King Javan’s Year

by Katherine Kurtz

  As he stirred it with a finger, Charlan came in from the other room with a silver goblet and filled it as well. Guiscard’s father remained in the outer room, ostensibly working on documents that the king required for the morrow, but actually to ensure with a Deryni’s skills that no one intruded on the king’s sleep.

  “That must not be the merasha,” Javan said, scrunching closer as Guiscard finished stirring the second cup and sucked the drips off his finger, making a sour face.

  “Nope, the sedative. Ugh, that’s bitter! But a proper Healer concocted this, because I don’t know exactly what our eager court apothecary put into that one.” He indicated the rejected cup. “And aside from the fact that merasha is a liquid, not a powder, I’d never, ever stir it with my finger. It works fastest if it’s introduced directly into the blood—from a Deryni pricker, a sword-edge or arrowhead, whatever—but even getting it on the skin can be dangerous.” He reached into the pouch at his belt and pulled out a small brown glass vial stoppered with cork. “This is the merasha.”

  Javan stared at the little vial in Guiscard’s hand, wondering that something so small could bring all a Deryni’s dread powers to naught.

  “Do I—drink it?” he whispered.

  “In wine,” Guiscard replied, handing the vial to Charlan. “But first you’re to experience it the way the Custodes usually administer it.”

  At his nod, Charlan carefully removed the cork to reveal two slender slivers of silvery metal stuck into the underside, close beside one another. One pale droplet shivered between the needles where the points nearly met.

  “Is that supposed to be a Deryni pricker?” Javan breathed.

  “Dom Rickart says it will do the same job,” Guiscard replied.

  Unsmiling, he sat down on the king’s right and reached across to take his left hand, turning the palm upward as Charlan got a better grip on the needle-tipped cork.

  “You’ve seen this done before, Sire,” Guiscard murmured as Charlan dipped the needles into the brown vial again. “The discomfort will be minimal, at least from the needles. I’ve asked Charlan to do this, so I don’t risk dosing myself as well.”

  “It’s that potent?” Javan whispered.

  “It is for Deryni—and maybe for Haldanes.”

  With that, before Javan even realized what was happening, Charlan also grasped his hand and jabbed the needles hard into the palm. Javan gasped at the sharp bite of pain, remembering other needles stabbing into flesh beside a pool where a holy man offered cleansing to those touched by the Deryni taint.

  He tried to keep his breathing steady and calm as Charlan pulled the needles out and Guiscard closed his hand to contain the blood and the drug and the pain, but after only a few breaths he began to feel vague tendrils of chill radiating up his arm.

  “Guiscard?” he whispered as a wave of dizziness made him reel, suddenly disoriented. At the same time, the chill in his arm spread rapidly to the rest of his body, beginning to fuddle all his perceptions.

  “Damn,” Guiscard muttered under his breath, enfolding him with one arm and setting his other hand across Javan’s forehead. “I’d hoped this wouldn’t happen. Give me whatever control you can and let me try to show you how to channel this.”

  His mind surged across the bond of flesh even as he spoke, and Javan could not have stopped it even if he wanted. He could feel his shields disintegrating, falling away in tatters, new waves of dizziness and even nausea engulfing him so that he could hardly bear Guiscard’s touch. He tried to reach out for his powers, but only chaos met him. A roaring filled his ears, blocking out all other sound, and the room seemed to begin undulating around him. He closed his eyes to block it out. He dared not imagine how anyone could actually function while enduring this.

  You can level out some of it, came the thought, unbidden, in his mind. Turn the energies this way. You can survive this!

  Somehow he realized what he was being told and thought he almost understood how to do what was being asked. But another part of him was gibbering with terror and knew that if his enemies did this to him, he was doomed.

  “All right, I think that’s the best we can do,” he heard a voice saying, though he had to concentrate on every word to make sense of it. “We might as well get on with the worst of it. Charlan—”

  Through the roaring in his ears, he could hear the dim clink of glass against metal. Then his head was being tilted back and metal pressed against his lips.

