King Javan’s Year Page 15

  In the little study beyond the sacristy, its occupant was sleeping heavily as he had the night before and did not stir as they entered. When Guiscard had closed and locked the door, Etienne de Courcy stepped out from the shelter of the chimney embrasure, motioning to the completely nonplussed Charlan as he went to the bed and lifted up the blanket trailing off the side.

  “Under the bed with you, Charlan my man,” he murmured, helping the unresisting knight to slide under. “Scoot over to the other side as far as you can and go to sleep until I wake you.”

  When he dropped the blanket back into place, no sign of the room’s extra occupant could be seen. Guiscard, meanwhile, had gone to the prie-dieu and pressed the stud that released the door to the Portal chamber.

  “We’d better go, my prince,” he whispered, holding out an arm to Javan as he backed into the little cubicle. “Etienne, where are you going to be?”

  “In there, if I hear anybody coming,” Etienne said, gesturing toward the cubicle as Javan stepped boldly in. “Don’t worry about me.”

  This time Guiscard drew the Portal door closed without ceremony, setting his hands on Javan’s shoulders very matter-of-factly.

  “Give me just a second,” Javan murmured, drawing a deep breath and tilting his head back against Guiscard’s shoulder.

  He was able to let Guiscard take over much more easily this time and felt only a flutter as the other wrenched the energies. He opened his eyes to see Tavis O’Neill standing just outside the haven Portal. He threw himself into the Healer’s arms with a little cry of joy, trembling as he buried his face against Tavis’ chest, hardly noticing how the Healer’s right hand reached beyond him to touch Guiscard.

  “My prince, my prince,” Tavis murmured, voice and mind soothing as the hand returned to stroke Javan’s hair. “Or should I say my king? My, how you’ve grown.”

  Something in his voice made Javan pull back to look at him again. It had been more than three years since their last meeting, and Javan was not the only one who had changed.

  The formerly clean-shaven Healer now sported a rather bushy beard with a great deal of grey grizzling the red; the dark-red hair, pulled back in a neat clout at the nape of the neck, had gone silver at the temples. He was wearing a tunic of Healer’s green that lit the more aquamarine shade deep in his pale eyes, but there were new lines around the eyes that had not come altogether from exposure to wind and weather. The eyes and the lips were smiling as Tavis slowly sank to one knee, offering his hand and the stump of his wrist in wordless homage, but a weariness permeated his every movement.

  “Tavis, what’s happened to you?” Javan demanded, taking hand and wrist and urging the Healer to his feet.

  Shaking his head, still smiling, Tavis rose. “Someday, when we both have the time and leisure, I shall tell you, my prince,” he said quietly. “Let us simply say that I have been doing what I must do, while you have been doing what you must do. We have both paid our prices, I think. But tonight, at least, we both shall learn something of what we have been seeking for—about four years now?”

  “What happened the night my father died,” Javan supplied, eyes wide and awed.

  Suddenly remembering they were not alone, he glanced back at Guiscard, who had not moved. He was startled to see the young knight simply standing there, eyes closed. At his look of inquiry, Tavis simply shook his head and moved a little closer to brush Guiscard’s forehead with his fingertips, drawing him then toward a chair set beside the door of the little anteroom from which the Portal chamber opened.

  “It isn’t that I don’t trust our friend,” he said quietly, pressing the young knight down to sit in the chair, “but what he does not know, he cannot reveal, even under torture.” He passed his hand briefly over the knight’s closed eyes, setting controls, then straightened to glance at Javan.

  “He’s strong, if a bit lacking in finesse. Have you had much opportunity to work with him?”

  Javan shook his head. “I only met him yesterday. Did you block him?”

  “Temporarily, yes. But obviously I’ll restore him before the two of you go back. Did Joram give you any idea what’s to happen tonight?”

  “Only that we’d try to free up the rest of the powers I’m supposed to have. Why? Don’t you know, either?”

