The Harrowing of Gwynedd (8 page)

“Then, why did he not bring back the ring?” Hubert demanded, turning suspicious eyes on Rondel. “For that matter, why did you not bring back the bodies, man?”

Rondel, immediately all deference and obsequious charm, could only make Hubert a bow of his own, gloved right hand to his breast in abject apology.

“I had planned to do that, your Grace, but it was getting dark, and I was dazed and alone, far from known friends. As I began trying to load the first body on a horse—which I had to
catch
first, your Grace, and the animals were crazed with the smell of blood—As I began trying to load the first body, I could see torches approaching—nearly a dozen. With night falling, not knowing exactly where I was or who they might be—well, it seemed the better part of valor to get away, to at least report what I'd seen. I couldn't get the ring off Cullen's hand, and there wasn't time to cut off the finger to get it, so I settled for the cross he was wearing.” He gestured with his chin toward the item Manfred was handing to his brother. “I had to break the chain to do that.”

Snorting, Rhun rose lazily and leaned across his bride to take the cross from Hubert, turning it impatiently in his hand.

“Manfred, this could be anyone's cross. How do you know he's telling the truth?”

“Well, there's a very quick and reliable way to find out, isn't there?” Manfred replied, without hesitation or resentment. “Have him Truth-Read. Hubert, haven't you got a tame Healer named Oriens, or something like that?”

“It's Oriel,” Rhun said. The cross chimed against the wood as he tossed it onto the table in front of Alroy, who stared at it as if transfixed. “But why not try
my
Truth-Reader?” the regent went on smoothly. “He isn't a Healer, but he doesn't have to be, to Truth-Read. I campaigned him hard at Saint Neot's. Perhaps it's time he confirmed his worth by performing in front of an audience. My lords, what say you?” he asked, glancing casually at his fellow regents.

Seeing no objection, he signalled a guard who snapped to attention in a side doorway.

“Fetch Declan Carmody. And don't tell him what this is all about.”

Javan almost groaned aloud as the guard went to do Rhun's bidding, for Carmody, like Oriel, was a collaborator, albeit an unwilling one—a “Deryni sniffer,” in the vernacular—forced by threat of harm to his hostage wife and two small sons to use his powers at the regents' bidding, even to the detriment of others of his race. For Oriel, the incentive was a wife and infant daughter. Unlike Oriel, however, Carmody still went about in chains. Rhun apparently still did not entirely trust his drafted “pet” Deryni.

Carmody certainly did not look like much of a threat, however, as he was ushered in a few minutes later, light shackles hanging from his wrists. Though he was a man obviously in his vigorous prime, perhaps thirty or so, he looked cowed, weary and sick at heart—which was exactly how Javan felt. When the captive Deryni saw who had summoned him, he glanced only fleetingly at Manfred and the two knights standing with him, immediately dismissing them as threats.

For it was Rhun who was the ever present danger—Rhun, who held the lives of a woman and two small children at his whim and had snuffed out the lives of others' wives and children, even infants, without a twinge of remorse. In the early days of his captivity, Carmody had been forced to watch the slaughter of innocents more than once, and knew Rhun's threat was not an idle one.

So he dipped his head obediently in Rhun's direction as the regent moved around behind Alroy's chair to stand opposite Hubert, masking his hate, his plain face bland and attentive. Rhun, for his part, smiled mirthlessly and leaned an elbow languidly along the back of Alroy's chair.

“That knight says that he saw two dead men,” Rhun said, gesturing toward Rondel with a negligent wave of his hand. “Do not harm him, for I believe Lord Manfred values his services, but we wish to know the names of those dead men.”

As Carmody drew a resigned breath, lips set in a grim line, Javan had to admire the way Rhun had set it up to be certain the man did not just repeat what they wanted to hear. And since Rondel was telling the truth, he was in no danger whatever.

Still, the knight did not look happy as Rhun crooked a finger for him to come closer to the Deryni—though he obeyed. He was trembling as Carmody lifted a manacled hand and laid it on his forehead. He closed his eyes tightly as the hand touched.

“Think about the men,” Carmody was heard to murmur, also closing his eyes. “Picture them as clearly as you can.”

