The Harrowing of Gwynedd

by Katherine Kurtz

  He did not mention, nor did Queron, that a Healer’s knowledge of herbs and such, to break the child’s fever, had not hurt matters any. Had Queron had access to his Healing power, the cure might have been effected even sooner, but the child had recovered, nonetheless.

  Joachim gave the master a knowing nod, Geordie muttering that he had noticed the restored child that morning, while Flann attributed all to Revan’s prayers.

  “Nay, little brother, you must not attribute such power to me,” Revan protested, holding up both hands in denial. “If praise is due, it should be lifted up unto the Lord, Who is the Doer of all good things. I am only His humble servant. But, come, my brethren,” he went on, spreading his hands to either side and inviting them all to draw closer. “’Tis time to ask God’s blessing before embarking upon our sacred mission.”

  None of the men seemed to notice how Revan directed their movement, so that when they all joined hands, Queron had a link with Flann on one side and Geordie on the other—who had a link with Joachim. With the physical contact, and as Revan led them in prayer and lulled their senses with the drone of his words, Queron was able to ease the three under his control without anyone realizing what had happened, extending through Geordie to secure even the veteran Joachim.

  “We can go now,” he said softly, looking up at Revan as he released the men’s hands. “Our brethren shall surely be the most agreeable of companions.”

  Revan eyed the three carefully before releasing their hands himself. “Douse the fire, would you please, Brother Flann, and we shall be away.”

  Minutes later, they had safely negotiated the rocky path leading down the mountainside and joined Tavis, who led them softly away from the Willimite camp. By dawn, as the sun thrust its first rays above the hills before them, they had reached the main road and were joining their voices with those of the birds in a paean of praise to greet the new day, their three Willimite companions quite convinced that they and “Brother Aaron” were all on a pilgrimage to the wilderness with their master. The morning was brilliant with the promise of coming spring. If the weather held, and they ran into no hostile patrols, Queron thought they might reach the Caerrorie Portal late the next day.

  Neither the carolling of birds nor the rays of the rising sun penetrated to the chapel where Prince Javan greeted the new day, but Archbishop Hubert’s early arrival made it clear that the long night was over. Hubert’s fat face was wreathed with smiles as he first poked his head into the room, then entered boldly, startling Charlan to his feet and admitting a wash of brighter light and a cold draft from the corridor beyond. Javan, just beginning to rouse from fitful drowsing on the cold, hard floor, knuckled sleep from his eyes and struggled to a sitting position, half tangled in his cloak, fearful that his previous night’s work was about to receive its ultimate test.

  “Forgive me, your Grace, I fear I must have dozed off,” he whispered.

  Hubert made a deprecating gesture, bishop’s ring winking in the dim light, and came to lower himself heavily to one knee beside Javan.

  “So did Christ’s disciples, when they tried to keep watch with Him in the Garden,” Hubert said. “You need not beg my forgiveness, my son. Sometimes God grants His greatest revelations during that twilight time when the soul hangs suspended between sleep and wakefulness. To offer up one’s night before the Blessed Sacrament, prostrate before the Altar of Heaven, can only benefit the supplicant.”

  “I pray you may be right, your Grace” Javan murmured, bowing his head. When he did not go on, Hubert set a pudgy hand on his shoulder.

  “Have no doubt of it, my son,” Hubert said. “God will not desert His own. Tell me, have you any recollection of what He might have revealed to you while you meditated?”

  Javan swallowed and shook his head. “I—am very young and foolish, your Grace,” he replied. “I—am not certain I should understand His words if I heard them. Perhaps I have not yet learned to listen properly. If—if your Grace were to instruct me—”

  As he turned the grey Haldane eyes on Hubert, projecting as much as he could of innocence and honest bewilderment, the archbishop smiled happily and took Javan’s hand in both of his.

  “My dear, dear boy, of course I will instruct you. Come. The chapter will be singing morning prayers in my household chapel. Afterwards, I must celebrate Mass in the cathedral. Perhaps you would care to be my server. God will make His will known, all in good time.”

