CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“The humans kill what they do not
understand.”
UNKNOWN DERYNI MONK
IT was still raining as Duncan and Morgan came
down off the mountains. Lightning streaked in the west and paled
the fading sunset, and thunder rumbled and echoed among the
mountain peaks. The wind howled through the ruins of Saint Neot’s,
lashing rain against weathered gray stone and charred timbers as
the two riders rode through the ruined courtyard.
Duncan squinted into the gloom and pulled his hood
farther over his head. At his right, Morgan huddled in the saddle,
gloved fingers locked on the high pommel and eyes closed as he
nodded with the motion of his mount. He had slipped into
semi-consciousness some hours ago, his stupor mercifully numbing
him to the discomfort of the long ride, but Duncan knew his cousin
could not last much longer without rest. Thank God they had finally
reached shelter.
Duncan guided his mount into the protected corner
where he and Morgan had spent the previous night, and reined in.
Morgan swayed in the saddle, then jerked to awareness as the horses
halted and Duncan jumped to the ground. His glazed eyes searched
his surroundings uncomprehendingly.
“Where are we? Why have we stopped?”
Duncan ducked under his horse’s neck and moved to
Morgan’s side. “It’s all right. We’re at Saint Neot’s,” he said,
taking Morgan by the shoulders and helping him from the saddle.
“I’m going to leave you here to rest while I look around. There
should be a Transfer Portal somewhere about. That will get us as
far as Rhemuth, if it’s still working.”
“I’ll help you look,” Morgan mumbled thickly,
almost stumbling as Duncan led him to the driest corner of the old
campsite. “It’s probably by the Camber altar I told you
about.”
Duncan shook his head as he eased Morgan to the
ground and knelt beside him. “If it’s there, I’ll find it,” he
said, urging his kinsman to lean back against the wall. “Meanwhile,
you’re going to get some proper sleep.”
“Now wait a minute,” Morgan protested, feebly
trying to sit up. “You’re not going to wander around out there by
yourself while I sleep.”
Duncan smiled indulgently, but his hand was firm as
he pushed Morgan back against the wall and shook his head once
again. “I’m afraid that’s exactly what I’m going to do, my friend.
This time you haven’t any say in the matter. Now don’t fight me, or
I’ll have to force you to sleep.”
“You would, too,” Morgan muttered petulantly,
slumping back against the wall with a sigh.
“I would, indeed. Now relax.”
As Morgan closed his eyes, Duncan stripped off his
gloves and stuffed them into his tunic. Clasping his hands together
for just an instant in preparation, he stared across at his cousin
and collected his thoughts, his pale eyes going hooded. Then he
reached across to place a hand on either side of Morgan’s head,
thumbs to temples.
“Sleep now,” he whispered. “Sleep deep, without
dreams. Let slumber wash away fatigue and restore you.”
He let himself slip into silent Deryni mind-contact
as he continued.
Sleep deep, my brother. Sleep soundly, without
fear. I shall not be far away.
Morgan’s breathing became slow, regular; the
handsome features relaxed as he slipped into a deep, dreamless
sleep. Duncan dropped his hands and watched for a moment,
satisfying himself that his cousin would not reawaken until he
returned, then stood and pulled a blanket from his saddle to drape
over the sleeping form.
Now for the Transfer Portal.
He paused on the threshold of the ruined chapel and
surveyed the place warily. Though night was falling, the rain had
slackened so that he could see the half-fallen walls looming
against the darkening sky. Over to the left, where portions of the
roof still held, windows of the ruined clerestory stared down at
him like empty eye sockets, their bright glass gone forever in the
general destruction that had befallen the place. Lightning flashed,
illuminating the once-proud chapel bright as day as Duncan made his
way toward the main altar and chancel. Shallow puddles on the
broken flooring flashed fragmented brightness whenever a new bolt
of lightning seared its way across the heavens. Wind whined through
the ruins, moaning protests of bygone ignominies and
misadventures.
Duncan reached the bottom of the altar steps and
paused, envisioning how it must have been in the days when the
monastery had flourished, when the walls had soared above the heads
of nearly a hundred Deryni monks, countless more teachers and noble
students.
In those days, the processions would have
approached the altar with reverence, voices raised in praise with
the sweet, pungent smoke of incense and the glow of beeswax tapers.
He could almost feel it.
Introibo ad altare Dei . . . I will go up to
the altar of God.
Lightning arced across the sky, illuminating the
fallacy of Duncan’s musings, and he smiled at himself. Mounting the
altar steps, he moved to the ruined slab and gently placed his
hands on it, wondering how many other hands, consecrated like his,
had rested there before. In his mind’s eye he saw the splendor of
the place when the altar had been holy, bowed his head and
genuflected in respect for that ancient time.
Then thunder crashed, and he turned away from the
altar, mindful once more of the problem at hand.
To find a Deryni Transfer Portal: that was his
task. To locate a place of magic in the ruins of a long-defunct
Deryni monastery and hope that it would still function after two
hundred years.
