“Scio cui credidi, et certus sum, quia potens est depositum meam servare in illum diem, justus judex.…” I know Whom I have believed, and I am certain that He is able to guard the trust committed to me against that day, being a just judge.…
The Introit was that of the Commemoration of Saint Paul the Apostle—not one of Jehana’s favorites, but since she had already heard it once today, she could let her thoughts edge reluctantly to consideration of the earlier confrontation with Richenda.
How could she not have noticed the fair-haired Deryni woman sitting at the loom? And how could the seemingly pious Rothana also be Deryni, deliberately damning herself by entering religion when she knew herself to be of the evil of their race?
On the epistle side now, the Introit, Kyrie, and Gloria concluded, Father Ambros was opening his lectionary to read the first lesson, fumbling a little with the stiff pages.
“Dominus vobiscum.”
“Et cum spiritu tuo,” Jehana responded automatically with the others.
“Sequentia sancti Evangelii. ‘In diebus illis: Saulus ad huc spirans minarum, et caedis in discipulos Domini.…’” At this time: Saul, with every breath he drew, still threatened the disciples of the Lord with massacre; and he went to the high priest and asked him for letters of commendation to the synagogues at Damascus, so that he could arrest all those he found there, men and women who belonged to the way.…
As Jehana automatically translated the Latin of the reading, she suddenly realized that it was not the same epistle read earlier in the day; in fact, it was not the expected passage from Galatians at all, but a text from the Acts of the Apostles.
“‘Et cum iter faceret, contiget, ut appropinquaret Damasco: et subito circumfulsit eum lux de caelo.…’” And on his journey, when he was nearly at Damascus, a light from heaven shone suddenly about him. He fell to the ground and heard a voice saying to him, Saul, Saul, why dost thou persecute me …?
She clapped her hands over her ears in horror. What was Father Ambros saying? The epistle he read was for the feast of Saint Paul’s Conversion, not his Commemoration. How could he have made such an error?
But a part of her already considered the possibility of a higher work in what he did, and perhaps the why of it, if not the how. Though she tried vainly to shut out his words, shaking her head and closing her eyes against the sight as well as the sound of him, another figure seemed to rise up in her mind before the red-clad afterimage of Father Ambros, cowled grey of the Other overshadowing the red vestments of martyrdom.
No! That could not be!
She had tried to avoid even hearing about the long discredited saint who purported to concern himself with the welfare of the curst Deryni race—his race—but somehow she knew it was he who seemed to hold out his arms to her and call her, in the vision that forced itself upon her tortured mind.
Saul, Saul, why dost thou persecute me …?
Only, in the prison of her mind, it was not Saul he accused, but herself—not the Christ who called, but the dreaded Deryni heretic, Saint Camber! She could not turn away or shut him out, but only listen as he seemed to stretch out his hand to her and touch her brow.
Jehana … why dost thou persecute me …?
And the voice of Father Ambros, continuing unperturbed with his redirected reading, floated on the air like an angel’s, inescapably underlining her fear.
“‘Et tremens, ac stupens, dixit: Domine, quid me vis facere …?’” And he, trembling and dazed, asked, Lord, what wilt thou have me do?
And the Lord said to him, Rise up, and go into the city, and there thou shalt be told what thy work is.…
CHAPTER TWELVE
Then thou scarest me with dreams, and terrifiest me through visions.
—Job 7:14
“Sorry I’m late,” Conall said, as he and his squire drew rein in a forest clearing not far from the city walls of Rhemuth. “Did you get the message I sent yesterday?”
“I did, indeed. It seems we anticipated your father’s intentions only just in time.”
Casually, Tiercel de Claron came and set a hand on the bit of the squire’s horse, fixing the boy with his eyes. “Come down from there and have a nap, young Jowan,” he ordered, catching the boy under the elbow with practiced ease as the lad nearly tumbled from the saddle, half-asleep already.
