The Harrowing of Gwynedd

by Katherine Kurtz

  “Always.”

  “What you’ve been describing suggests that there may have been a—an Order within an Order,” Evaine ventured, after a few seconds. “Obviously, some practices had lost at least part of their original meanings from older times—like the purification ritual—but is it possible that a very select inner Order were attempting to perpetuate old Airsid traditions?”

  Queron nodded thoughtfully. “That is entirely possible. We had an advisory Council of Elders—twelve of them, headed by the Abbot.” He managed a sheepish smile. “Ironic, isn’t it? I was up for election as an Elder when I left to champion Saint Camber. If I’d stayed, presumably I’d know. But of course, if I’d stayed, the three of us would not now be having this conversation, would we?”

  “I suggest,” said Joram, beginning to unfold the feathered cloak, “that we not continue this conversation just here and now, or we’ll be answering even more questions than this has raised. We should be getting back. It must be getting close to time for evening services.”

  Sighing, Evaine took an edge of the cloak and helped him spread its semicircular shape along the length of the bier, so that most of it was off the floor. The rounded shape of the ivory coffer bulged the cloak in the center, and Evaine touched her hand to a corner of the bier that was still exposed.

  “There’s just one more thing,” she said softly, not looking at either of them. “This symbolism speaks to me. Not just because of its association with Orin and Jodotha, but for some other reason that I can’t quite articulate just now. I want Father to rest on a bier like this, if we should fail in our attempt to bring him back—perhaps in that chamber under the keeill.”

  It was the first time she had expressed the possibility that they might not be able to bring him back. For her listeners, the possibility went even further.

  “Evaine,” Queron said quietly, “do you have some premonition?”

  A little uneasily, she shook her head. “No. I simply believe in preparing for the unexpected. It shouldn’t be difficult to finish the room under the keeill. The bier can be a wooden one, like your one for Gabrilite Elders—indeed, the only way we’ll get one down there is in pieces—but I want him to rest in balance between the Pillars. We can even paint the outsides of our cubes,” she added with a stiff smile.

  “And what else?” Joram asked, studying her closely. “Out with it, Evaine. You haven’t said it all yet.”

  Glancing at her now folded hands, she shook her head. “You’re right. There’s more. If—if I should die in the attempt—no, let me finish, Joram. I have to say this.” She drew herself up straight to face them. “If I should die in the attempt, I want my body to lie beside Rhys, on another bier like this. Will you both promise me that?”

  Solemnly they promised, neither of them even trying to give her assurance that of course they would be successful, and of course she would not die. After that, they knelt briefly in prayer for Orin and Jodotha, each raising his or her own silent petitions before the two priests blessed this final resting place and the three of them headed quietly back the way they had come, to greet the miracle of Easter.

  Easter was celebrated all over the land in the next hours. In cathedrals and in tiny parish churches, the Easter liturgy proclaimed God’s promise of salvation and life eternal for those who believed, and voices young and old raised the glad songs of praise and thanksgiving for the Divine mercy. Even Deryni were almost welcome in the churches on this most holy of days, though the Easter homilies without fail touched on the need for Deryni to amend their ways and forswear their evil powers.

  In Rhemuth no less than in any other place, the Easter message rang clear, and nowhere more splendidly or with more pomp and ceremonial than in the Cathedral of Saint George. The king and his brothers were among the most august of those who celebrated in Rhemuth’s newly refurbished cathedral, Javan and Rhys Michael serving Archbishop Orris at the altar while Alroy led the offertory procession, presenting the bread and wine to be consecrated.

  Afterwards, there was a feast that lasted well into the early evening, replete with all the meats and sweets set aside during the penitential season of Lent. Other than Hubert, whose presence was required in Valoret at this most holy of seasons, all of the regents were present with their wives and families—even Duke Ewan, who had journeyed down from Kheldour. Alroy held a formal Easter court the next day and wore a tall crown of gold filigree set with rubies and was permitted the appearance of real authority, though at least one regent was always at his side.

