“Carmody was one of them,” Tavis replied. “Also a man called Sitric, though he isn’t nearly as well trained. They both came back with Rhun’s troops, after the Saint Neot’s massacre, but I never actually got to talk to either of them. Javan says that Carmody’s put up more resistance than most—which is why he’s still in chains. He hasn’t knuckled under easily, the way Oriel did. And the regents are pushing him really hard. I don’t want even to think about what might happen if he breaks.”
Jesse, a look of consternation on his tanned, beardless face, cocked his head in question.
“But, a simple Truth-Reading of a cooperative human subject isn’t that much of a strain, Tavis,” he said. “It isn’t as if they made him force another Deryni, or—or read past a death block or something.”
“Humph!” Gregory gave a derisive snort, fidgeting between Joram and Evaine. “It’s only a matter of degree, son. Only a matter of degree.”
“Precisely,” Tavis agreed. “From a purely objective vantage point—which I doubt very much that any of us can manage—I suppose it does seem innocuous enough, as such things go. Javan certainly didn’t see it that way, though—maybe, in part, because of what the working had to confirm. That was the first he’d heard about Father Alister and Jebediah, after all.”
That reminder silenced them all for several seconds, but then Ansel sat forward uneasily.
“Certainly, that could have been a factor,” he murmured. “But he’s seen Oriel work, for God’s sake—and kill with his powers, even though that wasn’t intended. For that matter, Tavis, you were in Oriel’s and Carmody’s position, not so very long ago.”
“I had good reasons!” Tavis began hotly.
“Ultimately, of course you did,” Joram returned, a little impatiently. “I think, however, that even you will admit that your original motives were not entirely altruistic—something about wreaking vengeance on the men who cost you your hand, as I recall.”
Tavis closed his hand over his stump and bowed his head. “I am not proud of those days,” he said quietly.
“No one said you were, son,” Gregory said with a sigh, shooting Joram a glance of forbearance. “Nor, I’m sure, are Oriel and Carmody and the other fellow proud of what they are doing. But just as your ultimate reason for staying was to help Javan, so are these other men doing what they must do to protect the ones they love.”
Tavis nodded miserably, not looking up. “I cannot fault them for that. But Javan said that Carmody seemed so—so cowed. God, to have to live under such conditions!”
“No one is unsympathetic to Carmody’s plight,” Evaine said quietly. “But unless you propose to slip into the castle and block him and every other Deryni there—which would only alert the regents that such a thing can be done—I think we must keep our energies directed more constructively.”
“Very well, then,” Ansel said. “Let’s talk constructively about my family.”
“What about your family, Ansel?” Joram said.
“Well—they can’t have come back of their own free will!”
“No?”
“No!” Ansel snapped. “When Jamie took them all off to Kierney last fall, after Davin was killed, he told me they intended to stay there, away from all of this. And if Manfred’s son has taken a special interest in the girls—”
Gregory, whose special interest in geneaological matters was almost encyclopaedic, nodded sagely.
“Ah, yes. The MacLean sisters. Cinhil gave their wardship to Elinor and Jamie Drummond several years back, didn’t he, after their father died?”
“He did,” Joram agreed. “They’re Iain MacLean’s nieces—and they’d be his co-heiresses, now that the direct line is extinct.”
“The direct line is not extinct!” Evaine said sharply, the bright fire of anger and still unresolved grief flashing suddenly in her blue eyes. “No, hear me out!” she went on, as Joram grimaced and would have made placating noises. “This is very important to me. I know what you meant, but this is never to be forgotten. Never! Adrian’s son still lives, his life bought at the expense of my son’s life. Camlin is Adrian’s heir. And when Camlin’s grandfather dies, Camlin will be Earl of Kierney.”
In the shocked silence that followed her words, Ansel slowly shook his head, his voice coming barely in a whisper.
“Aunt Evaine, I’m sorry. No one has forgotten what Camlin’s life cost. Do you think I could ever forget? I saw what they did to your Aidan, thinking he was Camlin.” He drew a deep breath and went on, still sympathetic, but now also stark and brutal in his truth.