Where would one build a Transfer Portal, if one
were the architect of this chapel four hundred years ago? Would one
follow tenets similar to those held by the builders of the Portals
Duncan knew? How many Portals were there in the Eleven Kingdoms?
Did anyone know?
Well, Duncan knew of two. There was one in his
study, originally built so that the King’s Confessor, traditionally
Deryni in the old days, could have access to the cathedral at a
moment’s notice. And the second Portal was in the cathedral
sacristy, a simple metal plate set in the floor beneath the
carpeting of the vesting chapel. After all, one could never predict
when it might become necessary to storm the gates of Heaven with
prayers and supplications for the King—or so the old ones had
believed.
So he was back to the original question: Where
would such a Portal be, here at Saint Neot’s?
Duncan scanned the nave to left and right, then on
impulse turned to the right and picked his way across the broken
flooring. Alaric had said that there was an old Camber altar at the
left of the chancel—to the right, the way he was facing. Perhaps
the answer lay there. Saint Camber was the patron of Deryni magic.
What better location for a Transfer Portal made possible by that
magic?
There was little left of the altar. It had only
been a narrow shelf set in the wall to begin with, and heavy blows
had battered and defaced the edge of the marble slab so that the
lettering was almost illegible. But Duncan could trace out the
Jubilate Deo at the beginning of the inscription; and
imagination helped to fill in the name, Sanctus Camberus.
The round-arched niche above the altar still held the broken-off
feet of the Deryni saint.
Duncan’s fingers caressed the worn slab as he
turned to view the ruins from this vantage point, but after a
moment he shook his head. He would not find a Transfer Portal here.
Not out in the open. In spite of the general acceptance of magic
before and during the Interregnum, when the monastery was built,
the Deryni architects of Saint Neot’s would never have placed a
Transfer Portal out here, before the fascinated eyes of all comers.
That was not the Deryni way.
No, it would be somewhere more secluded, more
private—nearby, perhaps, since the presence of Saint Camber would
have been thought to offer some protection, but not out in plain
view.
Then where?
Turning back to face the tiny altar, Duncan scanned
the walls to either side, searching for an opening to the chambers
and smaller chapels that should lie beyond. He found it—a crumbled
doorway half buried beneath fallen timbers and overturned
stones—and without further ado, cleared a hole big enough to crawl
through. He wriggled into the opening and found himself looking
into a small, lofty chamber that could only have been the
sacristy.
Duncan squirmed the rest of the way through his
passage and straightened cautiously, ducking to avoid low beams
that had collapsed when the chapel burned. The floor was littered
with blocks of stone, rotting wood, shattered glass. But over
against the far wall were the remains of an ivory vesting altar,
fragments of closets and chests and mouldering vestment presses to
either side. Duncan scanned the chamber with a practiced eye,
squinting as a particularly bright bolt of lightning lit up the
heavens.
Now, where would the ancients have located the
Portal in here? And with such large-scale destruction as the ruins
indicated, could anything have survived?
Kicking aside rubble and moving farther into the
chamber, Duncan closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his hand
across his forehead wearily, trying to open his mind for
impressions that might remain.
Beware, Deryni! Here lies danger!
Duncan’s head whipped around in alarm, and he
dropped to a crouch, sword half drawn. Lightning flashed again,
sending eerie shadow-shapes chasing across the walls, but there was
no one in the chamber besides himself. Straightening wearily, he
resheathed his sword and continued to scan for danger.
Had he imagined the voice?
No.
Then, could the voice have been a mental one? One
left by the ancient Deryni masters of Saint Neot’s?
Moving cautiously back to his original position
beside the vesting altar, Duncan closed his eyes again and willed
himself to concentrate. This time the voice was expected, if no
less chilling. And it was definitely in his mind.
Beware, Deryni! Here lies danger! Of a full one
hundred brothers only I remain—to try, with my failing
strength, to destroy this Portal before it can be desecrated.
Kinsman, take heed. Protect yourself, Deryni. The humans kill what
they do not understand. Holy Saint Camber, defend us from fearful
evil.
Duncan eased his eyes open and glanced around, then
tried again.
Beware, Deryni! Here lies danger! Of a full one
hundred—
Duncan broke off the contact and sighed.
So. It was a message left by the last Deryni to
hold this place. And he had tried to destroy the Portal as he lay
dying. Had he succeeded?
Dropping to his haunches, Duncan studied the floor
where he had been standing, then used the edge of his hand to sweep
away the rubble. As he had suspected, there was the faint outline
of a square inscribed in the floor, perhaps three feet by three
feet. Like the Portal in the cathedral, it had probably been hidden
beneath carpeting at one time, but of course that had all been
destroyed long ago. As for the Portal itself . . .
Gently laying his hands on the square, Duncan
extended his powers, hoping desperately that he would feel the
faintly dizzying pressure that would tell him he was on the verge
of transfer.
