The Harrowing of Gwynedd Read Online Free PDF

casting out with his mind for danger, a middle-aged monk in a black habit and mantle came down off the catwalk over the gate arch and made him a deferential bow, hands tucked into sleeve openings, as was seemly.
    â€œThe blessings of God Almighty be upon you, good traveler,” the monk said. “May I offer you the humble hospitality of Saint Mary’s?”
    Mentally allowing himself a tiny sigh of relief—for at least this was one of the local Saint Mary’s—Queron swept back his hood and returned the man’s bow, hoping his tonsure had not grown out so far as to be totally unrecognizable.
    â€œThank you, brother,” he murmured. “Who gives charity unasked gives twice. God will surely bless this house. May I ask the name of your abbot?”
    With a gesture for Queron to accompany him, the monk turned to lead him across the yard toward the chapel.
    â€œOur abbot is Brother Cronin,” he said easily. “I am Brother Tiernan. And you are—?”
    Truth-Reading to confirm, for he had been given the names of several of the brethren of the House, Queron let himself relax a little more, stomping snow from his boots as they mounted wooden steps to the chapel door.
    â€œMy name is Kinevan. Queron Kinevan. I believe you’ve been expecting me.”
    The monk turned and set his back against the chapel door, eying Queron speculatively.
    â€œAh, we were told we might expect a Gabrilite by that name,” he said softly, “but I see no Gabrilite before me.”
    â€œI have lately been abbot of—another Order,” Queron murmured, not wanting to mention Saint Camber’s name until he knew for certain that all was well. “I have not worn Gabrilite habit for many years.”
    â€œIt is my understanding that Gabrilite habit does not consist solely of the garment,” the monk insisted, “and that its putting off is no light matter. Is there not some further proof you might offer, that you are what and who you say you are?”
    Queron allowed himself a wry smile. This Brother Tiernan was a bold one. Not all humans would dare to make such a demand of an unknown Deryni. The fellow wanted to know about his braid—not normally a topic of discussion outside the Order, but perhaps it was necessary.
    â€œI think you wish no graphic demonstration of what I am,” Queron said quietly, digging in his scrip for the coil of plaited hair, “but I suspect that this should prove adequately that I am who I claim to be.” He displayed the coil on his open palm. “Is this what you expected to see? I fear it became a liability, attached to my head. I advise you not to touch it, but I assure you, it is mine.”
    Tiernan glanced a little nervously at the braid, as if a bit taken aback by his own effrontery, but shook his head and swallowed when Queron would have lifted it nearer.
    â€œPlease come inside, out of the cold, Dom Queron,” he murmured, averting his eyes as he turned to open the door. “Instructions have been left for you.”
    The inside of the chapel was little warmer than outside. Queron could see his breath pluming on the air before him as he followed Tiernan down the center aisle, tucking the braid back in its place in his scrip. Shadows wreathed the open beams of the simple ceiling, but the walls were whitewashed and made the little building seem lighter and more airy than it actually was. He could hear the sounds of construction going on behind a wooden screen that closed off the north transept, but they gradually ceased as Tiernan led him past the simple transept crossing and toward the altar, where a red lamp burned above the tabernacle.
    â€œWait here, please,” Tiernan said, when the two of them paused at the foot of the altar steps to reverence the Presence signified by that lamp.
    Mystified, Queron watched the monk continue on alone to the tabernacle and fit a key to its lock. From behind several veiled ciboria,