The Harrowing of Gwynedd

  And then, stark as any physical presence he had ever noted under the brightest noonday sun, Queron saw Saint Camber’s face floating before his psychic Sight, pale silver-grey eyes boring into his.

  A part of Queron shouted that this was impossible, that he had hardly even met Camber MacRorie in life—some few passing conversations during a retreat, many, many years ago—but another part of him knew that it was Camber, indeed, regardless of any mere facts.

  And yet, what more appropriate than that the Deryni saint should vouchsafe an appearance to one who had just made an unreserved commitment to the company that bore his name? In his mind’s eye Queron saw Camber lift his hands in blessing—or beckoning?—and sensed the shock and confusion of Joram and Evaine, still locked with him in unshatterable rapport.

  Yet Queron was not afraid; and he sensed they were not afraid either. Camber was their father, after all, for all that he was a saint. Still, Queron seemed to sense their pulling back, a garbled exchange of communication flashing between them that he could not catch.

  Then the saintly image was gone, and Evaine was cautioning him to say nothing of this to the others.

  These visitations sometimes happen, she told him. Joram and I have become somewhat accustomed to them, but the others are newer and less tired. To reveal this now might disrupt the pace of the rest of the night’s working. This vision was for you. We will speak later on what it might mean.

  At his confused but elated assent, they slowly began bringing him up then, returning him but gradually to normal consciousness and sensation. And as they withdrew, and he jerkily removed his hands from the box, flexing his fingers cautiously, he fixed his eyes for just an instant on Camber’s ring, even as he quickly ran through the mental assessment that all trained Deryni were taught to make after such a contact.

  “Welcome, Dom Queron,” Jesse said quietly, jarring Queron back to physical reality. As Queron looked up, still a little dazed, he saw the little silver knife in Jesse’s hand. The boy obviously was unaware of any of what had just transpired.

  “Well and truly have you given the bond of your spirit and your mind,” Jesse went on. “Will you now give us the bond of your blood as a final seal and symbol of the sacrifice you may be called upon to make in the service of this covenant?”

  Breathing a weary and relieved sigh, for this part was easy, compared to what he had already experienced, Queron held out the hand closest to Jesse—his left.

  “Take it gladly, as token of my trust and truth.”

  He did not flinch as Jesse grasped his left ring finger and nicked it smartly with the dagger. Evaine removed the cord from around his brow, not meeting his eyes, and he watched dispassionately as she smeared the knot with his blood and then Jesse held the dripping finger over the cup and let a drop fall. It dissipated immediately, quickly invisible to mere sight, but Queron sensed other blood in the cup and guessed that it would have some later part in the proceedings.

  But not immediately. First they collected the other cords, the knot of each one already sealed with the owner’s blood. These cords Joram and Evaine wove together in a pattern Queron recognized of the ancient cording lore—though he could not have said which particular one it was, especially in his still befuddled state. He sucked absently at his wounded finger as he watched, but he did not Heal it as he might have, choosing instead to let its natural healing remind him of all that had happened tonight. When Joram and Evaine had finished with the cording pattern, Evaine took the previous night’s braid off of Camber’s ring and replaced it with the new one, depositing both in the box before closing it and replacing the linen cloth and lamp.

  “Behold now this salt, a symbol of earth, which purifies and perserves, banishing all evil,” she said then, indicating the dish that held it. “Into this cup of our covenant, which bears the blood of all this company, we add this salt, in token of the tears we may be called upon to shed in the service of our vows.” Taking a pinch of the salt between thumb and forefinger, she sprinkled it into the water.

  “Even as this salt dissolves in water, so may the Light diffuse through us as we drink of this cup, refining and multiplying the element of Light within us so that we may become Its perfect servants. So be it. Amen.”

  “So be it. Amen,” the others repeated, as Evaine raised it to her lips.

