The Harrowing of Gwynedd

  “And they’d gladly consign us to the same fire, if they could,” Queron said. “Come, let’s be away from here. We can do nothing to stop that, and watching it will only depress our spirits even more.”

  They lingered for a while longer, even so, and returned to the hidden Portal in silence.

  “So, what next?” Evaine asked, when they were safely back in the little study next door to the room where Camber lay. “We needed that text.”

  “Well, we’ll have to make do with something else, unless we’re granted a miracle,” Queron replied. “In the meantime, we’ll go back over the sources that we do have. I’ve been racking my brain, all the way back. How about Kitron’s Principia Magica? Have you got a copy of that?”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t have—”

  “Parts of Kitron are coded,” Queron said brusquely. “I haven’t read it in a long time, but there may be parts that apply. It’s also just possible that I still might be able to get hold of a copy of the Liber Ricae. We have to do something, though.”

  Joram nodded. “I was thinking about Jokal of Tyndour, too. I remember Rhys talking about some of the Healing passages, and being surprised by some of the procedures—which means they can’t have been straight-forward techniques. Maybe there’s a more esoteric connection.”

  Sighing, Evaine shook her head despondently. “We’re grasping at straws, I’m afraid. Maybe we’re mad even to think about continuing. Maybe we should just let Father be dead and forget about it.”

  Neither man answered that remark, all too aware that the temporary setback they had suffered was only that—temporary. And after a while, the three of them went into the next room to pray, and so that Queron could investigate the spell more carefully.

  While research continued in the Michaeline sanctuary, Javan had not been idle, either. The royal party finally reached Rhemuth on Quinquagesima, the Sunday before Lent. On Tuesday morning, the new capital was treated to the spectacle of a state wedding, that of Richeldis MacLean, the Heiress of Kierney, to Iver MacInnis, Heir to the new Earl of Culdi. The ceremony was conducted jointly by the bridegroom’s uncle, the Archbishop of Valoret, and his younger brother, the Bishop of Grecotha. A bleak-eyed Jamie Drummond gave away his former ward, with the king to witness, and the king’s own brothers served at the couple’s nuptial Mass, further setting the royal seal of approval firmly on the match. All the regents and their wives attended.

  The wedding feast in Rhemuth Castle’s great hall would be the talk of Rhemuth society well into the summer. Javan would rather have forgotten it. The thirteen-year-old bride looked thoroughly overwhelmed by the entire affair and burst into tears when the ladies of the court came to convey her to the bridal chamber. The bridegroom, eight years her senior, drank too much, talked too loudly, and strutted like a bandy cock before following after her half an hour later, to hoots of encouragement and ribald suggestion. The next morning, before repairing to the basilica to receive the ashes marking the beginning of Lent, young Iver pronounced himself passing pleased with his new wife, and boasted of having been in Kierney the night before.

  Javan hated him doubly for that, for though young Richeldis was not yet Countess of Kierney in fact, he had little doubt that the deficiency would be remedied all too soon. Nor was he surprised when, but a few weeks after the wedding, word came that the bride’s uncle had met a fatal accident while hunting.

  All Javan’s skills as an actor were put to the test when he again was required to lend the legitimacy of his presence as his brother confirmed the new Countess of Kierney in her title and acknowledged her husband as the new earl. The prince had murder in his heart as he stalked off afterwards to pray in the Chapel Royal, the ever-present Charlan at his heels, and spent some hours devising suitable fates for those guilty of Iain MacLean’s death, though he knew his chances of carrying out any of them were nonexistent.

  At least he felt better, afterwards. Nor did he count any of the regents innocent of the old Earl of Kierney’s death. It was as well that they dispersed to other pursuits for the rest of Lent, for Javan found himself hard-pressed to be civil to any of them, even if prudence forced him to spare their lives.

  Iver’s father, Manfred MacInnis, returned to Grecotha with his younger son, Bishop Edward, to loot and censor the Varnarite School, taking Ursin O’Carroll with him. Duke Ewan headed north to resume his viceregal duties in Kheldour. Periodically, Earl Tammaron betook himself to Caerrorie on Manfred’s behalf to oversee the dismantling of the castle there, for Manfred wanted no old Camberian associations remaining when he took up residence in the new manor being built at the opposite edge of the holding. Murdoch and Rhun remained with the king at Rhemuth, but the two made frequent trouble-shooting forays to the north and east, all during those weeks of early spring—which made them relatively easy to avoid, most of the time.

