The Harrowing of Gwynedd (69 page)

“Anyway, it wasn't their ritual that night; it was Father's,” Javan went on. “And it had something to do with—preparing us to receive his power—or at least setting its potential. I—think it was supposed to surface in you, as the heir, once he was dead.” He searched his brother's eyes. “But it never did, did it?”

Alroy swallowed and shook his head weakly. “Life might have been a lot easier if it had,” he whispered. “If I'd even been able to Truth-Read—”

“I think it was the drugs the regents gave you,” Javan said, to shift any sense of guilt away from Alroy and onto the former regents—whose actions might well have prevented Alroy from coming into his magic, for all Javan knew. “If they hadn't kept you drugged all the time—”

Alroy closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head again. “It doesn't matter now,” he whispered, stifling a slight cough. “They did, and I didn't. Do you—do you think it will pass to you, once I'm gone?”

Nodding wordlessly, Javan squeezed his dying brother's hand. “Some of it already has,” he whispered. “I don't think it was supposed to, but it did. It started soon after Father died. Tavis thought I might have gotten primed for it by working with him for so long. I got accustomed to having him put me into trance when he'd use his Healing to work on my foot. Shields were the first thing we discovered. We found that out the night after his hand was cut off. I didn't know what I was doing, but I wanted to help. I put myself totally into his power that night, to do with me as he needed. And he—was able to pull energy from me, past shields that neither of us had even suspected were there.”

“
Shields
…” Alroy barely mouthed the word, his grey eyes wide with wonder and a little fear.

“I know,” Javan went on. “It all scares me, too. I've gotten much stronger since then. Alroy, I have powers almost like a Deryni. If I'm careful, I can control some humans.” He hazarded a quick grin. “I used to do it to Charlan all the time, once I found out how. It's dangerous, though, if anyone found out.”

Alroy swallowed hard, stifling another cough, and glanced uneasily at Oriel, still bowed deep in trancing beside him.

“He knows some of it,” Javan whispered, answering the unasked question. “No one else does, other than the Deryni working directly with Father Joram.”

“What about Rhysem?” Alroy whispered, looking beyond the bed where Rhys Michael guarded the door.

Javan shook his head. “There was no way to tell him. And it only would have made things more dangerous, once I was away from Court.”

“But you're back now,” Alroy said anxiously. “And you
do
intend to stay, don't you?”

Javan smiled faintly. “I'm not meant to be a priest,” he said, “though I think I understand now what Father was giving up in accepting the crown. In any case, the seminary's been a grand place to hide, these past few years—and to acquire a useful education while I gave myself time to grow up. I'd hoped it would all be in aid of helping you rule, as one of your ministers; but I suppose I guessed, deep inside, that it wasn't going to happen. Murdoch and his cronies were never going to let you rule.”

“That's why they kept me drugged,” Alroy whispered, closing his eyes briefly. “Just enough to take the edge off any resistance or independent thought. I knew, after a while—but there wasn't anything I could do about it.

“I've foiled their plans, though, haven't I? At least I've given
you
time. You're four years older than I was when I became king. You won't need to have regents. And you're onto them. You won't be as gullible as I was.”

Javan bowed his head, blinking back new tears. It was senseless to pretend that Alroy was not dying.

“I—hope I'll have better luck,” he murmured. “God, how I wish there were something I could do for you.”

Alroy swallowed noisily, tears swimming in the shadowed eyes. “You've done it, just by being here,” he whispered. “I'm glad it was in time. Oriel has—has promised that I don't have to suffer any more. But stay with me … please. Even if I seem to be far, far away before the end, somehow I'll know you're there. It isn't that I'm afraid, though I do wish …”

His voice trailed off, and Javan leaned closer to peer into the clouded grey eyes.

“You do wish what?” he breathed.

“It would have been a comfort to receive the Sacrament one last time,” he murmured, not looking at Javan. “But I
won't
receive it from Hubert. That would be sacrilege.”

The coughing bout that started this time was one that Oriel could not muffle, and he stirred from his Healer's trancing to help Javan shift the king onto his side, where Alroy still coughed uncontrollably until Oriel sent him plummeting into unconsciousness.

