King Javan’s Year Read online

  The moonlight mirrored on the water’s surface, reflecting back the clean-lined image of a pale, serious face surrounded by a close-cut shock of glossy black hair, slightly rumpled from pulling off the scapular. From this angle, he could not see the clerical tonsure his circumstances forced him to wear and was free to pretend that he was the layman and prince he longed to be.

  In a rare outward declaration of that pretense—though hardly particularly daring, since no one was likely to see it—he slipped his good left foot out of its sandal and nudged the offending item off the side of the granite curbing, then slid that foot into the water as he bent to unfasten and remove the special boot that supported his misshapen right foot. He smiled as he flexed the toes in newfound freedom, briefly massaging the thickened ankle before shifting around to ease it into the water beside the other.

  The mud on the bottom was squishy and cool, and his smile turned to a grin. At sixteen, the occasional stolen pleasures of an all-too-brief childhood still held their own allure, to be relished between the more serious aspects of surviving as a superfluous prince.

  And survival was the name of the game. In the nearly three years since placing himself under the obedience of the Custodes, Prince Javan Haldane had learned survival skills far beyond the mere academics expected of the future priest and ecclesiastic they were trying to make of him. Along with the dutiful assimilation of cloistered life and the round of devotions that marked every hour of the abbey’s calendar, he had also learned the subtler arts of dissembling and subterfuge.

  He had learned to keep his own counsel, and to watch and listen far more than he spoke. By seeming to go along with the program of spiritual direction and study mapped out by Archbishop Hubert and the other men who had been the royal regents when it all began, and who now continued as his brother’s ministers of state, Javan had gained their guarded approval of his apparent piety, a grudging respect for his academic achievements, and even a degree of freedom to return occasionally to Court—though he was careful to hide the true extent of his accomplishments, and especially not to reveal any hint of the Deryni-like powers stirring ever more deeply within him. Hubert himself, though he did not know it, had felt subtle touches of Javan’s influence from time to time—though if Javan chose to exercise that influence to the extent that Hubert began to act out of character, the discovery of Javan’s part in it was almost inevitable and almost certainly would cost him his life.

  And if Javan himself were not found out, then the blame was sure to fasten on one or more of the few Deryni still at court—the “Deryni sniffers,” as they were sometimes called in derision, or the great lords’ “pet” Deryni. According to the provisions of the Statutes of Ramos, enacted shortly after the death of Javan’s father, Deryni were officially prohibited from holding any office, from teaching, or from endeavoring to seek out any religious vocation, especially the priesthood. Ownership of property was being increasingly restricted. In addition, Deryni were forbidden to use their powers in any manner whatsoever, under pain of death.

  The sole exceptions were those Deryni forcibly recruited to royal service and compelled, by threats to their families held hostage, to exercise their powers in behalf of the regents, now the principal lords of state. Not infrequently, their duties required the betrayal of other Deryni, or at least the perversion of their powers for intimidation. At one time, four or five such men had been the regents’ personal pawns, with another several dozen attached to various military units.

  There were not so many now, for unquestioning obedience was not a characteristic of most Deryni, and the regents’ answer to any resistance had been the immediate execution of the offender’s family before his eyes—wives and children, even tiny infants, it made no difference—followed by the offender’s own slow death by torture. Javan had been forced to witness more than one such outrage, and the memories sickened him still.

  The Healer Oriel was most visible of those Deryni still managing to eke out so precarious an existence. As Javan trailed a hand in the water, watching the patterns of ripples in the moonlight, he wondered how Oriel continued to tolerate such a state. It helped, of course, that young King Alroy trusted his Deryni Healer far more than his human physicians, whom he judged to be bumbling incompetents. The former regents had attempted to undermine that trust, but to no avail. At the great lords’ whim, the Healer still might be required to turn his Healing talents to betrayal of fellow Deryni at any time, but at least direct royal patronage gave him some measure of protection.

  Fortunately for Javan, it was Oriel alone, of all the men at Rhemuth, whether human or Deryni, who even guessed a part of what Javan was achieving on his own, as he bided his time and prepared himself, waiting for the day when he might dare to defy the former regents. It was Oriel who had managed to smuggle out the occasional letter to Javan, here in the abbey, telling him of his brother’s gradual decline and the necessity to be ready to take up the crown. Javan had seen his twin just last month, when he was permitted to return to the capital for their joint birthday celebration. It had been clear even then—though the lords of state were at pains to assure him otherwise—that barring miracles, Alroy was not going to last out the summer, never mind the year.

  There had been no chance to speak privately with his brother, for the great lords had every hour planned out, and watched all three princes with a solicitude that passed for utter devotion among those who did not know better. But Javan did manage a few minutes alone with Oriel, who was able to pass on a more detailed report in that manner available only to Deryni and those who shared their powers.

  Javan was not yet as adept at this as he would like, for his contact and training with his old Deryni mentors had ceased perforce with his taking of temporary vows and subsequent removal to Custodes control; but he was far more adept than any human had a right to be—even a Haldane human with Deryni-like powers, which only the king should have, but which Javan had and Alroy did not. Javan knew that his powers had something to do with whatever his father had done to him and his brothers the night he died, but even Joram MacRorie, son of Saint Camber and the only man still alive who had been present that night, could not account for it.

