The Harrowing of Gwynedd

by Katherine Kurtz

  “I only wish that I might do more besides play a part,” Revan replied modestly. “Without Sylvan or Tavis, I am nothing.”

  Which was not precisely true, as Evaine had cause to know full well. The burgeoning charisma first noted by Queron had become a powerful force in itself. Revan spent some time with his three disciples each day, Sylvan making a fourth. Even without Deryni tampering, the three Willimites were convinced that Revan was a genuine prophet and were ready to believe that eventually he would work miracles.

  He certainly looked the proper prophet now, with his sheepskin mantle and robe of unbleached wool and sandal-shod feet. A pouch of hairy goatskin hung from his leather girdle, and a staff of twisted olivewood rested in the crook of his arm.

  Only his efforts to cultivate a properly biblical beard had come to naught. Even after more than a year, his hirsute adornment was still sparse and fair, only faintly shadowing his upper lip and jaw. What beard he did have, however, was perfect foil for his eyes—a warm light brown verging on gold that somehow seemed almost luminous in dim light. His straight brown hair brushed the shoulders of his robe. The fine hands were more calloused than they had been in the days when he was scribe and tutor to the Thuryn family, but the nails were clean and neatly tended, as was everything else about him.

  Slowly Torcuill looked him up and down, shaking his head a little as their eyes met again.

  “I thought that holy men were supposed to be filthy and vermin-ridden, and lead a simple life,” he said with a nervous chuckle.

  “Why, are holiness and simplicity to be equated with dirt?” came Revan’s amused rejoinder. “Water will play an important part in my ministry. Should I not, then, have more than a nodding acquaintance with it?”

  “Some would deem cleanliness a vanity of the body,” Torcuill retorted.

  “Say, rather, that it betokens a respect for the body, as temple of the soul. If our purpose in life is to seek reconciliation and reunion with our Heavenly Father, why should His Indwelling Spirit wish to occupy a filthy temple?”

  Revan’s sly smile was infectious, and Torcuill burst into hearty laughter.

  “You won’t trip him up that easily, Torcuill,” Evaine said, when the Deryni lord had wiped his streaming eyes. “We may have pushed him into the role of holy man and prophet, but he was a scholar before that. Rhys and I trained him, after all.”

  “Oh, I can see that.”

  “But, I think I’ll let you wait to see how well we trained him, when you show up to hear him preach in a few months’ time. I wouldn’t want to dampen the spontaneity of your response, so we probably oughtn’t to discuss much more of what’s actually going to happen.”

  Evaine had Jesse take Torcuill back to Trevalga then, to spend what might be his last few weeks with his family. Jesse returned, though, for he and the Healer Sylvan had been close for most of Jesse’s life. Later that night, Jesse was among those who gathered in the sanctuary chapel to witness a brief but very special ceremony, as Sylvan, Revan, and Tavis presented themselves before God’s altar to offer up their mission.

  The little chapel had not been so crowded since that night, more than thirteen years ago, when Cinhil Haldane prepared to go and claim his crown. Fifty Michaeline Knights had packed the chapel then, reconsecrating their swords to the Haldane cause.

  Michaelines were not so many tonight, only Joram and a handful of his exiled brethren wearing the distinctive Michaeline blue. Nor were the presiding clergy preparing to consecrate swords, but men—though such weapons could be far more potent than mere metal.

  Two renegade bishops received them. After initial prayers, the three laid themselves prostrate before the altar, Revan between the two Healers, while the assembled company sang a litany hallowed by more centuries of use than the age of the faith in which they now worshipped. The sense of the ancient words hung on the air even after the litany was finished, underlining the silence as Joram, Evaine, and Jesse helped the three to their knees.

  After that, the Deryni Bishop Niallan and the human Bishop Dermot gave the three a commission just short of priestly ordination, imparting the authority to preach, to heal, to bless, and to absolve. Laying their consecrated hands upon the head of each man in turn, the bishops thrice called down Heavenly Grace to bless the work and protect the workers.

