Bishop Cardiel, in whose chambers the debate raged, cast a sidelong glance across the room at his colleague Arilan and then returned his attention to a side argument between the aging Carsten of Meara and Creoda of Carbury. Arilan nodded to himself and suppressed a small smile as he continued to study Loris and Corrigan in action.
Cardiel and Arilan, at forty-one and thirty-eight respectively, were Gwynedd's two youngest bishops.
~fe.
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Next after them came the fifty-year-old Tolliver of Coroth, Morgan's bishop, and then the rest of the clergy grouped predominantly in the late sixties.
But besides age, there was at least one other important difference between Cardiel and Arilan and most of the other bishops present. For the junior members of the Curia were finding Loris' unseemly outburst almost amusing. They were not amused by the threats Loris was making; both were secretly in sympathy with the Deryni general Morgan who had protected their young king so ably during the coronation crisis last fall. And Duncan McLain had, for a time, been a rather promising protegee of the fiery Bishop Arilan. Nor were they happy about this "Warm" whom Gor-ony had mentioned. Neither liked the idea of an anti-Deryni religious fanatic running around loose in the countryside, and they were somewhat annoyed that Loris had presumed to sanction Warm's movement, even if unofficially.
But on the other hand, it was amusing that the ineffable Morgan had once again managed to make Loris out an idiot. Cardiel, a relative outsider by- dint of being Dhassa's traditionally neutral bishop, had only an academic interest in whether or not Loris was, indeed, a fool. But Arilan knew it was so, and relished this public proof of the fact. The young auxiliary bishop of Rhemuth had had to put up with what he considered fanatic foolishness far too many times to be impressed just because Loris was Primate of Gwynedd. Perhaps what Gwynedd needed was a new Primate.
Arilan had no delusions that he might be that new man. He would be the first to admit that he was far too young and inexperienced. But the scholarly Bradene of Grecotha, or Ifor of Marbury, or even de Lacey of Stavenham would be much superior to Edmund Loris as archbishop of Valoret. And as for Loris1 colleague and Arilan's immediate superior, the
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blustering Patrick Corrigan—well, perhaps the arcK-bishopric of Rhemuth could stand some new blood too. And that was not necessarily out of Arilan's reach.
Loris finally managed to curb his temper and stop shouting. As he stood at his place and raised both hands for silence, his clergy gradually ceased their railing and took their seats. Younger priests and clerks in the service of the bishops pressed closer to their masters to hear what the Archbishop would say. There was total silence except for the raspy breathing of old Bishop Carsten.
Loris bowed his head and cleared his throat, then looked up. His bearing was erect, composed, as he swept his gaze around the room, for he was speaking as Primate of Gwynedd now.
"My lords, we beg your indulgence for our recent outburst. As you are doubtless aware, the Deryni heresy has been a special interest of ours for many years. Frankly, we are not surprised at Morgan's actions. Indeed, we could have predicted them. But to discover that one of our own clergy, a nobleman's son and member of the monsignori, at that, is a5—," he forced himself to say the word without embellishment, "is a Deryni—" He paused to swallow his anger before continuing.
"Again we apologize for our excess of emotion, my lords. Now, as reason returns, and we further contemplate what this discovery of deception in our midst means to the Church in Gwynedd, we realize that there is but one way to proceed from this point, at least with the heretic priest McLain, And that is excommunication: excommunication, degradation from the priesthood, and, if the Curia will allow it, execution as the treacherous Deryni heretic that he is.
"We realize that the second and third sanctions require time-consuming legislation by this august body, and we are perfectly willing to accede to the
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proper procedures." His sharp blue eyes scanned the room. "But it is within our jurisdiction as Primate of Gwynedd to declare that Duncan Howard McLain and his infamous cousin Alaric Anthony Morgan shall be declared anathema. Archbishop Corrigan, our brother of Rhemuth and McLain's immediate superior, supports us in this declaration. We hope that as many of you as see fit will join us for the rite of excommunication after Compline tonight."
