The Harrowing of Gwynedd

  The Healer Sylvan certainly had not escaped tonight’s blood bath. He was nearly as bloody as Tavis. His fine, green woolen tunic, neatly embroidered with tiny Healer’s badges all around the neck and sleeve edges, would never be the same; and even his smooth, clean-shaven face was spattered with blood. In profile, he appeared to be in his early thirties, but age was difficult to judge without looking at his eyes, which were all but closed. Mostly, all Tavis could see was a shock of light brown hair, cropped short all around his head—as if someone had used a pudding bowl for a cutting guide.

  He certainly seemed competent, however. Even as Tavis watched, the last of Ansel’s wound sealed under the other’s hand, leaving only a long, moist-looking line that Tavis knew would soon fade. Sylvan breathed a heavy sigh of relief as he opened his eyes and, before Tavis could even think about trying to prevent it, shifted the less bloodied back of one hand across Tavis to touch the side of Ansel’s neck. Tavis was not surprised when the Healer tensed almost immediately, startlingly hazel eyes darting to Evaine’s blue ones in surprise and alarm.

  “Are you shielding him somehow?” he demanded. Quickly he reached his other hand beside the first, to bracket Ansel’s jaw and read even deeper—that there was nothing Deryni there to read.

  “Good God, you aren’t doing it at all, are you?” he whispered. “But—I thought you said this was Ansel MacRorie. This man isn’t even Deryni! Aurelian, read him!”

  As the young Gabrilite moved in to confirm, both Healers’ shields snapping up in reflex defense against this unknown, little Tieg suddenly darted between Camlin and his mother to lay both chubby hands on Ansel’s cheek before anyone could stop him.

  “You leave my Uncle Ansel alone!” he piped up, turning wide, indignant eyes on his mother as she closed him in the circle of her arms and tried to shush him.

  “No! Not pull Tieg away! Why that man says this not Uncle Ansel, Mummy? And why is Uncle Ansel clear? If I close my eyes, I don’t see him.”

  For just a stunned instant, Tavis could not think clearly—he could only guess that Tieg must be reading Ansel’s lack of shields—perhaps even his lack of power! And right here, in front of the two stranger Healers!

  He could sense the others’ alarm as well, especially Queron’s, even though reason told him that these surely must be more of the Healers Gregory and Jesse had been bringing to be screened for the blocking ability. A frantic glance and question at Joram confirmed it—and also that the two had received no preparation whatever. There had been no time.

  Nor were the present conditions precisely optimum for a reasoned introduction to the notion of blocking Deryni powers—especially their long-range plans for Revan. The young Gabrilite might hesitate to take any serious action against what surely would be perceived as a threat, for his Order was sworn to nonviolence, but Sylvan, at least, was battle-tuned and already far too jumpy. Drastic action was necessary on Tavis’ part—though he must set things up so that the two would not realize it was drastic, until too late.

  “Relax, gentlemen,” Tavis said quietly, only shifting his hand to one of Ansel’s slack wrists as he glanced at the two Healers, trusting Evaine to deal with any unexpected reaction little Tieg might make, and watching Joram move a casual few steps closer to the young Gabrilite. “He is Ansel MacRorie, and he is Deryni. Evaine, if I put him back, will that interfere with your monitoring?”

  Evaine shook her head. “Not at all. I’ve already set commands to sleep and to follow doctors’ orders until he gets his strength back.” She managed a faint smile as she encircled Tieg more closely. “Despite my nephew’s usual penchant for doing what he thinks is best, I suspect we’ll find him a model patient.”

  “Right, then.”

  Tavis already had the physical point of contact he needed with Ansel, his hand to Ansel’s wrist. Reaching across the link with his mind, he reset the triggerpoint with only casual effort, then drew back. The Gabrilite gasped and leaned closer to the patient, Sylvan also edging closer on his knees to stare without comprehension—and in that incomprehension lay their downfall.

  “What in the—”

  “That simply is not possible!” the Gabrilite murmured.

