The Harrowing of Gwynedd (17 page)

“Where's another Healer?” he screamed again, really becoming alarmed as he was forced to divert some of his attention to Ansel's suddenly erratic heartbeat.

“Oh, no you don't! Stay with me, Ansel!”

All at once, others were crowding to assist him, several other pairs of hands reaching in to help shift Ansel into the antechamber outside the Portal itself and give Tavis room to work. He scuttled along with them, maintaining contact. To his intense relief, Evaine took over monitoring functions at Ansel's head, even as they moved him.

“He's going into shock. Jesse, go get Queron!” Evaine ordered, cradling Ansel's head in her lap as they straightened him out on the floor. “Gregory, tear that legging open wider, so Tavis can see what he's doing, and then take the pressure point.”

The blood-soaked fabric parted between Gregory's already bloody hands with a soggy, ripping sound, and blood spurted again as he relieved Tavis, the heels of both hands applying pressure in the angle of Ansel's groin. From Tavis' left, another pair of hands smoothly eased into the wound to either side of Tavis' one, the directing mind linking in with trained precision and urging them both to deeper levels, so that healing might be effected.

“Easy,” the other murmured. “You've got your extra hands now. Sylvan's my name.”

The name was vaguely familiar to Tavis, but he did not know that mind. Without doubt, however, Sylvan was a Healer well accustomed to dealing with wounds of this kind. A battle surgeon?

That's right
, came the other's brisk reply.
Let's see if we can get him stabilized now. You work on the bone damage, and I'll try to stop the bleeding
.

It was a logical division of labor, with Sylvan's two skilled hands to Tavis' one, and Tavis bent to his task without question, though he had to rely solely on touch until someone sluiced warm water over the wound to clear their working field—Fiona MacLean, Tavis' quick glance confirmed.

Even then, and with Sylvan at last making headway with the bleeding, repairing the damaged bone was trickier than Tavis had expected. Though Ansel's femur was not broken, the blow that had caused his wound had also pried up a chip of bone as the sword twisted in its wielder's hand. Tavis managed to mend it without getting in Sylvan's way too much, but he sensed his own fatigue and after-reactions to the night's events beginning to set in as he finished, potentially affecting both skill and judgment. He pulled back gladly as another unfamiliar Healer joined in across from him—not Queron or Rickart, to his surprise, though the newcomer was Gabrilite, and known to Sylvan.

Leaving further physical manipulation to them, he shifted his own dwindling energies to bolster Evaine—for Ansel's vital signs had steadied, but they were still dangerously weak. For a while, he tried to maintain a secondary link, prepared to drive further power into their working if it should be needed, but he made no false protest of bravado when the other two finally eased him from the link entirely, as aware as he that he was nearly spent.

When hands suddenly dropped onto his shoulders from behind, it was Queron's mind that wrapped around his in compassion and offer of healing for the Healer, even as the hands drew him back, head tipping against Queron's knees. Tavis caught a glimpse of the Healer looking down at him as his eyes rolled back under his lids, already responding to Queron's command to let go, but he did not even think of resisting. Surrendering all thought of what he had just done and witnessed, he let Queron's reviving spell work its miracle for those few seconds. He could feel new energy coursing through him as he opened his eyes, Queron's support remaining with him in a light Healer's link still open between them. And since Sylvan and the other Healer still were working and seemed not to need their help, Tavis allowed himself a quick scan of the rest of the room.

He was not surprised to see Joram and Jesse, of course, watching quietly from the shadow of the Portal, where they would not be in the way; and Gregory still knelt at his right, Evaine cradling Ansel's head beyond him.

He remembered that he had noticed Fiona in the room, too. Just now, she was setting a steaming basin of water on the floor by Ansel's feet, damp little tendrils of dark hair standing out around a face flushed from exertion.

What he had not expected was the children—though, on second thought, perhaps that should come as no surprise. They lived here, after all, and hardly could have slept through his frantic cries for help. Beyond Fiona, a wide-eyed and trembling Rhysel Thuryn hugged an enormous stack of towels to her breast, her face almost as white as the folded linens. And a little to her right, pressed hard against the wall, the twelve-year-old Camlin MacLean crouched beside an agitated-looking Tieg Thuryn, both comforting and restraining the younger boy with arms around his shoulders from behind.