  “Drink it down, Sire,” he heard Guiscard’s voice murmur. “That’s it. Just one more swallow. Try to remember the taste at the back of your tongue. That’s a distinctive characteristic of merasha when it’s taken by mouth.”

  If he had thought the first dose was bad, the second was indescribable. He had taken only about three swallows, but the drugged wine lay in his stomach like molten lead. He wanted to retch it up, but even that seemed to require too much effort. Pressure had focused behind his closed eyes, churning, throbbing, passing quickly through mere discomfort into true pain that curdled and boiled just beneath the top of his skull.

  The agony of it made him want to scream, but a hand across his mouth prevented it. His body began to arch against the hands restraining it, his limbs going into spasms. He kept thinking it could not possibly get worse—but it did. And worse beyond that.

  Some distant part of his body that really belonged to someone else finally began swallowing, gulping great swallows of something that slid down his tortured throat like molten snow. He choked and coughed, but someone commanded him to keep swallowing, and he could not disobey.

  But then, far too slowly, the anguish was receding under ever-darkening waves that brought a gradual sinking, though oblivion was laced with flashes of nightmare shadow that persisted for many lifetimes. Finally, mercifully, he slipped into utter emptiness.

  Consciousness returned some time later to the accompaniment of a throbbing in his head and a sick, queasy stirring in his stomach. Candlelight beating at his closed eyelids intensified the pain, and he moaned as he raised one arm to lay across his eyes.

  The sound summoned someone to sit down beside him on his right, slightly depressing whatever he was lying on, tilting him slightly downward on that side. Even that slight movement intensified the pain throbbing behind his eyes and set new nausea churning in his empty stomach. As he curled onto his side, reflexively clutching at his gut with the arm that was not shielding his eyes, he could feel a strong arm shifting under his head, lifting it slightly. The movement severed the last shred of control that was keeping him from throwing up, and he found himself retching into a basin that somehow was exactly where it needed to be.

  A soft cloth was wiping across his mouth when he was done, the basin somehow removed. And as he collapsed weakly onto his back again, he forced his eyes to open and focus on his benefactor—and recoiled in an instant of sheer, mindless panic as his eyes beheld the black habit and haloed lion-head badge of a Custodes monk.

  “Easy!” a somehow familiar voice said, though Javan could not quite seem to put a name to the tanned face with the short-cropped Custodes tonsure. “It’s Jesse. You’re going to be fine. Unfortunately, you seem to have acquired a Deryni aversion to merasha as well as an affinity for handling Deryni powers.”

  Javan’s relief that it was Jesse washed through him like a wave of comfort, leaving him weak and helpless. He could not remember ever feeling so miserable before, even that time Tavis had made him ill to lure Rhys to them. A part of him decided that he deserved to suffer thus, that he was being punished for his part in Rhys’ death.

  “Here, now,” Jesse murmured, brushing a tanned hand across his burning forehead and obviously able to Read exactly what was going through Javan’s mind. “Don’t do this to yourself. That wasn’t your fault. You did what you thought you had to do. Rhys’ death was an unfortunate accident.”

  Somehow, though he had told himself otherwise for nearly four years, Javan began to believe the poised young Deryni who kept whispering reassurance and
easing thoughts with the words, past shields still hopelessly in tatters. He let the man raise him long enough to give him something cool to drink, swallowing obediently, letting the other’s mind enfold his and soothe his pain. Eventually he slipped into blessed sleep.

  He woke again at midmorning to a golden flood of sunlight pouring through the open balcony doors of his sleeping chamber, still feeling fragile but with his headache now diminished to a dull ache behind his eyes. Jesse was gone, and Charlan was laying out fresh clothing. The young knight smiled as he saw that his master was awake, nothing in his expression indicating that he was aware of anything untoward having occurred during the night. Javan decided that Guiscard must already have made the necessary adjustments to their human ally’s memory, now that the crisis was past.

