The Deryni Archives Part 2

They were all bound in with Rhys now; and as he knelt to begin the final antiphon, he felt their longing, their awe at the power his song conveyed, their near-bereavement that they would never really know the length and breadth and height and depth of the universe that was his to command-or the awful responsibility that such a universe demanded.

On both his knees, he held his son in outstretched arms and made his song a prayer. He knew Evaine's presence close at hand, although she never moved from where she sat. Her sweet voice blended with his own even as hearts and minds were intertwined, tentative at first, then strengthening with every echoed heartbeat. "Adsum, Domine..."

Here am I, Lord: All my talents at Thy feet I lay.

Here am I, Lord: Thou art the One Creator of all things.

Thou art the Omnipart.i.te One Who ruleth Light and Shade, Giver of Life and Gift of Life Thyself.

Here am I, Lord: All my being bound unto Thy will.

Here am I, Lord: Sealed unto Thy service, girt with strength to save or slay.

Guide and guard Thy servant, Lord, from all temptation, that honor may be spotless and my Gift unstained...

The silence was profound when he had finished. For a moment he remained on his knees, humble tears streaming down his cheeks as he bowed before the Presence of the All Holy, Which had surely pa.s.sed Its countenance over this sacred circle and smiled upon his son. Then he slowly raised his head and looked around him, saw them all kneeling, too, each lost in his own mind and contemplation.

Only Evaine could meet his eyes as he rose and slowly crossed to lay their son in her arms once more, her own eyes bright with tears. Only Evaine, he thought, had understood more than a fraction of what had just transpired.

He eased himself to one knee to slip his arm around her waist, laid his head against her shoulders, and gazed with her in wonder at their son, Tieg Joram, who would one day be a Healer.

vocation december 24, 977 "Vocation" takes place on the sixtieth anniversary of the destruction of Saint Neot's, in the ruins of the abbey. The anti-Deryni backlash heralded by that dreadful deed has had sixty years to ferment. No longer are Deryni the masters of Gwynedd. We are near the end of the reign of King Uthyr Haldane, grandson of that Cinhil Haldane restored to the throne by Camber and his kin; Uthyr, whose father, Rhys Michael Haldane, early fell under the influence of an avaricious and rigidly anti-Deryni Council of Regents.

More than half a century of this official stance has gradually eliminated all overt partic.i.p.ation by Deryni in the governing of the kingdom, and the stigma of being Deryni has been intensified by religious sanctions imposed by the Council of Ramos-restrictions begun as a reaction against Deryni power in general and magic in particular, but quickly transformed into a moral issue, in which the Deryni are now seen by the Church as evil in and of themselves. Indeed, even the continuation of the Deryni as a race has become questionable, as the harsh anti-Deryni legislations of Ramos extend unto the third and fourth generation. In Gwynedd, bishops' tribunals often burn Deryni; and secular lords holding the right of high justice are free to use or abuse Deryni as they will.

Gilrae d'Eirial is not Deryni, but he has heard stories about them. The days of Deryni power are not so long past that everyone is dead who remembers what it was really like, but men and women of that era are growing fewer and fewer, and stories of the old days become more and more embellished with the exaggerations of legend with each pa.s.sing year. Gilrae's life thus far has been fairly typical of men of his knightly caste, for he is destined to succeed his dying father as Baron d'Eirial. (The very t.i.tle suggests that Sir Radulf d'Eirial, Gilrae's father, may have been heir to the breakup of some of the estates formerly held by Deryni or Deryni sympathizers, for Haut Eirial was a holding of the Order of Saint Michael before the Michaelines were ousted from Gwynedd.) But Gilrae does not want to be Baron d'Eirial-though he has let duty bind him to this course until a more overweening destiny seems to have taken even this option out of his hands. And having failed to choose what he really wanted while he still had the chance, his life now seems reduced to destiny rather than desire. The last thing he expects, as he rides out on this bright December afternoon, is to have his options startlingly renewed.

