The Harrowing of Gwynedd (38 page)

“Father and I did that,” Joram whispered, indicating the space.

As Queron glided closer to inspect some of the glass shards, crouching beside the bottom step, Evaine began moving around the room's perimeter.

At least in the evocations depicted on the chamber's walls, the place had been an elemental shrine, Evaine soon realized. As she moved from quarter to quarter, making the complete circuit of the chamber, the cool greens of a shaded forest glade gave way to a dark, brooding sky filled with scudding storm clouds, to the fire of summer lightning, and then the cool, tranquil beauty of a lake shore nestled among craggy mountain peaks. The familiarity was somehow comforting, though the chamber itself was not.

Evaine glanced at Joram, standing near the door and watching their reactions, arms folded across his chest. Queron had ascended the dais steps and was standing at the altar, his hands spread flat on its surface, eyes closed. As she mounted the steps to join him, Queron looked up, still in the trance of his deep reading, a trace of an odd little smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

“I see what Joram means about the altar still being a power source, after all these years,” he murmured, inviting her to feel it for herself.

Without comment, she moved in beside him, setting her hands flat on a part of the altar that had been exposed when the top was smashed, one hand on a black surface and the other on white. Closing her eyes, she felt the upsurge of power almost at once, strong eddies of pure energy that spiralled upward like a gentle tide, washing at the edges of her mind with a force that held just a hint of menace behind the raw potential.

She blinked as she withdrew, unconsciously wiping her palms against the sides of her tunic as she glanced at Queron uneasily.

“Do you have any idea who used this altar?” she murmured. “And more important, for
what
?”

Queron shook his head. “I could hazard a few educated guesses, but I'd prefer to wait until I've had a chance to digest all of this,” he said. “Meanwhile, I seem to recall a library that wants finding. We'd best not spend too much time here.”

“Come this way, then,” Joram said, gesturing back the way they had come. “There's supposed to be a branch off the main corridor, not far from here. We'll start there.”

They spent the remainder of the night picking their way through a series of partially collapsed passageways that got worse the farther they went. Toward the end, they had to stop and dig through where a portion of roof had fallen in.

“Father did this,” Joram told them in hushed tones, as they shifted the rubble, stone by stone. “A branch of this passageway, farther along, was one of the ones that still led close to the surface. He didn't want anyone wandering down here who shouldn't be. We'll have several places like this, if I've interpreted the plans correctly.”

That night's work brought them little closer to their goal, however. The next night was hardly more fruitful. The third night saw them gain hesitant access to an area immediately underneath one end of the bishop's residence, however, skirting a cellar complex that once had held a fine collection of wine amassed by Camber-Alister and his predecessors as Bishops of Grecotha. Only Evaine's curiosity, as she investigated a supposedly blocked up squint in a wall, averted what might have been a fatal mishap. She had to stretch to peer through the narrow spy hole, and nearly gasped aloud at what she saw.

What is it?
Queron asked, his question blasting into her mind.

She eased back to let him look, still seeing the scene before her in memory: the dim, close confines of the hall beyond, lit by smoky cressets along the walls, its floor virtually lined with the sleeping forms of dozens of soldiers of the bishop's garrison. And this late at night, the slightest sound made in the hidden corridor that passed so close might be heard and remarked by the men sleeping there.

They beat a quiet but hasty retreat after that, and shifted their operations to the daylight hours in the future, when inadvertant sounds would not carry such potential danger. Since little natural light penetrated to the depths where they moved, the change of time made little difference on that account; they still used handfire, rather than torches, to eliminate the risk of smoke giving away their presence. A difference it did make was the opportunity it gave them to spy upon actual activities instead of sleeping men. On the fifth day, they even gained access to a narrow lancet window that looked out onto the main courtyard of the bishop's manor.

Smoke was curling upward from something smoldering in the center of the yard. At first Evaine thought they were burning leaves or the blacksmith had set up his forge in the center of the yard and was having trouble getting his fire to draw properly.

Then she saw the monks carrying the stacks of parchment rolls and the occasional bound book, lining up to consign the volumes to the flames.