  And it did seem to be past. Javan closed his eyes briefly and tested first at his shields, then at his ability to cast out with his senses, and found all intact, if a little stiff, like sore muscles after too strenuous a physical exertion, if mental abilities could be likened to the body.

  He opened his eyes and sat up slowly, stretching carefully and glancing out the window as Guiscard also came into the room.

  “How late is it?” Javan asked.

  “Nearly noon. You had a rough night of it.”

  Javan snorted. “Somehow I knew that.” He blinked again, bracing himself before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed to cool the soles of his feet against the stone floor.

  “You know, I think it might have been better to wait until winter to try this,” he said to Guiscard. “I thought I was burning.”

  “You could have done it in a snowbank and it wouldn’t have helped,” Guiscard said, handing him a goblet.

  “What’s this?”

  “Just water. I’d advise drinking a lot of it in the next day or two, to flush the last of the drug out of your body. I’ve also drawn you a cool bath in the next room. If you think you’re up to it, an appearance downstairs probably wouldn’t go amiss. Etienne’s managed to come up with a query regarding those documents he was working on last night that makes it pointless to have the Council meet this afternoon, so you don’t have to face that prospect. You might try a few rounds at the archery butts, if the thump of the arrows wouldn’t bother your headache too much.”

  As Javan grimaced, Guiscard added, “I don’t think you really want to ride with that head. And you certainly don’t want anyone bashing you on a practice helmet or clanging swords in your vicinity.”

  “Archery,” Javan agreed, heading for the garderobe. “Guiscard,” he called from inside, “was I dreaming earlier, or did a Custodes monk really come to visit me during the night?”

  “Oh, you had a lot of nightmares last night, Sire,” came the cheery reply, “but I don’t think he was one of them. Actually, he said you did very well.”

  As Javan came out, he gave Guiscard a doubtful shake of his head. “If that was well done, I’d hate to be at the bottom of the class.” He sighed. “Well, one more thing to worry about. But where’s this bath you promised?”

  Javan survived his stint at the archery butts, though he shot rather more poorly than he had in months. A few of the younger knights inquired about his headache of the previous evening, and he admitted having had a restless night despite a court physician’s ministrations, but he assured them he was feeling better now.

  He retired early that night, allowing Guiscard to assist him into sleep, and woke largely recovered the next morning. A brisk ride along the river did much to restore him further, and only a vague feeling of malaise lingered through the Council meeting that afternoon. After another good night’s sleep, this time without Guiscard’s help, he counted the incident past, though he found himself wondering when and whether he ought to warn his brother of what he had discovered.

  In the weeks that followed, regular letters from Jason continued to reassure the king that he been right to send his brother into the field. A report from the usually sober Lord Ainslie, of the prince presiding over his first local Court, was almost effusive in its praise.

  The prince was gracious but single-minded, giving careful consideration to all evidence presented, no matter the witness be highborn or low, Ainslie wrote. He has a good ear for nuances of testimony. I think your Highness would be proud of him.

  Auguries closer to home were not so favorable. Javan had expected a relatively quiet autumn, once Rhys Michael left, and other than his bout with merasha, it was. But when days stretched into weeks without the return of Paulin, Javan began to worry that it might be all too quiet.

  Not that he particularly wanted Paulin back in Rhemuth, but he wondered what plots the Custodes Vicar General might be hatching with his Deryni agent at Arx Fidei, especially with the time fast approaching for another of Father Faelan’s debriefings. When he inquired of Lord Albertus about the delay in Paulin’s return, the Earl Marshal indicated vaguely that he thought it had to do with the lingering illness of one Brother Georgius, a boyhood friend, whose passing was expected at any time. His phrasing left Javan uncertain whether Brother Georgius even existed, but it was nothing he dared pursue, lest he arouse unwanted suspicion.

  Whatever the true motivations behind Paulin’s continued absence, it was seen with increasing dread by Father Faelan. As the month wore on, he made it increasingly clear to Javan that he really did not want to go back to Arx Fidei again.

