The Harrowing of Gwynedd (39 page)

“
Has
he, Master Oriel?” Javan asked, glancing at the Healer.

Oriel tried not to look concerned. “I will concede that his Grace's cough has not responded as well as I would like. And if your Highness would agree to stay a while, my mind would be more at ease while I fetch the wine.”

“Why, certainly,” Javan breathed, hardly able to believe his good fortune. “Go immediately, Oriel. Perhaps my brother would like me to read to him.”

Alroy nodded weakly but enthusiastically. “No, just talk to me, Javan. Tell me what you've been doing. I hardly see you anymore.”

“I shan't be long,” Oriel murmured, bowing out the door.

Alroy nestled down contentedly under his sleeping furs as the door closed behind Oriel, not releasing Javan's hand as he stifled a dry, nagging little cough with his free one.

“So, tell me what you've been up to lately. I hear you've been spending a lot of time on your knees. Earl Rhun makes snide remarks when he thinks I don't hear, but I think it would be a wonderful thing to be a priest the way Father was.”

“You sound as if you've got me ordained already,” Javan said with a smile, reaching to brush Alroy's damp forehead with his free hand. “Hey, you're running quite a fever. You need to take better care of yourself.”

As he laid the hand flat, ostensibly to better judge the fever's intensity, he sent a gentle command to sleep, immediately eliciting a wide Haldane yawn.

“I'm trying, Javan,” Alroy whispered, his eyelids drooping. “Really, I am. I'm so tired all the time, though. I've been taking my tonic, but it doesn't seem to do much good.”

The king drifted into sleep as he finished the sentence, and Javan encouraged it, easily following up on the reference to Alroy's “tonic.” The royal physicians had prescribed it, but Alroy sensed that Oriel did not approve—Alroy had no idea why.

Javan could guess why, though. Tavis had warned him months ago that the regents were keeping Alroy compliant with regular sedation.

But what of Alroy's potential as a Haldane? Further probing of a more general sort elicited stirrings of a beginning ability to Truth-Read—though Alroy counted it as a prerogative of his divine right as king—but no suspicion on Alroy's part of any of the further power that should be his as their father's heir. Appalled, Javan pressed his inquiries longer than was prudent, only suddenly becoming aware that he himself was under scrutiny. He started as he glanced up to see Oriel staring at him from just inside the door, a stone flask almost forgotten in his hand.

“Ah, Master Oriel. I didn't hear you come in,” Javan said, quickly drawing back his hand from Alroy's forehead and trying to cover his tracks in Alroy's mind. “Did you get the wine?”

Oriel nodded minutely, his eyes never leaving Javan's. Javan could feel the other's mind probing at his, not hard but determinedly, for several seconds before Oriel broke eye contact and crossed to the table where his Healer's implements were laid out.

“I'll just make that posset now,” he said, “though I see that the King's Grace has managed to drift off to sleep.”

“I—think it's probably the fever,” Javan murmured lamely, “though I'm sure you're aware of that.” He did not move—only watching with growing apprehension as the Healer poured a small cup of wine, then dumped in a measured amount of powder from a parchment packet and stirred it briskly with a horn spoon. Oriel said nothing as he came to sit on the other side of the bed from Javan, only nodding his thanks as Javan helped raise the sleeping king to a sitting position to drink the posset. When the cup was empty, Oriel set it aside and motioned for Javan to join him in the window embrasure beyond. The gesture was not an invitation but a command. Javan shivered as he stepped up into the alcove. The yard beyond the diamond-paned glass was grey with rain, and the cold stone sucked away at body heat despite the heavy woolen drapes intended to insulate.

“Are you going to tell me about it, or do I have to make an issue of this?” Oriel said quietly, glancing beyond Javan at the rain as they sat down.

“Tell you about what?”

Slowly Oriel turned his face toward Javan, one hand moving slowly but deliberately to encircle one of Javan's wrists. Immediately, the sensation of the other's mind pressing at his shields intensified, though not to the extent that he felt they might breach.