  Javan’s chief personal nemesis, Archbishop Hubert, returned to Valoret soon after the MacInnis-MacLean wedding, to get on with the concluding business of the Council of Ramos. He took with him Rhemuth’s archbishop, Robert Orris, but handed over the care of Javan’s soul to Orris’ auxiliary, Bishop Alfred of Woodbourne. Javan had respected Father Alfred as a priest, and supposed the man might have turned out to be a reasonably good bishop, had he not succumbed to the temptations Hubert offered in exchange for his integrity, but the prince had no use for Alfred as a spiritual director. Instead, Javan drafted a round, merry priest of middling years called Father Boniface, who was attached to the old basilica in the grounds of the castle. With Boniface, he pursued sufficient scholastic endeavors of an ecclesiastical bent to disarm increasingly any serious worry about him as a rival for Rhys Michael’s eventual succession to the throne.

  As a consequence, Bishop Alfred and the remaining regents mostly left Javan alone, except when his presence was required for state occasions, of which there were few during Lent. Otherwise, the Lenten season progressed as Lent usually did—for Javan, a welcome respite from the round of endless banquets and other court entertainments that seemed so empty and hypocritical, as he watched his brother’s royal prerogatives slowly eroded. Javan worried increasingly, as Lent progressed and none of his Deryni allies managed to contact him even indirectly to reassure him that he was not forgotten, but he continued with what he believed Evaine and Joram would have wanted him to do—spying on the regents and, in particular, trying to find out more about the true feelings of his brothers.

  Rhys Michael proved easy enough—still an uncomplicated if increasingly self-centered child, mostly concerned for his toy knights and games of strategy, and whether his governors would allow him sufficient practice time in the weapons yard and in his equestrian pursuits. Midway through Lent, Javan managed an entire afternoon with his younger brother, with Charlan unwittingly distracting Rhys Michael’s senior squire over a spirited game of Cardounet while Javan pretended to need help with the translation of a treatise on strategy—which assistance Rhys Michael was only too willing to provide. The youngest prince was never to realize what other assistance he provided by sitting close enough to read over Javan’s shoulder and make comments as Javan limped through the translation. Javan left the afternoon’s work no better versed in strategy, but convinced that his younger brother had begun no breakthrough whatever into his Haldane heritage—which was how things were supposed to be, Javan knew, even though he himself was different.

  Seeing his brother the king privately again was yet another story. Several times Javan contrived plausible excuses to be in his elder brother’s presence, only to find others with even more plausible excuses. As Eastertide approached, he began to despair of ever managing to attempt a proper reading in reasonable safety. An unexpected opportunity finally presented itself on a cold, rainy Saturday afternoon late in March, when Alroy was confined to bed with a bad sore throat and cold and Javan came to inquire after his health. Alroy’s squires had been sent off to weekly confession—and interrogation by one of the regents’ agents, Javan had no doubt—and only Oriel was i
n attendance when the prince arrived. Alroy had been coughing; and his voice was hoarse as he greeted his brother.

  “Ah, at least someone’s come to pay me a visit!” Alroy croaked, seizing Javan’s hand as his brother came to sit on the edge of the bed. “Oriel doesn’t count, because he has to come to see me. Maybe now he’ll leave me long enough to run down to the wine cellars and fetch some of that Rhennish brandywine for a new cough posset he’s been promising me. I’ve been fair to hacking my lungs out this afternoon.”

  “Has he, Master Oriel?” Javan asked, glancing at the Healer.

  Oriel tried not to look concerned. “I will concede that his Grace’s cough has not responded as well as I would like. And if your Highness would agree to stay a while, my mind would be more at ease while I fetch the wine.”

  “Why, certainly,” Javan breathed, hardly able to believe his good fortune. “Go immediately, Oriel. Perhaps my brother would like me to read to him.”

