Kurtz, Katherine - The Deryni Archives

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"THE PRIESTING OF ARILAN"

Young Denis Arilan intended to be a priest-the first Deryni priest in two

hundred years!

If he were known to be one of the dread Deryni, whose magical talents made

them proscribed, he could never be ordained, of course. As part of the

strictures imposed as a result of the Council of Ramos, Deryni were forbidden

to enter the priesthood on pain of death.

The Church obviously had some way of enforcing its ban. Arilan had watched his

friend Jorian fall in agony at the altar during his first celebration of the

Mass as a priest. But there was no evidence of how he had been detected or

destroyed.

What was there to prevent the same happening to Denis Arilan?

Nevertheless, he was going to be a priest-or die!

By Katherine Kurtz

Published by Ballanttne Books:

THE LEGENDS OF CAMBER OF CULDI

Volume I: CAMBER OF CULDI

Volume II: SAINT CAMBER

Volume III: CAMBER THE HERETIC

THE CHRONICLES OF THE DERYNI

Volume I: DERYNI RISING

Volume II: DERYNI CHECKMATE

Volume III: HIGH DERYNI

THE HISTORIES OF KING KELSON

Volume I: THE BISHOP'S HEIR

Volume II: THE KING'S JUSTICE

Volume III: THE QUEST FOR SAINT CAMBER

THE DERYNI ARCHIVES

LAMMAS NIGHT

THE DERYNI ARCHIVES

Katherine Kurtz

1986

DEL REY

A Del Rey Book

BALLANTINE BOOKS - NEW YORK

A Del Rey Book

Published by Ballantine Books

Conventions. Published in the United States of America by Ballantine Books, a

division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by

Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 86-90861

ISBN 0-345-32678-4

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition: August 1986 Sixth Printing: October 1988

Cover Art by Darrell K. Sweet

Map by Shelley Shapiro

Acknowledgments

Moonsinger's Friends (Bluejay Books, 1985).

Fantasy Book, August 1982.

Visions (Seabury Press, 1983).

Cauldron (DAW Books, 1982).

Book, February 1983.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION 1

I Catalyst (Fall, 888) 10

II Healer's Song (August 1, 914) 28

III Vocation (December 24, 977) 45

IV Bethane (Summer, 1100) 77

V The Priesting of Arilan 99 (August 1, 1104-February 2, 1105)

VI Legacy (June 21, 1105) 158

VII The Knighting of Derry (May, 1115) 173

VIII Trial (Spring, 1118) 205

APPENDIX I: INDEX OF CHARACTERS 232

APPENDIX II: INDEX OF PLACE NAMES 241

APPENDIX III: A PARTIAL CHRONOLOGY FOR THE ELEVEN KINGDOMS 244

APPENDIX IV: LITERARY ORIGINS OF THE DERYNI

254

KINGDOM OF GWYNEDD (MAP)

Introduction

Welcome to Gwynedd and the universe of the Deryni. Whether or not you've been

here before, you'll likely find it at least somewhat familiar, for Gwynedd and

its neighboring kingdoms are roughly parallel to our own tenth, eleventh, and

twelfth century England, Wales, and Scotland in terms of culture, level of

technology, similarity of social structure, and influence of a powerful

medieval Church that extends its machinations into the lives of nearly

everyone, highborn or low. The major difference, aside from historical

personalities and places, is that magic works; for the Deryni are a race of

sorcerers.

In a sense, the term "magic" is almost a misnomer to describe Deryni

capabilities, because much of what the Deryni can do falls under the general

category of what we would call extrasensory perception or ESP. Telepathy,

telekinesis, teleportation, and other "paranormal" phenomena are functions we

are now beginning to suspect may be far more normal than we had dreamed, as we

approach the threshold of the twenty-first century and science continues to

expand our understanding of human potential. In fact, much of what we consider

science today would have been magic to the feudal, superstitious, non-

technological folk of the Middle Ages. (They would have scoffed at the notion

that invisible animalcules called "germs" could cause disease, for everyone

knew that evil humors made people sick-or, sometimes, the wrath of God.)

Of course, not all "magical" phenomena can be explained, even by modern

science. Complicating matters in Gwynedd is the fact that the Deryni

themselves cannot always distinguish between the various forms of these

phenomena. First there are the natural Deryni abilities, ESP-type functions.