  They all drank from it then, Evaine passing it to Gregory and on, sunwise, as Joram admonished them to remember those who had gone before and to cherish those now bound in their company. Jesse, when he had drunk, went to the north, where the gate had been, and retied the circle cord, signifying that this most recent incarnation of the Camberian Council was once again duly sworn and complete. Ansel drank in special memory of his brother, who had been one of those to give their lives in the cause, even though he had not been a member of the Council per se. Joram spoke of the memory of Alister Cullen, Jebediah of Alcara, and Jaffray of Carbury—Michaelines all.

  To Queron the cup came last, and he invoked the memory of the martyrs of Saint Neot’s and Saint Camber’s at Dolban, and of Saint Camber himself, before draining the cup to its dregs. The water did not taste of blood, but the presence of that bond was no less real for being overshadowed by salt. Tears were welling in his eyes as he upturned the empty cup and set it carefully before the box.

  After a short period of final meditation, they quietly set about the necessary rites to close down the circle. Queron was allowed to observe, for he needed no additional demands placed upon him after the evening’s work. Even when it was over, no one spoke unnecessarily. Ansel took Queron out, to return him to his quarters, and when Jesse and Gregory had also gone, Evaine glanced at her brother.

  “He’s the one, Joram,” she said quietly.

  “He’s the one what?”

  “Queron is the one to help us bring him back. I think that’s why Father showed up during our working tonight.”

  Joram sighed wearily and sank down on the topmost step of the dais, picking up the fat ball of the circle cord that Ansel had rewound as they dismantled the circle. He did not look at Evaine as she sat down beside him.

  “You’re really determined to do this, aren’t you?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “And what makes you think he’ll agree to help? Evaine, he still thinks Father was really a saint! You saw the medal he was wearing tonight. And he didn’t take it off, even when he shed his Healer’s mantle at the circle’s gate.”

  “I suspect he meant it as a mark of respect for his favorite saint, in whose memory the Council is named,” Evaine said.

  “In whose honor he founded a religious order that we know to be based on a lie!”

  “Do we know that, Joram?” Evaine retorted. “You yourself expressed at least a contrary possibility not two weeks ago, as I recall. Just because the official canonization was supported by illusion, by a misinterpretation of the truth, that doesn’t make him any less what he is or isn’t—including a saint, if that’s what God had in mind for him!”

  Joram gave her a sour and slightly scandalized smile.

  “I see. So now you’re claiming to know the mind of God.”

  “Certainly not! Besides, whether or not he’s a saint is hardly the point. For that matter, it isn’t even important that Queron founded a religious order in Father’s honor. That order has just been brutally suppressed, and Father’s sainthood has been rescinded. Despite that, Queron still was willing to make an unreserved dedication to the Council named in Father’s honor. I can’t imagine that he wouldn’t be willing to help us, under the circumstances.”

  Joram sighed and ducked his head, fingering the cord-ball uneasily.

  “Do we have to tell him all the ghastly details?”

  “Let me answer your question with another question,” she replied. “Given the fact that a Healer is essential to our attempt to bring Father back, would you want to work with one who didn’t have all the background of the situation? Remember, this isn’t just a matter of healing physical wounds.
”

  Joram snorted. “I know that. And the fact that Father manifested here tonight, right while we were in Queron’s mind, seems to be a clear indication of his preference. I’m not arguing that.”

  “Then, what are you arguing?”

  “I don’t know!” Joram blurted. “Queron scares me! Even after going into his mind the way we did tonight, the very thought of having to face him one-on-one—”

  “You know, you really are going to have to work past this irrational wariness you have of him!” Evaine said sharply. “You’ve let what used to be a survival habit become an obsession. After all, if we do draft him, we’ll have to tell him everything you’ve always been afraid he’d find out.”

  After a stunned silence, Joram slowly began to chuckle. “You’re right. If we tell him, I don’t have to be on guard any more, do I? After twelve years of protecting the illusion, it’s easy to forget.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Mind you, I still don’t have to like it,” Joram went on. “The notion will take some getting used to. But as you say, a Healer is essential—and there aren’t any other Healers I’d trust with the information, or who have the training to handle the working.”

