“We do not require your life or the lives of your men,” Kelson said to Warin, deliberately adopting the royal “we.” “We require only your loyalty from this time on—or, if not your loyalty, at least your willingness to consider what we are about to tell you.”
“I owe no allegiance to any Deryni king,” Warin said baldly. “Nor am I any longer intimidated by your royal birth. You Deryni are very bold when you have your magic to defend you.”
“Indeed?” said Kelson, raising an arched brow. “We seem to recall that you once placed our General Morgan at your mercy in a similar manner, stripped him even of most human faculties, that he might not defend himself in any fashion. The tendency to press one’s advantage is a human trait as well as a Deryni one, it seems.”
“I do not associate with those who traffic in magic,” Warin retorted, beard jutting stubbornly as he half-turned away.
“Do you not?” Morgan’s retort was more a statement than a question, and he controlled an impulse to smile, for Warin had just given him the very opening they needed. “How, then, do you manage to keep faith with yourself? The gift of healing is, after all, a kind of magic, is it not?”
“Magic?” Warin bristled as he whirled back to face Morgan. “That is blasphemy! How dare you profane so holy a sign of God’s favor by comparison with your foul and heretical powers?! Our Lord was a healer. Why, you are not worthy even to breathe the same air as He!”
“That may well be,” Morgan replied neutrally. “Such is not for me to judge—or you, I think. But, tell me. What is your understanding of the gift of healing?”
“My—?” Warin blinked and hurriedly glanced at the others, but could discern no hint as to the purpose of the question. “Why, Holy Scripture tells us that Our Lord healed the sick, as did His disciples after He was gone. Surely, even you are aware of that.”
Morgan nodded. “And my Lord Bishop Cardiel, do you concur with Warin’s answer?”
Cardiel, who by choice had remained in the background until now, started as his name was spoken, then moved hesitantly into the firelight beside Morgan. The flickering light caught a heart of amethyst in his ring as he fingered the wooden crucifix around his neck and gazed across at the rebel leader.
“It has always been my belief that Our Lord and His disciples healed the sick and the lame,” he agreed cautiously.
“That is my belief as well,” Morgan said, turning back to Warin. “May I take it, then, that both of you would agree that healing is a God-given gift, one not to be trifled with?”
“It is,” Cardiel said.
“Certainly,” Warin replied, not batting an eye.
“And your personal power of healing,” Morgan said softly. “Would that also be considered a gift of God?”
“My pers—”
Kelson allowed himself a perturbed sigh and crossed his legs in exasperation. “Come now, Warin, don’t be coy. We know that you can heal. We saw you, minutes ago. We also have certain knowledge that you healed a man in Kingslake last spring. Do you deny it?”
“I—certainly not.” Warin reddened a little as he held himself more erect, chin lifting. “And if the Lord has appointed me to be His instrument, who am I to question His word?”
“Yes, I know,” Morgan said, nodding impatiently and holding up a hand for silence. “What you are saying, then, is that healing is a sign of God’s favor.”
“Yes.”
“And that only those favored by God can heal?”
“Yes.”
“Then, suppose that a Deryni were able to heal?” Morgan asked quietly.
“A Deryni?!”
“I have healed, Warin. And there can be no doubt that I am Deryni. Do you suppose it is possible, then, that God does favor at least some Deryni by giving them the healing gift? For that matter, perhaps the healing gift is actually a Deryni power….”
“That cannot be,” Warin whispered.
His men stood stunned, and Warin himself had turned as pale as whey, his face so blanched of color that the blank, uncomprehending eyes were the only things even remotely alive in the frozen face. There was a flurry of furtive whispering among Warin’s men at their leader’s reaction, quickly cut off when Warin suddenly reeled against one of them and had to clutch at his arm for momentary support. Then the rebel leader, no longer quite so rebellious, was blinking life back into his face, staring disbelievingly at Morgan with a look almost of terror on his face.
“You are mad!” he whispered when he was finally able to speak. “The Deryni corruption has addled your mind. Deryni cannot heal!”