Then there is the grey area of ritual procedures which, when performed with

suitable mental focus, concentrate the operator's own power to produce certain

predictable results. And finally, there are supernatural connections that even

the Deryni would regard as magical, which tap into unknown power sources in

unknown ways, at unknown cost to the well-being of one's immortal soul-the

certain existence of which is also unknown. The latter is a realm that has

always been of profound interest to those engaged in philosophical pursuits,

whether those of science, organized religion, or more esoteric disciplines.

(And if we define magic as the art of causing change in conformity with will,

then perhaps all Deryni powers are magical. Denis Arilan will have some

thoughts on supernatural agents in the story bearing his name.)

The Deryni, then, have abilities and power connections that are not accessible

to most people-though Deryni are not omnipotent. At their best, the Deryni

might represent the ideal of perfected humankind- what all of us might be, if

we could learn to rise above our earthbound limitations and fulfill our

highest destinies. One would like to think that there is at least a little

Deryni in all of us.

With few exceptions, the use of one's Deryni abilities must be learned, like

any other skill; and some Deryni are more skilled and stronger than others.

Primary proficiencies have to do with balances-physical, psychic, and

spiritual-and mastering one's own body and perceptions. Even without formal

instruction, most Deryni can learn to banish fatigue, at least for a while, to

block physical pain, and to induce sleep- skills that can be applied to

oneself or to others, Deryni or not, with or (often) without the conscious

cooperation of the subject, especially a human one.

Healing is another highly useful Deryni talent, though rare and requiring very

specialized training for optimum use. A properly qualified Healer, provided he

has time to engage healing rapport before his patient expires, can deal

successfully with almost any physical injury. Treatment of illnesses is

necessarily more limited, confined mainly to dealing with symptoms, since

medieval medicine has yet to understand disease mechanisms. (Physicians, both

human and Deryni, have made the connection between cleanliness and decreased

likelihood of infection, but lack the technology to discover why this is so.)

Few would take exception to the abilities we have just outlined-other than

sleep-induction, perhaps, if it were used to the detriment of a subject unable

to resist. What is far more threatening to non-Deryni is the potential use of

Deryni powers outside a healing context. For Deryni can read minds, often

without the knowledge or consent of a human subject; and they can impose their

will on others. Some exceptionally competent Deryni have even been known to

take on the shape of another person.

In actual practice, there are definite limitations to the extent of all these

abilities, though most non-Deryni have wildly exaggerated notions of what

those limitations are, if they even acknowledge their existence. And human

fears are not reassured by the fact that some Deryni can tap into energies

outside even their own understanding, consorting with powers that may defy

God's will. Fear of what is not understood becomes a major theme, then, as the

human and Deryni characters interact in the stories.

But humans did not always fear the Deryni as a race, though individual humans

may have come to fear certain individual Deryni. For centuries before the

Deryni Interregnum, especially under the consolidating rule of a succession of

benevolent Haldane kings (some of whom made discreet interaction with a few

highly ethical Deryni), Deryni were few enough and circumspect enough in their

dealings with humans that the two races lived in relative harmony. The Deryni

founded schools and religious institutions and orders, sharing their knowledge

and healing talents with anyone in need, their own internal disciplines

discouraging any gross abuse of the vast powers at their command. Certainly,

there must have been occasional incidents, for the greater powers of the

Deryni surely subjected them to greater temptations; but exclusively Deryni

outrages must have been rare, for we find no evidence of general hostility

toward Deryni before 822. In that year the Deryni Prince Festil, youngest son

of the King of Torenth, invaded from the east and accomplished a sudden coup,

massacring all the Haldane royal family except for the two-year-old Prince

Aidan, who escaped.

We can blame the ensuing Festillic regime for much of the deterioration of

human-Deryni relations after the invasion, for the Deryni followers of Festil

I were largely landless younger sons, like himself, and quickly recognized the

material gains to be had in the conquered kingdom by exploiting their Deryni

advantages. Much was shrugged off or overlooked in the early years of the new

dynasty, for any conqueror takes a while to consolidate his power and set up

the apparatus for ruling his new kingdom. But Deryni excesses and abuse of

power in high places became increasingly blatant, eventually leading, in 904,

to the ouster of the last Festillic king by fellow Deryni and the restoration

of the old human line in the person of Cinhil Haldane, grandson of the Prince

Aidan who had escaped the butchery of the Festillic invaders.

