"You there," one of the riders called, moving his mount toward Morgan and the other travelers and gesturing with his riding crop. "Come and give a hand with her ladyship's carriage."
So it was a lady's carriage. No wonder the coachman had not sworn at his team.
With a deferential bow, Morgan hurried to the wheel and put his shoulder behind it, gave a mighty heave. The carriage did not budge. Another man braced himself against the wheel below Morgan and tensed for the next trial as several others joined on the other side.
"When I give the word," the lead rider called, moving to the front of the coach, "give the horses their heads and a little whip, and you men push. Ready, driver?"
The driver nodded and raised his whip, and Morgan took a deep breath.
"Now, gol"
The horses pulled, Morgan and His colleagues pushed with all their might, the wheel strained. And then the coach started climbing slowly out of the pothole. The driver let the coach roll forward a few
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feet, then pulled up. The lead rider backed His mount a few paces toward Morgan and the other pilgrims.
"Her ladyship's thanks to all of you," the man called, raising his crop in friendly salute. Morgan and the other pilgrims bowed.
"And her ladyship wishes to add her personal thanks," said a light, musical voice from inside the coach.
Morgan looked up, startled, into a pair of the bluest eyes he had ever seen set in a pale, heart-shaped face of incomparable beauty. That face was surrounded by a smooth cloud of red-golden hair, swooped down on either side like twin wings of fire and then twisted into a coiled coronet around her head. The nose was delicate and slightly upturned, the mouth wide, generous, tinged with a blush of color which by rights should have belonged only to a rose.
Those unbelievably blue eyes locked on his for fust an instant—long enough only to forever engrave her likeness on his mind. And then time resumed, and Morgan was recovered enough to stand back and make an awkward bow. He remembered only just in time that he was not supposed to be the suave and polished Lord Alaric Morgan, and modified what he had been about to say accordingly.
"It is the pleasure of Akin the hunter to serve you, my lady," he murmured, trying unsuccessfully not to let his eyes meet hers again.
The head rider cleared his throat and moved in, placing the tip of his riding crop lightly but firmly against Morgan's shoulder.
"That will be all, hunter," he said. His voice had taken on that edge associated with authority which fears it is about to be usurped. "Her ladyship is impatient to be off."
"Of course, good sir," Morgan murmured, backing off from the coach, but not quite taking his eyes from the lady as he did. "God speed you, my lady."
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As the lady nodded and started to withdraw behind the curtains once more, a small, tousled red head poked up from below the window to stare wide-eyed at Morgan. The lady shook her head and whispered something in the child's ear, then smiled at Morgan as both disappeared from sight. And Morgan, too, grinned as the coach pulled out and continued down the road. Duncan came out of the shrine and buckled his sword around his waist, a Torin badge affixed to his hunter's cap. With a sigh", Morgan returned to the horses to remove his own blade. Then, with resolute step, he crossed the wide yard to enter the antechamber of the shrine.
The room was tiny and dim; and as Morgan stepped inside he surveyed the carved and pierced grillwork masking the walls on either side, noted the hollow echo of parquette flooring under his boots. There were heavily-carved double doors at the other end of the room, leading into the shrine itself. And there was a presence behind the grille on the right. Morgan glanced in that direction and nodded.
That would be the monk who was always stationed in the antechamber—both to hear the confessions of penitents who wished to unburden their souls, and to serve as guardian of the shrine, that only one unarmed pilgrim might enter at any one time.
"God's blessings on thee, Holy Brother," Morgan murmured, in what he hoped was his most pious tone.
"And upon thee and thine," the monk replied, his voice a harsh whisper.
Morgan made a short bow acknowledging the blessing, then moved toward the double doors. As he placed his hands on the door handles, he heard the monk shift position in his wooden cubbyhole, and the thought crossed his mind that perhaps he had rushed matters. He turned to glance in the man's direction, hoping he had not aroused the wrong kind of interest, and the monk cleared his throat.
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"Didst wish to shrieve thyself, my son?" the voice grated hopefully.
Morgan started to shake his head and go through the doors, then paused to cock his head thoughtfully in the direction of the grille. Perhaps he had forgotten something. A small smile tugged at the comers of his mouth as he reached into his belt and withdrew a small gold coin.
"I thank thee, no, good brother," he said, controlling the urge to smile. "But here's for thy trouble anyway."
With a deliberately awkward and embarrassed movement, he reached across to the grille and placed the coin in a small slot. As he turned back to the doors, he heard the soft ring of the coin rolling down a groove, and then a not-too-carefully-masked sigh of relief.
"Go in peace, my son," he Heard the monk murmur as he stepped through the doors. "Mayst thou find what thou seekest."
Morgan closed the doors behind him and allowed his eyes to adjust to the even dimmer light. Saint Tor-in's was not a terribly impressive shrine. Morgan had been in larger and more splendid ones, and ones built to far more august and holy personages than the obscure and strictly local forest saint. But there was a certain charm about the place which almost appealed to Morgan.
