The Harrowing of Gwynedd

by Katherine Kurtz

  The conversation seemed to clear away whatever remaining doubts Sylvan might have had. Furthermore, once he understood the scope and magnitude of what they planned, he had new ideas to contribute, and readily offered to assume the primary Healer’s role of working directly with Revan—for Tavis, with his missing hand, would be all too conspicuous among Revan’s growing band of “disciples,” if he tried to take too prominent a part.

  “You do understand the risk you’re taking, though?” Tavis asked him, when their new recruit had reiterated the offer for the third or fourth time. “Right now, you could still be free to go back to Trevalga with Gregory and Jesse. If you join up with Revan and me, and the regents’ agents expose the baptizer cult for what it really is, you’re likely to get killed with all the rest of us.”

  Sylvan only laughed. “Why should you have a monopoly on taking risks? Besides, I think I’ll be in good company. There are causes worth dying for, Tavis.”

  The sentiment was one that Evaine shared, though in an additional context to the one occupying Tavis, Sylvan, and most of the rest of the sanctuary household. Once she was reassured that Sylvan’s timely arrival had at least temporarily suspended any need to consider drafting little Tieg for their purposes—and that Tieg himself was not going to become a problem, by using his blocking talent for childish whims—Camber’s daughter pursued her own purposes increasingly, though only Joram knew her true intent. Her first priority was to begin assembling the texts that might contain clues on how to bring their father back.

  The documents stashed at Sheele seemed a logical place to start. She and Ansel had secreted a number of scrolls and other valuables under the flags of the Sheele Portal before fleeing to Saint Mary’s at Christmas. These must be retrieved before Sheele’s new lord took formal possession, probably in the spring. Just now, Rhun of Horthness was occupied with the festivities of winter court at Valoret and besotted with his new bride; Sheele was occupied by a small garrison of knights hand picked by Rhun. Evaine felt it likely that such men would not presume to usurp the apartments usually reserved for the manor’s lord—including Rhys’ former study, where Sheele’s Portal lay.

  She and Ansel went a week after his wounding, when he was fully recovered, in those dark, quiet hours after midnight when men sleep most soundly and the watch was likely to be least attentive. As anticipated, the study was deserted. They had a tense moment or two, when footsteps passing in the corridor outside paused and someone tested the doorlatch; but no one entered. While Ansel pried up the heavy flags forming the floor of the Portal, Evaine kept guard by the door, scanning for danger and noting the changes already wrought in the name of Sheele’s new owner, missing the familiar things that had made the study a refuge when she and Rhys had called Sheele home.

  Gone were most of the volumes of medical lore he had collected over the years, especially the ones having to do with a Healer’s special abilities. Gone also was the entire section of Deryni literature—the scrolls of poetry, the histories, the collected poems of Pargan Howiccan, the treasured scroll of the Lays of the Lord Llewellyn. In fact, anything to do with Deryni at all had disappeared. The ashes Evaine prodded in the cold fireplace grate bore mute evidence of the fate of at least one of the scrolls; and charred remnants of a fine old leather binding brought tears to her eyes—for to burn a book, any book, seemed to her one of the most heinous of sins.

  But there was no time to linger or to nurse her grief and indignation. All too quickly, Ansel’s soft hiss called her back to the Portal, the flags now set back in place, his leather satchel bulging with the booty he had recovered. The information she sifted from the salvaged volumes kept her busy for the best part of several weeks, while the others continued their indoctrination of Sylvan.

  Other discoveries there were as well. Just after Candlemas, Bishop Niallan reluctantly quit besieged Dhassa for good, bringing with him several large boxes of scrolls and bound volumes of Deryni lore that, if left behind, were sure to be consigned to the flames when the regents’ army took the city—which they were sure to do, once the spring thaws came, if not before. Most of the manuscripts were classic texts, already well known to Evaine, but one long, narrow chest contained a cache of documents dealing with the early days of the Varnarite College at Grecotha. The bulk of them had to do with the day to day running of the college, and were of only passing interest, but several purported to extract direct quotes by some of Grecotha’s most famous lecturers, among them the great Orin himself. One lot, almost overlooked under a dusty sheet of parchment lining the bottom of the chest, bore a seal of dull green wax ringed with faded script.

