The Deryni Archives Part 6

Denis shuddered as he withdrew from Elgin's mind, erasing all trace of his tampering as he deepened the younger man's sleep. He needed confirmation of his suspicion. If he could sneak into the sacristy without interference, perhaps he could find some clue to what had happened there-in the cruets, perhaps, if they had not gotten washed properly or at all, in the confusion and disruption of usual procedures following Jorian's apprehension.

It had to be tonight, though, or tomorrow's students a.s.signed to sacristy duty would obliterate whatever faint hints their fellows might have left today. Denis was safe enough as far as the sanctuary, for seminarians of deacon and subdeacon rank had the privilege of going into the church to pray at any time, even during the Great Silence of the early morning hours. But if he were caught in the sacristy, he would have some quick explaining to do-especially with Jorian having just been found out that day.

But he had to take that chance. For if drugged wine was the key to the hierarchy's screening process to keep Deryni out of the priesthood, rather than direct divine intervention, then Denis or his mentors might be able to figure out a way around it. And if they couldn't, then Denis' only choices were either to risk the same fate as Jorian, or else to drop out of Arx Fidei and disappear altogether, his public usefulness as a secret Deryni forever compromised.

His mission to the sacristy appeared to be doomed from the start, however-at least for tonight. For when he slipped quietly down the night stairs and into the south transept, pausing in shadow to scan the front of the church, two of his cla.s.smates were already kneeling in the dim-lit choir stalls. And Father Riordan, the Master of Novices, was just coming down from the altar steps to approach them.

d.a.m.n! All Denis needed was for Riordan to tell him to go back to bed, as he apparently was telling the other two in the choir, through silent signal. Denis would not be obliged to go, even if Riordan told him to, but refusal would only create suspicion where none yet existed. He wondered whether the novice master at least might be persuaded to break Silence and tell him something about Jorian-through purely conventional means of encouragement, of course-but he knew he would not dare to press the question if Riordan was not feeling talkative. Even now, Riordan was shooing his two truant students back toward the night stair in the transept-and toward Denis.

Fortunately, however, Riordan's mood seemed at least a little indulgent tonight, judging by the faces of Denis' two cla.s.smates who bowed as they pa.s.sed, on the way back to their dormitory as instructed. And Riordan himself nodded sympathetically to Denis as he saw him and came closer, though he was already raising a hand to signal him to leave.

Denis put on what he hoped was one of his most sorrowful and troubled expressions as he bowed to the novice master, hands tucked modestly in the sleeves of his robe, hoping to make the most of his reputation as one of the school's brighter and more devout students.

"Forgive me for breaking silence, Father, but I couldn't sleep," he whispered. "I've been praying for Jorian de Courcy's soul. Can-can you tell me what will happen to him?"

Riordan stopped and crossed his arms on his chest, breathing out perplexedly.

"You know that breaking silence is forbidden, Denis."

"I'll accept whatever penance you require, Father," Denis murmured dutifully, averting his eyes briefly as he clasped his hands at chest level. "But I-helped him vest this morning, before..." He swallowed. "I've been thinking about his soul. I thought perhaps my humble prayers might help bring him to contrition for what he has done."

Sighing wearily, Riordan turned to glance back toward the altar, at the great, life-sized crucifix suspended above it, the pale figure of the Crowned King on the Tree lit red by the Presence lamp that burned before the tabernacle.

"I know, son. I've been praying for him, too," Riordan murmured. "I don't see how I could have been so wrong about him. He seemed to have such a strong vocation, to be so-"

Riordan shook his head bewilderedly and sighed again. "In any case, they're already taken him to Valoret. If it-goes as it usually does, they'll-bring him back here for execution in a month or two."

Execution ...the stake...

Denis shivered and bowed his head over his clasped hands, closing his eyes against the thought, but the image sprang up stronger still in his imagination. He had seen a man burn once, when he was only a young boy.

"I know," he heard Riordan murmur-and flinched as the priest's hand came to rest heavily on his shoulder. "It's a terrible way to die. You mustn't dwell on it. There can be only one consolation: that the flames will cleanse him of his sins. And perhaps the prayers of those who knew only his n.o.bler side will help to engage Our Lord's mercy when Jorian comes before the Throne of Judgement."

Denis knew Riordan meant well, but it was all he could do not to despise the man for his pious repet.i.tion of the same plat.i.tudes humans had been mouthing about Deryni for two centuries. He stumbled back to his bed almost blind with tears of rage that he prayed Riordan would attribute to his sensitive nature. He sobbed into his pillow for a long time before he finally drifted into uneasy sleep for the few hours remaining before Lauds.