  The regents were planning something, though. In the month that followed, between Easter and the twins’ thirteenth birthday on the twenty-fifth of May, Javan gradually became aware that it had something to do with Duke Ewan, by far the least offensive of the five. Immediately the courts and feasts of Easter week had concluded, Ewan retired once more to his lands in the Kheldish Riding—a departure unremarkable in itself, for tacit agreement had always been that Ewan’s constant presence at court was not required, it being understood that his duties as viceroy in Kheldour required his attendance there, just as Hubert’s episcopal duties required his in Valoret.

  This time, however, Ewan’s departure seemed to spark a spate of criticism, though no one made particular comment to the duke himself to suggest that his continued presence was expected or required. No sooner was he beyond convenient recall than muted rumblings began to whisper among the remaining regents, spearheaded by Earl Murdoch, that perhaps Ewan should be asked to resign, and might be replaced by Hubert’s brother Manfred—though that worthy quickly headed off to Caerrorie to inspect the progress on his new manor house, lest he be accused of campaigning for the appointment. Javan heard the gist of this discontent from Oriel—who overheard of it while attending one of Murdoch’s nasty sons, who spoke all too freely under Oriel’s hands while having a riding injury attended to.

  Very soon, Archbishop Hubert made an unannounced visit to Rhemuth, ostensibly to satisfy himself that Javan’s religious instruction was proceeding satisfactorily, but almost certainly to discuss the matter of Ewan with his fellow regents as well, for he had numerous long, intense meetings with his three cohorts before heading back to Valoret. He interviewed Javan several times during his three day stay, as if to give credence to his parochial intent in coming to Rhemuth, but the meetings were always in the presence of others, so Javan dared not use his meager hold over Hubert to increase his knowledge. The bulk of the archbishop’s time was spent with the other regents.

  One thing Hubert did give genuine attention to, and that was Javan’s disinclination to use Bishop Alfred as a spiritual director. Hubert was wise enough not to try to force the issue, for, by definition, such direction must be a very personal matter. Nor did he take exception to Javan’s study of the classics with Father Boniface. He simply wished to have closer control of what Javan was studying and thinking.

  Accordingly, on the day of his departure, Hubert put his postulant prince’s further spiritual guidance into the hands of two priests of the Custodes Fidei: Father Lior, of the Inquisitor General’s office, and the local Custodes abbot, one Father Secorim, who were instructed to supervise personally all Javan’s future religious involvement. The prince’s twice-weekly sessions with Father Boniface were permitted to continue, in the very convenient study at Saint Hilary’s, but daily attendance at Mass there came to an end, as the Custodes priests subtly began trying to mold their charge to a more biddable and compliant mind by assistance at their own Masses.

  Two things only eased the pressure on Javan, during that all toolong month between Easter and his birthday: the improving weather of spring, which allowed a resumption of daily rides and other outdoor activities curtailed by the winter, and the temporary departure of Regent Rhun, who betook himself to Sheele, finally to take possession of the former Thuryn earldom. Even Murdoch absented himself for a week or so, to escort his son and new daughter-in-law to the family seat in Carthane, where the young couple would make their first home and Richard was ex
pected gradually to take up the reins of government in his father’s stead.

  For a few weeks then, only Earl Tammaron, of the regents, was resident in Rhemuth, governing his young charges with rather more indulgence than his colleagues might have approved, had they been present. Under his supervision, a delighted King Alroy was permitted to hold several minor courts to hear local appeals—which both Javan and Rhys Michael were permitted to attend—but there were no other official functions during the early weeks of May. All three boys were expected to attend morning and evening prayers with the royal household as well as Mass on Sundays, to take their evening meals in the great hall with the court and, weather permitting, to spend several hours a day in the weapons yard or riding out with the master of horse—and of course, Javan had his own additional regimen set up by his Custodes watchdogs. But otherwise, Tammaron made few demands.

