King Javan’s Year Page 28

  “I can’t argue with that,” Javan agreed. “Incidentally, did Jesse tell you why we were late—besides being delayed by our Custodes guests?”

  “Yes, spontaneous shields in Rhys Michael and intimations of matrimony with Michaela,” Joram replied. “Someone thought your job wasn’t difficult enough already.”

  Javan did not even try to restrain his ironic chuckle. “I’ve always heard that God moves in mysterious ways. Frankly, I’d be happier with a bit less mystery. I don’t suppose the shields are exactly a surprise, though. The timing is awkward, but he hasn’t got a Tavis to help him figure out what’s happening—and I don’t intend to tell him. Marriage just now is out of the question, too—to anybody. I may have to send one of them away from Court, until his ardor cools.”

  “I’d also check to see whether someone else isn’t actively encouraging this grand passion,” Joram said, gesturing toward the Portal square. “It’s possible he thought of it himself, but I wouldn’t put it past any of the former regents. But we’d better have a look at your night’s work now. I want to be certain you can use it. After that, Niallan and I must be off.”

  Nodding, Javan crouched down beside the square, trying to put his other concerns out of mind as he laid his hands flat on it, aware of Joram’s scrutiny above him. Other than a moistness of new mortar sealing the square to the other flags surrounding it and a faint dampening where someone had wiped out the chalk lines with a wet cloth, no physical sign remained of their presence here tonight.

  Not so the reason for their presence, though even that was subtle, confined to the area bounded by the single flagstone and undetectable until one actually touched it—and only a Deryni or one Deryni-gifted would detect it even then. Javan sensed its telltale tingle under his hands and closed his eyes to better savor it—though having helped create it, he could never have mistaken this spot on earth for any other. He gave himself a few seconds to let its knowledge settle into every fiber of his consciousness, then exhaled with a satisfied sigh and got slowly to his feet.

  “I can make it work,” he said to Joram.

  “Good. Then suppose you demonstrate by taking me back to the sanctuary for a few minutes,” Joram replied, stepping onto the Portal square. “Niallan will stay with Oriel while you’re gone.”

  Javan restrained a start of surprise, for the Michaeline priest had never before invited such a contact as he was now suggesting. In all their previous interactions, as in the night’s earlier decision, Joram had always taken charge—self-possessed, competent, faintly distant. Never had he offered to give up control to Javan. That he did so now bespoke a subtle change in their relationship, a powerful trust, not only in Javan’s abilities but in his judgment and self-restraint; for even the most powerful Deryni was vulnerable when placing him- or herself in another’s hands to make a Portal jump.

  Hardly missing a beat, Javan stepped in boldly beside Joram and took his wrist. He dared not look at Joram for fear of losing his nerve, so he drew a breath and closed his eyes, centering and then reaching out tentatively for the consciousness beside him, wondering whether he needed to talk Joram down the way Joram usually did for him.

  But Joram was already still and centered, and at Javan’s touch rolled back his shields without hesitation. Even as Javan sought out the control points, Joram was offering them to him—passive receptivity, unequivocal and unreserved, awaiting Javan’s bidding. With a fierce surge of gratitude and pride and perhaps even love, Javan took Joram’s mind to his, poised on the brink, and reached out to warp the energies.

  The jump was a good one, as smooth as Javan had ever made. His own and Joram’s satisfaction flared around the pair of them like a mantle as he stabilized them both at the other end and released the priest. Joram wore a wry smile of approval as he opened his eyes, and he shifted his arm around Javan’s shoulders in a gesture of almost paternal camaraderie as they moved off the Portal square in the Michaeline sanctuary. The shift of place had caused a shift of mood as well.

  “Well done indeed, my prince,” Joram murmured. “You’ve learned all your lessons well.”

  Javan managed a grim ghost of a smile and dared to look up at Joram, knowing he was not speaking of the Portal jump at all.

