The Harrowing of Gwynedd (6 page)

Queron trembled near collapse on the Portal at Saint Mary's. The knowledge imparted by the medal throbbing in his hand had staggered him, leaving him psychically as well as physically devastated. He had no idea how long he stood there, reeling in the aftershock of what he had just learned; only that, the next thing he knew, he was not alone on the Portal.

He sensed Evaine's presence before she could even touch him, before he opened his eyes to see her standing before him, all in black, her two hands catching up his wrists, her blue eyes snaring his as she softly commanded him to relax, to release the medal that was biting into his clenched fist.

“You've cut yourself,” she murmured, as he numbly opened his palm to blood. “I'm sorry. It was harsh to tell you that way, but I thought that getting it over all at once would be kindest, in the end. I'm all right,” she added, as she sensed his concern shifting to
her
grief.

He blinked, forcing himself to draw a slow, stabilizing breath, then let it out in a whoosh as he absently wiped his blood off the medal and handed it back to her.

“I am so sorry, child,” he whispered. “I wish I could say that I brought better news—though at least it is no worse than yours.”

“Revan?” she asked, with dread in her tone.

He shook his head, not yet ready to contend with his own grief again.

“No, Revan was well, when I left him a fortnight ago. This is other news. But, let us go wherever it is you are to take me, before our presence puts the good brothers of Saint Mary's more at risk.” The wound in his hand was slight, he discovered as he spoke, and he cupped his hand over it and Healed it with hardly a further thought.

“Very well,” she whispered. Drawing a deep breath, she took his free hand and moved closer beside him.

I'm taking you to the Camberian Council chamber
, she went on, in his mind.
In light of what's happened, you're certain to become a full member, so I'll give you the Portal location as we make the jump. Ready?

He had been ready for
that
for as long as he had known of the Camberian Council's existence, though he had never dreamed that so many violent deaths might open the way. But Evaine's instruction had not invited further speculation at this moment. Best that they be on their way, as he had already urged. Closing his eyes, he dropped his shields and opened to her, feeling the fine controls surround his, balancing all in readiness. In less than the space of an indrawn breath, they were elsewhere.

The great, octagonal council chamber was essentially as Queron remembered it, from his several visits there as an unofficial observer, but the people were not the same, even the ones who were left. As he and Evaine entered through the great, hammered bronze doors in the north facet, Joram rose to give him silent greeting from across the ivory table; but it was a quiet and subdued Joram, showing every one of his thirty-nine years. Part of it was the dull, dusty black of the monk's robe he wore, instead of the customary blue of a Michaeline cassock, but the lines on his handsome face had not come from a mere change of habit. Nor could Queron remember the silver dulling Joram's coin-bright head at the temples.

And Gregory, rising more slowly in the place to Joram's left, had weathered the past few months even less well. Though Queron knew that the former Earl of Ebor had moved physically out of harm's reach the previous October, when he abandoned his Ebor estates and took his family westward to a new, hidden stronghold in the Connait, the forty-two-year-old Gregory looked old. To Queron's practiced Healer's eye, Gregory appeared to have dropped perhaps a quarter of his weight from a frame that already had been lean. Now he looked gaunt. His thinning hair, far less of it than Queron remembered, had gone from reddish blond to nearly colorless, and the pale blue eyes burned with an almost feverish brightness beneath the high, noble brow. Queron made a mental note to make Healer's Reading later on, for Gregory did not look well.

Gregory's son Jesse, bending over a cooing basket set on the table at the eastern quarter, also looked up as Queron and Evaine entered. Jesse, too, had changed, from stripling lad to hard, seasoned warrior, though Queron was sure he was barely seventeen. The fingers grasped by the tiny personage in the basket were calloused and still burned nut-brown from the previous summer's campaigning, the face no longer rounded with the curves of youth. Queron remembered Jesse as husky, still a little gangling, but this young man was trim and muscled, holding himself with the feline grace and precision of an experienced fighting man as he gave Queron a respectful nod and then stepped sideways a few paces to stand between Evaine's chair and the next—the one that had been Alister Cullen's.

