CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A prophet shall the Lord your God raise up unto you of your brethren.
Queron Kinevan pulled his shabby cloak more closely around him and tried not to think about the cold, pretending to be asleep. Across the cave, by the light of a tiny fire, Revan was conversing quietly with three of his favorite disciples.
So far, everything was going well enough. Other than taking nearly four days to make a journey that should have taken two, partly from dodging the expected patrols of Earl Manfred’s men and partly because of weather, Queron had made the journey from Caerrorie without real incident, arriving two days before. The disguised Tavis had accompanied him, his missing hand filled out with a lump of bandage and shrouded by a grubby sling that hid much.
But Tavis did not enter the Willimite camp. Nor would he allow Queron to do so until he had blocked the elder Healer’s powers, for discovery as Deryni could be as good as a death sentence.
Which was not to say that there were no Deryni among the Willimites. Indeed, one of the disciples sitting with Revan was Deryni—a quiet, balding older man called Geordie—and there were more in the ranks of the less favored disciples, camped at the foot of the mountain. The Willimites, while despising Deryni for their unholy magic and for what one of that race had done to their patron, Saint Willim, granted refuge of a sort to those Deryni who publicly abjured their evil magic and promised henceforth to lead lives of humility and public penance. Public penance in the Willimite sense included denouncing any other Deryni who might try to infiltrate the Willimite ranks without also giving up their powers. Geordie had been one of the first to swear the public oath the Willimites now required as a matter of course, and now used his powers only to unmask the deceptions of other Deryni and induce a parting from their evil ways. The Willimites deemed it not only permissible but praiseworthy to do so—a fitting act of expiation, for having been born Deryni in the first place.
The skewed logic of such reasoning eluded Queron, who thought such individuals some of the saddest he had ever seen, to so deny their birthrights, but too much sympathy with their self-imposed plight could be deadly. Under the rigid, fundamentalist code of the Willimites, undeclared Deryni were liable to meet a speedy and awful end. Hanging seemed to be the preferred method of execution, but he had heard of stoning, impalement, and even crucifixion—though the latter was not often used, since it offered the victim too close an identification with the crucified Christ, Who surely despised Deryni sorcery fully as much as His Willimite devotees.
Had Queron been willing to make the public abjuration the Willimites required, he might have passed among them with his power intact if unused, but any hint of clandestine and illicit activity might have cost him his life. There were enough Deryni about, just watching for the chance to inform on recusants—and thus enhance their own spiritual standing—that such a risk simply was not worth it.
Hence, Tavis’ block, at least until they determined whether Revan had been successful in purging his most immediate circle of abjuring Deryni. Except for Geordie, he had—and Geordie had been retained for a reason. In fact, though Revan had begun to preach the imminent coming of a new age, hinting that even Deryni might hope to be worthy of a new heavenly grace, his words had served to make many of the other Willimite Deryni withdraw for a time of fasting and meditation, abject in their hope that Heaven might yet hold out some chance for their forgiveness. Revan encouraged such withdrawal, knowing that Deryni themselves, not Heaven, might soon hold out that hope.
The few Deryni who remained, even among the Willimites at large, became targets for Tavis, who ghosted silently around the outskirts of the camp after dark to pick his prey, carefully and selectively blocking those whose presence might interfere with the plans he and Queron had for Revan. By ones and twos, such activity was risky but possible—incapacitating a subject long enough to alter his or her memories, planting reassuring false memories of earlier visual acquaintance with the wiry little grey-haired man who now accompanied the prophet Revan increasingly, squelching any further curiosity about the bleary-eyed beggar with the bandaged arm, and then resetting the triggerpoint with the subjects none the wiser for their experience.
The process was not without its dangers, but the results had been well worth it, thus far. Tavis was never detected, and Queron had been accepted without question. During the first few days, when Queron remained blocked, he found maintaining his charade a tiring proposition, unable to influence any of Revan’s followers other than by ordinary persuasion, but Revan himself was good enough at that and had chosen his chief disciples well. Brother Joachim had been the first of the Willimites to heed Revan’s preaching and remained his staunchest and most loyal supporter. Flann, a firebrand of a youth with wild black eyes and an even wilder mane of curly black hair, represented the more radical elements of the Willimite brotherhood. The Deryni Geordie had become more valuable to the mission than he knew. Even now, Revan was telling this unlikely trio that he felt called to go into the wilderness to fast and pray for a fortnight, and wished these three, of all his company, to come with him.