  But Tavis ignored their predictable astonishment. Snaking his left arm behind Sylvan without warning, he clamped the man’s neck between stump and hand long enough to trigger a block and control before Sylvan even knew to struggle, forcing him deeply and instantly into sleep. At the same time, Joram moved in and pinned the young Gabrilite’s upper arms from behind, while Queron reached across to catch the man’s wrists—all before Sylvan even began to crumple. As Tavis rose, giving Sylvan into Gregory’s keeping as he prepared to step across Ansel and repeat the process with the Gabrilite, he sent silent suggestion to Queron, who agreed.

  “Dom Aurelian, isn’t it?” Queron said briskly, diverting the younger Healer’s attention so Tavis could make his move. “Ah, but don’t be frightened, little brother. No one is going to harm you. Nor is your friend Sylvan harmed, I assured you. However, this will be easier on everyone if you don’t fight us.”

  By then, it was too late for Aurelian to fight. Tavis’ trigger and control brought horrified astonishment and oblivion within the space of a single heartbeat, and the Healer-priest slumped unresisting between Joram and Queron, only twitching a little as Tavis set commands to permit a deep probe, even once the block was removed.

  “I’m sorry we had to do things this way,” Queron murmured, observing Tavis’ operation with interest and not a little envy. “I remember this young man from Saint Neot’s—a promising Healer, Dom Aurelian. He was ordained shortly before I left the Order.”

  Preoccupied, Tavis nodded and reset the triggerpoint in Aurelian’s mind, then delved deep, looking for the ability to block. He did not expect to find it, so he was not overly disappointed as he withdrew and gave control over to Queron.

  “Just like all the others, I’m afraid,” he said. “Oh, he’s fulfilled the Healer’s promise you remember, Queron, and he certainly justified his existence by helping Heal Ansel—but unfortunately, he hasn’t got what we’re looking for. I’ll let you make the appropriate memory alterations while I check the other one.”

  As Queron sighed and nodded, setting resignedly to his task, Tavis rose and stepped back across Ansel to turn his attention on the other man, now sprawled unconscious in Gregory’s arms, eyes closed.

  “This is Sylvan O’Sullivan, my household Healer and battle surgeon,” Gregory said in a low voice, as Tavis knelt and set hand and stump to the other’s temples, confirming that identity. “I still wish I knew how you do that.”

  “So do I,” Tavis said, smiling mirthlessly. “Hmmm, Varnarite trained, like myself. Too bad that the resemblance probably ends there. But—let’s set his powers back in place and see what he’s got.”

  No further resemblance became immediately apparent, as Tavis reset the triggerpoint and skirted the edges of Sylvan’s mind. Where Tavis had been trained primarily for civilian Healing, Sylvan O’Sullivan’s emphasis was as a battle surgeon—which was why Gregory had employed him. Where Camber had found Tavis’ Varnarite training philosophically deficient, compared to Gabrilite or Michaeline training, Sylvan’s was even less sophisticated. He certainly did not have the esoteric background possessed by so many other hopefuls that Tavis had read in the last few weeks, searching for another like himself. Nor would Sylvan have presented any challenge to the brilliant Rhys Thuryn, in sheer Deryni power—though he had worked with Rhys, on occasion.

  But as Tavis restored Sylvan’s powers—though not his waking consciousness—and pushed deeper past Sylvan’s now unresisting shields, he suddenly realized that the ability to trigger a power block was there! Tavis was as sure of that as he was that he himself could strip any Deryni of his or her powers.

  “Dear God, he’s got it!” Tavis murmured, looking up at Gregory and Evaine, then at Queron and Joram, with awe in his eyes and in his voice. “He was right here, practically in our reach, all
this time.” He swallowed uneasily. “Sweet Jesu, I can hardly believe it. Shall we tell him now, or wait?”

  Cautiously Joram rose from where he had been crouching beside Queron and the sleeping Aurelian.

  “First, let’s get the good Dom Aurelian bedded down for the night, shall we? He doesn’t need to know anything else about this. No sense having to tamper with his memories any more than we’ve already done.”

  “I agree,” Queron said. “I’ve already taken care of tonight’s little incident. So long as nothing else happens to change his conditioning, he’ll be fine, come morning.”

  “I’ll take him to a room, then,” Jesse said. “Unless you’d rather.”