  “I suppose I truly came of age tonight, didn’t I?” he said. “I lost my innocence. I ordered a man’s death and then I asked for more deaths. I never expected … It was—it was—”

  “It was done exactly as it should have been, my prince—all of it,” Joram said quietly. “You are my king, and you must be master in your house and master of those who serve you. You know the weight as well as the power of the crown you shall wear. When you are crowned on Monday, you will be king in a way that no man has been king for many generations. I pray God may grant you the wisdom to wisely wield the power you shall bring with you, as you approach His altar. Your challenge is great, but so are the rewards—for you and for all of Gwynedd, if you prosper.”

  Listening, Javan found he had tears in his eyes, but he would not take his gaze from Joram’s.

  “I wish you could be there to crown me, Joram,” he said softly. “Your father crowned my father—not in the cathedral, but in a way that mattered far more, when he had defeated Imre and won his crown by his valor. I fear Hubert’s hands will profane the rite.”

  Joram looked a little taken aback, but his answer was what Javan might have expected.

  “You know that isn’t true, my prince. For all his human failings, Hubert was duly consecrated for the holy office he will perform for you. His unworthiness cannot tarnish the crown you shall wear, or diminish the rite by which he places it upon your head.”

  Javan swallowed awkwardly, hanging his head a little. “I keep reminding myself of that,” he whispered. “I suppose I’ll endure it the same way I’ve endured receiving Communion from his hands and from Custodes priests, knowing that the Sacrament overshadows its instrument. I still wish you were doing it—or even that you could simply be there. I’ve sought this, because it’s the duty I was born to, but it isn’t a burden I take up lightly.”

  Joram had begun to watch him with a new intensity as he spoke, and now he slowly set his hands on Javan’s shoulders, searching his eyes, a gravity come upon him of someone older, even more awesome than Joram at his most powerful, almost a physical presence that made Javan want to kneel before him.

  “Javan, I was present when my father placed the crown on your father’s head,” Joram said quietly, his voice a little flattened as if in trance. “I sense his presence, and his willingness that you should receive a like crowning from my hands—and his. Is this your will as well?”

  Javan had no idea how Joram proposed to accomplish this, but a new power was in the priest, coursing through him and tingling through his hands where they touched Javan’s shoulders. Almost without his own volition, Javan felt himself sinking beneath those hands, to kneel at Joram’s feet as he sensed his father had knelt before Camber, his own hands clasped wonderingly at his breast as he gazed upward.

  Joram’s face had changed. It both was and was not his own. Lifting his hands from Javan’s shoulders, Joram joined them before him for just an instant, head bowed in prayer, then lifted them parted above Javan’s head and fixed his gaze on the space between them. As both of them watched, neither daring to breathe, the air shimmered and then solidified in the likeness of Gwynedd’s State Crown of leaves and crosses intertwined. A faint breath of awe escaped Javan’s lips as Joram curved his hands around the ghostly image and seemed to raise it higher above both their heads. The voice that whispered from Joram’s lips was not quite his own.

  “Javan Jashan Urien Haldane, thine ancient line is continued, to the great joy of thy people,” Joram said, though it was not only Joram who spoke as he lowered the crown to rest on Javan’s head. “Be crowned with strength and wisdom for all thy days. And may the Almighty grant thee a long and prosperous reign, in justice and honor for all thy people of Gwynedd.”

  No crown but Joram’s ha
nds touched Javan’s head in that instant, but the weight was as real as any diadem of metal and jewels and the moment as sacred as if Javan had knelt in the cathedral. As Joram’s hands curved in gentle caress and he bowed to rest his forehead against Javan’s for just an instant, Javan sensed another presence enfolding him in fierce protection and affirmation, so potent that he swayed under its power, faintly disoriented.

  Then Joram was drawing a deep, shuddering breath, straightening, sliding his hands to Javan’s shoulders to help him rise, and the moment was past. Javan pulled back a little as he staggered to his feet, almost afraid to look at Joram again, but the priest appeared almost as bewildered as Javan felt.

  “Who—”

  Joram gave an uneasy shake of his head. “It—felt like my father,” he murmured. “He—made an appearance the night we stirred up your powers, too.”