Incidently, if the name Simonn seems to strike a familiar chord, think back to Camber's visit to Saint Neot's, and a young novice Healer of that name learning how to read his own body processes.

VOCATION.

The air was cold and very still as Gilrae, the doomed young heir d'Eirial, reined in his mare at the top of the rise and glanced back the way he had come. He and his mount cast only an odd, truncated shadow on the virgin snow, for the sun was as high overhead as it was like to get on this bright winter day, but crisp, dainty hoofprints stretched back clearly to the point where he had left the main track. Few would dare to follow, for the ruins ahead were believed by most folk to be haunted, but Caprus would have no trouble finding him, if he really wanted to. Caprus had always made it his business to know the whereabouts of his elder half brother, for he had been groomed by his mother from birth to be alert to faults which might turn their father's favor from the son of his first marriage to that of his second. If only Caprus could believe how little his supposed rival sought their father's t.i.tle-or how little time there was before the t.i.tle pa.s.sed again: brother to brother, the next time, instead of father to son.

But Gilrae's last ordeal still lay months in the future. Their father's was in progress, and Gilrae could no longer bear to watch it happening. For the next few hours, Caprus and his mother could keep the death watch without him; they would not miss him anyway, until the old man was dead. And in whatever time remained before Caprus came to fetch him, Gilrae must weight his own soul's yearnings and reach some firm decision. At least the air was clean here at the crest of the Lendours. He did not think he could have borne the closeness of his father's sickroom for another minute.

Gilrae's sigh hung on the frosty air as he touched heels to the mare and urged her up onto the plateau, letting her choose her own footing as he turned his attention to the ruined walls coming into sight. In addition to the initial destruction wreaked on the abbey and its inhabitants, the decay of more than half a century of hard winters and neglect had taken a heavy toll. The scavenging of local crofters had compounded the process, for the smooth blue ashlars from the outer walls made st.u.r.dy hearths, cottage walls, and even sheep pens for those bold enough to risk the ghosts and strong enough to cart them away. In some spots, little remained of the outer walls besides foundations.

Gilrae thought about the ghosts as the mare minced her way across a broken, ice-slick courtyard, her ears lacing back at a rabbit that broke from cover. He supposed it was inevitable that the place should have fostered such fears. Even before its fall, Saint Neot's had been rife with forbidden magic. Deryni sorcery had been its mainstay-sorcery which the Church condemned as evil, its pract.i.tioners anathema. To be Deryni was to live under sentence of death, if one did not renounce one's h.e.l.l-born powers and adopt a life of penance and submission. That these particular Deryni were said to have been healers and teachers of healers was immaterial, for the healing had come of their misbegotten powers, and hence from the Devil-or so the priests taught. The abbey's destroyers, crack troops of the young king's regents, had slaughtered the monks to a man, and their students as well, profaning the holy chapel with a sea of blood and desecrating the altar itself with vicious murder.

Nor had that been the extent of the raiders' savagery. When they had finished their brutal, butcher's work and sacked the abbey of its portable wealth, they set upon a systematic destruction of what they could not carry off, smashing the leaded gla.s.s and the fine carvings which adorned altar screens, choir stalls, and chapel doorways, scarring the tougher stone with sword and mace blows, and then torching the lot. Rare ma.n.u.scripts of human Grafting, as well as heretical Deryni works, went to feed the flames which licked at the oak-beamed ceilings, the roof thatching. When, two days later, the fires at last burned out, men with ropes and horses pulled down what the flames had spared. More than half a century later, few walls stood higher than the withers of Gilrae's mount. In the face of such mayhem, small wonder that the local folk feared the vengeance of Deryni ghosts.

Gilrae had never met any of those ghosts, of course. Nor, to his knowledge, had he even met a Deryni, ghost or otherwise, though the priests warned that the sorcerers were devious, and one could never be too sure. Even the places formerly inhabited by such men were to be shunned, the priests said-though Gilrae had not known that as a young boy; and, as an adult, he had years of personal experience to tell him that they must be wrong about this particular place. There was surely no evil here. And as for ghosts- Ghosts, indeed! As Gilrae guided his mare through what remained of gatehouse and porter's lodge, nearing what once had been the cellar level of a dormitory block, he remembered the one conversation he and old Simonn had had about the alleged ghosts-and the chuckle and look of bemused indulgence he had gotten for his trouble.