“But as for Camlin being earl after his grandfather, it isn’t going to happen. You know it isn’t. Camlin will no more be Earl of Kierney than I am Earl of Culdi. You ought to be rejoicing that the regents think Camlin is dead; because if they ever found out otherwise, they’d never rest until they hunted him down and rectified their earlier mistake—just as they’re out for my blood. No, when Camlin’s grandfather dies—or meets some conveniently arranged accident at the hands of the regents!—Giesele and Richeldis MacLean will inherit all of Kierney. Given that prospect, it’s no wonder at all that Manfred’s pimply-faced son was sniffing around them at the wedding feast.”
“But, they’re still babies,” Evaine whispered, tears welling in her eyes. “They’re only—what?—twelve or thirteen?”
Tavis snorted. “And how old is Udaut’s daughter, who was wed to the Murdoch whelp yesterday?”
Shaking his head, Joram sighed. “So MacInnis’ son is sniffing around. I suppose the next question is, can we do anything to stop it? And do we really want to stop it?”
“Do we want to stop it?” Evaine gasped. “Joram—”
“No, just listen. Perhaps we’ve all been missing a really important consideration here. We’ve been discussing the purely political ramifications of this situation: Who will end up with Kierney? However, as distasteful as it may be to think about a Kiemey in MacInnis hands, it would still be by marriage to a MacLean—and in the long run, it’s surely better for Kierney to remain in a family that has at least some MacLean blood than to have the line totally extinguished, the Kierney lands escheated to the Crown, and the lands and titles handed over to someone who has absolutely no ties with the land, such as happened with Culdi.”
Young Jesse glanced at his elders and frowned. “I think Joram’s certainly raised a point worth considering,” he said. “However, that only leads to an even more immediate question. Would Manfred MacInnis, whose brother is a regent and the Archbishop of Valoret, actually consider joining his house to one that has such close Deryni ties? For that matter, just how Deryni are the MacLeans?”
“Not very,” Joram said. “The only Deryni blood in the line comes from my father’s sister Aislinn, who died at Trurill. Richeldis and Giesele are her granddaughters, and Camlin is her great-grandson. Actual Deryni ability is pretty dilute, at that remove. Given the financial gain involved, the MacInnises mightn’t mind. And after another generation—” He shrugged.
“I’m not sure that’s good enough,” Tavis said, shifting uncomfortably on his stool. “I think what worries Ansel is how the blood manifests in the girls’ generation. Do they have shields? Truth-Reading ability? Can they conjure handfire? Work simple spells? What? Ansel, do you know?”
Ansel shook his head. “I haven’t seen them for years, Tavis. I simply don’t know what they might be able to do. I’m worried enough about my mother. And I’ve got a half-sister and brother who are even younger than the MacLean girls.”
“All right, then. Tell me about them,” Tavis persisted. “Your mother has undeniable Deryni ties: widow of a son of Saint Camber, mother of a renegade earl who was killed trying to assassinate the king’s brothers—”
“Davin wasn’t trying to kill anyone!” Ansel retorted, slamming a fist against the table. “He was trying to protect Javan and Rhys Michael!”
“Yes, I was there, as you’ll recall,” Tavis went on, unperturbed. “And I know that, and you know that, but
the regents have chosen to interpret events otherwise—which is why you were outlawed. Just how Deryni is your mother, Ansel?”
Ansel forced himself to take a deep breath and let it out slowly, pushing down his momentary anger. “Not enough to make much difference in any positive sense,” he conceded, shifting in his chair. “She’s a Howell by birth, and the Howells are not a particularly strong Deryni strain. She has shields. I suppose she can Truth-Read. That’s about all.”
“So there isn’t much she could do directly against the regents,” Gregory said cautiously, glancing at Tavis. “Hopefully they realize that. What about your stepfather?”
Ansel sighed. “Please don’t take what I’m about to say as a criticism of Jamie, because I’m very grateful that he’s been able to give my mother another chance at happiness, after Father—well, I needn’t go into that, I hope. But Jamie’s Deryni gifts don’t run much beyond shields, either. I’ll grant you that Drummond blood was fairly strong three generations back, when the first Drummond–MacRorie link was forged—but there’s been nothing but pure human lineage in Jamie’s direct line since then. My half-sister and brother can hardly claim any Deryni blood at all—even less than Richeldis and Giesele.”
