High Deryni (25 page)

“Well, yes, but—”

“Trust the right of our mission, Marcus,” a second man said. “Did God not protect us when Lord Warin had the Deryni cornered at Saint Torin's? His magic was of no avail that day.”

Warin shook his head and stared into the flames. “A poor analogy, Paul. Morgan was drugged when we captured him at Saint Torin's. I even believe he told the truth that day—that he could not have used his magic while he was under the influence of the mind-twisting Deryni drug. Otherwise, his cousin would not have revealed himself. Duncan McLain had kept his secret far too long to reveal himself for any other than dire reasons.”

“Then, we dinnae know what the duke might do,” Marcus interjected. “Mayhap he could bring this whole castle tumbling down around us, if he chose. He could—”

“No, he is a rational man, for all that he is Deryni. He would not destroy his own house unless there were no other way. He—”

There was a staccato knock at the door, followed by a repeat of the knock before anyone could react. Warin broke off what he had been about to say and glanced at his two lieutenants.

“Come,” he called.

The knocking was repeated, more insistently this time, even as Paul strode quickly to the door.

“I doubt they can hear you, Lord. This room is well soundproofed. I'll let them in.”

As Paul reached the door, the knock was repeated, even more urgently, if that were possible, and as he drew back the latch, a sergeant in the garb of Warin's militia almost fell into the room.

“Lord, Lord, you must help us!” he sobbed, dashing across the room to throw himself at Warin's feet. “Some of my men were stacking stones near the north rampart, when the entire pile collapsed.”

Warin sat upright in his chair, staring at the man intently.

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Yes, Lord: Owen Mathisson. Everyone else managed to get out of the way in time, but Owen—his legs were caught under the slide, Lord. His legs are crushed!”

Warin stood as four more men shuffled in through the still-open door carrying the limp form of the unfortunate Owen. As they entered, the sergeant grasped the hem of Warin's robe and touched it to his lips, crumpled it against his chest as he whispered, “Help him, Lord. If you will it, he can be saved.”

The four men paused uncertainly in the center of the room, and Warin nodded slowly, motioning them to lay the injured man on the state bed at the other side of the room. The men quickly left their limp burden where they were told, then withdrew at Warin's signal. As Warin moved closer to the bed, he motioned Marcus to close the door behind the departing soldiers, gazing down at the man with compassion.

Owen Mathisson had been a strong man, but that had not saved him when the rocks began sliding down on him. From the waist up he was still intact, no mark upon him to show that he had suffered any injury. But his legs inside his leather leggings were twisted and contorted into angles never meant for human appendages. He groaned as he became aware of his surroundings again, and Warin motioned for Paul to bring the candles closer, laying his hand on Owen's forehead as the man's gnarled face grimaced in pain.

“Can you hear me, Owen?”

Owen's gaze wandered slightly, then focused on Warin's face. A whisper of recognition flitted past, just before he closed his eyes again.

“Forgive me, Lord. I should have been more careful.”

Warin glanced over the man's battered form, then returned his attention to the man's face.

“Are you in great pain, Owen?”

Owen swallowed hard and nodded, jaws set tight against the pain, then opened his eyes to stare at Warin again. There was no need for verbal confirmation of what Warin saw in those pleading eyes.

Warin straightened and glanced down at the man's legs again, then reached his hand toward Paul.

“Your dagger.”

As Paul handed over the weapon, Owen's eyes widened and he looked as though he might try to rise, but Warin pushed him gently back on the bed.

“Peace, my friend. This is not the coup. I fear it will cost you your breeches, but I pray not your life. Bear with me.”

As the man lay back, stunned, Warin caught the blade of the dagger under the bottom of one scuffed and bloodstained leather legging and began to cut, extending the gap all the way to the man's waist. At his first touch, Owen cried out in pain as the shattered limb was moved; then he mercifully passed out. The second legging was opened in the same manner to reveal the twisted, bloody limbs.

Warin dropped the knife on the bed beside Owen and silently gazed down at the injuries for a moment, then motioned for Marcus and Paul to help him straighten out first one leg, then the other. When it was done, he paused for just an instant, hands clasped together, then addressed the three men watching.

“He is very badly injured,” he said in a low voice. “If he is not helped soon, he will die.” There was a long silence in which the only sounds were their breathing, before Warin continued.

“I have never attempted to heal so great a hurt before.” He paused. “Will you pray with me, my friends? Even if it is God's will that this man be made whole again, I shall need your support.”

As one man, Paul, Marcus, and the sergeant dropped to their knees to watch in awe, hands clasped fervently at their breasts. Warin continued to stare at his patient for a moment, almost as though there were no one else in the room, then looked up and spread his arms to either side.

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen. Oremus.”