“So, dear Bishop Edward is purging his library,” Queron murmured, close beside her ear. “What do you want to bet that our
Liber Ricae
is either in that lot or on its way in there?”

Evaine shuddered and turned away to bury her face in her brother's shoulder. “How can they do that?” she whispered. “How can they burn books?”

“The same way they burn people,” Joram muttered. “Books are just as dangerous.”

“And they'd gladly consign us to the same fire, if they could,” Queron said. “Come, let's be away from here. We can do nothing to stop that, and watching it will only depress our spirits even more.”

They lingered for a while longer, even so, and returned to the hidden Portal in silence.

“So, what next?” Evaine asked, when they were safely back in the little study next door to the room where Camber lay. “We needed that text.”

“Well, we'll have to make do with something else, unless we're granted a miracle,” Queron replied. “In the meantime, we'll go back over the sources that we do have. I've been racking my brain, all the way back. How about Kitron's
Principia Magica
? Have you got a copy of that?”

“Yes, but it doesn't have—”

“Parts of Kitron are coded,” Queron said brusquely. “I haven't read it in a long time, but there may be parts that apply. It's also just possible that I still might be able to get hold of a copy of the
Liber Ricae
. We have to do something, though.”

Joram nodded. “I was thinking about Jokal of Tyndour, too. I remember Rhys talking about some of the Healing passages, and being surprised by some of the procedures—which means they can't have been straight-forward techniques. Maybe there's a more esoteric connection.”

Sighing, Evaine shook her head despondently. “We're grasping at straws, I'm afraid. Maybe we're mad even to think about continuing. Maybe we should just let Father be dead and forget about it.”

Neither man answered that remark, all too aware that the temporary setback they had suffered was only that—temporary. And after a while, the three of them went into the next room to pray, and so that Queron could investigate the spell more carefully.

While research continued in the Michaeline sanctuary, Javan had not been idle, either. The royal party finally reached Rhemuth on Quinquagesima, the Sunday before Lent. On Tuesday morning, the new capital was treated to the spectacle of a state wedding, that of Richeldis MacLean, the Heiress of Kierney, to Iver MacInnis, Heir to the new Earl of Culdi. The ceremony was conducted jointly by the bridegroom's uncle, the Archbishop of Valoret, and his younger brother, the Bishop of Grecotha. A bleak-eyed Jamie Drummond gave away his former ward, with the king to witness, and the king's own brothers served at the couple's nuptial Mass, further setting the royal seal of approval firmly on the match. All the regents and their wives attended.

The wedding feast in Rhemuth Castle's great hall would be the talk of Rhemuth society well into the summer. Javan would rather have forgotten it. The thirteen-year-old bride looked thoroughly overwhelmed by the entire affair and burst into tears when the ladies of the court came to convey her to the bridal chamber. The bridegroom, eight years her senior, drank too much, talked too loudly, and strutted like a bandy cock before following after her half an hour later, to hoots of encouragement and ribald suggestion. The next morning, before repairing to the basilica to receive the ashes marking the beginning of Lent, young Iver pronounced himself passing pleased with his new wife, and boasted of having been in Kierney the night before.

Javan hated him doubly for that, for though young Richeldis was not yet Countess of Kierney in fact, he had little doubt that the deficiency would be remedied all too soon. Nor was he surprised when, but a few weeks after the wedding, word came that the bride's uncle had met a fatal accident while hunting.

All Javan's skills as an actor were put to the test when he again was required to lend the legitimacy of his presence as his brother confirmed the new Countess of Kierney in her title and acknowledged her husband as the new earl. The prince had murder in his heart as he stalked off afterwards to pray in the Chapel Royal, the ever-present Charlan at his heels, and spent some hours devising suitable fates for those guilty of Iain MacLean's death, though he knew his chances of carrying out any of them were nonexistent.

At least he felt better, afterwards. Nor did he count any of the regents innocent of the old Earl of Kierney's death. It was as well that they dispersed to other pursuits for the rest of Lent, for Javan found himself hard-pressed to be civil to any of them, even if prudence forced him to spare their lives.