Unfortunately, Deryni magic itself, and not the ill judgment and avarice of a

few individuals, came to be blamed for the evils of the Interregnum. Nor, once

the Restoration was accomplished, did the new regime waste overmuch time

adopting the aims, if not the methods, of their former masters. After the

death of the restored King Cinhil, regency councils dominated successive

Haldane kings for more than twenty years, for Cinhil's sons were young and

died young-within a decade-and the next heir was Cinhil's four-year-old

grandson Owain.

Such an enticing opportunity to redistribute the spoils of the Restoration to

their own benefit could hardly be overlooked by regents nursing memories of

past injustices. With lands, titles, and offices in the offing, the Deryni

role in the Restoration soon became eclipsed by more emotion-charged

recollections of the Deryni abuses that had triggered the overthrow of Deryni

overlords. In the space of only a few years, Deryni remaining in Gwynedd found

themselves politically, socially, and religiously disenfranchised, the new

masters using any conceivable pretext to seize the wealth and influence of the

former rulers.

The religious hierarchy played its part as well. In the hands of a now human-

dominated Church, political expedience shifted to philosophical justification

in less than a generation, so that the Deryni soon came to be regarded as evil

in and of themselves, the Devil's brood, possibly beyond the salvation even of

the Church- for surely, no righteous and God-fearing person could do the

things the Deryni did; therefore, the Deryni must be the agents of Satan. Only

total renunciation of one's powers might permit a Deryni to survive, and then

only under the most rigid of supervision.

None of this happened overnight, of course. But the Deryni had never been

many; and with the great Deryni families gradually fallen from favor or

destroyed, most individuals outside the immediate circles of political power,

both temporal and spiritual, failed to realize how the balance was shifting

until it was too late. The great anti-Deryni persecutions that followed the

death of Cinhil Haldane reduced the already small Deryni population of Gwynedd

by a full two-thirds. Some fled to the safety of other lands, where being

openly Deryni did not carry an automatic death sentence, but many more

perished. Only a few managed to go underground, keeping their true identities

secret; and many who did go underground simply suppressed what they were,

never telling their descendants of their once proud heritage.

This, then, is a very general background of the Deryni, much of which is woven

into the stories in this volume; it is told in far greater detail in the

novels of the three trilogies set in the Deryni universe. THE LEGENDS OF

CAMBER OF CULDI-Camber of Culdi, Saint Camber, and Camber the Heretic-recount

the overthrow of the last Festillic king by Camber and his children, and goes

on to show what happened immediately after the death of King Cinhil Haldane,

thirteen years later. THE CHRONICLES OF THE DERYNI-Deryni Rising, Deryni

Checkmate, and High Deryni-take place nearly two hundred years later, when

anti-Deryni feeling has begun to abate somewhat among the common folk, but not

yet within the hierarchies of the Church. The HISTORIES OF KING KELSON-The

Bishop's Heir, The King's Justice, and The Quest for Saint Camber-pick up the

story after the CHRONICLES; and future novels will explore the centuries

between the reigns of Cinhil's successors and the accession of Kelson Haldane.

The stories in this volume, except for the first one, all fall between the

Camber and Deryni Trilogies, and constitute all but one of the shorter works

written in the Deryni universe to date. It was felt that the omitted story

really needed greater length for proper development-which it will receive in a

future novel. Three stories were written specifically for this collection, and

have never appeared in print before. At least one of the others has been out

of print for some time, and several never got wide distribution. They are all

canonical with respect to the novels-that is, what is told here is consistent

with what appears in the novels.

Most of them elaborate on incidents or characters that are mentioned in the

novels. And some, whatever else they may do, are designed to tantalize with

hints of things to come in future novels.

Incidentally, before we move on to the stories, I probably should mention a

few points about my approach to Deryni history. I've said that it's a rough

parallel to real world history in terms of culture, level of technology, type

of government, ecclesiastical involvement, and the like. However, readers have

often commented that the stories read like history rather than fantasy. In

fact, I've been accused, not entirely tongue-in-cheek, of simply recounting

the real history of a world in some other dimension.

Well, I can't answer that. Part of that impression undoubtedly comes from the

fact that I was trained as a historian and thus have a historian's eye for

detail and a historian's background of real world history from which to draw.