  “You didn’t tell me,” Javan whispered, accusation in his voice.

  “It—didn’t seem appropriate, at the time,” Joram said. “And later, the opportunity didn’t arise. Does it bother you that a saint takes a personal interest in your affairs? It does me, and he’s my father.”

  “I don’t know,” Javan said carefully. “I’ll have to think about it.” He paused. “Joram, was it really Saint Camber?”

  Joram flashed him a taut, uneasy grin. “Oh, yes. Of all the doubts I have about a great many things, that is not one of them.

  “But you’d better go back now. Try to avoid being seen going back to your apartments. After the coronation, I’d install some trustworthy person in the Portal room as soon as possible. Perhaps one of your knights—one you’d have reason to visit reasonably often and who can be easily directed.”

  Javan nodded. “I already have someone in mind.”

  “God go with you, then, my prince.”

  Javan was not altogether satisfied with Joram’s answer about Saint Camber, but it would have to wait for another time. Squaring his shoulders, he backed onto the Portal square again, never taking his eyes from Joram’s until he had seized the energies and was actually beginning the jump.

  He opened his eyes to see Niallan waiting for him, just off the Portal square. Charlan and a drowsy-looking Oriel were standing by the door. He longed to tell Niallan what had just happened, for Niallan had been there when Saint Camber made his other appearance, that night they had confirmed his Haldane powers, but there was no time now. Niallan must be away, and Javan must see that Oriel got back to his quarters safely and that everyone else had ended up where and how he was supposed to be. He tried not to think about the doomed Serafin, perhaps already lying dead in the darkness.

  “I’ve taken the necessary measures to safeguard them, my prince,” Niallan murmured, touching his shoulder in reassurance as they changed places on the Portal square. “Unless you permit it, they’ll remember nothing of tonight’s work. God keep your Highness.”

  “Thank you,” Javan whispered.

  With a nod and a smile, Niallan was gone, leaving Javan to direct his charges back to their respective quarters. It was accomplished without incident. When he and Charlan had gained the safety of the royal apartments, he checked on Rhys Michael—still dead asleep and snoring, reeking of wine—then sent Charlan to bed down on his accustomed pallet by the door. Once crowned, Javan intended to move his aides into quarters across the hall, near at hand yet retaining his privacy, but for now he was glad of their company—even if the oblivious Charlan retained no knowledge of Guiscard’s dark mission, which weighed so heavily on Javan’s mind.

  He took his time preparing for bed, but Guiscard still had not returned by the time he was finished. Beginning to get a little anxious, he pulled on a cool night robe and went into the outer chamber to wait. He had extinguished all the lights but one candle on the trestle table and was sitting in the darkened window of the outer room when Guiscard finally came in, after another quarter hour.

  “Guiscard, I’m over here,” he whispered as the Deryni knight closed and bolted the door.

  Guiscard stiffened for just an instant, then came reluctantly across the room to set one foot on the step up into the window embrasure where Javan sat.

  “I was hoping you hadn’t waited up,” he said quietly.

  “I had to know,” Javan replied. “It’s finished?”

  Guiscard nodded and turned to sit wearily on the step, clasping his arms around his knees.

  “It shouldn’t be that easy to kill a man,” he murmured after a long moment.

  Javan closed his eyes briefly, then drew his night robe more closely around him and stood, going down to sit beside Guiscard.

  “I don’t like this part of being king,” he said.

  “It isn’t my favorite part of serving a king, either,” Guiscard replied, “but sometimes it has to be done. If it’s any comfort, he never felt a thing, beyond the first twinge.”

  “I suppose that’s something,” Javan said. He heaved a great sigh and put it out of his mind. “No point dwelling on it, though. It’s done now. I suppose I ought to try to get some sleep. I suggest you do the same. We’re likely to need all our wits about us tomorrow.”

  “Aye. God keep your Grace,” Guiscard murmured.

