King Javan’s Year Read online

  Manfred drew up just before the steps, at the last door on the right. Setting his hand to the latch, he stood aside as he pushed it open. Javan did not like the smile on his face, just before he bowed so that Javan could not see it. As he had feared, others of the former regents were in the anteroom within, chiefest among them Manfred’s brother, Hubert MacInnis, Archbishop of Valoret and Primate of All Gwynedd.

  The archbishop bestirred himself to stand as Javan entered, Rhys Michael and Charlan following. At Hubert’s gesture, Tomais and Bertrand and the other knights remained outside, though not without Rhys Michael’s cautious exchange of glances with Charlan, who stationed himself with his back against the edge of the open door, resisting any attempt of Manfred to close it. If the princes called, Charlan and the other knights would come, regardless of what the archbishop wanted.

  Hubert himself had grown more mountainous than ever, in only the month since Javan last had seen him; or perhaps it was the sheer expanse of purple cassock, unbroken by the extra layers of episcopal attire with which the archbishop usually was wont to adorn his ample person. A pudgy left hand fingered the amethyst-set pectoral cross hanging around his fleshy neck. The rosebud mouth was set in petulant disapproval. He started to extend his ring to Javan as their eyes met, then thought better of it and clasped the ringed hand to its mate in a pious but distant pose of self-righteous authority.

  “Brother Javan. We had not thought to see you here. Do you not have duties which require your presence at the seminary? To quit the abbey without leave is a grievous fault, which I am certain will earn you a severe penance when you return.”

  From behind him, two Custodes priests moved a little closer, so that for the first time Javan became aware of the candles burning in a far corner of the room, flanking a jewelled altar cross and the veiled silhouette of a ciborium. The presence of the Blessed Sacrament outside the king’s sickroom confirmed that Alroy’s condition was grave indeed.

  Glancing around, Javan chose his words carefully. He thought he could control Hubert if he had to, but not in front of so many—and best if he could deescalate this situation with his wits alone. In addition to Earl Tammaron, whom he occasionally almost liked, and Manfred’s pimply-faced son Iver, whom almost no one liked, Earl Murdoch’s two sons also were present—the randy and devious Sir Richard, who was married to the constable’s daughter, and the burly bully Cashel, but a year older than Javan and the king, who was constantly spoiling for a fight and was good enough to win most of them. They were but a few of the new blood the former regents were attempting to insert into the Council of Gwynedd—and would do so, Javan decided then and there, literally over his dead body.

  “I have not come to argue monastic discipline with you, Archbishop,” he said quietly—but forcefully. “I have come at the command of the king. My duty now is here, at his side, so long as he lives; and to take up his crown when he is gone, as is my birthright.”

  As the young lords glanced restively among themselves, and Tammaron looked decidedly uneasy, Hubert drew himself up in his full archepiscopal dignity.

  “Do you forsake your vows so easily, then, Brother Javan?” he said. “You made promises to me and to God. You cannot simply set those promises aside as the whim takes you.”

  Javan set his fists on his hips and looked the archbishop up and down.

  “I’ll not be drawn into argument, your Grace,” he said evenly, “and certainly not about temporary vows all but forced upon me while I was underage. I’ve come to see my brother, who commands my presence and is dying. If there’s a drop of Christian charity in your body, you’ll stand aside so that I may obey his dying wish.”

  As he headed past Hubert, Rhys Michael stayed well on Javan’s other side, screened from the archbishop’s bulk. The speechless Hubert glanced at his compatriots for support, which was not forthcoming, though gloomy looks abounded. By the time Hubert had wits enough to look back, the princes were already disappearing behind the door to the king’s sickroom, Rhys Michael pushing the door closed behind them.

  Inside, the Healer Oriel rose from his stool at the head of the king’s bed. He had been wringing out yet another cool cloth for the king’s forehead, but now he replaced the cloth in the basin held by a squire and dismissed the boy with a gesture.

  “Wait outside, please, Quiric,” he murmured. “I’ll call you when I need you again.”

