The Harrowing of Gwynedd

by Katherine Kurtz

  But given a few years to disperse and relocate, with no way for new associates to prove that a person once had been Deyrni, many of that race would find their way to places of safety. It was a risk that Joram and Evaine and the others were prepared to take—and to take on behalf of others of their race—if only Revan’s mission could find acceptance, even for a few months or years.

  Much of that acceptance depended upon Javan’s performance, however; and knowing that, he put on the sort of face he knew Secorim and Hubert must see.

  “You are too quick for me, your Grace,” he murmured. “These are aspects I hadn’t considered. But for now, why not wait and see what this Revan does, since he is eliminating Deryni? Watch him, by all means. Retest him, if you still believe he’s some kind of new Deryni, or if his message changes in ways you don’t like. You can always bring him in, later on.”

  “The notion is tempting,” Hubert agreed.

  “I see,” Secorim said. “Just let him continue this charade of illicit baptism, possibly endangering the souls of those who are not Deryni?”

  Hubert made a thoughtful noise as he sipped at his wine. “Hmmm, I doubt there’s any immediate danger, my dear Secorim. Javan has already pointed out in an earlier discussion that if what Revan does is ineffectual, no harm is done. And meanwhile, it soothes public sensibilities—which will be all the more outraged, if eventually he is found to be a fraud.”

  The possibility of exactly that eventuality haunted Javan for the rest of the conversation, numbing him to much further participation. He hoped Hubert would take it for fatigue and the pain of his back. Later, after Secorim had left them to return to his own quarters, Javan realized abruptly that Hubert was pondering what to do about his suddenly independent young prince.

  “If I had any sense at all, I’d lock you away on bread and water for a week or two, just to be certain my message of earlier this evening got through,” he said, studying Javan shrewdly. “You’re beginning to think for yourself—which can be dangerous in an extra prince.”

  Chilled, Javan slipped to his knees before the archbishop, wondering if he dared use his powers to ease the situation. He had never tried it before with Hubert fully conscious.

  “If—if you think I should go into retreat, I’ll do it, and gladly, your Grace,” he whispered. “You have given me much to think upon—and I truly deserved your discipline.”

  As he sank back on his heels, pretending to sniffle back tears and bending to bring the hem of Hubert’s cassock to his lips, he could sense the archbishop preening and relaxing a little. Now, if Hubert would only do what he usually did …

  “There, there, dear boy, you need not abase yourself before me,” Hubert murmured, letting his hand drop to rest negligently on Javan’s bowed head. “I am your spiritual father, and I do what I do only for your welfare.”

  Then, sleep—for my welfare, Javan commanded silently, reaching out with his mind to caress the controls that would make Hubert obey. Sleep, and remember nothing of this …

  Within seconds, the ringed hand slipped from his head—and was as quickly grasped, to maintain the physical contact—and Hubert was snoring softly, his head tipped against the high back of his chair. Easing himself back to his knees, watching Hubert carefully all the while, Javan enclosed the hand in both of his, then bowed his head to lay his cheek slowly against the wrist—so that anyone entering unexpectedly would see nothing amiss at first glance. Then, more stealthily than he had ever done before, he eased into the fringes of Hubert’s mind.

  He could not bear to maintain the contact for long. Brushing Hubert’s mind was like skimming scum from a midden. The shadows he glimpsed churning just below the edge of consciousness were ugly and often frightening—but with little bearing on his immediate aim.

  So. Perhaps Prince Javan is coming around at last, he set in Hubert’s mind. For a while, I feared it might take forever, but I believe we may finally have weaned him from any remaining softness he once had for the Deryni—and this odd Revan person is at least partially to blame. Disturbingly unorthodox, this Revan—and I probably ought to get rid of him before he gets out of hand—but he does seem to be playing into our hands for now.

  So I think I’ll let him operate for a while longer, just to see what he’ll do—and keep a very close watch on him. Time enough, later on, to crush him if he becomes inconvenient.