  The three had been to confession before Mass that morning, but now they received Communion from the Reserved Sacrament one more time, for priests were few among the Willimites, and it might be long before they could partake again. This final Sacrament took on even more solemn dimensions when Dermot used the wording usually reserved for the dying or mortally ill.

  “Accipe, frater, Viaticum Corporis Domini Jesu Christi.…” Receive, my brother, this food for your journey, the Body of our Lord Jesus Christ, that He may guard you from the malicious enemy and lead you into everlasting life.…

  And finally, as a seal on the night’s work and to underline the deadly dangerous situation into which the three were about to place themselves, Niallan gave each man an amended version of the Last Anointing—for no Last Rites might be possible later on, if they were discovered in what they went to do.

  “Per istam sanctam Unctionem et suam piissimam misericordiam indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per animum deliquisti,” Niallan said, signing each man on the forehead only. By this holy anointing and His most loving mercy, may the Lord forgive you whatever wrong you have done by the use of your mind. Amen.

  After a final blessing, all but the three themselves filed quietly out of the chapel, those who had conceived the plan making their way to the corridor outside the Portal chamber. Thus were Joram, Evaine, Queron, Jesse, and Ansel waiting when the three eventually made their way to the sanctuary’s Portal, Ansel shepherding three deeply entranced Willimite disciples. No word was exchanged as the travellers took their leave and quitted the sanctuary, and those who were left did not speak of what had happened.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  So shall the knowledge of wisdom be unto thy soul: when thou hast found it, then there shall be a reward, and thy expectation shall not be cut off.

  —Psalms 24:14

  The forty days that Revan planned to spend in the wilderness with his disciples provided a breathing space that Evaine, in particular, found most welcome, since it gave her both time and opportunity to pursue the research that was becoming increasingly uppermost in her personal priorities. Immediately after Revan’s departure, Evaine and the others of the Council resumed round-the-clock monitoring, receiving daily and sometimes twice-daily progress reports until Sylvan could finally confirm that he and their little band were safely ensconced in their high desert “retreat.” Once that was accomplished, and for the duration of the forty days, surveillance dropped to an hour at midnight each night, in case some urgent report needed to be made. Otherwise, those at Sanctuary could do nothing to advance Revan’s cause besides wait. It freed up everyone for other pursuits, such as these were within the confines of Sanctuary.

  Nor could such pursuits yet include any attempt to reestablish contact with Javan—and for Javan to take the initiative again was out of the question. For one thing, though there were several Portals reasonably accessible in Rhemuth, and at least one in the castle itself, Javan did not know about them. For another, he had not yet arrived in Rhemuth. Joram’s agents were following the southward progress of the royal party and reported that the prince appeared to be in good health and under no duress, but the regents had halted their progress at Tarleville, one of Earl Tammaron’s estates on the Eirian. There they might remain for as much as a week before continuing on to the restored capital. And time must be allowed after that, while the royal household settled into some semblance of a predictable routine, before anyone ventured an infiltration.

  Accordingly, the dwellers in Sanctuary had time on their hands. Joram and Evaine spent the first few days of their enforced hiatus reviewing the fruits of her research to date.

  “I started with the four volumes of Orin�
�s Protocols that we retrieved from Sheele,” Evaine told him, fanning out the neatly penned pages of her notes on the table before them. “As you know, they’re bound with different colored cords, which give them their names—Black, Vermillion, Green, and Gold. We were working from the last when we helped Father assimilate the Alister memories.”

  “But we’ve known for years that the suspension spell isn’t in any of those,” Joram objected.

  “No, but I’ve done a closer reading of all four Protocols, as well as contemporary commentaries and annotations on Orin’s work. Neither Orin nor his redactors come right out and say it, but I gather that the spell we’re looking for might be an extension of what we did thirteen years ago—a vast extension, I might add. I’ve also come upon several references to a rumored Fifth Protocol, bound in blue, that’s sometimes referred to as ‘The Scroll of Daring.’ Apparently it was a later work, perhaps still in revision when Orin died.”