Well, the old man certainly ought to know. He had been living in these ruins, in defiance of ghosts and skittish priests, since Gilrae's father was a boy. If there were ghosts, they had never bothered Simonn-or Gilrae.

But mental debates on the existence of ghosts were not conducive to watching where one was going. The mare knew, but Gilrae had not been to the ruins since before his accident, and he had forgotten the depth of the drop as the mare jumped down to the level of the former cellar. The leap was not much farther than the height of the mare's belly, but Gilrae was unprepared, and his right hand gave when he tried to brace himself in old reflex. The jolt threw him against the front of the saddle so hard that he all but lost his seat. The pain that shot up his arm from wrist to shoulder nearly made him faint.

He rode the remaining distance in tight-lipped silence, head bowed in the shadow of his fur-lined cap, useless right hand wedged into the front opening of his leather riding jerkin to keep it from flapping around. When he reached the alcove he often used as a makeshift stable, he dismounted easily enough; but when he tried to loosen the girth, he found he could not do it left-handed. Biting back tears of anger and frustration, he gave the mare an apologetic pat on the neck and turned away, scrambling over the snow-covered rubble toward the open cloister garth. His sword, awkward and unwieldy hanging from his right side rather than his left, kept banging against his boots and tangling between his legs as he climbed up to the cloister level, nearly tripping him several times and bringing the hot tears to his eyes despite his determination to the contrary. The footing was better in the open, though, and he tried to put aside his bitterness as he emerged into sunlight.

The place brought back happier memories. As a boy, he could remember stealing away here for hours at a time, pretending that the ruined church was whole, and he free to choose, never even dreaming that the choices would be taken from him before he could make them.

He had longed to be a priest even then. As a very young boy, he had dared to pretend he was a priest, and had often played at celebrating Ma.s.s with an acorn-cap chalice and an oak-leaf paten. When he had shyly confided it to the old priest who was his tutor and chaplain, and asked whether he might one day become a priest in fact, the old man had sputtered and ranted and given him a stiff penance-not only for the sacrilege of pretending the sacrifice of the Ma.s.s, but for even thinking of the priesthood when he was the lord's eldest son. The Church might be for younger sons of n.o.ble families, but not for the heir. Old Father Erdic had even told his father, in blatant defiance of the seal of the confessional.

His father's response had been predictable and harsh: a birch rod applied liberally to Gilrae's bare b.u.t.tocks and a week of seclusion in his room, with only bread and water. Months had pa.s.sed before Gilrae could slip away alone again, and he had never again trusted the forsworn priest. Nor had he given up his acorn and leaf Ma.s.ses, at least for a while, though in time the futility of it all relegated the practice to only a childhood memory.

He caught himself smiling as he remembered those days of youthful innocence, wondering that he ever could have been so naive. He was twenty now. He was still the heir d'Eirial, and could become baron at any moment. The previous Easter, he had been knighted by King Uthyr himself, who had addressed him as Right Trusty and Well-Beloved, in antic.i.p.ation of his imminent inheritance. Any ordinary man should have been well content; but all Gilrae d'Eirial had ever really wanted was to be a priest.

No longer smiling, he turned slow, reluctant steps across the open s.p.a.ce of the cloister garth and headed toward what remained of the chapel, avoiding the rougher going of the peripheral walks, with their litter of charred beams and fallen stones. Fresh sheep droppings confirmed the ident.i.ty of the last living things to pa.s.s this way, but of other humans there was no trace. Balancing precariously with only one good hand to steady him, Gilrae made his way up broken, snow-slick steps to pause in the shelter of a once-grand processional doorway, blowing on his gloved fist to warm it as he surveyed the south transept and crossing and eastern nave. Only the expected sheep were browsing in the ruins, nibbling at lichens and tufts of frost-seared gra.s.s.