  The situation should have made it much easier for Javan to pursue his own devices, gathering the intelligence information that his Deryni allies needed. But with most of the regents absent, little news came to court except through Tammaron—and he had definite ideas about what it was necessary for under-age princes to know. Javan continued to report to Father Boniface’s study several times a week for “classics” studies—and often met there with one or another of the Deryni he had come to know and trust. But once he had told them of his suspicions about a shake-up coming in the Council of Regents, and the intensified scrutiny he was receiving from Hubert’s Custodes, he had little else to pass on, other than to keep them abreast of the ongoing situation regarding the regents’ captive Deryni. That, too, gave cause for serious thought.

  Of the four Deryni normally at court, not counting the half dozen or so that were attached to the garrison, only Oriel was at all in evidence. Rhun and Manfred had taken Sitric and Ursin with them on campaign, and were not expected back until shortly before the twins’ birthday. Javan spotted Declan Garmody occasionally, but that troubled man was still not back to full duty following his blowup of some three months before. Javan avoided him whenever possible, lest he endanger the risky and still fragile alliance he had formed with Oriel.

  As for Oriel’s wife and baby daughter, Javan had been able to learn little. He did discover that the families of all the collaborators were being held in carefully guarded quarters at Rhemuth Castle. Javan had caught a glimpse of Alana d’Oriel one day, taking the air in a walled courtyard where no one else was allowed to go, but any attempt actually to speak with her or with any of the other captives was impossible. Her quarters, like those of the other men’s wives, were too secure for even a Deryni-trained prince to penetrate.

  Thus did the weeks after Easter pass, both Javan and his allies mainly biding their time, waiting for Pentecost. Evaine continued her research, now with both Joram and Queron to assist her with the new documents they had acquired, and the Healer-priest scoured his memory for other bits of forgotten Gabrilite tradition that might have held a double meaning, and might be useful to them now.

  Physical activity there was for the Deryni, too. As a break from their academic and psychic ferreting, they set about tidying and finishing the chamber under the keeill. To assist with the heavy work, Evaine enlisted the aid of her four loyal men-at-arms, their memories suitably manipulated, by their own consent, to guard the place’s secret. Against the day when the revival of Camber should actually be attempted, they even built a set of wooden cubes like those Queron had described, though they painted the outsides as well as the insides black or white, before assembling them in the completed sub-keeill chamber. The men-at-arms did not assist with that, no matter how effective Evaine believed her control of the men’s memories to be.

  Mostly, though, the three Deryni bided their time, fretting increasingly as May counted out its latter days and Pentecost loomed closer, with the expected emergence of Revan’s active ministry. For even had they settled on a clear procedure for attempting to revive Camber, they dared not risk it until Revan’s mission was well underway, lest the attempt claim one or all of their lives and leave the mission leaderless.

  Accordingly, though they marked the feast day of the king and Prince Javan with a Mass for their continued good health and prosperity, they did not expect any particular change in Rhemuth. Nor did Javan himself, as he let Charlan help him dress for the formal birthday court, following their attendance at a solemn High Mass in the cathedral earlier in the morning.

  “What kinds of gifts do you think you’ll receive, your Highness?” Charlan asked, as he pulled a tunic of bright blue wool over his master’s head. “I shouldn’t be surprised if there’s a new sword, or perhaps new trappings for the R’Kassan colt—or maybe even a proper warhorse, to use until the colt is old enough for heavy work.”

  Javan grinned and tugged at the cuffs of his sky blue undertunic, giving the oversleeves a shake to settle the knee-length tippets. The blue wool skimmed the lighter silk without hindrance, flaring into deep folds at the narrow hips, where Charlan knelt to fasten a belt of hammered silver plaques. The oversleeves hit at elbow length in the front, far more flamboyant than was Javan’s usual wont—bright with scarlet, gold, and darker blue embroidery at their edges and all up in their lining, which was scarlet. The front of the overtunic was open to the waist, to show the high collar and embroidered front of the undertunic, all silver filigree work on the sky blue.

  The shoes Javan wore, soft crimson leather with cutwork that showed discreet flashes of his black woolen hose, had been Charlan’s gift to him, earlier that morning. He had not worn them to church, for the streets were too muddy to risk ruining them, but the rest of the day’s festivities would all be indoor. Javan pointed his toe to admire them again as Charlan clipped a sheathed dagger to the belt of plaques.