“Then, none of them probably has enough Deryni blood to worry about,” Jesse said. “It sounds as if it isn’t enough to protect them—but it isn’t enough to damn them, either.”
“That depends on how the regents are feeling about Deryni on any given day, doesn’t it?” Evaine said. “What if they should order Oriel or Carmody to start sniffing about, and something shows up that we haven’t anticipated? We all know how unreliable Deryni inheritance can be, at that remove, sometimes skipping generations—”
Tavis sighed. “I can see where this is leading,” he said softly. “Ansel, if you want me to block them, why don’t you just come out and say so?”
Tavis’ words brought utter silence to the chamber, for here at last was the first practical challenge to the measure they had been proposing, in theory, almost since discovering Rhys’ ability to block Deryni powers—that ability now resident solely in Tavis O’Neill. The silence deepened as all eyes gradually turned to Ansel.
“Ansel,” Evaine said quietly, “is that what you’re asking?”
Ansel nodded, unable to speak.
“And have you considered that your mother might not agree?” Evaine went on. “How long has it been since she’s spoken to you, Ansel?”
The boy hung his head. “Not since last fall, when Davin was killed,” he murmured. “She refused to see me. Jamie said she holds us to blame—all of us—that we used Davin and spent his life on a futile cause.”
“And do you think Davin died in vain?” Evaine asked.
Blinking back tears, Ansel shook his head, though he would not look up at any of them.
“No.”
“I see.” Quietly Evaine glanced at the others—Joram, Gregory, Jesse, Ansel himself—and Tavis. The young Healer gave her an almost imperceptible nod as their eyes met, and she slowly returned her gaze to Ansel.
“You haven’t answered my question, Ansel,” she said quietly. “If the Council authorizes what you ask—keeping in mind that we risk Tavis, who presently is the only living person we know can block Deryni powers—if we authorize what you ask, are you prepared to put your own life on the line as well, to help him do what is necessary? Before you answer, also remember that Jamie and Elinor, at least, may not agree with what you propose. Are you prepared to use force against your own mother and stepfather?”
Ansel sighed. “As things stand, she and Jamie and the children are in mortal danger that increases with every day that passes,” he said quietly. “Yet she cannot help us directly, even if she were willing. If she and the rest are blocked, they will be safe from that threat, at least; and none of them will be able to hinder our cause.”
“Answer the question, Ansel,” she persisted. “Would you use force against your own mother, and do whatever else Tavis might deem necessary?”
Looking very, very weary, Ansel nodded. “Aye. And God help us all.”
“Aye, God help us.” Evaine glanced at her hands, then at Tavis. “I take it that you are willing to undertake this task, Tavis?”
“If the Council will permit it, yes. I realize that my talent is unique just now, but this would be an opportunity to test our theory under—ah—less stressful conditions, before trying to work with Revan and the Willimites. Besides that, I already come and go in Valoret Castle on a regular basis. I think the danger is minimal to me—and it increases daily for Ansel’s family.”
“Reasonable arguments, all. Joram, do you agree?”
Her brother nodded.
“And Gregory, Jesse?”
Father and son also nodded.
“Very well, then. Ansel, I shall leave it to you to work out the details with Tavis.”
“Very well,” Tavis said. “Ah, I realize it’s getting late in the afternoon, but there is one other thing I ought to mention, and then I’ll leave you to—whatever else you need to do. I gather, from the rapidly fraying tempers around this table, that perhaps not everyone has yet recovered from last night’s work; and the prospect of having to repeat so demanding an operation so soon has surely placed undue strain on all concerned. I apologize if I’ve contributed to the strain.”
“Your apology is noted and accepted,” Joram said quietly, as Tavis rose. “What other point did you wish to make?”
“Well, it’s something that came up with Queron last night. Nothing to do with Javan’s report directly, but it does concern Javan.”
