«Then, we’re in luck. Saint-Sasile is a double abbey, as you may be aware, and all Deryni. To the outside world, their work is perpetual prayer for the salvation of souls, though they also function as an exclusive school for training high-level Deryni. On the eve of every Sabbath and major feast day, the two houses join for Great Vespers and lift souls and voices in prayer — which also raises the shields around the abbey as a visible manifestation of their devotion. It’s a sight you’ll not soon forget, once you’ve seen it».
But first, they must meet with the formidable Mother Serafina, once known as Princess Camille Furstána of Torenth. A pinnace came to take them ashore, landing them on one of the many busy quays bristling into the wide Furstánan estuary. An hour later, they were climbing the last of the wide stone steps that spiraled up to the abbey gate.
The air had been still and close as they came ashore, even oppressive, but it freshened considerably as they made their ascent. Even so, both men were sweating and winded from their exertions by the time they reached the broad esplanade before the gatehouse.
«What if she won’t see us?» Oisín muttered, as he and Michon paused to catch their breath and Michon mopped at his brow with a square of fine linen.
«She’ll see us», Michon said flatly.
With a show of conviction he was not certain he actually felt, Michon drew another deep breath to fortify himself, stuffed his square of linen into a sleeve, then approached the gatehouse to pull at the chain that would summon a doorkeeper.
Far beyond, they heard the distant jangle of the bell. The heavy gate set into the gatehouse arch was studded with metal bosses the size of a man’s fist, each incised with a deep-cut spiral, but it was not only timber and iron that guarded the Abbey of Saint-Sasile. They could feel the tight-leashed power brooding beyond the gate, rich and potent.
After a long moment, one of the metal bosses in the wicket gate irised open to reveal one bright black eye, which darted from one to the other of the men in frank appraisal.
«God give grace, my sons», said a voice of indeterminate gender. «What is it you seek?»
Bowing slightly, right hand to breast, Michon said, «We come seeking audience with the sister and teacher known as Serafina. It is a matter of some urgency».
He felt the feather brush of shields testing at his own, quickly withdrawn, and then the iron boss irised back down with a faint slither of metal leaves closing. A scraping of timber against metal told of a heavy gate bar being shifted, after which the wicket gate swung silently inward. The gatekeeper who stepped from behind the gate wore the stark black robes and ragged beard of Eastern orthodoxy, with his long hair tied back under the cylindrical black hat and veil of a monk.
«There is no urgency within these walls», the man said coolly, his gaze again sweeping the pair of them. «You are not Torenthi, are you».
«With all respect for your office, Reverend Father, that does not change the urgency of our need».
«She does not see foreigners», the monk retorted. «And she is properly addressed as Mother Serafina».
Michon bowed again, hand on heart and eyes averted. «I stand corrected, Reverend Father. When last she and I spoke, many years ago, she was still known by another name».
«And yet you knew to find her here», the monk replied. «Surely you must be aware that the woman you knew has been long dead to the world».
«Pray tell her that it is Michon de Courcy who desires audience», Michon said evenly, «and that it would behoove her to hear what I have to say».
The monk’s dark eyes narrowed in warning, powerful shields flaring briefly visible around his head like a golden aureole.
«This is not a place in which it would be wise to threaten, outlander».
«Nor would I presume to do so, good Father», Michon said mildly. «But I do feel certain that Mother Serafina will wish to see me — if you will be so good as to convey my request to her. Give her this», he added, removing his signet and extending it to the man. At the same time, he let his own shields briefly engulf the ring, to amplify its psychic signature.
The monk hesitated for an instant, his eyes not leaving Michon’s; but then he took the ring and closed it in his hand, stepped back to close the door in their faces. They heard the bar drop, the sound of retreating footsteps, then only the faint murmur of chanting in the distant background. Oisín exhaled a long sigh that he had not realized he had been holding and glanced at Michon.
«So, was that a yes or a no?» he asked softly.
«Oh, most certainly a yes», Michon replied with a tiny smile. «Whether or not the monk recognized my name, he is certainly aware that we are well-shielded Deryni — and if not Torenthi, then we must be that great rarity in Torenth: Deryni from Gwynedd, inquiring at a Torenthi monastery. That alone should ensure that he delivers the message — and she will well remember me».
His confidence proved well-founded. Within a quarter hour, they were admitted to the outer precincts of the monastery and given into the charge of two black-clad monks who looked much like the first, one of whom silently handed back Michon’s ring and signed that the pair should follow. The men did not offer names, but their shields were seamless and almost undetectable, betokening both discipline and power. Minutes later, the visitors were ushered through the wrought-bronze gate of a tiny courtyard enclosing a miniature garden with a tinkling fountain in the center. Beyond the garden, with its western doorway opening thereon, lay a graceful jewel of a chapel whose golden dome seemed to glow in the afternoon sun.
«You may make your ablutions there, before entering the hagios», the taller of the two monks said, with a sparse gesture toward the fountain. «Mother Serafina will join you shortly inside».
Michon inclined his head in agreement, right hand to breast, and received a clipped nod in return. The monks then withdrew and pulled the gate almost closed. As Michon and Oisín moved to the fountain and began to wash hands and faces, Oisín glanced casually in the direction of the gate.