  “No, there aren’t,” Evaine agreed. “The only other one who even comes close is Tavis—and we certainly can’t spare him for such a working, even if his training were up to it. It’s bad enough that we have to send him into Valoret with Ansel.”

  Joram sagged back against the step and rubbed a weary hand over his eyes. “Aye, that bothers me, too. Blocking Elinor and her family is one of the last things I would have chosen to do—but for now, not being Deryni is the only thing likely to keep them all alive and safe.”

  “Very true,” Evaine said, rising and holding out her hand to help him up. “And if all goes well, at least it will be a good trial run for Tavis’ work with Revan. We won’t even think about what happens if things don’t go well.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me,” Joram said, slipping an arm around her shoulders as they headed down the dais steps. “For that operation, we’ll let Ansel and Tavis do the thinking.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I am become a stranger unto my brethren, and an alien unto my mother’s children.

  —Psalms 69:8

  More than a week passed before Tavis was able to agree on a plan with Ansel and coordinate its implementation with Javan. The prince readily agreed to assist them, confirming their fears that the regents were showing uncommon interest in the young MacLean sisters, but he warned of some other machination afoot as well—something of which he had been able to glean only vague hints that an important event was brewing.

  “I couldn’t begin to guess what it’s all about,” a worried Javan told the Healer, at their last meeting before the planned operation. “Not even Rhys Michael knows—and he usually has some idea when the regents are up to something.”

  Tavis sighed. “Well, we’re just going to have to do the best we can. What about the other Deryni in the castle? Have they paid any particular attention to the girls?”

  Javan cocked his head quizzically. “Now that you mention it, no. In fact, I haven’t seen most of them, lately. I know that Rhun took Carmody and Sitric out on winter maneuvers with him, right after you last came, but I have no idea why, or how long they’re supposed to be gone.”

  “Well, that’s two less to worry about, anyway,” Tavis murmured. “What about Oriel?”

  “He’s scheduled to go with Hubert to Ramos, midweek—though I understand he’s been down with a bad cold and fever for several days.”

  “What’s happening in Ramos?”

  “Some religious convocation, I suppose. Murdoch and Tammaron are planning to go along, too. I suppose they’ll use Oriel to keep everyone else in line. Oh, and Manfred’s got a pet Deryni now, too, name of Ursin O’Carroll, but I don’t know anything about him.”

  “I do,” Tavis muttered. “A failed Healer, but a very powerful practitioner, otherwise. He and I started Varnarite training together.”

  “You know him, then.”

  “Aye. Not well enough to predict what he’ll do, but too well not to be recognized, if he saw me.”

  But he agreed to the delay that Javan suggested, until Hubert and the others had gone to Ramos. The night of the twenty-first, just before midnight, found Tavis peering cautiously out of the garderobe Portal below the King’s Tower, Ansel at his back. Javan was waiting for them in the shadows, just past the first set of torches. No guards were anywhere to be seen or sensed.

  “We’re really in luck,” Javan whispered, as the two bent close to hear. “None of the regents are in Valoret tonight. Hubert and his cronies left yesterday, as planned, and even Manfred and his pimply-faced son have gone off to Caerrorie. They left this morning, and they took that Ursin O’Carroll fellow with them. Word came back a few hours ago that they’re spending the night and won’t be back until midday tomorrow.”

  Ansel nodded grimly. “Good. What about my mother?”

  “She and Lord James retired early. Their quarters are at the end of the west wing, above the old queen’s gallery. Your little sister and brother are in an adjoining room to the right, with the MacLean girls in a separate suite beyond that.” Touching both men’s hands simultaneously, Javan flashed them a picture of the precise location. “It’s one of the better places the regents could have put them, actually. That part of the castle is never heavily guarded. You shouldn’t have any trouble getting in and out without anyone the wiser. In that part of the castle, at this hour, I doubt you’ll see more than one or two guards.”