Queron could have helped him this time, for Tavis had contrived to pass close enough to touch him earlier in the evening, restoring his powers for their imminent departure—but best not to meddle unless there was real need. Right now, the three were listening with rapt devotion as Revan outlined his hopes for the retreat. Later, when they all prayed—as was always Revan’s custom before embarking upon a new venture—Queron would establish the necessary controls to ensure that no one should prove anything but the most amiable of travelling companions.
But for now, a bit of neglected business remained on Queron’s part. He had hoped to report back to the Council the night before, through the passive link that Joram and Evaine had set in him to work, even with his powers blocked, but his work with Revan the previous night had not even allowed him much sleep, never mind the privacy necessary to allow the linking safely. Now, with his powers restored and Tavis lurking in the darkness outside to waylay any too-curious Deryni who might try to interfere, Queron could hope to initiate the necessary contact himself.
Drawing a deep breath and exhaling slowly, Queron shifted his mind into a meditative state, not only opening himself for the contact but actively seeking it. The Willimite medallion hanging on a leather thong around his neck became a physical focus for his concentration, and he clasped it in his hand, feeling its edges bite into his palm as he pressed his closed fist to his chest.
All at once, he was linked with Jesse MacGregor, basking in the restoring energy of a connection augmented by the latent power of the entire Camberian Council, of which power Jesse was custodian at the moment. Wordless greeting and relief flooded through Queron as Jesse widened the link and locked in on him, and also surprise that Queron was functioning with full powers.
Are you sure that’s safe? came Jesse’s cautious query. Nothing’s happened to Tavis, has it?
Sending assurance and an admonition not to worry, Queron compressed his report into a brief, intense burst of information. Jesse took it as fast as Queron could send, which was fast indeed. Within seconds, Jesse was privy to all that had occurred since Queron’s last report, just before arriving at the Willimite camp.
Tavis shouldn’t be taking such risks! came Jesse’s first, worried response. Not that there’s much you can do, if that’s what he feels is necessary, I suppose. How soon do you think you’ll be back? Two or three days?
No more than that, Queron replied. I’ll try for another contact tomorrow night, but tell everyone not to worry if I don’t manage it. It may just mean that we’re busy dodging Manfred’s men again. Oh, and we’ll be bringing three guests.
Guests?
Three of Revan’s disciples. Can’t help it, Jesse. If we tried to slip away without any of them, the Willimites might not let him go. He’s got quite a following. These three are excellent subjects, though. Altering their memories shouldn’t be difficult. Just be ready.
Very well, but Joram isn’t going to like it.
I don’t like it either, but I’m afraid we have no choice. Anything we should know?
Hard to say, came Jesse’s reply. Sylvan just brought in a report from Prince Javan, who apparently managed to use Archbishop Hubert’s Portal to deliver it—
Javan used a Portal? Queron interjected.
Yes, and quite handily, from what I gather, Jesse replied, though I’m not sure I’d let Tavis know about it yet. I suppose you can tell him that we’ve learned the court is moving back to Rhemuth in the next few days. Evaine is still digesting the report, but she doesn’t seem to be terribly concerned—not about Javan, at any rate. Nothing that can’t wait until you get here, so far as I can tell.
The hint to terminate the contact was clear. Nodding to himself, Queron sent his acquiescence.
Very well. We’ll get the full details when we return. Our greetings to all.
And God keep all of you, Jesse responded, just before he withdrew.
Both heartened and troubled, Queron opened his eyes to the same dim firelight and drone of voices that had been with him before he sought out the link, and he carefully cast out for danger. Outside the cave, he sensed Tavis waiting nearby—and the fainter presence of others, farther down the mountain, settling into camp for the night, but nothing about Deryni at all. Good.
Revan was going on about his visions, enthralling his listeners with the lure of similar experiences if they followed his guidance. The three men looked absolutely spellbound, caught in a magic that had nothing to do with Deryni but only the magnetism of Revan’s own personality. Quite suddenly, Queron realized that it was no longer entirely a charade for Revan—that the younger man had already set the foundations for a quite viable cult in its own right, owing nothing whatever to the Willimites or the manipulations of the Camberian Council. Queron recognized all the earmarks from his own experience with the Servants of Saint Camber and wondered whether Revan realized how powerful a charisma he possessed. Queron also became aware that the younger man was stalling for time, waiting for him to wake up.
