It was probably a mercy of sorts, for travel in the lurching litters would not be particularly pleasant, even though they were deep and well padded with cushions. Javan could see little Carrollan curled in the curve of his mother’s arm, already asleep, just before the battle surgeon drew the curtain back into place. The other two litters held Sitric’s elderly mother and his sister, a handsome young woman in her twenties. The hostages also were chained by one wrist to the frames of their litters, lest any seek to escape despite the lethargy of drugs.
They rode out just before noon, lightly armored over their riding leathers, with Javan leading at the head of Robear’s lancers and Charlan bearing the royal standard, he and Guiscard flanking the king. Paulin and Lior rode with Rhun and four knights in Rhun’s livery, directly behind the royal party. Albertus’ Custodes knights fell into place as vanguard behind the litters and baggage train.
As they picked their way down the cobbled descent from the castle mount and through the city, exiting the city gates to head northward along the familiar river road north, the people came out to cheer them as they passed, for the king had not ventured forth in formal procession for some time.
Javan knew he looked like a proper king as he rode forth that May morning. The cream stallion pranced and curvetted, sometimes mincing sideways under the bright flutter of the Haldane banner Charlan carried. The surcoat Javan wore over his leather jazerant bore the Haldane lion picked out in rich gold bullion, bright against the crimson, and the hilt of the Haldane sword at his knee caught the light like a thing alive. The circlet of running lions was on his head, rich gold against the sable hair caught back at the nape of his neck in a short queue. The metal plates sewn between the layers of the jazerant made it heavy, but the weather still was brisk. Even under the noonday sun, the crimson mantle collared with black fox was not too much.
It was good to be out under the open sky, good to be riding on a mission that had a noble purpose to it. Javan inhaled deeply of the fresh spring air and found himself grinning as he glanced wickedly from Charlan to Guiscard, glanced back at Robear and Bertrand in warning of what he was about to do, then gave the cream stallion its head to bolt into a gallop of sheer joy. Guiscard and Charlan moved as one with him and six Haldane lancers spurred after to guard him, while Robear held up an indulgent hand to keep the rest back and let the train continue its slow, sedate pace.
The king turned around and came back after half a mile’s race, reining back into his place with a grin of thanks to Robear and thereafter settling into the decorum that was expected of a monarch.
That night they lay at a priory of the Ordo Verbi Dei, just a few miles short of a Custodes establishment. Paulin had offered the hospitality of his own Order, but Javan politely declined. The royal party and their hostages received lodgings within the guest quarters of the priory, whose brethren were greatly honored by the royal visit, and the soldiers camped contentedly outside the priory walls in the mild weather.
This became the pattern of their travel for the next week, travelling in easy stages because of the horse litters and baggage train and staying in monastic accommodations, taking the longer but easier river route rather than striking out directly across country. Each morning, the king and at least a dozen of his knights and lancers spurred several miles ahead for exercise, and to take the edge off their battle-ready mounts, before returning to rejoin the sedate procession of horse litters and baggage only barely started out. Such travel quickly became tedious, but Javan consoled himself with the promise of a faster return journey, once the hostages had been delivered.
The last night before their expected arrival at Master Revan’s riverside campsite, Javan shared a bottle of wine with Charlan and Guiscard in the quarters vacated by the Abbot of Saint Mark’s for his royal visitor. They had bypassed the comforts of the Archbishop’s Palace at Valoret, even though Hubert was not in residence, to press on closer to their intended destination.
“We’ll be there tomorrow,” Javan said, pouring wine for his two aides, who also had become his closest friends. “What do you think?”
Guiscard turned his cup in his hand, studying its contents, and glanced over at Javan.
“I’d love to interview either Paulin or Albertus alone,” he said quietly. “I can’t put my finger on anything specific, but they’re up to no good. I’ve managed to chat with a few of the Custodes officers, but I think they’ve been told not to fraternize with the opposition. There’s definitely a feeling of two camps—and we’re not in the same one they are.”
“Do you think we should turn back? We could hole up at Valoret.”
