“That’s exactly what I’d like to know.”
Morgan had hoped that the sacristy might be unoccupied during the ceremony, but the presence of Saint George’s elderly sacristan was not unexpected. The old man had been nodding in the meager sunshine of an oriel window at the other end of the room when they entered and woke with a start as the door closed behind them.
“Who’s that?”
“Ah, Brother Jerome, is that you?” Morgan said, shifting his grip on the tottering Dhugal. “The boy’s been taken ill. He needs to sit down.”
Frail and failing of eyesight, the old monk shuffled closer to squint quizzically at Morgan and his obviously ailing companion.
“Why, ’tis the Duke o’ Corwyn—an’ who’s this?” the old man said, his tone conveying just a trace of wariness along with surprised respect. “Here, laddie, sit ye doon. Ye look a trifle peaked. What’s wrong with the boy, Yer Grace?”
“Nothing serious, I hope,” Morgan replied, letting Jerome help him seat Dhugal on a low settle next to a vestment press. “I think it was just the closeness of the air in the choir. Maybe the incense was too much for him.” He ventured a sidelong glance at Jerome as he felt for the pulse in Dhugal’s wrist. “I’m sure he’ll be all right in a few minutes. Do you think the archbishop would mind if you raided his sacramental wine for a wee dram?”
“Ach, o’ course not, Yer Grace. ’Twill be just th’ thing. Wait ye here.”
As the old man shuffled across the room, fumbling with a ring of keys hanging at his waist, Morgan leaned closer to Dhugal’s ear. The boy’s breathing was shallow, his head leaned against the side of the press, eyes closed.
“Dhugal, sit still and don’t be surprised at anything you see,” he whispered, touching a forefinger to his lips for silence as the boy opened his eyes. “I think Brother Jerome is going to take a little nap.”
Morgan could sense Dhugal’s startled question through the fog of his distress, but he put it out of mind as he crossed to where Jerome was trying to match a key to the lock on the wine cabinet.
“I know I hae th’ key here somewhere,” Jerome was muttering.
“Why don’t you try that one?” Morgan said, deftly slipping one arm around the stooped shoulders as if to point one out, before he pressed his other hand over the old man’s forehead and eyes.
“Never mind, old friend. Just go to sleep and forget all this,” he whispered. “That’s right …”
The old man was no challenge at all. As he started to buckle at the knees, already deep asleep, Morgan shifted control and steadied him enough to walk him carefully back to the seat in the oriel window. Soft snoring followed Morgan as he returned to the dazed and awestruck Dhugal.
“Don’t touch me,” Dhugal whispered, going rigid as Morgan took his hand and pulled him to his feet. “Please. What did you do to that old man? Where are we going?”
“I didn’t hurt Brother Jerome, and I’m not going to hurt you,” Morgan said, only tightening his grip on Dhugal’s wrist. “Come stand here with me. If you don’t cooperate, it will only be more difficult for both of us.”
“No. Please!”
Shaking his head sympathetically, for there was no time to explain, Morgan half-dragged the reluctant Dhugal to the center of the room where the floor tiles marked out a squared cross just large enough for two people to stand side by side. As he spun Dhugal away from him, clamping his hands on the boy’s shoulders, Dhugal tried again to pull away.
“If you can let yourself relax, this will be a great deal easier,” Morgan murmured, slipping one arm around the boy’s neck from behind for a choke hold if he did not stop struggling. “One way or another, I’m going to take you through something called a Transfer Portal. It’s a Deryni way of getting somewhere in a hurry.”
“It’s—magic?” Dhugal gasped, panic flaring around him with an almost physical resistance.
Morgan sensed him drawing breath to cry out. The last thing they needed was to attract more attention. Biting back his annoyance, for it was hardly Dhugal’s fault he was frightened, he tightened his arm across the boy’s throat and clapped his other hand over the gasping mouth, reaching out with his mind for the controls that would bring unconsciousness. Dhugal only struggled harder, his fear and his now wildly pulsing shields making psychic control all but impossible unless Morgan wanted to risk really hurting him. He nearly had to wrestle Dhugal to the floor before he could feel the choke hold starting to take its toll.