  The priest’s reluctance was certainly understandable, if inconvenient. Since he had survived the first return engagement, Javan was confident that Faelan probably was not in danger of being forced to divulge anything damaging to either Javan or himself, even if deeply probed by Paulin’s Deryni agent. Javan also had been careful not to expose the priest to anything else in the ensuing month that he did not want Paulin to know about. If possible, he wanted to let Faelan slip solely into the role of royal confessor, with no further involvement in intrigues of the sort necessitated just after his arrival. After a few months of totally innocuous reporting, Javan hoped that the Custodes would lose interest in Faelan and let him get on with being the ordinary priest he longed to be.

  That mattered not a bit to Faelan, who had no conscious knowledge of how Javan was trying to protect him. His dread of being put through a repeat of his first interrogation at the abbey only increased as the appointed time for his departure drew near. Given the real possibility that Custodes whim might cost Faelan his life on any given return, it did not seem appropriate that Javan should force his compliance, even though he could have done it without him being any the wiser. As Faelan had told Javan when he first arrived at Court, it was one thing to die for something …

  Javan did insist that Faelan consider the possible consequences if he did not go. He could grant Faelan physical protection and even try to persuade Paulin that Faelan’s failure to return came of Javan’s own refusal to let him go; but at best, it would raise new questions about what he or the king might have to hide. And if perceived as willful disobedience on Faelan’s part, it could bring suspension as a priest, expulsion from the Order, and even excommunication.

  Michaelmas came and went—Rhys Michael’s birthday, celebrated with a modest feast at which king and Court drank the prince’s health in absentia—and the following Monday, the appointed day for Faelan’s departure. That afternoon, Father Ascelin came up from Saint Hilary’s, for he was Faelan’s designated replacement when the priest was scheduled to be away; but Faelan did not leave. Two days later, just after midday, Paulin himself arrived back at the capital with only a pair of Custodes knights for escort, all of them on well-lathered horses. Very shortly, Javan was summoned for an immediate and urgent audience on behalf of the Custodes Vicar General.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  For their heart studieth destruction, and their lips talk of mischief.

  —Proverbs 24:2

  “Sire, I wish to inquire why Father Faelan has not yet presented himself at Arx Fidei,” Paulin began, coming right to the point. He had not even taken the time t
o change from his dusty riding clothes. “He is expected on the first Monday of every month, as you well know. When he did not appear after two days, I began to be concerned. Am I to understand that Father Faelan has not yet departed Rhemuth?”

  “That is correct, my lord,” Javan replied. He had received Paulin informally in the little withdrawing room behind the dais of the great hall, attended only by Charlan and Robear. He was wearing the Haldane sword and the coronet of running lions with a red Haldane tunic. Lord Albertus accompanied the Custodes Vicar General, looking altogether too menacing in his black leathers and the mantle of the Order. Like everyone except Paulin, he, too, wore a sword at his side, close by the red-fringed white sash of his Custodes knighthood.

  “Father Faelan has not departed Rhemuth,” Paulin repeated incredulously.

  “That is my understanding.”

  “Might one ask why? I thought I had made it clear that his monthly retreats were one of the conditions of his appointment to the royal household.”

  Javan leaned back carefully in his chair of state, measuring Paulin with his eyes.

  “My lord, it is barely three weeks since Father Faelan’s return from last month’s retreat,” he said boldly, neglecting to mention that his own delay of Faelan’s first trip had added to Paulin’s delay letting him return. “Already I begin to find such absences intrusive. I should think quarterly would be sufficient. It certainly was not convenient that he be away from Court again so quickly at this time.”

  “With all respect, Sire, the convenience of this Court—”

  “The convenience of the king’s Court is essential to the king’s peace of mind,” Javan went on. “To maintain that peace of mind, a king needs the regular services of his confessor. Or would you dispute that, Vicar General?”

  “No one would dispute the need for regular confession, Sire,” Paulin muttered. “But a confessor who himself needs confessing can be of little use to your Highness.”