring in the beginning, when first it took form from virgin nuggets purified in the flames—an impression of unearthly radiance and a warmth which was not physical. Consecrated hands had lifted it toward an even greater Glory—two pairs, the one merely priestly, the other something more. A flash of an old, familiar presence intervened for just an instant—and then nothing.
Roughly Morgan yanked himself back to normal consciousness as the contact ended, staggering as Duncan became a dead weight in his arms for just an instant. But before he could react, Duncan stirred and got his feet under him, allaying his concern with a weak grin and a wave of the hand with the ring.
“What in the world—?” Morgan began.
Duncan shook his head and smiled more sedately, propping himself against the edge of the altar while he slipped the ring from his hand to lay it reverently beside the box.
“Not entirely this world,” he managed to whisper, glancing back at Morgan. “I assume you caught the part about it being made for Istelyn?”
Morgan nodded. “And about him losing it.”
“I think that’s the least important part of what we saw.” Duncan gave the ring another long, respectful look. “How about before it was a ring?”
“Something else was melted down to make it,” Morgan ventured. “Do you know what it was?”
Duncan nodded wistfully. “A piece of altar plate, I think. Maybe a chalice or a paten.” He shivered. “I’m not sure I want to say aloud whose I think it was.”
“Well, I’ll say it if you won’t,” Morgan said carefully. “I caught two separate and distinct identities. One was only a priestly presence, but the other—well, who could it have been besides Saint Camber?”
Duncan nodded, leaning the heels of both hands on the edge of the altar to gaze down at the ring again. “It wasn’t a manifestation this time, though—just a memory.” He flashed a smile. “But it may be the only true relic of Saint Camber that we have—something he actually touched. I wonder what it was.”
“Well, if Istelyn’s ring really was made from melted-down altar plate, maybe it could be traced,” Morgan said. “It’s said Camber’s son was a priest. Perhaps the chalice or paten belonged to him. Perhaps Camber gave it to him—an ordination gift or something of that sort. In any case, it might be possible to find out where they got the gold to make the ring.”
“Perhaps.” Duncan smiled again. “Incidentally, did I tell you that Kelson’s keen to restore the cult of Saint Camber?”
“Oh? He’s never mentioned that to me.”
“Me either. I just happened to overhear. Perhaps it’s only just begun to take shape in his own mind. He was telling Dhugal about it when I met them in the cathedral, just before you found us. And Dhugal—has Kelson told you about him?”
“About his shields? Oh, yes. I was on the receiving end when he pushed Kelson out of the link, the night you nearly got killed. There hasn’t been time to investigate further, since we got back.”
“Well, I’ve had a go at him, if only briefly,” Duncan said. “Oddly enough, he doesn’t recoil from my probe the way he does from Kelson’s; I simply can’t get through. I’ve no idea where he got shields like that. Unfortunately, Kelson tried to join in on my probe after the first few seconds—with rather devastating consequences for poor Dhugal. If you’ve gotten the impression he’s been trying to avoid us these past two days, that’s undoubtedly why.”
Morgan nodded. “I can’t say I blame him. I’ll try to speak with Kelson about it this evening, though. I suspect you’re going to be too busy for the next few days to do too much about it.”
“If it’s important, we’ll make time somehow.” Smiling, Duncan scooped up the ring and hefted it in his hand. “Meanwhile, I seem to recall I have an appointment with some bishops—and you, with a king, I think.”
“The next time I see you, you’ll be a bishop,” Morgan quipped. “I, on the other hand, shall never be a king.” Grinning uninhibitedly, he took Duncan’s right hand and dropped to one knee. “Still, I should like to be the first to greet you as a bishop, even if it is a few hours premature. We’ll repeat this officially later this afternoon, Your Excellency.”
When, over Duncan’s exasperated but smiling protests, he had kissed the soon-to-be episcopal hand, Morgan left to join the king’s party for the ride to the cathedral. The interlude with Duncan had given him much to ponder.
As it had been three days before, Morgan’s place was at Kelson’s right hand when they knelt in the cathedral a little while later. It was the same stall they had occupied for the excommunication, though a few places closer to the altar, with Morgan on the end. Nigel and his wife and three sons knelt behind them this time, but Dhugal was again to Kelson’s left. Others of the royal household occupied the stalls farther west and on the north side of the choir, along with such other nobles as could be accommodated. As the minutes passed and the cathedral filled, Morgan prayed for the man about to be consecrated to even greater work, asking mercy and guidance both for himself and for Duncan in the times ahead. Beyond the still, vigilant flame of psychic strength and control which was Kelson, at his left, he could sense the darkly shuttered presence of Dhugal. As the entry procession began and all of them stood, Morgan resolved to speak to Kelson about him before the night was over.
