“Is that why they did it?” Queron had whispered, his vision blurring anew as he gazed down at the blackened stakes in the yard, and the soldiers moving among them.
“More or less.” Revan had turned his head to look Queron in the eye. “I spoke with several of my Willimite ‘brethren’ while you were asleep,” he said quietly. “They, in turn, had spoken with several of the soldiers down below. Apparently, the orders came directly from the bishops in council at Ramos. Go ahead and read the details for yourself. I’m not afraid.”
And Revan was not afraid, though a lesser man might have had ample reason to be, after physically assaulting a Deryni of Queron’s ability. As Queron lightly touched the younger man’s wrist and began to focus, trying not to make the physical contact too obvious to anyone watching, he was surprised and humbled by the younger man’s fearless trust. Though Revan could not have stopped his doing anything he wanted, Reading was always easier with the subject’s active cooperation.
But the wonder of that discovery was blunted almost immediately by what Queron had learned—that the abbey’s own patron saint was at least indirectly responsible for the attack. The men now gaining ascendancy in Gwynedd, regents for the twelve-year-old King Alroy, had declared Dolban’s patron, the Deryni Saint Camber, to be no saint at all, but a heretic and traitor—and therein lay Dolban’s fate.
Nevermore was the name of Camber MacRorie to be spoken in Gwynedd, on pain of consequences almost too terrible to comprehend. Henceforth, a first offense would merit public flogging, with the offender’s tongue forfeit for a second utterance—which accounted for the pincers and knives Queron had seen. And only that special death reserved for heretics would answer for further intransigence.
Not that Saint Camber’s Servants at Dolban could have known in time how they transgressed the law—or would have cared, had they known, for their devotion to the Deryni saint had been unswerving for more than a decade. The edict rescinding Camber’s sainthood and declaring the penalties for defying that edict had only been promulgated the day before, many miles away in Ramos. Their enemies had never intended to give them any advance warning. The first inkling of their plight would have been when the regents’ soldiers—episcopal troops, at that—swarmed into the abbey yard and began taking prisoners.
All surely had heard the edict read as the floggings began, however, and had ample time to contemplate the full measure of the edict’s horror as the executioners began their grisly work with pincers and knives. Tongueless, the condemned could not even plead ignorance of the law, or recant, or beg for mercy, as the soldiers piled the kindling high around the rows of stakes and passed among them with their torches.
Stunned at the legalism behind the savagery he had witnessed, tears streaming down his cheeks, Queron had withdrawn from Re-van’s mind, burying his face in his hands to weep silently.
“Forgive me for my earlier lapse,” he finally had whispered, mindful that the breeze had shifted upwind of them and would carry sound down to the guards below—though at least it no longer brought them the stench of burned flesh. “You were entirely correct that magic would not have been the answer.”
Wiping at his tears with the back of his hands, he had summoned the courage to look up at Revan humbly.
“Rhys taught you well,” he went on quietly. “If I’d been thinking clearly, I suppose I should have expected you might hit me over the head. But I never thought to be drugged from my own Healer’s kit.”
Revan managed a hint of a bitter smile, turning his light brown eyes on Queron only briefly. “Be thankful I didn’t dose you with merasha. You’d still be out of action. I couldn’t let you go to certain death, though, now could I?”
“I suppose not.”
Sighing, Queron fingered the end of his grey-streaked Gabrilite braid where it had escaped from under his hood, knowing that a painful decision was approaching.
“I think I’ve been away from my Gabrilite Order far too long,” he had whispered. “It becomes all too easy to forget that I swore never to kill. I suppose that goes for killing myself as well as other men—though there are a few down below who could do with killing.”
He glanced at the dimming yard below, at the torches moving among the burned-out stakes as the guards patrolled the last of the dying fires, then looked back at Revan thoughtfully.
“It will be dark soon. I think it might be healthiest for both of us if I went on alone.”
“Why?” Revan had asked. “No one suspects who you are.”
