The Bishop’s Heir (58 page)

More than a week passed before Denis finally found legitimate cause to be in the sacristy alone, washing cruets and sorting linens after a weekday Mass. By then, of course, no trace remained of the mischief of the ordination Mass. 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's. 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 circumvent the Law of God. 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 compassion, never mentioning Jorian specifically, but making clear that compassionate 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 gave 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 anticipation 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 God 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 Hell 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 noble Jorian meanwhile managed quite bravely despite de Nore, tipping his head back against the stake, eyes closed, and calmly crossing his hands on his breasts as the flames licked closer to singe his legs and breechclout, 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 God. And as the fire blackened and contorted Jorian'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 God 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 God 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 shriveled 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 entity in agony.