The ceremony proceeded without notable incident, so far as Morgan could determine, though he readily acknowledged his relative ignorance of liturgical intricacies. Everyone seemed to be in the right place at the right time and to know the proper responses, no one dropped anything, and Duncan looked genuinely moved as he made his responses to Archbishop Bradene’s ritual questions.
“Beloved brother, art thou resolved by the grace of the Holy Spirit to discharge to the end of thy life the office entrusted to us by the apostles which is about to be passed on to thee by imposition of our hands?”
“I am.”
“Art thou resolved to keep faith with our Holy Mother the Church, and to guard and guide her children as thine own?”
“I am.”
As the dialogue continued, Morgan put the words aside and let his mind extend gently toward Kelson beside him. It was not their part to share directly in what Duncan was about to experience, but it occurred to him that Kelson probably ought to be aware of what had happened when Duncan put on Istelyn’s ring, just in case something else unforeseen occurred when the action was repeated. Kelson felt the light tendril of his thought and glanced at him in question, but Morgan only gave a slight nod and opened the contact further as all of them knelt for the litany of blessings for the now-prostrate Duncan. What he had to say was not
the sort of thing which might even be whispered safely in a church.
“Kyrie eleison.”
“Kyrie eleison.”
“Christe eleison.…”
What’s wrong? Kelson’s thought drifted into his mind.
Morgan leaned his elbows on the prayer desk in front of him and bowed his head, resting his forehead on the heels of his hands as he let the link deepen.
Nothing’s wrong, so far as I know, he returned. I thought you’d like to know about something that happened a little while ago, however. Apparently Istelyn’s ring is more than it seems.
Istelyn’s ring?
He shared the vision of the forging then, and all he could recall about what Duncan had experienced when he put the ring on his finger. When he had finished, he felt Kelson shiver a little beside him.
Camber, eh? Kelson sent.
Maybe. It was certainly an impression of great power. Where did Istelyn get his ring?
I don’t know. Maybe Duncan can find out.
Maybe.
The litany had ended while they conferred, and as both of them raised their heads, physical vision was superimposed over psychic Sight, though both remained in rapport. Now Duncan knelt before the archbishop’s throne, head bowed and hands joined in prayer as Bradene, Cardiel, and then each of the other bishops silently laid their hands on his head, willing him the fulfillment of total and perfected priesthood which was a bishop’s portion. Morgan could sense the heightened energy levels pulsing from their midst as Cardiel stood and took the open Gospel book from an attending deacon, holding it ceremonially over Duncan’s bowed head like a sheltering roof as he began the prayer of consecration.
“Lord God, merciful God, bringing comfort to all, now pour out upon this chosen one that power which floweth from Thee, the perfect spirit which Thou gavest to Thy beloved Son, the Christ, the Spirit whom He gave to the apostles. Inspire the heart of Thy servant whom Thou hast chosen to make a bishop. May he feed Thy holy flock and exercise the high priesthood without blame, ministering to Thee day and night to reconcile us with Thee and to offer the gifts of Thy Church. By the Spirit of this priesthood may he have the power to forgive sins, as Thou hast commanded. May he assign the duties of the flock according to Thy will and loose every bond by the power Thou gavest the apostles. May his gentleness and singleness of purpose stand before Thee as an offering through Thy Son the Christ. Through Him glory and power and honor are Thine, with the Holy Spirit, now and forever.”
“Amen.”
Even twenty yards away, Morgan could feel Duncan’s anticipation mounting as Cardiel removed the Gospel and Bradene prepared to anoint his head with chrism. All in an instant, though he had not tried to do it, he was in Duncan’s mind, feeling what he felt, seeing what he saw. The impression was blurred by the double perception of Kelson in the link with him, also one with Duncan in that instant.
“God hath made thee a sharer in Christ’s priesthood,” Bradene said, pouring the holy chrism on the crown of Duncan’s head. “May He pour upon thee this oil of mystical anointing and make thee fruitful with spiritual blessing.”
As Bradene cleansed his hands, first with scraps of fine white bread and then with a linen napkin, Morgan basked in the joy welling over from Duncan, feeling a little of the warmth even as a physical thing.
“Receive thou the Gospel and preach the word of God,” Cardiel said, putting the great book briefly in Duncan’s hands, “always teaching with the greatest of patience.”
The book was taken away, to be replaced by a silver salver bearing the ring. As Bradene traced a cross above it, Morgan thought he saw it glint from more than candlelight. It flashed with a fire of its own as the archbishop held it briefly before Duncan’s extended right hand.
“Take thou this ring as a seal of faith; and keeping faith, guard and protect the Holy Church which is the bride of God,” Bradene said.
Morgan was not surprised, as Bradene slid it onto Duncan’s finger, to sense reiteration of the images he and Duncan had seen before: the placing of the ring on another hand, in days gone by—and vague impressions of a ghostly Other, clad in priestly vestments of a deep, royal blue, offering up the ring—no, a cup—in ritual sacrifice of the Mass.