As Warin began to pray, shifting to the common tongue, his eyes closed and a faint aura began to take form around his head. His words were murmured, hushed, in the stillness of the chamber, so that the watchers behind the panels could not hear all that he said. But they could not mistake the aura surrounding the rebel leader as he prayed, or ignore his calm assurance as he stretched forth his hands over the injured man's legs and touched them.

In silence they watched as Warin's hands passed along the surface of the man's legs, watched as the jagged breaks, discernible even from across the room, grew smooth under his touch.

Then the rebel leader was murmuring an end to his prayers, lifting the man's legs—first one and then the other. The legs were whole again, straight, as though they had never felt the ruin of the crushing stones.

“Per Ipsum, et cum Ipsum, et in Ipso, est tibi Deo Patri omnipotenti in unitate Spiritus Sancti, omnis honor et gloria. Per omnia saecula saeculorum, Amen.”

As Warin's words whispered into silence, Owen's eyes flicked open and he carefully sat up. He stared in amazement at his legs, running his hands up and down them in anxious reassurance as the others rose from their knees. Warin watched him for a moment in silence, then crossed himself piously and murmured,
“Deo gratias.”
The miracle was complete.

Behind the panels, Morgan prepared to make his move. Motioning Duncan and Kelson to draw near, he whispered a few words, then straightened and glanced through the spy hole again. As he did so, Duncan drew his sword and slipped away in the darkness to the left. Morgan let the wall-hanging fall and motioned Cardiel to come to him.

“We'll go in now, Excellency. Follow my lead as much as possible. They have unwittingly set the stage for a very effective entrance, and I want to preserve the mood for as long as possible. Agreed?”

Cardiel nodded solemnly.

“Kelson?”

“Ready.”

As Warin and his lieutenants murmured over the restored Owen, helping him to his feet, some slight sound must have come from the direction of the fireplace. Only Paul was facing in that direction, and as his glance shifted toward the sound, he froze and gasped unbelievingly, his eyes wide with horror.

“My lord!”

At his exclamation, Warin and the others turned to see a shadowed doorway opening in the wall to the left of the fireplace, only faintly visible by the light of the low fire burning on the hearth. Blank disbelief froze them all in their places as Kelson emerged from the opening, his young face unmistakable in the red firelight. A collective gasp of anguish accompanied the appearance of Morgan, right behind the king; they did not recognize the third figure, whose steel-gray hair caught the firelight as the opening closed behind him.

All at once, Warin was glancing around wildly, his men scrambling toward the door only to pull up short at the sight of Duncan standing against the green-glowing doorway, a naked sword held across his body in a non-threatening but vigilant pose.

Warin froze and stared at Duncan wild-eyed for an instant, remembering his last encounter with this proud young Deryni who now stood so confidently before him, then closed his eyes and tried with a visible effort to compose himself. Only then did he turn to face his nemesis and his king.

“TELL
your men to surrender, Warin,” Kelson said. “I am assuming command here.”

“I cannot permit that, Sire.” Warin's brown eyes met the king's without a flicker of fear. “Paul, summon the guards.”

“Paul, stay away from the door,” the king said before the man could move to obey.

The rebel lieutenant froze at the sound of his name on the royal lips, then glanced beseechingly at Warin. Behind Duncan, the door still glowed with a faint, greenish light, and the priest minutely shifted his grip on his bared sword in a gesture calculated to instill hesitation.

Warin glanced at the door, the look of indecision and fear on Paul's face, the unreadable eyes of Morgan standing close by the king. Then, with a sigh, he dropped his gaze to the floor at his feet, his shoulders drooping dejectedly.

“We are undone, my friends,” he said in a weary voice. “Put aside your weapons and stand away. We cannot resist Deryni sorcery with mere steel.”

“But, my lord,” one of the men started to protest.

“Enough, James.” Warin lifted his gaze to Kelson's once more. “All know the fate of men who defy their king and fail. At least you and I and the others will die in the certain knowledge that we fought on the side of God. And you, O King, will pay a high price for our lives in the Hereafter.”

There was a scarcely concealed murmur of consternation from the four men grouped behind him, but then they began slowly unbuckling sword belts and baldrics. The dull thud of sheathed steel on carpet was the only sound in the firelight as the men put down their weapons and bunched closer behind their leader. Even so, their manner was defiant.

Kelson noted this and many other things as he signed for Duncan to collect the weapons. And while the new captives were at least partially diverted by Duncan's movement, he caught Morgan's subtle nod toward the low armchair by the fireplace.

With a slight inclination of his head, Kelson moved toward the chair, waiting while Morgan turned it to face Warin and his men, then sitting and adjusting the folds of his borrowed cloak. When Kelson had seated himself, Morgan retired to a position just behind and to the right of the king's chair. Cardiel remained in the shadows to the left of the fireplace. The tableau immediately took on the aspect of a king holding court, even in the very informal setting of a castle bedchamber, and in borrowed clothes. Nor was the effect lost on Warin's men, who watched apprehensively to learn what this bold young king would do.