More than a week pa.s.sed before Denis finally found legitimate cause to be in the sacristy alone, washing cruets and sorting linens after a weekday Ma.s.s. By then, of course, no trace remained of the mischief of the ordination Ma.s.s. Nor had he expected any.

A week after that, however, Denis was able to convey his suspicions to his older brother Jamyl, come to visit him one balmy Sunday afternoon. Sir Jamyl Arilan was a rising luminary at court: friend and confidant of young King Brion Haldane, a newly appointed member of Brion's council of state, and, unbeknownst even to Brion, a Deryni of extremely thorough training. Jamyl had other powerful friends besides those at court, too- very highly placed Deryni connections who commanded even the men who had taught the two Arilan brothers in secret. Denis hoped Jamyl might enlist their aid in his behalf.

"Sweet Jesu. Den, if this were coming from anyone but you, I wouldn't believe it," Jamyl muttered under his breath, when Denis had imparted all he knew about Jorian's betrayal through words and psychic recall. "What you've described is incredible-and, if true, nearly impossible to counter without subverting the staff of every bishop in Gwynedd. Maybe you should just give it up."

The heavy weight that had grown in Denis' stomach as he started his recounting rose to his throat. He had been afraid his brother would say that.

"Jamyl, I can't do that. What reason could I give? I'm to be ordained in February. I've done too well here. If I left so soon after Jorian, they might suspect why- and that could endanger all of us. Besides, I have to do it for Jorian."

Jamyl bowed his head, flicking the end of a riding crop against his boot as he stared at the ground between his feet.

"It isn't going well for Jorian, you know," he said quietly. "I've been keeping tabs on the progress of his trial, but I can't do anything more direct. De Nore's had his inquisitors at him ever since the night he was brought in. The boy doesn't know enough to really incriminate anyone besides himself-yourself excepted, of course, and maybe me-"

"Jorian won't betray us-" Denis began hotly.

"Easy! I never said he would! They're running out of patience with him, though. And when they finally do-"

Denis swallowed hard. "I know," he whispered. "Father Riordan says they'll burn him."

"Father Riordan is a perceptive man," Jamyl said neutrally.

Denis fought down the lump in his throat and looked away, blinking back tears.

"What about the king?" he ventured, after a moment. "Couldn't he do something? He doesn't hate Deryni."

Sadly, Jamyl shook his head. "Sheltering the odd Deryni at his court is one thing, Den; trying to pardon one who's broken canon law is quite another. Brion doesn't know about me-and young Alaric Morgan is only half Deryni and son of a man who was close to Brion's father. Besides, he's only thirteen.

"But Jorian de Courcy not only defied canon law, he tried to undermine the Church's hierarchy. The bishops can't let that go by-and Brion can't meddle in the affairs of the Church without endangering his own status. The bishops traditionally have turned a blind eye to the Haldane powers in the past-but they mightn't, if a Haldane king tried to push too hard."

"What about your Deryni friends, then?" Denis demanded. "They had us trained; they set up Jorian and me to infiltrate the priesthood. They may not be able to help him-and I'm sure he understands that; we both knew all along that a risk was involved-but now that I've found out what we're up against, why can't they help figure out a way to counter it?"

"I'll see if they can," Jamyl said.

"You will?" Denis stared up at his brother in amazement. "Do you think they really could?"

"I can't promise anything, but I'll certainly look into it. Can you get away for a few days?"

"Probably not until Christmas. Something important is supposed to happen around Martinmas-at least that's what student gossip says. In any event, all home visits are canceled."

"You don't know?" Jamyl said, an odd, strained look on his face.

"Know what?"

"Martinmas is when they'll burn him, Den."

II.

In the nearly three months until Martinmas, Denis Arilan received but one brief letter from his brother.

To all outward appearance, the letter contained only family news. The seal on the letter gave Denis additional information, however-keyed by Deryni magic to be accessible only to a Deryni, and then only the specific Deryni for whom the message was intended.

The news was not good, though-not concerning Jorian de Courcy, in any case. According to Jamyl, the archbishop's tribunal had, indeed, condemned Jorian and set his execution for Martinmas at Arx Fidei, to make an example of him. But Jamyl's Deryni contacts, though unable to do anything for Jorian, had at least come up with a possible plan to help Denis.