  When the boy had withdrawn, bowing nervously to Javan and to Rhys Michael, who opened the door far enough to let him pass, Oriel said, “Thank you for coming, your Highness.”

  Sighing, Javan came around to the other side of the bed, forcing his gaze to move across the still, almost-motionless form of his brother the king, nearly as white as the linen sheeting drawn up just past his waist. Alroy’s labored breath still stirred the narrow chest, but the closed eyes had dark smudges beneath them. Perspiration soaked the raven hair, which was slightly longer than Javan’s monastic barbering.

  Javan started to reach for the slack left hand lying atop the sheet beside Alroy’s body—it wore the Haldane Ring of Fire, despite Alroy’s desperate illness—then paused to lift his gaze to Oriel instead.

  “How long?” he whispered, searching the Healer’s eyes.

  “However long he has, prolonging his suffering cannot be justified,” Oriel murmured, “for he cannot possibly recover. I have his pain controlled for now, and his sleep is one of Healer’s crafting, not the drugs he has been taking; but I cannot hold this for very long.”

  “And if you do nothing?” Javan said.

  Oriel bowed his head. “He wanted desperately to see you, my prince—and that he should be able to speak to you a final time without his mind clouded by the drugs that can give him ease. I have promised that I will make that possible—though it means that your final exchange with him will not be entirely private, for I cannot maintain my controls at a distance. I—will try to be as unobtrusive as possible.”

  Javan swallowed with difficulty. “I—see. And when we have spoken? When he has told me what he wishes me to know?”

  “Then I have promised that I will give him ease,” the Healer said, not looking at him. “It will not be a fatal dose, for I may not, by my Healer’s oaths; but I will give him peaceful sleep until he—until he quite literally drowns in the fluids that are filling his lungs.” He swallowed, as if feeling those fluids encroach upon his own lungs. “But he will not suffer anymore. It is the best ease I can offer him, once he has unburdened his soul to you.”

  Tears were filling Javan’s eyes, and he had to blink hard to regain control.

  “Has he unburdened his soul to a priest?” he asked quietly. “I saw that they’d brought the Blessed Sacrament outside. Has he received the Last Rites?”

  Oriel’s lips compressed beneath his faint smudge of moustache as he shook his head. “He said that there is no priest in Rhemuth from whom he will accept them. A few hours ago, while he slept, both archbishops came and anointed him anyway and gave him conditional absolution, but he has absolutely refused to receive Communion from them or any of their priests. Perhaps you can reason with him.”

  Javan ducked his head, remembering how often he had been obliged to accept Communion from Hubert, loathing the man but forcing himself to separate the man from the Sacrament he dispensed. That Alroy finally was taking a stand on this point spoke much of his moral courage, however belatedly it was being manifest. At least on that point, Javan thought he might be able to ease Alroy’s mind.

  But first he must discover his brother’s mind, on which there were far more pressing concerns than the outward token of a peace with the Maker Whom he very shortly would behold. Drawing deep breath, Javan dared to take Alroy’s limp hand in his, pressing its back tenderly to his lips before glancing across at Oriel.

  “Wake him, please,” he said softly. “And I shall rely upon your holy vows as a Healer to ensure that what passes between the king and myself does not go beyond this room.”

  Nodding, Oriel passed one hand ac
ross the king’s closed eyes, withdrawing then to let the fingertips of both hands rest lightly against the bare right shoulder. Alroy stirred at that touch; but as the grey eyes fluttered open, no pain in any part of their regard, they sought only Javan’s. The fever-flushed lips parted in a relieved smile, and the hand in Javan’s tightened, weak in strength but fierce in joy and thanksgiving.

  “You came,” he breathed. “Rhysem said he’d bring you, and he did!”

  “He did,” Javan agreed. “Or actually, Charlan did—though it was Rhysem who was brave enough to send him. Shall I call him over?”

  Faintly Alroy’s head turned back and forth on the pillow, his eyes never leaving Javan’s.

