The Harrowing of Gwynedd

by Katherine Kurtz

  And even if the only result of that indulgence was a degree more freedom, a bit less stringent monitoring of his every word or action, that was all to the good—and it was the only way he had any hope of eventually reestablishing contact with his Deryni allies. Moving to Rhemuth was bad enough, but at least they now would know not to seek him in Valoret any more. And meanwhile, he would work through Hubert as best he could.

  That was as far as Javan thought he dared go—at least for this time. He would plant the seeds of indulgence in Hubert and see how they grew—and also set triggers to enable him to continue the venture at a later date, if the first phase proved successful. In the end, if things came to an ultimate showdown, Hubert still was his, to do with as he must, even unto death.

  Briefly Javan put his hand on Hubert’s forehead again, setting his suggestions, eradicating any memory of the night’s tampering. Then he was withdrawing, creeping back across the room to the door to the audience room, and through it to the anteroom, where he scanned the corridor outside for several seconds before slipping outside to head back for the chapel. He met no one enroute. By the time he was taking his cloak from Charlan’s shoulders and sending the squire back to his post by the door, he was reassured in the knowledge that no one had even looked in during his absence.

  He seemed to put on exhaustion with the cloak as he took Charlan’s place at the prie-dieu—and small wonder, considering what he had been through—but he bowed his head in formal thanks as he fastened the clasp at his throat, at the same time schooling his mind to obscure the details of the night’s adventure from any casually attempted probe by castle Deryni. After that, he shifted off the prie-dieu to prostrate himself before the altar steps, knowing that would please anyone looking in from now on.

  And if they chose to report it to Hubert as evidence of heightened piety, so much the better. Meanwhile, it was a far more comfortable way to spend the rest of the night, until he could return to the castle and his bed. He thought about the very interesting Sylvan O’Sullivan as he settled his head on the pillow of his folded arms and wondered what Tavis and the others would say when they found out what Javan had done.

  Joram and Evaine knew of it within the hour. Tavis and Queron would have to wait several days, by which time Javan would be already on his way to Rhemuth. Sylvan found the two MacRories poring over some of Evaine’s manuscripts in the Camberian Council chamber. Young Jesse MacGregor was with them, apparently asleep in his chair, though Sylvan knew the younger man actually was monitoring a passive link set with Queron, operational only when the blocked Healer slept. Queron seemed not to have slept the night before—or at least not in sufficient depth for anyone to activate the link; and the depth of Jesse’s trance, wide-open for the least hint of Queron’s readiness, indicated that the Healer was working late tonight, too.

  “Sorry to intrude,” Sylvan said, tossing Javan’s report between Joram and Evaine as they looked up in question. “I’ve just met Prince Javan. No one told me he was able to use a Portal.”

  Joram’s jaw dropped in astonishment, but Evaine looked pleased.

  “He’s learned to use a Portal?” Her smile faded as she realized what else that must mean. “But which Portal? Sweet Jesu, he didn’t come through Hubert’s?”

  “The very one,” Sylvan replied. “Not only that, he controlled our beloved archbishop—put him to sleep. Is there anything you’d like to tell me about this young Haldane? I’ve suddenly been made very aware that he’s no ordinary thirteen-year-old—and it has nothing to with the fact that he’s royal.”

  Joram, who had cracked the seals on the packet and started to unfold it, glanced at Evaine and then back at the Healer, setting the parchment on the table before him. Jesse had not stirred.

  “We told you he was something special, Sylvan,” Joram said quietly. “What else did he tell you, to make you this surprised?”

  Snorting, Sylvan pulled a stool closer and sat between Joram and Evaine, extending a hand to each of them.

  “He didn’t have time actually to tell me much at all, but he did permit a quick reading before he went back. You are aware that, other than the arcane knowledge, he has almost the identical abilities of a fairly well-trained Deryni?”

  Evaine, laying her hand on Sylvan’s, simply smiled and nodded. “Don’t feel that you’re being singled out, Sylvan. He keeps surprising us, too. Let’s have your reading,” she added, as Joram joined in the link.