They'll need to discuss details with you in person, however, Jamyl had informed him in the seal. What we have in mind will be risky, both for you and for those who are minded to help you, but they are willing to take the risk if you are. Shortly after Martinmas, do not be surprised to hear that I am deathly ill and may be dying. That will be your ruse to come home for a few days.

But before the journey home must come another, more terrible journey-this one Jorian's, not Denis'. True to Jamyl's prediction, the ecclesiastical authorities brought Jorian de Courcy back to Arx Fidei, that his fellow seminarians might see firsthand what happened to Deryni who attempted to circ.u.mvent the Law of G.o.d. No one, from the lowliest junior cleric of fourteen to the abbot himself, would be excused from attending.

Martinmas dawned clear and glorious, bright with the promise of a day rare in November, hardly a hint of coming winter in the early morning breeze. Father Riordan stood in for the abbot at morning prayer, for Calbert was already closeted with the archbishop and his staff, who had arrived with the condemned Jorian the night before. Afterward, Riordan led the school to the square outside the abbey church, where scores of students from neighboring schools and a handful of curious outsiders already had gathered to see a Deryni burn.

Denis hardly recognized his friend as the gaunt and stumbling Jorian was led in chains to the stake erected in the center of the yard. No bruises or stripes of the lash or other sign of physical torture marked his body, but Denis could almost count every rib, even from across the yard. By his slack expression and general air of disorientation, Denis guessed he also was under the influence of merasha again, and wondered whether they had kept him drugged all the months of his imprisonment.

One thing Denis knew they had done almost immediately was to suspend Jorian's priestly function, cruelly separating him from exercise of the only privileges that might have brought him some measure of comfort as his doom drew nearer. They were equally ruthless in ensuring that he did not even look like a priest. A breechclout of rough homespun was Jorian's only garment this morning-nothing that might be construed as robe or gown or any other item of clerical attire. As additional insult, he had not been allowed to shave or maintain his tonsure during his imprisonment, either. In a yard full of clean-shaven men and downy-cheeked boys, Jorian's was the only beard; and someone had raggedly hacked off the hair around his grown-out tonsure so that no hint now remained of where the tonsure had been-even that symbol of his former clergy status denied him.

Jorian de Courcy would die excommunicate and without benefit of the Sacraments as well. Riordan had read the instrument of anathema to the school before morning prayers, in a voice so shaky with emotion that it was almost unintelligible-for the novice master had been fond of Jorian. Then Riordan had preached a brief homily on conscience and compa.s.sion, never mentioning Jorian specifically, but making clear that compa.s.sionate men of conscience were free to pray for whom they wished during the silent prayer that would follow.

That small act of kindness and courage could have cost Riordan a severe reprimand or even his position, had anyone from the archbishop's staff overheard, for official policy permitted no softness where Deryni were concerned. But only students were present; and all of them were far too shaken by what was about to happen to think Riordan's comments at all amiss as they bowed in silent prayer. During the next few minutes, Denis had used his powers to spot-check the feelings of those around him-ordinarily an unthinkable invasion of others' privacy-and was comforted to confirm that nearly everyone there truly grieved for Jorian's plight. That give him hope that the long-held hatred of Deryni might be abating where it mattered most, for these young men and boys around him were the future leadership of the Church; and where the Church led, the people eventually would follow. Meanwhile, if Denis could succeed where Jorian had failed, perhaps he himself could help turn the Church back to a course of moderation and tolerance of Deryni.

That hope was little personal consolation to Denis just now, however-watching the archbishop's executioners chain Jorian to the stake. As they drew the chains snug across Jorian's bare chest, leaving his arms free, Archbishop de Nore came out on the steps of the abbey church with his chaplain and Abbot Calbert, the latter looking nigh to fainting already, for the world of academia did not prepare even abbots for what must be witnessed today. De Nore's appearance elicited a murmur of antic.i.p.ation from the watching crowd, and Jorian shuddered visibly, though he did not look in the archbishop's direction. Denis tried to reach out to him in psychic comfort, stretching his powers almost to the limit, but the hazy contact with Jorian's merasha-fogged mind was unbearable, and he had to withdraw.

Almost weeping at the injustice of it all, Denis pulled back into his own mind in despair and hugged his arms across his chest, wishing there were something, anything, he could do to ease what lay ahead for his friend- but there was nothing. Jorian must face this final trial with only G.o.d for comfort; Denis was powerless to help him.