But there are times when I have no idea where the material comes from-I simply

know that things happened a particular way. When I'm asked what character A

did after event B and I say that I don't know- the characters haven't told me

yet-I really am not being facetious. Also, solidly conceived characters tend

to do what they are going to do, whether or not that was how the author

thought they would behave. And sometimes, the only thing I can say is, "I

can't tell you why right now; I just know that it happened that way."

Sometimes, it even seems to me that I'm just tapping into a stream of events

that have already taken place, and all I have to do is sit back, observe, and

report what I see. Every author does this to some extent, I suspect. But when

readers comment on the illusion as much as readers have commented regarding

the Deryni, one has to wonder, if only wistfully, whether there isn't at least

a mythic truth to the speculation. (I suppose I could tell you about some of

the times I've sensed Camber peering over my shoulder, agreeing or disagreeing

with what I was typing, but that's whimsy- isn't it?)

So, these are tales of the Deryni and those who come into contact with them,

as the characters have revealed them to me. I hope you enjoy your sojourn

among them.

-Sun Valley, California June, 1985

catalyst fall, 888

Chronologically, "Catalyst" is the earliest of the Deryni stories written thus

far, set some fifteen years before the opening of Camber of Culdi. It was

written for a Festschrift in honor of Andre Norton's fiftieth year of

publication. (A Festschrift is an anthology in celebration of an author, its

stories written by fellow authors who have been influenced by the honoree and

who wish to pay him or her tribute.) The major requirement was that the story

be of the sort that Andre would enjoy reading.

And so, since I grew up on Andre's books about young people and animals and

coming of age (Starman's Son was an early favorite), I decided that I ought to

respond in kind. Camber's children seemed likely candidates, for at that time,

I had not set any Deryni stories earlier than Camber of Culdi. A story about

Joram, Rhys, and Evaine would also give me an opportunity to play a bit with

the character of Cathan, Camber's eldest son, who had been killed off fairly

early in the Camber series. In addition, since I had just lost my two elderly

cats, Cimber and Gillie, from complications of age, the story could be my

memorial to them-for as youngsters, Camber's children surely would have had

cats around the castle at Caerrorie. (They would have had dogs, too, but I'm

not really a dog person, so I've never gotten into doggy lore. With apologies

to dog-lovers, I'm afraid the dogs in this story get rather short shrift.)

From there, it was a simple progression to have Rhys, in the course of

discovering that he's going to be a Healer, do for his cat what I hadn't been

able to do for my own in the real world. I changed Cimber's name to the

soundalike Symber in the story, because Cimber looks too much like Camber on

the printed page. The lines ascribed to Lady Jocelyn, describing Symber as

"that damned stringbean" while in his gangly adolescence, were words my own

mother used to describe my Cimber; but he, like Symber, grew into a

magnificent cat. Gillie, who is the unnamed white cat sleeping at Cathan's

feet, never did go through that awkward stage. Even as a kitten, she was a

perfectly proportioned miniature cat who simply got bigger-and would have

twitched her plume-tail in indignation at the mere thought that she was ever

anything less than graceful and beautiful.

So this is for Cimber and Gillie, as well as for Andre. In addition, it is the

favorite story of my son Cameron, who was the same age as Rhys and Joram when

the story was written and who adores cats at least as much as I do. I think he

also liked "Catalyst" because it shows that even Deryni children, with all

their advantages, have the same kinds of problems growing up that any other

children have.

Catalyst

Biting at his lip in concentration, eleven-year-old Rhys Thuryn stared at the

red archer on the board between him and Joram MacRorie and wrapped his mind

around it. Smoothly the little painted figure lifted across two squares to

menace Joram's blue abbot.

The younger boy had turned to watch rain beginning to spatter against the

lights of a tall, grey-glazed window beside them, but at the movement on the

board, his blond head jerked back with a start.

"Oh no! Not my Michaeline you don't!" he cried, nearly overturning the board

as he sprang to his feet to see better. "Rhys, that was a sneaky move! Cathan,

what'll I do?"

Cathan, a bored and blasé fifteen-year-old, looked up from his reading with a

forebearing sigh, red-nosed and miserable with the cold that had kept him from

going hunting with the rest of the household. The white cat napping against

his feet did not stir, even when Rhys chortled with delight and knuckled

exuberantly at already unruly red hair.

"Hoo! I've got him on the run! Look, Cathan! My archer's going to take his

abbot!"

Cathan only blew his nose and huddled a little closer to the fire before

burying himself in his scroll again, and Rhys' glee turned to consternation as

Joram's war-duke floated unerringly across the entire board to take the red

archer.