“Not who, no.” He held up the end of his braid. “But if anyone were to see this, they might suspect what. It isn’t necessarily true that only Gabrilites and the Servants of Saint Camber wear braids more or less like this, but in this vicinity, given what’s just happened down there, it strikes me that such a symbol might cause—ah—dangerous questions to be asked. I wonder, are your barbering skills as good as your medical ones?”
Revan had blinked and looked at him strangely.
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“I want you to cut it off for me, Revan.” Queron pulled the braid over his shoulder. “I’ve had this a long time, and losing it will not be without cost, but I’m afraid it’s become more of a liability than an asset. Our founders never meant it to be a betrayal unto death—mine or yours.”
Revan shifted uneasily, but he pulled from his belt the little knife he used for cutting bread and cheese, fingering its edge uncertainly as Queron turned his back.
“Go ahead,” the Healer murmured. “Don’t worry about finesse. Just hack it off. We haven’t got all night.”
He tried to make himself relax as Revan gingerly took hold of the braid and worked his fingers up toward the base of Queron’s neck where the plaiting began, sensing Revan’s surprise and curiosity when he discovered that the braid was composed of four strands rather than the more common three—though Revan did not ask about it.
“We call the braid a g’dula,” Queron said quietly, taut as a catapult as Revan began sawing across the wiry mass with his knife. “The four strands have a special symbolism for us. I mayn’t tell you what it is, beyond the obvious connection with the four Archangels and the four Quarters, but since I’m sure you noticed, it seemed only fair to tell you.” He sighed heavily and suppressed a shudder. “No blade has touched my hair since I took my first vows—it’s been nearly twenty-five years ago now. The braid will have to be ritually burned, when time and place permit.”
Cutting the braid had been a psychic wrench as well as a physical one, and Queron, reliving the trauma in his dream, twitched in his sleep and startled awake at last, all at once, one hand automatically groping toward the scrip at his waist. His heart was pounding, his breathing rapid and alarmed, but the braid was still there, wound in a tight coil the size of his fist.
Thank God!
Gradually, the panic past, his heart rate and breathing returned to normal. After a while, very cautiously, he began burrowing out of his haystack, squinting increasingly against the glare of the early morning sun on snowdrifts, for the “barn” sheltering the hay was a roof only, supported by four stout posts, and the roof itself was none too sound. He knew he must deal with the g’dula soon—which probably would stop the nightmares—but right now, his first priority was to find Saint Mary’s Abbey. The goodwife who had given him beggar’s fare of bread and hot, thick stew, the previous noon, had said she thought there was a small monastery in the hills not far from here, but she had not known its name. It might be Saint Mary’s.
God willing, it would be the right Saint Mary’s this time, Queron thought, as he emerged stiffly from his fragrant cocoon, pulling his mantle more closely around himself and brushing off bits of hay. The name seemed all too popular in this part of the world, notwithstanding Queron’s personal devotion to the Blessed Virgin. He had had enough of false alarms since arriving in these hills above Culdi, several days before—and of dodging mounted patrols of the new Earl of Culdi’s men. Far more often than he had hoped, in the two wee
ks since leaving Dolban, he had had to abandon perfectly good lodgings to avoid a possibly fatal confrontation with men sympathetic to the regents’ most recent atrocities.
Nor had he dared to be too blatant in the use of his powers to improve the situations. In these troubled times, simply being Deryni seemed likely to bring about one’s death, whether or not one actually used his or her magical powers.
But perhaps today would be different. At least the storm seemed to have blown itself out. His hood had slipped back from his head while he fretted and squirmed in the grip of his nightmare, and he combed stiff fingers through his shorn hair as he surveyed the morning. Nothing stirred to break the pristine silence of the new snowfall on this cold winter’s morn.
So then, briefly lamenting the past month’s lack of a razor, he covered his head again and knelt to make his morning offering of praise and thanksgiving, as he did each day on rising. And today, as always, he raised defiant prayers to Camber of Culdi, whose lands these once had been, and who was and would remain a saint, so far as Queron Kinevan was concerned.