To begin with, the chapel was constructed entirely of wood. The walls and ceiling were wood; the altar was a huge slab cut from a giant oak. Even the floor was formed of thin strips of many different kinds and textures of wood, all inlaid in a striking chevron and cross-hatch pattern. The walls were rough-hewn, carved crudely with life-sized stations of tfie cross. And the high, vaulted ceiling was likewise beamed with rough cross-members.
It was the front of the chapel which impressed
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Morgan the most, however. Whoever had done the wall behind the altar had been a master craftsman, had known every kind of wood his land had to offer and how to best display and contrast each. Inlaid strips ran inward from the sides and fountained behind the crucifix like a burst of wooden water frozen timeless there, symbol of the eternal life awaiting. The statue of Saint Torin, to the left, had been carved from a single, gnarled branch of a great oak. And in contrast was the crucifix before the altar—dark wood, pale figure; stiff, formal, the outstretched upper limbs in a perfect T, the head upraised and gazing straight ahead. King Regnant—not the suffering Man on the tree.
Morgan decided he didn't like this cold depiction of his Lord. It sucked away the humanness, almost nullified the air of life and warmth the living walls provided. Even the glow of blue vigil and votive lights, the golden wash of pilgrim candles, could scarcely soften the cold, unyielding countenance of the King of Heaven.
Morgan dipped his fingers distractedly into a font of holy water to the right of the doors and crossed himself as he started down the narrow aisle. His initial impression of serenity had been shattered by his closer scrutiny of the chapel, had been replaced by an air of uneasiness. He missed his blade swinging at his side. He would be glad to be away from this place.
Pausing at a small table in the center of the aisle, he lit a yellow taper which he was required to carry to the front of the chapel and leave by the altar. As the wick flared, his mind flicked back for just an instant to that same color of flame in sunlight that had been the hair of the woman in the coach. Then his candle was lit, and wax was dripping down his fingers, and it was time to continue.
The gate in the altar rai
l was closed, and Morgan dropped to one knee and nodded respect to the altar as he reached for the latch behind the gate. The
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candles of other pilgrims flickered on stands behind the altar rail, before the image of the saint, and Morgan stood as the latch gave with a sharp click. As he pulled away, the back of his hand scraped against something sharp, scratched on something that drew blood. Instinctively he put the wounded spot to his mouth, thinking as he stepped through the gate that this was a strange place for something that sharp.
He leaned down to take a closer look, still nursing his wounded hand. And the whole room began to spin. Before he could even straighten, he felt himself being drawn into a whirling maelstrom laced with all the colors of time.
Merasha! his mind shrieked.
It must have been on the gate latch—and then Ke had further carried it to his mouth! Worse, it was not just the mind-numbing effect of the Deryni-sensitive merasha he was fighting. Another presence was impinging upon his consciousness, a surging, powerful force which threatened to surround him, to drag him under into oblivion.
He fell to hands and knees and fought to escape it, fearing as he did that it was too late, that the attack had been too sudden, the drug too powerful.
And then there was a huge hand reaching down for him, a hand which filled the room, which blotted out the swimming, trembling light as it curled around him.
He tried to cry out to Duncan as pain engulfed his mind, tried in a final effort to shake the sinister force which was overpowering him. But it was no use. Though it seemed his screams could split the firmament, a detached part of him knew that they, too, were being absorbed by this thing.
He felt himself falling, and his scream was soundless, frozen as he slipped into the void.
And then there was darkness.
And oblivion.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Going down to the chambers of death . . .
Proverbs 7:27
THE SKY had darkened appreciably in the quarter hour since Morgan had entered the shrine of Saint Torin. The enclosure was empty except for Duncan and the three horses, and a damp, oppressive wind stirred Duncan's brown hair, blew long strands from the pack pony's tail across his face as he tugged at the animal's left hind foot. The pony finally lifted its foot, and the priest braced the hoof against his lap, using the cross-piece of his dagger as a hoof-pick to scrape away the last of the mud. Thunder rumbled low on the horizon, portending another storm, and Duncan glanced impatiently toward the shrine as he continued his work.
What was Alaric doing in there anyway? He should have been out long ago. Could something have gone
wrong? He eased the pony's hoof to the ground and
stepped back, replacing his dagger in its boot sheath. It wasn't like Alaric to be so long. His cousin
wasn't irreligious by any means; but neither would he
spend an inordinate amount of time in an obscure
highland shrine when the entire Gwynedd Curia was
preparing to convene a^inst them. Duncan frowned and leaned against the pony's
pack, gazing across the animal's hindquarters to the
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chapel beyond. He removed his leather cap and toyed with the Torin badge pinned there, twirled the cap on his fingers. Maybe something was wrong. Maybe he should check.
With a resolute motion, Duncan jammed the cap back on his head and started to leave the enclosure. On second thought, he turned back to untie the horses—they might have to make a rapid departure-then crossed the yard toward the shrine. There was an astonished scurrying behind the right-hand grille as he entered the antechamber, and the creaky voice of the monk addressed him immediately.
"Thou mayst bring no weapons into this place. Thou knowest that. This is consecrated ground."
Duncan frowned. He had no desire to confound local custom, but neither did he intend to disarm under the circumstances. If Alaric was in trouble in there, Duncan might have to fight a way out for both of them. His left hand moved almost unconsciously to rest on the hilt of his sword.