  “Look at this, Joram,” Evaine said, holding the packet gingerly by the edges as she blew off a puff of dust. “I don’t think it’s been touched for years—maybe centuries.”

  Joram, who had been helping her catalog the new acquisitions, pushed aside his list and moved a rushlight closer as she laid the packet flat on the table.

  “What’s the seal? Can you tell?”

  “I’m not sure. The lettering is odd looking—no, it’s reversed. Maybe a coin impression.”

  Joram ran a finger over the seal and peered at it more closely.

  “Hmmm, I think you’re right. It looks like another of those old dower coins—like the one that led us to Cinhil so many years ago. If I still had access to the records at Saint Liam’s, I could look it up.”

  “There’s writing around the edge,” Evaine replied, groping toward a pottery jar of dry brushes as she squinted at the tight, crabbed Latin. “Maybe that will give us a clue. Hand me one of those brushes, would you?”

  While Joram watched, she carefully cleaned away another layer of dust, gradually bringing up two concentric rings of faded, spidery brown script.

  Hoc est sig Jod Carneddi fil luc soc Orini mag. In hoc sig minist altissimi sacrat sum. Dmna ang ora pro me.

  “Oh, my,” Evaine breathed, when she had finished scanning the abbreviated Latin for the first time. “‘This is the sign or seal of’—it has to be ‘Jodotha of Carnedd,’ Joram! Yes, ‘daughter of Light, colleague or associate of the Great, or the Master, or the Adept Orin’—that last depends on whether we read mag as magni or magi. Dear God, do you suppose she wrote this?”

  Joram smiled. “So, you’ve finally gotten your hands on something from one of your childhood idols. I’m pleased for you.”

  “Not just for me,” she replied, grinning as she bent to the rest of the translation. “Jodotha was a Healer, as Jerusha is going to be. What a legacy for my little girl!”

  “You do realize, I hope, that it’s probably a shopping list for the steward, telling him how many loaves to buy and how many hogshead of ale to brew for supper,” Joram quipped, though his smile showed that he appreciated Evaine’s excitement. “What does the rest say?”

  “Joram MacRorie, it is not a shopping list!” she muttered, though she smiled as she said it. “Let’s see. ‘By this sign or seal, to the ministry, service of the Most High, I was‘—sacratus—’bound? Wed?’”

  “Sacratus—more in the sense of consecrated, I should think,” Joram replied. “And what was that last bit? ‘Lady of the Angels, pray for me.’ Hmmm, was she a religious?”

  Evaine rubbed at her temples in concentration. “Not that I know of—but then, I don’t know that much about Orin, either. Not about his clerical status, at any rate.”

  “Well, let’s see if what’s inside sheds any light on the question,” Joram said.

  They tried to pry off the seal, hoping to preserve it intact, but the edge fractured very early on, so that Joram was forced to take the time to draw out the design—which was well, because the seal shattered utterly before they finally could free it enough to open the packet. The contents proved to be transcripts of several of Jodotha’s lectures at the Varnarite College, plus an extract of a paper she had written on memory, bearing the sigil of the long-vanished Healer’s Schola at Portree.

  “But nothing here to suggest any clues for our actual resear
ch,” Evaine said, crestfallen.

  Later, on closer reading of the other texts, they found references to the Varnarite library and hints that some of the most valuable volumes might have been placed in a secret archive before the school moved to its new quarters in Grecotha, but no hint of its actual location ever materialized. Joram retraced the drawing of the seal on the other side of the parchment, so that they had a positive image of the coin used to imprint the original seal—which Queron was able to identify as belonging to the Templum Archangelorum, a long-destroyed abbey with ancient esoteric antecedents. But they still were not ready to confide in him the reason for their interest, so dared not question him too closely.

  Meanwhile, Queron and Tavis continued to work with Sylvan, perfecting their blocking techniques until at last, toward the end of the second week in February, they finally felt ready to bring Revan in to give him final instruction on the specific form his incipient baptizer cult must take. Since Queron had been with Revan the previous month and would not be viewed as a complete stranger by Revan’s Willimite brethren, he again was selected to make the contact.

