The Harrowing of Gwynedd Read online

  He was pacing back and forth beside a table in Bishop Niallan’s private quarters in besieged Dhassa, drawn and gaunt-looking in monkish black instead of the now-dangerous blue of the Michaelines—though he had worn his former habit the day before, to honor two of the three men he buried. The pale cap of his hair, tonsured now in the manner of any ordinary priest, shone like a halo as he paused where a beam of weak winter sunlight filtered through an east window. Niallan, seated at the head of the long table, resisted the urge to cross himself in awe at the pent-up power smoldering in Saint Camber’s son, though he, like Joram, was Deryni and fully capable of not a little power himself.

  So were most of the other men ranged around the bishop’s table—all, in fact, save the younger man at Niallan’s immediate left, who also wore episcopal purple. Dermot O’Beirne, the deposed Bishop of Cashien, had thrown in his lot with Niallan on that fatal Christmas Day a fortnight before, when everything else seemed to fall apart. The regents’ assault on Valoret Cathedral, given color of authority by the young king’s active presence and participation, had put an end to Alister Cullen’s brief tenure as Archbishop of Valoret. It had also put an end to any subsequent hope of tempering the regents’ increasingly anti-Deryni policies via the established Church hierarchy. Indeed, one of the most notorious of the regents now occupied the primatial throne, and had suspended and excommunicated both bishops at Dhassa as one of his first official acts.

  The rest of Niallan’s now-renegade household were under similar bans, for standing by their master and refusing to surrender his See of Dhassa to his designated successor. At Niallan’s right sat his chaplain and personal Healer of many years’ standing, Dom Rickart, the Gabrilite priest’s white robes a startling contrast to the bishops’ purple and the shades of mourning that everyone else wore. Rickart was of an age with Niallan, but the long hair drawn back in the tight, single braid of his Order was glossy chestnut, where Niallan’s hair and neatly trimmed beard were steely grey.

  Another, younger Healer sat across from Rickart, next to Dermot, though nothing in his demeanor or dress declared his Healer’s calling today. Both his tunic and his nubbly wool mantle were a dull dust-umber, the color of weathered stone. Nor did he look old enough to be a Healer, though up until a few weeks ago, he had been personal Healer and tutor to young Prince Javan, the king’s clubfooted twin brother and heir. The talented and sometimes headstrong Tavis O’Neill was not exactly a member of the bishop’s household, but Niallan had given him refuge when he was forced to quit Valoret. He remained their one reliable contact with the prince.

  Tavis was also, so far as they knew, the sole possessor of an apparently unique Deryni talent that held up some hope of preserving their Deryni race against evil times to come—though the ultimate cost of such salvation might be dire, indeed. His dark red head tipped downward in close-shielded reverie, the pale eyes moody and unreadable as his right hand absent-mindedly massaged a handless left wrist.

  And at the far end of the table, looking gloomily preoccupied, the seventeen-year-old Ansel MacRorie turned a dagger over and over in his hands, his pale golden hair proclaiming him close kin to Joram, even if all in the room had not already been aware that he was Joram’s nephew. Though Ansel should have been Earl of Culdi by right of his birth, as heir to Camber’s eldest son, he, like Joram and everyone else in the room, was an outlaw in the eyes of the established government.

  The rest of Niallan’s principal household officers and functionaries occupied stools set along the rest of the table, two men to a side, his chancellor, comptroller, provisioner, and garrison commander, the latter still wearing the dark blue tunic and white sash of a Michaeline knight.

  Sighing, Niallan slowly shook his head, not in negation of anything Joram had said, but in grim resignation.

  “Aye, ’tis an incalculable loss,” he murmured. “Alister, Jebediah, and Rhys. And unfortunately, I’m afraid we have to expect that things may get worse before they get better. To assume anything less would be to leave ourselves open to even greater disaster than we’ve already suffered.”

  “Which is precisely why I want you safely out of Dhassa, sir,” Joram said quietly.