  Tavis chuckled in genuine mirth and took Javan’s arm, heading them toward the door. “I know that it’s going to be a formal ritual and that I’m to help set the Wards and call the Quarters. Other than that, it’s Joram’s game. He and Queron have been closeted for hours, working out the details. We’ll be using the chapel.”

  They were in front of the chapel door as he said it, and he gave the door two quick raps with his stump. After a few seconds the door was opened by Joram, again cassocked in Michaeline blue. Behind him, doing something with candles on the altar, Dom Queron also had made an effort to resume his former habit, cool and serene looking in a spotless white robe with the Gabrilite Healer’s badge boldly emblazoned on the left breast. His hair had grown out somewhat, though it was white now, but the Gabrilite braid was only a hand-span long, and Javan had never seen him with a beard before.

  Both men bowed as Tavis escorted Javan into the room. The faint sweetness of incense hung on the air, coming from a thurible set on a little white-covered table in the center of the room’s Kheldish carpet.

  “Father Joram, Dom Queron,” Javan said a little nervously.

  “Come in and sit down for a few minutes, my prince,” Joram said, gesturing toward one of the benches set into the wall at the left as Queron returned to his preparations at the altar. “Tavis, you might as well hear this, too. I’ll try to give you both an idea what’s going to happen—or what we hope will happen.”

  Javan sat, Tavis settling on his right and Joram on his left.

  “Now,” Joram said. “What we’re going to try to do, because we don’t know exactly how Cinhil had actually structured this to work, is to re-create as closely as possible what he did to you and your brothers to set up the Haldane potential. We don’t know why it didn’t work in Alroy; we don’t know why it started working early in you. But because it did, you’ll be in a position to help it along, now that we want it to manifest completely in you.”

  “What do you mean, ‘help it along’?” Javan asked. “How can I do that?”

  Joram shook his head. “I can’t tell you that. Not won’t—can’t. Just try to be as open as you can to whatever seems to be happening. Queron will be controlling this ritual, so all of us will defer to him. If you can achieve a good level of trance on your own, before he even starts working directly on you, that will only be to the good.

  “What we hope will happen is that we’ll re-create the conditions under which you can open fully to what your father was trying to activate, without the blocks he set in place because you were second in line at the time. When it’s all over—if it works—you should have conscious knowledge and control of everything that my father and Evaine and Rhys and I opened up in Cinhil himself, and which he never fully utilized.”

  “Will I—be like a Deryni?” Javan murmured.

  Joram smiled and patted Javan’s knee as he got to his feet. “You’re already very much like a Deryni, my prince. As for what additional you may acquire—we’ll just have to wait and see, shan’t we? Come into the center of the circle now, and we’ll begin. Tavis, I’ll ask you to take your place in the West, please.”

  The Kheldish carpet was lush underfoot as they moved into the center of the room, Joram leading the king between the little table and the altar steps, on the topmost of which stood a candlestick shaded by sun-colored glass. Queron had been lighting the altar candles, and came down to spoon incense onto the thurible as Tavis took a place to the west of the little altar table. As Joram moved on into the South, crossing himself before bowing his head, Queron picked up the thurible and carried it past Javan to stand facing the eastern candle. Bowing, he saluted the East with three swings, then turned to his right and headed toward another
candle shielded in red, tracing the circumference of the circle.

  “The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want,” he began chanting softly. “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters …”

  The familiar words gave Javan some reassurance as he watched Queron pass between Joram and the southern candle, pausing to reverence the South with three swings and then moving on toward the West and Tavis. As he approached, Tavis moved forward to the altar table and crouched to take out a white-glazed bowl of water and a sprig of evergreen. He gave Javan a glance of reassurance as he went past him to begin tracing the circle a second time with water, saluting each quarter with three shakes of his impromptu aspergillum.

  “Thou shalt sprinkle me with hyssop, O Lord, and I shall be clean,” he murmured. “Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow …”

  Queron had passed the West and was censing the North. Behind him the incense smoke hung on the still air like a fragile veil. Where Tavis passed, to the right of Javan, the veil seemed to grow more weighty. Javan squinted his eyes, but that did not change his perception that the veil was thickening.