  Alroy nodded weakly but enthusiastically. “No, just talk to me, Javan. Tell me what you’ve been doing. I hardly see you anymore.”

  “I shan’t be long,” Oriel murmured, bowing out the door.

  Alroy nestled down contentedly under his sleeping furs as the door closed behind Oriel, not releasing Javan’s hand as he stifled a dry, nagging little cough with his free one.

  “So, tell me what you’ve been up to lately. I hear you’ve been spending a lot of time on your knees. Earl Rhun makes snide remarks when he thinks I don’t hear, but I think it would be a wonderful thing to be a priest the way Father was.”

  “You sound as if you’ve got me ordained already,” Javan said with a smile, reaching to brush Alroy’s damp forehead with his free hand. “Hey, you’re running quite a fever. You need to take better care of yourself.”

  As he laid the hand flat, ostensibly to better judge the fever’s intensity, he sent a gentle command to sleep, immediately eliciting a wide Haldane yawn.

  “I’m trying, Javan,” Alroy whispered, his eyelids drooping. “Really, I am. I’m so tired all the time, though. I’ve been taking my tonic, but it doesn’t seem to do much good.”

  The king drifted into sleep as he finished the sentence, and Javan encouraged it, easily following up on the reference to Alroy’s “tonic.” The royal physicians had prescribed it, but Alroy sensed that Oriel did not approve—Alroy had no idea why.

  Javan could guess why, though. Tavis had warned him months ago that the regents were keeping Alroy compliant with regular sedation.

  But what of Alroy’s potential as a Haldane? Further probing of a more general sort elicited stirrings of a beginning ability to Truth-Read—though Alroy counted it as a prerogative of his divine right as king—but no suspicion on Alroy’s part of any of the further power that should be his as their father’s heir. Appalled, Javan pressed his inquiries longer than was prudent, only suddenly becoming aware that he himself was under scrutiny. He started as he glanced up to see Oriel staring at him from just inside the door, a stone flask almost forgotten in his hand.

  “Ah, Master Oriel. I didn’t hear you come in,” Javan said, quickly drawing back his hand from Alroy’s forehead and trying to cover his tracks in Alroy’s mind. “Did you get the wine?”

  Oriel nodded minutely, his eyes never leaving Javan’s. Javan could feel the other’s mind probing at his, not hard but determinedly, for several seconds before Oriel broke eye contact and crossed to the table where his Healer’s implements were laid out.

  “I’ll just make that posset now,” he said, “though I see that the King’s Grace has managed to drift off to sleep.”

  “I—think it’s probably the fever,” Javan murmured lamely, “though I’m sure you’re aware of that.” He did not move—only watching with growing apprehension as the Healer poured a small cup of wine, then dumped in a measured amount of powder from a parchment packet and stirred it briskly with a horn spoon. Oriel said nothing as he came to sit on the other side of the bed from Javan, only nodding his thanks as Javan helped raise the sleeping king to a sitting position to drink the posset. When the cup was empty, Oriel set it aside and motioned for Javan to join him in the window embrasure beyond. The gesture was not an invitation but a command. Javan shivered as he stepped up into the alcove. The yard beyond the diamond-paned glass was grey with rain, and the cold stone sucked away at body heat despite the heavy woolen drapes intended to insulate.

  “Are you going to tell me about it, or do I have to make an issue of this?” Oriel said quietly, glancing beyond Javan at the rain as they sat down.

  “Tell you about what?”

  Slowly Oriel turned his face toward Javan, one hand moving slowly but deliberately to encircle one of Javan’s wrists. Immediately, the sensation of the other’s mind pressing at his shields intensified, though not to the extent that he felt they might breach.

  “If anyone should come in now, I am monitoring your general health,” Oriel said quietly. “Unless you tell them otherwise, no one will ever know differently. But what I really want to read is what you are. The king didn’t just fall asleep while I was gone, Javan.”

  “What makes you say that?” Javan persisted. “Of course he fell asleep. He’s been ill. He was worn out from coughing. And maybe he was worn out for other reasons, too. He told me about the tonic, Oriel.”