  “I will not even try to gainsay you,” Niallan agreed, “but do try to accept my position. When I became Bishop of Dhassa, I was made shepherd of all her people, human as well as Deryni. I have Deryni responsibilities, that is true; but I cannot desert my human flock when they need me most.”

  “No, but you must not wait so long that you let yourself be taken,” Joram retorted, setting his hands on the back of Ansel’s chair. “That does no one any service except the regents, who you know seek your death.”

  Niallan smiled, toying with the bishop’s amethyst on his right hand. “Then, I am in good company,” he said lightly, “for you and Ansel have even higher prices on your heads than I. But don’t worry, my friend. There is no martyr’s blood in these veins. I shall stay here in Dhassa as long as I may, but only to ensure that nothing will fall into the regents’ hands that ought not.”

  “Including Dhassa’s bishop?” Ansel said archly.

  “Including Dhassa’s bishop,” Niallan repeated, favoring the boy with a fond smile. “But you must remember, dear Ansel, that such title applied to my person no longer means what it once did, now that one of the regents is our new archbishop.”

  “Hubert MacInnis will never be my archbishop,” Joram stated flatly, as he started pacing again.

  “No, nor mine,” Niallan agreed. “But in the eyes of those who do not know that his election required deception, slander, and murder, he is senior archbishop and Primate—and woe be unto the people of Gwynedd, in the hands of such a shepherd.”

  “If I’m given the chance,” said Tavis O’Neill, speaking for the first time, “I shall kill him!”

  “And betray your Healer’s oath?” Dom Rickart gasped, obviously putting into words what several of the others also felt.

  “Healer’s oaths be hanged, if they protect a man like Hubert MacInnis!” Tavis snapped, the pale aquamarine eyes blazing as he glared across at the other Healer. “I am no Gabrilite, to submit meekly to the slaughter. I will not offer my throat to the regents like some silly sheep, as your brethren did at Saint Neot’s. Nor will I allow Prince Javan to become their victim—not while there is breath in my body to prevent it!”

  “Easy, Tavis, easy!” Joram murmured, jerking out a stool beside Rickart and straddling it as Niallan and Dermot also made soothing noises and gestures. “No one’s asking you to sacrifice yourself—or faulting your defense of the prince.”

  “Certainly not,” Rickart hastily agreed. “Prince Javan is our major hope that something eventually may be done to reverse what the regents have set in motion. But I beg you, Tavis, do not deliberately seek out MacInnis’ life.”

  “Shall your brethren die unavenged, then?” Tavis demanded.

  As Ansel and the Michaeline Knight at the end of the table muttered something between them about divine retribution, Rickart gently shook his head.

  “My dear young friend, Hubert MacInnis shall pay for what he has done—never fear. Not only to my Gabrilite brethren but to all innocent folk who have become victims of his avarice. But it is not our place to seek vengeance. ‘Vengeance is mine, saith—’”

  “Yes, yes, but the Lord generally works through mortal agents,” Joram interjected, raising a hand in a fending-off gesture. “Please, Rickart, let’s not start a theological debate. Tavis is not a Gabrilite or a Michaeline, so he’s not arguing from the same assumptions. If the two of you want to take up this discussion privately, at a later date, that’s another matter. Right now, however, I have more important things on my mind, the chief of which is the prince we’re all trying to protect, in our own ways. Which leads me to ask, Tavis, is it tonight you’re to see him again?”

  Tavis sighed, a little subdued. “Aye. He doesn’t yet know about Alister and Jebediah, either. At least I haven’t told him. We’d just had a meeting when I found out, a
nd I didn’t want to increase the already considerable risk he runs every time I go there, by going back too soon.”

  “I don’t envy you the telling,” Niallan said quietly.

  Shrugging, Tavis shook his head. “Someone else may already have told him, by now. That kind of news travels fast. If it has reached Valoret, you can bet the regents won’t keep it a secret.”

  “I’ll say!” Ansel snorted. “There’ll be dancing in the streets.”

  Joram, hushing Ansel with a hand signal, returned his attention to Tavis.

  “Naturally, the regents’ reaction will be of great interest to us,” he said quietly, “but Javan’s safety is our most important concern. I take it that we can expect a full report in the morning, provided all goes well?”