Fighting down the anger that could destroy him if he let it get out of hand, Denis forced his mind to the discipline of set prayers as de Nore stepped forward, crozier in hand, to preach a lengthy sermon on the evils of the Deryni, and how justice was about to be done to this particular specimen of the race. Jorian merely stood there numbly, hands unbound but dangling listlessly at his sides, as if he simply did not care any more-until de Nore finished, and calmly set a torch to the kindling piled around the condemned priest's feet.

A gasp, half of approbation and half of horror, whispered through the spectators as the flames caught, steadied, and leaped higher, fanned by an errant autumn breeze. Jorian stirred at that, the expressive hands lifting in a pathetic little warding-off gesture that elicited derisive shouts and catcalls from some of the spectators, seeing it as but one more presumption from this heretic Deryni who would be priest.

But then Jorian raised his eyes above the heads of his tormentors and seemed to be searching for something along the roofline of the abbey buildings beyond. Most of those watching undoubtedly thought he looked for some hope of rescue or salvation, but Denis fathomed his intent almost immediately. Jorian de Courcy, true to his faith even to the end, was searching for a cross, and de Nore had had him bound so he could not even see one.

If Denis had known how to turn his powers to destruction at that moment, he cheerfully could have blasted the archbishop into h.e.l.l for that-but he had not yet been taught how, and would be grateful afterwards that the temptation had not been a real one. The n.o.ble Jorian meanwhile managed quite bravely despite de Nore, tipping his head back against the stake, eyes closed, and calmly crossing his hands on his b.r.e.a.s.t.s as the flames licked closer to singe his legs and breech-clout, apparently oblivious to the pain the flames must have caused him as the heat intensified.

Denis could hardly bear to watch, but he made himself do it for Jorian's sake, determined to engrave this event upon his memory for all time to come, that Jorian's example and the cause for which he died might never be far from conscious awareness. Jorian de Courcy was not the first or the last Deryni martyr to human hatred and fear, but Denis thought he surely must have been among the bravest. Even at the end, Jorian never even cried out. Denis was sure he sensed the precise moment Jorian's soul left his tortured body, and he sent his silent farewell winging to his friend even as the soul soared free and into the hands of G.o.d. And as the fire blackened and contorted Jordan's earthly remains, and the spectators murmured uncomfortably among themselves, a boyish voice from across the square shouted, "Sacerdos in aeternum!"

Sacerdos in aeternum... a priest forever. Even the Church dared not dispute the truth of that statement. Ecclesiastical writ might have suspended Jorian from his priestly function, but the holy imprint set upon the soul of a priest at ordination was no more capable of being erased than the anointing of a king. In fact, the very act of sacring a king dated from the time when kings were priests as well as rulers for their people, the rites of coronation gradually evolving from the priestly ordination. What G.o.d had conferred through the sacraments of His Church, no mere mortal could reverse, be the recipient Deryni or not.

The shouted phrase, Sacerdos in aeternum, then, was pointed reminder of that truth and produced a shocked silence in the watching crowd. Denis had no idea who had said it-though a reckless part of him almost wished he had-and no one afterward would admit to having said it, or come forward to betray who had. It was as if, in hearing that phrase, everyone present had been poignantly reminded that Jorian de Courcy was a priest forever, no matter what else he might have been; and only G.o.d could judge him now.

But though the jeering had stopped with the shout, and an almost reverent stillness descended on the square as a column of greasy smoke rose higher and flames enveloped the stake, nothing could cancel out the stark physical horror of what was occurring: the fiery immolation of a living being. All reason, both Deryni and merely human intellect, told Denis that Jorian de Courcy no longer inhabited the shiveled husk now writhing in the fire, blackened limbs contorting in the heat-that the movement came of the effect of fire on physical matter and not any desperate last stirrings of a living ent.i.ty in agony.

But the sight and the stench of burning flesh stirred emotional responses not necessarily governed by reason or intellect, especially in the young. Nor could reason postpone more physical reactions indefinitely. Denis was not the first or the last to crouch with his head between his knees to keep from fainting, or to stagger retching from the square when they were finally allowed to leave, the pyre at last but a mound of smoldering ashes.

And the reek hung about Arx Fidei for days, even after Jorian's ashes were cast unceremoniously into the river nearby. When, a week later, in response to the expected news of his brother's ill health, Denis drew rein in the courtyard of his family's manor house of Tre-Arilan, outside Rhemuth, he imagined he could still smell the smoke clinging to his riding ca.s.sock.

