The Deryni Archives Part 1

THE DERYNI ARCHIVES.

Katherine Kurtz.

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, superst.i.tious, 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 G.o.d.) 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 rea.s.sured by the fact that some Deryni can tap into energies outside even their own understanding, consorting with powers that may defy G.o.d'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 circ.u.mspect enough in their dealings with humans that the two races lived in relative harmony. The Deryni founded schools and religious inst.i.tutions 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, ma.s.sacring 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, t.i.tles, 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 s.p.a.ce 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 G.o.d-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 ident.i.ties 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 const.i.tute 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 d.a.m.ned 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 blase 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 a.s.sume 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 a.s.sortment 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 t.i.tle 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 pa.s.sion 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 ma.n.u.script long enough to wipe his nose with a soggy handkerchief.

"I'm sure there is," he croaked hoa.r.s.ely.

"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, n.o.body ever listens to me!"

Rhys, who had been following the exchange with growing amus.e.m.e.nt, 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 a.s.sume 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 ac.u.men. 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 a.s.sailant's range, clamping a frantic hand to the slash across his calf. His hand came away b.l.o.o.d.y 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 Cathan's reach.

A handful of male servants finally managed to burst into the hall at that point, quickly helping Cathan subdue and bind the remaining attacker. Only then did Rhys dare to sit up and take another look at his wound.

Oh, G.o.d, it was bad!

His breath hissed between his teeth, and tears welled in his eyes as he clapped his hand back over the gash and subsided on the floor again.

The great tendon down the back of his calf was cut clean through. Despite the depth of the wound, he did not seem to have bled much after the initial trauma, but the leg was begining to throb and burn as the first shock wore off. A Healer might be able to repair the injury, but if he could not, Rhys would be a cripple for life.

"I'll send for a Healer!" one of the servants promised, tight-lipped and pale, when he had gotten just a glimpse of Rhys' leg. "Try to stay calm."

Biting back tears, for he was old enough to know that crying was not going to help matters any, Rhys curled into a ball on his left side and closed his eyes, pillowing his head on his left arm and trying to relax while he made himself run through one of the spells he'd been taught to control pain. He was scared, but it was the only thing he knew to do.

It worked, though. When he opened his eyes, the leg was numb, and he was no longer quite so afraid. Joram and a still-sniffing Evaine were kneeling at his side, Evaine cradling a motionless but still-breathing Symber in her arms.

"Is it bad?" Joram asked, craning his neck to see. "Jesu, he's hamstrung you! You aren't bleeding very much, though. Father will be back soon. Cathan and I have already Called him."

"I think I Called him, too," Rhys whispered, managing a strained little grin for Evaine's sake as he drew a deep breath to keep the pain and despair from rising again. "Him and any Deryni for two counties. I thought they were going to kill us."

"I think they may have killed Symber," Evaine murmured around a little sob of grief, ducking her head over the cat's labored breathing. "That horrid man threw him against the wall! He's still breathing, but he's all limp."

As she lifted plaintive eyes to his, begging him to tell her everything would be all right, he caught Joram's faint head-shake. He had to agree the cat did not look good. Wincing as he shifted his good leg to support the injured one, still holding his wound with his right hand, he tried to think how to make it easier for her.

"I'm sorry, little one," he whispered. "Maybe it isn't as bad as you think. Would you-like to put Symber next to me? Maybe a Healer can fix us both, when one gets here. And if I worry about Symber, maybe I won't worry so much about my leg."