Iver's father, Manfred MacInnis, returned to Grecotha with his younger son, Bishop Edward, to loot and censor the Varnarite School, taking Ursin O'Carroll with him. Duke Ewan headed north to resume his viceregal duties in Kheldour. Periodically, Earl Tammaron betook himself to Caerrorie on Manfred's behalf to oversee the dismantling of the castle there, for Manfred wanted no old Camberian associations remaining when he took up residence in the new manor being built at the opposite edge of the holding. Murdoch and Rhun remained with the king at Rhemuth, but the two made frequent trouble-shooting forays to the north and east, all during those weeks of early spring—which made them relatively easy to avoid, most of the time.

Javan's chief personal nemesis, Archbishop Hubert, returned to Valoret soon after the MacInnis-MacLean wedding, to get on with the concluding business of the Council of Ramos. He took with him Rhemuth's archbishop, Robert Orris, but handed over the care of Javan's soul to Orris' auxiliary, Bishop Alfred of Woodbourne. Javan had respected Father Alfred as a priest, and supposed the man might have turned out to be a reasonably good bishop, had he not succumbed to the temptations Hubert offered in exchange for his integrity, but the prince had no use for Alfred as a spiritual director. Instead, Javan drafted a round, merry priest of middling years called Father Boniface, who was attached to the old basilica in the grounds of the castle. With Boniface, he pursued sufficient scholastic endeavors of an ecclesiastical bent to disarm increasingly any serious worry about him as a rival for Rhys Michael's eventual succession to the throne.

As a consequence, Bishop Alfred and the remaining regents mostly left Javan alone, except when his presence was required for state occasions, of which there were few during Lent. Otherwise, the Lenten season progressed as Lent usually did—for Javan, a welcome respite from the round of endless banquets and other court entertainments that seemed so empty and hypocritical, as he watched his brother's royal prerogatives slowly eroded. Javan worried increasingly, as Lent progressed and none of his Deryni allies managed to contact him even indirectly to reassure him that he was not forgotten, but he continued with what he believed Evaine and Joram would have wanted him to do—spying on the regents and, in particular, trying to find out more about the true feelings of his brothers.

Rhys Michael proved easy enough—still an uncomplicated if increasingly self-centered child, mostly concerned for his toy knights and games of strategy, and whether his governors would allow him sufficient practice time in the weapons yard and in his equestrian pursuits. Midway through Lent, Javan managed an entire afternoon with his younger brother, with Charlan unwittingly distracting Rhys Michael's senior squire over a spirited game of Cardounet while Javan pretended to need help with the translation of a treatise on strategy—which assistance Rhys Michael was only too willing to provide. The youngest prince was never to realize what other assistance he provided by sitting close enough to read over Javan's shoulder and make comments as Javan limped through the translation. Javan left the afternoon's work no better versed in strategy, but convinced that his younger brother had begun no breakthrough whatever into his Haldane heritage—which was how things were
supposed
to be, Javan knew, even though he himself was different.

Seeing his brother the king privately again was yet another story. Several times Javan contrived plausible excuses to be in his elder brother's presence, only to find others with even more plausible excuses. As Eastertide approached, he began to despair of ever managing to attempt a proper reading in reasonable safety. An unexpected opportunity finally presented itself on a cold, rainy Saturday afternoon late in March, when Alroy was confined to bed with a bad sore throat and cold and Javan came to inquire after his health. Alroy's squires had been sent off to weekly confession—and interrogation by one of the regents' agents, Javan had no doubt—and only Oriel was in attendance when the prince arrived. Alroy had been coughing; and his voice was hoarse as he greeted his brother.

“Ah, at least
someone's
come to pay me a visit!” Alroy croaked, seizing Javan's hand as his brother came to sit on the edge of the bed. “Oriel doesn't count, because he
has
to come to see me. Maybe now he'll leave me long enough to run down to the wine cellars and fetch some of that Rhennish brandywine for a new cough posset he's been promising me. I've been fair to hacking my lungs out this afternoon.”