“I healed Sean Lord Derry as he lay dying of an assassin’s blade in Rhemuth last fall,” Morgan said quietly. “Later, in the cathedral, I healed my own wounds. I speak the truth, Warin, though I cannot explain how I have done this. Both human and Deryni have felt my healing.”
“That is impossible,” Warin murmured, almost to himself. “It cannot be. The Deryni are spawn of Satan. So we have always been taught.”
Morgan laced his fingers together and studied his two thumbnails. “I was taught that as well, by some. At times, I have almost been willing to believe it, when I consider the terrible punishments meted out to Deryni in past years.
“But, I, too, was taught that healing comes of God. And if my hands can heal…well, then, perhaps God favors me as well, at least in this small way.”
“No, you lie!” Warin shook his head emphatically. “You lie—and you attempt to draw me into your lies!”
Morgan sighed and glanced at Kelson, at Cardiel and Duncan, then noticed that Duncan was sheathing his sword, a tiny, odd smile quirking at his lips. The priest raised an eyebrow at his cousin as he strode casually to join his colleagues before the fire. Warin and his men drew back suspiciously, a few of them eyeing the now unguarded door.
“Alaric Morgan does not lie,” Duncan said easily. “And if you are willing to listen instead of plotting an impossible escape, perhaps I can prove that to your satisfaction.”
Warin’s men quickly returned their attention to Duncan, and the rebel leader looked suspiciously at the priest.
“What, would you have him heal for us?” Warin asked contemptuously.
“That is precisely what I propose,” Duncan replied, his slight smile returning.
Morgan’s brow furrowed, and Cardiel shifted uneasily, his hand tightening on his crucifix. Kelson sat spellbound, for even he had never actually seen Morgan heal before. Duncan now had all of their undivided attention.
“Well, Warin?”
“But—whom should he heal?”
Duncan smiled his secret smile again. “I do have a proposal that may resolve our apparent dilemma. Warin, you refuse to listen to us unless Alaric can prove to your satisfaction that he speaks the truth. Alaric, you in turn cannot give Warin the proof he requires without someone to heal. I submit that one of us should allow himself to be slightly wounded, so that you may demonstrate your healing power and Warin may be satisfied. Since it was my idea, I offer myself to be the subject.”
“What?” said Kelson.
“It’s out of the question,” Morgan said flatly.
“Duncan, you must not!” came Cardiel’s simultaneous reply.
Warin and his men could only stare in utter disbelief.
“Well, why not?” Duncan asked. “Unless one of you has a better alternative, I think we have no choice. We are deadlocked unless one of us can break the impasse. And it needn’t be a serious wound. A scratch would suffice to prove our point. What say you, Warin? Would this satisfy you?”
“I—” Warin was speechless.
“And just who do you propose shall make this ‘scratch’?” Morgan finally asked, his gray eyes clearly showing his disapproval.
“You, or Kelson—it makes little difference,” Duncan replied, keeping his tone light.
Cardiel shook his head adamantly. “I cannot permit it. You are a priest. To shed a priest’s blood—”
“I am a suspended priest, Excellency. And you kn
ow that I must do what I must do.”
He hesitated for just an instant, then pulled his dagger from his belt and extended it across his forearm toward the three of them, hilt first.
“Come. One of you do the deed, and let’s be done with it. Otherwise, I may lose my nerve.”
“No!” Warin said suddenly. He took several steps toward the four but then stopped, strained but erect as he stared fearfully across at them.
“You have some objection?” Kelson asked, standing slowly in his place.
Warin wrung his hands together and then began pacing the room explosively, shaking his head and gesturing to punctuate his speech.
“’Tis treachery, treachery! I dare not trust you! If I did, I should never know if you had staged the entire thing for my benefit, if you had only appeared to wound this man and then appeared to heal him. That is no proof. Satan is a master of lies and illusions.”
Duncan glanced at his companions, then abruptly turned and extended the dagger’s hilt toward Warin.
“Then, you draw my blood,” he said evenly. “You make the wound whose healing will convince you that we speak the truth.”
