The Bishop’s Heir (61 page)

“No. It shouldn't get any worse than this. You'll be fine by the time you ride into the abbey yard.”

But riding into the abbey yard was the
last
thing Denis Arilan was worried about as he made hasty farewells and set out on the journey back to
Arx Fidei
. He wondered how he was going to survive the nearly three months until Candlemas—and whether three months would be enough time for the others to do what
they
needed to do.

III

On the morning slated for his ordination, Denis Arilan found himself outwardly calm as Elgin de Torres helped him vest in a corner of the library. The calm had a numb edge to it, however, for he had heard nothing from his hoped-for saviors or even from his brother since leaving Tre-Arilan in late November. That visit home had cost him his Christmas leave, ostensibly because of his impending ordination and the gap the absence had left in his studies. Denis hoped those were the only reasons and had tried hard not to think about what his allies' silence might mean.

Suppose something had happened to prevent them from executing their plan—whatever the plan was. What if his fate was to be the same as Jorian's, betrayed unto death eyen in the midst of the joy he had yearned for all his life, in this culmination of his reach toward the priesthood?

He tried to pray as he settled the deacon's stole over his shoulder and let Elgin secure it at his waist, repeating the appropriate words by rote, but he could not get Jorian out of his mind. Nor, he suspected, could any of the other four priestly candidates vesting with him, each one more silent than the next. Jorian's fate haunted every seminarian at
Arx Fidei
, though no one but Denis knew that it had been men, not God, who had betrayed the unfortunate Deryni priest. In ethics class, Charles FitzMichael, Denis's chief competition for top academic honors, had even been bold enough to ask what would happen to someone who did not know he was Deryni, and sought ordination. Would a just but loving God strike down such an unwitting innocent?

Abbot Calbert could supply no ready answer to that one; and his inability had half the school walking on eggshells for the next week—for it was perfectly possible not to know, given the persecutions of the last two hundred years and the fact that many Deryni had simply gone underground, hiding and denying their talents, never telling children or grandchildren who and what they really were. Why,
anyone
could be Deryni and not be aware of it!

That was the theory, in any case. Denis tended to think that anyone of Deryni blood would at least
suspect
, especially if trained in the meditation techniques and mental disciplines that clergy candidates were expected to master—but that did not alter the importance of the original question.
Would
a loving but just God strike down an unwitting transgressor, if man did not?

In whispered consultations snatched between classes, or enroute to chapel, or after everyone was supposed to be abed, most of Denis's classmates eventually agreed, albeit uncomfortably, that God's justice and His love might, indeed, be at odds in such a situation—and who could say which way He would tip the balance? After all, God's Church
had
forbidden Deryni to seek the priesthood; therefore, it would be
just
for Him to punish anyone arrogant enough to defy that ban.

But the opposite argument held equal weight. For if God was infinitely loving as well as infinitely just, would
He
—
could
He—punish a loving son who disobeyed out of ignorance rather than arrogance?

The logic did not help Denis, who knew full well what he was doing, but it gave some comfort to Charles, Benjamin, and the other two being ordained—Melwas and a heavy-set Llanneddi boy named Argostino. Denis could only pray that his own concept of justice matched God's, and that he and the other Deryni who tried to serve that justice would be able to circumvent the impediments put in their way by human fear and hatred.

A partial answer to that last prayer, at least, came most unexpectedly when Abbot Calbert came into the library for his customary final words with the priestly candidates, accompanied by school faculty and several unfamiliar priests. For one of the priests looked suspiciously like the Deryni Stefan—though he walked with a slight limp, and his hair was peppery brown instead of fair.

Denis tried to steal a closer look at the man as the juniors filed out and Calbert bade them all draw nearer, but he dared not be too obvious. Nor was he sure he dared attempt a psychic contact to test, for some humans could sense such a touch.

Calbert seemed to talk for hours, most of his words running into a senseless blur. Only when he had finished and was motioning the five of them to fall into line, did the stranger-priest finally meet Denis's eyes and confirm that he was Stefan.

There are lots of strange priests here today,
came Stefan's clear thought as he brushed Denis's shoulder in passing, as if helping shepherd the line of candidates out of the library to join the entrance procession.
The archbishop thinks I'm one of Calbert's, and Calbert thinks I came with de Nore. Stay calm. The switch WILL be made.

Stefan was moving off with the other priests almost before Denis could register what had been said.

The switch
will
be made! Then, it had
not yet been made!
What if they could not make it?

He could feel a trembling start in the pit of his stomach as he inched along in the entrance procession, second in line, and he thought his heart must be pounding loud enough to drown out the choir's
“Confitebor tibi, Domine, in toto corde meo”
—I will praise Thee, O Lord, with my whole heart. One of the juniors handed him a lighted candle as he passed through the doors into the church, and he made himself use the warmth and flicker of the flame and the faint, honey-sweet scent of beeswax to help him steady his nerves. He must not let his own fear betray him.

He tried not to notice that the church was even more packed than last time. A bishop's visit to a local parish always brought a large turnout, but he suspected that some of the crowd, at least, had been drawn not by de Nore's presence, but by the stories of what had happened at the last
Arx Fidei
ordination. People were standing in the side aisles. Denis wondered desperately where Jamyl was.

He soon guessed Jamyl's part in the operation, however. For as the procession moved slowly down the aisle, heralded by processional crosses, candles, censers, and the voices of the choir continuing their hymn of praise, Denis noticed Malachi de Bruyn and another junior waiting to move a small, white-draped table into the center aisle after he and the other candidates had passed. On the table, with extra ciboria containing bread to be consecrated during the Mass, were the cruets of wine and water that would be used.