Yawning, Queron sat up and pretended to blink sleep from his eyes, once again putting on his persona as the intense, hot-eyed disciple.
“Forgive me, Master, I didn’t mean to sleep so long,” he murmured contritely, easing his feet under him to duck-walk over to the four, in the low-ceilinged cavern. “God give you blessings, brethren. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Brother Aaron got little sleep last night,” Revan said easily, referring to Queron by the name they had agreed upon as biblical and close to Queron’s own. “He watched with me while I prayed for a sick child—young Erena’s babe. I’m happy to report that the child seems to be much improved, so the lost sleep was surely worthwhile.”
He did not mention, nor did Queron, that a Healer’s knowledge of herbs and such, to break the child’s fever, had not hurt matters any. Had Queron had access to his Healing power, the cure might have been effected even sooner, but the child had recovered, nonetheless.
Joachim gave the master a knowing nod, Geordie muttering that he had noticed the restored child that morning, while Flann attributed all to Revan’s prayers.
“Nay, little brother, you must not attribute such power to me,” Revan protested, holding up both hands in denial. “If praise is due, it should be lifted up unto the Lord, Who is the Doer of all good things. I am only His humble servant. But, come, my brethren,” he went on, spreading his hands to either side and inviting them all to draw closer. “’Tis time to ask God’s blessing before embarking upon our sacred mission.”
None of the men seemed to notice how Revan directed their movement, so that when they all joined hands, Queron had a link with Flann on one side and Geordie on the other—who had a link with Joachim. With the physical contact, and as Revan led them in prayer and lulled their senses with the drone of his words, Queron was able to ease the three under his control without anyone realizing what had happened, extending through Geordie to secure even the veteran Joachim.
“We can go now,” he said softly, looking up at Revan as he released the men’s hands. “Our brethren shall surely be the most agreeable of companions.”
Revan eyed the three carefully before releasing their hands himself. “Douse the fire, would you please, Brother Flann, and we shall be away.”
Minutes later, they had safely negotiated the rocky path leading down the mountainside and joined Tavis, who led them softly away from the Willimite camp. By dawn, as the sun thrust its first rays above the hills before them, they had reached the main road and were joining their voices with those of the birds in a paean of praise to greet the new day, their three Willimite companions quite convinced that they and “Brother Aaron” were all on a pilgrimage to the wilderness with their master. The morning was brilliant with the promise of coming spring. If the weather held, and they ran into no hostile patrols, Queron thought they might reach the Caerrorie Portal late the next day.
Neither the carolling of birds nor the rays of the rising sun penetrated to the chapel where Prince Javan greeted the new day, but Archbishop Hubert’s early arrival made it clear that the long night was over. Hubert’s fat face was wreathed with smiles as he first poked his head into the room, then entered boldly, startling Charlan to his feet and admitting a wash of brighter light and a cold draft from the corridor beyond. Javan, just beginning to rouse from fitful drowsing on the cold, hard floor, knuckled sleep from his eyes and struggled to a sitting position, half tangled in his cloak, fearful that his previous night’s work was about to receive its ultimate test.
“Forgive me, your Grace, I fear I must have dozed off,” he whispered.
Hubert made a deprecating gesture, bishop’s ring winking in the dim light, and came to lower himself heavily to one knee beside Javan.
“So did Christ’s disciples, when they tried to keep watch with Him in the Garden,” Hubert said. “You need not beg my forgiveness, my son. Sometimes God grants His greatest revelations during that twilight time when the soul hangs suspended between sleep and wakefulness. To offer up one’s night before the Blessed Sacrament, prostrate before the Altar of Heaven, can only benefit the supplicant.”
“I pray you may be right, your Grace” Javan murmured, bowing his head. When he did not go on, Hubert set a pudgy hand on his shoulder.
“Have no doubt of it, my son,” Hubert said. “God will not desert His own. Tell me, have you any recollection of what He might have revealed to you while you meditated?”
Javan swallowed and shook his head. “I—am very young and foolish, your Grace,” he replied. “I—am not certain I should understand His words if I heard them. Perhaps I have not yet learned to listen properly. If—if your Grace were to instruct me—”
As he turned the grey Haldane eyes on Hubert, projecting as much as he could of innocence and honest bewilderment, the archbishop smiled happily and took Javan’s hand in both of his.
