The Harrowing of Gwynedd (55 page)

Javan let himself give a nod, thinking quickly. “Of course not. But I was always taught that when a sinner repents—when he turns away from his sins and resolves to amend his life and return to the community of God's people—God forgives. The Shepherd rejoices at finding His lost sheep and returning it to the fold. The Father welcomes His prodigal son and takes him back into His embrace. Nowhere in the sacred writings can I find a passage that says the Shepherd slaughters His returned sheep, or that the Father slays His son.”

“Ah, but the Scriptures give us numerous examples of the wicked being brought to the fire at the Day of Judgment,” Secorim said. “Surely you do not intend so weak an argument in defense of the Deryni.”

Javan sighed, doing his best to show distaste at the very notion. “I am not defending Deryni, Father. But perhaps there's another way to bring in these lost sheep besides slaughtering them. If they can be made to turn from their former lives—if, indeed, they no longer have the
ability
to return to their former lives—is this not better than the slaughter? I don't know if I can bear to see another helpless man butchered—or, worse, women and children put to death, simply because of what they are.”

“And you believe that this Master Revan offers an alternative, even though he preaches a sacrament contrary to the teachings of Holy Mother Church?”

“I don't think he means it as a sacrament, Father,” Javan said, thinking fast, “and certainly not a substitute for sacramental baptism. It's a—a purification, a specific purification for a specific purpose.”

“Ah, so he purports to purify those who come to him,” Secorim said, nodding shrewdly. “And by what authority does he claim to do this?
Not
by the authority of the Church, I hasten to point out.”

Javan glanced at the cup between his hands, all too aware of the trap Secorim was laying. “Father, he doesn't just
claim
to do it,” he said, glossing over the dangerous question of authority. “If what he does were only a token act, with no effect on the recipient, one might charge him with blasphemy, for presuming to offer a grace whose efficacy cannot be proven.

“However, he
does
purify Deryni. He washes away their past and gives them a new beginning, free of their accursed powers. That's
provable
, Father—and far more objectively than most of the ‘official' sacraments.”

Secorim looked shocked, but Hubert only signalled with his hand for the abbot not to interfere.

“I see I shall have to instruct you further on the nature of true sacraments,” the archbishop murmured, “but, go on. Tell Father Secorim of your ‘proof.'”

Javan chanced a quick glance at Hubert before returning his attention to Secorim, trying to decide just how upset Hubert actually was about the sacramental question. Well, he could sort that out later. He had already denied any claim to be a theologian.

“Very well, your Grace,” he murmured, settling on another approach with Secorim. “Father, today your monks tested two known Deryni with
merasha
. Neither showed any effect beyond the drowsiness I'm told usually affects humans. Unless you no longer consider
merasha
a reliable method for detecting Deryni—a thought which I, personally, find quite appalling—we must concede that a change has occurred—the very change for which all of us, I believe, have been praying: that God will strip the Deryni of their powers and turn them back to His paths.”

“I do not pray for a conversion of the Deryni,” Secorim muttered through clenched teeth. “I pray for their destruction!”

“And I pray for deliverance from their influence!” Javan retorted, knowing he must defuse
that
line of hatred immediately, or all was lost. “I pray for deliverance, and today my prayer was answered.”

Secorim snorted derisively. “How,
answered
?”

Trembling with the strain, his back afire with the pain of his scourging, Javan made himself push his cup away and clasp his hands on the table before him.

“Father, I am not greatly learned in theology, but I know what I saw and experienced, and what my conscience tells me,” he said softly. “I don't know the source of Master Revan's authority to preach what he does, but I can tell you that something happened out there today. I went down there wanting to believe him, but prepared to resist him with all my might, if his words seemed false.

“But they weren't false,” he went on, looking Secorim in the eyes and daring to extend his fledgling powers just a little. “If I'd
hoped
this might be a way to stop the wanton killing when I went down there, I
knew
it was right when I spoke to him face to face.

