High Deryni (12 page)

Saint Torin was the patron saint of Dhassa. Custom decreed that those approaching the city from the south, as Morgan and Duncan now did, must first stop and pay homage to the city's protector before being permitted to cross the lake to the city's gates. In days gone by—up until three months ago, to be precise—there had been a shrine near the lake: a centuries-old structure built entirely of wood native to the area. There, after entering the shrine alone and unarmed and making a token offering, the pious traveler paid his respects and received the pewter cap badge that identified him as a proper pilgrim. With this he might obtain passage on the small ferry skiffs that plied the lake to the city beyond. Only the badge would serve as fare, and the boatmen could not be bribed.

As a consequence, travelers wishing to enter the city from the south and avoid a two-day ride to the north gate, where the passage was free, gladly paused to pay their respects to Saint Torin. To most, the time saved was well worth a prayer.

But the price for Morgan and Duncan, three months before, had been far higher; and they had never reached Dhassa at all. There had been a trap awaiting Morgan when he entered the shrine: a treacherous needle tipped with the Deryni mind-muddling drug merasha, so placed that Morgan was virtually certain to snag his hand on it.

He had done so, and the drug had done its work. When he awoke, powerless and confused, he had found himself prisoner of the rebel Warin de Grey and one of the archbishops' retainers. Only Duncan's timely intervention had saved Morgan from a slow and terror-filled death.

Nor had the rescue been without its price to Duncan. For in the course of the battle which ensued, Duncan had been obliged to reveal his Deryni identity, to use forbidden Deryni magic to make good their escape. In their flight from the death-filled shrine, flames had been kindled by falling torches, turning the ancient wood structure into a raging inferno.

It was this event, coupled with deeds before the burning, which had brought the winds of anathema howling about the heads of the two who now approached. And it was this set of deeds which they hoped to expiate, could they once reach the relative refuge of the Bishop of Dhassa's presence, to throw themselves on his mercy.

The two men sat silently for a long while in the thicket, listening, sniffing the air, then easing themselves quietly from saddles to the ground. They had seen blue smoke rising in the noon heat beyond the ridge ahead: the smoke of many campfires. Now, as they listened and tested the wind with their extended senses, they could hear the sounds of animals tethered beyond the ridge, the murmur of voices in the valley far below, could catch the pungent scent of woodsmoke on the still spring air.

With a sigh of resignation, Morgan glanced at his kinsman and gave a wry smile, then tethered his horse and began slowly working his way up the slope toward the crest of the ridge, Duncan following. There was ample forest cover as they climbed the ridge, thinning to brush and tall spring grass as they approached the crest. For the last dozen yards, they crawled through the tall grass on hands and knees, gradually sinking to their bellies as they neared the edge.

Blinking like lizards in the brilliant sunlight, they raised their heads cautiously to peer over the edge. The valley below was lightly forested, but the trees concealed little from the two observing from atop the ridge. As far as the eye could see, to the south and to the eastern valley wall, the valley floor was alive with armed men and their encampment; with tents and pavilions, cook-fires and forges, picket lines of tethered horses, pens of animals for provisioning.

Heraldic banners stirred outside the more ornate of the tents, their colorful devices bright and shimmering in the noonday sun. A few were familiar to the two who watched, but many more could not be identified. Only the occasional banners of violet and gold, the rich pennants of purple surmounting the regular battle standards, identified this encampment as an episcopal army. From the condition of the camp, they had been there for some time; by all indications, they expected to be there a good while longer.

As Morgan suppressed a sigh of dismay, Duncan nudged his elbow and gestured to the left with his chin. Far in that direction, almost out of their range of vision, Morgan could just make out the former site of Saint Torin's. A blackened pit yawned where the shrine once had stood: a charred tangle of beams and collapsed walls were all that was left of the once-famous place of pilgrimage.

But there were soldiers swarming there as well, clearing out the debris and digging in the ruins. Over to the right, more soldiers were cutting new beams and timbers. Apparently the bishops had put at least some of their army to work rebuilding Saint Torin's while they waited for war.