“My dear, dear boy, of course I will instruct you. Come. The chapter will be singing morning prayers in my household chapel. Afterwards, I must celebrate Mass in the cathedral. Perhaps you would care to be my server. God will make His will known, all in good time.”
The plan presented no compulsion to do anything Javan had not done dozens of times before. Javan and both his brothers had often served at Mass. Such service was a part of the general religious training of all well-born boys, though the function generally diminished as boys grew into men, unless they were intended for the religious life. Nor was Javan a stranger to regular attendance at other devotions. It was expected of reasonably pious individuals, and princes must set an even better example.
Most important of all, Hubert had not once referred directly to the formal religious vocation he hoped Javan would embrace, and seemed content this morning to let the prince continue his own slow, noncommital exploration of the possibility. That represented a notable backing off from the previous night’s more aggressive encouragement, hopefully as a result of Javan’s cautious tampering.
Using the physical link of Hubert’s hands surrounding his, Javan cautiously tested his continuing ability to influence the archbishop. Sending the gentle suggestion of an itchy nose brought a casual, offhand brush at the proboscis even as Hubert lumbered to his feet, steadying himself on Javan’s shoulder. At Javan’s further subtle urging, Hubert also crossed himself from right to left instead of left to right, as they both reverenced the altar a last time before departing.
“Come, young Charlan, you may accompany us,” Hubert said, including the squire in his gesture as they swept out of the chapel. “I know you have no inclination whatever toward the religious life, but attendance at yet another Mass will not hurt you.”
Javan felt as if every eye was upon him as he and Charlan entered the archbishop’s household chapel behind Hubert, and he thought the morning prayers would never end. Serving Mass afterwards was better, since people had grown accustomed to seeing the princes occasionally perform this function, but Javan had to keep reminding himself that it was the priestly office he assisted and not the man. He loathed the individual who offered up the Sacrifice and suspected that Hubert would just as soon sacrifice him, to gain his own ends.
In response to that fear, just after the Consecration, when Hubert offered the Sacred Victim as an homage to God’s Infinite Majesty and for the welfare of all the faithful—“hostiam puram, hostiam sanctam, hostiam immaculatam”—Javan even flashed on a most disturbing vision of himself laid bound and naked upon the altar, like Isaac before Abraham, his bare throat stretched back to accommodate the descending knife. Only, the hand wielding the blade was his own father’s, not Hubert’s.
Shuddering, Javan shook off the vision—and, in fact, paid it little more heed for the duration of the ritual. For ironically, he also felt the faint tugging of a fancy on his own part to be in Hubert’s place, were his own place not so urgently dictated by his position in the succession—not as archbishop, to be sure, but as priest. All at once he understood a little of what his father must have suffered, having to set aside such a calling in the interest of royal duty. He also understood why Cinhil Haldane had always found it so difficult to express affection for his sons, a part of him always resenting those individuals who were the tangible signs that he had abandoned his priesthood for a crown. Javan himself must have been a particular trial, his lame foot seeming to Cinhil to give physical confirmation of all Heaven’s disapproval of that abandonment, vital though it had been for the well-being of the kingdom.
Javan did a lot of growing up in that hour, and hardly minded that Hubert took his thoughtfulness afterwards as a sign of softening. A further irony was that Javan found himself in the cathedral sacristy, both before and after—easy access now to the place visited only by dint of great effort the night before, though the Portal was no more functional than it had been. In all, however, Javan counted the last twelve hours well spent.
And as eventful as those hours had been, the rest of the morning and, indeed, the day passed absolutely without any occurrence to mark this day different from any other, except that the servants were busy with their final packing for the move to Rhemuth on the morrow. Javan returned to the castle with Charlan just before noon to find his quarters nearly stripped of all personal effects, only temporary bedding and a change of clothing remaining unpacked for their last night in Valoret.
They poked around the trunks and parcels and baskets until a senior steward chased them out, then raided the kitchen for something to eat—which incurred the wrath of Cook, trying to organize that night’s supper, but also gained them a handful of scones hot from the oven, a slab of rich, buttery cheese, and a couple of tankards of hot mulled ale. They took their spoils to a window embrasure in the great hall, where Javan and Tavis had been wont to sit and eavesdrop on the regents as they supervised Alroy’s hearings of the assize courts. After they had eaten, Javan pretended to nap. In fact, he observed the comings and goings of the increasingly informal court and reminisced on the old days, wondering where Tavis was now.