“Father, my family has been touched by the Deryni more than anyone else. But when I went down to Master Revan, and he led me into the water, I could feel the taint melting away. When he immersed me, it was like—like being wrapped in sunlight that swirled all around me, into every part of me, and washed away all the years of pollution.” He cocked his head at Secorim. “They can't harm me anymore, Father. For the first time in my life, I'm free of them. But I don't wish them any harm. On the contrary, if Master Revan can save them from themselves—why, what a blessing! Isn't that what the Church wants? To bring her lost sheep back to the fold?”

Secorim snorted, breaking the faint spell Javan had been weaving by taking a large gulp of wine. “Hubert, I'm amazed,” he muttered, after he had swallowed. “You really want to make a priest out of
this
?”

As Javan bristled, only barely holding his anger in check at the insult, Hubert cocked a wry smile and put his own goblet down. “Peace, Secorim. Prince Javan is young and sometimes does not realize the full implications of what he says. In one respect, however, I am inclined to agree. Putting the purely theological arguments aside for a moment, let us talk about expediency. If, as we have always maintained, the Deryni are evil and must be destroyed, then a means must be found to accomplish this. We have stopped short of wholesale slaughter, at least in part, because of the public outcry it causes, when women and children are killed along with their menfolk.

“But if the destruction of the Deryni can be brought about in a manner not offensive to those who abhor physical slaughter, by the Deryni themselves—then, is not the same end accomplished? As Prince Javan himself pointed out, before taking matters into his own hands at the Willimite camp, God desires the return of all His sheep to their proper folds. Perhaps later, some of the folds will be found to be slaughter-pens—but that is for the future.”

Secorim chuckled unpleasantly at that, lifting his cup to Hubert in enlightened assent, and Javan felt his stomach churn, though he kept his eyes carefully averted and his hands clasped between his knees. His Deryni allies had considered the danger that Hubert outlined. Javan had hoped it would not occur to Hubert—at least not so soon. For the cold facts were that anyone known to have been Deryni before would be as helpless as any mere human, if taken after being blocked—
more
helpless, if the Church decided that only fire, and not water, could totally expiate a Deryni's guilt.

But given a few years to disperse and relocate, with no way for new associates to prove that a person once had been Deyrni, many of that race would find their way to places of safety. It was a risk that Joram and Evaine and the others were prepared to take—and to take on behalf of others of their race—if only Revan's mission could find acceptance, even for a few months or years.

Much of that acceptance depended upon Javan's performance, however; and knowing that, he put on the sort of face he knew Secorim and Hubert must see.

“You are too quick for me, your Grace,” he murmured. “These are aspects I hadn't considered. But for now, why not wait and see what this Revan does, since he
is
eliminating Deryni? Watch him, by all means. Retest him, if you still believe he's some kind of new Deryni, or if his message changes in ways you don't like. You can always bring him in, later on.”

“The notion
is
tempting,” Hubert agreed.

“I see,” Secorim said. “Just let him continue this charade of illicit baptism, possibly endangering the souls of those who are
not
Deryni?”

Hubert made a thoughtful noise as he sipped at his wine. “Hmmm, I doubt there's any immediate danger, my dear Secorim. Javan has already pointed out in an earlier discussion that if what Revan does
is
ineffectual, no harm is done. And meanwhile, it soothes public sensibilities—which will be all the more outraged, if eventually he is found to be a fraud.”

The possibility of exactly that eventuality haunted Javan for the rest of the conversation, numbing him to much further participation. He hoped Hubert would take it for fatigue and the pain of his back. Later, after Secorim had left them to return to his own quarters, Javan realized abruptly that Hubert was pondering what to do about his suddenly independent young prince.

“If I had any sense at all, I'd lock you away on bread and water for a week or two, just to be certain my message of earlier this evening got through,” he said, studying Javan shrewdly. “You're beginning to think for yourself—which can be dangerous in an extra prince.”

Chilled, Javan slipped to his knees before the archbishop, wondering if he dared use his powers to ease the situation. He had never tried it before with Hubert fully conscious.