“It will have to be the drugs soon,” Oriel murmured, when the coughing had abated and he could at last distract enough attention from his patient to look across at the anxious Javan. “I can bring him around once more, for just a few minutes, but anything beyond that would only prolong his suffering needlessly. If you have anything else you need to say to one another, you'd better make up your mind quickly.”

Mind whirling furiously, Javan gave Oriel a nod. From somewhere—he had an impression of Evaine's memory behind it—a compelling image had flashed in his mind. Suddenly bringing a parallel of that image into present reality became all important.

“Master Oriel, can you delay that last time for a few more minutes, in a good cause?” he asked.

“As long as it isn't for too many more minutes, Sire,” the Healer replied. “What do you intend to do?”

Javan's thin smile was not pleasant. “Something that will not please the archbishop,” he said, motioning for Rhys Michael to join him. “Rhysem, come and stay with him, would you? And pay no mind to any shouting and arguing you may hear from the next room.”

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TRIAL

SPRING, 1118

Writing “Trial” was one of the more challenging projects I've undertaken in the Deryni world. It didn't come as an answer to a question I asked myself or my characters about the Deryni; it came of putting together elements that I was given, and weaving them into a story. I should explain. In the winter of 1984, I went to a small, new science fiction convention in the western United States. As sometimes happens to small, new conventions, this one had underestimated its costs and had run into financial difficulties. To raise money to get themselves out of their monetary crunch, the Con committee asked each of the pros present to donate something to be auctioned off: an autographed copy of a book, a manuscript, a dead ballpoint pen used by the author—whatever might induce fans to part with some of their cash in a worthy cause. I thought about the request, then offered the following: I would write a one-page scene involving the successful bidder with the Deryni character of his or her choice, general theme to be specified by purchaser.

Well, I never dreamed what a stir this would create; no one did. The committee put he scene as the last item on the auction, and the fans went bonkers. When the bidding reached three figures, and people began forming consortia to pool their resources, I upped the ante to a two-page scene, if two or more people won it, with two Deryni characters of their choice.

I honestly don't recall how much the scene brought, though I believe it would have been a quite respectable payment for the average length short story in a typical science fiction or fantasy magazine, but the irony was that the two gentlemen who bought the scene had never read any of the Deryni books! The first buyer, an intense young man with a blondish mustache and the mythically suggestive last name of Stalker, wanted to be a King's Ranger, and voiced a preference for a pretty Deryni lady as companion in the scene—perhaps a minstrel. The other buyer, who goes by the name of Ferris and affects a Norse persona in the SCA (Society for Creative Anachronism) is a swordsmith who shows up at a lot of conventions selling weapons and armor. He wanted to be a version of his SCA self. But they both agreed that I could use my own discretion and put them with whatever Deryni characters I wanted.

So I took down physical descriptions and addresses and promised to get back to them as soon as I could. And I thought a lot, for several months—until suddenly, a storyline started to develop.

Well. I hadn't intended for the exercise to turn into a whole story, but I got carried away. (In fact, as the story began to materialize, I even entertained the notion that I might use it as my contribution to the Andre Norton anthology—but it soon turned the wrong direction for that.) Before I knew it, Ferris was an itinerant swordsmith from Eistenfalla, off the map north of Torenth, who had come to Kiltuin in Corwyn, Morgan's territory, to peddle weapons. Kiltuin, just downriver from Fathane but on the Corwyn side, is a port town held by Ralf Tolliver, Morgan's bishop; and Tolliver runs a tight ship—no lawlessness in Kiltuin.

But Ferris is a foreigner in town and doesn't speak the language very well; and he gets set up by—

But, read the story and see what happens. Stalker didn't get his Deryni minstrel girl, but he did get to be a King's Ranger; and Ferris got far more than he bargained for.

TRIAL

Pain dragged Ferris back to consciousness—a head-splitting point of fire pulsing behind his right ear, someone kicking him repeatedly in the ribs, and pressure crushing the fingers of his sword hand around something hard and sticky-warm.