  The plan presented no compulsion to do anything Javan had not done dozens of times before. Javan and both his brothers had often served at Mass. Such service was a part of the general religious training of all well-born boys, though the function generally diminished as boys grew into men, unless they were intended for the religious life. Nor was Javan a stranger to regular attendance at other devotions. It was expected of reasonably pious individuals, and princes must set an even better example.

  Most important of all, Hubert had not once referred directly to the formal religious vocation he hoped Javan would embrace, and seemed content this morning to let the prince continue his own slow, noncommital exploration of the possibility. That represented a notable backing off from the previous night’s more aggressive encouragement, hopefully as a result of Javan’s cautious tampering.

  Using the physical link of Hubert’s hands surrounding his, Javan cautiously tested his continuing ability to influence the archbishop. Sending the gentle suggestion of an itchy nose brought a casual, offhand brush at the proboscis even as Hubert lumbered to his feet, steadying himself on Javan’s shoulder. At Javan’s further subtle urging, Hubert also crossed himself from right to left instead of left to right, as they both reverenced the altar a last time before departing.

  “Come, young Charlan, you may accompany us,” Hubert said, including the squire in his gesture as they swept out of the chapel. “I know you have no inclination whatever toward the religious life, but attendance at yet another Mass will not hurt you.”

  Javan felt as if every eye was upon him as he and Charlan entered the archbishop’s household chapel behind Hubert, and he thought the morning prayers would never end. Serving Mass afterwards was better, since people had grown accustomed to seeing the princes occasionally perform this function, but Javan had to keep reminding himself that it was the priestly office he assisted and not the man. He loathed the individual who offered up the Sacrifice and suspected that Hubert would just as soon sacrifice him, to gain his own ends.

  In response to that fear, just after the Consecration, when Hubert offered the Sacred Victim as an homage to God’s Infinite Majesty and for the welfare of all the faithful—“hostiam puram, hostiam sanctam, hostiam immaculatam”—Javan even flashed on a most disturbing vision of himself laid bound and naked upon the altar, like Isaac before Abraham, his bare throat stretched back to accommodate the descending knife. Only, the hand wielding the blade was his own father’s, not Hubert’s.

  Shuddering, Javan shook off the vision—and, in fact, paid it little more heed for the duration of the ritual. For ironically, he also felt the faint tugging of a fancy on his own part to be in Hubert’s place, were his own place not so urgently dictated by his position in the succession—not as archbishop, to be sure, but as priest. All at once he understood a little of what his father must have suffered, having to set aside such a calling in the interest of royal duty. He also understood why Cinhil Haldane had always found it so difficult to express affection for his sons, a part of him always resenting those individuals who were the tangible signs that he had abandoned his priesthood for a crown. Javan himself must have been a particular trial, his lame foot seeming to Cinhil to give physical confirmation of all Heaven’s disapproval of that abandonment, vital though it had been for the well-being of the kingdom.

  Javan did a lot of growing up in that hour, and hardly minded that Hubert took his thoughtfulness afterwards as a sign of softening. A further irony was that Javan found himself in the cathedral sacristy, both before and after—easy access now to the place visite
d only by dint of great effort the night before, though the Portal was no more functional than it had been. In all, however, Javan counted the last twelve hours well spent.

  And as eventful as those hours had been, the rest of the morning and, indeed, the day passed absolutely without any occurrence to mark this day different from any other, except that the servants were busy with their final packing for the move to Rhemuth on the morrow. Javan returned to the castle with Charlan just before noon to find his quarters nearly stripped of all personal effects, only temporary bedding and a change of clothing remaining unpacked for their last night in Valoret.