CHAPTER TWO
They were killed, but by accursed men, and such as had taken up an unjust envy against them.
—I Clement 20:7
Snow began to fall again by midafternoon, but the sky stayed bright. Queron drew his hood closer as he approached the gate of yet another tiny abbey, raising a numb, mittened hand to shade his eyes against the snow glare and study the thin curls of smoke eddying upward from several sets of chimneys.
At least no horses appeared to have been this way today—a fair indication that he would find no soldiers about. And the smoke meant that he might hope for a hot meal and a chance to warm himself in the abbey’s parlor. His booted feet were near frozen after another day’s trudging through the snow, his cloak and hood rimed with ice. With any luck, this might even turn out to be the Saint Mary’s he was looking for—though he had had enough disappointments in the last few days not to expect too much.
No horses stood in the yard of this new abbey, either—another good sign that the place was safe. As Queron paused at the open gate, cautiously casting out with his mind for danger, a middle-aged monk in a black habit and mantle came down off the catwalk over the gate arch and made him a deferential bow, hands tucked into sleeve openings, as was seemly.
“The blessings of God Almighty be upon you, good traveler,” the monk said. “May I offer you the humble hospitality of Saint Mary’s?”
Mentally allowing himself a tiny sigh of relief—for at least this was one of the local Saint Mary’s—Queron swept back his hood and returned the man’s bow, hoping his tonsure had not grown out so far as to be totally unrecognizable.
“Thank you, brother,” he murmured. “Who gives charity unasked gives twice. God will surely bless this house. May I ask the name of your abbot?”
With a gesture for Queron to accompany him, the monk turned to lead him across the yard toward the chapel.
“Our abbot is Brother Cronin,” he said easily. “I am Brother Tiernan. And you are—?”
Truth-Reading to confirm, for he had been given the names of several of the brethren of the House, Queron let himself relax a little more, stomping snow from his boots as they mounted wooden steps to the chapel door.
“My name is Kinevan. Queron Kinevan. I believe you’ve been expecting me.”
The monk turned and set his back against the chapel door, eying Queron speculatively.
“Ah, we were told we might expect a Gabrilite by that name,” he said softly, “but I see no Gabrilite before me.”
“I have lately been abbot of—another Order,” Queron murmured, not wanting to mention Saint Camber’s name until he knew for certain that all was well. “I have not worn Gabrilite habit for many years.”
“It is my understanding that Gabrilite habit does not consist solely of the garment,” the monk insisted, “and that its putting off is no light matter. Is there not some further proof you might offer, that you are what and who you say you are?”
Queron allowed himself a wry smile. This Brother Tiernan was a bold one. Not all humans would dare to make such a demand of an unknown Deryni. The fellow wanted to know about his braid—not normally a topic of discussion outside the Order, but perhaps it was necessary.
“I think you wish no graphic demonstration of what I am,” Queron said quietly, digging in his scrip for the coil of plaited hair, “but I suspect that this should prove adequately that I am who I claim to be.” He displayed the coil on his open palm. “Is this what you expected to see? I fear it became a liability, attached to my head. I advise you not to touch it, but I assure you, it is mine.”
Tiernan glanced a little nervously at the braid, as if a bit taken aback by his own effrontery, but shook his head and swallowed when Queron would have lifted it nearer.
“Please come inside, out of the cold, Dom Queron,” he murmured, averting his eyes as he turned to open the door. “Instructions have been left for you.”
The inside of the chapel was little warmer than outside. Queron could see his breath pluming on the air before him as he followed Tiernan down the center aisle, tucking the braid back in its place in his scrip. Shadows wreathed the open beams of the simple ceiling, but the walls were whitewashed and made the little building seem lighter and more airy than it actually was. He could hear the sounds of construction going on behind a wooden screen that closed off the north transept, but they gradually ceased as Tiernan led him past the simple transept crossing and toward the altar, where a red lamp burned above the tabernacle.