“I’m sorry, son,” he murmured, as he felt the dark start to swoop down on the boy’s mind and Dhugal ceased his squirming. “But I told you, one way or the other, you’re going. I don’t have time for niceties. That’s right,” he finished, as Dhugal slumped in his arms.
He could feel the Portal tingling beneath his feet as he straightened once again, shifting both arms to a firm hold around Dhugal’s chest. Drawing a deep breath and closing his eyes, he visualized his destination and opened his mind to the energies binding the two locations, reaching out to shift their balance. Abruptly he was standing elsewhere in close darkness, Dhugal a dead weight in his arms.
Cautiously he felt along one corner of the compartment for the stud that would let them out, conjuring handfire with an impatient gesture when he could not readily locate the stud by touch alone. By the greenish light, he found the stud at last—he had been searching the wrong corner initially. When he pushed it, the adjacent wall pivoted away from him with a soft hush of still air stirred, also pushing back a heavy tapestry that ordinarily concealed the door’s outline.
The room beyond was deserted, softly lit by daylight filtering through the amber glass mullions of the window to their right. A fireplace dominated the left-hand wall, with a thick carpet covering the stone floor before it. There Morgan laid the unconscious Dhugal, making a pillow of his cloak to cushion the boy’s head. A few soft-spoken words closed the door to the Portal chamber and brought flame to torches set in wall cressets. As an afterthought, as Morgan knelt down beside the boy, he quenched the handfire hovering at his shoulder; no sense having that frighten Dhugal when he came to.
And there was certainly enough to frighten him without that. Even in unconsciousness, the reaction triggered in the cathedral continued to pulse around Dhugal’s tight-locked shields. An added complication was the constant ache of his injuries, only aggravated by Morgan’s less than gentle handling—but for that, at least, Morgan might have a solution.
“Let’s just see if I can heal around those shields,” he muttered to himself, quickly unlacing the thongs closing Dhugal’s tunic front and the shirt beneath.
A wide bandage bound the bruised chest, but if Morgan took the time to remove it, Dhugal might regain consciousness before he was finished. No matter. He could work around it. Laying his palms on Dhugal’s chest above and below the turns of greyish linen, hands rising and falling with Dhugal’s shallow breathing, he slid his fingertips as far under the bandage from either side as he could, already reaching out with his mind to read the damage as he closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath. Dhugal’s shields were avoidable at this level—perceivable as an annoyance, a distraction, but they did not interfere. Without further hesitation, Morgan shifted into the healing mode which had become more and more second nature in the past three years, letting his senses extend through his hands and into Dhugal’s body.
The damage was not great. This healing would require very little drain of him, for life energy was not threatened. Smoothly, Morgan set the healing process in motion, mending torn cartilage and muscle, knitting bone, sending rich, life-bearing blood to melt away the bruising, not only in Dhugal’s chest but in all parts of his body. He felt it in himself as a tingling and a resonance which reached to the furthest corners of his being, evoking such a surge of joy that the pleasure was almost pain. With that came the fleeting but familiar impression of unseen hands superimposed on his own—the Camber touch, as he had come to think of it.
Then the flow was slacking and he was ope
ning his eyes, a little light-headed until he remembered to take a few deep breaths; he sometimes forgot to breathe as much as he should, when in his healing trance. He blinked and settled back into normal consciousness, heaving another deep sigh, then began slowly undoing the bandages which still bound Dhugal’s chest. As he gently eased his patient to a half-sitting position against his knee, to unwind from behind, Dhugal’s eyelids fluttered and he groaned.
“Just take it easy, my young friend,” Morgan murmured, bracing the boy with one arm while he continued to unwind the bandage. “You’ll be fine in a few seconds. I’m sorry I had to take you out the way I did, but it was either that or hit you. It seemed to me you’d had enough of hitting lately. And it was obvious I wasn’t going to be able to use the approach I used on Brother Jerome.”
“On Brother Jerome—” Dhugal repeated groggily. “What did you—what’re you doing?”