  In the meantime, there’s my puzzling little prince. I feel certain Javan will be ours entirely, one day, but for now—yes, patience is the best policy. He will come to accept the religious life, if I do not press him. A royal bishop could be a powerful tool, indeed.

  Javan was nearly retching from the prolonged close contact, by the time he had finished, but he made himself linger yet a while longer to set certain other compulsions and tidy the few remaining loose ends, making certain Hubert would have no inkling that the doctored thoughts were not entirely his own. As he let Hubert regain consciousness, he allowed himself the luxury of sinking back to the floor, still clutching Hubert’s hand, weeping with relief rather than the despair he seemed to display.

  “Oh, how can you bear to have me nearby, your Grace?” he sobbed. “I repaid your trust with defiance. I was ungrateful and willful.”

  “There, there, my son, do not weep. I know what a difficult day this has been for you,” Hubert murmured, never thinking to wonder how his hand had gotten from Javan’s head into his grasp. “Indeed, it has been altogether too long and difficult—and perhaps I was overharsh. You are still but a boy—yet, you withstood your penance like a man. I am proud.”

  Trembling, for his back hurt abominably from the strain of bending the way he was, Javan made a visible show of trying to get himself under better control.

  “I beg you, your Grace, do not send me away in disgrace like some errant schoolboy. I—I have so much to learn—and I would learn it at your feet. Give me leave to stay here and study in Valoret, I pray you.”

  “To study in Valoret, eh?” Hubert murmured. “Why, do I detect a desire to taste the religious life more fully?”

  “Well, I—I should like to explore that possibility, your Grace. But I’m not ready to make any vows yet—”

  “Not permanent ones, no. Of course not. You’re far too young. But perhaps you would like to live here as a lay brother for a year or two. Oh, not as an ordinary serving brother, but as a—ah—a ‘preseminarian.’ I shall supervise your studies myself. I would wish you to take temporary vows, however. It’s customary among the lay brethren, even at your age—well, at fourteen, though we shan’t quibble about less than a year. In any case, temporary vows can easily be dispensed, if—if you should be needed at the capital.”

  Javan swallowed, chilled by the thought of taking vows—even temporary ones—but aware that this was one concession he probably would have to make. He tried not to think about being needed at the capital, for that would mean that his brother the king was dead.

  “Would—would I still be able to go back to Rhemuth to see my brothers?” he asked—a far more important question, at this point, if he was to keep himself informed of Alroy’s welfare, in particular. “We’ve never been apart for very long, and I fear I should miss them very much.”

  “Of course you would, my son,” Hubert murmured, lifting his hand to stroke Javan’s head benignly. “And of course you may go back, as often as you like—provided you give me ample notice. Let us say, a month.”

  “A month?”

  “Why, Javan, a month is not a long time in an abbey. If you truly wish to try the religious life, even on this limited basis, then you must conform to the rule that all the other brethren follow. That rule does not allow for whims, though it can bend in the face of advance planning. Besides, we would not wish to interrupt your formal course of study, now would we?”

  “N-no, your Grace.” At least the formal education would always stand him in good stead.

  “Good, then. I’ll make the arrangements. I shall need to consult with the other regents, of cours
e, but I don’t think they should object. Oh, and you do understand that we’ll have to postpone your actual vows until Lammastide, when the ban is lifted on ordinations and the like, but that’s only for a few weeks. I shouldn’t want anything to be construed as irregular about your vocation, later on—if it transpires that you are, indeed, called as you begin to think you are,” the archbishop added with a self-righteous smile. “You can certainly begin your studies and informal observance of the Rule before then—from tomorrow, if you like.”

  Thanking God for the temporary reprieve from the vows, at least, Javan bowed his head in acceptance. “Thank you, your Grace. May I have a few days in solitary retreat, to meditate on it?”

  “Of course you may, my boy!”

  Hubert insisted that they pray together in his oratory after that. It was only for a few minutes, but it seemed like hours. All the time they knelt there, Javan had to fight the urge to dart onto the Portal and flee—anywhere, so long as it was away from Hubert. And he had just condemned himself to possibly years in Hubert’s daily company, putting on a pious charade, playing a very, very dangerous game.