“If—if you think I should go into retreat, I'll do it, and gladly, your Grace,” he whispered. “You have given me much to think upon—and I truly deserved your discipline.”

As he sank back on his heels, pretending to sniffle back tears and bending to bring the hem of Hubert's cassock to his lips, he could sense the archbishop preening and relaxing a little. Now, if Hubert would only do what he usually did …

“There, there, dear boy, you need not abase yourself before me,” Hubert murmured, letting his hand drop to rest negligently on Javan's bowed head. “I am your spiritual father, and I do what I do only for your welfare.”

Then, sleep
—
for my welfare
, Javan commanded silently, reaching out with his mind to caress the controls that would make Hubert obey.
Sleep, and remember nothing of this …

Within seconds, the ringed hand slipped from his head—and was as quickly grasped, to maintain the physical contact—and Hubert was snoring softly, his head tipped against the high back of his chair. Easing himself back to his knees, watching Hubert carefully all the while, Javan enclosed the hand in both of his, then bowed his head to lay his cheek slowly against the wrist—so that anyone entering unexpectedly would see nothing amiss at first glance. Then, more stealthily than he had ever done before, he eased into the fringes of Hubert's mind.

He could not bear to maintain the contact for long. Brushing Hubert's mind was like skimming scum from a midden. The shadows he glimpsed churning just below the edge of consciousness were ugly and often frightening—but with little bearing on his immediate aim.

So. Perhaps Prince Javan is coming around at last
, he set in Hubert's mind.
For a while, I feared it might take forever, but I believe we may finally have weaned him from any remaining softness he once had for the Deryni
—
and this odd Revan person is at least partially to blame. Disturbingly unorthodox, this Revan
—
and I probably ought to get rid of him before he gets out of hand
—
but he does seem to be playing into our hands for now
.

So I think I'll let him operate for a while longer, just to see what he'll do
—
and keep a very close watch on him. Time enough, later on, to crush him if he becomes inconvenient
.

In the meantime, there's my puzzling little prince. I feel certain Javan will be ours entirely, one day, but for now
—
yes, patience is the best policy. He will come to accept the religious life, if I do not press him. A royal bishop could be a powerful tool, indeed
.

Javan was nearly retching from the prolonged close contact, by the time he had finished, but he made himself linger yet a while longer to set certain other compulsions and tidy the few remaining loose ends, making certain Hubert would have no inkling that the doctored thoughts were not entirely his own. As he let Hubert regain consciousness, he allowed himself the luxury of sinking back to the floor, still clutching Hubert's hand, weeping with relief rather than the despair he seemed to display.

“Oh, how can you bear to have me nearby, your Grace?” he sobbed. “I repaid your trust with defiance. I was ungrateful and willful.”

“There, there, my son, do not weep. I know what a difficult day this has been for you,” Hubert murmured, never thinking to wonder how his hand had gotten from Javan's head into his grasp. “Indeed, it has been altogether too long and difficult—and perhaps I was overharsh. You
are
still but a boy—yet, you withstood your penance like a man. I
am
proud.”

Trembling, for his back hurt abominably from the strain of bending the way he was, Javan made a visible show of trying to get himself under better control.

“I beg you, your Grace, do not send me away in disgrace like some errant schoolboy. I—I have so much to learn—and I would learn it at your feet. Give me leave to stay here and study in Valoret, I pray you.”

“To study in Valoret, eh?” Hubert murmured. “Why, do I detect a desire to taste the religious life more fully?”

“Well, I—I
should
like to explore that possibility, your Grace. But I'm not ready to make any vows yet—”

“Not permanent ones, no. Of course not. You're far too young. But perhaps you would like to live here as a lay brother for a year or two. Oh, not as an ordinary serving brother, but as a—ah—a ‘preseminarian.' I shall supervise your studies myself. I
would
wish you to take temporary vows, however. It's customary among the lay brethren, even at your age—well, at fourteen, though we shan't quibble about less than a year. In any case, temporary vows can easily be dispensed, if—if you should be needed at the capital.”