  “No, there will be a little time yet for him,” he whispered. “Oriel has promised me. But first I wanted to give you our father’s ring and the Eye of Rom. They belong to the King of Gwynedd—and I am king no longer.”

  “No! You are king, so long as you live!” Javan whispered fiercely. “I will not take them while you live, Sire!”

  Alroy closed his eyes briefly and smiled. “Sire. I shall never be that now, shall I? But you must be. Promise that you shall be the king I should have been, that everything we all have suffered will not have been for nothing.”

  “I promise,” Javan whispered, bowing his head over his brother’s hand.

  “And if you will not yet take the ring—which I did not receive until after our father’s death—then at least take the Eye of Rom. It would mean much to me, to see you wear it as our father used to do.”

  To this compromise, at least, Javan could raise no real objection, for Cinhil himself had passed the Eye of Rom to his heir while still alive, just as Alroy now desired to do. Still, Javan’s hands were trembling as he gently removed the stone from his brother’s ear; and tears were streaming down his face by the time he threaded its golden wire through his own earlobe and fastened it. He had given his own earring to Oriel before making the exchange, indicating that Oriel should fasten it back in Alroy’s ear, and the king smiled faintly as he lifted a wasted hand to brush the little hoop of twisted gold wire.

  “A prince again,” he murmured. “’Tis better thus.” The grey gaze lifted to take the measure of the tawny ruby now gracing Javan’s right ear.

  “One other thing,” he said after a few seconds, when he had looked his fill. “Something happened to us, the night our father died. Did you ever find out what it was?”

  Javan dared a quick glance at Oriel, but the young Healer was bowed as if in prayer, at least appearing to be oblivious to what was being said. Anyway, if he could not trust Oriel, his cause was lost already. And he did not want to deny his dying brother what little he knew.

  “There was a ritual that night in Father’s chapel,” he said softly, himself only able to recall scant images of what had occurred. “Tavis drugged us, on Father’s orders, but the Deryni were behind it. You knew that Father had magic from the Deryni, didn’t you?”

  Alroy’s eyes searched his brother’s face, wanting to believe, but doubtful. “I’d heard rumors, over the years. I know he always seemed to know when we weren’t telling the truth. Did he really have magic?”

  Javan nodded. “That’s what Bishop Alister told me. He was involved with what happened that night. Also Rhys and Father Joram and the Lady Evaine.” He glanced down, still unable to connect exactly with what had happened—though Evaine had told him, at their last meeting, that he would remember when the time was appropriate. He wondered if that would be today, once Alroy was gone.

  “Anyway, it wasn’t their ritual that night; it was Father’s,” Javan went on. “And it had something to do with—preparing us to receive his power—or at least setting its potential. I—think it was supposed to surface in you, as the heir, once he was dead.” He searched his brother’s eyes. “But it never did, did it?”

  Alroy swallowed and shook his head weakly. “Life might have been a lot easier if it had,” he whispered. “If I’d even been able to Truth-Read—”

  “I think it was the drugs the regents gave you,” Javan said, to shift any sense of guilt away from Alroy and onto the former regents—whose actions might well have prevented Alroy from coming into his magic, for all Javan knew. “If they hadn’t kept you drugged all the time—”

  Alroy closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head again. “It doesn’t matter now,” he whispered, stifling a slight cough. “They did, and I didn’t. Do you—do you think it will pass to you, once I’m gone?”

  Nodding wordlessly, Javan squeezed his dying brother’s hand. “Some of it already has,” he whispered. “I don’t think it was supposed to, but it did. It started soon after Father died. Tavis thought I might have gotten primed for it by working with him for so long. I got accustomed to having him put me into trance when he’d use his Healing to work on my foot. Shields were the first thing we discovered. We found that out the night after his hand was cut off. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I wanted to help. I put myself totally into his power that night, to do with me as he needed. And he—was able to pull energy from me, past shields that neither of us had even suspected were there.”

  “Shields …” Alroy barely mouthed the word, his grey eyes wide with wonder and a little fear.