“Welcome, Dom Queron,” Joram said, gesturing toward a stool set next to Rhys' old place in the eastern quarter. “Please join us.”

Only then did Queron notice Ansel MacRorie, Joram's and Evaine's nephew, watching from the shadows to the left of the doorway. His hair gleamed fair again in the light from the cresset set on the wall behind him—it had been dyed a nondescript brown the last time Queron saw him—but otherwise he looked much the same, clad in worn brown riding leathers and with a sword strapped at his hip. Ansel nodded as Queron caught his eye, moving behind him to close the great bronze doors as Evaine also indicated that Queron should sit in the eastern quarter.

“All's well at Saint Mary's?” Joram asked, as all of them sat down.

Evaine nodded, sliding the baby's basket a little closer on the ivory table.

“Yes. However, Dom Queron has other news that he wished not to convey until he could tell it only once. It isn't about Revan,” she added, forcing herself to glance at the Healer, “but that's all I know.”

Queron, intensely occupied with staring at his hands folded on the table before him, uttered but one word: “Dolban.”

“Dolban?” Joram murmured.

“Sweet
Jesu
,” Gregory breathed. “Not the Servants of Saint Camber?”

Queron shrugged, his vision blurring, and tried to distance himself a little from what he must tell as he raised his eyes to the blessed darkness of the great amethyst dome arching above them.

“I'm afraid so,” he said steadily. “Oh, the buildings still exist. I don't suppose you've heard yet, but Saint Camber had his sainthood rescinded at Ramos a few weeks ago. Not only that, they declared him heretic and traitor. On an individual level, that means that all his lands and holdings would be forfeit to the Crown—which hardly makes much difference now, since that already happened when Ansel was outlawed and deprived of his Culdi inheritance.

“On a wider scope, however, the regents apparently extended their earlier interpretation to include forfeiture of the lands and holdings of those who supported Camber's sainthood—to wit, the Servants of Saint Camber. So they did spare the buildings and the fields for the next tenants.”

“But not the people,” Evaine murmured dully. “Well, go on. It can be no worse than Trurill.”

“No, but no better.” Queron closed his eyes briefly. “Let's see. I don't think it's necessary to go into needless detail. Not counting what I'm about to say, I have now uttered Saint Camber's name three times. According to the new law recently enacted by the regents, my first offense would merit a public flogging. The second would require my tongue as payment.
Writing
his name risks the loss of the hand involved.

“Any further defiance of the new law—and in a religious house dedicated to him, you can imagine how often his name was invoked, in word and in script—places the violator in the same category as our heretical ex-saint—who would have burned, if they'd been able to lay their hands on his body. Fortunately, where Camber was concerned, God took that possibility out of their hands, by bodily assuming him into heaven. The good men and women of Saint Camber's at Dolban were not so fortunate.”

“So they—
burned
them at Dolban,” Gregory muttered. “God help them—all of them!”

Queron scowled. “Amen—but I pray He also helps the perpetrators swiftly to His justice. I have no fear for those who died, for I know that they reside now in the fullness of His glory, but I pray that those who did this thing may be made to suffer. They were episcopal troops, by the way—not just regents' men. I hold Hubert MacInnis personally responsible for this one.”

“
He deserves to burn in hell!
” Ansel whispered bitterly.

“Aye, he does,” Queron replied. “And there's worse yet to tell.”

“
Worse?
” Gregory gasped. “What can be worse?”

“It wasn't just the fires,” Queron murmured, closing his eyes against the memory. “Simple burning at the stake was not sufficient for Hubert's men. Before enacting the ultimate punishment, for heresy, they—imposed the first two penalties as well.”

Young Jesse gasped, going a little white beneath his olive tan. “You mean, they—beat them and—cut out their tongues, and—and
then
burned them?”

“
No one
could be that monstrous!” Ansel stated flatly.