  They poked around the trunks and parcels and baskets until a senior steward chased them out, then raided the kitchen for something to eat—which incurred the wrath of Cook, trying to organize that night’s supper, but also gained them a handful of scones hot from the oven, a slab of rich, buttery cheese, and a couple of tankards of hot mulled ale. They took their spoils to a window embrasure in the great hall, where Javan and Tavis had been wont to sit and eavesdrop on the regents as they supervised Alroy’s hearings of the assize courts. After they had eaten, Javan pretended to nap. In fact, he observed the comings and goings of the increasingly informal court and reminisced on the old days, wondering where Tavis was now.

  He continued to think about Tavis and the others later that evening, as he sat through supper, and was glad that the next day’s planned early departure gave him excuse to retire early—for his previous night’s lack of proper sleep was catching up with him. He did not even dream that night, and managed not to embarrass himself by crying when he had to ride out of Valoret on the morrow, in the midst of the royal household, with no idea how and when or where he might next be able to reestablish contact with his Deryni allies. The loneliness was setting in with a vengeance. They would be on the road for at least a week.

  It was on Javan’s second day out of Valoret, just after dusk, that Tavis and Queron drew Revan and his spellbound disciples into the welcome shelter of the tunnel entrance that led beneath Caerrorie Castle. Most blessedly, the weather had held—no certain thing in Gwynedd in March—and Earl Murdoch’s patrols seemed elsewhere occupied.

  Tavis set his hand on the back of old Geordie’s neck, drawing him under deeper control as Queron did the same with Flann and Joachim and Revan secured the opening. Closing the door blocked out all light, but Tavis conjured handfire where the Willimites could not see its source, until Revan could strike a light to the candle left in a niche by the door. Revan allowed himself a faint sigh of relief as the wick flared up.

  “How far now?” he whispered.

  Queron gestured deeper into the tunnel. “Not very. Go ahead and lead.”

  They moved off in single file, treading as quietly as possible. Gradually the tunnel changed from dirt and rock to brick and then to cut stone. Ansel and Sylvan were waiting for them a little beyond that, just before the Portal chamber, looking very relieved indeed.

  “You made good time,” Ansel said. “I’m glad something has gone right for a change.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?” Tavis demanded.

  “Oh, everyone is fine. We’ve even heard from Javan. But let’s not talk about it here.”

  They talked about it in the Michaeline sanctuary later that night, after everyone had eaten a hot meal and the Willimites were locked away to sleep in one of the cells. Joram let both Queron and Revan read Prince Javan’s report and filled in other details from Sylvan’s direct reading verbally for the benefit of the human Revan.

  “So long as he hasn’t aroused any particular suspicion as a result of his activities three nights ago, he should be all right,” Joram concluded. “We’ve had reports that he did ride out of Valoret with the rest of the royal household and that everything seemed normal. Once he’s settled in at Rhemuth, we can make additional arrangements. Meanwhile, I think his biggest immediate worry will be to keep Hubert from shuffling him off to some monastery.”

  “How likely is that?” Revan asked.

  Evaine steepled her fingertips and tapped forefingers against her lips. “That depends on Javan, doesn’t it?”

  At Revan’s troubled look, Joram smiled and pushed several sheets of closely penned parchment across the table toward him.

  “Let us worry about Javan, why don’t you? You’re going to have your hands full enough, as it is.”

  Revan picked up the sheaf and scanned the first few lines of the top page. “What’s this?”

  “Your preliminary briefing,” Evaine replied. “After you’ve digested that, we’ll move on to your actual preparation. It won’t be easy, but I think it just might work.”

  In the days that followed, all of them began to think it might work. Revan proved an apt pupil. The manuscript Joram had given him was a lengthy scenario of how the institution and extension of Revan’s new movement should go. Revan not only made it his own but embellished upon it, quickly mastering the patter and the mechanics of the “baptism” itself and then adding his own interpretations.

  In addition, Revan soon developed a surprising affinity with Sylvan—which freed Tavis to continue working in the background, on the fringes of the crowds, where he could keep a lower profile and set up subjects for Revan’s more public ministrations. Revan and Sylvan had never met, but they quickly forged a brilliant partnership for the outward functioning of the operation. Sometimes, Revan even displayed an almost Deryni intuition where Sylvan was concerned.