  “I worry about your going there blocked, though,” Joram murmured, as he, Sylvan, Ansel, and Tavis gathered outside the sanctuary’s Portal chamber to see Queron off. “Even on foot and in the snow, it shouldn’t take you more than two days each way, starting from Caerrorie, but that’s still a long time.”

  Queron smiled wanly, adjusting the worn but serviceable cloak they had given him—heathery grey tones, to cover a tunic and leggings of nondescript brown. His hair had been raggedly barbered just to cover his ears, all signs of tonsure or Gabrilite braid now obliterated, and his beard had come in wiry and dark.

  “If they found me out, I’d be dead a long time, too,” he reminded them. “But, don’t worry. With any luck, I’ll be back with our Revan in less than a week. In the meantime—” He eased to one knee expectantly. “—how about a blessing to speed me on my way, Father Joram? You surely don’t want your Daniel to have to go among the lions unprotected.”

  Even Joram had to smile at that as he laid one hand lightly on Queron’s head in benediction.

  “May almighty God bless and protect you, dear brother, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen,” he murmured, making the sign of the cross over Queron’s head. “And may all the lions be asleep when you go into their den.”

  “Amen to that,” Tavis said, moving in closer to take Queron’s elbow as he rose. “And on that note, let’s be about our business.”

  Tavis was dressed like Queron, for he would accompany the older Healer part of the way to Revan’s camp before blocking his Deryni powers, but Ansel, already waiting in the Portal behind them, was clothed all in black, with a dagger at his waist. As the two Healers crowded into the Portal to either side of him, it was Ansel who took charge, closing a hand around each man’s inside wrist. Almost as one, the Healers opened to him, allowing the control Ansel needed to take them through to a Portal neither of them had used before. A moment to steady the link, and Ansel was reaching out to warp the familiar energies, punching the power through, so that, in the space of a single heartbeat, they were no longer in the Michaeline sanctuary.

  None of the three of them moved as Ansel released the link, all of them questing out with their minds in the darkness to test for danger. After a few seconds, Ansel conjured a small, dim sphere of handfire and crouched where he was, carefully scanning the floor of the corridor just outside the Portal. Dust lay undisturbed upon it, and he let out a tiny sigh as, rising, he willed his handfire to brighten.

  “So far, so good,” he whispered, stepping into the corridor as he continued to scan. “Thank God my ancestors thought to build a secondary Portal for Caerrorie. No one’s been here since I left it, after my brother died.”

  He led them into the corridor at that, heading downhill, pointing out several branching tunnels and identifying their destinations until, at length, they came to a wall of blank stone.

  “The wood is on the other side of this,” he told them, setting his hand against the counterweight. “A few dozen paces straight ahead you’ll pick up a game trail that will lead you directly to the road. Make a mental note, so you’ll be able to find it again, Queron, because you’ll be coming back without me or Tavis. You should try to bring Revan in this way, but if, for any reason, it doesn’t look safe, you can always try coming through the village church. Getting into the sacristy might be tricky, but that tunnel is an even more direct route back to the Portal.”

  “I’ll be there,” Queron muttered. “Just make certain you are. With my powers still blocked, a Portal won’t do me a bit of good if you aren’t around.”

  Ansel smiled. “I shall many that Portal until you turn up safe. Seriously, it should take you at least four days to make the round trip, but I’ll wait here for two hours at midnight every day for the first three, just in case anything goes wrong—God forbid. And of course, I’ll be here constantly thereafter. Any other questions?”

  “I think it’s a little late for questions,” Tavis replied with a grin. “Take care, Ansel. We’ll see you in a few days.”

  When Ansel had seen them safely on, he waited an hour to be sure they would not come back immediately, spent another hour checking the other tunnels to be sure they had not been breached, then returned via the Portal to the Michaeline sanctuary. Sylvan was waiting just outside the Portal chamber, shivering in too thin a mantle.

  “Are they safe?” he asked.