As Conall also dismounted and took charge of the two horses, setting them to graze with a sleek chestnut already browsing at the other side of the clearing, Tiercel walked the stumbling Jowan to a shady spot underneath a birch tree and eased his collapse to the ground. The lad was snoring blissfully by the time Conall came back across the clearing. Tiercel dusted his hands together and breathed a sigh of satisfaction as he rose and glanced at Conall.
“So, Richenda set the blocks as we suspected, did she? And caught not hide nor hair of what we’d done to prepare for them?”
“Nothing! I could sense that she was doing something—though I couldn’t tell what—and I certainly couldn’t have stopped her. But I also knew that there was another part of me she wasn’t even seeing!”
“Indeed?” Tiercel said, his tone encouraging further details.
“And later that day,” Conall went on eagerly, “Father let me attend my first real privy council meeting. I don’t mean just the formal privy council, but a private privy council meeting! They told me all kinds of things, only—I can’t talk about some of them. I mean, I literally can’t. I think they must be in some other kind of secondary level, only she set that one.”
“Behind her block, I should think,” Tiercel said, gesturing toward the shade of another tree where a small wineskin, a spread-out cloak, and his ubiquitous satchel already lay. “I’ll have a look in a bit. Why are you so late? It’s nearly noon.”
“I had to deliver a letter to Richenda,” Conall said, plopping down on the spread cloak at Tiercel’s invitation. “It was from some cousin in the Forcinn—a lady. I wish I could have read it.”
Clucking his tongue in gentle scolding, Tiercel sat down beside Conall.
“Do you, now? Just curious, or a particular reason? In general, it’s best to stay out of the affairs of ladies, Conall. They have a world all their own. Besides, I don’t want you in a position where Richenda might be tempted to try a deeper reading on you.”
“Well, I suppose.” Conall wrinkled his nose doubtfully. “You should have seen the man who brought the letter, though. In fact, there were several letters. He insisted he had to deliver those in person. He said he was a Moorish peddler, and he dressed the part, but I’m not sure that’s all he was.”
“Oh? What makes you say that?”
As Tiercel lay back on one elbow, he unstoppered the wineskin and directed a stream into his open mouth.
“Hmmm, just something about him,” Conall answered slowly. He leaned against the tree trunk and propped his wrists on his upraised knees as he thought about it. “I honestly wasn’t sure she’d even see him, him being a Moor and all—especially since it was just her and Rothana alone in the solar.
“She said she’d been expecting him, though, even before she opened the letter, and that she and Rothana would receive him in private. Then, when I showed him in, he moved more like a courtier than a peddler. You should have seen the bow he made her. Do you think he’s a secret lover or something?”
Tiercel smiled around a mouthful of wine and let the smile turn to a chuckle when he had swallowed. “I strongly doubt that. It isn’t at all uncommon for peddlers to act as ladies’ messengers. Their occupation takes them many places. And if they make a profession of messengering as well as peddling, and hope to be employed by high-born ladies, they’ve usually acquired fairly polished courtly manners as well. What did this fellow look like?”
“Hmmm, dark and swarthy, as you might expect of a Moor; about my height, but very wiry, compact. Later on, when I was escorting him back to the yard to leave, he struck me as a man with battle training. He had incredibly fast reflexes.”
“What did you
say he called himself?”
“I didn’t—but it was Ludolphus.”
Tiercel, in the process of having another swallow of wine, nearly choked.
“Sancta Dei Genetrix, I think I know who it was,” he whispered, when he had recovered. “What’s he doing in Rhemuth? Did he touch you? Show me what he looked like.”
Surprised at Tiercel’s reaction, Conall only cocked his head and stared as his mentor lurched to a sitting position and reached across to touch his forehead, without giving him any time to prepare. Resisting never crossed his mind, but Conall suddenly decided that, rather than simply surrendering passively to Tiercel’s probe as he always had in the past, he would try to consciously give Tiercel what he wanted to know. He almost faltered before the onslaught of Tiercel’s sudden presence in his mind, but he managed never to lose consciousness or even close his eyes as he spread the images of his recent encounter for Tiercel’s inspection. The surprised Tiercel clapped him on the knee in distracted congratulation as he withdrew, a strained little smile playing at his lips.