“Taking off your bandages.”
“But—”
“Well, you don’t need them anymore,” Morgan replied, pulling the last turn free of Dhugal’s shirt and sitting back on his heels to begin winding the linen into a roll as he saw that Dhugal was capable of sitting on his own.
Dhugal blinked and glanced down stupidly at his bare chest inside his shirt, touching tentative fingertips to the once-bruised ribs, then shivered as he looked up again, his face pinched and still.
“Did you—heal me?” he whispered.
Morgan finished winding up the bandage and tossed it onto a chair behind him, not taking his eyes from Dhugal’s.
“I did. Would you rather I’d left you in pain?”
Confusion played on Dhugal’s face for an instant, old fear warring with new curiosity, and then the boy warily lay back on his makeshift pillow, gaze shifting deliberately to the fireplace.
“You used your magic on me, didn’t you? And on that monk.”
“Brother Jerome?” Morgan shrugged. “I don’t know that I’d really call that magic. It’s one of the things I can do as a Deryni, but—” He shrugged again and managed a tentative smile.
“As for the healing, I don’t think that’s magic—but I suppose I’d be hard-pressed to tell you what I do think it is. So far as Duncan and I can figure out, it’s a rare talent even among Deryni.
Other than ourselves, we haven’t found anyone else who can do it—except for a human named Warin de Grey. And he thinks that his gift comes from God. Maybe it does. Maybe that’s the source of our healing as well.”
“And that’s what makes you say it isn’t magic?” Dhugal asked. “Because someone who isn’t Deryni can do it, too?”
Morgan cocked his head tentatively. “I don’t know that I’ve ever given it much thought. I consider most of what I do as a talent—that’s all. Magic is mostly—oh, something that Charissa did to kill King Brion, or what Wencit of Torenth did. You’ve at least heard rumors about those, I’m sure.”
“But those were evil things,” Dhugal objected. “Are you saying that if powers are used for good, they’re talents, but if they’re used for evil, they’re magic?”
Morgan could not help chuckling at the simple logic.
“I suppose I have come off sounding as if that’s what I meant,” he admitted, shifting to a sitting position on the carpet to ease his cramped knees. “Actually, I suppose I was reacting to your negative view of magic—the negative view most people have, for that matter. Magic simply has to do with harnessing power which is not accessible to most people. The power itself—Let me try to put it to you another way. Power exists. Correct?”
“Of course.”
“I think you’ll even grant me that many kinds of power exist—that power can come from many sources. Yes?”
Dhugal nodded.
“Good. Let’s take fire as just one example of power, then,” Morgan went on, rubbing his hands together briskly and holding them toward the cold hearth as he glanced back at Dhugal. “Fire can be used for many beneficial purposes. It can give us light, like those torches on the walls,” he gestured vaguely with his chin, “and it can warm a room.”
A mental nudge sent flames springing up bright from the kindling already laid, and Dhugal scrambled to a sitting position to stare.
“How did you do that?”
“I think it’s sufficient for now to acknowledge that I did it,” Morgan replied, “and that providing light or heating a cold room are good things. But fire can also be destructive when out of control or when turned to evil use. It can burn down a house—or heat hot irons to take a man’s sight.”
His expression hardened as the memory surfaced of a Deryni lord who, half a century before, had allowed himself to be blinded to ransom captive Deryni children: Barrett de Laney, one of the most venerable members of the Camberian Council—the same Camberian Council that scorned Morgan and Duncan for being only half Deryni, even though the two “half-breeds” could heal.
As Morgan’s old bitterness welled to the surface, Dhugal suddenly became very still and stared at him, the rigid shields blurring just a little for the first time since Morgan had become aware of them. Clear as sunlight, compassion surged across the intervening space: pure, clean, untainted by fear or mistrust.
“Did you see someone blinded that way?” Dhugal asked softly.
As Morgan glanced at him in surprise, the shields tightened down immediately, but Morgan thought he saw a new note of acceptance in the tawny eyes which continued to meet his bravely—perhaps an echo of Dhugal’s own interest in healing, if only from the limited sphere of his training as a battle surgeon. Suddenly Morgan wondered whether Dhugal was Deryni, and perhaps a potential healer, at that.