"Well, I don't suppose there's anything I can say," Jamyl said quietly, when brief greetings had been exchanged with family and retainers and the two were alone at last in Jamyl's private study. "I won't ask you for an account of what happened, because you'd only have to tell it again in a little while. I'm taking you to meet some very important men tonight, Den. I hope you realize what a risk we'll all be taking-and what we've already risked for you."

Denis lowered his eyes, blinking back the tears he had fought to suppress all the way from Arx Fidei.

"How much did he risk, Jamyl?" he managed to whisper huskily. "It seems to me that he paid the ultimate price. I won't let it be for nothing, even if I have to die trying to handle things alone!"

"I'd hoped you'd say that," Jamyl said, rising to come lay a comforting hand on Denis' shoulder. "And hopefully, there's been enough of dying. Come with me. The others will be waiting."

Denis knew about the secret pa.s.sageway Jamyl opened beside the fireplace and followed his brother without question as the elder Arilan led boldly into the darkness, each of them conjuring silvery handfire to light their way. He had not known about the Transfer Portal in the little ritual chamber at the other end, however; and he was not expecting Jamyl's next request.

"I've been instructed to bring you through blind," his brother said. "I really have no business whatever taking you where we're going, but it's too difficult to transport one of the items we'll need. You must give me your solemn oath never to speak of what you see and hear. Nor will I be able to answer any of your inevitable questions, once we've come back-not about the place and not about the people. Is that understood?"

Denis swallowed uneasily, wondering what he was getting into.

"1 understand," he said.

"I need your formal oath, then," Jamyl insisted, his deep blue-violet eyes never leaving Denis' as he held out his hands, palm up. "I need it very specific, fully open to my Reading, and I need it sworn by whatever you hold most sacred."

Awe sent a shiver down Denis' spine as the seriousness of Jamyl's demand hit home. He could feel the tingle of the Portal under his feet, the magic of his race all around him, and he opened wide his shields as he laid his hands on his brother's, inviting Jamyl's witness through the powers they both held.

"I swear by my vocation as a priest," Denis said softly, "and by the memory of Jorian de Courcy, whose priesthood I also vow to uphold, that I will never reveal any detail of what I shall witness tonight. This knowledge shall be as inviolate as that of the confessional. And if I break this oath, may I fail in all I endeavor and perish in the gaining of the priesthood that I seek. All this I swear, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."

Only when the oath was completed did he lift his hands from Jamyl's to cross himself in blessing and kiss his thumbnail to seal it. He did not think he had ever sworn a more important or more solemn oath.

"Thank you," Jamyl whispered, lifting his hands to rest on Denis' shoulders. "I had no doubts, but there are others who must be absolutely sure. I'll take you to them now. You'll need to give me complete control for a few minutes."

With a blink, a slowly drawn breath, and a nod of agreement, Denis let familiar rapport form with his brother, relaxing all his shields as he exhaled. As his vision tunneled down to only Jamyl's eyes, nearly all pupil in the dim light of waning handfire, he could feel Jamyl's controls slipping into place, almost welcome after having to keep himself in tight check for so many months. His eyes fluttered closed even before Jamyl's right hand lifted to brush his brow; and the next thing he knew, he was aware that they had gone through the Portal, he had no idea where.

"Keep your eyes closed until I tell you it's all right to open them," Jamyl murmured, taking his right elbow and guiding him forward.

The psychic controls kept him from sensing anything about the s.p.a.ce they crossed with their few dozen steps, and a part of him knew that even if he had been physically able to disobey and open his eyes, he would see nothing. He was blind and helpless until Jamyl should choose to release him-though that awareness caused him no concern in his deeply centered state. When, after what seemed like a very long time, Jamyl silently guided him to sit in a high-backed chair, a heavy table surface close in front of it, he had no idea what to expect. Thus he was not surprised when Jamyl had him place both his hands on what felt like a head-sized chunk of polished rock in front of him, and shifted one of his own hands to lightly clasp the back of Denis' neck.

"I'm going to bring two more minds into our link, Den. As soon as we're stable, I want you to let your memory of Jorian's ordination run-everything you yourself witnessed, and everything you learned or heard about afterward. We'll do it now."

Denis' a.s.sent had not been asked for and was superfluous in any case, given the depth of Jamyl's controls; but he gave it anyway, trying to actively bridge as the new contacts eased deftly into place, sensing the raw strength of the newcomers beyond even his brother's, though Jamyl was a powerful and highly trained Deryni. The surge of memories began almost at once, shaking him nearly as much as the actual events had done, bittersweet even in the recollection of the earlier parts, before disaster struck-but he would not have blunted them even if that had been within his control, which it was not.