  But it was for a very high purpose, and he knew it. His Deryni allies could no longer gain access to the regents; Javan could. True, his access would be to only one of the regents, but Hubert would be challenge enough for the next few years. The very notion of trying to influence Murdoch or Rhun was unthinkable, this early in the game. Tempering the archbishop’s religious fanaticism, even a little, would not be easy, and must be done with a subtlety and wit that Javan dared not dream he had yet, but after tonight he was convinced that it was at least within the realm of possibility, and could make a major difference in whether Deryni survived at all in the next few years.

  He must also spend these next few years learning everything he could about the cold, soulless world of politics in which he would have to move, if he ever became king. He had decided he could do that best from the safety of the cloister. Joram and Evaine would be furious when they found out what he had done, for taking even temporary vows placed him that much closer to the day when Hubert might just lock him away in some distant monastery against his will—one more inconvenient prince eliminated, just as they might eliminate poor Alroy, though Alroy might only escape through death.

  Still, it was something he had to try. Just as he had needed to try with Revan, to give their plan the best possible chance of succeeding. It had been worth the pain and humiliation of the “little discipline,” if it had won Revan a little more time—which it appeared to have done.

  Every muscle in Javan’s body ached by the time Hubert at last released him, and he nearly wept with the pain when Charlan peeled the linen of his shirt away from his back and bade him lie on his stomach so his weals could be dressed. The ointment the squire used this time was different, and cooled and soothed as it lulled Javan to the very edge of sleep. He became aware, just before he drifted into drugged unconsciousness, that someone besides Charlan had been ministering to his back.

  The brush of the other’s mind was like a mother’s caress, accepting and reassuring, and he felt tears of relief stinging his eyes as he surrendered to that other’s touch.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  And the vision of all is become unto you as the words of a book that is sealed.

  —Isaiah 29:11

  “Ah, you should have seen him!” an elated Ansel MacRorie crowed, as he and Jesse MacGregor burst into the Camberian Council chamber three days later. “What a magnificent prince! I know you were set against it, Joram, but he may have outguessed us all. It was a triumph! The people loved him for what he did. Now hundreds are flocking to hear Revan preach and receive his new baptism. Jesse and I counted at least a dozen Deryni, just the two days we were there, didn’t we, Jesse?”

  The grinning Jesse tossed a dusty pair of saddlebags onto the floor behind his chair, chuckling good-naturedly as he and Ansel took their places to either side of Saint Camber’s Siege in the north, still empty and likely to remain so as long as Tavis remained with Revan in the field.

  “Aye, and you’ll be proud of your Trurill men, Lady Evaine,” Jesse said. “Your lads have been spiriting the converts away almost as quickly as they’re dunked, to get them sent off to safe places.”

  Evaine did not look up, and Joram glanced first at Queron and then at Niallan, the oldest but most junior member of the Council, nodding for the latter to proceed.

  “How about Torcuill de la Marche?” Niallan asked quietly. “When Sylvan reported, that first night, he said the Custodes drugged him with merasha but got no reaction. Did our men get him away?”

  Ansel nodded, suddenly subdued, suddenly aware that something was not right. “Aye. There was no question of being able to restore him first—he probably would’ve gone into convulsions with that much merasha in him—but—what’s wrong? What else have you found out that we don’t know about? It was a triumph, at least while we were there. Don’t tell me that the bloody regents—”

  “The ‘bloody regents’ haven’t exactly done anything,” Queron said quietly. “Not this time. Well, one of them has,” he conceded. “It’s going to be all right—I think—but, what were you saying about Prince Javan’s triumph? I wonder if you have any idea what it cost him.”

  Stunned, the two youngest members exchanged glances, then returned their attention to Joram, looking to him for explanation.

  “Well?” Ansel asked. “Are you going to tell us?”

  Joram fixed a stony gaze on his hands folded on the table before him. “Why don’t you ask Evaine? She saw him.”