  Queron came before him, his circuit complete, obviously intending to cense him, and Javan slipped automatically into the long habit of his altar training and joined his palms at his breast to exchange bows with the Gabrilite priest, bowing again when Queron had given him the requisite three swings. Somehow it did not seem odd that Queron then gave the censer to him, so that he might cense Queron in turn.

  He thought Queron seemed pleased at how he handled the thurible, for the Healer gave him a knowing nod as they exchanged bows again and Queron took the thurible back. Behind him, Tavis was finishing his circuit with the aspergillum and came to asperse Javan as Queron went on to cense Joram. The water felt cool splashing against his face and hands, and Javan readily took the bowl and evergreen sprig from Tavis to do the same for him, watching then as Tavis went on to asperse Joram. It occurred to Javan that the pattern of their movements almost formed a kind of dance, usually at opposite sides of the circle, always spiralling deosil or sunwise.

  Queron had finished with the thurible and set it back on the little table in the center, where it continued to send up a narrow thread of smoke; and when Tavis had finished with Joram, they both turned gracefully toward the center of the circle, always turning right, Tavis to continue on to asperse Queron and Joram to withdraw a sword from underneath the table.

  The dance continued as Tavis came back to the East, between Javan and the little table, and put the bowl and aspergillum back under the table, while Joram went before Queron and knelt, bowing his head over his hands on the quillons of the sword before him. Queron cupped his hands briefly atop Joram’s bowed head, but Javan could get no clear idea what they were doing because Tavis came to him then with a small silver goblet he drew from under the table. He gave Javan a strained, ironic little grin as he held it out.

  “You’ll recall that we both got to sample some rather interesting wine that night,” he said, “and that we spent a lot of time and energy later trying to figure out what was in it.” He shrugged and glanced at the cup. “I still have only a vague notion what’s in it—except that there’s no merasha this time, and no specific sedative, because you’re meant to be alert. However, Joram assures me that it’s a close approximation of what Rhys gave us that night, and Queron confirms that it won’t hurt you.”

  Javan could feel himself starting to tremble, and for just an instant, as Tavis set the goblet in his hand, he fancied that the dark wine held danger.

  “Tavis, I’m not sure I want to do this,” he whispered.

  “My prince, you’ve been wanting it for more than four years now. Don’t lose heart now.”

  Closing his eyes, Javan brought the goblet to his lips and timidly tasted. As before, it was one of the sweet Fianna varietals. He could appreciate now what the eleven-year-old palate could not, but he gulped it down, trying not to think about what else was in it besides wine.

  Tavis only smiled and nodded as Javan opened his eyes and put the empty goblet back in his hand. Joram was on his feet and heading toward him with the sword upright before him, coming to stand beside him facing East, directing Javan to do the same.

  “The words you are about to hear,” Joram said quietly, fixing his gaze on the golden flame of the Eastern Ward, “are the words your father spoke as he cast the third circle that night before he died. With Queron’s assistance, I am able to provide exact recall. You were present in the room when he spoke these words. If you’ll center and focus, you’ll find that you recall them, too—and other things that happened that night.”

  So saying, he drew himself to attention for a few seconds, focusing his concentration, then saluted the East with his blade—the East, the source of Light. He drew a breath as he let the tip of the sword sink to point at the floor just to the right of the candle, beginning to speak in a low voice.

  “Saint Raphael, Healer, Guardian of Wind and Tempest—” He began to walk slowly to his right, retracing the previous two circles. “May we be guarded and healed in mind and soul and body this night.”

  He had nearly reached the Southern Quarter, with its red-shielded flame, and he inclined his head in salute as his blade traced on. As he did so, Javan saw Tavis out of the corner of his eye, bowing, and Javan bowed, too.

  “Saint Michael, Defender, Guardian of Eden, protect us in our hour of need.”