  Which led to another, unplanned advantage that the Deryni were able to give their would-be messiah, verging much more closely on their own powers yet undetectable, so far as they knew, by any means available to the regents. They had learned from Tavis’ early association with Javan that close contact between Deryni and humans sometimes catalyzed near-Deryni tendencies in the human so exposed. Revan had nothing like the Haldane potential to explain a like tendency in himself, but he had worked closely with MacRories and Thuryns for more than half his life. To their delight, they found that Revan also possessed vestiges of extra ability, all but indistinguishable from his own personal charisma. Already, when Revan preached, evangelical persuasion verged on near compulsion in some listeners.

  And they found that the tendency could be amplified through the focus of Revan’s Willimite medallion, magically “charged” by one of the Deryni. Drawing on that power source, and reinforced by the laying on of hands and the expectations of his subjects, in conjunction with baptism, Revan could actually induce an effect ranging from disorientation and dizziness to near fainting.

  “What about this, though?” Revan asked, fingering the medal thoughtfully, after trying his enhanced talent on several of Evaine’s compliant men at arms. “If I’m put to the question, as you know will have to happen eventually, won’t a Deryni sniffer be able to detect something?”

  Bishop Niallan shook his head. First he and then Tavis had been sworn into the Camberian Council on Queron’s return, finally bringing that body back to its original complement of eight, and he was now an active and enthusiastic member of the team.

  “Remember that religious medals are always blessed, Revan,” the bishop said. “And whether the blessing is done by a human or a Deryni, it’s long been known, at least among Deryni, that the act of blessing places a special imprint on the object blessed. It’s a kind of magical ‘charge’ that has nothing whatever to do with being Deryni, and the effect can be so subtle that not even a Deryni cleric can always isolate it. A Deryni layman certainly won’t be able to tell the difference—if he detects a change at all. If anything, your own status as a holy man will be enhanced.”

  They also determined that the working of Revan’s new skill was not affected by merasha, except as the usual sedative effect of the drug in humans would slow Revan down and eventually put him to sleep. Revan made the acquaintance of that bane of Deryni more than once, as they refined their techniques, and learned not to fear it.

  “Being neutral to merasha should be the clincher, when they eventually do que
stion what you’re doing,” Queron informed him. “The drug has been the great leveller for centuries, ever since its effect was first noted. Everyone who knows anything at all about Deryni knows that we’re universally vulnerable to it. When you don’t react, that will be the final confirmation that, whatever else you are, you aren’t some new, insidious kind of Deryni.”

  They had allotted a fortnight for melding the different members of the team into a cohesive unit, but well before the second week had passed, all of them were letter-perfect in their parts.

  “Given our time constraints, I think you’ve probably taught me all that’s feasible,” Revan told the assembled company on the night he declared himself satisfied with his preparation. “I don’t see that further delay will accomplish much. We still have to do our forty days’ retreat in the wilderness. If we start by mid-April, we can time our return to coincide with Pentecost. One could hardly wish for a more auspicious beginning.”

  Two things remained to be done before they left. The next morning, Revan was introduced to Torcuill de la Marche, who was to become Revan’s first public Deryni “convert.” Torcuill’s family were already safely lodged with Gregory at Trevalga, but the Deryni lord would have quite a different story to tell about them when he came to Revan in a few weeks’ time.

  “You won’t have much of a chance to chat, when you meet in the river,” Evaine told the two, when she had brought them together in the library of the Michaeline sanctuary. “Actually, Torcuill, I think you might have met Revan at Sheele, years ago, when he was my children’s tutor.”

  Torcuill managed a nervous smile. “I seem to have some vague recollection to that effect. Young man, I admire what you’re doing for us.”

  Revan met Torcuill’s eyes squarely, with a dignity and self-assurance that had not come entirely of his mentors’ indoctrination of the past week or so.