  Regardless of what had been done, its result could only be welcome, for it might be the one thing to keep Javan alive until he came into his own. He regretted that it had not seemed to help Alroy, whose failing health was of increasing concern. Tonight, during Matins, he had offered up special prayers for his brother’s recovery, for throughout the day he had become increasingly aware of a vague uneasiness somehow centered on his brother. The psychic bonding so often noted between twins seemed further heightened in Javan, whose perceptions had been strengthening in all areas as his unexpected powers emerged and matured. Tonight, when most of those around him slept and psychic interference was at its ebb, that impression of dark foreboding connected with his twin was even stronger.

  Closing his eyes, Javan tried to bring the perception into clearer focus, ignoring the faint, tickling sensation of several carp come to investigate his feet and to mouth gently at his toes. He gained a greater measure of tranquillity, but no clearer impression of what was amiss. After a while he looked up with a start, his attention recalled to the present by the sound of horses approaching the gate to the yard on the other side of the cloister wall, and a somehow familiar voice shouting “Porter!”

  Charlan? The thought came immediately to Javan, as he turned his head to listen more closely and the voice cried out again.

  “Porter? Open the gate, I say. Open in the name of the king! I bear a message for Prince Javan!”

  It was Charlan!

  Even as Javan jerked his feet out of the water and set to drying them hastily on the hem of his soutane, other voices were added to Charlan’s, along with the sounds of bolts being withdrawn and the clatter of many hooves on cobblestones as a large number of horses entered the yard. The glare of many torches lit the air above the cloister wall, and Javan estimated that there might be as many
as a dozen men with his former squire. As the voices died down, Javan realized that someone must have been summoned to speak to Charlan.

  But what was Charlan doing here at this hour? It could not be to tell of Alroy’s death, for he had demanded admittance in the name of the king and asked to see Prince Javan.

  Of course, Alroy could be dead and Rhys Michael declared king—but surely not even Rhun or Murdoch would have been stupid enough to send Charlan to tell his former master that his crown was usurped.

  Which all suggested that Alroy was still alive but failing. As Javan slipped his good foot into his sandal and then set about the more time-consuming process of putting his special boot back on, he decided that could also account for what he had been feeling all day. And if Alroy was failing—

  Mince no words, Javan, he told himself. If Alroy is dying, you’re about to have to fight for your crown. You’d just better hope you’re ready …

  He was fastening up the last buckle on his boot when torches approached from the processional door that led into the cloister from the abbey church. Heart pounding in his throat, he scooped up his scapular and rose, automatically starting to don it before the abbot saw him out of uniform—for Father Halex surely would be the one to bring Charlan to him, the only one with authority to do so.

  But then he decided to take the gamble that this was the call he had been waiting for and that he had removed the hated symbol of servitude to the Custodes Fidei for the last time. As the torches approached, Father Halex clearly in the lead and Charlan’s towhead right beside him, Javan dropped the scapular back onto the grass and contented himself with doing up the throat of his soutane.

  Charlan strode out ahead of the abbot as he saw his former master, and Javan drew himself to attention as the young knight drew near and made him a respectful bow, left hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. The young knight wore a quilted jazerant over his riding leathers, token indication that this was not a social call, but that seemed to be the extent of his armor. Still, it was a measure of the impact he had made on arrival that Charlan retained his sword and dagger, even within these cloistered walls, though he had not been allowed to bring any of his men with him.

  “Your Highness, I bear important news from Rhemuth,” Charlan said carefully, obviously as aware as Javan that the abbot and his two attendant monks were taking in every word.

  “The king?” Javan asked in a low voice, afraid for what he would hear.

  “The king lives,” Charlan breathed, “but he commands your presence. The Prince Rhys Michael bade me come, and gave me this as token of his authority.”

  Without taking his eyes from Charlan’s dark ones, Javan opened a palm under the closed fist Charlan offered, glancing then at what lay gleaming in the torchlight. It was Rhys Michael’s signet, near mate to Javan’s own, which he kept hidden in a small leather pouch under the mattress in his cell.

  “Brother Javan,” the abbot said pointedly, “this is highly irregular. You are under obedience to this Order. And where is the rest of your habit?”

  “I mean you no disrespect, Father Abbot, but I am under a higher obedience to my king, who is my brother,” Javan replied, ignoring the question of his habit as he glanced back at Charlan. “Rhys Michael sent you, Sir Charlan?”

  “Aye, my lord, for the king was too weak to make his wishes known outside his sickroom.” Charlan delved into the pouch hanging from his belt and produced a folded handkerchief, which he handed to Javan. “As further earnest that this is his personal request, the prince bade me give you this.”

  Carefully Javan unfolded the soft linen, deliberately angling it so that Father Halex could not see what it contained. The earring of twisted gold wire was mate to another he had been directed to remove prior to making his vows and bespoke the very urgency of Rhys Michael’s summons—that this, indeed, touched on the kingship of Gwynedd. He kept his expression neutral as he folded the earring back into its linen nest, deliberately ignoring the abbot as he slipped Rhys Michael’s ring onto his right hand and looked up at Charlan again.