Rondel apparently complied, for almost immediately Carmody gasped and drew back his hand as if stung, his eyes opening in shock.

“Whom did you see?” Hubert demanded, leaning forward eagerly. “I can tell that you knew them, Carmody. Who were they?”

With a little shudder, quickly controlled, Carmody dropped his hands back to his sides, manacles jingling discordantly.

“Alister Cullen and Jebediah of Alcara, your Grace,” he said without emotion.

Carmody was allowed to leave after that, and Rondel as well, the latter for a much appreciated hot meal and a bed, for he and his MacInnis masters, father and son, had been riding for three days. Manfred himself, though travel-stained and weary, took a place of honor between Rhun and his brother, for he was clearly the hero of the evening. Cups were raised often in the next few hours to toast his accomplishment—for the credit was his, since his man had achieved it—and the mood in the hall quickly returned to an even more riotous level of celebration.

But Manfred's news had plunged Javan into new depression, and watching an increasingly drunken Iver MacInnis leer and paw at the younger ladies of the court nearly made the prince physically ill. He tried to ignore Iver, but so blatant a display of lechery was hard to ignore. Eventually, Javan could not help noticing that Iver seemed to be concentrating most of his attentions on two surprisingly plain young girls who hardly could have been older than himself. Neither looked pleased at his attentions, especially the middle-aged woman sitting with them—who was Ansel MacRorie's mother, Javan suddenly realized!

Which meant that the girls must be the famous MacLean heiresses, much the topic of court gossip since the reported slaughter of their cousin Adrian MacLean and his son at Trurill. Adrian's father, Iain, the sixth Earl of Kierney, was still alive; but with the death of his son and grandson, his dead brother's children now became his heirs—these two young girls.

No wonder Iver MacInnis was interested—though how he would choose one, Javan had no idea. The girls were co-heiresses, so would inherit the Kierney lands jointly, on their uncle's eventual death, but the title would remain in abeyance until one of them died, the survivor then becoming Countess of Kierney. What if Iver picked the wrong one?

But Javan did not think Iver would move
too
quickly in choosing his bride—though Ansel certainly should be told that Hubert's nephew was courting them. Javan wondered whether Ansel even knew his MacLean cousins were at court.

And so, as the next course was announced, to fanfares of trumpets and a jaunty little pipe tune as the servants brought it in, Javan resolved to convey that bit of information as well as his more tragic news, and wondered how he could bear to stay in the hall until it was time to go and meet Tavis.

Tavis had known of the tragedy for days, of course. In fact, he had attended the Requiem Mass that Joram and Bishops Niallan and Dermot celebrated in the little Michaeline chapel for Alister, Jebediah, and Rhys, and he had watched the bodies laid to rest in the chapel's vaults.

He had planned to stop in that chapel to meditate for a few minutes, as he usually did before going on to the sanctuary's Portal to meet Javan, but he recalled that Queron had reserved the little chamber for some mysterious Gabrilite ritual that he needed to perform. So he was surprised to see the door standing ajar as he came abreast of the chapel doorway. Curious, he paused to push it further in and peer inside.

“Ah, Tavis, I had hoped you might drop by, before I got started,” Queron said, turning away from a small table he had set up in front of the altar and lifting a hand in invitation. “Please, come in and close the door. I wanted to ask you something.”

Surprised, for he and the former Gabrilite had never spoken privately, Tavis entered and pulled the door shut behind him. He also was surprised to see that Queron had donned Gabrilite habit again, the fine, snow-white wool badged at the left shoulder with the green, star-pierced hand of an ecclesiastical Healer.

“'Tis Gabrilite work I do tonight,” Queron explained, noting Tavis' look of question, though he was careful to keep his body between Tavis and whatever lay on the little table. “Once a Gabrilite—” He shrugged. “But, I did not ask you in to discuss that. I—gather that you were able to learn from Rhys what I was never able. I hoped that perhaps you might teach me.”

“Teach you to block Deryni powers?” Tavis replied, getting right to the point. “I don't know if that's possible, if Rhys couldn't teach you. He was far, far more adept than I.”