There was a ripple of discussion around the room, but Loris cut it off with a sharp tone. "There surely can be no question of conscience in this matter, my lords. Morgan and McLain have this day most foully murdered good and loyal sons of the Church; have threatened the life of our servant Monsignor Gorony, an ordained priest; have used vile and forbidden magic in a consecrated place. Looking back, we must even surmise that McLain was probably responsible for much of what went on at the coronation of our beloved King Kelson last fall; for that, he and Morgan share double blame." His gaze swept the room once more. "Is there any dissension? If so, feel free to speak."
There was none.
"Very well, then," Loris nodded. "We shall expect all of you to assist in the excommunication rite this evening. Tomorrow we shall decide what further action, if any, is to be taken in this specific matter. In addition, we shall again discuss what is to be done with Morgan's Duchy of Corwyn. It may well be that we shall yet have to lower the Interdict we discussed today. Until this evening, my lords."
With a short bow, Loris took his leave of the clergy and glided out the door, followed by Corrigan, Cor-rigan's clerk Father Hugh de Berry, and a half-dozen other assistants and scribes. As soon as the door had closed behind them, the rest of the occupants broke into heated debate once more.
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"Arilan?"
Bishop Arflan, following the discussion between Bishops Bradene and Tolliver, looked up at the sound of his name above the din and saw Cardiel signal from across the room. Taking his leave of the two senior bishops, he made his way through the throng of railing prelates and clerks surrounding his host bishop, and bowed formally.
"Did my lord Cardiel wish to see me?"
Cardiel returned the bow without batting an eye. "I had thought to retire to my private chapel to meditate on this grave crisis which has come upon us, my lord Arilan," he shouted in Arilan's ear, trying to make himself heard. "It occurred to me that you might care to join me. I expect the Curia chapel will be somewhat crowded by our elder brothers."
Arilan controlled a smile and inclined his head graciously as he waved dismissal to his attendants. "I should be most honored, my lord. And perhaps our joint prayers will be of some use in assuaging the anger of the Lord against our brother Duncan. To damn any priest of God, even a Deryni one, must needs be a serious matter. Do you agree?"
"We are in complete accord, my brother," Cardiel nodded as they slipped out through a private door. "I believe we might also meditate on the merits of this Warm person whom the good Monsignor Gorony mentioned in his somewhat hasty report. Don't you?"
Guarded nods were exchanged with a pair of monks passing in the corridor, and then they were entering the secluded and sound-proofed private chapel of the bishop of Dhassa. As the doors closed, Arilan finally allowed his smile to escape without restraint, leaned easily against the doors as Cardiel struck light to a candle beside him.
"Warm is not the real issue, you know," Arilan said, squinting as the candle fire flared. "But while we're discussing him, I'd suggest a careful study of
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this Interdict notion Loris seems determined to force upon us. I don't see how we can fail to support the excommunication and remain in good standing with the Curia. The facts are there, and Morgan and McLain are at least technically guilty as charged. But I totally reject the Interdict plan unless the people of Corwyn should refuse to honor the Curia's excommunication of their duke."
Cardiel snorted as he strode to the front of the cha
pel and touched his light to a pair of candles on the altar. "I'm not certain I could support the Interdict even then, Denis. Frankly, I'm not convinced that Morgan and McLain did anything but defend themselves. And even the inherent evil of Deryni magic is highly questionable, to my way of thinking."
"It's good you say that only to me," Arilan smiled, walking down the short aisle to join Cardiel. "Others among the Curia might not understand."
"But you do," Cardiel said confidently. He glanced at the red Presence lamp hanging from the ceiling and nodded toward it "And He for whom that light burns understands. We three are enough for now."
Arilan smiled again and settled back in the front pew. "We are enough," he agreed. "So let us discuss how to make us more than three; what things might be done and said to change Loris' plans when the time is right."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The humans ill what they do not understand. Unknown Deryni
IT WAS STILL raining as Duncan and Morgan came down off the mountains. Lightning streaked in the west and paled the fading sunset, and thunder rumbled and echoed among the mountain peaks. The wind howled through the ruins of Saint Neot's, lashing rain against weathered grey stone and charred timbers as the two riders rode through the ruined courtyard.