He thought he had weathered it well when the run ebbed to a close, his controllers also having demanded his recall of Jorian's execution; but then they took him deeper still, until he lost all consciousness of any function whatsoever. When he came to his senses again, it was no gradual easing back to awareness; he simply was there, sitting in a chair opposite two men he had never seen before. The table he had sensed before was at his right now, ancient ivory banded with gold, and Jamyl sat perched on the chair arm at his left, gently kneading the tight muscles across the back of his neck, smiling.

Any discomfort besides the one I'm working on? his brother whispered in his mind.

Intrigued by the two strangers and what they had done to him-far beyond Jamyl's ability, he knew-Denis only answered, No. The younger of the other two men looked hardly older than Jamyl; he, too, was smiling, pale eyes lit with wry amus.e.m.e.nt, absently raking the fingers of one hand through a forelock of shortish, white-blond hair that kept slipping over one eye. His tunic was the same vibrant blue as the background of the shield above his head on the back of his chair-something with chevrons and arrowheads, vaguely familiar, though Denis could not quite place it.

The other man appeared to be in his forties, reddish-brown hair winged with grey at the temples, dark eyes very serious in his lean, angular face. He wore scholar's robes over an expensive-looking undertunic and had ink smudges on the first and second fingers of his right hand. He was leaning close to the table to drape a veil of purple silk over the biggest shiral crystal Denis had ever seen.

"It's a lovely one, isn't it?" the younger man said, his pleasant baritone catching Denis' attention instantly. "Shiral, of course. Don't even think about what it cost. Incidentally, I'm Stefan." He grinned at Denis' blink of confusion. "That's Laran, our physician; and the fellow sitting beside you is Jamyl. I think you know him already. And there's certainly no doubt that you're an Arilan, is there?" He shifted his gaze to Jamyl with a roguish chuckle. "Jamyl, your brother may go even farther than you, someday-if we can get him through his ordination, that is."

Denis swallowed a little uneasily at the light banter. He was not accustomed to hearing anyone besides family address his brother in quite so casual a tone. These men must be close, indeed. As he glanced at Jamyl for rea.s.surance, the man identified as Laran sat in the empty chair beside Stefan's and pulled a stoppered flask from inside his robes, reaching across to set it in Denis' hand.

"That's all that's stopping you right now, young Denis Arilan," Laran said. "Incidentally, you were absolutely right about merasha in the wine."

Denis nearly dropped the flask as he realized he must be actually holding some of the merasha-laced wine.

"We've been wondering for nearly two hundred years how the bishops kept blocking us from getting some priests ordained," Laran went on. "We don't have to wonder anymore. Unfortunately, merasha is the almost ideal substance for screening out Deryni. There's no known antidote, before or after the fact-though we can minimize some of the nastier physical effects. In humans, right up to fatal dosages, it only acts as a sedative, the depth varying with the dose and the individual-in that sample, a little drowsiness, perhaps." He waved a hand toward the flask Denis held. "Nothing that can't be explained by simple reaction to strong wine on an empty stomach, in a system already keyed up by the emotional tension of the priestly initiation- and nothing to attract attention to a one-time use of a bishop's private stock of wine for a priest's first communion.

"For Deryni, however-and unfortunately for your young friend Jorian..." He sighed. "But I don't have to tell you what happened to him."

Shaking his head, Denis set the flask carefully on the table, then wiped his palms against his thighs distastefully.

"Is that from de Nore's private stock?" he asked.

"No, it isn't," Stefan said. "We haven't even tried to penetrate his staff yet. It will be risky enough when we do have to infiltrate, to do whatever we decide to do to help you. That's from another bishop's sacristy, though. And we've spot-checked two others." He grimaced. "They all have a special supply of wine that comes from the archbishop-primate's office on a regular basis and that's used only for ordinations. Needless to say, they're all adulterated with merasha. So we can't even consider trying to get you ordained in another diocese."

"I couldn't anyway, having trained at Arx Fidei" Denis murmured. "Not without having to answer a lot of very dangerous questions, especially after Jorian. What about switching the wine?"

Laran nodded. "We're working on that. We've even located some untainted wine of the proper vintage Unfortunately, that isn't the entire solution."

"Why not?"