  “So we’re looking for a Fifth Protocol?”

  “Not necessarily.” Evaine pulled another sheet forward. “The Mearan poet MacDara, who flourished about two hundred years ago, alluded to a spell for defying death in a work called, ‘The Ghosting of Ardal l’Etrange.’ I don’t think it was just poetic license. More recently, here’s a reference to an obscure text called Haut Arcanum, by a Gabrilite philosopher called Dom Edouard. I need to ask Queron about that one. And I think there might be more in something called Liber Ricae, or The Book of the Veil. It’s very rare—I’ve never seen a copy—but the old Varnarite library is supposed to have had one.”

  Joram shook his head, drawing the last notation closer and tipping it slightly toward the single rushlight. He and Evaine had taken over one of the small, vaulted cells on the same level where Camber’s body lay locked away in its magical slumber, both chambers heavily warded against all intrusion. Half a dozen document chests were stacked against the end wall, and the table in the center left room for only two backless stools.

  “The Varnarite library, you say? Now, there’s a challenge, trying to get in there. Edward MacInnis probably has Grecotha swarming with episcopal troops by now. We wouldn’t dare do it by conventional means.”

  “Implying that there might be unconventional means we could try?”

  “Mmmm, maybe.” When he did not seem inclined to continue, Evaine sighed and pulled out a stool, settling on it like a broody hen, with her fur-lined mantle puffing out all around her.

  “Come on. Give.”

  Joram shrugged and also took a seat. “Well, you’ll recall my telling you how Father took me down into the ruins under Grecotha, that first autumn after we restored Cinhil. Later on, he let me see the old plans for the bishop’s residence. Did he ever show you those?”

  “No.”

  “Well, the place was honeycombed with secret passages and chambers. It had been a secular manor house, built on an old Varnarite site.”

  “I remember hearing about it. I never saw the plans, though. He kept meaning to show them to me, but we never got around to it. I don’t suppose you know where they are?”

  Joram replaced his note on top of all the others and folded his arms. “Unfortunately, no. I never got back to them, either. With all that happened in the years after that, I suspect the plans got pushed back into the archives where he’d found them. I don’t know whether he got to do much exploring on his own, but casting back in my memory of the documents themselves, I seem to remember some branching passages that at one time led in the direction of the present Varnarite library. Not that I know whether I could find them or not, or whether they’re passable after all these years. Even the parts he showed me were in very poor condition, and very dangerous in places.”

  “But he and Jebediah did go through part of those ruins to make their escape toward Saint Mary’s.”

  Joram nodded. “Very true. And I’m willing to try to find the branching passages that lead toward the library. I just want you to know that it may not be possible. And if I find them, they may not be passable.”

  “That’s understood.” Evaine stared off thoughtfully at the wall behind the rushlight for several seconds, then glanced at Joram. “It sounds as if our first task, then, is for you to duplicate the plans. Are you up to it?”

  Joram gave her a wan smile. “Well, I’m no draughtsman, and I’ll need some help remembering, after so long, but yes, I’m up to it. I didn’t have any other plans for tonight. Did you?”

  “Not immediately, no,” she replied, rising to fetch pen and ink and a sheet of fresh parchment as he belatedly gathered up the sheaf of notes and pushed them to one side. He could feel the bond of their rapport already strengthening as she came around to stand behind him, and he drew a deep breath and let it out slowly as her hands lightly clasped his shoulders, dropping his shields to allow the even deeper rapport she now began to request.

  “Close your eyes now and let me direct you,” she whispered, drawing him back to lean against her, cool fingertips slipping up to rest against his temples. “Go deeper now, and deeper still. Suspend all conscious thought and let yourself drift back to that day at Grecotha, when Father showed you the plans he’d discovered. See him spread the plans before you now. Remember your fascination as his finger traces what he’s discovered. Study what he shows you. Recall every detail with such clarity that you can read each word and line.”