“So,” the Deryni murmured, almost to himself, “someone is sending in the heavies. And you’re hardly in the butterfly-weight category yourself anymore, either, are you, my young friend?” he added, glancing at Conall. “You’ve never managed to stay with me that way before.”
Conall grinned and ducked his head briefly, suddenly a little shy.
“It seemed important,” he replied, looking up at Tiercel again. “For the first time, it seemed that maybe you needed me, for a change. Who was he? By your reaction, it’s fairly clear that he’s Deryni—and perhaps even more highly trained than you are.”
“He’s—ah—an acquaintance,” Tiercel hedged. “Not an enemy, I assure you,” he added, at Conall’s look of concern, “but I can’t explain further. Let’s just say that he’s an old friend and teacher of Richenda’s and leave it at that, shall we?”
“I suppose.”
“Good. And that being said,” Tiercel went on, tapping Conall’s boot to reengage his attention, “I’m now interested in returning to what you just did. I think you’ve made a major breakthrough. You went from being a passive subject to an active participant. I’ve been hoping for that.”
Conall smiled, pleased. “Did I do well? I think it started after our last session, when you set me for Richenda’s blocks. I knew something had happened.”
“It certainly did.” Tiercel thought a moment, then slapped Conall’s boot in resolution. “I think we’ll follow up on something you mentioned earlier, too. How would you like to learn to read without your eyes?—like the letter for Richenda, that you were wishing you could have read today.”
Conall’s eyes widened and he swallowed visibly. “You could teach me that?”
“I think so—now. A blind friend of mine does it all the time. Not as fast as visual reading, but it does have its advantages—and some additional applications, if you can master this one. All very useful talents for a prince.” Tiercel drew a dagger from his boot top and arched an eyebrow at Conall. “I assume you would like to try?”
Conall eyed the drawn weapon with some misgiving, but he grinned and gave a very positive nod as Tiercel merely gestured with it toward a patch of bare earth at the edge of the cloak they sat upon. As Conall scooted closer to sit cross-legged at Tiercel’s left, the Deryni began scratching a mazelike pattern into the earth with his blade.
“Now, what I’m drawing is sometimes called a ‘staring pattern,’” Tiercel explained as he drew. “Later on, you probably won’t need the physical pattern—not for this particular procedure, at any rate—but it helps in the early visualizing. I think I’ll have you start by using it with a pendulum. Are you wearing your Camber medal today?”
“Aye.”
As Tiercel put the finishing touches to his design, cleaning the blade of his dagger deftly against the side of his boot before resheathing it, Conall drew a silver chain out of the neck of his tunic and looped it off over his head. The medal caught the dappled sunlight under the tree like a jewel as he handed it to Tiercel by the end of the chain.
“That’s fine,” Tiercel said, holding the chain between thumb and forefinger so that the medal hung a handspan above the design, stilling its swing with his other hand.
“Now: I’ve had you use a pendulum before as a point of focus. This time, instead of letting the movement of the pendulum carry you, I want you to direct the movement of the pendulum. With your mind, though—not your hand.”
“Mmmm?”
“Just watch. Notice that the pattern is all a single, continuous line, gradually spiraling toward the center. We begin with the pendulum hanging quite still, just above this outside end of the pattern, and then we concentrate on the medal—on making it start to swing so that it follows the pattern toward the center. See? It’s starting to move, but I’m not deliberately doing anything with my hand.…”
“I see it,” Conall murmured, already reaching for the chain. “Let me try.”
Nodding, Tiercel handed it over and helped him still its swing.
“All right,” he said, removing his hand. “Now, focus on the path the pendulum follows, rather than the pendulum itself. Imprint that pattern on your mind and let yourself be drawn toward its center. The end-result is called ‘centering,’ aptly enough—regardless of how you arrive at that state.”