They’re still there, you know, he sent, tight-focused.
Of course. And there will be others nearby as well. They are wary of us — but they also know that anyone with a shield like ours is not likely to attempt any kind of psychic mischief here in the monastic precincts, in the midst of all these Deryni. Are you ready?
Oisín merely dried his face and hands on an edge of his cloak and smiled, following as Michon led the way to the chapel door.
Very gently they pushed it open far enough to enter, pausing just inside to probe with Deryni senses and to take it all in. It was dim and much cooler inside the tiny chapel — octagonal in plan, unlike most churches in the West, with a skylight high in the center of the domed ceiling that showed a distant circle of blue sky. Against the eastern wall, a fair-sized icon of the Holy Trinity presided over the sacred space, attended by a painted depiction of Archangel Raphael. A three-branched golden candelabrum burned honey-scented candles at the feet of the icons, the candlelight lending a semblance of life to the painted eyes. To left and right, icons of Auriel and Michael stood guard at their stations north and south, painted larger than a man, each beneath a high, narrow window that admitted air but little light. A votive light of the appropriate color, green or red, burned at each icon’s feet. These depictions as well seemed more than mere paintings.
Briefly they turned to survey the wall through which they had entered, where Archangel Gabriel and a heavy icon of the Blessed Virgin presided from the west, the latter encased in gold and jewels except for her face and that of the Holy Child displayed on her lap. A votive in blue glass burned at their feet, like a captive sapphire. On a small table in the center of the chamber, an earthen bowl of sand supported many slender tapers of honey-colored beeswax, their shafts bristling like the spines of some strange sea creature in the bluish light that filtered down from the ceiling shaft.
«What on earth is this place?» Oisín whispered close beside Michon’s ear. «A chapel or a ritual chamber?»
«Perhaps both», Michon murmured, slightly lifting a hand for silence as he turned his attention to a small door softly opening in the painted wall to the right of the eastern display, which had been invisible when closed. «And perhaps none of this is wholly of this earth».
They almost could not see the two black-clad figures that slipped through the briefly opened doorway, sensed mostly by their movement and the brighter blur of averted faces within the close-shadowed frame of flat-topped caps and waist-length monastic veils fastened close beneath the chin. Neither man stirred as the pair moved before the eastern icons and reverenced them with a deep bow and a sweep of right hands from brow to floor to right shoulder and left.
Turning in their places, the pair then repeated their salute to south, west, and north, finishing in the east once again, after which the taller one retreated to the door by which they had entered and stood with her back against it, hands piously folded beneath her veil and face averted. As the shorter one started to turn toward the visitors, Michon set a hand on Oisín’s forearm and sent, Wait here. Say and do nothing.
So saying, he moved into the center of the chamber, with the table between him and the woman, and silently inclined his head.
He would not have known her, had he met her outside this place. The Princess Camille Furstána whom he remembered had possessed the charm and vivacity of youth, and a self-assurance that comes of royal blood, but nothing of physical appearance to suggest that maturity might bring anything approaching beauty. The passage of time had not given her that, but age and her vocation had made Mother Serafina a striking woman. Though still slender of form and small in stature, her erect carriage and the flat cap beneath her veil added at least a handspan to her height and gave her a physical authority to match her psychic presence. The eyes, at least by candlelight, were still the same: dark and intense, unwavering in their scrutiny; and the shields behind the eyes were adamantine, as they had been for as long as Michon had known her.
«You indicated that you wished to speak to me on a matter of some urgency», she finally said, her voice low and measured, just as he remembered.
«I did», he said, again inclining his head, «and I do. And I thank you for seeing us».
«It is not usually done», she replied, favoring him with a nod of acknowledgment, «but I was curious to know what would bring you to me after all these years — though I can guess».
«Can you?» he returned, the question also a statement.
She inhaled deeply and let out a quiet sigh, lifting her chin a little defiantly. He could see only her face; the hands were clasped close beneath the veil over her shoulders and upper body.
«Well, I am quite certain that you have not come to ask for training», she said breezily, a faint smile curling the corners of her mouth as she glanced at him sidelong. «But I would venture to guess that you have come to ask about the training that I am providing to certain others».
He inclined his head in agreement. «That would be an accurate reading of my intentions», he said neutrally.
Her eyes at once went dark and dangerous. «How dare you!» she breathed, almost inaudibly. «Whom I choose to train, and how, is my business, not yours — or the Camberian Council’s!»
«In that, you are much mistaken», he replied, in the same low tone. «I trust I need not remind you of what happened to Lewys ap Norfal, when he entertained similarly dangerous notions regarding his powers. Train your nephews, if you must; they are subjects of Torenth, and the concern of her king. If they perish through their folly, that will simply mean somewhat fewer Furstáns to threaten my king! But if you persist in training that twit Zachris Pomeroy, he becomes a potential threat to my king — and he is not a subject of Torenth!»
She sniffed in derision and lifted her chin defiantly. «What arrogance, to presume that what I teach is folly!»
«Camille, you were there when Lewys failed», he began.
«Camille is dead!» she interjected coldly. «Mother Serafina has far surpassed the girl who once was. You will address me by my proper name and rank».