“We do not require your life or the lives of your men,” Kelson said to Warin, deliberately adopting the royal “we.” “We require only your loyalty from this time on—or, if not your loyalty, at least your willingness to consider what we are about to tell you.”

“I owe no allegiance to any Deryni king,” Warin said baldly. “Nor am I any longer intimidated by your royal birth. You Deryni are very bold when you have your magic to defend you.”

“Indeed?” said Kelson, raising an arched brow. “We seem to recall that you once placed our General Morgan at your mercy in a similar manner, stripped him even of most human faculties, that he might not defend himself in any fashion. The tendency to press one's advantage is a human trait as well as a Deryni one, it seems.”

“I do not associate with those who traffic in magic,” Warin retorted, beard jutting stubbornly as he half-turned away.

“Do you not?” Morgan's retort was more a statement than a question, and he controlled an impulse to smile, for Warin had just given him the very opening they needed. “How, then, do you manage to keep faith with yourself? The gift of healing is, after all, a kind of magic, is it not?”

“Magic?” Warin bristled as he whirled back to face Morgan. “That is blasphemy! How dare you profane so holy a sign of God's favor by comparison with your foul and heretical powers?! Our Lord was a healer. Why, you are not worthy even to breathe the same air as He!”

“That may well be,” Morgan replied neutrally. “Such is not for me to judge—or you, I think. But, tell me. What is your understanding of the gift of healing?”

“My—?” Warin blinked and hurriedly glanced at the others, but could discern no hint as to the purpose of the question. “Why, Holy Scripture tells us that Our Lord healed the sick, as did His disciples after He was gone. Surely, even you are aware of that.”

Morgan nodded. “And my Lord Bishop Cardiel, do you concur with Warin's answer?”

Cardiel, who by choice had remained in the background until now, started as his name was spoken, then moved hesitantly into the firelight beside Morgan. The flickering light caught a heart of amethyst in his ring as he fingered the wooden crucifix around his neck and gazed across at the rebel leader.

“It has always been my belief that Our Lord and His disciples healed the sick and the lame,” he agreed cautiously.

“That is my belief as well,” Morgan said, turning back to Warin. “May I take it, then, that both of you would agree that healing is a God-given gift, one not to be trifled with?”

“It is,” Cardiel said.

“Certainly,” Warin replied, not batting an eye.

“And your
personal
power of healing,” Morgan said softly. “Would that also be considered a gift of God?”

“My pers—”

Kelson allowed himself a perturbed sigh and crossed his legs in exasperation. “Come now, Warin, don't be coy. We know that you can heal. We saw you, minutes ago. We also have certain knowledge that you healed a man in Kingslake last spring. Do you deny it?”

“I—certainly not.” Warin reddened a little as he held himself more erect, chin lifting. “And if the Lord has appointed me to be His instrument, who am I to question His word?”

“Yes, I know,” Morgan said, nodding impatiently and holding up a hand for silence. “What you are saying, then, is that healing is a sign of God's favor.”

“Yes.”

“And that only those favored by God can heal?”

“Yes.”

“Then, suppose that a Deryni were able to heal?” Morgan asked quietly.

“A Deryni?!”

“
I
have healed, Warin. And there can be no doubt that I am Deryni. Do you suppose it is possible, then, that God does favor at least some Deryni by giving them the healing gift? For that matter, perhaps the healing gift is actually a Deryni power….”

“That cannot be,” Warin whispered.

His men stood stunned, and Warin himself had turned as pale as whey, his face so blanched of color that the blank, uncomprehending eyes were the only things even remotely alive in the frozen face. There was a flurry of furtive whispering among Warin's men at their leader's reaction, quickly cut off when Warin suddenly reeled against one of them and had to clutch at his arm for momentary support. Then the rebel leader, no longer quite so rebellious, was blinking life back into his face, staring disbelievingly at Morgan with a look almost of terror on his face.

“You are mad!” he whispered when he was finally able to speak. “The Deryni corruption has addled your mind. Deryni cannot heal!”

“I healed Sean Lord Derry as he lay dying of an assassin's blade in Rhemuth last fall,” Morgan said quietly. “Later, in the cathedral, I healed my own wounds. I speak the truth, Warin, though I cannot explain how I have done this. Both human and Deryni have felt my healing.”

“That is impossible,” Warin murmured, almost to himself. “It cannot be. The Deryni are spawn of Satan. So we have
always
been taught.”

Morgan laced his fingers together and studied his two thumbnails. “I was taught that as well, by some. At times, I have almost been willing to believe it, when I consider the terrible punishments meted out to Deryni in past years.