He continued to think about Tavis and the others later that evening, as he sat through supper, and was glad that the next day’s planned early departure gave him excuse to retire early—for his previous night’s lack of proper sleep was catching up with him. He did not even dream that night, and managed not to embarrass himself by crying when he had to ride out of Valoret on the morrow, in the midst of the royal household, with no idea how and when or where he might next be able to reestablish contact with his Deryni allies. The loneliness was setting in with a vengeance. They would be on the road for at least a week.
It was on Javan’s second day out of Valoret, just after dusk, that Tavis and Queron drew Revan and his spellbound disciples into the welcome shelter of the tunnel entrance that led beneath Caerrorie Castle. Most blessedly, the weather had held—no certain thing in Gwynedd in March—and Earl Murdoch’s patrols seemed elsewhere occupied.
Tavis set his hand on the back of old Geordie’s neck, drawing him under deeper control as Queron did the same with Flann and Joachim and Revan secured the opening. Closing the door blocked out all light, but Tavis conjured handfire where the Willimites could not see its source, until Revan could strike a light to the candle left in a niche by the door. Revan allowed himself a faint sigh of relief as the wick flared up.
“How far now?” he whispered.
Queron gestured deeper into the tunnel. “Not very. Go ahead and lead.”
They moved off in single file, treading as quietly as possible. Gradually the tunnel changed from dirt and rock to brick and then to cut stone. Ansel and Sylvan were waiting for them a little beyond that, just before the Portal chamber, looking very relieved indeed.
“You made good time,” Ansel said. “I’m glad something has gone right for a change.”
“Why? What’s wrong?” Tavis demanded.
“Oh, everyone is fine. We’ve even heard from Javan. But let’s not talk about it here.”
They talked about it in the Michaeline sanctuary later that night, after everyone had eaten a hot meal and the Willimites were locked away to sleep in one of the cells. Joram let both Queron and Revan read Prince Javan’s report and filled in other details from Sylvan’s direct reading verbally for the benefit of the human Revan.
“So long as he hasn’t aroused any particular suspicion as a result of his activities three nights ago, he should be all right,” Joram concluded. “We’ve had reports that he did ride out of Valoret with the rest of the royal household and that everything seemed normal. Once he’s settled in at Rhemuth, we can make additional arrangements. Meanwhile, I think his biggest immediate worry will be to keep Hubert from shuffling him off to some monastery.”
“How likely is that?” Revan asked.
Evaine steepled her fingertips and tapped forefingers against her lips. “That depends on Javan, doesn’t it?”
At Revan’s troubled look, Joram smiled and pushed several sheets of closely penned parchment across the table toward him.
“Let us worry about Javan, why don’t you? You’re going to have your hands full enough, as it is.”
Revan picked up the sheaf and scanned the first few lines of the top page. “What’s this?”
“Your preliminary briefing,” Evaine replied. “After you’ve digested that, we’ll move on to your actual preparation. It won’t be easy, but I think it just might work.”
In the days that followed, all of them began to think it might work. Revan proved an apt pupil. The manuscript Joram had given him was a lengthy scenario of how the institution and extension of Revan’s new movement should go. Revan not only made it his own but embellished upon it, quickly mastering the patter and the mechanics of the “baptism” itself and then adding his own interpretations.
In addition, Revan soon developed a surprising affinity with Sylvan—which freed Tavis to continue working in the background, on the fringes of the crowds, where he could keep a lower profile and set up subjects for Revan’s more public ministrations. Revan and Sylvan had never met, but they quickly forged a brilliant partnership for the outward functioning of the operation. Sometimes, Revan even displayed an almost Deryni intuition where Sylvan was concerned.
Which led to another, unplanned advantage that the Deryni were able to give their would-be messiah, verging much more closely on their own powers yet undetectable, so far as they knew, by any means available to the regents. They had learned from Tavis’ early association with Javan that close contact between Deryni and humans sometimes catalyzed near-Deryni tendencies in the human so exposed. Revan had nothing like the Haldane potential to explain a like tendency in himself, but he had worked closely with MacRories and Thuryns for more than half his life. To their delight, they found that Revan also possessed vestiges of extra ability, all but indistinguishable from his own personal charisma. Already, when Revan preached, evangelical persuasion verged on near compulsion in some listeners.