But there was more—a misty aureole of silver shimmering around Duncan’s head for just an instant, its boundaries contained between half-sensed hands which Morgan had known half a dozen times before, and Duncan as well. It vanished as Bradene and Cardiel placed the mitre on Duncan’s head, leaving Morgan to blink and glance at Kelson in question, wondering whether the glimpsed vision had been only his imagination.
If imagination, however, it had not been his alone, or even his and Kelson’s. From the king’s other side pulsed a more discordant note of shock and stark panic: Dhugal, his face drained of color, shoulders rigid with blind fear. Kelson caught the echo of Dhugal’s distress in the same instant and immediately slipped to Dhugal’s other side, supporting him between himself and Morgan. Behind them, Nigel half-rose in concern, but Kelson shook his head.
“It’s all right, Uncle,” he whispered lamely. “He’s a little ill, is all. He’ll be all right.”
As Nigel subsided, shushing Conall and the curious Payne and Rory and no doubt suspecting there was more to it than that, Morgan slid his arm around Dhugal’s shoulder and tried to shield him from curious eyes.
“Are you in pain, Dhugal?” he whispered.
Shuddering, Dhugal broke his rigid stare at the pageant still proceeding before the altar and ducked his head.
“What’s happening to me?” he managed to gasp. “My head feels like it’s about to burst.”
“Take a deep breath and try to let go of what’s frightening you,” Kelson urged softly. “Try to flow with it.”
“Oh, God, I can’t! Didn’t you see it?”
Alaric, he picked up the same thing we did! Kelson whispered in Morgan’s mind. We’ve got to get him out of here—and I can’t leave until it’s over.
His thought was mixed with consternation, caution, and even a little joy, but Nigel was jostling Morgan from behind, gesturing toward the altar. With the consecration itself completed, the bishops had rearranged themselves to continue with the Mass—and Morgan had a part in what came next.
It’s time for the offertory, Morgan sent back, glancing sidelong at Kelson and the still trembling Dhugal and rising as the choir monks began the hymn which was his cue. If I don’t go forward, it will look even worse than this. Keep him quiet until I can get back.
With eyes averted and hands folded as was seemly, Morgan moved down into the aisle and paused before a small, white-draped table, gracefully returning the solemn bow that a waiting deacon gave as he handed over a crystal cruet of wine and a lidded chalice of gold. The crystal was cold and sleek in his hand, the ciborium seeming oddly light for all its contents of pale, unconsecrated hosts. He could feel Duncan watching him as he slowly passed to the foot of the altar steps and knelt before him and the two archbishops, aware that something was amiss. The sense of what he planned passed between himself and Duncan like a spark as he offered up the gifts and their hands touched.
Dhugal Saw something. I’m taking him to your old study. Come there with Kelson as soon as you can break away, Morgan sent.
He felt Duncan’s startled agreement like a caress as he rose and bowed and turned to go back to his place. The stark, disruptive pulse of Dhugal’s distress welled up almost like a wall as he knelt once more and slipped a supporting arm under Dhugal’s elbow.
“Say that Dhugal became ill,” he whispered across to Kelson, “and meet us afterward in Duncan’s old study. I’ll do what I can until then. I’ve already told Duncan.”
He did not look back as he led Dhugal stumbling from the choir. The words of Archbishop Bradene’s prayer chased them in hollow echo, embracing with depths of meaning which neither could appreciate at the time.
“Lord, accept these gifts which we offer for Thy chosen servant, Duncan, Thy chosen priest. Enrich him w
ith the gifts and virtues of a true apostle, for the good of Thy people. Amen.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
In the valley of vision …
—Isaiah 22:5
With Dhugal clinging dazedly to his arm, so pale that his freckles seemed painted on in blood, Morgan managed to navigate the curved aisle around the back of the cathedral apse without arousing any more attention that was his usual wont. Several monks not involved in the ceremonies eyed them curiously, but Morgan’s grim expression precluded any offers of assistance. Morgan was known and at least grudgingly respected even by most clergy after three years’ active and visible service with the new young king, but he still inspired a certain amount of fear in some.
But Dhugal’s fear worried Morgan far more than that of any anonymous monks lurking in the shadowy aisle—and it was likely to get worse before it got much better. He could feel the stark terror throbbing just beneath the surface like floodwaters only barely held in check by a failing dam, and realized Dhugal’s awareness of the precarious balance was only adding to the pressure. The only way Dhugal was managing to hold his panic in check at all was by watching his feet, concentrating all his attention on the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other.
“We’ve got to get you away from here,” Morgan muttered, guiding Dhugal toward the door to the sacristy. “Can I trust you to do exactly as I say?”
Dhugal stumbled and nearly fell as he gave Morgan an odd, pinched look.
“You’re—assuming I have a choice,” he managed to whisper, as Morgan braced him and reached for the door latch. “What’s happening to me?”