  “Do that, Jesse,” Joram replied, before Queron could reply. “Queron, if you don’t mind, I’d rather you took charge of Ansel now. I know you’d like to observe Sylvan when he’s brought around, but I think a Healer should stay with Ansel until we’re sure he’s out of danger—and Tavis is going to be a little busy. I’ll send you a couple of men to help you get him to his room.”

  Queron, after surrendering Aurelian’s control to Jesse, stood back and gave a resigned nod as Joram helped Jesse get the groggy Healer to his feet.

  “I’ll see to Ansel, then, if that’s where I’m needed most,” he said, watching Jesse walk Aurelian out. “The most important thing will be to keep him quiet and make sure he takes plenty of fluids for the next few days, to compensate for the blood loss. Fortunately, we have some medications that should speed that aspect of recovery. I’m sure Tavis is familiar with them.”

  Tavis nodded his concurrence, though he had yet to take his eyes or his hand from Sylvan, who still lolled bonelessly in Gregory’s arms.

  “I promise to give you a full report, Queron,” he murmured. “I know how badly you wanted to be the one.”

  Queron shrugged. “We are not always given all the gifts we desire.” He glanced up at the waiting Fiona. “May I ask your assistance, my lady? If we clean him up here, perhaps we can avoid tracking any more blood through the compound. I’m afraid young Jesse’s already left bloody footprints in the Portal and landing of the Council chambers, when he came to get me, and Joram did not improve matters by standing in it.”

  Joram glanced at the soles of his boots and grimaced, and Evaine gave the anteroom and its occupants a wistful appraisal.

  “Let’s all get cleaned up,” she said, rising, “and give Tavis a chance to gather his wits about him before we pursue this further. And I have children to put to bed!” she added, taking little Tieg’s hand and glancing meaningfully at Rhysel, whose eager young face mirrored instant rebellion over her stack of towels. “None of you should have been here, you know—not even Camlin, who thinks I don’t see him, hiding behind Joram—though I suppose, if he’s willing to help scrub floors, he may stay.”

  Camlin raised his chin with all the haughty indignation of any precocious twelve-year-old mistakenly presumed to be a child still by his elders.

  “Do you think I’m too proud for that?” he asked. “It is Cousin Ansel’s blood, after all—and he certainly cleaned up enough of mine, at Trurill. Besides, Saint Camber’s blood flows in his veins—and was spilled for us tonight. Of course I’ll scrub floors.”

  “I want to help, too,” Rhysel chimed in. “May I, Mummy, please? I promise I’ll go right to bed, when we’re done.”

  “Me, too, Mummy!” Tieg piped. “I help, too.”

  “You’re far too young—both of you.”

  “But, Mummy, I’m nearly eight!” Rhysel protested.

  “Rhysel, you were just seven in November.”

  “So? That’s big enough. Nobody ever lets me—”

  “Rhysel—”

  Fiona, smiling despite her efforts to keep a straight face, set her hands on Rhysel’s shoulders.

  “Why not let her help, Evaine?” she said. “She’s seen worse—and she’s old enough to fetch more water and towels. I’ll see that she gets to bed when we’re through. We can use the extra hands. And it’s certainly easier than arguing.”

  Evaine sighed. “Oh, very well. But Tieg is too young, and he’s going to bed now.” She scooped up the indignant Tieg and braced him on her hip. “Gregory, why don’t you take charge of Sylvan, while Tavis gets changed, and we’ll all meet in the chapel in half an hour.”

  As she carried the squirming and protesting Tieg out of the room, Gregory glanced up at Tavis, over Sylvan’s head lolling against his chest.

  “Do you want to block him again, before I take over? It might be easier, all around.”

  Tavis almost flinched physically at having to let Sylvan go, now that he had found him, but he triggered the block and turned over control to Gregory without comment, forcing himself not to think about Healers at all as he watched Gregory rouse Sylvan and take him out.

  He thought about blood instead as he shed his bloody mantle and outer tunic and tugged off his bloodied boots, leaving all in Camlin’s charge. He doubted the felted soles would ever come really clean—but at least he left no more bloody footprints as he took his leave and padded toward his own quarters in stockinged feet, to wash and change into clean clothes.

  He had left bloody footprints aplenty in Valoret, though. So had Ansel. And by now, the regents’ soldiers would have followed that bloody spoor directly to the only Portal in the castle that Tavis still dared to use—and that would confirm that Deryni had been in the castle.