  Tavis nodded, but said nothing.

  “Well, then,” Niallan said with a sigh. “I suppose we’ll have to wait until then. But you’ve done right, not to endanger the prince unnecessarily. Whatever else happens, he must be protected. I wonder, though, if it will make the regents more or less vindictive to learn that two of their most bitter enemies are dead.”

  Dermot managed a sickly grin. “They’ll probably use it as justification to step up their campaign against two more troublesome priests. I suppose we should be flattered that Rhun and his men are giving us so much attention, camped right outside Dhassa’s gates.”

  “Which is precisely why I do not intend us to stay in Dhassa any longer than we must,” Niallan replied. “And that brings us back to the subject of Saint Mary’s. Joram, I know you’ve abandoned it for the time being. How long do you think we must wait before it’s safe again? When I am ready to vacate Dhassa, I must have places to send my people.”

  “Then you’ll do better to funnel them through Gregory’s new Portal at Trevalga,” Joram replied. “I’ll have him show you the coordinates in the next week or so. From there, it’s a relatively simple matter to disperse through the Connait, where folk are a little more sane about Deryni these days.”

  “Then for now, you feel that Saint Mary’s is out of the question?” asked the Michaeline Knight.

  Joram sighed. “If Alister and Jebediah hadn’t been killed so close to there, we’d be fine. I think I told you all that one of their killers got away. The latest we hear is that Manfred MacInnis’ men have been scouring the area, looking for some trace of the bodies—which makes it a less than desirable place for Deryni. Frankly, I’m not even happy that Queron is on his way there.”

  “You expect him soon?” Rickart asked.

  Joram nodded. “Any day now, provided nothing else has gone wrong. The brothers know he’s coming, but none of them can speak of it to anyone but him or one of us. Evaine and I made sure of that before we left. The compulsion won’t stand up against anything stronger than a very cursory Truth-Read, but we’re gambling on the probability that Manfred doesn’t have a Deryni working for him yet—and that no one will have cause to suspect that our monks have anything to hide.”

  Niallan snorted. “Poor Queron, walking into the lion’s den. Do you think he knows?”

  Ansel chuckled mirthlessly. “Well, if he doesn’t, I suspect he’ll find out, soon enough.”

  Indeed, Queron Kinevan certainly knew that soldiers were looking for Deryni by then, even if he did not know the particular reason. He had been dodging mounted patrols for days. The night before Joram made his report to his Dhassa confederates, Queron had taken refuge from soldiers and a gathering snowstorm by hiding in a rickety barn, burrowed deep inside a haystack. He was still there, curled in a tight, miserable ball, as dawn lightened a slate-colored winter sky.

  He knew he was dreaming, but he could not wake himself to stop it. In the fortnight since the nightmare’s first occurrence, he had never yet succeeded in doing so. Fueled by his own memories, the dream seemed to have lost none of its potency. And whether he tried to sleep by day or by night, some part of it always found him, always in heart-gripping detail.

  It was dusk in the dream—a haunting dusk, two weeks before, as the fires finally died down in the yard at Dolban. From where Queron crouched to watch in disbelieving horror, just at the crest of a hill overlooking the abbey, he could almost imagine that none of it had happened—for the soldiers had spared the buildings.

  But not its brethren. And therein lay the basis for the quarrel that, for a time, had set Queron at odds with the younger man hunkered at his side. The first flames already had been licking skyward on that cold December afternoon when he and Revan scrambled to the top of the rise above the abbey, in the wake of an excited band of Willimite brethren from the campsite the two had just left. Partway down the slope on the other side, some of the Willimites had started singing a militant, off-key hymn whose major theme was hatred of magic, exhorting God’s faithful to be His scourge to rid the land of the undoubtedly evil magic of the Deryni. And in the yard beyond—

  “Jesu Christe, what are they doing?” Queron had gasped, stumbling to his knees in the snow—though at least he had had the presence of mind to keep his voice down.