"On the run, eh?" Joram crowed, plopping back onto his stool with triumph in

his grey eyes. "What are you going to do about that?"

Deflated, Rhys huddled down in his fur-lined tunic to re-evaluate the board.

Where had that war-duke come from? What a stupid game!

He had half-expected the outcome, of course. Joram almost always beat him at

Cardounet. Even though Rhys was a year older than Joram, and both of them were

receiving identical instruction from the Michaelines at Saint Liam's, one of

the finest abbey schools in all of Gwynedd, it was a fact that Rhys simply did

not have the gift for military strategy that his foster brother did. Joram, at

ten, had already announced that he was joining the Michaeline Order when he

came of age, to become a Knight of Saint Michael and eventually a priest as

well-to the dismay of his father, Earl Camber of Culdi.

Nor was it the priesthood Camber objected to-and Jocelyn, Joram's mother, was

clearly pleased that one of her sons intended to become a priest. Indeed,

Camber had often told the boys of the happy years he himself had spent in Holy

Orders in his youth, until the death of his elder brother made him heir to

their father's earldom and he was forced to come home and assume his family

obligations. Barring further unforseen tragedy-for a fever had carried off a

brother and sister only slightly older than Joram earlier in the year- Joram's

brother Cathan would carry on the MacRorie name in this generation, leaving

Joram free to pursue the religious vocation that had been denied Camber.

No, it was the Michaeline Order itself that gave Camber cause for concern-the

Michaelines, whose militant warrior-priests were sometimes dangerously

outspoken about the responsibilities they believed went along with the

prerogatives that magic-wielding Deryni enjoyed. Camber, himself a powerful

and highly trained Deryni, had no quarrel with the Michaelines' ethical stance

in principle; he had always taught his children the duty that went along with

privilege.

In practice, however, the Order's sometimes over-zealous attempts to enforce

that philosophy had led more than once to disaster-for the Royal House of

Gwynedd was Deryni, and some of its scions among the worst abusers of Deryni

power. Thus far, royal ire had always been directed against the offending

individuals; but if Joram became a Michaeline, and the King should one day

turn his anger against the entire Order...

Still, Michaeline schools did provide the finest primary training for Deryni

children that could be had, outside the highly specialized instruction given

the rare Healer candidate; and even among the Deryni, a race blessed-or

cursed, according to some-with a wide assortment of psychic and magical

abilities, the Healing gift did not often appear. It was the abuse of power,

sometimes in mere ignorance, that so often led to problems between Deryni and

humans-or even Deryni and Deryni.

That was why Camber had sent Joram and the orphaned Rhys to attend Saint

Liam's-and allowed them to continue attending, even when Joram began making

starry-eyed plans to join the Michaelines. After all, the boy could not take

even temporary vows until he turned fourteen. Much might change in four years.

Perhaps Joram would outgrow his infatuation with the bold and dashing Knights

of Saint Michael, with their distinctive deep blue habits and gleaming white

knight's sashes, and come around to a more moderate choice of orders, if

indeed he felt himself called to be a priest.

Rhys, on the other hand, felt no call to the religious life, though he was

perfectly content taking his training in the religious atmosphere Saint Liam's

provided. Nor had he any idea yet what he did want to do with his life.

He had no great prospects. His father, though gentle-born, had been only a

second son, so he had inherited no title or fortune in his own right. Only his

mother's close friendship with Camber's countess, the Lady Jocelyn, had

ensured a place for the infant Rhys when both parents died in the great plague

the year after he was born. He was clever with his hands, worked well with

animals, like most Deryni, and had a head for figures-but none of those skills

suggested an occupation for a young gentleman.

One thing was certain, Rhys thought, as he continued to survey the game board,

considering and discarding a succession of possible but unprofitable moves: he

was not cut out to be a soldier. The military strategy and tactics that were

Joram's passion were like a foreign language to Rhys. With diligence, and

because the subject intrigued Joram, who was his very closest friend, Rhys had

mastered enough at least to get by in school and to appreciate that Joram had

a natural flair for such things; but he would never be Joram's match, at least

in this.

Rarely had he been so dismally aware of that fact as he continued staring at

the game board, discarding yet another futile move. The rain hammering now on

the window and the roof slates above only added to his depression. Even with

the fire and the larger windows here in the solar, it had gotten colder and

gloomier as the storm set in, though it was only just past noon.