  “A new saddle would be nice,” the prince avowed. “Or a new bow. I’d like to have a new bow. My old one is too light a draw anymore, especially with the longer arrows I’m using now.”

  He pantomimed drawing a bow and nocking the arrow to his ear, and Charlan gave the bicep of the bow arm a playful punch as he got to his feet.

  “You’ve grown over the winter, sir,” he said, picking up a comb as Javan ducked to peer into a small wall-mounted mirror and began energetically raking his fingers through his short black hair. “Here now! Let me give you a hand with that, sir. I won’t have the other squires thinking I can’t take proper care of my young lord. Many’s the eye that will be upon you today.”

  “Aye, all the regents’ eyes,” Javan sighed, though he stood still and let Charlan comb his hair. “Maybe most of them will go away again, as soon as this is over. At least I’ll be of age in another year. Then I won’t have to take orders from anyone.”

  “Aye, but your choices will always be constrained by this,” Charlan said, crowning Javan with a silver circlet embellished with crosses and garnets. “And if you should set it aside, as the regents surely intend you should do, you’ll be bound by other constraints, no less compelling.” Charlan cocked his fair head. “Do you intend to take Holy Orders, Sire?”

  Looking at himself in the mirror, with the coronet shining in the wan light, Javan knew that he never could set aside his royal birthright willingly; but he dared not tell Charlan that, for Charlan could not help relaying the information right back to the regents, if asked about it.

  “I couldn’t do it right away, Charlan,” he said honestly, not adding that he could never do it, knowing the avarice of the regents, who would remain fiercely protective of their powers and perquisites, even once Alroy and Javan were of age. “It’s a very important step, and I’m very young to make so far-reaching a decision. Father Lior and Father Secorim have been most helpful, but they have also made me realize how much more I have to learn, before I could presume to announce my life’s intentions. I shall continue to meditate on the matter—which means, I fear, that I must continue to drag you to my nocturnal vigils and soul-searchings, to the detriment of your sleep!”

  He grinned as he said the last, givin
g Charlan one of his most disarming smiles, and the squire chuckled, apparently well satisfied.

  “Whatever your final decision, my lord, I shall always count it my honor and privilege to have served you,” he said, bending to kiss Javan’s hand in renewed homage. “But for now, I think your Highness had best repair to the hall, or we shall never learn what gifts have been allotted you on your birthday.”

  The gift-giving portion of the afternoon began well enough, though Javan was somewhat discomfited to see all five regents present with their families, and all four of the regents’ captive Deryni—though the latter kept quietly in the background, and probably were not recognized for what they were by most of the foreign dignitaries who came to pay their respects to the king and his brother on their natal day. In a procession of worthies that took more than an hour, sumptuous gifts were laid before the royal brothers, accompanied by courtly speeches and no little braggadocio. By the time they were done, Javan had received two small Kheldish carpets, a brace of fleet deerhounds from Cassan, a mound of new sleeping furs from the mountains of the Connait, a pouch of freshwater pearls from one of the princes of Howicce, and a bolt of gold-shot scarlet silk from the Hort of Orsal. Alroy received similar gifts, but in greater number or of higher quality, since he was king.

  They received nothing from Torenth, but they had not expected anything, since the King of Torenth still sheltered the bastard sired by the late King Imre on his equally late sister, and supported—at least in principle—the boy’s claim to the throne of Gwynedd. Eventually, the House of Haldane could expect more trouble from that quarter, for young Mark of Festil had turned thirteen just after the first of the year, and his supporters surely would press his claim as soon as they thought there was any reasonable chance of winning.

  But not now, and not in the immediately forseeable future, when their own Torenthi king was hardly a year upon his throne, and still of only eighteen years himself. Arion of Torenth would not lightly support a foreign war effort when his own hands were still uncertain on the reins of government; and his young kinsman’s supporters were still smarting from the defeat dealt them by a Haldane army a decade ago, when they had sought to put the boy’s mother on Gwynedd’s throne. No, this day brought only silence from Torenth.