Shaking his head grimly, Morgan inched backward until he could safely scramble to a crouch, then began to make his way back down the slope, straightening as he went. Duncan followed. When they had reached the comparative safety of their horses, Morgan sighed and leaned one arm across his saddle, glancing at Duncan.

“Well, we certainly can't slip past the entire episcopal army,” he said in a low voice. “Any ideas on what to try next?”

Duncan toyed with a strap on his horse's stirrup and frowned. “It's hard to say. Apparently they aren't requiring travelers to go through the shrine anymore, because there isn't any. But I doubt they're letting just anyone cross the lake to Dhassa, either.”

“Hmm. I wonder.” Morgan scratched a forefinger thoughtfully across his beard and grimaced.

“How about trying to bluff our way through?” Duncan suggested, after a pause. “In these clothes, and bearded as we are, I doubt anyone would recognize us. You saw how little reaction we got on the road this morning. We could even try to steal a boat tonight, if you think the broad daylight idea is too daring.”

Morgan shook his head. “We daren't risk even that. We
must
reach the dissident bishops. If we were captured before we could get to them, and had to use our powers to extricate ourselves, we'd never be able to convince the bishops of our sincerity.”

“Then what do you suggest? Take two days to ride to the northern approach to the city? That's hardly feasible.”

“No, there has to be another way.” Morgan paused. “Ah, you don't suppose there are any Transfer Portals around here, do you? I wonder how the ancients built them.”

Duncan snorted. “As well wonder why we can't fly! What we could do, though, while we're trying to figure out a solution, is to talk to a few local citizens and find out what the situation in the valley really is. If worse comes to worst, we can always appropriate another Torin badge and try the broad daylight approach. I still have mine, you know.”

At Morgan's look of surprise, Duncan pulled the object in question from his belt pouch and began attaching it to the front of his leather cap. Morgan watched the operation in silent appreciation for his kinsman's foresight, then nodded slowly as he considered the last suggestion. Within minutes, they were moving back toward the road to choose a suitable informant. It could do no harm to pretend devotion to the local saint.

They did not have long to wait. After letting a caravan of pack animals and their guards pass unchallenged, their vigil was rewarded by the approach on foot of a fat, balding man in the robes of a minor clerk. The man wiped his sweating face with the sleeve of his habit as he came abreast of where the two lurked; and since there was no one else in sight on the road, and they had not much time, Duncan cast a final look at his cousin and stepped into the road to bow with a flourish.

“Good morrow, sir clerk,” he said courteously, sweeping his leather cap from his head and smiling engagingly, making certain the man saw the Torin badge. “I wonder, could you tell me whose army lies camped in the valley below?”

Duncan's sudden appearance startled the man; and as he drew back in surprise, his eyes going wide, he backed directly into Morgan, whose hand closed over his opening mouth.

“Just relax, my friend,” Morgan murmured, extending his powers as the man began to struggle. “Step backward and don't resist. You won't be harmed.”

The man obeyed tremblingly, his eyes going slightly glassy, and Morgan half-dragged him back in the brush until they were safely shielded from the road. When they had reached suitable cover, Duncan touched his fingertips lightly to the man's temples and murmured the words that would seal the trance, smiling faintly as the man's eyes fluttered closed and he sagged against Morgan's support. When they had eased him to the ground and propped him against a tree, Morgan sat back on his haunches with a grin as Duncan made sure of their control.

“That was too easy,” Duncan murmured, glancing up with a gleam in his eye. “I feel almost guilty.”

“Let's see if he can tell us anything worthwhile, before you gloat,” Morgan said, touching his fingers lightly to the man's forehead. “What's your name, my friend? Come on, you're all right. You can open your eyes.”

The man's eyes flicked open and he looked up at Morgan in mild surprise. “I be Master Thierry, good sir, a clerk of the household of Lord Martin of Greystoke.” His eyes were wide and guileless, with no trace of fear showing through the Deryni-induced trance.