Perversely, he hoped that Camber and Lady Jocelyn and the rest of the

household were getting good and soaked, for having gone off hunting with the

king and left them cooped up in the castle with only this dumb game to play!

Cathan, who'd been grouchy and irritable all morning with his stupid cold,

should be glad they'd made him stay at home, warm and dry and curled up with a

fur-lined robe, a cat, and a good book.

As a matter of fact, maybe a book was a good idea. Rhys was bored with trying

to beat Joram. He thought he might go find something to read, but before he

could decide what, Evaine, the baby of the MacRorie family, came pattering

purposefully into the room, flaxen braids coming undone and her black cat,

Symber, in her arms. She had the cat just behind the front legs, its body and

tail dangling almost to her knees. Oddly, the cat did not seem to mind.

"Cathan, Cathan, there's somebody sneaking around downstairs!" she whispered

with six-year-old urgency, scuttling past Rhys and Joram to pause at her older

brother's elbow.

Cathan gave a sigh and lowered his manuscript long enough to wipe his nose

with a soggy handkerchief.

"I'm sure there is," he croaked hoarsely.

"Cathan, I'm not joking!" she persisted. "I heard them clunking things in the

great hall."

"It's probably the dogs."

"The dogs don't make noises like that."

"Then it's the servants."

"It isn't the servants!" she replied, stamping a little foot. "Symber came

running up the stairs. He was afraid. He doesn't run from the servants."

"He probably got in Cook's way and she booted him with a broom."

"He did not!" Evaine insisted, hugging the cat closer. "There's someone down

there. Come and see. Cathan, please!"

"Evaine, I'm not going downstairs," Cathan snapped. "I don't feel like

playing. In case you hadn't noticed, this stupid cold is making me mean and

grumpy. Why don't you go pester Joram and Rhys?"

"They're too busy playing their dumb game! Just because I'm little, nobody

ever listens to me!"

Rhys, who had been following the exchange with growing amusement, exchanged a

conspiratorial wink with Joram, who had also sat back to grin.

"We'll listen to you, won't we, Joram?" he said, delighted at the excuse to

leave the hopeless game and do something else.

Apparently Joram had also grown bored with the game, for he joined in without

missing a beat.

"Of course we will, little sister," he said, rising and adjusting a dagger

thrust through the belt of his blue school tunic. "Why don't you show us where

you think you heard them? Can't have prowlers carrying off the silver. Do you

think they've tied up the servants?"

"Jor-am!"

"All right, all right!" Joram held up both palms and did his best to assume

the more serious mien he thought a future Michaeline Knight should wear. "I

said we'd go investigate. Why don't you leave Symber here, where he'll be

safe?"

"No!"

"Then, why don't you let me carry him?" Rhys reasoned. "That way, you can lead

the way and show Joram and me where to look."

"All right, you can carry him," she agreed, handing over the cat. "But I think

Joram better go first. He's got a knife."

"Good idea," Joram said, though he had to turn away to keep from grinning. As

he stealthily pushed the door to the turnpike stair a little wider, holding a

finger to his lips for silence, Rhys hefted the cat's front end onto his left

shoulder and supported its weight in the crook of his arm. The cat began

purring loudly in his ear as it settled, kneading contentedly with its front

paws.

Rhys ignored Cathan's bemused and slightly patronizing smile as he followed

Joram and Evaine into the winding stairwell. What did he care what Cathan

thought? If Evaine had judged Joram best suited to lead a military exercise,

she was only acknowledging the obvious-and without any of the hint of ridicule

Cathan so often heaped upon Rhys for his lesser military acumen. And it was

Rhys to whom she had entrusted her precious Symber-which was a far more

important responsibility, in her eyes.

On the other hand, Rhys' military training had not been wholly wasted. Trying

to place his slippered feet as quietly as Joram or the cat purring in his

arms, he sent a tendril of thought questing into the cat's mind- just in case

there was something going on below stairs that shouldn't be.

And Symber had been frightened by something. The big black cat was too wrapped

up in the pleasure and security of perching on Rhys' shoulder, reveling in

that special ecstacy that only the feline purr declared, for Rhys to read any

details; but he did manage to catch an impression of something Symber did not

like, that had scared him enough to send him scooting to Evaine for safety.

And somehow Rhys did not think it had been Cook with her broom.