“Wait here, please,” Tiernan said, when the two of them paused at the foot of the altar steps to reverence the Presence signified by that lamp.
Mystified, Queron watched the monk continue on alone to the tabernacle and fit a key to its lock. From behind several veiled ciboria, Tiernan removed what appeared to be a small, suede leather pouch, no bigger than the palm of his hand. This he tucked into the front of his habit, signing for Queron to rise and come with him toward the screened-off northern transept.
As Queron followed his guide through a doorway in the screen, several more black-robed monks backed off skittishly from a bare patch of earth in front of the transept altar, bowing cowled heads over folded hands as they pressed against the far wall. They had been shifting heavy flagstones back into position to cover the bare patch—which might pass as a grave, to the uninitiated; but Queron recognized it instantly as the probable site of the Portal he knew Evaine and Joram had planned to construct.
“God bless the work,” Queron murmured, declining to speak more specifically until he knew the exact status of the men watching him.
His quick mental cast locked on the Portal’s distinctive tingle almost immediately. Cautiously he moved the few steps necessary to center himself within it—to the apparent consternation of several of the watchers. And to his own consternation, a quick stretching of his powers failed to touch any other Portal. Either he was out of range, or all the others he knew about had been destroyed or blocked.
“Interesting,” he murmured under his breath. “Brother Tiernan, I don’t suppose anyone left me any more explicit instructions?”
With a quiet hand sign, Tiernan signalled the other monks to depart. Only when they had gone did he move close enough to Queron to hand him the brown suede pouch.
“The Lady Evaine asked that I give this into your keeping only when you had placed yourself where you now stand. I—do not know what it contains or what will happen when you take it out.”
“But I am to open it here,” Queron said, gingerly feeling at the contents of the pouch through the leather. It seemed to be something flat and round, perhaps of metal, possibly a medallion of some sort.
“Curious,” he murmured. “Did she give you any other caution?”
Tiernan shook his head. “No, my lord. I watched them all leave through this Portal, though. I know what happens, and I am not afraid.”
“And you are rare among humans for that,” Q
ueron replied. “Did you know that, Brother Tiernan?”
Tiernan shrugged. “I am only an ignorant monk, Domine. But I trust the Lady Evaine and Father Joram. Ah—he said that you would recognize what lies inside and that you would know what to do.”
“Father Joram said that?”
“Aye, Domine.”
“Then, we must not make a liar of him, must we?” Queron loosened the strings of the pouch and peered inside.
“Well, what’s this?” he said, beginning to pull out part of a narrow, green silk cord, along with what was attached to it. “It’s—a Healer’s seal. It’s Rhys’ Healer’s seal!” he breathed, as he caught the dull, silvery medallion in the palm of his hand.
Rhys’ name and the year of his matriculation from Saint Neot’s were cut into the side facing Queron; and if he turned it over, he knew it would bear Rhys’ personal coat of arms augmented with the star-pierced hand that was a Healer’s badge of vocation.
“But—Rhys would never give this up. Not to anyone. Not unless—”
Convulsively he clutched the medal harder in his hand as the implication registered. Now he thought he knew why Evaine had wanted him to stand precisely here, in the center of the new Portal, before he opened the pouch. For something had happened to Rhys—he feared the younger Healer was dead—and reading that tragic message here, in this place, would send up a psychic beacon for one of them to come back to get him.
He had to blink back tears as he tucked the empty pouch into the top of his scrip and then smoothed the silk cord over the back of his hand, trying not to look at the medal, now that he had an inkling of what it bore. Just in time, he realized that Tiernan was still watching, awed even by Queron’s reaction thus far; and he signalled with an impatient gesture that Tiernan should leave.
The monk backed out without demur, quietly closing the door through the screen before padding off through another door that probably led to the sacristy. Only when Queron was certain he was alone did he allow himself to look at the medallion again.
The Harrowing of Gwynedd Page 3