  “She saw him?” Ansel repeated, as if unable to believe what he had just heard. “How? Where?” he demanded. “Were you there at the river, too? If you were, were Jesse and I just risking our lives for nothing?”

  “Stop it!” Evaine cried. “I do not have to answer to you, and no, I was not at the river!”

  “Ah, but you do have to answer to them,” Joram said. “You’re still a part of this Council, and you have to answer to all of us. Tell them where you saw him—and then try to justify your totally irresponsible action.”

  “Joram, I will not be bullied in public, simply because you’re my brother! I had good reason for what I did—and as it turned out, it’s a good thing I went ahead, or we should never have known about Javan.”

  “What about Javan?” Ansel demanded. “He’s all right, isn’t he? God, they haven’t killed him?”

  “Nothing so dramatic,” Queron murmured, trying to make peace. “You’re aware, though, that he and the archbishop had words, before Javan went down to Revan.”

  “Yes, of course. But we thought everything was all right, when Hubert came down, afterwards, and let Torcuill and Revan go.”

  Jesse shifted impatiently. “Let Lady Evaine tell it. What happened to the prince?”

  “He will be staying at Valoret for the next several years,” Evaine said calmly, “as a lay brother attached to the Custodes Fidei.”

  “What?” Ansel blurted.

  “It was largely his choice,” Evaine said sharply. “Apparently, our good archbishop was most upset not by Javan’s argument but that he did it in public. He found this doubly intolerable in that Javan owed him simple obedience, as a retreatant living under his spiritual direction. Accordingly, he gave Javan the option of accepting the same discipline meted out to lay brethren living under the rule of the abbey: twenty strokes of the ‘little discipline.’ It’s a—”

  “I know what it is!” Ansel retorted, fuming. “You’re saying that Hubert had a royal prince whipped, like some—”

  “He’s all right,” Evaine said, cutting him off. “They didn’t even draw blood. The men who administered the penance knew exactly what they were doing. It’s a common enough penance, in the monasteries.”

  “That much is true, at least,” Joram muttered. “Scourging is not that unusual.”

  Ansel snorted. “If it isn’t that unusual, then why are you so angry about it?”

 
“He’s angry because I went to Valoret and found out about it,” Evaine retorted, toying with the ring she now wore on her right forefinger—Jodotha’s ring. “He’s angry because I took another shape to do it and then went through the Portal in Hubert’s oratory. I concede that it was dangerous.”

  Ansel, whose elder brother had died with another man’s shape upon him—a shape-change set by Evaine and the slain Rhys—sat back abruptly, all the fight suddenly gone out of him. Jesse, who had heard about the procedure but had no firsthand knowledge of it, pursed his lips silently.

  “It was a shape I’ve used before,” Evaine continued lamely, after a moment. “A young monk I call ‘Brother John.’ He started out as a Michaeline, but I’ve made him a Custos now. He was just another of his Order in the archbishop’s palace—and certainly, no one would expect a Custos to be Deryni.”

  “Yes, but through the archbishop’s Portal?” Jesse breathed.

  “Javan was the first of us bold enough to use it,” Evaine said. “I suspect he will continue to do so, when and as he can. As for my own use—well, after Sylvan’s report of the incident at the river, I was reasonably certain that the episcopal bedchamber would not be occupied until quite late. I went through the Portal there and listened in on part of a conversation between Javan, Hubert, and the head of the Custodes in the next room. I read the rest of it from Javan’s memory later on, unbeknownst to him. In all, though I acknowledge that our prince will be walking a very narrow edge of constant danger, I think he’s made a prudent decision, under the circumstances. Staying at Valoret for the next few years, learning everything he can—and strengthening his influence over Hubert—I think he’ll be able to do far more than most young men his age to help our cause.

  “And believe me, he is a man. Make no mistake. Not only did I hear him handling Hubert and Secorim; I saw his back, after Hubert finally let him go to bed. I also questioned one of the monks who administered punishment, who seems sympathetic. Javan didn’t cry out once.”