The Harrowing of Gwynedd (26 page)

Javan had known he would have to do that, and had innured himself to the necessity of kissing Hubert's pudgy, pink hand, but he had not reckoned how difficult he would find it to pass among the
Custodes
without flinching. He seemed to feel their eyes boring into the back of his neck as he followed Alroy forward, though he knew they could not know his true feelings about them, and he was chilled to find Brother Serafin, the Order's new Inquisitor General, gazing directly at him as he limped closer, to kneel at Hubert's feet.

Hubert's hand was moist and soft, and the archbishop insisted on resting it on the heads of each of the princes in blessing after they had kissed it and taken their candles. Javan managed not to show his revulsion as he went through with the required charade, even finding some measure of charity in his heart as he bowed before Bishop MacGregor to light his candle, but on his way back to his place, he feigned a sneeze so that he could wipe his sleeve across his nose and mouth, in at least a symbolic gesture of wiping Hubert's taint from his lips.

As he knelt in his place once more, staring into his candle flame as the seemingly endless parade of the faithful came and went in orderly lines, he begged God's pardon for any disrespect his gesture might have carried for the gift—but not the giver!—and tried to let the rise and fall of the choir's sung antiphon lull him into more seemly observation of the day's intent.

“
Exsurge, Domine, adjuva nos: et libera nos propter nomen tuum
.…” Arise, Lord, and free us for the honour of Thy name.…

The words had most of their desired effect, after being sung enough times, so that, when all the congregation had returned to their places, Javan was able to observe the archbishop's procession to the doors and back with only scant animosity. During the procession, the choir sang of the presentation of the Child Jesus in the temple, when Simeon had taken the child in his arms and said, blessing God, “
Nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine, in pace
.” Lord, now dost thou let thy servant depart in peace.

But even during the Mass that followed, Javan was able to derive no real peace, all too aware of Paulin and his
Custodes
assisting Hubert in the Eucharistic celebration—and the Knights now kneeling along the center aisle. The Sacrament itself seemed oddly hollow to Javan, and made him wish he had dared to stay in his place instead of going forward for Communion, for receiving it in his present state of mind was perilously near blasphemy, so much anger did he bear Hubert and his cohorts.

Afterwards was hardly better, for then he must be gracious and pretend he approved of the entire thing, both in the informal chatter that surrounded the royal party as they left the cathedral and then at the feast that followed in the archbishop's great hall. No women were allowed to attend, and the regents and the three princes were the only laymen present.

The afternoon stretched on interminably. Javan's knees ached from kneeling all morning, and they sat him between Tammaron and the new chancellor general, neither of whom said much to him. Soon, as a result of allowing too much wine to be forced upon him, his head ached, too.

The one positive result of the misspent afternoon was that he got a look at parts of the archbishop's palace he had not seen before—knowledge that would be vital if he ever got up the nerve to look for the Portal in Hubert's apartments—the Portal the archbishop did not know he had. Today's events made it even more imperative that Javan communicate with his Deryni allies—at least before the regents packed him off to Rhemuth.

But not tonight—though a ghost of a plan had begun to form in his mind of how he might gain more ready access to the palace and, more important, to Hubert's apartments. He would have to think further on it and consider whether he dared the other risks that went along with it.

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

For thy power is the beginning of righteousness
.

—Wisdom of Solomon 12:16

Javan's Deryni allies, of course, had no inkling of the risks their prince was contemplating. Losing the use of the Valoret Portal—and hence, their means of communicating with Javan—was but one of the setbacks of the night of Giesele MacLean's murder, and one that allowed of being pushed temporarily to the background while they dealt with more immediate considerations arising from the incident. Once Ansel was out of danger and they had resolved their initial panic regarding young Tieg, their chief priority in the following fortnight became the further evaluation and integration of Sylvan O'Sullivan—for upon his cooperation and ability might rest the entire success of what they had planned for Revan.