“If anyone should come in now, I am monitoring your general health,” Oriel said quietly. “Unless you tell them otherwise, no one will ever know differently. But what I really want to read is what you are. The king didn't just fall asleep while I was gone, Javan.”

“What makes you say that?” Javan persisted. “Of course he fell asleep. He's been ill. He was worn out from coughing. And maybe he was worn out for other reasons, too. He told me about the tonic, Oriel.”

“Then I trust he also told you that the tonic was not my idea, and that it's given to him without my approval.” Oriel grimaced as he glanced at his hand on Javan's. “It's a sedative, of course—just enough to take the edge off any resistance he might make to what the regents want.”

Javan nodded miserably. “I knew they'd been doing that at one time. I didn't think it had continued. Can't you do anything about it?”

“Do anything?
Me
?” Oriel snorted, glancing out at the rain streaming down the windowpanes. “Oh, I'm free as a bird, with my family held hostage for my good behavior. Have you forgotten that I have a wife and baby daughter I've hardly even seen since the regents took them into custody? Believe me, I'm sympathetic to your brother's plight, but my own family comes first—unless you know even more than I think you do,” he added, suddenly looking back at Javan sharply. “Just how
did
you learn to do what you're doing?”

“What am I doing?”

“You're shielding, dammit!”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Javan replied steadily. “Forget about it.”

“I
can't
forget about it, and you're lying when you say you don't know what I'm talking about,” Oriel whispered, leaning closer to stare into Javan's eyes. “Did Tavis teach you this, or—Good God, was it
you
that those Deryni came through the Valoret Portal to see? Has all this sudden compliance with the regents' wishes just been lip service?”

“I know you can Truth-Read me, so I'm not going to answer those questions,” Javan whispered.

“And with those shields, I can't just dig the answers out for myself, either,” Oriel murmured. “Lord, I've never seen a human with shields. And I wouldn't even have noticed if you hadn't given me cause to be suspicious. I'm sure the others don't know. I—can it be that you're still in contact with Lord Rhys and the other exiled Deryni, Javan? Do I dare to hope it isn't all over, after all?”

“Some of it is over,” Javan said woodenly. “Lord Rhys is dead. I can't speak for anyone else right now. But you tell
me
, knowing that you are being Truth-Read—is your loyalty to the regents based upon anything besides the threat to your family, if you don't play along?”

Oriel closed his eyes briefly, his face contorting in a grimace of barely controlled anguish. Tears glittered in his eyes as he opened them again, and his hand tightened on Javan's wrist.

“I'll answer your question with yet another question, my prince,” the Healer breathed. “Can you sense that I'm lowering my shields and giving you access to the controls for those shields as well as access to my innermost thoughts? And know by Truth-Reading me that if you enter my mind, there is
nothing
I can do to resist you until you choose to withdraw. By the lives of my wife and daughter, I can't give you any greater pledge than that.”

Every word Oriel spoke was true. Javan knew that with the same certainty by which he was assured of the loyalty of his Deryni allies. And time was growing short. At any moment, the squires or other servants might return, forever rendering this moment impossible.

If you betray me or mine, I'll kill you
, Javan sent, as he surged into the other's mind.
I don't care what threat Rhun or any of the others make against your family, because I know you can deceive them if you really want to
.

Oriel harbored no thought of betrayal, however—too overcome to even
contemplate
a deception of this most unexpected and welcome ally.

I'll do anything for you, my prince, if only you'll promise to do what you can to save my family
, Oriel sent.
I hate what they've made me do
—
and myself, for having let them bend me to their will
—
but if you give me even the hope of a hope, together we might be able to make them pay!

Together they forged their bond, without need for further words, Javan emerging with the certain conviction that he had made an ally for life. It was well he felt that, for in the first instant that he emerged from trance, that conviction was put to the test.

“Oriel, is he all right?” asked an all too familiar voice, as Javan fought to open his eyes.

Let me handle this
, came Oriel's smooth assurance, as his hand came to Javan's forehead and urged relaxation, even as he answered, “He's fine, my lord. I do think he may have a touch of the same fever that has lately plagued the king, however. Cough for me again, your Highness,” he urged with voice and powers. “This damp is beastly. You should be in bed.”