“I?” Warin paled. “But, I have never—”
“Surely you do not claim that you have never shed blood,” Morgan retorted. “I very much doubt that. But if ’tis true, then it is even more important that you do the deed. If you want proof, you shall have it. But you yourself must be a part of the proving.”
Warin stared at them searchingly, clearly grappling with some inner demon, then took a step backward and eyed the dagger distastefully.
“Very well, I will do it. But not with that dagger. I must have one of our own, that I know to be untainted by Deryni sorcery.”
“As you wish,” Duncan said.
As he sheathed his dagger and began unbuckling his sword belt, Warin edged cautiously toward the pile of weapons confiscated earlier and sank to one knee beside it. He glanced over the assortment of weapons for several seconds, then selected a slender, cross-hilted dagger with ivory fittings. Firelight flashed on the polished blade as he unsheathed it and kissed the relic enclosed in the hilt. Then he rose wordlessly.
“I must ask,” said Duncan, “that you limit yourself to a wound which you yourself could heal.” His linen shirt was half-unlaced, and he pulled it from the waistband of his breeches preparatory to removing it. “Also, if you choose to deliver a potentially lethal wound, I must insist that it be a slow one. I shouldn’t like to bleed out before Alaric can bring his powers into play.”
Warin glanced away uncomfortably, tightening his sweaty grip on the dagger’s hilt. “I shall not wound you beyond my own power to heal.”
Nodding his acceptance, Duncan pulled his shirt off over his head and handed it to Morgan, who draped it over the back of the chair Kelson had vacated. The priest was pale but unafraid as he turned to face Warin.
Warin was trembling as he brought the dagger to waist level and approached—cautious, reluctant, yet drawn in horrified fascination that this enemy would permit what he was about to do. The thought crossed his mind that he could, if he chose, kill at least this one Deryni, but another part of him strangely shrank from that thought, as though already entertaining the possibility that these particular Deryni were telling the truth, terrifying though that was to contemplate.
When he had come within an arm’s length of Duncan, he stopped and forced himself to meet the calm blue eyes that gazed back at him, then shifted his focus downward. The priest’s torso, rarely exposed to the sun, was a pale ivory, almost like a woman’s, though there the similarity ended. The shoulders were broad and powerful, sleek with well-tempered muscles, with little body hair. A faint scar crossed the ribs below the left breast, another on the right bicep—training scars, probably.
Slowly Warin lifted the dagger point to eye level and brought it lightly to rest against Duncan’s left shoulder. The priest did not flinch as the steel touched his skin, but Warin could no longer meet the eyes.
“Do what you must do,” Duncan whispered, bracing himself for the thrust.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“You have probed me, and you know me.”
PSALMS 139:1
SUDDEN pain lanced deep into Duncan’s left shoulder, and his body recoiled in a vast shudder. In that first instant of shocked agony, he was aware of Warin’s eyes blazing insanely, of Kelson’s gasp of alarm, Alaric’s arm under his good shoulder as his knees gave way and he began to sag, borne down by the pain.
Then he was collapsing to the floor, and Alaric was snapping at Warin, the gray eyes ablaze with anger, sanity returning to Warin’s face as he recoiled in horror from what he had done.
Through the haze of his own disbelief and shock, Duncan felt Alaric’s fingers probing at the blade that still pierced into his shoulder, the reassuring strength of his cousin’s strong arm supporting his head.
Then Cardiel was moving all the others back—all except Alaric. Besides them, Warin was the closest other one in the room. Alaric bent closer, his eyes like pools of storm, lips moving in words Duncan could not quite understand.
“Duncan? Duncan, focus! Can you hear me? Damn you, Warin! This is more than we agreed! Duncan, listen to me! It’s Alaric.”
Duncan found that, by concentrating, he could make the lips’ movement match the words that sounded muffled to his ears. He blinked and stared up at his cousin dazedly for what seemed like an eternity, then managed a weak nod. Extending out of range beyond his chin, he could just see the hilt of Warin’s little ivory-fitted dagger, the ivory darkly stained with his blood.