“But, I, too, was taught that healing comes of God. And if my hands can heal…well, then, perhaps God favors me as well, at least in this small way.”

“No, you lie!” Warin shook his head emphatically. “You lie—and you attempt to draw me into your lies!”

Morgan sighed and glanced at Kelson, at Cardiel and Duncan, then noticed that Duncan was sheathing his sword, a tiny, odd smile quirking at his lips. The priest raised an eyebrow at his cousin as he strode casually to join his colleagues before the fire. Warin and his men drew back suspiciously, a few of them eyeing the now unguarded door.

“Alaric Morgan does not lie,” Duncan said easily. “And if you are willing to
listen
instead of plotting an impossible escape, perhaps I can prove that to your satisfaction.”

Warin's men quickly returned their attention to Duncan, and the rebel leader looked suspiciously at the priest.

“What, would you have him heal for us?” Warin asked contemptuously.

“That is precisely what I propose,” Duncan replied, his slight smile returning.

Morgan's brow furrowed, and Cardiel shifted uneasily, his hand tightening on his crucifix. Kelson sat spellbound, for even he had never actually seen Morgan heal before. Duncan now had all of their undivided attention.

“Well, Warin?”

“But—whom should he heal?”

Duncan smiled his secret smile again. “I do have a proposal that may resolve our apparent dilemma. Warin, you refuse to listen to us unless Alaric can prove to your satisfaction that he speaks the truth. Alaric, you in turn cannot give Warin the proof he requires without someone to heal. I submit that one of us should allow himself to be slightly wounded, so that you may demonstrate your healing power and Warin may be satisfied. Since it was my idea, I offer myself to be the subject.”

“What?” said Kelson.

“It's out of the question,” Morgan said flatly.

“Duncan, you
must
not!” came Cardiel's simultaneous reply.

Warin and his men could only stare in utter disbelief.

“Well, why not?” Duncan asked. “Unless one of you has a better alternative, I think we have no choice. We are deadlocked unless one of us can break the impasse. And it needn't be a serious wound. A scratch would suffice to prove our point. What say you, Warin? Would this satisfy you?”

“I—” Warin was speechless.

“And just who do you propose shall make this ‘scratch'?” Morgan finally asked, his gray eyes clearly showing his disapproval.

“You, or Kelson—it makes little difference,” Duncan replied, keeping his tone light.

Cardiel shook his head adamantly. “I cannot permit it. You are a priest. To shed a priest's blood—”

“I am a
suspended
priest, Excellency. And you know that I must do what I must do.”

He hesitated for just an instant, then pulled his dagger from his belt and extended it across his forearm toward the three of them, hilt first.

“Come. One of you do the deed, and let's be done with it. Otherwise, I may lose my nerve.”

“No!” Warin said suddenly. He took several steps toward the four but then stopped, strained but erect as he stared fearfully across at them.

“You have some objection?” Kelson asked, standing slowly in his place.

Warin wrung his hands together and then began pacing the room explosively, shaking his head and gesturing to punctuate his speech.

“'Tis treachery, treachery! I dare not trust you! If I did, I should never know if you had staged the entire thing for my benefit, if you had only
appeared
to wound this man and then
appeared
to heal him. That is no proof. Satan is a master of lies and illusions.”

Duncan glanced at his companions, then abruptly turned and extended the dagger's hilt toward Warin.

“Then,
you
draw my blood,” he said evenly. “
You
make the wound whose healing will convince you that we speak the truth.”

“I?” Warin paled. “But, I have never—”

“Surely you do not claim that you have never shed blood,” Morgan retorted. “I very much doubt that. But if 'tis true, then it is even more important that you do the deed. If you want proof, you shall have it. But you yourself must be a part of the proving.”

Warin stared at them searchingly, clearly grappling with some inner demon, then took a step backward and eyed the dagger distastefully.

“Very well, I will do it. But not with that dagger. I must have one of our own, that I know to be untainted by Deryni sorcery.”

“As you wish,” Duncan said.

As he sheathed his dagger and began unbuckling his sword belt, Warin edged cautiously toward the pile of weapons confiscated earlier and sank to one knee beside it. He glanced over the assortment of weapons for several seconds, then selected a slender, cross-hilted dagger with ivory fittings. Firelight flashed on the polished blade as he unsheathed it and kissed the relic enclosed in the hilt. Then he rose wordlessly.

“I must ask,” said Duncan, “that you limit yourself to a wound which you yourself could heal.” His linen shirt was half-unlaced, and he pulled it from the waistband of his breeches preparatory to removing it. “Also, if you choose to deliver a potentially lethal wound, I must insist that it be a slow one. I shouldn't like to bleed out before Alaric can bring his powers into play.”