“Are those Bishop Cardiel's troops assembled in the valley?” Duncan asked.

“Aye, sir. They be camped there more than two months now, waiting on word from the king. 'Tis said His young Majesty will come soon to Dhassa, to be absolved of the fearful evil he has taken upon himself.”

“Fearful evil?” Morgan questioned. “What kind of fearful evil?”

“The Deryni powers, sir. An' they say he has given succor to the wicked Duke Alaric of Corwyn an' his cousin, the heretic priest, when all know that those were excommunicated when the bishops met in April last.”

“Ah—yes, we know about that,” Duncan said uneasily. “Tell me, though, Thierry, how does one get into the city now? Are pilgrims still obliged to pay homage to Saint Torin?”

“Ach, of course Saint Torin must still be honored, sir. Ye wear the badge. Ye should know. His pilgrim tokens are distributed near where stood the paddock of the old chapel. Fearful rogues they were, who burned it down this spring. Duke Al—”

“Who guards the ferries?” Morgan interrupted impatiently. “Can the boatmen be bribed? What kind of guard is kept on the quays?”

“
Bribed
, sir? The boatmen of Saint—”

“Relax, Thierry,” Duncan said, touching the man's forehead and exerting control. “Is it possible for two men to cross the lake without being challenged at the quay?”

Thierry had slumped back against the tree at Duncan's touch, and now resumed his previous matter-of-fact recitation. “No, sir. The guards have orders to search all travelers and to detain those who look suspicious.” He paused wistfully. “I must say that you do look suspicious, sirs.”

“Indeed,” Morgan muttered under his breath.

“Beg pardon, sir?”

“I said, is there any way to get to Dhassa besides across the lake? Aside from riding around to the other gate, that is.”

Thierry knew of none. Nor did the next three travelers whom Morgan and Duncan interrogated and left sleeping beneath the trees. Happily, their fifth informant, a grizzled master cobbler, was more useful. His response to the fateful question began in much the same way; but this time, it had a slightly different ending.

“And do you know of any other way to the city besides crossing the lake?” Morgan asked patiently, never dreaming that he would receive an affirmative answer.

“Nae more, sor. There used to be, but that's been twenty years now.”

“There used to be?” Duncan murmured, sitting up straighter and glancing quickly at his cousin.

“Aye, there was a wee track through the high pass to the north,” the man said pleasantly. “Hardly more than a game trail, it was. But that was washed out by the floods when I was just a lad. 'Tis just as well. Otherwise, impious souls might try to reach the holy city without paying their respects to our patron. That, of course, would be—”

“Oh, unthinkable, of course,” Morgan agreed, edging closer to gaze into the man's eyes. “Now, just where was this trail, Dawkin? How can we get to it?”

“Och, ye cannae get through. I told ye, it's washed awa'. If ye would to enter Dhassa, ye must take the ferry—unless, of course, ye wish to ride to the northern gate.”

“No, I think we'll try to find this old trail,” Morgan said with a small smile. “Now, tell us how to find it.”

“If'n yer sure.” The man shrugged with apparent lack of concern. “Ye go back to tha road and follow it for 'bout half a mile, then take a trail that heads north. After a few hundred yards, the trail enters a defile that splits north an' west. Ye take the north fork; the west fork leads to the village of Garwode. After that, ye're headed toward th' old trail.”

“You've been a great help, Dawkin,” Morgan said with a grin, nodding toward Duncan.

“Oh, it won't do ye a bit of good,” the man chattered on, as Duncan leaned toward him. “The trail's now't but a track, an' it's washed out. Ye cannae get through…”

His voice trailed off and his head lolled onto his chest as Duncan exerted control, and he lapsed almost at once into comfortable snores. With a smile, Duncan got to his feet and glanced down at the man; then, on second thought, he bent to remove the Torin badge from the man's shirt. He handed it to Morgan with a wry grin as they made their way back to the horses, and Morgan polished it against his sleeve before affixing it to his cap. The stolen pewter winked warm and silvery in the leaf-filtered sunlight as the two mounted up.