  “Then I trust he also told you that the tonic was not my idea, and that it’s given to him without my approval.” Oriel grimaced as he glanced at his hand on Javan’s. “It’s a sedative, of course—just enough to take the edge off any resistance he might make to what the regents want.”

  Javan nodded miserably. “I knew they’d been doing that at one time. I didn’t think it had continued. Can’t you do anything about it?”

  “Do anything? Me?” Oriel snorted, glancing out at the rain streaming down the windowpanes. “Oh, I’m free as a bird, with my family held hostage for my good behavior. Have you forgotten that I have a wife and baby daughter I’ve hardly even seen since the regents took them into custody? Believe me, I’m sympathetic to your brother’s plight, but my own family comes first—unless you know even more than I think you do,” he added, suddenly looking back at Javan sharply. “Just how did you learn to do what you’re doing?”

  “What am I doing?”

  “You’re shielding, dammit!”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Javan replied steadily. “Forget about it.”

  “I can’t forget about it, and you’re lying when you say you don’t know what I’m talking about,” Oriel whispered, leaning closer to stare into Javan’s eyes. “Did Tavis teach you this, or—Good God, was it you that those Deryni came through the Valoret Portal to see? Has all this sudden compliance with the regents’ wishes just been lip service?”

  “I know you can Truth-Read me, so I’m not going to answer those questions,” Javan whispered.

  “And with those shields, I can’t just dig the answers out for myself, either,” Oriel murmured. “Lord, I’ve never seen a human with shields. And I wouldn’t even have noticed if you hadn’t given me cause to be suspicious. I’m sure the others don’t know. I—can it be that you’re still in contact with Lord Rhys and the other exiled Deryni, Javan? Do I dare to hope it isn’t all over, after all?”

  “Some of it is over,” Javan said woodenly. “Lord Rhys is dead. I can’t speak for anyone else right now. But you tell me, knowing that you are being Truth-Read—is your loyalty to the regents based upon anything besides the threat to your family, if you don’t play along?”

  Oriel closed his eyes briefly, his face contorting in a grimace of barely controlled anguish. Tears glittered in his eyes as he opened them again, and his hand tightened on Javan’s wrist.

  “I’ll answer your question with yet another question, my prince,” the Healer breathed. “Can you sense that I’m lowering my shields and giving you access to the controls for those shields as well as access to my innermost thoughts? And know by Truth-Reading me that if you enter my mind,
there is nothing I can do to resist you until you choose to withdraw. By the lives of my wife and daughter, I can’t give you any greater pledge than that.”

  Every word Oriel spoke was true. Javan knew that with the same certainty by which he was assured of the loyalty of his Deryni allies. And time was growing short. At any moment, the squires or other servants might return, forever rendering this moment impossible.

  If you betray me or mine, I’ll kill you, Javan sent, as he surged into the other’s mind. I don’t care what threat Rhun or any of the others make against your family, because I know you can deceive them if you really want to.

  Oriel harbored no thought of betrayal, however—too overcome to even contemplate a deception of this most unexpected and welcome ally.

  I’ll do anything for you, my prince, if only you’ll promise to do what you can to save my family, Oriel sent. I hate what they’ve made me do—and myself, for having let them bend me to their will—but if you give me even the hope of a hope, together we might be able to make them pay!

  Together they forged their bond, without need for further words, Javan emerging with the certain conviction that he had made an ally for life. It was well he felt that, for in the first instant that he emerged from trance, that conviction was put to the test.

  “Oriel, is he all right?” asked an all too familiar voice, as Javan fought to open his eyes.

  Let me handle this, came Oriel’s smooth assurance, as his hand came to Javan’s forehead and urged relaxation, even as he answered, “He’s fine, my lord. I do think he may have a touch of the same fever that has lately plagued the king, however. Cough for me again, your Highness,” he urged with voice and powers. “This damp is beastly. You should be in bed.”

  Javan obeyed, his free hand going to his mouth to help mask his consternation, wondering whether he and Oriel really could pull this off. Thank God it was Tammaron watching the interchange and not Rhun or Murdoch; Tammaron basically was a decent human being, for all that he was one of the regents. Fortunately, Tammaron did not seem in the least bit suspicious.