As Conall obeyed and the pendulum immediately began to swing, Tiercel quietly slid one hand around the boy’s shoulder. Even before he made mental contact, he could sense Conall coupling in with the path of the pendulum as he concentrated, the raven head beginning to nod, and he extended the lightest possible tendrils of control to enhance relaxation as he cupped his hand around the back of the bent neck.
“That’s fine,” he murmured. “Just relax and flow with the pattern.”
But Conall had no need of his help. He was already well into trance, going deeper by the heartbeat—and consciously aware, on some level not quite clear to Tiercel, that the other’s controls were present.
That awareness startled Tiercel, even though Conall made no shred of resistance. As startling as the awareness was the quarter whence it came. To learn to recognize another’s psychic probe was one thing; humans who worked regularly with Deryni often learned to sense such a touch, and to cooperate consciously to facilitate results. What Conall had done when Tiercel read his memory of Azim fell into that category—a commendable achievement, but not wholly unexpected, given the length and intensity of their interaction.
But to be aware of controls exerted by another was quite a different matter, even if Conall was unable to resist them—though perhaps not all that unexpected after all, in light of what Conall had told him of his encounter with Richenda.
He probed the barriers he had set, to see whether Richenda had, indeed, skimmed over them unawares, but all seemed intact. Sequestering and burying Conall’s memories of himself and their training sessions had been tricky enough a proposition, knowing his work must stand before Richenda’s scrutiny, but apparently he had succeeded. Though he could not broach the blocks Richenda had set—and had not expected he would be able to—neither did it appear Richenda had even tried to probe beyond the limits of her own blocks. Thank God for that!
But as Tiercel held Conall momentarily in balance and continued to scan, he realized that some of the secondary levels he himself had partitioned off in preparing Conall for contact with other Deryni were now obscured, almost like a secondary shielding system—almost like a Deryni! It also appeared to be the source of Conall’s new ability to recognize controls.
Now, that was interesting—though Tiercel decided not to take the time now to look more closely at the phenomenon, lest they not accomplish what they had set out to do. Conall was nearly deep enough for the next phase, his hand holding rock-steady over the maze while the medal at the end of the chain swung with ever-increasing accuracy over the pattern, nearing the center.
Impressed, Tiercel pulled back and merely observed as Co
nall settled deeper still, himself dropping into supportive trance to guide the prince through the next phase.
“Good,” he said, touching Conall’s forehead lightly between the eyes, which closed, and then taking the pendulum and pressing Conall’s hand gently down to rest on the ground. “Now relax and follow the images I show you. Just let yourself drift and observe.…”
An hour later, an elated Conall had not only mastered the new mode of sightless reading, but he had come up with several additional applications on his own.
“One could use this for opening locked doors!” the prince breathed, wide-eyed. “Maybe even for seeing behind closed doors—”
“A little beyond your ability yet, I think,” Tiercel said, chuckling gently, “though who knows how far you’ll go now that you’ve passed this hurdle?”
Conall merely grinned and set his concentration to a blade of grass between his fingers, watching one end slowly curl and loop around itself until it had formed a knot.
And Tiercel, watching fondly from a supine position on the spread cloak, laced his fingers behind his head and dreamed of bringing his pupil in triumph before the Camberian Council.
Meanwhile, the Haldane intrusion into Meara continued. The following dawn, in the foothills southwest of Ratharkin, Kelson and Morgan stood in the meager privacy between their saddled greathorses and listened to the excited report of a dusty R’Kassan scout.
“I know they didn’t see us, Sire,” the man said. “I think they’re a skirmish band split off from the Mearans’ main van. If we send a like force in the next hour, we can cut them off and take them before they know what’s happened.”
“How many?” Morgan asked.
“Jemet counted nearly sixty horses, Your Grace. An additional twenty might be hidden in a box canyon we couldn’t get to, but certainly no more than that. And we’re certain they’re all cavalry. No commander in his right mind would leave foot soldiers that far behind the main van.”
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