  As Javan crawled into bed, careful not to disturb the sleeping Rhys Michael, he feared he might not sleep at all, but fatigue washed over him like a wave before his head could even hit the pillow. In those few seconds before sleep claimed him, he made himself put aside speculation about a party of Custodes monks probably even now bearing the body of their stricken brother to Saint Hilary’s or the archbishop’s palace.

  Instead, he turned his last conscious thought to what had happened between him and Joram, and was not surprised that he dreamed of Saint Camber that night—and of hallowed hands lifting up a shining crown above his head.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  He that delicately bringeth up his servant from a child shall have him become his son at the length.

  —Proverbs 29:21

  Javan had hoped to sleep late the next morning, the last before his coronation, but he found himself drifting into consciousness shortly after dawn. He kept his eyes closed against the glare coming from the balcony doors—open to admit of a faint breeze—and tried to recapture some of the blissful escape he had attained in sleep, resolutely putting aside both his satisfaction at the setting of the new Portal and his remorse at having been obliged to order another man’s death. Both had been necessary for survival. He must not dwell on what he could not change.

  Having acknowledged the darkest aspect of this day he must face, he directed his further attention to the more positive aspects of his situation. Today, for example, because of Sunday morning obligations and the special Cassani Court at midday, he was excused from the rigorous schedule of physical training he had ordered Jason and Robear to set for him—and which certainly was accomplishing its purpose.

  In fact, he had never been so fit and strong. A month of very determined work had added breadth to his shoulders and chest, trimmed an already slender waist, and even put muscle onto his legs such that his limp was less pronounced. The process had been gruelling in the heat, and in so short a time, but as he stretched lazily in bed, he could take satisfaction in the knowledge that he even stood a few fingers taller now—though perhaps that was as much from increased self-confidence as from any real increase in height.

  Stretching brought one foot into contact with a warm body—Rhys Michael’s—and Javan cracked an eye open to gaze across thoughtfully at his sleeping brother. Hardly unexpectedly, Gwynedd’s heir presumptive was looking decidedly fragile this morning, even asleep. Javan’s cautious probe confirmed what promised to be a rather spectacular hangover, as soon as Rhys Michael woke—and also the hitherto unsuspected shields.

  Feeling only slight remorse over his part in his brother’s incipient misery, Javan turned his gaze vexedly to the underside of the canopy above him and considered what to do about him—besides let him sleep as long as possible this morning. The previ
ous night had produced several unwelcome revelations about Rhys Michael Alister Haldane.

  Shields aside—and Javan supposed they were really an inevitability of being a Haldane heir—he had not intended to have to deal with Rhys Michael at all last night, and certainly not concerning the very delicate subject of marriage. Nor had he expected the insinuations by both Charlan and Guiscard concerning Rhys Michael’s drinking habits. The prospect of his heir becoming a drunkard was not at all appealing.

  Even less appealing was the prospect of his heir wanting to marry, at least in the very near future. The alcohol question was sufficiently serious to bear closer observation, though it probably could not be assessed reliably in the context of festivities accompanying a coronation; but Rhys Michael’s apparent intentions regarding the fair Michaela could well become a prelude to disaster. Javan wondered if his brother really did not understand how the premature provision of additional heirs could put the present heirs’ lives in danger.

  Or perhaps the younger prince, the darling of the regents during his formative years, simply did not want to believe that, to regain the influence they had lost when the regency ended, such men might well resort to murder. Once the coronation was out of the way, Javan knew he was going to have to set his younger brother straight on more than one fact of life.

  Feeling vaguely like a spoilsport—for that was probably how Rhys Michael would view the interference with his romance—Javan got up and padded over to use the garderobe, then set about his morning ablutions. On impulse, while he washed, he decided to see about sneaking in a quick gallop before he had to deal with the noon Court. Charlan stirred while he was dressing, sitting up blearily on his pallet.

  “You were going to sleep in,” he said. “What are you doing up so early?”

  “I thought I’d roust Father Faelan for an early Mass and then have a quick ride before it gets too hot,” Javan replied, tightening a spur strap. “One last burst of freedom before I have to settle down to ‘king things,’ as Rhysem so aptly put it last night. If you want to come, you’d better get dressed.”