  Ansel smiled, far more used to intrigue than the older man.

  “As safe as we can hope for, this early in the operation. Go get some sleep, Sylvan. There’s nothing you can do for now.”

  The next days passed uneventfully for those at the haven, though Sylvan fretted increasingly as the passage of time made danger more likely for the two missing Healers. He found it difficult to concentrate on his training; and his agitation was passed on to his teachers, who were no less concerned for Tavis and Queron—simply more used to coping with this kind of stress.

  Javan, too, fretted in Valoret, though for different reasons, becoming more and more anxious as the time approached for the departure of the Court to Rhemuth. The fact that his Deryni allies had not yet discovered a new way to communicate with him was unnerving, for he had much to tell them. Besides the obvious news of the founding of the Custodes, and the increasingly restrictive legislation being generated by the regents’ new religious advisors, Javan himself had new developments to report. Two days before the scheduled departure from Valoret, during a practice session at the archery butts, he unexpectedly found himself almost alone with his elder brother, for the first time in many, many weeks. Rhys Michael had gone far downrange to retrieve arrows with Cathan and another junior squire, and the weapons master, Sir Radan, had been called aside by one of the officers of the Royal Haldane Archer Corps, well out of sight and earshot.

  It was not an ideal opportunity, but it was the best one Javan was likely to have for some time. Trying to read Alroy here in the open would be tricky—and God help him, if Alroy’s command of his powers was greater than anyone supposed—but Javan thought he could do it. He had even hit on the perfect opening gambit, as he watched Rhys Michael and the squires running toward the straw-stuffed targets.

  “You’re shooting well this morning,” he said to Alroy, propping his bow against a rest. “Isn’t that vambrace bothering you, though? It looks a little loose at the wrist.”

  Even as Alroy made vague noises of disagreement, turning the leather-bound wrist to demonstrate that it was fine, Javan caught the hand and slipped his fingers between leather and flesh, ostensibly checking the adjustment but also making the direct physical contact he needed to try a probe.

  “Here, let me see if I can improve things.”

  In that same instant, he projected a mental command for Alroy to sleep—and was astonished when the king’s eyelids fluttered and then closed, the royal breath exhaling in a soft sigh.
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br />   Remain standing! Javan sent, tightening his hold as Alroy swayed a little on his feet. Open your eyes, but remain deep asleep. Just watch my fingers. Do not resist. There is no danger.

  Immediately Alroy steadied and opened his eyes, at once bending his head to watch Javan fiddle with a vambrace buckle.

  No time for lengthy preparations. Javan must be in and out in a few seconds, before Rhys Michael and the squires finished picking up the arrows—and before Sir Radan returned from his consultation, which could happen even sooner.

  Punching past a lethargy that had far more to do with the regents’ constant sedation than with any compulsion Javan had set, Javan dipped deep into his brother’s mind, shocked to find that Alroy had only the most rudimentary of shields. Nor could he detect any hint of the power potential he sensed increasingly in himself and which should have been far more potent in an anointed king—nor any awareness or will to resist what was being done to him by the regents.

  You will only remember me adjusting your vambrace, he ordered, withdrawing all at once as he suddenly realized Sir Radan was fast approaching. “There! I think that’s got it,” he said aloud.

  Alroy turned the vambrace to and fro, flexing his wrist experimentally as Radan drew up to look at them curiously.

  “Yes, that does seem better,” the king agreed. “Thank you.” The smile he flashed his brother was open and unaccusing, but pinched with the old fatigue and tension. “Ah, Radan, do you think I’ll ever be the archer Javan is?”

  “Of course you will, Sire.” Muttering, Radan picked up Alroy’s bow and put it in his hand. “You just need more practice. You lads, hurry up with those arrows!”

  I had an anxious moment or two, but I’m certain no one detected a thing, Javan wrote that afternoon, when his squire thought he was napping, adding to the report he had been compiling for nearly a week now. He hasn’t much in the way of shields, though. Nor does he seem at all aware of the power potential you say all three of us should carry. Maybe it’s because the regents keep him full of sedatives all the time. That can’t be good for him.