And they found that the tendency could be amplified through the focus of Revan’s Willimite medallion, magically “charged” by one of the Deryni. Drawing on that power source, and reinforced by the laying on of hands and the expectations of his subjects, in conjunction with baptism, Revan could actually induce an effect ranging from disorientation and dizziness to near fainting.
“What about this, though?” Revan asked, fingering the medal thoughtfully, after trying his enhanced talent on several of Evaine’s compliant men at arms. “If I’m put to the question, as you know will have to happen eventually, won’t a Deryni sniffer be able to detect something?”
Bishop Niallan shook his head. First he and then Tavis had been sworn into the Camberian Council on Queron’s return, finally bringing that body back to its original complement of eight, and he was now an active and enthusiastic member of the team.
“Remember that religious medals are always blessed, Revan,” the bishop said. “And whether the blessing is done by a human or a Deryni, it’s long been known, at least among Deryni, that the act of blessing places a special imprint on the object blessed. It’s a kind of magical ‘charge’ that has nothing whatever to do with being Deryni, and the effect can be so subtle that not even a Deryni cleric can always isolate it. A Deryni layman certainly won’t be able to tell the difference—if he detects a change at all. If anything, your own status as a holy man will be enhanced.”
They also determined that the working of Revan’s new skill was not affected by merasha, except as the usual sedative effect of the drug in humans would slow Revan down and eventually put him to sleep. Revan made the acquaintance of that bane of Deryni more than once, as they refined their techniques, and learned not to fear it.
“Being neutral to merasha should be the clincher, when they eventually do question what you’re doing,” Queron informed him. “The drug has been the great leveller for centuries, ever since its effect was first noted. Everyone who knows anything at all about Deryni knows that we’re universally vulnerable to it. When you don’t react, that will be the final confirmation that, whatever else you are, you aren’t some new, insidious kind of Deryni.”
They had allotted a fortnight for melding the different members of the team into a cohesive unit, but well before the second week had passed, all of them were letter-perfect in their parts.
“Given our time constraints, I think you’ve probably taught me all that’s feasible,” Revan told the assembled company on the night he declared himself satisfied with his preparation. “I don’t see that further delay will accomplish much. We still have to do our forty days’ retreat in the wilderness. If we start by mid-April, we can time our return to coincide with Pentecost. One could hardly wish for a more auspicious beginning.”
Two things remained to be done before they left. The next morning, Revan was introduced to Torcuill de la Marche, who was to become Revan’s first public Deryni “convert.” Torcuill’s family were already safely lodged with Gregory at Trevalga, but the Deryni lord would have quite a different story to tell about them when he came to Revan in a few weeks’ time.
“You won’t have much of a chance to chat, when you meet in the river,” Evaine told the two, when she had brought them together in the library of the Michaeline sanctuary. “Actually, Torcuill, I think you might have met Revan at Sheele, years ago, when he was my children’s tutor.”
Torcuill managed a nervous smile. “I seem to have some vague recollection to that effect. Young man, I admire what you’re doing for us.”
Revan met Torcuill’s eyes squarely, with a dignity and self-assurance that had not come entirely of his mentors’ indoctrination of the past week or so.
“I only wish that I might do more besides play a part,” Revan replied modestly. “Without Sylvan or Tavis, I am nothing.”
Which was not precisely true, as Evaine had cause to know full well. The burgeoning charisma first noted by Queron had become a powerful force in itself. Revan spent some time with his three disciples each day, Sylvan making a fourth. Even without Deryni tampering, the three Willimites were convinced that Revan was a genuine prophet and were ready to believe that eventually he would work miracles.
He certainly looked the proper prophet now, with his sheepskin mantle and robe of unbleached wool and sandal-shod feet. A pouch of hairy goatskin hung from his leather girdle, and a staff of twisted olivewood rested in the crook of his arm.
Only his efforts to cultivate a properly biblical beard had come to naught. Even after more than a year, his hirsute adornment was still sparse and fair, only faintly shadowing his upper lip and jaw. What beard he did have, however, was perfect foil for his eyes—a warm light brown verging on gold that somehow seemed almost luminous in dim light. His straight brown hair brushed the shoulders of his robe. The fine hands were more calloused than they had been in the days when he was scribe and tutor to the Thuryn family, but the nails were clean and neatly tended, as was everything else about him.