Javan obeyed, his free hand going to his mouth to help mask his consternation, wondering whether he and Oriel really could pull this off. Thank God it was Tammaron watching the interchange and not Rhun or Murdoch; Tammaron basically was a decent human being, for all that he was one of the regents. Fortunately, Tammaron did not seem in the least bit suspicious.

“The cough really isn't that bad, Master Oriel,” Javan said after delivering an appropriately dry, hacky cough, making the expected protests. “I'm fine—really. Must've gotten a breath of dust from these drapes.”

“Yes, well, maybe a little rest
would
do you good, your Highness,” Tammaron said, to Javan's relief. “I hear you've been spending a lot of time on your knees in cold, draughty chapels of late. I confess, none of us would mind if you found yourself a vocation as a priest, but for now, you
are
the heir. You mustn't endanger your health.”

Both Javan and Oriel were Truth-Reading Tammaron as he spoke, and knew that the earl meant what he said, without rancor or deception.

“Perhaps his Highness would allow me to prescribe a posset with a light sedative,” Oriel said smoothly. “Did you not say you hadn't been sleeping well the past few nights, my prince?”

Javan picked up the prompt without hesitation. “Aye, but it's just a stuffy head—and my ears feel blocked up. Can you really give me something to help that?”

Smiling, Oriel rose, shifting his hand from Javan's wrist to his shoulder and urging him down out of the window embrasure. “Most assuredly, I can, your Highness. Lord Tammaron, if you'll excuse us? The king will sleep until suppertime now. What I've given him will offer respite from his cough. The squires should be back shortly.”

“They're back now,” Tammaron replied with a satisfied smile. “And congratulations on convincing Prince Javan that his asceticisms were too much for this cold, damp weather. You take care of yourself now, you hear, son?”

Making vague noises of agreement, Javan let Oriel lead him out of his brother's quarters. As they headed for his own rooms, the two of them refrained from interacting in any way besides verbal small talk, lest they encounter any of the castle's other tame Deryni, but Oriel gave him additional reassurance before bedding him down with the promised posset—a harmless enough drink made of hot brandywine and milk, with honey and an egg beaten into it. The sleep that descended upon the prince when Oriel had gone was a gentle, undemanding one, and Javan felt as heartened as he had been in many a week.

His only worry, as he drifted off, was how, eventually, he was going to rescue Oriel and his family. Maybe he could somehow smuggle them out to Revan …

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

Shall not they teach thee, and tell thee, and utter words out of their hearts?

—Job 8:10

Lent wore on in the Michaeline sanctuary as well as in Rhemuth—a bleak succession of dreary days punctuated by increasing reports from outside of further hostility against Deryni. Before the events of the previous fall and early winter had brought everything to a head, Ansel had organized a small but efficient intelligence network in the Valoret area, partly made up of men who had ridden patrol with him and Davin in the old days, to try to curb the worst excesses of young Deryni. A few ex-Michaeline colleagues of Joram's had joined them since, mostly human.

Now these men became the eyes and ears of the Deryni resistance, such as any resistance could be, so stripped of its leadership and set off balance by the purely physical reprisals the regents were setting in motion. A few came directly to the Michaeline sanctuary to report; others Ansel met nearby in the hills north of Caerrorie, for the sanctuary, though well hidden underground, could be accessed from the surface. Despite their best intentions, its location could not remain a secret indefinitely.

Against that eventuality, Joram, now senior member of the MacRorie family, made plans to disperse at least the women and children to places of greater permanent safety, Evaine excepted. Fiona MacLean had charge of the Thuryn children and waited to take them to Gregory and Jesse in Trevalga on a moment's notice. Mairi MacLean, numbed by nightmares of her husband's tortured death, retreated increasingly into her own world of grief and mindless religiosity, spending hours praying for her husband's soul and becoming more and more withdrawn. Even Queron could not reach her and in the end suggested that the kindest thing would be to let her enter some secluded religious house, her scant Deryni powers blocked and her memories altered to protect herself and those at the sanctuary.