  They saw no guards, once they reached the west wing—which almost made Tavis more nervous than if there had been guards. After sending Javan back to his quarters with instructions to go to bed, he and Ansel spent nearly a quarter of an hour working their way through the west wing—slipping stealthily from shadow to shadow on soft, indoor boots that made no sound, all but invisible in stone-colored tunics and hoods. They were never challenged. Outside his mother’s door, Ansel kept watch while Tavis set his magic to the working of the lock. The faint, metallic snick of the tumblers falling into place sounded like the crack of doom to heightened Deryni senses, but the two were in and across the room, drawing back the curtains on the great, canopied bed, before a groggy Jamie Drummond even began to rouse from sleep, starting to sit up in alarm.

  “What—”

  But he never got out more than that one word. Even as he lunged for the sword hanging over the head of the bed, Tavis was on him, stripping James Drummond of what little Deryni power he had and then plunging the older man into sudden, unresisting sleep. Simultaneously, Ansel clapped a hand over his mother’s mouth, pinning her struggles beneath the blankets and the weight of his body as his mind sought the psychic link they once had shared.

  “Mother!” he whispered, trying to seize her attention and stop her struggling. “Mother, stop it! It’s Ansel. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

  She went limp at that, though her mind instantly shuttered behind surprisingly imposing shields. As Tavis slowly straightened on the other side of the bed and glanced at her, breathing hard, his hand still spanning the upturned throat of the unconscious James Drummond, her eyes flicked to him in horror and she started struggling again.

  “It’s all right!” Ansel whispered, giving her a shake and trying again to quiet her as Tavis conjured handfire so she could see their faces. “Jamie isn’t hurt. Tavis has just put him to sleep. Now, will you promise not to scream, if I take my hand from over your mouth?”

  Her eyes flashed outrage and anger, but she nodded. Ansel was still wary, though, as he eased his hand from her mouth.

  “I’m sorry, Mother. I had to see you, though.”

  She snorted, but her reply was the required whisper. “Do you think it necessarily follows that I wish to see you? What have you done to Jamie?”

  “I told you, Tavis put him to sleep. We couldn’t risk him raising the alarm.”


  “Which he surely would have done, since my son the outlaw chose to creep into my bedchamber by night, like some common ruffian! I have nothing to say to you, Ansel.”

  “I regret that, Mother,” Ansel murmured. “But I have something of great importance to say to you. Why have you come back to court?”

  She grimaced and turned her face away from him and from Tavis, tarnished blond hair tangled on the pillow like a young girl’s. “Did we have a choice?”

  “What has been said about the children?” Ansel replied. “I know Manfred MacInnis’ son has been paying court to the MacLean sisters.”

  She closed her eyes briefly. “It’s none of your affair, Ansel,” she breathed. “Just leave us alone.”

  Ansel shook his head. “I can’t do that. What of my little sister? What about Michaela?”

  “I told you, it isn’t any of your concern. I don’t want to discuss it.”

  “Have any of the Deryni here at the castle paid particular attention to any of them?” Ansel insisted. “Mother, it’s important that I know.”

  “And what possible difference could it make? Isn’t it enough that your brother died a traitor’s death and you are rapidly following in his footsteps? Must you destroy what is left of this family?”

  Her voice had started to rise on that last question, and Ansel clapped his hand over her mouth again, to her utter fury.

  “Not destroy it, Mother. I’m going to have to do the only thing I know possibly to save it.” He glanced at Tavis and gave him a reluctant nod. “I’m sorry.”

  She bucked under him, trying at least to throw off his hand to scream, but once Tavis’ hand made contact, it was over in an instant. Ansel’s mind surged in behind the shields that were no longer there, to read an even more frightening prospect than he had dreamed—for the regents planned to foster Ansel’s half-sister, the ten-year-old Michaela Drummond, to the household of Manfred MacInnis and his wife; and Michaela’s brother Cathan, now eight, would become a page in the household of Prince Rhys Michael. As for the MacLean girls—