Guiscard shook his head. “I don’t see what that would accomplish, other than to delay your own plans. It certainly wouldn’t resolve the hostage situation. At least we know Revan is on our side. And we do well outnumber the Custodes.”
“Charlan?” Javan asked, turning his gaze on the other young knight.
Charlan shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t add anything. Just the same uneasiness you’re both feeling.” He sighed. “But I suppose we’ll find out tomorrow whether we’re letting our imaginations run wild.”
They were on their way shortly after first light, for even leaving early, they still would not reach their destination until midafternoon. It was a bright, crystalline day, brisk when they set out but growing pleasantly warm by noon. Javan pushed his cloak back on his shoulders and began to scan ahead with greater interest.
They arrived at their destination just past noon. As Javan and his aides crested the little bluff that overlooked the bend in the river, Guiscard bearing the royal standard today, Javan could see the scenario spread before them as it had been the one other time he had been there. The crowd was not so large as it had been that other time, when Revan’s ministry was new; but at least thirty or forty people were gathered around the still pool formed by the river’s bend, in addition to the half dozen or so of Revan’s disciples who were always present. Some showed evidence of recent immersion in the pool; others merely listened. A large proportion of them seemed to be women and children.
Revan, too, appeared much as he had when Javan first had seen him: a thin, slightly stooped figure in a robe of unbleached wool, standing ankle-deep in the water, light-brown hair falling around his shoulders, the upturned face shadowed with a beard and moustache that had not filled out appreciably in nearly four years. The graceful hands were uplifted in exhortation to heaven, and the pleasant voice drifted upward on a fresh breeze as Javan let his horse move a few steps closer.
Up on the dry sand of the spit, where his audience sat or knelt, a rusty brown mantle and a hairy goatskin pouch lay discarded beside a figure Javan thought he recognized as the Healer Sylvan O’Sullivan, Revan’s familiar olivewood staff thrust into the sand beside him. Several more faces along the front row looked familiar from before—some of Revan’s principal disciples. Tavis and Queron were among them.
“It is not enough merely to be purified,” Revan was saying to his rapt audience. “Ye must maintain purity, by the example of your lives. Those who walked in darkness must eschew it and embrace the Light. God’s grace can bring cleansing to those who truly repent and offer themselves before His mercy. Yea, even Deryni may feel His grace. The gateway to heaven is narrow, but God is merciful to those who truly repent.”
He noticed Javan’s arrival about then, and though he gave no immediate sign as first Paulin and then Albertus also crested the hill, to draw rein to either side of the king and his attendant knights, his audience soon noticed. Albertus would only be a black-clad knight added to the ones in Haldane livery, though helmeted where the other two showed bare-headed, dark and fair, but Paulin wore the full ceremonial attire of his office as Vicar General of the Custodes Fidei, bearing the haloed-lion staff of the Order footed in his stirrup like a lance. The gradual appearance of more armed men behind the king gave further cause for uneasiness, so that a babble of anxious speculation rippled through the company, momentarily drowning out Revan??
?s words.
Before Paulin or Albertus could do or say anything to set things off in the wrong direction, Javan swung down from the big cream stallion he rode and motioned forward the horse litter carrying Birgit O’Carroll and her son. Father Lior followed on horseback, a Deryni pricker already in his hand. The Custodes battle surgeon was walking beside the litter and pulled back the curtain as its groom halted the lead horse.
The hostages had not been drugged as heavily this morning, and the human Birgit not at all. Birgit looked younger than the first time Javan had seen her, perhaps revived somewhat by the shred of hope being offered, for Javan had briefed the hostages on what to expect before leaving the abbey this morning.
“Come, my lady,” he said, holding out his hand to her. “Your salvation awaits you.”
Trembling, she clutched her son closer to her. Then, at Javan’s nod of reassurance, she tentatively slid one foot out of the horse litter. Charlan was waiting to hand her down, Bertrand to scoop up the boy and, before he or his mother could protest, deposit him in the red leather saddle Javan had just vacated.
