High Deryni (26 page)

Warin glanced away uncomfortably, tightening his sweaty grip on the dagger's hilt. “I shall not wound you beyond my own power to heal.”

Nodding his acceptance, Duncan pulled his shirt off over his head and handed it to Morgan, who draped it over the back of the chair Kelson had vacated. The priest was pale but unafraid as he turned to face Warin.

Warin was trembling as he brought the dagger to waist level and approached—cautious, reluctant, yet drawn in horrified fascination that this enemy would permit what he was about to do. The thought crossed his mind that he could, if he chose, kill at least this one Deryni, but another part of him strangely shrank from that thought, as though already entertaining the possibility that these particular Deryni were telling the truth, terrifying though that was to contemplate.

When he had come within an arm's length of Duncan, he stopped and forced himself to meet the calm blue eyes that gazed back at him, then shifted his focus downward. The priest's torso, rarely exposed to the sun, was a pale ivory, almost like a woman's, though there the similarity ended. The shoulders were broad and powerful, sleek with well-tempered muscles, with little body hair. A faint scar crossed the ribs below the left breast, another on the right bicep—training scars, probably.

Slowly Warin lifted the dagger point to eye level and brought it lightly to rest against Duncan's left shoulder. The priest did not flinch as the steel touched his skin, but Warin could no longer meet the eyes.

“Do what you must do,” Duncan whispered, bracing himself for the thrust.

SUDDEN
pain lanced deep into Duncan's left shoulder, and his body recoiled in a vast shudder. In that first instant of shocked agony, he was aware of Warin's eyes blazing insanely, of Kelson's gasp of alarm, Alaric's arm under his good shoulder as his knees gave way and he began to sag, borne down by the pain.

Then he was collapsing to the floor, and Alaric was snapping at Warin, the gray eyes ablaze with anger, sanity returning to Warin's face as he recoiled in horror from what he had done.

Through the haze of his own disbelief and shock, Duncan felt Alaric's fingers probing at the blade that still pierced into his shoulder, the reassuring strength of his cousin's strong arm supporting his head.

Then Cardiel was moving all the others back—all except Alaric. Besides them, Warin was the closest other one in the room. Alaric bent closer, his eyes like pools of storm, lips moving in words Duncan could not quite understand.

“Duncan? Duncan, focus! Can you hear me? Damn you, Warin! This is more than we agreed! Duncan, listen to me! It's Alaric.”

Duncan found that, by concentrating, he could make the lips' movement match the words that sounded muffled to his ears. He blinked and stared up at his cousin dazedly for what seemed like an eternity, then managed a weak nod. Extending out of range beyond his chin, he could just see the hilt of Warin's little ivory-fitted dagger, the ivory darkly stained with his blood.

He looked again at Alaric, feeling a wave of calm brush his mind as his kinsman's right hand touched lightly on his forehead and then returned to the hilt of the dagger.

“It's a serious wound,” the golden Deryni murmured, searching his eyes. “If you can stand the pain, I need you to stay conscious while I work. I'm not altogether certain I can do this alone.”

Duncan turned his head slightly to glance at the dagger again, his cheek resting momentarily against his kinsman's hand.

“Go ahead,” he whispered. “I'll do my best.”

He saw the gray eyes close once in agreement, then felt the arm beneath him raising him slightly so that he was resting against Alaric's chest. The left hand was curved to stanch the wound now, once the dagger was withdrawn by the right. Duncan raised his right hand to Alaric's left, ready to add whatever assistance he could, then braced himself for the withdrawal of the steel.

“Do it now,” he murmured.

He gasped at the scrape of metal against bone, the sear of steel in muscle, sinew, nerve, like fire. Then his life's blood was pumping into the still night air, Alaric's agile fingers pressing to the wound, his own right hand suddenly going wet to the feel of his own hot blood. But then Alaric's mind was wrapping around his own, soothing, calming, damping and even quenching the agony.

Something deep inside him detached itself from the pain then. All at once he was able to open his eyes and gaze up into Alaric's deep gray ones, losing himself in their depths. Rapport was found and established in a heartbeat, minds linked stronger than the link of hands could ever be.