Nothing.
He tried again, and this time he caught a faint
wave of blackness, of pain, the beginning of the message he had
already heard.
And then nothing. The Portal was dead. The last
Deryni here had been successful.
With a sigh Duncan got to his feet and took a final
look around, wiping his hands against his thighs. Now they would
have to ride to Rhemuth after all. With the Portal destroyed, they
had no choice. And after that, they would probably have to continue
on to Culdi; for Kelson would be journeying there for Bronwyn and
Kevin’s wedding.
Well, it couldn’t be helped. He would go and wake
Alaric, and they would be on their way again. With any luck, they
should reach Rhemuth by the following night, well ahead of any
pursuers.
THE bells were muffled and tolled leadenly as the
bishops filed into Saint Andrew’s Cathedral in Dhassa. The night
was clear, crisp, tinged with new frost, with tiny ice crystals
that swirled in the wind as the men gathered just inside the doors.
Long tapers distributed by two young priests were lit from a
guarded flame within the nave. The flames shivered in the draft
that whistled through the half-open doors, danced weird patterns of
candle-fire on the dark, frost-touched cloaks of the
prelates.
The men glided down the clerestory aisles to take
their places in the choir: two ragged lines of faceless, black-clad
men with fire in their hands. As the muffled bells ceased their
tolling, a clerk counted heads unobtrusively, confirming the
presence of all whose attendance was required. He disappeared up
the darkened nave, and there was a hollow slam as the great doors
closed. Three candles moved back down the clerestory aisle on the
left as the clerk and two priests joined the others. There was a
short pause, some coughing and shuffling of feet, then a side door
opened and Loris entered.
The Primate of All Gwynedd wore full ecclesiastical
regalia tonight. In a black and silver cope, with jewels encrusting
the miter on his head, Archbishop Edmund Loris held his silver
crozier resolutely in his left hand as he strode through the
transept and turned into the choir. Archbishop Corrigan and Bishop
Tolliver flanked him, slightly behind, with Bishop Cardiel bringing
up the rear. A young crucifer carrying the archbishop’s heavy
silver cross led them all as they passed between the two lines of
clergy.
Loris and his entourage reached the bottom steps of
the sanctuary and stopped, bowed respect to the altar, turned to
face the nave. As Cardiel moved to the right and took four candles
from a waiting monk, he glanced aside at Arilan, his eyes grim.
Then he returned to his place at Tolliver’s side to give over the
candles, passing the flame from his to Tolliver’s and on to Loris
and Corrigan. When Loris’s taper was lit, Gwynedd’s Primate stepped
forward and drew himself to his full height. His blue eyes flashed
cold fire as he swept the assembled clergy.
“This is the text of the instrument of
excommunication,” he said. “Hear and take heed.
“ ‘Whereas Alaric Anthony Morgan, Duke of Corwyn,
and Monsignor Duncan Howard McLain, a suspended priest of the
Church, have willfully and repeatedly defied and scorned the
dictates of Holy Church;
“ ‘And whereas said Alaric and Duncan have this day
slain innocent sons of the Church and threatened sacrilegious
murder on the person of a consecrated priest of God, and forced him
to witness vile and heretical acts of magic;
“ ‘And whereas said Alaric and Duncan have caused
desecration to the shrine of Saint Torin by their use of forbidden
magic and caused its destruction, and have repeatedly used such
forbidden magic in the past;
“ ‘And whereas said Alaric and Duncan have shown no
willingness to confess their sins and amend their ways;
“ ‘Now therefore We, Edmund, Archbishop of Valoret
and Primate of All Gwynedd, speaking for all the clergy of the
Curia of Gwynedd, do anathematize the said Alaric Anthony Morgan
and Duncan Howard McLain. We sever them from the bounds of the Holy
Church of God. We expel them from the congregation of the
Righteous.
“ ‘May the wrath of the Heavenly Judge descend upon
them. May they be shunned by the faithful. May the Gates of Heaven
close before them and any who would aid them.
“ ‘Let no God-fearing man receive them, or feed
them, or give them shelter from the night, on pain of anathema. Let
no priest minister to them when living, nor attend their funerals
when dead. Cursed be they in the house, cursed in the fields;
cursed be their food and drink and all that they possess.
“ ‘We declare them excommunicate, cast into the
outer darkness with Lucifer and all his fallen angels. We count
them among the thrice-damned, with no hope of salvation. And we
confound them with eternal malediction and condemn them with
perpetual anathema. So let their light be quenched in the midst of
darkness.’ So be it!”
“So be it!” the assembly chanted.
Taking his taper in front of him, Loris reversed it
end-for-end and cast it to the floor, snuffing out the flame. In
unison, the assembled bishops and clergy followed suit.
There was a clatter of falling candles like hollow
blocks, and then blackness as the flames died.
Except for one candle that burned still, guttering
defiantly against the tiles.
And no one could say from whose hands the light had
fallen.