Duncan squinted into the gloom and pulled his hood farther over his head. At his right, Morgan huddled in the saddle, gloved fingers locked on the high pommel and eyes closed as he nodded with the motion of his mount. He had slipped into semi-consciousness some hours ago, his stupor mercifully numbing him to the discomfort of the long ride, but Duncan knew his cousin could not last much longer without rest. Thank God they had finally reached shelter.
Duncan guided his mount into the protected corner where he and Morgan had spent the previous night, and reined in. Morgan swayed in the saddle, then jerked to awareness as the horses halted and Duncan jumped to the ground. His glazed eyes searched his surroundings uncomprehendingly.
"Where are we? Why have we stopped?" 233
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Duncan ducked under his hone's neck and moved to Morgan's side. "It's all right. We're at Saint Neot's," he said, taking Morgan by the shoulders and helping him from the saddle. "I'm going to leave you here to rest while I look around. There should be a Transfer Portal somewhere about. That will get us as far as Rhemuth, if it's still working."
"I'll help you look," Morgan mumbled thickly, almost stumbling as Duncan led him to the driest corner of the old campsite. "It's probably by the Camber altar I told you about."
Duncan shook his head as he eased Morgan to the ground and knelt beside him. "If it's there, I'll find it," he said, pushing his kinsman back against the wall. "Meanwhile, you're going to get some proper sleep."
"Now wait a minute," Morgan protested, trying feebly to sit up. "You're not going to wander around out there by yourself while I sleep."
Duncan smiled indulgently, but his hand was firm as he pushed Morgan back against the wall and shook his head once again.
"I'm afraid that's exactly what I'm going to do, my friend. This time you haven't any say in the matter. Now don't fight me, or I'll have to force you to sleep."
"You would, too," Morgan muttered petulantly, slumping back against the wall with a sigh.
"I would indeed. Now relax."
As Morgan closed his eyes, Duncan stripped off his gloves and stuffed them into his tunic. Clasping his hands together for just an instant in preparation, he stared across at his cousin and collected his thoughts, his pale eyes going hooded. Then he reached across to place a hand on either side of Morgan's head, thumbs to temples.
"Sleep, Alaric," he whispered. "Sleep deep, sleep without dreams. Let slumber wash away fatigue and restore you."
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He let himself slip into silent Deryni mind-contact as he continued.
Sleep deep, my brother. Sleep soundly, without fear. I shall not be far away.
Morgan's breathing became slow, regular; the handsome features relaxed. And then he slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep. Duncan dropped his hands and watched for a moment, satisfying himself that his cousin would not reawaken until he returned, then stood and pulled a blanket from his saddle to drape over the sleeping form.
Now for the Transfer Portal.
Duncan paused on the threshold of the ruined chapel and surveyed the place warily. Though night was falling, the rain had slackened so that he could see the half-fallen walls looming against the darkening sky. Over to the left, where portions of the roof still held, windows of the ruined clerestory stared down at him like empty eye sockets, their bright glass gone forever in the general destruction which had befallen the place. Lightning flashed, illuminating the once-proud chapel bright as day as Duncan made his way toward the main altar and chancel. Shallow puddles on the broken flooring flashed fragmented brightness whenever a new bolt of lightning seared its way across the heavens. Wind whined through the ruins, moaning protests of bygone ignominies and misadventures.
Duncan reached the bottom of the altar steps and paused, envisioning how it must have been in the days when the monastery had flourished, when the walls had soared above the heads of nearly a hundred Deryni monks, countless more teachers and noble students.
In those days, the processions would have approached the altar with reverence, voices raised in praise with the sweet, pungent smoke of incense and the glow of beeswax tapers. He could almost feel it.