He sent that mental impression off to Joram just before they reached the

landing, but only the two MacRories had gotten close enough to even touch the

curtains across the entry to the great hall before a pair of hairy arms burst

through the split in the middle and grabbed each by an arm, jerking them

through.

"I told you I'd seen a kid!" a rough voice bellowed.

"Rhys, Rhys!" Evaine shrieked. And a heavy "Whoof!" exploded from someone far

larger and heavier than Joram as Rhys instinctively ducked and hurled himself

through the curtained doorway at the side rather than in the middle, burdened

by an armful of suddenly startled cat-and found himself right in the middle of

a tangle of struggling bodies, both adult and child.

"Cathan!" Joram screamed, sending up a psychic cry as well, as he squirmed

almost out of the grasp of the man who held him and Evaine and somehow managed

to get his dagger free of his belt. "Rhys, look out!"

But Rhys was having his own problems as he tried to duck the clutches of

another rough-clad man who suddenly loomed right in front of him. He yelped

and lost his footing as Evaine's cat launched itself from his shoulder with

all its back claws dug in, but the squawk of horrified surprise from his

attacker was worth the pain, for Symber landed on the man's bare forearm with

all claws out and clung like a limpet, sinking his teeth into the fleshy part

of the man's thumb with a ferocious growl.

Cursing and flailing, the man tried to shake the cat off his arm; Symber only

dug in with all four sets of claws and held on more tenaciously. Rhys almost

managed to tackle one of the man's legs and trip him, but a vicious kick that

only narrowly missed his head changed his mind about that. As he rolled clear,

trying frantically to see whether there might be more than just the two men

and wondering where the dogs were, Evaine wormed out of the grasp of her

captor-who was now far more worried about Joram's knife than a child of six-

and went for the man molesting her cat, kicking him hard in the shin.

The man howled and whirled around. The reaction cost the cat its grip. As the

man grabbed for Evaine and missed, cursing with rage, he made an even more

desperate attempt to dislodge the clawing, biting black demon attached to his

arm. With a mighty heave, he shook Symber loose and flung him hard against the

wall. Evaine wailed as the cat slid to the floor and did not move.

But even worse danger kept Rhys from noticing what happened to cat or girl

after that. He was scrambling toward Joram, for Joram was losing the tug of

war with his attacker for the knife in his hand, when suddenly a third man

towered between them, throwing down a bag of booty with a loud clank and

seizing Rhys by a bicep with one hand while the other began to draw a sword.

Rhys tried to remember every trick he'd ever practiced or heard about hand-to-

hand fighting in the next few seconds, for he was weaponless, and his opponent

was probably three times his age and weight. As he ducked under a blow that

would have taken off his head if it had connected, he saw Cathan finally

careen out of the newel stair doorway with a sword in his hand, shouting

urgently for the servants.

He was too busy staying alive to see what happened as the older boy took after

the man who was grabbing for Evaine again. As Evaine dove between Cathan's

legs for safety, Rhys' concentration was distracted by even more frantic

scuffling between Joram and his opponent. Suddenly fire was searing across the

back of Rhys' right leg, and it was buckling under him.

The pain was excruciating, the terror worse, as Rhys collapsed and tried to

worm out of his assailant's range, clamping a frantic hand to the slash across

his calf. His hand came away bloody in the instant he had to look, the thick

wool of his grey legging rapidly turning scarlet. He was gasping too hard to

utter much physical sound as the man raised a bloody sword to finish him, but

his desperate psychic cry reverberated in the hall and beyond as he made a

last, determined attempt to fling himself clear of the descending blade-though

he was sure he was going to die.

He never knew how Cathan managed to intervene; only that suddenly another

sword was flashing upward to block the blow, shattering the attacker's lesser

blade, driving on to split the man's skull from jaw to crown. As blood and

brains spattered, and before the man even hit the floor, Cathan was whirling

to take on Joram's opponent. The man who had menaced Evaine was already

moaning on the floor, clutching a belly wound and trying to crawl out of

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"THEPRIESTINGOFARILAN"YoungDenisArilanintendedtobeapriest-thefirstDerynipriestintwohundredyears!IfhewereknowntobeoneofthedreadDeryni,whosemagicaltalentsmadethemproscribed,hecouldneverbeordained,ofcourse.AspartofthestricturesimposedasaresultoftheCouncilofRamos,Deryniwereforbiddentoenterthepriesthoodo...

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