  Joram continued on. Where the tip of his blade passed, it laid down a glowing ribbon of silver, misty and substantial at once, perhaps the span of a man’s forearm. Javan watched it grow behind Joram, with almost an impression that it took the priest more effort to pull the ribbon behind him, the farther around the circle he got. He could not take his eyes off it as Joram saluted the Western Quarter and he and Tavis and Queron bowed. A part of him knew what Joram was about to say, and he could not even find it in himself to be amazed as blue fire reflected off the polished blade and the words came exactly as he had known they must.

  “Saint Gabriel, Heavenly Herald, carry our supplications to Our Lady.”

  Javan could hear his father’s voice overlaid with Joram’s now—could almost see a familiar, fur-lined gown of Haldane scarlet superimposed over Joram’s Michaeline blue. He resisted the impulse to rub at his eyes as Joram passed on toward the Northern Quarter, with its green-lit candle and the waiting Queron; but he had the feeling that if he closed his eyes, the voice would make the image be his father.

  “Saint Uriel, Dark Angel, come gently, if you must,” Joram said, “and let all fear die here within this place.”

  Javan could feel himself trembling as Joram continued on around to join the two ends of the circle in the East and then gave salute once more, right beside him. He did not really understand what Joram was summoning—what his father had summoned with those same words, and what he himself had summoned to his brother’s deathbed—but he stood in awe of it. The archangels he knew of, both from childhood catechisms and his seminary training, though he had never heard anyone address them the way Joram was doing.

  Joram turned, the sword now dangling by its quillons in front of him, and motioned for Javan also to turn toward the center. Javan obeyed, gazing across the circle at a pale and focused Tavis as Joram spoke new words that Javan somehow knew had been Evaine’s words before.

  “We stand outside time, in a place not of earth,” Joram said. “As our ancestors before us bade, we join together and are One. By Thy blessed Apostles, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John; by all Powers of Light and Shadow, we call Thee to guard and defend us from all perils, O Most High. Thus it is and has always been, thus it will be for all times to come. Per omnia saecula saeculorum.”

  The “Amen” of the others’ response came to Javan’s lips all unbidden but wholly proper and natural, and he found his hand making the Sign of the Cross as they did.

  Then Joram was bending to lay the sword along the edge of the circle to their right, in the northeast q
uadrant; taking Javan’s arm to lead him closer into the center of the circle to stand before the little altar table. He moved around to Javan’s left to return to his proper place in the South as Queron knelt down to bring several more items out from under the table: a footed goblet of glazed white pottery, partially filled with water, which he set on the table beside the thurible; a small piece of parchment with something written on it that Javan could not see; and a little silver dagger, which he handed to Tavis as he stood.

  “I’ll ask you for the Ring of Fire now,” Joram said, holding out his hand.

  Javan took off the ring and offered it with his right hand. Joram retained the hand, isolating the thumb and compressing it, but passed the ring to Tavis, taking the dagger from him in exchange as Queron read from the parchment in a low voice.

  “I will declare the decree,” he said. “The Lord hath said unto me, Thou art my Son: This day have I begotten thee. Ask of me, and I shall give thee the heathen for thine inheritance, and the uttermost parts of the earth for thy possession.”

  “Javan Jashan Urien Haldane, King of Gwynedd,” Joram said as Queron lowered the parchment, “be consecrated to the service of thy people.”

  With that he jabbed Javan’s thumb sharply against the blade. Blood spurted, bright and startling, but even Javan’s reflexive flinch was dulled, as if it were happening to someone else. His thought processes seemed to be slowing down, and he found himself watching with a detached fascination as Tavis rolled the dark stones of the Ring of Fire through the blood on his thumb and then Joram pressed the still-bleeding thumb to the parchment Queron held.

  The parchment then was laid on the thurible to burn, after which Queron wiped off Javan’s wounded thumb with a bit of linen and Healed it. When the parchment had curled to ash, he pinched a bit between thumb and forefinger and sifted it over the water, quoting again from Scripture.

  “Give the king Thy judgements, O God, and Thy righteousness unto the king’s son.”