  Please God, that bloody trail would not lead also to Prince Javan. Tavis knew there was no physical evidence to link Javan with the Deryni intruders, but he was willing to bet that some way would be contrived to lay young Giesele MacLean’s death at the feet of same. And if, on their return, the regents should set their Deryni sniffers to questioning Javan, along with everyone else left at Valoret Castle tonight …

  And that raised another question. What an interesting coincidence—if coincidence it had been—that all the regents and their assorted Deryni sniffers had been conveniently away from Valoret tonight. A most convenient coincidence, indeed, given the fate of Giesele MacLean. With Giesele dead, her sister Richeldis was now sole heiress to lands that the regents wanted very much for their own.

  But these were questions for which Tavis had no answers—at least not yet. All the speculation in the world would not bring answers when he was not yet even sure of the questions. The important thing for now was that another Healer had been found who could block Deryni powers—and that raised its own set of questions, rather apart from all the ones concerning the regents.

  As Tavis went into his cell and began stripping off his bloody tunic to wash, he found himself thinking about Sylvan O’Sullivan, and wondering how Sylvan was going to take to the whole idea.

  Evaine also was wondering about Sylvan as she carried Tieg toward his room—or she was trying to wonder. For though Tieg had stopped wiggling once they left the bloody Portal chamber, he had begun crying instead, and that was almost worse.

  “Tieg, this isn’t making things any easier for Mummy,” she said.

  “Don’t care!” Tieg sobbed. “Put Tieg down! Don’t want to go to bed. Why you don’t let Tieg help?”

  Evaine shook her head as she pushed open the door to the cell that Tieg and Rhysel shared for sleeping quarters, conjuring handfire so she could see to light the little oil lamp set on a small table between the children’s two pallets. Tieg continued to wiggle and whine until she plopped him onto his bed.

  “Now, that’s about enough of that, young man,” she said, as she pulled his sleeping furs from under him and pushed him back against the pillow. “You’re too young to stay up any later, and that’s the end of the discussion.”

  Lower lip protruding in a teary pout, the hazel eyes still stormy, Tieg flounced onto his side and turned his freckled little face to the wall, curling into a ball and scrunching a wad of fur coverlet under his chin.

  “Not too young!” he muttered. “Don’t want to go to bed yet!”

  “I know you don’t, darling,
but we can’t always have exactly what we want.” She sat down beside him on the pallet and began stroking the rigid little head and back. His hair was silky and blond like hers, but reddish where hers was sun-golden—the legacy of his Healer father.

  “Listen to me, my love,” she went on. “I know you’re upset. I know it must have been very frightening to see Cousin Ansel so badly hurt, but you were very brave. That makes Mummy very proud and happy.”

  Tieg snuffled, unstiffening not a whit. “Tieg wanted to help.”

  “But you have helped,” Evaine replied, patiently continuing to rub his back. “You were a very big help, just by being there with me while we helped Tavis and the other Healers make Ansel well.”

  Tieg snuffled again, though this time he turned his face slightly toward his mother.

  “Tieg helped?”

  “Yes, of course, darling.”

  She could sense him mulling that as he rolled onto his back to look her in the eyes. After studying her gravely for several seconds, he finally allowed himself a wry little smile.

  “Funny.”

  “What’s funny, darling?”

  “Uncle Ansel was clear.” His little brow furrowed. “Why he clear, Mummy?”

  Evaine breathed out with a sigh. She had been hoping Tieg would not remember that. How could she explain to a three-year-old about blocking Deryni powers, when he scarcely knew what powers were?

  “Does that worry you, that you couldn’t see him except with your eyes?” she asked, trying to fathom what he might really be asking.

  Tieg scrunched up his face even more, trying to understand.

  “Did it hurted Ansel to be clear?” he asked.

  “Noooo,” Evaine replied honestly. “Tavis made him clear so that he and the other Healers could work on him more easily. Ansel’s leg was hurt, but what Tavis did didn’t hurt him.”

  “Hmmm, good.” Tieg nodded sagely, then broke out in an impish smile that turned into giggles.

  “What’s so funny?”