Fortunately, Sylvan proved to be both an apt and an enthusiastic pupil, once he recovered from the shock of his unexpected initiation into higher arcana. Not only Tavis and Queron but also Joram, Niallan, and even Ansel all instructed him in the days and weeks that followed his arrival, so that both his knowledge of Healing techniques and his general adeptship increased almost twofold—no mean feat for a man whose Healer's training hitherto had been oriented almost exclusively toward battle applications.

“So Revan is simply going to be a decoy for what's really happening?” Sylvan inquired of Queron, early on in his training, as he and the senior Healer relaxed with a jug of mulled wine Queron had brought, after a particularly tiring afternoon's work.

Queron handed Sylvan a steaming cup. “That's right—though you mustn't underestimate the sheer charisma a gifted human like Revan can project. Still, it behooves you and Tavis to make Revan look good—because he can stand up to official scrutiny, where the two of you can't.”

“Against
merasha
, you mean?”

“That seems to be the preferred form of coercion just now—yes. I predict that the
Custodes Fidei
will have much to answer for, when they finally are called before God's judgment. In any case, we can't give you any defense against
merasha
, other than to block you.”

“Which makes us no use to Revan,” Sylvan reasoned.

“Precisely. Which is why our first preference is that none of you come to the particular notice of the authorities at all—even Revan. Besides the obvious danger of
merasha
and perhaps other substances, my guess is that the
Custodes
are not above more physical means of persuasion—even outright torture, if it suits their purposes.”

Sylvan grimaced. “Well, I can cope with that, if I must. I suppose it's the John the Baptist parallel that still makes me uneasy. It seems to me that we're skirting perilously close to blasphemy—and I don't even want to think about heresy. Mind you, I can't argue from the same philosophical premises as you or Joram.” He flashed the senior Healer an amiable grin. “In the last few days, the two of you have made me woefully aware of the inadequacies of my Varnarite training for anything but battle surgery. But isn't it awfully risky, doctrinally speaking, using the framework of baptism to cover blocking Deryni?”

Smiling, Queron blew lightly on his hot wine to cool it. “If we meant it as a substitute for Christian baptism, most assuredly. However, the mere concept of baptism is not exclusively Christian. We know that at the time of Christ, baptism was common to many different sects. Nor did it always have the sacramental nature we now attach to it in a Christian context.”

“No?”

Queron shrugged in easy camaraderie. “Well, I could quote you chapter and verse from a multitude of sources—a few of which might even be familiar to someone of Varnarite training—but take my word for it. As just one example, the Prophet Elisha prescribed baptism for purification. That's in the Second Book of Kings. And all four Gospels speak of John's form of baptism in almost exactly the same words, as a sign of inward repentance for the remission of sins.”

“‘Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand,'” Sylvan quoted promptly.

“Correct,” Queron agreed. “A plus for Varnarite training! And John said, ‘I indeed baptize you with water; but one mightier than I cometh, the latchet of whose shoes I am not worthy to unloose; and he shall baptize you with the Holy Spirit and with fire.'”

“So we simply avoid baptizing with the Holy Spirit or fire?” Sylvan retorted with a wry smile.

Chuckling, Queron raised his cup in salute. “Something like that—though I'll grant you, it's a delicate balance. Somehow, we must go back to some of those earlier traditions and devise a form for our current situation that will be acceptable to the most conservative of the present Church hierarchy, yet still induce people to believe it might have some efficacious effect. Now perhaps you understand why the Lady Evaine spends so much time poring over her scrolls.”

The conversation seemed to clear away whatever remaining doubts Sylvan might have had. Furthermore, once he understood the scope and magnitude of what they planned, he had new ideas to contribute, and readily offered to assume the primary Healer's role of working directly with Revan—for Tavis, with his missing hand, would be all too conspicuous among Revan's growing band of “disciples,” if he tried to take too prominent a part.