“And you’d really rather not discuss it,” Evaine said, smiling slightly, “but you feel you ought to.”
Tavis quirked an uneasy smile at the room at large. “I’m afraid the question was bound to come up eventually, but—well, Queron wondered whether my blocking talent would work on Javan’s powers, even though he isn’t Deryni.”
At the looks of astonishment and near horror on the others’ faces, he went on with alacrity.
“Now, don’t look at me as if I were some kind of a monster! You know what I can do; I’ve practiced enough on all of you! And having that ability and its attendant responsibility, I certainly would never use it lightly. God knows, I wouldn’t want even to think about taking Javan’s powers away, when he’s only just getting them and they may be the only thing to save him in the weeks and months to come. But—what if it could be done?” He looked searchingly between Joram and Evaine. “I mean, consider all the implications.”
Evaine chewed on her lower lip at that, glancing at Joram in surprise and a little apprehension. Not only Javan but Alroy and also Rhys Michael were affected by what Tavis had just proposed. One of these days, she and Joram really were going to have to find out exactly how much Tavis actually knew of what had been done to the three Haldane princes—but not here and now, and certainly not until and unless they decided to make him the seventh member of the Council, with all the binding oaths that implied, to keep the secret safe.
“As you say, Tavis, the implications of what you have just suggested are—staggering,” she said quietly. “Just now, however, you’re entirely correct in pointing out that the rest of us have another difficult night ahead of us, and that, accordingly, this is not the time to explore this issue fully. Tomorrow, perhaps, when we’ve all had some sleep.”
Tavis looked disappointed, but he could hardly object, since he alone was not involved in the night’s work—though he longed to be.
“As you wish,” he said, making a gracious little bow. “Have I your permission to go to Dhassa for the night, then? Bishop Niallan has extended a standing invitation to drop in for additional training, whenever I can spare the time.”
“Of course,” Evaine replied. “Please convey him our regards.”
When he had gone, Gregory let out an explosive sigh.
“That was damned awkward. Why don’t we just take in him—and Niallan—and be done with it? You had eight me
mbers in the beginning.”
Evaine sighed, and Joram shook his head.
“Maybe it will come to that, Gregory,” Joram said. “God knows, it’s an almost impossible choice, if we have to take only one—Niallan’s maturity and level-headedness against Tavis’ enthusiasm and unique talents.”
“However,” Evaine said, pausing to indulge in a giant yawn, “it isn’t anything we can even consider until after Queron is part of our company—which will never happen, if we don’t finish up our final preparations. So if you gentlemen will all proceed down to the keeill, we should be finished in time for everyone to have a few more hours’ rest.”
As they filed out, Ansel lingered to press her hand in wordless thanks for the decisions made regarding his family.
CHAPTER SIX
He hath set fire and water before thee: stretch forth thy hand unto whether thou wirt.
—Ecclesiasticus 15:16
Later that night, when they were sure that the rest of the residents of Saint Michael’s slept and Tavis had, indeed, gone to Dhassa, it was Ansel who was sent to fetch Queron. Ansel found the Healerpriest in the chapel, kneeling before the three blank slabs closing the tombs of the men that Jesse, Queron, and one other would replace. Though the green-badged white mantle of a Gabrilite Healer was draped around Queron’s shoulders, he wore the simple grey habit of the Servants of Saint Camber beneath it, and his feet were bare.
“Dom Queron, it’s time,” Ansel said softly.
Sighing, Queron rose, a sad little smile on his face as he turned to greet the saint’s grandson.
“I am ready,” he murmured. “I only hope I may be half as valuable to the Council as these were. May Saint Camber be my guide in these next hours, as he was theirs.”
Ansel said nothing, though he obviously noticed the Saint Camber medal that Queron wore on a silver chain around his neck, along with a Healer’s seal on a green cord. Not meeting Queron’s eyes, he only turned and gestured toward the open chapel door. Silence accompanied them all the way to the Portal chamber, Ansel finally speaking with his mind only, when he laid his hand on Queron’s arm as they stepped onto the Portal.
The Harrowing of Gwynedd Page 8