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Introibo ad altare Dei.... I will go up to the altar of God.
Lightning arced across the sky, illuminating the fallacy of Duncan's musings, and he smiled at himself. Mounting the altar steps, he moved to the ruined slab and gently placed his hands on it, wondering how many other hands, consecrated like his, had rested there before. In his mind's eye he saw the splendor of the place when the altar had been holy, bowed his head and genuflected in respect for that ancient time.
Then thunder crashed and he turned away from the altar, mindful once more of the problem at hand.
To locate a Deryni Transfer Portal—that was his task. To locate a place of magic in the ruins of a long-defunct Deryni monastery and hope that it would still function after two hundred years.
Where would one build a Transfer Portal if one were the architect of this chapel four hundred years ago? Would one follow tenets similar to those held by the builders of the Portals Duncan knew? How many Portals were there in the Eleven Kingdoms? Did anyone know?
Well, Duncan knew of two. There was one in his study, originally built so that the King's Confessor, traditionally Deryni in the old days, could have access to the cathedral at a moment's notice. And the second Portal was in the cathedral sacristy, a simple metal plate set in the floor beneath the carpeting of the vesting chapel. After all, one could never predict when it might become necessary to storm the gates of Heaven with prayers and supplications for the king— or so the old ones had believed.
So he was back to the original question: Where would such a Portal be, here at Saint Neot's?
Duncan scanned the nave to left and right, then on impulse turned to the right and picked his way across the broken flooring. Alaric had said that there was an old Camber altar at the left of the chancel—to the
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right, the way he was facing. Perhaps the answer lay there. Saint Camber was the patron of Deryni magic. What better location for a Transfer Portal made possible by that magic?
There was little left of the altar. It had only been a narrow shelf set in the wall to begin with, and heavy blows had battered and defaced the edge of the marble slab so that the lettering was almost illegible. But Duncan could trace out the Jubilante Deo at the beginning of the inscription; and imagination helped to fill in the name, Sanctus Camberus. The round-arched niche above the altar still held the broken-off feet of the Deryni saint.
Duncan's fingers caressed the worn slab as he turned to view the ruins from, this van
tage point, but after a moment he shook his head. He would not find a Transfer Portal here. Not out in the open. In spite of the general acceptance of magic before and during the Interregnum, when the monastery was built, the Deryni architects of Saint Neot's would never have placed a Transfer Portal out here, before the fascinated eyes of all comers. That was not the Deryni way.
No, it would be somewhere more secluded-nearby, perhaps, since the presence of Saint Camber would have been thought to offer some protection, but not out in plain view.
Then where?
Turning back to face the tiny altar, Duncan scanned the walls to either side, searching for an opening to the chambers and smaller chapels which should lie beyond. He found it—a crumbled doorway half-buried beneath fallen timbers and overturned stones—and without further ado, cleared a hole big enough to crawl through. He wriggled into the opening and found himself looking into a small lofty chamber which could only have been the sacristy.
Duncan squirmed the rest of the way through his passage and straightened cautiously, ducking to avoid
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low beams which had fallen when the chapel burned. The floor was littered with blocks of stone, rotting wood, shattered glass. But over against the far wall were the remains of an ivory vesting altar, fragments of closets and chests and mouldering vestment presses to either side. Duncan scanned the chamber with a practiced eye, squinting as a particularly bright bolt of lightning lit up the heavens.
Now, where would the ancients have located the Portal in here? And with such large-scale destruction as the ruins indicated, could anything have survived?
Kicking aside rubble and moving farther into the chamber, Duncan closed his eyes and rubbed the hack of his hand across his forehead wearily, trying to open his mind for impressions that might remain.
Beware, Deryni/ Here ties danger/
Duncan's head whipped around in alarm and he dropped to a crouch, sword half-drawn. Lightning flashed again, sending eerie shadow-shapes chasing across the walls, but there was no one in the chamber besides Duncan. Straightening warily, he resheathed his sword and continued to scan for danger.