Removing his cap, for he liked to think of the place as holy still, he moved on through the transept in the direction of the choir, musing again on the place's past. Saint Neot's had fallen, they said, in the same year good King Cinhil died-the year the bishops had condemned the Deryni as a race and declared them anathema, to be shunned, persecuted, and often even slaughtered by righteous men because of what they were. It had been on a Christmas Eve a full three-score years ago-sixty years ago today, Gilrae realized, as he did the necessary arithmetic in his head.

The sun chose that moment to go behind a cloud, plunging Gilrae and the ruined choir aisle into shadow, and he shivered. In the heavy atmosphere of his father's sickroom, he had nearly forgotten that it was Christmas Eve. Many people believed that the anniversaries of terrible events held powerful potential for supernatural visitations-and what place was more likely than an altar profaned by murder?

Still chilled by more than cold, he cast a nervous glance in the direction of the desecrated altar. The previous night's snowfall had given it new altar coverings, disguising the vast cracks across the once-hallowed slab, but as the sun re-emerged, the illusion became apparent. The battered edges spoke all too clearly of the violence and the hate of the altar's destroyers, and suddenly Gilrae felt an almost irresistable urge to sign himself in protection-an inclination immediately thwarted by his useless right hand.

Angry both at his helplessness and the superst.i.tion which had brought it to mind again, he dashed recklessly up the choir, sword flailing at his side as he plunged and stumbled through the snow. His bravado deserted him as he reached the foot of the altar steps, however. Sobbing for breath, he dropped to both knees on the lowest step and buried his face in his good hand.

Everything was denied him now. Once there had been choices, had he but had the nerve to make them; now, either path he once might have traveled was barred to him. Even were it not for the malignant growth paralyzing his arm, even if there had only been the accident-if he could not wield a sword with a useless right hand, neither could he function as a priest. The Church kept strict standards for the fitness of priestly candidates, and a man who could not properly handle the Ma.s.s vessels at the time he sought ordination certainly would not be accepted.

With vision blurred by tears which would no longer be denied, Gilrae yanked at the ties of his fur-lined cloak until he could pull it off and spread it leather-side down on a relatively dry patch of unbroken flags just at the foot of the altar steps. He hardly noticed the warmth of the sun on his back as he prostrated himself on the thick, wolfskin pelt, too numb with grief and loss to do more than lie there weeping bitterly for several minutes, forehead cradled in his good arm. Despair shifted to resentment after a while-an angry, defiant argument with G.o.d, protesting the gross unfairness of it all, pleading for reprieve-and then contrition for his presumption.

Very well. If he was meant to die with neither life fulfilled, then at least let that be to the glory of the One he would far rather have served in other ways. Setting himself to formal prayer, he admitted his terror of what lay ahead and offered it up, pleading for the strength to accept what was ordained. When even that brought no comfort, he let himself drift in numb dejection and tried not to think at all, the sun on his back gradually lulling the last of his terror to resignation.

For a while, only the swirling colors played behind his closed eyelids; but then, with a bright clarity that he had only occasionally experienced before, images began to form behind his eyes.

In his altered vision, it seemed that the abbey walls rose around him once more, the high, mosaic-lined vaulting of the choir dome arching protectively over his vantage point. The sanctuary shone with candlelight, the pale, carved wood of the choir stalls restored, the ruby glow of a Presence lamp above the high altar lending the snow-white walls a pinkish tint.

The abbey was peopled once more as well, by silent, white-robed men with single braids emerging from under the cowls that fell back upon their shoulders. He sensed them approaching from the processional door, their double file splitting around him to enter the choir stalls to either side. Turning toward the altar as one man, they made their obeisance in perfect unison, raising their voices in the most beautiful harmony Gilrae had ever heard. Only the first few words were distinct, but they brought back all the poignance of the life to which Gilrae now would never dare aspire.