  “I’ll need to boot up and change,” he said, handing the handkerchief back to the young knight for safekeeping. “Look after that, will you? And did you bring me a horse, or shall I borrow one from the abbey stables?”

  “Now, see here, Brother Javan!” the abbot began.

  “It’s Prince Javan now, my Lord Abbot,” Javan replied, rounding on the older man with a look of fierce determination. “And I ride at the command of my king—and your king as well.”

  The abbot gaped and glanced indignantly at his two monks for support. “But you’re under vows. You owe me obedience!”

  “My vows are and always have been temporary, my lord,” Javan said, quietly but firmly. “They now are at an end. I’m leaving. So unless you intend to take up the matter with Sir Charlan and the other knights waiting in the yard, I suggest you stand aside and allow me to pass. Sir Charlan, would you please accompany me?”

  The abbot gave way speechlessly as Javan pressed forward, Charlan at his elbow, and the monks likewise parted to either side, leaving them a clear path across the garden.

  “I did bring you a horse, your Highness,” Charlan murmured breathlessly as they made for the processional door, away from the now-muttering abbot. “I have a spare pair of breeches and a short tunic in my saddlebag, too, if you’re in need of proper riding clothes. It would be a grim ride, bare-legged.”

  “No, I have what I need in my cell, from my last trip to Rhemuth,” Javan said. “Nothing fancy, but it will do the job.” He pushed open the processional door and led Charlan briefly into the south transept and around to the night stair. As they mounted the stair, Javan steadying his hobbling gait with a hand on the thick rope swagged up the wall, he glanced back over his shoulder at the following Charlan.

  “How is my brother Alroy, Charlan? Did you see him?”

  “No, sir. Only Rhys Michael. But he said he’d just come from the king, and he looked really worried. I’m reasonably confident we can get you back to Rhemuth in time, but I don’t think I’d have been sent like this, in the middle of the night, unless it was urgent. Rhys Michael took a big risk, too, sending me the way he did. It’s my impression that it was against the wishes of Archbishop Hubert and whatever other great lords might have been waiting outside the king’s chamber.”

  They had reached the landing now, and Javan led the young knight quickly along the dormer corridor, limping only a little on the flat, ignoring the occasional sleepy head that peered out of a doorway.

  “In here,” Javan murmured, pausing to take up the night-light set in a niche in the corridor before leading Charlan into the tiny room designated as his monastic cell.

  He lit the rushlight in another niche inside, then handed the night-light to Charlan to replace in the hallway while he began unbuttoning his soutane, starting to formulate a plan of action as he did so.

  “I hope you don’t mind squiring for me, the way you used to do,” Javan said as the young knight ducked anxiously back into the room. “You’ll find my other boot and my riding things in that chest at the foot of the bed. I want to get out of here as quickly as we can, before the abbot decides that his Custodes men are a match for yours.”

  Grinning, Charlan bent to the task assigned.

  “The possibility had crossed my mind, your Highness,” he said easily, quickly producing the desired boot and then beginning to rummage through the stacks of uniformly black garments. “However, I think the presence of a dozen armed knights in his yard may have dampened the good abbot’s enthusiasm for such rash action. Are these the breeches you wanted?” he asked, holding a handful of black aloft by one leg.

  Glancing up, Javan gave a nod.

  “As for being your squire,” Charlan went on, tossing the breeches onto the bed, “I shall always count those months in your service as my honor and privilege. I—hope you’ll be gracious enough to accept my continued service, when you are king.”

  “When I am
king—”

  Javan had been in the process of stripping the hated Custodes cincture from around his waist, and he stiffened and then swallowed before deliberately dropping it onto the bed like a limp snake—the braided cincture of crimson and gold intertwined, whose colors the Custodes Fidei had usurped from the Haldane royal house to lend credibility to their mission against Deryni.

  “I hope I needn’t tell you that being king is the last thing I would have wished, if it meant that harm would come to my brother,” Javan said quietly. He shrugged out of the heavy soutane and let it fall in a pool of wool around his feet, stepping free awkwardly to sit on the edge of the bed, now clad only in the baggy underdrawers the monks were allowed.

  “I have to face realities, though,” he continued as Charlan knelt at his feet and began unbuckling the special boot. “I hope that doesn’t sound disloyal. But if he’s to die before he gets an heir—”

  Charlan shot him an appraising look before returning his attention to the buckles.

  “Better you than Rhys Michael,” he said shortly, not looking up. “Oh, I have no quarrel with your younger brother, Sire, but you’re the heir. And you have the backbone to stand up to the lords of state—which I don’t think your brother does. The king certainly doesn’t.”

  Anger flared in the grey Haldane eyes, and Javan kicked his good foot free of its sandal.

  “It isn’t Alroy’s fault that he’s been under their thumb,” he said sharply. “He’s always been frail. And once the regents had driven Lord Rhys and Bishop Alister from Court, the court physicians had orders to keep him just slightly sedated all the time, even when he was healthy otherwise. I didn’t want to believe it at first, but I saw it for myself, the last few times I had a chance to be alone with him.”