He looked again at Alaric, feeling a wave of calm brush his mind as his kinsman’s right hand touched lightly on his forehead and then returned to the hilt of the dagger.
“It’s a serious wound,” the golden Deryni murmured, searching his eyes. “If you can stand the pain, I need you to stay conscious while I work. I’m not altogether certain I can do this alone.”
Duncan turned his head slightly to glance at the dagger again, his cheek resting momentarily against his kinsman’s hand.
“Go ahead,” he whispered. “I’ll do my best.”
He saw the gray eyes close once in agreement, then felt the arm beneath him raising him slightly so that he was resting against Alaric’s chest. The left hand was curved to stanch the wound now, once the dagger was withdrawn by the right. Duncan raised his right hand to Alaric’s left, ready to add whatever assistance he could, then braced himself for the withdrawal of the steel.
“Do it now,” he murmured.
He gasped at the scrape of metal against bone, the sear of steel in muscle, sinew, nerve, like fire. Then his life’s blood was pumping into the still night air, Alaric’s agile fingers pressing to the wound, his own right hand suddenly going wet to the feel of his own hot blood. But then Alaric’s mind was wrapping around his own, soothing, calming, damping and even quenching the agony.
Something deep inside him detached itself from the pain then. All at once he was able to open his eyes and gaze up into Alaric’s deep gray ones, losing himself in their depths. Rapport was found and established in a heartbeat, minds linked stronger than the link of hands could ever be.
Alaric closed his eyes then, and Duncan did the same, sinking to yet another level. Through some faculty far beyond mere hearing, he began to sense a deep, musical thrum. The bond deepened, and an all-pervading peace began to wrap itself around him, almost as though a shadowy hand, without form or substance, were laying itself across his feverish brow. Fleetingly he seemed to sense another Presence linked with him and Alaric, one he had never seen or heard before.
Then, very suddenly, he knew that it was done, that the bleeding stopped. He opened his eyes to find Alaric’s golden head still bowed over him, felt the bond begin to dissolve away. He stirred slightly against Alaric’s arm as his kinsman opened his eyes, lifting his head far enough to peer down at the three bloodstained hands that rested on his left shoulder. The top hand—Alaric’s—lifted; a
nd simultaneously his own and Alaric’s other hand fell away.
The wound was gone! All he could see was a very faint line on the skin where the blade had entered—a line that was fast fading—but even of the monstrous quantity of blood that had escaped his body, there was little trace except on their hands. He held up his own bloodied hand, glanced at Alaric’s, then let his head loll back against Alaric’s shoulder to look up for the first time at the circle of watchers. Warin was closest—drawn, white, awestruck—and beside him Kelson and Cardiel, Warin’s men clumped in a scared, incredulous knot a little to the right. Duncan managed a weak smile and lowered his hand slowly, then glanced up at Alaric.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
Alaric allowed himself a wry smile and shifted Duncan’s weight to help him sit up.
“So,” the Deryni duke said, looking directly at Warin. “Can you accept what you have seen? Will you concede that, if your premise of healing being a God-given gift is correct, God also gives to the Deryni?”
A pale Warin shook his head, but in wonder rather than denial. “It cannot be true. Deryni cannot heal. Yet you healed. Therefore healing must be a Deryni power as well. And I, who also heal…”
His voice trailed off as the full implications of this line of reasoning began to sink in, and his face went even paler, if that were possible. Noting the reaction, Morgan guessed that he had finally achieved at least part of his original purpose. With an understanding smile, he helped Duncan to his feet and betook both of them to the basin and ewer set on a nightstand, pouring water into the basin so he and Duncan could wash the blood from their hands.
“Yes, you must face that possibility now,” he said softly to Warin over his shoulder. “It’s a great deal to assimilate, I know—and if you had been told before, you would not have listened. You had to see it demonstrated.” He dried off his hands and turned to face Warin. “And here’s another possibility that you would have been unable to consider. We believe that you, too, may be Deryni.”
High Deryni Page 24