“
Jesu
, she bled like a stuck pig!” someone muttered, “Watch out he doesn't get you with that knife!”

“He isn't getting
anybody
now!” a second voice answered, another kick punctuating the words. “Let's take care of the bastard!”

More voices joined in—harsh, urgent, conspiratorial—in a tongue Ferris only barely understood, even fully conscious; but their mood was clear even if the exact meaning was not. Sheer survival instinct made him try to arch and roll away from his tormentors, but he could not get the weapon in his hand to connect with anything but air. Two of them pinned his arms then, while two more continued pummeling and kicking. One particularly vicious blow connected with his solar plexus, eliciting a
Whoof!
of anguish and shoving him perilously near unconsciousness.

Where, in the name of the All-Father, was he? And why were these men trying to kill him? The last thing he remembered, he'd been leaving the Green Man Tavern, happily inebriated after drinking part of the profits of a very good sale. In fact, he'd sold the sword off his own belt.

But when he'd heard screams and the sound of a scuffle, and then the scrabble of running feet—

“Here now! What's going on?” a new voice demanded, the snap of authority causing the kicking to stop and Ferris's tormenters to draw back a little in consternation as light bobbled toward them and hard-shod footsteps approached.

“Damn, it's the watch!” one muttered.

“Get the knife away from him!” another responded, wrenching the hilt out of Ferris's numb fingers. “Ho, the watch! Come get this fellow! He's murdered the girl!”

It was only then, as they jerked him to his feet by both arms, that Ferris saw the crumpled body sprawled where he had just lain—and the dark stain spreading on the cobbles around her, bright crimson even by light of the approaching lantern. It soaked her fine linen gown and pooled where it still seeped from terrible wounds in her chest and a gaping slash across her throat.

“Hold him! Don't let him get away!”

But he was not trying to get away. After the beating he had taken, it was all he could do just to stay conscious. A groggy glance at his own clothing revealed that he, too, was covered with blood, and he feared very little of it was his own. His buff leather jerkin was slick with it, and he could feel it stiffening already in the fine hairs on the backs of his hands, clotting in his hair and beard where it had spattered.

“Please, I have done nothing!” he managed to gasp, as the man with the lantern pushed closer, muttering orders to the liveried men following him—and backed away almost immediately to fend off a second man who was trying to get a better look.

“Oh, God, is it Lillas?”

“You don't want to see this.”

“He killed her! The bloody bastard's killed her!”

“I never
saw
her before!”

“Quiet, you!”

A knee to Ferris's groin doubled him up with pain, but he knew he must not let them silence him.

“No! By all the gods, I swear it!” he cried. “These men attacked me. I have killed no one!”

“By all the gods, he swears, eh?” One of the men holding Ferris forced him to his knees with a vicious twist of one of his already aching arms. “Heathen bastard!” He spat contemptuously in Ferris's face. “The hell he didn't!”

“Aye, there's no mistaking that!” another chimed in. “He's carved her up right proper, he has. God; would you just
look
at all this blood?”

The second man paid little attention to the exchange, still intent on getting past the sergeant for a look at the girl's body; but he pulled up short when he had seen her, shock and anguished disbelief quickly giving way to cold loathing as he straightened and turned to stare at Ferris.

“Stalker, no!” the man with the lantern cautioned, seizing a handful of the other's sleeve. “Don't do anything stupid!”

But the man addressed as Stalker only shook off the restraint and drew himself a little taller, staring down at Ferris as if he might slay him with a glance, his face white in the lantern light. Unlike the watch, in their town livery of russet and gold, he wore the ciphered leather doublet and thigh-high boots of a King's Ranger, a cockade of egret feathers jutting from the crown of his green leather hunt cap. He might have been of an age with Ferris—certainly no more than thirty—but his face, in his tight-leashed grief, had taken on an ageless and almost androgynous beauty, like statues of the Old Ones Ferris once had seen in the temple at Eistenfalla. For an instant, the man called Stalker was one of those Old Ones—and Ferris greatly feared for his very soul, even though he knew he was innocent.