The Harrowing of Gwynedd by Katherine Kurtz Read Free Book Online

Jesse, bending over a cooing basket set on the table at the eastern quarter, also looked up as Queron and Evaine entered. Jesse, too, had changed, from stripling lad to hard, seasoned warrior, though Queron was sure he was barely seventeen. The fingers grasped by the tiny personage in the basket were calloused and still burned nut-brown from the previous summer’s campaigning, the face no longer rounded with the curves of youth. Queron remembered Jesse as husky, still a little gangling, but this young man was trim and muscled, holding himself with the feline grace and precision of an experienced fighting man as he gave Queron a respectful nod and then stepped sideways a few paces to stand between Evaine’s chair and the next—the one that had been Alister Cullen’s.
    â€œWelcome, Dom Queron,” Joram said, gesturing toward a stool set next to Rhys’ old place in the eastern quarter. “Please join us.”
    Only then did Queron notice Ansel MacRorie, Joram’s and Evaine’s nephew, watching from the shadows to the left of the doorway. His hair gleamed fair again in the light from the cresset set on the wall behind him—it had been dyed a nondescript brown the last time Queron saw him—but otherwise he looked much the same, clad in worn brown riding leathers and with a sword strapped at his hip. Ansel nodded as Queron caught his eye, moving behind him to close the great bronze doors as Evaine also indicated that Queron should sit in the eastern quarter.
    â€œAll’s well at Saint Mary’s?” Joram asked, as all of them sat down.
    Evaine nodded, sliding the baby’s basket a little closer on the ivory table.
    â€œYes. However, Dom Queron has other news that he wished not to convey until he could tell it only once. It isn’t about Revan,” she added, forcing herself to glance at the Healer, “but that’s all I know.”
    Queron, intensely occupied with staring at his hands folded on the table before him, uttered but one word: “Dolban.”
    â€œDolban?” Joram murmured.
    â€œSweet Jesu ,” Gregory breathed. “Not the Servants of Saint Camber?”
    Queron shrugged, his vision blurring, and tried to distance himself a little from what he must tell as he raised his eyes to the blessed darkness of the great amethyst dome arching above them.
    â€œI’m afraid so,” he said steadily. “Oh, the buildings still exist. I don’t suppose you’ve heard yet, but Saint Camber had his sainthood rescinded at Ramos a few weeks ago. Not only that, they declared him heretic and traitor. On an individual level, that means that all his lands and holdings would be forfeit to the Crown—which hardly makes much difference now, since that already happened when Ansel was outlawed and deprived of his Culdi inheritance.
    â€œOn a wider scope, however, the regents apparently extended their earlier interpretation to include forfeiture of the lands and holdings of those who supported Camber’s sainthood—to wit, the Servants of Saint Camber. So they did spare the buildings and the fields for the next tenants.”
    â€œBut not the people,” Evaine murmured dully. “Well, go on. It can be no worse than Trurill.”
    â€œNo, but no better.” Queron closed his eyes briefly. “Let’s see. I don’t think it’s necessary to go into needless detail. Not counting what I’m about to say, I have now uttered Saint Camber’s name three times. According to the new law recently enacted by the regents, my first offense would merit a public flogging. The second would require my tongue as payment. Writing his name risks the loss of the hand involved.
    â€œAny further defiance of the new law—and in a religious house dedicated to him, you can imagine how often his name was invoked, in word and in script—places the violator in the same category as our heretical ex-saint—who would have