  The information was transferred with the usual economy they both had come to expect of Sylvan. Joram sighed and sat back in his chair as the link was dismantled, already calculating the possible ramifications of Javan’s night’s work, and Evaine nodded distractedly as she, too, digested the new information.

  “I think you’re probably right that he got away safely, since he didn’t come back through the Portal in the next few minutes,” Evaine said to no one in particular. “He’s playing a dangerous game, though. I hope he realizes how dangerous.”

  “At least we have a better chance of sending him help, once the court is installed at Rhemuth,” Joram said. “We can infiltrate the staff there; I doubt the regents will take their entire domestic household from Valoret. Provided he isn’t watched too closely, and no one’s suspicions have been aroused unduly by tonight’s little escapade, we should be able to make contact with him somehow.”

  “A bogus clergy contact, perhaps,” Evaine said, “since that’s the cover he seems to have chosen. It’s clever, but I hope he doesn’t wake up one morning to find himself a monk in some godforsaken monastery.”

  Joram nodded. “All too possible. It would be a convenient way for the regents to rid themselves of a troublesome prince without resorting to murder—and who would question it, if Javan has been seen to display an open interest in the religious life?”

  “Who, indeed?” Evaine replied. “His father was a priest, after all.”

  “In the meantime, however,” Joram went on, “I think we can at least confirm that he hasn’t suffered as a result of what he’s done tonight. The departure of the court from Valoret will be something of a state occasion, if I know the regents. I’ll arrange for someone to observe. It might even be possible to get him a message.”

  “Be careful on that,” Evaine said, glancing at the still motionless Jesse. “It’s a shame Ansel isn’t back yet. He could handle this to a fare-thee-well.”

  Joram smiled and rose. “He could—and might still, if he gets back in time. In the meantime, I have several Michaelines who can do the job. Care to help me set this up, Sylvan? Jesse doesn’t need our distraction, and you’ll want to take up your post at the other Portal anyway.”

  When the two had gone, Evaine sat back in her chair and gazed across at Jesse, well aware that it would take more than mere conversation to distract the young Deryni when he was so deeply entranced. Watching Jesse made her think of those for whom he waited, and she wondered how long the wait would continue and whether all was well with Queron and Revan.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A prophet shall the Lord your God raise up unto you of your brethren.

  —Acts 7:37

  Queron Kinevan pulled his shabby cloak more closely around him and tried not to think about the cold, pretending to be asleep. Across the cave, by the light of a tiny fire, Revan was conversing quietly with three of his favorite disciples.

  So far, everything was going well enough. Other than taking nearly four days to make a journey that should have taken two, partly from dodging the expected patrols of Earl Manfred’s men and partly because of weather, Queron had made the journey from Caerrorie without real incident, arriving two days before. The disguised Tavis had accompanied him, his missing hand filled out with a lump of bandage and shrouded by a grubby sling that hid much.

  But Tavis did not enter the Willimite camp. Nor would he allow Queron to do so until he had blocked the elder Healer’s powers, for discovery as Deryni could be as good as a death sentence.

  Which was not to say that ther
e were no Deryni among the Willimites. Indeed, one of the disciples sitting with Revan was Deryni—a quiet, balding older man called Geordie—and there were more in the ranks of the less favored disciples, camped at the foot of the mountain. The Willimites, while despising Deryni for their unholy magic and for what one of that race had done to their patron, Saint Willim, granted refuge of a sort to those Deryni who publicly abjured their evil magic and promised henceforth to lead lives of humility and public penance. Public penance in the Willimite sense included denouncing any other Deryni who might try to infiltrate the Willimite ranks without also giving up their powers. Geordie had been one of the first to swear the public oath the Willimites now required as a matter of course, and now used his powers only to unmask the deceptions of other Deryni and induce a parting from their evil ways. The Willimites deemed it not only permissible but praiseworthy to do so—a fitting act of expiation, for having been born Deryni in the first place.