"I'm looking for the man who followed me when I came here a little while ago. Have you seen him?"
Haughtily: "No one has entered the shrine since thou madest thy vigil. Now, willst thou leave with thine offensive steel, or shall I be forced to summon aid?"
Duncan stared keenly at the grille, sudden suspicion of the monk flaring. Then, carefully: "Are you trying to tell me that you did not see a man in hunting leathers and a brown cap come in here?"
"I have told thee, there is no one here. Now, go."
Duncan's mouth compressed into a thin, hard line.
"Then you won't mind if I take a look for myself," he stated coldly, crossing to the double doors and yanking them apart.
He heard an indignant yelp from behind as he stepped through and pulled the doors shut, but he ignored the monk's muffled protests. Bringing his Deryni sensitivity into play and casting about for
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danger as fully as he dared, Duncan ran quickly down the center aisle. As the monk had said, there was no one in the tiny chapel, at least not now. But with only one entrance and exit, where could Alaric have gone?
Approaching the altar rail, Duncan surveyed the area suspiciously, taking in every detail with his precise Deryni memory. No candles had been added to the rack by the altar, though there was a cracked and snuffed-out one lying close by the steps that he did not remember seeing before. But the gate—had that been closed when he came through? Absolutely not.
Now, why would Alaric have closed that gate? Correction: Would Alaric have closed that gate? If so, why?
He glanced back at the doors and saw them closing softly, caught a glimpse of a thin, tonsured figure in a brown monk's habit slipping back from sight.
So: the little monk was spying on him! And he would probably return with the reinforcements he had hinted in no time.
Duncan turned back toward the altar and leaned over the rail to release the catch on the gate. As he did, his eyes touched on something which had definitely not been there before, and he froze.
It was a worn, brown leather hunter's cap with a chin strap, lying crumpled and abandoned against the bottom of the railing at the other side. Alaric's?
Chill suspicion nagging at a corner of his mind, Duncan started to reach for the cap, froze as his sleeve brushed the gate latch and caught. Bending down carefully to inspect the latch, he spied the tiny needlelike protuberance that had snagged him. He eased the sleeve free and moved his hand away, then bent to look more closely. Tentatively, he let his mind reach out to touch the latch. Merasha/
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His mind recoiled violently from the encounter, and he broke out in a cold sweat. Only with difficulty did he manage to control his shaking and avoid retreating as fast as he could go. He dropped to one knee and steadied himself against the railing, forcing himself to take deep, sobering breaths.
Merasha. Now he understood it all: the closed gate, the cap, the latch.
In his mind's eye he saw how it must have been: Alaric approaching the altar rail as Duncan had done, lighted candle in hand ... reaching behind the gate for the hidden latch, alert to the greater dangers the place might hold, yet never dreaming that the simple latch held the greatest treachery of all ... the barbed latch snagging bare flesh instead of sleeve, sending the mind-muddling drug coursing through the unsuspecting body.
And then, someone waiting in the stillness of ambush—waiting to attack the merasha-weakened defenses of the half-Deryni lord and spirit him away, to what fate he knew not.
Duncan swallowed hard and glanced behind him, suddenly aware how close he had come to sharing his kinsman's fate. He would have to hurry. The angry little monk would be back with reinforcements in no time. But he had to attempt contact with Alaric before he left this plac
e. Because unless he could find some clue as to where his cousin had gone or been taken, he would not have the slightest idea where to look for him. How could he have gotten out of here?
Wiping his damp forehead against his shoulder, Duncan bent and pulled the leather cap through the spindles of the railing, cleared his mind and let his senses range forth. He felt the aura of pain, confusion, growing blackness that surrounded and clung to the cap clenched against his chest; caught a hint of the anguish which had driven his kinsman to pull the cap from his tormented head.
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And then He was outside, briefly touching the anonymous flickers of thought that were the myriad travelers on the road beyond. He sensed soldiers of some kind approaching with purpose in their thoughts, though he could not read that purpose at such range; caught the sinister blackness of presence which could only be the little monk, his mind filled with fury at the interloper in his precious shrine.
And something else. The monk had seen AlaricI And he had not seen—nor did he expect to see—him leavel
Duncan broke his trance with a shudder, slumped dejectedly against the altar rail. He would have to get out of here. The monk, who was evidently a party to whatever had happened to Alaric, would be returning with the soldiers any minute. And if Duncan was to be any help to Alaric in the future, he dared not let himself be taken prisoner.
With a sigh, Duncan raised his head and scanned the chancel area a last time. He would have to leave, and now.
But where was Alaric?
He was lying on His stomach, his right cheek pressed against a cool, hard surface littered with something harsh and musty. And his first awareness as he regained consciousness was of pain—a throbbing ache which began at the tips of his toes and localized somewhere behind his eyes.
His eyes were closed, and he didn't seem to have the strength to force them open yet; but awareness was returning. And fiery needles surged through his head again with every pulse beat, making it almost impossible to concentrate.
He closed his eyes more tightly and tried to shut out the pain, trying to focus all his attention on moving some small part of his aching body. Fingers