Of course! After the ordination itself, members of the new priests' families traditionally brought forward the gifts of bread and wine for communion. Jamyl undoubtedly would be among them. Denis had no idea how his brother was going to do it, but it must be
Jamyl
who was going to make the switch.

He felt a little relieved at that—and even more relieved when he actually
saw
Jamyl standing near the altar rail, left of the aisle. Jamyl's wife and son were not with him, but Denis had not expected that they would be, given the danger to everyone of Arilan name if Denis were found out. Jamyl was to have sent them to safety at Christmastime, there to remain until all of this was resolved.

But, could that possibly be
King Brion
standing at Jamyl's left? Dear God, surely the
king
was not in on this, too?

It
was
Brion, he quickly realized, as he took his place with the others in a line across the foot of the chancel steps, just outside the altar rail, and knelt with his candle held reverently before him. Jamyl's friendship with the king must be even closer than Denis had dreamed, for it was a singular honor for the king to attend an ordination. Everyone seemed aware of the royal presence. Perhaps
that
was the reason for the heavy attendance this morning, and not the ghoulish hope of seeing another Deryni brought to light. Even the archbishop paused to bow in the king's direction before taking his seat to examine the candidates.

Denis went through the next half hour in a daze. He responded to the ritual questions with ritual answers when called upon. He prostrated himself with the others for what seemed like an interminable litany to more saints than he had ever heard of. And then, after the archbishop had set his hands on the head of each kneeling candidate for the first time, he remained bowed with his fellow ordinands while all the other priests present came forward to touch each new priest in additional blessing. He let himself read psychic impressions as each pair of hands rested briefly on his head and then moved on to the next man, both bewildered and heartened by what he sensed.

Nervousness in some … uncertainty … rote performance of an expected physical action in many … preoccupation bordering on outright boredom in a very few … but in most, regardless of any other emotions, a genuine intention and desire to transmit the unbroken succession of apostolic authority as it had been passed to each participating priest at his own ordination, through a variety of bishops of varying degrees of integrity and sanctity, over a period spanning more than fifty years. At least
that
magic—of passing on the Divine mandate—was permitted, even by the most conservative of the ecclesiastical hierarchy, just as no one would dispute the magic of the eucharistic celebration that would follow.

Stefan, too, came forward—not really a priest, of course, but his lack of true priestly authority in no way detracted from what the others did, and his message strengthened Denis's hope as the Deryni adept briefly laid his hands on Denis' bowed head.

Everything is going fine,
Stefan told him.
Be of good cheer. And may God bless and defend you, young Deryni priest!

Denis basked in that appellation all through the rest of the ordination ceremony, even daring to let himself get caught up in the very un-Deryni magic as his hands were anointed with the sacred chrism, the more worthily to handle the eucharistic elements, and he was invested with the chasuble and other physical accouterments of a priest. God did not strike him dead on the spot for his presumption—but then, neither had He struck Jorian until the new priest tried to exercise his priesthood.

As the moment approached for Denis to do so, he knew with a cold and humble sobriety that his own moment of testing was still to come. The archbishop's treachery aside, who was to dictate
when
an angry God might exercise His judgment? For that matter, who was to say that
merasha
itself was not the instrument of God's wrath? God usually chose to work through mortal agents. What need had He to work outright miracles, when more usual vehicles were at hand?

The Mass resumed where it had left off before the ordination began. As the choir sang the Offertory, Denis stood beside the archbishop with his newly ordained brethren, facing the congregation, and watched Jamyl and other representatives of the new priests' families come forward with the gifts of bread and wine. Jamyl had contrived to carry the wine cruet—the other presenters' deference undoubtedly nudged in the proper direction by subtle Deryni persuasion—but Denis could read no hint on his brother's face as to whether he had been able to make the switch. Nor, when Jamyl gave him the cruet, could he coax any kind of mental confirmation as their hands brushed. Jamyl's shields were rigid.

Denis feared the worst. Why else would Jamyl shut him out? Praying that he did not bear his own death in his hands, he set the cruet on the tray the archbishop had received from Benjamin's elderly mother and tried not to stare as de Nore turned briefly to hand tray and cruets to the waiting Father Gorony, who took them back to the altar. His heart was in his throat as he moved mechanically into the place assigned him for the concelebration and watched de Nore offer up the bread, numbly repeating the accompanying prayer with the others.

“Suscipe, sancte Pater, omnipotens aeterne Deus, hanc immaculatam hostiam …”
Holy Father, almighty and everlasting God, accept this unblemished sacrificial offering, which I, Thy unworthy servant, make to Thee, my living and true God …

The cup was next. With ponderous care, de Nore let Gorony pour wine from the cruet into his great, jeweled chalice, then blessed the water and added but a few drops.

“Offerimus tibi, Domine, calicem salutaris …”
We offer Thee, Lord, the chalice of salvation …

Denis feared it might not be
his
chalice of salvation—not in
this
world, at any rate—but there was no turning back now. If the switch had not been made, his only remaining hope was a miracle. Denis believed in miracles, but he did not think he had ever been singled out personally as the subject of one. And a miracle had not saved Jorian, who Denis felt had been far more deserving.

He followed numbly through the censing, the lavabo, and the prayers that followed, reciting all the proper words and making all the proper physical responses, but setting his heart on but one plea.

O Lord my God, in You do I put my trust,
he prayed.
Save me from all them that persecute me, and deliver me … If I can truly serve You best with my death, then I freely offer it, even as I offer this bread and wine upon Your altar—but can I not serve You even better with my life … ?

The choir sang the
Sanctus
, more sweetly than Denis had ever heard it sung—
Holy, Holy, Holy
—and he tried to let the joy it evoked buoy him as he lifted his hands toward the pale, fragile Host the archbishop raised in mystical adoration, whispering the words of consecration with every iota of his faith.

“Hoc est einem corpus meum.”
This is my body …