The Harrowing of Gwynedd (15 page)

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.”

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

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?”