  Drifting at her command, Joram let the image form—smiled lazily as the requested details came bobbing up from memory to focus in his mind’s eye.

  “Good,” came her encouragement, just at the edge of his awareness. “Now fix the image in your consciousness and, when you’re ready, open your eyes and see the lines superimposed on the blank parchment in front of you. When you open your eyes, you’ll remain in trance and the image will persist, as real as actual lines, so that all you have to do is trace over the lines on the parchment. Begin when you’re ready.”

  Slowly he opened his eyes to the now familiar plans, dreamily reaching across to pick up the quill and dip its point precisely in the inkwell Evaine steadied. His hand seemed to take on a life of its own as he bent to his task. The pen glided along the ghostly lines with uncanny sureness, delineating corridors, rooms, and stairwells, inscribing abbreviated legends in a tight, archaic style that was nothing at all like his own handwriting. He could feel Evaine’s control, light and reassuring, as his pen raced on, only interrupted by occasional forays back to the inkwell. A detached part of his consciousness laughed with her at the sheer joy of being able to tap such resources of the mind.

  He drew and wrote for nearly two hours and over several pages, never faltering, his hand never cramping from the exertion. When he had laid the pen aside, he sat back with eyes closed and let Evaine bring him up slowly, pausing briefly to share his memory of the one time he had actually been where the plans showed. When he opened his eyes again, she was sitting on her stool once more, studying what he had drawn.

  “I wish this extended farther to the east,” she said, tapping a fingernail against the right-hand edge of one of the pages. “These two corridors look as if they might lead where we need to go, but it’s impossible to tell from this.”

  Joram shrugged and stood to stretch, indulging in a yawn. “Sorry, but that’s all the farther the originals went. I do know that the original exercise was all about clogged drains. That’s what made him consult the plans in the first place. A work crew had broken through into the upper levels of the old complex. Father had them block that all off, and I suspect he adjusted folks’ memories a little, to make certain no one remembered where the blocked passages were. But what’s been blocked can be unblocked. One of those might take us where we need to go.”

  “Hmmm, very likely. It’s certainly worth a try.” She sighed and sat back from the parchment, considering for a moment, then cocked her head at him. “You aren’t going to like this, but I think it’s time we took Queron into our confidence.”

  Joram’s face went very still as he sat down again. “You’re righ
t. I don’t like it.”

  “That doesn’t alter the fact that doing what we’re considering is probably more than two people can handle, just from the physical aspect—not just for shifting rubble and unblocking masonry, but for actually infiltrating the library, if that becomes possible. The possibility of injury in either activity makes a Healer an excellent choice.”

  “We could have Gregory send us a Healer from Trevalga,” Joram ventured. “No one would have to know why we need the Varnarite texts. For that matter, Queron need not know.”

  Evaine snorted. “You think Queron wouldn’t ask questions? Besides, we need his expertise. Remember that Father’s research suggested that the Gabrilites were a precursor or offshoot of the Varnarite School. Queron is our only available Gabrilite, and he has a scholar’s background—which means that he might know things he doesn’t even know he knows, regarding some of the esoteric sources we’re trying to track down.”

  “I won’t argue any of those points,” Joram agreed. “But just how much did you propose to tell him?”

  “Everything.”

  “Everything? Now?”

  Evaine shrugged. “He has to know sometime, Joram. Besides, he’s a very observant man. Now that Revan’s operation is well and truly launched, I can hardly continue to pretend that all this research is on baptizer cults, now can I?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Shall we tell him tonight, then?”

  Joram sighed and bowed his head in his hands, elbows supported by the tabletop. For several seconds he stared unseeing at the table, at the plans and the sheaf of notes fanned across the scarred wood, then sighed again and sat back on his stool to look up at her, hands spread flat on the table.

  “I suppose you have the approach all worked out.”

  Smiling, she laid her nearer hand over one of his, inviting their old rapport.

  “Try this scenario,” she whispered, as she began to show him.