The Harrowing of Gwynedd Read Online Free PDF Page A

permit.”
    Cutting the braid had been a psychic wrench as well as a physical one, and Queron, reliving the trauma in his dream, twitched in his sleep and startled awake at last, all at once, one hand automatically groping toward the scrip at his waist. His heart was pounding, his breathing rapid and alarmed, but the braid was still there, wound in a tight coil the size of his fist.
    Thank God!
    Gradually, the panic past, his heart rate and breathing returned to normal. After a while, very cautiously, he began burrowing out of his haystack, squinting increasingly against the glare of the early morning sun on snowdrifts, for the “barn” sheltering the hay was a roof only, supported by four stout posts, and the roof itself was none too sound. He knew he must deal with the g’dula soon—which probably would stop the nightmares—but right now, his first priority was to find Saint Mary’s Abbey. The goodwife who had given him beggar’s fare of bread and hot, thick stew, the previous noon, had said she thought there was a small monastery in the hills not far from here, but she had not known its name. It might be Saint Mary’s.
    God willing, it would be the right Saint Mary’s this time, Queron thought, as he emerged stiffly from his fragrant cocoon, pulling his mantle more closely around himself and brushing off bits of hay. The name seemed all too popular in this part of the world, notwithstanding Queron’s personal devotion to the Blessed Virgin. He had had enough of false alarms since arriving in these hills above Culdi, several days before—and of dodging mounted patrols of the new Earl of Culdi’s men. Far more often than he had hoped, in the two weeks since leaving Dolban, he had had to abandon perfectly good lodgings to avoid a possibly fatal confrontation with men sympathetic to the regents’ most recent atrocities.
    Nor had he dared to be too blatant in the use of his powers to improve the situations. In these troubled times, simply being Deryni seemed likely to bring about one’s death, whether or not one actually used his or her magical powers.
    But perhaps today would be different. At least the storm seemed to have blown itself out. His hood had slipped back from his head while he fretted and squirmed in the grip of his nightmare, and he combed stiff fingers through his shorn hair as he surveyed the morning. Nothing stirred to break the pristine silence of the new snowfall on this cold winter’s morn.
    So then, briefly lamenting the past month’s lack of a razor, he covered his head again and knelt to make his morning offering of praise and thanksgiving, as he did each day on rising. And today, as always, he raised defiant prayers to Camber of Culdi, whose lands these once had been, and who was and would remain a saint, so far as Queron Kinevan was concerned.

C HAPTER T WO
    They were killed, but by accursed men, and such as had taken up an unjust envy against them .
    â€”I Clement 20:7
    Snow began to fall again by midafternoon, but the sky stayed bright. Queron drew his hood closer as he approached the gate of yet another tiny abbey, raising a numb, mittened hand to shade his eyes against the snow glare and study the thin curls of smoke eddying upward from several sets of chimneys.
    At least no horses appeared to have been this way today—a fair indication that he would find no soldiers about. And the smoke meant that he might hope for a hot meal and a chance to warm himself in the abbey’s parlor. His booted feet were near frozen after another day’s trudging through the snow, his cloak and hood rimed with ice. With any luck, this might even turn out to be the Saint Mary’s he was looking for—though he had had enough disappointments in the last few days not to expect too much.
    No horses stood in the yard of this new abbey, either—another good sign that the place was safe. As Queron paused at the open gate, cautiously