"Adsum Domine..." Here am I, Lord...

It was also the response of the candidate for priesthood as he presented himself before his ordaining bishop-words that Gilrae now would never speak.

The anguish that welled up anew in his chest blotted out the vision, and, m.u.f.fling a sob, he rolled onto his side and then to a sitting position to cradle his throbbing arm. Only then did he become aware that he was not alone; he whirled around on the seat of his leather britches, good hand going for the dagger at his belt.

But even as he turned, he realized that if the intruder had wished him harm, he could have been dead several times over. In any case, the old man sitting on a stone block a few feet away posed no threat. With an uneasy grin, Gilrae let the dagger slip back into its sheath and sat up straighter, surrept.i.tiously dragging his left sleeve across his face, though he pretended only to brush a lock of hair out of his eyes. He should have expected the visit, after seeing the sheep. He hoped the old man had not noticed he had been crying.

"Simonn. You startled me. I thought I was alone."

"I shall leave, if you wish," the man replied.

"No. Don't go."

"Very well."

No one knew who old Simonn was, or where he had come from. He had been old when Gilrae's father had played here as a boy. He tended his sheep, sometimes trading their wool for necessities in the spring; occasionally, he came down to the village church to hear Ma.s.s. Simonn the shepherd, Simonn the hermit, Simonn the holy man, some said. Gilrae had discovered quite by accident that the old man could read and write-a skill not easily or often gained by peasants, especially here in the Lendour highlands. Gilrae himself had had to fight for the privilege, and he the lord's son. He had never presumed on their friendship by inquiring too insistently, but he sometimes wondered how much more Simonn was than he appeared. Whoever he was, he had always been a friend to Gilrae.

The old man smiled and nodded, almost as if he had been aware of Gilrae's inner dialogue, but the blue eyes were kindly and unthreatening as they gazed across the short distance between them. When Gilrae did not speak, Simonn raised a white eyebrow and made gentle clucking noises with his tongue.

"So, young Master Gilrae, I've not seen you in many months. What brings you to the hills on this bright Christmas Eve? I should have thought you would be feasting in your father's hall, preparing to welcome the Christ Child."

Gilrae hung his head. It was obvious the old man had not heard, either of his father's illness or his own misfortune. He could feel the wild pulse throbbing through the growth on his inner forearm as he cradled it closer to his midriff. The thought of the two coming deaths, his father's and his own, made his stomach queasy.

"There will be no feasting in Haut Eirial this night, Simonn," he whispered. "My father is dying. I-had to get away for a few hours."

"Ah, I see," the old man said, after a slight pause. "And you are feeling the weight of your coming responsibility."

Gilrae said nothing. If only it were that simple. With two good hands, he supposed he could have resigned himself to the life of a secular lord, governing the d'Eirial lands and keeping the king's peace, as his father wanted. With two good hands, he might even have had the courage to give it all up in favor of his brother and make the choice he had longed to make for years. But the accident, and the resultant-thing growing in his arm, had put an end to choices.

He shivered as he inadvertantly clutched it closer, instinctively protective of what he feared the most, but despite old Simonn's watchful eyes, he was unable to suppress a grimace as pain shot up his arm. As he looked up defensively, daring the old man to mention it, Simonn casually turned his face toward the ruined altar, going very quiet.

"It is not an easy thing to lose what one loves," Simonn murmured after a moment, apparently testing. "Nor is it ever an easy thing to shoulder responsibilities, even if one welcomes them. And if one finds oneself forced into responsibilities by circ.u.mstances, rather than by a choice based on love, the task becomes even more difficult."

"Are you saying that I don't love my father?" Gilrae asked, after a stunned pause.

Simonn shook his head. "Of course not. I think you love him very much, as a son should love his father. If you did not, you would not now be agonizing over the choices you must make. We rarely ask for the choices that are placed before us, but they must always be made, nonetheless."

Swallowing with difficulty, Gilrae turned his gaze to the wolfskin lining of the cloak he sat on, unconsciously rubbing his numb right arm to warm it.