Alaric closed his eyes then, and Duncan did the same, sinking to yet another level. Through some faculty far beyond mere hearing, he began to sense a deep, musical thrum. The bond deepened, and an all-pervading peace began to wrap itself around him, almost as though a shadowy hand, without form or substance, were laying itself across his feverish brow. Fleetingly he seemed to sense another Presence linked with him and Alaric, one he had never seen or heard before.

Then, very suddenly, he knew that it was done, that the bleeding stopped. He opened his eyes to find Alaric's golden head still bowed over him, felt the bond begin to dissolve away. He stirred slightly against Alaric's arm as his kinsman opened his eyes, lifting his head far enough to peer down at the three bloodstained hands that rested on his left shoulder. The top hand—Alaric's—lifted; and simultaneously his own and Alaric's other hand fell away.

The wound was gone! All he could see was a very faint line on the skin where the blade had entered—a line that was fast fading—but even of the monstrous quantity of blood that had escaped his body, there was little trace except on their hands. He held up his own bloodied hand, glanced at Alaric's, then let his head loll back against Alaric's shoulder to look up for the first time at the circle of watchers. Warin was closest—drawn, white, awestruck—and beside him Kelson and Cardiel, Warin's men clumped in a scared, incredulous knot a little to the right. Duncan managed a weak smile and lowered his hand slowly, then glanced up at Alaric.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Alaric allowed himself a wry smile and shifted Duncan's weight to help him sit up.

“So,” the Deryni duke said, looking directly at Warin. “Can you accept what you have seen? Will you concede that, if your premise of healing being a God-given gift is correct, God also gives to the Deryni?”

A pale Warin shook his head, but in wonder rather than denial. “It cannot be true. Deryni cannot heal. Yet you healed. Therefore healing must be a Deryni power as well. And I, who also heal…”

His voice trailed off as the full implications of this line of reasoning began to sink in, and his face went even paler, if that were possible. Noting the reaction, Morgan guessed that he had finally achieved at least part of his original purpose. With an understanding smile, he helped Duncan to his feet and betook both of them to the basin and ewer set on a nightstand, pouring water into the basin so he and Duncan could wash the blood from their hands.

“Yes, you must face that possibility now,” he said softly to Warin over his shoulder. “It's a great deal to assimilate, I know—and if you had been told before, you would not have listened. You had to see it demonstrated.” He dried off his hands and turned to face Warin. “And here's another possibility that you would have been unable to consider. We believe that you, too, may be Deryni.”

“No! That isn't possible,” Warin managed to murmur, looking dismayed. “I
couldn't
be!” His voice became more plaintive. “Why, I have hated Deryni all my life. And I
know
that there are no Deryni in my ancestry. It cannot be!”

“Perhaps not,” Kelson said, joining Morgan to gaze carefully at Warin. “But many go through all their lives without ever knowing, unless something happens to change all of that. You have, perhaps, heard how my mother discovered her Deryni heritage—and no one
ever
would have suspected Jehana of Gwynedd of being Deryni. She was as adamant on that point as you are, Warin—perhaps more so, in many respects.”

Warin's hands were trembling as he wrung them in his agitation, and he looked up beseechingly.

“But, how—how does one find out for certain?” he ventured meekly. “How does one know?”

Morgan spared him a sympathetic smile. “The queen found out by using powers she did not know she possessed, when there was no other choice. On the other hand, there are people who have powers we cannot explain through Deryni blood. You might be one of those. The only way to know for certain is to Mind-See. I can do that for you, if you like.”

“Mind-See?”

“You place yourself in a relaxed and receptive state and allow me to enter your mind with mine. I cannot explain how I know, once I am linked with you—but I do know. You will have to accept that I have this ability. Will you permit me to do that?”

“To—to enter my mind? I—” He glanced plaintively at Cardiel, unconsciously falling back upon Cardiel's authority as a bishop. “Is—is this permitted, Excellency? I—I know not how to judge this situation. Guide me, I beseech you!”

“I trust Morgan,” Cardiel said carefully. “I have no idea how he does what he does, but I accept the fact that it happens. And although I have not felt the touch of his mind, I am confident of his good intentions.”

“Then—you counsel me to accept his offer?” Warin whispered.

“I do,” Cardiel said gently. “Warin, you must see the error of what has gone before and join us. We must have unity in Gwynedd to stand against Wencit of Torenth. Surely, you see that.”

“Yes. Yes, I do. But, to permit
Morgan
…” His voice trailed off, resistance still evident as he hazarded another glance at the Deryni general, and Morgan nodded coolly.