“And more adept than I, at least in that respect,” Queron murmured. “But I
would
learn it, Tavis. It's important. A few weeks ago, I left a very brave but helpless man out in the hills near Dolban. I left him in the midst of a band of Willimite extremists who are beginning to look to him as some sort of prophet or savior—which could save hundreds of our race, if they come truly to believe in him. But in order to succeed, he has to have someone to work with him who can do what Rhys could do. If
I
could do it, it might help him enormously. And I'm willing to make the sacrifice.”

“Are you suggesting that I am not?” Tavis said quietly.

“Of course not.” Queron shook his head. “But you do present—problems. Aside from the mere physical stigma of your lost hand, your former close association with Prince Javan may make it more difficult for you to build a convincing cover.”

“I'm aware of that,” Tavis said, crossing his arms on his chest a little self-consciously to hide his empty sleeve, irritated with himself that he had allowed Queron to let the reminder bother him. “With all due respect, however, I don't think you're going to be able to learn the procedure.”

“Will you let me try?” Queron persisted.

“Here? Now?”

Queron shrugged. “No time like the present—unless I'm keeping you from Javan.”

“No, I have a few minutes,” Tavis murmured, “but—”

With a sigh almost of exasperation, he suddenly stepped closer to Queron and brushed his hand across the other Healer's forehead, at the same time reaching out with his mind to trigger the block he had learned from Rhys. Queron recoiled instinctively, but not quickly enough. The older Healer staggered a little as his loss registered, unable to resist as Tavis caught him by a wrist and pulled him closer, holding him with his hand while he lightly laid the end of his stump against the right side of Queron's neck.

“You know, I could leave you this way,” Tavis whispered, engaging Queron's gaze and snaring the wide, frightened brown eyes with water-blue ones. “I wouldn't, of course—and I won't invade your privacy by probing for the reason you pushed me to this—but you took a big risk. You hardly know me.”

“Yet, you could do this to me without any preparation,” Queron breathed, recovering his composure even in this vulnerable state. “It was the same with Rhys. And even once I knew what to watch out for, resisting did no good. Did he ever tell you how Emrys and I put him through his paces, that first time he and Alister came to tell us what he'd learned to do? It's a terrible gift, Tavis. God help us, that we must learn to use it against our own kind.”

“Yes. God help us,” Tavis said, breathing out with a loud sigh. With a downward flick of his gaze, he restored Queron's powers and disengaged his control, though he did not release Queron's arm or pull back from physical contact.

“Forgive me. I shouldn't have done that. Would you like to have a look at where I think it happens?” he went on, returning his gaze to Queron's. “Not that I think it will make any difference.”

Smiling wanly, Queron lifted his hands to clasp lightly around Tavis' wrists.

“At least I'll know, won't I?” he whispered. “If I can't learn it from you either, maybe I can let go of the notion and get on to more productive things. May I?”

Relaxing a little, Tavis closed his eyes and began lowering his shields, aware of Queron doing the same. He had been afraid of Queron before, fearful of the powers of this highly trained and almost legendary Gabrilite, but knowing the vulnerability of just about any other Deryni now, Tavis no longer feared him. He let the other Healer wander in his mind for some little while, poking and sniffing at the area where the blocking function took place, then triggered it on and off several times in Queron—to the other Healer's utter dismay and mystification.

Queron was shaking his head as he dismantled the contact, physical as well as mental, and Tavis knew that the older man was finally convinced.

“Thank you,” Queron whispered, lowering his eyes. “I shan't bother you again, Tavis.”

“It was no bother, sir,” Tavis murmured, a little sorry for Queron. “I only hope that you'll prove better at teaching me than I have at teaching you. Father Alister told me that my Varnarite training was sadly deficient in some areas, when compared to Michaeline or Gabrilite.”

He had to admire the way the older man rallied, once more the assured and confident Healer-priest.

“We all have our uses, I suppose,” Queron replied, hardly wistful at all. “Sometimes God does not give us the talents we think we should have, but we must trust in His greater wisdom. I believe that Alister always wished he had been a Healer. One is rarely satisfied.”