  For the soldiers in the yard below seemed to have taken the Willimites’ hymn very much to heart. Dozens of stakes had been erected in Dolban’s yard, most of them unwillingly embraced by men and women in blood-soaked grey habits—for the soldiers had bound their wrists above their heads and were scourging them with weighted whips that rent mere cloth and laid open the victims’ backs with each new stroke. Queron quailed at the spectacle, hardly able to believe his eyes, for he had been abbot to these innocent folk—the Order he himself had founded, to honor the blessed Saint Camber. Only by chance had he not been among them on this Childermas of 917, three days past Christmas—fittingly called the Feast of the Holy Innocents, he had realized, days later.

  Knives and pincers figured in the treatment of some of the prisoners, and a great deal of blood, but Queron mercifully was too far away to see exactly what was being done. However, there was no mistaking the bundles of faggots the soldiers had begun piling around the base of many of the stakes. A few already sprouted flames among the kindling, and rising shrieks of agony began to float up on the cold winter air.

  “My God, this can’t be happening,” Queron sobbed. “Revan, we must stop it!”

  But young Revan, not Deryni or highly trained or even of noble birth, had shaken his head and set his heart, knowing with that certainty of common sense so often lost or buried in those of more formal erudition that any intervention by just the two of them was futile.

  “There’s nothing we can do, sir,” Revan had whispered. “If we go down there, we’d only be throwing our lives away. You may be ready to die, but I have a responsibility to Lord Rhys and Lady Evaine. I’m willing to die for them, but I don’t think they mean it to be at Dolban.”

  Queron had refused to let the words make sense, something akin to madness seizing him as the outrage unfolded below.

  “I can do something!” he had whispered. “I’ll blast them with magic! I shall make them taste the wrath of Saint Camber, through his Servant. Magic can be woven—”

  “And if you do weave magic against them, what then?” Revan said, grasping Queron’s sleeve and jerking his face closer. “Can’t you see that you’d be doing exactly the thing that the regents say Deryni do? Is that what you want?”

  “How dare you presume to instruct me?” Queron snapped, icy anger keeping his words all but inaudible. “Take your hands off me and stay out of my way. Do it now, Revan!”

  Wordlessly Revan had released him, apparently cowed. But as Queron sank back on his heels, preparing to unleash magical retribution, Revan had shifted the olivewood staff hitherto nestled in the crook of his arm and cudgeled Queron smartly behind the left ear. Queron crumpled into the snow without a sound, his vision going black, and Revan’s voice had seemed to come from a long way off.

  “Sorry, m’lord, but throwing your life away is stupid!” Revan had murmured, as he rooted in Queron’s scrip for a Healer’s drug kit. “Gabrilite or not, I can’t l
et you do that.”

  That had been the end of their quarrel. With the sedative Revan gave him in melted snow, Queron had drowsed the afternoon through, never quite unconscious, but too groggy to offer further resistance of any kind. He had dreamed then, too, haunted by the images of his brethren being tortured and killed, the nightmare embellished and intensified by the sounds that floated up from the yard beyond.

  Gradually, the winter shadows lengthened. Slowly the heart-wrenching screams and the gabble and gurgle of dying gave way to the hungry crackle of the flames and then the softer whisper of a rising wind and the feather of new snow falling, mercifully muffling some of the horror.

  More wind wailed somewhere outside Queron’s present dream, and he bit back a groan as he stirred in his haystack hollow. Again he tried to claw his way up to consciousness, out of the nightmare, but still it held him fast. He whimpered a little as it dragged him into its depths again, not wanting to remember what he had learned from Revan when he woke that other time, there on the slope above Dolban.

  “It’s over now,” Revan had said softly, leaning heavily on his olivewood staff and looking for all the world like some latter-day John the Baptist—which was precisely what Revan intended. Suddenly Queron had found himself wondering whether that made any more sense than what the men below had done.

  “I know it doesn’t make any sense,” Revan had said, when Queron did not speak—as if he somehow had caught Queron’s very thought, though the Healer knew that was impossible. “What possible sense could there be, much less any modicum of justice, to burn to death more than three-score men and women simply because they chose to honor and revere the memory of a man they believed holy?”