  The skewed logic of such reasoning eluded Queron, who thought such individuals some of the saddest he had ever seen, to so deny their birthrights, but too much sympathy with their self-imposed plight could be deadly. Under the rigid, fundamentalist code of the Willimites, undeclared Deryni were liable to meet a speedy and awful end. Hanging seemed to be the preferred method of execution, but he had heard of stoning, impalement, and even crucifixion—though the latter was not often used, since it offered the victim too close an identification with the crucified Christ, Who surely despised Deryni sorcery fully as much as His Willimite devotees.

  Had Queron been willing to make the public abjuration the Willimites required, he might have passed among them with his power intact if unused, but any hint of clandestine and illicit activity might have cost him his life. There were enough Deryni about, just watching for the chance to inform on recusants—and thus enhance their own spiritual standing—that such a risk simply was not worth it.

  Hence, Tavis’ block, at least until they determined whether Revan had been successful in purging his most immediate circle of abjuring Deryni. Except for Geordie, he had—and Geordie had been retained for a reason. In fact, though Revan had begun to preach the imminent coming of a new age, hinting that even Deryni might hope to be worthy of a new heavenly grace, his words had served to make many of the other Willimite Deryni withdraw for a time of fasting and meditation, abject in their hope that Heaven might yet hold out some chance for their forgiveness. Revan encouraged such withdrawal, knowing that Deryni themselves, not Heaven, might soon hold out that hope.

  The few Deryni who remained, even among the Willimites at large, became targets for Tavis, who ghosted silently around the outskirts of the camp after dark to pick his prey, carefully and selectively blocking those whose presence might interfere with the plans he and Queron had for Revan. By ones and twos, such activity was risky but possible—incapacitating a subject long enough to alter his or her memories, planting reassuring false memories of earlier visual acquaintance with the wiry little grey-haired man who now accompanied the prophet Revan increasingly, squelching any further curiosity about the bleary-eyed beggar with the bandaged arm, and then resetting the triggerpoint with the subjects none the wiser for their experience.

  The process was not without its dangers, but the results had been well worth it, thus far. Tavis was never detected, and Queron had been accepted without question. During the first few days, when Queron remained blocked, he found maintaining his charade a tiring proposition, unable to influence any of Revan’s followers other than by ordinary persuasion, but Revan himself was good enough at that and had chosen his chief disciples well. Brother Joachim had been the first of the Willimites to heed Revan’s preaching and remained his staunchest and most loyal supporter. Flann, a firebrand of a youth with wild black eyes and an even wilder mane of curly black hair, represented the more radical elements of the Willimite brotherhood. The Deryni Geordie had become more valuable to the mission than he knew. Even now, Revan was telling this unlikely trio that he felt called to go into the wilderness to fast and pray for a fortnight, and wished these three, of all his company, to come with him.

  Queron could have helped him this time, for Tavis had contrived to pass close enough to touch him earlier in the evening, restoring his powers for their imminent departure—but best not to meddle unless there was real need. Right now, the three were listening with rapt devotion as Revan outlined his hopes for the retreat. Later, when they all prayed—as was always Revan’s custom before embarking upon a new venture—Queron would establish the necessary controls to ensure that no one should prove anything but the most amiable of travelling companions.

  But for now, a bit of neglected business remained on Queron’s part. He had hoped to report back to the Council the night before, through the passive link that Joram and Evaine had set in him to work, even with his powers blocked, but his work with Revan the previous night had not even allowed him much sleep, never mind the privacy necessary to allow the linking safely. Now, with his powers restored and Tavis lurking in the darkness outside to waylay any too-curious Deryni who might try to interfere, Queron could hope to initiate the necessary contact himself.

  Drawing a deep breath and exhaling slowly, Queron shifted his mind into a meditative state, not only opening himself for the contact but actively seeking it. The Willimite medallion hanging on a leather thong around his neck became a physical focus for his concentration, and he clasped it in his hand, feeling its edges bite into his palm as he pressed his closed fist to his chest.