“You do understand the risk you're taking, though?” Tavis asked him, when their new recruit had reiterated the offer for the third or fourth time. “Right now, you could still be free to go back to Trevalga with Gregory and Jesse. If you join up with Revan and me, and the regents' agents expose the baptizer cult for what it really is, you're likely to get killed with all the rest of us.”

Sylvan only laughed. “Why should
you
have a monopoly on taking risks? Besides, I think I'll be in good company. There
are
causes worth dying for, Tavis.”

The sentiment was one that Evaine shared, though in an additional context to the one occupying Tavis, Sylvan, and most of the rest of the sanctuary household. Once she was reassured that Sylvan's timely arrival had at least temporarily suspended any need to consider drafting little Tieg for their purposes—and that Tieg himself was not going to become a problem, by using his blocking talent for childish whims—Camber's daughter pursued her own purposes increasingly, though only Joram knew her true intent. Her first priority was to begin assembling the texts that might contain clues on how to bring their father back.

The documents stashed at Sheele seemed a logical place to start. She and Ansel had secreted a number of scrolls and other valuables under the flags of the Sheele Portal before fleeing to Saint Mary's at Christmas. These must be retrieved before Sheele's new lord took formal possession, probably in the spring. Just now, Rhun of Horthness was occupied with the festivities of winter court at Valoret and besotted with his new bride; Sheele was occupied by a small garrison of knights hand picked by Rhun. Evaine felt it likely that such men would not presume to usurp the apartments usually reserved for the manor's lord—including Rhys' former study, where Sheele's Portal lay.

She and Ansel went a week after his wounding, when he was fully recovered, in those dark, quiet hours after midnight when men sleep most soundly and the watch was likely to be least attentive. As anticipated, the study was deserted. They had a tense moment or two, when footsteps passing in the corridor outside paused and someone tested the doorlatch; but no one entered. While Ansel pried up the heavy flags forming the floor of the Portal, Evaine kept guard by the door, scanning for danger and noting the changes already wrought in the name of Sheele's new owner, missing the familiar things that had made the study a refuge when she and Rhys had called Sheele home.

Gone were most of the volumes of medical lore he had collected over the years, especially the ones having to do with a Healer's special abilities. Gone also was the entire section of Deryni literature—the scrolls of poetry, the histories, the collected poems of Pargan Howiccan, the treasured scroll of the Lays of the Lord Llewellyn. In fact, anything to do with Deryni at all had disappeared. The ashes Evaine prodded in the cold fireplace grate bore mute evidence of the fate of at least one of the scrolls; and charred remnants of a fine old leather binding brought tears to her eyes—for to burn a book, any book, seemed to her one of the most heinous of sins.

But there was no time to linger or to nurse her grief and indignation. All too quickly, Ansel's soft hiss called her back to the Portal, the flags now set back in place, his leather satchel bulging with the booty he had recovered. The information she sifted from the salvaged volumes kept her busy for the best part of several weeks, while the others continued their indoctrination of Sylvan.

Other discoveries there were as well. Just after Candlemas, Bishop Niallan reluctantly quit besieged Dhassa for good, bringing with him several large boxes of scrolls and bound volumes of Deryni lore that, if left behind, were sure to be consigned to the flames when the regents' army took the city—which they were sure to do, once the spring thaws came, if not before. Most of the manuscripts were classic texts, already well known to Evaine, but one long, narrow chest contained a cache of documents dealing with the early days of the Varnarite College at Grecotha. The bulk of them had to do with the day to day running of the college, and were of only passing interest, but several purported to extract direct quotes by some of Grecotha's most famous lecturers, among them the great Orin himself. One lot, almost overlooked under a dusty sheet of parchment lining the bottom of the chest, bore a seal of dull green wax ringed with faded script.

“Look at this, Joram,” Evaine said, holding the packet gingerly by the edges as she blew off a puff of dust. “I don't think it's been touched for years—maybe centuries.”

Joram, who had been helping her catalog the new acquisitions, pushed aside his list and moved a rushlight closer as she laid the packet flat on the table.