Of course Tieg would have been drawn to the call for a Healer, even if the others had not. Tieg was a Healer's son and already known to be a future Healer himself, though the Healing gifts generally did not begin to manifest until near puberty. At three-and-a-half, formal Deryni training of any kind must be negligible, but Tieg's Healing potential was prodigious enough to have shown already, as Camlin certainly had cause to know full well. Though Evaine had been the one to
direct
that Healing, its source had been Tieg.

“It's all right, Tieg,” Tavis reassured the boy. “We're nearly done. He's going to be fine.”

Indeed, the unknown Gabrilite Healer already had withdrawn physically, though he kept one hand resting lightly on the back of one of Sylvan's to augment, as the battle surgeon finished up. Tavis could not see much of the Gabrilite's face, for his head was bowed over the patient, but the hair pulled back in the sleek braid of his order was bright blond, untouched by grey. Quite possibly, he was not much older than Tavis. Somehow, he had managed not to get blood on his white habit, either—which amazed Tavis, because the rest of them looked as if they'd been working in a slaughterhouse.

The Healer Sylvan certainly had not escaped tonight's blood bath. He was nearly as bloody as Tavis. His fine, green woolen tunic, neatly embroidered with tiny Healer's badges all around the neck and sleeve edges, would never be the same; and even his smooth, clean-shaven face was spattered with blood. In profile, he appeared to be in his early thirties, but age was difficult to judge without looking at his eyes, which were all but closed. Mostly, all Tavis could see was a shock of light brown hair, cropped short all around his head—as if someone had used a pudding bowl for a cutting guide.

He certainly seemed competent, however. Even as Tavis watched, the last of Ansel's wound sealed under the other's hand, leaving only a long, moist-looking line that Tavis knew would soon fade. Sylvan breathed a heavy sigh of relief as he opened his eyes and, before Tavis could even think about trying to prevent it, shifted the less bloodied back of one hand across Tavis to touch the side of Ansel's neck. Tavis was not surprised when the Healer tensed almost immediately, startlingly hazel eyes darting to Evaine's blue ones in surprise and alarm.

“Are you shielding him somehow?” he demanded. Quickly he reached his other hand beside the first, to bracket Ansel's jaw and read even deeper—that there was nothing Deryni there to read.

“Good God, you aren't doing it at all, are you?” he whispered. “But—I thought you said this was Ansel MacRorie.
This
man isn't even Deryni! Aurelian,
read
him!”

As the young Gabrilite moved in to confirm, both Healers' shields snapping up in reflex defense against this unknown, little Tieg suddenly darted between Camlin and his mother to lay both chubby hands on Ansel's cheek before anyone could stop him.

“You leave my Uncle Ansel alone!” he piped up, turning wide, indignant eyes on his mother as she closed him in the circle of her arms and tried to shush him.

“No!
Not
pull Tieg away! Why that man says this not Uncle Ansel, Mummy? And why is Uncle Ansel clear? If I close my eyes, I don't see him.”

For just a stunned instant, Tavis could not think clearly—he could only guess that Tieg must be reading Ansel's lack of shields—perhaps even his lack of power! And right here, in front of the two stranger Healers!

He could sense the others' alarm as well, especially Queron's, even though reason told him that these surely must be more of the Healers Gregory and Jesse had been bringing to be screened for the blocking ability. A frantic glance and question at Joram confirmed it—and also that the two had received no preparation whatever. There had been no time.

Nor were the present conditions precisely optimum for a reasoned introduction to the notion of blocking Deryni powers—especially their long-range plans for Revan. The young Gabrilite might hesitate to take any serious action against what surely would be perceived as a threat, for his Order was sworn to nonviolence, but Sylvan, at least, was battle-tuned and already far too jumpy. Drastic action was necessary on Tavis' part—though he must set things up so that the two would not realize it was drastic, until too late.

“Relax, gentlemen,” Tavis said quietly, only shifting his hand to one of Ansel's slack wrists as he glanced at the two Healers, trusting Evaine to deal with any unexpected reaction little Tieg might make, and watching Joram move a casual few steps closer to the young Gabrilite. “He
is
Ansel MacRorie, and he
is
Deryni. Evaine, if I put him back, will that interfere with your monitoring?”