  All at once, he was linked with Jesse MacGregor, basking in the restoring energy of a connection augmented by the latent power of the entire Camberian Council, of which power Jesse was custodian at the moment. Wordless greeting and relief flooded through Queron as Jesse widened the link and locked in on him, and also surprise that Queron was functioning with full powers.

  Are you sure that’s safe? came Jesse’s cautious query. Nothing’s happened to Tavis, has it?

  Sending assurance and an admonition not to worry, Queron compressed his report into a brief, intense burst of information. Jesse took it as fast as Queron could send, which was fast indeed. Within seconds, Jesse was privy to all that had occurred since Queron’s last report, just before arriving at the Willimite camp.

  Tavis shouldn’t be taking such risks! came Jesse’s first, worried response. Not that there’s much you can do, if that’s what he feels is necessary, I suppose. How soon do you think you’ll be back? Two or three days?

  No more than that, Queron replied. I’ll try for another contact tomorrow night, but tell everyone not to worry if I don’t manage it. It may just mean that we’re busy dodging Manfred’s men again. Oh, and we’ll be bringing three guests.

  Guests?

  Three of Revan’s disciples. Can’t help it, Jesse. If we tried to slip away without any of them, the Willimites might not let him go. He’s got quite a following. These three are excellent subjects, though. Altering their memories shouldn’t be difficult. Just be ready.

  Very well, but Joram isn’t going to like it.

  I don’t like it either, but I’m afraid we have no choice. Anything we should know?

  Hard to say, came Jesse’s reply. Sylvan just brought in a report from Prince Javan, who apparently managed to use Archbishop Hubert’s Portal to deliver it—

  Javan used a Portal? Queron interjected.

  Yes, and quite handily, from what I gather, Jesse replied, though I’m not sure I’d let Tavis know about it yet. I suppose you can tell him that we’ve learned the court is moving back to Rhemuth in the next few days. Evaine is still digesting the report, but she doesn’t seem to be terribly concerned—not about Javan, at any rate. Nothing that can’t wait until you get here, so far as I can tell.

  The hint to terminate the contact was clear. Nodding to himself, Queron sent his acquiescence.

  Very well. We’ll get the full details when we return. Our greetings to all.

  And God keep all of you, Jesse responded, just before
he withdrew.

  Both heartened and troubled, Queron opened his eyes to the same dim firelight and drone of voices that had been with him before he sought out the link, and he carefully cast out for danger. Outside the cave, he sensed Tavis waiting nearby—and the fainter presence of others, farther down the mountain, settling into camp for the night, but nothing about Deryni at all. Good.

  Revan was going on about his visions, enthralling his listeners with the lure of similar experiences if they followed his guidance. The three men looked absolutely spellbound, caught in a magic that had nothing to do with Deryni but only the magnetism of Revan’s own personality. Quite suddenly, Queron realized that it was no longer entirely a charade for Revan—that the younger man had already set the foundations for a quite viable cult in its own right, owing nothing whatever to the Willimites or the manipulations of the Camberian Council. Queron recognized all the earmarks from his own experience with the Servants of Saint Camber and wondered whether Revan realized how powerful a charisma he possessed. Queron also became aware that the younger man was stalling for time, waiting for him to wake up.

  Yawning, Queron sat up and pretended to blink sleep from his eyes, once again putting on his persona as the intense, hot-eyed disciple.

  “Forgive me, Master, I didn’t mean to sleep so long,” he murmured contritely, easing his feet under him to duck-walk over to the four, in the low-ceilinged cavern. “God give you blessings, brethren. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Brother Aaron got little sleep last night,” Revan said easily, referring to Queron by the name they had agreed upon as biblical and close to Queron’s own. “He watched with me while I prayed for a sick child—young Erena’s babe. I’m happy to report that the child seems to be much improved, so the lost sleep was surely worthwhile.”