“Those men were,” Queron whispered, brushing a trembling hand across his eyes. “And I might have ended up the same, had it not been for Revan.” He glanced up at Evaine. “Your young man has guts, I'll say that for him. He knocked me out, then dosed me with my own drugs to prevent me going down there to try to stop it—as if I could have made any difference, other than maybe to prove that Deryni do, indeed, use their magic to harm humans—even humans who deserve to come to harm. I don't think I've ever felt so helpless.”

As Ansel and Jesse continued to mutter, exchanging glances across the empty chair of Saint Camber's Siege between them, Joram said nothing, and Gregory only buried his face in long, trembling fingers. Evaine, tight-lipped and pale, finally glanced over at Joram and stared at him until he looked up, exchanging her recommendation in the blink of an eye.

Nodding, Joram drew a deep breath and sat back in his chair.

“Thank you for telling us, Queron,” he said softly. “We realize how difficult it must have been. However, I think little purpose can be served by dwelling on this any longer. All of this will be filed away for further action, as such becomes possible, but for now, I fear that mere survival remains our overwhelming priority.

“To that end, I note that only four of us present are sworn members of this Council. That must be remedied. Evaine, Gregory, Ansel, are we still in agreement?” At their affirming nods, Joram went on. “Excellent. We've agreed on two additions, then. Jesse, your father has already briefed you on what that involves. Queron, I'll speak with you privately, but I suspect that, like Jaffray before you, you'll require time to make additional preparations before taking our oath, to avoid conflict with your Gabrilite vows. Or, are you still bound by them? I know you left active service to the Order some years ago, but I see you've also cut your braid now.”

In an almost reflex gesture, Queron's hand went to his shorn hair, and he smiled.

“The braid still would have bound me—yes,” he replied. “But in itself, it is only a symbol, albeit a powerful one. When a symbol becomes a liability, it is time to retire it. So I had Revan cut it off. It—
will
need to be dealt with in an appropriate manner, in private. I'm sure you understand.”

Joram nodded. “Of course. We'll proceed with Jesse's swearing-in this evening, then, as planned, and hope to do yours tomorrow night. It's best they were done separately anyway. Jesse, is that agreeable to you?”

Jesse, following the exchange with keen interest, made Joram a ritual bow of his head.

“I will place myself at the Council's disposal, as always, Father Joram,” he said carefully.

“Thank you. In a sense, this is all a formality now, since the Council as such is hardly what it was, but in these times, we can't be too careful. After we've gotten both of you properly installed, we'll think more about whether we still want to elect Tavis O'Neill as our seventh member. We do have at least one other option, now that Bishop Niallan is firmly in our camp. But in Tavis' favor is the point that he managed to learn Rhys' power-blocking trick before Rhys died—which I don't believe you knew, Queron.”

“
Did
he?” Queron murmured. “I freely confess my envy. I shall have to question him about it.”

Joram smiled. “I'm sure you will. I think you'll find he's done a bit of maturing, too.”

Queron snorted good-naturedly. “A stubborn young man, last time I saw him. Where is he now?”

“Preparing to make contact with Prince Javan—after which he'll return to our sanctuary at Saint Michael's,” Joram said, rising. “I'll take you there now, if you wish, and explain what will be involved for tomorrow night. You may have the use of the chapel for the rest of the evening, for—whatever you need to do.”

“Saint Michael's—ah,” Queron said with a nod. “Is that where the children ended up?” he said, glancing at Evaine as he also rose.

She nodded. “And my men at arms and the Trurill survivors, such as they are,” she murmured. “Eventually, we'll be taking in part of Niallan's party as well, along with Bishop O'Beirne and a few more Gabrilites and Michaelines who've been sheltering at Dhassa.”

“Other Gabrilites,” Queron said. “Do you know who?”

“Dom Rickart, for one,” she said. “I believe that Dom Kenric and Dom Juris passed through as well, but I don't know whether they're still there.”

“A good start, at least,” Queron agreed, moving with Joram toward the doors which Ansel rose to open for them. “And what about Prince Javan, if Tavis is working with us now?”

“Oh, he's still at Valoret, being a prince,” Joram said smoothly. “However, you'll be surprised when next you see him, too. Not only is he actively supporting us, Queron, but he's functioning practically like a Deryni.”