Slowly Torcuill looked him up and down, shaking his head a little as their eyes met again.
“I thought that holy men were supposed to be filthy and vermin-ridden, and lead a simple life,” he said with a nervous chuckle.
“Why, are holiness and simplicity to be equated with dirt?” came Revan’s amused rejoinder. “Water will play an important part in my ministry. Should I not, then, have more than a nodding acquaintance with it?”
“Some would deem cleanliness a vanity of the body,” Torcuill retorted.
“Say, rather, that it betokens a respect for the body, as temple of the soul. If our purpose in life is to seek reconciliation and reunion with our Heavenly Father, why should His Indwelling Spirit wish to occupy a filthy temple?”
Revan’s sly smile was infectious, and Torcuill burst into hearty laughter.
“You won’t trip him up that easily, Torcuill,” Evaine said, when the Deryni lord had wiped his streaming eyes. “We may have pushed him into the role of holy man and prophet, but he was a scholar before that. Rhys and I trained him, after all.”
“Oh, I can see that.”
“But, I think I’ll let you wait to see how well we trained him, when you show up to hear him preach in a few months’ time. I wouldn’t want to dampen the spontaneity of your response, so we probably oughtn’t to discuss much more of what’s actually going to happen.”
Evaine had Jesse take Torcuill back to Trevalga then, to spend what might be his last few weeks with his family. Jesse returned, though, for he and the Healer Sylvan had been close for most of Jesse’s life. Later that night, Jesse was among those who gathered in the sanctuary chapel to witness a brief but very special ceremony, as Sylvan, Revan, and Tavis presented themselves before God’s altar to offer up their mission.
The little chapel had not been so crowded since that night, more than thirteen years ago, when Cinhil Haldane prepared to go and claim his crown. Fifty Michaeline Knights had packed the chapel then, reconsecrating their swords to the Haldane cause.
Michaelines were not so many tonight, only Joram and a handful of his exiled brethren wearing the distinctive Michaeline blue. Nor were the presiding clergy preparing to consecrate swords, but men—though such weapons could be far more potent than mere metal.
Two renegade bishops received them. After initial prayers, the three laid themselves prostrate before the altar, Revan between the two Healers, while the assembled company sang a litany hallowed by more centuries of use than the age of the faith in which they now worshipped. The sense of the ancient words hung on the air even after the litany was finished, underlining the silence as Joram, Evaine, and Jesse helped the three to their knees.
After that, the Deryni Bishop Niallan and the human Bishop Dermot gave the three a commission just short of priestly ordination, imparting the authority to preach, to heal, to bless, and to absolve. Laying their consecrated hands upon the head of each man in turn, the bishops thrice called down Heavenly Grace to bless the work and protect the workers.
The three had been to confession before Mass that morning, but now they received Communion from the Reserved Sacrament one more time, for priests were few among the Willimites, and it might be long before they could partake again. This final Sacrament took on even more solemn dimensions when Dermot used the wording usually reserved for the dying or mortally ill.
“Accipe, frater, Viaticum Corporis Domini Jesu Christi.…” Receive, my brother, this food for your journey, the Body of our Lord Jesus Christ, that He may guard you from the malicious enemy and lead you into everlasting life.…
And finally, as a seal on the night’s work and to underline the deadly dangerous situation into which the three were about to place themselves, Niallan gave each man an amended version of the Last Anointing—for no Last Rites might be possible later on, if they were discovered in what they went to do.
“Per istam sanctam Unctionem et suam piissimam misericordiam indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per animum deliquisti,” Niallan said, signing each man on the forehead only. By this holy anointing and His most loving mercy, may the Lord forgive you whatever wrong you have done by the use of your mind. Amen.
After a final blessing, all but the three themselves filed quietly out of the chapel, those who had conceived the plan making their way to the corridor outside the Portal chamber. Thus were Joram, Evaine, Queron, Jesse, and Ansel waiting when the three eventually made their way to the sanctuary’s Portal, Ansel shepherding three deeply entranced Willimite disciples. No word was exchanged as the travellers took their leave and quitted the sanctuary, and those who were left did not speak of what had happened.