“Believe me, I share your reluctance in this matter. My regard for you is likewise tainted by what has gone before. But there is none other who can do what must be done in this instance. The king, talented though he is, has not the necessary experience. And I fear that you have weakened my cousin to the point that I could not permit him to undertake it. What must be done requires an investment of energy, which, frankly, he cannot spare at this time. So it appears that you are left with only one choice—if you wish to learn the truth, that is.”

Warin lowered his eyes, studying his feet for a long moment, then turned slowly to confront his men.

“Tell me truthfully,” he said, his voice scarcely more than a whisper. “Do you believe me to be a Deryni, Paul? Owen?”

Paul glanced uneasily at the others, then shuffled a few steps forward. “I believe I speak for all of us, Lord, and what it comes to is that we don't know what to think.”

“But what should I do?” Warin whispered, almost to himself.

Paul glanced at the others and then spoke again. “Find out for certain, Lord. Perhaps we have been mistaken about the Deryni. Certainly, if you yourself are one of them, then not all can be evil. We would ride with you to Hell and back—you know that, Lord. But find out!”

Warin's shoulders slumped in an attitude of defeat, but then he slowly turned back toward Morgan, not meeting his eyes.

“It appears that I must submit to you,” he said. “My followers must know where I stand, and I confess that I, too, must know. I—what must I do?”

Morgan handed Duncan's shirt back to him, then began turning the chair to face the fire. “It is hardly a matter of submission,” he said, motioning the others to stand back out of the line of vision of the chair. “What you will experience is a—a sharing of awareness, both of us working together. If at any time you become afraid, and do not wish to go on, you may break the bond. I promise you, I shall not force you against your will. Sit here, please.”

Swallowing with difficulty, Warin looked at the chair now facing the fire, then forced himself to sit gingerly on the edge of the seat. Morgan moved behind the chair and reached his hands to Warin's shoulders, urging him back to sit in the chair properly. The hands remained resting lightly on the rebel leader's shoulders as Morgan began to speak. The others stayed behind the chair as well, so that they could see only Morgan and the back of Warin's head and shoulders. Morgan's voice was low and soothing in the firelit darkness.

“Take a deep breath and let it all the way out. Sit back and focus on the fire on the hearth. There is little true magic involved in what we do here…perhaps just a trace of that power I used earlier to heal. Relax and watch the flames. Concentrate on the sound of my voice and the touch of my hands. You'll not be harmed, I promise you. Relax and drift with me. Let the soft flicker of the flames be the only movement in your universe. Relax and drift with me…”

As Morgan's voice droned on, rising and falling with the flames, he became aware that Warin was, indeed, beginning to drift beneath his hands. He relaxed his hands slightly and Warin did not flinch at the movement—a good sign. Slowly, as Warin came more and more under the spell of the murmuring voice, Morgan began to extend his senses, glancing down at his gryphon signet and triggering the first stage of Deryni mind-linking. Warin had slipped into a light trance by this time, his breathing slow and deepening by the minute, eyelids quivering on the verge of closing altogether.

After a few more seconds the eyelids did close, and Morgan gently eased his hands to either side of Warin's head, masking the movement with a touch of firmer control. Warin did not stir at this new, more intimate probe of mind, and with a slight sigh of relief, Morgan permitted himself to go deeper. Tipping Warin's head back against his chest, he gazed down at the closed eyes through hooded lids, then bowed his head and also closed his eyes—and entered Warin's mind.

It was perhaps a hundred heartbeats before he stirred, and then it was only to lift his head slightly and look toward Kelson and Duncan, his eyes deeply hooded.

“He has a very well-ordered mind, underneath all the anti-Deryni conditioning,” Morgan whispered, “but I am almost certain he is not Deryni. Will you confirm?”

Wordlessly, Kelson and Duncan moved to either side of Morgan and reached out to place their hands on Warin's brow. After a few seconds, they withdrew.

“He was right. I don't think he
is
Deryni,” Duncan whispered.

“And yet, we have all seen him heal,” Kelson murmured in wonder. “He also seems to have a slight persuasion in the area of Truth-Say. Of all the Deryni talents, those two are probably the most useful to a man like him, who believed he had a divine mission to fulfill. You don't suppose he really
is
a holy man, albeit a misguided one?”