“No, I never saw it done,” he said hesitantly, “and thank God for that—but it’s been a common enough practice, through the centuries. I have a—an acquaintance who lost his sight that way.” He blinked. “But this is not the time to digress. I’ve pointed out some of the things that fire does. Does that make the fire good or evil?”
“It isn’t either,” Dhugal replied carefully. “It’s how the fire’s used. The same hot iron that cost your friend his sight also could have been used to cauterize a wound.”
Morgan nodded, pleased. “So it could. And what does that tell you about power in general?”
“That it isn’t the power—it’s how the power’s used that makes it constructive or destructive.” Dhugal paused for just an instant. “Are you saying that magic is the same?”
“Precisely the same.”
“But the priests say—”
“The priests say what they have been told to say for the last two hundred years,” Morgan returned briskly. “Deryni have not always been persecuted, and not all ‘magic’ has been anathema until fairly recently. Black magic—extraordinary power applied to destructive or selfish ends—has always been condemned by the righteous. But those who could harness extraordinary power for the aid of man—for healing and for defending against the abuse of power—traditionally have been called miracle workers and saints. They were also once called Deryni.”
“But there were evil Deryni!” Dhugal objected. “And there still are. What about Charissa and Wencit?”
“They were Deryni who used their gifts for evil. The gifts themselves …” Morgan sighed. “Do you think I’m an evil person?”
Dhugal’s face went very still. “No. But they say—”
“They say what, Dhugal?” Morgan whispered. “And who are they? And do they ever give an accounting of what I’ve done, or is it all because of what I am?”
“I … never thought about it that way before.”
“No, I don’t suppose you did.” Morgan glanced at the Haldane signet on his right hand, balanced by the Corwyn gryphon on his left. “I’ll make you a bargain, Dhugal. I can’t speak for Duncan or Kelson, but if you can name one specific instance in which you think that I’ve misused my powers, I’ll submit to whatever justice you think is appropriate. Should I not have helped Kelson defeat the woman who killed his father and would have kil
led him to seize his throne? Should I have let the former archbishops continue the lie and bring down Gwynedd by undermining her rightful king? Should I not have healed you?”
Dhugal shook his head, unwilling to meet Morgan’s eyes.
“Dhugal, I may have access to more and other kinds of power than most men,” Morgan continued softly, “but I must answer for the use of that power to the same God and king that you do—or that any of the priests and bishops do—and to my own conscience as well, which can be a far sterner taskmaster. Because I’ve been given far greater abilities, I’ve had to contend with far greater responsibilities. I didn’t ask for either—but I have them. All I can do is serve the best way I know how. Kelson’s father taught me honor and chivalry, and I’ve tried never to betray the trust he put in me. I hope I’ve not been too unsuccessful—despite the fact that I’m Deryni.”
But he was to be given no chance to hear Dhugal’s judgment, for at that moment a fumbling at the door latch announced visitors. As Morgan came to his feet, already aware of their identities, the door opened and Duncan peered around the edge and entered, standing aside to admit Kelson and Bishop Arilan. Dhugal got to his feet more slowly as Kelson came to give him a hand up and search his face questioningly. Arilan came straight to Morgan, his lean face set in tight-checked disapproval.
“Why wasn’t I told you’d found another Deryni?” he said through his teeth, drawing Morgan aside. “And what the devil was he trying to do out there?”
Morgan sighed and picked up his cloak, far more concerned for Dhugal, deep in whispered conversation with Kelson and Duncan, than with an opinion of Arilan.
“First of all, Bishop, we don’t know that he’s necessarily Deryni—only that he has shields that we can’t breach and he can’t control,” Morgan murmured, slinging his cloak around his shoulders and fastening the clasp. “As for what he was trying to do, I can only guess that he was trying to shut out the psychic overflow from Duncan’s consecration. Surely you’re aware that such a ritual generates a great deal of energy, especially if the central participant is Deryni.”
The Bishop’s Heir Page 27