The boy’s hazel eyes went wide with awe as he clung to the pommel and looked around him, reaching out one chubby hand to pat a strand of the stallion’s mane. The woman shrank back as Charlan set his hands to her waist, and looked almost weak with relief when the young knight had set her sideways in the saddle behind her son. Throughout, Javan stood caressing the stallion’s nose, gentling the great beast, his eyes never leaving his charges until he was certain they were settled.
“You surely do not mean to take them down yourself, Sire,” Paulin said, obviously scandalized.
Javan gave him a taut, nervous smile. “Who better, my lord? Sir Bertrand will come with me, if you wish. No one else here present has felt the Master Revan’s touch—though if any of your men wish to accompany us, to submit themselves for purification, I have no objection.”
Put in such terms, the offer did not brook acceptance. A few of Paulin’s men stirred uneasily, but a look from Paulin stilled them. Signalling Bertrand that he need not come, Javan set his hands on the stallion’s bridle and began walking him slowly down the slope toward the pool, young Carrollan grinning imperturbably, if a little sleepily, his mother hanging on to the saddle for dear life. Just at the bottom, Queron came forward to hold the horse, his message passing in a flash as his hand brushed Javan’s in taking the reins.
Tavis is here but blocked, in case Paulin should insist upon testing him. Locally, he’s known to have undergone the purification and has become one of Revan’s most trusted disciples. Now you’re going to have to convince Paulin and the others that it really “took.”
Queron bowed low over the reins to cover any betrayal of expression, giving Javan time to cast his glance over the others of Revan’s disciples. Tavis was standing not far from Revan near the edge of the pool, the dark-red hair ablaze in the wan sunlight, the water-pale eyes like two holes burned through his head to the pool beyond.
Javan feigned shock as he saw him, for all the Court believed that he and Tavis had parted on bad terms four years before. The Healer also stiffened and then sank to his knees, his handless left wrist clasped piously by the right hand at his breast. Not taking his eyes from the now-kneeling Tavis O’Neill, Javan stiffly moved closer to the water’s edge and Revan.
“The prince has become a king since last we met, Sire,” Revan said softly, not coming any closer.
Javan shifted his focus to Revan, the grey eyes hard, playing his assigned part.
“Has that man been long with you, Master Revan?” he asked, pointing.
Revan inclined his head. “Brother Tavis came to us several years ago, Sire. He was Deryni, as your Highness well knows, but he humbled himself before the Lord of Hosts and renounced his past. The waters of mercy gave him birth to a new life. There remains no taint in him, your Highness, just as there remains no taint in you.”
Turning away slightly, Javan muttered, “He betrayed our friendship. He abandoned me.”
“And it was well that he should, Sire, for in staying, he would have dulled the purification that was yours. And now I see that you bring others to be purified as well. Do they come of their own free will?”
Wearily Javan nodded. “They do. The lady’s husband was the Deryni Ursin, who came to you last time we met. She is not Deryni, but their son is. It was Ursin’s fervent prayer that you grant cleansing to his wife and son.”
“I remember Brother Ursin,” Revan replied, inclining his head. “But your Highness speaks in the past tense. Has Brother Ursin passed on?”
“Yes,” Javan whispered.
“I am sorry to hear that,” Revan said. “I shall pray for him. Tell me, Sire, did he keep his purity?”
Javan nodded. “He was to have entered a monastic establishment as a lay scribe, there to offer up his skills in expiation for past sins. I—pray that he has found peace.”
“That is my prayer, as well, Sire—and my prayer for his family. Brother Aaron, let us proceed.”
At Revan’s signal, Queron handed down first Birgit and then her son, urging them on down the slope toward Revan while he continued to keep the stallion gentle. The boy clung tightly to his mother’s hand as they went, apparently a little intimidated by the bearded men standing in the water in strange robes. Birgit stopped a few yards from Revan and made him a nervous curtsey, only fearfully meeting his eyes as the boy shifted to hug her around the legs, face buried against her knees.
“Is it true, Master?” she whispered. “Is it true that you bring healing?”
“I alone can do nothing,” Revan said, “but the Lord of Hosts is strong and is able to do great wonders.”
“Can He take the taint from my son?” she asked, tears welling in her eyes. “Can aught cleanse us from the contagion?”