"What-makes you think I'm faced with any particular choices, old man?" he said a little belligerently. "My father is dying, and I'm to be Baron d'Eirial. That involves no choices. It is a role I was born to."

"By blood-yes," Simonn replied. "But by spirit- well, I think you did not come to this ruined abbey while your father lay dying and prostrate yourself before its altar because you are overjoyed to be coming into your temporal inheritance. And I do not mean to imply that your grief at your father's pa.s.sing is not genuine," he added, as Gilrae looked up in astonishment. "I wonder if you even know what drove you to present yourself this way-in this ruined church, before an altar drenched by the blood of scores of holy men."

Gilrae gave a sigh and lowered his eyes again, subdued. Simonn knew part of it, at least. It could not have been hard to guess. They had talked before, if only hypothetically, about the practical considerations of a religious life. Simonn had never quite said, but it was clear that, at least as a boy, he himself had received some kind of instruction in a religious community. Perhaps that was where he had learned to read and write.

"It doesn't matter anyway," Gilrae finally murmured. "The question is academic. There are no choices for me anymore-only duties and responsibilities that I'll be increasingly ill-equipped to handle. G.o.d, I almost wish I were dead already!"

Even as the bitter words left his lips, the shocked Simonn was on his feet and darting across the few feet which separated them, grabbing his wrist to shake him. It was the bad wrist, and Gilrae gasped aloud with the pain. Instantly, Simonn was kneeling beside him and shoving back his sleeve, pulling off the glove, running gentle fingers over the swollen flesh.

"How did this happen?" Simonn murmured, turning the forearm and drawing in breath as he spied the blackness spread along the inner side. "Why didn't you tell me you were ill?"

Gilrae swallowed and tried to pull away, feeling like an animal caught in a trap.

"Leave me alone. Please. What difference can it make?"

"It can mean your life!" the old man snapped, holding him with his eyes. "How did this start?"

"A-a fall from a horse, several months ago," Gilrae found himself saying. "I-thought it was only a bad sprain at first, but then the-swelling started."

"Have you much pain?"

Gilrae wrenched his gaze free with a gasp and nodded, staring unseeing at the ground.

"I-can't close my hand anymore, either," he managed to whisper. "I can't hold a sword, and I can't-"

Though he struggled to prevent it, the old dream flashed into memory again: himself, garbed in the vestments of a priest and raising the chalice at the celebration of Ma.s.s. Choking back a sob, he shook his head to clear the image from his mind.

There were no choices now. That dream would never be; nor would he even be able to be a proper lord to his people. All the doors were closing. Until now, he had never even thought about ending his life before the blackness could, but perhaps he would be better off.

"What else can't you do?" old Simonn urged softly, the voice boring into his brain. "What is it you really want most?"

"I want another chance, I suppose," Gilrae whispered after a moment, dropping his head to rest his forehead on his knees, no longer minding that his arm still lay in Simonn's hands. "I want it to be last spring, when I was still a whole man, and the decisions were still mine to make. All the choices have been made for me, now. I'll die from this. No one else knows about that part of it except my father's battle surgeon, but it's going to happen." He lifted his head to glance at the useless arm with tear-blurred eyes. "I lacked the courage to follow my own heart when I still had the chance-and now I can't even follow my father's heart and be a worthy leader for his people, once he's gone."

He found himself staring stupidly into s.p.a.ce for a while, but then Simonn's soft sigh was bringing him back.

"I can't help you with your decisions, Gilrae, but I might be able to help you with your arm," the old man said. "It would be rather painful, but the growth could be removed."

Gilrae swallowed noisily, afraid to let himself dare to hope.

"I'd like to believe you, but I don't think so," he managed to murmur. "Gilbert said it would only come back, worse than before, and that it would spread. The arm could be cut off-that might stop it, if I survived the amputation-but what good would that do? It wouldn't allow either of the lives I'd choose, if the choices still were mine."