Evaine shook her head. “Not at all. I've already set commands to sleep and to follow doctors' orders until he gets his strength back.” She managed a faint smile as she encircled Tieg more closely. “Despite my nephew's usual penchant for doing what
he
thinks is best, I suspect we'll find him a model patient.”

“Right, then.”

Tavis already had the physical point of contact he needed with Ansel, his hand to Ansel's wrist. Reaching across the link with his mind, he reset the triggerpoint with only casual effort, then drew back. The Gabrilite gasped and leaned closer to the patient, Sylvan also edging closer on his knees to stare without comprehension—and in that incomprehension lay their downfall.

“What in the—”

“That simply is not possible!” the Gabrilite murmured.

But Tavis ignored their predictable astonishment. Snaking his left arm behind Sylvan without warning, he clamped the man's neck between stump and hand long enough to trigger a block and control before Sylvan even knew to struggle, forcing him deeply and instantly into sleep. At the same time, Joram moved in and pinned the young Gabrilite's upper arms from behind, while Queron reached across to catch the man's wrists—all before Sylvan even began to crumple. As Tavis rose, giving Sylvan into Gregory's keeping as he prepared to step across Ansel and repeat the process with the Gabrilite, he sent silent suggestion to Queron, who agreed.

“Dom Aurelian, isn't it?” Queron said briskly, diverting the younger Healer's attention so Tavis could make his move. “Ah, but don't be frightened, little brother. No one is going to harm you. Nor is your friend Sylvan harmed, I assured you. However, this
will
be easier on everyone if you don't fight us.”

By then, it was too late for Aurelian to fight. Tavis' trigger and control brought horrified astonishment and oblivion within the space of a single heartbeat, and the Healer-priest slumped unresisting between Joram and Queron, only twitching a little as Tavis set commands to permit a deep probe, even once the block was removed.

“I'm sorry we had to do things this way,” Queron murmured, observing Tavis' operation with interest and not a little envy. “I remember this young man from Saint Neot's—a promising Healer, Dom Aurelian. He was ordained shortly before I left the Order.”

Preoccupied, Tavis nodded and reset the triggerpoint in Aurelian's mind, then delved deep, looking for the ability to block. He did not expect to find it, so he was not overly disappointed as he withdrew and gave control over to Queron.

“Just like all the others, I'm afraid,” he said. “Oh, he's fulfilled the Healer's promise you remember, Queron, and he certainly justified his existence by helping Heal Ansel—but unfortunately, he hasn't got what we're looking for. I'll let you make the appropriate memory alterations while I check the other one.”

As Queron sighed and nodded, setting resignedly to his task, Tavis rose and stepped back across Ansel to turn his attention on the other man, now sprawled unconscious in Gregory's arms, eyes closed.

“This is Sylvan O'Sullivan, my household Healer and battle surgeon,” Gregory said in a low voice, as Tavis knelt and set hand and stump to the other's temples, confirming that identity. “I still wish I knew how you do that.”

“So do I,” Tavis said, smiling mirthlessly. “Hmmm, Varnarite trained, like myself. Too bad that the resemblance probably ends there. But—let's set his powers back in place and see what he's got.”

No further resemblance became immediately apparent, as Tavis reset the triggerpoint and skirted the edges of Sylvan's mind. Where Tavis had been trained primarily for civilian Healing, Sylvan O'Sullivan's emphasis was as a battle surgeon—which was why Gregory had employed him. Where Camber had found Tavis' Varnarite training philosophically deficient, compared to Gabrilite or Michaeline training, Sylvan's was even less sophisticated. He certainly did not have the esoteric background possessed by so many other hopefuls that Tavis had read in the last few weeks, searching for another like himself. Nor would Sylvan have presented any challenge to the brilliant Rhys Thuryn, in sheer Deryni power—though he had worked with Rhys, on occasion.

But as Tavis restored Sylvan's powers—though not his waking consciousness—and pushed deeper past Sylvan's now unresisting shields, he suddenly realized that the ability to trigger a power block was there! Tavis was as sure of that as he was that he himself could strip
any
Deryni of his or her powers.