“Faith in the Lord can cleanse all from all, my sister,” Revan declared, holding out his hand. “Will you be washed in the Mercy?”
As she stared at him, swaying on her feet, caught in his charisma but not yet brave enough to take his hand, Revan began to pray, lifting his arms and eyes heavenward as he had that day Javan had come to him.
“O Lord, look with favor upon this, your daughter, who desires to draw nearer to Your divine Countenance yet is assailed by human fears. She has walked in darkness, but Your Light calls to her still. Give her courage to humble herself before You, O Lord, and grant unto me, Your servant, the grace to reach out to her and draw her to Your salvation …”
Like all of Revan’s prayers, it was calculated to wrench at the heart. Javan let the words stir a response in him as well, after a moment sinking down on one knee in the sand and bowing his head, in example to the one who was the true focus of Revan’s words.
She was already under his spell, rapt eyes fixed on his face, lips moving in silent prayer. As Revan began backing into the water, holding out his hands to her, she started walking blindly after him, drawing the boy along. Just before she reached the water’s edge, the Deryni Sylvan and another of Revan’s disciples moved in quietly to join her, Sylvan picking up the boy and the other man steadying the mother as she waded in.
In that instant, Javan knew the deed was already done, and let himself peer out from under lowered lashes as they reached Revan, now waist deep in the water, and Sylvan put the boy back in his mother’s arms. The lad twined his arms around her neck and locked his little legs around her waist, no trace of fear remaining as he peered over his mother’s shoulder at Revan. The fear seemed to have gone out of her eyes as well.
“It is good, my sister,” Revan murmured, setting one hand on her other shoulder and brushing back hair from the boy’s forehead with his other hand. “Have faith in the Lord of Hosts, for He shall sustain you. What is your name?”
“B-Birgit, Master,” she stammered.
“Birgit—a beautiful name for a brave and beautiful soul,” Revan replied. “And the boy?”
“Carrollan, for his grandfather,” she whispered.
 
; “Carrollan,” Revan repeated, his gentle smile eliciting a grin from the boy. “The water’s cold, isn’t it?”
Soberly the boy nodded.
“Well, this won’t take long. Carrollan, you and your mother are going to duck under the water. I know you probably think it’s a very silly thing, to duck under the water with all your clothes on, but do you think you can hold on very tightly? And my lady, simply lie back when I bid you. I and the Holy Spirit will do all else.”
As the boy and his mother nodded, the boy’s eyes wide with awe, Revan slipped his one arm farther around Birgit’s shoulders, bidding his disciples back off a few paces before raising his free hand.
“O Holy Spirit, descend upon these, Thy servants, and free them of whatever evil may have assailed them,” he said, bringing his hand to the back of Carrollan’s head. “Give to this woman that peace of mind that can only come from purity in Thy sight, and grant mercy to this child, that his innocence may be restored.”
He tipped them backward as he spoke, invoking the Trinity as their heads disappeared beneath the water.
“Be ye purified of all darkness, in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, that ye may regain that holy vision of the Light that brings all souls at last unto the Lord.”
He was bringing them up again as he and those around him uttered a confident “Amen.” Javan got to his feet as Revan brought the two back toward shore, where one of the women waited with a towel. As they all emerged, streaming with water, Javan took off his mantle and laid it around the woman’s shoulders, then crouched down to help dry the boy’s face. The faint vestiges of Deryni power discernible before were gone, and Javan had no doubt that Carrollan O’Carroll would now react only as human to the test of merasha.
He headed back toward Queron and the stallion, one hand supporting the woman’s elbow and the other closed around one of the boy’s small ones, glancing up and beyond them at Paulin and the others waiting at the top of the hill. Over to the right, he saw Robear sitting his horse beside Albertus’ second-in-command, both men staring hard across the bend of the river, Robear standing in his stirrups to point aghast at a line of horsemen emerging over the crest of the next rise. The men were heavily armored and bore the enflamed white cross moline fitchy of the outlawed Order of Saint Michael on their surcoats of Michaeline blue.