  “I know,” Javan went on. “It all scares me, too. I’ve gotten much stronger since then. Alroy, I have powers almost like a Deryni. If I’m careful, I can control some humans.” He hazarded a quick grin. “I used to do it to Charlan all the time, once I found out how. It’s dangerous, though, if anyone found out.”

  Alroy swallowed hard, stifling another cough, and glanced uneasily at Oriel, still bowed deep in trancing beside him.

  “He knows some of it,” Javan whispered, answering the unasked question. “No one else does, other than the Deryni working directly with Father Joram.”

  “What about Rhysem?” Alroy whispered, looking beyond the bed where Rhys Michael guarded the door.

  Javan shook his head. “There was no way to tell him. And it only would have made things more dangerous, once I was away from Court.”

  “But you’re back now,” Alroy said anxiously. “And you do intend to stay, don’t you?”

  Javan smiled faintly. “I’m not meant to be a priest,” he said, “though I think I understand now what Father was giving up in accepting the crown. In any case, the seminary’s been a grand place to hide, these past few years—and to acquire a useful education while I gave myself time to grow up. I’d hoped it would all be in aid of helping you rule, as one of your ministers; but I suppose I guessed, deep inside, that it wasn’t going to happen. Murdoch and his cronies were never going to let you rule.”

  “That’s why they kept me drugged,” Alroy whispered, closing his eyes briefly. “Just enough to take the edge off any resistance or independent thought. I knew, after a while—but there wasn’t anything I could do about it.

  “I’ve foiled their plans, though, haven’t I? At least I’ve given you time. You’re four years older than I was when I became king. You won’t need to have regents. And you’re onto them. You won’t be as gullible as I was.”

  Javan bowed his head, blinking back new tears. It was senseless to pretend that Alroy was not dying.

  “I—hope I’ll have better luck,” he murmured. “God, how I wish there were something I could do for you.”

  Alroy swallowed noisily, tears swimming in the shadowed eyes. “You’ve done it, just by being here,” he whispered. “I’m glad it was in time. Oriel has—has promised that I don’t have to suffer any more. But stay with me … please. Even if I seem to be far, far away before the end, somehow I’ll know you’re there. It isn’t that I’m afraid, though I do wish …”

  His voice trailed off, and Javan leaned closer to peer into the clouded grey eyes.

  “You do wish what?” he breathed.

  “It would have been a comfort to receive the Sacrament one last time,” he murmured, not looking at Javan. “But I won’t receive it from Hubert. That would be sac
rilege.”

  The coughing bout that started this time was one that Oriel could not muffle, and he stirred from his Healer’s trancing to help Javan shift the king onto his side, where Alroy still coughed uncontrollably until Oriel sent him plummeting into unconsciousness.

  “It will have to be the drugs soon,” Oriel murmured, when the coughing had abated and he could at last distract enough attention from his patient to look across at the anxious Javan. “I can bring him around once more, for just a few minutes, but anything beyond that would only prolong his suffering needlessly. If you have anything else you need to say to one another, you’d better make up your mind quickly.”

  Mind whirling furiously, Javan gave Oriel a nod. From somewhere—he had an impression of Evaine’s memory behind it—a compelling image had flashed in his mind. Suddenly bringing a parallel of that image into present reality became all important.

  “Master Oriel, can you delay that last time for a few more minutes, in a good cause?” he asked.

  “As long as it isn’t for too many more minutes, Sire,” the Healer replied. “What do you intend to do?”

  Javan’s thin smile was not pleasant. “Something that will not please the archbishop,” he said, motioning for Rhys Michael to join him. “Rhysem, come and stay with him, would you? And pay no mind to any shouting and arguing you may hear from the next room.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Behold, I have set before thee an open door.

  —Revelations 3:8

  Beckoning a puzzled Rhys Michael to come and stand beside the royal sickbed, Javan buttoned up the neck of his tunic, then clapped a reassuring hand to his younger brother’s shoulder before himself heading toward the door. He drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders as he set his hands on the latch, then opened the door and stepped through, pulling it to, but not latched.