"We always have choices, son," Simonn replied, in a voice so soft and yet so compelling that Gilrae turned to look at him again. "If you choose to let me try to help you, I may be able to make it possible for you to reopen those other choices. What do you have to lose?"

And what, indeed, did he have to lose? Gilrae reasoned, as he stared into the old man's eyes and found himself swaying dizzily. As if some force outside himself compelled his movement, he felt his left hand going to the knife at his belt and unsheathing it, handing the blade across to Simonn hilt-first, rising at the old man's beckoning gesture to pull his cloak around himself and mount the altar steps behind him.

"Sit here," the old man whispered, pulling him toward the left-hand corner and setting his back against the cold marble.

Gilrae felt his knees buckle under him, and his back slid slowly down the stone facade until he was sitting, surrounded by the folds of the fur-lined cloak, his sword lying close along his right thigh. Snow still lay in drifts in the north shadow of the altar, and he could not seem to resist as Simonn pushed back the sleeve of his leather tunic and buried the right forearm in the snow to numb it further. The sun was more than halfway down the western sky-how had it gotten so late already?-but its light still dazzled Gilrae's eyes as he laid his head against the marble behind him, golden fire also flashing from the blade Simonn polished on a surprisingly clean hem of pale grey undertunic.

When the cold of the snow against his bare arm began to ache more than the original pain, Simonn turned the forearm upward in its bed of melting snow and ran a hand over the area to be excised.

"You needn't watch this," he said, touching ice-cold fingers to the side of Gilrae's face to turn his head away. "Look out at the sunset and think about other things. Watch the clouds, if you like. Perhaps the shapes will suggest answers to your questions."

The old man's fingers seemed somehow to numb Gilrae's brain as well as the flesh they touched, and he found himself becoming very detached from his still body. As Simonn bent over the upturned forearm and positioned his blade, Gilrae summoned just enough will to glance down and see the steel trace a crimson path along one side of the blackness he had come to hate and fear. The blood welled up scarlet against the snow, steaming in the frigid air, and Gilrae rolled his eyes upward again to gaze at the sky. After a few seconds more, his eyes closed, and he dreamed.

He was in a church again, but it was smaller than the one he had seen before-no more than a chapel, really-and this time, he was a partic.i.p.ant rather than an observer, one of four solemn yet joyful young men in white, processing down the narrow nave. Like the others, he carried a lighted candle in his right hand; his left was pressed reverently to the deacon's stole crossing his chest and secured at his right hip. The men in the single row of stalls to either side wore grey habits rather than the white of the previous dream, but a few of them sported the single braid Gilrae had noticed before. Ahead, at the foot of a far more humble altar, waited two men in copes and mitres.

He knelt with his brethren at their feet-a bishop and a mitered abbot, he somehow knew-and though he could not quite make out the words the senior of them spoke, he knew the response. He and his brethren sang it together as they held their candles aloft, the notes floating pure and clear in that holy place.

"Adsum, Domine..." Here am I, Lord...

The scene wavered and dissolved at that, much to his regret, and for an indeterminable while he simply floated a little sadly in a state of disconnection, only dimly aware of the sunlight on his face, beating on his closed eyelids, and the cold penetrating his cloak and riding leathers from the stone step, the altar at his back, the snow still numbing his right arm past all feeling.

He had no inclination to open his eyes, to move, or even to think. He drifted some more-and then he was back in the dream, humbly kneeling with joined hands before the bishop, swaying a little on his knees as the consecrated hands came to rest on his head.

"Accipe Spiritum Sanctum..."

He imagined he could feel the holy Power surging through every nerve and sinew, the divine Energy filling him to overflowing and then opening him to fill even more. The ecstasy grew so intense that he began to tremble.

Then, suddenly, he was aware of cold hands on either side of his face, and old Simonn's voice gently bidding him open his eyes. He managed to make his dry throat contract and swallow, but he was still disoriented for a moment and could not quite seem to bring Simonn into focus.

"I-you-"

"You're all right. I think you must have fallen asleep on me," the old man murmured, smiling. "Did you dream?"